Richard Woodman - In Distant Waters

Drinkwater led them off to the left, keeping between the river and the fort, but working round behind it, guided by the red glow of the fire within the stockade. The seething hiss of the rain on the sea and mud became a low roar as they moved beneath the trees, dripping in huge droplets upon them. Despite the discomfort it covered their approach and they were close enough to make out the dancing of flames through the interstices of the pine-log rampart. Motioning them to stop, Drinkwater edged forward alone to peer through one of these slender gaps.

By now his night-vision was acute. He could see the upper outline of the stockade against the sky and, except by the gate, it appeared to be unpierced by guns, although there was doubtless a walk-way behind it to allow defenders to fire over the top. For some yards clear of the fort, the trees and brushwood had been cleared, but the nature of the night allowed him to slip across this glacis undetected. Pressed against the resinous pine trunks he peered into the fort.

The interior of the post was roughly circular, a number of buildings within it provided quarters and stores. Outside what he supposed to be the main barrack block a large fire was crackling, the flames and sparks leaping skywards despite the efforts of the heavens to extinguish them. He could see a few men lounging under the overhanging roof of this block, and the blackening carcass of a deer being roasted on spits, but from his vantage point he could see little else. The garrison, however, seemed a small one and the governor doubtless lived in one of the log cabins, for Drinkwater could just make out a square of yellow light close to the gate, as though a lamp burned behind a crude window. Cautiously he returned to the others, whispering to Quilhampton: 'Damned if I can see what we're looking for.'

'Oh. What now, sir?'

'We'll edge round the place.'

They began to move forward again, a pall of dejection falling on the miserable little column. They became careless, snapping twigs and letting branches fly back into the faces of the men behind them. They lost touch with the stockade on their right, moving into dense brushwood that tore at them, aggravating their tempers and unsettling them. Drinkwater began to question the wisdom of proceeding further. Then he stopped, so abruptly that Quilhampton bumped into him. Not five yards ahead of them a tall figure had risen from the bracken, hurriedly knotting the cords of his breeches. Drinkwater knew instantly it was the mountain-man.

To what degree the man's preoccupation had prevented his hearing the approach of the party, Drinkwater could only guess. Such a voyageur , at once a hunter, tracker, trapper and forest dweller, must have possessed instincts keen as any stag, but at that moment they had been somnolent, intent on more fundamental physical needs. Their surprise was mutual and as they stared at each other in silence, Drinkwater could just see the gleam of the foreshortened rifle barrel.

'Another step and you're dead, Mister. I thought you bastards might be back…'

So, the mountain-man had not been taken in by the disguise of the morning, and with that realisation Drinkwater sought to temporise, capitalising on that brief confidence of the forenoon.

'I've come for those Englishmen you spoke of.'

The mountain-man gave a short, dry laugh. 'You won't find 'em here.'

'Where then?'

'Why the hell should I tell you?'

'You told the Russians… said they knew about the matter.' The mountain-man seemed to hesitate and Drinkwater added, 'I'm surprised you want the Russians on your doorstep.'

'I sure as hell don't want you British. We got rid of you back a while and I aim to keep it that way…'

'And the Russians?' Drinkwater persisted.

'Ain't no trouble at all…'

'Bring you vodka for furs and whatever Indian women you can sell 'em I daresay,' said Drinkwater.

'What's that to you, Mister? I've been expecting you ever since I found your damned men wanderin' about the back-country behind Bodega Bay.'

'So you knew we weren't Spanish?'

'I've been expecting the British a-lookin' for their deserters, Mister. You didn't even come close to convincin' me. You see I know Rubalcava, Mister.'

'And you're on friendly terms with the Russians too, eh? Do I take it you've sold my deserters to that cold-eyed bastard that commands here?'

'What makes you think I'm hugger-mugger with the damned Russkie, eh? I ain't particularly friendly with anybody, especially the bloody British.'

'But…'

'But… I can't shoot the lot of you so just turn about and walk back to your boat…'

'I doubt you can shoot anyone in this damned rain…'

'You ain't heard of a Chaumette breech, Mister, or a Goddamned Ferguson rifle? I could blow the shit out of you right now and pick off another of you before you got into those trees…'

The click of the gun-lock sounded ominously above the drip and patter of the rain.

'If you don't want the British here, why don't you tell me where those men are?'

'Ain't answering any more questions. You get goin'. Vamos, Capitán …'

Drinkwater turned and the men parted for him. He looked back once. The rain had eased a little and the cloud thinned. The mountain-man stood watching their retreat, his long gun slung across his arm, the noise of laughter muffled by his huge beard. At the same instant the man threw back his head and loosed an Iroquois war-whoop into the night. The alarm stirred noises from the direction of the stockade and the crack of the man's rifle was swiftly followed by a cry and the crash of a man falling behind him, sprawling full length.

'Back to the boat!' Drinkwater hissed, waving them all past him and stopping only Mr Quilhampton as the two of them bent over the felled seaman. It was Lacey and he was past help; the mountain-man had been as good as his word. The ball had made a gaping hole in Lacey's neck, missing the larynx, but severing the carotid artery. The wound was mortal and Lacey was close to death, his blood streaming over Drinkwater's probing hands.

'Come, James, there's nothing to be done…'

There was no sign of the mountain-man but from the fort came the shouts of men answering an alarm. Somewhere to their right they could hear their own party crashing through the undergrowth accompanied by a stream of oaths and curses.

'Go on , James!'

'Not without you, sir.'

'Don't be a bloody fool…'

Between them Lacey rattled out his life and fell limp. Drinkwater wiped his hands on Lacey's gory jacket.

'Poor devil,' he said, wondering if the ball had been intended for himself.

'Come on then.'

They both began to run.

In the rain and confusion they reached the boat unmolested, but the Russians were already pouring out of the fort towards the landing place. By the time Drinkwater reached the cutter with Quilhampton most of his party had mustered, but two were missing, stumbling about near the fort.

'Where's Hughes?' called Quilhampton.

'Fuck knows, he was behind Tregembo…'

'Tregembo?' Drinkwater spun round. 'Is he missing?'

'Seems so, sir…'

'God's bones!' Drinkwater swore. 'Get that boat off into the water, hold off the beach. You take command, James.' He raised his voice, 'Tregembo!' He roared, 'Tregembo!'

He began to run back the way he had come. Somewhere to the right he could see the shapes of men running and then the flash and crack of a musket, soon followed by a fusillade of shot as the approaching Russians fired wildly into the night. There was a harsh order screeched out and it stopped. Drinkwater recognised the voice of the governor and then, clearly above the hiss of the rain, he could hear the awful slither and snick of bayonets being fixed. He caught up the sabre he had looted from the schooner and hefted it for balance.