When this purely domestic contention had finally died down, Drinkwater had found himself drawn into further argument following repudiation of his terms. The wood and water promised by Don Alejo were not available, said de Soto; upon that the Comandante, Don José Henrique Martin Arguello de Salas, was adamant. The lie of the land persuaded Drinkwater that both were readily available elsewhere, except that the point had become a matter of honour. De Soto’s insistence compromised Don Alejo, despite the mandate of the Commandante, and Drinkwater sensed the Spanish hidalgo’s loss of face before his juniors. He decided to intervene.
‘Don Alejo,’ he interrupted, ‘I am willing to forgo the wood and water.’
Don Alejo’s face brightened. ‘Capitán, you are a man of honour . . .’
The indispensable formula of bow and counter-bow threatened to reassert itself and Drinkwater cut it short. ‘All I ask, Don Alejo, is a written undertaking that Captain Rubalcava, his officers and the seamen taken out of His Most Catholic Majesty’s ship Santa Monica, will not bear arms against the forces and possessions of His Britannic Majesty for the duration of the present war.’
‘Qué?’ The vehemence of Rubalcava’s interjection suggested he understood the gist of Drinkwater’s demand. Rubalcava had been watching Drinkwater closely, knowing him for a wily opponent and now asked what the heretic commander demanded under the very guns of Spain!
‘Otherwise,’ went on Drinkwater unperturbed, ‘we will have to discuss the terms of ransom. You are my prisoners, Don Alejo, I have treated you as men of honour after you struck your country’s colours in the face of superior force. You bear your swords and I offer you your freedom. All I ask is your parole not to serve again in the present war. It is nothing.’
He shrugged, aware that the gesture was catching, and feigned to dismiss further argument. Nevertheless it broke out with renewed violence, but in Spanish and detached from Drinkwater. In the end Don Alejo agreed, but it was clear that Rubalcava did not intend to adhere to whatever the others committed him.
De Soto had departed to confer with the Commandante, and the prisoners had resigned themselves to wait. Drinkwater had not agreed to Don Alejo’s accompanying de Soto; the muzzles of those Spanish guns were too damned close.
De Soto returned an hour later. He was much changed, an affable, effusive and courtly man who requested the honour of Captain Drinkwater’s presence at the Commandante’s table that evening. An hour later they had begun to disembark the prisoners. They were still landing them as Drinkwater and Frey looked down into the dark cusp of the bay where, like a giant water-beetle, Patrician’s long-boat made its way to the quays of the town.
‘You are spared that tedious task, Mr Frey,’ he nodded down at the labouring boat.
‘Yes, sir.’ Spruce in his new coat, its white collar patches bright in the twilight, Frey grinned back from the unaccustomed throttling of his formal stock. He had heard something about meeting a lady tonight. The occupants of the gunroom thought a great deal about meeting ladies.
Drinkwater moved his right shoulder beneath the heavy material of his own full-dress coat, glad of its weight in the evening chill. A touch of mist trailed across the dark foliage of the trees below them and the sudden concussion of the sunset gun made him start. It was echoed smartly by Patrician and the two brigs as their colours fluttered down. Night fell on the great bay, the lights of the ships twinkling across the smooth water. Two more beetles crept out from Patrician’s side and began to circle her darkening bulk languidly.
‘And that duty too, Mr Frey,’ Drinkwater nodded, and both watched the two cutters begin to row the night’s guard round and round the frigate.
The wait was beginning to tell on Drinkwater’s patience and he sighed impatiently. He was tired, exhausted by three days of vigilance and today’s largely irrelevant exertions. He had wanted only to disencumber himself of the damned prisoners, not to fence endless words, to be caught up in the parish-pump politics of a colonial outpost. He detested such futile activities, longed for the fresh air of the open sea. He straightened his back, eased his shoulder and drew in a long breath of the damp, aromatic evening air.
‘Ah, Capitán, please forgive . . . His Excellency will receive you . . .’
Don Alejo Joaquin Arguello waved his arm for Drinkwater and Frey to follow.
Lieutenant James Quilhampton nodded a curt farewell to Lieutenant César Lecuna of the Santa Monica. Upon these two officers had fallen the duty of co-operation during the landing of the prisoners. He looked briefly at the signed receipt.
‘Adios . . . vaya con Dios . . .’ Lecuna turned to his own men. ‘Adelante!’
Quilhampton turned to walk back along the quay to the waiting long-boat, almost bumping into Midshipman Belchambers who ran up at full tilt.
‘Sir! Sir! The men are running!’
‘What? God damn! Why didn’t you stop ’em?’ Quilhampton clapped a hand to his hat and began to run. It was the hour of corso, the promenade. The draggle-tailed society of San Francisco was airing its social pretensions. Amid such a crowd, many of whom gathered to hiss and barrack the English sailors, he knew his seamen would melt like snow on a hearthstone.
‘We couldn’t stop ’em, sir . . . not without firing into this crowd.’
‘No, of course not,’ Quilhampton replied sourly to the marine corporal whose three men looked down sheepishly. The Spaniards had not liked the presence of the armed marines on their soil and Quilhampton had been obliged to admit they were appointed to the boats for his own protection and to prevent his men deserting. When that news had been communicated to Captain Rubalcava it had brought the first smile to the Spanish commander’s face. Doubtless a few dollars had been spread amongst the boat’s crew. Now only four men remained on board, studying the bottom boards under Quilhampton’s withering glare.
‘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 longboat, 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 Más-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 his 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.*
‘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.
In Distant Waters Page 10
