The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  The easterly, however, was favourable for a small squadron desiring to leave the Mediterranean and head west. Soon after six bells, a call came from the foremast lookout. The three ships had been sighted.

  ‘British man-of-war. Third-rate.’

  Oliver reached for his glass.

  ‘And two frigates.’

  ‘Triumph, Captain Barlow, 74-guns,’ Oliver observed to Mr Mundy who was standing beside him. He was unaware of the identification of the frigates.

  The three vessels, part of the Mediterranean Fleet, were designated to patrol the Strait as far as Cadiz and along the North African coasts of Tangier and Morocco, taking care not to sail to the coast of Algiers where the Dey’s reception was not always friendly.

  With their canvas filled and heading north-easterly, the three British ships had no reason to heave to. Brief signals, exchanged with the third-rate, revealed the squadron was heading to Ferrol. As the two frigates passed, the names Amphion and Medusa were noted, and recorded in the log.

  Later that afternoon, the wind changed and before the sun dipped into the Atlantic, Perpetual was carried through the Strait of Gibraltar. It dropped anchor off Ceuta, the sheltered port on the Moroccan coast that supplied much of the garrison’s daily needs.

  Although the Rock of Gibraltar presented an aura of permanence and stability, Oliver was aware of the strong currents of water running around it, evidenced by the sea thundering into the natural hewn caves around its base. He was aware, too, of the easterly winds capable of forcing unwary ships onto the rocks of the Spanish coast and dashing them to pieces. Morning was the best time to enter the Gut. Oliver knew it and was prepared to wait.

  It was almost dark when Tommy tipped the last bucket of dirty water over the ship’s side. After refilling it, he hauled it up to the deck and scrubbed the inside. When satisfied, he sloshed the seawater to the scuppers and watched it run away. After returning the rope to its rightful place, he wiped his hands down his trousers and wandered to the scuttlebutt for a drink of water not realizing someone was watching him.

  ‘Hey, you!’ Bungs shouted. ‘I want a word in your ear.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back to the cockpit or the surgeon’ll wonder what I’m up to,’ Tommy said, dipping the scoop into the water butt. Just as he did, Bungs thumped the lid down with his fist, knocking the scoop out of his hand.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘There’s a murmur going about the ship saying it was the surgeon what finished off that young middie, not the bone that was stuck in his throat.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Tommy said, not wanting to get into an argument.

  Bungs grabbed him. ‘Don’t you walk away from me.’

  ‘Let go! You’re hurting.’

  Bungs’ grip tightened on Tommy’s arm. ‘Rumour says the floor was awash with blood and the lad’s face was the colour of his curly white locks. It’s said he was a ghost hours before he snuffed it.’

  ‘Who said that?’ Tommy demanded. ‘It’s not true. I should know, ’cause I was there.’

  ‘So these tales didn’t come from you?’ Bungs demanded.

  ‘Of course they didn’t. I might have been away for a while, but I haven’t changed.’ He wrenched his arm out of the cooper’s grip. ‘I thought you knew me better than that. I don’t tell lies and I ain’t one for spreading gossip. Anyway, I ain’t got time for your silly tittle-tattle. Save it for the mess. I’ve got a job to do.’

  Brushing past his old friend, Tommy shook his head and headed to the companionway without looking back.

  ‘Think you’re everybody now, don’t you.’ Bungs yelled. ‘Well, we’ll see.’ With that, he grabbed the scoop and thrust it back into the water butt, splashing himself in the process.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Mr Nightingale asked, striding forward from the quarterdeck.

  Pretending he had not heard him, the cooper wiped his forearm across his face and walked away.

  ‘Time will tell,’ Bungs whispered under his breath.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bay of Gibraltar

  20 August 1804

  Hanging, like a grey pendant from the precipitous promontory, the grey tear-dropped shaped cloud was a product of the easterly wind. Blowing off the Mediterranean, it rolled up the eastern face of the Rock, slid over the ridge but was caught by its tail on the summit. It was a wind which carried with it a disturbing feeling of foreboding.

  ‘The Levanter,’ Simon Parry commented, standing beside the captain on the quarterdeck.

  Familiar with the formation, Oliver turned away and looked across to the coast of North Africa, burnished in gold by the rising sun. Directly across the Strait, eleven miles apart, stood the opposing Pillar of Hercules – Jebel Musa, a sentinel in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco. From the ports along the African coast, traders sailed daily to the British colony to barter their wares.

  The distant boom of a cannon distracted him.

  ‘A little premature for a salute, is it not?’ Oliver said.

  ‘The morning gun,’ the lieutenant advised. ‘Fired every morning to announce the opening of the Land Port Gate.’

  ‘Your knowledge of the territory will prove invaluable during our stay. Let us see what the Lieutenant-Governor has in store for us. Make sail, Mr Parry, if you please.’

  Flying topsails and staysails only, Perpetual crossed the Strait and entered the broad Bay of Gibraltar, or Algeciras Bay, as it was known to the Spaniards who lived on the western shores.

  The prevailing wind in summer invariably blew from the east, and in winter from the west with the absence of north or south air currents at any time. But this being late August, and with autumn approaching, the winds were becoming unpredictable, often contrary and confused, just like the swirling currents turning beneath the frigate’s hull. As Perpetual sailed through the Gut and into the shadow cast by the Rock, the easterly wind died but the tide was sufficient to carry the frigate in.

  As they neared Rosia Bay, Oliver gazed across the water to the town of Algeciras, only six miles away on the opposite shore. The old Spanish town, with its colourful history, dated back to the time of the early Greek and Phoenicians voyagers. Today, its harbour was packed with a tangle of masts making it impossible to count how many ships were moored there, but the tall masts of two Spanish men-of-war towered clearly above the rest. On the open waters of the bay, but closer to the British side, three hulks swung on their anchor cables – a retired second-rate, an aged sixty-four, and a brig. While the masts were stepped, they lacked spars and sails. They also lacked guns pointing from the open ports.

  Mr Parry scanned the surrounds.

  ‘Has anything changed, Simon?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘The number of dhows and feluccas in the bay is far fewer than before. The harbour is usually awash with them at this time of the morning.’

  As preparations were made to drop anchor, Oliver sniffed the air. ‘I notice the smell of this place has not improved. If anything, I think it is worse.’

  ‘Human effluvia, I fear.’ Simon Parry sighed. ‘This is the time of day the scavengers collect the night soil from the streets. They transport it in barrels to the neutral ground beyond the North Mole. That is where it is emptied to await the arrival of the locals who dig through it, collect what they want for their farms and gardens, and carry it away. They seem oblivious to the stench.’

  ‘Disgusting,’ Oliver said, but his attention was distracted by a group of soldiers climbing into a boat at the short South Mole. Dipping their oars and pulling away from the defensive wall, the boat’s bow was turned towards the frigate.

  ‘A welcome from the garrison commander, perhaps,’ Oliver said.

  ‘And not the only one,’ Simon added, indicating another boat being rowed from the North Mole, plus five Spanish gunboats which appeared from behind the small island sheltering the port. They were heading across the Bay of Algeciras towards Gibraltar.

  ‘Have the lookout keep a watch on those gunboats. Mu
ster the men and have the sergeant present his marines on deck. As he was speaking, the cable rumbled through the hawse hole. Perpetual was sitting in six fathoms of water, a cable’s length from the small beach at Rosia Bay.

  Being the only natural harbour on the coast, it was protected by the guns of the Parson’s Lodge Battery on the southern end. Beside the fortification was the huge vaulted roof covering the new victualling yard and water tanks that had only recently been completed in response to the demands of Earl St Vincent.

  In response to the whistles and calls, over a hundred pairs of feet thumped up the companionways. Once the shuffling was stilled and the whispering hushed, there was silence. Within minutes, the boat carrying members of the Queen’s Regiment was swimming twenty yards from the frigate.

  The corporal, standing in the bow, hailed the frigate. ‘Perpetual. Be advised, no one is permitted to leave the ship until it has been inspected. Is that understood?’

  Oliver turned to his lieutenant. ‘Tell the officer to come aboard and deliver his message in person.’

  Simon Parry relayed the captain’s words however the boat made no attempt to come up alongside.

  ‘You cannot disembark,’ the corporal reiterated. ‘All ships are subject to inspection. Until then, you must stay aboard. By order of the garrison.’

  Oliver moved closer to the rail. ‘What is the name of your commanding officer?’

  ‘Major General Sir Thomas Trigge, Lieutenant-Governor of Gibraltar.’

  ‘Then kindly inform Sir Thomas that my orders, from London, are to meet with him as soon as possible. I suggest you convey that message. Advise him Captain Quintrell is arrived from England aboard His Majesty’s frigate Perpetual. Inform him that I sailed directly here and made no landfall on any foreign shore. Furthermore, tell him that my surgeon will confirm we are carrying no infectious diseases. Relay the message directly and advise the general that I seek an urgent audience with him in accordance with my orders from the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.’

  ‘I understand, Captain, but I still can’t let you to go ashore. I have my orders too. I’ll convey your message personally to General Trigge and return with a reply.’

  There was nothing more Oliver could say or do. Frustrated, he turned to his first lieutenant. ‘We did not encounter this situation last year. What do you make of it?’

  ‘It’s unusual,’ Simon Parry said. ‘Gibraltar has long been a free port which has no customs restrictions and levies no import or export duties.’ He turned to the captain. ‘Shall I dismiss the men?’

  ‘Not for the present.’

  The progress of the boat from the North Mole was slow. The men were rowing against the current of the incoming tide and, while the water of the bay was deceptively flat, a line of white foam curled along the tiny beach at Rosia Bay.

  ‘If I am not mistaken, this may be the port’s medical guard,’ Oliver said. ‘Mr Smith, kindly ask Dr Whipple to join me on the quarterdeck.’

  The Mediterranean air was hot, far warmer than any August day in England and already the officers were sweating under the heavy weave of their woollen uniforms. With the last breath of breeze gone, it was going to be an uncomfortable day even on the water.

  Oliver removed his hat and poked the one remaining digit on his right hand, through his hair. Thinking of the three ships they had encountered in the Atlantic, he added: ‘A visit from Captain Barlow, while we are in port, would be most welcome. He served at the Nile amongst other victories.’

  ‘Perhaps the frigate captains will be able to join us also,’ Simon added.

  ‘I fervently hope so. It is reassuring to know we are not alone in this region and if the Straits’ squadron is in the vicinity, I feel certain they will make contact with us. Good conversation over dinner is always welcome.’

  The quarterdeck offered a good view of Rosia Bay. Oliver studied it carefully. It was the site of the navy’s victualling stores. It was also the location of the recently completed water tanks which St Vincent had insisted on. Dug into the ground out of solid rock, the tanks, when filled, promised to collect rainwater from the mountain and provide ships the opportunity to refill their empty barrels. But apart from the nearby gun battery and fortifications, there were few houses.

  The road passing the bay wound up to Windmill Hill, a flat plateau on which the main barracks building was situated. Europa Point, with its precipitous cliffs dropping 60-feet to the sea below, was at the far southern end of the peninsula.

  Heading north, from Rosia Bay, was the main road, which lead directly to the colony’s town. Behind the road, the Rock rose steeply, its bare face scarred only by a old defensive wall and a track which slowly zigzagged to the ridge on the very top. At the summit, poking up like a scrawny finger, was a 200-feet high lookout tower. A short distance from that was the signal station. Unlike the animated semaphore towers criss-crossing France, this device, elevated on a platform, consisted of an arrangement of large black drums along the yards of a mast. For the present, the position of the drums remained static.

  Leaning on the cap rail, the Perpetuals were more interested in the town to the north and what it might have to offer them. Their main concern was when they would be allowed to go ashore.

  After watching one boat leave, the officers on deck awaited the arrival of the second boat.

  Oliver was becoming impatient. ‘As soon as this matter has been completed, have my boat ready. I intend to pay the garrison a visit.’

  His assumption the boat carried the health guard was soon confirmed and within two minutes of coming aboard, the inspector was taken below. Dr Whipple escorted him to the sick berth where he presented to him the only patient under his care.

  Standing alongside the only occupied cot, the surgeon was anxious to share his diagnosis and discuss his patient’s condition – an old rupture in the groin, which had recently been aggravated resulting in lumps the size of a man’s fist protruding from the sailor’s belly. The guard, however, was not interested in the man’s anatomy or malady but, once satisfied no contagion was being harboured in the sick berth, he thanked the doctor and returned to the deck.

  Following a cursory examination of the mustered crew, and receiving a signed declaration from the captain stating he would abide by the quarantine regulations of the Gibraltar Port Authority, Captain Quintrell was handed a note attesting to the health of the frigate.

  With the inspection completed, the health guard retuned to his boat and the Spanish gunboats keeping their distance on the bay, it was time for Oliver to step ashore.

  Compared with the midday heat and the dusty condition of the garrison’s parade ground, the air inside the stone barracks’ building was cool and clear.

  ‘Welcome, Captain Quintrell.’

  Oliver bowed politely to General Sir Thomas Trigge, the ruddy faced, rotund Lieutenant-Governor of the Rock – a man who had seen many years of successful military service.

  ‘I must apologise for the inconvenience you suffered on your arrival. After a long and tedious voyage, I am sure such delays are frustrating. However, you will come to appreciate why such measures have been deemed necessary.’

  Oliver acknowledged ‘It was no inconvenience whatsoever, sir.’

  ‘As you are probably aware, I was advised in advance that you had been ordered to Gibraltar, so your arrival today was not entirely unexpected. You have sailed directly from England, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you will not be aware of the situation on the Rock at the present moment.’

  ‘Although I have sailed into the bay previously, I admit to being unfamiliar with the colony and its people. According to my orders, His Majesty’s frigate Perpetual is at your disposal and I trust that while in port, I will be able to provide whatever assistance is required.’

  The general scratched his temple beneath his powdered wig.

  Oliver continued. ‘A few days ago, I encountered three naval vessels south of Cadiz, but we only came to w
ithin hailing distance. My only other encounter was with the gunboats in the bay. They appeared interested in my arrival, but we have sighted no French ships since leaving the Channel.’

  ‘The Spanish gunboats are an aggravation,’ the general replied, ‘but nothing more. There are dozens of them and they are prone to firing warning shots if you sail close to Algeciras. But, they are fairly harmless – merely another minor annoyance which we have to contend with – like scorpions, venomous reptiles and mosquitoes.’

  ‘And the French, are they a problem around the peninsula?’

  ‘Recently, a pair of privateers has been aggravating the fishermen off Catalan Bay. I have received reports of stolen fish and nets and even a couple of boats sunk. A few months ago, His Majesty’s Armed Cutter, Swift, was approached by a lateen-rigged vessel posing as a Spanish coastal vessel. Until she touched against the cutter’s side, it had appeared there was only a handful of men aboard. But 50 men were hiding below and took the cutter. She was carrying dispatches to Lord Nelson and her captain, Lieutenant Leake was cut down while trying to protect them.

  ‘For the most part, however, the French stay in the Mediterranean and do not round Europa Point or attempt to enter the Gut of Gibraltar. No doubt, they are aware that the lookouts at O’Hara’s Folly monitor their every move. They are also familiar with the positions of our gun batteries, including those within the Rock itself. Those embrasures, high up in the face, are invisible from the water and totally invulnerable to attack from either sea or land. They have saved this territory from previous attacks.’

  The general smiled. ‘As you may know, I commanded the 12th Regiment of Foot against the Franco Spanish forces during the Great Siege. A combined fleet of 49 sail of the line, plus fireships and other boats threw everything they had at the Rock but they could not topple the garrison.’

  ‘A great victory indeed, Sir Thomas. I trust both France and Spain learned a lesson from it.’