Caribbean (21 page)

The sailor who made this fiery boast was not a large, aggressive man; only five feet four, of a stocky build and with a bulletlike round head and a jutting chin already covered with a closely trimmed beard, his dominant feature was a pair of sharp blue eyes which could flash fire. Much older seamen had learned to avoid him if trouble brewed, for in any argument he was accustomed to have his way. A difficult, capable young man, he was not only eager to be sailing back to the Caribbean; he was lusting to do so. His reasons for this burning hunger were manifold, involving religion and slaves.

His name was Francis Drake, eldest son of a retired seaman who had fathered eleven other children and who, back on land in a Devon village near Plymouth, became a vigorous Protestant clergyman. These were troubled years when England was trying to decide whether it was old Catholic or new Protestant, and on a Whitsunday in 1549 the Catholics of Devon rose in rebellion against the new religion that was being forced upon them. Reverend Drake and his family barely
escaped with their lives, and young Francis never forgot the terror he felt that night.

Afraid to return to their old home, the fourteen Drakes scuttled off to a naval base near the mouth of the Thames, and there the family lived miserably in the hulk of a discarded ship. Here again they were made to pay heavily for being Protestants, for when Queen Mary ascended the throne, determined to take all England back to Catholicism, family friends who resisted Mary’s order were hanged, and the Drakes themselves barely escaped execution. After this unfortunate second brush with Catholicism, young Francis generated that intense hatred which would dominate his wildly active life.

Toward the end of 1567 he suffered intensely from an additional reason for despising Spaniards—the dreadful thing they had done to his friend Christopher Weed—and, burning for revenge, he hurried out to Plymouth to consult with one of England’s greatest sea captains, John Hawkins—whom he called Uncle, although what the precise blood relationship between them was nobody knew. Most called the two
kinsmen
and let it go at that.

Hawkins was a remarkable seaman, one of the greatest the world would know, for in a day when compasses were uncertain and there were no means of determining longitude, no powerful guns or reliable medicines or any of the appurtenances which later captains would take for granted, he drove his ships far and wide through storm and enemy action, always bringing them to safe and profitable harbor.

Thirty-five years old, he was of medium stature, with small head, steel-gray eyes that did not blink, big mustache and small beard to make him look more impressive; he had oversized ears of which he was ashamed and a bulldog determination which never flared into excessive posturing. He was a man’s man, and from those who served under him he exacted a loyalty that verged on fanaticism. To sail with John Hawkins was the ultimate challenge for a seafaring man.

Curiously, he was not by nature a warrior; he thought of himself as a merchant and a navigator who would go to any lengths to avoid a battle at sea. When he drifted from one Spanish-held island to the next, selling his slaves, officials he encountered had no cause for fear, for they had learned that he did not sack cities or burn towns.

Now, as he sat with Francis Drake in a building used as naval headquarters overlooking Plymouth Sound, he suspected that once more he might have to dampen his nephew’s headstrong energy, but before he could issue words of caution, Drake’s seething fury
exploded: “Uncle, I must sail with you on your next voyage to the Caribbean. Now more than ever.”

Hawkins placed a restraining hand on Drake’s knee: “Mad desire for revenge is never a sound base for action, Francis. I’m almost afraid to take you with me.”

“But I have cause, Uncle. The Spaniards …” and a great hatred burned through his words.

“Must I remind you? If you do sail with me, it’s so we can sell our slaves to the Spaniards, not fight against them.”

“I’ll trade with them all right … at the point of a gun … my gun.”

“I would like to take you with me. I need men of your courage when we’re on the Slave Coast. Pirates, Portuguese adventurers trying to steal our slaves, the flotsam of the world always attacking English ships.”

“That’s the kind of action I seek,” Drake said eagerly, but again his uncle reproved him: “To fight off pirates in Africa, yes. To fight our peaceful Spanish customers in the Caribbean, no.”

“Peaceful Spanish customers?! Let me tell you about those peaceful Spanish customers. Early this year, at Río de la Hacha,” and Drake spat out the Spanish name as if he loathed it, “the governor lured me ashore with my ninety slaves, which he offered to buy. But when the time came to pay me, he whistled for his soldiers. They drove me back to my ship, and he kept my slaves. Paid me nothing.”

“It happens, Francis. My slaves have often been stolen by corrupt officials. But the slaves I have left I sell to honest officials at strong prices. In your battle with the Dons, you came home a winner, did you not?”

Drake leaped to his feet: “Uncle! Forty of those slaves were mine! Not the queen’s! I paid for them in Africa with my own money. Those Dons stole my profits from
me
, personally. And I’ve sworn I’ll get them back.”

Hawkins, growing impatient, snapped: “Don’t be a fool. Never allow revenge to get in your way of earning a decent profit.”

“You don’t understand,” Drake blurted out. Then he whistled for a young sailor of nineteen to join them: “Tell Captain Hawkins what happened to Christopher Weed.” Then, turning to his uncle, he explained: “You remember young Weed? Son of Fleet Preacher Timothy Weed?” and Hawkins said: “I know him.”

“No more,” Drake said with iron grating against his words. Then,
to the sailor: “Tell my uncle what happened to my friend Weed.”

“We sailed from Plymouth,” the young sailor said, “to trade our goods for those of Venice. But as we passed the Spanish coast our little ship was captured and we were thrown in prison. They announced that since we were Englishmen, we had to be heretics and must be duly punished.”

“Then what?” Drake asked, eyes flashing.

“Half our crew recanted—said they’d always been faithful Catholics and were still. They were lashed for having ventured into Spanish waters, then released. The other half, and I was one, refused to recant, so we were sentenced to the galleys. Six years … ten years … life.”

“And you? How many years?”

“Ten, but our ship was attacked by pirates and I escaped.”

“God was watching over you. But what of Christopher Weed and the other two?”

“Somehow the Spaniards learned that they were the sons of Protestant ministers—”

“But so were you,” Hawkins interrupted, and the young sailor said: “Yes, but no one revealed that to the Spaniards.”

“Tell him what happened to the three ministers’ sons,” Drake said, his hands clasped so tightly that no blood showed beneath his fair skin.

“All of us, we who were headed for the hulks, even those to be released, were led to the great square in Sevilla. There, before the cathedral and the beautiful tower—I shall always remember them—stakes were driven into the ground, bonfires were built about them, and Weed and his two fellows were lashed to the stakes and burned alive. One of our men standing near me shouted: ‘For love of Christ, shoot them!’ but they let them burn. To teach the rest of us a lesson.”

Grimly, Drake said: “You may leave us!”

When the two seamen were alone again, Hawkins said harshly: “Francis, when I see the blazing hatred in your eyes I have no wish to take you with me.” Then he sighed, and said reluctantly: “But I think for various reasons I may have to. The ships I’ll be taking belong to the queen and must be protected. Two-thirds of the slaves we capture will belong to her, and two-thirds of our profits, all hers. This is her expedition and she has ordered me to take along only the most trusted men, for she cannot afford to lose the great wealth this adventure might bring. Desperately she needs the money.”

“Why?”

In reply, Hawkins, trusted friend of the queen, gave an explanation which revealed the curious state of affairs in Europe: “You remember that our Queen Mary of sacred memory,” and he crossed himself, “took as her husband King Philip of Spain, and even though Mary is dead, Philip still wants to be King of England. He begs Elizabeth to marry him … bring England back to Catholicism. She needs money to fend him off, every penny we can earn on this slaving voyage.” He paused, broke into a mischievous smile, and added: “Do you see the humor, Francis? You and I stealing from King Philip in order to do him harm … with his own money?”

“And if we return to Río Hacha, will I have your permission to bombard that wretch who stole my slaves?”

“No! And now I want to show you why I need you.”

Leaving the naval headquarters, the two men walked to an anchorage where Drake saw for the first time the great vessel Queen Elizabeth had recently purchased with her own money to serve as flagship for her slaving ventures. It was the
Jesus of Lübeck
, a ship to gladden the heart of any sailor, especially one who might have to be aboard as she sailed into battle. Built in Germany some thirty years earlier, she had been intended from the start to be a mighty man-of-war.

“Look at her!” Hawkins said as Drake’s eyes widened. “More than seven hundred tons, those four masts each twice as thick as any you’ve known. That long bowsprit, the great fortresslike towers soaring high into the air, fore and aft. And the flags!”

From various protuberances eight flags of England flew and at the deck level another ten, but Drake was noticing other aspects: “Look at these monster guns and the hoard of smaller ones … the room below for sleeping soldiers as well as sailors … that clean deck space for swordplay if we have to repel raiders. That’s a ship that’s crying to be fought properly, and we can do it.”

He then indicated to Hawkins that he would be honored to sail in her, but his kinsman shook his head: “No, Francis, you’re not to sail in the
Jesus
,” and when Drake scowled, Hawkins added: “I want you always on my starboard, in your own ship, as captain,” and he pointed to a handsome little fighting ship, the
Judith
, in which Drake, after he had purchased her, would sail to both glory and shame.

Hawkins, placing his arm about Drake’s shoulder, said: “From the start I knew I had to take you. The queen is so eager that her
expensive new toy be protected that she gave me orders: ‘Hire your nephew Drake, a real fighting man I’m told, to sail at your elbow to safeguard my purchase.’ So you sail at her command and my wish,” and it was agreed.

In the weeks that followed, Drake was busy visiting ship’s chandlers in Plymouth and ordering supplies for the long voyage. A list in his handwriting of purchases indicated the level of his rough education and his freedom to spell as he wished: “vi pynazzes, bysket, beare, bieff, chiese, rieze, vyneger, sweete oyle, hamars” (6 pinnaces, biscuit, beer, beef, cheese, rice, vinegar, sweet oil, hammers), but purchase was also made of “Caste ordenanunce, forged same, and divers munytions mownts,” for Drake insisted that his little
Judith
be prepared for battle.

On 2 October 1567, Hawkins headed his little flotilla for the coast of Africa, where it would pick up some five hundred slaves to be carried into the heart of the Caribbean, where they would be peddled from one Spanish island to another. But wherever Hawkins and Drake sailed as partners, one vast difference would separate them: Hawkins, the cautious older man, wanted peace; Drake, the impetuous younger, sought vengeance against Spaniards wherever and however he met them.

In the spring of 1568, while Hawkins was heading westward from the African coast, the holds of his vessel crammed with slaves, Governor Ledesma of Cartagena was listening to an ugly report from the captain of a small Spanish trading vessel out of Sevilla: “Esteemed Excellency, when I left Spain I was directed to enter the Indies by the extreme southern route to report on conditions on our island of Trinidad, and as you well know, for it lies within your territory, there has been no serious Spanish settlement there, nor any other that I could detect. Trinidad was empty and safe.

“But some seven leagues after we had sailed west along the coast of America, we came to our great salt pans of Cumaná, and it was fortunate for me and my crew that we were comfortably out to sea, because a horde of some dozen ships, which I took from their build to be Dutch renegades, had deposited their teams of thieves onto our salt beds and were stealing a fortune.”

When Don Diego heard this distressing news, he did not reveal his dismay. Controlling his emotions, which were in turmoil, he asked
quietly: “And what did you do when you saw the Dutch thieves?” and the captain said honestly: “Glad that my ship was fast and theirs slow, I fled,” and Don Diego said with equal candor: “Wise man. Even two Dutch ships would be an overmatch if their crews were determined to get salt—and you say there were at least a dozen working there?” When the captain nodded, Don Diego said: “I think we must drink a toast to your successful trip … and your prudence.”

The apparent ease with which Ledesma received this report of Dutch incursions into the salt flats masked the considerable fright the news had caused, and after the captain left, Don Diego hurried to his wife, his face flushed: “Darling, walk with me on the battlements. I want no one to hear,” and they paced for some time atop the defensive wall that protected the center of their city.

“Ugly news. The Dutch have trespassed on our salt flats again.”

“Cumaná?”

“Yes. This time they’ve come in force.”

“How do you know?”

“A ship captain, just out from Sevilla. He saw them robbing us. And if he’s warned me, he’ll certainly warn the king, and Philip will expect me to act … to drive the scoundrels off.”

“Isn’t Cumaná a long way from here?”

“It is. More the reason why we must keep the Dutch away,” and as they walked he spoke briefly of this treasure spot, so important to Spanish trade: “A long hook of land starting east and running west cuts off a shallow bay. This happens often along seacoasts. Remember the handsome one we saw when we laid over in the island of Jamaica, southern shore?” And Doña Leonora nodded.