When I nodded speechlessly, wishing I shared his high spirits, he added, “The Barbara Grace is defended by a prize crew—men left to work her ashore and strip her of every penny’s-worth. We don’t care to risk sinking her, because there are probably hostages below-decks.”
“Are these Spanish pirates,” I asked, “or perhaps Portuguese?”
“Neither, Tom,” he said. “Our English pirates are the foxes of the sea.”
We swept down upon the Barbara Grace.
Our serpentines—long, narrow guns—fired over our prow as we got within smelling distance of her. And she did smell, as a random breeze swept back in our direction. Many ships had a strong odor—the ballast souring in the hold, human residue pooling in the crannies, old salt fish and seaman sweat combining to give every evidence of humanity to the wind.
I thought that firing on the rear of the merchantman was an unlikely way of harming a ship, but the admiral himself told me that the stern of a vessel is usually her weakest point, and that a well-placed ball could “pierce a captain’s larder and turn him to suet.”
Perhaps the archers in our mast tops caused confusion, sending arrows far out and over the Barbara Grace, hitting something on the deck more often than not. Certainly many arrows were loosed, and our archers threw taunts after them.
But at last we ran up our true colors, including Drake’s own personal insignia. I think it was the sight of these, fluttering from our mast tops, that crippled our enemy’s resolve. The fighting men of the Barbara Grace soon made every show of surrender, waving scraps of sailcloth, lowering every ensign or flag she once sported. The merchant vessel turned aside to wallow forlornly in the wind.
At once a boarding party was formed, the sergeants ordering the soldiers to arms. Every man, it seemed, used coarse language, “whoreson” and “poxy.” No one said “God damned,” however, or used Christ’s name in vain—Admiral Drake was famously devout and disapproved of shipboard blasphemy. No one mentioned the Devil either—certain bad luck at such a time.
I went down onto the maindeck, striding along with an assurance I wished I had truly felt. The seamen wore their long baggy breeches of gray or blue cloth, and the soldiers dressed like fighting cocks in crested helmets, bright red or yellow sleeves, and gleaming metal breastplates.
Our ship drew alongside the cargo ship and nudged her, a gentle collision but solid enough to cause the rigging to shudder. The mainmast of the Barbara Grace swayed, and at that moment I was sure the pirates would resist, their surrender a ruse.
These English pirates were hard-looking men, outfitted in gaudy jerkins, shot-scarred breastplates. One or two wore long mantles, the sort knights and lawyers wear in wet weather, although slashed and tattered. Their weapons, which they made a great demonstration of throwing down upon the deck, were mostly cutlasses, a broad-bladed chopping sword, along with every variety of knife.
“Admiral Drake, sir, do you remember me?” one of the pirates was calling—a man in yellow stockings and a quilted red doublet. He searched the outline of our ship hopefully, not seeing the famous commander, but calling out again, “Do you remember me, Admiral—we sailed together, under Captain Hawkins. It’s Rice Catton, my lord, at your service.”
Our admiral leaned out over the quarterdeck rail.
“You remember me, my Lord Admiral, if it please you,” sang out Rice Catton, his voice trembling now with a blend of fear and hope. “We look to your famous mercy, Admiral, if God will quicken your heart to grant it.”
Admiral Drake gave a frowning smile, most chilling to see.
Chapter 27
We clambered down a tackle-stair—a gangway of knotted ropes—into the smoke-grimed vessel. I managed to make my way without falling, although Sir Robert gave me a hand as I half-stumbled onto the deck.
The sunlight made his skin hue all the more unearthly, that faint but quite evident twilight blue permeating his flesh. Of course, such a physical abnormality would not go much noticed among sea-faring folk, a breed of men afflicted with wens and goiters, scars and boils. Sir Robert strode among the silent, sullen enemy, every inch a knight ready for blood, challenging them to give him an opportunity to use his sword.
But each pirate used the same, fervent cry, kneeling, hands together as though already bound. “Quarter, merciful quarter,” they begged. Admiral Drake had a name as a man who struck fast against any who opposed him, but used a gentle hand toward those who surrendered.
“This way, doctor,” panted one of our soldiers in my ear. “There’s a brace of gunshot men.”
I hurried. The prize crew pirates were thrown down hard, pressed flat against the bloody deck by booted feet, and challenged to stay still. Swords were being stacked into a heap of glittering steel, and daggers and bodkins joined them, the tossed weapons clattering. Firearms were stacked, too, ugly, wide-bore guns.
The stricken men were near the foremast. There were two, their chests charred by powder burns and punctured by heavy-weight gunshots—round, gaping wounds. They had been mariners, judging by their gray, loose-fitting breeches, and were beyond my help.
“We’ve found ladies,” sang out a voice as I knelt, offering a prayer for these departed souls.
A murmur swept the boarding party. “By God, master surgeon,” said yet another soldier, blaspheming out of Drake’s earshot. “There’s two ladies on board, and one of them half killed.”
The interior of the ship was even more cramped than our own.
The smoke was heavily flavored with tar, and I coughed as I waded through it, led on by one of the sergeants. Some of our soldiers had found the source of the fumes in one of the after-holds, a barrel of pine-pitch they smothered with sailcloth.
At last I came to a cabin in the stern where two of our soldiers were kneeling outside an open doorway. The barrier had been smashed, splinters of white wood strewn everywhere.
I peered within the room, and immediately withdrew my head in an effort to preserve my life.
A young woman with a large pistol primed and leveled stood within the cabin, a second woman sprawling just behind her.
“Madam, I am Thomas Spyre, of London,” I said, my voice weak with shock. “By God’s grace, and our admiral’s mercy,” I continued as handsomely as I could, “I am an officer of Her Majesty’s ship Elizabeth Bonaventure.”
The two soldiers gave my little address encouraging smiles and, I thought, appreciative nods. Brave, well-tooled speech was much admired throughout Christendom—or so my master had taught me. I could not stifle a stab of regret that he was not here to prompt my words.
“I am surgeon under Admiral Drake, Madam,” I continued, steadying my voice, “and I seek to uncover any injury done to you by these pirates.”
This last was spoken with a degree of spirit—it angered me that cruel, greedy men could put a crew of innocent seamen and two women in such danger.
I thrust my head once more into the doorway, and once again looked into the green eyes of the young woman. She gave no evidence of weakening, the pistol cocked and steady, her gaze boring right into mine. One twitch of her finger and I would be killed.
I offered her a hopeful smile.
She was well favored, the very likeness of a graceful young woman, dressed as English women did when they traveled, in a linen cap and hood and a bodice that tapered to her waist, all in a soft blue that would show little wear or soil on a long journey. The woman at her feet was older, similarly dressed and handsome, her breath labored, like someone whose passage of air is not clear.
“I pray you,” I said, “let me attend to the injured woman.”
The ship made a groan around us. Cargo was being hefted out onto the deck, and I heard the clipped tones of the purser, giving commands to his mates.
“Only you may enter, entirely alone,” said the young woman. “And if you displease me in the least way I shall discharge this pistol through your head.”
“I would desire my own death, by my faith,” I said, “if any harm should
befall you.”
The truth was, despite my flowery speech, I was hoping only that this beautiful Amazon put down her weapon, and let me save the life of the injured woman. Prompted by this professional desire, I found myself in the cabin, kneeling by the side of a stricken female passenger, moving her head to one side so she might breathe more easily.
“Will my mother awaken soon?” the young woman was asking.
The weapon was held loosely in her grasp, now. It was all the more dangerous for that, aimed in no particular direction. Her finger remained on the firing catch, the tricker, a little lever under the stock of the weapon.
“The good lady is breathing more easily now,” I said, able to offer no more reassurance than that.
She had suffered a blow to the forehead, a bruise there betraying the outline of a cutlass pommel. Her pulse was very feeble, but regular. When I examined her eyes, both pupils contracted to small points. I had seen enough people knocked flat in tavern brawls to recognize a woman who was stunned rather than mortally injured.
“Please, doctor,” the young woman was saying, “preserve her life and I will reward you nobly.”
No request had ever so captured my attention.
My patient blinked her eyes as I tried to loosen her clothing. Her eyes grew wide as I pondered the mystery of her bodice, trying to unfasten her clothes. My gentle patient knocked my cap away and grabbed two handfuls of my hair.
And screamed.
Chapter 28
I answered a summons to the admiral’s cabin that evening.
Drake and Captain Foxcroft were standing before an unfurled chart. The admiral’s cheeks were flushed, and the captain leaned heavily on the table. A navigator’s compass, two tapering points of brass, kept one corner of the chart from rolling up.
“How thrives your patient?” asked Admiral Drake.
“As before, my Lord Admiral,” I said. “She is still convinced that I am a pirate.” I tried to make light of this, but her addled insistence that I was about to do her violence concerned me greatly. The ship’s carpenter and his mates had erected a cabin for the two ladies below the gun deck, a cramped space in an already crowded ship.
I had bathed her face and arms in vinegar, despite her stubborn disrespect for me, claiming that if she could get her hands on so much as a pin she would prick out my eyes. In her calmer moments she swore that her husband would have me clapped in irons if I harmed her or her daughter—whose name, it appeared, was Anne. Head injuries are difficult, and I wished to keep her as calm as possible.
“She will live?” asked Captain Foxcroft pointedly.
“With our prayers being answered, my lord,” I said, “she may even grow to bear the sight of me.”
“Have you consulted Sir Robert?” asked the captain. His fingernails were gnawed to the quick, and his lips blistered with the sores that afflict people of anxious humor.
“That worthy scholar has not offered me his medical advice this day, my lord,” I said. I desired only to return to my patient—and to Anne. “Besides, the good lady is in no very great danger.” I silently prayed that I was right.
“We rely on our young surgeon,” interjected the admiral quietly.
Captain Foxcroft gave a proper nod, almost a bow, but his gaze locked on mine.
Admiral Drake made a point of offering me a pewter flagon of cider before I could speak further, and continuing, with an air of boyish exultation, “Thomas, we have discovered why the Barbara Grace ran so hard before us.”
“She was a floating wine-cask, my Lord Admiral,” I said, a fact every mariner and soldier on board knew. We had helped ourselves to a few barrels of the better claret, as judged by the purser.
“More than that, she was carrying gold,” said Captain Foxcroft, kicking an iron-braced strong box with his boot.
The chest had been opened by force, the lock twisted, gold coins spilling out onto the floor, gold marks and angel-coins, and other minted treasure. Several other strong boxes sat stolidly beside the ruptured chest.
“A wine merchant’s life earnings,” said the admiral, “sent north to England at an unlucky hour.”
“Along with two women of good name,” I said.
“Thomas, you would make an excellent privateer,” said Admiral Drake with a smile. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Captain,” I said, “I fear you have injured your foot.” Just now, kicking the iron-edged box—Captain Foxcroft had been too proud to grimace, but his lips were white.
“I’ll not put a further strain on your medical knowledge, Thomas,” said Captain Foxcroft.
Anne Woodroofe and her mother, Mary, had been returning to England, the admiral explained, sailing from Bordeaux, where her father managed rich wine warehouses. Joseph Woodroofe was a man I knew by reputation, an importer of good drink, his name enough to make a good cup of wine taste even better. The worthy merchant had guessed that war between England and Spain was in the offing, but had foreseen it falling a year or two from now. He had not reckoned on pirates.
“I am deciding,” said the admiral, “whether to pursue the pirate vessel herself, just to teach her a lesson.”
The outlaw prize crew had been locked in the depth of the Barbara Grace’s hold, thrown hard onto the slimy flint-stones of the ballast. This was considered merciful treatment—many commanders would have hanged them at once.
Informed rumor had long recounted the belief that a good portion of the Queen’s treasury was the result of Drake’s past plunder of Spanish shipping. But where there was success, there was envy—and whispered doubt. Lord Howard had sworn me to spy on the admiral’s handling of such matters. I was anxious that the famous knight would prove deserving of my respect—and growing loyalty. But I wondered how honest he would prove to be.
“I pray, my lord, that we’ll engage in no further fighting,” said Captain Foxcroft, “until we can consult with Vice-Admiral Borough.”
Drake responded, “Her Majesty did not appoint me to be toothless.”
Chapter 29
“The wound in my hand has healed, Thomas,” said Admiral Drake when we were alone, waving my attentions aside. “I wanted some time alone with my fellow west-countryman.”
I found his attentions, and his confidence in me, both flattering and encouraging, but I was aware that Captain Foxcroft was no simpleton. Our famous admiral had more faith in God, and in himself, than I could readily share.
“You’ll see Spanish gore in Cadiz in less than a week’s time,” the admiral was saying. “If the wind favors us—our ship alone or with the fleet, it does not matter.”
His decision to attack our great enemy so soon did not give me joy—I was wiser than I had been that morning. I had heard an enemy broadside howl over the mast tops, and I had seen gunshot corpses.
I examined the admiral’s hand in the light of the lamp. It was, in truth, healing well. “Captain Foxcroft, my lord,” I offered, “wants only to preserve his ship.”
The admiral’s glance was steady.
“But we shall all fight for you,” I said, hastily, “and die, too, if you ask it.”
The admiral made an expression of mock surprise. “I believe you attended performances of Sir Robert’s play, Thomas, by my faith.”
“No, my lord.”
“It was larded with speeches like that,” the admiral said, wincing theatrically at the memory, “paint-faced mariners stumping across the stage, waving false swords and spouting, ‘Honor and glory, to our very deaths.’ The knight could write well, if he was well inspired.”
I knew very little about plays and poetry—in my ears the phrases the admiral had mocked sounded very fine. My expression of puzzlement must have spoken for me. The admiral drank off his flagon of cider in a good-humored show of patience.
“We’ll fight and triumph, Thomas,” said Admiral Drake at last, with a laugh. “And live,” he emphasized. “And we’ll sail home richer men.”
At that moment I came close to confessing. I wanted this man
with his ready laugh to know that I was a spy—I could not bear the burden of deceiving him. “This gold, my lord, will be returned to the Woodroofe family,” I said, not a question so much as an assertion.
He raised an eyebrow. “Have you seen how well clothed our soldiers are, Thomas, all silk-slashed sleeves and bright colors?”
“A proud sight, my lord.”
“Do you think Her Majesty can afford to pay for such fine stuff?”
The question had a certain weight. I did not know the answer.
“Sir Robert paid for our soldiers’ clothing,” he said. “He bought their armor, too—he has important friends in the Admiralty. In return he purchases a chance to cross swords with an enemy.”
“I admire the learned knight, my lord,” I said, because in truth I had found him a ready friend.
“Our Queen sees an approaching war with Spain,” he said, “and she has little money.”
I considered this.
“How much of our new-found gold,” prompted Admiral Drake, indicating the strong boxes, “would the sea-robbers have returned to Joseph Woodroofe?”
“Not a farthing,” I said, pleased to know the right answer, but at the same time feeling an illusion evaporate.
“Worse,” said the admiral. “The wine merchant would have to borrow money to buy back his beloved wife and beautiful daughter.”
“So we take a bite of the treasure, as our reward?” I asked weakly, feeling a degree of chill in the air.
“Thomas, you astonish me,” said the admiral, screwing up his face in a show of being shocked. “We give the treasure, and any other plunder, entirely to the Queen. She takes what she requires.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but our gracious Queen is—” I lowered my voice to a whisper, because what I was thinking was pure treason. Much like a thief, I would have said. But pamphleteers had suffered their hands cut off for publishing criticism of our monarch, and critics of God or Her Majesty had found themselves tortured in Bridewell prison. Besides, if a fighting man steals for his queen perhaps it isn’t really theft.
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