by M. C. Muir
Chapter 23
The Tears of the Moon
It was three days before the jury rig was hoisted and the standing and running rigging met with the satisfaction of both the bosun and Captain Quintrell. By then, the carpenter and his mates had completed the repairs to Perpetual’s damaged hull including plugging the holes closest to the waterline. Finally, the hold was pumped dry and everything battened down. Fortunately, the sea had remained relatively calm during that time but the wind had forced the frigate to drift a considerable distance to the south. During that time, they had seen no other sail, their only visitors being the petrels, snowbirds and albatross who swooped and dived but made no effort to settle in the rigging.
Though there was no urgency to proceed, Oliver had no desire to be sucked deep into the band of the Roaring Forties, or to allow Captain Crabthorne to extend the distance between them by too great a margin.
With the carpenter’s confirmation that repairs to the deck timbers, gunnels and ship’s boats could be attended to during the voyage, Perpetual was able to sail the following morning. With a favourable wind from the south-west, the naval frigate began the long voyage to England heading north and following the coast of Patagonia. Oliver hoped to encounter Compendium before they reached the Equator.
‘Sail on the horizon. Dead ahead!’
‘How many sail?’ Oliver called.
‘Only one.’
‘British frigate?’
‘No, sir. Not Compendium.
‘You think it is one of the slave ships?’ Simon asked.
Oliver didn’t answer still hoping for the lookout to announce another sail. But the call didn’t come.
‘What is she?’
‘Ship-rigged.’
One of the slave ships, Oliver thought. He was disappointed. He had hoped to see Compendium and the captured privateer.
‘But why only one? And why is she sailing alone? Was the sister ship lost around the Horn?’ He was thinking out loud and not demanding an answer.
‘It will be interesting to see what flag she is flying,’ Mr Parry said.
‘Indeed. When they were in Callao, the slave ships flew Portuguese colours, that was until the French privateers took them. But with the French ships gone, where do her allegiances lie now? Does she have a French crew aboard her or are her original Portuguese crew sailing her?’
Oliver mused over it for a minute. ‘It will be an interesting encounter,’ he decided. ‘More sail please, Mr Greenleaf. Let us introduce ourselves. Then we will have our answer. Beat to quarters, if you please, Mr Parry.’
As Perpetual closed on the old Portuguese ship, she delivered a resounding introduction by means of a 32-pound shot fired directly across her bow from the forward carronade. The response was immediate, a white flag being run up on the signal halyard. From the deck, sailors hailed the approaching frigate with frantic cries and with the vessel sitting low in the water, it was evident the crew feared she was in danger of sinking.
‘Bring me to within speaking distance, but not too close. Have the guns run out and the crews standing ready. Then lower a boat on the larboard side. I intend to board her.
The encounter was short and unremarkable. The acting master of the slaver was a young French sailor of little more than twenty-years of age who said he had been a mate onboard the privateer that Captain Crabthorne had sunk. He had been given command of the prize vessel and charged with sailing it to the French Caribbean. However, after sustaining damage to its hull, the vessel was taking water at a far greater rate than the handful of men onboard could handle. With the hold filling fast and fearing he was in danger of sinking, the young master seemed anxious to surrender to the naval frigate. Of the twenty hands aboard, most were French, with only two of the original Portuguese sailors who had been allowed to remain with her. But they too were grateful to depart the sinking vessel and to be transferred to Perpetual.
After a quick examination of the cabins, to ensure no one was hiding aboard, Oliver returned to the frigate to arrange for additional pumps and a crew of men to be ferried across to her. The carpenter was ordered to go with them. The captain wanted a thorough report on the condition of the hull, the extent of any damage and the possibility of adequately repairing the vessel in order for it to complete the voyage back to Europe. As soon as that was determined, work would begin immediately.
Later that day, with Ekundayo acting as interpreter, Oliver again questioned the slave ship’s young acting-master and confirmed that he had been sailing in company with another ship and that they had been deceived by inaccurate charts. Oliver thought it more likely the inexperienced sailors had miscalculated their position as, for whatever reason, they had sailed too close to the coast and, during the night, the other ship had fallen foul of a rocky headland.
The young Frenchman insisted he had tried to give assistance, but said that getting a boat close enough to take off the men or cargo had been impossible. He was visibly upset when he explained, through the interpreter, that he had stood off in the lee of the headland for two days hoping for some sort of miracle, but that it never came.
‘When the sun rose on the third morning, there was no trace of either ship or crew,’ Eku translated.
‘And you retrieved nothing from her?’
‘It was impossible. When I tried to sail in closer, my ship hit the rocks and I feared we would founder also. Because we were taking water, I ordered the men to the pumps but there were not enough of them and they were soon too exhausted to keep going. With no carpenter or tools on board, it was impossible to repair the damage and with the water level in the hold rising, I ordered most of the cargo to be thrown overboard. Drifting seawards and in danger of losing sight of land, the men were on the brink of abandoning ship, taking to the boats and pulling for the coast.’
Eku continued. ‘He said that was when he saw, Perpetual,’
‘Thank you,’ Oliver said. ‘That is all I need to hear.’
Though Oliver commended his vain efforts, the young seaman and his mates were dispatched to the hold, under guard while the names of the two Portuguese sailors from the slave ship’s original crew were added to the frigate’s muster book.
Oliver now had two choices. He could haul his anchor and leave the slaver to sink, thereby forfeiting whatever prize money it might be worth. Or he could put men aboard her, attempt to pump out the water, assess the damage and have the vessel repaired so it was sound enough to make the long voyage back to England. Much would depend on the amount of damage and the time it would take to make her seaworthy. But despite her obvious age, her patched sails and stretched cordage, he leaned towards the latter.
Returning with Mr Parry to make a closer inspection, the carpenter, cooper and bosun, and another half-dozen hands accompanied them over the stretch of water which separated the two vessels. Sitting in the boat while being rowed across, Oliver was quietly pleased to see that subsequent to the construction of the diving barrel Bungs and the chippie had developed a tolerable working relationship and were at least able to communicate with each other.
For the next forty-eight hours, the pumps operated non-stop in the old ship, while the carpenter and his mates worked to make the vessel seaworthy.
Oliver regretted he had not encountered the ship earlier, as the cargo that had been thrown overboard would have been valuable and could have been transferred to Perpetual’s hold. Furthermore, had he and Captain Crabthorne been able to take both vessels before their unfortunate encounter with the headland, then the amount of prize money to be shared between the two commands would have been quite considerable.
But that was not to be. Suffice to say, if the slaver’s leaking hull could be plugged and the ship sailed home, it would be worth something. In a time of war, spare masts, sails, cordage, blocks and other fittings were all saleable or re-useable items, even if the hull itself was worth nothing.
After three days of constant toil and despite the fact the vessels were drifting north on the cold current, O
liver was anxious to proceed under sail. The crew, also, were becoming frustrated at the delay, arguing that there was little to be gained from working on a rotten hull that was likely to end up in the wrecker’s yard.
The following morning after breakfast, while walking Perpetual’s quarterdeck, Oliver gazed across the glassy water to the stricken slave ship only two cables’ lengths away. It was the first time he had studied her beam-on but the flat calm, which was a source of frustration and inconvenience when under sail, provided a rare opportunity for such an observation. Tilting his head, he glanced first to the horizon, then to the ship and back again. She was certainly sitting higher in the water, but she was well down at the stern. Was it possible the French sailors had only jettisoned the cargo stored in the forward hold and left the largest and heaviest barrels in the after section? If that was the case, he needed Bungs to re-distribute the weight. Hopefully that would correct her line.
‘Have you checked the hold since the water was pumped out?’
‘Aye,’ Bungs said. ‘It’s a stinking hell-hole, Capt’n, if you’ll pardon the expression. It reeks worse than the wreck in the Strait.’
‘But this one is empty,’ the captain reminded him.
‘True, but the smell’s still there,’ Bungs said. ‘God’s truth, it’s the worst hold I’ve ever come across. It’s not just the stench that fair takes your breath away, it’s the mess them poor souls left behind. Blood and piss and spew and foulness like you can’t imagine.’
‘I think I can,’ Oliver said.
‘Well, all that vile matter has been washed down to the bottom and settled there, and now there’s no way of swilling it out. And I reckon it’s not just from the last voyage either. There’s layers of it. I’d say she’s never been scrubbed out since she first touched Africa. If it weren’t that she might be worth something in prize money, I reckon she should be burnt like the other one.’
‘That may well be her fate,’ Oliver conceded. ‘However, for the present, I intend to attempt to sail her home. What of the pumps? Should the men continue on them?’
‘The bosun said if you go any lower, you’ll only succeed in clogging them up. And I can’t think of anything worse than having to clean out that muck. The problem is the stuff that’s settled at the bottom. It’s like cook’s plum-duff – thick, suety and vile smelling. And you’ll never get it out unless you dig up all the ballast.’
Oliver scratched his head. ‘Thank you Bungs. I shall go back once again and re-assess the situation for myself. Casson,’ he called, ‘pass the word to Mr Parry. Tell him I shall require my boat and request him to accompany me.’
The cooper’s description was not wrong, the stink was sickening. Not only was it repulsive to the nose, but it made the stomach heave involuntarily and no amount of vinegar or brimstone was going to disguise it.
With only a single lantern bracketed to the mizzen mast, it was impossible to see more than a few yards into the hold, but from the sound of scurrying feet and occasional splashes, it was evident the rats survived well in the near blackness.
Bungs descended the ladder ahead of the captain and, when he reached the bottom, another lamp was handed down to him.
‘Interesting,’ Oliver remarked, the light revealing that there were very few barrels or stores packed in any part of the hold either forward or aft.
Not knowing what the captain was referring to, neither man responded.
‘It’s almost empty,’ he explained, ‘apart from the ballast.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Parry agreed, ‘In that case, one would not expect her to be sitting the way she is.’
Stepping down onto the slimy surface, Oliver steadied himself before looking around. ‘What do you make of the ballast, Bungs?’
The cooper wandered aft, swinging the light about and scraping his shoe through the fetid matter beneath is feet before answering. ‘Blocks of pig-iron embedded in muck on a shingle base,’
‘Apart from the odour, is there anything unusual about the ballast?’
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen blocks like this before. I was at the yard at Chatham when Victory was being built and I helped lay the ballast. Blocks of pig-iron just like these. Two-hundred-and-fifty tons were put in her hold. All laid out in neat rows. What a job that was!’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Endeavour also had pig-iron ballast when she sailed to New Holland,’ Mr Parry added. ‘When she grounded on a coral reef, James Cook had no choice but to lighten her. He jettisoned the cannon first but that wasn’t enough, so he ordered the pig-iron to be hauled up from the hold and tossed over the side. Cook forfeited his guns and ballast, but Endeavour floated off when the tide was full.’
Bungs nodded. ‘Pig-iron’s heavy but the blocks are far easier to handle than sand or shingle.’
‘Your handspike, if you please,’ Oliver said.
Armed with the metal rod, he thrust the spike under one of the large rectangular blocks and tried to prize it from its base. But it was stuck firm in a mould of sticky dough.
‘What weight are these things?’ Oliver asked.
‘Three of them together weigh a ton,’ Bungs said. ‘I should know, I’ve handled enough of them.’ But on swinging the light over the rows of blocks, he was puzzled, ‘It looks to me like they’ve been added fairly recently and mainly in the stern. That’s what’s thrown her out of trim, to my mind.’
Oliver examined one of the blocks again.
‘Let me try, Capt’n,’ the cooper said.
Oliver and Simon Parry stepped back cautiously, being careful not to slip or leave their shoes buried in the gluey substance.
Leaning his weight on the spike, the cooper heaved and slowly with a loud slurp, the block was freed from the suction.’
‘Hold the lantern a little closer, Mr Parry. And I’ll borrow your knife, Bungs, if I may.’
Trying not to inhale too deeply, Oliver wiped the sludge from the block. It was bluish-grey in colour. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Would you kindly go up on deck and ask for some water to be drawn. When I come up, I would like to wash my hands and shoes. Mr Parry and I will join you on deck in a moment.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
With the sound of the cooper’s feet ascending the ladder, Oliver returned to one of the ballast blocks and gently scratched the surface with the point of the knife. There was no change in his expression, when he turned to his first officer.
‘The Inca Indians had a name for it,’ he said. ‘They called it the tears of the moon because of its colour and sheen, but I think this ballast is tainted with the tears of the slaves whose lives it represents. Mr Parry, I will put you in charge of this vessel for I believe what we have is a fortune in Spanish silver sitting right here under our noses.’
Nothing was said by either Captain Quintrell or Lieutenant Parry when they returned to Perpetual, but that evening dining alone, they mused quietly about the consignment of Spanish treasure they had uncovered.
‘How cleverly the bullion was being conveyed,’ Oliver remarked, ‘totally unconcealed – in an obvious location, yet no one would choose to enter that stinking hold and, if they did, they would not look twice at the ballast. Had the silver been minted into coins or moulded into bars and packed in cases, it would have been easily recognized.’
‘Obviously, the Portuguese sailors didn’t know what they were carrying,’ Simon said.
‘Nor did the French privateers who took her. But I wager there will be a small fleet of Spanish ships waiting off the Portuguese coast to intercept its consignment of treasure from the viceroyalty.’
‘I fear their wait will be vain.’
Oliver agreed. ‘Indeed. And no doubt the other ship which foundered spilled a similar cargo of tears into the ocean. And perhaps one day, a brave soul with a diving barrel will find the sunken treasure and bring it to the surface.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Simon,’ Oliver said, ‘the ship is yours to command. Once she is seaworthy, I will make
sure you are well supplied with stores and good men. Bring her home in one piece and we will all reap the rewards.’
Seven weeks later, Perpetual and the slave ship were securely moored alongside the quay in Portsmouth. With the ballast having been extracted from the hull, hosed clean, then loaded onto dray wagons and driven away under a marine guard, the empty slave ship was placed in the hands of the prize agent. And with news that Compendium and the other prize had arrived in Spithead, Captain Quintrell was at last able to breathe easy. His report was already in the hands of the Port Admiral and he had just received fresh orders.
On the dock, that morning, Mr Parry was supervising a line of men signing for the next voyage. Almost as quick as the semaphore could relay a message, word spread along the coast that two captains had returned to port with valuable prizes. As a result, there was no shortage of men willing to sign and the impress gangs were not required.
With a few hours to wait for a boat to take him across The Solent to his home on the Isle of Wight, Oliver wandered round the Camber and headed to the saluting platform. Amongst the ships anchored in Spithead was His Majesty’s Frigate Compendium. He was looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with Boris Crabthorne and revealing to him the unexpected outcome of his mission.
Heading back along High Street, the aroma of roast meat, issuing from the doorway of The George, was too appealing to ignore. A plate of roast mutton and fresh vegetables was a welcome change from his shipboard fare.
After enjoying a fine meal and feeling pleasantly satisfied, he stepped out onto the pavement where a young man, running full pelt, collided with him.
