In Distant Waters nd-8

by Richard Woodman

  They fell to an easy and companionable pacing of the deck. It was astonishing the difference the chase made to the atmosphere on board. All grumbling had gone. Men moved with a new-found confidence and bore themselves cheerfully even in the dark hours. There was a liveliness in the responses of the helmsman, a perkiness about those of the watch ordered to perform the many small tasks as the officers strove in succession to get the best out of the ship. Fraser sought to gain something from the captain's obvious desire to chat.

  'Sir… I was wondering if you would be kind enough to confide in me. As to our orders, sir… if… er…'

  'If anything should happen to me in the next few hours you'd like to know how to act… I know, I know… damn it, Mr Fraser, the truth of the matter is that I ain't sure myself. We've to damage the Dons and their trade, to be sure, but our main purpose here is to prevent what Their Lordships are pleased to call "incursion into the Pacific" by the Russians.'

  'The Russians, sir?'

  'Ah, I see that surprises you. Well, they have settlements in Alaska, though what possible influence that might have upon the course of the war is something of a mystery…'

  'And we are making for Alaska now, sir?'

  'In a manner of speaking. It seemed the best place to begin exhibiting His Majesty's flag.' Drinkwater felt Fraser's bewilderment. Perhaps he should have confided in the younger man earlier in the voyage, but Fraser had had his own problems and the life of a first lieutenant was, Drinkwater knew, not an easy one.

  'You are too young to remember the Spanish Armament in ninety-one, eh?'

  'I remember it vaguely, sir. Wasn't war with Spain imminent?'

  'Yes, the Channel Fleet were commissioned, a lucky thing as it happened, since, as I recall, we were at war with the French Republic within a year. Let me refresh your mind… when Cook's seamen brought high-quality furs from the polar seas off Alaska and Kamchatka and sold them in Canton they attracted the notice of the Honourable East India Company's factors. A former naval officer named Mears… a lieutenant, I believe he was, together with a merchant master named Tippin took out two ships across the North Pacific on a fur-hunting expedition. Tippin was cast up on Kamchatka, but Mears wintered somewhere in the islands. The following spring, about eighty-eight or eighty-nine, I forget which, he discovered Nootka Sound, a fine fiord on the west coast of what is now known as Vancouver Island, and he opened a fur trade between the Indians indigent upon the coast and the Company's factors at Canton. In ninety the Spanish sent a naval force, seized the four British ships anchored in the sound, but left two belonging to the United States of America. The British ships were plundered and their seamen sent, on Spanish orders, to Canton in the American bottoms. Once the "haughty Don" had disposed of us, he planted his flag and claimed the whole coast across the whole bight to China!'

  'Good Lord!'

  'At home we armed for war, but eventually the Dons climbed down. The sanculottes obliged us by executing King Louis and depriving His Most Catholic Majesty of the support of His Most Christian ally… Their Lordships sent George Vancouver out to receive the surrender of the Spanish commander, a Don Quadra, or some such, and Vancouver spent the next year or so surveying…'

  'And now we go out to prevent some such measures being repeated by the Russkies?'

  'That would seem to be about the size of the thing, Mr Fraser.'

  There was a brief silence between them, broken only by the low moan of the wind, the hiss of the sea rushing alongside the frigate, the creak of her fabric and some chatter amidships, where the watch congregated, chaffing the dozing gun-crews.

  'That ship we saw off the Horn, sir… I believe you expressed the opinion she was a Russian.'

  'Ah, Hill's been gossiping again, has he?' Drinkwater chuckled good-naturedly. 'Yes, yes, I believe her to have been bound for the Pacific, like ourselves… if she was ordered out as soon as hostilities were declared between Petersburg and London, she would be expected to reach the extremity of America at the same time as ourselves.'

  'She was a two-decker, sir.'

  'Yes. And if there's close co-operation between the Dons and the Russians…' Drinkwater let the import of the sentence sink in by implication.

  'I begin to see your problem, sir.'

  'Well, Mr Fraser,' remarked Drinkwater drily, 'if I'm knocked up when we overhaul that fellow ahead of us, it'll be your problem.'

  The wind backed a point towards dawn. Midshipman Wickham came below to where Drinkwater lay on his cot, fully dressed.

  '… It's increasing too, sir, Mr Quilhampton says, going large we've the legs of him, sir. She reeled off twelve at the last cast of the log.'

  Drinkwater yawned. 'Twelve, eh? Very well, Mr Wickham. I'll be up directly.'

  Quilhampton was worried when Drinkwater reached the quarterdeck a few moments later.

  'She's carrying too much canvas, sir…'

  Drinkwater gauged the strength of the wind and the feel of the ship beneath his boot-soles. Yes, there was a tendency of the ship to lay down, drowning her lee bow and building up a resisting wave there. He looked ahead. They were overhauling the Spanish ship perceptibly; it would be foolish to risk her escaping by carrying away spars aloft when they might delay the action an hour and break their fasts.

  'Very well, Mr Q. Rouse all hands and take in the stun's'ls. Pass the word to the cook to fire up the galley range and boil some skillygolee, and the purser to order "up spirits"; we've a brisk forenoon ahead of us!'

  Drinkwater watched the ship burst into life. It was damned odd what the appearance of an enemy did to a ship's company.

  'Gives 'em a sense of purpose, I presume,' he muttered to himself, breathing in the fresh air of the dawn and watching the red ball of the sun break the eastern horizon ahead of them, dragging its lower limb like some huge jelly-fish, as though reluctant to leave its resting place, and climb up into the lightening sky.

  And then he remembered he had left his sword in the pool beneath the waterfall on Mas-a-Fuera.

  Chapter Five

  The Spanish Prisoner

  March 1808

  Drinkwater hesitated in the space his cabin usually occupied. The bulkheads were down, the chairs and table had been removed together with his cot, sea-chest, books and the two lockers that turned the after end of Patrician's gun-deck into a private refuge. Even the chequer-painted canvas that served for a carpet had been rolled away. Only the white paint on the ship's side and the deck-head, gleaming in the reflected light that came in from the gaping stern windows from the ship's wake and sent patterns dancing across it, served to remind its new occupants that it was the hallowed quarters of Patrician's captain. For the purpose of the cabin now became apparent; with the removal of the furniture the obtrusive 24-pounder cannon stood revealed and even the lead sink that served Drinkwater's steward in his pantry was filled with water in readiness to sponge those after guns.

  'Where's my cox'n?' he asked of the waiting gun-crews who eyed the unexpected intrusion with some wariness.

  'Who lent it to you?'

  'Mr Mylchrist, zur…'

  'Ah, yes, thank you, Tregembo. And my pistols?'

  'Your clerk's taken 'em to the gunner, zur, for new flints. I tried knapping the old uns but they was too far gone… 'ere's your sword-belt…'

  Drinkwater grinned. He could imagine the Quaker's distaste for his task. He pulled the sword from its scabbard. Beneath the langets he read the maker's name: Thurkle and Skinner.

  'I must thank Mr Mylchrist… have my pistols taken to the quarterdeck as soon as they are ready.'

  'Aye, aye, zur.'

  Drinkwater passed through the berth deck to the orlop. In the stygian gloom he found Lallo with his loblolly boys laying out the catlings and curettes, the saws and pincers of his grisly trade. A tub waited to collect the refuse of battle, the amputated legs and arms of its victims. Drinkwater suppressed a shudder at the thought of ending up on the rough table Lallo's mates had prepared. For a moment he stood at the foot of the
ladder, accustoming himself to the mephitic air and watching the preparations of the surgeon. Lamplight, barely sustained here, in the bowels of the ship, danced in pale yellow intensity upon the bright steel of the instruments and illuminated the white of Lallo's bowls and bandages. The contrast between these inadequate preparations below for rescuing men from death and the bright anticipation of the gun-deck above struck Drinkwater with a sudden sharpness. He threw off the thought and coughed to draw attention to himself.

  'Ah, sir… ?' Lallo straightened up under the low beams.

  'You are ready, Mr Lallo?'

  'Ready, aye, ready, sir,' said Lallo, somewhat facetiously and Drinkwater caught the foul gleam of Skeete's caried grin.

  'How is Mr Mylchrist today?'

  From the far end of the space Mylchrist lifted a pale face from the solitary hammock that swung just beneath the heavy beams.

  'Much better, sir, thank you… I wish I could assist, sir…'

  'You stay there, Mr Mylchrist… you've had a long fever and Mr Wickham is doing your duty at the guns, you wouldn't deny him his chance of glory, would you now?'

  Mylchrist smiled weakly. 'No, sir.'

  'I promise you yours before too long.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'And thank you for the loan of your sword.'

  'The least I can do…'

  Drinkwater smiled down at the wounded officer. Mylchrist had been very ill, avoiding gangrene only by providence and the application of a lead-acetate dressing whose efficacy Drinkwater had learned from the surgeon of the Bucentaure when held prisoner on Villeneuve's flagship.

  'The employment of your sword guarantees you a share in the day's profits, Mr Mylchrist.'

  Mylchrist smiled his gratitude at the captain's jest. If they received prize- or head-money for their work in the coming hours, the third lieutenant's share for a fine Spanish frigate would better his annual salary.

  Drinkwater returned to the quarterdeck to find Derrick awaiting him. The Quaker held the two pistols as though they were infected and it was obvious he had tried to leave them in the charge of someone else. The others were enjoying his discomfiture. Fraser was positively grinning and the first lieutenant's levity had encouraged the midshipmen and the gun-crews waiting at the 18-pounders on the quarterdeck. Even the sober Hill, busy with his quadrant determining the rate they were overhauling the Spanish ship, seemed amused.

  'Thank you, Derrick.' Drinkwater took the two pistols, checked the locks were primed and stuck them in his belt.

  'Mr Meggs loaded them for you, Captain.'

  Drinkwater looked at the Quaker. In the months they had been together he had conceived a respect for the man. Derrick had refused to call him 'sir', tactfully avoiding the familiar 'Friend' of his faith, compromising with 'Captain'. Drinkwater did not object. The man was diligent and efficient in his duties and only took advantage of his position in so much as he asked to borrow the occasional book from Drinkwater's meagre library. When he had borrowed Brodrick's History of the War in the Netherlands, Drinkwater had raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  'Your interest in that subject surprises me, Derrick.'

  'A physician studies disease, Captain, in order to defeat it, not because of his liking for it.'

  Drinkwater acknowledged his own defeat and smiled wryly.

  'Well, sir,' he said in a low voice, 'the moment has come… you had better go below to the orlop. The surgeon has no assistant, only his two loblolly boys, perhaps you might be able to help.'

  'I would not have my courage doubted, Captain,' Derrick flicked quick glances at the inhabitants of the quarterdeck, but I thought my post was at your side.'

  Drinkwater had never had the luxury of a clerk before and had given the matter little thought, though he recollected Derrick's post in action was 'to assist as directed'.

  'Very well, Derrick, but it is glory on the quarterdeck. Courage is a quality you will find at Mr Lallo's side.' He turned and raised his voice, 'Very well, Mr Fraser? Mr Mount?'

  'All ready, sir, ship's company fed, fires doused, spirits issued and the men at their battle-stations.'

  'My men likewise, sir,' added Mount.

  'A little over a mile, sir,' said Hill, looking up from his calculations.

  Drinkwater cast an embracing glance along the deck and aloft.

  'Very well. Pass the word to make ready. We'll try a ranging shot.'

  But there was no need. A puff of smoke shredded to leeward of the Spanish frigate's stern and a plume of water rose close under Patrician's larboard bow. The wind-whipped spray pattered aft and wet them.

  'Ole!' remarked Mount, dashing the stuff from his eyes.

  'We shall make a running fight of it, then,' said Drinkwater, raising his glass.

  For the next hours they endured shot from the Spaniard's stern chasers, trying to gauge the weight of metal of the balls. Drinkwater held his hand; to return fire meant luffing to bring a bow-chaser to bear on their quarry; to luff meant to lose ground. The morning was already well advanced by the time they could read the enemy's name across her stern: Santa Monica.

  Drinkwater spent the time pacing up and down, occupying the leeward side of the quarterdeck where he had a direct view of the Spanish ship and felt no discomfort from the down-draught from the maintopsail in such a balmy climate. From time to time he paused, rested his glass against a hammock stanchion and studied the Santa Monica. She was a relatively new ship, built of the Honduran mahogany that made Spanish ships immensely strong and the envy of their worn opponents. Her spars, too, gleamed with the richness of new pine and Drinkwater recalled Vancouver's words about the slopes of the coasts around Nootka Sound 'abounding in pines, spruces and firs of immense height and girth, being entirely suitable for the masting of ships'.

  Slowly their view of the enemy altered. As they overhauled her, they began to see the whole length of the Santa Monica's larboard side. Studying the Spaniard, Drinkwater could see her gun barrels foreshortening with a greater rapidity than they overtook. His opponent was preparing a disabling broadside as soon as all his larboard guns bore, while Drinkwater was hampered by his starboard broadside being on the leeward side of the ship. Even with full elevation, the list of the deck was such that his cannon might have trouble hitting their target. In addition there would be the problem of water pouring in through the gun-ports as Patrician lay down under the fiercer gusts of a strong breeze that was fast working itself up into a gale. Yet Drinkwater could not reduce the list by taking in sail without losing his chance.

  If the Spanish commander succeeded in his design of disabling Patrician his escape was guaranteed. If he was a man of unusual energy the consequences might be worse, he could conceivably hold off and rake Patrician, for all Drinkwater's superiority in weight of metal. The vision of Lallo's instruments of agony and those empty limb-tubs sprung morbidly into his mind's eye. With an effort of will he dismissed the thought. He would have to think of some counter-stroke and act upon it with a nicety of timing, if he was to disarm the Don's intention. For a moment longer he studied the Santa Monica as her bearing opened upon their bow with an almost hypnotic slowness. Then he shut his telescope with a snap.

  'Mr Hill! Mr Fraser! A moment of your time, if you please…'

  He was not a moment too soon. So parallel were the courses of the two ships that the angle of bearing for both of them to fire upon the other with any chance of achieving maximum effect was coincident within a degree or two. Drinkwater had noticed an officer bent over an instrument by the Spaniard's larboard dogvane and made his preparations accordingly.

  'Run out the guns!'

  When he had passed his orders he heard the rumble of Patrician's 24-pounders as their forward-trained muzzles poked from the heeling frigate's side. His heart was beating, hammering in his chest as, beside him, Fraser sighted along the barrel of one of the quarterdeck eighteens.

  'About two degrees to go, sir…'

  Drinkwater grunted. There had been some movement on the Santa Mon
ica's deck at the appearance of Patrician's guns. Would his opponent react?

  For a long moment the question seemed to hang, then he saw the officer by the dogvane bend again. Perhaps they too were waiting in suspense.

  Leaning over, the two ships rushed along, Patrician ranging slowly up to windward of the Spanish ship, gradually overlapping her larboard quarter close enough to confuse the sea running between them. Above their decks the yards were braced hard-up upon the leeward catharpings, the sails strained against the strength of the wind, driving the foaming hulls relentlessly through the water. From the high-cocked peaks of their spanker gaffs the opposing ensigns of their contending nations snapped viciously, while beneath them the lines of men at their guns, the groups crouching below the rails ready to haul on bowlines and braces, the red-coated marines aiming their muskets from the barricades of the hammock nettings, and the knots of officers on the quarterdecks and at their posts throughout the ships, waited for the orders from the two captains that commanded the destinies of five hundred souls.

  'Infernal machines…' Drinkwater heard someone whisper, half-admiringly, and smiled grimly when he realised it was Derrick, caught up in the stirring excitement of this insanity.

  'Bearing coming on, sir,' said Fraser matter-of-factly, still bent over the dispart sight of the 18-pounder.

  Drinkwater saw the Spanish officer by the Santa Monica's larboard dogvane straighten up purposively. Without taking his glass from his eye he gave the order: 'Fire!'

  Gun-locks snapped like the crackle of grass as a squall strikes, then came the immense roar of artillery, the trembling rise of the deck as the ship reacted to the recoil and the sudden burst of activity throughout Patrician that followed his order. On the gun-deck below, the heavy 24-pounders belched flame and shot, trundling inboard and snapping their tackles together as their crews swarmed round them, sponging and reloading the monstrous things. On quarterdeck and fo'c's'le the 18-pounders and the brutal 42-pounder carronades swept the deck with powder smoke and the enemy with a hail of iron and langridge.