There was no response. The brown eyes continued to observe him, placid and uncomprehending.
Hector repeated himself, first in Spanish, then again in all the languages he knew – English, French, the lingua franca of the Barbary slave barracks, even the Irish he had learned as a child. There was still was no reaction. He might as well have been speaking to a graven image, except for that bloody smile.
Finally, when Hector had fallen silent, the man spoke. His voice was deep and powerful, the words musical and clear. They made no sense whatsoever.
The big man turned his head deliberately and looked at Dan, Jacques and the others for several moments. Moving quietly across to Dan, he leaned over to examine the sketch of the Nicholas. Then he looked out at the ship and back at the drawing. His face was full of wonder. ‘Maulek, maulek,’ he said and made an admiring, chuckling noise. Next he walked across to Jezreel, and pinched the giant on his upper arm and nodded approvingly. Before Jezreel could stop him, the man bent down and picked up the backsword from the ground, slid it half out of the sheath and gave a low snort of admiration. ‘Maulek, maulek,’ he said again. He turned his head aside and spat – evidently a sign of approval – and a blood-red blob of spittle splattered on the stones.
‘That’s betel nut he’s been chewing. I saw it in my time in the Indies,’ said Stolck, who had regained his composure. It was evident that the big stranger was peaceable.
The naked man was showing an interest in the Hollander’s musket. He reached out and stroked it and frowned, then shook his head wonderingly.
‘He has no idea what it is,’ said Stolck. ‘He must have come right from the hills.’
‘He is certainly more curious than fearful of us,’ observed Jacques.
‘I’ll show him that we are not to be trifled with,’ said Stolck. He raised the gun. ‘Here, you,’ he called out. ‘Watch this. Magic.’
Turning on his heel, Stolck took aim at the cliff face at the far end of the beach where a landslip had exposed bare soil studded with small stones. He pulled the trigger. The bang of the musket and the cloud of smoke were instantly followed by a shower of earth and gravel as the musket bullet struck home.
If Stolck had expected the savage to be impressed, he was badly mistaken. The report of the gun was still echoing back from the cliffs when the big native let out a loud, shrill whistle. In the same instant he sprang forward and scooped up Jezreel’s backsword. Jezreel lunged, trying to retrieve the weapon. The two men grappled, struggling for possession. They fell, rolled over on the ground and began to fight, gouging and punching.
Stunned by the sudden turn of events, Hector was groping for the knife from his belt, ready to go to Jezreel’s rescue, when he felt a violent stab of pain as something struck his left shoulder. The force of the blow spun him half around, and for a moment he was disoriented. A yard away Jacques had mysteriously been knocked to the ground. Dan was still on his feet, but acting strangely. He was ducking and weaving from side to side as though fighting off an unseen attacker. He had his canvas satchel wrapped around his right arm and was holding it up as a shield. Something smacked on to the pebbles at Hector’s feet and skittered off. It was a disc-shaped stone about the size of a hen’s egg. Looking in the direction from where it had come, Hector saw a line of naked men standing on the lip of the cliff. They were whirling slings and discharging a hail of missiles at the beach.
Stolck was cursing steadily as he tried to reload his empty musket. He tugged a cartridge from his bandolier, ripped open the paper with his teeth and tipped the powder down the barrel. He screwed up the empty paper and dropped it after the gunpowder. He was about to follow with a musket ball from the bag hanging at his waist, when a sling stone struck him on the head. His knees gave way and he pitched backwards, stunned.
Hector ran to pick up the musket. Dan was shouting and pointing at the cliff face. A file of islanders was scrambling downwards. Six or seven naked men armed with spears came bounding from rock to rock, as agile as goats. Before Hector could reach the gun, the first of them had leaped down, landed on the pebbles and dashed forward, his spear aimed at Dan.
Hector dithered. He did not know whether to help Jezreel, still locked in his fierce struggle with the big stranger, or to go to Dan, who had turned to face his attacker.
He heard running feet behind him, and a moment later Hector felt someone leap upon his back. He lost his footing and toppled forward, tried to twist free, but the arms that had clamped themselves around him were locked tight. He hit the ground with a thump. As a hand roughly pushed his face into the pebbles, he could smell the reek of coconut oil and feel the bite of rough cord as someone tied his wrists behind him. He lay still, winded and helpless.
The sounds of fighting continued. He raised his head and saw that Jacques had also been tied up. Stolck lay on the ground, guarded by another of the natives. Three spearmen had cornered Dan against the foot of the cliff. One of the attackers was bleeding from a shoulder wound, and Dan had somehow found himself a knife. He stood with his back against the rock, the blade in his hand. Jezreel was still locked in combat. He’d risen to one knee and had pinned down his assailant, and was trying to throttle him, though his hands were slipping on the oily skin. Even as Hector watched, three more of the natives, all big strong men, flung themselves on Jezreel and pulled him off his victim. There was a warning shout in their unknown language, and the point of a spear was held to Jezreel’s throat. He stopped struggling and glared at his attackers.
Jezreel’s adversary, the first of the natives to appear, rose to his feet. His right eye was puffed up where Jezreel must have butted him, and he nursed his throat where Jezreel had got a grip. Otherwise the stranger seemed remarkably composed. He looked across to where his companions had cornered Dan and spoke sharply. The three men stepped back a pace, though they did not lower their spears. He was clearly their commander.
He turned towards Hector, who had been allowed to stand. ‘Tell your friend to drop his knife,’ he said.
Hector gaped. The stark-naked warrior had addressed him in flawless, slightly accented Spanish.
‘Dan, put down the knife,’ Hector called.
Dan did as he was asked, and the leader of the war party issued what seemed like a stream of orders as his followers began to herd their captives together.
‘We were tricked,’ complained Jacques, shaking his head. ‘That whoreson knew exactly what a musket was.’
‘There was no need to attack us,’ Hector said to the big man. ‘We came in friendship.’
‘No white person is our friend,’ retorted the Chamorro crisply.
‘You’re wrong,’ Hector insisted. ‘You see that ship out there? It has come to attack the Spanish, and the captain and crew need your help.’
‘They seem to have changed their minds,’ said the Chamorro. The sarcasm in his tone made Hector turn around and look out to sea. The Nicholas was making sail. As he watched, the fore and main topsails unfolded from their yards. He could just make out the figures on deck as the crew sheeted home the canvas. Gradually the Nicholas began to turn and take the wind on her quarter. Someone was lowering the blue and white French ensign from the mizzen peak. It was clear that Eaton had changed his mind. He must have witnessed the scuffle on the beach, seen the capture of the landing party and decided to abandon his scheme.
The Nicholas sailed off, leaving the landing party to their fate.
Stolck gazed after the departing ship. Still groggy from the blow on his head, his blue eyes bulged with rage and disappointment. ‘God vervloekte bastaarden,’ he mumbled under his breath.