by Tim Severin
The quartermaster sensed the mood of the company. ‘Everyone to assemble at the capstan,’ he announced.
The castaway slid back down on deck, laid his head against the bulwarks and closed his eyes. The last few stragglers appeared on deck, and Hector found himself standing beside Eaton in the waist of the ship as Arianz addressed the entire crew.
‘The castaway claims he comes from a place where there’s gold to be had. It’s eight days away, if we sail nor’nor’west. Does the company wish to act on that information, or do we keep to our original design for Manila?’
‘How do we know he’s telling the truth?’ Unsurprisingly the question came from the old man with the bald pate, the longtime sceptic.
‘We’ll never know unless we go and find out,’ shouted someone in the crowd. Hector sensed a gathering surge of eagerness among the onlookers.
‘What does the navigator think?’ asked a voice. Expectant faces turned towards Hector. He racked his brains for an answer that might retrieve the situation, but he was caught in a snare of his own making. Only Jezreel, Dan and Jacques knew that he hoped to call at the Ladrones. Most of the crew weren’t even aware the islands existed. If he told them now, they’d feel deceived.
Before he could reply, another voice – one of the Mediterranean men, by the accent – called out, ‘We do not need a navigator. We have our own pilot now. The castaway will show us our course.’
But Hector wasn’t spared so easily. ‘What about that chart he and the striker copied out? Does that show anything?’ The question came from Joris Stolck, the big Hollander.
Hector looked across the crowd, caught Dan’s eye and saw the Miskito give a slight shrug.
‘I don’t have enough to go on,’ Hector answered. ‘Are we looking for an island or a large country? There’s nothing on the chart. Only Japan and China are shown in that direction.’
‘Maybe the castaway comes from Golden Cipangu.’ This time Hector couldn’t see who the speaker was. But the rumour of Golden Cipangu was familiar to every seafarer. It was a legend dating back to Marco Polo’s time, telling of a distant island where bullion was mined in such vast amounts that the people valued gold no more than iron or copper. Cipangu had never been found, but it was still a myth that dazzled the credulous.
Now, at least, Hector felt he could give an honest answer. ‘Golden Cipangu is Japan itself. The Portuguese and Dutch trade there, but not for bullion.’
Once again, Arianz was down to earth. ‘How many days to Manila on this course?’
‘A week, maybe more,’ answered Hector.
‘Then it’s little farther if we search out the mystery place. Even if it proves not to be golden, we can stop and fill our water casks.’ Raising his voice, he called, ‘How do you vote? Those in favour of searching out this Cipangu, or whatever it might be, raise your right hand.’
Looking across the assembled men, Hector saw a forest of hands. The men were animated, bright-eyed with enthusiasm, turning to one another in agreement.
‘It’s decided then,’ announced the quartermaster.
Hector glanced over to where the castaway sat slumped against the bulwark. Now the man’s eyes were open and he was watching the assembly. His expression was unreadable.
THE STRANGER knew his way across the ocean – that became increasingly clear as the days passed.
‘He pays no attention to the compass. Yet, according to my calculations, he’s maintained a steady course for the past week,’ Hector said to Dan, who was busy with paper and charcoal. It was soon after dawn on what was promising to be another warm, balmy day, and the two men were by the windward rail. Dan was sketching a portrait of the stranger, whose mattress had been shifted to the quarterdeck, so that he was close to the helm.
‘He probably does not know what a compass is,’ said Dan without looking up from his work. ‘Our Miskito fishermen sometimes get blown off-shore in a gale. They find their way back home by looking at the sea signs – the flow of the current, the direction of the wind, patches of weed and the flight of birds. That is enough.’
Hector glanced across at the castaway, who had made a remarkable recovery from his ordeal. He was still gaunt and hollow-cheeked, but now he was on his feet, quick and alert. Instead of his previous exhausted sleep, he took catnaps, no more than an hour at a time. For the rest of the day and night he directed the helmsmen of each watch. One thing, however, had not changed: the stranger’s attitude was aloof and guarded. He made no effort to communicate with the crew, refused their offers of clothing, and took his meals alone. Hector found this disquieting.
‘Well, there aren’t many birds around here for him to follow their pathways,’ said Jezreel, who had joined them. ‘I just hope he knows what he’s doing. I’d kill for a drink of fresh water that hasn’t got worms wriggling in it.’
‘Be grateful none of us are showing signs of scurvy,’ said Hector. It was true. With all the fresh food gone, the first signs of the sickness were appearing. Several men had begun to complain of pains in their joints, shortness of breath, sore gums and loose teeth. As yet, Hector and his friends were unaffected.
‘Jacques says it’s that quince marmalade he’s been feeding us,’ said Jezreel. ‘But that’ll soon run out.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I’m sorry our plan for the Thief Islands didn’t work, Hector. Maybe there’ll be a second chance if it turns out our castaway friend is leading us a dance.’
Hector shrugged. ‘At first I thought he was taking us to Japan. But that’s farther north. I’m sure of our longitude, though there’s nothing shown on the chart for this region.’
Jezreel leaned over to look at Dan’s drawing. ‘Not a bad likeness,’ he said.
‘It would help if he kept still until I have finished the drawing,’ muttered the Miskito.
Unusually, the stranger had left the quarterdeck and was making his way forward to the bows.
‘Perhaps he’s spotted something,’ said Jezreel. Just then the lookout at the masthead cried out, ‘Land ahead.’ Immediately there was a stampede of men to find a vantage point, some in the rigging, others scrambling up on the rails. ‘Not even eight days,’ someone shouted jubilantly.
The landfall was no more than a thin, dark line on the horizon. But the Nicholas was closing rapidly, and by noon it was clear the ship was approaching an island that had a distinctive cone-shaped hill at one end and was covered with dense vegetation. Beyond it, to the north and east, were at least two more islands in the far distance.
‘What do you make of it, Hector?’ Jacques asked his friend, who was puzzling over the chart.
‘Some sort of archipelago. Why it’s not marked I don’t know. Perhaps it lies too far off the usual shipping routes.’
‘Or someone does not want it known about, mon ami,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Maybe a secret worth keeping.’
‘Sounds like you’ve started to believe in Cipangu,’ said Hector with a wry smile.
‘I will be so glad to get ashore and stretch my legs. But our pilot friend does not seem very excited.’
It was true. Since sighting land, the stranger had taken up position permanently on the foredeck, close to the bows. He stood gazing forward, completely calm while the rest of the ship’s crew jabbered and chatted excitedly.
As usual, Eaton didn’t waste the chance to belittle Hector’s navigational skills. ‘Seems you could take lessons from our friend with the yellow skin. A perfect landfall,’ he called out from where he was standing close to the helm.
In the bows the stranger indicated to larboard. ‘He wants us to steer close around the island,’ said the helmsman tersely, as he looked to the west, worried. ‘It’ll be dark in another two hours. Could be dangerous to work our way into an unknown anchorage.’
‘If he’s brought us safely this far, we can trust him the last few miles,’ Eaton reassured him. ‘I doubt the crew will allow for any delay. Just follow his signals.’
The final approach proved even more perilous than the helmsman had feared.
A broad ledge of coral encircled the island, and in the gathering twilight they skirted reefs that stretched for a mile or more out to sea. Here the swells broke in long, ugly-looking slicks of foam, and the helmsman voiced his dismay at the risk they were taking by sailing so close. But he was ignored. The shipmates lined the ship’s rail and strained to catch a glimpse of human occupation. But they saw no boats, no sign of settlement on the densely wooded shore, and as the light faded, the island became no more than a dark shape. So it was by moonlight that the stranger finally indicated they should turn in towards the land.
‘Hard to starboard. There’s a channel through the reef,’ came back an excited yelp. By now their enigmatic pilot was no more than an indistinct figure up in the bow, his signals relayed by voice along the deck. Almost immediately followed another cry of ‘Brail up. Brail up.’
The Nicholas turned sweetly, losing speed as her sails were doused, and she entered the concealed gap. Only the steady stream of muttered oaths from the frightened helmsman broke the tense silence. Moments later the sound of the swell breaking on the coral on both sides of the ship was very, very close. The vessel was lifted upwards on the back of a swell, was carried forward and in less than a cable’s length was gliding across a calm surface.
‘Anchor now. He’s making signs we must anchor,’ came the urgent cry.
‘As he says,’ Eaton shouted back.
A moment later there was the splash of the anchor hitting the water. The cable ran out for a few yards and the vessel slowed to a halt. All was calm. ‘Thank Christ that’s over,’ muttered Jezreel under his breath. ‘We could’ve ripped out her bottom on the coral. That was a mad thing to do.’
In the silence and darkness that followed, there came the sound of a second splash.
‘What’s that?’ called out Arianz in alarm.
‘The castaway dived overboard,’ came back a shout. ‘He’s swum away.’
EIGHT
A BRIGHT, WINDLESS DAWN revealed that the Nicholas lay safely moored in a shallow lagoon. The water was the colour of pale sapphire and so transparent that her anchor could clearly be seen dug into the sand less than a fathom beneath her keel. To seaward, the narrow entrance passage she had threaded in the darkness now showed as a gap among the breakers, which steadily flecked across the coral shelf. A cable’s length away on the landward side, a beach of white sand faintly tinged with pink sloped gently towards a line of small thatched huts, the outskirts of what appeared to be a village of fishermen. Their boats, some two dozen of them, lay drawn up on the strand. Most were dugout canoes, but the larger ones were identical in their crescent design to the waterlogged shallop from which the crew of the Nicholas had plucked the mysterious stranger. Of him there was no sign. Indeed, there was no movement whatsoever in the village itself. It appeared to be utterly deserted. Puzzled, the crew gaped at the empty beach and the silent houses. Other than the murmur of the distant surf, the only sounds they could hear were strange bird calls from the village’s shade trees covered with orange and white blossom, which echoed round the lagoon.
‘Where is everyone?’ muttered Jacques.
‘I expect they’re too frightened to show themselves,’ said Hector. He’d glimpsed a furtive movement within the open door of one of the huts.
‘Then why did our castaway bring us here?’ asked Jacques.
‘To save his skin,’ muttered Jezreel.
Without waiting for orders, the crew hoisted out the ship’s jolly boat from the main deck, where it had been stowed during the ocean crossing, and lowered it into the water.
‘Lynch, as you had no idea this place even existed, I suggest you venture ashore and learn something about it.’ The sarcastic invitation came from Eaton, who had appeared with a brace of pistols stuck in his sash.
Men clutching muskets climbed down into the jolly boat, and Hector was rowed to the beach with the captain and the half-dozen men of the landing party.
‘You might have thought our castaway would have the courtesy to be on hand to greet us,’ observed Eaton gruffly, as the jolly boat’s keel slid into the soft sand with a low, chafing hiss. He climbed out of the boat and led the way towards the huts. Hector splashed ankle-deep into the warm water and followed him. The armed men fanned out on either side, their guns held ready. As they drew nearer to the little settlement, they could see that the place was neat and well kept. Somewhere a rooster crowed.
‘There,’ grunted one of the sailors. ‘Third hut from the left, someone’s coming out.’
As Hector watched, a nervous-looking man stepped out timidly from the shadows. He was small – scarcely five foot high – and dressed in a shabby, loose brown gown with very wide sleeves. The garment reached down to his knees and was fastened at the waist with a simple cord belt. His feet and legs were bare, and his hair, which was long and jet-black, was tied in a knot on the crown of his head. His features were very like those of the rescued castaway. He had the same yellow-brown complexion and deep-sunk eyes, though he was older by perhaps twenty years. Trembling, he came to within ten paces of the strangers, then bowed deeply and continued to advance in a curious stooping shuffle, placing his feet down cautiously as if the sand was hot. He kept his eyes on the ground and in his right hand held out a small branch. Its green leaves shivered in his nervous grasp.
‘A sign of peace,’ volunteered Hector quietly. He feared Eaton or one of the sailors would use their guns.
‘I can see that for myself,’ snapped Eaton crossly. He strode forward towards the old man.
‘We will do you no harm. We only wish to take on water and buy food,’ he announced loudly.
The old man responded by crouching even lower. He sank his head further, and bent his knees until he was kneeling submissively on the sand. At the same time he thrust out the leafy branch to the full extent of his scrawny arm. Now that he was closer, Hector could see the old man’s topknot was fashioned by sweeping up the hair on all sides and tying it together in a bundle. Two metal pins, four or five inches long, were thrust from front to back through the hair to hold the topknot in place. The ends of the pins were delicately moulded into the shape of flowers, and their petals appeared to be made of gold. One of the sailors muttered something out of the side of his mouth, and Hector caught the word ‘Cipangu’.
Eaton ignored the out-thrust branch and repeated his request. The old man only cringed even more abjectly.
‘Try him in Spanish, Lynch,’ barked the captain.
The outcome was no different. The old man kept on bowing and thrusting out the branch without a word. Finally Hector stepped up to him and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. It was like touching a dog that had suffered years of beatings and abuse. Hector felt the man flinch.
‘We come in peace,’ he said. The old man straightened a little and, still avoiding direct eye contact, answered him. Staring down at the ground, he spoke diffidently in a language that had a low, musical quality, but was completely incomprehensible.
‘Well, at least he’s not a mute like the other one,’ Eaton said crossly. He stepped around the old man and began walking briskly towards the line of huts. Immediately the elderly villager uttered a low, anxious cry and scuttled around in front of him, extending both arms, making it clear that his visitors were not to enter the settlement.
Eaton brushed him aside and continued to stride forward. The old man kept pace, still making unhappy pleading noises and gesturing that the captain should turn back.
‘Can’t imagine what he has to hide,’ Eaton said, and in a few more paces the landing party was in the village itself.
The place was as humble and unassuming as it had appeared from the ship. A web of narrow sandy footpaths meandered between flimsy huts. Their walls were made of closely interwoven cane and the roofs were thatched with straw. Wickerwork fences divided off small vegetable plots or chicken runs. Peering into one of the huts, Hector saw the interior was clean and neat and arranged as a single room. There was a raised hearth at one end, reed mats o
n the floor, and there were one or two shelves against a wall, from which hung some simple wooden agricultural tools and fishing gear. Apart from a couple of bed rolls, there was no furniture. It was clear to Hector that the huts had been hastily vacated, and very recently. A curl of smoke rose from the embers of the hearth. Abandoned utensils lay in a corner. The sides of the heavy clay jars used for holding water were damp and covered with condensation, and someone had scattered fresh scraps of food for a trio of piglets snuffling in a makeshift sty.
Disappointed, the landing party returned towards the beach. The old man was still visibly distraught as he accompanied them.
‘Why’s the old boy so upset?’ one of the sailors wondered out loud.
‘There must be a spring or well somewhere close by,’ Eaton told him. ‘Get back to the ship and tell the others to start bringing the empty water barrels, and that it’s safe to set up camp on the beach.’
The sight of the Nicholas’ sea-weary crew eagerly coming ashore minutes later seemed to convince the old man there was nothing he could do to prevent the intrusion. Still clutching his branch of peace, he retreated into the village, and a short while later reappeared at the head of a party of about forty men. Doubtless they were villagers who had been hiding in the bamboo groves, for all wore the same drab workaday gowns and dressed their hair in an identical style. To the pleasure and astonishment of the men of the Nicholas, the new arrivals came down the beach and, after bobbing and bowing nervously, began to assist in carrying the sailors’ belongings on to the land.
‘Amazingly friendly people, are they not?’ said Jacques soon after he’d come ashore. Two of the villagers had insisted on taking a heavy cauldron from him and staggered off with it along the beach. There they set the pot down above the high-water mark, and within minutes several of their comrades had begun heaping up a stack of firewood, ready for use.
‘There’s a reason for what they are doing,’ Hector answered. He’d been watching closely. ‘They’re making sure we set up camp well clear of their village.’