he time of reckoning has come,” Launceston said as dispassionately as if he were preparing for a saunter along the shore. Eerily motionless, he looked out to sea where the ships waited.
Beside him on the quayside at Plymouth, the setting sun warmed Carpenter’s face, the brassy light blazing across the jumbled rooftops cascading towards the sea. “Call it what you will,” Carpenter replied. “We are likely sailing to our deaths, and death at sea is not like death on dry land, the brief, honourable pain of a sword thrust or the creak of old age. It is lungs bursting with water, and madness as breath is sucked away, or roasted alive in hellish fires, or limbs left splintered by cannon, your blood leaking into your shit and piss.”
“Death is death,” Launceston said simply.
Everywhere was unnaturally quiet at the end of the working day as the doors of the warehouses clattered shut and the merchants bid each other a quiet farewell, hurrying away with the workers from the sail-lofts and the other businesses that served the great ships. The delivery carts rolled off lazily amid the fruity aroma of horse dung. The taverns and stews around the harbour were deserted, most of their regular drinkers now aboard the ships, others hiding away in their homes in case they were pressed into service.
“If these are our last days, Robert, we should live them to the full,” Carpenter mused. “Be the men we want to be, or dream we are, or give voice to the whispers in our hearts. What say you?”
Launceston considered this for a moment, and then nodded. “You speak sense, but for some of us that is not such an easy task.”
Clouds of midges danced in the lazy heat, and as the shadows lengthened, the sounds of boots clattering at a steady pace over the cobbles drew towards them from the direction of the dark, mazy streets descending the steep hill to the dock. A confident, upright man emerged, striding purposefully, his hands clasped behind his back, his chest puffed out, and his head held high as if he was being watched by everyone he passed. His brown moustache and beard were carefully trimmed for the occasion and his hair swept back from his forehead. His features would have been familiar to almost all Englishmen and Englishwomen from the surfeit of pamphlets in circulation to mark the great successes of England’s bravest adventurer, navigator, and sea captain.
“Sir Francis Drake,” Launceston said, adding, “Does `vice admiral’ fit him better than `privateer’ these days?”
“No one can doubt what he has done for England, whatever his title.”
Drake had dressed in his finest clothes, a new doublet in deep brown with gold stitching at the shoulders, a high white collar, and a black collarbone protector held in place by a gold chain. He walked up to them with a pronounced swagger and enquired, “Walsingham’s men?”
“Yes, sir,” Carpenter replied. “We are to accompany you aboard the Revenge in case the knowledge we have gained of the Enemy …” He corrected himself. “… the Spaniards, may be of some use in the coming battle.”
“Very good,” Drake replied. “Good men are always welcome aboard my ship.”
“It is true, then,” Carpenter enquired. “The Armada has been sighted.”
“Fifty Spanish ships, off the Scilly Islands this very dawn, seen from the lookout of the Golden Hind, assigned to patrol the western approaches to England. The captain, Thomas Fleming, raced to tell me himself. This day, July twenty-ninth, will never be forgotten, for it is the day that the sleeping beast of England was woken.”
“As we had heard,” Launceston said. “The Spanish race up the Channel to engage us at their leisure.”
With pride, Drake looked to his ship, the Revenge, resting elegantly on the gleaming waves amid the other great ships. “I have spent the afternoon at Plymouth Hoe, studying the weather for any change in the direction of the wind. I have said my goodbyes to my Elizabeth, and now I am ready.”
“Should there not be more haste?” Carpenter ventured.
“More haste?” Drake repeated superciliously. “Nothing could be done until the tide had turned. Besides, these are Spaniards and we are Englishmen. I could put out tomorrow morning and still whip them like dogs.”
News of Drake’s arrival at Sutton Harbour spread quickly in whispers along the narrow streets. Soon groups of old women and men gathered to see the great hero, shooing the clutches of excited children racing and playing along the harbour’s edge.
Drake briefly moved among them, bragging about the natural prowess of Englishmen, and by the time he left they were all cheering and pumping his hand.
“He plays his part well,” Launceston observed, “like Will.”
“I am not so sure it is a role with Drake,” Carpenter replied. “He believes his own legend.”
A rowboat took them out from the quay to the Revenge in the lee of St. Nicholas’ Island. Drake’s eyes never left his ship as they neared. “How can the Spaniards even hope to win this war?” he said. “They circulated full details of the strength of their Armada, hoping it would strike fear into us and encourage the powers of Europe to support them. All it did was give us a tactical advantage.” He waved his hand towards his ship. “Thirteen years old, forty-three guns, firing shot of nine pounds to sixty pounds in weight. What fine firepower for an Englishman! Thanks to the Spanish, we now know that their most heavily armed vessel, the San Lorenzo, has forty guns, and sixteen are but sakers or minions firing only four or six pound a shot.” He laughed, his eyes gleaming.
Carpenter watched him closely. He’d heard the stories but had never encountered Drake before, and he wondered if his bravado rang true. Whether it did or not, Drake’s confidence was infectious. The black mood that had gripped him since he had disembarked the Tempest lifted slightly.
A hundred feet long at the keel, but appearing even larger, the Revenge grew more imposing as they neared. It was weather worn and its green and white chevrons had faded slightly, but that only gave it the appearance of a seasoned warhorse. Carpenter could smell the sticky bitterness of the fresh tar that turned the keel a shining black.
On deck, the crew waited in small groups to greet Drake. Drake never met their eyes, but Carpenter could see they were comforted by his presence. The great cannon gleamed, the gun crews standing at the ready. As if in silent prayer, he glanced up the mainmast to where the sails were furled at the yards, gave an approving nod, and then began his final inspection.
As the last glimmer of the setting sun lit the waters ablaze, the wind from the sea turned, and with the tide on the ebb, the signal gun fired. Slowly but steadily, the Revenge and the other great English galleons began their journey down Plymouth Sound. Night fell.
Once they were in open water, the crew scaled the rigging like monkeys to unfurl the sails. Carpenter knew this was a crucial time. The Spanish could have been waiting to bear down on them, but the topmen reported no ships ahead, though the danger would remain until first light. Drake gave the order for all lanterns to be extinguished, and they moved forwards as part of the night.
Launceston stood at the rail, his deathly pallor unnerving some of the crew who bowed their heads and muttered prayers as they passed. Carpenter thought a strange mood had come upon him.
“Will they strike now, coming out of the dark before our journey has even begun, like the death we spoke of ashore?” he mused.
Carpenter didn’t know what to say, and left him there to watch Drake as he strode proudly across the still-warm deck, the master of his world.
When dawn came, the seas were still empty and the tense mood lifted slightly. The fleet of fifty-four ships led by Lord Howard of Effingham sailed out into mist and squalls.
At three p.m. that day, an exuberant Drake summoned Carpenter to the poop deck. “Would you like your first sight of our enemy?” he said gleefully.
Carpenter peered into the drizzle, but could see nothing, even when the rain cleared briefly. He eyed Drake to see if he was finding humour at the expense of a man who had not earned his sea legs. He was surprised to see Drake watching him deferentially.
�
�I, and all England, owe you a great deal,” he said. “You have turned the tide of this war.”
Carpenter was lost for words. From behind his back, Drake handed him a long tube of shaped beechwood, bounded by brass hoops. A second tube slid in and out of it, and there was glass in the end.
“What is this?” Carpenter asked, still unsure if he was to be made a joke.
Drake pressed the tube to Carpenter’s eye and positioned him. Spanish sails loomed up in Carpenter’s vision, shocking him so much he almost dropped the device. He lowered it, but could no longer see the sails.
“They are far away,” he stuttered, “beyond my natural sight. Yet this device lets me see them. Is this some of Dee’s magic?”
Drake laughed. “It is Dee’s magic, but not in the way you mean. It is called a tele-scope. This arrangement of glass draws closer that which is distant. No supernatural power there, only human ingenuity.”
Admiring the tele-scope, Carpenter said, “I never knew we had such a thing. How is that?”
“No one knows. No one will know, for many years to come. It is a secret, and you would know about those things. There is plenty that never reaches the ears of the common man, am I correct?”
Carpenter nodded. “But what has this to do with me?”
“As I heard it from Lord Walsingham, Dee worked upon a type of this very device, in years gone. He heard whispers and talk among his kind …” Drake smacked his lips in disapproval. “… that some Italian painter had drawn designs for this tele-scope many centuries past, and so he set about building one. He struggled to find the right glass, until word reached him of another similar design, being studied by the tsar’s magicians.”
Carpenter’s brow furrowed. “In Muscovy?”
“The tsar’s device did not work either, but he had a different part of the puzzle. And so two brave spies were sent to retrieve his invention—”
“This is what Will brought back!” Carpenter said, examining the simple tube. “I thought it was some great weapon.”
“You do not understand its importance,” Drake said. “Only a true seaman would. This tele-scope will turn the tide of battle. We can study the Spanish ships from afar, watch their preparations, their direction, and we can be upon them at the point of our choosing.”
Carpenter was too stunned to speak.
“I heard you paid a great price for the recovery of the item that led to this great thing Dee has made,” Drake continued. “Know you, then, that every scar you bear marks a thousand … nay, ten thousand English lives that have been saved this day. Saved by you, Master Carpenter. Your sacrifice will keep England free.”
Dumbfounded, Carpenter could barely respond to Drake’s praise. He made his way down the steps from the poop deck, his mind struggling to reconcile the bitterness that had encysted his heart since Will had abandoned him with the new knowledge of what had been won.
As he gathered his thoughts by the rail in the salty spray, he decided this new information had to be conveyed to Launceston, whom he had not seen since dawn had broken. He searched the length of the deck, and then plunged into the stifling, near-deserted confines below, his puzzlement growing by the moment. Eventually, he had exhausted all possibilities apart from the section of the hold containing the sail stores, timber, carpenters’ tools, and all the items necessary to keep the great ship afloat.
When he called out, his voice was lost beneath the symphony of sound that filled every ship, the constant boom of waves against the hull and the chorus of creaking as every board flexed to cope with the pressures upon them. His view obscured by canvas hanging like drapes amid piles of timber, he worked his way through the obstacles, pulling back sheet after sheet.
As he drew back the final covering, he was convulsed with shock. Had he suddenly stepped into hell? As red as the Devil, Launceston loomed over a sticky mess, his knife still dripping. When he looked at Carpenter, fires blazed in his eyes, and it took a second for him to focus. With a faint, dreamy smile, he said softly, “What wonders to behold.”
It took Carpenter several seconds to comprehend what lay before him. “Is … is that the cabin boy?”
Launceston examined the mess, and appeared to see it for the first time himself. His smile now had the sheepish cast of a man caught out drunk before night had fallen. “Do not judge me, John,” he said.
“Judge you?” Carpenter ran a hand through his hair as his thoughts reeled with all the possibilities that now lay ahead.
The knife slipped from Launceston’s slick fingers and he stood up, his expression haunted. “I have … unnatural desires, John. I know my shortcomings, and I fight every day to keep them under control, but what you said … about being who we are … in the shadow of death—”
“I did not mean this!” Head in his hands, Carpenter crashed onto a pile of timber. “I must think. Damn you! This will destroy everything!”
“We are who we are. Our natures rule us, for better or worse. What makes me like this makes me a valuable tool for England, and the queen, and Walsingham.” He released a deep, juddering breath.
As Launceston’s words settled on him, Carpenter glared. “They know?”
The earl did not respond directly. “I do not wish to be this way. My life is filled with torments,” he said, his voice breaking. “This business makes us monsters to deal with monsters. I wish only the peace of a summer afternoon, but this is my world now, and always.” With disgust, he looked down at what lay at his feet. Tears sprang to his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. “Help me, John,” he pleaded.
After a moment, Carpenter stood and rested a hand upon his shoulder. “We must dispose of all this before it is discovered. And get you cleaned up.” Carpenter reeled. He had always sensed Launceston was not like other men, but he had turned a blind eye to the extent of the darkness lurking within. Did that make him complicit in Launceston’s atrocity? The notion sickened him.
“Thank you, thank you,” Launceston muttered pathetically.
“We are in this together,” Carpenter said with a sigh as he saw the magnitude of what lay ahead. “Damn you, Robert. Damn you.”
HAPTER 49
reeping on deck when the sun had set, Will feared it was his last chance to board the grey-sailed ship. Since he had killed Hawksworth, every attempt had been thwarted by events beyond his control, and now, with battle looming, he had to risk all.
Hawksworth had been missed the day after Will had disposed of the body, but it was presumed he had either thrown himself overboard in a fit of despair or had fallen; it was not an unusual occurrence. Will had spent the first few days brooding over the stupidity and confusion that had led to Hawksworth’s death, but he knew it was one of the risks of his profession where every face was a mask. Soon the dark thoughts were washed from him, as he was sucked into the feverish preparations for the coming battle. Day after day the crew engaged in dry runs of the battle procedure under the urgent eyes of the clearly unsettled commanders. Fearful faces turned towards the grey horizon in every free moment, and rumours spread beneath deck like fire. Increasingly frustrated by the lack of opportunity to reach the Unseelie Court ship, Will could only wait. And then, that night, he seized his moment.
The night was clear, with a large swell, but there was no more rain, which would make his task easier. Below, the crew grabbed fitful hours of sleep in preparation for what would likely be an eventful day.
Locating the grapnel, Will waited patiently at the rail for the grey-sailed ship. Along the coast of England, beacons blazed, warning of the threat off the shore and calling the nation to war. It was Saturday, July 30, and the Armada was at anchor at Dodman Point in a state of heightened anxiety after sailing east along the Channel.
Earlier, he was convinced his final opportunity to find Mayhew and the Skull had slipped through his fingers. As the Spaniards watched the beacons, an English pinnace had swept across the bows and fired a single shot. But it was more to mock than threaten and the pinnace disappeared as the La Rata San
ta Maria Encoronada returned fire to no avail. The English fleet was sighted, but they did not attack. Medina Sidonia and his Spanish commanders had made sure they had the weather gage, the best position in relation to the wind and coastline. They would wait out the night before battle commenced at dawn.
Finally, Will caught sight of the grey-sailed ship making its strange, circuitous journey around the fleet with what appeared to be increased urgency. Once it sailed alongside, he clambered onto the rail, braced himself against the rigging, and spun the grapnel before letting it fly. It fell short, splashing into the waves. Quickly, he hauled it in and adjusted his next throw for distance. This time it caught in the rigging of the grey-sailed ship. Tightly fastening his end to the Rosario’s rigging, he gripped the rope firmly and then swung his legs up, crossing his ankles over the top to hang like one of the monkeys that performed in the market on Cheapside.
He’d left some slack, but his fear was that one or other of the ships would sail away and tear the rope free, plunging him into the black waves. Ignoring the blast of the wind, he shimmied along the rope. At the midpoint between the two ships, the swell swung the rope wildly and it took all his strength to hold on. Beneath him, the waves grasped for his back, driven high by the furious confusion of battling currents, two inches beneath him, one, his clothes soaked by the spray.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself slowly up the curve towards the grey-sailed ship, one hand at a time. His fingers slid on the slick rope, his heart beating out every second the journey took.
By the time he reached the rail, his limbs were shaking from the strain. With a final effort, he hauled himself over the rail and onto the deck. The roll of the ship made him land harder and more noisily than he intended, and he quickly hid in the lee of the quarterdeck.
The stillness was unsettling. A strange odour hovered over everything, sickly-sweet but with a florid bitterness beneath, like mould on an apple in the autumn orchard. After a moment he heard the tramp of boots, which paused above his head and then moved towards the steps. Someone was investigating the dull sound of his landing.
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