by M. C. Muir
‘I think I will stay in London for a week or two. I can pay my respects at Whitehall and remind the Lords Commissioners of my situation. Plus there are other matters I would like to attend to.’
‘You never spoke of a wife or sweetheart.’
‘No, I never did.’
‘Then I shall not press you,’ Oliver said. ‘Needless to say, should you ever feel inclined to take a wherry across The Solent and visit Bembridge you would be most welcome to stay with us. My wife would be delighted to make your acquaintance.’
As the words tumbled from his lips, he remembered the letter from his wife’s physician. He had placed it inside Elusive’s logbook so he would be reminded of its contents daily.
The journey from Woolwich to Greenwich, though only a short distance, was tediously slow. Assisted by the flow of the incoming tide but under very little sail the frigate navigated the final stretches of the River Thames. On board, the crew, with little to do, wandered the deck gazing out across the marshy swamps and fields interspersed with new wooden wharves and clusters of red brick warehouses rising gauntly from the waterfront.
Overhead the sky was clear and the morning sun warm. A group of young ladies promenading along the grassy bank near the Lea River showed little interest in the dowdy ship on the busy waterway. They ignored the grubby faces of the sailors leaning against its rails. But for the seamen the sight of the females in their fancy hats and flowing skirts stirred more than their imaginations. Apart from the fishwives on the Portsmouth foreshore, these were the first women the men had seen in many months. They were aware that very soon they would be going ashore and were eager to do so.
Embarking on the final bend in the river, the gracious buildings of Greenwich’s Seamen’s Hospital came into view. From a distance the waterfront appeared to be coloured with rows of tall poppies. Oliver wondered how long the marines had been assembled in the sun awaiting their arrival. He doubted their attendance was to celebrate the frigate’s safe delivery. A more likely reason was to accompany the cargo of ambergris on its final journey.
Gazing across the water to the palatial hospital buildings Oliver was reminded of the long months he had spent as a patient there. Much had happened since then.
Once the mooring lines were in place, but before unloading commenced, the three men who had been held in the hold were brought on deck, their ankles and wrists manacled in heavy shackles. Guthrie’s shoulder and arm were bandaged and Bigalow’s face bruised but there was not an ounce of sympathy for either of them. The loud outburst of jeers and hisses was quickly silenced. Both Guthrie and Bigalow were closely guarded to protect them from an angry crew who would readily have strung them from the main yard on a fixed noose. The atmosphere was tense and the business needed to be attended to with due haste.
After signing the three deserters over to a marine officer, Oliver watched them hobble across the gangplank. But there was little satisfaction in the knowledge that the pair, who had murdered his carpenter, would soon receive their just deserts.
He wondered how long it would be before a court martial would be convened. It was an unseemly business but necessary and one he would be obliged to attend.
With the prisoners despatched the off-loading of cargo commenced.
Aware that Elusive was far from seaworthy, Oliver had ordered the floating gold be brought up from the hold soon after they had left Woolwich. Since before dawn containers of cargo had been hoisted on deck and lined up around the rails. If the ship was to sink in the Thames, the job of retrieving it from the hold would be both difficult and tedious, and that was one eventuality to be avoided. Furthermore, if the ship went down in the river while still under his command, he would have to answer to a court martial for the loss of a king’s ship. The sooner the cargo was unloaded, and the sooner the frigate was decommissioned the better.
In Oliver’s estimation everything possible had been done to maintain her and no amount of oakum, pitch or paint could remedy rotten timbers. Now his only wish was that Elusive stay afloat long enough to be sailed or towed into the naval dockyard at Deptford. It was a distance of only a few hundred yards.
The colonnades and pathways surrounding the elegant white buildings of the Greenwich Seamen’s Hospital were abuzz with patients, attendants and visitors, while noisy onlookers lining the riverfront were kept at bay by the vigilant marines.
But it was not the shore activity which attracted Oliver’s immediate attention. It was the smell of the place. How well he remembered it. The strong whiff of old dying men, of human excrement and infected wounds masked beneath an aromatic veil of mixed perfumes – lavender balms, salves and potpourris. What a contrast it was to the combined smell of tar, turpentine, vinegar and ambergris – but he doubted any of his men would notice.
On the lane running between the four main hospital buildings, a convoy of dray-wagons was drawn up ready to receive the ship’s cargo. Waiting patiently, the lumbering shire horses grazed contentedly on the spring grass.
It did not bother Oliver that he had received no hint of the onward destination of his cargo. Suffice to say, his main concern was to have the ambergris removed from Elusive in order that he could officially complete his commission and return to Admiralty House to deliver his report.
Leaving was a satisfying, yet somewhat moving moment for Oliver Quintrell. And before departing he went below to check on the state of the frigate which had served him well.
Much to his relief, the acting carpenter, Will Ethridge, had volunteered to stay with the ship until she was safely delivered to the Deptford yard.
‘And what of you when you leave, Will?’ the captain asked. ‘Do you intend to go home?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll finish my apprenticeship – just a few months left. But one day I might sail again as a carpenter if I can get a warrant.’
‘Then I wish you well. I have mentioned your name in my report and written a letter of recommendation to the Admiralty on your behalf.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Just one word of warning. When you pick up your wages, be careful where you find lodgings in London. Your face still carries the colour of a man who has sailed to the tropics – it is hard to disguise.’
Will thanked the captain and bade him farewell.
On deck the captain offered his misshapen hand to all of his officers. They grasped it in turn. Simon Parry was the last in line. As first lieutenant, it was his duty to attend to the paperwork necessary in discharging the crew.
Stepping from the gang-plank onto the Hospital wharf the side-boys whistles shrilled for the final time as Captain Quintrell left the ship. For a moment there was silence then a cry went up for three hearty huzzahs. Oliver turned and raised his hat. He wondered if he would see any of the men again.
Ambling up the pathway to a waiting hackney coach, he thought about the ambergris and how uninspiring it appeared to the casual observer. Its fragrance however was unmistakable. How many of the sailors’ sea-chests would carry traces of the distinctive scent? he wondered.
Little had changed in the Admiralty building since his last visit to Whitehall.
Sitting on the wooden bench in the corridor, he studied the young clerk who bustled back and forth cradling a bundle of letters. He was the same youth he had seen the previous July and the worried expression on his face had not mellowed. Only the whiskers escaping from beneath his powered wig were longer and fuzzier and the furrows in his brow deeper.
What could possibly lie in the navy’s private cabinets which could torment a young man so? For the past nine months the clerk had been navigating a sea of offices, sailing down corridors of polished mahogany while fathoming nothing more than where he would dine that evening. In the same period Elusive’s common seamen had travelled to the bottom of the world, faced unthinkable physical dangers and not known at the dawning of each day if they would live to see the sun go down.
Strange, Oliver thought, we all serve king and country but how different the colour and inten
sity of our lives.
The interview with the First Lord was short and formal and the word, ambergris, was not mentioned once. That was no surprise. Oliver was grateful to be congratulated on the success of his mission but the glossy words seemed little more than a polite veneer. Once again he was reminded, there would be no mention of his cruise in the Gazette, although he was assured he would receive some form of recognition – in due course. However, he received assurance that the recommendations he had put forward regarding members of his crew would be noted and acted on accordingly. That was all.
As he stepped from the room, the clerk dressed in his fine velvet livery and lopsided wig was waiting for him.
‘Captain Quintrell of His Majesty’s Ship Elusive?’
‘I am Captain Quintrell, but Elusive is not a ship, she is a frigate. You would do well to remember that, young man.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will.’ The youth blushed and looked more worried than ever. ‘I have a letter for you which arrived only this morning.’ After handing it over, he bowed awkwardly and retreated, seeming unsure of whether to walk forwards or backwards and instead diverting to the nearest doorway which fortunately was open.
Oliver stared at the letter and immediately recognised the handwriting. It was written in his wife’s bold rounded hand. What a relief it was to know she had survived the illness and was well enough to write. That was good news indeed, but at the same time he dismissed a tinge of disappointment. He had hoped to receive word from Susanna, but there had been insufficient time for a letter to be returned from Madeira.
His steward, John Casson, was waiting for him at the Whitehall steps.
‘I trust you will be happy to resume your role as a gentleman’s valet,’ Oliver asked. ‘At least for a short time.’
‘I couldn’t think of anything better, Capt’n.’
‘Surely you would prefer to be at sea?’ he said, with the hint of a grin on his face.
‘Of course, though I don’t think Elusive will be sailing for quite some time, sir. When your cabin furnishings were being loaded on the wagon, I noticed how low she was sitting in the water. But the hull was empty, the powder and shot had been off-loaded, the water used up and most of the stores exhausted. She should have been bobbing like a cork.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Let us pray she makes it into the dockyard.’
‘Aye, Capt’n. She was a good ship, wasn’t she?’ Casson said, bounding along the pavement half a step behind his master.
‘Indeed she was. You will share a glass with me when I am home. We will drink a toast to Elusive and to a successful voyage. Am I correct in thinking there is a bottle of Madeira amongst my dunnage?’
‘Two bottles, Capt’n. I made sure they were stowed safe and sound.’
‘Excellent. Then take me to this carriage you have hired. I wish to go home with all haste.’
‘The driver promised he will have us in Portsmouth by tomorrow morning and I reckon we’ll be at Bembridge in the early afternoon.’
‘Where I will have time to relax and soak in a hot bath. And you will have time to replenish your sea chest.’
Casson looked puzzled. ‘Why is that, sir? Are you shipping out again?’
‘Quite soon, I hope. There are murmurs in the corridors of power that the peace with France is coming to an end and that King George is about to sign a declaration of war.’
‘Huzzah!’
‘If that happens, every able-bodied seaman, and officer from midshipman to Admiral will be called upon to return to the sea.’
The steward was hard pressed not to throw his arms around his captain. ‘They’ll give you a ship of the line next time, Capt’n. I’ll bet my last shilling on it.’
Oliver Quintrell smiled. ‘Patience, Casson. We must wait and see.’
* * *
Author’s Note
The island described in Floating Gold is Deception Island. It lies at 62° 57' S and 60° 38' W in the South Shetland Islands off the Antarctic Peninsula.
Deception Island is the caldera of an ancient, but still active volcano which last erupted in 1969.
Today Deception Island is the permanent home to Spanish and Argentine Antarctic stations and every year, for a few months during the southern summer, Deception Island is visited by cruise ships and expedition vessels.
In December 1819 the island was first surveyed and mapped by Lieutenant Edward Bransfield aboard the Williams, a ship chartered by the Royal Navy. It is thought, however, that the island had been visited previously by some of the early explorers and navigators.
Whaling activities began on the island in about 1820 and the ruins of the whaling station, which was built on the cinder shores of Whalers Bay, are still visible today.
From the sea, the island appears almost circular, however the enclosed lagoon measures 5.5 miles (9 km) long by 3.6 miles (6 km) wide. The narrow break in the caldera’s wall, which provides access for ships, is known as Neptune’s Bellows.
Submerged at a depth of 8 feet (2.5 m) below the surface of the channel is a rocky outcrop named Ravn Rock. Over the years, this rock has claimed several ships.
In 2004, I had the opportunity of visiting Deception Island and witnessing the strange and unusual features which I have described in Floating Gold.
In 2006 a lump of ambergris (floating gold) was washed up on a South Australian beach. It weighed about 32 pounds (14.75 kilos) and was reputed to be worth $1 million.
Learning about this unusual find inspired me to write this fiction story.
* * *
THE TAINTED PRIZE
by M. C. Muir
The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy
Book 2
Chapter 1
Patriotism - October 28, 1803
Oliver Quintrell rapped his knuckles on the carriage roof. ‘Why are we not moving, driver? I have a pressing engagement and I have no desire to be late.’
‘Ain’t my fault, Capt’n,’ the driver replied. ‘And I can tell you, you’ll not be going nowhere in an ’urry.’
Oliver took out his pocket watch, glanced at the hands, huffed and snapped the case shut. After cogitating for another minute, he opened the cab door and stepped down to the road where the problem was immediately evident.
‘It ain’t the driver’s fault, Capt’n,’ Casson called, from the box-seat.
Oliver shook his head. He didn’t need his steward to advise him what was blatantly obvious. Whichever way he looked along the street, his view was met by vehicles of every description – small and large, some drawn by a single horse, others by four, and all had ground to a complete standstill. To further confound the situation, every carriage and cart, apart from the one in which he was travelling, was heading in the same direction. And from the cries and curses issuing from within them, it was obvious, he was not the only passenger becoming increasingly irritated by the delay. The drivers too were exasperated, and even the horses were displaying signs of agitation.
‘The cabbie says he ain’t never seen nothing like it before this week. He blames it on the gathering in Hyde Park.’
‘To honour the volunteers,’ the driver added. ‘The King’ll be there to inspect ’em. There were five-hundred-thousand at the meeting just two days ago and probably the same number heading there today.’
‘Five-hundred-thousand!’ Oliver retorted. ‘Ridiculous! That is half the population of London.’
‘It’s true, Capt’n,’ the driver called. ‘It were printed in the newspaper. Folk have come from half-way across the country to show their support. It’s not just Londoners that’s ’ere.’
Clenching his teeth, Oliver paced back and forth in the limited space available. There was little else he could do. Unfortunately, by attempting to travel in the opposite direction to the rest of the traffic, his sister’s carriage had become completely blocked. It could go neither forward nor back, nor turn around, and whipping the horse in an attempt to force it to walk on was to no avail. The bay mare reared to the crack of leather, k
icking its hooves at a pair of black Shire horses vying for right of passageway directly ahead of it. The suspension creaked, as the carriage jolted violently on the cobblestones almost throwing Casson from his seat.
‘This ain’t no bleedin’ good,’ the driver cursed. ‘It’ll be a lame nag or a broken wheel, if I don’t get out of ’ere afore long.’
‘I’ll walk,’ the captain announced to his manservant. ‘Stay with the carriage. The driver may need your assistance. Return to Grosvenor Square and inform my sister what has happened, then make your way to Admiralty House on foot and, if you are able, secure some alternate mode of transport and wait for me on Whitehall.’
‘Aye aye, Captain. Good luck, sir.’
Luck, thought Oliver cynically, as he strode away, was not an entity which would have any bearing on the outcome of the day’s events. Either he would be granted a commission or he would not. And that decision would have been arrived at long before the Admiralty’s dispatch was delivered to his home on the Isle of Wight.
Weaving between pedestrians and staying clear of the high-spirited horses, the captain reached the corner of the street, only to find the junction was also congested. He cursed under his breath for allowing himself to arrive in such a predicament. It was inexcusable. He should have made provision for such contingencies, but when his sister had insisted he would have ample time to reach the Admiralty from her house, he had listened but not questioned. And now he was late. But he should not blame her.
Elbowing through the milling throng who were heading to Hyde Park, he continued to berate himself. Ignorance was no excuse. Notices detailing the event had appeared in the Portsmouth Telegraph, more than a week earlier. He had even read the broadsheets pasted on shop walls with the heading: An Insurrection of Loyalty. Those were the words Henry Addington had used in Parliament when describing the volunteer movement that had attracted over 350,000 civilians. Even the Naval Chronicle had announced details of the forthcoming royal inspections as an addendum to its extensive article about the Sea Fencibles.
