by Tim Severin
‘Weren’t they happy to see you again?’ asked Jacques. He had been surprised to see Dan reappear after less than a week. Dan looked up from where he was kneeling on the sand, about to butcher a turtle for their midday meal.
‘Of course. They wanted to hear about all the places I had seen during my travels.’
‘And didn’t they expect you to stay at home?’
‘That’s not our custom,’ the Miskito replied. ‘Our young men are encouraged to join the foreign raiding parties who come to our coast. They get well rewarded as scouts and hunters.’
He turned the turtle on its back and tickled it under the chin with the point of his cutlass. The creature extended its neck, and with a lightning stroke he chopped down with his blade. The head spun away, the beaked jaws still snapping and narrowly missing Jacques who jumped aside.
‘How are you going to get into the shell?’ the Frenchman asked.
‘It’s easy. You slip the tip of your cutlass into this slot where the upper and lower shells meet. Then carefully slice sideways, following right around the joint. If you try to cut anywhere else, you’ll find it impossible.’
Jacques rubbed the galerien’s brand on his cheek as he watched his companion. Within moments the Miskito had prised apart the turtle, opening it like a clam shell.
‘Why, the gut’s like the intestines of a cow,’ the Frenchman noted in surprise.
‘I suppose that’s because the turtles also feed on grass.’
‘But they are sea creatures.’
‘If it’s calm tomorrow,’ answered the Miskito, ‘I’ll take you out in a canoe to where you can see four fathoms down. You’ll see grass growing on the sea floor. That’s the turtle’s food.’
He turned back to his work and pointed out two discoloured patches of flesh in the body of the turtle, close to the muscles of the front flippers. ‘You must cut those out,’ he said. ‘If you don’t, the flesh will have a bad taste when cooked.’
‘Just leave the cooking to me,’ said Jacques impatiently. He was of the opinion that the Miskito showed a great lack of imagination by only grilling or boiling turtle meat. He had already suggested to Dan that a sauce of lemon juice, pimento and pepper would enhance the flavour.
‘As you wish,’ said Dan equably. ‘For frying the meat, use that yellowish fat on the inside of the lower shell. But please leave me the greenish fat of the upper shell.’
‘Is it poisonous?’ asked Jacques who felt that perhaps he was too hasty in his culinary plans.
‘Not at all. I’ll set the shell upright in the sand after we’ve got all the meat out of it. When the sun has softened the green fat, you can scrape it off and eat it raw. It’s delicious.’
A halloo attracted their attention. A hundred yards offshore a dugout canoe was passing down the coast under a small triangular sail. Its occupant was standing up and waving to them. Immediately Dan got to his feet and waved back, beckoning the newcomer to come to land. ‘That’s Jon, one of my cousins,’ the Miskito explained. ‘He’s been away on a fishing trip.’
Dan hurried down the slope of the beach to greet his relative, and to Jacques’s astonishment, as the newcomer stepped out of his canoe Dan fell flat on his face on the sand. For a moment Jacques thought that his friend had tripped. But then the Miskito got to his feet, and his cousin also dropped prone in front of Dan, and lay spreadeagle and face down for the space of a few heartbeats, then stood up again. Next the two men threw their arms around one another and hugged tightly, each with his face pressed against the other’s neck. Jacques, who had walked towards them, distinctly heard both men snuffling loudly and with gusto. His puzzlement must have shown, for when Dan introduced the Frenchman, he added, ‘Don’t look so surprised. That’s our way of greeting someone we are fond of and have not seen for a long time. We call it kia walaia. It means “to smell, to understand”.’
The two Miskito exchanged news and when Dan turned back to Jacques, he was looking thoughtful. ‘Jon has been fishing to the north. He heard rumours of a party of white men travelling along the coast in pirogues. Three boatloads of them. They are coming this way, but very slowly, for they are weak and sickly. Also he says that a Spanish patrol ship was seen five days ago.’
Dan asked his cousin a few more questions, then added, ‘My guess is that the men in the pirogues are English or French. If so, they should be warned about the Spanish patrol ship. Jon is willing to lend me his canoe if I want to go there to find out more. I could be back inside three days if this wind holds.’ Dan seemed eager to make the trip.
Jacques considered for a moment before replying. ‘All right then. I’ll wait here for you.’
‘In the meantime you can try out your turtle recipe on my cousin,’ said Dan cheerfully.
THE UNIDENTIFIED travellers were much closer than expected. Before noon on the second day Dan glimpsed the three pirogues. They were beached inside a river mouth less than thirty miles from where he had left Jacques. Cautiously Dan steered across the sandbar at the river mouth, keeping close under the bank so that the canoe’s sail brushed the overhanging branches of the mangroves which stretched away in an unbroken wall on both sides of the estuary. When he reached the travellers’ camp, the first person he saw was Hector. Moments later the two friends were greeting one another with astonished delight.
‘How on earth did you get here?’ the Miskito exclaimed as Hector helped him haul his canoe up on the muddy bank. ‘I thought you were in Jamaica.’
‘I managed to get away and join the Bay Men,’ Hector explained. ‘But we were flooded out by a bad storm, and had to abandon the site. Coming down the coast we met up with these other logwood cutters. They had all suffered the same misfortune. We joined forces, keeping the largest of our boats. But it’s been a difficult journey. We’ve been living on wild fruit and an occasional seabird we shot.’
Dan could see that the survivors were in a bad way. There were about twenty men in the party and they looked emaciated. One man was shivering with fever. ‘There’s a Spanish cruiser in the area. You know what will happen if they catch the Bay Men,’ he warned Hector.
‘But they’ve resolved to go no further until they’ve filled their bellies. That’s why they decided to stop here in the estuary. They intend to go inland and hunt wild cattle or pigs, if they can find them.’
Dan shook his head. ‘That’s foolish. The Spaniards could be here by then. I’ll fetch meat for them.’
‘Jezreel!’ Hector called out, ‘I want you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Dan. He was with me in Barbary.’
The prize fighter’s glance took in the Miskito’s long black hair and the narrow face with its high cheekbones and dark, sunken eyes like polished pebbles. ‘Did I hear you say that you can get food for us?’
Hector glanced into the Miskito’s canoe. ‘You haven’t even brought a musket with you.’
‘I won’t need one. This is my cousin’s canoe and he left his fishing gear in it. But you’ll have to help me.’
Mystified, Hector was about to step into the bow of the canoe when Dan stopped him. ‘No, your place is in the stern,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what to do.’
Under Dan’s instructions, Hector hoisted the little sail and together the two men rode the river current out across the bar and to the sea. Instead of heading out to the fishing grounds as Hector had expected, Dan told him to steer close along the shore. ‘Stay in the shallows, close to the mangroves,’ he instructed.
Occasionally Dan rose to his feet and stood in the bow, silently scanning the surface of the water. Every time he did this, Hector feared that the canoe would capsize through his own lack of skill as steersman. But Dan shifted his weight to counteract any clumsiness and, sensing his friend’s uneasiness, would soon sit down again.
‘What are we looking for?’ Hector asked his friend. He spoke in a whisper for it seemed to him that Dan was listening as well as watching for his mysterious prey.
An hour passed, and then another, and still Dan had
not found what he was searching for. Then, suddenly, he held up his hand in warning. His gaze was fixed on something in the water, not fifty yards away and close to the edge of the mangroves. He reached down into the bottom of the canoe, not taking his eyes off what he had seen, and eased out from the bilge a straight staff about eight or nine feet long. With his free hand Dan groped between his feet and produced what appeared to be an oversized weaver’s bobbin wrapped around with several fathoms of cord. The free end of the cord was lashed to a barbed metal spike as long as his forearm. Carefully Dan pushed the shank of the spike into a socket in one end of the staff. Then he unwound enough cord until he could slip the bobbin over the butt of the pole. Now he rose to his feet and stood in the canoe, the harpoon in his hand. Using it as a pointer, he showed Hector the direction that he should steer.
Hector squinted against the glare of the late-afternoon sunlight as he tried to make out the target. But there was nothing unusual. The water was green-grey and opaque, cloudy with particles of vegetable matter. He thought he saw a slight ripple, but could not be sure. The canoe slipped forward silently.
Ahead of him Dan had moved into the classic posture of a man about to throw a javelin: his left arm pointed forward, his right arm bent. The hand which held the harpoon shaft at its balance point was close beside his ear. He stood poised, ready.
Hector heard a faint breath, the puffing sound of lungs expelling air. He leaned sideways, trying to see around Dan, hoping to identify the source of the sound. His sudden movement upset the balance of the boat even as Dan threw.
The harpoon soared through the air. But as it left Dan’s hand, Hector knew that he had spoiled his friend’s aim. He saw Dan twist his body, swivelling to keep the direction of his throw. ‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ he blurted, apologising for his clumsiness.
His words were lost in the explosive upheaval at the spot where the harpoon had struck the water. The metal spike and the first two feet of shaft plunged out of view. A second later the surface of the sea rose up in a great, roiling mass. A large grey-brown shape surged upwards, water sluicing off a rounded back. Hardly had this shape appeared than it sank downwards almost as quickly, returning into the murky water, and the sea was closing over it in a small whirlpool. The entire length of the harpoon vanished, dragged downward.
The Miskito spun round, plucked the canoe’s short mast out of its place and hastily wrapped the sail around the spar. Dropping the untidy bundle on the thwarts he picked up a paddle, knelt in the bottom of the canoe, and began to paddle with all his strength. ‘Over there!’ he shouted back at Hector who was trying to follow his friend’s example. Looking forward, Hector saw that the harpoon’s shaft had risen back to the surface, and was floating free a few yards ahead of them. Leaning forward as the canoe came level with the pole, Dan retrieved it. Both the metal spike and the wooden spool were gone. With a clatter Dan flung the shaft into the bottom of the canoe and was already scanning the surface of the water again. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and pointed. A little way ahead floated the wooden spool. It was spinning rapidly in the water, the coils of line unreeling and making the spool bob and twist as if it had a life of its own. The line was being stripped from the reel at a great pace.
‘Come on!’ urged Dan. ‘We must get that too!’ He was digging furiously at the water with his paddle. They reached the gyrating spool when only a few turns of the line remained. Dan dropped his paddle and threw himself forward to grab the bobbin. In one swift movement he had hoisted it inboard and jammed the spool under a thwart as he called, ‘Hang on, Hector!’
An instant later Hector felt himself flung backward, the thwart striking him painfully in the small of the back as the canoe suddenly shot forward. The line had snapped taut, droplets of water squeezing from the fibres. It had become a tow rope linked to an unseen and powerful underwater force. The canoe swayed from side to side as it tore onward, lurching wildly. The pull of the line was both forward and down, and for a terrifying moment Hector thought that the entire canoe would be dragged underwater as the bow dipped and the water rose to barely an inch below the rim of the dugout.
For three or four minutes the mad, careering rush went on. In the bow Dan anxiously watched the line where it was pulled taut across the edge of the canoe. Hector was sure that the cord was too thin to resist the strain. He wondered what would happen if it snapped suddenly.
Then, without warning, the water ahead of the canoe again burst into swirling turbulence. The grey-brown shape emerged in a welter of foam, and this time Hector distinctly heard the air rushing out of animal lungs. ‘Palpa!’ shouted Dan in triumph. ‘A big one.’
It took a full hour before the harpooned creature was exhausted and by that time the canoe had been dragged far along the coast. Gradually, the intervals between each surfacing of their prey grew shorter as the animal came up for air more frequently. With each appearance Hector could see more of it. At first it reminded him of a small whale, then of one of the seals he had seen when they hauled themselves out on the rocks off his native Ireland. But this animal was much larger than any seal he had known, seven or eight feet long, and far stouter. When it turned its head to look back at the hunters, he saw long pendulous lips, piggy eyes and a sprouting of whiskers.
Finally the creature gave up the struggle. It no longer had the strength to dive. It lay wallowing on the surface, close enough for Dan to pull in on the line and haul the canoe right alongside. From his cousin’s fishing gear he produced a second harpoon head, shorter and more stubby this time, and fitted it to the staff. He chose his moment and stabbed down several times. A stain of blood spread in the water. There were a few last convulsive heaves. Then the creature lay still. ‘Palpa. Your sailors call it sea cow,’ said Dan with evident satisfaction. ‘And a good fat one too. There will be enough meat to feed everyone.’
‘What does it taste like?’ asked Hector looking at the bloated shape. He recalled an old sailor’s yarn that claimed such creatures were mermaids because they suckled their young at their breasts. But this animal looked more like an overgrown and bloated seal with a drooping pug face.
‘Some say it tastes like young cow. Others that it is like the finest pork.’ Dan was lashing the carcass alongside the canoe. ‘It’ll be a slow journey back to camp. One of us can sleep while the other steers.’
Hector was still conscious that not everything had gone to plan. The hunt had taken far longer than it should. ‘I’m sorry that I spoiled your aim, Dan.’
His friend gave a dismissive shrug. ‘You did well. It takes years to learn how to strike palpa properly. If my striking iron had been better placed, the palpa would have died more quickly. What matters is that the creature did not escape, and we have the meat we promised.’
IT TOOK THE entire night, and more, to sail back to where they had started. The drag of the dead sea cow slowed the canoe to less than walking pace, and the sun was well above the horizon by the time they approached the river mouth. It was promising to be another very humid and hazy day. They were keeping close to the green wall of mangroves along the shoreline to escape the worst effect of the ebbing tide when they heard the distant thud of an explosion.
‘What’s that!’ Hector blurted, sitting up in alarm. He and Dan had changed positions in the canoe, and he had been dozing in the bow as his friend steered the craft.
‘It sounded like a cannon shot,’ said Dan.
‘But the Bay Men have only got muskets.’
Again there came the thump of a distant explosion, followed by another. This time there was no doubt. It was cannon fire.
‘Dan, I think we had better leave the sea cow where we can collect it later, and go ahead to see what’s happening.’
Dan brought the canoe to the edge of the mangroves. He untied the carcass of the sea cow and fastened it securely to a lattice of roots. ‘It should be safe here if the tide does not wash it away,’ he said.
Warily the two men edged their little vessel forward until they reached the point wh
ere they had a clear view of the river mouth.
A two-masted brigantine was sailing slowly across the estuary, but making no attempt to enter the river. The large ensign flying from her stern was clearly visible, three bands of red, white and gold and in the centre some sort of crest. As they watched, the vessel came within a pistol shot of the far bank and began to turn. A few minutes later she had taken up her new course and was retracing her path across the mouth of the river. Hector was reminded of a terrier that has cornered a rat in a hole and is pacing up and down excitedly, waiting to finish off the prey.
‘It’s the Spanish patrol ship you were warned about,’ he said.
There was a cloud of black smoke and the sound of a single cannon. He could not see where the shot landed, but clearly it was aimed towards the three pirogues still lying beached on the river bank.
‘That’s to make it clear who has the upper hand,’ commented Dan. ‘With six cannon a side and maybe forty men aboard, the Spaniards have got it all worked out.’ He was backing water, forcing the canoe into the fringe of mangroves.
‘What are they waiting for?’ Hector asked.
‘For the tide to turn. See that line of broken water on the bar at the river entrance. The river current and ebbing tide are too strong for the brigantine to make any headway upriver. Besides, the pilot will be cautious. He’s waiting for the flood tide, and when he’s sure there’s enough water to carry him in over the bar, he’ll take the ship upriver and blast the pirogues to pieces.’
Hector examined the Spanish guardship now heading directly towards where he and Dan lay hidden. Doubtless every pair of eyes on board the patrol vessel was looking towards the pirogues in the river. Still, he felt vulnerable and exposed.
