Tim Severin - The Emperor's Elefant

‘Have you been in anything like this before?’ I muttered to Osric standing at my shoulder. Walo had gone below deck, taking his turn to guard our saddlebags.

‘Never,’ he replied. Long ago he had been shipwrecked on a voyage from Hispania to Britain aboard a ship trading for tin. It was as an injured castaway that he had been sold into slavery.

‘Why doesn’t the captain drop anchor?’ I wondered.

I did not know that sound carries well in a fog. ‘Because the water’s too deep,’ came Redwald’s voice somewhere in the mist.

I watched the droplets of water gather on the dark tan of the sail, then trickle down, joining into delicate rivulets before dripping to the deck. Somewhere in the distance was a faint sound, a low, muted rumble repeated every few seconds. It was the murmur of the swell nuzzling the unseen rocks.

The cog drifted onward.

Perhaps half an hour later Redwald abruptly growled, ‘Sweeps!’

There were indistinct movements in the mist. Blurred figures moved here and there on the deck, followed by several thumps and dragging sounds. The crew were preparing the long oars that had been lashed to the ship’s rail during the voyage.

There were more noises and some clattering as the sweeps were thrust out over the side, splashes as their blades hit the water.

‘If you want to make yourselves useful, lend a hand,’ came Redwald’s gruff voice again.

I fumbled my way to where I could just make out a crewman standing ready to pull on a sweep. He moved aside enough to let me join him. I gripped the soaking-wet wood of the handle.

‘Pull away!’ Redwald ordered. After a few moments I picked up the rhythm, a slow steady dip and pull. Osric must also have found his place at another oar handle, and not long afterwards I became aware of a figure ducking past me. I recognized the shambling walk, and knew it was Walo. He must have sensed that something was wrong and clambered up from the hold. I decided there was no point in worrying that our silver was unguarded. It was more important that every man aboard helped keep the cog off the rocks.

I began to count the strokes and had nearly reached five hundred when, abruptly, Redwald called on us to stop rowing. Gratefully I stood straighter, my arm muscles aching. I turned to my neighbour and was about to speak when he raised a finger to his lips and gestured at me to stay silent. He cocked his head on one side and I understood that he was listening intently. I tried to pick out the sounds, and heard the noise of small waves breaking. The sound came from directly ahead. We were off the reef, but very close.

‘Row on!’ came Redwald’s command.

We returned to our labour and this time I had counted another four hundred strokes before we were told to stop. Once again we listened. Now the swash and rumble of the breaking waves came from a different direction and seemed to be more distant.

‘Row on!’

We must have rowed for perhaps three hours, stopping and listening at regular intervals. The fog and the gathering darkness soon made it impossible to see the surface of the water and the blade of the sweep. We trusted entirely to Redwald’s commands. Eventually, during one of the listening pauses, I heard him tell one of his men to take the helm. Then I heard the shipmaster’s clogs thump along the deck as he moved forward.

‘Row on!’ This time Redwald’s command came from the bows. Then, every twenty or so strokes, I heard a splash very close by.

‘What’s the captain doing?’ I whispered to my oar comrade.

‘Soundings,’ he hissed back irritably, as if I was an imbecile to have asked.

The explanation meant nothing to me so I kept on heaving on the handle of the sweep until finally Redwald’s voice came floating back. We were to stop rowing and the crew were to go forward and drop anchor.

Gladly I helped pull aboard the heavy sweep and laid it on deck. From the bow I heard a heavier splash which must have been our anchor hitting the water, then the thrum of rope, and more activity as the crew made fast.

Redwald’s gangling shape loomed through the fog, an arm’s length away.

‘All set for the night,’ he announced. ‘You and your friends can get below and rest.’

‘When will we finally reach Kaupang?’ I asked him.

‘We’re there,’ he said flatly.

‘How can that be?’ I blurted in surprise, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

There was a throaty chuckle. ‘What did I tell you when we left Dorestad?’ he demanded.

I thought back to our departure as we sailed down the Rhine’s current in the fading light of evening.

‘You said something about listening,’ I replied.

‘Exactly,’ the shipmaster said. He brushed past me without another word.

I held my breath and listened intently. The ship was lying quietly to her anchor. There was no longer the creak of ropes and timber, not even the sound of water moving past her hull.

In a moment of absolute silence and through the pitch darkness, I heard the bark of a dog.

*

I awoke with a stiff neck and aching shoulders after an exhausted sleep. At first I blamed my hard pillow, the saddlebag packed with silver, but the moment I stretched and felt the soreness in my muscles, I recalled the hours spent hauling on a sweep. I could hear the muffled sounds of distant activity and sunlight was pouring into the hold through the open hatchway. I rose gingerly and made my way to the foot of the ladder to the deck. Fresh blisters on my palms made me wince as I hauled myself up the rungs and emerged into a fine, bright morning. There was not a breath of wind. The fog had gone completely.

Turning to look over the bow, I blinked in surprise.

We were anchored within a stone’s throw of a landing beach. In dense fog Redwald had managed to guide the cog into a broad, sheltered inlet. It was little wonder that his crew had such confidence in their captain.

A couple of dozen boats lay drawn up in an uneven line on the shingle. They ranged from two-man skiffs to middling-sized cargo vessels. Their crews must have been ashore, for these boats were empty and unattended. Three much larger ships were berthed alongside a rough stone jetty and here the day’s work was already well underway. Men were hoisting cargo from the holds, carrying sacks and packages ashore, rolling barrels down gangplanks. At the root of the jetty stood a stocky, shaggy pony. It was harnessed to a wooden sledge already heaped with boxes, and the animal’s master was tying down the ropes that held the load in place. As I watched, a mongrel wandered up, circled the pony cautiously, and made as if to cock its leg. Someone must have thrown a stone, for suddenly the mongrel yelped and ran, tail between its legs. I wondered if it was the same dog that had barked the previous evening.

‘Kaupang must be just over there,’ said Osric. My friend was already on deck, leaning on the ship’s rail. He pointed inland to where a rough track led past a couple of weather-beaten shacks and over a small ridge. ‘Seems as though our captain’s expected.’

A small open boat was coming to us, rowed by two men while a third stood in the stern. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out. ‘Redwald! The knorr leaves for Dunwich at noon. You can have her space alongside as soon as she’s gone.’

Redwald shouted back, ‘I’ve got passengers you can take ashore for me right away!’

I was surprised that Redwald was being so obliging. ‘There’s no hurry. Osric and I can wait till later,’ I said to him.

‘I want you off my ship,’ he grunted. He jerked a thumb towards the jetty. ‘See that big vessel? That’s the knorr. Her captain will want to come aboard and have a chat before he sets sail.’ When I made no move to step away from the ship’s rail, Redwald shot me a meaningful look from his pale blue eyes and added, ‘Dunwich is a port on the English coast. Part of King Offa’s domain. Gossip spreads fast.’