Читать книгу Philip Nolan - Chuck Pfarrer - Страница 13

INTO CUSTODY

BEYOND THE BATTERIES OF THE FORTRESS AT SAN SEBASTIÁN, THE BAY OF Cádiz was flecked with white, the leavings of a stern tramontana that had blown for three days and two nights. The sky above the bay was brilliant, though the sun that rode through it was low, tending to the south and west on a bright and pleasant winter day. To the northeast, beyond the lower reaches of the harbor, light slanted over the delta of the Río de San Pedro. Past the marshland, in stages and switchbacks the road to Seville cut through the rolling countryside of Andalusia, the hills dotted here and there with orchards, vineyards, and round Spanish towers. As beautiful as this was, none of it interested the young man walking along the uncompleted ramparts toward town as fast as his long legs could hurry him.

Frank Curran had seen a white nick on the horizon, a pair of them, in fact, and they were the ships he had been waiting for. He now hurried back to the town, clasping a long glass under his arm and occasionally pressing his hat down on his head when a gust came at him from across the bay. These Curran could almost always anticipate, for they showed first on the reefs below the fort (how the swell broke there), and his sailor’s eye was keen enough to notice the changes in the sails shaped by the fishing boats and barca longas plying the wide bay. He was, after all, a naval officer, a fact gratefully confirmed by the newly signed commission that crinkled in his coat pocket.

Of all his papers and possessions laid carefully in a cruise box and a pair of seabags back at the inn, the commission in his pocket was the most precious thing he owned. It would embarrass him had anyone seen how he’d studied it by candlelight or reread it a dozen times even this afternoon when he was alone on the point under the battery. He had folded and unfolded it, pretending that he had just discovered his name, Francis Gifford Curran, and the high-flown words placing on him especial trust for his patriotic valor, conduct, and fidelity, fairly charging all midshipmen, sailors, and Marines junior to him to render obedience, etc., etc., written in a boldly wielded pen proclaiming him a lieutenant in the Navy of the United States from the date of February 3, 1827—a day that had come and gone not forty-eight hours ago. Even now Curran could feel the unaccustomed weight of the epaulet on his left shoulder, and from the corner of his eye he caught its glimmer now and again, a physical manifestation of his joy.

Curran stretched out his legs and filled his lungs with the fine, crisp air. The day was glorious; as a newly commissioned lieutenant he would have thought it fine if it were blowing a whole gale. On the winding coast road a mounted Spanish officer passed by on his way to inspect the San Sebastián guns, and Curran touched his hat. The Spaniard peered for a moment at the uniform and the tall, sandy-haired young man who wore it, vaguely connecting him to the American ships heading into the bay.

The Spaniard said, “Buenos, señor,” as he bowed slightly in the saddle, and then damned his horse in a gush of deep-voiced, lisping Castilian when it threw up its head and tried to caper. Curran could make out a few of the words, excellently chosen, something about horsemeat and the making of glue. Curran suppressed a smile out of military courtesy; the officer was a major, and like most sea officers Curran rode indifferently. In fact, he did not care for horses at all, even though his mother had taken pains about his equitation as she was of an old Shenandoah family that took horsemanship as the mark of a gentleman.

Curran walked on, and when he glanced back he saw the Spanish officer also looking over his shoulder, partly out of embarrassment and partly to reassure himself that the man with a telescope was not after all a French spy. Halfway to town, where the ramparts were highest, Curran stopped again and swept the sea with his glass. At the top of the bay, gliding under topsails, was a frigate, plainly Constellation, the Stars and Stripes at her mizzen and her commission pennant streaming from the maintop. She was still several miles in the offing, and he could just make out the officers on her quarterdeck and occasionally the green jacket of a Marine.

Curran turned his glass south, and the wind pushed at his back. From this height his eye commanded maybe fifteen miles of sea, and he could see another vessel coming under reefed courses, tack on tack, off Cape Zahora. A man o’war, by the way she handled. Her hull was too high and wide for a Royal Navy frigate, and Curran could see that she was every bit Constellation’s match, and perhaps her better. The ship came about crisply as he watched, but she was beating nearly straight into the wind; her tack presently took her away from the land and toward the bright, rolling horizon.

There were a dozen other vessels in the Bay of Cádiz, but only one was carrying on so determinedly north. Curran held the glass, counting her gun ports, and as he watched, the ship put out trysails very briskly. Without doubt she was Enterprise, one of the United States Navy’s newest frigates—a crack ship nearly as renowned as her cousin Constitution. So similar were they, built off almost identical drafts, that it took an appreciative eye to tell them apart. If anything, Enterprise was sharper built, with a longer quarterdeck lending grace to her lines; an elegantly spooned bow rendered her motion in the seaway very much like that of a galloping thoroughbred. Regardless of her beauty, the wind was presently in her teeth, and it would be the better part of the afternoon before she could wear round Punta de San Sebastián and run into Cádiz.

Curran snapped closed his telescope and continued toward the edge of town. He must meet the ships, he thought. Present himself and compliments. Perhaps even ship into his number one rig. Constellation would be in the harbor first; he could signal for a boat. But then Curran thought better of clambering aboard in his best uniform just to show away. What a gull he would look. No, he would save his dress blues for going aboard Enterprise to present his orders and his commission.

Again, an immense, peaceful joy came up in Curran’s heart. He had spent a third of his life at sea, almost all of it in foreign oceans, and every minute of sea time—some of them very anxious moments indeed—had been spent learning his profession and earning the modest amount of gold upon his coat. Though he had yet to experience command, in eight years at sea he had drawn a full measure of responsibility, and there were moments that it still astounded him that the lives of every man on board had depended on his ability to read the stars, sum their courses in the sky, and make landfall on unknown shores.

All of this long process had changed him from boy and landsman to as perfect a nautical creature as ever walked on two legs, but none of this slow transformation compared to the metamorphosis that had altered him wonderfully, almost magically, into an officer. What had really changed in the last forty-eight hours? What made him so different? He had not grown taller, and his gait on land was still that of the rolling sailor. His mind ticked with the same thoughts and his blood coursed with the same desires, but a great longing had been satisfied. He had been made an officer by an act of Congress; he had gotten his step, passed for lieutenant, shipped his swab, and almost nothing in his life had ever pleased him so. As Curran walked into Cádiz he knew this to be one of the happiest afternoons of his life.

Where the cobbles started at the edge of town there were three large bodegas, their doors open and the shade within cool and beckoning. Inside the storehouses Curran could see the round fronts of a hundred oaken solera, and as he went by he caught the smell of oloroso, clove, and almond. Siesta was just over, and shutters were being lifted up from windows and doors of the taverns fronting the harbor. Curran pressed a few centavos into the hand of a little boy and sent him on his way to Tres Osos to fetch his seabags and dunnage. Constellation was yet miles off, Enterprise even farther away, and there was time to drink a glass of fino and listen to the wind rattle the shutters.

He had timed everything nicely. Curran finished a glass of sack and then another as Constellation finally headed up and launched a boat. It surprised him that the frigate did not cast loose her bower. Instead of anchoring, Constellation lolled out in the roadstead as her boat pulled steadily toward town. Curran stepped into the street, and above him the wind rustled the palms. Already the whitecaps in the bay were fewer and the wind had veered east a point. The tramontana would be over by nightfall. He watched the oars flash and pull, flash and pull.

Behind him in the mercado came the rumble of cartwheels, and a high, unbroken voice piping, “Teniente americano, teniente americano.” Curran turned to find the boy ploughing straight at him, and behind the child, a man leading a vast, slab-sided oxcart, empty except for Curran’s own baggage. The man leading the ox looked exactly like the little boy made larger—an uncle, perhaps. Curran gazed at the cart, a contraption quite large enough to move an admiral, maybe even two admirals, and he started to figure that it would cost him most of the coin he had in his pocket to trundle his things what remained of fifty yards. Again the flash of the gold on his shoulder lifted his spirits—he was no longer a starving, penniless mid. When his commission arrived he’d drawn six months’ pay in advance, and there was the pleasant bonus of reimbursement from his date of rank, the sum amounting to almost 112 gold dollars and 75 cents. Curran was richer now than he had ever been in his life, and he simply waved for boy, uncle, bullock, and cart to follow him to the boat landing.

Curran came up to the end of a short pier, whistled at the boat, and held his hat aloft. He saw the officer point his glass toward him and hold. Recognizing the uniform, and by God the glorious epaulet, the coxswain deflected the tiller and the boat came on, threading between the parallel reefs below the star-shaped fort. In a few moments Constellation’s number two cutter shipped oars and kissed neatly against the stone wall and the pier head.

The boat’s officer came nimbly across the gunwale and onto the quay. He was a red-faced man, a lieutenant, maybe thirty or forty years old. His eyes were narrowed against the sun, and his squint turned up the corners of his mouth. This gave an impression of happiness or mirth; but it was soon apparent by his tone that neither he nor the men in the cutter were particularly happy about anything.

“Is Enterprise gone?” he asked curtly.

Curran touched his hat. “I believe she is in the offing. Still south of the cape.”

The officer’s expression lightened and he took a few steps down the pier. Standing on a piling, he turned toward Constellation and waved a white handkerchief in a circle over his head. Curran looked down into the cutter. There were a dozen sailors in working clothes and a pair of green-jacketed Marines holding muskets against their knees. Between them was a man in a faded blue coat. The boat crew seemed uncommonly mum.

The officer came back and lifted his hat. “I apologize, sir. My name is Hancock, third lieutenant of Constellation.”

“Curran, sir. Honored.”

“Are you from Enterprise?”

“In transit and under orders,” Curran said. “I am just off Epevier.” He might have added, “and I am a lieutenant for almost two whole days,” but that could easily be deduced. Though Curran’s uniform jacket had seen sea and sun, the swab on his shoulder was pristine and beautiful. To any seaman alive Lieutenant Curran looked as freshly minted as a new penny.

“My captain is anxious that we might have advantage of this wind, Mister Curran. I trust you will make a transfer for us?”

“I am at your service, sir.”

Two canvas sacks were passed up from the boat.

“There is mail for Enterprise and dispatches for the Mediterranean Squadron.”

Curran watched as the Marines took up the man in the blue coat. Manacled hand and foot, his chains clattered as he was heaved up and onto the quay. From the stern of the cutter a small sailcloth bag was swung up after him. The bag had not been properly tied, and some books, clothing, and papers spilled out. The wind fanned the pages of a worn and thumbed book, and a small tissue stuck through with pins blew down the pier. The prisoner crawled a few feet over to his spilled belongings, but a hobnailed boot came down near his hand.

The tissues floated off, some cut into the shapes of stars and clouds. As the chains dipped between his wrists, the man shoved his books and clothing back into the bag and closed the drawstring. The prisoner took up the small sack and stood with what dignity he could.

Curran said to Hancock, “What is the prisoner accused of?”

“Convicted, sir,” answered the officer. “He is a murderer and a traitor.”

As the prisoner came to his feet Curran looked him over. The man wore patched duck trousers, loose cut in the naval fashion, but his old blue coat looked like an artilleryman’s coatee. The prisoner’s face was neatly shaved and deeply tanned, not like a man who had been kept below hatches but like a sailor who had walked the decks of a ship at sea. The man had a strong jaw and an aquiline nose. His age was not readily apparent, probably somewhere between forty and fifty; not quite six feet tall, he was lean and his eyes were deep-set, gray-blue, and piercing. His hair had once been dark but was now mostly gray and drawn back in a queue, as was the custom of officers before the last war.

Hancock took a thick leather envelope from his coat and handed it to Curran. “These are the prisoner’s instructions.”

Curran took the orders and glanced at the man who was in his custody. His captive did not seem by any measure repentant or abashed, nor did he seem overly concerned about the Marine bayonets leveled at his belly.

“Do you have a pistol, sir?” Hancock asked.

“In my cruise box.”

“May I suggest that you arm yourself?”

“Of course.” Curran walked to the oxcart and pulled round his sea chest. It took a few moments to open the lock and take his pistol from a tray within. He came back to the quay, and not knowing exactly what to do, tucked the pistol into the front of his belt.

Hancock offered a rusted iron hoop from which dangled a pair of brass pinions. “These are the keys to the prisoner’s shackles.” From out in the harbor came the banging of a signal gun, and the Blue Peter ran up at Constellation’s foremast. “We must be away,” said Hancock. “Do you have any questions?”

Curran prepared to open his mouth but was surprised when the prisoner spoke.

“I have a question.”

Curran and Hancock swiveled their heads. It was almost as if a dog had suddenly gone up on his hind legs and asked the time of day.

“Shouldn’t the pistol be loaded?” the prisoner asked. “I mean, if I am to be prevented from absconding?”

Hancock scowled. Abashed, Curran went to his cruise box again, found cartridge and ball, and thumbed it down the barrel of the pistol. He returned ramming the wad home and threading the ramrod back under the stubby barrel.

“I feel safer already,” the prisoner said. The sailors in the boat smirked quietly, and Curran felt his cheeks burning.

“Mind your tongue sir,” Hancock said, “or you’ll have a thumping.”

Hancock and his Marines dropped back down into the cutter. The whole business had passed so awkwardly that Curran felt compelled to speak. “Will Constellation be home bound, then?”

At the word “home” the men in the boat seemed to flinch. Hancock took up his place in the stern sheets and mumbled, “We are bound across the Atlantic, sir. Beyond that, I am not at liberty to say.” He nodded to the bow and the boat shoved off. “Give way together,” Hancock said to the oarsmen, and then he lifted his hat and shouted out, “Good day to you Mister Curran. Good luck.”

The boat went straight away, and Curran was suddenly aware of the eyes of a dozen people upon him. Attracted by the landing of the boat, a handful of townsmen stood gaping at the man in chains. Long accustomed to his manacles, the prisoner casually pushed the shackles over his wrists and onto his forearms.

“Es un hereje para ser quemar?” someone said from a balcony.

“Él no es solo un asesino, él es un perro protestante,” opinioned a woman pushing a cart of sardines.

Curran answered in Castilian that there would be no burning at the stake, and that both of them would soon be taken aboard the warship in the bay. Curran noticed as he was speaking that the prisoner smiled at the crowd—his Spanish was as good as Curran’s own. The townsfolk moved away, and Curran looked into the offing where Enterprise was just now rounding the battery at San Sebastián.

Constellation hoisted the private signal and made her number. Enterprise had answered, but neither ship seemed much interested in the other. Curran watched as Constellation’s cutter was taken in tow and the frigate let fall her mains and courses. Towing her boat, Constellation sailed west into the mouth of the bay.

“If I may ask,” the prisoner said pleasantly, “would that ship be Enterprise?”

Curran did not answer. In the roads, the ships passed without a cheer or even a hailing from deck to deck, quite as if they were ignoring one another. As Constellation groped out of the roads, Enterprise hauled down the private signal but left her own number flying proudly.

“A two-decker I believe,” said the prisoner. “A fine-looking ship. Very much like Congress, I am sure. Perhaps they were built at the same yard.”

Curran looked at him with an expression of cold bafflement. The business of a prisoner in a threadbare Army uniform was unusual, and the conduct of the ships was equally puzzling.

The man seemed suddenly to remember his place and said quietly, “You’ll forgive me, sir. It has been a while since I have had company.”

Enterprise headed up, and as soon as way came off her the frigate’s best bower splashed into the harbor; when her yards were squared and the sails had been made fast in perfect neatness, she put a boat over the side.

“Prisoner, can you swim?” Curran asked.

“I suppose I can. It’s been a long time since I tried.”

Curran tossed him the keys. “You will remove your shackles. Should our boat upset crossing the reef, I’d not want to watch you drown.”

Curran looked on as the boy and his uncle took down his chest and seabags from the oxcart. The prisoner knelt and prized open the irons on his legs, and then the manacles from his wrists. With a practiced hand he looped the chains around the top of his sailcloth sack and secured them with a loop and cinch. The prisoner stretched out his limbs. “This is kind of you.”

Curran opened his cruise box and shifted into his number one uniform coat. “Do not mistake my manners, sir,” Curran answered. “If you try to run, I will shoot you.”