Gresham had offered himself for some of the simpler tasks on board. It was strangely soothing. There was a task before him — a rope to be secured just so. Barrels and stores to be moved from here to there as they were emptied and the balance of the ship needed to be kept. And at the end of the task, there was a simple measure of achievement. The line no longer flapped in the wind, the stores were in the right place. He felt inordinately proud when he tied his first knot and it held, and a seaman clapped him on the back. The challenges of this world were clear, success easily measured. Was he in danger of relaxing too much?
Sir George Willoughby had bought most of Drake's wine as well as most of his powder for the voyage, as the price for the carriage of his son, and as a result George had been invited to Drake's cabin to share some of that wine.
Too many ships in Lisbon,' George had reported back to Gresham excitedly. Too many even for Drake to take on board, and strong harbour defences. So it's off to Cadiz, Bursting with ships apparently, and far more weakly defended. We'll have our battle after all!'
Gresham had asked to see Drake. 'Sir Francis,' he had asked with a deference he did not feel, as Drake pored over a chart of Cadiz harbour and ignored him. 'The rumour is that we're leaving Lisbon, yet I need to be put ashore there. Will you grant me a small boat to take me ashore?'
Drake gave him the merest of glances. 'We're already too far away. I doubt a boat would find its way back to me in time. And it's not in my interests for you to be captured at this time, as might well be the case if I granted your demand.'
It had been a request, thought Gresham, not a demand.
'It's essential for this expedition's success that the Spaniards do not know I'm at sea until I've got them by the throat.'
'Sir,' said Gresham, trying and failing to hide his impatience, 'my only reason for being here is to land where I can report on the Spanish fleet.'
'If I have my way you'll land in Cadiz on this vessel,' said Drake flatly, 'and get a very close view indeed of some Spanish vessels. Or will that view be too close for your comfort? Do you wish to be taken ashore before to avoid the battle that might take place there?'
The accusation of cowardice was clear, the insult sufficient for a gentleman to fight and die for. Yet Gresham sensed he was almost being tested.
‘I’m not sure, Sir Francis,' said Gresham with a calmness at total odds with his fast-beating heart, 'whether your comment was a challenge to my honour or an insult to my intelligence.' Now came the risk. Yet the blood was hot in Gresham, and would not be resisted. 'As it is,' Gresham continued, 'I propose to reject both propositions, and interpret your words as an insult to your intelligence.'
It was a standard rhetorical procedure as taught in the University, the first two comments comprising the defence and the third the attack. Suddenly Gresham realised how silly the intellectual gymnastics of the University seemed here, at sea, in the face of a man who could order his death in an instant Drake looked at him then, without the angry outburst Gresham had expected and with dark, expressionless eyes.
'I care less than a fart for your interpretation of anything,' Drake said. 'I'll let you ashore in Cadiz, where I have no doubt they will find you and hang you from a tree within hours, if it pleases me to do so. Your masters on shore may control what happens there. At sea, I am in command. Now you may leave.'
Gresham could not think of a riposte. He left. A stink of sewage hit him as he left the great cabin. Strange. He was used to no longer smelling the stench of life at sea. Those who wanted to piss and shit were meant to go to the bow of the ship, where there were crude facilities for them to deposit their waste matter hanging over the side. Many did not bother to make the journey, particularly in rough or cold weather or if they woke in the middle of the night. A bucket, or a barrel cut down to half its height, stood at each end of the deck and in the middle of the main deck, slopping over even in decent sea conditions. In time everything gathered in the bilges of the ship where the stone and gravel ballast was stored, the lowest level of all. Just as the piss descended, so its stench ascended after a long voyage, filling the decks with its sulphurous tang, and the rank smell of solid waste.
In the end there was no plan. No order. Drake simply led a mad, frontal assault on the Spaniards. It was pure folly. And it caught Spain completely by surprise.
The sun was shining from a cloudless sky over Cadiz. A decent wind kicked over the surface of the sea, making it seem busy and useful. The heat of midday had passed, and the better folk were emerging in the late afternoon to take the air and to be seen. Down at the waterfront a troop of actors were playing to a large crowd whose hoots, cheers and jeers were faintly audible on the wind. The wine shops were busy servicing the needs of the sailors, but it was too early for them to have become troublesome.
In the town there was music, laughter. 'Look!' said the pretty wife of a Cadiz merchant, 'More ships!' Then she giggled, as if ashamed that a woman should notice such things. The merchant turned his gaze out to sea. Ships, indeed. A line of ships, fourteen or fifteen great ships standing in for the harbour, the spread white sails of galleons with smaller vessels in front and behind, like so many hounds after the hunt. Every day new vessels for the King's great enterprise came to Cadiz, yet no convoy was due to land. The best bet was that it was Juan Martinez de Recalde, one of Spain's bravest admirals, returning to port with his squadron. Well, if was all good for trade, even if the King was taking over a year to pay some of his bills. There was a shout from one of a group of sailors who had been standing by a jetty, waving and shouting at the men of their round little merchant ship to send a boat out to them and save them the cost of a ferry. What was it? The merchant craned his head? Dark? Duke?
Drake. DRAKE!
The sailor had recognised the fine, sheer bow at the front, hardly any stern castle. English ships. Lean ships, sharp like greyhounds in comparison to high-sided Spanish galleons. The word cut through the crowds like a river of acid; people were turning, running, scattering as the terrible word reached their ears.
There were officials of the town shouting orders now. 'To the castle! Take refuge in the fortress!' Some soldiers were bellowing back trying to shout down the officials, turn the crowds round, but it was pointless. A river of humanity fled up to the fortress, screaming, jostling, half blinded by the dust kicked up in their maddened rush. The street that led to the main gate was little more than a passageway, the seething mass of people funnelled into it. Screams, yells. A mother was caught, trampled, her little girl knocked out of her arms, sent bowling along the ground in a pathetic little flurry of lace and linen, howling until the noise cut off, suddenly, ominously. A man was spun round by the pressure of the flesh and bone of bodies forced against him, and cannoned into the rough stone wall, crushing his head. The press was so great that he could not even reach his hands up to grasp his wound. His head was visible, distinctive with the great red gash against the white of his skin. It spun round and round, like a top whipped by a child, as the mob roared their fear, until it dropped below the level of vision, dashed to its death on the rough cobbles.
'Open the gate! Let them in!' screamed the guard.
'Idiots!' the fortress commander screamed back. 'Fools! How can I fight a battle over a carpet of babies, old men and women! How am I to despatch my messenger to call for help when these people are in my way?' he cried in desperation. 'A message must be sent to Don Pedro de Acuna. Get out of the way!'
The fortress commander's actions had at least reduced the number of civilians he had to worry about. When he finally opened the gate, bowing to the inevitable, twenty-five pathetically still bodies lay at odd angles, crumpled flotsam in the street. Don Pedro de Acuna, captain of the galleys, was indeed their only hope. He was to be addressed by the brave messenger that set forth through the throng of desperate townsfolk only by his full title. Would his six galleys, powerful ships with twin banks of oars and able to manoeuvre even in the flattest of calms, which had arrived from Gibralter only a few days earlier, be able to defend the harbour? How much help could the town's soldiers be in covering the Puental, the rock-strewn area of wasteland that divided the outer and inner harbour, the most likely place for the pagans to land?
The English boats swept in to Cadiz harbour with as much confidence and bravado as if they were a squadron of ships under the command of the King of Spain. The galleys, apparently the only warships in Cadiz, came out to meet them, the water sparkling in the sun as it cascaded off the rising and falling oars. The English guns belched iron, and the galleys turned away, oars smashed. Like predators with no natural enemy, the buzzing hordes of English boarded, burned and moved cargo. Waste, thought Gresham, war was about waste. Terrible, dreadful, maniacal waste. They had boarded a fine merchantman, no more than five years out of the dock by the look of her. Men with skills that had taken decades to learn had built her, and in a sane world she would have plied the trade routes of Europe for years, doing no harm to man or beast, and feeding the blood of trade through the arteries of Europe's growing population. Wood and oil, salt and wines, olives and cloth would have filled her ample hold, her
