by M. C. Muir
‘I am sure you are right, Mr H. He has the makings of an excellent lieutenant. But if this war continues, you may well find yourself with your own command.’
‘I don’t know as I’m ready for that, sir,’ Hazzlewood said apologetically.
‘You will be surprised, and you will soon discover that men respect a commander who knows the ship’s rigging better than the back of his hand.’
Bert Hazzlewood’s cheeks flushed a little. ‘Might I ask as to your commission, Captain?’
‘A frigate. I will learn more when we arrive in Gibraltar.’
‘And what of crew?’
‘Hands transferred from ships brought in for repair. I am advised there will be no difficulty in filling the berths.’
‘That’s good,’ the new lieutenant said sagely. ‘Most men in the Mediterranean fleet are Portsmouth and Plymouth men and if not, at least they’re all seasoned sailors. Better than the dregs the Press Gang drags in to the London Docks.’
‘It’s still possible there will be a few aboard who were only pressed during the last few months.’
‘That’s no matter. I reckon a couple of months is long enough for ’em to get a taste of salt air, find their legs, and learn the pins and lines. And there’s no point them trying to run from The Rock. Nowhere to run to unless you want the Moors, Spaniards or Froggies snapping at your heels. I don’t know which would be worse.’
From the ship’s belfry, the bell rang twice.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Captain. I best get a move on.’
‘Of course, but first tell me, are there any familiar faces amongst the warrant officers on board?’
I don’t think so, sir, but there are a few Elusives amongst the crew. That were quite a cruise weren’t it?’ the lieutenant said. ‘If you’ll pardon me for saying.’
‘It was indeed, Mr H. But I think the less said about that the better.’
‘Aye, sir, but you can’t stop the memories flooding back.’
‘Indeed.’
As the lieutenant touched his hat and hurried forward, Oliver cast his mind back. It had been a remarkable mission fraught with near insurmountable dangers, but his ship and his men had survived. He could but pray that this forthcoming cruise would not push him, his ship or his men to such extreme limits, but that the outcome would be equally successful.
The following evening, Oliver was pleased to join Captain Slater for dinner. With ten officers seated around the table, the cabin was crowded.
‘Gentlemen, let me cordially introduce Captain Quintrell who, as you are aware, is sailing with us to Gibraltar.’
As each man was introduced by name, Oliver nodded, or offered an appropriate greeting in acknowledgement. The fact he was not partial to his wife’s dinner parties did not make him adverse to shipboard dinners in either the captain’s cabin or the wardroom.
‘Mr Smith,’ Oliver said, when reacquainted with the Honourable Algernon Biggleswade Smythe. ‘I must congratulate you on sitting the examination for lieutenant after such a short time in the service.’
‘My sentiment entirely,’ Captain Slater interrupted, not giving the midshipman the chance to answer for himself. ‘Seems his father had him listed on an Arctic expedition as soon as he was taken off the teat.’
With his fine upbringing, the young man sat upright in his chair displaying no sign of embarrassment by the titter which ran around the table.
‘And he is able, on paper, to claim that he sailed in the same fleet as Horatio Nelson. Is that not so?’ Captain Slater added.
‘A claim the first lieutenant on my previous mission was also able to make, though both he and Lord Nelson were but fresh-faced midshipmen at the time.’
Mr Smith said nothing, though he was obviously interested in that piece of information.
‘I read in The Times that your father has been quite vociferous in Parliament recently regarding the slave trade.’
‘I believe so, sir,’ the midshipman replied, looking to Captain Slater for liberty to voice his opinion.
‘Speak up, man,’ the captain ordered. ‘We are all waiting.’
‘My father vigorously opposes the latest Bill presented by Mr Wilberforce for the abolition of the slave trade.’
‘And are you of the same mind?’ Oliver asked.
All eyes looked to the young man for his answer.
‘My father is of the opinion that it would be unwise to end it. Without Britain’s trade with the islands of the Caribbean, there would be a marked reduction in income associated with that trade and that is valuable income which helps fund the war with France.’
Oliver put the question: ‘Is there any reason why there cannot be a direct trade with the West Indies without using the triangular route sourcing slaves from West Africa? Are there not already sufficient slaves in the colonies without importing more?’
The Doctor, who had been listening to the conversation, joined in the discussion. ‘But the more slaves that are transported to the colonies means more chances of major uprisings. Before long, there will be so many of them it will be impossible to quash a major rebellion.’
‘And I would remind you,’ Oliver retorted, ‘that the Bills being brought before Parliament are to bring an end to the trade in slaves – not to end the practice of slavery itself. And the threat of rebellion will not end with the passing of a Bill. This is an important factor which is being overlooked.’
‘But isn’t it the money from the sale of slaves that buys the goods which the English now demand, such as sugar, rum, chocolate and tobacco?’
‘You must realize,’ Oliver said, ‘slaves are not acquired freely. The British traders pay the African dealers with guns and metal goods made in our factories. So, why not bring an end to this diabolical trade and send the money directly to the Indies to purchase sugar and rum etcetera?’
‘But to sail with empty ships would be uneconomical,’ Captain Slater argued. ‘And it would provide a damned uncomfortable passage. Imagine crossing the Atlantic on a ship bobbing like a piece of cork!’ He laughed, ‘I, for one, see no harm in filling the holds with slaves. It saves the effort of loading tons of pig-iron for ballast.’
One of the junior officers giggled and whispered to the midshipman beside him, ‘This ballast has got legs.’
Oliver cast the pair a disparaging glance, as the steward arrived to refill the glasses.
‘What say you, Doctor?’ Oliver enquired, after a lull in the conversation.
‘Well, I would not choose to travel on such a ship. African slaves constitute an unhealthy and unwholesome cargo and the ships engaged in the trade are generally old and dilapidated merchantmen reputed to be disease-ridden, vermin-infested death traps.’
‘But with your interest in tropical diseases, such conditions could afford you a constant supply of patients,’ Captain Slater quipped. ‘Although from what I have heard, most slave ships do not even carry an apothecary and certainly not a surgeon or physician.’ Captain Slater leaned back in his chair. ‘The ships’ masters have their own answer to sickness and any slave who shows signs of disease is quickly disposed of.’
‘To a sick berth?’ a young midshipman asked.
‘No, to the sharks,’ the sailing master quipped.
‘That is why there are so many well-fed sharks in tropical waters,’ Slater mused. ‘I heard of one caught on a line that was nineteen feet in length and was found to have a dozen young inside it.’
‘Young sharks?’ one of his midshipmen asked.
‘No, young slaves!’
The company stamped their feet and applauded but neither Lieutenant Hazzlewood nor Midshipman Smith nor Captain Quintrell joined in the laughter.
When the frivolity subsided, Captain Slater turned to his guest and asked Oliver his opinion on the abolition of the slave trade.
‘I gather it is a subject of much talk in the coffee shops in London, and is creating heated arguments in the Lower House. Questions are even being raised at the Admiralty.’
‘A storm in a
teacup,’ Slater stated. ‘Created by eccentric abolitionists like William Wilberforce who stir the populace with prefabricated lies. These politicians even solicit blacks to tell tales to attract sympathy. One was even reputed to have written a book about his life.’
‘An Interesting Narrative,’ Oliver added.
‘I have no time for such publications,’ the purser commented. ‘You cannot expect an educated man to honestly believe that a slave, taken from the jungles of Africa, would have the intelligence to write such an account. Most do not know one end of a pen from the other and struggle to make their mark when they sign on.’
‘Have you read Equiano’s story?’ Oliver asked.
‘I would not waste my time on such rubbish.’
‘I found it intriguing,’ he said. ‘And in London the Abolitionist Movement is gaining support at all levels.’
Slater sighed. ‘England will rue the day if that Bill is ever passed. Mark my words, the major mercantile businesses in all major cities will be bankrupt within a year. The slave trade has been operating successfully for at least one-hundred-and-fifty years. And England is not alone. The Portuguese, Spanish, French and Dutch are all doing it to their advantage, so why change it now?’
‘Why not?’ Oliver asked. ‘Why not encourage the merchants to ply their trade elsewhere, even if it derives England of rum and tobacco, which my wife attributes to being the root of all evil?’
Captain Slater laughed. ‘No disrespect to your wife, sir, but what are women to know of trade, or the economy, or black slaves for that matter?’
Oliver conceded. ‘Very little, I admit, though despite her incapacity, my wife insisted on being conducted to a talk by the abolitionist, Clarkson, held in Ryde some months ago. She said it was very engaging.’
‘But women are easily influenced by a sorry tale. They take pity on the destitute, the aged and suffer infantile minds. They are gullible targets which are easily swayed by emotional causes.’ Captain Slater scoffed, ‘This Wilberforce fellow is aiming to set up a society against harmful treatment to animals. Afore long, a carriage driver will not be permitted to crack a whip. Imagine how long it will take to travel from London to Portsmouth, if that happens.’ The captain had his men’s full attention. ‘Good God, what will he think of next? Well, I for one am pleased the navy does not take heed of women’s views. And I am against warrant officers hoisting their wives on board with them. I am a God-fearing man and I tolerate no misbehaviour on my ship.’
‘I agree with you on that score, Captain,’ Oliver said. ‘Members of the fair sex are a distraction that men can well do without at sea. If we officers choose not to be accompanied by our wives, then I see no reason why such concessions should be made to the lower ratings.’
‘Eat up gentlemen,’ Captain Slater reminded his guests. ‘This is the last of the duck and hare until we reach Gibraltar where I hope my steward will be able to purchase some local birds and perhaps a hog or two.’
‘I noticed you have some black Jacks aboard Isle of Lewis?’ Oliver said. ‘How do you rate their performance?’
‘I have half a dozen of them. They were picked up a month ago from a fishing boat adrift off the Portuguese coast, probably trying to escape their masters on the Canary Islands or Madeira. I could have left them to drown but I find, once they are taught manners, they perform their duties with blind obedience. Besides, they are extraordinarily strong. I witnessed two black tars haul the main course around in a stiff breeze that would have taken near a dozen landsmen to achieve. Brawn but no brain is their chief attribute. Yet brazen! I overheard one the other day clicking his tongue in a foolish fashion at one of my officers. I always double the punishment for those men. Their skin is as tough as rhinoceros hide, so I doubt they feel the pain.’
‘They bleed the same, however.’
‘So it would seem, which reminds me – I had one flogged yesterday. Mr Oldfield, make sure the gratings are lowered overboard and towed during the night. The men complain that it’s a Devil of a job to scrape the blood off once it has set hard.’
Captain Quintrell passed no comment, allowing Captain Slater to continue.
‘I heard tell of a slave ship bound for Santo Domingo,’ he said. ‘Having lost all its anchors, it was in danger of drifting onto a reef. Afraid of losing his vessel, the master chained twenty slaves in line and cast them overboard.’
The surgeon frowned. ‘Surely they would have floated?’
‘Not with iron shackles around their necks, wrists and ankles. They dropped like lumps of lead.’
‘Did it hold – this black anchor?’ the purser asked.
‘It did indeed. It dragged for a while then caught and prevented the ship being carried onto the rocks. When the wind changed the master was able to cut the cable and sail clear.’ Captain Slater perused the mixed expressions around his table. ‘Surely it is better to forfeit a few head of livestock and a length of line, in order to save his ship and the rest of his cargo. One must balance risk with cost and outcome. A simple equation, is it not? Personally, I think the ship’s master should be commended on his ingenuity.’
Oliver Quintrell had heard enough. Emptying his glass, he dabbed his mouth and pushed his chair back. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, lowering his head to the deck beams – a gesture interpreted as a bow by the company at the table. ‘There are letters I must write before we reach Gibraltar. And I will be sure to inform my wife of your views on the triangular trade. I am sure she will find it interesting. Gentlemen, I bid you good evening.’
Chapter 4
Boris the Florist
Arriving off Ushant a day later than anticipated, no time was wasted in consigning the two supply ships to the care of one of Admiral Cornwallis’s frigates. With the responsibility transferred, the Isle of Lewis and the two remaining supply vessels headed south across the Bay of Biscay towards the coast of the Iberian Peninsula. This placed them in the major lane for ships heading to the Mediterranean or south to the Cape of Good Hope and beyond.
However, with the British fleet blockading Brest, the number of French ships in the Bay was far less than in peacetime. As France had the distinct advantage of having coasts and seaports on both the Mediterranean Sea and the English Channel, there was little necessity for Napoleon to ship supplies around the Iberian Peninsula.
The following morning, while making an entry in his personal log, Oliver was alerted in his cabin by the sound of drums and running feet. It was a familiar, rousing, but often unnerving sound. Within an instant, sailors appeared and, without so much as a pardon me or by-your-leave, began dismantling the bulkhead that formed the wall of his cabin. Fastening the buckle on his sword belt, Oliver quickly slipped on his shoes and accepted his hat from his steward, who was waiting for him at the bottom of the companionway.
‘What is the hour?’ Oliver enquired.
‘A little after 9 o’clock, sir. Fine weather. Fair winds.’
‘And the reason for the call?’
‘Don’t know, Capt’n.’
‘I presume Captain Slater is on deck?’
Casson nodded. ‘Shall I bring up some coffee to you?’
‘I think that must wait for the present. Thank you, Casson.’
Oliver wondered if he should stay below and wait for an invitation to the quarterdeck, after all Isle of Lewis was not his ship, and if a fight was about to explode around him, it was not his battle. But he wanted to know what had prompted the drum-roll sending the men scurrying about like frightened rats. The necessity to clear the deck for action was more of a concern. With the rumble of trucks on the gun deck and the calls for powder, it was likely the enemy was close at hand.
‘Good morning,’ Oliver said, glancing across the ocean as he stepped up to the quarterdeck. ‘I trust you will not object to my presence?’
‘Of course not,’ Captain Slater replied. ‘Gun practice, Captain. I had a sudden urge to take advantage of the sea room, and it does the men good to be stirred into action wh
en they least expect it.’
‘Then, if you will permit, I would welcome the opportunity to observe.’
‘Please feel free. It may encourage the crews to make a little more effort if they find themselves under scrutiny.’
After two rounds of firing from the larboard and starboard guns, the order rang out to make more sail. Immediately, sailors left their posts on the guns and climbed aloft to shake out the reefings. Four, sometimes five men departed a station, leaving insufficient hands to handle the subsequent order to fire.
‘You have guns standing idle,’ Oliver commented, to one of the midshipmen.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The guns rang out again and a dozen shots flew across the water slicing the wave crests like flying fish but, with no order to reload, the men stood about idly.
‘Ware ship!’ the Captain ordered.
‘Clew up the mains’l,’ the lieutenant called. ‘Look lively there.’
The manoeuvre, of turning the ship through a great circle of sea, was tediously slow and, had it been attempted during a battle, it would have provided the enemy with ample opportunity to escape or prepare for further action. Oliver considered it fortunate this was merely a practice. He noted the disorganization caused to the gun crews when sailors were torn from their stations and ordered to the lines or sent aloft to take a reef in the topgallants. He was aware it was a problem on all ships in action when sudden changes of wind or course meant sail handling was called for. But any man was capable of hauling on a halyard and securing it to the pin rail, or sponging out a flaming barrel. Those jobs took little expertise. But working in the tops was different. Topmen were not made from lubbers pressed from the ports or city streets of England, they were seasoned seamen who had been climbing aloft since they were lads. Topmen were respected as the elite of the sailing crew and to use the best sailors on the guns was, in Oliver’s opinion, a foolhardy choice. It was something he intended to discuss with his first lieutenant, to ensure it didn’t happen on his new command.
