Gloriana's Torch
Page 55
The sweeps swung again and again, first one side, then the other, and the galleas wiggled from side to side like an eel until the other ship caught in her rudder was freed and dropped behind. They needed to hide. Simon and Snake climbed over the railing and onto the metal beakhead itself, just under the bowsprit, where they clung on, hidden by the curve of the ship’s prow. Simon used a rope-end to tie Snake more securely because he was panting and sweating and looked ready to pass out. Together they squinted into the darkness. Another ship of fire floated past and it was true, they were very large. For a moment Simon started to believe his own lie, but then he remembered that there was simply not enough gunpowder in England to pack so many big ships with the stuff. The Queen had indeed been charmed with the idea and had hired Signor Giambelli for the purpose, until Signor Giambelli gave her the estimates of the amount of gunpowder needed and the Queen had exploded like a hellburner herself at the very notion of spending so much on a gamble.
Simon enjoyed himself immensely that night, although the early chaos subsided as the eight English fireships floated past and grounded on Calais beach to burn harmlessly down to the waterline. The Armada was well and truly scattered, while San Lorenzo could not steer properly without her rudder. She could do something with the oars but not much.
By the time dawn came in a magnificent tapestry of bloody clouds, San Lorenzo was firmly underway again. Dimly, Simon could make out Don Hugo on the poopdeck, roaring orders through a speaking trumpet. He was doing his best to get the galleas turned, to head for the shore … why? They weren’t so badly damaged?
With the larboard oars backing water and the starboard oars rowing double-time, the galleas turned ponderously round. Simon and Snake were the first to see that there was another ship there, low in the water, one of the pinnaces … They could have shouted warning, but instead clung on tighter as the galleas prow ground sideways into and over the other ship, with more screaming, more crunching of broken wood …
Don Hugo looked over the side at the damage, continued to shout orders. What the devil was he playing at, rowing like a maniac for the shore?
Revelation came to Simon. Don Hugo de Moncada as Admiral of the Galleases and Santa Cruz’s particular favourite, was the only other man in the Armada who knew that Calais was the lynchpin of the whole enterprise. His ship was damaged, he could be expected to make for a beach so he could ground her … But in fact he was making for Calais harbour, with his ordnance. If one ship could take the town unsuspecting, Don Hugo would make the attempt.
You had to admire the obstinacy of the man. Whether it was true or not that Medina Sidonia had burned His Majesty’s orders that had instructed him to do something against his honour as a Spanish nobleman or whether his mind was simply clouded by seasickness and exhaustion, Don Hugo would try to save the Armada single-handed.
There was nothing Simon could do. He had to cling to the beakhead and watch as the opening to Calais harbour came closer and closer … There was a chain across it, but the beakhead was sharp and serrated and if that failed, then men with axes could usually break through. Once in the harbour, Don Hugo could use his two hundred and thirty-odd soldiers to take the harbour, perhaps even get into the Citadel. Maybe there was some kind of land-bound attack as well, to back up the galleases and cause a diversion. And Medina Sidonia would be forced to support Don Hugo if he gained possession of Calais, or see all his captains mutiny.
It was a brilliant act in the face of defeat, worthy of El Draco himself. The oars went swish-unk, swish-unk, and among the sounds of the oars came the concerted gasp and thud of the men. Then someone started up Snake’s song, with an independent life now, singing of the Miracle of Calais, which they were, unwittingly, about to effect.
They were over the shoal waters, near the bar, negotiating one of the channels that led into the port, the oars dipping precisely …
The idea came to Simon like a musket shot through the head. Before he could think too much about it, he swung himself down onto the gunner’s gallery above the oar decks. There were the heavy fifty-pounder shot waiting to be swung down in their nets for reloading the cannon on the oardeck. Simon ran all the way along the gallery to the stern, swung the shot-net out and while it moved to and fro, he sawed frantically at the ropes with his poniard until the shot dropped out, crunched onto the gallery, rolled off and onto the oars, making them bounce, cracking one. He was already at the next shot-net, sawing through it; the shot dropped, he went to the next.
The fifty-pound lumps of metal were heavy enough to make the oars bounce as they rolled off the gallery and through to the sea, and that was enough to disrupt the careful rhythm of the rowers. The oars on that side suddenly pointed in all directions, two collided with each other and broke. With no oars countering the unbroken rhythm on the other side, and no rudder to provide a correction, the galleas suddenly swerved to the disrupted side, swerved again with the next stroke. Simon panted as he released another shot from its net, nearly lost his toes as it crashed down, taking the edge off the gallery and bounced among the oars. There was screaming and shouting from the oardeck. Someone looked out – Simon knew that face and he jeered and waved at the Padron. Perhaps it wasn’t wise, two soldiers had hopped over onto the gallery and were coming after him. A musket shot from the rigging cracked past him.
Simon swung another net out, positioned it just above the gallery, sawed through the net and the shot dropped straight through between him and his pursuers. The two young soldiers stared at him across the gap, easy to jump across – if you weren’t afraid of falling in the water, through the meat-pounding oars.
Another stroke from the other side, the rowers settled into their rhythm, they were hard to stop …
And the grinding heaving crash, the juddering of the ship, the slow heeling over made Simon clutch for the nearest handhold, the ratline chains. Another soldier was coming after him. The ship was going over and over … screaming and crying from the oardeck, crashing as some of the cannon got loose again, the whole galleas tilting at a crazy angle with the oars gradually pointing at the sky, the gunner’s gallery going lower and lower to the water.
Simon kicked with his legs, clung like a monkey, got a toe into a bit of carving, hoisted himself up and over the rail. Somebody struck at him, he fought back yelling, ‘You fool, I’m Spanish,’ and the soldier let him pass. All the sailors were climbing the rigging, trying to get off the deck. There was a crash of a gun, then a rattle of musket-fire.
In the chaos on the sharply angled deck, still juddering as the hull ground on the shoal, Simon ran forwards, saw English ships gathering a hundred yards away unable to come closer because of the shoals. One was the Ark Royal, the English Admiral’s ship and it was lowering a longboat full of shouting Englishmen. Other ships lowered their boats.
Simon ducked his head, vaulted the rail to where Snake was still clinging to the beakhead, gasping helplessly as he dangled over the water, until Simon untied the rope and got him upright again. Peeping over the rail, Simon saw that Don Hugo was still on the poopdeck at the stern, surrounded by soldiers and seamen with muskets and swords. They waited until the boats came close enough and the sailors on it started throwing grappling hooks and trying to board. Then the Spanish soldiers, many of them from the tercios, the finest troops in Europe, began to fire their guns, calm and collected on Don Hugo’s orders.
One man and then another exploded in blood in the boats. The longboats backed off a little way, and the English returned fire, the caliver and arquebus bullets snapping and whining through the air, lodging in carvings, causing explosions of deadly splinters where they hit.
As the water came in, the wailing from the oardeck grew stronger and more hysterical. Simon fought not to see the picture, the men wrenching their ankles bloody to try to get away from the water.
On impulse he leaned in through the gunport and shouted in Spanish, ‘We’ve run aground, the ship won’t sink, we’re stuck on a sandbank.’ He repeated it in Portuguese.
Snake was shaking his arm, the fingers burning. Simon looked around. It was a stand-off between the English in the boats and the Spanish gathered on the highest part of the galleas. More boats were coming in, but they could not get nearer as long as the Spanish went on firing their muskets, careful to kill with each shot if they could, Don Hugo at the centre of them, still shouting orders.
Snake was pointing at the boats surrounding them. ‘English?’
‘Yes, my … my friends.’
Snake pointed in the direction of Don Hugo. ‘Kill the king, stop the fight.’
Once again, Simon had the sensation of a hand sweeping down from the sky and lifting him. He took the dag out from his breeches waistband, checked it was still shotted and wound – it was and he’d been lucky not to blow his own balls off, only it was one of the newfangled kind with a safety catch. He put it back, grabbed Snake’s arm. ‘Stay here. I’ll kill the captain.’
Snake laughed. ‘I too,’ he said and when Simon hesitated because he was still sick, Snake just laughed louder. ‘Stop me?’ he asked and shook his head.
They climbed from the beakhead, cautiously over the reddening waters, onto the other gunner’s gallery, now at a forty-five degree angle so they had to walk partly on the hull of the ship as the cannon pointed fruitlessly at the sky. Simon still had manacles on his wrists, Snake had both wrist and leg chains still, but the noise from the musketry and shouting on the poop was so loud he thought no one would hear them picking their way along. He focused on climbing up with the sweep of the gallery, towards the built-up poop, clinging to the ship, dizzy now with the lack of motion as the galleas stayed grounded on the sandbank. They were in range of the guns in the Citadel, why didn’t they fire at the galleas? What was going on in the town of Calais?
Snake hissed air through his teeth behind him. Simon glanced over his shoulder, and saw Padron heaving himself through one of the oarports where the oar had broken … How had Padron got free?
Suddenly Simon remembered spending so many nights whittling away at the wood round the bolt that kept him where he was, how he had disguised the work, how close he had been when Padron decided to bring him down with drought … Padron had been put in his place on the bench and in the terror of the grounding and partial sinking must have pulled the bolt right out.
Padron climbed onto the gunner’s gallery, intent and ferocious, spattered with someone else’s blood. Simon took out the dag to shoot the bastard, his mouth watering at the thought of putting a bullet through Padron’s muscular chest, getting revenge …
Snake held him. ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘Kill him,’ he said, pointing to where Don Hugo was still directing the fire. Nobody was looking at them yet, apart from the Padron climbing up towards them. But somebody would see them soon. And then that somebody would shoot them with a musket. ‘I get Padron,’ Snake added as he reached over, drew the poniard that Simon had taken from the young soldier and turned.
For a split second Simon wanted to argue, Padron was the man he wanted to kill, not Don Hugo, who had only used perfectly normal interrogation techniques on him, had not even tortured him …
Snake looked over his shoulder, saw Simon hesitating. He lifted his arm, pointing at Don Hugo, shouted imperiously. It was in his own language, but Simon understood the meaning. As Padron reached for Snake with a wolfish snarl on his face, Simon climbed closer to the poop, knowing how inaccurate a dag was, wanting to be as close to Don Hugo as he could get. He crept the last few feet, peered over the rail, there was Don Hugo and only a few feet away. Everyone was looking the other way, at an English longboat edging closer. A boy in a glittering, gold-brocade encrusted, tawny doublet, stained with seawater and vomit, suddenly popped his head up, swung his leg over the rail ready to run away. He was so intent on escaping, he never noticed Simon until Simon hit him and knocked him back, sprawling on the deck.
Simon took aim, heard Becket’s rumble in his ear as if the man was standing there, ‘Take your time, aim for the body, hold your breath and squeeze.’
Nothing. What was wrong, it wasn’t a misfire? The boy in the tawny doublet staggered to his feet, tried climbing over again. Simon reversed the dag and cracked the pretty face across with the heavy ball on the butt-end intended for just that purpose. Why didn’t it fire? Ah, the safety catch was on. Simon unhooked it, took aim again. Just in that moment, Don Hugo turned and looked at him, stared at the dag transfixed. The man’s lips moved, he was saying, ‘Holy Jesus.’ Simon held his breath, squeezed, the dag shouted, his hand was hit by something like a rock so he nearly dropped the weapon. He turned.
He was just in time to see Padron and Snake wrestling behind him. Padron was on top, beating Snake’s head against the wood.
Simon stepped up, whispered, ‘Padron.’
Padron looked round and Simon hit him across the face with the ball-stock of the dag, hit him again, holding the dag like a club by the barrel, not caring that it was hot, struck again and now Padron’s face was a mask of blood, his nose gone to pulp, his jaw hanging … Padron let go of Snake, launched himself on Simon, Simon was overborne, Padron’s hands around his scrawny neck, he beat feebly with the dag, his eyes were going black, he couldn’t breathe …
Another crunch, the fingers relaxed, he gulped breath, sat up punching wildly, his fist connected. Snake had his hands around Padron’s neck, Padron choked, eyes bulging, then he threw himself backwards, taking Snake off balance. Simon watched, transfixed, as they teetered, fell, rolling over the wood of the hull, past the crazy forest of abandoned oars, still fighting until there was a double splash. Simon ran down the hull, squeezing between the oars, careful now of the other slaves who were starting to climb out of the oarports, most of them bloody, trailing their broken bolts and chains behind them. The water boiled, too shallow for a galleas but still deep enough to drown a man, Padron and Snake fighting in a maelstrom of blood and muscle, he couldn’t see which to grab until at last he caught a black wrist still wrapped with the tail of a carved snake, and hauled.
It was a deadweight. Snake’s head hung sideways. Padron had broken his neck for him.
Padron’s body was bobbing in the shallow waters, perhaps only eight foot deep, but he was weighted down by his ankle-chains and the bolt he had pulled out of the deck. Blood flowered round him like purple lawn curtains in the sea. He glared up at them as he fought for the surface, trying to climb the water and the bubbles coming from his nose as his body fought to breathe. Simon stared at him coldly, at those calloused hands clutching for the silvery surface like sea anemones. Of course he could have reached down and pulled Padron up, and he could see the desperate appeal in Padron’s eyes. I don’t think so, Simon thought, although he knew the pain of drowning. Simon pulled Snake’s body up as far as he could and squatted there until the last mighty bubble and heave. Padron fought death for a long time, it seemed, but then at last his eyes were sightless.
Simon tried to pull Snake’s body with him, further up the side of the ship, but he was shaking and his hand hurt. He laid Snake down, put his head in his hands. The bubble in his own chest expanded until it burst. Snake would never be a King now, would never lead his people well-equipped with guns and gunpowder that Simon would advise on manufacturing, against the slave-traders, the Arabs and the Portuguese. He would never be the richest king in his lands, he would never rule an empire, never take fifty fat wives and plant fine sons and daughters in all of them. Simon wished he could weep to ease the pain in his chest, but found his eyes dry although he was shaking all over, not caring about the mayhem around him, the boats rowing closer, the occasional musket shot.
After a while, Simon lifted his head, crept up the side of the ship again. On the poopdeck the soldiers were gathered around Hugo de Moncada. When Simon could look, he saw that the Admiral of the Galleases had a perfect hole in the middle of his forehe
ad. A white handkerchief had already been attached to a pike and was waving frantically at the surrounding English longboats.
Next moment the English had thrown grappling hooks and climbed aboard in a determined swarm. Thuggish thickset sailors and gentlemen in breastplates glanced at Simon as they climbed past, dismissed him as ragged and therefore unprofitable and headed for the officers and men still on the poop. Moments later the Spanish were being stripped of their shirts. Shouts and yells of delight echoed as the English found the Great Cabin and the officers’ belongings. A Spanish officer who dared to protest was clubbed to the ground.
A flurry saw another longboat being lowered from the English flagship. More sailors shoved past Simon. At last he caught one and said, in English, ‘I must see an English officer immediately.’
The sailor blinked at him stupidly. ‘You a Spaniard?’
‘No, sir,’ said Simon patiently. ‘I’m as English as you are, I was taken as a galley-slave and I—’
The sailor embraced him, said, ‘Welcome home, mate,’ and rushed on to join in the looting.
Simon caught hold of another one, a skinny lad. ‘Bring me to my lord Howard of Effingham or to Sir Francis Drake, goodman, I must see him immediately.’
‘Hang on, I’ve got to get something out of this.’ And the sailor was off into the galleas cabins with his friends, crazed by the legendary English lust for gold.
And so Simon sat peacefully on the side of the galleas while the English behaved like a column of ants that had found a sugar loaf. A little later, when the frenzy of theft was at its height, a boat that had been rowing laboriously out from the port of Calais came near. The rowers backed water and a gentleman stood up in it and shouted in French, ‘We claim salvage of this ship for the King of France.’
The English sailors shouted and jeered, some of them pulled their breeches down and bared their arses. The gentleman patiently repeated himself in Spanish, Italian and Latin. At last an aristocratic looking man leaned over and said, in accented French, ‘No, sir, our prize, I think.’