by Glenn Cooper
“Where’re you from?” he asked.
“What?”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her blonde hair. “You’re not English. Where’re you from?”
“Poland.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Working.”
“Where?”
“In office, as cleaner.”
“That where you’re coming from?”
“Yes.”
“I get it. You start your cleaning when they’ve packed up for the day, am I right?”
She nodded.
“Live alone?”
He picked up a fleeting glance at an interior door and fished out the gun again.
“No, is only my little girl. Please.”
“How old is she?”
“Ten.”
“You leave her alone at night?”
“What can I do? I must work.”
“Can’t you leave her with no one?”
“The lady downstairs knows she’s here if there is emergency like fire.”
“Oh. You got any fags?”
“What?”
“Fags. Ciggies, cigarettes.”
She asked if she could open her handbag. He seemed to like that. She was going to be easy to handle. She had half a pack but he was stymied by her plastic lighter and had to ask her how to work it. His inability seemed to lessen her fear a notch.
“Never use lighter?”
He took the deepest drag possible. The nicotine flooded his brain. “Not this kind.”
She asked to sit down on her ratty sofa and he nodded at her. The sofa had bedding piled on one end. It was where she slept. “You going to rape me?”
“I’d like a good shag but no.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know. I need a place to stay.”
“Not a good place. My boyfriend will come soon.”
He looked around. In the absence of a closet or wardrobe her clothes were on a rack against one wall with the shoes underneath. None of the items were a bloke’s. Against her whispered objections, he quietly opened the bedroom door to look at the sleeping child in the windowless room, stared for a while, and then closed it again. Then he pushed against the partially open bathroom door and seeing no razor or male things, said, “I don’t think you’ve got a boyfriend. What’s your name?”
“Benona.”
“Polack name?”
“Polish, yes.”
“What’s your daughter called?”
“Polly.”
“English name, that. Father English?”
She nodded.
“He pissed off on you?”
Another nod.
“You’ve got pretty hair.”
The comment seemed to put her on high alert again and she abruptly changed the subject. “You been sleeping rough?”
“No, why?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You have bad smell.”
“That’s what folks tell me.”
“You can take bath in my tub.”
“So you can take your girl and run out? I don’t think so.”
“If you stay, then use cologne left by husband, so I don’t gag, okay?”
She got up, went into the bathroom and came back with a bottle. He smiled at that, splashed himself liberally and asked, “That better?”
“Much.”
“Then make us a cuppa.”
She put the kettle on and while it was heating she suddenly said, “I saw your picture on TV. I know who you are.”
“Believe me,” Woodbourne said. “You have no bloody idea who I am.”
13
John stood just feet from the edge of the cliff surveying an ocean on low boil. The wind was whippy and a cool rain pelted down. Far below him the waves were relentlessly pounding the chalky cliffs. Henry’s fleet was well offshore riding out the storm and from a distance, the large three- and four-masted galleons looked like toys against the dull horizon.
The Duke of Norfolk was strutting about, yelling orders to the wagon-bearers and the carpenters tasked with building the winch towers to move the cannon onto their field carriages. He wanted the two new singing cannon spaced twenty yards apart, pointing southwest in the general direction of the Isle of Wight and the approaching Iberian fleet. Moving these twelve-foot beasts was the least of their problems. Getting the third one, still on its barge at the mouth of the Thames, to Henry’s flagship, Hellfire—that was going to be epic, especially in this weather.
John had last been to Earth’s white cliffs of Dover on a hot, summer afternoon with a thermos of ice-cold vodka and a girl he’d met in a pub near the American embassy. He quickly extinguished all thoughts of that day and began helping William the forger make sure the ammunition was unloaded with care. When that was done he got tired of listening to Norfolk’s blusterings so he took a walk in the grassy meadow. After a while he became aware he was being followed. Finally he turned and pointed at the man and demanded to know what he wanted. The man, a soldier by the looks of his ragtag uniform, raised his arms to show he wasn’t armed. When he was within earshot he politely but firmly asked in an Italian accent for John to follow him.
“Why?” John asked.
“The ambassador,” was all he said.
John accompanied the lone soldier across the boggy field where a long train of English covered wagons stretched into the gloom. Under leaky canvases, Henry’s fighting men were doing their best to stay dry.
The Italian pointed to one particular wagon and peeled off leaving John to approach it on his own. Its rear flaps were closed. He rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame and out popped the head of Ambassador Guacci.
“Ah, John. I hear you made it successfully downriver with your new cannon.”
“You don’t seem to miss much.”
“If I did, I would not be effective in my work. Come inside. I want you to meet your new comrades.”
John climbed in and closed the flap. In the warm, confined space, the concentrated smell of the men, while nothing like the atmosphere of a rotting room, wasn’t pleasant either. There were three others, seated squat-legged on the planked floor of the wagon, chewing on bread and strips of dried meat. Most of the men John had encountered in Hell were lean and hungry types but the man who was quickest to extend a hand seemed remarkably well fed.
“Hallo, there. I’m Simon Wright. True about you, isn’t it?” He had a full face with good color in his cheeks and ample, curly hair.
John took his hand and pumped it. “Hello, Simon. I’m John Camp. Yeah, I’m alive all right.”
Guacci said, “As you can tell, Simon is an Englishman, circa 1900, am I correct?”
“1901 is when I shuffled off the mortal coil. Thirty-six, I was.”
“We are happy Simon joined our cause particularly because he has important skills.”
“I still don’t know what your cause is,” John said.
Guacci smiled. “Patience. Please.”
“I was a boiler maker,” Simon said proudly. “I’ve heard tell my time was later called the industrial revolution. We didn’t know it was a revolution at the time. We thought we was just building things, didn’t we?”
Guacci touched a thin, nervous man on the shoulder. He was the youngest, no more than twenty-five, with sharp, handsome features, a smooth, beardless face, and piercing, steely eyes. His clothing style was the most archaic of the lot—leather leggings, high boots, and a blousy shirt. “This is Antonio Di Costanzo,” Guacci said. “He has been in Hell longer than any of us, some eight hundred years.”
Antonio nodded and quickly looked away. John couldn’t tell if it was shyness or something else.
“Antonio is one of our best fighters and beyond his ability as a swordsman, he is also a clever fellow,” Guacci said.
“Too clever by half,” Simon added.
Guacci picked off a piece of bread and threw it playfully at the last man, who was powerfully built with a Renaissance manner of dress, and a dark, cropped beard,
similar to Guacci’s. The man picked up the bread and crunched it with his teeth.
“Luca Penna, at your service,” he said with a very heavy Italian accent.
“Luca,” Guacci said, “is my cousin. We died on the same day, fighting side-by-side, and we continue to do so in this God-forsaken place.”
Luca grinned. “Only he is a fancy ambassador who eats fine food at king’s tables and larks around with big-bosomed women while I have to eat stale bread and hang about with these dogs.”
John said, “Look, I’m pleased to meet you fellows but now would be a good time to tell me what it is you're trying to accomplish.”
“Not yet,” Guacci said. “We need to know we can trust you. We have worked too hard and too long to see our cause destroyed by wagging tongues. But it is clear to me that you are indeed a man who might help in this, shall I call it this mysterious cause of ours? Your fast work on these impressive new cannon is a demonstration. So, I have decided that these men will help you get to Francia.”
“Not you?”
“I must return to court where I can best serve our secret master. Luca, Antonio, and Simon will be your companions in your quest to find your lady. I have made the necessary bribes to secure a place for these men on the king’s ship, Hellfire, where you will be installing one of the three singing cannon. When the time is right, you will surely meet our master and then you will know our cause.”
“And do you have a plan that goes beyond that?”
Antonio finally spoke, flashing angry eyes. “Of course we do, signore. Do you think we are stupid?”
John smiled. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know you well enough to say whether you’re stupid or brilliant. Go ahead and tell me your plan so I can figure it out.”
By the time the two field pieces were mounted and pointed, the wind had quieted and the sea becalmed. The king’s fleet began sailing toward Dover on favorable winds and the barge bearing the third cannon began its journey from the estuary to its rendezvous point with the fleet. The wagon train was the first to arrive at the Dover port and several hundred hollow-eyed soldiers and seamen stood on the beach leaning on their pikes, halberts, and archebusers. Beside them were the grounded longboats that would row them to the galleons. Once onboard they would augment the fleet’s fighting force. Most knew full well they would be cannon fodder who might spend eternity at the bottom of the ocean, sucking seawater until the sea life left only their bones.
William pointed out the Hellfire and passed John a spyglass. She was the largest of the four-masters with a high square stern and a carved dragon head on the prow. Its flag had the same motif John had seen at Hampton Court, a fire-breathing dragon bursting through a Tudor rose.
“Are you a seagoing man?” William asked John.
“I was in the army but it was a unit that got wet a fair bit.”
“I hate the water,” William said. “Can’t swim a lick. I’ll do my duty getting the piece rigged, then I’ll be off her fast as I can and get myself back to the cliffs.”
“Well, I guess I’m going to get a crash course on pre- twentieth century naval gunnery,” John said. “Someone’s got to teach them how to fire this cannon.”
“Better you than me is all I’ll say.”
The fleet dropped anchor and when the cannon barge came into view the longboats were pushed and heaved into the sea. The Duke of Norfolk strode over and hardly able to contain his animus, ordered William and John to accompany him on his longboat. The king would be arriving to witness the battle from the cliffs and Norfolk would command the fleet against the Iberian fleet, just as the earthly Sir Francis Drake had done on behalf of Henry’s daughter, Elizabeth. John waded into the cold water and onto the longboat. He helped pull in William while his new compatriots, Luca, Antonio, and Simon tossed their weapons over the gunwales and climbed in from the port side. Cromwell had returned John’s sword and pistol and he did his best to keep the powder dry. Norfolk was the last to board. He took his place imperiously at the prow and shouted at the oarsmen to push off.
As the longboat neared the Hellfire John marveled at the oaken vessel. A hundred-fifty feet in length, tall at the stern, it was grand and magnificent. Ladder-nets were lowered from her decks. As the longboat bobbed alongside, the small arms were roped on board then the men took to the ladders. Norfolk was first up. Craning his neck, John saw him greeted by a man he presumed was the captain. John boarded to find the deck crowded with men who seemed to know he was coming because they prodded each other and stared with mouths agape. The master gunner, a wizened fellow with baked skin, recognized William and ignoring John’s notoriety, began showing them the rigging to hoist the new cannon onboard.
The barge finally arrived and the big cannon was secured by ropes and slowly winched up. Swinging gently a few feet above the deck it was lowered through a midship hatch onto the main gunnery deck. John and William climbed down ladders into the dark, cavernous space where twin rows of seventy heavy pieces sat idle and ready, muzzles pressed against latched firing hatches.
The master gunner led them to an empty cradle and said, “Here’s where I thunk the new piece would go. Starboard side, mid-ships.”
“That should suit it well,” William said.
“You staying with her?” the gunner asked.
“Heavens, no. I’m a landlubber. John Camp will stay and teach your lads how to make it sing.”
The gunner scowled at John. “Ever been on a galleon?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
The man showed his opinion by spitting on the deck. “Don’t much like the idea of an ignorant outsider on my gun deck.” He made a point of loudly sniffing at John like a dog.
“You missed my butt,” John said.
The gunner didn’t take it as a joke, at least not one eliciting a laugh. “Outsider’s too small a word to describe the likes a him,” he said.
“This gun’s like no other,” William said. “This man designed it and helped me build it. You’ll need him.”
“Well, here’s your gunnery crew,” the gunner said, pointing at six gaunt men lurking in the shadows. “Teach ’em what they need to know and then stay out of their way.”
“I can do that,” John said.
The cradle was wheeled beneath the dangling cannon and when the piece was lowered into place it was fixed with pins and straps and pulled and pushed to its firing position. When that was done, nets full of the specialized shells were lowered below decks and the ammunition stacked in a wooden rack.
The first mate bellowed at them down the hatch and William happily announced it was time for him to depart.
“You stay out of the way of the recoil, John who is not from here. I should like to see you again.”
“Same goes for you. And don’t stand too close to the cannon. It’s only a matter of time till one of them blows.”
“I know, I know,” William said, grinning. “It’s ore from the Norselands we need.”
John spent the next hour teaching and learning. The master gunner demonstrated how the cannon crew coordinated their activities to fire and reload and John taught the crew of scrawny young men with rotting teeth how to handle and load the lugged shells into the grooved barrel.
“And you say this will send the load three thousand yards?” the gunner asked.
“It will,” John said.
“That I’d like to see.”
When there was no more to do below decks, John went topside. They were underway now, foresail to the wind, tacking west and downwind at an anemic two knots. He looked up at the high, chalky cliffs and saw a man waving both arms near one of the singing cannon. He reckoned it was William and he waved back.
The deck of the Hellfire was a beehive of activity. Sailors were hopping to shouted orders and dozens of musketeers, archebusers and gunners were readying their muzzleloaders, sakers, and swivel-guns. Luca was setting up his musket rest on the port side and John joined him.
“If these cannon do their job you’re ne
ver going to be in range to use that musket,” John said.
Luca laughed. “Then I will save my shot for nobler purposes.”
“Where are Antonio and Simon?”
“On the other side, near the front.”
“You mean starboard bow.”
“Whatever you say. I do not know these ships and I do not like these ships. I already heaved up my last meal. I like horses and land.”
“I hear you,” John said. “All I can say is keep your head down. If we survive this, we all know what we have to do.”
He made his way to the stern, and as suspicious sailors and marines moved aside to give him a clear path, he felt like Moses parting the Red Sea. Norfolk was on the tall quarterdeck with a small group of smartly uniformed men. John climbed one of the stairways and, aware of naval protocol, asked for permission to come up.
Norfolk glowered but the tall, rather elegant man beside him said, “By all means, sir. You are welcome. I am Captain Hawes. My good duke is admiral of the fleet but Hellfire is my vessel.”
John came up and shook the man’s hand. Hawes was resplendent in a sixteenth-century style naval uniform that on closer inspection was threadbare in places with multiple patches. John looked at the largest patch, breast-high, and wondered if he’d been wearing it when he died.
“What a marvel it is,” the captain said. “To be alive, I mean. I can scarcely remember what it felt like.”
“It has its moments,” John said. Norfolk had moved several paces away, petulantly folding his arms against his chest. “Can I ask you what your plan is, captain?”
“You may indeed. We know full well from the telegraph messages we have received that the Iberians are proceeding swiftly from the east, upwind from their last known location off the Isle of Wight. We should have a sighting within an hour or two, I should think.”
“What size is their fleet?”
“As large as ours, perhaps larger. Some eighty ships with as many as thirty galleons, and the rest galleasses, carracks, and light ships. There might be some eight thousand sailors and marines onboard. Though not trifling, it is a far sight smaller than the Duke of Parma’s armada which attacked my good Queen Elizabeth.”