Admiral Drake was not to be seen for the moment, keeping to his charts and his prayers, we understood, in his cabin. No one was permitted to strike a spark on deck, and soldiers wrapped cloth around their boots to muffle their steps.
Hercules polished my own boots in the shaded lamplight of our cabin, working oil into my sword belt. He had me stand still while he brushed me all over with boar’s-hair bristles. I felt like an adventurer.
I asked Hercules if all surgeons went to battle so polished and darned, and he said, “Of course, sir. There is no other way.”
“To do what?” I had to ask.
“To kill,” he said simply, “or to die.”
On the morning of the seventeenth day we were at sea, the Elizabeth Bonaventure came-to, as mariners put it—stopping at a point in the sea swells, and turning into the wind.
The Golden Lion drew near, pennons curling and snapping in the breeze out of the northwest, her sails booming and cracking as she made all possible haste to join us. It was a thrill to see this warship, and to observe the sun-brown faces of soldiers and seamen other than our own, the mariners on both vessels too tense with anticipation to wave or call out. A few smaller ships, pinnaces like the one we had sailed out of London, bobbed well behind the Golden Lion. There were no additional craft—the refitted merchant warships had been scattered by the weather.
Captain Foxcroft beckoned to me, welcoming me with a care-worn smile as I joined him on the quarterdeck. Sir Robert was there, too, outfitted in high, flared boots, and a broad sword belt with a blazing silver buckle. His features were shaded by the brim of his feathered hat, and, like the captain, he wore a highly polished breastplate.
It was the sight of this armor that quickened my heart and chilled me at the same time. Perhaps I had hoped that some jaunty maneuver would take the place of battle, the capturing of another prize-ship, perhaps, some symbolic defiance while we waited for the bulk of our fleet.
I greeted these men wordlessly, all of us too full of feeling to trust speech. Every creak of the ship’s timbers, every hush of sea around her hull, was amplified by my senses. I wondered, too, how many of these sturdy, eager men would be alive to see sunset.
Admiral Drake remained in his cabin.
A lookout called some mariner’s warning and men turned to watch a vessel on the horizon. Another vessel loomed in the hint of a harbor not far to the east.
“Spanish fishermen,” muttered the captain.
High above, suntanned mariners strained from the castles atop the masts, watching the sea. Men adjusted their swords nervously, and gunners made minute adjustments to the gun carriages. Captain Foxcroft bit his thumbnail, his eyes shifting from point to point on the ocean. We could not tarry here long, right in the sea-road from the mouth of the great enemy harbor of Cadiz.
But with the painstaking slowness I had seen before at sea—keen anticipation offset by agonizing deliberateness—the Golden Lion, labored to come even closer. Laces of sea-foam rose and fell around the ships. Vice-Admiral Borough, a wary bear of a man in a brilliantly brocaded jerkin, leaned out over his quarterdeck rail and called some greeting, his words lost in the lift and fall of the sea.
“You led us a merry chase,” cried the vice-admiral again, and added some further word.
At that moment the admiral climbed the steps from his cabin.
His breastplate blazed in the full morning sun of the quarterdeck, and the crest of his helmet flashed. His cheeks glowed, and he stood on his tiptoes, gazing around at the ship and her crew, inhaling the salt air.
Every one of us must have been joined by the same eager hope—that Admiral Drake might give us a share of his great confidence.
And that is what he did, taking in the sight of every man under the sky, meeting our gaze with his, and filling each of us with a feeling of promise. He did not forget me, touching my gaze, too.
Admiral Drake gave a nod, studied the wind with a smile of satisfaction, and then turned and spoke quietly to the captain. Captain Foxcroft took a deep, ragged breath. But he obeyed promptly enough, singing out orders in a firm voice.
The ship’s trumpeter licked his lips, pursed them experimentally, then lifted his shiny brass horn. A first, thready note was nearly silent. And then the trumpeter tried again, and this time the call lifted, to arms, to arms.
Our vessel made for the Spanish harbor, leaving Vice-Admiral Borough bending over the rail of his ship, calling after us in dismay.
Chapter 35
Approaching the Spanish mainland was like watching invisible needles stitching in rocks, castle walls, spires and towers of a city on an illustrated cloth. The wind propelled the vessel forward at a pace that allowed much time to wonder at the hulls and masts growing ever more definite beyond the rocky mouth of the harbor.
Captain Foxcroft kept one hand on the rail of the quarterdeck, and gave the orders Admiral Drake passed on to him. All English flags and pennons, and Drake’s own insignia, were struck—brought down—the long, tapered flags fluttering and seeming to struggle against the hands taking them in. False flags were run up, insignia and colors I did not recognize, and the sight of which brought a laugh from Sir Robert.
“They are Flemish flags, if they are anything,” he said, in response to my question. The lowland country was in no conflict with any other, and her flag disguised our militant intentions perfectly.
It was afternoon when the sound of sea lapping on rocks reached us, and that exhalation rose all around of salt and seaweed—the presence of a shore. Which tiny figure along this beach, I wondered, would prove the vigilant sentry who put our lives in danger? A net-mender shaded his eyes. A child stood on a high rock to watch our sails. In the distance, within the mouth of the harbor, fishermen drew in a long net, a boat at the outer circumference of the skein guiding it in.
The captain and admiral made their way down the quarterdeck stairs, and hid below-decks, the admiral barely able to suppress a laugh as he peered out from the shadows. One glimpse of the famous sea fighter El Draque, we knew, would be enough to send the port into panic.
But the extreme foolhardiness of our position became all the more clear as we came within range of the harbor defenses.
The entrance to the port of Cadiz was defended by a great stone fortress. A sentry on a low tower watched as our ship made way ever closer. Our warship, followed by her reluctant, laggard companion, could be easily raked and ruined by the fort’s archers and cannon.
We inched past the rocky foundation of the citadel. My skin prickled as the distant sentry studied us. He called to a fellow soldier, and soon guards gathered behind the battlements to count our guns. No doubt they wondered why a Flemish warship was in such a hurry to enter Cadiz harbor, a refuge for freighters and their precious cargoes.
In their armor and halberds, these Spaniards looked more colorful than their English counterparts, more fond of canary yellow sleeves. Their beards were uniformly dark, their teeth bright as they pointed out our guns, merely curious, it seemed, what our mission might be. Ross Bagot, our master gunner, making every show of innocent lounging, lifted a languid hand in greeting to the Spanish guards.
My friend Jack and a wiry gunner’s mate named Chubbs manned one of the smaller weapons that projected out over the main deck. Jack’s gun was angled so it would fire at any vessel approaching off the starboard bow, should one appear. Jack, too, made a dumb-show of innocent activity, prompted by the master gunner to a theatrical preoccupation with a flaw in a leather bucket. The ship’s mates passed among the seamen, encouraging a show of harmless knotting and scrubbing.
Flemish or not, our vessel kindled the curiosity of the sentries. A Spanish soldier hefted a musket. I could see him judge the aim and range, with no real intention of discharging the firearm. He was already losing the opportunity as our ship took on greater momentum, the wind muscling her forward, white water parting wide at our prow.
The Golden Lion followed, and the few pinnaces in her wake. They met with no more ho
stility than we had encountered, the soldiers at last relaxing and retiring behind the battlements.
“It’s as easy as kiss-the-duchess,” I said hopefully—it had been one of my master’s favorite phrases.
“The king of Spain,” observed Sir Robert, “has all his cannon pointed toward land. No one here expects an attack from the sea.”
The captain and the admiral were back on the quarterdeck, the admiral indicating the array of ships that lay ahead, merchantmen and caravels, lighters and fishing boats, too many ships to fit along the wharves, many of the great hulls anchored off shore. Gilded wine-ships, multicolored galleons—some of the vessels were surely loaded with silks, or even silver ingots and bricks of pure gold.
The admiral motioned for me to join him, and I was surprised that my knees were steady despite my pounding pulse. Now that we had stolen past the fortress I began to allow myself a hopeful lightening of spirits. Perhaps warfare would now prove just another sport, the taking of a rich cargo or two, and a speedy escape.
A horseman left the stone fort, looking our way from time to time as he rode with increasing purpose back into town, a cloak flowing out behind as the steed rocked into a gallop.
We were in the harbor now, with no easy way of turning back. Many of us counted the ships before us and around us, warships and galleys among them. Mouths worked silently, fingers ticking off the magnificent ships anchored in the peaceful waters.
Sixty vessels.
Our crew was quiet, and I tried hard to disguise my fear.
Chapter 36
Trouble did not take long in seeking us out.
A bank of oars flashed in the late afternoon sun.
A galley separated from the tangle of merchant ships, and sped toward us. She was followed by another very like it in appearance, trim, sleek, oar-powered vessels able to race easily against the wind. They skimmed the water in a breathtaking show of swiftness, maneuvering deftly around a stout merchant ship anchored in the middle of the harbor.
The nearby merchant freighter had caught the admiral’s eye. “She’s an argosy,” Drake said—a rich merchantman. “Look at her stern, painted scarlet and blue,” he laughed. “And the gilded frames around her gunports. She’s Genoese, Sam, and heavy in the water with something rich!” The Genoans were world renowned as among the most successful sea traders.
It was the first time I had heard the admiral use the captain’s Christian name, and Captain Foxcroft gave an appreciative if strained smile, humoring his ambitious admiral. “She’ll have us in range soon,” said the captain, running a calculating eye over the handsome Italian ship. “By my count, she’s carrying forty guns.”
“She’ll need every one of them,” said Admiral Drake.
Immediately our attention was distracted by the rapidly approaching galleys, as quick and silent as two driving water-snakes, their wakes cutting wide of the treasure ship. Their white oars gleamed, the skilled oarsmen making easy work of halving the distance to us, and halving it again.
Guns gleamed in the prow of the foremost galley, twin cannon being primed as we looked on. The bronze guns were on swivels, meaning that they could be aimed with accuracy. Armed men gathered amidships, official-looking in their dark armor and slashed silk sleeves. Sir Robert rested his hand easily on the hilt of his rapier, and I made every effort to look as carefree.
The galley began to back oars, slowing her darting approach. The swivel guns were elevated and swung from side to side, the gunners letting us take in the implication of their choice of targets—first the mainmast, then the mizzen, and then the cluster of officers on our quarterdeck.
Our own gunners shielded the fuming wicks in their hands, our soldiers swarming below-decks.
A galley officer, with a shining breastplate and scarlet-slashed sleeves, stepped to the rail of his ship. The speaking trumpet in his hand gleamed.
The port official’s voice was clear in the calm late afternoon, his words projected by the implement in his hand, and made all the clearer by the continuing, slowing approach of the galley. He called to us in a tongue I could not name—Flemish, perhaps. And then in French, a language I had heard in the London streets.
Captain Foxcroft made every effort to act the harmless visiting sea captain, eager to understand but not quite able to comprehend the query, one hand to his ear. The exchange was normal and proper so far—royal customs men were seeking to verify the origin and intent of an arriving vessel. It was not the first time that day that I wondered at the handsomeness and peaceful dignity of the Spaniards, well appointed in clothing and in arms, expecting to carry out their duties without violence.
One of the darkly bearded officers must have seen something that alarmed him. He stepped briskly to the side of the port official.
Whatever was murmured into his ear froze the officer at the rail, speaking trumpet halfway to his lips.
Admiral Drake could not disguise his red beard and blue eyes any longer. The famous sea fighter gave an order. A single pennon was run up along the mast, snapping straight in the wind—Drake’s personal insignia, the dragon with its sharpened talon claiming the round world.
The admiral spoke again, his voice quiet and steady. The captain raised a hand, like someone greeting a friend. Ross Bagot, the master gunner, standing in the ship’s waist—the main deck directly before the quarterdeck—turned to his mates and his lips moved, calling out the command relayed to the gunners below.
I never caught the words.
Sooner than the thought can be formed our starboard gun-ports were opened all along the gun deck below with a surprising clatter. The cannons ran out, carriage wheels squealing.
Then a few heartbeats of silence were broken by commotion from the galley, excited Spanish commands, oars thrashing the water.
I wished I could hang on to a rail, or hurry forward and fling my arms around the mainmast. Fear kept me where I was, alive to what was about to happen. I wanted only to stop the great wheel of days, and reverse every hour.
Our guns fired, and the ship shuddered under my feet.
Chapter 37
The smoke burned my eyes.
It was too thick to breathe, a thick atmosphere of yellow and black fumes. As the breeze dispersed the clouds, the wreckage on the galley deck was clear, the mess that had been officers and men strewn across the deck. The galley’s swivel guns fired just then, but with no apparent damage to our ship as soldiers swarmed out from our hold, English fighting men taking their positions.
Harquebusses were aimed and discharged, and archers climbed into our top castles. Soon arrows crisscrossed the deck of the galley. The galley resembled an insect stunned and unable to command her many limbs. Then her oars dug into the water, and the galley began a slow turn.
Her men loosed every variety of weapon at us, harquebus fire clawing the air, pistol shots adding their smoke to the general obscurity, arrows and even leaden slingshot rattling across our deck. Spanish officers shielded wounded men with their bodies. I could not suppress a feeling of sharp compassion for these warriors, and I was aware of the stark unfairness of our sudden attack.
The galley’s stern guns came into play, shot from the two cannons howling high overhead, missing us entirely and skipping out across the water beyond. The oared vessel retreated, bits of timber strewn across the water. Her sister ship joined her in speedy flight, and our gunners cheered, their chorus of voices thin after the din of gunfire.
But we had barely begun.
An entire fleet of oared warships darted forward through the water. The retreating, battered galleys forced their way through this deploying fleet, some ten sleek manpowered vessels. The Golden Lion maneuvered, turning her starboard guns in the direction of the advancing Spaniards, and despite my misgivings the sight made me proud—an English ship spewing fire, her shot skipping across the water.
Our own gunners, too, splashed shot among the galleys, and a well-aimed round shattered a row of oars. The galleys tangled with one another, rowing impleme
nts angled uselessly in the air. At last they managed to turn about and race back toward the shelter of the wharf, as our men cheered once again.
The Genoese ship had weighed her anchor, seamen tiny at this distance scurrying about her deck, clambering upward and shaking out her great white sails.
Our ship closed on her, the big merchant ship low in the water and slow to respond to her rudder. As the handsome vessel opened her gunports, other merchant vessels were in plain view beyond, in the waters near the wharf. It seemed to me that this cargo ship was not laboring to escape, after all, but working deliberately to bring her guns to bear.
“She’s too heavy to flee,” Admiral Drake remarked to me. “And she’s got some spleen in her—she’s going to make a fight of it.”
“She’s protecting her fellow merchantmen,” I suggested.
“How very brave of her,” said Drake with a brisk smile. He turned to Captain Foxcroft. “Give her some shot in the belly, Sam,” he said, in the tone of a man deciding a cheerful wager, “but be careful our gunners don’t sink her.”
It seemed like days ago that our shipmates had been tidy-looking mariners, pretending to be harmless and lazy, fresh-faced and calm. Now they were sweaty devils, grinning with enthusiasm as cannon thrust forward through the ports, aimed, and answered the command to fire with another deafening broadside.
The Genoese returned the fire, salt spray dousing the quarterdeck. Our ship maneuvered closer, the Genoese mariners no longer small, scrambling figures but broad-shouldered men, ramming charges down the throats of their maindeck guns.
This time one of the enemy shots struck our ship, a resounding blow that shook the rigging. The admiral gave a glance upward. Warships like ours were famous for their stout timbers, but the gaunt expression on our captain’s face told me that another volley or two would begin to cripple our vessel.
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