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

by M. C. Muir

  Apart from the doctor’s boat, the longboat, stacked to the gunwales with sacks and barrels, was rowed across to San Nicola to share some of the frigate’s remaining rations with the working crew and prisoners.

  While the surgeon was absent from the sick berth, Mrs Crosby attended to the injured men in the cockpit with help from Connie Pilkington and Tommy Wainwright. Working with the two women reminded young Tom of his home in the north of England. He remembered his mother, who had farewelled him in tears when he went to sea, yet each time had sent him off with her blessing; and his sister who had died in the coal mine buried beneath tons of falling rock from which he had miraculously survived.

  After Captain Quintrell visited Perpetual’s sick berth to ensure everything was in order during the doctor’s absence, Mr Crosby, the carpenter, approached him for the final time. He politely reminded the captain of the help his wife and her friend had provided in the past few days and begged him to reconsider his decision to remove them from the ship once they reached land. But, once again, his request fell on deaf ears. Oliver was adamant the women would go ashore when they entered the port.

  As dawn broke and a light wind blew off the land to the north, the two vessels approached the island sailing to within a mile of the rugged cliffs. The black sand beaches tucked in between the headlands presented a very different picture to that of the bright yellow sandy coves of the smaller island they had left. Changing course and bearing west, Perpetual followed the coast heading for Ponta Delgada situated towards the western end of São Miguel. Measuring forty miles long and ten miles wide, like Santa Maria, this island also ran in an east to west direction.

  Despite the mists of morning smudging the skyline, the contours of old volcanic mountains worn down over the centuries, were visible. Trees covered the lower slopes and on the outskirts of the town sheep, goats and cattle grazed on the open pasture.

  Located in a bay, sheltered from the prevailing north-westerly winds and the rolling Atlantic swells, the port of Ponta Delgada had existed since the 1500s. Having grown in size and significance, it was now the prosperous capital of the Western Islands and, not only home to fishermen, farmers, plantation owners, exporters, bankers and shippers, but also military personnel, civil diplomats, local government officials, and representatives of the Portuguese administration in Lisbon. Plus, there were the clergy of the Catholic Churches, and the nuns and monks of the convents and monasteries.

  Only two miles out and a familiar sound rumbled across the water. It was the distant thunder every seaman recognized―the unmistakable thunder of guns being fired in rapid succession, as in a rippling broadside.

  ‘Masthead,’ Mr Tully called from the deck. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘What distance would you estimate those guns?’ Oliver asked his sailing master.

  ‘A mile or two, no more.’

  ‘Then the lookout must be blind.’

  ‘But sound carries further at sea,’ Mr Mundy explained. ‘I’d say it’s coming from beyond the next headland.’

  Oliver was familiar with the properties of sound over smooth warm waters and was not about to stop and investigate. ‘Let us raise Ponta Delgada as quickly as possible. We will learn what is happening once we reach the roadstead. I only pray the French have not brought war to these islands and trust the town is not under attack.’

  ‘Deck ahoy! Two ships astern. A second rate and a frigate.’

  Fighting ships! ‘What colours?’

  ‘Portuguese.’

  No sooner had the officers fixed their lens on the crowd of sails rising in the east, than more calls came down from aloft. Two more ships had been seen. Then, on the sweeping bay around whose shores the main town was nestled, dozens of masts with yards crossed came into view. The stout majestic timbers of a 90-gun man-of-war dominated the impressive array of second, third and fourth rate ships of the line. There were also several frigates of various sizes along with ketches, snows, fishing boats, cutters and lighters.

  Reducing sail, Perpetual, accompanied by San Nicola, entered the roadstead sailing slowly between the fighting ships already anchored in the outer harbour. There were more ships than some of the sailors had seen gathered in Spithead, on the Mother Bank and at St Helens Road at any one time.

  ‘It appears the whole of the Portuguese Navy is in attendance,’ Oliver announced to the wide-eyed officers on deck.

  Three decks towered from the bulbous hulls of two of the fighting ships. They dwarfed the British frigate as it sailed by.

  Mr Mundy conducted a tally of the fleet, listing two 90-gun ships, nine 74s, two 64s, and three 50-gun fighting ships, plus several frigates. ‘Thirty-two in all, if I am not mistaken. Old ships, though’ he added disparagingly. ‘Some are thirty years old or more. See there—’ he pointed—‘that’s Principe Real. Her keel was laid down in ’71, and Infante dom Pedro is even older.’

  Oliver was far less critical. ‘I agree they are not young, when compared with Bonaparte’s fleet, but they are sound and well maintained. See how the brightwork shines. Every metal plate and trim has been polished, and you can smell the fresh paint from here. As for those part-furled sails, I would suggest they are new and recently bent. I am impressed.’

  ‘What would you consider they are doing here, Captain?’ Mr Nightingale asked.

  ‘Probably the same thing we are doing, refurbishing their supplies. The wine grown here is particularly good and abundant, as is the supply of wheat, salt, fruit and vegetables. The fleet has, no doubt, sailed from the Tagus River to stretch its new hemp and Lisbon is where it will return to. I expect the firing we heard was from a naval ship exercising its guns.’ Oliver felt relaxed. ‘Seeing this fleet gives me confidence. This navy is a sound ally. Let us pray Emperor Napoleon is never able to lure the Crown of Portugal into his net.’ He turned from the ship and looked to the city.

  Having visited Ponta Delgada on several occasions, the sailing master was eager to share his knowledge of the island, its capital and its port facilities but, in his usual vein, Mr Mundy could find nothing positive to say about the Portuguese island, despite the fact Britain was ambitious to embrace it within its empire and benefit from its ideal location. Situated at the cross-roads between Europe and America, between Britain and the Cape, it was an ideal port for ships carrying troops to Cape Town, but it was also desirable territory because of its rich supplies of hemp for cordage and rigging, and its ample production of juicy oranges, flour and fresh beef.

  ‘As to the way it is administered,’ Mr Mundy advised, ‘you have two choices. On the one hand, there are the nuns and friars of the ecclesiastical orders who have the greatest influence over the inhabitants. On the other hand, the military who are slovenly, insubordinate and undisciplined. The principle fort at the west of the bay has 24 guns, although I heard few are capable of service. A league to the east are two small forts with three guns each. Both of these are useless due to neglect.’

  Oliver frowned. ‘What of the civil administration and the navy?’

  ‘The government of the Azores comes under the authority of Portugal and is run by a cabinet which stifles the people and shows little interest in them. It supplies them with holy relics in exchange for the island’s valuable produce. The people of the Western Isles have no independence and apparently no aspirations. They boast no past to speak of, and look forward to no future. As for the navy, they use this only as a watering hole. Within a few days, all these ships will be gone and they will not return again until their holds are empty.’

  Oliver had to excuse himself from hearing more. He preferred to see for himself and form his own judgement. In the meantime, he had a list of priorities to attend to. His first and foremost important duty was to hand over Captain Van Zetten and his crew, and to deliver his written report of the atrocities that occurred on Santa Maria to the governor. The sooner the pirate was removed from his ship and taken for trial the better. Then, he needed to find an agent to discuss the sa
le of the San Nicola.

  Most importantly, he needed to take on more water and purchase stores sufficient for a nine month voyage and arrange for their prompt delivery. Apart from that, he had to arrange the departure of the two females from the frigate as early as possible. It was his intention to depart the harbour in no more than five days, during which time he could hardly refuse his men at least a few hours shore leave to make their own purchases before embarking on the forthcoming voyage to the far side of the world. The first challenge, however, was to find a berth in the overcrowded harbour.

  ‘Take us in, Mr Tully, and send a message to Mr Parry to put San Nicola as close to the wharf as possible.’

  With the wind spilled from the foretops’l, the frigate drifted to a stop and the order was given to drop anchor. The ship, with a hold full of rogue sailors, brought in by Mr Parry, anchored only thirty yards away.

  It was past noon by the time both ships were fully secured with their sails furled neatly to meet with the captain’s approval. Only then was he confident to leave the vessels and go ashore. For Oliver Quintrell, the first priority was to locate the Port Admiral and appropriate government authorities.

  The town itself was a thriving city of single and two-storey houses interspersed with the spires of many churches, some dating back before the time of Columbus’s visit to the Azores on his return from his voyage of exploration in 1492. Though it was a busy port, it boasted only one short mole, its length adequate only for fishing vessels and small traders. Vessels of any reasonable size had to anchor in the harbour or further out in the roadstead. Because of this, all victualling supplies, fresh food, livestock, export products, even armaments and powder had to be conveyed by lighters to the various ships. It also meant that personnel had to be ferried on the ships’ boats. This would include the transfer of prisoners from San Nicola and Perpetual to the town.

  After wasting almost half a day walking the narrow roads littered with children and untethered domestic animals, navigating markets for fish, meat and fruits, tramping back and forth from one government building to another and being referred by one official to another, until he was exceedingly frustrated, the captain was obliged to heed the advice given to him by his sailing master. He needed to locate Mr Read, the British Consul.

  Several years earlier, Mr Mundy had been briefly introduced to him while serving as master’s mate on a second rate man-of-war. At that time, he had learned that the long-serving consul had lived on the island for many years. He and wife resided in a fine villa they had built on a farm situated on the hillside overlooking the town. In his spare time, the consul took delight in growing oranges. In the sailing master’s opinion, Mr Read was both a diplomat and a man of business. He was a congenial gentleman, born and raised in Bristol, who was very approachable and always willing to assist British visitors to the Islands be they officers, merchants or investors.

  An hour later, sitting down over a cup of China tea in the consul’s city residence, feeling slightly relaxed, Oliver explained the dilemma that was both confronting and exasperating him.

  ‘Despite the atrocities I have related that took place on the island of Santa Maria, it appears to me no one in this town wants to take responsibility and deal with the situation. The Port Admiral was not available and his subordinates were totally engrossed in dealing with the requirements of the newly arrived Portuguese fleet. One naval officer I spoke to suggested it was a problem for the civil authorities to deal with. The city’s administrative representative referred me to the garrison commander, who has no interest in San Nicola or its scurrilous captain and crew. Nowhere have I come across such a blatant lack of interest or willingness to accept some responsibility for a heinous crime perpetrated on that country’s own soil.’

  With no immediate response from the consul, Oliver continued his diatribe. ‘The only apparent sympathy I received was from a priest who offered to come aboard and pray for my ship. I argued that he should be praying for the poor villagers who had been murdered, tortured and threatened, and pray for the souls of the treacherous dogs who are traitors to their country, their king and their God, and pray they would be hung within the week. I admit by this time, I had exhausted my patience and he scurried away after apologising that he could not understand my English.’

  The captain inhaled deeply. ‘You are my final hope, Mr Read. To put it simply, I need someone to receive my prisoners and to accept delivery of the ship San Nicola, which is anchored in the harbour.’

  Mr Read sat back. Having listened carefully and made an occasional written notation of certain facts, he appeared unmoved and smiled graciously. ‘I can sympathise with you, Captain, but must beg the question: Would it be more in your interests to collect the provisions you need and sail to England taking the ship with you?’

  Oliver sighed and shook his head. ‘That is impossible, sir. Firstly, I have my orders and they do not allow me to return to England. If I were to do so, I would not only be disobeying those Admiralty orders, but also putting my ship and my men into potential danger from attack by our enemy, the French. I can assure you Napoleon’s ships would not turn their noses up at the chance of taking both a British frigate and an accompanying ship as valuable prizes. To a fleet of French vessels, we would make an easy target. Secondly, the murderous behaviour perpetrated by this villain Fredrik van Zetten was directed at Azoreans―inhabitants of these islands. God only knows how many islands he visited to purloin young men to serve under him. But he sails under no country’s flag and did not attack my ship, therefore, Britain will not declare him a maritime enemy. What he is, however, is a pirate and should be treated according to the laws of the sea which have existed since Roman times!’

  The consul rose to his feet. ‘Captain Quintrell, be assured you can leave these matters with me. I speak the language of the Islands. I have lived amongst these people for several years―long enough to know how they think and how they perform their duties, which, at times, is not very efficiently. Also, I understand how the administrations, sacred and secular, civil, military and naval operate and in what hierarchical order those operation apply. Do not worry. I will make the necessary arrangements for you.’ He paused. ‘The first thing we must do is to have your ship resupplied. I shall come with you to the victualling yard forthwith and arrange it. No doubt the British government will be paying.’

  Oliver nodded.

  ‘I am concerned that the recently arrived fleet will have priority over visiting vessels, so let us waste no time in placing your orders.’

  Early the following morning, the tips of the ripples created by the vast number of small boats ferrying supplies back and forth to the ships at anchor, glistened in the sun. With little wind across the bay, the lateen sails of fishing boats flapped idly from their slanting spars, whilst dozens of oars dipped in the water creating tiny whirlpools with each stroke.

  The white-washed buildings of the town gleamed. The city’s castellated skyline stretching along the harbour side was dominated by the projecting towers and crosses surmounting its ornate churches. The black chiselled-stone edges contrasted with the brilliant white-painted walls. But the grey mist surmounting some of the distant tops was not cloud or fog―it was steam. The island of St Michael―São Miguel lived and breathed, its sulphurous odour occasionally spilling down the verdant hillsides and floating across the bay to challenge the familiar scent of orange blossom and freshly baked bread.

  From the quarterdeck, Oliver watched the boats swarming around the ships like bees round a honeypot. The fleet’s visit to this Portuguese outpost, over eight hundred miles from Lisbon, was, without doubt, to fill the holds with provisions. The volcanic soil of São Miguel, like most of the other islands was rich and fertile, the climate supporting both tropical and subtropical fruits, and wheat from which fine flour was milled for the bread baked daily in the ovens built on the side of every house. The green slopes behind the town offered verdant pasture for cattle to graze and supply the ships with ample quantities of
fresh beef.

  The cargoes stowed on the lighters’ single decks, packed in open topped boxes, consisted mainly of fruit―1000 oranges to a box, and lemons, limes and pineapples. Other boats transported barrels of wine, sacks of flour and boxes of vegetables. On the wharf, close by the mole, cattle driven down from the hillside were already penned and voicing their objection to being prodded and crowded into small compounds. Whether they were to be loaded live or butchered on the quay was not certain.

  ‘Beg pardon, Captain,’ Midshipman Hanson said, touching his hat. ‘Mr Crosby asked to speak with you.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the waist, sir. Should I tell him to come up to the quarterdeck?’

  ‘Indeed.’ The captain was aware of what the carpenter wanted to speak to him about.

  A beckoning gesture from the young middie brought the carpenter to the deck.

  ‘Good morning, Captain,’ the carpenter said.

  Oliver acknowledged.

  ‘I beg your permission to go ashore, sir.’

  ‘You wish to accompany your wife and her companion into the town.’

  ‘That’s right, Captain. I want to see them settled into some reputable accommodation. Then I will visit the shipping office to enquire about a passage for the pair to England.’

  ‘Permission is granted,’ the captain said. ‘A boat is already in the water and the crew has been instructed to transport the females and their dunnage to the town wharf. I trust they are not expecting the return of the animals they brought aboard.’

  ‘No, Captain. My wife said to thank you for your tolerance, and begs you to accept the livestock as a token of her gratitude for delivering her and Mrs Pilkington from Gibraltar. She said to do with the animals as you see fit.’