"In Distant Waters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Woodman Richard)

Chapter Five The Spanish Prisoner

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.

'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.

'Ole!' 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.

'Mr Hill! Mr Fraser! A moment of your time, if you please…'

He was not a moment too soon. So parallel were the courses of the two ships that the angle of bearing for both of them to fire upon the other with any chance of achieving maximum effect was coincident within a degree or two. Drinkwater had noticed an officer bent over an instrument by the Spaniard's larboard dogvane and made his preparations accordingly.

'Run out the guns!'

When he had passed his orders he heard the rumble of Patrician's 24-pounders as their forward-trained muzzles poked from the heeling frigate's side. His heart was beating, hammering in his chest as, beside him, Fraser sighted along the barrel of one of the quarterdeck eighteens.

'About two degrees to go, sir…'

Drinkwater grunted. There had been some movement on the Santa Monica's deck at the appearance of Patrician's guns. Would his opponent react?

For a long moment the question seemed to hang, then he saw the officer by the dogvane bend again. Perhaps they too were waiting in suspense.

Leaning over, the two ships rushed along, Patrician ranging slowly up to windward of the Spanish ship, gradually overlapping her larboard quarter close enough to confuse the sea running between them. Above their decks the yards were braced hard-up upon the leeward catharpings, the sails strained against the strength of the wind, driving the foaming hulls relentlessly through the water. From the high-cocked peaks of their spanker gaffs the opposing ensigns of their contending nations snapped viciously, while beneath them the lines of men at their guns, the groups crouching below the rails ready to haul on bowlines and braces, the red-coated marines aiming their muskets from the barricades of the hammock nettings, and the knots of officers on the quarterdecks and at their posts throughout the ships, waited for the orders from the two captains that commanded the destinies of five hundred souls.

'Infernal machines…' Drinkwater heard someone whisper, half-admiringly, and smiled grimly when he realised it was Derrick, caught up in the stirring excitement of this insanity.

'Bearing coming on, sir,' said Fraser matter-of-factly, still bent over the dispart sight of the 18-pounder.

Drinkwater saw the Spanish officer by the Santa Monica's larboard dogvane straighten up purposively. Without taking his glass from his eye he gave the order: 'Fire!'

Gun-locks snapped like the crackle of grass as a squall strikes, then came the immense roar of artillery, the trembling rise of the deck as the ship reacted to the recoil and the sudden burst of activity throughout Patrician that followed his order. On the gun-deck below, the heavy 24-pounders belched flame and shot, trundling inboard and snapping their tackles together as their crews swarmed round them, sponging and reloading the monstrous things. On quarterdeck and fo'c's'le the 18-pounders and the brutal 42-pounder carronades swept the deck with powder smoke and the enemy with a hail of iron and langridge.

'Up helm!'

Behind Drinkwater, Hill was standing by the wheel, shouting through his speaking trumpet while Fraser, released from his duty bent over the dispart sight, was leaping across the deck whence Drinkwater followed him.

'Smartly there, my lads, stamp and go!'

Patrician's bow swung towards the Santa Monica as the Spaniard's hull disappeared momentarily behind the smoke of her own broadside. The fog of her discharging guns would, for a moment, blind her officers to much of his manoeuvre.

Above his head the braces were easing the yards and then there was a rending crash from forward. Drinkwater felt a slight tremble through the hull, but Patrician's turn was unimpeded and then, leaning from the larboard hance, he could see the stern of the Santa Monica.

There was a rent in her spanker and her ensign was fluttering down, its halliards having parted as Patrician's jib-boom slashed across her deck. Her stern boat was a wreck and hung down from the davits by a single fall.

'Larbowlines…!'

Drinkwater's voice was drowned in the thunder of the larboard guns, fired by their captains as they bore, double shotted and topped with canister they blasted into the starboard quarter of the Spaniard as Patrician sliced obliquely across the Santa Monica's stern.

As the smoke cleared Drinkwater caught a glimpse of Comley, the boatswain, wielding an axe on the knightheads, where he fought to free Patrician of the obstruction of her smashed jib-boom.

'Hard on the wind again, Mr Hill!'

'Aye, aye, sir, full an' bye it is!'

Patrician turned back to larboard again. She had given ground to the enemy and was now in her lee, but her guns still bore and they were being worked like fury by their crews; flame and smoke roared from her larboard ports as the cannon pointed high. A quick glance aloft showed Drinkwater that barely a shot of the enemy's had told, that their most serious damage had been sustained forward, from their own manoeuvre in crossing the Santa Monica's stern to rake her. Drinkwater dismissed that, raising his glass to assess the damage his ruse had effected.

The enemy were hoisting their shot-away ensign into the mizen rigging, and holes were appearing in her sails, but hardly a gun replied to Patrician from Santa Monica's starboard broadside. Then, as he watched he heard a cheer. Shifting his glass from the enemy's starboard quarter where he could see the splintered remains of her gallery, he caught the toppling maintopmast. For almost a minute it stopped falling, leaning at a drunken angle, held by its rigging to the fore and mizen masts, and then it broke free, crashing downwards and bringing the mizen topgallant with it. The Patricians were whooping about their guns and the officers on the quarterdeck wore broad grins. Drinkwater could see they were rapidly shooting ahead of the Spaniard.

'Stand by to tack ship!'

But Drinkwater had no need to range up to windward, subjecting the Santa Monica to a further raking broadside from ahead. As he watched, he saw the red and gold lowered from the mizen rigging in token of submission.

'She strikes, sir!'

The news was reported from a score of mouths and more wild cheering broke out from the exhilarated crew of the Patrician. All the pent-up frustration of the past months, all the ill-feeling and resentment, the hopelessness of pressed men, the self-pity of dispirited lovers and the petty hatreds of men confined together for weeks on end, seemed burst like an abscess by the violent catharsis of action.

His eyes met those of the sailing master. 'I think our sailing was of sufficient superiority on this occasion, Mr Hill,' Drinkwater remarked, repressing his sudden triumphant burst of exuberance.

'For a Spaniard, sir…' replied Hill cautiously and Drinkwater felt the reproach in the older man's tone. He nodded.

'Yes. You are right; for a Spaniard…'

They did not board the prize until the following morning, for the wind threw up too rough a sea for them to launch a boat safely. And when they were successful they discovered their triumph to be short-lived.

Their first broadside had been fired from the starboard guns on a lee-roll. The iron shot had hulled the Santa Monica, and damaged her so badly that by the following noon it was clear that her pumps were unable to stem the inrush of water. She began to founder under the feet of her prize crew. Lieutenant Quilhampton, sent aboard the Spanish frigate as prize-master, sent this news back to the Patrician by Midshipman Frey.

Reluctantly Drinkwater ordered the prize abandoned and by that evening found himself host to two hundred unwilling and darkly threatening prisoners. They consisted of Spaniards, mission-educated Indians and a large proportion of mestizos, a lean and hard-bitten lot led by a tall, gaunt officer who wore the epaulettes of a captain in the Royal Navy of Spain.

'I am Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, Se#241;or, and I compliment you on the gallantry of your defence. I regret the loss of your ship.' He bowed formally and took his opponent's offered sword.

He met the Spaniard's eyes and found in them more than resignation at the fortunes of war. The deep-set expression of anger and hatred seemed to burn out from the very soul of the man, and Drinkwater recognised in the lined and swarthy face the man who had bent over the Santa Monica's rail and whose order to fire Drinkwater had pre-empted by a split-second.

'Don Jorge Meliton Rubalcava…' The Spanish commander broke off. Drinkwater had no idea whether Rubalcava understood English from this bald announcement.

'Have I your word that you will not raise a revolt, Captain Rubalcava?' Drinkwater asked, turning the sword-hilt and offering it back to its owner. Rubalcava hesitated and swung to an accompanying officer whom Drinkwater assumed to be his second-in-command. But the other seemed only to be awaiting the completion of the formalities of surrender, before declaring himself a greater man than Rubalcava.

'He was throwing papers overboard, sir,' Quilhampton volunteered, 'a fellow of some consequence.'

Drinkwater was watching the two Spaniards. They seemed to be in some disagreement and Rubalcava's anger was suppressed with difficulty. His companion, however, turned to Drinkwater with an unruffled expression, and addressed him in strongly accented and broken English.

'Capit#225;n, Don Jorge he give you his parole and express for him the honour of you give his sword. Gracias.' The sentence was terminated by a low bow which Drinkwater awkwardly returned.

'You speak excellent English, Se#241;or, perhaps you could tell me whom I have the honour of addressing?'

'I… Don Alejo Joaquin Arguello de Salas, aide-de-camp to His Excellence, Don Jos#233; Henrique Martin Arguello de Salas, Commandante for San Francisco…'

Again there was an exchange of bows.

'Perhaps, gentlemen,' Drinkwater invited, 'you would do me the honour of dining with me and my officers this evening.'

'Gracias… what is it you think to do, Capit#225;n?'

'We can discuss that matter later, gentlemen. And now, if you will excuse me, I have much to attend to in seeing to the comfortable accommodation of your men.'

There was a further mutual acknowledgement and Drinkwater found himself favouring the simple directness of Derrick's mode of address above this extravagant over-worked charade of elaborate bows. He ordered the incredulous Quaker to see the Spanish officers quartered below and turned to Mount to issue orders for the confinement of their seamen.

Mount concealed his grin with difficulty. The bobbing head and sweeping gestures of the quarterdeck had provoked an outburst of merriment along the deck as ill-concealed as the hostility of Captain Rubalcava.