Tim Severin - Sea Robber

As the sakman cleared the bay, she began to feel the full force of a steady breeze from the north. What had appeared a fast pace earlier now became a swooping rush. The boat seemed to lift, then surge across the surface of the sea, swaying lightly from side to side, barely heeling to the pressure of the wind as it filled the great scoop of the sail. The water bubbled and swirled in her wake. The Chamorro crew hurried from one part of the vessel to another, tightening knots, checking lashings, ensuring the structure of the vessel was snug.

Dan, standing beside Hector at the foot of the mast, watched with undisguised admiration. ‘I would not have believed it possible,’ he said. ‘How fast do you think she is moving?’

‘Quicker than I’ve ever sailed before,’ Hector answered. ‘If we continue at this pace, maybe Ma’pang was right. We’ll catch the patache with ease.’

He ducked as a burst of spray swept across the gunwale and wetted his face. A Chamorro crewman crouched in the bottom of the hull was beckoning to Dan and holding up a wooden scoop. Dan moved away to join him, calling out over his shoulder, ‘She is taking water fast. But as the timber swells, the leaks will slow, and the lighter we keep the boat, the quicker she will move.’

‘Cold food from now on, I suppose. No one could possibly cook under these conditions,’ said Jacques morosely. He was half-sitting, half-standing, his feet braced against one side of the hull, his shoulders pressed to the opposite gunwale.

Hector looked for Maria. She peeked out from the little deckhouse where she’d taken shelter. He smiled at her encouragingly. Beside her he caught a glimpse of Stolck looking glum. Ever since he had been stranded ashore by his countrymen, the Hollander had been downcast and listless.

Holding on to the mast’s mainstay to keep his balance, Hector cautiously edged across to the deckhouse.

‘Are you all right, Maria?’ he asked, kneeling down and peering in. Inside the little shelter there was only room to sit or lie down, and the place smelled strongly of coconut oil. He saw that all their muskets had been laid out carefully, side by side, and someone had wrapped them in strips of oil-soaked cloth. The rags were the same colour as the dress that Maria had been wearing on the day they had fled the Presidio.

She caught his glance and shrugged. ‘Jezreel said the muskets would be ruined if they were exposed to the salt air.’

‘It’ll be dark very soon,’ he said. ‘Try to make yourself comfortable for the night.’

‘I’d prefer to be out in the open air,’ she replied. Hector looked back to see what Ma’pang and his crew were doing. Clearly their work was complete. Most of the men were lounging wherever they could find space within the main hull. Ma’pang and one other man squatted in what was now the stern of the sakman. But there was no sign of a steering paddle. They were controlling the direction of the vessel by the set of her sail.

‘Everything seems to have settled down,’ he said. ‘Let’s go up into the bow.’

Together they clambered forward. A Chamorro crew member tactfully moved aside so that they could stand side by side just behind the sharp beak of the prow, the vast open expanse of the ocean stretching before them. The setting sun was very close to the horizon, and the sakman was running directly along the gleaming red-gold path of its reflection. In the far distance a line of fair-weather clouds hung motionless, their undersides tinged with pink. The sakman now had the wind on her beam, and Hector felt something flicker lightly across his cheek. It was a strand of Maria’s hair lifted by the breeze. She put up her hand to tuck it back in place.

‘Let’s hope this wind holds through the night,’ he said.

Maria didn’t reply. He sensed that she was absorbed by the immensity of what lay before them. Very quietly, she laid her head on his shoulder. He feared to move a muscle and stood, barely breathing, and felt the tender weight of her. Gently he put his arm around her shoulder. They stood in quiet, contemplative silence while beneath them the sakman raced onwards, its hull rising and falling to the rhythm of the waves with an urgent, rushing sound.

THE NEXT MORNING dawned clear and bright. The wind had shifted and now blew from slightly ahead of their track. If anything the sakman was moving even faster, racing across the sea, leaving a well-defined wake. By unspoken agreement with Ma’pang, the tiny cabin had been given over to Maria. Dan, Jacques and the others had copied the Chamorro, who curled up wherever they could find a resting place among the baskets and other clutter. Hector had spent the night sleeping by the foot of the mast. Several times in the hours of darkness he’d woken to the sound of someone scooping water from the bilge and tossing it overboard. Each time he’d looked aft and seen the dark shape of Kepuha sitting cross-legged by the stern, a palm-frond cloak around his skinny shoulders. The old man took no part in handling the vessel. He merely sat and watched from his vantage point. He was there now.

Hector rose and made his way aft. Ma’pang held out half a coconut shell filled with water, and he accepted the drink gratefully.

‘How does Kepuha decide which way we steer?’

‘I thought he had explained that to you,’ answered the Chamorro.

‘Not in a way I could understand,’ admitted Hector.

‘You saw the star wall. That is used to instruct learners how to read the skies.’

‘He showed me, but I couldn’t make sense of the twigs he laid out on the ground.’

Ma’pang searched for the right word. ‘It’s what you call a map,’ he said. Seeing that Hector was still puzzled, he went on, ‘All the ocean around tano’ tasi is shown on that map.’

Hector had a flash of understanding. ‘Those shells on the stick framework, they represent the islands?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

Hector stole a sideways glance at the shaman. He couldn’t see the twig device. Instead Kepuha was holding in his lap a human skull, desiccated and yellow with age.

Ma’pang dropped his voice to a respectful tone. ‘Kepuha knows the star paths by memory. He does not need to consult the map of sticks. He brought it on this voyage out of respect to the ancestors.’

Kepuha’s lips were moving. He was singing some sort of chant in a low, quavering voice, the phrases long drawn out, and the sound rising and falling. Hector was reminded of how the old shaman had sung before the star wall, but these chants were different.

‘He sings to the sea gods to bring us good weather,’ said Ma’pang.

Elsewhere on the sakman various crew members woke and stretched, beginning the new day. Every few moments Hector glanced towards the little cabin, waiting for Maria to appear.

A shout from one of the Chamorro and an outstretched arm made Hector look to stern. Half a dozen dolphins were surging back and forth about twenty paces astern of the vessel. Their backs glistened as they came thrusting half out of the water, twisted and dived and reappeared in a churning froth of activity. He could hear their explosive grunts as they emptied and filled their lungs. They were in a hunting frenzy. Hector was pushed aside by the sudden rush of a Chamorro crew member running to the stern. He had a coil of fishing line in his hand, and with a quick flash the bone hook hit the water and the man paid out the line. Almost immediately there was a tug and the fisherman hauled in a fish, silver and yellow and a foot long. Another cast of the line, and another fish came tumbling in over the gunwale, flapping and leaping as it thrashed across the bilge, leaving a track of silver scales. The first Chamorro fisherman was joined by another, and in minutes they had caught a dozen fish. Without warning, the hunting dolphin abruptly disappeared, and the fishing ceased.