Tim Severin - Sea Robber

‘Where is everyone?’ muttered Jacques.

‘I expect they’re too frightened to show themselves,’ said Hector. He’d glimpsed a furtive movement within the open door of one of the huts.

‘Then why did our castaway bring us here?’ asked Jacques.

‘To save his skin,’ muttered Jezreel.

Without waiting for orders, the crew hoisted out the ship’s jolly boat from the main deck, where it had been stowed during the ocean crossing, and lowered it into the water.

‘Lynch, as you had no idea this place even existed, I suggest you venture ashore and learn something about it.’ The sarcastic invitation came from Eaton, who had appeared with a brace of pistols stuck in his sash.

Men clutching muskets climbed down into the jolly boat, and Hector was rowed to the beach with the captain and the half-dozen men of the landing party.

‘You might have thought our castaway would have the courtesy to be on hand to greet us,’ observed Eaton gruffly, as the jolly boat’s keel slid into the soft sand with a low, chafing hiss. He climbed out of the boat and led the way towards the huts. Hector splashed ankle-deep into the warm water and followed him. The armed men fanned out on either side, their guns held ready. As they drew nearer to the little settlement, they could see that the place was neat and well kept. Somewhere a rooster crowed.

‘There,’ grunted one of the sailors. ‘Third hut from the left, someone’s coming out.’

As Hector watched, a nervous-looking man stepped out timidly from the shadows. He was small – scarcely five foot high – and dressed in a shabby, loose brown gown with very wide sleeves. The garment reached down to his knees and was fastened at the waist with a simple cord belt. His feet and legs were bare, and his hair, which was long and jet-black, was tied in a knot on the crown of his head. His features were very like those of the rescued castaway. He had the same yellow-brown complexion and deep-sunk eyes, though he was older by perhaps twenty years. Trembling, he came to within ten paces of the strangers, then bowed deeply and continued to advance in a curious stooping shuffle, placing his feet down cautiously as if the sand was hot. He kept his eyes on the ground and in his right hand held out a small branch. Its green leaves shivered in his nervous grasp.

‘A sign of peace,’ volunteered Hector quietly. He feared Eaton or one of the sailors would use their guns.

‘I can see that for myself,’ snapped Eaton crossly. He strode forward towards the old man.

‘We will do you no harm. We only wish to take on water and buy food,’ he announced loudly.

The old man responded by crouching even lower. He sank his head further, and bent his knees until he was kneeling submissively on the sand. At the same time he thrust out the leafy branch to the full extent of his scrawny arm. Now that he was closer, Hector could see the old man’s topknot was fashioned by sweeping up the hair on all sides and tying it together in a bundle. Two metal pins, four or five inches long, were thrust from front to back through the hair to hold the topknot in place. The ends of the pins were delicately moulded into the shape of flowers, and their petals appeared to be made of gold. One of the sailors muttered something out of the side of his mouth, and Hector caught the word ‘Cipangu’.

Eaton ignored the out-thrust branch and repeated his request. The old man only cringed even more abjectly.

‘Try him in Spanish, Lynch,’ barked the captain.

The outcome was no different. The old man kept on bowing and thrusting out the branch without a word. Finally Hector stepped up to him and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. It was like touching a dog that had suffered years of beatings and abuse. Hector felt the man flinch.

‘We come in peace,’ he said. The old man straightened a little and, still avoiding direct eye contact, answered him. Staring down at the ground, he spoke diffidently in a language that had a low, musical quality, but was completely incomprehensible.

‘Well, at least he’s not a mute like the other one,’ Eaton said crossly. He stepped around the old man and began walking briskly towards the line of huts. Immediately the elderly villager uttered a low, anxious cry and scuttled around in front of him, extending both arms, making it clear that his visitors were not to enter the settlement.

Eaton brushed him aside and continued to stride forward. The old man kept pace, still making unhappy pleading noises and gesturing that the captain should turn back.

‘Can’t imagine what he has to hide,’ Eaton said, and in a few more paces the landing party was in the village itself.

The place was as humble and unassuming as it had appeared from the ship. A web of narrow sandy footpaths meandered between flimsy huts. Their walls were made of closely interwoven cane and the roofs were thatched with straw. Wickerwork fences divided off small vegetable plots or chicken runs. Peering into one of the huts, Hector saw the interior was clean and neat and arranged as a single room. There was a raised hearth at one end, reed mats on the floor, and there were one or two shelves against a wall, from which hung some simple wooden agricultural tools and fishing gear. Apart from a couple of bed rolls, there was no furniture. It was clear to Hector that the huts had been hastily vacated, and very recently. A curl of smoke rose from the embers of the hearth. Abandoned utensils lay in a corner. The sides of the heavy clay jars used for holding water were damp and covered with condensation, and someone had scattered fresh scraps of food for a trio of piglets snuffling in a makeshift sty.

Disappointed, the landing party returned towards the beach. The old man was still visibly distraught as he accompanied them.

‘Why’s the old boy so upset?’ one of the sailors wondered out loud.

‘There must be a spring or well somewhere close by,’ Eaton told him. ‘Get back to the ship and tell the others to start bringing the empty water barrels, and that it’s safe to set up camp on the beach.’

The sight of the Nicholas ’ sea-weary crew eagerly coming ashore minutes later seemed to convince the old man there was nothing he could do to prevent the intrusion. Still clutching his branch of peace, he retreated into the village, and a short while later reappeared at the head of a party of about forty men. Doubtless they were villagers who had been hiding in the bamboo groves, for all wore the same drab workaday gowns and dressed their hair in an identical style. To the pleasure and astonishment of the men of the Nicholas , the new arrivals came down the beach and, after bobbing and bowing nervously, began to assist in carrying the sailors’ belongings on to the land.

‘Amazingly friendly people, are they not?’ said Jacques soon after he’d come ashore. Two of the villagers had insisted on taking a heavy cauldron from him and staggered off with it along the beach. There they set the pot down above the high-water mark, and within minutes several of their comrades had begun heaping up a stack of firewood, ready for use.

‘There’s a reason for what they are doing,’ Hector answered. He’d been watching closely. ‘They’re making sure we set up camp well clear of their village.’

‘Probably they are afraid we will interfere with their women,’ said Jacques. He looked around. ‘Mind you, I have not yet seen a woman, or even a child.’

‘There’s something else I don’t see,’ said Hector.

‘What’s that?’

‘Not one of these people is carrying a weapon. Not even a knife.’

‘They could have hidden any weapons in the forest before they came out into the open.’

‘I didn’t see any swords or spears when I was in the village. Only a couple of fish tridents, which Dan would find very puny.’