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

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Huh. Is your wife ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Waiting below.’

  ‘Then I suggest you get the women ashore immediately. As for yourself, you may take leave for the day to attend to your business,’ the captain added curtly, ‘I take it that it is your intention to return to the ship.’

  ‘That is correct, sir, you can be sure of that.’ He held out his open palms. ‘I would not be going ashore empty-handed and leaving my tools in the carpenter’s shop, if I was not intending to return.’

  ‘That is well,’ Oliver said. ‘You will report to me when you come aboard. I will inform the boat crew to return to the wharf promptly at four o’clock to collect you. Do not be late. I have no intention of sending men into town after dark to search for you. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Aye, Captain. You have my word. I’ll be there on time.’

  Having only made the acquaintance with the tradesman briefly since he had come aboard, Oliver was putting faith in his ability to assess the man’s character from what he had gleaned from his papers. The carpenter had learned his trade as a shipwright at Deptford before shipping as carpenter’s mate aboard a second-rate. Having been given his first warrant on a 74-gun ship of the line, he had served for five years before accepting work at the naval dockyard in Gibraltar. While working in the colony, his wife and sons had taken passage from England and joined him on the Rock, where he had been resident. At first, life had been idyllic and he had valued the time he had been able to spend with his family―something sea life deprived him of. But, as he had explained, when the fever struck, everything changed.

  Being a married man and being at least ten years older than himself, Captain Quintrell judged Mr Crosby to be a mature, honest and hardworking fellow. He had also heard that the carpenter had applied himself to the repairs on van Zetten’s ship as conscientiously as to those on any British vessel. And though he had not seen him during the fighting, it was obvious he had defended himself adequately against the ruffian crew and survived the fight unscathed.

  While any captain relied on the loyalty and efficiency of his senior officers, the next most-valued man aboard any ship at sea was the carpenter. He was responsible for the welfare of the ship itself. Without a watertight hull and a sound vessel, a captain’s command was worthless.

  Oliver also trusted young William Ethridge who had served on Elusive with him on a previous mission. His service on that occasion had been invaluable. But being barely twenty-one years of age and having only recently completed his apprenticeship, he had less experience than Mr Crosby, therefore the captain was obliged to favour the older man for the position of ship’s carpenter.

  Only a few minutes elapsed before the women emerged from the waist and headed to the entry port. Dr Whipple accompanied them up the steps, but did not linger on deck. Having been grateful for the assistance the women had provided in the cockpit, the doctor was sorry to see them depart, but he did not believe in protracted farewells.

  Despite the captain’s expectations of tears and tantrums, there was no such performance. Because of the devastating losses they had both suffered, the women carried themselves with a dignity not normally associated with females of their class. Oliver was warmed by their decorum. It was far removed from the outlandish outbursts and lack of propriety he had witnessed demonstrated by ladies of so-called good-breeding who had never suffered any form of deprivation.

  The two female companions departed the deck with dignity and little more than a smile to the sailors standing nearby. Only one person gave way to emotion―that was young Charles. Despite being under the keen and critical eyes of the sailors on deck, he allowed the older women to embrace him in a motherly fashion, and when Consuela Pickering reached out her arms to him, he responded to her embrace with heartfelt affection. Stepping back, his lips mouthed, Good-bye, but no sound was made. The wet streaks on his cheeks bore testament to his feelings. The ten-year old was destined to remain alone aboard the ship.

  More noise and chatter accompanied the sailors carrying the women’s dunnage. It consisted of a bag apiece and a wooden chest between them. The contents of the chests soon became evident when Mr Midshipman Hanson started unpacking and examining them. Having been given instructions from the purser to ensure nothing was stolen from the sick berth, he took it upon himself to remove each item from the chest, remove it from the garment or table linen it had been bound in, then set it down on the deck revealing, for all to see, the women’s valued possessions. Most were well-used household goods of little value, though there were a few pieces of fine china, ivory-handled cutlery, a lamp and mirror, plus ornaments and personal mementos that Mrs Crosby had amassed over the years. The process of unwrapping each item amused the men leaning on the cap rail. Mr Crosby stood nearby, but said nothing.

  ‘Mr Hanson!’ the captain called. ‘Enough of that!’

  The young middie stopped and looked up. Only half of the contents had been rummaged through.

  ‘Kindly get that box packed up and over the side. And be quick about it.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ the young midshipman said.

  ‘Mr Tully,’ the captain asked quietly, ‘what is happening with the boy who came aboard with the women? I believe his name is Charles. I want to know how he has been entered in the muster book.’

  ‘I’ll enquire.’

  With the crew seated, Mr Crosby climbed down into the boat and assisted his wife to find her footing on the steps. An ample skirt and petticoat did not make the descent easy. When she was seated in the bow, he helped Mrs Pickering to gain a seat and then received the women’s dunnage and placed it between the thwarts.

  With the call for the mooring line to be released, an oar pushed the boat from Perpetual’s hull and, once clear, six oars dipped into the water. From the ship’s aft rail, a handful of sailors watched the boat’s progress. Apart from a few whispered conversations, there were no calls or cries. It was a solemn farewell.

  Standing on the quarterdeck away from the rail, Oliver was also watching the water, but his interest was on a line of lighters heading directly towards Perpetual.

  ‘Mr Tully, have all hands ready to hoist the supplies. Get Bungs to attend to the barrels. I want to see them stowed as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Bungs is not well, Captain.’

  Oliver was not impressed. ‘Then speak to the bosun.’

  ‘Yes, sir.

  As the morning wore on and the sun rose higher, a breeze blew across the bay allowing small squares and triangles of sails to replace the rise and fall of oars on the small boats servicing various ships with stores.

  At one point, a black-hulled schooner swam smoothly around the warships and edged its way towards the wharf and dropped anchor close to Perpetual. It was flying the red and white striped flag of a British East Indiaman, the small union jack in the corner was hardly visible.

  ‘A nice line,’ Mr Nightingale commented, when he came on deck. ‘I imagine she could make ten or twelve knots in the right conditions. Returning home, or heading south, would you say, sir?’

  ‘From the colour of the men’s skin, I would suggest she is heading north, and from the fine condition of her canvas and cordage, it would appear she has been blessed with a smooth passage.’

  ‘Perhaps with a cargo of silks and porcelain from China,’ the lieutenant said. ‘I’d wager the crew are happy to be breaking their voyage here before heading home.’

  With lots of activity on the water, replenishing Perpetual’s empty hold continued all day. The supplies from each lighter were loaded into netting before being hoisted up, swung inboard and lowered into the waist. From there, depending on the nature of the goods, they were conveyed to the hold, pantry or bread room as indicated by the purser. As each supply-boat was emptied, it returned to the victualling wharf to collect another consignment.

  Satisfied the work was proceeding well, Oliver returned to his cabin.

  ‘You asked about the boy who came aboard in Gibraltar,’ Mr Tully s
aid, before he left the deck.

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘He’s been entered as a ship’s boy and allocated to Mr Hanson’s division.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tully.’

  Promptly at half-past three in the afternoon, the captain’s boat crew pushed off and headed to the town. Standing at his stern window, with the telescope to his eye, Oliver could see Mr Crosby waiting on the wharf as instructed.

  He was alone.

  Chapter 11

  Foreboding

  On the third day in Ponta Delgada, four boats headed towards the frigate. They were rowed by Portuguese oarsmen and carried uniformed marines and armed soldiers. Mr Read, the British consular representative with whom Oliver had spoken, was seated in the leading craft. The coxswain hailed the frigate as they approached.

  After being given a dignified welcome aboard Perpetual, Mr Read introduced the officer in charge of the military guard. ‘This is Captain Ferreira. I am afraid he is lacking in English. He is here to take charge of the ship you escorted in and the prisoners you have confined below deck in both vessels.’

  The consul anticipated some of the many questions that were foremost in Oliver’s mind. ‘I can guarantee you nothing with regard to the fate of these foreign sailors. They are not enemies according to Portuguese naval definitions, therefore, they cannot be held as prisoners of war. It is likely, however, they will be questioned and, once you have departed the port, they will be freed and be at liberty to sign on any other ship.

  ‘But they are riff-raff―nothing but rogues and cut-throats.’

  ‘I don’t doubt what you say, Captain, but let me explain. You admitted yourself that many of them are possibly common seamen, who will claim they were forced to follow the orders of Captain van Zetten. It would be impossible to prove differently. Being captain of a naval frigate, I do not need to remind you that seamen who sail under your command are obliged to obey your orders to the letter, and argument and dissent are dealt with harshly in the British Navy.’

  The captain could not disagree.

  ‘Furthermore, this town does not have an adequate jail to house all these men pending the arrival of a judge from Lisbon to hear their pleas. However, Captain Ferreira will ensure these sailors remain confined for the present on board the ship San Nicola. It will serve as a temporary floating prison similar to the hulks you have on the Thames and at Portsmouth.’

  ‘I had hoped to have the ship vacated in order that it could be sold to a prize agent.’

  The consul smiled sympathetically. ‘I am sure you will agree technically the vessel you have brought in is not a prize of war. The Royal Navy is not at war with whatever nation this captain professes to sail under and from what you told me, he denies any allegiance to either France or Spain. I fear our judges in Ponta Delgada will also argue that point of law. But as this pirate attacked residents of Santa Maria and committed heinous crimes against them, I feel the authorities will thank you for bringing him to justice and, as a consequence, the Portuguese Navy will commandeer his vessel.’

  ‘But what of Captain van Zetten?’

  ‘You advised me you are holding him and his lieutenants aboard this ship. Is that so?

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Good. I have here a letter from the military commander of the port who is acting for the governor. It gives me the authority to take these men and deliver them to the jail where they will be held for trial for crimes committed against the citizens of the Western Isles.’

  Some consolation, Oliver thought. It appeared the consul had taken control of the matters and there was little more he could do. His immediate concern was to get the worst of the prisoners off the frigate with the assurance they would stand trial and receive their due desserts. When that was achieved, he could wash his hands of them. The question of San Nicola being sold was of little importance to him personally but his men would be sorely disappointed to learn they would not benefit from their part in the action that could have cost them their lives.

  ‘If you are in agreement,’ Mr Read continued, ‘I require your signature on this document. Once that formality has been taken care of, I will receive van Zetten and his six officers from you. Kindly have them ready to leave. From here, Captain Ferreira will take charge of them and convey them in two boats to the quay where extra guards are waiting to escort them to the jailhouse. The soldiers and marines in the other two boats will head to San Nicola, relieve your men and take responsibility for the ship and its prisoners for the present.’

  Oliver thanked the consul, though not without some second thoughts. The prospect of dispensing himself of the responsibility of the prisoners relieved him but he was unconvinced the fate deserved by the pirate and his cohorts was assured. He regretted not having meted out a seagoing sentence to van Zetten when he had the chance. Hanging was his due, as it was for any man who perpetrated such evil on land or water. For Oliver Quintrell, the only consolation was a degree of satisfaction at having done his duty. The problem was now in the hands of the authorities to administer their own judgment against the men who had committed atrocities against their people. So be it.

  ‘I have the seven ringleaders confined below, including the ship’s captain. I believe they are all equally guilty. ’

  Mr Read offered his reassurance. ‘Captain Ferreira promises me they will be tried for their crimes as soon as the governor returns from Lisbon.’

  Oliver acknowledged the commitment, though his faith in the Portuguese system of administration was not unwavering.

  ‘Have the prisoners brought on deck,’ the captain called. ‘Transfer them to the boats. Make sure they are all manacled.’ He turned to Mr Read. ‘I suggest you warn Captain Ferreira to be very wary of these rogues. They are more slippery than eels.’

  From the quarterdeck, Oliver Quintrell watched as the pirate, who declared himself a ship’s captain, was brought up from the hold. Of all of the prisoners, he was most obstreperous, complaining about the dire treatment he had received and claiming he had Letters of Marque from both Spain and Denmark. He claimed he had lost many of his men to scurvy and had visited the island of Santa Maria in desperation because he lacked enough men to sail his vessel to Ponta Delgada. He swore he had offered to reward any volunteers who sailed with him and had promised to return them to their own island within the month. From what Captain Quintrell had experienced of the man, every word he uttered, apart from the reference to scurvy, was a lie.

  Whether van Zetten was Dutch, Danish, South African or Spanish, Oliver had not discovered but his nationality made no difference. As he was paraded along the frigate’s gun deck before climbing the companion to the quarterdeck, he directed a barrage of threats and foul-mouthed curses at anyone who put a hand near him. Shuffling along with his hands and feet dragging iron chains, he was unable to physically retaliate other than spit obscenities at the crew. Once on deck, his final curse was directed at Captain Quintrell.

  ‘English pig. You thought you could beat me with your pantomime. But hear this. I swear you have not seen the last of Fredrik van Zetten. I will find you and, when I do, I will haul you up by the neck till your tongue swells and when it pokes from your mouth I will slice off the end and watch the blood spurt from it like water from a gargoyle’s mouth. Let me see how ingenious you are then.’

  ‘Gag him!’ Oliver ordered. ‘Tightly! Let him drown in his own spittle.’

  But before the gag could be fastened across his mouth, Fredrik van Zetten let out an evil laugh that sent a cold shiver down the spines of everyone on deck.

  ‘Get that scum off my deck,’ the captain yelled, turning his back on the prisoners as they were herded to the waiting boats.

  Waiting patiently in the boats, the soldiers sent to guard the prisoners appeared to be little more than boys of sixteen or seventeen years of age. The muskets held between their knees were dirty. The bayonets rusted.

  How long will this military guard hold this monster? Oliver wondered.

  ‘Once Mr Parry
and the rest of the crew are returned aboard, and I am satisfied the ship is fully provisioned, we make preparations to sail. Is all in readiness?’

  The sailing master confirmed the purser’s and quartermaster’s reports. Perpetual was well supplied.

  ‘There is just one matter to be—’

  A musket shot rang out across the waters of the bay. Then another. All eyes on deck turned to the water and the two boats heading towards the mole. Aboard both boats, the prisoners were standing upright and rocking the boats from side to side. The oarsmen planted their blades on the water in an attempt to stop the boats from going over but despite the threats from the soldiers and wild shots flying over the oarsmen’s heads, the prisoners took no heed. Their aim was to capsize both boats and tip everyone into the water.

  ‘All hands!’ the captain boomed. ‘Away the boats. Quick as you can! Marines with me. I will not have the fiend escape.’

  Another shot rang out and a man fell or dived into the water from the second boat. It lurched violently throwing another shackled prisoner into the water. When it rolled back, water poured over the gunwale and within seconds the boat filled and sank. The soldiers seated on the thwarts were stunned into immobility.

  ‘Shall I order the marines to fire?’ the lieutenant asked.

  ‘No. At this distance. It would be impossible to hit the right target.’

  Splashing frantically for a few moments, the soldiers were weighed down by their heavy uniforms, muskets, belts and powder and ammunition pouches and quickly disappeared under the water. Three prisoners with iron shackles also slipped silently below the surface and did not return. Two of the oarsmen swam in circles and were able to grab onto an oar which acted as a life preserver. Swimming in a strange dog-like fashion, one prisoner turned from the boat and, despite his irons, made for the nearby shore. No effort was made to shoot him or catch him.

  It was the passenger in the first boat Oliver did not take his eyes off. Seated in the bow, he appeared completely at ease, and though the gag covered his mouth, the deep curling creases around his eyes made it evident he was enjoying every moment of the commotion. No doubt van Zetten had engineered the plan over the past few days and was now relishing the success of his scheme. The cheers and jeers from sailors lining the rails of the nearby Portuguese war ships encouraged him.