In Distant Waters nd-8

by Richard Woodman

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

  'Vaya con Dios, Capitdn 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 not only took 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 Eighteen

  The Raid in the Rain

  July 1808

  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 firewater, 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.

  To what degree the man's preoccupation had prevented his hearing the approach of the party, Drinkwater could only guess. Such a voyageur, at once a hunter, tracker, trapper and forest dweller, must have possessed instincts keen as any stag, but at that moment they had been somnolent, intent on more fundamental physical needs. Their surprise was mutual and as they stared at each other in silence, Drinkwater could just see the gleam of the foreshortened rifle barrel.

  'Another step and you're dead, Mister. I thought you bastards might be back…'

  So, the mountain-man had not been taken in by the disguise of the morning, and with that realisation Drinkwater sought to temporise, capitalising on that brief confidence of the forenoon.

  'I've come for those Englishmen you spoke of.'

  The mountain-man gave a short, dry laugh. 'You won't find 'em here.'

  'Where then?'

  'Why the hell should I tell you?'

  'You told the Russians… said they knew about the matter.' The mountain-man seemed to hesitate and Drinkwater added, 'I'm surprised you want the Russians on your doorstep.'

  'I sure as hell don't want you British. We got rid of you back a while and I aim to keep it that way…'

  'And the Russians?' Drinkwater persisted.

  'Ain't no trouble at all…'

  'Bring you vodka for furs and whatever Indian women you can sell 'em I daresay,' said Drinkwater.

  'What's that to you, Mister? I've been expecting you ever since I found your damned men wanderin' about the back-country behind Bodega Bay.'

  'So you knew we weren't Spanish?'

  'I've been expecting the British a-lookin' for their deserters, Mister. You didn't even come close to convincin' me. You see I know Rubalcava, Mister.'

  'And you're on friendly terms with the Russians too, eh? Do I take it you've sold my deserters to that cold-eyed bastard that commands here?'r />
  'What makes you think I'm hugger-mugger with the damned Russkie, eh? I ain't particularly friendly with anybody, especially the bloody British.'

  'But…'

  'But… I can't shoot the lot of you so just turn about and walk back to your boat…'

  'I doubt you can shoot anyone in this damned rain…'

  'You ain't heard of a Chaumette breech, Mister, or a Goddamned Ferguson rifle? I could blow the shit out of you right now and pick off another of you before you got into those trees…'

  The click of the gun-lock sounded ominously above the drip and patter of the rain.

  'If you don't want the British here, why don't you tell me where those men are?'

  'Ain't answering any more questions. You get goin'. Vamos, Capitán…'

  Drinkwater turned and the men parted for him. He looked back once. The rain had eased a little and the cloud thinned. The mountain-man stood watching their retreat, his long gun slung across his arm, the noise of laughter muffled by his huge beard. At the same instant the man threw back his head and loosed an Iroquois war-whoop into the night. The alarm stirred noises from the direction of the stockade and the crack of the man's rifle was swiftly followed by a cry and the crash of a man falling behind him, sprawling full length.

  'Back to the boat!' Drinkwater hissed, waving them all past him and stopping only Mr Quilhampton as the two of them bent over the felled seaman. It was Lacey and he was past help; the mountain-man had been as good as his word. The ball had made a gaping hole in Lacey's neck, missing the larynx, but severing the carotid artery. The wound was mortal and Lacey was close to death, his blood streaming over Drinkwater's probing hands.

  'Come, James, there's nothing to be done…'

  There was no sign of the mountain-man but from the fort came the shouts of men answering an alarm. Somewhere to their right they could hear their own party crashing through the undergrowth accompanied by a stream of oaths and curses.

  'Go on, James!'

  'Not without you, sir.'

  'Don't be a bloody fool…'

  Between them Lacey rattled out his life and fell limp. Drinkwater wiped his hands on Lacey's gory jacket.

  'Poor devil,' he said, wondering if the ball had been intended for himself.

  'Come on then.'

  They both began to run.

  In the rain and confusion they reached the boat unmolested, but the Russians were already pouring out of the fort towards the landing place. By the time Drinkwater reached the cutter with Quilhampton most of his party had mustered, but two were missing, stumbling about near the fort.

  'Where's Hughes?' called Quilhampton.

  'Fuck knows, he was behind Tregembo…'

  'Tregembo?' Drinkwater spun round. 'Is he missing?'

  'Seems so, sir…'

  'God's bones!' Drinkwater swore. 'Get that boat off into the water, hold off the beach. You take command, James.' He raised his voice, 'Tregembo!' He roared, 'Tregembo!'

  He began to run back the way he had come. Somewhere to the right he could see the shapes of men running and then the flash and crack of a musket, soon followed by a fusillade of shot as the approaching Russians fired wildly into the night. There was a harsh order screeched out and it stopped. Drinkwater recognised the voice of the governor and then, clearly above the hiss of the rain, he could hear the awful slither and snick of bayonets being fixed. He caught up the sabre he had looted from the schooner and hefted it for balance.

  'Tregembo!'

  He spat the rain from his mouth and almost retched on the sudden, overpowering stench of pigs. Somewhere close by was a sty and he heard the ruminant grunts of its occupants change to a squealing. Two men and the dull gleam of steel were approaching and must have disturbed the swine.

  'Tregembo!'

  How many shots had the mountain-man fired? Was Tregembo lying out there dying like Lacey, while he had run for his life?

  The two men were nearer and he swung round to defend himself.

  'Tregembo!' he roared in one last desperate attempt to locate his servant. Suddenly a third man was upon him, risen, it appeared, from the very ground itself.

  'Clap a stopper on the noise, zur…'

  'God damn you, Tregembo…'

  Drinkwater slashed wildly at the first assailant and felt his sabre knock aside the bayonet thrust. Whirling the blade he caught the second man as he tried to work round Drinkwater's rear, driving both off for a second. He began to fall back, waving Tregembo behind him,'… Why the devil didn't you answer me?'

  'I fell among swine,' Tregembo called as he moved towards the boat behind his commander.

  'Then run, man, ran!'

  Drinkwater saw an opportunity and slashed again, slicing in above the thrusting bayonet as the Russian infantryman lunged forward. The man's face was a pale blur and Drinkwater saw the dark splotch of blood against his cheek as the point of the sabre caught it, and then he turned and began to run, leaping the tussocks of grass and then slithering through soft sand and mud. He tripped and fell full length in the shallows, hard on Tregembo's heels. The Cornishman turned and helped him to his feet.

  'God! What a damned farce!'

  They scrambled into the boat amid a confusion of limbs and bodies, dominated by Quilhampton's voice calling above the rain and the tumult, 'Where's the captain? Has anyone seen Captain Drinkwater?'

  'Here… I'm here, Mr Q… now get this festerin' boat under way!'

  'Thank God! Aye, aye, sir… out oars! Come on there… for Christ's sake! Give way!'

  As the boat pulled out into the estuary, a storm of small shot whined over their heads and all they could see were a few shapes splashing about in the shallow water in almost as much confusion as themselves.

  'Let's sort this boat out.' Drinkwater's own sense of dignity and his innate hatred of disorder surfaced in the rout. 'Be silent there,' lie ordered for the noise of swearing continued unabated and it suddenly dawned on him that it was no longer his own men who were responsible.

  'What the deuce?'

  Drinkwater looked round, thinking for an instant he was going out of his mind for the noise came out of the night ahead of them and the oaths were unmistakably English. Then he saw the looming bulk of one of the anchored brigs athwart whose hawse the current was sweeping them.

  'It's the English prisoners, sir,' shouted Quilhampton in a moment of comprehension, 'they must have heard us…'

  Drinkwater considered the odds. How many Russians were aboard the brig? But the current had committed him.

  'Catch a-hold then… come, lads, quickly… up and board her! Come on there, lads, those are your festerin' shipmates aboard there, prisoners of the Russians…'

  A groundswell of anger stirred the occupants of the boat and she rocked dangerously as men reached out at the passing hull. Then the cutter jarred against the brig with a crash and they found themselves jammed under her forechains and were swarming up over her ample tumblehome. Driven by their recent defeat and now finding themselves among the familiar surroundings of a ship, they swept the length of her deck within a minute. At her stern, the watch of a dozen men, confused by the noises ashore, suddenly attacked by desperate assailants and mindful that below decks a score of rebellious prisoners only awaited liberty before cutting their gaolers to pieces, soon capitulated. Most jumped over the taffrail to save their lives by swimming ashore, though three were taken prisoner. Drinkwater realised he was in possession of a Russian brig at the same moment that he caught a glimpse of the unsecured cutter drifting away downstream.

  'What is it, Mr Derrick?'

  There was an odd formality about those left aboard the Virgen de la Bonanza. Mr Marsden, the Patrician's carpenter but the most experienced seaman on board, hurried to answer Derrick's summons. The Quaker's innate dignity, his literacy and his position as the captain's secretary almost gave him the status of a gentleman, while his tenacious hold on his faith had elevated him from a mere curiosity to something of a sage among the hands.

  'I be
lieve it to be the cutter, Friend Marsden, and it appears to be empty.'

  Marsden took up the offered glass and levelled it. The dawn was heavy with the night's rain, the sea a sluggish undulating plain of uniform grey. No wind above the whisper of a breeze ruffled its surface, as though the sea was suppressed beneath the sheer weight of the sky's bequest. Every rope and spar, every sail and block was sodden with water. Rain had run below through cracks and companion-ways, scuttles and ports and, though it was not actually falling at that moment, more was threatened and the coming of day was only a lightening of the tone of the gloom. Their visible horizon was bounded by mist, a murky perimeter into which the grey, unoccupied shell of the cutter rocked, not above six cables away, borne seawards by the inexorable current of the Columbia River.

  Fifteen minutes later the thing lay not thirty yards off and they could clearly see it was empty. There were disorderly signs of hurried evacuation. Several of the oars were missing, one stuck up, its blade jammed in the thole pins. Another was broken, the jagged loom indicating it had struck hard against something.

  The remnants of rags hung down from the rowlocks, where, the night before, they had muffled them. Oddly the painter lay neatly coiled in the bow.

  'Damned if I understand the meaning o' this,' muttered Marsden.

  'I think we are alone, Friend, left to our own resources,' said Derrick, his sonorous tone carrying the dreadful implication to Marsden.

  'Streuth! What's to be done? And the cap'n gone, an' all…'

  'Could we fetch San Francisco?'

  Marsden shrugged. 'God knows… I suppose we could… ain't my trade, nor yours neither… hell and damnation take it!'

  'Come, Friend, such language availeth nothing.' Derrick turned away from the rail and looked along the schooner's deck. Their handful of a crew would be hard-pressed to bring the schooner back to San Francisco.

  'Oh, my fuckin' oath,' moaned Marsden and Derrick turned. The carpenter was staring to starboard where, out of the mist, the grey shape of a ship was emerging. 'We be sunk good an' proper now, Mister Derrick, that's one o' them Russian brigs we saw yesterday. Reckon they know all about us an' what's happened to the Cap'n.'