Witch from the Sea

We had lived so long with the fear of the Spaniards that without it our lives seemed suddenly empty; and although I had planned to start my journal there seemed so little to record. All through those weeks reports were coming in about what had happened to the Armada. Ships were constantly being washed up on the coasts, their crews starving; many were drowned; some reached the coasts of Scotland and Ireland and it was said that their reception there was so inhospitable that the lucky ones were those who were drowned. My father roared his approval. “By God,” he would cry, “if any of the plaguey Dons see fit to land on Devon soil I’ll slit their throats from ear to ear.”

My mother retorted: “You’ve defeated them. Is that not enough?”

“Nay, madam,” he cried. “It is not enough and there is no fate too bad for these Spaniards who would dare attempt to subdue us!”

And so it went on. People came to the house and we entertained them and over the table the talk would all be of Spaniards—of the wretched man in the Escorial who had sought to be master of the world and was now defeated in such a way that he could never rise again. And how they laughed when they heard tales of the anger of those Spaniards who had stayed at home and who were demanding why the Armada which had cost them so dear to build, did not return. Why did the Duke of Medina Sidonia, who had boasted of the victory he would win over the English, not come home to be honoured? What had happened to the mighty Armada? Was it so pure and holy that it was too good for this earth and had wafted to Heaven?

“Wafted to the Devil!” cried my father, banging his great fist on the table.

Then he would recount the action in which he had taken part and all would listen eagerly and Carlos and Jacko would nod and agree and so it went on.

I did not wish to write of this in my journal. It was common knowledge. It was what was happening in thousands of homes all over England.

“How is your journal getting on?” asked my mother.

“Nothing happens,” I said. “There is nothing to record. So many things happened to you,” I added enviously. “That was different.”

Her face clouded and I knew she was looking back to the days when she was young.

She said: “My darling Linnet, I hope you will never have anything but happiness to record.”

“Wouldn’t that be rather dull?” I asked.

Then she laughed and put her arm about me.

“If so, I hope your journal will be a very dull one.”

It seemed it would be; and because of this I forgot it. It was only when the ship Trade Winds came sailing into the Sound that I remembered it and began to write regularly.

The Trade Winds was built in the style of the great Venetians with four masts, fore, main and mizzen and a small one on the poop—the bonaventure.

My father, who was always restive on land and nowadays did not seem so eager to go to sea, was constantly on the lookout for the ships that came and went. I was on the Hoe with him when the ship was sighted. There was a shout and all eyes were on this one.

My father said: “She’s a carrack. Looks as if she’s a trader.”

He spoke contemptuously. He had been a trader of sorts, for in his heyday he had brought home many a cargo which he had taken from a Spaniard. My mother often told him he was nothing more than a pirate.

“What sort of a trader?” I asked him.

“Following the Dutch,” he said. “Carrying goods and trading them and bringing back a cargo. Fishing in the Baltic and bringing back the catch. Trading!” he added disparagingly.

Then he stood, legs wide apart, watching, and when the little boats brought her captain ashore my father roared: “By God, if it’s not Fennimore Landor. Welcome to you, man. How fares your father?”

That was the first time I saw Fennimore—with his fair bronzed skin and his hair bleached with sun and his light blue eyes crinkled as though they had faced miles of wind and sunshine; he was tall and strong, a man of the sea.

“This is my girl Linnet,” said my father; and he laid his hand on my shoulder in a way that lately had begun to thrill me. It meant he was proud of me and although he was often intolerant and often crude it was wonderful to please Captain Jake Pennlyon. “And this is Fennimore Landor, my girl. I knew his father well. A better captain never sailed the seas. Welcome! What brings you to Plymouth?”

“The hope of seeing you,” said Fennimore.

“To see me. Well met then. You must come to the Court. You’ll be welcome. That’s so, eh Linnet?”

I said he would be very welcome.

We looked at each other rather searchingly and I wondered whether he liked my looks as much as I liked his.

I hoped so.