Fifteen
The sky was as dark as the sea. The ship seemed on the verge of foundering. The cabin had taken in water; water was sloshing on the deck, pummeling the leaded panes of the cabin’s mullioned windows. From below timbers groaned under the strength of the tempest, and from everywhere Joan heard the hoarse cries of hapless men.
She clung to the braces of the bunk, too frightened to be sick, to think of Matthew, to think at all.
The cabin door swung open and shut freely. With every roll of the ship a torrent of water came down the hatch. She could hear it, a great gushing noise. She could not see out the stern windows. Then the men’s voices grew louder and she heard the tone of anger, not just alarm.
She started as Morgan was dragged into the cabin with his arms held by two of the other men, the one-eyed mate and the man who had urinated onto the deck. They gave Morgan a shove and then slammed the door behind him.
“What’s happened?” Joan shouted over the din of the storm. “Are we to sink or live?”
Morgan gave no answer. He picked himself up off the deck and stumbled toward his bunk, obviously in pain. He
turned to look at her and she could see a savage cut above his right eye, and below the left his check was badly bruised. His eyes flashed angrily, but she understood his anger was not directed at her. He emitted a string of curses, calling his crew treacherous dogs and filthy base villains, every one.
“It’s mutiny,” he gasped. “They’ve taken over the ship. Turning it back. To England.”
“Because of the storm?”
“Yes.”
Joan was sympathetic with the captain’s plight but not ungrateful to the mutineers. Nothing could please her more at the moment than the thought of returning to land. What puzzled her in the perilous circumstances was why Morgan should be so insistent in holding his course for France. How could the little vessel survive such a tempest?
As though reading her mind, he answered the question. “It’s safer to stay in open sea in such a storm than make for land again. They’re cowards, all of them. Fearful of heavy weather and of a woman. They’ll be the death of us all.” “They believe I’ve caused the storm?”
“Incredible, isn’t it? Superstitious knaves.”
She could feel the ship turning. Where before the ship was pitching violently as it headed into the seas, it now fell into the troughs between the waves, and she could hardly hold onto the bunk. The water on the cabin deck now sloshed upward to where she was. Whatever was not fixed to its place flew in every direction. Like a live creature, the ship shuddered and groaned. A sharp snapping sound came from above.
“That’s the foremast going,” shouted Morgan.
“Oh God help us!” Joan cried.
“Holding her into the wind was our only hope.”
Morgan fell back onto his bunk and stared up into the ceiling of the cabin. Joan wondered if he was resolved to die or merely to wait out the storm. She knew there was nothing she herself could do. They and the ship were in God’s hands now.
The next hour was hellish. The storm did not abate and yet
the ship did not sink. Morgan, who said very little during this time but continued to stare moodily into the ceiling, at least let her know that the masts had been lost and the rudder earlier. Wind and current were now piloting the vessel.
“Are they likely to steer us to England?” she asked.
“Yes. If we are unlucky.”
Joan shut her eyes and prayed, as earnestly as she ever had in her life.
Then as suddenly as the storm had arisen, it subsided. First the wind stopped its howling; somewhat later the seas calmed. She felt a resurgence of hope, but Morgan seemed more despairing than ever.
“The storm has ceased. Quiet at last. We’re safe,” Joan said.
Morgan laughed bitterly. “Would to God it were so. Your safety is a foolish dream.”
She turned to look at him across the cabin, puzzled at his response. If the storm had run its course, were they not safe? The ship was still afloat. Would they not be rescued, perhaps by another vessel, or at least, be carried to land by a friendly current?
“They can’t let me live,” Morgan said in a voice without emotion. “They’ve seized the vessel, committed a mutiny. All shall hang. My testimony against them is their death warrant.”
“You don’t mean they’ll kill you?”
“That’s what I mean. And you too.”
Morgan’s words gave her a greater fear than the storm had done. But of course he was right. The men would understand that. The captain’s death would be easily explained if the crew were put to the proof. He simply fell overboard in the tempest, or drowned in an effort to swim to shore. Her own disappearance would require no justification at all. There was no record of her presence on the ship. Her burial at sea would be the most obscure of deaths, without monument or epitaph. What the unknown engineer of these mysteries had forborne, nature had indirectly caused, in driving the crew to mutiny and by their crime to murder as a means of concealing it.
“Can we not reason with them for our lives?”
“Are beasts capable of reason?”
“Or secure the door against them?”
“They’ve secured it against our escape. With hammer and nail. Trust me, the mate will cheerfully feed me to the fishes. Feed the both of us,” Morgan added.
Morgan seemed to have reconciled himself to fate; Joan was less inclined to give over the effort. She decided it was time to tell him who she was, explain why she had been sent to sea. What could she lose now? Perhaps his hate—if that was what was in store for her—would stir him from his lethargy, stimulate his mind to engage the problem of escape.
She decided to be direct.
“I know your wife,” she said.
Morgan made no response. He lay staring up at the ceiling, his hands covering his chest as though he had been laid out for the grave. Then he rose on one arm and looked at her curiously.
“You know Elspeth? How?”
“My husband is Matthew Stock, the man accused of murdering Stephen Graham.”
“My brother-in-law is dead—murdered!” he exclaimed in a way to satisfy Joan that this was the first news he had had of the event.
“You hadn’t heard?”
“How could I? I’ve been at sea nearly a year. We weren’t in England more than a day before we set sail again. I have had no news for months. I don’t know whether the queen lives or whether her successor wears the crown. And you tell me my wife’s brother has been murdered—and your husband is charged with the crime?”
Joan gave Morgan a shortened version of Matthew’s story, explaining how Stearforth had come to Chelmsford and represented himself as Graham and lured Matthew and her to London.
Morgan was sitting up now and giving his full attention to her account. He had seemingly forgotten about the mutiny
and Joan was gratified to see that he gave no sign of disbelieving what she had said.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I saw how close you and Stearforth were—and Mother-well; I suspected you were part of the conspiracy.”
“Not I,” Morgan said. “I despise the man.”
“Then why did you so readily receive me and set sail when you had hardly drawn a breath of England’s air?”
“Stearforth is secretary and general factotum to Lady Elyot, who owns the Plover. It was through her appointment I was made master of the vessel. When he told me I was to take you to sea I assumed the order came from her ladyship. What was I to do?”
“Stearforth has been dismissed from Lady Elyot’s service,” Joan said. “He now serves another, the man who gave orders to have your wife’s brother murdered and my husband blamed. Stearforth anticipated your ignorance of these things. He took advantage of it.”
“As he would do,” said Morgan. “But tell me, how fares my wife and children? You’ve seen them all, then?”
“I saw them indeed—only a few days ago.
Elspeth received me coolly at first, which was only natural given her belief I was a murderer’s wife. But we talked and grew acquainted. She said she’d help me clear my husband’s name, find a diary kept by her brother that might give a name to his enemies.”
“And did she find the diary?”
“I found it myself, for when I returned the next day to receive it of her, she was colder than at first. I believe Stearforth had followed me to your house and spoken to Elspeth after I left. I suspect, too, that he threatened her and the children if any spoke kindly to me again.”
“I will cut off the serpent’s head when I see him again,” Morgan said.
“You won’t if we are fed to fishes,” Joan reminded him. “Nor will Stephen Graham’s death be avenged or my innocent husband freed.”
“Who did you say Stearforth serves now?”
“I don’t know,” Joan said. “But I believe him to be a churchman.”
Morgan looked incredulous. “What, a man of God a murderer and traitor?”
“Your brother-in-law was being considered for a bishopric. His outspokenness about Poole’s resurrection—”
“Whose what?”
But of course Morgan hadn’t heard about Poole either.
“Poole was a priest—a Jesuit. He died last year but swore before he would resurrect within the twelve month—or so his adherents claimed. Someone dug up his body. The Papists screamed miracle. Your brother-in-law denounced the fraud and so became a champion of the church, although the fraud might have been done to besmirch his reputation.”
“If so, it had the opposite effect,” Morgan said.
“And thereby put him in greater danger. Lord Bacon’s party preferred another in his stead.
“As rector of St. Crispin’s?”
“As bishop. I don’t know what see. According to his diary, Ely was vacant, and one other soon to be.”
“But would a man murder for a bishopric?”
Joan had pondered this same question. To her the church was her town parish; ecclesiastical authority her own parson. But she knew it was otherwise in the greater world. The lords spiritual of England did well for themselves. They lived in palaces and rode in coaches. Their voices were heard in the queen’s own Privy Council, and their election to their princely offices were matters of considerable political significance. Joan might not know the bishop of Ely or London from Adam but the queen knew him and cared who he was and what he believed and so she had no doubt that even one of God’s annointed might send another to a premature reward if moved by ambition or greed.
“He would—and perhaps even more gladly if he thought he could bring a great man down at the same time.”
She was relieved that Morgan did not ask her who this great man might be. She was not prepared to allow her candor to take her that far. Morgan seemed preoccupied still
with Stearforth s perfidy. Joan was more hopeful now. Perhaps a desire for revenge would do what mere self-interest could not—move Morgan to constructive action.
Joan went over to the window and looked out. Her heart leaped as she saw land in the distance, white cliffs rising from the blue-green sea. Without rudder or mast, the Plover was floating ashore, stern first.
Above her she could hear the sounds of men’s voices. She listened carefully trying to hear the matter. It was the crew, arguing about what was to be done. A shrill voice rose above the rest to demand quick action. Morgan and the woman had to be disposed of, the voice said. The ship would be spotted from the coast. Salvagers would be scattering on the beach.
But some of the crew were hesitant. Joan heard another deeper voice raised in the captain’s defense. Morgan was a fair captain, a decent man, the voice said. It was coldblooded murder to throw him overboard.
She heard the shrill voice scream otherwise. If the captain was to be freed, they might as well hang themselves now, for it would be all over with them as soon as shore was reached and the captain had told all. There was a chorus of yeas to this reasoning, and Joan’s heart sank. The deeper voice now fell silent; no voice was raised in her own defense. That she should be cast overboard seemed a matter of general agreement.
She turned to look at Morgan. He was sitting up in his bunk and by the look on his face she knew he had heard the voices too. And why not, with only a few inches of beam and board between their heads and the feet of the mutineers?
“What shall we do?” she asked.
Morgan got up and went to the window. “We’re a furlong from land. Too far to swim and the ship’s boat was crushed when the foremast fell. With this tide it will be less than an hour before the ship is on the beach. They may put down an anchor, but my guess is that this crew will be as eager as the rats to say farewell to the ship, damn them all to hell. Especially my mate. It was he you heard leading on in this mischief."
“And they’ll kill us first?”
“Maybe not,” said Morgan.
Morgan walked over and began pounding on the cabin door and yelling to be let out. He wanted to talk to Simkins, he said. Joan surmised Simkins was the one-eyed mate, the owner of the shrill voice.
Within a few moments, Joan heard the braces that had been used to make the cabin a cell removed and the door opened. Simkins and the cook came in. Simkins carried a sword, the cook a cleaver. Three or four others crowded around in the passageway, trying to see into the cabin.
Simkins flashed a look of contempt at Joan and then addressed Morgan.
“What do you want?” Simkins snarled. “If you intend to beg for mercy, you were better to forget it It’s too late for that now. Land’s in sight.”
“I’ve seen the land,” Morgan said calmly. “I only wonder if you’ve thought wisely about what you do.”
“Oh, we’ve thought wisely enough,” replied Simkins. “We’d be at the bottom of the Channel had you had your way Morgan—or at best at sea again for twelve month.”
There was a harsh murmur of agreement from the other crewmen. The men’s faces looked determined and unmistakably hostile.
“Well, then, perhaps you’re right,” said Morgan, in the same calm voice as before. “I can well understand your thinking. You’re mutineers. I and this woman can testify against you. It’s a dilemma, but one admitting to a simple solution.”
Simkins and the others seemed taken aback by Morgan’s concession, and yet Joan noticed no sign that Morgan’s words were to be considered an invitation to begin the executions forthwith. Morgan had been successful to that extent. But then she realized that Morgan’s oratory had not concluded. She could tell by his fixed expression, the look of a man completely in possession of himself. Had Morgan accepted his death like a condemned man on the gallows who blesses the executioner? Or did Morgan have a plan?
“You may do what you like with me but I hope you’ll spare the woman for your own sakes.”
“Her?” replied Simkins. “Why should we? She brought the storm upon us. She caused all this trouble.”
“That may be true,” said Morgan. “But I mean it’s a shame to lose the reward.”
“What reward?” asked the cook.
“Shut up,” said Simkins, turning angrily to his companion. “Don’t you see it’s a trick? There’s no reward. Why should there be?”
“Simkins is right, as usual,” said Morgan casually, addressing himself to the cook and the other men. “I’m just making the reward up in my head. Just a trick to escape. But consider the circumstances in which this woman was brought on board. Simkins was there. So were you, Drury,” he said, nodding to a thin man of about thirty standing in the passage. “Did you think her an ordinary passenger? See how she’s dressed. Well enough to be a lady, don’t you think? And don’t you suppose whoever brings her to her husband safely after she’s been abducted as she has been will be paid handsomely?”
Morgan got no answer to the question, not even from Simkins, who seemed, however, not as aggressive as before. Morgan continued. “That’s what you’ll lose, the reward for bringing her back. Of cou
rse, you’ll trade the money for safety.”
“By God, we will,” said Simkins, asserting himself again.
“Although you could have them both—safety and the reward.”
“You’d promise to shut up about the mutiny?” Simkins asked, screwing his face into a mask of sarcasm. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you’d be as mum as a mouse, at least until we all got ashore and you let the world know what had happened.”
“I’d be a fool to do so,” said Morgan.
“What do you mean?” asked the cook.
“We’ve heard enough from him,” interrupted Simkins. “I say let’s throw them both overboard and look to ourselves.
This talk of rewards is a mere device. There’s no husband, and no reward.”
“But how do you know there isn’t?” protested the cook, turning from Simkins to Morgan again. “The woman was brought on board a prisoner. That was clear. And she’s the age to have a husband and her clothes look as though he does well by himself. It might be true.”
“It is true,” Joan declared firmly, emboldened by Morgan s confidence. “I am a married woman with a husband who dotes on me. I was taken aboard this vessel against my will, and as God is my witness, my husband would give his fortune to have me home again.”
“And who is your husband? Some greengrocer, I warrant,” said Simkins with a mocking laugh.
“He’s rich enough to make my safety worth your while,” Joan said defiantly. “He’s a servant of a certain high-placed gentleman I could mention. I was abducted because of some information I had that might be useful to this lord. Indeed, I think he might also be willing to reward anyone who might set me at liberty. And this lord I mention is one of the wealthiest men in England.”
Simkins continued to look skeptical. He held firmly to his weapon but turned to search the faces of his followers, as though he expected them to share his disbelief. Joan thought, however, that the crew were wavering. The men in the doorway looked interested, and even the cook had lowered his cleaver to a less threatening position.
Witness of Bones Page 17
