by M. C. Muir
His address was interrupted, when the door creaked and the clerk, who had ushered Oliver into the room, attempted to re-enter without being noticed. However, before he had taken two paces, the First Lord directed his gaze at him. ‘Kindly remain outside. I will call you when I am ready.’
When the door closed, St Vincent continued. ‘The problems of promotion through privilege and patronage are exacerbated where mutual interest and advancement are the determining factors. It occurs where naval honour must be seen to be upheld and loyalty between officers demonstrated.’
Oliver Quintrell was blatantly aware that any chance of his promotion within the ranks was far from imminent. Though his name was well advanced on the post captains’ list and he was thirty-three years of age, he was lacking in years of naval service. Having entered the Royal Navy at the relatively old age of nineteen, his time fell far short of those officers, (privileged sons, nephews and grandsons of titled nobility) whose names had been entered in ships’ books from the tender age of eight or nine years – some even younger, despite them never having stepped aboard a vessel until they embarked as a midshipman.
‘Captain, this discussion may seem irrelevant to you, but these matters must be considered when important decisions are made. We value your experience and would not offer you a position as flag captain on a ship of the line, even if we were at liberty to do so, as this would not allow you to utilize your ability, which, I might add, is well regarded, as you will discover.’
Conscious all eyes were on him, Oliver showed no response.
‘Enough said. Here are your interim orders. The frigate, Isle of Lewis, Captain Slater will be sailing from Deptford tomorrow. Seven days hence, you will join this vessel at Spithead and take passage to Gibraltar. Captain Slater will be expecting you. As to your commission – His Majesty’s Frigate, Perpetual awaits you in Gibraltar. She sustained some damage in a fracas off the coast of Minorca and is presently undergoing repairs which, I am assured, will be completed by the time of your arrival. You will collect your further orders from the Port Admiral on The Rock. He will provide you with any assistance you require. Acquiring a crew should not prove difficult, as ships of the Mediterranean fleet are continually putting into that port for repair. I wish you well.’
Oliver was anxious for more information, not least his destination and the purpose of his mission.
‘One other item,’ the First Lord added, ‘We have appointed Mr Parry to serve as your first lieutenant. I understand he served with you on Elusive. His transfer has been arranged and he will be awaiting your arrival in Gibraltar.’
Oliver was delighted. He could wish for no better officer than Simon Parry to sail with him. ‘Thank you, my Lord.’
With no other intelligence forthcoming and Earl St Vincent engaging in muffled conversation with the aged Admiral sitting to his right, Oliver presumed the interview had come to an end.
‘One final question,’ St Vincent said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘What do you know of Captain Crabthorne?’
‘Very little, my Lord. Only what I have read in the Gazette.’
‘Indeed.’
With that, Oliver rose to his feet and stepped forward to retrieve the pouch containing his immediate orders.
‘Remain seated,’ the First Lord ordered. Reaching for a small brass bell on the table, he gave it two brisk rings, summoning the clerk who had been waiting without.
‘Kindly usher our guests in.’ the First Lord said.
Chapter 2
The Lloyd’s Registry Fund
When almost two dozen civilians shuffled into the Board Room, Oliver felt slightly bewildered. The Admiralty was the domain of naval officers – all uniformly dressed in various shades of blue. And while white trimmings adorned some collars and lapels, gold lace predominated. The sight of an occasional drably dressed civilian did not raise eyebrows, but the arrival of a convoy of them was most surprising.
In deference to the age of the new arrivals, and to the scarlet sashes sweeping diagonally across two of the gentlemen’s chests, Oliver rose to his feet. The group was followed into the room by a young lieutenant cradling a polished mahogany case in his arms. Taking directions from the First Lord, he deposited it gently on the table then returned to the back of the throng. Though the company behind him was obliged to remain standing, the captain resumed his seat.
Earl St Vincent rose. ‘My Lords, Gentlemen, I am aware of the inconvenience many of you have encountered in presenting yourselves here today, and I thank you for your attendance. It is well that this sort of display of patriotism in a public park does not occur too frequently.’
With nods and muffled responses, the First Lord walked around the table and released the brass hasps on the box, lifted the lid, then carefully slid both hands inside and lifted out a finely honed sword, its gold hilt elaborately decorated. The blade was also engraved, and the scabbard and belt were equally ornate. The metal gleamed as it sliced the sun’s rays evoking a spontaneous hiss from the assembled group.
In his mind, Oliver questioned if it was awe or envy, admiration or extravagance that ushered such a response.
‘Captain Quintrell, please step forward.’
Facing the captain, but addressing the gathered assembly, the First Lord began, ‘Gentlemen, you are all aware that the Lloyd’s Registry Fund has collected donations from members of the business community, such as yourselves, and allocated those funds specifically for a number of awards to be made in recognition of courage, leadership and performance of duty in the Royal Navy for which no other recognition has been received. These awards vary from medals to swords of twenty-five, fifty, and one hundred guineas. As you can see from the item I hold in my hand, today’s award is one of the most prestigious and I acknowledge the Dress Sword Makers to the Patriotic Fund of the Strand for their fine craftsmanship.’
He continued. ‘My Lords, Sea Lords, Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, Members of the Navy Board, representative of both Houses of Parliament, Gentlemen – you are probably unaware of Captain Quintrell’s service to his country, and that will remain as is for the present. But in case any one of you would question the value of this gift at a time when the country is struggling financially, I must remind you that it has not been funded by the Admiralty or the Government but through public subscription. Britain is a trading nation and it is her ship owners and businessmen who have donated the money in recognition of their faith in this great institution and the men who defend our seas and insure mercantile trade is allowed to continue despite the best efforts of the enemy to halt it.’
Earl St Vincent stepped forward. ‘Captain Quintrell, I present this to you on behalf of the Lloyd’s Registry Fund. It carries with it the thanks and goodwill of the people. And I might add that His Majesty the King was disappointed that this presentation could not be made at the palace.’
Receiving the elegant sword into his open palms, in the presence of such auspicious company, was overwhelming. Oliver responded with a muffled, ‘Thank you,’ the words sounding hollow and totally inadequate.
‘My Lords,’ the First Lord announced, ‘All that remains is for a round of applause for Captain Quintrell.’
Instantly, feet stamped on the timber floor, hands clapped and the sound of huzzahs echoed in the Board Room. ‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your presence here today. I am aware many of you have important business to attend to but, for those not pressed for time, refreshment will be served in the dining room. Kindly follow the usher.’
Still holding the sword in his hands, Oliver gazed down at it, his mind in a spin. He had his commission, which was what he wanted. And now he had this award which was overwhelming, but was something he could well do without.
‘May I?’ said the Sea Lord, retrieving it from the captain’s hands and returning it to the velvet-lined case. ‘I trust your good wife will encourage you to stand for a portrait. It would be an appropriate response to Lloyds’ generous gesture.’
The idea appalled Oliver,
but St Vincent was right – his wife would certainly encourage that response. Furthermore, she would insist on a full-length portrait and have it displayed on the most visible wall in the house. And no doubt she would wish for the sword to be mounted above the fireplace. Both items would then be the subject of conversation when entertaining. For Oliver, however, it would be a constant source of embarrassment that would result in him spending more time in his study in order to avoid his wife’s invited guests. A glance at the Sea Lord, told him St Vincent was privy to his thoughts.
‘I trust, Captain, that this honour bestowed on you by Lloyd’s, and through the generosity of the people whose donations contributed to it, is received in the gracious manner in which it is given.’
‘My Lord, this is indeed an unexpected honour and one I feel I am not deserving of.’ Oliver paused. He was endeavouring to sound sincere but was aware his old vein of cynicism was bleeding again. The sword was magnificent, there was no doubting that and being a recipient of it was indeed a great honour. The First Lord himself and Horatio Nelson had both received ceremonial swords in recognition of the parts they had played in the Battle of Cape St Vincent.
But, for Oliver, the sword carried something he personally could do without. It was a reminder that the two-hundred men, who served him on his previous mission, had received not a penny-piece for their efforts. He considered they were more deserving of a reward from the Lloyd’s Registry Fund than himself. Or even better, the money expended in producing a gold sword could have been directed to the seamen’s fund for widows and orphans.
Oliver chose his words carefully. ‘My mission was successful only thanks to the loyalty of my officers and the steadfastness of the men.’
St Vincent returned to his seat. ‘Let me remind you, Captain, of two things I have learned during my fifty years at sea. Firstly, sentimentality, while an honourable characteristic, has no role on the quarterdeck. Furthermore, Britain is again at war and there will be ample opportunity for many rich prizes to be shared amongst officers and men of all ranks. Let me suggest you relish this moment for tomorrow we may find ourselves shoeless paupers trampled beneath the boots of a French dictator. England depends on its navy for protection. We are Britain’s only hope for if that line of defence is penetrated a mob of pitchfork wielding peasants will be no barrier to a well-armed foreign invasion force.’
As the portly earl returned to his seat, Oliver glanced around the room. The invited guests had all departed. For a moment the room was silent but for the regular tick tick from the long case clock standing beside the door. The hearth in the fireplace was cold, while above the mantelpiece, the hands of the great circular wind vane showed no inclination to move.
With apparently nothing more to be said, Oliver shuffled uncomfortably for a moment, expressed his thanks once again and, after bowing his head to the dignitaries, left the Board Room. The mahogany case housing the ceremonial sword was conveyed behind him, cradled in the arms of the young naval officer.
Stepping outside to bright sunlight, Oliver inhaled deeply. The late October air had a briskness about it which was refreshing. Scanning the courtyard, he had hoped to see his steward waiting with some form of transport but the yard was empty. After a moment, a carriage rumbled to a halt and an Admiral, he did not know, alighted. Not wishing to remain on the steps, Oliver instructed the young man who was shadowing him, to return to the reception vestibule and wait there for his instructions.
How ironical it was, he thought, that his deepest desires had turned a full circle. Over the past months he had spent sleepless nights and long daylight hours wishing for a letter requiring him to attend the Admiralty. Now all he desired was to vacate the building and move from the courtyard and onto the street. He had a ship – Perpetual – waiting for him in Gibraltar. But as yet he had no idea of his orders. The presentation sword, while an honour, was likely to be a source of aggravation, but that was something he would have to contend with when the time arose. He chided himself that most officers would be overwhelmed and reminded himself that there were many deserving officers who had never received any recognition whatsoever. Many died in battle and were quickly forgotten – not even a tombstone acknowledged they ever lived or held a command.
Striding across the yard to Whitehall, Oliver scanned the street for any sign of his steward. But the usually busy thoroughfare was remarkably quiet. The line of carriages, that regularly operated from the opposite side, was absent. Only an empty nosebag left on the pavement, the stone water-trough and several heaps of cold horse-droppings indicated their place of trade.
Paying no heed to the apparent beggar huddled on the pavement, the captain was surprised when the figure stirred and spoke.
‘Hey, Mister, are you going to your ship now?’
Oliver recognized the boy who had accosted him in the park but didn’t respond.
Stretching his legs and rubbing the crusted dust from the corners of his eyes, the boy tilted his head and peered up at the captain, in the manner of a hungry dog hoping for a morsel of food. ‘I walked a long way to get here,’ he said.
Oliver sighed.
‘Do you have a ship, Mister? Do you have a ship?’
Unable to remain silent, the captain conceded, with a flickering smile, ‘It would appear that I do. But for your information it is not in England.’
Sitting upright on the paving slabs, his bundle wrapped in his arms, the boy’s gaunt face spoke of disappointment. But the rhythmic movement of the naval officer tapping his index finger impatiently on his leg quickly distracted him. Screwing up his nose, the lad pointed, ‘What happened to your hand, Mister?’
Oliver grinned. No one had ever been so forthright in asking such an impertinent question and in such an off-handed imprudent manner before.
‘An unfortunate accident with a cannon ball,’ he replied.
‘I bet that hurt! Does it still work?’
Oliver was stumped for an answer. The brain fever, he had suffered in consequence of the injury and the months he had subsequently spent in Greenwich Seamen’s Hospital, had robbed him of any memory of the pain. But even though he had lost three fingers and some knuckles from his right hand, his claw-like grip with the remaining thumb and forefinger was strong, as was his reasoning and determination. He had justified his physical and mental capabilities to the Sea Lords over a year ago – and he had no intention of justifying his ability to the urchin who was presently interrogating him.
Then he bethought himself and considered the boy’s tenacity – the spirit of dogged determination that had brought him all the way from the North Country to find a ship. He respected courage and determination, and considered how many grown Englishmen were fearful of the Impress Gangs, the sea, Napoleon and the French. But it was obvious they loved their country, hence the reason hundreds of thousands of working folk had converged on Hyde Park to show their support for those who had volunteered to protect Britain’s shores. Yet not one of those men would choose to sign on and serve in a navy ship, or face a broadside from a French man-of-war. Was the boy brave or just ignorant of what life at sea was like? He wondered.
His thoughts were interrupted by the rumble of wheels, when a carriage rolled to a stop. Hauling the reins, the driver stamped his foot on the brake, as the horses appeared intent on walking on. Casson appeared from within the cab looking slightly guilty and jumped down.
‘Sorry to delay you, Captain, but I had the Devil’s own job finding a cab,’ he said. Leaning back inside, he brushed the seat with his hand. ‘Ready, Captain?’
Oliver was about to place his foot on the step, when he remembered his award. ‘Wait a moment,’ he called to the driver, before instructing Casson to return to the building and collect the presentation case for him.
‘If you have a ship, Mister, will you take me with you?’ The boy’s pleading voice had grown weary. The only possession he had to cling to was the grey blanket.
‘You have much to learn, lad,’ Oliver said, ‘not least respect fo
r your elders and people in positions of authority.’
The boy hopped to his feet, gripping the rolled bundle to his chest. ‘Ma always taught me to be polite.’
‘I don’t doubt she did,’ Oliver said. ‘What is your name?’
‘Tommy, sir, Tommy Wainwright.’
‘And how old are you Master Wainwright?’
‘Fourteen, sir, though most folk say I don’t look it.’
‘And how did you arrive in London?’
‘I walked.’
‘All the way from the north?’
‘Not all the way. I got to ride on the back of a cart part-way, ’cause I’d worn a hole in me boot. I stuffed it with grass and leaves but that didn’t hold for long. But I heard tell that on a ship you don’t need shoes, so I’ll be all right, won’t I?’
‘Hear me, Master Tom,’ Oliver said, ‘for this is probably the first and last conversation that you and I will ever engage in. Let me advise you that if you ever wish to speak to me again, you will address me as captain.’
‘Yes, Mister – Captain.’
‘Captain alone, will suffice,’ Oliver replied.
By this time, the captain’s steward was leaving the building and heading towards them. A young midshipman was following a few paces behind, obviously unwilling to part with the wooden case under his arm. Casson, meanwhile, was making every effort to hurry him along.
