It was a wise precaution, then, for a merchant ship like the Egret to give no outward sign she was laden with treasure, although the scarring on her hull and the evidence of recent and ongoing repairs to her yards and rails won close attention as Drake’s ship, the Elizabeth Bonaventure, drew into range.
Drake had signaled two of his sister ships to accompany him away from the pack, the Golden Lion and the Thetis. The former was commanded by William Borough, a dour, humorless naval officer with a gallant record of service in the Baltic. The Thetis was captained by Robert Flick and aboard his ship were ten companies of infantry under the leadership of Captain Anthony Platt.
The rest of the fleet hauled down sail and drifted at the alert, or took the opportunity to drill on tacking maneuvers.
Onboard the Elizabeth Bonaventure Drake and his second in command, Christopher Carleill, stood at the rail waiting to draw within trumpet distance of the merchant ship. A third officer, young and fresh faced, was eager to prove his worth and interrupted a murmured conversation between the two more seasoned veterans.
“Excuse me, sir, but I believe I know her. She hails from Tor Bay, near Plymouth. The Egret Her master is Captain Jonas Spence.”
“Is my ear supposed to tingle at the name, Mister Finnerty? I hear a thousand of them a day.”
Carleill coughed into his hand and raised an eyebrow in Finnerty’s direction.
“Aye, sir. Bald fellow, rather robust. Wooden leg. Beard as red as … er … well, red. He’s the one with the daughter; the nasty-tempered wench who castrated a seaman named Sheepwash … er, well, it does not warrant what he looked like then … she castrated him with a butcher knife a year or so ago. He brought her up on charges but naught came of it.”
Drake shook his head. “I am not familiar—”
“She is also the ship’s pilot, sir,” Carleill offered. “I believe you once admired one of her charts enough to commission a copy.”
“Did I? From a woman? The hell you say.”
“The hell I do, sir,” said Carleill, whose business it was to know such things. “The mark of the Black Swan.”
’Ah. Ah, yes. Betides I have the man in my eye now, though not the daughter.”
“A long-legged little filly,” his second remarked in a murmur. “With eyes you would not soon forget if you saw them.”
Drake’s hand came up again as he squinted against the glare. The Egret was perhaps three hundred yards off the bow quarter, carving a slow, graceful line through the water in a course that would bring the two ships briefly alongside as they passed.
“Tell me, Mister Carleill, does she look to be riding heavy to you?”
“If I am not mistaken, he deals in Indies Gold, sir. Rumbullion. Fetches upwards of a thousand quintals a voyage.”
“Is that a fact. Perhaps he’ll share a tun or two with us to lighten her load.” He paused and narrowed his squint. “She appears to be carrying a deal of weight in iron as well. Culverins, fore and aft, I make it, but … what the deuce is she mounting in her waist?”
“It looks like … demis, sir. Thirty pounders.”
“Impossible.” The blue eyes widened. “And damned impertinent for a rum merchant. Have you the trumpet handy?”
“Aye, sir, I have it here,” Finnerty blurted. He fumbled at his side a moment, then raised the funnel-shaped brass speaking horn.
“Hail them, then, if you please. Identify ourselves in the name of Her Majesty the Queen and inquire if all are hale and hearty.”
~~
“Sir Francis fuckin’ Drake himself.” Spence gasped in awe, hearing the metallic echo roll over the water. “Where, by God’s ballocks, did he come from?”
“A better question,” Dante said, “might be where, by the vinegar in his own vainglorious ballocks, is he going with such beetling import?”
Spence elbowed an equally dumbfounded Spit McCutcheon. “Give them a hail, man, else he take offense an’ throw us a shot to remind us of our manners.”
Spit raised the speaking trumpet and gave their name and the master’s name and the fact they, too, sailed loyal under the flag of Her Most Royal Majesty, Elizabeth of England.
“How long at sea?” came the hollow query.
Spence nodded and Spit advised, “Eight months by calendar, eighty by the lack o’ good Devon ale!”
Spence elbowed him again and Spit defended his attempted humor with a shrug.
Sunlight glinted off the brass trumpet as it was raised again on board the Elizabeth Bonaventure. “Sir Francis inquires if it might be a fair trade: ale for Indies Gold?”
“Fair trade my arse,” Jonas muttered, then grabbed Spit’s arm. “No, bloody hell, that wasn’t what I wanted repeated. Tell him … tell him aye, ’Tis a fair trade, happily given.”
Spence waved a hand in salute to reinforce his pleasure as Drake’s ship slid close enough to distinguish which blot on deck bore orange hair and an orange beard. Helping to identify El Draque was the general knowledge that he always wore black on board his ship. Black doublet, black balloon breeches, black hose, black boots. That and the fact that his head and shoulders barely cleared the top rail.
Sir Francis did not return the salute. He was seen, however, to lean forward and grip the rail with both hands as the Elizabeth Bonaventure swept slowly along the length of the Egret When they were directly abreast, he turned and snatched the hailing trumpet out of his officer’s hand and lifted it to his own mouth with a shout.
“Dante? Simon Dante? Is that you, you whoreson bastard devil?”
Dante shunned the trumpet and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Aye, it’s me, you pale-livered son of a bitch! And an uglier dog’s face I could not have hoped to see this fine morning! Bess has finally let you off the leash, has she?”
“Let me off the leash and given me enough powder to blow you to hell and gone!”
“You’re free to give it a try, if you think your balls are big enough and your wick long enough!”
Drake’s answer was lost to the rush of the sea and the booming of sails as the Elizabeth Bonaventure glided past and turned into the wind.
Dante laughed and lowered his hands, then caught the horrified stares from Jonas and McCutcheon, and, from up on the foredeck, a pale and open-mouthed Beau Spence.
“He is a mortal man, just like any other mortal man. He eats, drinks, and sometimes even makes the mistake of pissing into the wind like any other mortal man. If he still strikes thunder in your presence, picture him stark naked— not a pretty sight, I promise you.”
No one moved. Nothing moved save for one of Spit McCutcheon’s legs squeezing against the other.
It was Geoffrey Pitt who leaned forward and murmured at the nape of Spence’s neck, “Sir Francis’s second wife … Elizabeth Sydenham … is Simon’s first cousin. He introduced them, as a matter of fact, and stood as groomsman at the wedding. They like to pretend they hate each other; it loosens bowels and gives them something to wager over.”
“Now ye tell me,” Spit bemoaned.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“My God!” Sir Francis exclaimed. “My good sweet God in heaven, it is you!” He climbed the last rung of the gangway ladder and went directly to Simon Dante, his arm thrust out like a pike. Clasping Dante’s hand with one of his and thumping his shoulder with the other, El Draque laughed and swore and laughed again, blinking continually as if he could not believe his eyes.
“Elizabeth wept for a week when she heard you were dead. Both of them did—my Elizabeth and England’s Elizabeth. The proprietor of the Ship’s Inn gave free ale the blessed day long and half the bells in London droned in mourning! Most of Newgate’s brothels closed their doors as well, or draped their beds in black sheets; I’m told Bess could not even call for a cup of wine to drown her sorrows without having it watered down with tears, so distraught were her Curt ladies.”
“I am flattered to know I was missed.”
“Missed? Missed, by God? Where the devil have you been? We were told you we
nt down with all hands, somewhere off the Azores.”
Dante’s eyes turned a cold, flat gray. “Obviously, only part of what you were told bears truth. My Virago is, alas, gone, but as you can see, I am very much alive, no small thanks to Captain Spence, who happened along at the opportune moment and fished me and what remained of my crew out of the drink.”
In honor of Sir Francis Drake’s visit to the deck of the Egret, Jonas had hastily scrubbed his face and dressed in his finest. He wore a forest-green doublet with embroidered crimson stripes. The same fiery red lining showed through the slashes in his sleeves and balloon breeches. He had fought for ten full minutes with a starched neck ruff before a panicked hail from McCutcheon had cursed it back into his sea chest. He had scoured the fur from his teeth with a coarse, salted cloth, then pulled on his gloves with their padded fingertips. His boots rose above the knee and were cuffed to conceal the bulky strapping that held his wooden peg in place. His chest was thrust out as painfully proud as he could manage without the risk of putting out eyes with popping buttons.
Drake was a full head and neck shorter, but it did not stay him from walking over to the burly captain and offering his hand.
“My pleasure, Captain Spence. And my heartfelt thanks. Had this black-souled renegade truly been bested by a damned pack of Spaniards, there would have been no hope for any of us.”
Christopher Carleill had accompanied Drake across on the jolly boat and, after introductions were made, offered a curious observation.
“Captain Bloodstone said he saw your ship go under.”
“He must have eyes in the back of his head,” Dante replied mildly.
“He has been telling the tale to whoever will listen, how the two of you were attacked by the zabras and how you courageously sacrificed your ship that he and his crew might make good their escape.”
“An interesting version; you must tell me more.”
Carleill was of medium build and height, no more than five and twenty years of age, but with silver threads running through the dark brown hair at his temples. He had been with Drake on several raids to the Indies, and more recently had been given command of his own small vessel, the Scout. He was a cautious and keen judge of character, and because he often had to play the diplomat around his commander’s fiery temper, he was able to recognize when someone was saying one thing and meaning another. He had always admired Dante de Tourville’s flamboyant style and nerve, something he found sorely lacking in Victor Bloodstone.
“He will undoubtedly rejoice to hear of your return from the dead,” Carleill said, matching Dante’s bland tone.
“As will Bess, I warrant,” Drake interjected. “’Twill be like Mary Stuart’s head rolling out of the basket and reattaching itself to her neck!”
“Mary Stuart’s head?” Pitt asked, in the process of having his own hand pumped and his shoulder clapped.
“Aye, the Stuart bitch. Of course—you could not know. Her head parted company with her shoulders oh … six weeks ago now. Nearing seven. Walsingham caught her red handed, packing secret notes in wine casks and dispatching them to a band of fellow conspirators who were—on her specific written orders—to hire assassins to kill the Queen. When he showed these to Bess, she had no choice but to brand it treason and put the witch to the axe.”
“Christ Jesus,” said Spence. “Has Spain heard the news?”
“We did not dally to wait until they did. Nor could the Queen afford to err on the side of caution any longer. To that end she has … unleashed us, as you say … to distress Spanish ships where we find them, capture their seaborne supplies, and to do all we can to impeach the gathering together of the King’s so-called Grande Armada Felicissima.”
“Those were your orders?” Dante asked, intrigued. “Freely given?”
“Freely on the Monday, aye. With penance on Tuesday and no doubt regret on Wednesday. But by Thursday I was already vacating Plymouth and did not look back over my shoulder to see if there were any couriers trying to catch me up. The wind commanded me away and I obeyed.”
Dante exchanged a glance with Jonas Spence, for if it was true, then the captain had nothing to fear in the way of fines or rebukes for having attacked and plundered the San Pedro de Marcos.
“The wind appears to have commanded a good many ships to sail in your wake.”
“Not so hastily as it may appear.” Drake smiled. “Each ship, each captain, was chosen by me for their stoutness of heart and quickness on the guns. Among us we have nearly three hundred and fifty muzzles searching to make havoc where we may.”
“You have a strike in mind?”
“Asked with such a lascivious glint in the eye, it leaves me to suspect you have somehow stumbled across the King’s own itinerary.”
“Not the complete plan, no. But we may have something that might interest you.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed. “As always, my cryptic friend, you leave me foaming with curiosity. Do I beg now or can it wait until I moisten my throat with some of this famed Indies Gold the lieutenant has been telling me about?”
Spit had anticipated needing something to wet Spence’s throat and he waved a crewman forward, who bore plain pewter goblets and a jug of rum. When each man had a cup and each cup was filled, Drake offered a toast to the Queen and took a long, slow swallow, his hand on his hip, his eyes rising with the heat in his belly, until he found himself staring up at the forecastle deck.
Lucifer was standing there, his enormous black body gleaming in the sunlight.
Drake lowered his cup and dabbed a cuff across his lips. “I see you still keep company with cannibals. I am surprised he has not made a meal of you yet.”
“I keep him well fed with Spaniards.”
Drake’s gaze wandered slightly to the left of the tattooed giant. “And that … must be the captain’s infamous daughter? The one who signs her charts with a black swan and makes eunuchs of men who trifle with her?”
All eyes within hearing distance turned toward Beau, and she would have shrunk back against the wall of sailors behind her if Spence had not ordered her sharply down to the main deck.
“Aye! This is my daughter, Isabeau. Isabeau … have the honor and pleasure of making the acquaintance of Sir Francis Drake.”
Beau was not certain if she should attempt a curtsy in canvas breeches or tug a forelock. She settled for doing as the men had done and thrust out her hand, first to a startled dragon, then to a smiling Christopher Carleill.
“A pleasure, my lord, Mister Carleill.”
Drake pursed his lips and eyed her with renewed interest. “I am told I have one of your charts in my possession— which did you say, Mister Carleill?”
“Grand Canaria, sir. You were admiring it only the other day.”
“So I was, so I was. Excellent work, Mistress Spence. You have a fine eye for detail.”
“I was remarking on that very thing not an hour ago,” Dante said, and looked at Spence. “She broke the King’s code. It was not in the letters, after all, it was in the paintings. I could have searched for a year and not found it; Beau took one leisurely glance and made sense of it all.”
“Paintings?” Drake looked askance. “You have paintings … of what, may I ask?”
“The King’s Most Happy Fleet. The Armada Felicissima.”
Drake leaned back in his chair, his hands betraying a slight tremor of excitement as they closed around his goblet, filled now with ale to keep his head clear. They had adjourned to Spence’s cabin and were crowded around the table. The morning sun was streaming through the gallery windows, causing Sir Francis’s hair to glow beyond orange. The air in the cabin was hazed with dust, thickest where the beams of sunlight poured onto the tabletop.
Drake had insisted on seeing the paintings and the documents. He had studied every last detail, and because Dante had been adamant about recognizing Beau’s part in identifying the Spanish galleons, she sat by Drake’s side as they went through all three pictures and made a list of the ships they deco
ded.
“You believe this to be the Girona?” he asked. “But she is a galleass and I see no evidence of oars.”
“The Girona’s captain is the Duke of Alicante. His family crest consists of a lion, a cross, and”—Beau touched a fingertip to the carved grotesque worked into the ship’s stern—“a ram’s head.”
Drake stared and Spence grinned.
“My father appreciates good wine,” she explained. “Some of the best burgundy is produced on the Duke of Alicante’s estates. His bottles bear his crest.”
Sir Francis nodded slowly and looked back at the list of ships they had compiled. He himself had contributed the San Marin, the Saragoza, the Magdalena.
“By Christ, it is all here,” he muttered. “A complete inventory of the ships gathering in Spanish ports. And for what other reason than war? Moreover, if the ‘harvest’ dates are correct, the King is intending a June launch.” He lifted his head and scowled. “We are not sailing into these waters a day too soon. Hopefully, not a day too late either.”
Dante was standing, lounging against the cabin wall. “You have the firepower, all you need do is pick your first strike with care and purpose. Do enough damage, you can set all of Spain back on its heels.”
Drake looked at him expectantly. “I suppose you have the perfect target in mind?”
The pirate wolf grinned. “Cadiz.”
“Cadiz? Spain’s principle seaport?” Drake arched an eyebrow. “Why would you not just suggest we sail up the Tagus and attack Madrid … after first laying waste to Lisbon, of course?”
“Because, if they are in any way anticipating an attack, they will be anticipating it in Lisbon. Cadiz, on the other hand, is deep in their own waters.” He paused and his gaze touched on Beau’s golden eyes. “They will be as lax with their guard in Cadiz as they were in Vera Cruz.”
Drake frowned and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “An intriguing suggestion, Simon, and audacious, as usual, but we have no clear idea what defenses we would be up against.”
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