Sea Robber

NINE

THE DAYS PASSED, and Hector could see why Eaton and his men chose to ignore Jeema’s requests – repeated over and over again – that they leave the island. The anchorage was the ideal haven, where the crew of the Nicholas could recuperate after weeks at sea. Night and day the temperature scarcely varied, and the air was warm enough for the men to sleep on the beach in the open. Rain showers were rare and mostly fell in mid-afternoon. They lasted no more than ten minutes, and the men had no need to take shelter, knowing that the sun would soon reappear and dry out their clothes. By the end of the third day on the island the ship was entirely deserted and lay to double anchors, swinging gently to the regular variation of land and sea breezes. Her crew loafed about on land.

There was little for them to do and nowhere to go. In both directions the beach ended in tumbled masses of coral rock, so broken and jagged and overgrown as to be impassable. Behind the village Jeema showed Hector the terraces carved into the flank of a hill. They were for growing rice, while the middle slopes were planted with fruiting trees. Apart from the faint trace of a footpath leading through the orchards and then up into a thick pine forest that extended to the crest of the hill, the place seemed totally cut off from the outside world.

The visit to the rice fields revealed the whereabouts of the women and children of the village. They were working on the terraces. When Hector appeared – even though he was escorted by the village headman – they fled like startled deer, running until they reached the edge of the woods. There, at a safe distance, they paused as a group and looked back at the visitor. As far as Hector could tell in that distant glimpse, the women wore much the same humble gowns as their menfolk, and Jeema gave him to understand through sign language that at nightfall many of them crept back to occupy their huts with their families, then made sure they were gone by first light in case the strangers entered the village.

‘They must feel we are like locusts,’ said Jacques ruefully when Hector told him what he’d seen. ‘The men still deliver baskets of food to me to cook. But the quantity is smaller day by day. Yesterday there was no pork, and today no more eggs. I think the villagers go hungry.’

Hector looked across to where the village’s fishing boats still lay unused on the beach. It was mid-morning and yet there was no sign anyone was preparing to put to sea. ‘They would rather starve than disobey their “great man” and go out fishing,’ he said.

‘Without Dan and his striking iron we would also go hungry,’ remarked Jacques.

Each dawn the Miskito borrowed the handiest of the village dugout canoes and paddled out to the reef with his harpoon. There he took quantities of fish, many of them bright with vivid patterns of orange, purple and yellow. Spearing them was easy in the crystal-clear water.

‘It’s fear of their Ta-yin that makes them so obedient,’ said Jezreel. He had sauntered across to join them, his backsword in hand. He was finding the inactivity tiresome and had spent half an hour going through a complicated routine of cuts and slashes, steps and turns, whirling the weapon in all directions until he had worked up a good sweat.

‘While you were playing the dancing master, waving that blade, they kept their heads down like they were embarrassed to see it,’ observed Jacques with a nod to where a score of villagers sat cross-legged on the Nicholas’ sails spread on the sand. They were sewing patches where the canvas had torn, restitching weak seams and splicing in bolt ropes that had worked loose. The ship’s sailmaker and his assistant sat over to one side, occasionally getting to their feet and strolling among the labourers to give instructions or check the quality of the repairs. Neither man troubled himself to wield needle and thread.

‘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 to 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.

Panu had warned the men from the Nicholas to stay well back. Led by Eaton and Arianz, they came to a ragged halt some fifteen paces away from the guards.

‘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.

The Ta-yin was speaking again, and Panu and Stolck were gabbling as they tried to keep up with his words. ‘In the Ta-yin’s opinion, you are like mongrel dogs who trespass, then lift their legs and piss to mark their territory.’

Eaton coloured with annoyance. ‘Tell him we came here by chance, and wish to leave quietly and without trouble.’

Panu muttered his translation, and the Ta-yin’s response was curt. ‘What is the true intention of your voyage?’

‘We are merchants seeking new markets.’ The captain was glib with the falsehood.

‘You lie. My men have searched your ship and found no trade goods. Only weapons.’ The Ta-yin gestured towards various items lying at the feet of his guard commander. The bushi picked up a musket and brought it forward. It was a flintlock from the Nicholas.

‘Such guns as these are much sought after,’ explained Eaton. If he hoped to placate the Ta-yin with an offer to sell him arms, he was promptly disappointed.

‘We have no need of guns.’

‘They are of modern design, very efficient.’ Eaton had adopted a huckster’s wheedling tone.

From close to the ground, Panu hissed, ‘The Shimazu manufacture their own guns, copies from long ago. Please don’t insult them.’

The bushi brought forward a canvas bag and a wooden tube. Uneasily Hector recognized the knapsack in which he kept his navigator’s equipment. The Shimazu had ransacked his berth. The bushi opened the tube, slid out the precious chart and unrolled it for the Ta-yin’s inspection.

‘This is forbidden.’

The bushi meticulously ripped the chart to shreds.

Next, he produced from the knapsack Hector’s backstaff. He turned it over in his hand, uncertain which way up to hold it. Hector felt he should intervene.

Stepping forward, he took the backstaff and then walked a couple of paces towards the stony-faced Ta-yin. Immediately the two men-at-arms lowered the points of their pikes to aim at his chest. Hector came to an abrupt halt.

‘This instrument is used for reading the sky,’ he began, then slid the vanes back and forth to demonstrate their action.

The Ta-yin’s angry interruption cut across his explanation.

‘Please step back,’ Panu begged, still crouching on the ground. ‘The great man says you stink.’

Hector was aware how unwashed and filthy he was compared to the immaculate grandee in front of him. Awkwardly he retreated. The bushi retrieved the instrument and, without waiting for instruction from his master, proceeded to smash the backstaff to splinters.

Next from the knapsack came the almanac. Hector felt a twinge of anxiety. He could make himself a replacement back-staff. But without the almanac and its tables, he would be reduced to using the North Star to establish his vessel’s latitude. The Ta-yin had opened the almanac and was idly turning the pages.

‘My Lord,’ he said loudly, ‘that book helps in divination. It foresees the positions of the celestial bodies.’

The Ta-yin lost interest in it and handed the undamaged book back to the bushi, who next offered him a folder of papers. At last the ‘great man’ showed a flicker of interest. He leafed through the folder, pausing from time to time. Then he returned the portfolio with a single grunted comment.

‘What did he say?’ whispered Hector.

‘Simple and untutored,’ Panu translated. The bushi tore up the contents of the folder. Scraps of coloured paper fluttered to the ground. They were the drawings Dan had made on the Encantadas.

Panu swallowed nervously before he relayed the Ta-yin’s next announcement. ‘The Shimazu have forbidden on pain of death the ownership or use of weapons of any sort. Yet this morning a bond servant was robbed, then threatened with a knife. Both are capital crimes.’

Several of Eaton’s men glanced nervously towards Domine, who was standing in the front rank and close enough to hear the interpreter. A few of them edged away, leaving clear space around him. To his credit, the dark-haired sailor stood his ground. Staring straight at the Ta-yin, he casually spat on the sand.

A shiver of apprehension ran through the crowd of onlookers. At a word from his master, the bushi moved forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. Hector expected to see the blade flash out and cut down the insolent sailor. Instead the man-at-arms carefully disengaged the long sword, still in its scabbard, from his sash. Nodding to an attendant, the bushi handed him the weapon. Then he gestured for Domine to step forward.

Cautiously the sailor moved out into the open. The bushi reached to his sash and withdrew his second sword from its sheath. The blade was short, no more than ten inches long, and clearly designed for close-range hand-to-hand fighting.

Domine understood what was expected. A hint of a smile appeared on his swarthy face. He made a tiny click of approval with his tongue and suddenly the stiletto was in his hand. He edged forward to give himself more room, shifted on his feet to find his balance, and narrowed his eyes as he watched the armoured bushi moving towards him. While the man-at-arms was still several yards away, Domine cocked his arm and threw the stiletto. The attack was delivered with perfect timing and total surprise. The dagger flew towards its target, the bushi’s face. An instant later the man-at-arms flicked his blade up. There was a sharp impact of metal on metal, and the stiletto fell harmlessly to the sand.

Domine spun round and ran for his life towards the water’s edge and the cockboat.

The Ta-yin gave a single, sharp grunt of disgust. The bushi didn’t bother to chase his adversary, but slid his short sword back into his sheath. A moment later there was a yelp of pain as Domine ran headlong into the cordon of musketeers. He was tripped and then clubbed as he lay on the ground.

Hector held his breath, waiting for what would come next. The men behind him stirred uneasily, overawed and subdued. Someone was quietly muttering a string of profanities. The bushi faced his attendant and accepted back his long sword, bowing and receiving it with both hands in a formal gesture. Carefully he returned the weapon to his belt.

The Ta-yin stayed very still, his gaze unwavering as he inspected the men clustered before him. Slowly and deliberately he drew the fan from his sash and, without opening it, used it to point at someone in the crowd. Hector turned his head to see who it was. A head taller than all those around him, Jezreel was easy to pick out.

The Ta-yin was making some sort of pronouncement. ‘That man is also to be punished,’ translated Panu. It flashed into Hector’s mind that his friend was being made some sort of example because of his huge size. Then Panu added, ‘He is guilty of wearing a weapon.’

Projecting over Jezreel’s right shoulder was the hilt of the backsword he carried slung on his back.

Understanding that he had been singled out, Jezreel came to the front of the crowd. When Panu repeated what the Ta-yin had said, the former prizefighter spoke calmly to the interpreter. ‘Tell him I have earned my right to wear a sword, just as much as that man there.’ He nodded towards the bushi.

There was a long interval before the Ta-yin replied.

‘The barbarian boasts because he is very big and strong. My captain will teach him that great size is of no consequence in swordsmanship.’

He spoke a few words and an attendant fetched one of the bowl-shaped helmets and handed it to the man-at-arms, who settled it on his head.

Jezreel had already unslung his backsword and was unwrapping the greased rags that kept the blade from rusting. He rolled the rags into a ball, which he tossed to Jacques. The crowd of sailors shuffled back, allowing space for the big man to take a few practice swings with the heavy blade. But Jezreel merely kicked off his shoes and, wearing only a shirt and breeches, stood with sword in hand hanging loosely by his side.

The man-at-arms hesitated and, looking down at the ground, spoke humbly to his master. ‘The bushi does not wish to draw his sword,’ translated Panu. ‘He says it would dishonour his blade to use it against another coward, someone who is preparing to run away.’

The Ta-yin turned his white-powdered face towards the crew of the Nicholas and spoke scornfully. ‘He says,’ continued Panu, ‘that, to encourage the big man to stand and fight, he will allow him and his comrades to leave in their ship if he is the victor.’

Apparently reassured, the bushi bowed and placed his right hand on the handle of his longer sword. In a single, graceful movement he withdrew it from its scabbard, raised it over his head and made a sideways movement with his right foot. He brought up his left hand to take a double grip. The blade came slicing down through the air. He stiffened his wrists and the tip of the shining blade came to a stop, pointing straight at his opponent. It was an elegant and controlled display from a lifetime of rehearsal.

Hector looked from one man to the other, desperately trying to imagine how his friend could possibly win the contest. Jezreel towered over his opponent and had a longer reach by at least six inches. But the bushi was armoured from his helmet to his shin guards while, by contrast, the ex-prizefighter was vulnerable to the slightest touch of the Shimazu blade. Hector recalled the lightning speed of the blow that had sliced off Ookooma’s head, and the reaction that was quick enough to deflect Domine’s stiletto in mid-air. He feared Jezreel would be outpaced. Nor were their two weapons anything like evenly matched. Jezreel’s backsword was a utility tool, dull and sturdy, a blade two inches wide and nearly straight, a simple cross-piece and two plain hoops to protect the hand. The bushi obviously held a masterpiece of the swordsmith’s art. The blade was designed for both cut and thrust, a glistening strip of polished steel with a gentle curve towards an angled tip, a razor-sharp edge. Hector had a glimpse of the hilt before the bushi drew the sword from his sash. The handle was cross-laced with thongs to provide a perfect grip.

The two combatants faced one another, some ten paces apart in the bright sunlight. There was very little breeze. The Shimazu warrior was tensed and ready, his sword absolutely still, his eyes under the helmet’s visor fixed on his opponent. Jezreel still had not lifted his backsword. He seemed distracted, thinking of something else. From time to time he shrugged his massive shoulders, easing the muscles.

Time passed, and Hector was aware of a growing impatience and confusion among the men from the Nicholas. He supposed they were wondering if Jezreel had lost his nerve or was regretting that he’d provoked the fight. Hector knew his friend too well to think the same, yet as the minutes dragged by, he was puzzled by Jezreel’s inaction.

Across the sandy fighting ground the Ta-yin sat on his folding stool, unmoving and impassive, his face expressionless.

The bushi made a slight move. He brought his left hand up and touched his helmet. For a moment Hector thought he was making some sort of salute or challenge. Then it was clear the man-at-arms was adjusting the position of the visor, the better to shade his eyes.

With a brief stir of hope, Hector wondered if Jezreel was calculating on the benefit of having the sun’s glare behind him. He checked where the bushi’s shadow fell. But it was barely past midday, and there was very little advantage, if any.

Without warning, Jezreel let out a great bellow. At the same moment he launched himself forward. In huge strides, he covered the ground faster than seemed possible, even for a man of his height and bulk. Still roaring, he charged straight at his opponent’s sword. Raising his backsword high above his head, he delivered a massive downward cut at the bushi’s helmet. The speed and directness of the onslaught took everyone by surprise, including the Shimazu man-at-arms. For an eye-blink the bushi stood still, as if locked in his rigid pose. Then his training took over. Two-handed, he swung up his sword high enough to protect his head and held it parallel to the ground. It was the correct, classic blocking move. Jezreel’s backsword smashed down on the Shimazu blade with a tremendous ringing clang. Under their protective shoulder pads, the bushi’s arms flexed like springs to absorb the impact. Then the man-at-arms took a quarter-pace backwards. It was the proper response, to make space for a counter-strike. But Jezreel’s backsword was already descending again. The speed of raw violence was shocking. The big man pressed forward, looming over his armoured rival, raining down blows in such quick succession that the clashing steel made a continuous clangour. The bushi was a consummate swordsman. Without losing control he carefully edged backwards, fending off the attack, safe within his armour. He was ready to turn Jezreel’s overwhelming strength against the giant. Instead of blocking the backsword, the man-at-arms offered up his own blade at an angle, so that Jezreel’s weapon would slide aside and leave the big man open to attack. But Jezreel was not to be deflected. He turned his wrist just before his backsword made contact, so that every blow struck square and with terrific force.

The method was brutal, ugly and graceless. The flurry of blows owed nothing to the finer techniques of fencing. By sheer strength the former prizefighter was battering down his opponent’s defence. Gradually the bushi’s blocking moves became less effective. His defence began to sag. Too proud, or untrained, to turn and seek a safer distance, he started to weaken. The descending backsword came hacking closer and closer to its target. Finally it connected with the bowl-shaped helmet. Two or three more blows, each more shattering than the last, and the bushi’s knees buckled. Like a blacksmith beating metal, Jezreel unleashed one final strike, this time with the hilt of his backsword. He smashed it down on the centre of the bowl-shaped helmet, and the stunned man-at-arms fell face down.

There was a murmur of amazed shock from the watching crowd. The display of rampant physical strength had been stupefying. Several of the Shimazu musketeers were fingering their guns and looking towards their master, waiting for instructions. Hector feared they’d be ordered to shoot Jezreel where he stood, or to fire into the crowd. Backsword still in hand, his shirt soaked with sweat, Jezreel took a moment to catch his breath. Then he addressed Stolck and Panu without even looking at the Ta-yin, ‘Tell the “great man” that his honour is now at stake.’

Panu appeared unable to look the Ta-yin directly in the face. The interpreter had risen to his feet during the fight and was about to translate Jezreel’s words when the Ta-yin’s sour voice broke in. The tone was scathing, the words clipped, spoken in short bursts, this time allowing for translation.

‘Barbaric and brutish . . . Only a savage would fight like that . . . but I honour my word. Anyone who is still here this time tomorrow will be killed.’

The men from the Nicholas looked at one another with a mixture of relief and urgency. Those in the rear began to hurry back to their camp. Eaton was bold enough to request that the goods stolen from the ship be returned.

The Ta-yin gave him a baleful look. ‘No, I promised to let the men go free. Not the goods. Besides, without gunpowder for your guns, you will be obliged to begin learning the true way of fighting with the blade.’