by Tim Severin
‘Eh bien, what is that troublemaker up to?’ said Jacques. The sailor named Domine, the man found guilty of stealing water, had left a group of his friends lounging on the sand and watching the sail repairers. He walked across the spread-out canvas towards one of the villagers who sat, head down, concentrating on his work. Reaching the villager, Domine leaned down and whipped out one of the hair pins that held the man’s topknot in place. Without pausing, Domine turned and strutted back towards his cronies. He held up his trophy in triumph while his shipmates gave an encouraging cheer. His victim looked up in shocked surprise, dismay and consternation on his face. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he rose to his feet and followed Domine up the beach, holding out his hand for the return of the six-inch pin.
Domine reached his grinning friends and stood before them, holding out the pin to display its golden finial. The villager touched him on the arm. Domine swung round angrily. Putting a hand on the man’s chest, he shoved him roughly, sending the villager staggering backwards. ‘Basta,’ he shouted.
He was showing the pin again to his comrades when, stubbornly, the pin’s owner approached a second time. Politely and firmly he tried to take the pin from Domine’s grasp. Domine’s friends jeered at the sight of the villager, a small wizened man, tackling the sailor. Stung by their mocking, Domine lost his temper. He swung an arm and struck the man across the ear, knocking him to the ground.
Undeterred, the villager got up and came forward again. Exasperated, Domine transferred the pin to his left hand. Reaching inside his shirt with his right hand, he pulled out the knife that hung in its sheath from a leather thong around his neck. The weapon was not a sailor’s working blade, but a slender, lethal stiletto. With a warning scowl Domine held up the weapon and waved it menacingly in front of his tormentor. His shipmates crowed in delight. Sensing the approval of his friends, Domine held up the pin tauntingly with his left hand. Then, as the villager approached, the sailor thrust the stiletto forward, obliging the villager to jump back. More chuckles from his audience, and Domine began to show off. He skipped from side to side, grinning and alternately holding the pin out to the villager, then pulling it back out of reach as he darted the dagger towards his victim.
Still the villager wouldn’t give up. He came forward and retreated again and again. Little by little the spectators began to lose interest in the horseplay. ‘Prick him where it hurts,’ shouted one of them. ‘Don’t damage his stitching hand,’ added another, to a guffaw of laughter. The look on Domine’s face changed from mockery to deadly intent. He stopped skipping and settled into an assassin’s stance. He held up the pin one last time and dropped the hand with the stiletto lower, level with his thigh.
Watching from a distance, Hector knew what was coming, but was too far away to intervene. The next time the villager advanced, Domine’s dagger would come thrusting upwards, puncture the victim’s belly low down and leave a wound that was almost impossible to staunch. Desperately Hector looked round for Eaton, hoping the captain would intervene and put a stop to the fatal game. But Eaton stood off to one side, his eyes fixed on the action and, judging by his rapt attention, he had no intention of ending the charade.
The villager came at Domine once again, more cautiously this time, for the sailor’s vile mood was evident. Domine’s lips tightened as he judged his distance. He held up the pin, and in the same moment stepped forward with his left foot and struck with his stiletto.
What followed was difficult to understand. As the blade travelled upwards, the villager twisted to one side, reached out with both hands and seized Domine’s arm in a painfully firm grip. As Domine continued his lunge, his arm was pulled forward and down, throwing him off-balance, and a moment later he was cartwheeling through the air.
The sailor landed sprawling on the sand, flat on his back, with an impact that knocked the breath out of him. There was an interval of astonished silence from the onlookers. Humiliated, Domine scrambled to his feet. He still had his dagger in his hand. Now he ran at his opponent, the stiletto weaving back and forth to confuse his victim. The villager stepped nimbly to one side and avoided the charge. Domine ran past him, and the old man delivered a smashing left-footed kick into the lower part of Domine’s back. The sailor felt an agonizing flash of pain in his kidneys, tripped and went face downward.
‘How in God’s name did he do that?’ blurted Hector. Panu had appeared beside him some moments earlier, and the young man turned to him enquiringly. But Panu was no longer there. Looking down, Hector saw that he was doubled up and on his knees. For a moment Hector feared Panu had suddenly been taken ill, and then he became aware that all the villagers who’d been working on the sails were now in the same posture, crouching down, their faces pressed to the ground. Their bodies all pointed up the beach.
Turning to look, Hector saw a figure standing in front of the green wall of bamboos – a man dressed in a type of scaly armour. Layers of metals discs were laced together to make an apron-like surcoat to protect his body. Flaps of the same material covered his shoulders, arms and thighs, and he wore shin guards. His legs were encased in long white socks and thrust into thick-soled straw sandals. Around his waist a broad sash held a three-foot-long sword and a shorter dagger. But it wasn’t the weapons and the military style of dress, or the glitter of the lacquered iron platelets, which held Hector’s attention. In his right hand the man grasped a nine-foot staff with a banner. The shape of this guidon was rectangular, much taller than it was broad. It hung from a short wooden spreader so that the emblem on the flag was visible even when there was no breeze.
For a strange, unnerving moment Hector was transported back to his childhood. He had seen that same emblem many, many times during his schooldays. It had been scratched on rocks and stones, leaded into windows, embroidered on clothing, drawn and painted on parchment. The friars who taught him had revered it as the symbol of their faith. It was a cross within a circle.
But the villagers, crouched on their knees, were not venerating the flag’s mark. Their rigid backs and utter stillness were signs of abject terror.
The curiously armoured man came forward. He walked with a formal, stiff-legged gait, a curious strut, the staff and banner held up before him. He halted and bawled out an order in a strange language.
Instantly all the villagers jumped to their feet and ran like chicks to their mother hen, forming a tightly packed group behind their headman. Then they scuttled forward in formation and, some twenty paces in front of the mysterious man-at-arms, they dropped down and knelt submissively. Not a word was said.
More men emerged from the thicket of bamboos. Many wore the same layered coats of scaled armour. At least a dozen of them carried heavy matchlocks of an antique design. Others had long pikes, their metal tips decorated with red and white bunting. All had long swords thrust through their sashes.
Close behind came a straggle of porters dressed in the same drab garments as the villagers and stooped under heavy packs and bundles. Two of them trotted between the shafts of a sedan chair with dark-green side curtains.
Hector felt a sharp tap on his ankle. ‘The Ta-yin. Get down,’ murmured Panu. ‘And your friends too, or they will die.’
The bearers had placed the sedan chair beside the man with the banner. The curtains were drawn aside and out stepped the Ta-yin.
A short, bulky man, he was comfortably dressed in flowing black trousers and a loose white shirt tied at the wrists. It was difficult to guess his age. His bland, flat face with its dark, almost black eyes was unwrinkled and smooth. He had a small rat-trap mouth, a short neat nose that was slightly hooked, and his jet-black hair had been tightly tied in a queue. He had shaved his hairline back by several inches. It was impossible to know the natural colour of his complexion for his exposed scalp and all his face were covered in a thick coating of white powder.
The Ta-yin completely ignored the men of the Nicholas, who stood stock-still, gaping. He walked across and said something to the village headman, who cringed, then rose t
o his feet and disappeared into the village.
There followed a long, uncomfortable pause. Belatedly the crew of the Nicholas realized that they had been taken off-guard. All their weapons were aboard the ship and they were defenceless. Arianz, Stolck and a handful of the crew began to edge quietly towards the cockboat drawn up at the water’s edge.
One of the men-at-arms – their officer, to judge by the brilliant lacquer and gilt detailing on his chest armour – barked an order. A dozen of the matchlock men immediately ran down the beach and formed a cordon, preventing Arianz and his men from advancing farther. When Stolck tried to push past, one of the musketeers swung and hit him hard with the stock of his gun.
Hector, still on his feet despite Panu’s whispered pleas, saw the village headman scuttle back from his errand. He rejoined his people, bobbed humbly to the Ta-yin and dropped back on his knees.
A movement beside the nearest hut caught Hector’s eye. It was Ookooma, the fisherman they’d rescued. He’d not been seen since their arrival in the lagoon. Now Ookooma was on hands and knees, crawling forward. He moved close to the ground like a beaten dog, until he crouched at the feet of the banner man.
The Ta-yin spoke. His voice was angry. Each sentence was short and brusque.
‘What’s he saying?’ Hector whispered to Panu.
‘Ookooma has disgraced village by leaving, but worse crime to return with strangers.’
‘Christ, he had little choice,’ muttered Hector.
The Ta-yin nodded to the man-at-arms in the gilded armour. He marched forward until he was an arm’s length from the cowering fisherman.
‘Who’s that?’ Hector asked Panu.
‘A bushi. He lead Ta-yin’s personal escort.’
The Ta-yin was speaking again, haranguing the group of motionless villagers who kneeled on the ground.
When the Ta-yin finished speaking, the bushi reached down and seized Ookooma by his topknot, hauling him up on his knees. The soldier twisted the topknot cruelly, forcing Ookooma to look towards the open sea. Then he twisted again so that the fisherman faced the crew of the Nicholas, who still stood open-mouthed at the spectacle. The fisherman’s eyes were tightly closed. The man-at-arms growled an order, and Ookooma opened his eyes. Hector tried to make out some expression on the gaunt face, but Ookooma seemed to be in a trance. There was no trace whatever of the alert, calculating castaway rescued from the sea.
The bushi released the topknot, and at once the fisherman’s eyelids dropped shut again. The man-at-arms stepped back half a pace with his left foot, placed his right hand on the hilt of his longer sword, then uttered a low, sharp grunt. Ookooma’s eyes popped open. In one smooth movement the bushi drew the sword, and the long, glinting blade swept through the air. The fisherman’s head leaped off his shoulders and his headless corpse fell forward. Blood gushed from the severed neck and seeped into the sand. The head rolled once and lay still.
Hector’s stomach heaved. He clenched his hands and swallowed hard. The bushi calmly produced a pad of snow-white cotton and delicately wiped down his blade. Then he carefully slid the sword into its scabbard and strutted back to take up his position at the head of his soldiers.
The ‘great man’ had shown no interest in the execution. Even before Ookooma fell, the Ta-yin was on his way towards a line of tents and pavilions, which the porters and attendants were busily erecting at the rear of the beach.
‘Should I go to speak with him?’ Eaton asked Panu. The captain had gone pale under his tan. The crew of the Nicholas were slinking away, forming small, anxious groups and murmuring amongst themselves as they cast worried glances towards the armoured troops. Four villagers carried away Ookooma’s corpse.
As Stolck translated Eaton’s question, Panu blanched. ‘On no account approach the Ta-yin without a summons from him,’ advised the interpreter hastily. ‘He will take it as an affront. You and your men must stay where they are, until he wishes to speak with you.’
THAT EVENING the crew of the Nicholas ate only leftovers and scraps. The villagers shunned their camp and could be seen carrying their panniers and baskets to the Ta-yin’s tents. None of Eaton’s men complained of their meagre meal. When dusk fell they were still debating what they should do next.
‘If we fought our way back to the ship, we could turn her cannon against those bastards,’ suggested Stolck.
‘Fight them with what?’ came an immediate objection. The speaker was the elderly, bald curmudgeon who was almost relishing their predicament.
‘Knives and cudgels. Jezreel could lead us. We know how good he is in a scrap, and he has his backsword with him.’
‘That’ll never be enough. You just saw what one of their blades can do.’
Stolck was not to be put off. ‘We rush the cordon. A few of us take the jolly boat out to the ship and grab our guns.’
This time Eaton objected. ‘Their muskets look antique. But the men in the boat wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d be shot to pieces before they got halfway to the Nicholas.’
There was a silence, and then Arianz spoke. ‘Maybe we should try stealth. Swim out to the ship in the darkness, up anchor and slip quietly away.’
‘On wings?’ called a voice from the darkness. ‘All our sails are still on the beach, and we’d need a pilot to bring us through the channel, as well as a fair wind.’
The discussion dragged on until the small hours. Nothing was decided except that it would be better to stay out of the Ta-yin’s way.
They awoke to the unwelcome sight of a work party of villagers at the water’s edge. Under the direction of the bushi, they were manhandling three of their larger fishing craft down the beach. Soon a squad of men-at-arms was being rowed out to the ship, and the onlookers could see them clambering aboard.
‘The swine are plundering the ship,’ said Arianz in disgust. Men were moving about the deck, and a short while later it was evident they were lowering various packages and a number of kegs down into the fishing boats that headed for the shore.
‘They’re stealing all our gunpowder, the bastards,’ added the quartermaster. ‘I hope it’s too strong for those matchlocks and they blow up in their faces.’
‘I’ve been trying to recall where I saw their emblem before. Now I remember,’ Stolck said unexpectedly. Those closest to him fell silent.
‘It was when I was working in the VOC’s factory in Ke-cho. We received an occasional shipment from Japan. Some boxes had seals with that cross in the circle. The same mark was painted into the glaze of those big jars they used for packing high-value goods. Am I right?’
He looked across at Panu. The interpreter had earlier arrived from the direction of the Ta-yin’s encampment.
‘The cross in circle is the mon, the emblem of the Shimazu clan,’ said Panu softly through Arianz. ‘They are overlords of this island and many more, all the way to their homeland in the north, Satsuma.’
At last Hector understood. The Nicholas had blundered on to an island lying somewhere between Japan and Formosa. The area was notorious for reefs and shoals and was generally avoided. It was unlikely to be on any chart.
‘How far away is Satsuma?’ he asked.
At least a week’s sailing with a good wind. The Shimazu forbid outsiders to come to their islands. The people here are their bond servants.’
‘Slaves, more like,’ grunted Jezreel.
‘The Ta-yin follows his own people’s code,’ said the interpreter carefully. ‘He knows no other way. He is bound by honour and a sense of duty.’
‘Enough talk of honour,’ snapped Eaton. ‘I don’t care whether that cold-blooded savage wishes to talk to me or not. Let’s go find out what he intends to do with us.’
THE TA-YIN’S own pavilion was easily identified. Two men-at-arms stood guard in front of it with long pikes. They wore bowl-shaped metal helmets in addition to the now familiar scale armour. Each helmet 7had a small visor jutting out to protect the eyes, and a long, thickly padded flap hanging down the back of the neck.
‘My dad brought home a lobster hat like that after his time in Cromwell’s cavalry,’ remarked one of the sailors. His companion nudged him to be silent. The front of the tent had been pulled aside, and the Ta-yin emerged.
He was wearing the same loose black silk trousers as the day before, and a sleeveless jacket of dark-brown silk. The shoulders of the jacket were so exaggerated they extended well beyond the body. Silver thread picked out the circular mon of the Shimazu on his breast. The Ta-yin’s face was again powdered white, but this time his queue of jet-black hair had been oiled, twisted tight and brought up over the crown of his head, then doubled back again. This cockscomb was topped by a round cap of black gauze held in place by a white tape under his chin. He was unarmed, and the handle of a fan protruded from his sash.
An attendant ran forward with a folding stool even as Panu dropped into a humble crouch. The Ta-yin sat, placed his hands on his spread knees, straightened his back and threw out his chest so that, without lifting his chin, his gaze took in the assembled crew. They stood, curious and apprehensive and uncertain what to do. For a full minute the Ta-yin said nothing. His eyes glittered with disdain. When he spoke, his voice came from deep within his chest.
‘The Ta-yin says . . .’ translated Panu. He shifted his crouching position so that his voice could be heard more clearly by Stolck, who relayed his words into English so that all could hear. ‘The Ta-yin says that if he had his way, he would behead all of you forthwith. But he is obliged to consult his superiors and await their instructions.’
‘We came here in good faith . . .’ began Eaton. The Ta-yin turned on him a look of such ferocity that the captain’s voice trailed away.