Battle’s Flood

by J. D. Davies

  There is much else I would say, but I must stand my watch shortly. Know this, though. I have thought much upon the matter of your stepmother and Raker, and see now that I was wrong to dismiss it as lightly as I did. I have thought of writing to her, but fear that such a course might make matters difficult for you. As it is, I am dispatching other letters along with this one, and though these might not make matters wholly right, they will, God willing, grant you greater security against that man’s schemes.

  So, Meg, I pray you to put my friends in remembrance of me, and to keep me in your prayers, as I shall keep you in mine.

  May the God of your mother guard and keep you, my dear daughter.

  Your loving father

  Meg – one final matter, before I apply seal to wax. I entreat you to write to Will Halliday in London, to see if he has had receipt of my letters to him. If he has not, then I beg you to send him this message. He is to tell our friend from the Pope’s Head that the eggs remain unbroken, the horses remain in their stables, and we have encountered no griffins. Those exact words, Meg, no other. One day, I pray that I will return to explain it all to you. Until then, be safe, be true, be faithful.

  Jack sealed the letter, added it to the pouch containing the others, and handed it to the lad who was to take it over to the Portingal ship. As he did so, he heard something of a commotion on deck, and went out from the stern cabin to see Tom exchange frosty greetings with the newly minted Captain Francis Drake, who was just coming aboard.

  ‘Ah, Captain Stannard the elder,’ said Drake, seemingly in good cheer and doffing his hat. ‘I give you joy of the season.’

  ‘And to yourself, Captain Drake.’

  In truth, there was no sense of the Christmas season. It was not yet eight in the morning, but the sun’s heat was already overwhelming, and the slightest movement made men run with sweat. Awnings stretched over the deck of the Jennet, as they did over those of the other ships, and a few men who had been on watch during the night were stretched out beneath them, hoping for a blessed conjuncture of shade and even the merest hint of a cooling breeze.

  ‘What do you want here, Drake?’ said Tom, testily.

  ‘Mere good neighbourliness, Captain Stannard,’ replied Drake. The fight in the Plymouth tavern seemed entirely forgotten, on the one side at least. ‘The admiral and I have been somewhat concerned that God is not praised aboard your ship – how can I put it? – quite as fulsomely as He should be.’

  Tom and Jack exchanged a glance, but it was the father who responded.

  ‘We call the men to prayers each morning, as the admiral’s instructions enjoin,’ said Jack. ‘I am not a man much versed in scripture, but I do my utmost to lead respectful worship.’

  ‘No doubt you do, Captain Stannard, no doubt you do. But with respect, men’s souls need more than a few rote prayers each morn. Aboard the flagship, we have a psalm, the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed and a sermon at the start of the forenoon watch and the end of the second dog.’

  ‘Do you keep a bishop aboard the Jesus, then?’ said Tom, mischievously.

  ‘From what I have seen of bishops,’ said Drake, ‘we are better placed. Blessed indeed, one might say. We have two godly men who preach with all the knowledge and fervour of any at Paul’s Cross. Mayhap I join with them from time to time – my father was a man of the cloth, so I can essay a passable sermon.’ Even if you struggle to essay modesty, thought Jack. ‘So, my friends, I am come with the admiral’s authority to invite you to a service of thanksgiving aboard the flagship for our blessed saviour’s nativity.’

  * * *

  Two hours later, Jack, Tom, and all but a bare ship-keeping watch from the Jennet, commanded by the unashamedly Catholic Bruno Cabral, were assembled in the capacious waist of the Jesus to hear one of Drake’s friends, a squat, ugly fellow named Harry Newman, preach with a full measure of Lutheran venom. Hawkins alone was seated, and protected from the sun by an awning. A Spanish viceroy could hardly have appeared in more state, nor been more indifferent to those in the waist of the ship, who had barely any cover.

  Tom Stannard listened intently to Newman, though, as did many of the men in the congregation. This was the line that Church and state expected of Englishmen, after all, and Tom was perfectly content with it. Jack, though, wished to cry out against the travesty of it all, but kept silent. That a mean fellow of no standing, and not ordained, should dare to preach the word of God, and to offer up seemingly endless prayers for the life of Elizabeth…

  Slowly, Jack’s inner rage subsided, and he concentrated a little more upon Newman’s interminable rant – for he would not distinguish it with the name of sermon. As he did so, he felt a growing sense of discomfort. Newman had taken what seemed to be a random and inappropriate selection of texts – Peter, Romans and Titus upon giving obedience to rulers; Ephesians 6, justifying slavery; Revelation 17, against the Whore of Babylon, defined by Newman, as by so many of his kind, as the Pope; and so on. It was hardly cheering Christmas fare, and not what Jack was accustomed to in Dunwich. Worse, Newman also had an uncomfortable habit of seeming to stare directly at Jack, as though he was the one sinner in the congregation to be singled out and threatened with eternal hellfire. Damn his eyes, then. Jack stared back, defiantly.

  Newman finally finished, but there was no respite, though some of even the sturdiest foremastmen were struggling in the enervating heat. For now Francis Drake himself stepped forward, and embarked upon what could only be called a tirade, extolling the virtues of Queen Elizabeth, ‘that fair, blessed and righteous virgin’, and denouncing the Pope in familiar terms. He had certainly learned much from his father, and spoke even more clearly and passionately than Newman had.

  ‘And so, my friends, I tell you this!’ he cried, his eyes scanning the congregation. ‘England will carry the banner of true reformed religion forth across the world! England, God’s chosen nation upon earth! We will put to flight all ignorance and popish superstition, wherever it may be! We will bring the truth to all nations and peoples, aye, even to the heathens of these very lands! Under our blessed Queen Elizabeth, the new Deborah, the new Judith, we will humble the pride of Spain, and all nations of the world will come to know and fear the name of England!’

  Many of Drake’s and Hawkins’ Devon men cheered at that, and even a few of the loyal men of the Jennet nodded vigorously. Jack saw Tom stifling a laugh, and was close to smiling himself.

  High words, Frank Drake, he thought, when what we are really about is the getting of gold, pure and simple, and by whatever means.

  But Drake had not finished yet. Of course he had not.

  ‘But my friends, be wary of serpents in our midst! Recall Matthew Chapter Twenty-Seven, the terrible lesson it contains. Be vigilant, friends, for our England has enemies within!’

  Matthew 27: the story of Judas and the thirty pieces of silver.

  Jack Stannard looked at Drake, and realised that the Devonian was staring directly at him, with Hawkins nodding sagely at his side.

  Fourteen

  ‘Boat ho!’ cried the lookout in the crow’s nest of the Jesus.

  ‘Damn your eyes, boy,’ shouted Hawkins from the quarterdeck., ‘stay awake up there! I see it already! We all see it!’

  The flagship lay at anchor in the middle of the fleet, still moored at the mouth of the Sierra Leone river. It was three weeks after Christmas, and the prospects of the expedition were no better. From time to time, one or two ships had been dispatched to investigate this or that estuary, but every one of these expeditions had returned empty-handed. Time was against the English. The cloying humidity had given way to a brisk, dry easterly wind, filled with sand from the great desert that Cabral said lay far inland. This, though, would soon give way in its turn to even less bearable heat and great storms. The fleet needed to be away from this terrible shore, but it still had only a fraction of the cargo it required to turn a profit.

  These thoughts had dominated the discussion between Hawkins and his captains in the great cabi
n of the Jesus, and they were still at the forefront of most of these men’s minds as they stood upon deck, watching the strange native canoe riding the surf as it came out to them. It seemed to be no more than a great tree trunk, hollowed out and rowed by a score of near-naked savages, bearing two men in headdresses who appeared to be passengers.

  Jack Stannard stood alongside Hawkins. The strange affair on Christmas Day felt almost like a bad dream; since then, the admiral had seemed to go out of his way to take Jack into his confidence. True, Francis Drake had almost entirely avoided the company of the two Stannards, but that was due in part to Hawkins favouring his kinsman’s small ship for most of the brief expeditions to hunt for slaves. The Jennet, though, had never been sent out at all.

  The canoe came alongside, and the two passengers stepped aboard the Jesus. Cabral came forward to act as interpreter, with Jack continuing to stand by Hawkins’ side. First one of the emissaries, then the other, embarked upon what was clearly, in any language, a set speech, made up of a concoction of Portuguese and native words that Cabral seemed to navigate with little difficulty.

  ‘They are ambassadors of Sheri, King of Sierra Leone, and Yhoma, King of Castros, both of the Sapi people,’ he said. ‘They salute the most excellent admiral of the King of England.’ Hawkins made to say something, but Cabral smiled. ‘They have not heard of your Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, they have not heard of the notion of a woman holding power in her hands.’

  ‘Then explain it to them,’ said Hawkins, ‘and tell them that on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, I bid them welcome.’

  Cabral uttered a string of words, only one of which Jack recognised: Isabella. The two emissaries looked at one another, evidently struggling to comprehend the idea of a female ruler. But they swiftly recovered their confidence, and began a lengthy discourse, which Cabral summarised rather than attempting to translate word for word.

  ‘Their masters are at war with two rival kings, Sacina and Setecama by name, from a nation that has been invading the Sapi lands from the east. These have been driven back, but have fortified themselves within a town they call Conga. It is a strong position, and their enemies have many men within it. Kings Sheri and Yhoma have attacked it many times, but have failed with all. They have witnessed the weapons of the white men, and believe they will win if you choose to ally yourselves with them to take this town.’

  Hawkins looked around at his captains. Jack reckoned they were all having the same thought, for it did not take Hawkins long to turn back to Cabral.

  ‘Ask them what we get in return.’

  Cabral posed the question, and the two emissaries broke into smiles as they provided their answer.

  ‘Captives,’ said Cabral. ‘As many as can be taken.’

  Once again, Hawkins turned to his captains.

  ‘One throw of the dice, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘That is all we have. We cannot remain on this coast more than a matter of days, we cannot go south into the Bight of Benin, and we know there is nothing to the north. Aye, I’d hoped a cargo might appear that would be ripe for the taking and fall into our laps, but that’s not going to be so. God knows, I don’t want to attack a fortress and risk any of our men’s lives, but it seems to me that God has also presented us with an opportunity we can’t refuse. These little kings want English guns for their war? Then I say they shall have them.’

  There was a growl of approval, and Jack found himself joining in.

  * * *

  ‘No, Tom!’ said Jack Stannard.

  ‘It’s decided, Father. I cannot withdraw without being accused as a coward. Rightly accused.’

  ‘But why, in God’s name?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Have you not said as much yourself? Would you not go in my place, if you were twenty years younger – even ten? There’s been no chance of glory for us, and no chance of profit either. Drake and all the Devon men despise us as foreigners. But Hawkins is fairer, and listened to my case. Cabral, myself and ten of our men as part of the force of ninety that Barrett will take upriver to attack Conga. It makes sense.’

  The two men, father and son, were arguing in the stern cabin of the Jennet. With the sun, tide and wind as they were, the space was blessedly cool, albeit at a temperature that would rarely be found even on the hottest days in Dunwich.

  Jack did not reply, but turned to look out across the sea. Tom studied his father. He had aged since the beginning of the voyage; there was no doubt of it. Not long ago, he would not have been so cautious. Tom thought back to the Bay of Aiguillon. It seemed an eternity ago, yet it was only a few short months. The Jack Stannard who had fought off the French there had been altogether a bolder, more certain creature than the one who stood before him now.

  ‘And if you perish?’ said Jack, without turning back to face his son.

  ‘You will still have two grandsons left alive, to teach and make into seamen.’ Tom did not even think of mentioning his half-brothers George, Harry and Ned; they were lost to the sea, and in so many ways to their father, too. Nor did he mention his doubts that Adam would ever want anything to do with the Stannard trades. Even at his tender age, the lad rarely lifted his nose from the Bible, even though he could only understand one word in every three. Peter – laughing, impudent Peter – was a different matter.

  Jack Stannard turned, then walked over slowly to his son. He reached out and embraced him firmly.

  ‘Aye, well, so be it, then. May God go with you, son – no, forgive me, but I have to say it the old way. Dominus tecum, Tom.’

  The younger man smiled. They were the words he had rebelled against throughout the reign of the late Lady Mary, the words he had sworn never to utter again, but knowing that this might be the last time they saw each other upon earth, he would not deny his father this comfort.

  ‘Et cum spiritu tuo, Pater.’

  * * *

  An hour later, the Jennet’s boat, commanded by Tom, was second in the little fleet under Robert Barrett that slowly made its way up the Sierra Leone river. The sails, nearly useless against this easterly breeze, had already been abandoned, and men were at the oars, straining against both the current and the incessant heat. Both sides of the river were utterly featureless, the monotony broken only by the sight of elephants walking slowly along the banks and sometimes stepping into the water to cool themselves, much to the alarm of some in the English boats. The sights and the discomfort confirmed Tom’s opinion that this was a vile and thankless place.

  After another hour, a small party of natives appeared on the northern bank, and exchanged the signal agreed between the emissaries and Hawkins. The English boats pulled in to one of the few relatively open landing places, and the little army stepped ashore. They were a very little army indeed, and as they entered the native camp, Tom became even more aware of the fact. The path into the camp was lined by hundreds upon hundreds of natives, all nearly naked, all armed with spears, bows and clubs. They eyed the English party with what seemed to be a mixture of curiosity, suspicion and contempt.

  ‘If they should turn on us…’ said Tom to Cabral.

  The Portuguese nodded. The stares directed at him were of a very different kind, and he knew that if the native kings changed their minds, he would probably suffer a very different fate to his white companions. He said nothing, choosing instead to return with interest the stares of the more brazen natives.

  The Englishmen were led to the largest of a small cluster of mud huts. The interior was blessedly cool but very dark, and it took Tom’s eyes a few moments to adjust.

  The two kings sat upon stools in the centre of the hut, flanked by dozens of old men who were presumably their ministers and courtiers. Some things were the same the world over, Tom thought, as he joined Barrett in bowing to royalty. King Sheri was the older and larger of the two, very fat and wearing the skin of what had once been a great cat of some sort. His ally Yhoma was a much younger man, strongly muscled and with tightly curled hair. Barrett launched into a brief but flattering speech that would ha
ve done credit to Richmond Palace, with Cabral providing the translation to the two monarchs. They, in turn, extended their greetings to the general of the mighty King Isabella, and ordered a toast in palm wine, which Tom found both unexpectedly strong and surprisingly pleasant.

  The formalities over, detailed negotiation began. This was painfully slow, with everything having to go through Cabral, and it swiftly became clear that there had been some misconceptions on the English side. The two kings did not simply want a bombardment of Conga from the river, with the falconet swivel guns that the Englishmen had brought up in their boats; they also wanted Barrett’s men to assist them in an assault on the landward defences of the town, and expressed clear disappointment that Hawkins had sent so few men.

  The critical moment came when, through Cabral, Barrett asked how many warriors were defending the town.