by M. C. Muir
‘Let us deal with that when we need to.’
‘Perhaps Captain Liversedge is ill,’ Simon suggested gingerly. ‘Perhaps there is fever aboard the ship.’
Oliver stared at his first officer whose face was illuminated by the lantern swinging above the binnacle stand. His expression was grave. ‘I fear control of the 74 has been taken out of Captain Liversedge’s hands. If that is so, I would like to know who is in command.’
One thing was for certain, Captain Liversedge was not a turncoat. He was a British officer through and through and Oliver would stake his life on that fact. Perhaps one of his lieutenants had taken control.
‘The French captain perhaps?’ Simon Parry suggested.
‘Moncousu? That nincompoop! How could that be possible?’
‘Who else could it be?’
Oliver shrugged. ‘What I do know is that there are more than fifty of my men spread across those two ships, one being a prize-of-war that my men won fairly in battle and deserve to receive a reward for. As to the third rate, if my assumption is correct and it has been taken, it is my sworn duty to wrest it back. No matter what the cost, we must rescue our men, retrieve our prize and save Captain Liversedge and the 74 at the same time.’
CHAPTER 11
Across the Pond
With his mind awash with conflicting thoughts, Oliver Quintrell gazed across the ebony sea searching for the line where the world ended and the sky began but he was unable to locate it. Concealed behind the soot-black curtain draped from the heavens, the horizon, which had been visible only a few hours earlier, had disappeared completely. Now, only minute moth holes of light pricked the backcloth of night and, with the moon not yet risen, darkness obliterated the frigate’s rigging and spars though they rose only a few yards from where he was standing. Very occasionally the flaccid canvas luffed, the flapping sound reminding him of the wandering seabirds of the Southern Ocean that occasionally circled a ship at night.
Scanning the sea in the direction he had last sighted the third rate, Oliver Quintrell strained his eyes before calling for a glass. As the lieutenant retrieved it from the binnacle, the reflection of the glim flashed on the brass tube.
‘She’s still there, Capt’n,’ Mr Tully said.
‘I have confidence in your eyesight,’ the captain said, but on saying that, he still wanted to satisfy himself. Holding the lens to his eye, he slowly swept along the black divide. Twice over, he repeated the sweep till eventually he settled on two spots of pale amber light and hovered over them. Too low for stars, he decided. Then, putting down the glass and allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the black shape of the warship and a smaller vessel behind it emerged. ‘She is indeed still there,’ he confirmed. ‘Not as far distant as I thought and, like us, going nowhere. Unless she is washed by a different current to that which we are sitting on, I think she will not drift far during the night.’
The lieutenant nodded, though his gesture went unnoticed. ‘Shall I send the signal in the morning?’
‘Call me before daybreak and run up the signal at sunrise.’ He snapped the telescope shut. ‘It is unlike Captain Liversedge not to respond. Surely the earlier signals were seen and would have been reported to him. On this flat calm, I doubt he was too busy to reply.’
No knowing if the captain was speaking to him or expressing his thoughts out loud, the lieutenant agreed with the captain’s final observation. Those concerns and speculations had already been whispered around the table in the wardroom.
‘I am going below. Good night, Mr Tully. Call me if there is any change.’
‘Aye aye, Capt’n. Night, sir.’
The air was warm and there was not a breath of breeze. The lieutenant loosened his stock, took a few paces back and listened for the ship’s heartbeat. It slept as soundly as the men below cradled in their canvas cocoons. Absent were the familiar shipboard noises – the hissing lines; the creaking timbers; the grind of a rusted pin revolving in a block’s sheave that demanded the bosun’s attention; the gurgle of water curling from the bow scouring the length of the hull; even the occasional flop and flutter of a flying fish as it misjudged the distance between the wave-tips and landed on the deck. The hum of voices; the clatter of dice or bones on the wooden deck; the resounding clang of a copper dropped on the galley’s stone floor and even the patter of footsteps had died with the onset of the night’s stagnant air.
The lieutenant gave an involuntary shudder. It was not cold but the tropical night air was clammy and held as still as a graveyard. Only the smell of tobacco and occasional glow from the bowl of a pipe being lit in the forecastle assured the officer-of-the-watch that he was not alone. The helmsman, only a few paces away, was slumped against the wheel, one arm hanging between the spokes, his head resting in the crook of his other. It was going to be a long night.
Every half-hour, the ship’s bell rang, barely disturbing those dozing on watch. They coughed, stretched their legs from under the boats, rolled over and farted. The teak planks made for a hard bed. A bundle of teased oakum stuffed into a pillow helped a little.
Mr Tully listened to footsteps approaching the scuttlebutt. The lid creaked as it was lifted. The dipper splashed and dripped as it scooped water. A moment later, the lid dropped back and the footsteps retreated to the forecastle. The sailor’s thirst had been quenched without his identity being known.
Two hours passed and moonrise was a welcome sight. It revealed the silver staircase leading to the luminary body. The surface of the sea heaved slowly in its slumber, rising and falling almost imperceptibly like a sleeping serpent. As the heavens changed from black to pewter-grey and the sea to shades of slate, a misty halo outlined the shy moon allowing only a crescent-shaped sliver of its actual shape to be seen. With the addition of several brightly flickering stars, the spots of amber that had indicated the position of the 74 faded. Mr Tully was unconcerned.
For several minutes, he was distracted by the gliding flight of a broad-winged seabird circling the ship as if searching for a suitable place to nest. After a while, it swooped low almost glancing the sea’s surface with its wing tips before sheering off and peeling away. The cat’s cradle of rigging wrapping the ship offered no inducement.
Young Mr Hanson, having completed his regular round, reported that all was well and with nothing of interest to say, excused himself from the quarterdeck and returned to the companion steps that led down to the waist. Resuming the spot he had previously occupied, he closed his eyes and dozed.
‘What was that?’ Mr Tully said with some urgency but not raising his voice unduly.
‘What was what?’ the helmsman replied, straightening his back and shaking the sleep from his head.
The lieutenant did not answer but cupped his hands around his ears and swung his head slowly from side to side, scanning the sea for sounds.
‘What was what?’ the helmsman repeated.
‘Be quiet and listen.’
The helmsman copied the actions of the officer-of-the-watch. ‘What did you hear?’ he whispered, spreading his feet and returning both hands firmly to the wheel.
For a while the pair stood in silence.
‘There it is again,’ Mr Tully proclaimed.
‘I didn’t hear nuffin’,’ the helmsman complained.
‘Then you must be deaf.’ Not only had Ben Tully excellent eyesight but his hearing, despite the loss of part of one ear, was also keen. His years spent serving before the mast had taught him to miss nothing, no matter how insignificant it might seem.
‘There it is again,’ he called and moved over to the rail. The tone of his voice indicated he was confident about what he had heard. Sometimes, during the late hours of the night watch, dreams competed with wakefulness and played tricks on the imagination but, on this occasion, he was convinced that was not the case. ‘Mr Hanson! On deck!’ the lieutenant called briskly.
Shaking his head, the middie stumbled up the steps to the quarterdeck.
‘Lively now. Stand by the ra
il and tell me what you hear.’
The young man was a little befuddled but knew better than to argue.
It took several minutes of concentration for all three men to arrive at the same conclusion.
‘It’s the peep of a bosun’s whistle,’ the midshipman announced.
‘It’s faint, but I believe that is what it is,’ Mr Tully said.
The helmsman claimed the calls were coming from the ship. ‘Perhaps from an open gunport,’ he suggested. ‘But why would one of the bosun’s mates blow his whistle in the middle of the night?’
‘It’s coming from the sea,’ the middie argued, though sounding unconvinced of what he had said.
‘It can’t be from the 74. That’s too far away.’
‘Wake the watch,’ Mr Tully ordered, ‘but do it quietly. It’s possible there is a boat within hailing distance but we are unable to see it. Then go below and notify the captain of my suspicions. Apologise for the disturbance but ask if he would come on deck immediately.’
The midshipman hurried along the gangway to the forecastle to alert the sailors in his division and for them to pass the word to the other members of the watch. He then headed down to deliver the message to the captain.
Within minutes a line of sailors was leaning against the rail while others were hanging in the shrouds scouring the sea for a ship. Whilst most agreed that they could hear the occasional faint sound of a whistle, none were able to see a boat on the water.
‘More light,’ the captain ordered when he stepped up to the quarterdeck. ‘If we cannot see the vessel, it is likely the vessel cannot see us either.’
The shrill of the occasional call was becoming clearer. It was drawing closer and, after several minutes, every man on deck heard it and commented about it to his mate.
‘Silence there! I want to know the direction those peeps are coming from. Surely we are not all as blind as bats? Next time you hear the sound, reach out your arm in the direction it came from.’
The next shrill peep surprised everyone. It came from a distance of only twenty or thirty yards from the frigate’s side. Immediately, every sailor on the gangway leaned forward with his forefinger pointing down to the water.
‘Mr Hanson, lower a boat but keep a line on her,’ the captain ordered.
‘There!’ someone shouted. ‘There’s something in the water. Over there,’ he yelled again.
Everyone looked.
‘There’s a man in the water. He has something shining in his hand.’
‘A bosun’s whistle, no doubt,’ Oliver said.
‘From a wreck, do you think?’ Mr Tully asked.
‘If so, there may be more unfortunates in the water. Prepare to assist this one aboard,’ he ordered, ‘and make a thorough search of the sea for survivors, debris or bodies. Call the doctor and have blankets brought on deck. And have the galley prepare some hot fluids as quickly as possible.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
With all hands hanging over the side to get a view, a line was thrown to the man in the water. There was a gentle cheer as the swimmer grabbed it and allowed himself to be hauled around to the wooden steps on the ship’s side. A diminutive figure climbed slowly and, by the time he made the deck, he was exhausted.
Captain Quintrell thought his eyes were deceiving him. ‘My God – Charles Goodridge – what on earth were you doing in the water?’
Unable to speak coherently, a blanket was slung around the boy’s shoulders and another thrown over his head. Under the added weight, his knees buckled and he sank to the deck. Sea water dripping from his hair and finger tips formed tiny rivulets that ran along the black lines of caulking on the deck.
‘Stand back, all of you, let the lad get some air.’
As the members of the watch shuffled back, a bosun’s silver call dropped from the boy’s hand and rolled into the scuppers. Oliver wondered how he had acquired it but that was the least of the questions he wanted to ask and it would wait till later.
‘If this is some boyish prank you are playing,’ the captain said, ‘it is the most foolish game I have ever seen. I trust this wasn’t done as a dare or for a wager and another idiot, as foolhardy as you, is still out there in the water.’
Charlie Goodridge shook his head.
‘Don’t you know there are sharks in these tropical waters?’ Oliver continued. ‘Didn’t you consider that a wind could blow up and the ship would move from its present position? Do I have to remind you we are in the Atlantic Ocean and land is hundreds of miles away? Or were you intending to drown yourself?’
The doctor interrupted politely and spoke quietly in the captain’s ear. ‘I would caution you to allow the boy to catch his breath before you question him any further. His face is rather grey and his lips almost blue.’
‘The reflection of the moonlight,’ Oliver claimed.
‘In my opinion, the lad has overexerted himself to the extent his body has been deprived of oxygen. Right now, he needs rest and quiet in order to recover.’
Though angry with the boy’s dangerous exploit yet anxious to discover the reason for it, the captain had no option but to bow to Dr Whipple’s recommendation.
‘A stretcher or a hammock or a volunteer to convey the boy below,’ Oliver ordered.
‘I can walk,’ Charles said, rising to his knees.
‘Take care,’ the doctor advised.
But there was something burning inside the boy and it had to come out. He grabbed the captain’s arm and pulled him down toward him. ‘They have taken the ship,’ he whispered, his voice rasping, his words almost incoherent.
‘Who?’ Oliver demanded, leaning his ear towards the boy’s lips.
‘The Frogs and some others.’
‘Say no more,’ Oliver replied. ‘Mr Tully, clear this rabble off the deck. Take the boy below to the cockpit.’ Then he turned to the doctor. ‘I will join you there shortly.’
From the entrance to the cockpit, usually covered by a curtain, Oliver stepped inside speaking his thoughts out loud. ‘What in all Heaven has happened? For pity sake, let this not be true.’
Jonathon Whipple beckoned the captain to the cot in which the boy was lying. Swaddled in several rugs and with a hot brick wrapped in a towel near his feet, Charles Goodridge had regained his breath and composure, and was eager to speak.
‘There is nothing wrong with me,’ he protested trying to raise himself. ‘I’m not sick. I want to get up.’
‘Not yet,’ the doctor advised, turning to the captain. ‘I recommend a sedative to calm him. It will allow him to sleep and you can question him later.’
‘No!’ Oliver was adamant. ‘Let him sit up. It is imperative I speak with him immediately.’
‘He is very excited and overwrought,’ Dr Whipple warned.
‘From what the boy told me on deck, he has good reason to be so. Kindly allow me a few moments to speak with him in private. There are questions I must put to him and it is possible he has an important message to convey to me. Should I need your assistance, I will call on you.’
The doctor was not pleased.
‘Trust me, Jonathon, these moments, while his memory is fresh, are vital.’
Though unwilling to leave his patient and fearing a relapse from the boy, the ship’s surgeon stepped away from the cot and repaired to the small cabin that housed his apothecaries’ chest and surgical instruments. Inside the room was a chair and desk with a slanting lid. Taking a ledger from the desk, the ship’s doctor tried to occupy his time thumbing through the leather-bound book to the entries he had been making earlier in the day.
Satisfied the doctor was out of earshot, Oliver Quintrell leaned towards the boy. ‘Charles, you know who I am, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do, Captain.’
‘And how did you get here.’
‘I swam from the 74.’
Oliver cocked his head to one side, his eyes still fixed on the lad. ‘Are you sure you were not carried by boat part of the way?’
‘No sir, I
sneaked off the ship when no one was looking. I climbed down the steps and slipped into the water. I’m certain no one heard me or saw me go. Then I swam.’
‘That is quite a distance, young man.’
‘I’m a good swimmer,’ Charles said.
‘You would need to be. That was either a very brave venture or a very foolish act. Many things could have prevented you from succeeding.’
Charles ignored the comment as he pulled the blanket from his shoulders and pushed the brick away from his feet. ‘I’m too hot,’ he complained.
Oliver lifted the covers from the cot. ‘How did you find the ship? The night is black outside?’
‘I knew where Perpetual was because I was on deck when the sun was going down. There was no breeze and the sky was clear so there was no chance of a wind blowing up.’
‘Most boys your age have little interest in the wind and weather.’
‘My father often took me with him in his boat. It was a small clinker-built one that he made in the shipyard. That was before the fever took him. He’d made the boat so we could catch fish on the bay.’ He gazed at the deck beam overhead and reminisced. ‘I wonder where our boat is now.’
‘Forget about the boat,’ Oliver said.
The boy’s cheeks appeared hollow and his bottom lip began to quiver.
‘You say you swam all the way. Were you alone or did you have company?’
‘I had porpoises for company,’ he answered in all seriousness.
‘That is not what I meant.’
‘No, sir,’ the boy replied. ‘I told it like it was. I dropped into the sea and swam. I judged the distance to be less than half that of the New Mole to the beach at Algeciras and I had swum that twice and against an incoming tide. Pa said Gibraltar Bay was five miles across so this was no distance at all. And the water was warmer than the Mediterranean.’
‘We are not on Gibraltar Bay now,’ Oliver reminded.
‘Too right,’ Charles’s face brightened. ‘The sea was flat calm and there was no tide to fight against and no fish to speak of.’
