The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  Tommy didn’t know what had hit him, but he felt the shock run though his every fibre. His legs collapsed from under him and instinctively he grasped his hands together and pressed them tightly against his chest. With blood running through his fingers, he could feel a warm wetness saturating his shirt. He tried to look down at it but the dizziness in his head stopped him – it was far worse than the giddy light-headedness he had experienced in the diving bell. He wanted air. He gulped like a fish. He wanted to get up. Wanted to move. But the narrow walls of his wooden world were closing in.

  ‘Get him out of the way before someone trips over him,’ Hobbles yelled. ‘We need powder,’ he cried, to the boy with a leathern case in his hands haring down to the magazine. The captain looked at Betsy. His gun had not been damaged. ‘Re-load!’ he yelled, to the men who remained.

  ‘Let me take the lad to the cockpit,’ Eku shouted.

  Hobbles read his lips. ‘Stand your ground. You can take him later. Run her out!’

  The firing continued until the order to cease was relayed and the men, designated as boarders, were summoned to the deck. Those not chosen to go up would hear the sound of running feet above them, then a single cry would resound from the quarterdeck: Boarders away!

  That order meant Captain Quintrell and his officers were heading into a fight – a scene which changed little, no matter where or when it happened. Men were hacked to pieces, as swords and cutlass blades clashed in the sunlight. Musket balls stopped men dead in their tracks. Those with deep wounds fought while they could then, if they were able, crawled into a corner or beneath a boat to wait for the end.

  In the indescribable confusion, the sharp-shooters in the fighting tops had an impossible task. Who was friend and who was foe? Their best aim was at the soldiers in the opposing tops, or sailors descending the rigging. But not until one of the captains surrendered would the hand-to-hand fighting stop, and in the meantime scores of men would die.

  On the gun deck, the men who remained below waited in fearful anticipation to hear the crack, the long creaking groan and finally the reverberating thud as a mast came down trailing miles of rigging behind it. That usually prompted colours being hauled down and heralded the end of the fighting. But without word of the fight’s progress, the sailors could only guess if it was their ship or the enemy’s that had suffered the damage.

  Suddenly a flash of white light, brighter than any lightning bolt, along with an ear-splitting explosion resounded through the gun ports.

  ‘What was that?’ Muffin asked. No one answered.

  From the weather deck, a cheer rang out. A British cheer.

  ‘It’s over!’ Muffin yelled, jubilantly.

  While a few shouted with him, others merely wiped their brows and eyes, or dropped to the deck, cradling their heads in their hands allowing the immense weariness they were suffering to overcome them.

  ‘The captain must have taken her,’ Muffin said. ‘You mind my words. He’ll soon have the Frenchies locked in their own hold. He’ll have a prize crew aboard her and we’ll sail her back to England. Easy peasy.’

  But the resolution was not quite so simple. With its mainmast sheared in two and its helm shot away, the French ship was unseaworthy. And what the men below decks didn’t know was that Perpetual had also suffered considerable damage.

  As to the other privateer Captain Crabthorne had chased, it had caught fire and, despite frantic efforts by the crew to fight the blaze, the flames had reached the powder store. After the blinding explosion, some survivors had struggled in the water for a while but it wasn’t possible for the Royal Navy frigate to get a boat off to rescue them. By the time the action was over, the flaming wreck had drifted some distance away leaving a trail of flotsam and floating bodies littering the sea. After burning for a while, the hull had succumbed. The burnt remains of the souls who had gone down with the hull would eventually wash up on the beaches of Patagonia, where sea lions and voracious leopard seals would quickly remove every trace of their existence.

  On Perpetual’s gun deck, the cannon were still hot and all that remained of the smoke was a fug hanging beneath the deck beams, lacing the air with the smell of spent powder. The rest had drifted out through the waist or the gun ports or the holes in the hull where the enemy’s shot had penetrated,

  ‘You can take him now,’ Hobbles said, nodding to the Negro.

  Throughout the fighting, Tommy hadn’t moved an inch. His hands were still clasped tightly against his chest but the blood was no longer oozing between his fingers. Picking him up, the towering seaman cradled him in his arms and carried him from the gun deck as gently as a father would carry a newborn son. Tommy’s head lolled onto the black chest now speckled white with ash, streaked grey with smoke and splattered with blood.

  Though the deck heaved beneath his feet, Eku picked his steps carefully, avoiding the splinters and debris as he headed to the cockpit. Ahead, the sounds that greeted him were disturbing. Like the cries from St Bethlehem’s Hospital – the wailing of lost souls waiting for the gates of Hell to be flung open. With little light to see by and his eyes still smarting from the smoke, the streaks of blood daubed along the bulwarks sign-posted the direction.

  ‘Halt there. You can’t go any further.’ The marine’s order was half-hearted and barely disguised the hint of fear in the fifteen-year-old’s soft voice. For two hours, he’d been subjected to a cacophony of horrendous sounds coming at him from all directions. Through his feet, he had felt the reverberation that thundered through the ship. He’d had no warning when the guns would roar, or the enemy’s broadsides would find their target. All he saw was a flow of broken men and dripping bodies being dragged or carried into the cockpit. He’d been subjected to the pitiful cries – the screams – the prayers, and been ordered not to leave his post.

  ‘Is it nearly over?’ he asked, timidly.

  ‘Almost,’ Eku answered, not knowing if he was right or wrong.

  ‘Who’s that?’ the marine asked, trying to see the face curled in the Negro’s arms.

  ‘Young Tom. What do I do with him?’

  ‘I’ll take him now,’ the surgeon’s mate answered, appearing from behind the blanket pinned across the entranceway.

  Eku held the boy close to his chest and was loathe to let him go.

  ‘Give him to me,’ the loblolly said, firmly. ‘The surgeon’ll look at him. But he’ll have to wait his turn. Go back to your division. You’re in the way here.’

  Reluctantly, Eku gave his young friend to the mate and turned.

  ‘Hey, wait. I need you,’ he called, lifting the curtain. ‘Take this one up,’ he said, pointing a blood-stained fist at a sailor huddled against the hull – his arms wrapped tightly around his belly.

  Eku recognized Old Silas. He was a quiet but nimble fellow who he had worked alongside in the mizzen top. Curled on his side, almost in a ball, the man’s face bore not a single mark, merely an expression of slight surprise with his mouth half-open. In the flickering light of the lantern’s glim, his eyes still glistened.

  ‘What do I do with him?’ Eku asked, unsure if he was to drop him over the side, as he had seen done on other ships.

  ‘Place him with the others near the windlass. He’ll have to stay there until the deck’s been cleared and swabbed. Then get one of his mates to find a hammock and bag him up. The captain will read over him with the rest and that will be the end of him.’

  When Eku lifted him, the old tar’s arms fell from the gash across his belly and his innards slithered to the ground in a gush of yellow fluid. Without a word, the mate gathered up the intestines and tried thrusting them back where they belonged. But, with the body curled and the wet coils sliding through his hands, it was impossible.

  ‘Hold him still,’ the mate called, pulling out a knife and slicing through the loops that were getting tangled under his feet.

  Eku had only one thought. The man’s inside were no different to that of a goat.

  ‘More sand!’ the mate yelled
to the marine. ‘Don’t just stand there, do something useful.’

  Eku looked at the glistening loops of pink flesh. ‘What will you do with that?’

  ‘Do you want it?’ the man in the bloodied apron joked, tossing the lengths into a waiting bucket. ‘It’s not much good to Silas now.’

  The groans of another man being lowered through the hatch interrupted them.

  ‘Back to your station. You’re in the way.’

  While the loblolly boy held the cockpit curtain open for the next patient to be delivered to the surgeon, Eku glanced into the darkness. Silhouetted by a single light, in the centre of the cabin, was the surgeon. He was leaning over a table, a saw poised in his hand. Above his head, the lantern was swinging rhythmically to the pulse of the ocean’s swell. Everything else in the cockpit melded into the grey haze.

  Chapter 22

  Tommy Wainwright

  By five o’clock that afternoon, Captain Quintrell was anxious to attend to the dead. Once the burial service was over and the bodies removed from the deck, the crew could then concentrate on their duties without having to constantly step over or around the mates they had lost. With most of the corpses collected from the gun deck or delivered from the cockpit, the bodies were lined up near the entry port from which they would make their final departure from the ship. All that remained was for them to be sewn into a hammock, but the sailors doing the stitching were not to be hurried.

  ‘Where’s Tommy Wainwright?’ Eku asked.

  ‘He ain’t been brought up yet. Go ask the surgeon.’

  Eku shook his head. ‘The guard won’t let me pass. Says the surgeon’s too busy.’

  The sailors’ eyes never lifted from their work. The stitches they were weaving were neat, yet the hammocks themselves were far from pretty. Having been taken down from the netting along the rails, most were riddled with holes from grape and musket balls. The worst were in tatters and fit only to be tossed overboard. The least damaged were saved and put aside to be repaired later. Small holes from pistol shots or small rips from flying chain could be mended. Damaged ropes could be replaced, and tiny pock-holes would be ignored by weary sailors. But, as often happened, some hammocks used as burial shrouds were less than adequate. At times, a hand would poke out of a hole and appear to wave as the corpse was slid from the ship’s side. But no one ever complained, not even the sailor whose name was on it, even though, because of the shortage of decent hammocks to go around, it was likely he would be sleeping on the mess-deck floor for the remainder of the voyage. At least he wasn’t being heaved over the side inside it.

  Emerging on deck for the umpteenth time, having just helped carry another victim up the ladder, the loblolly boy stretched his aching back and yawned. ‘You looking for Tommy, the powder monkey?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Eku answered, nodding.

  ‘He’s behind the curtain in the cockpit where Silas was. You can go get him – and mind you find a decent hammock for him.’

  Eku didn’t ask permission to be excused, but headed down the companionway into the gloom at the forward end of the ship.

  Ahead of him, the woollen blanket was still draped across the entrance, but now, though smeared with bloodied handprints, it was bone-dry. But the young marine was no longer at his post. The only evidence he had been there was a wet stain on the spot where he had been standing.

  Lifting the curtain aside, Eku blinked at the blackness. Ahead, in the gloom, the dimly lit lantern still swayed over the table, but there was little movement from within, and the shrieks and moans he had heard earlier had subsided. In the reflected light from the purser’s glim, the whites of the Negro’s eyes glistened with moisture.

  ‘Are you all right?’ a voice whispered.

  ‘Tommy! God be praised! You’re not dead!’

  ‘Course I’m not dead! I’ve been waiting for you to come get me.’

  Eku leaned down and touched the boy’s head and ruffled his hair. ‘Can you walk?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  Despite that, he slid his arm around Tommy’s back and hoisted him to his feet.

  ‘The loblolly boy said I should find you a hammock!’ he laughed. ‘Whatever happened?’

  ‘This’ said Tom, as they moved from the gloom to the light of the companionway. Holding out his left arm, he revealed his hand, cocooned in a ball of linen bandages. ‘I only lost a finger,’ he said. ‘The surgeon said it was likely a splinter sliced it clean off. I never felt no pain, honest, I didn’t, but when I saw the blood coming, I remembered what you’d told me, and I squeezed my finger as tight as I could and stopped the blood from running out. The surgeon said it was the right thing, I did. And the surgeon said I was lucky in one way, I only lost a finger not the whole hand. But he said it’ll prove I’m a real sailor. But he also said if I’d have lost the whole arm, I might have got a pension for the rest of my days. And he said that those who lose both legs—’

  The white teeth flashed across Eku’s ebony face, ‘Seems like you lost a finger and found your tongue. Come on, young Tom, the mate says I’ve to find you a hammock, and I’ll make sure you stay there until your hand is better.’

  After the captain had read the burial service, and before the real job of cleaning began, the men lined up on deck. Suddenly the atmosphere was noticeably different. Sailors chatted and joked with each other. The fighting was over and there was no urgency for anything except to join the line for the gill of rum which was issued to every man and every boy.

  It was questionable whether the navy’s purpose was to reward the men or merely to blank their minds to the task ahead. But after having swallowed only a few sups of water throughout the day and having eaten only a biscuit, if they were lucky, the effect of the rum was instant and obvious. Men tripped over ropes, sang or made lewd remarks, even joked inappropriately about the dead. It was remarkable that no one fell from the yards. But the numbing effect was essential, and it worked.

  The tasks before them were often distasteful and it would take several days for the job to be completed. Without a belly full of rum, there was only gloom and doleful faces. With it, the sky appeared clearer, the sun brighter and the sailors didn’t appear to have a care in the world.

  From the fire hearth in the galley, large pots, usually used for breakfast burgoo, were filled with vinegar, which was warmed, then ladled into pails and distributed to the hands who splashed it liberally on the hull, the beams and across the decks. Though it didn’t get rid of the deeper stains, it proved effective in disguising the smell of blood. Thick pools of congealed blood had to be scraped with a shovel. The longer it remained in place the harder it was to remove. The smell of brimstone now pervaded the air.

  In the rigging, above the deck where the bodies had been lined-up, the bosun and his mates were busy splicing lines, reeving new ones, replacing eyes and repairing ratlines. Topmen hanging over the yard arms hacked at the ragged remnants of canvas, tossing the shredded sails to the sea before bending new ones.

  Whether drunk or sober, the thought of prize money, from sale of the French corvette, was now foremost in the sailors’ minds. But, at least eight weeks and ten-thousand miles of sea lay ahead of them. Perpetual must sail almost the entire length and breadth of the Atlantic Ocean during which time the ships and crews had to survive the Doldrums and contend with opposing trade winds. Plus, before they raised the English coastline, they had to by-pass the French navy who, at any time, could break through the British blockade and gain the upper hand in the Channel.

  Besides all that, they had to pray that the shots they had thrown so decisively at the enemy had not hit or damaged the vessel below the waterline, if it was going to be of any value as a prize of war. They needed it to be sold quickly and by an honest agent. And finally, they had to ensure they lived long enough to sign their names, or make their marks, when the frigate paid off in Portsmouth.

  Little more than a gun crew could be spared from Perpetual to help repair the prize vessel and make it read
y to sail. However, because Compendium’s fight had been shorter and Captain Crabthorne had suffered less damage and less casualties, he was able to supply more men and time to the task. While it was necessary to make the prize seaworthy, superficial repairs could be still done when they were sailing again. One early job was to remove the weapons – French pistols, swords, cutlasses, clubs, pikes and muskets, along with ball and powder from the corvette. Should the prisoners locked in the hold manage to escape, both captains needed to be assured that they did not have the weapons or firepower to retaliate.

  For cook and his assistants, the need to prepare food for an additional hundred mouths meant extra labour, until the French cook with two of his mates were allowed up from the hold and ordered to labour in their own galley. Six marines from each frigate were rowed across to the prize to ensure no prisoners escaped, while the master of the privateer and his mates were transferred to Compendium and placed under lock and key in the second and third lieutenants’ cabins.

  Once the French ship was deemed seaworthy, Captain Quintrell saw no point in all three vessels wallowing on the water. Instead he insisted Captain Crabthorne and Compendium head north, with the prize vessel, without delay. He was confident he had sufficient skilled men aboard to attend to his own repairs and he promised he would be but a couple of days’ sailing behind them.

  Chapter 23

  The Tears of the Moon

  It was three days before the jury rig was hoisted and the standing and running rigging met with the satisfaction of both the bosun and Captain Quintrell. By then, the carpenter and his mates had completed the repairs to Perpetual’s damaged hull including plugging the holes closest to the waterline. Finally, the hold was pumped dry and everything battened down. Fortunately, the sea had remained relatively calm during that time but the wind had forced the frigate to drift a considerable distance to the south. During that time, they had seen no other sail, their only visitors being the petrels, snowbirds and albatross who swooped and dived but made no effort to settle in the rigging.