Ma’pang seemed unconcerned. ‘Tell me how long you think it will take this vessel to reach Manila?’
Hector made a quick calculation from what he remembered of the charts aboard the Nicholas. ‘She’s a patache, and probably sails faster than a galleon. Maybe ten days,’ he said.
‘Are you and your friends still willing to attack with muskets, if we meet up with her?’
Hector recalled a sea fight off Panama, three years earlier. On that occasion a flotilla of musketeers in canoes – including Dan, Jezreel and himself – had tackled a trio of small sailing ships armed with light cannon. The musketeers had won.
‘We are,’ he said flatly.
‘Then come with me,’ said Ma’pang. He called out to the men under Dan’s instruction, and immediately several of them ran off in the direction of the beach. Ma’pang, Hector and Kepuha followed.
They passed the place where the little fishing canoes lay drawn up on the strand, then veered to the right and a short distance farther on came to a grove of coconut palms. Set back among the trees was a barn-like building. Its palm-thatch roof was supported on stone columns similar to those that held up the uritao. It was a great cavern of a place, even larger than the bachelor house. The Chamorro stripped away the palms fronds that covered whatever was stored inside and gradually the shape of a boat emerged, similar to the fishing canoes, but much, much larger. At nearly sixty feet long, it was a substantial vessel. Like its smaller cousins, it had a long float attached to the side of the main hull by three curved, slender wooden struts. The float had been hollowed from a single large tree trunk. That was impressive enough, but Hector found it difficult to imagine what sort of giant tree had been used to provide the main hull. It stood taller than a man and was carefully shaped, with one side swelling in an elegant curve, while the other was nearly flat.
Ma’pang stood back, looking proudly at the giant canoe. ‘That is our village’s sakman,’ he said.
Hector noticed a massive pole slung from the rafter of the boat shed. ‘Is that her mast?’
Ma’pang nodded. ‘And that long bundle next to it, her sail.’
Hector stepped across to the huge canoe, and squinted down the length of the narrow blade of the hull. ‘I can see why the village takes such good care of her,’ he said wonderingly. ‘She must skim across the surface of the sea.’
Ma’pang caught the note of admiration in his remark. ‘Only a few sakman remain. The Spaniards take care to burn them if they find them. Only a handful of old men still know how to construct them. Even if we can find trees large enough.’
‘And the village council is willing to allow you to use the sakman to pursue the Spanish ship?’ Hector asked.
Ma’pang reached out and, almost lovingly, touched the sharp prow of the great boat. ‘The council agreed it would do honour to our proudest possession.’
A worrying thought struck Hector. ‘Ma’pang, what happens if we manage to overhaul the patache and take her far out to sea? How will you find your way back to Rota? I expect we’ll find charts and navigation instruments on the patache. But they will be of little use to you and, while I am willing to guide you back to Rota, I’d prefer to head on directly westwards.’
To Hector’s astonishment, Ma’pang threw back his head and began to laugh so hard he started to cough and splutter. When he finally caught his breath and had wiped away a runnel of red saliva from his chin he said, ‘Now you speak like a true guirrago. You think that you know everything, and that we, the Chamorro, are stupid.’
He translated Hector’s questions to Kepuha, and the old man’s face crinkled into a knowing smile. He beckoned to the young man to follow him.
‘Go with the makhana,’ said Ma’pang. ‘He’ll reassure you that we won’t get ourselves lost on the ocean. But hurry. We leave before nightfall, and there is much to do.’
Mystified, Hector accompanied the shaman at a fast walk back towards the village. Halfway along the track they turned to their right and plunged into the undergrowth. Pushing their way through the dense vegetation, they arrived at the foot of a low cliff draped with lianas and climbing plants. Kepuha pulled aside the vines. A section of the cliff face had been painted over with a light wash of lime. Here and there someone had made black marks with soot. Other mysterious symbols were drawn in red ochre.
Still holding back the vines, Kepuha looked back at Hector and waited expectantly.
Hector scrutinized the marks, trying to guess their meaning. When he failed to decipher them, the makhana stepped up to the wall and tapped on a symbol. It was larger than most, the size of the palm of his hand, and showed a hollow circle with four short curved lines radiating from it. He pointed up into the sky and made a sweeping movement from horizon to horizon. Next, he touched three or four of the black marks and again pointed to the sky, but this time in different directions.
Hector began to understand. ‘The sun? Stars?’ he enquired.
The makhana nodded. He carefully snapped off several twigs from a nearby bush and laid them on top of one another on the ground to make an open framework. Walking in a circle around the twigs, he stopped at various points to look up into the sky, then turned on his heel to face the opposite direction and again made a sweeping motion with his arm above his head. All the while he crooned what sounded like verses of poetry in his own language. He intoned with such reverence that Hector was reminded of the monks who’d taught him scripture during his childhood in Ireland. He understood that the makhana was trying to tell him something to do with the stars and sun, and that it had to do with the coming voyage. So he nodded and smiled politely and pretended to understand what the shaman was saying. Then, as soon as Kepuha finished, he hurried back in search of Maria to tell her of the new developments.
He found her in the village, talking with Jacques.
‘What’s going on, Hector? Everyone seems in a great hurry,’ she asked. There was indeed a general bustle as Chamorro men and women busily filled baskets with dried fish and fruit and carried them off towards the beach.
‘Stores for a long voyage, Maria,’ Hector said. ‘Ma’pang is sticking with the plan to loot guns from the patache. He seems to think he can catch up with her at sea.’
‘Surely it’s far too late. The patache will soon be halfway to Manila.’
Hector shrugged. ‘He seems very confident. They’ve got a giant ocean-going canoe.’
‘Will you, Dan, and the others be going with them?’ she asked.
‘The Chamorro don’t yet know how to use guns correctly. They need us as musketeers if there’s a fight.’
‘Of course there’ll be a fight,’ she said a little grimly. She had another of the yellow flowers and twirled the blossom in her hand.
‘Maria, it would make more sense if you came with us,’ Hector said seriously. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone here on Rota. There’s no point in sailing all that way, then bringing the boat back to fetch you.’
Maria began to pull the flower to pieces, petal by petal. Clearly she was unhappy. ‘Of course I’ll go with you,’ she said in a small voice. ‘But I didn’t expect this to happen so soon.’
Hector frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
She grimaced. ‘I always knew my whole life would change once I went with you. But this is piracy. And if I’m with you, that makes me a pirate too.’
‘But the Chamorro are at war. They’re not pirates.’
‘I don’t think my countrymen understand the difference.’
‘There need be very little bloodshed.’
She looked up at him, doubt in her eyes.
‘We’ll take the patache by surprise,’ Hector went on, trying to sound more confident than he felt. ‘Board her quickly. The Chamorro want guns, not a fight.’