July 2 Ficathon
I'm late in my time zone, but it's still July 2 in Patagonia!
Sometimes A Lie Will Set You Free
"Sail, sail!" came the call from high in the rigging as the Pelikan skirted the remote southern coast of Patagonia. The tiny Swan had come into sight, a mere speck on the horizon of an endless, heaving sea, but Tom Starbridge's keen young eyes could see that it was the missing supply ship.
The men on the deck below cheered and rushed to side of the ship to see for themselves that it was true; the Swan, carrying their friends and comrades, not to mention most of their victuals and fresh water, had been lost from their sight for more than 10 days.
Francis Drake stood on the deck of the Pelikan sturdy legs astride, strong, calloused hands firmly planted on his hips, and looked out to where Starbridge was pointing. "I'll hang that man, without a word of a lie, I'll hang him and be done with his games," he said to no one in particular. "Thinks he can slip off on a whim with our provisions and leave my fleet short of rations. Damn the man, I'll have an end to it this very day."
Leonard Vicarye, standing near enough to over hear, looked sharply at Drake who, in return, fixed him with a cold, withering glare that left the gentleman in no doubt that this was no idle threat. Since leaving the Cape Verde Islands Vicarye had tried to counsel his friend not to antagonise Drake any further, but the gentleman's pride had blinded him to the growing danger. Now Drake was inclined to blame Doughtie for any ill that befell the tiny fleet.
"Convey to Master Doughtie that I await his presence, here, on the Pelikan - NOT AT HIS LEISURE," Drake ordered.
"Aye, Capt'n Gen'ral," answered Ned Bright briskly, and, all too eager to witness the roasting that the troublesome gentleman would receive from an irate Drake, Bright called for a pinnace to be lowered and sent to meet the approaching Swan.
Drake paced impatiently back and forth along the pitching deck, barking orders at any member of the crew that dared come near, but within a short time the small craft had returned and bobbed dangerously beside the larger ship. "Where is Master Doughtie? I commanded he attend me!" Drake called down to the men in the pinnace. John Sarocold, master of the Swan, clambered aboard the Pelikan from the little vessel and stood before the angry Captain.
"Master Doughtie be no longer 'board the Swan, Capt'n Gen'ral," the grim faced, surly seaman replied, his cold grey eyes peering out from under his weather beaten brow holding Drake's stern gaze.
"What do you mean, not aboard the Swan? Where in hell is he?"
Sarocold hesitated momentarily, then answered, "Capt'n, 8 days ago we come upon a Spanish merchantman, not 15 leagues to the north of 'ere. Master Doughtie 'e spake with them for some time and then 'e took up and left with them saying 'e was a friend of King Philip and 'e would give to them good intelligence if they would see 'im safely away."
"No! That's not possible," Leonard Vicarye interjected.
"It would appear, Master Vicarye, to be entirely possible." Drake answered with unrestrained vehemence. "Certes, I've had my suspicions of his loyalty since we left Mogadore; he's done all in his power to impede this venture. Well, we are the better for being rid of him; it will save me the trouble of hanging him. But if those Spanish curs attempt to interrupt my enterprise, their ship will be at the bottom of the sea together with their new friend, Master Thomas Doughtie."
Drake stalked off the deck to his cabin, slamming the door behind him to make quite plain that he would brook no intrusion. Once alone he cursed and raged, snatched up some of Doughtie's books and hurled them across the small cabin that they had shared. He picked up the elegant hairbrush with its intricately carved ivory handle, a gift from Doughtie before they had left on their great adventure, and was about to throw it as well, but, on second thought, placed it carefully back upon the shelf. Well, what had you expected? he castigated himself. Think you he came upon this voyage out of any true sense of affection for you? No; Doughtie was just like every other gentleman Drake had met in his life. Users all of them; ready to bask in his glory, or gain from his exploits, but loyalty? Never! Drake reached for a pitcher of wine and sank into the chair behind his desk. Doughtie was out of his life; he would soon put him out of his mind.
For the next several days the little fleet lay becalmed; the days short and cold, the nights interminably long; the men becoming more and more dispirited, until the morning when a there seemed to be some promise of a freshening breeze that could set them on their way. As Drake emerged from his cabin after another troubled night to record his daily observations in his almanac, he was approached cautiously by one of the gentlemen of the fleet.
"What is it, Master Vicarye?" Drake asked without so much as a sideways glance at the man who dared interrupt him.
Vicarye cleared his throat. "Thomas is no traitor, Captain Drake. I have spoken with Captain Wynter and he is willing, with your permission, to seek out the Spanish ship and have Doughtie restored to us."
"Is he indeed?" growled Drake keeping his eyes on his journal. "You doubt the word of John Sarocold and the crew of the Swan, Master Vicarye?"
"Yes, Captain Drake, I do most assuredly doubt any such accusation of treason against Thomas. Sarocold has been no friend to Doughtie throughout this voyage, and he has never disguised his resentment of all the gentlemen of the fleet. He has a reputation as a bully aboard his ship; even the Captain of the Swan is sorely put upon by the man."
"Sarocold be a goodly mariner," Drake began menacingly, but then paused in thought, "Though, I will admit he be not always fair in his dealings with all his men. But pray tell Master Vicarye, if you can, what other explanation you can devise for Doughtie's disappearance?"
"Captain, I know not what may have transpired aboard the Swan, but of one thing I am certain: Thomas would ne'er leave his brother, John, for any reason if he had a choice in the matter."
Drake, for the first time looked up from his work. "Mayhap you know him not so well as you think. Mayhap he be quite capable of leaving his brother and his assured good friend without a second thought, Master Vicarye," Drake answered spitefully, his cold blue gaze, sharp enough to lance a man, challenging Vicarye's resolve. "I once thought him a stalwart friend and loyal supporter of my venture and see how he has fomented discourse ever since we crossed the Atlantic."
But Vicarye, having found the courage to approach the Captain, was not to be swayed by Drake's sarcasm. "Nevertheless Captain Drake, I would still seek your permission to conduct a search."
Drake eyed the gentleman silently for a time, trying to take the measure of him. Vicarye was a softly spoken, land lubbing lawyer, all things that Drake was contemptuous of, and yet the man dared to continue to press the case for Doughtie in the face of Drake's obvious disdain. To have such a friend, he thought…
"Very well, Master Vicarye, your loyalty is admirable, though misplaced, I fear, but mayhap you plead a fair case. For the love I once held for your gentleman friend I will undertake a search for him. But if I find that he has indeed joined with my enemies I will show no mercy in despatching him to the place in Hell he so richly deserves." Drake snapped shut the little almanac and barked an order at a group of loitering seaman to get back to work. Leonard, understanding this to mean that he had been dismissed, silently took his leave to report to Wynter and young John Doughtie on Drake's decision.
The following day the Pelikan and the Elizabeth set sail before of a strengthening southerly wind to look for the Spanish ship and their missing gentleman. Traitor thought Drake as he stood upon the deck looking north to where they might find Doughtie. Captive thought Vicarye, standing a respectful distance away from the Captain, his face a portrait of dark concern. Leonard dared not even acknowledge the more dire thought that hovered at the edge of his mind that Thomas may well be dead.
Despite what he had told Vicarye, Drake was not only surprised that Thomas had deserted him, he was also more wounded by this than he would care to admit. Yes, he and Thomas had had their difficulties, he had blustered and bullied and tried to diminish Doughtie in the eyes of the men, but surely Thomas knew this was just his way. He knew no other way to command. Was it possible, he thought, that Thomas had truly not understood that at sea there can be only one commander? For the gentleman had maintained his proud stance and in the face of Drake's attacks had responded in kind by making intemperate comments about Drake's low birth. "Ship's Boy" he had called him, and in front of Drake's own crew. Those words still echoed rancorously in Drake's ears, but now that Thomas did appear to be gone, he missed him. Drake had begun to realise that if he did indeed execute the gentleman as he had intended, then he would punish himself as much as anyone, as never before had he found such pleasure in sharing the company of any such elegant gentleman.
For three days the English ships sailed north, tacking east and then west, searching for any sign of the Spanish vessel. On the morning of the fourth day the call came from the rigging; young John Drake had caught sight of a sail.
Drake ordered the crew to arms and, with drums beating, set off in determined pursuit of the Spanish ship Within a very short time the two English ships had overtaken their quarry, which was no match for the Pelikan or the Elizabeth in either speed or armoury, and Drake ordered her to heave to or face the firepower of his cannons. The Spanish captain, being no soldier capitulated without a fight, and was quickly brought aboard the Pelikan to present his sword to Drake in official surrender. The Spaniard spoke no English and was obviously terrified in the presence of the infamous El Draco. Diego, the Cimarron, was able to translate for his master.
"Where is Master Doughtie?" Drake voice boomed at the hapless captive as soon as the formalities of the surrender were completed. The Spanish Captain looked confused.
"He is, of course, aboard my ship, Captain Drake," he answered timorously.
"Damn the man," Drake roared like a beast in pain, "He has betrayed me!" His growing fury spurred the Spaniard to speak further.
"In accordance with our arrangement; I did find it necessary, however, to have him confined," the Spaniard continued cowering from the angry Captain, lest he be struck a blow, his nervous eyes darting from Diego to Drake.
"Our arrangement?" Drake queried. "Diego, is that what the man said?" Diego nodded and continued to translate for the Spaniard.
"Si, Captain Drake. Your men, from the small ship, they parleyed with us when we met near Port Desire. They sold the gentleman to us. He was, they said, an agent of Mendoza in England whose treachery had been discovered. They said you wanted to be rid of him but could do nothing against him yourself because he is well favoured at court and by the other gentlemen of your company. I paid them in silver - 100 reales - thinking that I would be well recompensed by my King's agent and by the gentleman himself."
Drake's face darkened, he leaned forward and he spoke slowly and deliberately to his captive. "He did not come willingly then, aboard your ship?"
"Willingly? No, no and he has caused much trouble. He was bound and gagged when we received him aboard but when we released him, instead of being grateful for his salvation he fought us most furiously and wanted only to return to your fleet." The Spanish captain became quite agitated as he explained to Diego the actions of Doughtie. "We found it necessary to … to subdue him."
"Show me." Drake demanded.
Drake took a company of well armed men and crossed to the captive ship where the Spanish captain indicated that Drake should follow him below deck.
"You have him in this noisome place, in irons? How dare you syrah! He is a gentleman; he should have been treated as such," Drake said, and was surprised to hear the outrage in his own voice.
In the darkness of the fetid hold Doughtie heard the approaching men and struggled to his feet, defiant and ready to fight, but greatly disadvantaged by the irons on his legs, a lack of proper food and the injuries already inflicted by the overzealous Spaniards who had subdued him. He was dirty, dishevelled, thin, and pale as death but when his dark eyes settled on the Drake's familiar face he beamed in delight.
"Francis," he said, "I knew you'd come. They said you arranged this. I didn't believe them." Drake stepped forward in time to catch the gentleman as he fell.
****************
When consciousness returned, Thomas could hear the sounds of the water lapping gently against the sides of the ship and the soft melodic strains of a flute coming from the deck. It was dark and he was not altogether sure of where he was, but he was no longer in hold of a ship; the lack of stench told him that much. There was instead a familiar more pleasant scent in the air. And he was clean, and unshackled. He seemed to remember seeing Francis' face coming towards him, but perhaps he'd dreamt that. He'd dreamt much about Drake since being taken captive. Was he safe? Was he back on the Pelikan? As he struggled to make sense of his situation, a hand began to remove the blanket that was covering him and Thomas suddenly felt very vulnerable.
"I'm a gentleman…." he began as he made a grab for the coverings, but his voice and his grip had not the strength he intended.
"Indeed you are. You're also half naked and in my bed, Thomas. But you are quite safe." A deep, growling but slightly amused voice answered. "Now roll over on your stomach while I apply this ointment on your back. I don't want you dying from your wounds now that I have you restored to me." Thomas was inclined to argue but the familiar voice, while demanding, was warm and reassuring.
Drake brought a lamp close to the bed and, having helped the injured man to turn, lifted the soft white shirt to expose his back. As he looked upon the welts and bruises on Doughtie's fine white skin he was incensed that the Spaniards had treated the gentleman - his gentleman - so roughly. The memory of Thomas standing proud and defiant in the face of what he expected would be another degrading beating rushed to his mind and Drake realised his own treatment of Doughtie had been in many ways no better. Although he'd not physically abused him, he had done all in his power to diminish the gentleman's standing in the fleet; a punishment he knew Doughtie would have found much harder to bear than mere physical blows.
Yes, he thought, he had tried to vanquish Doughtie's pride and yet it was something he greatly admired in the man. He'd realised too, for the first time, when he had found Doughtie, something that Thomas had oft tried to explain: that a true gentleman was so much more than a man in expensive clothes and of a certain income, for there before him in the filthy hold of that Spanish ship had stood his Thomas; alone but defiant, dirty and dishevelled, his fine clothes in tatters, but in no way cowered: still the most perfect gentleman. And the look in that gentleman's eyes when he first saw the Captain coming to his rescue had told Drake that there was no question that, despite his haughty attitude, Doughtie was indeed his man. It had been a moment of utter joy for Francis.
The ointment was cool and sweetly scented and Francis' hands were surprising gentle as he spread the soothing mixture across the gentleman's aching body. Drake said nothing as he tended the wounds and for a time Thomas made only the slightest sounds of relief as the large hands passed across his damaged skin.
Finally, however, Thomas spoke, "How long is it since I was taken prisoner, Francis? I did lose track of the days in the darkness of the ship's hold."
"Three weeks, Thomas, near enough." Drake hesitated but knew he would have to say more. "When the Swan rejoined the fleet, Sarocold reported that you had gone with the Spanish voluntarily. I, … I was not inclined to go searching for you."
"You believed that of me, Francis? You believed that I would desert you and join with your most dire enemies?" The anguish in Doughtie's voice made Drake wince.
"Aye, Thomas, at first I did; though it shames me now to say it. I was angry. You had been so difficult and combative since the voyage began. I had begun to see mutiny and treason in your actions." Drake paused and softened his voice. "Your friend Vicarye, however, convinced me that you had not turned traitor and joined the Spanish. He said you would ne'er desert your brother, no matter what the cause."
"Leonard is a good friend; I would not desert him either, and nor would I ever desert you Francis, despite our differences I hold you in great esteem as well."
"Sarocold will hang on the morrow, if you're fit to get up. I want you to be able to see him dance at the end of the rope for the wrong he has done you."
"No, Francis, please. I don't want the man hanged." Thomas struggled to raise himself from the bed and look directly at Drake.
"Still, Thomas, be still. If that is what you wish, it will be so." Drake brushed back the gentleman's hair from across his pleading eyes. The warmth he saw in those dark pools filled him with a desire to please the gentleman. He could deny him nothing.
Thomas settled, placing his head on the pillow so that he could watch Drake's face as he continued to apply the ointment. When he had been aboard the Spanish ship he had thought constantly of Francis and how he could be reunited with him. From the little he understood of the Spanish crew he had supposedly been given over to them by Drake's command. He'd had much time to think on this. He couldn't believe Francis would do this to him, but upon reflection he realised that he had been goading the Captain. Leonard had warned him to have a care, but he'd paid no heed. Why, he wondered. He liked Drake. More, loved him. But his own damnable pride he knew drove him to reject the man who wanted to have command of him because he was a gentleman and Francis was not. Drake had wanted his total obedience. He had wanted his proper respect. There was the impasse. Still, he had thought, Drake would not resort to such an underhanded thing; he would be bold and quite likely merciless in his retribution, but not this. Drake's crew then? Had he so alienated them that they would risk Drake's ire and hand him to the enemy and tell Drake that he had betrayed him? He had determined that if, no when, he returned to the English fleet he would need to work on a remedy for this disaffection. Then Drake had been there, reaching out for him as he felt himself slipping into darkness, catching him before he fell one more time onto the grime laden floor of the hold.
A comfortable silence between the men continued, each lost in their own thoughts. For Thomas a decision was being made. His heart had known for some time what his mind had fought so hard to deny. Now, as the early morning light was seeping into the cabin, bathing Francis with a soft golden glow, Thomas' heart and body had already made their decision, it remained only for his mind to follow, and with each touch of Francis' strong hands that resistance became less.
Thomas smiled. The irony of his new circumstances did not escape the gentleman; the captivity that had been inflicted upon him had, in truth, served to be his liberation. The imprisonment of his body had set free his heart, and now, being so liberated, he could give himself; body, mind and soul, utterly to Francis. Sarocold may have wished him ill but, in the end, his treachery had been the way to freedom for Thomas. No, he certainly didn't want to see the man hanged, but there were other punishments he would consider when he was feeling stronger.