by Wilbur Smith
‘Men of the Delft! We have won a glorious victory!’ Hal knew enough Dutch to be satisfied so far, as Tromp called across the calm water, ‘I bring you the English ship the Golden Bough, all the treasures in her belly, and all her stores that will soon be in your bellies, too!’
The Dutch sailors’ cheers carried across to them and Hal watched Tromp raise his fist to the sky in a gesture of triumph, for he need say no more and his job was done. Aboli looked over his shoulder and gave Hal a great grin. The deception had worked!
Hal waited until they were barely a canvas off the Delft’s stern, looming over the much smaller vessel and on the point of colliding with her before he stood, as did the other men beside him.
‘To me, men of the Bough!’ Hal yelled and the hatches opened, spewing armed men onto the deck. Englishmen, Welsh, Scots and Irish all armed with cutlasses and muskets shouted, ‘Hal and the Bough!’ Beside them ran the Amadoda, gripping their lances and boarding axes and whooping with the joy of being unleashed once more. On the gundeck below, the ports were knocked out and the culverins run out loaded and primed.
As his men crowded the main deck, Hal took the speaking trumpet from Tromp who surrendered it with a sad sigh. The threat of Aboli’s knife was still close enough to his generative organs to keep his attention focussed.
‘Men of the Delft,’ Hal roared in his basic, working Dutch, ‘your captain won no victory. He and his men fought bravely, but there were far fewer of them than us and they are now my prisoners. Give up your ship and I will treat you well and give you food to eat. Refuse and I will send you to the sea bed without a crumb in your bellies.’
The Bough’s crew lining the gunwales yelled threats and made crude gestures, but they were all unnecessary. The prospect of a square meal alone was enough for the men of the Delft. They threw up their hands and surrendered without so much as a shot fired or blow struck.
The man who came into the cockpit holding a ship’s lantern before him grimaced at the stench of fresh faeces. Seeing the corpse, he stopped and cast his light over it, prodded it with the toe end of his boot, then turned back to a tall African whose lean, muscled body glistened by the candle’s glow.
‘This one’s for the crabs,’ he said, and by the lamplight Pett saw that although the man was still young he bore the unmistakable air of a leader of men. His face derived much of its character from an eagle-beaked nose that spoke of high birth and he carried himself with the assurance that came both from giving commands upon which other men’s lives depended and also knowing that they would always be obeyed.
Pett had positioned himself as far from the door to the cockpit as his chain would allow and had still not been spotted by the two men, whose arrival had told him all he needed to work out the general sequence of events that must have occurred since the expeditionary party had left the Delft. Evidently, the Dutch had not succeeded and the price of their failure was the capture of their ship. Here, then, was the victorious captain. He greatly interested Pett, though he was not yet clear in his mind whether he should look on this young commander as a potential client, or a man whom other clients might want dead.
‘Even the crabs must eat, Gundwane,’ the African said, giving the body a disdainful poke with his cutlass. This man looked every inch the warrior and he was very clearly his captain’s most trusted associate. Aboard ship, that would make him the first mate. Pett categorized the African as a potential impediment, to be considered and accounted for should the captain ever need killing. That aside, he had no interest in him, though it did strike him that he had never seen a black first mate before.
‘It is a tragedy, sir, that the man died on the very cusp of our salvation,’ Pett now spoke up.
He could have died quicker. Much quicker, the Saint sniped in a voice that echoed so loudly around Pett’s skull that he could scarce believe others could never detect it. His own voice, however, had been heard, for the white man spun round, lifting the lantern even as instinct made him grip the hilt of the fine sword scabbarded at his hip. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, peering into the gloom.
‘My name is Pett, sir. I have been chained down here like a slave for these last weeks, so many I have lost count. Yet my prayers have been answered at last. I hardly dared believe my ears when I heard English voices above.’ He rattled his leg chain to emphasize his predicament. ‘Are you of the ship that cheese-head Captain Tromp meant to capture?’
‘I am Sir Henry Courtney, captain of the Golden Bough,’ the young man said, ‘and you’ll be glad to know your captivity is over, Mr Pett.’
Courtney gestured at the stinking corpse. ‘Of what did this man die?’ he asked.
He died of boredom while you took an age to choke the life out of him, the Saint told Pett.
‘Hunger?’ Pett said with a shrug. ‘I am not a man of medicine, Captain. Nor did I know the poor man well, though I can attest to what you have yourself no doubt discovered: this is a ship crewed by starving men. They showed no human kindness towards me, seeing me as just another mouth to feed, and throwing me in this floating dungeon. But this one soul who shared my confinement became a true companion. For which reason I would humbly entreat your permission to be allowed to prepare the body for burial myself, rather than have it done by someone who has never laid eyes on the deceased man before now.’ He raised a hand. ‘If it please you, Captain.’
‘I have no objections,’ Henry Courtney said, then turned to the black man. ‘Ask Captain Tromp where we will find the key to Mr Pett’s irons, or failing that have the carpenter bring his tools.’
‘Yes, Gundwane,’ the African said, disappearing back up the stairwell.
‘Very kind of you, Captain, much obliged.’ Pett affected a sombre expression to hide the relief he felt at the prospect of wrapping the corpse in its burial shroud. He had no desire to let anyone else see the bruises on the dead man’s neck, nor the swollen tongue and eyes that would betray the true cause of his death.
‘How did you come to be Captain Tromp’s prisoner?’ Captain Courtney asked, by now as oblivious to the stink as any man used to life at sea.
Pett sighed, not too theatrically, he hoped. ‘’Tis a sad and somewhat lengthy tale, Captain, the telling of which will be easier once I have fed my empty belly and sluiced my parched throat.’
‘Of course, how thoughtless of me,’ Courtney nodded. ‘You must join me for dinner, Mr Pett. For now, though, if you will excuse me, I have the rest of the ship’s inventory to inspect. Have no fear, one of my men will return to free you at the soonest opportunity.’
‘Of course, Captain,’ Pett said, still barely believing his luck. Truly the Lord works in mysterious ways, he thought, as the young captain disappeared. Now he was left alone in the darkness, and yet he was not alone at all, for the Saint and all the angels were with him and William Pett felt truly blessed by their presence.
When Tromp had ruefully admitted that there was neither gold, nor spice in his holds, Hal had presumed that there was nothing of any value aboard the Delft. And at first glance that presumption appeared to be entirely correct. Most of the hold was entirely bereft of cargo and was now being used as quarters for the Delft’s petty officers and as a place to treat men whose emaciation had made them too ill or feeble to work. But at its far bow end there were twelve barrels neatly stacked and lashed down with ropes to keep them from moving in the event of rough seas. Using his cutlass Aboli prised off one of the lids to find the barrel stuffed with sweet-smelling wood shavings and dried grass. When Hal caught up with him, he thrust his hand deep into the barrel. After a good rummage his fingers detected several small boxes. Hal pulled out one of them and, upon opening it, found a glass vial inside, no bigger than his thumb.
‘I don’t think much of Captain Tromp’s wine cellar,’ he joked, holding the vial up to the ship’s lantern and trying to peer through the thick green glass.
‘I have heard Hindoo sailors from India talk of Amrit, the Nectar of Immortality. Perhaps it is that,’ Aboli v
entured, with a grin.
Hal laughed. ‘If Tromp had found the elixir of life I doubt he would be sailing this worm-riddled Portuguese tub and picking fights with the likes of us.’ He pulled the cork stopper and sniffed the vial’s contents. ‘Whatever it is it’s sour,’ he said.
‘I know a good way of testing the man to see if he is indeed immortal,’ Aboli said, waving his cutlass, but Hal was in no mood to laugh. He had clung on to the smallest hope that Tromp might have been carrying a more valuable cargo than he had let on. Clearly, however, he had nothing of any worth whatever on board. And yet, there had to have been some reason why these vials had been boxed with such care. The liquid they contained was certainly not a scent for which fashionable women would pay good money. Nor could it be some sort of medical potion, for if it were there would be labels promoting its properties. Hal felt a brief tremor of shock as the thought struck him that he might just have inadvertently inhaled a dose of poison, but a moment’s reflection told him that he was entirely unharmed.
The puzzle deepened as Aboli opened the next barrel, from which Hal pulled three pieces of desiccated old wood, getting a splinter in his thumb for his trouble. Each piece was dark as an old ship’s timber, though none had the telltale signs of shipworm. ‘Do you have any idea at all what these might be?’ Hal asked, quite at a loss for a suggestion of his own. Aboli held up his hands and shrugged, admitting that he too was defeated.
‘Well, there’s only one man who can solve this conundrum,’ Hal said. ‘Go and fetch Tromp and let’s hear what he has to say for himself.’
A few minutes later, Aboli returned to the hold, accompanied by the Delft’s former master. Hal held up the pieces of wood and asked, ‘What in heaven’s name are these?’
Tromp grinned. ‘You should not take the name of heaven in vain, Captain. Those are pieces of the true cross.’ Hal had personal experience of Christianity’s most precious relics. So for a second he was almost prepared to believe that he was holding part of the cross on which Christ himself had died. But if so, why was Tromp smiling? Was he so lacking in faith that he could make a joke of the Saviour’s suffering?
Hal kept his counsel for the time being. He said nothing as he put the pieces of wood back where he’d found them and then held up the green glass vial that had been his first discovery.
‘Ah,’ Tromp nodded cheerfully. ‘I see you have found that most sacred of treasures, the ancient bottle that contains the milk of the Virgin Mary. There is another in there that holds the tears the Blessed Mother shed as she watched her son die.’
Now Hal spoke, and his voice was tense with anger. ‘By God, sir, I’ll ask you not to take the names of Our Lord Jesus Christ and his blessed mother Mary in vain. You may find your blasphemy amusing. Be assured that I do not.’
The Dutchman raised his palms submissively. ‘I can see you are a man who is not easily fooled, Captain Courtney,’ he said. ‘But you are a rarity in that regard, or so I had hoped, for it was my intention to make hundreds of pounds from selling such curiosities.’ He scratched his pointed beard. ‘Or as I intended to describe them, such holy relics.’
‘And the rest of them?’ Hal said, pointing at the other ten barrels.
Tromp spread his arms like a spice merchant flaunting his wares. ‘I have the teeth, hair, and blood of Christ. I have samples of the linen in which Christ was wrapped as an infant.’ He pursed his lips as if trying to recall what was in the other barrels, then smiled. ‘I have jars containing saints’ fingers and even – and I apologize in advance for my sacrilege – the foreskin of the baby Jesus, cut off during his circumcision.’ He swept an arm out toward Hal. ‘But now you have all these things, Captain, for my cargo, like my ship, is yours.’
Hal felt his lip curl and Tromp raised a hand again.
‘I admit it is an unusual, and some would say unforgivable, cargo,’ he said. ‘But I was not in any position to worry too much about religious scruples.’
‘You do not strike me as a man who worries about scruples of any kind,’ said Hal, tartly.
‘Ach, you have me again,’ Tromp admitted with a disarmingly self-deprecating smile.
‘Damn, but this Dutchman is hard to dislike for long!’ Hal thought to himself, becoming almost more cross for his weakness in the face of his opponent’s charm.
‘I believe you English have a saying for life in this corner of the globe, far beyond the reach of civilization and its laws,’ Tromp said. ‘How do you say it? Ah yes, “All is fair beyond the Line”. That is correct, no?’
Hal glanced at Aboli for they had both heard his father say those very words often enough, usually when planning the act of subterfuge, not to mention deceit, with which he planned to take a Dutch ship. Just as Tromp had done with the Delft against the Golden Bough, Sir Francis Courtney would match his beloved Lady Edwina, named after his deceased wife, Hal’s mother, against far larger opponents. And, like Tromp, he had not been afraid to use trickery to achieve his ends.
So Hal could not say anything but, ‘Yes, that is the saying.’ And then he asked, ‘So, who would ever buy these counterfeit curiosities?’
Tromp considered how best to answer this. ‘I assume, Captain, that you are of the Protestant faith.’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘Well, so am I. Now, as you know, we Dutch are traders. We travel the world in search of profit and we have found it in the Spice Islands of the East Indies. The Dutch East India Company has a monopoly on the spice trade—’
‘Except when Englishmen take some of that spice for themselves,’ Hal said, thinking of the cargoes his father had seized.
‘Don’t you mean “took”, Captain Courtney?’ said Tromp with another triumphant grin. ‘As you yourself observed, this very morning, our two nations are no longer at war. Any seizure of Dutch spices would be an act of piracy.’
Damn the man again, Hal thought, then said, ‘Of what relevance is this to your counterfeit relics?’
‘Simply that we Dutch are not great missionaries. The Spanish and Portuguese, however, who have long been our rivals in the East Indies, see the spreading of the Catholic faith as being at least as important as any financial gain. The Jesuits, in particular, have sunk their claws into the people of the Philippines, into China, even into the islands of Japan, whose rulers hide themselves away from the rest of the world. And wherever they go, they take with them relics to use as weapons in their holy war for control of men’s immortal souls. Such objects can be effective in kindling the devotion among newcomers to the faith. They appeal to their superstitions and they give them something that they can see and hold as tokens of their new god.’
‘Religious relics – true relics that is – can be objects of extraordinary power. I have beheld the true Tabernacle and seen its glory with my own eyes. Can any man who calls himself a priest knowingly peddle false things?’
Tromp shrugged. ‘If they bring faith to those who don’t have it, then surely the trick is justified in the eyes of God. That is of no concern to me. What I care about is money. I went to native craftsmen in Batavia, the capital of our East Indian territories, and spent almost every penny I had on the manufacture of these relics you see before you. My crew and I starved because I did not have enough cash for decent supplies. But I believe our hunger was worth it.’
Now Tromp’s eyes lit up and he became as animated as a market trader. ‘Think about it! Think of the huge market for such relics here in Africa. The Portuguese now hold the Captaincy of Mozambique and Sofala. They have trading posts on the coast, and along the major rivers. And wherever there is trade, the Church is not far behind, seeking to convert the natives. The Jesuits will be grateful to anyone who can supply them with sacred objects that will help them in their task. There is a fortune to be made, Captain Courtney. I’m telling you, man, this cargo is as precious as any gold!’
‘Not like this,’ Hal said, disgusted by the whole enterprise, and with that he took the vial containing the Virgin’s milk, dropped it on
the floor then set his boot heel upon it.
Tromp flicked a hand as though to dismiss the barrels and their contents. ‘You are quite right of course. It is a dishonourable business. It would be unworthy of us to sell goods we knew to be false.’ He let that sink in a moment, like the sour milk on the boards by Hal’s feet then scratched his bristled cheek. ‘But should you take a different view, I would be happy to share my contacts with you.’
Hal ignored the offer. He called out to one of his other crewmen who had come down into the hold, ‘Mr Lovell, take Captain Tromp back to his men and make sure they’ve all had their fair ration of water and biscuit. We at least know how to behave with honour.’
‘Aye-aye, Cap’n,’ Lovell said, leading the Dutchman away so that Hal and Aboli were left alone in the dark hold.
The big African was tense with barely suppressed anger. ‘So your people come to Africa and when they are not making slaves of those born beneath this sky they are tricking them with false relics. With bones and old wool and rancid milk from a cow.’
‘They are not my people, these slavers and cheats,’ Hal said, a knot of shame pulling taut in his stomach. Then he stepped forward and put a hand on the African’s muscled shoulder. ‘My crew are my people. And you, Aboli, are my brother.’
Aboli glared at him a while, his tattooed face a mask of fury in the dark, but then he could hold the expression no longer, breaking the tension with a great booming laugh.
‘You devil, Aboli!’ Hal said. ‘I thought I was going to have to fight you again, like we used to. Of course, I forgot you’re an old woman now!’
Aboli reached out and took hold of Hal’s shoulder. ‘I would like nothing more, Gundwane, you are a captain now and I think the men will not take you seriously if they see you on your backside sobbing like a little girl.’
And with that Hal laughed too as they turned their backs on the barrels of fake relics and climbed back up to the gundeck to inspect the Delft’s demi-culverins.