11

The storm blew all night, shoving the Wayward Girl ahead of it, and when it finally gusted away into a pale calm dawn, the ship was far up the Channel, missing a few spars and some of her rigging. The Spanish ships were nowhere in sight, and after such a storm the Beggar fleet was unlikely to be where it was supposed to be.

Pieter said, “The wind’s pretty fair for Plymouth. We could look in there and see who’s taken shelter from the dirty weather.”

The rest of the crew agreed with that, and they sailed off to the coast of England, making Plymouth Sound in three tacks.

Plymouth was packed full of ships as a barrel of herring. The four Spanish galleons lay in the deep harbor. Poor sailers off the wind that the galleons were, yet they fared well in storms and they looked fit as they had when Jan last saw them. On the bow of the great flagship men were working to repair the broken railings. Half a dozen English and French merchantmen shared their anchorage.

Between the waters of the Channel and these big ships, sleek and fat like hens in their roosts, lay the Sea Beggars, a crowd of small, light ships, some considerably storm battered. One at least was sinking: the John Calvin, one of Dirk Sonoy’s ships, lay to her gunports in the water, while small boats swarmed around her trying to keep her afloat.

Jan leaned against the rail. Old Pieter was steering the Wayward Girl into port, under the command of the pilot; Jan, left idle, could turn his whole attention to the work around the John Calvin. On the other Dutch ships a constant bustle of men and small boats saw to the repairing of storm damage. On board Lumey’s ship Christ the Redeemer a complex of ropes rove through blocks at masthead and deckline was hoisting a spar up the mizzenmast.

Jan glanced at the Spanish ships again. He thought if they were clever they would run for it now, while the Beggars were laid up.

Bright pennants fluttered up and down the mainmast of the flagship. Signals to the other ships. Maybe they were commenting on the arrival of the Wayward Girl. At this flurry of attention from the mighty Spaniards, Jan’s chest swelled; his head grew lighter with a sense of his own gravity. He strolled over toward his uncle, handling the wheel.

“Well, I’m for going ashore and sleeping in a bed for once, as long as we’re here.”

“Oh, you are. While I’m seeing to the ship by myself, I suppose.”

“Uncle, we’ll be here for days, maybe for—”

“Will we?” Old Pieter spared him half a glance. “What if the Dons run for it? Stand aside and let me take my ship to anchor.”

Jan stepped back. Under her jib alone, the Wayward Girl glided over the slack water of the harbor, past the first rabble of the Beggars. Old Pieter called orders in a rasping voice; the hands ran to back the jib. Jan looked toward the town. The sun was setting, bleaching the sky, and the clutter of buildings along the wharf was already dark in shadow. In the town behind, a church bell was ringing.

The Wayward Girl drifted toward a clear mooring not far from the John Calvin. At a bellow from the old man, Marten let the anchor run.

Jan thought an angry oath at his uncle. Plymouth no longer looked so strange to him. If not home, it was a familiar place to him now, with soft beds and good, hot food—hot food, anyway; he longed to go there as if it were a real home. Already the other sailors were gathering by the mast, where old Pieter stood filling his pipe. Most of the men would go ashore at once. Only his own nephew would Pieter hold on board to work. Jan went below, in a rising rage.

Mouse was there by the water barrel, leaning in over the edge to dip up a cupful of the slimy green water. He slid down onto his feet again.

“Where are we? Can I go up and see?”

His face was gray, and even while he talked, a cough struggled up his throat. Jan got him by the arm and pulled him back down the center aisle of the hold, the only space in the dark crowded cave belowdecks where Jan could walk without banging his head. At the end, in the stern, was the tiny room he shared with his uncle, and now with Mouse. He pushed the boy through the little doorway and made him lie down on the straw tick where usually Jan himself slept.

“We’re in Plymouth. You sleep, damn you. I didn’t risk all our lives to pull you out of the sea just to have you die on me afterward. Now we can start a fire, and I’ll get old Pieter to cook you something hot.”

“Plymouth.” The boy lunged toward the little window in the stern. Jan caught him by the hair and forced him down on the straw tick. The boy coughed again. He had no fever but his face was the color of clamshells. Jan laid the blanket over him.

“If I catch you up out of this bed again I’ll beat you top to bottom. Understand?”

Roughly he bundled the blanket over Mouse’s body, tucking it in. The contact, the protective tenderness it roused in him, unsettled him. To hide it he cuffed the boy lightly on the side of the head and, going out, he slammed the door.

When he reached the deck again, most of the crew were already gone, riding the overburdened dinghy halfway to the wharf. The shipyard’s tender, nearly as big as the Girl herself, was lying along the starboard beam, and old Pieter leaned over the rail bargaining for spars and tar and line. Jan loitered by the larboard rail. The crippled John Calvin lay between two big flyboats, roped to their railings; only their support kept the drowning ship above the water. The men who had been working on her had gone ashore. She looked deserted now.

A little rowboat from the wharf circled the Wayward Girl. The boy at her oars shouted in English. Jan waved to him to come closer.

“I want some bread, good fresh bread, and some cheese, and meat, beef or mutton, or fish.” He felt for his wallet for a coin and thumbed up a silver real, which he tossed into the bottom of the rowboat. “Understand?”

“Bread, cheese, beef, and fish,” the boy yelled, in bastard Dutch.

“Fetch it back in half an hour, and there’ll be two more like that for you!”

“Eh?”

Jan switched to French, holding up his fingers to sign the time and the money. The boy nodded and bent to his oars. Jan went to join his uncle, splicing the broken halyards.

Mouse said, “I didn’t mean to fall.”

“Shut up,” Jan said. “Don’t be a crybaby.”

Old Pieter grunted an oath at them; he was rolled up in his blanket on the bed built into the stern bulkhead. The light from the lantern hanging just outside the little round window shone on his face.

Mouse coughed. He seemed stronger, now that he had good food in him.

Jan sat with his back against the doorpost. The three of them filled the tiny cabin so well he had no room to stretch his legs out, which he longed to do, but he was reluctant also to leave Mouse. Caring for the boy gave him something to do, and it was gratifying that Mouse was obviously getting better, although he had never been especially sick.

Somewhere across the harbor a ship’s bell clanged. A few moments later the church bells of Plymouth counted out their solemn measures of the hour. From Pieter’s bunk came the gentle rumble of a snore. Mouse was asleep also, his mouth open, his hand curled under his cheek. Jan tucked the blanket under him and went through the hold to the main hatch.

There was no wind. When he came up onto the deck the warmth of the air surprised him. Heavy skeins of fog lay on the flat, calm waters of the harbor and veiled the town and sank over the masts of the ships. Jan walked the length of the deck, glad of the room to move. When he turned, by the forecastle, a light caught his eye.

He went to the rail, squinting into the dark and fog. The light bobbed up and down across the water, making for the John Calvin, haloed in the mist.

Jan had spent the evening tying knots and sewing canvas. He took this light as an invitation; without a moment’s thought, he peeled off his clothes and vaulted naked over the rail of the Wayward Girl.

He entered the water as straight as he could, to keep from making much of a splash. When he surfaced, twenty feet from his ship, the light was still there, bobbing and bouncing toward the crippled Dutch ship. He swam after it, his arms working soundlessly below the water’s surface.

The light was a little lantern, half-shuttered, on the bow of a rowboat full of men. Reaching the John Calvin, the oarsmen shipped their oars. The other men crouched together in the center of the rowboat, working at something.

Jan reached the side of the rowboat and put his head cautiously up over the gunwale. The smell of burning pitch reached his nose. They were lighting a torch, the men in the rowboat; they were going to burn the John Calvin.

Jan got his hands on the rowboat’s gunwale, ready to heave his weight up onto it and rock the boat over, but before he could move, one of the men looked around and saw him.

It was Lumey de la Marck. Surprised, Jan gaped at him, and Lumey lurched forward and got him by the arm.

“Get in here, sailor boy!”

That ruffled him, that nickname. Jan swung himself over the gunwale, into the midst of the four men, all bent over a torch and a pot of coals.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“We’re going to burn this hulk,” said Lumey.

Jan looked from face to face. Out of the water, now, he was cold. “It’s Sonoy’s ship. Where is he?”

“Why do you care?” Lumey said, in a voice that grated. His huge paw of a hand lay on Jan’s shoulder still, and he shook the younger man, like a schoolmaster giving a lesson. “She’s finished, this ship. But there’s still something she can do against the King of Spain.”

“I don’t follow you,” Jan said.

One of the other men coughed. “We set her ablaze, right? Everybody will think the Spanish did it, and the Englanders will order the Dons out of Plymouth. Then we take them.”

Jan said, “Unh.” It seemed too obvious to work. He scanned the faces around him, their features faintly picked out of the gloom by the light from the pot of coals; this was Sonoy’s ship, and Sonoy was not here, and as slightly as Jan knew the upright little captain he was still sure he had no part in this. Lumey was staring at him, smiling.

“Are you with us?”

They all looked drunk. It was a drunkard’s scheme. Jan wiped his hand over his mouth. He glanced across the harbor toward the Spanish ships. He had been idle for hours, and bored, and this work at least promised some excitement. Besides, what could he do to stop it? He nodded.

“Yes. Do it.”

Lumey pounded him on the back. The man with the unlit torch dipped the pitchy end into the coals. Jan crouched down in the bow of the rowboat, shivering with cold. He raised his eyes to the John Calvin, whose side rose up over him. The ship gurgled, taking on more water.

“We’d better get away fast,” he said. “She’ll burn like kitchen coal.”

Lumey nodded. “We’ll make for your ship, say. When the fire gets going, we can stroke back here and pretend to put it out. Cut the tenders here free.” He nodded toward the boat that supported the John Calvin. The fire was spreading over the head of the torch and the red light licked his face, the round cheeks bristling with beard, the shrewd little eyes almost hidden under his shaggy brows. He smiled again, showing his gappy teeth. “We’ll all be heroes.”

Jan said nothing; he had his doubts about that. The man with the torch stood up in the rowboat, swung the flaming club once around his head, and threw it up over the rail of the John Calvin. They all heard it thump on the deck.

“Now we’re off,” said Lumey. Sitting down in the rowboat, he reached under the thwart for a little flagon of wine.

Jan slipped over the side into the water and swam toward the Wayward Girl. Behind him the rowboat plied its way on creaking oars away from the crippled ship. In the night stillness the sound of the oars groaning in the locks seemed loud as a voice calling. Jan swam to the stern of his ship, where the ladder was let down, and grabbed one of the wooden rungs. The rowboat came after him.

“Wait here,” he said to Lumey. “My uncle’s asleep.”

He glanced up at the little round window in the stern, hoping that was true.

Lumey smiled at him; the leather wine flagon hung limp and empty in his hand. “Have you got anything aboard to drink?”

“No,” Jan said, lying, and went up the ladder to the deck of his ship.

His clothes lay in a heap by the rail. He pulled them hastily on, defending himself, he knew, less against the cold than against suspicion. The John Calvin looked dark and inert across the narrow gap of water that separated them. Maybe the torch had gone out. But while he was pressing the water out of his hair with his hands, a flame shot up from the waist of the cripple and climbed furiously into the tarry rigging with a crackle he could hear all this way away.

He ran back to the stern, watching the fire seize the ship; within minutes she was blazing from her bowsprit to her rudders. The greedy power of the fire impressed him. Now he wished he had not agreed to this, but there was no way to stop it: the John Calvin was doomed. Below him, in the rowboat, Lumey said, “Well, let’s go be heroes,” and laughed, a wine-soaked giggle.

None of the others laughed. They stroked back toward the John Calvin more slowly than they had left her.

Jan leaned against the Wayward Girl’s railing, struggling with his regrets, his gaze trapped by the fire, which now was lapping the tenders on either side. On the shore there was an outcry of voices, and little dark figures ran about. He could see them on the wharf because the hellish red-gold flickering light of the fire stretched across the water and danced over the wharves and poked deep into the town behind.

Clouds of dark smoke rolled upward from the blazing ship, hiding the flames a moment. The breeze scattered the smoke, and the rushing fire shone so bright he had to blink, one hand raised to shield his eyes.

All three ships were burning now, the John Calvin and the two tenders. Lumey and the others sat in the rowboat midway between the Wayward Girl and the blaze, held away by the heat. Other boats were hurrying out from the shore.

“What’s all this?”

Jan jumped. He had not heard his uncle come up on deck behind him. Guilty, he turned, pulling his face into a mask.

“What you see. The Calvin’s burning.”

“Oh? And how did that happen?”

Jan took a deep breath. It was easier to tell the truth. “Lumey set fire to her. He’ll blame it on the Spaniards.”

The old man glowered at him. Furiously he dug his thumb into the bowl of his pipe. “And you helped?”

“I came on them doing it. There wasn’t much I could do.”

His uncle stuck the stem of his pipe between his teeth. “What a fool’s caper.” He nudged Jan with his elbow. “We’d better get ashore. There’ll be a night’s yelling over this piece of work, and they’ll need help to see it go our way.”

Jan raised his hand to Lumey, flagging him over. Suddenly he thought of Mouse. If Mouse knew of his part in this, Mouse would think less of him. Ridiculous, even to consider it, the opinion of a half-wit boy. Jan thrust the thought off.

He followed his uncle down into the dinghy. Mouse had never mattered to him before. He resolved to have him matter nothing once again.

The wharves were crowded with folk watching the fire, townspeople in their nightcaps, their cloaks thrown over sleeping gowns, sailors from the inns and taverns who still carried their tankards of ale in their hands, and even small children, peering through their elders’ legs. When Lumey and the other Dutchmen tramped up the stone steps to the quayside, the harbor master met them, wearing a frown as fierce as his ceremonial sword. Behind him was a gathering of Englishmen.

He shouted something at Lumey, gesturing toward the fire. Jan could not understand the English, although a word here and there was close enough to Dutch for him to make it out. Lumey spread his feet wide apart and slid his hands under his belt, already burdened with a weight of pistols. He bawled something loud, to reach the ears of the crowd.

Jan understood the word “Spanish.” So did the onlookers, who let out a roar.

The air was raw with smoke and cinders, and bits of burning rope and sail were drifting down around Jan. He moved a little away from Lumey, down the stone quay. Dirk Sonoy came out of the crowd near him, his face turned toward his ship; deep lines furrowed his high forehead.

Lumey was shouting, his right arm jerking and milling in the air. The crowd seemed to agree with him. The harbor master folded his arms over his chest.

Down the quay came a band of men with muskets, pushing people out of their way. Two linkboys lit their path. As they passed, the crowd muttered and swore and shook their fists at them. In the midst of the musketeers walked a man in a broad-brimmed hat and a fancy doublet with a high old-fashioned collar. It was the Spanish commodore, who ignoring the angry crowd strode up to Lumey and the English harbor master and shouted into their faces.

The Englishman, confronted by two noisy foreigners, was backing away. Lumey and the Spaniard sneered at one another. Jan turned to Dirk Sonoy.

“What are they saying?”

Sonoy was still watching his ship, burned now to the waterline; great coils of black smoke rolled from her smoldering hull. Slowly he turned his eyes to Lumey.

“He’s accusing the Spanish of burning her. The Spaniard’s denying it.”

“Naturally,” Jan said, with force. Sonoy gave him an instant’s sideways look, sardonic.

“The Spaniard’s saying they’re honorable men, not pirates, and anyhow the Calvin was already sunk.” Sonoy wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “He’s saying we burned her.”

The crowd was hooting and jeering at the tall Spanish officer. The harbor master stood with his arms clasped across his chest, his gaze switching from the commodore to Lumey and back again.

Sonoy said quietly, “I had important charts on board. My letters of marque. And other things.”

“I’m sorry,” Jan said.

Sonoy said nothing. A small, slightly made man, he stood very straight, to use his every inch, and his expression was always sober; now he looked as if he would never smile again. Jan imagined losing the Wayward Girl—losing her like this, by the work of his own friends, and put out his hand to Sonoy.

“You have other ships. The Prince will send you new letters.”

“She was my first ship,” Sonoy said. He shook his head. “Ay, ay, there’s something black in it, too, because of her name.”

Jan said nothing more, for fear of betraying his own part in it. He wished now he had done something to stop it; even if he had failed, he would feel better about it now. A few feet away from him, Lumey was beating his hands together and shouting, “Revenge! Revenge!” The crowd picked it up, chanting with him. “Revenge!”

The Spaniard stood with his mouth twisted into a grimace. He gestured with one hand and his musketeers closed around him. The harbor master pushed forward. He shoved Lumey to one side and facing the crowd waved his arms and shrieked the mass into a flattering mutter and then into silence.

He made some loud remarks in English, which Sonoy translated into Jan’s ear. “‘I am an officer of the Queen! I am not here to do a mob’s will, but the Queen’s!’”

At the mention of their sovereign the English raised a cheer as mighty as their chanting for revenge. Lumey scowled. Jan thought, He has lost, and was startled to find himself pleased.

“Then we’ll go to the Queen!” Lumey roared, in Dutch, remembered himself, and bellowed in English.

That silenced everybody. In the hush, with the Spaniards and the English gaping at him, Lumey raised his arms and wheeled around toward his men. “We’ll go to the Queen for justice!”

Another cheer went up from the crowd. Sonoy stepped forward.

“You’re mad,” he cried, and gestured toward the Spanish commodore. “He’ll sail as soon as we’re gone from Plymouth!”

“We’ll have justice from the Queen,” Lumey cried. His face was cherry red; he shook his fist in the air.

Sonoy wheeled on the harbor master and spoke a volley of English. The harbor master seemed more inclined to deal with him than with Lumey, and nodded and spoke and finally reached out to shake Sonoy’s hand.

“He’ll keep them here until the Queen decides,” Sonoy said.

The harbor master was looking at Jan, and suddenly he smiled; he said something to Sonoy and struck him jovially on the arm. Sonoy grunted.

“He says we should take you along. He says she likes them dark but she loves them tall.”

“What did he mean by that?” Jan asked, startled.

Lumey threw an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t you want to be the Queen’s lover, boy?” He laughed into Jan’s face and beat him over the shoulders and hugged him. “We’ll leave at dawn.”

Lumey and Sonoy and Jan hired horses at the hostelry in Plymouth and took the road to London. The farther they got from the sea the more Jan wished he had not come. The road was wild and lonely, traveling through stands of forest and heath, and over hills higher than any he knew in his own country, and from Lumey’s remarks he guessed he was being brought along on this adventure as a bait to tempt the lusty and rapacious English Queen. He longed for his ship, where he was master.

They spent the night at an inn, where they all lay down together in a bed so full of fleas and bedbugs Jan could not sleep for his and his companions’ scratching.

“It’s a longer journey than I remembered,” Lumey said.

They went on, following the old Roman road, straight as a ruled line across the round bare hills and plains. In the afternoon the sky darkened with ugly gray clouds.

“God spare us,” Sonoy said. “I’d rather sleep in a hedgerow than another bed like the last, but if it rains we’ll drown in the ditch.”

“No fear of that,” said Lumey. “Yon’s Salisbury—I know a lady there, a widow, who keeps a good house, and takes in all who need her charity, for the fear of God. We’ll go weep at her door, and she’ll give us a clean bed and a dish of supper, mark me.”

The rain began. They rode through a steady downpour to a house called Stonegate. There Lumey knocked on the gate, and a porter let them into a little courtyard, already splashy from the rain.

The charitable lady had taken in too many beggars; there was room in the old house for only two more. Lumey grandly volunteered Jan to sleep in the stable, since he was of common birth.

The stable was snug and dry, and warm from the beasts lined up along either wall. Jan sat on a pile of old hay listening to the rain on the thatch overhead and longing for the sea and his ship; he felt himself a different person here, so far from his work and the people who knew him. An old gray cat came up, purring, and rubbed against his arm, and he took her on his lap and stroked her. She warmed him, and he talked to her a little, mostly about Lumey, who was a fool and worse, and felt comforted.

The light faded. He was hungry, and lying in the dark with the cat rumbling away on his knees he wondered where he should go to eat. But then a woman came into the stable, a lantern in one hand and a dish in the other.

She spoke to him in English, and he shook his head, sitting up, eager, his nose working at the smell of beef and onions emanating from the covered dish. She set the lantern down between them.

“French, then, have you? Good. I am Eleanor Simmons, and Stonegate is my home.” She put the dish before him. He moved toward it so quickly the cat leapt out of his lap.

“You are very kind,” he said in French. “I am sorry to impose myself on you, with no warning, and so late in the day.”

She smiled at him. “Not at all. You give me the opportunity to serve God.”

She was a tall, thin lady, some few years older than Jan himself, much younger than he had expected from Lumey’s description of her as a widow. Her hair was brown and her face plain, not homely, raised from homeliness by the refinement of good birth and gentle manners. He tried not to eat too fast, although the food was delicious. When he was done he put the dish down for the cat to lick.

“You have a goodly appetite,” she said. “Are you a sailor also, like the lord Lumey de la Marck?”

“Yes—we sail together.”

“How exciting that must be—to travel over the sea to so many different places.”

Jan wiped his fingers on his sleeve. “I cannot say, lady, since in my sailor’s life I have seen no place but Nieuport and Plymouth.”

“Well, perhaps you shall see others.” She ran her hand over the cat’s arched back between them.

Was that why she lingered, to hear of foreign places? He lay back on his elbow, his mind leaping from thought to thought for one sufficiently entertaining to keep her here; he had no wish to lose her company.

“I should like to go to the New World,” he said. “Someday, maybe—”

“Oh, yes.” Her face brightened like the moon rising. “The names are enchanting, are they not? Cartagena, and Mexico, and America—”

“Dangerous waters,” he said, pleased at her enthusiasm for this talk. “And the Spanish mean to keep us out. But someday I’ll go. There’s silver and gold, I’ve heard, lying in the beds of streams like paving stones in the streets of Antwerp, and the people are docile as cattle.”

“A new world,” she said. “New chances—new beginnings.” Her fingers ruffled the cat’s thick fur. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, that only a hundred years ago no one even knew it was there—as if God were saving it for … someone.”

Speaking in another language, perhaps she said not what she meant; but Jan was struck by the look on her face, by the depth of feeling in her voice. He thought, She longs for something new. At the same time he became aware, intensely aware, that they were alone together. That he could stretch his hand out and touch her.

She raised her eyes suddenly to meet his, and he clenched his fist in the hay at his side.

“You think I’m foolish, don’t you,” she said.

“No,” he said. “Of course not. You have taken me in, and given me to eat; I think nothing but gratitude.”

The other thing, that was sin, and an insult to her; he hid his fist down deep in the hay.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Jan van Cleef. My ship is the Wayward Girl.” He spoke the name in Dutch and then in French.

“How pretty,” she said, and smiled. Now she was going; she got to her feet, took the dish from beneath the cat’s rasping tongue, and reached for the lantern. “Shall I leave this here?” She drew her hand back.

“Yes—I’d like the light.”

“Be sure you don’t burn the place down, will you?”

“I shall, lady. Thank you.”

“Good night.” She went away. He watched her go; the cat curled up in his lap again, vibrating with contentment. After a moment Jan lay back in the straw.

Before dawn Eleanor Simmons took a basket of bread to a poor family in the village under her hill, and walking back through the grass, soaked by the rain that had ended only a few hours before, she passed by the place that gave her house its name: four huge gray stones set on the bare windy plain, one fallen flat, two upright, one lying on top of the uprights like the lintel of a gate, a stone gate.

She hated this place and these stones. The village people came here for trysts and other wicked purposes, and she was sure that the antique pagans who had built it had used it for something awful, for sacrifices, or lewd rites. The stones seized on her imagination, and raised the devil in her; whenever she passed by she found herself envisioning those lewd rites.

She refused to surrender to it, and tried to avoid them. Whenever her course took her past the stones, she went unswerving by them, and warred with her mind all the way. Today she kept her thoughts pure by thinking of the Dutch seamen who had spent the night under her roof, the grateful receivers of her kindness. Especially she thought of the tall young man, whose name she had, unfortunately, forgotten.

When she went into her courtyard, they were standing there with their horses, ready to go. She went up to them, smiling, to have their thanks and farewells.

Lumey kissed her hand, and Sonoy bowed and spoke of God’s good mercy shown through her, which made her heart fat with pleasure. By his horse the tall young man stood silent, and when his friends turned to mount he mounted too, without a word to her.

She stepped back, downcast at that. They rode out the gate. Her mood sank lower; she had thought she had made a good impression on him, bringing him to eat with her own hands and talking to him of his voyages; she felt the reproof like a cut. But as he rode out the gate, he turned and smiled and waved his hand to her, and her spirit soared up again. She went into her house, happy.