CHAPTER 15
May–June 1808
The Prisoner
Time hangs heavily upon a lonely man who has suffered a great misfortune. His troubles dominate his thoughts and disturb his attempts at sleep. He relives the hours of his disaster in a knowingly fruitless attempt to reverse time; he attempts to shift blame and then to acknowledge his own responsibility. His mind deploys logic and then rejects it in favour of vague, superstitious emotions which play on the very vulnerability of his isolation. Culpability seems his alone; he has dared too much and providence has cut him down to size. Such solitary pits for the soul are dug by circumstance for every commander of ships. In this, Drinkwater was no exception.
Although logic told him the chain of bad luck began when the leak forced him to seek the shelter of a careenage, superstition sought an earlier explanation: the hanging at the Nore, the loss of the Danish privateer, the sighting of the strange ship off the Horn, the incident at Más-a-Fuera. Even the worthless capture of the Santa Monica seemed but another malevolent step in a fantastic conspiracy by fate. Such fears, dominant in the small hours, could have been dispelled by a turn on the quarterdeck at dawn while the watch swabbed down and the smell of coffee blew about the ship. The ‘blue-devils’ was a misanthropy endemic among sea-officers but against which there were known specifics.
Some men played instruments, some invited company, some diverted their minds by reading, writing, sketching. Some drank. All relied upon the routines of the naval day to ameliorate their obsessive preoccupations. Some carried the dissolution of their lives within their characters, some gave way to jealous fits, some to violent abuses of their powers. Some bickered with their officers, some immersed themselves in trivial matters and disturbed the tranquillity of their ships. Most ultimately coped, because demands were put upon them that compelled them to submit to influences beyond their own passions.
Cooped day after day in solitary confinement, allowed no exercise beyond the tiny cell, Drinkwater went unrescued by routine or any demand upon his expertise with which to patch his spirit. He was left alone with the wild fears of his imagination. Logic told him that he was guilty of misjudgement and incompetence, and every view from his tiny window reinforced this opinion as he looked down upon his captured ship. Superstition told him he had been abandoned to his fate, that dark, unworldly spirits had been released by his actions. From beyond the grave Edouard Santhonax laughed; a great hollow laugh that brought him bolt upright from sleep and his old enemy melted into the gentle, uncomprehending pity of his own wife’s face.
How would Elizabeth feel when she heard? What would Lord Dungarth conclude? What would John Barrow think of him?
‘What will they say in England?’ he whispered to himself. They had become too used to victory . . .
But that was no good. That was merely another excuse. Discontent had caused the leak and for that he alone was responsible. For several days his mind revolved along this morbid orbit. He sought consolation in the writing of his journal, but after the harrowing experience of recording the events in the log, he could put nothing in his private papers that did not reek of self-pity. He began to dismiss in his mind all mitigating factors. His own culpability began to assume its own stature and grow in his thoughts so that it threatened to unhinge him. But in the end long experience of a solitary existence saved him. The learnt disciplines of combating the blue-devils came to his rescue. At first he stood upon the table and scanned the anchorage, avoiding the sad sight of Patrician. He watched the merchant ships, half a dozen of which he could just see. The comings and goings of their boats, the laboriously swept lighters that crabbed out to them like giant water-beetles with the hides and tallow and assorted exports of the colony. He could see among them, the Abigail Starbuck, a tall-sparred, handsome vessel, as were all the latest American ships. Once he thought he saw Jackson Grant, and once, quite ridiculously, the figure of the Quaker Derrick upon her deck.
It was that sighting that brought him to the recognition of his self-deception. It was clearly a ridiculous fancy! He would have to take hold of himself. Although he had not mitigated his self-blame, from that moment it ceased to be a passive response to his predicament and began to spur his resolution to transcend his plight. He began to write in his journal and in doing so called up incidents of the previous days that were not directly connected with the loss of the Patrician.
. . . I realised the place of my imprisonment when I heard the laugh of Doña Ana Maria . . .
He stopped writing as a thought struck him. If Grant had betrayed him to the Spanish, why had not Grant told Don José of the death of Rezanov? And if he had, why had the news not been communicated to the Russian’s betrothed?
That laughter had been full of unalloyed joy, the expectant, irrepressible joy of someone expecting the arrival of a lover. Drinkwater recalled how her eyes had glowed as she had spoken of the Russian. He shook his head. The time for such abstruse preoccupations was over. He wrote on, dismissing the matter, for it made no sense to him and had no bearing on his fate.
He was woken next morning by the concussion of guns. For an instant hope leapt into his heart but the noise, answered somewhere to seaward, resolved itself into an exchange of salutes. He clambered up onto his table. For a long time he could see nothing and then, into his field of view and bringing up to an anchor slightly to seaward of the Patrician, was the heavy black hull of a Russian line-of-battle-ship.
James Quilhampton had seen her the previous day from the rocks of a small and insignificant headland a few miles north of the entrance to San Francisco. In the little cove behind him the cutter lay drawn up on the beach, while from the wooded slope that rose behind the strip of sand, came the dull sound of an axe. Occasionally the snap of a musket betrayed Blixoe’s hunting party.
They had crept into the cove to hide and recruit their strength while Quilhampton decided what to do. Sweet water streamed out of the dense woods and they slaked their thirst and rinsed the salt from their clothes and bodies. That night they bivouacked in the fragrant undergrowth and loafed the following morning away, waiting for the night. In the late afternoon they had sighted the big ship coming down from the northward. From the little promontory, Quilhampton saw she was a two-decked man-of-war, black-hulled and flying the dark, diagonal ensign of Russia.
It seemed the final bar on the stronghold of the enemy, setting awry his carefully made plan. Ordering the men to spend another day in idleness he languished in indecision. But game and water was plentiful, and the fresh meat emboldened him. When the next evening Blixoe came to him for orders, he had decided to throw everything to hazard.
‘Very well,’ he said as they lay back round the fire, licking their fingers clean of the juice of venison, ‘this is what I intend that we do, and if any man will not gamble on the outcome he is free to take his chance . . .’
Quilhampton wanted none but willing spirits with him.
His fears were vindicated; he had no doubt this was the ship they had seen off Cape Horn and now she arrived like Nemesis. Through his glass he saw the twinkle of gold braid upon her quarter-deck, saw her entry manned and the Spanish officer board her. He could hear the faint piping shriek of the calls, given in the British style by officers who had trained with the Royal Navy. Drinkwater remembered Admiral Hanikov’s fleet in the North Sea in the summer of 1797 and wondered whether this ship had come direct from Kronstadt or had been detached from Seniavin’s Adriatic squadron.
He saw, too, the procession of boats leave the side of the Russian ship and, half an hour later, heard the sound of voices speaking French pass below his window, Russian officers ascending the path that wound upwards to the Residence from the boat jetty and the battery below. Surely now the news of the death of Rezanov would be made known to Doña Ana Maria? To his recovering mind the preoccupation offered a point of focus beyond his own unhappiness.
‘Capitán, I have the honour to present Prince Vladimir Rakitin, of His Imperial Majesty’s ship Suvorov.
’
Drinkwater gave a short and deliberately frigid bow. Although he was curious about the Russian his incarceration had made him angry and he fixed his eyes on Don José.
‘Don José, I protest at the dishonour you have done to me. Where are my officers? Why have you not permitted a surgeon to visit me, or allowed me to exercise? What have you done with my people? I had always thought the Spanish a civilised nation. I am mortified to find myself, so recently a guest at your table, treated with every courtesy due an honourable enemy employed on a mission of humanity, suddenly deprived of the courteous formalities of war. You are, sir, guilty of having condoned the breaking of the terms of exchange by Captain Rubalcava and his men.’
Drinkwater felt invigorated by the cathartic effects of this outburst. He felt washed clean of the self-pity that had nearly drowned him in his confinement. Now there were other causes to fight, exposures to make before this newly arrived ally of the Spanish authorities. He turned towards the Russian officer: ‘I am sure that His Imperial Majesty’s Navy would not have treated the courtesies of war with such disdain . . .’
He bowed with an exaggerated politeness to the Russian officer. Both Don José and his brother were angry. They understood the gist of his wordy accusation although they wore smiles and made gestures of incomprehension. For a moment Drinkwater expected to be conducted peremptorily back to his cell, but it seemed that he had been brought here for other reasons.
‘Capitán,’ said Don Alejo, ‘Don Jorge Rubalcava is a zealous officer . . . you see, I know the word from reading your newspapers . . . it is perhaps that he has been,’ again the ritual of shrugging, ‘much revenge to you . . . but, well, you are our enemy. England is . . .’ Don Alejo waved towards the doorway and across the terrace upon which Drinkwater had waited the summons to meet the Commandante all those days ago. The gesture was redolent of vast, insurpassable distances.
‘And you tell us you come to make war for Russia . . .’ Don Alejo smiled and looked in the direction of Rakitin.
‘Yes, Captain, you are come to make war on our posts in North America, eh?’
Drinkwater turned. The Russian was a man of middle height, with a powerful physique, deep-set eyes overhung by shaggy brows and a coarse sabre-wound upon his chin. His tight-buttoned blue tunic with its double row of gilt buttons was closed to his chin and heavy bullion epaulettes fringed his shoulders. He wore white breeches and heavy top-boots. His plumed hat was tucked beneath his arm and he was attended by a tall lieutenant and a pair of midshipmen who lounged languidly with the air of bored courtiers, their eyes only casually registering Drinkwater’s presence, as though at some minor entertainment offered by a country cousin to visiting townsfolk.
‘I have my orders, Captain . . .’
‘Yes.’ Rakitin turned and with a formally white-gloved hand, patted a small pile of documents on the table beside him. Drinkwater flushed scarlet. He had failed to secure his secret instructions, now they had fallen into the enemy’s hands. Suddenly it did not seem relevant that they were imprecise and vague. He had let his orders and instructions, his code and signal books fall into the hands of the enemy! A void opened in his stomach and he made an effort to control himself. Don Alejo was smiling at him; Drinkwater drew himself up and affected to ignore the supercilious Spaniard.
‘You speak excellent English, Captain Rakitin. Perhaps I can say that I have found no defence on earth effective against dishonourable men . . .’
The barb went home; Don Alejo’s smile vanished, but Drinkwater found little comfort in Rakitin’s reply.
‘I learnt to speak English in your navy, Captain Drinkwater,’ the Russian answered in a chilling bass, ‘where I also learned that British officers do not do these things.’ Rakitin paused to let the meaning of his words sink in, watching with satisfaction, the colour drain from the Englishman’s face. ‘But you have no further use for them now you are a prisoner. You have failed . . .’ Rakitin turned away dismissively. Drinkwater felt as though he had been struck. Shaking violently from a hopeless anger, he was led out of the room. He scarcely saw his suroundings as he stumbled beside his escort across a courtyard to the steps which led to his cell below the stables. A dark shape swam mistily into his vision and then the virago-face of Doña Helena was thrust into his. She wore an expression of triumph, her tiny eyes blue chips of vindictiveness.
‘So God has delivered his enemies into our hands . . .’
Her vulturine swoop had halted Drinkwater. He pulled himself upright, suddenly recovering himself before this haggard crone. He mustered all the dignity of which he was capable and, remembering the old woman’s office, said, ‘Please convey to Doña Ana Maria my sincere condolences upon her tragic loss.’
And as he swept her aside he felt a small satisfaction that the words had come as a surprise and caught her at a disadvantage.
Drinkwater had been imprisoned before. In the hectic days before the great battle off Cape Trafalgar, on his way in a small coasting vessel to command one of Nelson’s battle-ships, he had been captured and thrown into a filthy gaol in the Spanish town of Tarifa. From there he had been taken to Cadiz, transferred to the custody of the French and interrogated by Admiral Villeneuve, Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleets of France and Spain.* During this period there had been a suffocating sense of frustration at the ill-luck of falling captive, an angry railing against fate in which self-recrimination was absent. But he had been within the orbit of great events, events which were gathering a momentum in which his circumstances might be rapidly altered. Now, however, the hopelessness of his situation was absolute. There was no likelihood of sudden advantage, he could expect no support, no intervention, no miraculous rescue. His ship was taken, his mission exposed, his people scattered beyond recall. He was utterly ruined, having so conspicuously failed in his duty. In his heart he knew that providence had deserted him and that there was only one course of action open to an honourable man. For hours after his humiliating interview with the Commandante, Don Alejo and Prince Rakitin, he paced his cell; from time to time his fingers sought the pocketed shape of his pen-knife.
Resolved at last, he tore a page from his journal and began to write. His report to the Admiralty was a model of brevity, recording the essential facts without mentioning the disloyalty of his men, the cause of the leak or the overwhelming numbers of the enemy. Neither did he mention the breaking of their parole by Rubalcava and his men, nor the inhuman treatment he had been subjected to, for fear of Don José’s destroying the despatch when it was discovered afterwards. As he wrote the superscription he knew it only necessary to record the end of Patrician and his own career. He sealed the folded paper with a blob of candle-wax, tore out another sheet and, dipping his pen, wrote My Dearest Elizabeth . . .
Then his nerve failed him and he sat staring into the empty air, fighting back the waves of sick despair that threatened to engulf him. He found he could not conjure the image of his wife’s face in his imagination; it seemed their enforced estrangement lay like a great barrier between them. Perhaps, he thought, his death would be the easier to bear. As for his children . . . he threw aside the thought and drew the penknife from his pocket, opening the blade and staring at the dull shine of it. He had no idea how long he sat in this cataleptic state. Daylight faded and the cell was in darkness when he heard the lock grind in a cautious tripping of its levers. He was instantly alert to the possibility of treachery. To take his own life as the only recourse open to him was one thing, to be foully murdered by his captors was another, not to be submitted to without a struggle. He gripped the tiny knife and rose to his feet. Beyond the door he heard a whisper. To his astonishment it was a woman’s voice.
‘Capitán . . . please you give your word of honour you will not make to run away . . . I must speak with you.’
He knew the voice instantly, recalled her spectacular beauty and felt his heart hammer painfully in his breast. Her tone was insistent, foolhardy.
‘Sí, Señorita. I understand . . .
you have my word.’
How had she obtained the keys? Was she being used and was he about to die in circumstances that had been contrived to compromise not only his professional, but his personal honour? His fist crumpled the unwritten letter to his wife, then the bolts drew and the door swung suddenly inwards. She came inside, a wild perfumed swirl of dark brocade, to lean on the door, swiftly closed behind her.
‘Capitán . . . ?’ her voice was uncertain in the darkness of the cell. He could see the paleness of her skin and the heaving of her breast as he crossed to the table to strike a flint and steel, slipping the pen-knife into his pocket.
‘Pardon, Señorita, I was not expecting a guest.’
The sarcasm did him good, driving the gloom from his mind. The tinder caught and he lit the candle stump. The flame rose brilliant and he turned towards her holding it in front of him. She drew in her breath sharply and he realised his appearance was unprepossessing. He rubbed his bearded cheek.
‘A razor is not permitted . . .’ The incongruity of the remark almost made him laugh, considering what he was about to attempt with his pen-knife blade, and then he saw the state she was in. The candlelight danced in eyes that were full of tears and the heaving of her breast was not due to the excitement of her strange tryst with an enemy officer or the animal stench of his quarters.
In Distant Waters Page 18
