by M. C. Muir
‘I suppose you’ll want to know who this is,’ the cooper said with a sigh.
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Will said, winking at the lad opposite.
‘You watch your tone, young fella. Don’t you forget who’s head of this mess table.
‘You ain’t changed much, have you, Bungs?’ Then he turned to the two other sailors at the table. ‘I’m Will,’ he said. ‘William Ethridge. I sailed with Bungs on Elusive.’
‘Ekundayo,’ the big West Indian announced, ‘but I go by the name of Eku. And this scallywag is young Tom.’
‘I’ll warn you now,’ Bungs said, ‘don’t be fooled by that leathery skin, there’s half a brain between those black ears. And, be warned, there’s no mischief this young imp ain’t up for either.’
The boy smiled. ‘Tommy Wainwright. That’s me. I clean up after the surgeon in the cockpit.’
‘Have you both sailed with Captain Quintrell afore?’ Will asked, glancing from one to the other.
‘Surely have,’ Eku said. ‘Doubled the Horn last cruise. Sailed north to Peru.’
‘Did you take any prizes?’
‘We did all right,’ Eku said.
‘Aye, a darned sight better than we did in Gibraltar,’ Bungs added.
Will shook his head. ‘There was plenty of talk in the naval yard about the British frigate anchored in the bay, but the name Perpetual didn’t mean anything to me and I never heard mention of the captain’s name. Not until I came aboard and heard it was Captain Quintrell. What a stroke of luck.’
‘That’s not what you said when we pulled you out of the Solent a couple of years back.’
Will ignored the cooper’s quip. ‘And where’s the ship heading this time?’
‘Azores, I heard,’ Eku answered. ‘The Western Islands.’
‘How would you know that?’ Bungs demanded.
‘I keep me ears open.’
‘Are you one of the new carpenters?’ Tommy Wainwright asked Will, his accent straight from the grime of the north of England.
‘I am that, lad. A shipwright by trade.’
Bungs turned to the new arrival. He still had questions for him. ‘I guess you managed to find your way back to Buckler’s Hard when you left Elusive.’
‘I did. And I finished my time, like I said I would. But I didn’t stay on the Hard after that, even though the master shipwright wanted me to.’
‘What happened to that old grandfather of yours, the one who near chopped his leg off with his adze?’ Bungs asked.
‘You’ve got a good memory.’
‘It don’t pay to be forgetful. Did he recover?’
Will shook his head. ‘Ma said he died not long after I’d gone. She said his leg swelled up and went black and the doctor wanted to cut it off, but Grandfather would have none of that. He argued that there was no place on the Hard for a one-legged shipwright. He was a stubborn old beggar. Ma said that after he was buried, the doctor told her he’d likely have died whether he’d taken the leg off or not, and the pain of the amputation would have been far worse than the blood poisoning.’ Will sighed. ‘The worst thing, for me, is that all the time I was gone, he thought I was dead. He thought I’d drowned in the boat I made and he blamed himself that he hadn’t made sure it was watertight before I dropped it in the river. He carried the guilt to his grave.’
‘Well, he was wrong, wasn’t he? You didn’t drown, did you? And you can’t change that.’
Will shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘But what about that mother of yours? I’m surprised you left her alone.’
‘I didn’t,’ William said. ‘Ma left first. That was a reason I didn’t stay long at Buckler’s Hard. After grandfather died, ma couldn’t stay in the house on her own. It had to pass to another wright and his family so she went to live with her sister and husband. He owns his own cottage in Southampton. That was where I found her when I went back.’
‘I bet she was surprised to see you.’
Will laughed. ‘When she opened the door and saw me standing there with the lamp-light flickering on my face, she thought I was a ghost. For a full two days after that she wouldn’t leave my side. And what a fuss the men made when I went back to Buckler’s Hard. They couldn’t believe their eyes either. What a story I had to tell. Some of the wrights accused me of telling tales. They said the things I spoke of just didn’t happen.’
Bungs knew better. ‘So what brought you to Gibraltar?’
‘When we launched one of the ships and it was ready to be towed to Portsmouth to have its masts stepped, I asked Mr Adams if I might go with it. He agreed, but when I was at the naval dockyard, I was asked if I wanted a job there. By that time, the war with France was on again and there was more work than the men could cope with. I agreed to stay and worked there. One day, I heard they wanted a dozen carpenters to work at the yard in Gibraltar. Since leaving Elusive, I’d had a hankering to go to sea again.’
‘So you signed for the colony and sailed,’ Bungs said.
‘Indeed. Me and eleven other wrights. We were all delighted. We were told there’d be plenty of work and there was no mention of fever at that time. But once the epidemic took hold and the quarantine regulations were enforced, that spelled an end to the work. The Mediterranean Fleet that usually came in for refits had to go elsewhere. And with no money to build new ships, there was nothing to do in the yard.’ He shook his head. ‘For the past month we were busy making coffins for them that could afford to buy wood, and find a patch of dirt big enough to put them in.’
‘You didn’t get the fever?’ Bungs asked.
‘No, I was lucky. Two carpenters died and several infants. I woke every morning wondering if I would be next.’
‘Well, you’re safe now,’ Eku said.
‘I hope so.’
A voice, yelling from the hatch, interrupted their conversation.’
‘Bungs get up here.’ Mr Tully’s voice carried the length of the mess. ‘The captain wants to speak with you.’
The cooper winked at young Tom. ‘There you go,’ he said, ‘the captain wants me ear.’
‘Like as not to chew it off,’ Smithers scoffed from the next table.
‘Shut your mouth, you old coot. What would you know about anything?’
Under a full press of sails, the 32-gun frigate was heading for the Portuguese islands situated nine hundred miles west of Lisbon, one thousand sea miles north-west of their current position. The voyage should take ten to twelve days providing they did not encounter any French ships.
Ahead, the western sky bloomed with the colours of autumn leaves―gold, rust and magenta, yet to the east, the curtain of night had already been drawn across the Strait behind them. With the winter solstice approaching, the days had become shorter, though not as noticeably as in England. It was anticipated that the coming year would herald change for all the ship’s company and everyone was looking forward to that.
First Lieutenant Simon Parry wondered what 1805 would mean to Europe. With Bonaparte’s army clawing its way east from France, no one knew where the fighting would end. From all that had been written about him, Emperor Napoleon was an ambitious man who thought nothing of erasing the boundaries of states, countries and empires that had existed unchanged for centuries. He had long since set his sights on invading England but, so far, the Sea Fencibles and the Channel Fleet had prevented him from running a single boat up on the beaches of southern England. The navy, too, under Admirals Nelson and Cornwallis had successfully kept the warmonger’s fleets confined within their harbours, thus preventing the Frogs from wreaking any serious damage at sea.
The current concern for the Lords Commissioners in Whitehall was Napoleon’s unrelenting efforts to seduce the Spanish Crown―to entice, force or blackmail the King of Spain into joining forces with him. If that occurred, the number of fighting ships in a combined Franco/Spanish fleet would outnumber all the ships of war Britain could muster. Besides which, while Britain had spent the lull during the Peace of
Amiens breaking up its old vessels and relegating them to coal hulks or prison ships, Napoleon’s ambitious schemes and plans had continued unabated. Despite the blockades, construction of new and faster vessels had continued in the French yards and, as a result, Britain’s control of the seas was tenuous, to say the least.
According to Captain Quintrell’s orders, Perpetual was heading away from the ongoing conflict. Its destination was Van Diemen’s Land, part of the colony of New South Wales on the other side of the globe―the place where the dregs of England’s jails, the thieves, frauds and murderers were being transported to since Britain could no longer use America as its dumping ground for felons. It was to be a long voyage, sailing via the coast of Brazil before heading south to gain the Roaring Forties that would carry them south of the Cape of Good Hope and across the Indian Ocean to New Holland.
While news of the frigate’s latest destination had filtered down to some of the crew, Simon wondered if the length of the voyage had struck home. It was four months since they had sailed from Portsmouth and, no doubt, several were anxious to see the shores of England again, but that would not happen for more than a year. However, for the present, the fickle-minded seamen were happy to be sailing with nothing but sky on the horizon. What more could they wish for except, perhaps, the chance of prize money? Prizes of war were another commodity they had been deprived of in Gibraltar Bay. A sailor’s pay alone would not line his pocket for very long when his ship was eventually paid off.
Mr Parry was not one to question the destination. He accepted the news and followed orders as required. As first lieutenant, he was responsible for the crew―the men whose sweat and skill worked the ship. He knew Oliver Quintrell was confident of his ability and, on most occasions, they worked well together anticipating and understanding something of how each other thought.
Despite that mutual respect, Simon Parry was troubled. Prior to Perpetual setting sail, he had made certain decisions that went directly against the captain’s standing orders—decisions he knew would ruffle the captain’s feathers, if not infuriate him. Being left in charge, he had been obliged to make them and now he would have to bear the consequences.
In retrospect, he questioned his own judgement, but what was done was done and could not be undone at this stage. He regretted not having spoken with the captain immediately prior to departure, but the opportunity had not arisen. No sooner had the captain stepped aboard than he had descended to his cabin and given strict orders that he was not to be disturbed. He had appeared on deck when the ship weighed, but did not linger long. Being obliged to remain on the quarterdeck, a suitable opportunity to inform the captain of his actions had not arisen until it was too late.
As first officer, he had detailed the decisions he had made in his daily report and forwarded it in the proper manner, but he’d received no response. Feeling a gnawing need to broach the subject personally, yet being aware of the captain’s present sullen mood, he chose not to pursue it. If all went well, once they reached the Azores the problem would evaporate.
Turning his face into the wind, Simon Parry closed his eyes but only briefly. The luff of the mainsail chuckled to itself, then filled momentarily before flapping again. The helmsman observed the canvas and adjusted the rudder, but he had no control over the wind.
‘Pray God it doesn’t fail us now,’ Jack Mundy said. ‘Pray God the westerly does not come through or we’ll be blown back to the Spanish Coast.’
Like every sailor who had ever passed through the Pillars of Hercules, Mr Parry was aware of the problem. In ancient times, the Phoenicians and Moors sailing from the Mediterranean Sea or the coast of North Africa had combatted the lack of wind with a hundred slaves bound to the oars of their immense galleys. The rowers had little choice but to respond to the beat of the drum and the crack of the whip. For the frigate, there was no such solution. Being becalmed at any stage of the voyage was something no one wanted, and the first lieutenant did not appreciate being reminded of the fact by the sailing master.
After twenty minutes of tacking, chasing the last zephyrs, no amount of adjustment of helm and rudder or bracing yards could prevent the air in the sails from expiring. With the courses furled and the flagging topsails showing no inclination to fill, Perpetual was left at the mercy of the currents lolling like a piece of flotsam south of Cape Trafalgar.
Joining the first lieutenant on the quarterdeck, Mr Tully enquired if there were any change in orders. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Parry, but did I hear tell that we were making for the Western Islands. They’re to the north-west of our present position, aren’t they?’
‘I am well aware of the location of the Azores, Mr Tully. At the moment, however, I am more concerned with the loss of wind.’ He glanced up to the flaccid canvas, aware his reply had sounded curt.
‘I wonder why we are not heading for Madeira,’ the second lieutenant said.
Mr Parry glanced at the officer standing beside him. ‘Follow orders, Mr Tully. Do not question them.’
‘Not questioning, sir, just wondering.’
Crossing to the lee side of the quarterdeck, Mr Parry cast a quizzical glance at the man who had once signed as a foremast Jack before entering the service as a midshipman and rising fairly rapidly up the ranks. Though he was no newcomer to the sea, Perpetual’s second lieutenant still had something of a brazen child-like impudence about him. Ben Tully knew the ropes as well as any seasoned sailor, he climbed the rigging as nimbly as a Barbary ape, he bore the marks of the cat across his back proving his right-of-passage in the fo’c’sle, and he had the papers to show he had passed the examination for lieutenant. He had proved himself worthy of the position he held and, though he lacked breeding, he had a brain between his ears―an attribute sadly lacking in some officers Simon Parry had served with in the past.
‘I want a man in the foretop, Mr Hanson, and tell him to keep his eyes open.’
‘Aye, aye, Mr Parry,’ the midshipman said, before striding briskly along the gangway to pass the message along.
In the waist, on the deck below, the captain’s steward was squatting beside a wooden pail, scrubbing some pots. Mr Parry excused himself from the quarterdeck and descended the steps. There was a question he wanted to put.
‘Casson, do you have a moment?’
‘Always plenty of time for you, Mr Parry, sir,’ the steward said, wiping his hands on his apron.
‘Is the captain available for me to speak with him?’
The steward shook his head. ‘Gave me strict orders he does not want to be disturbed by anyone.’
‘Anyone?’ Simon sighed, tilting his head to one side. ‘Is the captain all right? I mean, is he well? Would you know if he is unwell?’ Then a thought struck him. Pray to God the captain was not harbouring the malignant fever.
‘He’s fine. You can take my word for it,’ Casson said, ‘I’ve been with him long enough to know him better than he knows himself. Wasn’t I the only one to visit him when he suffered the brain fever, when he didn’t know a stuns’l from a stays’l?’
‘I trust you are not suggesting there is a problem with the captain’s mental capacity?’
‘Oh, no, Mr Parry, sir, don’t get me wrong, he’s all right. Just for the present, he’s a little out of sorts. That’s all. I just hope he ain’t sickening for som’at.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Simon asked.
‘Because he ain’t eating no more than a sparrow. He just pecks at his food and leaves most of it untouched. I’ve told him more than once it ain’t right to waste good food.’
‘And what is the captain’s response to that, pray?’
‘Says if I don’t want it to go to waste, then I should eat it myself.’
‘And what is your reply to that?’
‘I don’t say nothing. I do what the captain says and finish it off myself.’ Casson smacked his belly appreciatively with both hands. ‘Mark my word though, it can’t last for ever. Before long he’s going to get mighty hungry, and then he’ll
soon forget whatever’s eating away at his innards.’
The lieutenant didn’t comment but thanked the steward and returned to the deck, though his concerns for the captain’s well-being would not leave him. Since the ship had departed the colony, Oliver Quintrell had appeared on deck only when requested by the officer-of-the-watch, or if a sudden sound or movement disturbed him, or late in the evening when the ship was sailing smoothly with a following wind and demanding very little attendance by the watch.
In the pallor of the moon, as it slid back and forth behind the sails, his skin had appeared grey. His expressionless features reflected the morose nature of his disposition. Even when he stepped on deck in daylight, he had turned from the sun and fixed his gaze on the endless and empty far horizon. He had gazed into the distance, as if something in particular was holding his attention when, in fact, there was nothing to break the monotony of sea and sky.
In comparison with the captain’s despondent state, he thought it fortunate the crew’s spirits had remained high since departing the colony. But the first lieutenant had not been the only one to notice the change in the captain’s demeanour. This was the first occasion he had not invited any of his officers to dine with him on leaving port. Under normal circumstances, it was a ritual conducted on the first or second evening at sea. It allowed the captain the opportunity to share information about the forthcoming mission in an informal manner, and discuss the ports they would touch on during the voyage. In the past, Oliver Quintrell had always enjoyed the men’s company over a meal sharing anecdotes or listening to the often exaggerated exploits of younger officers after downing several glasses of fine wine.
But, having heard the steward’s comments, Simon Parry’s concerns were heightened. He now reprimanded himself for not sharing his worries with one of the other senior officers or the ship’s surgeon. He felt remiss for not doing so and wanted to rectify the situation.
Aware the officers were planning a celebratory meal in the wardroom that evening, he bid Casson convey a written invitation to Captain Quintrell to join the gathering for dinner. As the day slipped by and no word was received to say the captain had declined, Simon remained hopeful. At five in the afternoon, when two bells rang from the belfry, Casson delivered a verbal message saying Captain Quintrell thanked the wardroom for their cordial invitation, wished them a pleasant meal, but asked to be excused as he had papers to attend to and he would be taking dinner alone in his cabin.
