'So what happened?' asked Gresham, like the child he had never been asking for the end of a story from the mother he had never known.
'The water's comin' towards me in waves, gettin' higher all the time. And then, on top of one of them, I see the key to the padlocks round our feet. The overseer kept it in a leather wallet — 'e must have dropped it. I grab it. By this time the water's at waist height when it's at its lowest, but slappin' me in the face when it's high. So I take a deep breath, and I ducks down underneath the water, tries to get the key into the locks.'
'What then?'
'I does one, and then the ship lurches over. I lose the key. I lose the key! I'm cryin', cryin d'you hear, cryin' underwater. An' I just want to breathe, don't care if it's water or air, I just got to open me lungs. And I'm clenching my fist, without thinking. And when I clench it for the last time, there's something in it.'
'The key?' Gresham breathed.
'The key! So I shove it in the second lock, thinkin' I'm dead so what the Hell. And it opens. My legs are free.' 'And then?' Gresham asked.
'Don't know,' said Mannion. 'All I know is that I'm floating on the surface. And breathing. Breathing.'
'But how did you get home?' asked Gresham.
'Well, now,' said Mannion, clearly deciding that he'd made enough of a confession, 'that's a different story. Save it for another day. Ended up in England. Your father gave me a job. Gardener!' Mannion barked a short, savage laugh. 'Can't tell you how good that word sounded. Gardener. Feet on God's earth for evermore. Catch me if you can wi' me feet on anything that moves ever again!' He made as if to stand up, then thought better of it, returned to Gresham's side. 'But I'll tell you one thing. When I 'eard we was goin' to Cadiz, I thought Christ! When I 'eard it was with Drake, I thought Christ Almighty! And when I saw those galleys, ain't no words no Christ ever 'eard passed through my brain. I was about to ask you to kill me if it ever looks like we're goin' to be captured by those bastards.'
'Why didn't you?'
'Thought it was daft- Thought we was dead anyway. Thought it was kind of poetic justice, someone like me being blown to bits by a bloody Spanish galley. Didn't like it, though. Never given up on anything before.'
Gresham looked deep into Mannion's. eyes. He was beginning to realise what this journey must have cost Mannion in courage.
'Why did you come with me on… this?'
'Cos people like me can't choose what 'appens to them. If they're lucky, they can choose who it 'appens with. I chose you. So the rest follows, don't it? Fall in love with Spain, if you like and you're that stupid. Me, I don't choose countries. I choose people.'
It had been chaos when Sidonia arrived at Cadiz, guided as he had feared by the plumes of smoke. Troops were milling around the town, each under their own command. Some were drunk, and it would only be a matter of time before one or more of them went out of control and started to loot or rape. Yet with relief he saw the smoke was coming from ships in the bay, not the town. 'My Lord, what are your orders?'
The militia officer was respectful, but forceful. He knew Sidonia's reputation. A hard taskmaster, but fair. As for Sidonia, he had no training as a General, but the necessary actions seemed obvious to him. He took fifty of the best mounted troops, and rode through the town, grabbing the disorganised men as he found them, sending the drunkards off to the dungeons in the Castle and organising the remainder into detachments of mixed horse and foot. Small enough to be mobile, yet powerful enough to hurt seriously a landing party, he placed the detachments all along the shoreline, defined a command structure. He gave the command to men who he either knew, or simply those officers with natural authority. Next he ordered such few light cannon as the city could muster and placed them in hurriedly constructed batteries along the shoreline. Now let the enemy land by boat! He had Cadiz scoured for powder and shot, placing it in the cellars of the stoutest brick and stone houses, within reach of his shoreline detachments but out of range of the English guns. Messengers were sent to the galleys, apparently his only effective fighting force afloat, and a line of communication set up. There was no escape from the harbour for any Spanish vessel, so a rider was sent to the next fishing village along the coast, with enough gold to send the entire fishing fleet out to sea to search for Recalde's squadron to tell it to return to Cadiz.
By now Sidonia was exhausted, and a film of dust covered him from top to toe. It would never do. A commander had to be seen to be the part, as well as to do it. He turned to a meagre house and waited for its screeching inhabitants to be evicted by his men. They would come to no harm, and afterwards would become the talk of their friends because the great Duke had changed in their hovel. He wrinkled his nose at the stench inside, but allowed himself to be changed and put into new clothing, more resplendent than his riding garb, more slashed and jewelled. Let the people see the King's representative glitter a little in front of them. It would do no harm.
Could he do anything about the outrageous arrogance of the English ships in the harbour? Very little, he suspected. Fireships must be tried to drift down in the English vessels, but with so little wind the English could easily divert them, if their discipline and control held. Sidonia never underestimated Spain's enemies, as did so many other of his aristocratic colleagues. Heathen devils though they were, they were professionals. Yet the fireships would boost the morale of the garrison and the inhabitants, even if they failed.
He paused to take food and wine, rationing himself to half an hour before riding off to inspect the result of his day's arrangements. In a matter of hours chaos had been transformed into order. His face was calm, composed, showing sign neither of the fact that he was not displeased with his efforts, nor of the fierce anger he felt at the English impudence. For the first time he felt the desire to launch a great fleet in revenge.
The call went out for men to man a boat. Drake wished to know if any unseen problems had arisen now that the ships had left Cadiz harbour and were at sea, and subject to the full stress of wind and wave. As they scudded round the fleet, aided by the brisk wind and the tiny sails they carried, they became more and more amazed. The first shot fired from the great culverin the Spaniards had mounted in Cadiz had pierced the hull of the Golden Lion and carved off the leg of its master gunner, but after that, and despite the at times frantic cannonades from the shore, hot a single ship reported a single hit nor a casualty. Far from being exhausted by hauling the cables to bring broadsides to bear on the lurking galleys, the crews were becoming increasingly jovial and confident, beginning to think themselves invulnerable.
Mannion was giving Gresham a lesson in gunnery as they bounced over the choppy seas to yet another English galleon. 'How can they miss so often?' Gresham had asked.
'Well, it's like this…' Mannion was breathing easily, despite his rowing.
'It's 'cos all gunners are stupid bastards! Pissed out o' their minds!' One of the sailors guffawed. There were no private conversations on a small boat.
'Apart from that,' said Mannion, 'powder costs a fortune, so you ain't exactly encouraged to practise. They'll have fired off more shots this morning than they've done all year.'
'Silly buggers still haven't learned much, 'ave they?' said the sailor, clearly setting himself up as the boat's chief entertainer.
'Then there's the ball. Hardly any of 'em's perfect. It's called windage. Gap between the ball and the inside o' the barrel. If it's big, the ball gets less of a push. If the fit's snug, the ball goes further.'
'Windage, is it? I thought 'as 'ow with gunners it were all piss and wind!'
'Then there's the powder,' Mannion continued, ignoring the running commentary made on his every word. 'It's all different, burns differently. Even the same batch can change from one day to the next.'
'End result,' said the sailor, 'is no gunner can 'it a piss-pot even if 'is dick's in it at the time!'
There was no real supply of saltpetre in England. Laborious applications of human urine were the only way to remedy nature's deficit. Every gunner in the fleet knew his powder was composed in no small part of piss. It affected their humour.
Anna had never been so bored in her life, nor so terrified. They had brought books on board, of course, even though there was a current debate over whether or not reading was likely to overtax the weaker female brain and bring on the vapours. And most of the books were sermons or edifying texts, though she had ploughed through them once, twice even, rather than face the prospect of nothing at all to engage her brain. She could walk on the quarterdeck at certain times, provided she was well protected from the sun, and feel the eyes of such men as could see her boring into her back. Well, that had been quite exciting initially, and a little thrill of a shiver had gone down her spine when she had realised how much she was the centre of attention. Then she had turned unexpectedly one day, caught sight of raw lust in a man's eyes before he could properly turn away, and she had felt sick. Her father had tried to breed horses in Goa, as much to pass the time as for any profit, but the venture had largely failed. Yet
