The Unfortunate Isles (Under Admiralty Orders - The Oliver Quintrell Series Book 4)

by M. C. Muir

  It was too late to do anything that day, but early next morning while the men were eating breakfast, Captain Quintrell assembled his officers on the beach and advised them of his plans. He intended to see for himself the site where the hangings had taken place and speak with the locals in the woman’s village. He wanted to know more about these unexpected and unwelcome foreigners in case they posed any threat to his ship.

  ‘Mr Parry, you will take charge of everything here while I am away.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Simon said. ‘I pray nothing unforseen will befall you.’

  ‘I pray for that, also,’ Oliver replied, before continuing. ‘From what Mr Tully tells me, heading over the headland involves a long hard climb, therefore I have decided to take the cutter and raise the beach from the water. Mr Tully agrees it will be quicker.’ He looked over the ocean glistening in the morning sun. ‘The sea is calm. The wind fair. I trust it will remain that way. But, if a change in the weather blows in, we can take shelter on the beach and sleep under the boat if necessary. I will take a few provisions. We will not go hungry. I will require Ekundayo to accompany me and act as my translator. Kindly have him ready to leave when he has finished eating.’

  ‘Anything else I can organise, Captain?’

  ‘My boat crew and a few marines. Mr Tully will accompany me to indicate the correct bay. When we locate it, I will go ashore. I want the men armed. I intend to visit the village and talk with the woman he spoke of, if I can find her. I need to know more about this ship and its captain. From the evil he has done, I can only conclude he is a blackguard, devoid of all conscience. Who else would drag men from their homes and string them up like common criminals? While I am away, make sure the men continue working on the hull. The sooner we can put to sea and leave this cove the better. I have an uneasy feeling about this place.’

  ‘I understand,’ Simon said. ‘Don’t worry, I will take care of everything here.’

  The captain considered the frigate, careened at a modest angle. But he saw no necessity to lean it any further.

  ‘I was never more vulnerable than I am now with my ship lying on the sand like a beached whale,’ Oliver said. ‘My only hope is that it will not be seen from the sea. I caution you to keep a keen lookout at all times and, if a ship is sighted within five miles of here, despatch a messenger to me immediately.’

  After dismissing the other officers, Oliver took his first lieutenant by the arm and walked down the beach to where the ship’s boats had been hauled ashore. At that distance, their conversation could not be overheard.

  ‘There is a pressing matter I must ask you to attend to while I am away. As you know, the cases of Spanish treasure hidden in my cabin have been bothering me since we left Gibraltar. Word of a ship visiting this coast delivering murder and mayhem, has heightened my concerns.

  ‘I will let no one near,’ Mr Parry said. ‘You can trust the crew, but if you feel it necessary, I will place an extra guard on the cabin door.’

  ‘It’s not the crew that worries me, Simon, it’s the possibility news of the treasure has leaked. If someone armed with that knowledge boarded the frigate and searched the great cabin, they would quickly identify the false bulwark and, in no time, the cache of coins would be gone. And along with it, the very purpose for my mission.’

  ‘Do you sense that the ship which has been following us is bent on taking it from us?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘I cannot answer that question. What I do know is that we have many months of sailing ahead, during which time every ship we encounter must be regarded as a potential threat. While that treasure is an enigma to me, it is my duty to defend it with my life. I am bound to follow Admiralty orders and convey it to the colony of New South Wales as instructed.’

  ‘I understand but what can I do to safeguard it, other than carrying it ashore and burying it?’

  ‘I think not,’ Oliver said, ‘for if we have to make a hasty departure from here, digging up heavy chests of silver is a chore we can well do without. However, I have an idea,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was around. ‘I need you to speak with Bungs and one of the carpenters―William Ethridge would be a good choice. The two are mess-mates and I trust them both. While the leaguers and large barrels are empty, and before we take on water and victuals, the job should not be too difficult.’

  He explained his plan. ‘I want the cooper to select four empty barrels to rest on the shingle ballast in the hull. After the tops have been removed, I need the carpenter to rig up a thwart inside each for a heavy chest to rest on. Hopefully, this will prevent them from shifting about with the movement of the ship. As an added safeguard, the empty space inside them can be packed with old rope or teased oakum. It would not do for the cases to move or the barrels to collapse when the refurbished barrels are stacked on top of them.’

  Mr Parry’s mind jumped back to an earlier cruise. ‘Perhaps young Will is not a good choice. Might I remind you of the incident with the barrel on Elusive in the Southern Ocean?’

  Oliver’s face showed no flicker of feeling. ‘That event is in the past and work here must proceed with all haste. When the chests are in place, I want Bungs to re-organise the hold so it is impossible for anyone to locate the specific ones. Only you and I, the carpenter and the cooper are to know the exact location of the treasure.’

  ‘Let us hope no one ever tries to find it,’ Mr Parry said.

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver replied. ‘I leave that matter in your capable hands.’

  Because of the captain’s concern about placing any excess weight on the frigates larboard side, the job of reorganizing the barrels had to proceed with care. The ones that were still full of water or food were heavy and firmly set in the damp ballast. Trying to roll those was impossible. The empty barrels, however, appeared to have a will of their own, some threatening to roll across the ship and slam into the side of the hull.

  Being in charge of the job, Bungs was in his element and, though he was known to dislike working with other tradesmen, on this occasion he held his tongue. As far as barrels were concerned, he was an old hand at making or breaking them and he knew he was a valuable asset to the ship. When he heard what had to be done, he knew exactly which barrels to select.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he said, manoeuvring one of the empty containers to a standing position, then prising off two of the hoops in order to release the top. With his feet sinking into the damp shingles, he remembered the unusual ballast discovered in the hull of a brig they had taken off the coast of South America. The result was the prize money he had subsequently collected from that cruise. It was a tidy nest egg that was waiting for him in the bank in Portsmouth. One day, in not too many years, he would leave the sea and reap the rewards of his service to the Navy. But he had yet not decided when that would be or what he would do with it.

  Leaving the careened ship and farewelling the crew on the beach, the cutter, with Captain Quintrell and his second lieutenant aboard, pushed off from the beach and raised the sail. It was mid-morning. But the intended short cruise took much longer than expected. Sailing easterly along the island’s north coast, Mr Tully admitted it was difficult to recognize the inlet from the sea as he had descended to it from inland. After over an hour’s sailing, he admitted they had come too far. Bottling his annoyance at being drawn far from his destination and from Perpetual, the captain was also frustrated by the amount of time they had wasted.

  With the sails lowered and unbent, the crew manned the oars and headed back into the breeze in the direction from which they had come. Checking each cove and inlet thoroughly proved time consuming, but there was no other option. Eventually, the beach that Mr Tully and the boys had happened upon was located and the cutter was allowed to drift in on the breaking waves. Once it was hauled up on the beach beyond the high tide mark, the captain gathered his men around him and urged caution.

  Towards the edge of the beach, coarse matted grasses held the sand in place, but beyond, the sandy hillside was ov
ergrown with masses of huge fleshy plants. The long thick stems reached out like tentacles and carried sharp barbs along their edges. In parts, the masses of inhospitable growths formed a huge impenetrable barrier making access impossible. Oliver wondered how Mr Tully and the boys had travelled through the area without being torn to ribbons. Anxious that his boat should not be seen from the sea, Oliver ordered the men to drag it off the beach and hide it in the vegetation.

  While the men collected branches to cover it, the captain scanned the beach expecting to see the gallows Mr Tully had described, but he could not.

  ‘Follow me,’ Mr Tully called, heading up the cove. Almost hidden behind a small rise of sand was a flat area. It was the site used for the executions. Even armed with the knowledge of what they were about to see did not prepare them for the scene awaiting them.

  The gallows itself had been constructed from a ship’s topmast balanced horizontally and lashed to upright struts at either end. Those supports also were formed from old spars. Along the length of the mast, the victims had been strung up twelve inches apart, each on a noose knotted from a length of old salt-hardened rope.

  Though not long dead, the hawks, from which the islands got their name, had wasted no time in placing their mark on them. As the seamen drew closer the fearless birds swooped down, wings barely moving, then lifted on the warm air high into the sky and disappeared over the headland. There was no one else about.

  ‘There is something not right here,’ Oliver said.

  His gross under-statement received quizzical attention.

  ‘Perhaps there was a slave rebellion like those on the Caribbean islands,’ one of the boat crew suggested.

  Eku shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps this is how they deal out justice in the Western Isles,’ the coxswain said.

  The captain disagreed. ‘I think not, gentlemen. The people who live on these islands are peace-loving. These islands have long been known as the Islands of the Blessed.’

  ‘Do you wish us to cut them down, Capt’n?’ Ekundayo asked.

  ‘No,’ the captain replied. ‘Sadly, it is too late for us to assist these men. Leave everything as is until we discover what really happened here.’ He paused, looking up at the line of dead faces. ‘I wonder what crime they committed to deserve such punishment.’

  Gathering in a semicircle around the gallows, the sailors removed their hats in a gesture of reverence while Captain Quintrell offered a brief prayer. The well-worn clothing of the victims indicated they were local farmers or fishermen. They were not sailors.

  ‘There is something odd here,’ Oliver repeated. ‘Do you notice anything particular about them?’

  ‘Strikes me from the pain still creased on their faces and the mess they made, they didn’t die quickly. Old rope is to blame. It doesn’t slide through the knot,’ Mr Tully explained, before questioning the captain. ‘What is it you see, sir?’

  Leaning down, the captain picked up a hand-stitched leather sandal that had fallen, or been kicked off the foot of one of the victims as he had struggled against the slow noose throttling the life from his body. Respectfully, he fitted it back onto the foot from which it had come.

  ‘They are all old men,’ he announced. ‘See the white hair and bald heads. See the wrinkled necks, and twisted fingers. Apart from the gasping mouths and silent screams, these are the faces you see lining the wharfs at every port in England. Men too sick, too worn, or too feeble to be signed on a ship. These are weak old men who should be spending their days sucking on clay pipes and idling their days away. They are beyond the age of labouring.’

  The crew agreed and gazed in disgust at the fate of the bodies hanging side-by-side.

  ‘Let us not waste time,’ Oliver said. ‘We can do nothing for these poor souls.’

  ‘What now, Captain?’ Lieutenant Tully asked, looking to the sky and pointing to the ominous clouds that were rolling in. ‘Shouldn’t we be setting off back to the ship before the weather changes?’

  ‘No, I came here to discover the truth. We head for the village. If I am not mistaken, there will be a path leading from the cove and, within a short distance, we shall find where the woman lives.’

  ‘How do you know that, sir?’

  ‘See the furrows in the sand. Those marks are from the keel of a small boat that has been brought to the beach and hauled to the water. See the pile of weed and dried jelly fish. I suggest they were discarded from a net when the boat was returned.’

  For Oliver Quintrell, the sheltered bay, hidden from the sea by rugged cliffs, rekindled memories. There were many such coves in Cornwall close to where he had grown up. Such inlets made ideal haunts for smugglers.

  ‘There is no time to lose,’ he said, casting his memories aside and heading up the beach. On reaching the path, his assumption proved correct. A track, trampled by the hoofs of mules or donkeys, led inland. Less than a hundred yards from the beach, a fresh-water spring rose from the bank at the side of the path. It delivered a natural fountain of clear but slightly rust-coloured water that trickled into a small pool before disappearing between the rocks. The water was cold, transparent and refreshing. Oliver waited while his men drank their fill and satisfied their thirst. Before the last man had finished drinking, he headed off again with the others following him.

  Half-way up the hill, the prickly vegetation gave way to soft weeds and grasses, and dozens of plants and bushes flowering in profusion―hibiscus, lilies of Africa, camellias and azaleas. As the valley opened up, the hills rolled back to reveal fields surrounded by dry-stone walls, cattle and sheep grazing peacefully, winter crops growing and small vineyards.

  Smoke was rising from the chimneys of the low stone houses, but it was the village square and the buildings around it that most interested the captain. With houses on three sides, a church dominated the fourth. Its white lime-washed walls were edged with black bevelled graphite creating a stark contrast. The old building boasted a square belfry. A large black cross rose from the highest point of the pitched roof.

  The surface of the cobbled square was made up of thousands of tiny smooth white stones of identical size, while the border running around the outside formed a pathway decorated in mosaic patterns in white and black. Apart from a pair of idle dogs and cooing doves, the square was empty. There were no villagers to be seen, not even a child playing nearby. Captain Quintrell was cautious.

  With his crew following only a few paces behind, the captain entered the square cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the pistol, lodged under his belt, pressing on his right hip. His men were armed and ready to draw their weapons if necessary. Stopping in the centre of the square, the sailors cast their eyes around watching for any movement from the windows or in the alleys leading between the houses.

  ‘I am Captain Quintrell of His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy,’ Oliver called. ‘Is anyone about?’ After turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees, he repeated his question. A dog approached nervously, sniffed at the group of men, then ambled away and flopped down outside one of the closed doors.

  ‘English,’ he shouted, hoping the residents would understand that word, if no other.

  Waiting for a response, he kicked the sand from his shoes and heard the church door creak open. A woman, her face half-hidden beneath a shawl, appeared in the arched doorway. A group of women was huddled behind her.

  ‘Do not be afraid,’ Oliver Quintrell said.

  The woman replied in her native tongue. Ekundayo, the West Indian sailor, who spoke perfect Spanish and a little Portuguese, was able to interpret. ‘What is your business here?’ was the woman’s question.

  Oliver turned to the Negro. ‘Tell her there are questions I must ask. Tell her I wish to speak with the priest or the mayor, or one of the menfolk. Tell her I am not here to harm them.’

  With the message conveyed, the reply was translated.

  ‘We have no menfolk,’ the woman said. ‘They are all gone, run away, taken or murdered.’
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  ‘She said they buried the priest in the graveyard only yesterday,’ Ekundayo added.

  Not wishing to alarm the women through any sudden movement, Oliver and his men did not move from where they were standing, but neither did the women venture beyond the church’s entrance.

  ‘With your permission, Senhora, I beg to speak with you.’ The Negro translated the captain’s request.

  After a few whispered words shared within her group, the woman allowed the scarf to fall from her salt-white hair and took several tentative steps towards the man in naval uniform.

  With Ekundayo shadowing him, Oliver stepped forward and bent his head and shoulders in a polite gesture.

  Indicating to the stone trough next to the pump, the woman led the captain to it and sat down on the edge. Pointing a finger twisted with age and years of hard toil, she gestured to him to sit alongside her. After removing his sword belt and pistol and handing them to Mr Tully, the captain accepted her invitation and sat beside the matriarch.

  ‘Madame,’ he said through his translator, ‘I landed my boat at the cove and witnessed with my own eyes a terrible injustice that has happened there. Those are your menfolk, I presume?’

  After several deep breaths, she started to relate her story and the other women began filing from the sanctuary of the Church, but the fear in them was apparent as they clung tightly to each other’s arms.

  ‘The bad men came three days ago. They said they were Spanish, but my husband warned me they were not. He called them privateers or pirates. But they were neither―they were the hand servants of the Devil.’

  ‘Why did they come here? What did they want? Meat? Wine? Bread?

  Eku related the captain’s questions word for word.

  ‘They took whatever they wanted, but what they came for was men.’

  ‘Were they slavers―white slavers from the Barbary Coast?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No. My husband asked the same questions of the man who called himself their captain. He said he needed sailors to work his ship. He wanted young men. Strong men. All the men we had. He promised they would be rewarded for their work. My husband did not believe him, but the knives hanging from the men’s belts and pistols in their hands were not to be argued with.’