by Tim Severin
'They are my comrades, and we have come through many difficult times together.'
'Then why aren't they here with you now?'
Hector decided that the astute young woman deserved an honest answer. 'All three of them offered to accompany me. But I told them that their presence would only increase the danger. In Paita your people might decide to hold back one or more of them as hostages until your mistress is released, and even then there was no guarantee of their safety.'
'And what about you? Aren't you afraid of being held?'
Hector shook his head. 'No, if your people want the safe return of Dona Juana, they will have to let me go. I am the only one who can arrange her exchange.'
'And what if "my people", as you describe them, decide that it would be easier to torture you?'
Hector tried to meet her eyes, but it was now too dark to see her expression. 'That is a risk I am prepared to take. If you help me and the mission goes well, it means that my friends will be able to return to their homes.'
Maria paused before answering, and Hector detected that her antipathy was waning.
'And what about you? Do you have a family who are expecting you to return?'
'No, my father died some years ago, and I have lost touch with my mother. She is the one from whom I learned to speak Spanish.'
'From Galicia, to judge by your accent. It is surprising that you do not speak Galego.'
'My mother insisted that we learn Castilian. She said it would be of more use.'
'We?'
'My sister and I. But I will never see my sister again.'
He had expected Maria to question him further, but she fell silent, doubtless understanding that he did not wish to talk about his loss.
When she did speak again, it was in a much more friendly tone, almost confiding. 'I understand your feeling of being alone. But not because I have lost my parents. They are still alive as far as I know, small farmers in Andalucia. Life is hard in that part of Spain, and they were enthusiastic when the opportunity came for me to go abroad as Dona Juana's companion. So I was happy to accede to their wishes.' 'And you like the post?'
There was a short pause before Maria replied. 'Yes. I am fortunate. Dona Juana is a kind employer. She treats me as a friend, not as a servant which is what I could be.'
'But you still miss your family?'
'Spain seems so far away. Sometimes I think I will never see my homeland again.'
For a long time they both sat quietly, hearing the run of water along the sides of the little fishing boat as it grew more urgent, and the rising note of the wind in the rigging.
'Tell me about Dona Juana's husband, the Alcalde,' Hector said.
'He's older than her. Perhaps by twenty years, and he has the reputation of being a harsh man. He believes in the stern application of the law.'
'Would he put the law ahead of the well-being of his wife?'
Maria thought for a moment before replying. 'I believe so, but it is always hard to tell with him. He is a man of very strict principle.'
The moan of the wind and the noise of the waves were making their conversation difficult. Occasionally the little boat thrust her bow into the waves, and water came sluicing onboard. Hector had noticed a small cuddy under the foredeck where the fishermen stowed their nets, and he suggested to Maria that she might take shelter there. She stood up from the thwart, reached out to steady herself as the boat lurched, and placed her hand on his shoulder. He was aware of her grip, light but firm, a woman's touch. Then she was clambering past him, her hip brushed his shoulder, and all of a sudden he was swept by the knowledge that she was very attractive. He found himself wishing that she had stayed much closer to him, where he could relish her nearness and learn more about her.
Next morning the last of the gale was still whipping up a lively sea, the waves sending tremors through the hull planking of the little boat as she battled her way towards the watch-tower at the entrance to Paita's harbour. Hector sat on a pile of damp sacking and rope, his back pressed against the mast step. He was bleary-eyed, for he had slept only fitfully, his mind returning again and again to thoughts of the young woman curled up in the dark cave of the cuddy. He rehearsed every word of their conversation, still wondering how Maria had seemed to be able to read his thoughts. From time to time he glanced towards the place where she lay asleep, and waited for her to awake. When Maria did emerge half an hour later and crawled out from the cuddy, Hector had a glimpse of a neat ankle and a small bare foot. Sensibly she had removed her shoes before going to sleep. Maria stood up and turned her face into the wind and her long, loose hair streamed out behind her. In that moment Hector was confronted by a young woman very different from the person he had known aboard the Santo Rosario. In the shadow of her mistress Maria had been quietly dutiful and unassuming, easily overlooked, and probably this had been her intention. Now he saw that Maria had the gift of a natural, healthy beauty. As she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, relishing the fresh morning breeze after the stuffy confines of the cuddy, Hector noted the small heart-shaped face with a short straight nose, a soft mouth perhaps a trifle too wide for the delicacy of her features, a skin lightly freckled. Everything about Maria was neat and pleasing in a way that was simple and tempting. Then she turned and looked at him and the dark brown eyes under the perfectly arched eyebrows held an almost conspiratorial expression.
'Did you manage to get any rest?' he asked, aware that he felt light-headed, off balance.
She nodded, and all of a sudden Hector was overwhelmed by her presence. She was wearing the fine cloak which he had seen hanging in her cabin, but now it was bedraggled and crumpled, the hem sodden with bilgewater. Awkwardly he started to get to his feet, hoping to find an excuse to extend a hand, to touch her again and help her to climb over the thwart, when, without warning, he was rudely elbowed aside. One of the fishermen pushed passed him. The man was holding a chunk of dry bread and an earthenware flagon of water which he held out to Maria. He offered nothing to Hector. Instead he turned to face towards the land, placed two fingers into his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. In response a watchman appeared on the top of the watchtower. The fisherman waved, making what must have been an agreed code of signals, for the watchman disappeared, and soon a squad of soldiers was running to take position by a gun platform, and a horseman was galloping inland clearly carrying a message to the town.
'What was all that about?' Hector enquired.
The fisherman gave him a black look. 'Ever since you and your rabble attacked Arica we've been asked to keep a special lookout. Told to report any sightings of unknown vessels and report back immediately. Never thought I would be bringing in one of the scum who was responsible. I'll enjoy watching your punishment. I lost a younger brother at Arica.'
The motion of the boat eased as the fishing smack passed into the shelter of the headland protecting Paita's anchorage, and soon the fishermen were changing course to lay their vessel alongside the jetty where a file of Spanish soldiers already stood waiting. Their grey-haired sergeant wore on his tunic the faded red saltire which marked him as a veteran of the European wars.
'Here's one of the pirates! And you're welcome to him,' called out the fisherman. The boat bumped against the landing place, Hector lost his balance, and he was pushed hard in the back so that he sprawled forward ignominiously onto the weed-covered stone steps. A hand seized him by the collar of his cloak, and he was hauled upright roughly.
'Treat him gently. He's an envoy, not a prisoner!' Maria said sharply. She was being helped out of the boat by one of the fishermen and was glaring angrily at the sergeant. He looked back at her in disbelief. 'He's come here to speak with the Alcalde,' she snapped. 'Escort us to his office at once.'
The sergeant's expression of disgust made his feelings clear as he ordered his men to form up on either side of Hector and march with him into the town. Maria kept pace, walking beside the little group as it made its way past the customs house and harbour offices and the war
ehouses where the merchants of Paita stored their goods. Looking about him, Hector saw that the town exceeded Arica for prosperity. Besides the usual piles of fishing gear, there were stacks of timber for boatbuilding, ranks of wine barrels awaiting shipment, huge jars which he guessed contained olives for export, and in open-sided sheds he glimpsed wooden crates and bales painted with strange markings. Maria noted his interest and remarked, 'Those have come from China. They arrive in Acapulco with the Manila galleon, and are on their way farther south to customers in Peru. The consulado of Paita arranges the distribution.' She saw his puzzlement and explained, 'The consulado is the guild of merchants. They have the money and the influence if a ransom is demanded for Dona Juana.' But Hector was not thinking of a ransom. Maria's comment had reminded him of the maps and sailing directions he had been copying from Captain Lopez's navigation notes. If the captain had been trading as far north as Mexico to meet the incoming Manila galleon, his knowledge of the northern shores was likely to be very accurate.
By now word had spread that the fishermen were bringing in a pirate. As the little group walked farther into Paita, more and more people appeared on the streets, and they were in an ugly mood. Women as well as men began to shout insults and make threatening gestures. There were cries of 'Hang him but disembowel him first!', 'Hand him over to us. Let us deal with him', and soon the onlookers were throwing lumps of dung and dirt and the occasional stone. Their aim was poor and, as often as not, the missiles hit the escorting soldiers. But occasionally Hector had to duck. He was shocked by the hostility of the crowd. Their hatred was like a physical force.
To her credit, Maria did not falter. She walked beside him, level with the crowd, and did not flinch when she too was hit by misthrown projectiles.
Eventually they arrived at the Plaza Mayor. Here a number of sentries were guarding the municipal buildings which stood across from the church, and they joined the escort guards in holding back the angry crowd. Hector, Maria and the sergeant hurried up a flight of steps and into the town hall, the angry jeers of the mob following them. After the gauntlet of their arrival it was a relief to be away from the hysteria of the crowd, waiting in an antechamber while a minor official went to find Dona Juana's husband. He returned to say that the judge was at a meeting with the cabildo, the city council, and could not be disturbed. But the Alcalde was expected to preside over a session of the Criminal Court later that day, and it might be possible for him to interview Hector while the Court was in recess. In the meantime, the official suggested, Maria should go to her lodgings at the Alcalde's house where she might like to rest. The official himself would take responsibility for looking after Hector until the judge was free to speak with him.
The moment that Maria was gone, the sergeant seized Hector roughly by the shoulder and bundled him along a corridor and down a short flight of steps. The official, who had been scurrying along behind making approving noises, produced a key to a heavy iron-bound door, unlocked it, and Hector was flung inside. He found himself in a small stone cell furnished with nothing but mouldy straw and a bench. The only light came through a small window, little more than a slit, high in the opposite wall. Behind him the door slammed shut, and he was left in half-darkness.
He made his way to the bench and sat down, gagging at the stench of urine from the damp straw. Evidently he had been confined in the holding cell for the Criminal Court, and he doubted that anyone would take the trouble to bring him anything to eat or drink. The malice and loathing shown towards him was so intense and venomous that he wondered if Bartholomew Sharpe had made a miscalculation. There would be no exchange of Dona Juana and the Santo Rosario because the Alcalde would never negotiate. Instead Hector would be taken out of the cell, tried and executed for piracy. If the mob did not get to him first.
His interview with Dona Juana's husband in mid afternoon got off to a disastrous start. He was led to what appeared to be a private chamber behind the courtroom. There the Alcalde sat waiting behind a massive desk. Clearly he had interrupted his court session for he was wearing his red and gold sash of office over a doublet of charcoal velvet. Hector, dishevelled and unwashed, was made to stand before him while the sergeant who had brought him up from the cell stood so close behind his right shoulder that Hector could hear his breathing. For several moments the Alcalde sat scowling at his visitor and not saying a word. Dona Juana's husband was a hulking, heavy-set man who affected an old-fashioned appearance. His beard was carefully shaped to join thick dark mustaches extending across his cheeks in a downsweep that accentuated the fleshy, peevish mouth and bushy, scowling eyebrows. Hector wondered if such an intimidating appearance was genuine or merely an artificial pose to frighten those who appeared in court before him. But the Alcalde's opening remark left little doubt that his bad temper was real.
'Who do you represent?' he asked rudely. 'Your last captain's head was paraded around Arica on a pole.' Hector supposed that he was referring to Watling whose body they'd had to leave behind.
'I am here on behalf of Captain Bartholomew Sharpe and his company,' Hector began. 'I have been sent to arrange terms for the release of the Santo Rosario and Dona Juana who is, I believe, your wife.'
Immediately the Alcalde bridled. 'The identity of the passengers is of no immediate concern. What is evident is that you are guilty of piracy in seizing the vessel.'
'With respect, your excellency. I have come here in good faith to arrange the return of the vessel, her passengers and crew, unharmed.'
'Unharmed!' The Alcalde thrust his head forward angrily. 'I am told that Captain Lopez was shot down, killed in cold blood.'
'He mistook our vessel's approach as aggressive,' said Hector. Maria must have already been interviewed.
'He was callously murdered, and the crime will be punished,' the Alcalde retorted.
'If it pleases your honour,' Hector said carefully, 'I should like to state the message that I was charged to deliver.'
'Then do so!' The Alcalde leaned back in his chair and began to drum thick stubby fingers on the desk.
'Captain Sharpe is willing to deliver up the Santo Rosario, her illustrious passenger and crew in exchange for the services of a pilot competent to navigate his vessel southward, and a store of seagoing supplies.'
Hector paused, allowing the Alcalde a moment in which to appreciate that he was being offered a way of ridding himself of the pirate menace.
'If His Excellency agrees to these terms, I have been instructed to guide the pilot to the place where the exchange will take place. Captain Sharpe gives his word that the lady, Dona Juana, will be released unharmed. Afterwards he and his vessel will depart the South Sea.'
The Alcalde looked at Hector with pure scorn. 'What happens to your bandit comrades is not for me to decide. Were that so, I would see to it that Captain Sharpe and all his crew hang from the mastheads of our Armada del Sur. Unfortunately there has to be a due process.' He looked towards the sergeant. 'Take him away, and keep him locked up until further notice.'
The sergeant grasped Hector by the arm and was about to wheel him about. There was just enough time for the young man to add, 'With respect, Your Excellency. Captain Sharpe instructed me to say that if I do not return within a week, he will steer south, without a pilot, and take Senora Juana with him.'
The Alcalde slammed his hand down on the desk. 'Not another word!' he barked.
Back in his cell, Hector watched the daylight fade through the small window in the wall, and thought of how much he depended on Maria. Only her evidence would persuade the Alcalde and his fellow officials that Dona Juana had not been harmed. Also, they were sure to question her about everything she had seen while a prisoner. They would want to know about Trinity, her condition and armament, the morale and number of her crew, and whether Bartholomew Sharpe was capable of carrying out his threat and sailing off if his seven-day deadline was not met, and if he could be trusted to honour an exchange. For a second time in twenty-four hours Hector found himself reassessing Maria's qualitie
s. On the fishing boat she had shown herself to be thoughtful and level-headed, and in the presence of the angry crowd she had kept cool. He told himself that she would not allow herself to be browbeaten by the Alcalde into giving false evidence or understating her case. And knowing her affection for Dona Juana, he was sure that Maria would do everything in her power to convince the Alcalde that he should agree to an exchange.
With that reassuring thought Hector stretched himself out on the narrow bench and closed his eyes. The image that once again floated into his mind just before he fell asleep was of Maria on the fishing boat earlier that morning as she stood up and faced into the wind. She had looked so composed and at ease. He allowed himself a moment's optimism which had nothing to do with his mission to the Alcalde: he speculated that perhaps Maria had been pleased to be starting the day in his company.
A voice speaking English woke him. For a moment he thought he was back on Trinity. Then the rancid smell of mouldering straw rather than Stockholm tar reminded him that he was in a cell. 'Well, Lynch, haven't seen you since Arica,' said the voice again. Hector swung his legs off the bench and sat up, conscious that he was very hungry, also that he was sore and stiff from sleeping on the hard surface of the bench.
The door to the cell stood open. Leaning against the jamb was a figure that stirred a hazy, vaguely disagreeable memory. Even seen against the light it was evident that the man in the doorway was well turned out. He was dressed in knee breeches and good stockings and a well-tailored dark blue vest with gilt buttons over a fresh white shirt. He wore expensive-looking buckled shoes and had tied his hair back in a neat queue. Everything about him spoke of prosperity and the contentment of a man of means. It took Hector, still slightly groggy, a moment to identify his visitor. He was one of Trinity's surgeons whom he had last seen blind drunk in the squalor of the desecrated church in Arica. Then the man had scarcely been able to stand, his speech slurred with alcohol, and he had been wearing soiled and sea-stained rags. Now it was as if he had just emerged freshly washed and shaved from a barber shop, ready to take a stroll through a fashionable part of town.
