‘And Gelis who put out the lamps,’ Nicholas said. ‘Three to be carried: Diniz, go and help Jorge. Saloum says every man needs a torch. We form a column, the wounded in the centre, Saloum in front and Ahmad in the rear: they both know the way back to the ship. What weapons do we have?’
What they had concealed or picked up were distributed. Da Silves said, ‘The men under the roof?’
‘They can breathe,’ Nicholas said. ‘They’ll cut their way out in time. I want to get to the anchorage.’
‘Why leave it to chance?’ said Jorge da Silves, and lifted his torch.
A vast hand closed on his arm. ‘What?’ said Godscalc. ‘Are you no better than the Genoese brute inside there? Throw that torch and I’ll have your head off your neck – you and any other who tries it.’
No one set fire to the thatch. No one knew, either, the condition of the men under it: how many might have taken the weight of the rim; how many lay with limbs snapped below the tumbling trunks. A fate meant for themselves, and devised, as Nicholas had already said, wholly from injured vanity.
They would be released by the morning, or sooner. They would be alive, all or most of Doria’s men. Alive and beaten and vicious, and free by the morning, or sooner. Trudging in the midst of the hastening column, Bel found herself shivering. Then she found Filipe beside her, teeth chattering, and asked him to hold her hand tightly.
They couldn’t hurry enough to suit Nicholas. The journey from the ship had taken an hour, even omitting their rest-time. Now, returning, Nicholas allowed them no rest, but despite his merciless harrying the uneven ground and the darkness and their weariness made them slow. Twice, they were stalked by glowing green eyes, and were made to chant, and bang sticks, and wave their flaring brands. Halfway there, hoarse with goading, Nicholas fetched Ahmad to the head of the troop beside Jorge and, taking Saloum, set off at a lope into the darkness. Diniz, attempting to follow, was turned back by a voice sharp as a blow. He obeyed. The wounded had to be guarded.
What they would find ahead, no one knew. The crew talked, in gasps, among themselves. That old Genoese bastard, he was lying. The black, Lopez, was a reasonable fellow. He’d never cross sides. And if he didn’t want to, how could a few sailors capture him? Vicente was on board, with the cannon, the handguns, the crossbows. If, of course, he hadn’t turned about and sailed off to safety.
Silence followed that, for a while.
Jorge da Silves, applied to, said that if any man sailed off and stranded him, he’d have his liver. And if the black had gone, there were other interpreters. The fellow Saloum knew his way about.
The fellow Saloum, said someone, sotto voce, had led them all, hadn’t he, right into this trap? The fellow Saloum was likely working for the Fortado, and would knock young Niccolino on the head first go off, and drag him back to the Genoese. If the Genoese hadn’t got killed by the roof, which he deserved. The master had had the right idea: burn them to cinders. Talking of Nicholas, the general tone was a blend of kindliness, admiration, and a judicious awareness of the prejudices of Jorge da Silves and his cronies.
A little later, they fell to reminding one another about King Bati’s men in the canoes. Scores of heathen blackamoors waiting about in canoes, fully armed with the Fortado’s consignment. Filipe called out a phrase he knew fitted blackamoors, and Fernão cuffed him. Godscalc said, ‘We have no alternative. These murderous men are behind us. We must go on, and pray to God, and trust to our patron. If vander Poele has taken Saloum, then he has no doubts of his loyalty.’
‘I should think,’ Gelis said, ‘that is probably true.’
At midnight, Ahmad spoke stiltedly. ‘We shall soon be in sight of the anchorage. Does my lord wish to put out the brands?’
‘No,’ said da Silves. ‘The main party will stay here, the brands lit. You will lead me in the dark to the anchorage. I trust you, but I have a knife, you understand?’
The Mandingua smiled and nodded, and then saw the knife and nodded again, but uncertainly. Godscalc said, ‘Will you signal?’
‘One whistle for Come,’ da Silves said. ‘If you hear two, hide yourselves. I shall find you if I can.’
This time, no one spoke. They sat or lay where they had stood. The wounded men, one with a smashed leg, the others with split ribs and a bloody, half-severed hand, groaned and whimpered. The burning wood crackled. The voice of the bush began to make itself heard again: the shrilling insects, the twitter and screeching of birds, the bark of a jackal and the belly-grumble of an irritated animal, drowsy with food. Their torches eddied and flinched in strange currents, and streamed sideways as something heavy passed overhead: an ape, the flame bright in his eye. A high, thin sound came from the darkness ahead. It was not repeated.
‘The whistle!’ said Diniz. He jumped to his feet. So did Gelis.
‘Or a bird,’ said someone on the ground. ‘A damned bird. Or a lure.’
‘Well, we’ll never know, will we?’ said Diniz. ‘Unless we try.’
You could be jumping with fear, thought Bel of Cuthilgurdy, and still be struck to the soul by the great, jocund stars that shone now upon them, and the clarity of the high-sailing moon against which the stems and fronds of the trees were like fine Lucca velvet on silver. The water beyond ran thin rippled satin.
She could hear the Gambia flowing. She could hear no other sound: not the splash of paddles nor the hum of men’s voices. Certainly not the boom or crackle of gunfire. With the rest, she beat out her torch, and padded forward into the moonlight.
The stretch of river opening before them was empty. It unreeled its emptiness as they pushed past the last trees and walked through the trampled dust of the trading-place and stood on the strand of the island, off which the San Niccolò, their pretty caravel, should have awaited them.
There was nothing there. Nothing in the anchorage, and nothing across the broad silvered expanse of the river, visible to the opposite shore. Then Gelis said, ‘The boats. The special boats from the Niccolò.’
She had keen sight. The two boats, once towed at the rear of the Niccolò, lay upside down on the same strip of shore they were standing on, but far off down the river: so far that in the luminous glow from the sky they might have been river-horses, crouched and lowering. As they squinted, the distant figure of Jorge da Silves detached itself from the shadows and the solitary, mournful pipe of his whistle reached them again; in summons, not in warning. Ahmad stood beside him.
The boats had been destroyed. It was the first thing they saw, running over the mud. Buckled, battered and split, these portable barges would never carry them to the upper Gambia, and from the Joliba east to the River of Jewels. It had been done by many hatchets. Godscalc said, ‘But where is the ship?’ And Jorge da Silves pointed.
The swampy islet was yet further downstream by some distance, and the Niccolò had driven on it with some force, spinning round so that her bow had run high on the slime and the rest of her was tilted over, a third among bushes and the remainder still in her natural element. She glimmered, fragile as tortoiseshell in the misty, rippling light which touched, now and then, one or other of her three intact masts.
Nothing else stirred. She had come there by no error of navigation: her cable must have been cut; perhaps she had even been driven there. Godscalc said, ‘The men? What sign of the men?’
‘None,’ said Jorge da Silves. Then he said, ‘Someone is coming.’
They looked behind, expecting Doria. Then, as da Silves didn’t turn, they followed his gaze to the caravel. A bark canoe had put off and was approaching; black as flotsam and poled by one man. They heard the splash as his blade touched the water, first on one side and then on the other. They didn’t speak. He came nearer. They saw, bit by bit, that he was European, and bare-headed, and wearing a torn, open shirt black with bloodstains. They saw it was Nicholas.
Jorge da Silves began shouting, and Vito and Fernao and half the others. Bel didn’t call. She’d put Ahmad and two of the crew to piling up firewood, and before the
bark touched the mud, the stack was alight, and their shadows were running behind them. Nicholas lowered his oar, hesitated, and stepped heavily into the water, while others ran the boat up. Diniz ran up to him, but Jorge da Silves stayed, and Godscalc, and Gelis. Gelis had made no effort to help with the bonfire.
Nicholas stood and looked at Father Godscalc. He said, ‘I have lost Melchiorre.’
His voice turned Bel cold. Diniz halted. Godscalc stepped forward and took Nicholas by the arm, drawing him to stand on the mud. His feet were bare and cut, but the blood on his shirt was not his own. Godscalc said, ‘You saved everyone else.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I have lost Melchiorre. Will you search the beach? Who is fit? Diniz this way, with a brand, and you, Vito, go there.’ His voice lost momentum. He added, ‘Saloum is still on board.’
‘And Lopez?’ said Jorge da Silves. ‘Shall we look for him, too?’
‘I have looked already,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then come and sit by the fire,’ Godscalc said. The wounded lay there already, and the others moved about nervously, looking at each other and at Jorge and Nicholas. Two fireflies far down each beach were the search parties, in quick counter-motion. Behind, the bush loomed and threatened.
Jorge da Silves said, ‘Well, talk, man! Sit if you must, but for God’s sake, tell us what happened! I have men here to think of.’
Godscalc lifted a large arm and pushed. Jorge staggered, and snatched at his scabbard. Gelis said, ‘Listen.’
From far away, Diniz was calling. Nicholas woke from his trance. He was running before the rest started.
They had found Melchiorre. Melchiorre the Florentine second mate; the good, competent seaman who had sailed with Nicholas on the Ciaretti. He lay where the river had cast him, with a hackbut hole drilled through his back. Nicholas knelt by his head; Godscalc joined him, and Bel gave them light. The man gasped. Nicholas slipped a hand under his neck and, when the priest nodded, moved him a little, the soaked hair rolling into his hand.
Melchiorre opened his eyes. ‘My lord, I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It was my fault,’ Nicholas said. ‘Was it Bati’s men?’
‘Mostly. They have him.’
‘Lopez?’
Melchiorre shut his eyes and opened them. He said, ‘The Fortado has gone. Downstream. With Crackbene. The pinnace eastwards. With Lopez.’
‘Don’t talk,’ Nicholas said.
Godscalc leaned forward, hands busy. ‘I need my box from the ship.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Bel.
‘No,’ said Nicholas. He was easing Melchiorre free of his rags. ‘Someone else.’
Godscalc stopped and looked up. He said, ‘You’ve lost them all. You’ve lost them all, Nicholas?’
‘No,’ Nicholas said with great patience. ‘They are all on the ship.’
They were, all of them, still on the San Niccolò. Esteväo was yet at the helm, cut down perhaps while trying to save her. The other helmsman had fallen defending him. The sick men had both been beheaded: one below, one by the hatch of the hold, a bloody knife in his hand. Vicente stood on the forecastle – stood, because arrows piercing his chest and his belly had transfixed him to the foremast. And below where his open eyes stared lay the heavy body of Luis, his whoring ended, his last story told, and his hand gripping the dead hand of Lázaro who lay, a slow-match quenched in blood at his side.
Bel found them when, flouting authority, she and Gelis arrived, with da Silves. Saloum helped her aboard. The blood, the splinters, the gougings were proof enough that Vicente’s men had fought for their lives, but there were no enemy wounded or dead lying anywhere. They had been removed, along with all that a native would value.
The cabins and chests had been ransacked. The holds were empty, but for some barrels of water and pig lard. And the pens and stalls were deserted as well. All the livestock had gone, and the three precious horses, saved with such pains to carry them on the rest of their journey. All that remained were some random objects, dropped in haste or overlooked in their places of stowage, Godscalc’s travelling box being among them. And, apart from her boats, the ship and her gear had been spared.
‘They were Muslims like you,’ Gelis said.
‘Muslims,’ said Saloum. ‘But not like me.’
She said, ‘This we know, for you saved us. You are wise. What are we to do? Melchiorre is alive. He says Lopez went with them.’
‘They took Lopez,’ said Saloum. ‘The Genoese took him by force.’
‘How do you know?’ She was filthy; her face had the soiled sheen of soapstone.
‘He expected it. He told me. He left a mark in the cabin.’
‘Show me,’ she said. Bel followed. It was a strange mark: cabalistic; drawn on the bulkhead in what was certainly blood. Gelis said, ‘Does that mean you can track him?’ Bel stared at her.
Saloum said, ‘I am not meant to answer.’
‘Wait,’ said Gelis. The lamps had been stolen, but there was a makeshift fire in the sandbox: its light, flaring, showed her his face. She said, ‘What do you mean? You may have a chance, by this sign, to trace Lopez. Why should you tell no one else?’
‘In case they fall into danger,’ said Saloum. ‘Lopez is concerned for his friend. For this Nicholas.’
Bel said, ‘Never mind danger to yon one. If there’s a way to track Lopez, you do it. Come, lass. The physics are needed.’
Jorge punted them back to the shore. From the ship, the bonfire looked small, Godscalc tiny. Melchiorre had been brought and set with the other three wounded. An insect appeared on the strand: a log boat from some fisher village village with their own men carrying it. Bel said, ‘What d’ye think, Senhor da Silves? Yon’s a tragedy. Maybe it’s a sign we should turn.’
He dug the oar in. ‘Maybe you should,’ he said. ‘The ship will repair. Gnumi Mansa is friendly. He’d give her a berth and watch over her. You could sail back to him and then wait for us.’
‘You are going on in spite of what’s happened?’ Gelis said. ‘If Doria’s alive, he’ll surely follow us. And if he’s dead, the Fortado couldn’t rest, could it, until we’re all put away?’
‘No. Not at all. Havers,’ said Bel, ‘you’ve forgotten the gold. Never mind us: they’ll come and mop us up afterwards. But first, they’ve got what they wanted: someone – Lopez – to lead a team to Wangara. If Doria’s alive, he’s not daft. He won’t go back to his ship. He won’t waste effort on us. He’ll march upriver straight off, and join the gold-hunting party with Lopez.’
‘Which,’ said Gelis, with animation, ‘might do us some good. If we keep to our own journey east, we might miss them.’ She tilted her head. ‘How reassuring. Is that your idea, Senhor Jorge?’
‘My idea,’ said Jorge da Silves, ‘is to trace Doria’s gold-hunting party and kill them. I think you will find Messer Niccolò of the same mind.’
‘Before Ethiopia,’ said Gelis.
‘Before they have time, quite simply, to turn on us.’
‘And Lopez?’ said Bel. Gelis was smiling.
Da Silves was not. ‘They will kill him,’ he said. ‘There can be no other outcome. But first, he will lead them and us to the mines. And now we know, thanks to the demoiselle, that Saloum can track him. You are quick, senhorinha.’
‘Too damned quick,’ muttered Bel. She stared at the bonfire. They were close enough to see Nicholas. He was talking.
Gelis had seen him as well. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Look at him. You know he won’t let Lopez escape, or the gold, or Doria. The senhor is right. I’ll wager your comb to my kerchief that we’ll be on the gold-hunters’ heels before dawn, and until we’ve come at Wangara, Prester John and the padre can whistle.’
She broke off. She said, ‘Do you realise that that’s all we can wager? We have no means of support, and hardly a garment between us?’
‘And I the same,’ said da Silves. ‘But we are not destitute. We have the fruits of the wild. We have some means to purchase necessities. We have al
l these fine barrels of fat.’
‘Pig lard,’ said Gelis. ‘For Muslims. You couldn’t give it away.’
‘Neither you could. Fancy,’ said Bel. ‘So what, would you say, have we hidden there?’ It pleased her to see Gelis jump.
They had arrived. Da Silves put down his paddle. Men came running to pull them aground. ‘In the lard? Cowrie shells,’ he replied. ‘Thousands and thousands of cowrie shells. So that if we do come across gold, we can buy it.’
He smiled bleakly and made ready to land. He had said nothing of his seven murdered men. He hadn’t mentioned Vicente. He had shown no passion over the fate of the ship. He had been attacked and mortified by Raffaelo Doria, for which he wanted revenge. He also wished to stop him from finding Wangara.
Bel stared at da Silves, and then, looking more closely, was struck by other signs she had missed: the hollow eyes, the lines of weariness, the genuine pain. For him, this was a pilgrimage. He had wanted the slaves brought to grace: it had been he who had urged Father Godscalc to carry the Cross to Bati Mansa. If he coveted gold, it was only partly for himself: it was chiefly for the Order of Christ and his masters. She wished that she liked him.
Then she stepped carefully ashore and carried the box to Godscalc and Melchiorre, taking Gelis pointedly with her. She slowed, passing Nicholas, in order to listen; but his senses appeared to have returned to him. He was regulating, in a voice she found unusually grating, the party which was to refloat and man the San Niccolò and appointing (as of right) the group which, with Saloum’s help, would find a suitable boat and proceed with him into the interior.
Chapter 24
IN ELECTING TO GO upriver with Nicholas, it seemed very likely to Godscalc and to Bel that they were choosing death, and violent death, of the kind they had seen for the first time at close quarters today. To Diniz, already blooded, it appeared merely a glorious extension of the adventure to which Nicholas had introduced him. To Gelis, the added danger, the change of purpose, meant nothing.
Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 36