by M. C. Muir
‘Because I am bored with teasing rope. Because I’ve had the fever in the Indies. But mainly because I’ve got a family and I hope and pray, that if any one of them falls sick while I’m away at sea, someone will lend a hand and tend to them.’
Mr Parry turned and looked at the surgeon who was standing beside the captain.
‘Let both men report to the cockpit,’ Oliver said. ‘The doctor will decide which man will accompany him.’
A murmur of disgruntlement came from one of the hands.
‘You have something to say about that, Brickley?’
Taking off his hat, the sailor stepped forward. ‘Not really sir, only some of the lads would like to know how long we’re likely to be stuck here?’
Oliver regarded him for a moment. ‘We will be “stuck here”, as you put it, until I receive orders to the contrary. Would you rather be sitting on an outcrop of jagged rock in the freezing Southern Ocean, or being sucked down by the Goodwin Sands in the Channel? I can assure you there are far less agreeable places to be than Gibraltar Bay, and I hope everyman aboard will consider that fact.’
Brickley stepped back.
‘If there is nothing else, Mr Parry, kindly dismiss the men.’
Bungs thrust the point of his knife into the mess table. ‘It’s cursed, I tell you.’
‘What is?’ Muffin asked.
‘Them four chests of Spanish treasure the captain has stowed away in his cabin.’
‘Why would it be cursed? More like a gift from heaven, I reckon. It’s the only treasure I know of what we didn’t have to fight and die for.’
‘You don’t know nothing, do you?’ Bungs said, glaring at Muffin who, as usual, was resting his head against the ship’s hull. Then he cast his eyes around the mess and raised his voice. ‘Are you all blind as well as dumb?’
The Negro winked at the lad sitting next to him. ‘Well, you’re going to tell us anyway, aren’t you?’ Eku said.
‘Too right I am. It’s clear as crystal to me. That Spanish silver – or whatever’s locked in them chests, weren’t taken as a prize of war. The reason being, because we aren’t at war with Spain. And if a navy ship takes a treasure in peacetime, then it’s piracy. Pure and simple. And the pirates - namely the British naval officers what took it – don’t want to have the dirty cargo soiling their hands, so they’ve given it to us to mind.’
‘Don’t talk daft,’ Muffin said.
‘You might laugh, but mark my words, cursed it is. And as long as it’s aboard this ship it will bring us no good.’
‘Stow it Bungs, you're talking out of your ear.’
Eku leaned forward. ‘Maybe Bungs is right. Think about it. Them chests came aboard on Sunday morning. By Thursday morning there were five more men in the cockpit suffering with the malignant fever.’
‘Aye and two of them died last night. Spitting blood, they were, and faces as yellow as a tar-stained sail.’
‘Maybe the sickness was carried on board by Captain Gore?’
‘He looked well enough to me,’ Bungs argued. ‘You mark my words, it’s the treasure what brought it and while ever it’s aboard this ship, it’ll bring us nothing but bad luck.’
‘But I bet you wouldn’t say no to a share of it.’
‘I’d not say no, if it was honest prize money captured fair and square, but I don’t want a single bit cut from one of those silver coins. For all I care, the captain can feed it to the fishes. Get rid of it over the side. That’s what I say.’
‘That’s daft talk,’ Muffin repeated.
But Bungs was not convinced. ‘It’s cursed, it is. Just you wait and see.’
CHAPTER 14
The Malignant Fever
To all Ships in the Fleet: 14th October 1804
You are on no account whatsoever to communicate with Gibraltar or receive any letters etc. from any boat or vessel coming from that place on account of the dreadful malady which has broken out there. I am, Sir, &c.,
NELSON AND BRONTE
The letter from General Trigge was addressed to Captain Quintrell with a copy for Dr Whipple. It had arrived by boat early in the morning and had been marked urgent.
‘Mr Parry, kindly arrange for my boat. I intend to go ashore for a few hours.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’
‘My regular crew,’ Oliver advised.
‘I will speak with them immediately. Will the men be leaving you at Rosia Bay and returning to the ship as they did previously?’
‘Not in this instance.’ Oliver paused. ‘I intend to visit Algeciras.’
The lieutenant raised his eyebrows.
‘The doctor will be accompanying me. I suggest my boat crew are armed, and I shall require a pair of marines also.’
Simon Parry’s brow furrowed.
‘Don’t worry, Simon, I have no intention of staying in the Spanish port for any longer than necessary. General Trigge has requested the Doctor visit a close friend of his across the bay.’
‘You are tempting providence, are you not?’ Simon said.
‘By that you mean running the gauntlet of the Spanish gunboats?’ Oliver laughed. ‘They are a mere façade. I contend their gunfire is little more than a show of bravado. I would remind you that we hold no animosity towards the inhabitants of Algeciras although I cannot say the feeling is mutual. Despite their spiteful games, I believe it merely provides amusement for the indolent crews of the Spanish warships. I compare them to mosquitoes in the moist air. Annoying, but of no serious threat.’
Mr Parry was not convinced. ‘They may carry only a single gun, but there are dozens of them on the water. If they launched a combined attack they would be capable of sinking a British ship.’
Oliver made light of his lieutenant’s worries. ‘Depending on the accuracy of their aim, that is. It would not surprise me if they unintentionally fired on the town as Captain Gore did in Cadiz. But I jest. I shall take all due care and I have a passport.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘Signed by the Lieutenant-Governor. Besides, it would not surprise me, if word is passed that I have a doctor with me, to find an escort waiting to greet us. We shall see.’
Mr Parry remained serious. ‘When I suggested you would be tempting providence, it was not gunboats that I was referring to, but the fever.’
‘Hmm, the fever indeed. That is the reason for our visit. The British Ambassador to Cadiz, a very good friend of General Trigge, is residing there at the present. Unfortunately his wife has been struck down by a fever, hence the request for Dr Whipple to attend her. Because of the rapid onset of her illness, there is no time to delay.’
‘No doubt, an influential aristocratic family,’ Simon said.
‘No doubt they are,’ Oliver replied. ‘But from what I hear, this illness does not discriminate between rich and poor, aristocrat and peasant and, unlike the lingering white plague we see every winter in England, this contagion consumes its victims with undue haste.’
Simon Parry chose his words carefully. ‘As a friend, Oliver, I must warn you that you are putting both your lives in peril. And, let me remind you of your earlier concerns that the doctor has some closeted weaknesses which have not yet become apparent.’
‘And as a friend, Simon, I would say to you, there are many times I would not put to sea if I knew what was awaiting me. As for the doctor, it appears my initial assessment of this gentleman was judgemental and prejudiced due to my limited knowledge of accepted medical practices. Captain Gore could not thank him enough for the advice he provided on Medusa. General Trigge and Dr Pym both regard him highly and, having watched him attend his patients, I realize he is gentleman of far stronger character and professional acumen than I had given him credit for.’
The lieutenant offered a final warning. ‘The word on the North Mole is that all of Andalusia is riddled with infection.’
‘I am aware of the stories, Simon, but if Dr Pym is correct, and the contagion is borne in the air we breathe, it makes no difference whether I inhale it in the Bahia de Algeciras, or Bay of
Gibraltar.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Did any more men report sick to this morning’s bell?’
‘Two more topmen. Their symptoms are the same. Perhaps they are more susceptible because they inhale more infected vapour from the mastheads than the men who remain below deck. I have posted a second marine guard outside the sick berth. No one is allowed to enter without my permission.’
‘Thank you, Simon. But what of the rest of the crew?’
‘Surprisingly, there are few complaints. The men’s main gripe is that they are confined to the ship. Despite what they hear, they want to go ashore. But more than that, they want to sail out of here. I sense an atmosphere of discontent brewing, although the men do not express it to me directly.’
Oliver rubbed the back of his hand across the fine stubble of whiskers on his chin. ‘I will return as soon as possible. Kindly attend to the ship in my absence. I know you have the respect of the men.’
The captain’s boat had barely crossed onto the Bahia de Algeciras, when three gunboats emerged from the harbour.
With the marines sitting on the forward thwart and the captain and doctor in the sternsheets, the small Spanish vessels swam around them but did not fire. After half-an-hour, the captain’s boat was dragged up on a beach close to the town. It immediately attracted the attention of a group of Spanish soldiers.
While the doctor retrieved his bag and walking cane, Captain Quintrell presented his papers to the officer and, on learning one of the men was a doctor, the officer became more attentive. After instructing his men to remain with the boat and not wander into the town, the captain and his surgeon left the beach.
Although he had sailed through the Gut of Gibraltar many times, Oliver had never stepped foot in the Spanish port and was unfamiliar with it. Unlike Gibraltar, the town was cut by two streams which delivered fresh mountain water to its residents – something the colony of Gibraltar was jealous of. Furthermore, being on the west side of the bay, the town received all the afternoon breezes to cool the buildings at night.
Neither the captain nor the doctor spoke more than a few words of Spanish but with the Ambassador’s address written on a piece of paper, they followed the directions provided by one of the soldiers. Heading through the town, they wound their way through the maze of narrow streets which led up a hill. The further they went, the tighter the streets became, the buildings completely blocking out the midday sun. However, the shade was welcome, the cool air pleasant. Climbing a set of steep stone steps, they turned into a cobbled lane leading to an alley with high stone walls on either side.
Hearing footsteps behind them, Oliver quickened his pace but before they reached the end where the alley opened into a courtyard, two men stepped out from a passageway ahead of them. One was dressed in the Spanish style with a cloak draped across one shoulder and fastened diagonally across his chest. He was very different in appearance to the ruffians and footpads who inhabited the back streets of the Boroughs or held up the London coaches. Turning, Oliver saw the glint of a knife flash in the corner of his eye.
They had been lured into a trap.
‘Out of my way!’ Oliver cried, drawing his sword.
The Spaniard responded by lifting his arm that had been hidden beneath his cloak. In his hand was a pistol, which he pointed towards the doctor’s bag. From the barrage of verbal demands, it was not difficult to interpret what he wanted.
Dr Whipple shook his head. Gripping his cane in one hand, he wrapped his other arm tightly around his bag and held it close to his chest. He had no intention of parting with his valuable surgical instruments and medicines.
‘Move!’ Oliver shouted. ‘This is my only warning!’
As he spoke, the man turned his pistol toward the captain.
Quick as flash, Oliver lunged at him slicing his wrist and dislodging the gun from his hand. With a cry more of shock than pain, the Spaniard dropped to his knees, grasping his wrist to stop the blood spurting from it. After quickly retrieving the pistol, Oliver levelled his sword against the man’s throat.
Meanwhile, the second assailant was engaged in a tug-of-war as he attempted to pull the bag from the doctor’s hand.
‘Call him off!’ Oliver demanded of the man kneeling on the ground, but the lout showed no signs of comprehending.
Suddenly, the man who had been trailing them rushed at the captain but, before he could strike, Oliver spun around and sank his sword into the man’s leg. His fists were no match for the sword.
Releasing his bag intentionally, the doctor jumped to his own defence, his walking cane held at arm’s length like a rapier. Thrusting forward into the man’s chest with the metal tip of his stick, he forced his assailant backwards until he toppled over.
Jumping to his feet, eyes glaring and yelling abuse, the ruffian was ready to launch another attack on the doctor. But a single stinging sweep from the surgeon’s cane caught the Spaniard’s cheek, the brass ferrule gouging a deep gash across his swarthy face.
At the sound of the would-be thief’s piercing cry and the sight of blood gushing from his face, the fellow who had been following them, turned and limped away down the path as fast as he could manage it.
Holding the pistol in one hand and the sword in the other, Oliver stood over his opponent, a satisfied grin on his face. ‘Once again you surprise me, Dr Whipple. You have other hidden talents.’
But the surgeon was not listening. He was already on his knees, attending to the man he had injured. ‘A nasty cut,’ he said. ‘I am pleased I did not take out the eye. However, I fear the señor will bear the mark of our encounter for the rest of his days.’
After wrapping a bandage diagonally around the man’s head, the doctor turned and looked up at the naval captain. ‘Stick fighting is a skill I mastered as a boy. It’s a fighting art I was thankful to have when I was a student. The back streets of London are undesirable places to wander through, especially at night. I think I should practice more often.’
With the other Spaniard’s wrist bandaged and the pair tied together with lengths of cord from the doctor’s bag, the captain and Dr Whipple escorted them back to the waterfront and delivered them into the hands of the soldiers on the beach. Following profuse apologies, which they were unable to verbally comprehend, the pair were provided with a military escort and eventually arrived at the residence of the Ambassador, without further incidents.
While the surgeon examined the Ambassador’s wife, Oliver was pleased to partake of the refreshments offered to him. From the patio of the house situated high on the hill, the vista across the bay revealed the full expanse of the Rock and the town of Gibraltar at its foot. It was a serene scene that belied the evil festering within it’s the territory’s defensive walls.
The sight of Perpetual basking on the sparkling waters beneath the promontory was reassuring. Apart from the frigate, a few local fishing boats and three hulks were the only vessels on the bay.
Much of the Spanish town reminded Oliver of Madeira. The white-lime buildings. The green vines entwining the arches. The brilliant colours of the flowers – magenta, blue, yellow, red. The perfumed scent in the air and sound of bees. And the view from the top of the hill rekindled memories of the house in Funchal where Susanna lived and of the brief interludes he had spent with her. By now she would be back home, far from the danger she had encountered during her visit to Gibraltar.
Sliding his hand into his pocket, he realized he was still carrying the note she had passed to him when they had met at the garrison. He was sorry he had not managed to visit her before had Conception sailed. Now he did not know when he would see her again.
His thoughts were interrupted when the doctor returned from his patient.
‘How was the lady?’ Oliver asked. ‘Does she have the fever?’
‘She has a fever, but she will survive.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I did nothing. I merely examined her and found her to be covered in a red rash. I believe she has the measles.’
The fo
llowing day brought rain. Heavy drenching rain, which did not stop from dawn until dusk. From first light, when it began bouncing on the deck, the crew set about collecting drinking water. Old sails, hurriedly hoisted from the sail lockers, were suspended across the deck. They filled quickly, the overflow being funnelled into barrels brought up from the hold. The cooper and his mates were kept busy, hoisting, filling, sealing and returning the barrels below. It was a worthwhile task.
For the hands not allocated to help, it was an opportunity to bathe under the downpour, wash their hair or re-wash their salt-hardened clothes. The sounds of splashing, laughing and joking was something that had been absent on the frigate’s deck for quite some time. It was a healthy and welcome sound to the officers’ ears.
Two days later, Oliver resolved it was time to visit the colonial town and assess for himself the rumours that the situation was fast deteriorating. Accompanied by Mr Tully, he landed at the North Mole. They entered the town through the Waterport Gate a great arch which led directly into
Casemates Square. But compared with the sights, sounds and smells which had greeted him and his men when they had first arrived in Gibraltar, the scene presented before him was very different. The square was silent and virtually empty save for two white robed residents who hurried across, quickly exchanging greetings before parting. An old Spanish women purchased what she needed from one of the few merchants, then scurried back into the dismal squalor of the narrow streets.
Between the square and the bay, was a shambles of dilapidated wooden houses. Rising two and three storeys high where several families, comprising dozens of people, all crowded together under one roof. These were the houses Admiral Lord Nelson had condemned during his visit only a few months earlier, reporting that a pile of lighted matchwood set amongst them would be the best remedy for the dwellings.
In fact if the fire spread throughout the whole town, it would be preferable, he had written.
Oliver agreed with the sentiment. If these were the houses harbouring the contagion, nothing would remove it save from reducing the whole area to a pile of ash.
