Sea Robber

SEVEN

NEXT MORNING Hector was awakened by a foot nudging him in the ribs. He was lying face down on sand, head cradled in the crook of his elbow, and a voice above him said insistently, ‘I wish to speak with you, mynheer.’ He turned his head sideways and blearily opened his eyes. In the half-darkness he could make out the glow of a camp fire and thought briefly it was the same fire that he and Dan had found when they returned to the beach the previous evening. Jacques and the other cooks had served up a feast, and the men from the Cygnet and the Delight had gathered round, eating and drinking. Hector had joined them and, after filling his belly, had stretched out on the sand, still mystified by Dan’s intentions.

The foot nudged his ribs again, more firmly this time. ‘Wake up, Gods vloek,’ the voice said with some sort of foreign accent. Hector realized the fire couldn’t be the one Jacques had used to grill strips of tortoise meat last night. It was too close to where the Nicholas was careened. He rolled over and looked up at the man who had roused him. He couldn’t distinguish his features against the sky, for the sun had not yet risen. But in the half-light Hector could see he was barrel-chested and powerful. He wore no hat and had shaved his head. Hector had also identified the accent. The man spoke with the unmistakable guttural vowels of a Hollander.

‘What do you want?’ Hector asked peevishly. It was his first night ashore, and he did not appreciate being woken so early.

‘They say you can navigate,’ said the Hollander.

‘Maybe I can, but what’s that to you?’

‘Come. Your friends say you might help us,’ responded the Dutchman. Thankfully, he had stopped prodding with his foot.

Carefully Hector stood upright. He had drunk only a single glass of wine the previous night. It had been poor-quality vinegary stuff looted from some Peruvian ship. Several empty jars lay nearby, as well as at least a dozen sailors sprawled motionless on the ground. They looked little better than discarded bundles of rags. Clearly not everyone had been abstemious.

‘My name is Piet Arianz. I’m quartermaster of the Nicholas. We have something to discuss with you.’

‘So early?’ asked Hector.

‘We must tar and tallow before high water.’

Hector accompanied the Hollander along the beach to a score of men gathered around a fire of blazing driftwood. They watched over a large iron cauldron in which lumps of pitch were melting. Looking at the men, Hector guessed they formed the majority of the crew of the Nicholas. He recognized none of them individually, but they seemed to be of several different nationalities. A half-dozen olive-skinned men with thin faces and dark hair looked to be either Corsicans or Greeks, while a big blond-headed ruffian with pale china-blue eyes was probably a countryman of Piet’s. That was not unusual. The men from the Low Countries were often exceptionally competent seamen and could be found on many buccaneer ships. To Hector’s surprise, Jezreel also stood at the fire, and Dan.

There was an air of guarded curiosity among the waiting group. At once the quartermaster made it clear that he acted as spokesman for the rest. ‘Would you be able to bring the Nicholas safely across the ocean to Manila or the Spice Islands?’ he asked loudly enough to be heard by the entire group.

From the other side of the fire, Jezreel quickly added, ‘Hector, I told them you’ve been the navigator on several longdistance voyages.’

The crew of the Nicholas looked at Hector, awaiting his answer. He realized from Jezreel’s remark what might be expected of him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go along with whatever scheme might next be proposed. So he replied cautiously, ‘I can navigate. But I have no charts or instruments or almanacs, and have never sailed in those waters.’

‘Instruments can be found,’ said Arianz in his throaty accent. It sounded like a statement of fact.

‘How many weeks to reach Manila?’ demanded an older man. The daylight was getting stronger and Hector could see that his questioner had a fringe of grey hair around a bald pate tanned the colour of toffee.

‘Without a chart to calculate, I can’t say. But given fair conditions, I would guess it would take at least fifty days.’

‘And is this the right season to make such a long crossing?’ The older man sounded dubious.

Again Jezreel intervened. ‘The ocean is called what it is because the weather is so calm.’

‘Maybe too calm,’ the old man whined. ‘We could have no wind, and drift until we ran out of water, or the scurvy took us down. Calling it “the Pacific” means nothing.’ He had the querulous tone of someone who always found fault.

Arianz brushed aside the objection. ‘The French cook says there will be no problem taking aboard enough supplies to last the journey.’

It was becoming increasingly clear to Hector what sort of scheme Dan had hatched with Jacques and Jezreel. His three friends intended to take him to the Ladrones and Maria. They must have talked with the crew of the Nicholas during the previous evening’s feasting, and planted in their minds the idea of a surprise raid on the Spanish colony in Manila on the far side of the Pacific. He had to admit that adding the lure of the Spice Islands was a nice touch. That would particularly appeal to Piet Arianz and his straw-haired countryman. The Dutch East India Company jealously guarded their lucrative trade with the Spice Islands and shut out all outsiders, including their own countrymen. Hector wondered if Arianz and his colleague had some reason to settle old scores with the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie.

‘It’s another way for us to get home,’ the quartermaster was saying to his shipmates. ‘The Pacific crossing will be easier than sailing around the Cape and risking the storms, and less dangerous than going overland at Panama. None of us want to stay here any longer. We’ve made too little reward in Peru.’

There was a low mutter of assent from the gathering.

The Hollander turned to Hector. ‘Supposing you had the right charts, would you agree to navigate such a voyage for us? You would have a full share, plus a quarter, in any plunder it brings us.’

Hector hesitated. He didn’t want to disappoint Jacques, Dan and Jezreel. But they hadn’t consulted him, and he was loath to go back to the life of a sea robber. There was no guarantee the Nicholas would touch at the Ladrones, though he remembered from the map he had seen in Valdivia that the islands lay on the direct route towards Manila.

‘Surely your captain could take care of the navigation,’ he answered lamely.

Arianz was blunt. ‘Captain Eaton has no part in this. What we do and where we go is our vote. That is the custom. If he does not wish to accompany us, he can stay behind and rot here.’ From his tone it seemed he had little affection for his captain.

The quartermaster looked around the circle of his colleagues. ‘We put it to the vote. How many of you say that we try for Manila?’

There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘And what about you two? You’re his friends.’ Arianz was staring boldly at Dan and Jezreel. Both men nodded.

Hector made one last attempt to delay what he feared was an ill-considered scheme. ‘If Jezreel and Dan are keen to join you, then of course I will come with them. So too will Jacques, I expect. But without charts there can be no voyage.’

‘Then we look into that straight away,’ grunted the quartermaster. ‘The rest of you get on with the job. I’ll go and speak with the captain.’

The sailors turned back to the cauldron. The pitch had fully melted, giving off an acrid, tangy smell. The cauldron was lifted off the fire, and a man whom Hector guessed was the Nicholas’ boatswain began pouring dollops of the black liquid into small turtle shells that served as pails. His assistant handed out crude brushes made from coconut husks.

‘Come with me,’ growled Arianz. He led Hector up the slope of the beach to where a threadbare sail had been suspended between two posts stuck in the sand and made a simple tent. Standing in front of the tent and deep in conversation were two men. One was Captain Swan. The other reminded Hector of a bare-knuckle fighter. He was leaning slightly forward, balancing on the balls of his feet, and his shoulders were hunched as if he was ready either to dodge a punch or launch a counter-blow. He looked like someone who had difficulty in controlling his natural impatience.

‘Ah, Lynch. My friend here claims that these islands are sometimes known as the Galápagos. Have you seen that name on maps?’ Swan asked.

‘Galápagos in Spanish means “turtles”, so that makes sense, though the animals we ate last night were large tortoises, according to William Dampier,’ Hector replied. His attention was fixed on the man he presumed was Captain Eaton. The commander of the Nicholas had turned to look at him, and Hector was taken aback by the intensity of the scrutiny. John Eaton was muscular and fit-looking, a man in his early forties. Of average height, he was clean-shaven and tied his dark hair back club-fashion. He was wearing a freshly washed white cotton shirt and pantaloons, with a dark-red sash around his waist. His most striking feature was the colour of his eyes. They were a pale green, and slanted upwards at the outer corners. The effect was to make him look uncommonly like a wolf.

‘Have you charts for the Pacific?’ Arianz interrupted. He addressed the question directly at Eaton, ignoring Swan.

The Nicholas’ captain scowled. Hector could feel the animosity simmering between the two men. ‘What need have I of such charts?’ Eaton replied sharply. ‘Panama is where we cruise next.’

‘The men don’t think so.’

‘What?’ asked Swan, surprised. ‘We are agreed that our two ships, together with the Delight, will sail in company as soon as we have rested and repaired.’

Arianz turned to face Swan. ‘Mynheer, the company of the Nicholas have voted to sail for Manila. We have had enough of the South Sea.’

‘But …’ began Swan.

Eaton cut across him. ‘Tell the men I have no charts of the Pacific,’ he snapped. ‘And even if I did, I wouldn’t use them. If you want to go on a madcap voyage, you’d better find yourselves another navigator.’

‘We have,’ said the quartermaster, jerking his head towards Hector.

Eaton turned his wolf’s eyes on Hector. ‘Then good luck to him. Let his guesswork steer you to your deaths.’

‘Just one moment,’ said Swan soothingly. Hector sensed the captain of the Cygnet had rapidly reassessed the situation. ‘Tell me more of this scheme.’

‘The crew of the Nicholas have voted to return home by way of Manila, where they have a chance of plunder,’ said Arianz.

‘There’s no chance they’ll change their minds?’

‘None.’

Swan thought for a moment. ‘Captain Eaton, naturally I’d prefer if the Nicholas stayed in company with the Cygnet and Delight. We’d be a more powerful force. But if your crew can’t be relied on …’ His voice tailed off and he gave a shrug.

Eaton looked furious. ‘I’ll deal with my crew in my own way,’ he snapped.

Swan held up his hand in a calming gesture. ‘I don’t doubt it. But there are other concerns.’

‘So what do you propose?’ Eaton almost bit off the words.

When Swan next spoke, it was almost apologetically. ‘Your crew have placed me in a difficult position, Captain Eaton. I worry that their ambitions for a trip to Manila will infect my crew and those who serve on the Delight. You know how easily such people are swayed.’

Eaton gave a snort. ‘Every last one is a simpleton.’

Swan sighed. ‘To be honest, I’d prefer to be rid of any discontents.’

‘So would I.’

‘As it happens,’ continued Swan smoothly, ‘I am able to supply charts of the Pacific.’

He addressed his next remark to Hector. ‘Lynch, you’ll recall I informed the Governor of Valdivia I was en route to the Indies and had diverted my ship to his port in hopes of trade.’

Hector remembered the episode clearly. Swan’s claim that the vessel was bound for the Indies had seemed so flimsy. He waited to hear what his former captain would say next. He was all too aware of how devious and self-serving the Cygnet’s captain could be, and at this moment the man wore a sly expression.

‘Naturally,’ Swan continued, ‘I carried Pacific charts and was ready to produce them as proof of my intentions. I still have those charts and will be pleased to lend them to Mr Lynch if he wants to make copies.’

As he spoke these words, Swan avoided looking directly at Hector. But the young man had already understood the real reason why the captain of the Cygnet was so ready to assist the crew of the Nicholas to sail off on their Pacific venture. It meant he would be rid of Hector and his dangerous knowledge that the gallant Captain Swan had once attempted to betray the crew of the Bachelor’s Delight to the Spaniards.

Arianz brought the discussion to an abrupt end with a satisfied grunt. ‘Good, let us go straight to your ship, Captain Swan, and collect the charts. As soon as the Nicholas is ready for sea, we depart.’

IT HAD BEEN altogether too easy, Hector thought. He had chosen a shady spot on the Nicholas’ quarterdeck, out of the glare of the equatorial sun so that he did not have to squint. He marked the vessel’s estimated position on the draft with a tiny cross. Picking up a pair of dividers, he paused for a moment to admire his own and Dan’s handiwork. The chart was even better than the original. Among his artist’s materials, the Miskito had all the inks and pens needed for making fair copies. Also Dan had produced sheets of first-quality paper that he had looted from a Spanish ship whose cargo included stationer’s supplies for the bureaucrats in Lima. Together, he and Dan had copied the necessary maps in less time than it had taken Arianz and his shipmates to finish careening their ship, float her off and set up her rigging. Meanwhile Jacques had seen to the loading of food stores, including several jars of quince marmalade, which he claimed as his share of the prize from the aviso. Even Eaton, initially disgruntled with the project for Manila, had participated energetically in the preparations for the Pacific crossing. Now, after four weeks at sea, Hector was still undecided whether the captain was genuine in his support for the voyage or had assisted because he was fearful of being left behind on the Encantadas. In return, the crew had agreed to keep Eaton on as captain, though they obliged him to hand over all his navigational instruments and almanacs to Hector.

Spreading the points of the dividers, the young man measured the remaining distance to Manila. If his calculations were correct, there were less than 200 leagues to run. He readjusted the dividers and checked the distance to the Ladrones, where Maria would have moved to live with her employer. The islands lay perhaps two or three days ahead, almost on the direct route. Hector had begun to allow himself a faint hope. Despite his earlier misgivings, maybe his friends had been right all along. If he brought the Nicholas within sight of the Ladrones, the crew would insist on stopping there. They would be keen to get ashore, to find fresh water and replenish their supplies.

The last of the Encantada tortoises had been eaten more than a fortnight ago. It was the largest, weighing nearly a quarter-ton, and had needed four men to hoist it aboard. Hector had been sorry to see it slaughtered. The ungainly, slow-paced creatures were not as dull and insensitive as they first appeared. If you put down a handful of green stuff at a distance, the beasts would detect the meal and lumber across the deck towards it. Inevitably the men had taken to organizing tortoise races and laid bets on the results. At first the animals had nudged and collided with one another as they crawled towards their prize. Then, with the ingenuity born of men with too much time on their hands, the sailors had discovered that each animal could be trained to move in a straight line. If the tortoises were prodded and whipped, they soon learned to crawl forward, each on its own separate track.

Now there were no more tortoises left to race, and the men were slack and apathetic. The Nicholas was fast and well found, and she covered the sea miles with little incident. Since leaving the Encantadas, the Pacific had lived up to its benign reputation. Apart from one brief squall, which hit them in the dark, the wind had been steady. The sun had shone day after day from a gloriously blue sky. Puffy white clouds sped along in the same direction as the Nicholas forged ahead, a fair breeze on her quarter and a clear wake behind. Apart from basic maintenance to the ship, there was nothing for the crew to do except idle away the hours. The ocean offered them no distraction. There were no birds, no whales, and the only fish were the occasional clusters of flying fish. They burst out from the waves, skimmed ahead of the vessel and then, with a barely discernible splash, vanished as suddenly as they appeared.

‘Wasting your time again?’ Eaton had strolled up behind Hector and, as usual, was mocking his chartwork. ‘No one knows the true size of this ocean. And you only guess where we are.’

It was true. With cross-staff and almanac, Hector was able to establish the Nicholas’ position north or south to less than half a degree. But he had no accurate way of measuring how far west the ship had come. He was relying on nothing more than the total of each day’s progress, as recorded by the men on watch. The numbers they provided him with were often suspect, and took no account of ocean currents. Even if he had the Nicholas’ position right, there was every chance the map itself was distorted. The Ladrones, the China coast, Japan – everything he and Dan had copied down so carefully – might be drawn wrongly on the original map.

Eaton smirked. He had voiced his criticism loudly and clearly so that anyone on the quarterdeck could hear what he said. Hector knew why. The captain resented the fact that Hector was in charge of navigation, and looked for every chance to undermine the crew’s confidence in his ability. But that was typical of the Nicholas’ captain. Eaton was one of those manipulative commanders who maintained his authority by sowing doubt and discord in the minds of his crew. He was at pains to discredit anyone who became too popular or respected. This did not make for a cheerful or steady crew, and Hector often wondered why they suffered such a fault-finding commander.

‘It’s a pity your French friend failed to check the water stowage for himself,’ said Eaton. There was malice in that remark too. During the preparations for departure, Jacques had asked the Nicholas’ cooper to oversee the filling of the ship’s water containers. Unfortunately the man was lazy and incompetent and hadn’t ensured the casks and jars of water were packed securely in the vessel’s hold. When the squall had struck just two days into the voyage, the Nicholas had heeled suddenly. Many of the heavy earthenware jars had shifted and smashed, their contents wasted. From that day forward, the crew had been on a strict water ration. It was another source of discontent.

Hector rolled up the chart, slid it carefully into its wooden tube and stepped across to the side rail to clear the deck space. The men were gathering in twos and threes. Some of them affected looks of indifference. Others had uneasy expressions and glanced frequently out to sea to avoid looking at one another directly. Arianz the quartermaster appeared, tight-lipped and grave. He took up his position by the capstan head and waited until the entire crew was present. In his hand was the wooden dipper that was brought out three times a day so that each man could ladle his single ration from the tub of drinking water that stood beside the mast.

Now Arianz rapped the dipper on the capstan to draw everyone’s attention.

‘We decide the case of Giovanni Domine. He is accused of water theft,’ he announced to the assembly. His eyes flicked towards a small, surly-looking man standing in the front rank. Domine was one of the men who Hector had earlier guessed were from Mediterranean ports.

‘Who says he’s been stealing water?’ shouted the sailor next to Domine. He had the same olive skin, stocky build and dark, heavy eyebrows. It was evident they were cronies.

‘Joris Stolck reports that Domine was missing during his watch. He was found in the hold, drinking from one of the casks in the lower tier.’

‘Impossible. Those casks are too heavy for one man to handle. And they are buried deep.’

‘He was using a musket barrel to suck up water through the bunghole. I saw it,’ said a new voice.

Hector craned his neck to see who’d made the accusation. It was Arianz’s countryman, the other Hollander. Hector supposed there was bad feeling between the northerners and the men from the Mediterranean. Giovanni Domine sounded like a name from Genoa or Naples.

Eaton added his voice. ‘I checked Stolck’s accusation. Domine’s musket was dismantled. The inside of the barrel was wet.’

The quartermaster looked around the assembled men. ‘None of us want to be standing out here in the sun while we argue. You all know our articles, we decide these matters by a general vote. Those who believe Giovanni Domine to be guilty, raise your hands.’

Hector watched as more than half the crew found a guilty verdict. He noted that not one of the Mediterranean group agreed.

The quartermaster finished counting the show of hands and rapped again on the capstan head with the dipper. ‘What is his punishment to be?’

His demand was met with silence. In the general hush Hector could hear only the soft sound of the breeze in the rigging, the murmur of the waves against the vessel’s hull. There was tension in the air. Someone in the assembled crowd coughed nervously. No one was willing to decide the form of punishment.

From his place beside the quartermaster, Eaton intervened again, pressing the matter forward. ‘We all know the rules: anyone found guilty of theft is to forfeit his share of the prize. That’s the custom. But we have no prize to divide. I propose we decide a general sanction in which we all share.’

‘Thrash him,’ called a voice suddenly. ‘That’s what we did in the service.’ It was the peevish old man who had previously questioned the purpose of the voyage.

‘You’re not in the Navy now,’ shouted an objector.

‘Flog him according to our custom,’ retorted the old man. ‘Each man gives three blows with a two-inch-and-a-half rope, and on a bare back.’ He looked around triumphantly.

‘So be it,’ said Eaton quickly. There was a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Domine, remove your shirt and stand by the mast.’ He beckoned to the sailmaker. ‘Cut a length of two-inch-and-a-half, and whip the end.’

When the knout was ready, Eaton handed it to the big Hollander, Joris Stolck, who had first made the accusation. ‘Yours are the first blows,’ he said.

Stolck hefted the rope in his hand, stepped across to where Domine was standing and lashed the rope’s end hard across his back. The victim let out a low grunt.

‘Two more,’ called Eaton. He’d taken charge now. The Hollander lashed out twice more, then handed the rope to his countryman. Arianz ran the rope through his hands and dealt the Genoese three more sharp strokes. His victim flinched with each blow.

So it went on. One by one, the crew took it in turns to flog the culprit. Some blows were heavy and viciously struck. Others, those from his Mediterranean friends, scarcely landed. Domine bore up stoically under the beating, though his back was soon striped with a criss-cross of welts. Here and there the skin broke and blood oozed from the cuts. Unable to watch, Hector looked down at the deck beneath his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Eaton’s hands. They hung loosely by his side. Each time the rope struck Domine’s back, the captain clenched his fist. It seemed he was enjoying the spectacle.

When it came to Hector’s turn he hesitated. ‘You take your turn, just like the rest,’ snapped Eaton. Hector took the rope. It felt slick and sweaty in his hands where others had already gripped it. Half-heartedly he raised his arm and struck, aiming to avoid those areas where Domine’s back was already bruised and cut. The first blow was accurate, but the second too clumsy and must have hit a tender spot, for the Genoese sucked in his breath in a gasp of pain. Ashamed and hoping to soften the third blow, Hector swung the rope, then pulled his arm back just before it struck. The rope’s end flicked like a whip, and to his chagrin the blow split the skin. Behind him he heard Eaton give a low murmur of approval.

After every man had taken his turn, Domine was led away by his friends. They sat him down by the rail. Someone dipped up a bucket of sea water and they began to sponge his back.

The onlookers shuffled away. ‘That should put an end to thievery,’ observed Eaton to no one in particular. For him the matter was closed. But Hector noted Domine’s cronies deliberately turning their backs on the two Hollanders as they walked past. He could only hazard a guess as to how long a common hunger for gold would hold this crew together.

THAT EVENING, if Dan hadn’t been at the ship’s lee rail, the sinking shallop might never have been detected. The Miskito was helping Jacques, dumping ashes from the galley overboard. He emptied the pan and paused to contemplate the fiery orange glow left by the setting sun. Something on the horizon caught his eye. It was shaped like the horns of a crescent, but so small that at first Dan thought it was nothing more than an unusual double wave crest. But when the mark reappeared, lifted on the next swell, he walked aft and drew the helmsman’s attention to what he had just seen. Normally the helmsman wouldn’t have troubled himself to adjust course to investigate. But the object lay almost directly on the ship’s track and he was bored. So he moved the rudder very slightly.

Night had fallen by the time the Nicholas came level with the distant object. It was difficult to see anything more than a patch of deeper shadow. Certainly no one had expected to come across some sort of boat. Yet there it was, barely afloat, the sea washing over its mid-section with each passing swell.

‘What do you make of it?’ Hector asked Dan. The two men stared into the darkness. Beside them half a dozen of the Nicholas’ crew lined the lee rail. Quartermaster Arianz had ordered the sheets slackened and the yards braced round, so as to take all way off the ship.

‘I have never seen anything like it,’ answered the Miskito. The half-submerged vessel was an unusual shape. Some thirty feet long, it was broad and shallow, and each end curved up prominently. It was impossible to say which was bow and which was stern.

‘Could have been abandoned or broken free of a mooring,’ ventured Jezreel as he joined his friends.

‘But from where?’ asked Hector. ‘We’re too far from land.’

‘That’s not a deep-sea boat,’ observed Dan. ‘It is too small and too lightly built. And there is no shelter for the crew.’ The only structure on the low, wide deck was a hooped cabin of wickerwork, much like a kennel.

‘Why are we halted?’ asked Eaton sourly. The captain had come on deck and not yet noticed the hulk.

‘Some sort of shallop, awash and abandoned,’ said Arianz, gesturing over the side.

Eaton walked to the rail and glanced down. ‘Floating rubbish. It needn’t delay us.’ He turned to Hector. ‘So much for your navigation. Maybe we’re not as distant from land as you’d have us believe.’ He laughed contemptuously.

‘Maybe there’s something worth salvaging?’ suggested the quartermaster.

‘It’s a waste of time,’ snapped Eaton.

The quartermaster ignored him. ‘I’ll send someone to check.’

Dan volunteered for the task. He clambered down the side of the Nicholas, lowered himself into the sea and swam across to the abandoned boat. He pulled himself aboard and Hector saw him bend down to peer into the cabin. A moment later, Dan straightened up and, cupping his hands around his mouth, called out, ‘Throw me a line. There’s someone inside.’

Quickly the derelict shallop was hauled alongside the Nicholas, and the limp figure of a thin, black-haired man, clad only in a loincloth, was hoisted on to the larger vessel. Hector, reaching to help lift the man over the rail, was shocked at how light he was. The stranger weighed no more than a small child. As he was laid on the deck, they could see he was but a living skeleton. His skin had shrunk so that every rib showed starkly. His arms and legs were like sticks, and his body was all hollows and cavities. It was difficult to believe he was still alive. Yet when Hector put his ear against the victim’s chest, he could hear the heart beating.

Someone produced a rag soaked in fresh water, and a dribble was squeezed into the man’s mouth. His eyes stayed closed. He seemed past reviving.

Dan climbed back over the rail, and dropped lightly down on deck. ‘There is nothing else aboard, except for an empty water jar and a straw hat.’

‘Back to your posts, everyone,’ ordered Eaton curtly. ‘We’ve squandered enough time as it is. Cast off the wreck and make sail.’ He turned away and stalked back to his cabin.

‘How long do you think he’s survived?’ asked Jezreel, looking at the wasted figure.

‘Weeks or even months,’ said Hector. ‘Maybe we’ll never find out. I doubt he’ll last the night.’

But when the sun rose next day the castaway, as they now thought of him, was still alive. He lay on the deck, a blanket wrapped around his emaciated body. Only his head was visible. Once or twice his eyelids flickered. His breathing had become noticeably stronger.

‘Where is he from, do you think?’ asked Jacques. He’d prepared a broth to give the patient as soon as he was able to swallow.

‘He’s some sort of Easterner, that’s for sure,’ replied Hector. The man’s skin was yellow-brown, and he had coarse, straight black hair. ‘A Chinaman maybe?’

‘Don’t think so,’ said Jezreel. ‘When I did exhibition fights in London, a few Chinamen worked with the shows. They all had round heads and smooth, chubby faces. This fellow’s jaw is too long, and his face too narrow.’

‘Maybe he can tell us when he comes round,’ said Jacques.

The speed of the castaway’s recovery took everyone by surprise. The very next day he could sit up and was taking an interest in his surroundings. But his expression gave no clue as to what he was thinking. The crew tried talking to him in every language they could muster. When that failed, they used gestures, hoping to learn where he came from. But he didn’t respond and remained silent, impassively observing everything going on aboard the Nicholas. Some of the crew believed he was a mute by birth, others that his terrible ordeal had destroyed his power of speech.

‘I wonder what he is thinking?’ said Jacques two mornings later. The castaway had not moved from his spot, and sat on his blanket with a bowl of soup in his hand. He accepted it from the Frenchman without a smile or nod of thanks. From time to time he raised the bowl to his lips and sipped, but continued to stare at his surroundings.

‘He can speak. I’m sure of that,’ Hector said quietly.

There was something disquieting about the stranger’s behaviour, Hector felt. He scarcely moved his head, but the brown eyes, so dark they were almost black and sunk deep in their sockets, were never still. His gaze darted from one place to the next, observing the crew at work, looking up at the sky and sails, following whatever was going on aboard ship. It was as if he was trying to make sense of his situation with a guarded intelligence, yet hiding the reason why.

A shadow fell across the deck. Hector looked round to find Eaton staring down at the castaway. With him was the quartermaster. ‘When can that fellow be put to work?’ the captain asked bluntly. ‘He’s a waste of food and water.’

Arianz squatted down in front of the castaway and peered into his face, no more than a couple of feet away. Hector was struck by the contrast between the big, blond quartermaster with his pale-blue eyes and the gaunt, yellow-skinned unknown, who looked back at him with a flat incurious gaze.

‘Seems to have got back his appetite,’ said Arianz. He’d seen the soup bowl, now empty.

‘He’s still very weak,’ Hector volunteered.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the stranger’s arm suddenly shot out and his hand seized the quartermaster’s right ear.

Arianz jerked back in shock and pain. ‘Laat gaan, you little bastard.’

But the castaway held firm.

‘Laat gaan. Let go.’

Now the stranger raised his other arm. For a moment Hector thought the castaway was about to deliver a blow to the Hollander’s face. But instead he pointed forward towards the bows.

‘What the hell does he want?’ shouted Arianz. The stranger had released him, and he was on his feet, stepping back out of reach.

Now the stranger got shakily to his feet. It was the first time he’d stood since his rescue. Clinging to a shroud above him and swaying slightly, he pointed to the horizon, slightly to the north of the Nicholas’ course. Then he turned around and touched the lobe of his own ear.

The others looked at one another in astonishment. ‘What does that mean?’ said the quartermaster, still recovering from his surprise.

The stranger repeatedly touched his ear and pointed towards the horizon. All the while he stared intently at his audience.

‘He’s lost his senses,’ said Eaton.

‘He’s trying to tell us something,’ Hector corrected him. He’d guessed the stranger’s meaning. ‘Jacques, stretch out your right hand a moment. Hold it in front of the castaway.’

The Frenchman glanced at Hector, puzzled, but did as he was asked. Immediately the stranger reached out, tapped Jacques on the finger and again pointed urgently to the horizon. This time he nodded to emphasize his message, and patted himself on the chest.

‘It’s your ring, Jacques,’ explained Hector. ‘The gold ring you wear. And it was Arianz’s gold earring. The castaway is trying to tell us there is gold over there, in the direction he is pointing, the place he comes from.’

‘Is he, by God!’ exclaimed Eaton. The sudden pitch of excitement in his voice made several of the crew look round.

‘How far away?’ Arianz asked stupidly, for the castaway could not understand the question. The stranger kept nodding and pointing.

The quartermaster looked across at Hector. ‘Where does he mean?’

Hector was slow to answer. Something wasn’t right about the stranger’s certainty. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘The chart shows no land in that direction, not until you reach Japan or the China coast.’

‘Only goes to prove the chart is wrong, as I warned you,’ said Eaton smugly.

‘Saving a man from the sea brings good luck to the rescuers. This proves it,’ announced Stolck loudly. He’d come across to join them.

As the news was shared among the crew, excitement spread. Men hurried to the quarterdeck and formed a circle around the stranger, moving closer as they waited anxiously to learn more. Hector was reminded of his schooldays and the carp pond at the friary where he used to toss chunks of hard, stale bread to the fish. They used to swim up from the depths and congregate in a teeming mass, taking it in turns to mouth the floating crust until it was soft. As more and more of the crew appeared, coming up from their berths below deck or hurrying back from whatever work they’d been doing, they clustered around the castaway, relishing his information, discussing it among themselves. The word ‘gold’ was repeated again and again. Someone produced a silver coin, a Spanish half-real, and held it up to the stranger. He pushed it aside and shook his head. Then he stepped across to Domine, who wore a small gold medallion on a leather thong around his neck. Touching the medallion, the stranger nodded vigorously.

As usual, Arianz was practical. ‘How far to this gold place?’ the quartermaster asked again, speaking slowly this time. He pointed first to the horizon, then up to the sky and mimed the passage of the sun overhead.

The stranger held up eight fingers.

‘Eight days,’ exclaimed Stolck. Hector thought it odd that the castaway, who’d been so uncommunicative, should now understand his questioners. But there was no point raising doubts. It was clear the crew of the Nicholas was ready to be convinced. They were agog to be persuaded that they had stumbled on a source of easy riches. Hector thought of the carp pond once more. The greedy fish used to cluster just as eagerly around a lump of wood as a piece of bread.

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.’