by Tim Severin
And even if he did find Maria, how would she respond to him after all this time? Maybe she’d changed her mind or had forgotten him for another man. Everything was so uncertain. The more he tried to understand his feelings about her, the more confused he became and the less inclined to share his misgivings.
‘Maybe Maria won’t even recognize me if we do ever find her,’ he mumbled.
Eaton called for him from the quarterdeck, and Hector was grateful to break off the conversation and make his way to where the captain was in conference with the quartermaster.
‘Lynch, the quartermaster thinks we should return on the same course that brought us here.’
‘I agree. In a couple of days I’ll have a replacement backstaff. Dan can help me. He’s clever with his hands. And I have the almanac.’
‘Do you remember anything from that chart that was destroyed? Any details that might help?’
Hector shook his head. ‘No. But I do know the right latitude for the Ladrones. Our safest course is to sail south until we reach that parallel, then turn west until we strike the islands. They should lie across our track.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t overrun them,’ said Eaton. ‘We’ve only enough water for ten days, even on short allowance.’
The Nicholas’ abrupt departure under threat from the Ta-yin had been a hectic scramble. There had only been enough time to carry the half-repaired sails back aboard and load two dozen barrels of fresh water. There had been no point in asking the villagers for supplies. They were cowed into submission by their overlords.
‘There’ll be no more lolling about on-shore or easy times,’ said Eaton grimly. ‘When we reach the Ladrones, we keep our weapons and our wits about us, and make it clear that anyone who troubles us suffers.’
HECTOR WAS feeling pleased with himself. As he had predicted, land had been sighted after eight days at sea. The lookout at the masthead had reported two islands side by side. But as the Nicholas drew closer, the dark double hump on the horizon was revealed as a single large island with a high summit at each end and a saddle of land between.
‘Any idea what that place might be, Lynch?’ asked Eaton. Like the rest of the crew, Hector was on the foredeck, trying to distinguish the main features of the shoreline. Behind the usual fringe of coral with its breaking waves was a quiet lagoon maybe a hundred yards across. From its beach a coastal plain extended to a line of reddish-grey bluffs, which marked the boundary of a plateau. Farther on, the ground climbed steeply to rugged highlands. Everywhere was solid green – the feathery tops of coconut palms on the lowland, dense jungle on the bluffs and lower slopes of the mountain, open grassland on the summit.
‘One of the Thief Islands,’ Hector answered. ‘But I have no idea which one.’
‘This time we won’t poke our heads in a noose. We work our way round to the south until we get into a lee. Then we’ll either heave to or drop anchor.’ Eaton walked briskly back to the quarterdeck. A short while later the Nicholas turned and began to follow the coast.
Hector continued gazing at the shore. His eye was caught by a pale triangle among the breakers crashing on the reef. Moments later he saw several more of these triangles, rising and falling to the rhythm of the waves, keeping pace with the ship. It took several minutes for him to realize they were sails. The boats beneath them were either too small or too low in the water to be visible at that distance.
‘Frisky little beggars,’ observed a sailor standing beside him. ‘You’d have thought they’d capsize in that surf.’
The sailing boats quickly worked clear of the surf and set a slanting course to intercept the Nicholas. Hector squinted in surprise. Something was strange. He’d grown accustomed to the pace of movement at sea: the initial glimpse of a distant sail, the long, slow approach as the other vessel drew closer and closer, and the sudden haste in the final moments. But this was different. The cluster of triangular sails, at least a dozen of them, was approaching at the pace of a troop of horsemen moving at a brisk trot. They were catching the Nicholas as if the larger ship was dawdling, instead of pressing forward under full sail.
Hector took another look at the oncoming boats.
They reminded him of a school of hurrying dolphin. They surged across the surface of the sea, spray flying, thrusting the water aside, often showing the full length of their hulls, which were painted a rusty red with white trim.
The sailor beside him let out an admiring whistle. ‘They must be doing twelve knots, maybe more,’ he said. ‘You wonder they don’t thrash themselves to bits.’
Soon the boats were very much nearer. Hector could see their general resemblance to the dugout canoes on the coast of West Africa. Yet these craft were altogether lighter and more finely shaped. Projecting out from the side of each of them was a structure that he had never seen before. A frame of poles supported a second, much smaller hull some six or seven feet away. This second hull acted as a long, narrow float and balanced the vessel so that it skimmed over the tops of the waves instead of ploughing through them.
Several of the Nicholas’ crew had gone below to fetch their muskets. They were back on deck, loading powder and shot and checking the flints were dry.
‘Don’t shoot unless you have to. We must conserve our powder,’ shouted Arianz from the quarterdeck. Everyone knew his meaning. The Ta-yin’s men had carried off the kegs that contained the vessel’s reserve stock of gunpowder. All the men had left was whatever they had previously transferred to their powder flasks.
‘They do not look warlike,’ observed Dan. He had joined Hector on the foredeck and was watching the approaching canoes. The Miskito’s dark eyes lit up with approval. ‘Now there is something I would like to try out at home,’ he said. ‘Those side floats are ingenious. They make their craft sit higher, and able to carry more sail, than we would among my people.’
The leading canoe had drawn level with the Nicholas. The canoe’s crew were skilfully spilling wind from the sails to slow down their craft and keep pace with the lumbering visitor. Hector saw Eaton glance farther aft. The remaining canoes were also closing the gap. Soon the Nicholas would be surrounded by a squadron of the strangers.
‘Don’t let any of them come aboard,’ the captain ordered harshly. ‘Make them keep their distance.’
The lead canoe carried four or five men, who stood and shouted.
‘What is it they are calling?’ Jacques asked.
Hector strained to hear. ‘I think they’re calling out “Hierro, hierro”, Spanish for iron.’
‘Well, at least they have a few words of a language we can understand,’ grunted the Frenchman.
One of the canoe men picked up a basket from the bottom of his craft and held it up on show.
‘He wants to trade iron for whatever he has in that basket,’ said Hector.
As usual Dan had the keenest eyesight. ‘They’ve brought out coconuts and other fruit.’
‘Mon Dieu, thank God for that,’ exclaimed Jacques. ‘I’m sick of the men complaining about mouldy salt fish and the maggots in the bread.’
Several of the Nicholas’ men had begun waving at the other canoes to come closer, but a bellow from Eaton stopped them. ‘Wait until we have found shelter. Then we’ll trade.’
For the next half-hour the Nicholas ran on, the strange spidery canoes keeping pace with ease. The vessel cleared the southern point of the mainland and an obvious anchorage came into view, where a small island offered shelter from the northeast breeze. Slowing, the Nicholas headed for a patch of smooth water. The leadsman cried out that there were twenty fathoms of water, and her helmsman put her sails aback. Even before the anchor was let go, her escort of canoes came clustering forward.
‘Remember, allow no one aboard,’ repeated Arianz.
‘Hierro, hierro,’ the natives shouted.
‘I’ll give them hierro,’ growled a suspicious sailor. ‘Bunch of arse-naked savages.’
Not one of the islanders wore a stitch of clothing. Big, strapping men, their sk
ins were a dark tawny colour with a very slight hint of yellow. They were taller than many on the Nicholas, and had large, square, fleshy faces. Most wore their long, black hair loose, though a few had shaven skulls and topknots. They appeared self-confident and friendly.
‘Have we any spare iron to trade with them?’ asked Jacques.
‘Only odds and ends,’ said Jezreel.
One of Eaton’s men was holding up a couple of broken links of anchor chain for the canoe men. They shook their heads and began making a circular motion with their arms.
‘What are they trying to tell us?’ asked Hector.
Dan clicked his fingers as he worked out the answer. ‘They want iron barrel hoops – most ships would carry them.’
The cooper was sent for, and he reluctantly agreed to dispose of three damaged hoops from his stores. These were waved in the air, and immediately two of the canoes shot closer.
A barter followed. Stolck leaned over the gunwale, acting as negotiator. Eventually, after much sign language and haggling, it was agreed to exchange two iron hoops for five baskets filled with fruit. Then a native on the second canoe pointed to some large gourds lying at his feet, and held up one finger.
‘What is that one trying to sell?’ asked Jacques.
‘Coconut oil, I guess,’ said Dan. The islander mimed wiping the contents of the gourds on his skin and using it to dress his hair.
‘Fresh coconut oil,’ said Jacques eagerly. ‘Let me have that. I will mash up the last of our stale bread and make fried doughboys.’
‘Make sure they don’t cheat us,’ Dan warned Stolck. ‘Get the fruit and oil on board before we part with the iron hoops.’
The two canoes sidled alongside, ropes were lowered and baskets and gourds attached. Only when these were lifted into the ship were the iron hoops relinquished. The crews of the canoes appeared to be very pleased with their trade. Their sheet-handlers tightened their lines. The men in the stern twisted their paddles to act as rudders and the canoes veered away, rapidly gaining speed as they headed back to the distant shore.
Stolck brought the first basket of fruit across to Jacques and laid it on the deck. ‘There you are, Cook. There should be plenty to go round.’ He began to lift out the coconuts. Then he swore. Underneath the top layer of fruit the basket had been filled with rubbish and gravel.
Jacques dipped a spoon into the coconut oil and licked it. ‘Delicious,’ he announced. Then he looked down at the surface of the gourd and frowned. He dipped the spoon again, tasted and spat. ‘Putain!’ he exclaimed. ‘We have been cheated. The coconut oil is only floating on the surface. The rest is sea water.’
Jezreel threw back his head and gave a huge roar of laughter. ‘Well, now we know for sure that we’re at the Thief Islands.’
IT WAS A disgruntled boat crew who pulled ashore to the small island next morning in the jolly boat. Three men with loaded muskets stood guard on the beach while the rest of the shore party set about climbing the nearest coconut trees and throwing down the fruit. No natives were to be seen, though everyone had the uncomfortable feeling they were being watched. A rivulet spilled out on the beach close to the landing place, and the men dug a cistern trench so that the casks and big earthenware jars could be filled. But the supply of fresh water was little more than a trickle, and it was clear that the Nicholas would be staying several days.
For safety, most of the men stayed on board while the laborious task of watering slowly went forward. They could see many triangular sails of the native craft in the distance. But it was not until the third morning that one of the vessels was seen heading for the anchorage. It came directly to the Nicholas. This time the natives on board were not nude, but wore long, sack-like shirts made of palmetto leaves sewn crudely together. Their leader – a tall, brawny man with an impressive mop of hair – offered up a leather pouch, which was brought to Eaton. Opening it, he pulled out four sheets of paper. After a quick glance he beckoned to Hector.
‘Lynch, come over here. You can make better sense of them.’
Hector took the pages and read through them slowly. ‘All four are the same,’ he said, looking up at Eaton. ‘It’s just that they’re written in Latin, Spanish, Dutch and French.’
‘What do they say?’ asked Eaton.
Hector selected the Spanish version and read out, ‘To the commander of the unknown vessel now lying off Cocos Island. We would know your purpose in coming here. If you are Christians, you will find safe shelter at our port of Aganah. Our messenger will guide you here. Trust him, but not the Chamorro.’
‘Who are the Chamorro?’
‘They must be natives, the indios as the Spanish would call them.’
‘And who sent this letter?’
Hector pretended to check the signature again. But he had no need to. It had been the first thing he had looked at, wondering if the letter came from the Governor of the Ladrones, Don Fernando de Costana. He should have been in office for at least a year now, with his wife, Maria’s employer. But Hector hadn’t recognized the name.
He made a conscious effort to hide his disappointment. ‘It’s signed by Sarjento Mayor Damian de Esplana. He describes himself as Maestre de Campo at the Presidio of Guahan.’
‘Well, at least we know exactly where we are,’ Arianz broke in. ‘Guahan is the largest of the Thief Islands, and Aganah is the provincial capital.’
Eaton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Why should this Esplana offer us shelter in his harbour? Sounds like a trap.’
‘I think not,’ said Arianz. ‘He hopes we are either Spanish or French, or even Dutch, and therefore friendly.’
‘And what about the Latin?’
‘He’s guessing that we would know the language if we were Catholics.’
‘Or because Latin is a common language between nations,’ pointed out Hector.
The quartermaster ignored him. ‘Aganah is the most isolated place in the entire Spanish empire. This Esplana probably doesn’t see more than one ship or two in a year. He’ll be keen to enlist our help.’
Eaton frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because he said not to trust the Chamorro. If they are the native people, then he’s obviously on bad terms with them.’
‘The men who brought the message are natives.’
‘Tame ones. Not like the mother-naked lot we saw first.’
Eaton was no longer listening. He thrust the French version of the letter towards Jacques.
‘Here, tell me whether it’s written by a Frenchman.’
Jacques read through the letter, then shook his head. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Can you pass yourself off as a French officer?’
The Frenchman gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘This brand on my face will not help.’ He rubbed the galérien’s G on his cheek, the brand faintly noticeable beneath his deep tan.
Eaton turned to Hector. ‘What about you? He’s your friend. Will you support him?’
Hector was wary. He and Dan both spoke reasonable French. They had first teamed up with Jacques when all three had served in King Louis’ galley fleet. ‘It depends what you want me to do.’
‘I want you to go to meet with this Esplana.’
‘So you won’t take the Nicholas into his harbour?’
Eaton shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. He’d soon work out we’re not to his liking.’
Hector thought long and hard before answering. He was being offered the perfect chance to investigate whether Maria was on the island. Yet if he came face to face with Don Fernando, everything would be ruined.
‘I can’t do it,’ he said finally. ‘The Governor might recognize me.’
‘You know the Governor?’ Eaton’s pale-green wolf’s eyes suddenly filled with suspicion.
‘When he was a high official in Peru, I negotiated with him for the ransom of his wife. I was told that he’d moved here when I was held prisoner in Valdivia,’ Hector confessed.
Eaton’s voice took on a menacing rasp. ‘That’s the f
irst I heard of it, Lynch. I thought you were slippery when you hoodwinked my crew back on the Encantadas. Now I know for sure. Is this where you wanted to come all along?’
Hector refused to be cowed. ‘I’ve had no hand in what has happened these past few weeks. The crew made their own decisions.’
Eaton glared angrily at the young man. Then he swung round to face Jacques. ‘Lynch is too craven to meet the Spaniards, so you’ll have to manage on your own. I want you to scout this place of refuge we are being offered. Find out if its defences are weak enough that we can seize and loot it. Say that we are a royal ship sent by King Louis to search for new lands for trade and plantation.’
Jacques shrugged casually. ‘Bien. If this Esplana asks about my face, I will say I was released from the galleys because I am a skilled mariner and volunteered for this exploring mission.’
‘The question may never arise,’ said Eaton.
‘We can’t attack Guahan,’ said Arianz. ‘We don’t have enough powder for our guns.’
Eaton’s expression grew more cunning. ‘I’ve thought of that. If Esplana wants our help against the indios, then we’ll say we’d be happy to assist. We’ll claim that our stock of powder got ruined by the sea air, and ask him to send us a few barrels.’ He gave a nasty smile. ‘Then we’ll use it to attack him.’
JACQUES BOURDON, former Parisian pickpocket, burglar and ex-galérien, enjoyed masquerading as a seasoned mariner. Wearing a set of Eaton’s better clothing, he perched on the centre thwart of the native sailing canoe as it headed north along the coast of Guahan. Normally Jacques disliked small boats. He found them slow, wet and unsteady, and they made him seasick. But this vessel was different. The side float made it much more stable, almost comfortable, and the stiff breeze pushed the vessel along at a fine pace. This would not be a long trip.
Jacques shifted position slightly so that he could see past the sail of palm-leaf matting. The canoe – he had managed to learn from the crew that they called it a ‘galaide layak’ – was running into a sheltered bay. There was no sign of any coral reef. Deep water extended all the way to a short wooden pier, where a collection of thatched roofs lay along the lower part of an attractive valley. The grasslands on the slopes above the settlement were washed a pale lime-green by the morning sunshine.
