Gloriana

light gleamed to warn ships to hold off approaching the channel until morning. At the sides of this were two unlit lanterns, one yellow and one blue, to indicate, in good weather, which side of the light the ship should go, for the warning beacon was positioned on this small island at the centre of the sandbar; the waters here ran very erratically, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, depending on the position of the shifting, unstable sands.

Tinkler stared down to the beach where the rest of their men stood, close to the horses they had ridden here while the tide was out. “If it’s more than half an hour those ruffians’ll be too stiff to act and the plan’s wasted, and all this work.”

“The plan can’t be wasted,” Quire told him. “It’s the only one.”

“And a mad scheme.” O’Bryan was approving. “A Polish noble will fetch a good price. They’re rich, the Poles. Probably richer, head for head, than Albion. I was in Goddansjik for a few months and saw more gold than I’ll ever see in London. But they have strange laws, made by commoners, and it’s hard for a free spirit to earn a living there, save as a soldier in the East, where it’s poorer.”

Quire had decided not to give O’Bryan the full story and intended to betray him as soon as he had served his turn: he knew O’Bryan for a fool with more greed than intelligence who could not be controlled as the others were controlled. “We’ll all be rich within the month, O’Bryan. It’ll be your task to carry our message to Poland.”

O’Bryan had agreed to this and, since Quire had already been generous, had seen no snags to the scheme. The Irishman warmed his hands over the bowl of his pipe and kicked with his heel at the ribs of his victim, as another man might stir the embers of a fire.

Quire now had the ship in focus. He thought he heard a trumpet sound, as the ship signalled. It was rolling in rapidly, borne by the notorious quicksilver tide. Quire could make out figures-the pilot in conference with one who was doubtless the captain, pointing in their direction. And on the high deck, astern, the untidy figure he had had pictured for him, the Polish King.

Quire began to climb the ladder of the tower, while Tinkler took up the trumpet and blew a deep blast to answer the ship’s.

Thus, as the shaggy King of Poland looked shoreward from his sterncastle, did Captain Quire put lips to lamp and extinguish the red signal, lighting instead, with casual fingers, the green. Next, he leaned to light the blue lantern on the left, to guide the ship directly onto the sands where his men waited. He could see the Mikolaj Kopernik with his naked eye. She had most of her sails reefed and her oarsmen were backing water. A few moments, while the signal was interpreted, and then the galleon advanced more swiftly, heading, to Quire’s relief, in exactly the direction he had anticipated. Hastily he swung down from the tower, tapped O’Bryan on the shoulder, winked at Tinkler, and began to run, his spurs silvery and jingling, down to the beach to await his lumbering prey.

“She’s on her way, lads.” Quire stooped to pull up the folded-down flaps of his jack-boots, lacing them tight at the thigh. The wind made so many scarecrows of his men, all wild rags and hunched figures, and gave the horses halos of their own manes. Some distance away the sea slithered over the sands or struck flat and wet against the smooth stones; Quire could smell it. He could taste its salt on his lips. He had no liking for the sea. It was too large.

“Guns, Captain?” One of the hirelings spoke, half-muffled, from his cloak.

“That’s what we brought ‘em for, Hogge. More for the noise than anything. The trouble with a task of this kind is that unless you advertise your presence like mummers at the fair you’ll not be noticed. And unless you’re noticed, nobody’s afraid. And if nobody’s afraid they can all get away from us without ever knowing we were here!” Quire enjoyed this speech, but he left his men bewildered. “Guns, yes. Fire ‘em willy-nilly-into the air until we’ve got our man at least. We don’t want to put a ball through his head and have no ransom. I’ve told you who to look for.”

O’Bryan came stiff-legged down the sands. He rubbed at his bottom and farted. He drew two great horse pistols from the pockets of his bearskin coat and held them close to his face in the gloom, inspecting the locks.

“And careful with those pistols, O’Bryan.” Quire patted the Erin man on the arm. “If you let ‘em off too soon the ship’ll think she’s attacked by a man-o’-war and fire a broadside to destroy the whole island.”

O’Bryan appreciated this compliment to his weapons and laughed loudly.

Quire detected a different note to the tide and turned, taken unawares, to see the jigging lights of the Mikolaj Kopernik as her keel shuddered into sand and her oars began to smash, cracking one by one; so many whiplashes. The wind droned like an organ around the huge ship and the cries and shrieks from the decks were like the sound of gulls. Quire and Tinkler began to run towards her.

As Quire made out the ship’s bulk he saw that she yawed markedly to starboard, seeming to lean on her broken oars like a monstrous wounded crayfish. The wind found her staysails and moved her intermittently, adding to the impression of a helplessly landed seabeast. From above came the sound of every sort of human distress. The oarsmen had doubtless been the worst hurt and from the rowing ports issued wailing screams that had an extra eeriness in conjunction with the notes of the wind.

Tinkler shuddered as they got closer. “Ugh! It’s like banshees. Are you sure we haven’t taken some ghost ship, Captain? There’s so many have gone down in these waters…”

Quire ignored him, pointing to the ornamental stair built into the ship’s side. “We can climb that easily enough. Quickly now, Tink-while they’re confused.”

They were knee-deep in the surf, creeping under the splintered shafts of the huge sweeps, when they reached their goal, to see that it was further from the ship’s bottom than Quire had originally judged. Weed tangled itself about his boots and caught in his spurs. The ship creaked and groaned and sank a little deeper on its side so that for an instant Quire thought they would be crushed, but it brought the gilded stair a little closer.

“On my shoulders, Tink.” Quire bent and lifted his swaying accomplice. Tinkler grabbed for the stair’s rail, missed, shifted himself and grabbed once more, catching it, swinging himself onto the lowest step, then leaning down so that Quire could jump, clasp his hand and be hauled up. The great ship settled again. Overhead, orders were being given in a language entirely unfamiliar to Quire and it seemed that some sort of discipline was in danger of being restored. Then, thankfully, Hogge and O’Bryan began their barrage and sent almost everyone crowding forward. Up the angled stairway they went, bodies against the ship’s side, until they had reached the main deck and could raise their noses high enough to inspect the scene. There were corpses on the deck, where men had been flung from the yards, and there were crippled sailors, with broken limbs and ribs, being tended by their fellows. Lanterns moved here and there and Quire glimpsed the captain in conference with the pilot, who was shaking his head and either pretending ignorance or professing it in good faith (Quire did not know how much Montfallcon had involved the man). He tried to see if Poland’s King was still in the sterncastle, but it was too dark. Boldly, with Tinker in his wake, he climbed rapidly for the stern, like two black shadows cast by the flapping sails above as the moon appeared mistily behind thinner cloud. Though many mariners passed them and some glanced curiously at them, Quire and Tinkler were only challenged when they reached the companionway to the castle itself. Quire held up his lantern to reveal the face of the armoured musketeer. “We’re from the shore. To help. We saw the wreck.”

The musketeer shook his head. Quire laughed confidently and held up the lantern again, clapping the guard on the shoulder as he and Tinkler squeezed past and continued on their way to find Poland sitting up against the rail, blinking and perplexed, with some noble greybeard bending over him in concern.

“I was sent here,” said Quire in a harried tone, “to attend a gentleman. Does anyone speak our tongue?”

The old noble, swathed in sable, looked up, his speech halting and guttural. “I speak it, sir. You’re from the shore? What happened? The shots.” He blinked. He was shortsighted.

“You’re wrecked, sir. Smashed up, sir. And you’ll be breaking before long if you don’t get off.” (This last, a lie.)

“What shall we do?” Peering. “Who are you?”

“Captain Fletcher. Coast guard, sir. The shots you heard were ours, driving off brigands who attend wrecks like crows attend a corpse. You were lucky we were close. Come now, where’s your women and children?”

“There are none.”

“This passenger looks like someone of quality.”

“In truth, sir, he is.”

“Then let’s get him over the side, and you too. Who else?”

“This one first. I’m not important. And there are valuables. In the cabin. They must be saved. They are