Mistress of the Sea (38 page)

He became aware that his thoughts were wandering, that he still stood while his friends sat. Then once more he picked up voices, though they were few and subdued.

‘There must be another way, even without our pinnaces.’

‘Aye, Slaughter Island is close to the mainland.’

‘It’s a whole day away by sea, perhaps more if the wind’s opposed. Remember how long it took getting here.’

Will squatted down.

‘We can’t walk. It’s too far. To cut a trail would take weeks.’

Hix swore.

‘I can’t go another league.’

‘Nor I,’ Morrys added.

‘We’re done for,’ someone else broke in loudly.

‘We’re not!’

Will recognised Drake’s bark. He glanced up to see the Captain striding purposefully towards them.

Drake was frowning, but his eyes shone.

‘We have time. We don’t give up. God forbid our pinnaces have been seized, but if they have, then the Spaniards will need time to discover anything, then to decide what to do, then act on their plans. In all this while we can reach our ships. We can do that by sea with the wind blowing westerly.’

‘How?’

Will could not see who had asked, but he sensed the incredulity in all those listening. How by sea, if not by boat?

Drake put his hands on his hips and grinned.

‘We build a raft.’

‘With what?’ The remarks followed thickly, sceptical and weary. ‘A raft won’t be big enough.’

Some of the men began to stand. The rest sat up. Will kept quiet and watched intently.

Drake took position where all the men could see him: English, French and Cimaroon. While he spoke, he gestured, miming out the substance of what he had in his mind.

‘All we need is to get a few men to our ships – a simple raft could do that – one that I’m prepared to sail. I’ll return with the craft to bear everyone away, and every last bar, quoit and coin of our treasure. Do you think I would leave it?’

Drake waited for the murmurs to die down, and that was done cleverly, Will thought. The men would fear being left behind, though none would admit it. But they would understand the lure of the treasure. If Drake left without them, they would trust the gold to bring him back.

Drake pointed to the river.

‘See these trunks washed down?’

They were clear to Will. The riverbed was strewn with trees uprooted and carried seaward. Many must have fallen in the storms following the attack.

Drake gave a sweep of his arm.

‘God has sent us the wood.’ He pulled at a bag by his feet and held up an empty biscuit sack. ‘We have the stuff for a sail, and the wind is in our favour. It can be done.’

‘Aye,’ Will concurred under his breath, and most of the men were muttering just the same.

‘You’ll have to get past the Spaniards,’ Hix said.

Drake made a show of appearing surprised, which produced yet more laughter, and Will knew then that he had won his way.

‘I’ll keep inside the reef,’ Drake answered blithely. ‘They’ll be on the look out for ships, not a puny raft.’

He waved the sack over his head as if it were a flag flown in conquest.

‘Who’ll come with me?’ I want three lusty men who can swim like fish – I want no one petrified of a drenching.
Comprendez?
’ He yelled while the chuckles were still flowing. ‘
Comme poisons!
’ And to one bad parody he added another, swaying his hips, while holding his hands to his sides in a way Will supposed was meant to resemble fins.

Will looked round. Most of the English could not swim, but nearly everyone was laughing. Several of the Frenchmen were clamouring to risk their lives.

‘
Oui, j’irai
.’

‘
Et moi aussi
. . .’

Will had already decided what he would do.

‘I will go. I can swim.’

Drake beamed.

‘So you can, Will. Good.’ He pointed to Will and two of the Frenchmen, and then made it clear he had no need of more.

He beckoned to the river with a rousing shout, ‘Let’s build our ark! Lash those trunks together. Find a straight tree for a mast, a small one for a rudder. I want a raft ready in an hour – nothing pretty; it only needs to float . . .’

Will pushed after him, seeing men rising and rushing forward who moments earlier had been in the grip of torpor.

‘God preserve us,’ someone muttered.

There was no escape from the sun, the rip of the wind or the sting of the sea. Will clung to the raft, feeling it twist and give beneath him, no more than a tangle of trunks and branches that might at any moment break apart – so low in the water that his legs were awash – so flimsy it pitched like a mad bucking horse. They were drenched when anyone shifted, or Drake leaned on the sapling he was using as a rudder, though Will had no faith that the raft could be steered truly. They were at the mercy of the wind but at least it was blowing east. They could only pray it would hold, and not drag them far out or smash them on the reef. So Will prayed. And to balance the entreaty he silently gave thanks – at least the Spaniards had not followed them.

The roaring never stopped: of the sea pounding the coral-heads, and the wind tearing past everything, making soaked clothes flap until they cracked like whips. It wrenched at vines and rope, bark and sacking, setting all that was above the surf screeching and
groaning.
Will’s skin was blistered, and his lips were split. His hands smarted from the cuts of branches and fibres, rubbed raw over hours of hanging on for his life, until the sun was no longer blazing white over his head, but glowed like a fireball above the horizon behind him. And the sky was burning, but his body was cold, and still the mangroves slid by for league after league, swamps and inlets, palms and beaches.

Another wave broke over them, and Will gulped for breath before his head went under. Then he was up, stomach lurching, eyes streaming, spitting out water over a tongue that was swollen with thirst. But ahead was a point where the mangroves ended. He could see the headland of the Cativas: the place where the shore finished and the sea opened out. Drake was pointing, and the two Frenchmen were staring, scanning the skyline, shading their eyes. If they went on past the point, they would be committed to a crossing with night falling fast. The dark strip narrowed as the land levelled out, dwindling from hills to a ridge, and then a margin of sand, one that was visible from the wave crests, but lost in the troughs, and finally reduced to a streak where the combers rippled black. But there was something else: two boats. Will could see the lines of their masts, and the spume around their bows. Neither were under sail; they were both manned by oars. Drake was shouting and signing, and most of what he said was lost to the crashing sea but, in the midst of the pounding, Will heard a single word: ‘Ours!’

The boats were pulling towards shelter in the lee of the point, and Will knew he was watching the pinnaces, though they held to their course. He took off his shirt and waved it wildly above his
head.
Still the two pinnaces drove on, making for the other side of the headland; their masts disappeared behind the top of the ridge. Drake swung the rudder to run the raft hard aground. They had no choice. Will close-hauled the sack-sail, and they were swept up by the next breaker to smash against the sand. Then a wave thundered in and almost sucked them all back.

‘Come on!’ Drake stumbled up the beach, and Will followed, clutching his shirt. They scrambled up the bluff and the Frenchmen struggled behind. From the top they could see the pinnaces at anchor below.

Drake leant against a palm trunk, bent and caught his breath.

‘A pleasing sight, Will, but let’s not show it.’

The wind had dropped as the sun went down. Will realised what had happened as he chased after Drake: the wind that had blown their raft eastward must have stopped the pinnaces from sailing west – that was why the boats had not been at the river as planned. But with dusk, the wind had calmed.

Will could hear Drake yelling as he crashed through the gloom, careering down the leeward slope towards the boats near the shore. He waved his shirt and shouted as well. And though the land was almost black there was a gleam over the sea, enough for him to spot that there were men wading ashore. While Drake staggered on, the crew from the boats rushed to greet him, and some ran to Will, bearing him along in the throng. So he glimpsed something of the way Drake doubled over and clasped at his waist, then withdrew a gold quoit and flaunted it in triumph. And though he could not see it, he was sure Drake smiled; he could sense a grin in what Drake said.

‘Our voyage is made! Every one of you is
rich
! Now come with
me.
Our friends are guarding the booty – Let’s fetch them all back!’

Ellyn saw the pinnaces without warning as she was walking along the shore: the
Bear
and the little
Minion
; she had no doubt about what they were. The boats were quite close. They must have sailed in and around Slaughter Island while she was taking food to the captured Spaniards. Her heart leapt. Her grip tightened around the bowl she was carrying, then she let go. The bowl fell. It did not matter. She quickened her pace. Men were spilling from the fort. She almost ran as the pinnaces drove up onto the beach. Drake’s men began disembarking, Cimaroons were shouting and a cap was thrown into the air, and another, and another. There were cries of jubilation. Men streamed along the shore, more rowed over from the ships. Some of the wounded limped closer. Her ears rang as she pushed through the throng. Frenchmen and English were roaring together. Someone waved a pennant that became draped over heads and shoulders. A drum began beating. The Cimaroons were dancing. She saw Drake carried aloft, ruddy-faced and beaming. No one paid her any attention as she squeezed a way through, making for a man in the midst of the ferment about whom all else appeared to slow.

Will stood tall, with his shirt in tatters, and a broad-brimmed hat shadowing his sun-burnt face. When she neared him she saw the blisters, his cracked lips and peeling skin. His eyes narrowed as if the light was blinding. She could only be sure of where he was looking when she drew very close. Then she looked at nothing else but returned the gaze that he fixed upon her.

The clamour became louder, and next it seemed remote. In
the
midst of it, she stilled. She felt the touch of his hands, rough and callused, strong and gentle, and though men shoved and jostled her, she barely noticed them at all. Will embraced her freely, and she let him kiss her unabashed, as if what she felt made a screen through which no one could pry. And as she held him the rest receded: the din and the crush. She was secure at the pivot around which everything turned, drawing strength from his warmth, with the smell of him close, and her arms around his waist, aware of little but his breathing and his body against hers. She wanted not to move, yet too much was going on. Quietly, she took Will’s hand, and she saw the happiness in his smile.

They left the men offloading bags, and carrying them in lines through the gates of the fort. They passed those gathering around Drake, mariners singing and swigging from wineskins. Someone called out noisily from a group sprawled in the sand.

‘Share a drink with us, sweet lady.’

‘Aye. Down a draught to piss on the Spaniards!’ Whoever had spoken laughed raucously. Will led her away, but the banter carried on.

‘Will can afford you now, Mistress – says his riches will soften your heart.’

‘And your dowry will pay him back!’ The comment was muttered, and almost smothered by loud cackling, but Ellyn still made it out. Other voices followed, gravely and slurred.

‘I’ve got riches, too, if you’d like some more from me.’

‘Give the beauty some more, eh, Gillon? I could alright.’

‘And I . . . Give her a sackful . . .’

The blood was rising to her face as Will suddenly turned on the
men.
He kicked hard at the sand, sending it spraying over their faces.

‘Show respect, lads, and pipe down.’

Will turned back to Ellyn, leaving the men spitting and protesting. He was grinning.

‘They’re half cut and witless. I hope you’ll ignore them.’

‘I couldn’t hear them very well.’

‘Good.’ He spoke quickly and patted her back. ‘Better you didn’t.’

They made for her palm-thatch shelter, though it was not much quieter inside; the commotion carried on. They held one another again, but she felt him sway and drew him down to sit. There were two palm-bole stools in the hut. He settled on one.

‘Will you have some wine?’ she asked, and was reaching for the jug and cup even before he replied. He gulped the drink down, and she poured out more.

‘You must be tired. Are you hungry? I have some cooked fowl and corn.’

‘No.’ He raised his hand to her. ‘Sit with me.’

She did so, and his weariness was like a weight that she felt as she looked at him.

‘Tell me about the venture. I want to know everything . . .’ She noticed the deep shadows over his drawn features, and wondered whether the carousing hid some price paid for victory. ‘Has everyone come back?’

‘Let us not talk of that now.’

‘But you won? We can return to England?’ She asked excitedly, already thinking of the long voyage homeward, and her spirits began to soar, like a bird loosed from a net.

With a wry smile he nodded, drained his cup and set it down.

‘There is a question I must ask that I could not ask before.’ He took hold of her hands. ‘I had to be sure of your answer.’

She was puzzled, but his hands were comforting in her clasp. She squeezed them, smiling, wondering whether he would next put the question just as she had always supposed. Yet what could have changed to affect her answer? In her mind she was certain, just as she had been before he left, but she still wanted him to ask.

‘Can you be sure of my answer now, if you were not before?’

‘Yes.’ He answered firmly, without smiling back. ‘It is what I have now that makes the certainty.’

‘Certain enough not to ask?’ She made the challenge playfully, hoping he would put the question soon.