Mistress of the Sea

by Jenny Barden

  They all pressed against the stones but the high eaves gave little shelter. The light was brilliant, then gone. Another explosion made Will duck. The sky quivered and pulsed. Shots cracked sporadically. Amidst the stink of sulphur he smelt the sharp tang of resin. Stretching out his hand he felt thumb-fat holes between mangled nails in the battered door. Somewhere under cover there were Spaniards still firing. The light of the fire-pikes was gone, doused by the spate. In the darkness a man slumped and splashed prone to the ground. Muttering rose.

  ‘Can’t do nothing with wet bow strings.’

  ‘Nor muskets.’

  ‘Ox is back. He says the boats be safe.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘We’re done for if we linger . . .’

  ‘Will?’

  He turned to the whisperer, and the awareness that somehow Morrys had found him. In the gloom, figures took shape at the edge of the crowd, and Will knew with a sinking heart that many were on the point of creeping away.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Drake’s voice rang out as the rain stopped falling. He thumped the door with the pommel of his sword. ‘I have brought you to the mouth of the treasure of the world! Would you run from it?’

  Will could hear him very close, rousing and fervent, but there was also pain in Drake’s voice, and Will felt shamed that the Captain had been reduced to entreaty. Or was he hurt?

  ‘You only have to take what lies inside,’ Drake shouted. ‘If you have not the nerve, then blame no one but yourselves. Ready your weapons!’

  ‘Aye, Captain!’ Will answered with all the spirit he could muster, and he grabbed one of the burning fuses, re-lit his match-cord and set about priming his caliver afresh, facing the dark square when he was done. And when he wiped at his brow with the back of his hand he felt the shake of his own exhaustion, but he was fixed in his resolve. They could not give up, not so close – they would stand together. They must not fail.

  He blinked to clear his eyes, and saw the next instant that Drake was moving into the open. The Captain had hold of an arquebus and he was yelling as he swayed.

  ‘Break down the door!’

  Will fired above Drake’s head, aiming blindly across the square, a shot to distract while he ran. And others were rushing forward on either side, crowding round the Captain, because they too must have seen, as he did, that Drake’s legs were buckling and he was about to fall.

  ‘Hold the Captain!’

  More shots flashed, spewing smoke: shots from both sides.

  ‘He’s bleeding bad.’

  ‘Get him back.’

  Thick blood pooled over the mud. Will saw it in the flare as another firearm discharged: a spurt of orange light, grey dirt, shining puddles and bright red blood. Even with a scarf twisted tight round his thigh, Drake bled while they carried him. In the moonlight his blood spattered black across the beach, all the way to the boats.

  ‘Let’s get him to the island where we left the Cooksleys,’ Will said as he helped lift Drake aboard. ‘It’s not far.’

  ‘Aye,’ Ox answered. ‘We can tend him there.’

  The boat was hauled into the waves and pushed away.

  ‘Heave!’ Ox called. ‘To the Cooksleys’ island.’

  Will prayed that Ellyn would be there.

  ‘Ellyn. Prithee. God speed! . . .’

  Ellyn knew she was asleep. A voice was hurling her name through her dreams. Someone was calling for her over and over, yet she could not find the door that would allow her to get out.

  ‘Open up, Mistress Ellyn!’

  She had to wake, and her hands were searching the walls for the door, then suddenly it was open, and she realised she had been in Thom’s room in her imagining, aware almost at the same moment that there were people trying to reach her. She heard them when Marco screamed. Who were they? Sitting bolt upright, she stared at the first light of dawn breaking through a small high window, and the shadowy figure of Marco, jumping up and brandishing a stick.

  ‘Vete! . . . Vete! . . .’

  The boy was shrieking and there were men yelling outside. She was chill with shock, supposing that soldiers had come to seize her, suddenly certain she was on the island, in the shelter she shared with Marco, though she could hear cries from another place, and friends: Will. She was sure she could hear Will calling.

  ‘Rise, dear Ellyn! . . .’

  But there were other voices mixed with his.

  ‘Get it open!’

  ‘Hold there, he bleeds.’

  Bleeds? She struggled to pull on her robe, trying to reason while the pounding on the door shook the sense from all she heard.

  ‘We’re losing him.’

  ‘Quick! Bear him up.’

  The door flung back as she neared it, and a mass of men barged straight past. They were carrying a body; she recognised that when they lowered their burden to her bed: a man covered in blood. She tried to see who it was in the dawn light from the open doorway. The talking quickened.

  ‘Who’ll search the wound?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  They were all intent on the injured man, or was he dead? She caught sight of his leg bound tight with a cloth, like a scarlet cord around a scarlet curtain, and when she glimpsed his face she knew that Francis Drake was lying senseless, with his head on the pillow where moments earlier she had been dreaming. But he was alive; she saw his chest heave as someone tore open his shirt. The jabbering became more urgent.

  ‘Here’s stuff for bandages.’

  ‘Rip it up.’

  She searched for Will and spotted him bent over the Captain, seeing first his hair, pale and matted, then the stubble of his beard as he angled his head. Stains deepened the set of his features: blood, earth, soot – she could not tell what. Some of the marks might have been bruises. He seemed different, older and leaner, changed from the image she had preserved of him for a whole year of waiting. When he glanced up, their eyes met. She edged towards him, behind the men. As soon as she was close, he took her hand. No one else could have noticed.

  He spoke in an undertone.

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Dead.’

  His frown darkened.

  ‘The Captain needs help.’

  ‘I’ll get hot water.’

  She left quietly, her mind teaming with thoughts of what might be needed: water and kindling; she sent Marco to fetch more. Which was the best pot? She had to set a good fire, clean whatever might be used: knives and tongs, she had tongs. Where were they?

  Marco was leaving when she passed the doorway. She saw the beach, and three large boats drawn up onto the sand with the sun rising behind them. All across the shore were dark bundles, strewn as if washed up above the line of high tide: Drake’s men, she realised – men, spent and asleep, lying where they had dropped – men dead to the world – men who could take her back to England.

  16

  With Great Store

  ‘. . . the Isle of Bastimentos, or the Isle of Victuals . . . is an island that lieth without the bay to the westward, about a league off the town, where we stayed the two next days, to cure our wounded men, and refresh ourselves, in the goodly gardens which we there found abounded with great store of all dainty roots and fruits; besides great plenty of poultry and other fowls, no less strange than delicate . . .’

  —From the account of Drake’s movements following the raid on Nombre de Dios, on 29th July 1572, as recorded in Sir Francis Drake Revived, compiled by Philip Nichols

  ELLYN HAD TO concentrate on the slicing, which was hard. The problem was that the block was running with juice, and so the fruit slid, and it was covered with bits of the husk she was paring. She saw everything in a blur; she had been awake most of the previous night following Captain Drake’s arrival on the island. But the men were hungry. She had to take them what was ready: some of the produce of Bastimentos that was easy to eat, such as the delicacies called bananas, soft and sweet, and boiled Indian corn, together with the fruit she was cleaning. So she put what was p
repared into a bowl, and left the shelter for the beach, scanning the groups of men for those she should go to next. Straight away she was aware of Will, though she tried not to show it, just as she tried to ignore the bawdy remarks as she passed.

  ‘A taste for me, Mistress, right starved I am . . .’

  ‘Yea, a kiss, fair lady . . .’

  There was a ship nearby that Drake’s men had captured, and it must have been carrying wine; she had seen the skins passed round eagerly. She would not be offended, and she could better understand since she’d learnt about the failed raid on the city. She would not mind that Will had barely exchanged a few words with her alone, and those about her father. Will would talk to her in time, and his reticence would not upset her, not when men were hurt, and all that really mattered was to get everyone well enough to set sail for England. She reminded herself of that as she weaved along the beach, and took comfort in hearing her own language, however roughly spoken. Soon she would be sailing homeward, and she looked out to sea, only to spot Will again and feel her heart race. But she also noticed a galley: a vessel approaching under oars, with a striped sail bearing the cross of Spain, and a forked pennant that was all too familiar.

  ‘Will! That galley. There . . .’

  She was running with the bowl and spilling fruit, seeing Will preparing to fire along with others by the shore. Men dashed over the sand, grabbed weapons and loaded matchlocks. Someone stopped her from approaching, though she could still see the galley and the man who disembarked once it had grounded on the beach. He was short and dark haired, with a wide-shouldered doublet. She was in no doubt as to his identity as she watched Drake’s men surround him. While Captain Bastidas was marched away, more of Drake’s crew trained their firearms on the soldiers left in the galley. A crowd milled about, setting out crates under a canvas awning, planks for a table, food and drink, her linen and plate. Men ran back and forth, and she would have joined them. She made to dart behind Drake as he was carried out of the shelter. But again she was waylaid. With rising frustration she was led back inside, knowing that Drake and Bastidas would be intent on a parley while she was left excluded.

  Even Marco was set to waiting, and she considered doing likewise. But how could she, without appearing to pry? While racking her brains for a solution, she caught sight of a few large leathery leaves of the kind that Marco liked to set smouldering. It was an Indian custom that some of Drake’s men enjoyed. She thought of the wounded she had noticed with the leaves smoking in their mouths. Those leaves might aid her also. She grabbed what was there and smiled at the mariner stationed by the door. She darted past him. The crowd was easy to squeeze through, since everyone was watching the visitor. Murmurs swelled as she passed, but no one restrained her, not before Bastidas had singled her out.

  ‘Ah, Señorita Cook-esley! Your friends have visited Nombre de Dios, but for a stay too short. I invite them back, and with you, dear lady.’ Bastidas gestured with a languid all-embracing wave.

  Ellyn supposed Bastidas had come to assess Drake’s strength. The Spaniard was arrogant enough to believe he would be safe, and that Drake would treat him with respect, since he was a gentleman.

  Captain Drake beckoned her closer.

  ‘I see you are acquainted.’

  Ellyn edged forward to the place where Drake sat with his bandaged leg stretched out on a barrel. Bastidas, to her consternation, shot her a brazenly familiar smile. What should she say? She could hardly deny knowing him.

  ‘Captain Bastidas and I have been introduced.’

  Her response felt like a betrayal, more so when she caught sight of the faces in the crowd, and Will among them, frowning. She regretted having made herself conspicuous, though Drake gave no indication that he desired her to go. Instead he took one of the leaves she had almost forgotten she was holding. At this, out of politeness, she proffered another leaf to Bastidas. His reaction surprised her. He turned aside, took out his handkerchief, and pressed it to his nose.

  Drake nodded with evident satisfaction, and proceeded to make a show of enjoying the scent of the leaf, inhaling from it deeply before favouring Ellyn with a grin.

  ‘Please sit, both of you.’

  Only one seat was visible, and that opposite Drake. While Bastidas moved towards it, she moved well away. She had no wish to appear in league with the Spaniard. As if her reaction had expressed her wishes, one of Drake’s men answered by standing. She took advantage, since that brought her closer to the Captain. At the same time Bastidas was being challenged by the smoothing of the leaf on Drake’s leg. It kept him leaning well back. She detected devilry in Drake’s response.

  ‘We accept your invitation, Captain, and thank you for it. When we are ready we will visit Nombre de Dios again.’

  Bastidas gazed around him, eyeing everyone keenly.

  ‘But a host must know his guests. May I ask whether any corsairs franceses will honour us also?’

  Drake laughed as he rolled the folded leaf.

  ‘We are all English, sir, and I hope without need of any Frenchmen to escort us. You should know my reputation by now.’

  ‘Of course. I have been much looking forward to meeting Capitán Draque. I thank you for your greetings – the bullets and arrows you leave in my city. Perhaps there is something we can give in return?’ Bastidas paused and cradled his chin while his eyes settled on Ellyn. ‘I am pleased you are not with the French,’ he went on. ‘Your arrows will not be . . . Venenoso . . . How do you say?’ He angled his head.

  Drake licked the rolled leaf and raised his brows.

  ‘We do not use poison, if that is your concern. If any who resisted us are injured, they may be treated with plain surgery, and let their wounds be a reminder that we should not be opposed. We will harm no one who yields to us.’

  In the pause that followed, Drake twisted towards Ellyn, and she realised, to her consternation, that he was expecting her to set his rolled leaf smouldering. She was saved by the intervention of a mariner with a glowing match cord. Drake touched the end to his leaf and drew, breath by breath, until smoke issued streaming from his mouth and his nose. The smell of it swamped the stink of sweat under the canvas. Bastidas coughed.

  Drake exhaled in a pungent cloud.

  ‘As for what you might give us, there is nothing that will satisfy, except that commodity which you get from the earth and send to Spain for the greater trouble of the world. Until we have enough of that, we will keep returning.’

  It was clear to Ellyn that Drake was talking about gold and silver, but Bastidas seemed intent on misunderstanding; he made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘Naturally, you will return because, for you English, Nombre de Dios has much to interest. We did not know why you left in such a hurry last night.’ Bastidas craned his neck in an exaggerated display of staring at Drake’s injured leg. ‘But now I think I see.’ Again he smiled, and it made Ellyn want to shove him hard away, though another stream of smoke did that for her well enough.

  Bastidas sat back with his jutting chin thrust forward above his collar and ruff. ‘Come back whenever you want. Be my guests. Mistress Ellyn will speak for my courtesy, yes?’ He peered at her, and seemed satisfied when she looked away. He went on with easy confidence. ‘Vaya! She is my witness. Her company enchants me. I hope you will not take her away.’

  Ellyn stared.

  ‘But I am . . .’

  ‘For certain.’ Drake cut her short. He breathed smoke towards Bastidas. ‘I would not wish to subject the lady to any more hardship without cause.’

  She turned to Drake, barely able to take in what she was hearing, but he raised his hand to her while keeping his gaze on Bastidas.

  ‘Since you have been so courteous, Captain, I see no reason to unsettle the lady further. But I require your assurance that she may remain here undisturbed.’

  ‘No!’ she gasped, on the point of arguing vehemently, but she bit back the objection that would have openly defied Drake’s authority. Bastidas was already answering.
r />   ‘Sí, sí. I swear it. Leave the señorita without concern. I will respect her as if she were a Spanish lady.’

  What could she say without challenging Drake in front of everyone? She turned her eyes to Will, beseeching him with a look. But he said nothing, and his face revealed no more.

  ‘Good,’ Drake concluded. ‘Nombre de Dios shall be our surety until such time as we return for her. If she comes to any harm, or is interfered with in any way, we will burn your city to the ground.’ His eyes glittered as he fixed on Bastidas. ‘Therefore treat her well. You will dine with us?’

  ‘I would be honoured.’ Bastidas inclined his head, and the satisfaction in his expression brought Ellyn close to crying out.

  ‘If I may speak with you . . .’ she said to Drake under her breath.

  ‘Later, dear lady.’ Drake took her hand and kissed it, as if that was what she wanted. He smiled, seemingly oblivious. ‘Let us eat first. What best can we offer?’

  Ellyn regarded him askance. There seemed little doubt about the Captain’s none-too-subtle hint that she should be attending to their dinner. But she was reeling from the shock of what he had arranged, with no regard for her wishes, or any consultation or debate. She searched the faces in the crowd, hoping for a last chance to appeal to Will, but in the crush she could not see him. She stood unsteadily and walked away. Then hurt struck her afresh. Why, after everything she had endured, why did her own countrymen not want her to be with them? And she was deeply disappointed in Will, who had made no effort to intervene in her cause, as if he cared nothing for her. Yet she had been sure of his affection. She had believed he had come back to rescue her. How could she have been so wrong? She wanted the sand to swallow her up. She stumbled on, head down, not thinking about where she was going until she found herself back inside shelter.

  The next moment someone thrust a half-plucked fowl into her hands.

  Will watched Bastidas pacing towards his soldiers in the galley, one hand on his sword hilt, elbow out, the other arm swinging with his pompous stride. The man was a coxcomb in a far outpost whose soldiers had fled when his city was attacked. He would probably be intent on retribution, however mean and petty. Will did not want Ellyn at risk because of that. He walked over to Drake and, at a nod from him, sat close.