by Jason Vail
It is difficult to remember the details of fights, particularly when you are in them. I have had quite a few in my time, and on occasion have had the opportunity to talk afterward with those who watched. For instance, I fought a knife duel in the summer before this cruise, and the evening after, I sat with friends who described things happening of which I had no recollection. At best, it seems we recall only bits and fragments, often unconnected, and even those you cannot be sure of.
So it was with this one. I remember that Vasquez, a lazy smile on his face, opened the engagement with a sudden lunge at my knife hand, which I parried with a downward scoop of the blade and riposted at his arm. He pulled back the arm and thrust at my chest, which I set aside with the back of the knife. Vasquez’s smile faltered, as if he realized that this would not be so easy after all, but did not entirely disappear.
He regarded me a moment after these exchanges, point toward the floor, which allowed me to catch my breath. Then we began the minuet again in a space so confined that there was no room for us to move about, only backward and forward. My memory is of a furious series of thrusts and parries — him attacking and me defending, sometimes with the knife and other times with the plate — but he was more cautious now, not making those long lunges which opened him up, for he sensed that he could not easily penetrate my defense, as frail as it was, without giving me the chance to get by his point to grappling range, where my knife was still useful and his sword a dead thing in his hand: the reason why he did not rush recklessly at me as I have seen men do in fights to the death.
Most sword fights do not last long. Once the fighters are close enough to hit each other, they usually do so, with fatal results to one or even both of the combatants, for it is not unusual for the duelists to kill each other. But this fight was an exception. Because we were both cautious, it seemed to go on a long time, although it can only have been perhaps five or ten minutes. Yet within that time, the strain had both of us breathing hard and sweating, despite the winter’s chill.
Vasquez’s superior smile had declined to an exasperated line. When he withdrew to a safe distance to catch his breath, the sailor at the doorway aimed his pistol at me.
“Should I shoot, Captain?” the sailor asked.
The point of Vasquez’s sword twitched and the captain’s iseyes narrowed. “You might as well. This has gone on long enough.”
The sailor aimed at my head, the black hole of the muzzle seeming to grow in size as I contemplated what was to come. Yet at that moment, I had time to thank God he aimed high rather than at my body. For as he pulled the trigger and the pan ignited, throwing up a plume of smoke, I ducked to the side, and the charge’s detonation, coming a fraction of second later, drove the ball through the place where I had been so that it struck a stanchion with a thunk.
Gunsmoke billowed within the cabin, and everyone froze for a moment in astonishment that I was not dead. I exploited the moment to grab the nearest chair, which I threw at a gallery window.
I followed the chair through the maw it had created into the dark.
Chapter 20
The West India Basin, London, Great Britain
December 1820
I have no idea how far it was to the water, but I seemed to float in the air for a long time, imagining that this was how it must feel to fly. The unfortunate thing about human flight is that it must come to an end, usually a painful one. This flight was no exception, for I smacked into the water with such force that it felt as though someone had hit me in the head with a bat.
The waters of the basin closed their greedy fingers around me, as if they wanted to drag me to the bottom, but I fought against the grip and clawed my way to the surface, so chilled by the icy shock that I could hardly draw breath when my head broke the surface.
Someone leaned out a window above and pointed another pistol in my direction, so I got no more than a mouthful of air before I had to duck beneath the surface to avoid the shot, stroking hard as I could in what I hoped was away from the Neptuno. I struck something hard, but fortunately with my shoulder rather than my head, and I came up by one of the ships moored against Neptuno’s water-ward side.
Feet pounded to the urging of shouts in Spanish aboard the Neptuno as the officers urged their men to find me in the water. Before anyone spotted me, I dog-paddled around the neighboring ship’s bow and disappeared from their sight.
This did not mean I was safe, only that I was at less risk of being immediately shot. There was the problem of the frigid water: it saps the strength from a man in a very short time so that the victim falls into a fatal sleep and drowns. Already I had begun to shiver and my lips felt like blocks of wood. So I had to find a way out, and soon.
I heard the rattling of a boat’s davits, and realized that Vasquez had sent out a crew to hunt me down. I thought about being harpooned in the water, as the Indians hunt fat manatees in the tropics. I wished for wings, but my hands were not even adequate as flippers.
When I tell my grandchildren the story, I always leave out what came next, for I almost gave into panic. I always act as if I knew exactly what to do, as if there was some sort of crafty plan. But in truth I almost struck out toward the far side of the basin, hoping to out-swim the boat. I would never have made it, though. The pursuers would have heard me thrashing desperately and rowed me down, and if by a miracle they missed me, the cold would have killed me.
As I panted away, panic surging through my veins, I realized I still had the knife in my hand. The hull of the neighboring ship was not coppered, and I drove the point into a chink. The support it gave reduced the need to struggle against the water’s grip. I caught my breath and began to calm down.
I heard voices and the strokes of oars. The boat was in the water.
Taking the knife in my teeth, I breast-stroked down the length of the neighboring ship and reached its stern just as the boat came into view at the bow.
I stroked along the lengths of the other vessels moored there, brigs, brigantines, three-masters, my teeth clenched on the knife to still my chattering teeth, on the lookout for an anchor cable or a dangling hawser that a sloppy crew had failed to properly secure. But I saw none.
As I worked my way along a brig, a voice spoke from above. “Ahoy there. It’s a bit cold for a swim, don’t you think?”
Glancing upward, I made out the figures of three men looking down at me.
“A bit,” I chattered around the knife. “You wouldn’t happen to have a line handy, would you? I think I’ve had enough.”
“English, are you?” the voice said. “And I thought you were some dago. You from that Spanish ship?”
“Of late. How about that line?”
“What’s going on over there? You jump ship?”
“After a fashion. It’s cold here. I’d like to get out.”
“What do you think, boys?” the voice asked his companions.
There were mutters while the three of them conferred as if this was a life-changing decision, their lives, not mine. Then a line flew down and slapped the brig’s hull. Slipping the knife into my coat pocket, I grasped the line, and they hauled me aboard. I stood shivering, dripping and shoeless on deck, but safe. I don’t remember losing the shoes.
“I’ve seen drowned rats that looked more handsome,” the voice said, which it was now clear came from a ship’s mate, owing to the tassel on his cap.
“Kind of an insult to rats,” one of the others said.
“What do you think, Bill,” the third man said. “Should we give him back? There might be a reward.”
“A big one,” the second man said.
“The dagos got lots of gold,” the third man said. “Think of the drink we could have on his account.”
“Enough of yer fun, boys,” Bill the mate said. “We’re not giving over an Englishman to a pack of dagos. It ain’t right.”
“Damn,” they said together, disappointed.
Bill laughed. He said to me with some surprise, “You look like a gentleman.�
�
“I’ve been accused of that.”
“Got any money there, mate?”
I put my hand in my pocket. My purse was still there beside the toy horse. I was relieved that I had not lost either of them. I tossed Bill the purse.
Bill juggled the purse in a palm, as the other two regarded it with interest. Bill said, “Well, what do ya think? Has he paid his fare?”
The others nodded.
They led me below decks, as the creaking of a boat’s oarlocks passed beneath the rail.
My fare bought me a change of clothes and a cup of rum, but at the added cost of the loss of what I wore when I emerged from the water. My coat, shirt and trousers somehow managed to disappear while I dried off and swilled my rum, and I never saw them again. But I saved the knife and the toy horse.
It took the night to recover from the dunking and to patch up the wounds I had received. I had half a dozen punctures on my arms and two in the chest, but they did not seem to be deep and did not bleed much. I do not remember receiving any of them. I had congratulated myself on my perfect defense, but it was less adequate than I had supposed. As the charlatan who passed as the ship’s medical officer applied some poultices, I regaled the crew with the story of the duel by way of explanation and they regarded the knife with more respect, especially as I kept it close at hand. It’s not that I didn’t trust them, just being cautious.
In the morning, the merchant crew saw me off at the gangplank that had been laid across the rail from their ship to the neighboring one. When ships stacked up against a wharf or basin, tied up rail to rail, this was how crews got to shore: by connected gangplanks, with leave to cross the intervening decks, but not to linger. And one never made the journey without calling to the neighboring crew you were coming.
While I minded the loss of the coat and trousers because of the expense, the rough sailor’s garb that had replaced them, a short blue woolen coat, natty and fraying, and canvas trousers that came only just below the knees, with a knit cap, gave me an altogether different appearance so that anyone would take me for just another merchant seaman. And I was glad of the disguise when I reached the quay, for I had not swum more than three boat-lengths from the Neptuno, and a guard stood on the stones about the gangways leading up to the Spanish ship. They gave me the eye, but the morning fog and my barefoot and shabby appearance among several other crewmen taking their leave aroused no suspicions and sparked no outcry.
With no money for a cab, I had to walk back to the London docks. The distance is perhaps two miles but it seemed like ten, and I looked so pathetic hobbling along, that no pickpocket, thief or ruffian bothered me, although I noted a few in the alleys and in doorways. However, I did attract the attention of a pack of small boys and girls on Upper Shadwell who followed me for a time, hooting and flinging clods of dirt. I tried to ignore them and trudged onward until they finally lost interest.
I could barely make out Wasp’s outline for the fog when I finally reached the docks. There was no way to signal to the ship that I had returned, and it was nearly noon before I cajoled the crew of a boat on its way to another ship moored nearby to drop me off on their way.
As I climbed the ladder, I heard murmurs rocketing through the ship of “It’s the Captain,” “the Captain’s back,” and by the time I reached the quarterdeck, almost the entire crew had assembled for the spectacle.
Crockett rocked back on his heels as he inspected my appearance, eyes lingering on my soiled bare feet. “We suspected you had gone slumming, but not that you’d sink this far.”
“It’s a disguise,” I said.
“I can see that. Not very effective.”
“It fooled the Spanish.”
“They’re here?” Austin asked in alarm.
“They’ve been watching.” I waved toward the east. “That frigate we shot up is in harbor in the West India docks.”
“So you went to spy on them?” he asked.
I nodded. “Not spying exactly. More just to have a look at them.”
“How did that turn out?” Crockett asked.
“Not as well as I hoped.”
I glanced at the main mast and was glad to see that not only the lower stem had been put in place, but the crew had managed to set its upper segments as well. I said, “What is this? Are you on holiday? We’ve got rigging to set. Mister Halevy, have the men quit their dallying and get to work!”
“Immediately! We must leave immediately? We can’t delay?” Austin asked in anguish when I delivered the admiral’s order as I changed the sailor’s coat and trousers for my own.
“We’re obviously being watched,” I said. “And closely. We can only buy so much time by dragging out repairs. They’ll know when we’re done. If we do not obey, I imagine we can expect impoundment.”
“They wouldn’t dare!”
“Oh, I think they would.”
“This is England! There are laws! We have rights!”
“People only have the rights that the government is willing to give them. If matters of state dictate that rights must be surrendered, then the authorities will be happy to trample upon them.”
“What are we to do?” he asked.
“You must do what you can to get Dolittle to move quickly.”
“Impossible,” he said, as downcast as I have ever seen anyone. “We’ve failed.”
“Tell him you’re willing to pay a bigger bribe.”
Austin’s distress increased. “They don’t call it a bribe. They call it a fee.”
“Whatever they call it, increase the amount.”
“We are almost out of money as it is. And if we must leave London, there won’t be time to consummate the arrangement in any case.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “There are still ways to skin this cat. London isn’t the only port in England, you know. Get a fire going under Mister Dolittle, while I think about how we can pick up the goods once they’re in your hands. But be careful when you go to see him from now on. You must assume you’re being followed.”
“The game of spies,” Austin sighed. “I’ve never liked it. All that lying and skulking around.”
“Cheer up, man. It prepares you for a political career. I am sure you have a great one ahead of you, if your rebellion succeeds.”
I dragged out repairs as much as I could, but daily visits by Cockburn’s aide, Lieutenant Turnbull, made dissembling impossible. His nautically experienced eyes would have seen through any deception. And in fact, I have the suspicion that he interceded on our behalf after he overheard my conversation with the cordwainer, who claimed he had a shortage that could set us back for two weeks, for the next day the shortage had mysteriously disappeared, replenished from naval stores, I suspect.
So, we purchased no more than ten days, and by the 16th repairs were completed. Lieutenant Turnbull regarded our newly raised yards, jauntily raked in a manner suited more to a warship, and our fine new rigging, and asked that cold morning, “So, you’ll be departing tomorrow?”
I blew on my steaming coffee as we stood upon the quarterdeck. “You’ll not give us just one more day to load cargo?”
Turnbull considered the question. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“So it is. ’Til Tuesday then? Monday to load and shift the ballast, and be gone the following day.”
“What will you be carrying, just out of curiosity?”
“Scottish whiskey.”
“Whiskey!” he said, astonished.
“Yes. Our factor, Mister Austin, insists that there is a market for it in New York.”
“Really.”
“A luxury good, that people will pay a premium for.”
“He says that?”
“He has it on good authority. Come on. The admiral wouldn’t begrudge us from turning an honest penny, would he? The Empire thrives on commerce. We’re just trying to do our bit.”
“You’ll lose your shirts on this,” he predicted.
“That will be Mister Austin’s loss, not mine,” I li
ed, for as a thirty-five percent owner in Wasp, I had as much to gain or lose as he did. “I just drive the carriage.”
Turnbull’s nose seemed to rise a little as I took myself several steps down the social ladder. Merchant captains, even those who doubled as privateers, had less status than naval lieutenants, especially ones whose fathers were baronets. It made him feel good to think himself the better man, and I fed that self-regard in the hopes that he would pay less attention to matters aboard ship.
He finished his coffee and handed the empty cup and saucer to a waiting steward’s mate, one of the Texas men who looked as though he wanted to slap the lieutenant for his airs. But I had warned the mate about that, and he had stood by with as decent an imitation of an English servant as could be managed. I doubt Turnbull noticed.
Turnbull said, “I suppose Tuesday will be sufficient.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. You are most kind.”
The matter of the whiskey had caused Austin and Crockett nearly to come to blows. Austin broached the subject out of thin air a few days before.
“New York!” Crockett had shouted when Austin put the notion on the supper table. “You want us to divert to New York? To sell a few barrels of whiskey? Are you out of your mind?”
Austin blinked in surprise at Crockett’s outburst, for he was normally a sanguine, droll fellow. I don’t recall more than two or three other times Crockett ever got so angry that he lost his temper, but he had grown increasingly anxious as the days had gone by without a positive word from Dolittle. The prospect of failure grated on his nerves as much as it did on Austin. Our fall-back plan, to sail for Rotterdam in hope that we might find muskets there, had done little to alleviate the apprehension.
“It takes more than guns to make a revolution,” Austin said.
“You’ve said that before, damn it.”
“Don’t you dare swear at me,” Austin said, his voice tense but subdued.
“I’ll speak to you any way I like,” Crockett shot back. “Particularly when you’re being a fool. We don’t have the time to waste. We’ve got to get back to Texas before March. Or don’t you remember what Andy said? The Spanish are sure to come then.”
