'I am stripped to the most indigent circumstances,' he muttered to himself as he cooled his heels on the little curve of sand within the cove, 'stripped to the very last resort of the naked…'
The phrase pleased him; oddly it comforted him to come face-to-face with absolute desperation. He held his life cheap now, and that meant he could undertake any enterprise. Smiling grimly to himself he looked up, swinging his eyes to rake the small arc of the horizon visible between the two rocky headlands that concealed their hideaway. What he saw destroyed his resolution. Two ships stood out to sea, heading north, their crews making sail as they lay over on the starboard tack. The leading vessel was the big, black Russian two-decker. The other, he was certain, was the Patrician.
Quilhampton frowned. What the devil did it mean? Should he go on into San Francisco or follow the two ships? He swore venomously. If Drinkwater and his people were aboard the Patrician, it was out of the question for Quilhampton with a handful of men in an open boat to give chase. He was utterly without resources, the mood of his men was not encouraging, in short the mere consideration of such an enterprise was as foolhardy as it was impractical. But was the alternative any better? The plentiful game and easy living of the last few days had prompted muttering from the men. If they had the opportunity of spirits and access to women his control over them would be broken utterly, and any approach to San Francisco, however made, risked that.
And what could he do if he got there? With Captain Drinkwater and some of Patrician's men they might have attempted something, but with the ship and, presumably, Drinkwater himself, carried off under Russian escort, what was the point of running his head into a noose? Sighing, he looked up. Beyond the headlands of the cove the sea-horizon was empty. A sudden, panicky fluttering formed in the pit of his gut and he felt a desperate surge of self-pity. For a moment the horizon misted and then he forced a wave of anger to over-lay the hideous sensation. Reluctantly he turned away from the sea and made his way up the tiny valley behind the cove. There really was no alternative open to him. He would have to give himself up to the Spanish authorities; that way he might survive the mutinous knives of his men.
Some time after the departure of Patrician Drinkwater fell into a profound sleep, his exhausted body seeking its revenge upon his shattered spirit. He woke ten hours later, cramped and racked with pain in the mangled muscles of his mauled shoulder, but oddly alert and with his mind calmer than it had been for many days. There was no reason for this feeling beyond a half-remembered fragment of chill philosophy. He could not recall its source; Epictetus, perhaps, or Marcus Aurelius, the only classical reading he had ever found aboard a man-of-war, but the text soothed him. Nothing, the ancient averred, happens to any man which he is not formed by nature to bear.
The pegs upon which men hang their reason are oddly illogical, but Drinkwater put behind him all thoughts of suicide from that moment and sat quietly in the gathering darkness of the approaching night. In such a mood a man might escape, or be shot.
He heard the footfalls on the stone flags of the corridor. There were several of them and they approached purposefully. There was nothing furtive about the way the lock was sprung or the bolts withdrawn. By the time the door was flung open and de Soto entered the cell with a lantern, Drinkwater's heart was pounding. De Soto jerked his head imperiously and Drinkwater rose.
'Adelante!' De Soto stood aside and indicated Drinkwater should step outside. Apprehensively he did as he was bidden, the cool, night-fresh air wafting along the corridor sweet in his nostrils. The officer was accompanied by two soldiers bearing muskets with bayonets fixed. They began to walk, Drinkwater with them, to where the corridor turned and joined the entrance gate through which the men from the boats had passed.
But he was not taken to be shot. They crossed the courtyard and entered the Commandante's quarters where once (it seemed so long ago) he had dined in honour and now was brought in ignominy.
He had hoped for an interview with Don José, but it was before Don Alejo that he found himself. From various shreds of evidence, from their first encounter on the Santa Monica, to the innuendoes of Don Alejo's niece, Drinkwater had conceived a dislike of the Spaniard. He was as slippery as an eel, interested solely in his own intrigues, whatever they were. If Drinkwater had been hoping for some relaxation in his regimen he was to be disappointed. Don Alejo's remarks were obscure and not reassuring.
'Ah, Capitán Drinkwater, I see you are in good health, buenas…' Don Alejo smiled like a cat, ignoring the stink of his prisoner, the unshaven face, the filthy neck linen. 'We have been waiting for instructions from Panama…'
'What the hell have you done with my ship?'
'Capitán, please. She is not your ship. She fell a prize to the valour of Spain.'
'Where the hell has she gone?'
'Under escort… to a place of safety,' Don Alejo's eyes narrowed. 'How do you know about your ship?'
Drinkwater evaded the question. He did not want his tiny window stopped up. 'I am not a fool. You have also received news, Don Alejo, this I know, that an aviso arrived this morning…'
'Ah, but no news about you, Capitán. I regret…'
'Don Alejo, I demand that, at the very least, you accommodate me in quarters befitting my rank, that you oblige me by placing me under parole, that you allow me to shave, to see my officers and men…'
'Capitán, you are not in your quarterdeck, please.' The Spaniard's voice was harsh, cruel. 'It is not possible…'
'If I ever have the opportunity to lay even with you, Don Alejo…'
The Spaniard had been sitting on the corner of a heavy oak table, one booted leg swinging, his manner disinterested. Now he came to his feet, face to face with his prisoner.
'Do not threaten me, Capitán. You have nothing to make me fear. You have no men, no guns, nothing.' He jerked his head at the guards and snarled something incomprehensible. Drinkwater was marched out, still wondering why he had been summoned.
They were crossing the courtyard when they met Doña Ana Maria and her duenna. Seeing him, she smiled sadly. 'A happy day, Capitán, for you…'
He frowned. Was she mocking him? 'For me, Señorita? How so?'
De Soto's forbearance snapped and he disregarded the speaker's rank and connections, shouting the girl to silence and propelling Drinkwater suddenly forward with a blow on his shoulder that sent a wave of agony through him. He stumbled and all but fell, the pain blotting out all sensibility until he found himself once more in his cell and heard the heavy, final thud of bolts driving home. It was only then that he tried to make some sense out of the interview and its inexplicable sequel.
'Easy, lads, easy…'
The boat ghosted along, only a whisper of water under her bow accompanied by the drip of water from the motionless oar-blades. The dark hull of an anchored ship loomed over them; it was one of the anchored merchantmen and the noise of a squeeze-box and some languidly drunken singing came to them. Lights shone from her stern cabin and a gale of laughter told where her master entertained. The germ of an idea formed in Lieutenant Quilhampton's brain, but this vessel was too big by far, perhaps they would find something smaller, more suitable further into the anchorage. He did not have to surrender; at least not yet.
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, ge
tting 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, Capitdn, 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 personal 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 a
nd 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…!'
In Distant Waters nd-8 Page 19