Mistress of the Sea

by Jenny Barden

  ‘Oh, Father, you have not eaten!’

  There was no need to exaggerate her concern; she had never known her father show such a sustained disinterest in food before. What was wrong with him?

  ‘Would you like something else?’ she asked, and remembered the fruit that Richard Dennys had given her. ‘I have this.’ she added, and held out the green offering.

  ‘A fruit?’ The reaction was not promising. Her father wrinkled his pitted nose, turned his back and hobbled over to his stool, slumping onto it with a wince.

  ‘A pox on all fruit!’ he growled. ‘My bowels have been scoured by a surfeit of pips.’

  Ellyn lowered her eyes. Was there anything she could do that would not start him railing? Now he was shouting so loudly she was tempted to cover her ears.

  ‘I need meat!’ He yelled. ‘I am a man, not a slug!’

  She picked up the candlestick and examined the mess left behind.

  ‘But this was fish!’

  ‘It was not cooked.’

  She had no wish to contradict him, but this inaccuracy was so great she felt compelled to correct it.

  ‘This fish was charred over a fire!’

  He shook his head with a shudder that set his sagging chin quivering.

  ‘I like my fish poached in milk, as you well know.’ His lips puckered with petulance.

  ‘But there is no milk!’ How could he expect milk? What sense was there in such thinking? She tried to reason with him. ‘We are on an island . . .’

  ‘Excuses! Evasion!’ His bawling cut her short. ‘Everyone talks. No one listens. I am surrounded by idiots and thieves.’

  Ellyn was stung. What had she done to warrant such denigration?

  ‘Oh, Father, do not say that of me.’

  ‘You may not be a thief, but you have shown yourself a dolt. All the rest here are knaves. Look at this.’ The account book was thrust towards her. ‘Read it!’ he commanded. ‘Go on!’

  Ellyn stared blankly at the columns of figures while her father’s muttering rumbled on.

  ‘Why is it always so cursed hot. Has someone stolen the breezes as well? Where is the air?’

  She looked up to see him lumbering over to one of the piles of cloth. He began poking at the bales, peering at the lead seals, sputtering like a smouldering firework. ‘Swindlers and cheats. Vermin . . . Lice . . .’

  Ellyn wondered whether she should intervene. Amidst his grumblings were shrill exclamations: ‘Gone! . . . Purloined! . . .’

  She moved nearer to him and sat on his bed, patting it invitingly.

  ‘Please rest, so that I may better study these records. Perhaps I should read, while you indicate what is missing?’

  With a pronounced sigh he turned about, gesturing in a display of irritation. But then he dropped down heavily on the pallet, leaving Ellyn with the impression that he had actually been longing to rest his legs. Shaking his stick at the cloth he answered her gracelessly.

  ‘Do so then. Declaim the whole cargo if you must. Make an oration of it! ’Twill put nothing right.’

  Ellyn plumped up a pillow behind his back, and tried to ignore the unsavoury odour she noticed once he was close to her. What was it? Decaying shellfish? Before his grunts and mumblings could find better expression, she started to read from the book aloud: ‘One half-bolt tawny coat-weight fustian two and one half yards . . .’

  A snort and a prod at a bale confirmed that this item was present. The process was repeated with several more entries, and soon his noises and gesticulations became less frequent. His head drooped, and his breathing assumed the grinding rhythm of shallow snoring.

  Ellyn hummed. Her eyes settled on his neck and on a large swelling clearly visible, along with a rash of angry blotches and folds of sagging skin. Beneath the dark smudge of a purplish vein she believed she could detect the quiver of his pulse, but there was no steadiness to it. She fell silent.

  She knew her father was ill, but not seriously sick, surely? He was not feverish, after all. She worried about him, but she doubted the wisdom of alerting anyone else. The Swan had no physician, and the mariners would be apprehensive if there was any suspicion of disease, not that she believed he had any threatening contagion. His maladies were gout and bad humour, compounded by the climate and poor diet. But what could she do? He should never have come. He was so irritable, he was impossible. And why did he constantly berate her? She was blamed for everything he found wrong, however unreasonably. Did he want her to leave him? Let him stand sentinel alone over his precious cloth, and dig his own moat if he chose to. Since she annoyed him so much, perhaps he would be happier for that.

  She fumed silently while his snores deepened, becoming interspersed with gurgles and wheezes. Her duty was to care for him, though she was in the grip of an urge to turn her back on him totally. She got up and looked down. He had not stirred, and with his chin on his chest, and his soft wisps of tousled hair, he looked as defenceless as a nestling. Like that, he troubled her conscience. She slipped out in a fit of defiance.

  Ellyn was in no mood to talk to anyone. She walked away, leaving the huts far behind, and the Swan further off. Towards the end of the beach was a fringe of mangrove trees, and she made for this place, where at least she could hope for some solitude in peace. The sea was turquoise, and the sky slate-blue, while the small humps of other islands feathered across the horizon in a streak. The view was soothing.

  At the edge of the sand she stopped, having picked her way among the usual detritus: bleached branches and husks in a thin tide-line of weed – there were coral fragments and many small, pretty shells. She collected a few and thought of a likeness. Was she not like a sea-creature inside a shell much the same? She had been encased by her upbringing, tossed by the world’s currents and now she was washed up, all but alone on a desolate shore. The profundity of this musing pleased her at first, until she recognised it as self-pity, overblown and conceited, and that made everything worse.

  When would the Kestrel come back? What had happened to Francis Drake and his men? She had tried to suppress her fears about Will, but at that moment she fervently prayed he was well and safe. He had been gone for too long, and she regretted the petty friction that had developed between them. She could barely remember what had been the cause – something about leaks in her shelter and a shortage of water. How had that discord come about? She should never have allowed it. When he returned they would be reconciled. She would welcome him warmly and try to make amends. Ellyn reached for another shell, only to see it covered by sudden deep shadow.

  The shadow’s shape was startling, like the spectre of a man . . .

  She looked up, and reeled in horror.

  A giant stood near her; another man was not far away. They were fearsome, black and hideously strange: dark angels as she had imagined them from pictures of the Apocalypse, but manifest, real and drawing closer. She froze, petrified, wanting to run but simply staring – at their frayed clothes and peculiar armour – at the gleaming gorget over the nearest man’s throat. His bare chest was scarred in long puckered lines, and she could see the muscles of his lean, flat stomach. His cheeks were daubed and his hair half-shaved. He had something writhing in his hand that he was holding out, as if for her to take. What was it? A lobster. Her impulse was to turn and plough through the sand. But where could she go before they caught her? And then. What then? She could not think. What if she screamed? No one else would hear. She was too far away from the huts and the mariners. The man with the lobster was approaching. She took a step back. The creature’s thrashing appalled her. Should she speak? He would not understand. But she should try. She must try. When she found her voice it sounded strong, though she did not know how – inside, she was quaking.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The giant with the lobster dropped it into a crude open-weave basket, and then he dangled the basket from a length of twine. He extended his arm as he advanced to a point where the thing almost brushed against her dress.

  Ell
yn spread her hands, hoping that he would understand her confusion. What did he want? She took another step back and stopped. She would not run and encourage them to chase her. The man moved his free hand closer to her skirts. The gesture was shameful. What did he mean by it? She could barely believe that he would actually dare touch her. She stared at his hand as he pinched a fold of her dress, knowing that now she could not get away; he had her in his grasp. She should have run, but it was too late.

  He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, stroking it slowly. She was faint with shock. No man would ever seize a woman’s skirts, unless . . . unless. She would not consider it. Let him do no more than feel the cloth, if that pleased him. She looked at his face searching for some compassion with which to plead. His eyes were depthless; she could see no pity in them. She glanced again at his hand, and he let go of her. Her breathing was sharp. She tried to control it, not to show relief. She would not bolt. Not yet. He pointed at his chest. What did he want? She trembled as dread possibilities sprang to her mind. But at least he was no longer touching her. He gestured afresh, from her skirts to his chest: his bare chest. She did not know what he was asking, but she could recognise something he needed. She looked back into his eyes and kept her terror contained.

  ‘Please wait.’

  Ellyn turned and walked briskly away. She kept her back straight and made no attempt to run. She did not look round, or shout, or try to catch anyone’s attention. Her object was to demonstrate that she was not afraid, and once she reached the group of huts, she gained in confidence. What had she to fear? The black men had done her no harm, they had even offered her a lobster – the recognition of that determined her actions. She made direct for her father’s house, and crept behind the canvas screening off her own room. Her father remained undisturbed; she could hear his loud snoring. She gathered up a length of kersey: the remains of the roll she had used for her own dress. It was as much as she could carry. With the cloth in her arms she began to retrace her steps. No one challenged her or appeared to notice. Before she had gone far she saw the two wild man approaching. Then she heard shouts.

  Some of the mariners were running towards her; there were others further behind, she was conscious of their calling. She glimpsed the men from around the Swan pelting headlong across the shore. She kept going. If she could reach the black men first, a crisis might be averted. They were quite close, though standing still. From somewhere behind her back, she heard Richard Dennys yelling madly, ‘Stop, dear lady! Get back! You are in the way!’

  In the way of what? She turned and saw him crouching behind a palm trunk with a caliver in his hands. It was pointing unsteadily in her direction.

  ‘Hold your fire, Master Dennys,’ she said curtly. ‘And put that weapon down lest you injure me!’

  Unperturbed, she continued walking. She was sure even Master Dennys would not be foolish enough to attempt to shoot past her.

  The giant with the lobster laid the basket on the sand. Ellyn drew near him and set the cloth alongside. Instantly the man bent to examine what she had brought. His companion had a bow, she observed, and an arrow ready to fire, as if that would be any use against loaded matchlocks. The giant who had felt her skirts was now rubbing the kersey – smelling it, pulling and twisting the cloth. Apparently satisfied, he slung the roll over his shoulder.

  A gruff bellow made Ellyn turn. She did so without thinking, without even realising it was her father until she saw him staggering along the beach. But she knew him straightaway, despite the helmet shadowing his eyes, and the bouncing breast plate half over his belly. He was brandishing a pike, and for a harrowing moment she supposed he was about to attempt a charge. The weapon wavered as he thrust it forward. He hunched his shoulders, head down. His legs moved. But Ellyn was the one who began to sprint.

  ‘Father!’

  She dashed towards him as he collapsed.

  Two weeks later, the Swan was back afloat. Ellyn sat near the opening that formed a window in her hut, and saw the ship at anchor a little way off from the beach. Thunderclouds towered in the sky. Waves sparkled and were shadowed in patches. The elements seemed very close. The house had so little substance that, even inside, Ellyn felt nothing was shut out. The sand and the sea – the gusts of fresh air, and the fiery light of the sun – they all touched her senses, and yet all seemed remote.

  In the lee of the Swan, a much smaller craft was moored alongside.

  The Kestrel had returned only a few hours before. Together with Richard Dennys, John Drake and the few mariners left with them, she had rushed across the sand to witness the event and join in a welcome that had been overflowing with joy. But now, in the aftermath, her happiness was subdued, and the sight of Will approaching only deepened her wistful mood.

  He walked briskly, with conviction, wearing the white shirt and leather jerkin that he had worn when the Kestrel arrived. But she noticed, as he came nearer, that his beard was newly trimmed, and his fair hair tied back. His head was down for the most part, as if he was engrossed in contemplation, deliberating on issues that involved difficult decisions.

  She envied him his choices since she had so few left.

  When he reached the hut, he touched the little gold bells he had given her in England and that she had hung inside the doorway. Their tinkling was a sound she linked with calm: the period before her father had decided on the voyage and she had followed him on the adventure that had led to where she was.

  As Will entered, she stood.

  ‘Mistress Ellyn,’ he addressed her brightly, rising from his bow. ‘Captain Drake, the officers of the Swan and I would be honoured if you and your father would join us for dinner.’

  He looked around after delivering the invitation, as though he was expecting to see both his intended guests, but the distinct sound of snoring must have convinced him that he would not. Her father was sound asleep behind the screen that partitioned off his bed. Will took a step nearer, and she was suddenly conscious that they were completely enclosed, albeit that the walls were made of canvas and sticks. They were alone in a place with a semblance of privacy, and, within the flimsiness of the house, his physical presence was very strong. He exuded vitality. He was so deeply tanned that his eyes, by contrast, were a piercing pale blue. Around them were small crinkling creases that deepened as he smiled.

  ‘We shall be eating soon, Mistress Ellyn,’ Will said. ‘Our appetites are hearty.’

  Ellyn gestured for him to sit, and did the same. They faced one another by the plank table, on small log stools, surrounded by piles of faded and sagging cloth. She answered him levelly.

  ‘Thank you, Master Doonan. I shall be delighted to attend, but my father is resting and would be best left undisturbed. So I ask you, please, to keep your voice low. I hope the Captain will accept my apologies and that my father will be excused.’

  ‘Is he unwell?’ Will frowned as he put the question. ‘John Drake said that there had been an incident involving escaped slaves – the brigands they call Cimaroons. He said that Master Cooksley had not been seen about much since.’

  ‘My father supposed a threat where there was none; that was all. The shock made him faint, though he was soon revived.’

  ‘The Cimaroons did not molest you?’ Will leaned forward and eyed her steadily.

  ‘Oh, no! There were only two, and we have seen no more of them since. They gave us a lobster, and took some cloth in exchange. It was nothing but a barter.’ She made an effort to appear indifferent and changed the subject without ado. ‘I am sure your voyage must have been much more exciting. Did you do any trading?’

  Will looked pleased.

  ‘Ah yes! I have these for you.’

  The little bag he offered her resembled a nobleman’s brocaded purse. It was adorned with an elaborate heraldic crest, and inside were a good number of large and perfect pearls.

  She held her hand flat and placed one of them on her palm. ‘This alone must be worth a small fortune.’

  Where had the gift come
from? She suppressed her curiosity so as not to appear ungracious. Moreover, she suspected, the truth might prove a burden, and she had no wish to induce Will to lie. She tipped the rest of the pearls into her hand and examined them in awe.

  Will grinned.

  ‘They will be enough for you to begin your married life in comfort, without the need to beg your husband should you want for any luxury.’

  The talk of a husband perplexed her. She had almost forgotten her father’s plans for her marriage, and it upset her to suppose that Will might be content for her to wed. But perhaps he was being considerate. It did not matter. She would not marry anyone insofar as she could see ahead.

  ‘I cannot . . . ’ she began hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, you can.’ Will wrapped her fingers around the pearls. His movements were tender and swift. When she looked up at him, he drew his hand away. This was not the way that Richard Dennys had obliged her to accept his pip-stuffed fruit. Will’s gesture in touching her was impulsive, she realised, and ended by self-constraint. She returned the pearls to the bag and held it in her lap.

  Will sat back.

  ‘You must keep the pearls, dear Mistress Ellyn. We shall be leaving tomorrow, all of us together. Before three months are out you will be in England, safe with your father, and he much richer, having made such a profit with this enterprise that he will no longer be interested in selling the Spaniards’ cloth.’

  By keeping her attention on the purse she hoped to hide her concern. She had supposed that Francis Drake would want to leave the Americas once his trading was finished, but not straightaway. How could his business have been concluded so quickly, and without a single bolt of her father’s kerseys being sold? Will continued enthusiastically, as if he thought she could not accept that he was bringing her good news.

  ‘Think of green England, where the rain is gentle and the sun is kind. You will see her again soon. You will be home, free from danger, with your mother and maids to look after you, wearing your pretty dresses, enjoying music and dancing.’