Sea Robber

ELEVEN

MAESTRE DE CAMPO DAMIAN DE ESPLANA proved to be as efficient as his manner had suggested. The evening after Jacques got back to the ship, a galaide layak delivered a dozen kegs of gunpowder to the Nicholas, and with them a Chamorro pilot. A gaunt, taciturn man with a heavily pockmarked face, he was dressed in cast-off European clothing and had a small crucifix on a cord around his neck. In halting Spanish he said that his name was Faasi, and he had a paper to deliver to the captain.

‘Let’s have a look at it,’ said Eaton. It was a crude sketch map of the Ladrones. The fifteen islands, varying in size, stretched away in a chain running northwards. Guahan was marked by name, as were half a dozen of the others. The rest were anonymous.

‘Is that where we find the Governor?’ said Eaton, placing his finger where Esplana had drawn an arrow on the map against one of the farther islands.

The Chamorro stared at the map, but looked blank when Hector translated the question.

‘I don’t think he understands maps,’ said Hector. ‘He probably hasn’t seen one before.’

‘Maug – the island is called Maug, according to what’s written here,’ snapped Eaton.

At the mention of the name, Faasi’s face cleared. He nodded. ‘Yes, Governor at Maug,’ he said.

‘How long to sail there?’ enquired Eaton.

‘Two days, no more,’ answered the Chamorro.

Eaton frowned. It was impossible to judge the scale of the sketch map. But clearly Esplana had made an attempt to draw the islands to their relative sizes.

‘Looks like more than two days’ sail to me,’ he said, ‘unless the ship grows wings.’

‘Best to get started right away, now that we’ve got our powder,’ suggested Arianz.

Eaton treated the Chamorro to a thoughtful glance. Hector guessed the captain was trying to judge whether Faasi was capable of recognizing that the ship wasn’t French.

The quartermaster must have been thinking along the same lines. Laying a hand on the captain’s arm, he drew him to one side and Hector overheard him ask quietly, ‘Do we really need a pilot now that we’ve got a map? We should toss him overboard as soon as we’re off-shore.’

Eaton shook his head. ‘The map’s too vague, and we still need the man to tell us exactly where we lie in wait for the galleon and where we can recruit our new allies.’

Arianz tugged at his earlobe doubtfully. ‘You seem very sure that the natives will fall in with our plan.’

‘That is where the pilot can be even more helpful, though he does not know it yet,’ the captain assured him.

Eaton wasted little time. He weighed anchor at first light, and by early evening the Nicholas was abreast of the northern end of Guahan. Here the Chamorro pilot pointed out the place where the Acapulco Galleon normally paused to transfer her cargo.

‘Ask our pilot if he knows a safe anchorage on the next island along the chain,’ the captain demanded. He had the sketch map in his hand. ‘It’s name is written here as Rota.’

When Hector relayed the question, Faasi’s eyes widened in alarm.

‘He says the people that live there are his enemies. It’s not the place where he was told to bring us.’

Eaton allowed himself a mirthless smile. ‘Then that’s precisely where we pay our next call.’ He ordered the helmsman to maintain course and the crew to shorten sail. Throughout the night the Nicholas crept forward until the rising sun showed Rota’s hills some five miles ahead. The masthead lookout called down to say that he saw no sign of a barrier reef. ‘Make a slow, leisurely approach,’ Eaton ordered the helmsman. ‘The slower, the better. We want our arrival known. Lynch,’ the captain went on, ‘I’m sending you ashore to contact the locals. Our pilot here will go with you.’

‘I doubt he’ll want to.’

Faasi was fingering his little wooden cross nervously and casting worried glances around the ship. Clearly the sight of Rota so close up had rattled him badly.

‘He’ll have no choice,’ said Eaton. He nodded to Stolck and Arianz. The unfortunate pilot was seized and his arms pinioned. He was so shocked that he offered no resistance as his wrists were lashed behind his back.

‘We’ll offer him to our future allies,’ Eaton smirked. ‘When they see you land with him trussed up like a chicken and recognize him as an enemy, they’ll listen to what you have to propose.’

‘And what am I meant to tell them?’

Eaton grinned, a flash of white teeth in his tanned face. ‘Explain that we come as foes of the Spanish and wish to loot the Acapulco Galleon. Say that we’ll supply four musketeers for every sailing craft they can provide for an ambush.’

Hector’s mind raced. Here was an opportunity to get off the Nicholas – and maybe his friends as well. Once ashore, they might be able to take control of their lives.

‘I want my friends with me – Jezreel, Dan and Jacques,’ he said.

‘By all means,’ Eaton was expansive. ‘The striker looks enough of an indio himself. That should reassure the locals.’ He paused. ‘But I wouldn’t want you getting any ideas as soon as you are out of sight. So I’m sending Stolck with you to keep an eye on you.’

OVER THE NEXT few hours, Hector watched the coast of Rota take shape. Low cliffs made a landing difficult. The swells heaved and broke against them, churning into froth. Here and there great lumps of reddish-brown rock had broken off and tumbled into the sea. Beyond the cliff wall the ground swept upwards to the rim of what must be an interior plateau, its edge sharply defined against the puffy white clouds and a blue sky. The cliff tops and hill slopes were smothered with dense green vegetation. Despite the lushness of the landscape and the gentle, summery feel of the air, the place looked inaccessible and mysterious, as if it was guarding secrets. Apart from the flittering swoops of two fairy terns in their brilliant white plumage, there was no sign of life.

The ship hove-to a cable’s length off the first suitable spot to get ashore, a small cove backed by a low cliff. Watched by the crew, Hector and his friends climbed down into the jolly boat. Jezreel had his backsword slung over his shoulder, and Dan chose to bring along his satchel of artist’s materials. Hector and Jacques had nothing more than their sailors’ knives. Only Stolck carried a musket. Arianz had claimed that if the landing party showed too many weapons, they’d scare off the natives, and Hector wondered if the quartermaster was conniving with Eaton to put them deliberately in harm’s way. But Stolck’s presence reassured him. The big Hollander was a close friend of Arianz, and Hector doubted that his countryman would allow him to be abandoned.

The luckless Faasi was passed down like a bundle, his hands still bound. The boat crew bent to their oars and Hector watched the sides of the Nicholas recede. The ship looked weary and sea-worn. Her hull planks were pale grey, bleached by months of sun and salt spray. The tracery of rigging was marred with knots and splices, the ropes whiskery with use. But she was still remarkably seaworthy, a testimony to the ship skills of her crew. She rolled gently, showing the beard of weeds that coated the tar applied so long ago in the Encantadas. Someone had hoisted a home-made French ensign at the mizzen. Hector doubted that the colours of France rippling in the slight breeze meant anything to those on Rota who were watching.

The keel of the little boat crunched on the shingle, and a moment later he climbed over the gunwale, feeling smooth pebbles slither beneath his bare feet. Behind him he heard Jezreel grunt as he lifted the Chamorro pilot out of the boat and set him upright.

The boat crew backed water, Dan gave the prow of the boat a shove to help it on its way, and the jolly boat began its return journey to the waiting ship. Hector paused at the water’s edge and gazed up at the wall of broken cliff behind the little cove. Now that he was closer, he could see the faint trace of a footpath. It led upwards, picking its way back and forth between scree and boulders, a sign that someone occasionally came here. Beside him, Faasi was petrified and shivering with fright.

Hector asked Jezreel for the loan of his backsword and walked over to the wretched pilot, intending to cut his bonds.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ growled Stolck. He pointed his musket at Hector. ‘You heard what the captain said. This savage is our calling card.’

Hector ignored the warning. He cut through the ropes that bound Faasi’s wrists. The instant he was free, the Chamorro took to his heels. With a clatter of shingle, he ran back down the narrow beach and plunged into the water. Stolck raised his musket to shoot the runaway, but then thought better of it and lowered the gun. Soon only Faasi’s head could be seen as he swam out. He headed beyond the line of breaking swells and turned southwards and, still swimming strongly, kept parallel to the coast until he was out of sight.

‘Well, there goes our interpreter,’ said Jacques, picking up a pebble and skimming it across the water. ‘Let us hope our reception party shows up soon.’

The five men settled down to wait. The narrow beach was less than forty paces long. Cliffs closed it off at each end. The only access was by the little track Hector had noticed earlier. Out to sea the Nicholas hovered, still hove-to. An occasional glint of light indicated that someone on her aft deck, either Eaton or Arianz, was watching them through a spyglass. Dan, as unconcerned and calm as always, took pen and ink and a sheet of paper from his satchel and began to sketch the distant vessel. Jezreel took off his backsword, laid it on the ground, lay down beside it, closed his eyes and began to doze. After some minutes of fidgeting, Jacques copied him. Stolck was in a grumpy mood after Faasi’s escape. He moved away from the others and sat by himself, his musket across his knees. Only Hector continued to watch the lip of the cliffs above, waiting for some activity.

An hour passed. The shadow cast by the cliff gradually shortened as the sun rose higher. The only sound was the low grumble of the swells on the pebbles. The two fairy terns Hector had noticed earlier were joined by another pair, which circled for some time, then all four birds abruptly flew off. Behind the salt tang of the sea he caught the faint, musty smell of tropical vegetation.

Jacques suddenly sat up. ‘I ought to tell you a story that I heard from the Maestre de Campo.’

Jezreel opened his eyes. ‘As long as it helps pass the time.’

‘He was escorting me back to the Presidio gate. Before he said goodbye, he wanted to emphasize why he was so committed to the programme of reducción – converting the natives.’

‘What did he tell you?’ asked Hector.

‘That the missionary who was murdered recently was not the first priest to be killed by the Chamorro. Some years back they assassinated the chief apostle to these islands, a man named Vitores. They ran him through with a spear, then slashed his head open with a cutlass.’

‘Charming,’ muttered Jezreel.

‘The murderers tried to dispose of the corpse at sea. They took it out on one of their canoes and threw it overboard. But twice the dead man came floating back to the surface and reached out and grasped the outrigger. He only sank when the Chamorro smashed in the skull with a paddle.’

‘You could have told us that story earlier,’ said Jezreel. ‘We might have thought twice about being dumped on this beach.’

‘Oddly enough,’ Jacques went on, ‘Esplana was rather proud of what had happened. He said that every new-found country needs a martyr.’

‘I hope we won’t add to that number,’ said Hector softly. ‘There’s someone coming down the cliff path now, and he certainly doesn’t look like a Christian.’

The newcomer was well over six feet tall. A muscular, heavy-set but athletic-looking man, his chocolate-brown skin was smeared with oil so that it glistened. His long, dark hair had also been oiled and was tied up in a double knot and piled on the crown of his head. His easy, confident stride as he came down the path gave Hector the impression that here was someone of importance. The stranger was empty-handed, and there was no question that he had any concealed weapons. Apart from a belt of coconut rope, he was completely naked.

Stolck scrambled to his feet and levelled his musket at the stranger. ‘Stop where you are,’ he shouted.

The newcomer gave him a puzzled glance, ignored him and turned to face Hector. Everything about the stranger was large: a barrel-shaped torso, heavily muscled arms and legs, powerful hands, and big feet set firmly on the shingle. His deep-set brown eyes under prominent brows regarded Hector coolly. Then he smiled and Hector’s stomach lurched. The stranger’s lips parted to reveal teeth sharpened to points so that they resembled a row of fangs. Appallingly, the gums and teeth were stained blood-red. Visions of cannibals and human sacrifice flashed into Hector’s mind. Then he realized the stranger had been eating some sort of highly coloured food.

Tearing his gaze away from that hideous mouth, Hector said in slow, careful Spanish, ‘We are friends. We wish to speak with your headman.’

There was no response. The brown eyes continued to observe him, placid and uncomprehending.

Hector repeated himself, first in Spanish, then again in all the languages he knew – English, French, the lingua franca of the Barbary slave barracks, even the Irish he had learned as a child. There was still was no reaction. He might as well have been speaking to a graven image, except for that bloody smile.

Finally, when Hector had fallen silent, the man spoke. His voice was deep and powerful, the words musical and clear. They made no sense whatsoever.

The big man turned his head deliberately and looked at Dan, Jacques and the others for several moments. Moving quietly across to Dan, he leaned over to examine the sketch of the Nicholas. Then he looked out at the ship and back at the drawing. His face was full of wonder. ‘Maulek, maulek,’ he said and made an admiring, chuckling noise. Next he walked across to Jezreel, and pinched the giant on his upper arm and nodded approvingly. Before Jezreel could stop him, the man bent down and picked up the backsword from the ground, slid it half out of the sheath and gave a low snort of admiration. ‘Maulek, maulek,’ he said again. He turned his head aside and spat – evidently a sign of approval – and a blood-red blob of spittle splattered on the stones.

‘That’s betel nut he’s been chewing. I saw it in my time in the Indies,’ said Stolck, who had regained his composure. It was evident that the big stranger was peaceable.

The naked man was showing an interest in the Hollander’s musket. He reached out and stroked it and frowned, then shook his head wonderingly.

‘He has no idea what it is,’ said Stolck. ‘He must have come right from the hills.’

‘He is certainly more curious than fearful of us,’ observed Jacques.

‘I’ll show him that we are not to be trifled with,’ said Stolck. He raised the gun. ‘Here, you,’ he called out. ‘Watch this. Magic.’

Turning on his heel, Stolck took aim at the cliff face at the far end of the beach where a landslip had exposed bare soil studded with small stones. He pulled the trigger. The bang of the musket and the cloud of smoke were instantly followed by a shower of earth and gravel as the musket bullet struck home.

If Stolck had expected the savage to be impressed, he was badly mistaken. The report of the gun was still echoing back from the cliffs when the big native let out a loud, shrill whistle. In the same instant he sprang forward and scooped up Jezreel’s backsword. Jezreel lunged, trying to retrieve the weapon. The two men grappled, struggling for possession. They fell, rolled over on the ground and began to fight, gouging and punching.

Stunned by the sudden turn of events, Hector was groping for the knife from his belt, ready to go to Jezreel’s rescue, when he felt a violent stab of pain as something struck his left shoulder. The force of the blow spun him half around, and for a moment he was disoriented. A yard away Jacques had mysteriously been knocked to the ground. Dan was still on his feet, but acting strangely. He was ducking and weaving from side to side as though fighting off an unseen attacker. He had his canvas satchel wrapped around his right arm and was holding it up as a shield. Something smacked on to the pebbles at Hector’s feet and skittered off. It was a disc-shaped stone about the size of a hen’s egg. Looking in the direction from where it had come, Hector saw a line of naked men standing on the lip of the cliff. They were whirling slings and discharging a hail of missiles at the beach.

Stolck was cursing steadily as he tried to reload his empty musket. He tugged a cartridge from his bandolier, ripped open the paper with his teeth and tipped the powder down the barrel. He screwed up the empty paper and dropped it after the gunpowder. He was about to follow with a musket ball from the bag hanging at his waist, when a sling stone struck him on the head. His knees gave way and he pitched backwards, stunned.

Hector ran to pick up the musket. Dan was shouting and pointing at the cliff face. A file of islanders was scrambling downwards. Six or seven naked men armed with spears came bounding from rock to rock, as agile as goats. Before Hector could reach the gun, the first of them had leaped down, landed on the pebbles and dashed forward, his spear aimed at Dan.

Hector dithered. He did not know whether to help Jezreel, still locked in his fierce struggle with the big stranger, or to go to Dan, who had turned to face his attacker.

He heard running feet behind him, and a moment later Hector felt someone leap upon his back. He lost his footing and toppled forward, tried to twist free, but the arms that had clamped themselves around him were locked tight. He hit the ground with a thump. As a hand roughly pushed his face into the pebbles, he could smell the reek of coconut oil and feel the bite of rough cord as someone tied his wrists behind him. He lay still, winded and helpless.

The sounds of fighting continued. He raised his head and saw that Jacques had also been tied up. Stolck lay on the ground, guarded by another of the natives. Three spearmen had cornered Dan against the foot of the cliff. One of the attackers was bleeding from a shoulder wound, and Dan had somehow found himself a knife. He stood with his back against the rock, the blade in his hand. Jezreel was still locked in combat. He’d risen to one knee and had pinned down his assailant, and was trying to throttle him, though his hands were slipping on the oily skin. Even as Hector watched, three more of the natives, all big strong men, flung themselves on Jezreel and pulled him off his victim. There was a warning shout in their unknown language, and the point of a spear was held to Jezreel’s throat. He stopped struggling and glared at his attackers.

Jezreel’s adversary, the first of the natives to appear, rose to his feet. His right eye was puffed up where Jezreel must have butted him, and he nursed his throat where Jezreel had got a grip. Otherwise the stranger seemed remarkably composed. He looked across to where his companions had cornered Dan and spoke sharply. The three men stepped back a pace, though they did not lower their spears. He was clearly their commander.

He turned towards Hector, who had been allowed to stand. ‘Tell your friend to drop his knife,’ he said.

Hector gaped. The stark-naked warrior had addressed him in flawless, slightly accented Spanish.

‘Dan, put down the knife,’ Hector called.

Dan did as he was asked, and the leader of the war party issued what seemed like a stream of orders as his followers began to herd their captives together.

‘We were tricked,’ complained Jacques, shaking his head. ‘That whoreson knew exactly what a musket was.’

‘There was no need to attack us,’ Hector said to the big man. ‘We came in friendship.’

‘No white person is our friend,’ retorted the Chamorro crisply.

‘You’re wrong,’ Hector insisted. ‘You see that ship out there? It has come to attack the Spanish, and the captain and crew need your help.’

‘They seem to have changed their minds,’ said the Chamorro. The sarcasm in his tone made Hector turn around and look out to sea. The Nicholas was making sail. As he watched, the fore and main topsails unfolded from their yards. He could just make out the figures on deck as the crew sheeted home the canvas. Gradually the Nicholas began to turn and take the wind on her quarter. Someone was lowering the blue and white French ensign from the mizzen peak. It was clear that Eaton had changed his mind. He must have witnessed the scuffle on the beach, seen the capture of the landing party and decided to abandon his scheme.

The Nicholas sailed off, leaving the landing party to their fate.

Stolck gazed after the departing ship. Still groggy from the blow on his head, his blue eyes bulged with rage and disappointment. ‘God vervloekte bastaarden,’ he mumbled under his breath.

The big Chamorro looked around the group of prisoners. ‘Which of you is the chief man?’

‘I can speak for them,’ said Hector.

‘We go to my village. There the council will decide what is to be done with you.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Hector.

‘My name is Ma’pang and I am a Chamorro.’

‘I thought you were all Chamorro.’

The big man gave a sardonic grunt. ‘That shows how little the guirragos – the white men – understand us. The Chamorro are a class, the chiefs, the people who rule.’ He examined Hector quizzically. He did not appear particularly hostile. ‘If you are an enemy of the Spanish, how is it that you speak the language so well?’

Hector felt bold enough to say, ‘I might ask you the same question.’

‘The missionaries taught me, until I decided to run away and come back to live among my own people.’

‘My mother was Spanish, but my father came from another nation,’ explained Hector.

Ma’pang looked surprised. ‘If we marry outside the clan, we only do so with a clan that is an ally.’

There was something about the big man that encouraged Hector to be frank. ‘I did not come here to fight the Spaniards, but to find one of their women.’

‘You would marry her?’

‘If she would agree.’

Ma’pang shook his head in astonishment. ‘That is even more remarkable.’

IT TOOK TWO HOURS of hard marching to reach the Chamorro village. Their captors loosened the bonds to make it easier to climb up the cliff path, and they eventually removed the ropes altogether, once Ma’pang had pointed out that escape was useless as there was nowhere to go. In hot sunshine they followed narrow, dusty footpaths across ridges covered with sawgrass and small bushes, and by mid-afternoon they descended into a thickly wooded ravine. Faintly, in the distance, Hector heard the shouts of children playing, and after another few hundred yards the travellers emerged into what was evidently the main thoroughfare of the settlement. It was a peaceful domestic scene of dogs dozing in the sun, chickens scratching in the dirt, and children running excitedly to call their friends to see the strangers. There were about thirty houses neatly built of bamboo and wooden poles, their steeply pitched roofs thatched with palm leaves. Before each dwelling stood a large, flat-topped boulder with a hollow scooped into the surface. At one of them a robust woman was husking rice with a pestle, a toddler beside her. She laid down the pestle and stood to watch them pass. Jacques sucked in his breath in appreciation. Apart from a tiny strip of bark cloth between her legs, the woman was naked. Broad shoulders, deep full breasts and swelling hips made her statuesquely beautiful. Even more striking was her mane of luxuriant, thick hair, which reached to her thighs.

Ma’pang chuckled at the Frenchman’s reaction. ‘We think that the guirragos look stupid and ridiculous dressed in their clothes.’

‘But what about her hair?’ asked Hector, trying not to stare. The woman’s hair was near-blonde.

‘Even if they don’t wear clothes, our women still want to be attractive,’ Ma’pang replied. ‘Those who wish to, colour their hair with lime.’

Followed by a swarm of gawking, giggling children, they arrived before a massive, barn-like building. It was raised ten feet off the ground on mushroom-shaped stone pillars.

‘This is the uritao, the house for the unmarried men. You will stay here until the council decides what is to be done with you,’ said Ma’pang.

They climbed a bamboo ladder and found themselves in a long, cool, high-ceilinged shed smelling pleasantly of palm thatch. Neatly fashioned windows gave light and air. The floor was of massive timber planks lashed in place with coir, the surface worn smooth by feet. The place was spotlessly clean. Mattresses of palm matting stuffed with dried coconut fibre had been laid against one wall. ‘The council likes to discuss matters at length before it reaches a decision,’ explained Ma’pang. ‘So you should make yourselves comfortable.’

Jacques sank down on one of the mattresses with a sigh. ‘Hector, this is better than being on a ship,’ he announced. ‘All I need now is for one of the village girls to bring me a glass of wine.’

OVER THE NEXT WEEK they found it increasingly difficult to remember they were prisoners. Hector presumed that Ma’pang had persuaded his clan that their captives were enemies of the Spanish, for the five men were permitted to wander freely about the village by day. Naturally the children followed them everywhere, pulling faces and pretending to be scared, but their parents got on with the routine of their daily lives. In the cool of the morning the women walked to the nearby plantations and gardens. There they tended small plots of taro and yam, weeded sugar cane, cleared the ground around their banana trees and gathered breadfruit, until it was time to come back and prepare the afternoon meal. The men and older boys set out in the opposite direction. They took the footpath leading down the valley to the beach. Dan asked if he might go with them and discovered that it was less than ten minutes to the spot where they kept their fishing canoes.

‘There are some things that even the Miskito could learn from them,’ he said when he returned at dusk, carrying a string of flying fish for supper. ‘They make miniature canoes for the young ones. Some of the boys are only six or seven years old. Yet they go out fishing on their own. They keep inshore, of course, under the eye of the older men. But the boys bring back a share of the catch.’

‘Did you show them how to strike fish?’ asked Jezreel.

‘They do not have the right equipment for it,’ answered the Miskito. ‘Their tridents are tipped with bone or sharp wood. I think iron is too precious to risk losing at sea. Besides, they do very well with these . . .’ He held up a beautifully crafted fish hook made from carved shell. ‘One of the older men gave me this. I think he thought I brought him luck. He came back with a tuna that must weigh at least twenty pounds.’

He was interrupted by the arrival of Ma’pang. The big islander came each evening to the uritao to report on the long-drawn-out deliberations of the village council. His broad, dark face was solemn as he squatted down beside the five foreigners.

‘The council talk and talk, but reach no conclusion,’ he said.

‘What would you have them do?’ asked Hector.

‘Have the courage to make the Spaniards leave us alone, so that we can continue with our own ways and customs.’ Ma’pang was chewing betel. He shifted the wad from one cheek to the other.

‘Is that why you took us alive, when you could have killed us?’

Ma’pang gave the young man a sharp glance. ‘You know what I had in mind?’

‘You wanted us as hostages.’

Ma’pang nodded. ‘The Spanish keep some of our chief men locked up in their fort as a guarantee for our good behaviour. I hoped to have the prisoners released in exchange for your return.’

‘And what does the council say, now they know we’re valueless?’ Hector could see fierce determination in Ma’pang’s eyes.

‘I’ve suggested that we gather other clans, storm the fort and free the prisoners while the Governor is away.’

For one brief moment Hector imagined a horde of naked, yelling warriors swarming into the Presidio and ransacking it, while he searched for Maria in the confusion, and then the two of them escaping together. ‘What did the council say?’

Ma’pang’s reply crushed his hopes. ‘They reminded me that five years ago four hundred warriors, more than we could hope to assemble nowadays, tried to take the fort. They were driven off, with heavy loss, by the same Spanish commander who is in charge now. A brave man.’

Dan had been following the conversation, and now he asked quietly, ‘Could we not get into the fort secretly and release the prisoners? Jacques says the garrison guards are very slack.’

The Chamorro smiled wryly, his blood-red gums showing. ‘Even if we succeeded in climbing the walls, we would never manage to enter the cells. They are locked, and the prisoners are shackled. We have no experience of dealing with such things.’

It was true, Hector thought to himself. There were no doors to the houses in the Chamorro village and therefore no locks or fastenings. Nothing was ever hidden or guarded; everything was left lying about in the open and was treated as common property. If someone needed an item, he or she simply picked it up and used it.

‘Ma’pang,’ he said earnestly. ‘If you can arrange to get myself and Jacques and Dan into the fort, we can deal with the locks and chains. Jacques knows all about padlocks and how to open them. But in return you must help me contact the young woman I told you about.’

‘The one you would marry?’

‘She lives in the Governor’s quarters. I need to find her and talk to her, and if she agrees, I want her to come away with me.’

Ma’pang’s heavy eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘You think she would agree?’

‘I’ll not know until I ask. Do you think the council will consent to such a plan?’

‘They don’t have to,’ Ma’pang answered without a moment’s hesitation. ‘There are six or seven men who would help me. The same ones who captured you on the beach that day.’

‘And how will we get to Aganah?’

Ma’pang rose to his feet. ‘Two galaide layak can sail across the straits under cover of darkness, and land us a few miles to the north of the town, without being seen. From there we march overland.’