by Tim Severin
‘Probably they are afraid we will interfere with their women,’ said Jacques. He looked around. ‘Mind you, I have not yet seen a woman, or even a child.’
‘There’s something else I don’t see,’ said Hector.
‘What’s that?’
‘Not one of these people is carrying a weapon. Not even a knife.’
‘They could have hidden any weapons in the forest before they came out into the open.’
‘I didn’t see any swords or spears when I was in the village. Only a couple of fish tridents, which Dan would find very puny.’
‘Well, I’ve never seen any people so obliging,’ Jacques said contentedly. There was a holiday atmosphere to the day. The entire crew of the Nicholas had come ashore, leaving their muskets and cutlasses behind. They were whooping and cheering, running up and down the beach, glad to stretch their legs. A few of them cast curious glances towards the village, but as yet no one ventured in that direction. It was sufficient to enjoy the sensation of being on dry land and away from the confines of the ship.
‘Jacques, you’re wanted over here. There’s been a vegetable delivery,’ called Jezreel. He was near the cooking gear on the beach. Several more villagers had arrived with baskets on their heads and were looking around for instructions.
As Jacques hurried off, Hector became aware that the old man who had first greeted them was standing meekly just a few paces away, waiting to be noticed.
‘What is it?’ asked Hector gently. He was quietly gratified that he’d won the confidence of the village elder.
The old man bowed submissively once more and, turning, beckoned to a figure lurking half-hidden among the bamboo thickets at the back of the beach.
In most respects the person who came forward resembled the other villagers. He wore the same coarse cotton gown and, like them, he was barefoot and had narrow eyes and a yellowish skin. But his long grey hair – instead of being in a topknot – hung loose around his shoulders, and he had a straggly beard that reached to the middle of his chest. Thin-faced and spare, his weather-beaten features made it difficult to judge his age, but he must have been in his late sixties or maybe older. He lacked the diffidence of his comrade, and his dark-brown eyes were full of confident curiosity. Up close, there was something else that Hector had not observed on any of the other villagers: a faint blue mark about two inches long in the centre of his forehead. It was in the shape of a hollow, elongated lozenge and had been inked into the skin.
The village elder gave a low, apologetic cough and in his soft, tuneful language murmured something to the newcomer. Looking at Hector directly, he said slowly and carefully, ‘My name is Panu. I help. I translate.’
The accent was very strong, and Hector was so startled it took a moment for him to realize he’d been addressed in Spanish.
‘We have come here for water and rest,’ he replied.
‘Are you captain?’ Panu asked.
‘No. That is the captain over there.’ Hector pointed out Eaton standing at the campsite, talking with Arianz, the quartermaster.
‘Jeema asks you please go soon.’
Hector presumed Jeema was the village elder. ‘We will stay only a few days,’ he assured the translator.
‘Anything you need, tell Jeema. The village will try to give.’
Intrigued, Hector asked, ‘Where did you learn to speak Spanish?’
‘Know Holland more.’
For an instant Hector was baffled. Then he realized that Panu preferred to speak in Dutch. Seeing Stolck not far away, Hector called him over and, with the Hollander’s help, began to piece together Panu’s story.
He came from a small island some distance to the southwest, where once there had been a Spanish trading fort. As a child he’d learned a little Spanish from his father, who had worked as a warehouse foreman for the white foreigners. The Spaniards had suddenly abandoned the fort when Panu was in his early teens, and, a few years later, the Dutch had arrived to occupy it. They had confirmed Panu’s father in his former job, and took on Panu as his assistant.
‘What was the name of this Dutch fort?’ asked Stolck. From the Hollander’s quickened interest as he translated, Hector surmised once more that Stolck had worked for the Dutch East India Company at some time in the past.
‘Fort Keelung.’
Stolck frowned. ‘I don’t remember hearing of such a place.’
‘Perhaps it was too small. My father retired and I had taken his place as foreman when the Chinamen took over.’
Stolck’s brow cleared. ‘Now I remember. The Company had a small fort on one of the little islands to the north of Formosa. One year it ceased to exist, and I never heard what happened to it.’
‘The Chinamen drove out the Dutch.’
‘What happened to you?’ asked Hector through Stolck.
Panu seemed to retreat into himself as if shrinking from a painful memory. ‘I tried to cling on to my job. My father was already an old man and he was killed in the fighting. Later I lost my family and my home when the town was burned to the ground.’
‘And what brought you here?’
Panu made a grimace of resignation. ‘I was useful to the Chinese because I spoke the languages of commerce. Sometimes they needed me to go on their junks that traded with Japan.’
‘That’s impossible,’ said Stolck to Hector, and then translated for Panu. ‘The Japanese forbid any trade with China.’
Panu gave him a weary look. ‘There is always smuggling. The Chinese junks did not sail to Japan itself. They came here, to these islands, and dealt with the Japanese merchants through intermediaries. It was very profitable for both sides.’
‘So you can speak some Japanese as well?’ Hector asked. He was impressed by the man’s calm competence, though there was an undercurrent of real sadness.
A look of caution crossed Panu’s face. ‘The villagers took me in when I chose to desert the China merchants. I have been able to make myself useful.’
Hector turned to Stolck. ‘That settles where we are. This island lies somewhere between Japan and Formosa. It’s not marked on my chart, but, equally, it’s not Cipangu.’
Stolck refused to let his hopes be dashed so easily. ‘Tell me,’ he said, speaking directly to Panu, ‘where do the villagers obtain the gold on their hair pins?’
The interpreter relayed his question to the village elder, who had stood there patiently, and all of a sudden Jeema looked more frightened than ever. He shook his head and muttered a short, unhappy-sounding answer.
‘He says this is not a fit question. The Ta-yin decides who can wear a golden sign and he distributes the emblem.’
A spark of suspicion lit up Stolck’s eyes. ‘He is dodging the question,’ he grunted. ‘Who is this Ta-yin?’
Panu looked at him steadily. ‘In the language of these people it means “the great man”. He gives out the pins, and decides who shall receive them. A gold pin is a symbol of authority. Jeema here is the leader of the village council.’
‘And where is this Ta-yin now?’
Panu did not consult the village elder before answering. ‘No one ever knows when the Ta-yin will arrive, or how long he will stay. He is the master.’
Jeema edged away, looking increasingly ill at ease, as if he did not wish to hear any more of this discussion. Now he bowed once more, then scurried off down the beach at a half-run. A string of empty water barrels had been towed ashore from the Nicholas, and he joined his fellow villagers in helping to roll them up the sand.
Hector strolled over to Jacques, who was still sorting through the food baskets delivered by the villagers. For the most part the fruits and vegetables were familiar. He recognized onion, sugar cane, coconut and papaya, though the sweet potatoes had an unusual purple colour. The Frenchman held up a long, green vegetable the shape of a cucumber, but with a spiky skin.
‘What do you think this is?’ he said, cutting off a slice and offering it.
Hector nibbled the sample cautiously. ‘Tastes like melo
n.’
Jacques surveyed the array of baskets with a gleam in his eye. ‘I’m going to enjoy cooking with all this,’ he gloated. He picked out an ugly, rough, knobbly object like a misshapen potato with a pale-brown skin, and broke it in half. The flesh inside was a vivid orange-yellow. He sniffed the exposed end and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
‘I have never had a chance to cook with this before.’ He held out the root for Hector to smell. There was a scent of orange and ginger, and a hint of mustard.
‘Turmeric,’ the Frenchman announced happily. ‘It will give a peppery, earthy taste to my fricasse´es, and change the colour of the food. But I will not warn the crew in advance. I will enjoy seeing their faces when I serve them yellow gravy.’
He continued to rummage through the baskets and uncovered a cluster of round, green fruits, which looked as though they might be some sort of lemon. He bit into one, made a face and spat out the juice and skin. ‘Ugh! That’s sour enough to pucker an angel’s lips.’ Then he grinned. ‘But I know something that will take away the after-taste.’ He turned to an array of earthen jars standing upright in the sand. Each jar was wrapped in straw, its neck sealed with a cloth plug. Picking up one of the containers, Jacques pulled out the stopper and tipped a dribble of clear liquid into his mouth. He swilled the drink around before swallowing, and gave a contented smile.
‘I thought they had brought me jugs of water,’ he said, rolling his eyes theatrically. ‘But they kept on pointing at them and crying out something like “Awamori. Awamori” until I tried some. It is delicious. My guess is that it is some sort of alcohol made from rice. I have no idea how much you need to drink before you fall down, but doubtless the crew will soon find out.’
Stolck must have reported on his conversation with Panu to Eaton and Arianz, for the three men now came over to where Hector and Jacques stood.
‘Look’s as though we won’t starve on this island,’ Eaton said as he surveyed the villagers’ offerings.
Hector wondered to himself just how long the humble villagers could be so generous.
‘This could be all the extra food the villagers have in reserve,’ he said.
Eaton shrugged unconcernedly. ‘If we run short, we’ll find ways of extracting more. They’re a servile lot.’
Arianz rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We could put them to work for us.’
Eaton looked at him questioningly.
‘They’re fishermen, aren’t they?’ said the quartermaster.
‘They don’t seem to be doing much fishing at the moment,’ grunted Eaton.
‘Quite so. If they are idle, why don’t we have them make new sails for us? Stolck says their headman offered to provide anything we needed. We should ask him to supply some cloth, and then we can set his people to cutting and stitching.’
Eaton allowed himself a bleak grin. ‘The men will like that. It’ll take a few days to sort out our sails, and that should give us plenty of time to discover if there’s any gold to be found in this place.’
Hector felt he had to speak up. ‘But the headman asked us to depart as soon as possible. That’s why he and his people are being so helpful’
‘No need for us to dance to his tune,’ Eaton retorted callously. ‘We’ll leave when we want to.’
HECTOR WAS disheartened to see how accurately Eaton had judged the temper of his crew. After they had eaten the meal prepared by Jacques, they voted unanimously to spend at least a week on the island. With full stomachs they sat around in the sunshine, swilling the rice wine and luxuriating in the easy life on offer. Stolck was not alone in refusing to abandon the belief that the island would prove to be rich in bullion. Many of the men were still in the grip of gold fever, and there was much discussion about golden hair pins and the mysterious Ta-yin. The general conclusion was that the ‘chief man’ controlled the supply. The handful of gold trinkets worn by the villagers was only a hint of what could be obtained if they got their hands on the Ta-yin. All the world knew how Francisco Pizarro had succeeded in Peru by holding the Inca ruler to ransom until his people had filled an entire room with gold. The windbags and braggarts among the crew of the Nicholas grew increasingly tipsy on awamori and boasted that when the mysterious ‘big man’ showed up with his retinue, they would take him prisoner and not release him until they were paid a fortune in gold to go away.
Weary of such bombast, Hector wandered up the beach to get away from their grandiose talk. He found Panu, the interpreter, and Jeema seated unobtrusively in the shade of the bamboo thickets. They were watching over the campsite, and, from the troubled expressions on their faces, Hector guessed neither man was much impressed by the visitors.
‘Panu, can you ask Jeema why the villagers are not out fishing on such a calm day?’ he asked.
‘The Ta-yin stop us to launch our boats,’ answered the old man in his stilted Spanish.
‘But surely fishing is the village’s livelihood?’
‘Ta-yin punish us because we allow Ookooma go.’
‘Who’s Ookooma?’
There was an awkward pause. Then the old man answered, ‘The man you bring back from the sea.’
Hector had forgotten about their vanished castaway. No one had seen him since their arrival at the island.
‘Maybe it is better he die,’ added Panu softly.
Hector looked at the interpreter in astonishment. ‘But didn’t he have a family, a wife and children to feed and look after?’
‘His family feel same.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Hector. He was perplexed by the stolid resignation in Panu’s tone.
‘For long time, the villagers not allowed to leave island.’
‘But Ookooma was near death when we picked him up. It looked as though he was adrift by accident.’
‘Yes, Ookooma was fishing. He good fisherman. That day he go too far and the sea take him away and boat broken. The sea takes him far away.’
‘So it wasn’t his fault.’
‘No matter,’ said Panu. ‘Ookooma not come home.’
‘But why should that result in a ban on the villagers using their boats?’
Panu gave a sigh. ‘The Ta-yin say whole village must pay Ookooma’s disappearance.’
Jeema must have guessed what was being discussed, for he said something and waited for Panu to translate.
‘Jeema say we must obey the Ta-yin and make sure others same.’
Hector shook his head in disbelief. ‘Where’s Ookooma now?’ he asked.
The old man merely stared at the ground, and would not answer.
NINE
THE DAYS PASSED, and Hector could see why Eaton and his men chose to ignore Jeema’s requests – repeated over and over again – that they leave the island. The anchorage was the ideal haven, where the crew of the Nicholas could recuperate after weeks at sea. Night and day the temperature scarcely varied, and the air was warm enough for the men to sleep on the beach in the open. Rain showers were rare and mostly fell in mid-afternoon. They lasted no more than ten minutes, and the men had no need to take shelter, knowing that the sun would soon reappear and dry out their clothes. By the end of the third day on the island the ship was entirely deserted and lay to double anchors, swinging gently to the regular variation of land and sea breezes. Her crew loafed about on land.
There was little for them to do and nowhere to go. In both directions the beach ended in tumbled masses of coral rock, so broken and jagged and overgrown as to be impassable. Behind the village Jeema showed Hector the terraces carved into the flank of a hill. They were for growing rice, while the middle slopes were planted with fruiting trees. Apart from the faint trace of a footpath leading through the orchards and then up into a thick pine forest that extended to the crest of the hill, the place seemed totally cut off from the outside world.
The visit to the rice fields revealed the whereabouts of the women and children of the village. They were working on the terraces. When Hector appeared – even though he was escorted by the village
headman – they fled like startled deer, running until they reached the edge of the woods. There, at a safe distance, they paused as a group and looked back at the visitor. As far as Hector could tell in that distant glimpse, the women wore much the same humble gowns as their menfolk, and Jeema gave him to understand through sign language that at nightfall many of them crept back to occupy their huts with their families, then made sure they were gone by first light in case the strangers entered the village.
‘They must feel we are like locusts,’ said Jacques ruefully when Hector told him what he’d seen. ‘The men still deliver baskets of food to me to cook. But the quantity is smaller day by day. Yesterday there was no pork, and today no more eggs. I think the villagers go hungry.’
Hector looked across to where the village’s fishing boats still lay unused on the beach. It was mid-morning and yet there was no sign anyone was preparing to put to sea. ‘They would rather starve than disobey their “great man” and go out fishing,’ he said.
‘Without Dan and his striking iron we would also go hungry,’ remarked Jacques.
Each dawn the Miskito borrowed the handiest of the village dugout canoes and paddled out to the reef with his harpoon. There he took quantities of fish, many of them bright with vivid patterns of orange, purple and yellow. Spearing them was easy in the crystal-clear water.
‘It’s fear of their Ta-yin that makes them so obedient,’ said Jezreel. He had sauntered across to join them, his backsword in hand. He was finding the inactivity tiresome and had spent half an hour going through a complicated routine of cuts and slashes, steps and turns, whirling the weapon in all directions until he had worked up a good sweat.
‘While you were playing the dancing master, waving that blade, they kept their heads down like they were embarrassed to see it,’ observed Jacques with a nod to where a score of villagers sat cross-legged on the Nicholas’ sails spread on the sand. They were sewing patches where the canvas had torn, restitching weak seams and splicing in bolt ropes that had worked loose. The ship’s sailmaker and his assistant sat over to one side, occasionally getting to their feet and strolling among the labourers to give instructions or check the quality of the repairs. Neither man troubled himself to wield needle and thread.
