by M. C. Muir
A few days in port would be welcome by everyone.
When a break in the coastline was observed, Oliver recognized the broad entrance to Corral Bay that led to the Valdivia River on which the old Spanish colonial town had been built. Though the fortifications surrounding the bay could not be seen from the deck, he was certain his vessel would have been sighted from the land and news that a British frigate was closing would already have been relayed to the authorities.
Calls from the masthead announced that a ship, flying Spanish colours had left the bay, rounded the northern headland and was heading to the north-west. Shortly after, this was followed by a small cutter bearing south-west towards the frigate.
‘Boat heading this way.’ The call came from aloft and confirmed Oliver’s suspicions that Perpetual’s presence had been noted.
‘Reduce sail,’ he called, slipping the glass under his arm. ‘We must prepare to receive a welcoming party. How is your Spanish, Simon?’
‘Tolerably poor.’
‘About equal to mine then. Let us hope our guests speak English.’
It took almost half-an-hour from the first sighting of the cutter to it sailing to within speaking distance. After a short exchange between the two vessels, the Spanish naval officer was invited aboard. He was greeted formally with the appropriate squeaks from the bosun’s whistle and salutes from the officers.
The meeting, conducted on deck, was brief, as the officer’s command of English was on a par with that of both Captain Quintrell and his lieutenant’s familiarity with Spanish. In anticipation, Oliver had prepared a letter outlining his requirements – permission to enter the bay, and the request for a pilot to escort Perpetual into the mouth of the Valdivia River. He further begged an audience with the Governor or Intendant of the region.
At the conclusion of the interview, the officer tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket, bowed in a courtly fashion and returned to his boat. Although, Oliver was eager to receive news of Captain Crabthorne, he considered it pointless asking the Spaniard if he had seen or heard of Compendium, as both the question and his answer could easily have been misinterpreted.
Suffice to say, mañana, was a word which the Englishmen understood, so when the cutter departed, Oliver felt assured that a pilot vessel would arrive the following morning. He knew that once they entered the bay, the distance to Valdivia was about fifteen miles, though Oliver was careful not to reveal his prior knowledge of the area to his Spanish visitor.
His recollections of the port he had visited with his father were of cordial encounters extended in a most gracious manner, for though Valdivia was a long way from Europe, the customs, protocols and behaviour of its officials reflected that of the affluent families of Spain.
‘When I go ashore, I will require an interpreter to accompany me,’ Oliver said. ‘A man who speaks Spanish. Preferably a midshipman or warrant officer. If not, I will settle for a sailor, but one who is reasonably presentable.’
At supper time, Mr Tully descended the companionway leading to the galley, stopping on the second-last step.
‘Do any of you men speak Spanish? And I don’t mean cursing and swearing in that language,’ he called. ‘The captain wants someone to go ashore with him.’
‘I know how to get me a señorita,’ Smithers smirked, opening his legs and cupping both hands over his crutch. ‘But you don’t need much Spanish for that.’
The men at his mess table ignored him. They’d heard all Smithers’ jokes before and quickly returned to the conversations that had been interrupted.
‘Hey, you,’ Mr Tully said, pointing to the West Indian. ‘Didn’t I hear the men say you escaped from Santo Domingo and shipped to Barbados?’
‘Ha! Knew it!’ Smithers cried. ‘We got us an escaped slave onboard!’
‘I’m no slave,’ Eku replied, defiantly. ‘I was free born.’
‘Shut your mouth, Smithers,’ Mr Tully yelled, hopping down to the deck and moving through the mess looking at each table in an attempt to find a volunteer.
‘Didn’t you tell us you spoke French and Spanish?’ Bungs crowed, leaning across the table till his nose was almost touching that of the black sailor. ‘Or did you forget all of a sudden?’
A line of straight white teeth flashed back at the cooper from between a pair of dark wine lips. ‘How could I forget? That was my mother’s language. That is the language I spoke when I was a boy.’
‘So why didn’t you answer the call?’ Muffin asked.
‘I don’t think the captain wants no black tar.’
‘He didn’t say what colour a man should be. Go after him,’ Bungs said, prodding the Negro from his seat. ‘Tell the middie what you can do. Who knows, it might be worth something to you, or maybe something you can bring back here and share with us. If nothing else you’ll get a trip in the captain’s boat, see the sights and maybe even get a sniff of some women, then you can come back and tell us all about it.’
Eku was reticent.
‘Go on. Don’t be daft.’
‘Mumbo jumbo, that’s all he can speak,’ Smithers hissed, from the next table. ‘I’ve heard them blacks, clicking and clacking to each other like a gaggle of geese when their necks are wrung.’
‘Aye, well, you’d be an expert at that, Smithers. Shame you can’t turn your hand to something useful. I’ve watched that lad up on the yards. He puts the rest of your watch to shame. Near hauled the t’gallant in single handed. Strong as an ox, he is.’
‘Bah,’ Smithers retorted, jabbing his spoon back into his bowl. For once, he had no answer for Bungs because he knew the Negro was worth any pair of topmen on the yards.
‘Pardon, Captain,’ Mr Tully said, ‘I have a man here says he knows Spanish.’
‘Then bring him in, I wish to speak with him.’
The broad shouldered West Indian bowed his head and knuckled his forehead, as he entered.
‘Your name,’ Oliver asked.
‘The priest gave me the name Antonio but my mother gave me my grandfather’s name. His name was Ekundayo. Eku is the name I am called by on this ship.’
‘Then I shall call you, Eku. I am told you speak Spanish?’
The Negro nodded.
‘Castilian Spanish?’
‘I do not know. I speak the Spanish of the rich white people of the island on Santo Domino where I was born. I also speak the language of the slaves but they are quite different, you know.’
‘If you are capable of understanding and conveying a message in Spanish that will suffice. When we anchor in the bay, I intend to take a boat up-river to the town and I will require you to accompany me as my interpreter. Are you capable of doing that?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘That is good,’ Oliver said, glancing down from the sailor’s naked chest to his bare feet. ‘Did you not get supplied with slops when you came aboard?’
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘Then I would be grateful if you would wear them on this occasion.’
The following morning, with a local pilot aboard Perpetual, and the Spanish cutter sailing alongside, Captain Quintrell and his officers were able to observe the fortifications that surrounded the grand harbour as they sailed between the broad headlands and into Corral Bay.
The scene had been well captured by the wet fingers of the sculptor who had formed the papier mâché model that he had admired in the reception room at the Admiralty. Oliver had been impressed with the accuracy of the overall features, though some of the fine detail had been lacking.
In miniature, the model had exactly replicated the grand harbour located on the Pacific coast offering a broad anchorage with several large inlets from it including the estuary of the Valdivia River that snaked into the hinterland under the shelter of several mountain ranges. In particular the model had shown the exact location of the forts built on almost every promontory. Ten in total.
When he had visited the port previously, his attention had never been so keenly warranted. Now he was alert to all
the sights, sounds and smells. The forts were no longer the ageing buildings decorating the headlands that he had admired as a boy, but live battlements housing iron guns, powder rooms, weapons and soldiers. They were poised with guns aimed, always ready for action. And because of their locations, they were invulnerable. With the only access by steep goat-tracks that wound around the rocky headlands, any advance on the garrisons on foot would be virtually impossible.
Between them, the forts not only protected the bay’s entrance from the ocean, but the inner bay. Any enemy ship foolish enough to attempt to penetrate those waters would not survive the bombardment which could be directed at it. If sea war came to the South American coast, Valdivia would be one port which would stand its ground.
The only enemy the fortifications could not hold back was the sea itself. Fifty years earlier, a great wave had swept in from the Pacific, rushed up the river, drowning the town and sweeping away both its houses and its people. From the battlements the soldiers could only watch in horror, and the shots fired from the cannon to warn the inhabitants that the sea was about to engulf them, came too late.
‘Mr Nightingale, I am sure the Admiralty will appreciate your artistic eye as much as I do. While we are in this port, I would like you to sketch every bay and inlet, every stone tower, even the tracks cut into the hillsides climbing up to them. The time will come, and quite soon, I fear, when your work will be a boon to our navy. That is your duty for the period of time Perpetual is in this harbour. Are you able to do that for me?’
‘Aye, Captain.’
Turning away from the midshipman, Oliver addressed his first lieutenant.
‘When I go ashore, I will purchase some cattle. They can be slaughtered on the shore. What is not eaten during our stay can be salted and sealed in barrels. The men will appreciate a serve of fresh beef. Speak to the cook and cooper about that. I am sure they will not object to leaving the ship for a few hours. Also arrange suitable volunteers to go with them.’
Simon Parry nodded.
Oliver continued, as if thinking aloud. ‘Fresh fruits also,’ he said. ‘Apples, oranges, lemons and limes if they are available. The soil here is rich and the produce of the region excellent. And for my own indulgence,’ he added, smiling, ‘a few bottles of the local wine. I hope you will share some with me.’
‘Indeed,’ Simon said. ‘I look forward to it. How long do you intend to remain in port?’
‘Three days at the most. Time only to take on the supplies. When I am ashore, I want a masthead lookout posted in case Compendium should enter the river. I am also interested in the traffic on the roadstead – a record of any vessel and its flag.’
‘It will be done,’ Simon said. ‘But what of the rest of the men? Are they allowed ashore?’
‘No. I am sorry. I know my decision will not be popular. But this port has many distractions which could entice men to run.’
‘You’re a lucky sod,’ Smithers moaned, when the captain’s boat was being lowered. ‘You get to go ashore and we’ve to stay here. You’d think, after all these weeks on board, the captain would at least let us taste the local produce.’
‘The women you mean?’ Froyle said.
‘That’s what you get for being on the captain’s boat crew,’ Foss added. ‘But I can tell you, if the wind don’t pick up it’ll be a fair pull battling against the river’s outflow and the tide on the ebb. Do you want a seat in the boat?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Smithers said. ‘You never know with these foreign ports what to expect. If the natives is unfriendly, we could end up with us throats cut.’
‘Don’t talk silly. This place is civilized. See the ships over yonder. Them’s traders and they look to be in good trim. And if you cast your eyes up stream, you can see shipyards and boats in the making. But I don’t see any natives with shrunken heads hanging from their belts.’
Perpetual’s anchorage was at least three miles down-river from the town and, as expected, the boat’s crew had a hard pull against the tide and current of the Valdivia River. After passing the township and several small jetties where boats were busy loading fresh produce, the captain’s boat ran up on a narrow stretch of beach. Waiting to meet it were two Spanish soldiers, two grooms and six sound horses.
‘Mr Nightingale, I would like you to accompany me,’ the captain said, while waiting for the boat crew to heave the boat further up on the sand. ‘And you will come also,’ he said, turning to Eku. ‘Do you ride or do you prefer to walk?’
‘I ride,’ Eku answered.
‘That is well. Foss, kindly remain with the boat and make sure none of the men are tempted to wander.’
With one of the soldiers stationed near the boat, the servants assisted the visitors with their horses before mounting up and escorting the captain’s party. Their destination was the hacienda of the subdelegado to the Intendant. After half and hour, riding east along the flat marshy banks of the river, the party turned inland across several miles of farmland. Cattle, horses and llamas grazed on the estates, while the peasants, working in the fields, showed no interest in the riders.
Eventually, a single-storey white building came into view. Perched on a low rise, it was set against the snow-clad peaks of the high Andes. Built in the Spanish style, the house was fenced by a high wall and surrounded by old established orchards. On reaching it, the party slowed and Captain Quintrell, Mr Nightingale and the seaman were led through a pair of elaborate iron gates into the broad courtyard where they dismounted. Despite the summer heat, the lawn was green, while the broad sweeping fronds of several palm trees created an area of shade.
‘This way, please,’ a liveried servant indicated, meeting them at the door and directing them along a short colonnade. From there, they were ushered into a large reception room that was lavishly furnished. Glass chandeliers hung from the ceilings while ornaments made from glass, stone and silver decorated the side tables. Scattered across the tiled floor were several large cow-hides in various colours, while the velvet upholstered chairs looked both comfortable and inviting.
With difficulty, their host stood up and turned to greet them. His weight rested on a walking stick. ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ he said.
It was immediately evident to Oliver he would not require the services of an interpreter. He bowed.
‘Captain Quintrell, His Majesty’s ship, Perpetual, I presume,’ their host said. ‘My name is Señor Michael McGinty and as you will detect from my accent, and perhaps the colour of what little hair I have left, I am Irish by birth. But, I trust you will not hold that against me.’
Oliver smiled politely and introduced the other two members of his party.
‘Please sit, gentlemen. You will have to excuse me for I am unable to stand for long periods.’
He rang a small bell and a girl immediately appeared from the corridor with lemonade which she offered to the group. The visitors were grateful.
‘I trust you like what you have seen of our river and harbour. We are very proud of our region.’
‘It is a delightful area, and a pleasant change from the sea,’ Oliver said.
The Irishman continued. ‘I must tender the apologies of the Governor. He and his wife are visiting Buenos Aires, but I am sure he would have been delighted to receive you. The Intendant is also absent. He had business to attend to in Valparaiso. However, I trust you will accept an invitation to dine here with me and my family. Perhaps tomorrow if that is suitable.’
‘Most kind of you, Señor.’
‘But I imagine you are not here to sample our local wines, but to supply your ship. I presume you are sailing north, as there had been no word of you before yesterday.’
‘Your lookouts have keen eyes, Señor McGinty.’
‘Indeed, it is necessary. You may be aware of the cavalier antics of the pirates on the coast of South America. They come mainly from India and the East Indies. There are also the French, who patrol the Pacific seemingly innocently but their intent is yet to be determined. And we also suffe
r seasonal visits from whalers and sealers, American and British merchants, Dutch and East India Company vessels, along with the slavers who hide under various flags.’
‘Your harbour is a busy one, Señor, and, I am sure, your fortifications afford excellent protection from the sea,’ Oliver commented.
‘Indeed, but today our concerns are not only from the ocean. They also come from the land.’
Oliver was eager to hear more.
‘This country, like the new colony Britain is attempting to establish in New Holland, is made up of new immigrants, but free men, not convicts like you British prefer to send. Chile is a country made up of people from many nations. Though its white population is predominantly Spanish, there are Swiss, Irish, Norwegians plus many Englishmen. Cornish tin miners, Yorkshire engineers, and Scottish cattle breeders who have made this country their home. The government is not averse to attracting foreign investors who wish to set up large farms here, or skilled artisans, or surveyors seeking to discover more precious minerals in the ground.
‘But unlike New South Wales, where the British claimed they had acquired an empty land – a terra nullius, the Spanish conquistadores arrived in South America to find a land already populated by native people; intelligent civilized people who were farmers, miners, millers, metalworkers; industrious people who had worked the land for centuries and valued its many gifts.
‘Naturally, the conquistadores were attracted to these riches and proceeded to relieve the natives of them. But also, because the primitive beliefs of the Incas did not conform to the teachings of the Jesuit priests, they used force to convert them to Christianity. Of course, when their valuable treasures were looted, their temples burned and their high priests tortured and murdered, the native inhabitants lost all regard for the Spanish invaders.’
The Irishman glanced at the captain’s black sailor. ‘I see from the expression on your face, young man, that you have some understanding of the type of treatment to which I am referring.’
