Treachery. S. J. Parris
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order in plain sight of all my crew, and with good justification, whatever gossip you may have heard at court.’ He juts his chin out, as if challenging us to argue. Sidney shrinks back slightly into his chair.
‘But that is not the beginning of the story,’ Drake continues, his voice softer. ‘Early in our voyage, not far from the Cape Verde islands, we captured a small ship, the Santa Maria. She was on her way to the Americas, so there was nothing of great value in the hold, but she was worth the trouble for the provisions she carried and for the use of an extra vessel. I packed her crew into the longboats and set them adrift to shore – despite the reputation Spain wants to give me, I prefer to get where I’m going without bloodshed, if I can. But there was an unfortunate incident during the capture.’ He pauses and rubs the back of his neck, as if it discomforts him to recall. ‘On board the Santa Maria was a young priest travelling out to the colonies, a Jesuit. He barricaded himself into one of the private cabins when we boarded, even though the captain had surrendered almost immediately. Thomas Doughty and his brother John broke the door down. The young priest was backed into a corner, they said, holding a dagger in one hand, and with the other clasping to his chest a wooden casket. Naturally they assumed its contents must be of value – they asked him repeatedly to give it up to them, but the priest refused. When Doughty took a step towards him, the priest ran at the brothers with his weapon, calling down all manner of curses upon them. It was an act of reckless desperation – both the Doughtys were armed with swords and when the priest lunged with his little dagger, Thomas Doughty ran him through. When the Jesuit realised he was fatally wounded, he tried to throw the casket out of the window, but John Doughty managed to stop him. You may imagine their disappointment when they discovered that the casket contained only this old manuscript, in a language neither of them could read.’
He pauses, and motions to his brother to bring him a glass of wine. Thomas Drake pours from a jug on a small table by the door and offers it to us; Sidney accepts, though I shake my head, wanting Drake to continue his story. Already my mind is racing ahead, my eyes still fixed on the manuscript under Drake’s hands; if a priest was willing to sacrifice himself to save those pages, or even throw them into the sea to keep them from being found, they must possess their own kind of value. One perhaps only another scholar can assess.
‘Since none of us could read it, the manuscript was consigned to the hold of the Santa Maria,’ Drake says, after a long drink, ‘and placed in a locked chest to be inventoried with the rest of the spoils. The incident with the priest was regrettable, and did not sit well with the crew, for all their dislike of the Spanish. Thomas Doughty was not popular among the men – he was high-handed and did not believe a gentleman should shoulder his share of the manual work. We had barely left Plymouth before word had reached me that Doughty was criticising my command in front of the men, and I was obliged to reprimand him, which created open resentment between us. The crew began to mutter that the murder of a priest would bring curses on our voyage – some said the priest had invoked the Devil with his dying breath.
‘The Santa Maria was rechristened the Mary, in honour of my first wife, and I gave Thomas Doughty command of her, thinking this responsibility might persuade the men of my confidence in him, and quiet his rebellious mutterings against me. This was a grave error on my part, as I soon came to realise. I had instructed my brother to bring me the manuscript, together with some other items of value from the hold, for I did not altogether trust Doughty.’
‘He caught me taking them and accused me of stealing,’ Thomas Drake cuts in. ‘He and Sir Francis had a great row about it, with Doughty accusing me and my brother of helping ourselves to plunder which rightly belonged to all the men who had helped take the Santa Maria. While they were shouting, one of the crew whispered to me that they had seen Doughty coming up from the hold more than once, but no one had dared challenge him. Sure enough, we found a few rings and coins from the Santa Maria in his cabin. He claimed the prisoners had given them to him as gifts, but no one believed him, save his brother and a few malcontents they had won over to their side.’ He clenches his teeth; clearly the memory of the Doughty brothers still stirs his blood.
‘I deprived Doughty of the Mary’s command and moved him to another ship,’ Drake says, taking up the story again. ‘There he and his brother began to stir up a mutiny against me in earnest. Thomas Doughty spread the story that I had commanded him to kill the priest so that I could steal the Devil’s book. John Doughty told the men that he and his brother were versed in witchcraft, and when it pleased them, could conjure up the Devil to make a storm that would destroy my flagship and every man who defied them. According to others, Thomas Doughty promised them substantial rewards when we arrived back in England if they would side with him to mutiny and make him commander of the expedition. He boasted to some that before he was done he would make half the company cut one another’s throats.’ He folds his fingers together and presses them against his lips. ‘Tell me, was I supposed to tolerate such an open threat to my authority?’
He looks from Sidney to me with questioning brows; I suppose it is a rhetorical question, but we shake our heads vigorously nonetheless.
‘No indeed. I had him bound to the mainmast, to show him I was serious. When he was freed, I sent him to one of the store ships where I thought he could do no harm. We sailed sixty days south-west across the Atlantic without seeing land, and all the while I knew Doughty’s brother and his supporters were still murmuring against me for my treatment of him. The discipline of the voyage was in jeopardy. So when we reached Port San Julian, I empanelled a jury to try him for treason. You know the rest.’ He takes a sip of wine and looks away, as if he does not want to recount the end of the story.
Silence settles on the room, as Drake and his brother privately revisit their own memories of those events. I watch the Captain-General; he speaks as if he regrets the business with Thomas Doughty, but that unflinching ruthlessness is visible just below the surface. Drake is not a man you want to fall out with, I think, not for the first time.
‘And what of the manuscript?’ I prompt, nodding to it. Drake turns to me and blinks, as if working out where to pick up the thread of his story.
‘The manuscript,’ he says, considering. ‘Well. I kept with us the navigator from the Santa Maria, a Spaniard named Jonas. He had sailed to the coast of Brazil before and I thought his knowledge might be useful. He spoke English well and he agreed to act as translator. It was from him that I learned a little about the young priest Doughty had killed. His name was Father Bartolomeo and he was a Spaniard, but had joined the Jesuit College in Rome and from there found a position in the Vatican library. He had boarded the Santa Maria at the very last minute, arriving the day before they set sail and begging passage to the Indies, claiming he needed urgent conduit to the head of the Jesuits in Brazil. The only baggage he carried was that wooden chest that he never let out of his sight. Father Bartolomeo was some distant relative of the captain, so he was found a berth as a favour. Jonas said he had kept to himself, refusing to leave his cabin, but that from the little he saw of him, he thought the Jesuit acted like a man in fear for his life. He was edgy, always looking over his shoulder, even once they had cast off. The crew had started to wonder if he had stolen whatever was in that chest and was running away to escape justice. When the cry came that the Santa Maria was under attack from my ship, Jonas said the priest locked himself in his cabin, but everyone on board could hear him crying out to Jesus, Mary and all the saints to forgive him for bringing the wrath of God on the voyage.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ Sidney asks.
Drake shrugs. ‘If he’d lived, he might have been able to explain. Or at least tell us something about this book. But the Doughty brothers made sure he took his explanations with him to his Maker.’
‘May I see the book?’ I ask softly, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. Drake hesitates.
‘I am no scholar, gentlemen, as I have told you. But even I know that a man does not throw away his life lightly over a book. I kept it under lock and key in my cabin for the rest of the journey, but with Doughty’s trial and everything that came after, the book was almost forgotten.’
I am still holding my hand out for it, nodding encouragement, as you might coax a child to part with a favourite