The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Never mind,’ Tommy said sagely. ‘So where are we heading to?’

  ‘How should I know? The captain hasn’t said. He’s just back from the Admiralty but he’s in a big hurry to put to sea, so we’ll know soon enough.’

  Tommy remembered his first encounter with Captain Quintrell in London. That seemed like a long time ago.

  ‘What did you do with your prize money, Bungs?’

  ‘Never you mind, that’s my business. But I didn’t waste it, not like some I know.’

  ‘Do you think Mr Parry will have a place for me?’ Tommy asked quietly.

  ‘Sure he will. I’ll make sure he does.’

  Tommy laughed. ‘You ain’t changed much, Bungs, have you? Still as bold as brass.’

  ‘And you’re still as talkative as ever, young Tom.’

  In his cabin, Oliver folded the sheet of writing paper neatly and slid it into the envelope he had addressed to Victoria, his wife, at their home on the Isle of Wight.

  Lifting the candle from its holder, he held the stick of sealing wax over the flame and allowed it to heat, but not burn. The coil of dark smoke drifting up from it scented the air with the smell of beeswax mellowed with a hint of musk. It reminded him of the strange, but not unfamiliar, odour of ambergris.

  Dripping slowly but rhythmically, like blood from a severed finger, the dark drops of red wax pooled to the size of a shilling. Blowing across it, to cool it slightly, he breathed warm air onto the metal seal before pressing it firmly into the soft wax. The imprint was excellent. His wife would recognize it instantly.

  Replacing the candlestick on the top of his writing bureau, he immediately reached for another envelope. After addressing it, he placed it aside. Picking up the quill, he dipped the nib into the well but, before he had put pen to paper, the ink dripped onto the desk. Wiping it, he gazed down at the blank page.

  The letter he had just written to his wife had flowed easily – a little like writing to another post captain, the content informative and courteous, worded with a degree of formality afforded by respect, but with the comfortable familiarity of years of interaction. Yet those words never conveyed his closely guarded inner feelings – his joys, his hopes, his fears. As at home, he had learned to guard those jealously. Nor had he written of his aspirations. Preserving his ship and the lives of the men under his command was the most he could wish for. He had no desire to return home – at least not until his present commission had been completed. Victoria was already aware of that.

  For Oliver Quintrell, life aboard a frigate of His Majesty’s Navy was well regulated and duty bound, and his correspondence, like an entry in the log, related to aspects of day-to-day life at sea. But, in letters to his wife, this information was recounted only at a superficial level. It was not that he feared offending her sensitivities, but because his wife was not interested in either the mundane or the more sordid sides of sea life, or of the officers or crew aboard his ship, even men who had sailed with him for many years. It was a fact he knew their character traits and understood their moods more intimately than he knew his wife’s.

  With Susanna, however, it was different. Although he had not seen her for nigh on two years, she was always close to him, in thought if not in person. With her, even on paper, he felt free to share his inner desires, confide his doubts, express his wishes, reveal his regrets, all without fear of recrimination or rebuke. Though, when committing thoughts to paper, he was careful in case his correspondence was misdirected.

  Where was she now? He wondered. Still at the house, perched on the mountainside in Madeira, overlooking Funchal and its peaceful harbour? Standing beneath the vine in the garden, her black hair spilling over her right shoulder? Were her bare feet bathed in a sea of spent magenta flowers? Was she alone?

  The distant, but unmistakable, sound of chimes of the ship’s bell rudely reminded him of the hour. He had other more pressing matters to attend to and this was no time to allow his mind to drift. He must hurry. Dipping the pen into the ink again, he wrote:

  My dearest Susanna,

  Once again, I must beg your forgiveness as I tender my apology. You cannot comprehend how much it grieves me that I cannot contact you in person, but my orders, from their Lordships in London, are to proceed from this harbour to Gibraltar, where I will remain for some months or until the impending war with Spain is declared.

  Should that event transpire, every ship in the Royal Navy will be called into service. How long the conflict will continue cannot be determined, and which side will emerge victorious is in the hands of God. I pray that Portugal will not be drawn into the war and Madeira will forever remain a safe haven.

  If you still hold a place for me in your heart and are liberty to write, your correspondence should be directed to me care of the Commander of the Garrison at Gibraltar. It would uplift my spirits, if I were to receive some communication from you.

  No words can express my feelings for you and I pray that one day we can meet and be together.

  I am, as always,

  Your Obedient Servant,

  Oliver Quintrell

  Aboard His Majesty’s frigate Perpetual, Portsmouth Harbour

  4th August 1804

  The ambiguity in the last line was not only in his words, but in his mind. He was unsure of Susanna’s present situation, but he trusted that her feelings, although unlikely to be as raw as his own, were still smouldering and she would interpret his words in the manner they were intended.

  After quickly reading the letter for a second time, he was dissatisfied with its composition and the formal way he had signed it, but there was no time to pen it again. If his correspondence was to be dispatched before they sailed, he had no time to waste. Without the need to blot the page, he folded it and placed it in the addressed envelope, reached for the candle and allowed the vermilion drops of sealing wax to spill onto the back.

  ‘Casson!’ he called.

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘We will be discharging some men to The Hard shortly. Kindly pass these two letters to my coxswain and have them delivered to the Post Office in town.’

  With those obligations attended to, all thoughts of his wife and Susanna were immediately put from this mind. Preparations to sail on the morrow were now his primary concern.

  ‘Captain Quintrell?’

  Oliver looked up to find a man standing in his doorway.

  ‘Ah, Mr Whipple, I presume. Or should I call you Dr Whipple? You must have been delayed. The Navy Board advised me to expect you some days ago.’

  ‘That is correct, Captain, and I offer my profuse apologies. I trust it has not delayed your departure.’

  ‘Very nearly,’ Oliver admitted bluntly. ‘We sail tomorrow. Your papers, if you please.’

  The surgeon handed over several documents, including various certificates and letters of recommendation along with a warrant from the Navy Board.

  ‘I was detained in London. There was an accident and I was called to attend a child who had fallen beneath the wheels of a wagon. The boy’s leg was crushed and required amputation.’

  ‘I trust the operation was successful.’

  ‘The operation was successful, but the patient died yesterday, two days following the removal of the limb. I left when my services were no longer needed.’

  Oliver withheld the cynical comment he was tempted to make. ‘Thank you, Doctor. These papers appear to be in order, but if you will leave them with me, I will peruse them again more thoroughly when I am less pressed for time. I trust, by now your dunnage has been taken below, and I am sure you are anxious to familiarize yourself with the sick berth. However, before you return to your quarters, I have a group of men in the hold I require you to examine for any obvious defects which might render them unable to perform their duties as seamen. You have sailed before, I notice.’

  ‘Yes, sir. After a period of twelve months abroad, I disembarked in Plymouth a little over a week ago. That was my first naval appointment.’

  ‘And
you are prepared to sail again so soon?’

  ‘I did not wish to refuse the Navy Board’s offer to serve aboard Perpetual.’

  Oliver wondered about the man he was addressing. His clothes were of quality cloth, but appeared a little shabby and well worn. He was fresh faced and young – probably of little more than 23 years. His pale blue eyes and the unnatural pallor in his cheeks were troubling, but he had known other surgeons who, after serving many months in the tropics, had returned to England as lily-white as the day they left. Working constantly below the waterline was enough to drain the colour from any man’s cheeks. He could not condemn a man for having blue eyes or a pale skin, it was his ability with the lancet and saw which was of importance on a fighting ship.

  ‘Then, all that remains is for me to welcome you aboard. Perhaps this evening you will do me the honour of dining with me. It will provide the opportunity for you to meet my officers and to enjoy the pleasure of a meal one does not have to chase across a pitching table.’

  The surgeon smiled. ‘Thank you. I will be delighted to join you.’

  ‘Casson! Pass a message to Mr Parry. I will inspect the pressed men now. Kindly ask him to have them mustered on deck immediately. Inform him I will join him directly.’

  As the doctor reached for his cane, bowed his head slightly and departed the cabin, Oliver observed him keenly. Like the silver buckles on his shoes, the brass ferrule on his cane shone. His hands were clean and appeared soft which was appropriate for a man unaccustomed to manual work. His hair was also clean, neither greased nor powdered, and was cropped close to his head in the latest fashion of the bon ton of London Society. Or perhaps his head had been shaved recently to combat the infestations of nits or lice, which find the scalps of sailors appetising? As his scalp appeared quite white beneath the bristling black hair, he decided the London fashion had determined the surgeon’s coiffure. Or perhaps, he was in the habit of wearing a wig.

  As to Dr Whipple’s facial features, they were pleasant enough, for a young man, although unremarkable. No scars or pockmarks and a straight nose. Obviously not a fighting man.

  From a very brief perusal of his papers, it was evident the doctor had attended University in Edinburgh. It could be assumed, therefore, that he was a learned man. His diction was clear and his enunciation lacked any evidence of anything other than City living. His papers indicated he had qualified, first as an apothecary, and later studied to be a surgeon spending several months working at the two Borough Hospitals – St Thomas’s and Guy’s. His warrant from the Navy Board was dated only a few days ago.

  Everything appeared satisfactory and, as he had served in the West Indies for a year, Oliver assumed he would be fully conversant with the requirements of a surgeon serving aboard one of His Majesty’s vessels. Hopefully, if they saw action in the coming months, Dr Whipple would be an asset. Hopefully, too, the new arrival would offer some conversation at the dinner table to stimulate and entertain the officers who had served with him both aboard Perpetual and on His Majesty’s frigate, Elusive, prior to that.

  ‘Casson.’

  ‘Yes, Capt’n.’

  ‘Pass a message to the sergeant of Marines. When the pressed men are brought up, I want them guarded. We are little more than a stone’s throw from the Camber and it’s likely there will be at least one of them sorely tempted to chance his luck against the tide in preference to another year at sea.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Pressed Men

  When the grating was removed from the hold and the men released, the smell of bilge water rose up from the darkness with them. Whether the sudden rush made by the men was to escape the stale air, to see daylight, to attempt to run or merely find out where they were was uncertain. Only one sailor hung back, while the others shoved and pushed, cursed and tumbled over each other in the effort to be first up the ladder to the waist, then up the companionway to the weather deck.

  ‘Line up along the rail,’ Mr Parry called, as the pressed men emerged, eyes scanning the ship, the harbour and Portsmouth town.

  ‘I’ve seen him before,’ one whispered, nudging the man standing next to him and indicating to the doctor. ‘Can’t rightly remember where, but it’ll come to me.’

  ‘Why should I care?’ his mate replied.

  ‘Stand upright! No talking.’

  With a knotted rope’s end swinging from the bosun’s fist, the noise subsided.

  Striding along the motley group of men brought aboard by the press-gang, the captain glanced briefly at each man. Most eyes refused to meet his gaze preferring to stare blankly ahead or down to their bare feet. One fellow coughed several times, releasing the gunk from his chest, washing it around in his mouth before tossing his head back and swallowing. The man who had been last to arrive spat on the deck.

  Standing directly in front of him, Captain Quintrell addressed the sailor. ‘Name?’

  The reply was mumbled.

  ‘I asked you your name. I shall not ask again.’

  ‘Irons. Zachary Irons.’

  ‘So, Mr Irons, you choose to spit on authority – at the very service which, so far, has protected this country from invasion. Men give their lives willingly to protect cowards like you. And I don’t doubt it was you tapping on the ship’s timbers attempting to imitate a woodpecker.’ He turned to Mr Parry. ‘This man’s wings need clipping and he needs to learn that freedom is not a right, nor should it be taken for granted. Freedom must be fought for to be deserved. Let this man’s name be the first to be added to the muster book.’

  ‘Damn your eyes, all of you,’ Irons yelled. ‘You don’t give a sod. Twelve months I sweated in the West Indies. I’ve got a family at home. Now you sentence me to another year of Hell. I’d have more chance of freedom if I was in Newgate Prison.’

  ‘Silence!’ the lieutenant ordered.

  ‘I warn you, Mister,’ the captain said. ‘Your name may not be in the ship’s book as yet, but one more outburst and you will be seized up at the grating before this inspection is complete. Impressment is not my choice but, with men of all rank and file sacrificing their lives for England, it is a necessity of the service. Marines, when he has mopped up that foul deposit, take him below and lock him up.’

  There was little point in struggling. Zachary Irons knew his fate was sealed.

  ‘Dr Whipple, if you would kindly examine these men.’

  The young surgeon retraced the captain’s footsteps, pausing in front of each man, looking briefly at his hair, eyes and opened mouth, instructing him to cough but not physically touching a single one of them. Then he returned to join the captain on the quarterdeck.

  ‘In your opinion, Doctor, are any of these men unfit to serve?’ Oliver enquired.

  ‘Two or three. Do you wish me to indicate which ones?’

  ‘If you would be so kind.’

  ‘If the surgeon points to you, step from the line and wait by the windlass.’

  The men shuffled about, one coughed loudly and let his chin fall onto his chest, saliva drooling from his mouth. Either he was unhealthy, or he was trying to appear so. But the doctor had already made his selection and pointed to three others. One had eyes that were crossed. Another had a large cauliflower-like growth protruding from his bottom lip and the third appeared to be little more than a bag of bones tied up in a shirt. They didn’t need reminding to leave the line and go forward.

  ‘From that brief inspection, I can safely say the rest appear sound, but I would prefer to conduct a more thorough medical examination later.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. That will suffice for the present.’ Oliver turned back to the sixteen who remained. ‘Raise your hand if you have spent time in prison or suffered jail fever.’

  Two hands went up. The others glanced along the line.

  ‘Stick your hand up,’ one sharp-looking lout whispered to the man standing next, as he raised his own. ‘They don’t want thieves and murderers.’

  After thinking about i
t for a moment, his mate – a red-headed Irishman sporting a recently broken nose and teeth, received a sharp elbow in his ribs. Not sure what he was letting himself in for, he lifted his hand.

  ‘Four,’ Mr Parry announced.

  Oliver noted the faces and addressed the ones who remained. ‘Are any of you recently returned from the Indies?’

  Not knowing the reason behind the question, the men were reluctant to admit to anything.

  Mr Tully marched down the line. ‘Raise your hands if you’ve ever sailed to the Indies. East or West, it don’t matter.’

  Six more hands went up.’

  The captain considered his selection. ‘Then it appears we are left with six fit and healthy men who are either lubbers or have never sailed beyond the Lizard.’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Discharge them, Mr Tully.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but which ones?’

  ‘The six healthy men, along with the three deemed unfit to serve. Ready a boat. Give them their shoes and deliver them back to Portsmouth with all speed.’

  ‘That gives us a total of eleven,’ Mr Parry noted. ‘Four from the jails, six from the Indies and the man in the hold.’

  ‘That is well. I have made my choice. Eleven will suffice. After their names have been entered in the book, I suggest Mr Gibb or Mr Hanson read them the Articles of War and then have them returned below. I do not want to see them on deck until we have The Needles in our wake.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Captain, there is a volunteer who came aboard at the same time as the doctor. He has asked permission to sign. He would make up the round dozen and he has served with you before.’

  ‘Name and rate?’

  ‘Thomas Wainwright. He was powder money when he sailed last but he’s now almost seventeen years.’

  With a sharp prod in the back from the cooper, Tommy stepped forward.

  Oliver showed no signs of recognition, but he did glance down to the sailor’s left hand. ‘You may add this man’s name to the muster-book, Mr Parry. I believe the surgeon is in need of a loblolly.’