Tim Severin - Sea Robber

To Hector, Maria looked more graceful and shapely with each passing minute. She was wearing a maid’s working skirt, and she had pulled up her petticoat and tucked it into a sash to allow her legs free movement. On her feet were plain flat shoes, and her dark-brown bodice with its long sleeves matched the skirt. Hector wondered if she’d selected the colours to be less conspicuous. They hadn’t exchanged a single word during the quick dash over the wall and the furtive scurry through the native township. Now, as the little party paused for breath, he just had time to say, ‘So you did recognize Jacques when he came to the Governor’s house.’

Maria turned towards him. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘How could I forget a man with a convict’s brand on his cheek?’ Hector hardly heard her words. It was the first time he’d seen her face properly in nearly three years, and he was drinking in the sight. Here was the image he’d tried so hard to retain in his memory. Now, in the strengthening light, he saw that she had indeed changed. There was a maturity that hadn’t been there before. It enabled him to see more clearly the harmony of her features, the wide-set brown eyes, the neat, straight nose and the generous, soft mouth. Her eyebrows were thicker and more pronounced, accentuating her level, confident gaze. Her complexion seemed to be slightly darker than he remembered. She had obviously been much exposed to the tropical sun, but she’d also lost the fresh bloom of earlier years. Now her skin had taken on the colour of newly peeled hazelnuts. There was still the scattering of light freckles. He wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek.

‘Here, let me carry that,’ he said, and took the small bundle she had brought from her room. It was very light in his grasp. He guessed it contained just a few clothes.

She glanced at him gratefully, when Dan called out that they should move on. He worried that a party from the fort was in pursuit.

They marched on at the same blistering pace. The day soon turned very warm, but Ma’pang was unrelenting. No one spoke, preferring to save their breath for the effort of travel over the broken ground. Occasionally they had to force their way through the undergrowth, and there were places where the path dipped down into awkward gullies or traversed patches of bare hillside and the footing became treacherous with loose soil and gravel. As the hours passed, Hector worried that Maria might not be able to continue. Great sweat stains began to soak her bodice, and there were moments when she stumbled and nearly fell. Yet she made no complaint, and from the determined set of her shoulders Hector knew she would reject any offer of help. Grimly he pushed himself forward, turning over in his mind what he would say to her when, at last, they had a chance to be on their own. He was overawed that she’d been ready to run away with him with no need of persuasion.

The sun was well past its zenith by the time they finally reached the spur of high land that overlooked the bay where the galaide layak would come to collect them. Here at last they stopped. Dan returned along their path to watch for any signs of pursuit, and the others made a small clearing in the long grass and went to ground. Silently Hector took Maria by the hand. ‘Let’s sit by ourselves,’ he suggested. The two of them quietly made their way to a patch of shade by a large boulder.

Maria sat down, her back to the rock, pulled off the headscarf and shook out her hair. Then she leaned her head forward to rest on her knees. Clearly she was exhausted.

Hector sat down beside her, and for several minutes there was a silence. Finally he asked softly, ‘Maria, how did you know it was me?’

She didn’t raise her head. ‘Because I’d waited,’ she replied. Her voice was muffled and Hector had to strain to hear. He heard a hint of sadness in her tone and was overwhelmed with confusion. He didn’t know what to say.

The silence between them lengthened and Hector began to sense that something between them was slipping away. He felt wretched, fearful of saying the wrong thing. Finally he said, ‘Do you remember the letter you wrote me after the trial in London?’

‘Every word . . .’ Again the muffled response.

‘I read it every day.’ The words sounded lame and pointless even as he spoke them.

This time there was no reply.

His bewilderment growing, Hector tried again. ‘You haven’t asked where we are going.’

Again the flat reply, the curtain of hair hiding her face. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

There was a finality in her voice that shook Hector. He looked down at an ant crawling slowly between the crushed stalks of grass, as it clutched a green leaf. The leaf was several times larger than the ant, and the insect faltered under the strain. He and Maria had each been carrying their own burden, he thought, a burden of hope. For a grim moment he wondered if he’d been deluding himself, if he was about to lose Maria.

As he watched the ant struggle onwards, a small dark spot suddenly appeared on the dry earth. Then, as it faded, another appeared close beside it. With a lurch, he knew they were tear drops. Maria was crying silently.

Bereft, he reached out and took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. To his utter relief he felt her squeeze back, certainly and strongly. He allowed himself to feel reassured, to think all would be well. But he knew, in that same instant, it would be better to wait. The two of them could talk later about all that had happened while they had been apart, and what each hoped of the other.

THIRTEEN

THE GALAIDE LAYAK slipped into the cove soon after dark to collect the little group, and next morning delivered them safely back to Rota. Ma’pang’s villagers were far from disappointed that only a single hostage had been rescued, and came splashing out into the shallows with whoops of welcome. Their women gazed with open fascination at Maria, the first guirrago female they had ever seen, then whisked her away to the village. Hector and his companions followed, escorted by a chattering crowd and heralded by four Chamorro warriors jubilantly waving the muskets that had been stolen from the fort. The group had hardly arrived at the bachelor house before a celebration feast was under way. Hector, Jacques and the others were assigned places of honour, seated on the ground before a cooking trench filled with glowing coals. Heaps of fish and plantains were grilled and handed around, and several large jars of palm wine were set out, with coconut shells as cups. Trying to locate Maria, Hector spotted her standing beside Ma’pang’s wife on the fringes of the watching crowd.

‘They do love the sound of their own voices. He has been shouting for a good half-hour,’ Jacques said, as he turned to watch a Chamorro warrior striding up and down, haranguing the assembled villagers in a lather of enthusiasm.

‘What’s he saying, Ma’pang?’ Hector asked. He couldn’t understand a word, but clearly the orator was repeating himself.

‘That Kepuha is a great makhana. Now he is back among us, he will intercede with the spirits of the otherworld, and they will rise up and protect the village from the guirragos.’

‘What’s a makhana?’

‘The missionaries have a word for such people – a shaman.’

Dan spoke Spanish well enough to have followed the conversation and gave Hector a meaningful glance. ‘Hector, you have to tell him the truth,’ he said.

Hector paused, unwilling to offend his host. Then, keeping his tone as neutral as he could, he said, ‘Ma’pang, you will need more than the help of the spirits if you are to defend yourselves and your families.’