Raleigh's Page

by Alan Armstrong

  They dropped anchor in the Hook of Holland. Snow mixed with drizzle as Andrew rode overland to Rotterdam and Gouda and on to Amsterdam. The buildings were not so fine as London’s. Outside the towns, everything was flat and white with windmill after windmill. His diet on the road was dark bread, dark beer, onions, and cheese. His mood was black.

  Even without the bags strapped to him, it was difficult going about in a long dress. He stumbled on stairs. Strangers greeted him in the street and asked particulars of his holy life. He kept a small stone under his tongue and feigned to be mute, as Sir Walter had instructed.

  With some difficulty, he found Mr. Harriot’s jeweler. The Jew and his family spoke English. They made Andrew welcome with a warm room and a decent meal.

  While the man worked at his kick wheel, shaping and polishing the lenses, Andrew ran Mr. Harriot’s other errands. At night he measured each lens against what was given in the Arab’s book.

  He stayed with the jeweler’s family over Christmas, struggling to talk high, eat dainty, and hold his legs and arms like a woman. Out of respect for his nun’s dress, they called him Sister. His voice was changing, cracking like William’s. He made to cough when that happened.

  If the jeweler and his family suspected his disguise, they never let on. They were used to sheltering people hiding who they were, where they were from, what their business was. It was everywhere a time of war, watchfulness, and secrets.

  Along with their Torah, the jeweler had the Bible in English in Mr. Tyndale’s translation. Andrew was used to hearing readings from Saint Luke on Christmas Eve. Instead, on this Christmas Eve, the jeweler and his wife and their children took turns reading aloud the story of the Jews’ exodus from Egypt.

  “Our family story is the same,” the jeweler told Andrew as the last candles died. “Our people fled Spain the year Columbus sailed for the New World. By decree of May 1492, all Jews were given four months to choose between leaving the country without any valuables or embracing the Catholic faith. Eighty thousand left, our people among them.”

  “And now, here, are you safe?” Andrew asked.

  “Some people are never safe,” the jeweler replied. It was too dark to make out his face.

  They heard singing in the street, faint at first, then swelling louder and louder. “Come,” said the jeweler, opening the door. “They are the Star Singers, the town poor out caroling. It is the one time in the year they are allowed to gather.”

  A mob filled the road, motley and ragged, young and old, some carrying candle lanterns. At the head of their procession, a stout man, a kind of giant, carried a large star on a pole. “The star in its stable of light,” he chanted in Dutch between the songs, “the star in its stable of light.”

  Andrew thrilled to their music. He’d never heard anything like it—so many voices in such a space, hopeful, joyful. It was better than any church singing.

  A child came up. “Alms, please, alms,” she begged. Andrew figured her meaning.

  As he fumbled for money, the jeweler gave her a coin. Then Andrew came up with his.

  “Christ bless you both and your house all,” the child said with a curtsy.

  “And you and yours,” the jeweler replied as he closed the door.

  Sir Walter had sent Andrew off with a note to open on Christmas Eve. When he was alone that night, he did:

  “Andrew—I send you Christmas blessing. The enclosed is for yours at home.” It was signed “WR.”

  “The enclosed” was a small gold coin, the one they called an angel. Sir Walter meant it for Rebecca.

  26

  TO VIRGINIA

  It was early on a spring morning. Andrew stood waiting for Pena by the door of Durham House in rough clothes and his cap for America, and a rat catcher out calling his trade in the Strand took him for a servant.

  “Hey, lad! A brave dog here,” he yelled. “Good company! Keep you free of varmints!”

  The furry pup squirmed in the man’s rough hand. The rat catcher laughed and came close. “Tuck him in your jacket, boy. My terrier just littered. This one’s the runt. No use to me, but he’ll be good for you. Lad your age needs a dog,” he said, slipping the pup into the boy’s pocket. “See? He fits!”

  Andrew curled his hand gently around the warm wriggle as Pena walked up.

  “Ah, you’ve got a friend close by now,” the Frenchman laughed. He rubbed the small white muzzle. The puppy licked his finger.

  “It’s salt he’s after,” Pena said, nodding. The puppy continued licking as fast as he could. “Salt of the earth, salt of the sea,” Pena murmured.

  “So I’ll call him Salt!” Andrew exclaimed as Pena handed the rat catcher a small coin.

  William was at his desk when Andrew came in later. As he looked up, Salt crawled free and fell to the floor with a squeal. He piddled, then limped to William and pawed his shoe.

  “Ah,” said William, gathering up the dog and making small noises. “Your protector in America.”

  At the start of their time together, Salt lived in Andrew’s jacket. The boy liked the dog’s smell and the comforting noises he made at night when he snuggled beside Andrew’s head.

  At last, after all the preparing, packing and repacking, corking tight the bottle of naphtha, polishing and oiling the edge tools until their blades gleamed like silver, checking lenses, astrolabes, and sundials, greasing vests, belts, and boots with a mixture of turpentine, beeswax, and boiled sheep’s fat against weathers they could only imagine, after counting out buttons, beads, bells, and toys—how many would they need? Would a hundred of each be enough?—in early April, word came that the ships were ready.

  Andrew was working in his room, making up a kit for Tremayne, when Mr. Harriot came in.

  “There’s word at Court,” he said, “that Plymouth’s taverns are full of our explorers filling every ear with tales of gold and adventure. They are as set on piracy as exploring.”

  “We go as pirates?” Andrew asked with a start.

  “We’ll take prizes as we go. Our explorers count on catching a fat Spanish merchant ship or two on the way. It’s the same with Sir Walter and his investors: gold on land and gold at sea is what they’re after.”

  He was looking at the box of mirrors.

  “Should we make them presents of those?” he asked. “They might be used against us for signaling or blinding.”

  “How?” asked the boy, surprised.

  “Watch,” said Mr. Harriot as he rose and went to the window. Early-spring sunlight was pouring in. He took one of the mirrors and, with a sureness that showed his practice, flashed a blinding beam into Andrew’s face.

  “The Greeks used that trick against the Romans two thousand years ago,” Mr. Harriot said. “With sheets of polished bronze, they beamed sunlight on the Romans’ ships and set them afire. Good weapons, mirrors. Not to be given away.”

  “Right!” said Andrew, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

  The next morning, with Salt in his pocket, Andrew set out for Plymouth with Mr. Harriot. James stood with Mistress Witkens, William, the cooks, and the laundry people at the door to cheer them off.

  Andrew’s breath came short as he waved goodbye to his Durham House friends. His face was hot. He swallowed a lot. After Pena, he knew he’d miss William most of all.

  Slowly, though, the word “Virginia” began to drum in his head as he rode, the rhythm of the hoof-beats repeating it.

  Even in the hot spring sunshine, Mr. Harriot, riding alongside, wore his long black cloak with the deep pocket.

  Manteo and Wanchese had gone ahead with Pena and Sir Walter. “You’re going home,” Andrew had explained to the Indians. “Home. Back,” he’d said, pointing. “Over the great water.”

  “Home!” the Indians had repeated, smiling. “Home!”

  Andrew met his parents and Rebecca above the port at Plymouth Castle. Words came hard; nobody knew what to say. The boy was excited and distracted. It felt like getting ready for a footrace: all he could think about, all h
e wanted, was to be off, to go! Down below, the Virginia fleet looked like toys, with toy people milling about and waving flags as horns and kettledrums played a popular battle march. There was no secret about their business now; everyone knew they were bound for America—but where exactly?

  At last it was time for farewells. He gave his parents and Rebecca awkward hugs. “I’ll write,” he promised.

  He hurried down to join the expedition people. Tremayne was there, looking over the kit Andrew had made for him. Pena was holding two packages. “The apple shoots,” he said sternly as he handed over the smaller one. “Put them in your coat and keep them damp. First thing when you land, plant them and water them good!” His face softened as he held out the second package. “We are brothers of the spade now,” he said as he presented Andrew with a fine French shovel, the shaft and handle one piece of bent hickory, its heart-shaped blade the best steel. “With this one you will plant our English seeds and dig new things to bring home.”

  The man’s face worked with feeling; Andrew’s too.

  Sir Walter came over. He stretched his arms around Mr. Harriot, Tremayne, and Andrew. “You’re my Americans!” he said. “Observe everything! Be my eyes. Take in all.” Then his face changed and he looked away to study the fleet—his fleet, if he’d had his way. His gaze went beyond the ships, beyond the harbor.

  They were among the last to board. The gangplank went up behind them.

  The fort’s cannons boomed a farewell salute as trumpets blared the Queen’s anthem. Then Admiral Grenville raised his arm and the sailors threw off the hawsers that bound the Virginia fleet to England.

  As the ships moved out on the ebbing tide, something let go inside the boy. He couldn’t help it; tears came as he waved and cheered, until all he could make out was the motion of Sir Walter swooping his feathered hat up and down.

  27

  A STORM AT SEA

  With Salt in his pocket, Andrew spent his first days at sea exploring the Tyger. She was larger and newer than the cog he and Tremayne had taken to Marseilles. He clambered from hold to top deck, from stem to stern, marveling at all the spaces, every inch put to use. “When you spread it out deck by deck and add in the hold,” he told Tremayne, “it’s as big as Durham House, only the ceilings are low.”

  Admiral Grenville made no secret they were English. The Tyger flew St. George’s great white cross on red with Sir Walter’s pennant underneath as the fleet sailed down the French coast and out across the Bay of Biscay.

  The admiral kept his ships close together in what he called his wolf pack. Close sailing was his special tactic. None of the vessels they saw at a distance dared approach. None of those carried flags.

  The sailors watched the sky for signs of weather. They told its future in clouds and colors:

  “Red skies at morning, sailors take warning;

  Red skies at night, sailors’ delight.”

  One morning it dawned red. Before noon the long strands of white cloud they’d had for days gave way to lead-colored masses ranked like fish scales. A softness came into the air. As Andrew came up from seeing to the Indians, a man called to him: “A gale’s up, lad! Get set for damp and worse!”

  Already the sky was darkening. The boy gritted his teeth against feeling afraid.

  The weather turned fast as the wind shifted, blue water going to an ugly gray pudding, whipped and seething. Sudden gusts made the furled sails crack like gunshots. Wind with cold rain in it tore at the lines, making them snap and moan.

  “You hear that?” the sailor said, coming close. “Voices of the drowned. Do you know the verse ‘Full fathom five my father lies’? Do you hear them singing it now?”

  Andrew heard. His flesh prickled. He forced himself to smile. It came hard.

  “Look!” said the sailor, unbuttoning his shirt to show the medal he wore. “Saint Nicholas—the protector of sailors. Pray to him, boy! He’ll save you!”

  All the crew knew Saint Nicholas. Catholic, Protestant, Arab, and Jew—and there were some of each—prayed to him and felt better for it. Andrew had done so himself on the ship to Amsterdam; he did again.

  He went down into the steamy, pitching, sweat-and-wet-smelling hold to join Tremayne in the galley, where the sailors drank beer and ate cold biscuit as they rested between watches and shifts at the pumps. There was no drying off.

  As the waves grew steeper, the Tyger climbed and fell like a blind beetle going over rocks. The ship tossed and took on water. Andrew chewed ginger root. It did no good; he lost what he’d eaten.

  Thunder boomed so loud he thought they’d run into a nest of Spaniards. Lightning flashes made the ropes glow white and sizzle. Water surged over the main deck. Salt lay buried in Andrew’s bunk.

  He went down to the hold to see Manteo and Wanchese. They clung to each other in their corner, sick and groaning, praying to a small, carved figure of their god.

  “Ginger root!” Andrew said, handing them chunks. “Chew it to feel better.” They wouldn’t.

  “It won’t last long,” he said, as much to himself as to them. “We’ll be all right! You’re going home.”

  They were too miserable to be cheered.

  The smells and smoke in that tight place, the sight of swaying ropes and netting, the Indians being sick—it all got to Andrew. He began to feel faint. He staggered back up to the deck.

  As he lurched out into the smack of rain, the small ship just ahead began to founder. The gale winds and pitching seas had cracked her spine! Smoke was pouring from the main hatch: she was on fire! After taking on water, there’s no greater threat to a ship than fire.

  “The heavings and tossings broke her cook fire loose!” a sailor yelled. “There’s gunpowder in her! I helped load kegs of it!”

  Tremayne and Mr. Harriot came and stood with Andrew, gripping the taffrail.

  At risk of smashing the Tyger to bits or getting her blown out of the water, Admiral Grenville had his sailors work the few small sails he’d left up like they were butterfly wings, inching the flagship close to the pinnace.

  Andrew, Tremayne, and Mr. Harriot helped feed rope to the crew as they heaved lines across and tied the pinnace to the larger ship. As side rails and scuppers ground to splinters, the pinnace crew jumped across.

  Andrew could hear the fire roaring in her guts. Orange was showing at her hatches.

  “That gunpowder could go any second,” Tremayne muttered.

  “Count!” the pinnace’s captain yelled from her deck. “Get the count!” He wouldn’t jump until he knew all his men were safe.

  “There’s courage!” Mr. Harriot yelled to Andrew, his lips pinched together as he watched.

  Sure at last that his people were off, the pinnace captain took an ax to the ropes, then made the leap, the ship’s cat in his arms, wet and furious.

  Andrew was watching the pinnace. “She goes down like someone pulling the covers over,” he murmured to himself. No one heard him. At that moment every man watching was beyond hearing, focused on the vessel’s death agony.

  She lurched up with a muffled boom when her powder caught. Andrew held the rail so tight his knuckles went white as the Tyger shuddered at the shock. Bits of board and blanket boiled up, then bubbles.

  The Tyger was crowded now, with two crews aboard along with explorers and Indians. There was no sitting down for meals; everyone stood to eat and shared bunks.

  “Always a warm bed to get to,” the sailors laughed, one man crawling under the covers as another crawled out. Andrew and Tremayne shared with the Indians. The Indians would have shared with the sailors too, but those men were afraid, one muttering, “I’d sooner sleep standing up than lie down next to a heathen!”

  “The admiral says there’s food enough,” Tremayne told Andrew, “but we’ll soon be short of water and out of beer.”

  The storm that took the pinnace hung over them for days. They sailed in murk, seeing nothing. With charts and a sea compass, the admiral kept their course.

  One morning Andrew,
Tremayne, and Mr. Harriot stood together watching the admiral at his work. For Mr. Harriot, navigation was science; for Tremayne, it was a tool to be learned; for Andrew, it was magic, like Doctor Dee gazing into his crystal ball.

  Even in clear weather the sea gave no hint of where they were. The magic and terror of open-water sailing was that there was no left or right, and they didn’t even know if they were going straight.

  With his astrolabe, the admiral checked their north-south position against the stars when he could see them again.

  “We’re about where we should be,” he said, smiling, as Andrew and Tremayne watched him work.

  “Another Arab invention for you, Andrew,” said Mr. Harriot, pointing to the sea compass.

  Mr. Harriot had never sailed out of sight of land before either. He began to understand some of the things the navigators he’d tutored at Durham House had found so puzzling. “Theory and practice,” he muttered. “I was all theory, they were all practice. From now on I’m for practice.”

  “We’re making for the Canaries,” the admiral announced. “Off the coast of Africa. Spanish islands, the last land. There we’ll take on fresh water and the fruits for scurvy—oranges and lemons.”

  “What’s scurvy, sir?” Andrew asked. He’d heard Sir Walter speak of it.

  “Sailors’ sickness. Your gums go soft, the teeth loosen, every joint hurts, you bruise so much you look like a ragbag. So suck your lemon, lad, and give up whistling for an hour.”

  Andrew was with the admiral as they approached Tenerife. Two Spanish ships of war moved out from the harbor.

  “You’re in luck, lad!” the admiral exclaimed. “Maybe I can give you a bit of a sea fight!”

  He aimed his wolf pack straight for the closest. She turned away. He went after the other. She too decided on other business.

  “To keep from getting trapped in the harbor, we’ll settle well out,” the admiral explained once he gave the order to drop anchor. “We’ll take the small boat in. I have a friend here, the principal merchant. You know,” he said with a wink, “a man who buys much and pays in gold is always the intimate of merchants, whatever their differences in politics and religion.