by M. C. Muir
Controlling his temper, Oliver said nothing, walked to the cabin door and opened it. ‘Casson!’ he called.
There was a muffled reply from without.
‘A bottle of brandy and two glasses.’ After closing the door, he returned to the table and sat down.
Simon Parry’s revelations came as no surprise. He was aware of his own shortcomings but was loath to admit them to anyone, not least himself. The depressed mood he had suffered in Gibraltar had never fully left him. He had blamed himself for Susanna’s death and now those gnawing pangs of anger and guilt had been reignited by the frustration of not dealing with the pirate effectively.
The tension between the two officers was not eased when Casson entered balancing two Waterford crystal glasses and a bottle on a tray. ‘A fine drop of French Brandy courtesy of Monshure Napoleon,’ the steward said with a smile.
‘Thank, you,’ Simon Parry replied politely.
Oliver poured the brandy and pushed one of the glasses towards his first officer. After swilling the liquid around the glass, he inhaled its bouquet, filled his mouth and swallowed. Leaning back in his chair, he spent several minutes musing over the words his lieutenant had delivered so directly.
Simon Parry was correct. It was no fault of his that Fredrik van Zetten was back at sea and, for this, he had no reason to feel any guilt or recriminations. Certainly, he was justified in feeling angry, especially after the effort it had taken to bring the man to justice, plus the fact he had put every man under his command at risk. But his abhorrence of the pirate was all-consuming, as was his present preoccupation with recapturing him and his ship. He realized the desire to do so had become an obsession.
Glancing over his shoulder to his writing desk, he thought of the Admiralty's orders enclosed in an envelope in the top drawer. They clearly indicated that he should proceed on his mission with all haste. Thus far he had not complied with those instructions. Sailing north via the Azores, then chasing a foreign ship, not even an enemy ship, in endless circles around the Fernando de Noronha islands was not part of them. The fact the pirate had followed him across the Atlantic was no fault of his either, therefore, he was not responsible for the situation he found himself in. Yet, knowing all this, the fate of the Portuguese frigate, Pomba Branca, and its crew lay heavily on his shoulders.
‘Simon,’ he said. ‘I admit, you are right in all you say. We must prepare to sail for Rio. As for van Zetten, if he is determined to find me, let him do so. It will save me the time and trouble of searching for him.’
Less than an hour later there was another knock at the captain's door.
‘Come in,’ the captain called.
The two men who entered looked rather sheepish. Both were artisans, first and foremost, and sailors second.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr Parry suggested that what we had to say was best for your ears.’ The carpenter turned to the young man beside him. ‘I think you know William Ethridge.’
Oliver acknowledged him with a nod and a feeling of guilt for not taking time to speak with the shipwright who had saved his previous command in the freezing waters of the Southern Ocean. ‘Good to have you aboard.’ Then, as if to excuse his omission, ‘My time had been occupied. What is it, Mr Crosby?’
‘It’s about that privateer, sir.’
‘Mr Crosby, let me remind you, a privateer is an armed ship under the command of a private individual who holds a government licence authorizing the attack and capture of enemy vessels during times of war. Captured ships, under such authority, are brought before an admiralty prize court for sale. The prize money is then split between the state that issued the Letter of Marque and the privateer who captured it. Furthermore, privateers agree to the humane treatment of prisoners. Tell me Mr Crosby, do you believe Captain van Zetten complies with these requirements?’
‘No, Captain,’ the carpenter admitted.
‘Indeed. That is why I prefer to call him a pirate.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is it you wanted to speak with me about?’
‘Well, as you know, young Will ’ere and I was sent aboard to fix up the leaks in his ship so we know what condition it’s in. Now, we hear he’s taken on spars and guns from the frigate he sank in the cove.’
‘I am listening,’ the captain said.
‘When we were aboard the San Nicola, we were told we had repairs to make―and plenty of work there was, too. We learnt the captain had lost his carpenters weeks earlier from scurvy, so when anything went wrong, nothing was done about it. He kept us busy twenty-two hours out of every twenty-four and hardly fed us.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I ain’t complaining,’ Mr Crosby said. ‘I’ve known worse and I don’t mind hard work. The fact is, when we went aboard, the well had over two feet of water in it and some of the empty barrels were just floating about in the hold. You couldn’t walk over parts of the ballast. It was like quicksand even though the pumps were being operated all day. But me and Will had a job to do and we set about fixing the worse of the leaks as best we could.’
The expression on the carpenter’s face grew serious, ‘She’s a tired ship, Captain, and she’s very wormy. She’s never been coppered and she’s spent years in tropical waters. Will and I agree most of the hull is riddled with holes. Both sides of the hull seep constantly, like tears running down an infant’s cheeks.’
Will Ethridge took up the story. ‘But apart from being given the job of fixing the leaks, which was near impossible, the captain wanted ports cutting into the hull on the lower deck. He wanted to create another gun deck and make the ship into something like a man-of-war.’
‘And did you do that?’
‘No, there wasn’t enough time. We had marked out where the guns could be located along both port and starboard sides, but we never laid so much as a chisel or a drill on the planks before you arrived and took the ship.’
‘So what are you telling me?’
Will explained. ‘If Captain van Zetten took some of the nine and twelve-pounders from the Portuguese frigate and hoisted them onto his own ship, he had no carpenters or shipwrights to prepare the lower deck to accommodate them. That means the guns would have to remain on the weather deck, if he intended to fire them. So, Mr Crosby and I reckon the ship is not only unseaworthy, but it’s top-heavy.’
‘That’s just our opinion for what it’s worth,’ the ship’s carpenter added. ‘But I, for one, wouldn’t want to be aboard a top-heavy ship in a rough sea.’
‘Thank you, Mr Crosby. I will certainly take your advice into consideration if we should encounter the San Nicola again. However, my searches have proved unsuccessful and I can only presume she had headed west and is probably anchored at one of the slave ports on the Brazilian coast right now.’
The men knuckled their foreheads and turned to go.
‘Your wife and her companion―how are they faring?’ Oliver asked.
‘As well as can be expected, Captain. Like everyone aboard, they are looking forward to making landfall before too long.’
‘Indeed, I think we all are.’
Oliver was still not convinced van Zetten had left the location, however, he knew he could waste no more time chasing shadows. Despite the assurance from his officers the danger was long gone, he insisted the crew remain at their stations until the volcanic peaks of Fernando de Noronha had turned from purple to mauve, before eventually sinking beneath the horizon.
The port of Rio de Janeiro was fifteen hundred miles away and it was imperative the sinking of the naval frigate was reported to the Portuguese authorities there. Oliver’s hope was that, when they arrived, they would find the other frigate safely anchored in Guanabara Bay.
With the wind failing and the ship reduced to only two knots, Captain Quintrell took to his cot and slept well for the first time in days.
It was February and, in the tropical latitudes, the air was oppressive and clouds seen as infrequently as land gulls. Though the wind was
in danger of dying completely, a strong swell was rolling beneath the keel. Driven by the South Equatorial Current, the troughs were broad and deep, the undulations visible on the horizon. Perpetual was heading south-south-west running parallel with the coast of Brazil, but staying well clear of it. According to the sailing master’s calculation, they were now nine hundred miles from Rio de Janeiro.
Overnight the wind dropped even more, with only the occasional light zephyr to tease the sails. The swell, however was relentless slowly pushing them toward the coast. Making little headway, the frigate pitched and rolled uncomfortably sliding side-on into the troughs of non-breaking waves while being twisted and lifted to the top of the next ridge of sea.
Having resolved to take time to catch up on his journal entries, Oliver was frustrated by the ship’s movement. With every roll or pitch, the inkpot was in danger of emptying its contents over the page he was writing or sliding off his desk and staining the deck. Closing the lid, he returned the writing materials to his desk drawer.
‘Begging pardon, Capt’n. Mr Parry requests your attendance on deck. He said to tell you it was fairly urgent.’
‘Thank you, Casson. I will come immediately.’ Having no need for a coat, he proceeded to the waist and climbed the companionway steps to the quarterdeck.
‘Two sails, dead astern, Captain. The lookout says they have been a smudge on the horizon for a while but now he’s sure they are ships and most likely the ones you were expecting. He says they are following on the same course we are heading. What are you orders, Captain?’
‘We can do nothing, Simon, until we find some wind. In the meantime, have their progress monitored and report any change to me. I want a good man on the log.’
‘I doubt we are barely making a knot or two at the most,’ the sailing master advised.
Taking his glass, Oliver looked dead astern and ran his glass along the horizon. It was not easy to see the specks of canvas the lookout had identified as ships, but the height of the masthead above the deck gave the sailor an advantage. Even so, at this distance it would be easy to confuse two grey dots with flecks of cloud and ignore them.
‘The man has good eyes. Is he convinced it’s van Zetten’s ship and the schooner?’
‘Without a doubt, sir,’ Mr Parry said. ‘Trust him.’
Two hours later, there was barely a breath of wind over their stretch of ocean, yet according to the lookout, the two following ships had gained on the frigate, albeit only slightly, and the hulls were now visible.
‘What does the lead read?’
‘No bottom, sir,’ Mr Tully replied.
‘No chance of kedging her,’ the captain murmured. He turned to the officer-of-the-watch. ‘I want four boats in the water. We tow.’
Mr Tully responded with a burst of enthusiasm in his tone. ‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ he said. Striding from the quarterdeck, he called for the boat crews and for hands to sway out the boats. Though the men were quick to respond, they were less enthusiastic in their performance. The task of towing a fully crewed and laden frigate with four boats was near impossible, particularly with the rising and falling ocean swell. But, at least, putting the boats in the water was a break from the monotony on deck.
Oliver observed the creases furrowing Mr Parry’s brow, but the lieutenant did not speak. ‘I presume you are wondering why I do not heave to and wait for those two ships in order to stand and fight.’
‘Captain, I don’t question your orders but you had expressed a desire to meet this predator head on.’
‘That is so,’ Oliver said. ‘I intend to stand and fight when we have the advantage. However, whatever little wind there is at present is not favouring us. For as long as those ships have the weather gage, I will not turn and fight. For the time being, I desire to stay ahead of them until the wind changes. However, when that happens, you are at liberty to put the same question to me and you will receive the answer you were hoping to hear.’
With the boats in the water hauling on four heavy hawsers, the attempt to make any headway was proving to be a futile and exhausting exercise. To exacerbate the situation, at times a mischievous wind whirled across the water, luffing the sails and halting the frigate, at times pushing it back in the direction from which it had come. The addition of the lower studding sails made no difference, as there was no air to fill them. Fortunately, for the present, the two following ships appeared anchored to the horizon and unable to make any headway from there, either.
Oliver studied the sky. Ominous dark clouds were gathering far off in the west emanating over the vast areas of tropical jungles that covered much of the country. The officers on the quarterdeck argued about the possibility of any wind or rain reaching them, but it was speculation and only time would tell if that was going to eventuate.
‘Return the boats, Mr Tully.’
‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’
It took half an hour for the crews to return to the ship and the boats to be swung aboard and stowed. Then the order was given for all hands to their stations. From the quarterdeck, the officers were watching the men in the waist when a loose barrel rumbled across the deck and crashed into one of the gun carriages. As the staves separated from each other, the top iron ring rolled along the deck like a boy’s hoop being hit by a stick down an alley. Fortunately, the barrel had only been used to hold brooms and mops and did not hit anyone. But a rogue barrel could easily break a man’s leg if he got in its way. It was a reminder to have everything lashed down securely.
Having maintained the same heading throughout the day, Oliver ordered a change.
‘West, helmsman. Let us see if our visitors follow our lead.’
While making little headway, the stern swung across and the prow pointed to the west. The change in direction was mirrored by the following ships.
As the afternoon progressed, the ominous clouds grew and darkened, the curtains of a gathering storm closed across the sky.
‘There is a squall coming,’ Mr Mundy observed. ‘If we stay on this heading, it will hit us head on. Shouldn’t we spill some wind from the sail?’
‘Take the studding sails in. Stow the royals and t’gan’sls, and the fores’l and mains’l.’
‘Aye, Capt’n.’
‘Mr Parry, I need you to watch the storm as it approaches. When it is almost on us, give the order to come about. I want the weather to engulf us so the manoeuver will not be seen.’
‘But if the squall slams into us, it could lay us on our beam ends,’ the sailing master said.
‘Not if we make the turn before the wind hits. The timing will be crucial.’
‘Once we are around, we will have the weather gage in our favour. Then we head directly for the two ships.’
‘That will be uncomfortable.’
The captain paid no heed to the sailing master’s remark. It was something he already anticipated. In fact, the motion of the sea was one thing he hoped to harness to his advantage. ‘If the squall is as strong as I expect, it will bring heavy rain, and possibly hail and we will be completely lost to view until it has blown over.’
‘What if the wind drops or changes direction?’ Mr Mundy asked.
‘And what if St Elmo’s fire dances along the yards and strikes down our main mast?’ Oliver replied cynically. ‘You have your instructions.’
Chapter 19
The Noose
The roiling mass of black and charcoal clouds was tinged with swirling bursts of orange and pink while, beneath it, skirts of dark rain moved silently back and forth over the sea. Lightning flashed from within the twisting mass like a distant beacon, but the storm was too far away for the sound of thunder to carry. At times, rays of sunlight broke through like spokes on a wheel slicing the storm into wedge-shaped portions and delivering pools of shining white light onto the dark ocean.
With all hands on deck ready to bring the frigate about, the men knew they would have to work quickly. To be caught in irons would spell disaster.
‘Once we come around, h
ead for the following ships and, hopefully, surprise them. Helmsman, your job is to put Perpetual between them.’ Oliver’s bold plan, when he reached them, was to fire from guns on both port and starboard sides. The gun crews had been instructed to aim for the masts and rigging.
‘Do not sink the San Nicola,’ he ordered. ‘She has probably got half the Portuguese Navy in her hold.’ He also warned them not to open the gunports until they had completed the turn.
‘But what if the rain is not heavy enough to provide cover?’
‘Mr Mundy, if the conditions change, I will issue new orders. I have no time for your negativity. Repair to your station.’
The captain’s tone was sufficient to disperse the midshipmen who had been hovering around.
Oliver Quintrell’s brow furrowed. Though he sounded confident, he was far from it. It was a daring plan riddled with danger, improbabilities and unanswered questions. The points Mr Mundy had raised were all valid, though he did not appreciate being reminded of what could go wrong. It was not possible to be sure when or where the squall would hit or what direction the wind would blow from. The gathering curtains of rain were moving, coalescing and then dividing again and there was no guarantee they would envelop the ship when most needed. Furthermore, if Perpetual did not come about in time, being hit head on by a gale of wind with too much canvas flying could easily bring down a mast or rip the sails to shreds. As the sailing master had pointed out, if the wind slammed into the ship before the turn was complete, it could lay the frigate over and, if any of the ports were open, the sea would flood in and take her to the bottom.
Then there was the question of the two following ships. Would they hold their course and stand and fight, or turn from the storm as he was doing? Another thing the captain did not know was how many guns the two ships had between them. And how determined was van Zetten to catch him? He considered he already knew the answer to that question. Apart from that, if the hull of San Nicola was as riddled with holes as the carpenters has indicated, would a single shot below the waterline sink her?
