'Mr Q?'
'The same, sir.'
'Well met, by heaven, into the boat, quick… why this is Patrician's cutter!'
They tumbled into the boat, Blixoe firing another shot at the Spaniards who were but a few yards behind Drinkwater. The oarsmen needed no special bidding to effort. They had swung the boat round and bent to their task with back-breaking energy that made the oar-looms bend and crack under the strain.
'There's a long-waisted Spanish aviso-schooner hard-by, Mr Q,' Drinkwater pointed into the night where two raked masts were just perceptible against the sky, 'and I judge most of her people to be ashore.'
'Aye, aye, sir… knives and foot-stretchers, lads, we're almost up to her… are you reloaded, Mr Blixoe?'
'We've two cartridges that ain't spoiled, sir…'
'Cold steel then…' Quilhampton turned to Drinkwater. 'I've no sword, sir…'
'Nor me, James…'
And then they bumped alongside the low hull of the schooner and were scrambling up her side, finding toe-holds on her gunsills and swinging their legs over the rail.
The anchor watch had been alerted by the shots ashore, no more than two hundred yards away. But they had made the error of going and reporting the matter. The aviso had been left in the hands of a young midshipman, newly out from Spain, and her crew were largely mestizos, unused to real action on a great ocean that their employers were apt to consider their own exclusive preserve. Only the midshipman put up a fight, to be skewered by Blixoe's bayonet for his gallantry. Within minutes the schooner had changed hands.
There were no boats at the jetty beyond a small dinghy with insufficient capacity for immediate pursuit. But the precise circumstances of Captain Drinkwater's disappearance were somewhat confusing to the pursuers, mixed as they were with treachery within the Residence. Neither did the Spanish immediately appreciate the danger their aviso lay in, so that Drinkwater and his companions were able to slip the cable of the schooner and make sail unmolested.
They felt the bow rise to the onshore swell from the mighty Pacific as soon as they rounded Point Lobos. The aviso heeled over as they belayed the halliards and Drinkwater came aft to Quilhampton at the helm.
'How does she steer, James?'
'Like a witch!' answered Quilhampton, his eyes dancing in the light from the binnacle.
'Like a witch, eh?' repeated Drinkwater in a lower voice, recalling another face lit from below by a poor glim. How would she fare now, he wondered? And what was the fateful news that had caused her to liberate him?
It was then that it occurred to him that had they not killed the midshipman they might have discovered it. 'Too late now,' he muttered sadly.
'Yes,' Quilhampton's voice agreed enthusiastically, 'they're much too late now to catch us.'
Drinkwater opened his mouth to explain, thought better of it and grunted agreement. 'D'you think we can find anything to eat aboard this hooker, Mr Q?'
Chapter Seventeen
The Virgin of Fair Weather
July 1808
If the vicissitudes of the sea-service had thrown Nathaniel Drinkwater ignominiously out of one of the most powerful frigates in the Royal Navy, then the inexplicable actions of a beautiful woman had restored him to a position of some influence. He had hardly dared hope for such a sudden and apparently fortuitous reversal in his situation as had been precipitated by Doña Ana Maria's actions and consolidated by the appearance of James Quilhampton and his forlorn hope.
The sudden, easy taking of the schooner still struck him as an equally lucky link in the chain of events which had led him to liberty; he had yet to learn that there was more of cause and effect, and less of coincidence in these events than he then supposed. But, for the moment, little could dull the relief and joy that filled him as he watched the dawn over the distant coast and shivered in the fresh westerly breeze that blew onshore and under the influence of which the narrow gutted schooner laid her seething course northwards.
Drinkwater had to acknowledge that she was a smart, fast and rakish craft. Her long, low hull mounted twelve 6-pounder carriage guns, mere pop-guns that could serve to over-awe native craft or a merchantman, but amidships, where traditionally she might have carried her boats, she mounted a heavy carronade, the Spanish equivalent of a 32-pounder, he judged, curiously rigged on a rotating slide somewhat in the manner of the mortars in the old bomb-vessel Virago, so that the gun might be brought to bear on a target on either side if due care were taken of the intervening rigging. This powerful weapon gave Drinkwater fresh cause for hope, for with it he might yet achieve something worthwhile and there was only one task that demanded his relentless attention until it was accomplished, the recapture of the Patrician.
He looked aloft. The two raked masts carried huge gaff-rigged sails, the after one was capable of bearing a maintopsail which he could set at full daylight when the watch changed. For the time being he was content to act as officer of the watch as well as commander of his pathetically small crew. Still, they seemed happy enough, basking in their change of fortune and making free with the personal effects they had discovered on board. Properly, Drinkwater should have secured these, but he was not kindly disposed towards the Spanish of San Francisco after the breaking of their parole, the shameful way he had been held captive and the mature suspicion that Don Alejo and Rubalcava, at least, were involved in some action which, to them, justified their dishonourable treatment of their prisoners. Besides, the poor devils who had arrived with Quilhampton had only the rags they stood up in, and Drinkwater was far too considerate of his men's welfare to let the conventions of protecting private property stand in the way of their well-being.
'Forward there!'
A man named Lacey stood up from where he had been huddling under the weather rail dodging spray. 'Sir?'
'Ease the foresheets a little…'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater eased the helm and the schooner's head fell off the wind a point or two, her long bowsprit pointing at a shallower angle to the line of the coast.
'Ease the mainsheet,' he said to the seaman who stood at the helm beside him.
He felt the pressure on the rudder ease as the sheaves squealed slightly with the strain on the heavy mainsheet.
'She'm a flyer, sir,' said the man conversationally, resuming his post at Drinkwater's side and Drinkwater agreed, reflecting upon the alteration in their circumstances. Aboard the Patrician the man would not have dared address his commander in such familiar tones; here, doing duty beside him, it was the most natural thing in the world.
'She certainly is, Potter, and off the wind, on a reach, she'll fly faster than the wind.'
Potter digested this intelligence with a frown, but Drinkwater did not expand upon this curiosity of natural law. Instead he sowed the seeds of his intentions.
'Now we're well out of sight of the Dons, we'll close the coast again. That'll be Point Reyes, where we were cruising when we discovered that leak,' he pointed at the blue line of the Californian shore.
'Ahhh…' Potter nodded, pleased to be taken into the captain's confidence.
'Now what I think we should do, Potter, is chase north and find out what those damned Russians have done with our ship and shipmates.' Drinkwater paused and looked sideways at the man, an able-seaman and once rated captain of the foretop. 'What d'you think of that, eh?'
'Few more men'd be handy, sir, begging your pardon for saying so.'
'Yes, they would, but we've got a fair wind, a fast ship and at least one heavy cannon to play with… and we've got something else, Potter… surprise!'
They fell silent again and then Potter said, 'Sir… that leak, sir… it were done a'purpose.'
Drinkwater did not take his eyes off the horizon, though he knew Potter was eyeing him sidelong. 'I know,' he said shortly, then turned and smiled disarmingly at the seaman, 'and I'd hang the scum that did it if I had proof, Potter; but that's of no avail now. Do you cut along and call out the watch below. It's time you and I got
some rest.' He took the helm and watched Potter scuttle forward.
James Quilhampton came on deck a few minutes later. He was smiling broadly, for it was a beautiful morning with clear visibility and a fresh breeze that made the blue seas turn white as they broke and from which a school of dolphins leapt and gambolled and ran in and out under the cutwater of the racing schooner.
'Morning, sir.'
'Morning, James. We'll set proper watches now. You and Tregembo, Marsden, Blixoe and one marine, together with the four seamen I've just called to form the larboard watch. I'll head the starboard with the rest… seventeen of us in all. I'm going to locate the Patrician if I can, James, and retake her…'
'We could do with a few more men for that, sir,' remarked Quilhampton.
Drinkwater nodded. 'Yes, Potter's just told me that, but what we lack in men we might make up for with stealth and surprise.'
'Not to mention that confounded great "smasher" amidships…'
Drinkwater grinned. 'We are of one mind, James… here you are, head in for the coast. Keep a sharp lookout for sails or masts. I've no idea what those damned Russians intend to do with the ship, but I don't want to miss her for want of a pair of eyes.'
'Very well, sir.'
'I'm going below to get some sleep.'
They coasted northwards for over a week without the sight of a single sail. The year was well advanced and Drinkwater supposed that merchant ships were either finishing their lading in Alaskan waters and not yet ready to sail southwards, or that Russian ships loading provisions for the hardships of the northern winter had not yet departed from the Spanish settlements of California. Then, as they stood out to sea to round what the English navigators called Cape Disappointment but which on Drinkwater's Spanish chart bore no name at all, they saw the masts of some ships hidden behind a low spit of land to the southward of the Cape.
'The mouth of the Columbia River, James… hoist Spanish colours and stand inshore. We'll take a closer look.'
It took them four hours to work their way up into the estuary of the river against a considerable current which, fuelled by the melting snows of distant mountains to the eastward, streamed out into the ocean with an impressive velocity. But the schooner stood inshore and the low point to the southward opened slowly to starboard, to reveal a shallow lagoon and a secondary headland from which the first grew in a long sandy spit. This headland was covered with woods in which a clearing had been made and the stockade of a primitive fort erected. Above the fort flew the colours of Tsar Alexander I, though neither of the two vessels at anchor were larger than brigs.
'A Russian settlement, by Heaven,' muttered Drinkwater, staring through his looted glass at the group of curious men drawn up by a pair of boats on the beach.
'Fetch us an anchor, James, close alongside the outer of those two brigs.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater watched Quilhampton go forward, his wooden arm hanging incongruously below the Spanish uniform coat that was far too short for his long, lean frame. He grinned at the young man, and caught the mood of high excitement that infected his men. There were only a handful of them, but they had had time to settle well and, with the single exception of Derrick, were spoiling for a fight.
'Brail all ...'
Quilhampton passed the agreed order quietly. The jibs fell, fluttering along the bowsprit with a rasp of their hanks on the stays, and a man clambered leisurely out along the spar to restrain them with a roband or two, while the main and foresails were brailed to the masts, their gaffs, standing spars. Against the current the schooner lost way and was brought to an anchor and a short scope of cable. Then they hauled the cutter alongside from its position towing astern. With some show it was manned and a Spanish boat ensign found and its staff stuck in the verdigrised brass ferrule in the cutter's rudder-stock. Wearing an oddly cockaded Spanish bicorne Drinkwater took his place in the stern, a large light-cavalry sabre, that he had found hanging on the schooner's cabin bulk-head, held between his knees. A brace of primed, cocked and loaded pistols lay on the stern sheets beside him, while the oarsmen each had a cutlass from the schooner's capacious arms-chest concealed beneath their thwarts.
They cleared the stern of the schooner and Drinkwater looked up. 'God bless my soul!'
In a beautifully carved scroll worked beneath the cabin windows he read her name for the first time: Virgen de la Bonanza. Several men caught the direction of his eye, grinning at the first word which was comprehensible to them. What the rest meant none of them knew. Drinkwater's face stiffened. They were supposed to be masquerading as Spaniards!
The group on the beach had grown by the time they reached it.
About a score of villainously bearded and greasily apparelled men stood idly watching them. He took them all to be Russians, except perhaps one, a late arrival wearing the buckskins and moccasins of a mountain-man, the likes of which he had once seen, long ago in the Loyalist militia in New York. He was clearly something of a wonder to the others, for they looked at him curiously, drawing aside for him as he joined them. Drinkwater was close enough to observe these details, for the next instant the boat grazed the sand and he rose to his feet.
Drinkwater never had any Thespian pretensions, but his lack of familiarity with the Spanish tongue had driven him to an almost risible extreme in an attempt to head off the slightest suspicion that he was anything other than Spanish. 'Needs must when the devil drives,' he said to Quilhampton when explaining his intentions and the men's laughter had been muted by the order that one of them was going to have to carry him, piggyback, ashore. But it was at Derrick's suggestion that he bore the handkerchief, a large, ostentatious square of flowered silk that they guessed was a gift for the Virgen's captain's paramour in Panama. The prominent manipulation of the kerchief alone ensured his disembarkation appeared alien enough and, ironically, he was glad of it himself, when he caught the stench of the Russians.
Potter put him down with a relieved grunt and Drinkwater, the heavy sabre knocking his hip, strode amongst the group of grim watchers and swept his hat from his head.
'Buenos días, Señors.' He bowed, placed his hand on his breast and plunged on. 'El Capitán Rubalcava, del barco La Virgen de la Bonanza.' The name of his assumed identity and that of his ship sounded marvellously authentic and the latter allowed a spate of eloquence that, he guessed, disarmed any suspicions amid the dull-eyed Russians. Of the effect upon the frontiersman he was less sure. He tried to recall the first-person singular and managed only a squeal. 'Eee, er, dos San Francisco…' He allowed himself to peter-out and stare round at the men. Their eyes were blank with incomprehension.
'No comprendez?' They stared back. He turned to the mountain-man. He had blue eyes like the others, but there was a narrowing of them, a shred of suspicion in their cold appraisal. Drinkwater leaned forward with exaggerated Latin effusiveness.
'Senor?' he asked, directly.
'No comprendez…' the man said slowly. A spark of understanding formed in Drinkwater's mind and he said quickly before the other revealed a perfect knowledge of Spanish, 'Ahh, Señor, muy amigo, you spik English, sí?'
The man nodded.
Drinkwater straightened, took a step towards him and waved his handkerchief airily, approaching the mountain-man, appearing to dismiss the assembled Russians whose dull, peasant wits watched this show as though it was a visitation by a dancing bear and they would presently be requested to reach for kopecks, at which point they would scatter.
'Eet is good, hey?' Drinkwater plunged on, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward again in a mannerism he had copied subconsciously from Don Alejo. 'I come to find Eenglish ship… Eenglishmen… comprendez?' He bastardised the English words by elongation, relapsing into the odd Spanish word for punctuation with a speed he hoped continued to deceive.
The mountain-man regarded him for some time, a ruminative air about him, as though he spoke little, and when he did the words had to be dragged from him.
'Yeah. Comprendez. I ain't
see'd no ship, but…'
Drinkwater drew back in disappointment. With no news of Patrician there was little point in risking his neck further; but something about the mountain-man held his attention. He played the charade a step further, aware that beyond the group and walking down from the direction of the stockade a uniformed officer and an escort of armed men were approaching.
'Eenglishmen, Señor… you see, que?'
'Yeah… I see…'
'Twenty-two…' The man became aware of the approach of the officer and he jerked his head. 'Ask him.'
The Russians were falling back; some of them removed their fur hats in the presence of the officer. Drinkwater turned to the newcomer. He wore a uniform of brown cloth with red facings, dark breeches tucked into high boots. His tie-wig was ill-kempt and old-fashioned and the hat he bore in his hands had seen better days.
Drinkwater drew himself up and essayed a low bow, flourishing his handkerchief and never taking his eyes off the face of the Russian officer. It was a cruel face, pock-marked and thin with long deprivation, yet with an imperious pair of eyes deep set on either side of a beak of a nose. The voice, when he spoke, was thin and reedy. The officer was clearly at the opposite end of the social class at whose other extremity Captain Prince Vladimir Rakitin occupied a place.
Taking a deep breath and noticing that his boat's crew had turned the boat round and were standing knee-deep in the water holding it ready for escape, Drinkwater began again.
'Buenas días, Señor, Ee, er La Capitán…'
A look of understanding passed between the two of them and the unpleasant Russian officer fixed his eyes upon Drinkwater. His glance was truly intimidating and, masquerading as he was, Drinkwater felt unequal to the task of staring him down. Instead he bowed again.
'Niet! No English. Here, Russia. You go!'
The officer turned on his heel, leaving Drinkwater half-recovered from his bow.
'Now you go, amigo,' said the mountain-man, his drawl lingering mockingly upon the Spanish word so that a worm of alarm writhed in Drinkwater's gut. 'Vamosl'
In Distant Waters nd-8 Page 20
