The Earthly Paradise

by C. S. Forester

  Then, like a cold douche, common sense returned again. The whole plan was too mad, too insane. How could he be expected to handle a ship, with only his sketchy theoretical knowledge? There would be all kinds of emergencies to deal with-he remembered how the Admiral had brought the Holy Name through the Serpent’s Mouth and then through the Dragon’s Mouths. He could not handle a ship like that. He knew nothing about beating to windward off a lee shore. He did not have the practised seaman’s uncanny knack of guessing the trend of a shoal from the successive casts of the lead. These hotheaded Spanish caballeros had no conception at all of the difficulty of the task they proposed to set him-if for no other reason, they were accustomed to the Admiral’s phenomenal seamanship.

  ‘I never heard of such a ridiculous plan in all my life,’ he burst out.

  ‘So that is what you think?’ replied Garcia. There was a polite lack of interest in his manner.

  ‘Yes!’ said Rich. ‘And what’s more--’

  Nobody appeared to listen to what more he had to say. The horses broke into a trot, and Rich, joggling about in his saddle, found his flow of eloquence impeded. He knew then that nothing he could say would deter these hotheads from their plan. Nothing would induce them to set him free to return to San Domingo and the Holy Name. He relapsed again into miserable silence, while the horses pushed on in the darkness, trotting whenever their fatigue and the conditions would allow, and walking in the intervals. Fatigue soon came to numb his misery. He was sleepy, and an hour or two on horseback was quite sufficient exercise for his soft limbs. The men of iron who rode with him had no idea of fatigue. The loss of a night’s rest, the riding of a dozen leagues on horseback were nothing to them. Rich bumped miserably along with them through the night; before dawn he had actually dozed once or twice in the saddle for a few nightmare seconds, only saving himself from falling headlong by a wild clutch at his horse’s invisible mane.

  20

  At dawn Garcia broke his long silence.

  ‘There’s the Santa Engracia,’ he said.

  The path had brought them down to the sea’s edge here, and the horses were trotting over a beach of firm black sand overhung by the luxuriant green cliffs. A mile ahead a torrential stream notched the steep scarp, and in the shelter of the tiny bay there lay a little ship, a two-masted caravel, her curving lateen yards with their furled sails silhouetted in black against the blue and silver sea. There were huts on the beach, and at their approach people came forth to welcome them. There was Bernardo de Tarpia and Mariano Giraldez, Julio Zerain and Mauricio Galindo-all the hot-headed young gentlemen; Rich could have listed their names without seeing them. There were four or five swaggerers whom he did not know; he presumed they were followers of Roldan whom he had never met before, and the notion was confirmed by the raggedness of their clothing. There were a few depressed Indians, and one with a gap where his lower lip should have been, though which his teeth were visible; this must be el Baboso of whom Garcia had spoken. There were a dozen Indian women whose finery proved that they were the mistresses of Spaniards and not the wives of Indians.

  ‘You found him, then?’ commented Tarpia. ‘Welcome, learned doctor sailing-master.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Rich.

  He was sick with fatigue and fright, but he was determined not to allow the young bloods’ gibes to hurt him visibly. If the inevitable really were inevitable, he could cultivate a stoical resignation towards it. His mind went off at a tangent, all the same, refusing to face the present. It groped wildly about trying to recall half-forgotten memories of some learned Schoolman’s disquisition on the intrinsically inevitable as compared with the inevitable decreed by God. He slid stiffly off his horse and looked round him, dazed.

  ‘Gold and pearls and emeralds!’ said young Alfonso de Avila, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘And no grubbing in the earth for them, either.’

  It was extraordinary how the lure of easily won gold persisted, despite disillusionments. But young Avila was excited like a child about this new move. He was babbling pleasurably about the kingdoms they were going to assail, and the glory they were going to win; for him the treasure would be merely a measure of their success, just as a lawyer’s eminence might be roughly estimated by the size of his fees.

  Garcia’s voice broke through the chatter.

  ‘Everyone on board,’ he said, curtly. ‘We may have Roldan or the Admiral on our tracks at any minute. Tarpia, take charge of Rich.’

  The longboat lay beside the beach; the Indians pulled at the oars-the hidalgos could not sink their dignity sufficiently to do manual work as long as there was someone else who could be made to do it for them-and within five minutes of Garcia’s order Rich was hoisting himself wearily up over the side of the caravel. Joao de Setubal, the eccentric Portuguese, was there, and three or four others; apparently their duty had been to prevent the escape of the remaining four seamen.

  ‘Here’s your crew, sailing-master,’ said Tarpia.

  The four seamen grinned at him half nervously, half sullenly. It was clear that the new venture was not at all to their taste. Rich looked as sullenly back at them. The sun was already hot, and pained his eyes; he felt the Santa Engracia heave under his feet as a big roller lifted her.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘What service have you seen?’

  They answered him in Catalan, like sweet music after the harsh Castilian. They were fishermen from Villanueva, pressed the year before for service on the Ocean. They could reef and steer, and had spent their lives at sea.

  ‘One of you must be boatswain,’ said Rich. ‘Which is it to be?’

  Fortunately there seemed to be no doubt about that. Three thumbs were pointed at once to the fourth man, the blue-eyed and broad-shouldered Tomas-stoop-shouldered, too, for middle age had begun to curve his spine.

  ‘Tomas, you are boatswain,’ said Rich. It was a relief to have found someone on whom he could fob off some of his responsibility.

  The second boatload from the shore was already alongside; Garcia had come with it.

  ‘Don Narciso,’ he said, ‘the horses have to be got on board.’

  They were swimming the horses out the short distance from the shore behind the longboat; even at her low waist the Santa Engracia’s rail was six good feet above the water’s edge. Rich looked at Tomas in a panic.

  ‘Shall I get the slings ready, sir?’ asked Tomas.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rich.

  The sailors pelted up the shrouds; there was tackle already rove on the yards-apparently they had been hoisting in stores and water yesterday. The slings were dropped to the boat, and passed under the belly of one of the horses.

  ‘Here,’ said Tomas to a bewildered Indian standing by. ‘Tail on.’

  The ropes were pushed into the hands of the Indians, and, under Tomas’s urging, they walked away with them, and the horse, plunging helplessly, rose into the air. Tomas himself swung the brute inboard, the Indians walking cautiously forward again, and the horse was lowered into the waist. It was amazing how easy it was when one knew exactly how to do it. At a word from Garcia half a dozen young hidalgos took charge of the beasts-there was nothing undignified or unknightly about attending to horses when necessary. To learn how to do so had been part of the education of every hidalgo in his boyhood.

  ‘We are ready to sail now, sailing-master,’ said Garcia.

  This was all mad, unreal. It must be a nightmare-it could not really be happening to him, the learned Narciso Rich. As though battering with a nightmare he strove to postpone the moment of departure; he felt that if only he could postpone it long enough he might wake up and find himself back in San Domingo, about to sail for Spain in the Holy Name.

  ‘But what about stores?’ he asked. ‘Food? Water?’

  ‘We have spent the last week collecting food,’ said Garcia. ‘The ship has dried meat, cassava and corn for forty people for two months. There is forage for the horses, and every water-cask is full.’

  ‘And charts? And instruments?�
��

  ‘Everything the captain had is still in his cabin. He found his way here with them from Spain when he came with Ballester.’

  ‘I had better see them first.’

  Garcia’s thick brows came together with irritation.

  ‘This is not the moment for wasting time,’ he said. ‘Hoist sail at once-you can do the rest when we are on our way.’

  Garcia’s little eyes were like an angry pig’s. He glowered at Rich, his hands on his hips and his body inclined forward towards him.

  ‘I know enough about navigation,’ he said, menacingly, ‘to know we must sail westward along this island before we turn north. I might find I could do without a navigator altogether, and in that case--’

  He took his right hand from his hip and pointed significantly, over-side. Rich could not meet his gaze, and was ashamed of himself because of it. He turned away.

  ‘Very well,’ he said faintly.

  And even then the prayer that he began to breathe was cut short without his realizing it by the way the problem of getting under way captured his interest--if his active mind were employed it was hard for him to remain frightened. He looked up at the mast-head; the pennant there was flapping gently in an easterly wind; the land wind had dropped and the sea breeze had not begun yet to blow. The ship was riding bows on to the wind; he had to turn her about as she got under way. The theory of the manoeuvre was simple, and he had often enough seen it put into practice. It was an interesting experience to have to do it himself.

  ‘Tomas,’ he said. ‘Set the Indians to up anchor. And I want the foresail ready to set.’

  Tomas nodded at him, blinking in the sun.

  ‘Who’ll take the tiller, sir? It’ll take the four of us to set sail.’

  ‘I will,’ said Rich, desperately. He had never held a ship’s tiller in his life before, but he knew the theory of it.

  He walked aft and set his hand on the big lever, swinging it tentatively. It seemed easy enough. Tomas had collected a band of Indians at the windlass-from the docility with which they obeyed him it was obvious that they were already accustomed to working under him, presumably during the business of provisioning the ship. The windlass began to clack, the Indians straining at the handles as they dragged the ship up to her anchor against the wind. The seamen were ready to set the foresail-two of them had just finished casting off the gaskets.

  ‘Straight up and down, sir!’ shouted Tomas, leaning over the bows to look at the cable.

  ‘Hoist away!’ shouted Rich; he swallowed hard as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

  The anchor came up, and Tomas rushed back to help with the foresail. As the ponderous canvas spread Rich felt the tiller in his hand come to life; the ship was gathering sternway. He knew what he had to do. He put the tiller hard over, for the ship had only to lie in the tiniest fraction across the wind for the big foresail to wing her round like a weathercock. She lurched and hesitated, and Rich in a sudden panic brought the tiller across to the other side. Tomas was watching him, apparently awaiting more orders, but Rich had none to give. Nevertheless, Tomas kept his head-he saw on which side Rich had at last decided to hold the tiller, and ran with his men to brace the yard round. Rich felt the motion of the ship change as she swung across the swell; a glance at the island revealed the shore to be slowly revolving round him. He struggled wildly to keep his head clear; it was the ship that was turning, not the island. The big foresail was doing its work, and he flung his weight against the tiller to catch the ship lest she swung too far. There was some new order he ought to give to Tomas, but he did not know what it was, so he took one hand from the tiller and waved it in the hope that Tomas would understand.

  Fortunately Tomas did so; he braced the yard square and the ship steadied on her course before the wind with no more than a lurch or two. Rich looked up at the mast-head pennant-it was streaming ahead. The shore lay on his right hand, and the ship must be pointing west nearly enough. As he centred the tiller he glanced at the compass, but that was still chasing its tail round and round in its basin; it would be several minutes before it settled down. He experimented timidly with the tiller as soon as he saw that the ship was heading a trifle in shore; the ship answered, but with more of a sullen obstinacy than he expected. It was only with a considerable exertion of strength that he was able to hold her on her proper course.

  ‘Set the mainsail, sir?’ asked Tomas. He was so obviously expecting an affirmative answer that Rich was constrained to give him one, but it was with an inward qualm-he had as much as he could do to steer as it was, and he doubted his strength to hold her if more canvas were spread. But the mainsail expanded inexorably while the ropes squealed in the blocks; Rich distinctly felt the ship under his feet gather increased speed as the mainsail bellied out in the wind and it seemed to him as if the tiller would soon pull his arms out of their sockets. And then, as Tomas took his men to the braces, Rich suddenly felt the ship become more manageable. The tiller ceased to be a thing to be fought and struggled with. It became a sweet tool of whose every motion--as his tentative experiments soon proved--the ship was immediately conscious.

  Of course, he told himself, he should have expected that. Mainsail and foresail were designed to counterpoise each other almost exactly, so that the tiller and rudder held the delicate balance between two nearly equal forces. A touch, now, and she swung to the right. A touch, and she swung to the left-the feeling of mastery was most impressive. Rich came back to his senses with a guilty start; Tomas was looking at him curiously as he swayed the ship about in unseamanlike fashion, and he hurriedly steadied her. The wind blew on the back of his neck, and he was unconscious of the heat of the sun and of his fatigue. In that triumphant moment he felt as if he could steer the ship for ever.

  He would rather steer a ship than ride a horse any day-never in the saddle had he felt this superb confidence. But he felt he could not indulge himself at present. He had to make up his mind about what course to steer, and as the numerous factors governing that problem came tumbling into his mind he felt the need for giving it his undivided attention.

  ‘Send a hand to the tiller, Tomas,’ he called.

  One of the seamen came shambling aft, and took over the steering. He looked at Rich inquiringly for the course; Rich took a stride or two up and down the deck as he made his calculations. He remembered the glimpses he had had of the Admiral’s chart-somewhere not far ahead the cape of Alta Vela trended far to the south and would have to be circumnavigated, while soon the wind would shift so as to blow direct upon the shore. It would undoubtedly be as well to get as far to the southward now as he could, so as to have reserve in hand. And the needle in these waters pointed to the east of north-he would have to allow for that, too. On the other hand, if he set too southerly a course it might take him out of sight of land. Rich suddenly realized that he was not nearly as afraid of that as he was of finding himself on a lee shore during the night. He yearned to have plenty of sea all round him, and it was delightful to discover that he was quite confident of finding Espanola again should he run it out of sight. He bent over the compass and took in his hand the white peg which marked the course to be set, hesitated for a space, and then with decision he put it into the next hole to the east of south.

  ‘So!’ he said.

  The helmsman brought the tiller over, and the ship began to swing round. Rich knew that the sails must be trimmed to the wind, but he was vague about the exact wording of the orders necessary. He looked over at Tomas, and saw with pleasure that he was making ready to brace the yards round without orders. Rich nodded to him to continue.

  The Santa Engracia now had the wind almost abeam; she was lying over to it, with plenty of spray coming over the weatherside, making music through the water, and all the rigging harping together, and the green mountains of Espanola falling fast astern. Rich looked round to find Garcia staring fixedly at him.

  ‘Our course should be west, along the island,’ said Garcia, suspiciously. ‘Why are we going sout
h?’

  ‘Because it is necessary,’ said Rich, crossly, ‘because--’

  As soon as he had begun upon it he gave up, before the prospect of all the difficulties, the attempt to explain his technique. He had just performed successfully the feat of getting the Santa Engracia under way and on her course, and perhaps his feeling of achievement gave him sufficient elation, combined with his annoyance, to answer Garcia with spirit.

  ‘You want me to navigate this ship,’ he said. ‘Then allow me to navigate her. If you could do it better yourself there was no need to kidnap me to do it for you.’

  ‘Holy Mary!’ said Garcia, ‘how quick we are to take offence!’

  But he himself had taken none, apparently, and Rich actually forgot him, momentarily, as he looked round the ship of which he was in charge. The feeling of elation still persisted, despite his fatigue-or perhaps because of it, for he was a little light-headed through lack of sleep. The beginning of his captaincy had been marked with brilliant success. Perhaps this business was not nearly as difficult as he had thought it to be. Perhaps he would steer the Santa Engracia safely to China and home again to Spain. Perhaps--