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

by M. C. Muir

  Smithers was smart with an answer. ‘Stupid dawcock said he saw a mermaid. I told him he was as barmy as Bungs. Then he changed his mind and said it wasn’t a mermaid, it was an angel.’

  ‘Mind your tongue!’ Mr Parry reminded.

  The captain raised his eyebrows and exchanged a puzzled look with his first lieutenant.

  But Smithers hadn’t finished. ‘The oaf said he heard it knocking like it wanted to come aboard, and when he leaned over to see what it was, it rose up from the water and tried to bite him. If you ask me, I think it was trying to kiss him.’

  The men standing nearby sniggered, but Prescott’s expression did not change.

  ‘Thank you, Smithers,’ Mr Tully said sarcastically. ‘We don’t need any of your stupid remarks.’

  The captain turned back to the sailor. ‘Enough of this cock-and-bull rubbish, Prescott, what exactly was it you saw?’

  ‘It’s just what Smithers told you, Capt’n. And it scared the livin’ daylights out of me.’

  ‘Just as well he was sitting on the head!’ the sailor quipped, with a toothless grin.

  ‘Smithers! Go below this instant!’

  Mumbling and dragging his feet, the old topman left the deck.

  The captain continued. ‘And what did this mermaid do after it popped up from the water?’

  ‘It sank back down and I didn’t wait around to see if it would come up again.’

  Oliver turned to the other members of the fo’c’sle division who were standing within earshot. ‘Did anyone else see this apparition?’

  Murmurs about mermaids and sea monsters ran round the foredeck, but no one had seen anything, although several admitted to hearing the sound of knocking.

  ‘Sounded like the carpenter in the hold tapping the hull with a wooden mallet,’ one said.

  ‘It was no bloody apparition,’ Prescott claimed adamantly. ‘I tell you it was real and I don’t ever want to see it again.’

  ‘Watch your language,’ Mr Tully warned.

  ‘Masthead!’ the captain called. ‘Keep a keen look-out.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ the reply came down. But there was not a soul on the island’s beaches and the rim of the sea carried nothing on it.

  ‘It’s over there!’ Midshipman Hanson called from amidships, causing all heads to turn and sailors to rush to the starboard side.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Can’t rightly say, sir. It could be the back of a whale, an upturned canoe or a mighty big turtle. It’s swimming just below the surface.’

  ‘Bring us about, Mr Tully,’ the captain ordered. ‘Back to your stations, men.’

  Mr Hanson, keep an eye on its position. Don’t let it out of your sight for one instant. I want to know what hit us. And get the carpenter to sound the ship and check the hull for damage.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The calls went out. The sailors scattered. The yards creaked and the staysails rattled as they were hauled across to the other tack.

  ‘It’s still there, sir. It must be a log to float like that.’

  ‘Tell the helmsman not to get too close. Have the deck hands ready to fend off if it gets too close.’

  It took some time to wear the frigate around and bring it back to where the midshipman claimed the submerged object was lurking just below the surface.

  ‘It’s over there!’ one of the topmen shouted from the main yard, causing a rush of bodies across the deck. It was now on the opposite side of the vessel and more than twice the ship’s length away. Either Prescott’s mermaid had dived and swum with the speed of a porpoise or Mr Hanson had lost sight of it when the frigate turned.

  With the wind spilled from her sails, the helmsman steered to where the topman was pointing and brought the frigate to within a few feet of it. When Perpetual drifted slowly alongside, the waves combined with the ship’s wake caused the large piece of flotsam to roll over. The realization of its source was greeted with an explosion of shrieks and jeers from the company gathered on deck.

  Lifting her head from the water was Prescott’s mermaid. Yellow wavy hair trailed over her lily-white shoulders. A loosely fitted blue cowl framed the angelic face. With her arms reaching out in front of her, the delicate hands cradled a white dove, its wings extended as if attempting to fly. For a few moments, her blue eyes gazed directly at the frigate’s crew and her voluptuous curves were shown to best advantage. Then, as if embarrassed by all the attention, she turned over again and buried her face in the sea. Only then was the extent of the injury to her back evident. The timbers running down from the centre of her spine to the short platform on which her feet rested had been badly damaged. Though once securely fastened to the bowsprit of a ship, the splintered timber revealed where the proud effigy had been hacked away or shot clean off.

  ‘Your mermaid,’ Captain Quintrell announced.

  It was a great joke to almost everyone, but a joke Prescott would not live down in a hurry.

  ‘Do you want the men to fish it out?’ Mr Parry asked.

  The captain shook his head. ‘It’s of little use to us. However, enter it on the board with the time and position. I will report it when we raise Rio de Janeiro. I can only deduce that it belonged to a ship that has gone down in the Atlantic and the current has floated to this spot.’

  ‘How long would you estimate it has been in the water?’ Lieutenant Parry asked.

  ‘Not long, I’d wager. It is perfectly clean.’

  ‘Do you think the ship sank close to these waters?’

  Oliver had already drawn his own conclusion, but he was more concerned about the ship that had fired the lethal shot than the item floating in the water.

  Having just returned to the deck with his sketch pad and pencil, Mr Nightingale was eager to make a drawing of the mermaid he had just heard about. But, like most modest women, the carved lady appeared embarrassed by the artist’s attention and insisted on turning her face from him.

  ‘Too shy to stay long enough for the men to get a good eyeful,’ Mr Tully said, with a cheeky grin.

  ‘I’ve seen it before,’ Mr Nightingale announced to expressions of surprise. ‘In the harbour at Ponta Delgada and again only a week ago.’

  He had the captain’s full attention. ‘Of course,’ Oliver said, as his memory was pricked. ‘It’s the figurehead from one of those Portuguese frigates.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Captain,’ Eku interrupted. ‘That ship’s name was Pomba Branca. In Portuguese it means―white dove. That’s the bird the lady’s holding in her hand.’

  ‘Thank you, Eku.’ The information was interesting, but the fact the figurehead had been blown off the bowsprit of one of the naval vessels confirmed his worst fears. Having arranged to rendezvous with the two Portuguese frigates at this group of islands, he expected to find them in these waters at this time.

  Had the pair had been ambushed and sunk by van Zetten and the other ship? he wondered. God forbid. But they had heard no sounds of gunfire. He thought of the two days he had spent hove to in the Atlantic practising the guns. Damnation. He should have arrived here earlier. Then he wondered if the frigates had sailed together or had separated and entered the waters alone. Surely it wasn’t possible that both would be lost.

  ‘Mr Parry, all hands on deck, if you please.’

  ‘Deck there!’ the call came from the masthead.

  ‘What is it? What do you see? Is it a sail?’ the midshipman called back.

  ‘Something the captain would want to know about,’ the lookout replied.

  ‘If you have something to report, you will report it to me.’

  ‘I can’t exactly say. I need Mr Tully or Mr Parry to take a gander first.’

  On the quarterdeck, the third lieutenant’s ears were alert to any messages flowing down from the lookout. Noting the concerned tone of the sailor’s voice, he strode briskly along the gangway to where the midshipman was standing gazing up into the maintop. ‘Is there a problem, Mr Hanson?’

  The young middie was
obviously not happy, firstly, for not being given the information from the lookout he had demanded and, secondly, and more aggravatingly so, because the lieutenant had witnessed the brief exchange. He was conscious of his shortcomings, especially his inability to handle situations like this in an authoritative manner. Now he was unsure of himself also. Perhaps he should have conveyed the message to the captain without question. Annoyed, and unable to hide his feelings, he pointed aloft. ‘The lookout said he saw something, but he is incapable of forming an opinion as to what it is.’

  ‘I’ll speak with him,’ Mr Tully said, but rather than wasting words with the middie, he leapt up onto to the weather rail, grabbed the shroud and swung himself into the ratlines. It was another opportunity to climb into the tops and, for him, the more swell there was on the ocean, the more he enjoyed the challenge.

  ‘I’m glad it’s you, Mr Tully,’ the lookout said, when the officer climbed onto the platform.

  ‘I warn you, Brown, you’d best watch yourself with young Mr Hanson. If he thinks you are being obstreperous, he’s likely to pin a charge of insolence on you.’

  The lookout shrugged. ‘Better that happen than him going off half-cocked to the captain, if I happened to be wrong.’

  Mr Tully was not interested in the lookout’s problems. His concern was with the reason for his call to the deck. Hooking his arm around the main’s topmast, he scanned the sea and shoreline, but there was nothing in particular to attract his attention. ‘Where should I be looking?’ he asked.

  ‘You must wait a moment until that great rock slides away and you can see into the next bay. Then you’ll spy it. I just caught a glimpse, but I’d bet a week’s ration of grog that it’s a submerged wreck.’

  ‘A ship? A boat? What was it?’

  ‘A ship, but what she was is hard to tell. She’d not smashed on the rocks. Looks like she’s filled and gone down. I’d say she’s sitting on the sand with water over her rails.

  ‘What is she? How many masts?’

  ‘Three stumps,’ the sailor said bluntly.

  ‘You mean the masts are broken? Is she dragging canvas in the water?’

  The sailor shrugged.

  Mr Tully frowned at the description he’d been given but, while they were speaking, Perpetual rounded the large rock to reveal a small semi-circular bay with a narrow beach of golden sand. The water lapping the beach was aquamarine and as translucent as any tropical lagoon. Sitting half a cable’s length from the shore was a submerged hull. Stripped of all its tophamper―topmasts, yards and rigging, and displaying a clear deck, it resembled the hull of a recently launched ship built at a private shipyard when it was ready to be floated to the Portsmouth Naval Dockyard to have its masts stepped and be fully-rigged and fitted out.

  ‘That’s mighty odd,’ Mr Tully said, ‘the remains of the masts appear to have been sawn off a few feet above the deck, and there’s no sign of spars or sails or an inch of line anywhere.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Strange, isn’t it? I didn’t want to shout it down in case I was wrong. I’d have sounded like a regular idiot.’

  Mr Tully nodded. ‘You did right. I’ll inform the captain. He’ll want to see this for himself before we get too close. And, he’ll want to get some canvas off if we are going to investigate. Keep watch,’ he reminded, as he swung himself down from the platform. ‘Don’t worry about the wreck, that ain’t going nowhere. Just keep a keen eye out for other ships.’

  Grabbing one of the stays, the lieutenant, wound his left foot behind it and locked the right in front and slid down the rigging to where the midshipman was waiting.

  ‘So what did he see?’ Mr Hanson asked rather defiantly. But Mr Tully was not about to reveal his findings to the middie and headed straight down to the waist. He needed to pass on the information to the captain.

  Within minutes the captain and his second lieutenant were heading back along the deck. As they passed the binnacle, Mr Tully grabbed a glass from the quartermaster.

  ‘All hands on deck, Mr Parry,’ the captain called. ‘Prepare to heave to.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The order was given and men streamed up from below peering about to see what the reason was for the call.

  After quickly removing his coat, the captain handed it to the midshipman who was peeved at being ignored. Following Mr Tully, he climbed the rigging with dozens of eyes watching his every step.

  ‘Brown?’

  The topmast man knuckled his forehead. ‘That’s me, sir.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  The sailor pointed, ‘It’s a hulk, sir. Little more than the top of the cap rails above water.’

  ‘By God, if I’m not mistaken, it’s one of the Portuguese frigates.’

  The sailor looked hard. ‘How do you know that, sir?’

  ‘The size of it. The shape of the stern and the position of those masts―or what is left of them.’ He examined the wreck through his glass. ‘How strange, they have been sawn off, as you suggested. I don’t understand. Who would take masts yet not bother to un-step them?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ the lookout answered, but it had been a rhetorical question that Captain Quintrell had already formed an answer to.

  ‘I’ll tell you who would,’ Oliver said. ‘A piratical blackguard who would give his right arm for spare spares, sails and rigging, yet does not have enough men to do the job properly.’

  ‘Deck there,’ Oliver shouted down, leaning away from the mast. ‘Mr Parry, all hands to quarters and bear away from the coast.’

  With nothing more to be gained from the position in the maintop, the captain climbed down to the deck by the ratlines. Below the familiar sounds of the ship being cleared for action were evident. Mr Parry and the other officers waited anxiously on the quarterdeck for further orders.

  ‘That pirate, van Zetten, is lurking in these waters. I am sure of it,’ Oliver said.

  ‘What could you see, Captain? What happened here?’ Mr Parry asked.

  ‘I believe one of the Portuguese frigate captains encountered this madman when he least expected it. The smaller frigate was well armed and carried 22 guns, but I believe he was probably taken by surprise and attacked by two ships, not one.’

  ‘Does he need our assistance?’

  ‘No. We have arrived too late. She has gone down.’

  ‘Are there any boats on the water? Surely the crew would not have given up their ship without a fight.’

  ‘I agree. There are many unanswered questions. As to survivors, there was no sign.’

  ‘What about flotsam or bodies?’

  ‘From this distance, I could see nothing, only some seals hauled up on the sand. What worries me, however, is that there is not a single gun on the weather deck.’ Oliver Quintrell had already formed an opinion as to where they would be, and it was unlikely they had been pushed overboard.

  ‘What are your orders, Captain?’

  ‘We stand off the coast and watch and wait. It may be a trap. I put nothing past the evil cunning of Fredrik van Zetten. The men will remain at their stations throughout the night. In the morning, when I am certain we are not being lured by this predator, I will take two boats and go ashore. I want to examine the wreck and search for survivors. It’s possible some of the crew have escaped inland to hide, but it is equally possible they are strung up on a quickly constructed gallows made from the mainyard, or drowned beneath hatches in the hold, or slaughtered like beasts, or perhaps they have been taken prisoner to serve on one of his ships, as seems to be his usual practice.’

  The expressions around him were as grave as his own.

  ‘Because the spars have been deliberately removed, I would expect the holds have been ransacked. The powder and shot has no doubt been stolen along with cordage and spare sails, even tools from the tradesmen’s workshops.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Think about it, Simon. The San Nicola had been at sea for months. We know the hold was empty and the men were limited to me
agre rations. We know van Zetten was short of men―hence, the reason he kidnapped the villagers from Santa Maria. And, because of this man’s history, neither he nor his ship would be welcome in any British port. If his ship needed repair, he would not have access to any reputable naval yard. Therefore, he would have to repair at sea and careen his ship as we did. The only small consolation is that the lives of any shipwright or carpenter he captured would be safe for as long as their services were required. At this stage, I would suggest, Captain van Zetten needs all the wrights he can get.’

  Standing at the cabin door, the red-headed Irishman looked uncomfortable. ‘Beg pardon, Captain,’ Michael O’Connor said.

  ‘What is it? Are you having problems with your work?’

  ‘No, sir, no problems, it’s just—’

  ‘It’s what? Spit it out, man. I have enough problems to attend to.’

  ‘Might I come in, sir?’

  Oliver frowned. It was a bold request. ‘Step inside and close the door.’

  The Irishman lowered his voice. ‘Being disloyal to your fellow countrymen is about the worst sin you can commit in Ireland. You can make enemies real fast and get a knife in your heart even faster.’

  ‘Has someone been threatening you?’ the captain asked.

  ‘No, sir, nothing of that nature.’

  ‘So, what is the problem?’

  ‘Well, it’s like this, you see,’ O’Conner said. ‘My mates have been whispering about jumping ship at the first sight of land.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And here we are already. Yet from what I’ve heard about the sort of company you’ve come up against recently, I think it might not be a wise thing for them to do. I’ve told them so.’

  ‘Telling tales to the ship’s captain might not be very wise, either. It will certainly not win you any friends. I warn you, O’Connor, be careful with whom you speak. As for your countrymen, I can do nothing based on tittle-tattle. However, if these men decide to run and are caught, they will be brought back and punished accordingly. I presume you know what that means?’

  The Irishman looked sullen and nodded.

  ‘Approximately two weeks from today, we will drop anchor at Rio de Janeiro. Those men will then have the option to stay with the ship or be paid off, though with a deduction for the slops they collected when they came aboard and the short period of time they have served, there will be very little money due to them.’ Oliver turned back to the chart he was studying. ‘Now go about your business and stop bothering me with such trivia. And the next time you have a problem, speak with one of the officers on deck. Now get back to your station.’