Nick and Verity were quiet for a few seconds before Verity spoke in a decisive manner. ‘Since we’re stuck in traffic and you are worried about Bronte, how about I tell you more about some of my research on Portuguese explorations. Very boring, I know, but it may be distracting for a while, until we get to Bronte’s place.’
Nick nodded appreciatively and restarted the conversation. ‘So you were saying that there is no proof at all that the Portuguese landed in Australia?’
‘No, no proof, just circumstantial evidence, and that is a very dangerous game in the conservative and traditional world of cartography. Have you heard about the lost Mahogany Ship?’ she asked, as Nick negotiated the approach to the M25 turnoff.
Seeing Nick shake his head she continued, ‘It’s a fascinating story about a Portuguese or Spanish sailing boat discovered in Australia in the 1840s near Warrnambool, Victoria. Apart from a couple of subsequent sightings, it has not been seen for well over 100 years. This letter was published in the Melbourne Argus in 1876.’
Verity rifled through the file she had brought, pulled out a photocopy of an aged newspaper article and began reading:
Sir,
Riding along the beach from Port Fairy to Warrnambool in the summer of 1846, my attention was attracted to the hull of a vessel embedded high and dry in the Hummocks, far above the reach of any tide. It appeared to have been that of a vessel about 100 tons burden, and from its bleached and weather-beaten appearance, must have remained there many years. The spars and deck were gone, and the hull was full of drift sand. The timber of which she was built had the appearance of cedar or mahogany. The fact of the vessel being in that position was well known to the whalers in 1846, when the first whaling station was formed in that neighbourhood, and the oldest natives, when questioned, stated their knowledge of it extended from their earliest recollection.
My attention was again directed to this wreck during a conversation with the superintendent of the Post-office, in 1869, who, on making inquiries as to the exact locality, informed me that it was supposed to be one of a fleet of Portuguese or Spanish discovery ships, one of them having parted from the others during a storm, and was never again heard of. The wreck lies about midway between Port Fairy and Warrnambool, and is probably by this time entirely covered with drift sand, as during a search made for it within the last few months it was not to be seen.
‘And,’ added Verity, ‘it has never been seen again, even though there have been a number of serious searches funded by local government.’
Nick looked up to see the Chiswick roundabout approaching. He had been so engrossed in listening to Verity that he had nearly missed the turn-off.
‘Here’s another interesting one from the Northern Territory News in Darwin,’ continued Verity, pulling out another photocopy from her file. ‘This is the story of a teenage boy in far north Australia who found a Portuguese swivel gun not far from Darwin. He and his dad were taking the opportunity to explore the seabed, when tides were at an unusual low. They found the gun poking out of the mud. Experts have confirmed that it is genuine and was a standard anti-personnel weapon on Portuguese caravels of the sixteenth century.’
‘That is interesting, however, the cynic in me says it could have been lost there, or left there, by anybody in the last four hundred years. Maybe a nineteenth-century antique dealer dropped it overboard or it had been washed up there from Timor.’
‘Absolutely. And this is the problem when you have no confirmed Portuguese contact with Australia during the 1500s. It’s all conjecture. And as for any economic rationale,’ Verity continued, ‘like explorers in future centuries, the Portuguese would have discovered little monetary benefit from expeditions to Australia. There was nothing growing that European markets required – no spices such as nutmeg, cloves, mace or sandalwood offered by the islands to the north. The gold and minerals that have made Australia so rich, were buried deep beneath the ground and would not be discovered until the nineteenth century. So there was no point in creating a colony or settlement, and therefore, no reason for subsequent visits.’
Nick nodded. ‘To my mind, it makes a certain sense that there was pre-Dutch discovery. To think otherwise would be like wearing blinkers. But, if there was nothing of benefit in Australia, and any maps from this period were held in secret, how on earth would a provincial priest draw it on his map? And why would he bother? Even if we accept Julius’ assertion that the coastline on the map is western Australia and not just a fluke, why would anyone steal the map from me? Or the ones from Sotheby’s, for that matter? I mean, there are plenty of them around!’
‘No, it doesn’t make sense,’ concurred Verity. ‘So … we must be missing something! The recent interest in the map is real enough: and the maps were stolen in Amsterdam, and your gallery was ransacked, and dad’s place was turned over.’
‘What the hell!’ Nick exclaimed, bringing the car to a sudden halt in front of a police barrier at the entrance to Haldon Road. He wound down his window for an approaching policeman.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the constable said in a West Indian accent that was genial enough. ‘The road’s blocked off. Unless you’re a resident you’ll need to back up.’
Nick could see flashing police lights and an ambulance about fifty metres up the road. ‘We’re visiting a close friend,’ he said. ‘At number 36. She’s an employee of mine.’
The constable stared at Nick and Verity. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something. ‘Just wait there, sir, ma’am. I’ll be with you in a second.’
Nick watched him carefully as he moved a few paces away from the car and spoke quietly into his walkie-talkie, nodded his head a few times then returned to Nick’s open window. ‘Sir, the incident is at 36. So if you would please proceed to the scene, Detective Chief Inspector Kumar will meet you there.’
‘Incident?’ asked Nick anxiously, however, the constable remained impassive, removed a bollard and waved Nick through. He had to find a parking space a good fifty metres from the house due to the number of police cars and vans blocking the street. A crowd of journalists and photographers assailed them as they walked quickly towards the house, then a sudden popping of flashlights and voices fired questions at them. ‘What the fuck!?’ said Nick, putting his arm around Verity as a policeman led them past the media throng and into Bronte’s place.
Inspector Kumar was grave as she explained the situation in Bronte’s kitchen. ‘It appears,’ Kumar began, ‘that Ms Gibson was by herself when she was attacked by an unknown intruder.’
‘Oh my God! Can I see her? Is she okay?’ said Nick.
Kumar looked surprised for a second, before the realisation hit her. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Mr Lawrance. I thought my officers had told you.’
‘Told me what?’
Kumar put a hand gently on Nick’s arm. ‘This is a murder investigation. Ms Gibson is dead.’
Nick, completely stunned, sank back into his chair, trying to take in the terrible news.
‘It appears,’ the inspector elaborated, choosing her words carefully, ‘that an unknown assailant forced his entry while Ms Gibson was asleep in the front room. We’ve no idea why she was killed, possibly a robbery gone wrong. Which is why I do need to ask you a few more questions.’
Nick’s phone started ringing. He snatched it up. ‘Yes? What is it?’ he said abruptly. In a second his face registered shock instead of anger.
‘Keep your hat on, Nick,’ said the voice of the other end. A familiar voice.
‘Bronts? Is that really you?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been at the cinema all day. Watching a Lord of the Rings trilogy. But I’ve got seven messages from you. What’s up? Don’t tell me we’ve had another break in at the gallery!’
‘No, not that. Bronte? I think you’d better get home right now!’
20
Set on high land, above the flood plains of Antwerp, the village of Berchem commanded a fine view of the shimmering metropolis a few miles away.
‘This
must be a rich town,’ observed Cornelis. ‘Look at the dwellings, they are all of stone.’
‘And that church has a clock set in its spire,’ added Amir, in quiet amazement.
Even Bunting, who felt it inappropriate to marvel at wealth, was taken aback by the town’s opulence. ‘They say that all of Antwerp and its surrounds are paved in gold,’ he said. ‘If it were an exaggeration, it is not by much!’
Wide-eyed, the four dusty, weary travellers trudged along the bustling high street, their slim builds and modest garb contrasting with the plump and well-dressed locals.
‘There is a butcher, a baker and a grocer all in a row,’ marvelled Jakob.
‘My sisters would not believe a street could contain so many dressmakers, milliners and drapers,’ added Cornelis.
‘Even a cobbler and a barber shop!’ commented Bunting, unable to contain himself.
When they were through the main town, past the chandlers, printers and stationers, they noticed a tented encampment with banners and flags fluttering in the fields. A military base? As they approached, the size of the army became clearer; hundreds of tents dotted the undulating landscape.
‘This is of some concern,’ said Jakob, glancing furtively at the soldiers sitting around the encampment. ‘Whose army is this, and what is their purpose?’
‘I think they are Spanish. Look at their helmets,’ said Bunting, then under his breath, ‘Hush, Jakob, some are approaching.’
Both knew well the reputation of the Spanish army. In their attempts to suppress the revolt of the people of the Netherlands against Catholic rule from Madrid, the Duke of Alba had ordered his men to massacre and pillage rebellious cities. The road was filled with refugees with horrific tales of wanton cruelty. Not even women and children had been spared in Mechelen, where for three days marauding Spanish troops had slaughtered, raped and sacked the city. Proud of his achievements, Alba reported to King Philip that ‘no nail was left in the wall’. Zutphen, Naarden, Haarlem and Aalst received similar cruel treatment, even after surrendering to the superior Spanish forces. Traumatised refugees throughout the lowlands now referred to the events as the Spanish Furies.
Three Spaniards swaggered towards the group, their half armour glinting in the sun. All wore similar dress, with red-white sashes lying diagonally across their chests and knee-length baggy pantaloons. They had colourful tasselled pouches hanging from their belts and their heads were protected by the typical Spanish morion helmet. The only indicator of rank was the decorative comb and cheek-guards with detailed filigree, worn on the morion of the middle soldier.
‘Eh, Sacerdote, you come with us,’ he said in guttural Spanish, indicating with his finger and pointing towards the encampment.
‘No, señor, we must be on our way. We have an appointment in Antwerp,’ replied the priest.
From the few Spanish words he could grasp, Bunting understood what the soldier wanted. ‘Don’t fuck with us, Sacerdote. Our captain will want to see you,’ was the gist of it. Bunting shrugged and, with a resigned look to Jakob, set off with the group to follow the soldiers.
Unkempt, stinking soldiers, sitting in groups, eyed them as they walked through the tented city. But Bunting could see that, despite the apparent chaos, there was some order too. Each set of tents had a fire burning. Some had pots boiling with utensils at their sides. There were makeshift lines set up to dry out ragged clothes. Long pikes stood in menacing rows at the side of each section. Painted women moved freely between the tents. Jakob looked at his son, who was trying not to stare at the open bodices and flesh on display, but there was no escaping the grunts and moans from within the tents.
As they moved further towards the centre, the rows of pikes were replaced with rows of arquebus. The soldiers of this tercio wore a different uniform to the pikemen, and Bunting noticed they spoke with different accents. Some sat cleaning their weapons while others played cards. Over the general noise, Bunting could hear men singing and noticed a group gathered round one soldier, strumming and picking a battered vihuela. The song was mournful and the few words Bunting understood talked of mountains and home. He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of neighing and whinnying. The tents were now spaced further apart and horses of all sizes and colours were tethered to poles between them. Attendants ran back and forth, watering, feeding and grooming the animals.
The leading soldier grunted at Bunting – an unsubtle order to enter the largest tent. Jakob, Cornelis and Amir were motioned to sit outside. It took a few seconds for Bunting’s eyes to adjust to the relative dark of the tent.
‘I am tired of this work, Priest,’ said a voice in passable German from the gloom. ‘The men are tired. They want to go home. What do I tell them, eh? Many have been with me for ten years. Now it seems the rumours of Philip’s bankruptcy may be true. How the fuck can a king go bankrupt? Tell me that!’
The captain’s anger was palpable, but Bunting knew no answer was expected, so remained silent. He could now just make out the captain’s shape. The man stood with his arms folded and his back to Bunting.
‘Some shit about 400,000 florins being stolen by the English.’ He laughed to himself. ‘That will not do, not at all.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘I have held my men back from the rampant looting of Alba’s men, so help me God, I have … but this is too difficult. Do I tell them that their pig’s arse of a king is a halfwit who has lost all of their wages on his ridiculous indulgences? Or perhaps, that it is “God’s Will” that their years of service should amount to nothing?’
Bunting took the opportunity to speak while the captain seemed lost in his own thoughts. ‘I know nothing of these matters, sir. The predicament of the army of Spain is not my concern. My friends and I would like to proceed to Antwerp without delay.’
‘And now Alba has arrived from Aalst,’ the captain continued as if Bunting had not uttered a word. ‘His troops are so loaded with booty and satiated with raping and pillaging that my men look on jealously. It is a recipe for disaster.’
The captain turned and looked at Bunting for the first time. He was a stocky man of medium height. His hair, unaffected by age, was black and curly and his manicured moustache and beard indicated a vanity. However, his lined and tired eyes also revealed a caring disposition. His swarthy face, like all career soldiers of his time, carried the scars of previous violent encounters. Bunting guessed he was a man of about forty years of age. ‘Eh, Priest, you did not expect a confession, did you?!’ The captain laughed to himself again. ‘My men have their whores to satisfy them for a while but, if there is to be no recompense, there will be a disaster.’ He sighed and gathered himself. ‘I need your holy services. One of my men lies dying. He requires Last Rites. Let us go.’
‘But, Captain … I am not a Catholic priest as this man would expect. I am a German Lutheran. Your man does not want me, surely?’
‘My man would not know … or care … You look the part, that will suffice.’
‘But, Captain, as I understand the Catholic faith, the Eucharist – or as you call it the Viaticum – it is a sacrament to prepare the dying person’s soul for death and to provide absolution for sins by penance, grace and prayers by anointing, for the relief of suffering. It is not possible for me to administer that.’
‘Listen, Priest, I have seen many men dying and you know what they all cry for at the end … their mothers. The holy man could be a Catholic, a Protestant or a fucking Oriental for all they care. Now, follow me!’
And with a sudden movement he grabbed his helmet, strode past Bunting, pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out. Jakob, Cornelis and Amir looked up as they came out into the light. Bunting shrugged at Jakob and followed the captain.
‘I am Captain Diego Rodrigo de Figueroa, once of Galicia,’ said the captain without looking back, ‘and you can be Sacerdote Luis Alvarez de Outeiro.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Bunting.
‘He will die knowing that you come from the same country as him. Outeiro is not far
from his village.’
‘But I thought you all came from Spain?’
‘What is Spain? A name only. All my men are from Galicia. That is who they fight and die for. Not a pompous girl-king in Madrid!’
The conversation was cut short as they arrived at the dying man’s tent. On entering, Bunting was assailed by an awful stench of rotting flesh and faeces. Despite the stink a number of soldiers were gathered around a man lying white-faced and unconscious on a rough straw bed. On seeing Bunting, the men whispered to each other and nodded their heads in approval. They parted as he approached, lowering their heads and murmuring ‘gracias, muchas gracias.’ Some touched him and made the sign of the cross over their hearts. Bunting knelt at the side of the man.
A soldier sitting on the other side of the man gently spoke: ‘Fernando, Fernando. The sacerdote is here. Our beloved mother has sent him from home.’ There was no reaction, just shallow, rattling breathing. The soldier repeated himself to his brother. Bunting, unsure of the correct procedure, clasped the man’s limp hand and spoke in Latin.
‘Through the prayers of our holy fathers, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us. O Heavenly King, Comforter, Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere present and fillest all things, Treasury of good things, and Giver of life: come and abide in our son, and cleanse him from every sin, and save his soul. Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on your child. Glory to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. O All Holy have mercy on his soul O Lord, blot out his sins; O Master, pardon his iniquities. Glory to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.’
Bunting raised his eyes and nervously glanced at the brother. Whether he thought the prayers strange or unusual, Bunting could not tell as he was too intent on his brother’s care, but the gathered men standing around had responded ‘Amen’ when he paused. Growing in confidence, Bunting removed his cross from his belt and placed it on the man’s chest. Then, recalling Catholic traditions from his readings, he used his free hand to pull out a small flask of water from his knapsack and gently sprinkle it over the man’s face and upper body while reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
The Bunting Quest Page 10
