by M. C. Muir
Oliver shook his head. It appeared that this whole episode in his life was revolving around Irishmen.
CHAPTER 18
Flotsam
‘Deck there!’
‘What do you see?’ the midshipman called.
‘Something in the water two points off the starboard bow.’
‘A sail?’
‘No. Something floating on the water,’ the lookout called. ‘It could be a body.’
‘How far?’
Before an answer came back from aloft, Mr Tully grabbed a telescope, leapt into the shrouds and climbed the rigging to the foretopgallant yard.
‘Less than half a mile ahead,’ was the reply.
Having studied the object with and without the glass, Ben Tully wasted no time before returning to the quarterdeck and ordering one of the midshipmen to go below and beg the captain attend him on deck. After calling for the maintop-sail yard to be backed to slow the frigate, he waited for the captain to appear on deck.
Within minutes of the changes to Perpetual’s canvas, Flambeau’s main top-sail yard was similarly braced and both ships slowed allowing the lookouts to investigate the flotsam.
Having pointed his telescope to the object that the lookout had reported, the captain joined Ben Tully leaning over the starboard rail. ‘It’s a body alright,’ the lieutenant announced. It was floating face down in the water.
‘Do we ignore it or haul it aboard?’ the lieutenant asked.
‘If it has not been weighted down in the appropriate manner, then I doubt it was afforded any burial rights. I think, therefore,’ Oliver said, ‘it should be hoisted aboard and, if nothing else, we can provide it with a decent burial. That is the least it deserves. Bosun, a boat in the water and rig up a whip with a sling, if you please.’
With sails backed, Perpetual rolled and pitched on the Atlantic swell as the body drifted slowly towards it. With nothing but the monotony of the vast expanse of ocean having been borne by the crew for the past three weeks, the arrival of a corpse provided a welcome break from continuous boredom. Sailors streamed up from below to witness the body being retrieved and carefully dragged to the side of the boat without the limbs being torn from the torso. The Perpetuals who had sailed with Captain Quintrell in the icy regions of the Southern Ocean remembered the effects submersion could have. Those were memories they would rather forget. Mindful of this, the coxswain threw a tarpaulin over the corpse before it was hoisted to the deck and placed flat on a canvas hammock.
‘Let me see it,’ Oliver said.
When the midshipman drew back the cover, there was an instant intake of breath from those standing close by.
‘Not a pleasant sight,’ Oliver said, turning to his first lieutenant. ‘Kindly ask Dr Whipple to join me. And clear this rabble away.’
With several hands having seen the damage to the corpse, word quickly spread around the deck and was relayed to the sailors in the forecastle. A fleeting glance had revealed eyes gouged out and, from the open mouth, the tongue had gone too. There were puncture marks dotted over the bare torso and the fingers and toes had apparently been cut off.
Apart from the signs of inflicted wounds, the body was bloated as was to be expected. But, being thousands of miles from land, it raised the question, what ship had the man fallen off or been thrown from? Was he alive when he’d gone overboard or was he already dead when he hit the water? How many of his injuries had occurred before he died? Had he died as a result of being tortured? Apart from those questions there remained the mystery of who he was. The captain was not the only one wanting to know the answers.
Aside from those questions, could it be assumed the dead man had come from the 74 and, if so, by calculating the prevailing winds and flow of the Atlantic current, was it possible to calculate the probable location of the third rate?
It took Dr Whipple only a matter of minutes to make a brief appraisal of the corpse. He then requested the body be delivered to the cockpit so he could make a more thorough examination.
Having spoken only briefly with the surgeon on deck, Oliver allowed an hour for him to examine the corpse before stepping down to the cockpit.
‘May I enter?’ Oliver asked, from the doorway.
‘Of course,’ the doctor replied from the far side of an operating table that had been constructed in the centre of the cockpit. Standing over his subject, he still held a knife in his stained hand.
Oliver approached slowly. The sight that confronted him was more appalling than that which he had witnessed on the deck.
Lying on his back, on a stained white sheet, the man’s torso had been opened from neck to navel and horizontally across the chest from one armpit to the other. The entrails and other organs, that had been removed, had been placed in several buckets near the doctor’s feet. The empty shell on the table resembled a butcher’s carcase rather than a human body.
Choosing not to look into the wooden pails, Oliver cleared his throat. ‘This is the sort of work you did at the Borough Hospitals, I believe?’
The surgeon nodded, placing the knife in a water butt on the floor. ‘That is correct, and I thank you for giving me the opportunity to conduct a thorough post mortem examination.’
‘I am hoping you can supply some information about this man. If not his identity, then perhaps how and when he died?’
‘I believe I can confidently answer those questions and more. First,’ he said, pointing to the man’s trousers, which had been removed and were neatly folded on the floor. ‘If I am not mistaken, these are regular duck issue as supplied by the purser on all naval vessels. Therefore, I contend this man was a Royal Navy seaman.’
Without touching them, Oliver viewed the item of clothing. ‘I agree.’
‘Furthermore, the anchor tattooed on his arms would confirm his occupation and, from the tar staining his palms yellow and his broken fingernails, I would assess he spent most of his days aloft in a ship’s rigging furling canvas to the yards.’
Oliver was impressed.
‘Added to that,’ he said, ‘the man’s feet have a distinct calloused ridge across them. That is the skin’s response to years of friction sliding along a footrope.’
‘A topman?’ Oliver queried, surprised at the conclusion arrived at so quickly.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But now, for the obvious and somewhat appalling injuries the body displays.’ The ship’s surgeon continued, pointing to the man’s side, arms and the loose skin incised from his chest. ‘These puncture marks have been caused by the teeth of small fish trying to make a meal of him. It appears a larger fish has nipped off several fingers and toes quite cleanly. I am surprised a shark did not make a more complete meal of him.’ Leaning forward over the face, he placed his index finger in one of the open orifices. ‘As to the eyes and tongue, which are also missing, I put that damage down to the voracious appetites of wandering seabirds. They are attracted to shiny morsels and unlikely to refuse any delicacy offered to them.’
Oliver was amazed. ‘So, it would appear, when he entered the water this man was uninjured.’
‘That is so and the question you will ask next is – did he fall or was he thrown into the sea?’
Oliver nodded expectantly.
‘I can confidently say he did not fall from the rigging either to the deck or directly into the sea. If he had, there would be obvious damage to his skull, neck or limbs. He would have suffered breaks or dislocations and shown evidence of bleeding about the head. I could find no such injuries.’
‘Perhaps he jumped overboard of his own free will.’
‘Are you suggesting suicide?’
Oliver nodded his head. ‘It happens.’
‘And it is a possibility I considered,’ the doctor said.
The captain was surprised. ‘What makes you say that?’
He glanced to one of the wooden pails on the floor near his feet. ‘From my examination of the man’s stomach contents and his overall body appearance – discounting the bloating effect caused by
submersion, I would say this man was less than thirty years of age, had been strong, fit and healthy but had recently been starved. Perhaps the sea was a means of escape.’
Oliver took a step back from the table. ‘Thank you, Doctor, I appreciate your assessment, but I will not enter suicide as the cause of death. If that were the case, I could not provide this sailor with a Christian burial. However, I can accept that he died of natural causes, albeit malnutrition, and was buried at sea. It is possible he was sewn into a hammock and subsequently slipped from it.’
‘So be it,’ Jonathon said. ‘I have no problem with that.’
‘Just one more question. How long has the body been in the water?’
‘In my estimation, three to four days.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Your advice has been enormously helpful. I will arrange for the body to be buried in the morning. Kindly prepare the remains accordingly.’
With the Admiralty’s chart of the Atlantic Ocean once again spread across the table in the great cabin, the captain and Mr Mundy studied it, reflecting on the strength and direction of the winds in the past five days. They referred to the ship’s log and considered the speed Perpetual and Flambeau had been making, and their bearings. They also spoke of the state of the sea, the surface waves, the swell and the underlying currents. Armed with this information they independently calculated where the body was likely to have entered the water and, if it had come from the 74, which seemed the most logical explanation, what the present position of HMS Stalwart might be.
After considerable debate, the captain and sailing master finally agreed and an adjustment to the ship’s present course was called for. With word passed to the helm and news related by speaking trumpet to Mr Parry aboard Flambeau, the two frigates took up their pursuit of the man-of-war.
Though he did not discuss the matter with his sailing master, Oliver was troubled by certain aspects of the information the doctor had given him. He had learned from Ekundayo that around two hundred British sailors had likely been locked in the 74’s hold. If this sailor, whose body had been recovered from the ocean, was one of that group and he had died from starvation, was it possible many other sailors similarly confined were dying at that very instant?
It was imperative to catch the 74 as quickly as possible and wrest it from the fiends who had taken it.
Two days later, a signal from Flambeau announced that another body had been spotted off its beam. Perpetual immediately hove to, while the French frigate wore around in a near complete circle to swim up alongside the corpse and pluck it from the water. There was no need to transfer the body to Perpetual, as Mr Parry’s report was sufficient to convince Captain Quintrell that not all was well aboard the 74. Unlike the previous body, however, this seaman had died as a result of several violent wounds inflicted by cutlass blade or knife. The fact this body was not bloated indicated it had not been in the water very long.
‘It would appear we are following a trail of corpses,’ Oliver commented rather flippantly to the ship’s surgeon. ‘I wonder how many are out there that have not been spotted.’
Jonathon Whipple’s expression was grave. ‘I fear what is up ahead will be no laughing matter.’
CHAPTER 19
Mayhem
With the dawn of a new day, members of both watches were on deck at sunrise scanning the sea for more floating bodies or a ship. Word had filtered from the quarterdeck that the 74 was not far ahead and the two frigates were in pursuit. Surprisingly, the macabre discoveries had perked the spirits of the crew and there was an air of anticipation in the mess and on the forecastle.
The discovery of yet another corpse confirmed the captain’s suspicions but also elevated his concerns. Like the body sighted by Flambeau earlier, the injuries were deep and deadly. Blood, which had dried as hard as mortar, was still caked in the wounds.
The tension on board was high. The officers paced the deck, screwing their eyes or squinting at the ocean through the lens of a telescope.
‘Do you see anything?’ Mr Tully shouted to the foremast lookout.
‘There’s a grey smudge on the horizon but it could be a cloud.’
As usual Mr Tully climbed aloft where the lookout pointed to what he had described.
The lieutenant rubbed his eyes, cleaned the lens on the cuff of his shirt and looked again. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘A grey smudge. It could be the tip of a rising cloud but it could also be a pyramid of canvas with its hull buried in the ocean.’
Together the pair watched and waited for any change but the blot on the horizon neither rose nor dissolved.
‘If it was heading this way, it would be hull-up by now.’
Mr Tully agreed. ‘If it’s a ship, it’s heading away from us.’ Looking at the firm bosoms of canvas all around him, it was obvious Perpetual was sailing well. She was carrying all her sails including studding sails alow and aloft. The French frigate mirrored her canvas. ‘Keep an eye on it,’ Mr Tully advised the lookout, ‘I’ll inform the captain.’
With the news relayed to the quarterdeck and then to Flambeau, both the helms were adjusted by a couple of spokes bringing both frigates in line with the object on the horizon.
‘Would a warning shot be worthwhile?’ the sailing master asked.
‘Not yet,’ the captain replied. If it is Stalwart, the lookouts will identify it soon enough. For the present, I prefer to be sure it is the ship we are chasing rather than alarming some other vessel.’
It was more than half an hour before the lookout confirmed a three-masted ship on the horizon with its hull almost visible. In his opinion, it was a line-of-battle ship and probably the third rate they were looking for, but it was flying no colours.
Sailing with a fresh following wind, the two frigates were making nine knots, but any evidence of the pair gaining on the 74 was hard to see. The sailing master announced it would take several hours to bring the ship into range of their guns, but three hours later, Captain Quintrell was satisfied that they had Stalwart in their sights and gave the order, ‘Mr Tully, call all hands. Prepare for action, and pass the word to Mr Parry on Flambeau.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Unable to anticipate who or what they would find aboard the third rate, the captain ordered a shot to be fired from one of the bow chasers. The response was almost immediate and surprised everyone. A white flag was run up on the 74’s signal halliard. However, that reply failed to answer the captain’s question as to who was in command, and it raised another other question: Was it a ruse?
The captain received his answer when the ship backed its sails and the ensign was hoisted. Cheers rang out simultaneously from the decks of both frigates which immediately came alive with activity. As if suddenly endowed with renewed vigour, the sailors streamed aloft to shorten sail, pull in the stuns’l booms, put another reef in the topsails and furl the courses. This allowed the frigates to slow as they closed on the warship.
When the name on the third rate’s transom was clearly visible to the naked eye, Perpetual bore away to its larboard side while Mr Parry ordered Flambeau down the starboard beam. Not knowing what reception they would receive, both frigates’ gun ports were open and the gun crews were standing ready for action.
After a brief conversation between Perpetual and the third rate, spoken through a brass trumpet, Oliver called for two boats to be put away. With the wind whipping up three foot waves on top of a strong swell, the waiting craft pitched and bounced, thudding heavily against the frigate’s hull.
With the coxswains already aboard, the crews quickly took their seats. Captain Quintrell, two of his senior officers and six marines occupied the first boat, while more marines jumped down into the second. With spray from the wave tips making for a wet ride, it was fortunate it was only a short pull to the 74.
Stepping aboard, everyone was struck with the same sense of shock and abhorrence. Those feelings were immediately etched on the men’s faces. While Captain Liversedge, in unbuttoned undress uniform, was waiting on deck
to greet his fellow captain and the side boys lined the gangway sounding their pipes, it was the startling consequences of a recent fight that grabbed Oliver Quintrell’s attention.
The deck was stained with blood – not scattered crimson spots as if dripped from a paint brush, but great swathes and streaks in plum and yellow-brown tones. With an attempt to wash the evidence from the deck, the swabbers had created the backcloth palette for an angry watercolour painting. The scuppers were stained rusty-red along their full length while the gunnels, rails and timber lockers bore cuts and gouges from blades hacking into them with lethal force. But most shocking of all was a large angular pile, heaped to chest high, covered in an expanse of torn sailcloth. Protruding legs and arms announced what was hidden beneath the canvas.’
‘In Heaven’s name,’ Oliver exclaimed. ‘What happened here?’
‘Let us go below,’ the captain said, drawing him away and indicating towards his cabin. ‘We need to talk.’ A feeling of great heaviness was evident in William Liversedge’s voice.
Hardly able to avert his eyes from the scene, Oliver handed his pistol to Mr Tully and followed his friend to the great cabin. On entering, William made no excuse or apology for the state of the room and appeared oblivious to the wanton damage which spoke of a fierce fight that had taken place in that part of the ship. Oliver blinked. The scene bore little resemblance to the fine drawing room-like accommodation he had visited, only a few weeks ago, in Guanabara Bay.
