by Ann Swinfen
‘And what had become of your father?’
‘I wrote to him after my mother’s death, and he was able to arrange for me to come to London. I have lived with him and his English family ever since, and continue to work for the Company, mostly as an interpreter, since on the whole Englishmen find it difficult to learn Russian.’
He gave me a questioning look.
‘And now I am supposed to teach you during the course of a single voyage.’
I sensed the underlying question and laughed.
‘I do not expect to become fluent. I think you are only supposed to teach me some simple vocabulary. And I had better learn the Cyrillic characters too.’
He nodded. ‘It would help me to know what languages you are already familiar with.’
I pondered. ‘English. Portuguese. Spanish. Italian. French. Latin. Greek. Hebrew. No German. Only a few words of Dutch.’
He laughed. ‘Well, that gives us a starting point. Greek will help you with the alphabet, which has some similarities. You do not know any Slavic languages?’
I shook my head. ‘I have never had the opportunity.’
‘Well, we shall make a start by learning the Russian names for simple things like man, woman, father, mother – will that be acceptable?’
I nodded. I do not know whether Pyotr had ever taught the rudiments of Russian before, but he proved a good teacher, concentrating on basic words and correcting my pronunciation carefully and patiently until he was satisfied. Fortunately I have always had a good ear for languages, and I believe that the more languages you learn, the better you understand how any language works. By the end of the day I had memorised about twenty useful phrases and Pyotr had written out the Cyrillic alphabet for me.
As we walked toward the cabin where our meals were served, Pyotr cleared his throat and looked at me nervously.
‘I believe you come from a Marrano background, Dr Alvarez?’
‘Please call me Kit,’ I said, wondering where this was leading. ‘Aye, there is no secret about it.’
‘I thought I should warn you . . . Muscovy is intransigent in this . . . No Jew is permitted to enter the country.’
‘I am a baptised Christian,’ I said, ‘as I suppose you are. I have nothing to fear on that score.’
‘Good,’ he said, and never mentioned the subject again.
Yet I shuddered inwardly. One more secret to be kept, if I valued my life.
The next morning the fleet was readied for the onward journey. Coming up from the dining cabin where we had broken our fast, I was surprised to see all the crew very grandly clothed in Company livery.
‘What is this?’ I asked Pyotr, who was standing with Cuthbert and Guy on the foredeck. ‘Why are the men wearing this finery?’
‘We will be passing Greenwich Palace soon,’ Pyotr explained, ‘and Her Majesty is in residence. She likes to watch the Muscovy fleet set out. She has always taken a great interest in the Company’s affairs.’
It was what Rowland Heyward had told me. I suppose our Muscovy trading fleet was the Queen’s riposte to Spain’s treasure ships which loot the New World.
‘A salute will be fired on our cannon,’ Cuthbert warned, ‘so be prepared to cover your ears.’
‘I have never understood why that should be regarded as a way to please monarchs,’ I said.
Guy grinned. ‘Because they like a lot of noise, and the louder the better. And seeing how well armed are our ships must be a way of thumbing our nose at our enemies. Gloriana has never despised a little pageantry whenever possible.’
Fortunately for the dignity of our departure from Deptford and our ceremonial parade past Greenwich Palace, there was now a moderate breeze from the south west. As we began to move away from the shipyard, there was much blowing of whistles and trumpets, the sailors broke out the full canvas, and the Bona Esperanza began to make her stately way downriver, followed in strict order of tonnage by the other seven ships.
As we drew level with the palace, the captain himself raised a trumpet to his lips and blew a signal I had not heard before. Immediately there was the crack and roar of all our cannon being fired at once. I had my hands over my ears, but even so my head rang with the noise, while I could feel the ship buck and shiver under my feet. I had been involved in the edges of the battle with the Spanish two years before, and the noise had been almost unbearable then, but the guns had not all been fired at the same time. Now the air was filled with a choking cloud of smoke. The breeze was not strong enough to disperse it, so we were all soon coughing. These ceremonial firings use all the usual gunpowder, though happily they omit the shot, otherwise the palace would have been peppered with cannonballs, as first the Bona Esperanza and then each of the ships in turn saluted Her Majesty.
The royal standard was flying from a flagpole above the palace and all the sailors not engaged in manning the rigging stood to attention in their livery, facing the shore. I could see no sign of the Queen, but I am sure she was watching discreetly from a window. She could hardly have failed to be aware of our passing.
Once past Greenwich and clear of the drifting cloud of smoke from the cannon, we moved out into the middle of the river, where we had the benefit of another ebb tide as well as the favourable wind, though it barely filled the sails. A long, slow, and meandering sail lay ahead of us. Pyotr pointed out to Guy the dark banks at the place they call Blackwall, but there is little to recommend it other than the slippery foreshore of black mud. Some smaller ships were hauled up on the shore, where they were being scraped clean of barnacles by workmen themselves blackened by the mud they waded through. There was a small shipyard here as well. The whole of these lower reaches of the Thames were dotted with them, established at the time when the Queen’s father had first taken an interest in building up a navy.
Then it was on past the flat marshy country stretching out on either side as the river widened, drawing nearer to the sea – Kent to the south of us, Essex to the north. The ebb was slackening now, so that we moved more and more slowly through this dull, sluggish country. I felt I should be more usefully occupied, perhaps studying my Russian, but there is something hypnotic about standing on the deck of a moving ship and watching the land slip by.
‘Woolwich,’ said Cuthbert, pointing to a busy shipyard, larger even than Deptford. ‘Please God none of our ships need further repairs. If we continue to travel at this pace we shall not reach Wardhouse before next year.’
Guy shuddered, but Pyotr only grinned.
‘You will find everything will change, once we are at sea.’
Cuthbert shook his head in disbelief. Like Simon, he had travelled to the Low Countries last year. From Simon’s remarks they must have had a most unremarkable voyage.
We were all relieved when we passed Woolwich without stopping. It was late afternoon when we came to Gravesend. The sailors, who had laid aside their finery and donned their everyday slops, began to climb the rigging and haul in the sails, tying them loosely to the spars, until we were driven only by the foresail and mizzen. The captain had retired to his cabin in the stern-castle and his pilot officer was now in charge. The ship came slowly about until she was heading into the wind. At a signal the anchor was released and the remaining sails struck. The Bona Esperanza came quietly to a stop.
Cuthbert strode over to the pilot officer.
‘There are several hours of daylight left,’ he said. ‘Surely we can go further today.’
The officer gave him the kind of polite but pitying look mariners are apt to bestow on landsmen.
‘The estuary is very dangerous. The shoals and sandbanks will have shifted even in the last few weeks. Only a fool would attempt a passage at the end of the day. We will lie at anchor until full light tomorrow.’ He turned away to his duties.
Cuthbert shrugged and came over to where Guy had persuaded me to join him in some music making, to the amusement – but I think also pleasure – of the sailors.
‘It is no use,’ Cuthbert said. ‘Here we stay un
til tomorrow.’
‘Be glad of the rest while you may,’ Pyotr said. He had brought out an odd stringed instrument unlike any I had seen before and had formed a trio with us. ‘You see those clouds building up over the German Sea? There will be stormy weather ahead. You will be looking back with regret at our peaceful journey down the Thames, however frustrating you may have thought it.’
Before dusk the next day, Pyotr was proved right. After we had carefully picked our way through the complex maze of sand, mud, and water that forms the mouth of the Thames, we had perhaps two or three hours of moderate wind, blowing first from the south west, then veering round to the south. We were all cheered by the brisk pace of the fleet, and a fine sight we made, creaming along under full sail northwards up the Essex coast.
It was almost possible to ignore the increasingly black clouds building up out to the east over the German Sea. After all, the wind was not blowing them towards us. Or so we reassured ourselves. Nevertheless, I could not help but notice the worried looks exchanged by the officers and the older sailors. It was about then that the order was given to furl the topsails.
‘What is this?’ Cuthbert said.
He had found Pyotr and me in our usual place, where I was being drilled on the words and phrases I had learned.
‘Why are they taking in some of the sails? Surely we want to move at the best possible speed.’
Pyotr gave him a wry glance.
‘The captain expects the wind to veer round to the east. That will blow the storm our way. It also risks driving us onshore. He needs to keep enough sail on to give him steerage way, but to reduce our speed, so that we cannot rush out of control and wreck ourselves on the shore.’
Cuthbert snorted. ‘I do not believe that storm will come anywhere near us. It will blow away to the Low Countries.’ He stamped off, where I soon saw him arguing with one of the officers.
‘You seem to know a great deal about ships and sailing,’ I said to Pyotr.
He shrugged and smiled. ‘I cannot tell you how many times I have made this journey. I am no mariner, but I have eyes and ears. I have seen this kind of operation before. If the wind grows too strong, blowing us onshore, they will run for a harbour. Probably Harwich will be the most likely.’
He paused and looked at me sideways, as if judging my courage. ‘On the return from the second Company voyage to Muscovy, back in ’56, Richard Chancellor was drowned when his ship was hit by just such an onshore wind off Scotland.’
‘I believe I have heard of him,’ I said slowly. ‘Wasn’t he–’
‘He was a brilliant mariner and scientist, who discovered the route through the arctic seas to Muscovy and so began the whole of this.’ He waved his arm to take in the fleet. ‘Despite all his skill, he could not save his ship, though he saved the life of the first Russian ambassador. Both he and his young son were drowned.’
‘In weather conditions like these?’ I asked.
‘Probably a worse storm. But Captain Turnbull is an experienced and sensible man. He will not take unnecessary risks. See, we are beginning to head more westerly. I think we are indeed making for Harwich.’
By late afternoon we had dropped anchor in the harbour at Harwich, and even Cuthbert was forced to concede that it was the right course of action, for during the last hour we had been driven in from the sea by a rising gale, while the sky grew almost as black as night and lashing rain had sent all of us passengers below decks. We cast our anchor in a spot partially protected by a spit of land but still in deep water and well clear of other ships. Even so, the Bona Esperanza flailed about in the wind, fighting against the anchor chain, bucking from side to side like an unbroken horse, while the wind howled in the rigging. From time to time a crash up on deck warned us that something had broken loose.
Almost all of the crew were also below decks, apart from two on watch, one in the bows, one in the stern, who had lashed themselves to the railings, lest they be thrown overboard. Before the worst of the storm had broken, the men had fixed a network of ropes along the decks to provide handholds for the men who would relieve the watch. I was grateful I would not be called upon to brave the violence breaking over our heads, but even below decks it felt far from safe, for the timbers of the ship creaked and groaned as she was assaulted. I began to fear her sides might spring apart and open a way for the sea to swamp us.
When I made my way along to the dining cabin after the bell had clanged to call us to dinner, I could barely keep on my feet, as I was tossed first one way and then the other, bruising my shoulder hard against the doorframe as I entered the cabin. We were a much reduced company. Most of the officers were about their duties elsewhere. Simon and Cuthbert were not to be seen.
‘Seasick,’ said Guy. He looked somewhat green about the mouth himself. ‘If it is this bad in harbour, what must it be like out at sea?’
‘Unpleasant.’ It was Christopher Holme, travelling out to Muscovy to take up the position of chief agent. He gripped the edge of the table as the ship tried to throw him flat on his back.
‘And this is just on the coast of England.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘I have heard that the conditions are much, much worse off Norway and round the North Cape this year. I am already beginning to question whether I wise to accept my new post.’
Guy was beginning to look very pale indeed.
‘Sit down,’ I said to him. ‘Trying to stand is making you dizzy. Do not eat much. Or if you like, eat nothing, but go and lie down. You will not feel the movement so much then.’
Guy shook his head. ‘I will not be overcome by this. If I can walk a tightrope without losing my nerve, why should I be alarmed by a little tossing aboard ship?’
At that moment we were hit by a wave driven athwart the ship, so that she heeled over alarmingly. Like Master Holme, Guy grabbed the edge of the table for support and lowered himself hastily into one of the benches screwed in place to the cabin floor.
Having survived a worse storm in the Bay of Biscay on the return journey from Portugal, I knew I was unlikely to suffer from seasickness, but it was still possible to receive a battering from the movement of the ship. And I did not feel particularly hungry either, which was as well, for we were served a skimpy meal, all of it cold.
‘The cook dare not light a fire,’ the cabin boy explained. ‘The wood could be thrown off the fire if another wave like that one hit us. Then the whole ship would take fire.’
‘So we have a pretty prospect before us,’ said Guy, pulling one of his long clown faces. ‘Either we shall drown or perish by fire.’
Fortunately, neither fate befell us. However, we spent three miserable days storm-tossed in Harwich harbour. On the fourth day we tottered up on deck, those of us still on our feet, to survey the damage. Some of the smaller spars were broken and hung haphazard in a cat’s-cradle of tangled rigging. The damage did not seem too serious, but there would be further delays while repairs were made. Peering out across the rest of the fleet, through the fine drizzle that still fell in the aftermath of the storm, we could see that the other vessels in our fleet had suffered too.
‘God’s bones,’ Simon said, joining me on the poop deck and drawing deep breaths of the damp but clean air. ‘I hope it will not be like this all the way to Wardhouse.’
‘You look terrible.’ I said.
‘That is very reassuring. Could you not, as a physician, have come to our aid? Given us some sort of potion?’
‘There is no cure for seasickness but time,’ I said. ‘Eat nothing, drink nothing but clean water or small ale, and lie down until it passes. Eventually it will pass. I have heard of sailors who are sick every time they go to sea, until they get what they call their “sea legs”. After that they are not troubled.’
He gave a disbelieving snort. ‘So why do they continue as sailors? It sounds like madness to me.’
‘Perhaps they enjoy the life.’ I knew I did not sound very convincing, for I was aware many sailors had been pressed into service, and I could not imagine t
he appeal of such a life myself. Perhaps some of them had no other choice.
Cuthbert bustled toward us.
‘I am going with the shore party so that I can send a letter to my father, explaining how we have been delayed. The officer in charge of supplies will also be purchasing fresh meat and vegetables. Do you wish to come?’
We both shook our heads, but Guy, coming up behind Cuthbert, said he would be glad to set foot on dry land for a while. We watched them board one of the pinnaces, which had been lowered into the water, and they were soon rowed away to the port.
‘I am beginning to wish I had not volunteered for this voyage,’ Simon said. ‘Let us hope that we have now suffered the worst of it.’
‘Oh, I think not,’ I said. ‘I am sure it will be much worse as we sail further north.’
With that he chased me the full length of the ship, until we both collapsed, laughing. At least he looked the better for it, his face no longer grey.
With the repairs in Harwich and more delays due to unfavourable winds, it was the last week of June by the time we found ourselves off the Firth of Forth, the wide estuary which has Edinburgh and Leith on its southern shores. Once again there was a storm brewing, but this time Captain Turnbull hoped to outrun it. The clouds were boiling up in the south, but the wind was also blowing from that direction, and he planned to run ahead of the storm, further up the east coast of Scotland and then heading north-east toward Norway.
‘He has told me there will not be much time now to reach St Nicholas, unload the cargo, load the Muscovy goods, and escape before the ice closes the seas,’ Christopher Holme said. ‘It is a risk, but he has chosen to take it. If the storm overtakes us, we can seek shelter in the estuary of the Tay, not far north of here.’
We were under full sail now, scudding over the choppy grey waters of the German Ocean at an alarming speed. With our greater spread of canvas, we began to pull away from the rest of the fleet. It was strict Company policy that the Muscovy fleet should stay together, ever since the disasters of the very first voyage of exploration. Then, two of the three ships had failed to reduce sail in a high wind and vanished into storm and fog. The remaining ship, Richard Chancellor’s ship, had gone on to discover the port of St Nicholas, where we were now bound. The other ships were only found the following year, with their crews mysteriously dead, seemingly frozen while eating or writing or playing cards, with plenty of food still left on board. It was a tale to frighten naughty children – or nervous voyagers aboard the Muscovy fleet.
