by Tim Severin
'I thought 1 detected a foreign accent,' said Hector.
'I'm originally from Greece. In the merchant service hereabouts you'll find Portuguese, Corsicans, Genoese, Venetians, men from all over. Local-born lads prefer to stay ashore and run plantations with Indian labourers. It's an easier life than tramping up and down the coast in merchant tubs.'
'But at least everyone respects a pilot.'
The Greek gave a cynical laugh. 'I'm only half a pilot. The Alcalde and his sort fear that we'll gang up and run for home and take our knowledge with us. So the rules say that I can never serve aboard a ship whose captain is also a foreigner.'
'But now you'll be aboard Trinity and that's a foreign ship.'
'Even then my knowledge won't be of much use. I only know the coast south of here, and most of that is a barren, godforsaken land. That's about as much as this addled head can hold at any one time.' The Greek smiled sourly and tapped his brow.
'So you don't have any charts?'
The Greek bared his teeth at Hector in astonishment. 'Charts! If the Alcalde got to learn that I was making charts, or even possessed one, I would prefer to take my punishment as a smuggler. No one except a handful of the most trusted captains are allowed to keep a derotero and they must be Spaniards, like Captain Lopez of the Santo Rosario, God rest his soul.'
His remark reminded Hector of the glance that had passed between the Alcalde and Captain Peralta. It dawned on him now that the real reason why they had agreed to an exchange was the need to recover Captain Lopez's folder of navigation notes and sketches. All their talk about Dona Juana's well-being had been a sham. They had insisted that she was treated with respect because then no one would search her belongings and find the derotero.
Hector groaned inwardly. If he had not been so distracted by Maria, he would have worked this out for himself. Then an even more dispiriting thought occurred: the only person who could have told the Alcalde about the hidden derotero was Maria.
Looking back towards Paita's church tower, Hector cursed himself for being a fool. He had allowed himself to be misled. But what made his chagrin even more painful was that he still could not stop thinking about Maria.
SEVENTEEN
'You weren't exactly honest with her either,' Dan bluntly pointed out when Hector told him of Maria's deception. 'Neither she nor Dona Juana know that we've made a copy of the derotero. That was done behind their backs.'
It was a breezy afternoon with a scattering of high cloud and Trinity was beating out to sea under plain sail. Hector had come back aboard three days earlier and, as arranged with the Alcalde, Dona Juana and the Santo Rosario had been left behind at Paita in exchange for the stores from Paita's royal dockyard. The supply of rope, canvas, tallow and tar meant that Trinity could be made fit for a long voyage, and as none of the crew relished the prospect of sailing back to Panama and returning through the jungle to the Caribbean, it had been decided to leave the Pacific by sailing south, all the way around the tip of South America.
'Do you think our pilot knows what he's doing? He seems more interested in gambling than in making sure we are heading the right way,' asked Dan dubiously. He was watching the Greek, whose name was Sidias. After telling the helmsman his course, he had produced a tavil board and started a game of backgammon against the quartermaster. Now they were quarrelling as to how the game should be played. Sidias was insisting that they follow the Greek rules, as they were more ancient.
'No harm in following his advice, at least for now,' Hector assured the Miskito. 'He says there's a strong adverse current along the coast and we need to be at least a hundred miles offshore before we turn south. Sidias claims that, by staying well out to sea, we'll trim weeks off our passage.'
'Is he proposing to take us through the Passage or around the Cape?'
'He hasn't said,' Hector answered.
'Not much use as a pilot then,' sniffed Jacques who had walked over to join them. He lowered his voice. 'Will those navigation notes you copied be of any use when we are trying to find the Passage?'
'I can't be sure. We've never put any of them to the test.'
'If Captain Lopez's navigation notes were so precious, I don't understand why Dona Juana did not simply get rid of them overboard. She could have dropped the folder out of the stern window at any time,' said Dan.
'You don't know how those aristocratic women think,' Jacques told him. 'Dona Juana might have known the value of the folder and wanted to make sure it got back into Spanish hands. But more likely she took a delight in believing that she was making fools of a group of slow-witted mariners. It was a game for her, to demonstrate her superiority.'
He fell silent as someone behind them coughed. It was Basil Ringrose who had just appeared on deck, carrying a back-staff and notebook. He looked ill, his skin waxy and pale, eyes bloodshot, and he had difficulty in breathing. Many of the crew believed that he was still suffering from taking shelter under a manzanilla tree on a night he had spent ashore. There had been a shower of rain in the night and he had woken up with his skin covered in red spots from the poisonous drips which had sprinkled on him while he slept. The spots and their burning sensation had long since faded, but Ringrose remained sickly. He suffered from frequent headaches and bouts of near-blindness.
Ringrose reached out and grasped a weather shroud for support as another fit of violent coughing racked him.
Dan spoke up. 'I was just asking Hector if we would be better going around the Cape or through the Passage.'
'The Passage would be my choice,' Ringrose answered huskily. 'Provided we can find the entrance. The coast is likely to be scattered with islands and reefs. We could finish up smashed to pieces.'
'Then why not try for the Cape?'
'Because no English vessel has ever gone that way. That's something our captain failed to mention when he suggested we should sail our way out of the South Sea. The Spaniards and the Dutch have gone round the Cape, but no other nation as far as is known. Even Drake himself preferred the Passage. There are ice islands down there.' He hawked, turned his head and spat a gob of phlegm over the rail. 'Anyway, that's a much longer way. I doubt we'd be back in home waters before Christmas. And who knows what sort of reception we will receive.'
'Couldn't be worse than what the Spaniards will do to us if we stay around here,' said Jacques.
Ringrose treated him to a sardonic smile. 'You forget that we are the rump of an irregular expedition. Captain Sharpe and his friends left Jamaica without so much as by-your-leave to the governor. Not one of our leaders carried a commission to go raiding the Main. That makes us all pirates, if the authorities choose to think so.'
'But Sir Henry Morgan never obtained prior permission when he attacked Panama, and he finished up with a knighthood,' Hector objected.
'He brought back so much plunder that he was too wealthy to be prosecuted. By contrast, what have we got to show for our efforts? A few hundred pieces of eight for every man? That's not enough to buy our way out of trouble. Besides, we don't have Morgan's connections with the rich and powerful.'
There was a short silence, then Ringrose was speaking again. 'In the time we've been gone from Jamaica, anything can have happened. A new king on the throne, a different governor, wars declared and peace treaties signed. We've no idea of what might have changed, and how that will affect our return. We'll not find out until we get there.' He glanced up at the sky. 'Sun's close to its zenith, Hector.'
Hector walked aft with him to where Sidias was sitting cross-legged on the deck, still absorbed in his game of backgammon. He did not even glance up as their shadows passed over him. Ringrose took the noon sight and wrote down the reading. Hector noticed that his hand was shaking.
'How long do you think it is before we reach the mouth of the Passage?' Ringrose said, speaking loudly so that Sidias could no longer ignore him.
The Greek looked up grudgingly. He wrinkled his brow as if in deep thought before announcing, 'Five or six weeks.' Then he turned his attention bac
k to the tavil board and ostentatiously moved one of the counters, making it clear that he had no interest in further conversation.
Six weeks out from Paita, Sidias declared it was time to steer back towards the land and Sharpe followed his advice. As if to endorse the decision, the wind shifted into the ideal quarter, south-west, and with a fresh gale on the beam Trinity fairly tore along. The mood on the ship quickly became light-hearted and expectant. For some time past there had been a drop in the temperature of the air, and the men guessed that they were now far enough south to be in the region of the Passage. They acted with a careless exuberance as if to celebrate the final leg of their voyage. Hidden stocks of brandy and rum were broached, and several of the crew were fuddled, staggering and tripping as they made their way about the deck. Hector, however, was increasingly uneasy. He and Ringrose had been using dead reckoning to fix the ship's position. From time to time the two of them had disagreed on progress, the number of miles sailed, and whether or not there had been an ocean current taking them off track. On each occasion Hector had deferred to the more experienced man, partly because Ringrose's illness had made him argumentative and tetchy. Only the readings from the backstaff could be relied on, and they placed the vessel at 50 degrees south. But that was no indication of how close they were to land, and Hector had long ago decided that Sidias was worse than useless. The Greek was a gambler by nature, and would trust to luck that they would make a safe arrival on the coast. Whenever asked how soon they would raise the land, Sidias was evasive. His job, he always answered, was to identify the landfall, then indicate which way the ship should go. The Greek was so aloof that Hector felt obliged to seek him out that evening and ask if he was not concerned about how he would get back to Paita. In reply the Greek gave a dismissive shrug. 'What makes you think I want to leave this ship? There's no reason for me to return to Paita.'
'But you told me that the Alcalde forced you to become our pilot.'
'And he will make my life miserable once again if ever I return there. So I prefer to stay with this company.'
Taken aback by the Greek's self-regard, Hector went to join his friends. It was too chilly at night to sleep on deck, and they had slung hammocks in the aft end of the hold. Groping his way through the semi-darkness, he found Jezreel and Jacques already sound asleep. Only Dan was awake and when Hector told him of his concerns about Sidias' competence, Dan advised him not to fret. Perhaps in the morning they would have a chance to look through the notes copied from Lopez's derotero and see if they would be useful when they eventually made a landfall. In the meantime there was nothing to be done, and Hector should get some rest. But Hector was unable to sleep. He lay in his hammock, listening to the swirl of water along the hull and the creaking and working of the ship as Trinity forced her way through the sea.
Hector must have dozed off, for he came sharply awake to the sound of roars of panic. They came from directly above him, from the quarterdeck, and were loud enough to be heard above the sound of the waves crashing against the wooden hull. Trinity was heaving and pitching awkwardly, and water was surging back and forth across the bilge. The wind had increased in strength. In the pitch dark Hector rolled out of his hammock and felt for his sea coat. All around him were the noises of men scrambling out of their hammocks, asking questions, wondering what was happening. The shouts came again, more urgent now. He heard the words 'Cliffs! Land ahead!'
Clambering up the companion ladder and onto the quarterdeck, he came upon a scene of confusion. A sliver of moon rode a sky streaked with skeins of high, thin cloud. There was just enough light to show men frantically hauling on ropes, scrambling to reduce sail, and when he looked aft, the figure of Bartholomew Sharpe beside the helm.
'White water close on the port bow!' came a terror-stricken shout from the bows.
'Get the topsails off! Quick now!' bellowed Sharpe. He was half-dressed and must have run out from his cabin. A high-pitched squealing, frenzied and unearthly, set Hector's teeth on edge. For a moment he froze. Then he remembered that among the stores loaded at Paita had been a half-grown sow. The animal was being kept as a Christmas feast. She had sensed the mood of terror on board and was squealing in fright.
Sharpe caught sight of Hector and beckoned him over with furious gestures. 'That cursed numbskull of a pilot!' he shouted above the roar of the wind. 'We're entangled among rocks!'
Looking forward over the bowsprit, Hector caught a glimpse of something which showed white for a brief moment. Perhaps a hundred paces ahead, it was low down and above it loomed what seemed to be a darker shape though he could not be sure. Even with his limited experience he half-recognised waves beating against the foot of a cliff. Trinity answered the helm and began to turn away from the danger directly ahead, but almost immediately there was another cry of alarm, this time from his right. A sailor was pointing out into the darkness and there, not more than fifty yards away, was another eruption of white foam. This time he was sure. It was water breaking over a reef.
Sharpe was shouting again, even more angry. 'We've been driven into a skerry. I need sober lookouts, not tosspots. Lynch! Get up there into the foretop and sing out if you see a danger. Take your friend, the striker, with you. He sees things when others can't.'
Hector ran to find Dan and together they scrambled up the shrouds and onto the small platform of the foretop. The wind was strengthening still further, and on their exposed perch they peered forward, trying to see into the darkness. Below their legs the forecourse still bellied out, providing steerage way for the helmsmen. From farther aft came the shouts of men taking in the mainsail, urgently reducing the speed of the ship.
'How much longer until first light?' Hector yelled, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. He could see almost nothing in the murk, only vague and indistinct shapes, some darker than others. It was impossible to judge how far away they were.
'Maybe an hour,' Dan answered. 'There! A reef or a small island. We're coming too close.'
Hector turned and shouted out the information. Someone down on deck must have heard him for he saw the foreshortened figure of a man running to the helm and relaying the message, then a group of men hastily sheeting in the triangular mizzen sail to assist the action of the rudder in turning the ship. Trinity changed direction, clawing up into the wind.
'More rocks, by that patch of foam,' announced Dan. This time he was pointing to starboard.
Hector cried out another warning and, standing up on the platform, wrapped one arm around the foretopmast. With the other arm he pointed which way Trinity should go. At that instant a cloud passed across the moon, and there was complete darkness. All of a sudden he was completely disoriented, the ship swayed beneath his feet, the motion magnified by his height above the deck, and he felt dizzy. For one heart-stopping moment his grip on the mast slipped, and he tottered, feeling that he was about to fall. He had a sudden, awful vision of smashing clown onto the deck or, worse, landing in the sea unnoticed and being left behind in the wake of the vessel. Hurriedly he clamped his other arm around the mast, clutching it to his chest in a fierce grip, and slithered down to a sitting position. Within a minute the cloud had passed, and there was enough moonlight to see his surroundings. Dan seemed not to have noticed his brief horror, but Hector could feel his clothes clammy with cold sweat.
For an hour or more the two of them conned the ship from the foremast as Trinity swerved and sidled her way past one danger and then the next. Gradually the sky began to lighten and, very slowly, the extent of their predicament became clear.
Ahead stretched an iron-bound coast, a vista of grey and black cliffs and headlands which extended in both directions far into the distance. Behind the cliffs rose ridges of bare rock which became the slopes and screes of a coastal mountain range whose jagged crest was lightly dusted with snow. Nowhere was there anything to relieve the impression of monotonous desolation except an occasional clump of dark trees growing in sheltered folds of the austere landscape. Closer to hand were the small of
fshore islands and reefs which had so nearly destroyed the ship in the darkness and still menaced her. Here the surface of the sea sporadically exploded in warning spouts of spray or heaved and sank in sudden upwellings which warned of submerged rocks and shoals. Even the channels between the islands were forbidding. In them the water moved strangely, sometimes streaked with foam, at other times with the deep, blue-black slickness of a powerful current.
'Hang on!' said Dan. He had seen the telltale white flurry of a squall which had suddenly ripped up the surface of the sea and was now racing towards them. Hector braced himself. Trinity abruptly heeled under the force of the wind. From below them came the creaking sound of the foresail spar as it took the strain and then the sudden crack of something breaking. The squall was strong enough to lift a vaporous whirl of fine spray and send it over the ship, darkening her timbers and leaving a slick on the deck. Hector felt the moisture settle on his face and trickle down inside his collar.
A hail from the deck made him look down. Sharpe was beckoning to him, ordering him to return to near the helm. He made his way carefully down the shrouds, gripping tightly in case another squall struck, and reached the poop deck. Sharpe was no longer in a towering rage but seething with subdued anger. Beside him Sidias looked shamefaced, clearly ill at ease.
'Lynch, this idiot seems to have lost his command of English,' snarled Sharpe. 'Tell him that I want some sensible advice, not pretence and falsehood. Ask him in a language he understands what he recommends, which way we go.'
Speaking in Spanish, Hector repeated the question. But he knew already that the pilot had been feigning incomprehension.
'I don't know,' the Greek confessed, avoiding Hector's gaze. 'I have no knowledge of this part of the coast. It is strange to me. I have never been here before.'
'Is there nothing you recognise?'
'Nothing,' Sidias shook his head.
'What about the tides?'
Sidias nodded towards a nearby island. 'Judge for yourself. That line of the weeds indicates a rise and fall of at least ten or twelve feet and that would be normal for the parts of the coast I am familiar with.'
