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.’