The Wine-Dark Sea

by Patrick O'Brian

  Now, however, turning to Stephen he said in that language, 'Sir, allow me to show you a guanaco in the field outside. He is the wild ancestor of the llama, as you will recall, but this one was caught young, and now he is quite tame.'

  'A fine animal,' said Stephen, looking at the slim elegant fawn-coloured white-bellied creature, which held its long neck high and returned his gaze quite fearlessly. 'About twelve hands, I believe.'

  'Twelve hands exactly, sir. And here, coming up the path, is our best llama: his name in Quichua means spotless snow.'

  'An even finer animal,' said Stephen, turning to watch the llama walk delicately up the path with an Indian boy, balancing its head delicately from side to side. He had barely fixed his attention upon the llama, estimating its height and weight, before the guanaco, gathering itself, bounded forward with both front knees bent and struck him a little below the shoulder-blades, sending him flat on his face.

  In the general outcry while Stephen was picked up and dusted and the guanaco led away by the ears, the llama stood unmoved, looking scornful.

  'Mother of God," cried Eduardo, 'I am so sorry, so ashamed.'

  'It is nothing, nothing at all,' said Stephen. 'A childish tumble on the grass, no more. Let us ask the llama how he does.'

  The llama stood his ground as they approached, eyeing Stephen with much the same look as the guanaco, and when he was well within range, spat in his face. The aim was perfect, the saliva extraordinarily copious.

  Outcry and hullabaloo again, but only Eduardo seemed really deeply moved and as Stephen was being washed and wiped he saw two Indian children in the far background fairly twisting themselves double with delight.

  'What can I say?' asked Eduardo. 'I am desolated, desolated. It is true they sometimes do that to people who vex them, and sometimes to white men who do not. I should have thought of it... but after we had been talking for a while I forgot your colour.'

  'May I beg for some mate?' asked Stephen. 'That most refreshing drink.'

  'Instantly, instantly,' cried Eduardo, and coming back with the gourd he said, 'Just beyond that small sharp peak is where we keep the alpacas. From there one can sometimes see a band of vicunas, and quite often too the small fluttering rock-creeper we call a pito; it is no great way, and I had hoped to carry you up there, but now I am afraid it is too late. And perhaps you have had enough of llamas and their kind.'

  'Not at all, not at all,' cried Stephen. 'But it is true that I must not be late at the convent.'

  Going down, Eduardo grew sadder as they lost height: his spirits declined with the slope of the path, and as they rested among the shattered boulders of another gigantic rock-fall, the result of the most recent earthquake and barely lichened yet, Stephen, to divert his mind, said, 'I was pleased to see your people so happy and gay. I had formed a false notion from my trifling experience in and about Lima, supposing them to be almost morose.'

  'A people that has had its ancient laws and customs taken from it, whose language and history count for nothing, and whose temples have been sacked and thrown down is apt to be morose,' replied Eduardo: then, recollecting himself, 'I do not say that this is the state of affairs in Peru; and it would be the grossest heresy to deny the benefits of the true religion: I say only that this is what some of the more obstinate Indians, who may secretly practise the old sacrifices, believe; and - pray do not move,' he said in a low urgent voice, nodding towards the far side of the valley, there where the terraces and fields ran down to the stream. Against the mountain a band of condors were circling, rising, but to no great height; and as Stephen watched, three of them perched on convenient rocks.

  'If you train your little spyglass on the edge of the barley, halfway down,' said Eduardo in little more than a whisper, 'you will see the stray sheep, ha, ha.' Stephen rested the glass in a crack between two rocks, brought the edge of the field into focus, travelled down to a patch of white: but there was a tawny puma covering most of it, slowly eating mutton.

  'They often do that,' murmured Eduardo. 'The condors come quite soon after he has killed his prey - they seem to watch him as he travels - and wait until he is gorged. Then he creeps off into shelter and they come down; but he cannot bear seeing them at it - he rushes out - they rise - he eats a little more - retires - and they return. There. He is going off already."

  'Our vultures are more circumspect,' said Stephen. 'They will wait for hours, whereas these are in directly. Lord, how they eat! I should not have missed this for the world. Thank you, my dear Eduardo, for showing me the puma, that noble beast.'

  Riding back they discussed the whole event in minute detail -the exact angle and splay of the condors' primaries as they settled on a crag, the movement of their tails, the dissatisfied look on the puma's face when it came back for the third time to nothing but a heap of the larger bones. Having talked themselves hoarse, almost shouting over the declining but still powerful wind, they reached the monastery in reasonable time. Here they supped with a numerous company in the main refectory and Stephen retired to his cell as soon as grace was said. He had not eaten much, he had drunk less, and now (another usual consequence of ingesting coca) he lay unsleeping, but not unhappy with it, his mind running over the day just past, regretting the untimely though surely unimportant Dutourd but taking much pleasure in the rest. At the same time he followed the chanting of the monks. This particular Benedictine house was unusually rigorous, separating mattins from lauds, singing the first at midnight, a very long service indeed with the full nocturn, lessons and Te Deum, and the second so that its middle psalm coincided with the rising of the sun.

  He was in a half sleep, thinking of Condorcet, a very, very much larger man than Dutourd but equally foolish in his regard for that silly villain Rousseau, when his ear caught a footstep in the passage and he was wide awake when Sam came in, holding a shaded candle.

  He was about to make some remark in Jack Aubrey's style, such as, 'Have you come up to the monastery, Sam?' when Sam's gravity quenched his smile. 'Forgive me for waking you, sir, but Father O'Higgins begs he might have a word.'

  'Certainly he may,' said Stephen. 'Pray pass me my breeches in the corner there. As you see I lie in my shirt.'

  'Doctor,' said the Vicar-General, rising and placing a chair, 'you know there is a clandestine French mission to the independentists here?' Stephen bowed. 'They have recently been joined or rather sought out by a noisy talkative enthusiast who has already thrown much discredit on them - I believe they will slip out of the country - and who has almost directly asserted that you are a British agent. It is true that the Holy Office has taken him up for some shocking blasphemies in the style of Condorcet uttered in public, but Castro has already seized upon the event to ingratiate himself with the Viceroy. "Heretical foreign gold" he cries: he has had one small mob bawling outside the British consulate and another has broken the windows of the house where the Frenchmen were staying. Until the Viceroy comes back he can do no more, and General Hurtado will probably knock him on the head tomorrow - I mean reduce him to silence. But the General is not to be found in Lima, nor is he at his brother's: he is much given to gallantry. We shall not see him until the conference at noon, and although I think it is weakness on my part I feel somewhat uneasy. A man of Castro's stamp is incapable of doing much good but he may do a great deal of harm, and I think we were unwise in rejecting him. I tell you these things, because if you share my weakness you may wish to take your measures, in the event of our being right.'

  Stephen made suitable acknowledgements and observed, 'As far as regretting the rejection of an unreliable man is concerned, I think you may be mistaken. He could never have been trusted, and he would have come into the possession of a great many names.'

  He returned to his cell carrying pens, ink and a quire of paper; and as he went he reflected on the unsoundness of his words. The rest of the night he spent writing. At sunrise, still not at all sleepy, he folded his papers, put them into his bosom, and walked into the chapel to hear the Benedictus.


  In the later part of the morning large numbers of people began to arrive at the two monasteries, many of them pilgrims coming early for the exposition, some of them members of the league, among whom there was a general tendency to silence and anxious looks. Messengers had been posted on the road to intercept General Hurtado with a letter telling him of Castro's activities so that he should be prepared to reassure the meeting and to take instant decisive measures.

  He did not come. In his place there appeared Gayongos, old, grey, his face destroyed: he told Stephen, the Vicar-General, Father Gomez and Sam that Hurtado, extremely moved, had declared that with these cries of foreign gold abroad, repeated on every hand, and in this atmosphere of corruption he could not, as a man of honour, consider any further action at this moment.

  They wasted no time in expostulation. Stephen asked whether Castro could possibly seize the ship. 'Certainly not,' said Father O'Higgins. 'Not until the Viceroy returns, and even then it is extremely improbable. But he may well risk a provisional arrest of your person on some pretext or other. You must go to Chile. I have prepared a letter to my kinsman Bernardino for you. He will take you to Valparaiso, where you can go on board your ship.'

  'Eduardo will show you the way," said Father Gomez. 'You will be in no danger with him,' he added with a curious smile.

  Turning to Gayongos Stephen asked whether any of the actual treasure had been transferred. 'No,' said Gayongos. 'Apart from a few thousands, nothing but drafts on the provisional government. The gold was to have been distributed tomorrow afternoon.'

  'Then pray retain it in a readily movable form until you receive word,' said Stephen, and to Sam, 'Father Panda, here is the merest note for Captain Aubrey: he will be in quite soon I am sure and you will explain things far better than I could do.' They all shook hands, and in the doorway Gayongos said, 'I feel so much for your disappointment. Pray accept this parting gift.' Silent tears, utterly astonishing on that grey, dewlapped face, ran down as he handed Stephen an envelope.

  Chapter Nine

  Early on Wednesday the east wind, which had been dying all night, at last expired in a peaceful calm: no more whirling dust, no more banging shutters, falling tiles; a blessed quietness. By the time the sun had risen ten degrees or so the sea-breeze began to waft in and by mid-morning it was blowing a moderate gale from the south-west: the Surprise could have carried full topsails, but Tom Pullings, less given to cracking-on than his Captain, would have had a reef in them.

  It blew steadily all that day and the next and on Friday Tom pulled over to San Lorenzo once more, walked across the island and so up to a point below the beacon, from which he commanded an immense stretch of ocean bounded by a hard, unusually distinct horizon.

  He swept this clear line with his glass, and there indeed, due west, was what he had been looking for yesterday afternoon and evening, slowly drinking cold tea as he did so - a remote fleck of white in the sun between sea and sky. He climbed up to the beacon itself, sitting where a rock-fall gave him a firm rest for the telescope and focused with the utmost care. At this height she was already topsails up, with another ship behind her; and well before likelihood became certainty his heart was eased, filled with happiness. She was surely the Franklin, and she was bringing in a prize.

  Presently, when the sun was hot on the back of his head, she was hull up, and he was wholly satisfied, head and heart. He had commanded her, and now he could not be mistaken. He might go back to the Surprise with an easy mind and sit in peace, admiring her new rigging, all fresh-rove and set up, all blacked where blacking was called for; yards likewise. And he could tell Father Panda.

  For days now Tom had been growing more and more worried, with the Doctor away and the Reverend coming every night for news of the Captain, clearly anxious, clearly aware that something ugly was up, bringing the sick back, advising him to close with the men bargaining for the prizes, to get the barky out of the yard, watered, victualled and ready to weigh, all shore-leave stopped. And certainly there was something very odd about the town, with people running about and behaving strange. Some who had always been civil and more than civil had grown rather shy. The master of the rope-walk for example: all smiles and a glass of vino on Sunday, reserved, if not downright chuff, on Monday. The ship-chandlers and the dockyard people had become very eager for their money. On the other hand three considerable merchants had come to see him after dark (most visiting took place by night at present) and had asked him to carry treasure down to Valparaiso. Mr Adams, who spoke Spanish almost as well as the Doctor and who managed all business affairs, said that when the Viceroy came back there would be a fine old rumpus, all Hell to pay, with people copping it right and left. Quite why he could not tell, there being so many different rumours; but it seemed that the soldiers had been misbehaving, and perhaps some civilians too.

  He reached his boat - the Doctor's skiff, newly painted green - shoved off and made his way through some small-craft setting lobster-pots. He had noticed a good many a mile or so off-shore, fishing in their primitive way. Slab-sided objects, and some of them mere dug-out canoes. There was not a seaman among them, and at no time did he pay any attention to their more or less facetious cries of 'Spik English, yis, yis,' 'Marrano,' 'Heretico palido.'

  One particularly obstinate bugger, a good way off, in a disgraceful battered old thing almost the size of a man-of-war's longboat but only pulling three lackadaisical oars, kept barking like a comic sea-lion, on and on, anything for a laugh. Pullings frowned and rowed a little faster, his head turned from the distant boat, a craft of no known form, with bits and pieces dangling over the gunwale. He was after all a commander, R.N., by courtesy called Captain; and he was not to be barked at by a parcel of seals.

  As his pace increased so the sea-lions began to bawl out all together - a pitiful exhibition and much too hoarse to be amusing - but as the sudden clamour died away a single disgusted voice, not very loud, came clear across the quiet water: 'Oh the fucking sod.'

  That was no native cry, no heathen mockery: that was a naval expression, familiar to him from childhood, and uttered in a naval voice. He turned, and with a mixture of horror and delight he saw the massive form of his Captain heaving up for a final hail, clinging to the stump of a mast; and he recognized the shattered hull of the Alastor's launch.

  Having whipped the skiff round and come alongside he wasted no time in asking what had happened or telling them they looked terrible, but gave them his bottle of cold tea - they were almost speechless from thirst, lips black, faces inhuman - passed a line and began towing the launch towards the shore.

  He rowed with prodigious force, rising on the stretcher and pulling so that the sculls creaked and bent under his hands. He had never seen the Captain look more destroyed, not even after the Master action: the bloody bandage over his eye had something to do with it, but quite apart from that his bearded face was thin and drawn, barely recognizable, and he moved with difficulty, like an old man, heaving slowly on his oar. From the skiff Pullings looked straight into the launch: the Captain, Darky Johnson and Bonden were doing what they could, labouring with uneven sweeps, roughly shaped from broken spars; Killick was bailing; Joe Plaice and young Ben were stretched out, motionless. The two boats scarcely seemed to move; there were nearly three miles to go, and at this rate they would not be able to go half-way before the ebb set in, carrying them far out to sea.

  Yet the Surprise, lying there in the road, had three midshipmen aboard, and what they lacked in intelligence they made up for in physical activity. Reade, having but one arm, could no longer go skylarking, hurling himself about the upper rigging regardless of gravity, but his messmates Norton and Wedell would hoist him by an easy purchase to astonishing heights, and from these, having still one powerful hand and legs that could twist round any rope, he would plunge with infinite satisfaction. He was at the masthead, negligently holding the starboard main topgallant shrouds with the intention of sliding straight down the whole length of the topgallant backstay, well over
a hundred feet, when his eye, wandering towards San Lorenzo, caught the odd spectacle of a very small boat trying to tow a much larger one. Even at this distance the very small boat looked surprisingly like the Doctor's pea-green skiff. Leaning down he called, 'Norton.' 'Ho,' replied his friend. 'Be a decent cove for once and send me up my glass.'

  Norton, an invariably decent cove, did more than that: he swarmed aloft like an able-bodied baboon, begged Reade to shift over and make room on his tiny foothold, unslung the telescope and handed it over, all this with no more gasping than if he had walked up one pair of stairs. Reade using a telescope from the masthead was a sight to turn a landsman pale: he had to pull the tubes right out, twist his one arm through the shrouds, set the small end to his eye and bring all into focus by a steady pressure. Norton was used to it however and he only said, 'Let's have a go, mate, when you've done: don't be all bloody night.'

  Reade's reply was a hail as loud as his breaking voice could make it. 'On deck, there. On deck. Mr Grainger, sir. Right on the beam. Captain Pullings is trying to tow the Alastor's launch. Launch all mangled: something cruel. They are bailing: in a bad way. Captain is pulling, and I can make out Bonden, but... '

  The rest was drowned in the vehement cry of all hands and the launching of boats regardless of new paint not yet dry.

  The Alastor's launch and the skiff came alongside under the larboard chains, Bonden mechanically hooked on; and as hands ran down with the man-ropes Pullings came scrambling aft to help his Captain go aboard. 'Where is the Doctor?' asked Jack, looking up at the rail.

  'He's ashore, sir, and has been these five or six days: he sent to say he was a-naturalizing in the mountains.'