by Wilbur Smith
The flat boom of a cannon shot echoed from the cliffs at the entrance to the lagoon and reverberated across the still waters of the wide bay.
‘’Tis the alarm signal from the lookout on the heads, Captain,’ shouted Ned Tyler, and pointed across the water to where a puff of white gunsmoke still hung over one of the emplacements that guarded the entrance. As they stared, a tiny black ball soared to the top of the makeshift flag-pole on the crest of the western headland then unfurled into a red swallow-tail. It was the general alarm signal, and could only mean that a strange sail was in sight.
‘Beat to quarters, Master Daniel!’ Sir Francis ordered crisply. ‘Unlock the weapons chests and arm the crew. I am going across to the entrance. Four men to row the longboat and the rest take up their battle stations ashore.’
Although his face remained expressionless, inwardly he was furious that he should have allowed himself to be surprised like this, with the masts unstepped and all the cannon out of the hull. He turned to Ned Tyler. ‘I want the prisoners taken ashore and placed under your strictest guard, well away from the beach. If they learn that there is a strange ship off the coast, it might give them the notion to try to attract attention.’
Oliver rushed up the companionway with Sir Francis’s cloak over his arm. While he spread it over his master’s shoulders, Sir Francis finished issuing his orders. Then he turned and strode to the entryport where the longboat lay alongside and Hal was waiting, where his father could not ignore him, fretting that he might not be ordered to join him.
‘Very well, then,’ Sir Francis snapped. ‘Come with me. I might have need of those eyes of yours.’ And Hal slid down the mooring line ahead, and cast off the moment his father stepped into the boat.
‘Pull till you burst your guts!’ Sir Francis told the men at the oars and the boat skittered across the lagoon. Sir Francis sprang over the side and waded ashore below the cliff with the water slopping over the tops of his high boots. Hal had to run to catch up with him on the elephant path.
They came out on the top, three hundred feet above the lagoon, looking out over the ocean. Although the wind that buffeted them on the heights had kicked the sea into a welter of breaking waves, Hal’s sharp eyes picked out the brighter flecks that persisted among the ephemeral whitecaps even before the lookout could point them out to him.
Sir Francis stared through his telescope. ‘What do you make of her?’ he demanded of Hal.
‘There are two ships,’ Hal told him.
‘I see but one – no, wait! You are right. There is another, a little further to the east. Is she a frigate, do you think?’
‘Three masts,’ Hal shaded his eyes, ‘and full rigged. Yes, I’d say she’s a frigate. The other vessel is too far off. I cannot tell her type.’ It pained Hal to admit it, and he strained his eyes for some other detail. ‘Both ships are standing in directly towards us.’
‘If they are intending to head for Good Hope, then they must go about very soon,’ Sir Francis murmured, never lowering the telescope. They watched anxiously.
‘They could be a pair of Dutch East Indiamen still making their westings,’ Hal hazarded hopefully.
‘Then why are they pushing so close into a lee shore?’ Sir Francis asked. ‘No, it looks very much as though they are headed straight for the entrance.’ He snapped the telescope closed. ‘Come along!’ At a trot he led the way back down the path to where the longboat waited on the beach. ‘Master Daniel, row across to the batteries on the far side. Take command there. Do not open fire until I do.’
They watched the longboat move swiftly over the lagoon and Daniel’s men drag it into a narrow cove where it was concealed from view. Then Sir Francis strode along the gun emplacements in the cliff and gave a curt set of orders to the men who crouched over the culverins with the burning slow-match.
‘At my command, fire on the leading ship. One salvo of round shot,’ he told them. ‘Aim at the waterline. Then load with chain shot and bring down their rigging. They’ll not want to try manoeuvring in these confined channels with half their sails shot away.’ He jumped up onto the parapet of the emplacement and stared out at the sea through the narrow entrance, but the approaching vessels were still hidden from view by the rocky cliffs.
Suddenly, from around the western point of the heads, a ship with all sail set drew into view. She was less than two miles offshore, and even as they watched in consternation she altered course, and trimmed her yards around, heading directly for the entrance.
‘Their guns are run out, so it’s a fight they’re looking for,’ said Sir Francis grimly, as he sprang down from the wall. ‘And we shall give it to them, lads.’
‘No, Father,’ Hal cried. ‘I know that ship.’
‘Who—’ Before Sir Francis could ask the question, he was given the answer. From the vessel’s maintop a long swallow-tailed banner unfurled. Scarlet and snowy white, it whipped and snapped on the wind.
‘The croix pattée!’ Hal called. ‘It’s the Gull of Moray. It’s Lord Cumbrae, Father!’
‘By God, so it is. How did that red-bearded butcher know we were here?’
Astern of the Gull of Moray the strange ship hove into view. It also trained its yards around, and in succession altered its heading, following the Buzzard as he stood in towards the entrance.
‘I know that ship also,’ Hal shouted, on the wind. ‘There, now! I can even recognize her figurehead. She’s the Goddess. I know of no other ship on this ocean with a naked Venus at her bowsprit.’
‘Captain Richard Lister, it is,’ Sir Francis agreed. ‘I feel easier for having him here. He’s good man – though, God knows, I trust neither of them all the way.’
As the Buzzard came sailing in down the channel past the gun emplacements, he must have picked out the bright spot of Sir Francis’s cloak against the lichen-covered rocks, for he dipped his standard in salute.
Sir Francis lifted his hat in acknowledgement, but grated between his teeth, ‘I’d rather salute you with a bouquet of grape, you Scottish bastard. You’ve smelt the spoils, have you? You’re come to beg or steal, is that it? But how did you know?’
‘Father!’ Hal shouted again. ‘Look there, in the futtock-shrouds! I’d know that grinning rogue anywhere. That’s how they knew. He led them here.’
Sir Francis swivelled his glass. ‘Sam Bowles. It seems that even the sharks could not stomach that piece of carrion. I should have let his shipmates deal with him while we had the chance.’
The Gull moved slowly past them, reducing sail progressively, as she threaded her way deeper into the lagoon. The Goddess followed her, at a cautious distance. She also flew the croix pattée at her masthead, along with the cross of St George and the Union flag. Richard Lister was also a Knight of the Order. They picked out his diminutive figure on his quarterdeck as he came to the rail and shouted something across the water that was jumbled by the wind.
‘You are keeping strange company, Richard.’ Even though the Welshman could not hear him, Sir Francis waved his hat in reply. Lister had been with him when they captured the Heerlycke Nacht, they had shared the spoils amicably, and he counted him a friend. Lister should have been with them, Sir Francis and the Buzzard while they spent those dreary months on blockade off Cape Agulhas. However, he had missed the rendezvous in Port Louis on the island of Mauritius. After waiting a month for him to appear, Sir Francis had been obliged to accede to the Buzzard’s demands, and they had sailed without him.
‘Well, we’d best put on a brave face, and go to greet our uninvited guests,’ Sir Francis told Hal, and went down to the beach as Daniel brought the longboat across the channel between the heads.
As they rowed back up the lagoon the two newly arrived vessels lay at anchor in the main channel. The Gull of Moray was only half a cable’s length astern of the Resolution. Sir Francis ordered Daniel to steer directly to the Goddess. Richard Lister was at the entryport to greet him as he and Hal came aboard.
‘Flames of hell, Franky. I heard the word tha
t you had taken a great prize from the Dutch. Now I see her lying there at anchor.’ Richard seized his hand. He did not quite stand as tall as Sir Francis’s shoulder but his grip was powerful. He sniffed the air with the great florid bell of his nose, and went on, in his singing Celtic lilt, ‘And is that not spice I smell on the air? I curse meself for not having found you at Port Louis.’
‘Where were you, Richard? I waited thirty-two days for you to arrive.’
‘It grieves me to have to admit it but I ran full tilt into a hurricane just south of Mauritius. Dismasted me and blew me clear across to the coast of St Lawrence Island.’
‘That would be the same storm that dismasted the Dutchman.’ Sir Francis pointed across the channel at the galleon. ‘She was under jury-rig when we captured her. But how did you fall in with the Buzzard?’
‘I thought that as soon as the Goddess was fit for sea again I would look for you off Cape Agulhas, on the off-chance that you were still on station there. That’s when I came across him. He led me here.’
‘Well, it’s good to see you, my old friend. But, tell me, do you have any news from home?’ Sir Francis leaned forward eagerly. This was always one of the foremost questions men asked each other when they met out here beyond the Line. They might voyage to the furthest ends of the uncharted seas, but always their hearts yearned for home. Almost a year had passed since Sir Francis had received news from England.
At the question, Richard Lister’s expression turned sombre. ‘Five days after I sailed from Port Louis I fell in with Windsong, one of His Majesty’s frigates. She was fifty-six days out from Plymouth, bound for the Coromandel coast.’
‘So what news did she have?’ Sir Francis interrupted impatiently.
‘None good, as the Lord is my witness. They say that all of England was struck by the plague, and that men, women and children died in their thousands and tens of thousands, so they could not bury them fast enough and the bodies lay rotting and stinking in the streets.’
‘The plague!’ Sir Francis crossed himself in horror. ‘The wrath of God.’
‘Then while the plague still raged through every town and village, London was destroyed by a mighty fire. They say that the flames left hardly a house standing.’
Sir Francis stared at him in dismay. ‘London burned? It cannot be! The King – is he safe? Was it the Dutch that put the torch to London? Tell me more, man, tell me more.’
‘Yes, the Black Boy is safe. But no, this time it was not the Dutch to blame. The fire was started by a baker’s oven in Pudding Lane and it burned for three days without check. St Paul’s Cathedral is burned to the ground and the Guildhall, the Royal Exchange, one hundred parish churches and God alone knows what else besides. They say that the damage will exceed ten million pounds.’
‘Ten millions!’ Sir Francis stared at him aghast. ‘Not even the richest monarch in the world could rise to such an amount. Why, Richard, the total Crown revenues for a year are less than one million! It must beggar the King and the nation.’
Richard Lister shook his head with gloomy relish. ‘There’s more bad news besides. The Dutch have given us a mighty pounding. That devil, de Ruyter, sailed right into the Medway and the Thames. We lost sixteen ships of the line to him, and he captured the Royal Charles at her moorings in Greenwich docks and towed her away to Amsterdam.’
‘The flagship, the flower and pride of our fleet. Can England survive such a defeat, coming as it does so close upon the heels of the plague and the fire?’
Lister shook his head again. ‘They say the King is suing for peace with the Dutch. The war might be over at this very moment. It may have ended months ago, for all we know.’
‘Let us pray most fervently that is not so.’ Sir Francis looked across at the Resolution. ‘I took that prize barely three weeks past. If the war was over then, my commission from the Crown would have expired. My capture might be construed as an act of piracy.’
‘The fortunes of war, Franky. You had no knowledge of the peace. There is none but the Dutch will blame you for that.’ Richard Lister pointed with his inflamed trumpet of a nose across the channel at the Gull of Moray. ‘It seems that my lord Cumbrae feels slighted at being excluded from this reunion. See, he comes to join us.’
The Buzzard had just launched a boat. It was being rowed down the channel now towards them, Cumbrae himself standing in the stern. The boat bumped against the Goddess’s side and the Buzzard came scrambling up the rope ladder onto her deck.
‘Franky!’ he greeted Sir Francis. ‘Since we parted, I have not let a single day go past without a prayer for you.’ He came striding across the deck, his plaid swinging. ‘And my prayers were heard. That’s a bonny wee galleon we have there, and filled to the gunwales with spice and silver, so I hear.’
‘You should have waited a day or two longer, before you deserted your station. You might have had a share of her.’
The Buzzard spread his hands in amazement. ‘But, my dear Franky, what’s this you’re telling me? I never left my station. I took a short swing into the east, to make certain the Dutchies weren’t trying to give us the slip by standing further out to sea. I hurried back to you just as soon as I could. By then you were gone.’
‘Let me remind you of your own words, sir. “I am completely out of patience. Sixty-five days are enough for me and my brave fellows?”’
‘My words, Franky?’ The Buzzard shook his head, ‘Your ears must have played you false. The wind tricked you, you did not hear me fairly.’
Sir Francis laughed lightly. ‘You waste your talent as Scotland’s greatest liar. There is no one here for you to amaze. Both Richard and I know you too well.’
‘Franky, I hope this does not mean you would try to cheat me out of my fair share of the spoils?’ He contrived to look both sorrowful and incredulous. ‘I agree that I was not in sight of the capture, and I would not expect a full half share. Give me a third and I will not quibble.’
‘Take a deep breath, sir.’ Sir Francis laid his hand casually on the hilt of his sword. ‘That whiff of spice is all the share you’ll get from me.’
The Buzzard cheered up miraculously and gave a huge, booming laugh. ‘Franky, my old and dear comrade in arms. Come and dine on board my ship this evening, and we can discuss your lad’s initiation into the Order over a dram of good Highland whisky.’
‘So it’s Hal’s initiation that brings you back to see me, is it? Not the silver and spice?’
‘I know how much the lad means to you, Franky – to us all. He’s a great credit to you. We all want him to become a Knight of the Order. You have spoken of it often. Isn’t that the truth?’
Sir Francis glanced at his son, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Well, then, you’ll not get a chance like this again in many a year. Here we are, three Nautonnier Knights together. That’s the least number it takes to admit an acolyte to the first degree. When will you find another three Knights to make up a Lodge, out here beyond the Line?’
‘How thoughtful of you, sir. And, of course, this has no bearing on a share of my booty that you were claiming but a minute ago?’ Sir Francis’s tone dripped with irony.
‘We’ll not speak about that again. You’re an honest man, Franky. Hard but fair. You’d never cheat a brother Knight, would you?’
Sir Francis returned long before the midnight watch from dining with Lord Cumbrae aboard the Gull of Moray. As soon as he was in his cabin he sent Oliver to summon Hal.
‘On the coming Sunday. Three days from now. In the forest,’ he told his son. ‘It is arranged. We will open the Lodge at moonrise, a little after two bells in the second dog watch.’
‘But the Buzzard,’ Hal protested. ‘You do not like or trust him. He let us down—’
‘And yet Cumbrae was right. We might never have three knights gathered together again until we return to England. I must take this opportunity to see you safely ensconced within the Order. The good Lord knows there might not be another chance.’
; ‘We will leave ourselves at his mercy while we are ashore,’ Hal warned. ‘He might play us foul.’
Sir Francis shook his head. ‘We will never leave ourselves at the mercy of the Buzzard, have no fear of that.’ He stood up and went to his sea-chest.
‘I have prepared against the day of your initiation.’ He lifted the lid. ‘Here is your uniform.’ He came across the cabin with a bundle in his hands and dropped it on his bunk. ‘Put it on. We will make certain that it fits you.’ He raised his voice and shouted, ‘Oliver!’
His servant came at once with his housewife tucked under his arm. Hal stripped off his old worn canvas jacket and petticoats and, with Oliver’s help, began to don the ceremonial uniform of the Order. He had never dreamed of owning such splendid clothing.
The stockings were of white silk and his breeches and doublet of midnight-blue satin, the sleeves slashed with gold. His shoes had buckles of heavy silver and the polished black leather matched that of his cross belt. Oliver combed out his thick tangled locks, then placed the Cavalier officer’s hat on his head. He had picked the finest ostrich feathers in the market of Zanzibar to decorate the wide brim.
When he was dressed, Oliver circled Hal critically, his head on one side, ‘Tight on the shoulders, Sir Francis. Master Hal grows wider each day. But it will take only a blink of your eye to fix that.’
Sir Francis nodded, and reached again into the chest. Hal’s heart leaped as he saw the folded cloak in his father’s hands. It was the symbol of the Knighthood he had studied so hard to attain. Sir Francis came to him and spread it over his shoulders, then fastened the clasp at his throat. The folds of white hung to his knees and the crimson cross bestrode his shoulders.
Sir Francis stood back and scrutinized Hal carefully. ‘It lacks but one detail,’ he grunted, and returned to the chest. From it he brought out a sword, but no ordinary sword. Hal knew it well. It was a Courtney family heirloom, but still its magnificence awed him. As his father brought it to where he stood, he recited to Hal its history and provenance one more time. ‘This blade belonged to Charles Courtney, your great-grandfather. Eighty years ago, it was awarded to him by Sir Francis Drake himself for his part in the capture and sack of the port of Rancheria on the Spanish Main. This sword was surrendered to Drake by the Spanish governor, Don Francisco Manso.’