Sea Robber

TEN

‘HOW DID YOU know what to do?’ asked Hector. It was the following day and he and Jezreel were on the main deck of the Nicholas, tidying up loose ropes as the vessel carefully eased along the channel through the reef.

‘The deft way he beheaded Ookooma.’

Hector winced. He could still picture the single slashing sword stroke, the head jumping off the fisherman’s shoulders. ‘That would have deterred me,’ he confessed.

Jezreel paused to adjust a coil more neatly over a belaying pin. ‘When that fellow mentioned that his dad owned an old lobster helmet, it put me in mind of how they did away with King Charles. The headsman used a heavy axe against a chopping block.’

‘How did that persuade you to rush on your opponent like a man possessed?’ asked Hector.

‘King Charles lost his head to a single axe stroke. Everyone knows a headsman sometimes needs three, even four, blows to finish the cut. So imagine what sort of sword you need to do the same job so cleanly.’

‘It hadn’t ever occurred to me,’ said Hector drily.

‘Something with an edge so finely honed, and yet so strong and slender, it whips through sinew and bone as you or I might lop a twig from a tree.’

Hector recalled the design of the Shimazu sword. It had a slight curve towards the tip, a longish handle and – if he had seen it correctly – the blade was ridged in the centre.

‘And how light it was,’ Jezreel continued. ‘I watched that warrior wielding it. The sword was like an extension to his arm, beautifully balanced and easy to swing. It wasn’t the weight of the sword that carried it through the castaway’s neck. It was the quality, shape and flexibility of it, as sweet a blade as you could imagine.’

Jezreel was enjoying his subject. Edged weapons and their use had been part of his livelihood as a prizefighter. ‘That warrior had good reason to treat that blade like something very precious.’

‘I still don’t see the connection between his regard for the sword and the way you attacked him,’ said Hector. He recalled how carefully the man-at-arms had handed his sword to the attendant before he went forward to face Domine and his stiletto.

Jezreel was working on a rope’s end that had become kinked. His big, scarred hands untwisted the strands until they lay snugly together again. ‘I guessed he’d do anything to protect that blade. The cutting edge would easily chip if it hit hard against something really solid. And to knock out even a tiny sliver of metal would be sacrilege, as far as he was concerned.’

‘So you rushed at him to threaten the blade, rather than the man himself?’

‘Precisely. His first instinct was to defend himself with a blocking blow, using the blunt edge of his sword. Once I’d tricked him into raising his sword, reverse side up, I was going to pin him down, keep him in place and batter him into submission.’

‘You picked up his sword after the fight.’

‘Yes. I just wanted to check I’d been right. The leading edge was as sharp and fine as a razor, and it had what a cutler calls a grind ridge down the centre of the blade. That left the back edge blunt and gave the blade its strength.’

‘But didn’t you think of the risk when you hurled yourself forward so blatantly?’

‘I worried that my backsword would shatter against such wonderfully wrought steel. But in the end it did the job for me.’ He looked across to Dan as he approached them. ‘Here’s our pilot now. Looks like he got his job done as well.’

The Miskito had spent the last half-hour perched out on the bowsprit, peering down into the water. He had been conning the ship along the channel, giving hand signals to the men at the helm. As usual, he looked very self-composed.

‘Safely clear?’ asked Jezreel.

‘No more coral heads I could see, and after three days of going out to strike fish on the reef, I know the channel well enough to say that we are finished with it.’

Jezreel turned to Hector. ‘So it’s up to you now. You’re still our navigator, even though the fancy topknot made trash of your charts and backstaff. Where do you think we should go?’

‘We still have our compasses, so we can retrace the same course that brought us here,’ Hector answered without hesitation. He had been mulling over the problem from the moment the Nicholas had weighed anchor.

‘You mean we head back towards the Thief Islands?’

‘With Dan to help me, it’ll take only a couple of days to make a replacement backstaff and I’ve still got the almanac. So I’ll soon be able to fix our latitude.’

Jezreel gave Hector a shrewd look. ‘Have you come round to our way of thinking that we might find Maria?’

Hector felt uncomfortable and bewildered. He knew he owed a debt to his friends. Their scheming had brought his search for the woman he loved much farther forward. Yet as the possibility of reaching the Ladrones grew stronger, he had begun to have doubts. He secretly dreaded what he’d find in the islands. Maybe Don Alonso in Valdivia had been wrong, and Maria’s employer had never taken her to the islands and she was still in Peru. Or Maria had moved on and was no longer there. Worse, some misfortune might have befallen her. There were so many hazards in Spain’s far-flung colonies – fevers, unknown diseases, sudden contagions – and few places could be more remote than the Ladrones. If Maria fell sick in such a place, there’d be no doctors, only local remedies, and her death would have been unremarkable. Except to him.

And even if he did find Maria, how would she respond to him after all this time? Maybe she’d changed her mind or had forgotten him for another man. Everything was so uncertain. The more he tried to understand his feelings about her, the more confused he became and the less inclined to share his misgivings.

‘Maybe Maria won’t even recognize me if we do ever find her,’ he mumbled.

Eaton called for him from the quarterdeck, and Hector was grateful to break off the conversation and make his way to where the captain was in conference with the quartermaster.

‘Lynch, the quartermaster thinks we should return on the same course that brought us here.’

‘I agree. In a couple of days I’ll have a replacement backstaff. Dan can help me. He’s clever with his hands. And I have the almanac.’

‘Do you remember anything from that chart that was destroyed? Any details that might help?’

Hector shook his head. ‘No. But I do know the right latitude for the Ladrones. Our safest course is to sail south until we reach that parallel, then turn west until we strike the islands. They should lie across our track.’

‘Let’s hope we don’t overrun them,’ said Eaton. ‘We’ve only enough water for ten days, even on short allowance.’

The Nicholas’ abrupt departure under threat from the Ta-yin had been a hectic scramble. There had only been enough time to carry the half-repaired sails back aboard and load two dozen barrels of fresh water. There had been no point in asking the villagers for supplies. They were cowed into submission by their overlords.

‘There’ll be no more lolling about on-shore or easy times,’ said Eaton grimly. ‘When we reach the Ladrones, we keep our weapons and our wits about us, and make it clear that anyone who troubles us suffers.’

HECTOR WAS feeling pleased with himself. As he had predicted, land had been sighted after eight days at sea. The lookout at the masthead had reported two islands side by side. But as the Nicholas drew closer, the dark double hump on the horizon was revealed as a single large island with a high summit at each end and a saddle of land between.

‘Any idea what that place might be, Lynch?’ asked Eaton. Like the rest of the crew, Hector was on the foredeck, trying to distinguish the main features of the shoreline. Behind the usual fringe of coral with its breaking waves was a quiet lagoon maybe a hundred yards across. From its beach a coastal plain extended to a line of reddish-grey bluffs, which marked the boundary of a plateau. Farther on, the ground climbed steeply to rugged highlands. Everywhere was solid green – the feathery tops of coconut palms on the lowland, dense jungle on the bluffs and lower slopes of the mountain, open grassland on the summit.

‘One of the Thief Islands,’ Hector answered. ‘But I have no idea which one.’

‘This time we won’t poke our heads in a noose. We work our way round to the south until we get into a lee. Then we’ll either heave to or drop anchor.’ Eaton walked briskly back to the quarterdeck. A short while later the Nicholas turned and began to follow the coast.

Hector continued gazing at the shore. His eye was caught by a pale triangle among the breakers crashing on the reef. Moments later he saw several more of these triangles, rising and falling to the rhythm of the waves, keeping pace with the ship. It took several minutes for him to realize they were sails. The boats beneath them were either too small or too low in the water to be visible at that distance.

‘Frisky little beggars,’ observed a sailor standing beside him. ‘You’d have thought they’d capsize in that surf.’

The sailing boats quickly worked clear of the surf and set a slanting course to intercept the Nicholas. Hector squinted in surprise. Something was strange. He’d grown accustomed to the pace of movement at sea: the initial glimpse of a distant sail, the long, slow approach as the other vessel drew closer and closer, and the sudden haste in the final moments. But this was different. The cluster of triangular sails, at least a dozen of them, was approaching at the pace of a troop of horsemen moving at a brisk trot. They were catching the Nicholas as if the larger ship was dawdling, instead of pressing forward under full sail.

Hector took another look at the oncoming boats.

They reminded him of a school of hurrying dolphin. They surged across the surface of the sea, spray flying, thrusting the water aside, often showing the full length of their hulls, which were painted a rusty red with white trim.

The sailor beside him let out an admiring whistle. ‘They must be doing twelve knots, maybe more,’ he said. ‘You wonder they don’t thrash themselves to bits.’

Soon the boats were very much nearer. Hector could see their general resemblance to the dugout canoes on the coast of West Africa. Yet these craft were altogether lighter and more finely shaped. Projecting out from the side of each of them was a structure that he had never seen before. A frame of poles supported a second, much smaller hull some six or seven feet away. This second hull acted as a long, narrow float and balanced the vessel so that it skimmed over the tops of the waves instead of ploughing through them.

Several of the Nicholas’ crew had gone below to fetch their muskets. They were back on deck, loading powder and shot and checking the flints were dry.

‘Don’t shoot unless you have to. We must conserve our powder,’ shouted Arianz from the quarterdeck. Everyone knew his meaning. The Ta-yin’s men had carried off the kegs that contained the vessel’s reserve stock of gunpowder. All the men had left was whatever they had previously transferred to their powder flasks.

‘They do not look warlike,’ observed Dan. He had joined Hector on the foredeck and was watching the approaching canoes. The Miskito’s dark eyes lit up with approval. ‘Now there is something I would like to try out at home,’ he said. ‘Those side floats are ingenious. They make their craft sit higher, and able to carry more sail, than we would among my people.’

The leading canoe had drawn level with the Nicholas. The canoe’s crew were skilfully spilling wind from the sails to slow down their craft and keep pace with the lumbering visitor. Hector saw Eaton glance farther aft. The remaining canoes were also closing the gap. Soon the Nicholas would be surrounded by a squadron of the strangers.

‘Don’t let any of them come aboard,’ the captain ordered harshly. ‘Make them keep their distance.’

The lead canoe carried four or five men, who stood and shouted.

‘What is it they are calling?’ Jacques asked.

Hector strained to hear. ‘I think they’re calling out “Hierro, hierro”, Spanish for iron.’

‘Well, at least they have a few words of a language we can understand,’ grunted the Frenchman.

One of the canoe men picked up a basket from the bottom of his craft and held it up on show.

‘He wants to trade iron for whatever he has in that basket,’ said Hector.

As usual Dan had the keenest eyesight. ‘They’ve brought out coconuts and other fruit.’

‘Mon Dieu, thank God for that,’ exclaimed Jacques. ‘I’m sick of the men complaining about mouldy salt fish and the maggots in the bread.’

Several of the Nicholas’ men had begun waving at the other canoes to come closer, but a bellow from Eaton stopped them. ‘Wait until we have found shelter. Then we’ll trade.’

For the next half-hour the Nicholas ran on, the strange spidery canoes keeping pace with ease. The vessel cleared the southern point of the mainland and an obvious anchorage came into view, where a small island offered shelter from the northeast breeze. Slowing, the Nicholas headed for a patch of smooth water. The leadsman cried out that there were twenty fathoms of water, and her helmsman put her sails aback. Even before the anchor was let go, her escort of canoes came clustering forward.

‘Remember, allow no one aboard,’ repeated Arianz.

‘Hierro, hierro,’ the natives shouted.

‘I’ll give them hierro,’ growled a suspicious sailor. ‘Bunch of arse-naked savages.’

Not one of the islanders wore a stitch of clothing. Big, strapping men, their skins were a dark tawny colour with a very slight hint of yellow. They were taller than many on the Nicholas, and had large, square, fleshy faces. Most wore their long, black hair loose, though a few had shaven skulls and topknots. They appeared self-confident and friendly.

‘Have we any spare iron to trade with them?’ asked Jacques.

‘Only odds and ends,’ said Jezreel.

One of Eaton’s men was holding up a couple of broken links of anchor chain for the canoe men. They shook their heads and began making a circular motion with their arms.

‘What are they trying to tell us?’ asked Hector.

Dan clicked his fingers as he worked out the answer. ‘They want iron barrel hoops – most ships would carry them.’

The cooper was sent for, and he reluctantly agreed to dispose of three damaged hoops from his stores. These were waved in the air, and immediately two of the canoes shot closer.

A barter followed. Stolck leaned over the gunwale, acting as negotiator. Eventually, after much sign language and haggling, it was agreed to exchange two iron hoops for five baskets filled with fruit. Then a native on the second canoe pointed to some large gourds lying at his feet, and held up one finger.

‘What is that one trying to sell?’ asked Jacques.

‘Coconut oil, I guess,’ said Dan. The islander mimed wiping the contents of the gourds on his skin and using it to dress his hair.

‘Fresh coconut oil,’ said Jacques eagerly. ‘Let me have that. I will mash up the last of our stale bread and make fried doughboys.’

‘Make sure they don’t cheat us,’ Dan warned Stolck. ‘Get the fruit and oil on board before we part with the iron hoops.’

The two canoes sidled alongside, ropes were lowered and baskets and gourds attached. Only when these were lifted into the ship were the iron hoops relinquished. The crews of the canoes appeared to be very pleased with their trade. Their sheet-handlers tightened their lines. The men in the stern twisted their paddles to act as rudders and the canoes veered away, rapidly gaining speed as they headed back to the distant shore.

Stolck brought the first basket of fruit across to Jacques and laid it on the deck. ‘There you are, Cook. There should be plenty to go round.’ He began to lift out the coconuts. Then he swore. Underneath the top layer of fruit the basket had been filled with rubbish and gravel.

Jacques dipped a spoon into the coconut oil and licked it. ‘Delicious,’ he announced. Then he looked down at the surface of the gourd and frowned. He dipped the spoon again, tasted and spat. ‘Putain!’ he exclaimed. ‘We have been cheated. The coconut oil is only floating on the surface. The rest is sea water.’

Jezreel threw back his head and gave a huge roar of laughter. ‘Well, now we know for sure that we’re at the Thief Islands.’

IT WAS A disgruntled boat crew who pulled ashore to the small island next morning in the jolly boat. Three men with loaded muskets stood guard on the beach while the rest of the shore party set about climbing the nearest coconut trees and throwing down the fruit. No natives were to be seen, though everyone had the uncomfortable feeling they were being watched. A rivulet spilled out on the beach close to the landing place, and the men dug a cistern trench so that the casks and big earthenware jars could be filled. But the supply of fresh water was little more than a trickle, and it was clear that the Nicholas would be staying several days.

For safety, most of the men stayed on board while the laborious task of watering slowly went forward. They could see many triangular sails of the native craft in the distance. But it was not until the third morning that one of the vessels was seen heading for the anchorage. It came directly to the Nicholas. This time the natives on board were not nude, but wore long, sack-like shirts made of palmetto leaves sewn crudely together. Their leader – a tall, brawny man with an impressive mop of hair – offered up a leather pouch, which was brought to Eaton. Opening it, he pulled out four sheets of paper. After a quick glance he beckoned to Hector.

‘Lynch, come over here. You can make better sense of them.’

Hector took the pages and read through them slowly. ‘All four are the same,’ he said, looking up at Eaton. ‘It’s just that they’re written in Latin, Spanish, Dutch and French.’

‘What do they say?’ asked Eaton.

Hector selected the Spanish version and read out, ‘To the commander of the unknown vessel now lying off Cocos Island. We would know your purpose in coming here. If you are Christians, you will find safe shelter at our port of Aganah. Our messenger will guide you here. Trust him, but not the Chamorro.’

‘Who are the Chamorro?’

‘They must be natives, the indios as the Spanish would call them.’

‘And who sent this letter?’

Hector pretended to check the signature again. But he had no need to. It had been the first thing he had looked at, wondering if the letter came from the Governor of the Ladrones, Don Fernando de Costana. He should have been in office for at least a year now, with his wife, Maria’s employer. But Hector hadn’t recognized the name.

He made a conscious effort to hide his disappointment. ‘It’s signed by Sarjento Mayor Damian de Esplana. He describes himself as Maestre de Campo at the Presidio of Guahan.’

‘Well, at least we know exactly where we are,’ Arianz broke in. ‘Guahan is the largest of the Thief Islands, and Aganah is the provincial capital.’

Eaton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Why should this Esplana offer us shelter in his harbour? Sounds like a trap.’

‘I think not,’ said Arianz. ‘He hopes we are either Spanish or French, or even Dutch, and therefore friendly.’

‘And what about the Latin?’

‘He’s guessing that we would know the language if we were Catholics.’

‘Or because Latin is a common language between nations,’ pointed out Hector.

The quartermaster ignored him. ‘Aganah is the most isolated place in the entire Spanish empire. This Esplana probably doesn’t see more than one ship or two in a year. He’ll be keen to enlist our help.’

Eaton frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because he said not to trust the Chamorro. If they are the native people, then he’s obviously on bad terms with them.’

‘The men who brought the message are natives.’

‘Tame ones. Not like the mother-naked lot we saw first.’

Eaton was no longer listening. He thrust the French version of the letter towards Jacques.

‘Here, tell me whether it’s written by a Frenchman.’

Jacques read through the letter, then shook his head. ‘Definitely not.’

‘Can you pass yourself off as a French officer?’

The Frenchman gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘This brand on my face will not help.’ He rubbed the galérien’s G on his cheek, the brand faintly noticeable beneath his deep tan.

Eaton turned to Hector. ‘What about you? He’s your friend. Will you support him?’

Hector was wary. He and Dan both spoke reasonable French. They had first teamed up with Jacques when all three had served in King Louis’ galley fleet. ‘It depends what you want me to do.’

‘I want you to go to meet with this Esplana.’

‘So you won’t take the Nicholas into his harbour?’

Eaton shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. He’d soon work out we’re not to his liking.’

Hector thought long and hard before answering. He was being offered the perfect chance to investigate whether Maria was on the island. Yet if he came face to face with Don Fernando, everything would be ruined.

‘I can’t do it,’ he said finally. ‘The Governor might recognize me.’

‘You know the Governor?’ Eaton’s pale-green wolf’s eyes suddenly filled with suspicion.

‘When he was a high official in Peru, I negotiated with him for the ransom of his wife. I was told that he’d moved here when I was held prisoner in Valdivia,’ Hector confessed.

Eaton’s voice took on a menacing rasp. ‘That’s the first I heard of it, Lynch. I thought you were slippery when you hoodwinked my crew back on the Encantadas. Now I know for sure. Is this where you wanted to come all along?’

Hector refused to be cowed. ‘I’ve had no hand in what has happened these past few weeks. The crew made their own decisions.’

Eaton glared angrily at the young man. Then he swung round to face Jacques. ‘Lynch is too craven to meet the Spaniards, so you’ll have to manage on your own. I want you to scout this place of refuge we are being offered. Find out if its defences are weak enough that we can seize and loot it. Say that we are a royal ship sent by King Louis to search for new lands for trade and plantation.’

Jacques shrugged casually. ‘Bien. If this Esplana asks about my face, I will say I was released from the galleys because I am a skilled mariner and volunteered for this exploring mission.’

‘The question may never arise,’ said Eaton.

‘We can’t attack Guahan,’ said Arianz. ‘We don’t have enough powder for our guns.’

Eaton’s expression grew more cunning. ‘I’ve thought of that. If Esplana wants our help against the indios, then we’ll say we’d be happy to assist. We’ll claim that our stock of powder got ruined by the sea air, and ask him to send us a few barrels.’ He gave a nasty smile. ‘Then we’ll use it to attack him.’

JACQUES BOURDON, former Parisian pickpocket, burglar and ex-galérien, enjoyed masquerading as a seasoned mariner. Wearing a set of Eaton’s better clothing, he perched on the centre thwart of the native sailing canoe as it headed north along the coast of Guahan. Normally Jacques disliked small boats. He found them slow, wet and unsteady, and they made him seasick. But this vessel was different. The side float made it much more stable, almost comfortable, and the stiff breeze pushed the vessel along at a fine pace. This would not be a long trip.

Jacques shifted position slightly so that he could see past the sail of palm-leaf matting. The canoe – he had managed to learn from the crew that they called it a ‘galaide layak’ – was running into a sheltered bay. There was no sign of any coral reef. Deep water extended all the way to a short wooden pier, where a collection of thatched roofs lay along the lower part of an attractive valley. The grasslands on the slopes above the settlement were washed a pale lime-green by the morning sunshine.

‘Aganah?’ he asked, pointing forward. Close to the jetty rose the solid square shape of a small fort. It had to be the Spaniards’ Presidio.

The boatman with the extravagant bush of hair nodded.

Ten minutes later Jacques had clambered up on to the pier and was walking by himself towards the settlement. The houses with their weathered grey thatch were nothing more than overgrown cabins, too humble for the Governor of the Ladrones. His residence would be inside the fort itself, safe behind its fifteen-foot walls of coral blocks. Two small towers served as cannon platforms, and an open space had been left clear to provide a field of fire. But there was no sign of a sentry on the parapet, and the double gates of the entrance were closed.

Jacques picked up a stone and banged on one of the gates. The thick timber gave back a muffled thud. After an interval a voice demanded to know their business.

‘Visiteur,’ Jacques shouted, emphasizing his French accent.

The heavy gate eased just enough to enable him to step inside. Immediately he was through, it was dragged shut behind him. Jacques looked around. The area within the walls was considerably larger than he had expected. There was space for a little chapel, a barracks block and several storehouses. They were all modest, single-storey buildings with tile roofs and mud-brick walls. Small windows had unpainted shutters against the sun, and one or two were barred. The only substantial two-storey building had a balcony and porch and overlooked the parade ground. Judging by the flagstaff in front of it, this was where the Governor and his senior staff had their offices and accommodation.

Jacques presumed the four men whose combined strength had been required to shift the heavy gate were members of the garrison. They were uncommonly slovenly and, judging by their expressions, they resented being disturbed.

‘The Governor?’ Jacques asked in Spanish. Before he received an answer, he became aware of a man in a faded blue jacket of military cut, who emerged from the larger building and was striding across the parade ground.

‘You must be from the foreign ship,’ announced the newcomer. A short, brisk man in his mid-forties, everything about him spoke of a regimental background: close-cropped iron-grey hair, straight back and square shoulders, crisp manner of speech, the frank appraising stare he gave the visitor.

‘My name is Louis Brodart. I am sailing master of the Gaillon,’ Jacques said in French. Inwardly he was gleeful. It was unlikely anyone but a Parisian would know that the Gaillon district of the city was renowned for its open sewer. Or that he had borrowed the surname of the most corrupt government official in France, the Intendant of the Royal Galleys.

‘Sarjento Mayor Damian de Esplana, at your service,’ answered the officer. He spoke halting but competent French. ‘Welcome to the Presidio of Guahan.’

Jacques decided he should get straight to the point. ‘My captain asked me to deliver his compliments to the Governor.’

‘Don Fernando de Costana is absent. I am the commanding officer of the garrison.’

‘Will the Governor be returning soon?’

‘He has gone to another island to deal with the indios. I do not expect him back for at least a month.’ If the Sarjento Mayor had noticed the galérien’s brand, he was too polite to mention it.

‘A pity. My captain’s instructions are to present our credentials solely to the Governor. The Secretary of the Navy, the Marquis de Seignelay, was most particular in this regard.’

Esplana brightened. ‘Then, by all means, your captain can take his vessel to Saipan, the island where Don Fernando has gone. But first let me offer you some refreshment. I would appreciate hearing news from the outside world. We see few ships.’

He escorted his visitor towards the building with the porch. On the way they passed a sizeable vegetable patch dug in a corner of the parade ground. The Sarjento Mayor gestured apologetically.

‘Not a very military sight. My men are better gardeners than soldiers. But under the circumstances, it is sensible to grow some of our own food.’

Esplana’s office was entered through a side door. The room was spartan, with whitewashed walls, a plain desk with a black iron candlestick, four chairs, an army chest and no decoration except for a small wooden cross, a mirror of polished steel and a sword and baldric hanging from a peg. A servant appeared with a tray of glasses. Jacques picked up his drink and tasted. It was mildly fizzy, with a pleasant, alcoholic tang. Esplana noted his appreciation. ‘The natives call it “tuba”. Fermented from the sap of the coconut palm.’

When the servant had withdrawn, Esplana gestured for the Frenchman to take a seat. Going to his desk, Esplana adopted a more serious expression. ‘Thank you for coming here so promptly in answer to my message.’

‘My captain regrets he is unable to bring his vessel directly to your port. He’s instructed to seek out new lands for trade and plantation. Our visit to the Ladrones—’

‘Las Marianas,’ Esplana corrected him. ‘They were renamed some years ago during the regency of the late King’s widow.’

Jacques wondered if his slip had aroused the Spaniard’s suspicion. A French government mission would be expected to know the archipelago’s official new name, though ordinary mariners still spoke of the Thief Islands. He ploughed on. ‘We called at the Marianas only to take on water. Very shortly we continue on our way.’

Esplana placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward, his eyes grave, almost pleading. ‘Before you depart, I hope your captain will find time to prove the friendship that exists between our two countries.’

‘My captain has authorized me to decide what is in the best interest of our mission,’ said Jacques neutrally. He waited for the Spaniard to explain.

‘You have seen the indios, the naked natives, I’m sure,’ said Esplana. ‘The Governor is charged with their reducción, as we say – their conversion to the faith, their civilization. But they resist fiercely.’

‘The few we have met seemed friendly enough, though in need of clothing.’

‘Don’t be fooled. The Chamorro are vicious, brave and stubborn. They cling to their old ways. Governor Costana has taken the best of the men and sailed north to Saipan to put down an uprising there. The Chamorro murdered a missionary priest.’ The Spaniard gestured towards the door. ‘You’ve seen the sort of men I’ve been left to work with. Idlers, drunks, former gaolbirds sent here from New Spain.’

That explained the absence of a lookout at the fort and the closed gates, Jacques thought. The Sarjento Mayor had decided to stay bottled up within the Presidio. ‘The town did seem to be very quiet,’ he ventured.

‘The situation is very tense,’ Esplana went on. His eyes flicked towards the open window. ‘We hold hostages, a couple of the Chamorro chiefs, but . . .’

‘The message boat you sent was manned by indios, as you call them.’

‘They belong to a clan that favours us. Fortunately the Chamorro spend more time fighting among themselves than trying to defeat us. Without the rivalry between the clans we would be lost.’

‘Are they well armed?’

‘Thank God, no. They have no firearms. They use slings and spears tipped with human bone.’ The Spaniard gave a sour smile. ‘They say they prefer killing the taller strangers because their longer shinbones make better spear points.’

‘Dangerous foes,’ Jacques agreed.

Esplana was blunt. ‘Your men and the firepower of the Gaillon’s cannon would make a great difference.’

Jacques seized the opening. ‘Unfortunately we must conserve our gunpowder. Much of what we took aboard in Brest when we sailed was useless. The rest got wet on the voyage and is spoiled.’

‘I can remedy that,’ said Esplana promptly. ‘I can send you twenty, maybe thirty kegs, from our own reserves.’

‘Won’t that leave you short?’ asked Jacques.

‘I still have enough to repel an assault on the Presidio. I am expecting resupply quite soon. The Acapulco Galleon should pass through the straits within the month.’

‘The Acapulco Galleon?’ Jacques was momentarily at a loss.

‘You would know it better as the Manila Galleon.’

Jacques must have continued to look puzzled because the Sarjento Mayor went on, ‘I speak of the galleon on its westward trip, to the Philippines. The vessel carries travellers on their way from New Spain to Manila and the silver needed there to pay for the China trade. Either it makes a stop in Guahan to unload mail and passengers. Or, if the voyage is behind schedule, the ship waits in the straits north of here, and our friendly natives go out to take off the supplies.’

So that’s why the Chamorro came out to huckster with us, Jacques thought. They greet any passing ship in this fashion.

Esplana continued to press his case. ‘And even if the Acapulco Galleon cannot spare the munitions, a patache is also due from New Spain. Indeed, she may get here sooner than the galleon. The patache carries stores specifically destined for us, including gunpowder. Afterwards she continues on to Manila. If your vessel could sail to Saipan to assist the Governor, we could breathe easily. Don Costana will teach the indios a lesson, with the help of your cannon.’

‘Very well,’ said Jacques. ‘On behalf of my captain, I assure you that the Gaillon will go to the assistance of your Governor. We can save a few days if you send us the gunpowder we require and a native who can pilot us to Saipan.’

They toasted their agreement and drained their glasses. As the officer poured him another drink, Jacques gave him what he hoped was a friendly look. ‘It must be a lonely life here.’

‘For most of us it is,’ confessed the Spaniard. ‘My troops, if you can call them that, form attachments with local women. For myself, I have devoted my life to the service of my country.’

‘How about Governor Costana? Does he feel the same?’ asked Jacques offhandedly. He intended to lead the conversation around to the Governor and his domestic arrangements. That way he would be able to tell Hector whether Maria was living in the fort.

‘He was posted here from Peru. The result of some scandal, I believe. He brought his wife with him, Doña Juana. A fine woman. She too has a sense of duty.’

From the parade ground came the sound of the chapel bell striking noon. To Jacques’ disappointment, Esplana got to his feet. ‘I would ask you to join us for our midday meal. But frankly our cook is useless, and the sooner you carry my message back to your vessel, the happier I will be.’

As Jacques accompanied the Spaniard outside, he thought quickly.

‘Commandant, I have a small favour to ask.’

‘What is it?’

‘That vegetable garden . . .’

‘It varies an otherwise monotonous diet.’

‘Would it be possible for me to carry back some of the produce to the ship? I see there are some carrots and celery. My captain would greatly appreciate some green stuff on his table.’

‘Of course. I’ll have a man select what you need.’

‘And we are also short of spices. I understand this island produces excellent ginger.’

Esplana smiled. ‘You live up to your nation’s reputation. Our mess cook is so incompetent he thinks salt is an exotic spice. But maybe the Governor’s kitchen has some ginger to spare. If you will accompany me, I will make enquiries.’

They walked across to the main entrance of the administration building. Esplana knocked. The door was opened by a maidservant in her teens. She wore a shawl worked with Peruvian patterns, and Jacques guessed she’d been brought from South America with the Governor’s entourage. She curtsied politely.

‘Ask your mistress if we may speak with her cook,’ Esplana said.

The girl held the door open for them to step inside and disappeared into an inner room to consult her mistress.

A moment later a door opened, and a young, handsome, dark-haired woman dressed in a plain brown skirt and grey bodice stepped out.

‘Sarjento Mayor,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid our cook is not here. He accompanied the Governor.’ Her glance took in Jacques and for a heartbeat she seemed to falter.

‘May I introduce Monsieur Brodart of the French ship Gaillon,’ said Esplana. He turned to Jacques. ‘I have the pleasure of introducing Señorita Maria da Silva.’

Jacques bowed. ‘Delighted to meet you, Señorita.’

Maria looked at him strangely.

Esplana was in a hurry. ‘I apologize for disturbing you, Señorita. We had a small question for the cook, but we can discuss it another time. Monsieur Brodart is on his way back to his ship.’ He ushered Jacques out of the house. Jacques only had time to bow once more. As he did so, he deliberately held her gaze and willed her to recognize him.

HECTOR HAD waited anxiously for Jacques’ return. The moment the messenger boat came alongside the Nicholas, he climbed down to help his friend lift a basket of vegetables from the bilge. ‘Did you see Maria?’ he whispered.

The Frenchman nodded.

‘How is she?’ Hector’s voice was hoarse with tension.

‘She is fine.’

‘Did you manage to speak to her?’

‘No. I had to get away. The Governor’s wife might have shown up. If Doña Juana had recognized me, that would have been a disaster.’

An impatient shout from Eaton put an end to their hurried conversation.

‘I will tell you more later, Hector,’ Jacques muttered as he scrambled up the ship’s side.

Eaton and Arianz listened carefully to what Jacques had to say about his visit to the Presidio. ‘Sounds like we could storm the fort,’ said Arianz.

‘And for very little reward,’ Eaton retorted sharply. ‘I have a better idea. Call the men together.’

With the crew of the Nicholas assembled in the waist of the ship, Eaton asked Jacques to repeat to them what he had witnessed in Guahan. ‘Don’t leave anything out, including your conversation with the Sarjento Mayor.’

When Jacques had finished speaking – omitting only his encounter with Maria – Eaton raised his voice.

‘I propose we wait here at anchor until we receive our gift of gunpowder.’

There was a general mutter of agreement. Even those most eager to continue the homeward voyage preferred to sail in a ship that could use her cannon.

Eaton paused for effect. Then he announced, ‘Immediately afterwards, we sail north.’

There was a puzzled silence. ‘What for?’ someone shouted. ‘We’d be better leaving this shithole.’

‘Because we would be turning our backs on the biggest prize of all if we didn’t,’ called Eaton.

‘What’s that?’ He had their full attention now.

‘The Acapulco Galleon. You heard the Frenchman. The vessel carries the silver from New Spain to pay for a year’s worth of silks and valuables that have accumulated in Manila.’

‘We can never take a galleon. She’ll be too big, too well armed, too many men aboard.’ As Eaton had expected, the objection came from the elderly, balding deckhand who always found fault.

‘The Acapulco Galleon will have been eleven weeks at sea,’ Eaton countered. ‘Her crew will be on short rations, tired and slack. It’s the moment to attack.’

‘But there will still be one or two hundred men aboard. Even if they’re famished, that is more than we can handle.’

‘We won’t be alone.’ There was a triumphant, calculating look on Eaton’s face.

‘What do you mean?’ called another voice.

‘I propose that we enlist the help of the indios.’

There was a surprised but thoughtful silence from the assembled crew.

‘And how could they help us?’ Eaton saw that the speaker was the Dutchman, Stolck.

‘We take the Acapulco Galleon by surprise.’ Eaton was relishing the chance to display his cunning. ‘When the vessel enters the strait, our Chamorro allies will go out in their canoes to meet the ship, as is their custom. No one on board the galleon will suspect anything.’ He paused to look out over the expectant faces of his men. ‘As usual the Chamorro will offer to barter. Hidden among them will be some of us with our muskets. At the right moment we spring our ambush, shoot down the helmsmen, board the ship. We can rely on the indios to deal with the rest.’

There was an interval while his audience digested the audacity of the plan.

‘I wouldn’t trust those heathens,’ shouted the old man. ‘They’d slit our throats.’

But his shipmates were looking at one another, considering the captain’s proposal. Some were doubtful. They didn’t like the idea of working with the natives, and said so. Others were more excited. There was a babble of comment, nearly all of it favourable. Suddenly the loot from a rich Spanish galleon seemed within their grasp.

Arianz stepped up to the rail. ‘We put it to the vote. Those in favour of attempting to seize the Acapulco Galleon, raise your hands.’

The quartermaster counted the vote.

‘Those who would continue on for home.’

Fewer hands rose.

‘Then it’s decided.’

Standing among the men, Hector’s mind was in turmoil. He was giddy with excitement that he had located Maria. She was alive and apparently well, and he longed to see her. For a mad moment he toyed with the idea of deserting the Nicholas, swimming ashore, finding his way to the Presidio and locating Maria. But he knew that was utterly impractical. It would mean abandoning his friends, which he couldn’t do, and it was reckless. Governor Costana, when he came back from campaign, would be merciless. In his eyes Hector was still a murderous sea robber. Maria, who had once seemed so far away, was very much closer. But in another sense she was still as distant as she had ever been.