In Distant Waters nd-8

by Richard Woodman

  'Did these lubbers try and run too?' he asked, and the question went unanswered. Behind him he felt a stir of hostility among the crowd of idlers. Some unfriendly shouts followed.

  'Get in the boat,' he snapped at the marines, 'and take an oar each.'

  It was going to be a damnably long pull back to the ship with so few oarsmen, but soon the night would shroud their humiliation. He followed Belchambers and the marines into the long-boat, took his place aft and tucked the tiller underneath his arm.

  'Toss oars, bear off forrard!'

  The crowd surged to the edge of the quay, abuse rising like a wave behind them. Someone spat, provoking a burst of expectoration and fist-shaking. A stone plopped alongside. A gobbet of spittle struck Quilhampton's neck.

  'Pull, you buggers! Put your bloody backs into it!'

  The heavy boat moved with ponderous slowness; Quilhampton endured further humiliation, but dared not turn and face his tormentors.

  'Pull!'

  As he sat hunched and swearing over the tiller his mind ranged over the wisdom of remaining in the harbour an hour longer. It had seemed to him as they had glided into the bay that the Patrician's presence within the dark embrace of those great headlands touched off some primitive suspicion in his mind. Intuition told him that despite her massed cannon, despite her state of readiness and the precautionary guard-boats pulling round the ship, she lay in mortal danger.

  He could not explain this theory. The terms of the truce seemed water-tight, and it was unlikely that the Spanish authorities would break their word. But these new desertions combined with his suspicion of the connivance of Rubalcava, triggered off his nervous conviction that the ship was ill-fated, and he doomed with it. It was a far more serious matter than the desertion of the two lovers at Mas-a-Fuera, and he had yet to explain it to Captain Drinkwater.

  Drinkwater exchanged bows with the Commandante, Don José Henrique Martin Arguello de Salas. His Excellency was a tall, heavily handsome man with a thick-set figure that was rapidly running to seed. In contrast to his brother he seemed of a more indolent character. Like Don Alejo he spoke a little English and he had a formally easy manner which, in the circumstances, put Drinkwater on his guard. He disliked being manipulated and Don José seemed an expert in the matter.

  'Ah, Capitán, Don Alejo speak of his misfortune to meet you. You are come to make trouble for us, no?'

  'I have come to do my duty, Your Excellency.'

  'And what is your duty, Capitán?'

  A servant appeared bearing a tray of glasses. Drinkwater took one and sipped from it before replying, meeting the Commandante's inquisitorial stare with h'ts own.

  'A most excellent sherry, Señor … I command a cruiser, Your Excellency,' he said slowly, feigning a greater interest in the wine. 'It is the duty of a cruiser to wreck the enemy's trade…'

  'We 'ave ships of other nations 'ere in San Francisco.'

  'You have ships of nations with whom Great Britain is at war, Excellency, nations who until recently were our allies and received payments from our Treasury. You are a man of honour, Your Excellency, and understand such treachery is intolerable.'

  'The Russian ships?' Don José asked, frowning, clearly having difficulty with Drinkwater's English.

  'That is correct, yes.'

  'And the ships of the United States, Capitán? Would you fire on the flag of the United States?'

  'Great Britain is not at war with the United States, Excellency,' Drinkwater said, noting the quick glance between Don José and his brother, 'but of course,' he added, 'we should find it necessary to search even neutral vessels for contraband cargoes.' He smiled as courteously as he could in the knowledge that they were contemplating such a ruse. 'I would not like to imagine my reactions if I discovered that, for example, a Spanish ship was sailing under false, American colours. I am sure you take my meaning.'

  The cloud hanging over Don José's brow lifted as Don Alejo hissed a few words of explanation at his elder brother. Don José nodded and met Drinkwater's smile with one of equal falsity. Drinkwater looked about him.

  'Is Captain Rubalcava to join us this evening, Your Excellency?' Drinkwater asked. 'He was a gallant enemy…'

  'No,' put in Don Alejo sharply, 'Don Jorge will not be joining us…'

  Further enquiry or explanation was cut short by the major-domo's announcement. The gentlemen turned towards a heavy door and Drinkwater and Frey exchanged glances, then imitated the Spaniards' low bows. They were aware of the rustle of skirts and the subtle waft of perfume filling the candle-lit room. As he straightened up Drinkwater heard the faint rasp of sharply indrawn breath from Midshipman Frey. His face was flushed with a sudden wave of long-suppressed concupiscence and Drinkwater smiled, for the object of his sudden lust was overwhelmingly beautiful.

  'May I present the lady Doña Ana Maria Conchita…' Don Alejo recited the young woman's names and titles, but Drinkwater distilled the information that she was his niece and Don José's daughter. Whilst the long absence from the society of women would have made memorable an hour spent in the company of any young woman with good teeth and a bosom, Doña Ana Maria's presence promised an evening of pleasing enchantment.

  Tall, like her father, she wore the wide skirt and tight bodice of Spanish fashion. Her carriage was regal and her bare shoulders rose above the swirl of a shawl which was drawn together below her breasts. About her neck a necklace of Chinese jade reflected the candle-light, rising and falling with her breathing.

  But there was far more to her beauty than mere sexual allure, for her face was as intelligent as it was lovely. Her eyes were of such an umbral brown that they appeared bronze in the light from the candles. Her flawless cream skin was unpowdered and her lips were soft, wide and red without the artifice of carmine. Above her straight nose and wide forehead, long black hair was oiled like jet, drawn back in the severe mode of her class, and beneath the swept-back waves at the side of her head, jade earrings depended from the lobes of her ears. Suddenly Rubalcava's embitterment made shattering sense. Drinkwater relinquished her hand and turned to his companion.

  'Señorita, I have the honour to present Mr Midshipman Frey.'

  It was clear that Frey was devastated by the lady, fighting an overwhelming desire fuelled by the gross appetites of the starved, and ready to die for her in the next moment if she had asked it of him. His hand shook as he bent over hers and he straightened up with an idiot look of rapture. She could not fail to be aware of the turmoil she was causing and Drinkwater turned to Don José. Both he and Don Alejo were clearly studying the effect Doña Ana Maria was having on the two British officers. Was there something premeditated about this attention?

  'My uncle,' she said in an English that contained an elusively familiar inflection, 'tells me you have come to San Francisco with many cannon, Capitán.'

  She had turned those wonderful eyes on him again.

  'I have come on an act of humanity, Señorita, to repatriate the gallant Captain Don Jorge Rubalcava and his men, whom the fortune of war made my prisoners.'

  There was no trace of reaction to the name of her former suitor, the tiny reactive muscles about the eyes that could reveal the quickening impulses of the brain remained unmoved. Presumably Rubalcava meant nothing to her. 'You speak excellent English, Señorita, please accept my compliments.'

  'Thank you, Capitán. I learn it from my duenna, Doña Helena.' She indicated an elderly woman who wore a mantilla, whom Drinkwater had taken for Doña Ana Maria's mother and the Commandante's wife. If his senses had not been so mesmerised he would have recognised the folly of such a supposition. It was inconceivable that he should have entertained it, even for an instant. Doña Helena stared at him from a wizened face with a pair of fiercely blue eyes.

  'Your servant, ma'am,' Drinkwater bowed, aware of the ferocity of her scrutiny.

  'Aye, honoured ah'm sure, Captain.' There was venom in the reply, a sharp hatred bred in the bone and born of popish origins, and the mystery of Doña Ana's acquired
accent was cleared up. In her native Scotland, Doña Helena would have been called Mistress Helen, though it was uncertain when she had last seen her native land.

  Only the sombre figure of the priest remained to be introduced. He had come in with the women, an emaciated young Franciscan in a heavy wool habit. His crucifix and rosary chinked gently as he moved and his presence adumbrated the room. There was clearly no Doña José; the Commandante, it seemed, was a widower. The Franciscan's introduction as Fra Alfonso terminated the pre-prandial formalities and Drinkwater found himself leading the beautiful Doña Ana Maria in to dinner.

  Drinkwater willingly surrendered to the charms of the young woman during the meal as he knew he was intended to do. His host, Don José, was on his left and seemed content to allow his daughter to practise her near-fluent English upon the British captain. There were a few initial questions about Drinkwater's career which he avoided exploiting, paying his host the compliment of reporting on the gallant conduct of the Spanish fleet in the momentous action off Cap Trafalgar, during which he had been a prisoner aboard the French flagship, Bucentaure.* (* See 1805.)

  'You speak with the Marquis de Solana, Capitán, at Cadiz?' 'Yes, Your Excellency, I was received by him several times, concerning the matter of British prize-crews cast up on the coast after the great gale that followed the battle…'

  The meal passed delightfully, though Midshipman Frey had a less happy time of it, seated next to the Scottish companion, Doña Helena. Yet he would not have traded his place for all the gold in Eldorado, for he could not take his eyes off the beautiful Doña Ana Maria opposite. Aware of Frey's sheep's eyes, Drinkwater began to feel sorry for the young woman, realising she was a victim of her own extraordinary beauty. It was not difficult to see how Rubalcava's proud spirit had been so enslaved. Something of an even darker alchemy was brewing in the unholy eyes of the silent Franciscan.

  'You have children, Capitán?' The timbre of her voice was low and mellifluous.

  'Yes, Señorita, I have two; a son and a daughter.'

  'Ahhh. That is, they say, the choice of kings.' He watched her face as she added, 'I… I would like children…'

  It was an impropriety, an intimacy, a mark of the isolation her beauty caused her, made in a low voice to a complete stranger.

  'I understand you are to be married soon, Señorita,' he replied quietly.

  'Yes…' She smiled and he sensed her excitement and the strength of her love for Rubalcava's rival which was prompting these confidences, confidences that were earning glances of disapproval from her duenna opposite. 'As soon as Nicolai arrives,' she ran on, her dark eyes glowing, 'he commands a great ship, like yourself, Capitán…'

  'Nicolai?' Drinkwater was suddenly alert and cast a quick glance to his left where Don José seemed to be speaking in a low voice to Don Alejo.

  'Aye, Cap'n, Nicolai Rezanov will be here soon tae clip your wings…' Doña Helena's blue eyes were chips of ice, chilled by ancient enmities. Her outburst attracted the attention of the Arguellos and turned them from their private conclave. In the sudden silence Drinkwater exploited the hiatus.

  'Rezanov… an unusual name for a Spanish officer.'

  Don José's face was a mask; Don Alejo made a small gesture to a waiting footman. The door was flung open and de Soto marched into the room and bent to Don José's ear. The Commandante looked sharply at Drinkwater.

  'Diablo!' he muttered, then nodded and, as de Soto straightened up, the Commandante said, 'Capitán, there has been much trouble in the town. Some men from your ship… they run away… there is a mêlée and a woman is killed.'

  Chapter Eight

  Council of War

  March 1808

  'How many?'

  In the light from the candle that stood on the cabin table Captain Drinkwater's face was thrown into dramatic relief. His head was cocked slightly, revealing the damaged muscles of his wrecked shoulder, and the single flame emphasised the intensity of his eyes. He was pale with fury.

  'Eight, sir.' Quilhampton had never seen Drinkwater so angry and felt like a chastened midshipman. Beside him Fraser fidgeted nervously.

  'Eight? Eight! God's bones, man, you had marines in that damned boat! Marines with bayonets, for God's sake, and you let eight men run!'

  'Yes, sir,' Quilhampton mumbled unhappily.

  'And do you know what they have done? Do you know what your eight precious liberty-loving English jacks have done, sir?'

  'No, sir.'

  'They swilled aguardiente and ran wild in a whore-house! The upshot of their desertion is that they have been accused of causing the death of a woman and… and…'

  Drinkwater brought his clenched fist down on the table-top so that the candle flame guttered. 'They have entirely compromised me, tied me hand and fist, God damn them!'

  'Sir?' Quilhampton frowned, not understanding.

  Drinkwater let out a long breath. 'Good God, James, can you offer me nothing in extenuation?'

  'Only that there were many people on the quay and to shoot would have endangered the local people.'

  'Mr Quilhampton was much abused by the crowds, sir,' put in Fraser, 'much spat upon and the like.'

  Drinkwater fell silent and then he asked: 'What became of Rubalcava?'

  'He left in the first boat after you and Frey had gone ashore, sir.'

  Drinkwater shook his head, then moved round the table and lifted three glasses from the fiddles atop the locker. 'Pass that decanter, Mr Fraser… thank you.'

  He poured the bual into the glasses and handed each of the two officers a glass. 'What's it like on deck?'

  'Still foggy, sir, and dead calm. You can hear the guard-boats… no fear of a surprise. Mylchrist's up there now, reckons his fever's sharpened all his instincts,' replied Fraser who had not long come below.

  Drinkwater grunted. 'We've an hour or two, no more… well, your health.'

  There was a pause and then Drinkwater looked at Quilhampton. 'Ease your mind, James, 'tis I who am the greater fool.'

  'You, sir?'

  'Yes… I have played right into their damned hands. I suspected something, but could not lay it by the tail… damned if I can now, but I'll wager the whore's death was contrived.'

  'Contrived? I'm sorry… I don't follow…'

  It had come to him in his enforced idleness, sitting in his barge as the oarsmen brought him back to the ship from the Commandante's boat jetty below the battery. There had been that vague feeling of something passing between the Arguello brothers, that sensation of their using Doña Ana to distract him. Whether she was a party to this he did not know, but it seemed obvious that the news of the brawl had been engineered and it came to him in the boat that those eight seamen had been lured away on promises of safety, promiscuous sex and money.

  'Was there much contact between the people and the Spaniards while they were here?' he asked flatly.

  'No, sir,' said Fraser, 'no more than one would expect with them cooped up on board.'

  'Mount mentioned he caught two seamen and a marine bartering for tobacco,' Quilhampton added.

  'Did he indeed?'

  'But there is nothing particularly significant in that, sir,' said Fraser.

  'Except that ample opportunity existed for a sum of money to pass to disaffected men,' Drinkwater said, 'and God knows it takes little enough to turn the heads of these poor devils. A gold dollar, the promise of a whore and a drink and a pass through the town…' Conviction was forming in his mind.

  'And they're in an ugly mood, sir… simmering below the surface. They fought well enough, sir, but the smell of land…'

  'Aye, and women,' growled Fraser, and Drinkwater felt guilt fuelling his anger.

  'And Don Alejo had gold, sir, a lot of gold.'

  'Why d'you say that, Mr Q?'

  'He was concealing something on himself when he was compelled to abandon the Santa Monica. I thought it was a purse at the time. Then later, when he was quartered in my cabin, I went there by mistake, came below and without thi
nking, proceeded directly to my cabin. I opened the door before I realised my stupidity. Don Alejo was sitting smoking one of those damned cigars. He was half-undressed, lounging in my chair and on the cot lay his sword, some papers and a leather purse, the same one I had seen aboard the Santa Monica. It was bulging, sir, to the extent of revealing its contents… gold, sir.'

  'Dollars, or pistoles or something very like…'

  'No, sir, gold nuggets…'

  'The treasures of the Manila galleon, eh?'

  'I think perhaps only a little… a private speculation like the nabobs of the East India Company.'

  'H'm. How did he take the intrusion?' Drinkwater asked.

  'He was not pleased. I told him the stink of his cigar had attracted my attention and that smoking was forbidden below decks.'

  'You should day-dream more often of Mistress MacEwan if it leads you into such adventures, Mr Q. Very well, then, it only serves to confirm my suspicions that some of the men were suborned. More may be preparing to desert at the first opportunity, we shall have to proceed warily…'

  'Sir, Ah'd be obliged…' Fraser frowned.

  'Yes, Mr Fraser, I'll explain,' Drinkwater motioned them to sit. He was past mere tiredness, the events of the last hours had stimulated him and his active brain was whirling with the problems that suddenly beset him. He passed his hands over his face, seeking a place to begin his explanation.

  'Well, gentlemen, the main purpose of our cruise is to dislodge any attempt by the Russians to establish territorial claims northward of the Spanish domain of Nueva Espana. Since the Tsar repudiated his alliance with us last summer, it is believed that it is the intention of the Russian court to settle southwards from Alaska. Some reports, brought into Canada by voyageurs, indicated Russian incursions up the Colombia River, further north from here… it's all very vague, but as welcome to us as the Spanish claim to Nootka Sound was. Although they have a fur-trading depot at Sitka, in Alaska, the tenuous claims of Captain Vancouver lie between Sitka and here, from whence, if the evidence in the bay is anything to go by, the Russians obtain many necessary supplies.'