by Jenny Barden
‘What is he like?’
Will’s answer was no help at all.
‘Brave,’ he said, and smiled.
Drake was puffing on a smouldering leaf, ruddy-cheeked and clearly at ease. There was a fug of collusion in the air, in the way the smoke wreathed and curled, drifting in the sunbeams slanting through the arched stern windows. Ellyn imagined some sort of bargain must already have been concluded. She saw complicity in the way the men sat close: mariners and Cimaroons alike were all hunched around the captain’s table until, as she entered, one by one they raised their heads. She recognised wiry John Oxenham and Ellis Hixom with his hideous scars. They faced two fearsome-looking Africans, and a swarthy seaman whom she knew but could not name. With his back turned towards her was a white-haired gentleman wearing a faded blue cape. This man was the first to rise, and when he greeted her she was amazed, for he was Le Testu, slight and stooped with age, gracious and softly spoken, with a manner more suited to a scriptorium than a warship.
At Le Testu’s invitation, Will made a place for her to sit. Then a silver cup was pushed into her hands.
‘Would you care for some eau de vie, mademoiselle?’ Le Testu asked. Her bewilderment probably showed. ‘I believe you call it brandy wine,’ the Frenchman explained, while his face crinkled like an old dried leaf.
She held the cup near her lips. A trace of strong spirits caught at the back of her throat, along with the reek of weed-smoke and tallow.
‘Thank you, Captain. It is a long time since I partook of drink such as this.’
Le Testu cocked his head.
‘Ah, yes. You have lived here for well over a year, I am told, on an island near Nombre de Dios, under the nose of the Spaniards with little charity from them to sustain you.’ He smiled, blinking rapidly. ‘So please drink with us. This is the finest eau de vie from Armagnac; it preserves youth and makes the wit lively.’
‘Then I shall be glad of it.’
To please him she sipped, and someone chuckled as she gasped.
Le Testu raised his cup.
‘A votre santé. You must be pleased to be with your countrymen again.’
‘I thank God for that.’
‘And my countrymen are your friends also. Did you notice how many there were on my ship?’
She looked around the table, puzzled by the question, but no one else seemed surprised; they all drank or smoked, scratched or examined their hands. Ellyn frowned.
‘A good number, sir. I should say about forty mariners were above decks.’
‘Excellent. And in the mast tops, were any men there?’
She hesitated. An image of the French ship formed uncertainly in her mind, culled from what she had glimpsed when she had been rowed across from the fort, though then she had been concentrating on Will and what he had said.
Le Testu fixed her with his pale eyes.
‘I wonder, can you tell me how many mast tops you saw on my ship?’
‘Tush, sir! Do you not know your own ship?’ She bridled, suddenly aware that she was being tested, and affronted by the implication. ‘You have a carrack with a main, fore and mizzen, and fighting tops on them all. I believe I saw a man at the top of the foremast.’
A sound like a hand-slap made her turn towards Drake. His shoulders were shaking while a suppressed smile creased his face. Someone cackled and coughed.
Le Testu raised a gnarled hand.
‘I am pleased you are so observant. Now tell me of the mule trains if you will. You have seen them entering Nombre de Dios?’
‘Yes, they come in most days now from Panamá, and that will continue until the treasure fleet leaves for Spain.’
‘Do you know when that will be?’
She was aware that there had been noise in the cabin only when it stopped, and then what she heard was the slow creaking of the frigate’s timbers. The men around the table were all completely still. She answered with conviction, as best she could.
‘No later than mid-April, when the rains start, and the Royal Road becomes impassable.’
A murmur rippled and gathered strength.
‘So we only have a few weeks?’ Oxenham demanded. ‘The fleet may already be underway.’
‘What then?’ someone asked, and voices were raised.
‘God’s teeth!’ Hixom snarled.
Le Testu broke into the clamour and asked, ‘Are you sure of this?’
He looked at her. They all looked at her. She tried to explain, thinking back to Bastidas and the things he had said, through memories of the degradation she had sought to forget. She glanced at Will and saw the strength that she needed.
She took a deep breath.
‘In the third week of February, I saw Captain Bastidas, the Commander of the garrison at Nombre de Dios. He said that the fleet would sail in six weeks.’
Will nodded.
‘That would be the beginning of April.’
‘We are near the end of March now,’ the swarthy mariner broke in. ‘We might be too late.’
‘We might be rich very soon, Master Sherwell.’ Drake silenced the muttering that ensued. ‘The most precious loads will be carried last. The Spaniards will not risk leaving the King’s gold for long in that Treasure House, not since our attack.’
‘The most precious will be the best guarded,’ Le Testu said softly. ‘Could you describe the escort for the mule trains, mademoiselle?’
‘In the main, they are light.’ She thought of the barefoot guards she had seen marching into the city. ‘The Spaniards still fear an attack by sea, not along the road. I have seen trains of about fifty mules guarded by a dozen men, mostly slaves armed with bows. Sometimes they carry firearms, but these are often old.’ Her gaze was drawn to Drake’s Cimaroon friends. She took in their proud faces and muscular shoulders. She saw pieces of armour, and bracelets of leather and teeth. The men looked menacing, but she would be truthful. ‘Since the Cimaroons do not use firearms, and the Cimaroons are perceived as the principal threat, these weapons are considered sufficient.’
The Africans scowled, while Hixom’s mouth twisted into a wide, ugly grin.
‘We’ll rout ’em.’
‘It’s as we thought,’ Oxenham said.
‘Aye,’ someone growled and others followed.
Ellyn sensed the eagerness swelling in the hearts of the men. Even Will’s eyes were flashing. The mood caught like wildfire but it left her untouched. They could not know what they faced.
‘The mule trains usually travel in convoys of two or three,’ she said. ‘The largest may have two hundred mules and be guarded by fifty men.’
Will nodded.
‘Some of those might be Spanish horsemen: caballeros – armoured and carrying matchlocks. We have seen the kind.’
‘And bested them,’ Hixom added.
‘Together we can better fifty!’ Drake slapped the table and gave a triumphant smile. ‘Near the city, at the end of their long journey, their vigilance will be less. This is where we should strike.’
‘Aye!’ Oxenham and Hixom led the chorus, and the Cimaroons soon took it up. ‘This is a good plan.’
Le Testu leaned forward.
‘Such an attack will depend on surprise.’
Drake stroked his beard and looked from the Frenchman to the Cimaroons.
‘The Cimaroons will help us. They know the forest trails. We will round the headland of the Cativas and sail west for eleven leagues. There is a river called the Francisco that is within a day’s march of the city. It should suit our purpose well. Our pinnaces can take us to a landing place upstream.’
‘You say “us”,’ Le Testu interposed. ‘Am I to have the honour of being included in this venture?’ His manner was reserved but Ellyn felt his zeal. His gaze settled on Drake.
‘Most certainly,’ Drake gestured with open palms. ‘But I would rather have a few good men than an army not up to the task. I can count on fifteen in my own company: strong men of courage, experienced, fit and ready.’ His bright eyes scanned
the faces of every Englishman around the table: Oxenham, Hixom, Sherwell and Will. One by one they all showed their commitment. Then he looked across at Le Testu. ‘Can you match that?’
The French captain smiled, and with good reason Ellyn thought, since his forces were plainly greater, but he answered respectfully.
‘I have seventy men and, since our fortunate encounter, most are now restored in health.’
His men had arrived in a parlous state. Ellyn remembered how they had been desperate for both water and food, but their recovery had been swift.
Drake gave Le Testu a knowing look.
‘Twenty will be sufficient, yourself included, but pick only the best, and we will have Cimaroons enough to balance us in numbers, since the success of our venture will depend equally on them.’
He turned towards his old allies and she saw them conferring, but she could tell from Drake’s expression that he never doubted their support; it was given by a warrior with tattoos across his brow.
‘We will join you.’
Drake drew on his leaf and half closed his eyes, then he exhaled, blowing smoke towards the low ceiling before turning to Le Testu.
‘Have the rest of your men get your ship ready for a long voyage.’ Suddenly his tone became strident. ‘We may need to leave quickly!’
Ellyn noticed the change as the men broke into broad smiles.
Hixom stood, swayed and held up his cup.
‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘To victory!’ Le Testu followed.
All at once the men got to their feet, pitching their voices in deep accord. Ellyn alone was left seated, until she rose with the awareness that she had almost been forgotten.
She spoke up from her heart.
‘I pray for that, too.’
‘Thank you, dear lady,’ Drake kissed her hand before giving the order to prepare. ‘We must be ready at dawn!’
While the men began to move, Will gestured for Ellyn to go first.
‘Four more days,’ he murmured from behind her. ‘You won’t have long to wait. Then we’ll all leave together.’
The stranger was a giant. Kit watched him approach, surrounded by a growing crowd as he passed through the village. The man towered above most. When the man came close, Sancho rose and challenged him, and even Sancho was no taller. After they had spoken, Sancho turned to Kit.
‘This is Gibad,’ Sancho said. ‘He comes as a friend, with a message for you.’
‘Welcome, Gibad.’ Kit raised his hand in greeting, taking in the man’s impassive face, and the length of cloth that he wore like a robe, wrapped about his hips, then draped over one shoulder. The garb was curious. The cimarrones usually wore clothes that were stolen.
Kit beckoned the stranger closer.
‘What is your message?’
As the man strode forward, Kit noticed the puckered scars that ran in lines down his chest. The man looked at him uncertainly. He stopped a pace away, then he dropped down on one knee, speaking to Sancho who interpreted for him.
‘He asks to be shown the mark of the moon.’
Kit understood and held up his hand. The visitor bowed, reached out, and pressed Kit’s palm to his brow in a way Kit had witnessed countless times before. He did not resist.
The man spoke again, and then waited for Sancho to explain. ‘He says he has been told there will be Englishmen near the road.’
Kit tried to show no reaction. He had learnt to keep hope contained. ‘Where, near the road?’
The man answered and looked at Sancho.
‘He is not sure,’ Sancho said. ‘The message was not clear. He was told to tell you that Englishmen are expected near the road to Nombre de Dios. He can say no more.’
Kit nodded. The man had delivered the message freely. Why would he have kept anything back?
Kit caught the man’s eye.
‘Who told you?’
‘The boy of the Englishwoman of Bastimentos. The message came from her, though she has left the island now.’
An Englishwoman? Kit had heard rumours of an Englishwoman on an island, but he had never before believed them. Perhaps they were true. But, if so, then how had she come to be there? Where was she now? He looked from Gibad to the food laid out by the fire, set ready for the evening’s feasting. He gestured to it.
‘Eat with us, and accept our thanks. We like to know what passes on the road. We like to learn of pack trains that might carry things we can use – weapons and tools. If you hear of such traffic, then please tell us more.’ He smiled and stood. ‘What is ours is yours.’
Sancho drew the man away as Kit walked to the edge of the clearing. From the hilltop he could glimpse the sea. He drew a deep breath. Looking over the treetops he saw the distant stretch of water that led eventually to the ocean. A rustling made him turn, and he saw Ololade drawing nearer, hips swaying, leaning back. She was heavy with child, and he knew the child was his. Behind her were the thatched roofs of the village, greyed by smoke and the low, fading light. He could hear the soft chant of singing, the beat of drums and babbling voices – smell the cooking and the earth, sense the warmth leaving the forest. Ololade walked up to him and pressed her swollen belly to his side. He put his arm around her and closed his eyes. The laughter of children took him back to his own childhood in England, and a memory of chasing around corn stooks with Will. Then, the sound of the church bell had rung clear across the valley, but in his mind that soon faded, displaced by the evening riot of jungle noises.
Ololade snuggled against him.
‘The stranger has troubled you,’ she said haltingly in the English she was still learning.
‘Yes.’ Kit sighed. He had hoped not to alert her, but she knew him too well.
She leant her head on his chest.
‘You want to find your countrymen.’
‘Yes.’ He could not keep it from her. ‘But the Spaniards control the road. It would be dangerous for us to go there. And for what? For nothing that will help us.’
‘For you.’
Kit buried his face in her hair, inhaling her cocoa scent, feeling her heat.
‘I cannot take anyone with me. Even if I find a ship bound for England, I cannot leave, except alone. There is no one of your kind who is free in my country, only a very few Negro page boys who serve in rich households. You could not come with me as my woman.’
‘I understand, yet your birthplace is across the sea. You have the chance to go back and you will not rest until you do.’
He felt her shaking and knew she was crying. What could he do? Should he try to forget what the messenger had told him?
She pressed his hand to her hard belly.
‘You must go.’
Kit held her tight, conscious of the new life under his scarred palm and that though her words were few, her perception was great. He could not remain forever an outcast; neither could he take her with him, and still less raise their mixed-blood child in England. The cimarrones were her family now – her people, but not his, not truly. Sancho would look after her, shelter and comfort her, protect the child she was carrying. He hugged her and kissed her, over and over, then stroked her forehead gently and felt the wet of his own tears.
She looked at him bravely, cupping her hands under her stomach.
‘A part of you will be always with me.’
‘My love,’ he said, turning aside as he wept. ‘Tell the others I have gone hunting.’
Ellyn crossed her arms and hugged herself as she paced along the beach. ‘Only two more days’ was the thought that cheered her, and provided the excuse for another little squeeze. Four more days was what Will had said, and two had already passed since he had sailed off with Drake. Then, when Will came back, they would leave together as he had promised, no matter whether he returned with riches or nothing at all. They would sail for England, away from Slaughter Island and the Cativas, and Panamá and the Spanish Main. Drake would have to embark on the homeward voyage or miss the favourable currents and risk being caught i
n storms; and, anyway, the fleet would soon be on its way to Spain taking with it the treasure that was all Drake wanted, so there would be no reason for him to stay any longer.
Then, throughout the crossing, she and Will would share stories. They would fill in the time they had missed, he in her life, she in his, until they each knew the other as if they had never been apart, for as far back as memory served, and nothing would be hidden or left overlooked. They would share their thoughts and ideas. They would reveal every incident that had shaped their histories, or given them pleasure, or stayed in their hearts, and grow together in the telling, like vine stems intertwined. She gave a small skip and glanced round, noticing a Cimaroon watching her from the shade beside the shore. Let him see. She took two quick steps, a small leap, and twirled about. Then her pace slowed and she continued head bowed. She would return without her father – her mother would be distraught.
Ellyn hugged herself again, but for reassurance, not for joy. How would she explain? Her mother’s grief would be immeasurable. The loss would seal her in seclusion as if her door had been boarded over. Ellyn clutched at her sides imagining her distress. But surely her return would bring some solace? She walked more quickly. In the midst of her mother’s sorrow she could give a little sweetness; her mother would come to know that Will was to thank for bringing back hope. Then perhaps she would again take some pleasure from picking up her sewing, and maybe begin a fresh design, and work it in bright colours, and when that happened then Will might speak . . .
What would he say? Ellyn studied a mangrove plant growing straight out of the sea: no more than a few arched roots, and a single thin stem with two leathery leaves. How had it grown there? She shook her head and walked on with lighter steps.
How would Will show himself worthy if he was to ask for her hand? She had considered the question so often she could not conceive it might not arise. She had no reason to suppose Will would ever be truly wealthy. Perhaps he might return with a few more pearls and silver, though even that seemed unlikely considering Drake’s recent failures. But once she was in England, those small riches would be unimportant. He would have delivered her home safely. He would have proved by his conduct that he was beyond compare as a suitor. Her love for him would dispel doubt, and with the faintest of smiles, and a word barely whispered, her mother’s blessing would be given and their happiness made complete. Ellyn raised her skirts and took five steps: the beginning of a galliard. Then, with a little jump, she began turning circles along the shore.