At the three first deaths, the column of march halted, while the leaders consulted over what to do. We could not carry the dead with us. Nor could we leave them lying unburied on the barren ground, prey to scavenging animals and birds. So we halted in the unforgiving heat, while a resentful burial party was named and set to digging a grave to accommodate all three. At that point we still carried spades and mattocks, intended for simple mining under the walls of Lisbon, if the garrison should attempt to hold the city against us.
The men dug a pit of reasonable size and the men were laid to rest, with the burial service spoken reverently over them by one of the army’s padres, as we stood, sweating and bareheaded, at the side of the grave.
Later, attitudes hardened. A shallow groove would be scratched out, the body rolled into it, and a few handfuls of dirt scattered over, to the accompaniment of a few a hastily gabbled words. One of the padres had died by then. Finally no one even bothered to look round at the dying, for each man struggled to put one foot in front of the other and had nothing left to spare for the dead. As for those who simply sat or lay at the roadside, refusing to go further, I do not know what became of them.
Never had the land of my birth seemed so alien to me. As I rode on, light-headed under that merciless sun, I was haunted by thoughts of my sister, trapped, perhaps forever, in a cruel servitude of body and soul. Until now I had kept at bay the thought of my grandmother, dead in a prison of the Inquisition, and my grandfather, who would be alive today but for this ill-conceived and disastrous expedition.
In my state of dumb misery and feverish imagination, I found my mind dwelling on London. Despite the secrecy and danger of my life there, it seemed a cool green haven, compared with the hellish land over which we crawled, as insignificant as a column of ants, awaiting the annihilation of some gigantic boot. What would my father be doing now? Was he well enough to minister to his patients in the hospital? I wondered whether my dog Rikki still accompanied him there every morning, and whether Joan was yet reconciled to him. What would the players be performing now, in the summer season at the playhouses? Their light-hearted companionship seemed a world away from this dark company moving forward across a foreign land in shared misery. Would Simon come to visit my father in my absence? Did he ever think of me? Or would he be too preoccupied with some new drama in the playhouse and his friendship with his new companion Marlowe? I dashed stupid tears from my eyes, making a pretence of wiping the sweat from my forehead. It was useless to think of London, for I might never see it again. I might not even survive the march to Lisbon.
Chapter Fifteen
That was the first three days. With a well-trained army, accustomed to long marches, fit and healthy, properly provisioned, it should have been possible to cover the sixty-five mile distance from Peniche to Lisbon in about three days. We should have been there by now. With our poor shambling creatures, unfit from the start of the expedition and growing weaker by the day, with very little food and almost no clean water, it would take us at least two or three times as long. If, indeed, we ever reached Lisbon. Like many of the soldiers I had begun to feel that our slow crawl across the Portuguese countryside would never come to an end. Although I was one of the privileged few on horseback, I still suffered the same heat, thirst and hunger as the foot soldiers. The horses too were growing weak. We could usually find them some grazing, however poor, but they too were desperate for water. Because of their failing condition, they plodding along as if half dead, their heads hanging, yellowish drool hanging from their lips as they gasped for breath in the heat.
The Earl of Essex had chosen to accompany the army, no doubt hoping for military glory when we reached Lisbon, although his past record in battle was no very great recommendation. This time it might be different, if the people of Portugal did indeed rise in support of Dom Antonio. On our journey so far, there had been no sign whatsoever of any such support. Apart from a few men who joined us in Peniche, no one had come to swell the ranks of the army since we had landed. Whether people were frightened by the summary execution of the nobles like my grandfather, on the merest suspicion, or whether they had little faith in the Dom himself, I could not tell, but by now I had little hope that the expedition’s supposed main goal – to put the Dom on the throne – would ever be achieved. It might be, too, that the Catholic people of Portugal were reluctant to be rescued from Spain by an invading army of heretic Protestants from England. The looting of churches in and around Coruña would not have gone unnoticed. In fact, on first setting out from Peniche, the army had looted some Portuguese churches before Norreys put a stop to it.
As for what the Earl of Essex believed or expected, who could tell? I do not suppose he cared two groats for Dom Antonio, though I am sure he thirsted for glory. He was not, however, a leader to inspire the men of this army. We had seen little of him. His particular party, consisting of his own officers, servants and cronies, kept to themselves. Naturally, he insisted on leading the march, so he was away at the head of the column, while I generally rode somewhat close to the rear, keeping a watch on the laggards who trailed along in danger of being left behind. Unlike the rest of us, Essex came equipped with sumpter mules and considerable baggage, amongst which I suspected that he had ensured an adequate supply of food and wine. At any rate, on the few occasions when I caught sight of him or his men, they did not appear to be suffering like the rest of us.
On the evening of the fourth day I lay down as soon as it was dark, for I was bone weary. It had been a bad day. Several more men had died and two of the horses. The ranks of the army had also grown thinner through desertions. There were those who simply collapsed at the roadside and refused to move, however much the junior officers kicked and swore at them. Then there were others who slipped away when they thought no one was looking. Raised up on horseback, I would sometimes see a solitary man, or perhaps a group of two or three, hiding in a patch of scrub, waiting for us to pass. They must have hoped for help from the local cottagers, but we never knew what became of them. Perhaps they found a life there in Portugal, perhaps they died, starving and alone, perhaps the Spanish discovered them and either executed them as spies or handed them over to the Inquisition as heretics. The remaining soldiers in our army seemed not to care, seeing how our numbers were dwindling. The fewer mouths to feed, the larger share for each of those men who were left.
The death of the two horses had at least meant some food that day. The Englishmen soon overcame their squeamish resistance to eating horsemeat and grabbed their share almost before it was cooked, roasted on spits over the campfires. I had little inclination to eat, certainly not the half-raw horsemeat, for I had passed beyond normal hunger to a dazed and abstracted state, in which I seemed almost detached from my body. I feared I was becoming feverish, and privately treated myself with a febrifuge tincture. I was sparing of it, for I had not a great deal left and was uncertain how much Dr Nuñez and Dr Lopez might have with them. Many of our medical supplies had been left aboard the Victory and as a result had been carried away when the fleet sailed before the two older physicians could remove them. As a bird might fly, over to the west, to the ocean, the fleet was not indeed very many miles from us, but it might as well have been on the moon.