Mistress of the Sea

by Jenny Barden

  Another wave broke over them, and Will gulped for breath before his head went under. Then he was up, stomach lurching, eyes streaming, spitting out water over a tongue that was swollen with thirst. But ahead was a point where the mangroves ended. He could see the headland of the Cativas: the place where the shore finished and the sea opened out. Drake was pointing, and the two Frenchmen were staring, scanning the skyline, shading their eyes. If they went on past the point, they would be committed to a crossing with night falling fast. The dark strip narrowed as the land levelled out, dwindling from hills to a ridge, and then a margin of sand, one that was visible from the wave crests, but lost in the troughs, and finally reduced to a streak where the combers rippled black. But there was something else: two boats. Will could see the lines of their masts, and the spume around their bows. Neither were under sail; they were both manned by oars. Drake was shouting and signing, and most of what he said was lost to the crashing sea but, in the midst of the pounding, Will heard a single word: ‘Ours!’

  The boats were pulling towards shelter in the lee of the point, and Will knew he was watching the pinnaces, though they held to their course. He took off his shirt and waved it wildly above his head. Still the two pinnaces drove on, making for the other side of the headland; their masts disappeared behind the top of the ridge. Drake swung the rudder to run the raft hard aground. They had no choice. Will close-hauled the sack-sail, and they were swept up by the next breaker to smash against the sand. Then a wave thundered in and almost sucked them all back.

  ‘Come on!’ Drake stumbled up the beach, and Will followed, clutching his shirt. They scrambled up the bluff and the Frenchmen struggled behind. From the top they could see the pinnaces at anchor below.

  Drake leant against a palm trunk, bent and caught his breath.

  ‘A pleasing sight, Will, but let’s not show it.’

  The wind had dropped as the sun went down. Will realised what had happened as he chased after Drake: the wind that had blown their raft eastward must have stopped the pinnaces from sailing west – that was why the boats had not been at the river as planned. But with dusk, the wind had calmed.

  Will could hear Drake yelling as he crashed through the gloom, careering down the leeward slope towards the boats near the shore. He waved his shirt and shouted as well. And though the land was almost black there was a gleam over the sea, enough for him to spot that there were men wading ashore. While Drake staggered on, the crew from the boats rushed to greet him, and some ran to Will, bearing him along in the throng. So he glimpsed something of the way Drake doubled over and clasped at his waist, then withdrew a gold quoit and flaunted it in triumph. And though he could not see it, he was sure Drake smiled; he could sense a grin in what Drake said.

  ‘Our voyage is made! Every one of you is rich! Now come with me. Our friends are guarding the booty – Let’s fetch them all back!’

  Ellyn saw the pinnaces without warning as she was walking along the shore: the Bear and the little Minion; she had no doubt about what they were. The boats were quite close. They must have sailed in and around Slaughter Island while she was taking food to the captured Spaniards. Her heart leapt. Her grip tightened around the bowl she was carrying, then she let go. The bowl fell. It did not matter. She quickened her pace. Men were spilling from the fort. She almost ran as the pinnaces drove up onto the beach. Drake’s men began disembarking, Cimaroons were shouting and a cap was thrown into the air, and another, and another. There were cries of jubilation. Men streamed along the shore, more rowed over from the ships. Some of the wounded limped closer. Her ears rang as she pushed through the throng. Frenchmen and English were roaring together. Someone waved a pennant that became draped over heads and shoulders. A drum began beating. The Cimaroons were dancing. She saw Drake carried aloft, ruddy-faced and beaming. No one paid her any attention as she squeezed a way through, making for a man in the midst of the ferment about whom all else appeared to slow.

  Will stood tall, with his shirt in tatters, and a broad-brimmed hat shadowing his sun-burnt face. When she neared him she saw the blisters, his cracked lips and peeling skin. His eyes narrowed as if the light was blinding. She could only be sure of where he was looking when she drew very close. Then she looked at nothing else but returned the gaze that he fixed upon her.

  The clamour became louder, and next it seemed remote. In the midst of it, she stilled. She felt the touch of his hands, rough and callused, strong and gentle, and though men shoved and jostled her, she barely noticed them at all. Will embraced her freely, and she let him kiss her unabashed, as if what she felt made a screen through which no one could pry. And as she held him the rest receded: the din and the crush. She was secure at the pivot around which everything turned, drawing strength from his warmth, with the smell of him close, and her arms around his waist, aware of little but his breathing and his body against hers. She wanted not to move, yet too much was going on. Quietly, she took Will’s hand, and she saw the happiness in his smile.

  They left the men offloading bags, and carrying them in lines through the gates of the fort. They passed those gathering around Drake, mariners singing and swigging from wineskins. Someone called out noisily from a group sprawled in the sand.

  ‘Share a drink with us, sweet lady.’

  ‘Aye. Down a draught to piss on the Spaniards!’ Whoever had spoken laughed raucously. Will led her away, but the banter carried on.

  ‘Will can afford you now, Mistress – says his riches will soften your heart.’

  ‘And your dowry will pay him back!’ The comment was muttered, and almost smothered by loud cackling, but Ellyn still made it out. Other voices followed, gravely and slurred.

  ‘I’ve got riches, too, if you’d like some more from me.’

  ‘Give the beauty some more, eh, Gillon? I could alright.’

  ‘And I . . . Give her a sackful . . .’

  The blood was rising to her face as Will suddenly turned on the men. He kicked hard at the sand, sending it spraying over their faces.

  ‘Show respect, lads, and pipe down.’

  Will turned back to Ellyn, leaving the men spitting and protesting. He was grinning.

  ‘They’re half cut and witless. I hope you’ll ignore them.’

  ‘I couldn’t hear them very well.’

  ‘Good.’ He spoke quickly and patted her back. ‘Better you didn’t.’

  They made for her palm-thatch shelter, though it was not much quieter inside; the commotion carried on. They held one another again, but she felt him sway and drew him down to sit. There were two palm-bole stools in the hut. He settled on one.

  ‘Will you have some wine?’ she asked, and was reaching for the jug and cup even before he replied. He gulped the drink down, and she poured out more.

  ‘You must be tired. Are you hungry? I have some cooked fowl and corn.’

  ‘No.’ He raised his hand to her. ‘Sit with me.’

  She did so, and his weariness was like a weight that she felt as she looked at him.

  ‘Tell me about the venture. I want to know everything . . .’ She noticed the deep shadows over his drawn features, and wondered whether the carousing hid some price paid for victory. ‘Has everyone come back?’

  ‘Let us not talk of that now.’

  ‘But you won? We can return to England?’ She asked excitedly, already thinking of the long voyage homeward, and her spirits began to soar, like a bird loosed from a net.

  With a wry smile he nodded, drained his cup and set it down.

  ‘There is a question I must ask that I could not ask before.’ He took hold of her hands. ‘I had to be sure of your answer.’

  She was puzzled, but his hands were comforting in her clasp. She squeezed them, smiling, wondering whether he would next put the question just as she had always supposed. Yet what could have changed to affect her answer? In her mind she was certain, just as she had been before he left, but she still wanted him to ask.

  ‘Can you be sure of my answer now, if you were no
t before?’

  ‘Yes.’ He answered firmly, without smiling back. ‘It is what I have now that makes the certainty.’

  ‘Certain enough not to ask?’ She made the challenge playfully, hoping he would put the question soon.

  His expression remained sombre.

  ‘I must ask your mother when we return, but what I have makes me sure of her answer, too – and that is a fortune, sweet Ellyn.’ His voice rose. ‘Enough to buy a manor and a title, enough for her to want to welcome me into her family.’ He gripped Ellyn’s hands firmly. His eyes never left her face. ‘So tell me how this pleases you.’

  With a few quick movements he reached inside his shirt and produced a large disc of gold that he held gleaming in front of her.

  ‘What is mine will also be yours.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘But you have not asked . . .’

  He pressed the quoit into the palm of her hand.

  ‘With this, do I need to?’

  He smiled then, and his eyes brightened, but she felt chilled by a sudden disquiet. The drum beat louder and the singing rose to bawling. The words of the drunken mariner rang again in her thoughts: ‘Will can afford you now, Mistress – says his riches will soften your heart.’ She was upset without reasoning why, though she knew deep down it was all to do with the gold.

  ‘Yes, with this.’ She pushed the quoit back. ‘Most especially with this.’

  Will grasped her hand.

  ‘Then answer me and let’s be done with it.’ He met her eye. ‘Will you marry me?’

  She pulled her hand away, leaving him fumbling to stop the gold from falling. Her heart thumped faster. Was she to be bought like a whore? Why was gold so important? She looked at the quoit that was gleaming in his hand.

  ‘You favour me in asking, but I would like to consider since I am not ruled by gold.’

  ‘Consider?’ He stared at her, breathing heavily. Then all the pleasure drained away from his face. ‘Consider what?’ he whispered as he stood, though she reached out to stop him.

  ‘Please, Will . . . Have something to eat . . .’

  It was all she could think of to say, but he turned and wrenched at the sacking over the door.

  She called out, and he ignored her. Without a backward glance he walked away.

  Will marched past the men who had settled in the open. Ellyn had refused him, and the hurt of it smothered everything. He had been conscious of hunger, but suddenly he felt sick. He was not going to plead with her or entreat. If she did not want him without reservation, then he would not persist in the asking. Though he now had a fortune, she still needed to ‘consider’ whether to accept him. He had never supposed she might have doubts.

  He paced on, hearing friends calling for him to join them, but he made straight for Drake. He had seen the Captain by the fire at the centre of the compound, with a group clustered before him ready to listen to his tales. The drum banged on, and a crowd of dancing Cimaroons added howls and clapping to the stamping beat. It pulsed in Will’s head as he picked his way through, stepping around men already drunk, and a few lying senseless. Laughter and curses rose everywhere he trod. Someone was singing a crude ballad, and he wanted to kick the man hard to make him shut up. He got nearer to Drake, and shoved a Frenchman out of the way. Just behind Drake, he squatted down, seeing the fire over the Captain’s shoulder spitting sparks into the dusk.

  He spoke in an undertone as soon as Drake paused to drink.

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘I hear you, Will.’

  ‘We’ll be going back for Le Testu and the rest of the booty?’

  Drake gave a nod while keeping his face turned aside.

  ‘Aye,’ he answered in a low voice, ‘but there’ll be much jeopardy in that. I’ll send only a few: those who are able and willing, and only when they’re ready.’

  Will clasped hold of Drake’s arm. He would prove himself worthy, whether Ellyn wanted him or not.

  ‘Count me as one of them.’

  Ellyn stared at shadows. She had no desire to move. It was an effort even to lift her hand and reach out to the little shell on the barrel by her bed. But the fumbling for it was too much. So she sat listlessly and picked the shell up, then ran her fingers over the spiral ridges, tracing all the intricacies of its shape. What lay ahead? Perhaps she might dine with Will in a few hours but, if she did, his behaviour would be reserved, as though there had never been anything special between them, and whilst being cool he would be courteous, addressing her with manners that could not be faulted. It was enough to unnerve her completely.

  She squeezed the shell in her fist. It was a dainty cone, marked in chestnut-coloured ripples, and within the lip of its mantle was the place where she had seen the note: the one with the message that had once filled her with hope. ‘I will come for you soon,’ he had written, ‘Your voyager, Will.’ Well, he had come, and brought her to safety, and now she had distanced him with her words. He must have thought she did not love him – that she believed she could do better. Did he suppose she had misled him? She touched the edge of the slit, feeling the pearly smooth lining of the spiral passage inside: the space that was empty because the message was gone, burnt as he had ordered. Destroyed.

  What had she done? She must have seemed callous. Will had rescued her from danger and offered her all he possessed, yet the gold had spoilt that for her. Had she been wrong? She returned to the issue that had tormented her for days. Surely he should have asked her first, and not assumed she would marry him because he had come by a fortune? But she had not told him of her love, and she accepted that was her failing; she thought that he knew. Then the damage had been done. She had rebuffed him without meaning to and that had left them divided. But if he really did love her, why had he allowed that to happen? Why had she?

  She worked the shell in her hands, turning it over and over, tracing the ever-decreasing rings at the base of the cone. She was with Will, but apart. Their association together was a shadow of what it had been. She pushed her finger into the shell. What was lost could not be found. How could she approach him and try to explain? What could she say, when she only saw him in company, and otherwise he kept away from her? Should she shout out that she loved him: scream it before the world – tell him now, before it was too late?

  She pressed the shell to her lips. Will was one of the few who had been chosen to try and retrieve the hidden treasure and bring it back with the French captain: a venture so dangerous that even Drake was not chancing it, too. She squeezed her eyes shut. Soon Will would be gone on that mission. Had she driven him to it?

  He might not come back.

  With sudden resolve she got up and walked outside, intent on observing the pinnaces, though she had already satisfied herself at daybreak that the boats were still moored up. She ignored everything else: the men carrying stores, busy with nets, picking at rope. What concerned her was beyond the gate. If she kept her attention on her purpose, then the hurt of not being with Will was less. She moved briskly to the shore and saw one of the pinnaces at anchor, with the ships in the roadstead and a few small tenders nearby. The sea was calm, a limpid turquoise blue, with barely a wave showing white on rolling in towards the beach. But the sand around her was churned up. Then she caught her breath.

  The other pinnace was gone.

  22

  Love

  ‘. . . and all for love, and nothing for reward . . .’

  —The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spenser, Book 2, Canto 8

  THE FLOODPLAIN WAS a wasteland of mashed plants and mud. Little remained recognisable of the scene of the attack, though in the dark of a cloudy night Will had expected it to look different – but not like this. He remembered an expanse of lush pasture; what remained was devastation: a morass of earth turned over and trees uprooted. Between the collapsed banks of the riverbed, thin streams trickled round islands of silt. There was no firm ground left, only sludge. He was knee deep in it, digging up slush mixed with stones and other things that crunche
d. After hours of labouring he was plastered in filth, and so were his friends: Hix, Ox and Sherwell. Every man was slick-black as if coated with pitch. Cimaroons and English, all looked alike. Of the score who were digging and the Cimaroons keeping watch, most were lost in the gloom, and even the nearest he could barely make out. Only by their voices could he tell them apart. But caution stifled talk.

  On the riverbed, they were exposed. Even without speaking they were making much noise, though there’d been no sign of any Spaniards or any lookouts left stationed. So maybe Drake was right. Will glanced round quickly before making his next throw, chucking dirt onto soil where it was less likely to splash. Perhaps in the days since the ambush the Spaniards had lost interest – perhaps they no longer believed there was any treasure left.

  But he could still pinpoint almost exactly where the booty had been buried, and their efforts had not been fruitless. They’d recovered some gold, and more than a dozen bars of silver, though that was small recompense against the news they had heard. According to the French mariner found wandering near the Río Francisco, Le Testu was dead – the man had seen the Spaniards riding away with Le Testu’s head. Will dug down deeper. Now all he could do to claim some success was find the remnants of the treasure that Ellyn had shunned. He dug with a vengeance though his whole body ached. He did not care. The pain in his body was pain he could cope with.

  Sherwell muttered close by.

  ‘Here be another.’

  Hix cursed, breathing heavily, sloshing towards them.

  ‘Under two feet o’ shit-swill water.’

  Will thought he heard Sherwell again; all were shadows in the dark. He recognised Ox next. In the absence of Drake, he had the snap of authority.

  ‘Dig, you coxcombs, and quit mewling.’