Blood of my Blood

by G Lawrence

  Cecil went a step further this time. Issuing orders to one of his promising men, William Camden, Cecil ordered a history to be written of my reign, to show the many benefits and blessings of my rule. Naturally, since his man was the author, Cecil emerged as much a hero in the work as I. Cecil understood that the person whom history sees is the one who is written of; his man was writing a love letter to generations of the future, extolling Cecil’s dedication and zeal.

  Another matter, which I saw to as soon as we came back, was my Church.

  “Send out a second proclamation,” I said to Cecil, “ordering my subjects again to use only the approved English Prayer Book and for offending works to be handed in.”

  My tone was fiery. In early summer I had sent out a proclamation and was having to do the same again. I disliked repeating myself, but it was necessary. In addition to those who would worship as not-so-secret Catholics, there was a new problem. The rise of Puritanism was having an effect on the loyalty of my people, and to my mind, a more nefarious one than Catholicism. Deserting my Church to worship instead at Puritan prophesyings, gatherings of godly, often Puritan, ministers preaching to zealous laypeople and other clerics, they were flouting my laws and using non-approved texts as well. Archbishop Parker had written, telling Cecil and me that “both papists and puritans have one mark to shoot at, plain disobedience”, and the man had a point. I wanted my subjects to use the proper prayer book, attend approved services and surrender all Puritan materials, texts and books, so this sedition would cease. I had already ordered this, but by that autumn very few tomes had been handed in to my bishops or the Privy Council.

  “And send word to my bishops and magistrates,” I went on. “Tell them it is their sworn duty to carry out the commands of their spiritual leader. If they allow seditious people to persist in disregarding my commands, I will become most displeased. Tell them if nothing is done, or if I hear any of them have spoken against the Act of Settlement and Uniformity, I will have them imprisoned.”

  “Imprisoned, Majesty?” Cecil sounded nervous.

  “Imprisoned… indefinitely,” I replied. “If I allow this to continue, we risk war, such as in France and the Low Countries. Every man thinks he is right when it comes to religion, but my people must follow my lead and adhere to the laws of my Church. All else is anarchy. There is room enough in Church services to allow all men to worship God well, and keep their personal beliefs in their hearts. The same rules apply to everyone, Cecil, Protestant and Catholic alike.”

  There was no arguing with me, and Cecil knew it. He left to send out my orders. My bishops and magistrates were less than pleased, for they knew how popular Puritan prophesyings had become, especially amongst the young, but if we did not hold a united front I feared the chaos of the Continent would come for England.

  I had to keep England moderate. Extremes were dangerous. If any required proof of that, one only had to look to France or the Low Countries.

  Chapter Twelve

  Whitehall Palace

  Early Autumn 1573

  “Most disappointing,” I said, setting a dispatch from Essex on the table. He had written to inform me that upon his arrival in Ireland, the rebel Sir Brian MacPhelim had approached him, saying he knew of the Earl’s army and had heard reinforcements would follow soon. With this in mind, MacPhelim had asked Essex to ascertain what terms would be granted if he returned to my service as a loyal subject. Essex had told him to submit first, and MacPhelim had, but a few days later, noting the Earl’s forces were unfamiliar with Ireland’s terrain, and therefore less of a threat than he had thought, MacPhelim joined again with Turlough O’Neill, the rebel leader in Ulster.

  Essex declared this had led him to distrust the promises of all Irishmen, and would proceed on the basis they were all false knaves. Plague had broken out amongst Essex’s troops, and supplies were short, but Essex was also having issues with my Lord Deputy, Sir William FitzWilliam, who appeared to have decided the Earl’s mission was some kind of insult to his abilities. FitzWilliam was not only protesting colonising Ulster would cause rebellion, which he would have to set down, but was also refusing to offer Essex any aid.

  I was deeply unimpressed with both men. Essex had only just got to Ireland but already had been fooled by a rebel, and if he was short of supplies that was his fault. He had prepared for months, and part of that preparation should have been a careful count of what was required for his men. Essex wanted me to send more troops and supplies, but I told Cecil I would not.

  “He has adequate money, men and knew what he was getting into when he requested this post,” I said. “Essex cannot write pleading for aid each time he encounters a hurdle. He must learn to govern himself and his men first, only then will I grant more aid.” I sighed. “But do write to FitzWilliam and tell him to stop being such a child. He must work with Essex.”

  “He fears if the Earl succeeds it will eclipse his glory,” Cecil said.

  “There will be no glory for anyone if both of them sulk and refuse to work together.”

  Better news cheered me when I heard that my personal pirate, Francis Drake, had come home in late August and was on his way to court to see me.

  “Every man, woman and child in Plymouth came out to greet us, Majesty,” Drake said when he stood before me in my Privy Gardens. “I am a little afraid to inform you that we entered port on a Sunday, and many congregations left the churches, but I hope God did not mind too much. It was a mighty welcome home for us.”

  “You look well,” I said. It was a surprise, actually. Many men returning from such a long trip looked haggard and unhealthy; teeth falling out, hair dull and cheeks burned by the sun. Some came home with their hair wriggling with worms, and clothes harbouring beetles and fleas. Drake looked hale and hearty. His cheeks were ruddier than before, his brow a dark golden-brown, his russet hair streaked with gold, and where his beard had grown long during the voyage there were curious patches of white mottling his now-shaven skin, but his eyes were fresh and his spirit as keen as ever.

  “I feel well, Majesty,” he said. “And we brought back great spoils for you.”

  “I hear that is not all you brought home. I hear much of this Diego, the Cimarrone who became your advisor.”

  “A good man, Majesty. He was a great help to me on our trip, and has sworn to be at my side for the rest of his life.” Drake smiled. “He is an adventurer, like me, Your Majesty. We found much in common, despite the many differences between us.”

  “Tell me of all your adventures,” I said.

  It was a gloriously exciting story. After the failed attack on Nombre de Dios, Drake had sailed for Cartagena, where he and his men had attacked a Spanish ship moored some way from the waterfront. Unfortunately, it held no treasure, although it was easy to take. “There was only one man aboard, Majesty.” Drake chuckled. “The rest of the crew had gone to shore so they might watch two men duel over a mistress.”

  “But no treasure?”

  None on that ship, Drake said, but this was not the end of their quest. Drake led an assault on another ship nearby, attacking her amidships with one boat as his others fell on her bow and quarter. His men had scaled the sides and taken possession of the ship, towing her out to the open sea, with the crew shut in the hold. People of the town gathered to watch, and musketeers fired from the beach, as cannons did from the castle, but nothing stopped Drake. The next day he took two more ships, and retired to an island to make repairs.

  “I had then, to make a hard choice,” he said.

  Drake explained that he had needed to keep his pinnaces fully manned. They were easy to manoeuvre in the shallows, but he could not man both his ships and them. He decided to sacrifice his brother’s ship, the Swan, but knew his brother would not accept him simply scuttling it.

  “What did you do, then?”

  “I called for the master carpenter, Thomas Moone, Majesty, and to him relayed a secret plan.”

  Moone was instructed to creep into the Swan during the cha
nging of watches, and bore holes into the hull, close to the keel. He would plug them, so water would not rush in too fast and risk the men, but would not tell anyone what he had done.

  The act went ahead, and the next morning Drake rose and took a boat to the Swan, where he called to his brother, inviting him to go fishing. John agreed, and Drake said he would go ahead to prepare nets and lines. As his boat moved off, he called again to his brother, asking why the Swan was so low in the sea. When the steward went below deck, he found himself waist-deep in water.

  “It was a way to salvage my brother’s pride,” he explained. “Had I ordered the ship scuppered, John would have been affronted, but this way, it was a mere accident.”

  Try as they might, John and his crew could not save the Swan, and eventually all goods were taken out and she was set on fire, sinking to the sea bed so no one else could use her. With his forces deployed as he had wanted, Drake came up with a new plan. He could not get to the treasure once it was in Nombre de Dios or Cartagena, that was clear, so would capture it as it was transported, somewhere in the jungles of the Isthmus of Panama. It was an audacious plan, but Drake had allies who knew those jungles well.

  “The Cimarrones were only too happy to help, Majesty,” he said.

  Diego, by that time a master circumnavigator, was certain his people would aid my men, and Drake set out with a small party into the Gulf of Uraba, establishing a network of depots holding food and fresh water, so if some of his men were captured by Spaniards, others would survive. The Cimarrones were, as Diego had promised, only to happy to help Englishmen fight against their former masters. They were experts in the terrain, in finding supplies, and in Spanish fighting techniques.

  “I found in them something I had not experienced before,” he told me. “I have come to think that those who claim slaves are born to their position, calling such men rootless, helpless, foolish and requiring of masters, are entirely wrong, Majesty. I relied on them as I did on my own men, more so at times. Before that time, I had thought Diego was perhaps one amongst few who had clearly not been born to such a life, but on this trip I learned my assumptions were false. They were invaluable. I put all trust in them, and they did not let me down. I want no more to do with the slave trade.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Neither do I. I cannot stop Englishmen trading in slaves if they go to other lands, but never again will I invest.”

  “We built forts,” he said, carrying on with his tale. “And I left my brother in charge of one whilst I went for more provisions.” His face fell. “That was the last time I saw John.”

  “I am so sorry, Drake.”

  Two days after Drake left, he explained, a Spanish ship had been sighted from the fort. John’s men persuaded him to launch an attack, which was poor advice as they had few weapons, and John was not an experienced leader. As their pinnace raced alongside the ship, a volley of shot rang out. John, armed only with a broken rapier and a pillow as a shield, was hit in the belly. It was mortal. In his last moments, John Drake called men to him to witness his wishes for his possessions and wife, as he had not made a will.

  “I remained unaware of my brother’s death,” Drake said. “We were busy at Cartagena, pillaging and plundering.”

  Drake had spent the autumn raiding, for the Cimarrones had told him the next shipment of treasure would not be heading through the jungle for some time. He chased ships ashore, seized others, all but blockaded the port, but always put his prisoners to shore, or set them out on small boats, unharmed. The Spanish were quite helpless before him. Town officials attempted to lure him into ambushes, and failed, they sent ships against him, and had no impact. Eventually he left and made for Fort Diego, named of course for his man.

  “It was a bad time,” he said. “I found I had lost John, and then lost my younger brother, Joseph. There was a fever that broke amongst the men, many died, and Joseph was one. We called it the black vomit. My brother died in my arms.”

  “You have sacrificed much for this cause,” I said.

  “I know they are with God, Majesty.”

  Drake fell silent for a moment and then lifted his head to smile. “But then, Majesty, word came that the flota carrying the treasure had been sighted, and would soon be moving through the jungle.”

  Drake and his men hiked through the jungle for days with the Cimarrones. The forests were dark and quiet, silence broken only by the chirruping of insects and caws of macaws in the canopy. Lizards scuttled, beetles raced and wild pigs rooted in dense ferns and palms. Lemons and other fruits grew everywhere, and they ate them as they walked. They forded streams filled with rocks so sharp and numerous that they cut shoes to bits, and kept to the shade, to avoid the glare of the sun. From sunrise they marched, rested at noon, and made camp at four. Their shelters were made by their Cimarrone allies, who thatched leaves between poles, securing them from water, and cold night air.

  “You would think the day would be the time of noise,” Drake said, “As it is here, but in the jungle all is opposite. In the day, we heard little, but at night… it was easy to believe there were demons in the darkness. Only the Cimarrones kept us sane, Majesty. When we heard a scream and darted up, they would chuckle and tell Diego what the creature was. Assured we were dealing only with earthly beings, we went back to our crude beds.”

  They stopped at a Cimarrone village on the third day, where they were treated like kings. The Spanish had attacked the year before, slaughtering men, women and children, so any enemies of Spain were welcome. Drake persuaded many of them to abandon Catholic crosses and embrace the Protestant faith. This was also a simple matter, as the former slaves were merry to cast off anything Spanish. If they could find God in another way, they would. After another four days marching, they came to a high hill, from which Drake could see the ocean to one side, and the Caribbean to the other. There, Drake saw how wide and vast the world truly was.

  A day from Panama, Drake found a grove in which they camped. Sending a Cimarrone into Panama disguised as a slave, they learned what they needed to know. Drake selected a spot on the treasure route, sending half his men into long grass on one side of the trail, and the other half staggered on the other side. When treasure-laden mules trundled past, the first group would allow them to pass, and when they reached the second, they would rush out. The first group would then take the rear, surrounding them.

  They waited.

  “It felt like eons until we heard the mule-bells,” Drake said. “Crouched in that grass, muscles aching, our hearts beating wild enough for God to hear… and then we heard something else. A horse coming from the town.”

  Drake had hoped the rider would pass, but unfortunately, one of his men, who had imbibed too much aqua vitae, rose to attack. A Cimarrone tried to pull him down, but it was too late. The rider broke into a gallop and went to warn the mule-train that the pirate Drake and his men were ahead.

  “How did he know it was you?”

  Drake smiled. “Majesty, all pirates are now Francis Drake. I am the monster who hides under Spanish beds.”

  I laughed. “Go on.”

  The leaders of the mule-train sent forth a few carts to distract Drake and his men, whilst they tried to get the rest away. Fooled, my pirate leapt from the reeds only to find just two horse loads of silver and food.

  “A sad moment for us,” he said. “We fought some of their men, and learned what had happened to the rest of the treasure from prisoners. We had to get away before they sent men after us. I decided we would cut through Venta Chagre, a town on the way.”

  On the way, they encountered Spaniards, mostly Dominican friars, and when asked who they were, Drake called out, “Englishmen!”

  They were told to surrender in the name of King Phillip, and Drake refused, saying, “for the honour of my mistress, Queen Elizabeth, I must have passage this way!” In case the friars were unaware of his intentions, Drake shot a pistol into the air.

  There was a fight, as not all the men were of the Church, but the
y got away and escaped to Venta Chagre, quickly taking it as theirs, with Drake assuring the people no harm would come to them. Eventually they made it back to the sea. Drake’s men were gaunt and hollow cheeked, but pleased to see their friends. Some Cimarrones went home, but some were so enamoured of their new English friends that they became sailors on Drake’s ships.

  “We had to bide our time, Majesty,” he said. “If we attacked again, soon after this first attempt, they would be expecting it.”

  They sailed for fresh waters. John Oxenham stole a large vessel full of maize, hogs and hens, large enough to carry treasure and take home when the time came. Drake went to assault a ship at sea, only to find it was a Huguenot privateer who was actually out looking for Drake, so they might join forces. The captain, La Testu, was short of supplies, and Drake shared food and water with him and his men. La Testu was so grateful he presented Drake with a case of pistols and a scimitar that once had been Coligny’s. It was then they learned of the massacre.