Richard Woodman - In Distant Waters

'Steady there…'

He felt the schooner lurch and looked below to see Tregembo anticipate the tide-rip's attempt to throw the vessel's head into the wind. The sea was slick with the speed of the tide, almost uninfluenced by the effect of the breeze as it rushed out into the ocean beyond the confines of the bay. Those dark corrugations resolved themselves into standing waves, foaming with energy as the mass of water forced itself out of the bay so that the schooner slowed, stood still and began to slip astern.

The heads of curious seals, impervious to the viciously running ebb, popped out of the grey water to stare like curious, ear-less dogs, their pinched nostrils flaring and closing in exaggerated expressions of outrage at the intrusion.

For an hour they hung, suspended in this fashion until, almost suddenly, the tide slacked, relented and the power of the wind in their sails drove them forwards again. The low roar of the rush of water eased, the corrugations, the rips and eddies diminished and slowly disappeared. For a while the strait was one continuous glossy surface of still water, and then they were through, brought by this curious diminishing climax into sudden proximity with their quarry.

'And now,' said Drinkwater regaining the deck, 'we must play at a Trojan Horse.'

'After Scylla and Charybdis 'twill be little enough, sir,' remarked Quilhampton with unbecoming cheerfulness.

'Belay the classical allusions, Mr Q,' snapped Drinkwater, suddenly irritated, 'belay the loud-mouthed English and lower the boat, then you may carry out your instructions and fire that salute…'

The bunting of the Spanish ensign tickled Drinkwater's ear as he was rowed across the dark waters of the inlet towards the Patrician . The schooner's boat, hoisted normally under her stern, was smaller than the cutter they had lost in the Columbia River. But he hoped his approach was impressive enough and he was aware, from a flash of reflected light, that he was being scrutinised through a glass by one of the half-dozen men he could see on his own quarterdeck.

Behind him came the dull thud of the 6-pounder, echoing back after a delay to mix its repetition with the sound of the next signal-gun so that the air seemed to reverberate with the concussion of hundreds of guns as the echoes chased one another into the distance in prolonged diminuendo.

No answering salute came from the fo'c's'le of the Patrician , no answering dip of her diagonally crossed ensign. He stood up, showing off the Spanish uniform with its plethora of lace, and holding out the bundle of papers that purported to be despatches.

He noted a flurry of activity at the entry with a sigh of mixed relief and satisfaction.

'How far is the schooner, Potter?' he asked the man pulling stroke-oar.

'She's just tacked, sir,' replied Potter, staring astern past Drinkwater, 'an' coming up nicely… they're tricing up the foot of the fores'l now, sir and the outer jib's just a-shivering… 'bout long pistol shot an' closing, sir.'

'Very well.' Drinkwater could smell the rum on the man's breath as he made his oar bite the water. Off to starboard an unconcerned tern hovered briefly, then plunged into the water and emerged a second later with a glistening fish in its dagger-like beak.

'We're closing fast, lads, be ready…' He paused, judged his moment and, in a low voice, ordered the oars tossed and stowed. Beside him Tregembo put the tiller over. Amid a clatter of oars coming inboard the bowman stood up and hooked onto Patrician's chains.

Drinkwater looked up. A face stared down at him and then he began to climb, not daring to look around and ascertain the whereabouts of Quilhampton and the schooner. At the last moment he remembered to speak bastard-French, considering that it was not unreasonable for a Spanish officer to use that language when addressing a French-speaking ally. The fact that he spoke it barbarously was some comfort.

Stepping onto the deck he swept off his hat and bowed.

' Bonjour, Senores ,' he managed, looking up with relief into the face of an officer he had never seen before, ' ou est votre capitaine, 's'il vous plait ?'

'Tiens! C'est le capitaine anglais!'

Drinkwater jerked round. To his left stood one of the midshipmen he had last seen in Don José's Residence at San Francisco. Hands flew to swords and he knew that his ruse had failed utterly. He flung the paper bundle at the young man's face and drew the cavalry sabre before either of the Russian officers had reacted fully. Letting out a bull-roar of alarm he swiped the heavy, curved blade upwards in a vicious cut that sent the senior officer, a lieutenant by his epaulettes, reeling backwards, his hands to his face, his dropped sword clattering on the deck.

'Come on, you bastards!' Drinkwater bellowed into the split second's hiatus his quick reaction had brought him. 'Board!'

Would they come, those disloyal quondam deserters, or would they leave him to die like a dog, hacked down by the ring of steel that was forming about him? What would Quilhampton do? Carry out the plan of getting foul of the Patrician's stern in a histrionic display of incompetence which was to have cut Drinkwater's inept French explanation and turned it into a farce of invective levelled by him at Quilhampton, under whose cover the Virgen de la Bonanza was to have been run alongside the frigate. During this ludicrous performance his men were supposed to have come aboard…

Armed seamen with pikes from the arms' racks around the masts and marines with bayonets, men with spikes and rammers and gun-worms were closing, keeping their distance until they might all rush in and kill him.

'Board, you bastards!' he shouted again, his voice cracking with tension, his eyes moving from one to another of his enemies, seeking which was the natural leader, whose muscles would first tense for the kill and bring down Nemesis upon his reckless head…

It seemed he waited an age and then a shuffling of the midshipman's feet told him what he wanted to know. He thrust left, pronating his wrist and driving his arm forward so that the mangled muscles cracked with the speed of his lunge. The pointe of his sabre struck the young man on the breast-bone, cracked it and sent him backwards, gasping for breath in an agony of surprise. As he half-turned he sensed reaction to his right, a movement forward to threaten his unprotected back. He cut savagely, reversing the swing of his body, the heavy weapon singing through the air and cutting with a sickening crunch into the upper arm of a bold seaman whose cannon-worm dropped from nerveless hands and who let out a howl of pain and surprise. And then he lost the initiative and was fighting a dozen assailants for his very life.

'Frey, I think you are an infatuated fool. That must be the twentieth portrait of La Belladonna you have done,' quipped Wickham, looking down at the watercolour, 'and they do not improve. Besides they are a waste of the dip…' He reached out with dampened fingers to pinch out the miserable flame that lit the thick air of the cold gunroom and received a sharp tap on the knuckles from Frey's brush.

'Go to the devil, Wickham! I purchased that dip out of my own funds…'

Wickham sat and put his head in his hands, staring across the grubby table at Frey. 'What d'you suppose they intend to do with us?'

'I don't know,' replied Frey without looking up, 'that's why I paint, so that I do not have to think about such things…' He put the brush in the pot of water and stared down at the face of Doña Ana Maria. Then, in a sudden savage movement, his hand screwed up the piece of paper and crumpled it up.

Wickham sat back with a start. 'Shame! It wasn't that bad!'

'No, perhaps not, but…'

'Was she really handsome?'