by M. C. Muir
Charles hesitated but Eku grabbed him by the elbow and directed him to the steps leading down to the lower gun deck where they were met with a similar scene. While the sound of voices was slightly subdued, the shrill notes of a penny whistle drew an accompanying beat slapped on the side of a barrel. A chorus of voices sang in a language neither man nor boy understood. Snoring came from within some of the hammocks where some men slept, scratched, coughed and cursed.
For the pair of intruders, confronted with this scene of normal seagoing behaviour, it was difficult to believe that this was a ship of the line that had just been seized and was in enemy hands. Even Charles wondered if the story he had told Captain Quintrell was true or had been a dream. But it was the truth. With his own eyes, he had witnessed Captain Liversedge being bundled away under guard
At the bottom of the steps, the boy and man parted company and set off on their own missions.
Eku headed to the ship’s starboard quarter while Charles moved to the port side and searched for a hempen sack or piece of netting. When he could find none, he grabbed a swab bucket from beside the half barrel where the mops and brushes were kept. Starting at the first gun on that side of the ship, he looked at the beam above his head where the equipment for handling the gun was hanging – a rammer, a sponge and a wormer. Hanging directly above the square of lead covering the gun’s powder bowl was a curved horn and with it a short length of quill cut from a goose’s feather. Charles reached up as far as he could but, even standing on his toes, he was not tall enough to grasp it. With a pained expression on his face, he called to the nearest group of sailors.
‘Borrow yer stool, mister?’ he asked.
‘Bugger off. Find your own.’ The Irish accent was very obvious.
‘I only need it for five minutes. Please, mister. The gunner sent me to collect the powder horns and quills. I have to take them down to the magazine so he can check them. Then I have to fill the horns and made sure all the quills is clean.’
The man sneered. ‘What sort of chore it that at this hour of the night?’
His mate, perched beside him, laughed. ‘I’ll wager he dropped an eight-pound shot on the gunner’s toe!’
‘Or spilled powder on the magazine’s floor,’ another suggested. They all laughed.
‘Here,’ the sailor said, pulling the three-legged stool from under him. ‘Take this but mind you bring it back in five minutes. Any longer than that and I’ll have your guts for garters, and I ain’t jesting.’
‘I promise,’ Charles said, grabbing the stool and stepping cautiously onto it so as not to overbalance. He was thankful the deck was not swaying. Reaching up, he lifted the horn and quill from the hook in the beam. Stepping down, he placed them carefully in the swab bucket before advancing to the next gun, taking the stool with him.
At every third of fourth gun, he was cursed by the sailors and asked what he was doing. One of the gun captains argued that his horn was full and didn’t need checking and said he cleaned his quill every time his gun was fired. Charles was quick to defend himself saying he had his orders and there would be hell to pay if he didn’t return with the correct number of horns. Grumbling, the gunner reached up and handed the items to the boy who thanked him and moved along the deck. By the time he had reached halfway, the bucket was already heavy – wooden pails were weighty even without water or anything else in them.
When he reached the end of the gun deck, he had fourteen horns in his bucket and two under his arm. Eku was already waiting in the gloom at the end of the deck, the whites of his eyes and flash of his white teeth highlighted by the nearby lantern. Eku took the load from the boy and went straight to the end gunport.
‘What you doing?’ a voice boomed.
‘Need to empty a pail and draw some water to swab the deck.’
‘Deck was swabbed this morning and it’ll be swabbed again tomorrow. It don’t need no more swabbing.’ The accent was definitely Irish.
‘The third lieutenant said there was powder and sand in the cracks between the deck timbers and I’m to make sure every grain is scrubbed out.’
The sailor didn’t argue with a punishment set by one of the lieutenants. He’d known far worse duties set at the whim of a disgruntled officer. The sailor had probably forgotten the ship’s regular officers were locked away below decks. ‘Get about your business and make sure you lash the gunport when you’re finished. I’ll be round to check it later and you’ll be in trouble if you don’t.’
‘Yessa, Massa,’ Eku replied, turning his bare back on the Irishman and winking at the boy.
With the sailor showing no more interest in what the presumed ex-slave was doing, Eku unlashed the gunport, pushed it open and fastened it securely.
Using both hands, Charles lifted the wooden pail and swung it across to his friend leaning out over the water. Quickly upending the bucket, Eku discharged its contents into the sea. There was a splash and the pair looked at each other, but the sound had not carried to the men close by. The only evidence that remained was a handful of featherless quills, resembling short straws, floating on the surface. Ignoring them, the Negro returned the bucket to the boy, closed the port lid and lashed it tightly so there would be no complaints. After nodding to his accomplice, the pair parted company again. This time, Eku headed down the ship’s larboard side, while the boy crossed the deck and went about his business on the opposite side.
Armed with a bristle brush in his hand, Ekundayo collected the leather fire buckets that were hanging from the deck beams above the gun ports – one for each cannon. When asked what his business was, he said he had been told to scrub every bucket and fill it afresh with water before returning it to its position. As he worked his way along the deck, the sailors, whose games he interrupted, cursed and swore at him but, because of his powerful build, he attracted no real abuse. Having opened another gunport, he emptied each bucket of the residual water in it then returned it to its hook – empty. No one checked his work or noticed the difference.
When the pair completed the lower gundeck they reunited and moved up to the upper deck where their jobs were made more difficult by the number of sailors occupying that area.
Boosted by their convincing performances, whenever stopped and asked what they were about, they brazenly repeated their stories and succeeded in achieving the mischief they had planned. Furthermore, when Eku found guns unattended, he slipped the quoins and prickers under his arm and dispatched them to the sea through the open ports.
It took the pair a little more than half an hour to complete the work they had decided upon and to meet up again at the hatch where they had started.
‘Up you go,’ Eku said. The lad led the way swinging an empty bucket in his hand. Once out on the weather deck, they made for the entry port but were stopped on the gangway before they had time to climb over.
‘Who goes there,’ a marine officer called.
‘Jem and a boy,’ Eku replied. ‘Come to empty the lieutenant’s night-water bucket. It weren’t emptied this morning.’
The marine took a step back. ‘Well, make good and sure you don’t spill it down the hull or you’ll be out there with a brush scrubbing it off.’
‘Yessa, Massa, sir.’
Satisfied, the soldier faded back into the darkness allowing the two mischief-makers to clamber down the outside steps and slip back into the sea without anyone seeing them depart.
Swimming around the ship’s stern, they were careful to bear away from the lights shining from the cabin windows before heading back across the water to where the French frigate was standing. Halfway across, Eku noticed the boy was unable to keep up to his pace. Placing Charles’s hand on his shoulder, he supported the lad for the remainder of the swim. After covering three-quarters of the distance, the pair located the cable floating only a few inches below the surface. Grabbing hold of it, they hauled themselves along it until they were beneath Flambeau’s bowsprit.
‘Welcome back,’ Oliver whispered, leaning from the rail near
the heads. ‘How was it?’
‘It was fun,’ Charles replied with a big grin on his face.
‘Come aboard,’ the captain called quietly, ‘and dry yourselves.’ He had a rug waiting to swing around the boy’s shoulders.
‘I trust all went well. You can report to me later,’ Oliver said, looking at the Negro who stood several inches taller than himself.
‘Yes, Captain. I just wish we could have done more. I wanted to fill the powder bowls with damp sand, but I would have been noticed.’
‘Indeed you would have. Now you are safely back, it’s time to release the cable and detach us from the warship. We have taken the deck and freed our own men from the hold and replaced them with French crewmen. However, there are still some officers sleeping undisturbed in their berths below unaware of what has happened. It is time to rouse them and put them with the rest of their countrymen. Then, with the helm over, I am hoping Flambeau will slowly drift in the night. All we need is a breeze of wind and we will be over the horizon before the 74 stirs and realises we are gone.’
‘Let us hope so,’ Eku replied.
As they spoke, cries came from the upper gundeck of the 74 and grey smoke could be seen billowing from the furthest larboard gunport.’
Oliver looked at the Negro: ‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing to worry about, Captain. It’s not a big blaze, just enough to keep them traitors occupied for a while. A few handfuls of teased oakum, a pinch of powder and a length of lighted slowmatch under one of the guns.’
‘I trust it will not set the ship alight.’
‘No sir, I had no intention of doing that. But I doubt anyone aboard will be taking much notice of the French frigate for the next half an hour.’
Oliver scowled. ‘I invited you to use your initiative, but I’m not sure I approve of your tactics. For now, however, go below and help Mr Tully.’
Eku winked at his young friend before heading off.
On deck, Oliver frowned as he gazed across the water where a mixture of sounds was carrying from the 74. Cries of panic, shouts and orders were being screamed above the peeps of a bosun’s whistle and the beat of the drums calling all hands to stations. From deep in the man-of-war’s hold came the muted sound of banging. Battened beneath the hatches were one hundred and fifty British sailors desperate to escape a ship they feared was on fire.
As the Negro had said, no one was paying any attention to the damaged frigate floating some distance away and the distraction provided ample opportunity for the tow cable to be cut and for Oliver’s men to swim back to Perpetual unnoticed.
In Perpetual’s mess, the sailors gathered around the Negro and the boy. Everyone was eager to hear what had happened across the water. Eku was happy to oblige and relate the deeds he and his young friend had got up to.
‘What on earth did you do that for?’ Bungs asked scornfully. ‘There’s plenty of extra powder horns and quills in the magazine and any idiot can fill a water bucket in no time.’
‘Me and Charles thought it a good idea,’ Eku said. ‘The captain said he didn’t want his command to come under fire from the 74 fearing it could have blown us out of the water. Charles and I decided that if the gun captains had no powder for the bowl we’d have enough time to swim back before they launched a broadside at us.’
Bungs was unimpressed.
‘Young Charles was ambitious. He wanted to have the blaze running the full length of the lower gundeck. That would have been impossible and I told him it was too dangerous. We could have burned her down to the waterline and that would have been a catastrophe. But a small fire and nothing but empty water buckets on hand would keep them sailors on their toes for a while.’
‘So what happened after that?’ Bungs asked.
‘The towing cable was released and Flambeau started drifting – only slightly at first, but drifting. When it had dropped back sufficiently, a new hawser was run across from the Frog to Perpetual.
‘Why didn’t you cut the cable when you were on the third rate?’ Bungs asked.
‘We couldn’t do that without being seen. Besides, if we’d cut it close to the ship, the cable’s end would have hung slack instead of stretching out to the ship it was towing.’
Bungs sniffed.
‘The captain reckons we are drifting with the current and hopes that by morning the gap will have had widened to twenty miles.’
CHAPTER 15
Martinique
The tropical heat was oppressive. The sailors’ shirts stuck to their backs and arms. Perspiration ran down their legs and dripped from their brows onto the bleached planks. Every man’s hair was as wet as if he had just come from under the pump – the only cool relief the men could find.
Even the captain had his steward sling a hammock for him in the great cabin because his inner berth was too hot. With waves of tiredness overcoming him, Oliver desperately needed some sound sleep but, because of their location, he was loath to quit the deck. Mr Tully had assured him he would call him if anything was sighted, be it either the islands of the West Indies rising from the horizon, or a sail. Oliver eventually accepted the offer and was asleep a few seconds after his head had sunk into his down-filled pillow.
Certain he had only closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, he was startled by the sound of a musket being fired. It was distant but it was definitely the sound of a shot. It was the signal he had prearranged with Mr Parry aboard Flambeau if he needed to reduce speed in order for a message to be conveyed across.
As the captain rolled from his hammock, Mr Tully was at the cabin door.
‘Musket fired from the bow of the frigate, sir.’
‘Return the signal and reduce sail. Allow Flambeau to swim up alongside. I’ll be on deck directly.’
After splashing some water on his face, fastening four of the buttons on his shirt and tucking his shirt tail into his trousers, Oliver stepped up to the quarterdeck. He was met with the sound of the musket being fired from Perpetual’s stern. Above the deck, the sails luffed and the main topsail yard creaked as it was braced around, slowing the frigate’s progress.
From the quarterdeck, he could see that a similar order had been given by Mr Parry on the deck of Flambeau. Under reduced sail and still under tow, the recaptured French frigate drifted to within pistol shot of the slightly smaller British frigate.
Six bells sounded simultaneously on the two frigates’ decks informing the captain he had slept solidly for two hours.
‘What news, Mr Parry?’ Oliver called across the water.
‘I would speak with you, Captain. Is it possible you could come aboard?’
A little surprised at the request, but having full trust in his first lieutenant, Oliver did not question why the request had been put. Instead he ordered his boat to be put away and the crew to stand ready.
Mr Tully, having just returned from the bow, closed the telescope he was carrying and returned it to the cupboard beneath the binnacle.
‘What did you see, Mr Tully?’
‘The 74. She’s heading away, hull-down on the horizon with a full head of sails billowing like a cloud on the ocean’s rim. She’ll be gone before dark.’
‘What direction?’
‘She’s standing to the north-east. Definitely bearing away from the Caribbean and making for the Atlantic.’
‘Then we shall let her go,’ Oliver said.
Mr Tully showed no concern. ‘Aye aye, Captain.’
‘The deck is yours while I speak with Mr Parry but get the lookout to keep a keen eye all around.’
The lieutenant touched his temple in his usual manner.
From the rail, while awaiting his boat, Oliver studied the French frigate. Dents the size of dinner plates, punched into it by the 74's round shot, decorated her hull. Smaller holes peppered her gunnels as though she had been set upon by a flock of giant woodpeckers. Her rails were absent in parts, having been smashed to splinters. Her second and third gunports had been blown out leaving a large gaping hole which f
ortunately was well above the waterline. The damage had been temporarily boarded up by the carpenter. The elegant tracery of carvings around her bow, demonstrating a remarkable degree of skill and artistry, had also been shattered. Surprisingly, the carved and painted figurehead of a woman holding a flaming torch at arm’s length was still intact. The large section beneath the empty cathead, where raw unpainted timbers reached down to the waterline, was the result of the work Mr Crosby and his mates had done to prevent the ship from sinking. Had Captain Moncousu failed to surrender his ship when he did, Flambeau would have sunk within the hour, in Oliver’s estimation.
Mr Parry greeted his captain when he climbed aboard the prize.
‘I trust all is well,’ Oliver said, glancing about the ship. The possibility he had been wooed aboard by an officer under duress had crossed his mind but the idea was quickly dispelled. But what greeted him was the disturbing sound of men wailing. It was coming from below.
‘Join me in the cabin,’ Simon said. ‘I need your opinion and advice.’
Oliver nodded and followed Mr Parry below to the cabin that Captain Moncousu had previously occupied.
When taking the ship, Oliver had failed to appreciate the fine accommodation the Frenchman had enjoyed. Though only a little bigger than his own cabin in Perpetual, this area was furnished in the manner of an elegant French drawing room. Velvet drapes hung at the windows, hand-stitched tapestries covered the chairs, turned legs supported the highly polished walnut table and a multitude of mirrors reflected light on every wall.
‘I’m surprised the cabin wasn’t raked when she ran from the fight. Quite extraordinary,’ Oliver commented.
‘I have no complaints about the accommodation,’ Simon Parry said with a slight grin. ‘But the prisoners do. No doubt you heard them when you came aboard.’
