The Quality of Mercy (51 page)

Thomas opened the door and poked around with the tip of his sword. A minute later he slammed the door shut and said, “As far as I could ascertain, there were three — all men. None are Miguel.”

“Thank God!” Dunstan said.

“Come.” Shakespeare prodded them along. “Captain Mundo’s absence is bound to be noticed soon.”

“Ye gods, it’s foul down here,” Dunstan said.

They continued down the passageway, opening holes and hatches, hoping to get lucky. Shakespeare was walking quickly and suddenly tripped. A body lay in the middle of the dimly lit passageway, alive and besotted. He moaned out an obscenity, rolled over and fell back asleep.

Another hatch. The unsuccessful effort was followed by a string of curses. They continued on, passed a group of sailors speaking Italian.

“Buona sera,”
one of them said.

Thomas returned the greeting. “This way,” he whispered.

On to the next hatch, this one storing leaky bags of mealy biscuit flour. Pyramid-shaped piles had spilled onto the floor, bugs wriggling in and out of the white powder like fleas in a sand dune. The smell of sweat thickened, the stale air hot and humid. Shakespeare could feel perspiration dripping from his forehead. Ten minutes later he heard shouting above — frantic shouting.

“They’re looking for Mundo,” Shakespeare said.

“Move,” Thomas said.

Two more hatches — nothing! Then Shakespeare saw a blue door! A red cross painted across the front panel — the first mate’s cabin. Thomas counted until he reached the fourth hole to the left, then tried to open the trapdoor. He yanked it several times before he realized it was padlocked.

“Damn!” he swore. He took out his dagger and began stabbing the planks of rotted wood. A few splintered strips were pried loose, but the hatch door remained fixed and impenetrable. Sweat soaked his brow and cheeks.

The commotion above the deck intensified as the search for Mundo heightened. Thank God, the news hadn’t hit the bottom deck yet, Thomas thought. So little time remained. He pulled out Mundo’s falchion from his hilt and began to slice at the door.

“Wait!” Dunstan said. “Stop!” He pulled out the pistol from his breeches. “Didn’t I tell you that this would be useful?”

“Stow the lectures, Dunstan,” Shakespeare said. “Shoot off the lock.”

“Pray God the noise attracts no undue attention,” Thomas said.

Shakespeare said, “Shoot it!”

Dunstan quickly stuffed the powder into the powder pan, squinted and aimed. Dear God, let the priming explode forward and not in his hands. He squeezed the cock and the pistol spat fire. Immediately Dunstan dropped the gun. God, it was hot! He flapped his burning palms in the air. Thomas threw open the door.

The young man was stuffed inside, bound and gagged, but his eyes were uncovered and wide with relief. On his lap sat two children — a toddler girl and a boy not more than eight — the little ones bound but only loosely gagged. At their side lay a young woman. Her mouth was open, her hair matted, her legs bent and contorted. Dead.

Thomas pulled the children and Miguel out of the hatch. Miguel’s clothes were torn, his beard and hair covered with lice and grease. Quickly, Thomas unknotted the binds, then drew Mundo’s falchion from his belt and handed it to Miguel. The two men embraced.

“You’re well?” Thomas asked. “Your arms are still strong.”

“Aye,” Miguel answered. “They’ve yet to torture me.”

Dunstan took the little girl into his arms and cooed reassuring words in her ear.

“Let’s go,” said Shakespeare.

“We must take the body,” Miguel said.

Dunstan said, “Impossible. We’ll be fortunate if we escape whole.”

“A quick prayer then,” Miguel insisted. “It’s their mother—”

“We can pray as we walk,
casually,
” Thomas said. “Dunstan, hide the girl as best you can. The boy is old enough to be a sea lad. He can walk in plain view.” He gave a final look to the beaten female body. “How’d she die?”

“The children, Tommy!” Dunstan said.

“They speak no English,” Miguel said. “She was raped to death.” He turned to the boy and said,
“Puedes caminar solo, Pedro?”

“Si,”
answered Pedro.

Miguel said,
“Estas seguro de ser fuerte lo suficiente?”

“Si.”

“Muy fuerte, eh?”
Dunstan said, tousling Pedro’s hair. The little boy looked up at him and smiled. Dunstan took his hand. The men began to stroll back to the
Bounty
.

Miguel said a quick Hebrew prayer as they walked toward the stairs. He heard the commotion above him and asked what it was all about.

“They’re searching for Captain Mundo,” said Thomas. He quickly explained what had happened, how they came aboard, how they killed Mundo. Miguel nodded, amazed at how clever they had been.

“What’s the little girl’s name?” Dunstan asked Miguel.

“Reina,” Miguel said. “Someone’s coming. They might see the girl. Over here!”

They ducked behind a whitewashed wooden trunk. A group of Italians gripping daggers ran down the passageway swearing revenge for their missing captain.

“Vengan!”
Miguel said.
“Yo pienso que—”
He looked at Shakespeare and switched his directions to English.

Dunstan said to Miguel, “He’s a friend of Becca’s—”

“I
know
who he is,” interrupted Miguel. “Becca and I have no secrets. This way, to the left. The steps are close at hand!”

They went thirty yards to the left. The hallway dead-ended to the door of the galley. Pungent odors and greasy steam oozed out the cracks around the door.

“Two days of darkness have muddled my sense of direction,” Miguel said. “Go back the way we came!”

“Let’s speed it up!” Dunstan said.

Miguel said to Shakespeare as they ran, “You and your aid are my welcome guests. I thank you for coming, whatever your reasons are.”

“A long tale,” Shakespeare answered. He took a deep breath, surprised by how quickly his nose had acclimated to the stench of piss and death.

“Aha!” Miguel said. “I know where I am now! This way.” He turned to Thomas and asked, “What’s our plan of escape?”

Thomas said, “We have a boat, and its kidnapped English captain as well. They are both in tow, tied to the forecastle. All we have to do is get to it.”

Dunstan said, “Marry, do you hear all that shouting?”

Reina buried her face in Dunstan’s shoulders. The little girl’s hair was dirty and sticky with sweat and dried blood, but the blond tresses still curled tightly. Dunstan kissed the crown of her head and hid her as best as he could under the crook of his arm.

Hundreds of men were emptying the cabins. With all the noise and motion, no one paid attention to the four disguised Englishmen.

Miguel asked, “Who did me in? De Andrada?”

“Yes,” Thomas answered. “How did you know?”

“The Spanish were expecting me,” Miguel said. “Tush, a welcoming party they gave me! The men were tortured in front of my eyes. Then came the rape of the children’s mother.”

Shakespeare asked, “Why were you spared?”

“The Inquisition desires the exclusive merriment of my torture. By law, the seamen must return me to the auspices of the Holy See — to reconcile me to the Church before I die. I’ve already been sentenced to burn.” Miguel smiled. “A hopeless case I am, being both a Jew and a bug — At last! Steps!”

They climbed the stairs. The action up one deck was frenzied. Men carrying torches, searching for Mundo, for clues that could lead to his whereabouts. In the distance Dunstan heard the word blood being screamed. He said in English,

“They’ve discovered the site where we killed him.”

“Walk with purpose,” Thomas said. “Act like we’re looking for the captain.”

They hadn’t gone more than five yards before they were halted by a thickly built man with heavy arms. His beard was black, his eyes pale blue. Miguel noticed powder stains on his fingertips. A gunner. Thinking quickly, Thomas and Shakespeare blocked Dunstan and the girl from the gunner’s view.

The Spaniard said to Miguel, “You look like shit.”

“I’ve been ill,” Miguel answered back in perfect Spanish. “My first day without fever. Have you found the captain yet?”

The gunner shook his head. “I’ve checked this area thoroughly. The captain’s not here. Go on the orlop and search down there.”

Without a pause, Miguel lied, “We just came from the bottom deck. They sent us up here.”

“Who did?”

“Diego,” Miguel said.

“Which Diego?” asked the sailor.

“The fat one,” Miguel said.

“Ah, Diego Cortez,” said the gunner. “He has pudding in his head. Go back downstairs and look over the area again.”

“Si.”
Miguel turned to the others. “Come.”

“God damn him!” Dunstan said as they descended the stairs.

“We’ll wait a moment here,” Miguel said. “Then we’ll return back to the middle deck.”

“God’s blood, it’s hot in this pisshole,” Dunstan said, shifting Reina’s weight under his cape.

“You carry a load,” Miguel said. “Give her to me.”

Dunstan started to hand her to Miguel, but the little girl clutched him. “It’s well to leave it as is,” Dunstan said.

They waited several minutes in silence. Thomas said, “Let’s try again.” Again they climbed the stairs. Greeting them at the top of the platform was the same gunner. Again he frowned.

“What are you
doing
here?”

This time Miguel and Shakespeare hid Dunstan.

Thomas said, “The fat one sent us back up!”

“The captain’s not here!” the gunner insisted.

“Tell Cortez that!” Thomas said. “He sends us up, you send us down—”

“Do I know you?” the gunner said, staring suspiciously at Thomas.

“Si!
Of course you know me! Tomas! We were seafaring mates on His Majesty’s Armada in August of ’eighty-eight.”

“The
San Martin
?” asked the gunner.

“Si,”
Thomas said. “Under Diego Flores de Valdes. Together we battled for His Majesty, the King, and the true religion.” Thomas squinted his eyes in insult. “You remember me not, eh?”

“Many men sailed on the noble flota,” the gunner said, reddening with embarrassment.

Thomas said, “Remember the explosion of the
San Salvador
? We witnessed it together. What did you say to me? Something about the Devil-worshiping Drake in our midst?”

“Si,”
said the gunner excitedly. “I said, ‘The enemy has penetrated our ranks and sabotaged our own boats.’”

“Si,”
said Thomas, “that was it. Curse it be to Drake!”

The gunner nodded solemnly. “Wait here,” he instructed. “I’ll go talk with Cortez.”

“Si,”
said Thomas.

As soon as the gunner was out of sight, Miguel said, “This way!”

With lightning speed they climbed six flights of stairs and reached the uppermost deck of the galleon. The wind was fierce, the tides rocky. Spray showered their faces, cooled off their burning skin. Hundreds of seamen were flitting about the ship, buzzing and running without purpose — like bees confused by smoke. Thomas stood on the stern of the deck, looking through the chaos. Opposite him was the highest elevation of the ship — the galleon’s forecastle peeking up through the swarm of panic-driven flesh. He said,

“Our boat is tied across the deck—”

“Listen!”
Dunstan said. “They’ve discovered
us
missing! They speak of the stranded Spanish mariners!”

They began to run through the crowds to the forecastle, drawing in lungfuls of air, pushing through hordes of warlusting men. The ship was mass confusion, total alarm. Groups of mariners finally noticed the Englishmen shoving and racing and began to yell to them, curse them. A fat Spanish sailor shouted halt, blocked Miguel’s way with his sword. Without pausing, Miguel drew his falchion, gripped the handle with both hands, and swung it across the mariner’s throat. Blood spurted and splattered onto Miguel’s jerkin. The sailor’s eyes froze in horror, remained that way even as his head dangled from his neck like a bud on a bent stalk.

From under Dunstan’s cloak Reina began to cry. A knife flew over Miguel’s head. Shakespeare drew his sword and slammed it against an airborne dagger headed for his heart. But God was with them and they managed to reach the forecastle. Thomas screamed, “Slide down the rope,” but it was too late. Someone had cut the tackle that held the
Bounty
to the galleon. Shakespeare saw the line drop into the water, saw the fishing boat drift away.

“Rebecca,” Shakespeare whispered.

Dunstan barked to Pedro to climb upon his back. Dunstan felt spindly arms wrap around his neck, thin legs encircle his waist. He was carrying both children, their lives in his hands. Heavy, heavy weight more precious by pound than gold.

Thomas swung blindly at the mob of mariners. “To the taffrail!” he shrieked. “The sea is our only refuge.”

A rapier pierced Thomas’s thigh and slashed downward, ripping through the muscle. Thomas swore, pivoted, and thrust his sword forward. The blade sank into a thick cushion of Spanish belly fat. Thomas yanked the sword out of the dead man’s stomach and pulled the embedded rapier out of his leg. He tried to run but stumbled to the ground.

“I can’t walk!” he shouted, tears running down his face.

Miguel looped his arm around Thomas’s waist and dragged him forward to the edge of the galleon. Threads of morning light were peeking over the horizon as a thin plate of gold began to spread over the ocean. But directly below the galleon was a boiling witches’ brew of inky black, waves crashing against the side of the big ship. Shakespeare gripped Miguel’s shoulder, wished him good fortune, then pushed him and Thomas overboard. He pulled Pedro off Dunstan’s back, gripping him tightly, and yelled at Dunstan to jump.

The winds howled as they plummeted downward, a volley of daggers whistling past their faces, descending upon them like locusts. One second, two seconds, three seconds… they plunged into a bath of ice, the vapor of life sucked out of their lungs as chilled ocean brine streamed into their mouths and noses. Midnight waters swirled about their bodies, towing them downward. Shakespeare clutched Pedro with one hand, flailed upward with the other. Thomas held back his cries of agony as salt invaded the open gash in his leg. He kicked furiously, out of rhythm, trying to surface, blowing bubbles out of his nose and mouth, his chest aching with the need for air. His hair danced about his face, thin strands as light as the web of a spider. His cheeks grew fat with air, his eyes burned from the sting of the ocean.