So it was that he’d found himself shipped off in gaol to the most remote and barren prison on earth, that of Hobart in Tasmania, there to live out the rest of his natural life immersed in misery and hard labor. It was there that he’d made the acquaintance of the scum of the earth, of whom Brognar Blackstrap was among the most notorious. As well as the most clever, the first mate reminded himself. The friendship they had struck up was most certainly an odd one.
Smiggens’s intelligence and Blackstrap’s boldness had organized the theft of a small fishing boat. Escaping Hobart, they had made their way north along the Tasmanian coast. In this they were helped by the poor Aborginals, who recognized, in the escapees, individuals as persecuted by the authorities as they were themselves.
From there they had somehow managed to cross the unforgiving Bass Strait and slip into the booming port town of Sydney, hiding out until their identity was discovered. In the company of a band of equally desperate men, they had stolen a larger ship and sailed north. One of those who had placed himself under Blackstrap’s protection was the helmsman and navigator Ruskin, without whose skills they surely would have foundered on the terrible barrier reef that guarded Australia’s eastern shore, reefs that had given even the immortal Cook pause.
Against all odds they’d done it, turning west north of Cape York and making their way into the riches of the Indies. Along the way they acquired sailors of every nationality, desperate men with no hope. From such human flotsam was a willing crew forged.
There were Filipinos and renegade Chinese, failed farmers from Java and American whalers who’d jumped ship, free Africans and escaped Melanesians, small-time thieves from Europe and the Orient. Given a chance at booty and freedom, they served Blackstrap willingly. Every pursuit they’d managed to outrun, every battle they’d succeeding in winning. Until now.
You could not defeat the sea, Smiggens reflected. As old Ruskin had declared, if the sea wanted you, she’d have you, and there was nothing a mere man could do about it.
It was at that moment that the lookout, strapped into the crow’s nest lest he be carried away by the unrelenting gale, sang out.
“Land ho!”
Land, land? What manner of nonsense was this? Smiggens wondered. The lookout would not be the first member of the crew to go mad.
Shielding his eyes as best he could from the driving rain, he staggered forward and directed his shout at the top of the mainmast.
“Ahoy in the nest! You’ve been too long off the deck, Mr. Suarez! Come down and we’ll send up your relief!” Wind ripped his words into syllables.
Disdaining a possible fall, the excited lookout leaned over and made his reply as clear as possible. “No, sir! She is land, for sure! Due south she lies!” Extending an arm, he pointed vigorously for emphasis.
“What’s all this, Mr. Smiggens?” Blackstrap had come up behind the first mate.
“It’s Suarez, sir. He says there’s land to the south. But that’s impossible.”
“How know you what’s possible in these latitudes, Smiggens? There’s naught but a great blank space on the charts.” He looked around sharply. “Where’s me glass? No, never mind that.” Cupping his hands to his mouth, he roared up at the lookout.
“What manner of land, Mr. Suarez?”
Clinging to the top of the mainmast, the Cuban somehow managed to raise a spyglass to his eyes. “Flat, sir, with mountains farther in!”
“An island?” Smiggens chewed his lower lip, tasting the salt. “There can’t be an island here. We’re still at least a thousand miles east of Madagascar.”
“And who has been here before us, Preister Smiggens? Cook himself never sailed these seas.” Moving to the rail, Blackstrap bellowed at the deck, “Stir yourselves, you lazy lot of limp lungfish! Did you not hear the lookout? Put on sail!” Raging about the deck below, he lashed out with fist and boot. Most of his slaps and kicks missed, for the crew was already bustling with renewed energy, an energy born of desperation. Unlikely as it might be, if there was any land thereabouts, they would not, could not afford to miss it.
Then a cloud broke, and there it was for all to see. A line of dark green backed by high mountains, just as the lookout had claimed. Mountains meant snow, and snow meant clean, fresh water. A ragged cheer arose from the men.
Just when it seemed they had been rescued from certain death by a kindly Providence, another shout sounded from the mainmast.
“Reefs, sir! Reefs dead ahead!”
“Blast and damn!” Blackstrap tore his way back up to the wheel and took half of it from the grip of his helmsman. “Hard aport, Mr. Ruskin, afore ’tis too late!”
Despite their combined efforts, the rudder refused to respond.
“She won’t come around, Cap’n! The current’s too strong!” There was fresh panic in the helmsman’s voice.
His face turning red with effort, Blackstrap bawled at his first mate, “Mr. Smiggens, lend a hand here!”
Smiggens did so, but it was no use. Propelled by irresistible winds and unrelenting current, the Condor continued on a course bound for disaster.
Soon they could see as well as hear the great breakers as they crashed on the wide reef, feel the threatening swell beneath the keel. As they drew nearer, there hove into view a sight to chill the bones of any seaman.
Skeletons. Not of men or beasts but of ships. Broken and gaping on the reef were the remains of Chinese junks and Arab dhows, Ceylonese fishing boats and old Spanish galleons. There were ruined merchantmen and men-o’-war, and even what looked like a New England fishing schooner.
“Every man look to his Maker and brace yourselves!” Blackstrap roared, clutching the wheel like a talisman as the Condor rose on the crest of a wave most monstrous. There was at that moment on board ship more prayer than had been heard in those quarters in all the previous year.
High, higher still they rose, floating in the air for what seemed an impossible time. The ship's timbers groaned under the strain and her remaining masts threatened to splinter.
Then the wave came crashing down.
Men screamed as water inundated the deck ... and flowed off through the scuppers. The Condor heeled dangerously to starboard, swung back on her oversized keel, and stabilized.
All that broken porcelain in the hold, Smiggens thought numbly. Priceless pieces so strenuously acquired now surely reduced to ballast.
“Look out!” came a shout as the main topgallant came
crashing down. Sailors scattered and the only casualty was a bruised thigh.
The wave swept on, slamming into a line of mangroves, but not before leaving the Condor behind. Miraculously, the ocean had had enough of her, and she floated, battered but intact, in the calm waters of the lagoon behind a reef that seemed no longer an assassin but a friend.
“Mr. Johanssen!” Blackstrap yelled. “Take a man below and check the damage!”
“Aye, sir! ” The strapping ex-whaler vanished like a badger down a hatch.
Gathering their strength along with their wits, other members of the crew set about repairing what damage they could. Unsalvageable debris was thrown over the side and the carpenter’s tools brought out and passed around. The man whose leg had caught the glancing blow from the falling spar was treated by the ship’s barber.
Johanssen reappeared, almost smiling. “A few new leaks, sir, but they’re all small. The hull’s held. Nothing that can’t be fixed, I think.*”
“Yes, fixed.” Turning, Smiggens studied the reef. Beyond, the storm was finally waning. It was an impossible landing, but they’d done it, thanks to the thrust of a freak wave. “We’re safely in, but can we get out again?”
A huge hand clapped him on the back. “We be alive and aground, Mr. Smiggens—two things which were badly wanted. ’Tis best not to tempt fate with too many requests at once. We don’t want her to think us greedy.”
“What, me?” Smiggens grunted.
“Interesting landfall, don’t you think?” Blackstrap guided his first mate
to the railing. They could see mangroves lining the shore and, farther in, dense high reeds.
“Might be cannibals,” the ever-pessimistic Smiggens avowed, “or worse.”
“I’ll match any cannibal mouthful for mouthful, for unlike some men, I’ve no aversion to long pig.” Blackstrap’s energy had been renewed by their escape from the storm. “I see no signs of men; no canoes, no fish traps. Only growing things and the promise of fresh water. We’ve found this land, Mr. Smiggens, and by all the gods of the sea, she’s ours! I, Brognar
Blackstrap, claim her. Let any who dare, dispute me.”
He glanced aft. “How I wish now those Dutch and British ships still pursued us, for surely the miracle which cast us safely into this lagoon would not be repeated twice. It would please me greatly me to see them splintered and ground to dust on this reef, to hear their screams and wails as they were thrown into the sea, pleading for our aid.”
“They probably turned back long ago to escape the grip of the storm,” Smiggens reminded him.
“Aye, I know, I know.” There was a murderous gleam in Blackstrap’s eye. Smiggens recognized it, having encountered it numerous times before. “But I can see it in my mind’s eye, Mr. Smiggens, and delight in it there.”
He straightened. “We’ll make repairs and reprovision here. Perhaps there’ll be natives to help with the heavy work.” “D’you think they’ll be friendly, Cap’n?” the helmsman inquired.
“It matters not, Mr. Ruskin. We’ve eight cannon aboard and if the powder’s stayed dry, any locals will see soon enough that it’s in their best interests to obey our orders. ’Tis well known that a few shots of grape and chain will tame the most reluctant village. If there be any individuals worth taking, we can use them for ballast and sell those who survive in the market at Durban.” “You mean to continue on to Africa?” the helmsman asked him.
“I do, Mr. Ruskin. I’ve bad enough of the pestilential Indies to last me some time.”
It was then that something caught Smiggens’s eye.
Caught up on an inner shelf of coral were the hulks of three ships. Reduced to keel, beams, and wood skeletons that refused to rot, they were barely identifiable.
“Have a look at that, won’t you!”
A preoccupied Blackstrap frowned as he glanced at his first mate. “A look at what, Smiggens? Why are you wasting your time staring at dead ships that can be home only to dead men? They can’t help us. Unless,” he added, brightening, “you see something useful aboard one of them. Guns would be welcome, a powder barrel or two more so.”
“Such items are not to be found on any of those ships, Captain.”
Noting the first mate’s stare, several other seamen turned their attention to the trio of wrecks. “What manner of ships be those, Mr. Smiggens?” one finally inquired.
“I can scarce believe it myself.” Smiggens shaded his eyes as he examined the hulks. “See those holes along the side of each? They’re oar ports. Those craft were meant to be rowed as often as sailed. Roman triremes, is my guess. Nothing less than a trireme would survive in these waters from such ancient times.”
“Roman?” Now Blackstrap was interested. “What d’you mean, Roman, Mr. Smiggens? Do they use such strange vessels in the south of Europe these days?”
“Not these days, sir. These are the ships of the Caesars, which once made of the Mediterranean a Roman lake. But how did they get here?”
“The Caesars, you say?” Blackstrap smiled thoughtfully. It was an uncharacteristic expression for him and his face had difficulty with it. “Now, Julius I know. There was a man after me own heart. What of the third vessel, then?”
“I’m not sure. Older still, from the look of it. Egyptian, perhaps, or Phoenician. See the outline of an eye painted on the bow? Their presence here is a mystery I can’t explain.” “Why don’t you ask their helmsmen?” Ruskin let out a wheezing cackle.
“I fear to query any seaman who’s been dead a thousand years or more. His ghost might answer.” Smiggens spoke solemnly, and Ruskin’s smile vanished instantly.
“Bah!” Blackstrap wasn’t impressed. “This be a veritable graveyard of ships, thanks to those infernal currents. But we have survived. A fine omen.”
“I don’t know, Captain.” Smiggens turned away from the wrecks to face the land. “Something doesn’t feel right about this place.”
“To perdition with your ‘feelings,’ Mr. Smiggens. If ’tis dry and has fresh water, ’tis good enough land for me.” The first mate didn’t respond, preferring to keep his concerns to himself. Blackstrap would be unresponsive anyway.
IV
as the crew secured the ship, cries and strange calls occasionally resounded inland. These served only to increase Smiggens’s unease, but they had an entirely different effect on the less imaginative crew.
“Wild cattle.” Johanssen rubbed his hands together expectantly. “Fresh meat!”
“Buffalo, if we lucky.” Tough little Anbaya hailed from the Moluccas and was as peppery as the spices that grew there. “Hunting party, Captain?”
“Soon enough, you hungry heathen,” Blackstrap replied with good humor. His gaze roved the deck. “Where’s that accursed African? Tell him to get up from belowdecks. We’re not going to sink.” Two men disappeared through a hatch in search of the Zulu warrior.
Wind continued to buffet the ship, ruffling Smiggens’s ponytail, but it was much reduced in intensity. However^ the sky to the northeast remained resolutely dark and foreboding. Inland, mist began to rise from the land, obscuring the distant mountains.
“What think you now, Preister?” Blackstrap nodded at the beach. “She looks harmless enough.”
“So do the Fijis,” Smiggens replied, “and they’re home to the most notorious cannibals in the Pacific. Except perhaps for the wild men of New Guinea, whom they say—”
“That’s enough. Will you never learn when to shut up? We’ll go ashore, I think, and raise what food, water, and hell, we can.” He raised his voice. “O’Connor, Treggang—put a boat over the side!”
Smiggens did not object. He was as anxious as any of them to stand once more on a surface that did not roll underfoot.
Two dozen men were shuttled to the narrow beach, leaving an equal number aboard to maintain watch and continue making repairs. Each time the boat crossed the calm waters of the lagoon, the men aboard commented on the abundance and strange look of the fish life below. The warm shallows were home to other peculiar creatures as well, which none could identify. Smiggens would have lingered to study them, but Blackstrap would brook no delays. If it couldn’t be eaten or converted into gold, it didn’t interest him.
Finding a small opening in the wall of mangroves, they left half their number to explore the beach. The rest pushed through the dense vegetation and soon found themselves rowing up a narrow, meandering stream. To everyone’s delight and relief, the water soon turned from brackish to sweet.
Mangroves gave way to sedges, reeds, and other water-loving plants. Smiggens was certain he saw papyrus sharing the shoreline with cattails and wild rice. Another food source to add to the fish they’d already seen. This land would feed as well as water them.
Soon the current grew swifter and the men had to row harder. At least now they had no shortage of water to quench their thirst. They pulled with renewed vigor.
When the stream grew too shallow for the whaleboat to negotiate, they beached it on a crescent of white sand. Grass as high as a man’s knee offered a sweet-smelling and not impassable obstacle through which they advanced enthusiastically, rifles and swords close at hand.
Despite the seeming calm, Smiggens remained uneasy. “Keep a sharp eye out, mates. No telling what sort of wildlife might roam a country as foreign as this.”
“Yes, yes,” concurred Anbaya. “Watch you feet.”
“My feet?” The man who spoke wore a patch over a vacant eye socket and was missing the middle two fingers of his left hand, a consequence of an involuntary close encounter with a pas
sing cannonball.
The little Moluccan smiled. “Snakes like high grass.” Several of the men started visibly and began taking more care where they set their boots. Anbaya chuckled, but no one
shared his sense of humor in this matter. A French merchantman armed to the teeth would not have given a man among them pause, but not a one of them was overly fond of creatures that had not even the decency to have feet.
They saw no snakes, poisonous or otherwise, as they left the grassland behind and advanced into a region of low hills. Like old friends, trees of many lands presented themselves for observation, from scrub oaks to palms. Some hung heavy with fruit. Smiggens looked for monkeys, who would invariably consume such fruit, thereby showing a man what was safe to eat and what was not. But there were no monkeys nor any signs of them. He remarked on their absence to Blackstrap.
“So there be no monkeys—so what?” Blackstrap used his sword to casually hack at an inoffensive philodendron.
“In country like this you almost always find monkeys.”
“Ever been to Tahiti, Mr. Smiggens?”
“No, sir.”
“Big islands, lots of fruit. Looks not unlike this. No monkeys.” That settled the matter as far as Blackstrap was concerned.
Chirping sweetly, several birds appeared. They flew straight toward the landing party, utterly unafraid. One of the men raised his rifle and took aim at what looked like a fat pigeon with a crimson topknot. His companion slapped the barrel aside. The would-be shooter glared at him.
“What’s the matter, Mkuse? Don’t your people eat fowl?”
“We’ll eat just about anything we can catch.” The Zulu warrior’s English was oddly stilted. “But if we’re going to open fire on the countryside and warn whatever’s living here, I’d like to catch something more substantial first.” Coming to rest on a nearby branch, the birds eyed the intruders curiously.