Sea Robber (17 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the castaway held firm.

‘Laat gaan. Let go.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘He’s lost his senses,’ said Eaton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stranger held up eight fingers.

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

The quartermaster sensed the mood of the company. ‘Everyone to assemble at the capstan,’ he announced.

The castaway slid back down on deck, laid his head against the bulwarks and closed his eyes. The last few stragglers appeared on deck, and Hector found himself standing beside Eaton in the waist of the ship as Arianz addressed the entire crew.

‘The castaway claims he comes from a place where there’s gold to be had. It’s eight days away, if we sail nor’nor’west. Does the company wish to act on that information, or do we keep to our original design for Manila?’

‘How do we know he’s telling the truth?’ Unsurprisingly the question came from the old man with the bald pate, the longtime sceptic.

‘We’ll never know unless we go and find out,’ shouted someone in the crowd. Hector sensed a gathering surge of eagerness among the onlookers.

‘What does the navigator think?’ asked a voice. Expectant faces turned towards Hector. He racked his brains for an answer that might retrieve the situation, but he was caught in a snare of his own making. Only Jezreel, Dan and Jacques knew that he hoped to call at the Ladrones. Most of the crew weren’t even aware the islands existed. If he told them now, they’d feel deceived.

Before he could reply, another voice – one of the Mediterranean men, by the accent – called out, ‘We do not need a navigator. We have our own pilot now. The castaway will show us our course.’

But Hector wasn’t spared so easily. ‘What about that chart he and the striker copied out? Does that show anything?’ The question came from Joris Stolck, the big Hollander.

Hector looked across the crowd, caught Dan’s eye and saw the Miskito give a slight shrug.

‘I don’t have enough to go on,’ Hector answered. ‘Are we looking for an island or a large country? There’s nothing on the chart. Only Japan and China are shown in that direction.’

‘Maybe the castaway comes from Golden Cipangu.’ This time Hector couldn’t see who the speaker was. But the rumour of Golden Cipangu was familiar to every seafarer. It was a legend dating back to Marco Polo’s time, telling of a distant island where bullion was mined in such vast amounts that the people valued gold no more than iron or copper. Cipangu had never been found, but it was still a myth that dazzled the credulous.

Now, at least, Hector felt he could give an honest answer. ‘Golden Cipangu is Japan itself. The Portuguese and Dutch trade there, but not for bullion.’

Once again, Arianz was down to earth. ‘How many days to Manila on this course?’

‘A week, maybe more,’ answered Hector.

‘Then it’s little farther if we search out the mystery place. Even if it proves not to be golden, we can stop and fill our water casks.’ Raising his voice, he called, ‘How do you vote? Those in favour of searching out this Cipangu, or whatever it might be, raise your right hand.’

Looking across the assembled men, Hector saw a forest of hands. The men were animated, bright-eyed with enthusiasm, turning to one another in agreement.

‘It’s decided then,’ announced the quartermaster.

Hector glanced over to where the castaway sat slumped against the bulwark. Now the man’s eyes were open and he was watching the assembly. His expression was unreadable.

T
HE STRANGER
knew his way across the ocean – that became increasingly clear as the days passed.

‘He pays no attention to the compass. Yet, according to my calculations, he’s maintained a steady course for the past week,’ Hector said to Dan, who was busy with paper and charcoal. It was soon after dawn on what was promising to be another warm, balmy day, and the two men were by the windward rail. Dan was sketching a portrait of the stranger, whose mattress had been shifted to the quarterdeck, so that he was close to the helm.

‘He probably does not know what a compass is,’ said Dan without looking up from his work. ‘Our Miskito fishermen sometimes get blown off-shore in a gale. They find their way back home by looking at the sea signs – the flow of the current, the direction of the wind, patches of weed and the flight of birds. That is enough.’

Hector glanced across at the castaway, who had made a remarkable recovery from his ordeal. He was still gaunt and hollow-cheeked, but now he was on his feet, quick and alert. Instead of his previous exhausted sleep, he took catnaps, no more than an hour at a time. For the rest of the day and night he directed the helmsmen of each watch. One thing, however, had not changed: the stranger’s attitude was aloof and guarded. He made no effort to communicate with the crew, refused their offers of clothing, and took his meals alone. Hector found this disquieting.

‘Well, there aren’t many birds around here for him to follow their pathways,’ said Jezreel, who had joined them. ‘I just hope he knows what he’s doing. I’d kill for a drink of fresh water that hasn’t got worms wriggling in it.’

‘Be grateful none of us are showing signs of scurvy,’ said Hector. It was true. With all the fresh food gone, the first signs of the sickness were appearing. Several men had begun to complain of pains in their joints, shortness of breath, sore gums and loose teeth. As yet, Hector and his friends were unaffected.

‘Jacques says it’s that quince marmalade he’s been feeding us,’ said Jezreel. ‘But that’ll soon run out.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I’m sorry our plan for the Thief Islands didn’t work, Hector. Maybe there’ll be a second chance if it turns out our castaway friend is leading us a dance.’

Hector shrugged. ‘At first I thought he was taking us to Japan. But that’s farther north. I’m sure of our longitude, though there’s nothing shown on the chart for this region.’

Jezreel leaned over to look at Dan’s drawing. ‘Not a bad likeness,’ he said.

‘It would help if he kept still until I have finished the drawing,’ muttered the Miskito.

Unusually, the stranger had left the quarterdeck and was making his way forward to the bows.

‘Perhaps he’s spotted something,’ said Jezreel. Just then the lookout at the masthead cried out, ‘Land ahead.’ Immediately there was a stampede of men to find a vantage point, some in the rigging, others scrambling up on the rails. ‘Not even eight days,’ someone shouted jubilantly.

The landfall was no more than a thin, dark line on the horizon. But the
Nicholas
was closing rapidly, and by noon it was clear the ship was approaching an island that had a distinctive cone-shaped hill at one end and was covered with dense vegetation. Beyond it, to the north and east, were at least two more islands in the far distance.

‘What do you make of it, Hector?’ Jacques asked his friend, who was puzzling over the chart.

‘Some sort of archipelago. Why it’s not marked I don’t know. Perhaps it lies too far off the usual shipping routes.’

‘Or someone does not want it known about, mon ami,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Maybe a secret worth keeping.’

‘Sounds like you’ve started to believe in Cipangu,’ said Hector with a wry smile.