by Jenny Barden
‘Good—’
Her greeting was cut short.
‘Gurt below, thou clay-brained scut!’
A stinging blow to her ear sent her tumbling to her knees. The pain was so intense that tears filled her eyes. She was faint with shock. But then she became aware that whoever had hit her was probably approaching. She saw boots near her hands. She pushed up unsteadily, as startled and terror-struck as a field mouse in the open. Glancing round wildly, she tried to take in where she was. Then she did what field mice do: she made for the nearest hole her size and disappeared by squeezing inside.
8
Discovery
‘. . . They are ill discoverers that think there is no land, when they can see nothing but sea . . .’
—From The Advancement of Learning, Book 2, Chapter 7, by Francis Bacon, 1st Baron Verulam, adviser to Elizabeth I
FOR DAYS ELLYN cowered in the darkness after burrowing mole-like into the deepest nook she could find. She did not dare show herself. The mariner’s blow had made her realise the enormity of what she had done. Nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for the predicament she faced: the isolation and disorientation, and the relentless physical discomfort. Her original, rather nebulous plan had been to play the role of a galley boy who might be accepted as useful before a joyous revelation. But the viciousness of the mariner had shattered that fantasy. She was ruled by terror: the dread of brutality should she be discovered, and the fear of condemnation should she make herself known – she could barely conceive of her father’s wrath on finding out she had stowed aboard the Swan. Her objectives contracted down to the simple necessities of sleeping and eating, and trying to stay hidden.
Ellyn discovered where she was mainly by touch at first. But even far below the main deck, with no portholes or lanterns to give any illumination, somehow, obliquely, light found a way inside. It suggested details haphazardly, either in splinter-sharp points or a vague shadowy haze, and from these fragments she made a picture of the place she inhabited.
She was in the sections of a ship, inside another that was whole.
There were timbers that arched over her and others that were stacked up, or made inaccessible by heaps of canvas and rope, planks and huge poles. Mingled with the odour of rot and festering skins was a foul and acrid vermin stink. She came across nets and anchors, blocks and chains, sacks of bolts and wooden nails and something she identified eventually as a rudder, cut in one piece from a massive block of oak. It was the rudder that made her realise she was amongst the parts of another vessel, though she had no idea why the Swan would be carrying such a load. She had expected to find cloth.
Her nausea settled slowly. She found it a comfort to sniff her sweet-pouch of herbs. The bag of posies that used to hang from her girdle proved just as invaluable as her looking glass and comb. She came to know the safest times for scavenging amongst the stores. With increasing desperation she searched for the food she found palatable as slowly but steadily it began to run out. She could not abide the hard biscuit or salt beef, and subsisted mainly on carrots and cheese. The thudding of feet was a warning to take cover, and she soon linked this with the changing of the watch. She made an effort to gauge what was happening elsewhere on the ship, and she began to develop an understanding of the daily routine. In particular, she listened out for her father; sometimes she was sure she could hear him on the deck above her lair.
Her father’s gait was distinctive, as was the tapping of his stick, and one night, after nine bells had sounded, she heard him lumbering about almost directly overhead. His steps appeared firm, and the thump of his stick had a regular beat. That was reassuring. Peering up through the grating that covered a hatch, she spotted a pile of firearms, secured by a net, obscured in part by a large moving shadow – one that could only be his.
The tapping became louder then, after a thud, it suddenly stopped. She listened with alarm. All she could hear was faint moaning. Who was there to help? However much she dreaded discovery, she could not leave her father alone and lying injured. She shinned up a ladder, pushed the hatch open and wriggled quickly out.
‘Alas, good sir!’ Ellyn called while picking her way to him. The words were forced between gritted teeth in an effort to rouse him without alerting anyone else, though in her anxiety she rather mangled the attempt to sound like a boy. ‘Are you much hurt?’
‘Ellyn?’ her father groaned, and so did she inwardly. He raised a shaking hand. ‘Can that be you?’
She noticed the lantern he must have been carrying, lying on top of a sack and still alight. Hastily she set it on the decking behind her, and then blew on her fingers since she had scorched them in the process.
‘Sir?’ she asked, managing to wince with a hint of enquiry.
With a trembling hand, her father traced the contours of a growing swelling on his balding scalp.
‘Where am I?’
Ellyn drew closer in consternation, but quickly shrank back in panic as he clutched at her sleeve.
‘Marry, boy! Me-thought I heard an angel!’ Eyes glazed and rolling, he gave a beatific smile and sank back onto the floor.
Ellyn made an effort to lift him but merely succeeded in bending his neck.
‘Be not troubled, uncle,’ she gasped. ‘Only try to get on your feet.’
In an endeavour to raise him further she moved her hands under his shoulders. His head fell back on her knees. She made another attempt but his head slipped between them: one of the drawbacks, she realised, of wearing breeches and not a skirt.
‘Get up, uncle, please!’ she pleaded.
The response was a bewildered gasp.
‘I’faith I hear my Lynling!’
Ellyn froze.
He looked up from her lap and gave a rapturous gap-toothed smile.
‘Is she not with you?’
Ellyn averted her face, momentarily at a loss as to what to do next.
Her father groaned again and writhed.
‘What place is this? I must be damned to be hearing her . . .’
In a few awkward movements, Ellyn extricated her knees. Then, by rolling up the fur cape that Nan had given him, she was able to put it to good use at last; she settled her father’s head on the makeshift pillow. What more could she do? She rose unsteadily and picked up the lantern.
‘Stay awhile, sir. I will fetch help.’ She backed away. ‘Do not move!’
‘Do not go!’ he called after her with a wail.
But she was already making for the nearest ladder. Ellyn climbed to the next deck and hailed the first seaman she ran into.
‘Aid and mercy! Prithee come quickly! Master Cooksley is hurt!’
The mariner’s shadowed torso loomed menacingly nearer, like a fantastic creature from a navigator’s chart: a fish-man with no arms, and eyes in his chest – until Ellyn realised that he had a blanket pulled over his head.
‘Where, boy?’ The fish-man’s question bubbled from a growl in his throat.
‘Here!’ She turned away and beckoned hurriedly. ‘Follow me!’ She dashed back, hoping that the jolting might help disguise her voice. ‘I would have carried him if I could . . .’
By swinging lantern-light her father became visible as an unmoving mound under a large fur cloak: a kind of tumulus, emitting ghostly moans, that blocked the narrow passage beyond the foremast of the ship. The fish-man discarded his blanket and pushed past her.
‘’Ods me, Master Cooksley! Taken a tumble ’ave ’ee?’ the fish-man exclaimed. Then he yelled so loudly that Ellyn jumped. ‘Ho! Help here!’
The response was immediate, as if a bee had signalled a threat to a hive; assistance came rushing from every direction. Ellyn sensed she was about to be trapped. She put the lantern down near her father’s feet, edged away and began to squeeze past the men just arrived. But, before she could bolt, a gurgling snarl from the fish-man reached her.
‘Hey lad! Not so fast. We ’ave need of thee yet. Light our way and show willing.’
Ellyn had little choice
since she was hemmed in by men with the look of scoundrels and rogues. The fish-man and three others had her father in their arms as if they were about to wield a battering ram. She retrieved the lantern and turned her back on them quickly. Hunched over, in an attempt to be less conspicuous, Ellyn led the procession with the aid of ear-burning abuse at every possible wrong turn. Curses directed her to her father’s cabin. Eventually, and with an audible sigh, her father was laid on his pallet.
Ellyn shrank back.
‘Is my angel still with me?’ her father gasped.
‘Angel?!’ one of his bearers muttered, to which another replied, ‘Ee’s ’ad a tap on ’is pate.’
A thick-browed seaman put a heavy hand on his breast.
‘Be at ease, sir.’
Her father slumped down. He could hardly argue.
‘Some rum’d ’elp ’im,’ someone suggested.
Ellyn began to slink away. If she could only slip out of the cabin, she might stand a good chance of making an escape. Then she heard a familiar growl.
‘Stay, lad!’
She pushed on, but was impeded by more men at the door. A hand grabbed her from behind.
‘Let me see thy face.’ The fish-man dragged her towards him. She recognised his smell. His grip was like a hook that dug into her collarbone. ‘Do I know thee?’
She became conscious, despite trying to keep her head down, that his gleaming eyes were peering very close. His questions were surly.
‘What be thy name?’
‘D . . . D . . .’ she stammered, on the point of pleading, ‘Don’t hurt me!’
‘My angel!’ her father croaked feebly.
The fish-man took hold of her ear and pinched with the ferocity of a shark taking a bite.
‘Thy name, angel.’
Ellyn squealed. Tears filled her eyes. Her ear was being torn apart, and the pain was so great she could hardly speak. But she had to.
‘D . . . Daniel, sir.’
Another voice snarled.
‘I aint ’eard o’ no Daniel aboard, hast thou, Gillon?’
‘No, Lucas,’ came the cold reply. ‘I ain’t neither.’
The fish-man twisted and then jerked her ear hard, sending Ellyn’s head into a dizzying turn that ended, in agony, with a vision of his thick, glistening lips curling as he spoke.
‘I believe we ’ave a stowaway. A little thievin’, fen-spawned, base-crawlin’ stowaway.’ The lips were licked and his words became meaner. ‘Oh, what we will not do to you, boy . . .’
Desperately, Ellyn tried to reach for his hand, but the pinching became worse.
‘For pity, sir . . .’
‘Oh, how we will wring you and skin you and string you out on a line—’ the fish-man seized both her ears and forced her head back until she caught a vile view of the roof of his mouth ‘—but only after we ’av dangled and drawn and made yer sing and dance.’
Gasps were wrung from her, though Ellyn bit her lips and screwed her eyes shut. She could not take any more. She cried out. But just as she thought her torment could get no worse, a gentler voice brought it to an unexpected end. A voice that she knew.
‘Easy there. Let me look at him.’
Ellyn was certain, even before she opened her eyes, that Will Doonan’s hands were cradling her head. He took off her cap and loosened her hair. Relief washed through her. She would throw herself on his mercy and Will would protect her. As she blinked away tears, sounds of astonishment rose around her.
‘Fie on me!’ someone exclaimed.
‘A woman!’ the fish-man gulped.
‘A lady!’ said the man called Gillon.
‘Mistress Ellyn!’ Will sounded incredulous, but his tone was soft, and she was aware of the gentle way in which he was smoothing out her hair. She supposed she would find some tenderness in his face, but she was wrong. As her vision cleared she saw disappointment in his look.
‘Dear lady!’ His voice was suddenly icy and his expression as hard. ‘Shame on you for a fool,’ he whispered.
Her spirits plummeted. His blue eyes wounded her more than the assault on her ears. In the set of his mouth, there was only stern reproach. Ellyn gazed back at him in despair and then rushed over to her father before tears could betray her.
‘Father!’ She threw herself against his bosom.
‘It is you!’ he mumbled from beneath her, managing eventually to prop himself up.
Ellyn buried her face in his chest, stifling the urge to sob in the folds of his shirt.
He wrapped his arms around her and she felt him kiss the top of her head. That gave her a glimmer of hope. Her father would stand by her. Then he tensed.
‘By Jove, what madness is in you?’ he sputtered. ‘What churlishness do you show me by this . . . this mischief?’ He held her away but, with his hands on her shoulders, he did not let her go. He shook her. ‘What have you done?’
Ellyn lowered her head. A stinging patter of muttered comments came from those looking on.
‘She will ’ave to go,’ gurgled the fish-man.
‘T’will bring ill fortune to ’ave a woman aboard,’ said someone else.
‘Child, how you provoke me!’ Her father vented his anger with more shaking, though she was shuddering anyway with each thunderclap of denigration. ‘Wilful, headstrong, wayward ingratiate,’ he boomed and rumbled. His eyes started. ‘How can any man control you?!’ he raged.
‘Father, please . . .’ Ellyn pleaded forlornly.
‘Perverse and ungovernable . . .’ The rant continued.
‘Father!’ She tried to interrupt him, but the only respite he gave her was when he drew breath. Then, in that momentary pause, a small commotion occurred, and the cause was soon obvious when Ellyn looked round. Two gentlemen, whom she had never met, emerged from the throng around her father’s bed. One had the same reddish hair and complexion of Master John Drake, though he was shorter and looked brighter, with eyes that appeared to take in much very fast. The other man, who stepped towards her, was as handsome as Narcissus and expensively dressed. As he took the liberty of staring closely at her face, she noticed the silver buttons down the front of his stuffed doublet.
‘Ah ha! What pretty boy is this?’ he asked, without any introduction, and next had the effrontery to place his finger under her chin. ‘A very pretty boy . . .’
Ellyn would have been more piqued if she was not so upset. The man looked over her and towards her father.
‘One you forgot, eh, sir? Ha, ha!’
Before she could think of a cutting response, the red-haired gentleman bustled forward, plainly amused.
‘How now, Master Cooksley? You appear to have brought more baggage than you thought!’ Narcissus laughed loudly at this – witlessly, thought Ellyn – and chuckles broke out elsewhere that left her blushing even deeper.
‘But I trust you are not hurt?’ the red-haired gentleman asked him.
‘No, no,’ her father answered in a downcast manner, his temper evidently deflated. He let Ellyn go. ‘’Tis nothing. My daughter, Mistress Ellyn . . .’ He waved his hand limply from her to the gentlemen. ‘Captain Francis Drake, and Master Richard Dennys.’
The Captain bowed low.
‘Honoured, sweet maiden.’
His companion bent slightly after making a ridiculous flourish.
Ellyn’s discomfort became more acute. Should she curtsy? Yet she was not wearing a dress. Surely she was not meant to bow? She glanced down at the breeches that were too baggy on her legs, and the shirt that was showing between ties that had come loose. In the midst of this dilemma she heard the fish-man pass comment.
‘A damned inconvenience. We shall ’ave to take ’er back to England.’
‘Two weeks lost and northers getting up,’ another man grumbled.
‘Tush, gentlemen,’ her father broke in, to Ellyn’s relief, though that soon faded. ‘My Ellyn has surprised me, but she will not put us out. We will continue and she shall not trouble you.’ He punched out a promise, looking crossly at
Ellyn. ‘My word on’t. I shall keep her out of harm’s way.’
‘Good, sir,’ Captain Drake declared, with the manner of someone used to jumping at opportunities, ‘then we are decided.’ He turned and addressed everyone. ‘It is not for us to interfere with anything in Master Cooksley’s custody.’
Ellyn’s heart sank further. She was uncomfortable with Drake’s wit, and even more with what he implied.
‘But my advice to you, sir,’ the Captain added on catching her father’s eye, ‘is to keep what is most precious to you out of sight.’ To Ellyn’s chagrin he gave her a wink, and then added loudly, ‘T’would not do for it to become a temptation!’
Master Dennys chortled, and so did a few others, though the levity soon ended with the departure of the Captain. Everyone followed, except for Ellyn and her father, who were left sitting on the pallet, in stony silence, side-by-side.
Ellyn felt as if a pit had opened up under her feet. She was falling into an abyss and no one was prepared to help her. She had been berated and belittled and now she was shunned. Will had left without even giving her a glance. She stole a look at her father who glowered straight back. She had hoped for some sign he was just a little pleased to see her. Instead, he stood up, marched over to the door, locked it with a clatter and pointedly hung the key on a chain around his neck. She tried not to show her unhappiness, but the assault on her ears had been excruciating. She wiped her eyes.
‘Weep, but it will do you no good,’ her father shouted.
‘I am not weeping.’ Instantly she regretted having spoken at all.
‘Your punishment shall be imprisonment!’ he railed at her. ‘Take good stock of where you are.’
She kept her head down and drew a sharp breath.
‘Here . . . you . . . shall . . . stay!’ His voice rose and shook with rage.
