Chapter 2 - Doughty

‘Disturb us, Lord, when we are too well pleased with ourselves, when our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little.’

Francis Drake

 

Personal Journal of Captain General F. Drake �" Pelican expedition

 

29 January 1578 �" Cape Verde Isles

 

It has been suggested by Croft that I keep a written testimony of this journey for my own records. For some reason he seems to think it might be a good idea to have what is apparently called a ‘log’ of the expeditions events. If you ask me, it seems like a fancy name for a diary, which in my experience is something that only schoolgirls and devious b******s keep. Nevertheless I suppose I should introduce myself �" I am Francis Drake, Captain of the Pelican. I am 37 years old.

 

‘…Is that it? Is that all you’ve got to say, you boring sod?’ Croft, lurking over Drake’s shoulder, interrupted him mid-scribble. They were in Drake’s cramped cabin in the small forecastle of the Pelican. Drake did not much appreciate the criticism; it was hard enough trying to get everything down straight without having to worry about making it interesting. He was more at home holding a sword and he attacked the parchment with the quill in much the same manner as he might attack an insolent Spaniard, ink splattering his shirt. Why should he care if it was boring if it was only for his own records? But Croft was insistent:

‘Come on, engage the reader. Tell a story. Introduce your characters, flesh them out.’

‘What are you talking about? Facts and figures, that’s what this thing needs…what? Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Think about your audience.’

‘And just who the hell is my audience? This is an official document isn’t it? That’s what you said I should write it for. ‘Just in case’, you said.’

‘Might be of interest to others, too. You never know.’ Said Croft, the world’s first celebrity autobiography agent.

‘What? Like who? The men? What would they care? Can’t even bloody read anyway, most of them.’

‘Oh come on, Sir. That’s not…ok, well it is fair I suppose, but they have been looking at some fairly challenging portraits recently at least.’

‘I bet… Fine, fine, pass me the bloody rum, would you…’

 

Croft is an irritating sod who has, by hook or by crook, inveigled himself into my company. He’s a wiry old goat who some of the fresh-faced crew insist on referring to as ‘First Mate.’ He is, of course, nothing of the sort and should remember his bloody place in the scheme of things. First Mate is a damn stupid title and makes the whole bloody business of sailing sound like a children’s game. On my ships there’s me, and then everyone else. That’s as much hierarchy as I go in for. Croft is an odd one for the common back-alley brawler he is. He has some peculiar notions about the value of the written word, but he should concentrate more on what he is good at �" which is fighting and just occasionally saving his captains life.

 

‘Oh well, thank you very much. I guess.’

‘Shut up, will you? I’m trying to ‘develop character’ as you would say.’ Drake said. His fingers were beginning to ache with the unfamiliar activity.

 

 

Sundry other sailors of assorted ability and intelligence make up my ramshackle fleet. A disappointingly small percentage of them have a missing limb…I never did understand that whole hook business, surely a fork of some kind would be more useful…

 

…’Sir, do try and stay on topic. You might find these little digressions amusing, but they don’t really add anything, do they?’

‘Shut up, Croft.’

 

… Lumbered with the usual aristocratic misfits and imbeciles that are apparently automatically better captains due to their ‘superior breeding’ whatever that means…

 

…Drake shielded his scrawl from Croft and shooed him to the other side of the cabin…

 

…Whereas in reality the Doughty’s and Wynter’s of this world can read as many fancy books as they like, they’ll never have the skills of someone like Croft.

 

‘Plot, Sir. Don’t forget to actually tell the reader what we’re doing here.’

‘Hush, you.’ Drake said, opting for a variation on the familiar ‘Shut up, Croft.’

 

These islands have consistently disappointed me. Unhelpful locals, angry looking volcanoes, no plunder. Beaten to it by blasted pirates already. Dishonourable bunch.

 

‘Hopeless, completely hopeless, Sir.’

 

1 February 1578 �" Cape Verde Isles

 

Finally, this voyage is proving worthwhile. Caught up to the Santa Maria, a heavily loaded merchant ship captained by a cheery Portuguese fellow named Nuno da Silva. Chap soon saw which way the wind was blowing, as it were, and after sharing a bottle of wine, he was quite keen to go into business. He seemed interested in the prospect of gold, but also the idea of killing Spaniards, of whom he did not seem too fond. Good man. Most of all he liked the idea of ruining the owner of the Santa Maria, to whom he owed a considerable sum. A plumper and more gregarious carouser I have rarely met.

 

‘Bastardo espanhol!’ Yes, I’ll drink to that. What is this ‘carouser?’ I like this word. And also this ‘gregarious’.’

‘He’s been experimenting with adjectives.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It’s getting rather crowded in here, will you two bloody well get out.’ Drake stared at the two men, who were too drunk to pay him any heed. ‘And don’t think I didn’t notice that nonsense when we first boarded, Croft. Swinging across the rigging with a cutlass in your teeth! Prat. You’ll do yourself a mischief acting like that. If you wanted your tongue cut out I’d be more than happy to do it for you.’

‘Sorry Sir, think I might have been a little bit drunk.’

Drake frowned in his general direction and tried to pick up the thread…

 

In other words, he’s a fat drunk. But he’s my kind of fat drunk. Rest of the crew of the Santa Maria - now renamed the Mary - have been placed in one of the skiffs and are headed towards the nearest isle.

 

‘Good riddance, as you say. Wait, you called me fat?’

 

3 February 1578 �" Atlantic Ocean

 

After much complaint and whining from my ‘gentleman’ captain Thomas Doughty, have given him command of the Mary.

 

27 February 1578 �" Atlantic Ocean

 

Dysentery thins the crew.

 

1 April 1578 �" Atlantic Ocean, somewhere off the coast of Brazil

 

Doughty has made a claim that crewmen, including my own brother, have stolen wine and goods from the hold of the Mary. Suspect he himself is guilty. Have moved him to captaincy of the Swan, away from bounty. Should have remembered not to bring any more ruddy brothers on expeditions after what happened the last time.

 

17 May 1578 �" Rio Deseado, Patagonia

 

Disease further thinning crew. Sick quarters slippery underfoot.

Due to reduction in crew, Swan is now unmanageable. Have stripped and scuttled. Suffice to say Doughty is aggrieved, as he now has no command. Croft unwell.

 

3 June 1578 - Rio Deseado, Patagonia

 

Christopher scuttled for parts and lack of crew. Emissaries of the local native tribes appeared onshore, fearful and armed with bow and arrows.  They are wary of attack from another tribe. Requested assistance, which we are obviously unable to supply (they are poor folk with little to give us).

 

15 June 1578 �" San Juan, Patagonia

 

With the remaining four ships, the Pelican, Elizabeth, Marigold and Mary, we have anchored at the bay of San Julian. Here at the arse-end of the world, the tip of Patagonia, as the Southern Winter closes in. That pompous Portuguese tit Magellan was here fifty years ago, hanging a few men to kill time and resting up to ready himself for the run through the straits he would later name after himself. The arrogant s**t.

 

‘Better, Sir. A bit of historical colour, I like that. Maybe you could describe the surroundings, the weather or some such? Give the reader an idea about what it looks like, what the conditions are.’

 

There’s lots of rocks and it’s bloody miserable.

 

‘How about that? Happy now?’ Drake grinned at Croft.

‘Not especially.’

‘You know, I’m soooo glad you’re feeling better, Croft.’

 

The men are grumbling at their lot, thanks to disease and the ever complaining Doughty and his damn purse of influence. I have explained the basic arithmetic that because of the bout of dysentery that has thinned the crew their share of the plunder had increased, but they have no head for business. It wouldn’t make them that much richer mind; this isn’t a socialist enterprise, for heavens sake.

 

The officers remain generally useless; can’t trim a sail or fire a musket for love nor money.

 

‘Not that they’ll be getting a great deal of either from you, Sir.’

‘A ha. Ha, si, yes.’ Nuno sniggered.

‘You know I’m really beginning to regret this ‘open door’ policy you two seem to think I’ve adopted in this cabin. Much more of this and I suspect you might begin to regret it too.’

‘Ooooh, hark at him, Nuno.’

‘Eh?’

But Drake stared hard at Croft who immediately looked at his shoes and muttered a brief ‘Sorry, Sir’ under his breath. He suddenly felt very sober indeed. Drake turned back to his quill, staring at the unfamiliar object in his hand as though he feared an angry goose might at that moment barge through his all-too-open door and demand its return. Angry Goose, Croft would say, is what is technically known as a tautology. At which point Drake would more than likely tell him that he didn’t much care what it was technically known as, any angry geese had better set about being a taut-sausagey somewhere else very quickly or else it would be technically dinner.

 

Of greatest annoyance is the fawning crewmen Doughty has attracted to his cause. They actually listen to this idiot when he gripes about heavy-handed treatment of insubordinates.

 

17 June 1578 �" San Julian, Patagonia

 

Thomas Doughty, that prattling buffoon, is demanding that I give him a post befitting his status as a gentleman.

Have issued order, reads:

‘Take 12 men and the landing craft and scout out the beach. Need suitable location to set up a land base and fresh water. You can claim it in the name of the Queen if it makes you feel better, just make sure you bring the flag back.’

Gods I need to take that sneering sod down a peg or two.

Bugger off then, and don’t come back until you’ve found some fresh water, or until the natives bring your head back on a spike.

 

*

 

Doughty gave the laziest and most petulant salute, if a salute can be petulant, as I watched the landing party head ashore from the bridge. Doughty stood at the prow, knee thrust forward, looking for all the world like a conquering hero at the head of the worlds smallest and most incompetent navy. The skiff lurched and I could see gunners Oliver and Winterhey jump out to pull her ashore. Doughty almost pitched face forward into the surf. Crossed my fingers, but he grasped the gunwale and saved his dignity.

‘Well, let’s see what he finds out there.’ Nuno said at my shoulder.

‘Snakes. I’m guessing snakes. Snakes and disease and locals with big bloody spears. Well, I’m hoping’

 

…’Dialogue! Is that dialogue? Sir, I’d almost say you’re beginning to enjoy yourself!’…

 

Watched just long enough for Doughty to notice Magellan’s gibbets and the bleached bones of his insubordinate crewmen. I imagine this didn’t do a great deal to improve his disposition and I hope the relevance was not lost. Hopefully the not so subtle hint will refresh his memory as to who is in charge

 

*

 

24 June 1578 �" San Julian, Patagonia

 

Sat at my desk which I have had moved from the Pelican to the beach so I can role up my trouser legs and dangle my feet in the froth of the incoming tide. I like to feel the sea, even when on dry land; cooled feet are essential to temper my irritation while I write this. I am currently drafting two documents, and though I am severely vexed, I admit to a perverse pleasure in the task. The first letter, addressed to Doughty’s brother John, tells of his bravery, fighting the native barbarians off, saving the lives of the rest of the crew. The second tells of his treason and desertion. I don’t know which one I will get to use yet, or which I’d prefer. As long as he’s dead, I don’t really care. I watched from the bow of the Pelican as the expedition disappeared into the forest. No sign of them since. No blood, no tracks, no scraps of clothing, nothing. That was a week ago. I am writing while Croft is not here to complain. Apparently I have become ‘overly verbose’, whatever that means…

 

…Doughty thinks he should really be commanding one of the ships. He thinks I’m a common, vulgar fool and will eventually be the death of him. He might be right about that.

 

Some of the more devout god botherers among the crew have asked to bury the bones of Magellan’s mutineers. Gave them short shrift. They need to be reminded of the perils of mutiny.

 

The disappearance of the scouting expedition is causing much chatter from the crew. Have had about enough of the continued whining.

 

*

 

31 June 1578 �" San Julian, Patagonia

                       

Scout groups have located the bodies of two of Doughty’s expedition, Winterhey and Oliver. I would struggle to say they were good men that shall be missed, but I am sure no one will ask me to. No obvious sign of death, ship’s physician is most confounded. But then the ship’s physician puts a great deal of faith in the restorative powers of prayer. He doesn’t fill me with confidence. Bodies have been buried at the request of the crew, though I had favoured burning in case of disease.

Note: For next voyage, find new physician.

It occurs to me that we have not yet seen any natives.

 

2 August 1578 �" San Julian, Patagonia

 

Ships now fully repaired and stocked. Will make the journey through the Straits of Portuguese Egotism in 2 weeks.

 

4 August 1578 �" San Juan, Patagonia

 

Graves of Winterhey and Oliver disturbed during the night and bodies absent. Suspect wild animals. Men jittery. I did say we should have burned them!

 

*

10 August 1578 �" San Julian, Patagonia

 

Hells. Hells and Buggery. Most worrying and rather bloody terrifying events. We’ve come under attack. Now it’s no secret I’m normally a big fan of blood, guts, gunpowder smoke and the chance to shoot someone in the face at really close range, but it is a little disconcerting when they refuse to die.

 

Had spent the night ashore with a small expeditionary force of about 20 and was woken early this morning by our sentry. Doughty had finally showed up! That absolute prick. He disappears for nearly a month then turns up unannounced and wakes me up at god knows what hour. I had in mind to punch him in the face really, really hard and then maybe call him something mean. But I immediately saw there was something different about him. Sure, there was the fact he was no longer wearing the expensive breeches he had set out in. Yes, he wasn’t sporting the ridiculous ruff he insisted on wearing even thousands of miles away from the Queen’s bloody court. Ok, he was completely naked except for a small piece of animal fur covering his unmentionables. But I think the thing that really gave it away were his eyes. He didn’t have any.

 

Where his eyes should be were black, empty holes. His skin was dark with blood, sweat and mud, and his mouth hung wide open, emitting strange  grunting noises. I did not like the previous incarnation of Doughty, granted, but I can’t say I found this new one to be much of an improvement. Understandably a little dumfounded, I ordered the men to bind him. Only now does it occur to me, just how did Doughty find his way to us without that most basic of navigational tools, his eyes? No sooner did the men approach him, than Doughty raised his arms in the air and screamed something in some foreign lingo - his tone of voice still managed to get my back up though. I deemed, reasonably enough, that this action constituted an attack on his commanding officer and conduct unbecoming.

‘Shoot him’

‘What sir?’

‘Shoot him!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes!’

Gods, I have been blessed with an incredibly dim-witted crew this voyage, it is all I can do to remind them to chew their food thoroughly. Surprise surprise, no one, not even the sentry, had a loaded musket. It was a little academic by this time however, as the natives we’d been wondering about suddenly melted out of the dark of the jungle onto the shoreline. It was hard to estimate quite how many there might, but it was possibly 200, maybe 300. Amongst them I noticed the paler skinned bodies of our lost crewmen. A queer kind of mutiny this, I thought. However, they were clearly unarmed, easily my favourite kind of mutineers.

‘Load muskets, you slow b******s. And somebody please shoot that bloody screaming dickhead.’

I gathered the men in line with the skiff to our back (there is no shame in securing your escape route) and waited for the natives to do something interesting. Instead they just waited. This gave the men the willies even more than an actual attack. As it was, the men quite fancied their chances against a horde of natives with no weapons led by an aristocratic simpleton with no eyes, but this behaviour was not in keeping with what they had expected.

Finally, bored of the inaction (oh I do hate being made to wait for the opportunity to kill someone I really dislike), I took a musket from one of the men and put a musket ball plum in Doughty’s belly. I was hoping for a scream of anguish, I would have preferred a ‘Drake, you b*****d! Arghhh, blood-curdling scream’. What I didn’t want was silence. It wasn’t even a nonchalant reaction to being gut-shot. There was no reaction whatsoever. To say I found this odd was an understatement.

 

When Doughty did respond, it was with a barely perceptible gesture of the arm and his ramshackle army of natives and deserters pressed forward at a walk.

 

Now, after what the men had just seen, they were already questioning the effectiveness of their muskets. I have to admit to a little concern on my own part and a sudden favouring for sabre over shot. Of greater concern was what Croft had just spotted. He has admirably keen eyesight for such an old goat.

 

…‘Hey, I’m only five years older than you, Sir.’

‘Oh I’m sorry, did I hurt your feelings?’…

 

‘Winterhey and Oliver, sir.’

‘Are dead, yes. You will be too if you don’t pay attention.’

‘No sir, Winterhey and Oliver, in the lines up ahead.’

‘Eh?’

He wasn’t lying. And he stated it all rather calmly I thought, all things considered. Maybe people today are more desensitised to that kind of thing but it certainly gave me the heebie-jeebies. As they came closer, I noticed their eyes were completely black. Not gone, like Doughty’s, but pitch black, not a trace of white.

‘Oh bugger. Buggering Bugger.’ One of my men muttered. They can really be most eloquent when the mood takes them.

‘A volley please gentleman.’

Nerves may have made me unleash the volley too soon, but more than 10 of the horde were hit. They should have gone down but didn’t. Suddenly, I did not like the odds. Being outnumbered heavily by unarmed assailants is fair enough and I don’t mind killing them in their droves if they are stupid enough to attack, but when they refuse to die it becomes slightly more troublesome.

‘Back, slowly backwards you arseholes. Croft, if you would be so kind as to pull the skiff off the beach. I think it’s a good time to head back, yes?’

It was at this moment that Doughty decided to charge.

 

*

I won’t deny that I took a great deal of pleasure from thrusting my sabre into Doughty’s face. In fact, I thrust with such enthusiasm the sabre passed through where his right eye should be and into the boards of the skiff, pinning him to the hull and seeping his blood into the Atlantic. I was glad to finally be given the excuse to do it. Doughty had pounded through the surf and pulled himself up over the gunwale of the skiff, even as the men tried to smash him with their oars. Behind him, a goodly portion of the native horde had waded into the sea after us, and kept wading, even as we headed out to deeper waters. But swimming seemed beyond them (stupid foreigners) and the tide slowly bore them back to shore. I admired the show of perseverance Doughty was giving, so pulled him on board by his hair. After the b*****d had tried to bite me �" bite me! -  I decided enough was enough, tripped him to the deck and stabbed him in the face. Disconcertingly, the legs and arms were still moving, not the first time I’d seen a dead body twitch, but the young sailor behind me took it badly and made rather a mess of my skiff. The twitching continued for rather too long, and I was just considering that this was rather unusual when his hands reached up and tried to wrench the sabre free. Kicking him in the face then stamping on his hands repeatedly until I heard bones crunch, I ordered Croft to restrain the b*****d against the cleat. I didn’t know what the hell was going on and I didn’t like it, but for now Doughty wasn’t going anywhere.

 

*

Now, where is that fat, Portuguese b*****d? I need a drink.

 

‘I’m not sure you needed to write that last line, Sir. Could have just asked me.’

‘Adds colour.’

‘I’m beginning to wish I’d never encouraged this whole writing business.’

‘Don’t worry, Croft. I should imagine by the end of it you wont be alone.’ Drake tried to grin, but still gripped the quill as if he might be attacked at any moment.

 

11 August 1578 �" San Julian, Patagonia

 

Aboard the Pelican, Doughty had been bound and dragged aboard. He continued to thrash wildly and tried to bite the crew. Most ungentlemanly. Frankly I was impressed the soft sod had quite so much fight in him. The trial was a farce, though it had to be held for forms sake. Doughty could not muster any form of legal defence beyond uttered incomprehensible streams of guttural nonsense and the massive leaking hole in his face was a constant distraction; men kept trying to see if they could see all the way through the back of his head. It was a relief to all concerned when his head was cleaved from his shoulders and he finally fell quiet. His remains were unceremoniously dumped into the Atlantic. Best place for him.

 

18 August 1578 �" San Julian, Patagonia

 

Pulled up anchor and moved on. The line of dead-eyed, never-moving observers had stood on the beach watching us for a week now. It was distressing the men. Well it would do, wouldn’t it? I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t found them a little unnerving. As a parting shot, for a little target practice I ordered the gunners of the Pelican to give the beach a last broadside. I congratulated the gunners on their accuracy, though they didn’t seem to be drawing much job satisfaction from the task. Through my field glass I could see Winterhey and Oliver in the line, staring emptily at us as we left.