In Distant Waters nd-8

by Richard Woodman

They were lucky. Lucky in the mist that lay offshore, shrouding their activities from all but the eyes of a few curious Indians and a drunken mestizo that rode, legs swinging, on the swaying back of a decayed burro. Lucky in the location of the leak, deliberate though it was, for by discharging only eight guns and shifting stores and cannon aft, they raised it above the waterline where it could be properly repaired. And they were lucky that the wind held light, that no disturbing swells rolled around Punta de los Reyes to dislocate their tender situation.

  But luck was something realised in retrospect, or perceived solely by degrees. Nothing at the time could mitigate the excoriating anxiety that churned the pit of Drinkwater's stomach and sent him about the deck to direct, encourage and chivvy. Periodically he cast an eye at Mount's distant flagpole. Once the signal for an enemy in sight lifted limply above the post, and marine runner and midshipman met at the appointed rendezvous to learn that the ship was passing to the south and appeared not to have seen the Patrician skulking with lowered masts in the bight of Drake's Bay.

  But it was not simply the dread of being caught defenceless with his guard down and the frigate in a state of disorder, as he had once caught Edouard Santhonax in the sharm of Al Mukhra, that worried him.* (* See Brig of War.) Worse was the underlying anxiety of the cause of their predicament, that deliberate act of sabotage about which there was no doubt. He had inspected the hole and it had been drilled with an auger bit and possibly plugged until an apt moment arrived with a coast and refuge to leeward to compel Drinkwater to make for the land.

  There was only one explanation for such a calculated act. Whoever planned it, intended to desert. The country about them was empty; a desperate man could lose himself in an hour or two of liberty. In the direction of the distant mountains, the wooded foothills suggested fast-flowing streams, game and freedom. If a few desperate souls succeeded in such a venture it was almost certain that more would follow, that a trickle of stragglers might become a flood. He feared he would be left with a dismantled warship and lack the means of refitting or working her, let alone fighting her.

  Such thoughts chased themselves about his weary brain, robbing him of sleep until, when he finally capitulated to exhaustion, they inhabited his dreams, assuming nightmarish qualities in which laughing, drunken seamen taunted him as they caroused with dark-eyed Spanish and Indian beauties, or stalked him through the dense woods, as he had once been stalked through the pine-barrens of South Carolina.* (* See An Eye of the Fleet.) He would wake shuddering and sweating, steadying his nerves with a glass and sitting gloomily in his chair, ticking off the precautions he had taken to prevent desertion. Mount had been instructed to watch for a signal from the ship, so that his marines might cut off any men running from the beach; the officers had been instructed in the matter, and the one boat not needed as a platform or for some purpose concerning the refit such as holding stores, rowed a constant night-guard about them.

  There had been one farcical alarm when the marine sentry on the fo'c's'le had fired at an innocent turtle, mistaking it for a swimmer, and there had been an inevitable slackening in vigilance as the days passed uneventfully. But there were Irishmen and papists aboard who were less hostile to the thought of Spanish rule, vestigial as it was; and there was a dissenting faction epitomised by the Quaker Derrick with his innocent and simplistic cant about the evils of war.

  Lastly, there was Drinkwater himself, by no means unsympathetic to the aspirations of men driven by the protraction of this interminable war. Such sympathy ran contrary to his duty and his sense of the latter had been powerfully reinforced by the wanton act of sabotage, stripping from his consideration the plight of the unfortunate. In the uncompromising light of day he bore the unaltered burden of command: to bring them safe home again having first executed his orders.

  'Another heave, there, bullies… Waay-oh and belay! Fetch another tackle, Mr Comley, and reeve a bull-rope through the chess-tree sheave and take it to the jeer capstan. We'll get a better lead… stand easy a moment there amidships…'

  Quilhampton wiped his face, smearing his shirt sleeve and feeling the fabric rasp on his unshaven cheek. This was only the third gun to be heaved back into position, though they had been labouring since four o'clock in the morning. They had eight more to drag forward from the after end of the gun-deck, 24-pounders, each weighing two and a half tons and each with an inert brutishness that provoked cursing from the tired men. Another eight of the damnable things had been hoisted off their carriages and laid on the impromptu decking of the raft.

  They had lifted the bulkheads and deprived the captain and officers of their privacy, rolling guns aft and moving every possible weight towards the stern in order to lighten the bow. The after ends of both the gun-deck and the berth-deck were cluttered, and on either side of her waist amidships, Patrician looked like a merchantman loading from lighters.

  'Ready there? Very well. Stand-to!' Quilhampton concentrated again, waving up three men with hand-spikes and shouting to set the tackles tight. Slowly the heavy carriage was manoeuvred along the deck, swung through a right angle and its wheels were trundled into the familiar grooves of its station.

  Patrician had started life as a small line-of-battle-ship, bearing sixty-four guns according to the establishment of the day. But ten years after her building, when war with France broke out, she was razee-ed, cut down by the removal of her upper gun-deck, and converted into a heavy frigate. Her main armament consisted of two dozen of the 24-pounders Quilhampton was engaged in replacing in their ports. Such cannon could be found on the middle gun-deck of first-rates, monstrously awkward things whose movement, even in the tranquillity of a sheltered anchorage, had constantly to be controlled by ropes and tackles.

  'A trice more on that bull-rope, there, handsomely… handsomely… belay! That's well there! Come up!'

  Men relaxed, a collective sigh of relief swept the gun-deck and Quilhampton gave them a moment's breather before bawling, 'Next one, lads…'

  They had started most of their fresh water casks into the bilge and then pumped out the contents to lighten the ship and lessen her draught. That first day Quilhampton had spent hours watching the tide make sluggishly upwards, marking the pole he had driven into the beach. It had risen little more than a fathom, insufficient to persuade Captain Drinkwater to beach the ship. Besides, thought Quilhampton, looking round him as the tackles were over-hauled and hooked into the carriage ring bolts of number nine gun, the leak had been reasonably accessible and a heavy stern cant had brought it above the waterline. They had been lucky. Damned lucky.

  'How do you do, Mr Q?'

  The unintended rhyme of Fraser's enquiry provoked a ripple of laughter, laughter that the spent officers left unchecked. It was at least a symptom of good nature.

  'Well enough, Mr Fraser… tomorrow should see the guns back and at least we'll have our teeth again.'

  'Aye, then we've only to re-rig, ship spars and boats and dig fifty tons o' ballast out o' yon beach, fill wi' fresh water, rattle down and weigh three anchors an' we'll be as fit as fighting-cocks to combat the world again…'

  Fraser moved off to inspect the parties in the orlop and the hold, preoccupied and almost as worried a man as his commander.

  'Set tight there… pass word to the jeer capstan… right, heave…!'

  'Well?' Drinkwater looked up from the charts strewn about the table. Fraser noted they were of Vancouver Island and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. He tried to draw encouragement from Drinkwater's optimism.

  'Quilhampton estimates the main batteries back in position tomorrow, sir. He has only the guns overside to hoist inboard now.'

  'Good. And the hold?'

  'Restowed, but wanting ballast and…'

  'Water, yes, I know. If we ration we'll have sufficient for a week or ten days, by then we shall fetch a bay to the northwards. There are a hundred watering places on this coast.'

  'What about here, sir?'

  'Too brackish, I fancy' Drinkwater tried to encourage Fra
ser with a smile, aware that he could produce nothing more than a wan grimace. 'And aloft?' he prompted.

  'Two days, sir, to be certain.'

  'Yes, but I didn't like the temper of tonight's sunset. We may not have too long.'

  'No, sir. We've been lucky…' 'Damned lucky…'

  Drinkwater woke aware that he was being shaken violently.

  'Sir? Sir, wake up…'

  'What… what is it, Mr Belchambers? It is you ain't it?'

  'Yes, sir… Mr Quilhampton presents his respects, sir…'

  'Eh? Oh, what's the time?'

  'Just before dawn, sir…'

  The cabin was still dark and Drinkwater felt a surge of irritation. The news of the previous evening that the end of their predicament was in sight had somewhat relieved his mind and the sleep he had fallen into had been profound. 'What the devil are you calling me for?'

  'It's a ship, sir… a ship coming into the bay!'

  Chapter Eleven

  Rezanov

  April 1808

  'What kind of ship, Mr Belchambers? Large? How rigged?'

  He was awake now, his heart pumping painfully, every shred of anxiety turned over in the previous days now fully justified. This was the Russian ship, advised of their whereabouts and now enabled to catch them half-armed and trapped in the bay. Nicolai Rezanov had paid court to the lovely Doña Ana Maria, languished awhile to recruit his people and relax from the cares of his voyage. Then he must have received reports from the local Indians and Spanish spies that could not have failed to spot the strange ship, or the unfamiliar red coats of Mount's marines at Drake's Bay. Even by the slowest burro, news must have reached Don José Arguello of their whereabouts; even, perhaps, their unpreparedness. A sudden violently bilious spasm of hatred towards the anonymous saboteurs jerked him upright from his cot. By God they were going to pay for their treachery now!

  'A ship, sir… that's all I am able to say, except that Mr Quilhampton is passing word to call the men, sir, quietly…'

  'Very well, I'll be up directly, pass the word for my coxswain.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  The midshipman scuttled away as Drinkwater reached for his trousers. Beyond the curtain he could hear the sounds of the ship stirring, the muted groans of tired men dragged early from their hammocks. Where in God's name were his sword and pistols?

  'Where away?' Drinkwater hissed, staring into the grey dawn light. Mist trailed away over the water, luminous from an imminent dawn which already lightened the eastern sky.

  'Right astern, sir. See where the masts are outlined against the sky?'

  'Yes… I have her now.' The final fog of sleep dispersed. He could see the upper masts of a ship. How far was she distant from them? How diminished by perspective?

  Others were creeping aft. Fraser and Hill joined them.

  'I've ordered a spring passed forrard, sir,' said Fraser, 'we can get the starboard broadside to bear…'

  'Yes,' Drinkwater acknowledged flatly, simultaneously pleased that Fraser had demonstrated his initiative, and irritated that he had not thought of the thing himself.

  'What d'you make of her?' he asked Hill, who peered intently through his glass. Daylight grew by the minute and, Drinkwater thought, they were hidden as yet against the land and the retreating night. If the intruder was meditating surprise she had better loose it upon them quickly. 'Well?'

  'I don't think it is the Russian, sir… at least not that two-decker we sighted off the Horn.'

  'Then what the devil is it?' Drinkwater snapped testily, abusing his rank and giving vent to his high-keyed state.

  'Want me to take a boat and see, sir?'

  'Too big a risk… but thank you. No, let us wait for daylight and spend the time getting her under our guns.'

  A few minutes later Fraser reported the capstans manned. The cable from one of the two stern anchors had been led forward and a spring taken to the midships' capstan so that by heaving and slacking on the trio of anchors, Patrician was turned through almost a right-angle, set within a web of heavy hemp hawsers, her starboard broadside run out and her men at their quarters. In utter silence they waited for daylight to disclose their target.

  Details emerged slowly, remarked upon as they were noticed. Her ship-rig, her tall masts and the opinion that she was a Spaniard were followed by other intelligence as to the paintwork and the run of her hull, until the disclosure of a mere six gun-ports confirmed she was only a merchant ship.

  The mood changed instantly. Instead of apprehension there was cursing that only a single boat remained to seize her, though they might knock her clean out of the water with a single broadside from the eager guns.

  'They must have seen us by now,' said Drinkwater, puzzled at the lack of reaction from the strange vessel. As though this thought had taken wing it was followed by a hail.

  'Ahoy there! What ship is that?' The question was repeated in bastard Spanish, but the accent was unmistakable. The newcomer was a citizen of the United States of America, a fact confirmed by the hoisting of her bespangled, grid-iron ensign.

  'A Yankee, by God!' remarked Hill, grinning. Drinkwater, seeing them hoisting out a boat and unwilling to reveal the chaotic state of his ship, snapped, 'Get the cutter alongside, I'll pay him a visit.'

  'Well now, Captain… sit you down and take a glass. I'm damned if I expected to find the British Navy hereabouts… you wouldn't be thinking of pressing my men… I might not take kindly to that.'

  Captain Jackson Grant replaced the short clay pipe between his teeth and fixed Drinkwater with a grim stare.

  'I would not drink with you and then steal your men, Captain.'

  'There are those of your party that would, Captain.'

  'You have my word upon the matter.'

  Grant laughed. 'You think that settles the thing, eh?' He removed his pipe and Drinkwater saw that the man possessed eyes of different colours. The left was dark, the iris brown, while the right was a paler blue. The oddity gave his features, which were otherwise heavily handsome, a curious disbelieving appearance.

  'You can rest assured, Captain Grant, that your men are quite safe…' Drinkwater recalled the hostile looks that had been thrown in his direction as he had come aboard.

  'Here…' Grant passed a glass, 'aguardiente, Captain,' Grant drawled,'"burning water", made by the Spanish from local grapes. Not to be compared with the cognacs of France, but tolerably agreeable to rough provincial palates.'

  'Your health, Captain.' Drinkwater suppressed the shudder that travelled upwards from his stomach in reaction to the fiery spirit. Grant's tone was bantering, hinting at hostility, a hostility that was, for the moment, overlaid with curiosity. They were of an age; Drinkwater put the next question.

  'You fought for your independence, Captain?'

  Grant grinned, showing yellow teeth. 'Sure. I served under Commodore Whipple and in privateers. Made a deal of money from my service too. British money. And you?'

  'Yes. Under Rodney and ashore in the Carolinas. And against privateers. My first command was as prize-master ... little schooner called the Algonquin of Rhode Island.* (* See An Eye of the Fleet.) We caught her slipping into the Irish Sea to stop the Liverpool merchants resting at night ...'

  'God damn! Josiah King's ship?'

  'I do not recall the name of her commander…'

  Grant's curious eyes narrowed to slits. 'You can have been no more than a boy…'

  'Nor you, Captain…'

  Grant's hostility began to melt and he grinned, his face relaxing. 'Goddam it no, we were both just boys!' He leaned forward and refilled Drinkwater's glass. The shared memories and the raw brandy loosened their mutual suspicions; both men relaxed, exchanging stories of that now distant war.

  'So what do you do in Drake's Bay, Captain, with your masts struck and the look of a surprised wench about your ship?'

  'Refitting, Captain, a spot of trouble with a leak. And you?'

  'A spot of trade.' He held up the glass, closed his brown eye and focused
the blue one on the pale amber fluid.'"Fire-water" sells well, hereabouts. I can't sell it in San Francisco, but mestizos and Indians'll be here once they hear Cap'n Jack's anchored.'

  'I see,' said Drinkwater wryly, raising one eyebrow. 'And for what do you sell the aguardiente?'

  Grant grinned again, showing his wolfish teeth. 'California bank-notes, Captain, dried hides, can't you smell 'em?'

  Drinkwater sniffed the air. The faint taint of putrefaction came to him.

  'Yes… and you get the aguardiente from where?'

  Grant shrugged. 'Monterey, San Francisco, San Diego… the damned Franciscans proscribe the trade there, but I find,' he laughed, 'the customers come to me.'

  'From whom do you buy the stuff, then, if the Franciscans have a hold on the country?'

  'Oh, there are plenty of suppliers, Captain. Don't forget I come from civilisation. I can supply bows, buttons, lace and furbelows from Paris faster than the Dons can ship their dull and dolorous fashions from Madrid.' Grant's smile was knowing.

  'Does Don José Arguello trade with you?'

  Grant shot Drinkwater a shrewd look and his tone was suddenly guarded. 'Oh, no, Captain. Don José is an hidalgo, Commandante of this vast and idle province. Spanish governors are forbidden to trade on their own or their province's accounts.' Grant tossed off his glass and refilled it. 'Why do you ask?'

  'Curiosity.' Drinkwater paused. It came back to him that there had been that atmosphere of hidden secrets about the Commandante and his entourage. 'His brother then, Don Alejo?'

  'You're very shrewd, Captain Drinkwater, as well as being improperly named…' Grant refilled Drinkwater's glass. 'You have heard of the lovely Doña Ana Maria Arguello de la Salas, eh?'

  'I have heard something of her… and also of a Russian…'He let the sentence trail off and sipped the glass. A feeling of contented well-being permeated him. His limbs felt weightless, his energies concentrating on thinking, of gauging this American and divining how much truth he was speaking.

  'Oh, yeah… I heard the damned Russkies had fallen out with good old King George. Well, he couldn't look after his own, could he? Eh?'