by Jenny Barden
‘We said we would return for the Cooksleys.’ Will eyed Drake cautiously, and when the Captain remained silent and continued to gaze out to sea, Will decided to say more. ‘I could take the shallop with a few men and fetch the Cooksleys now, if you will allow it.’
‘No, Will, I do not allow it.’ Drake did not even turn. He stood, arms akimbo, with his stocky legs astride, while Will’s frustration rose. Drake’s ruddy face was impassive, fixed like a figurehead’s staring into the distance. Will clenched his jaw. What did Drake know of the debt Ellyn was owed? She had risked her life for the sake of her father and, in the event, that had spared Drake much trouble. But Will could tell she barely featured in the Captain’s thinking.
Drake took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.
‘We will return for the Cooksleys, but not yet.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Which way blows the wind?’
The Captain would know, so why had he asked? Will studied a pennant on the Pascoe. ‘Nor-westerly, quite brisk, sir.’
Drake nodded.
‘We are fifty leagues from Nombre de Dios. With a strong headwind, and the drift against us, it might take more than a week to get near the city.’ Drake gave Will a hard look, as if this statement alone was explanation enough. ‘The slowest of our ships will set the speed for the rest.’
Will thought of the pinnaces under oars, fighting both the current and the wind to crawl slowly west, and he supposed he understood Drake’s reasoning: it would take them long enough to reach Nombre de Dios without waiting for the Cooksleys to be brought from the island first. He still argued.
‘But once we are nearer, a boat could be dispatched to remove the Cooksleys from danger should we need to leave quickly—’
‘No,’ Drake said, cutting him short. ‘The boat might be seen so close to the city.’
Will frowned. What sense could there be in fretting about a boat’s detection when Drake’s fleet would soon be obvious to every Spaniard along the coast?
‘The ships will be seen first . . .’
‘They will not,’ Drake barked. He paced around the small hilltop clearing, looking out to sea, and then again at Will. ‘We are close to the weakest link in the flow of riches from Peru: the source of Spain’s wealth. You know where that is – not at Cartagena, or along the Chagres – but over there.’ Drake pointed to the west. ‘At Nombre de Dios, the treasure house of the world, and it’s ill-protected and unwalled. Now I have the hammer to break it open: ships and pinnaces, all the provisions I could wish for, the arms and ordnance, enough men united in heart.’ Passion rose in his voice and lit up his face. ‘God smiles on us, Will, so let us seize the advantage and jeopardise nothing.’ He clapped Will’s shoulder. ‘The Cooksleys have waited a year; they will wait a little longer.’
That was an afterthought, Will recognised. Drake was set on his purpose. Will stared at the empty horizon much as Drake had done before, imagining their own ships passing over it. What then?
Drake gripped Will’s shoulder hard before letting go.
‘We swore an oath together. The time has come to see it through.’
Drake was calling on his loyalty, and Will realised only then that his questioning must have hurt; he sensed it with some remorse. He had the honour of being valued by the bravest man he knew, and how had he repaid that? Drake had given him his trust and this was the test. He would not fail it. Ellyn could be in no more danger now than she had been before. The island where she had been left was not far from Nombre de Dios. Once their mission was complete, he would fetch her away.
He met Drake’s eye.
‘I want vengeance as much as you.’
With an air of getting down to business, Drake hooked his thumbs in his belt.
‘Success will depend upon surprise. If Nombre de Dios is prepared for anything, then it is an attack from the sea. The Spaniards have discovered the supplies we left here; they will be expecting English carracks. We know that at Nombre de Dios they have guns along the harbour.’
Will gave a nod.
‘Aye.’
‘So we will not use our ships.’ Drake swept his hand over the bay. ‘We’ll hide them away first on one of the islands a few days hence, then we’ll approach in the pinnaces and keep close to the shore, with our weapons in barrels and so concealed. Away from the city, a few boats under oars will not arouse much suspicion, even if they are spotted. But before we round the headland we’ll wait for darkness to give us cover . . .’
*
Morrys turned to Will from the bench in front.
‘We’ll be sitting ducks in that haven.’
Will nodded in the gloom. He had sensed the shift in the mood. Morrys was not alone in his muttering. The wind was changing, whipping up waves that made the boats at anchor roll uneasily above the reef. Thunder growled over the sea. Will shuffled and rubbed at the fresh calluses on his hands. Even John Oxenham joggled his knees. He was known as ‘Ox’ for his mettle; he was not lightly unnerved. No one dozed, though they’d been rowing without rest all day. Probably most were thinking about what the Negroes had said: those they had found on the island where they’d left Raunce with the ships. Nombre de Dios was expecting reinforcements – attacks by Cimaroons had put the place on the alert. What would they face? Drake had seventy-three men in his three pinnaces and the shallop, but the city was protected by a whole battery of guns; they knew as much from the previous year’s venture. Everyone was on edge. And when the moon broke through cloud to film the sea with wan light, Will was pleased to hear the clink and thud of anchors being weighed. He was keen to be moving.
It was a release to channel tension into powering fast across the bay, unlocking cramp, making for the low silvery buildings below the quiet black hills, and hear only the steady slap of the sweeps hitting the sea, then drawing through with a sloosh, driving the boats over the rip, tholes grinding as the oars turned. There was no talk. The helmsman called the stroke to grunts and hoarse breathing, the focus in the union of body and mind, pull and push, each man intent on working his oar in the race to reach the harbour before the guns came to life.
The pain in Will’s hands merged with the ache in his back, but both sank beneath the aim repeated in his thoughts, marking the same beat, echoing the stroke: seize the treasure, avenge Kit, seize the treasure, find Ellyn. They were all one in a mix with what needed to be done, and in the heat of exertion his qualms disappeared.
From the single tall ship moored in deep water in the bay, a tender was lowered. But the city still slept. Will glanced over his shoulder. Nothing moved along the sheen that marked the line of the shore. No lights appeared above the black harbour wall. One of the pinnaces changed course to chase the tender to the east. The rest continued south, making for a knoll at the city’s edge. Will bent his back to the stroke until they were close enough to see surf and smell the stink of dung and spices.
‘Heave!’ Ox called, and those with him all pulled, straining to drive the pinnace up the sand and onto the beach. Then the hull scraped and they ran aground.
‘Out! Take your weapons.’
They scrabbled for crossbows and swords, strapping on what they could and jumping into the shallows. Drake had drilled them to wait while weapons were passed down, and most grabbed what they were meant to, but some ran from the water as if terrified of drowning. In the darkness, all were clumsy. Will almost foundered before he took the arquebus Glub handed him. Morrys had his quiver and the bow across his back, while Hix shouldered a pike. The three of them joined the others who were preparing near the knoll.
Will worked by rote, feeling for his powder horn, priming the pan of his matchlock and snapping it closed, dropping the butt to charge the barrel, tipping more powder into the muzzle and placing a ball in the bore, then some tow, packing them tight with the rod, fingers fumbling though he knew what to do. The shore remained quiet, but that could not last. Will lit his match cord from one of the slow fuses passed round. Morrys and Hix were already charging along the beac
h. It was plain where they should go: above a platform, at the end of the harbour, the barrels of heavy guns stuck out over the sea.
Shouts rose from those who reached the battery first.
‘Spike them!’
‘With what?’
‘The pikestaffs.’
‘Are you crazy?’
One man tried his knife-hilt in a vent, while others hacked at the axle ropes.
‘That’s the way, lads,’ Drake bellowed. ‘Dismount the beasts!’
He bent to a gun carriage trail, and Will stooped with him.
‘Up!’ Will heaved, pushing with the rest to tip the barrel on its trunnions until the muzzle pitched down and the colossal weight crashed, clattering to the ground. They let the trail drop while swinging it round, smashing it over the parapet. Another shattering crack followed, and a third soon after to a ripple of muted cheering.
‘Spoil the lot!’ Drake called.
With aching arms they set about disabling the whole battery, hauling at the carriages, grunting their exultation when the last barrel crashed loose, but satisfaction was cut short by the tolling of a bell: a knell from the city that sent a shiver through Will’s spine. They had not advanced far, and already the Spaniards were being roused. He looked up at the knoll. Was more ordnance up there?
Drake began calling and pointing to the same place.
‘Dickon, Jack Harris, Morrys, Will . . .’
They were the fittest and youngest, and Will guessed why they had been chosen. He picked up his caliver as Drake shouted above the clanging.
‘Those named, come with me. The rest of you take ease and listen to the music.’
Fire pikes were lit; even so, they stumbled. The path was rough and steep. But Will climbed fast, only slowing near the top to peer into darkness and hear the alarm incessantly tolling from the city spread out below.
Drake charged first, running out into the open. That was all there was: a cleared site for ordnance, and a view down to the bay where all their boats could be seen, while away to the south the city square was bright with torches.
‘There they are.’ Drake pointed to the square where the Spaniards were gathering. The houses around it were arrayed in neat patterns like blocks. Drake traced a few lines with his finger. ‘We can use those streets to meet them.’ He turned and raised his voice. ‘Back down, fast!’
Will dashed after Drake.
The beach blazed with light as more fire pikes were set flaming, and Drake had drums sound a beat while he divided his force: a dozen men to guard the boats – sixteen to follow his brother, John and Ox – the remainder with Drake to storm the city from the harbour. Will stood with Ox, as he was bid, and saw from the Captain’s gestures that they were to march round from the east.
Drake held up his fist, rousing everyone to the same cry. This would be their vengeance.
‘For England! God and St George!’
They were an army, ready and cheering. Will advanced behind Ox, and in the midst of the din the tolling of the bell was almost drowned. Heading back towards the knoll, they veered right between some beachside shacks and joined a street that was deserted. Will marched into the city shoulder to shoulder with his friends. His blood raced, senses opened. He could taste the smell of war – burning tar, match cord smouldering, sulphur and sweat. Their shadows leapt over shuttered windows and doors. They bayed like wolves, while ahead came the sound of their main force approaching. The way was clear to the square, where a glow appeared as at the end of a tunnel, and then movement – a commotion. Drake’s company was there, drums beating, trumpets blasting, shouting in triumph. Will glimpsed them from the side: men kneeling with pikes, others levelling firearms. Ox wheeled and yelled.
‘Ready your weapons!’
Will pulled up sharp. He checked his primer then heard a volley – a succession of sharp cracks that kicked up dust in the square. Men from Drake’s force were on the ground, others falling back. That was all he could see beyond those in front along the street: nothing of any Spaniards, only the damage they had inflicted. The drums were still beating.
‘Go!’ Ox shouted, while up ahead John Drake and a few pikemen were already lumbering towards the square.
Will broke into a lope.
‘Charge!’ Ox roared behind him.
They ran as Drake’s company fired: a volley of shots and crossbow bolts – cracking reports and the whistle of vanes. Much was lost in an orange haze. Drake’s main force was charging south when Will joined them from the east. He veered behind the men with fire-pikes. The Spaniards were massed straight in front, some trying to reload, or firing in thick smoke – a turmoil in which men were writhing, brandishing lances and slashing with swords.
He sprinted ahead and took aim, heedless that he was panting so much he could not steady the barrel. He had a clear line of sight. He cocked and fired.
He ran on, sudden elation heightened by the thrill of the chase. The city was theirs. The Spaniards were taking flight. Some were cowering but most were running away. He joined the pursuit, dodging muskets discarded, fixing on a man amongst the stragglers who thrust at Hix with a sword. Will turned the caliver in his hands, shifting his grip from stock to barrel. Ahead, the Spaniards were pouring through a gate. He pelted forward and swung, watched the man topple as he struck. Then he saw Hix sprawled in the dirt.
Will reached for his friend.
‘You alright?’
Hix took Will’s hand and stood, spitting while he cursed, ‘Craven curs drop their arms like shit . . .’
They turned as a great cheer broke out from the square. Then, as one, they made for the noise. Behind them came the thud of the city gates slamming shut.
*
‘Where’s the gold?’ The question was bellowed, over and over. ‘Where is it?’
Too many people were yelling all at once. The captured Spaniards gabbled madly. They were herded towards a tree in the centre of the square, firearms held to their heads. They stammered and begged, talking in a rush that few could follow.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘He has a wife and six children . . .’
‘Can’t someone shut up that bell?’
‘Cap’n says no. He’ll not ’ave us storm a church . . .’
Ox tried to interpret: ‘The treasure house is over there.’
Will saw the place meant: a stone edifice on the harbour side, with only a few small windows high up. Then hands began pointing towards an elegant building with tall doors.
‘What’s that?’
‘The guv’nor’s house where they count the gold.’
Will took the chance to reload. In the flickering light he scanned the windows around the square. His eyes settled on the Governor’s house. Suddenly the great doors flung open as Drake and a file of men charged them. Then Will glimpsed a flash behind the balcony of another building. He aimed and fired. Wood splintered as his bullet struck, while in front of the grand house men were pressing forward in a mass. Few got past the crush, and it seemed to Will that, once he had loaded, the Captain was back within moments and standing on the steps.
‘Silver! Enough to fill our ships!’ Drake raised his arms in triumph. ‘Silver!’ He silenced everyone with the word; his voice filled the square. ‘And we’ll touch none of it. We’re in the hornets’ nest, and no time to waste. We want gold!’
‘Aye. Gold!’ The men roared, crowding round him.
‘Follow me!’ Drake bounded down and across the square, a stocky figure brandishing a sword, with a tight-rolling stride that to Will looked unnatural. Was he limping? Will tensed, his euphoria gone.
Another shot cracked loudly, and Will saw the tell-tale puff of smoke. He took aim at the place and fired. With his back to the tree he almost turned a complete circle, staring uneasily at the buildings that enclosed them on all sides. The treasure house looked impregnable, a great stronghold with a nail-studded door. Men began ramming it with a hitching post, but while the door shivered, it held. Will moved closer, t
raining his caliver on the windows above him. He caught sight of Morrys kneeling, bow drawn, but they could not cover every building. He felt his scalp prickling. There was no protection. The square was an open target range for any marksmen in the houses.
The thuds of the battering ram jarred with the clanging of the bell. Shouts drew Will’s attention. Two men were racing up from the harbourside: men who had been left with the boats. They were calling for Drake.
‘There be troops coming . . .’
‘Have you seen them?’ Drake shouted.
Will trained his matchlock back on the buildings, trying to listen while he watched.
‘A slave told us,’ one of the men answered.
The muttered reaction swelled to an ominous thrum, but Drake cut through it. ‘Might be nothing. John, go and look. Take Master Oxenham.’
Will made sense of little else. He looked at the ground and the hump over which he had almost tripped: a body, he realised, when he knelt in the shadows, the body of a boy. The face stared at him open-eyed. The boy’s neck had been half shot away and his head was at an angle as if, like a wrung chicken’s, it had been twisted from his trunk. The sight turned Will’s stomach.
A great shout came from the men ramming the door, but Will kept staring at the boy. In his hand was a trumpet. The boy had no weapons save for a knife at his belt. When Will bent closer he saw a fat drop of rain fall on the trumpet like a tear. Then suddenly he became aware of a myriad sharp noises: pattering and plinking, tapping and drumming. More drops bounced over the metal. As his pity gave way to fury a clap of thunder tore open the sky. The square pulsed with blue light. Rain fell in a sheet, a torrent that drowned everything: washing out mortar, turning earth to mud. Will was soaked as if drenched by a wave. Powder was useless. He darted back through the downpour to join the rest by the treasure house.
