At Flores, in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away;
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
Alfred Lord Tennyson – The Revenge
Theresa was not overly fond of birds.
Oh, her school friends in Marseille used to coo over the linnets and greenfinches you could buy in little wicker cages for a few centimes – but not Theresa. She had always rather pitied the poor things, trapped in their woven wicker prisons. Real birds were hunger on wings and webbed feet, like the shrieking seabirds that followed the fishing boats in the bay: all vicious bills and buffeting wings.
She would have dimly supposed, had she thought about it, that there might be new kinds of bird on the islands. Ones she hadn't seen before.
The bird perched on the stern lantern hadn't even the grace to be a new kind. It was a scruffy looking gull, almost bald of feathers on one side. The ugly raw exposed pink flesh had dulled to a murky grey, looking pitted and dry. What feathers did remain looked oily and rank, sticking out at odd angles.
'Ugly-looking thing, aren't you?' Theresa said casually to it. 'I thought birds were supposed to be colourful in the Indies?'
'Caaark!'
One beady little yellow eye fixed on her. Now she came to examine it, its neck looked oddly... twisted, as though it had been broken and then badly put back together again by a clumsy child. "Sickly-looking" was perhaps too kind a description.
'You'd better not die onboard this ship,' she warned it, idly. 'Everyone's jumpy enough as it is without omens like that.'
The bird cocked its head at her, unblinking. When it turned to preen at a wretched stump of non-existent feather, Theresa could have sworn she saw exposed muscle and sinew...
She blinked, startled.
'Señora?' The shoemaker's wife approached, her face anxious in the torchlight.
'Oh- yes. Do pardon me, Elena. I was... distracted.'
'I spoke to the steersman. He says that we should reach Phillipsburg soon. Once we put in, everything will be all right. But...' she dropped her voice, as though afraid of being overheard. 'He says, Señora, that the Captain is right to be worried. He says that there has been bad luck in these waters-'
'Bad luck?'
'There have been… attacks. We should be all right, but…other ships have not been so-' The shoemaker's wife looked appalled. 'I did not hear this in Cádiz! We would not have sailed on a Dutch ship!'
She glared daggers at De Voorst's back as he paced the deck.
'Explains he isn't mad, though.' Theresa said thoughtfully, thinking about how they'd been positioned on deck. A merchant ship flying the Spanish flag, coming from Cádiz; and on deck, clusters of harmless-looking Spanish civilians with little children. De Voorst had planned it very well.
'Foolhardy, maybe, taking a risk like that, but – I think we're safe.'
'Well, yes, but-' The shoemaker picked up her youngest, deftly balancing the little girl on her hip. 'He used us, didn't he? And his crew. They're not happy about it either-'
Oh dear, Theresa thought to herself. At this rate De Voorst would be squeezed dry of his coin.
She wasn't particularly sorry. Merchants could stand to be a little poorer if they played games like that with their passengers.
'I suppose they wouldn't be.' She found herself wondering. 'Say, Elena… did the steersman mention the Maldito de Dios?'
The shoemaker's wife shuddered. 'Piratas,' she muttered under her breath. She plunged a hand in her apron pocket for her rosary, fervently telling her beads. 'Whatever next? Lord, I'll be glad when we're safe on dry land, Señora! How did you dare set sail, knowing such things as that?'
So that was a "yes" then, Theresa reflected. Jacinta (and, indeed, Joachim) had been right, after all.
There was a sudden, joyous cry from the hand perched in the crow's nest.
'Land to starboard! Land ho!'
They stared at each other.
'Land?' Theresa hurried to the side. 'Is it possible?'
At first, there seemed to be nothing. But gradually, as she shaded her eyes to avoid the dazzle of the evening sunlight on the waves, there appeared a thin ribbon of rich green on the horizon. Cliffs. Birds, swooping in and out of the treeline along the rocks – and, carved precariously out of the greenery, a harbour. The smoke of a settlement. People.
'We're here.' Theresa said, relieved. 'Thank God, we're here! We made it!'
The shoemaker's wife sank to her knees in gratitude as her children clamoured about the side, craning their necks to get a better look. Half the passengers began a ragged cheer. Even de Voorst, after clapping his spyglass to his eye, had ventured to smile…
Had they been too happy? Theresa would wonder, later. What ill luck decided to blow their way that day? Over three thousand miles of blue water – and it was in the last few, with land in sight, that everything soured all at once.
As the Duyfken began to turn, another ship slid sedately out of a sheltered spot amongst the rocks of the headlands, bearing down on the smaller merchant ship with almost lazy ease.
Theresa recognised the wasp-like black and yellow paint as English.
Her smile faded when she noticed the open gun-ports, and the decks cleared for action.
They were prepared to fire if the Duyfken didn't stop.
The sight of it looming over them cut off the passengers' joy almost instantaneously. They scattered across the deck. The very shadow seemed to blot out the warmth of the sun.
De Voorst swore, bitterly.
'Engelsen.' He said, briefly, before spitting over the side. 'Verdomd Engelsen.'
It all happened depressingly quickly, after that. What other choice did they have?
The Duyfken was hauled in by the English ship like a butchered whale carcass – tethered and made fast. De Voorst, to his credit, stood his ground even as Marines and English sailors swarmed the side, hands held up in appeal as he tried to explain -
But this seemed to go beyond explaining, from the hard-set faces of both the soldiers and English hands. The crew were driven at musket-point to the main deck, where they were pushed into a rough line along with the bewildered male passengers. De Voorst kept gesticulating, and protesting – one moment in Dutch, now in Spanish, trying anything that anyone might listen to -
'And you, missy,' A soldier grunted English at her. A musket butt prodded her in the small of her back, none-too-gently. 'Go on with yer, poor favourey-'
Theresa stared at him hard, wondering whether she should insult his Spanish to his face or out of earshot, before moving slowly in the direction he indicated – a group to the side, away from the men. Elena and her children were huddled in the middle. She was slumped on her knees clutching her youngest children in her arms, trying to push the older ones behind her out of sight.
'Oh, sweet Virgin, I knew this journey would end badly!' She moaned, white-faced. 'I knew!'
'Sssh!' Theresa tried to pull her to her feet, but she just sagged, like a sack of potatoes. 'Don't give them the satisfaction, Elena!'
So, she caught herself thinking, distantly. Is this how I go? Is this how the sea is going to "give" Sebastien back to me like the beggar woman said– by the end of an English bayonet?
How Luisa Cristina would enjoy that! She could get no end of social attention out of the tragic loss of a sister 'murdered by the English', even if she did lose the pension.
'We're going to die!' the shoemaker's wife howled. 'We're all going to DIIII-IIIIE-!'
The toddlers in her arms, appalled at their mothers cries, set off a frenzied howling of their own.
''Ere!' Theresa's guard looked infuriated at the noise his prisoners were making. 'Stow that row! Officer's coming!'
Theresa was dimly aware that a tall, fair English officer had now boarded the Duyfken, rapier in hand. He looked up and down the line of prisoners with evident disfavour, before rapping out a sharp question in English Theresa couldn't quite catch towards a startled sailor. On him shaking his head, he moved on, asked another.
'You! Do you speak English?' He frowned, and then added (as though pronouncing something vaguely distasteful) 'Habby-lar You-sted Ingles?'
The man shook his head. A soldier roughly shoved him back, before grabbing another sailor by his shirt.
'English?'
De Voorst moved forward, speaking rapidly in Dutch. The officer silenced him with a gesture that made him fall back, pale-faced and trembling.
The shoemaker's wife had subsided into terrified sobs at the Marine shouting at her. But young children follow no orders when they are too young to understand – and both the children in her arms showed no signs of holding their peace. They were roaring more lustily than ever, the little boy smacking out wildly at anything – his mother's arm, the soldier – in an attempt to make everything that scared him just go away…
'By God, if I have to slap yer brats gobs shut for yer-' The soldier threatened darkly.
That did it.
'Don't touch them!' Theresa said sharply, in as correct an English as she could muster. 'Can't you see they are frightened?!'
She moved in between the shoemaker's wife and the soldier, sheltering the huddled children behind her black muslin skirts. 'You will leave them, soldier! Move to touch them again, and I will claw out your eyes-'
Theresa had expected violence, at this point. A blow from the musket, perhaps, or a fist to the stomach. What she hadn't expected was for the startled soldier to gape at her as though she had grown a second head – or for the fair English officer's eyes to suddenly snap towards her with a strange triumph.
He began to walk towards them.
'Found something, have you, Perkins?' He called out.
Too late, Theresa tried to fall back into the group, but the Marine's hand shot out to seize her wrist.
'Oh no, missy! You don't get away as easy as that.' He raised his voice. 'This one speaks English, Lieutenant! Right little firecracker, too!'
'Is that so?' the lieutenant said coolly. His eyes rested on Theresa. 'You speak English, madam?'
Theresa said nothing. She clamped her lips together and reached up for her veil, drawing it firmly over her face.
'She does, sir!' The Marine said quickly. 'Heard her, sir. Threatened me, she did, sir.'
'Is that so?' The Lieutenant turned. 'Why should she do that, Perkins?'
The soldier muttered something under his breath and shuffled his feet.
'I asked you a question, Perkins.'
'Said I'd hit the sprogs if they didn't shut up, sir.'
'Is that so?' the Lieutenant said, with mild interest. 'Very good, then. Carry on.'
'What?'
The Marine grinned, and raised his musket butt. Elena let out a screech, trying to cover her children with her own body-
'No!'
The lieutenant cupped his ear, theatrically. 'Did you say something, Madam?'
'I speak English.' Theresa said desperately, seeing the musket butt still poised above Elena's head. 'I speak English! Please – don't harm them!'
'I thought that might be sufficient inducement. Very well. At ease, Perkins.'
He turned with a show of politeness towards Theresa. 'I wonder if, madam, to begin with, you would be so good as to translate something for me. I fear things may prove…difficult for your companions unless we understand each other. You are agreeable?'
Theresa gritted her teeth together. 'Yes,' she grated out, in a voice choked with anger.
He raised his voice.
'I am Lieutenant John Scarfield. By order of Governor Dix, gentlemen – and ladies - you are all under arrest. We do not take kindly to the arrival of enemy citizens in a time of war- '
'What?!'
'-And in the face of your constant naval aggression in these waters-'The lieutenant continued, disregarding Theresa's expression of horror, 'We have no choice but to charge you all with the intent to spread sedition and malice... '
Voice shaking and half-stunned, Theresa translated. The explosion was instant.
'What?!'
'Señor, we are poor families! We have nothing to do with- '
'We aren't at war! How can you do this?'
'Bastard!' The first mate lunged at Captain de Voorst, fists flying. 'You knew this would happen! You knew! That's why you- '
'Traitor! Judas!'
It was true – whilst De Voorst looked sullen, he didn't look surprised. And it explained why he hadn't paid his crew. Maybe he'd known he wouldn't have to, once they were within sight of Saint -Martin.
'Oh, the captain can be detained too,' added Scarfield nonchalantly. 'He entered flying the flag of Spain, after all. It's only fair to assume a Spanish ship has a Spanish captain...'
He dabbed a handkerchief daintily to his nostrils. 'Load the prisoners in the pinnace for going ashore – '
Theresa, for her part, was stunned. Granted, things could certainly have changed at home during her long journey – but from what she understood of court life in Madrid from her bored society friends, political decisions operated at a glacially slow pace. Certainly not fast enough to arm and equip an invading armada, even if they diverted the fleet from New Spain. England and Spain played at cat and mouse with each other all the time, but- constant naval aggression?
It didn't make sense...
'Where we taking them, sir? Only the gaol's mighty crowded since we rounded up the town Spaniards…'
Townspeople? Theresa thought, dismayed. That would mean...Luisa. Her husband. Other innocent Spanish émigrés to Saint-Martin.
Things had evidently grown much worse since Jacinta's nephew sailed so blithely from the harbour a few months before, with nothing but vague misgivings.
'Aren't there still some smugglers in there?' Scarfield said sharply. 'Hang them, and there'll be enough room. I don't recall I have anything further to say… Oh!' He pointed a finger at Theresa, who had been about to follow. 'Not her, Perkins.'
'But sir! You said-'
'We have what we came for, don't we? She'll do. ' He crooked a finger at Theresa. 'You. I hope you will be reasonable, Miss…' he eyed Theresa's black dress. 'Or should I say, Mrs…?'
He waited for her name. Theresa studiously ignored the pause, hands clenching and unclenching convulsively. I'm not giving you anything, Englishman, she thought, furiously.
'I would rather be in gaol.' she said frostily.
'Oh, I'm sure you would.' Scarfield nodded at Sergeant Perkins, who began roughly shepherding the women and children towards the Essex's pinnace.' But let me advise you to consider your position, madam. You are under arrest. You are an enemy citizen, almost certainly sent here in order to ferment turmoil and rebellion-'
'I am no such thing-'
'Oh, I think you'll find you are.' Scarfield said languidly. 'At least, all Saint-Martin thinks you are. And mob mentality is so refreshingly… simple, don't you find? Why, I wouldn't give tuppence for any Spanish life if, say, the crowd decided to attack the gaol. Or the governor gives orders to simply hang you all…'
He doesn't have the power, was Theresa's first thought. Then, swiftly following on that – Yes he does. Don't be a fool.
Theresa began to panic, despite her attempt at bravado. There was something unpleasantly... reptilian about the calculating look in the unpleasant English lieutenant's eyes; as though she was a gaming chip – a useful gaming chip, for now, but one that could be discarded at will.
And this was a game where this man held all the cards, she realised, with a sinking feeling. One word from him, and she'd be bundled off to join the wailing, weeping prisoners in the pinnace, to languish in Saint-Martin's overcrowded gaol.
She met his gaze, trying to keep her voice from shaking. 'And will...he do that?'
You, she meant, with her glance. Because this is all you, isn't it?
Scarfield smiled. 'Ah, we understand each other! That rather depends on the outcome of this mission, ma'am. Which we can now undertake with rather more confidence, thanks to you – '
'Thanks to me?'
'Yes. Just a trifling thing, but alas, none of my men speak Spanish. But since you had the grace to volunteer your services…'
He nodded at someone behind her.
'Lieutenant Scrimshaw?'
'Sir?' A round-faced boy in a crisp blue inform saluted eagerly behind her.
'Have our… guest secured in Petty Officer Maddox's cabin, will you? And have Cole send word to Governor Dix that we have what we need. We'll rejoin the fleet at Fort Amsterdam.'
'What about the barque, sir?'
'Oh, the Duyfken? Second Lieutenant Epsom can take her in. Prize-money should be rather decent, I think.' He frowned, as the boy gaped at Theresa. 'Look lively, Scrimshaw?'
He had the nerve to bow mockingly to Theresa as Lieutenant Scrimshaw hastily hurried her over the gangplank to the Essex. 'We will speak again, Madam Spaniard.'
'Come on, miss,' the young lieutenant said awkwardly. 'Best foot forward, eh?'
The last glimpse Theresa could catch of her fellow travellers – the brothers from the mountains, Elena, her children – was a sea of hopeless faces in the pinnace bristling with armed Marines. She looked after them as long as she could. Until the Essex and the English together swallowed her whole, like Jonah.
She didn't know how long she sat in the stifling half-dark of the cramped cabin they locked her in – or at what point she simply rolled on her side to the narrow shelf that served as a bunk. She didn't sleep. She stared up, unblinking, at the wooden beams until her eyes swam with hot, angry tears at the thought of the whole wretched business.
She should have kept her mouth shut. But that wouldn't have done Elena or her poor children any good. At least, she had saved them a beating-
Only for them to be locked up in some filthy overcrowded jail cell ashore?
It was in the midst of such gloomy reflections that there came a tap at the door.
'Er... Miss? Ma'am?'
The uncertain voice of the younger lieutenant came through the door. 'I'm... I've been requested to take you to Lieutenant Scarfield, ma'am...'
The Essex's stateroom was the usual picture of regulation Navy comfort; apart from a long cherrywood desk arranged like a judge's throne towards one wall. Scarfield sat behind it, head bent over his papers. To all intents and purposes he was ignoring both her and fumbling, stammering Lieutenant Scrimshaw.
'Sit.' He said, not taking his eyes from the chart. 'You can leave us, Scrimshaw.'
Theresa didn't oblige him. She remained standing, even as Scrimshaw apologetically backed out.
'My pardon, Señor,' she said stonily, 'A prisoner stands in the presence of her captor.'
'Mm. Is that so.' Scarfield didn't as much as glance up at her.
Theresa curled her fingers into her palms, digging the nails in.
'We were not at war when I sailed from Cádiz little more than a month ago. I believe I have the right to know my country's crime-'
'Your country's crime? How melodramatic.' Scarfield actually sounded amused. She hated him for it. 'Interesting,however.' He threw down his pen to look at her. 'You really don't know what is happening, do you?'
'I know you hold hostage innocent men and women of Spain. I know you have taken me from the rest because I understand you-'
'And can make yourself understood to your countrymen. Yes.'
'My countrymen?' Theresa's voice rose. 'What have "my countrymen" done to you, Señor? You have told me nothing. All I see is an army officer hounding a pack of frightened women and children, along with a few… a few pitiful farmers and fishermen!'
The lieutenant said nothing; just watched her.
'I say,' Scarfield said softly, 'You are full of lies.'
'What? No, I-'
'Evidently lies! ' Scarfield leant across the desk, his gaze hardening. 'Because, Senora, you had the wit to arrive here on a ship flying the Spanish flag. Unlike other ships in these waters.'
'Other ships?'
'Are you quite unaware there is barely a ship of the line left in the Carribbean?' Scarfield demanded. And I am not just talking English ships, madam. I speak of the Dutch. The French. Anything that flies a different flag to your own. Dozens of heavily-armed military warships. And all sunk by your compatriots.' He spat the words as if they were an insult. 'Spanish ships, curiously, are left... unmolested. Nothing but safe passage and smooth journeys for them.'
Scarfield must have seen the confusion and doubt in her eyes, for he leaned forward over the desk.
'I wish you could have seen a few of the bodies we pulled from the wrecks, Señora.' He said softly. 'Butchered. Like cattle. And the ones that live don't fare much better. We couldn't get a word out of the last survivor about what happened. He wouldn't stop screaming. And pushing, with his hands -' Scarfield mimicked the gesture, hands held before him as though keeping something at arm's length. 'I believe he's pushing still, in the asylum. The holy sisters care for him.'
Theresa shuddered.
Scarfield straightened his back, and stalked towards the window. 'I am a man of strategy, madam. I return like for like. This is the reason for this expedition. I mean to deal with it, whatever it is – pirates, privateers, Spain itself. You are a minor detail,' he added, disdainfully. 'Governor Dix believes our quarry will be willing to make terms. He, ah, requested a translator accompany us.'
A look of open irritation crossed his face.
Ah, Theresa thought, with grim satisfaction. He doesn't like to admit he needs something from a Spanish woman his oh-so-correct British officers can't supply.
'Why me, sir?' she enquired sweetly, maliciously deciding to twist the knife a little. 'You have no Englishman on hand who is able to speak Spanish?'
Scarfield's right hand began drumming impatiently on the cherrywood surface of his desk. Tap-tap, tap-tap...
'Unavailable.' He said curtly. 'Petty Officer Maddox did speak Spanish – but he went down with the Monarch. You have your own damned countrymen and their precious "Maldito de Dios" to thank for your presence here-'
Ah.
'So it is pirates?' Theresa flashed back, triumphantly. 'You were very quick to judge it a Spanish enterprise, Señor Scarfield. I only hope, for your sake, you will not be proved wrong-'
It had clearly crossed his mind too. In addition to the look of annoyance that crossed Scarfield's face, there was a tiny flicker of – something else. Doubt. Uncertainty.
'Enough of this!' he snapped. 'You know your purpose, and why. Don't make me-'
'Change your mind?' Theresa met his gaze. 'You need me, Lieutenant. To make your terms with your pirates-'
Scarfield's thin lips had all but vanished in his face, she noted, with a certain vicious delight. It was wrong of her, perhaps, but –
I don't care.
'You had better pray, madam, that you will not be proved wrong.' He snarled. 'Because if this is Spain's doing rather than a parcel of rogues, I will not hesitate to string you and your confederates up like so much-'
There was a timid rap at the door.
'Sir?' The uncertain voice of Lieutenant Scrimshaw came through the door. 'We've reached Fort Amsterdam, Sir! The Thetis is signalling. She's holding herself in readiness, along with the Gallant and the Saint Crispin-'
'Be silent!'
Theresa took one look at Scarfield's white-lipped look of fury and tensed. She hadn't been meant to hear that.
'You...!' Scarfield took a deep breath. 'I don't have words for you, Scrimshaw. How you ever passed the Lieutenant's exam is beyond me.' He pushed Theresa unceremoniously towards the door. 'Take the bloody Spaniard back to her cabin and lock her in. And keep your mouth shut, understand ?'
The little lieutenant actually flinched at the venom in Scarfield's voice.
'A- aye, sir!'
He took the instruction literally. He didn't so much as drop a word until Theresa was back in her cabin before blinking at her, almost apologetically.
'Sorry about this, ma'am,' he said, uncertainly. 'It's...it's not regulation-'
'No?' Theresa said curtly, turning determinedly away from him. 'I am sorrytoo.' She had quite enough of Englishmen for the day. Just shut up, she thought silently. Just shut up and leave me alone...
Scrimshaw looked abashed.
'I... don't know if it makes any difference, but...' he looked awkward. 'I... I had midshipman Jones bring over your trunk, from the Duyfken. So you'd be more comfortable, Miss Señora – ma'am.'
Theresa stared at him, then down at her box which had been neatly stowed below the desk. AS though she were a guest, rather than a prisoner.
She wanted to shout. To scream. To throw things – preferably at Scarfield, but she'd settle for the stupid boy with his freckled face and meaningless attempts to be kind –
Before her convent education and years of practiced courtesy took over. A lady is always polite, no matter the circumstances.
'...Thank you.' She said, flatly. 'That was a kind thought.'
It was almost disheartening to see how Scrimshaw's face brightened at this reluctant platitude from a foreign prisoner. Praise must be scanty indeed aboard ship, if he was grateful for that...
She felt a twinge of pity.
'No problem at all, ma'am!' he chirruped, bright-eyed as a starling. 'I'll bring you your supper, later? I mean, you're doing us a wonderful service, ma'am. If everything goes right, you'll be able to talk to them, and we should be able to see off the trouble, and everyone gets to go home again...'
'I'm a little tired.' Theresa said meaningfully, interrupting his enthusiastic flow. It was true. She was wearied; almost to death it seemed. 'If you don't mind, Lieutenant...Scrim-?' she paused.
'Scrimshaw, ma'am!'
'I would rather sleep, for now.'
'Right you are, ma'am!' He went to close the door. 'If you don't mind my saying, ma'am – I'm very glad you're here. Scarfield had a phrase book for me, but I couldn't get my head around the verbs. Something awful at languages, ma'am.'
The door, finally, bolted shut, leaving her in blessed darkness. Theresa squeezed her eyes shut, glad of it. They hadn't trusted her with a light. But she could see enough once her eyes had adjusted to grope her way to her trunk and open it.
Nothing seemed to be missing. Theresa hadn't been a fool about sea travel; she'd sewn her valuables and what money she had tight into her stays. All there was in her trunk were a few books and her clothes –
Her hand closed on something cold and metallic at the bottom of the trunk. Jacinta's gift. The sad-eyed portrait of the mother and child. She was surprised that it hadn't been stolen for the sake of the silver. The British were thieves; everyone knew that. For a minute she heard Jacinta's voice, echoing in her head.
'You send me word the minute you're safe on Saint-Martin, you hear? I'll risk the padré for your sake; just to hear from you...'
Theresa couldn't help it, Remembering. Jacinta had been right, after all.
Swallowing a sob that had formed in her throat, she tucked the silver portrait into her dress pocket, before lifting Sebastien's miniature to her lips; another little ritual of reassurance.
'Give me sweet dreams, my love,' she whispered. 'I need them. More than ever. '
