The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘I will look forward to it,’ Oliver said.

  The most striking feature of Captain Crabthorne’s cabin, in comparison with his own, was the strong odour. Oliver’s cabin in Perpetual smelled of dusty charts, papers, books, sweat, a salt-hardened boat cloak and the lingering aroma of his last pot of coffee. Boris Crabthorne’s cabin, however, was scented with seedpods, dried bulbs, tubers, and freshly cut local flowers. The smell reminded him of his wife’s linen store.

  While savouring a glass of wine, Oliver leaned back in his chair and mentally mused over the naval officer seated opposite him. The appearance of a well-groomed young gentleman of pleasant appearance wearing the dress uniform of a post captain was not what he had originally visualized. It brought a spontaneous curl to his lips.

  Boris Crabthorne was conscious of his gaze. ‘I believe you were expecting an older man.’

  Oliver could not deny the fact. ‘From the information I had received―’

  ‘My nickname,’ he said. ‘Boris the Florist. It has a certain flare, don’t you agree?’

  ‘It does, indeed,’ Oliver conceded, accepting that his preconception had been flawed. ‘I have an adage,’ he admitted, ‘that one should never form opinions of people until one has met them. However, I fail to follow my own advice and fall into a trap occasionally.’

  ‘Then, you will be relieved to know that you are not alone. The nickname always precedes me, but I have learned to take a certain delight in observing the receptions I receive. I feel sure I would be met without a passing glance if I wore a wig, powdered my hair, dressed in a peasant’s smock and carried a pitchfork over my shoulder.’

  The captain laughed. ‘Exactly the image I had envisaged. However, I had been misled by a rumour that your interest in plants reached back twenty years or more therefore I had expected you to be a man of considerably more mature years.’

  ‘Your information was correct. My botanical tutelage began when I was six years of age. That was the time that my widowed aunt began paying frequent visits to Sir Joseph Banks at the Botanical Gardens at Kew. Of course, I was too young at the time to realize that the excursions were not for my health and edification. I was later informed that I filled the role as chaperone more than adequately.’

  ‘Sir Joseph had quite a reputation with the ladies, I hear,’ Simon quipped.

  ‘And still does today, despite his advancing years.’

  Oliver liked Captain Crabthorne and it was obvious from the relaxed expressions of the officers around the table, his view was shared.

  ‘Despite whatever my aunt’s intentions were, my interest, even at that tender age, was in the extensive collection of plants Sir Joseph had amassed and the propagation methods that he enthused about so passionately. The number of specimens, which he and Dr Solander collected during their exploration of New Holland, is truly remarkable. I believe the good doctor identified and named over one thousand new species. But I digress. Surprisingly Sir Joseph spoke little of his voyages, either to the Antipodes or the Arctic but being in his presence was enough to implant in me the desire to sail to distant lands. Unfortunately, being neither a scientist nor born into the gentry, entering the navy via the hawse-hole was the only avenue available to me. However, as you will see from my flower boxes, my passion for botany, acquired courtesy of Sir Joseph, still remains with me to this day. And, so it seems, does the nickname – Boris the Florist, which I am quite proud to wear. Needless to say, I hope in the long term, it will be my naval career that will be remembered by future generations and not my collection of flowering plants.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Oliver said, raising his glass.

  The assembled company seconded the sentiment.

  ‘If I might enquire, what part of your mission remains to be accomplished? Do your orders carry you north from here?’

  ‘No, Callao is the limit of my cruise,’ Crabthorne said hesitantly, casting a questioning glance towards Oliver’s first lieutenant.

  ‘If you are at liberty to share your information, sir, I can vouch for my first lieutenant. Simon Parry is a man of great integrity and is familiar with the responsibility of command. Any information you divulge will go no further than these wooden walls.’

  Satisfied, Captain Crabthorne acknowledged Mr Parry, removed a bowl of seed pods from the centre of the table and replaced it with an Admiralty chart. Once unrolled, the officers re-examined the local coastline including the offshore islands and the long narrow peninsula pointing directly to the island of San Lorenzo. While there were few specific features marked on the island, apart from lines indicating the gradient of its precipitous sides, and a large pentagonal fortress, situated on the top of the peninsula, clearly delineated in red ink.

  ‘This,’ he said, pointing to the site, ‘is Royal Phillip's Castle or Castillo del Real Felipe – a fortress constructed fifty years ago to protect the city from pirates and corsairs. It is the largest single fortification built outside Spain. As you may have noticed, it was built high on the promontory. That position was, no doubt, chosen as a fine vantage point, but also to safeguard it from a tidal flood that might sweep in and devastate the town.’

  ‘A formidable stronghold.’

  ‘It is indeed. But El Callao was once the main port for all of Spain’s South American colonies. And it was through this port that all the country’s gold, silver and precious gemstones were shipped north to Panama, where they were transported by llama and mule trains along El Camino Real – the Royal Road – a grand name for nothing more than a donkey track, and when they reached the Caribbean Sea they were put on ships destined for the Crown of Spain. For centuries those Spanish galleons attracted pirates and corsairs, not least Francis Drake, who attacked this coast and plundered its riches in the name of Queen Elizabeth.’

  ‘An act the Spanish do not forget.’

  ‘Yet, despite that fact, your ship received a gun salute from the battlements when you entered the roadstead.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘That welcoming fire may not be so congenial in the future.’

  ‘That is true. And even now, I fear we must be on our guard. From their vantage point at the fort there is little that transpires on the surrounding waters which the Spanish lookouts are not aware of.’

  He turned to Oliver. ‘Let me explain my situation. This much I can tell you. I sailed here from England under Admiralty orders carrying a vellum pouch containing dispatches and items of extreme value. I had promised faithfully that I would not allow this item to fall into enemy hands, and despite the various disasters, that befell my ship along the way, I arrived here with it in one piece. However, in order to avoid the heavy seas breaking on the western side of San Lorenzo, I dropped anchor in the lee of the island.

  From there, it was my intention to send a boat into the port to disembark the passenger I was carrying, request a pilot and ask permission to take on wood and water. But, before that could be done, a pair of Spanish ships approached to within speaking distance. From their rather aloof and dictatorial attitudes, I felt certain they had prior knowledge that I was carrying something of vital significance – arms or money perhaps. They wasted no time in making it clear they intended to board and conduct a thorough search.’

  ‘Was the Ambassador sailing with you?’

  ‘Fortunately, yes. He was the passenger I was referring to and his presence satisfied the Spaniards to a certain extent – but not enough.’ He paused. ‘My orders from the Admiralty were explicit. Were I to be boarded, the valuable item I was carrying must be destroyed. Though the Spanish Crown was not an enemy of war, I was bound by that pledge and could not let the pouch fall into foreign hands, therefore, I dispatched it to the seabed.’

  ‘So all is lost?’

  ‘I pray that is not so, and with your help, I am hoping it can be recovered.’

  Oliver frowned. ‘Is that possible? You talk of a vellum pouch. Surely, if it was consigned to the sea, its contents would have met with irreparable damage. But that will only be ascertained if and
when the item is located.’

  ‘Please go on,’ Crabthorne said.

  ‘I see several problems,’ Oliver said. ‘The pouch could easily have been washed away by the fickle currents or become buried in the sand, or even swallowed by a large fish. Even knowing the exact position on the chart will not guarantee finding it. The Admiralty’s charts of this region are not always accurate. They may have been incorrectly drawn or the depths incorrectly recorded due to the steep declines and vagaries of the undulating seabed. I am already aware the currents around the island can, at times, be quite confused. All in all, I feel any chance of locating it unlikely.’

  Boris Crabthorne raised his eyebrows. ‘Your estimation of a successful recovery does not inspire confidence, Captain, though I must admit that my own thoughts initially followed on a similar vein. However,’ he said with a hint of satisfaction, ‘having travelled almost halfway around the world at considerable cost to my ship and the loss of four good men to the Southern Ocean, before parting with my precious cargo, I made certain provisions with a view to recovering it.’

  ‘I am intrigued,’ Oliver said. ‘Pray continue.’

  ‘In the limited time I had, before the Spanish officer and his men boarded Compendium, I had the pouch wrapped in several layers of tarpaulin, bound firmly and dipped in pitch in order to render it waterproof. Then, after securing a rope around it, the package was looped around the anchor cable and allowed to slide down the length of the cable to the ocean floor.’

  ‘And what depth you were in?’

  ‘Nine fathoms.’

  ‘Too deep for a man to dive to, I fear.’

  ‘For an English sailor, I agree, but I have onboard a pair of Lascars who, though they speak little English, assure me that they can dive to one-hundred feet on a single breath. Diving for pearls was once their occupation.’

  ‘But you are now anchored at the port across the bay. Surely when you weighed and hauled your cable, the package would have come up with it.’

  Captain Crabthorne rubbed his freshly shaved jaw. ‘That was another problem I anticipated and had to resolve it hastily. After thoroughly searching the ship, including my cabin, and appearing satisfied, the Spanish officer invited me to weigh and accompany his ships to the harbour.’

  ‘An invitation or an order?’ Oliver smiled.

  Boris Crabthorne shrugged. ‘An instruction, I believe. I had no alternative and agreed to proceed to the port with them. However, as I knew I was being closely observed from the decks of both ships, and probably from Fort Royal on the peninsula, I chose to act with discretion. Rather than raising the anchor to retrieve the package and chancing the possibility that it might fall into the wrong hands, I had the anchor cable cut. Therefore, gentlemen, the prize for this mission now rests on the bottom of the channel. It is attached to a bower anchor bearing fifty feet of hempen tail that is currently swaying in the sea like a giant kelp plant.’

  A patter of applause rattled around the table.

  ‘I commend your ingenuity, Captain, and I sincerely trust this item can now be recovered. But, tell me how can Perpetual be of assistance?’

  ‘Because of the suspicion which greeted my arrival, and because the Spaniards are still keeping a close eye on both me and my ship, I fear I cannot return to the place where I originally anchored without alerting their attention to that bay. If, however, you are prepared to sail to that location, I can provide you with two Lascars who have volunteered to dive, search for the cable and retrieve the package attached to it. If you agree to attempt this recovery, I would suggest all activity takes place on the far side of the frigate, so that it cannot be observed from the fort.’

  Oliver and Simon exchanged glances.

  ‘If I am permitted to make an observation,’ Simon Parry said.

  ‘Please feel free.’

  ‘Much will depend on the currents and, from what we have learnt, the full force of the Pacific Ocean arrives first on the west side of San Lorenzo. From there the current is divided and flows around both the northern and southern tips of the island, meeting itself head-on on the eastern side, between the island and the narrow peninsula which points like an arrow from the land. Isn’t it possible, therefore, that as a result of these confused currents, even a ship’s bower anchor, weighing over a ton, could have been dislodged or been buried beneath swirling sand?’

  All eyes turned to Compendium’s captain for an answer.

  ‘Then there are the big tides to take into account,’ Oliver added.

  ‘I cannot disagree,’ Captain Crabthorne said, ‘and your arguments are commendable.’

  ‘However,’ Oliver said. ‘While there is the slightest chance of retrieval and the means of doing so, I must accept the challenge. My hope is that the divers will succeed, but if they fail, I am certain there are other ways and means.’

  ‘I am in your debt,’ Boris Crabthorne said, glancing at the dwindling daylight through the stern gallery windows. ‘Gentlemen, before we eat, you must allow me to introduce you to some of my specimens. I made several valuable additions to my personal catalogue in Valdivia for which I am very excited.’

  ‘Delighted,’ Oliver said, ‘however, there is just one other matter that I must broach. I have, aboard Perpetual, a midshipman who, I understand, is from your ship. I encountered him in Valdivia.’

  ‘You are referring to Mr Atherstone, if I am not mistaken.’

  ‘I understand he is a relative of yours.’

  ‘A distant cousin, very distant – but not distant enough for me not to be pressured into accepting him aboard my ship. How does he fare?’

  ‘Quite well. In fact, surprisingly well considering the history of his earlier illness.’

  Boris Crabthorne sighed. ‘I had hoped he would remain in Valdivia at least until my business here was completed.’

  ‘Might I enquire as to what ailed him?’

  ‘That is hard to know,’ Captain Crabthorne said. ‘It puzzled the ship’s surgeon. His bodily health appeared good, but his demeanour was troubled. For much of the voyage his behaviour was most acceptable, he performed his duties without question and I was pleased to have him aboard. Then for no apparent reason he became prone to bouts of temper, yet I could find nothing which provoked these outbursts, and, by the time we reached the west coast of Chile, his conduct on deck was, at times, totally inappropriate. When questioned, he appeared to have little control of his responses, and the following morning would have no memory of the events of the previous day. Because of this and because of Compendium’s mission and dire condition at the time, I had him removed to the sick berth, and shortly after entering the river at Valdivia, I made arrangements for him to be removed to private care until we returned.’

  He turned to his guest. ‘You say he is well at the present time. Did you notice anything unusual in his behaviour?’

  ‘Not categorically,’ Oliver said. ‘Mr Atherstone performed his duties efficiently and with enthusiasm. Perhaps with a slight misguided overabundance of enthusiasm at times. But for a nineteen-year-old midshipman that is to be expected.’

  The expression of joy, which Compendium’s captain had shown when discussing his plants, was replaced with a visage of concern.

  ‘Is it your wish that I return him to your command, or shall I retain him on my books until we have cleared Callao and are returning to Valdivia?’

  Boris Crabthorne was instantly relieved. ‘The latter arrangement would be preferable. Thank you, Captain Quintrell. I find myself doubly in your debt.’

  After spending an acceptable amount of time viewing Captain Crabthorne’s specimens – some flowering, others seeding, some drying, others in the process of being pressed or preserved by other means, Oliver and his first lieutenant shared a fine meal with the captain and officers of Compendium. Freshly cooked crab, lobster and scallops were served with locally grown vegetables, accompanied by a pleasantly palatable glass of wine from an aged cask (courtesy of the captain of the Spanish ship of the line). The conversa
tion over dinner veered from plants and official pouches to the discomfort experienced by ships and men during their various navigations around the Island of Tierra del Fuego. Remarkably, acute memories of the perils had already mellowed, which was as it should be, as ahead of both ships was the return journey around Cape Horn.

  On hearing of the wrecked slave ship, Captain Crabthorne reported that two other Portuguese slavers were presently in Callao harbour and preparing to leave. They had discharged their cargo before he arrived. Also in the harbour was a Spanish man-of-war, and an assortment of trading vessels, one having arrived from San Francisco, another from the East Indies and one having sailed from India.

  With the meal completed and the table cleared, the chart they had examined earlier was again rolled out. This time, in order to prevent the corners from curling, four containers of strangely-shaped seedpods – the likes of which the visitors had never seen before, were used as paperweights.

  ‘This is the only chart I have,’ Captain Crabthorne said. ‘And, no doubt, the Admiralty supplied you with an identical copy. Fortunately, it reveals all that is pertinent. As Mr Parry pointed out, the sea current running between the island of San Lorenzo and the point of the peninsula can be deceptively strong. This large island measures approximately eight miles long and two miles in width from west to east, but because it has no natural water, it is uninhabited.’

  ‘Apart from its ghosts!’

  Boris Crabthorne did not join in the midshipmen’s laughter. ‘Indeed,’ he explained to his guests, ‘for centuries the Inca Indians, who were the original inhabitants of this region, used the island as a sacred burial ground. And it is still used for that purpose today.’

  Oliver retained a straight face. ‘Which means we will not be observed from that direction.’

  Pointing to a slight curve in the coastline near the island’s north-eastern tip, Captain Crabthorne explained, ‘There are a few bays along this stretch of the coast, though in some places the perpendicular cliffs rise straight from the sea. This one,’ he said, marking it with a cross, ‘is not a true bay, but it is partially sheltered. Like the rest of the island, it is barren apart from three petrified tree trunks that lean on each other like a trio of peg-legged sailors waiting on the beach for a ship that will never come.’ He turned his attention back to the chart. ‘I anchored in nine fathoms, a cable’s length from the shore directly in line with these contorted specimens. And it was here that my package was dispatched to the deep.’