by M. C. Muir
Despite the support of well-armed men and marines following closely behind, Captain Quintrell climbed to the deck of the 74 with trepidation. In one hand he held a cocked pistol, while his sword hand remained free. Stepping onto the deck, he was wary of what sight would greet him this time.
His fears were allayed when Lieutenant Hazzlewood stepped up and greeted the captain. The deck was clear and apart from the occasional raised voices coming from below, all appeared quiet. There were no sounds of shooting, no crashing of steel, no cries of pain and no canvas-covered pile of bodies. However, the lieutenant was obviously agitated.
‘Good to see you, sir’ he said quickly. ‘The captain is in dire need of your help.’
‘What has happened?’
‘The prisoners rioted. They are behaving like wild beasts. Captain Liversedge told me the French and Irish sailors in the hold have formed themselves into two separate mobs and are intent on slaughtering each other.’
‘Where is the captain now?’
‘He’s in the hold. He went below to try to talk some sense into them.’
‘You accompanied him?’
‘Not inside. He said for me to lower the cover after he and his men had entered and not to allow anyone in or out until he gave the instruction.’
‘You did that?’
‘Yes, Captain. And I placed an armed guard at the hatch.’
‘Who is with Captain Liversedge?’
‘The second lieutenant and some of the crew. They are armed but they are badly outnumbered. I don’t know how long they can hold out before the mob takes over.’
‘Come with me,’ Oliver said. ‘I am going below’.
‘Take care, captain.’
Oliver nodded and followed Mr Hazzlewood down through the ship. When they reached the grating over the hatch, the lieutenant released the bar securing it and slid the cover back a few inches. Oliver peered through the gap but could see nothing.
‘I shall need more light,’ he demanded. ‘Much more light.’
‘Captain Quintrell is that you?’
Though reassured to hear the voice of the 74’s captain, it sounded distant and his words lacked their usual verve.
‘I am coming below. I have men with me,’ he shouted back then turned to the lieutenant. ‘Remove the grating and stand back, but be ready.’
Standing by the hatch cover, Oliver sniffed the air. The stench that invaded his nostrils was strange. The hold reeked of brine, but not the salty brine swept from the ocean but the pickling brine of the galley when cauldrons of beef, pork and preserved vegetables were boiled. The smell almost took his breath away. But the shouts and curses and threats held his attention.
After waiting until two more lanterns were handed to his men, Oliver ordered the hatch cover to be removed completely and he stepped down.
With Mr Tully on his right shoulder, Ekundayo to his left and several seamen and marines following closely behind, the captain descended carefully, unsure of the reception awaiting them. He stopped when he reached the bottom of the ladder. ‘Secure the grating,’ he called.
Beneath his feet, the ship’s ballast, usually firm with blocks of pig iron embedded in gravel, was soft and slimy. The shiny black surface appeared to slither slowly from side to side like a giant black serpent.
Ignoring the wetness penetrating his shoes, Oliver dug his feet firmly on the bottom and peered into the gloom. Closest to the steps was a small group of men, including some in uniform. The cocked pistols in their hands were levelled at two larger groups whose faces and identities were obscured in the darkness. Some shadowy figures hung back skulking within the hold’s dark recesses. Others stepped forward defiantly brandishing weapons, their blades catching the light of the flickering glims. Between the groups, several bodies were sprawled on the ballast. It was evident an ugly confrontation had already taken place.
‘Where are you?’ Oliver called.
‘I am here,’ William Liversedge cried from the group nearby.
With his eyes slowly adjusting to the murky gloom, the tenseness of the situation was revealed. But the sight of William Liversedge standing at the head of his men concerned him. The captain’s hair was dishevelled and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Though he was armed with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other, both hands were trembling.
The Frenchmen were huddled closely together at the far end of the hold – their shirts, hats and striped trousers marking their identity. They numbered about thirty but were making no effort to move.
At the opposite end was a much larger, noisier and more aggressive group. From their dress they appeared British. From their accents, they were obviously Irish.
Oliver moved forward with his small armed forced and edged towards Captain Liversedge.
‘They will stop at nothing,’ the 74’s captain said. ‘They are armed and seem intent on slaughtering each other. And us too. They must be kept apart.’
As he was speaking, two of the marine’s muskets exploded and two more bodies crumpled to the deck.
‘Stay back!’ Oliver yelled.
The man who had been hit moaned and squirmed like a cut worm on the slime but no one attempted to assist him.
With cutlasses brandished above their heads, the mob of Irishmen cursed, seethed and struggled with each other, throwing blows and curses at their own countrymen. At the front of the mob was one of the red-headed Wexford lads with another man, standing taller than the others in the group. It was Joseph Murphy.
‘Saoirse nó bás!’ the red-head yelled. The others joined in the cry for freedom or death.
‘They are intent on killing each other,’ Captain Liversedge repeated.
‘Perhaps we should afford them that privilege,’ Oliver replied.
‘Saoirse nó bás,’ Murphy cried, before breaking from the group. With a cutlass raised above his head he launched himself towards Captain Quintrell.
Oliver pulled the trigger and two muskets shots rang out simultaneously. Two Irish men dropped while Murphy fell forward impaling himself on a broken barrel stave. He did not get up.
Undeterred, another man took up the rebellious cry and the process was repeated.
‘How many of you want to die,’ Oliver yelled. ‘You serve your country nothing by ending your lives in a stinking ship’s hold. You have already forfeited your liberty and freedom. Death is waiting for you. Is that what you want? Is that what you are fighting for?’
The cries were silenced. No one moved.
‘Surrender your weapons,’ Oliver cried, ‘or make this hold your grave.’
After the first cutlass was dropped to the ballast, grips were reluctantly released and others followed. The order was repeated and slowly an array of weapons fell from the Irishmen’s hands. Cutlasses, knives and other implements were collected by two of the 74’s marines and passed up through the hatch to the deck above.
Oliver turned and faced the other group. ‘You Frogs will do the same. Captain Moncousu is dead. Your life rests in the hands of the ship’s captain. If you are lucky, you will be delivered to an English port and treated as prisoners of war. You are enemies of the Crown and if you do not surrender now you will be shot. The choice is yours.’
Ekundayo repeated the order in French and immediately the sailors lifted their arms above their heads.
‘If you do not want to die here with these Irish dogs, move from there. Follow my men to the deck. I will decide what to do with you later.’
The Frenchmen wasted no time in making their decision. Stepping carefully, they slid towards the steps.
‘Clear away the hatch cover,’ Oliver called to the guards. ‘Marines, escort these Frogs to the waist. Restrain them with irons and keep them quiet until Captain Liversedge and I are done here.’
Ekundayo again relayed the instructions and the French sailors started pushing forward.
As Oliver watched the last few Frenchmen climbing the steps, another two shots rang out. Smoke rose from the muskets of the
74’s marines.
‘Back where you were!’ Captain Liversedge yelled. With little choice, the Irishmen cursed but complied. Oliver nodded to his friend. Some degree of order had been restored.
Treading carefully in order not to slip, Stalwart’s sailors followed their captain up the steps to fresher air. Following his own men, Oliver Quintrell was the last to climb out. Before leaving, he turned and addressed the Irishmen.
‘You men are a disgrace to the British Navy, a disgrace to yourselves and a disgrace to your country. For the riotous behaviour you have demonstrated on this ship you will be tried for mutiny and many of you will hang.’
With all the weapons removed and all but one lanterns remaining, Oliver Quintrell backed out of the hold. The grating immediately thudded down on the coaming leaving the irate Irish to argue and fight among themselves.
Captain Liversedge was waiting on the orlop deck. ‘I thank God you came to my aid,’ William cried. ‘I was holding an empty pistol. I had exhausted all possibilities of overcoming those fiends and had no way of removing myself from the situation I got myself into. I don’t know how much longer I could have held them off.’
Oliver reassured his friend that all would be well.
‘More bodies,’ William said. ‘What do we do with them?’
‘My men will assist. They must be tossed overboard.’
‘So many young lives wasted,’ William said, shaking his head. ‘Such a waste.’
But Oliver knew there was much to attend to and no time for sentimentality. ‘With your permission, I will speak with your officer on deck. The sooner we reach Portsmouth, the better.’
William Liversedge agreed. It was obvious there was little fight left in him.
An hour later, with the two captains sitting together in the main cabin, Oliver questioned his friend.
‘What sparked this latest riot? I thought the matter had been resolved.’
‘I thought so too,’ William said. ‘At least long enough to see us safe home. But, before setting upon each other, the two mobs turned their attention to the remaining barrels in the hold.’
‘But you were not starving them, were you?’
Captain Liversedge laughed derisively. ‘Certainly not.’
‘Then what?’ Oliver asked.
‘Word had reached them that four chests of Spanish treasure were hidden in the barrels. As you know, many of my men had witnessed the transfer in Rio and when the men were forced into the hold and saw the barrels had been smashed by the British sailors, they presumed they had been searching for the silver.’
Oliver Quintrell rolled his eyes in disbelief.
‘When we forced them below, they were still carrying the weapons they had been fighting with – axes, knives, cutlasses and pikes. They found those implements handy to prise the bands from the barrels or to stove in the staves. Once a few had been opened every sailor joined in. It was like the inmates of Bedlam had been let loose. Starting from the topmost level, they smashed every barrel they could reach then started grappling with each other. That was when my men had no alternative but to fire into the mob to try to bring some order. Several were shot and others wounded, but at least they stopped their riotous behaviour and I was able to separate them. That is when you arrived’
‘Did they find what they were searching for?’ Oliver enquired.
‘No, I think not, but they had not reached the lower levels. They did, however, stove in barrels containing pork and beef, sauerkraut, lemons and beer empting them all into the hull. As you would have noticed, it’s a gluey, stinking sewer that boasts an armada of ship’s biscuits swimming on its surface. It will be impossible to pump out. Like night water it will have to be shovelled up and removed a bucketful at a time. I fear it will take days and the Navy Board will not be impressed.’
‘This is truly unfortunate,’ Oliver said, ‘I am sorry that you were the one to suffer because of a promise I made long ago.’
William Liversedge was exhausted. ‘What should I do, Oliver?’
It was a cry for help rather than a question.
‘Trust me – now the two groups are apart you will have no problems. Bury the dead and set all sail. Leave the Irish prisoners where they are. Two days from now we will raise The Needles and, the following morning, anchor in Spithead. With the permission of the Port Admiral, it is possible you will be able to enter Portsmouth Harbour and convey your prisoners directly to one of the prison hulks where a court can be convened to hear the mutineers’ case.’
‘What of recovering and delivering the Spanish treasure?’
‘Leave that to me,’ Oliver said.
CHAPTER 21
Portsmouth
The early morning arrival in Spithead of a 74-gun ship of the line in convoy with a British frigate and a French prize was met in the port town with excitement. Along the ancient battlements and on both sides of the harbour’s entrance, crowds gathered and watched in silence. Small children clung to their mothers’ skirts after being told the father they had not seen in years was coming home. With that came the promise of food on the table and perhaps a pair of much needed shoes. On the wharfs, old salts, who had been refused berths on other ships, waited to see where the ships would dock. If the navy was desperate for men, there was a chance they could sign and return to sea. The possibility had been kindled by harbour talk that French squadrons were being recalled from across the Atlantic and that the Spanish were supplying their ships in readiness for a combined attack on the British fleet.
While the arrival and departure of line-of-battle ships was commonplace and a fleet could sit in Spithead for several days without drawing any attention, mention of His Majesty’s frigate Perpetual, which had spent time in Gibraltar, jogged a few memories and set a few tongues wagging.
The previous year, the Gazette and Naval Chronicle had published details of Captain Graham Moore’s success in taking several Spanish treasure ships in a deadly battle off Cape St Mary. On his return to England, the majority of the treasure taken from the Spanish fleet had been discharged and conveyed to London. Though little was written of it at the time, word that the cargo consisted of gold ingots, gems and minted silver had spread like wildfire. But the frigate, Medusa, Captain John Gore, which had taken part in the action, had been severely damaged in the encounter and unable to return with the other ships. Having limped into Gibraltar Bay after the battle, it had undergone a refit there and arrived in England some weeks after the rest of the fleet. It was rumoured that during his stay in the colony, Captain Gore had entrust several chest of silver coins to a British frigate. Word quickly passed that the newly arrived 32-gun frigate, Perpetual was that ship.
As for the 74, talk of trouble aboard the third rate had not yet made landfall but news of the mutiny would quickly be relayed by the crew of the pilot boat once it touched the quay. It would be some time, however, before the facts would appear in the local papers and, even then, not all the information would be made known.
For the wives and children, mothers and sweethearts of those who had served aboard HMS Stalwart it would be a long wait until the third rate was able to enter the harbour and take up a berth along the quay. Despite this, many wives would head to the gates at the entrance of the naval dockyard where they would wait patiently under the great arch until the hundreds of sailors had been paid off and passed by heading to the nearest tavern. Sadly several women would wait days until the final sailor had departed and the gatekeeper turned them away. Only then would they realise their fate – they were now widows.
The Port Admiral’s cutter was the first of many small boats to sail from the harbour’s entrance to meet the newly arrived vessels in Spithead. While a flotilla of lighters and barges headed for the 74, the cutter’s sights were set on the British frigate.
After the customary formalities were attended on Perpetual’s deck, the Port Admiral was invited below, while the local pilot familiarised himself with the ship itself. The meeting with the high ranking officer in the cap
tain’s cabin was brief but cordial and Oliver Quintrell and his senior officers were afforded a genuinely warm welcome home.
‘Tell me, Captain Quintrell,’ the Port Admiral enquired. ‘I understand the Admiralty’s orders delivered to you in Rio de Janeiro indicated you were to transfer the Spanish silver you were carrying to Captain Liversedge aboard HMS Stalwart?’
‘You understand correctly,’ Oliver replied.
‘But by doing that, you were aware the consignment would be in jeopardy if the 74 fell into French hands.’
‘That was a concern.’
‘So, tell me, Captain. Have you returned with the cases intact? Can I take it that the consignment of silver is stowed safely aboard?’
‘It is indeed – securely hidden within four barrels. Might I suggest that when these barrels are off-loaded and conveyed to their ultimate destination, they are escorted by a company of marine guards?’
The Port Admiral was delighted to oblige. ‘I will make the necessary arrangement as soon as I go ashore. The country owes you a debt of gratitude, Captain Quintrell. You must be pleased.’
‘No sir, I am not.’ Oliver’s blunt reply shocked the elderly gentleman charged with command of the most important naval port in Britain. ‘I am, however, thankful to see this consignment arrive safely in Portsmouth. I made a commitment to Captain Gore in Gibraltar. Now I am free of that obligation and the Navy Board or the Lords of the Admiralty can decide to do what they will with the cache of silver. As for myself, speaking to you confidentially, I believe the treasure was stolen by a convoy of British ships at a time when Spain was still our ally. As such, I wish no thanks for my actions or any public mention of my name regarding this matter.’
