Mistress of the Sea (30 page)

‘This was English, we know, though it had been burnt.’ His voice rose. ‘It was one of Capitán Draque’s ships.’

She looked at him incredulously. How could he know? She supposed there would signs by which a ship might be identified, but was he telling the truth? She stared at the letter in his hand.

‘I do not believe you.’

Bastidas stood and walked round to her. Then he spoke quietly as he put the report by her place.

‘See. You can read.’

He hovered near her, despite her turning her back to him. Still she felt the touch of his look, making her skin tingle where she was most exposed; she shivered in the heat. Her gaze was drawn to the report, but she resisted the urge to pick it up. She tried to make sense of it where it lay, because, thanks to Marco, she now knew enough Castilian for simple reading in the language.

‘What does this mean?’ Bastidas asked, close beside her. She was already troubled by the same question; she could see that the report seemed to accord with what he had been saying. She shook her head slowly. Out of sight, in her lap, she crushed the napkin into a ball. Suddenly she felt something run over her shoulders, light and quick. She shuddered and recoiled, wheeling round as Bastidas stepped back. What had he done? She raised a hand to her neck while he returned to his seat, but he turned his head quickly to watch her again. The feel of the touch lingered on like a burn. Probably he had done no more than draw his fingertip over her skin. But she felt sullied by the thought. Was he trying
to
show her some intimacy? She was loath to pass remark lest he enjoy hearing her protest. Had she imagined it? She looked round. There were moths and insects flying about; one of them could have been the cause. She kept silent.

Bastidas hunched his shoulders and peered at her.

‘Your friends had problems; that is what the report means. They could not sail two ships and their boats. Perhaps some men wanted to go back to England. Perhaps Capitán Draque did not.’

Ellyn picked up her knife again; it was something to do. Her mind was spinning. She did not eat.

‘You are only guessing, believing what you want to . . .’

‘There are things we would like to believe that are now clear. No one has seen the English corsairs for two months.’ His voice dropped as he smiled. ‘Maybe they have gone back.’

‘Maybe,’ she responded, her hopes sinking, aware of something flickering past her and throwing a moving shadow around a candelabrum: one of the moths. The creature fluttered erratically close to a flame. The next moment it dropped, landing stunned on the tablecloth.

Bastidas glowered and raised his knife in his left hand; then abruptly he stabbed down. The thud made her jump.

‘You say that but you do not think it,’ he continued softly. ‘You think they will return for you. They will not. I can tell you.’

She stared at the knife. He had pinned the moth on the blade. As he pulled the knife up she saw its wings quivering in a blur. She shivered.

‘How can you be sure?’

He held the knife before his eyes, examining the death throes of the creature with an air of mild curiosity. Slowly he extended his
arm,
bringing his knife towards a candle until the moth touched the flame. She watched because she could hardly believe he would do it. Only in the small flare of light did she flinch and look away, catching the trace of a slight hiss, and a whiff like scorched hair. He did not answer her. When he spoke it was to put another question, as if about nothing of any consequence.

‘Does your Capitán Draque have hair that is red?’

Her answer was curt. He was tormenting her, and she was revolted by what she had witnessed.

‘You know that he does; you have met him.’

Bastidas leafed through the pile of papers.

‘There is another report: a frigate was attacked by English corsairs not far from this city. The corsairs were . . . beaten away. One of them was killed – a musket ball to the head. Another was shot in the stomach.’ He clenched his hand into a fist and pressed it against his waist. ‘The wound was mortal.’

He tossed the papers towards her.

She sat rigid.

Bastidas poured himself more wine.

‘This man had red hair.’ He raised his glass, and the gems in his rings gleamed and sparkled. He smiled. ‘But you must not be sad. The fleet from Seville is with us soon. We will have music and dancing. You must be happy.’

She struggled to show no concern. But what if Drake was dead? What if the ships had sailed for England and Will had gone back with them? She could not reason clearly.

She made herself look at Bastidas.

‘I would like to leave now. I insist you let me go.’

Bastidas raised his thick brows.

‘But you must finish your meal.’

‘Friar Luis will take me back. He will not allow you to keep me here. If I do not return to him soon, he will seek my release. He may already be with those in authority . . .’

‘Ah, yes, Friar Luis,’ Bastidas interjected. Then he stretched out his arms and picked up a trencher on which some twisted baked dough lay coated with sugar and crystallised fruit. ‘Please try this,’ he said mildly. ‘It is
Roscan de Reyes
, our Epiphany bread. You will find it delicious. Here.’ With his knife he cut a thick slice and placed it in a bowl that he passed to her.

Ellyn stared at the slice, reluctant to touch it, wanting only to leave. But she supposed that the dinner would have to be concluded first. She prayed that the mention of Friar Luis would help her.

Bastidas cut another slice for himself.

‘We have a tradition; in the bread things are hidden. If you find a bean, you must pay for the bread.’

He broke off a piece with his fingers, and began to eat. Then he examined what he had left. ‘There, you see?’ Eyes widening in a show of astonishment, he held up a bean. ‘Now I must pay for this. But what have you found?’

Ellyn poked at the dough, anxious to end the farce of searching the bread. She exposed something tiny and as hard as a tooth. It was carved out of bone. She felt sick.

Bastidas leaned forward.

‘Surely I do not need to tell you what it is?’ He made a mockery of any surprise. ‘The baby! Whoever finds the baby is king of the fiesta. But you,
señorita
, must be queen. I salute you.’ He raised his glass. ‘
Feliz Navidad!
’

The toast was interrupted by a rapping at the door. He scowled and stood, marched over and wrenched the door back.

‘
Sí?
’

Ellyn saw one of the guards bow low before delivering a clipped report. Bastidas snapped a reply and returned to the table looking pleased. He did not sit. He held up his glass.

‘The fleet has arrived!’ He drained his wine and beamed at her. ‘You may take the baby with you.’

Ellyn remained motionless though she supposed she could go. She stared at her bowl where the miniature bone carving lay in a pile of flesh-coloured crumbs.

Bastidas moved to her side. With a start she heard him whisper as his breath brushed her ear.

‘You are
bella
even with no smile.’

Will blinked and drifted in the no-man’s-land before waking. He was lying in gloom, looking between the poles of a tent-shaped shelter, and what he saw was trampled sand-bleached white by burning light. Beyond was an awning where skittles and archery butts lay in a dusty heap, along with bladderballs and roperings. No one had the inclination for games any more. Men lay beside him on low trestle frames, and some snuffled in their sleep while others moaned, gripped by fever. But Will’s head was clearer than it had been for days, and he was content for a while to listen to men talking, though he sensed wretchedness in their voices, and he wondered whether they were deliberating on sailing for England again. That was the subject of most furtive conversations: going back while they still could.

His gaze returned to the trampled sand, and the triangular
stockade
of the fort, with its scavenged planks from a wreck still stained black with caulking. When had he last worked with tar, or done anything much except fight illness and frustration? He rolled his head and squeezed his eyes closed, and then opened them again to see a face like a wraith’s: a death mask cast in wax – the surgeon’s boy, wasted by illness. Would he live? The surgeon was dead, together with patch-eyed Simon and over half the crew – so many that they had re-named their base ‘Slaughter Island’. And though some, like John Drake, had lost their lives after skirmishes, most had succumbed to the same vile malady, like the Captain’s other brother, young Joseph, and that loss had changed them all. Twenty-eight men had died together in one week. Awareness made Will long to drift, as he had when he was sick, his mind floating in numb oblivion. For weeks they had kept to the coral islets, a day’s sailing from Nombre de Dios, east of the headland called the Cativas, lying low in the reef. But if many more died, would any ever leave? How could he reach Ellyn on her island and then take her all the way to England? With the return of some of his strength, he longed to get back to her. She had been left alone for too long and he felt answerable for her plight. He turned to gaze at a patch of sky, seeing frigate birds flying by, and he yearned to be with them, moving freely, heading westward over the sea.

Clambering out of the shelter, he stood unsteadily in the sun, feeling the sand scorching his soles. The metal bands around the water bucket were baking when he touched them. It was empty inside, save for the reek of damp decay. A loud rumbling made him turn. There was a Cimaroon at the gate, rolling a barrel over rattling boards. As Will watched he remembered the
Jesus
, the ship he had sailed with General Hawkins: the carrack that had
carried
a cargo of men in her hold. Now Negroes were their friends, and the first slave who had joined them remained with them still: Black Diego, the man who had brought a warning during the attack on Nombre de Dios. They had all sworn alliance through Diego’s intercession – a pact born of the same hatred, uniting Englishmen and runaways.

The sound of splashing drew Will closer as the Cimaroon unplugged the cask. Will’s tongue was dry, but he eyed the water in the light, noticing it was brownish and foaming while he cupped his hands under the spurt. He was parched, yet he hesitated. Had the water made them ill?

‘Good day, Will.’ The voice was Drake’s. Will turned to see the Captain drinking deeply beside him. Will brought his hands to his lips and did the same.

‘Come with me.’ Drake strode off to the gate.

They walked along the beach and looked out to sea. Stretching to the horizon were countless coral islands topped by mangroves and palms. The
Pascoe
was almost invisible, covered by foliage and with her masts down.

Drake slowed but did not stop. He frowned.

‘What are the men saying?’

Will understood; he answered truthfully: ‘Some of them say, perhaps we should go back. They fear disease more than the Spaniards.’

‘So, do we quit?’

Will bowed his head, unsure how to answer.

Drake sighed.

‘Aye, perhaps we should, while there are still enough of us left to sail the
Pascoe
. . .’ There was defiance in his voice though not
his
look. He strode on. ‘But to leave with nothing, after so much sacrifice . . .’

He lapsed into silence, and Will noticed the slight limp in Drake’s gait as he trudged over the sand. By the sea all the scrub had been cleared. It was possible to circuit the entire island without leaving the shore. Will wondered whether Drake was intent on doing just that. He seemed thrown into a mood that Will had not witnessed in him before: sombre and bleak.

Drake turned.

‘What have we achieved?’

Will looked from Drake to one of the corners of the fort; the rest was largely hidden behind mangroves and brush. What could he say? The truth was they had achieved little, but brooding on that would do no good. He sought to dispel Drake’s melancholy; there was not much else he could do to be of use. He seized upon every triumph he could think of.

‘We have put the fear of God into the Spaniards, attacked where they thought they were impregnable, terrorised their trade routes, captured many prizes . . .’

‘Ships with cargoes of no real worth. Am I to go back to the Queen and present her with trifles? She will not thank me for beans and flour . . .’ Drake drew breath. ‘The whole of the Spanish Main is on the alert. Nombre de Dios has been reinforced, warships patrol the seas around Cartagena and after six months of opportunity I have less than half the men I came with, and no riches of any account.’ He looked away, as if only the sea could understand. ‘I have not had my vengeance. That is . . .’ He shook his head slowly. ‘That is
failure
.’ His voice dropped until it was close to a whisper. ‘My brothers are dead.’

‘They died bravely.’

Drake craned round and looked Will in the eye.

‘Joseph died like a dog that has been kicked over and over. He died wretchedly, in my arms, spewing blood.’

‘Even the best soldier cannot fight disease.’ Will tried to offer some comfort. ‘We have been beset by mishaps, through no lack of courage. Consider the catastrophes that have afflicted us, yet we have endured them – Raunce parting from our venture—’

‘Raunce left because he had not the nerve to carry on. That was no catastrophe.’

‘But we have endured much worse: sickness like a plague, the loss of the
Swan
—’

Again Drake cut across him.

‘No,’ Drake said, still walking. ‘Losing the
Swan
was no accident.’

‘What then? I thought . . .’

‘You thought the
Swan
sank because she had sprung a leak and we could not bail her out fast enough.’

‘We did our best to save her, toiled a full day at the pumps, both your brother’s crew and the
Pascoe’s
. . .’ The memory of the disaster was still raw in Will’s mind. He did not want Drake to suppose that their efforts had fallen short.

Drake shook his head.

‘I ordered holes drilled in her hull. I had them covered over so they would not be noticed. Only the carpenter knew.’