down to depths beyond measure, obliterating all.
CHAPTER 12
Later, they told me that I had been in a fever for three days. I have vague memories of my mouth and gullet being on fire, and my face and brow being mopped, and I remember opening my eyes to see Manteo, the savage, raising a cup to my lips, and warm goat's milk trickling down my throat.
On the morning of the fourth day I awoke in my hammock, weak as a girl, but knowing that whatever had ailed me, whether poison or fever, had passed from my system. Two sailors interrupted their backgammon to help me out of my hammock and lead me to the stairs, which I climbed slowly. On deck, the sails were billowing in a fresh wind, and although there were still clouds, they were high and light and the air was warm. The sea was calm. Mr Chandler, the man from Devon, gave me a friendly wave,
'There have been hangings. Two of them. Aye, we have had a busy time while you have been ill.'
'Hangings?'
'Two soldiers. They tried to start a mutiny, declaring that the ship was cursed and nobody would reach the New World alive. They at least will not.'
I went down to Mr Harriot's cabin. Fernandez and he were looking at a chart.
'Are you ready to resume your duties, Ogilvie?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. We have need of you this afternoon.'
As the day progressed it became clear that some extraordinary meeting was to take place. All the captains came on board the Tiger by longboats. Their faces were agitated, stern, hard. The kitchen had been warned, and the smell of roasting pig was drifting along the galleys, up and down ladders, and through all the hatches and berth-holds of the ship.
Five captains. Sir Richard Grenville of the Tiger, of course. George Raymond, captain of the Lyon, had come aboard first. Then John Clarke of the high-sterned Roebuck, a square-rigged flyboat of Dutch design. It was almost as grand as the Tiger, but I had heard Master Fernandez tell the Turk that he would not wish to sail it in a storm. Mr Clarke was small and round and had a mean mouth which put me in mind of my stepfather.
But then I was summoned to the kitchen and missed the arrival of both Arthur Barlowe, from the little bark Dorothy, and the red-faced Thomas Cavendish, captain of the Elizabeth.
Another six gentlemen shared the table with the captains: John White the artist, a quiet man; next to him was Philip Amadas, whose sudden tempers rivalled those of Sir Richard and made him a man to avoid. On Sir Richard's left was Mr Ralph Lane, the commander of the soldiers and as hard a man as I ever saw outside Drumelzier. I could hear his two huge mastiffs under the table, gnawing and cracking bones. On Sir Richard's right was Simon Fernandez, the Portuguese sailor and a man of huge arrogance: out of his hearing, the mariners called him 'the swine'. And then there was the man who was becoming my guide and teacher, Thomas Harriot, and next to him Marmaduke StClair.
My role in the meeting was modest enough, to keep the officers and the gentlemen supplied with wine and aqua vitae. It still gave me a thrill to be part of this inner counsel, even as a humble servant.
As to the purpose of the meeting, this became clear with Sir Richard's first words, when all were seated in the great cabin: 'First Holby, then the carpenter. Once is misfortune - maybe Holby fell overboard drunk. Twice is suspicious, even though I cannot understand how the barrels came to be on top of the carpenter. But three times? Three mysterious deaths? Mr Fludd's death by poisoning puts the matter beyond dispute. There is a murderer on board the Tiger. What do you say, Harriot? Is he a Jesuit or a witch?'
'Or both,' Raymond suggested, pointing at his goblet. I moved forward in haste to fill it, and then went slowly around the table with a flagon of the red wine, trying to appear as a servant should, invisible, and yet lingering to hear every word.
'I smell a Jesuit behind this,' Ralph Lane declared, without allowing Mr Harriot time to
CHAPTER 12
Later, they told me that I had been in a fever for three days. I have vague memories of my mouth and gullet being on fire, and my face and brow being mopped, and I remember opening my eyes to see Manteo, the savage, raising a cup to my lips, and warm goat's milk trickling down my throat.
On the morning of the fourth day I awoke in my hammock, weak as a girl, but knowing that whatever had ailed me, whether poison or fever, had passed from my system. Two sailors interrupted their backgammon to help me out of my hammock and lead me to the stairs, which I climbed slowly. On deck, the sails were billowing in a fresh wind, and although there were still clouds, they were high and light and the air was warm. The sea was calm. Mr Chandler, the man from Devon, gave me a friendly wave,
'There have been hangings. Two of them. Aye, we have had a busy time while you have been ill.'
'Hangings?'
'Two soldiers. They tried to start a mutiny, declaring that the ship was cursed and nobody would reach the New World alive. They at least will not.'
I went down to Mr Harriot's cabin. Fernandez and he were looking at a chart.
'Are you ready to resume your duties, Ogilvie?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. We have need of you this afternoon.'
As the day progressed it became clear that some extraordinary meeting was to take place. All the captains came on board the Tiger by longboats. Their faces were agitated, stern, hard. The kitchen had been warned, and the smell of roasting pig was drifting along the galleys, up and down ladders, and through all the hatches and berth-holds of the ship.
Five captains. Sir Richard Grenville of the Tiger, of course. George Raymond, captain of the Lyon, had come aboard first. Then John Clarke of the high-sterned Roebuck, a square-rigged flyboat of Dutch design. It was almost as grand as the Tiger, but I had heard Master Fernandez tell the Turk that he would not wish to sail it in a storm. Mr Clarke was small and round and had a mean mouth which put me in mind of my stepfather.
But then I was summoned to the kitchen and missed the arrival of both Arthur Barlowe, from the little bark Dorothy, and the red-faced Thomas Cavendish, captain of the Elizabeth.
Another six gentlemen shared the table with the captains: John White the artist, a quiet man; next to him was Philip Amadas, whose sudden tempers rivalled those of Sir Richard and made him a man to avoid. On Sir Richard's left was Mr Ralph Lane, the commander of the soldiers and as hard a man as I ever saw outside Drumelzier. I could hear his two huge mastiffs under the table, gnawing and cracking bones. On Sir Richard's right was Simon Fernandez, the Portuguese sailor and a man of huge arrogance: out of his hearing, the mariners called him 'the swine'. And then there was the man who was becoming my guide and teacher, Thomas Harriot, and next to him Marmaduke StClair.
My role in the meeting was modest enough, to keep the officers and the gentlemen supplied with wine and aqua vitae. It still gave me a thrill to be part of this inner counsel, even as a humble servant.
As to the purpose of the meeting, this became clear with Sir Richard's first words, when all were seated in the great cabin: 'First Holby, then the carpenter. Once is misfortune - maybe Holby fell overboard drunk. Twice is suspicious, even though I cannot understand how the barrels came to be on top of the carpenter. But three times? Three mysterious deaths? Mr Fludd's death by poisoning puts the matter beyond dispute. There is a murderer on board the Tiger. What do you say, Harriot? Is he a Jesuit or a witch?'
'Or both,' Raymond suggested, pointing at his goblet. I moved forward in haste to fill it, and then went slowly around the table with a flagon of the red wine, trying to appear as a servant should, invisible, and yet lingering to hear every word.
'I smell a Jesuit behind this,' Ralph Lane declared, without allowing Mr Harriot time to
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