Bilbao, Spain
6 p.m., Wednesday, May 26, 1585
Master Foster gazed upon Bilbao harbor, feasting his eyes on the fine sight of so many Londoners that had heeded the king of Spain’s call for help. Philip II had invited English merchants to send cargoes of corn, and assured the Queen’s Majesty that her people would have his very own assurance of safe-conduct in these troubled times. Payment for the corn would be made by bills of exchange payable to The City of London in Antwerp at fair market prices. And so, The Primrose, a one hundred-fifty ton Londoner, had been stocked with nearly twenty tons of corn and several ells of broadcloth, and set sail for Bilbao in Biscay.
Master Foster had heard that the country was starving; that the whole of Iberia had had a harsh winter, though the master of The Primrose and his men could be no firm judges of that fact for themselves. Bilbao had been bathed in warm sunshine the past two days in port, and the Spaniards they had seen appeared to have been well fed. Indeed, as Foster took in the near idyllic scene with the sun low in the sky, its rays reflecting lazily on the bay, Bilbao seemed a welcoming voice on the wind as she had always been.
It was then that he noted the soft groan of his rigging. A fine southwesterly was stirring. Foster prayed it would still be blowing the following day when they would weigh anchor and head for home. He hunched over the rail of his ship, leaning heavily on his arms and looked on as a number of sleek Spanish pinnaces darted between his fellow Londoners. It was one of those rare moments of leisure for the captain of an English merchantman. Perhaps that is why he did not spy the pinnace heading for The Primrose. When the watch called out the approach of the Spanish vessel, and that there were seven souls aboard, Foster awoke from his reverie and barked his orders to the crew, alerting them that a small party wished to board. What the devil could they want at this time of the evening? The Primrose’s cargoes had been unladen. It was most unusual for the Spanish merchants to settle their bills of exchange at this hour of the day. Further, the master of The Primrose had already settled the matter of loading the Spanish wines for the return voyage the following day.
It was a wary Foster who greeted the Corregidor [magistrate] of Biscay. The hail and hearty fellow presented Foster to the six other men as Biscayan merchants, and claimed that they wished to give him a small token of their esteem. They had brought a hamper full of fresh cherries as a gift – a favorite of the English queen, or so they had understood. Master Foster thanked them and ordered that beef, biscuit and beer be brought to the impromptu gathering in his cabin. Yet before they sat down to eat, four of the Biscayan merchants made their excuses, and announced their intention to return to shore aboard the Spanish pinnace. This lack of common civility made Foster truly smell danger.
He ordered his first mate to accompany the Spaniards back on deck, simultaneously giving him the signal that all was not as it should be. It was a well-rehearsed exercise for English merchantmen in foreign waters, and the first mate knew how to alert the crew in secret to be ready for an assault.
The master of The Primrose returned to his unwanted guests, laughing and joking with them in broken Spanish and English, noting all the while through the port hole the pinks and oranges of the setting sun, wondering undoubtedly if it would be his last sunset. After some fifteen minutes, the watch called out again that the pinnace had returned carrying over twenty men and that a larger vessel with perhaps as many as seventy merchants also followed. Foster silently prayed that God would be English this day.
The master bade the Corregidor and his men to return to deck to greet the ships, expecting the worst. They were, after all, only twenty-six men against some ninety or more Spaniards. He could only imagine that these Biscayan merchants meant to board The Primrose, capture the crew; and, at best, imprison them all. Many a merchantman had been imprisoned before them, and most had fallen foul of the Inquisition. It was a destiny that he could not wish upon his enemies.
Once above deck, Foster’s suspicions were confirmed. Turning to the magistrate and his two friends, he said that he could not allow such a group of men to board his small ship, and the Corregidor nodded compliantly. Yet before Foster could give his crew the final signal to repulse an attack, he heard the beat of the battle drum from the Spanish ships below and the unmistakable sound of their swords being unsheathed. The thud of the grappling irons and the roar of the Biscayans wrestling alongside The Primrose to board her by force drowned out his orders to his men.
The Corregidor and his “merchants” seized Foster with daggers drawn at his throat and cried out above the shouts of the mêlée, “Yield yourself for you are the king’s prisoner!”
Foster narrowed his eyes and bellowed back, “We are betrayed!” |
