by M. C. Muir
Every man on deck watched as the ship reached mid-passage, when suddenly its staysails luffed and the squares collapsed noisily spilling every breath of wind from them. It was exactly as it had happened to the frigate.
In his cabin, Oliver had heard the deck-call and before a message could be relayed to him, he bounded up to the deck.
‘Spanish colours, Captain. Should we beat to quarters?’
‘We are not at war with Spain, or we weren’t when we left England. All hands on deck, Mr Parry – but pass the word quietly. No drums or whistles. We do not wish to alarm our foreign visitor.’
‘Do you think they have seen us?’
‘Not yet, maybe.’
Streaming up from below, Elusive’s crew of two hundred men gazed at the great fighting ship as she was about to clear the channel.
‘I trust she is not planning to drop anchor right there otherwise we will never get out!’
But as he spoke, a commotion broke out on the Spanish deck. Sailors started running hither and thither; scampering down the ratlines, hauling on lines. Had orders been given for them to prepare to fire? Were they about to open their gun-ports and run out their guns? Oliver listened intently trying to make sense of the distant voices. He was about to order his men to fighting quarters but what he heard made him belay. The sounds coming from the stricken ship were not the wailings of an ill-disciplined rabble, as were so often heard on French ships; they were the desperate, yet muffled, cries for help. It was the combined chorus of fear; a sound he knew well, as he had heard it several times before.
‘What is happening?’ Simon asked.
‘If I’m not mistaken, our visitors have fallen foul of the same underwater obstacle we connected with. Unfortunately for the captain, at this time of the day, the water is still slack. The tide has only just turned, and that ship is far heavier than Elusive. If my assumption is correct, I’m afraid her damage will be far greater than ours.’
Still swimming forward with the speed she had left the open ocean, the Spanish man-of-war cleared the channel and continued drifting, but she was listing heavily to larboard. From the frigate’s deck, the crew could smell the malignant panic sweeping through the ill-fated warship.
‘I fear that rock has gouged a hole in her hull.’
‘What are your orders, Captain?’
‘Make ready to lower the boats!’
But any assistance to be offered by the frigate was already too late. Esmeralda de Cadiz’s heart had been rent open. Sailors jumped, or were cast into the freezing sea, even before their own boats could be swung out. Drifting helplessly on the incoming tide, the Spanish ship pitched forward, her bowsprit slicing into the lagoon like a hot knife through butter; and as the royals and skyscrapers leaned further and further over, and the tip of the main’s yardarm dipped in the water, a figure dropped vertically from the mizzen-top as fast and straight as a sea bird diving for a fish
It took less than two minutes for the Spanish ship to slip beneath the smooth, flat surface leaving nothing but assorted flotsam and roiling bodies on the water. After three more minutes every cry and movement had been stilled. The ice-cold sea, washing in from the southern latitudes, had been kind and claimed its victims quickly.
‘My God, there would have been eight hundred souls on board her!’
The frigate’s crew was silent.
The three-year-old Spanish ship of the line, Esmeralda de Cadiz, having battled the southern storm for the past three days had finally found shelter within the walls of the volcano. But any feeling of relief was short-lived as she sank to the bottom of the inland sea like a lump of lead. But unlike the lump of metal tied to the end of a lead-line, this wooden weight would never be retrieved.
‘Do we scour the water for survivors, Captain?’
Quintrell shook his head. ‘There will be none,’ he said sadly.
‘Did she follow us here or arrive just by chance?’
‘Or was she here to collect the ambergris?’ Oliver added. ‘Those are questions we will never know the answer to. Only one thing is certain, she will not be returning to Spain, or to the Spanish Main, and I doubt anyone will come here to look for her.’ He paused and shivered. ‘Tidy those boats away, Mr Parry. We sail with the outgoing tide. I do not wish to remain in this place any longer than necessary.’
Fifteen minutes before the tide reached its full, the order was given. The bosun’s whistle piped, and cries to make sail were carried along the deck. All that remained now was to exit the inland sea.
It was no time for the faint-hearted. Elusive made her way through the chink in the island’s armour, sailing so close to the rock-face that the larboard yardarms almost scraped along it. From the deck the sailors stared awe-struck at the jagged cliff-face towering three times higher than the main-mast, and at the moment when the wind died and the sails luffed, every man held his breath.
On deck, Mr Mundy was confident. According to his calculations there was no bar crossing the full width of the entrance, the only obstacle was a stout rocky erection mid-channel with deep water on either side. It was this single outcrop which had clawed the caulking from beneath the frigate’s coppered bottom and gouged a hole in the Spaniard’s hull sending her straight down. If his estimations were correct, by sailing out on high water and keeping close to the cliffs, the frigate would avoid the submarine hazard completely. But only time would tell if his measurements were accurate!
Seconds ticked by. A minute passed. With not a breath of wind, Elusive swam forward on the minimal momentum she had managed to make on the crater-lake. Suddenly, when they were almost clear of the cliffs, the bowsprit jerked sending a frisson of fear flashing through the heart of every man on deck. It lasted but a second though it seemed longer. Was the frigate about to suffer the same fate as the Spanish man-of-war?
But the jolt had not come from below. It was delivered from the outside world. Having poked its nose from the lee of the cliffs, the wind from the south had struck the frigate's jib like a blast from Neptune’s bellows. The topsails clapped in thunderous applause before filling; the squares followed suit, while on the water thousands of tiny flippers flapped as if signifying their approval, churning up the surface of the already choppy sea.
‘Clear the island, Mr Parry. Then north-east. And let us pray Drake’s Passage is kind to us once again.’
With a favourable wind and a full head of sail, Elusive skirted several snow-swept islands to the north and by ten o’clock that evening the log had recorded a distance of almost forty sea miles. Throughout the short night, when the sun seemed unsure of whether to rise or fall, Elusive sailed under single-reefed topsails. The dim light made it harder to see the floating ice-islands and Captain Quintrell had no desire to lose his ship in the Southern Ocean.
That evening he ate alone, his mind permeated with pictures of the living breathing island which they had dared to enter and thankfully been delivered from. The fact the island had never been claimed or charted intrigued him. It was obviously known by English and Spanish sailors and probably by French and Dutch ships also. Was it so inhospitable that no one wanted to claim it? Or was its location a poorly kept secret guarded by the world's great cartographers?
He knew his orders. He was not to reveal the island’s exact bearing to anyone and before the ship reached Portsmouth, he must ensure all his officers were sworn to secrecy. But what of the unequivocal evidence of the island and its location in the ship’s log? When he returned, would the details of their time spent in the Southern Ocean be surreptitiously removed? But even if the location was revealed, he doubted few men would be willing to volunteer to return and once again challenge the hostile Antarctic conditions.
Gazing from his stern window at the weak sun suspended against a strangely illuminated glowing horizon, he pondered about the future. Was it possible that when Elusive returned to England he would receive no recognition for the voyage or the treasure he had retrieved? He also wondered how long it would be, despite the secrecy, before word of the
frigate’s expedition was bandied about on the docks. Not long, he thought.
Perhaps as a result of this cruise an official British expedition would be sent to chart the icy islands of the Southern Ocean. Would he be chosen to lead the venture? He thought not. Such an exploration would be offered to the likes of Joseph Banks or some younger Fellow of the Royal Society. But it was quite possible that before that happened the Spanish would announce the island’s location and lay claim to it themselves.
Oliver pondered on the hundreds who had drowned in the lagoon; the high ranking officers, lieutenants, diplomats, merchants; their wives and children as well as ordinary seamen. Then he considered the alternative outcome. What if the Esmeralda de Cadiz had succeeded in entering the bay? What if war had been declared in Europe? What if the Spanish ship had not sunk but had opened fire? His lowly frigate carried far less firepower and it was doubtful he could have survived a full broadside from the man-of-war.
Later that evening, as he laid in his cot his mind flicked over the recent events like the pages of a book on a windy day. He thought about his wife and how little she knew of his voyages – how little interest she had shown in any of his cruises. He closed his eyes and without intention, the mental pages turned to Susanna. Oh, how warmly her shoulders had glistened in the candlelight. How the sweep of her back had moved with the ease of a porpoise. How her skin tasted sweeter than the finest wine Madeira could produce.
If only.
Chapter 21
Sailing Home
Oliver gazed up at the heavens swaying back and forth above the mastheads. Never had he seen so many stars. Never did they appear as bright as in the high latitudes. On a backcloth of deep indigo, millions of silver sparks dotted the sky; even the dense clusters which Magellan had mistaken for clouds bloomed in bright profusion.
‘That wind is strengthening,’ he noted, to the helmsman. ‘Make your course east by north-east.’
Overnight the wind howled but was no stronger than earlier in the evening, but beneath the ship the sea rose dramatically forming deep troughs. Waves advanced on each other in a display of unrelenting malice, viciously punching and slapping, stirring the surface to a whipped-cream consistency, and from an otherwise cloudless sky, spray and spindrift lashed the sails drenching the deck with foam and water. Though they were east of Drake Passage they could still feel its anger.
‘Make sure those barrels are secured, Bungs,’ Oliver yelled.
The cooper, who had emerged from the waist, was clinging tightly to any hand-hold. But even with lifelines rigged from stem to stern, it was impossible to traverse the deck in a straight line. The ship was heeling at an ominous angle, the gunnels skimming the sea as it sank in every trough, sending water rushing along the scuppers.
‘Hold her steady!’ the captain cried.
The two men on the helm braced themselves as the bow buried itself in a cliff of water. Elusive shuddered from bowsprit to mizzen boom, the latter taking the full force of the blow and snapping its hemp sheet. Like a weathercock in a whirlwind, the massive mizzen boom thrashed uncontrollably.
‘Secure the boom. Get that sail down. Watch your heads!’
The wind was enormous and the sail had a mind of its own. Dropping the wind-gripped canvas down to the deck was no easy task, but it had to be done quickly to prevent it ripping the mizzen mast from the keep.
‘Get the carpenter to check the step,’ the captain ordered. If it works lose, we’ll lose it!’
After an hour toiling on the pitching deck, the seamen secured the mizzen boom, and the bosun and his mates set about rigging a new sheet to it. With word from the carpenter than no damage had been done below decks, a shortened mizzen sail was hauled up. It was a long night.
By morning the sea had calmed to a manageable level and the frigate had logged sufficient sea miles to be clear of the confluence of the two great oceans. Heading along the outer rim of the Southern Ocean, the wind was favourable as was expected in that latitude.
‘Begging you pardon, Captain, but will we be making landfall in Cape Town?’ Mr Mundy asked.
‘No. We drop anchor at Spithead. Not before.’ As he spoke, the thoughts of a spell in Madeira flashed through his mind. How welcome the fresh fruit, the fresh water, the warm air would be. How welcome a pair of warm hands in his, warm arms around him. Warm legs. He must clear his head.
‘The purser says we may not have enough water or stores to carry us home. And the wind up the west coast of Africa…’
‘I am fully aware of the winds, Mr Mundy. If it becomes necessary we shall ration the stores. Spithead, I said. You will navigate a course accordingly.’
The heat of the tropics was tiring. The March winds, reputed in England to bring snow, offered little relief from the burning sun and when they did blow it was often from an undesirable direction. The men joked about the cold they had left behind wishing they had packaged some ice and brought it with them.
‘It would have served us better than a hold full of ambergris,’ one said.
Sailing north, parallel to the west coast of Africa, they joked limply about pirates.
‘Not like your regular privateers,’ said Smithers, trying to stir fear in the minds of the less experienced hands. ‘No, these are the real mean buggers who’ll chop out your tongue and liver before killing you proper.’
‘Smithers!’ Mr Tully warned.
Weeks passed and not a sail was sighted until one morning a series of sails appeared on the horizon almost dead ahead.
‘Looks like a convoy. Heading west,’ Mr Mundy announced.
‘I agree,’ Oliver said. ‘A distance of about twelve miles perhaps.’
‘Slave ships, do you think, Captain?’ Mr Mundy asked.
‘Quite likely. With a cargo of black gold to line some already rich trader’s pocket. Take us about, Mr Parry. It will give the men something to do.’
‘Helm a lee! Staysails haul!’
‘When we are sure they are not interested in us, we will resume our course.’
From the deck the officers waited as the frigate completed its manoeuvre, but no sooner did the helmsman have Elusive back on its previous bearing then a cry came from the mast.
‘Ship ho!
‘Where away?’
‘Four points off the starboard bow. Bearing west.’
‘She’s following the slavers!’ Mr Mundy stated.
‘Or chasing them?’
‘Ship off the starboard beam. Heading north.’
‘Aloft there! Can you tell what she is?’
‘Dutch East Indiaman. And a big one at that.’
Quintrell put the telescope to his eyes but it only confirmed the information the lookout had provided.
‘What a damned confounded stretch of ocean. Apart from the Spanish man-of-war we have not seen a ship in three months! Now we fall upon a dozen in less than ten minutes.’
‘It would appear they are not sailing together,’ said Mr Parry quietly.
‘I agree.’
‘Deck there!’ was the cry from above. ‘There are two ships, not one, off the starboard bow. They’re changing course and turning south.’
‘Describe!’
‘A brig and a barquentine. Still turning.’
‘What colours?’
‘None.’
‘All hands on deck. Beat to quarters, Mr Parry. Prepare for action.’
‘The sound of the drum and the peep of the whistles was almost lost to the thunder of feet on dry decking, the creak of port lids opening and the trundle of guns as their breechings were released.’
‘Damn their eyes. If I did not have this cargo, I would blow them both to kingdom come! Mr Smith, don’t you have a station to go to? Get the idlers to light a brazier in the waist and tell the cooper to open a barrel of blubber and burn a few blocks.’
The midshipman looked puzzled. ‘But the smell, sir, won’t they think we’re whalers.’
‘That is not the idea, Mr Smith. My intention is to foul the air
with the stench of burning blubber to smother the scent of ambergris. It’s quite simple really. Get to it.’
The midshipman hurried off in search of the cooper.
Standing beside the binnacle, Oliver smiled to his first lieutenant. ‘If luck is on our side those pirates will attempt to take the rich Indiaman and ignore a stinking frigate. Aloft there!’ he called. ‘Lookout. Report!’
‘They’ve completed their turn. I think they’ve spotted the Indiaman.’
From the starboard ports the gun crews watched. It was obvious the two smaller vessels were aiming to intercept the big trading ship heading for the North Atlantic and home.
‘Shouldn’t we go to her assistance?’
‘No, Mr Mundy. I have my orders and that Dutch ship will have more guns than both those pirates ships put together.’
‘Run up the colours, Mr H, let us show them who we are. Set a new course,’ he said, turning to the man at the helm. ‘North-west.’
As Elusive bore away from the shipping lane, the distant boom of cannon-fire could be heard but it was an hour before the order to stand down was given. Half-choked on the smoke from rotting whale flesh, it was a weary crew, who closed up the port lids and lashed down the guns.
Standing beside Mr Parry on the quarterdeck, Oliver smiled. ‘If only those dogs had known what we are carrying!’
Within days of crossing the equator the captain decided it was necessary to reduce rations to three quarters. It was not a popular order and had there been a barometer on board to log the temperament of the men, it would have shown how turbulent their moods were.
‘Perhaps we should start eating ambergris. There’s plenty of that on board.’
‘Shut your face, Froyle. It ain’t the captain’s fault we’ve lost the wind. It’s called the Doldrums. Ain't you strayed this far from home before? Worried are you?’
‘We’ll be right,’ said Will, across the table. ‘The worst must be over. When we’re clear of the tropics it’s only a hop, step and jump to the English Channel.’
