The words Eleanor spoke and the lashing of the rain were the only sounds in that shepherd’s cottage next to the ruins of Jervaulx. Suddenly, Shakespeare put up a hand to hush her. “Listen,” he whispered. For a minute, the three of them sat in silence, imagining voices in the wind or footsteps among the raindrops. Was that how it had been night after night in the New World? “Nothing,” Shakespeare said at last, though he was less than certain. “Nothing… I’m sorry. Carry on, Mistress Dare.”
The second winter came, she said. Their crops had failed. They had so little food they ate seaweed from the shore and bark from the trees. “Every little animal trapped, even a mouse, was like a gift from God to our shrunken stomachs.” Their livestock died one by one. John Borden and Joan Warren were taken by the flux.
Yet still the colony survived and spring came again. The spring of 1589, then summer. And then, at last, in early July of that year, ships came. With English ensigns bravely flying, the men waved to the settlers as they rowed ashore in their ship’s boats. “Never before or since have I seen a sight to so gladden the heart,” Eleanor said with a bitter laugh.
There were four ships, two of them fighting galleons and two barks. Eleanor’s voice became slower as she recalled that fateful day. “Thirty or more men came ashore with shouts of welcome, and we did instantly recognize two of them from the voyage to Roanoke: there was Davy Bramer and Mr. Slyguff. There was also the man that I now know to be Charles McGunn, smiling broadly and booming a loud greeting.”
Unarmed, the men, women, and children all ran toward them. But Eleanor held back. “I could not tell you why, except that I have these feelings. When others do seem keen, I begin to have doubts.” And so she slunk back toward the palisade and waited there in silence in one of the storehouses, holding Virginia, who was nearly two by then.
Eleanor knew something was wrong as soon as she heard shouting and orders. “Soon I did not hear the voices of my fellows anymore, only those of the mariners that had come for us. Nor were they all English voices, but Spanish, too. The reason I am alive today is that Davy Bramer looked for me and found me before anyone else.”
It had been Davy Bramer who brought her food on the voyage out. Now, in the coolness of the storehouse, where their paltry provisions were kept in sacks of jute, he put a finger to his lips, then gestured for her to follow him out from the palisade into the woods. No one saw them go. At times, she said, she wished they had, so that she might never have had to live through what was to follow.
As if divining what Eleanor was about to say, Catherine squeezed her hands. “You don’t need to go on…”
Eleanor shook her head. “I must tell you this. Oh, the horror is with me still. I cannot look upon a child but I do think of that day. He took Virginia from my arms and bade me kiss her. She was shaking; even at her tender years, she was in fear. Gently, he lay her down upon the ground, her head upon a flat rock. I watched, though I knew what he would do and why, and I did nothing to save her, because I could not. Davy brought up a boulder of half a hundredweight by my reckoning, and, with all his force, drove it into her head, killing her without a sound, except for the crack of stone on bone, like a hammer.
“I cannot tell you what happened next. I was gasping for air. My smock and kirtle were covered in my baby’s blood. I know that we did bury her beneath some leaves and I know that somehow Davy did get me aboard the galleon, but I do not know how he did it.” Her body was moving, she said, but her mind was dead. Davy put her in a jute sack and told her to be still, as still as death. Somehow he carried her aboard as though she were a bag of carrots or some other produce. All she could recall was that she was manhandled, that she heard voices and smelled the sea and the tar and the bilges.
At one time she was dropped heavily onto a deck, but even then she did not cry out, nor move. “Somehow he did get me aboard that rotten ship of death, and he did conceal me in the nethermost region, among the ballast and bilge water and cable rolls and barrels of tar, where few men tarried except they needed to collect stores. It was dark there and smelt like the Devil’s jakes, but there were nooks for me to hide in when a mariner came down in the long weeks that followed.”
She lived there like a rat, scuttling at the slightest footfall, crouching behind a cask or reclining silently along the bilge-keel, listening to her heart and hoping it would not be heard. Davy brought her scraps of food and ale. But he could never stay long. It was weeks before she asked him what had become of the others. At first he seemed reluctant to tell her and she could scarcely bear to know, for she knew there was horror. She knew the reason he had killed Virginia was that they were all destined for death and because he could never have brought her to safety. “I knew he had done it to save me and to save her from a worse fate, and that he had much courage, for he was hazarding his own life. But I often wished he had killed me with her.”
He told her the others had been taken aboard ship at the point of gun and sword. The Irishmen took great delight in carving the letters CRO on a tree, and the word Croatoan on a gate of our palisade. They also dismantled the houses and carried them away so that nothing should be left.
The truth, of course, was that the ships were Spanish, bearing false flags. The crew was more than half Spanish, along with many Irish and a few Netherlanders, including Davy. Mostly, they were military men, sailors or kerns. Davy told her it was Slyguff who had somehow got copies of the rutters from Fernandez on the earlier voyage aboard the Lion-and that was how they had navigated their way to the island. As Davy understood it, the mission was funded by Philip of Spain, but it was McGunn who lay behind it.
“What did they do to the colonists?” Shakespeare asked.
“Davy told me it happened in the first hours out from Roanoke, within four or five leagues of shore. McGunn killed the colonists himself. Each and every one. He killed all the women by hanging and the men with swords. Each woman was hanged from the yards, and the men forced to watch. Then he did for the men. One slash to the neck, one in the belly. As each died, McGunn kicked him into the Western Sea. And as one sword blunted, so he took another and another, until all the men were dead and the decks were thick with gore. His own clothes were drenched in the blood of a hundred poor innocent souls.”
The Spanish and the others had looked on in silence. As far as they were concerned, it was done for King Philip, to avenge the Armada, but Eleanor never believed that and nor did Davy. It was all done for McGunn, who seemed to carry a dark hatred in his heart.
“I am the only one left, and now McGunn knows I am alive, he will pursue me until I am hanged like the other women. I must be hanged, I know that much, though I know not why. He will kill me no other way.”
T HERE WAS A SOUND outside the cottage somewhere. Shakespeare put a finger to his lips and peered out. For a moment, he thought he saw a light among the trees, but then it was gone. A gap in the clouds, a trick of the moon, perhaps. He picked up Boltfoot’s caliver; it was primed with powder and loaded with ball-shot. He held it close to his body, aimed at the door. They waited a minute, two minutes, in silence.
“It could be a deer. Perhaps a wild dog,” Catherine said at last, though she did not believe it.
“I must finish my story.”
Shakespeare nodded his assent. “Whisper it.”
After six weeks, she said, the vessel moored at the port of Angra on the south side of the island of Terceira, to take on supplies. The island was Portuguese, though ruled by Spain, and there were peoples of many different hues and languages there. It was among those islands called the Azores, and was a place where the treasure fleets from the New World put in. It was a busy port, with many ships jostling at anchor in the harbor.
With Davy’s help, it was a simple thing for her to get off the ship at night, when all the crew were ashore drinking and wenching. He had found a lodging among the narrow streets, a small room on the second story of an old Portuguese white-painted house that looked out over the harbor. The landlord was an honest and
holy man, a Papist Fleming, who took a fair rent and fed them well.
They did not leave that room until they saw that McGunn’s ships had sailed from the harbor. Even then, they waited a week before venturing out, for fear that it was a ruse and that they would return to find Davy.
“Those were strange days. We came to know each other, Davy and me. He had risked his life for me, and I grew to love him, though never forgive him. He told me that when he had embarked with McGunn, he did not know what was planned. It was only when he was told that they must get all the colonists aboard without alarming them that he became worried. He could think of no other reason for their deception than that they meant to kill us. He thought they probably planned to kill him, too, before the voyage ended.”
They spent the autumn and winter on Angra. “I found much kindness there. The quayside was full of the smell of good fresh fish cooking over red-hot coals.” But they knew they could not stay on the island. One of the Spaniards or Irishmen might return at any time and spot them. Shipping came in and out every week, so it would never be safe. Two years ago, in the spring of 1590, Davy heard of a merchantman from the Spanish Lowlands, and made inquiries of the master. He agreed to take them to Antwerp, where he was headed, for twenty gold ducats.
“Davy always had coin, so he paid our fare. The voyage was uneventful at first, with fair weather and brisk winds.” But they were set upon by English privateers as they neared the western approaches of the Channel, and their ship’s master surrendered without a fight.
Eleanor and Davy were taken into Plymouth and set at liberty. Davy had told Eleanor they must never reveal the truth of who they were, so they told the customs officials that she was the widow of an English merchant venturer in Lisbon, returning home by way of Antwerp, and that Davy was her manservant.
Davy understood that his life would be forfeit if ever it was known he had been involved in the capture and slaughter of the colonists. They knew, too, that Eleanor would be condemned as a traitor and a harlot for surviving as she did. “But most of all, we knew that the devil McGunn, wherever he was in the world, would pursue me to his last dying breath if he knew I was alive.”
Davy changed his name from Bramer to Kerk and they hoped to live quietly. They had no idea that McGunn would come to England. They thought him wedded to the Spanish and Catholic cause, like so many Irishmen, and so they made their way to London, where they believed they might go undiscovered. And so it turned out for a year or more. She came with child twice, but lost them both times, which she took to be God’s judgment for the death of Virginia.
“Then Agnes Hardy saw me by the baiting pits. I was meeting Davy there from his work. I heard her and saw her, and did make away as best I could and prayed she would think she was mistaken.
“I have no idea what ill chance brought news of it to McGunn. When Mr. Cooper turned up at Hogsden Trent’s that day, Davy was horrified. We did not know what to do for the best, nor did we know, then, of McGunn’s involvement. Should we stay in London, or go elsewhere? And if we should go, where should we go to? It felt to us then that there was no place in the world that we would be safe. Davy said that the city was the best, because a man could vanish and bury his past in a great place like London.”
That was when Boltfoot became more insistent, however. “So Davy said he would fix him. I begged him to do him no harm; I said there had already been too much blood, but Davy was beyond reason, and did try to kill him.” Eleanor had followed Davy and saw it happen. Davy was about to hit him again, but she pulled him off.
“I thank God we were so near the hospital, and that they could save Mr. Cooper’s life. He is a fine man. By then, though, it was too late for us. Mr. Cooper did not know it, but he had led McGunn to us. He killed Davy just as he killed all the colonists, with a slash of his sword to the neck and a stab to the belly. I was to be next, strung up by the neck in the buttery. Yet Mr. Cooper did save me, and here I am. I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death, Mr. Shakespeare, but I fear my days are drawing to a close. I fear the devil will find us here. Soon, very soon, I will hang by the neck and join my Virginia in the hereafter. I pray with all my heart that you good people here with me will go unharmed…”
Chapter 43
S HAKESPEARE LISTENED TO THE TALE WITH HALF an ear to the wind outside. It was told simply, without embellishment. At last he said, “It was Agnes Hardy’s master, the portraitist William Segar, who told Essex and McGunn of you. When I set Boltfoot to find you, I had no reason to believe anyone intended you harm.”
“It is no fault of yours, sir. I accept that.”
Shakespeare yawned with fatigue from his long hours riding, yet he knew he must stay awake and alert. “Try to sleep,” he said to his wife and Eleanor. “I will keep watch, and with Boltfoot outside, watching in the woods, we will be safe. No man will find us here.”
They had eaten some of the food they had brought and had sipped from the flagon of ale. Shakespeare took very little liquor, for he had to keep his wits sharp. Though he was as certain as he could be that this place was secure, he also understood that McGunn was a man of cunning and unnatural persistence.
Outside the old shepherd’s cottage, the wind lashed the rain into a frenzy. Inside, the two women huddled into their blankets and sat on the floor against a wall.
A T THE EDGE OF the wood, thirty yards from the cottage, Boltfoot lay in the undergrowth. He was not far from the river, as still as stone. Every ounce of his being was concentrated on the area in front of the house and beyond, toward the ruined abbey. Anyone coming from the highway must cross his path.
Being soaked through was nothing new to him. Many times in the raging gales of the southern oceans, there had not been a thing left dry aboard ship. For days and weeks on end, his clothes had been sodden and his skin cold.
He lay on a carpet of leaves and twigs and mud, his eyes keen in the darkness, sensing movement as a nocturnal animal might. A badger scurried into view, caught his scent, and hastened away. Boltfoot thought of the caliver he had left with Shakespeare. It would have been pointless bringing it out here in this rain. He could have kept the powder dry for some time, but lying prostrate on the earth, with the rain tumbling in torrents, the damp would have seeped through the horn’s lid and rendered it useless.
The rain came and came. Boltfoot did not share his master’s fond belief that they were safe here. Everything he knew, all his experience, told him that McGunn would come for them this night.
He was right. The attack came with terrifying speed and deadly purpose.
T HE TWO WOMEN had not slept, yet they were heavy-lidded and their senses had slowed. They sat side by side against the wall, out of sight of the gaping window, as Shakespeare had insisted. The way they huddled, Catherine and Eleanor might have been old friends or sisters.
He heard a noise outside. A figure sloshing through the mud. Coming their way.
There was a scream and then an explosion, then moaning.
The two women both jumped to their feet at the sound of the discharge. Shakespeare put his finger to his lips, then patted the palm of his hand downward to indicate they should stay low. He extinguished the candle and doused the little fire. Better to equalize the darkness than allow the light to be used against them.
He picked up Boltfoot’s caliver once more. It was still primed and loaded. He held it in front of him, pointing it at the closed door.
B OLTFOOT HAD SENSED the man in the darkness even before he began his move for the house. He was coming at a crouch across the mud-slide of open ground. Boltfoot crawled on his belly, then lifted himself a few inches on one elbow and knee. He swung back his right arm and with his razor-edged cutlass cut like a farmhand scything barley at the man’s legs.
As steel struck bone, the intruder screamed and crumpled. Instinctively his finger clenched the trigger of his wheel-lock, firing a ball harmlessly into the ground.
Boltfoot rose to both knees, took his long dagger from his belt, and
thrust upward with his left hand. The narrow blade slid through flesh, up into the man’s belly, up under his ribs, until the point cut the heart to bring death. Boltfoot pulled the dying body to him, as a shield, and crouched down behind it. The man moaned-more an outrush of air than a cry-and his body twitched.
Crouching behind the body, Boltfoot knew the attack had been nothing but a foray. The dead man had been a sacrifice to draw him out into the open. Boltfoot was exposed now, and vulnerable. How many more men did McGunn have out there?
There was a little light, just enough to make movement visible. He had to get away from the body, slowly. Flat to the ground, he tried to edge away toward the copse where he had been hiding. A musket shot rent the air and a ball struck the ground where he had been a moment earlier. He let out a scream, to make them think he had been hit. Another shot. This time the ball hit the dead body of the assailant with a sickening whump.
Boltfoot did not halt. He had to move away or the next shot would do for him. But how could he move in open ground when McGunn had his range? As he inched away, Boltfoot resigned himself to death.
S HAKESPEARE PEERED out of the empty window. He could make out two dark humps on the ground in front of the house. One was moving, one was not. Boltfoot was either dead or in trouble. Shakespeare pointed the caliver in the general direction of the dark-shadowed abbey ruins and loosed off a ball, with no idea where he was shooting.
The recoil knocked him back into the room, just as another shot whipped over his head and struck the far wall, gouging out an uneven wedge of mortar and stone.
Revenger Page 33