The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  The ticking of the clock over the empty fire hearth was the only sound.

  ‘My greatest fear is that the current has carried both cable and anchor into water which is too deep for the divers to descend to. However, as the name El Callao signifies, the beaches in this region are pebbled, therefore it is unlikely it has been swallowed by sand an disappeared from view. At best, I hope that the cable is floating just below the surface like a length of kelp waiting to snag a rudder.’

  ‘And at worst?’

  ‘I fear it could be lying on the bottom like an enormous sea-snake.’

  ‘And if the package is retrieved,’ Oliver ventured, ‘will that allow you to depart from Callao immediately?’

  ‘Once the pouch is in the hands of its intended recipient, I will have fulfilled my Admiralty orders and I will not linger in this port any longer than necessary.’

  ‘Then I see no reason to delay, either. If you will kindly have your divers put aboard my boat, I shall attend to the recovery of this package as soon as Perpetual can make sail for the island.’

  Chapter 18

  The Barrel Bell

  At the conclusion of his meeting with Boris Crabthorne, Captain Quintrell returned to Perpetual and, despite the hour being late, requested all officers present themselves in his cabin. Having pledged to Captain Crabthorne that he would recover the lost pouch, Oliver was intent on fulfilling his promise. For the present, however, he was not sure how best to proceed. The wine over dinner followed by several glasses of fine French brandy had not helped his dilemma. Perhaps his officers could conjure up some imaginative ideas.

  Having received word that the state of their dress would not come under scrutiny, the midshipmen, who had retired to their hammocks for the night, arrived in the Captain’s cabin in various states of undress, most without coats or neckerchiefs and one, despite the moist warmth of the Peruvian coast, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. When they were all gathered, Oliver proceeded to outline the content of the meeting he had attended on Compendium, however, he did not reveal all that had been discussed. While initially a few pairs of bleary eyes were in danger of closing, utterance of the three words valuable sunken package elicited a buzz of excitement and provided the captain with his officers’ full attention. To young midshipmen with vivid imaginations, that could only translate to one thing – sunken treasure – Spanish gold, silver doubloons, precious stones. But their expectations quickly fizzled when Captain Quintrell explained there was neither treasure nor prize money to be had.

  ‘Gentlemen, I need to recover an item from the seabed. It is sitting in approximately nine fathoms of water.’

  Mr Nightingale cleared his throat. ‘Are we permitted to know what this item is?’

  ‘A small package,’ Oliver said. ‘And what it contains is immaterial. What I can say, however, is that it is of considerable value and were it to fall into the wrong hands, the consequences would be dire not only here in South America but also in Europe. This item was consigned to Captain Crabthorne by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and it is our duty to provide assistance by recovering it.’

  ‘You said, “falling into the wrong hands”,’ Mr Nightingale repeated. ‘Might I ask who the enemy is?’

  ‘Time will tell,’ Oliver replied, evading the issue. Since his visit to Señor McGinty in Valdivia, he was acutely aware of the political unrest in various quarters of the Spanish viceroyalty, though he thought it unlikely his junior officers were familiar with the internal tensions simmering in South America. For the present, he did not wish to embark on a long discussion about it, as it had no immediate bearing on the problem confronting them.

  ‘Tell me, Gentlemen, how would you retrieve an article from the seabed that is sitting in nine fathoms of water?’

  A few looked puzzled, while the youngest midshipmen looked uncomfortable, appearing guilty for not being able to offer an answer.

  Mr Tully volunteered. ‘We could drag the kedge anchor along the bottom and hope to rake it up.’

  Oliver nodded.

  ‘Or trawl for it with a net,’ Mr Lazenby suggested.

  The sailing master was cynical, ‘The Pacific is a mighty sea and not as peaceful as its name suggests.’

  ‘That is true, Mr Greenleaf.’

  ‘What size is this thing we are seeking?’ Mr Tully asked.

  Oliver turned to his writing desk and opened the top drawer. From it he took an empty Admiralty pouch which had previously contained his orders. ‘A little larger than this,’ he said, ‘wrapped in tarpaulin and coated in pitch.’

  The sailing master laughed. ‘You’ll never find that in fifty-feet of water. A blind man seeking a needle in a hayrick would have more luck.’

  Without changing his expression, Oliver replied curtly, ‘I don’t believe luck plays a part in this equation. However, to make the search a little easier, the package is attached to a bower anchor weighing one and a quarter tons with over fifty-feet of hempen cable trailing from it. A slightly larger target than a needle, if I am not mistaken.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he continued, glancing around the motley group seated at the table, ‘this is a serious matter. Those of you, who were on deck when I returned from Compendium, will be aware I was accompanied by two Lascars. These Indian sailors once dived for pearls and could sink to a depth of a hundred feet on a single breath. But diving for pearl mussels in a warm tropical sea is a different proposition to descending into the cold currents which flow all the way from the Antarctic. Though these remarkable divers can grease their bodies and carry rocks to speed their descent, the Humboldt Current may be too cold and the Pacific currents too strong even for them. Though eager to oblige and demonstrate their ability, the two sailors are no longer young men and I fear the task will be too great. Hence we need to consider possible alternatives.’

  Oliver paused, waiting for more suggestions, but no others were forthcoming. ‘The idea of dragging the kedge anchor is reasonable, but I fear that will create a disturbance on the sea bed and may damage or dislodge the article in question. I therefore, discount dragging or fishing for it.’ He looked to the silent faces. ‘Have any of you heard of a diving bell?’

  ‘I saw drawings of a bell by Halley,’ Mr Nightingale said, ‘at the Royal Society rooms. It was fitted with a window so the passenger who sat inside could explore the seabed.’

  The midshipmen found the idea amusing.

  Oliver commended him. ‘Gentlemen, let me educate you. Over one-hundred years ago, £200,000 was plucked from the sea off the Spanish Island of Hispaniola.’

  With the mention of money, the captain again had the officers’ full attention.

  ‘From a sunken treasure ship?’

  ‘Indeed it was, Mr Lazenby – the wreck of a Spanish Galleon. That contraption was built by Sir William Phipps.’

  The sailing master was cynical. ‘In one-hundred years, yarns tend to expand a little.’

  ‘Then let me remind you of the Sydney Cove which ran aground only a dozen years ago – as a result of inadequate Admiralty charts – off the coast of New Holland. The ship’s master, Captain Hamilton, built a barrel bell, or under-sea breathing machine that was used to recover most of the ship’s cargo.’

  ‘A cargo of rum, if I am not mistaken?’ Mr Parry added.

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver said.

  ‘I bet the crew enjoyed that,’ Mr Lazenby added, laughing.

  ‘Not so. It was an arduous job undertaken in cold rough seas and the men found it both dangerous and disappointing for, in his wisdom, the captain had the barrels deposited on an adjacent island which the crew could not reach. Captain Hamilton was obviously a wise man and familiar with his sailors’ liking for a drop of alcohol.’

  ‘Shame on him,’ Mr Lazenby mumbled.

  ‘I admit the story of this bell amused me at the time, but now I find nothing humorous about it.’

  The sailing master looked puzzled.

  ‘If my memory serves me,’ Oliver said, ‘the design was
quite simple. It consisted of a large barrel – a hogshead or leaguer – sealed at the top and open at the bottom. It was suspended from a cable and forced below the surface with heavy weights attached to it. Breathing tubes were inserted into its sides and a thwart was fitted inside for a person to sit on.’

  ‘He would have to be a small man,’ Mr Greenleaf suggested.

  ‘And one who doesn’t breathe a great deal of air!’

  ‘And doesn’t chatter unnecessarily,’ Oliver added. ‘Breathing only the air confined in the barrel, the bell’s navigator could visually scour the sea bed while propelling himself along with his feet.’

  ‘Walking across the bottom?’ Mr Tully asked.

  ‘In a rather unusual manner, yes.’

  ‘I doubt anyone on board would want to be dropped in the ocean in such a contraption,’ Mr Tully said. ‘Most of the crew can’t even swim.’

  ‘The man inside doesn’t need to swim.’

  ‘Unless the barrel tips over and he’s tossed out. Then he’d have to swim back up to the surface,’ the sailing master added.

  ‘Could such a barrel bell be built on board? One that is big enough to accommodate a seaman and still be completely watertight?’ Mr Nightingale asked.

  ‘I see no reason why not,’ Oliver replied. ‘If the Sydney Cove could do it, then Perpetual can also. I will speak with the cooper and the carpenter and, I am sure that between them they will make a diving bell. The Lascars will help, but because of their age and the temperature of the water, I will not expect them to dive to the bottom.’ With that, Oliver had resolved in his mind what had to be done. ‘Thank you for you attendance, gentlemen. Sleep well, but first thing in the morning I require you to speak with your divisions. I need one man to dive in the bell, and a few sailors who are able to assist the Lascars on the surface.’

  The chatter in the mess mellowed to a whispered hum when Mr Atherstone descended the ladder near the fire hearth and eyed the men. Most stopped talking and returned to eating their breakfast.

  ‘Which of you lubbers can swim?’ Atherstone demanded, knowing the sailors would be reluctant to admit to anything until they knew the reason for the enquiry. As a rule, questions were never asked out of passing interest and when put by a midshipman or lieutenant they always carried an ulterior motive which usually entailed extra duties.

  ‘I can,’ piped Tommy innocently. ‘Who wants to know?’

  Bungs kicked him, under the table – a warning to hold his tongue.

  ‘As a matter of fact, the captain does,’ Mr Atherstone replied. ‘He needs a man who is small, agile and fairly bright, and one who won’t drown in the water.’

  ‘And what if he does drown?’ one of the sailors called.

  Mr Atherstone ignored the question. ‘He also wants a couple of men who are not shy of the water.’

  ‘I won’t drown,’ Tommy said to his mate, as the midshipman moved further along the deck.

  Eku tapped Tommy on the elbow. ‘If you volunteer, it’ll get you out of the scraping shot for a while.’

  Tommy thought about it. ‘Can you swim?’ he said to his friend.

  ‘Of course. Everyone swims where I come from.’

  Atherstone had overheard their conversation.

  ‘All right you two, enough talk. I will take the pair of you. Go see Mr Parry. He’ll tell you what you have to do.’

  The task of converting a large barrel into a diving bell was fraught with difficulty, not for its construction, but for the tension it created between the ship’s carpenter and Bungs, the cooper.

  Being in charge of all the barrels on the ship, Bungs insisted the job was his responsibility and said he would tolerate no interference. He was confident he could make an airtight bell, capable of withstanding the deep water. He even swore he’d forfeit a week’s rum ration, if a drop of water leaked into it.

  To complicate matters, the captain requested a glass bull’s eyes or prism be inserted in the top of the barrel to allow light to pass into it. He also wanted a thwart fixed across the inside near the bottom. For these jobs, Oliver designated the carpenter to do the work but insisted the two men work together.

  Construction was further aggravated when the bosun was appointed to rig secure lines around the diving bell for lowering it into the water and returning it to the surface. He also had to attach a mesh bag, similar to the ones used daily for boiling the six pieces of meat for each mess table. However, this bag would have to be sufficiently large to hold three or four twelve-pound balls, or whatever weight was required to sink the barrel to the sea floor.

  Preparing the barrel bell on deck created a considerable amount of interest from the crew and guaranteed the three tradesmen a regular audience.

  ‘But if it’s full of air, it’s going to bob on the surface like a big cork?’ Smithers sneered. ‘It’ll never go down.’

  ‘It’ll sink with a man in it and weights hanging from it,’ Mr Tully explained. ‘It’ll drop to the bottom so Tommy can walk along the seabed or paddle his legs and move along while he searches.’

  ‘Searches for what?’ Muffin asked

  ‘A bower anchor and fifty-feet of cable thicker than a man’s forearm.’

  ‘And all the while, the lad inside breathes the air in the barrel?’

  ‘That is how it will work.’

  ‘Sounds easy,’ Tommy said. ‘And if the air runs out, I’ll just climb out and swim up to the surface.’

  The midshipman quelled his enthusiasm. ‘The captain said you mustn’t do that. You won’t know how far you’ve dropped and the water might be too deep and the current too strong for you to swim back up on the breath you have in your chest. Remember, if you want to come up, you must tug on the line that runs up to the boat. And you must do that before your air runs out, so the men can haul you up.’

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ Smithers called. ‘There’s plenty of big jellyfish but not too many sharks in these waters! Though if you smear yourself with plenty of pork fat, you could attract a few.’

  ‘We can do without your observations, Smithers,’ Mr Tully said. ‘One more word and you’ll be on my list in the morning.’

  ‘Only passing a hobservation,’

  ‘Well I suggest you keep your hobservations to yourself,’ the midshipman warned. Then he glanced at Tommy. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Once the bell is finished, I’ll tell the captain you’re ready.’

  The following morning before breakfast, Perpetual sailed from its anchorage outside Callao’s harbour to the north-east coast of San Lorenzo, only a few miles away. Though a veil of mist would have offered some protection from prying eyes, this morning the ever-present coastal fog was contrary and had dispersed, and the light breeze blowing off the land was welcome and necessary for the frigate to proceed.

  Once the rugged northern tip of the island was reached, Perpetual followed the barren coastline in a south-easterly direction, carefully observing its cliffs and ledges habited only by sea lions, seals and flocks of noisy seabirds. It was not long before the specific bay was identified. The petrified trunks appeared just as Captain Crabthorne had described them. With two men on the lead, Oliver took his ship to within a cable’s length of the shore. Nine fathoms of water beneath the hull was confirmed, as was the fact that the decline of the sea floor was an extension of the steeply sloping sides of the barren island.

  No sooner had the anchor been dropped than two of the ship’s boats were lowered on the frigate’s starboard side, shielding any activity from the watchful gaze of Fort Felipe on the peninsula less than two miles away. The only other possible danger could come from the Spanish ships that had intercepted and searched Compendium, but having observed a convoy, including a Spanish man-of-war departing the harbour at first light, Oliver considered it unlikely they would be returning that day.

  On deck, it being Thursday, the men were encouraged to perform their normal chores, scrubbing their spare hammocks and washing clothes. While extra lookouts were posted at the mastheads and every man
was expected to be vigilant, for the present the strait between the island and the peninsula was quiet and the fortress on the headland appeared to be sleeping. Oliver hoped it would remain that way.

  By nine o’clock, the wind had dropped and a malignant mist had swirled back in and settled over the sea. Resembling sunset rather than sunrise, the sun hung like a hazy ember over the port town, rising only slowly in the grey-orange morning sky. With the sand running quickly though the hour glass, the mercury rose delivering an uncomfortable sticky, tropical heat. Seals dived and fished from every visible outcrop of rock, some even ventured around the frigate to investigate. But by mid-morning the bulls and lumbering lions had dragged themselves from the water, noisily announced their presence then settled down to a day of idle relaxation. On the overhanging ledges, the cormorants stood in rows holding out their shabby wings in stony silence.

  Once the men had finished their chores, the diving barrel attracted everyone’s attention though no one was allowed near enough to touch it. With Bungs guarding one side and the carpenter patrolling the other, it amazed Mr Parry that the bell had been built at all as, throughout its construction, it was apparent the cooper and chippie did not have a civil word for each other.

  The bosun was in charge of the tackle and of swaying out the barrel to the longboat. Froyle’s job was to ensure the line from the barrel to the stern of the longboat was secure. Once the bell was submerged, he was to monitor its progress and have the boat crew follow the drift as it meandered around the sea bed. It was Foss’s responsibility to hold the line running down to the boy in the barrel and if he felt a tug on it, he was to have it hauled to the surface immediately.’