'Why have the crew agreed to come?' asked Gresham. 'They must know what the odds are.'
'They didn't exactly agree. They was told. By Drake. The choice was sail with the Daisy, or be put ashore.' Putting ashore would in all probability have meant the galleys, or even facing the Inquisition.
'They're either all troublemakers or they ain't made themselves popular with 'is 'Ighness,' said Mannion. 'Apparently half of 'em were set to bugger off with the Golden Lion, but bumped into the Dreadnought who threatened to blow 'em out of the water unless they turned round and stuck with us. It's a toss-up whether Drake hangs a few of them as an example and sticks the rest in jail, or whether he says good riddance to bad rubbish and packs 'em off home. We come along. Makes it easier to pack every one off 'ome.'
There was a particularly loud snort from the Captain. Something yellow was dribbling from his nose now.
'What about stores?' asked Gresham.
'Good, as far as I can see,' said Mannion. 'Picked up a lot of stuff in Cadiz, didn't they, so they can afford to be generous. Problem is, you never really know what you're going to get until you broach the barrel.' He was to remember that phrase a short while later.
They had gone to the funeral, conducted with dignity and as much ceremony as they could muster, burying some of their own dead a few hundred yards off. Unusual for sailors, whose final resting place was a roll of canvas weighted with lead shot and fathoms of sea water above their heads for eternity. Afterwards, on board the San Felipe, Gresham had talked to the girl. Drake had allowed them a few minutes, though he had not dismissed the guard — She looked thinner than when he had first set eyes on her, but seemed even more beautiful. Her suffering had deepened her cheek bones, given her eyes an even greater intensity and depth. None of that intensity reflected affection. The girl's modest gown was designed to cover rather than accentuate the charms of the wearer, yet she moved like an athlete. Gresham could not banish the image of her naked body from his mind. Damn! This was not what the mother had wanted when she made him pledge his honour.
'I'm sorry that I can't remain with you on San Felipe for your voyage home,' he said to her, trying to appear calm. 'I've been banished, in effect, by Sir Francis. But immediately you land in England I'll be there. I propose to house you at my home in London,' the vast Gresham property on the Strand, known simply as The House, stood largely empty, 'where there are some excellent female servants.' Dear Lord! He was sounding like the most pompous type of father. 'I'll also attempt to find a suitable lady to act as your chaperone.' And how the hell did a young man with no family left alive and a scorn for the Court do that, he wondered? He suspected his guardianship would require that he acquire rather too many new skills. God, she was beautiful!
She looked up at him, fire in her eyes. 'Do you know what it is like to be treated as a packages?'
'Pardon?' said Gresham, startled.
'To be packed up, despatched, sent here and sent there. Treated like a packages!'
'It's "package", actually…' said Gresham.
'Something with no mind, no will of its own, no desires.' She ignored Gresham. 'Just an object. Well, do you?' Her voice was soft, husky, surprisingly low-pitched, but with a hint of steel in it.
'Er… well, no. Actually.'
'It would seem that God has a strange sense of humour.' This conversation was rapidly going away from Gresham. 'He gives His creation the capacity to love, and then rips the people we love out of our lives for his amusement.' There was no sign of excessive moisture in her eyes. 'But at least he has a sense of humour, and he recognises that we care. Men, it appears, simply think women are a packages. I am to be delivered to you. You will deliver me on.' She stood up. 'I hate you!' she said. The quiet control of her voice was more frightening than it would have been had she shouted. 'I hate you and all your kind. You who treat people like objects, who take away their freedom and their right to exist as themselves.'
I think I could very easily hate you, thought Gresham. I really do not need you as a complication in my life at this present time.
'Yeah, well,' said Mannion, picking his hollow tooth, 'you're not alone in that. Most people hate him, actually.'
The girl gave a slight tremor. Was it the comment or perhaps the fact that it was a servant who uttered them? Such freedom was not afforded servants in the best-run Spanish households. Nor, now Gresham came to think of it, in the best English ones either.
'Let's see…' Mannion poised for a moment's theatrical thought. 'Drake hates him. His bosses at home hates him. Both of those are trying to kill him, actually. The Spaniards had a good attempt at killing him, so they must hate him. The son of the Queen's Chief Secretary hates him. If you believe everything he says — and I tries to, 'cos I'm a good servant — the Queen, the Earl of Leicester and the Earl of Essex could all be trying to get 'im killed. Oh, and I forgot. His College in Cambridge, England, they all hates him as well.'
Mannion gave up excavating his tooth. He had carried on throughout his little speech, causing some problems with comprehensibility.
'And now it turns out you hates him as well. Fancy that, join the club. Funny thing, now as it comes to mind, I've had nothing but trouble since I met him. I hate the bugger too. Shall we all take turns in trying to kill 'im?'
Anna looked from Mannion to Gresham, and back again. Gresham was looking at Mannion with an expression which intimated that he thought Mannion's colliding with a very heavy object would be a good thing.
'Why did God give you a mouth to match your belly!' he thundered. 'Why did he put your brain somewhere lower down and feeing aft than your belly! I swear…'
He turned. The girl had left, silently.
'That could 'ave been better,' said Mannion. 'If you'd left it to me…'
'If I leave a girl like that to you I'd be like a shepherd giving the flock over to a lion while he has a rest.'
'Me?' said Mannion incredulously. 'Me a lion? Give over! I'm the donkey. Problem is, sometimes a donkey 'as more common sense than a lion!'
Gresham had become used to the easy motion of the Elizabeth Bonaventure. The Daisy seemed to fight the water instead of working with it, recoiling when the light waves slapped her thin hull, seeing them as an insult rather than a caress. They left harbour with no fanfares, skulking out at sunset in the hope that the gathering gloom would mean that no one would notice. But even a crew such as this could set sail with a kind westerly directly behind them.
God knew how good a navigator the Captain was, in the rare moments when he was awake that is, but Gresham was gambling on his survival instinct. And if they headed west, they were sure to hit the coast of Europe, he comforted himself. Surely the coast of Europe was too big for even the Daisy to miss? Then all they would have to do was coast-hop back to England. Dodging angry Spanish ships, of course, bent on revenge for Cadiz. And supposing the beer and biscuit in their barrels was sound. And hoping the rot did not break the hull open at the first sign of a real sea, or the jerry-rigging collapse the masts. But of all the problems Gresham had anticipated, the one that first arose, barely half a day into their voyage, was one he had not dreamed of.