by Hunter, Seth
“I see what you mean about the worship of the saints,” he murmured in an aside to Imlay for he had imbibed enough of the prejudice of his tutors to make him uneasy.
“Quite,” replied Imlay, not quite so softly. “And I am told that the Africans frequently conceal their own idols behind those on display so that though they appear to be worshipping Saint this or that, they are in fact paying their respects to Chango, the God of Thunder, or Queen Obatala or some other of their orishas”
“Gentlemen, pray keep your voices down,” murmured the consul. “And pray do nothing to attract attention to yourselves.” This to Imlay who was attempting to lift the skirts of a Madonna with his cane so he might peer into the recess behind.
“I beg your pardon,” replied Nathan, mortified. “I did not mean to be offensive.”
“There is no need to apologise to me,” said Portillo, “for I am not of their faith. By birth I am a Jew.”
Nathan could not help but show his surprise and Imlay started as if the roof might fall upon them.
“My family were displaced from Barcelona many years ago by the Inquisition,” the consul explained. “They made their homes in England at the time of Cromwell.”
Though he had discussed Chango and Queen Obatala with perfect equanimity the name of Cromwell, following so swiftly upon Jew, caused Imlay to start and look swiftly about him, as if the officers of the Inquisition were advancing from all sides.
“But I have many friends among the Catholic community,” Portillo continued, in the same low voice, “and they assure me that the saints are but a useful form of mediation between God and man, that the icons are mere aids to concentration, and that a prayer to Saint Francis or Saint Christopher is not at all to be confused with the worship of Chango the God of Thunder. Ah, Brother, were you looking for us?”
This in a slightly louder tone to a presence in black that had materialised beside them, much to Imlay’s consternation.
“Don Roberto,” murmured the apparition with a bow. “Señores. If you will come this way?”
They followed the cleric along the back of the nave, down the side aisle and along a passage that opened, surprisingly, into a large open courtyard filled with tropical ferns and palms and with a stone fountain in the centre gushing water of a clarity that compared favourably to that of the Plaza Vieja. Here, after murmuring something in Spanish to Don Roberto, their guide left them and glided off into the surrounding cloisters. Looking up Nathan saw that the building rose above them to the height of several storeys, each with its familiar balcony, and higher still, above the height of the roof, the fronds of the four palms moved gently in the slight breeze.
This was clearly a place of some magnificence and Nathan raised his brows enquiringly to the consul who smiled as if at some private joke and murmured, “The Seminary of San Carlos and San Ambrosio.” Then as another figure emerged from the shade of the cloisters, “And here is our host, Brother Ignatius.”
Their host, it appeared, was also their informant: a Franciscan monk of middling years with a long, thin countenance which, had it not been browned by the sun, would have resembled an icon of the early Christian martyrs or ascetics, Nathan thought. His first words, however, proposed a more genial nature.
“What will you have to drink?” he enquired in perfect English. “I usually have a mojito about this time of the day. The drink of El Draco, which would be appropriate to the occasion, do you not think?”
And so it was mojitos all round—a blend of white rum, lime juice and sugared water with a sprig of mint which, legend had it, Francis Drake had introduced to Cuba. It was served to them at a small wrought-iron table by the first monk who glided back with a tray bearing an elegant pitcher and four tall Venetian glasses.
“To His Majesty, King George” said their host, raising his glass. “I understand it is appropriate in the service to deliver the loyal toast seated.”
Clearly Brother Ignatius had been well briefed and not only regarding the loyal toast.
“I am told,” he continued after setting down his glass, “that you are interested in the movements of a certain French frigate and the nature of her business in the region.”
Nathan inclined his head politely, while privately wondering at the nature of the monk’s own business for clearly it was not directed entirely towards religious matters.
“I regret that I can add very little to what Don Roberto has already told you,” continued Brother Ignatius, “and my information is now somewhat dated. However,” he drew his hands together as if in prayer, “the vessel was first mentioned in a despatch to the Captain-General, sent by the Governor of New Orleans early in July.” The hands opened and closed like the wings of a butterfly. “He did not then know her name but it was reported that a French ship of war had landed men and a quantity of arms upon the coast of Louisiana, in a small inlet known as the Bay of Saint Louis, off the Mississippi Sound.”
Nathan exchanged a glance with Imlay. This was a significant addition to what they had learned from the consul. There was more.
“The arms were delivered to a group of French settlers who moved south from the region of Acadia, on the Canadian border. They are normally referred to as Cajuns. You are familiar with the breed?”
Nathan nodded. The Cajuns were from the onetime French colony of Acadia, just south of the Canada border. Many of his grandfather Boucher’s servants and farm labourers on his estate on the Hudson had been Cajuns—refugees driven from their homes and their homeland by the persecution of the British colonial governor and by the Scottish and German settlers brought in to replace them. Many more had made the long trek south by oxcart and flatboat down the Mississippi to New Orleans and Louisiana. A restless, restive, romantic people. As a child, Nathan had heard their stories and learned to speak their tongue. They had sung him their songs. He still heard the rhythms in his head.
“Only a handful of men were landed from the ship,” the monk continued, “but we believe their intent was to make a study of the terrain between the coast and New Orleans. And possibly to train the Cajuns in battle, though I would have thought they require very little tuition. As you may be aware, they are organised in military bands, each led by a captain or chief. Many are experienced Indian fighters and some have fought the British.”
“And this was in July?”
“About the second or third week.”
“About the time the Unicorn was anchored off Ship Island,” Nathan mused.
“A little earlier than that. I believe the Virginie had been and gone before the Unicorn arrived.”
“You have heard about the Unicorn, then, and the mystery of her missing captain?”
“ I have. Mainly from Don Roberto here. I am afraid I know no more than he has already told you.”
“Leaving the Unicorn aside for a moment,” said Imlay, a trifle impatiently, and with a sidelong glance at Nathan, “what of the French settlers? And the agents that were put ashore. Is there any further news of them?”
“None. They have, as you say, gone to ground.” The monk’s command of the English language was near perfect. “Certainly there has been no report of any unusual military activity, though the Governor in New Orleans has warned of the dangers.”
“And there is no further news of the Virginie?” Nathan persisted.
“None. Other than that she has been attacking shipping further to the south, in the region of Panama. However, if you will permit me to speculate, I would say that having dropped off the men and weapons, her commander took her out of harm’s way until such a time as her assistance was required. And so she avoided the hurricane that struck the region in the second week of August.”
Unlike the Unicorn.
“It is the Governor’s belief—based either upon information received or his own reasoning—that she will return when certain preparations, or dispositions, are made and throw her weight into the equation.”
“So the Governor is convinced that an uprising is inevitable.”
<
br /> “ Well, he has certainly taken precautions against such an event. He has strengthened his fortifications in New Orleans and is presently on a tour of the forts along the coast.”
“And the reinforcements from Cuba?”
“No. Not as yet.”
There was something in his tone that hinted at criticism here, or more to be said on the subject.
“Do you have any idea why not?” Nathan pressed him.
Brother Ignatius inclined his head towards the consul with an indulgent smile. “Don Roberto thinks it is because the Captain-General is preoccupied with the danger of a revolt among the slaves here in Cuba. I think he has other concerns.”
“Such as?” Imlay’s manner was more direct than Nathan would have preferred—or countenanced had he been able to check him without embarrassment.
The monk regarded him evenly. “I am sure it is known in London,” he began, “and it may even be known in Philadelphia, that there is a faction in Madrid that favours a rapprochement with the French Revolutionists, followed in due course by an alliance.”
“So you are saying that the Captain-General is of their opinion?”
The praying hands opened again. “I say no such thing. Only that the Captain-General is not a reckless man. He is not inclined to jump before he is pushed, especially if he does not know which way he is to be pushed.”
“But if there was such a rapprochement,” Imlay persisted, “how would it affect the situation here in Cuba—or in New Orleans?”
The monk smiled. “We are in the realms of speculation once more but the Spanish government has for some time been aware of the difficulties involved in securing its territories on the North American mainland. There are those who believe they were in jeopardy from the moment that your countrymen obtained their independence from Great Britain.”
“The United States has no present interest in expansion westward or to the south,” Imlay countered in a tone that surprised Nathan, so altered was it from his normal air of bored indifference.
“Really?” Brother Ignatius queried him with another smile. “And do you speak in a private or an official capacity?”
Imlay shrugged and reverted to his earlier manner of easy apathy. “It is merely my opinion,” he confirmed, “as a private individual.”
“ Well, this is merely mine own, but if it were not forbidden I would wager that it is only a matter of time—and a very short time at that—before the United States acquires the entire region. The Governor of New Orleans suspects this process is already advanced and that agents of the United States—I should say agents from the United States—are already seeking the means by which it may be accomplished.”
“In collusion with the French settlers?” put in Nathan. Imlay shot him a look from beneath his hooded eyes—of warning or alarm?
The monk was shaking his head. “That I cannot say, but I believe the Governor has alluded to the possibility in his reports.”
“I would be very surprised if they had any official backing,” Imlay insisted.
“I am sure they do not. Officially. But it is the Spanish attitude that concerns us. Privately they are convinced that sooner or later the United States will expand into their territories—either through immigration or invasion or both. Those in Madrid who seek a rapprochement with France are certainly of this opinion. And they believe it may be in Spain’s interests to make the first move. To offer New Orleans to France—and perhaps even the whole of Louisiana—in return for concessions in Europe and other parts of the world.”
The base of the nearest palm swayed towards them as if eavesdropping. Nathan looked up to where the distant fronds moved in the hidden currents above the roof.
“And what do the French think of this?” enquired Imlay.
The monk spread his hands again. “I am only a poor monk,” he said. “What can I know of the French?”
“Surely they would be foolish to take on the burden of a new empire in America,” Nathan suggested, “after what happened to the last one. It would surely risk alienating their friends in the United States.”
“Surely,” agreed the monk. “And just as surely they have their reasons.”
He was looking straight at Imlay when he said this, and Nathan wondered if he knew something that Nathan did not.
“But if the Spanish are not anxious to cling to their territories,” Imlay retorted, with a hint of impatience, “why is the Governor of New Orleans so active on their behalf?”
“Because that is his job, as he understands it. Baron Carondolet is a Fleming in the service of the King of Spain. He has family land on the borders of France and the Low Countries. Land that is presently occupied by the French. Also, he is an aristocrat from an old Burgundian family. He has no cause to love the Revolutionists. Besides, I did not say that all Spaniards were of the same mind. Far from it. I am a Spaniard and I am by no means anxious to see my country allied to an atheistical, Revolutionist government in Paris. Nor, I should add, is His Holiness the Pope or those who put the interests of the Catholic Church above those of nationality—or mercantilism.”
Nathan nodded as if he understood, though the tortured diplomacy of the Vatican had perplexed older and wiser heads than his. At the risk of appearing banal he brought the conversation down to a more prosaic level.
“Your English is excellent, sir, if I may make so personal an observation. As good as I have heard from any man not born and bred in England.”
“Thank you, sir.” The monk’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Perhaps that is because I was born and bred in Dublin where English is, of necessity, the native tongue. You may detect a little of the lilt.”
Before Nathan could think of a response to this surprising, and disturbing, information they were interrupted by the roar of a cannon. Followed swiftly by another—and another. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the harbour.
“Are we under attack?” the consul wondered and though he smiled his eyes betrayed some uncertainty.
“Let us go and look,” proposed Brother Ignatius complacently.
They followed him across the courtyard and up two flights of stone stairs to a landing with broad windows overlooking the harbour. And there, midway between the forts of La Punta and El Morro, they saw a ship of war gliding slowly into the harbour under reefed topsails, her bow wreathed in smoke as her guns roared the customary respects to the King of Spain.
Then the smoke cleared and they saw the flag at her stern.
The consul clutched Nathan by the arm. “Good God,” he said. “It is the Unicorn.”
CHAPTER 6
The Captain’s Log
DESPITE THE CHEERFUL INSTRUCTION of my lord Chatham, Nathan had neglected to purchase a new uniform during his brief stay in London. Indeed, after learning of his mother’s misfortune, he would have considered it in the nature of a criminal extravagance. However, the Angel Gabriel had contrived to transform Nathan’s old uniform by the simple expedient of moving the epaulette from the left shoulder to the right and fronting the lapels in white felt fringed with gold lace. And so it was in the full dignity of his estate as a post captain in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy that Nathan greeted the first lieutenant of the Unicorn in the dining room of the consul’s house.
Judging from the lieutenant’s expression something more convincing was required.
“Perhaps you would care to see my commission from their lordships,” Nathan suggested kindly.
The lieutenant, clearly embarrassed, protested that this would not be necessary, not at all. He knew the captain by reputation of course, had read of his encounter—his daring encounter—with the Vestale in the Baie de Seine, and was perfectly prepared to take his word as an officer and a gentleman.
But now here was the Angel Gabriel with a document for his inspection. He considered it in silence for a moment. He was sitting at one end of the long table with Nathan at the other, flanked by Imlay and Portillo. Nathan had decreed that the consul should be present, partly because they w
ere guests in his house but mostly because he thought it ridiculous that he had not been told the full circumstances of the incident involving Captain Kerr when the Unicorn had last put into the Havana. But he could not help feeling that the seating arrangement could have been better contrived. Save that the lieutenant’s sword was not placed upon the table, it might have been a court martial.
He was an odd-looking individual, Nathan thought. Short and stocky with a round, bullet head that emerged from his tight collar without the apparent aid of a neck. He had passed for lieutenant in ‘82—ten years before Nathan—at the end of the American War and had served with the East India Company during the years of peace. He was probably in his early thirties but he looked older. He had arrived at the consul’s house with a certain air of authority—or at least truculence—and at first sight Nathan had taken him for a bully, full of bluster and the sense of his own importance. He was exactly the kind of naval officer Nathan most disliked—at least in appearance and manner—but he warned himself against early prejudice; he was obliged to work with this man—and depend upon him—for months, even years to come.
Pym was still staring at Nathan’s commission and the silence had become embarrassing.
“I very much regret the circumstances of my appointment,” Nathan assured him, “and you may consider it premature—but it was his Lordship’s decision and I am persuaded we must learn to live with it.”