Mistress of the Sea (40 page)

Will looked astern from the little
Minion
to the Spanish fleet in their wake. Then he looked ahead at Drake’s frigate, riding at anchor off the reef. If Drake was ready, they should be able to
escape,
quit the Cativas for good and leave the Spaniards behind –
if
the frigate was prepared, with everyone aboard and ready for the voyage. But of that he was not sure. He had seen a small tender tied up alongside, and perhaps that meant the frigate was still provisioning, or some of the company were being transferred. So maybe others had not yet left Slaughter Island, and God help them in that case, because there would be no time left to fetch anyone else.

Again he glanced round. Most of the Spanish fleet remained distant, though one vessel was close, but the rest would soon catch up once the
Minion
reached Drake’s ship. The wind would help the Spaniards when the pinnace furled her sails. Will hauled on one of the sheets, channelling anxiety into gaining speed, working as one with the rest to race the
Minion
to the east. They had sailed through the night, never far from the shore, yet the Spaniards must have spotted them: they were being pursued.

Will saw Drake’s frigate looming large beyond the bows. Then he noticed Kit crouched ready with a mooring rope in his hands. Kit’s long hair was blowing about his pinched and eager face. He had the look of a fugitive, wearing the garb of the Cimaroons. There had been no time for much talk, no chance to fill in the years. All that he knew of what Kit had been through was what he could guess from what he saw: a boy turned a man, his brother grown up, the softness gone from his battered angel features, a survivor clinging on. But though he was spent, he was trying to help.

‘Turn about!’ Ox bellowed the order.

The
Minion
swung round, sending Kit stumbling with the roll of the deck. Will watched him in snatches, and every look they
exchanged
bridged the past each had missed. They would make up for that once they were on their way to England. The frigate was abreast. They only needed to cross over, weigh anchor and set sail. He prayed that Ellyn was aboard. He had asked Morrys to stay with her. They both had to be with Drake.

Shouts rang out: ‘Stand by!’

The rubbing-strakes ground, and with a jolt the vessels joined. Hawsers were thrown and ropes made fast. The hulls shuddered. Clamouring rose. Men clambered from the
Minion
to the frigate, lugging across booty. Drake shinned down the other way, hailing the Cimaroons.

Will moved beside Kit, putting a hand against his back and yelling above the noise, ‘Go on. Get aboard!’

Kit gripped his arm.

‘Not without you.’

Will raised his eyes. Most of the mariners had scaled the frigate’s side. Drake was climbing back. The Cimaroons were settling in the pinnace and preparing to row away.

Drake beckoned from the gunwale.

‘Hurry!’

Will jumped for the frigate’s chains, landing on the running plate as the ship pitched in the waves.

He called up to the Captain, ‘Is everyone aboard?’

‘Almost, but for you two. Get up here.’

‘Is Ellyn with you?’

‘The Cimaroons will fetch those left. They know what to do.’

‘I’m going with them.’

‘No, Will! She’ll reach us no faster.’

Will jumped back into the pinnace, and grabbed hold of Kit.

‘Get onto the ship!’

‘Not alone.’ Kit struggled to pull free.

‘You have to go!’ Will yelled, and called to the Cimaroons. ‘Help get him aboard.’ He shouted back to the frigate, ‘Throw down a rope.’

‘God’s death!’ someone cursed, and a rope was thrown near, but Kit was writhing as if possessed; he could not keep a proper hold.

Kit elbowed him and cried out, ‘I’m staying with you.’

‘We can’t dally,’ bellowed Drake. ‘You’ve brought the Indies fleet on your tail.’

Will wrestled with Kit but his brother was strong. The Cimaroons were no help, and he was not going to board the frigate unless Ellyn was on the ship.

Drake’s voice rang out again: ‘God save you both.’

More ropes were thrown down. But then Will realised the frigate was casting off. Within moments the hulls had parted. A wave smacked between them, and Will heard the billowing of sails. The Cimaroons struck up a chant and pulled hard against the sweeps. Whatever cries came from the frigate were lost to the keening wind.

Kit staggered and Will pulled him down, putting his arm around his shoulders; he could feel Kit was shaking. Then Will turned and looked away.

He had seen the tears welling behind the bruised lids of his brother’s eyes.

Kit heard Will calling, ‘Row hard! There’s a galley cutting ahead.’

The Cimaroons were rowing fast. Kit took up an oar and set to
matching
their stroke. He would help Will if he could. The galley was close. He narrowed his eyes, seeing the spume in the galley’s wake as it powered through the waves. It was driven by about thirty oars, with a striped sail bearing the Spanish cross, and a forked pennant at the masthead.

Kit hauled on his oar, yelling into the wind, ‘The galley’s faster but not attacking.’

‘Bastidas,’ Will called back, holding the tiller. ‘He’s making for our fort. He must have seen it.’

‘Who’s Bastidas?’

‘A petty tyrant: commander of the garrison at Nombre de Dios.’

Will looked worried, staring ahead. Kit faced him in the stern, labouring in rhythm with the Cimaroons. He called out in snatches, ‘Describe . . . this man.’

‘Short and strutting, with brows that meet without a join.’

Then Kit was certain – Will had described the Spaniard he should have killed. ‘I saw him where you found me. He tortured an old, injured man . . . and another – a Frenchman. They were beheaded.’

Will winced.

‘Did the old man have white hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘Le Testu.’ Will clenched his jaw. ‘He was our ally. What did Bastidas do to him?’

‘Trod on his wounds . . . while the other man’s arms were pulled from their sockets.’

‘God!’ Will looked aside, eyes burning. ‘The wind’s not helping us.’ He bellowed at the Cimaroons, ‘Faster!’

Kit glanced over his shoulder. The galley was edging in front, and before it was the fort on an island that the Spaniards were not far from reaching.

‘They’ve more men at the oars.’

Will shook his head, hands tight on the tiller.

‘Heaven forbid that Bastidas gets to Ellyn first.’

‘You love this lady?’

‘Yes, and she’s still on that island.’

So the woman was Will’s motive, and Kit understood. He would have turned back for Ololade if he had believed she was in danger.

Will hunched forward.

‘Bastidas must have reasoned she might be left till last in our fort.’

‘She will be guarded, surely,’ Kit yelled.

‘Only by a few men.’

‘Bastidas is wounded,’ Kit told him, wanting to give his brother some comfort.

‘How?’

‘Your friend had a pistol . . . he used it when he could. The Spaniard has a bullet in his arm.’

‘Good.’

‘And his sword was broken by another Spaniard . . . I think an officer of higher rank.’

‘So he’s been humiliated.’ Will grimaced. Then a look of anguish shadowed his face. ‘He’ll be full of hate and hell-bent on revenge. He’s hurt Ellyn before. He’ll stop at nothing if he finds her now.’ Will threw back his head and roared. ‘Faster!’

Kit looked round.

‘The galley’s almost at the island.’

‘Jesus, no!’ Will crouched, shaking, like a beast ready to spring. ‘After them!’

Arms folded, head bowed under her crumpled hat, Ellyn paced along the beach. She had been left on Slaughter Island with just two of Drake’s men. Even the Spaniards from the captured ships had drifted away in the rotting
Pascoe
. Though she supposed they would not get far in the old hulk with its tattered sails, yet they had gone, just like the French. The Huguenots had lost faith that their captain still lived, so they had quit with their share of the spoils. Most of the Cimaroons had abandoned the island as well, after burning the pinnace Drake had left them, taking only its iron. Of the things Drake had offered them, they had accepted very few: silks and a precious sword – tokens of Drake’s gratitude, since their loyalty had brought him triumph.

But where had that left her?

She was isolated and neglected, with Will on a desperate venture about which her worries formed persistent nightmares, and a deep rift between them she did not know how to bridge. She looked up without focus. The dancing light on the water spangled like stars before her eyes. She paced again. No one wanted her. She had not yet been invited to board Drake’s frigate, and she was sure she knew why: because she would get ‘in the way’, because if the Spaniards came searching, and there was any action at sea, then the mariners would not feel easy fighting with a woman on the ship. It was all very well for Drake to say he wished to spare her – save her from waiting in cramped quarters while provisions were loaded. But wasn’t she waiting now – waiting for the men to return from searching for Le Testu – waiting for Will to come back? For
years
she had been waiting, and she couldn’t bear any more. She should not have said what she did to push Will away. She was wrong. She repented. Bring him back safe. Let him ask her again. Yes.
Yes
. He could ask whatever he liked, and if he sought her consent, then her answer would be
yes
.

The clouds blazed. Everything was bright. She should try to live and not brood – delight in what was around her: the warm sand beneath her feet, the smell of the mangroves and the sea. She turned to the odd-shaped fort that had become her home. One of the corners of its triangular wall was just visible behind the trees. For all its shabbiness, she had grown fond of the place. She could hear blithe freedom in the laughing cry of the gulls. Open her eyes. She turned again and watched the ripple of the waves, from the foam of those gently breaking, to the flowing lines further out. And as the dazzling light receded to pinpoints of perfect clarity, she saw the spray around the bows of the galley that was approaching, and another boat some way behind.

‘Get back!’

She turned as she was seized. Someone pulled her away: Will’s friend, Morrys the archer. But she needed no urging, she had seen the sail and forked pennant. The galley would be carrying Bastidas. She knew he was coming. She dashed with Morrys for the gate. Inside the fort, a few Cimaroons were arming: five men – all that were left to guard the base. They stuck arrows in the sand, ready to fire from the loopholes. Shots cracked as the gate slammed.

Morrys snatched up his bow.

‘Hide!’

She turned as something kicked up sand very close, hearing a report and next a cry, ‘Go!’

She darted into her hut and grabbed her father’s sword. She would do what she could to help, and not cower like a weakling. At the doorway she looked out. The Cimaroons were firing from the walls, loosing arrows through the slits. Some were on a platform, shooting over the top of the palisade. One man slumped and fell. She looked from the body to something that streamed over the wall: a grappling hook trailing rope. It hit the ground, then jerked back and caught. Another landed with a thud. A helmeted head appeared above the palisade. Suddenly soldiers were scrambling over, too many to stop.

Morrys knelt, aimed and fired, took a fresh arrow and fired again, but a Spaniard rushed for him. Next he was running, drawing his sword. Their blades clashed. The Spaniard thrust and Morrys staggered. Two Cimaroons rushed at one of the soldiers. But more were at the gate, dragging it open. She glimpsed Morrys doubled over, and then a Negro reeled past. In the African’s hand was a great machete. It swung in an arc, shattering the helmet of a soldier who crashed against her shelter. Above the yelling she heard a scream. The Negro turned, drenched in blood. She flinched, stunned, at first too shocked to move, but then she charged straight out of the hut wielding the sword in both hands. Making for a soldier bearing down on Morrys, she aimed a strike at his side. The blow made her shudder. The Spaniard twisted and collapsed, but the sword fell from her grasp. Pain coursed through her arm. She only sensed what had happened when someone grabbed her from behind. She turned, shrieking, to look into staring eyes below a single dark brow, while the wet warmth of her own blood seeped down under her sleeve.

Bastidas held his dagger to her throat.

‘Viper. You have been waiting for me – Remember?’

Will led Kit and the Cimaroons away from the gate of the fort. He pelted across the beach and then along a track through the mangroves. They were soon by the palisade, and the sounds from the other side made him want to try and scale it bare-handed – claw at the wood – beat it with his fists. Will signed frantically to the Cimaroons. ‘Up! Climb one another!’

There was no other way, and they did as he ordered, pulling the lightest onto the strongest and standing on each other’s shoulders – they made a human tower against the sheer defences. But even while it was forming, some were trying to use it to get over.

Will pushed Kit back.

‘Stay here!’

Kit shrugged him off, and Will tensed, preparing to leap. But in a movement so quick Will could do nothing to stop him, Kit sprang past and jumped, scrambling up the living pyramid then clambering over the wall.

Will braced himself and followed.

Arrows shot past. Will saw Kit vault onto a shelter, land on the roof, bounce near the ridge and crash down heavily as the palm thatch gave way. Will jumped for the same place, hearing the twang of bowstrings behind him as he hurtled through the air. Then he smashed into branches and next he was plummeting amidst dust, colliding with something that gave way beneath him – a mattress on a frame. He stood quickly, blood racing, drawing his sword, seeing Kit.

A shot cracked and Kit weaved, striking out with his machete. Will made for his brother, glimpsing men wounded and dead,
running
and fighting, but nothing of Ellyn or the Spanish captain. The Cimaroons whooped, venting their fury. They dropped down from the palisade and charged at the Spaniards. Kit battled in a blur, hacking like a madman. A soldier thrust at his back. Will struck as Kit wheeled, hearing the clang of snapping steel the instant the man hit the ground, seeing a broken rapier flying up, to fall back on the soldier’s chest. Kit sprang clear, and Will saw someone by his feet, eyes staring and sightless, hair trailing in blood: Morrys. His arm was outstretched, holding his bow.