Sea Robber hl-3

by Tim Severin

Hector and his companions found themselves in what was evidently some sort of warehouse. To judge by the mouldy smell, it had not been used for a very considerable time. Jezreel pushed open a wickerwork shutter to let in the light. The window looked out over the anchorage, and to their right they could see the kora kora still tied to the jetty. As a group of natives unhitched the towrope of the skiff, the goods that had been taken from the camp already lay in a heap on the waterfront.

  ‘We could break our way out of here at any time we wanted to,’ said Jezreel, tapping on the wall. It was flimsily made of leaves woven into frames of bamboo.

  ‘First, I’ve got to get Maria back,’ said Hector.

  Jacques had been exploring the warehouse, which was partitioned into a number of large rooms. He came back with an armful of empty sacks that could serve as bedding. ‘Might as well make ourselves comfortable,’ he said cheerfully, throwing them on the floor.

  Without warning, the door to the warehouse swung open and a file of a dozen women came in. They wore narrow dark-blue skirts that reached down to their bare feet, short cotton blouses and their hair was covered in headcloths of blue and white cotton. They were carrying covered earthenware bowls and several baskets whose contents were hidden beneath large leaves, and two large pitchers. These they set down on the floor and one of the women unwrapped a cloth bundle, which contained some wooden ladles and bowls. Then they withdrew. Not a word had been said, and it was noticeable that they had avoided looking directly at the strangers.

  ‘Now what have we got here?’ said Jacques with happy anticipation. He lifted the lid to one on the bowls and sniffed. ‘Fish stew, and a good one. And what are these?’ He peeled back the covering to one of the baskets and picked out what looked like a bun and bit into it. ‘Not bad. Reminds me of wheaten bread, but a little bland.’

  ‘Sago cake,’ said Vlucht. ‘Cheap food for the locals. Made from the pith of the sago palm. It grows wild in these parts.’

  ‘Cheap or not, it is a welcome change from rice,’ said Jacques appreciatively. He selected a ladle and stirred the fish soup vigorously. The ingredients swirled to the surface and he scooped up the floating morsels. After sucking up the contents of the ladle, he chewed for a few moments, then put his finger into his mouth and extracted a shred of white flesh.

  ‘What is this?’ he said, holding it up. ‘I thought it was fish stew.’

  ‘Sea slug,’ said Vlucht. ‘I came across it in China. Considered a great delicacy. Said to help your virility.’

  ‘Could be easier on the teeth,’ observed the Frenchman. ‘A bit chewy for some of our toothless Dutch friends over there.’

  Toothless or not, the Westflinge’s survivors joined hungrily in the meal, before the company settled down for the night. Vlucht’s crew chose one of the adjoining rooms as their dormitory, and Hector and his friends, after neatly piling up the empty bowls and baskets near the door, spread out their sacks on the wooden floor and prepared to go to sleep. The only sound was the water lapping around the wooden pilings that supported the building.

  Hector lay staring at the rafters. He was anxious about Maria. He sensed her captors wouldn’t harm her, and he was sure that she was well able to look after herself, but he was depressed by the feeling that somehow he’d failed her. Again and again he went over the events of the day, wondering if he could have done things differently and kept her beside him. But everything had happened so quickly and uncontrollably. He fretted that Maria would change her mind, that she wouldn’t want to share a future with someone whose life seemed to lurch from one crisis to the next. Beside him he heard Dan stir, and in the darkness he heard his friend’s quiet voice. ‘Maria is strong. She waited a long time for you to find her, and she’ll know that you will not let her down now. Try to get some rest, for tomorrow we will need to keep our wits about us.’

  CILIATI MANSUR came to fetch them soon after dawn. He had changed his immaculate white gown for a similar flowing garment all in black, and his plain turban had been replaced by a strange-looking black velvet cap in the shape of a pyramid.

  ‘My court dress,’ he explained. ‘As well as being His Majesty’s chamberlain, I also hold the rank of jogugu, his prime minister.’ He adopted a more formal tone. ‘His Majesty commands me to bring before him all those of you who speak Spanish.’ Seeing Hector’s puzzled look, he added in a more normal voice, ‘The Sultan is proud that he knows a few words of Spanish, and likes to demonstrate that knowledge to his courtiers.’

  Hector looked around his friends. ‘Dan, you should join me, and Jacques too. But Jezreel can stay behind with Stolck. What about the crew of the Westflinge?’

  The chamberlain shook his head. ‘The captain can come. The Sultan may wish to question him. But it is better that the others stay. Often His Majesty is angered by the sight of Hollanders. They remind him that their trading company favours Ternate and Tidore, and this harms his own kingdom. It will be better for everyone if His Majesty remains in a favourable mood.’

  ‘What about my betrothed, Maria? When will I be able to see her?’ Hector enquired firmly.

  Mansur made a soothing gesture. ‘All in good time,’ he answered. ‘She is well looked after.’

  Hector tried not to let his impatience show as the little group left the warehouse. The air was pleasantly cool and fresh as they made their way through a fishermen’s market, which had already been set up on the waterfront so that the night’s catch could be sold before the heat of the day. The displays of small fish on racks of trays were dazzling – spots and stripes and bands of silver and ultramarine and yellow, bright orange and crimson, deep black. Mongrel dogs with curly tails nosed for scraps beneath the stalls, and an occasional cat shrank back and crouched in alarm at the sight of the strangers passing. Soon Mansur turned into the broad, leafy lane that climbed towards the palace, and ten minutes of walking brought them to a point where the path widened out and gave a clear view of the Sultan’s residence just ahead. Unlike the simpler homes of his subjects, the Sultan’s palace was built with brick walls and had a roof of dark-red tiles. A broad portico, its roof supported by tall wooden columns, ran the full length of the front of the building. Two small saluting cannon stood on each side of the steps leading to the double entrance doors. The guns pointed out over the harbour, and the strange carriage of the day before was parked prominently close by.

  ‘A gift from the Spanish, long ago,’ the chamberlain explained, indicating the carriage. ‘They left some horses as well. But the animals soon died. Nevertheless, the Sultans of Omoro still set great store by its use. No other ruler has such a conveyance.’

  Several natives who looked like palace guards lounged at the head of the steps. When they saw the chamberlain coming towards them, they scrambled to attention, and one of them hurried inside.

  ‘Those are kabo, the Sultan’s gatekeepers, and they have gone ahead to announce our arrival. You must follow our rules of etiquette,’ warned Mansur as he led them up the steps and in through the tall double doors. ‘Always address the Sultan as “Your Majesty” and do not approach closer than ten feet. It will also be appreciated if you would speak loudly and clearly. He is getting a little deaf.’

  They passed through an antechamber where several more kabo were on duty, and then into a large reception hall. Shafts of sunlight streamed in through small windows high in the walls and made pools of such bright light that it was difficult to see into the shadowy outer fringes of the room. There was very little by way of furniture – some carved chests, a few low tables and several silk screens. The floor was covered in coir matting. Various men were standing about, but appeared to be doing nothing more than passing the time in silence. They were dressed like Mansur in long, loose black gowns and the same pyramid-shaped velvet caps, and Hector presumed they were attendants and courtiers. A faintly musty fragrance pervaded the air and reminded Hector of the disused warehouse. There was a general sense of lethargy and inactivity. The chamberlain led his little group into the centre of the r
oom, and a rhythmic swaying movement in the far shadows caught Hector’s attention. It was caused by a large feathered fan, its long shaft held by a servant. He was wafting it back and forth. But the action was so slow and lazy that it scarcely disturbed the air.

  Hector blinked. Beneath the fan and seated cross-legged on a low divan amid a mass of cushions was a small, very wizened old man. He wore a dishevelled white robe edged with yellow, and his lopsided turban was loosely tied and supported a tall spray of orange-red feathers. Under the bulk of the turban his face had so shrivelled with age that the bones of the skull stood out clearly. There were shadowed hollows at his cheeks and his temples where the flesh had fallen away, and his mouth was a pucker of wrinkles. From this ancient face peered a pair of watery, red-rimmed eyes. Hector guessed the shrunken old man was the ruler of Omoro and at least eighty years old, possibly more.

  Mansur performed a low, graceful bow, bringing his hands up to his face in a gesture of obedience. Hector copied him, as did Dan, Jacques and Vlucht.

  In a loud, high voice the chamberlain launched into some sort of introduction. When he finished there was a pause while the Sultan squinted several times as if trying to focus his gaze. Then he waved a tiny, claw-like hand towards a small inlaid box on a low table beside him and croaked a few words in a language that Hector found incomprehensible.

  ‘His Majesty asks if you will partake of betel nut with him,’ Mansur translated into Spanish, quickly adding in a low voice, ‘You are not expected to accept. This is a formality.’

  Hector realized that his companions behind were waiting for him to speak up on their behalf.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said in Spanish, ‘it is a very great honour to be received at your court.’

  The Sultan gave a sudden grimace, which Hector took to be a smile. There was a manic air about the old man. It was as if he might suddenly burst into a cackle of laughter or shriek angrily. The old man looked straight at Hector and mumbled a few words, which were clearly meant to be understood without the need for an interpreter. Hector surmised that the Sultan imagined he was speaking Spanish. If so, his meaning was lost.

  To cover his confusion and hide his ignorance, Hector bowed again.

  Mansur came to his rescue. ‘His Majesty thanks you for your presents,’ he murmured.

  For a moment Hector failed to understand what the chamberlain meant. Then one of the Sultan’s attendants emerged from behind a screen. The man was holding a cushion on which lay the Westflinge’s main steering compass. He advanced towards the Sultan, knelt and placed the cushion and compass on the ground in front of him. Moments later another attendant appeared with the ship’s spare compass, then in quick succession the servants brought in half a dozen of the muskets that had been recovered from the camp and laid them out on the wooden floor.

  Behind him the Westflinge’s captain gave a derisive snort. ‘Another way of robbing us, like those bastards did in China,’ he muttered under his breath.

  As the array of items increased, the Sultan sat hunched amid his pile of cushions. Occasionally he cracked his knuckles with an unpleasant, squelching sound. The only time he displayed any animation was when the attendant carried in Vlucht’s hourglass. The Sultan beckoned and the attendant brought up the object for closer inspection. The Sultan reached out and took the glass, then turned it over so that the sand began to run. He stared at the trickle of grains for half a minute before handing the instrument back to the servant and waving him away. The hourglass joined the pile of items salvaged from the ship.

  Vlucht gave an unhappy grunt. Two attendants had appeared, carrying between them the box that contained the hen-and-chickens clock. They set the box on the ground before the Sultan, opened the lid and lifted out the mechanical toy. They placed it on the lid of the box and stood back. The Sultan eyed the model balefully. Then he turned to his chamberlain and spoke.

  ‘His Majesty asks what the purpose of this device is. He says he is offended by the gift of a humble chicken,’ said Mansur.

  ‘Please tell him that it is a clock,’ said Hector.

  There was a rapid exchange between the chamberlain and his master, and then Mansur said, ‘His Majesty says you have already given him a timepiece. Why do you give him a second one?’

  At that moment Hector realized the Sultan was not as senile as he looked. He had worked out for himself the reason for the sand running through the hourglass.

  Hector decided to take a chance. ‘The clock with the bird is very special,’ he said. ‘It is for His Majesty’s entertainment. There is no other clock like it.’

  Behind him Vlucht sucked in his breath in surprise. ‘Christ, lad. Watch what you are doing.’

  The Sultan leaned forward unsteadily and spat a feeble jet of red betel juice towards a silver spittoon beside his couch. Most of the liquid splashed on the floor, and a dribble of the juice was left running down his chin. He spoke disdainfully to his chamberlain.

  ‘His Majesty does not believe that a bird and its young ones can tell the passage of time,’ said the chamberlain.

  ‘Dan, can you show him how the clock works,’ said Hector out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Dear God, let’s pray it performs better than in Hoksieu, or we’ll never leave this place alive,’ the Westflinge’s captain muttered as the Miskito walked forward and wound up the spring to drive the mechanism. He adjusted the hands to a point just before midday and stepped back. Once again everyone waited and watched for the machine to work. Even the courtiers had edged forward to get a better view.

  The cogs inside the machine’s base began to whirr. The chicks started their circuit around the mother hen’s feet. The hen leaned forward and began to raise her wings. Then, as before, something went wrong. There was a muffled twang, and all movement abruptly stopped. The mechanical hen remained at half-tilt, her chicks frozen in place.

  There was a nervous silence, which lasted for several moments. No one moved. Hector was aware that beside him the chamberlain had gone tense, as if awaiting an angry outburst from his master.

  During this interval Dan calmly stepped forward and opened the metal flap that concealed the clockwork. Ignoring everyone, he felt inside and must have reset the mechanism, for he closed the flap, reset the hands of the clock and took a pace backwards.

  Once again the hands of the clock came together and the hen and her chicks began to move. All went well until the moment came for the hen to raise her wings and flap and crow. Instead she had raised them halfway when a cog slipped and then jammed. The mother hen jerked forward. Her wings began to quiver and vibrate madly. The creature let out a harsh metallic cry.

  The Sultan clapped his hands with delight. ‘Manuk dewata. Manuk dewata,’ he cried.

  The tension in the room evaporated. The courtiers murmured their astonishment, and the chamberlain allowed himself a smile of relief. ‘He believes it mimics one of those birds that we saw in the forest,’ whispered Jacques beside Hector.

  Abruptly the Sultan clapped his hands again, angrily this time. Immediately all noise stopped as the courtiers waited for the old man’s next pronouncement. The Sultan was glaring at his foreign visitors, and with a sudden clench in his guts Hector remembered the chamberlain’s warning about the old man’s whims.

  The Sultan’s hand shot out, pointing at Dan as he snapped a question.

  ‘His Majesty wishes to know whether that man can also repair guns,’ translated Mansur.

  ‘Please tell His Majesty that Dan has worked in an armoury and knows how to repair muskets. Also, that I and my companions are ready to help him.’

  The Sultan was racked by a coughing fit. When it was over, there was a long pause while he struggled for breath before finally speaking to the chamberlain.

  ‘His Majesty the Sultan thanks you for your gifts. He graciously gives permission for you and your companions to stay while you are repairing the guns of his soldiers.’

  ‘What about me and my crew?’ asked Vlucht.

  ‘The audi
ence is at an end,’ replied the chamberlain brusquely. He was already bowing and getting ready to leave. Clearly he was relieved at the way the meeting had gone and was eager to be gone.

  ‘And what about Maria?’ begged Hector, adding his voice. ‘Ask His Highness where she is and when I might see her.’

  When the chamberlain failed to relay the question, Hector stepped forward and faced directly towards the old man. In clear, loud Spanish he repeated his demand.

  A shocked hush fell over the room as everyone waited for the Sultan’s reaction. He cocked his head on one side and must have understood, or at least guessed, the meaning of Hector’s words, for the wizened old man’s expression was full of malice as he answered.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Hector, turning to Mansur.

  ‘His Majesty says he has been told that this woman is betrothed to be your wife. But such an arrangement is not recognized in his kingdom until he has given his royal assent. Instead he is of the opinion that the woman would make a suitable servant and companion to his son, and teach him foreign ways and tongues.’

  With that the chamberlain bowed again to his master and took Hector firmly by the elbow and hustled him out of the audience room.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘GET A HOLD ON YOURSELF,’ Vlucht hissed under his breath to Hector as Mansur briskly ushered the little group through the guard room. ‘That old goat might as easily have decided to add your woman to his own collection of wives.’

  ‘He has no right to decide what happens to Maria,’ Hector protested.

  ‘You don’t know how these eastern despots behave,’ Vlucht raised his voice as they emerged on to the portico. ‘They do precisely what they want to do, and you could ruin everything for the rest of us.’

  Hector was seething. He wanted to turn around and force his way back into the Sultan’s presence. But Mansur was oblivious to Hector’s angry mood. ‘In keeping with His Majesty’s wishes, I will arrange for any special tools that you may need for musket repairs – there is a metalworker in the bazaar who—’