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.
THE 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.
‘I will be so glad to get ashore and stretch my legs. But our pilot friend does not seem very excited.’
It was true. Since sighting land, the stranger had taken up position permanently on the foredeck, close to the bows. He stood gazing forward, completely calm while the rest of the ship’s crew jabbered and chatted excitedly.
As usual, Eaton didn’t waste the chance to belittle Hector’s navigational skills. ‘Seems you could take lessons from our friend with the yellow skin. A perfect landfall,’ he called out from where he was standing close to the helm.
In the bows the stranger indicated to larboard. ‘He wants us to steer close around the island,’ said the helmsman tersely, as he looked to the west, worried. ‘It’ll be dark in another two hours. Could be dangerous to work our way into an unknown anchorage.’
‘If he’s brought us safely this far, we can trust him the last few miles,’ Eaton reassured him. ‘I doubt the crew will allow for any delay. Just follow his signals.’
The final approach proved even more perilous than the helmsman had feared. A broad ledge of coral encircled the island, and in the gathering twilight they skirted reefs that stretched for a mile or more out to sea. Here the swells broke in long, ugly-looking slicks of foam, and the helmsman voiced his dismay at the risk they were taking by sailing so close. But he was ignored. The shipmates lined the ship’s rail and strained to catch a glimpse of human occupation. But they saw no boats, no sign of settlement on the densely wooded shore, and as the light faded, the island became no more than a dark shape. So it was by moonlight that the stranger finally indicated they should turn in towards the land.
‘Hard to starboard. There’s a channel through the reef,’ came back an excited yelp. By now their enigmatic pilot was no more than an indistinct figure up in the bow, his signals relayed by voice along the deck. Almost immediately followed another cry of ‘Brail up. Brail up.’