A Singular Captain

by John Regan

  Chapter 6

  Pigafetta had little recollection of his first two days at sea. He spent that time lying on the deck with his head in a scupper – a hole in the bulwark to let the water run away – emptying his gut into the sea. He never prayed for death more fervently than when his stomach had nothing left in it but bitter green bile, which, in a last act of spite, burned his mouth on the way out. The captain general’s prophecy came true and he rued the day he thanked him for signing him on. Why anyone would choose a life at sea he could not fathom. He was the butt of many jokes and the only one to show him kindness was Henriqué, who brought him sips of water, wrapped him in a blanket overnight and earned his lasting gratitude.

  Against all the odds, he did recover. Lying on his back, he gazed up at the royal standard fluttering from the masthead and a seabird with a spiky tail trying to make love to the Habsburg eagle. It even made him laugh, so he must have recovered, and began to look around him. It was a bright sunny day and the sparkling sea was flecked with whitecaps, seabirds whirled and swooped in the wake, dolphins frolicked in the bow wave and flying fish skittered out of the ship’s path, skimmed across the water and fell back into the sea. He never knew there was such a thing as flying fish and would not have believed it had he not seen them with his own eyes. It was the duty of the early morning watch each day to harvest those that fluttered aboard in the night and grill them in butter: delicious but a little bony.

  A sight that lifted his heart was the Armada de Moluccas ploughing through the sea in line astern, a white moustache of foam at the bow, sails straining in the breeze like horses in harness and the royal Habsburg standard at every masthead. At that moment it dawned on him that a sailing ship is one of man’s great inventions, more useful for shifting cargo than a hundred horses, and it doesn’t need feeding.

  The captain general held other concerns and no sooner had he cleared the river than he put the crew to gunnery practice, mindful of the threat from Dom Manuel. Twice a day the sailors ran the big guns out through ports in the ship’s side and practised elevating, depressing and training to target an imaginary enemy. Powder boys learned how to measure the charge and all hands learned how to damp the recoil and cope with the noise and smoke.

  “Make sure you shut those gunports properly,” the captain general warned after each session. He believed these new-fangled gunports made a ship unseaworthy and said he knew of at least three ships sunk by gunports not properly secured.

  Espinosa, the master-at-arms, a burly Basque with a loud voice, set the crew to sword play. Every sailor was also a soldier in this ship, even Pigafetta. He found a cutlass thrust into his hand and wondered what he was supposed to do with this thing.

  “A cutlass is not a fencing foil or even a rapier,” Espinosa explained. “We don’t go in for fancy footwork; we just try and do the greatest amount of damage in the shortest possible time. The cutlass is your shield as well as your weapon, and parry is more important than thrust.”

  Two of his men demonstrated the technique and then the class were given a practice session. If this had been a real battle, Pigafetta would have been dead three times over, and only hoped he would never have to use a cutlass in anger.

  He recorded these things in his private journal and, although no artist, illustrated his words with watercolour brought along for the purpose. He painted pictures of flying fish, birds and ships, wanting to create a memory. He understood how easily things can slip from the mind and how easily the mind can turn facts into fantasy. He wondered what strange tales would fill his journal on this voyage to an unknown world; whether his memory of this day would reflect the current facts. Truth is an elastic concept and that was the importance of recording details as they occurred.

  He sought out Henriqué to thank him for his kindness. Henriqué’s official rank on board was interpreter, and perhaps that explained his elevated salary. He was a native of Java, a handsome boy with an olive complexion and a wispy moustache. Pigafetta was intrigued by him. He was a living specimen of the creatures who inhabited the Spice Isles, and nothing like the monsters of myth and fable so feared in Europe.

  “Albuquerque went back to Malacca in the year ten,” Duarte had explained, “to rescue the hostages left behind by that idiot Sequiera, and he did a good job. Ferdinand had the Santa Inez and Paco was master. Where Sequiera went wrong was he failed to use his cannons but Albuquerque didn’t make that mistake. He bombarded the town for a whole day before sending the landing party ashore. It wasn’t a walkover but we mopped the place up pretty quick and you wouldn’t believe what we found – gold bars weighing a bihar, which is a tenth of a ton, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires... One jewel alone was a ruby as big as a pigeon’s egg, which once belonged to the king of Siam, enough to ransom Dom Manuel three times over. Believe me, it was the most fabulous treasure in history. It was all loaded into Albuquerque’s flagship, Flor de la Mar, and what do you know? She was wrecked on the coast of Sumatra and all that treasure is still buried in the mud. It’s enough to make you weep and tear your hair out.”

  “Anyway, I was going to tell you about Henriqué. We took a couple of thousand prisoners and we all thought Albuquerque would order them wiped out, or at least cut their ears off, which was one of his hobbies. The sultan’s wife was Han Li Poh, Chinese, and she had five hundred handmaidens in her palace, young and beautiful – five hundred – and we thought this was going to be heaven but Albuquerque must have gone soft-headed in the Sun because he ordered hands off the women and don’t kill the prisoners; just turn them into slaves and put them to work building a new fortress. Well, Henriqué was one of them and Ferdinand was looking for a slave so he got him, gave him a crash course in the scriptures and had him baptised, which was lucky for Henriqué. He is better off now than he ever would be back home. I mean look at him. He’s on fifteen hundred a month. Not bad for a slave.”

  That was Duarte’s summary of Henriqué’s history but Pigafetta was interested to hear the original version.

  “My father is prince of Majapahit,” Henriqué said. “It is the kingdom of Java and we have much spice which is desired by foreigners and also other things which are good to eat. We trade to Malacca and also Cathay and what you call Taprobane with spice and betel and sandalwood and rice and fish. I had two brothers and we traded with Mahmud Shah when Albuquerque came. My brothers were killed and only I survived and became the slave of Tuan Ferdinand because I learned the rosary and took the baptism or else I would have been killed too. My god is not your god and my temple is on the gunung, how you say volcano, among the clouds. It is called Borobudur and it is bigger than your cathedral of the Giralda and we also have to pay respect to the god of the volcano so he does not become angry.”

  Since Henriqué spoke the language of the Spice Isles, Pigafetta decided to learn it and began collecting words as he had once collected butterflies as a child. Words were jewels to Pigafetta. Insatiably inquisitive, he also studied navigation as practised by the captain general.

  Magellan joined the pilot, Gomez, for backstaff observations of the Sun at noon each day, an intriguing procedure in which they measured the altitude of the Sun above the horizon and then performed some calculations while consulting a book full of numbers. The result of this wizardry was a number called the latitude that was entered in another book full of numbers. Pigafetta knew that, in both Spanish and Portuguese ships, navigation was the role of the pilot, who ranked below the master. Captains were not expected to navigate, and most were incompetent anyway, as Magellan had frequently told him with reference to Cartagena, Mendoza and Quesada. Magellan was a different kind of captain, keeping his own plot. He did not usurp the role of Gomez but if any dispute were to arise between Magellan and the pilot, the captain general’s view would obviously prevail. Cartagena, Mendoza and Quesada, not being navigators, were hostage to their pilots. Magellan had ensured that, since he could not have Portuguese captains, at least he had Portuguese pilots in all five ships.

  Between each n
oon Sun-sight the officer of the watch kept the reckoning by the traverse board, on which he pegged the estimated distance run each half-hour, when a boy sang the appropriate psalm or prayer or poem at the top of his voice to be heard down on the main deck, turned the sandglass end for end and rang the bell. The officer moved the peg in the right direction as indicated by the compass.

  After watching this procedure, Pigafetta asked, “Captain General, how will you know where the Line of Demarcation is?”

  “A good question, Pigafetta. You know, not one of the bishops ever asked me that, not even Fonseca.”

  “But surely it is vital if it divides the world between Portugal and Spain.”

  “You see, Pope Alexander originally drew his line on the map a hundred leagues west of the Cape Verde Islands, which belonged to Portugal but Dom John complained Portugal wasn’t getting a big enough slice of the cake. The line was then shifted a couple of hundred leagues farther west. Columbus discovered Hispaniola, which was on the Spanish side of the line and then a couple of years later Cabral discovered what is now called Brasil for Portugal. Now, here is the interesting part. The Earth is three hundred and sixty degrees of longitude around, but no one knows how many leagues there are in a degree of longitude, and no one knows whether the Treaty means a Roman league, a maritime league or a Spanish league. So, to answer your question, ‘How do I know where the Line of Demarcation is?’ the answer is, pretty much by guesswork. That gives me a lot of discretion.”

  It was one of the few occasions he ever saw Magellan smile, but it was a devilish sort of smile.

  “But, Captain General, I heard you tell the king you know where the Line of Demarcation is.”

  “And so I do. Columbus died believing he had found Cathay but he was wrong. I will certainly find the Spice Isles and the Line of Demarcation and finish off his work. Come with me.”

  He led the way to his cabin and pulled out a chart and spread it on the table. There was no need to keep the cabinet locked any more. The chart bore the recognisable outline of the world familiar from schooldays filled, in places with brilliant watercolour and embellished with tiny pictures of spouting whales, sea serpents and ships under sail. On the west coast of Africa a lion brandished the Portuguese flag to warn off trespassers. On the other side of the Ocean Sea a red line representing the pope’s decree divided the realms of Spain, flying the flag of Castile and Lèon, from those of Portugal with the Five Wounds of Christ defended by three macaws.

  “See,’ Magellan said. “There is the Line of Demarcation.”

  “But that’s just a line on a map. I mean, where is the ship now? How far away are we from the Line?”

  “Ah, you have gone to the heart of the matter, Pigafetta. That’s a different question altogether, isn’t it? Kings and bishops never ask that question. People keep asking, ‘Where is the Line of Demarcation?’ but they never ask themselves, ‘Where am I on God’s Earth?’ Where am I in God’s scheme of things?’”

  Large areas of the map were blank and some coasts portrayed by dotted lines where the map-maker had given in to conjecture. Faleiro’s globe still sat on top of the cabinet, a three-dimensional representation perhaps a little closer to reality, but Magellan soon destroyed that comforting thought.

  “Only fools still believe the world is flat but no one knows how big it is, not even the pope. And as for the Line of Demarcation, the question is, ‘where does it go a hundred and eighty degrees away, on the other side of the world?’”

  Pigafetta was dismayed and felt as if he stood on a rickety staircase. The Line of Demarcation was drawn between two fantasies and he wondered if he could believe his own eyes ever again. He realised Magellan had used the Line of Demarcation like a baited hook. When Dom Manuel refused to take the bait he dangled it before Don Carlos, who swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Magellan cared not a toss for the Line of Demarcation and neither for Portugal nor Spain. Those who accused him of treason were wrong. He was driven by neither patriotism nor sedition; no guiltier of treason than a Spanish princess marrying a Portuguese king, although Sr Velasquez had his views on that. Magellan’s allegiance lay elsewhere than with the church or king. What drove Magellan in this obsession?

  Suddenly, the art of navigation assumed great importance. Magellan could declare the Line of Demarcation here or there and neither kings nor priests could challenge his mathematics. Having observed the supreme power of popes turn to evil, Pigafetta felt disquiet. He studied the conduct of the vessel not merely as a passenger but as a participant, a witness, a conscience, an advocate or judge. What would be the validity or moral worth of any pronouncement on the Line of Demarcation made by Magellan? This was in addition to questions surrounding the moral worth of the pope’s decree in the first place. The more he thought about it, the more preposterous became the idea of the pope dividing the world by a line drawn on a map full of blank spaces and unknown populations, to be enforced by butchers like Albuquerque and Cortès and now administered by the Antichrist, Pope Leo. The Line of Demarcation was far more than a line drawn on a map. The ultimate Line of Demarcation was between good and evil and it was a shadowy line indeed.

  But surely the stars would give some evidence of a man’s place in the universe, he thought in an attempt to restore sense to his demolished world. The stars seemed to shine brighter at sea than over the land and there were more of them. The captain general had pointed out the constellations: Orion, the hunter; Scorpio, the scorpion; Taurus, the bull and others as testimony to the greatness of Almighty God and the insignificance of man. Alas, no; the stars gave no solution to the riddle of longitude and only made Pigafetta lonely.

  Each evening before sunset the captain general shortened sail to enable the other ships to come alongside, deliver their salute to the flagship and receive their orders for the night. The captain general had placed Santiago at the back of the fleet not only because she was the fastest ship but also so Serrano could function like a sheepdog, nipping the heels of Cartagena, Mendoza and Quesada.

  Almost every evening Magellan had cause to correct some fault in the conduct of the ships. San Antonio’s main course was sheeted on too hard. Victoria needed to sweat up her mizzen or Concepción should pay attention to her steering. Fortunately, they had seasoned masters and good pilots to cover the inexperience of their captains but the blame for appointing fancy pants as captains instead of proper seamen lay squarely with Bishop Fonseca.

  On the morning of the sixth day the peak of Tenerife, with a ring of cloud around its neck like a Dutchman’s ruff, rose out of the sea ahead and Magellan was not miserly in his praise.

  “Well, Gomez, congratulations. Right on target.”

  “It is a small thing, Captain General.”

  “By no means a small thing. To find one’s way across the trackless ocean is a great skill, with only the Sun and stars and Divine Providence for guidance.”

  The captain general brought the fleet to anchor in the harbour of Santa Cruz, a colonial outpost on a barren plateau where nothing but cactus grew in the lava flow from the volcano. It occurred to Pigafetta to ask whether Henriqué’s god was a particular volcano or all volcanoes, but Henriqué did not seem to understand the question.

  “There is only one gunung with many mouths,” he said with a puzzled look implying that this should be obvious to anyone. “The volcano is the heart of the Earth.”

  This was the last chance to top up water and take on livestock for fresh meat before heading across the Ocean Sea. Even before the anchor went down, islanders climbed on board with chickens, eggs, baskets of fruit and vegetables and bottles of a notorious brew of cactus juice.

  It was the old trio, the captain general, Duarte and Pigafetta that went to find the governor, Don Pedro Castilla. Magellan had a letter of introduction from the king. The pinnace landed them among fishing boats pulled up on a pebbly beach and the captain general instructed the crew to keep a lookout for his return.

  Children playing hopscotch in the dusty street, ot
herwise deserted except for dogs and donkeys, directed them to the governor’s house overlooking the harbour on the outskirts of the town. Unkempt and unshaved, Don Pedro dozed at a table in the patio of his paint-peeling wattle and adobe villa with his head in his arms and a glass of cactus wine in his nerveless grip, while all around him weeds were ousting geraniums from their pots and causing earthquakes beneath the brick paving.

  “Pardon me, Your Excellency,” Magellan said, touching him on the shoulder. “Do I have the honour of addressing Don Pedro Castilla, His Majesty’s representative in Tenerife?”

  Don Pedro lifted his head from his arms and focused bleary eyes on the two spectres; one short, dark, black-bearded, with powerful eyes, the other tall, world-weary and morose: Satan and Job.

  “I am he.”

  “I have a letter from the king that commands your attention.”

  “From the king? I have no secrets from the king, señors. All has been paid; the taxes accounted for. You can see for yourself.”

  “I have no interest in taxes or your business with the king. I wish only supplies for my ships — which I will pay for in Spanish gold — and information.”

  “Information, señor? I know nothing. My lips are sealed. But you mentioned Spanish gold?”

  “Portuguese ships. Do you have news of Dom Manuel’s ships?”

  “It’s the wrong time of year.” Don Pedro climbed to his feet. “The shit-eating Portuguese sail for India in spring.”

  “These are not spice ships, but men of war. Have they been sighted in these waters?”

  “Are we at war with Portugal again?”

  “Only one man, but he happens to be the king.”

  “And you want information, is it so?”

  “What ships and where bound?”

  Don Pedro knew nothing of Portuguese ships but promised to enquire and they took their leave.

  “Do you have confidence in Don Pedro, brother-in-law?” Duarte asked.

  “Of course not. The man is a fool.”

  “My reading also. And so I propose to enquire among the populace.” He jerked his thumb at the village farther around the shore.

  “Do so, and take Pigafetta with you. I am going back to the ship.”

  The village had a congenial tavern, which Duarte quickly found. He ordered wine and engaged the innkeeper in discussion, and the innkeeper engaged his clientele and the clientele brought friends and the friends had music, which attracted more friends for they were all friends in such a little town, wanting to know about the Armada de Moluccas and the strife with Dom Manuel. No one had seen Portuguese ships; it was too late in the year, but they promised to keep a lookout. Meanwhile, life is too short to worry about such things, especially when Duarte was paying for the wine and singing as additional entertainment. There were even comely girls who sat on Pigafetta’s lap, not shy but brazen. He did not remember their names for his memory was a little hazy and his head hurt when he awoke next morning.

  Two days later, Don Pedro came aboard and informed the captain general that fishermen had sighted sails west of La Palma. He had taken the trouble to shave and his clothes looked cleaner.

  “Bound which way?”

  The governor suffered a bout of coughing, only relieved when Duarte slapped him on the back.

  “Apologies, Captain General. It is an ailment brought on by anxiety. Now, you were saying?”

  “Which way were the ships bound?”

  Unfortunately, the cough again prevented his response.

  “Please excuse me, Captain General. I suffer these attacks when my nerves are fraught with worry over my future.”

  “Ah,” said Duarte, “I think I have the cure for that.”

  He extracted a coin from the purse at his belt and handed it to the governor, who seemed immediately cured of his complaint.

  “Four ships, southwards bound, Captain General.”

  “Four ships southwards bound,” Magellan repeated. “So it’s true.”

  Despite his lowly status as a thousand a month man, Pigafetta took his meals with the captain general, Duarte, and Punzarol, attended by Henriquè and two cabin boys. At dinner that night, the captain general speculated that the Portuguese fleet would follow the sailing directions for the spice fleet: a call at the Cape Verde Islands and then a course south of west across the Ocean Sea. According to the Portuguese rutter, similar to the Spanish Padrón Real, ships should aim to join the coast of Brasil near Cape San Roqué. Too far north and a ship would be carried away by strong currents. Too far south and she could drift for weeks in the doldrums. It was a narrow path across the Ocean Sea and that is where the enemy would patrol. They would most likely favour the western end of the track for their ambush; at least that is what Magellan himself would do in their situation. His evasive strategy then became clear: he would favour a more southerly course.

  A new ship arrived in port next day, a fast caravel not unlike Santiago. She hoisted her pinnace over the side; a crew climbed down into it and pulled across the bay.

  “Ahoy, Trinidad,” she hailed. “Permission to come aboard?”

  “Who goes there?”

  “Captain Rodriguez. San Jeronimo.”

  “Your business?”

  “Despatch for Captain Magellan.”

  Punzarol had the deck and he sent a boy for the captain general and organised a side party to salute the visiting captain. Rodriguez climbed aboard to a trumpet fanfare just as Magellan arrived on deck.

  “Saints be praised, I have caught you in time. I have carried every rag aboard my ship including my handkerchief.”

  “What is your haste?”

  “Despatch for Captain General Ferdinand Magellan from Dom Diogo Barbosa.”

  “You had better come below.”

  The captain general escorted the messenger to his quarters, leaving those on deck to wonder.

  “What’s that all about do you think, Pigafetta?” said Duarte. “It’s not every day you get a letter special delivery by caravel. I remember the time in Cochin when we had a special delivery, only that time it was orders to rendezvous with Albuquerque in the Gulf of Cambaya, which turned out a disaster. I hope it’s not like that again.”

  “Me too,” Pigafetta said.

  Speculation over the messenger continued for about half an hour, when Magellan returned on deck with his visitor and saw him to the companion ladder, shook his hand and thanked him for his message. Despite his polite manners, Magellan was obviously seething with suppressed rage.

  “Duarte. Pigafetta. Come to my cabin please.”

  When they were seated at the table, he said, “San Jeronimo has brought disturbing news. Best for you to read this note. It comes from Dom Diogo in Seville.”

  It has come to my knowledge that friends of our enemies have begun boasting, immediately upon departure of the fleet, that your position as captain general is forfeit to Fonseca’s men: Cartagena, Mendoza and others. The extent of the conspiracy is not known, but a quarrel will be provoked, swords will be drawn and blood will flow for which you will be blamed. Should this plot fail then spies will carry news of your intended course to a Portuguese fleet that sailed from Lisbon after you. To Duarte, salutations. Beatriz, Rodrigo and self are well.

  “Ferdinand, this is terrible,” Duarte said. “What you must do is slap Cartagena in the stocks. He’s the ring leader. We all know this goes back to Fonseca and you need to nip it in the bud right now. This is just going to go on and on and on.”

  “Thank you for your opinion, Duarte. Now shut up.”

  “But, brother-in-law, you can’t let this go on.”

  “Duarte, I said shut up. You talk too much. Let’s think about this. The letter says a quarrel is to be provoked. Where and how are they going to provoke a quarrel? Obviously, their only opportunity is a conference of captains. They don’t have what it takes to act individually and they won’t act in front of witnesses. Scum like this are always cowards.”

  “Well, then, what are you going to
do, brother-in-law?”

  “It’s said I’m to be provoked. They know my character well — that I don’t tolerate fools. And so, let us transform that character: smooth the temper, extend the patience, soften the voice like a woman’s. Meet Ferdinand Magellan, the lamb; the model of tolerance and understanding.”

  “I still think you ought to put them in the stocks.”

  “I shall call a captains’ conference for tomorrow. Pigafetta, you will be my secretary. I want a written record of this meeting as evidence for the king.”

  The captain general welcomed his captains with platitudes next day and held the curtain aside for them to file into his cabin. There was room for six at the table, but he had removed one of the chairs. Cartagena chose the chair at the head and sat with his back to the stern window, which the captain general had released from its catch. What his guests did not know was that Duarte crouched on the stern gallery out of sight with a loaded arquebus, this being his chosen weapon. He thought swords and daggers barbaric. At the necessary moment, if matters got out of hand, he was to fling open the stern window and blow Cartagena’s head off.

  Cartagena, young, handsome and arrogant, ignored Magellan and called the meeting to order. Serrano was unaware of the politics of this meeting since there had been no time to warn him. He glanced from Cartagena, to the captain general and back to Cartagena with a puzzled look on his face.

  “In accordance with the king’s regulations,” Cartagena announced, “this council will discuss the conduct of the voyage thus far, and the navigation and course to be followed across the Ocean Sea.”

  “Very prudent, Captain Cartagena,” Magellan murmured. “I’m glad to see you take charge as chairman of this meeting.”

  Cartagena blinked and his forehead creased as he struggled to come to grips with his first uncertainty.

  “Although by your conduct you have never admitted it, I am equal in command,” he said. “The regulations clearly state I am Inspector General of the fleet and conjunta persona with yourself.”

  “I’m sure the king would be interested to hear it. A horse has only one head, not two.”

  “Therefore this council will consider the difficulties encountered on this part of the voyage due to the incompetent leadership of Captain Magellan. Quesada, your comments?”

  Quesada was the oldest of the Spanish captains and appeared nervous.

  “I found the signalling of the course changes too brief for clarity,” he said. “The lanterns should be exhibited longer.”

  “I take note of this complaint,” the captain general said, and humbly bowed his head. “I will rectify the fault in future. An error on my part.”

  Cartagena stared at the captain general in outright disbelief.

  “I found the speed of the fleet too slow,” Mendoza said. “Victoria should not be expected to plod along at the same speed as Trinidad.”

  “What nonsense!” cried Serrano, who could restrain himself no longer. “Do you want the fleet to be scattered all over the ocean?”

  “Steady, John,” the captain general said. “Captain Mendoza is perfectly correct. In future I will adjust the speed of the fleet to that of the fastest ship instead of the slowest.”

  “It is the opinion of the majority that you have displayed gross ignorance and incompetence,” said Cartagena.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Under the king’s regulations you may be deposed by majority vote.”

  “Of course, but you would have to state your reasons in writing to the king. Pigafetta will write them down for you.”

  Cartagena considered that prospect and decided against it.

  “Well then, there is the matter of the course to be followed on leaving Tenerife. In accordance with the sailing orders of the Casa de Contratación you will follow a course of west-south-west to the latitude of twenty-four degrees.”

  “As you wish,” the captain general said meekly. “Is there any further business, Captain Cartagena?”

  “Just remember you are obliged to consult your captains before any major decision.”

  “Yes, I understand. I’ll try harder.”

  Cartagena, Mendoza and Quesada glanced back and forth among themselves while Serrano simply looked bewildered. The meeting was clearly over, and yet the result was not the one intended. The captains got to their feet and filed uncertainly from the cabin. Magellan watched them go with his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.

  Duarte climbed in through the window from the stern gallery and Serrano was given an explanation for his captain general’s behaviour, which was a relief to him, since he thought Magellan had gone queer.

  “I never thought you could do it, brother-in-law,” Duarte said. “Cartagena is so confused he’ll be writing letters home to papa.”

  The captain general’s submissive air had disappeared and he growled:

  “I think we’re not done with those weasels yet.”