Then Tanger told him the story of the lost ship.
THE
Dei Gloria
was a brigantine. She had sailed from Havana on January i, 1767, with twenty-nine crew and two passengers. The cargo manifest listed cotton, tobacco, and sugar, and the destination was the port of Valencia. Although officially she belonged to a man named Luis Fornet Palau, the
Dei Gloria
was the property of the Society of Jesus. As was later confirmed, this Fornet Palau was a figurehead for the Jesuits, who maintained a small merchant fleet to assure the traffic of passengers and commerce that the Society, extremely powerful at that time, conducted with its missions, set-dements, and interests in the colonies. The
Dei Gloria
was the best ship in that fleet, the swiftest and best-armed against threats by English and Algerine corsairs. She was under the command of a reliable captain by the name of Juan Bautista Elezcano from Biscay, who was experienced, and closely connected with the Jesuits. In fact, his brother, Padre Salvador Elezcano, was one of the principal assistants to the general of the Order in Rome.
After the first few days, tacking into an opposing east wind, the brigantine found winds from the south- and northwest, which sped her across the Atlantic through heavy cloudbursts and squalls. The wind freshened southwest of the Azores, gradually increasing until it turned into a storm that caused damage to the rigging and made it necessary to man the pumps continually. That was the state of the
Dei Gloria
when she reached me 35th parallel and continued east without incident. Then she tacked in the direction of the Gulf of Cadiz, with the aim of sheltering from the easterlies of the Strait, and without touching a port she found herself beyond Gibraltar on the second of February. The next day she doubled Cabo de Gata, sailing north within sight of the coast.
From this point on, things grew a little more complicated. On the afternoon of February 3, a sail was sighted from the brigantine's stern. The ship was approaching rapidly, taking advantage of the southwesterly wind. Soon identified as a xebec, it was quickly gaining on them. Captain Elezcano maintained the
Dei Gloria's
pace, sailing under jib and courses, but when the xebec was within a little over a mile, he observed something suspicious in her actions, and he put on more sail. In response, the other ship lowered her Spanish colors and, revealing herself as a corsair, openly gave chase. As was common in those waters, it was a ship licensed in Algeria; from time to time she changed her colors and used Gibraltar as a base. It was later established that her name was the
Chergui,
and that she was commanded by a former officer of the British Royal Navy, a man named Slyne, also known as Captain Mizen, or Misian.
In those waters, the corsair had a triple advantage. One, she made better time than the brigantine, which, because of the damage suffered to her masts and rigging, had limited speed. Two, the
Chergui
was sailing with the wind in her favor, keeping to windward of her prey and between her and the coast. Three, and most decisive, this was a vessel fitted for war. She was superior in size to the
Dei Gloria,
and had at least twelve guns and a large crew trained to fight compared to the brigantine's ten guns and crew of merchant seamen. Even so, the unequal chase lasted the rest of the day and that night. By all indications, the captain of the
Dei Gloria
was unable to gain the protection of Aguilas because the
Chergui
had cut off that course, so he tried to reach Mazarron or Cartagena, running for the protection of the guns of the forts there, or hoping to meet a Spanish warship that would come to his aid What happened, however, was that by dawn the brigantine had lost a topmast, had the corsair upon her, and had no choice but to strike her colours or fight.
Captain Elezcano was a tough seaman. Instead of surrendering, me
Dei Gloria
opened fire as soon as the corsair sailed within range. The gun duel took place a few miles southwest of Cabo Tifioso; it was brief and violent, nearly yardarm to yardarm, and the crew of the brigantine, though not trained in war, fought with resolve. One lucky shot started a fire aboard the
Chergui,
but the
Dei Gloria
had now lost her foremast, and the corsair was prepared to board. The
Chergui's
guns had inflicted serious damage to the brigantine, which with many dead and wounded taking on water fast. At that moment, by one of those chance occurrences that happen at sea, the
Chergui,
almost alongside her prey and with her men ready to leap onto the enemy deck, blew wide open, from bow to stern. The explosion killed all her crew and toppled the brigan-tine's remaining mast, speeding her downward plunge. And with the debris of the corsair still steaming on the waves, the
Dei Gloria
sank to the bottom like a stone.
"
LIKE
a stone," Tanger repeated.
She had told the story precisely, without shadings or adornment. Her tone, thought Coy, was as neutral as a television commentator's. It did not escape him that she had followed the thread of the narrative unhesitatingly, relating the details without a single doubt, not even when it came to dates. The description of the pursuit of the
Dei Gloria
was technically correct, so it was dear, whatever the reason, this was a lesson well learned.
"There were no survivors from the corsair," she continued. 'As for the
Dei Gloria,
the water was cold and the coast distant. Only a fifteen-year-old ship's boy managed to swim to a launch that had been lowered before the battle. Without oars, he drifted, propelled southeast by wind and currents, and was rescued a day later, five or six miles south of Cartagena."
Tanger paused to look for her Players. Coy watched her carefully open the wrapping and put a cigarette in her mouth. She offered him one, and he refused with a gesture.
"Taken to Cartagena"—she bent over to light her cigarette from a box of matches, again protecting the flame in the hollow of her hands—"the survivor recounted the events to the harbor authorities. But he didn't have much to tell, he was badly shaken from the battle and the shipwreck. They were to interrogate him again the next day, but the boy had disappeared. At any rate, he had given important clues to clarifying what had happened. In addition, he pinpointed the place the ship had gone down, for the captain of the
Dei Gloria
had ordered a position reading at dawn, and this very boy had been charged with noting it in the log. He actually had the page in the pocket of his long coat, the paper where he had written the latitude and longitude. He also told them that the charts on which the ship's navigating officer had worked out his calculations from the time they came within sight of the Spanish coast were Urrutia's."
She paused as she exhaled, one hand cupping the elbow of the other arm, hand uplifted, cigarette between her fingers. It was as if she wanted to give Coy time to measure the import of that last bit of information, told in a tone as dispassionate as all the rest. He touched his nose without comment. So that was what was behind the story, he thought, a sunken ship and a map. He shook his head and nearly laughed, not from disbelief—such stories could contain as much truth as chimera, with one not excluding the other—but from pure and simple pleasure. The sensation was almost physical. A mystery at sea. A beautiful woman telling him all this as if it were nothing, and he sitting there listening. Whether or not the story of the
Dei Gloria
was what she believed was the least of it. For Coy it was a different matter, a feeling that made him warm inside, as if suddenly this strange woman had lifted a corner of a veil, an opening through which a little of that wondrous matter dreams are woven from escaped. Maybe that had a lot to do with her and her intentions—he wasn't sure—but it certainly had a great deal to do with him, with what makes certain men put one foot before the other and travel roads that lead to the sea, and wander through ports as they dream of finding sanctuary beyond the horizon. Coy smiled but said none of that She had half-closed her eyes, as if the cigarette smoke was irritating, but he knew that what was disturbing her was precisely his smile. So he wasn't an intellectual or a charmer, and he wasn't good at expressing himself. Also, he was conscious of his burly physique, his rough hands and manners. But he would have stood up at that moment, touched her face, kissed her eyes, her lips, her hands, had he not assumed that his action would have been gready misinterpreted. He would have sunk with her to the rug, put his lips to her ear, and whispered his thanks for having made him smile the way he used to when he was a boy. For being a beautiful woman, and for being so fascinating. For reminding him that there was always a sunken ship, an island, a refuge, an adventure, a place somewhere on the other side of the ocean, on that hazy boundary where dreams blend into the horizon.
"This morning," she said, "you told me you knew that coast well. Is that true?"
She looked at him questioningly, one hand still cupping an elbow, the cigarette held high between her fingers. I would like to know, he thought, how she gets that hair cut to be so asymmetrical and so perfect at the same time. I would like to know how the hell she does that.
"Is that the first of the three questions?"
"Yes."
He lifted his shoulders slightly. "Of course it's true. When I was a boy I swam in those coves, and later I sailed that shore hundreds of times, both very close and farther out to sea."
"Would you be able to determine a location using old charts?"
Practical. That was the word. This was a practical woman, with her feet on the ground. One might say, he considered with amusement, that she was about to offer him a job.
"If you mean the Urrutia, every miscalculation of a minute in latitude or longitude can translate to an error of a mile." He raised his hand and moved it before him, as if referring to an imaginary chart. "At sea everything is always relative, but I can try."
He sat mulling over what she had said. Things were beginning to fall in place, at least some of them. Zas again gave him a big lick when he reached for the glass on the small table.
'After all"—he took a sip—"that's my profession."
She had crossed her legs, and was swinging one of her black-stockinged feet. Her head was to one side, and she was looking at him. By now Coy knew that this posture indicated reflection, or calculation.
"Would you work for us?" she asked, watching him intently through the smoke of her cigarette. "I mean, we'd pay you, of course."
He opened his mouth and counted four seconds. "You mean the museum and you?" "That's right."
He set down the glass, contemplated Zas's loyal eyes, then glanced around the room. Outside, on the far side of the Repsol gas station and Atocha terminal, he could see, lighted at intervals, the complex of tracks.
"You seem unsure," she murmured, before smiling with disdain. "What a shame."
She bent down to flick ash into an ashtray, and the motion tightened her sweater, molding her body. God in heaven, thought Coy. It almost hurts to look at her. I wonder if she has freckles on her tits, too.
"It isn't that," he said. 'It's just that I'm amazed." His lip curled. "I didn't think that captain, your boss..."
"This is my game," she interrupted. "I can choose the players."
"I can't imagine that the Navy is short on players. Competent people who don't ground their ships."
He watched her reaction closely, and said to himself: This is as far as you go, mate. Get up and button your jacket, because the lady is going to give you the bum's rush. And you deserve it, for being a clown and a big mouth. For being short on brains, an imbecile.
"Listen, Coy." It was the first time she had spoken his name, and he liked hearing it from her mouth. "I have a problem. I've done the research, it's my theory, I have the data. But I don't have what it takes to carry it out. The sea is something I know through books, movies, going to the beach— Through my work. And there are pages, ideas, that can be as intense as having lived through a storm on the high seas, or having been with Nelson at the Nile or Trafalgar. ... But for this I need someone with me. Someone who can give me practical support. A link to reality."
"I understand what you're saying. Wouldn't it be easier, though, for you to ask the Navy for what you need?"
"But I am asking you. You're a civilian and you have no ties." She studied him through the smoke spirals. "You offer many advantages. If I hire you, I control you. I'm in command. You understand?"
"I understand."
"With military people that would be impossible."
Coy nodded. That much was obvious. She had no stripes on her cuff, only a period every twenty-eight days. Because naturally she was one of those. Not one day more or less. You only had to see her—a blonde in permanent high gear. For her, two and two always made four.
"Even so," he said, "I imagine you will have to give them an accounting."
"Of course. But in the meantime I have autonomy, three months' time, and a little money for expenses. It isn't much, but it's enough."
Again Coy focused on the view outside. Below, in the distance, a train was approaching the station like a long serpent of tiny lighted windows. He was thinking about the commander, about how Tanger had looked at him as she was now looking at Coy, convincing him, with that array of silences and expressions she used so well, to intercede with the admiral in charge. An interesting project, sir. Competent girl Daughter, you know, of Colonel So-and-So. Pretty thing, I might mention in passing. One of our own. Coy wondered how many people with a degree in history, museum employees by dint of examination, were given carte blanche to search for a lost ship, just like that.
"Why not," he said finally.
He had leaned back in the chair and was again rubbing Zas behind the ears, entertained by the situation. All things considered, three months with this woman would be a magnificent return on the We ems & Plath sextant.