by Paul Clayton
“Sit,” he said.
Maggie sat next to him. Around them the dim outlines of bales and boxes grew visible in the pale light. “What has happened?” said Maggie.
Thomas swallowed nervously and looked away. “I saw a man get on the ship. I… ”
“Do you think it was him?” Maggie interrupted, her heart beginning to race.
Thomas looked deep in her eyes. “Perhaps. Maggie girl, I have missed you so.” Thomas slid his hand up under Maggie’s skirts.
Maggie pulled it away. “Nay, Thomas.” She got to her feet. “Is that why you brought us back here?” She shook her head in disgust. “You have no news.”
Thomas grabbed her hand and would not release it. “Maggie girl. I’ll make yeh forget all about that and this miserable ship.”
“Please,” she said, trying to pull away.
“Do you have any tobacco, Tommy boy?” The male voice seemed to come out of nowhere.
Thomas and Maggie looked around in shock. Lionel sat on a blanket in a dim corner, not six feet away, Humphrey beside him. Lionel gestured with his white clay pipe. “I’m running out of tobacco.”
Thomas scowled as Maggie pulled her hand from his. He remembered their flight across Devon. Lionel had taken them under his wing, but Thomas had never really trusted him and had only accepted his help out of desperation. Thomas knew that Lionel fancied Maggie. And if it had been only him needing to get away, Lionel would have left him to hang.
Sailors came around the next bulkhead, pausing to discuss something or other.
Humphrey held up his ball. “Ball,” he said, the only word that Thomas had ever heard him say.
“They are looking for you!” Thomas said quietly. “I could tell them that you are here.”
Lionel laughed. “There’s much more I could tell them about you, lad. What did you do to your master, eh? For this man, Spencer, to chase you across the whole of Devon, I think ‘twas a terrible beating you gave his brother.”
Thomas scowled at him. “Aye, ‘twas a beating, and a good one.” Thomas glared at Maggie. “Ask her.” He turned and walked off.
Lionel marveled at the knave’s ingratitude. He had protected him and Maggie, taking them across the whole of Devon with him. But Thomas had grown mean and sullen over time and they had parted ways when he had insulted Humphrey, not that Humphrey knew he had been insulted. But the sheer ingratitude of the lad had caused Lionel to fly into a rage. Fortunately for her, Maggie had finally taken measure of Thomas and cast him off. She could do much better.
The sailors went off in the other direction and Maggie came over to kneel down beside Humphrey. She ran her hand over the boy’s hair. “I knew you would never leave him behind,” she said.
Lionel smiled, warming at the girl’s words. She was right. He’d sooner cease breathing than abandon his boy.”
“Do you think your master will let you stay?” said Maggie.
Lionel frowned. “Aye. But not Humphrey. But if I can stay hid till we are at sea, I don’t see what choice he’ll have.”
“Aye,” said Maggie. She got to her feet. “God keep you.”
Maggie went back to her sleeping area in the lower deck and sat down on her mattress. She was worrying about what trouble Thomas might cause when Elizabeth came up to her. “Did yeh get a good look at the savages?” she said.
“Aye,” said Maggie. She recalled their strange, musical speech, and the taller one’s strange, but handsome features. He looked a little like a Turk she had seen once in London. “Did you see them?”
Elizabeth chuckled. “Nay. In Virginia I’ll see all I want to see of them. And so will yeh.”
“Aye,” said Maggie.
Elizabeth sat on her mattress. Nearby, the man she had been nursing, awoke and looked about.
“How’s yer head?” said Elizabeth. “They bounced it off the deck like it were made a wood.”
“It be fine,” said the man. “They call me, Ol’ Jack. Where in Hades do I be, woman?”
Elizabeth cackled. “Well, Ol’ Jack, yeh be on a ship bound for Raleigh’s Virginia paradise in the New World.”
“God in heaven!” exclaimed Ol’ Jack, “get me out of here.”
Maggie and Elizabeth laughed. Maggie’s gaze paused at Lionel’s empty mattress. She prayed he’d get away to the New World too.
“They have probably already put the two of them off the ship,” said Elizabeth.
“Perhaps,” Maggie lied.
Something heavy slammed on the deck above and it was suddenly black as night. Hammer blows reverberated through the thick wooden beams of the ship.
“God in heaven,” said Elizabeth.
“They’ve closed the hatches!” said Maggie.
They heard sailors rushing about, cursing and shouting on the deck above.
“Do you feel it, Maggie?” It was Lionel. He had evidently sneaked back into the sleeping area.
“What?”
“We are moving,” he said.
“Do you think?” Maggie asked hopefully.
“Aye,” said Lionel, “heading to sea. We are saved.”
In the darkness the people began talking excitedly. Above, running footsteps thudded on the deck, then more banging, then a metallic screech. The ship leaned over hard, groaning like a huge wounded animal. Several people cried out in fear. Out in the dark passageways, sailors laughed at the frightened people as they worked at making the ship ready.
The ship swayed gently and Maggie felt a great weight lifted off her. No more would that horrid man dog her steps. No more. “Thank God,” she said to the darkness about her, “thank God.”
Chapter 5
England
In Southwark, across the river Thames from London, Benjamin Spencer stood a head taller than the two soldiers he led along the road. They crested a hill and paused. Spencer had an imposing countenance -- small black eyes hard as coal, set in a pockmarked face, mostly hidden by a beard that crept up to his cheeks like ivy on the side of a church. He stared down the street at the steady stream of people, men mostly -- tradesmen, laborers, discharged soldiers, cripples, beggars and vagabonds. They walked up the street from the direction of the Thames, intent on getting home to their rooms and hovels after laboring in the markets, shops and manufactories of London. Many of them went into the Rusty Dirk, a small alehouse, noisier and more trouble-plagued than most.
Spencer pointed to the sign hanging outside the alehouse, a downward-pointed dagger, with three, equally spaced, drops of blood falling from its tip. “She is in there. I saw her enter two hours ago.”
“Very well,” said the Lieutenant, a tall man with sharp, hawkish features. “Just point her out to us and we’ll arrest her.” He made as if to start down the street.
“Wait,” said Spencer. “I want to meet with her alone first.”
“Meet with her?” said the Lieutenant. Concern compressed his brow. “Surely she will attempt to flee.”
Spencer shook his head. “I think not.”
“She must have friends in there, sir. It could be dangerous for you.”
“Nay,” said Spencer. “She will not know who I am.”
“I do not understand, sir,” said the Lieutenant.
“I will pretend to be one of her customers,” said Spencer.
The Lieutenant surreptitiously exchanged a look of amused disdain with the other soldier. “Very well, sir,” he said. “We will wait up here.”
Benjamin Spencer walked slowly down the cobblestone street as the two soldiers remained a discrete distance up the hill. With their pikes held upright, they talked together nonchalantly, feigning no knowledge of him. Spencer looked up at the rosy-tinted twilight sky and cursed under his breath. He had wanted to wait until dark before going in, to eliminate the possibility that anyone who knew him would see him entering such a place, but he could wait no longer. He had had to wait two hours for the soldiers to get here and he was determined that the girl was not going to slip away again. He had already had her and her
gang cornered in a London warehouse and they had managed to escape when darkness fell. Then he had tracked them to a carriage house at Honnin, where they had again managed to escape. After that he had lost the trail. It took him another six months and a month’s wages in bribes for information before he had traced her here. He came to the door and entered.
The loud talk and raucous laughter abused him as he looked round the place. The main room was full of tables crowded with men. They surreptitiously watched him as they talked and drank. Spencer searched the faces but did not see the girl. No matter, he reasoned. Being that he was a man of position, with money, he need not worry. She would find him like a fly finds its honey. He headed for one of the small empty, three-sided anterooms, which surrounded and looked out onto the main chamber. He sat, and moments later a serving wench appeared before him. The girl was dirty faced and flat chested, no more than twelve or thirteen years of age. Her gown was soiled from wiping down the tables.
“What will yeh have to drink, sir?” she said.
Spencer shook his head. “Nothing.” He looked around. “I want the redheaded girl that works here.”
The girl nodded and quickly disappeared into the throng. Spencer didn’t have to wait long. He turned to search the far side of the main chamber and she suddenly appeared before his table. She wore a gaudy yellow skirt, and was fatter than he’d imagined her, and older. She smiled at him and he had to suppress the urge to grab her by the hair right there and haul her into the streets. He wanted to talk to her alone first, before she went before a Magistrate. He wanted to find out about his brother and his dealings with her. Then he could talk to the authorities and have that part of the whole sad business put to rest, along with his brother, when they finally found his body.
“Come along,” she said.
Spencer followed her up a flight of stairs into a foul, stuffy little room. She put the lamp on a bedside table and turned to him. She smiled and began lifting her skirts. Spencer seized her by her hair and pulled her to her knees. “Please, sir,” she said, “not so rough.”
Spencer was shocked. She thought he meant to have her, that his rough treatment was some kind of gutter-dweller courtship. She grabbed for his belt and he slapped her. “Where is my brother?” he shouted. “What have you done with him?”
“What ever do yeh mean, sir?” said the girl. She looked quickly over at the door as if contemplating running. Blood began trickling from her nose and she wiped it away, then looked at her hand.
“If yeh tell me now I’ll see they go easier on yeh at Newgate, wench. Now tell me.”
Fear contorted the girl’s face at the mention of that most notorious prison. She wiped her bloody hand on her skirt. “By God, sir, I know not what yer talking about. Who is it yeh be wantin’ to know about?”
Spencer slapped her again and she cried out in pain. “My brother, whore! John Spencer, Cooper of Shandling Quay in London, that’s who. Yeh were seen in his shop the day he died.”
“I know not what yeh mean, sir,” she protested. “I know nothing of this man.”
Spencer stood and pulled her to her feet by her hair. The girl screamed and the door banged open. A bald-headed man with a big paunch confronted Spencer.
“Unhand her!” he demanded.
“I’m taking her with me. She and her gang killed my brother and I intend to see that she hangs.”
Spencer pushed past the man and he followed them doggedly. “And when did this murder take place, sir,” he asked.
“Almost a year ago. But that matters not now that I have found her.”
“Then it could not have been Sarah,” he said, “for she was living on her father’s farm then. I can testify to that, sir.”
“And I have a witness that will put her at the scene of the crime,” growled Spencer, “on the day of the crime.” He started down the stairs, pulling the girl behind by her hair. She whimpered, tears streaming down her face.
Out on the street, Spencer turned the girl over to the two soldiers and they started toward the London Bridge gatehouse. The little fat man followed along behind, calling out to the girl that she was not to worry, and that he would get her off. At the gatehouse, the stench wafted down from the pike-mounted severed heads of criminals on the wall above as Spencer and the others walked inside the gate. The soldiers led the girl down a flight of stairs to where a magistrate sat behind a long table. A clerk sat next to him, a leather-bound volume, ink pot and quill before him, ready to take down the exchange as charge and evidence. Spencer pushed the redhead to her knees before the magistrate. “Here is the whore,” he said.
The magistrate nodded disinterestedly.
“Where is my witness?” said Spencer.
The magistrate nodded to the clerk and he left the room, returning a moment later followed by the old white-haired cleaning lady from the cooperage. The magistrate pointed to the still-sobbing girl from the Rusty Dirk. “Well? Is this the one?”
The old woman shook her head.
“What do yeh mean?” erupted Spencer angrily. “Take a good hard look at her.”
The woman shook her head, and with a voice like a rusty wheel on a dray cart, said, “Nay, not this one. She’s too fat, too old. I told yeh, sir, ‘twas but a girl he had up there with him, with a girl’s figure, and her hair was redder too.”
The magistrate looked up at Spencer. “Well, sir, based on that I must let her go then.”
Spencer shook his head in disgust. “Let her go back to her filthy haunt, then. I care not.” He glared at the woman as she and her keeper walked out. He turned back to the cleaning lady. “Now, my good woman, tell me again of this young girl yeh saw that day, for I must pick up her trail before it gets too cold.”
The old woman straightened her back with self-importance at his words. “Irish, she was, and her face was afflicted with a mass of freckles.”
Spencer gave her his arm and led her to the gate. “Go on, go on.”
At sea
Anchored in the little bay, the Lion pitched and rolled in the turbulent water. Off on her starboard quarter, the other two ships of the convoy, the Hound, a 100-ton, two-masted shallow draft ship of Dutch design, known as a flyboat, and the Comet, a 60-ton pinnace, fretted and tugged at their anchors like stallions, impatient to be off for their running. The coast of Portugal was a jagged, scar on the darkening horizon as John White led two of his gentlemen assistants across the deck on their way to Master Fernandes’ cabin. Sir George Howe, the shorter of the two gentlemen, was a soldier, recently returned from the war in the Low Countries. He had a soldier’s spare physique and sharp dark brown eyes. John White thought of him as a dagger -- small but deadly. Sir Robert Harvey was a big man, lean, with large gray eyes which bespoke intelligence and loyalty. White had long known Sir Robert’s father, Sir Reginald. The man had been treated badly and his life ended sadly. Despite that, White knew of no better, nor more loyal man, than Robert. White had been greatly pleased to secure the services of both of these men as Assistant Governors.
A while earlier, White had heard from Jakob Bergman, the foreigner who was to be the colony’s metallurgist, that Fernandes was about to sail. White hoped the report was wrong. To sail in this weather was madness. They must remain in the relative safety the bay offered.
George Howe stopped. “Look there!”
White looked where the trim, former-soldier pointed and saw several sailors climbing up into the shrouds.
“By my soul,” said White, “he does intend to sail!”
Robert Harvey nodded. “We had better hurry.”
White cursed under his breath as they hurried to the door leading to the below-decks. Closing it behind them, the noise subsided somewhat. Beneath White’s feet he thought he heard a scream and he said a quick prayer for the people in the great cabin. Few if any of them had ever been aboard a ship and they were terrified. White and the other two men walked briskly along the corridor and soon came to Fernandes’ door. White knocked loudly.
“C
ome in,” came the reply.
White and the two gentlemen entered. In the center of the cabin, the lanky Portuguese and the muscled Captain Stafford leaned over a table, looking down at a chart. Fernandes looked up in annoyance. “What is it?”
“Master Fernandes,” said White, “Bergman has said that you intend setting sail in this weather and leaving the other two ships behind?”
Fernandes frowned. “Si, that is correct.”
“That will not do, sir,” White snapped. “Many of my key people and most of my supplies are aboard those two ships.”
Fernandes shook his head at White as Stafford continued to study the chart. “Those two ships are captained and crewed by good men, Governor. They will find us at our rendezvous in Santa Cruz.”
“How can you be so sure?” interjected Robert Harvey. “If we lose either of those ships the colony is in extreme jeopardy.”
“We will not lose anyone, gentlemen,” said Fernandes. “I assure you.” At this moment the Lion leaned over heavily. Muffled shouts could be heard from the below-decks.
Stafford laughed softly.
“This is madness,” said White. He looked over at Captain Stafford, but the captain avoided his eyes, looking instead at the chart.
“You can not sail in this,” said White. “As Governor, I forbid it.”
“I can and I shall,” said Fernandes.
“Captain Stafford,” said White, “surely you are not going along with him in this foolishness?”
Captain Stafford looked at White calmly. “I can do nothing, Governor. While we are at sea aboard the Lion, he be the Master.”
White shook his head in disbelief. He glanced sideways at George Howe and noticed the man sizing up Fernandes and Stafford in case a fight might be required. White’s mind raced. He had a thought. If he called a meeting of the Assistant Governors, a majority decision would over-rule Fernandes. But half of the Assistants were aboard the other two ships. “You must wait,” he said. “I demand the opportunity to discuss this with the other Assistants.”