In Distant Waters

by Richard Woodman

  ‘She certainly is, Potter, and off the wind, on a reach, she’ll fly faster than the wind.’

  Potter digested this intelligence with a frown, but Drinkwater did not expand upon this curiosity of natural law. Instead he sowed the seeds of his intentions.

  ‘Now we’re well out of sight of the Dons, we’ll close the coast again. That’ll be Point Reyes, where we were crusing when we discovered that leak,’ he pointed at the blue line of the Californian shore.

  ‘Ahhh . . .’ Potter nodded, pleased to be taken into the captain’s confidence.

  ‘Now what I think we should do, Potter, is chase north and find out what those damned Russians have done with our ship and shipmates.’ Drinkwater paused and looked sideways at the man, an able-seaman and once rated captain of the foretop. ‘What d’you think of that, eh?’

  ‘Few more men’d be handy, sir, begging your pardon for saying so.’

  ‘Yes, they would, but we’ve got a fair wind, a fast ship and at least one heavy cannon to play with . . . and we’ve got something else, Potter . . . surprise!’

  They fell silent again and then Potter said, ‘Sir . . . that leak, sir . . . it were done a’purpose.’

  Drinkwater did not take his eyes off the horizon, though he knew Potter was eyeing him sidelong. ‘I know,’ he said shortly, then turned and smiled disarmingly at the seaman, ‘and I’d hang the scum that did it if I had proof, Potter; but that’s of no avail now. Do you cut along and call out the watch below. It’s time you and I got some rest.’ He took the helm and watched Potter scuttle forward.

  James Quilhampton came on deck a few minutes later. He was smiling broadly, for it was a beautiful morning with clear visibility and a fresh breeze that made the blue seas turn white as they broke and from which a school of dolphins leapt and gambolled and ran in and out under the cutwater of the racing schooner.

  ‘Morning sir.’

  ‘Morning, James. We’ll set proper watches now. You and Tregembo, Marsden, Blixoe and one marine, together with the four seamen I’ve just called to form the larboard watch. I’ll head the starboard with the rest . . . seventeen of us in all. I’m going to locate the Patrician if I can, James, and retake her . . .’

  ‘We could do with a few more men for that sir,’ remarked Quilhampton.

  Drinkwater nodded. ‘Yes, Potter’s just told me that, but what we lack in men we might make up for with stealth and surprise.’

  ‘Not to mention that confounded great “smasher” amidships . . .’

  Drinkwater grinned. ‘We are of one mind, James . . . here you are, head in for the coast. Keep a sharp lookout for sails or masts. I’ve no idea what those damned Russians intend to do with the ship, but I don’t want to miss her for want of a pair of eyes.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘I’m going below to get some sleep.’

  They coasted northwards for over a week without the sight of a single sail. The year was well advanced and Drinkwater supposed that merchant ships were either finishing their lading in Alaskan waters and not yet ready to sail southwards, or that Russian ships loading provisions for the hardships of the northern winter had not yet departed from the Spanish settlements of California. Then, as they stood out to sea to round what the English navigators called Cape Disappointment but which, on Drinkwater’s Spanish chart bore no name at all, they saw the masts of some ships hidden behind a low spit of land to the southward of the Cape.

  ‘The mouth of the Columbia River, James . . . hoist Spanish colours and stand inshore. We’ll take a closer look.’

  It took them four hours to work their way up into the estuary of the river against a considerable current which, fuelled by the melting snows of distant mountains to the eastward, streamed out into the ocean with an impressive velocity. But the schooner stood inshore and the low point to the southward opened slowly to starboard, to reveal a shallow lagoon and a secondary headland from which the first grew in a long sandy spit. This headland was covered with woods in which a clearing had been made and the stockade of a primitive fort erected. Above the fort flew the colours of Tsar Alexander I, though neither of the two vessels at anchor were larger than brigs.

  ‘A Russian settlement, by Heaven,’ muttered Drinkwater, staring through his looted glass at the group of curious men drawn up by a pair of boats on the beach.

  ‘Fetch us an anchor James, close alongside the outer of those two brigs.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Drinkwater watched Quilhampton go forward, his wooden arm hanging incongruously below the Spanish uniform coat that was far too short for his long, lean frame. He grinned at the young man, and caught the mood of high excitement that infected his men. There were only a handful of them, but they had had time to settle well and, with the single exception of Derrick, were spoiling for a fight.

  ‘Brail all . . .’

  Quilhampton passed the agreed order quietly. The jibs fell, fluttering along the bowsprit with a rasp of their hanks on the stays, and a man clambered leisurely out along the spar to restrain them with a roband or two, while the main and foresails were brailed to the masts, their gaffs, standing spars. Against the current the schooner lost way and was brought to an anchor and a short scope of cable. Then they hauled the cutter alongside from its position towing astern. With some show it was manned and a Spanish boat ensign found and its staff stuck in the verdigrised brass ferrule in the cutter’s rudder-stock. Wearing an oddly cockaded Spanish bicorne Drinkwater took his place in the stern, a large light-cavalry sabre, that he had found hanging on the schooner’s cabin bulkhead, held between his knees. A brace of primed, cocked and loaded pistols lay on the stern sheets beside him, while the oarsmen each had a cutlass from the schooner’s capacious arms-chest concealed beneath their thwarts.

  They cleared the stern of the schooner and Drinkwater looked up. ‘God bless my soul!’

  In a beautifully carved scroll worked beneath the cabin windows he read her name for the first time: Virgen de la Bonanza. Several men caught the direction of his eye, grinning at the first word which was comprehensible to them. What the rest meant none of them knew. Drinkwater’s face stiffened. They were supposed to be masquerading as Spaniards!

  The group on the beach had grown by the time they reached it. About a score of villainously bearded and greasily apparelled men stood idly watching them. He took them all to be Russians, except perhaps one, a late arrival wearing the buckskins and moccasins of a mountain-man, the likes of which he had once seen, long ago in the Loyalist militia in New York. He was clearly something of a wonder to the others, for they looked at him curiously, drawing aside for him as he joined them. Drinkwater was close enough to observe these details, for the next instant the boat grazed the sand and he rose to his feet.

  Drinkwater never had any Thespian pretentions, but his lack of familiarity with the Spanish tongue had driven him to an almost risible extreme in an attempt to head off the slightest suspicion that he was anything other than Spanish. ‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ he said to Quilhampton when explaining his intentions and the men’s laughter had been muted by the order that one of them was going to have to carry him, piggyback, ashore. But it was at Derrick’s suggestion that he bore the handkerchief, a large, ostentatious square of flowered silk that they guessed was a gift for the Virgen’s captain’s paramour in Panama. The prominent manipulation of the kerchief alone ensured his disembarkation appeared alien enough and, ironically, he was glad of it himself, when he caught the stench of the Russians.

  Potter put him down with a relieved grunt and Drinkwater, the heave sabre knocking his hip, strode amongst the group of grim watchers and swept his hat from his head.

  ‘Buenos días, Señors.’ He bowed, placed his hand on his breast and plunged on. ‘El Capitán Rubalcava, del barco La Virgen de la Bonanza.’ The name of his assumed identity and that of his ship sounded marvellously authentic and the latter allowed a spate of eloquence that, he guessed, disarmed any suspicions amid the dull-eyed Russi
ans. Of the effect upon the frontiersman he was less sure. He tried to recall the first-person singular and managed only a squeal. ‘Eee, er, dos San Francisco . . .’ He allowed himself to peter-out and stare round at the men. Their eyes were blank with incomprehension.

  ‘No comprendez?’ They stared back. He turned to the mountain-man. He had blue eyes like the others, but there was a narrowing of them, a shred of suspicion in their cold appraisal. Drinkwater leaned forward with exaggerated Latin effusiveness.

  ‘Señor?’ he asked, directly.

  ‘No comprendez . . .’ the man said slowly. A spark of understanding formed in Drinkwater’s mind and he said quickly, before the other revealed a perfect knowledge of Spanish,’ Ahh, Señor, muy amigo, you spik English, sí?’

  The man nodded.

  Drinkwater straightened, took a step towards him and waved his handkerchief airily, approaching the mountain-man, appearing to dismiss the assembled Russians whose dull, peasant wits watched this show as though it was a visitation by a dancing bear and they would presently be requested to reach for kopecks, at which point they would scatter.

  ‘Eet is good, hey?’ Drinkwater plunged on, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward again in a mannerism he had copied subconsciously from Don Alejo. ‘I come to find Eenglish ship . . . Eenglishmen . . . comprendez?’ He bastardised the English words by elongation, relapsing into the odd Spanish word for punctuation with a speed he hoped continued to deceive.

  The mountain-man regarded him for some time, a ruminative air about him, as though he spoke little, and when he did the words had to be dragged from him.

  ‘Yeah. Comprendez. I ain’t see’d no ship, but . . .’

  Drinkwater drew back in disappointment. With no news of Patrician there was little point in risking his neck further; but something about the mountain-man held his attention. He played the charade a step further, aware that beyond the group and walking down from the direction of the stockade a uniformed officer and an escort of armed men were approaching.

  ‘Eenglishmen, Señor . . . you see, qué?’

  ‘Yeah . . . I see . . .’

  ‘ ’Ow many?’

  ‘Twenty-two . . .’ The man became aware of the approach of the officer and he jerked his head. ‘Ask him.’

  The Russians were falling back; some of them removed their fur hats in the presence of the officer. Drinkwater turned to the newcomer. He wore a uniform of brown cloth with red-facings, dark breeches tucked into high boots. His tie-wig was ill-kempt and old fashioned and the hat he bore in his hands had seen better days.

  Drinkwater drew himself up and essayed a low bow, flourishing his handkerchief and never taking his eyes off the face of the Russian officer. It was a cruel face, pock-marked and thin with long deprivation, yet with an imperious pair of eyes deep set on either side of a beak of a nose. The voice, when he spoke, was thin and reedy. The officer was clearly at the opposite end of the social class at whose other extremity Captain Prince Vladimir Rakitin occupied a place.

  Taking a deep breath and noticing that his boat’s crew had turned the boat round and were standing knee deep in the water holding it ready for escape, Drinkwater began again.

  ‘Buenas días, Señor, Ee, er La Capitán . . .’

  ‘ ’E says he’s lookin’ for Englishmen, Lootenant . . .’

  A look of understanding passed between the two of them and the unpleasant Russian officer fixed his eyes upon Drinkwater. His glance was truly intimidating and, masquerading as he was, Drinkwater felt unequal to the task of staring him down. Instead he bowed again.

  ‘Niet! No English. Here, Russia. You go!’

  The officer turned on his heel, leaving Drinkwater half-recovered from his bow.

  ‘Now you go, amigo,’ said the mountain-man, his drawl lingering mockingly upon the Spanish word so that a worm of alarm writhed in Drinkwater’s gut. ‘Vamos!’

  Drinkwater turned and walked towards the boat. Potter bent his back and Drinkwater waved him aside, splashing through the shallows.

  ‘Vaya con Dios, Capitán Rubalcava,’ called the mountain-man and then added something which made the Russians around him laugh.

  ‘They were lying, of that I’m certain,’ Drinkwater said, accepting the glass of wine that Derrick handed him.

  ‘About the ship, sir?’ asked Quilhampton.

  ‘No, about men, Englishmen.’

  ‘Our men, sir?’ Quilhampton frowned. ‘I don’t quite follow . . .’

  ‘There’s the rub, James, neither do I.’ He felt the wine uncoil its warmth in his belly, relaxing him. ‘But I mean to find out. That Yankee knew something, for he mentioned twenty-odd men and I’ve already been played false by one American. We’ll reconnoitre that fort tonight. Any movement from it?’

  ‘Nothing new. That cove is still spying on us from the platform over the gate.’

  ‘And the brigs?’

  ‘Nothing. They don’t appear to be working cargo, though they’ve tackles rigged.’

  ‘Perhaps we interrupted them.’

  ‘It’s possible. What would they be loading?’

  ‘Furs perhaps, jerked meat, other staples, Indian corn, say, purchased with iron trinkets. It’s a safe enough haven for refitting ships too. They need labour for that, skilled labour . . .’

  Comprehension kindled in Quilhampton’s eyes. ‘You mean English seamen, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mean men from the Patrician, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But we’re miles away from Drake’s Bay, sir . . .’

  ‘We got here, James, and those brigs looked handy enough craft.’

  ‘Good God!’ Quilhampton paused.

  ‘It looks as though the Russians took not only our ship but might be holding our men. Let’s get under weigh now and beat a retreat with our tails between our legs. We can return in the cutter after dark.’

  CHAPTER 18

  July 1808

  The Raid in the Rain

  It began to rain as they left the schooner. Their last glimpse of her pitching in the swell, hove-to in the darkness, was swiftly eclipsed by a hissing curtain of drizzle which seemed to seal them in a hermetic world of sodden misery. It was not cold until those sitting still felt the rain penetrate to their skin and envied the steady labours of the oarsmen. The interminable night passage was accompanied by the steady splash of oars and the occasional staccato chatter of teeth.

  But the rain killed the wind and flattened the sea to a greasy swell that, at last, thundered on the low sand-spit ahead of them and signalled their proximity to the estuary. Drinkwater swung the tiller and skirted the breakers, edging round the northern extremity of the spit until they knew by the feel of the boat that they were in the mouth of the river and could feel the bite of the seaward current.

  ‘Oars.’

  The men ceased rowing and bent over their looms. Drinkwater ordered a tot passed to each man. It was aguardiente, Spanish fire-water, but none the worse for that. They would need all the courage it put into their bellies, for their powder was soaked and whatever they might achieve would be by cold steel.

  ‘Stand-by . . . give way together . . .’

  They pressed on until they could see the dull leap of orange flames from behind the Russian stockade. They paused again and Drinkwater gave his final instructions. A few moments later the cutter’s stem grounded on the shore of the Columbia River for the second time, only on this occasion there was to be no masquerading. Leaving the boat keepers, Drinkwater led Quilhampton and Blixoe, Tregembo and a handful of seamen inland. The rain still fell and they felt their feet sticking in the ooze which sucked tenaciously on the well-trodden path up from the landing place. After a few yards they reached the tideline where low scrub, grass and trees began.

  Drinkwater led them off to the left, keeping between the river and the fort, but working round behind it, guided by the red glow of the fire within the stockade. The seething hiss of the rain on the sea and mud became a low roar as they moved
beneath the trees, dripping in huge droplets upon them. Despite the discomfort it covered their approach and they were close enough to make out the dancing of flames through the interstices of the pine-log rampart. Motioning them to stop, Drinkwater edged forward alone to peer through one of these slender gaps.

  By now his night-vision was acute. He could see the upper outline of the stockade against the sky and, except by the gate, it appeared to be unpierced by guns, although there was doubtless a walk-way behind it to allow defenders to fire over the top. For some yards clear of the fort, the trees and brushwood had been cleared, but the nature of the night allowed him to slip across this glacis undetected. Pressed against the resinous pine trunks he peered into the fort.

  The interior of the post was roughly circular, a number of buildings within it provided quarters and stores. Outside what he supposed to be the main barrack block a large fire was crackling, the flames and sparks leaping skywards despite the efforts of the heavens to extinguish them. He could see a few men lounging under the overhanging roof of this block, and the blackening carcass of a deer being roasted on spits, but from his vantage point he could see little else. The garrison, however, seemed a small one and the governor doubtless lived in one of the log cabins, for Drinkwater could just make out a square of yellow light close to the gate, as though a lamp burned behind a crude window. Cautiously he returned to the others, whispering to Quilhampton: ‘Damned if I can see what we’re looking for.’

  ‘Oh. What now, sir?’

  ‘We’ll edge round the place.’

  They began to move forward again, a pall of dejection falling on the miserable little column. They became careless, snapping twigs and letting branches fly back into the faces of the men behind them. They lost touch with the stockade on their right, moving into dense brushwood that tore at them, aggravating their tempers and unsettling them. Drinkwater began to question the wisdom of proceeding further. Then he stopped, so abruptly that Quilhampton bumped into him. Not five yards ahead of them a tall figure had risen from the bracken, hurriedly knotting the cords of his breeches. Drinkwater knew instantly it was the mountain-man.