Ochoa was soothing. The caravel had had four hours’ start; she had spent more time in easier waters; Jorge was experienced in choosing a course and would not, like the Ghost, have had to stop or to deviate. Moreover, the Niccolò would be in urgent need of provisions, having loaded nothing since Lagos but some hurried barrels of water at Funchal. They would meet her at Arguim.
Detecting a note of anxiety, Nicholas didn’t argue. The roundship, lunging and hissing, was close to her maximum speed. More canvas would put her bows under.
He had had his blazing row with Ochoa, and had hammered it into his head that so long as he, the patron, was on board, no cannon would fire without his permission. It was not a popular edict. The crew were Ochoa’s, and unused to an employer who meddled. When a man showed too bold a resentment, Ochoa put him promptly in chains, which was even less popular. The little mice might comply, but in the long run a divided command would impair Ochoa’s authority. It would be as well for Ochoa, also, to get to Arguim quickly.
Nicholas was well aware of the dangers. As the sun increased its heat and the ship, running free, fell into the routine of fair-weather sailing, he kept a light touch in his relations with the upper seamen of the poop, and showed no disposition to check the rough games, the bloody contests, the obscene entertainments the men chose to indulge in. He also kept an unobtrusive eye on his passengers.
The horses were Diniz’ salvation. Cooped up sweating below on a daily diet of hay and a hundred buckets of sorely grudged water, the Ghost’s twenty-five valuable Berbers were no longer the fire-eaters who had embarked at Sanlúcar. Their condition was closer to that of the pigs, the goats and the poultry which had also, in logic, become the groom’s charge until eaten. Forking hay and shovelling dung-laden straw, the man was first shocked and then pleased to find the young Portuguese happy to help him.
It suited Diniz, who had been reared on the land. His headache waned; he found the labour undemanding and restful; he began to think the smell of fresh air quite peculiar. Also the man took to him readily, and he was not entirely shunned by the crew, who knew he had been in Ceuta and who had assessed and approved of his shooting. He appeared in the cabin for food, although Gelis recoiled and Nicholas and Ochoa did all the talking. He also liked to stand by himself at the rail, watching the pallid crust of the coast sliding past, separated from him by the heaving blue ocean, so weighty, so endless, so deep.
Diniz was not afraid. He and his father had lived on Madeira. Madeira was on the same ponderous sea. Over there was Cape Bojador, caput finis Africae, the spume of whose reefs, seething and flashing with fish, had made mariners think that the sea boiled; that magnetic rocks would dismantle their vessels; that ahead was the brink: the terrible cataract at the end of the world. The man who ventured his life in these waters was clearly deranged, the wise men of the Koran had thought.
Men knew better now. Diniz had seen fishing-boats. There were porpoises in the water and birds he knew in the air. Certainly, as Ochoa set a course nearer land, he saw the sea flush, as if stained by pus or by blood, but this was merely sand, Ochoa explained, spilled and tumbled from the long, clinging, crumbling cliffs. And that very day a haze of light rosy sand brushed the roundship, sifting over the deck and sliding into the folds of men’s shirts, patching their glistening faces and bodies like fawnskins. It lay as dust on the sea, except where the ship smoothed it clean with her sides, and her wake trailed a gloss in the water. There was no mystery in it.
The best tales, at this time, came from Ochoa, and especially if Gelis were there. He wanted her to remember the great island peak he had steered by; twelve thousand feet high, and named after the fire on its summit. Had they landed there, instead of on Grand Canary, he would have shown her naked savages painted with goat fat and coloured red and yellow and green like a carpet. And merry they were on that island: dancing, laughing and singing all day; for there was fruit to be had for no labour, and every man could fill a field with his wives. ‘And you have never wanted to stay?’ Gelis said.
Diniz thought her unwise in some of the things she said and did now to amuse herself. She would even linger on deck while the men took their ease in the bows, and once, when they were laying coins on the flight of two birds, she joined in, and carried the prize. When she made gift of it back to the common purse they said no direct word to thank her, but made no objection, either, when she wanted to try the next wager.
That time she lost, and soon after left, though still smiling. The next day she did it again, over a match between two fighting crickets. She remained for half a turn of the glass, and took some tentative chaffing, and went. She had only one gown, but kept it neat; and covered her head and shoulders and neck with fresh linen. She was tall, and spoke like a man, but she wasn’t one. There was only one day to Arguim, and if for no other reason, Diniz knew he had to talk somehow to Nicholas.
The chance came that night after supper, when Gelis left table early, and the master and mate were already on deck, having eaten. The sails were being reduced. Forty miles, Ochoa reckoned, lay between the Ghost and Cape Blanco that evening, and he had no wish to come across it in darkness; already, he was as close to the shore as was prudent. No, he wanted to raise Blanco by first light. Behind Blanco was the greatest gulf on the coast, twenty miles of it. And ten miles beyond that was Arguim.
Alone with Nicholas at the table, Diniz played with his cloying Madeira, and wondered how to begin. He said, ‘The Fortado didn’t catch up.’
‘Did you suppose she would?’ Nicholas said, without looking up. He had come late, and was cutting up meat with precision. Despite an enviable deposit of garments, he inhabited nothing grander on board than hose and shirt and a loose sleeveless pourpoint, although the tags and cords were apt to be gold. His complexion, merely mellowed by sunlight, was saved from daintiness by the scar on one cheek, in the same way that his size was offset by his bearing, and his unthreatening mien by the range of his voice.
His thatch, tousled with salt, would scarcely bed the round cap he crammed on it and ought to have been cut. It was not cut, Diniz conjectured, because tomorrow in truly commonplace guise Nicholas had to smuggle the three of them aboard the San Niccolò, where they were supposed to have been ever since Funchal.
Diniz said, pursuing his point, ‘Ochoa says the Fortado should be a whole day behind us.’ He paused, without really expecting any grateful acknowledgement. ‘He says you must expect a few dead in that sort of skirmish. The men wouldn’t have stood for being fired on. It’s true. I’ve been talking to some of them. I tried to explain how you thought.’
‘I heard,’ Nicholas said. ‘Even the horses have become versed in polemics. I notice that Gelis, too, thought we were on the brink of a mutiny.’
‘Is that why she did it?’ said Diniz.
The door opened. ‘I thought I might be missing a council of war. Did what?’ said Gelis, sitting down.
‘Raised the crew’s hopes,’ Nicholas said. ‘It made me feel very nervous. If you take up soliciting, it makes me expendable.’
‘Why else do you think I did it?’ she said.
She had annoyed Diniz, interrupting. Diniz said, ‘Don’t be silly. Ochoa won’t harm him. At the very least, Ochoa needs him at Arguim. Someone’s got to negotiate for the horses.’
‘Still?’ said Gelis. ‘I thought we were keeping the horses as pets?’
Diniz was not ashamed to speak for the horses. He said, ‘We must land them at Arguim. They can hardly go further and give you a return for their keep.’ He heard Gelis sigh.
‘That,’ said Nicholas, ‘is exactly the point I was hoping to put to you both. It is true you’ve been easy to transport – no kicking, no grooming, no mucking-out – but I have told you before: seriously, this is where it all ends. We should arrive at Arguim about noon, and you should start to pack now. I’m not taking you further.’
Diniz found that Gelis, having sighed, had left him to speak. He said, ‘We argued this out before. The ladies go on shore, b
ut I stay with you on the Niccolò.’ Nicholas sat, his elbows set on the table, and his hands clasped in non-supplication. Over them, his gaze was direct. Diniz added stiffly, ‘That is to say, it’s your ship.’
‘I’m glad someone remembered,’ Nicholas said. ‘Come or not as you please; you’ve been warned. You damage your family name, if you do. And you leave the women endangered.’
‘My family name?’ Diniz said. ‘My family head got the damage. I don’t know who could imagine a friendship between you and me now. As for Gelis, she is a wolf pack in one person. And Bel is as bad.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gelis. She tightened her lips.
Nicholas said, over his undisturbed hands, ‘Then Diniz comes. And the demoiselle and her friend leave at Arguim.’
Gelis smiled at him. When she smiled like that, her eyes seemed to stretch to her ears. She said, ‘Perhaps I should warn you. If you try to put me on shore, I shall tell the trading-post everything. The proper name of the Ghost, and who hired her, and what exactly happened to the Fortado.’
She was the most relentless person Diniz had ever met. He stared at her in amazement.
Nicholas considered her too. He said, ‘Ruining yourself and Diniz as well? Hardly.’
‘Try it,’ she said.
‘You interrupted me. Hardly the vengeance Katelina would have wanted. Diniz helped nurse her when he was starving himself.’
‘Starving,’ she said, ‘from your blockade.’ Her face was quite calm.
Diniz drew breath and then stopped, for his arm was being gripped. Nicholas said, ‘All right, I have a better idea.’ A dimple appeared, and deepened slowly in either cheek. Diniz, unfamiliar with the sight, kept quiet. Nicholas said, ‘Here it is. I set Diniz on shore; and you’re bound by your promise to stay with him.’
She said, ‘So you will send Diniz away?’
‘If he agrees to go,’ Nicholas said. ‘Otherwise you’ll have to tell all, as you say. Including how he shot up the Fortado with his handgun. Or if you like, I’ll tell that bit.’
‘Diniz?’ Gelis van Borselen said. She was inviting him to come. She was prepared to do anything, it seemed, to part him from Nicholas.
Diniz said, ‘I’m staying. I don’t care what happens.’
‘That’s obvious,’ Nicholas said. ‘Well, I do believe in democracy. You’ve both had your say, not that it makes any difference. You all go on shore, but not till we’re sailing. Then tell what tales you like. Both ships will be gone; the Ghost, when next seen, will be, I expect, quite unrecognisable. As for me, the success of my mission should make up for my errors.’
Gelis said, ‘In other words, you hope to bribe the King of Portugal into forgiving you. There is such a thing as justice.’
‘Are you dealing in justice?’ Nicholas said. ‘Let me congratulate you, when I recover my breath. Me, I’m in the business of finding gold and converting the heathen and bringing Ethiopia into a war, if I can find it. Portugal yearns; the Throne of St Peter is eager. What can be closer to justice than religion and gold? How could you expect justice without them?’
Diniz felt himself flush. Gelis sat, swayed by the ship, and fleetingly her eyes were intent. She said, ‘But what is this? We heard no cries of distaste over the terms of your service in Cyprus.’
‘I couldn’t afford them,’ Nicholas said. ‘I can’t afford them now. I doubt if I shall ever be able to afford them, or even want to. Look at Ochoa. A happy man.’
‘He would be the better,’ she said, ‘Of some teeth.’ Diniz saw that her eyes and those of Nicholas had engaged. His face, normally a conjurer’s bag of expressions, had turned still. Hers, below the folded linen that dressed her pale hair, remained thoughtful, but her gaze was brighter and sharper. She said, ‘What is the Ghost taking on board, when she unloads her horses?’
Nicholas smiled. The conjurer, unpacking his box, produced the dimples, the under-lines of habitual laughter, the immense light eyes, lakes of deception. He said, ‘Whatever the Niccolò leaves. Gold and gum, pepper and cotton and feathers. Anything.’
‘In all this space?’ Gelis said.
Diniz drew in his breath and Nicholas, who had long ago removed his hand, glanced at him and at the girl. He was still smiling. He said, ‘You mean, am I buying slaves? Yes, I am. I would have told you before, except that it was none of your business. It still isn’t. But it should reconcile you at least to going home, healthily disgusted.’
‘We use slaves,’ Diniz volunteered. ‘In Ponta do Sol. We’ve black servants in Lagos. They’re happy. They’re free, most of them.’ He spoke tentatively, but he did speak. It was true. His father had bought them.
‘I expect they are,’ Gelis said. ‘But that isn’t the point, is it?’
‘And they were baptised,’ Diniz said. There was some justification. He was angry that Nicholas wasn’t helping him; the more so that he understood very well what Gelis meant. Because people would pay for good help, the blacks were worth money to traders. They didn’t volunteer to become happy servants; they were trapped and beaten and marched to the markets where their employers bought them. And before the evolution of such civilised practices, they were simply plucked by ships’ crews from the beaches: fathers fled; women rushed to drown in the sea; mothers hid their children under the mud.
It was not the case now. He wanted to put his father’s point of view, but Nicholas wouldn’t allow it; stopped him speaking, and asked Gelis to go to her cabin.
She didn’t refuse. He was a large man, standing beside her. He could quite well have marched her below. As it was, she rose, and balanced, and walked, pausing to turn as she passed him. ‘Religion and gold,’ Gelis said. ‘You were right, weren’t you, Claes? They have nothing in common with justice.’
The horses, heavy and drowsy below, were the best comfort Diniz could find. He would miss them. Tomorrow they, too, would step on unknown shores and labour for unknown masters. Tomorrow, men and women and children would occupy the same straw. Horses and slaves, to a merchant, were merchandise. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right, unless the end justified it.
He spent some time below. Then he spread his blanket in the great cabin and pretended, when the other men came, to be already asleep.
He wakened to daylight and shouting, and came on deck to find the ship floating like the spectre she was in a suspension of fine ruddy sand.
It was far more dense than before. However thinned by the draught of her passing, it hung in impassive red veils beyond, giving Diniz a shadowy glimpse of the jut of Cape Blanco, its long white plateau no more than two miles behind. Of the deep bay the ship was traversing, there was no sign at all. The Ghost occupying her circle of sea seemed like a dog on a treadmill, always sailing but never progressing; and every now and then, as the breeze brought it, sand would enter the ship in soft flurries, striking the canvas with a hoarse and echoing wheeze, while rendering noiseless all human activity. Ochoa de Marchena said, ‘It happens. It will wear off through the morning.’ And later: ‘We hailed a boat in the night. It’s good news. See how our young man is happy! The San Niccolò is anchored in Arguim, and has been there for two days.’
Two days. Diniz couldn’t see Nicholas, and wondered how anyone could refer to him as young. He wondered, too, at the speed Jorge da Silves had made with the caravel, even given his familiarity with the coast. Lastly, he wondered how the same Jorge would go about conducting his business in his patron’s name without his patron on board, and what excuse he was making to linger. He could hardly say that he had a stolen roundship to wait for.
Ochoa, who knew the coast almost as well as Jorge, came to cheer him from time to time, a piece of bread or a chicken leg in his hand. Ochoa pointed out the sudden glare in the water that screamed a warning of rocks, but was caused by the little sardine fish in its thousands. He described the great fighting tunny: on a clear day, Senhor Diniz would see the fishing-boats and the huts of their owners edging the sands and mudflats of this very bay, to which they brought back their cat
ch to salt and sell later through Arguim. ‘For whose protection, of course,’ Ochoa said, ‘they pay a small toll. Indeed, a rather large toll. But it gives them sole rights, and that is always expensive.’
The fog of sand lingered all morning; the food Diniz found in the cabin was gritty. Gelis didn’t appear. He took time to pack, since he was certainly leaving – for the San Niccolò, he hoped, despite everything. He saw that Nicholas, too, had stowed and strapped all his belongings. He came in once, lowering a flask from his lips, and said, ‘You’re ready, good. Better still if the sand doesn’t clear: we can slip quietly across to the Niccolò.’ He smiled. There was no gold today on his shirt. He said, ‘Would you like some of this? There’s no mud in it.’
It was Madeira wine. Diniz drank and wiped and corked the flask as Nicholas had done, handing it back. He said, ‘Will they start trading without you?’
‘They may. We made an arrangement. If Jorge doubts that we’re coming, the second mate will pass himself off as me. We’ll know soon. The Cape of Arguim is just ahead: we’re reducing sail until the tide makes. It’s tricky. I’ve asked the demoiselle to stay below, not to be seen. There’s no harm in your coming up, if you want to.’
‘How is she?’ said Diniz as they walked.
‘Charming,’ said Nicholas.
Diniz saw Cape Arguim from the deck, although it was very low and surrounded by dunes, and slips of sand licked by foam stood all about it. The sky was suddenly brighter. It was two hours to high water, and the wind had changed at last to blow from the north-east. ‘Damnation,’ said Nicholas.
The haze of sand thinned. Beyond the Cape, a socket-like gulf, stark and treeless, seemed to run sharply north, a stony mass in its depths, its beaches glimmering. The entrance was patched and streaked with sandy shoals and snarled with cross-currents. The Ghost made no effort to enter. She rattled on to the voice of the leadsman until she had passed two-thirds of the entrance. Only then did Ochoa call strongly. There was a rush of feet; the ship trembled and Diniz half lost his footing as the Ghost abruptly changed course and swung pitching into the bay.
Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 23