by Ann Swinfen
It seemed that our own captain was afraid of losing contact with the rest of the ships, for once again the topsails were tied down, and our headlong speed reduced a little, allowing the other ships to catch up, though by now the wind was so strong that I think we would have been blown along with no canvas hoisted at all. The sailors were raising a signal flag which meant nothing to me, but Pyotr, coming up from below decks and squinting at the yardarm, gave a quick nod.
‘He’s signalling that we are to take shelter. That will mean the estuary of the Tay, and it is as tricky as the mouth of the Thames. I hope the pilot officer has an up-to-date rutter.’
‘What is a rutter?’ Simon muttered in my ear. I think he was a little resentful of Pyotr’s familiarity with these mysteries of the sea.
‘It’s a written description of a piece of coastline,’ I said. ‘Harriot told me about them. When a chart does not give enough detail, mariners record rocks and shoals wherever they observe them, and useful sights on land for guiding a ship’s course. These “rutters” are copied and shared between ship’s officers. I suppose Pyotr means someone who has sailed up here to trade with the Scots may have given one to Captain Turnbull.’
‘Do people ever come here?’ Simon looked about disparagingly as we began to make our way into a vast stretch of water. It looked more like an arm of the sea than a river. There were low hills on either side, but in the distance ahead of us the land rose much higher. There was no sign of habitation.
‘About six miles upriver there is a town called Dundee.’ Pyotr had overheard Simon. ‘It is a busy port, trading with Danzig and the Low Countries and Narva. Second city after Edinburgh for trade amongst the Scotchmen. Further along is Perth, and Scone, where they crown the Scotch kings, like Her Majesty’s cousin Jamie.’
‘We are not going all that way, are we?’ Simon sounded horrified.
Pyotr laughed. ’I do not think so. We’ll probably anchor off Bruach Tatha. See? That fishing village, there. Beside the castle on the north shore.’
We looked where he pointed. A formidable old castle stood on a spit of land, with cannon pointing out over the water, clearly intended to deter any unfriendly ships from proceeding upriver. Beside it clustered a huddle of fishermen’s cottages. Their boats could be clearly seen pulled up on the shingle, their nets were draped over long lines strung between the boats and the cottages.
‘That’s a poor-looking place,’ Simon said. ‘And what are those people doing, clambering about on the rocks below the castle? They’re half naked.’
‘They seem to be gathering seaweed,’ I said.
‘Are they so poor they must eat seaweed?’ Simon was shocked.
One of the sailors, busy coiling down a rope nearby, heard him and laughed. ‘Nay, they sell it to farmers to fertilise their fields. Or so I’ve been told. They claim to speak English in these parts, but it’s no English I’ve ever heard.’
One of the officers shouted at him, and he ran off, his bare feet slapping on the boards of the deck. It seemed the captain judged we were sheltered enough by the hills on either side of the river, although the river must have been two miles wide. The last of the canvas was furled, the anchor rattled down, and the Bona Esperanza came to rest. The remainder of the fleet soon joined us, anchoring at a safe distance just as the clouds rolled in and our second storm overtook us.
‘It seems that some unkind Fate is determined to put a stop to our voyage,’ Simon said, as we lowered our heads and ran for the companionway. ‘I do not believe we shall ever reach Muscovy.’
This second storm passed more quickly than the first. By the afternoon of the next day the storm clouds had blown away to the north and a watery sun lit up the shores of this wide river. Seen properly now, the Tay was magnificent. By comparison, the Thames and the Tejo, and the rivers I had encountered in the Low Countries, were but streams. The countryside seemed fertile too, so that it was strange to find it so sparsely populated, despite Pyotr’s claims of a busy port further upstream.
There was no sign of life on the south bank. The seaweed harvesters on the north bank had disappeared from the castle rock when we ourselves had gone below to avoid the storm. As the sun began to dry the decks and the bundled canvas, creating a small cloud of steam over each ship, I stood with Simon and Pyotr studying the only people and houses to be seen. There were guards patrolling at the castle. Otherwise I could make out no one except a small group of women and children on the foreshore below the cottages. The women appeared to be gutting fish and packing them into barrels, while a cloud of gulls swooped and screamed about them, snatching up the fish guts as they were thrown away, before ever they touched the ground.
‘Are they salting the fish?’ Simon asked, screwing up his eyes.
‘Probably,’ Pyotr said. ‘This is a famous salmon river and they export hundreds of barrels of salmon. “Lax” they call them.’ He laughed. ‘A Scotchman told me the apprentices in Dundee managed to have a law passed that they should not be fed salmon by their masters more than three times a week, they were so heartily sick of it!’
‘Many a pauper in London would be glad of it,’ I said, thinking of my Southwark patients. ‘If we had Master Harriot’s perspective trunk, Simon, we should be able to see whether the fish are salmon, and if they are salting them.’
‘Did he not intend to make you a smaller one, to bring on the voyage?’ Simon said.
‘He did, but one of the workmen knocked the box of lenses on to the floor and they were smashed. Master Harriot has sent to Venice for more, but they did not come in time.’
‘What is a perspective trunk?’ Pyotr asked.
I could see that Simon was pleased that for once he was able to do the explaining.
On the ebb tide mid morning the next day, we set out again. Almost immediately, Captain Turnbull set our course to the north east. The wind, blowing steadily from the south west could not have suited us better. Before long we had left the estuary behind and were out in the open sea, passing a small rocky island where a bell clanged mournfully, tossed by the waves.
‘How did the bell come there?’ I asked, throwing out my question to anyone who might answer. ‘It looks a treacherous place. Sharp rocks awash with the waves.’
‘Monks,’ said Guy. ‘I wondered myself, and asked the pilot officer. So many ships were wrecked there that the monks of Arbroath Abbey, further up the coast from here, made attempt after attempt, until at last they were able to secure the bell there, where the waves would sound it and give warning to passing ships, even in the dark. He says he has heard that several monks died before they succeeded at last. Even then the bell was stolen by pirates and had to be replaced.’
We all regarded the vicious looking rock soberly, as breakers creamed around its jagged fangs. I thought of the courage of those monks and of the terrible deaths of those who had gone down there with their ships. But it was soon left behind us, as we made for the open sea.
‘The next land we will see will be Norway.’
I think Guy was beginning to enjoy the voyage, now that the storms had passed and we were moving briskly on our way.
‘How are you feeling now, Simon?’ he said. ‘No more sickness?’
‘Not at the moment,’ Simon said bravely, although he looked a little queasy. ‘I feel better up on deck.’
‘Well, if you decide to be sick,’ Pyotr said, ‘make sure you head for the lee rail.’
The next few days were a pleasant change after all we had endured along the coasts of England and Scotland. The winds remained favourable, blowing from the best quarter and continuing steady – strong but not dangerously so. We saw a school of dolphins, who frisked about us and followed us for some miles. It was the height of summer now, but the wind meant that it was pleasant on deck, although below it became hot and airless. My small cabin was stuffy at night, but I loved the privacy it provided. Mostly I slept with no covers at all over me.
On the second day out from Scotland we caught sight of a single ship flyi
ng the Danish flag away on our starboard side. For a time she seemed to be shadowing us, but finally she turned away and vanished to the east.
‘The Kings of Denmark think they own these waters,’ Captain Turnbull muttered to Cuthbert. ‘The present king is just a boy, but the regency keeps up an old tradition.’
Like Simon, Cuthbert seemed to have recovered from the worst of his seasickness, although he still looked pale.
‘Could he cause us trouble?’ he asked.
The captain shrugged. ‘Not with a single ship. He is more concerned to protect the route through the Straits to the Baltic, and to charge tolls for the privilege of sailing through it, but now that we no longer go to Narva, that is no concern of ours. We should catch sight of the coast of Norway before the day is out.’
His words proved true. About halfway through the afternoon there was a shout from the boy on watch at the masthead. He was pointing to the east. Where the rest of us were, down on the deck, the land was not yet visible, but after a while it came in sight. Norway had a coast unlike any I had seen before, as fretted and pleated as a courtier’s ruff, with inlets running deep into the land between towering cliffs covered with dense forests of pine. Here and there small villages clung to the steep slopes or lay at the waterside, their wooden houses painted in a rainbow of colours, bright reds and greens predominating. Small fields had been hacked out of the forest, where herds of diminutive cattle, sheep, and goats grazed, but it was clear, from the number of boats we saw, out on the water with their fishing nets, or pulled up on shore, that most men lived by harvesting the sea. It looked a pretty country, somehow miniature, such as you might see in a painting, through a window behind the sitter’s chair. Perhaps this was an illusion caused by the towering cliffs, which dwarfed both houses and people.
Captain Turnbull, however, was not venturing close to land.
‘The whole coast along here is strewn with islands,’ he said. ‘Some are pleasant and inhabited. We shall stop at the Lofoten Islands for fresh water and food, but many of the islands are nothing but rocks, sharp as a razor and hidden at high tide. No monks’ bells here to give us warning.’
As a result, we stayed well offshore, so with little to distract us, Pyotr and I continued with our lessons. He declared himself satisfied with my progress, even when Simon sat with us and tried to distract me from my studies.
‘It is important that I learn as much as I can,’ I pointed out, with some asperity. ‘I may find myself somewhere without Pyotr’s help and I must know enough of the language to extricate myself from trouble.’
Pyotr nodded. ‘We must hope that will not happen, but it is wise to be prepared.’
Simon opened his mouth, clearly intending to say something to annoy Pyotr, but we never discovered what it was, for at that moment there was a shout from one of the sailors who had climbed up to clear a tangle in the rigging.
‘You fool boy,’ he yelled. ‘Are you sleeping? Why a’nt you keeping a lookout?’
A tousled head appeared above the lip of the crow’s nest. The boy clearly had been sleeping. He gave a startled yelp, but before he could call out, the sailor was scrambling down the rigging, shouting.
‘Four ships off the port beam, sir! Heading our way and coming fast. No standards flying.’
Simon and I looked at each other blankly.
‘More Danish ships?’ I asked. ‘Alerted by the one we saw before?’
‘No standards,’ Pyotr said grimly. ‘Pirates.’
Chapter Four
‘Get below!’ Captain Turnbull bellowed, no longer the courteous gentleman but an angry despot. ‘All you landsmen, get below decks and stay there, out of our way!’
We scrambled to obey. I ran first to my cabin to fetch my satchel of medicines, for I was certain they would soon be needed, then I made my way to the dining cabin, where I found the players, mostly huddled together with horrified looks on their faces. Simon was trying to brave it out, but he looked pale. Master Holme and Pyotr seemed calmer, so I joined them, hoping they could offer reassurance.
‘There are often pirates off the coast of Norway,’ Master Holme said. ‘That is why our ships are always fully armed now. In the early days we were not so well provided. We lost cargoes, and even ships and men, to pirates. It was a lesson soon learned. Unless these pirates are exceptionally well armed, we should be able to withstand them.’
I was a little concerned by the tentative nature of that ‘should be able’, but he sounded convinced by his own words.
Pyotr nodded. ‘Last year we were attacked by six ships and beat them off without too much damage. Three men injured and one dead. Some rigging torn away and one topsail in tatters, but the ships always carry spare cordage and canvas.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘The best cordage in the world, made in the Company’s rope-walk in my native town of Kolmogory.’
I did not trouble to tell him I cared not a fig where the cordage came from. I was more interested in the quality of our cannon. I had a sudden memory of the cannon foundry I had seen four years before in the Wealden Forest, where half-naked men had moved in silhouette against a hellish cascade of fiery red molten metal. On the skill of such men our very lives now depended.
The cabin where we had gathered was directly under the captain’s cabin, which itself lay immediately below the poop deck. These modern fast ships had much lower fore and aft castles than the older ships we sometimes saw in the Thames. They were not as top heavy, so would surely be more stable in the fast manoeuvres of battle. Directly below us lay the gun deck, where we could hear the running feet of the gunners and their powder monkeys. There came a loud clatter as the hatches over the gun ports on our port side were raised, followed by the rumble of the cannon being rolled out.
Then there was a deathly hush, as if the very ship held her breath.
I strained to see over the shoulders of Pyotr and Master Holme, who were blocking the view through the cabin window. The glass of the window was thick, as I suppose it must be on board, for strength, and it was slightly distorted, so the approaching ships appeared twisted. They were already much nearer.
Cuthbert wiped his face with a handkerchief, then – noticing that I had seen him stuffing it into the breast of his doublet – assumed a falsely cheerful air. Indeed, it was hot in the cabin, but he was sweating with more than heat.
‘Why do they not fire?’ he demanded. ‘Are they waiting for those rogues to board us?’ He voice rose several tones above normal.
‘I believe they are waiting until they are sure of a clean shot,’ Master Holme said. He sounded calm, but I saw that the hand he rested on the sill of the window was trembling slightly.
I had more to fear than the rest of them. For if the pirates boarded, they might discover my sex. Better to die in a clean fight than that.
The nearest pirate ship was turning broadside on to us. She had run out her own cannon. Behind me I could hear one of the player boys sobbing and another whispering frantic prayers. My elbow was jostled and I looked aside to see Davy on tiptoe, also straining to see through the window. His face was alight with excitement. He was fearless, the madcap imp – or merely foolish – but I hoped his fearlessness would communicate itself to the other boys.
There was a puff of smoke from one of the pirate’s gun ports, followed almost at once by a splash as a fountain of water shot into the air directly outside our window. The flash and boom of the enemy cannon.
‘Why do we not fire!’ Cuthbert cried angrily.
Guy patted his arm. ‘Any moment now.’
He had hardly spoken when the roar of the cannon beneath nearly deafened us, the floor boards shaking under our feet. Three of our own cannon balls fell short, but one scored a direct hit against the side of the nearest ship, another struck their mainmast. It was not broken, but I saw a great splinter fly off it and land amongst the crew, who were lined up along the rail, armed with muskets.
‘I think we were better away from the window,’ Master Holme said, taking Davy by the arm an
d drawing him to the far side of the cabin.
Pyotr and I followed, and Simon joined us as we sat at the table. I found that my knees were trembling. I did not know whether it was from the vibration of the cannon below, or from fear. My heart was racing, and yet I felt oddly calm. Every detail of the faces about me seemed sharper than usual. I have noticed this strange effect before when I have been in danger. It is only afterwards that I have begun to shake.
‘There is so much smoke now, Davy,’ I explained, ‘that you will find it difficult to see anything. And if the glass of the window shatters, we could be cut by flying fragments.’
He shrugged, and pulled a handful of small balls out of his pockets. As he began to juggle, whistling cheerfully, one boy stopped sobbing, the other stopped praying. Davy was not as skilled as Guy yet, but they began to toss balls between them, as if nothing else was happening on board. I grinned across at Simon.
‘He’s not a bad lad, that Davy,’ he said.
I nodded. Anything else we might have said was drowned by the crash of more cannon fire. I looked over my shoulder and caught a brief glimpse of the nearest pirate ship through the window. It was closer, but part of the mainmast was now sheered off and hung from a tangle of rigging. Our gunners must have found their aim.
‘We’re doing them some damage!’ I shouted over the noise, but just as the others smiled and nodded, there was a crash overhead and a scream.
‘We’ve been hit!’ Several people cried out at once.
