by M. C. Muir
‘Leave him. Let the sea finish him off.’
There was an undercurrent of whispers from the deck.
The captain turned and faced the men. ‘By running from the ship, this man broke one of the cardinal Articles of War. Desertion. If he had been found alive, he would have been returned to the ship and made to suffer the fate as determined by those Articles. Death! So, what are we to achieve if we bring him aboard now? Commend his body to the waves? Toss him back where he came from? I think not.
‘Furthermore, according to the strict Quarantine Regulations that exist in Gibraltar at the present, it is my duty to refuse entry to any person, living or dead, without the written permission of Gibraltar’s health inspector. How do I know this man has not been in contact with the fever during his absence? If I were to permit his body to come aboard, I would be contravening those regulations.’
There was no response.
‘Cast the body off!’ the captain called to the man with the pole. ‘Mr Tully, clear these men away. This is not a sideshow.’
For men, suffering boredom after having been confined to the ship, the arrival of the corpse delivered only a short distraction. It lasted little more than five minutes. However, the incident would provide something for the Perpetuals to mull over for several days to come.
‘What would you think happened to him, Capt’n?’ Mr Tully asked, once most of the hands had dispersed.
Oliver looked across the bay to the corrugations of swell indicating the incoming tide. Directly in line were the three hulks including Guerrier.
‘One, if not all of those hulks are floating repositories for tobacco, although I doubt Mr Lompa knew that when he jumped overboard and headed for them. It was an unfortunate choice of destination. And if his red-headed mate, Styles, was with him, it is likely he would have met a similar fate, if not worse.’
Oliver turned to the officers and men who were within hearing distance. ‘I am sure you noticed when you wandered through this town that the traders here come from many parts, Spaniards, Jews, Italians, Turks and Arabs. They have two things in common – a greed for money, and a jealous desire to hold on to it.
‘If this man was caught dipping his hand into a barrel of tobacco leaves, no questions would have been asked as to who he was or where he came from. He would merely have been treated as any common thief is treated in many foreign countries. The loss of a hand is the mark of a thief.’
Only a few faces registered surprise.
‘Do not forget, gentlemen, we have our own ideas of appropriate punishments which, to others, may appear equally brutal. In the Royal Navy we haul a man up to the yardarm and hang him by the neck until he is dead – a process that can take half an hour, or until the neck muscles can hold out no longer and the gullet is crushed.
‘Or we flog a man around the fleet, merely for being insolent, until his ribs and lungs are no better than a piece of wet meat on a butcher’s slab. It happened in Plymouth only a few days before we left England. That man died slowly in excruciating pain, unable to move, breathe or even cry out. What you witnessed here was not a pleasant sight, but it will serve as a lesson to any man should he consider misbehaving in this town.’
‘What did you think about the middie’s sighting?’ Muffin asked. ‘He was that excited, I thought he’d wet himself.’
‘I thought he must have spotted a mermaid,’ Brickley added.
The mates, sitting on the deck in the bow, shared the joke.
‘It’s all codswallop,’ Bungs said.
‘What is?’ Muffin asked.
‘All this talk about quarantine.’
‘Careful, bosun’s mate might be listening.’
‘What do I care? It’s a fact, we’re stuck here on this ship and no one is allowed to go ashore. But there ain’t no quarantine from what I can see. This morning I saw a Spanish man-o’-war and half a dozen feluccas sail in from the Strait and head across the bay to Algeciras. And did you see all the gunboats? There must have been two dozen of them sniffing around like paid-off sailors after a woman’s purse? And what about them three hulks in the bay. Boats coming and going from them morning and evening. Seems like the quarantine is to keep us aboard while everyone else does exactly what they please.’
‘Well, I’d rather stay here than get a dose of the fever,’ Muffin said.
‘I’d rather take me chance and go ashore. I ain’t going to get no fever.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I’ve had it before, just like most sailors who’ve been to the Indies. In fact, I reckon the Calcutta station is the worst. Bodies float down the rivers there every day – bobbing about like fat sea lions – but it don’t bother the folk who live there, they still wash in it and drink it. I tell you, that river water’s worse than a twelve-month barrel of ship’s water that’s got so many wrigglies moving about in it, it’s a wonder it don’t walk out of the hold by itself.’
‘I heard the lieutenant talking,’ Eku said. ‘Those aren’t prison hulks.’
‘What are they then?’ Bungs asked. ‘They don’t look like hospital ships.’
‘They’re smugglers stores.’
‘Don’t talk out of the back of your head.’
‘He’s right. I heard that too,’ Muffin said. ‘Baccy stores they are. I’m surprised you can’t smell it from here.’
Bungs screwed his brow.
‘That’s a change,’ Muffin scoffed. ‘Fancy us knowing something you don’t know. Wasn’t you working on the Rock a year ago?’
‘Sure I was,’ the cooper said. ‘But I kept my mind on the job, didn’t I.’
Muffin didn’t say anything more.
‘So, Mr Know-It-All, tell us about these so-called smugglers,’ Bungs demanded. ‘Where’s the baccy come from? Where’s it going to?’
‘It comes in from the West Indies.’
‘Pinched?’
‘No, it’s British. Grown on the plantations by the slaves. Only problem is Britain won’t allow it to go to Spain, so the folk in Gibraltar make a fortune out of it. It’s shipped here, loaded into them hulks, then smuggled into Spain.’
‘How? When?’
‘Every day. When the Spaniards come through the Land Port Gate in the morning to sell their bits and pieces, they arrive with near empty carts and pockets. But when they go out at night, the poor mules can hardly drag the carts across the border and the Spaniards’ pockets are so full of tobacco leaves they can’t button their coats.’
‘What about the guards on the gate? They’re not stupid.’
‘No, they’re clever. They make their own profit. They know the smugglers. They’re all regulars, and they have an arrangement with them. For the price of a bribe, they let the tobacco pass through without seeing it. It happens under everyone’s noses, bold as brass, and because everyone’s happy, it’s been going on for years. Even the garrison closes its eyes to it.’
‘So if I want some baccy,’ Bungs said. ‘I should take a boat over to one of those hulks and get me a sack of leaves.’
‘I don’t think the captain would take too kindly to that.’
‘Even better, we could borrow the captain’s boat, fill it to the gunnels and row it over to Algeciras. I wouldn’t mind selling it and getting paid in silver dollars.’
‘And what about the Spanish sailors on them gunboats?’ Muffin asked. ‘They’d cut your throat for a pipe, and we’d never see hide nor hair of you again, along with the money, the boat and the baccy.’
‘Huzzah! Couldn’t wish for a better outcome.’
‘You shut your gob, Smithers. Just wait until I get my share, I won’t sell you a mouthful not even for a bucket full of silver.’
‘Bide your time, Bungs. When we go ashore you can buy yourself a ration for a few pence.’
A movement on the Rock caught Muffin’s eye.
‘Hey, Mr Tully,’ he shouted. ‘See, the signal tower. It’s dancing a jig.’
The lieutenant stopped and watched.
‘What did it say?’ Muffin asked.
‘How am I to know?’ the lieutenant said. ‘Probably telling the garrison there’s a ship on the Strait.’
The sailors all turned and looked in the direction of the Gut, but nothing could be seen from Perpetual’s deck.
‘You there,’ the lieutenant said to Smithers. ‘Do something useful. Get up the mast and keep a look out. If you see a sail on the Strait, I want to know what rate, how many guns, what flag it’s sailing under, and the direction it’s coming from. Right Now, Smithers, not tomorrow! Get a glass and get up there!’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Smithers drawled.
Having visited the garrison with the doctor and wandered through the growing tent city on Windmill Hill, the captain and ship’s surgeon returned to the awaiting boat.
‘This is a diabolical disease?’ Oliver observed, as the boat pulled from the beach, not expecting an answer.
‘My colleagues at St Thomas’s would welcome some fresh specimens,’ Dr Whipple replied enthusiastically.
The captain flashed him an icy look.
The surgeon’s explanation was somewhat apologetic. ‘It is possible by anatomising the corpses that an answer as to the nature of the disease, its indiscriminate choice of victims and what is causing it, could be yielded.’
‘And probably kill the good doctors who are trying to treat the sick,’ Oliver replied cynically.
Dr Whipple did not argue. The captain was correct. It was common knowledge in the hospital dissection rooms that if the flesh of a cadaver entered the skin of a surgeon, that surgeon would die. It had happened to several students he had known.
He continued. ‘When I spoke with Dr Pym, he said he was of the firm opinion the contagion was caused by overcrowding and lack of hygiene which is seen in the poorer parts of town.’
‘But the soldiers of the garrison do not live in the poor quarters, yet they are dying also,’ Oliver argued.
‘But they stand on Line Wall,’ the doctor replied. ‘And they are posted to every gate and street corner. They patrol the streets and even escort the death carts on its daily rounds.’
‘And what of the argument the contagion is carried by the Levanter?’ Oliver asked. ‘The ill wind that carries the infection and circulates the bad air to every house and hovel on the peninsula?’
‘I cannot agree,’ the doctor said. ‘Although I have no proof to justify my assumption. Everyone on the peninsula breathes the same air yet not everyone is affected. What I can state, however, is that like Dr Pym, I have little in my apothecary’s chest to treat these victims with. And, like him, I am at a loss to know what the nature of the fever is and therefore what medicine to administer. It appears, for the present, everything we are doing is proving ineffective.’
‘But is there any basis for the argument that this contagion is Yellow Fever?’
‘There are some similarities to the disease I saw in the West Indies. The Spanish called it the Vómito negro.’
‘Should I be afraid for my men, my ship?’
‘I cannot say. Dr Pym informed me that Cadiz has lost tens of thousands of its residents, and Malaga is suffering in a similar manner.’
‘Leaving Gibraltar surrounded by the pestilence. A depressing situation. Would you not agree, Doctor?’
‘For myself, I look at the positive aspect of the epidemic. It offers a splendid opportunity to investigate the contagion, its possible causes, its course and its outcome. A subject I would love to study – to record every detail in my journal and deliver my findings to one of the Royal Societies in London or to the surgeons of St Thomas Hospital in London.’
‘You have a strong allegiance both to the hospital and your profession, sir.’
‘I was privileged to be apprenticed to one of its most respected surgeons. Although great, these highly respected men were aware of their ignorance and limitations and are always desirous of knowledge.’
‘But from your papers,’ Oliver noted, ‘it appears you did not stay at the hospital to follow that path.’
‘Following one’s ambitions cannot be funded from fresh air, and to attend lectures cost a considerable amount of money. But that is another story.’
When Oliver saw the Portuguese brig heading south across the bay from the harbour at Algeciras, any concerns he had about Dr Whipple’s opinions were immediately forgotten.
With mixed emotions, he breathed a sigh of relief. Conception was sailing for Lisbon, carrying Susanna away from Gibraltar and from the pestilence that was spreading like a cancer. Within a week she would be safe home in Madeira.
What a cruel hand the epidemic had dealt. At any other time, the British territory was a vibrant, colourful place where the military officers and wealthy residents held regular balls and pageants, where horseracing, polo and cricket matches were played on the neutral ground. Where exotic goods from faraway places could be purchased for a pittance. Where there were no taxes or customs duties. A place where privateers and smugglers found a haven for their booty – with no questions asked. It was a hub of honest trading too and a busy commercial port attracting ships from many countries, which vied for moorings along the North and South Moles or anchorages in Gibraltar Bay.
As the wind filled Conception’s sails, Oliver followed its progress. Although relieved to farewell Susanna, he was plagued with guilt. He alone was the reason she had made the long journey from Madeira in the first place. And although she had been residing in Algeciras for more than a week, while the brig was undergoing repairs to its sails, he had not visited her once.
In his desk drawer, he had an addressed envelope and a partly written letter, which he had looked at several times with the intention of finishing and forwarding to her. But he had never completed it.
Now it was too late.
How long would it be before they would be together again?
He did not know the answer to that question.
CHAPTER 11
Captain Gore
2 October 1804
The arrival of a British frigate at the Gut of Gibraltar led to a flurry of activity on the bay, which began half an hour before the ship came into view.
On the ridge atop the Rock, over 1300 feet above the sea, the bulbous arms of the signal tower transmitted news of the arrival, but the coded message it delivered was more foreign to observers than the languages spoken in the town.
Despite that, a fleet of gunboats made sail from Algeciras heading along the imaginary line which divided the Bay of Algeciras from the Bay of Gibraltar. With guns primed and ready, their mission was to investigate the new arrival.
At the same time, the government cutter rounded the North Mole. It was also heading to meet the frigate. On board, Gibraltar’s Health Guard was carrying unwelcome news.
Having the benefit of the morning’s breeze, Medusa, entered the bay and sailed to within a few cables’ lengths of Perpetual. As the frigate hove to, calls were heard from the deck, followed by a flash of powder, a burst of noise and a cloud of smoke. Captain Gore had delivered a decisive warning shot across the bow of the nearest gunboat.
The small Spanish craft did not retaliate and wasted no time in veering from the fighting ship and heading back to their side of the bay. With the anchor cable hissing through the hawse-hole, the health inspector’s voice resounded through a brass speaking trumpet. He delivered his instructions regarding the port’s closure and quarantine regulations loud and clear.
The British frigate’s unexpected arrival was welcomed as a much-needed distraction for the Perpetuals.
An hour later, when he stepped on board Perpetual, Captain Quintrell extended a warm welcome to Captain John Gore.
‘You will not be going ashore, I presume.’
‘Have no fear,’ Captain Gore said, ‘I have no intention of contravening the orders of the Lieutenant-Governor. However, I was granted permission by the health guard to visit with you on the condition I came alone and my frigate remained a good distance from the shore. I trust all i
s well with you here.’
‘As well as can be expected, I suppose,’ Oliver said. ‘With the men confined to the ship, patience is wearing a little thin and the men are becoming bored. To combat the situation, one of my midshipmen is providing lessons in reading and writing, while my sailing master is delivering lectures in geography and exploration to any man interested. I must say, he delivers his lectures with great enthusiasm and has amassed quite an audience.’
Captain Gore grinned. ‘A veritable floating Chapter of Royal Society.’
‘Hardly,’ Oliver smiled. ‘In contrast, the bosun devised a distraction which offers relief from the heat. By lowering a sail overboard every afternoon, the men are able to sink in the water to bathe themselves or wash their clothes without fear of drowning. Despite the salt, I contend I have the cleanest sailors in the whole of the British fleet, not to mention the ship.’
He continued. ‘Every square inch of Perpetual has been scrubbed and scrubbed again. The brasses gleam, the glasses shine and, I profess there is not a mouse or louse anywhere aboard the frigate. Besides that, there is not an inch of old rope to be found in the bosun’s locker. In fact he tells me we now have enough teased oakum to caulk a first-rate. But,’ he said, replacing his smile with a serious expression. ‘Enough of this trivia. What of Triumph, Captain Barlow and Amphion?’
‘All is well. Next week, Captain Sutton and I head out to the Atlantic to join Captain Moore in Indefatigable and Lively, Captain Hammond, who will be arriving from the Channel Fleet, but I think you may be aware of those arrangements.’
‘I was not aware of the precise details, but I presume this is connected with the dispatches I delivered to Sir Charles Cotton a few weeks ago.’
‘Indeed.’
‘The Spanish convoy from South America is expected to arrive off Cadiz within a week.’
Oliver was eager for more news. ‘And you will detain them?’
‘Those are my instructions.’
‘Oh, to be sailing with you,’ Oliver said wistfully. ‘However, that is not to be. But for the present, might I invite you to join me and my officers later for dinner. We would all relish some new company.’
