Bahamian Rhapsody
David J Andrews
Smashwords Edition Published by M-y books Ltd at Smashwords)
Copyright 2009 David J Andrews
"Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe."
HG Wells
"The great unwritten history of our age is the history of our imaginations. Of all the millions of ordinary people whose thoughts and dreams never get recorded."
Anon
PRELUDE
Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand miles away,
(Captain, art tha sleeping’ there below?)
Slung a’tween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An dreaming arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.
Drake's Drum
(Sir Henry Newbold)
South Caribbean Sea 1595
Immersed in his own thoughts, Sir Francis Drake, the man whose name was known and feared throughout the Spanish Empire, agitatedly paced the deck of his five hundred and fifty tonne flagship "Defiance". He had reached his mid-fifties and though a surprisingly diminutive man with a slight figure, he exuded that indefinable quality of leadership to which others naturally and comfortably defer. He had long ago achieved the status of a living legend on the Spanish Main. His arrival in his favourite hunting grounds, the Western Atlantic and the Caribbean caused consternation and panic amongst Spaniards on both land and sea. The light was slowly dimming as he stood on the port side of the ship, the setting sun highlighting his face and giving more colour to the fringe of his ginger beard now rapidly becoming streaked with grey, and framing a deeply tanned face who’s lines betrayed a recent illness. An aqueous ball constantly plagued him in his leg, and severe back pains often forced him to while away many lonely hours at sea, painting in his cabin.
For most of his eventful life he had dedicated himself to the pursuit of creating wealth, principally by attacking Spanish ships and relieving them of their gold and valuables. He had an uncompromising hatred of those from that country born of long standing memories, from the reign of Queen Mary, a ruler that had earned the nickname, Bloody Mary. His Protestant ancestors had been persecuted during the violent Roman Catholic purges carried out on her orders. More recently, and within his own direct experience, the Spanish had acted treacherously with his cousin and mentor John Hawkins. He had been cruelly duped and betrayed by them, after seeking their help, at the same time he, Drake, had barely escaped with his life. He did not forget such events and had fully earned his name of El Draco, ‘The Devil’ and his reputation throughout the entire Spanish military and naval establishments.
John Hawkins with Sir Francis had been joint leader of this current expedition consisting of some twenty-eight ships until he had died shortly after their abortive attack on Puerto Rico ten days previously. The attack had been a fiasco; Drake himself had only narrowly escaped death after his cabin was hit by a cannon ball, which shattered the stool upon which he had been sitting. Drake had immediately assumed sole command of the fleet and sent anxious concerns rippling around the decks by his sudden and impetuous actions. Unlike other raids, this time the Spanish in Puerto Rico had been prepared for them and following the defeat he had ordered the fleet to sail south.
He sighed, and looked slowly around the heaving grey seas, taking another deep breath of fresh sea air as he did so. He sometimes thought this was the only time he was truly content, with the whole world laid out before him, a world free of the devilishly complex Elizabethan court politics he detested so much. This would be his last voyage, an undertaking he would not have even contemplated if his fortunes had been different. His fortunes had plummeted as fast as they had accumulated after a lifetime of serving Queen Elizabeth I. All had been lost backing the cost of the ships and voyage to mount an ill-fated attempt to raid mainland Spain the previous year. It had been a total disaster. He had been driven to it by pride and the conviction that so soon after the defeat of the Spaniards' Armada they would be easy victims. It had turned out very differently and he had been lucky to escape with his life. As a result he had returned with no bounty to pay the provisioning costs provided by The Queen, himself and the other financial backers. She had threatened to take away his Knighthood and made it clear he was not welcome at court. Being now seriously short of money, he resolved to do something quickly; hence now in his fifty sixth year on earth he was back at sea in command of this small force. He cursed to himself as he felt a spasm of pain from his stomach, He knew something was wrong inside him and wished fervently that he was back home in Buckland Abbey with his new wife.
His fortunes had changed with startling speed. As he scanned the horizon he cast his mind back over recent events. It was such a short while ago that he had famously circumnavigated the World, been knighted and received over ten thousand pounds from The Queen as a reward for bringing back enough gold and silver to meet the total costs of running the government for a year. Even Lord Burghley, Elizabeth’s Chief of the Treasury and a constant detractor of Drake's had been impressed. Burghley, the second most powerful man in England had taken an initial dislike to him, seeing him as a high risk, little more than a pirate camouflaging his attacks on defenceless Spanish merchant ships under Elizabeth’s flag of protection. In reality Drake’s official privateer rank with ‘Letters of Marque’ from the Queen distinguished him from other pirates, now becoming more and more profligate around the Spanish Caribbean. Under pressure from the Queen, Burghley had acquiesced, won over by the money from Drake's ventures. He had even asked Drake to oversee his son Robert Cecil’s pet project, to provide for impoverished seamen.
The ‘Letters of Marque’ arrangement suited both Queen Elizabeth and Drake; he received her protection, she had an unofficial method to enrich her coffers to help build a powerful country. His brilliant seamanship and unique brand of daring had ensured business had been good and from its proceeds he had built himself a palatial home at Buckland’s Abbey in Devon. After defeating the Armada in 1588 and following his knighthood he been officially granted his own coat of arms. But times change and suddenly everything had rapidly deteriorated, he still could hardly believe it, the nation’s greatest sailor, who had saved the nation in their hour of need only seven years previously, reduced to dire circumstances, how fickle fate was! Two years previously he had led an unsuccessful voyage to Florida where unfortunately a hurricane wiped out both his fleet and profits causing Burghley to refuse to cover more than a fraction of his costs.
He had originally thought the omens for this present voyage were good, a faulty judgement that mocked him every day with no sight of any ships worthy of being viewed as a prize. Even the weather was against them, first they were becalmed in the doldrums, then only able to sail slowly under light winds into the Caribbean, they were also now very short of drinking water. The disastrous defeat followed and Hawkins's death sealed a miserable campaign. The Spanish commander Pedro Tele de Guzman had outwitted him at every move. It had almost reached the stage where he would have to give the order to turn back, an order that would spell his end financially He had, as part of the collateral for the voyage, pledged Buckland Abbey for in excess of ten thousand pounds. His judgement as a seaman told him he could only risk one more day and he cursed to himself as he scanned the horizon willing a ship to appear.
The furies must have heard his prayer for several hours later and when hope was beginning to fade yet again, he heard a shout from above.
“Sail ho’ yelled the lookout from high up the main mast.
“Make ready,” roared Drake as he grabbed the telescope and focussed on the horizon. But the prize galleons were all under Guzman’s watchful eye and on seeing only a small trader under Spanish colours he cursed. This was not what he was looking for at all but to desperate men it would have to do. They gained slowly in the light wind but curiously, their prey was not running, they waited as if in resignation of their fate. Drake saw them lower their sails.
“Prepare to attack,” he yelled and as the men enthusiastically made ready, suddenly galvanised by the prospect of action.
She was just a small caravel with a large white flag clearly evident. Drake smiled coldly as he saw his men clamber aboard to make the prize safe but puzzled as he watched a boarding party scramble across the gap between the two ships. The Spanish had most unusually, surrendered without a fight. Clambering onto the caravel as best he could he was greeted by the Captain who looked uneasy at the sight of the notorious El Draco. "Your men will not be harmed,” Drake told him and he gestured below. “What are you carrying?” The Captain insisted on the courteous exchanges usual in such cases. “Captain Don Vivendi at your service,” He said in good English and offered his sword in surrender. “We are a poor merchant and provisioning vessel, there is little of value below.”
“I’ll be the judge of that sir,” growled Drake curtly, ignoring the Captains protestations and heading downwards to the main hold. “We have met before seňor. In similar circumstances,” said Don Vivendi following him below. “Some years ago you attacked a larger ship I was taking to Hispaniola.”
“Don Vivendi, I vaguely remember you,” replied Drake thoughtfully. “Ten years ago wasn’t it? Drake's mind was on more immediate matters. "Your cargo sir, spare me the necessity of rifling through it.”
“Provisions for our troops, mainly food and blankets, that’s all but I do offer you a valuable secret.”
“Ah I recall now; it was the same last time no dammed cargo and you claimed to have some valuable secret.”
“You weren’t interested seňor, emptying my ship of meagre takings and caring not for secret treasures, yet you spared my life.”
“I care now sir; though I don’t recall any talk of treasure, what is this secret you speak of?”
“It’s still there,” Vivendi assured him. “I am prepared to share it with you, given the right terms.”
“You have no dammed choice and why should I believe a Spaniard.”
“We may be Spanish but not all of us are loyal to the Crown of Spain.”
“I would call that treason.”
“Not if by my actions I save rather than imperil my country.”
“Go on.”
“You will need to come alone with me to a remote island.”
“Safe enough if I hold your men and ship here as hostage." replied Drake now intrigued. What did he have to lose? And the gains if there where any, would be his redemption. He reached a decision. “Very well but you will pay with your life if I am misled.”
“I will take you there myself El Draco.”
“I want two officers with us.”
“The Cimarrone natives will only let me and one other ashore.”
“Cimarrones, I remember them well, they are good people, strong and loyal Negroes who helped me defeat your countrymen at Panama. They have no love of your country seňor and care little for gold and silver.”
“You are right they care little for such things but trust me, this is different, it has symbolic value to them. This is the only way,” pleaded Vivendi quietly. “Believe me others have died trying, for as you know they are ruthless with trespassers; their bodies are hung up on poles and line the shoreline, you will see. You would need an army of well-equipped men to beat them. They would hide in the jungle and choose when to fight on their terms. They have asked me to look after this great secret, a secret beyond comprehension, magic from another world.”
“Yet you alone survived the Cimarrones?”
“They spared me twelve years ago when my colleagues and I were shipwrecked there and I discovered the secret. I went back five years ago with a few men.”
“Why you?”
“I am an apothecary and was able to cure the chief’s son of a fever. It was a simple case of cooling him down, but it worked and they spared my life, letting my men leave the island alive providing they swore never to return. They showed me their great secret and asked for help to guard it. That was twelve years ago, I told them I was not a great leader of peoples but I would try to help them. I did try and was subsequently ridiculed by my Spanish colleagues. Guzman himself mocked and demoted me to this command. He said angrily that he had enough to worry about without authorising foolhardy errands.”
“You say they spared you alone?” queried Drake, flinching as his back gave a violent twinge causing a spasm of pain to shoot through his body.
“I went back recently but for some reason or another the three men with me attacked some of the natives. They were killed but I was spared on the proviso that I help them with the treasure. As you say they are not interested in the metals but are worried about the true meaning of the treasure. They see it as cursed and want it removed or de-cursed if that makes sense. So in you I think I may found a God, despite what I think about your methods. My own countrymen are parasites only interested in taking gold, not in trying to understand them and their cultures.”
“So I am a God now, not the Devil, you think the notorious El Draco is interested in culture over gold?”
“No, but you are a man with a reputation for holding honour above all,” replied Vivendi thoughtfully. “As for my countrymen, they think I have gone native.”
“Perhaps you look to take the head of El Draco for a return to favour.”
“That’s a risk you must take; you treated me fairly last time. I ask only in return that if you are satisfied with what you see then you don’t scuttle my ship. She is all I have left, so you see El Draco, there is a personal motive.”
They took what provisions they could out of the Spanish ship and shared the proceeds between the other pinnacle boats for use as they sailed westwards to the South American coast. Another assault on Panama could now be mounted. Meanwhile the two ships, the small Spanish ship now with a skeleton crew, sailed slowly north. Drake calculated he had three days for his secret side excursion. The fresh activity and clear purpose created a vast improvement in morale on board "Defiance". After three days sailing the sea had turned azure blue as they reached uncharted waters to anchor in a small bay. Drake was invigorated by the Spanish Captain's story and the prospect of the great riches, about which he constantly spoke.
“Wait here with the hostages for three days.” Sir Francis had ordered Jack Templeman, his Captain and second in command, who now watched, frowning, from the poop deck of the flagship.
The two Captains with six men headed out in a small skiff towards an island nestling amongst a maze of reefs, an island made to appear bigger by the tree covered mountains sloping away from the beach. In the distance he could see shapes hanging from poles, dried bodies in cages! What the hell was Drake doing here? He frowned at his Spanish hostages and settled down to wait, and see what Vivendi had in mind.
As the small boat neared the beach, Vivendi realised with horror that his four Spanish seamen were still hanging there in the small iron cages, their bodies now reduced to just bones. “Ignore the skeletons and head for that landing point." He called to the helmsman. "It’s the only place to get ashore, the land is steep from the other side and has hidden reefs." He had become used to El Draco’s company now and pointed animatedly to the island as they approached, gesturing for the crewmen to leave them as they jumped ashore onto the pristine white beach. “Come back in six hours,” Drake commanded the bosun of the cutter, and began wading ashore. “You sure?” asked the burly seaman glancing at the gently swinging skeletons to their left. “Its only bones man.”
“Not there it ain’t,” replied the man, gesturing to where a preserved body hung. It had been hidden from view until they reached the shoreline. “Do as I say,” ordered Drake feeling the comfort of an eight inch long dagger under his doublet along with a small hidden pistol.
For over an hour Vivendi led them through thick jungle with undergrowth that formed an almost impenetrable barrier. The Don hacked a path through the thick jungle with his machete, seeming to know his way. Every so often he would stop, listen and look around nervously. After another fifty minutes of walking Drake was beginning to suffer acute pains in stomach, he cursed and stopped to take some water, coughing so violently that blood spotted his handkerchief. He stared at the red stain stoically, he had seen it in others and knew that it was the early stages of dysentery. Gritting his teeth he drove himself forward.
Eventually the undergrowth thinned out and they entered a small grassy clearing, in the distance caves dotted the hillside. Immediately after their arrival the bushes parted and out of the forest appeared two large, powerfully built, dark skinned native men carrying spears. Drake clutched his hidden pistol and looked at them in alarm, wondering if they were friendly. Vivendi had no such doubts, he smiled albeit nervously, and gestured a welcome with his hands. They scowled and moved closer lifting their spears. Drake gripped his pistol even harder ready to draw and fire as Vivendi again spread his hands wide, gesturing friendship. The confrontation was becoming tense when suddenly, to Drake's great relief, the bigger of the two natives smiled and threw down his spear and warmly embraced the Spaniard. They chattered in a strange language for a few minutes before Vivendi pointed to Drake. The big man looked across then lifted his head to the sky and flung himself to the floor prostrate in front of Drake. “What the hell did you tell him Vivendi?” demanded Drake, he had recognised the familiar Cimarrone markings though not the language. “That you are great friend of the Cimarrones and a God from a powerful country,” replied Vivendi. “This is sacred territory and if they didn’t believe you were a God they would certainly have killed you.”
“Why is the territory sacred?”
“The secret is here in a cave. To the locals it is a mystical and spiritual place reserved for their Gods, in other words you and I. Come; they want to show us inside.”
They followed the two natives towards a cave structure in the near distance. As they entered the two natives performed a short dance after which they proceeded more slowly. Within a few minutes they stopped and knelt to the floor then rose and repeated the actions every twenty steps, all the time kneeling and praying loudly. Drake, watching the flickering torches, waited patiently through all this, at the same time cursing his mounting stomach pains. After rounding a corner Vivendi stopped suddenly and peered into the gloom. “What is it?” growled Drake and yelped in pain as he caught his knee on a rock jutting out from the cavern's wall. “It’s just ahead,” replied the Spaniard. “They won’t go any further with strangers; they believe it would upset their Gods.”
“It looks like a white cloth, a sail even,” said Drake. He decided to investigate and stepped forward and pulled at the shroud, gasping as it fell. Before them was a large metallic disc about three metres in diameter, reaching to the roof of the cave; it shimmered in the candle light and as he looked closer he gasped in admiration, never had he seen such an intricate object.
Despite the gloom, thousands of piercing lights reflected off his torch. Thousands of diamonds were inset into the round object at regular intervals. As he peered closer he saw markings, more like pictures than writing. They looked vaguely familiar; he tried desperately to remember where he had seen such things before then it dawned on him, Chinese! He had once seen an intricate blue painted Ming vase in the Queen's possession. But how could it be from China, the object he thought looked like a shield couldn’t be moved; it was huge and very heavy. How could it have got there? Perhaps China was closer than his fellow explorers thought. What did it mean and how could such a large and valuable item appear on the island unless it was made here? He doubted that even twenty men would have been able to move it. He was puzzled. Turning around he observed that the natives still kept well away. “It’s very impressive Vivendi, amazing.” He breathed. “Its more than just a valuable object,” replied Vivendi slowly. “It’s a shield, see? You can see the indentations of the ridges set to take any blow away from the centre so dissipating the force.”
“No one could lift this.”
“Not one of our people, no,” replied Vivendi. “A giant could, the writings are sacred; I copied them and took them with me the last time. A friend translated them for me as literally meaning that ‘whoever possesses this Shield possesses the earth’.
“It's Chinese writing Vivendi, that I know but it still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here. What on earth does it mean?” asked Drake. He felt puzzled and was becoming disappointed; he saw little value in an immoveable shield. “It has very real significance to our Moors.”
“Moors?”
“They inhabited the south of Spain until recently and once controlled most of the country,” replied Vivendi. “If this is genuine it has iconic and mystical value in the Moors teachings.”
“Well we’ve found it but its not much value to me Vivendi, we can’t move it.”
“I thought you would say that,” smiled Vivendi bending down and carefully manoeuvring the central ring. There was a grating noise and it slowly moved. With a great deal of effort it detached entirely leaving a six-inch hole in the middle of the shield. “This is the core, the Chief showed me how to detach it,” he said lifting the heavy metal circle and passing it to Drake who gasped at the solid weight.
“Gold,” he exclaimed getting both hands underneath it.
“Look on the back”
Drake turned it over and stared at the drawing and words carefully. He could just make out ‘A gift from the heavenly ruler to spread knowledge and understanding’ he read. “You did well to bring me here Vivendi. It has to be protected from falling into the wrong hands.”
“Your job El Draco, I know no one else who can take it safely away from here and protect it particularly from the Moors. A chance to redeem the damage you have done to my nation as we hate the Moors more than we hate you El Draco, so in the end you will do our nation a great service. You accused me of being a traitor; you can now see I have my country's interests at heart.”
“Ironic,” replied Drake gazing at the core. “You are saying that in the wrong hands this would cause devastation to my greatest enemy.”
“The core circle you hold means nothing without the Shield. As you can see the lines cross over into each other to convey the message. There are many other messages here which will mean something profound but they must be kept apart”
“Your countrymen are as capable as I of delivering this.”
“The Moors have infiltrated within our forces' top ranks. Guzman himself is rumoured to have married one, they are everywhere El Draco. They would use this as a lever to overthrow the Christians.”
“You are relying on my greed to separate the two pieces and so protect your nation from the threat of a return to Moorish rule,” replied Drake.
“Correct seňor.”
“No one will ever know the secret of this location unless they are capable of understanding the true meaning of this,” replied Drake lifting the item slowly and wondering whether it could save him. Retrieving the core alone would be fraught with difficulties.
“I know what you are thinking,” replied Vivendi smiling tightly. “There are some trinkets here that should provide sufficient incentive for the real treasure to be left alone. I also brought with me a black dye which can be used to hide the true nature of the core.” He knelt down behind the Shield and produced three golden goblets replete with exquisite Chinese carvings. Whilst Drake examined them Vivendi took the circular core and proceeded to cover it with the dark mixture from a small tin. When he had finished it looked like a dark stone wheel. “With time that will harden and it will take a great deal of rubbing to reveal what’s underneath,” he said. “The core will fit in this bag I brought for the purpose.”
“You have thought of everything sir, its convincing enough,” replied Drake standing up and trying to lift the bag and groaning under the weight. “It’s too heavy.”
“The natives will carry it, you are a God after all,” replied Vivendi gesturing to the two men. “They were told a foreign God would come to reclaim the treasure one day, it’s written on the stones at the entrance to the cave.”
“You didn’t tell me that earlier.”
“I didn’t want you to over-react,” replied Vivendi with a grin.
“Very well,” Drake muttered.
He stopped at the entrance to look around as the two Cimaroons lifted the weight between them. Taking a small piece of parchment he sketched the surrounding area carefully making notes on the cave entrance. A plan formulated in his mind as he quickly wrote a note on the reverse side. They returned to the ships setting out to re-join those that had gone before. First though Drake released Vivendi and returned his ship to him intact, after which he gave orders to head south locking himself in his cabin. He placed the now blackened core in a small wooden chest before sealing it with a padlock.
He had long been a convert to Richard Grenville’s belief in 1574 that ‘Spain had control of the West, Portugal the East, France the North, and now by God's providence, the South is left to England’ So on reaching Panama, Drake despatched Thomas Baskerville with nearly nine hundred men onto a mule track from Nombre de Dios Bay. By taking Panama they would control the link between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, it would give England the control of South America.
Unfortunately, Baskerville’s raid was a disaster with hundreds of men lost; Drake was forced to make the painful the decision to retreat in order to hunt down easier prey. Over the coming week they surveyed the coast for inlets where the Spanish may be hiding, all to no avail. Soon the crew began to agitate for a return home. They sacked a small village called Rio de la Hacha with poor returns and Drake’s physical condition steadily worsened, with permanent stomach cramps he became unable to eat or drink. Finally bowing to inevitable fate he called Templeman to his cabin and gave him strict instructions as to the chest's destination. Three pain filled days later on the twenty eighth of January 1596 at Escudo Island he died, a victim of the ghastly and bloody disease, dysentery. The legendary El Draco was dead, his days of terrorising the Spanish over. Dressed in his armour he was buried at sea by his brother, Thomas, in a lead casket, a league from Porto Bello harbour in Nombre Dios Bay. Thomas was appointed heir and executor of his will and had been given a very specific task.
Unknown to Drake or Templeman a sixty-year old Spanish prisoner, Nuno da Silva, had willingly stayed with the British after Vivendi left. He had watched all the proceedings with great skill and made careful observations. Unknown to Vivendi he had been placed on the Spanish trader by Guzman as a spy and had a mission to perform. On the return voyage to England when all were asleep he had made his way down to the main cabin and opened the cabin door and chest with ease. His instructions were clear and having checked the contents of the chest he carefully removed the tightly drawn parchment.
In Madrid the Spanish celebrated El Draco’s death and King Philip II commissioned an epic poem from Lope de Vega called ‘La Dragontea’. It claimed that with Drake's death the true religion was at last vindicated. The legend of Drake's Shield was subsequently hidden for posterity clouded by the parallel legend of Drake's Drum.
Burghley House – England
The present Day
The Battle Prom was an annual event at the country location more famous for its yearly horse trials. This year promised to be spectacular and a crowd of some five thousand gathered on the lawns overlooking the impressive facade of the grand old house. The sun was setting slowly but still had sufficient power to illuminate the many chimneys on the Burghley House skyline.
Built by Lord Burghley in 1587, it had seen many of England’s rich and famous come through its hallowed doors including Queen Elizabeth I herself. It stood in over a hundred acres of land just off the Great North Road at Stamford next to the old stopping off point for stagecoaches coming from London. The grand old house had paid host to many crucial meetings when Burghley controlled England’s destiny by holding it's purse strings. In more recent times it had also hosted a crucial cabinet meeting held by Prime Minister Disraeli to decide the German question. Yet despite all it had seen it had never suffered a shot fired in anger at its impressive walls as it slumbered in the south Lincolnshire Wolds. Lord Burghley had made it the centre of court intrigue and Elizabeth herself had used it as a convenient place to scheme against those she suspected of plotting against her. Most crucially it had acted as the nerve centre when Burghley and Walsingham, the queen’s head of intelligence had plotted their final accusations to condemn Mary Queen of Scots. The unfortunate Queen had subsequently being beheaded just down the road at Fotheringay and lay buried in nearby Peterborough Cathedral. To his dying day Burghley was the Queen's most trusted aide, able to fund this lavish home through the rewards she gave him throughout her successful reign. The house itself was where he kept his deepest secrets and prior to Drake's last voyage he had met his old adversary for a secret meeting.
Exactly at eight o’clock the huge speaker system sprang to life with the sounds of the English Orchestra, and the Lincolnshire countryside was filled with the wonderful sound of their music. The Battle Proms, including one hundred and ninety three real cannons off to the left of the central stage were linked by miles of cables and attached to sophisticated computer controls. Piles of fireworks lay behind the cannons containing, some said, enough explosive power to demolish a fair sized town. Through this fanfare came the voice of the female announcer, her voice reverberating through the vast array of speakers. Ahead of her as she walked onto the vast stage shaped like an oyster shell were rows upon rows of partying people resplendent with Union Jack flags, picnic tables and copious amounts of alcohol. On cue just as the sun dropped behind the horizon a vintage Spitfire flew dramatically out of the clouds to the roar of the crowd and completed a roll in accompaniment to Beethoven’s Battle Symphony. Everyone’s eyes were riveted on the exciting spectacle.
Everyone that is, but a shadowy figure making its way stealthily across the lawns on the southern side of the house. Walking briskly but purposefully, he climbed over a barred gate before disappearing through the mass of trees bordering the sculpture park. Security provisions outside of the main event area were lax and it was not difficult for the man to make his way unseen into the main house itself by entering through the orangery restaurant area He knew exactly where he was heading and went directly upstairs to the oak panelled bedroom on the north side of the top floor of the house, the very bedchamber used by Queen Elizabeth I. It gave one of the best views of the prom guests, not that he was interested in them, he produced a set of skeleton keys and addressed the bleeping intruder alarm system. He took a small electronic box from his jacket, plugged it in to the system and breathed a sigh of relief as the red light went out. Relying on the noise outside to ensure that no one had heard him, he stared dispassionately around the room, then went over to the old chimneystack feeling around carefully inside. His hands were soon covered in soot even though the house chimneys were well swept. After ten minutes of thrusting his hand deep upward inside the stack he gave a grunt of satisfaction. What he sought was there bricked in, he was sure of it.
He glanced at his watch checking the programme on the sheet in front of him, the next part of his plan was fundamental to it's success. It was absolutely critical to get the timing right. He had connected on a Wi-Fi link through to the main computer control panel at the nerve centre, which would hopefully remain undetected. If all went well his own little party piece would perform in synchronised fashion. Still he was taking no chances and started his own countdown making sure that he was well out of harm's way when and his visit was detected.
The orchestra was approaching the final bars of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture, written to celebrate Napoleon's defeat by the Russians, when the hundred and ninety-three cannons started to fire in carefully controlled sequence. Inside the house the man instinctively ducked as his own explosion rent the air. The crowd heard nothing except the vast ground shaking explosions of the cannons discharging. Banks upon banks of cannon filled the whole area with red cordite smoke deftly illuminated by powerful red tinged lasers at the smokes centre.
The man glanced carefully around stood up to look up at the chimney stack and smiled. It had worked; months of hard planning had made this possible, the only time of the year when an explosion at the house would alert no one. He chuckled grimly and muttered a few words in an Arabian language before moving forward to stare at a sight unseen since the sixteenth century. The brickwork was shattered revealing a small lead box about seven inches in length. He stared at the grimy relic with awe and knelt on the floor to clear it of dust. His concentration on the task at hand was so intense that his well-honed sixth sense was slower than normal. Dropping the box he spun around too late to fend off a shattering blow.
His assailant left quietly through the Heaven Room, moving swiftly under the majestic ceiling murals by the flamboyant Italian painter Antonio Verrio. The artist’s passion for three dimensional ceiling murals was evident in the stunning displays. Not that the assailant noticed. He, who just created his own hell on earth, walked silently down the Hell Staircase, appropriately depicting scenes from the underworld and vanished into the crowd. It was not until early the next morning that the chambermaid opened the door and after staring uncomprehendingly at the scene, opened her mouth and screamed incessantly. The sleepy old house had just revealed its main secret, a secret that would in time change the lives of many.
No one noticed the sleek, red, open topped Mazda sports car leave the previous evening as the finale of Land of Hope and Glory was being played. Indeed no one would have been suspicious by the sight of a pretty woman her long hair blowing in the wind. She accelerated down the A1 South to London very pleased with herself having completed the mission to her satisfaction; it was her job, what she had been trained to do. Only one thought crossed her mind as she sped down the deserted road, The Teacher would be pleased, very pleased.
Chapter 1
Gothenburg Harbour (four months previously)
It was February and cold, very cold as the mid-sized and nondescript ship, a converted arctic patrol vessel, made its way slowly out of the large harbour area past the dockyards and pleasure cruisers before heading slowly northwards. On board were twenty-two excited teenage girls all leaving home for the first time. They had received invitations telling them that they had been chosen for a fashion shoot in southern Norway near Oslo. They were told it was all taking place in the greatest secrecy intended to be Scandinavia’s riposte to the global magazines dominance, hence the request that they tell no one outside their immediate family. They had each received a thousand American dollars with a further five thousand promised after the cruise. Chosen from all over Sweden most could not believe their luck, carefully packing for a short two-day trip and dreaming of fame and fortune. All were between eighteen and twenty-one years old and they were all strangers to each other. Some, whose parents had asked pointed questions or demanding to accompany their daughters, had been rejected. All believed no harm could come to them from a couple of days with a well organized trip authorized by the Norwegian Government. They dreamed of fame and fortune for their offspring also. The company called Huldra was registered in Norway and had given them all copious amounts of literature for the shoot; they claimed to have the approval of the government’s trade and industry department as part of Norway’s tourism initiative.
The ship that was appropriately also called "Huldra" and registered in Bergen headed northward at a steady ten knots and the girls settled down to a meal chattering happily and blissfully unaware that they were going on a trip that would change their lives forever. They were welcomed by two middle aged dour German women and asked to pose for photos on the decks as they left Gothenburg behind. Of the twenty-two, thirteen were blond, the remainder brunette, all were tall and attractive. None questioned why the ship was now going so fast nor noticed that the ship was now heading West instead of North. After a few hours talking together they were separated, they would not meet again for a long time.
That evening each girl had an informal interview with the two matrons Magda and Greta in an empty auditorium. Unknown to them there was a two-way mirror through which the only male on board aside from the crew was sitting. A middle aged man with shoulder length blonde hair; he smiled to himself as he watched girl after girl paraded in front of him unaware that they were being watched. Having made his assessments he signalled to his aide and shortly afterwards left on his private speedboat. He needed an alibi for what was about to happen.
For most of the girls this was their first time away from home. Most slept well that night in their private cabins unaware that hidden cameras recorded their every move. The next day as they entered the North Sea weather conditions worsened noticeably and most became seasick as the ship again turned northwards. All felt queasy but managed to keep smiling, after all they would be going home tomorrow. By midday they started to become alarmed as there was still no sign of land or the promised glaciers and some started to openly question where they were going. They were confined in small room’s two metres square and fed through a slot at the bottom like prisoners. Unknown to them their futures had already been decided by the blonde man who had made up his mind on the selected twelve. A small motor-boat had picked up the rejected girls in the dead of night; they were well on their way back home having seen and met no one. They had been told that the weather had ruined the shoot and were deposited in a remote town in southern Norway with enough money to get them home and told that if they kept their mouths shut they may be invited again. They had been deemed unacceptable, they were the lucky ones if they did but know it, and none thought so at the time.
The selected dozen had a different fate in store as they sailed northwards confined in separate cabins and unaware of the drama unfolding. On the third day the remaining girls became increasingly uneasy, aware that they were still heading north. Totally segregated and not allowed to see each other, the adventure was over and fear replaced excitement. Some tried to escape but their doors were not only locked but bolted and to their dismay their mobile phones had disappeared. Many cried themselves to sleep wishing they had never heard of Huldra. Finally after spending another miserable night either crying or being sick they felt the old ship begin to slow as it entered a remote and desolate port in Northern Norway. They were twenty kilometres to the north east of Tromso the gateway to the Arctic Circle. Some had seen the large wooden city, the largest north of Trondheim from their small portholes as they sailed past, lights in a blanket of white. The ship rode at anchor and the hours passed interminably before their doors were finally opened and they were led ashore into the icy landscape. They could see a cable car running up to the Storsteinen Mountain, four hundred and twenty feet above sea level. For most it was merely a matter of keeping warm as they were bundled into waiting vehicles. The missing girls then simply disappeared from the face of the earth.
Back in Gothenburg, three sets of parents of the rejected girls contacted the authorities and told them of the Huldra Twelve as it soon became known in the popular press. More parents came forward and the scandal broke with garish headlines and questions being asked in the Swedish and Norwegian parliaments. Frantic enquiries determined that they had all been on the Huldra but then to their greater horror vague reports began to emerge that the vessel had issued an SOS message. That had been some nine hours ago from a remote northern fjord before it mysteriously disappeared off the radar screens. The distraught parents had immediately flown up there and began a fruitless search of the area. The coastguards couldn’t help as there was nothing to see. From Tromso they hired search and rescue planes but to no avail. After three days the bitterly upset and distraught parents had returned empty handed. The authorities concluded that the girls had been the victims of a kidnapping that had gone horribly wrong when the ship sank. On further investigation Huldra was found to be a dummy company in Oslo, located in a deserted warehouse.
It was journalists who discovered the name Huldra in Norway was the name given to mythical females who enticed strangers to a watery grave. The story was a journalists dream. They then discovered that a scene re-enacted for tourists on the spectacular Flam Tourist Railway ride in central Norway with red dressed women enticing strangers used the Huldra name. The legend was born and the twelve girls eventually entered Swedish modern popular culture as the lost girls of the Huldra Twelve. Unknown to all was the fact that this was the fourth time such an event had happened in the past twelve years all in different Nordic countries. Each had a tale to tell but each had kept silence out of embarrassment that such a thing could have happened under their jurisdiction. Once the Swedish story became hot news the other stories also appeared. In total forty-eight girls had disappeared over a five year period.
Valgrind – Arctic Circle
Awakening from their drugged sleep the girls of the Huldra Twelve found themselves in almost permanent darkness well inside the Arctic Circle. They were in fact ensconced in a purpose built compound deep in the countryside and impossible to detect from any but the most determined spotter planes. Even the local Sami, the indigenous natives of the area knew next to nothing of the compound. All were frightened; all were still kept separately and totally disorientated. One girl, a pretty twenty one year old brunette called Soraya did everything she could to find a way out. Her continual banging on her door reached such a crescendo that she was given extra sedation. She came from a small town called Ljung in the centre of southern Sweden and like all the girls was missing her family dreadfully but she was a fighter. Soraya noticed there was sunlight outside for little more than four hours a day and realized that they were in the far north. She had seen the mountains and blue glaciers from her window as they passed Tromso and had a fair idea where they were.
For the umpteenth time she ate the plain pasta dish that had been pushed under her door and hammered on the door with the empty plate to attract attention. She gave up as usual after bruising her hands and lay on the bed staring angrily at the ceiling. Surprisingly this time her door opened and steaming hot soup was brought in by the larger of the two familiar matrons. “It is time,” said Magda glowering at her. “Time for what,” asked Soraya in Swedish. Her father was from Morocco and had settled in Sweden bestowing on her the unusual Arabic name. “Speak in English,” replied Magda coldly, “or German.”
“Where are we?” asked Soraya in halting English. “You will be told at the appropriate time so get yourself ready.” A red dress was thrown in as the door slammed shut. “Damn you,” grated Soraya. She was bored out of her mind and felt dirty after having spent the entire last two days clad in nothing but a nightdress and dressing gown. She knew she had been drugged and that someone had been through her clothes as she lay asleep. All her personal items, diary, mobile phone and cash had gone. She struggled into the red dress staring disconsolately around the small room, her prison. It was about ten feet across and had little in it except a few books, a mirror and small window. She took a couple of spoonfuls of the soup and immediately began to feel drowsy again, it was drugged!
She awoke to find herself alone in a larger room and lay on a table like a piece of meat. She slid off the table and stood up, frowning heavily, then walked unsteadily to a small window. All around were mountains and snow, a complete white out. It was minus twenty degrees Celsius according to the thermostat on the wall and she shivered involuntarily. They were in the Arctic Circle; she tried the door, it was locked. She heard someone approaching and steeled herself as the door swung open; on instinct she pushed past the entrant and ran. Darting to her right she ran into another room and breathlessly bolted the door. She looked around; it was empty except for a large window into the room beyond. There a long haired blonde man was talking animatedly with the two German matrons. She listened hard and inadvertently gasped as the man swung around and glared at her with icy cold eyes. At that very moment her eyes caught the ethereal green lights from the window and she wondered whether she was dreaming. The window was tinged with green as lights flashed above them and the man stared out into the wilderness a strange look on his face. Soraya was transfixed and did not sense danger until she turned as a hand clasped her mouth.
Oleson didn’t use his first name often, those that knew him well and there were very few, were allowed to call him Stig, otherwise it was Oleson. He was tall and weather beaten with piercing ice blue eyes. He had the look of a man who had spent his life at sea battling the elements. A permanent frown on his face looked as though it could have been chiselled there. He lived a playboy lifestyle having recently separated from his second wife. Women only interested him as playthings, and in his lighter moments, he called himself the intelligent man's Hugh Heffner. He exuded power and his tall posture and rigid bearing said very clearly that he was the boss. He was answerable to no-one, the largest private owner of cruise liners in the world. Not just any old cruise liners, but specialist niche liners sailing under the Oleson brand name and synonymous with health and rejuvenation for the older clientele. Those who knew him wondered where all his money came from. No one ever asked. His retreat was called Valgrind because of Norse mythology, the name meaning the gate before Valhalla the hall of the dead soldiers. Oleson always liked to think about the Gods of the Norse lands. Half the slain went to Valhalla and the other half to Folkvangr, literally a field of the goddess Freyja. Valgrind was chosen as it was the selecting house for his empire.
He stared dispassionately out across the main hall putting down his blackberry and smiling at the thought of the latest recruits, the Huldra Twelve. The world’s media had moved on to the next big story, as he knew it would, allowing him time to move forward. He smiled coldly and signalled to his butler an older looking man in his late fifties called Benson who had spent decades serving the upper classes. Oleson liked the formality of the service, the British made the best butlers. “Time for the entertainment, bring them in one at a time,” he said as the sky outside was lit up.
This was one of his favourite treats and no different to him than inspecting the latest race horses in his stables. He would see the twelve girls in their red dresses as the Huldra legend determined and make his final decisions against the spectacular backdrop of the Northern Lights, even the heavens obliged him. He liked the girls to be dressed in red dresses as the green lights reached their crescendo. The northern lights, the Aurora Borealis were unnatural ethereal green in colour. They were one of the reasons he situated the camp here in the Arctic Circle, his own private world where the lights of the sky shone especially for him, a magical world of his own making where he set the rules. He knew the Northern Lights were caused by particles of light dispatched from the sun that hit the magnetic north pole over one hundred kilometres above the earth and yet he never lost his sense of wonder at the display they gave and tonight was no exception as Benson ushered in the first of the girls. They would all have a role in his empire, some more prominent than others his means of ensuring that there was always a good supply of new females. He already had a couple in his mind that was showing more spirit than the others particularly the brunette at the window.
Nassau. Bahamas.
Guy Tresanton looked around the harbour and then across to Paradise Island, totally dominated by the huge Atlantis hotel complex. In his view, the hotel was anything but a paradise. He saw it as a Disneyland monstrosity imported brick by brick from the Caribbean. Guy, A tall Englishman in his late forties, his fair hair blowing carelessly in the wind, covered his eyes as he stared across from his yacht "Hidalgo". A year ago he had involuntarily given up his place in the corporate rat race to sail in the Caribbean. Although not quite the idyllic existence he had expected, he had come to treat the yacht as his natural home. He yearned for the open sea with no company except the crashing waves and the odd whale. Alas economic imperative dictated that he engage customers to charter one of the two yachts that he and his partner ran together. Rose was a small feisty Chinese girl who had been through a great deal with him last year; their lives continually at risk as they had became embroiled in a hunt for the fabled lost treasure of Christopher Columbus. Indeed they had both experienced uncanny parallels, both had lost their fathers prematurely, both suffered from vivid dreams verging on nightmares that often produced significant insight. The dreams invariably featured an old Chinese man with a haunting face, known as The Teacher who had sworn eternal revenge after his dramatic loss of the Columbus Cross.
Bonded through conquering adversity, and partners both in business and friendship, the last months had been blissful as they focussed on their sailing company. "Hidalgo" was Guy’s pride and joy, a forty two foot Northerly yacht, one of a limited edition built at the company’s shipyards in the south of England. They had used the reward money from finding the Columbus Cross to purchase a second Northerly yacht called "The Yellow Dragon" with Rose as skipper and employing two local lads as crew. They had named their joint company Pegasus Charters. Although Rose was Chinese born she was an American citizen. Guy called her Viper, a backhanded allusion to her tenacity. In response she dubbed him The Bear on account of his black dog days, as he called them. For four months they had steadily grown the business, primarily appealing to the grey market of older American couples looking for a little adventure as they entered their fifties and sixties.
It had been a brief idyll, too brief! Guy and Rose had started to relax and enjoy themselves and that was when it all started to unravel. Long booked hires had started to cancel and even repeat customers called to apologize. They began to suspect they were being targeted and undermined by an unscrupulous rival. It had now deteriorated even further. Inexplicably their most regular customer had cancelled the previous week leaving them with nothing for the coming two weeks. There was something going on but what? Guy had asked the latest client to cancel, a middle aged Pennsylvanian banker named Andrew Scott, why he had cancelled. They were shocked to be told that he had been threatened with violence if he used Guy’s charter service. He mentioned a man called Sparrow based in the Bahamas and agreed to meet with them there.
It was a start, even though Sparrow was probably only a middle-man for someone else. Guy quickly made his mind up; something had to be done to salvage the business. They returned to the St Lucia base where Guy owned a small two bedroom flat next to the marina. There arranged for the "Yellow Dragon" to be lifted out of the water and put her into storage. Like "Hidalgo", the "Dragon" was a British built Northerly class yacht almost identical except six feet shorter and two feet narrower. Also like "Hidalgo" she had a retractable keel and the latest in electronic control technology.
Rose was an accomplished sailor and had been mortified to see the yacht high and dry on land. She had been intending to train at Police College when she’d met Guy and found her own life’s mysteries quite sufficient to cure her of any desire to solve those of others. A practical girl above all else, she remembered little of her time in China. A teenager at the time, to her eternal regret she struggled to remember her natural parents who had been killed there. Brought up in Chicago by her Aunt Beatrice, a distant relative who was now happily retired and taking care of Guy’s Uncle Blackie, in his dotage.
"Hidalgo" had sailed like a dream northwards in benign weather through the natural seaway between the main Bahamian islands. They anchored off the side of the main town that gave an uninterrupted view of Paradise Island and the Atlantis Hotel monstrosity. Wearing shorts and sailing jackets, they rarely wore anything else, they met Andrew who was waiting nervously for them in a waterfront bar next to the Pirate Museum. It overlooked the sumptuous mansion of Government House, once the home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Andrew was a short nervous looking man in his mid fifties and sat facing them looking around agitatedly as if expecting trouble. “They told me you were both under investigation by the police for drug running,” he stammered. “Drug running!” exclaimed Guy. How could they have known about the period in his life when he had carried many cargoes, possibly and unknowingly including drugs?
He squirmed in his seat; there was only one person in the police who knew about that. Grasshopper a corrupt police sergeant from St Lucia who he had helped put behind bars. “What kind of drugs?”
“They just said drugs. Sparrow said he could get me a much better deal and that I would be making a fatal mistake to use you.”
“Where is this Sparrow?”
“Over there at the marina on Paradise Island,” said Andrew pointing across the narrow water way to a gleaming collection of yachts. “You can see his office there,” he said pointing to a small but prominent hut at the far end. “What does he look like?” asked Rose. “Big man with yellow shirt and Dolphins baseball hat.”
“I don’t care what he has or does, he’s threatening our livelihood,” growled Guy.