Sea Robber hl-3

by Tim Severin

  The Ta-yin’s angry interruption cut across his explanation.

  ‘Please step back,’ Panu begged, still crouching on the ground. ‘The great man says you stink.’

  Hector was aware how unwashed and filthy he was compared to the immaculate grandee in front of him. Awkwardly he retreated. The bushi retrieved the instrument and, without waiting for instruction from his master, proceeded to smash the backstaff to splinters.

  Next from the knapsack came the almanac. Hector felt a twinge of anxiety. He could make himself a replacement back-staff. But without the almanac and its tables, he would be reduced to using the North Star to establish his vessel’s latitude. The Ta-yin had opened the almanac and was idly turning the pages.

  ‘My Lord,’ he said loudly, ‘that book helps in divination. It foresees the positions of the celestial bodies.’

  The Ta-yin lost interest in it and handed the undamaged book back to the bushi, who next offered him a folder of papers. At last the ‘great man’ showed a flicker of interest. He leafed through the folder, pausing from time to time. Then he returned the portfolio with a single grunted comment.

  ‘What did he say?’ whispered Hector.

  ‘Simple and untutored,’ Panu translated. The bushi tore up the contents of the folder. Scraps of coloured paper fluttered to the ground. They were the drawings Dan had made on the Encantadas.

  Panu swallowed nervously before he relayed the Ta-yin’s next announcement. ‘The Shimazu have forbidden on pain of death the ownership or use of weapons of any sort. Yet this morning a bond servant was robbed, then threatened with a knife. Both are capital crimes.’

  Several of Eaton’s men glanced nervously towards Domine, who was standing in the front rank and close enough to hear the interpreter. A few of them edged away, leaving clear space around him. To his credit, the dark-haired sailor stood his ground. Staring straight at the Ta-yin, he casually spat on the sand.

  A shiver of apprehension ran through the crowd of onlookers. At a word from his master, the bushi moved forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. Hector expected to see the blade flash out and cut down the insolent sailor. Instead the man-at-arms carefully disengaged the long sword, still in its scabbard, from his sash. Nodding to an attendant, the bushi handed him the weapon. Then he gestured for Domine to step forward.

  Cautiously the sailor moved out into the open. The bushi reached to his sash and withdrew his second sword from its sheath. The blade was short, no more than ten inches long, and clearly designed for close-range hand-to-hand fighting.

  Domine understood what was expected. A hint of a smile appeared on his swarthy face. He made a tiny click of approval with his tongue and suddenly the stiletto was in his hand. He edged forward to give himself more room, shifted on his feet to find his balance, and narrowed his eyes as he watched the armoured bushi moving towards him. While the man-at-arms was still several yards away, Domine cocked his arm and threw the stiletto. The attack was delivered with perfect timing and total surprise. The dagger flew towards its target, the bushi’s face. An instant later the man-at-arms flicked his blade up. There was a sharp impact of metal on metal, and the stiletto fell harmlessly to the sand.

  Domine spun round and ran for his life towards the water’s edge and the cockboat.

  The Ta-yin gave a single, sharp grunt of disgust. The bushi didn’t bother to chase his adversary, but slid his short sword back into his sheath. A moment later there was a yelp of pain as Domine ran headlong into the cordon of musketeers. He was tripped and then clubbed as he lay on the ground.

  Hector held his breath, waiting for what would come next. The men behind him stirred uneasily, overawed and subdued. Someone was quietly muttering a string of profanities. The bushi faced his attendant and accepted back his long sword, bowing and receiving it with both hands in a formal gesture. Carefully he returned the weapon to his belt.

  The Ta-yin stayed very still, his gaze unwavering as he inspected the men clustered before him. Slowly and deliberately he drew the fan from his sash and, without opening it, used it to point at someone in the crowd. Hector turned his head to see who it was. A head taller than all those around him, Jezreel was easy to pick out.

  The Ta-yin was making some sort of pronouncement. ‘That man is also to be punished,’ translated Panu. It flashed into Hector’s mind that his friend was being made some sort of example because of his huge size. Then Panu added, ‘He is guilty of wearing a weapon.’

  Projecting over Jezreel’s right shoulder was the hilt of the backsword he carried slung on his back.

  Understanding that he had been singled out, Jezreel came to the front of the crowd. When Panu repeated what the Ta-yin had said, the former prizefighter spoke calmly to the interpreter. ‘Tell him I have earned my right to wear a sword, just as much as that man there.’ He nodded towards the bushi.

  There was a long interval before the Ta-yin replied.

  ‘The barbarian boasts because he is very big and strong. My captain will teach him that great size is of no consequence in swordsmanship.’

  He spoke a few words and an attendant fetched one of the bowl-shaped helmets and handed it to the man-at-arms, who settled it on his head.

  Jezreel had already unslung his backsword and was unwrapping the greased rags that kept the blade from rusting. He rolled the rags into a ball, which he tossed to Jacques. The crowd of sailors shuffled back, allowing space for the big man to take a few practice swings with the heavy blade. But Jezreel merely kicked off his shoes and, wearing only a shirt and breeches, stood with sword in hand hanging loosely by his side.

  The man-at-arms hesitated and, looking down at the ground, spoke humbly to his master. ‘The bushi does not wish to draw his sword,’ translated Panu. ‘He says it would dishonour his blade to use it against another coward, someone who is preparing to run away.’

  The Ta-yin turned his white-powdered face towards the crew of the Nicholas and spoke scornfully. ‘He says,’ continued Panu, ‘that, to encourage the big man to stand and fight, he will allow him and his comrades to leave in their ship if he is the victor.’

  Apparently reassured, the bushi bowed and placed his right hand on the handle of his longer sword. In a single, graceful movement he withdrew it from its scabbard, raised it over his head and made a sideways movement with his right foot. He brought up his left hand to take a double grip. The blade came slicing down through the air. He stiffened his wrists and the tip of the shining blade came to a stop, pointing straight at his opponent. It was an elegant and controlled display from a lifetime of rehearsal.

  Hector looked from one man to the other, desperately trying to imagine how his friend could possibly win the contest. Jezreel towered over his opponent and had a longer reach by at least six inches. But the bushi was armoured from his helmet to his shin guards while, by contrast, the ex-prizefighter was vulnerable to the slightest touch of the Shimazu blade. Hector recalled the lightning speed of the blow that had sliced off Ookooma’s head, and the reaction that was quick enough to deflect Domine’s stiletto in mid-air. He feared Jezreel would be outpaced. Nor were their two weapons anything like evenly matched. Jezreel’s backsword was a utility tool, dull and sturdy, a blade two inches wide and nearly straight, a simple cross-piece and two plain hoops to protect the hand. The bushi obviously held a masterpiece of the swordsmith’s art. The blade was designed for both cut and thrust, a glistening strip of polished steel with a gentle curve towards an angled tip, a razor-sharp edge. Hector had a glimpse of the hilt before the bushi drew the sword from his sash. The handle was cross-laced with thongs to provide a perfect grip.

  The two combatants faced one another, some ten paces apart in the bright sunlight. There was very little breeze. The Shimazu warrior was tensed and ready, his sword absolutely still, his eyes under the helmet’s visor fixed on his opponent. Jezreel still had not lifted his backsword. He seemed distracted, thinking of something else. From time to time he shrugged his massive shoulders, easing the muscles.

  T
ime passed, and Hector was aware of a growing impatience and confusion among the men from the Nicholas. He supposed they were wondering if Jezreel had lost his nerve or was regretting that he’d provoked the fight. Hector knew his friend too well to think the same, yet as the minutes dragged by, he was puzzled by Jezreel’s inaction.

  Across the sandy fighting ground the Ta-yin sat on his folding stool, unmoving and impassive, his face expressionless.

  The bushi made a slight move. He brought his left hand up and touched his helmet. For a moment Hector thought he was making some sort of salute or challenge. Then it was clear the man-at-arms was adjusting the position of the visor, the better to shade his eyes.

  With a brief stir of hope, Hector wondered if Jezreel was calculating on the benefit of having the sun’s glare behind him. He checked where the bushi’s shadow fell. But it was barely past midday, and there was very little advantage, if any.

  Without warning, Jezreel let out a great bellow. At the same moment he launched himself forward. In huge strides, he covered the ground faster than seemed possible, even for a man of his height and bulk. Still roaring, he charged straight at his opponent’s sword. Raising his backsword high above his head, he delivered a massive downward cut at the bushi’s helmet. The speed and directness of the onslaught took everyone by surprise, including the Shimazu man-at-arms. For an eye-blink the bushi stood still, as if locked in his rigid pose. Then his training took over. Two-handed, he swung up his sword high enough to protect his head and held it parallel to the ground. It was the correct, classic blocking move. Jezreel’s backsword smashed down on the Shimazu blade with a tremendous ringing clang. Under their protective shoulder pads, the bushi’s arms flexed like springs to absorb the impact. Then the man-at-arms took a quarter-pace backwards. It was the proper response, to make space for a counter-strike. But Jezreel’s backsword was already descending again. The speed of raw violence was shocking. The big man pressed forward, looming over his armoured rival, raining down blows in such quick succession that the clashing steel made a continuous clangour. The bushi was a consummate swordsman. Without losing control he carefully edged backwards, fending off the attack, safe within his armour. He was ready to turn Jezreel’s overwhelming strength against the giant. Instead of blocking the backsword, the man-at-arms offered up his own blade at an angle, so that Jezreel’s weapon would slide aside and leave the big man open to attack. But Jezreel was not to be deflected. He turned his wrist just before his backsword made contact, so that every blow struck square and with terrific force.

  The method was brutal, ugly and graceless. The flurry of blows owed nothing to the finer techniques of fencing. By sheer strength the former prizefighter was battering down his opponent’s defence. Gradually the bushi’s blocking moves became less effective. His defence began to sag. Too proud, or untrained, to turn and seek a safer distance, he started to weaken. The descending backsword came hacking closer and closer to its target. Finally it connected with the bowl-shaped helmet. Two or three more blows, each more shattering than the last, and the bushi’s knees buckled. Like a blacksmith beating metal, Jezreel unleashed one final strike, this time with the hilt of his backsword. He smashed it down on the centre of the bowl-shaped helmet, and the stunned man-at-arms fell face down.

  There was a murmur of amazed shock from the watching crowd. The display of rampant physical strength had been stupefying. Several of the Shimazu musketeers were fingering their guns and looking towards their master, waiting for instructions. Hector feared they’d be ordered to shoot Jezreel where he stood, or to fire into the crowd. Backsword still in hand, his shirt soaked with sweat, Jezreel took a moment to catch his breath. Then he addressed Stolck and Panu without even looking at the Ta-yin, ‘Tell the “great man” that his honour is now at stake.’

  Panu appeared unable to look the Ta-yin directly in the face. The interpreter had risen to his feet during the fight and was about to translate Jezreel’s words when the Ta-yin’s sour voice broke in. The tone was scathing, the words clipped, spoken in short bursts, this time allowing for translation.

  ‘Barbaric and brutish . . . Only a savage would fight like that . . . but I honour my word. Anyone who is still here this time tomorrow will be killed.’

  The men from the Nicholas looked at one another with a mixture of relief and urgency. Those in the rear began to hurry back to their camp. Eaton was bold enough to request that the goods stolen from the ship be returned.

  The Ta-yin gave him a baleful look. ‘No, I promised to let the men go free. Not the goods. Besides, without gunpowder for your guns, you will be obliged to begin learning the true way of fighting with the blade.’

  TEN

  ‘HOW DID YOU know what to do?’ asked Hector. It was the following day and he and Jezreel were on the main deck of the Nicholas, tidying up loose ropes as the vessel carefully eased along the channel through the reef.

  ‘The deft way he beheaded Ookooma.’

  Hector winced. He could still picture the single slashing sword stroke, the head jumping off the fisherman’s shoulders. ‘That would have deterred me,’ he confessed.

  Jezreel paused to adjust a coil more neatly over a belaying pin. ‘When that fellow mentioned that his dad owned an old lobster helmet, it put me in mind of how they did away with King Charles. The headsman used a heavy axe against a chopping block.’

  ‘How did that persuade you to rush on your opponent like a man possessed?’ asked Hector.

  ‘King Charles lost his head to a single axe stroke. Everyone knows a headsman sometimes needs three, even four, blows to finish the cut. So imagine what sort of sword you need to do the same job so cleanly.’

  ‘It hadn’t ever occurred to me,’ said Hector drily.

  ‘Something with an edge so finely honed, and yet so strong and slender, it whips through sinew and bone as you or I might lop a twig from a tree.’

  Hector recalled the design of the Shimazu sword. It had a slight curve towards the tip, a longish handle and – if he had seen it correctly – the blade was ridged in the centre.

  ‘And how light it was,’ Jezreel continued. ‘I watched that warrior wielding it. The sword was like an extension to his arm, beautifully balanced and easy to swing. It wasn’t the weight of the sword that carried it through the castaway’s neck. It was the quality, shape and flexibility of it, as sweet a blade as you could imagine.’

  Jezreel was enjoying his subject. Edged weapons and their use had been part of his livelihood as a prizefighter. ‘That warrior had good reason to treat that blade like something very precious.’

  ‘I still don’t see the connection between his regard for the sword and the way you attacked him,’ said Hector. He recalled how carefully the man-at-arms had handed his sword to the attendant before he went forward to face Domine and his stiletto.

  Jezreel was working on a rope’s end that had become kinked. His big, scarred hands untwisted the strands until they lay snugly together again. ‘I guessed he’d do anything to protect that blade. The cutting edge would easily chip if it hit hard against something really solid. And to knock out even a tiny sliver of metal would be sacrilege, as far as he was concerned.’

  ‘So you rushed at him to threaten the blade, rather than the man himself?’

  ‘Precisely. His first instinct was to defend himself with a blocking blow, using the blunt edge of his sword. Once I’d tricked him into raising his sword, reverse side up, I was going to pin him down, keep him in place and batter him into submission.’

  ‘You picked up his sword after the fight.’

  ‘Yes. I just wanted to check I’d been right. The leading edge was as sharp and fine as a razor, and it had what a cutler calls a grind ridge down the centre of the blade. That left the back edge blunt and gave the blade its strength.’

  ‘But didn’t you think of the risk when you hurled yourself forward so blatantly?’

  ‘I worried that my backsword would shatter against such wonderfully wrought steel. But in the end it did the
job for me.’ He looked across to Dan as he approached them. ‘Here’s our pilot now. Looks like he got his job done as well.’

  The Miskito had spent the last half-hour perched out on the bowsprit, peering down into the water. He had been conning the ship along the channel, giving hand signals to the men at the helm. As usual, he looked very self-composed.

  ‘Safely clear?’ asked Jezreel.

  ‘No more coral heads I could see, and after three days of going out to strike fish on the reef, I know the channel well enough to say that we are finished with it.’

  Jezreel turned to Hector. ‘So it’s up to you now. You’re still our navigator, even though the fancy topknot made trash of your charts and backstaff. Where do you think we should go?’

  ‘We still have our compasses, so we can retrace the same course that brought us here,’ Hector answered without hesitation. He had been mulling over the problem from the moment the Nicholas had weighed anchor.

  ‘You mean we head back towards the Thief Islands?’

  ‘With Dan to help me, it’ll take only a couple of days to make a replacement backstaff and I’ve still got the almanac. So I’ll soon be able to fix our latitude.’

  Jezreel gave Hector a shrewd look. ‘Have you come round to our way of thinking that we might find Maria?’

  Hector felt uncomfortable and bewildered. He knew he owed a debt to his friends. Their scheming had brought his search for the woman he loved much farther forward. Yet as the possibility of reaching the Ladrones grew stronger, he had begun to have doubts. He secretly dreaded what he’d find in the islands. Maybe Don Alonso in Valdivia had been wrong, and Maria’s employer had never taken her to the islands and she was still in Peru. Or Maria had moved on and was no longer there. Worse, some misfortune might have befallen her. There were so many hazards in Spain’s far-flung colonies – fevers, unknown diseases, sudden contagions – and few places could be more remote than the Ladrones. If Maria fell sick in such a place, there’d be no doctors, only local remedies, and her death would have been unremarkable. Except to him.