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 shore 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 noble 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 sparsely 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 Cumberland? But what was I to him? Nor was he a man of great wealth. Although he possessed vast estates, they were heavily encumbered. 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 passage, 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 assume 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.”