Fool's Errand

by David Wesley Hill

Present Day

December 18, 1586

The Barbican, Plymouth

Just after midnight, the knocker summoned Peregrine James to the door of the Jack and Rasher. Revealed through the peephole, holding a lantern to demonstrate his honesty, stood a man whose grizzled features proved he was a sailor. This was no surprise to James since the inn was in the Barbican, the neighborhood beside Plymouth’s harbor, and most of his patrons were mariners.

“God’s blood,” swore the visitor after James hoisted the bar. “Perry, it is good to see you!”

James stepped back. “Have we met?” he asked, studying the face but not recognizing to whom it belonged for reason of the scars and wrinkles creasing the weathered visage.

“You do not know me? Well, Perry, remember this trick.”

Seating himself, the sailor tugged off his boots and nether-stocks. He angled up a leg and used his toes to remove a pipe and tobacco from his vest pocket.

“Could you spare a spark of fire?” he asked, gripping the pipe with his left foot while filling the bowl from the pouch with the other.

James had known only one person so dexterous in all his life. 

“Peter Carder!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were dead.”

Eight years earlier, while the Golden Hinde rode off the Pacific mouth of Magellan’s Straits, Carder had been a lean man. Now he was nothing but catgut and bone. “Aye, Perry,” he whispered. “I was the lucky one. The others were not so fortunate.”

“Six good men! God have pity!”

“Amen,” agreed Carder. “I will tell you the story—but first a bite of supper. I have been on the road from London and did not eat. Do you know—I spoke with the queen!”

“The queen!” James said, dipping a blackjack of ale for Carder and then poking the hearth to life. Some beef and onions remained from supper and he put the pan on to warm.

“Aye, the queen,” Carder repeated. “Upon my return to England, she called me to Whitehall and we spoke an hour. What is more, Perry, Her Grace bestowed on me twenty-two angels! Imagine! Elizabeth touched mine own hands with gold.”

Then a less pleasant expression replaced Carder’s smile. “Thank God for the charity of monarchs,” he said. “I would die a pauper if it were up to our general.”

“You saw Drake?”

“Aye. He was in London on important business and could spare me only fifteen minutes of his precious time. Nor would he pay out the full share I was due for my employment, but only part of the total, calculated to the point when our pinnace lost the Hinde. ‘Damn my eyes, Peter,’” Carder said, quoting the words in a voice pitched to match Drake’s, “‘I love you like the son I lack but on my life I cannot fathom why I should reward you for your holiday in Brazil!’”

James was not amused but he had to laugh. “The general was always one to pinch a penny until blood flowed from the coin,” he said.

“Aye, I have half a mind to hire a lawyer and sue the bastard.”

Setting the beef and bread before Carder, James shook his head. “That would not be wise,” he warned. “John Doughty brought charges against Drake for his brother’s murder. Do you know where John has been the past four years?”

“I have not heard but I can guess.”

“Marshalsea Prison,” James said. “He is not expected to be released any time soon. Coincidence? No one thinks so.”

“Nor do I—this smells delicious, Perry!”

Carder fell on the stew until not a scrap was left. “That was tasty, lad,” he said. “We were indeed blessed when you took command of the Hinde’s mess, lubber though you were. Although I see you are once more a landsman.”

“Three years on the brine were enough for me,” James said. “Have you heard what happened to Tom Moone?”

“No.”

“He and George Fortescue sailed with Drake for the Main last April. Fortescue died of the bloody flux. Captain Tom was ambushed during the sack of Cartagena. It required seven musket balls to kill the great brute, that is how the story goes.”

“Aye, the man was a bull.”

“What of Artyur?” James asked. “Pascoe? How did they die?”

“Bravely.”

Eight Years Earlier

October 8, 1578

The Straits of Magellan

Two ships survived of the fleet of five that had set out from England together. The Mary and the Benedict broke apart in Patagonia. The Marigold sank in the Southern Ocean. Only the Golden Hinde and the Elizabeth floated but now the Elizabeth was missing. She had separated from the Hinde during the night. The horizon was empty of sail.

“Damn John Winter!” Francis Drake whispered to Parson Fletcher, referring to the captain of the missing vessel. “The coward has retreated with the Elizabeth. We will not see Winter again until we dock in London.”

Drake and Fletcher were standing at the mizzen. Each had a hand upon the mast for support against the chop. 

“Do not rush to judgment, general,” cautioned Fletcher. After months of storm his face was as gaunt as Drake’s and his black canvas coat was bleached by salt a leprous white. “Captain Winter is as loyal as any gentleman here.”

“That is no recommendation, sir,” Drake answered, directing his gaze along the Hinde toward the bow. A dozen sick men lay upon the forecastle. The working sailors were hardly less haggard. On the halfdeck, sallow and dyspeptic, the gentlemen drank Canary in morose silence. “No, Parson,” Drake continued, “I am certain Captain Winter has abandoned our adventure. By Christ’s globes, I should have taken his head when I had the chance, as I did Tom Doughty’s.”

Doffing his hat, the parson smoothed down the few remaining hairs as he gathered resolve to speak. “Captain Doughty was a good Christian,” he said. “You executed an innocent man.”

“Doughty was convicted of treason by a jury of his peers.”

“By a jury you suborned, General.”

The weather had not been kind to Drake since his fair complexion was not suited to so fierce a climate. Gripping Fletcher’s collar, Drake pulled the parson close and pressed his bloody lips to the cleric’s ear. “Take care not to speak such slander again, sir,” he said. “Our gracious sovereign charged me to succeed at any cost and I will not let her down. Nor will I abide turncoats and cowards.”

Drake thrust Fletcher a step back. Raising his voice, he called:

“Blacollers!”

“Aye, captain,” answered the boatswain.

“We take the Hinde north to seek the Elizabeth. The pinnace is to remain here and stand watch at the mouth of the Straits in case Captain Winter returns while the Hinde is absent.”

“Aye, sir. Who goes into the pinnace?” Blacollers asked. 

“Let me think,” Drake said.

He studied the sailors in the waist and the adventurers on the halfdeck. No one enjoyed his appraisal, particularly the gentlemen. No one could forget the judgment Drake had rendered upon Thomas Doughty for the crime of treason on the Island of Blood. Nor did any wish to be left behind in an open boat on an uncharted coast where no English bottom had sailed before.

Drake spoke first to John Cottle. “You are a friend of Captain Winter,” Drake observed in so flat a tone that it was clear this was not a favorable distinction.

The gentleman blanched but did not deny the charge. “John Winter is an honest and faithful comrade,” Cottle said. “I am honored to consider him a friend—no, I consider him a close friend.”

“A close friend!” Drake said. “By God, I like that. Well, Mr. Cottle, seeing as how you are Captain Winter’s close friend, you have my leave to seek him out. You, too, Will Burnish—and you, Mr. Pitcher,” Drake went on, addressing other gentlemen known to be intimates of John Winter. Then Drake addressed a carpenter named Joyner, who stood beside the main mast in an effort to avoid notice. “Tell me, Rich,” Drake sighed, “have you soiled yourself again?”

“I am not sure, sir,” Joyner admitted. He dabbed at the mess on his jerkin until Drake held up a hand and said:

“Stop. Take your hammer and saw into the pinnace, Richard. Temperance will do you good—and you, too, Mr. Carder,” Drake said, singling out a sailor as well known for truculence as Joyner was for dissolution.

Then Drake’s gaze settled on Pascoe Goddy, a mariner in his fifties with gray hair that fell to his shoulders and hid the stump of his left ear, which had been cut off by a Spanish lieutenant at Veracruz.

“You have command of the pinnace, Pascoe,” Drake instructed the sailor. “Keep a league off the mouth of the passage. Light a beacon at dark on the point. Need I say more? An old sea dog like you knows the routine, eh?”

Goddy was tying a length of cord into the shape of a dolphin. He put down the knot and laid his marlinspike on his lap before replying. “One question, general,” he said.

“Yes?”

“If we must be dispatched on a fool’s errand, sir, at least allow us a modicum of sack for comfort. On such a misguided voyage, drunkenness would be a blessing.”

For a decade Goddy had served under Drake and fought beside him. The old sailor relied on this history with his master as a license to speak frankly. Usually Drake forgave Goddy’s impudence but now his eyes widened until white ringed their bright blue pupils.

“Enough!” he said. “How will I answer the queen when her grace asks what became of the Elizabeth? Should I say we just went merrily on our way? I would not care to offer such a bad reply! No, our duty is to discover the ship and our missing comrades. Follow me, Pascoe? Conduct a sober vigil and keep watch for strange sail. There may be Spanish in the vicinity.”

“Aye, sir,” Goddy said, plainly suspicious of both the mission’s necessity and of the benefit of abstinence, but he argued no further.

“Pack your bags and arm yourselves, mates,” he growled to the five other men assigned to the pinnace. “We six lucky bastards are off on an adventure.”

Three Weeks Later

November 2, 1578

Penguin Island, Inside the Straits

The seven men in the small open boat waited a fortnight at the mouth of the Straits but saw nothing of the Elizabeth nor of the Hinde. They took in water from a spring at the throat of the bay but fishing was bad and the place was barren of game except for mussels and crabs. Soon they were starving and knew they must depart but the group could not agree on a direction to take. Eventually they rowed for Penguin Island, which lay in the center of the Straits, planning to refresh themselves there before making a decision.

It was a rough haul and the weather beat down from the mountains into the boat, roaring from the ravines into the channel, wetting every one to the marrow. Artyur, the Hollander, was worst off since he was no true sailor and had been assigned to the pinnace at the last moment to be its cook. He was also its trumpeter but soon he could not blow the horn. Puffing asthmatically at the instrument, he said:

“Nee, nee. Useless it is, kapitein. I have not wind.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” said Rich Joyner, whose disposition had been ruined by sobriety.

“Damn the general,” swore Will Pitcher as spray whipped over the gunwale. Pitcher now regarded every adversity as an affront delivered personally by Francis Drake.

“Shut your holes and save your strength,” growled Pascoe Goddy. “With luck we should reach the island by afternoon.”

It was nearer nightfall, however, when they dragged the pinnace up the beach. After instructing Artyur to ready the mess, Goddy told the rest to take their oars, which made fine cudgels, and follow his lead. The men trailed him over the crest of the bank and came upon the birds, who were congregating in scruffy nests scraped in the dirt, goggling stupidly with red-ringed eyes. The penguins had not learned to fear humans and in minutes the castaways killed a dozen. Artyur boiled some and roasted others. Seasoned by hunger, no supper had ever tasted better, which somewhat eased the men’s disdain for the Hollander.

“Not bad, Artyur,” said Will Pitcher. “The meal is almost to the standard set by your former master, Perry James.”

“Thank Jesus for that!” agreed Bill Burnish, who worked for the same London merchant as Pitcher. “Imagine, mates,” Burnish went on, “imagine if the scurfy foreigner were as equally skilled in cookery as he is in the musical arts.”

Everyone pondered this nightmare situation and for a moment their predicament felt less terrible because of the simple fact that it could be far worse. Eventually Pascoe Goddy said:

“Right, then, mates. Our bellies are full and we can think clearly now. What is to be our heading?”

“Peru,” insisted John Cottle, convinced his opinion was infallible not only because he was a gentleman but because he had attended Oxford. “The fate of Captain Winter and the Elizabeth is a mystery,” Cottle explained, “but we may be sure the Golden Hinde is proceeding toward Lima. We could catch up with Drake if we work our oars. It is well known by nautical scholars that a galley, propelled by men, will outrun a ship with sails, which is subject to the vagaries of nature.”

“Do you have shite between your ears instead of brains?” asked Burnish with an incredulous expression. “For one thing we are all weak and could never catch the Hinde no matter how hard we hauled. More important, Mr. Cottle, you have forgotten there is a reason we are cast away. Must I remind you many here were not our General’s friends. You, Pitcher, and I were close to John Winter and to Tom Doughty—too close. Even worse for you, sir, is the fact you are an arrogant bastard. I do not know Pascoe’s crime but I suspect the old dog yapped too loudly once too often. We all know why Artyur is here. As for Joyner—well, Richard is just an arsehole.”

“I loved General Drake,” the carpenter protested.

“So who damned him in earshot of everyone?” Burnish asked. “Your villainous twin?”

As a man of business, Burnish owned a temperament accustomed to calculating profit and loss. “Even if we could expect Drake’s welcome, the journey is perilous,” he went on. “We lack a compass or a chart and the route is infested by Spanish dogs and cannibals. No, gentlemen, we must return to Brazil. The Atlantic coast is frequented by Portuguese. With God’s blessing we will be able to seize a vessel. There is also the chance we might meet the Elizabeth. She will need to take on water before the Atlantic crossing and we will find her at the mouth of the Silver River, the Río de la Plata.”

Some of the group agreed with Burnish but others did not and the argument went back and forth across the fire as the cawing of the penguins dwindled into a few fitful complaints. Finally Pascoe Goddy got to his feet. Reaching under his bandolier of pistols, he brought out a penny and said:

“Seeing as opinion is on an even keel, with neither larboard nor starboard having precedence, we must—as Parson Fletcher would say—surrender the matter to Jesus. Heads, we make for the Atlantic. Tails, we strike for Peru. God have mercy on all castaways!”

He flipped up the copper coin. At the peak of its ascent the penny seemed to linger without falling, causing the breath to catch in the throat of every man. Then it slapped upon Goddy’s palm.

“Heads it is,” he said.

Present Day

December 18, 1586

The Jack and Rasher

“I swear we came back for you,” Peregrine James told Peter Carder. “The Hinde spent a week beating up and down the coast. We even went into the Straits before bad weather forced our retreat.”

“Drake vowed the same in London. The question is, Perry, who watched for us?”

“The lad with the sharpest vision—John.”

“Aye, exactly. John. John Drake. Our general’s cousin.”

“I understand what you are saying but you are wrong. I can see Drake wanting to rid himself of Burnish and Pitcher—and Cottle, too, since they were irritating fellows and did not know who was master or whom to serve. But why cast you away? Or Pascoe?”

“Myself?” Carder said. “Well, I will be first to admit I do not make an easy servant. Nor would Goddy have been the only one of our general’s friends to be sacrificed when there was need, as you well know, Perry. Who was abandoned to servitude among the Moors? And left behind on the island of Brava? Not I.”

“That was long ago,” James mused. “Now I seldom think of our adventure and when I do, it is like remembering the deeds of another man. Do you know, Peter, people call it the famous voyage? The famous voyage of circumnavigation.”

“Aye, I have heard,” Carder said. “Francis Drake is the champion of England for surviving where Magellan died, encompassing the world and returning with treasure. The thing is, Perry, no one counts the men he lost. They are nothing to history. They are nothing to their country. They are nothing to their family. Even their wives forget them. Mine did—no, do not blame her,” Carder said before James could express sympathy. “All of us in the pinnace were presumed dead. Besides, the old woman married again soon after the Hinde returned, which makes me a lucky man, by God! I do not have to share my gold angels with her.”

James refilled their blackjacks while thinking of their lost ship mates.

Pascoe had been from Salt Ashe, a village north of Plymouth on the River Tamar, and when James had been newly aboard the Hinde, a true lubber, Goddy had taught him the ways of the sea.

Rich Joyner, on the other hand, was a braggart and lout.

As for Artyur, well—the Hollander had tried his best to serve James but never quite succeeded since he could not keep his mind on the job. Artyur just did not have a knack for the mess. In his heart he had not loved cookery.

Artyur had dreamed of music.

Eight Years Earlier

December 4, 1578

Río de la Plata

The men in the pinnace were seven skulls atop seven skeletons when they reached the Río de la Plata, a vast estuary, where they hoped to sight the Elizabeth or take prize a passing sail. At the end of their strength they landed on an island three leagues from the lip of the bay. The lee shore, a series of ledges, was full of seals and the castaways fell upon the animals like rabid dogs.

For a week they recuperated. Rich Joyner careened the pinnace and made repairs with his saw and hammer but there was not much he could do without nails and hardware. Artyur butchered a dozen animals and smoked the flesh.

“We will cross the bay and pitch camp on the north shore,” said Goddy while rubbing the stump of his left ear, which was visible now that his hair had fallen out. “The cape will provide a vantage ground from which to spy Portugal traffic. With a bit of fortune we will find a vessel to take.”

“How will we perform that magic trick?” asked Bill Burnish, lifting his eyebrows in disbelief. “We are all as weak as infants and can scarcely pull the oars, much less overhaul a sailing ship. We lack arms except for a musket and some pistols. We lack powder and shot except for—what? Two dozen rounds? No, Goddy, let us remain here and lick our wounds. I am not partial to seal but I will dine on the damned beasts forever if I must.”

“I rather like the taste,” admitted Rich Joyner. “It reminds me of ripe poultry. Artyur does a damn fine job boiling the meat.”

“Danke je, Rich,” said the Hollander, looking up from the cook pot and smiling weakly.

John Cottle, too, agreed with Burnish. “I second your petition,” he said to the merchant with an air that suggested his verdict settled the matter.

Most of the party nodded their heads but Goddy did not disguise his contempt for the answer.

“This island is dry, Mr. Cottle,” he said. “There is no water and our barrel is half empty. Soon we will be slitting our wrists to wet our mouths. We must leave or we will die. Only a fool would think otherwise.”

“Have concern how you address me,” Cottle warned, as easily aggrieved as any gentleman and made even more thin-skinned by hardship. He reached for his sword but Goddy had two pistols aimed before Cottle could touch the cutlass

“God’s blood,” Goddy swore. “I well understand our general’s desire to rid himself of such cargo! You all would have been naught but trouble on the Hinde. The devil himself could not have spawned a more obnoxious nursery.”

“What of yourself? Drake cast you away, too.”

Goddy shook his head. “Our general desired your absence, not your death, Mr. Cottle. He included me in this bad company out of Christian kindness since he knew you would all perish in the wilderness on your own. Do you not see it—Drake loved you despite your faults.”

One Week Later

December 11, 1578

Río de la Plata, The North Shore

It required five hours to row the three leagues from the dry island to the shore of the Río de la Plata. After they dragged the pinnace above the tide line, Goddy instructed Artyur and Pitcher to stand guard over the boat and led the others up the bluff behind the beach. The climb winded them. As they rested at the top, Goddy scanned the bay for sail. 

“Aye,” he said, “this is a good place to wait. Do you see? An approaching ship must take in canvas to round the point, giving us opportunity to board her as she slows. Mr. Cottle, you have the musket and the first watch. Shout out halow! if you spy approaching vessels. The rest of you scurfy whoresons, after me. We will scout the land. God willing, we will discover a stream.”

The terrain was a patchwork of scrub and palm. Goddy cleared the worst of the tangle from their path with his cutlass but soon all of them were scratched and sweating from every pore. Then they emerged onto a plain with a narrow river running through it.

“Thank you, Jesus,” said Rich Joyner. The carpenter broke ranks and ran toward the stream.

This made him first to die.

An arrow hissed from the greenery cloaking the watercourse and pierced his throat. As Joyner fell, a dozen shafts curved into the sky and warriors emerged from the vegetation. These men were naked except for patterns drawn on their skin in charcoal and red clay. Wailing and chanting, shaking their bows and waving wood clubs, they raced onto the field.

Goddy cocked his pistols, aimed, and growled, “Die screaming, heathen scum.”

His first shot caught its target in the belly and sent the man’s guts abroad. The second missed. Without time to reload, Goddy hefted his cutlass and prepared to stand his ground.

“To the boat,” he ordered the others, knocking an arrow from the air with the flat of his blade. “I will delay the bastards.”

Bill Burnish sprinted away but the merchant died with a shaft through the lungs before he covered ten steps. Peter Carder remained with Goddy and they pressed their shoulders together and cut at their enemies whenever one dared approach. Lacking shields and armor, the natives retreated and threatened the Englishmen from a distance.

“Scuttle like a crab,” Goddy said. “Run when we reach the woods!”

“Aye, Pascoe,” agreed Carder and they edged toward the trees, making short feints to force their foe to give them room. Then Goddy went to his knees. From his right thigh sprouted a reed tufted with red plumage.

“Go, mate!” he said. “I am done.”

“No. I cannot leave.”

“Do not die on my behalf, Mr. Carder. On my mark—flee!”

Taking up his last pistol, which had been holstered in the small of his back, Goddy limped forward. “God save the Queen and bugger you all in hell,” he swore, discharging the gun into the face of one man while slicing at another with his cutlass. The rest fell on Goddy with knives and sticks but Carder did not see the sailor go down since he was already scrambling for his life. A dozen men followed at his heels but they were unable to close with him. Then Carder burst out of the brush and emerged on the overlook of the Río de la Plata.

John Cottle was waiting with the musket.

“Duck!” ordered the gentleman. Carder dropped.

The musket discharged with a bloom of black smoke. Small shot tore holes in five men. Ignoring their wounded, the rest came forward while Carder and Cottle threw themselves over the bluff amid showers of grit and shingle.

“Ready the boat,” Carder yelled to Artyur and Will Pitcher but they did not understand what he was saying and did not move until arrows began dropping around them. Even working together, the two men were so weakened by hardship that they had barely pushed the pinnace a yard when Cottle and Carder grabbed hold of the gunwales and helped drag the keel into the water.

“I am hit, meneer,” Artyur groaned.

“I, too, damn it,” swore John Cottle, looking at the shaft protruding from his ribs.

“Can you fight?” Peter Carder asked.

“Yes, sir. For a breath or so,” Cottle answered, red spittle beginning to foam in the corners of his lips.

“Then you must tarry here awhile longer, mate.”

“I will!” the gentleman said, drawing his cutlass “At least my death will be better than Tom Doughty’s! My sword is in my hand and I am not on my knees before a despot.”

Present Day

December 18, 1586

The Jack and Rasher

“We returned to the dry island but Artyur did not live through the passage,” said Peter Carder as the windows of the inn lit with dawn. “We buried him with his trumpet.”

“Aye, he loved the thing,” James agreed, remembering how the Hollander would climb into the rigging of the Hinde so that his practice would not be a nuisance to the ship. “What of Pitcher?”

“Will did not long endure,” Carder answered. “Goddy was correct, do you see? We had meat in plenty but there was no liquid. For a fortnight we drank our urine but then the piss turned bloody and we had to leave since we were mad with thirst. When we reached the main and found fresh water, I warned Will against drinking too quickly but he would not listen and sucked in great gulps until his belly bloated. Soon he began shaking. He drowned on dry land.”

“So you were alone then,” James said. “The last of seven.”

“Aye, lad. Unfortunately I was not to enjoy my solitude for long since I was soon discovered by other natives—but that is a tale for later. I cannot keep my eyes open. I am not the man I once was.”

“Who is? Come, I will show you to your bed.”

Carder picked up his boots and followed James upstairs barefoot. Then he drew his host close and said, “I calculated the precise measure of my exile, Perry. Nine years and fourteen days. That is how long I was away from England.”

“It is a miracle you returned.”

“Many would agree. I am not so sure. I cannot understand why I lived and why my mates did not.”

“Sleep. Try not to remember,” James told the old sailor.

Then James went to the common room, poured himself several fingers of aqua vitae, and struggled to follow his own advice but he could not. Carder’s appearance had summoned neglected memories to mind and James was no longer able to forget the role he had played in the tragedy eight years earlier. His thoughts drifted back to that dreary October morning in 1578 while the Golden Hinde rode the western mouth of the Straits of Magellan.

How could I have been so blind? James asked himself. Was I just young and foolish? Or did I willfully ignore Drake’s ruthlessness and cruelty even after he beheaded Thomas Doughty on the Island of Blood?

Closing his eyes, James saw Artyur, his gangling assistant. The Hollander's fingers were twitching like spiders.

Rest, my friend, James whispered to the ghost. Forgive me.

Eight Years Earlier

October 8, 1578

The Straits of Magellan

A stiff breeze was blowing from the south toward the Golden Hinde and the pinnace was knocking against the hull of the larger vessel. Francis Drake stared down at the men assembled in the open boat and counted seven occupants instead of the six he had ordered to remain at the mouth of Magellan’s Straits to wait for the Elizabeth. His gaze settled on Peregrine James, who was huddled over a larboard oar in an attempt to be inconspicuous.

“God's blood!” Drake swore. “What are you doing in the pinnace, Mr. James? I do not recall assigning you to that seat.”

“Aye, sir,” came the answer. “Your memory is perfect, sir. You did not assign me to my seat. However, general, you did not command me not to accompany the adventure. I have friends aboard the Elizabeth, sir. We all do. I hoped to add my efforts to the rescue of our companions. I did not think I would be missed.”

The explanation failed to persuade Drake. “Jesus condemn all cooks to hell,” he groaned. “Even a good one is an abomination worse than a lawyer.”

“Then you would be well rid of me, captain,” James replied, hoping a smile would dissuade his master from confining him to the brig, exiling him on an abandoned island, or taking his head, all real dangers. To James’s relief, Drake finally exhaled and asked:

“What of the Hinde? Were we to be served like dogs and fed slop in your absence? This is mutinous conduct, lad. Some would say it verges on treason.”

“Absolutely not, sir,” James replied with such bravado as he could work up. “I was confident I was leaving the mess in good hands, sir. We are only to be away a week. For so brief a time my assistant, Artyur, would be sufficient. I have trained him well, general. Your stomach would be in no discomfort.”

This answer, too, failed to impress Drake. 

Just then a horrible peal cut the air like a knife slicing through suet. Every eye turned up to the crosstrees at the top of the mainmast. The sails were tied tight to their spars so the figure profiled against the sky with a trumpet to his lips was clearly visible through the furled sheets.

“Besides, sir,” James continued, hoping to distract Drake from the grating notes, supposedly musical, that followed the first, “there is no cook aboard the pinnace. Who would man the mess? Joyner? Pascoe? Mr. Cottle? Honestly, the adventure would perish of flux before sighting the Elizabeth.”

“Enough, Mr. James,” Drake replied curtly. “You have convinced me.”

“I have, sir? Really? Then I may join the search?” James asked.

“No, that I do not condone,” Drake answered.

He caught the boatswain’s eye and and jerked his head upward. The officer blew his whistle forcefully enough to pierce the voice of the trumpet.

“Artyur! Artyur!” Blacollers roared through cupped hands. “Haul your arse to the waist, you misbegotten angel. We have need of your presence.”

Three minutes later, breathless with haste, Artyur arrived on deck to stand before Drake. The young Hollander usually had the fidgets and under duress he could not refrain from cracking his knuckles.

“Aye, kapitein, I am hier, ja,” he stuttered.

Drake stroked his beard while he studied the nervous man. “I have heard good report of you, Artyur,” Drake said. “Your master, Mr. James, vouches for your ability.”

This unexpected news apparently stunned Artyur because several seconds passed until he had the wit to answer.

“Danke je, Kapitein Drake,” he said. “I try, ja, elke dag—every day. I work hard at the cookery. The porridge, it is not burnt. It is not lumpy. The men, they say, ‘Artyur, you make damned good gruel for a scurfy foreigner.’ Ja, that is what they say, kapitein. No lie.”

“My very point,” Drake agreed. “This is why, Artyur, your services are needed elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere, kapitein?” Artyur asked.

“Aye, you understand we are leaving the pinnace behind to wait for the Elizabeth? Mr. James reminded me the expedition must have a cook. He volunteered for the job but I cannot give him leave from the Hinde. He did, however, convince me that you would be the right man to go in his stead. Fetch your bag and knife, Artyur. Pack your pots and pans. Make haste! The pinnace waits and you are joining its crew.”

This praise overwhelmed Artyur and he thanked Drake in a hodgepodge of Dutch and English no one could understand.

Then Artyur embraced Peregrine James.

“Meester,” he said. “I … doe mijn best … try goet, ja. Like you teach me, the cookery. I will be a, a … debit to you!”

“I think you mean you will be a credit,” James said.

“That, too, ja,” Artyur agreed happily and started to go below to get his belongings but he was stopped by Francis Drake before descending halfway.

“One more thing,” Drake said.

“Aye, kapitein?” Artyur asked.

“Be certain to take your trumpet with you.”

Author’s Note

The adventures of Peter Carder as illustrated here just preface the sailor’s real story. All in all, as Carder noted, he spent nine years and fourteen days away from England, enduring captivity and enslavement by the natives, who practiced cannibalism, and by the Portuguese. Back in England, Carder spoke with Queen Elizabeth privately for hours and accepted 22 angels in gold, a royal sum, from her hand. Apparently she asked many questions about Drake’s execution of Thomas Doughty on the Island of Blood. Years later Carder told his story to Samuel Purchas, a historian, who published it in Hakluytus Posthumus or Purchas his Pilgrimes in 1625. Of the people named in this text, only one is entirely fictional, the cook Peregrine James. The others, both the crew of the doomed pinnace and the sailors and gentlemen aboard the Hinde, lived and bled four centuries ago, although the author alone is responsible for his interpretation of their characters and of actual events.

About the author

David Wesley Hill is an award-winning fiction writer with more than thirty stories published in the U.S. and internationally. In 1997 he was presented with the Golden Bridge award at the International Conference on Science Fiction in Beijing, and in 1999 he placed second in the Writers of the Future contest. In 2011 Mr. Hill was invited to his third residency at the Blue Mountain Center, a writers' and artists' retreat in the Adirondacks. Mr. Hill studied under Joseph Heller and Jack Cady and received a Masters degree in creative writing from the City University of New York. His well-received historical novel, At Drake's Command: The Adventures of Peregrine James During the Second Circumnavigation of the World, is currently available on Amazon.

About the artwork

The illustration is Golden Hind by George Robinson, watercolor on card, ca. 1880. In the collection of the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London, United Kingdom. In the public domain.