The Portuguese Affair (6 page)

The boy had reached the masthead and seemed to be busy up there, then I saw what he was about. As he shinnied down again, the wind caught the standard fixed there, and it broke out fully in view: Dom Antonio’s standard, bearing the coat of arms of the Portuguese royal dynasty, the Aviz. There could be no going back now. The sight of that flag, the increasing speed of the ship, the diminishing view of the Tower and the Bridge behind us was like the stuff of nightmares, as though some hidden, malevolent force were sucking me back the way I had come, making a mockery of my escape from
Portugal.

Plymouth
, where we were to take on supplies and recruits to the expedition’s army, was the first place I had seen in my new country, all those years ago. Now it would be the last place we would see in England. My life seemed to be rolling in reverse. Although it had been the scheme of those three influential men in my life – Dr Nuñez,  Dr Lopez and my father – that I should take my father’s place on the expedition, yet I also clung to my own reasons for returning to Portugal, despite these moments of panic. I could not tell whether my half-formed plans would even be possible. I had said nothing of them to anyone, not even my father, not even Walsingham, who might have been able to help me.

More signals were sounded on the whistles and more canvas was broken out, until we were under a full complement of sail. I had loved the sleek lines and beauty of the two pinnaces,
Silver Swan
and
Good Venture
, but there is no denying that a great galleon – however huge and seemingly top-heavy compared with the smaller ships – is a magnificent sight. The modern race-built English galleons look more elegant and graceful than the heavier Spanish galleons I had seen at sea last year. Even as I was, sick with nerves and apprehension, I could appreciate the splendour of the
Victory
. Around and behind us the rest of the fleet filled me with a grudging pride. We were a fine sight, even this small part of the fleet. The only time I had seen an English fleet before had been amidst the confusion of battle. Now we sailed bravely in formation down the spreading waters of the Thames, flags and pennants flying, the polished wood of the hulls gleaming, the new canvas of the sails a warm cream, every scrap of brass reflecting the spring sunshine. The shores on either side of the river, even when we reached the lower, muddy reaches, were lined with people on both the Kent and Essex banks, waving and cheering us on our way. I wondered whether any of the players I knew had come to see us off from London. I had not thought to look, and now it was too late. We were past Greenwich and moving with tide and wind down towards the estuary and the open sea.

The journey itself as far as Plymouth was uneventful. The weather was calm, but with enough of a breeze to take us out into the German Sea and around the easternmost nose of Kent. As we stood out into mid Channel, I remembered what both Captain Thoms and Captain Faulconer had told me last year about the dangers of the Goodwin Sands. For a vessel of this size, the danger must be all the greater, for she needed deeper water than the pinnaces and even had they grounded they could probably have rowed away, provided they were quick about it. Or they could have lowered a skiff, so it could tow them off, always supposing it was daylight and the tide was not ebbing fast.

A vast ship like the
Victory
could take neither of these measures to extricate herself from the shoals, so I was relieved to see that our helmsman was steering a wide course over to towards the French coast. We were not far from Gravelines, where I had been caught up in the battle aboard the
Good Venture
last year. It was hard to imagine it now, the explosions and smoke, the glare of the burning fire ships, the screams of injured men, and the air choking with dust and the reek of gunpowder. Now there was nothing to be seen but our well-ordered fleet and a few fishing boats closer to land on the calm waters.

Dr Nuñez came to stand beside me, where I was leaning on the starboard rail, looking toward
Kent.

‘Will that be
Dover?’ he asked, pointing to where we could now make out the castle high on its promontory. I realised that, although his ships traded regularly throughout the known world, he had probably never travelled this way except on his original voyage to England.

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘That’s the castle up there, and, down below, the harbour I sailed from when I went to
Amsterdam. ‘They light a signal fire on the old Roman lighthouse after dark, as a guide to ships.’

‘We’ll see that, no doubt,’ he said. ‘We are to put in to the harbour for the night. Some of the ships are to embark a contingent of soldiers from the garrison.’

‘Are they?’ I wondered whether Andrew Joplyn would be amongst them. ‘Their commander will not be pleased. He does not care for anyone to interfere with his running of the Dover garrison.’

‘Ah, of course, you met him.’

‘Aye. A pompous, rude man. We should be thankful he is not part of this expedition.’

He laughed. ‘I think Sir John Norreys would soon lick him into shape.’

We stood in silence as the
Victory
furled some of her canvas and turned slowly to make her way into the harbour. Flights of gulls shrieked from the nearby cliffs, skimming over the sea around us and plucking fish effortlessly from the water. I could see untidy nests being built on the ledges of the cliff face, which was streaked with their droppings, a dirty cream against the gleaming white of the limestone.

‘The birds will be nesting in
Portugal too,’ Dr Nuñez said dreamily. ‘When I was a boy, we used to go to spend the hot weather in our summer home on a headland overlooking the sea, to escape the heat of Lisbon. It is one of my earliest memories, travelling there in a coach with my mother and brothers and sisters, with my father riding beside us. We used to listen for the cry of the gulls and try to be the first to catch sight of the sea. Later, when I was older, I rode with my father, so I always saw the sea first, having a better view.’

I thought,
This is why he is here. It has nothing to do with driving out the Spanish and putting Dom Antonio on the throne. He is in search of his lost childhood.

I turned away. Perhaps that was partly why I was here as well.

We spent the night at anchor in Dover harbour. The leaders of our party went ashore to attend a banquet given by the mayor and councillors of the town. Although Dr Nuñez tried to persuade me to accompany them, I had no wish for a long evening of eating and drinking too much and listening to too many worthy speeches. As dusk fell, after taking supper with the junior officers, I made my way to my corner behind the water barrel. No one paid any particular attention to me. I was no part of the working crew, nor was I one of the distinguished passengers, the leaders of the gentlemen adventurers. Grateful for the anonymity given me by my ambivalent position amongst the people aboard the
Victory
, I did my best to bed down on deck. Earlier I had managed to filch a couple of blankets from one of the hammocks below decks, but I could not pretend I was going to be comfortable. Sleeping on straw with the horses on the
Silver Swan
had been luxury compared with this. By the time we reached Portugal I should be black and blue all over.

It was well past dark when I heard the shore party returning, well wined and dined by the sound of them, Dom Antonio’s voice overriding them all, strident and assertive. I had had little chance to observe him so far, but what I had seen did not impress me with a sense of his royalty and dignity. He seemed inflated and boastful, full of pride at the moment, yet I sensed he would become querulous and ill-tempered if matters should fail to go his way.

My bed proved uncomfortable but private, as I managed to keep out of sight of the crew while they went about their duties. I felt secure, though I hoped the weather would remain fine. That first night I slept in fitful snatches. We remained at anchor in Dover harbour; the night was still and full of stars. Without even a thin palliasse or a layer of straw beneath me, every position I took hurt my shoulders, my hips or my back. Before dawn I was sitting propped up against the barrel, wondering how I could make my hidden bed more comfortable.

After we had broken our fast, we watched a troop of soldiers marched down from the castle to the harbour, then ferried out to two of the other galleons, not our own ship. I counted just twenty men. Either
Dover could spare no more or else Sir Anthony Torrington, the commander of the garrison, had beaten Sir John Norreys down to this paltry number. Apart from the experienced soldiers due to be sent over from the Low Countries to meet us in Plymouth, these were the only trained soldiers we would be carrying. I screwed up my eyes, trying to make out whether Andrew Joplyn was amongst them. If he was, I did not see him.

Once the soldiers from
Dover were aboard, we weighed anchor and with the rest of the fleet made our way out of the harbour and into the English Channel. In the early summer the Channel was calm, and we proceeded along the south coast of England with a moderate following wind. Before last year’s battle we would have feared attack from Spanish ships plying back and forth along these waters to the lands they occupied in the Low Countries, but the Spanish navy was still at home, licking its wounds. Not even the French were to be seen, apart from a few fishing boats, busy about their own affairs close to their own coast. We dropped anchor in Plymouth harbour three days after leaving Dover without any incident to trouble us. Here, as off Gravelines, it was hard to imagine the bloody conflict which had taken place over these waters so few months earlier, when ears were deafened with the thunder of artillery and nostrils choked with the bitter stench of gunpowder. If all went according to plan, we would experience our own share of naval artillery in Portugal, but the plan was for a quick campaign, catching the Spanish forces in Portugal unawares, with capitulation and peace negotiations to follow.

‘These houses must have witnessed the battle,’ I said to Dr Nuñez as we leaned on the rail, looked over at the peaceful activity in the harbour.

‘Perhaps, but probably not. They would have seen the fleet depart, but I think the fighting in this part of the Channel was further off. The people of Plymouth should be glad we are taking the fight across the seas,’ he said. ‘They came very near finding Spanish soldiers marching up their streets.’

‘I wonder how many of those Spanish soldiers found their way home again.’

‘Not many. All through the final months of last year despatches arrived from my agents handling the Spanish and Portuguese trade. Broken ships trailing in, manned by skeleton crews. Their losses were terrible.’

I did not answer, torn two ways. Part of me was fiercely glad that so many of the invaders had died, yet I could not forget what I had seen at Gravelines, men slaughtered on deck or drowning in the unforgiving sea.

The plan set forth in London before we departed was that we would remain in Plymouth no more than a week or so. We had brought some of the new ‘army’ with us from London; others had been gathered at Plymouth from all parts of the country, drawn by the prospects of looting which Dom Antonio had been forced to concede to the Queen in order to gain her support for the invasion. They were not to loot just in Spain, for – as I was to learn much later – once the soldiers had seized Lisbon, they were to be allowed to loot the city, as payment for their services. Thereafter the Dom had pledged such vast sums to Elizabeth that he would sit a beggar on his throne. Portugal was to become a province of England, her precious trade in the hands of English merchants, her castles manned by English garrisons. When I had heard this, I could not understand how the old men like Lopez and Nuñez and Dunstan Añez could consent to such terms. How could Portugal be free, loaded with such chains? But perhaps, like me, they were too entangled to escape the inexorable current of fate which was carrying us all onwards.

This ‘army’ which had been mustered was as vile, dirty, vicious, and ungovernable a rout of men as you have ever seen – beggars and thieves, wastrels and men fresh out of prison. When we reached
Plymouth, those recruits we had on board scrambled ashore (they had puked all the way down the Channel) and joined their fellows who had been gathering here on land. This landward group had already discovered the warehouses where the provisions for the voyage were stored. Now more than doubled in their numbers, this army of gallant men set to, besieged the warehouses and took them in a matter of hours.

Over the next days, while we awaited the arrival of a trained contingent of soldiers who were to join us from the
Low Countries, all the provisions – meat, drink, flour, salted fish, ship’s biscuit, dried fruit and vegetables – found their way down the gullets of these starving wretches. When they had devoured our substance, like a biblical plague of locusts, they descended upon the taverns and inns of Plymouth and the surrounding villages. Boasting that they were the Queen’s army and must be fed, they told the frightened innkeepers to send their bills to London, where they would be paid by the Privy Council or the Queen herself. When the inns ran out of food, they broke into houses and ransacked them. The terrified people of Plymouth cowered behind bolted doors and prayed for the arrival of the ships from the Netherlands, hoping to see the last of us. When a Flemish boat put into port, our gallant men stripped it of its entire cargo of dried herrings, after beating the crew half to death.