An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (25 page)

There were rolls of fine linen to use as bandages, pots and bottles of healing lotions and pastes, some of which were too strange for her to risk employing them; others of whose qualities she had already formed a good opinion.

It was several hours later before she had finished with the wounded or before Rodney remembered to ask where she was. He sent for her just as she had finished bandaging the last man. When she came on deck, she realised that the ship was rolling badly and that the waves were breaking over the decks, but even in that short time the remaining crew of the
Santa Perpetua
had worked miracles and the main deck was cleared of many of the traces of the fight.

The boatswain and his mates were still splicing the rigging and the carpenter was at work, but the sail maker had already set new sails for those which were too tattered to be left aloft. It must have been hard work, against the heave and pitch of the ship, but they had managed it; and now with the swell leaping and rolling under them and the spray soaking all those who remained on deck, the only real danger lay from the fact that the crew was almost too small to bring the
Santa Perpetua
into port.

As Lizbeth was helped across the deck and had reached the safety of the aft cabin, Rodney came running out, almost colliding with her in his speed.

“ Silence!” he shouted at her, though she had not spoken. “Do you hear anything?”

It was difficult to hear anything, Lizbeth thought, above the shriek of the wind, the splash of the waves and the creaking of the ship’s timbers. But a seaman who had heard Rodney’s question answered.

“’Tis guns, sir, guns t’ the Sou’ of us!”

11

Lizbeth could hear them now and they seemed for a moment an echo of those which had rung in her ears a few hours ago.

“It’s the
Sea Hawk!”
Rodney exclaimed. “I would know the sound of her thirty-pounders anywhere. ’Tis the
Sea Hawk
and she is finishing off the Spanish galleons.”

It was a guess of course, but a guess that was proved right when just before dusk fell the
Sea Hawk
caught up with them. Rodney had heaved to and waited with an anxiety which he had managed to conceal from everyone but Lizbeth, who knew only too well the signs of strain around his eyes and mouth.

The men were not so controlled, and despite the bad weather most of them were on deck when the
Sea Hawk
finally appeared.

“Ship ho!” yelled the look-out, and a moment later came the cry that Rodney was waiting for – It’s the
Sea
Hawk, sir!”

They cheered then, and below decks a minute or so later Lizbeth heard the wounded men cheering, for the word had been carried to them.

“She is safe!” Lizbeth spoke the words in heartfelt tones of thankfulness.

Rodney turned to look down at her. The wind was whipping her hair about her cheeks and it made her look so feminine that a few months ago he would have been filled with terror lest someone guess her identity.

Now, the emotion which filled him was a different one. Her courage made him feel proud, her tired little face made him feel very protective.

“And you, too, are safe!” He spoke softly, but she heard him above the roar of the wind.

“Rodney, you have been wonderful!” She could not help telling him of the wonder and admiration within her heart. He put his arm within hers and with an expression of sheer jubilation cried,

“Together, little Lizbeth, we have done it!”

She felt as if he had placed a crown upon her head.

“Together” – the word had a thrill of glory about it, and she loved him – loved him with every beat of her heart, with every breath she drew, with every drop of blood in her veins. Rodney, the conqueror, the victor – the man of her dreams!

The men were still cheering, for it was the
Sea Hawk
right enough with nothing more dangerous to report than a split topmast and a dozen holes in her sails. The sea, which had been running high, abated enough for Master Barlow to come aboard and tell the whole story in detail.

“They fired over the top of us, sir,” he said, which explained the lack of serious damage to the
Sea Hawk.

It was one of the faults of the high galleons that they invariably missed the hull of a smaller ship which lay close in beside them.

“We heard your guns, sir, and guessed what was happening,” Barlow went on. “When we came upon the galleons ourselves, they were shipping water and drifting helplessly. We thought it was unlikely that either of them would make port, but thought it best to make sure of it”

“Quite right, Master Barlow – well done!” Rodney approved.

Extra hands from the
Sea Hawk
came to relieve the crew of the
Santa Perpetua
and, when dawn broke, both ships were on their way again. Carpenters were working on the damage done below decks until the day before they sighted Land’s End and after that there was nothing more to do but to dress the ship and bring her into Plymouth Harbour with all flags flying.

For Lizbeth the last few days passed with an incredible swiftness. It seemed to her that she hardly had a moment to think, with thirty wounded men requiring so much attention that, when she went to bed, hardly an hour passed without someone rapping on her door. Five men died, but the rest, despite dangerous wounds, were, she believed, well on the road to recovery as they rounded Rame Head.

Those who could walk or crawl dragged themselves on deck. No one wanted to miss that moment of satisfaction when the crews of other vessels entering or leaving the harbour would stare in stupefaction at the
Santa Perpetua
and know her for a prize.

Rodney was as busy as Lizbeth was, but as they sat together on the last night in the big oak-panelled after cabin, Lizbeth felt a sudden constriction of her heart as she realised that the voyage was ended and this was perhaps the last time she would be alone with Rodney.

Her love for him was as hard to bear, she had thought several times that week, as the wounds of the men she tended so carefully. They were now on the road to recovery, but she would never recover. Her love for Rodney went too deep, and she knew with that strange clairvoyance which had been hers since childhood that, whatever the future might hold for either of them, she would love him until she died.

She was not sure how she knew this; she was only aware that every nerve and vein in her body was a part of him. It did not matter whether he was angry or pleased with her, whether he was brutal or tender, she would still belong to him; and nothing but death, she thought, whimsically, would cure her of the hurt he had inflicted on her.

They sat talking over supper the last night until the candles gutted low. They talked, not of the future, but of the past, of what had happened since they left England a hundred and sixty-six days before, of the amusing little incidents which had happened during the voyage, which made them laugh again as they had laughed at the time. There were memories of Master Gadstone, of his enthusiasm and of his hatred for the Spaniards, which brought tears springing to Lizbeth’s eyes and a grave note to Rodney’s voice.

They remembered the blue skies and the clear sea of the Caribbean, the parrots and macaws with their brilliant plumage, many of which had also died on the voyage home, and the fish which swam amongst the coral reefs and could never be transferred from their natural haunts and kept alive, even for a few hours, however hard they tried.

But somehow in the greyness of the English autumn it was hard to remember the dazzling beauty of the tropical seas, and Lizbeth sometimes wondered if the cargo, too, would lose its glitter and value when they unshipped it on the prosaic docks of Plymouth where it could no longer be seen against the luxuriant vegetation and the golden sands of the Caribbean shore.

Even the bejewelled ornaments on the table, she thought, seemed duller and less sparkling; and then she realised that it was her own sadness at having to say good-bye that was colouring everything. For one wild moment she contemplated telling Rodney what she felt about him so that she could sail again with him on another voyage.

It was but a passing madness and she smiled at the idea even as it came to her; and yet she dreaded the moment when she must leave him and return to her real life as a woman. In retrospect the voyage all became a wonderful dream; the heartache, the anxieties and even the miseries were forgotten or paled into insignificance beside the happiness and the laughter and the times when Rodney and she had shared a companionship such as she had never known in the whole of her life before. She would never know it again, she thought. She must go back to Camfield, to her father and stepmother, to Phillida and Francis and the safe security of her home.

It all seemed so petty and trivial and unimportant compared with the life she had lived aboard Rodney’s ships and at Rodney’s side. But they would be in port tomorrow. There was nothing for her to do but say good-bye with as much dignity and control as she could achieve.

Rodney was looking at her as she sat with her elbows on the table, her little chin resting on her hands. The white starched linen which had been Francis” ruff framed her hair and the green satin of her doublet echoed her eyes.

“Are you content with what we have achieved?”

He asked the question although he knew the answer. “No one could have done more ”

There was a thrill in her voice and he felt absurdly pleased by her praise even while he expected it.

“I have been singularly fortunate.”

“As I foretold!”

He smiled.

“You will be burnt as a witch. Faith, but I am afraid of your predictions!”

“Why, when they are in your favour?” Lizbeth asked.

“You yourself are unpredictable – you come aboard my ship in disguise. You are a woman and yet you bring me good luck. If it had been otherwise, I should have suspected you of the evil eye.”

“Instead – how will you reward me?”

Lizbeth was teasing him, the candlelight revealed the sparkle in her eyes.

“What shall I give you? The emerald necklace?”

It was the first time he had referred to the jewels since they had fought over them and his suspicions of her.

“It belongs to the shareholders,” she said coolly.

“Of which I am one. Also I am the Captain of a successful ship who can take his first pick of the spoils. If I remember rightly, Drake was given goods to the value of ten thousand pounds before the cargo of the
Golden Hind
was divided.”

“I thank you – but I have no wish to own the emeralds!” Lizbeth told him.

She could never look at them, she thought, without remembering Don Miguel – she could hear his voice all too clearly as he spoke of his love, and see the pain in his eyes.

“No, I will have nothing,” she cried suddenly.

“Only your memories,” Rodney said, and his voice was hard.

He knew, she thought, why she would not take the emeralds, why she shrank even from the thought of them.

“Yes, those are mine – for ever.”

Lizbeth’s answer was defiant, her chin raised a little; but in reply Rodney held out his hand towards her with a generous, affectionate gesture she had not expected.

“Forgive me, Lizbeth – there is nothing I can offer which could reward you for all you have done – for your kindness to my wounded, for your courage in every danger, for the way you have never complained, never grumbled.”

Her hand was in his and his fingers warm and strong made her breath come more quickly.

“To Lizbeth!”

He was raising a goblet of wine with his other hand.

“I thank you.”

Her voice trembled on the simple words, her whole body was quivering beneath his touch and she was afraid he would notice her agitation. He put down the goblet and looked down at her fingers lying in his palm.

“So little,” he said, and added softly, “and so brave.”

He did not mean what he said, Lizbeth thought, it was just a moment of sentimentality because the voyage was at an end. She drew her hand away and lifted high her own goblet of wine.

“To the future,” she said, “and may it bring you everything you ask of it.”

She thought of Phillida as she spoke and putting down her wine, rose from the table.

“’Tis time to turn in,” she said, her tone deliberately commonplace.

If he was kind to her again, she thought in a sudden panic, she would burst into tears.

“Good night, sweet witch. God bless you!”

She found it difficult to find the door. She managed it, though the tears were running down her cheeks by the time she reached the privacy of her own cabin.

But they were happy tears – Rodney had thanked her! She had never expected so much from him; yet how, she asked herself, could she face saying good-bye to him tomorrow, knowing her weakness, collapsing as she did beneath his kindness where she had never quailed before his anger?

She lay awake all night, distracted by her own feelings; and yet when the morning came, nothing was so difficult as she had anticipated. Things had begun happening from the moment they reached the Sound and Rodney, leaning over the side, had shouted to a passing vessel whose crew were staring open-mouthed:

“Is the Queen alive?”

He asked the question deliberately, copying Drake, who had made the same enquiry on return home from his voyage around the world. The answer to his question came roaring across the waves:

“She’s alive.”

“We’ve beaten the thrice-cursed Spaniards!”

“The Armada has been defeated and wrecked.”

It was difficult to separate the various answers, but when they had done so, Rodney and Lizbeth looked at each other and each drew a deep breath. The Armada had been defeated, that much was clear at any rate. They could wait for details until they reached Plymouth. They came into Harbour with the music lilting on deck and Rodney waving his hat wildly to the assembled crowds. There were thousands of people on the quay, cheering and waving to welcome them, and messengers were sent posting to London to Sir Francis Walsingham and to the Plymouth authorities to tell them of what lay in the holds of the
Santa Perpetua
and the
Sea Hawk.