Tim Severin - Sea Robber

For a strange, unnerving moment Hector was transported back to his childhood. He had seen that same emblem many, many times during his schooldays. It had been scratched on rocks and stones, leaded into windows, embroidered on clothing, drawn and painted on parchment. The friars who taught him had revered it as the symbol of their faith. It was a cross within a circle.

But the villagers, crouched on their knees, were not venerating the flag’s mark. Their rigid backs and utter stillness were signs of abject terror.

The curiously armoured man came forward. He walked with a formal, stiff-legged gait, a curious strut, the staff and banner held up before him. He halted and bawled out an order in a strange language.

Instantly all the villagers jumped to their feet and ran like chicks to their mother hen, forming a tightly packed group behind their headman. Then they scuttled forward in formation and, some twenty paces in front of the mysterious man-at-arms, they dropped down and knelt submissively. Not a word was said.

More men emerged from the thicket of bamboos. Many wore the same layered coats of scaled armour. At least a dozen of them carried heavy matchlocks of an antique design. Others had long pikes, their metal tips decorated with red and white bunting. All had long swords thrust through their sashes.

Close behind came a straggle of porters dressed in the same drab garments as the villagers and stooped under heavy packs and bundles. Two of them trotted between the shafts of a sedan chair with dark-green side curtains.

Hector felt a sharp tap on his ankle. ‘The Ta-yin. Get down,’ murmured Panu. ‘And your friends too, or they will die.’

The bearers had placed the sedan chair beside the man with the banner. The curtains were drawn aside and out stepped the Ta-yin.

A short, bulky man, he was comfortably dressed in flowing black trousers and a loose white shirt tied at the wrists. It was difficult to guess his age. His bland, flat face with its dark, almost black eyes was unwrinkled and smooth. He had a small rat-trap mouth, a short neat nose that was slightly hooked, and his jet-black hair had been tightly tied in a queue. He had shaved his hairline back by several inches. It was impossible to know the natural colour of his complexion for his exposed scalp and all his face were covered in a thick coating of white powder.

The Ta-yin completely ignored the men of the Nicholas , who stood stock-still, gaping. He walked across and said something to the village headman, who cringed, then rose to his feet and disappeared into the village.

There followed a long, uncomfortable pause. Belatedly the crew of the Nicholas realized that they had been taken off-guard. All their weapons were aboard the ship and they were defenceless. Arianz, Stolck and a handful of the crew began to edge quietly towards the cockboat drawn up at the water’s edge.

One of the men-at-arms – their officer, to judge by the brilliant lacquer and gilt detailing on his chest armour – barked an order. A dozen of the matchlock men immediately ran down the beach and formed a cordon, preventing Arianz and his men from advancing farther. When Stolck tried to push past, one of the musketeers swung and hit him hard with the stock of his gun.

Hector, still on his feet despite Panu’s whispered pleas, saw the village headman scuttle back from his errand. He rejoined his people, bobbed humbly to the Ta-yin and dropped back on his knees.

A movement beside the nearest hut caught Hector’s eye. It was Ookooma, the fisherman they’d rescued. He’d not been seen since their arrival in the lagoon. Now Ookooma was on hands and knees, crawling forward. He moved close to the ground like a beaten dog, until he crouched at the feet of the banner man.

The Ta-yin spoke. His voice was angry. Each sentence was short and brusque.

‘What’s he saying?’ Hector whispered to Panu.

‘Ookooma has disgraced village by leaving, but worse crime to return with strangers.’

‘Christ, he had little choice,’ muttered Hector.

The Ta-yin nodded to the man-at-arms in the gilded armour. He marched forward until he was an arm’s length from the cowering fisherman.

‘Who’s that?’ Hector asked Panu.

‘A bushi. He lead Ta-yin’s personal escort.’

The Ta-yin was speaking again, haranguing the group of motionless villagers who kneeled on the ground.

When the Ta-yin finished speaking, the bushi reached down and seized Ookooma by his topknot, hauling him up on his knees. The soldier twisted the topknot cruelly, forcing Ookooma to look towards the open sea. Then he twisted again so that the fisherman faced the crew of the Nicholas , who still stood open-mouthed at the spectacle. The fisherman’s eyes were tightly closed. The man-at-arms growled an order, and Ookooma opened his eyes. Hector tried to make out some expression on the gaunt face, but Ookooma seemed to be in a trance. There was no trace whatever of the alert, calculating castaway rescued from the sea.

The bushi released the topknot, and at once the fisherman’s eyelids dropped shut again. The man-at-arms stepped back half a pace with his left foot, placed his right hand on the hilt of his longer sword, then uttered a low, sharp grunt. Ookooma’s eyes popped open. In one smooth movement the bushi drew the sword, and the long, glinting blade swept through the air. The fisherman’s head leaped off his shoulders and his headless corpse fell forward. Blood gushed from the severed neck and seeped into the sand. The head rolled once and lay still.

Hector’s stomach heaved. He clenched his hands and swallowed hard. The bushi calmly produced a pad of snow-white cotton and delicately wiped down his blade. Then he carefully slid the sword into its scabbard and strutted back to take up his position at the head of his soldiers.

The ‘great man’ had shown no interest in the execution. Even before Ookooma fell, the Ta-yin was on his way towards a line of tents and pavilions, which the porters and attendants were busily erecting at the rear of the beach.

‘Should I go to speak with him?’ Eaton asked Panu. The captain had gone pale under his tan. The crew of the Nicholas were slinking away, forming small, anxious groups and murmuring amongst themselves as they cast worried glances towards the armoured troops. Four villagers carried away Ookooma’s corpse.

As Stolck translated Eaton’s question, Panu blanched. ‘On no account approach the Ta-yin without a summons from him,’ advised the interpreter hastily. ‘He will take it as an affront. You and your men must stay where they are, until he wishes to speak with you.’

THAT EVENING the crew of the Nicholas ate only leftovers and scraps. The villagers shunned their camp and could be seen carrying their panniers and baskets to the Ta-yin’s tents. None of Eaton’s men complained of their meagre meal. When dusk fell they were still debating what they should do next.

‘If we fought our way back to the ship, we could turn her cannon against those bastards,’ suggested Stolck.

‘Fight them with what?’ came an immediate objection. The speaker was the elderly, bald curmudgeon who was almost relishing their predicament.

‘Knives and cudgels. Jezreel could lead us. We know how good he is in a scrap, and he has his backsword with him.’

‘That’ll never be enough. You just saw what one of their blades can do.’

Stolck was not to be put off. ‘We rush the cordon. A few of us take the jolly boat out to the ship and grab our guns.’

This time Eaton objected. ‘Their muskets look antique. But the men in the boat wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d be shot to pieces before they got halfway to the Nicholas .’