Peter Tremayne - Master of Souls

Esumaro turned, frowning slightly. His weather-beaten face was raised towards the dark, lowering clouds. He let out a soft hiss from between crooked, blackened teeth and shifted his balance on the swaying deck before glancing swiftly about him. The seas around the broad-beamed ship were already reflecting the blackness of the clouds and the surface of the water was broken by short, choppy, white-crested waves. The seas were becoming angry and threateningly alive, although partially shrouded by sheets of gusting rain.

Esumaro moved his thoughtful gaze to the straining sails above him. The wind was increasing rapidly from the north-west causing even the mainmast to groan, protesting against the onslaught.

Beside him, Coros, his mournful-featured first mate, stood uneasily by the tiller, keeping an anxious eye on the captain.

‘That’s Inis Mhic Aoibhleain ahead,’ he ventured, shouting to make himself heard above the moaning winds and breaking sea. He had stretched out a hand towards the dark outline of an island, almost obscured by the rain but slightly to portside of the vessel’s bows. ‘The wind is turning us to the east, captain. We won’t be able to weather the island in these seas and if we keep it on our larboard we shall be driven on the rocks.’

Esumaro did not reply immediately. Already the motion of the squat timbered vessel had changed and the deck was bucking beneath his feet as if the ship were a horse not yet reconciled to its rider. The Sumerli was a sturdy high-bowed Gaulish merchantman, made for use in the heavy seas and violent gales of the ocean. It was a descendant of the ships that the Veneti of Armorica had used against Julius Caesar and his Roman invaders, built in the image of those solid oak, heavy vessels that had caused the lighter Roman war galleys so much hardship.

Esumaro had spent his life in such ships, and he had not been sailing these waters for twenty years without becoming familiar with the coastline and its dangers. He had already seen that they would not be able to beat around the islands of which Inis Mhic Aoibhleain was the southernmost. The Gaulish captain knew every cross-timber and joint of the Sumerli, her iron bolts and chains and her heavy sails. He was sensitive to every protesting creak and groan of her timbers, and knew that this storm, which had suddenly arisen out of the darkening Atlantic with no more than a few minutes’ warning, could dash her to pieces on any one of the numerous rocky islets that dotted this particular stretch of the coast of the kingdom of Muman. He had already estimated the dangers and had decided his next course of action. He did not need Coros to advise him. However, the first mate was only doing his duty.

‘We’ll turn and run before the wind,’ Esumaro shouted back. ‘We’ll keep south of the islands and turn into the bay for shelter.’

‘Those are dangerous waters, captain,’ Coros called. ‘That’s Daingean Bay.’

Esumaro frowned in irritation.

‘I know it well enough. I know these waters. I intend to run the Sumerli right up to the abbey of Colman. I’ve traded there before. They’ll take our wine and silver in exchange for wool, salted hogs and otter skins.’

The first mate looked surprised.

‘But are we not supposed to be trading with Mugron of An Bhearbha?’ Coros was nothing if not conscientious. ‘We can find a sheltered bay and ride out the storm.’

Esumaro grinned in the driving rain.

‘We’ll lose days if we wait for this blow to end. And we’ll be trading with the devil if we try to beat around the islands to the land of the Ui Fidgente before we get a calm sea.’ He shook his head in emphasis. ‘Believe me, I know these waters. The good merchant Mugron won’t miss one cargo and we can still make a profit from the abbey of colman. Swing her on to the starboard tack, Coros. We’ll run before the storm into the bay.’

Coros hesitated barely a moment.

‘Aye, captain. Starboard it is,’ he shouted back as the wind increased its tempo.

He signalled to the two sailors who stood at the tiller, for it needed at least two of them to steer in the heavy seas, and together they pulled the great wooden arm across the deck.

Immediately, as she turned broadside on to the storm, the howling winds crashed against the larboard side of the vessel with terrific force. The sails shuddered and the wind, whipping through the rigging, screamed in protest.

Esumaro seemed to keep his feet on the deck with the same dexterity as if the ship was in still waters. His gaze was fixed on the straining sails. He knew he was going to put the ship into some heavy weather before they reached the safety of the calmer waters of the bay.

‘Rig the lifelines fore and aft,’ he called, sending Coros running forward to oversee the task.

Now the wind was like a musician in the taut weather rigging, plucking at the tightened strings like a maniacal harpist. Great frothy grey waves began to pound the side of the vessel and the ship heeled a little before coming upright again. Then she heeled again as once more the wind drove into her. In spite of the men at the tiller, the vessel swung awkwardly and the stern rose ponderously while the bow dipped dangerously towards the water. The captain knew that he must reduce the amount of canvas that the ship was carrying or the increasing winds would cause them to capsize.

‘We’ll take in a reef on the mainsail, Coros. Steady!’ This last instruction was to the men on the tiller. ‘Keep her stern to the wind.’

Each sail was divided into horizontal portions, called reefs, which could be rolled or folded to reduce the area of the canvas exposed to the wind. Each reef was marked by a reef-band, a strengthened portion of perforated canvas used for securing the sail to the sheets, or stay ropes, by means of reef knots.

Coros was already calling for the hands to shorten sail.

It was not long before the straining of the ship eased, but the wind was still vibrating through the rigging like fingers strumming against harp strings. The Sumerli was running quickly now into the broad entrance of the bay. The land on either side would eventually narrow like a funnel. Once they passed beyond the finger of land called simply Inis, ‘the island’, they would be in the calm sheltered waters of Loch na dTri Caol, approaching the harbour for the abbey of Colman. Esumaro had entered that harbour many times, though never with a darkening sky and in such a storm.

To larboard, Esumaro could begin to make out the dark jagged shapes of the mountains that, like a lizard’s spine, ran along the peninsula there. To starboard, similar dark mountain tops could be seen through the rain. He could sense the bay narrowing from its broad entrance.

As the dusk of the winter’s evening settled in, combining with the dark storm to create an impression of night, the wind was unabating. It hummed and groaned through the rigging. The ship still heaved and pitched and the heavy seas continued to batter against the stern timbers. He glanced back and clenched his jaw as he saw a wave rolling towards them like a large black mountain with a combing white top, threatening to overwhelm them. Then it crashed down under the stern, lifting the ship up and sending it speeding forward. Starboard and larboard Esumaro could see the white fringes that edged the breakers, the rocks that marked the shoreline, with the high dark land looming up behind.

Esumaro’s eyes rested for a moment on the pale-faced sailors clinging to the tiller and he smiled to hearten them with a reassurance that he did not feel himself.

‘We’ll soon be sheltered,’ he shouted. ‘Ahead of us are two points of land which will bring us into a stretch of quiet water where we can make landfall.’