The Seventy-Four

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Belay that!’ the young middie shouted.

  ‘You’ll not stop us,’ the man cried. ‘We were told we could leave when we reached Rio.’

  ‘No one goes ashore,’ Mr Hanson said, gripping hold of the shirt with both hands, while the sailor wriggled desperately to get out of it. ‘Cast off, coxswain! Do it now!’ the young man yelled as he clung on.

  Aware of the tussle going on above his head, the coxswain released the painter to the water, swung the tiller hard across and ordered the men in the bow to push off. Two oars clapped down on Perpetual’s hull and the oarsmen heaved against it. The longboat’s bow instantly swung out from the frigate’s side leaving one Portuguese seaman hanging from the ladder with his feet dangling in the water.

  ‘Mr Tully,’ the captain called from the quarterdeck. ‘Attend to that commotion! And give an eye to the number of men in each boat. I don’t want to be pulling those men out of the ocean for a second time.’

  ‘Aye aye, Capt’n.’

  From vantage points in the frigate’s rigging and from the ship’s rails, Perpetual’s sailors hissed and booed in response to the ruckus. Not understanding what was happening, the Portuguese sailors, still standing in line, had no alternative but to remain where they were.

  After dragging the man by his shirt collar back onto the deck, Mr Hanson ordered Murphy to climb back. With only water beneath him, the Irishman reluctantly clambered back and regained the deck. At the same time, three companions of the pair continued pushing forward to reach their mates.

  ‘Go to the mess and stay there,’ the midshipman yelled.

  ‘The captain said we could go ashore!’

  ‘You half-witted dawcocks,’ Mr Tully bellowed from the ratlines, ‘Are you blind as well as witless? Can’t you see that boat ain’t going to shore! It’s headed for the ship over yonder. It’d serve you right if you were taken aboard and found yourself in irons on a slave ship.’

  The pair at the entry port glanced across the bay and then looked at each other, while Mr Tully jumped down to the deck landing only a few feet from where they were standing. ‘No one leaves,’ Mr Tully repeated. ‘Not without the captain’s permission.’

  Turning to face the officer, a flash of intense hatred fired in Murphy’s eyes.

  Mr Tully had seen it all before. ‘You heard the middie. Now shift your stinking arses and be quick smart about it. If not, I’ll see you clapped in irons in our hold and I’ll toss the key out of the nearest bleeding gunport.’

  While the wording of the order and its delivery were not quite befitting the gentlemanly manners expected of an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, Ben Tully’s forecastle oration had the desired effect. Observing from only a few yards away on the quarterdeck, Captain Quintrell was quite prepared to overlook the colourful language. Of more interest to him was the man who had raised his voice. He turned to Mr Parry who was standing beside him. ‘That sailor who raised his voice is Murphy, is it not?’

  ‘He’s no sailor, sir,’ Mr Parry reminded. ‘He claims he’s from Liverpool but his accent tells a different story.’

  ‘Have those men removed from the deck immediately,’ Oliver ordered.

  ‘Aye aye, Captain.’

  Once the troublemakers had been returned through the forward hatch from which they had appeared, the signal was given for the coxswain to return his boat. Running it up alongside, the crew quickly grabbed the feet of the sailor who had been left dangling and pulled him aboard.

  ‘How many more will she take?’ the middie called down from the entry port.

  ‘Another dozen,’ the coxswain answered.

  With order and quiet returned to the deck, Mr Hanson counted the foreign sailors as they climbed down the ship’s side and clambered into the longboat. When all the thwarts were filled, that boat was pushed off and the final craft slid alongside to receive the remaining passengers.

  Mr Tully supervised the despatch of those invalids unable to walk. With block and tackle rigged to the yardarm, the infirm were placed in a canvas chair, while those on stretchers were swung out and lowered gently to rest of the thwarts. When the last sailor had been settled, word was given for the boat to proceed up the bay. Their destination was the Portuguese frigate Captain Quintrell had visited the previous day. Only when the deck had been vacated could Perpetual’s routine return to normal and the sailors of the starboard watch attend to their regular morning chores.

  Satisfied to have completed another necessary task on his mental list, the captain turned to his first lieutenant. ‘I have a letter for the Port Admiral and one final order for the victualling store. I need you to go ashore and attend to these matters for me. Kindly inform the clerk in charge of the store that my requirements are urgent. Tell him I would be grateful if he would attend to the order personally.’

  ‘Do you intend to go into the town yourself?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Oliver replied.

  Simon Parry was surprised and glanced about him. ‘Many argue this is the most beautiful harbour in the world.’

  ‘People say what they will. I form my own opinion and I have no desire to go ashore or to linger in this port any longer than necessary.’

  The lieutenant was happy to oblige.

  ‘One other matter,’ Oliver added. ‘The doctor needs to replenish his apothecary’s chest and purchase some personal items for himself and for the women. Be so good as to transport him and kindly remain with him. I would not like anything untoward to happen to him. I recommend you take a handful of marines and a couple of strong hands with you.’

  ‘Do you think that is necessary?’

  ‘Would I have suggested it if I did not think so?’

  ‘I will make arrangements with the doctor, immediately,’ Simon said.

  ‘One moment,’ Oliver interrupted. ‘Before you go, ask Mr Hanson to prepare a report about this morning’s disturbance. I want names and details of the troublemakers. I fear there may be more to their misbehaviour that just mischief.’

  An hour later, the captain was perusing a list the midshipman had presented to him. ‘You have only five names listed here yet there were six men joined the ship in the Azores?’

  Mr Hanson nodded. ‘I didn’t include Michael O’Connor as he was not involved in this morning’s ruckus. He certainly came aboard with the others, but he claims he was thrown with them by chance.’

  ‘Chance, coincidence or convenience?’ That old vein of cynicism had crept back into the captain’s tone.

  ‘I questioned him and he assured me that prior to sailing from England, he knew nothing of the others and was merely travelling with them. Against his name in the book, it states he was a writer for the Honourable John Company in Dublin.’

  ‘Hmm. He told me that also, but Dr Whipple tells me the East India Company has no such office in Dublin.’

  The midshipman looked confused.

  ‘Ignore O’Connor,’ the captain said. ‘I have no problem with him and he has expressed no desire to quit the ship. It is the other five that interest me.’ Oliver turned his attention to the sheet of paper and read from it. ‘Samuel and Matthew Leary. Brothers. Ginger hair. From Liverpool.’

  Mr Hanson grinned. ‘At five feet two inches tall and looking like a set of twins, they’d make a fine pair of bookends.’

  The captain was in no mood for humour. ‘Kindly stick to the facts, mister.’ He continued reading. ‘It states here that Matthew Leary has scars on his back.’ He regarded the midshipman. ‘Do we know the reason for his injuries? Were they the result of punishment?’

  ‘When the doctor examined the man, he reported that the scars were consistent with wounds inflicted by a sharp instrument such as a knife, sword or pike.’

  ‘Not the cat?’

  ‘Not the cat, sir.’

  ‘Joseph Murphy?’ Oliver noted the name with interest.

  ‘He’s the most talkative and conniving and attracts all the attention. Measuring six feet, he’s also the tallest in the group and, at thirty-
five years old, he’s the eldest. No tattoos or marks. He also claims to be from Liverpool.’

  Hugh Doyle was next on the list. Five feet four inches tall. Brown hair. Grey eyes. No scars or marks. Approximately thirty years of age.

  ‘McNamara – Andrew,’ the captain read. ‘He’s the man who is assisting Bungs with the cooperage, if I am not mistaken.’

  The midshipman nodded. ‘Black hair. Bald crown. Age thirty-two. Bares a six-inch scar on his right forearm. Average height.’ With that, the midshipman had exhausted his list of the men’s physical attributes.

  ‘Is that all?’

  The midshipman appeared to have more.

  ‘Speak out,’ the captain prompted.

  ‘Although all five claim they are from Liverpool, when I quizzed the doctor a few minutes ago he claimed the men spoke as though they had just stepped off the boat from Dublin.’

  ‘Enough,’ Oliver said, folding the list and placing it in his pocket. As he did so, he noticed the midshipman regarding the absence of three fingers on his own battle-mangled right hand. ‘One thing we know for certain,’ the captain added. ‘These men did not receive their injuries serving at sea, nor did they acquire their scars toiling in the cotton mills in Lancashire or scratching up potatoes from the peat bogs of Ireland. I think it far more likely they fought in the Irish rebellion and fled to Liverpool for safety.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago, isn’t it?’ the midshipman reminded.

  ‘Only seven years. 1798. The important question is: on which side did they fight?’ His statement met with a blank expression from the young midshipman who, seven years ago would have been hiding behind his mother’s skirt.

  ‘Besides these lubbers, there are other hands who have requested to go ashore?’ Mr Hanson said cautiously being aware of the captain’s views.

  Oliver remained adamant. ‘Were I to allow men off the ship, word of the consignment we are carrying would spread round the bay quicker than St Elmo’s fire jumps from one mast to another. Therefore, I suggest you inform those who have not already heard the news that we are no longer bound for the Southern Ocean and will be sailing from this port within days and heading home. That prospect might quieten a few disgruntled voices.’

  ‘But the Portuguese sailors who left the ship, won’t they talk about the treasure?’

  ‘I doubt they are aware of it,’ the captain replied. ‘Few of them speak English and, since being plucked from the sea, they have kept their own company and seldom conversed with the regular crew.’

  ‘But the Irishmen?’ Mr Hanson persisted. ‘They understand English. They will know about the silver.’

  Oliver scowled. The question was impertinent but it prompted the captain to reach a decision.

  ‘I do not trust those men. Arrange for all five to be removed from the ship before their unruly behaviour infects the rest of the crew. As to them collecting wages, I doubt the ship owes them anything. They came aboard with nothing; barely the clothes they were standing up in. If I am not wrong, the purser issued them with clothing from the slops chest and since we left Ponta Delgada, they have been well fed and provided for with a clean hammock. I very much doubt the pay due to these landsmen would satisfy their debt to His Majesty’s Navy Board.’ He sighed. ‘The Board does not take kindly to men leaving the ship in a time of war but the decision is mine. Get them over the side as quickly as possible and let us pray they hold their tongues about what Perpetual is carrying long enough for us to depart this harbour.’

  Having taken his usual turns back and forth on the quarterdeck, the captain stopped abruptly. His attention was captured by two local boats heading towards the third rate. With insufficient wind to carry them, they were being rowed and, as they were heavily laden with boxes and trays of multi-coloured local fruits and fresh vegetables, their progress was painstakingly slow.

  A longboat, packed with marines, having just shoved off from the hull of the third rate, was heading directly towards them. The coxswain’s view of the approaching boats was obstructed by two of the marines who insisted on standing up in the boat. When he was finally able to see the water ahead, the local boats were almost upon him. Despite swinging the rudder across to avoid a collision, he was too late and the boats’ oars collided in mid-air with one of the local craft. While nothing was damaged or broken, curses rang out from the Brazilian traders while the marines found the accident highly amusing. As the boats parted company, the soldiers’ shouts and jeers became louder. In Captain Quintrell’s opinion, the company of marines were already drunk.

  Gripping his seat till his knuckles were white, the ashen-faced young corporal perched in the bow was unable to exert any control over the men. The abuse screamed from the coxswain on the tiller also had no effect on the riotous behaviour. When one of the soldiers deliberately stood up and rocked the boat from one side to the other, dipping the gunnels perilously close to the water, peels of raucous laughter exploded. The pomegranate-colour of the marines’ coats was not only reflected on the shimmering surface of the water but on the inebriated faces of the men.

  Shaking his head in disgust, Oliver turned from the rail and was approached by Lieutenant Nightingale. ‘I have five seamen waiting in the waist to go ashore. Do you wish to speak with them before they disembark?’

  ‘I have nothing to say to them,’ Oliver replied curtly. ‘Put them over the side before anyone else asks to join them.’

  ‘Should I offer them the opportunity to thank you for delivering them safely from the Western Isles?’

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed and he stared to the angry grey peaks in the distance.

  ‘Mr Nightingale, when did you last hear of a common seaman seeking out the ship’s captain, to thank him? Once a sailor’s period of service is complete and he has received his pay, nothing will induce him to linger. The five Irishmen were lucky to be entered in the muster book and would not have been granted a berth were I not obliged to honour a debt. His Majesty’s Navy owes them nothing and expects nothing from them. Get rid of them.’

  The lieutenant acknowledged. ‘I will attend to it right away.’

  That evening, Mr Parry returned to Perpetual and provided the captain with a report of his activities in Rio de Janeiro. He had handed the letter to the office of the Port Admiral, spoken with the clerk at the victualling store and accompanied the doctor while he purchased his medical supplies and visited several shops in the town to buy items for his own needs and those requested by the two women.

  With another item struck from his mental list, there was one matter Oliver wished to speak with his first lieutenant about. After sitting down together and relaxing in the great cabin, Oliver broached the subject of crew numbers.

  ‘When we sailed from Portsmouth, a year ago, we had a compliment of around two hundred men. A conservative number for a frigate, would you not agree?’

  ‘An adequate number,’ Simon Parry asserted, defending his area of responsibility. ‘And by the grace of God, we have lost but a handful of men since then – mainly as a result of sickness. But we gained some skilled shipwrights in Gibraltar plus a few others.’

  ‘I trust you are not including the women and boy as additions to the crew?’

  ‘Certainly not. But, in support of the present crew, I contend they are able-bodied and well-disciplined and, like all British salts, each one is the equal of three French sailors.’

  ‘And today you parted with five men,’ Oliver reminded.

  ‘I do not regard those Irishmen as a loss. They were lubbers and not sailors. Certainly, if I had found seasoned sailors off merchant ships or Company vessels wandering the wharfs of Rio, I would willingly have accepted them, but I am reluctant to press men off the beach in this part of the globe. The dockside rabble, hereabouts, is made up of drunkards, beggars and vagrants, most of whom do not speak English. Perhaps there are some hands aboard the third rate that would care to serve on a frigate.’

  ‘You will not seduce men away from Stalwart,’ Oliver said. ‘Capt
ain Liversedge has already lost about thirty men since he arrived here and cannot afford to part with any more. He has barely enough to man a ship of that size.’

  ‘Then I can assure you, Captain, we will manage with the numbers we have,’ Mr Parry said confidently.

  ‘I hope you are right,’ Oliver replied. Though it irked him, there was little point in procrastinating over crew numbers at this time as it was too late to change the situation.

  The lieutenant politely reminded his superior that in wartime, though many lives were lost and despite suffering severe damage in action, ships invariably managed to reach a home port with only a handful of men working them.

  With nothing more to be said on the situation, Mr Parry was about to excuse himself.

  ‘A moment. There is one other minor matter,’ the captain said. ‘Tell me more about the boy you mentioned – Charles Goodridge.’

  Simon Parry raised his eyebrows. It was not the first time that day the name had been mentioned to him. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘From what I hear, he is leading some of the warrant officers a merry dance. The bosun has washed his hands of him, as has the cooper, and cook complains that he talks too much. I need to know what the problem is. Do the officers have no control over him? I remember he came aboard in Gibraltar with one of the women, but I gather he is not related to her.’

  ‘Mrs Pilkington is no blood relative. She lost her husband and infant children when the malignant fever ravaged the colony. At the same time, the boy lost his parents and was taken in by the widow.’

  Oliver winced. It was difficult to hide the personal loss he too had suffered as a result of the epidemic. ‘So many succumbed to the sickness. So many loved ones taken,’ he sighed. ‘Let us hope, when we next touch on the Rock, Gibraltar is free of that terrible malignancy.’