Tim Severin - Sea Robber

If Stolck had expected the savage to be impressed, he was badly mistaken. The report of the gun was still echoing back from the cliffs when the big native let out a loud, shrill whistle. In the same instant he sprang forward and scooped up Jezreel’s backsword. Jezreel lunged, trying to retrieve the weapon. The two men grappled, struggling for possession. They fell, rolled over on the ground and began to fight, gouging and punching.

Stunned by the sudden turn of events, Hector was groping for the knife from his belt, ready to go to Jezreel’s rescue, when he felt a violent stab of pain as something struck his left shoulder. The force of the blow spun him half around, and for a moment he was disoriented. A yard away Jacques had mysteriously been knocked to the ground. Dan was still on his feet, but acting strangely. He was ducking and weaving from side to side as though fighting off an unseen attacker. He had his canvas satchel wrapped around his right arm and was holding it up as a shield. Something smacked on to the pebbles at Hector’s feet and skittered off. It was a disc-shaped stone about the size of a hen’s egg. Looking in the direction from where it had come, Hector saw a line of naked men standing on the lip of the cliff. They were whirling slings and discharging a hail of missiles at the beach.

Stolck was cursing steadily as he tried to reload his empty musket. He tugged a cartridge from his bandolier, ripped open the paper with his teeth and tipped the powder down the barrel. He screwed up the empty paper and dropped it after the gunpowder. He was about to follow with a musket ball from the bag hanging at his waist, when a sling stone struck him on the head. His knees gave way and he pitched backwards, stunned.

Hector ran to pick up the musket. Dan was shouting and pointing at the cliff face. A file of islanders was scrambling downwards. Six or seven naked men armed with spears came bounding from rock to rock, as agile as goats. Before Hector could reach the gun, the first of them had leaped down, landed on the pebbles and dashed forward, his spear aimed at Dan.

Hector dithered. He did not know whether to help Jezreel, still locked in his fierce struggle with the big stranger, or to go to Dan, who had turned to face his attacker.

He heard running feet behind him, and a moment later Hector felt someone leap upon his back. He lost his footing and toppled forward, tried to twist free, but the arms that had clamped themselves around him were locked tight. He hit the ground with a thump. As a hand roughly pushed his face into the pebbles, he could smell the reek of coconut oil and feel the bite of rough cord as someone tied his wrists behind him. He lay still, winded and helpless.

The sounds of fighting continued. He raised his head and saw that Jacques had also been tied up. Stolck lay on the ground, guarded by another of the natives. Three spearmen had cornered Dan against the foot of the cliff. One of the attackers was bleeding from a shoulder wound, and Dan had somehow found himself a knife. He stood with his back against the rock, the blade in his hand. Jezreel was still locked in combat. He’d risen to one knee and had pinned down his assailant, and was trying to throttle him, though his hands were slipping on the oily skin. Even as Hector watched, three more of the natives, all big strong men, flung themselves on Jezreel and pulled him off his victim. There was a warning shout in their unknown language, and the point of a spear was held to Jezreel’s throat. He stopped struggling and glared at his attackers.

Jezreel’s adversary, the first of the natives to appear, rose to his feet. His right eye was puffed up where Jezreel must have butted him, and he nursed his throat where Jezreel had got a grip. Otherwise the stranger seemed remarkably composed. He looked across to where his companions had cornered Dan and spoke sharply. The three men stepped back a pace, though they did not lower their spears. He was clearly their commander.

He turned towards Hector, who had been allowed to stand. ‘Tell your friend to drop his knife,’ he said.

Hector gaped. The stark-naked warrior had addressed him in flawless, slightly accented Spanish.

‘Dan, put down the knife,’ Hector called.

Dan did as he was asked, and the leader of the war party issued what seemed like a stream of orders as his followers began to herd their captives together.

‘We were tricked,’ complained Jacques, shaking his head. ‘That whoreson knew exactly what a musket was.’

‘There was no need to attack us,’ Hector said to the big man. ‘We came in friendship.’

‘No white person is our friend,’ retorted the Chamorro crisply.

‘You’re wrong,’ Hector insisted. ‘You see that ship out there? It has come to attack the Spanish, and the captain and crew need your help.’

‘They seem to have changed their minds,’ said the Chamorro. The sarcasm in his tone made Hector turn around and look out to sea. The Nicholas was making sail. As he watched, the fore and main topsails unfolded from their yards. He could just make out the figures on deck as the crew sheeted home the canvas. Gradually the Nicholas began to turn and take the wind on her quarter. Someone was lowering the blue and white French ensign from the mizzen peak. It was clear that Eaton had changed his mind. He must have witnessed the scuffle on the beach, seen the capture of the landing party and decided to abandon his scheme.

The Nicholas sailed off, leaving the landing party to their fate.

Stolck gazed after the departing ship. Still groggy from the blow on his head, his blue eyes bulged with rage and disappointment. ‘God vervloekte bastaarden,’ he mumbled under his breath.

The big Chamorro looked around the group of prisoners. ‘Which of you is the chief man?’

‘I can speak for them,’ said Hector.

‘We go to my village. There the council will decide what is to be done with you.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Hector.

‘My name is Ma’pang and I am a Chamorro.’

‘I thought you were all Chamorro.’

The big man gave a sardonic grunt. ‘That shows how little the guirragos – the white men – understand us. The Chamorro are a class, the chiefs, the people who rule.’ He examined Hector quizzically. He did not appear particularly hostile. ‘If you are an enemy of the Spanish, how is it that you speak the language so well?’

Hector felt bold enough to say, ‘I might ask you the same question.’

‘The missionaries taught me, until I decided to run away and come back to live among my own people.’

‘My mother was Spanish, but my father came from another nation,’ explained Hector.

Ma’pang looked surprised. ‘If we marry outside the clan, we only do so with a clan that is an ally.’

There was something about the big man that encouraged Hector to be frank. ‘I did not come here to fight the Spaniards, but to find one of their women.’

‘You would marry her?’

‘If she would agree.’

Ma’pang shook his head in astonishment. ‘That is even more remarkable.’

IT TOOK TWO HOURS of hard marching to reach the Chamorro village. Their captors loosened the bonds to make it easier to climb up the cliff path, and they eventually removed the ropes altogether, once Ma’pang had pointed out that escape was useless as there was nowhere to go. In hot sunshine they followed narrow, dusty footpaths across ridges covered with sawgrass and small bushes, and by mid-afternoon they descended into a thickly wooded ravine. Faintly, in the distance, Hector heard the shouts of children playing, and after another few hundred yards the travellers emerged into what was evidently the main thoroughfare of the settlement. It was a peaceful domestic scene of dogs dozing in the sun, chickens scratching in the dirt, and children running excitedly to call their friends to see the strangers. There were about thirty houses neatly built of bamboo and wooden poles, their steeply pitched roofs thatched with palm leaves. Before each dwelling stood a large, flat-topped boulder with a hollow scooped into the surface. At one of them a robust woman was husking rice with a pestle, a toddler beside her. She laid down the pestle and stood to watch them pass. Jacques sucked in his breath in appreciation. Apart from a tiny strip of bark cloth between her legs, the woman was naked. Broad shoulders, deep full breasts and swelling hips made her statuesquely beautiful. Even more striking was her mane of luxuriant, thick hair, which reached to her thighs.