by M. C. Muir
Oliver knew his own weapon was slower and that his cutlass lacked the length of van Zetten’s blade, but fortunately his arm was longer, so they were equally matched for reach.
Dancing back and forth nimbly, avoiding the patches of wet blood on the deck, the pair lunged, cut and parried. Both men seemingly oblivious to anyone near them. Suddenly, a deafening pistol shot exploded at the side of van Zetten’s head. For a moment, the shattering sound dazed the scoundrel while the smoke momentarily clouded his vision. Pressing the advantage, Oliver sliced the point of his blade down van Zetten’s forearm. The gold-hilted sword fell from the pirate’s hand and clattered to the deck. Oliver kicked it out of the way.
‘Next time, I’ll take your ear―and your head with it,’ Ben Tully crowed, blowing the smoke from the pistol and tossing it aside.
Disarmed, with the cutlass blade to his neck and blood running down his arm, the pirate was beaten. ‘Who are you,’ he bellowed, ‘to come aboard my ship the way you did?’
‘Let me introduce myself,’ the captain said, inclining his head slightly. ‘I am Oliver Quintrell, captain of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Perpetual. I believe you have already met Mr Parry, my first lieutenant, and I am certain the Governor of Ponta Delgada will be eager for an introduction when he learns you have been butchering his innocent citizens. I hope the village you visited was the only one you preyed on.’
Van Zetten spat in the captain’s face, but Oliver quickly turned his cheek, and with it changed his tone. ‘I am taking your ship. Restrain this rascal, Mr Tully, and take him below.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure, Captain.’
‘You English fool,’ the pirate scoffed, as his hands were tied. ‘You will regret this.’
Oliver wiped the stain from his blade. He was disappointed that the exquisite pleasure of finishing the fight had been snatched from him. However, he had achieved what he set out to do―he had gained control of the ship. ‘If you were an officer in any country’s navy or showed any sign you were a gentleman, I would treat you as such. However, I see nothing in your behaviour to indicate either.’
‘Dog. You will pay for this.’
‘No,’ Oliver replied emphatically, ‘This time you will pay. Gag him. Clap him in irons and place him under lock and key in one of the cabins with a double guard outside. If I am not mistaken, you will find a plentiful supply of slaves’ shackles in the hold, enough to fit this scoundrel and all his men. Get him off the deck. I do not wish to see his face again.’
The string of blasphemous remarks that issued from the pirate’s mouth was unintelligible. But the captain did not ask for a translation.
Fredrik Johannes van Zetten continued to swear, kick and flayed his arms about as Ekundayo and several other sailors dragged him below. He was lucky not to receive a serious beating from the sailors whose hands were still gripping wooden belaying pins.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Oliver Quintrell turned to his crew. ‘Take the prisoners below. Throw the bodies over the side. Let us get this ship back in shape. It’s a disgrace to the high seas. All hands to the lines! Two men on the helm! Let us right her before she beaches herself. One ship on the sand is enough for the present. Mr Hanson, be so good as to search for a British jack. I’m sure you will find one in a deck locker. Most pirates keep souvenirs of their previous conquests.’
‘Aye, aye, captain,’ the young man said, as he scampered off eager to impress. Captain Quintrell cynically regarded him as doing something useful for a change.
With the twenty men, including himself, who had come from the village, and more than thirty hands who had been taken from the beach, together with the officers, the carpenter and the cooper, the captain had sufficient crew to man the ship, but before they could make any headway, essential repairs to San Nicola were necessary. In its present condition, it was unseaworthy and bobbing on the water like a piece of cork.
The first priority was to attend to the running rigging―to re-reeve, replace or splice the lines that had been cut or damaged during the fight. They needed Perpetual’s bosun but he was not on board, there were, however, enough seasoned sailors to complete the work. Not until those jobs were done could the sails be set and the ship returned to the cove where they had left the careened frigate and the rest of the ship’s company.
The injured men also had to be attended to, and because the ship’s surgeon had also remained ashore, the sailors did the best they could, with improvised bandages and slings, to dress the bleeding wounds of their mates and of the enemy. The dead also required attention. Hammocks were brought up from below and the members of van Zetten’s crew, who had paid with their lives, were given a brief, but fitting, Christian burial though, from the murmurs uttered by the men, few of Perpetual’s crew thought they deserved it. The bodies of the three of their own who had died were taken below, placed between the guns and covered in shrouds of sailcloth. Oliver ordered they be returned to their own ship and buried later. The name of the topman who had fallen from the yardarm was noted, though his body was not recovered.
Finally, once the blood splatters had been swabbed from the deck and loose items secured or taken below, a ration of food was handed out. One ship’s biscuit was allocated to each man, together with a double serve of rum. Not surprisingly, though there was little food, there were ample supplies of liquor in the hold of the pirate’s ship.
Several hours later, when San Nicola’s bowsprit appeared from around the headland, a call came down from the lookout balanced at an ungainly angle in Perpetual’s masthead. On the beach, the crew, including Mr Nightingale, Mr Mundy, the doctor and the men who had returned from the wood and water expeditions, regarded the arrival of the ship anxiously not knowing what had transpired or what to expect. Had the captain managed to get aboard as he had indicated to the lieutenant? Or was van Zetten returning to claim the frigate?
Drifting slowly across the cove’s entrance, the men on the beach could see sailors on the yards furling the squares, but as the flag had curled itself around the post, their immediate fear was that the pirate had returned. Then nine small flags were run up on the signal halyard. The flags spelled out the word P-E-R-P-E-T-U-A-L. With a spontaneous cheer, news was quickly relayed to those who could not read the message. It was echoed by a resounding cheer and waves from the frigate’s sailors on board the captured ship.
Even before the anchor was let go, the ship’s boats and those taken from the frigate, were swung out and lowered to the water. Captain Quintrell was one of the first to descend the steps and take his seat in the stern sheets of a longboat for the short row to the beach.
After greetings and handshakes and their tale being told many times over, the captain made it clear he had no intention of remaining on the beach longer than necessary. It was imperative he deliver his prisoners to the authorities on the main island, and visit the victualling wharf in Ponta Delgada. Before that could occur, the frigate had to be righted and refloated and it would need more than a few feet of rising tide to return it to the sea.
With water pooling around the keel and the clean copper plating gleaming in the late afternoon sun, the topsails were set to back. But it was soon realized that, during the time the frigate had been sitting on the beach, it had settled and was now stuck firmly in a pool of quicksand.
A kedge anchor was dropped in the shallows and a team heaved on the capstan in an attempt to haul the frigate out. At the same time, sailors attempted to dig a channel for the ship to slide along, but their efforts proved fruitless and the incoming waves returned the sand quicker than the men could remove it. This was where the San Nicola was needed. It could deliver more power than a dozen boats on the water with sailors pulling on oars.
With a heavy hawser rigged from the stern of the ship and attached to the base of the mizzen on Perpetual, the crew waited until the tide was at its highest and water was lapping along the frigate’s keel. It was time for the towing to begin. With sails set and the anchor raised, everything was read
y. The hawser stretched and squealed, squeezing the water from its hempen fibres, but the frigate still failed to move. The tide had now reached its highest and there was little time left.
As if in answer to everyman’s silent prayer, the waves picked up and Providence delivered a heaven-sent breeze off the land. The frigate’s sails backed and the canvas on San Nicola filled. Only then did the sand relinquish its suction on the keel and Perpetual slide back from the beach onto the cerulean waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Even Captain Quintrell joined in the cheers when his ship swam free but before they could depart the island there was much to be attended to.
Stacked on the beach like giant signal beacons waiting to be lit, were huge piles of dry wood. Alongside them were rows of water barrels of various sizes. The men had obviously toiled exceedingly hard. Now all that remained was to ferry both wood and water from the beach to the frigate and load them into the hold.
Knowing that transferring those items aboard and stowing them carefully could take several hours, the captain took the opportunity to return by boat to the other cove he had dubbed Gallows Bay. He owed the villagers a visit and wanted to collect the cutter, and the clothes and weapons they had left behind.
As before, when he arrived in the cove he found it deserted and when he continued up the sand to where the gallows stood, he discovered the victims had been cut down. With no graves nearby, Oliver assumed the bodies had been returned to the village and deposited in a charnel-house, which was the customary practice in that region.
‘Pull it down and burn it,’ he ordered his boat crew, before continuing up the path with only Mr Tully and Eku accompanying him. The three strode out as quickly as they could.
On entering the village square, the group felt eyes gazing at them but, not until they were almost at the church door did the villagers show themselves.
‘Tell them, they are safe. Tell them the pirate will never return.’
Ekundayo conveyed the captain’s message to the crowd of women and children.
Their anxious looks quickly gave way to expressions of joy and celebration. Tears glistened on the cheeks as a few came forward to touch the captain’s hand or pat the other pair on their backs. The captain had left the village in the garb of a peasant farmer, but now he returned in the dress uniform of a British naval officer with a fine sword hanging from his belt.
The village matriarch, her head bare, approached him. She had a younger woman on her right and the old bellringer on her left.
The captain greeted the woman with a gracious bow. ‘Senhora,’ he said, ‘I am pleased to inform you that the danger to your village is gone. The fiend, who took the lives of your menfolk, is in chains and will be dealt with in Ponta Delgada. When the authorities learn of the crimes he committed here, he will surely hang. I only wish I had arrived here earlier and prevented this horrible event from happening. However, let me assure you, it will not happen again.’
Ekundayo translated the captain’s words, while the women hugged each other and cried.
Two girls, looking rather embarrassed, pushed through the crowd and approached the captain. In their hands they dragged two bulky sacks. Oliver looked to the matriarch.
‘Your clothes, Captain. Your swords and pistols. They are all here. We can offer you some fruit and wine,’ she said. ‘It is very little for all you have done to protect us.’
‘My satisfaction is in knowing this sort of dreadful thing will not happen again here or in any other village. But I must bid you farewell.’ Oliver did not want to leave so hurriedly, but it was late and he was anxious to get back to boat without delay. Despite wanting no reward, he was presented with several large bags of oranges and bottles of wine, which were loaded onto the back of a donkey-cart and conveyed to the beach.
The women carried their gifts from the cart to the boats ignoring the smouldering remains of the ship’s mast and spars that had stood as a gallows. By morning, all that would remain would be a pile of ash on the sand. If the wind did not scatter it, the spring tides would wash away all evidence of the dreadful thing that occurred on this particular beach.
Blessed with a wind, the cutter and the captain’s boat were returned safely to the two waiting ships and with the last of the wood and water stowed in the frigate, preparations to depart the island were complete. But by the time the two boats had been put away, it was dark. All that remained was to transfer van Zetten and six of his subordinates to the frigate. It was not an easy job, but the captain insisted on it. He would not rest easy until he had the scoundrel van Zetten, under guard, on his own ship.
It took longer than expected and, when that odious task was completed, the captain ordered both ships to drop an additional anchor. It had been a very long day and he was not the only one who was weary. Perpetual and San Nicola would proceed to sea in the morning.
Later that evening, having time on his own to reflect, Oliver was relieved the last few days were over. With God’s good grace, he had managed to turn the end result in his favour but, if his plans had gone awry, the outcome could have been disastrous. Had he lost his ship yet been spared, he would have been returning to England to face a court martial. And, had his daring plan to take van Zetten’s ship faltered in any way, the fate to befall his men would have been unthinkable.
However, he preferred not to dwell on those eventualities. His main concern now was to relieve himself of his prisoners and deliver San Nicola to an agent in Ponta Delgada. As soon as that was done, Mr Parry and his sailors, currently lodged aboard van Zetten’s ship, could return to the frigate. He would then be in a position to return to his regular duties and follow the Admiralty’s orders that he had been distracted from.
Chapter 10
Ponta Delgada
Dawn broke and a puff of smoke accompanied the discharge of a two-pound shot from the swivel gun mounted on the frigate’s aft rail. It was the signal for San Nicola to follow Perpetual to sea. With Mr Parry in command of van Zetten’s ship, the prisoners were securely shackled in the hold beneath battened hatches. The complaints and abuse of the previous day had continued throughout the night and, whilst most cries consisted of abusive threats, some voices claimed they had never volunteered to sail with van Zetten but that they had been taken against their will and forced to serve him. While Oliver doubted anything the pirate uttered and, in turn, was suspicious of the voices of anyone sailing with him, it would be the job of the authorities to ascertain who was speaking the truth.
Aboard Perpetual, Fredrik van Zetten and six of his closest henchmen were also heavily shackled and under guard. Captain Quintrell was taking no chances.
Being short-handed, the men worked feverishly to weigh anchor and prepare the two vessels to clear Santa Maria’s rugged coast. With no regrets, everyone aboard was looking forward to the short daylight passage of a little over fifty miles, heading north-west to the port of Ponta Delgada, located on the main island of São Miguel, the largest and most easterly of the nine islands in the Azores group. If the weather gods looked kindly on them, with easy sailing they would cover the distance in twelve hours. That would see the frigate and San Nicola anchored in the outer roadstead before nightfall, where they would remain overnight and enter the harbour the following morning. The prospect of being given leave to go ashore was uppermost in every sailor’s mind.
The sighting of a French corvette on the horizon, less than an hour after they had weighed, sent a feeling of uneasy anticipation through everyone aboard. Hull down, heading east, the corvette was sailing well and appeared to be making remarkable speed. The last thing Oliver wanted was contact with an enemy ship. With only an adequate number of hands spread between the two vessels, he was conscious he had insufficient crew to man all the guns. Now was not a good time for a confrontation. Even with his clean hull and harnessing the wind to every stitch of canvas he could fly, the burden he was dragging with him was no longer weed, but the larger, older and slower San Nicola. For Captain Quintrell, running from the enemy was not an option a
nd the decision to fight was not his alone to make.
With his telescope trained on the French ship, he was relieved to see it did not alter course or ease its wind, but maintained its heading towards Europe, probably making for Brest on France’s north-west coast or Toulon in the Mediterranean Sea. It was possible the lookout on the corvette had reported sighting two ships flying British colours sailing close to the island. In consequence, it was likely the French captain had decided, as he was sailing alone, he was no match for a frigate and a ship-of-war. Whatever the reason, the officers on Perpetual’s quarterdeck breathed easier once the Frog disappeared over the horizon.
Throughout the morning and early afternoon, the two ships made reasonable time but, as the day progressed, their speed dropped to two knots. When the sun set, it took with it the final remnants of breeze. Less than ten miles from the coast of São Miguel, the weather gods turned their backs on the British seamen leaving the two vessels floating, almost motionlessly, on a flat sea of obsidian glass.
Taking advantage of the calm, a sailor cast a line from the rail and with the help of his mates hauled in a large grouper. When the initial excitement died, it was cleaned and, with the permission of the officer-of-the-watch, delivered to the galley. Keen to make a similar catch, several sailors baited hooks and tried their luck, but their efforts were unsuccessful.
Dr Whipple was also grateful for the flat water. As the frigate was only half a cable’s length from San Nicola, it provided him with the opportunity to visit and attend to the wounds of the seriously injured held below deck. The blows from belaying pins, capstan bars, and swinging blocks had cracked a few skulls, while near lethal cuts from cutlass blades, knives and swords still bled or wept and needed dressing. Two of the rogue sailors, who had sustained wounds from pistol shots, were pronounced dead and committed to the deep without ceremony.
