The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus by M C Muir

Author:M C Muir [Muir, M C]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780987358998
Publisher: Grindelwald
Published: 2013-12-06T16:00:00+00:00

A sound on the deck, like the click of a heel, alerted everyone. It came from the stout handle of a whip which rolled when the ship lifted slightly on the pulse of the distant Pacific tide. While the tip of the whip had been eaten away, more than a yard of its tail was stuck firmly to the deck by a streak of hard black matter. ‘Rhinoceros hide, if I am not mistaken.’ The captain commented. ‘Mr Nightingale, I would like a sketch, if you please.’

‘Take a look here, Captain,’ Mr Tully called, pointing to a pile of stripped bones and scraps of cloth which had once clothed one of the crew. It appeared that the hand that had wielded the whip had received its due deserts either from the rats or vultures. Preferring carrion to live prey, and caring little if the meal was human or animal, sharp beaks and talons would have ripped the skin from their victim in a matter of minutes. Following the scavengers, the rats would have waited their chance to pick the remaining meat from the scattered bones.

‘I wonder what killed him,’ Oliver murmured. ‘Disease? Dehydration? Starvation? Cold?’

‘And what of the rest of the crew?’ Mr Nightingale asked.

‘Her boats are gone,’ the coxswain called. ‘There must have been survivors.’

‘Then they were the lucky ones,’ Oliver said.

A sudden gust of icy Antarctic wind blasted a broadside causing the wreck to groan with the strangled croak of a dying sea bird.

‘You men will remain on deck,’ Oliver ordered. ‘Mr Nightingale, come with me. Froyle, find a lantern, if you can.’

At the bottom of the after hatchway was the door to a large cabin with stern windows which allowed ample light to spill inside. Until recently, it had obviously been the domain of the ship’s master, but now it was empty. The tired furnishing remained but there was nothing of value. No sextant. No logbook. No inventory. No telescope. Not even a compass. And no trace of the captain. Not even his coat. The small cabins adjacent to it were likewise empty, however, a lantern hanging outside still had oil in it and was quickly lit.

‘Let us examine her cargo,’ Oliver said, heading amidships. Descending to the orlop deck, he discovered the hatch to the hold had been padlocked. An iron bar soon prized the lock from the timber. As the solid cover was removed, the air from the hold escaped in an overpowering whoosh of vile vapours.

‘Get back! Don’t breathe this foulness.’

‘Dear God,’ Mr Nightingale cried, ‘what is in there?’

Oliver covered his nose with his neckerchief and warily took three steps down the ladder, kicking out at the rats that ran over his shoes. At first glance, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, it appeared the water which had penetrated the hull was swirling about, but the movement on the surface was a sea of vermin swimming in haphazard circles. These were well-fed rodents grown fat on the cargo chained within the hold of the ship.

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