somehow cut through the babble on the jetty, increased now by the excitement over what seemed to be a major collision.
The slight signs of uncertainty that had been visible among his men as they looked up in a moment of relaxation and saw a vast vessel bearing down on them at speed vanished, to be replaced by military order. The two men seated at the bow lowered their oars into the water, leaving them motionless for the moment, ready to give the vessel direction one way or the other as was needed. The next pair reached up the mast, where two vast boat hooks, stout timber with iron hooks at the business end, were strapped to the mast, almost equalling its height. Effortlessly they swung down the lengths of timber, so smoothly as to hide the difficulty of the act on a bobbing boat, and passed them forward for the stern pair of men. As if they were puppets, the men rose to their feet just as those behind them sat down to balance the boat, and the boat hooks were suddenly held like levelled pikes. This was the crucial moment. The two men at the stern had to direct the boat hooks, the two men behind them had to grab the end of the timber shafts as the impact threatened and give more strength to the lead man. Yet the seat of a pole has no point on which to fix, if it is to receive a big impact. The two men at the rear reached down into the lockers at their feet, and slipped a strange, leather contraption on their arms with a pouch slung beneath it. Into the pouch went the end of the boat hook.
'Secured!' the two men yelled in unison. This was what had taken the time in training, endless hours when the boat hook seemed to have a life of its own, when in securing it the rear man had swung it so widely as to knock the front man off the boat. How many hours of men splashing and swearing in the water had they undergone to produce this situation, whereby in seconds a small tree had been unslung from a mast, placed securely in the hands of a strong man ready to guide it and secured from behind by another man waiting to absorb the shock on contact?
They had the time, just. Momentum, that was the key. For all the fearsome strength and weight of the Earl's boat, like all boats it was surprisingly easy to push aside. Essex's boat was bearing down on them from almost directly astern. To Gresham's left was a motley collection of craft, mostly professionals delivering their human cargo. To his right was a rather splendid, gilded royal boat, too small to be a barge but still very grand. It was no choice.
'Fend off right,' he ordered, as calmly as before, but his pulse racing as if this was a real battle rather than a stupid battle for honour.
If it worked, Essex's boat would skitter off down their right-hand side. The bow oarsmen on that side shipped their oars and checked that those of the two stern men, wielding the boat hook, were flush along the side. It was all they had time to do.
The man was still yelling at the bow of Essex's boat, rather more frantically now. He was used to people getting out of his way, and the significant obstacle in their path had not moved. His eyes opened wide in startlement as the two huge boat hooks swung out and pointed at him.
'CLEAR…' he shrieked, his voice in danger of going falsetto, before he felt the deck shift under him, lost his footing and, in rather stately fashion, fell into the Thames.
The boat hooks caught Essex's barge just to one side of the bow. The men took the strain, actually took the one step back that the boat allowed them, and then pushed with all their strength. A sudden snag, the sinews straining and then Essex's ship started to slew round. One more heave, and the job was done.
Then the men wielding the boat hooks did something they had not been trained for. In a real fight, they would have awaited the order to fend off again, or stowed the boat hooks and gone off after their attacker. In this case, they simply raised the boat hooks to head height, dipping them down again as the rigging swept by. The careering weight of Essex's boat was unstoppable. It drove it through. The heavy boat hooks crashed into the pates of one, two, three and four oarsmen, flattening them in the bottom of the boat, their oars flying, before those behind realised and ducked. As they did so they forgot their oars, which smacked in contact with Gresham's boat and whipped back, smashing the men on the chest or on their hurriedly lowered heads. At one moment a boat hook seemed to be headed straight for the Earl of Essex and the fine bonnet he wore; he glided aside at the last second and the hook passed through empty air. Was he still grinning, Gresham had to ask himself?
Then, with a massive, grinding and wonderfully expensive crash, Essex's boat drove into the Queen's gilded plaything, smashing its own bow fully halfway into the final quarter of the other boat. Shards of wood like daggers flew through the air. The boat heeled over with the shock, so much so that its mast nearly touched the floor of the jetty, and then half-righted itself, filling with water and still enmeshed with Essex's boat. The rest of Essex's men were flung forward, Essex the only one with the sense to wrap his arms round a stanchion and stay more or less where he was. His popinjay friend was hurled forward, caught himself a nasty blow in the crotch on the guard rail, and catapulted over it into the river.
What a pity, thought Gresham, grinning now it was all over. That fine velvet, satin and silk would not survive a ducking. Was it that awful man who acted as secretary to Essex? The unfortunately named Gelli? The vicious Welshman?
The mast of the Queen's boat had not snapped as it heeled over, but must have cracked on impact. Suddenly, and without warning, there was the sound of tearing timber, and the mast wobbled, then snapped its rigging, tumbling down onto the jetty.
The boy was still there, his thumb still in his mouth, bemused, even more wide-eyed as the great men and women crashed into each other. He must have seen or sensed the mast headed towards him, but was frozen to the spot. The chunk of timber landed two, maybe three feet to one side of him. One of the planks it hit flew upward under the boy's feet, like a see-saw, catapulting him into the water. He could have hit another boat, knocked his brains out. Instead he flew straight as an arrow into the only clear patch of water left in that area of the Thames, and started to drown.
Shit! Gresham's world narrowed down to the small figure in the water. Two stupid men doing man things and fighting over their honour and who won a parking place on the river, that was one thing. No real harm done, except some broken heads, some wounded pride and a lot of work for carpenters. Gresham never thought if this whole farrago was worth the life of a worthless child. People do not think in these situations. Either they do, or they step back. Gresham was incapable of stepping back.
The finery on his back, understated though it was, would have kept a peasant and his family in food for a year. Oh, to hell with it. Life was about more than possessions.
To the amusement of his men, guffawing now at the ease with which they had bested the Earl of Essex and oblivious to the boy in the water, Gresham mounted the stern and dived cleanly into the water, his hat flying off as he did so and bobbing gently behind him.
His breath left him as the cold of the water bit through his clothes and into his flesh. The boy was going down for the third time, and sank just before Gresham reached him. Mentally bisecting the angle, Gresham kicked his heels and dived under, hand outstretched, knowing the murk of the Thames would hide the boy from him. His flailing hand grabbed hold of something — cloth? Gresham drove upwards. He drew in a huge gasp of air as he reached the surface, and saw with relief that it was indeed the boy he had grabbed. Flipping himself over on his back, he rested the child, spluttering and struggling feebly as he was, on his chest. He reached the jetty to a rousing cheer from a hundred or so bystanders, shouting partly because they were impressed, but also because they were ashamed that they, who had seen the drowning boy, had not felt inclined to risk themselves in the water. Reaching the scarred and tide-scorched rough wood of the jetty, Gresham heaved the boy onto dry land by sheer brute force. Overcome temporarily by exhaustion, he waited before heaving himself out, a ludicrous, drenched figure in Court dress, and hatless.
'Are you all right?' he asked the boy, who was wild-eyed with terror, and wetting himself. The boy's eyes connected with his rescuer.
'Fuck off, mister!' he said with a squeak, and repeated it for good measure. 'You fuck off, you!' He picked himself up, and ran off with a shambling gait into the crowd, a master of urban disguise.
Gresham felt a hand grab the back of his sodden doublet and, with surprising strength, haul him out of the water. His own men had formed a protective cordon round him, once they had realised what was happening, but they had obviously let someone through. Was it Mannion? No. It was the Earl of Essex.
A hand plonked something on top of Gresham's head. It was his hat.
'Well, Sir Henry,' said the Earl of Essex, 'at least you're wearing something that's partly dry. I picked up your hat from the water just as you dived in.'
'Thank you, my Lord,' said Gresham, spluttering a little.
