“They covet Esperanza herself,” Amir said. “We have designed too well. What a corsair she would make!”
“One adventure at a time,” I said. “Ask me again when we have returned safely from this one.”
“I would be pleased if I thought you meant it,” Amir said.
At that moment, the Venetian ship emitted a loud boom and a puff of smoke.
“The merchantman is armed!” Musa cried.
The ball fell short, rocking the water around it.
“We must go faster!” I said. “At whom are they shooting? The Rhodian or the Ottomans?”
“It does not matter,” Amir said, “if we are in the way. Venice did not gain an empire by waiting to be attacked.”
I called out to our Moorish helmsman to take evasive maneuvers, which indeed he had already begun, while the sailors leaped to anticipate the swing of the sails as we tacked.
The foremost galley rolled out its own bombard, set in the bow, whereas the Venetian’s cannon was mounted amidships. Their maneuverings brought them ever closer to us, though not within range of their artillery.
Amir uttered a curse in Arabic.
“If the next Venetian-Ottoman war begins right here, we are indeed in trouble.”
Musa, clinging to the rigging high above the deck, shouted, “The Venetian carries bowmen! Look up in the fighting top!”
As I squinted upward to follow Musa’s pointing finger, the Moor cried out and dropped his hand from the tiller to clap it to his shoulder. For once, Esperanza’s responsiveness served us ill, for she reacted at once to loss of the helmsman’s guidance. I leaped to take the tiller, with only a quick glance at the Moor. The arrow that had pierced his shoulder was still quivering, and blood leaked out from between his fingers. One of the oarsmen seized a discarded turban that lay on the bench beside him and ran, crouching low, to the stern to help the Moor. I felt Esperanza dance beneath my hand.
“Let us get out of here!” I said.
The sailors tightened the sheets. Esperanza flew through the water.
Amir leaped up into the rigging for a better view.
“Do not slack off!” he said. “The Rhodian still pursues us, and now one of the galleys comes after them. Now the Ottoman bowmen are shooting at the Rhodian.”
I ducked as an arrow sped past where my head had been a moment before.
“They are still shooting at us!” I said. “Or else their aim is not up to the usual standard of Turkish archers.”
“They are shooting from a greater distance than it seems,” Amir said.
An arrow whizzed through the rigging an inch from his nose. He jerked his head back.
“Keep her tight to the wind!” I shouted to the men. “Amir, can you not signal to the Ottoman to shoot only at the Rhodian?”
Amir laughed and swung out from the rigging, holding on only by one hand and a foot tucked into a twist of rope.
“What, are you not enjoying this? Look, we are pulling away from the Rhodian.”
“And the galleys?”
“They cannot catch us, ”Amir said. “We are too light and swift for them.”
“I hope you are right,” I said.
“They will turn back once we are through the strait,” Amir said. “Oars are of no use upon the ocean.”
Sure enough, as we ran before the wind and shot through the strait, our pursuers fell back, giving up the chase. As the Mediterranean gave way to what men were beginning to call the Atlantic, sea met ocean in an indescribable blend of blues and greens. Higher seas than I had seen since the storm on our voyage from Barcelona rose before us, rocking the little ship below a cloudless heaven.
The men cheered, even morose Miguel and the helmsman, who was wincing with pain as one of his fellows dug out the arrow, which, luckily, had not gone deep.
“We did it!” I exulted.
“We have taken the first step,” Amir said, grinning in elation. “Now let us see how we do when we pass Tangier, which remains in Portuguese hands. After that, if we continue to hug the Moroccan coast, we must still be on the lookout for pirates. On the other hand, the odds are in favor of any pirates we meet being friends of mine.”
“If you wish us to reprovision in the Canaries,” I said, “I can go ashore and get us whatever we need. If necessary, I will use the Admiral’s name. The lady who rules the isle of La Gomera was once his inamorata.”
“That does not guarantee that she will remember him kindly,” Amir said. “On the contrary, perhaps.”
“I will be cautious,” I said. “I did not meet Lady Beatriz myself, nor will I seek to, unless I get into trouble.”
As it happened, my brief visit to the port of San Sebastian went smoothly. Two of the Serbian sailors, Muslims who could pass easily for Christians, accompanied me to shore in the ship’s boat, for we decided to moor as great a distance out as possible. We did not need a second lesson in the curiosity the galliotçik might arouse. As I stood on the bustling docks, where the native Guanche who labored under overseers’ whips seemed both sadder and less numerous than before, I was reminded vividly of my previous visit, when I watched the same scene with Rachel and the Taino Cristobal, Ümīt’s father. My errands were quickly done. In all probability, I would not set foot on land again until we reached São Tomé.
Among my purchases in San Sebastian were oil and oranges. That evening, Amir and I sucked sections of the sweet fruit as we pored over our charts by lantern light.
“Africa is vast,” Amir said. “Among Europeans, only a handful of Portuguese navigators have reached its tip. We must sail south for many days before we reach what they call the Gulf of Guinea.”
“When we do, we must turn east,” I said, running my fingers along the map, “to continue along the coast. But how will we locate the island?”
“We need only locate Elmina,” Amir said, “the fort that serves as center of the Guinea slave trade. We lie offshore, so that we may observe activity in the harbor without attracting attention. Then we wait. It should not be long until one or more slavers emerge, bound for São Tomé. We have but to follow them to reach our destination.”
“It sounds risky,” I said. “What if well-armed naval ships escort the slavers?”
“My guess is that they do not,” Amir said. “The Portuguese have no competition on the sea this far south. Nor will they have any other destination than São Tomé, whose whole purpose is to serve as a depot for slaves and sugar.”
“Elmina must be the epitome of wretchedness,” I said.
“São Tomé may not be much better,” he said.
“We cannot relieve the misery of the captives on the mainland,” I said. “There is at least a chance that it will be otherwise on the island.”
“Inşallah,” Amir said. “By the way, if you wish to tell your family that you are safe so far, now is the time. We must loose the remaining pigeons. They cannot cross the Great Desert, though if we released them south of it, they would try.”
Chapter 44: Joanna
As Joanna had feared, the argument between Mishambo and Babune left the whole encampment in a state of discontent. The women, at least, were united in their opposition to both plans.
“I am not putting my baby on a bundle of sticks in the great water,” Ekuwa said.
Crouching by the fire, she stirred pepper into a pot of sauce that she was making to spice up the foutou for the evening meal.
“I have told my man that I will deny him my body,” Aminata said, “if he so much as speaks in favor of this foolish plan to attack the settlement. Warriors indeed!”
She held up a large banana, then thrust it into the bowl she was using as a mortar and ground it into mush with her wooden pestle as the other women uttered shrill cries of amusement.
“Babune has demanded that I teach him to swim,” Joanna said. “He says that Mishambo is no good as a teacher—he does not know how to explain.”
The women’s raucous laughter greeted this remark too.
“Will you do
it?” Lumusi asked.
“I do not mind helping Babune,” Joanna said. “Do not worry. It will be long before he swims enough to trust himself to a raft in the depths of the ocean. Perhaps never. He squinches up his face like a baby when I tell him he must put it right into the water and let out his breath.”
“But does he do it?” Kamina asked.
“No,” Joanna said, “and when he tries to float, he sinks. Oh, it feels so good to laugh. Why must the men try to ruin everything?”
“They are men,” Yenenga said. “It is their nature.”
Had Joanna not been on the beach enjoying a moment of solitude, she would not have seen the little ship, and, in all probability, it would have passed that spot by. She had been giving Babune his swimming lesson, along with a few other men who thought it might prove a useful skill. A couple of the women had come to cheer or jeer but shyly joined in the lesson at Joanna’s urging. Earlier, they had retreated to the shelter of the trees upon seeing three slaving ships pass by on their grim way to the Povoação.
“It is lucky we have no natural harbor,” Babune said, “or they would be coming ashore to search for water and telling the Portuguese they have found the perfect site for a second settlement.”
“Chas v’shalom!” Joanna said. “God forbid, in the language of my people.”
“I may have trouble learning to swim,” Babune said, “but I am not a complete fool.”
“I did not think you were,” Joanna said. “Must you really try to leave the island?”
“Do you really wish to stay?”
“My choices are limited.”
Joanna said no more, and shortly afterward, the others retreated toward the encampment. But Babune’s question resonated in her head as she paced back and forth, her bare feet digging into the wet sand and scattered pebbles and bits of shell of the foreshore. A breeze from the sea lifted strands of her hair from her neck and forehead and fluttered the faded red shawl she held wrapped around her shoulders, a treasured gift from Lumusi, whose baby she had helped Yenenga deliver. She was so absorbed in thought that she failed to see the small ship approaching in time to retreat into the shadows. That someone on board had caught sight of a moving figure in red was evident, for the ship’s slow progress ceased. She could see scurrying figures lowering sail and dropping anchor. As she watched, sailors drew the small boat that bobbed off the ship’s stern in close enough for two figures to drop into it, reach up for what looked like water buckets and casks rather than weapons, and begin to row toward shore.
Joanne watched them draw near, her feet planted in the sand, hair and shawl flying in the wind. An odd mood of fatalism came over her. There was no point in hiding now. They had seen her. If they meant her harm, she could run. She would not make for the encampment but would lead them away from it. They must not find the others. If they threatened to assault her person, she would climb a tree. Even were they agile and light enough to follow her, they could not rape her at the top of a coconut palm. As they climbed the trunk, she would brain them with a coconut before they could reach her and dislodge her from her perch.
They had been following the same route as the slavers, but the vessel appeared too small to be carrying slaves or any significant cargo. The ship itself was of a kind she had never seen. She could not fathom its purpose. Now the boat came close enough that she could see the rowers, their backs bent to their task. One had long iron-gray hair, the other tight dark brown curls above a sun-browned neck. When he cast occasional quick glances over his shoulder, she could see that he was young. He wore no shirt. Now they had almost reached the shore, close enough for her to discern sweat gleaming on the muscles of his back and arms. As she watched, thinking that she must flee but curiously unable to do so, he leaped from the boat and splashed through the water. Seizing a rope trailing behind it, he began to pull the boat to shore. The other man laid down his oars and climbed more cautiously over the side. He gripped the gunwale and began to push, hunched over with his head still bent. Joanna could not make out his features, but she could tell that he was old.
The hull of the boat scraped over the slope of wet sand with a hissing sound toward the rim of seaweed that marked high tide. The young man gave the rope he held a final tug, looped it around his hand, and stood erect. His eyes met hers. Improbably, he smiled and bowed.
“Good afternoon, lady,” he said in Castilian. “I am Diego Mendoza, formerly of Seville and now of Istanbul. Please do not be afraid.” He added, “Shalom aleichem.”
Two hours later, Joanna and Diego sat side by side on a log eating grilled fish and drinking coconut milk. As they ate, they cast sidelong glances at each other. The older man, Miguel, sat with them. The rest of the ship’s crew had come ashore and addressed their own meal at a fire a hundred yards down the beach.
“I do not wish them to alarm you,” Diego said. “They are good men, and they know to treat you with the utmost respect. But you need not have their eyes upon you as you eat your dinner.”
“I am not alarmed,” Joanna said. “I can run faster than they and fight fiercely if I need to. And perhaps they have never climbed a coconut tree?”
“I do not know,” Diego said gravely, his mouth twitching. “It is a question I must ask them.”
“And you say they are Turks?”
“Turks and Muslims from the Balkans, who are also subjects of the sultan, and some are Maghrebians from North Africa.”
“If they are not Portuguese,” Joanna said, “they are not the men I most despise.”
“I was Portuguese,” Miguel said, removing a small bone from between his teeth.
“That is different,” Joanna said. “You are Jewish.”
“It is a miracle that we have found you,” Diego said. “Everyone told us that all the children were dead.”
“Then why did you come here?” Joanna asked.
“Because I refused to believe it,” Diego said, “without the evidence of my own eyes.”
“Had you nothing better to do?” Joanna asked, wondering why she was snapping at this polite young man.
“Many pursuits to occupy me,” he said, showing no sign of offense, “but none that seemed more worth doing. Are the others all dead?”
“No,” Joanna said. “That is, when I left, many had died, but some had survived and converted.”
“And did that better their condition?” Diego asked.
“If they married Africans by the Christian rites, both they and their spouses were to be manumitted and allowed to benefit from their labor on the plantations. They were to be given land. I do not know how well those promises have been kept.”
“But they were children!” Diego said.
“The ambitious marry young,” Joanna said drily.
“And forgive me,” Diego said, “but you are not a child. How old are you?”
“I do not know,” Joanna said. “What year is it?”
“It is 1497.”
“What month?”
“September, by my reckoning. We have been at sea for a while.”
“Then I am sixteen,” she said.
“If I may ask, why did they take you? You must have been older than the rest.”
“I was,” she said. “I was twelve and should have been safe, but my stepmother made sure I was taken so that I could care for my little brothers. I did not blame them. I comforted and cared for them, and they loved me in return. I wish only that I might have saved them from fear and suffering.”
“You speak of the past,” he said. “They are not with you now?”
“They died.”
Casting a keen glance at her shuttered face, Diego asked no more questions.
Presently, Miguel said hesitantly, “My son was taken on the Lisbon docks. He was older too, eleven, but small for his age. Perhaps you knew him. His name was Natan.”
“Natan,” Joanna said. “Eleven, born in Lisbon. Yes, I knew him.”
Miguel’s eyes shone with hope. His clasped hands trembled.
&nb
sp; “Does he live?”
“When last I knew,” Joanna said, “he did.”
“Baruch Ha’shem!” Miguel said.
“Baruch Ha’shem!” Diego echoed, beaming at Miguel. He frowned as he looked at Joanna’s expressionless face.
“He has converted,” she said. “He was one of the first.”
Chapter 45: Diego
“We must go as quietly as ghosts,” Mishambo said.
The big Mbunda led our party, which consisted of himself, his fellow tribesmen Nkonde and Shanda, Miguel and me, and two escaped slaves, Nunke and Kwaku, who knew the settlement. Amir and some of the hotheads in our crew would have liked to join us on this adventure, but I did not wish to risk a single one of them.
“If some ill befalls me,” I told Amir, “who but you could lead them on the journey home?”
With some reluctance, Joanna had volunteered to join the party.
“There is nothing I wish less than to revisit the scene of my captivity,” she said. “But why should the children listen to strange men who tell them to run away after all this time, even men who claim to be Jewish? You need me, so I will come. It is my duty.”
Mishambo failed to persuade the tall black woman named Yenenga to join us, though the ex-slaves all agreed that she alone had the authority to persuade the women slaves to consider revolting.
“As a feiticeira,” Joanna told me, “she is respected by the men as well.”
“We do not mean to fight,” Mishambo said, “but to gather support for an uprising later on.”
Yenenga herself scoffed at the notion that she should lead the women in rebellion.
“Women not need leaders,” she said, “because women not go do anyting foolish.”
“Do not mind Yenenga,” Joanna said. “If she comes to trust you, she will reveal her powerful intellect in fluent Portuguese. She is also the wisest of us all, which is not the same thing.”
“I hope you will come to trust me too,” I said, finding within myself a powerful desire for her to do so.
“Like Yenenga,” Joanna said, “I do not give my trust lightly. For the moment, I believe that you are who you say you are and that you mean me no harm. I admit it is a pleasure to converse in Spanish for the first time since my brothers died. Are you sure you cannot dissuade these men from returning to the settlement?”
Journey of Strangers Page 29
