by M. C. Muir
‘Well done. Then, if there are no other matters to be attended to, I plan to sail with the tide tomorrow in the forenoon.’
‘Do you intend to stop at Valparaiso or Conception to enquire if Crabthorne is there?’
‘That will not be necessary. We now know his ship is sound and he is well stocked with fresh supplies. Therefore, the captain has no reason to break his journey again and I am certain he will head directly to Callao.’
‘And our course?’
‘The same. I will speak with Mr Greenleaf. We are but a week behind Compendium and have more than two thousand sea miles ahead of us, so there is a possibility we may be able to close the gap.’
‘Would you estimate a month of sailing ahead?’
‘Perhaps. Depending on the wind.’
Simon touched his hat and was about to oversee the hoisting of the newly arrived midshipman’s chest, but the frown on Oliver’s brow told him the conversation was not yet over.
‘Even though this man appears well and fit for duty,’ Oliver said, ‘I want you to keep a close eye on him.’
‘Might I know what concerns you?’
‘Everything and every person aboard this ship concerns me. But to be delivered of a midshipman of fine background and with several years’ service to his credit, possibly on the point of sitting for the examination for lieutenant, a man whose immaculate appearance resembles that of a middie arriving at his first ship after being fitted out by the finest tailor in London. Those sorts of things concern me.
‘Plus, Señor McGinty told me Mr Atherstone was a relative of Captain Crabthorne. Strange. From the little I have learned of Boris Crabthorne, I gather he was no more than a Lord Mayor’s boy from a modest background and certainly not an officer raised up through the ranks by patronage. Judging by the cut of this man’s uniform and the size and weight of his sea chest, I would suggest he is from an affluent family.’
‘But should we judge a man by the cut of his cloth, his carriage and the content of his dunnage?’
‘Indeed, we should not,’ Oliver said. He was about to add more, but refrained when he cast his mind back to his first meeting with Simon Parry at the Admiralty almost two years earlier. On that occasion, he had formed a similar view. But he had been proved very wrong in regard to every aspect of his lieutenant’s character and seamanship skills.
Then he thought back to the image his grandfather always presented, that of a dishevelled herring fisherman whose offensive smell preceded him wherever he went. A man whose Cornish accent was so broad it was sometimes hard to understand him. Yet a man whose knowledge of boats and the sea, and whose alertness of brain surpassed many a naval officer who eventually rose to the rank of admiral.
Pre-judging people because of their appearance was a failing that Oliver found difficult to control.
‘Once we are at sea, I would like to practice the guns. Allocate a division to Mr Atherstone and let us see how he performs.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’
Chapter 15
Mr Atherstone
After weighing anchor from the Valdivia River, Perpetual headed across the sheltered waters of the Corral Bay, sailing beneath the gaze of the old fortifications located on every headland. Ahead, the blue water of the Pacific shimmered beneath a cerulean sky while behind them the green undulations of the local cordilleras were set against the hazy mauve backcloth of the high Andes.
The following day, when the ship’s bell sounded the end of the afternoon watch, the topmen slid down the shrouds while the newly called watch spewed up from the forward-hatch and climbed to the yards.
A small group of young middies joked as they made their way to the after companionway to return to their berths. Edward Atherstone followed behind them. His face was expressionless, but that was not unusual for he appeared to demonstrate little emotion. He had little in common with the other middies of his age and though, on his first night aboard, he had listened to their bawdy jokes, he had never responded with any of his own.
Carrying a brass glass under his arm, he turned to go down the ladder.
Waiting at the bottom, Tommy Wainwright had stepped aside to allow the group of middies to pass. He was about to place one foot on the step when he noticed Mr Atherstone climbing down.
‘What have you been up to?’ the midshipman demanded.
‘Nothing, I was doing an errand.’
Atherstone scoffed, ‘You will address me as, sir.’
‘Yes, Mr Atherstone. Sorry, sir.’
‘So why are you using this companionway, when the forward companion is nearer to the mess?’
‘I just returned a bag of flour to the wardroom pantry – it was from Mr Nightingale’s private supply. Cook baked him some scones this morning.’
‘So you were lurking in the wardroom, were you?’
‘No, sir, I weren’t. I delivered the flour, like I was told, and now I’m going up on deck. You can ask any of me mess mates or cook, they’ll tell you.’
‘We shall see about that. If I find anything missing in the midshipmen’s berth,’ Mr Atherstone warned, as he stepped down, ‘I shall know who took it.’
‘That ain’t fair,’ Tommy mumbled under his breath. Fortunately the midshipman did not hear him.
Next morning, the ship’s company was mustered on deck to witness punishment.
‘What are the charges this morning?’ the Captain asked, addressing Mr Parry.
‘Three men for disorderly behaviour. Two drunk. The other late for watch. All regulars, Captain.’
‘Let them step forward.’
The three offenders were immediately paraded before the captain. One swaggering as bold as brass. The other pair presented with their heads bent, but Oliver didn’t need their names, he was familiar with all three.
‘It appears to me,’ the captain said, ‘because you deliver yourselves for punishment on a weekly basis, you two must derive some strange delight in being flogged. Perhaps if I stop your grog ration for a month, that might clear your heads long enough for you to ponder over the job you have signed on to do. And for any man who cannot drag himself from his hammock,’ Oliver continued, looking directly at the third sailor, ‘the same punishment applies. Sleeping with a clear head should allow you to hear the bosun’s call in the morning. Anything else on the list, Mr Parry?’
‘Thomas Wainwright – accused of willful damage to property.’
‘A serious charge,’ Oliver said, with a frown. The name had a familiar ring, but he could not place the seaman who owned it.
‘Step up, lad,’ the bosun called, giving Tommy a sharp prod with his rope’s end.
Oliver blinked, but otherwise showed no change of expression when the accused was presented to him.
‘Mr Parry, kindly read the details of the charge.’
‘Entering the wardroom and midshipmen’s quarters without permission and removing two pages from Mr Atherstone’s private journal.’
Oliver questioned the youth. ‘Do you realise that deliberate damage and theft are serious offences?’
‘But I didn’t do it. I didn’t go there without permission. And I didn’t touch no journal. It’s a lie.’
‘Silence!’ Mr Parry warned.
‘Be careful what you say, young man,’ the captain added. ‘Making accusations against an officer could make matters far worse.’
‘Tell him,’ a voice whispered, from the crew.
Not knowing whether he was at liberty to speak, and lacking all his usual cocky exuberance, Tommy remained silent.
‘Speak, boy,’ the captain demanded.
Tommy looked forlorn. ‘I went to the wardroom and I had to go through the midshipmen’s mess to get there,’ he answered, ‘but it was just to return some flour to the officers’ pantry. Nothing else. Cook will tell you. That’s the honest truth.’
Oliver glanced along the sea of heads and picked out the cook’s bald pate amongst them. ‘Is what the boy says correct?’
‘Aye, Captain. What he sai
d about the flour is right.’
‘And what of the book?’ Oliver asked the boy, in a less threatening tone. ‘Did you tear pages from the midshipman’s journal?’
‘No, sir, of course I didn’t. I know better than to touch anything what’s not mine.’
‘Enough. Does anyone have anything to add to this charge?’
The deck was silent, save for the creak of a block and luff of a sail. Glancing up at the main topgallant, the Captain turned his head to the quartermaster, who was already adjusting the helm.
‘Mr Atherstone, you brought the charge against this boy. Do you have anything to add?’
‘The boy might deny the charge, Captain, but I know it to be a fact. I have the book right here as proof and can show where the pages have been torn from it.’
‘That is not necessary,’ Oliver said. ‘Is this the boy’s first offence?’
‘It is.’
‘Then, a dozen at the gun, bosun.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘Is that all, Mr Parry?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Replacing his hat, Oliver glanced across the ship. ‘The deck is yours, Mr Parry. You may dismiss the men.’
Instantly the crew replaced their hats and scattered. Those standing on the lowest ratlines jumped down to the deck. The sailors not on watch headed below and those on the larboard watch returned to the daily chores of swabbing and polishing, armed with some fresh gossip to mull over.
‘You come with me, lad,’ the bosun’s mate called. ‘You should thank your lucky stars that you got off lightly. Captain was in a good mood today.’
‘But I never did what he said. That midshipman is the one who’s the liar.’
‘Belay your tongue, lad, or it’ll get you into more strife. You’re not the first who’s swung for someone else’s crime and you’ll not be the last. Take my word for that.’
‘But I didn’t do it.’
‘I believe you, but you’ll ne’er prove it, not so long as Mr Atherstone wears a uniform and has the captain’s ear.’
Tommy wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘I thought Captain Quintrell was a good man.’
‘Stow it, lad. The captain’s all right. He’s just doing what he has to. Like us he has to abide by them Articles that get preached to us every Sunday. Believe me, I’ve known captains that’ll string a man up in the rigging and let him freeze to death just for looking at him. Hurry along,’ he said, prodding the boy down the ladder to the frigate’s waist, and the line of thirteen 12-pounder cannon lashed to each side of the hull. He pointed to the nearest.
‘The sooner we get this over with the better. It’ll only sting for a bit, but in a couple of days you’ll have forgotten all about it.’
The days which followed were as boring as the scenery which presented itself off the starboard beam. Sailing north, Perpetual hugged the coast of the Atacama Desert which stretched for almost eight hundred miles. But unlike the winds which blew from the Sahara, this vast expanse swallowed the wind and stilled the sea. And when mixed with the cold waters of the north-flowing Humboldt Current, it created a moist blanket of mist which ironically floated along one of the driest and most inhospitable coastlines in the world. Yet it delivered not a singe drop of rain to it. Like the Doldrums of the South Atlantic, it was the nemesis of ships passing through it. The only consolation Oliver could draw was that Captain Crabthorne would have encountered the same insidious adversary.
Suddenly the silence of the deck was broken. Through the haze came a dull thud which sent a shudder through the timbers of the hull and a frisson of fear through the spines of the unwary. Another thwack followed, then the splash of something hitting the water close by.
Sailors, who had been lounging on deck quickly jumped to their feet and looked to the sea, while the young midshipmen, fearing that the ship was under enemy attack, looked to the lieutenants for orders.’
‘Do we beat to quarters?’ one cried.
Captain Quintrell’s broad smile was reflected on Simon Parry’s face.
The sounds were familiar. They had encountered them in the Southern Ocean.
‘Stand easy,’ Oliver said.
A few moments later, and no more than ten yards from the frigate’s side, a huge white-crusted head, rose vertically almost to the height of the main yard. From behind its barnacled nose, a small round black eye fixed its gaze on Perpetual. Then, as if satisfied with what it saw, the leviathan threw itself onto the sea with a thunderous clap, showering the sailors gathered at the gunnel. Thirty yards away other members of the pod breached and blew noisily then, after an awesome display lasting several minutes, the whales sounded – their gigantic flukes slicing the water in silence and leaving barely a ripple on the surface.
For Oliver, the long day had been made even longer by the lack of wind, lack of activity on deck, indolence of the men on watch, and the miasmic fog which surrounded them. At times like this, when he had the luxury of leisure, his cot was not an attraction for he did not sleep well.
With his present frustrations weighing on him, he had eaten alone and drunk more wine than when he dined in company where conversation reigned. The Chilean grapes, grown from vines imported long ago from Spain and France, produced excellent wines, and he had savoured the best part of two bottles.
When he mounted the companion ladder, he found the deck quiet. It lacked the usual daytime noises. Most of the larboard crew was in their hammocks taking a well deserved rest after the arduous efforts of the preceding weeks.
Alerted by the sound of approaching footsteps, Mr Lazenby, officer-of-the-watch, turned from the rail, ‘Good evening Captain,’ he said.
Oliver wondered. Was it a good evening? From his observation of the haloed moon, it was evident that the mist still hung heavily over the sea and unless it cleared by morning and a wind blew up, they would be in danger of drifting towards land with the next tide.
From past experience, a stilled sea bore its own perils and could lull a sailor into a false sense of security. Flat water had no breakers and could hide a reef. Mist could envelop an enemy ship. Unseen currents could carry them onto a lee shore. As to the pirates – the known predators of this coast – the mist provided a veil of invisibility to hide behind.
‘Look lively, there,’ Oliver said, kicking the sole of a seaman’s boot whose legs protruded from under a boat. ‘Which watch are you?’
‘Larboard watch, Capt'n. I came on deck to sleep, cos it’s too hot to sleep below.’
‘Humph,’ Oliver snorted. In the waist, a group of seamen sat cross-legged mending their clothes by the light of a lantern.
Ding, ding – ding, ding, sounded the bell from the belfry. Oliver wondered if any other ships were nearby, as the distinctive chimes would carry for several miles over water.
Wandering back to the quarterdeck, he bade the officer-of-the-watch goodnight before retiring below.
Spread out across the table in his cabin were the charts he had been studying earlier in the evening. He sorted through them again, selecting the coast of Peru and sliding it onto the top. Sitting back in his chair, he gazed at the pile for a while till his eyes began to droop. Then he got up, removed his jacket and shoes, and swung into his cot.
Almost immediately, his eyes closed, but the charts remained foremost in his mind. They were flat images. One dimensional. Devoid of any contours. Then his mind jumped to the papier mâché model of Valdivia he had seen at the Admiralty, with its undulating hills, steep valleys, promontories, inlets and flat marshes running beside the river.
With his consciousness flickering like a dying candle, the shapes swirled in his mind. Now the lines belonged to Susanna lying naked across the polished mahogany. The charts, hills, coastline were now her rounded contours. They fought for his attention. Teasing him. Confusing him. The headlands, the hidden inlets – he could see them all. He could sense the rising sea. Feel the current of emotion flowing through his veins. Gliding with the ease of an albatross, he imagined himself pulling her towards him, drawing her across the
ocean of white-capped charts that rustled beneath her loins, warping her closer and closer till he entered the port he had been absent from for too long.
Oliver savoured the vision for as long as his mind would hold it, but like the devastating tidal wave which had struck the coast many years before, the tide of his passion could not be held at bay and the sea rushed in. Only then did he allow himself to succumb to sleep.
Chapter 16
Gun Practice
Dodging around the men from several gun crews, Tommy raced along the deck, almost knocking Old Silas from his feet.
‘What’s your hurry, boy? Gun practice is over. You missed it!’
‘I’m looking for Hobbles. He’s one of the gun captains. Which is he?’
‘With a name like Hobbles! Can’t you guess? Walks like he’s got a peg leg – only he ain’t.’
‘Try calling his name,’ Old Silas said, with a wry smile, ‘and I’ll bet you a shilling, he’s the only one who don’t take any notice.’
Tommy was oblivious to the sailor’s joke.
Silas’s mate explained. ‘His gun’s abaft the waist, but you’ll have to talk loud ’cause he’s deaf.’
‘Like all bloody gunners,’ Silas added.
‘Hobbles!’ Tommy shouted, when he found the man with the limp. ‘Hobbles,’ he repeated, tugging on the gun captain’s sleeve.
Knocking the boy’s hand from his shirt, Hobbles placed the square of sheet-lead carefully across the breech of the gun, fastened it securely and dusted it carefully, before troubling himself with the boy’s interruption.
‘What do you want?’
‘The gunner in the magazine sent me. He said I’m to serve this gun.’
‘What’s that you say? Look me in the face when you speak so I can hear you.’
‘I’m to be your powder monkey,’ Tommy yelled.
