Calling Crow Nation (The Southeast Series Book 3)

by Paul Clayton

  Fenwick tried to laugh but his face was too stiff to move. “That is a new twist.” He stared out into the misty whiteness his usually jolly face growing serious. “Whosoever discovers the Northwest Passage will become the richest man in the world.”

  As night approached, Samuel anchored the ship as promised. The men stared at the forlorn icy shores as the light began to dim. Fenwick stood silently beside Calling Crow and Red Feather as the light changed to a deep, melancholic blue. Fenwick went below, leaving the two Indians standing at the rail. The wind picked up gradually, turning the ship. Calling Crow and Red Feather continued to stare in wonder at the strange barren land. All of the men had gone below by this time except for three who worked above in the ship’s rigging. Calling Crow turned to Red Feather. “Let us go inside,” he said. They climbed the steps to the halfdeck and went to the door leading down inside the ship. It was locked from the inside and would not budge. “We will try the other door,” said Calling Crow, and they retraced their footsteps.

  The light was almost gone as they started across the waist. Calling Crow saw the dark figures of the three men working aloft. They were pulling at some ropes. The wind was blowing harder now, bringing with it a terrible coldness as it whistled through the rigging. Calling Crow heard a crack and turned just in time to see a huge thing coming at him and Red Feather. He pulled Red Feather down as the long wooden spar swung by overhead. It came to rest with its farthest end hanging over the icy sea. Men began shouting as they ran to the side.

  “Aieyee,” said Red Feather, “they are trying to knock us into the sea!”

  Calling Crow said nothing as they got to their feet. The door up on the halfdeck burst open and more men came running out.

  “What happened?” said Samuel.

  “The braces snapped,” said a man, “and the yard swung away.”

  “Quickly,” shouted Samuel, “run another line through there and secure it.”

  As the men rushed about in the dark, Calling Crow and Red Feather climbed the steps to the waist and this time found the door unlocked.

  Most of the crew were asleep in the great cabin in the stern section of the ship. On the next deck down, the orlop deck, next to the still warm bricks of the cookhouse fireplace, Miles and Breuger, their hands and arms hidden beneath their woolen cloaks, stood with John Newman, who was holding a dim lamp. They looked over at the barely discernible forms of the two Indians, who, with their great hairy robes wrapped tightly around them, appeared to be asleep upon some coils of rope in the dark cable locker. Miles fingered the hilt of his dagger nervously. His face was red from the weather, his pockmarks white and pronounced. “They’ve as many lives as a bloody cat!” he whispered.

  Breuger shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Animal instincts, it is, keen hearing and the like.”

  Miles pointed over at the Indians with his dagger then looked at John. “Should we do it now?” he whispered. “We could put them over the side when we finish.”

  John’s eyes were as bereft of emotion as two beads of brown glass. “No, not now. Someone might hear. We will wait till we are closer to England. That way we can be sure they will not swim home.”

  Miles and Breuger laughed softly. They turned and went up the steps to the great cabin.

  Despite the icy deck, the men ran to their tasks with a sense of urgency. Calling Crow stood beside Samuel at the whipstaff as the worried-looking Englishman shouted orders to his men. Earlier that morning, the lookout high in the crow’s nest had shouted down that the entrance to the bay had frozen over in the night. Now, with only the mizzen sail set, they moved slowly past large pieces of floating ice as Samuel attempted to spy a channel back out into open sea.

  Samuel turned to scan the jagged mountains off the ship’s port side. A long, flat field of ice lay ahead in the distance. Calling Crow, Red Feather and Fenwick stood beside him. “See those peaks there,” Samuel said to them. “They form a line which marks the entrance to this bay. That is where we came in.”

  “Yes,” said Fenwick, “but where shall we get out?”

  Samuel’s face was grim as he ignored Fenwick’s question and scanned the misty distance.

  Calling Crow looked at the ice field. It extended out into the white mists as far as he could see. Then he noticed a break to the north. “There,” he said, pointing, “the sea comes in.”

  “I see nothing,” said Fenwick.

  “Where?” said Samuel.

  Calling Crow pointed and Samuel and Fenwick squinted and frowned.

  “I think you are mistaken,” said Samuel.

  A few minutes later the men who had crowded together at the bow began shouting.

  “I see it,” said Fenwick happily, “there!”

  Samuel raised his head and smiled. “God in heaven! You’re right.” He called to the man in the cutaway below them. “Port, ten degrees.”

  The man wordlessly pushed the heavy lever of the whipstaff to the right and the ship leaned slightly as it turned. A few moments later they passed through an opening not more than five hundred feet across. On either side of the ship, ice fields reached out for them like two great white arms seeking to trap them.

  The breeze picked up and the men began cheering as they left the ice behind.

  “Set all sails,” called Samuel loudly. He turned to Calling Crow. “We will soon pick up the westerlies and sail for England.”

  “What about the Northwest Passage?” said Calling Crow.

  “I’ll be back,” said Samuel. He turned to look back at the jagged white mountains receding into the distance. “I’ve never seen a river so broad-- I’ll be back.”

  Chapter 18

  The men of the Contempt stepped livelier at their tasks now. After picking up the westerlies, they had sailed for two weeks with strong steady winds before running into the storm that had assailed them for the past two days. Now it was over and each dawn brought greater expectations of a landfall in southern England.

  It was three of the clock inside the dimness of the orlop, where Miles and Breuger reclined upon bundles of deer hides. The air was filled with the pungent smell of the hides, and the occasional rustle and squeal of rats. The rats had grown used to the men. Emboldened by their numbers, they made no attempt to hide as they chewed on the skins or attacked what was left of the sacks of Indian corn. A rat as large as a man’s boot came out from under a bundle of skins and looked up at Breuger. It then raced across the deck to another bundle. Breuger’s hand blurred as he threw his dagger downward, pinning the squealing rodent to the deck. Getting to his feet, he stomped the creature’s body under his boot, ending its cries.

  Footsteps thudded dully through the boards. Breuger pulled his dagger from the corpse and wiped the blood on the pile of skins before putting it in his belt. Miles sat up expectantly. John Newman ducked his head and entered through the door.

  “Samuel sleeps like a babe now,” he said. “He won’t be waking till tomorrow at dawn or later.”

  Miles nodded. Neither he nor Breuger was surprised to hear this. Samuel had been awake and at the helm for the thirty-six hours that the squall had banged the ship about.

  “Now we will go and feed the fish,” said John.

  They came up out of the ship onto the foredeck and walked toward the waist. They saw the two Indians way back on the poop. There were half dozen men there also, all of them looking down at the two fins cutting the sea in the ship’s wake. The sharks had been following the Contempt ever since first light, when the cook had dumped the rotting carcass of a deer that had been salted before they left but had not kept.

  Miles looked nervously around at some men nearby who were coiling a rope. “What if Samuel finds out?” he said to John.

  John looked over at one of the men, and the man nodded knowingly. “No one will see a thing,” said John, “I assure you.”

  Breuger laughed nervously as they started down the steps to the poop. The bigger of the two Indians saw them and turned away to speak to the other.<
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  John and the other two men walked across the waist and climbed the starboard stairs up to the poop. Four men leaned over the rail looking down at the wake. The Indians were gone.

  “Martin,” called John.

  One of the men at the rail turned round. “What is it, sir?”

  “The savages? Did you see where they went?”

  Perplexed, the young man scratched his beard. “I did not, sir.” He turned back to look over the rail.

  John looked round at Breuger and Miles and then walked to the port steps. “Come on.” They hurried down the steps and John stopped at the hatch covering the steps leading down to the orlop. He looked at the other two, pulled off the hatch and started down the steep steps. “Leave the hatch off,” he called up to Breuger, who was the last one down.

  The orlop stretched before them, the cables stacked in coils visible until the light faded up forward.

  Breuger came down the steps and pulled his dagger. “They could be hiding anywhere.”

  Miles nodded.

  “I don’t think so.” John pointed to a nearby hatch that led down to the bilge. “That’s where they are. Down with the rats. I’m sure of it. Help me with this.”

  Miles helped him as he began pulling the hatch off. Above, shouting could be heard. The thud of running booted feet came through the beams. John looked over at Breuger. “See what is happening.”

  As Breuger climbed up, John shouted to him, “And bring a lamp back! The bloody savages can see in the dark.”

  John and Miles set the heavy hatch covering aside as the foul vapors of the bilge engulfed them. They paused to get their breath and heard Breuger returning from above. He stopped halfway, calling, “There’s a sail off the port bow!”

  John looked into the black hole of the bilge, then turned to Miles. “Wait here.”

  John and Breuger climbed the steps to the waist, John blinking his eyes against the light. “Where?”

  Breuger stared across the green sea. “There.”

  A tiny fleck of white winked in and out of view as the Contempt rose and fell in a moderate sea.

  “I see it,” said John.

  “Do you think she’s a Spaniard this far west?” said Breuger.

  “Could be,” said John. “There’s always a market for their muskets and wines with the bloody Irish.”

  Breuger looked back over at the steps leading down. “Perhaps we should wait,” he said.

  John shook his head. “Let’s be done with it.”

  Breuger nodded and they went back down the stairs. Miles looked up at them. “What is it?”

  “Never mind,” said John. He looked at Breuger. “Go on up and keep me posted.”

  Up on the waist, Breuger stared with the others at the growing white shape on the horizon. The lookout’s voice boomed out. “She’s a Spaniard, a four-master, headed this way!” More men ran to the rails to look out. Breuger saw Fenwick and another man run below, presumably to wake Samuel. He called down to John, “She’s headed for us.”

  John and Miles looked up at Breuger from the blackness of the bilge. “They’ll sail closer for a look,” shouted John, “and then go on.”

  Breuger stood and watched with the others. Samuel was now on deck and the ship loomed larger in the distance, sailing a parallel course to intercept them. It was a huge four-masted galleon of at least a thousand tons. Two rows of ten symmetrically spaced squares along her hull, like buttons on a coat, indicated at least twenty guns per side. With every sail set and a following wind, the ship quickly closed the distance to the Contempt.

  Forgetting John, Breuger watched the big ship hove to. None of the men spoke as the huge ship drew closer. Twice as long as the Contempt, and half again as high, it loomed over them, its guns run out and pointed downward with menace. Dozens of uniformed men armed with muskets looked down from the rigging as ropes were thrown to the Englishmen. Breuger hurried back down the steps and called down to John on the next deck. John’s head appeared above the hatch.

  “They’re going to board us, John. Come up!”

  John’s face twisted in anger. “Boarding us? They have no reason-- They wouldn’t dare to board us this close to home.”

  A loud groan vibrated through the oaken ribs of the Contempt as she leaned over from the weight of the Spaniard. Shouting and the thump of running feet came down the hatch.

  “For the love of God!” exclaimed John, rushing toward the steps. Miles was right behind him.

  The ships were already lashed together when John arrived topside. With the others, he stared up in awe at the huge ship and its many guns. The Spanish captain and his guard peered down over the rails.

  Samuel and Fenwick pushed through the men to stand before them. John, Breuger and Miles came forward also. They watched the Spanish captain and four soldiers climb down the chains. The captain walked up to them and bowed. A slight young man, a head shorter than Samuel, he wore a clean mustache and goatee beard. His smile was condescending as he looked at John and Samuel. John thought he must have ascended to his captaincy through his father’s or a relative’s influence in court. Two of his soldiers looked like typical Spaniards, with olive-dark eyes and well-trimmed beards. They wore breastplates and comb helmets. The other two were swarthy of complexion and appeared to be of Spanish-Indian blood. Although they too had breastplates and helmets, they wore no shoes.

  “Senors,” said the captain in Spanish, “who is in charge here?”

  Samuel bowed.

  The captain shifted his position slightly to face Samuel. “I am Captain Valenzuela of His Majesty Philip II’s ship, the San Miguel.”

  Samuel nodded. “Yo soy Samuel Newman.”

  “Ah, English,” said Valenzuela, using that language. “Very well, we will speak your language.”

  “Thank you,” said Samuel. “I am commander of this vessel, and this is my brother and partner, John.”

  The men of the Contempt crowded closer to hear what was being said.

  “Where are you bound, senor?” said Valenzuela.

  “The port of Bristol,” said Samuel.

  “And where are you coming from?”

  “We’ve come round from Cork, in Munster.”

  Valenzuela frowned. “Then you were never in the Americas, in the lands claimed by His Majesty?”

  “No,” lied Samuel.

  “What is your cargo, sir?”

  “Woolens,” said Samuel.

  High above, one of the Spaniards chose this moment to disdainfully expel his water. A golden stream of piss fell between the narrow space of both ships. Valenzuela looked embarrassed but said nothing and appeared to be waiting for something. A small, trim man climbed down the chains, his back to them. Reaching the deck, he turned. Unchanged from when they had last seen him in Isabela, it was Senor Gredilla.

  Gredilla walked up to stand behind Valenzuela. “That is them,” he said softly in Spanish.

  “Senor Gredilla,” said Samuel, smiling, “I thought you had taken up residence in the Colony of Hispaniola.”

  Gredilla did not smile. He pointed to John. “That is the one who stabbed the criollo in Isabela.”

  “You little Judas!” said John.

  Gredilla’s face reddened and he stepped forward, slapping John across the face.

  Samuel put his hand on his brother’s chest. John’s face reddened, but he did not move.

  Valenzuela turned and spoke rapidly to his soldiers in Spanish. The men walked quickly to the stairs and descended to the great cabin. Valenzuela smiled and turned away from Samuel and John. He walked over to the rail to speak to someone invisible in the darkened square of one of the Spanish gunports. Gredilla cast an angry look at the Newman brothers, then climbed the chains back up into the galleon. The rest of the men said nothing, the hawsers groaning like tortured men as they stretched between the two moving ships.

  The Spanish soldiers returned from below, two of them carrying one of the stiff deer hides. They spoke excitedly to Valenzuela and he turned a
nd strode back to Samuel.

  “Senor, as you must know, trade with the colonies in the Audiencia of Santo Domingo is limited to subjects of the Spanish Crown.”

  “By what right?” demanded Samuel.

  Valenzuela’s tone was polite. “Surely, senor, you know of Pope Alexander’s bull giving title of that part of the new world to Castile.”

  “Indeed!” said Samuel. “What a lot of rubbish that was. One man in Rome drawing a line around the globe?”

  Valenzuela frowned. “Senor, I have no time to discuss it. I am confiscating your cargo.

  Samuel’s face grew red with anger, but he said nothing further.

  Valenzuela bowed. He turned to his men and gave them their orders. The Spanish soldiers began transferring the hides to the San Miguel.

  Samuel, John and the others watched them in sullen silence. After an hour or so the Spanish lookout called down, “A ship approaches off the starboard!”

  The sailors carrying the hides paused expectantly.

  “Carry on,” said Valenzuela loudly, and the men continued the transfer. In another hour they were finished. Most of the soldiers were back aboard the San Miguel, but a gang of six armed soldiers remained with Valenzuela.

  Calling Crow and Red Feather came up from below, followed by two Spanish soldiers, one with a large pistol pointed at them, the other a drawn sword. “Indios,” the man with the pistol called over to Valenzuela.

  Valenzuela’s eyes widened in surprise. He pointed to John, saying in Spanish, “Take the tall Inglis and the two of them aboard.”

  The sword-carrying soldier stepped toward John, but Samuel’s voice stopped him.

  “Pare!” Samuel stepped close to Valenzuela and said softly in English, “I won’t let you take them.”

  The Spanish soldiers grew uneasy, trying to hear what was being said.

  The Spanish lookout called down, “The ship draws near-- two leagues.”

  Valenzuela looked at Samuel as if he were mad. Valenzuela nodded in the direction of the big guns and the sharpshooters up in the rigging. “Senor, you cannot possibly stop us.”