Peril on the Sea Page 8

  FLETCHER JOINED SHERWIN and Sergeant Evenage at the high-tide mark, where a line of driftwood showed where the tide would reach as the hour approached midnight.

  “Why, yes,” the captain said, “it sounds like a delightful evening prospect. I do recall Anthony Westing well,” he added. “We rescued a mastiff pup from the Thames, one of the losers from a South Bank pit fight. His owner evidently threw the animal into the river in a fit of unhappiness or penury, and we kept it from drowning.”

  “Why couldn’t Drake find the Spanish fleet?” Sherwin asked.

  “Drake does well,” said Fletcher, “to find his left boot next to his right.”

  “Is it,” Sherwin persisted, “because the sea is such an immense place to hide?”

  Highbridge had joined them, and he listened intently to his captain’s response.

  “The sea is round in all directions,” said Fletcher, “and boundless, as well. But for a fighting sea force, with appalling intentions, there are not many logical places from which to stage an attack.”

  “If the Armada was not off the coast of France,” queried Sherwin, “where could it be?”

  “Perhaps,” said Fletcher with just a hint of impatience at such ceaseless questions, “the King of Spain has no such navy.”

  “But, Captain, you don’t believe that, do you?” asked Highbridge.

  The first officer had not broken his silence before this, and his question had a searching bluntness that was close to insubordinate.

  “Do I not?” queried Fletcher with a disingenuous smile.

  “No, sir,” said Highbridge, in a voice that was calm but insistent. “And, if you’ll permit me to say so, you don’t intend to stay out of the fight, either.”

  “There,” said Fletcher, “good Highbridge, I fear I shall thwart you.”

  FLETCHER WALKED ALONE down to the waterline, the low tide banking and backing, the foam streaming sluggishly down to the surf.

  “He knows where the Spanish are,” confided Highbridge to Sherwin. “Drake can’t find the Spaniards, but our captain can.”

  “Why doesn’t he help discover them?” asked Sherwin.

  Highbridge had no answer.

  Fletcher gazed out across the sun-splashed water of the Channel.

  The sails of Drake’s scouting fleet, which seemed not to move, were nonetheless well to the east of where they had been first sighted, and closer, too, each vessel heeling with the southwest wind.

  The Spanish warships were, by all accounts, considerably larger, and bristled with heavier artillery than any English ship, culverins and demiculverins of great weight and caliber. Sherwin tried to imagine what an armada of one hundred ships, or more, would be like.

  The consideration filled him with alarm. But with a certain thrill, too, as he tried to envision such power.

  21

  THE HEARTH FIRE was bright, gently illuminating Fairleigh’s great hall, the light reaching all the way to the griffin tapestry on the wall.

  “Sherwin is going to write a history of my life, if not up to and including my death,” said Captain Fletcher. “Sherwin is the author of The King of Spain Bearded in His Den and His Staunchest Ships Reduced to Kindling.”

  “I read that,” said Sir Anthony. “I have it here on my shelf—I found the pamphlet magnificent. I recall your description of the cannon fire Captain Drake encountered: ‘Ragged bursts made instant morning of the night, and black tide blazed in echoed flames.’ ”

  “Such narration is a wonder!” exclaimed Katharine.

  To his surprise, the feelings uppermost in Sherwin’s heart included self-conscious embarrassment. He was pleased that Sir Anthony and Katharine acknowledged his skill, but he was also keenly aware that he knew but little of actual warfare. The prose of his well-received pamphlet suddenly seemed forced to Sherwin, and he wished that it was not too late to alter the description.

  “You do me, Sir Anthony,” said Sherwin, “too great an honor.”

  Captain Fletcher sipped a cup of the brandywine he had brought himself, a gift for his host and his daughter. He said crisply, “I believe our young scholar’s talents can be directed to more worthy subjects.”

  Sherwin caught Katharine’s eye from time to time, and she began to think that perhaps she had been too forward with this newcomer.

  She had offered Sherwin her hand with Maggie the goose lying there headless and trembling, and it seemed to her now that she had made every show of familiarity short of an actual embrace. She felt a little embarrassed at her behavior, and so she made up her mind that she would not meet his eyes, not once, all through dinner.

  Katharine observed the captain closely. So much depended on his character, and during the meal she listened to his quiet laugh, and enjoyed the memories he shared with her father, cockfights and boat races along the Thames during their younger years.

  She wanted to be able to trust him, for her own sake as well as her father’s, but she had lingering misgivings.

  “This brandywine you have given us, Captain Fletcher,” said Anthony, “is excellent.”

  “Stolen, my friend,” said Fletcher. “Everything I own is the fruit of crime.”

  “Where did you pilfer these fine wine spirits?” asked Katharine, increasingly captivated by the captain’s unusual combination of winning frankness and self-confessed roguery.

  “We sailed up the river Lima in a pinnace,” Captain Fletcher recalled, “during a three-quarter moon. We helped ourselves to more spirits than we could carry—we had to abandon a few casks on the Ponte de Lima. Portuguese brandy has a moody, tarry character, and it pleases me.”

  The captain had sent word that he would be pleased to visit Fairleigh Hall, and every effort had been made to prepare a welcome feast. Chickens had been gutted and plucked, and honey and cloves had been stirred into the indifferent wine, hoping to swell it into something appetizing. And there was the goose, stuffed with what was left of last autumn’s apples.

  The food had been delicious, disguising well Fairleigh’s frugal prospects. The dishes and servingware were fired clay and pewter, marked with the insignia of Fairleigh, a griffin regardant.

  Katharine had always been fond of this symbol, although the griffin was a beast that elicited her pity with its ardent attempt at fierceness. He was half eagle and half lion, but that did not account for the creature’s expression, turning back to scold a pursuer. She was not convinced that the Fairleigh griffin was anything to be afraid of. The creature no one could love looked back hopefully, it seemed to her, and not fiercely at all. Katharine could love it, in truth, and everything else about Fairleigh.

  The group was small—Sir Anthony and his daughter, Captain Fletcher and Sherwin Morris, along with the dark-clad Highbridge with his quiet smile. The hour was early evening, with the sunny summer day taking a long time to give way to night. Bartholomew and Evenage dined at a side table, observant but silent.

  Baines was dressed in his best smock and wore his finest cocked hat as he waited on the table. He had gone over to Dunham that afternoon and traded as much cheese as he could convey in a wheelbarrow for two choice laying hens.

  “Are you an enemy of the Portuguese?” asked Katharine. Portugal, as Katharine knew, was a sometime ally and trading partner of England, and often suffered at the hands of the militant Spanish.

  “I would never say that I am any man’s foe, in particular,” said Captain Fletcher.

  “How can it be you are such a relentless thief,” asked Katharine, “being, as you seem, a man of merit?”

  “You pay me a compliment, Lady Katharine.”

  She was impressed by the captain’s appearance, and the way his offhand, easy manner barely disguised a cutting intensity. She could easily imagine a young woman being won over by his attentions.

  “But I do not seek to flatter you, Captain,” she responded after a pause. “I want to know.”

  “Take our well-known hero Drake as an example,” said the captain. “He voyaged around the globe with
over five score men in his crew, returned to Greenwich with scant two dozen remaining, and those living skeletons kept together by lice and scurvy scabs. I have seen brave men with their bellies shot out, and I have seen soldiers run through heart and lung, guttering for breath. I steal because I am crafty enough to avoid killing, and because I hate to see my men bleed.”

  “But this does not answer the question, Captain, if you please,” Katharine persisted. “Why you do not ply a trade as a master of law or a scholar of the sea, or any other honorable profession?”

  “Katharine,” protested Sir Anthony, “you press our guest too hard.”

  But Sherwin leaned forward, very interested, she thought, in Fletcher’s possible response.

  “I am as honest with myself as I wish other men were,” said Fletcher with a laugh. “As a young clerk, through dint of hard work and talent, I rose up to the station of controller of the Queen’s Navy, if I may make a painful and lengthy story brief. I made sure that every purser was prudent, and that every strake and sheet were accounted for. I was good at what I did, but I was envied.”

  Katharine liked the captain’s manner. He had a way of looking at his audience, winning their attention, and then letting his gaze wander, firelight in his eyes.

  “Why,” she asked, “were you envied?”

  “Men wished they could occupy my position, Lady Katharine,” the captain continued, “so that they could profit. They accused me of being a dishonest man, and while I was no thief, I was a man touched with the sin of pride. I resigned in a foul temper, and decided that if people thought me a thief, why, then, that’s what I would be.”

  “Surely, Captain,” said Katharine, with what she hoped was not ill-mannered directness, “you had a choice.”

  The captain lifted a hand from the table and quietly let it fall, as though to say such further examination of his own nature did not interest him.

  He reflected for a moment, however. “I was raised in Dover,” he explained. “My father was a purchaser for the Royal Navy, and I was well accustomed to tides and the compass rose, being a sailor since my youth. After my dishonor, I took to the sea. I suffered a thief’s reputation, and I decided that I would enjoy a robber’s swag. And so I do, and I regret nothing.”

  “You might well say, sir, that you are a trustworthy man in a disguise,” said Sherwin hopefully.

  Perhaps, thought Katharine, he wanted to preserve a positive outlook on the moral fiber of the captain he served.

  “No,” said the captain emphatically, drawing the word out and then laughing. “No, I was always going to be as you see me.”

  “But you are careful with the health of your shipmates,” suggested Sherwin.

  “Ah, and there you have me cornered, my wise young historian. Not a fortnight ago, I tried to steal a prize ship from some of Drake’s colleagues, and lost four of my soldiers in the fighting. I was badly upset by this failure on my part to protect their lives. This is why I am so reluctant to see my ship take part in any glorious battle to safeguard our kingdom. I detest bloodshed, and I am too softhearted, I think, to serve as a sword-wielding warrior.”

  “But if Drake and Frobisher win further glory in a great battle,” asked Sherwin, “and perhaps take prizes, won’t you envy them?”

  “Envy is a sin, good Sherwin,” said the captain, “as I am sure you know.”

  “And are you not a sinner?” asked Katharine.

  “Oh, more than many, and less than some,” said the captain with a quiet laugh. “But come now—why did you ask me here? What is this scheme our noble baronet promised would further lard my strongbox?”

  “Katharine knows the particulars,” said Sir Anthony. “Explain to our guests, if you will, Katharine, the details of our deception.”

  SHE HAD NOT EXPECTED her father to ask her to disclose their intentions.

  She was surprised, but she was also pleased at his trust in her. Just as so much of Fairleigh’s future relied on the captain’s character, so much depended on her now.

  22

  KATHARINE HAD ALWAYS LOVED the way firelight and its diminutive cousin, candlelight, made the world look.

  With the slow summer dusk coming on, the faces around her now were gilded and silent, intent only on her. Katharine was especially fascinated by the way Sherwin leaned forward, his eyes bright with encouragement.

  Their predicament was easily described, and Sherwin’s eyes grew brighter as he heard the details of the Rosebriar and the ship’s likely route from the Azores.

  “Her captain was born and bred in Cornwall, and he always hugs the coast there as he returns,” she continued. She took pains to delineate the character of Pevensey, and his representative, Sir Gregory. “We are offering you one-third of the value of the cargo to help us.”

  “Sir Gregory,” said Sherwin, when her account was concluded, “should be beaten, my lady, and any of his men with him. And as for Pevensey—” Strong feeling made it impossible to conclude his thoughts.

  “There is not a man here,” said Captain Fletcher, in a tone of sympathy, “who would not see the grasping nobleman whipped.”

  “Indeed,” said Sherwin, “and worse than that.”

  “Beating his lordship to a pudding,” said the captain, “will not fatten your purse, Sherwin, but a few plump prizes will.”

  “Captain, if you please,” said Sherwin, “is there no aspiration more important than silver?”

  “None at all,” said the captain. “But what makes you and your father think that, having taken the ship, Lady Katharine, I will share the prize with her rightful owner?”

  “And what makes you think that, once you have stolen her,” replied Katharine, “my father and I might not report you to the Admiralty, and squeeze a reward from them?”

  The captain gave a sly smile. “I would tell the Admiralty of your scheme.”

  “They would not take your word,” Sir Anthony interjected, “over the oath of a baronet who has never stolen so much as a farthing in his life.” He kept his tone friendly, but with a decided edge.

  “I know of a way,” said Katharine, “to ensure that the captain behaves honorably, and to make sure that Captain Loy of the Rosebriar understands our plan. After all,” she added, “we would not want Captain Loy to sink our Captain Fletcher’s ship in earnest error.”

  Her father straightened in his chair. “Katharine, I begin to believe I anticipate your plan,” he said, “and I don’t like it.”

  “I shall go on board the Vixen myself,” said Katharine, “to see that Captain Fletcher lives up to his part of the bargain.”

  “This is the worst plan I have ever heard,” said Sir Anthony.

  The captain smiled. “No, she may have me pinned, your wise daughter. Because with her as a witness I will have to either turn complete scoundrel, and deliver her to the Devil, or live up to my word and help you to steal your own ship.”

  Sir Anthony protested again. “I cannot abide such an arrangement.”

  “And I shall be far away from the coast, Father,” said Katharine, “safe from any attack the Spaniards might loose on these estates.”

  “Safe where?” said Anthony. “On the high seas with this distinguished rascal?”

  “He is the man you trust with your future,” said Katharine. “Besides, my voyage will last only as long as it takes to intercept our cargo.”

  “Katharine,” said Anthony ruefully, “you argue too well.”

  “There is another reason,” said the captain, “that makes your idea, Lady Katharine, appealing from my standpoint.”

  “What is that, Captain?” asked Highbridge.

  Highbridge had not spoken during most of the meal, and, after introductions had been made, he had taken in what was said and, Katharine thought, noticed what was pointedly not mentioned.

  He was a lean man, garbed in black or the darkest possible blue. His beard was combed to a point, and he carried a lens of crystal on a golden chain around his neck. Just as Fletcher radiated an air of imp
ish contradiction, Highbridge gave the impression of quiet single-mindedness.

  “With this lady on board, Highbridge,” said Fletcher, “there is no question that we can take part in any fighting. We must stay out of the war—if in truth the war comes.”

  “I am relieved to hear it,” sighed Sir Anthony.

  “You’ll not use my presence on board the Vixen,” protested Katharine, “to excuse yourself from fighting for our Queen.”

  “My lady, I am reassured,” said Highbridge.

  She would dread to take part in a battle, and would be quite pleased if any forthcoming war was forestalled indefinitely. But she bridled at the implication that she was a frail nestling, in need of protection. Furthermore, she could guess how a mariner like Highbridge might resent her presence on his ship, if it kept the Vixen out of her chance at glory.

  “And the presence of a lovely lady, if you will permit me,” said the captain, with a gallant gesture in Katharine’s direction, “might empower my historian to describe the Vixen and her captain in lines of poetry.”

  “I have begun,” said Sherwin, with an air of hopeful modesty, “knitting such verses.”

  “Let us hear a sample,” insisted the captain.

  “They are fledgling lines only,” said Sherwin, “and not ready for flight.”

  “We desire to listen to them,” said Captain Fletcher.

  Sherwin touched a cup of sweetened wine to his lips and said, in his clear, pleasing voice,

  “Our pikes like hedgepig quills, and our bright sails

  Like morning’s sunlight seconded from dawn,

  If Heaven is content to lend us triumph,

  In what torn vessel should we fear?”

  This brief fragment of poetry—which to Katharine sounded very fine indeed—was met by a silence of anticipation.

  Sherwin ducked his head. He felt profoundly stirred by everything Katharine had said, and keenly resentful toward Lord Pevensey and Sir Gregory.