The Nicholas turned sweetly, losing speed as her sails were doused, and she entered the concealed gap. Only the steady stream of muttered oaths from the frightened helmsman broke the tense silence. Moments later the sound of the swell breaking on the coral on both sides of the ship was very, very close. The vessel was lifted upwards on the back of a swell, was carried forward and in less than a cable’s length was gliding across a calm surface.
‘Anchor now. He’s making signs we must anchor,’ came the urgent cry.
‘As he says,’ Eaton shouted back.
A moment later there was the splash of the anchor hitting the water. The cable ran out for a few yards and the vessel slowed to a halt. All was calm. ‘Thank Christ that’s over,’ muttered Jezreel under his breath. ‘We could’ve ripped out her bottom on the coral. That was a mad thing to do.’
In the silence and darkness that followed, there came the sound of a second splash.
‘What’s that?’ called out Arianz in alarm.
‘The castaway dived overboard,’ came back a shout. ‘He’s swum away.’
EIGHT
A BRIGHT, WINDLESS DAWN revealed that the Nicholas lay safely moored in a shallow lagoon. The water was the colour of pale sapphire and so transparent that her anchor could clearly be seen dug into the sand less than a fathom beneath her keel. To seaward, the narrow entrance passage she had threaded in the darkness now showed as a gap among the breakers, which steadily flecked across the coral shelf. A cable’s length away on the landward side, a beach of white sand faintly tinged with pink sloped gently towards a line of small thatched huts, the outskirts of what appeared to be a village of fishermen. Their boats, some two dozen of them, lay drawn up on the strand. Most were dugout canoes, but the larger ones were identical in their crescent design to the waterlogged shallop from which the crew of the Nicholas had plucked the mysterious stranger. Of him there was no sign. Indeed, there was no movement whatsoever in the village itself. It appeared to be utterly deserted. Puzzled, the crew gaped at the empty beach and the silent houses. Other than the murmur of the distant surf, the only sounds they could hear were strange bird calls from the village’s shade trees covered with orange and white blossom, which echoed round the lagoon.
‘Where is everyone?’ muttered Jacques.
‘I expect they’re too frightened to show themselves,’ said Hector. He’d glimpsed a furtive movement within the open door of one of the huts.
‘Then why did our castaway bring us here?’ asked Jacques.
‘To save his skin,’ muttered Jezreel.
Without waiting for orders, the crew hoisted out the ship’s jolly boat from the main deck, where it had been stowed during the ocean crossing, and lowered it into the water.
‘Lynch, as you had no idea this place even existed, I suggest you venture ashore and learn something about it.’ The sarcastic invitation came from Eaton, who had appeared with a brace of pistols stuck in his sash.
Men clutching muskets climbed down into the jolly boat, and Hector was rowed to the beach with the captain and the half-dozen men of the landing party.
‘You might have thought our castaway would have the courtesy to be on hand to greet us,’ observed Eaton gruffly, as the jolly boat’s keel slid into the soft sand with a low, chafing hiss. He climbed out of the boat and led the way towards the huts. Hector splashed ankle-deep into the warm water and followed him. The armed men fanned out on either side, their guns held ready. As they drew nearer to the little settlement, they could see that the place was neat and well kept. Somewhere a rooster crowed.
‘There,’ grunted one of the sailors. ‘Third hut from the left, someone’s coming out.’
As Hector watched, a nervous-looking man stepped out timidly from the shadows. He was small – scarcely five foot high – and dressed in a shabby, loose brown gown with very wide sleeves. The garment reached down to his knees and was fastened at the waist with a simple cord belt. His feet and legs were bare, and his hair, which was long and jet-black, was tied in a knot on the crown of his head. His features were very like those of the rescued castaway. He had the same yellow-brown complexion and deep-sunk eyes, though he was older by perhaps twenty years. Trembling, he came to within ten paces of the strangers, then bowed deeply and continued to advance in a curious stooping shuffle, placing his feet down cautiously as if the sand was hot. He kept his eyes on the ground and in his right hand held out a small branch. Its green leaves shivered in his nervous grasp.
‘A sign of peace,’ volunteered Hector quietly. He feared Eaton or one of the sailors would use their guns.
‘I can see that for myself,’ snapped Eaton crossly. He strode forward towards the old man.
‘We will do you no harm. We only wish to take on water and buy food,’ he announced loudly.
The old man responded by crouching even lower. He sank his head further, and bent his knees until he was kneeling submissively on the sand. At the same time he thrust out the leafy branch to the full extent of his scrawny arm. Now that he was closer, Hector could see the old man’s topknot was fashioned by sweeping up the hair on all sides and tying it together in a bundle. Two metal pins, four or five inches long, were thrust from front to back through the hair to hold the topknot in place. The ends of the pins were delicately moulded into the shape of flowers, and their petals appeared to be made of gold. One of the sailors muttered something out of the side of his mouth, and Hector caught the word ‘Cipangu’.
Eaton ignored the out-thrust branch and repeated his request. The old man only cringed even more abjectly.
‘Try him in Spanish, Lynch,’ barked the captain.
The outcome was no different. The old man kept on bowing and thrusting out the branch without a word. Finally Hector stepped up to him and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. It was like touching a dog that had suffered years of beatings and abuse. Hector felt the man flinch.
‘We come in peace,’ he said. The old man straightened a little and, still avoiding direct eye contact, answered him. Staring down at the ground, he spoke diffidently in a language that had a low, musical quality, but was completely incomprehensible.
‘Well, at least he’s not a mute like the other one,’ Eaton said crossly. He stepped around the old man and began walking briskly towards the line of huts. Immediately the elderly villager uttered a low, anxious cry and scuttled around in front of him, extending both arms, making it clear that his visitors were not to enter the settlement.
Eaton brushed him aside and continued to stride forward. The old man kept pace, still making unhappy pleading noises and gesturing that the captain should turn back.
‘Can’t imagine what he has to hide,’ Eaton said, and in a few more paces the landing party was in the village itself.
The place was as humble and unassuming as it had appeared from the ship. A web of narrow sandy footpaths meandered between flimsy huts. Their walls were made of closely interwoven cane and the roofs were thatched with straw. Wickerwork fences divided off small vegetable plots or chicken runs. Peering into one of the huts, Hector saw the interior was clean and neat and arranged as a single room. There was a raised hearth at one end, reed mats on the floor, and there were one or two shelves against a wall, from which hung some simple wooden agricultural tools and fishing gear. Apart from a couple of bed rolls, there was no furniture. It was clear to Hector that the huts had been hastily vacated, and very recently. A curl of smoke rose from the embers of the hearth. Abandoned utensils lay in a corner. The sides of the heavy clay jars used for holding water were damp and covered with condensation, and someone had scattered fresh scraps of food for a trio of piglets snuffling in a makeshift sty.