by M. C. Muir
‘Yes, my Lord. Almost two thousand new copper plates have been added to her hull with copper nails at a cost of—’
‘Thank you. The cost of repair is irrelevant.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Elusive is a 38-gun frigate.’
Quintrell swallowed.
‘I know what you are thinking, Captain, and in light of your previous command, I can understand your disappointment that we are not offering you a ship of the line. In due course you will see the reasons behind our decision. For the present, however, let me say, the vessel we have selected has been chosen, not for its size or the number of its guns, but for its speed and versatility.’
Oliver tried to halt the flow of thoughts flashing through his head, as it appeared that the admiral was adept at intercepting those signals. Instead, his mind flipped back to the beach at Bembridge and the brief conversation he had had with his steward. Flippantly, he had said to be granted a sloop would make him happy. But in truth anything less than a 64-gun third-rate would be a disappointment. Yet, here he was being offered a frigate. A fifth-rate ship whose command was usually given to a newly appointed post captain. A fifth-rate was seen by some seeking advancement as a mere messenger boy of the fleet. But command of such a vessel offered a degree of independence higher ratings did not.
‘You wish to speak?’
‘My Lord.’ He paused. ‘Am I to understand Elusive will sail as part of the escort to the merchant fleet?’
St Vincent took a vellum pouch from the admiral on his left and placed it on the table. ‘These are your immediate orders. When the remainder of the merchant fleet arrives from The Nore, you will be ready to sail with them. Let me remind you that this is not an official naval escort, and you, in particular, will be with them but not of them. Take heed of your orders and follow them to the letter. It is of primary importance that you do not reveal the details to friend or foe. Your ship is well named Elusive and once you sail alone, this is the guise you must adopt. We trust you will wear the name like a cloak and become a ghost ship on the sea. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘You have a little less than two weeks to engage your crew and take on supplies. The Port Admiral at Portsmouth will be made aware of your requirements and will give you priority and assistance should you need it.’
Oliver’s mind was racing. There would be little time.
‘One final item. The Admiralty has taken the liberty of selecting the officer to serve as Elusive’s first officer. Lieutenant Simon Parry has an interesting record. You will meet him at the conclusion of this interview. Midshipmen we have aplenty and we will have no difficulty supplying your quota. As to able seamen, I am sure Mr Parry will oversee that matter. However, I must stress the importance of selecting honest and trustworthy men. In peacetime there are many able-bodied seamen eager to sign and willing to serve on anything afloat, therefore, I charge you to choose carefully. The fortunes of England may be affected by the outcome of your voyage.’
‘May I ask the destination of the cruise?’
‘Your immediate orders are here. You sail with the convoy to Madeira. You will be handed further sealed orders when you anchor in
Funchal Road. Those instructions are not to be opened until you reach the 15th parallel.’ ‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘The content of those orders, which will reveal your final destination, must remain a closely guarded secret. Should you be boarded or taken, those orders must be destroyed. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Do you have any further questions?
‘No, my Lord.’
‘Then I wish you God speed. Much depends on the success of your mission.’
Oliver Quintrell stood up, bowed to the Lords of the Admiralty and the other gentlemen in attendance. Stepping forward, he reached out to take the vellum pouch and immediately felt the weight of five pairs of eyes resting on his misshapen hand. But he didn’t care. He had his ship.
His last command had been a 64-gun ship of the line and now he was relegated to a frigate. But it was a ship and a command.
The mention of secret orders intrigued him. What would his destination be? He was sailing south to the 15th parallel. From there the majority of merchant ships and the West Indian squadron would be heading north-west with the trade winds. Perhaps he would be heading south. The Cape of Good Hope, Cape Horn, Ceylon? he wondered.
The possibility of sailing the South American coastline appealed to him. He knew all the ports from Recife to Rio and Monte Video to Valparaiso. Harbours he had not entered, he knew by reputation. But for now, he must take a post-chaise to Portsmouth. There was much to be done – a visit to his tailor, order cigars and honey, then return with all haste to the Isle of Wight and Bembridge to collect his dunnage and attend to many other matters. In the meantime, he would direct Casson to locate his old sailing master, Jack Mundy, also his gunner and bosun – if those men were still alive. Likely all three warrant officers were land-locked somewhere in the London area. If his memory served him correctly, Mr Mundy attended a church by the Thames at Putney, and the gunner’s family had a small cottage near the docks in Chatham.
Even now he could picture himself pacing the quarterdeck; could hear the thrum of the rigging strumming in his ears. He could visualize the sea at night. Could trace the staircase to the moon laid out across the water. He could smell the exotic spices of tropical ports and almost feel the damp humidity which enveloped the deck. Then his memory catapulted to Madeira; to silk sheets and the sheen of sweat shining on smooth glowing skin; to her body rising and falling beneath him, long and slow – like the reaches of the broad Atlantic swell; to the warmth of her lips.
Like the sea itself, her call was magnetic. One day he would see her again.
Chapter 3
Mr Parry
‘Captain Quintrell?’
The voice shook Oliver back to reality. The naval officer addressing him was impeccably dressed, his uniform taken straight from the cutting room of Cutler and Gross. However, it lacked the perfunctory evidence of tailor’s chalk and the aromatic odour of camphor. It also lacked any additional trimmings of gold lace or epaulettes.
‘And you, sir, are…?’
‘Simon Parry, first lieutenant of the Elusive. At your service, Captain.’
There was something vaguely familiar about the face. Had they met before?
The lieutenant inclined his head in an elegant fashion, his gesture lacking any flamboyance but revealing much of his breeding. He maintained the pose for a second but the grace with which he delivered it made the moment appear longer. Then he lifted his face, straightened his neck and, like a recently whittled long bow without a string, stood almost six feet tall; slim, willowy and straight as a die.
After acknowledging the gesture with a quick nod of the head, Oliver inclined his eyes to the man’s tidily trimmed hair. It was the shade of a sun-bleached deck, almost white, though Quintrell considered the colour spoke nothing of the officer’s age. On the contrary, the premature greying complemented his distinguished appearance.
‘May I walk with you, Captain?’
‘Indeed. I find the corridors of the Admiralty somewhat suffocating.’
As they traversed the well-worn marble and headed towards the grey pavements of Whitehall, the captain was aware of his lieutenant’s gait. It was unlike his own. The officer’s step was light and smooth and quite different from the ungainly gait of most men of the sea – an unfortunate attribute which attracted the press gangs to recently returned sailors as precociously as flies to a newly slaughtered beast.
He wondered how his lieutenant had coped during his years as a midshipman. No doubt he had served on an Admiral’s ship, possibly that of a relative. No doubt he had come aboard with a sea chest bursting with private provisions; a quantity sufficient to supply half the crew. Likely he had risen to the rank of lieutenant by favour rather than ability and were it not for the peace he would no doubt have his own command by now.
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Quintrell tried to check his cynicism, but he had a festering dislike for patronage and the hypocrisy of the haughty upper-class. In his opinion, their behaviour was little different from that of an ordinary seaman only it was wrapped in frills, bows and flounces, flavoured with fragrances and tied up with a string of titles.
Victoria had accused him of being jealous as he had not been bred to such a life, but Oliver was adamant that was not the case. He could not tolerate affectation or hypocrisy in any man. They were traits which irritated as intensely as hives on a sensitive skin.
It was ironic that the fortunes of war, namely prize money, had made him a wealthy man, so rich, in fact, he could buy himself a country estate if he so wished. But Oliver Quintrell wore the vestiges of wealth as uncomfortably as a hermit crab fitted its discarded shell. His wife, however, whose birthright entitled her to aspire to those ways, revelled in the creature comforts and social status which his fortune guaranteed.
When they stepped out to the street, Whitehall was alive with traffic. Carriages lined both sides of the road, their open doors emitting an assortment of residual odours left by their most recent passengers. On the roadway fresh horse droppings steamed sweetly, reminding them they were far from fresh sea air.
‘I thought you would be interested to hear that I have seen Elusive, Captain.’
‘I was of the understanding that you only received your instructions this morning.’
‘That is so; however I visited Portsmouth two weeks ago and by chance had the opportunity of touring the dockyard with my uncle.’
Port Admiral for a relative? Quintrell wondered. ‘Indeed?’
‘I noted a frigate undergoing repair. She was still on the stocks and was attracting considerable interest around the harbour.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because of the money expended on her in this time of peace. And because of the new copper sheathing. I was told that from Gosport, at a certain hour in the evening, the ship reflected the rays of the setting sun. Some said it looked as though the hull has been dipped in burnished gold.’
‘Poetic,’ Quintrell said rather scornfully. ‘Thank goodness that will not be evident once her bottom is wet. Tell me, Mr Parry, from your observation had the restoration work been completed?’
‘When I saw her, the plating was finished and preparations were being made to launch her and re-step the masts. I expect by the time we return to Portsmouth she will be in the water and the work will be complete.’
‘And when do you intend to join her?’
‘Tomorrow. I intend to travel overnight.’ He paused. ‘And when will we expect you on board, Captain?’
‘Two days from now.’ Such a delay was frustrating, but Oliver had little choice. He had business to attend to in London and he must return to Bembridge and his wife before taking up his commission. ‘However, I shall be passing through Portsmouth tomorrow on my journey home. Be so good as to meet me on The Hard at six o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘Tomorrow at six, Captain. I will look forward to it.’
Quintrell arrived at the port town in the forenoon. The coach ride from London had been tedious but otherwise uneventful setting him down in Portsmouth fifteen minutes earlier than was scheduled. During the afternoon, he had visited his bank and tailor and placed orders in several establishments for his private rations. His steward would have ample time to collect anything he had overlooked, as it would be several days before they would be ready to sail.
With half an hour to spare before meeting with his lieutenant, Oliver strolled through the dockyard area. Much had changed in the months since the war had ended. Now Portsmouth had more derelict sailors lining its wharves than empty casks and barrels. The cobblestones which once rumbled to the sound of gun carriages now ticked with the tap of blind men’s sticks, while the lamp posts provided support for a score of peg-legged beggars. In the local paper, he had read that land-locked seamen now rivalled pick-pockets and prostitutes as the scourge of the town. Such was the legacy of peace.
On the harbour itself, wherries and lighters ferried their wares between ships and jetties, but of the hundreds of victuallers’ barges which had once serviced the fighting ships, many had been left to rot in the Gosport mud. The boats and barges which still plied their repetitive trade did so with little of the urgency or expediency required when supplying an active war-time fleet.
Only one first-rate ship was in harbour. A triple decker carrying over one hundred guns. Beyond her was a frigate, several sloops, ketches and brigs all vying for the broad channels carrying sufficient deep water to keep them afloat.
Dominating the harbour was the line of once-proud fighting ships. Stripped of sails, masts, spars and rigging, the prison hulks stood in single file like a line of Hannibal’s elephants – chained together bow to stern, unable to release themselves from the suction of the silt. On deck, the bare carcases bore only marine signal boxes, while at water level a floating wooden platform skirted each ship creating a curious and almost comical garb. The residual smells however, which exuded through the bars fixed over the gunports, were no laughing matter. For the present the prison hulks serviced the needs of London’s overcrowded gaols and housed male and female convicts awaiting transportation to the colonies. But there was ample accommodation awaiting Napoleon’s men should the tyrant decide to breach the Treaty of Amiens.
For a moment Oliver’s mind flashed back to the boy’s body on the Beach, then he blinked, turned his gaze from the all-too familiar sight and considered the day.
It was near perfect. Clear skies with a breeze freshening from the north-west. Ideal conditions for a ship to sail out of the harbour, but for the moment he must bide his time and content himself with a short journey across The Solent to the Isle of Wight and home.
At 6 o’clock, with the majority of his business completed and a navy launch waiting at the gun jetty, the captain strode smartly across the road to where his lieutenant was waiting for him.
‘Mr Parry,’ he said.
The lieutenant’s eyes did not flinch as he gripped the captain’s outstretched hand. There was no evidence of surprise or distaste when his palm wrapped around the appendage that had the consistency of a dead cockerel’s claw.
It is remarkable, Oliver thought, how effectively the upper classes have mastered the ability of appearing oblivious to anything disagreeable. He trusted that this trait would not apply on Elusive. A lieutenant must be alert at all times; must be aware of the smallest deviation from normal; must recognise anything unseemly, assess it and act upon it instantly. That was his job.
‘Captain, I trust you had a reasonable journey.’
‘Reasonable? Yes. But what of Elusive? Where is she?’
‘Less than half a mile upstream from here. North west of the Clock.’
From where they were standing on The Hard the buildings of the Royal Naval Dockyard masked their view.
‘You went aboard this morning?’
‘At seven o’clock, sir.’
‘And your opinion?’
‘Sound ship, Captain. Not more than five years old, I would wager. A nice line. However, I hear she was in a sorry state when she was towed in from the Channel. It was argued whether it was best to burn her or repair her. I believe the decision to restore her was justified as there was little damage to the hull. From what I can see the carpenters and riggers have performed an excellent job.’
‘And who have you left on board?’
‘There are six marines including a sergeant, a ship-keeper and half a dozen carpenters and shipwrights from the dockyard who are still finishing off work below decks. They will be on board for three or maybe four days. And this morning I signed twenty men to help with the victualling. They are all seamen who have served on ships of the line. Four of them were in the same gun crew. There is also a gunner’s mate, a bosun’s mate, and a cook.’
‘Men you know of?’
‘No, sir. I chose them from the morning mob mill
ing around the slipway – quite a large and unruly crowd, and I gather it is the same here every day.’
‘In these uncertain times, any chance of a possible berth would travel around the port like wildfire.’
The lieutenant nodded. ‘One thing is for certain, there is no longer need for the press.’
‘That is good, but I am surprised you only signed twenty men. Have you spoken with the Clerk of the Cheque?’
‘I have indeed. He tells me that by tomorrow or the next day we will have the bulk of our men. One hundred and twenty sailors off the Constantine are being ferried up from Falmouth.’
‘Constantine. A 74-gunner? Served recently in the Mediterranean during the war?’
‘That is so. She ran foul of the Scilly Isles and broke up on Bishop Rock more than a week ago.’
‘Yes, I heard about it. What on earth was she doing veering so far to the north?’
The lieutenant had no answer.
‘The captain will be facing a court-martial.’
Mr Parry paused before answering. ‘Indeed. An unfortunate incident.’
‘Unfortunate indeed! More likely bad seamanship, Mr Parry. That “unfortunate incident”, as you call it, cost the lives of several hundred men. She would have had a muster list of at least six hundred and I expect half of those are probably now bobbing up in the sea around Land’s End like a herd of bloated seals.’
Unperturbed, Mr Parry continued, ‘I was told that the men who survived are being transported aboard a coastal vessel and, if the weather permits, will arrive in Spithead tomorrow. They were given the option of returning to their home but most were anxious to sign.’
‘Any warrant officers amongst them?’ Oliver asked.
‘I will not know until they arrive but I heard that they lost their master, purser and surgeon.’
‘So, one hundred and twenty Constantines plus the men from The Hard. And what of the rest? Will you take Portsmouth men?’
‘The Clerk of the Cheque advised me that he is sending down a group recently discharged from the Haslar Hospital.’
