"Six of them out of action."
"Our men?"
"No losses. Twenty-two men aboard, Captain, only some minor cuts and scratches. Nothing serious." His face was stiff. "We"ve no chance, Captain. They"ll come up to us within the hour ... two at most."
My thoughts raced, seeking every possible solution. Capture for the crew meant a Spanish prison, with small chance of escape or ransom. Capture for me meant the same, but the crew were my responsibility.
The vessel moved easily upon the water. It was not a rough sea, and the wind was fair.
"Brooks? Would you rather chance capture, or an open boat for England? It can"t be more than two days" sail."
"An open boat?" His face changed as if by magic. The eagerness was apparent. "You mean now? They wouldn"t be apt to pursue, and ... We"d chance it, Captain. I can speak for them. We"d all chance it."
"All right then, food and water, Brooks. Get the longboat over the side, out of sight of the Spaniards. Arm yourselves, but if they pursue, don"t resist and I will do what I can for you. But you"ve a good chance to get away."
He left on the run, and I turned to the Spanish captain. Of his language I knew a good bit, for Spanish smugglers were often off the Irish coast when I was a lad, and their officers had often visited us at my father"s home. Those who would be career soldiers went elsewhere, a career with their own army or the British being out of the question.
"Your name, Captain?"
"Don Vicente Uvalde y Padilla."
"I am Tatton Chantry. Don Vicente, you have lost your ship. Do you wish to regain it?"
His eyes lit with hope. "Regain it? How?"
"It is a matter of honor, Don Vicente. I will surrender the vessel to you if you will give me your word not to pursue my crew, allowing them to put off in the longboat."
He looked at me for a long moment, thinking it out. "My ship is damaged," he said, "too badly damaged, perhaps. You foresee capture, yet you think of your men."
"We could stay and make a fight of it, Don Vincente. We might lose. Our other ships," the plural was only a slight shading of the truth, "may come up to our aid. And they may not. I wish to save my men."
"And you, Captain Chantry?"
"I would surrender myself to you ... to you personally, a Spanish gentleman."
He smiled. "Ah, Captain! You are shrewd! I am permitted to show myself the victor, your crew escapes, and you become my prisoner, trusting to my honor."
"Exactly."
"How close are our ships?" he asked.
"Close," I admitted.
He laughed, delighted. "Oh, this is beautiful! Beautiful! I must remember it, Captain!"
He looked thoughtful. "Your flag is flying, Captain? I think we had better lower it before our ships open fire."
"By all means," I agreed. "I have your word?"
"You do. You do, indeed."
On deck my first glance was on the starboard side. The longboat was there in the water, sail up, making good speed. She was even now a few hundred yards off. I glanced at the Spanish ships. Slower, heavier to handle, they would need another half-hour at least, probably more. By that time the longboat would be over the horizon and out of sight.
Turning, I looked at Don Vicente. Already he had opened the hatch and his men were emerging on deck.
He studied me a moment, his eyes cold and measuring. Yet whatever came, nothing could help me now. For better or worse, I was his prisoner.
24.
A prisoner I truly was, yet surely no prisoner was ever treated better! Whatever Don Vicente"s position, his influence must have been great, for his decisions in my case were not refused. He explained simply that his ship had been severely injured by our broadside, that we had taken the ship, and that he had negotiated its release and a surrender by me on the consideration that the crew be released.
His brother officers accepted me as an equal and from the first I was well treated. In the weeks at sea, constantly using Spanish, my command of the tongue improved. It is a beautiful language, and having ever a love for the music of words, I enjoyed speaking it.
We came at last to Cadiz. As our ship dropped anchor in the ancient harbor I felt a twinge of dismay. Aboard ship all had been well, but this was the Spain of our enemies, the Spain of the Inquisition. What would become of me now?
Not long was I kept waiting, for a vessel put out from sh.o.r.e and came alongside.
The officer who came up the ladder was a sharp-visaged man of perhaps forty, looking every inch the soldier.
"Don Vicente? I am Captain Enrique Martinez. I have come for the prisoner."
"You have come for him? The man is my prisoner, Captain. Mine. I took him, I shall keep him. At least until such a time as ransom has been arranged for."
"But I did not think-"
"That is right, Captain. You did not think. Now you will have time for it. Let me repeat, the prisoner is mine. I might add he will also be my guest. If your superiors feel it necessary, they can find him where I am."
He started to turn away but the captain spoke again. "Don Vicente, I regret-"
"Please do not. Regret is a vain thing, my friend, and you no doubt have pressing duties elsewhere. I might add for your personal information that when I was briefly his prisoner I was treated as a gentleman, and while he is my prisoner he, too, will be so treated." His poise and coolness were remarkable. I stood very quietly, as Don Vicente walked away upon other business.
"I am sorry, Captain Martinez," I said, "but this was the agreement we made."
He shrugged. "Of course. I understand, Captain, and might add that you are fortunate, indeed. I am sure no prisoner Spain has ever taken will be better treated. Don Vicente and his family are n.o.ble in every sense." He shrugged. "I was but doing my duty." He paused again. "You may have trouble with the forces of Inquisition, for they are less likely to honor Don Vicente."
The home of Don Vicente was more elegant than any I had ever seen. The apartment to which I was shown was furnished spa.r.s.ely but well.
He was younger than I, Don Vicente, a handsome man and an only child. Once we were in his home, we talked much. We wandered throughout the world in our long conversations, but then one day he spoke to me of ransom.
It was a question I had dreaded, for who would pay ransom for me? I was alone. I had no one. Some captains and leaders of men, such as Sir John Hawkins, had been known to arrange ransom for prisoners, but I had scarcely been a month at sea when this had happened.
The Earl of c.u.mberland? But what was I to him? Nor was he a man of great wealth. Although he possessed vast estates, they were heavily enc.u.mbered. There was no one to come to my aid.
My own small investments would pay no ransom. Once this was understood my chances of release would be few-or even of staying where I was. The Spanish no doubt thought me a young man of great wealth, and I had nothing.
"I do not know, Don Vicente," I told him. "My family were Irish and they were destroyed in the wars."
He looked at me gravely. "To be without family is bad. How then did you live?"
"As best I could," I replied. "I had thought to be a soldier and win a way to command."
"But is it not your custom to buy your commands?"
"It is. But sometimes-"
"Ah," he exclaimed suddenly. "You are Irish! I know an Irishman! He is a general among us. General Hugo O"Connor!"
Startled, I looked up. "But I know him! And he knows me. Is it possible to see him then?"
"But of course! He is my very good friend, and a most able man. Come! We will go to him!"
On the way Don Vicente related several stories about the general. He had long lived in Spain, was much admired there, and was no longer thought of as other than Spanish. He had done well at the wars and lived in the finest style, and he was much trusted by the King.
The house itself was Moorish, undoubtedly one of those taken over from the Moors when they were driven out. The walls were stark and plain, with only a few high, barred windows, looking out upon the street.
The houses were largely square, with a central patio in which grew flowers and vines, usually around a fountain. The ground floor rooms opened upon the patio, and the upper story possessed a continuous balcony offering access to all the upper rooms. In summer, when the heat was great, the patio was cooled by water sprinkled on its pavement.
We pulled a cord that sounded a bell inside. After a short wait we were admitted to a dark, cool pa.s.sage, the floor of tile in an interesting pattern, the walls covered with religious paintings. We were shown to a drawing room on the first floor, its walls adorned with tapestries. As the weather was cool, a fire burned on the hearth.
Several braziers were standing about also, containing olive stones which burned with very little odor.
We had scarcely entered when the door at the other side of the room opened and the general stepped in. He was a tall, powerfully made man thickening slightly about the waist, but a man of commanding presence. He was dark and swarthy, Black Irish, as I was in most of my ancestry. He wore a pointed beard, carefully trimmed, and mustaches. He was dressed now in black with a heavy gold chain around his neck and a gold-hilted sword.
He glanced first at me, then started to speak to Don Vicente. Then he paused, looking back at me. "Do I not know you?"
"Don Hugo," Don Vicente said, "I wish you to meet Captain Tatton Chantry. He was taken by me from a British ship. He has said that he knows you."
For a moment I was in a quandary. The name Tatton Chantry would mean nothing to this man, yet he had seemed to recognize me.
"Do not be surprised at the name," I spoke in Gaelic, "it is one I have chosen to wear. He who owned it is now dead. He died atour house, in fact, long ago."
Hugo O"Connor studied me carefully. "It cannot be that you are ... ? No, no, they are all killed."
"My father was killed. I escaped. I was advised, General, to tell my name to no one, but I must a.s.sume that it is known to you. Do you remember Ballycarberry?"
"It was near there, was it?" He spoke in Gaelic and looked at me again. "Aye, you have the look of them, great fighters all, and strong men, but thoughtful men, too! Aye ... but how did you escape?"
"The story is over long for the telling here," I said, also in Gaelic. "I am Don Vicente"s prisoner, and he has spoken of ransom. I have no money, and no friends. I have lived by trade and a little by writing. I have some ventures now at sea, but unless I return to England-"
"To England? You are daft, lad. If they find you it is the headsman"s axe or hanging."
"Nonetheless, I intend to buy back the land that was mine, or a part of it. I wish to live again where we did when you came to visit us, when you hunted upon the moors with my father. It is my home, and I long for the view of the sea there, the rocky sh.o.r.es and the high meadows. I will have it again, General."
"Aye," he said gloomily, "I miss it myself. But come! We cannot carry on in Gaelic and leave our friend standing."
He turned to Don Vicente. "I do know him, and I cannot thank you enough for behaving toward him as you have done. You have been gracious and considerate."
He paused. "It is a delicate matter, Don Vicente. This man is no ordinary seafaring man, nor even a soldier. He is of the blood royal, although a man without domains."
Don Vicente shrugged. "I guessed as much. He has the manner."
We seated ourselves and our talk was in Spanish, and pleasant enough it was. General O"Connor I found to be an urbane and charming gentleman, a skillful politician as well as a military man. To have survived and advanced himself to his present status in a foreign country was proof enough of that.
"We must talk again," he said finally. "Do you come when you can." To Don Vicente he said, "We can certainly reach some understanding."
Two days later we met again. "You must have a care," O"Connor warned me, "for there are spies about."
"Spies for the Inquisition?"
"Yes. You are Irish. If they suspect who you are, you will be murdered. There are also those in Spain who are spies for England. They suspect all Irishmen of plotting against England, so all are suspect."
"I am not thought to be Irish, but from the Hebrides."
"Ah? A nice thought, that. It may help. In the meanwhile, what is it you wish to do?"
"To return to England. I have my ventures there."
"I am afraid that will be impossible. Ransom can be arranged, I think, and luckily for you, Don Vicente is your friend. However, even he is powerless against the Inquisition. And no matter what your beliefs, they will wish to question you if you should draw attention to yourself. There are those among them who do not take kindly to any foreigner in their land. Even we who fight for Spain are suspect."
"Where then should I go? What should I do?"
"I would suggest the Lowlands. I am taking a detachment of troops to join the Duke of Parma there. You will volunteer. That will take you away from their eyes to where much can be done."
"You are very kind."
"Kind? No, not land. We Irish serving abroad have learned we must stand together. You are one of us, even though what your family was they will never be again-not in the lifetime of any who now live, at least."
We talked the hours away, and planned the steps that must be taken. If I were to volunteer to serve in the Spanish army no thought of ransom would remain, although a small indemnity might have to be paid. I knew naught of such matters and left negotiations in the hands of General O"Connor, who had much experience.
In the meanwhile, I fenced each day and rode with Don Vicente over his estates in the country. By night I read much in the admirable library Don Vicente possessed. I say possessed, but this was all he did with the books. For I discovered with some surprise that he could not read, disdaining the practice as not befitting a gentleman. The library had been in the home when it was taken by his grandfather from the Moors. Some of the books were in Arabic, of which I knew nothing, but most were in Latin, at which I was proficient.
Yet every day and every night I bethought me of ways by which I might escape once I had reached the Lowlands, for my only wish was to return to England and my ventures, such as they might be. And each day in Spain I must walk with care, for I was free only upon a whim of circ.u.mstance and might at any time be imprisoned.
Carefully, I had avoided women. In England those I met were not the sort who appealed to me. Those I was meeting in Spain were ladies of great houses and ladies of the court. To give attention to such women even if they wished for it was to incur trouble from some other less favored man. And true it was that with Don Vicente and General O"Connor I constantly met women, many of whom were lovely.
Although I was permitted to move about with seeming freedom I knew I was not free, that I was under observation most if not all the time. My movements, comments, and actions were subject to scrutiny.
Meanwhile I was learning a good deal about the Spanish army from General O"Connor. "Many Germans and Irish serve with us," he explained. "Young Spanish men of good family wish to avoid service, as do many of the others. A few years ago volunteers thronged to serve, but now they grow fewer. Yet it is a good army, and the men are well trained."
"How long," I asked him, "will it remain so if the citizens themselves do not wish to serve? In ancient Rome the mercenaries soon controlled the government, and I hear it has been so in other places as well."
The general shrugged. "I ask only to serve. When we lack for government or army of our own, some of us must needs find careers where we can. I am loyal to Spain because it is Spain that gave me opportunity to be so. But you are right. Those who do not wish to be bothered with service to their country soon find there are others only too willing to occupy the places they shun. Those who shunned service soon become the servants rather than the masters."