by J. D. Davies
Behind Ashby, men were slowly beginning to break away from the huddle by the mainmast. Ashby desperately turned one way and then the other, but saw no succour anywhere.
‘F-forgive me, Master Stannard.’
Jack nodded. ‘Done, Hal Ashby. For one thing, you’re too good a hand for us to hang, or to have your back flogged raw. Too good a boatswain, at that. For another, I say this. Listen, you men there! We’re on the fastest course to England – trust me in this. The winds and great current that carry us now sweep us all the way to the Indies, where they turn and sweep back across the ocean. Aye, we could try to beat due north, but it would take us far longer. So to get home, we must go via the Indies – and if we have to do that anyway, which we do, we may as well try to unburden ourselves of the slaves when we get there.’
Men were looking at each other, and whispering quietly amongst themselves, but it was clear that no counter-argument would be presented. The hands drifted away, and Hal Ashby, shamefaced, joined them.
Tom turned to his father. ‘You were serious? About dying to stop them throwing the slaves overboard?’
‘Of course, although I know I took your name in vain, Tom.’
‘Aye, well, not as much as you took Meg’s.’
Jack smiled. ‘Did I, though? If she had any inkling that Hal Ashby and the rest of ’em had done for us, I’ll wager she’d not bother with judge, jury and hangman. She’d slice off their cocks herself, stuff them in their mouths, then slit their throats.’
Tom laughed. ‘Aye, Father, that she would.’
Nineteen
If Jack Stannard had been disappointed by his first sight of Africa, the same could not be said of his first glimpse of the Indies. The fleet made its landfall at the island of Dominica. Jack and Tom stood at the rail of the Jennet, looking upon mountains cloaked in lush trees, golden beaches, and towering rock formations. Steam seemed to be rising like a great cloud from the abundant vegetation, and waterfalls appeared to cut into every slope they could see. For a fleet running desperately low on fresh water, and with disease raging through both the crews and the slaves, it was a blessed sight.
But like Eden itself, Dominica was deceptive.
As soon as the fleet dropped anchor, Hawkins issued orders that only minimal shore parties were to be sent out, no more than one boat per ship, and that the men dispatched to refill the water casks were to be accompanied by a strong guard. There would be no general shore leave; bitter news for men who had been trapped within a stinking, leaking wooden hull crossing the great ocean for nearly eight weeks. Tom went across to the flagship to protest, but returned a little while later with a dire message from the admiral. Dominica was inhabited by one of the most ferocious native tribes in the entire Indies. Just before Hawkins’ last voyage to the area, three years earlier, the tribes of the island had killed and eaten the entire crew of a wrecked Spanish man-of-war. As he recounted the tale to his father, Jack could see that Tom’s face was white; doubtless he was thinking of the fate of Bruno Santos Cabral.
Over the next day and a half, the water casks were refilled. That done, the fleet sailed southward, sighting the hilly mainland of America two days later and making landfall at Margarita, the largest of three small, mountainous islands off the coast, and the only one that remained inhabited. Hawkins had told his captains that these islands had once been made rich by the abundant pearls to be gleaned from the oyster beds around them. But the beds had been farmed too vigorously, while the divers, drawn from captured native tribesmen, had been used so harshly that they died in their droves. The admiral had been here before, during his previous voyage, and hoped that the local officials would be as keen as they were then to buy some slaves.
However, in the evening when the English fleet came into the port at the south-east corner of the island, there was a collection of mean huts that served the island’s principal town some miles inland, and it was swiftly evident that the entire place was deserted. The small fort under construction at the side of the harbour was empty. Hawkins sent a party ashore with a message to the governor, whose men were found hiding in the woods behind the town. The next day, following a formal welcome for the English admiral and his captains in the town square, the reason for the local Spaniards’ trepidation became apparent: a French fleet had raided the area some months earlier, devastating the entire island. Within the hearing of the two Stannards, Hawkins expressed his sympathies to the island’s governor and assured him that as a loyal former servant of his most glorious majesty the Catholic King Philip the Second, he, and his men, were of vastly superior conduct to the brutish French.
A week of peaceful trading followed. The ships restocked with fresh meat, and the crews dined on beef and mutton every day, marking the contrast with the endless days of salt fish, bread and biscuit during the ocean crossing. The local colonists proved eager to buy the iron, linen and bales of cloth carried in some of the other ships, and Jack cursed the fact that the Jennet had sailed from Plymouth with nothing more than a poor cargo of Devon stuff, rather than good Suffolk cloth, which would have sold for a substantial profit.
He and Tom were taking turns going ashore, and one morning, Jack found himself almost alone in the town square. It was the hottest day since their arrival, and Englishmen and colonists alike were resting wherever they could find shade. Hawkins and his immediate retinue had gone off for yet another formal meal with the governor in the fort that overlooked the harbour. Jack looked around one last time, then made his way into the church, a roughly built affair at one side of the square. He did not notice the one pair of English eyes fixed on him from a shaded alley in the far corner.
Within, it was blessedly dark and cool. Jack genuflected towards the altar, looked around at the candles, the statues of the Virgin and the saints, the crucifixes, and the brightly coloured stained glass in the windows, then knelt down, took out his paternoster and began to pray. As he prayed, he wept. Here, in this strange place, he was safe; in this little island of the true faith, the faith that Dunwich and England had lost. So he prayed for his family, for his town, for his dead Alice, for the immortal soul of Bruno Santos Cabral.
Eventually, he looked up, and realised a priest was eyeing him curiously. The fellow was tall, lean and bald, his vestment rougher than any Jack had ever seen on a cleric.
The priest said something in rapid Spanish, and Jack struggled to form a response. He began in English, but then tried ‘Da veniam me, Patris’, hoping that his memories from long ago had translated ‘Pardon me, Father’ correctly.
The priest smiled. ‘You’re English?’ he said, in Jack’s own tongue.
Jack looked at him with astonishment. ‘F-forgive me, Father.’
‘You didn’t expect to encounter a priest who speaks your language, in this of all places? But I was a Franciscan once, and during the reign of your late Queen Mary and my King Philip, I was one of those sent to England to restore the Greyfriars at Greenwich. God willed that we should endure only for four years, and since then, there have been many strange turns in my life to bring me to this place. I am Father Vicente Soriano.’
‘And I am John Stannard, of Dunwich.’
‘Dunwich… that name is known to me.’
‘It, too, had a house of the Greyfriars. One of those within it, a man long since departed, was once a good friend to me.’
‘And you hold to the true faith, John Stannard of Dunwich, despite all that has happened in your country?’
‘I do.’
Father Soriano nodded. ‘When did you last take any of the holy sacraments, my son?’
‘It has been many months, Father. Even then, the communion I took was that enjoined by the queen we have now, so in English. As for confession… it has been several years.’
Soriano laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder.
‘Well then, John Stannard of Dunwich, we will correct that. I will hear your confession, then we will celebrate Mass, you and I. Afterwards, you will tell me of your old friend, my brother in
Christ, may he rest in peace and light perpetual shine upon him.’
Jack’s heart sprang within his chest, and he began to weep again.
* * *
From the isle of Margarita, the English fleet sailed west along the coast of the mainland, its men awed by the great mountains that reared up behind the shoreline. The ships anchored again inshore of a chain of small islands, in an inlet called Borboruta, where Hawkins hoped to careen his ships. As he admitted privately to Jack, Tom and his other captains, he also hoped to be able to surreptitiously sell some of the slaves, even though the governor of this area was known to be ferociously opposed to such activity. The attitude of the local bishop, according to Hawkins, was exactly the opposite, unlikely as it might seem for a prelate of the Church of Rome to welcome a fleet full of heretics. With the governor somewhere far upcountry, the English took full advantage of the situation. The Jennet was one of the first ships to be lightened of her cargo, then hauled up onto the beach and pulled over onto her larboard side by ropes. With the bottom of the other side of the hull exposed, the crew could get to work.
‘Doubt if a Stannard ship’s ever been so foul,’ said Tom.
He and his father looked at the many months of filth that had accumulated on the bottom of the Jennet; the river mouths of Africa had been thick with vegetation and barnacles, so the ships of the fleet were already utterly foul before they sailed for the Indies. But Jack’s attention was distracted by the sight of the slaves, exercising themselves on the beach while their floating prison was made good. A few merchants had already come down from the nearby towns and were sizing up what they saw. Perhaps sales might be arranged quietly and privately before the governor of New Andalucia, as this land was called, even heard about them, let alone issued a prohibition. Jack hoped so; the sooner the human cargo was off his ship, the happier he would be. But there was another consideration now that they had finally arrived in the Indies. It was time to act upon his commission from Francis Walsingham.
Father Soriano had given Jack much information about the governor, and he had no doubt that if Hawkins strained his patience too far, the Spaniard would respond with force. That evening, Jack learned that Hawkins intended to dispatch a strongly armed party overland to Valencia, seat of the amenable bishop, to persuade the local merchants of the merits of trading with the English down at Borboruta. At once, he went out to the Jesus in one of the Jennet’s boats and sought an audience with the admiral.
John Hawkins was deep in a copy of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.
‘Cousin,’ he said, looking up. He appeared tired and distracted.
‘Admiral.’
‘You seem troubled, my friend.’ He did not signal for Jack to sit down.
‘It is this expedition to Valencia under Barrett.’ Jack had rehearsed the words he would say, but now it was time to speak them, they sounded like the lies a child would tell its parents when caught stealing from a market stall. ‘Are you sure it is the right course to steer? Will it not be likely to cause a breach with the governor?’
Hawkins set down the book upon his chart table and stared at Jack as though he was seeing him for the first time, then spoke with uncharacteristic coldness.
‘I am admiral here, Jack Stannard. You – what are you, exactly? Captain of the Jennet, or a supernumerary aboard her, under your son?’
Jack was not prepared for such a hostile response.
‘Admiral, I meant merely—’
‘Have you seen plays, John Stannard?’
‘Plays?’
‘Plays. Actors.’
‘I saw the mystery plays when I was a boy – and more recently, at Orford, before they were banned.’
‘So, then, that is what we have here. You act your part. You tell me I should not send Barrett to Valencia. I listen, I nod, I concur with you. That is your play, John Stannard, but it is not mine. And yours is no mystery.’
Jack felt a sudden sense of dread, but if he was truly playing a part, then he would play it to the end.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Admiral.’
Hawkins shook his head and rubbed his eyes. In that moment, he looked at least twice his age. ‘God’s blood, John Stannard,’ he said, ‘have you really spent all these months believing that I had no idea why you were on this voyage?’
‘I say again, I cannot think what you mean, friend Hawkins.’ But all the confidence had ebbed from Jack’s voice.
‘Really? Really, Jack? Do you imagine that the investors in this voyage are a joyous and united band, who love each other heartily? I think I know the court better than you, my friend, and it is a bear pit. Every man seeks to tear out the throat of his neighbour if it will bring him just one inch nearer to this place of honour, or that lucrative property, or that baron’s coronet. So what any two or three men scheme privately to undertake is swiftly known to their rivals, who will do all in their power to undermine them.’
‘I still do not follow,’ said Jack, although in truth, he did, all too well.
Hawkins sighed. With that, too, he relented, and beckoned for Jack to sit. He even took up the jug of wine upon the table and poured two glasses, pushing one towards Jack.
‘You know my good-father Gonson, of course. He is a godly man, a man who works prodigiously for the interest of England and our queen. But you know what, cousin Stannard? I may be married to his daughter, but I wouldn’t trust him to hold my gloves. And there are others behind him whom I’d trust even less, all the way up to Secretary Cecil. So when Master Benjamin Gonson, allegedly on behalf of nameless others among our investors, informs me that he wishes your ship to join the expedition – well, I am put on my guard, and so I make enquiries within the bear pit. Hence, I know that you are a sort of spy, Jack Stannard.’
Jack stared at Hawkins, but could think of no response. To deny the charge would be to perjure himself, for although ‘spy’ was a foul word, that, in essence, was what Francis Walsingham had made him.
Hawkins steepled his hands and smiled. ‘I feel for you, cousin. You’ve been sent on a fool’s errand, you see. No man needs to restrain me from confrontation with the Spaniards – no man more than myself. Why do you think I’m so punctilious in sending letters to each and every jumped-up minor official of these colonies, flattering them to the heights and explaining exactly what I’ve just done, what I’m doing now, and what I intend to do next? Why do you think I keep a detailed record of everything that has happened during our voyage, as well as copies of every piece of correspondence I send and receive? I told you before, Jack Stannard. King Philip was my old master, and I’m the last man in England who’d want a war with Spain. Would that the same could be said of others.’
Jack finally reached forward for the wine, but took no more than a sip.
‘What others?’
‘At bottom, cousin Stannard, you and I are simple merchants. For us, it’s all about the balance sheet, the profit and the loss. We bring a cargo across the sea – wine, wool, men, whatever it might be – and we sell it, so we should be content, and our investors should be happy. Ah, but it is not as simple as that. The place where we will make the greatest profit says we may no longer trade with it. Our investors know this, the queen most of all. They throw up their hands and say, “At all costs, John Hawkins, you must not have a war with Spain!” But in the same breath, they also say, “At all costs, John Hawkins, you must make us a fortune!” By demanding the latter, of course, they risk the former, but they somehow expect me – us – to prevent it from happening. Which is why I ensure that every single thing I do, and this fleet does, is chronicled in precise detail.
‘And that is where we are, Jack Stannard. All of them, from the queen downward, want to avoid a war with Spain, but at exactly the same time, they all want to make themselves richer by means of trading where Spain does not want us to trade. Indeed, to make themselves richer by whatever means, which is why even the queen raised no objection to my alternative scheme after the Portingal cheats vanished, taking their lies of A
frican gold mines with them. And all of them – all of them, Jack, the queen included – secretly dream the most forbidden dream of all, that I might somehow capture the King of Spain’s bullion. Irreconcilable fantasies. You know that, and I know it. For now, perhaps, they can have both. But one day, as God is my judge, they will not.’
Jack took another sip of his wine. ‘You want me to leave the fleet?’ he asked, resignedly. ‘God willing, using Cabral’s charts, we can make our own way home.’
Hawkins seemed to consider the proposition, but his response, when it came, was unequivocal. ‘What, and weaken my force by one strong ship, and part with men who have shown themselves sturdy warriors for England? An admiral who did that would be cutting his own throat. No, I trust we understand each other now, Jack Stannard, just as Dudley and I did after he attacked me. But mind yourself with my cousin Drake, for he is less forgiving than I when it comes to matters like this. He already suspects you of being a papist, which you are, of course.’ He said it in such an offhand way that Jack almost missed the significance of the comment.
‘I… I am true—’
‘Oh, spare me, Jack Stannard. I couldn’t care whether you worship my God, the Pope’s God, Mahomet, or whatever deity those savages pray to – much good theirs have done them. There are followers of the old faith everywhere in this fleet, and I have no issue with that, though Frank Drake does, of course, as you heard upon Christmas Day. He’s voiced suspicions of you to me, and if I confirmed them, he’d closet you with him for twelve hours a day so he could convert you. Be thankful, then, that it was one of my men, not one of his, that saw you go into the church on Margarita. Sees himself as a great missionary, does Frank. He’s already converted a Welshman, and fancies saving the souls of others.’
Hawkins reached forward and refilled Jack’s glass, even though he had drunk very little. ‘For my part,’ he said, ‘I have to bear in mind that which some men might call treason. The law certainly might.’