Across a Moonlit Sea (33 page)

“Offhand,” Spence mused in a low growl, “ye might not know the boards a’tween Beau’s cabin an’ mine are not as stout as they seem.”

“I will keep it in mind,” Dante returned carefully.

“Aye. Do that.” The red beard folded around a grimace.
“Helmsman!”

Beau dropped her hands with her hair only partly tamed. “Aye, sir.”

“Run up the flags. Put Aulde George front an’ forward so our visitors get a good long look.”

“Aye, sir.”

“An’ I want the word passed beam to beam, the first man who breathes a hint o’ what we have in our holds, boastful or otherwise, it will be the last thing he breathes.”

*     *     *

“She’s a merchantman. English, by her flags.”

The captain nodded and lowered his hand from his bright blue eyes. “A pity. We could have used some practice for our guns.”

The officers gathered on the foredeck laughed on cue, knowing their leader was always at odds to fire his guns and prove himself deserving of the title the Spanish had given him.

A few who took their heroes to heart might have wished the Dragon of the Apocalypse were more imposing in appearance, including Elizabeth, who enjoyed surrounding herself with tall, handsome men in their prime. Sir Francis Drake was short and squat. His hair and abram beard flamed orange in any manner of harsh light and his eyes were positioned decidedly too close together over a sharp, pointed nose, making him look more like a basset hound than a dragon. But the common people loved him. The sailors who fought to serve under him loved him. No one doubted he was the greatest sailor in all the world, the most daring of Elizabeth’s private merchant navy, the bravest and most fearsomely loyal subject of the Crown … including Francis Drake himself.

Captains brought their ships from all over England and anchored in Plymouth Sound, hoping they might be recruited to join Drake’s elite group of fellow adventurers— sea hawks like Martin Frobisher, who had earned his just reputation for courage, resourcefulness and seamanship by leading three separate expeditions in search of a northwest passage to Cathay. John Hawkyns was another. He had been the first to challenge Spain’s monopoly on the slave trade and was, more important, the treasurer of the royal navy. Walter Raleigh, Richard Grenville, Lord Howard of Effingham, John Seymore, Robert of Essex, and Sir Humphry
Gilbert—they were all Drake’s peers and took to heart the patent from the Queen to discover and take possession of any remote, barbarous, and heathen lands not possessed by any Christian prince or people.

The deliberate vagueness of the patent was what had attracted the sea hawks, and most had made their reputations and their fortunes sailing into “barbarous, heathen, or un-Christian” waters Spain had dominated for over a century. They had looted millions from Philip’s plate fleets and were not hesitant to claim any ship, be it French, Dutch, or Portugese, in prize if it chanced to cross their paths on the open seas.

It was a wise precaution, then, for a merchant ship like the Egret to give no outward sign she was laden with treasure, although the scarring on her hull and the evidence of recent and ongoing repairs to her yards and rails won close attention as Drake’s ship, the
Elizabeth Bonaventure
, drew into range.

Drake had signaled two of his sister ships to accompany him away from the pack, the
Golden Lion
and the Thetis. The former was commanded by William Borough, a dour, humorless naval officer with a gallant record of service in the Baltic. The Thetis was captained by Robert Flick and aboard his ship were ten companies of infantry under the leadership of Captain Anthony Platt.

The rest of the fleet hauled down sail and drifted at the alert, or took the opportunity to drill on tacking maneuvers.

Onboard the
Elizabeth Bonaventure
Drake and his second in command, Christopher Carleill, stood at the rail waiting to draw within trumpet distance of the merchant ship. A third officer, young and fresh faced, was eager to prove his worth and interrupted a murmured conversation between the two more seasoned veterans.

“Excuse me, sir, but I believe I know her. She hails from Tor Bay, near Plymouth. The
Egret
Her master is Captain Jonas Spence.”

“Is my ear supposed to tingle at the name, Mister Finnerty? I hear a thousand of them a day.”

Carle ill coughed into his hand and raised an eyebrow in Finnerty’s direction.

“Aye, sir. Bald fellow, rather robust. Wooden leg. Beard as red as … er … well, red. He’s the one with the daughter; the nasty-tempered wench who castrated a seaman named Sheepwash … er, well, it does not warrant what he looked like then … she castrated him with a butcher knife a year or so ago. He brought her up on charges but naught came of it.”

Drake shook his head. “I am not familiar—”

“She is also the ship’s pilot, sir,” Carleill offered. “I believe you once admired one of her charts enough to commission a copy.”

“Did I? From a
woman?
The hell you say.”

“The hell I do, sir,” said Carleill, whose business it was to know such things. “The mark of the Black Swan.”

’Ah. Ah, yes. Betides I have the man in my eye now, though not the daughter.”

“A long-legged little filly,” his second remarked in a murmur. “With eyes you would not soon forget if you saw them.”

Drake’s hand came up again as he squinted against the glare. The
Egret
was perhaps three hundred yards off the bow quarter, carving a slow, graceful line through the water in a course that would bring the two ships briefly alongside as they passed.

“Tell me, Mister Carleill, does she look to be riding heavy to you?”

“If I am not mistaken, he deals in Indies Gold, sir. Rumbullion. Fetches upwards of a thousand quintals a voyage.”

“Is that a fact. Perhaps he’ll share a tun or two with us to lighten her load.” He paused and narrowed his squint. “She appears to be carrying a deal of weight in iron as well. Culverins, fore and aft, I make it, but … what the deuce is she mounting in her waist?”

“It looks like … demis, sir. Thirty pounders.”

“Impossible.” The blue eyes widened. “And damned impertinent for a rum merchant. Have you the trumpet handy?”

“Aye, sir, I have it here,” Finnerty blurted. He fumbled at his side a moment, then raised the funnel-shaped brass speaking horn.

“Hail them, then, if you please. Identify ourselves in the name of Her Majesty the Queen and inquire if all are hale and hearty.”

“Sir Francis fuckin’ Drake himself.” Spence gasped in awe, hearing the metallic echo roll over the water. “Where, by God’s ballocks, did he come from?”

“A better question,” Dante said, “might be where, by the vinegar in his own vainglorious ballocks, is he going with such beetling import?”

Spence elbowed an equally dumbfounded Spit McCutcheon. “Give them a hail, man, else he take offense an’ throw us a shot to remind us of our manners.”

Spit raised the speaking trumpet and gave their name and the master’s name and the fact they, too, sailed loyal under the flag of Her Most Royal Majesty, Elizabeth of England.

“How long at sea?” came the hollow query.

Spence nodded and Spit advised, “Eight months by calendar, eighty by the lack o’ good Devon ale!”

Spence elbowed him again and Spit defended his attempted humor with a shrug.

Sunlight glinted off the brass trumpet as it was raised again on board the
Elizabeth Bonaventure.
“Sir Francis inquires if it might be a fair trade: ale for Indies Gold?”

“Fair trade my arse,” Jonas muttered, then grabbed Spit’s arm. “No, bloody hell, that wasn’t what I wanted repeated. Tell him … tell him aye, ’Tis a fair trade, happily given.”

Spence waved a hand in salute to reinforce his pleasure as Drake’s ship slid close enough to distinguish which blot on deck bore orange hair and an orange beard. Helping to identify El Draque was the general knowledge that he always wore black on board his ship. Black doublet, black balloon breeches, black hose, black boots. That and the fact that his head and shoulders barely cleared the top rail.

Sir Francis did not return the salute. He was seen, however, to lean forward and grip the rail with both hands as the
Elizabeth Bonaventure
swept slowly along the length of the
Egret
When they were directly abreast, he turned and snatched the hailing trumpet out of his officer’s hand and lifted it to his own mouth with a shout.

“Dante? Simon Dante? Is that you, you whoreson bastard devil?”

Dante shunned the trumpet and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Aye, it’s me, you pale-livered son of a bitch! And an uglier dog’s face I could not have hoped to see this fine morning! Bess has finally let you off the leash, has she?”

“Let me off the leash and given me enough powder to blow you to hell and gone!”

“You’re free to give it a try, if you think your balls are big enough and your wick long enough!”

Drake’s answer was lost to the rush of the sea and the
booming of sails as the
Elizabeth Bonaventure
glided past and turned into the wind.

Dante laughed and lowered his hands, then caught the horrified stares from Jonas and McCutcheon, and, from up on the foredeck, a pale and open-mouthed Beau Spence.

“He is a mortal man, just like any other mortal man. He eats, drinks, and sometimes even makes the mistake of pissing into the wind like any other mortal man. If he still strikes thunder in your presence, picture him stark naked— not a pretty sight, I promise you.”

No one moved.
Nothing
moved save for one of Spit McCutcheon’s legs squeezing against the other.

It was Geoffrey Pitt who leaned forward and murmured at the nape of Spence’s neck, “Sir Francis’s second wife … Elizabeth Sydenham … is Simon’s first cousin. He introduced them, as a matter of fact, and stood as groomsman at the wedding. They like to pretend they hate each other; it loosens bowels and gives them something to wager over.”

“Now ye tell me,” Spit bemoaned.

 “M
y God!” Sir Francis exclaimed. “My good sweet God in heaven, it is you!” He climbed the last rung of the gangway ladder and went directly to Simon Dante, his arm thrust out like a pike. Clasping Dante’s hand with one of his and thumping his shoulder with the other, El Draque laughed and swore and laughed again, blinking continually as if he could not believe his eyes.

“Elizabeth wept for a week when she heard you were dead. Both of them did—my Elizabeth and England’s Elizabeth. The proprietor of the Ship’s Inn gave free ale the blessed day long and half the bells in London droned in mourning! Most of Newgate’s brothels closed their doors as well, or draped their beds in black sheets; I’m told Bess could not even call for a cup of wine to drown her sorrows without having it watered down with tears, so distraught were her Curt ladies.”

“I am flattered to know I was missed.”

“Missed? Missed, by God? Where the devil have you
been? We were told you went down with all hands, somewhere off the Azores.”

Dante’s eyes turned a cold, flat gray. “Obviously, only part of what you were told bears truth. My
Virago
is, alas, gone, but as you can see, I am very much alive, no small thanks to Captain Spence, who happened along at the opportune moment and fished me and what remained of my crew out of the drink.”

In honor of Sir Francis Drake’s visit to the deck of the Egret, Jonas had hastily scrubbed his face and dressed in his finest. He wore a forest-green doublet with embroidered crimson stripes. The same fiery red lining showed through the slashes in his sleeves and balloon breeches. He had fought for ten full minutes with a starched neck ruff before a panicked hail from McCutcheon had cursed it back into his sea chest. He had scoured the fur from his teeth with a coarse, salted cloth, then pulled on his gloves with their padded fingertips. His boots rose above the knee and were cuffed to conceal the bulky strapping that held his wooden peg in place. His chest was thrust out as painfully proud as he could manage without the risk of putting out eyes with popping buttons.

Drake was a full head and neck shorter, but it did not stay him from walking over to the burly captain and offering his hand.

“My pleasure, Captain Spence. And my heartfelt thanks. Had this black-souled renegade truly been bested by a damned pack of Spaniards, there would have been no hope for any of us.”

Christopher Carle ill had accompanied Drake across on the jolly boat and, after introductions were made, offered a curious observation.

“Captain Bloodstone said he saw your ship go under.”

“He must have eyes in the back of his head,” Dante replied mildly.

“He has been telling the tale to whoever will listen, how the two of you were attacked by the zabras and how you courageously sacrificed your ship that he and his crew might make good their escape.”

“An interesting version; you must tell me more.”

Carleill was of medium build and height, no more than five and twenty years of age, but with silver threads running through the dark brown hair at his temples. He had been with Drake on several raids to the Indies, and more recently had been given command of his own small vessel, the
Scout.
He was a cautious and keen judge of character, and because he often had to play the diplomat around his commander’s fiery temper, he was able to recognize when someone was saying one thing and meaning another. He had always admired Dante de Tourville’s flamboyant style and nerve, something he found sorely lacking in Victor Bloodstone.