The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘So why they got all these churches in every port,’ Muffin asked. ‘And the people pretending to be God-fearing. Ain’t the Spanish the ones who break men’s backs on the rack, burn out their eyes and cut out their tongues for not being good Catholics?’

  ‘That’s why the blacks on Hispaniola have had enough. They’re turned on their masters and are doing unholy things to them in return for what they received. Ask Eku. He’ll tell you some tales that’ll make your hair curl.’

  The men on the next mess table had turned around and were listening to the conversation.

  ‘What’s matter with you, Smithers?’ Bungs said. ‘It’s not like you not to add your tuppence worth. Hatching some mischief are you?’

  Smithers didn’t answer. He was more interested in a large blister on his palm which he had just burst with the point of his knife. After watching the clear liquid run across his hand, he licked it off with his furry white tongue.

  The Lord be praised,’ Bungs announced. ‘For once we are saved from the rantings of the ship’s idiot.’

  ‘Well, if I’m an idiot then so is every Jack Tar aboard.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We’re dragged all this way to the far side of the globe. We near froze our balls off at the Horn. We chanced getting blown out of the water when we sailed under them guns in Valdivia. For why? To play lackey to some young cove, who’s more interested in marigolds than men. Who just happens to drop this package overboard – plop! Then he expects us to wet our breeches and recover it for him.’

  ‘I didn’t see you volunteering to go down in the bell.’

  Smithers stood up, ‘I ain’t stupid,’ he said, ‘And I wouldn’t play lackey to no young upstart captain like Crabapple.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, Smithers, you don’t know whose listening.

  The irascible topman was not to be daunted. ‘Pardon me, Mr Crabapple. I think you dropped something, Mr Crabapple. Kiss my arse, Mr Crabapple. And what do we get for all this bowing and scraping – confined like rats in a stinking hot hold thousands of miles from home.’

  ‘So what is it you want?’

  ‘I want the chance of a decent prize not some worthless parcel, daubed in pitch, the size of a woman’s purse. This place is so loaded with treasure you can almost smell it – gold, silver doubloon – and the whiff of Spanish beauties too. Not only don’t we get no prize money, but we’re not allowed women on board. It ain’t natural not having women.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve got blisters on your hands?’

  Everyone, except Smithers, was amused.

  ‘You might laugh. It’s all right for them that’s already rich, like Quintrell and Parry – aye, and that upstart, Atherstone. They don’t need no extra.’

  ‘And what do you need it for?’ Bungs asked. ‘I’ve been with you when we’ve sailed into port and the women and the Jews have been waiting on the wharf until the ship’s been paid off. I’ve seen you spend half your money on gold baubles, that weren’t gold at all, and the other half on women – and by morning you’re looking for another ship to sign on because you’re penniless.’

  ‘How I spend my money is my business.’

  ‘And how I spend this war is the Admiralty’s business,’ said Bungs. ‘But if I can spend it cruising the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean and never see another Frenchy, that’ll do fine for me.’

  ‘It’s a bloody waste of time, in my opinion,’ Smithers whined.

  ‘Suit yourself, because no one’s interested in your opinion.’

  At first the pattering on the door sounded like a rat in a cupboard, then the captain realized that someone was knocking very softly.

  ‘Casson, is that you?’ he called, despite the fact his steward was the one person not required to knock before entering.

  The tapping returned.

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he glanced through the window. The sky was black as pitch. Swinging down from his cot, Oliver slipped on his shoes. ‘What do you want?’ he cried, flinging the cabin door open.

  A figure was silhouetted against the dim light of the lantern which swung outside. ‘It is I, Midshipman Atherstone.’

  ‘Speak man. Am I required on deck?’

  ‘I’ll beg you not to raise your voice, Captain,’ the midshipman whispered. ‘They may hear you.’

  ‘Who may hear me?’

  ‘The enemy. The Frenchies. They’re all around us.’

  Oliver reached for his sword. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Shhh! If you come on deck, you’ll hear them, but the night’s too dark to see them.’

  By now, Casson had roused himself and joined them.

  ‘Pass the word to Mr Parry. Ask him to join me on deck immediately.’

  ‘Did you report this to the officer-of-the-watch?’ Oliver asked in a hushed tone.

  ‘I am the officer-of-the-watch, that is why I came straight to you.’

  Climbing the steps ahead of the midshipman, the captain was not surprised to see three sailors standing idly by the scuttlebutt and another snoozing by the main yard – all quite oblivious to the fact he had been called.

  ‘On your feet you lubber,’ Oliver yelled, almost tripping over a pair of feet protruding from under one of the boats. His cry prompted the other sailors to adjust their poses, dart to their stations and refrain from conversation.

  ‘Aloft there!’ the Captain called, rousing the lookout. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Nothing to report, Capt’n.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Not a speck on the sea.’

  With the moon bright enough to cast wavering shadows back and forth across the deck, it provided the lookout with the ability to see for miles.

  ‘You wanted me,’ Simon said, fastening the buttons on his shirt.

  ‘Mr Atherstone, please repeat the message you conveyed to me.’

  Glancing from side to side, the young midshipman explained. ‘I was on the quarterdeck when I heard voices off the starboard beam. I looked but I could see no one. Then I heard them on the larboard side. They were whispering, but undoubtedly the language they were speaking was French. I speak French quite fluently. I was tutored from a very young age.’

  ‘And did the helmsman hear these voices?’

  ‘Apparently not, or he was not willing to admit it.’

  ‘And how many boats or ships did you see which conveyed these Frenchmen?’

  ‘I saw neither ships nor boats, nor seamen, though I was certain there were shadowy figures climbing aboard from the larboard mizzen channel. I fear they have boarded already.’

  ‘All hands on deck, Mr Parry. Instruct the marines to conduct a thorough search of the ship!’

  Three hours later, with the first hint of morning mellowing the eastern horizon, Oliver emptied his cup.

  ‘Did you expect to find anyone aboard?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No, I did not, but I couldn’t take the chance that what the young man had heard was not real.’

  In the captain’s opinion, nothing has been lost by the exercise, save a few hours slumber which, under the present sailing conditions, the crew would soon recoup. However, what troubled him was that Captain’s Crabthorne’s young relative was again manifesting the effects of the brain fever he had suffered previously.

  ‘Might I suggest that when Mr Atherstone is on watch at night, another midshipman is with him? I’m sorry, I realise we are short of officers, but I fear this may happen again.’

  A week later, having crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, Perpetual was maintaining its southerly heading. The frigate was making nine knots on a westerly breeze and with no sightings of other sails, there was nothing remarkable for the captain to record in his log.

  That night on deck, soon after three bells, Mr Tully lifted his head and sniffed. ‘Can you smell something burning?’

  At the helm, the quartermaster lifted his nose to the air. ‘That’s smoke, I reckon.’

  The officer-of-the-watch strode briskly along the deck chec
king the sailors leaning against the gunnels to see if their pipes were lit, and after ordering them to stay alert, he instructed one man to accompany him. Once he was forward of the mainmast, the source of the smell was evident. Grey smoke was puffing from the galley chimney delivering small black flakes onto the breeze. Aware that the fire-hearth had been doused the previous evening and that cook would not rekindle it until seven o’clock in the morning, Mr Tully hurried below to investigate.

  Situated near the bottom of the forward hatch, the galley was at the forward end of the mess deck where the sailors slung their hammocks. Descending the ladder, the first smells that confronted him were those of sleeping men – the foul farts resulting from eating a near indigestible diet, the stench of sweat and rotten teeth, and the rancid aroma of meat fat congealing in cold cooking pots. The smoke and smell of burning paper rising from the flames flickering in the fire-hearth was being carried up the chimney to the weather deck.

  ‘What’s going on ’ere?’ Mr Tully demanded of the figure crouching down, feeding paper into the hearth.

  Either not hearing or choosing to ignore the question, the man continued tearing pages from a leather-bound book and tossing them onto the flames.

  ‘Belay that, I say. Stop now and step aside.’

  ‘Stop your racket down there!’ a voice yelled from one of the hammocks. Murmurs of similar, but less polite curses came from others woken from their sleep.

  With no word of explanation, the man at the hearth stood up. In his hand was the leather binding of a book from which all the pages had been removed. Tossing the vellum into the fire, he bent down and picked up another volume from a collection of books piled neatly on the stone floor surrounding the hearth.

  ‘Get Mr Parry and the cook. Tell ’em to come here immediately.’

  A voice shouted from the swaying hammocks, ‘Shut your yap else I’ll shut if for you!’ Mr Tully ignored it.

  Mr Atherstone appeared oblivious to all that was going on around him and continued tearing pages from another volume and feeding them into the fire.

  ‘Belay that, I said. Belay!’ Mr Tully yelled.

  As he snatched the book from the man’s hand, the first lieutenant descended the companionway. He had made barely a sound, but the marines following him clattered noisily.

  ‘Restrain that man and take him to the midshipman’s berth,’ Mr Tully ordered.

  When a hand was laid on his arm, Mr Atherstone retaliated. ‘I must destroy these. All of them,’ he claimed, pulling free.

  ‘Take him,’ Mr Parry said, in a commanding voice. ‘And make sure he remains under guard.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  When the nineteen-year-old took objection to being manhandled, his cries of indignation were accompanied by curses, rebukes and complaints from the sailors attempting to sleep. The cacophony rose when the marines forced their way between the rows of hammocks to deliver Mr Atherstone to the midshipmen’s berth located aft on the same deck.

  Once the noise had subsided and cook had damped the flames, Mr Parry examined the books on the stone floor beneath the hearth – a Book of Psalms, a Bible, The Arabian Nights, a midshipman’s personal notebook and even a pair of nautical almanacs. ‘Where on earth—?’ he murmured.

  ‘What on earth possessed him to do such a thing?’ Mr Parry asked Oliver later. And where did all the books come from?’

  ‘I believe you will have your answer when I ask the midshipmen to check their sea chests. I suggest Mr Atherstone collected all he could find in those quarters. I only hope he did not pilfer any books from the mess. The sailors have few possessions and though many cannot read their Bibles or prayer books, those are often the only items they have to remind them of loved ones back home.’

  ‘But what of Mr Atherstone now? His crime is one of theft, destruction of property, and of putting the safely of the ship and its men in danger.’

  ‘And I am sure there are other charges to add to that list.’

  ‘I presume you are standing Mr Atherstone down,’ Mr Parry said.

  ‘Of course. I only wish I had been able to prevent this from happening. I feared something of this nature would transpire before too long. As Captain Crabthorne said, the man’s mind is obviously deranged at times yet at others his behaviour is quite proper. But unfortunately this type of behaviour, which is both dangerous and criminal, will have an unnerving effect on the crew and some will be calling for immediate punishment.’

  Simon Parry agreed.

  ‘In which case, for his own safely and the safely of the ship, he must be kept under close guard. I suggest he is placed in the third lieutenant’s cabin and a marine guard posted outside. I have asked the surgeon to administer some potion to sedate him. If all goes well, we should reach Juan Fernández in less than two weeks. Hopefully, we will meet Compendium there.’

  The following evening, after the men had eaten supper and an hour after the hammocks had been piped down, four bells was sounded on the deck above. That was no reason to interrupt Oliver’s conversation with Simon Parry or to stop the pair from sampling the goats’ cheeses they had acquired in Callao, along with a fine wine grown on the foothills of the Andes that Oliver had purchased in Valdivia.

  The sound of two musket shots, however, had a chilling effect.

  Leaping to his feet, Oliver rushed from the table inadvertently dragging with him the hem of the linen table-cloth. Sliding easily across the polished table, it carried with it the platter of cheeses, a pair of Waterford glasses and the half-full decanter of wine. With the sound of glass crashing in their ears, and without glancing back, both men headed for the companion leading to the weather deck. Simon Parry allowed the captain to go first.

  Standing by the helm, Mr Tully delivered a hushed warning. ‘Watch your head, Captain. Sharpshooter in the futtock shrouds.’

  ‘Anyone injured?’

  ‘Jenks, one of the topmen. He was in the rigging and was hit on the arm. Fortunately he managed to climb down. I’ve sent him below to the surgeon.’

  It was impossible to see who was aloft. The night was dark and, with the moon on the wane, the sky was black. But Oliver didn’t need to ask who had fired the musket.

  ‘Hell’s teeth! How is this possible? Wasn’t the man under guard?’ Oliver cursed, as he stepped forward. ‘I can accept a full broadside from an enemy’s ship, but I will not condone a musket ball from one of my own officers on my own deck!’

  ‘Be careful, Oliver,’ Simon said, ‘Mr Atherstone is a good marksman.’

  ‘Bring me a lantern,’ he demanded. ‘I wish the man to see me.’

  ‘You will make an easier target.’

  ‘Do not question my order!’

  Instantly, a lamp was handed forward. The seaman who delivered it quickly retreated to safety behind the mizzen mast.

  Holding the lantern above his head, Captain Quintrell called out, ‘Mr Atherstone, kindly refrain from firing and come down at once. I can assure you that there are no boarders on the ship.’

  ‘But I saw them with my own eyes, sir. Must have been a dozen came swarming onto the deck. All in French uniforms.’

  ‘Believe me, Mr Atherstone, the borders have been repelled and the deck is ours. It is quite safe for you to come down now. You have performed your duty most admirably.’

  The whites of Ekundayo’s eyes gleamed in the night light. ‘Do you want me to go up and get him? He won’t see my black skin in the rigging.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Oliver said, ‘but I think not. He may mistake you for a runaway French slave or a Spanish rebel. Goodness knows what images his mind will conjure next.’ He waited for a few moments but there was no response from the rigging.

  ‘I shall go aloft. Mr Parry, attend to the men. I need silence and no sudden noises or disturbance on deck.’

  Swinging up onto the cap-rail, he slipped his arm around the shroud and leaned back. ‘Aloft there! This is Captain Quintrell. I am coming to join you and I assure you I am alone.’

  As h
e climbed the ratlines, the standing rigging above his head dissolved into the darkness. On the deck below, a circle of light splayed around the lantern but nothing more was visible. The night air was warm with barely a breath of breeze. The sails flapped.

  ‘A fine night,’ the captain commented, in a casual tone, as he poked his head through the lubber’s hole. Having resolved that the butt of a musket could easily send him crashing to the deck, it had seemed wiser to go that way than to climb out and around in the conventional fashion. ‘Anything to report, Mr Atherstone?’

  ‘All clear, Captain. Nothing on the horizon.’

  ‘That is good, Mister. Then I will relieve you of your duty,’ he said, slowly reaching out his hand and taking the musket from the midshipman. ‘You may go down now.’

  The young man’s expression was one of confusion. His eyes glazed over, yet he acknowledged the order. ‘Thank you, Captain. I bid you good night.’

  ‘And to you,’ Oliver said. Then, after waiting until the man had disappeared into the darkness, he hailed the deck. ‘Mr Atherstone’s watch is over. He is coming below.’

  On deck, the sailors waited in silence and watched as the young middie clambered down the ratlines, stepped onto the rail and then dropped down to the deck. Mr Parry was waiting for him with a pair of marines ready to escort him below.

  ‘This cannot be allowed to happen again,’ Oliver said later. ‘For the safely and peace of mind of the men, Mr Atherstone’s cabin must not only be guarded at all times but a lock should be placed on the door. Believe me when I say, I do not enjoy taking these measures, but these are unusual circumstances and we must contend with them at least until we raise Juan Fernández one week from now.’

  ‘And what then?’ Mr Parry asked.

  ‘A good question. While the officer is on my ship, he is my responsibility, and I cannot return him to Captain Crabthorne in his present state of health. Do I return him to England to face a court martial? What do I do?’

  Simon was silent to the rhetorical question.

  ‘If I charge him with all the offences he has committed according to the Articles of War he would be found guilty and likely be sentenced to being flogged around the fleet, if not hung.’