In Distant Waters

by Richard Woodman

  The need for caution receded now they were in the anchorage. There were other boats about, ferrying liberty-men to and from their ships. It was a contrast to the naval anchorages he was familiar with, where the fear of desertion made every ship row a guard and the passage of boats at night was strictly controlled. He began to relax, to cast about for a likely target, a small ship, like a schooner, easily manageable by a handful of desperate men. If he could strike quickly, divert his men’s minds away from the thought of stews and whores he might, he just might . . .

  ‘Sir . . .’ the man at bow oar hissed in the darkness.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen, sir . . .’

  He heard the voice immediately. ‘Hold water!’ he commanded, and when the boat lay stopped he cocked his ear again, getting his bearings.

  The querulous voice was indisputably Yankee.

  ‘Well, Friend, he was here but a minute ago . . . perhaps he pisseth against a wall . . .’

  ‘Jesus, I thought you mother-fuckers were supposed to be seamen! I ain’t a whit surprised the British are losing ships if they’re driven to manning ’em with canting Quakers . . . you tell him to lay aft when he’s finished for Chrissakes . .’.

  ‘Thou takest too much in vain the Lord’s name, Friend . . .’

  A snigger of recognition came from the oarsmen, half amused, half admired at the Quaker’s undaunted attitude. If Derrick was aboard the ship under whose stern they had stopped, who else might there be? Or had Derrick deserted alone, prompted by those ridiculous pacifistic views of his? The questions tumbled through Quilhampton’s mind and he leaned forward.

  ‘Give way, easy, lads, and keep deathly quiet,’ he whispered, and the oars dipped into the water again. In the stern, Quilhampton pulled the tiller hard against his chest and swung the boat’s bow towards the Abigail Starbuck.

  ‘Oars . . .’

  The men ceased rowing and the boat glided on. A tinkling sound could be heard and, peering ahead, Quilhampton caught the faint silver arc of urine falling from the height of a ship’s forechains. As the boat slid under the bulk of the ship’s hull he saw, against the slightly lighter darkness of the sky, the shape of a man buttoning the flap of his trousers. As the boat got closer and the man turned inboard his face was suddenly illuminated. Caught with one foot on the rail as he swung round he paused.

  ‘I heard him,’ said a deep-burred and familiar voice, ‘a right bloody bucko bastard of a Yankee Dandy . . .’

  Quilhampton drew a breath. If the man holding the lantern was not Derrick, or there were others within earshot they might be ruined, but the moment was not to be lost and the occupants of the boat were all registering recognition and surprise so that their own silence could not be relied upon.

  ‘Tregembo!’ Quilhampton hissed.

  Looking up, Quilhampton saw the man turn and peer down, saw a second head and a lantern.

  ‘Put the fucking light out!’ said one of the oarsmen.

  ‘Tregembo, it’s me, Mr Quilhampton . . .’

  ‘By Gar . . . quick, Derrick, ower we go, afore that Yankee sees us . . .’

  ‘Wait! Are there more of you?’

  ‘Aye, but don’t wait, zur . . .’

  Tregembo was already clambering over the side, though Derrick appeared to hesitate. The Cornishman, his legs dangling from the chains, seeking a foot-hold in the boat looked up.

  ‘Come on, damn ’ee, you can pull an oar if you can’t fight!’

  Someone stood and reached up. Tregembo fell heavily among grunts from his shipmates and the boat rocked dangerously and then Derrick was following and, a minute later, the long-boat was pulling cautiously off into the darkness.

  When sufficient distance had been put between them and the Abigail Starbuck Quilhampton ordered them to cease rowing.

  ‘Lay aft, Tregembo and report.’

  ‘Willingly, zur.’ Tregembo struggled down the boat as the men pulled aside for him until his scarred, grizzled and dependable features peered into Quilhampton’s face.

  ‘Thank God you came, zur . . . I’d been meditating on swimming ashore once I knowed where they’d got the Cap’n . . .’

  ‘Where is he, Tregembo, d’ you know?’

  ‘Aye, zur, Mister Derrick, ’e found out. That was the Yankee hell-ship Abigail Sommat-or-other and if her mate hadn’t had a whore in his bunk we’d not have had the liberty for a piss to remind us we were free men . . .’

  ‘The captain, Tregembo . . .’

  ‘He’s a prisoner in the Governor’s Residence,’ put in Derrick. ‘I overheard the mate and Captain Grant discussing the matter when the Patrician left harbour this morning.’

  ‘I saw that,’ Quilhampton cut the Quaker short. ‘Do you know the way to this Residence?’

  ‘It’s above the boat jetty, zur, where we was anchored before.’

  ‘Very well . . . stand-by . . . give way together . . .’

  As the boat once more gathered way, James Quilhampton turned her in for the shore, conjuring up from his memory, the lie of the land above the landing-jetty.

  Drinkwater shut the log and doused the candle as he heard the key turn cautiously in the lock. It seemed an age before the bolts were drawn back, by which time her appearance did not surprise him.

  ‘Capitán . . . ?’

  ‘Here, Señorita . . .’

  ‘You do not know the news? They did not tell you? Not even my father?’

  ‘I have not seen your father, Señorita . . .’

  ‘Ahhh . . .’ she seemed relieved.

  ‘But what news is this . . . ?’

  ‘Ana Maria?’ The voice of Doña Helena rasped anxiously through the night and the hurried tap of her questing feet approached.

  ‘Please, Capitán, you go now . . . for our honour, you must go, it is not right . . .’

  ‘But I do not understand . . . you will be in trouble . . . there is no need . . .’

  ‘Please Capitán,’ she beseeched him and he heard the prattle of the duenna’s voice suddenly louder, rattling something to someone else in quick, urgent Spanish. He heard the lugubrious tone of the Franciscan father and then their shadows leapt large along the wall of the corridor.

  ‘Vamos! . . . go quick . . .’ She stood aside and the priest loomed in the doorway as Doña Helena screeched something. For the briefest fraction of a second indecision held the four of them in a trance and then Drinkwater acted. The priest held up an imperious hand, but Drinkwater brushed him aside and made for the end of the corridor. The guard was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps too long acquaintance with the English captain had made them careless, perhaps Doña Ana Maria had bribed them, he neither knew nor troubled to think of it, only an iron gate separated him from the terraced garden of oleanders and orange trees through which the path to the boat-jetty led downwards.

  It was unlocked. Flinging it open he began to run, his muscles cracking under the unaccustomed strain of rapid descent.

  Quilhampton remembered the battery that lay between the boat-jetty and the Residence above. It was not on the direct path, but lay off to the right, occupying a natural bastion, an outcrop of rock behind which earth-falls had filled in a roughly level area which the hand of man had improved with stone flags so that it supported heavy cannon mounted behind embrasures of stone.

  He knew it would be guarded and his approach to the jetty was conducted with caution. He was astonished, therefore, when the noises of pursuit, of shouting and brief glimpses of lights came from above and, as the bowman jumped ashore with the boat-painter, he considered immediate withdrawal. But the knowledge that Drinkwater himself was up there somewhere made him stay his hand. He had quizzed both Derrick and Tregembo concerning the disappearance of the ship. They both agreed she had been carried off under Russian colours in full view of all the merchantmen anchored in the harbour; but he was unable to shake them from their conviction that Drinkwater had remained in San Francisco, a prisoner of the Spanish authorities. It occurred to Quilhampton that both men had a per
sonal interest in the fate of the captain, and both were comparatively indifferent to that of the ship herself. If their information was correct and he had judged their motives correctly, then perhaps fortune might be persuaded to turn in their favour.

  The noises coming from above certainly indicated that she was not running in the favour of their enemies. A shot rang out, perhaps from the battery and the string of lights and the noise of pursuit came lower down the hillside. Whoever was running was important enough to warrant a full scale attempt at recapture.

  ‘Sergeant Blixoe, your best shot to try and hit the leading lantern as soon as he can.’

  ‘Very good sir.’

  There was a stir of excitement in the boat and Quilhampton said, ‘Sing, lads, sing loud and clear . . . sing Spanish Ladies . . . sing, damn you!’

  It was a faltering start and they had no clue as to Quilhampton’s crazy idea but something infectiously insane about his own cracked and tuneless voice made them join him.

  “Farewell and adieu to you Spanish Ladies,

  Farewell and Adieu to you ladies of Spain . . .”

  They could afford to sing in English and indicate their presence to whoever was crashing through the bushes above them with musket balls singing into the night after him. There were enough Americans in port to justify a drunken outburst and no one on a clandestine mission would betray their presence with such impunity. What would happen if they had to suddenly conceal themselves again did not occur to Quilhampton. He had staked all on a single throw, arguing that only one man could be important enough to chase with such energy. It simply never occurred to him otherwise.

  Beside him the kneeling marine fired. The snap and flash of the musket punctuated the old sea-song causing a missed beat, but they picked it up again.

  “. . . orders to sail for Old England

  and we hope in a short-time to see you again.”

  Drinkwater heard the singing, taking comfort from the sound of drunken seamen that indicated the probable presence of a boat below. If there had been no boat he would have made for the town where the merchantmen’s boats lay, but the sound of so ancient a sea-song beckoned him, and he tripped and stumbled as the first bullet whined past him. It is difficult to hit a target downhill, easier to fire upwards, but the shot that he saw from below made him check his flight. For a moment he was confused, then he heard an anguished roar from above and his heart leapt with hope. It was impossible, but surely whoever fired that lone shot had been aiming at his pursuers. He did not consider the matter an instant longer, but plunged headlong downwards.

  Quilhampton saw the figure the second it broke cover from the undergrowth and challenged them.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  The voice was recognisable, the raw rasp of it familiar to men whom it had commanded for five years and more.

  ‘Friends, Captain, hurry . . . !’

  ‘Mr Q?’

  ‘The same, sir.’

  ‘Well met, by heaven, into the boat, quick . . . why this is Patrician’s cutter!’

  They tumbled into the boat, Blixoe firing another shot at the Spaniards who were but a few yards behind Drinkwater. The oarsmen needed no special bidding to effort. They had swung the boat round and bent to their task with back-breaking energy that made the oar-looms bend and crack under the strain.

  ‘There’s a long-waisted Spanish aviso-schooner hard-by, Mr Q,’ Drinkwater pointed into the night where two raked masts were just perceptible against the sky, ‘and I judge most of her people to be ashore.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir . . . knives and foot-stretchers, lads, we’re almost up to her . . . are you reloaded, Mr Blixoe?’

  ‘We’ve two cartridges that ain’t spoiled, sir . . .’

  ‘Cold steel then . . .’ Quilhampton turned to Drinkwater. ‘I’ve no sword, sir . . .’

  ‘Nor me, James . . .’

  And then they bumped alongside the low hull of the schooner and were scrambling up her side, finding toe-holds on her gun-sills and swinging their legs over the rail.

  The anchor watch had been alerted by the shots ashore, no more than two hundred yards away. But they had made the error of going and reporting the matter. The aviso had been left in the hands of a young midshipman, newly out from Spain, and her crew were largely mestizos, unused to real action on a great ocean that their employers were apt to consider their own exclusive preserve. Only the midshipman put up a fight, to be skewered by Blixoe’s bayonet for his gallantry. Within minutes the schooner had changed hands.

  There were no boats at the jetty beyond a small dinghy with insufficient capacity for immediate pursuit. But the precise circumstances of Captain Drinkwater’s disappearance were somewhat confusing to the pursuers, mixed as they were with treachery within the Residence. Neither did the Spanish immediately appreciate the danger their aviso lay in, so that Drinkwater and his companions were able to slip the cable of the schooner and make sail unmolested.

  They felt the bow rise to the onshore swell from the mighty Pacific as soon as they rounded Point Lobos. The aviso heeled over as they belayed the halliards and Drinkwater came aft to Quilhampton at the helm.

  ‘How does she steer, James?’

  ‘Like a witch!’ answered Quilhampton, his eyes dancing in the light from the binnacle.

  ‘Like a witch, eh?’ repeated Drinkwater in a lower voice, recalling another face lit from below by a poor glim. How would she fare now, he wondered? And what was the fateful news that had caused her to liberate him?

  It was then that it occurred to him that had they not killed the midshipman they might have discovered it. ‘Too late now,’ he muttered sadly.

  ‘Yes,’ Quilhampton’s voice agreed enthusiastically, ‘they’re much too late now to catch us.’

  Drinkwater opened his mouth to explain, thought better of it and grunted agreement. ‘D’you think we can find anything to eat aboard this hooker, Mr Q?’

  CHAPTER 17

  July 1808

  The Virgin of Fair Weather

  If the vicissitudes of the sea-service had thrown Nathaniel Drinkwater ignominiously out of one of the most powerful frigates in the Royal Navy, then the inexplicable actions of a beautiful woman had restored him to a position of some influence. He had hardly dared hope for such a sudden and apparently fortuitous reversal in his situation as had been precipitated by Doña Ana Maria’s actions and consolidated by the appearance of James Quilhampton and his forlorn hope.

  The sudden, easy taking of the schooner still struck him as an equally lucky link in the chain of events which had led him to liberty; he had yet to learn that there was more of cause and effect, and less of coincidence in these events than he then supposed. But, for the moment, little could dull the relief and joy that filled him as he watched the dawn over the distant coast and shivered in the fresh westerly breeze that blew onshore and under the influence of which the narrow gutted schooner laid her seething course northwards.

  Drinkwater had to acknowledge that she was a smart, fast and rakish craft. Her long, low hull mounted twelve 6-pounder carriage guns, mere pop-guns that could serve to over-awe native craft or a merchantman, but amidships, where traditionally she might have carried her boats, she mounted a heavy carronade, the Spanish equivalent of a 32-pounder, he judged, curiously rigged on a rotating slide somewhat in the manner of the mortars in the old bomb-vessel Virago, so that the gun might be brought to bear on a target on either side if due care were taken of the intervening rigging. This powerful weapon gave Drinkwater fresh cause for hope, for with it he might yet achieve something worthwhile and there was only one task that demanded his relentless attention until it was accomplished, the recapture of the Patrician.

  He looked aloft. The two raked masts carried huge gaff-rigged sails, the after one was capable of bearing a maintopsail which he could set at full daylight when the watch changed. For the time being he was content to act as officer of the watch as well as commander of his pathetically small crew. Still, they seemed happy enough
, basking in their change of fortune and making free with the personal effects they had discovered on board. Properly, Drinkwater should have secured these, but he was not kindly disposed towards the Spanish of San Francisco after the breaking of their parole, the shameful way he had been held captive and the mature suspicion that Don Alejo and Rubalcava, at least, were involved in some action which, to them, justified their dishonourable treatment of their prisoners. Besides, the poor devils who had arrived with Quilhampton had only the rags they stood up in, and Drinkwater was far too considerate of his men’s welfare to let the conventions of protecting private property stand in the way of their well-being.

  ‘Forward there!’

  A man named Lacey stood up from where he had been huddling under the weather rail dodging spray. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Ease the foresheets a little . . .’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Drinkwater eased the helm and the schooner’s head fell off the wind a point or two, her long bowsprit pointing at a shallower angle to the line of the coast.

  ‘Ease the mainsheet,’ he said to the seaman who stood at the helm beside him.

  He felt the pressure on the rudder ease as the sheaves squealed slightly with the strain on the heavy mainsheet.

  ‘She’m a flyer, sir,’ said the man conversationally, resuming his post at Drinkwater’s side and Drinkwater agreed, reflecting upon the alteration in their circumstances. Aboard the Patrician the man would not have dared address his commander in such familiar tones; here, doing duty beside him, it was the most natural thing in the world.