Tim Severin - Sea Robber

The foot nudged his ribs again, more firmly this time. ‘Wake up, Gods vloek,’ the voice said with some sort of foreign accent. Hector realized the fire couldn’t be the one Jacques had used to grill strips of tortoise meat last night. It was too close to where the Nicholas was careened. He rolled over and looked up at the man who had roused him. He couldn’t distinguish his features against the sky, for the sun had not yet risen. But in the half-light Hector could see he was barrel-chested and powerful. He wore no hat and had shaved his head. Hector had also identified the accent. The man spoke with the unmistakable guttural vowels of a Hollander.

‘What do you want?’ Hector asked peevishly. It was his first night ashore, and he did not appreciate being woken so early.

‘They say you can navigate,’ said the Hollander.

‘Maybe I can, but what’s that to you?’

‘Come. Your friends say you might help us,’ responded the Dutchman. Thankfully, he had stopped prodding with his foot.

Carefully Hector stood upright. He had drunk only a single glass of wine the previous night. It had been poor-quality vinegary stuff looted from some Peruvian ship. Several empty jars lay nearby, as well as at least a dozen sailors sprawled motionless on the ground. They looked little better than discarded bundles of rags. Clearly not everyone had been abstemious.

‘My name is Piet Arianz. I’m quartermaster of the Nicholas . We have something to discuss with you.’

‘So early?’ asked Hector.

‘We must tar and tallow before high water.’

Hector accompanied the Hollander along the beach to a score of men gathered around a fire of blazing driftwood. They watched over a large iron cauldron in which lumps of pitch were melting. Looking at the men, Hector guessed they formed the majority of the crew of the Nicholas . He recognized none of them individually, but they seemed to be of several different nationalities. A half-dozen olive-skinned men with thin faces and dark hair looked to be either Corsicans or Greeks, while a big blond-headed ruffian with pale china-blue eyes was probably a countryman of Piet’s. That was not unusual. The men from the Low Countries were often exceptionally competent seamen and could be found on many buccaneer ships. To Hector’s surprise, Jezreel also stood at the fire, and Dan.

There was an air of guarded curiosity among the waiting group. At once the quartermaster made it clear that he acted as spokesman for the rest. ‘Would you be able to bring the Nicholas safely across the ocean to Manila or the Spice Islands?’ he asked loudly enough to be heard by the entire group.

From the other side of the fire, Jezreel quickly added, ‘Hector, I told them you’ve been the navigator on several longdistance voyages.’

The crew of the Nicholas looked at Hector, awaiting his answer. He realized from Jezreel’s remark what might be expected of him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go along with whatever scheme might next be proposed. So he replied cautiously, ‘I can navigate. But I have no charts or instruments or almanacs, and have never sailed in those waters.’

‘Instruments can be found,’ said Arianz in his throaty accent. It sounded like a statement of fact.

‘How many weeks to reach Manila?’ demanded an older man. The daylight was getting stronger and Hector could see that his questioner had a fringe of grey hair around a bald pate tanned the colour of toffee.

‘Without a chart to calculate, I can’t say. But given fair conditions, I would guess it would take at least fifty days.’

‘And is this the right season to make such a long crossing?’ The older man sounded dubious.

Again Jezreel intervened. ‘The ocean is called what it is because the weather is so calm.’

‘Maybe too calm,’ the old man whined. ‘We could have no wind, and drift until we ran out of water, or the scurvy took us down. Calling it “the Pacific” means nothing.’ He had the querulous tone of someone who always found fault.

Arianz brushed aside the objection. ‘The French cook says there will be no problem taking aboard enough supplies to last the journey.’

It was becoming increasingly clear to Hector what sort of scheme Dan had hatched with Jacques and Jezreel. His three friends intended to take him to the Ladrones and Maria. They must have talked with the crew of the Nicholas during the previous evening’s feasting, and planted in their minds the idea of a surprise raid on the Spanish colony in Manila on the far side of the Pacific. He had to admit that adding the lure of the Spice Islands was a nice touch. That would particularly appeal to Piet Arianz and his straw-haired countryman. The Dutch East India Company jealously guarded their lucrative trade with the Spice Islands and shut out all outsiders, including their own countrymen. Hector wondered if Arianz and his colleague had some reason to settle old scores with the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie.

‘It’s another way for us to get home,’ the quartermaster was saying to his shipmates. ‘The Pacific crossing will be easier than sailing around the Cape and risking the storms, and less dangerous than going overland at Panama. None of us want to stay here any longer. We’ve made too little reward in Peru.’

There was a low mutter of assent from the gathering.

The Hollander turned to Hector. ‘Supposing you had the right charts, would you agree to navigate such a voyage for us? You would have a full share, plus a quarter, in any plunder it brings us.’

Hector hesitated. He didn’t want to disappoint Jacques, Dan and Jezreel. But they hadn’t consulted him, and he was loath to go back to the life of a sea robber. There was no guarantee the Nicholas would touch at the Ladrones, though he remembered from the map he had seen in Valdivia that the islands lay on the direct route towards Manila.

‘Surely your captain could take care of the navigation,’ he answered lamely.

Arianz was blunt. ‘Captain Eaton has no part in this. What we do and where we go is our vote. That is the custom. If he does not wish to accompany us, he can stay behind and rot here.’ From his tone it seemed he had little affection for his captain.

The quartermaster looked around the circle of his colleagues. ‘We put it to the vote. How many of you say that we try for Manila?’

There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘And what about you two? You’re his friends.’ Arianz was staring boldly at Dan and Jezreel. Both men nodded.

Hector made one last attempt to delay what he feared was an ill-considered scheme. ‘If Jezreel and Dan are keen to join you, then of course I will come with them. So too will Jacques, I expect. But without charts there can be no voyage.’

‘Then we look into that straight away,’ grunted the quartermaster. ‘The rest of you get on with the job. I’ll go and speak with the captain.’

The sailors turned back to the cauldron. The pitch had fully melted, giving off an acrid, tangy smell. The cauldron was lifted off the fire, and a man whom Hector guessed was the Nicholas ’ boatswain began pouring dollops of the black liquid into small turtle shells that served as pails. His assistant handed out crude brushes made from coconut husks.

‘Come with me,’ growled Arianz. He led Hector up the slope of the beach to where a threadbare sail had been suspended between two posts stuck in the sand and made a simple tent. Standing in front of the tent and deep in conversation were two men. One was Captain Swan. The other reminded Hector of a bare-knuckle fighter. He was leaning slightly forward, balancing on the balls of his feet, and his shoulders were hunched as if he was ready either to dodge a punch or launch a counter-blow. He looked like someone who had difficulty in controlling his natural impatience.