The galleon's grave hg-3 Page 32

  The Duke luffed up the flagship, shortened sail, and ordered his remaining anchor to be dropped. It did little good, the soft bottom giving nothing for the anchor to hold on to, the ship still being driven hard by the tide towards the sand banks. They ordered a man into the bows, sounding the depth with the lead-weighted line, tallow stuck in its base so that an experienced pilot might judge where they were by the sand or gravel that stuck to it from the bottom.

  The San Martin drew five fathoms. In less than that depth of water, she would ground and cease to be a living, moving and fighting ship, but merely a hulk to be used as target practice by the English.

  'Seven and a half, by the lead!' came the yell from the bow.. Gresham and Mannion sat against what was left of a bulwark, gazing impassively ahead, bracing themselves. 'Seven, by the lead!'

  A soldier stationed at the mast head took off his belt, wrapped it round the mast and himself, tightened it, hugging the wood as if it were a lover.

  'Seven, by the lead!'

  Was there the slightest lift in the shoulders of the Duke. 'Six and a haif, by the lead!'

  There was a sudden call, and the Duke's priest came up from below, eyes blinking in the light. The Duke knelt before him, quietly asking the man to take his confession. Trembling, the priest reached out his hand. All over the deck of the San Martin men were kneeling, heads bowed, some with their hands together, others with them loosely at their side. None spoke out loud, though many had their lips moving in silent prayer, some lifting their faces to the sky.

  'Six, by the lead!'

  There was a collective, shiver through the kneeling men.

  Would anyone remember him, when he was dead? Gresham was too tired to be over-bothered by his own demise, but it was a fair question, after all. Mannion would remember, but he would be dead as well. George would remember. Anna? Perhaps, if she did not damn him. And was there no one else to shed a tear for the memory of Henry Gresham? Fat Tom, perhaps, Alan Sidesmith in Cambridge. Inigo Jones, Ben Jonson, Spenser, Donne, some of the wild set in London, if they were sober enough to remember.

  Gresham looked up at the vast banner, the banner that had been taken all those months ago from the altar of Lisbon Cathedral, flying out bravely from the main mast of the San Martin, the size of a sail. Its tip pointed remorselessly to the sand banks. Then, as if a divine hand had taken it, turned it firmly, it started to blow hard, so hard that the great line of fabric was almost straight. Away from the banks. Out to sea. The ship lurched round, away from the banks, the helmsman instantly sensitive to the sudden, unprecedented change in the wind.

  'Six and a half!' The leadsman's voice was almost a shriek, the correct form forgotten.

  The Duke's lips were moving now, Gresham saw, his hands clasped together, his eyes screwed tight shut, a line of salt staining his beard and moustache.

  'Seven and half, by the lead!' There was an exultant shout from the leadsman now. The whole ship waited.

  'Eight and half, by the lead!' Men were climbing to their feet, a cheer starting from the main deck and rolling round and round the ship, men embracing each other, several raising fists to Heaven in triumph.

  'Thanks be to God.' The voice was not loud, but it carried to the furthest deck. The Duke was standing now. He looked at his men, the men who had fought and shed so much of their blood, and one by one, they started to kneel again, the men in the mast heads bowing forward as best their precarious positions would allow. Was any prayer ever said as fervently as that led by the Duke's priest that day on board the San Martin.

  It seemed only minutes later that the summons came. This time the Duke spoke through the translator.

  'Word reached me two days ago that one of our vessels captured an English fishing smack weeks ago, interrogated their crew, took the vessel in tow. They found a surprising cargo on board. A girl claiming to be Spanish, on passage to Calais. A girl calling herself Maria Anna Lucille Rea de Santando.'

  Gresham felt the shock run through his body.

  'They say she claimed to have been pursued out of England, by virtue of her association with an infamous spy. They felt they could not send her back to England, so they sent her to another vessel. To the San Mateo. 1

  Gresham's heart stopped. The San Mateo, the most heavily engaged of all the ships, battered to a pulp, sent to sink or beach off the Flanders coast, her crew by now either the victim of the sea or the pillage of the hostile Flemish. The image of Anna being raped on a windswept beach, the men queuing up to enjoy, flickered across Gresham's brain.

  'Apparently, they felt she was out of place on board such a ship. Apparently there are woman aboard one of the urcas, despite my orders, so they sent her there, to be with the other women.'

  Gresham looked at the Duke, voiceless. What was there for him to say?

  'I would fight the English again, if I could. Yet the wind will not let me. The most I can do is take what remains of my fleet round the north coast of Scotland, go by Ireland back to Corunna, to fight another day. I can no longer win victory for my King. 1 can save his fleet.' The Duke paused, looking deep into Gresham's eyes. 'I think more of you than you might imagine. I have decided that you will take a longboat, go to the urca and pick up your ward. You may take her back to Calais. I shall not expect to see you return here.'

  Gresham started to splutter thanks, but the Duke held up his hand.

  'Say nothing. Just go. And perhaps we shall meet again. In Spain. Or, who knows, even in England?'

  Gresham bowed low and deep, for such time as those around them wondered if he would ever move.

  They plunged towards the lumbering urcas, the single sail enough to bring them quickly away from the San Martin. Gresham looked back at the battered vessel. A new Henry Gresham had been born on the deck of that ship. How much of a new man he did not realise, yet he did know that in a way he was yet to understand fully he had ceased in any way to be a child. The moment with Walsingham had been a false dawn.

  He saw Anna as they brought her up on deck, as he had seen her an age ago. The tattered dress, the wild abundance of hair, the spirit so tough as to seem indestructible, and the ravishing beauty all the more obvious because of the lack of paint and powder, the beauty that needed no augmentation. Yet she too had changed, she too had grown into something more than a child. The smile on her lips replaced any tantrum, complaint or edict she might have issued. It spoke worlds, the smile. Spoke of a world so ludicrous as to be unbelievable unless one lived in it, of a chance so fickle that no man or woman could ever be justified in making plans. Spoke even of acceptance. They needed and used few words. The Duke's commission secured her presence aboard his flimsy boat.

  'It seems we are bound to meet at sea,' she said.

  'Have you been… well treated?' asked Gresham.

  'The women here are calmer than the men. And kind. Very kind,' she said, simply. She looked into his eyes. 'I am the only virgin here, of either sex. And the women were determined that there was one prize that would not be lost in this battle.'

  A sheet had been placed over the back of the longboat, giving some rudimentary cover. The clouds were scudding low now, over a grey sea. The wind that was pushing the Armada ever northwards, so that it was already almost out of sight, was difficult for Calais even despite the little boat's nimble ability to tack before the wind. It was hard, desperately hard luck. Determined to stick as close inshore as possible, they crawled back down the treacherous coast, too small to be of any use as plunder, too close inshore for the great ships of England to bother with the shoals and treacherous water. Except for one man, of course. One man who had heard of great Spanish ships beached on the shore, seen the great galleass beach itself under the guns of Calais. One man whose anger at missing such chances knew no bounds, and a man, therefore, whose pursuit of the Spaniards came close, close inshore in the hope of seeing yet another great galleon detach itself from the Spanish fleet and fall into his hands and not those of the undeserving Dutch.

  Sir Francis Drake.
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  The Revenge bore up on them out of a squall as they were on the outermost leg of their painful tack. For a moment they thought the ship would cut them in two, but at the last minute it hauled round, shortened sail, sending three grappling hooks to cling them to their side. A rough ladder, rope with wooden steps knotted into it, was hurled overboard, instructions yelled to climb. Whistles and roars greeted the sight of Anna. *Well, well,' said Sir Francis Drake, standing in front of Gresham and Mannion on the quarterdeck of the Revenge. 'The man who fled England. Deserted his country. The man I saw but yesterday standing companionably by the side of the Duke of Medina Sidonia on the quarterdeck of his flagship’ He paused. 'And the man who is going to hang for traitor!'

  Chapter 11

  August — September, 1588 London

  Would he hang them there and then from the mainyard of the

  Revenge! Mannion and Gresham were bundled down into the stinking hold, its damage minimal in comparison with the wreck that had been the San Martin. Drake hardly looked at Anna. To his relief Gresham caught sight of her being ushered into one of the cabins under the quarterdeck, if not with deference then at least with rudimentary respect, Two men bound their hands, flung them on loose planks covering the bilges. It had been a powder room, buried in the heart of the ship. Now it was empty, scraped clean. There was no hook for a lantern in a powder room, no fitting for any flame, and they would not have hung one even had it been, otherwise. The feeble light retreated, the door slammed shut, a bar scraped across it. Gresham and Mannion were left in total darkness. The rank stink of the bilges rose around them.

  'They say despair's the ultimate sin,' said Gresham. 'Worse than all the others, because if you feel despair you've accepted that God can't forgive you. And if you do that, you're bound to be damned. I don't think I've ever felt despair before. Not really. Not like this.'

  'The ultimate sin, is it then?' Mannion's voice came from somewhere in the total darkness.

  Gresham had not really expected an answer, sunk as he was in his misery. He had spoken merely to ease his internal pain. 'Yes,' was all he could find to say.

  'Well, that's good, isn't it?'

  What was Mannion on about? 'Good? How can it be good?'

  'Well, if it was gluttony or lechery, I'd be in real trouble, wouldn't I? 'Cos I ain't going to stop both, if we ever get out of this, and it'd be bad news if there was no forgiveness.'

  'How can you talk about "after this"? "After this" is us swinging on the end of a rope. And choking slowly if Drake has his way.'

  'Well, as my old captain used to say, where there's life there's hope.'

  'Your old captain? The one who got burned alive by the Spanish?'

  'Well, no one's perfect.'

  There were fumbling noises in the dark, the sound of something rasping, a gasp of relief.

  'Stupid buggers,' said Mannion. ‘Never did search us properly. I allus keeps this little knife strapped on me leg, high up near me crutch. It's a brave man who puts his 'ands there, I can tell you.'

  Gresham did not dare to think of the prospect Soon Mannion's hands were feeling for him, finding his hands, untying the rope.

  'At least this way we can piss in the corner and not wet ourselves. Or worse. Helps you keep your dignity, that does. Keep the rope in your hand. Wrap it round when they come. They'll not notice the difference. Half of 'em's knackered after the fight, and the other half looks half dead.'

  Gresham found his interest stirring, against all the odds, against any objective valuation of their situation. 'I saw that. Yet the ship's hardly damaged, unlike what they did to the Spaniards.'

  'I reckon as that poxed bugger in Lisbon did his bit, then. You know what happens as well as I do when a ball's not been cooled properly, or the mix ain't right. It blows to fragments when it leaves the barrel. But if the hull's in one piece, lot of the men ain't. Ship's fever,' said Mannion firmly. 'That, and I bet they're on short rations. Remember how long this lot'll have been at sea? Queen

  Elizabeth, she'd rather have her tits cut off than give a ship more than a month's food and drink. And even if they get that much, you can bet half of it's rotten.'

  'As much as the Spanish stores?' Gresham could sense Mannion's grimace as they remembered cask after cask being opened on the San Martin to have the men reeling away, gagging and swearing at the stench of its contents. 'Will they starve us? Will we get ship's fever?' asked Gresham, angry at his own fear.

  'Precious little food comin' our way, that'd be my guess. Even less water, and sour beer if we're lucky. As for ship's fever, you tell me. 'Cept I reckon as 'ow if we was goin' to get it, we'd 'ave got it by now. A series of slight snaps came from the direction of Mannion's voice. Here, grab this.'

  Gresham found two strips of what could only be dried meat thrust into his hands. 'Where did these come from?' he asked, incredulous.

  'Always keep three or four strips sewed on the inside of my jacket. Easy, if you drill a hole through each end of the meat first. Eat it now. If they keep us short of water, you won't be able to manage it. Get the goodness in you now, while you can.'

  And so the two condemned men sat in the bowels of the Revenge, in total darkness, munching companionably the cast iron of the meat, slowly, in order to guard their teeth.

  It was Berwick that saved them. Desperately short of supplies, half his men sick and numbers dying by the day, Drake paused in his pursuit and sent boats into the town that had changed more hands than any other in the troubled history of England and Scotland. Their jailers flung back the door, and stood reeling gently before them, clearly half drunk. A loaf that had been fresh two days ago was thrown into the compartment, and a scuffed and wrinkled wineskin, lying on the planking. One of the sailors laughed, then reached into the room, wrinkling his nose, and placed two apples carefully in the gap between two planks.

  'There!' he roared. 'On yer knees, if yer wants it! Go on with you! Let's see you grovel!'

  Both sailors were reduced to paroxysms of laughter as Gresham and Mannion, hands apparently bound before them, tried to catch the apples in their teeth, scrambling for them on their knees. The sailors were still laughing as they slammed the door shut.

  Gresham thought he had lost his sight when finally they were hauled on the deck of the Revenge. Blinking frantically, filthy, his beard as ragged as a wild man's from the hills, he could only think of Mannion's words. Dignity. It was all a man had, after all, when God, life and other men had taken everything else away. They were bundled, half carried into a boat, and thrown across a horse.

  Gresham arched his back, newly-bound hands and legs meaning he could not stand as he landed badly on the ground. Swearing, cursing, the sailors picked him up, prepared to throw him back on to the horse.

  ‘I fought on the San Martin!' he managed to say, through cracked lips. He could vaguely discern the sailors now, clear shapes moving in a blur of browns, grey and blue. 'I stood up like a man as you threw everything you had at me, as did that man.' He motioned with his head, all he could move, at. where he thought Mannion might be. 'Does that merit riding through London with my arse as my highest point? Or have we earned the right to ride with our heads held high?'

  There was a muttering among the men.

  'We made no pleading with you at sea, did we? We fought to the end! Yet I plead with you now. Allow me my dignity, and my man here, as fighting men.'

  They were decent men, as most are. They cut the bonds round his ankles, let him ride the mangy horse, kept his hands tied but thrust the reins into his hand, a secure tether leading to the man ahead. And so Gresham's ride began. Every bone in his body crying out for release, wanting nothing more than to slump across the horse, to give up. Somehow he stayed upright, seeing through the pain and agony of his body the sight he had most dreaded. He had ridden through London once before in sea-stained clothing, in triumph. Now he rode through as a prisoner.

  When the Normans had conquered England five hundred years earlier they had built two symbols of power i
n London, the four towers and keep of the Tower of London, and St Paul's Cathedral, its mass sending an unequivocal signal that those in power in London held supremacy over men's souls as well as their bodies. But it was not to St Paul's that Gresham was headed. It was the Tower, whose bulk squatted over the Thames. First the drawbridge leading over the moat, coated with scum and full of noisome lumps that did not bear close examination, to the Lion Tower. Then over the wooden planking, shouted words. A sharp left turn, under the Lion Tower, across the moat again and the second drawbridge. The two round, squat forms of the Middle Tower stood in their way. More shouted instructions, a rattling of chains, and they lurched forward again. Yet another drawbridge, and then the taller, round form of the Byward Tower. Under its rusting portcullis. Into prison, with three vast towers and their gates blocking their route to freedom. To prison? No. Worse than that. Bundled off his horse, into the White Tower itself, down damp, stone stairs, down and seemingly ever down. Flickering torches in rusted iron sconces hung on the walls. A huge, heavy door, black iron hinges set deep into the wall, flung back.

  The rack.

  They used to show it to prisoners, knowing that even the sight of it would send them into paroxysms, make them willing to sign whatever was needed, welcome the clean simplicity of the axe. Anything except the torture of the rack. It was a simple enough structure, crude planks and timbers making up for what might seem little more than a giant's bed. Except this bed had ropes at either end, ropes connected to wicked cogs and wheels and handles that turned. And how those handles turned. With the man strapped to the ropes, those handles, cogs and wheels could coax a man's body to extremities of pain no person was capable of imagining, drag his muscles and sinews into one long agony that burned and fried the soul of a man as if it were turning on a spit above a roaring flame. No man walked from the rack. He might collapse off it, if he was lucky and the final cog had not been turned, his mind seared and horrified by the impact of pain as much as his ravished body had been, never to walk again and to spend what little remained of his life as a discarded, crumpled heap thrown into a corner. All would choose death rather than the rack. Its final cruelty was to deny men even that solace.