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We were set up in a few minutes. Cassandra, glistening wet, was standing over Debbie and pointing a gun at the back of her head. I had a cordless telephone on the table, and Hondros was smoking again. Zola was next to me, staring levelly at Cassandra and exuding pure hatred. I hoped she wasn't going to do anything impetuous.

First I got through to Directory Enquiries. It was three o'clock in the afternoon in Oxford, but I knew Fred had an easy schedule, and he was on the telephone within minutes.

'Fred? Harry here. I'm calling from Jamaica. Need to pick your brains again.'

'Jamaica? What villainy takes you to Jamaica, Harry?'

'You were right about Thomas Bright, Fred. And the journal has led me out to a second journal, also by Ogilvie, but written in a different cipher. I suspect it's the Babington one.'

'Babington? In Jamaica? What in— what's the story behind this?'

Cassandra pulled back the hammer of the revolver. It clicked loudly. Debbie began to shake.

'I'll tell you when I get back. Meantime, Fred, I need to know what the cipher alphabet was, or even if it was Babington at all.'

'Give me some of the symbols.'

'There are numerals like 2, 3, 4, 7, 8 and so on, the sign for infinity, the Greek capital delta, the Jewish Nabla, and lots of symbols that don't seem to belong to any alphabet, for example a double S like a Waffen-SS symbol.'

'Definitely Babington.'

'Fred, I need a favour. Can you scan in the Babington cipher and fire it through to my e-mail address in Lincoln? I'll pick it up from there. I need it urgently.'

'I don't know,' Fred said teasingly. 'It sounds like a two-pint favour.'

'I'll bring you back a case of Red Stripe.'

'It's a deal. You should have it within the hour.'

'Thanks, Fred.'

With eight of us in it, the upstairs bedroom was crowded. I sat at a corner desk with computer and printer, fired through to my own computer and pulled down a GIF file. The cipher was as I remembered it: a simple letter substitution for the most parts, with symbols replacing a few common words. With a few pages of encoded text it could probably have been cracked in an hour, even less if you were expert. I ran off several copies on the printer.

Hondros picked one up. His cigarette had burned down to his fingers and he dropped it on the wooden floor, grinding it with his foot. 'Well, ladies and gentlemen, now that we have the cipher, it seems we no longer need you.'

Cassandra said, 'I like the next bit.'

I felt myself freezing up with fear. Debbie's face had gone chalk-white and Zola was tight-lipped and alert as a cat. I seriously wondered if she was going to dive at Cassandra. But there were three other young men in the bedroom, all of them armed and all of them beyond reach.

Hondros said, 'But just in case of any complication... translate the remaining text.'

I said, 'I'll get busy on it.' It would buy us time. Beyond that, I didn't know. The thought of being dead in a few hours was just too hard to take in.

I went down to the pool table again, supported by Debbie. One of the young men tossed a notebook and pencil in front of me and swaggered off. Debbie and Zola sat on either side. In the living room, Cassandra and Hondros had started on the message. Cassandra was reading it out a symbol at a time and Hondros was looking each one up in the Babington cipher. They were excruciatingly slow.

'We have to do
something,'
Debbie whispered.

I looked around. Gunmen were strategically scattered around the grounds: one was standing at the jetty next to the boat, cigarette in mouth, eyeing us impassively through dark glasses; one was leaning on an upstairs railing, looking out over the sea; and one was stretched out on a deckchair at an upstairs balcony, a newspaper on his head to keep the harsh sun at bay. He was sipping a long drink and grinning down at us. I said, 'Let's beat these idiots with the translation.'

CHAPTER 33

Having been abandoned in the New World by Sir Francis Drake, we found ourselves in a position of terrible danger. There were three of us, Marmaduke StClair, Simon Salter and myself. No sooner had the flags of St George disappeared into the storm than I urged we flee the island on the instant, before the savages were fully aware of what was happening. Otherwise we would be captured within hours. After the massacre of the week before, and with no fear of vengeance from the departed colonists, the fate they would deal us did not bear thinking about. I must admit that we all felt terror bordering on panic.

Marmaduke insisted on running back to his chest for what he called the relic. Simon and I too ran as fast as we could from hut to hut, gathering what scraps of food we could find. On the west of the island, after our bloody raid of the week before, Wingina's village was deserted. Unfortunately we were in full view of Wingina's mainland village, a league distant across the water. Rather than paddle away, since we would surely be seen and pursued, we each dragged a canoe back across the island. The hunting canoes were simply too big and heavy for this, and we each hauled a small dugout with a single-bladed paddle. Great fear gave us great strength. We prayed that news of the disembarkation had not yet reached the Indians and that they would not understand what we were doing.

In agonised fear of discovery, we hauled the canoes eight furlongs to Shallowbag Bay on the west of the island, and hastily filled them with the few provisions we had found. Some of the black slaves had miraculously reached the island a few chains to the north. How, I do not know. As we approached the western shore they saw what we were about and ran towards us, at great speed. Several of them splashed into the water behind us, and one, a strong swimmer, was able to reach Marmaduke's canoe and grab hold of it. He was a young man, of about my age. I hated Marmaduke when he raised his heavy wooden paddle and brought it down with force on the slave's skull, splitting it open, while at the same time not knowing what else he could have done. We left the man floating face down in the water, blood spreading from his head, and paddled away with all our strength.

We paddled for over a league down Roanoke island, with the Outer Banks protecting us from the big Atlantic waves. All this time we were in terror of Indian canoeists rounding the south of the island and intercepting us. But we reached the dangerous shallows of Port Ferdinando, where we crossed the Outer Banks into the ocean, this being the furthest gap from hostile Indians. We were swamped almost immediately. I used my outer jacket first as a scoop and then as a sponge. It would not be long before we capsized, and we were forced to turn back in towards the Banks, keeping as close to the shore as we dared, and in constant danger of capsizing in the stormy waves. But we had no thought in our minds other than to get away from that hellish place and its murderous inhabitants, and we paddled as if all the devils of hell were pursuing us.

After an hour we approached Hatorask island. Suddenly we were met by a hail of arrows from the trees and were forced out into the dangerous waves.

And then the thing that we feared happened. As we passed the island, a dozen canoes appeared, threatening to cut us off from our southward flight. To turn back would be fatal, for we would surely be trapped between two groups of savages. To go out into the sea would be to drown as the big waves swamped us. We paddled furiously on as the Indians tried to intercept us. The distance between us closed rapidly. They were making strange, high-pitched cries.

We passed them, Marmaduke and Simon in front, while I trailed about twenty yards behind. I did not dare to turn, even for a second, but I heard the splashing and the whoops at my back. I paddled with all my might but my companions were slowly drawing ahead of me, and I could hear the savages gaining. They were maybe fifty yards to my rear. I was almost sobbing with exertion but it was making no difference. Slowly, they were catching up.

And then Simon Salter did an extraordinary thing. He glanced behind, bawled encouragement at me, and then seeing I could do no more, turned his canoe completely around and drove it towards the savages. His face was contorted with rage and fear. As he passed I shouted, 'Sir, no!' but he cut me off with a roar: 'Get out of it, Scotch!'

The whooping redoubled. Marmaduke glanced back and then carried on paddling as if possessed by a demon. I dared a glance and saw Simon surrounded by screaming savages in their canoes, paddles rising and falling like cudgels, his own landing hard on a neck. But then I turned to the business of fleeing and saw no more.

A mile further south Marmaduke and I began to risk backward looks. There were no signs of pursuit. The coastline was now unfamiliar. We were utterly exhausted and at the same time too terrified to stop. After another hour of paddling we pulled over onto the Banks and lay on the sand, not caring about the rain or cold, just worn out by fatigue and fearful that the savages, having dealt with Mr Salter, might turn their attention to us. My knees were raw and bleeding from kneeling in the canoe, but I was alive.

We hauled the canoes across the Banks into the calmer water between Banks and mainland, and continued to paddle south. Here the mainland was swamp and we saw no signs of habitation. Presently thirst and hunger began to nibble at us, but we were still too fearful of the Indians to wish to land. Finally, with the wind easing but the rain still falling heavily, and with darkness approaching, we crossed to one of the few sheltered coves we had seen. I was almost senseless with tiredness, and yet we slept little. I wept awhile.

The following morning, we found that the canoes had acquired an inch of rainwater. We were also highly alarmed to discover the footprints of savages in the sand. We gorged ourselves on the water and then risked a short trip inland. We soon found a small freshwater lake and gorged ourselves some more. The lake was rich with fish but we caught none. We then found driftwood which we used to build makeshift seats for the canoes, saving our raw knees. We took more flattish pieces of driftwood aboard to use as scoops and then carried on south, tantalising our hungry bellies with a few pieces of sodden bread which Simon had tossed into my canoe at Roanoke. By the end of that day the storm had passed, our food was finished and we were again thirsty and freezing. The sea salt drying on our skins was forming white cakes around our eyes, ears and hands, making paddling quite painful. Again, we slept on the Banks, shivering with cold. But our fear of pursuit had almost gone.

Marmaduke and I awakened the following morning. Both the relic and my journal were still with us, each of us having slept with our treasure next to our chests. We ventured inland again, found another freshwater lake, and this time were able to catch some fish with ingenuity and stones to make a small dam. We ate them raw, head, bones and all. They tasted excellent.

I will not detail our canoe voyage south. It lasted forty days, which I counted by marking little notches on the rim of my canoe with the help of my ballockknife. There was time for me to ponder on why Mr Salter, whom I saw as a cruel and ignorant man, having no love for me or anyone else, should have sacrificed his life for mine. It is a question I have pondered many times in the years since, but to which I have found no satisfactory answer. I can only say that, if there is a heaven, I am confident Mr Salter is there. Indeed, the populations of heaven and hell surely contain many surprises.

As we moved south, the weather became warmer and the sea grew calmer. Our skins first peeled, and then became dark brown, in the heat and glare of the sun. We made good progress in the gentle sea and found we could survive by raiding the coastal lands. From time to time we would see savages. Whenever this happened we would hasten back to our canoes and paddle away quickly. We always lived with our wits about us and our eyes wide open.

It was on the forty-first day that we were captured by the Spanish. I was awakened by a boot kicking heavily at my ribs. We were surrounded by about half a dozen soldiers. There was a longboat and a great ship, I believe a galleon, half a mile offshore. An officer started to question me roughly in Spanish, of which I understood not a word, a fact which caused him to slap me after each question. I thought it wise to keep my ballockknife in its place.

Marmaduke then astonished me by speaking to the officer in fluent Spanish. He drew the officer aside and spoke to him quietly for ten minutes or so. The officer's arrogance gave way to astonishment. He marched over to the relic, took it away from the other soldiers and opened the silk cloth carefully, making sure no one could see what was inside. When he approached me again, his attitude was entirely different. We were ushered onto the longboat and taken out to the deep-rolling waves and the ship. Marmaduke held the relic in his lap, and my journal was hidden next to my chest. At the time I did not know how much had survived the soakings and drenchings of the past six weeks.

The deck of the ship was crowded with soldiers, much as was the Tiger. We were ushered down a hatch and into a small cabin, into the presence of the captain. Again, Marmaduke spoke with great fluency in Spanish, and again the initially hostile attitude of the Spaniard gave way to astonishment and then respect.

That evening, we dined with the captain and his officers. There was a great deal of wine and hilarity and jovial conversation, much of it centred around Marmaduke. For me, not understanding a word, the joy was in the silk shirts and breeches I had been given, and the soft cushioned seat, and the hogsmeat, and the boiled rice, and the silver cutlery and goblets, and the beer, which I drank to glorious excess, and the fact of being served rather than a servant.

And that night, lying on a glorious bunk, feeling again the rhythmic sway of a ship, listening to its hundred creaks and groans, Marmaduke, drunk with wine and excitement, talked too much.

That the Roanoke expedition had a secret purpose I had long known. But now that purpose was made clear to me. By establishing a Protestant colony in the New World, at precisely seventy-seven degrees longitude west, Queen Elizabeth would have been able to announce a new calendar, devised by her astronomer John Dee, the prime meridian of which passed through the colony.