The Armada Legacy

Chapter Fifty-Three

The circle tightened round Ben, Nico and Pepe, pressing them close together with jabbing spearheads and threatening arrows. Strong hands whipped out and snatched away their torches, one of which was passed to the warriors’ leader. He examined the device, shining it all around him. He was an older man, flabby round the middle. His whole body was stained red with some kind of vegetable dye and he wore a string of decorative beads over the tops of his ears and around his face, attached to his nose by a large ring. He was obviously a man of senior rank – not a chief, maybe, but their equivalent of a squad commander at least.

The commander pointed the torch at his three captives and yelled something to his warriors. Ben didn’t need to understand Quechua to catch the tone of his words. Nor did Nico. ‘They’re pretty pissed off,’ he observed.

Ben tucked the bone-handled knife into his belt and raised his hands. ‘Talk to them, Pepe. Tell them we don’t mean any harm.’

Pepe stammered a few hesitant words to the leader, who just went on glaring and pointing at them.

‘I don’t think they care either way, man,’ Nico muttered. ‘Whoa, easy with that, brother,’ he said to the Indian jabbing him with a spear. ‘Ben, you have any ideas on how to deal with this?’

Before Ben could come up with any, he saw the commander’s gaze drop down to his belt. There was a lot more gesticulating and yelling.

‘What’s he saying?’ Ben asked Pepe.

‘I think he’s asking where you got that knife.’

Ben glanced down at the handle of Bracca’s Bowie sticking out of his belt. ‘Tell him I took it from one of the men who wish harm to his people. And that I offer it to him as a gift.’

‘I don’t know if I can say all that, but I’ll try.’ Pepe addressed the commander again. This time he seemed able to get a few more words out, and they seemed to have a greater effect. The man looked long and hard at Ben from under beetled brows. After a drawn-out pause he signalled to one of his warriors, who darted forward, plucked the knife out from Ben’s belt and ran over to hand it to him. Another long pause while the commander inspected the knife with extreme gravity. He shone the light on Ben again, scrutinised him very carefully, spent a few more moments in deliberation and then grunted an order at the warriors.

The spears were lowered. Bowstrings were slackened. The circle drew back. Nico let out a sigh.

‘Think we’re meant to wait here,’ Pepe said as the commander gave further orders and then led a group of the men away with him. As squat and ungainly as he looked, the Indian slipped through the trees with the grace of a deer.

‘Wait for what?’ Nico said.

‘Guess we’ll soon see,’ Pepe replied.

The remaining warriors were all watching intently by the light of the torches, though Ben would have bet they could see pretty well in the dark. Now that the immediate crisis had eased slightly, he was able to study them. All but one or two had long, thick black hair. Tattoos and other facial adornments appeared standard, and their bodies were dyed either red, like the commander’s, or black. Their weapons were beautifully crafted from wood, hide, twine, feathers and stone. The Indians didn’t seem much affected by the fact that the Iron Age hadn’t reached their part of the world yet. A sharpened flint arrowhead could still penetrate the same vital organs that a steel one could.

Silent minutes passed. Then, with only the faintest rustle of leaves, the commander and his men returned. He was no longer holding the Bowie knife. Pepe listened hard to what he was saying, then turned to Ben. ‘Sounds like we’re being let into the village.’

‘And I thought US immigration control was tough,’ Nico joked nervously as the warriors escorted them through the dark jungle. Ben saw a glow of firelight between the trees up ahead, then the shapes of huts came into view. Figures clustered among the shadows, chattering worriedly among themselves as the three strange captives were led into the heart of the village. A crowd of men, women and children quickly formed in their wake, becoming braver and more inquisitive with each step.

Ben, Nico and Pepe were led to the largest of the huts. As they were shown in through the low entrance, Ben saw he’d been right about the commander’s rank in the community hierarchy. The most important dignitary of the village was seated on a carved stool facing the doorway, surrounded by a group of other men and women. While everyone else was as unselfconsciously semi-naked as the warriors, the chief was cloaked in a colourful robe that together with the adornments on his face and body were obviously the marks of his office. The hut was filled with the flickering light of the fire at its heart and the scent of the woodsmoke that rose up through a hole in the roof.

The squad commander obviously felt that the lowly captives must be made to grovel in front of the chief. Ben obeyed his barked orders and knelt cautiously on the earth floor by the fire, keeping his head lowered. Nico and Pepe did the same. More villagers were filtering in through the entrance, gathering round to stare at the three strangers, some apparently keen to witness their slow dismemberment, others just gaping in fascination.

Peering up, Ben recognised a face: the young woman he’d saved from Luis Bracca in the wake of the previous day’s massacre was standing at the chief’s shoulder, talking fast and gesticulating in his direction as if recounting the story to the others of how this man had rescued her from being raped and killed. Like many of the other women she was wearing a kind of sarong around her waist, made from cotton that had been dyed into colourful patterns. Every so often she’d glance across at Ben with bright eyes. The chief was listening quietly to every word. In his hands was the Bowie knife. For some reason, the knife was terribly important to them.

Then the chief made a gesture and the hut fell into hushed silence. After surveying the three prisoners for a moment or two with an air of imperious contempt, he pointed the knife at Ben and shot him a look that said, ‘Let’s hear it, matey – and it better be good.’

All eyes were suddenly on Ben. As carefully as he could, he explained in Spanish that he and his friends meant no harm or threat to the Sapaki people. He thanked the chief for his great kindness in letting them enter his village. He’d come a long way to find a loved one who was missing, and his search had led him here.

‘I can’t translate all that,’ Pepe muttered. ‘I said I knew a few words, not the whole damn language.’

‘Let me interpret for you, son,’ a voice said – to Ben’s astonishment, in a County Cork accent. He turned towards the hut entrance to see a tall, gnarly and slightly bent-over white man in his sixties standing in the doorway. His hair was silver and shaggy, his eyes a vivid blue. The khaki shirt and shorts he wore were probably older than Ben’s son Jude.

‘You must be the preacher,’ Ben said.

‘That I am, indeed,’ the Irishman replied. ‘Father Padraig Scally, at your service. By God, it’s been a long time since I last spoke English, let me tell you.’ He nodded with a smile to the chief. ‘Now, then. Tupaq’s a mean old bugger but I think he’ll change his tune once he understands.’

Father Scally translated Ben’s words into the Sapaki language, which he seemed to speak as fluently as any of the Indians. The chief’s expression changed gradually from one of suspicion to one of satisfaction as he listened. When the priest had finished, Tupaq spoke for a long time, and the hut began to fill with chatter.

‘Well, that’s better,’ Father Scally said, turning to Ben. ‘Tupaq accepts that you are not the evil murderer they call White Knife, who slew the daughter of his brother. Thanks also to the testimony of K’antu there’ – the Irishman motioned towards the young woman Ben had saved, who was repeating her story in an unbroken stream to a group of others and pointing at Ben with a smile – ‘he accepts that you are not an enemy of the Sapaki people, and are therefore free to come and go as you please.’

‘Please express my thanks to the chief,’ Ben said. ‘And I’m grateful to you, too, father.’

‘So they’re not gonna chop us up or shoot us full of arrows,’ Pepe ventured.

‘The Sapaki are not exactly what one might call a bloodthirsty people,’ Father Scally replied with a note of irritation. ‘Though there’s no telling what unspeakable torments they might have seen fit to inflict on you young fellows if I hadn’t been here to moderate their more bellicose impulses.’ He turned to Ben. ‘Now, I’m not going to ask the nature of your business in Amazonas, or how or why it is you were able to rescue K’antu from those wicked people. But I am curious to know what brings you to this village. You said something about a missing loved one?’

The words were ready to burst out of Ben. ‘A woman was found in the jungle. Her name’s Dr Marcel. Is she here?’

Father Scally frowned. ‘Dr Marcel?’

‘Brooke Marcel. I have a picture.’ Ben’s heart began to plunge towards his boots. Surely, after all this, he hadn’t come to the wrong place?

But the priest’s next words almost made him collapse with relief:

‘You wouldn’t happen to be Ben, would you?’

Several stunned moments passed before Ben could reply. ‘Yes, I’m him. I mean, I’m Ben.’

Father Scally’s wizened face broke into a smile. ‘When the fever was at its worst, she must have asked for you a hundred times. So you came looking for her, did you?’

‘Is she all right?’ Ben asked dizzily.

‘She is now,’ Father Scally said. ‘Why don’t you come and see for yourself?’

They left the hut and the tall, long-striding Irishman led Ben through the village, followed by a crowd of excited, clamouring Sapaki people who, now that Ben was officially a hero and not some evil invader come to murder them, all seemed to want to touch his strange blond hair. ‘You’ll have to forgive them,’ Father Scally explained. ‘I’m the only white bloke most of them have ever seen. Which I’ve always regarded as generally a good thing.’

At the far side of the village was a long, low hut with a wooden door. ‘This is what I use for a sick bay,’ the priest explained to Ben. ‘Not exactly the Royal City of Dublin Hospital, but it does us all right. Tica and Kusi, two of the tribe girls, help me run the place. We currently have just one patient.’ After a pause he added, ‘She won’t talk about what she was doing wandering the jungle alone, and I haven’t pressed her for answers. To be honest I prefer to remain ignorant.’ He knocked gently at the door. ‘Brooke? Are you awake, my child? You have a visitor.’

Ben felt as if he was dreaming.

Father Scally opened the door of the sick bay.

And there, sitting by the light of a candle on a low bed made of wood and rattan, wrapped in a blanket, her hair tousled, her face turned towards the doorway with a look of rapt bewilderment, was Brooke.