by M. C. Muir
‘Slow down, slow down,’ the captain cried. ‘Do you have control of the beach?’
‘Yes, sir, there is only the crew on the sand.’
‘In the absence of Mr Parry, you are the senior officer, so who is presently in charge?’
‘The sailing master and bosun have assumed responsibility while I’m away.’
‘And the men, what is the feeling amongst them?’
‘They want you back, Captain. They want to get our ship off the sand. They want to put to sea as quickly as possible and rescue their mates who’ve been taken.’
The tale being related was unbelievable. It was the last thing he expected or wanted to hear. His immediate urge was to head off with all speed to re-join his ship and his men. But with so many unanswered questions and thoughts whirring round in his head, he needed to listen to the full story before making any rash decisions.
‘Rest for a moment,’ the captain said. ‘Catch your breath. Take some water then tell me everything.’
Squatting down on the path, Mr Nightingale and the boys were grateful for the water and drank thirstily. The sailors who had climbed up from the village gathered closer, some sitting on the hard ground, others standing, but all eyes were fixed on the frigate’s third lieutenant as he recounted what had happened since they had departed in the cutter.
‘Mr Parry had no option but to do as he was bid,’ he said defensively. ‘This rogue, who had command, believed him to be the captain and kept addressing him by that title. Mr Parry didn’t correct him because he was never asked.’
Captain Quintrell was bemused. It was unlike Lieutenant Parry to do anything deceptive. ‘This devilish fellow thinks he is holding Perpetual’s captain, is that what you are telling me?’ Oliver considered the consequences of that situation. ‘Hmm, interesting. Do you think the lieutenant will continue with the ruse?’
Mr Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, sir, as long as he can.’
‘You called this ship’s captain a privateer―what is his name? His nationality? What is the name of his ship? What are his demands?’
‘He wants men. He is short of crew to work the ship. His name is Fredrik van Zetten. He speaks English, but sounds Spanish. He sails under a Danish flag but his uniform is neither Danish nor Spanish nor French, nor any other navy I know of.’
‘And the ship?’
‘A fully-rigged ship by the name San Nicola.’
The sailors listened in stunned silence.
‘Of what appearance is this captain?’ Oliver Quintrell asked.
‘Broad in the shoulders, but short. He has a swarthy skin, like the mulattos of the West Indies, and bears an ugly scar across his nose.’
‘Apart from wishing to take my ship as a prize and wanting men, what else did he seek?’
‘He asked what cargo we were carrying and how well we were supplied with water and victuals. Mr Parry convinced him the hold was empty and that we were still carrying the malignant fever picked up in Gibraltar. That was the reason he didn’t climb aboard. But he promised he would be back and said we must have the frigate repaired and ready to go back to the water or he would blow it off the beach or set fire to it. He has the guns and is capable of doing so.’
Oliver’s thoughts were still racing, darting from one thing to another. ‘What of the two women? Are they safe?’
‘Aye, captain, they remained below deck and were never seen.’
Turning his face into the wind and gazing across the sea to the empty horizon, the captain pondered on the information he had been given. He glanced down at the two boys sitting behind the lieutenant, and considered the worried expressions on their faces. He thought of his crew on the beach. What state were they in now?
‘What can you do, sir? You have to stop him.’ It was the second time in as many hours that this question had been put to him.
‘I will stop him,’ the captain announced emphatically, ‘one way or another. Are the divisions returned from collecting wood and water?’
‘Not when I left the beach.’
‘That means there are forty members of the ship’s company this rogue is unaware of.’
‘Indeed. Plus this group of men here with you. Thank the Lord I found you, for I feared I would not. It was a terrible thing that happened, but the doctor said the outcome could have been much worse.’
‘The outcome is bad enough,’ Oliver replied bluntly, ‘but I lay no blame on Mr Parry or anyone else. Perhaps the blame lies with me for leaving the beach.’ He quickly shook that idea from his head. He had done what had to be done at the time and he could not have anticipated the events that followed. ‘My concern now is for the men who have been taken. I fear the treatment they will receive aboard the San Nicola will not be good. I shall find the scoundrel who has taken them and return them safe and sound―every last one of them.’
There was a murmur of approval from the group over an undertone of disbelief.
Having listened patiently to the lieutenant’s story, it was Captain Quintrell’s turn to relate the events that had transpired in the village. Without interrupting once, Mr Nightingale, Charlie and Young Tom listened wide-eyed to the tale the captain told.
Even as he spoke, his mind was abuzz with a daring scheme he was hatching. By the time he had finished speaking, he was ready to issue his orders to the third lieutenant.
‘Return to the ship. Assure Mr Mundy and the crew that all will be well. Tell them to continue working diligently and finish scraping the hull. We are likely to need the additional speed from a clean bottom in the near future. When they return from the hills, have the men continue collecting wood and water as though nothing was amiss, but tell them not to stray far and to be ready for anything.’
‘Might I ask what you intend to do, Captain?’ Mr Nightingale enquired.
‘I intend to take van Zetten’s ship and rescue my men.’
The lieutenant was not the only one astounded by the captain’s statement. ‘Beg pardon, Captain,’ he said politely, looking around at the dumb expression of the other faces. ‘How will that be possible?’
Oliver considered the sailors’ reactions. ‘Consider this; there are already Perpetuals aboard San Nicola―albeit they were taken aboard as prisoners. Hopefully, they are not all locked in the hold. Hopefully some are working on the decks or on the yards. Captain van Zetten has admitted he is short of men. Isn’t that what you told me?’
‘Indeed, Captain.’
‘But how do you plan to get aboard?’ Mr Tully asked.
A quirky grin played on the captain’s face. ‘I have a plan. I will share the details later, but for the present, there is no time to lose.’ Taking off his coat and hat, he handed them to Charlie Pickering. Then he turned to Mr Tully. ‘Kindly remove your king’s uniform and hand it over. The rest of you will part with your ship’s slops at the village. I intend for us to return there and assume the identity of farmers, at least for a short while.’
‘But, Captain.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Nightingale, I have no intention of losing any more men. However, there is one important thing.’ The captain looked directly at Tommy Wainwright. ‘I have nineteen men in my group. I need one more to make that number up to twenty. I cannot take you, Mr Nightingale, because van Zetten would recognize your face, and I will not take the boy because he is too young.’ He turned to the sixteen year-old lad from the north of England. ‘You have proved your courage in the past, young Tom. Are you prepared to fight for your king and country again?’
‘Too right, Captain,’ Tommy Wainwright said.
‘I am sure Ekundayo will give an eye to you.’
The West Indian nodded.
‘Then I am satisfied. Go now, and believe me when I say, all will be well.’
Rising to their feet and without so much as a farewell, the artist and the ship’s boy set off. Heading over the headland as quickly as they could without stumbling, they made their way back to the beach. Tucked under his arm, each man carried an officer’s naval unif
orm, while grasped tightly in his hand was a bicorn hat.
‘With me, men,’ the captain called, turning on his heel and leading Mr Tully, Eku and the rest of his group across the top of the windy hilltop and back down to village.
On reaching the sheltered beach the captain stopped and briefly examined the bodies hanging from the length of timber that had once served as a ship’s topmast. Leaning down beside one of the corpses, he took off his silver-buckled shoes and rolled down his white silk stockings. Then reaching up, he carefully removed a pair of leather sandals from the feet of the dead man, dropped them onto the sand and slipped his feet into them. ‘This man has no more use for them,’ he said.
Several sailors followed the captain’s example, though the Negro took off his shoes and opted to walk barefoot. The discarded footwear was hidden in the bushes. If all went as planned, they would collect their belongings later. From the beach, the group retraced their steps along the path and headed back to the village.
Before they had even stepped foot on the mosaic patterns surrounding the square, the seamen were greeted with cries of delight from the women who were agog with relief and excitement at seeing them return. Within minutes they were lavished with food and locally made wine for which the hungry sailors were grateful.
Having bowed elegantly when greeting the village matriarch, Captain Quintrell spoke with her, through his translator, as he had done previously. ‘You informed me that this foreign captain is returning tomorrow. You said he has demanded your men, and if not, he threatened to hang the women and children. Do you believe he will do that?’
The villagers’ heads nodded in agreement.
‘He has done it once,’ the old woman said. ‘He will do it again.’
‘Then I will stop him,’ Oliver assured her.
‘But he is cruel. You cannot fight him and hope to win.’
‘I do not intend to fight him, Senhora, I intend to join him.’
The captain’s plan was met with a frisson of disbelief and amazement, not only from the women gathered around, but also from the men. It was a shocking proposal.
‘We are twenty in total, the exact number this fiend has demanded, and you will deliver us to him.’
‘But you are English,’ the old woman said, a pained expression on her face.
‘And you are Portuguese and your people do not understand the Spanish words this man speaks. So, my seamen will pretend they are also Portuguese and that they do not understand him. Believe me; Captain van Zetten is not interested in these men as individuals.’
The women were not convinced and some of the sailors appeared sceptical, also.
‘But I will need your help, Senhora. My men and I will trouble you for some old clothes. The type of dress your menfolk would wear in the fields.’
A few eyebrows were raised at the request, but no one questioned it.
‘I can assure you this charade is necessary and we will return the clothes when the job is done. Can you do that?’
The women agreed.
Dispensing with the black silk ribbon tied in a bow around his queue and giving it to one of the girls, Oliver’s hair hung loosely around his face. He quickly powdered it with a handful of dry dirt, hooked the loose strands behind his ears and pressed a straw hat, which was offered to him, onto his head.
‘We will leave our weapons here with you. It would be wise to hide them in a place where they cannot be found.’
‘You will go unarmed?’ the woman enquired in disbelief.
Mr Tully was also confused. ‘But if we leave our weapons, what will we fight with?’
‘Our best weapon is the ship itself. Trust me, you will see. Once on board, we will not be alone. Your mates will be very pleased to see you and, if the ship is as short of sailors, as this scoundrel claims, it will make for an easy victory.’
Neither Mr Tully nor most of the seamen were convinced.
Oliver turned to the matriarch, who also wore a worried expression. ‘I promise we will return safely and collect our clothes and weapons later.’
‘May God be with you,’ she cried, clasping her hands together. Her sentiment was echoed by the others.
During the evening, the church took on the guise of a schoolroom. With the sailors perched on the benches or sitting cross-legged on the stone floor, Ekundayo instructed them in a few simple words and phrases in Portuguese. Although his efforts were commendable, by the time the lights were doused, the captain resolved it would be better for the men to keep their mouths shut.
Before sleep overtook him, Oliver considered the scheme he had conceived and presented that evening. If all went well and they were taken aboard van Zetten’s ship, his plan had to be acted on swiftly. He could not allow the pirate to carry them far out to sea or for many days. He had no idea what the rogue captain intended to do with this new mob of lubbers or where he would be heading. It seemed unlikely he would embark on a long voyage as he was short of provisions. It was more likely, as he had an appetite for sailors, he would offer them to the Dey of Algiers or sail to Cadiz or Toulon and offer the British frigate as a prize vessel to the highest bidder. France or Spain would reward him for the gift of a fighting ship with no questions asked.
Then Oliver considered the response he would receive from the Perpetuals already being held aboard San Nicola. That thought raised other questions. Were his men truly aboard the foreign vessel or had they been brutally murdered or tossed overboard? Were his men working the decks or chained in irons in the hold? Was the vessel seaworthy? Was it carrying typhoid fever, plague or some other deadly disease? Were the men held prisoner being fed or starved and, if he succeeded in getting aboard, would they be fit enough to help him? Would the rogue captain keep his word and return to the cove in one week’s time? The fact he had treasure hidden aboard had slipped his mind. What other contingencies had he forgotten?
He had so many question and so few answers. But he had one aim in mind―to make sure his men did not end up dangling from a yardarm or hanging from a makeshift gallows on some isolated beach for the hawks to rip to pieces.
The seamen, including their captain and second lieutenant, spent the night on a thin layer of straw hastily spread in the vestibule and along the central aisle of the church. Despite the chill from the stone floor, being packed closely together and being exceedingly weary, the sailors slept surprisingly well.
In the morning, Oliver woke to the winter sun steaming in through the coloured glass of the nave's leaded window. Stepping cautiously over the curled bodies, an old man was struggling to reach the rope that swung from the bell tower above their heads. Mindful of his failing strength and balance, Oliver assisted him. The first resounding clang from the single bell rudely woke all the sleepers and reminded them where they were. It was time to put the plan into action.
With the arrival of several bundles of clothing, delivered by the women, the sailors exchanged their slops and dressed in the local garb.
For Captain Quintrell, a coarse hempen shirt and woven jacket replaced his fine white cotton shirt with frilled collar and cuffs. For his legs, he pulled on a pair of old serge trousers patched at the knees. Around his neck, a hand-knitted scarf replaced the silk neckerchief. On his head, the straw hat he had been given the previous day, and on his feet, the leather sandals courtesy of the dead farmer. Gone was the image of a post captain.
His brace of pistols and sword, which had been hidden in the straw beside him while he slept, were forfeited to the care of the old bellringer. He assured the captain all the weapons would be hidden in a place within the church few men knew of and where no one would find them.
The sailors quickly dressed. Wearing smocks, woven waistcoats, patched trousers and felted hats, they more resembled peasant farmers than members of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy. Less than an hour later, after having toileted themselves and partaken of some freshly baked bread liberally spread with butter and honey, the crew nervously awaited the arrival of Captain van Zetten.
He did not disappoint. With the church door slightly ajar, Oliver was able to see the rogue who had murdered the villagers as he approached the square. He came with a greater number of men than Oliver had expected―at least twenty-five ruffians armed with pistols, knives and cutlasses. Some had muskets slung over their shoulders.
The swarthy-skinned, arrogant-looking pirate led his band of rowdy misfits to the trough in the centre of the square. In Oliver’s opinion, the dress of the undisciplined crew represented vagrants from the cesspools of Africa, slave-masters from the slave ports of America, deckhands from the whalers of Nantucket and common sailors from any port in Europe. Their muskets, however, all spoke the same language and were, no doubt, primed and ready to fire.
If only he had a 9-pounder and a bag of grapeshot, with one touch of the slow-match, he could blow them all to Kingdom come. But that was not to be. As it was, he was satisfied he had a plan.
Standing with legs apart holding a coiled leather whip in one hand, van Zetten appeared shorter and broader than Oliver had imagined. Turning to the women standing outside their houses, he called out in Spanish. ‘I have come for your men? Where are they?’
The huge church door creaked.
Van Zetten turned.
‘We are here,’ Eku called, using the language of a Spanish slave from the island of San Domingo.
‘Hah, that is good. Let me see you,’ he demanded, before turning abruptly to face the villager. ‘You lied to me, you old witch. Have you more men hiding from me?’
Though the woman did not understand his Spanish, she shook her head.
‘Search the houses,’ the blackguard ordered. ‘Bring me the cowardly dogs hiding under the beds.’
But a quick search uncovered only three old farmers who were dragged from their homes and thrown onto the stones. They swore they had not been hiding. They were crippled and unable to walk. The captain had no time for them.
‘Keep the old grandfathers,’ van Zetten said, casting his eyes over the motley group that had filed from the church and was standing in front of him.
