He removed the pad of soaked rags. ‘Hmm, we need more cloth – lots of it.’
‘Try that.’ I pointed to a low locker fixed to one of the walls, which served as both a seat and storage space.
He opened it. ‘Very nice,’ he muttered, pulling out various garments. ‘Master Brooke’s costly finery. Well, he won’t be needing it now.’ From the pile of highly coloured silks and velvets, he extracted some cambric shirts and began tearing them into strips. He sent one of his colleagues in search of water and, when a bucket had arrived, he gently washed down the skin around the hole in my body. ‘What we have to do,’ he said, ‘is close this up as much as we can, then bind it as tight as you can bear.’
‘You seem very expert.’
‘I’ve watched many field surgeons at work.’
‘Is it very bad? Am I likely to …’
‘Die? That you’ll have to ask a priest.’
Strong fingers pinched the edges of the wound. Fresh padding was applied.
‘Hold that, while I bind it,’ my ‘doctor’ ordered. He wound long strips of cloth round my stomach so firmly that I could take only shallow breaths.
‘I suppose Black Harry and his companions will get clean away,’ I muttered disconsolately.
‘I don’t fancy their chances in the dark – not in all this mud and marsh.’ He helped me into a clean shirt.
‘Pray God you’re right,’ I said. ‘ If that murderous hellhound slips through our fingers after all we’ve been through … Our men must be feeling very dejected.’
‘I’ve seen troops with better morale. No one likes losing friends in battle but when you can’t see the point of the battle … When you’re just obeying orders because they’re orders …’
‘I’m afraid I’ve led you all into a real mess and we’ve nothing to show for it.’
‘No one blames you, Master Treviot. Most of us know you were caught up in this against your will. Please God, you’ll live to laugh at this fiasco. Right, that’s you patched up. Keep as still as you can. Don’t waste whatever strength you’ve got. You’ll need it when we get ashore – if we get ashore.’ With those comforting words he departed.
The next few hours seemed like days. I had nothing to do but try to keep my mind off the pain. I thought back over the events of the last two months. Should I have done anything different? Every single event had been like a link in a chain pulling me inevitably towards the situation in which I found myself now. Could I have broken any of those links or was I the victim of inexorable fate? Strange that a respectable London merchant should end his days on a foreign ship wallowing through turgid waters off the east coast of England. I thought of my prim brothers of the Worshipful Goldsmiths’ Company. My unconventional passing would make a fine topic of conversation in our hall on Foster Lane. I imagined the solemn, nodding heads and the wiseacres who would claim they had always known young Treviot would come to a bad end. I laughed. That was a mistake: I yelped loudly as arrows of pain pierced my torso.
It may have been the very weirdness of my plight that prompted me to be almost detached from it. 1 was like an observer at some inns of court play, intrigued by the action, yet aware that at the end of the performance I would return to humdrum reality. But this time I was not in the audience. When the last line had been spoken, my drama would be ended. That made me think of those I was leaving behind. I was glad that there was only Raffy to be concerned about. I hoped Adie would stay as long as she was needed. As for the future of Treviots, the Goldsmiths’ Company would take care of everything, either winding the business up or ensuring that Raffy was trained to take over eventually. It would be sad not to see him grow up. I prayed he would have the strength to survive the loss of his only parent – his only relative, in fact. My friends would, I knew, do all they could to help him. Bart, Lizzie, Ned – they would each have their unique stores of wisdom to share – if Raffy was humble enough to listen. I pictured their faces; tried to remain focused on them; tried to stop them being engulfed in the ocean of throbbing, unending pain. It was a losing battle. The only reality was the agony. My only desire was for it to stop.
My gaze went frequently to the window’s night-blackened glass. The dark seemed like the pain – unending, unyielding. I longed for the light that would reveal where we were.
Suddenly, my little world erupted into chaos. It lurched sideways. Things were thrown off the table. My chair shot forward with such force that I was almost thrown out. I heard shouts and running feet on deck. With an immense effort, I got to my feet and hobbled to the door.
‘What’s happening?’ I shouted to the men who were rushing to and fro.
I had to repeat the question a couple of times before someone answered, ‘We’ve run aground!’
I made my way to the rail and peered into the darkness. A stretch of estuarial water lay between wide banks but slowly I was able to make out the shapes of sand bars. We had obviously fallen foul of one of these obstructions. The ship was leaning at a slight angle. Its stern was still in the water but the bow was held firmly. On the upper deck a furious captain was screaming abuse at his crew, some of whom were aloft, furling sails. My men could only stand around and watch the confusion.
One of them pointed to the captain. ‘He’s one of those leaders who blame everyone else when things go wrong. I reckon he’d have slit the helmsman’s throat if we hadn’t taken his weapons off him.’
Someone else said, ‘He’s angry because the boat’s gone. He could have used it to tow us out into the channel. Now he’s got to wait until the tide floats us off.’
‘How long will that be?’ I asked.
‘’Twill be on the turn shortly but I reckon it’ll be a good couple of hours before there’s enough depth.’
The ship gave a sudden lurch. I fell hard against the rail and screamed in pain. A couple of troopers grabbed me and supported me back to the cabin. They stayed to keep me company. The men’s chatter was a welcome distraction. After a while someone brought food – salt fish and apples. I could not face it, but did drink a little ale. Occasionally, one of my companions went outside to check on the state of the tide. Another found an hourglass and the guards fell to gambling on how soon we would be afloat. They asked me to mind the money and turn the glass. It was good of them; they only did it to distract me from my sufferings. Eventually the familiar motion of the ship signalled that we were afloat again. It was now daylight. The captain ordered more sail and we were soon making good progress before an offshore wind. But the day’s excitements were not over.
The next development began with excited shouting on deck: ‘A sail! A sail!’
One of my companions hurried in to report. ‘A king’s ship about a mile away. We’re trying to hail her.’
‘Let me see,’ I said.
He helped me from the cabin and steadied me against the barque’s motion. Out to seaward stood a low-lying, four-masted craft. She carried little sail but was being propelled towards us at some speed by oarsmen.
‘A galleass,’ I said. ‘Master Morice told me he had such a craft patrolling this water. Can this be it?’
‘More like ’tis inward bound for the Gillingham dockyard,’ my companion replied.
‘Well, she seems interested in us. She’s closing rapidly.’
At that moment we saw a puff of smoke issue from the ship’s bow. It was followed by a splash and huge plume of water not far off our port beam.
‘She means to intercept,’ I said. ‘Have the captain haul in all sail. We don’t want to attract more cannon fire.’
I allowed myself to be led back to the cabin.
A while later I heard the bump of a boat against our hull and the sound of men scrambling up the boarding net. An English voice shouted a string of orders. Shortly afterwards the owner of that voice entered the cabin.
‘Charles Benson, Master of his majesty’s ship, Anne Gallant,’ he announced.