by M. C. Muir
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Every minute and every hour from morning till night since we placed them there. They complain about the water lapping back and forth beneath their feet. They claim their situation is worse than being in a British prison hulk. They swear that the heat, damp, mould and cockroaches will be the death of them.’
‘I think those are French cockroaches which we cannot be blamed for.’
Simon Parry was not amused. ‘Three men were dragged out today almost dead. Only brandy and fresh air saved them from expiring completely. The problem is the water. It is not deep but the liquid that remains in the hold is foul and the stench takes your breath away. It’s a combination of seawater, filthy bilge water and now night water.’
‘Are you using the pumps?’
‘Constantly. Though the level is low, the walls and beams weep brine and the air has taken on a foul smell and it is getting worse. I would invite you to sample it for yourself, but I dare not have the hatches opened as the prisoners are becoming desperate and would rush the guards if they saw any chance of escaping.’
‘What about a wind sail to send some air below?’
‘I have had one rigged each day but with little breeze and the air of these latitudes so humid it is insufficient to alter or improve the conditions.’
‘So what do you suggest, Simon?’
‘In my opinion, it is inhumane to leave the prisoners below for much longer. At the speed we are currently making, it will take us eight weeks to cross the Atlantic, by which time, I will have a hold filled with dead Frenchmen or will be tossing bodies over the side every single day on our voyage to Portsmouth. My suggestion is that we make for Jamaica as was Captain Liversedge’s original plan. By doing that, we can deposit the French sailors at Kingston, leave the prize with the agent and then return in Perpetual to England.’
‘I agree something must be done,’ Oliver said. ‘And quickly. I will speak with Dr Whipple and get his opinion then inform you of my decision. I am sorry you have had to bear this situation and I understand your concern. In the meantime, how go the repairs?’
‘The carpenter and his mates continue to work from dawn to dusk with the help of some of the other hands. There was far more damage than was at first thought.’
‘Please thank Mr Crosby for his efforts and encourage him to continue. Do you have spare spars to rig up a topgallant mast on the main?
‘Yes, that will be done very soon. For the present he is concentrating on a new rudder. I would not want to head across the Atlantic until it has been fixed. How the French captain had steerage, I do not know. The rudder was almost shot away.’
‘Thank you, Simon,’ Oliver said. ‘Maintain your lookouts and signal me immediately if you need assistance. We are nearing the West Indies and, according to my calculations, I expect to have the southernmost islands in sight tomorrow or the next day. I will speak with you again in the morning. I agree something must be done to improve the lot of the prisoners.’
First light brought a call from Perpetual’s foremast lookout. Land was sighted off the port bow. Having studied his charts the previous evening, it was as Oliver expected.
‘Martinique, I believe,’ he said to Mr Mundy.
The sailing master studied the rugged outline through his telescope.
‘That’s British, isn’t it, Captain?’
‘Ceded to Britain as part of the Treaty of Amiens three years ago.’
‘If that’s the case, couldn’t we take these Froggies into the port there?’
Oliver took the glass and lifted it to his eye. ‘Those French islands are regularly contested and have a habit of changing hands unexpectedly. Having been away from England for so long, I am not sure where they stand at the present.’
‘British still, I think, Captain. There’s Diamond Rock right on the southern tip. The Royal Navy built a fort on the top of it, hoisted 18-pounders up the sheer cliff face and set up 24-pounders in several natural embrasures. It’s said to be invulnerable.’
‘Indeed’ Oliver laughed. ‘I wonder what the lookouts would make of us. Two frigates – one British-built sailing in convoy with a French-built ship. Despite the colours flying at our masthead, I would not wager money on their correct assessment of our nationality. Nor would I attempt to navigate the strait between the rock and the island with round shot raining terror down on us from the top of that monolith. It’s a stone frigate, Mr Mundy. Commodore Hood commissioned it a sloop of war with the name, His Majesty’s ship Diamond Rock.’ It is indeed invulnerable and I, for one, will not take it on.’
‘I would wager it’s still ours, though,’ Mr Mundy added.
‘Captain Liversedge informed me our spies have wind of a French plan to attack it.’
‘Best we head for the protection of the island then,’ the sailing master said.
Perpetual’s officers who were standing nearby nodded in agreement and offered their own views on the situation. But Oliver excused himself and strode to the lee rail where he took several turns up and down the deck pondering on the rugged peaks rising from the translucent blue water.
When the soft breeze died, the canvas flagged. The tips of the gently rippled surface sparkled in the sunlight burning his eyes even though he shielded them with his hand. For a moment, he was distracted when a large turtle broke the surface only twenty yards from the ship’s side and swam by, quite oblivious to any threat or danger. When it disappeared, Oliver turned and rejoined his officers.
‘I have reached a decision. When we have some wind, we head north standing away from Martinique and the Island of Dominica that lies to the north of it. In a little over twenty-four hours we will make La Désirade and Guadeloupe.’
‘They are definitely in French hands, are they not?’ the sailing master reminded.
‘That is correct and exactly what I want. To the best of my knowledge, the small strip of land known as La Désirade is neither well-populated nor fortified. It has been home to slaves, pirates and peasant farmers for years. That is where we will head for to land the French prisoners.’
‘You are going to hand them to the French authorities?’
‘I doubt there is either a port or naval establishment on that strip of rock.’
The sailing master was bewildered. ‘Do you intend to let them go free?’
Oliver turned and looked across the taffrail to the French frigate being drawn in its wake. ‘If the prisoners remain battened down under Flambeau hatches, they will be dead within a week. If, on the other hand, we attempt to sail into the Caribbean Sea, we will be inviting an attack. We will come under threat from land batteries on the French and Spanish islands and will have to dodge the broadsides of any enemy ships we encounter. By charting such a course, I will be putting the life of everyone aboard at risk. Consider also the pirates and privateers who are familiar with these waters and claim them as their own. For those villains of the seas, we present an easy target – one good frigate with a lame duck tagging along behind, and we only have enough crew to handle half the guns on each vessel. Because of that, I am not prepared to enter the Caribbean. Nor am I prepared to jeopardise my rights to Flambeau. The men fought hard to take her and, for their efforts, they deserve to return home with at least one prize-of-war.’
‘But surely,’ the sailing master remonstrated, ‘you do not intend running Perpetual into a French harbour with the tricolour or white flag flying at the peak?’
‘I have no intention of making port, Mr Mundy. When La Désirade is clearly in sight, Mr Parry will have Flambeau’s cutter put on the water. Of the thirty or more sailors being held in the hold, I am sure there will be enough able seamen amongst them capable of sailing a small boat.’
‘But, without our men, how will the cutter be returned?’
‘It will not be returned. It is a French boat and the sailors are entitled to it. I will ensure it is supplied with water and biscuits. It will be cast off when we are ten miles from the island. If the prisone
rs wish to sail onto Guadeloupe, which is only another five miles to the west, I will furnish them with that information.’
‘That is very generous of you,’ the sailing master said critically.
Oliver ignored the remark. ‘I must convey the message to Mr Parry so he can make the necessary preparations.’
‘And what then?’ Mr Mundy asked bluntly.
The captain’s patience was wearing thin. ‘As soon as we dispense with the French sailors, we point our beak to England. Hopefully, by then, Flambeau will be capable of sailing independently and, if both ships can make good speed, there is a fair possibility we can catch Stalwart before she reaches Europe.’
‘It’s a big pond out there, the 74 is in good condition, has ample crew and quite a head start on us.’
‘So much more reason to put my plan into effect as soon as possible.’ Oliver turned from any further questions. ‘Mr Tully, a signal shot to Mr Parry, please. I need to speak with him again.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’ The lieutenant immediately relayed the message to the midshipman who in turn delivered it personally to the marine sergeant who stepped smartly up to the taffrail and discharged his musket into the air.
Late in the afternoon of the following day, Oliver Quintrell and Mr Parry watched from the quarterdeck of the French frigate as the prisoners were brought up from the hold. British seamen stood by the bulwarks, cutlasses in hand, while half a dozen marines balanced in the rigging with their muskets pointing towards the deck.
Dishevelled, dirty, stinking and half-blinded by the sunlight, the French sailors, mostly young men, emerged from below, rubbing their eyes in an attempt to adjust to the brightness. Their condition and appearance was far worse than Oliver had expected. Though they had been fed and watered, they looked gaunt, their faces were the hue of a pale moon and their joints appeared as stiff as those of old men.
With news of their release and imminent freedom delivered to them in their own language by Oliver’s translator, some wept while others appeared stunned. But on sighting the lush green hills on the distant islands, a frisson of excitement ran through the group. One sailor looked over to the captain and thanked him. He said most French seamen had heard rumours of how terrible the British prison hulks were and, while incarcerated below, they had considered that if their time in the hold was a taste of what lay ahead, they would rather die than be subjected to such a fate. To be granted their freedom on a French island was more than they could have wished for.
As soon as the painter was tossed from the boat’s bow, the cutter fell away from the frigate’s hull and a jubilant cheer was raised from the Frenchmen.
Standing by the rail, Captain Quintrell and Simon Parry watched the sailors step the mast, clear away the cutter’s sail and set it to catch whatever breeze was blowing.
‘Did you learn anything new from those prisoners?’ Oliver asked of his first officer. ‘I am anxious to know how their captain took a man-of-war from the British officers in charge of her. I would also like to know who the Irish political prisoner is that is being carried aboard. Is it he who has fired up the insurgents? Is he the man now leading the Irish rebels?’
‘The prisoners said nothing to me,’ Simon said, ‘and, as they weren’t aboard the 74 after it was taken, it’s likely they didn’t know. Perhaps they should have been questioned before being given their liberty.’
‘Too late, now,’ Oliver said. ‘We will, no doubt, learn the truth before too long.’
With the tiller hard over, the loaded boat turned and headed west. The volcanic islands covered in lush green vegetation were surrounded by turquoise blue water and edged with a rim of sparkling white breakers.
‘They are the lucky ones,’ Oliver mused. ‘Now, let us pray for a favourable wind so we can catch up with their mates aboard the 74.’
‘And when you catch them?’ Simon Parry said.
‘I will not be so generous next time.’
Over the next two days, with every spare hand that could swing a hammer or handle a chisel assisting the carpenter, good progress was made with the repairs aboard Flambeau. The new rudder was completed and attached to the stern post. A replacement topgallant mast was hoisted aloft, yards crossed and sails bent. Mr Crosby declared the frigate’s hull sound. She was in danger of sinking. More importantly, under her own wind and steerage, she no longer required a tow.
With her elegant lines and a brightly coppered bottom, which she flashed when she heeled to the wind, Flambeau was capable of out-running Perpetual, if sailed to the best of her ability. Having delayed their sailing, in order for the repairs to be completed, it was now time to depart from the gateway to the Caribbean and head across the North Atlantic.
‘Just in time, by the looks of it,’ Mr Tully said, handing the captain the glass and pointing. ‘Hull up on the south-eastern horizon. Looks like banks of clouds gathering.’
Oliver studied the rim of the sea. ‘Pyramids of sail?’
‘Yes, sir. A fleet of warships, I’d say. Twenty or more.’
‘What are they, Mr Tully?’ the captain asked.
‘From the flashes of colour I could see, I’d wager they are French and Spanish combined.’
‘What do you make of their heading?’
‘West-north-west. Martinique, I suggest. Perhaps it’s the French force sent to take Diamond Rock that you spoke of.’
‘Let us hope that is their business and that they do not deviate from their present course. We would be blown to pieces if that fleet came within gunshot. Mr Hanson, raise the French colours and send a signal to Mr Parry to do likewise. Let us pile on every inch of cloth we have and get out of here, and hope we meet no other enemy ships along the way. North-east, if you please, helmsman.’
The watch quickly responded to the sound of the bosun’s peeps. Sailors swarmed round the lines at the pin rails. Others climbed aloft and slid along the footropes to shake the reefs out of the topsails and topgallants. The booms were rigged for the studding sails both alow and aloft. Under Mr Parry’s orders, the French frigate received similar treatment.
‘In Heaven’s name, how do you hope to find the 74 in the Atlantic?’ the sailing master asked pointedly.
Oliver looked up to the royals and watched as they were unfurled. ‘If Captain Moncousu is in command, he will sail the most direct route to France. How fast he travels will depend on the winds but, I guarantee you, before he reaches Europe, I will catch him.’
‘But, as you said yourself, we have only one hundred and forty men divided between two frigates.’
‘Mr Mundy,’ the captain said, looking directly at his sailing master. ‘I have one hundred and forty British seamen who are eager to return home. In the meantime, it is up to you and the other officers to make sure every man aboard both ships, whether he be cook or servant, landsman or loblolly, is capable of taking his place in a gun crew. That applies to topmen and marines also.’
‘You intend to attack the 74, if we find her?’
‘Yes, if necessary,’ Oliver relied curtly. ‘While I have no desire to attack a British man-of-war, I do not intend to see her handed over to Napoleon Bonaparte as a prize.’
‘But there may be five hundred sailors aboard.’
‘I am quite aware of that, thank you. However, one quarterdeck is not big enough to accommodate three captains. The question remains: who is in command right now and who will be at the helm by the time they raise the coast of France? Will it be the Frenchman – Moncousu, the leader of the Irish rebels – Murphy, or the British captain – William Liversedge? Much can happen in a month’s time. Ask me that question again when the time arises but for now, let us concentrate on making way and going about the business of overhauling the third rate.’
CHAPTER 16
Eku’s Tale
Hurrying along the mess deck, Charles Goodridge’s arm was grabbed by the cooper.
‘Hey, you! Where are you off to in such a hurry?’
‘I’m going to eat,’ the boy said.
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br /> ‘Well,’ Bungs said, ‘what’s wrong with eating with me?’
Charles looked around. ‘Nothing, I suppose.’
‘Now ain’t you a bright lad. So, if there’s no one else sitting here, why not come and sit your arse down opposite me and keep me company.’
Reluctantly Charles agreed.
‘I gave you good advice last time, didn’t I? Without a word from me you’d not have been allowed to go across with the others. Now, do as I say and sit your body down. I ain’t got no one to chatter with, so if you can put a bung in that barrel-mouth of yours and not let it out too often, we can have a sensible conversation and you can tell me about that bit of mischief you and Eku got up to on the 74.’
The boy shrugged. ‘It wasn’t anything special and you’ve probably heard about it anyway.’
‘I want to hear it from you,’ the cooper said.
Despite feeling disinclined to be sociable, Charles slid along the wooden chest that served as a seat. Folding his arms across his chest, he straightened his back and looked directly at the old man but said nothing.
‘So what’s matter with you today? Cat got your tongue?’
Charles didn’t answer, dropped his eyes to the mess table and stared at the stains impregnating the timber.
‘I know what your problem is,’ Bungs said. ‘You’re worrying over that Mrs Pilkington, aren’t you?’
‘Maybe I am,’ Charles murmured.
‘And what are you going to do about it?’ Bungs asked.
‘I can’t do nothing now the 74’s headed away.’
‘So if you can’t do nothing about it, what’s the sense in moping about it? Have a bit of faith in Captain Quintrell. If anyone’s going to find that ship in this Atlantic, it’ll be our captain. You mark my words.’
The light from the overhead lantern was shaded for a moment when the West Indian arrived and stood over the pair.
