FORTNIGHT later Sir Hugh Willoughby's ships had left the coast of England far to the south, and with favorable winds were passing along Norway. Luck was with them for in a region where storms and mists were expected, they were able to keep in company. Every evening a cresset was kindled on the poop of the admiral ship, the Bona Esperanza, to mark its position during darkness, and every morning the two consorts would run up while the admiral ship lay to. Hails were exchanged, the number of sick reported to Sir Hugh, the course set for the day and a rendezvous appointed in case of separation by a storm.
This was the hour when the watch below came on deck, to harken to the daily fanfare of trumpets, and to muster for morning prayers at the image of Our Lady.
“Forby,” observed Peter Palmer, boatswain of the Edward, “Sir Hugh be a man for discipline, aloft and alow. 'E's sailed under the king's colors many a time, and a rare, fine gen'leman 'e be. Brave as ever was. Though 'e's no hand for pilot work or laying a course."
And the boatswain spoke with the voice of authority, having voyaged to the far seas, to Malabar and Zipangu in Portuguese ships. He approved strongly of Richard Chancellor, the master of the Edward.
“Blast my liver, but 'e's a proper man, steady and determined-like. 'E reads to us lads out of the Bible itself, and 'monishes us like a minister of God. 'My bullies,' says 'e, 'forasmuch as all who sail the sea be standing on and off the port of the Almighty, we should stand by in readiness to face our Maker. So,' says 'e, 'let me hear no blaspheming, nor ribaldry, nor ungodly talk upon this ship.'
“And a fine thing it be," he concluded, “to have along of us a reverend gentleman as can grapple the himself. Now, me if it a'nt!”
Peter Palmer knew his own mind, and was quite ready to speak it upon all occasions. He was built on the lines of the Edward herself, broad and solid of timber. Although he must have weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds he could move about as quickly as the cabin boy.
His freckled face was a mirror of good nature, belied by the hard gleam of blue eyes that were always restless.
He took Thorne under his wing from the first, after the armiger had lain ill—what with fever from his wound and the tossing of the high-pooped merchant craft—for the first few days.
The ruddy boatswain brought him the half of a fresh-cooked cod as soon as he was able to eat, and plumped himself down in the berth across from his victim, chewing his thumb in silence until Thorne had finished the cod and the nuggin of wine that came with it.
“Captain's orders—fresh fish and wine for the hands that be taken sick. And why? Because the salt pork is cor-rupt, and the beer is vinegarish. Aye, as ever was. Likewise, the wine casks are not stanch, so the half of it hath leaked out.”
“Hm.”
Thorne passed a hand ruefully over the bristle of beard on his chin and throat.
“Some of the marchants are all for turning back,” added Peter, “but Sir Hugh's not the man for that. Hark 'e, my master. What game might ye be a playing-of? Thou'rt no more a lout than I be.”
“What, then?”
“Why, by token of that white shirt, thou'rt gen'teman born. Come now, what's the lay, a gen'leman born passing hisself off for a yeoman? Ah, that were a good song.”
Grinning, even while his shrewd eyes dwelt on Thorne, the boatswain began in a very hearty voice:
Chuckling he slapped his thigh, and cocked his great head to one side.
“Ralph, lad, that were well sung!" And added in his stentorian whisper:
“In the dark ye fooled me. But now, ye talks like a gen'leman, drinks like a lord and eats dainty as a prince. Why come off to the ships, Ralph, lad?”
“Have you forgotten,” asked Thorne, “that I was fuddled—seas-over?”
Peter scratched his head over the black hood that be wore ever about his massive shoulders and sconce.
“Why, no, Ralph, mo. But ye sniggled me as to being a yokel. Y'are a gen'leman born. I say and so it is. Now mightn't ye be a sniggling of me as to being fuddled. Supposing, now, ye was sober? Eh? We had sore need of mariners, so I took off the first likely lad that showed in the offing. But supposing ye was sober; why ever did ye go for to be took off?”
He glanced around the narrow forecastle, lighted after a fashion by two small ports and reeking of the bilge. Smoke from the galley—the wind being over the stern—clouded it, and the odor of grease and burned meat vied with the stench of soiled garments.
“This fo'csle a'nt suited to a gen'leman's dis-position now. But y' are content to lie abed here. Most 'mazing content ye be, Ralph.