by Derek Yetman
The noise of the birds brought all hands out of the hammocks and about their morning business. Since we were not on board a man-of-war, the routine was relaxed, without the pipes and orders that regulate every minute of life on such a vessel. Old Atkinson, Mr. Cartwright’s worn and silent servant, found a sack of oats and busied himself with making a pot of burgoo for our breakfast. His master grumbled about his guns not being loaded and the loss of a sporting shoot, but the old man paid him no heed.
The rest of the crew occupied themselves with plaiting their long pigtails or relieving themselves over the side. On such a small and crowded vessel there was no privacy, which affected none at all but the Reverend Stow. I watched him take a bucket and modestly seat himself upon it behind a row of barrels. This caused much amusement among the tars and their laughter roused Lieutenant Cartwright. He came out from the cabin, looked sternly about and let fly his water over the gunwale.
His business completed, he joined me on the poop as I placed the shallop on a heading that would bring us between Fogo Island and the Little Fogos. We exchanged a few words about our course and situation and he nodded his approval, even allowing himself a smile when I told him that we would enter Fogo Harbour well before noon. I asked him whether he expected to find Mr. Palliser and the Guernsey there, to which he replied, “I should think not, unless the governor has already seized the Valeur. He is determined to put an end to this French business and he will search every cove in the Bay of Notre Dame to meet that end.”
“And what of the Liverpool?” I asked. “If she is at Fogo, will her captain expect his people returned?”
He shrugged and grabbed a halyard to steady himself. “Mister Palliser has said that the Liverpools are to remain under my command until we have completed our task. I see no reason why that may change.”
What I’d hoped to hear was that the three sailors would be returned to their frigate, for in spite of some improvement I could not bring myself to trust them. Something might be made of the boy Jenkins, I thought, but Grimes and Rundle were accomplished idlers.
“I believe it is high time that I put a name to our worthy little vessel,” the lieutenant was saying. “In view of the importance of our mission, I think it hardly fitting that we continue to call her a common shallop.” He sniffed the brisk morning air and rocked himself on his heels. “I have given the matter some consideration, Mister Squibb. Because she is as much a sloop as a shallop, henceforth we shall call her a sloop. It imparts a greater measure of dignity, does it not? And I believe that I shall name her HMS Dove, in honour of the task that has been laid before us.”
He turned to me with a self-satisfied smile, even as I was thinking that it would take more than a lieutenant’s fancy to turn a fishing boat into a naval sloop. And a sloop-of-war named the Dove? Before I could think of a suitable reply, we were startled by a sudden cry from the chaplain, and a very loud cry at that. In fact, it may have been a screech. We looked to see him stumbling from behind a hogshead with his breeches about his ankles.
“What the devil— ”Mr. Cartwright exclaimed, even as the Reverend Stow snatched the wig from his head to cover his manhood. The sight of him would have struck me as the height of comedy, were it not for the words he managed to stammer.
“That b-barrel! Just there! The Lord protect us—there’s s-something moving in it!”
John Cartwright
Am I to be frustrated at every turn by weather and circumstance? Or else by human failing and deceit? The first of these I can do nothing about and the other is a trial borne by all who command. But this disregard for my orders is beyond the tolerance of any man. Were I a flogging officer, I would have one or two of my crew stretched across a gun at this very moment. They may thank their stars that I will not debase my principles to assert my authority.
This morning our poor chaplain was near frightened out of his wits by a noise from one of the casks on deck. I ordered it opened and discovered the midshipman of the Liverpool hidden there. This is in clear violation of my order that only our own people be permitted on board. I confronted the man, who is plainly very ill, and demanded to know who had brought him to the Dove. He was scarcely sensible but was able to lie well enough, saying he had stowed himself away in hopes of rejoining his ship. I did not believe him for a moment, given his state of extreme weakness. But I am now in the maddening position of either denouncing him for a liar or accepting what he says. Of course, I cannot accuse him of untruths when I have no evidence to the contrary. All the same, I suspect our Mr. Squibb of having had a hand in it, and likely the warrant officers as well.
To add to my frustration, I find that I cannot rid myself of this unwanted stowaway. On our approach to Joe Batt’s Arm we espied three topsails on the horizon, bearing east off Shoal Bay. These were surely the sails of our frigates Tweed, Lark and Liverpool, whose bows we would have crossed had we arrived an hour sooner. I was further impeded in ridding myself of the sickly boy when, on entering the arm, we discovered an outbreak of spotted fever amongst the inhabitants. I would have put him ashore except I had no desire to expose my crew to the affliction.
That the place should be infected is no surprise to me. The harbour is a cesspool of waste from the fishery and the brigs that are anchored there. Even the rats line the gunwales in hopes of deserting for something better. No doubt in winter the place returns to its natural state, when the harbour is abandoned and the tide and weather cleanse the land and water. But for now I kept our distance and hailed the boats for news of John Cousens.
The replies that were thrown back at me were a shock to my ears. I may only imagine their effect upon the sensibilities of one so delicate as Reverend Stow. These are plainly the drunkest, roughest collection of blasphemers this side of Christendom, and their captains are no better. One of them even threw a bottle at my head when I addressed him, and but for the pitch of our vessels it might have caused me a grievous injury. Mr. Bolger offered to put a ball across the deck of this festering scow, and while the prospect was attractive, I would have none of it. For now the spotted fever prevents my ordering an immediate arrest, but the lout will know my justice at another time.
The only information I have been able to obtain is that Cousens is at either Toulinguet or Fogo Harbour. I have ordered Lieutenant Squibb to set a course for the latter place at once. I am grateful for an excuse to quit this foul inlet, which to my mind is typical of the entire northern district. It has become a wild and lawless place since the last war, with nothing of the order and religion that should mark an outpost of England.
Of course, this state of affairs suits many of the merchants who operate here, for it allows them to do as they wish without regard for the law. I fear that this stew of anarchy breeds notions against the Red Indians as well. Those involved in trade will naturally seek to protect their interests, while their ignorant servants believe they must kill the savages or be killed themselves. Captain Palliser has put his faith in my ability to strike a truce. I have no doubt that I shall prevail, for truth and justice are always on the side of the righteous. I am therefore determined to capture an emissary of these people, to whom we may demonstrate our good intentions. And find one we shall, so that they may know the compassion of our Sovereign King.
Jonah Squibb
Joe Batt’s Arm had little to recommend it, aside from its proximity to the fishing grounds. Named by Captain Cook for a relative of his wife, it was a narrow inlet with a great many rocks that soon impeded our progress. With Lieutenant Cartwright’s attention elsewhere, I had the canvas taken in and the men put to the sweeps. We rowed up the harbour and came alongside a number of brigs, where the lieutenant called for news of John Cousens. The reception he received was far from civil and some of the captains declared they had the spotted fever on board. I suspect that they took us for a press gang and were in no great hurry to join, or to rejoin, His Majesty’s Navy.
Relying upon what little we could learn, we departed the arm at eight bells and struck out for F
ogo Harbour. Lieutenant Cartwright was most anxious that we arrive there as soon as we could, perhaps out of concern for the health of Reverend Stow. The stench of fish offal and human waste in the arm had been bad enough but the southwesterly wind had become baffled and confused among the headlands. The result was a choppy sea that caused the chaplain to lose what little colour he had, to say nothing of the contents of his stomach.
We were crossing the mouth of Shoal Bay when I gave the helm to the boatswain and went forward to check on Froggat. He was lodged in a hammock beneath the canopy and next to him was a sling containing Reverend Stow. The chaplain groaned at every movement of the vessel and acted as if he might expire at any moment. I ignored him and looked to my friend, whose face was grey and cold to the touch. This was not a symptom of scurvy that I had encountered before and my concern grew as I discovered his pulse to be very weak.
The chaplain was not to be outdone for attracting sympathy. He groaned most horribly and fixed his mournful eyes upon me. “Mister Squibb,” he whispered hoarsely, “I fear I am done for, sir. Done for, I say.”
It took every whit of patience I could muster to reply, “Nay, sir. You will recover soon enough, I am certain.”
“Ah, but sir,” he moaned, “You have no conception. Can you not sail this boat in a more delicate fashion? I declare that any man who would go to sea for pleasure would go to hell for a pastime.”
My impatience was tempered by surprise on hearing Samuel Johnson quoted from so unexpected a quarter. I parried with a quote of my own, saying, “Your opinion of my sailing skills has been noted, sir. But I must tell you that criticism is a study by which men grow important at small expense.”
The vicar opened a watery eye. “My apologies, young man,” he said. “I believe I may have misjudged you.”
I filled a ladle with water from the scuttlebutt and held it for him to drink. “On that point, I believe your judgment to be sound, sir,” I replied.
He looked at me sharply and slurped the water. Lying back in the hammock, he sighed, closed his eyes and asked, “Are you sincere in your opinion that I shall not die?”
“You have been seasick before,” I said. “A man used to vicissitudes cannot be so easily dejected.”
The eye opened slightly. “Johnson again?”
“I see that you suffer no mental impairment, Reverend. I think we may safely pronounce you out of danger. We will soon be in an open reach and the turbulence will subside.”
“Your friend, Mister Squibb—will he live?”
I looked at Froggat’s ashen face and replied, “I can only pray that he does. There is nothing more I can do for him.”
The watch was nearly ended when I threw the tiller over and changed our tack to beat close-hauled into the harbour of Fogo. The islands that crowd the entrance make it an interesting business but with smart work, we came within the shelter of the surrounding hills and struck our sails. The chaplain had by then recovered and was the first one into the jolly boat when Greening let go the bower.
A short time later the crowded boat ran onto the beach and to no one’s surprise, our passengers and first lieutenant made straight for the largest house. Lieutenant Cartwright paused long enough to say that I was to be ready to sail at a moment’s notice. He also handed me a small packet of papers and instructed me to read them at my earliest convenience. I thrust these into my pocket and promptly forgot about them, being more concerned with matters related to the boat and crew.
The evening crept upon us as the men loosened the sails to dry and the boatswain fired the stove for our supper. The little cove was quiet except for the last of the day’s splitting and salting, and here and there small groups of people walked the path around the harbour. Sheep and goats grazed on the steep hillsides, and high above them the gulls wheeled in the failing light. It seemed a pleasant enough place, and from across the water came the cheerful notes of a fiddle. While we waited for our meal, I measured out the evening grog, taking care to observe the behaviour of the Liverpools. I noticed that Greening did not sit with them, but kept to himself while they gathered on the forecastle.
I had by now confirmed my suspicion that Grimes held sway over the others. He finished his rum in a few quick gulps and held the empty mug to Jenkins and Rundle, who paid their fealty without complaint. Strictly speaking, no man was permitted more than his fair share, although the practice of trading spirits was a long-standing part of the shipboard economy. In this instance, however, I could not believe that it was done for any reason but fear. I had no doubt that Grimes kept his status as ringleader through the threat of violence, if not the act itself.
After our meal of salted pork and cabbage, I retired to the stern cabin, which had reverted to Bolger, Frost and myself in the absence of the lieutenant. There I remembered the papers he’d given me and I began to read them by the light of a lantern. Truth to tell, I was not far advanced when I found myself succumbing to the drink and the meal, and before long I was entombed in a deep and dreamless slumber. I cannot say how long I slept but it was completely dark when an unearthly shriek impaled the night and brought me wide awake. My feet hit the boards in an instant and I groped for the door. I emerged onto the moonlit deck, grabbing a cutlass from the rack as I went.
I could not say what I expected, whether a terrible accident or a desperate affray. And yet, nothing seemed to be amiss. Bolger and Greening were standing in the waist, looking at something that lay at their feet. At that moment the object of their puzzled attention screamed again. In three strides I was with them and saw poor Froggat thrashing about on his back, his eyes wide with terror. I knelt by his side, restraining him and calling for water. In soothing tones I calmed him enough for Greening and me to lift him into his hammock. For a moment he appeared on the verge of speaking, but then his eyes fell abruptly shut and he slipped again into a state of insensibility.
This alarmed me very much and the more so because there was nothing I could do for him. I was now convinced that his strange illness was not related to scurvy, for his body had recovered entirely from that disease. What caused him such anguish might have been mental or nervous in nature, but all I could do was hope that this latest trial would pass. I turned to the others, who were watching with the air of a funeral party. “I will take the watch, Mister Bolger,” I said. “Hail the others and send them aft.”
“Aye, aye, sir. You there, Greening. Send the Liverpools along and turn in yerself. Look lively now.”
The young sailor went forward and I stood with the two warrant officers, looking down at Froggat.
“Can ye say what it is, sir?” Bolger asked.
I shook my head. “I cannot. Have either of you ever seen these symptoms?” Before they could answer, we were interrupted by the sudden return of Greening, who appeared anxious to tell us something.
“Well?” Frost demanded. “What is it, then?
“They isn’t there, Mister Frost.”
“What do you mean, not there?” the boatswain fairly shouted. “Who’s not there?”
Greening swallowed hard and plucked up his courage. “Grimes and Rundle, Mister Frost. Their hammocks is empty, though Jenkins is there and fast asleep.”
Frost let out a roar that could have roused the very fish on the flakes. “By God, I’ll have their gizzards!” His face had turned a fiery red. “They must’ve swam ashore. Permission to go and find the blackguards, Mister Squibb.”
“Go,” I said. “And go with him, Mister Bolger. Find them before Cartwright does or we’ll have the devil to pay.” I was tempted to go as well until I remembered my orders. The thought of the lieutenant returning to find three parts of his crew absconded was not a pleasant one. As the warrant officers rowed into the darkness that lay around us I turned to Greening. “Bring Jenkins to me.”
The boy wore a defiant look when he was brought aft. He was tousled and without a shirt, having been roughly hauled from his hammock. “Where have they gone?” I demanded. He refused to answer at first but his br
azen exterior soon dissolved under my glare. That simple mind was in anguish, I could tell, as he weighed his chances between Grimes and myself. He did not possess the ability to be artful and after a moment he mumbled something about not having heard them leave the forecastle.
This very nearly caused me to lose my temper, as I do not take kindly to being played the fool. It was clearly something that he’d been coached to say, for the crew slept head-to-toe in the forecastle and a man could not fart without waking the others. “Perhaps your hearing will improve when the boatswain returns,” I said ominously.
Although I detest gratuitous punishment, I am not averse to the threat of it to get at the truth. This is not always effective, of course, as many men become hardened to the lash and make no more of a flogging than of pricking a finger. Among the younger hands, however, there is often a great reluctance to meet with the cat. Having witnessed or even heard of such punishments, they are left with the greatest horror of it. In this instance my threat worked admirably and young Jenkins sang like a canary.
In a voice that was thin with fear, he told me that the others had swum ashore late in the first watch when Bolger and Greening were checking the bilge. Grimes had gone in search of drink, he said, and had taken Rundle with him. They planned to return before the next watch, in hopes that no one would be the wiser. I was not surprised to hear this, considering what I’d observed of Grimes. That he and Rundle might be attempting to desert had also entered my mind, though it would be a fool’s bid on such an isolated island. The greater puzzle to me was that the petty officer possessed ready money to purchase spirits, just as he had at Bonavista. It was a rare thing for a seaman to have coins in his pocket while at sea. His basic needs were met and the greater portion of his pay was withheld until the voyage ended and the ship paid off.
