Nelson's Wake

by M. C. Muir

  Fifteen minutes later, the silence was shattered and the forward deck reverberated to the recoil from the cannon. Smoke engulfed the forecastle as the barrel spewed orange flame and the muzzle spat out an 18-pound ball on a tongue of fire. Hissing through the air, the shot stayed low and splashed into the sea twenty yards from the stranger’s bow.

  There was no response from the ghost ship, it merely continued pitching and heeling gracefully to the easy roll of the broad troughs of the Atlantic.

  The hot barrel was sponged out, the gun carriage hauled back and the crew stood ready waiting for further orders.

  ‘Take us in closer, helmsman,’ Oliver Quintrell called. ‘Boarders, make ready. I want marines at the rails and marksmen in the tops.’

  The deck suddenly sprang to life with an undercurrent of excited anticipation.

  ‘She’s maintaining her course,’ one of the young midshipman announced.

  Oliver turned to the young man. ‘She is not following any course, Mr Aitcheson, she is drifting on the current. Look closely at the helm and see if it is running free.’

  A glance confirmed the wheel was spinning in response to the movement of the rudder in the swell. ‘What do you make of it, Mr Brannagh?’ the captain asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Something amiss there, Captain. But as the gunports are closed, there’s no danger of her firing on us without warning.’

  ‘The name Scorpion, does that mean anything to you?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Nothing. Perhaps she was one of the ships that escaped from Trafalgar after the battle.’

  ‘Not so,’ Oliver answered. ‘The four ships that ran from the battle were captured off Brest within days. I heard they were quick to haul their colours and were taken into Portsmouth as prizes.’

  Oliver looked again at the ghost ship’s name. ‘There was a Scipion at Trafalgar – a French man-of-war. I thought perhaps this was it, but the name is not the same and I believe that was a seventy-four.

  The sailing master considered the vessel without the glass. ‘She’s sitting low in the water, Captain,’ he added. ‘She might have been holed below the waterline.’

  ‘I agree,’ Oliver said. ‘I fear she has a bellyful of water though not enough to sink her. As we are presently seven hundred nautical miles from the coast of West Africa, she could hardly have reached this latitude had she suffered any major damage to her hull. It may be waves breaking over her or slow seepage that has filled her up. I want you and the carpenter to accompany me when I go aboard.’

  ‘Are you going to take her, Captain?’

  Oliver smiled, ‘It appears, she is there for the taking – how can I refuse?’

  ‘Tread carefully, Captain. Make sure she hasn’t been booby-trapped before going below.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brannagh; I will heed your warning.’

  ‘Bring us alongside, Mr Brophy,’ the captain ordered. ‘Ready the boarding party and a dozen marines. The ship appears to be empty but, until we board her, we can’t be sure. I want a thorough search conducted below deck and a full report on what is found – bodies, cargo, contraband, provisions, victuals, weapons and more. And bring the cooper along to check the barrels.’

  Lieutenant Brophy took a step forward. ‘I would like to volunteer to go with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brophy, but you will take charge of the deck here. I intend to go over myself. Maintain our present position until I return. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘Now kindly organise the boats and men. Let us visit this ghost ship. I want half a dozen marines in each boat. As quick as possible, if you please. Let us do this while we still have light.’

  With most of the crew lining the sides, the boarders waited for their order. The tops were decorated with the striking scarlet coats of the marines.

  ‘Boats ready,’ the boatswain called.

  ‘Grappling irons and cutlasses ready, Captain,’ one of the division captains called.

  ‘I doubt the latter will be necessary,’ Oliver replied, though memories of slicing through a plague of live rats infesting another abandoned ship flashed through his mind.

  The ship’s boats lifted and fell against Royal Standard’s hull riding the easy troughs of the slow ocean swell. With everyone aboard, the painter was tossed into the bow and with a call from the coxswain, the oarsmen dipped their blades and made quick work of covering the distance between the two ships. With sailors and marines in the first boat, the captain, sailing master and carpenter were in the second boat. A fine spray splashed from the bows and oars as the boats swam across the pond.

  Receiving no fire from the empty ship, some of the young boarders behaved as though this was a game, brandishing their cutlasses and pretending to strike the man sitting opposite. The sort of make-believe boys would play when pretending to be pirates.

  ‘Save your energy,’ Oliver shouted. ‘Once you reach the deck, tread carefully and keep your eyes scanned for trails of gunpowder.’

  The mention of powder immediately dampened the eager spirits though a few were still spurred on by the earlier rumour of prize money.

  Even with no sound from within the ship, or response to the boats bumping alongside, or the clatter of the grapples as they landed on the deck, the first few boarders climbed cautiously. No sooner were they aboard, than a rope ladder was rolled down the side of the hull. Oliver Quintrell was the first from the second boat to climb aboard.

  When he stepped onto the deck, he ducked his head to avoid the slow but lethal pendulum-like swing of a lump of lignum vitae. ‘Secure those blocks,’ he ordered. ‘And lash the guns.’

  On the deck, two 18-pounders along with their carriages were missing from their positions. It was obvious they had worked free, careered across the deck, smashed through the gunwales on the far side and dived into the ocean. A second barrel was on its side, having fallen from its carriage – the truck wheels broken. The remainder of the deck was clean, save for loose lines and lengths of dried kelp entangled around the carriage wheels with bundles of seaweed clogging the scuppers.

  But there were no bodies or body parts or even old blood staining the timbers on the ghost ship, and the deck itself was relative clear save for an empty leather water bucket and two cannon balls rolling back and forth. They were caught at times on the loose frayed hempen lines squirming about like live serpents. After a quick inspection, the boatswain confirmed the guns showed no signs of being purposely spiked or tampered with.

  ‘Cut those rags down from the fore t’gallant yard. And unfurl the main t’gallant if it is still sound. But warn the men to step carefully on the ratlines and foot ropes, they may be rotten and need replacing.’

  While the courses were neatly furled to the yards and the gaskets still holding tight, it was impossible to say how long they had been subject to the rotting elements of burning sun and salty sea spray. But to bend on new sails would necessitate finding replacements in the sail lockers. If the depth of water in the hull was as great as the captain feared, the water-logged sails would prove near impossible to haul onto the deck.

  ‘The canvas on the fore t’gallant is shredded to ribbons, Captain,’ the lieutenant called, only confirming what the captain could see for himself. ‘And the ship’s boats are all gone,’ the sailing master added, ‘apart from the jolly boat.’

  Had they been washed away or taken by the crew when they departed the ship and left it to the elements? Oliver wondered.

  ‘The forward hatch is open,’ Mr Aitcheson called, and I can hear water washing around below.’

  ‘Mr Weir, come with me. I want to investigate the main cabin and the hold. Kindly look for a manifest. I want to know what cargo this vessel was carrying. With memories of a hold full of dead slaves from a previous mission, he was prepared for anything.

  However, the captain’s cabin revealed very little. Oliver concluded, although most of the contents were missing, the cabin had not been pillaged. This was not the work of pirates. Mor
e likely, a systematic and concerted effort had been made to remove everything portable before the crew abandoned ship. Charts, instruments, clothing, pistols and ammunition were all gone. Every cupboard and drawer had been emptied.

  ‘Where do you think she’s come from?’ the sailing master asked.

  ‘I hope there is something here that will inform us,’ the captain replied. Stepping gingerly, Oliver turned to a chest of drawers and pulled out each drawer in turn but they were all empty. There was no log or journal amongst the scattered debris. The books on the cabin floor had come from the shelves whose wooden fiddle had broken. A glance at the pages of one of the volumes indicated that it belonged to a French ship. The other books were in the same language.

  ‘I need the boatswain and the sail maker to check the canvas and the rigging. I want to know if this ship is in a fit state to sail. We must take advantage of the fair winds. They may not last long.’

  Having been constantly washed by waves breaking over the ship and sluicing through to the deck below, the cabin was damp and had an unhealthy smell about it. But with the bulwarks and furnishings still in place, it was obvious Scorpion had not been cleared for action, confirming it had not come under fire at the time it was abandoned.

  From the cabin, the captain headed for the hold. Four steps down and his feet were in water. With no light, it was impossible to survey the items stored there. With no small barrels visible, it appeared that anything that could be carried had been removed by hand, while the large barrels and leaguers containing water and ship’s supplies, had been left. They were now being washed in an ocean of brine mixed with bilge water along with rotted sacks that had long since disgorged their spoiled contents. An occasional rat provided the only movement, paddling vigorously across the swaying surface. With only numerals stamped on the barrels, and with no inventory to refer to, it was impossible to know what they contained – wine, beer, potatoes, pease, chocolate, slops or silver.

  ‘Get the cooper to check the integrity of these barrels. I must know if the drinking water is potable and if any of the stores are still edible.’ Oliver was unable to reach the magazine in the bottom of the ship. If the barrels stowed there had been underwater for any length of time, the damp would have ruined the black powder and it would be useless.

  The order was relayed for the cooper to join the captain.

  ‘Seven feet in the well,’ the carpenter said popping his head up from below. ‘I’m surprised she’s still afloat.’

  ‘And the pumps?’ Oliver turned to the midshipman at the top of the steps. ‘Mr Holland, get some men on the pumps immediately.’

  ‘I can’t see where the water has come in from, Captain,’ the carpenter called. ‘There are no shot holes. There is some damage to the hull, port side below water level – but not much, mind you. A copper sheet might have been ripped off and the caulking gauged out. I’d wager a big sea lifted her onto a reef and she got lodged there. The crew would have attempted to get her off but eventually decided she was wrecked and accepted that they would never retrieve her. So they took the boats and filled them with whatever they could carry before they left her. Who knows how long she might have sat there – days, weeks or months. Then later, another rogue wave would have washed her off and sent her back to sea. That’s just my opinion, Captain.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Thornhill. You may well be right. In the meantime, monitor the level. There will be hands on the pumps as soon as possible, and when she’s sitting a bit higher in the water, kindly do what you can to stop her leaking.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘Good man.’

  There was little in the main cabin that was worth salvaging. It had obviously been stripped of anything of value. There were no instruments, no sextant, compasses, charts, clocks or watches, not even a pencil. There was no clothing – uniform jackets, great coats or tarpaulins, no boots – and no charts.

  ‘The ship must have met with a disaster and the crew decided to abandoned her and save themselves before she went down,’ one of the sailors said.

  ‘But she didn’t sink,’ Mr Holland noted.

  ‘No, indeed she didn’t. Kindly go below and see if you can find anything of value in the wardroom and the officers’ quarters,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  Mr Weir was quick to return. ‘The carpenter’s shop, boatswain’s locker, sail lockers and magazine are all half-submerged. I can’t say what we have that’s good. I guess we won’t know until she’s been pumped out. It’s not safe in the hold at the moment with some of the barrels swimming back and forth. A few have smashed. There’s salt beef and rotten potatoes floating about, and a strong smell of beer. There’s plenty of wine on board. Those barrels look tight.’

  ‘The men can attend to those later. Pumping is the first priority.’

  Returning from below, Captain Quintrell turned his attention to the sails.

  ‘Captain,’ one of the sailors called from the bow.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The cable through the hawse hold is slack. She’s not anchored in these waters. She must have cast the anchor somewhere else.’

  Oliver thought that was fairly obvious, being mid-ocean, but he said nothing.

  ‘Haul in that cable and let it dry on the deck, and check the other anchors are secured. I want to get this ghost ship underway as soon as possible.’

  Chapter 16

  Scorpion

  ‘Well, Mr Brannagh? What are your thoughts?’

  ‘It appears we have netted a tasty catch, Captain. Will you be taking her into a British port?’

  ‘Interesting question,’ Oliver replied. ‘I have no intention of returning to Cork or Portsmouth and, as to our present destination of Cape Town, I am a little unsure. If we find that the Cape has been returned to Britain by the actions of Admiral Sir Home Popham, I will deliver this vessel to the hands of the naval authority there. If, however, Scorpion is not accepted there, we will sail her back to Portsmouth.’

  The sailing master looked troubled. ‘Who will take command of the frigate for the rest of the voyage?’

  It was a question Oliver had already considered. ‘I will give that honour to Mr Brophy. Apart from myself, he is the oldest and most experienced naval officer aboard. He has had many years of service and is eminently capable of assuming command.’

  ‘A role he has been hankering after for some time,’ the sailing master said, with a note of cynicism in his voice. ‘Have you spoken to the lieutenant about this?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘He will be happy to have command but I’m not so sure what the men will think about it.’

  ‘The men will have little choice in the matter. What is it you are suggesting?’ the captain asked.

  ‘Not suggesting anything, sir, just stating a fact. Captain Chilcott was a born gentleman, astute and shrewd, and a good and generous man. He’d been at sea for most of his life, seen plenty of action and was popular with the crew. Lieutenant Brophy, on the other hand, lacks breeding, charm and diplomacy and has made several enemies amongst the officers, the warrants and the crew.’

  ‘Enemies, you say. That is a strong word. Be careful who hears you say that.’

  The sailing master shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s common knowledge in the mess and fo’c’sle. At times, Lieutenant Brophy is hard on the men, especially the younger and less experienced ones, even the middies. He expects new hands to know the ropes, even the lubbers straight from the Press, if you understand my meaning. And he’s quick to recommend the cat. I think he likes to see it scratch a man’s back till it’s raw. But that’s just my opinion, Captain.’

  Oliver cringed at the comments. ‘You have said enough, Mr Brannagh, too much, in fact. I will put what you have said aside and form my own opinion. For the present, however, Lieutenant Brophy is the logical and only choice to take charge of the frigate as we head south. With his years of service and rank, I believe he has more knowledge of navigation and seamanship that al
l the young officers put together.’

  The sailing master could not disagree.

  ‘However, as acting captain, Mr Brophy will require a sailing master and a couple of midshipmen to serve with him on Scorpion. I prefer that you stay aboard Royal Standard with me, but I want you to nominate one of your mates to go over to the frigate and support him. His job will not be without some major challenges, not least the ones you have mentioned, therefore I suggest you nominate a man who holds Lieutenant Brophy in high esteem. Apart from that, I shall send two of the midshipmen to support him, and call for volunteers to make up the balance from which Mr Brophy can select the men of his choice.’

  ‘How many crew will he take?’

  ‘The more pertinent question is how many men can I spare from Royal Standard? Currently the muster book lists three hundred and thirty-eight names and every one of those men is essential to the smooth operation of a 50-gun fighting ship. Ideally, a 24-gun frigate carries over two hundred men but I cannot spare that number. I will allocate eighty men to Scorpion leaving over two hundred and fifty here.’

  The sailing master acknowledged.

  ‘Let us pray we do not come into any close action as we head south.’

  Mr Brannagh agreed.

  ‘Furthermore,’ the captain continued, ‘Scorpion has been stripped of all its stores, and will require provisions for at least three months at sea. We can resupply in Cape Town when we are there. The transfer of men and victuals to the 24-, however, must be made as soon as possible while this relative calm persists. As we sail south from the tropics to the Southern Ocean, we will fall into the band of conflicting winds and currents, and conditions are likely to change. The most important consideration is that the two ships sail in convoy and do not part company.’

  ‘I understand,’ Mr Brannagh said.