Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

‘So are many other passengers, and those two men are concealed in the press.’

‘We know that they are German. That gives us a start.’

‘Perhaps, and perhaps not, Anne. You heard them speak in German, but that may not be their native tongue. It might simply have been used as a common language between men of different nationalities. We have Dutch, Danish, and Polish merchants aboard. I have also heard French spoken here.’

‘There must be some way to find them.’

‘There is, Anne. We wait until they come to us.’

‘If only I had seen their faces!’

‘You saw and heard enough.’ Nicholas glanced around. ‘But it is time to go below deck before the storm breaks.’

‘What storm? I see no signs of it.’

‘It is coming, believe me. Let us gather up the others.’

His prediction was remarkably accurate. The blue sky ahead was only a distraction from the dark clouds that crept up behind them. Westfield’s Men were heedless victims of the sea’s swift treachery. The wind stiffened, the waves became hostile, and the first drops of rain were carried on the air. A yell from the boatswain brought the crew running to get their orders. The Peppercorn was in for a buffeting.

Firethorn soon discovered that he did not have Viking blood in his veins and he abandoned his station in the prow as the first torrent of water washed over it. Elias and Ingram had their conversation terminated and Hoode’s authorial musings were also interrupted. Gill’s pomander was knocked out of his hand and the music lesson became impossible as the ship began to heave with more purpose. Nicholas tried to gather his fellows together to assist them below.

George Dart suffered the full impact of the sudden change in the weather. Scurrying to join the others, he tripped over a rope and fell headlong onto the deck. As he dragged himself painfully up, he was knocked off his feet again by a stray wooden bucket that slid across the wet timbers. When he finally got upright, the ship listed so sharply that he was flung against the bulwark and drenched by the biggest wave yet. With a mind full of terror and a mouth full of sea water, he crawled after his colleagues on all fours.

Nicholas assembled the company below deck so that he could both protect them and offer some assurance. Three years at sea with Drake on the circumnavigation of the globe had taken him through all kinds of tempests and he still had nightmares about the remorseless battering which the Golden Hind received on its way through the Straits of Magellan. To anyone who had endured such extremities of weather, the squall was no more than a trifling inconvenience, but Nicholas could see that it seemed like a typhoon to the others.

‘We will all drown!’ wailed Gill, green as his doublet.

‘There is no chance of that,’ said Nicholas calmly. ‘The vessel is sound and the crew able.’

‘No ship can stay afloat for long in a storm like this.’

‘It can, Master Gill. Put your trust in the Peppercorn .’

‘We are trying, Nick,’ said a pallid Firethorn, ‘but it is difficult to trust any craft which tosses us about so. We are like so many dice shaken in the pot before being thrown out on the table. Must we submit to this torture?’

‘Try to forget the storm,’ said Nicholas.

‘Forget it! Can a man who is being hanged forget the rope? You are our sailor. Help us. Tell us what to do.’

‘First, you must hold fast to known facts.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Peppercorn has sailed to and from the Netherlands many times. Take comfort from that. It has survived far worse squalls than this without loss of life or damage to the hull. I have spoken with some of the crew. We could not be in a more secure craft.’

‘Secure!’ gasped Firethorn.

‘We are like corks in a waterfall,’ said Elias, as he lurched a few feet to starboard. ‘This storm hurls us where it wishes. Is there nothing we can do, Nick?’

‘Stay below and sit it out.’

‘Teach us how to escape from this ordeal.’

‘Fill your mind with other thoughts, Owen.’

‘I am more worried about emptying my belly,’ groaned the Welshman, both hands on his stomach. ‘I feel as if I am about to spew up a barrel of ale that I never had the pleasure of drinking. If this be voyaging, I’d as lief stay in London and take my chances against the plague.’

‘What did you do in bad weather, Nick?’ asked Anne.

‘Do you really wish to know?’

‘Yes!’ chorused five sufferers.

‘It may not work for you but it saved me.’

‘Tell us your secret,’ she said.

‘I sang.’

‘You what?’

‘I opened my lungs and I sang,’ he admitted. ‘Most men cursed at a hurricane, as if foul words could keep it at bay. But I sang to keep my mind occupied.’

‘They must have thought you were mad!’ observed Gill.

‘Nobody hears you in a howling gale.’

Firethorn was incredulous. ‘You sang? In a condition such as we poor wretches are in, you had breath enough to sing? ’

‘I found that it helped.’

‘I can barely speak,’ croaked Hoode. ‘This storm has robbed us of our voices. Which of us could even sing one line of a song?’

‘I could,’ said Adrian Smallwood bravely.

The whole company turned towards him. Feeling as queasy as any of them, Smallwood made a determined effort to overcome his seasickness and sang in a ringing baritone voice.

‘Now is the month of Maying,

When merry lads are playing.

Fa la la.’

He looked around his fellows and tried to shake them out of their self-pity. Even though the vessel began to rock more violently, Smallwood persevered as a choirmaster.

‘Come on!’ he exhorted. ‘Sing away this storm. We would never have beaten the Armada with sailors such as you. Show your spirit. Sing in defiance. Who’ll join me?’

‘I, for one,’ volunteered Nicholas.

‘And me,’ said Elias. ‘You will never find a Welshman shirking a chance to sing. Lead on, Adrian. We follow.’

Smallwood sang out with even more gusto this time.

‘Now is the month of Maying,

When merry lads are playing.

Fa la la.

Fa la la.

Each with his bonny lass,

Upon the greeny grass,

Fa la la.

Fa la la.’

Nicholas lent his support and the rich deep voice of Elias blended with those of his companions. Firethorn was the next to take up the song, then Ingram, then Richard Honeydew. Anne soon joined them, and others were caught up in the melody. Even the bilious Gill joined in while Hoode-unwilling to open his mouth again lest more than words gush out-tapped his foot in time to the rhythm of the piece.

Huddled below deck, the other passengers watched with blank amazement at the incongruous recital. Foreigners amongst them decided it was yet further evidence of the madness of the English and they responded with scorn, sympathy, or amusement. Led by Adrian Smallwood, the choir surged on regardless.

‘The Spring, clad all in gladness,

Doth laugh at Winter’s sadness.

Fa la la.

Fa la la.

And to the Bagpipes’ sound,

The Nymphs tread out their ground.

Fa la la.

Fa la la.

Fie then, why sit we musing,

Youth’s sweet delight refusing?’

And so it went on. A ragged band of players, frightened by the storm, shaken until they were about to vomit, wondering if they would ever see dry land again, slowly blended together in harmony to work their way through song after song. Adversity united them, and the man who had revived their spirits was Adrian Smallwood. It was very gratifying to Nicholas because he had recommended the actor for inclusion in the touring company.