D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

I allowed myself to be led back to the cabin.

A while later I heard the bump of a boat against our hull and the sound of men scrambling up the boarding net. An English voice shouted a string of orders. Shortly afterwards the owner of that voice entered the cabin.

‘Charles Benson, Master of his majesty’s ship, Anne Gallant ,’ he announced.

I saw a tall, beardless, ruddy-faced officer with a friendly smile.

‘Thomas Treviot of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths,’ I replied.

He laughed. ‘Well, Master Treviot, you appear to have taken a Spanish prize. I’ll warrant that’s a first in the history of your guild.’Tis certainly a first in my naval experience.’

‘It all happened by accident,’I said.

He laughed again. ‘That is a story I cannot wait to hear. But they tell me you are badly wounded.’

‘Fatally, I suspect.’

‘We can’t let our heroes die that easy, Master Treviot. We’ve a barber surgeon aboard. Good man. He’s brought many “fatally” wounded sailors back to life. We’ll get you across to the Anne and let him have a look at you.’

He went off to give the necessary orders and, shortly afterwards, I was taken out on deck and laid on a plank. To this I was securely lashed. Then four sailors hoisted me up. The galleass had, by now, been grappled to our ship, so that my bearers were able to pass me across the short gap. Directed by the attentive Benson, the sailors were as gentle as they could be but the movements of the two ships in the water and against each other inevitably caused jarring. Every jolt was a fresh torment and each stung worse than the last. Before the manoeuvre was completed my world went black.

When I drifted into consciousness I was lying, stripped naked, on a table with a gaunt, bald man bending over me. He was working at my wound with various instruments and his probing sent spasms of pain through my body. I wanted to writhe and twist in response but could not move. At first I believed I was still strapped down. Then I realised I was being held by four muscular sailors. When I wanted to cry out I was thwarted by something pressing on my tongue. Only later did I realise that a cloth wedge had been securely fixed between my teeth. Never in my life have I felt more panic than at that moment. I was in pain, totally immobile, with a stranger doing things to my body that I could not see.

I know not how long I lay there. There must have been periods when I lapsed back into unconsciousness. Eventually, I was aware that the surgeon was no longer tending me, that my limbs were not restrained and that I could speak. Now a sheet covered my body. The surgeon was cleaning his implements.

‘How bad is it?’ I asked weakly.

He looked down at me, unsmiling, businesslike. ‘’Tis bad, but you might live. You will know in four or five days.’

‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked.

‘Gillingham Water.’ He closed his chest and set it on the floor. He removed his bloodstained apron and brushed himself down with his hands. He turned towards the door and it seemed that he was about to leave me ignorant of my immediate prospects. Then he seemed to think better of his reticence.

‘They’ll finish you off ashore, in the sailors’ hospital,’ he said. ‘I’ve cleaned the wound but not closed it.’Tis not the cutting of tissue that kills, but foreign matter lodged in the wound. I’ve poulticed you with turpentine and oil of roses bound with egg. That will protect the wound and give you some relief. The surgeon at Gillingham will re-examine the wound. Please God, it won’t be festering, in which case he will close it up.’

With the help of a sailor, I got back into my clothes. The small cabin where the ship’s doctor operated reeked of many unpleasant odours and I was glad to stagger on deck. Someone found me a chair and, seated in a corner out of the way of those working the ship, I was able to watch as the Anne Gallant crossed the estuary to the Kent shore, heading towards the dockyard.

After a while Charles Benson strode up. ‘How are you feeling now?’he asked.

‘Terrible. Unfortunately, your surgeon says there’s a risk that I might live.’

The ship’s master gave another of his ready laughs. ‘Billy Bonesaw ain’t the cheerfulest of souls but he’s one of the best barber surgeons in the navy. Now’ – he lounged against the rail – ‘tell me what you’ve been up to this last couple of days. I’ve gathered bits and pieces from some of the archbishop’s men but I’m sure you can give me a clearer picture.’

I described everything that had happened since we left Gravesend.

Benson listened intently. ‘That is the most amazing story I’ve ever heard,’ he declared, when I had finished.

‘What happens now?’I asked.

‘We’re taking the prize into Gillingham. She’s a trim craft. I reckon the navy will make good use of her. We’ll deliver you to the hospital.’

‘What about my guards?’

‘I guess they’ll report back to the archbishop. He and the politicians can take it from there. Saints be praised, that’s not my job.’

‘Nor mine,’ I said, and profoundly hoped that my involvement was, indeed, over.

Later that day, Saturday 30 October, we docked in Gillingham Water and I was conveyed ashore to the sailors’ hospital. For the first time in three days I was able to lie down in a bed. It was only a narrow truckle bed but to my exhausted body it felt luxurious. For twenty-four hours I drifted between sleep and waking. Billy Bonesaw’s ministrations eased the throbbing in my abdomen but the respite was of short duration. The next day the chief naval surgeon decided that the wound could be closed. That meant more probing, a final cleaning with vinegar and then the application of needle and silk thread. There being nothing more the medical men could do for me, they were eager to send me home. I despatched a message to Hemmings and on Wednesday Walt brought my coach to Gillingham. He had removed the seats and arranged a mattress on the floor so that I might be as comfortable as possible for the short journey. By evening I was in my own bed and actually beginning to believe that I might recover.

Everyone wanted to welcome me back and hear an account of my ‘adventure’ but Ned placed himself in charge of the patient and ensured my rest was not disturbed. I felt as weak as a newborn baby and the soreness in my belly abated almost imperceptibly slowly. Ned brought me regular nourishing broths but, apart from his visits, I spent most of the next couple of days in a state between waking and sleeping.

Sometime late on Friday morning I was dragged from slumber by lashing rain rattling the casement. At least that was my first impression. Suddenly I realised the window was open. Worse than that, a figure was climbing in. The man’s jerkin was wet from the rain and his riding boots were thickly caked in mud. He jumped with a feline movement and landed softly. He walked to the foot of the bed. As his face came into the light I gasped in alarm. Black Harry!

I tried to cry out but words would not come.

I felt his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He turned on me that appalling smile that revealed arrogance, contempt and cruelty. ‘Master Treviot, I’ll wager you thought never to see me again. Yet here we are having our final meeting.’

‘So I’m to be added to your long list of cowardly murders.’

‘Cowardly?’

‘Aye, you specialise in women and children. Now you add a sick man to your score.’

‘I don’t choose the people who stand in my path, who try to obstruct my mission.’

‘Oh, let us have no rich-embroidered nonsense about “missions” and “sacred causes”. You’re a blood-soaked ribald, who kills for the love of it. If you really think you are serving some higher cause, you deceive no one but yourself.’