In Distant Waters (27 page)

The noises died away and there followed a silence so full of suspense that it set him to a frustrated and angry pacing in which his mind now boiled with possibilities. For an hour he was a prey to such mental toil that the soothing effects of his catalepsy had evaporated by the time the sun had risen and the blood noise rushed through his ears so that he almost missed the sounds of departure, feet running hastily upon the path below. He reoccupied his spy-post and saw the
aviso
's boat pull out from the jetty and watched it go, not to the schooner but to the
Suvorov
. Later it returned and he heard the low sinister bass of Rakitin, grumbling at the
Commandante
's summons and the ungodly hour. Then, a little later still, the hasty retreat of the Russian's boots . . . and silence.

The turning of the lock and shooting of bolts startled him when it came. He half-expected release, so strung were his nerves, but it was only the grimy, sleep-sodden orderly who brought him bread, thin wine and an empty slop pail as he had
done on so many, many previous mornings. The familiarity of the ritual, backed by the drawn sword of an officer outside cast Drinkwater's spirit into depression. But he could not eat and jumped upon the chair yet again when the thin, reedy piping of the bosun's calls preceded the stamp-and-go of a hundred feet in the heart-wrenching procedure of departure. Rakitin had learned much from the Royal Navy. Watching from a distance, Drinkwater might have been looking at a British man-of-war getting under weigh and in his mind he could hear the orders passed as the topmen went aloft and the topsails were cast loose in the buntlines, their clews hauled out. On the high steeved bowsprit of the
Suvorov
men scrambled, casting loose the robands that secured the jibs. On the fo'c's'le men leaned outboard, fishing with the cat-tackle for the anchor ring as it broke surface under the round, black bow of the Russian seventy-four. And then he suddenly realised with a pang that sent an actual stab of pain through his guts, his own
Patrician
was also getting under weigh. There were fewer men and it was clumsily done, but within the hour she was slipping out of his view, following in the wake of the
Suvorov
. The last he saw of her as she swung to round Point Lobos was her white St George's ensign: only it was no longer subordinate to the red and gold of Spain. Now above it flaunted the diagonal cross of Russia.

Lieutenant James Quilhampton had intended making the entrance to San Francisco Bay in the last hours of the night. The appearance of a light northerly breeze augured well and they had begun from their refuge in good time to be within the harbour by dawn, intending to hole-up on one of the islands and reconnoitre the shipping during the coming day. But they were turned back by the arrival of a fast schooner, whose commander beat up under the headland of Bonita Point before wearing for the anchorage below the battery near Point Lobos. This obstacle had cost them time, but caution dictated a retreat, and the
Patrician
's boat was put reluctantly about for the sanctuary of the hidden bay.

Quilhampton fumed at the delay. He had made his preparations with great care. Although his resources were limited he
knew that much depended on success. Everything, in fact, not least his very life and his future. He wished he had not sent that final letter to Catriona. To have someone, however distant, to whose image a man might cling in such desperate moments in his life, seemed to him a most desirable thing. But it would not have been fair to Catriona and, God alone knew, she had been ill-treated by neglect for too long already.

‘I am stripped to the most indigent circumstances,' he muttered to himself as he cooled his heels on the little curve of sand withing the cove, ‘stripped to the very last resort of the naked . . .'

The phrase pleased him; oddly it comforted him to come face-to-face with absolute desperation. He held his life cheap now, and that meant he could undertake any enterprise. Smiling grimly to himself he looked up, swinging his eyes to rake the small arc of the horizon visible between the two rocky headlands that concealed their hideaway. What he saw destroyed his resolution. Two ships stood out to sea, heading north, their crews making sail as they lay over on the starboard tack. The leading vessel was the big, black Russian two-decker. The other, he was certain, was the
Patrician
.

Quilhampton frowned. What the devil did it mean? Should he go on into San Francisco or follow the two ships? He swore venomously. If Drinkwater and his people were aboard the
Patrician
, it was out of the question for Quilhampton with a handful of men in an open boat to give chase. He was utterly without resources, the mood of his men was not encouraging, in short the mere consideration of such an enterprise was as foolhardy as it was impractical. But was the alternative any better? The plentiful game and easy living of the last few days had prompted muttering from the men. If they had the opportunity of spirits and access to women his control over them would be broken utterly, and any approach to San Francisco, however made, risked that.

And what could he do if he got there? With Captain Drinkwater and some of
Patrician
's men they might have attempted something, but with the ship and, presumably, Drinkwater himself, carried off under Russian escort, what was the point of running his head into a noose? Sighing, he looked up. Beyond the
headlands of the cove the sea-horizon was empty. A sudden, panicky fluttering formed in the pit of his gut and he felt a desperate surge of self-pity. For a moment the horizon misted and then he forced a wave of anger to over-lay the hideous sensation. Reluctantly he turned away from the sea and made his way up the tiny valley behind the cove. There really was no alternative open to him. He would have to give himself up to the Spanish authorities; that way he might survive the mutinous knives of his men.

Some time after the departure of
Patrician
Drinkwater fell into a profound sleep, his exhausted body seeking its revenge upon his shattered spirit. He woke ten hours later, cramped and wracked with pain in the mangled muscles of his mauled shoulder, but oddly alert and with his mind calmer than it had been for many days. There was no reason for this feeling beyond a half-remembered fragment of chill philosophy. He could not recall its source; Epictetus, perhaps, or Marcus Aurelius, the only classical reading he had ever found aboard a man-of-war, but the text soothed him. Nothing, the ancient averred, happens to any man which he is not formed by nature to bear.

The pegs upon which men hang their reason are oddly illogical, but Drinkwater put behind him all thoughts of suicide from that moment and sat quietly in the gathering darkness of the approaching night. In such a mood a man might escape, or be shot.

He heard the footfalls on the stone flags of the corridor. There were several of them and they approached purposefully. There was nothing furtive about the way the lock was sprung or the bolts withdrawn. By the time the door was flung open and de Soto entered the cell with a lantern, Drinkwater's heart was pounding. De Soto jerked his head imperiously and Drinkwater rose.

‘
Adelante!
' De Soto stood aside and indicated Drinkwater should step outside. Apprehensively he did as he was bidden, the cool, night-fresh air wafting along the corridor sweet in his nostrils. The officer was accompanied by two soldiers bearing
muskets with bayonets fixed. They began to walk, Drinkwater with them, to where the corridor turned and joined the entrance gate through which the men from the boats had passed.

But he was not taken to be shot. They crossed the courtyard and entered the
Commandante
's quarters where once (it seemed so long ago) he had dined in honour and now was brought in ignominy.

He had hoped for an interview with Don José, but it was before Don Alejo that he found himself. From various shreds of evidence, from their first encounter on the
Santa Monica
, to the innuendoes of Don Alejo's niece, Drinkwater had conceived a dislike of the Spaniard. He was as slippery as an eel, interested solely in his own intrigues, whatever they were. If Drinkwater had been hoping for some relaxation in his regimen he was to be disappointed. Don Alejo's remarks were obscure and not reassuring.

‘Ah,
Capitán
Drinkwater, I see you are in good health,
buenas
 . . .' Don Alejo smiled like a cat, ignoring the stink of his prisoner, the unshaven face, the filthy neck linen. ‘We have been waiting for instructions from Panama . . .'

‘What the hell have you done with my ship?'

‘
Capitán
, please. She is not
your
ship. She fell a prize to the valour of Spain.'

‘Where the hell has she gone?'

‘Under escort . . . to a place of safety,' Don Alejo's eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know about your ship?'

Drinkwater evaded the question. He did not want his tiny window stopped up. ‘I am not a fool. You have also received news, Don Alejo, this I know, that an
aviso
arrived this morning . . .'

‘Ah, but no news about you,
Capitán
. I regret . . .'

‘Don Alejo, I demand that, at the very least, you accommodate me in quarters befitting my rank, that you oblige me by placing me under parole, that you allow me to shave, to see my officers and men . . .'

‘
Capitán
, you are not in your quarterdeck, please.' The Spaniard's voice was harsh, cruel. ‘It is not possible . . .'

‘If I ever have the opportunity to lay even with you Don Alejo . . .'

The Spaniard had been sitting on the corner of a heavy oak table, one booted leg swinging, his manner disinterested. Now he came to his feet, face to face with his prisoner.

‘Do not threaten me,
Capitán
. You have nothing to make me fear. You have no men, no guns, nothing.' He jerked his head at the guards and snarled something incomprehensible. Drinkwater was marched out, still wondering why he had been summoned.

They were crossing the courtyard when they met Doña Ana Maria and her duenna. Seeing him, she smiled sadly. ‘A happy day,
Capitán
, for you . . .'

He frowned. Was she mocking him? ‘For me
Señorita
? How so?'

De Soto's forbearance snapped and he disregarded the speaker's rank and connections, shouting the girl to silence and propelling Drinkwater suddenly forward with a blow on his shoulder that sent a wave of agony through him. He stumbled and all but fell, the pain blotting out all sensibility until he found himself once more in his cell and heard the heavy, final thud of bolts driving home. It was only then that he tried to make some sense out of the interview and its inexplicable sequel.

‘Easy, lads, easy . . .'

The boat ghosted along, only a whisper of water under her bow accompanied by the drip of water from the motionless oar-blades. The dark hull of an anchored ship loomed over them; it was one of the anchored merchantmen and the noise of a squeeze-box and some languidly drunken singing came to them. Lights shone from her stern cabin and a gale of laughter told where her master entertained. The germ of an idea formed in Lieutenant Quilhampton's brain, but this vessel was too big by far, perhaps they would find something smaller, more suitable further into the anchorage. He did not have to surrender; at least not yet.

The need for caution receded now they were in the anchorage. There were other boats about, ferrying liberty-men to and from
their ships. It was a contrast to the naval anchorages he was familiar with, where the fear of desertion made every ship row a guard and the passage of boats at night was strictly controlled. He began to relax, to cast about for a likely target, a small ship, like a schooner, easily manageable by a handful of desperate men. If he could strike quickly, divert his men's minds away from the thought of stews and whores he might, he just might . . .

‘Sir . . .' the man at bow oar hissed in the darkness.

‘What?'

‘Listen, sir . . .'

He heard the voice immediately. ‘Hold water!' he commanded, and when the boat lay stopped he cocked his ear again, getting his bearings.

The querulous voice was indisputably Yankee.

‘Well, Friend, he was here but a minute ago . . . perhaps he pisseth against a wall . . .'

‘Jesus, I thought you mother-fuckers were supposed to be seamen! I ain't a whit surprised the British are losing ships if they're driven to manning 'em with canting Quakers . . . you tell him to lay aft when he's finished for Chrissakes . .'.

‘Thou takest too much in vain the Lord's name, Friend . . .'

A snigger of recognition came from the oarsmen, half amused, half admired at the Quaker's undaunted attitude. If Derrick was aboard the ship under whose stern they had stopped, who else might there be? Or had Derrick deserted alone, prompted by those ridiculous pacifistic views of his? The questions tumbled through Quilhampton's mind and he leaned forward.

‘Give way, easy, lads, and keep deathly quiet,' he whispered, and the oars dipped into the water again. In the stern, Quilhampton pulled the tiller hard against his chest and swung the boat's bow towards the
Abigail Starbuck
.

‘Oars . . .'

The men ceased rowing and the boat glided on. A tinkling sound could be heard and, peering ahead, Quilhampton caught the faint silver arc of urine falling from the height of a ship's forechains. As the boat slid under the bulk of the ship's hull he saw, against the slightly lighter darkness of the sky, the shape of a
man buttoning the flap of his trousers. As the boat got closer and the man turned inboard his face was suddenly illuminated. Caught with one foot on the rail as he swung round he paused.

‘I heard him,' said a deep-burred and familiar voice, ‘a right bloody bucko bastard of a Yankee Dandy . . .'

Quilhampton drew a breath. If the man holding the lantern was not Derrick, or there were others within earshot they might be ruined, but the moment was not to be lost and the occupants of the boat were all registering recognition and surprise so that their own silence could not be relied upon.