In Distant Waters (12 page)

‘
Sí
, 'e is my old brother.'

The wine seemed to have relaxed Don Alejo, though Rubalcava's dark features continued to brood on his defeat. Despite its quality it had been a difficult meal and it was obvious that neither Fraser nor Quilhampton had enjoyed it. Out of courtesy they had drunk toasts to their respective sovereigns and to their own mutual gallantry. There had been a stilted enquiry into the
Santa Monica
's losses that revealed some difference of opinion between the two Spaniards, and Drinkwater was becoming suspicious about the Spanish frigate's task. He was toying with various expedients as to how to pursue his enquiries when Rubalcava spoke with a sudden, low urgency to Arguello. Don Alejo nodded, leaned forward to light a thin cigar from the candles and blew smoke at the deckhead.

‘
Capitán
 . . . please, I ask you question . . . what you do
with
Capitán
Rubalcava and his men, eh? For you too much prisoner a big . . .'

‘Risk?'

‘
Sí, Capitán
, a big risk.'

‘Of course, Don Alejo, I do not make war upon unfortunate and gallant opponents. Assure Don Rubalcava that I am at his service. To deprive a brave officer of his ship is enough injury to inflict upon any man of spirit . . . where does the good captain wish to be landed?'

It took Arguello a few moments to digest this noble speech, moments in which Fraser writhed in his chair and Quilhampton fixed his commander with an odd, penetrating stare, filling the glass in front of him and hurrying the decanter round the table.

Another low exchange took place between the two Spanish officers. It was clear that Rubalcava had a point of view; it was also clear that Arguello disagreed with it. His exchange with
Santa Monica
's captain again became sharp, though once the naval officer had been suppressed and had relapsed into a tense and bitter silence, Arguello turned to his host with an air of unimpaired and courtly civility.

‘
Capitán
Rubalcava thank you for your much kind express of honour and receive it . . . it is for me to ask you to take us to San Francisco . . .'

Rubalcava drew in his breath, in obvious opposition to this proposal, and there was something tense about Arguello now, something eagerly expectant, as though he wished Drinkwater to answer enthusiastically in the affirmative. Drinkwater met his gaze, as though reluctantly considering his request.

‘Of course . . . you will have truce . . . I will, myself, see that you have water . . . anything . . .'

The gesture with the cigar was airily obliging; Drinkwater watched the heavy trail of blue smoke languidly lift in the hot air around the candles. Arguello was begging.

San Francisco; that was where Arguello wished to go. Rubalcava had other ideas. Why? And where had
Santa Monica
been bound when
Patrician
intercepted her?

‘Where were you from Don Alejo? The Philippines?'

‘
Sí, Capitán
, Manila . . . excellent for tobacco . . .' He held up
the cigar and smoke dribbled from his mouth.

‘And where were you bound, Don Jorge?' Drinkwater flung the question directly at the Spanish captain. It was a phrase which any seaman would comprehend, even in a foreign language, and, while Drinkwater spoke with professional interest, yet he sought to exploit the rift he had detected between the two men.

Rubalcava's dark head came up and his eyes flashed at Drinkwater with a ferocity that reminded Drinkwater of an Arab he had known once in the Red Sea. Rubalcava pronounced his destination with a kind of contempt, as though he had thought no more of it before his capture than he did afterwards: ‘San Francisco.'

‘And the purpose of your voyage,
señor
?' Drinkwater thrust the question quickly; he was entitled to ask it.

‘
Aviso
 . . .' Drinkwater recalled the reported destruction of documents.

‘A despatch vessel, with Don Alejo as your courier . . . ?'

‘
Qué?
Don Alejo . . . ?' Rubalcava's voice tailed off as Arguello broke in.

‘
Sí, Capitán
, I was courier . . . it is my duty . . . I am for the
Commandante
of San Francisco, his chief courier.'

A hiss of dissimulation came from the subsiding Rubalcava.

‘You speak excellent English, Don Alejo, please accept my compliments,' Drinkwater coaxed.

‘I was prisoner some time, taken off Cadiz but I make exchange. I live at Waltham Abbey.'

‘How very interesting . . . perhaps you wish to retire now, gentlemen . . . ?'

Drinkwater rose and his silent officers sprang obediently to their feet. ‘Mr Quilhampton, please be so good as to see our guests to their quarters before returning for your orders.'

Quilhampton hesitated, perceived Drinkwater's meaning and acknowledged the instruction. As the Spaniards withdrew from the cabin bowing, Drinkwater motioned Fraser to stay. They were about to leave the cabin when Arguello halted and indicated the portrait of Elizabeth, replaced lovingly by Tregembo on the re-established bulkhead.

‘Is this beautiful lady your wife, Captain?'

‘Yes . . .' Drinkwater watched Arguello address a remark to Rubalcava and he stiffened, sensing an insult, but it was obvious that it referred to the disagreement that existed between the two men, for Rubalcava's expression bore no trace of that complicity of men sharing a coarse jest at another's expense. Nevertheless Drinkwater bridled at the odd reference to Elizabeth.

‘Don Alejo!' he called sharply after the departing Spaniard. Arguello turned in the doorway.

‘
Capitán?
'

‘It is not permitted to smoke beyond my quarters!'

Arguello shrugged, dropped the stub of his cigar and with an elegantly booted toe, ground the thing into the painted canvas on the deck.

Fraser expelled a pent-up breath as the door closed behind the prisoners.

‘Another glass, Mr Fraser, you've earned it by your patience, by God. I've passed word to Tregembo to sling you a hammock in here while Arguello occupies your cabin. Mount has the business in hand?'

‘Yes, sir. Mount won't let them move. We've the dagoes battened well under hatches.'

‘Good. We should be rid of them in . . .' Drinkwater dragged a chart onto the table from the drawer beneath and cast a quick look at it, ‘three days, if this wind holds.'

There was a knock at the cabin door. ‘Come in!'

Quilhampton rejoined them and Drinkwater pushed the decanter towards him and re-seated himself. ‘Well, gentlemen, what did you make of that?'

‘There's bad blood between them. Rubalcava doesn't want to go to San Francisco, that's clear enough.'

‘Good, Mr Q. I agree . . . but he didn't want to go to San Francisco
before
they fell in with us, which argues a longer animosity than has been caused by our unexpected appearance in the Pacific.'

‘Perhaps they just didna get along too well, sir,' said Fraser.

Drinkwater nodded and refilled his glass. ‘But from his
latitude and course we can suppose their landfall at least was San Francisco, or the coast thereabouts. Now it is one thing to assume that they were not friends, but let us suppose you are a Spanish officer, bearing despatches from the authorities in the Philippine Islands. Where do you suppose you would be taking them?'

‘To the principal naval base in the Americas?' said Fraser.

‘Yes, I think so. And that is not San Francisco. That is Acapulco . . .'

‘For which he had a fair wind.'

‘Correct, Mr Q. Now, to continue the hypothesis; suppose a British frigate appears out of the blue. What would you do, Mr Fraser?'

‘If I was running?'

‘Yes, as he was.'

‘Well, I suppose I would see it as paramount to inform my superiors. From what you told me earlier about the “Armament” of ninety-one they seem to resent intruders in the Pacific.'

‘Exactly. And to do that you would lay a course for Acapulco, or Panama, but
not
San Francisco.'

A ruminative silence fell on the three officers which Drinkwater broke.

‘So, gentlemen, we have Don Alejo Arguello determined, for some reason, to get to San Francisco
at all costs
, rather than inform his principals at Acapulco that a British frigate is loose in the Pacific.'

‘But, sir, though I dinna disagree with your argument,
his principal
is at San Francisco, he said he was aide to the
Commandante
there . . .'

‘Who is also his “old brother”.' They laughed at the Spaniard's awkward phrase. ‘Well perhaps that argues some collusion, who knows?' Drinkwater yawned. ‘It's all pure supposition,' he added dismissively. ‘I think it's time we turned in. I suggest you both keep loaded pistols handy. I've no mind to lose the ship while I sleep.'

It was an uneasy three days. Every morning and evening the Spaniards were brought on deck in batches, guarded by the
marines and allowed to air themselves in the sunshine. The
Santa Monica
's officers were herded in sullen little groups and quartered in odd spaces. Curiously, the presence of the Spanish prisoners improved the morale of
Patrician
's people. The sight of others, more unfortunate than themselves, over whom they could enjoy a sense of triumph, seemed a tonic to their spirits. They did not worry over-much about the loss of prize-money asserting, so Drinkwater heard, that since the proportional loss fell most heavily on the officers, it was a greater hardship to them. There might have been a mutinous component in this dog-in-the-manger attitude, but if there was it was accepted as being part of the black humour of Jack, and to be overlooked. Certainly it amused, rather than alarmed Drinkwater who, as he expressed himself to Fraser, ‘had been too much knocked about in the sea-service to do more than acknowledge the rough justice of the men's opinion'.

The officers themselves had little time to dwell on their ill-luck, for the presence of two hundred prisoners left them no time for brooding. Fraser and Quilhampton shared Drinkwater's cabin, a circumstance which exasperated them all despite the curtain that Tregembo had hung about the captain's cot-space, for what men most desire aboard ship is real privacy. No one on board was sorry when the masthead lookout raised the cry of land and an hour later the blue trace of tree-clad hills surmounted by a necklace of cloud lay on the eastern horizon.

Drinkwater was pacing the long quarterdeck, reluctant host to Arguello who walked beside him maintaining a difficult conversation.

‘Capitan Rubalcava and myself, we were much surprise to see your ship,
Capitán
Drinkwater.' Arguello had been at obvious pains to improve his fluency in English during his captivity. ‘You come to make war upon His Most Catholic Majesty's dominions?'

‘You did not expect a British ship in the North Pacific, Don Alejo?'

Arguello shrugged. The gesture, though non-committal, was eloquently negative.

‘I was five hundred miles from any of His Most Catholic
Majesty's dominions, Don Alejo.' Drinkwater stopped pacing and turned to the Spaniard, watching for his response. Again there came the shrug. ‘If I wished, I might have devastated the trade of Peru, Panama . . .' It was Drinkwater's turn to shrug and wave his arm to the south, as though the whole Pacific seaboard of America lay at his mercy.

‘So
Capitán
, you come to the Pacific, you do not attack our trade ships, you keep from the land so we do not know you have come. I ask myself why, eh? I think you come to make bigger trouble. I see
Capitán
Vancouver come. I am with Quadra when we made to leave Nootka . . . now you come back.'

Arguello's face was a mixture of dislike, frustration and eager inquiry. It seemed a good fiction to encourage. Nothing as positive came with his orders; as usual governmental parsimony prevented the effort of colonising. All he had to do was to prevent others from accomplishing it, yet such a firmly implanted suspicion in Spanish minds might work to his advantage. He smiled, tight-lipped and read the gratification in Don Alejo's eyes.

‘You may find,
Capitán
, more difficult than you think . . .'

‘Perhaps,' Drinkwater said dismissively, ‘but tell me about
your
voyage, Don Alejo. What was the purpose of your voyage?' He lowered his voice with the air of a conspirator and saw Don Alejo's glance shift to the figure of Rubalcava, leaning disconsolately against the rail, gazing ahead at the approaching shoreline. ‘I see that Captain Rubalcava does not wish to come to San Francisco . . .'

He caught the quick, shifting glance of surprise that Alejo shot him glaze with dissimulation. Then Don Alejo raised his hands in an urbane gesture of helplessness. ‘As the French say,
Capitán, cherchez la femme
.'

‘A woman? Ah, I see, between you . . . I see . . .'

The high-flown theories of grand strategy propounded in his cabin a few nights earlier dissolved in the face of earthier causes. Don Alejo looked puzzled and then laughed, an unfeigned amusement that made Drinkwater slightly uncomfortable and Rubalcava look up from the rail.

‘No, no,
Capitán
, not between us . . . 
Capitán
Rubalcava does
not want to come to San Francisco because of the
hija
of Don José, my brother . . .'

‘
Hija?
'

‘
Sí
 . . . er, I do not know how you say in English, er . . . ?'

A flash of intuition crossed Drinkwater's mind. He recalled the jibe Don Alejo had made at Rubalcava indicating the portrait of Elizabeth on his cabin bulkhead. Arguello had been taunting the Spanish captain. Rubalcava was clearly being put in his place.