In Distant Waters (10 page)

‘Good Lord!'

‘At home we armed for war, but eventually the Dons climbed down. The
sanculottes
obliged us by executing King Louis and depriving His Most Catholic Majesty of the support of His Most Christian ally . . . Their Lordships sent George Vancouver out to receive the surrender of the Spanish commander, a Don Quadra, or some such, and Vancouver spent the next year or so surveying . . .'

‘And now we go out to prevent some such measures being repeated by the Russkies?'

‘That would seem to be about the size of the thing, Mr Fraser.'

There was a brief silence between them, broken only by the low moan of the wind, the hiss of the sea rushing alongside the frigate, the creak of her fabric and some chatter amidships, where the watch congregated, chaffing the dozing gun-crews.

‘That ship we saw off the Horn, sir . . . I believe you expressed the opinion she was a Russian.'

‘Ah, Hill's been gossiping again, has he?' Drinkwater chuckled good-naturedly. ‘Yes, yes I believe her to have been bound for the Pacific, like ourselves . . . if she was ordered out as soon as hostilities were declared between Petersburg and London, she would be expected to reach the extremity of America at the same time as ourselves.'

‘She was a two-decker, sir.'

‘Yes. And if there's close co-operation between the Dons and the Russians . . .' Drinkwater let the import of the sentence sink in by implication.

‘I begin to see your problem, sir.'

‘Well, Mr Fraser,' remarked Drinkwater drily, ‘if I'm knocked up when we overhaul that fellow ahead of us, it'll be
your
problem.'

The wind backed a point towards dawn. Midshipman Wickham came below to where Drinkwater lay on his cot, fully dressed.

‘. . . It's increasing too, sir, Mr Quilhampton says, going large we've the legs of him, sir. She reeled off twelve at the last cast of the log.'

Drinkwater yawned. ‘Twelve, eh? Very well, Mr Wickham. I'll be up directly.'

Quilhampton was worried when Drinkwater reached the quarterdeck a few moments later.

‘She's carrying too much canvas, sir . . .'

Drinkwater gauged the strength of the wind and the feel of the ship beneath his boot-soles. Yes, there was a tendency of the ship to lay down, drowning her lee bow and building up a resisting wave there. He looked ahead. They were overhauling the Spanish ship perceptibly; it would be foolish to risk her escaping by carrying away spars aloft when they might delay the action an hour and break their fasts.

‘Very well, Mr Q. Rouse all hands and take in the stun's'ls. Pass the word to the cook to fire up the galley range and boil some skillygolee, and the purser to order “up spirits”; we've a brisk forenoon ahead of us!'

Drinkwater watched the ship burst into life. It was damned odd what the appearance of an enemy did to a ship's company.

‘Gives 'em a sense of purpose, I presume,' he muttered to himself, breathing in the fresh air of the dawn and watching the red ball of the sun break the eastern horizon ahead of them, dragging its lower limb like some huge jelly-fish, as though reluctant to leave its resting place, and climb up into the lightening sky.

And then he remembered he had left his sword in the pool beneath the waterfall on Más-a-Fuera.

Drinkwater hesitated in the space his cabin usually occupied. The bulkheads were down, the chairs and table had been removed together with his cot, sea-chest, books and the two lockers that turned the after end of
Patrician
's gun-deck into a private refuge. Even the chequer-painted canvas that served for a carpet had been rolled away. Only the white paint on the ship's side and the deck-head, gleaming in the reflected light that came in from the gaping stern windows from the ship's wake and sent patterns dancing across it, served to remind its new occupants that it was the hallowed quarters of
Patrician
's captain. For the purpose of the cabin now became apparent; with the removal of the furniture the obtrusive 24-pounder cannon stood revealed and even the lead sink that served Drinkwater's steward in his pantry was filled with water in readiness to sponge those after guns.

‘Where's my cox'n?' he asked of the waiting gun-crews who eyed the unexpected intrusion with some wariness.

‘ 'Ere, zur . . .' Tregembo shuffled aft, his old face seamed by a ragged scar, his back stiff from former floggings. ‘You'm be looking for this . . .' It was a statement, not a question, and Tregembo held out a sword, a new hanger, by the look of it, with the lion's head pommel of a commissioned officer's weapon.

‘Who lent it to you?'

‘Mr Mylchrist, zur . . .'

‘Ah, yes, thank you, Tregembo. And my pistols?'

‘Your clerk's taken 'em to the gunner, zur, for new flints. I tried knapping the old uns but they was too far gone . . . 'ere's your sword-belt . . .'

Drinkwater grinned. He could imagine the Quaker's distaste for his task. He pulled the sword from its scabbard. Beneath the langets he read the maker's name:
Thurkle and Skinner
.

‘I must thank Mr Mylchrist . . . have my pistols taken to the quarterdeck as soon as they are ready.'

‘Aye, aye, zur.'

Drinkwater passed through the berth deck to the orlop. In the stygian gloom he found Lallo with his loblolly boys laying out the catlings and curettes, the saws and pincers of his grisly trade. A tub waited to collect the refuse of battle, the amputated legs and arms of its victims. Drinkwater suppressed a shudder at the thought of ending up on the rough table Lallo's mates had prepared. For a moment he stood at the foot of the ladder, accustoming himself to the mephitic air and watching the preparations of the surgeon. Lamplight, barely sustained here, in the bowels of the ship, danced in pale yellow intensity upon the bright steel of the instruments and illuminated the white of Lallo's bowls and bandages. The contrast between these inadequate preparations below for rescuing men from death and the bright anticipation of the gun-deck above struck Drinkwater with a sudden sharpness. He threw off the thought and coughed to draw attention to himself.

‘Ah, sir . . . ?' Lallo straightened up under the low beams.

‘You are ready, Mr Lallo?'

‘Ready, aye, ready, sir,' said Lallo, somewhat facetiously and Drinkwater caught the foul gleam of Skeete's caried grin.

‘How is Mr Mylchrist today?'

From the far end of the space Mylchrist lifted a pale face from the solitary hammock that swung just beneath the heavy beams.

‘Much better, sir, thank you . . . I wish I could assist, sir . . .'

‘You stay there, Mr Mylchrist . . . you've had a long fever and Mr Wickham is doing your duty at the guns, you wouldn't deny him his chance of glory, would you now?'

Mylchrist smiled weakly. ‘No sir.'

‘I promise you yours before too long.'

‘Thank you sir.'

‘And thank you for the loan of your sword.'

‘The least I can do . . .'

Drinkwater smiled down at the wounded officer. Mylchrist had been very ill, avoiding gangrene only by providence and the application of a lead-acetate dressing whose efficacy Drinkwater had learned from the surgeon of the
Bucentaure
when held prisoner on Villeneuve's flagship.

‘The employment of your sword guarantees you a share in the day's profits, Mr Mylchrist.'

Mylchrist smiled his gratitude at the captain's jest. If they received prize- or head-money for their work in the coming hours, the third lieutenant's share for a fine Spanish frigate would better his annual salary.

Drinkwater returned to the quarterdeck to find Derrick awaiting him. The Quaker held the two pistols as though they were infected and it was obvious he had tried to leave them in the charge of someone else. The others were enjoying his discomfiture. Fraser was positively grinning and the first lieutenant's levity had encouraged the midshipmen and the gun crews waiting at the 18-pounders on the quarterdeck. Even the sober Hill, busy with his quadrant determining the rate they were overhauling the Spanish ship, seemed amused.

‘Thank you Derrick.' Drinkwater took the two pistols, checked the locks were primed and stuck them in his belt.

‘Mr Meggs loaded them for you, Captain.'

Drinkwater looked at the Quaker. In the months they had been together he had conceived a respect for the man. Derrick had refused to call him ‘sir', tactfully avoiding the familiar ‘Friend' of his faith, compromising with ‘Captain'. Drinkwater did not object. The man was diligent and efficient in his duties and only took advantage of his position in so much as he asked to borrow the occasional book from Drinkwater's meagre library. When he had borrowed Brodrick's
History of the War in the Netherlands
, Drinkwater had raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘Your interest in that subject surprises me, Derrick.'

‘A physician studies disease, Captain, in order to defeat it, not because of his liking for it.'

Drinkwater acknowledged his own defeat and smiled wryly.

‘Well sir,' he said in a low voice, ‘the moment has come . . . you had better go below to the orlop. The surgeon has no
assistant, only his two loblolly boys, perhaps you might be able to help.'

‘I would not have my courage doubted, Captain,' Derrick flicked quick glances at the inhabitants of the quarterdeck, ‘but I thought my post was at your side.'

Drinkwater had never had the luxury of a clerk before and had given the matter little thought, though he recollected Derrick's post in action was ‘to assist as directed'.

‘Very well, Derrick, but it is glory on the quarterdeck. Courage is a quality you will find at Mr Lallo's side.' He turned and raised his voice, ‘Very well, Mr Fraser? Mr Mount?'

‘All ready, sir, ship's company fed, fires doused, spirits issued and the men at their battle-stations.'

‘My men likewise, sir,' added Mount.

‘A little over a mile, sir,' said Hill, looking up from his calculations.

Drinkwater cast an embracing glance along the deck and aloft.

‘Very well. Pass the word to make ready. We'll try a ranging shot.'

But there was no need. A puff of smoke shredded to leeward of the Spanish frigate's stern and a plume of water rose close under
Patrician
's larboard bow. The wind-whipped spray pattered aft and wet them.

‘
Olé!
' remarked Mount, dashing the stuff from his eyes.

‘We shall make a running fight of it, then,' said Drinkwater raising his glass.

For the next hours they endured shot from the Spaniard's stern chasers, trying to gauge the weight of metal of the balls. Drinkwater held his hand; to return fire meant luffing to bring a bow chaser to bear on their quarry; to luff meant to lose ground. The morning was already well advanced by the time they could read the enemy's name across her stern:
Santa Monica
.

Drinkwater spent the time pacing up and down, occupying the leeward side of the quarterdeck where he had a direct view of the Spanish ship and felt no discomfort from the down-draught from the maintopsail in such a balmy climate. From time to
time he paused, rested his glass against a hammock stanchion and studied the
Santa Monica
. She was a relatively new ship, built of the Honduran mahogany that made Spanish ships immensely strong and the envy of their worn opponents. Her spars, too, gleamed with the richness of new pine and Drinkwater recalled Vancouver's words about the slopes of the coasts around Nootka Sound ‘abounding in pines, spruces and firs of immense height and girth, being entirely suitable for the masting of ships'.

Slowly their view of the enemy altered. As they overhauled her, they began to see the whole length of the
Santa Monica
's larboard side. Studying the Spaniard, Drinkwater could see her gun barrels foreshortening with a greater rapidity than they overtook. His opponent was preparing a disabling broadside as soon as all his larboard guns bore, while Drinkwater was hampered by his starboard broadside being on the leeward side of the ship. Even with full elevation, the list of the deck was such that his cannon might have trouble hitting their target. In addition there would be the problem of water pouring in through the gun-ports as
Patrician
lay down under the fiercer gusts of a strong breeze that was fast working itself up into a gale. Yet Drinkwater could not reduce the list by taking in sail without losing his chance.

If the Spanish commander succeeded in his design of disabling
Patrician
his escape was guaranteed. If he was a man of unusual energy the consequences might be worse, he could conceivably hold off and rake
Patrician
, for all Drinkwater's superiority in weight of metal. The vision of Lallo's instruments of agony and those empty limb-tubs, sprung morbidly into his mind's eye. With an effort of will he dismissed the thought. He would have to think of some counter-stroke and act upon it with a nicety of timing, if he was to disarm the Don's intention. For a moment longer he studied the
Santa Monica
as her bearing opened upon their bow with an almost hypnotic slowness. Then he shut his telescope with a snap.