Trade Winds

TRADE WINDS

Dale Giancaspro

Chapter 1

July 21, 1588

God help us. There were too many to count.

Never before had Captain Thomas Sutton seen so many ships. In the shape of a giant crescent, the fleet spread across the English Channel, driven by a southwesterly. Spaniards! Their many sails billowed taut with the wind. Colorful pennants streamed from their mastheads, a harbinger of death and destruction.

On the Valiant’s quarterdeck, Sutton’s gut twisted. He gripped the rail, ushered a heavy sigh. He knew what was at stake. This was King Philip’s doing, his armada. He wanted nothing more than to unseat Queen Elizabeth, return the England to Catholic rule.

I daresay, Philip’s outdone himself this time, Sutton said to his boatswain, William Webb.

Webb, a former prizefighter, massaged the knuckles of his right hand. Aye, what I wouldn’t give to have the dandy in the ring for a couple of rounds. The breezed played with his mop of copper-colored hair that spilled upon thick, chiseled shoulders.

Sutton turned his attention back to the Spanish galleons and transport ships, consternation etched into his face.

Webb spat a stream of tobacco juice over the rail. Wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. I’d bet my last sovereign, Captain, they’re heading for London Town.

Sutton nodded, adrenaline boiling within. Then let us pray we can change their plans, my dear William.

Beyond the Valiant’s bow sailed Sir Francis Drake’s Revenge and the Lord High Admiral’s Ark Royal. Curling bow waves glowed in the dusk. Behind them, Plymouth grew smaller.

It appears we’re gaining on the rascals. Sutton eyed the Revenge’s stern. Clap on more sail, Mr. Webb. We shouldn’t let Sir Francis have all the sport, now should we?

Webb blew into his bosun’s pipe, a shrilling tune calling the crew to hoist sail. Mast-men scampered up the ratlines like monkeys.

On the main deck, the sailors sang a chantey as they pulled the halyards, which hoisted the main topsail. Dressed in baggy canvas breeches and jerkins, they kept time by thumping their bare feet against the planks. Above them, the topsail filled with a rush.

Webb tucked his pipe, turned back to the rail.

Twilight gave the Spanish ships an ominous appearance. Their sails filled the horizon.

‘Tis going to be a long night, Sutton said.

Webb spat out another stream of tobacco juice over the side. You’re right about that, Captain.

Sutton felt the Valiant’s speed increasing. A race-built galleon, she had no towering fore and stern castles, affording her a greater turn of speed and maneuverability. Sporting three masts, a harlequin pattern of blue and white graced her upperworks.

Sutton turned back toward the steering hatch. Come up a couple of degrees starboard, Mr. Parker, he ordered. With the ship’s whipstaff situated below deck, only the helmsman’s head and shoulders were visible.

John Parker pulled the clay pipe from his mouth. Couple of points starboard, Cap’n. His silver-knitted brows furrowed as he studied the compass needle.

Soon the Valiant was sailing off the Revenge’s larboard beam. Sutton spotted Drake, hands clasped behind his back, pacing the quarterdeck. The sun’s last rays glinted off the scabbard at his side. Dressed in colorful Venetians and a doublet of the same material, Drake’s presence exuded a commanding aura. He would wreak havoc on the Spaniards.

Darkness fell and the wind began to lie down. The Valiant’s timbers creaked with each wave.

Across the Channel, lanterns blazed high atop the Spaniards’ mizzenmasts. The crescent of lights stretched across the water toward the shores of France. Sutton studied the formidable force with equal parts of fear and curiosity.

The closer they approached their quarry, the more animated his crew became. From the ship’s stores the sailors began drawing breastplates, falchions, and pikes. From the ratlines, they shouted insults and profanities at the Spaniards.

Sutton ignored the profanations, long accustomed to the crass vernacular, and looked a cable’s length away toward the Revenge’s stern. The gallery windows were dark, all lanterns extinguished to the prelude of war.

While Sutton faced war and death, his thoughts turned to Rebecca. A shiver of delight passed through him and his heart raced just thinking about her. He could see her now, her Somerset accent playing like music to his ears, her sashaying figure intoxicating. Sutton had fallen hard for her, though his heart still ached for Stefanie.

Sutton could now make out the Spaniards’ masts and spars, their ungainly aft-castles. His senses piqued. A singular wave slapped against the Valiant’s hull. Somewhere in the distance a lone gull cried. From the poop deck a sailor coughed. The acrid smell of burning slow-match tickled his nostrils, as the gunners prepared the fuses for the cannon.

Webb approached with his blunderbuss, a nasty weapon with a flared muzzle able to fire a handful of pellets at once. A leather strap allowed him to wear it over his shoulder. I’d say we have the weather gauge over the blighters.

Sutton nodded. Quite. He looked at Webb. Ready?

As ready as I’ll ever be, sir. Worry washed over Webb like a cold rain.

Sutton listened to the sundry bow waves, the Valiant approaching the crescent-shaped fleet from her northwest position. The Spanish galleons seemed like floating castles compared to the English fleet. A half moon slid from behind the clouds, and Sutton read the elegant script painted on the transom of the rearmost vessel. "El Tiburon."

Webb scratched at his ear. What’s that say?

It means The Shark. But they’ll be shark food soon enough.

Webb’s Cheshire grin spread across his lantern-jawed face. Bloody right, sir.

Sutton’s heart began to race. He looked back at Webb. Run out the guns.

Webb shouted to the gun deck, Master Popham, out with your guns, man!

The Valiant’s gilded gun ports flew open. Heavy culverins and demi-culverins rumbled out on both sides of the ship.

A point to starboard, Mr. Parker, Sutton ordered.

The 46-gun Valiant shouldered her heft through the waves, nearly side by side with El Tiburon.

Sutton turned to the boy with the drum strung over his shoulder. Beat to quarters.

The night lit up as the Valiant’s starboard guns discharged, the force rocking her on her beam. In an instant, chain shot, grapeshot, and whirling double-enders raked El Tiburon’s decks. The broadside tore indiscriminately through men, rigging, and sails. Spanish blood seeped from El Tiburon’s scuppers.

The gun-crews peering through the Valiant’s gun ports cheered as they took in the butchery they’d inflicted. But they didn’t linger long enough to give the enemy advantage. Swabbing their barrels, they loaded the silk powder sacks. This time they reloaded with nine- and eighteen-pound rounds. With the gun carriages pushed back in place, they hammered wedges beneath each one, angling their line of fire downward.

Through his hailing trumpet, Sutton cried, Fire as you bear!

And the Valiant’s guns opened up once more.

When the smoke cleared Sutton looked across to see El Tiburon in tatters, her planks holed, sails shredded, her mainmast dragging alongside, slowing her like a drogue anchor. One-legged men withered in their own blood, others eviscerated from double-enders, all illuminated by the twisting fires on the galleon’s decks.

The remnants of the Spaniards returned fire, but from a distance of two cable lengths. Their guns lacked the fervor of the English, and the rounds splashed well short.

The English gunners cheered once more. Their next barrage found El Tiburon’s powder magazine. Her deck heaved upward in a roiling fireball, her hull split in two, and the men on the Valiant’s deck were forced to duck to avoid the fiery debris.

Sutton felt like a church bell was ringing inside his head. He directed the Valiant to come abreast of an unarmed transport ship, her confines filled to the gunnels with breast-plated Spanish soldiers. Most were seasick, retching over the sides. Sutton ended their misery, pelting her decks with volley after volley of chain and grapeshot.

Off the starboard beam, Sutton watched the Revenge exchanging cannon fire with a Spanish man-of-war. Drake’s culverins spewed fire, smoke and lead, splintering the man-of-war until she could sail no more. Spaniards littered the Channel waters.

But the slaughter was far from over.

Onward the English sailed, ripping into the enemy like a pack of jackals.

Undeterred, the Spaniards refused to capitulate, remaining in their crescent formation for the rest of that night. Sutton preferred this, sailing in and out of their ranks wreaking havoc on every tack. By daybreak, the Valiant had claimed three galleons and four transports, damaging scores of others. The English fought as though possessed, for the thought of Spain’s King Philip taking over their beloved island was more than they could bear.

Sutton made his way down into the busy gun deck. Spent powder smoke thickened the air and made it hard to breathe. Through the haze, the figures of powder boys could be seen running from the magazine with their loads of silk sacks filled with gunpowder. Gunners cleaned their weapons and inspected the breech ropes—heavy manila lines connecting each gun carriage to the side of the ship. Hunched over for the lack of headroom, Sutton headed down the aisle between the two rows of culverins. He found the master gunner, Agnus Popham, cleaning the touchhole of gun number twelve on the starboard side.

Master Popham, Sutton said, having to raise his voice, how are your lads holding up?

Popham looked up from his work, threw a quick salute. Good lads, all of them.

Sutton went to the water cask and drank from the ladle. He hung the ladle back on its hook, turned back to Popham. We’ll all be in for some shore leave when this is over.

Popham nodded, his face grimy with sweat and soot. Captain?

‘Tis concerning the munitions, correct? Sutton checked number twelve’s breech rope, gave it a firm pull.

Aye, sir, we’re running low.

And just when we’re getting warmed up, I daresay. Sutton forced a smile and glanced at the shot-bins. Three were empty. From now on, use just every other gun. Tell your lads to make every shot count.

A wave of relief swept over the master gunner’s face.

At the companionway, Sutton turned back toward the gunners. I could ask no more from you men, for you give your all!

A hearty cheer went through the gun deck. "For Tommy and the Valiant!"

Sutton chose his targets shrewdly. He discovered that by sailing behind an enemy ship and cutting across her stern, he could take out her rudder with a well-placed shot or two, thereby rendering the vessel without steerage. This proved an effective method and was soon adopted by the entire English fleet.

Though munitions ran low, Sutton took some relief that they had driven the Spaniards farther away from the English coastline. Late afternoon that next day, the Spanish fleet, still a dangerous foe, anchored off Calais, France. From the crow’s nest, Sutton observed the carpenters making repairs to the battle-scarred vessels. He heard a bow wave from behind, turned around, and saw the 44-gun Ark Royal coming alongside. The men aloft furled the main topgallant, slowing the vessel to match the Valiant’s speed. Sutton, looking down upon the breast-plated archers and musketeers lining the Ark Royal’s rails, picked out the Lord High Admiral.

Dressed in his elegant finery, the Lord High Admiral raised his hailing trumpet. When the tide turns, we’ll set the hellburners upon them—compliments of Good Queen Bess.

My men and I will take great pleasure in so doing, m’lord, Sutton shouted through cupped hands.

Later that evening, as the sun slowly set, the English lowered into the water scores of rafts whose timbers were soaked with pitch, some with powder kegs aboard. With arrows flaming, the archers set the rafts alight. The tide did the rest.

When the Spaniards saw the blazing hellburners bearing down, they quickly slipped from their cables and hoisted sail. But with the windward shores of Calais threatening, and the incompetence of a few helmsmen, several collisions occurred within the first few minutes. The crunching of wood was met by laughter from the Englishmen. Galleons careened into transports, ejecting men into the sea. Rudders fouled upon errant anchor cables. Three vessels sank before Sutton’s eyes. All the while, the hellburners drifted shoreward without coming in contact with a single enemy vessel.

The Englishmen followed the rest of the fleet into deeper waters.

Let’s board the bastards, Parker called from the steering hatch.

Why, Mr. Parker, Sutton said, chuckling, I applaud your devil-may-care attitude and, at the same time, your intestinal fortitude.

The old man’s weathered face beamed.

Webb stepped forward. I’m for Parker, Captain. We still have muskets and bows, and why I haven’t even gotten a chance to fire Old Bessie. He patted his blunderbuss.

‘Tis a lot of vessels. Sutton caressed the polished bone handle of his rapier. All right, then. Head up, Mr. Parker, but I don’t want to later hear how hard I’ve been working you.

Parker crammed his pipe into his mouth and hauled in on the whipstaff.

Although they managed to board only one ship that night, they shot the rudders from three more transports. They had slain Spaniards by the hundreds, with only one loss of their own.

At first light, Sutton witnessed a glorious spectacle, the Eastern Fleet, with its famous ships of the line. Under a cloud of sail and their hulls studded with cannon, they made full way in a building southwester.

When they engaged the enemy, their heavy guns roared like thunder. Smoke plumes soon billowed into the sky. Flames danced on the sea.

For over five hours the battle raged, the Eastern Fleet inflicting serious damage to the Spaniards, whose numbers and courage waned after hours of constant attack.

Finally they could endure no more.

Look, Webb cried, the bastards are breaking formation. Ah-ha! Run! Run, you sons of whores.

Sharing Webb’s enthusiasm, the crew shouted insults and obscenities until their throats were hoarse.

The Eastern Fleet followed the Spaniards, chasing them into the cold, green-gray waters of the North Sea. King Philip would be denied the sweet taste of victory.

Come about, Sutton ordered.

Tacking in near-gale winds, the Valiant beat back toward Plymouth. Her bins carried less than twenty rounds of ammunition.

Chapter 2

Buckland Abbey

September 1, 1588

Music filled the great hall of the centuries-old former Cistercian monastery. The owner of this splendid abode, Sir Francis Drake, had hired a complete orchestra this auspicious evening.

Servants dressed in splendid livery dashed about with platters of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of sparkling drink. Rows of tables offered roasted pigs with apples in their mouths, dove wrapped in bacon, saddles of mutton, and other fine delicacies.

A large bowl contained a strange-looking vegetable, which had only recently been introduced to the island. The guests found its taste rather unremarkable, until, at Drake’s suggestion, they placed upon it a dab of butter and a dash of salt. Drake called it a potato, claiming he had discovered it while in Chile two years prior.

In the ballroom, men and women paired off to dance. The orchestra began and each man bowed with a flourish, reaching for the hand of the lady before him. They danced the galliard, the observers marveling at its synchronicity.

Sutton and Rebecca moved as one, their eyes locked upon each other.

Rebecca looked at him with smiling eyes. ‘Tis certainly a pleasure to see you again, Captain. Her green chiffon dress shimmered under the chandeliers.

I feel the same, Mistress—about seeing you, I mean, Sutton said.

Her giggle filled him with delight. Her hand upon his shoulder caressed his very soul. Her blue eyes sparkled under velvet lashes, and Sutton ached to release the bundle of hair she had swept up in a fashionable chignon. He concentrated on his step, lest he land on one of her dainty feet.

The musicians ceased their score and broke into another, whose fast-paced beat required the dancers to change from the more relaxed galliard to a tourdion.

Toward the end of the dance, Sutton noticed Rebecca’s flushed cheeks. Do you wish to retire, Mistress?

Rebecca fanned her face. If you do not mind, Captain. I’ve grown thirsty.

Sutton offered his arm and the two strode from the dance floor. They made a striking pair, she with her elegant bearing, he with his black and gold Venetians and matching doublet, a thick lace ruff around his neck. His rapier hung from his side. He accepted two glasses of hock from a passing servant, handing one to Rebecca. They headed to a group of women dressed in extravagant gowns.

Oh! You two were marvelous out there, Rebecca’s mother, Lady Emily, cried. Unlike her daughter, she possessed a rather undignified plump body and had curly gray hair and sad eyes.

Sutton bowed. You are too kind, m’lady. Honestly, I haven’t danced in years.

Well, you could have fooled me, Lady Emily said.

Rebecca took a sip of hock, then fanned herself. I should like some air. Would you be so kind as to escort me to the gardens, Captain Sutton?

I’d be honored, Mistress. Again Sutton offered a curt bow. If you good people would excuse us. Offering Rebecca his arm, he led her to the outside garden.

Rebecca’s chaperone, Mrs. Greyson, a stoic-faced woman of large proportions, followed. The closer Rebecca and Sutton neared the door, the faster Rebecca began to walk. By the time they made it outside, they had left Mrs. Greyson far behind.

Fragrant honeysuckles perfumed the night air. It was cool outside. At a brisk pace, they headed down a cobblestone path. Rebecca grabbed Sutton’s arm, and they ducked into the shadows of a large, manicured shrub. Sutton heard Mrs. Greyson calling for Rebecca in her nasally voice.

Rebecca placed a finger to her lips. Shush.

Sutton stood statue still as Mrs. Greyson lumbered past. He listened to her labored breathing, the sound of her thighs rubbing against each other. Soon she disappeared down the main path, which led to the front lawn. A few couples milled about the garden, assuring Sutton that Rebecca’s virtue would not be in jeopardy.

Rebecca took a deep breath, exhaled. Much better. A bit too stuffy in there.

Sutton raised a brow. Mistress, do you speak of the air within the edifice, or the people occupying it?

Rebecca laughed. You’re quite the comedian, Captain. She looked through the windows at the couples dancing. You’re also quite perceptive.

Just an observant bystander.

Rebecca swirled the hock in her glass. She looked back at Sutton. Mother tells me that you sank more ships in the Channel than Sir Francis.

So they tell me, Sutton said, modestly.

Rebecca cocked her head, her lips pursed. Impressive, I say.

Lucky, I’d say. He felt her eyes looking into his, reading his soul.

She lowered her voice. Were you frightened?

Petrified, Mistress.

I should wish you’d quit calling me mistress. She took a step closer.

Her proximity stirred something within him. And how, then, should you wish to be addressed?

Rebecca would do.

Very well, then . . . Rebecca.

I should also like for you to kiss me. Her eyes danced over his face.

Sutton was taken aback by her brazenness, but he complied with her wishes.

Gathering the young woman in his arms, he kissed her with an intensity he’d not felt since Stefanie had died. Everything about Rebecca enchanted him; her perfume was subtle and likely some expensive French fragrance. Her lips parted invitingly. He longed for much more with Rebecca Foxworth, but he suddenly remembered his manners and drew away.

Rebecca toyed with his collar, disappointment registering on her face. Before the Spanish attacked, Mother and I were preparing to leave for Zanzibar to see my father. We haven’t seen him in two years.

‘Tis a long time. Sutton took her hand. Are you still planning on leaving?

Rebecca lowered her head. I’m afraid so. The Lord High Admiral has promised to find us a berth on an out-going vessel. Only he’s not certain when, with the war and all.

How long will you be staying in Zanzibar? Sutton listened to the orchestra strike up a lively tune, the music in stark contrast to how he felt. He couldn’t bear the thought of Rebecca being away for so long, and felt his heart breaking in two.

A couple of years, I should think. The queen has extended Father’s appointment. He’s done such a fine job in the Arabian trading venues that she wishes for him to continue his post. But now . . . . Rebecca searched his eyes.

I shall miss you, Rebecca, Sutton said, his voice grave with regret.

Rebecca grabbed a handful of his doublet, stood on her toes, and once again offered her lips.

Sutton couldn’t deny her. He felt a sensual quiver shoot through her body when he embraced her. He found himself helplessly lost.

When Sutton opened his eyes, he found Drake’s manservant, Emerson, waiting in the shadows. His silver muttonchops framed his colored face. He politely cleared his throat, then tugged on the cuffs of his snow-white livery. He took a step forward, the silver buckles on his black shoes shining in the moonlight.

Sutton begrudgingly released his passionate embrace, straightened his doublet.

Emerson looked somewhat embarrassed. I’m sorry for the intrusion, Captain Sutton, but the gentlemen are gathering in the drawing room and have requested your presence.

Sutton turned to Rebecca. He hated to leave. Even for one second. I should like to further pursue our conversation, m’lady. At a time that’s convenient for the both of us.

And I shall look forward to that moment, sir, Rebecca said, her face glowing.

The men had their pipes going when Sutton entered the room. Above the fireplace that crackled with flame, Drake’s coat of arms stood as a reminder of his lengthy accomplishments. Sutton noted the scores of Spanish relics Drake had collected over the years.

Drake stood up. All five foot, two inches. Wavy brown hair and fiery blue eyes, he wore his beard short, pointed at the chin. Ah, Thomas! Please, make yourself comfortable.

You are too kind, Sir Francis. I am honored. Sutton bowed, accepted a glass of port from a servant and took a seat between Drake and the Lord High Admiral.

Drake set his pipe down on the table. I trust you found the repast to your liking?

Indeed, sir. A virtual nirvana for my palate. Sutton smiled wryly. Only the queen herself eats better than you, Sir Francis.

Drake’s eyes glittered as he chuckled. He raised his glass in a toast. When the others had done the same, he cried, God save the queen!

Hear, hear! God save the queen!

Drake paused, until every eye was riveted upon him. And to the winds of God, gentleman. Long may they blow the damned Spaniards on the rocks!

Hear, hear! the voices resounded.

The men enjoyed their pipes and port, speculated on how the war with Spain should proceed, and a general comradeship flowed amongst them.

They were heavy in discussion over naval architecture when, a half hour later, Emerson appeared at the doorway. His muttonchops twitched as he cleared his throat. There’s a soldier in the foyer, m’lord. Of the queen’s Royal Guard.

Then show him in, Emerson. Show him in, Drake ordered.

The drawing room fell silent, the men perplexed, staring at one another.

The soldier wore light chain mail and a breastplate that squeaked when he walked. A large plumed feather jutted from his helmet. He marched stiffly to the center of the room, stomped his boots to a stop, and came to attention.

Captain Thomas Sutton? he asked, back straight, eyes forward.

Sutton rose from his chair. I’m Sutton. Pray, what’s the meaning of this?

Reaching into his sleeve, the soldier retrieved a rolled parchment, which he presented to Sutton.

Sutton broke the waxed Royal Seal. What in heaven’s name . . . . he muttered, unrolling the stiff parchment.

‘Tis a Royal invitation to St. James Palace, Captain, the soldier said. The queen demands your presence as soon as possible.

Sutton looked up. I’m not certain I understand.

I believe, sir, the soldier said, that you are to be knighted. Congratulations.

As the soldier’s words sank in, Sutton’s jaw slackened.

This calls for a drink. Drake’s voice bellowed over the men. What say you—Sir Thomas?

The Lord High Admiral hung a meaty arm over Sutton’s shoulder. Sir Thomas, he said, stringing out the two words. I must say, it certainly has a nice ring.

It proved to be a grand evening at Buckland Abbey. And Sutton’s life was never to be the same.

Chapter 3

London

September 5, 1588

The overland journey from Plymouth had consumed all of four days, taking Sutton through Exeter, Wincanton, Salisbury and Basingstoke. He was pleased that Sir Francis had lent him the fine carriage and the team of tireless bay Hackneys.

Sutton detected a change in the country air, his sense of smell heightened from years of breathing the familiar saltiness of the open sea. He drew back the curtain and saw the brown cloud hovering above London. The plumes emanating from thousands of chimneys, industrial kilns and cooking fires announced one of the greatest cities in the civilized world.

Sutton considered himself fortunate, for he was traveling no farther than Westminster. He sighed in disgust, remembering the last time he had visited London. He recalled the refuse and the clouds of buzzing flies on the street corners, people defecating in the gutters, maids emptying chamber pots from the windows. It was madness.

He leaned back in his seat, preferring, instead, to think of Rebecca. He conjured an image of her. Indeed, he still felt her honeyed lips upon his, her fragrance lingered in his mind, and he remembered the warmth and swell of her body.

The carriage’s iron-shod wheels making the transition from dirt to cobblestone broke Sutton’s reverie. Gazing from the window, he saw the steeples of Westminster rising into the skyline.

The carriage soon rumbled down Portugal Street, and Sutton saw the tired-looking hatters, glovers, and fishmongers pushing their carts homeward on this late afternoon. A baker cried, Ha’penny, ha’penny, as he tried to rid himself of his last loaves. In the doorway of a tavern, a buxom woman, whose painted face and revealing bodice were indicative of her office, winked at Sutton as he passed by. He ignored her, looked further up the street. Just beyond a haberdashery, he saw a sign for The White Horse Inn.

The carriage slowed to a stop, and Sutton alighted and beat the road dust from his clothing. He looked up to the driver’s wedge, where Webb was locking the handbrake.

End of the road, William.

Webb jumped to the ground. Aye, sir. And none too soon. I don’t think my bum could’ve stood another league.

A short, rotund man with a balding pate ambled outside. Captain Sutton. We’ve been expecting you, sir. Welcome to Westminster, he said. George Finlay, at your service. I trust your journey was a comfortable one?

Sutton adjusted his scabbard. He took in the shady oaks surrounding the inn. Long but indeed comfortable.

Finlay rubbed his hands together. Your room’s all ready, sir. And the wife’s prepared a wonderful meal.

Sutton stared at him until realizing that the innkeeper possessed a lazy eye. Very well, then, Mr. Finlay.

With his good eye, Finlay looked over at Webb, who busied himself hefting Sutton’s luggage from the carriage’s pannier. There’s quarters for your footman, Finlay continued, round back, next to the stables.

You’ll do nothing of the sort, Mr. Finlay. Sutton hovered over the innkeeper.