Mistress of the Sea

by Jenny Barden

  Having neared her objective, a cursory search convinced her that the cook was not to be found. So she retraced her steps, deciding that a visit to John Drake’s hut would be in order, while at the same time taking her past Will once more. She needed to speak to John Drake about the leaks in the roof; her father had said as much that morning. She looked back along the shore while heading circuitously for her next destination. Will was conspicuous because he was tall. With his loose shirt untied at the neck, and the broad belt he wore at an angle over his hips, he looked far more lithe and vigorous than ever she could have imagined Peryn Fownes or Godfrey Gilbert. In the context of the enterprise, she was beginning to see qualities in Will that had passed unnoticed when they had both been in Plymouth. She saw how the men followed him, except for Francis Drake, of course, who was an experienced captain and older than most. Captain Drake must have been about thirty years of age, whereas Will was not much above her own age of twenty. Even so, the Captain conferred with him, and Will commanded the respect of the mariners; she thought more highly of him as a consequence.

  She sensed he was watching, and she walked with deliberate poise, but he did not even acknowledge her. Instead, he picked up a rope as she sauntered by. She could not pass him again and say nothing.

  ‘Master Doonan, I need to speak with you.’

  Will put down the rope and strode towards her.

  ‘What is it, Mistress Ellyn? As you can see, we are very busy.’

  ‘This will only take a moment.’ Her indignation rose at his hint that she was interrupting him. After the advances he had made towards her in England, she felt he owed her more consideration. She could not believe he was no longer interested – even if she was with him on Drake’s enterprise when clearly he didn’t want her to be. His coolness was galling. She spoke tight-lipped. ‘My father is not in the best of health, and there are leaks in our roof.’

  ‘Are the leaks over your beds?’

  ‘No, but the damp makes the hut smell, and the floor is becoming muddy; my father’s cloth is getting wet.’ Will frowned, and that encouraged her to go on. ‘Please do not suggest that we move aboard the Swan since the ship is about to be careened and we have been told it must be cleared.’

  Will cocked his head.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Since you ask, we are also short of water. One small barrel a day is not enough for us to clean and wash, as well as drink.’

  ‘Mistress Ellyn.’ Will took her arm and guided her a few paces away from the nearest men. She allowed him the liberty since the contact was pleasurable. It suggested a desire for more intimacy, just as she had suspected – a desire that she shared. What would he do next?

  When he spoke again, his voice was low.

  ‘If you require a roof without leaks and water for washing then you should have stayed in England.’ He made to turn from her but she caught hold of his arm.

  ‘That is no way to answer! The fact is I am here, and we cannot live in squalor!’

  ‘You can live with smells and a bit of mud, and you can live without washing. We need fresh water aboard the Kestrel. Once we are gone, you will have more water from the mainland.’

  ‘That is not good enough!’ She sensed her voice rising and tried to moderate her tone. ‘The roof needs to be repaired.’

  ‘The roof will have to wait.’

  ‘Are you refusing to help?’ She looked at him incredulously. Surely he did not mean to brush her grievances aside? But he simply gave her a nod.

  ‘Good day to you. I must be going.’

  She drew a sharp breath and swallowed the urge to respond curtly. Turning, she walked away as sedately as she could. Not long afterwards she became aware that one of the mariners was in her wake. Glancing round, she saw the man called Simon. Despite the patch over his eye, he had features she found appealing: soft, brown curly hair, and a bashful smile. He drew alongside.

  ‘’Tis a fine day, Mistress Ellyn.’

  She was still smarting after the hurt of Will’s rebuff, but she kept her reply light.

  ‘Indeed, yes, though rather hot.’ The fact that such a rough seaman should want to exchange remarks about the weather had the effect of making her feel much better. She beamed at him. ‘I hope the calm will aid your sailing.’

  ‘Aye, thank’ee. We should be goin’ soon . . .’

  ‘Simon!’ An abrupt shout brought the young man’s patter to a halt. ‘Over here.’

  She knew immediately that Will had called him away. With a mumbled apology Simon left her alone, but she resisted the temptation to look back over her shoulder.

  She smiled and carried on walking.

  One cannon shot was all it took – one blast from the fortified bulwark that protected the treasure house at Nombre de Dios, and Will knew that the Spaniards were not interested in peaceful trade, even trade kept secret. The warning confirmed what everyone aboard the Kestrel suspected: the Spaniards along the coast had no more need for English supplies; the treasure fleet had arrived bringing goods from Spain. There would be no more selling of smuggled Devon kerseys.

  None of Drake’s men were dismayed. It suited the Captain’s purpose to have the Spaniards show their colours. Hostility would be met with hostility. Will was glad to have left Ellyn at their hidden island base, even with Dennys as her companion – though whenever he reflected on how she might be faring, he was needled by an urge to return to her fast.

  ‘The Chagres!’ Drake had declared, jabbing his finger against a stolen chart at the point where that river met the sea to the northwest. ‘Since the Spaniards will not invite us to their table, let us see what pickings we can find.’

  ‘Rich pickings, I’ll wager,’ one of the mariners remarked. ‘All those fineries and fancies from Spain for Peru.’

  The Captain chuckled, and the rest grinned. They all relished the prospect of hunting for booty.

  ‘Here, somewhere—’ Drake made a sweep with his hand around Cartagena to the east ‘—Captain-General Flores de Valdés waits to entertain us with his Indies fleet.’ Drake glanced up, and there were nods of understanding from those gathered round, Will included. It was a risk they all accepted. With the treasure fleet would be protection, perhaps as many as five Spanish warships to guard both shipping and the coast.

  ‘We must show General Valdés that we can provide amusements of our own.’ Drake smiled as everyone else laughed. They would have sport with the Spaniards, and it would be on Drake’s terms. They would come to be feared, but not as barbarians. The Captain required discipline, and they were all agreed: they would not use violence unless given good cause. Provided the Spaniards acquiesced, then no harm would come to them, but if any resisted, they would be shown no mercy.

  At the first opportunity, Drake cautioned the Spaniards. On the way to the Chagres, a frigate was taken, but only after a trumpet-blast had called the ship to parley, and the Spaniards had erred by trying to stop the English boarding. Defiance carried a price; it had been met with gunfire and a hail of bolts and arrows, enough to bring a few Spaniards down and put the rest to flight. And since the Spaniards had chosen to scuttle away, Drake made certain their return would be equally inglorious. He ordered that the frigate be stripped and gutted, its sails spoiled and its boat stoved in. Then he wrote the Spaniards a polite note:

  ‘Done by the English, who are well disposed if there be no cause to the contrary; if there be cause, we will be devils rather than men.’

  They had triggered alarm along the treasure coast, and they would strike next where they were least expected.

  Will heard the cry: an owl-like screech. It meant Drake’s group had surrounded the warehouse and were set to attack. That left the Spaniards inside the inn to be dealt with, and he hoped they would be sound asleep, lulled by the belief that they had little to fear so far up the Chagres, deep inland. He opened his covered lantern a slit, enough to see that a bar had been left beneath a window nearby. The Spaniards had been careless. The window was open in t
he sweltering heat. He gently closed the window shutters, and then slotted the bar across. He looked round. Behind him, Hix beckoned with a shadowy fist. Now only the inn door could be used for escape, unless the Spaniards tried to jump from the balcony above, and Hix would be waiting for them if they did.

  Will gave his answering call: a sharp whistle between his teeth. With lantern flashes he signalled to the men by the corral, further on up the path. Glints flashed back. The three others sent with him were huddled by the door, and in their shadow-shapes were the traces of match cords glowing: pin-pricks of light – signs that their firearms were primed and prepared. He knelt beneath the window, and set the darkened lantern down.

  Everyone was ready.

  Cicadas thrummed. Frogs along the riverbank made strange clinks and whines. Somewhere in the jungle an animal howled. The forest was black – a vast blank wilderness in which Kit could be near or far or nowhere at all.

  Will breathed deeply.

  Suddenly a shot cracked out, sharp as a thunderclap, triggering a frenzy of flapping in the treetops above, and then a rush of stamping from the direction of the corral. The drum of hooves rumbled towards him along the path. He reached for his cresset: a fire pike topped with tar-soaked rags. Shouts rose from inside the inn. He heard a mule galloping past, hurtling down towards the river jetty. Others followed, milling wild. There were rattling sounds, becoming louder, behind the inn door. The next instant it swung wide, releasing a glaring stream of orange light. Mules flashed by him. A Spaniard dashed from the inn wearing only a shirt. The man brandished a sword, shouting as he waved to try and slow the stampede. ‘Mira! Las mulas! . . .’

  ‘Go!’ Will yelled.

  His three friends roared and charged for the doorway. Another shot cracked out, hammering against stone. Will heard broken cries and the clang of metal. He opened his lantern and lit a rag end from the cresset. The fire pike flared as he swung it round, both hands on the shaft, to see the Spaniard outside the doorway turning, and Hix running to head him off.

  Will lunged, sweeping the cresset up and then down at the moment the Spaniard weaved to get past. The man slashed out at Hix, but the fire-head caught him, glancing across his legs. The Spaniard staggered and Hix struck, knocking the sword from the man’s grasp. Hix wheeled. Will ran nearer. The Spaniard sprawled in the dirt with his shirt tail in flames.

  ‘Dios! Socorro!’ The man screamed and writhed. He jumped up, then fell again as Will thrust at him with the pike. Hix jabbed his sword against the Spaniard’s chest, pinning him to the ground. The man’s wailing became a piercing shriek. Despite the pressure of the sword he beat dementedly at the flames. Smoke rose from his hips. Hix laughed.

  ‘Socorro!’ the Spaniard screeched.

  Will threw the cresset down, kicked dirt over the man, trampled on his shirt and rolled him over with his boots – and if he trod on the Spaniard it was more than he deserved.

  ‘He’s roasted enough,’ he muttered.

  Then Hix joined in the stamping with a few hard kicks.

  ‘Damn him.’

  More shots sounded from the inn’s upper rooms. Will held his knife to the Spaniard’s neck.

  ‘Get up,’ he commanded.

  The man stood and stumbled. He winced and clutched at his ruined shirt, eyes rolling towards Will.

  ‘Inglés!’ he gasped.

  Will pushed the man towards the inn, past the flaming cresset on the ground and a toppled candle-stand inside the entrance, over broken pots and strewn baggage.

  ‘Move!’ He forced his prisoner along the hallway, pressing the knife-blade flat against the Spaniard’s neck. When he reached an open door, he craned round to peer inside. Beyond was darkness and an evil stench, one that he knew: the Jesus had carried such a smell from Africa, deep in her hold.

  He threw a word into the darkness – a word loaded with faint hope.

  ‘Kit?’

  The clink of a chain sounded close to his feet. He stared down.

  There were people on the floor. He could sense their breathing, feel their heat But there was no answering voice. No response from anyone.

  The Spaniard hung back. Will pushed him away and towards another doorway that was glowing with light. Inside, he found Glub the quartermaster with his caliver levelled at a dozen or more captives. They were huddled beneath a large table. Most were servants by the look of their skin. All were male. Will shoved the Spaniard down to join them. The man groaned.

  ‘Sit quiet,’ Glub barked, and aimed his matchlock at the Spaniard’s belly.

  Will glanced round.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  In the corner of the room was an open staircase. A heavy thud shook the ceiling. Glub raised his brows and jerked back his chin.

  ‘Up there.’

  Will ran up the steps. He could hear a Spaniard shouting. At the top was a passage with arched openings off; drapes were hanging from most, hacked and ripped. Through one of the arches he saw patch-eyed Simon and the bowman, Morrys. They were both crouched down. Facing them was a Spaniard with an arquebus in his hands.

  ‘Quédese! . . .’ The Spaniard yelled while edging away. Will saw everything in an instant: the window near the Spaniard and the firearm he held, the open chest by his friends, the scattered pearls on the floor. He darted along the passage, through the next archway, and dived inside the adjoining room.

  At the end of the room were shuttered doors – beyond would be the balcony. Will hurled himself at the doors. At the moment he crashed through there was an explosion of noise. Then he heard Morrys howl, ‘Bastard! Bastard! . . .’

  Will staggered, veered and saw the Spaniard at the next window in the midst of tumbling out. The man landed on the balcony, and then leapt for the balustrade. Morrys roared from the window behind. As Will reached the Spaniard, Morrys sprang out. Will grabbed the man by the shoulders and wrenched him hard back. Morrys punched the man in the face, again and again.

  ‘He’s shot Simon.’

  ‘Let me at him.’ Will drew his knife and held it to the man’s throat, feeling rage surging inside him. He turned to Morrys. ‘Go to Simon,’ he rasped. ‘Help him.’

  He marched the Spaniard back through the shattered doors, across the room and into the passage, treading on pearls as he made for the stairs. Then he saw Simon coming close, dragging a chest with a broken hasp. More pearls were spilling out.

  Will stared at his friend.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Only a knock.’ Simon grinned.

  Morrys joined them, bent under the weight of full saddlebags over his shoulders. His brow was bleeding, but he managed a smile.

  ‘That shot at Simon were dismal-bad.’ He lurched up to Will’s prisoner and slammed his fist against the man’s ribs. ‘Lucky for you, Spaniard.’ He turned to Will. ‘Bastard was hiding under the bed.’ With a kick, Morrys sent the man sprawling. The Spaniard finished in a heap at the bottom of the steps.

  Will bounded after him and called back.

  ‘Take everything. Empty the place.’

  He forced the Spaniard towards the table while sounds of destruction rang out: smashing and clattering as objects were tossed down the stairs.

  The prisoners were quiet. None of them looked at Will. They watched the muzzle of Glub’s caliver, and the mounting pile of their plundered possessions. But from the hallway someone was calling.

  Will made for the shouts. A lad ran up to him, a youngster from Drake’s party. The lantern he carried was shaking in his grasp.

  ‘The Captain’s finished and asks that you leave, sir.’

  ‘Has he found much?’ Will demanded.

  ‘Rich cloth, wine and spices . . .’ The lad’s eyes widened. ‘There be oil and soap, too, but we’ll be leavin’ that since the Kestrel can’t hold no more . . .’

  ‘Has all the cloth been taken?’

  The youth appeared puzzled.

  ‘Aye, sir. All the silks and linens.’ He spoke urgently. ‘The Captain says you should come
right away and leave the lodgers comfortable.’

  Will’s smile was grim.

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘I’sooth he did.’

  Will nodded.

  ‘Then help us do it.’ He called for Hix, strode back into the room and beckoned to the others. The pile had grown. ‘Heap the lot outside: curtains, bedding, everything. We’ll take the best and leave the Spaniards a fine bonfire. So they won’t catch cold,’ he added, to a chuckle from Glub.

  Morrys and Simon set to work, their belts bristling with the weapons they had seized. Will marched up to the prisoners and drew his sword.

  He searched for the Spaniard who had shot at Simon. The man’s head was down, but Will recognised his lank hair. He held the sword blade under the man’s bruised chin, bringing it up until the Spaniard raised his face. The man’s eyes were puffed up and screwed closed; his teeth chattered though his jaws were clamped tight. Sweat glistened in his stubble. Will thought of what he might do. He snarled as he pressed the blade against the man’s skin.

  ‘Do you know of any English prisoners? Presos ingleses?’ He had learnt what to ask. ‘Dónde están?’ He pressed the blade harder. Then he let the man speak.

  ‘No, no!’ the man screamed, eyes rolling. ‘No ingleses!’

  He heard Hix very close.

  ‘Shall we tie ’em up?’

  Will stepped back and shook his head. He had made up his mind.

  ‘Strip them.’ Will looked round the room, at a broken lute on the floor and the hangings dragged from the walls, smashed crocks and the rifled belongings. ‘Burn all their clothes.’

  His eyes settled on a large ring with a multitude of keys. It hung from a hook on the damp-stained wall. He grabbed the keys and strode out. Through the chaos in the hallway he made for the dark doorway he had peered into first. He threw the door wide. By the dim light that streamed in he saw a score or more faces looking up: all were black.