Rodney had a sudden vision of Phillida. For a moment she seemed to stand beside him, so beautiful that she dazzled him. As he said good-bye to England, so he wished now he could say good-bye to Phillida – not as he had done on leaving Camfield, touching her cold hand to his lips, but as his seamen said goodbye to their sweethearts and wives.
He should have kissed Phillida on the mouth; he should have infused her with his own fire. Now in retrospect he could hardly credit that he had been so foolish as to let her keep him at arms length.
Despite every possible manoeuvre and plea on his part, she had evaded being alone with him. Rodney cursed himself for a nitwit and a weakling. He should have forced himself upon her, even gone to her bedchamber if necessary – it would not have been the first time he had overpowered a woman’s protests and her reluctance.
“Phillida! Phillida!” he whispered her name to the breeze, and then, uninvited, Lizbeth’s face was before him, her eyes alight with mischief, her lips red, mocking. . . .
“Curse the wench!” Rodney forced himself to think again of Phillida, but the moment of her nearness was past and he forgot her a second later.
The sky had been grey and overcast all day, but now the sun broke through, seeming to bring a message of hope and cheer. It glittered on the waves, dazzling Rodney’s eyes as he glanced aloft.
“Set the topsails, Master Barlow,” he said.
With the wind blowing fresher as they neared the open sea they headed into the Sound. The waves were under her bows and under the pressure of increased sail the Sea Hawk made her first big roll. The men were beginning to be seasick and Rodney congratulated himself that it was many years indeed since he had known the ignominy of staggering and lurching towards the rails. He had not, however, forgotten the misery of his first voyage when he had been so sick that he had prayed that death might take him. He had learned in the years that followed that many men, however experienced sailors they might be, were always sick in the first few hours of a voyage, before they got their sea-legs.
He must remember to tell Barlow a little later on, he thought, not to push the sea-sick men too hard. The Petty Officers were being very free with the rope’s end he noticed, and he decided that he would speak to all those in authority and tell them that he would have no unnecessary cruelty on board.
The loyalty and affection which Drake inspired was, Rodney knew, to a great extent due to his innate kindliness. The men did not expect it, and it never ceased to surprise them that someone so successful and so fearless as Drake could show them personal consideration and have, what was more, an individual knowledge of every man under his command.
Rodney had sworn to model himself on the same lines, but now he felt almost a sense of helplessness as he watched the men hurrying about the deck and swarming up the rigging. To them he was a figurehead, the Captain of the ship and of their fate, someone who must be obeyed, hardly human, hardly of the same flesh and blood as themselves.
He had got to get to know them; he had got to teach them to trust him. They knew he was untried, they knew, even better than he did, the perils and pitfalls of his first command. And yet no fear, no anxiety could dim the elation in Rodney’s heart. They were at sea, the sails were full-bellied.
He had never known such a thrill, such a sense of wild excitement as filled him at this moment. The Sea Hawk was his desire as surely as if she were a woman who had surrendered herself to him. He felt his whole being tingle with the triumphant joy of a man who has fought and conquered – a man who has proved his manhood.
He thought not of Phillida nor of any woman at that moment; he was infatuated by a mistress more exacting, more temperamental and more unpredictable than any he had ever known and her name was the Sea Hawk.
For a long time he stood watching the sea ahead, feeling the wind on his face. Then at length he realised that the wind was still freshening and there was every chance of their running into bad weather before they reached the Bay of Biscay.
“Get the foresail in, Master Baxter,” he said to the Lieutenant on watch, then, turning, he found his way to the aft cabin.
It was small but comfortable, furnished with an oak table and carved oak chairs. Fortunately the furniture had been included in the purchase price of the ship or Rodney would have been hard put to it to afford such luxury. He was glad, however, that the Sea Hawk was well fitted up. It was an important part of the Captain’s dignity. Drake had insisted on both pomp and finery, and aboard his flagship trumpets announced his dinner and supper hour. He carried fiddlers to make him music and the vessels of his table, and even of his kitchen, were pure silver.
All those who served with Drake boasted, when they were ashore, of the silver service which their Captain used when he dined, and of the fine linen on which he wiped his hands after he had dipped them in the perfumed water which he said the Queen herself had given him. It was all a show of strength, Rodney knew.
He could not attempt to emulate the magnificence of his former Captain, but he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he sat down in the big armchair at the end of the table and rang the small hand-bell which lay on the polished surface. The man Hapley, whom he had appointed to be his personal servant, came running.
He was a tall, good-tempered-looking Cornishman who had been aboard the Golden Hind but who, when the voyage was ended, had offered himself to Rodney with an eagerness that he could not help but find flattering. Hapley had a big, muscular body and fists which would make anybody think twice before challenging him to a fight. Those same hands could, on occasions, be, as Rodney knew, as gentle as a woman’s and his skill at sewing alone would have made him sought after by any gentleman who liked his things kept neat and tidy.
Hapley was grinning from ear to ear as he entered the cabin. He had been as excited as Rodney himself about the purchase of the Sea Hawk and he took as much pride in her as her master. Rodney was, however, determined to have no undue familiarity from Hapley. It was bad for discipline on a ship if any man was assumed to have more influence than another.
“Ask the officers to attend me here immediately,” he said sharply, “and ... Master Gillingham, too.”
He included Francis as an afterthought, feeling that it was best that the boy should get into the ways of a ship at the beginning. If Sir Harry wanted him made a man, then he must work with the others.
Rodney was already resigned to the fact that he would be worse than useless, but in spite of that he would not fail in duty to teach the boy to the best of his knowledge; if it failed, it should not, at any rate, be his fault.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Hapley pulled up the heavy oak chairs to the table, expecting a conference. For a moment Rodney was inclined to tell him to obey orders without further delay, then he remembered that the ceiling of the cabin was very low, far lower than that of the Golden Hind and if he must speak with his officers, they must sit or else stand bowed in an unnatural position for fear of knocking their heads against the wooden beams. What was more the ship was rolling quite considerably now. There was the slap and splash of the waves against the port-holes. Once again Rodney felt thankful that he had grown out of being seasick, though doubtless Francis would be confined to his cabin. He was the sort of weakling, Rodney thought scornfully, who would make no effort to overcome his disability.
There was the sound of footsteps outside; Rodney sat back in his chair with a careful assumption of ease. He was young enough to feel that he must act the part of Captain, holding his dignity, yet at the same time gaining the officers’ confidence by his friendliness.
He felt suddenly shy and even a little apprehensive. He felt almost as if his officers were enemies rather than his confederates, and then he forced himself to smile at his own fears. Why, he had double the experience of all of them with the exception of Barlow, who was seven years older and had been to sea since he was eleven.
They were coming in now, Barlow leading the way, then Hales, the Master, Gadstone and Walters the two Lieutenants, and
Dobson the Surgeon, who was coughing in the repulsive manner which had annoyed Rodney since he first came aboard. They filed slowly into the room.
“Will you be seated, Gentlemen?”
The door was still open and Rodney glanced towards it.
“Is Master Gillingham coming?” he asked sharply, knowing that Hapley was standing outside. He could not prevent the rasp in his voice and Hapley’s “Coming now, sir,” did not soothe the anger which Rodney felt rising within him.
Curse Francis ! It was what might be expected – that he would keep him waiting, even though his cabin was next door and all the other officers had further to come. Well, he would be damned if he would wait for the boy. Rodney turned towards the men seated round the table.
“We are all present, I think,” he said, “with the exception of Master Baxter who is on watch and Master Gillingham who appears to be somewhat tardy in making his appearance. I want to take this opportunity at the beginning of the voyage to speak to you and make clear certain matters which concern us all. First, the welfare of the men...”
There was a sound at the door. Rodney raised his head. So Francis had condescended to appear at last, he thought. He supposed he must rise to greet him. After all, much as he might dislike the boy, he was Sir Harry’s son and without Sir Harry’s gold the Sea Hawk would not have been his to command. He pushed back his chair.
“Good evening, Master Gillingham,” he said. “Allow me to welcome you to our company.”
It was growing dark in the cabin, the gleam of sunshine which had heralded their departure from Plymouth had vanished into low clouds, the waves breaking on the portholes obscured much of the daylight; for a moment Rodney had an impression that Francis was smaller than he had remembered, and then, as he touched the hand outstretched to him, as he felt the fingers warm and soft beneath his own, he felt a sudden startled suspicion which left him breathless, so that he could only stare wildly and incredulously at the small oval face looking up into his, at two green eyes which he remembered all too vividly.
It could not be true – it was impossible! Rodney told himself, and looked again. But there was no doubt of it. It was not Francis who had come into the cabin, but Lizbeth. Her red hair had been cut short and was drawn back from her forehead. Her elaborate doublet of dark blue velvet with its short, satin-lined cape, was exactly what Francis might have worn, the sword dangling at her side was undoubtedly his.
Disguised as her brother, taking her brother’s place, she was yet undoubtedly herself, too. Rodney stood before her in silence striving vainly to find his voice, to collect his senses.
It was Lizbeth who spoke first.
“Thank you for your welcome, Master Hawkhurst,” she said in a low voice. “I am delighted to be here and my father sends you his greetings and wishes you all possible success on the voyage which lies ahead of us.”
She turned from him as she spoke and, crossing the cabin, seated herself on the one chair left empty at the far end of the table. She made it clear to Rodney what course she expected him to take and for the moment, his brain in a whirl, he could think of nothing better to do than to return to his own seat.
Lizbeth was now speaking to the officers.
“May I introduce myself, Gentlemen?” she said. “I am Francis Gillingham, as Master Hawkhurst may have told you.”
They all bowed as was expected of them and then, the formalities dispensed with, they looked to Rodney and waited for him to finish his speech.
What was said after that he really had no idea. He supposed that almost automatically his voice spoke the thoughts which he had planned earlier in the day. He knew, though, that the fire and spirit with which he intended to deliver this oration was lacking, so that the attention of the officers wandered and the Surgeon’s cough seemed, from time to time, to drown his voice.
In a daze he finished speaking, and those who listened waited, their faces impassive in the waning light, Rodney dismissed them sharply.
“That will be all, Gentlemen. There is, I know, much for you to do this evening.”
They rose automatically to their feet, Lizbeth with them. Then, as she reached the door, Rodney said,
“You will remain behind, Master Gillingham”
She did not answer, but stood waiting till the officers had filed from the cabin and the door was closed behind them. It was then, as it seemed to Rodney, that the cabin grew even darker and he could see only the whiteness of her face against the darkness as he asked hoarsely:
“Why are you here? Where is your brother? What does this mean?”
Lizbeth came forward, moving until she reached his side. Then she faced him, her hands resting on the back of a chair.
“I am sorry,” she said softly, “that I could not let you know of my presence when you were alone, but when your man came to fetch me, I debated whether it would be best to wait or to obey your orders. As you see, I obeyed.”
Rodney’s clenched fist came down hard on the oak table.
“In God’s name, this is intolerable! I must send you back, I must put you ashore.”
He looked around him a little wildly as if he expected some means to materialise by which he could fulfil his threat.
“I think that is impossible,” Lizbeth replied.
She spoke gently enough, but he suspected that she was laughing at him, knowing full well that it would be impossible for him to turn back now. They were at least three hours out from Plymouth, with the wind behind them. Besides which, nothing would be more unlucky or ill-omened to put back into harbour when once the voyage had begun.
“How dare you do this?” Rodney cried furiously. “And where is your brother?”
“I owe you an explanation, I know,” Lizbeth replied. “May I please sit down?”
Her plea did not inspire Rodney to any show of good manners.
“Yes, sit down and explain yourself if you can,” he said roughly.
Lizbeth glanced at him for a moment under her eyelashes, and then with her hands clasped in front of her on the table she began.
“Father was furious because Francis would visit a neighbour of ours. Dr. Keen, who is suspected of sympathy with Spain. He caught him coming into the house very late at night and told him he would be kept to his room until he sailed with you, and the next morning a messenger posted to Plymouth to bring you the news. Francis was desperate at the thought of what lay ahead of him. He has hated the sea all his life. He has a horror of it and he swore to me that he would rather kill himself than come on this voyage. We thought of every possible way of making Father change his mind.
“We planned that Francis should sham being sick or even make himself ill by eating something which would disagree with him, and then, while the preparations for the voyage went ahead, Father began to boast that Francis was setting out to fight the Spaniards.
“He has always been ashamed that Francis was not like himself, brave and robust, and now he had the opportunity to prove to his friends and neighbours that his son was no different from any other boy. People came to call – they congratulated Francis, they wished him “God Speed,” they even brought gifts for his comfort.
“We soon saw that it would be impossible without loss of honour and decency for Francis to draw back at the last moment. It was then, when he swore that nobody would make him go aboard, that I had an idea how to save him.”
“To come yourself!” Rodney ejaculated.
“Yes, exactly,” Lizbeth answered. “Father had agreed that I should accompany Francis to Plymouth. I think he had an idea that Francis would run away, but if I were there, I would be able to prevent him. Four servants came with us and Father’s instructions were that they were to see Francis aboard and then bring me back. He was taking no chances, you see.
“We started off from Canfield with a crowd of friends to say good-bye to us and Father as proud as a turkey cock because Francis was off to do what he would like to have done at his age – or now for that matter. All the way to Plymouth I tried to pers
uade Francis to change his mind, to sail with you, to see the world, to force himself to endure the punishment which Father had given him, no matter how hard it might be.
“But Francis would not listen; he drew his dagger and swore on the Bible that he would use it on himself if I didn’t save him from what he believed to be a living hell on earth.
“Last night we put up at an inn and it was then I realised that there was no chance of turning Francis from his purpose or of changing his mind. He was determined not to come on this voyage, even if it should cost him his life, so I was forced to agree to his wishes.
“When morning came, we sat talking happily together in front of the servants until it was nearly time to go aboard, then in a last-minute flurry we sent them into town to buy various things we said we had forgotten. As soon as their backs were turned I cut my hair, changed into Francis’ clothes, and came down to the docks by myself, while Francis left the inn to hide until the ship had sailed.
“I gave the landlord a note to give to the servants as soon as they should return, telling them that we had received a letter from you saying the ship would sail half an hour sooner than was anticipated. We had therefore both gone aboard. They were to bring Francis’ sea-chest and my baggage down to the ship as soon as they received the message, for I, Lizbeth, had accepted an invitation to sail with you as your guest.”
“You said that?” Rodney said incredulously.
“What else could I say? I had to make some explanation for my disappearance. It was not for the servants to argue.”
“But your father, what will he say?” Rodney asked.
“What can he say? The ship has sailed. He will swear and curse, but perhaps Catherine will persuade him that it is for the best. She will hope that the sharks will eat me or that you will throw me overboard in sheer exasperation.”
An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition Page 7
