Barney returned to the waist, shielding his flame with his hand. Most of the crew were on deck or up in the rigging, adjusting the sails in accordance with Captain Bacon's shouted orders. Barney ran across to the companionway, the hooded hatch leading to the lower decks, and scrambled down the ladder, carrying his burning taper.
The crew had already opened the gun ports and untied the ropes that kept the minions in position when not being used. Now the heavy gun carriages could roll back on their wheels under the recoil from the shot. Sensible men took great care walking around the gun deck when the cannons were untied: someone standing behind a gun at the moment of firing could be crippled or killed.
Each gun had beside it a chest containing most of what was needed to fire: a leather gunpowder bucket with a lid; a pile of rags for wadding; a slow-burning match made of three woven strands of cotton rope soaked in saltpeter and lye; tools for loading the gun and cleaning it between shots; and a bucket of water. The ammunition was in a big chest in the middle of the deck next to a barrel of gunpowder.
There were two men to each gun. One used a long-handled ladle to scoop up exactly the right quantity of gunpowder--an amount weighing the same as the ball, although good men made small adjustments when they knew the weapon. Then the other rammed some wadding down the barrel, followed by the ball.
In a few minutes all the starboard guns were loaded. Barney went around with his taper lighting the slow matches. Most of the men wound a rope match around a forked stick called a linstock, so that they could stand well clear of the gun when putting the flame to the touchhole.
Barney peered through a gun port. The Hawk was now side-on to the stiff easterly breeze, bowling along at eight or nine knots, with the faster galleon half a mile away and bearing down on its starboard side.
Barney waited. At this range he might hit the galleon, and he might do some minor damage, but it would not be the best use of his armaments.
The attacking ship was approaching nose-on to the Hawk, so could not use its powerful broadside cannons. Two small explosions indicated that the gunner was trying out his foredeck guns, but Barney saw from the splashes that both balls had landed harmlessly in the sea.
However, the fast vessel would soon come close enough to turn at an angle and deploy its broadside guns, and then the Hawk would be in trouble. What the hell was Captain Bacon's plan? Perhaps the old fool had none. Barney fought down panic.
A crewman called Silas said impatiently: "Shall we fire, sir?"
Barney held his nerve with an effort. "Not yet," he said with more assurance than he felt. "They're too far off."
Up on deck, Bacon yelled: "Hold your fire, gunners!" He could not have heard Silas, but his instinct had told him the gun deck would be getting restless.
As the galleon came closer, the angle improved for shooting. At six hundred yards, it fired.
There was a bang and a puff of smoke. The ball moved slowly enough to be visible, and Barney saw it rise on a high trajectory. He resisted the temptation to duck. Before the ball came close he saw that it was going to hit. But the Spanish gunner had aimed a fraction too high, and the ball flew through the rigging. Barney heard canvas and rope rip, but it sounded as if no woodwork was damaged.
Barney was about to fire back, but he hesitated when he heard Bacon yelling a stream of orders. Then the Hawk lurched again and turned to leeward. For a few moments it had the wind behind it, but Bacon continued turning through one hundred and eighty degrees and then headed south, back toward the island.
Without needing to be told, all the gunners switched to the port side of the gun deck and loaded the other six minions.
But what was Bacon up to?
Looking out, Barney saw the galleon change direction, its prow swinging around to intercept the Hawk's new course. And then he understood what Bacon was doing.
He was presenting Barney with the perfect target.
In a minute or two the Hawk would be broadside-on to the nose of the enemy ship, and three hundred yards away. Barney would be able to attack with raking fire, putting one ball after another into the vulnerable bow of the galleon and all along the length of its deck to the stern, causing maximum damage to its rigging and crew.
If he did it right.
The range was so close that he had no need of the wedges that elevated the gun barrels. Firing dead level their range should be perfect. But the target was narrow.
Silas said: "Now, sir?"
"No," Barney replied. "Stay ready, stay calm."
He knelt beside the foremost gun and stared out, watching the angle of the galleon, his heart thudding. This was so much easier on land, when gun and target were not rising and falling on waves.
The enemy ship seemed to turn slowly. Barney fought the temptation to start firing too soon. He watched the four masts. He would fire when they were in a straight line so that the first obscured the rest. Or just before, to allow for the time it would take the ball to travel.
Silas said: "Ready when you are, sir!"
"Get set!" The masts were almost in line. "Fire one!" He tapped Silas on the shoulder.
Silas put the burning tip of his rope match to the touchhole in the gun barrel.
The explosion was deafening in the confined space of the gun deck.
The cannon sprang backward with the recoil.
Barney peered out and saw the ball smash into the forecastle of the galleon. A cheer went up from the crew of the Hawk.
Barney moved to the next gun and tapped the man's shoulder. "Fire!"
This ball went higher, and crashed into the galleon's masts.
Barney could hear tremendous cheering from on deck. He moved sternward down the line, concentrating on trying to time the shots to a fraction of a second, until all six guns had fired.
He returned to the first gun, expecting to find Silas reloading. To his dismay, Silas and his mate were shaking hands, congratulating each other. "Reload!" Barney screamed. "The swine aren't dead yet!"
Hastily, Silas picked up a gun worm, a long-handled tool with a pointed spiral blade. He used it to extract residual wadding from the barrel. The detritus came out smoldering and sparking. Silas trod on the embers with a horny bare foot, apparently feeling no pain. His mate then picked up a long stick thickly wrapped in rags. He dipped it in the water bucket, then plunged it down the barrel to extinguish any remaining sparks or burning fragments that might, otherwise, have ignited the next charge of gunpowder prematurely. He withdrew the sponge, and the heat of the barrel quickly evaporated any traces of water. The two men then reloaded the cleaned gun.
Barney looked out. The bow of the galleon was holed in two places and its foremast was leaning sideways. From the deck--now only two hundred yards away--came the screams of the wounded and the panicked cries of the survivors. But the ship had not been crippled, and the captain kept his nerve. The galleon came on at barely reduced speed.
Barney was dismayed by how long his gunners took to reload. He knew, from battlefield experience, that a single volley never won a fight. Armies could recover. But repeated volleys, one after another, decimating their ranks and felling their comrades, destroyed morale and caused men to run away or surrender. Repetition was everything. However, the crew of the Hawk were sailors, not artillerymen, and no one had taught them the importance of rapid, disciplined reloading.
The galleon came straight at the Hawk. Its captain no longer wanted to fire his broadside guns. Of course not, Barney thought: the Spaniards did not want to sink the Hawk. They would prefer to capture the ship and confiscate its illegally acquired treasure. They were firing the small foredeck guns, and some shots were hitting the rigging; but the Hawk was narrow, making it easy to overshoot or undershoot. The galleon's tactic, Barney now saw, would be to ram the Hawk, then board.
By the time the Hawk's guns were ready, the galleon would be less than a hundred yards away. But it was taller than the Hawk, and Barney wanted to hit the deck rather than the hull, so he needed to elevate his guns slightly. He ran along
the line adjusting the wedges.
The next few moments felt long. The galleon was moving fast, nine or ten knots, its prow foaming the swell, but it seemed to approach by inches. Its deck was crowded with sailors and soldiers, apparently eager to leap aboard the Hawk and kill everyone. Silas and the gunners kept looking from the galleon to Barney and back: they were itching to put their matches to gunpowder. "Wait for my word!" he shouted. Slightly premature shooting was the greatest possible gift to the enemy, allowing him to get close in safety while the gunners were reloading.
But then the galleon was a hundred yards away, and Barney fired.
Once again Captain Bacon had presented him with the perfect target. The galleon was heading straight for the guns of the Hawk. At such close range Barney could not miss. He fired all six guns in rapid succession, then yelled: "Reload! Reload!"
Then he looked out, and saw that his shooting had been even better than he had hoped. One ball must have struck the mainmast, for as he watched it was falling forward, pushed by the wind. The pace of the galleon slowed as some of its sails collapsed. The mainmast fell into the rigging of the damaged foremast and that, too, began to topple. The ship was now only fifty yards away, but still too far for its men to board the Hawk. It was crippled--but, Barney saw, it was nevertheless drifting into collision with the Hawk, which would then be boarded anyway.
But Bacon acted again. He turned the Hawk to leeward. The east wind filled the sails. The ship picked up pace. In moments the Hawk was speeding westward.
The crippled galleon could not catch up.
Could it be over?
Barney went up on deck, and the crew cheered him. They had won. They had beaten off a larger, faster vessel. Barney was their hero, though he knew the battle had really been won by Bacon's skill and his quick, agile ship.
Barney looked back. The galleon was limping toward the harbor. Hispaniola was already receding.
And so was Bella.
Barney went to Bacon at the wheel. "Where are we heading, Captain?"
"Home," said Bacon. "To Combe Harbour." When Barney said nothing, he added: "Isn't that what you wanted?"
Barney looked back at Hispaniola, disappearing now into a haze under the Caribbean sun. "It was," he said.
13
Margery knew she was committing a serious crime when she picked up a broom and began to sweep the floor of the chapel, preparing it for mass.
The small village of Tench had no church, but this chapel was within the manor house. Earl Swithin rarely went to Tench, and the building was in bad repair, dirty and damp. When Margery had cleaned the floor she opened a window to let in some fresh air; and in the dawn light it began to feel more like a holy place.
Stephen Lincoln put candles on the altar either side of a small jeweled crucifix he had purloined from Kingsbridge Cathedral, way back in the early days of Elizabeth's reign, before he had officially left the priesthood. Around his shoulders he was wearing a magnificent cope he had rescued from a Protestant bonfire of priestly vestments. It was gorgeously embroidered with gold and silver thread and colored silk. The embroidery depicted the martyrdom of Thomas Becket. It also showed random foliage and, for some reason, several parrots.
Margery brought a wooden chair from the hall and sat down to prepare herself for mass.
There were no clocks in Tench but everyone could see sunrise, and as the pale light of a summer morning crept through the east window and turned the gray stone walls to gold, the villagers came into the chapel in their family groups, quietly greeting their neighbors. Stephen stood with his back to the congregation and they stared, mesmerized, at the colorful images on his cope.
Margery knew how many people lived in Tench, for it was part of the Shiring earldom, and she was pleased to see that every inhabitant showed up, including the oldest resident, Granny Harborough, who was carried in, and was the only other member of the congregation who sat down for the service.
Stephen began the prayers. Margery closed her eyes and let the familiar sound of the Latin words penetrate her mind and submerge her soul in the precious tranquillity of feeling right with the world and with God.
Traveling around the county of Shiring, sometimes with her husband, Bart, and sometimes without him, Margery would talk to people about their religious feelings. Men and women liked her, and were more willing to open up to her because she was an unthreatening young woman. She generally targeted the village steward, a man paid to take care of the earl's interests. He would already know that the earl's family were staunch Catholics, and if handled gently, he would soon tell Margery where the villagers stood. In poor, remote places such as Tench it was not unusual to find that they were all Catholic. And then she would arrange for Stephen to bring them the sacraments.
It was a crime, but Margery was not sure how dangerous this was. In the five years since Elizabeth had come to the throne, no one had been executed for Catholicism. Stephen had the impression, from talking to other ex-priests, that clandestine services such as this one were in fact common; but there was no official reaction, no campaign to stamp them out.
It seemed that Queen Elizabeth was willing to tolerate such things. Ned Willard hinted as much. He came home to Kingsbridge once or twice a year, and Margery usually saw him in the cathedral, and spoke to him even though his face and his voice provoked wicked thoughts in her mind. He said that Elizabeth had no interest in punishing Catholics. However, he added, as if warning her personally, anyone who challenged Elizabeth's authority as head of the Church of England--or, even worse, questioned her right to the throne--would be treated harshly.
Margery had no wish to make any kind of political statement. All the same she could not feel safe. She thought it would be a mistake to relax vigilance. Monarchs could change their minds.
Fear was always present in her life, like a bell ringing for a distant funeral, but it did not keep her from her duty. She was thrilled that she had been chosen as the agent who would preserve the true religion in the county of Shiring, and she accepted the danger as part of the mission. If one day it got her into serious trouble, she would find the strength to deal with that, she felt sure. Or nearly sure.
The congregation here would protect themselves by walking, later in the morning, to the next village, where a priest would hold a Protestant service using the prayer book authorized by Elizabeth and the English-language Bible introduced by her heretical father, King Henry VIII. They had to go, anyway: the fine for not attending church was a shilling, and no one in Tench could spare a shilling.
Margery was the first to receive Communion, to give courage to the others. Then she stood aside to watch the congregation. Their weathered peasant faces glowed as they received the sacrament that had been denied them for so long. Finally Granny Harborough was carried to the front. Almost certainly this would be the last time for her here on earth. Her wrinkled visage was suffused with joy. Margery could imagine what she was thinking. Her soul was saved, and she was at peace.
Now she could die happy.
One morning in bed Susannah, the dowager countess of Brecknock, said: "I'd marry you, Ned Willard, if I was twenty years younger, I really would."
She was forty-five years old, a cousin of Earl Swithin. Ned had known her by sight since childhood, and had never dreamed he might be her lover. She lay beside him with her head on his chest and one plump thigh thrown over his knees. He could easily imagine being married to her. She was clever and funny and as lustful as a tomcat. She had ways in bed that he had never heard of, and she made him play games he had not even imagined. She had a sensual face and warm brown eyes and big soft breasts. Most of all, she helped him to stop thinking about Margery in bed with Bart.
She said: "But it's a terrible idea, of course. I'm past the age when I could give you children. I could help a young man's career, but with Sir William Cecil as your mentor you don't need any help. And I don't even have a fortune to leave you."
And we're not in love, Ned thought, though he did not say
it. He liked Susannah enormously, and she had given him intense pleasure for a year, but he did not quite love her, and he was pretty sure she did not love him. He had not known that a relationship such as this was even possible. He had learned so much from her.
"Besides," she said, "I'm not sure you'll ever get over poor Margery."
The one drawback of an older lover, Ned had learned, was that nothing could be concealed from her. He was not sure how she did it but she guessed everything, even things he did not want her to know. Especially things he did not want her to know.
"Margery is a lovely girl, and she deserved you," Susannah went on. "But her family were desperate to join the nobility, and they just used her."
"The Fitzgerald men are the scum of the earth," Ned said with feeling. "I know them too damn well."
"Doubtless. Unfortunately, marriage is not just about being in love. For instance, I really need to be married."
Ned was shocked. "Why?"
"A widow is a nuisance. I could live with my son, but no boy really wants his mother around all the time. Queen Elizabeth likes me, but a single woman at court is assumed to be a busybody. And if she's attractive she makes the married women nervous. No, I need a husband, and Robin Twyford will be perfect."
"You're going to marry Lord Twyford?"
"I think so, yes."
"Does he know about this?"
She laughed. "No, but he thinks I'm wonderful."
"You are, but you might be wasted on Robin Twyford."
"Don't condescend. He's fifty-five, but he's sprightly and smart and he makes me laugh."
Ned realized he should be gracious. "My darling, I hope you'll be very happy."
"Bless you."
"Are you going to the play tonight?"
"Yes." She loved plays, as he did.
"I'll see you then."
"If Twyford is there, be nice to him. No silly jealousy."
Ned's jealousy was focused elsewhere, but he did not say that. "I promise."
"Thank you." She sucked his nipple.
"That feels good." He heard the bell of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. "But I have to attend upon Her Majesty."
"Not yet, you don't." She sucked the other nipple.
"But soon."