In Distant Waters nd-8

by Richard Woodman

  'Up helm!'

  Behind Drinkwater, Hill was standing by the wheel, shouting through his speaking trumpet while Fraser, released from his duty bent over the dispart sight, was leaping across the deck whence Drinkwater followed him.

  'Smartly there, my lads, stamp and go!'

  Patrician's bow swung towards the Santa Monica as the Spaniard's hull disappeared momentarily behind the smoke of her own broadside. The fog of her discharging guns would, for a moment, blind her officers to much of his manoeuvre.

  Above his head the braces were easing the yards and then there was a rending crash from forward. Drinkwater felt a slight tremble through the hull, but Patrician's turn was unimpeded and then, leaning from the larboard hance, he could see the stern of the Santa Monica.

  There was a rent in her spanker and her ensign was fluttering down, its halliards having parted as Patrician's jib-boom slashed across her deck. Her stern boat was a wreck and hung down from the davits by a single fall.

  'Larbowlines…!'

  Drinkwater's voice was drowned in the thunder of the larboard guns, fired by their captains as they bore, double shotted and topped with canister they blasted into the starboard quarter of the Spaniard as Patrician sliced obliquely across the Santa Monica's stern.

  As the smoke cleared Drinkwater caught a glimpse of Comley, the boatswain, wielding an axe on the knightheads, where he fought to free Patrician of the obstruction of her smashed jib-boom.

  'Hard on the wind again, Mr Hill!'

  'Aye, aye, sir, full an' bye it is!'

  Patrician turned back to larboard again. She had given ground to the enemy and was now in her lee, but her guns still bore and they were being worked like fury by their crews; flame and smoke roared from her larboard ports as the cannon pointed high. A quick glance aloft showed Drinkwater that barely a shot of the enemy's had told, that their most serious damage had been sustained forward, from their own manoeuvre in crossing the Santa Monica's stern to rake her. Drinkwater dismissed that, raising his glass to assess the damage his ruse had effected.

  The enemy were hoisting their shot-away ensign into the mizen rigging, and holes were appearing in her sails, but hardly a gun replied to Patrician from Santa Monica's starboard broadside. Then, as he watched he heard a cheer. Shifting his glass from the enemy's starboard quarter where he could see the splintered remains of her gallery, he caught the toppling maintopmast. For almost a minute it stopped falling, leaning at a drunken angle, held by its rigging to the fore and mizen masts, and then it broke free, crashing downwards and bringing the mizen topgallant with it. The Patricians were whooping about their guns and the officers on the quarterdeck wore broad grins. Drinkwater could see they were rapidly shooting ahead of the Spaniard.

  'Stand by to tack ship!'

  But Drinkwater had no need to range up to windward, subjecting the Santa Monica to a further raking broadside from ahead. As he watched, he saw the red and gold lowered from the mizen rigging in token of submission.

  'She strikes, sir!'

  The news was reported from a score of mouths and more wild cheering broke out from the exhilarated crew of the Patrician. All the pent-up frustration of the past months, all the ill-feeling and resentment, the hopelessness of pressed men, the self-pity of dispirited lovers and the petty hatreds of men confined together for weeks on end, seemed burst like an abscess by the violent catharsis of action.

  His eyes met those of the sailing master. 'I think our sailing was of sufficient superiority on this occasion, Mr Hill,' Drinkwater remarked, repressing his sudden triumphant burst of exuberance.

  'For a Spaniard, sir…' replied Hill cautiously and Drinkwater felt the reproach in the older man's tone. He nodded.

  'Yes. You are right; for a Spaniard…'

  They did not board the prize until the following morning, for the wind threw up too rough a sea for them to launch a boat safely. And when they were successful they discovered their triumph to be short-lived.

  Their first broadside had been fired from the starboard guns on a lee-roll. The iron shot had hulled the Santa Monica, and damaged her so badly that by the following noon it was clear that her pumps were unable to stem the inrush of water. She began to founder under the feet of her prize crew. Lieutenant Quilhampton, sent aboard the Spanish frigate as prize-master, sent this news back to the Patrician by Midshipman Frey.

  Reluctantly Drinkwater ordered the prize abandoned and by that evening found himself host to two hundred unwilling and darkly threatening prisoners. They consisted of Spaniards, mission-educated Indians and a large proportion of mestizos, a lean and hard-bitten lot led by a tall, gaunt officer who wore the epaulettes of a captain in the Royal Navy of Spain.

  'I am Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, Señor, and I compliment you on the gallantry of your defence. I regret the loss of your ship.' He bowed formally and took his opponent's offered sword.

  He met the Spaniard's eyes and found in them more than resignation at the fortunes of war. The deep-set expression of anger and hatred seemed to burn out from the very soul of the man, and Drinkwater recognised in the lined and swarthy face the man who had bent over the Santa Monica's rail and whose order to fire Drinkwater had pre-empted by a split-second.

  'Don Jorge Meliton Rubalcava…' The Spanish commander broke off. Drinkwater had no idea whether Rubalcava understood English from this bald announcement.

  'Have I your word that you will not raise a revolt, Captain Rubalcava?' Drinkwater asked, turning the sword-hilt and offering it back to its owner. Rubalcava hesitated and swung to an accompanying officer whom Drinkwater assumed to be his second-in-command. But the other seemed only to be awaiting the completion of the formalities of surrender, before declaring himself a greater man than Rubalcava.

  'He was throwing papers overboard, sir,' Quilhampton volunteered, 'a fellow of some consequence.'

  Drinkwater was watching the two Spaniards. They seemed to be in some disagreement and Rubalcava's anger was suppressed with difficulty. His companion, however, turned to Drinkwater with an unruffled expression, and addressed him in strongly accented and broken English.

  'Capitán, Don Jorge he give you his parole and express for him the honour of you give his sword. Gracias.' The sentence was terminated by a low bow which Drinkwater awkwardly returned.

  'You speak excellent English, Señor, perhaps you could tell me whom I have the honour of addressing?'

  'I… Don Alejo Joaquin Arguello de Salas, aide-de-camp to His Excellence, Don José Henrique Martin Arguello de Salas, Commandante for San Francisco…'

  Again there was an exchange of bows.

  'Perhaps, gentlemen,' Drinkwater invited, 'you would do me the honour of dining with me and my officers this evening.'

  'Gracias… what is it you think to do, Capitán?'

  'We can discuss that matter later, gentlemen. And now, if you will excuse me, I have much to attend to in seeing to the comfortable accommodation of your men.'

  There was a further mutual acknowledgement and Drinkwater found himself favouring the simple directness of Derrick's mode of address above this extravagant over-worked charade of elaborate bows. He ordered the incredulous Quaker to see the Spanish officers quartered below and turned to Mount to issue orders for the confinement of their seamen.

  Mount concealed his grin with difficulty. The bobbing head and sweeping gestures of the quarterdeck had provoked an outburst of merriment along the deck as ill-concealed as the hostility of Captain Rubalcava.

  Chapter Six

  Of Wine and Women

  March 1808

  'Your allies… they make for you good wine…' Arguello raised his glass and held it so that the candles shone through the rich, dark Portuguese bual. Drinkwater had a few dozen bottles of the Madeira, his only really decent wine, bought from the commander of an East Indiaman which had been lying at the Nore. Its broaching was the culmination of a satisfying meal the main course of which had consisted of the last pig from Juan Fernandez. The unfortunate animal had l
ived on scraps in the manger forward of the ship's breakwater and been slaughtered before they went into action.

  'Gracias, Don Alejo… you have the same name as the Commandante…' Drinkwater phrased it as a question.

  'Si, 'e is my old brother.'

  The wine seemed to have relaxed Don Alejo, though Rubalcava's dark features continued to brood on his defeat. Despite its quality it had been a difficult meal and it was obvious that neither Fraser nor Quilhampton had enjoyed it. Out of courtesy they had drunk toasts to their respective sovereigns and to their own mutual gallantry. There had been a stilted enquiry into the Santa Monica's losses that revealed some difference of opinion between the two Spaniards, and Drinkwater was becoming suspicious about the Spanish frigate's task. He was toying with various expedients as to how to pursue his enquiries when Rubalcava spoke with a sudden, low urgency to Arguello. Don Alejo nodded, leaned forward to light a thin cigar from the candles and blew smoke at the deckhead.

  'Capitán… please, I ask you question… what you do with Capitán Rubalcava and his men, eh? For you too much prisoner a big…'

  'Risk?'

  'Si, Capitán, a big risk.'

  'Of course, Don Alejo, I do not make war upon unfortunate and gallant opponents. Assure Don Rubalcava that I am at his service. To deprive a brave officer of his ship is enough injury to inflict upon any man of spirit… where does the good captain wish to be landed?'

  It took Arguello a few moments to digest this noble speech, moments in which Fraser writhed in his chair and Quilhampton fixed his commander with an odd, penetrating stare, filling the glass in front of him and hurrying the decanter round the table.

  Another low exchange took place between the two Spanish officers. It was clear that Rubalcava had a point of view; it was also clear that Arguello disagreed with it. His exchange with Santa Monica's captain again became sharp, though once the naval officer had been suppressed and had relapsed into a tense and bitter silence, Arguello turned to his host with an air of unimpaired and courtly civility.

  'Capitán Rubalcava thank you for your much kind express of honour and receive it… it is for me to ask you to take us to San Francisco…'

  Rubalcava drew in his breath, in obvious opposition to this proposal, and there was something tense about Arguello now, something eagerly expectant, as though he wished Drinkwater to answer enthusiastically in the affirmative. Drinkwater met his gaze, as though reluctantly considering his request.

  'Of course… you will have truce… I will, myself, see that you have water… anything…'

  The gesture with the cigar was airily obliging; Drinkwater watched the heavy trail of blue smoke languidly lift in the hot air around the candles. Arguello was begging.

  San Francisco; that was where Arguello wished to go. Rubalcava had other ideas. Why? And where had Santa Monica been bound when Patrician intercepted her?

  'Where were you from, Don Alejo? The Philippines?'

  'Si, Capitán, Manila… excellent for tobacco…' He held up the cigar and smoke dribbled from his mouth.

  'And where were you bound, Don Jorge?' Drinkwater flung the question directly at the Spanish captain. It was a phrase which any seaman would comprehend, even in a foreign language, and, while Drinkwater spoke with professional interest, yet he sought to exploit the rift he had detected between the two men.

  Rubalcava's dark head came up and his eyes flashed at Drinkwater with a ferocity that reminded Drinkwater of an Arab he had known once in the Red Sea. Rubalcava pronounced his destination with a kind of contempt, as though he had thought no more of it before his capture than he did afterwards: 'San Francisco.'

  'And the purpose of your voyage, Señor?' Drinkwater thrust the question quickly; he was entitled to ask it.

  'Aviso…' Drinkwater recalled the reported destruction of documents.

  'A despatch vessel, with Don Alejo as your courier… ?'

  'Que? Don Alejo… ?' Rubalcava's voice tailed off as Arguello broke in.

  'Si, Capitán, I was courier… it is my duty… I am for the Commandante of San Francisco, his chief courier.'

  A hiss of dissimulation came from the subsiding Rubalcava.

  'You speak excellent English, Don Alejo, please accept my compliments,' Drinkwater coaxed.

  'I was prisoner some time, taken off Cadiz but I make exchange. I live at Waltham Abbey.'

  'How very interesting… perhaps you wish to retire now, gentlemen… ?'

  Drinkwater rose and his silent officers sprang obediently to their feet. 'Mr Quilhampton, please be so good as to see our guests to their quarters before returning for your orders.'

  Quilhampton hesitated, perceived Drinkwater's meaning and acknowledged the instruction. As the Spaniards withdrew from the cabin bowing, Drinkwater motioned Fraser to stay. They were about to leave the cabin when Arguello halted and indicated the portrait of Elizabeth, replaced lovingly by Tregembo on the reestablished bulkhead.

  'Is this beautiful lady your wife, Captain?'

  'Yes…' Drinkwater watched Arguello address a remark to Rubalcava and he stiffened, sensing an insult, but it was obvious that it referred to the disagreement that existed between the two men, for Rubalcava's expression bore no trace of that complicity of men sharing a coarse jest at another's expense. Nevertheless Drinkwater bridled at the odd reference to Elizabeth.

  'Don Alejo!' he called sharply after the departing Spaniard. Arguello turned in the doorway.

  'Capitán?'

  'It is not permitted to smoke beyond my quarters!'

  Arguello shrugged, dropped the stub of his cigar and with an elegantly booted toe, ground the thing into the painted canvas on the deck.

  Fraser expelled a pent-up breath as the door closed behind the prisoners.

  'Another glass, Mr Fraser, you've earned it by your patience, by God. I've passed word to Tregembo to sling you a hammock in here while Arguello occupies your cabin. Mount has the business in hand?'

  'Yes, sir. Mount won't let them move. We've the dagoes battened well under hatches.'

  'Good. We should be rid of them in…' Drinkwater dragged a chart onto the table from the drawer beneath and cast a quick look at it, 'three days, if this wind holds.'

  There was a knock at the cabin door. 'Come in!'

  Quilhampton rejoined them and Drinkwater pushed the decanter towards him and re-seated himself. 'Well, gentlemen, what did you make of that?'

  'There's bad blood between them. Rubalcava doesn't want to go to San Francisco, that's clear enough.'

  'Good, Mr Q. I agree… but he didn't want to go to San Francisco before they fell in with us, which argues a longer animosity than has been caused by our unexpected appearance in the Pacific'

  'Perhaps they just didna get along too well, sir,' said Fraser.

  Drinkwater nodded and refilled his glass. 'But from his latitude and course we can suppose their landfall at least was San Francisco, or the coast thereabouts. Now it is one thing to assume that they were not friends, but let us suppose you are a Spanish officer, bearing despatches from the authorities in the Philippine Islands. Where do you suppose you would be taking them?'

  To the principal naval base in the Americas?' said Fraser.

  'Yes, I think so. And that is not San Francisco. That is Acapulco…'

  'For which he had a fair wind.'

  'Correct, Mr Q. Now, to continue the hypothesis, suppose a British frigate appears out of the blue. What would you do, Mr Fraser?'

  'If I was running?'

  'Yes, as he was.'

  'Well, I suppose I would see it as paramount to inform my superiors. From what you told me earlier about the "Armament" of ninety-one they seem to resent intruders in the Pacific'

  'Exactly. And to do that you would lay a course for Acapulco, or Panama, but not San Francisco.'

  A ruminative silence fell on the three officers which Drinkwater broke.

  'So, gentlemen, we have Don Alejo Arguello determined, for some reason, to get to San Francisco at all costs, rather
than inform his principals at Acapulco that a British frigate is loose in the Pacific'

  'But, sir, though I dinna disagree with your argument, his principal is at San Francisco, he said he was aide to the Commandante there…'

  'Who is also his "old brother".' They laughed at the Spaniard's awkward phrase. 'Well, perhaps that argues some collusion, who knows?' Drinkwater yawned. 'It's all pure supposition,' he added dismissively. 'I think it's time we turned in. I suggest you both keep loaded pistols handy. I've no mind to lose the ship while I sleep.'

  It was an uneasy three days. Every morning and evening the Spaniards were brought on deck in batches, guarded by the marines and allowed to air themselves in the sunshine. The Santa Monica's officers were herded in sullen little groups and quartered in odd spaces. Curiously, the presence of the Spanish prisoners improved the morale of Patrician's people. The sight of others, more unfortunate than themselves, over whom they could enjoy a sense of triumph, seemed a tonic to their spirits. They did not worry over-much about the loss of prize-money asserting, so Drinkwater heard, that since the proportional loss fell most heavily on the officers, it was a greater hardship to them. There might have been a mutinous component in this dog-in-the-manger attitude, but if there was it was accepted as being part of the black humour of Jack, and to be overlooked. Certainly it amused, rather than alarmed Drinkwater who, as he expressed himself to Fraser, 'had been too much knocked about in the sea-service to do more than acknowledge the rough justice of the men's opinion'.

  The officers themselves had little time to dwell on their ill-luck, for the presence of two hundred prisoners left them no time for brooding. Fraser and Quilhampton shared Drinkwater's cabin, a circumstance which exasperated them all despite the curtain that Tregembo had hung about the captain's cot-space, for what men most desire aboard ship is real privacy. No one on board was sorry when the masthead lookout raised the cry of land and an hour later the blue trace of tree-clad hills surmounted by a necklace of cloud lay on the eastern horizon.