by M. C. Muir
The response was spontaneous and enthusiastic. The captain’s words were repeated by almost everyone.
‘And,’ he held his audience in suspense, ‘we will not be sailing alone, but in the company of the third rate.’
‘Excellent news,’ the sailing master said.
‘And that is not all.’
Wine glasses stopped betwixt table and lip. Mouths remained opened. Eyes widened. Ears flapped. Only the sound of footsteps creaking across the planks of the deck above disturbed the silence.
‘We are not heading south as was originally ordered. We are returning to England.’
‘Heaven be praised!’ the sailing master said.
‘By all the saints, this is good news!’ the doctor added.
Clapping his hands in joy, the rose-tinted flush of embarrassment that had coloured young Mr Hanson’s cheeks immediately drained and his pursed lips broadened into a smile stretching from ear to ear.
Across the table Mr Nightingale and Mr Tully shook hands. ‘I told you so,’ Mr Tully said.
Oliver leaned back from the table slightly surprised at the overwhelming response. ‘It appears the new orders meet with everyone’s approval.’
‘Indeed, they do.’ Simon Parry said. ‘It will come as a tonic to the men. Am I now permitted to pass the word?’
Oliver leaned towards his first lieutenant and whispered in his ear. ‘With my steward and two of the ship’s boys hovering outside the door, I would not be surprised to learn that word is flying up the companionway steps at this very instant.’
Righting himself, the captain continued. ‘Let us be serious for a moment, gentlemen. There are several important matters that must be attended to before we can depart this harbour. Orders for fresh supplies and stores must be placed and the goods received on board in the next few days. I call on you all to ensure they are handled safely and stowed efficiently. I want no unruly behaviour as occurred yesterday. Lashing a man to within an inch of his life does not solve problems – it only succeeds in making an undisciplined man worse. On a more positive note, I trust this news, which you are at liberty to share with your divisions, will lift the crew’s flagging spirits and bring a renewed sense of optimism. To add to that, two bags of correspondence, carried from home aboard the 74, will be delivered tomorrow and can be distributed to the men.’
As the last word any of the crew had received from loved ones was in Gibraltar, there was a sense of eager anticipation.
‘The most pressing matter to attend, however, relates to the Portuguese sailors we rescued and are accommodating below deck. Arrangements must be made for them to be put ashore or transferred to another ship. I trust those men will not soon forget the service Perpetual afforded them.’
‘All credit to you, Captain,’ the sailing master said.
‘Nay,’ Oliver replied. ‘Aboard ship, no one serves alone. For the present, however, enjoy the wine and eat up the fruit for what is not consumed this evening will be feeding the fishes of Guanabara Bay in the morning. In the meantime, let us raise our glasses as, in a few days, God willing, we will be raising our yards, jibs and staysails and delivering life back into our indolent canvas. Gentlemen, I give you a toast – heading home.’
‘Heading home.’
With laughter and excited voices buzzing around and across the table, Oliver took the opportunity to speak in confidence with the doctor, seated on his left.
‘From your response to my new sailing orders, I take it you are pleased.’
‘I could not be more delighted,’ Dr Whipple said.
‘You surprise me, Jonathon. I thought you were quite at ease with us heading south in accordance with my original orders.’
‘Initially, I was happy to go wherever the cruise took me. But on being given the choice, I would dearly love to step on English soil again. There are matters I should attend to before spending another year or two away from home.’
‘And where is home?’
‘London, for the present.’
‘Not Dublin?’
‘I left Ireland in my youth to study at the University in Edinburgh. When I joined the ship, I told you of the death of my father and the loss of the family’s estate. Because of that, I have no reason to return to Ireland and, indeed, no desire to do so. If I did return, I would not find the country the way I left it in the mid-nineties. Much happened at the time of the uprising and in the years preceding the rebellion. Ireland is no longer the home I grew up in.’
‘I understand.’
The doctor quickly turned the subject of conversation from himself. ‘From the mumblings of the officers, I think most of them welcome your news.’
Oliver sighed. ‘I believe I am in the minority in this occasion.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I am probably the only one who regards the passage back to England as a retrograde step and one fraught with danger.’
‘How so? I know danger lurks beyond the next wave on the high seas – you have reminded me of that many times. But, from what you have told us, we will be sailing in the company of a 74-gun third rate man-of-war. Surely that will provide us with a safe escort.’
‘Permit me to correct you there, Doctor. Perpetual, being a frigate, is a fifth rate ship, and is, therefore, seen to be escorting the 74 and not being escorted by it. In times of war, however, a 74-gun ship is a vulnerable target – a prize worth pursuing by both French and Spanish squadrons. As our new course will carry us across the routes sailed by both those countries’ navies, I can only hope we do not encounter any of them.’
After glancing about to make sure his conversation was drawing no attention, Oliver lowered his voice to a whisper and continued.
‘Tell me about the use of the cat of nine tails, Jonathon.’
The doctor was taken aback by the sudden change in the captain’s subject matter. ‘Hardly a suitable topic for the dinner table,’ he suggested.
‘It is important I know your views,’ Oliver said. ‘Interestingly, the Irishman who is acting as my scribe did not seem unduly shocked at the use of a seeded lash.’
The doctor smiled sympathetically. ‘Any Irish-born man would have heard of such a lethal weapon. Those who felt it on their flesh often did not survive.’
Oliver waited for him to continue.
‘The Irish know much of man’s inhumanity to man – most often from personal experience or events related to members of their families. I’ve heard tales of the treatment of prisoners and of convicts shipped across the seas and of the cruelty inflicted on them by their British overlords. Terrible stories.’
‘You speak with the verve and tone of a United Irishman.’
The surgeon sighed. ‘You live your life within the wooden walls of a small floating community set apart from the rest of the world.’
‘I have lived beyond these walls,’ the captain replied defensively. ‘I have witnessed wretches on the docks of many a port in Britain and abroad.’
‘But you have not witnessed abject poverty until you have lived in Ireland. Poverty brought about by British rule.’
‘You were not born of that peasant class,’ Oliver reminded.
‘No, but I am of Celtic blood and, though I lived most of my life in England I have heard the stories first-hand and I understand the feelings shared by Irishmen, both Catholic and Protestant alike, and their bitter hatred of British authority.’
‘But the rebellion of ’98 was quashed, was it not?’
‘The uprising was put down, but the spirit behind it was not and never will be. The flame was lit almost two hundred years ago when Irish slaves, many of them children, were first sent to America. That flame will not be extinguished until Ireland has gained its independence.’
‘I trust you are not suggesting that all the Irishmen serving aboard British ships feel this way?’
The doctor raised his eyebrows.
‘Tosh!’ Oliver exclaimed. ‘There are thousands of Irish sailors serving in the Royal Navy. Our s
hips are filled with them and there are many qualified and skilled men like yourself serving in senior capacities. Over the years, many officers have risen to the rank of Admiral.’
‘I am fully aware of that fact and am reminded of it whenever I hear Gaelic verses sung or hummed on the deck. I know the accents of the Irish hands, I know the county and sometimes the very town those men hailed from. But despite their differences, they are all of one resolve. They will not tolerate traitors and, on the other hand, they will always support one of their own kind.’
When the captain’s steward reached over the table to fill their empty glasses, the conversation came to an abrupt stop. After that, nothing more of significance was shared or said and the company departed when the wine was exhausted.
The following morning, the first lieutenant was on deck. As the watches had not been stood down, all hands were engaged in the morning chores. The decks were holystoned and swabbed, the brasses polished and glass windows cleaned. When that was finished the men brought up their hammocks and stuffed them into the netting atop the bulwarks. After washing their clothes, various items were hung about the deck to dry. While the sun brought a mid-morning temperature of over eighty degrees, the humidity held the dampness in the garments.
The degree of pleasure the sailors took in bathing was measured by the crude jokes, laughter and fun they shared. With a pump and hose rigged in the bow, one man soaped himself while another directed a powerful jet of cooling seawater over him. Those who preferred to bathe themselves in a bucket of brine drawn from the sea occupied the area around the heads and cursed when the hose was inadvertently or deliberately directed at them.
When the suds, sand and flecks of seaweed had been washed into the scuppers, the noise subsided and the men took advantage of free time to relax. While some stood silently by the rail gazing blankly at the broad bay, others smoked or chewed on a piece of tobacco, or played games. A few occupied their time splicing old rope or teasing it apart to make oakum-stuffing for a pillow.
Aloft, the bosun was busy in the rigging while the sailmaker and his mates sat in the shade of the waist with folds of canvas spread across their legs. With needle and palm they occupied their time repairing a torn topgallant sail.
There was no wind and had been none for several days. While presently, no one complained, such conditions, if they persisted, would prevent the ships from proceeding from the harbour in two or three days’ time.
Wandering aft, Oliver stood at the taff rail and looked across the still water to the third rate man-of-war anchored less than a cable’s length away. She was indeed a fine looking ship. Her sails were neatly furled for the harbour, her brightwork gleamed and the sun reflected from her east-facing stern windows.
Command of such a vessel was envied by many aspiring post captains. Boasting two gun decks, Stalwart carried 28-guns on the lower deck, mainly 24- and 36-pounders, and the same number of 18- to 24-pounders on the upper gundeck. There were also nine and 12-pounders on the quarter deck and substantial bow and stern chasers plus swivel guns mounted on her rails and in the tops. Her weight of metal was enormous and the firepower she could bring to bear in battle made her a formidable force. It was not surprising that Britain chose to build more 74s than any other rate of fighting ship.
Though her crew numbered around five hundred men, the captain could see very few sailors either on deck or in the 74’s rigging.
‘That group of men over by the heads, they are of your division, are they not?’ the first lieutenant asked.
The midshipman looked to the group of a dozen men standing around the pin rail beneath the foremast. He nodded. ‘Most of them are, but not all.’
‘And what do you think is so engrossing that they are hovering around that spot like ants on a dead cockroach?’
‘Beats me,’ the midshipman said, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Well, I think it is time you made it your concern. The matter men are discussing when they congregate in such a manner, speaking as they are doing in hushed tones, should be a concern.’
‘I’ll go and enquire.’
‘Hold fast!’ Mr Parry ordered. ‘Observe a while.’
The midshipman dithered for a moment before stepping back and doing as he was instructed.
‘It appears the taller of the men is doing all of the talking and has everyone’s ear. Who is that sailor?’ the senior officer asked.
‘He’s not a sailor. He’s just a lubber. A landsman signed at the last port.’
‘One of the six men who came aboard in the Azores?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the midshipman added with a slight grin. ‘I hear he’s a bit of a joker and tells yarns. That’s what gets the men’s attention. He and his mates call themselves the Wexford lads.’
Mr Parry was not amused. He had been troubled by this man’s antics previously and was conscious he had even attracted the captain’s attention.
While the pair continued to observe, a whisper ran through the group and all eyes shot aft towards the quarterdeck. Within seconds, and without prompting, sailors peeled from the group in a nonchalant fashion and wandered to other parts of the forecastle or threw a leg over the forward hatch coaming and descended to the deck below.
On witnessing their behaviour, Mr Hanson, with the lieutenant’s prompting, strode over to the handful of men remaining there. One old salt laughed inappropriately but said nothing. Another sneered through toothless gums – a quid of tobacco stuffed in his cheek, the black juice seeping from the corners of his lips. Another quickly stuffed the stem of his pipe into his mouth and drew deeply on the cold empty clay.
‘What goes on here?’ Mr Hanson asked.
The man, who had taken centre place in the group, pulled a feather from the band of his hat and poked a piece of pork sinew from between his back teeth. After looking at it, he placed it on his tongue and made a show of eating it.
The midshipman gave a disparaging look.
‘Not a thing goes on,’ the man said. ‘Just tittle tattling. There’s no law against that, is there?’
‘Tell me, what was it that was of such interest?’
‘Oh, nothing really,’ he claimed, fanning out his fingers of one hand and running the end of the sharpened quill under his grubby nails. ‘Just planning a small celebration for when we sail. Saying farewell to the port. A bit of music and a jig on the deck, if the officer-of-the-watch will allow it.’
‘Look at me when you are talking to me,’ the midshipman said. ‘And put that disgusting thing away.’
‘Whatever you say, Mr Hanson, sir.’ The lilting Irish accent was unmistakable.
The middie took a deep breath. ‘Since when have the men celebrated leaving port?’
The Irishman waggled his head from side-to-side, in the manner of an Indian sailor. ‘Can’t rightly say but when I put the idea to the lads they took to it right away.’
‘They did, did they? I thought you and your mates were anxious to leave the ship.’
‘Aye, that we were, but it seems we aren’t permitted to. So, if we can’t get off, we’ll have to make the best of a bad thing.’
‘You think it’s a bad thing to continue sailing with this frigate?’ the young middie asked. ‘Didn’t this ship give you a berth in Ponta Delgada after you’d been pulled, near drowned, from the North Atlantic?’
‘Aye, it did. At the request of the British Consul,’ he added boldly.
‘I don’t think it is necessary to bring the British Consul into this discussion. From now on, I don’t want to see any gatherings either on deck or in the mess, day or night made up of more than four men. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Clear as Waterford crystal, Mr Hanson, and I guarantee that is the finest glass there is, believe you me.’
Exhausted of any other argument to level at the men, the midshipman returned to the quarterdeck and reported to Mr Parry.
‘What was the fellow’s excuse for the meeting?’ the lieutenant enquired.
‘He said the men just
wanted an excuse to kick their heels up a bit and depart the bay as soon as possible.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Parry said. ‘Remind me, what is that man’s name?’
‘Murphy. Joseph Murphy.’
CHAPTER 3
A Confrontation
Having returned to his cabin to collect a package he had put together earlier, Captain Quintrell stepped up to the quarterdeck and stood for a moment observing the deck and listening to the familiar squeal of hemp straining through the blocks as his boat was lowered from the davits. Casting his gaze forward, his attention was drawn to a boy on the gangway, only twenty yards from him.
As if prompted by a sudden urge, the lad leapt up onto the rail, grabbed the shrouds and shinned up the rigging with the agility of a foremast Jack. His bare feet bounded from one ratline to another, never missing a step whilst his hands barely touched the ropes. When he reached the main yard, he leapt across to the starboard footrope as confidently as if striding across a puddle in an alley. With one arm lightly hooked over the spar, he glided gracefully along the rope. When he reached the end, he leaned from the yardarm and examined the large block through which the main brace ran. Appearing satisfied with what he saw, he slid back to the mast, jumped nimbly across to the larboard arm and repeated his inspection. From there, he headed up, climbed out around the futtock shrouds and continued aloft to the royal yard.
While he was exchanging a word with the masthead lookout, the bosun’s voice boomed up from the deck. ‘You boy! Get down here, quick smart. I ain’t going to scrape your innards off the deck when they’re splattered all over it.’
On hearing the order, the lad, not yet five feet tall, wound his leg round a stay and took the quickest way down. Landing lightly on the rail, he dropped to the deck and presented himself, a satisfied grin on his face.
‘Didn’t I tell you to see to the pitch pot?’ the bosun yelled.
