by Paul Butler
Suddenly Easton and his fleet look all the more indomitable.
Richard’s two guides lead him around to a cabin entrance, their footsteps resounding in the eerie silence. The younger man opens the door without knocking. Then he steps out of the way and gestures for Richard to enter.
Richard takes one step over the threshold.
The first impression of the interior is of luscious, candle-lit warmth and opulence. A handsome, dark-haired man of perhaps forty immediately rises to meet him. The ruff around his neck, the fine embroidery of his tunic and the silver buckles of his shoes seem almost miraculous in the setting. Richard takes a step backward as though retreating from an impossible dream. It is as though he has been carried back into the royal court in London.
“Admiral Whitbourne!” the stranger exclaims in a cultivated and rather gentle voice. He takes Richard’s hand as though they are old friends. The man’s dark, almost black, eyes reflect the candlelight, creating the impression of constant ever-changing thought and an ocean-like depth.
“Sir?” Richard finds himself saying, rather stupidly. This cultured, noble character can surely not be Easton, he thinks. Richard’s gaze scans his smooth face, shaved but for a moustache and chin beard. No scars or blemishes of any kind.
“Don’t tell me, sir.” the stranger says. “You were expecting a rogue and a pirate!” The candlelight dances in his eyes and he smiles more broadly. “Politics has made such a figure of me, alas,” he adds, with a weary shrug. “Yes, sir. I am indeed Easton. Welcome to my ship and leave some of the happiness you bring.”
He grasps Richard’s shoulder with his free hand. His touch is at once soft yet holds the subtlety of great power and Richard feels himself turned a half circle to the right under its influence. “This is more than I hoped,” Easton says warmly. Richard finds himself staring down at the occupant of a chair upholstered in black and gold silk. Gazing up at him with a combination of shock and pitiful embarrassment is the young face of Captain Dawson.
Chapter Two
“Captain Dawson has just arrived. I sent a little party aboard that charming little ship, the Mary Rose. I hadn’t dared to hope two such busy men would both answer my humble call. But this is splendid.”
Easton stands motionless in front of Richard for another moment, the same ingenuous smile on his face. “Please. Please be seated,” he says almost gently.
Richard obeys, for a moment locking eyes with Dawson, who attempts some muted gesture of helplessness. Richard casts his eyes to the ceiling for a second to convey, he hopes, that patience is their only option, then finds himself taking in the cabin properly while Easton rings a little golden bell on a side table.
Richard has never seen such opulence in a ship’s cabin before, even in ones known to have housed royalty. All the walls are panelled. Bunches of grapes are carved into the mahogany uprights which support the white ceiling; they glisten under candlelight like living fruit fresh cut from the bough. Along one wall is a library under glass. The gold leaf designs of the titles likewise catch the flames bobbing steadily from the various ornate candle holders. Hanging from the panels are silks and woven fabrics of colours and designs unfamiliar to Richard—combinations of turquoise and gold, scarlet and black, and patterns of exquisite delicacy.
Suddenly Easton catches his eye. The pirate captain has been staring at Richard complacently, measuring his thoughts by studying his changing expression.
“You are admiring my silks. They are from Tunisia and Morocco.”
“Indeed,” Richard says. “They are most becoming.”
From the corner of his eye Richard senses Dawson shifting on his seat.
“You are most kind,” replies Easton with a bow.
“I wonder, sir,” Dawson breaks in with the subtlety of musket fire, “whether it would not be more tasteful to ornament your cabin with the emblems of your homeland?”
Richard holds his breath. The boards creak softly beneath them and the cabin sways almost imperceptibly.
But Easton hasn’t even winced. Indeed, his smile broadens slightly and he catches Richard’s eye as if to say they must both humour the young man.
“Young captain,” Easton says, “I find these days people are offended no matter what the decoration on my ship. When they behold the gifts of foreign princes, they think me a traitor who barters his honour for silk. When they see the cross of St. George upon my mast, they think me a hypocrite.” He is quiet for a moment and smiles almost sadly. “I have learned not to try to please anymore. In any case, England, much as we love it, has its limitations for men of taste.”
There is a sharp sound from the corner of the cabin opposite the main entrance. A large hatch creaks open, revealing a dark and narrow doorway. Richard watches as the figure of a woman emerges through it. She is carrying a tray and is dressed in the style of a serving wench in plain white tunic, bonnet and skirts. First Richard thinks it must be the darkness at the other side of the door that creates a curious illusion. But as she steps into the full candlelight he sees it is real. The woman’s bare forearms, and even her face, are dark chocolate brown in hue. She is clearly a slave, but dressed respectably like a serving woman. She approaches with a golden tray which she places on a serving table by her master. Without looking directly at anyone, she fills three goblets with the quiet, expert efficiency of a matron, then keeping an arm’s-length away and still averting her eyes, hands one to each guest. All the while silence reigns. Easton watches with barely concealed amusement.
Dawson’s eyes stare in fresh indignation as he takes the goblet, his fingers almost touching those of the slave. This is his clumsiness, not hers. Richard, in turn, takes his drink more deftly than his young friend. Then she turns to Easton, her face for the moment no longer visible to Richard. Easton does touch the woman’s fingers, deliberately it seems and in a slow, lingering fashion. His smile never leaves his face and for a moment appears to be directed at the slave, giving the fleeting but undeniable impression of intimacy.
It is difficult to tell with her head turned mainly from him, but Richard seems to catch a momentary smile on the slave’s face too, as she leaves the jug on the serving table and slowly turns to leave.
Richard notices his young companion stiffening dangerously; it is that intense scabbard-reaching manner he has come to recognize through decades of battles and brawls and the company of military men. He reaches out quickly and touches Dawson’s forearm while Easton turns and watches the hatch close. The reminder is enough. Dawson calms. Richard hears him sigh—a slow, deliberate self-calming exercise—as Easton turns back to them and raises his goblet.
“To friends and good company. May they not easily be parted,” Easton proclaims with a grin, and sips deeply. Richard does the same and is surprised at the rich and mellow taste, tingling with the merest hint of effervescence. The colour of the wine seems deep red and the temperature is perfect, slightly cooler than the warm cabin. He feels as though many long dead sensations have been revivified in an instant. “Please taste it, young captain,” Easton urges.
Dawson raises the goblet to his lips.
“How do you find it, Admiral?” Easton asks Richard.
“It is excellent. Really excellent,” he responds.
“Better, I’ll warrant, than the wine that survives the journey to the blustery shores of this New-found-land. I hardly think the merchant would allow his best to come the way of a straggling bunch of soldiers and fishermen.”
“Honest toil is rarely given the best rewards,” Dawson says, his stiffness and red face returning.
Richard flashes a glare in his direction, but it is too late.
“May I ask,” he continues, “where you got yours?”
There is the slow creak of a mast somewhere above the cabin.
Easton stares off into space, tasting the wine and closing his eyes for a second. “From a French captain,” he answers with slow deliberation. “He was commander of a large and well-armed frigate.”
There is another creak, this time from below.
“He saw immediately that it was futile to deny or annoy me.” Easton takes another sip of wine. The boards groan again through the silence. “But then he was a man of some experience.”
Dawson has felt the sting, Richard sees. His cheek has turned pink and for once he is not searching for a riposte.
There is a rap at the cabin’s main entrance. Easton puts down his goblet and rises. “You will excuse me for a few minutes, gentlemen. I have some arrangements to see to.” Richard watches Easton stride across the room. “Please make yourselves at home. I shall return very shortly.”
He goes through the door which closes after him. There is a momentary sound of muffled voices outside which fades away into nothing. Suddenly, the two men can hear each other’s breathing.
“Admiral Whitbourne,” the young man gasps after a pause. “This is a disaster. We are prisoners and he is going to take over the harbour.”
“Calm yourself.”
“We should have attacked when we had the chance!”
“Nonsense!”
“I’d rather die than give up our fortifications without firing a shot!”
Richard thinks for a moment and says nothing. There is no sign of anyone returning. He must communicate with Dawson and quickly. He turns to the young man. “Listen to me,” he says in an urgent whisper. “We are undefended and unarmed. Our fortifications are open to him for the taking at any moment. You are right about that. But so far he has held off. This can only mean one thing. He wants something from us—”
“But—” Dawson tries to interrupt.
Richard stops him by holding up his hand. “Listen. When you have no arms, you have only one weapon, the tongue. What we do and say is of vital importance. We must find out what it is he wants. We do that through diplomacy. I do not want you to say anything that would upset or displease him, do you understand?”
Dawson shakes his head, his eyes so alive with indignation they look as though they might burst.
“That,” Richard adds emphatically, “is an order.”
The young captain grits his teeth. “Then I must obey it,” he says casting his eyes downward.
Richard hears the sound of footsteps approaching once more. The cabin door opens again. Easton appears and smiles at them. “Excuse me again, good sirs,” he says with a genial sigh. He comes back to his seat. “Tell me, how do you find this climate? It is only October, yet perilously cold.”
Richard smiles. “The summer is short. The winter long. The growing season we have found lasts only from June to August or perhaps September.”
“You think it a poor hideout then?” Easton asks, touching the bell.
The hatch opens again and the slave reappears. Richard sees Dawson become agitated at the sight of her; he leans backward then forward in his chair and covers his mouth as she refills his goblet. The slave tops up Easton’s cup and then Richard’s. There is no flirtation this time between her and Easton, and Dawson seems to calm down when she retreats to her doorway.
Richard continues to explain how the plantations work, probing at Easton’s area of need.
“I think provisions of all kinds—fuel, vegetables, warm clothing—all of these things are a necessity,” he says. “I would not consider advising anyone to stay without assurances of a constant supply.”
Easton takes a sip from his goblet and frowns. “My supplies are excellent in most things, including the finest tobacco and wines.”
“But there must be something that you lack,” Richard urges.
“That most valuable commodity. Men. Good hardy men. Fishermen make excellent all round sailors. The type you rely on in a crisis.”
“And that is the one thing this new land of ours can barely spare. What manpower we have is constantly attacked by consumption, fever and the like. The fishery is such a vital industry to the Crown, you understand.”
“Ah,” Easton smiles, “the Crown!” He pauses. “You must forgive me, Admiral. It is difficult for me to unreservedly pay the present incumbent of that exalted station the full deference he is due. I served, as did you, under the good Queen Bess. There was a monarch!” he raises his glass. “She knew that England’s true destiny was to be ruler of the high seas and all the treasures to be found therein. Leave petty, sneaking diplomacy to lesser states.”
Richard hears Dawson gasp. He sees the young man’s twitching fingers close upon his scabbard. Richard fires him a warning glance. Dawson drops his hand from his scabbard and clenches a fist by his side; he has evidently taken the caution.
Richard searches hard for something to say that might assuage his patently treasonous host without compromising himself.
“It must have been a severe blow, sir...” he finds himself stuttering, “...when you found that King James had cancelled your letters of commission.”
“It was a blow to England, Admiral, and to all the valiant men who have fought for her glory,” Easton replies.
“I hardly wonder you are still smarting,” Richard says evenly.
Easton sighs deeply, so deeply that he makes a noise almost like a growl when he breathes in again. But his face is placid enough. “King James,” he says, then lets the words hang, as though the idea of such a creature were absurd enough for anyone’s ears without needing further scorn or explanation. “When the Queen died, sir, it was as though the spirit of England was thrown onto the ground and shattered like a chalice of crystal. But, like shattered glass, the fragments still exist. They spilled to the four corners of the globe, igniting that spirit once more in her former servants who roam in search of glory for England’s sake.”
The candlelight shows like golden stars in Easton’s dark eyes and his voice is plaintive. “England’s glory is not to be found in a wine-sodden Scottish king, sir. England’s glory is in exile.”
They lapse into silence. The various creaking noises have been continuous since Richard boarded. But now they have spread from below to above. Other curious sounds and vibrations are coming from all around. Richard hears the sound of sails unfurling and flapping like thunder. The ship has started to move, it seems, very slowly and in a circular direction.
“You are changing your anchor, sir?” Richard asks.
Easton, who has fallen into a reverie, now looks up at him as though startled.
“No, sir. I thought I had informed you. We are going on a voyage.”
“A voyage?”
“Please don’t trouble yourself about the details, Admiral. We are leaving six ships behind to guard your harbour, and one of my best lieutenants to supervise your fortress, if necessary. None of your enterprises will be harmed while we are away.”
Richard stands up, the drum roll of battle pulsing through his veins.
Dawson springs to his feet also.
“I must ask you frankly, sir,” Richard says, “where do you intend to take us? And why?”
“Why,” Easton replies leaning back and frowning as though genuinely surprised, “to the Indies, where Spanish ships full of gold are there for the taking and there are slaves to replenish our stock of men. I thought we understood each other.”
“We must insist, sir, that you let us ashore immediately,” Richard demands.
Easton, still sitting, shrugs helplessly as though this were a sudden eccentric demand from a hitherto placid guest.
“Please, sir, an answer!”
Dawson comes close to Richard’s side, his hands around his belt as though searching blindly for a non-existent pistol.
“But you seemed to show such interest,” Easton explains, smiling patiently, his large hands making helpless gestures. “I wanted you to have a taste of our life here so that we could be in better shape to do business together. Think how wonderful it will be!”
The ship is now turning harder. The cracking sails send vibrations through the planks below their feet. Crew members shout to each other above. Every peg and beam joins into the strange harmony of yelps, creaks and groans.
“Sir,” Richard continues trying to fix Easton’s genial eye with his own sternness. “My commission is quite clear. I am to remain here on the shores of the New-found-land supervising all business pertaining to the fishery, shipping and the law. This is why I must insist in the King’s name that you see myself and Captain Dawson ashore before you leave.”
“My dear Admiral,” Easton replies making no move to stand. “You have surely noticed I never do anything in the King’s name.” He smiles once more, a smile no less convivial than before, easy and charming without the vaguest hint of a threat. “Now please, gentlemen, be reasonable. I will take care of your harbour. You have my word.”
Richard remains standing but feels the energy drain out of him. The drumming, flapping noises of the sails against the wind overhang the cabin like the wings of some great creature of legends past. As he continues to stand above the ever-placid Easton, Richard is recalled to a world he thought gone, to forty years ago when he had been a child trying to goad his all-powerful father into battling him in the schoolroom. He suddenly knows that if he were to curse and insult Easton that smile would not slip. The pirate’s affability hides an ocean of power.
Richard sighs and feels his shoulders sink. He can sense the nervous energy of Dawson beside him—coiled, eager, ready for anything. He knows they will be reaching the mouth of the harbour soon.
“Now, Admiral,” Easton says, soothingly, leaning forward in his chair. “What is done is done. We are bound for the West Indies and we cannot turn back. That is the only part of our deal that is non-negotiable. I give you my solemn word, however, that your harbour will remain unmolested and my ships will look out all along the coastline for—”