attack the Spanish main,’ he said, ‘but the clever ones, like the gauger, said there was an expedition fitting out to pass into the South Sea by Cape Horn and attack Manilla; but it was all a great secret.’
‘A very great secret,’ said the Commodore bitterly. ‘Tell me, what did the clever ones say about the ships of the squadron?’
‘Sir, they told them as they are. But one of the preventive men said the
Argyle
instead of the
Gloucester
.’
‘There’s close counsel for you,’ cried the Commodore, hittingthe table with his fist. ‘Is there any more that you can tell me, Mr Palafox?’
‘Yes, sir. They named Mr Anson as the commander, and it was thought that the squadron would round the Horn at mid-summer.’
‘I see. I see. Was there any more, Mr Palafox?’
‘Well, sir, it was only a rumour,’ said Peter, hesitantly.
‘Go on. If this rumour is as near the mark as the others, it will not be far out.’
‘They said the Spaniards were sending away a squadron too.’
‘Any particulars?’
‘Yes, sir. But, sir,’ said Peter, racking his memory, ‘I cannot remember the Spanish names.’
‘Do you remember anything of their number and force?’
‘Six ships, sir, some said. But some said eight. They all said two ships of the line and the rest smaller. There was the name of the admiral too: something like Bissado.’
‘Pizarro. Yes. A most capable, seamanlike officer. I am very glad to know it, if it is true. What is your estimate of the truth of this information, Mr Palafox? What is its probable source?’
‘It comes from the owlers mostly, sir—the smugglers. There is always a Spanish lugger or a Portugee somewhere up or down the coast. And then, sir, there are many people with relatives in Spain, in the Spanish service, or studying to be priests at Salamanca, like Padeen Mc—like several I know: and news comes home.’
‘Two ships of the line and four others at least: perhaps six,’ said the Commodore, thoughtfully. ‘Is there anything more you can tell me?’
Peter reflected, staring down at his feet. ‘No, sir, I don’t think there is,’ he said.
‘It is a great pity that you did not retain the names of the Spanish ships. However, perhaps they may come into your mind: if they do, write them down at once and bring them to me. That will do for the moment, Mr Palafox.’
‘Aye-aye, sir,’ said Peter, retiring.
‘Did you tell him, your honour?’ asked Sean, in the gangway.
‘Sure I told him every last thing that I knew,’ said Peter absently; and vaguely he wondered why Sean should dart below with such speed, armed with such an unholy weapon to crush the butcher and steward.
Peter thought and thought through the forenoon watch, trying to relive the time when Patrick Leary, the best smuggler of Mallagh, had told him about the Spanish ships: but it all seemed so long ago now. He tried to remember the letters he had read for some of the villagers—letters from sailors and soldiers in the service of Spain (illegally, like the men of the Irish regiments in the French army; but taken very much as a matter of course at home) and from the seminarists far away. But the exact details would not come.
He thought hard during his watch below with no better result; and in the dog watch he tried to combine reflection with the exercise of his duties, which, the wind coming round contrary and fitful, required all his concentration. This earned him a very well-merited rebuke from Mr Brett, and five minutes later he was ordered to the mast-head to expiate the crime of sluggishness and incomprehension.
Mast-heading on a fine day, however, was little punishment to Peter: the tremendous cliffs—they fell fifteen hundred feet in one appalling drop, and he had been accustomed to walking about them, like a fly, from childhood—the cliffs at home made his present height seem trivial, and from his perch he phlegmatically gazed at the unbroken horizon.
‘Goposco? Goposco? Poposco?’ he
‘A very great secret,’ said the Commodore bitterly. ‘Tell me, what did the clever ones say about the ships of the squadron?’
‘Sir, they told them as they are. But one of the preventive men said the
Argyle
instead of the
Gloucester
.’
‘There’s close counsel for you,’ cried the Commodore, hittingthe table with his fist. ‘Is there any more that you can tell me, Mr Palafox?’
‘Yes, sir. They named Mr Anson as the commander, and it was thought that the squadron would round the Horn at mid-summer.’
‘I see. I see. Was there any more, Mr Palafox?’
‘Well, sir, it was only a rumour,’ said Peter, hesitantly.
‘Go on. If this rumour is as near the mark as the others, it will not be far out.’
‘They said the Spaniards were sending away a squadron too.’
‘Any particulars?’
‘Yes, sir. But, sir,’ said Peter, racking his memory, ‘I cannot remember the Spanish names.’
‘Do you remember anything of their number and force?’
‘Six ships, sir, some said. But some said eight. They all said two ships of the line and the rest smaller. There was the name of the admiral too: something like Bissado.’
‘Pizarro. Yes. A most capable, seamanlike officer. I am very glad to know it, if it is true. What is your estimate of the truth of this information, Mr Palafox? What is its probable source?’
‘It comes from the owlers mostly, sir—the smugglers. There is always a Spanish lugger or a Portugee somewhere up or down the coast. And then, sir, there are many people with relatives in Spain, in the Spanish service, or studying to be priests at Salamanca, like Padeen Mc—like several I know: and news comes home.’
‘Two ships of the line and four others at least: perhaps six,’ said the Commodore, thoughtfully. ‘Is there anything more you can tell me?’
Peter reflected, staring down at his feet. ‘No, sir, I don’t think there is,’ he said.
‘It is a great pity that you did not retain the names of the Spanish ships. However, perhaps they may come into your mind: if they do, write them down at once and bring them to me. That will do for the moment, Mr Palafox.’
‘Aye-aye, sir,’ said Peter, retiring.
‘Did you tell him, your honour?’ asked Sean, in the gangway.
‘Sure I told him every last thing that I knew,’ said Peter absently; and vaguely he wondered why Sean should dart below with such speed, armed with such an unholy weapon to crush the butcher and steward.
Peter thought and thought through the forenoon watch, trying to relive the time when Patrick Leary, the best smuggler of Mallagh, had told him about the Spanish ships: but it all seemed so long ago now. He tried to remember the letters he had read for some of the villagers—letters from sailors and soldiers in the service of Spain (illegally, like the men of the Irish regiments in the French army; but taken very much as a matter of course at home) and from the seminarists far away. But the exact details would not come.
He thought hard during his watch below with no better result; and in the dog watch he tried to combine reflection with the exercise of his duties, which, the wind coming round contrary and fitful, required all his concentration. This earned him a very well-merited rebuke from Mr Brett, and five minutes later he was ordered to the mast-head to expiate the crime of sluggishness and incomprehension.
Mast-heading on a fine day, however, was little punishment to Peter: the tremendous cliffs—they fell fifteen hundred feet in one appalling drop, and he had been accustomed to walking about them, like a fly, from childhood—the cliffs at home made his present height seem trivial, and from his perch he phlegmatically gazed at the unbroken horizon.
‘Goposco? Goposco? Poposco?’ he
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