by Tim Severin
‘It’s a pity your French friend failed to check the water stowage for himself,’ said Eaton. There was malice in that remark too. During the preparations for departure, Jacques had asked the Nicholas’ cooper to oversee the filling of the ship’s water containers. Unfortunately the man was lazy and incompetent and hadn’t ensured the casks and jars of water were packed securely in the vessel’s hold. When the squall had struck just two days into the voyage, the Nicholas had heeled suddenly. Many of the heavy earthenware jars had shifted and smashed, their contents wasted. From that day forward, the crew had been on a strict water ration. It was another source of discontent.
Hector rolled up the chart, slid it carefully into its wooden tube and stepped across to the side rail to clear the deck space. The men were gathering in twos and threes. Some of them affected looks of indifference. Others had uneasy expressions and glanced frequently out to sea to avoid looking at one another directly. Arianz the quartermaster appeared, tight-lipped and grave. He took up his position by the capstan head and waited until the entire crew was present. In his hand was the wooden dipper that was brought out three times a day so that each man could ladle his single ration from the tub of drinking water that stood beside the mast.
Now Arianz rapped the dipper on the capstan to draw everyone’s attention.
‘We decide the case of Giovanni Domine. He is accused of water theft,’ he announced to the assembly. His eyes flicked towards a small, surly-looking man standing in the front rank. Domine was one of the men who Hector had earlier guessed were from Mediterranean ports.
‘Who says he’s been stealing water?’ shouted the sailor next to Domine. He had the same olive skin, stocky build and dark, heavy eyebrows. It was evident they were cronies.
‘Joris Stolck reports that Domine was missing during his watch. He was found in the hold, drinking from one of the casks in the lower tier.’
‘Impossible. Those casks are too heavy for one man to handle. And they are buried deep.’
‘He was using a musket barrel to suck up water through the bunghole. I saw it,’ said a new voice.
Hector craned his neck to see who’d made the accusation. It was Arianz’s countryman, the other Hollander. Hector supposed there was bad feeling between the northerners and the men from the Mediterranean. Giovanni Domine sounded like a name from Genoa or Naples.
Eaton added his voice. ‘I checked Stolck’s accusation. Domine’s musket was dismantled. The inside of the barrel was wet.’
The quartermaster looked around the assembled men. ‘None of us want to be standing out here in the sun while we argue. You all know our articles, we decide these matters by a general vote. Those who believe Giovanni Domine to be guilty, raise your hands.’
Hector watched as more than half the crew found a guilty verdict. He noted that not one of the Mediterranean group agreed.
The quartermaster finished counting the show of hands and rapped again on the capstan head with the dipper. ‘What is his punishment to be?’
His demand was met with silence. In the general hush Hector could hear only the soft sound of the breeze in the rigging, the murmur of the waves against the vessel’s hull. There was tension in the air. Someone in the assembled crowd coughed nervously. No one was willing to decide the form of punishment.
From his place beside the quartermaster, Eaton intervened again, pressing the matter forward. ‘We all know the rules: anyone found guilty of theft is to forfeit his share of the prize. That’s the custom. But we have no prize to divide. I propose we decide a general sanction in which we all share.’
‘Thrash him,’ called a voice suddenly. ‘That’s what we did in the service.’ It was the peevish old man who had previously questioned the purpose of the voyage.
‘You’re not in the Navy now,’ shouted an objector.
‘Flog him according to our custom,’ retorted the old man. ‘Each man gives three blows with a two-inch-and-a-half rope, and on a bare back.’ He looked around triumphantly.
‘So be it,’ said Eaton quickly. There was a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Domine, remove your shirt and stand by the mast.’ He beckoned to the sailmaker. ‘Cut a length of two-inch-and-a-half, and whip the end.’
When the knout was ready, Eaton handed it to the big Hollander, Joris Stolck, who had first made the accusation. ‘Yours are the first blows,’ he said.
Stolck hefted the rope in his hand, stepped across to where Domine was standing and lashed the rope’s end hard across his back. The victim let out a low grunt.
‘Two more,’ called Eaton. He’d taken charge now. The Hollander lashed out twice more, then handed the rope to his countryman. Arianz ran the rope through his hands and dealt the Genoese three more sharp strokes. His victim flinched with each blow.
So it went on. One by one, the crew took it in turns to flog the culprit. Some blows were heavy and viciously struck. Others, those from his Mediterranean friends, scarcely landed. Domine bore up stoically under the beating, though his back was soon striped with a criss-cross of welts. Here and there the skin broke and blood oozed from the cuts. Unable to watch, Hector looked down at the deck beneath his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Eaton’s hands. They hung loosely by his side. Each time the rope struck Domine’s back, the captain clenched his fist. It seemed he was enjoying the spectacle.
When it came to Hector’s turn he hesitated. ‘You take your turn, just like the rest,’ snapped Eaton. Hector took the rope. It felt slick and sweaty in his hands where others had already gripped it. Half-heartedly he raised his arm and struck, aiming to avoid those areas where Domine’s back was already bruised and cut. The first blow was accurate, but the second too clumsy and must have hit a tender spot, for the Genoese sucked in his breath in a gasp of pain. Ashamed and hoping to soften the third blow, Hector swung the rope, then pulled his arm back just before it struck. The rope’s end flicked like a whip, and to his chagrin the blow split the skin. Behind him he heard Eaton give a low murmur of approval.
After every man had taken his turn, Domine was led away by his friends. They sat him down by the rail. Someone dipped up a bucket of sea water and they began to sponge his back.
The onlookers shuffled away. ‘That should put an end to thievery,’ observed Eaton to no one in particular. For him the matter was closed. But Hector noted Domine’s cronies deliberately turning their backs on the two Hollanders as they walked past. He could only hazard a guess as to how long a common hunger for gold would hold this crew together.
THAT EVENING, if Dan hadn’t been at the ship’s lee rail, the sinking shallop might never have been detected. The Miskito was helping Jacques, dumping ashes from the galley overboard. He emptied the pan and paused to contemplate the fiery orange glow left by the setting sun. Something on the horizon caught his eye. It was shaped like the horns of a crescent, but so small that at first Dan thought it was nothing more than an unusual double wave crest. But when the mark reappeared, lifted on the next swell, he walked aft and drew the helmsman’s attention to what he had just seen. Normally the helmsman wouldn’t have troubled himself to adjust course to investigate. But the object lay almost directly on the ship’s track and he was bored. So he moved the rudder very slightly.
Night had fallen by the time the Nicholas came level with the distant object. It was difficult to see anything more than a patch of deeper shadow. Certainly no one had expected to come across some sort of boat. Yet there it was, barely afloat, the sea washing over its mid-section with each passing swell.
‘What do you make of it?’ Hector asked Dan. The two men stared into the darkness. Beside them half a dozen of the Nicholas’ crew lined the lee rail. Quartermaster Arianz had ordered the sheets slackened and the yards braced round, so as to take all way off the ship.
‘I have never seen anything like it,’ answered the Miskito. The half-submerged vessel was an unusual shape. Some thirty feet long, it was broad and shallow, and each end curved up prominently. It was impossible to say which was b
ow and which was stern.
‘Could have been abandoned or broken free of a mooring,’ ventured Jezreel as he joined his friends.
‘But from where?’ asked Hector. ‘We’re too far from land.’
‘That’s not a deep-sea boat,’ observed Dan. ‘It is too small and too lightly built. And there is no shelter for the crew.’ The only structure on the low, wide deck was a hooped cabin of wickerwork, much like a kennel.
‘Why are we halted?’ asked Eaton sourly. The captain had come on deck and not yet noticed the hulk.
‘Some sort of shallop, awash and abandoned,’ said Arianz, gesturing over the side.
Eaton walked to the rail and glanced down. ‘Floating rubbish. It needn’t delay us.’ He turned to Hector. ‘So much for your navigation. Maybe we’re not as distant from land as you’d have us believe.’ He laughed contemptuously.
‘Maybe there’s something worth salvaging?’ suggested the quartermaster.
‘It’s a waste of time,’ snapped Eaton.
The quartermaster ignored him. ‘I’ll send someone to check.’
Dan volunteered for the task. He clambered down the side of the Nicholas, lowered himself into the sea and swam across to the abandoned boat. He pulled himself aboard and Hector saw him bend down to peer into the cabin. A moment later, Dan straightened up and, cupping his hands around his mouth, called out, ‘Throw me a line. There’s someone inside.’
Quickly the derelict shallop was hauled alongside the Nicholas, and the limp figure of a thin, black-haired man, clad only in a loincloth, was hoisted on to the larger vessel. Hector, reaching to help lift the man over the rail, was shocked at how light he was. The stranger weighed no more than a small child. As he was laid on the deck, they could see he was but a living skeleton. His skin had shrunk so that every rib showed starkly. His arms and legs were like sticks, and his body was all hollows and cavities. It was difficult to believe he was still alive. Yet when Hector put his ear against the victim’s chest, he could hear the heart beating.
Someone produced a rag soaked in fresh water, and a dribble was squeezed into the man’s mouth. His eyes stayed closed. He seemed past reviving.
Dan climbed back over the rail, and dropped lightly down on deck. ‘There is nothing else aboard, except for an empty water jar and a straw hat.’
‘Back to your posts, everyone,’ ordered Eaton curtly. ‘We’ve squandered enough time as it is. Cast off the wreck and make sail.’ He turned away and stalked back to his cabin.
‘How long do you think he’s survived?’ asked Jezreel, looking at the wasted figure.
‘Weeks or even months,’ said Hector. ‘Maybe we’ll never find out. I doubt he’ll last the night.’
But when the sun rose next day the castaway, as they now thought of him, was still alive. He lay on the deck, a blanket wrapped around his emaciated body. Only his head was visible. Once or twice his eyelids flickered. His breathing had become noticeably stronger.
‘Where is he from, do you think?’ asked Jacques. He’d prepared a broth to give the patient as soon as he was able to swallow.
‘He’s some sort of Easterner, that’s for sure,’ replied Hector. The man’s skin was yellow-brown, and he had coarse, straight black hair. ‘A Chinaman maybe?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Jezreel. ‘When I did exhibition fights in London, a few Chinamen worked with the shows. They all had round heads and smooth, chubby faces. This fellow’s jaw is too long, and his face too narrow.’
‘Maybe he can tell us when he comes round,’ said Jacques.
The speed of the castaway’s recovery took everyone by surprise. The very next day he could sit up and was taking an interest in his surroundings. But his expression gave no clue as to what he was thinking. The crew tried talking to him in every language they could muster. When that failed, they used gestures, hoping to learn where he came from. But he didn’t respond and remained silent, impassively observing everything going on aboard the Nicholas. Some of the crew believed he was a mute by birth, others that his terrible ordeal had destroyed his power of speech.
‘I wonder what he is thinking?’ said Jacques two mornings later. The castaway had not moved from his spot, and sat on his blanket with a bowl of soup in his hand. He accepted it from the Frenchman without a smile or nod of thanks. From time to time he raised the bowl to his lips and sipped, but continued to stare at his surroundings.
‘He can speak. I’m sure of that,’ Hector said quietly.
There was something disquieting about the stranger’s behaviour, Hector felt. He scarcely moved his head, but the brown eyes, so dark they were almost black and sunk deep in their sockets, were never still. His gaze darted from one place to the next, observing the crew at work, looking up at the sky and sails, following whatever was going on aboard ship. It was as if he was trying to make sense of his situation with a guarded intelligence, yet hiding the reason why.
A shadow fell across the deck. Hector looked round to find Eaton staring down at the castaway. With him was the quartermaster. ‘When can that fellow be put to work?’ the captain asked bluntly. ‘He’s a waste of food and water.’
Arianz squatted down in front of the castaway and peered into his face, no more than a couple of feet away. Hector was struck by the contrast between the big, blond quartermaster with his pale-blue eyes and the gaunt, yellow-skinned unknown, who looked back at him with a flat incurious gaze.
‘Seems to have got back his appetite,’ said Arianz. He’d seen the soup bowl, now empty.
‘He’s still very weak,’ Hector volunteered.
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the stranger’s arm suddenly shot out and his hand seized the quartermaster’s right ear.
Arianz jerked back in shock and pain. ‘Laat gaan, you little bastard.’
But the castaway held firm.
‘Laat gaan. Let go.’
Now the stranger raised his other arm. For a moment Hector thought the castaway was about to deliver a blow to the Hollander’s face. But instead he pointed forward towards the bows.
‘What the hell does he want?’ shouted Arianz. The stranger had released him, and he was on his feet, stepping back out of reach.
Now the stranger got shakily to his feet. It was the first time he’d stood since his rescue. Clinging to a shroud above him and swaying slightly, he pointed to the horizon, slightly to the north of the Nicholas’ course. Then he turned around and touched the lobe of his own ear.
The others looked at one another in astonishment. ‘What does that mean?’ said the quartermaster, still recovering from his surprise.
The stranger repeatedly touched his ear and pointed towards the horizon. All the while he stared intently at his audience.
‘He’s lost his senses,’ said Eaton.
‘He’s trying to tell us something,’ Hector corrected him. He’d guessed the stranger’s meaning. ‘Jacques, stretch out your right hand a moment. Hold it in front of the castaway.’
The Frenchman glanced at Hector, puzzled, but did as he was asked. Immediately the stranger reached out, tapped Jacques on the finger and again pointed urgently to the horizon. This time he nodded to emphasize his message, and patted himself on the chest.
‘It’s your ring, Jacques,’ explained Hector. ‘The gold ring you wear. And it was Arianz’s gold earring. The castaway is trying to tell us there is gold over there, in the direction he is pointing, the place he comes from.’
‘Is he, by God!’ exclaimed Eaton. The sudden pitch of excitement in his voice made several of the crew look round.
‘How far away?’ Arianz asked stupidly, for the castaway could not understand the question. The stranger kept nodding and pointing.
The quartermaster looked across at Hector. ‘Where does he mean?’
Hector was slow to answer. Something wasn’t right about the stranger’s certainty. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘The chart shows no land in that direction, not until you reach Japan or the China coast.’
&nbs
p; ‘Only goes to prove the chart is wrong, as I warned you,’ said Eaton smugly.
‘Saving a man from the sea brings good luck to the rescuers. This proves it,’ announced Stolck loudly. He’d come across to join them.
As the news was shared among the crew, excitement spread. Men hurried to the quarterdeck and formed a circle around the stranger, moving closer as they waited anxiously to learn more. Hector was reminded of his schooldays and the carp pond at the friary where he used to toss chunks of hard, stale bread to the fish. They used to swim up from the depths and congregate in a teeming mass, taking it in turns to mouth the floating crust until it was soft. As more and more of the crew appeared, coming up from their berths below deck or hurrying back from whatever work they’d been doing, they clustered around the castaway, relishing his information, discussing it among themselves. The word ‘gold’ was repeated again and again. Someone produced a silver coin, a Spanish half-real, and held it up to the stranger. He pushed it aside and shook his head. Then he stepped across to Domine, who wore a small gold medallion on a leather thong around his neck. Touching the medallion, the stranger nodded vigorously.
As usual, Arianz was practical. ‘How far to this gold place?’ the quartermaster asked again, speaking slowly this time. He pointed first to the horizon, then up to the sky and mimed the passage of the sun overhead.
The stranger held up eight fingers.
‘Eight days,’ exclaimed Stolck. Hector thought it odd that the castaway, who’d been so uncommunicative, should now understand his questioners. But there was no point raising doubts. It was clear the crew of the Nicholas was ready to be convinced. They were agog to be persuaded that they had stumbled on a source of easy riches. Hector thought of the carp pond once more. The greedy fish used to cluster just as eagerly around a lump of wood as a piece of bread.
The quartermaster sensed the mood of the company. ‘Everyone to assemble at the capstan,’ he announced.
