by Barbara Kyle
“Ha! Look at those poor bastards,” Heywood said with satisfaction, dabbing his bleeding nose with his sleeve.
“Poor, my ass,” Morrison growled. “Poxy collaborators in bed with the dagos.” Morrison had been Adam’s boatswain on the Elizabeth with Hawkins’s expedition to the New World, and Adam shared his bitterness. They both bore scars of the Spaniards’ vicious attack on them in the Mexican harbor of San Juan de Ulúa.
“Who’s this, my lord?” Curry asked, eyeing Verhulst. They all looked at the big stranger who was still breathing hard from his exertion.
“A refugee,” Adam said, though far from sure. His chest still hurt from the bargeman tackling him. His thoughts lurched to Fenella. Did Verhulst know where she’d gone?
“Lord . . . ?” Verhulst asked, bewildered by Curry’s address.
“Your story first,” Adam said. “Why’ve you washed up on this beach?”
“I’ve been looking to join the Sea Beggars.”
“Huzzah,” Curry said sardonically. “You found ’em.”
“Truly?” Verhulst looked as though he couldn’t believe his luck. “I’ve been asking up and down the coast. An alehouse brewer said Admiral La Marck’s ship was sighted off this town, so here I tramped. Didn’t make it until after dark, though, and found you lot looting.” He looked at Adam. “Saw you. The bastards deserved it, so I slipped into an alley to watch.” He added with a nod at Morrison, “He’s right; that town’s a rat’s nest of collaborators. The whole country’s rotten with ’em.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” Adam said, skeptical. “You draw Spanish pay. You warp boats on the Brussels canal, don’t you?”
“Not anymore,” Verhulst said defiantly. “I’ve had my eyes opened.” Even in the murky light Adam saw the fervent look on the man’s face. The zeal of the convert.
“Ahoy!” came a shout as the Gotland loomed. A lantern hanging from the yardarm blazed a nimbus in the mist.
“Ahoy!” Curry called back. The oarsmen sculled, bringing the boat alongside the ship, and the men readied their sacks of plunder, talking and chuckling. Crew on the Gotland threw the rope ladder over the side and the men in the boat stood, ready to board. Adam stayed seated. They knew he always boarded last.
As they began climbing up in turns Verhulst said to Adam, “Fenella, she’s the one who made me see. Told me to stop brooding and do something with my life.” His eyes shone, and there was a new tone in his voice, one of tenderness and pride. “Fenella cares about old Berck after all.”
Hearing her name shot a spark through Adam. “Where is she, do you know? Is she all right?”
“Haven’t seen her since you left my barge. But don’t worry, Fenella always lands on her feet.” Verhulst looked up eagerly at the ship, slinging his sack over his shoulder, readying to climb the ladder after Curry, who was next. “That’s a fine caravel, Adams. And you’re her captain?”
“The name’s Thornleigh.”
“Not Master Adams?”
“Not Master anything,” Curry sternly told him, his foot on the ladder. “He’s Lord Thornleigh.”
Verhulst looked amazed. “Not . . . the English baron? I’ve heard the stories about you! I surely hope you won’t hold it against me, knocking you down . . . your lordship.”
Adam almost smiled. “No harm done.”
“Would you consider taking me on as crew, my lord? You’ll be doing a shipwrecked man a favor.”
Adam didn’t need to consider. An experienced hand was always welcome. “Curry, find him a berth.”
“Aye, my lord.”
The bargeman grinned. “Much obliged . . . your lordship.” He gamely followed Curry up the ladder, the rope creaking under his bulk.
Adam stood, the last man in the boat. Time for the Gotland to weigh anchor and rendezvous with La Marck. But he did not move to climb the ladder. He had no will to. Regret surged through him, a tidal wave of frustration and grief at all he had lost. Fenella, gone from his life as suddenly as he’d fallen in love with her. His children, left in the controlling hands of Frances. His ship, destroyed, dead. Up on deck his crew welcomed Verhulst with friendly curses and the bargeman guffawed at their rough banter. Adam envied him. Do something with your life, Fenella had told her friend, and he was. Brimming with zeal at joining the Sea Beggars, Verhulst was bent on action.
Action. Adam craved it. Against the Spanish. They had butchered his men in San Juan de Ulúa and now they ground their boot on the neck of the innocent Dutch. And they were a menace to England, holding over Elizabeth the constant threat of invasion. What England needed was a mighty navy, powerful enough not just to form a protective wall but also to attack and smash rapacious Spain.
A vision gripped him. A vision of action. Elizabeth could give him ships. Merchant ships. She felt that she could not openly antagonize Spain, that she did not dare, but Adam could, privately. With her clandestine help he could overhaul a fleet of merchantmen as men-of-war armed to the teeth and lead them forth, unleashing them as England’s covert weapon. He could hit Spain so hard up and down the Channel it would cripple their trade and their military supply lines. He could be the terror of the Narrow Sea.
The boat wallowed under his feet, challenging his balance. The fog suddenly felt clammy on his neck. His fantasy sank. He could take none of the actions he wanted. Elizabeth would never invest in such a radical plan; it would unleash diplomatic chaos, maybe outright war. And even if he could afford the massive investment personally, which he could not, she would forbid him using a private fleet aggressively. His dream was impossible, an illusion. This caravel he was roaming in could do little damage, even with the few cannon that La Marck promised him. Adam didn’t even own her. She belonged to Fenella.
And the Sea Beggars? He despaired of La Marck ever unleashing their untapped power. The Dutchman was happy to raid collaborating Dutch villages and then run to safe English ports, thanks to Elizabeth’s goodwill, and live there off his plunder. He’d been doing it for three years, he and his men making Dover and the creeks and bays along the south coast their home. Why would he change?
Everything that had happened in the last few weeks suddenly felt as disorienting, as sick making, as an anchor dragging him to the depths by the neck in a nightmare. His hope of happiness with Fenella, dashed. His plan to rescue his children, stillborn. The knowledge that Frances, his own wife, was intent on seeing him dead.
The only action open to him was retreat. He told himself grimly that he had to accept it, though everything in him chafed. He must return to England, make his report to Elizabeth, and sink into the tame life of a courtier. Attend her council meetings about patronage appointments and trade treaties and the ongoing machinery of government. Advise her. Keep a watchful eye for her on the jockeying factions at court. Manage his own estates. Be content. He would try to persuade her to pull diplomatic strings to get Robert and Kate sent home and with luck he might succeed. That was the best he could hope for, he told himself.
He climbed the ladder, his feet as heavy as his heart.
“Two ships starboard ahead! Hull down!” the lookout called from the Eenhorn’s crow’s nest.
The morning sun had burned off the last of the fog, and Adam, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, crossed the Eenhoorn’s quarterdeck. He had come aboard La Marck’s ship to confer about transferring the guns once they reached Dover. For what it’s worth, he thought gloomily. The Gotland, under Curry, kept pace with them, almost abeam.
Adam went to the starboard rail to look at the two sails the lookout had announced. At this distance they were mere moth wings on the horizon. La Marck followed him. The fresh breeze snapped the sails above them with a sound like a muster master’s clap, but on deck La Marck’s men slouched and shuffled, groggy from late-night carousing in celebration over their spoils. A few less fortunate lay below, suffering wounds. Unlike Adam, La Marck had not forbidden his men violent action in the town they had raided. He’d handed out axes.
The Eenhoorn carved stead
ily through the low waves that rode out from the English coast not yet visible. Adam could smell the land. He thought of all the times he’d felt cheered at sighting the chalk cliffs of Dover. Home. Not this morning. England seemed almost like a prison waiting to hold him.
Five, he thought, as three more sails popped up on the horizon close behind the first two. The lookout shouted, “Five sails now, starboard ahead!”
Adam and La Marck watched in silence until the two lead ships were hull up. La Marck said, “That’s the Vrijheid and the Bruynvisch .” Sea Beggar vessels.
As for the three other ships, even before they were hull up Adam saw that they flew England’s colors, the cross of St. George. “That’s the Tiger nipping at their heels,” he said. “Captain Wynter’s flagship.” He and La Marck looked at each other. Adam spoke the question that was clearly on both their minds. “What’s afoot?”
“I don’t know,” La Marck said, “but I don’t like the look of it. Your man’s chasing the Bruynvisch like a thief in the night.”
“Looks like we’re going to find out. Wynter’s spotted us.” The Tiger was veering away, leaving the two other English ships in pursuit of the two Sea Beggar vessels. Heading straight for the Eenhoorn and the Gotland, the Tiger signaled a request to parley.
“Look alive!” La Marck kicked a slouching seaman’s foot and cursed at the others. He yelled orders to heave to. The crew loped to their posts. Adam saw with satisfaction that Curry was also trimming the Gotland’s sails to heave to. The Tiger reached them and sent a boat, the oarsmen ferrying an officer to parley.
Adam stood beside La Marck as the man came aboard. A spry fellow no more than twenty, he made a sour face at the dirty condition of La Marck’s ship and made no effort to hide his distaste as he introduced himself to La Marck as Captain Wynter’s lieutenant. He handed La Marck a paper folded and sealed. “Compliments of Captain Wynter.”
The Dutchman read it and Adam saw a storm cloud darken his face. La Marck looked up, clearly disturbed. “It can’t be true.” He handed the paper to Adam. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Adam read it and was stunned. An expulsion order, handed down from the commissioners of the Cinque Ports: Hastings, New Romney, Hythe, Dover, and Sandwich. It expelled all Dutch privateers. The reason the officials had given was for “plundering ships belonging to friends of England and impeached the trade of merchandise to the slander of the realm.” Adam looked at La Marck. “It means the Sea Beggars are ordered to quit Dover and quit England.”
“Impossible!” La Marck lashed out with curses at the lieutenant, who bore the abuse with a silent sneer.
“Hold on, La Marck. I’ll clear this up,” Adam said. “Lieutenant, I’ll come and speak to Captain Wynter.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“He’s Baron bloody Thornleigh, you poxy sea slug!” La Marck blustered.
The man’s sneer vanished. He blanched and said in a groveling voice, “My lord . . . of course . . . forgive me. . . .”
The boat was readied. La Marck insisted on coming, too. The three of them were rowed to the Tiger. On board the trim English galleon they crossed the gleaming, holystoned deck past the orderly crew and Adam quietly told La Marck, “I’ll do the talking.” They were taken below and ushered into the captain’s teak-lined cabin.
Wynter rose from his desk. Stocky but fit, he had a face weathered by sun and wind and the burdens of leadership, and small blue eyes bright with intelligence. He was Master of Ordnance for the Navy and had recently taken a fleet to subdue the latest rebellion by the Irish. Adam had known him for years. Over a decade ago, when the Scots under Knox were fighting their French overlords, Adam had taken the Elizabeth into the North Sea with a small fleet commanded by Wynter to prevent French ships from landing in Edinburgh. Adam had been captured at Leith. Then set free by Carlos and Fenella. “Thornleigh,” Wynter said now in greeting, “it’s been a while.”
“It has, William. You look none the worse for what they threw at you in the Irish Sea.”
Wynter allowed himself a small smile. “We pounded some sense into the blockheads.” He looked pointedly at La Marck. The two had never met.
Adam introduced the Dutchman. “Admiral La Marck.” He used the honorific in the hope it conferred weight, for he feared La Marck was on shaky ground. “William, this order from the commissioners, there’s surely some misunderstanding. Her Majesty gives safe harbor to the Admiral and his fellow captains. You know that. They’ve been welcome in Dover ever since Spain rolled into the Low Counties.”
“Aye, welcome,” La Marck burst out, “and with good reason. Your queen hates the dagos and we Dutch have been doing her dirty work for her!”
Wynter said with diplomatic control, “Be that as it may, sir, on the commissioners’ orders we escorted eleven of your fellow vessels out of Dover and Hastings yesterday. Five more this morning. And any approaching from now on will be intercepted and turned.”
“Turned?” La Marck blustered. “What will you do, fire on us?”
Wynter’s blue eyes were cold. “I will obey my orders. Dutch privateers will no longer be admitted into any English port.” He added to Adam, “Englishmen, of course, are welcome to come home.”
“William, this makes no sense,” Adam said. “It goes against Her Majesty’s interests. The Sea Beggars are her allies. You understand that—you’ve done your own share of privateering in the service of the Queen.”
“You’ve been absent from court too long, Thornleigh. Her Majesty’s view has changed. She will no longer countenance illegal hostilities against subjects of the king of Spain.”
“You mean she’s giving in to his howls. Appeasing him.”
“I’d be careful what you call it,” Wynter advised, a quiet warning. “It is her proclamation.”
“And what’s to become of us?” La Marck demanded. “We need victualing, damn it. Water and food. And I’ve got wounded men. We can’t go back and put in at home; the Spaniards would slaughter us. So where are we to go? Or does your queen mean for us to roam the sea until we starve?”
“That, sir, is not Her Majesty’s concern.”
Back aboard the Gotland, Adam strode across the deck and up the steps to the quarterdeck, his thoughts awhirl. Curry stood at the binnacle awaiting his orders. Word of the expulsion order had swept through the lower decks like gale spray, bringing all the crew up to catch what news they could. Some stood by the mainmast, some on the forecastle; some had climbed up into the rigging—twenty-six faces with their questioning eyes on Adam, their captain. As English subjects they knew they would be welcome home, but they had come to know La Marck and his men.
Adam’s heart was beating fast, as though he were about to order his men to battle stations. “Loose sail, Master Curry. Mizzen-, main-, and foremast. Courses, topsails, t’gallants, and royals.”
“Aye, sir.” Curry shouted the orders. Crewmen loped to their posts.
“That’s canvas aplenty for beating into Dover, my lord,” Curry observed. “You’ll soon be home abed.”
A natural remark, Adam thought, since Dover lay dead ahead and he hadn’t given a change of course. He was still wrestling with himself. From Dover it was a day’s ride to Whitehall Palace and then, once he reported to Elizabeth, a short wherry ride into London and a walk to his house on Bishopsgate Street. He looked behind him. Beyond the Gotland’s stern the Eenhoorn was sailing away, her grimy sails bellying, for she was running before the wind. But running where? Outlawed in the Low Countries, forbidden to enter English ports, the Sea Beggars would be mistrusted and unwelcome everywhere else, because any nation showing kindness to Spain’s enemies could suffer reprisals from Spain. That very fear had obviously pushed Elizabeth to close her harbors to them. In parting from La Marck, Adam had seen the Dutchman’s silent rage but also his deep alarm. Standing on the quarterdeck of the Eenhoorn now, La Marck must be as unsure as Adam about where to steer his ship. Where would the Sea Beggars go?
Maybe it was wind sn
apping the Gotland’s sails above Adam, and the thrumming vibration of the deck under his feet as the vessel gathered speed, and the mix of excitement and peace that he always felt in captaining a ship as it carved the waves. Or maybe it was the thought of dreary days among backbiting courtiers at Whitehall, and nights in his quiet house empty of love, of children. Or maybe it was simple pity for the Dutchman and his homeless followers. Whatever the spark, Adam was suddenly sure. He could not abandon La Marck. And there was something more. An idea was gathering speed in his mind.
“Change of course, Master Curry. Hard about. We’ll run before the wind. Our course is with the Eenhoorn.”
Curry blinked, but there was a twinkle in his eye as he called out Adam’s new orders. A cheer went up from the crew. These men might be English, but they had signed on for spoils.
By evening the wind had dropped and the sun was sinking toward the placid water in a wash of red and gold that made one vast mirror of water and sky. The two ships were abreast and all but becalmed. Two other Sea Beggar ships limped along to starboard, captained by William Bloys and Lenaert Jansz, who had fallen in behind their admiral when La Marck left English waters. Adam stood at the taffrail with La Marck, who was gazing out in grim silence. Adam had just explained his plan and the Dutchman was absorbing the surprise, the blaze of the sunset reddening his face as he considered his options. This had been a bleak day for him, and his anxious men were sullen and grumbling. Still, Adam wondered: Was their situation bleak enough to make La Marck see he had no option but one?
“Attack, eh?” the Dutchman said as though struggling to accept Adam’s plan.
“Extremis malis extrema remedia,” Adam said.
La Marck looked at him. For all his coarse swagger, he was an educated man and knew Erasmus’s Latin proverb. Drastic measures for drastic times. “Maybe,” he allowed.