by M. C. Muir
‘And what then?’ Mr Parry asked.
‘A good question. While the officer is on my ship, he is my responsibility, and I cannot return him to Captain Crabthorne in his present state of health. Do I return him to England to face a court martial? What do I do?’
Simon was silent to the rhetorical question.
‘If I charge him with all the offences he has committed according to the Articles of War he would be found guilty and likely be sentenced to being flogged around the fleet, if not hung.’
‘Is there any alternative?’
Oliver thought for a moment. ‘Captain Crabthorne or I could return him to his family in England with a report from the surgeon that he be committed to an asylum. There he will end his days clawing the stone walls till the nails are torn from his fingers and his mind has become so twisted his periods of lucidity will be gone forever. I have seen the inmates at Bedlam - St Bethlehem’s in London.’ He shook his head. ‘So many hopeless cases.’
Simon Parry made no response. It was a problem he had never encountered before.
Three days later, and only three hundred miles from the Pacific Islands off the coast of central Chile, the body of the nineteen-year-old midshipman was delivered unceremoniously to the sea.
Because his final crime was not against the captain or crew, but against God, there could be no formal committal service. Yet, despite the lack of religious rites, most of the sailors gathered on deck, removed their hats and stood in silence as the hammock, enshrouding the body was heaved overboard.
The captain, in particular, had a heavy heart. He felt personally responsible. The young man had been under his care yet he had been unable to prevent the events of the past few weeks from happening.
In his estimation, most seamen coped with the fears and pressures they were subjected to on regular basis, but this young man’s troubled mind had not been able to cope. For Captain Quintrell his death on board Perpetual confirmed one thing – that he was as much a casualty of sea war as men cut down in action.
His only hope was that Captain Crabthorne would understand and all that remained was to enter the event in his daily log:
Edward Sinclair Atherstone. Midshipman. Age 19 years. Died at his own hand. Buried at sea.
Chapter 20
Beat to Quarters
Apart from the death of Mr Atherstone, the voyage of 1,500 miles, sailing due south from Callao, had been unremarkable. Several sail of ships had been observed by the lookouts on both frigates but as they had never risen above the horizon it had been impossible to identify what they were, however, as they appeared to be heading south, it was considered likely they were bound for Europe. Oliver felt certain they included the two slave ships that had departed Callao harbour before them.
From the pristine sandy beach on the southern end of the largest of the Juan Fernández group of islands, the two captains gazed across the water to the pair of frigates anchored in one of the few sheltered bays. Behind them, the land rose steeply to a backbone of ragged peaks that stretched along the strip of land situated four-hundred miles west of the South American coast.
Oliver was pleased he had decided to rendezvous with Captain Crabthorne at this location. Though it was an undertaking he did not relish, it had given him the opportunity to convey, in person, the details of Mr Atherstone’s unfortunate demise. The sight of the youth hanging from the overhead beam had disturbed him and would remain with him for a long time. Boris Crabthorne, however, appeared less concerned when he heard the news and spoke little about it.
Another more practical reason for breaking the long voyage south was to let the men expend some pent-up energy. They had not been permitted to do so in the other ports even though they had been at sea for many months. It was also an opportunity to replenish wood and water from the crystal clear streams tumbling down the forested hillsides.
Wandering back to the beach with their arms loaded with kindling, the men joked and laughed. The calls of others could be heard, as they scrambled through the bushes chasing goats that were as elusive as the ghosts that inhabited the island group. While their agile caprine prey had no intention of being captured, the men persisted, despite their obvious exhaustion.
Captain Quintrell’s main concern, when sailing into the bay, was that Juan Fernández was renowned as a popular haunt for pirates and privateers and, reputedly, was still visited by French ships that patrolled the South American coast to monitor any activities going on there. But, whilst wandering around the bay, he found no evidence of recent visits.
Although in the same Ocean and on a similar degree of longitude, Oliver noted how very different this group of islands was to San Lorenzo. Unlike the barren outcrop off Callao, the towering peaks of Juan Fernández were draped with verdant forests, the trees alive with a great variety of birds. Similarly, the surrounding waters abounded with fish and shellfish, and the rocky bays and beaches provided an ideal habitat for seals and sea lions.
With their feet sinking into the damp sand, the two captains ambled slowly toward their waiting boats.
Anxious to learn the outcome of their recent activities off the coast of Peru, Oliver could not resist broaching the subject. ‘I trust the contents of the package I delivered to you were intact.’
‘Indeed. The pitch protected them well and I am in your debt. The pouch has been delivered to its rightful recipient and my mission is complete.’
‘That is good,’ Oliver said, and enquired, ‘Are you at liberty to divulge the details? Obviously, I am intrigued to learn what you were carrying and why it was of such great importance. Being so far removed from the arena of war, I am surprised that what transpires here could impact greatly on Britain.’
‘Because my mission has been completed, and we are now far from the Callao garrison, I can reveal this to you. That pouch contained several documents. Most important amongst them was a list of names, ranks and positions of certain people in Chile, Peru and the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata – also of individuals in Spain and its colonies in the Caribbean, in England, Ireland and even France who secretly support the movement towards independence in South America. Imagine the financial hardship Spain would suffer if that came about. Imagine if the riches from the mines no longer sailed across the oceans but stayed here with the people under their own independent governments.’
‘The consequences would be far reaching.’
‘Not only for Spain, but reverberations would be felt in France and Britain. With no money to pay its guarantee to France, the Spanish Crown would be obliged to kowtow to Napoleon.’
‘But how would this directly benefit Britain?’
‘If Britain is seen to be instrumental in supporting the independence of these colonies by providing money, leadership and protection through naval support then a strong diplomatic relationship will develop between our country and the new South American nations. The resulting trade relations would provide vast opportunities for British investment.’
‘Surely this is a dream that will take decades to come to fruition?’
‘Perhaps and perhaps not. The list does not only include dedicated men, but prominent government officials, high ranking citizens, parliamentarians, members of the judiciary, relatives of the viceroy, even representatives of the clergy who are currently engineering the groundwork for—’
‘Civil war?’
Captain Crabthorne shrugged. ‘One way or another, independence will come to both Chile and Peru in the next ten or twenty years. However, had the list I was carrying fallen into the wrong hands, many heads would have toppled and the chance of the regions’ independence from Spain’s rule would have been lost forever.’
The two captains walked on in silence, occupied with their own private thoughts. Captain Crabthorne was satisfied he had fulfilled his mission. Captain Quintrell was satisfied his orders to find and assist Captain Crabthorne had been completed though he felt some disappointment that the whole affair had been rather underhanded in a diplomatic sense. In
the navy (at least on the quarterdeck), one was in the habit of facing the enemy head on, though he didn’t doubt that a similar type of secret subterfuge was commonplace in Whitehall.
One thing was certain in Oliver’s mind, when his career at sea was over, he would never embark on a career in politics. It was a business awash with a maelstrom of deceit, intrigue, lies and falsehoods. It lacked both teeth and action and, for his own part, he preferred the exhilaration, excitement and challenge of a sea battle any day.
Over a final meal before the frigates weighed, Oliver suggested diverting to Valdivia to revisit the viceroyalty’s Irish official, but Captain Crabthorne was anxious to proceed south. Autumn was approaching and in the higher latitudes its progress was more rapid than in more moderate climes. Though he did not express it in so many words, it was evident he wanted no repeat of the problems he had encountered on his outward voyage. If the Weather God’s were in their favour, hopefully the prevailing westerlies would carry them round the Horn without incident, and very soon they would be heading north with England’s green hills only two months’ sailing away.
With that prospect in mind, the captains agreed, they would double the Horn together, but if separated by wind or storm or other eventuality, they would make their own passage home and meet in Portsmouth. Oliver promised that if the war with France had come to an end, he would visit Captain Crabthorne at his home in Hertfordshire. Likewise, Boris Crabthorne accepted an invitation to the Isle of Wight.
Heading south, both Perpetual and Compendium navigated a course to the west of the frozen Chilean fjords before clearing the tip of Tierra del Fuego and the scattered islands which made up the broken tail of the Andes Mountains including Cape Horn.
Fortunately on this occasion, the conflict, which usually raged at the confluence of the major oceans, had subsided to a relative accord and with a favourable wind to drive them around the Horn, the passage took less than a week, the two frigates maintaining visual contact throughout that time.
On leaving the Southern Ocean, the Furious Fifties slowly slid away to the south while the dependable winds of the Roaring Forties helped speed their passage north. During the next two weeks, it wasn’t unusual for the men hauling the log to be asked to repeat their casts, as the speeds and distance the frigates achieved were remarkable. But the fickle winds and currents ahead of them would not always be so generous.
‘Deck there! Sail on the starboard quarter.’
‘What heading?’
There was no reply.
‘What heading, I say?’
Everyone on deck craned their necks anxious to hear the answer.
‘There could be two,’ the lookout called.
‘Get another man up there, Mr Parry. And a message to Compendium. Find out what he sees. And run up the colours, Mr Lazenby.’
While awaiting a reply, Oliver paced the quarterdeck considering the unremarkable sea ahead of them and the trim of Compendium’s sails some half-a-mile distant. As he watched, a series of flags were hoisted up the signal halyard. He needed no interpretation though the midshipman was quick to advise: ‘Two sail of ships. Heading north.’
Mr Parry and the master were close by and, though they gazed in the direction indicated, from the deck and without a glass, they were unable to see any other vessels.’
‘Coastal traders, perhaps?’ Mr Greenleaf questioned.
‘I think not. They are too far from the coast.’
‘Or the Spanish man-of-war we saw leaving Callao heading home?’
‘Or two slave ships carrying their tainted profits?’ Mr Parry suggested.
Flags indicating a third ship were hoisted from Compendium’s signal halyard. At the same time, the master’s mate stepped onto the ratlines and the cry came down from the lookout. ‘Four ships. No colours. Sailing in convoy.’
‘Goddamit, do we have the whole Spanish fleet in the Pacific?’ Oliver muttered.
‘Two corvettes and two ships,’ Mr Tully called from the ratlines.
‘The slave ships with a Spanish escort?’ the master suggested.
‘I think that is unlikely. The Spanish ship we saw was a seventy-four. But we will know soon enough. They will have seen us by now.
‘Helmsman, maintain your present course.’
‘They’re tacking to starboard. Looks like they’re making for the open sea.’
‘If these were Spaniards with no quarrel with Britain, and being four in number to our two, they would have no reason to attempt to avoid us.’ Jumping up onto the cap-rail and hooking his arm round the main shroud, the captain studied the small fleet.
‘Privateers!’ Oliver announced. ‘If I am not mistaken – a pair of French privateers and before long we will see the Tricolore flying from their masts. The ships, however, are definitely the Portuguese slavers – no longer filled with human souls but certainly not sailing with empty hulls. In my estimations, they would be packed with produce and money and would have made easy pickings for the French pair, who were no doubt lying in wait for them.
‘Will they be sailing them back to France?’ Mr Lazenby asked.
Oliver doubted it. In his estimation the privateers would escort their prizes north to the nearest French colony in the Caribbean where, within hours of arrival, the vessels would be stripped, their cargoes removed and the hulls converted to floating magazines, or deliberately sunk in the entrance of the harbour to prevent British fighting ships from sailing in. Eventually, when they failed to return home, it would be assumed by the ships’ owners that they had been lost around the Horn, and no trace of them would ever be found.
‘I believe it is our duty to relieve those French pirates of their prizes. They will attempt to run but we will follow and, if they choose to fight, we will be ready.’
‘Four against two. Hardly an even match.’
‘Tosh, Mr Greenleaf. Be assured, the slavers will have few guns. And the handful of French sailors who have been put aboard will not be disciplined fighting men. I suggest they will try to outrun us until nightfall and lose us in the dark. But they will not succeed. Tonight, the moon will be almost full, and in the clear air of the open ocean, we will keep them in our sights until morning. He looked at his pocket watch. ‘At our present speed, it will take several hours to close on this quarry. Let the men go to their supper. When they have eaten and are refreshed, we will beat to quarters.’
‘Do you think we will reach them before nightfall?’ Mr Parry asked.
‘That will depend on this wind holding and the ships remaining in convoy. I would estimate those old merchantmen are struggling to make four knots against our six.
‘Helmsman, north-east. Let us introduce ourselves to this motley fleet of Frenchies, if that is what they are, and drive them onto the coast.
The coloured flags fluttered as they hissed up the signal halyard requesting Compendium to follow.
With the convoy heading north and now sailing within sight of the coast, Perpetual and her consort closed on them from the sea.
‘They will not escape me,’ Oliver said.
‘How far do we follow them?’ the sailing master asked.
‘All the way to France if necessary. But that is unlikely. They will not be welcomed in any port. Their destination can only be the French colonies in the Caribbean and that is many weeks of hard sailing ahead. I promise you, they are ours, but at what juncture, I cannot predict. For the present I shall go below. Tell me if the wind picks up or if they change their heading.’
The following day dawned to a flat calm with the six ships spread over a distance of fifteen sea miles. As the sand slid slowly through the hourglass, the sun sapped the men’s energy resulting in little enthusiasm for the regular routine of the ship. Decks were swabbed haphazardly. Holystones scoured the planks without vigour. Brasses were polished half-heartedly but retained patches of green tarnish. At eight bells, the sailors ambled to the mess with little appetite for dinner, but grateful to go below.
No sooner were they seated
than a south-westerly breeze sprung up, surprising the officers on watch. It reached the British frigates first, rattling the rigging and ironing the creases from their canvas. Minutes later the same wind breathed on the four ships lolling on the still water.
‘Deck there,’ the lookout cried.
‘Report,’ Mr Parry replied.
‘One of the corvettes is wearing to port.’ The sailor at the masthead watched for a few minutes. ‘The other wearing to starboard. The two slavers are still heading north.’
‘At last,’ Oliver said, ‘the privateers are preparing to stand and fight. Beat to quarters, Mr Parry, and clear for action. And relay our intentions to Captain Crabthorne.’
With the urgent rat-a-tat of wooden sticks drumming on taut goat skin, the sailors poured up from the mess and headed to their stations to prepare Perpetual for action. During the time it took to beat out his message, the twelve-year-old marine thrilled to his responsibility with a quiver of nervous exhilaration. Despite his badly fitting over-sized uniform, at no other time did men respect his call in such an unquestioning fashion. For the crew of His Majesty’s frigate, the ritual was well-rehearsed. Every man knew his station and wasted not a second in arriving at it. No one needed prompting and no one spoke.
Emotions amongst the sailors varied considerably. Some welcomed the call. For them it provided a welcome break from daily chores and regular watches. It was perhaps the only chance to express emotion – anger, excitement, verve, enthusiasm, even grief, without suffering reprisals or ridicule from mates or officers. In action, there were no blows from the rope’s end or threats of the lash or worse, unless, of course, orders were deliberately disobeyed. In addition, there was the added incentive of possible prize money. That was worth facing danger for.
Others despised the demands of the drum. These were the sailors who feared death, along with noise, smoke and the unnatural shudderings of the ship when a broadside thundered along its gun deck. The shock and horror of seeing an iron shot pierce two feet of solid timber on the starboard side, fly across the deck and exit through the larboard side without even slowing in its track. These sailors feared both the expected and the unexpected. The frightening reality that pike-sized splinters could impale a man, or heated-shot sizzle through his belly, cook his innards, and turn his wife into a widow in the blinking of an eye.
