Pulling off his shirt, he removed the tails and tore them into squares, using the wine to clean the superficial head-wounds, scouring them each until some subtle change in their hurt told him no purulent matter adhered to the tissue. Feeling bolder he set to work on his thigh. Like those on his forearm the cut was raised, hot and inflamed. Gritting his teeth he pulled the wound open, releasing a glair flood of matter and shuddering with the pain of the thing. When he had mastered himself he heated the knife blade. He knew he should perform curettage, that much he had learned from M. Masson, the surgeon of Admiral Villeneuve’s flagship, the Bucentaure. Only thus could all the morbid flesh killed by the weapon be removed. His own surgeon, Lallo, did not believe the theory, pooh-poohing it for Gallic nonsense and regarding, Drinkwater suspected, his own enthusiasm to be verging on the treasonable.
The knife sizzled on his flesh, sending up a disgusting stink as he watched his own body burn. Only when the pain became unbearable did he stop, sweat pouring off him as his muscles contracted into a rigor of agony. He poured wine across the gaping redness and bound his leg with a piece of shirt. Then he turned his attention to his arm.
When he had finished he felt a curious shift in the nature of his pain. The insistent throbbing had eased, replaced by the sharp, almost exhilarating tingling of butchered nerve-ends. The former had throbbed with the rigadoon of death, the latter the invigoration of life.
Daylight had come by the time he had finished. Carefully he edged the table nearer the tiny window and, gritting his teeth, he clambered up on it. He found he could see out quite easily. He knew instantly where he was and the half-acknowledged familiarity of the ascent of the previous evening came back to him.
Between his prison and the distant mountains to the east, the bay of San Francisco harbour lay awash with mist. The summits of the trio of islands, Yerba Buena, Treasure Island and Alcatraz, the island of pelicans, rose like mountain tops above this low cloud. So too did the masts of ships, the half-rigged topgallants of Patrician and close on either side, the lower trucks of the Spanish brigs. It seemed to him extraordinary that he did not even know their names. But this realisation was submerged in a greater horror. From the jutting peak of Patrician’s spanker gaff the damp folds of bunting lifted lazily in the beginnings of a breeze. There were two flags, the one flaunting above the other; the red and gold of Castile superior to the white ensign. Such a publicly visible token of his abject plight took his spirit to new depths. He could not bear to look, and in shifting his gaze saw other masts, those of the merchant ships anchored off the town, and wondered if the treacherous Grant’s Abigail Starbuck lay amongst them.
But his eyes were drawn ineluctably back to his ship, emerging steadily from the evaporating mist. Raising the Dollond glass he focused it upon the battered rail and relived that terrible hour.
James Quilhampton woke to the barking of a dog and was instantly on his feet. Rigid with damp and cold he and his men had spent a miserable night beside the cutter. They had watched, in utter dismay, as the victorious Spaniards had carried Patrician out of the bay. The shame of the British defeat seemed emphasised by the superior size of the captured ship, but Quilhampton had been granted little time for such fancy philosophising. His party consisted of himself, Blixoe and his three privates, Marsden the carpenter and a boat’s crew of eight seamen who had been sent to recover the barge. Their situation was desperate. They had no food or water and the mood of the men was by no means stable. It did not take Quilhampton long to realise that several of the cutter’s men were ripe for desertion and that his hold on the leadership of the little band was tenuous. Without a sword he felt naked, and without his coat his wooden arm, its articulation and belting exposed to the gaze of the curious, made him feel doubly vulnerable.
They had escaped from the action unobserved, rowed the cutter deep into the re-entrant lagoon behind the bay and bivouacked after a fashion in the lee of the boat. Blixoe had shot two ducks and they had roasted the carcasses over a miserable fire hidden from observers in a small valley between the dunes. After that they had slept, Blixoe and his marines on their guns. When Quilhampton awoke to the yelp of the dog the first thing he noticed was that the man approaching them did not seem alarmed at their presence. This realisation put him on his guard and he called the others awake.
The newcomer sat astride a plodding donkey, his large, horny feet hanging almost to the ground. He wore a dirty cotton suit, his face grimy and unshaven beneath a battered, wide-brimmed hat. He had a long knife at his belt, carried a gun and, Quilhampton noticed, across his curious wooden saddle-bow a wineskin was slung.
Trying to look casual Quilhampton stood and wished the newcomer good morning.
The man reined in his burro and grinned, letting fly a torrent of incomprehensible words and jerking his jutting chin from time to time in the direction of the open sea. He appeared to end his address on an interrogative note. Quilhampton shrugged.
The stranger made the universal gesture of eating and then pointed in the direction of the village they had seen from the summit of the dunes the previous afternoon.
‘He’s tellin’ us we can get food at the village, sir,’ muttered Blixoe.
‘Yes.’ Quilhampton nodded vigorously. The stranger grinned and rubbed his right forefinger tip against the ball of his thumb.
‘ ’E wants money.’
Quilhampton shook his head. ‘No . . .’ he tried to remember scraps of Spanish he had learned as a prisoner at Cadiz, three years earlier, but his memory failed him as the stranger’s eyes became less friendly. The man jerked the head of the burro round, suddenly suspicious.
Quilhampton had a sudden inspiration. ‘Hey . . . amigo . . . agua . . .’ He pointed at his mouth. The mongrel was crouched, as though guarding his master’s retreat from these ragamuffin strangers, growling defiance.
But the newcomer was not in a charitable mood. He hefted his gun and kicked the donkey forward. Giving a short bark, the dog turned and followed.
‘He had a wine-skin,’ said Blixoe, raising his musket.
‘No . . .’ The powder in the pan flashed and the shot knocked the hat from the mestizo’s head. His long legs kicked the donkey wildly and the over-burdened beast broke into an awkward gallop.
‘Hold your fire!’ Two more of the marines followed their sergeant’s lead. The wineskin, jolted or flung sacrificially from its perch, plummeted to the ground while man, donkey and dog disappeared whence they had come.
A howl of triumph went up and the seamen and marines began running forward. Realising what was happening Quilhampton began to run too. He reached the wine-skin just as a seaman picked it up.
‘Give it to me, Lacey.’ He held out his hands. The seaman looked around, seeking support among his mates.
‘Bollocks,’ said someone behind Quilhampton and Lacey tore the plug from the neck of the leather bag and squirted the dark fluid expertly into his open mouth. The act was a signal, the men clustered forward and grabbed at the thing, wine spilled about them and some reached eager mouths, though none were satisfied. Quilhampton, Blixoe and Marsden stood back from this unruly mêlée. Then something inside Quilhampton snapped. He strode forward, swung his wooden arm and scattered the drinkers, catching the wine-skin as someone dropped it.
‘Sern’t Blixoe, get some order into these men . . . you too Mr Marsden . . . pull yourselves together and remember you’re man-o’- war men, not scum!’
He raged at them and they, shamefacedly responded, though one or two remained truculent. Blixoe got his men to shepherd them into a rough line.
‘Now then . . . that’s better. Let me remind you I’m in command and I shall decide what’s to be done . . .’
‘Well what is to be done . . . sir?’ sneered a man named Hughes.
‘That’s for me to decide.’ Quilhampton faltered. What was to be done? There would be food in the village and the inhabitants were, nominally at least, enemies. The marines had their muskets and bayonets, the seamen their knives.
Marsden also had his tools, only he himself was unarmed.
‘Well . . . I think the first thing to do is to secure some victuals in the village. I’m sure we can persuade our friend to give a quantity of bread as well as the wine.’ It was a feeble joke but it brought a laugh to unite them. They turned and began to follow the tracks of the burro through the sand.
The Royal Navy had invaded California.
Drinkwater stood as the bolts of his cell were withdrawn. Bread, wine and fruit were brought in and he was reminded of imprisonment in Cadiz in the days before the great battle off Cape Trafalgar. He recognised his guard too, for while the tray bearing his breakfast was carried by a half-breed, de Soto stood in the doorway. His face was expressionless and Drinkwater met his gaze, suddenly feeling his spirit must not submit.
‘You are dishonoured, sir,’ he snapped suddenly. ‘Captain Rubalcava has broke his parole!’
A flicker of anger kindled in the officer’s eye as the last word suggested the gist of Drinkwater’s outburst. He uttered a word to the mestizo who swung a bucket into the cell and retreated, pulling the door behind himself with a crash of bolts.
But Drinkwater felt a renewal of hope. Beyond the confines of the stone corridor he had heard a laugh, a loud, happy laugh and he knew instantly the very curve of the throat from which it had come. He was in a cell below the commandant’s residence, a bridewell for special ‘guests’ of His Excellency, too precious to be mewed up in the common calabozo of San Francisco.
‘Well Captain, please sit down.’ Captain Jackson Grant, speaking fluent and colloquial Spanish motioned Rubalcava to a seat. He grinned at the dark and vicious face of the Spaniard. ‘You have come to pay me, eh?’ Grant laughed.
Rubalcava nodded. ‘Yes, I have come to pay you. You are short of men, I have come to pay you in men . . .’
‘The devil no! I gave you intelligence of the British . . .’
‘You said you were short of men, Capitán Grant!’
‘Sure, I said I was short of men. I am short of men, but I’m damned if I want men for what I told you. I can get my own men in the first cat-house ashore . . .’ Grant shouted angrily.
‘You will take men, Capitán Grant, because that is what you are being paid . . .’
‘Damn you Rubalcava, I don’t need men. I can sail this hooker from here to Baltimore with a mate and a cook!’
Rubalcava’s mouth curved in a sneer. ‘You have a great reputation for bragging, Capitán. You will take men . . . as I give them . . .’
‘The hell I will . . .’ Grant was on his feet. Rubalcava merely lifted his elegantly booted feet and put the red heels on Grant’s table. ‘I want gold, Rubalcava, gold . . .’
‘We have not yet found El Dorado, Capitán, in the meantime, you will settle for men, otherwise . . .’
‘Shit, man, there is gold in California . . . what the devil do you mean otherwise?’
‘Otherwise, Capitán Grant, we shall have to inform the authorities that you have been selling aguardiente to the natives.’
‘The hell you will . . . I bought the fucking stuff from the authorities!’
‘I think you are mistaken, Capitán. At least, the authorities know nothing about the matter.’
Grant expelled a long, frustrated breath. ‘You will regret getting the better of me, Rubalcava, damn your insolence . . .’
Rubalcava smiled again. ‘Perhaps, Capitán . . . anyway I have six men for you. All prime seamen, just as you require.’
‘Six. Good Good, man, you have a whole frigate’s crew imprisoned. You could have let me have more than six!’
‘For you to sell to the Russians? No, no, Capitán, these are honourable prisoners-of-war. Besides, we need them to work cargo in the merchant ships.’ Rubalcava paused, catching the American’s eye, ‘Or to dig for gold in the hills, Capitán, eh?’
Grant laughed, good-naturedly. ‘Oh, sure, Captain Rubalcava, sure.’
‘It is thirsty work, discussing business, Capitán Grant.’
Grant blew out a breath and reached for two glasses and a bottle of aguardiente. He slopped a finger of the brandy into each glass and handed one to to the Spaniard. ‘To what do we drink, then? Eh?’
‘To the late Nicolai Rezanov, eh Capitán Grant?’ And with his free hand Rubalcava piously crossed himself. ‘Requiescat in pace.’
Lieutenant Quilhampton waved Blixoe’s flanking party forward, waiting with the main body in a slight hollow in the sand. He watched Blixoe and two of his marines edge forward, approaching the strangely silent village. The smoke of cooking fires rose into the air and the clucking of hens could be heard, but the bark of a dog or the squeal of a child was suspiciously absent.
There was a sudden shout and sand spurted up around Blixoe’s party. A haze of smoke hung over the wall of a ramshackle hut and Quilhampton could see the rough timber had been loop-holed for small arms. Blixoe began to wriggle back in retreat. There was a second volley and then a whoop. Ragged Indians and half-castes, the tiny population of fishermen, ran out of the hut and launched an impetuous charge across the beaten sand towards them. They waved a few muskets and staves and pikes, and they outnumbered the cutter’s crew. Quilhampton turned to his men, but they were already in full flight. He made a violent movement of his good hand to Blixoe who needed no second bidding and twenty minutes later they had tumbled into the cutter and were pulling as hard as they could from the desultory shots and the shouted insults of the natives.
When they had opened the range they hung over their oar-looms and those of them that could, laughed at the comic humiliation of their predicament. Others sat and pondered what was to be done.
‘It is God’s will, friends, we shall have to make the best of it. It is not the first time we have been torn from our places by the rough circumstances of existence.’
‘For Chrissakes, you witless fool, do you not know that a Yankee packet is hell compared to old Drinkwater’s barky.’
‘Old Drinkwater don’t have a fucking barky, Sam, so let’s take Derrick’s advice and make the best of it. They say these Yankees pay well and sail like witches.’
‘And their women is handsome, their land rich and we shall find the streets of Baltimore paved with gold . . . yes, I heard the same kind of crap from a recruiting lieutenant somewheres . . .’
‘Well my lads . . . so you’ve volunteered for service under the old stars and stripes, the flag of liberty, free trade and sailor’s rights and glad we are to welcome you all aboard the old Abigail Starbuck.’
Captain Grant came on deck to review his new recruits. Clucking his tongue and pronouncing himself satisfied, he delivered them to his chief mate.
It was towards evening when the bolts of Drinkwater’s cell were drawn back again. Don Alejo Arguello entered the tiny room and swept a bow at his prisoner.
‘Capitán . . . I am so sorry that you have been the misfortunate victim of the bad luck of war.’
‘The misfortunes of war have little to do with it, Don Alejo. I had your words that Captain Rubalcava would not serve again . . .’
‘Capitán,’ Don Alejo protested, his tone exaggeratedly reasonable, ‘Don Jorge, he is an officer of, of energy, of spirit . . . he was on board with me, one of the four fregatas that your navy attacked without declaration of war four years ago . . . Do not talk of civilisation, Capitán Drinkwater . . .’
Drinkwater remembered the incident. Their Lordships had despatched a force of four frigates to intercept a squadron of Spanish cruisers homeward from Montevideo with specie worth over a million pounds sterling. Their force had been so equal that the Spanish commander, Rear-Admiral Don Joseph Bustamente, had been compelled to fight to defend the honour of his flag. A superior force would have achieved the same result (which was to provoke Madrid to declare war) and have avoided the loss of many lives and the explosion of the Spanish frigate Mercedes. Governments could forget such things easier than the men whose lives they marked.
‘You understand, Capitán . . . Doña Ana Mar
ia said you were simpático . . .’
‘Where are my men, Don Alejo, and my officers? Is the surgeon allowed to attend the wounded . . . ?’
‘Capitán, I forgot, you are wounded. I will have to send for . . .’
‘I am all right, Don Alejo,’ snapped Drinkwater, ‘it is my men I ask after.’
‘My dear Capitán,’ Don Alejo shed some of his easy humour and his tone hardened, ‘we are civilised people. They are being looked after and your officers, they are in the charge of military officers . . . come, I will bring you ink and a pen and send you some meat; we shall look after you. Good night . . .’
And he was gone, leaving Drinkwater alone with his thoughts.
‘Belay that sheet and settle down . . . now pay attention. We have only about ten leagues to sail to San Francisco. When we get there we can find out what has become of the ship and our shipmates. Then I will decide what to do. Whatever happens we will have to slip into the harbour unobserved, either at night, or in a fog. I am relying on your loyalty. That’s all.’
‘I’m hungry . . .’
‘Aye and thirsty . . .’
‘You can belay that lubberly talk. We’re all hungry and thirsty, but tomorrow we will find water at least . . .’
‘I bloody hope so . . . for your sake . . . lieutenant . . .’
Quilhampton ignored the sneer. The boat rose and fell on the long Pacific swells that were the aftermath of the recent gale and other, more distant, disturbances. Under its single lugsail the cutter made a good speed and the tiller kicked under his arm. The day was leaching a golden glow across the western horizon behind them as they steered south-east and the first stars were visible against a clear, rain-washed sky.
It was curious, he mused, how the merest chance could comfort a man and how insubstantial a foundation was required for hope. But the disastrous loss of the ship seemed to satisfy some arcane and superstitious foreboding that had haunted him for so long, that its fulfilment had come as something of a relief. And so retrospectively ridiculous had the day’s events seemed, that their escape was like an entr’acte. This instant was reality; this kick of the tiller, this dying of the day and the chuckle of water along the boat’s strakes. He sensed a curious and inappropriate contentment, as of one having turned a momentous corner. The episode on the beach had been one of desperation. He was now engaged on something of purpose. The boat’s course was his best chance of seeing Catriona MacEwan once again. And as his men dozed, James Quilhampton hummed gently to himself, and beat time with his wooden hand upon the gunwhale of the cutter.
In Distant Waters Page 17
