by M. C. Muir
‘Return the boat at two o’clock,’ he said.
‘Aye aye, Capt’n,’ Froyle replied, as the boat crew prepared to pull back to Perpetual.
‘Not a moment later,’ the Captain reiterated. His order was directed towards the four midshipmen, and the gunner and his mate, who were going ashore to sample the town and all it offered. The men acknowledged the order, grinned at each other and then argued over which way to head along the main thoroughfare.
Oliver’s destination was predetermined.
Twenty yards from the beach, in a small paved square and under the shelter of some palm trees, a group of donkeys idled, flicking their ears and tails, while the owner sat cross-legged on the ground chewing a wad of tobacco. Seeing the captain approaching, he immediately jumped up, spat out the bolus of leaves and offered his services. After the captain indicated his intended journey up the side of the mountain, the cost of hire was agreed on and the business transacted.
Having chosen the largest of the animals, whose ears more resembled those of a mule than a donkey, Oliver swung his leg over the mount and made himself as comfortable as possible on the coloured blanket. With his legs dangling loosely on either side, he considered his appearance was less than dignified for a British Naval officer, however, no one on the street seemed to notice or even give him a second look.
It had been a year since he had visited the island and seen Susanna and unlike his previous visit, when he had arrived with apprehensions, this time he could hardly control his desires. In the privacy of his cot, she had slept beside him every night since Perpetual had left Portsmouth and before that too. He still pictured her the way he had left her on his previous cruise, her long black hair cast casually over her left shoulder, her breasts heaving within the embroidered bodice and her long legs, hidden beneath the folds of her petticoats – so smooth and so willing to wrap around him.
A sudden thought that she may not be at the house, or may be entertaining visitors concerned him. He could steal only a few hours of liberty and could not extend his stay on the island any longer than it took to supply the vessel. His orders were to proceed south with all haste but if, and only if, there was no wind, he would be unable to sail and could possibly return.
Later he would reprimand himself for succumbing to temptation. Yet far from the ship, straddling a donkey, breathing the fragrant air of this verdant isle, he had only one thought in mind.
His mount stumbled, as it climbed the steep mountain path, throwing him forwards over its neck. At least, if he was dislodged, he would not have far to fall. But with no saddle or stirrups his seat was precarious and he had little control over the beast. However, like every other four-legged transport servicing the port and its surrounding hills, the donkey was familiar with the various routes up the mountainside and once pointed in the right direction proceeded without encouragement.
Despite that, the climb seemed arduously slow. At every bend in the zigzag track, Oliver hoped to see the path leading to Susanna’s house, but every time it failed to materialize. For some reason, the climb felt steeper and was far more hazardous this year than he remembered from the past. Perhaps, it was because the recent rains had clawed gouges, the size of horses’ hooves, down the centre of the track. One wrong step and the animal’s leg could be broken. To add to the hazard, the track skirted an almost perpendicular cliff that dropped into a deep gorge. If a rider fell into such a ravine, he would never be found. Oliver’s only consolation was that if the donkey stumbled on the track and he survived, he could travel the rest of the way on foot. This would allow him time to appreciate the panoramic views over Funchal Bay.
Then he considered his level of fitness and the additional layer of fat he had added to his waistline. It was not so much the lack of exercise he had suffered from on land, but a daily routine that had revolved around eating. The delicacies served with morning and afternoon teas had appeared obligatory, then there were the sumptuous meals for luncheon and dinner, plus the house parties. Over the indolent months of summer and most of autumn, his exercise had been limited to morning walks on the beach and, despite his wife’s disapproval, to his regular swim in the sea near the mouth of the Bembridge River.
‘How can you divest yourself of your clothing on a public beach and plunge into the foul silt of the estuary,’ she had said, airing her disgust.
‘You mean, in the presence of a flock of screeching gulls and terns?’ he had questioned cynically. ‘It is invigorating to the skin and allows me to taste the salt.’
‘Surely,’ she would reply, ‘your months at sea provide you with enough salty air to last a lifetime, though you seem in need of being continually reminded of it. Why not stand at the end of the garden for an hour? I can assure you, you will receive all the sea breezes you need. Indeed, the wind near blows me off my feet every time I step outside the door. And besides, we have salt on the table and every exotic spice in the larder to satisfy your strange cravings? But to come home with your garments coated in sand is inexcusable. The laundress tells me there was an inch of beach sand in the tub the last time she washed your stockings and breeches.’
Oliver frowned. ‘I hardly think the maid should be reporting on the condition of my laundry.’
‘Well, I felt it was my duty to ask her.’
‘Ah,’ he replied sagely.
‘Pray tell me, what does that sigh signify?’
‘That I shall have Casson wash my clothing in future in the manner he does on the ship. Most satisfactorily, I might add. And he never mentions the colour or composition of the washing water. But you can be assured, my dear, I do not intend to refrain from my morning exercise.’
From thoughts of his wife’s demands, his mind jumped to Casson, the sailor who was his steward at sea, and acted as his manservant when ashore. Already, he had repositioned the buttons on his jackets a full inch to accommodate the captain’s expanding girth and apologized that they would go no further without spoiling the appearance of the uniform. Oliver hoped that by the time they reached Rio de Janeiro, as a consequence of eating naval fare, he would be requesting the buttons be returned to their original positions.
At last, he arrived at the pathway leading to the house. Sliding from the donkey, he secured the reins to a vine. The courtyard, like the air around it, was still. Leaves and flowers still glistened with moisture from the morning mist. A long-legged dog lying under a bush dragged itself up, stretched and barked twice. It looked at the visitor, barked again then lay down on a deep litter of fallen magenta flowers.’
‘Pancho!’ a voice called from within the house. ‘Onde estás?’
The dog lifted one ear but did not get up.
Oliver inhaled deeply. She was here.
As if answering his silent prayer, Susanna stepped out to the courtyard.
‘Pancho!’ she called again. Then she saw the naval officer standing beneath the stone archway.
‘Oliver, is that really you?’
Neither moved as they gazed at each other.
‘Are you alone?’ she asked.
‘I am. Are you?’
Susanna nodded. ‘Are you able to stay?’
‘Only for an hour or two.’
She smiled, rocked her head to one side tossing her hair from her shoulder.
Unbuckling his belt, he removed his sword and walked across the courtyard towards her.
‘Come,’ she said, taking his hand and leading him inside.
‘Did you receive my letter?’
‘Yes, over a week ago but, as the days passed, I feared you had not been able to stop. Every day I gazed out over the harbour and imagined each new arrival to be your ship. But this morning with the mist and lack of wind, I did not expect to see you.’
‘Stealth and surprise can sometimes reap success in battle.’
‘I can assure you, Captain,’ she said, with a cheeky grin, ‘you will have no difficulty in taking this prize.’
Her arms slid inside his jacket and his arms enfolded her.
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‘How sweet the air is here,’ he said, burying his face in her hair. ‘And how much I need you.’
The release of emotion pent up within him was hard to control. One day a year was not nearly enough. A week. A month, maybe. Why had he not visited her while waiting for his commission? There had been ample time to make the journey.
‘I could have sailed here and spent time with you,’ he whispered in her ear, as they lay together.
‘And risked missing your commission?’ she teased. ‘It may have gone to someone else.’
But for the present moment, Oliver didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about commissions or sailing orders, Admiralty boardrooms or ceremonial swords. They had no place in his mind. There was only one thing he longed for and it was here in his arms on the slopes of Madeira.
On returning to the town, the owner of the donkeys was nowhere to be seen – probably enjoying an afternoon siesta, Oliver thought, so, after tying the animal to a post, he returned to the beach. Checking his watch, he had arrived fifteen minutes early and was pleased to see the cutter being rowed across the water some half-a-mile away.
Further along the beach, not fifty yards away, another naval jollyboat was preparing to push off.
‘A moment,’ the officer called to his coxswain. Stepping out of the boat, he strode over to where Oliver was waiting. ‘Captain Quintrell, Elusive, is it not?’
Oliver had not recognized his old friend, William Liversedge who he had served with aboard Capricorn, a 74-gun ship of the line when they were both midshipmen.’
‘Perpetual – frigate,’ Oliver said, indicating to the bay. ‘Good day to you, William.’
‘My apologies, I am not up to date with the latest commissions. But tell me, Oliver, are you sailing this evening or can I press you to dine with me? I have venison roasting on a spit as we speak. You and your senior officers would be most welcome to join me aboard Imperishable. Shall we say, eight o’clock?’
‘I would be delighted,’ Oliver said. ‘I fear nothing will be sailing if this damned calm persists.’
Stepping aboard the frigate, Imperishable, anchored in Funchal road, Oliver was immediately aware the vessel was not carrying cargo but transporting troops who were taking up most of the deck space. After briefly reminiscing with his old friend on the quarterdeck, the two captains went below and joined the ship’s senior officers who were already seated around the table.
‘I am bound for Jamaica with troops,’ Captain Liversedge said. ‘They are urgently required because of the increasing danger from slave uprisings. Presently there are upheavals on several islands in the Caribbean, and it is reported that on the island of Hispaniola the slaves are gaining the upper hand. To make matters worse, France and Spain are arguing over ownership and now the Americans are showing an interest. Britain had already sent thousands of men and landed supplies and guns, but I fear the French have sent more. The stories coming from there are horrific. It is hard to believe the reports of some of the atrocities committed by all sides.’
‘Is is wise then to be sailing alone, unsupported by a naval escort? French territories are some of the first islands you must pass when you enter the Caribbean. You could be sailing into a hornet’s nest?’
‘It was thought not politic to send a convoy – in other words, the defence of England against Napoleon’s proposed invasion force was seen as a more expedient means of deploying Royal Navy vessels, rather than sending a convoy to protect a shipload of troops. Soldiers, like marines, are not highly regarded by the navy. And men are dispensable. However, were I transporting gold or specie then I believe I may have been treated in a more favourable light.’
‘With spies in the English Channel, perhaps their judgment has some merit. Easier for a single ship to slip out unannounced than a convoy that always attracts an unnecessary fanfare.’
‘Perhaps,’ Captain Liversedge said, sounding unconvinced. ‘But, Gentlemen let us not dwell on such mundane matters. I trust you will enjoy your meal. The meat could not be fresher. It was shot and hung only four days ago. Not exactly the King’s deer, but a fine stag from one of the nearby islands.’
‘Might I enquire if this is your first commission since the war resumed?’ Oliver asked.
‘Indeed, it is not. I sailed to Buenos Aires in March when the Treaty broke. On that occasion I returned a contingent of marines to England. The Admiralty feared our presence on the River Plate could prove to be an embarrassment if Spain became inveigled into France’s devious schemes.’
‘A possibility that is still very real,’ Oliver remarked.
‘Indeed. It will only be a matter of time. But I heard that you sailed to South America last year. Is that correct?’
Oliver looked up from his meal and nodded. ‘I touched on some of the ports but only briefly.’
Aware that there were matters about that voyage which his captain was not at liberty to discuss, Mr Parry interrupted the conversation. ‘Sir, did you happen to encounter Compendium, Captain Crabthorne, anywhere on the South American coast?’
‘Captain Boris Crabthorne? Certainly, and I was able to supply him with sails and cordage for which he was most appreciative. You must understand, he had just managed to limp back into Buenos Aires and his ship was in an utterly forlorn state.’
Oliver exchanged raised eyebrows with his first lieutenant.
‘An unlikely place to have encountered French action being so far south,’ Mr Hazzlewood observed.
‘It was not the French or the Spanish that debilitated him, it was the weather.’ He glanced around the table. ‘Captain Crabthorne said that for almost a month he had attempted to round the Horn but, in the end, with his men exhausted and with his ship suffering more acutely from the conditions than his crew, he had had no alternative but to return to Buenos Aires.’
Oliver allowed Captain Liversedge to continue without interrupting.
‘We had only entered the Plate estuary on the previous day. Our crossing had been totally without incident and having suffered no delays in the Doldrums, we had only used half our estimated supplies and the ship was sound. Therefore, I was able to assist him with sails, cordage, spars and even extra slops.’
‘For his return to England?’
Captain Liversedge shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Are you saying that Captain Crabthorne intended to continue with his mission? Surely, with the worst of the southern winter still upon him, was that wise? It sounds a rather questionable decision to make.’
William Liversedge agreed. ‘Foolhardy even. Those were exactly the thoughts that ran through my head. I was concerned he would not make it, but he was intent on trying. He said his mission was of vital importance and he would not return to England without completing it.’
‘But to sit out the winter and wait for warmer weather would have been more prudent.’
‘I agree, but Captain Crabthorne was insistent. Though not without apprehension, he was fully aware of the possible consequences. The weather was likely to be harsher than that which he had battled during the previous weeks. His crew was unhappy and when Compendium arrived in Buenos Aires a few of his men ran. Surprisingly though, the majority stood by him and swore they would sail anywhere with him. A good captain and a fine sailor, I am led to believe.’
‘And a good gardener,’ one of the midshipmen whispered.
The disdainful look from Captain Liversedge brought a rosy flush to the young man’s cheeks.
‘Before we weighed from the River Plate, Captain Crabthorne shared a meal with me. He spoke nothing of the purpose of his mission, save for saying he was sailing under Admiralty orders and was intent on carrying them out – whatever the cost.’
Oliver questioned that statement. ‘But to chance losing one’s ship and one’s men to save a few weeks, achieves nothing.’ He paused for a moment considering the ramifications for his own mission. ‘Have you heard anything more of him since you left Buenos Aires?’
‘No, and, like you, I can only trus
t in God that he succeeded in making the passage.’
‘Amen, to that,’ Oliver added, lifting his glass and swilling the dark liquor around before swallowing the contents.
Captain Liversedge did the same. ‘However, perhaps I should add that he did not intend to sail around Cape Horn.’
‘What? Surely he was not intent on sailing east and circumnavigating the world? Such a voyage would take a year.’
‘No, he planned to sail through the Magellan Strait and navigate the maze of channels at the western end to reach the Pacific that way.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘But what of charts? That passage is poorly mapped. My father ran a packet from Boston, and I sailed with him when I was a boy. He doubled the Horn many times and attempted that passage on two occasions, but each time had to abort it and turn south.’
Captain Quintrell had everyone’s full attention. ‘Though the island of Tierra del Fuego shelters those waterways from the worst of the Antarctic gales, it fails to stop the cold air infiltrating every stream and channel and, at times, freezing them solid. Then there are the enormous rivers of solid ice which flow down from the snowfields high in the mountains and deposit great chunks of ice into the waterways creating unseen hazards. Furthermore, some of the channels narrow unexpectedly providing insufficient width or depth of water to turn a ship around in. I fear that his decision may have not been a wise one.’
Captain Liversedge shrugged his shoulders. ‘Crabthorne was confident he could get through. He had engaged two pilots, including a native Indian who convinced him he could guide him all the way to the Pacific.’
‘I commend his confidence,’ Oliver said.
The company around the table murmured their responses.
‘If you should encounter Compendium on your travels, kindly convey my regards to Captain Crabthorne and compliment him on his tenacity.’
‘I will, indeed,’ Oliver said.
From the quarterdeck, Captain Quintrell watched as Imperishable weighed. The wind, which had blown in with the first rays of sunlight, was light, but sufficient to fill the topsails and carry Captain Liversedge and his consignment of red-coated soldiers from the roadstead. As soon as the watering was complete, he intended to follow.
