'They say despair's the ultimate sin,' said Gresham. 'Worse than all the others, because if you feel despair you've accepted that God can't forgive you. And if you do that, you're bound to be damned. I don't think I've ever felt despair before. Not really. Not like this.'
'The ultimate sin, is it then?' Mannion's voice came from somewhere in the total darkness.
Gresham had not really expected an answer, sunk as he was in his misery. He had spoken merely to ease his internal pain. 'Yes,' was all he could find to say.
'Well, that's good, isn't it?'
What was Mannion on about? 'Good? How can it be good?'
'Well, if it was gluttony or lechery, I'd be in real trouble, wouldn't I? 'Cos I ain't going to stop both, if we ever get out of this, and it'd be bad news if there was no forgiveness.'
'How can you talk about "after this"? "After this" is us swinging on the end of a rope. And choking slowly if Drake has his way.'
'Well, as my old captain used to say, where there's life there's hope.'
'Your old captain? The one who got burned alive by the Spanish?'
'Well, no one's perfect.'
There were fumbling noises in the dark, the sound of something rasping, a gasp of relief.
'Stupid buggers,' said Mannion. ‘Never did search us properly. I allus keeps this little knife strapped on me leg, high up near me crutch. It's a brave man who puts his 'ands there, I can tell you.'
Gresham did not dare to think of the prospect Soon Mannion's hands were feeling for him, finding his hands, untying the rope.
'At least this way we can piss in the corner and not wet ourselves. Or worse. Helps you keep your dignity, that does. Keep the rope in your hand. Wrap it round when they come. They'll not notice the difference. Half of 'em's knackered after the fight, and the other half looks half dead.'
Gresham found his interest stirring, against all the odds, against any objective valuation of their situation. 'I saw that. Yet the ship's hardly damaged, unlike what they did to the Spaniards.'
'I reckon as that poxed bugger in Lisbon did his bit, then. You know what happens as well as I do when a ball's not been cooled properly, or the mix ain't right. It blows to fragments when it leaves the barrel. But if the hull's in one piece, lot of the men ain't. Ship's fever,' said Mannion firmly. 'That, and I bet they're on short rations. Remember how long this lot'll have been at sea? Queen
Elizabeth, she'd rather have her tits cut off than give a ship more than a month's food and drink. And even if they get that much, you can bet half of it's rotten.'
'As much as the Spanish stores?' Gresham could sense Mannion's grimace as they remembered cask after cask being opened on the San Martin to have the men reeling away, gagging and swearing at the stench of its contents. 'Will they starve us? Will we get ship's fever?' asked Gresham, angry at his own fear.
'Precious little food comin' our way, that'd be my guess. Even less water, and sour beer if we're lucky. As for ship's fever, you tell me. 'Cept I reckon as 'ow if we was goin' to get it, we'd 'ave got it by now. A series of slight snaps came from the direction of Mannion's voice. Here, grab this.'
Gresham found two strips of what could only be dried meat thrust into his hands. 'Where did these come from?' he asked, incredulous.
'Always keep three or four strips sewed on the inside of my jacket. Easy, if you drill a hole through each end of the meat first. Eat it now. If they keep us short of water, you won't be able to manage it. Get the goodness in you now, while you can.'
And so the two condemned men sat in the bowels of the Revenge, in total darkness, munching companionably the cast iron of the meat, slowly, in order to guard their teeth.
It was Berwick that saved them. Desperately short of supplies, half his men sick and numbers dying by the day, Drake paused in his pursuit and sent boats into the town that had changed more hands than any other in the troubled history of England and Scotland. Their jailers flung back the door, and stood reeling gently before them, clearly half drunk. A loaf that had been fresh two days ago was thrown into the compartment, and a scuffed and wrinkled wineskin, lying on the planking. One of the sailors laughed, then reached into the room, wrinkling his nose, and placed two apples carefully in the gap between two planks.
'There!' he roared. 'On yer knees, if yer wants it! Go on with you! Let's see you grovel!'
Both sailors were reduced to paroxysms of laughter as Gresham and Mannion, hands apparently bound before them, tried to catch the apples in their teeth, scrambling for them on their knees. The sailors were still laughing as they slammed the door shut.
Gresham thought he had lost his sight when finally they were hauled on the deck of the Revenge. Blinking frantically, filthy, his beard as ragged as a wild man's from the hills, he could only think of Mannion's words. Dignity. It was all a man had, after all, when God, life and other men had taken everything else away. They were bundled, half carried into a boat, and thrown across a horse.
Gresham arched his back, newly-bound hands and legs meaning he could not stand as he landed badly on the ground. Swearing, cursing, the sailors picked him up, prepared to throw him back on to the horse.
‘I fought on the San Martin!' he managed to say, through cracked lips. He could vaguely discern the sailors now, clear shapes moving in a blur of browns, grey and blue. 'I stood up like a man as you threw everything you had at me, as did that man.' He motioned with his head, all he could move, at. where he thought Mannion might be. 'Does that merit riding through London with my arse as my highest point? Or have we earned the right to ride with our heads held high?'
There was a muttering among the men.
'We made no pleading with you at sea, did we? We fought to the end! Yet I plead with you now. Allow me my dignity, and my man here, as fighting men.'
They were decent men, as most are. They cut the bonds round his ankles, let him ride the mangy horse, kept his hands tied but thrust the reins into his hand, a secure tether leading to the man ahead. And so Gresham's ride began. Every bone in his body crying out for release, wanting nothing more than to slump across the horse, to give up. Somehow he stayed upright, seeing through the pain and agony of his body the sight he had most dreaded. He had ridden through London once before in sea-stained clothing, in triumph. Now he rode through as a prisoner.
When the Normans had conquered England five hundred years earlier they had built two symbols of power in London, the four towers and keep of the Tower of London, and St Paul's Cathedral, its mass sending an unequivocal signal that those in power in London held supremacy over men's souls as well as their bodies. But it was not to St Paul's that Gresham was headed. It was the Tower, whose bulk squatted over the Thames. First the drawbridge leading over the moat, coated with scum and full of noisome lumps that did not bear close examination, to the Lion Tower. Then over the wooden planking, shouted words. A sharp left turn, under the Lion Tower, across the moat again and the second drawbridge. The two round, squat forms of the Middle Tower stood in their way. More shouted instructions, a rattling of chains, and they lurched forward again. Yet another drawbridge, and then the taller, round form of the Byward Tower. Under its rusting portcullis. Into prison, with three vast towers and their gates blocking their route to freedom. To prison? No. Worse than that. Bundled off his horse, into the White Tower itself, down damp, stone stairs, down and seemingly ever down. Flickering torches in rusted iron sconces hung on the walls. A huge, heavy door, black iron hinges set deep into the wall, flung back.