by M. C. Muir
When the final barrel was lowered to the boat from the frigate and lashed into position, the coxswain hauled the dripping line aboard and pushed off from the hull. Observing from Perpetual’s deck, the officers breathed a sigh of relief, but there was no excitement or euphoria evident in the faces of the boat’s crew. They were hungry and weary and wanted to complete the task so they could return to the mess for a belated supper.
Hailing the 74, the coxswain coiled the rope in his hand and tossed it to the waiting seaman. Both bow and stern lines were quickly secured. Above the heads of the boat’s crew, the yard arm was swung around with the line from the tackle swinging like a pendulum. Grabbing the iron hook, the web of netting was attached and the order sung out for the load to be hoisted. ‘Haul away.’
All was going well, with the barrel lifted several feet from the thwarts, when a loud splintering creak was followed by a sharp crack.
‘She’s going!’ a voice bellowed. ‘Get the boat clear.’
The crew, knowing there was no time for that, threw themselves into the water to save themselves from being crushed.
Another loud crack and the weight of the load tore the tackle from the end of the yard arm sending barrel, lines and netting crashing through four of the boat’s timbers. As it plunged, the sailors on deck were showered in a torrent of spray while the remaining sailors and oars catapulted into the water.
‘Grab the netting!’ a voice boomed from the deck. ‘Get a hold before it sinks!’
Sailors scuttled down the ship’s side like crabs. Others jumped into the water. For a moment the barrel, in its loose hempen wrapping, was visible on the surface and many hands grabbed for the ropes. But within seconds it went down with the lines trailing behind it. One eager salt held on but he, too, was dragged under. Those watching held their breath and witnessed only bubbles returning to the surface. The officers observed anxiously from the 74’s caprail. When the sailor broke the surface, coughing and gasping for breath, he received a cheer from his mates.
‘Silence,’ Lieutenant Hazzlewood shouted.
‘Who can swim?’ another voice sang out. ‘I need divers and attach a line.’ The calls from the 74’s deck to the men in the water floated across the bay.
‘It’s too deep,’ one of the sailors cried. ‘This harbour’s got no bottom.’
‘You there,’ Stalwart’s lieutenant yelled across the deck. ‘Cast the lead. On the last toss we had little more than three fathoms with a sandy bottom. With the low of the tide and no current, that barrel is going nowhere. I want a rope attached and this load hauled up right away. Look smart about it.’
From Perpetual’s quarterdeck, Oliver Quintrell watched the proceedings but showed little emotion. On the gangway, the cooper, the carpenter, Will Ethridge and Ekundayo exchanged glances but also remained quiet.
‘No doubt you are pleased to see the back of them,’ the sailing master, having just arrived on the quarterdeck, commented to Captain Quintrell.
‘Pleased?’ Oliver replied. ‘At times I think it would be appropriate if the whole consignment was committed to the deep.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Consider,’ the captain said, ‘the amount of suffering associated with that loot. Consider how many slaves suffered unimaginable hardship to produce those Spanish coins. Taken from Africa, transported round the Horn to Peru then marched hundreds of miles to the silver mines of Potosi. Consider the men lowered into the bowels of the earth, never to see the light of day again. Consider those on the treadmills who replaced mules, because two-legged animals were cheaper to procure than four. Consider the slaves who turned the presses minting coins destined to fill the Spanish treasure ships. I wonder how pleased those poor departed souls would feel right now.’
Oliver looked directly at his sailing master. ‘You ask if I am pleased. No, mister. I am not. All I know is that I have worried about my responsibility for long enough and am resolved to worry no longer. I have done what had to be done and now wash my hands of the matter. If Captain Liversedge wishes to lose sleep over this consignment, then that is his choice.’ Turning his back on his officers and on the bay where voices were still being raised, and men and oars were splashing about in the water, he gazed instead to the outline of black mountains against the night sky.
‘It seems ironical to me,’ Simon Parry said. ‘Perhaps that accident was meant to be. Perhaps the silver was destined to remain in South America.’
But any further discussion on the fate of the treasure was interrupted by a jubilant cry and huzzas reverberating from Stalwart’s deck. The barrel, still wrapped in hempen netting, had been secured. Once it was hooked to a newly rigged tackle on the spar above, a dozen men grabbed the line and began hauling.
In the meantime, Perpetual’s damaged boat was grabbed by the sailors in the captain’s boat before that too sank to the bottom. Bailed of water and with its broken oars retrieved, it was dragged over to the frigate with four of the boat’s crew holding onto the gunnels. The other men were left to swim back where lines were lowered to help them climb aboard.
After their dunking, the two boat crews climbed aboard, relieved the chore was over. Surprisingly, no one had been injured in the unfortunate event.
With one additional item to be attended to, the captain ordered his boat to remain in the water and for the two women and the boy, Charles Goodridge, to be brought on deck.
Having waited patiently all day for confirmation of their transfer to the 74, the three parties were ready. The boy was eager and excited, whilst the women, though apprehensive, were pleased to be staying together and looking forward to having more space aboard the bigger ship. A small pile of dunnage preceded them from the carpenter’s workshop, where they had been berthing, to the deck. On the gangway, Mr Crosby attended to his wife, talking quietly to her and reassuring her before leading her to the entry port and seeing her over the side. Climbing down with her skirt bunched between her knees was not an easy task.
Consuela Pilkington and Charlie Goodridge followed in silence and were shown off the ship by Lieutenant Nightingale. With their scant personal items stowed between the thwarts, the boat was shoved off before they had taken their seats. Mrs Pilkington almost lost her balance but was caught by her friend who prevented her from falling backwards.
‘Be quick smart,’ Mr Tully shouted to the coxswain who nodded his acknowledgement.
It was a short pull to the 74 with only the dip of the blades slicing the water and the growl of the oars breaking the silence. By the time they arrived, order had returned on the deck of the third rate.
As soon as the boat touched against the hull, Charles Goodridge hared up the ladder even before the boat was tied up, much to the ire of the coxswain. The women were assisted from the boat by one of the crew and handed aboard by several sailors. When he was satisfied they had been safely delivered, the coxswain headed the boat back to the frigate where it was immediately hoisted to the starboard davits.
That evening, Oliver shared a glass of Madeira with the doctor who appeared a little glum.
‘No doubt you are relieved,’ Jonathon Whipple said.
Oliver drained his glass and placed it on the table. ‘To what are you referring, might I ask? The fact we are to sail from here in the morning?’
‘No, I thought you were pleased they were gone at last.’
‘Again I am not sure to what you refer. Who are gone? The Irishmen? The barrels? Or the women?’
‘The barrels, of course,’ the doctor said.
‘I prefer not to speak of them,’ Oliver insisted. ‘But what of yourself? You appear quiet this evening.’
‘I regretted being unable to be on deck to farewell the ladies when they left.’
‘I assure you the women will be much more comfortable aboard the third rate. You do not need to concern yourself for their welfare.’
The doctor did not appear to be convinced. ‘And the Wexford lads – you must have been glad to see the back of them.’
&n
bsp; ‘They will not be missed aboard my ship.’
‘Let us hope they do not come back to haunt us,’ Jonathon Whipple said.
‘Tosh! You need a drink, Doctor. You are becoming less than good company,’ Oliver said. ‘I have not been happy with the delay while waiting for stores and victuals. And I am not pleased knowing that our course takes us into the Caribbean. It is a hornet’s nest of French and Spanish naval vessels, privateers and pirates, not to mention scheming merchantmen and slavers. However, I am obliged to follow my new orders and will make nothing more of it. Let us look forward to a smooth passage home and dwell on the positive side of the coin. England in early summer, which it will be when we step ashore. Nothing is more soothing to the soul. What say you, Doctor? A toast to an English summer?’
Jonathon raised his glass and mumbled into it, while Oliver tossed the contents down his throat and reached for the decanter to pour himself another glass.
‘The women,’ Oliver said, knowing the doctor’s concern for them. ‘They were, no doubt, happy to learn we are returning to England.’
‘Delighted, though from my own point of view, I will miss them – particularly Mrs Pilkington for the assistance she has given me.’
‘May I be so bold as to suggest you have become a little taken by her? She is indeed a fine looking person.’
The doctor flashed a disdainful look in response to the mention of the young woman – the widow of a shipwright – a person of no breeding or standing. As before, he became defensive. ‘Mrs Pilkington has been a valuable asset in the cockpit, as has Mrs Crosby. They are fine, sensible and responsible females.’
‘I don’t doubt their qualities and behaviour but I am not the only one to notice the way you regarded the younger of the two.’
‘If I regard her differently from her companion, then it is only out of concern for her. The abuse she suffered in Gibraltar was both injurious to her person and disturbing to her emotional and mental state. I have genuine sympathy for her. The insults she was subjected to should never happen to any woman.’
‘I agree, Doctor and will say no more. In fact I have already said too much which I blame on myself for imbibing too much of this fine wine. But I still contend women are a distraction for most seafarers. That is the reason I will not have them aboard my command.’
‘I believe you are the exception rather than the rule.’
Oliver was not inclined to indulge in an argument on this subject. Despite being buoyed by the reassurance all had been attended to in preparation for sailing, the celebratory mood he had been enjoying had now fallen as flat as the waters of Guanabara Bay. The sooner they departed this port, the better.
Early the following morning, the lookout on the foretopgallant yard gazed at the eastern horizon as the grey haze mellowed to mauve then pink. From his vantage point, he watched the leading edge of the sun’s rim emerge like a gleaming gold coin from the grip of the horizon. As it lifted and grew, the sun’s rays touched the frigate’s masts and slid slowly down them, transforming the timber from tar-stained brown to warm amber, and the loosely furled canvas to gold thread. To the west, the sun’s rays touched the tips of the mountains but the still waters of the bay were obliged to wait until it had risen sufficiently to bathe it in various shades of blue.
Captain Quintrell had been on deck since before dawn with his senior officers and several midshipmen. Everyone aboard was waiting for the tide to fill and to see the 74 weigh ahead of them. Despite only a light breeze, which barely ruffled the jack, the captain was confident the ebb would carry them out of the bay and once clear of the shelter of the surrounding mountains they would gain a wind to carry them out onto the ocean.
With the hatches and gunports sealed, the decks cleared and the larboard watch standing ready, the order was given to weigh and make sail. All eyes were on the 74 and a low hum of approval was shared when the third rate’s anchor was catted.
With handspikes thrust into the holes in the windlass, the horizontal wooden drum creaked as it was turned, dragging Perpetual’s best bower from the silt. Dripping sand, seaweed and water, it was quickly secured to the cathead and, even before the jib was run up and the canvas rattled down, the frigate began drifting slowly seaward. With a tide of ten feet, the outflowing stream carried both the man-of-war and the handsome frigate from Guanabara Bay.
Eight bells rang out from Perpetual’s belfry echoing the chimes from the 74’s bell half a mile ahead. Soaring to several hundred feet above the mast, a number of frigate birds circled the ship, their sleek black wings, tinged with a hint of purple, embracing the air. Their forked tails, now closed tight, appeared dagger-like while the breasts of the male birds revealed a hint of crimson, indicating the mating season was not far away.
Riding effortlessly on the warm tropical air, the man-of-war birds followed the two ships as they swam through the bay’s relatively narrow entrance before entering the sparking expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Being unable to swim, the massive sea birds dogged the ship, waiting for scraps tossed overboard and left floating on the surface. Their habit had gained them their name – pirate birds. With only a small number in attendance, they provided no evidence of bad weather at sea.
When the mountain peaks were but a haze of purple astern, Stalwart made its turn and Perpetual followed in its wake. With their bowsprits fixed on the north-east, the two fighting ships heeled gracefully to the wind and the coast slowly faded from view. Skimming over the south flowing Brazil Current, Perpetual’s deck received a spray of briny foam through the hawse holes. The foamy cutwater cascaded from her bow, creamed along the hull and left a path of white water in her wake.
With the moderate breeze filling the canvas and all lines coiled to the pins, the larboard watch relaxed. Arms, tanned with tar and sun, leaned against the rails. Everyone aboard, bar one, was pleased they were heading north to England.
‘The deck is yours, Mr Parry,’ the captain said. ‘I intend to go below. I have correspondence to attend to. Have the men keep a keen look out. I expect we will encounter some shipping while we are on this course. Advise me if anything is seen. And stay within a mile of the 74.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
CHAPTER 7
Gun Practice
While the joy of heading home had been the reason for the increased noise and merriment in the mess, as one week turned into two and the ship headed further into the tropics, the air became increasingly sultry and, with it, morale slowly dropped. The lackadaisical spirit that set in was followed by boredom in the men.
Having passed the most easterly point of Brazil’s coastline, the two British ships were now heading north-west, assisted by the flow of the South Equatorial Current which would help carry them beyond the limits of the southern continent towards the islands of the West Indies. But winds and currents did not always work together and, if the wind dropped, ships faced the danger of being becalmed in the doldrums. When this happened the conditions became intolerable. With little call for sail handling, the days seemed long and monotonous, and with the sun burning down continuously, there was no relief from the oppressive heat even when sitting in the shade.
An occasional tropical storm delivered sudden torrential rain but was not always associated with the desired prevailing winds capable of carrying the vessels north. When such a storm approached, the band of rain appeared in the distance as a foaming white line stretching across the sea’s surface travelling faster than any approaching ship. Closing on them, the pounding rain bounced up from the sea like grapeshot. The roaring sound thundered like a mob of galloping horses stampeding through the shallows. It turned the sea’s surface into a seething cauldron of froth.
Yet, for the men aboard the British ships, the sudden downpours delivered some relief. The dancing water scoured the deck, cooled the burning hot pitch that wept from the seams between the planks and washed the sweat from those who wished to bathe under the waterfalls spilling from the sails. Queues and long locks of hair were shaken free under th
e deluge in an attempt to wash away the grease and tar that had built up over weeks and months. Rain provided a short break from monotony but, within minutes of it stopping, the clouds passed, the sun burned down, the decks steamed like a galley copper and the air the men breathed was more humid than ever.
On good days, the ships made seven or eight knots. If that rate could be maintained they would fetch the entrance to the Caribbean in less than three weeks. The trade winds would speed their passage but, until they reached that band of latitude, they were in the hands of the weather gods. With a horizon devoid of sails, clouds and even birds, the lookouts lashed themselves to the mast for fear of falling asleep at their posts.
The sight of a sail on the starboard bow brought every sailor to his feet. Others climbed up from below, eager for some distraction. The lookout hailed the deck and reported a brig heading towards them. As it closed on the two British ships, it was identified as a whale ship. Although it was sailing under Yankee colours, While Stalwart sailed by, Captain Quintrell took the opportunity to speak the ship to enquire what other vessels it had seen on its journey south.
After identifying himself with the use of a speaking trumpet, the master said he had encountered a fleet of French warships in the north, but they had not interrupted his passage. And apart from a packet boat off the coast of Virginia and a heavily laden merchant ship heading into the Atlantic from the West Indies, he had seen nothing else. When asked which port he hailed from and where he was heading, the master said he was out of Nantucket and bound for the whale grounds in the Pacific – one thousand miles to the west of Chile. Oliver Quintrell considered March late in the season to be heading around the Horn but made nothing of it.
As the sailors aboard the whaler had caught several sharks on lines the previous day, the ship’s master offered two of them to Captain Quintrell. Having accepted, Perpetual and the whaler remained hove to, while words and fish were exchanged. As the master wanted nothing in return, Oliver thanked him and bade him Godspeed. The sizable carcases were quickly despatched to the galley with a request from the captain for a fish pie to share between himself and his officers. There was ample meat to make a tasty soup for the men’s supper.
