by M. C. Muir
At dinner, being the final evening on board, Oliver was again invited to dine with Captain Slater and his men. Once again the cabin was filled to capacity and the table laden with a variety of tempting dishes.
There were questions Oliver wanted to pose regarding the Isle of Lewis’s gun crews, but this was neither the appropriate time nor place. Instead, having learned that Captain Slater had made three trips to Gibraltar in the last two months, he confined his conversation to enquiries about their destination and its vulnerable position on the Iberian Peninsula. The Rock itself was indeed significant, its near perpendicular face acknowledged as one of the legendary Pillars of Hercules marking the western end of the Mediterranean.
As the evening’s meal proceeded and conversation dropped, Oliver picked an appropriate moment to speak with Captain Slater. ‘A fine table, if I may say, sir.’
‘It is something I pride myself on whenever I have the opportunity. And,’ he added, with a wry smile, ‘because I am never more than a couple of day’s sailing from a port, it is a regular indulgence.’
‘One question, Captain, are you familiar with a Captain Crabthorne?’
‘Boris Crabthorne? Compendium? I have heard of his reputation, but never met him. Might I ask what your interest is in the name?’
‘No specific interest, sir, I merely heard mention of him when I was in London. I am afraid one reads so many names in the Gazette these days, it is hard to keep pace with the recent commissions.’
‘Boris the Florist,’ Captain Slater said, smiling. ‘Rumoured to be of Russian descent. Distantly related to the royal family on his grandmother’s side – or so the story goes.’
‘And the unusual nickname?’
‘Dubbed, the Florist, because his cabin resembles a flower shop. I understand his window boxes would not be out of place in the Royal Botanical Gardens of Kew. It is said that even Sir Joseph Banks commended him on the quality of his blooms.’
One of the midshipmen looked puzzled and elbowed his mate. ‘Where do his flowers come from when he’s on long cruises?’
‘He grows them in clay pots from bulbs and seeds,’ Captain Slater interjected, addressing his junior officer. ‘I understand when they are brought aboard, the men are told to handle the clay pots as though they were moulded from Venetian glass. In spring his cabin is said to be perfumed with crocuses, jonquils and hyacinths, and he manages to have roses blooming for many months of the year.’
The company found the image highly amusing.
‘Sounds quite odd to me,’ the surgeon said, ‘but then some captains find tapestry work or knitting relaxing.’
‘Which is acceptable if it involves no one else’s services,’ the sailing master argued. ‘But I heard he employs the ship’s boys for pruning, watering and repotting duties. I’ve also heard that when his ship is short of water, he allocates one man’s water rations for his plants. I believe he is quite eccentric.’
‘Perhaps it has a beneficial effect on his state of mind,’ the doctor added.
The sailing master frowned. ‘I could make allowance for a cottage garden, Doctor, to grow fresh vegetables for the table, but a floating flower nursery has to be questioned.’
‘And of course,’ Captain Slater added, ‘bringing flowers aboard a ship is regarded by the men as bringing back luck aboard.
Perpetual’s third lieutenant cleared his throat. ‘Might I be permitted to say a word in Captain Crabthorne’s defence?’
‘Go ahead, Mr Hazzlewood.’ It was obvious from the glow on Captain Slater face that his spirits were rising to the evening’s discourse.
‘I sailed with him as a middie five years ago and I discovered that his keen interest in potted plants is something he’s always had. He’s written articles about his botanical collections and been published in the Royal Society’s papers. In fact, he’s well respected in those circles. But I can assure you, sir, he doesn’t squander or misuse the ship’s water rations and he always insists on tending to his plants himself. Perhaps it is Captain Bligh you are confusing him with.’
The sailing master didn’t appreciate his story being questioned but before he had the opportunity to respond, Oliver turned to his host.
‘Would you know where Captain Crabthorne is presently?’
‘According to the Gazette, he sailed for South America some months ago.’
‘No doubt taking every opportunity to go ashore with a shovel,’ the sailing master added, much to the amusement of the midshipmen.
Oliver interrupted their jokes. ‘Gentlemen, we should not jest about a captain in His Majesty’s service. Might I remind you that we sail on a ship made from wood with rigging and sails made from plant fibres.’
One of the midshipmen laughed out loud at Oliver’s remark.
‘Think about it, young man. Our sails are made from canvas woven from the fibrous stems of flax plants. And was not Captain Bligh’s unfortunate expedition to the South Seas for a purely botanical purpose?’
The young officer looked puzzled.
Captain Slater shook his head. ‘You should be aware of what is going on in the world, young man. That mission ended in mutiny and court martial and the facts of that voyage will long be remembered. Tell him, Mr Smith.’
‘I believe the reason behind Bligh’s voyage on Bounty was to collect and transport breadfruit plants.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘To provide a fast growing staple food for the slaves in Jamaica.’
‘Thank you, Mr Smith,’ Captain Slater said. ‘It is good to see that at least one of my junior officers is familiar with the bitter-sweet happenings in the world.’
The other young midshipmen did not lift their eyes from their empty plates.
‘Then perhaps I should applaud the seagoing activities of the good captain.’ Captain Slater drawled. ‘Gentlemen, I charge you to raise your glasses. A toast to Captain Boris Crabthorne. May his flowers continue to bloom that he may scatter petals on the ocean in memory of our glorious dead.’
Be it full or empty, every man lifted his glass and echoed the toast to Captain Crabthorne.
As the voices subsided, the captain’s steward entered with two large plates of mouth-watering deserts and assorted continental cheeses from Captain Slater’s private larder. The conversation abated for a time, while the men indulged their seemingly insatiable appetites. By the time the brandy arrived, Oliver was feeling agreeably relaxed and embarked on a conversation with the surgeon.
‘My wife has an interest in botany,’ he said. ‘In particular the cultivation of exotic herbs and spices. She is convinced of their natural medicinal and therapeutic qualities.’
‘I trust she benefits from her interest.’
‘To some degree, Doctor. The time she spends tending her seedlings appears to distract her from her other discomforts so, to that extent, the effect is positive?’
‘An interesting observation, Captain Quintrell. All I can add is that there are many mysteries hidden in nature which are yet to be discovered. Did you know the South American Indians crush the roots of a vine and use it as a deadly poison on their arrows? Yet when they administer it as a potion to their old folk, not one of them suffers from the stiffness of joints that we do. It is known as curaré. And in China, men inhale the smoke of the opium poppy to relax the mind while in my profession we use laudanum, also derived from the poppy, to dull the brain and combat pain during surgery.’
‘Very true,’ Oliver added. ‘Yet it is interesting that when Captain Slater mentioned the presence of a pot of crocuses onboard a ship, the whole company found that amusing. Do you know that the cost of saffron, collected from the crocus flower, is far higher than every other spice on the market? And tell me,’ he continued, addressing the whole table, ‘what is the major cargo of all the ships of the Dutch, French and British East India Companies?’
‘Spices,’ Mr Hazzlewood replied.
‘Indeed – spices. The seeds from tropical plants make up the major cargoes. And they
are worth millions of pounds. Consider the voyage Columbus embarked upon across the Atlantic, it was not to discover the continents of the Americas but to find a quicker and more direct route to the East – to shorten the passage for shipping engaged in the spice trade. I ask you, Gentlemen, who are we to decry a man the right to grow a few flowers in his cabin?’
‘Well said, Captain. Perhaps it is a pastime which should be encouraged.’
‘Well I for one would never condone it,’ the sailing master argued. ‘I have no wish to sail with a man who is more concerned about a bowl of daffodils than a broadside. If you want my opinion, flowers, like women bring bad luck and are best left ashore. I tell you, no good can come from carrying either of them aboard one of His Majesty’s ships.’
Chapter 5
Gibraltar
As the sun rose from behind The Rock, it cast a cloak over Gibraltar’s moles and yards, whilst less than five miles away, directly across the bay, it glinted on the white buildings of Algiceras. Once a stronghold for Phoenician sailors and Romans and Moorish invaders, the Spanish port was a constant reminder to the tiny British territory of how vulnerable it would be if Spain declared war on England.
In the still morning air, the Isle of Lewis’s jollyboat swam smoothly alongside a seventy-four. The slap of oars and squeal of timber in the rowlocks were the only sounds from the clinker-built boat as it slid beneath the bow of the Royal Navy ship of the line. Sticking his head through one of the gun ports, a sailor failed to glance down, before tipping the contents of a bucket into the sea. The smells of men, meat fat, heated pitch and vinegar exuding from the open ports settled across the water like morning mist over a marsh.
‘Sorry, sir,’ one of the boat crew murmured, when he shipped his oar, dousing a stream of water over the passengers.
Unperturbed, Oliver removed his cocked hat, allowed a trickle of water to spill from it then seated it back on his head. The doctor, sitting beside him, brushed the beads of moisture from his shoulder with a disparaging tut-tutting noise.
Ahead, a dozen stairs carved into solid rock, led up to the quay. Creating barely a ripple or a sound, the boat swam forward till it nudged alongside the rock face.
‘Take care, Captain,’ the coxswain advised, securing a line to a rusted iron ring in the rock wall.
Whether he was alluding to the green weed covering the stone steps, or the new leather-soled shoes the captain was wearing that were totally unsuited to such surfaces, Oliver was uncertain, however, he acknowledged the warning and climbed carefully.
Waiting on the wharf was an immaculately dressed officer – of pleasing features, tall, with a straight back and prematurely grey hair which curled from beneath his hat.
‘Captain Quintrell,’ the lieutenant said, lifting his hat.
‘Simon,’ Oliver smiled, offering his hand. ‘I am delighted to see you.’
‘Welcome to Gibraltar, Captain. I trust you had a reasonable voyage.’
‘Tolerable passage,’ Oliver replied, but before more could be said, the pair was joined by the Doctor wearing a preoccupied expression on his face.
Oliver made the necessary introductions. ‘Mr Parry served as first lieutenant on my last cruise.’
‘Parry? I recollect something familiar about that name. I remember mention of Vice Admiral Francis Parry a few years back, and another captain of the same name. Could that be your father or a brother perhaps?’
‘No sir, I doubt it,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘My father never served in the navy and died many years ago. And I am an only son.’
‘Then it would appear I am mistaken. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, but if you will excuse me, Gentlemen, I must away to make some special purchases for I understand Isle of Lewis will not be remaining in port very long. Will you be sleeping aboard this evening, Captain?’
‘I think not,’ Oliver said. ‘I prefer to take lodgings in the town until I am able to take up my commission.’
‘Then I suggest you select your lodgings with care.’
‘Indeed, I will. I wish you God speed, for your safe return to England.’
‘And to you too, Captain Quintrell. Good-bye, Mr Parry.’
The pair stepped aside, as a well-worn leather bag was handed up to the doctor who collected it and scuttled off, in the direction of the town.
‘So, Simon, tell me how you are.’
‘I am well, and all the better for seeing you.’
Oliver wished there was occasion to congratulate his friend on a promotion, but the lack of an epaulette indicated he had not been granted the promotion to the rank of captain which had once been stripped from him. The only consolation was that if Simon Parry had been stepped up, he would not have been commissioned to sail with Perpetual. ‘Have you been in Gibraltar long?’
‘I arrived a little over a week ago, having been serving as second lieutenant on a sixty-four. We had been patrolling off the French coast for a month and came back in to re-supply. The message about your expected arrival was waiting for me but confirmation of my commission only arrived two days ago.’
Oliver was delighted and saw no reason to hide the satisfaction he was feeling. It was a splendid start to the day. ‘Let us walk. Perhaps you would accompany me to the Port Admiral’s office where I will collect my orders.’
The cobbled wharf was milling with sailors, victuallers, street vendors, naval officers and stray dogs. A stream of carts and dray wagons stood in line waiting to load or unload cargo from the lighters ferrying supplies back and forth to the ships in the roadstead.
Oliver lifted his head and sniffed. ‘What on earth is that smell?’
‘It depends on the direction of the wind,’ Simon Parry replied with a curious grin. ‘If it blows from the north, it carries the smell from the swampy area near the neutral zone abutting the Spanish mainland. That is where the cattle are unloaded and left to graze. After a week spent fouling the already vile-smelling wetland, the beasts contribute to this obnoxious miasma which hangs over the town for days. We are fortunate it is only November. I am told it is particularly offensive in mid-summer.’
‘And if the smell comes from the other direction?’
‘It is from the cemetery, which can be equally as bad, if not worse. Surprisingly one gets used to it after a while.’
‘Like a hold filled with ambergris,’ Oliver suggested with a smile.
‘Indeed, though that is a more tolerable odour.’
‘Then, I suggest, the less time we stay here, the better.’
Simon nodded. ‘Might I enquire as to your commission?’
‘A 32-gun frigate by the name – Perpetual. Because she was in need of repair, I understand the crew was paid off. Naturally, as my first officer, I will leave the signing of new crew in your hands. As to the other officers, I was pleased to invite Mr Hazzlewood and Mr Smith to sail with me. They intend to request a transfer from Isle of Lewis and by tomorrow will be available to assist you.’
‘The Right Honourable—?’
‘The very same. Young Mr Smith is still a midshipman, but Mr Hazzlewood passed for lieutenant.’
‘That is good,’ Mr Parry said, as they strode along past ship’s chandlers, victuallers stores, and naval workshops.
‘Do you remember James Tinker, Captain?’
‘Tinker?’ Oliver queried.
‘You may know him better as Bungs – the cooper.’
‘Indeed. How could I forget him?’
‘I encountered him yesterday right here on the quay. He is working in the yard over yonder. Perhaps he would care to sail with you again.’
‘And escape from this place.’ Oliver thought for a moment, ‘He would need to apply to the Port Admiral for a warrant, but I foresee no problem in that. Let us speak with him.’
The red-brick building across the street looked out of place in a region where the walls of most houses had either been washed with white lime, or built from rock hewn from the promontory. With bricks shipped from England, the building’
s appearance would have more befitted a London wharf. But the sounds emitting from it were the same as those from any dockyard from Chatham to Calcutta. Though a pair of large wooden doors was propped open, the workshop was dark inside. The faint glimmer of several lanterns competed only with the red glow of burning braziers to provide sufficient light for the coopers to work by. Suspended from the overhead beams, strips of metal hung from huge hooks. Heavy rectangular blocks of pig iron were stacked four or five high in places, whilst damaged barrels and rotten staves were heaped against the wall to be used as kindling for the fires. The rank smell in the air was not from the nearby swamp or the cemetery, but from the empty barrels saturated with congealed fat, vinegar and rotten meat. The clanging of several hammers was the only indications of the number of men working within.
‘Mr Tinker,’ the lieutenant called, as they stepped through the doorway.
The cooper nearest the entrance looked up, tossed his hammer onto the bench, rubbed his hands down his blackened leather apron, then knuckled his forehead.
‘Mr Tinker,’ Oliver said. ‘Or shall I call you Bungs?’
‘Bungs will do, Capt’n,’ he replied, a hint of a smile curling his lips. ‘Mighty fine to see you, sir. If I might be so bold as to say, you’re looking well.’
Oliver was conscious the cooper was probably referring to the additional inches he had gained during his long spell ashore. Dining daily with Captain Slater had not helped. It was something he preferred not to be reminded of, though he acknowledged the well-meaning greeting from the craftsman.
‘Are you bound to a ship?’ Oliver asked.
‘No, sir, just coopering in the yard here for the present. Apart from the constant demand for new barrels, there’s a non-stop stream rolling on and off ships every day. Many of them are damaged and in need of repair. The ships come in for water or victuals, off-load the empties, refill the holds and they’re off before you know it. Certainly no shortage of work here.’
