by Tim Severin
‘Aganah?’ he asked, pointing forward. Close to the jetty rose the solid square shape of a small fort. It had to be the Spaniards’ Presidio.
The boatman with the extravagant bush of hair nodded.
Ten minutes later Jacques had clambered up on to the pier and was walking by himself towards the settlement. The houses with their weathered grey thatch were nothing more than overgrown cabins, too humble for the Governor of the Ladrones. His residence would be inside the fort itself, safe behind its fifteen-foot walls of coral blocks. Two small towers served as cannon platforms, and an open space had been left clear to provide a field of fire. But there was no sign of a sentry on the parapet, and the double gates of the entrance were closed.
Jacques picked up a stone and banged on one of the gates. The thick timber gave back a muffled thud. After an interval a voice demanded to know their business.
‘Visiteur,’ Jacques shouted, emphasizing his French accent.
The heavy gate eased just enough to enable him to step inside. Immediately he was through, it was dragged shut behind him. Jacques looked around. The area within the walls was considerably larger than he had expected. There was space for a little chapel, a barracks block and several storehouses. They were all modest, single-storey buildings with tile roofs and mud-brick walls. Small windows had unpainted shutters against the sun, and one or two were barred. The only substantial two-storey building had a balcony and porch and overlooked the parade ground. Judging by the flagstaff in front of it, this was where the Governor and his senior staff had their offices and accommodation.
Jacques presumed the four men whose combined strength had been required to shift the heavy gate were members of the garrison. They were uncommonly slovenly and, judging by their expressions, they resented being disturbed.
‘The Governor?’ Jacques asked in Spanish. Before he received an answer, he became aware of a man in a faded blue jacket of military cut, who emerged from the larger building and was striding across the parade ground.
‘You must be from the foreign ship,’ announced the newcomer. A short, brisk man in his mid-forties, everything about him spoke of a regimental background: close-cropped iron-grey hair, straight back and square shoulders, crisp manner of speech, the frank appraising stare he gave the visitor.
‘My name is Louis Brodart. I am sailing master of the Gaillon,’ Jacques said in French. Inwardly he was gleeful. It was unlikely anyone but a Parisian would know that the Gaillon district of the city was renowned for its open sewer. Or that he had borrowed the surname of the most corrupt government official in France, the Intendant of the Royal Galleys.
‘Sarjento Mayor Damian de Esplana, at your service,’ answered the officer. He spoke halting but competent French. ‘Welcome to the Presidio of Guahan.’
Jacques decided he should get straight to the point. ‘My captain asked me to deliver his compliments to the Governor.’
‘Don Fernando de Costana is absent. I am the commanding officer of the garrison.’
‘Will the Governor be returning soon?’
‘He has gone to another island to deal with the indios. I do not expect him back for at least a month.’ If the Sarjento Mayor had noticed the galérien’s brand, he was too polite to mention it.
‘A pity. My captain’s instructions are to present our credentials solely to the Governor. The Secretary of the Navy, the Marquis de Seignelay, was most particular in this regard.’
Esplana brightened. ‘Then, by all means, your captain can take his vessel to Saipan, the island where Don Fernando has gone. But first let me offer you some refreshment. I would appreciate hearing news from the outside world. We see few ships.’
He escorted his visitor towards the building with the porch. On the way they passed a sizeable vegetable patch dug in a corner of the parade ground. The Sarjento Mayor gestured apologetically.
‘Not a very military sight. My men are better gardeners than soldiers. But under the circumstances, it is sensible to grow some of our own food.’
Esplana’s office was entered through a side door. The room was spartan, with whitewashed walls, a plain desk with a black iron candlestick, four chairs, an army chest and no decoration except for a small wooden cross, a mirror of polished steel and a sword and baldric hanging from a peg. A servant appeared with a tray of glasses. Jacques picked up his drink and tasted. It was mildly fizzy, with a pleasant, alcoholic tang. Esplana noted his appreciation. ‘The natives call it “tuba”. Fermented from the sap of the coconut palm.’
When the servant had withdrawn, Esplana gestured for the Frenchman to take a seat. Going to his desk, Esplana adopted a more serious expression. ‘Thank you for coming here so promptly in answer to my message.’
‘My captain regrets he is unable to bring his vessel directly to your port. He’s instructed to seek out new lands for trade and plantation. Our visit to the Ladrones—’
‘Las Marianas,’ Esplana corrected him. ‘They were renamed some years ago during the regency of the late King’s widow.’
Jacques wondered if his slip had aroused the Spaniard’s suspicion. A French government mission would be expected to know the archipelago’s official new name, though ordinary mariners still spoke of the Thief Islands. He ploughed on. ‘We called at the Marianas only to take on water. Very shortly we continue on our way.’
Esplana placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward, his eyes grave, almost pleading. ‘Before you depart, I hope your captain will find time to prove the friendship that exists between our two countries.’
‘My captain has authorized me to decide what is in the best interest of our mission,’ said Jacques neutrally. He waited for the Spaniard to explain.
‘You have seen the indios, the naked natives, I’m sure,’ said Esplana. ‘The Governor is charged with their reducción, as we say – their conversion to the faith, their civilization. But they resist fiercely.’
‘The few we have met seemed friendly enough, though in need of clothing.’
‘Don’t be fooled. The Chamorro are vicious, brave and stubborn. They cling to their old ways. Governor Costana has taken the best of the men and sailed north to Saipan to put down an uprising there. The Chamorro murdered a missionary priest.’ The Spaniard gestured towards the door. ‘You’ve seen the sort of men I’ve been left to work with. Idlers, drunks, former gaolbirds sent here from New Spain.’
That explained the absence of a lookout at the fort and the closed gates, Jacques thought. The Sarjento Mayor had decided to stay bottled up within the Presidio. ‘The town did seem to be very quiet,’ he ventured.
‘The situation is very tense,’ Esplana went on. His eyes flicked towards the open window. ‘We hold hostages, a couple of the Chamorro chiefs, but . . .’
‘The message boat you sent was manned by indios, as you call them.’
‘They belong to a clan that favours us. Fortunately the Chamorro spend more time fighting among themselves than trying to defeat us. Without the rivalry between the clans we would be lost.’
‘Are they well armed?’
‘Thank God, no. They have no firearms. They use slings and spears tipped with human bone.’ The Spaniard gave a sour smile. ‘They say they prefer killing the taller strangers because their longer shinbones make better spear points.’
‘Dangerous foes,’ Jacques agreed.
Esplana was blunt. ‘Your men and the firepower of the Gaillon’s cannon would make a great difference.’
Jacques seized the opening. ‘Unfortunately we must conserve our gunpowder. Much of what we took aboard in Brest when we sailed was useless. The rest got wet on the voyage and is spoiled.’
‘I can remedy that,’ said Esplana promptly. ‘I can send you twenty, maybe thirty kegs, from our own reserves.’
‘Won’t that leave you short?’ asked Jacques.
‘I still have enough to repel an assault on the Presidio. I am expecting resupply quite soon. The Acapulco Galleon should pass through the straits within the month.’
/> ‘The Acapulco Galleon?’ Jacques was momentarily at a loss.
‘You would know it better as the Manila Galleon.’
Jacques must have continued to look puzzled because the Sarjento Mayor went on, ‘I speak of the galleon on its westward trip, to the Philippines. The vessel carries travellers on their way from New Spain to Manila and the silver needed there to pay for the China trade. Either it makes a stop in Guahan to unload mail and passengers. Or, if the voyage is behind schedule, the ship waits in the straits north of here, and our friendly natives go out to take off the supplies.’
So that’s why the Chamorro came out to huckster with us, Jacques thought. They greet any passing ship in this fashion.
Esplana continued to press his case. ‘And even if the Acapulco Galleon cannot spare the munitions, a patache is also due from New Spain. Indeed, she may get here sooner than the galleon. The patache carries stores specifically destined for us, including gunpowder. Afterwards she continues on to Manila. If your vessel could sail to Saipan to assist the Governor, we could breathe easily. Don Costana will teach the indios a lesson, with the help of your cannon.’
‘Very well,’ said Jacques. ‘On behalf of my captain, I assure you that the Gaillon will go to the assistance of your Governor. We can save a few days if you send us the gunpowder we require and a native who can pilot us to Saipan.’
They toasted their agreement and drained their glasses. As the officer poured him another drink, Jacques gave him what he hoped was a friendly look. ‘It must be a lonely life here.’
‘For most of us it is,’ confessed the Spaniard. ‘My troops, if you can call them that, form attachments with local women. For myself, I have devoted my life to the service of my country.’
‘How about Governor Costana? Does he feel the same?’ asked Jacques offhandedly. He intended to lead the conversation around to the Governor and his domestic arrangements. That way he would be able to tell Hector whether Maria was living in the fort.
‘He was posted here from Peru. The result of some scandal, I believe. He brought his wife with him, Doña Juana. A fine woman. She too has a sense of duty.’
From the parade ground came the sound of the chapel bell striking noon. To Jacques’ disappointment, Esplana got to his feet. ‘I would ask you to join us for our midday meal. But frankly our cook is useless, and the sooner you carry my message back to your vessel, the happier I will be.’
As Jacques accompanied the Spaniard outside, he thought quickly.
‘Commandant, I have a small favour to ask.’
‘What is it?’
‘That vegetable garden . . .’
‘It varies an otherwise monotonous diet.’
‘Would it be possible for me to carry back some of the produce to the ship? I see there are some carrots and celery. My captain would greatly appreciate some green stuff on his table.’
‘Of course. I’ll have a man select what you need.’
‘And we are also short of spices. I understand this island produces excellent ginger.’
Esplana smiled. ‘You live up to your nation’s reputation. Our mess cook is so incompetent he thinks salt is an exotic spice. But maybe the Governor’s kitchen has some ginger to spare. If you will accompany me, I will make enquiries.’
They walked across to the main entrance of the administration building. Esplana knocked. The door was opened by a maidservant in her teens. She wore a shawl worked with Peruvian patterns, and Jacques guessed she’d been brought from South America with the Governor’s entourage. She curtsied politely.
‘Ask your mistress if we may speak with her cook,’ Esplana said.
The girl held the door open for them to step inside and disappeared into an inner room to consult her mistress.
A moment later a door opened, and a young, handsome, dark-haired woman dressed in a plain brown skirt and grey bodice stepped out.
‘Sarjento Mayor,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid our cook is not here. He accompanied the Governor.’ Her glance took in Jacques and for a heartbeat she seemed to falter.
‘May I introduce Monsieur Brodart of the French ship Gaillon,’ said Esplana. He turned to Jacques. ‘I have the pleasure of introducing Señorita Maria da Silva.’
Jacques bowed. ‘Delighted to meet you, Señorita.’
Maria looked at him strangely.
Esplana was in a hurry. ‘I apologize for disturbing you, Señorita. We had a small question for the cook, but we can discuss it another time. Monsieur Brodart is on his way back to his ship.’ He ushered Jacques out of the house. Jacques only had time to bow once more. As he did so, he deliberately held her gaze and willed her to recognize him.
HECTOR HAD waited anxiously for Jacques’ return. The moment the messenger boat came alongside the Nicholas, he climbed down to help his friend lift a basket of vegetables from the bilge. ‘Did you see Maria?’ he whispered.
The Frenchman nodded.
‘How is she?’ Hector’s voice was hoarse with tension.
‘She is fine.’
‘Did you manage to speak to her?’
‘No. I had to get away. The Governor’s wife might have shown up. If Doña Juana had recognized me, that would have been a disaster.’
An impatient shout from Eaton put an end to their hurried conversation.
‘I will tell you more later, Hector,’ Jacques muttered as he scrambled up the ship’s side.
Eaton and Arianz listened carefully to what Jacques had to say about his visit to the Presidio. ‘Sounds like we could storm the fort,’ said Arianz.
‘And for very little reward,’ Eaton retorted sharply. ‘I have a better idea. Call the men together.’
With the crew of the Nicholas assembled in the waist of the ship, Eaton asked Jacques to repeat to them what he had witnessed in Guahan. ‘Don’t leave anything out, including your conversation with the Sarjento Mayor.’
When Jacques had finished speaking – omitting only his encounter with Maria – Eaton raised his voice.
‘I propose we wait here at anchor until we receive our gift of gunpowder.’
There was a general mutter of agreement. Even those most eager to continue the homeward voyage preferred to sail in a ship that could use her cannon.
Eaton paused for effect. Then he announced, ‘Immediately afterwards, we sail north.’
There was a puzzled silence. ‘What for?’ someone shouted. ‘We’d be better leaving this shithole.’
‘Because we would be turning our backs on the biggest prize of all if we didn’t,’ called Eaton.
‘What’s that?’ He had their full attention now.
‘The Acapulco Galleon. You heard the Frenchman. The vessel carries the silver from New Spain to pay for a year’s worth of silks and valuables that have accumulated in Manila.’
‘We can never take a galleon. She’ll be too big, too well armed, too many men aboard.’ As Eaton had expected, the objection came from the elderly, balding deckhand who always found fault.
‘The Acapulco Galleon will have been eleven weeks at sea,’ Eaton countered. ‘Her crew will be on short rations, tired and slack. It’s the moment to attack.’
‘But there will still be one or two hundred men aboard. Even if they’re famished, that is more than we can handle.’
‘We won’t be alone.’ There was a triumphant, calculating look on Eaton’s face.
‘What do you mean?’ called another voice.
‘I propose that we enlist the help of the indios.’
There was a surprised but thoughtful silence from the assembled crew.
‘And how could they help us?’ Eaton saw that the speaker was the Dutchman, Stolck.
‘We take the Acapulco Galleon by surprise.’ Eaton was relishing the chance to display his cunning. ‘When the vessel enters the strait, our Chamorro allies will go out in their canoes to meet the ship, as is their custom. No one on board the galleon will suspect anything.’ He paused to look out over the expectant faces of his men. ‘As usual the Chamorro wil
l offer to barter. Hidden among them will be some of us with our muskets. At the right moment we spring our ambush, shoot down the helmsmen, board the ship. We can rely on the indios to deal with the rest.’
There was an interval while his audience digested the audacity of the plan.
‘I wouldn’t trust those heathens,’ shouted the old man. ‘They’d slit our throats.’
But his shipmates were looking at one another, considering the captain’s proposal. Some were doubtful. They didn’t like the idea of working with the natives, and said so. Others were more excited. There was a babble of comment, nearly all of it favourable. Suddenly the loot from a rich Spanish galleon seemed within their grasp.
Arianz stepped up to the rail. ‘We put it to the vote. Those in favour of attempting to seize the Acapulco Galleon, raise your hands.’
The quartermaster counted the vote.
‘Those who would continue on for home.’
Fewer hands rose.
‘Then it’s decided.’
Standing among the men, Hector’s mind was in turmoil. He was giddy with excitement that he had located Maria. She was alive and apparently well, and he longed to see her. For a mad moment he toyed with the idea of deserting the Nicholas, swimming ashore, finding his way to the Presidio and locating Maria. But he knew that was utterly impractical. It would mean abandoning his friends, which he couldn’t do, and it was reckless. Governor Costana, when he came back from campaign, would be merciless. In his eyes Hector was still a murderous sea robber. Maria, who had once seemed so far away, was very much closer. But in another sense she was still as distant as she had ever been.
ELEVEN
MAESTRE DE CAMPO DAMIAN DE ESPLANA proved to be as efficient as his manner had suggested. The evening after Jacques got back to the ship, a galaide layak delivered a dozen kegs of gunpowder to the Nicholas, and with them a Chamorro pilot. A gaunt, taciturn man with a heavily pockmarked face, he was dressed in cast-off European clothing and had a small crucifix on a cord around his neck. In halting Spanish he said that his name was Faasi, and he had a paper to deliver to the captain.
