The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  The general nodded.

  ‘And what of Admiral Lord Nelson? Is the Mediterranean Fleet still blockading Toulon?’ Oliver enquired.

  ‘To the best of my knowledge, although none of his ships have been here for some weeks. Had they suffered any damage in action, they would have come here to refit.’

  The expression on the Lieutenant-Governor’s face clouded over. ‘There is one other matter,’ he said, after ordering the guard to leave the room.

  Oliver was unsure of what to expect.

  ‘You may had heard the garrison now boasts a magnificent new library. It is stocked with a vast selection of books and housed in a new building.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver responded politely, surprised at the general’s clandestine tone. ‘I would welcome the opportunity to visit and browse the bookcases, if I am permitted.’

  ‘Of course, and I would invite you to donate a book if you are so inclined. A request I put to all visiting officers.’ He paused. ‘The matter which I must speak with you about concerns the body of a beggar that was buried in the library garden last week.’

  Oliver was intrigued.

  ‘A few years ago the southern coast of Spain was ravaged by an epidemic – a fever which could not be controlled. Thousands died, including many residents here is Gibraltar.’

  ‘I remember reading of it.’

  ‘Presently Gibraltar is under threat of the same thing happening again. Residents in Cadiz and Malaga are reportedly dying of fever at a rate of 100 a day, and the infection is spreading across Andalusia. Fortunately, in August there have only been three deaths in the garrison so far. But should word of a possible epidemic take hold, fear will spread like wildfire and prompt an exodus from the territory. Hence the reason the body was buried in the library garden and not removed by the undertaker and taken to the cemetery in the usual manner. The beggar had arrived from Malaga and Dr Pym, the colony’s medical officer, was certain he was carrying the contagion.’

  ‘What is the population here?’ Oliver enquired.

  ‘Almost 5000 troops in the garrison and 10,000 residents in the town.’

  ‘Have any precautions have been put in place?’

  ‘For the moment, I have ordered all ships to be inspected but, if the number of deaths increases, it may be necessity to quarantine all vessels when they arrive. As a last resort, ships will be stopped from entering Gibraltar Bay. I cannot allow the contagion to take hold. Unfortunately, this will have a dire effect on the colony as most of our local trade comes by sea from the north coast of Africa, Cadiz and Malaga.’

  He continued. ‘Gibraltar consists almost entirely of a rocky promontory joined to Spain by a narrow sandy isthmus which becomes a swamp in winter. Because of these physical features, the peninsula is not self-sufficient and, apart from fish in the bay, we rely on our foreign neighbours to supply us with all the necessities of life.’

  ‘But if the worst should eventuate and the contagion is introduced here?’ Oliver enquired.

  ‘I hope this will not be the case but, if it happens, the land-gate to Spain will be closed to prevent people crossing the border and stop residents from leaving.’

  ‘Turning Gibraltar into a virtual island.’

  ‘Indeed. Isolation will be our only defence. But I beg you to keep this information to yourself. I trust and pray we will escape another epidemic, but I will advise if the situation changes.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Thomas. I appreciate your candour.’

  Over the next four days, with no additional restrictions introduced, Perpetual’s crew were allowed to go ashore throughout the day. Numbers were limited to three divisions at a time, and a midshipman or warrant officer accompanied the men. Most sailors were eager to step ashore, after retrieving the money sewn into the lining of their coats or hidden amongst their possessions in their sea chests. It was an opportunity to taste flavours other than salt beef or pork. A chance to get drunk. And a chance to throw their legs over something other than a stuffed oakum pillow stinking of sweat.

  The frigate’s boats delivered the Perpetuals to the old commercial mole where numerous small craft were moored. From there it was only a short stroll under the grand arches which led through to

  Casemates Square. Once the old Pickett Yard, a place of public executions. It was dominated on one side by the 30 foot Line Wall and, on the other, by the new bombproof barracks building which gave it its name. However, like any English square on market day, it was throbbing with crowds milling around a shambles of market stalls. But the mode of dress, the languages spoken and the behaviour of the residents was far different from any square in Britain. Gibraltar was saturated with the exotic and vibrant influences of many distant lands.

  Grand Casemates resonated with a cacophony of sounds. North African merchants, their skin reflecting the colour of the dates they were selling, bartered with sandy-haired Irish artillerymen. Women argued in Spanish or Turkish at the top of their voices. Chickens squawked from behind the bars of cane baskets while awaiting a buyer to ring their necks and carry them home. A sheep with three legs bound lay exhausted on the hot pavement after turning in never ending circles. A female goat screamed as it struggled to loosen the tether tying its horns to a cart’s wheel. The multi-coloured kid running around its feet cried like an infant to get on the udder but the nanny would not allow it.

  It was hard for the sailors to walk without stepping on something. Raffia baskets, set out on exotic rugs, overflowed with figs, dates and nuts. Freshly caught turbot and John Dory, tunny and sardines attracted flies, as did the meat, delivered by the dhows from North Africa, where it had been butchered.

  In one quarter, Jews huddled together conducting their nefarious business in a secretive fashion, always remaining separate and seemingly aloof from the other foreigners especially the Moors. In Gibraltar they were despised for being the dirtiest of the colony’s citizens. Yet they were also the richest.

  The vibrant colours were remarkable. Cloth woven from brightly dyed yarns. Tanned goatskins in shades of yellow, brown, white and black. Felted hats and soft yellow Moroccan slippers reflecting the hue of a Saharan sunset.

  The aromas were amazing too. Smells rising from bubbling pots generously flavoured with exotic spices attracted customers. The sweet sickly smell of human sweat and the earthy odour of mules and Andalusian horses were less than appealing. The smoke from fires burning wood and camel dung disguised the smell of opium.

  With an oversupply of tobacco always available, hardly a mouth in the square was without a cigar hanging from it, including the women’s. Few smiles revealed teeth not stained the colour of sailors’ hands. The faces reflected the mixed backgrounds.

  The colonial town of Gibraltar was a far cry from Portsmouth, Plymouth or Falmouth.

  Clambering back on board after spending four hours ashore, the sailors boasting a bellyful of ale were loud and boisterous. Those less inebriated were more cautious being aware they were under scrutiny. Most of the banter, boasts, complaints, and details of sexual activities were saved for the mess where their exploits were regurgitated, reviewed and exaggerated.

  ‘Foreigners,’ Bungs said. ‘They’re all alike. Noses stuck up in the air. Won’t even talk to a common sailor until they hear the clink of a coin in your pocket. Then the cockfarts swarm round you like flies round a corpse.’

  ‘They ain’t foreigners – most of them,’ Muffin said. ‘They might look it, but they live here.’

  ‘If they don’t speak English, they’re foreigners in my book,’ Bungs said.

  ‘Well, you can’t blame them for disliking the English. This place ain’t a colony. It’s a fortress ruled by the military. You must have seen the soldiers parading about the place and lined up along the walls. Big guns they’ve got, too, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Sure I saw them, but I saw lots of others too. I’ve never been in a port with so many Jews.’

  ‘Well, at least they speak English and live in the town.’

  ‘But
they aren’t English are they. Aye, and they’re canny. And that goes for the Arabs too prancing around in nightshirts and lazing about on mats puffing on opium pipes. It’s like something you see in them Arabian Nights.’

  ‘Didn’t know you could read,’ Smithers smirked.

  ‘He can’t read,’ Muffin said. ‘He just looks at the pictures.’

  ‘Hey! You want to keep your teeth? Then shut your yap!’

  Muffin had a glint in his eye. ‘But I liked the look of them Spanish senoritas with nit combs stuck in their hair.’

  ‘Aye, and skirts all a-crackly,’ Smithers added.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to crackling a few of them,’ Muffin said. ‘It don’t matter what language they speak, they all got the same between their legs.’

  ‘Aye, and they’ll smile sweetly when your back’s turned and give you a dose of the Spanish pox for free.’

  Smithers shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not afraid of the pox. A dose of mercury will cure it. You ask the Doctor.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ Bungs said, sniffing the air. ‘This is as unhealthy place as I ever set foot in.’

  ‘And what makes you an expert? There ain’t nowt wrong with my nose,’ Muffin said. ‘If you ask me, it don’t smell no different to any other port.’

  ‘You mean you can’t smell evil when it’s served up on a plate.’

  Smithers sneered. ‘Codswallop!’

  ‘It’s everywhere, not just on the dock. It’s in the streets. In the square. You can fairly smell it oozing out of the houses. I know it when I smell it. There’s an unholy stench of evil hanging in them streets.’

  ‘Is Bungs right?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Don’t take no notice, lad,’ Muffin said. ‘He just likes to hear his own voice. It’s the smell of night soil. They only clear their courtyards once a year when the pile is too big to climb over.’

  Smithers cackled.

  Bungs inclined his head. ‘I’m telling you. No good will come from us being here. I worked in Gibraltar once before, and I’ve heard stories of what happened in the past.’

  ‘Tell us then,’ Smithers taunted. ‘Is the Rock about to explode and blow us all the Kingdom Come? Or are the apes going to attack the garrison and drive the troops out?’

  ‘As far as I can see,’ Eku added, ‘there’s only one worry and that’s if Spain wants to take the Rock back.’

  ‘Why would they want to?’ Muffin asked. ‘It’s just a lump of rock sticking up from the sea.’

  Smithers laughed. ‘You talk a load of rubbish, Bungs.’

  ‘You can laugh, but I’m warning you, something’s going to happen. I can feel it in my bones and, unless we sail from here soon, we'll find ourselves stuck like a turd in a bucket with nowhere to go.’

  As usual, Bungs had gathered an audience who scoffed at his predictions.

  Because he always worked alone and kept to himself, he was not the most popular man on board and, apart from the group at his mess table, he had few mates he counted as friends. But he was one of the oldest seamen aboard. He knew the coopering trade inside out, and he’d lost count of how many ships he’d served on or ports he’d visited.

  But it wasn’t the sight of his bunched fists that made his messmates take notice of him. There was just something about him. He had a nose for danger and was hardly ever wrong. When he made a statement about anything, few argued, and although they wouldn’t admit it, most of them took heed of what he said.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Capt’n, but Mr Parry thinks there is something you should see.’

  Oliver put down his pen, and took his hat from his steward. ‘Thank you, Casson.’ He trusted his first lieutenant’s judgement well enough to know he would not demand his attention unnecessarily.

  On deck, the men who had hoisted the last of the boats aboard were gathered around a package lying on the deck. Mr Hanson appeared to be guarding it.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ the captain asked.

  Mr Tully answered on behalf of the midshipman. ‘Seems this package was tossed into the boat when it pulled away from the jetty. Mr Hanson said the man who threw it just pointed to Perpetual. He also said he didn’t touch it, or open it, he just left it in the bottom. The men fished it out a moment ago when the boat came aboard.’

  Oliver turned to the midshipman. ‘Tell me about the man who delivered this. Was he a soldier? A naval officer? Did he wear a uniform?’

  The midshipman returned a blank expression.

  ‘Think man.’

  ‘No, sir. He looked like a fishermen off the dhows. He was dressed in a long white shirt and had a curved dagger hanging from a cord around his waist.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Oliver said, glancing down at the parcel. ‘And you didn’t remove any of the wrappings?’

  ‘No, Captain, I just left it in the bottom and told Mr Tully about it when he asked me.’

  ‘Is appears to be wet.’

  The midshipman looked sheepish. ‘I think it might have taken in a bit of sea water from the oars.’

  Oliver studied the package that was sitting in a small puddle of brown water. Wrapped in a square of salt-hardened canvas, it was bound with strips of linen resembling bandages.

  ‘A pair of fat cigars?’ the sailing master quipped flippantly.

  No one laughed.

  ‘A dead fish perhaps?’ Mr Tully suggested.

  ‘What do you think it is, Mr Hanson?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, Captain.’

  ‘Then, perhaps, you should have asked the man who threw into your boat. However, you may have the dubious honour of unwrapping it.’

  The sailors gathered around and watched as the midshipman squatted on the deck and unravelled the lengths of binding. When the final corner was peeled back the middie jerked backwards, lost his balance and rolled onto his back, much to the amusement of the boat’s crew.

  ‘Get up, Mr Hanson,’ the captain ordered. ‘I can assure you that hand is quite dead. It is not going to jump up and grab you by the throat so there is no reason to be afraid of it.’

  ‘But sir?’

  ‘Back to work,’ Mr Tully ordered. ‘You’ve all seen this sort of thing before.’

  It was true, seeing arms and legs that had been blown off in battle was an accepted part of the naval mural. Heads separated from torsos. Bodies with innards more out than in. Fingers, lodged between the deck beams, dripping blood. All familiar sights during close action. But this neatly packaged hand showed no evidence of injury, save for a fine brown line around the wrist where it had been sliced from the forearm. The cut was as smooth as when a wire was sliced through a large cheese. This was not the ragged remnant of a hand blown off with a four-pound shot, a picture that resonated in Captain Quintrell’s memory, although he did not dwell on it.

  ‘What do you make of it Dr Whipple?’ Oliver enquired, inviting the surgeon to take a look.

  Without a second thought, the doctor picked it up by the wrist and rested the dead fingers on his left hand. After briefly examining it, he turned it over so it was laying palm upwards.

  ‘A seafaring man, no doubt,’ the surgeon said. ‘There are tar stains engrained around the nail beds. The palm is heavily callused and the distinct yellow colouration of the skin is from contact with pitch, which I attribute to contact with ships’ rigging. There is no doubt in my mind this hand belonged to a sailor.’

  ‘Could it be one of ours, Mr Parry?’

  ‘I entered ‘R’ against the names of Lompa and Styles – two of the pressed men. They have been absent for two days.’

  ‘Do you have anything more to add, Doctor?’

  The surgeon examined the wrist more closely. ‘This is not a surgeon’s work but the cut was fast and skilfully administered.’

  ‘What leads you to that conclusion?’

  ‘The bone has not been sawn through. I would suggest it has been severed by a single blow, the sort you would expect from a sharp axe or a meat clever.’

  ‘Why would anyone do such a th
ing and then send it to the ship?’ the sailing master asked.

  Oliver cast his eyes to the town. ‘The population of Gibraltar is mixed. On the surface it is a British colony but not all its residents are God-fearing Christians. You need look no further than across the Strait to the coast of Barbary to find customs and habits very different to those we know and expect. In parts of Africa, if a man is caught stealing, his hand, and sometimes his foot are chopped off to advertise to the world that he is a thief.’

  He turned to the sailors who were gathered on deck. ‘I think this hand is delivering a message from the residents of the Rock. It is a warning and I trust every man aboard will take heed of it.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The Hulks

  24 August 1804

  ‘A depressing sight,’ Oliver commented, gazing from the deck to the three hulks anchored almost a mile from the King’s Bastion on the British side of the bay. With only the twinkle of a few glims flickering from their stern windows, the aged hulls were barely visible in the moonlight.

  ‘They were once fine ships, with proud histories,’ Simon said, directing his gaze to the nearest and largest of the three.

  ‘French, I would say, by her lines,’ Oliver observed.

  ‘Peuple Souverain – French third-rate convincingly beaten at the Battle of the Nile.’

  ‘Ah,’ Oliver mused. ‘Nelson’s greatest victory. I have studies the formations many times. She lost her fore and main and was severely damaged, if I am not mistaken.’

  ‘And was considered not worthy of repair,’ said Simon. ‘Hence, she was towed here from Aboukir Bay to serve as a prison ship. When she arrived at Gibraltar, she was recommissioned, HMS Guerrier.’

  Oliver was puzzled. ‘Guerrier – surely that was the name of the French ship that stood first in line. Burnt and sunk with a great loss of life.’

  ‘Three hundred men,’ Simon added, shaking his head.

  ‘But from all appearance, her namesake is no longer a prison ship.’