Mistress of the Sea (20 page)

12

Reasons

‘. . . Reasons are not like garments, the worse for wearing . . .’

—
From a letter by Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex and favourite of Elizabeth I, sent to Lord Willoughby

IN THE MIDDLE
watch, at the dead of night, Will crept below the waterline in the depths of the hold. He was alert for the odour of marsh gas and rot. He felt for sacks stretched to bursting around wet and swollen beans, for bulging barrels, and timbers sprung from nails. Occasionally, with his lantern held high, the light would reach past stanchions and braces, heaps of equipment and tight-packed provisions, to reveal a section of the planking that lined the ship’s hull. Then he would eye the seams for the glistening of water aware that, even if he saw it, he would next have to find the source. There were three layers of timbers between the hold and the sea, and those were like a labyrinth for any water seeping inside. But he did not stop. He probed and
searched,
listening to the creaking of the masts, and the hollow booming echo as the bows broke through the waves. The
Swan
was dry but he could not relax. He found it easiest to sleep in the light of day – to close his eyes to the ocean slipping by and to the distance that was increasing from the place where Ellyn remained, left with her father at the ends of the world.

From the time he was a boy he had thought of the Americas as forsaken; they were as distant from England as it was possible to sail. The only language in those lands was that of the stars, the sun and moon, day and night. He could remember the Psalm that had nourished such ideas, read from the Great Bible, by the vicar in the village church: ‘
The heavens declare the glory of God . . . Their sound is gone out into all lands and their words into the ends of the World
.’ As he climbed the companionway that led above decks, he thought of the mystery of those words. In the furthest places, at the ends of the world, there was no language but the sound of the stars. He had believed that once, when he had longed to escape his home, and believed so still. Perhaps Ellyn could hear it now.

The stars were a constant that linked them both, those of the Little and Great Bear, and even the constellation of the Swan could be seen from Panamá, a land now far away. And it pleased him to observe, when he stepped outside, that the sky was clear, the ocean calm and that the officer of the watch was on the upper deck, taking a reckoning by astrolabe with his sight on the North Star. Will looked to the same point, past the line of the foremast, beyond dark billowing sails, into a space crossed by rigging but brilliant with light, crammed so full with stars that there was no blackness between, only the gleaming of other lights that were
fainter
and smaller. In the firmament were the patterns that gave him some peace: the proof of a greater order in a world beyond man’s control.

But the comfort was brief. In a surge of frustration he smacked his fist against the gunwale. Nothing was certain. With the passing of each day he felt his power to help becoming less. Firm plans had been made to return to Nombre de Dios, but for that they would need backing, more men and at least two ships. It was little reassurance that, on the Captain’s orders, they had stowed supplies for the next voyage at another secret base. Almost three years ago his brother had been left as a hostage with more surety for his safety than sequestered provisions, and Kit was still lost.

Too much was at risk. He gazed at the fathomless sea. What could he do? He owed the Cooksleys no fealty. He was not part of their household, and it was not his place to interfere. But their fate depended entirely on an English ship going back, and he was involved with that. Who else would care about a young gentle-woman of no great birth, and her witless sick old father, for all his dealings in Plymouth? He had no doubt that Cooksley’s wife would mourn their absence, and weep in private, and that the maids would weep in public and gossip, too. There would be debates behind closed doors in the Plymouth Mercers’ Hall, and Godfrey Gilbert would make a show of loyalty; he could use Cooksley’s capital to finance the next voyage. Then, for certain, Richard Dennys would invest as well, since he would not have the nerve for another voyage with Drake. Perhaps the Cooksleys would be mentioned before the Mayor and Corporation – but, if they were, it would be in confidence. And if Master John Hawkins were to report secretly to the Queen, then he also might let her
know
of the English lady with a courageous heart who had been left in the Americas for the sake of her father.

But there would be no campaign or speeches. Drake’s enterprise could not be sanctioned. No one would commit the Cooksleys’ plight to accounts or record books. They would soon be forgotten, and he was under no illusion. In the affairs of the world, the Cooksleys’ part was as noticeable to most as the gleam of faint stars. His own significance was less. Should Drake not succeed in carrying through his intent, then the Cooksleys might remain forever an ocean away from England, and sweet Ellyn would fade like a flower uprooted and left on sand. The thought stirred his guilt.

He had acknowledged that Nicholas Cooksley was too ill to make the voyage; that much was obvious, and the crew did not want the risk of contagion on the ship. So Ellyn’s reasoning had made some sense to him, and he had understood her contention that he should not stay with them. If the Spaniards had found him with the Cooksleys their position would have been much worse, and he would certainly have jeopardised Drake’s plans – the Spaniards would have tortured every last secret out of him. But had he made the right choice? Had he allowed Ellyn to persuade him, only for Drake’s chance of seizing a fortune – and his own as well? He was tormented by the idea. The stark truth was that he had left the Cooksleys in the Americas while his chief ambitions remained intact. But was that really so? What did he want? He wanted to find Kit or be avenged, and in the process secure some riches. He had thought riches might help him court Ellyn as he wanted. He had never imagined having to choose between them. Is that what he had done?

Leaping onto the ratlines, he climbed them fast, trusting to instinct as he scrambled above the mainsail to the top. From the platform he looked down, seeing a shifting view with a pendulum’s swing, while the mainmast yawed with the roll of the ship. He saw the decks diminished below bulging grey sails, the great swaying yards and the lines of rigging before countless stars. But while all else moved, the stars remained still.

He gripped the rope to the topmast, as fat as his fist, and thought of the days of labour ahead, and all the preparations that would need to be made before he could set sail on the high seas again, perhaps on the same ship, but on a voyage westward, going back. And he wanted to close the future up and seal it like a seam, hammer in oakum and cover it with tar. He wanted to plug all its gaps, and stopper them till he was spent, and not see it, as he did, like a void he could not shape.

Through a gap in the trees Kit noticed a patch of distant sea. He knew he was somewhere west of the Chagres, heading away from the coast and into the mountain wilds. He could make out the flecks of white sails, but he did not linger to try and study them. There would be no point. They would not be English. In the three years since he had lost his liberty to the Spaniards, even after his rescue by the
cimarrones
, he had learnt not to cling to false hopes. Let the sails fade into the ocean and not disturb his small contentment; merely the glimpse had induced a pang of loneliness.

He looked ahead to his friends climbing the jungle-clad slope, and his gaze returned to a young Negress. He could see her clearly from a bend in the trail. She had aroused his interest earlier, perhaps because her clothes were thin, clinging like new leaves
to
the buds of her breasts. Her dress was still wet from her capture by the river. She was pretty and smooth-skinned, with a figure of supple curves. Already he had smiled at the girl on the way back from the raid, and she had returned the same moist-eyed look of a trapped doe that had first aroused his sympathy. Kit believed he could understand her feelings. She would be bewildered, just as he had been after the
cimarrones
had found him. She would have no sense of liberation, only the fear of a worse slavery.

He watched her carrying a large gourd full of fish. The thing was difficult for her to manage as she scrambled up the track, but it showed that the girl had been claimed, Kit supposed. He would not interfere, though he wished that the girl could have been shown a bit more kindness. From his position near the end of the file, Kit saw her struggling, feet sliding in loose mud, while thorny creepers snagged at her torn and bedraggled clothes. The gourd belonged to Alaba, the man striding out in front of her, and Alaba was strong; he had no need of help with his carrying.

Kit looked aside.

A green lizard caught his eye, one with the miniature frame of a thin plated dragon. It remained perfectly motionless on a sun-dappled branch, but he would not shout that he had spotted fresh meat; he would leave the creature in peace. He breathed deeply, inhaling the pig-stink of tapir, while around him water drops shone like jewels on moss, and bright waxy flowers trailed their roots into the air. He thought of rest and food, together with the pleasure of drying his feet. A spot itched on his back that he suspected might harbour a grub, and he wondered idly who he might ask to dig it out.

His gaze returned to the girl. She had been stopped by a man
called
Sancho whose ears had been mutilated during his time as a captive. Sancho proceeded to tie a bundle of vine stems to her back; then he placed himself in front of her and continued walking. The girl was left to trudge behind with the gourd balanced on her head and the stems bouncing over her shoulder.

Everyone kept moving, until a howl of raw rage brought the line to a sudden halt. Kit saw the blur of a lunging man. Head down and roaring, Alaba pitched at Sancho and knocked him sprawling. Next, Alaba was on top, punching and kicking, butting Sancho in the face. The men wrestled savagely, rolling almost off the track before Sancho drew his knife and Alaba grabbed a stone. At that moment the nearest
cimarrones
pulled the fighters apart.

‘
Ella es mío
!’

‘No! Woman mine!’

Sancho and Alaba shouted at one another in the bastard speech that had become their common tongue – Spanish mixed with some of the English Kit had taught them, though there were other words Kit heard with the ring of African abuse. The knife was forced from Sancho’s grip as he was pinned back, snarling. Blood bubbled from his nose. Alaba spat and writhed. Three men held him with his arms in a lock.

‘Thief!’ Alaba yelled.

Kit marched towards the commotion. Men stood aside to let him pass. The girl pressed into the damp vegetation until she was half-covered by leaves despite the ants that crawled over her. She still had the gourd on her head and the bundle on her back. He smiled and signed for her to put them down. In obeying, she looked terrified.

One of Sancho’s torn ears was bleeding, and Kit wondered whether Alaba had used his teeth as much as his fists. Sancho’s long shins were clad in greaves and circled by shells below the knees. His bare chest was heaving. He panted, open mouthed.

‘
Juzque
,’ he gasped. ‘You judge.’

Kit raised his right hand and recognised the ripple of murmured approval as every man around him responded in kind. This had been the way since the day the
cimarrones
had split his chains. They had called him the bearer of
Ifá
: wisdom. They said he was marked by iron with the sign of mother Mawu. Before every raid they would touch the scar on his palm, his hand on their heads. If ever a decision had to be taken they would ask his advice, and each time they moved camp they would search for one he liked. Whenever a man was sick or troubled it was always the same – they would seek him out. Their faith in him was a mystery, though plainly it was linked with his horseshoe scar.

Kit looked up. The action gave him a chance to reflect, and it settled his mind to fix on something remote: a fragment of sky beyond a lofty tree. What did his friends expect? They would want him to order a combat to rules, watch over the fight and then proclaim the final victor. But both men were massive; he could not award the girl to either without wounding the other’s pride. He spread his hands and stared at his palms, calloused and stained, with the scar like a sickle island in the cracked dirt of a dry lake. What would Will do in his place? Will was always fair. Kit remembered how his brother would sort out the squabbles he had with his sisters.

‘We will hunt again tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We will find more women. Some may be prettier.’ He looked at Sancho and Alaba in
turn.
‘You must each agree that if you win the girl, you will keep her.’

Several of the onlookers grinned. Sancho and Alaba looked less confident, but they raised their hands to receive the press of his palm.

‘You must accept my decision.’

They made plain that they would, muttering, ‘
Be ni
,’ and ‘
Sí
’.

Kit had not expected otherwise, though he often found their meekness puzzling. He was so much younger and slighter, and they could easily have killed him, but he had learnt to speak boldly, and they had never yet opposed him. He turned back to the girl, leading her forward to stand between them.

‘My decision is hers,’ he announced. ‘Let the girl choose.’

Alaba scowled while Sancho gaped. Kit could feel the astonishment of the rest gathered round. He took the girl’s chin and directed her head towards the men, first one, and then the other.

‘Choose,’ he said.

Her eyes rolled helplessly. Did she understand? He held her hand up for her to point. She must know, he thought, her arm wavered as if she was making up her mind. Both men eyed her darkly. Kit stood aside, but then she moved towards him, hand outstretched. She touched him firmly on the chest.