A whistle blew and was followed by jerks of racketing noise: the anchor-chain coming in, bringing the new, two-hundred-pound anchor strewn with weed and sand that would be unlike the weed and sand of its next bedding. Then a rush and a chanting of voices and the ship trembled as the triangular foresail rose and broke out, followed by the great racking heave as the mainsail began to ride up.
The helm stirred. The caravel moved, the sea bathing her flank. The smell of paint struck Nicholas for the last time, and the odours of sawn wood and resin and pristine white hemp, and the great flaxen draught of new canvas as the mainsail shook out its folds and was pulled in and bellied, and the mizzen sail followed.
Then the wind found her and nudged, and for the first time the San Niccolò heeled, dipping her gleaming black flank in the sea, and all the limp smells of earth were blown through her and vanished. The second mate, gripping a trumpet, came up the ladder and stood, his gaze switching from the captain to the six handgunners dodging across to the rail, match in hand. Nicholas turned his eyes to the shore, slowly receding.
The wharf was crowded, and the rough beach, and the path along the edge of the estuary. Not only the King’s representatives but the whole of Lagos had come to watch the San Niccolò leave; for those who had not built her had equipped and provisioned her, and those who had done none of these had stood on the shore waving off other ships bound for Bilad Ghana, the Country of Wealth, and had seen them return as, God willing, this pretty caravel would, laden with parrots and feathers and ostrich eggs, and Negroes, and gold.
On board, the trumpeter’s fanfare rang out: a strong one, for he had good lungs, and did it for pleasure. Then, gay as fireworks, there came a crackle of fire from the red-capped schioppettieri on deck, hazed in smoke and coughing and panting from their stint at the yards. Behind them, stamping into rough line, stood those seamen who could be spared.
On shore, the Governor lifted his hand. A grey posy of smoke showed itself on the wall of the fort, heralding the thunder of its number one culverin, followed by the second and third, up to six. The noise knocked from end to end of the bay, sending up screaming birds and punctuating the roar from hundreds of throats as, bonnets in hand, the town of Lagos bade them Godspeed.
On board, Gelis van Borselen stood, her hood back, her wheaten hair wet and her emotionless gaze upon Nicholas. ‘You must be happy,’ she said.
Three days at sea is not long, except when the ship is new and untried, and there is no comfortable coast to apply to. If there is, indeed, no land within sight at all, so that landfall must be worked for. Then three days can seem as exhausting as six, and also as useful as six. A new ship and a new crew and their master are on trial together, and it is the master who must bring them under his hand.
But for Gelis, it would have brought Nicholas as close to happiness as he expected to come. He already knew half his seamen: there were only seventeen, of which two had come from the Ciaretti, as had Melchiorre Cataneo, the sottocomito, or second mate, with the trumpet. The mate himself was da Silves’ excellent man, and the three helmsmen his choice. As for the rest, the seamen themselves provided the cooks and carpenters, the sailmakers and bowmen and gunners, and expected and got double money for double jobs. Gelis said, ‘You have a very small crew.’
He had anticipated, and got, Diniz on deck. He had hoped, once at sea, that the women would keep to their cabin. Instead, they both climbed to the poop; Gelis with her boat-cloak folded firmly about her and her footing sure as a goat’s. With her trussed hair and her fixed blue eyes and her skin wet and unevenly coloured she was absolutely unlike her dead sister except, of course, in build, and in the shape of her brows which, skilfully trimmed, still suggested the strong, natural shape of her family. Bel was circular.
Bel said, ‘I wouldn’t say small. Look at yon one.’ They were both speaking Scots, and so did Nicholas.
Nicholas said, ‘I bought twenty, and they threw in the big one. You’re quite safe. Lateen rigging needs very few seamen.’
‘And it leaves more room for cargo,’ said Gelis.
‘And for passengers,’ Nicholas said. He saw Diniz approaching. He added, ‘You don’t mind the movement?’
‘No, what a pity,’ she said. ‘It was Katelina who used to be sick. Did your first wife travel well?’
Diniz said, ‘You make her sound like a cask of Madeira,’ and then swallowed and blushed, caught between euphoria and uncertainty.
Nicholas said, ‘The Charetty didn’t have a ship then. My second wife rather enjoyed it.’
‘I expect,’ said Gelis, ‘you had a much larger crew. Diniz likes sailing, don’t you, Diniz? Claes sailed with you and your father, and threw his plants overboard.’
‘I have these impulses,’ Nicholas said. Since they wouldn’t go away, he excused himself and joined Gregorio in the hold. It was a problem of stowage, and infinitely preferable. When Diniz tried to join him presently he was in genuine conference with Jorge and the sailmaker, and later there were half a dozen minor emergencies which meant he ate bread and cheese on his hunkers while the rest were supping above. He hoped Godscalc was keeping them happy and retained Loppe, when he could, by the helm. Then the dark came, and thick cloud, and the real navigational problems began, followed by others. Jorge didn’t go to bed, and neither did he.
When day broke, grey and squally, he was not in the mood for badinage, and more than a little preoccupied with a fierce and unpredictable wind which had usurped the promised north-easterly and was knocking spume off the waves. Mast, stays and cordage were all in his thoughts, and the broad beam of the ship made movement on deck highly uncomfortable. When Bel the Scotswoman appeared, he asked her fairly politely to stay in her cabin.
Beneath a powerful shawl, the round brown eyes inspected him narrowly. The wind howled and the mizzen suddenly flapped. There was a rush of wet feet on the deck. Bel said, ‘Oh, never fear, we’re good sailors. Where are we?’
‘At sea,’ said Gelis, arriving. ‘What a murky night. How dead is your reckoning?’
He said, ‘I’m sorry. We have to keep the deck clear for sailing.’
‘We could hold a rope for ye,’ said Bel. Her eyes ranged round the grey tossing ocean. She said, ‘We thought we might see some land. If we’re pointing at the Pillars of Hercules, then I owe her two ducats, or she’ll take it in doppias. She’s a great one for a wager.’
‘We’re sailing south-west,’ Nicholas said.
‘Are we?’ said Gelis. They happened, because of work on a spar, to be sailing south-east at the time, but there was no one within earshot to contradict him.
He said, ‘If you doubt me, there might be land to be seen from the crow’s-nest.’ It leaned against streaming cloud, at the top of the mainmast. He saw Gelis, her head back, consider it.
Bel said, ‘There should be a wager in that.’ Her expression was wicked.
Temptation seized him, and then he remembered what he was doing. Nicholas said, ‘No, there isn’t. Below, please.’
They obeyed him but only, he fully realised, because they had sufficiently amused themselves.
That night, he joined them for supper, along with those seniors not already on duty. It was not because he had nothing else to do. In the least of the day’s incidents, a seaman fuddled with illicit drink had caught one of the two young grumetes with his hand in his pouch, and had beaten him senseless.
Nicholas had dealt with it. It wasn’t unusual. It was the sort of thing to be expected from a new-gathered crew at the outset of a ticklish voyage and hardly worth mentioning.
Gelis was of another opinion. Attacking her see-sawing soup, she looked up as soon as Nicholas, stooping, came to the table. ‘Don’t tell me!’ she said. ‘You waited to sew the boy into his shroud. Or was it the seaman?’ Godscalc stiffened.
‘Not my job,’ Nicholas said. ‘You’re enjoying the soup? There is plenty.’
‘So I suppose,’ she said. ‘The crew diminishes daily.’
‘But not the passenger
s,’ Nicholas said, sitting down with deliberation. Gelis van Borselen was mourning her sister in the only way that she knew, and she didn’t want him to be passive. That he realised.
Diniz was there. Diniz had had plenty of sleep, and was anxious to please. He said, ‘You have to keep discipline.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I understand the man thrashed a child,’ Gelis said.
Nicholas ate.
Gelis said, ‘Did you hear me?’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Nicholas.
Diniz said, ‘He was drunk. The seaman was drunk and Nicholas had him thrashed in his turn. It’s over,’ he said.
‘And the boy? Filipe?’ Gelis said.
‘Sewed in his shroud,’ Nicholas said.
Diniz said, ‘No. You let him off. Bel’s looking after him.’
‘Bel says it isn’t his fault,’ Gelis said. ‘She says the other boy, Lázaro, put him up to it.’
The fat woman was, of course, right. Lázaro was a natural bully. Nicholas ate, his mind on the pins of the rudder. Diniz said, ‘You should get rid of the thief and the man.’
Nicholas said, ‘Oh, the boy of course goes. We’ll see what becomes of the man.’
He winced at the bang as Gelis laid down her knife. ‘The child is dismissed, and the drunkard who beat him can stay?’
‘Yes, if he sobers,’ said Nicholas. ‘He’s said to be a good mariner, Luis. Every sea-going man makes that mistake once.’
‘How sad,’ said Gelis, ‘for any children they meet. And the enterprising Lázaro also keeps his position?’
‘It sounds,’ Nicholas said, ‘as if Lázaro might be handier than Filipe in a tight corner. A voyage like this needs survivors.’
‘Your priest is remarkably quiet,’ Gelis said.
‘That’s because he’s a survivor,’ Nicholas said. He waited, on edge, for Godscalc to speak, and then felt let down when he didn’t.
Gelis said, ‘How will he earn his living ashore?’
‘He prays over people,’ said Nicholas.
‘Filipe. On Madeira.’
‘Diniz will give him work on the Vasquez estate.’
‘A thief?’ Diniz said. He looked taken aback.
‘You wanted me to get rid of him,’ Nicholas said.
Diniz said, ‘As a matter of discipline.’
‘But not of philanthropy.’ He heard his own voice. He had not intended to do this. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this to Diniz and not to Gelis, except that he was tired of the boy’s dumb supplication. Or just tired. His ship moved beneath him, her sails full, her men settling, her course apparently true. Nicholas said, ‘So shall we talk about oranges?’
And Diniz went white.
No one moved. Father Godscalc’s heavy face flattened. Diniz said, ‘You invited us.’ He spoke very calmly.
Nicholas said, ‘Of course. I couldn’t dismiss you.’
‘You have hundreds!’ said Diniz. ‘Isn’t it insulting to compare these two things?’
‘I have hundreds less six,’ Nicholas said. ‘You were asked to respect some supplies, but you didn’t. Since you were leaving, I wouldn’t have mentioned it. If you’d been staying, I should. Lázaro and Filipe also broke rules. Lázaro can be made to behave. Filipe is too soft to take discipline. He’ll cause trouble again, and they’ll kill him. Sending him ashore is a kindness to everybody.’
Diniz had turned even paler. ‘You must be glad I am going. Or if I stayed, would you treat me like Lázaro?
‘Oh,’ said Gelis, ‘be quiet. His ship is falling apart, and he’s ashamed of it. Mother of Jesus, all this fuss about oranges? How else have we sinned? Have we taken a walnut too many, or breathed too much of your air?’
It occurred to Nicholas that he had been rather successful. He rose, projecting, he hoped, faint impatience. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘feel free to breathe. The use you make of your breath is another matter.’
Diniz also rose, and stood as if about to be hanged. He said, ‘I was wrong. I apologise. I hardly thought the crime was worth airing in public. But I can’t allow your comparison. As a gentleman, you ought to withdraw it.’
‘As a gentleman?’ Gelis said. ‘Holy Virgin, show me a peasant.’
‘That’s easy,’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy, opening the door. ‘There’s one lying sick in his cot, and crying to know what he’ll do on Madeira. I’m told to tell ye the rudder’s just sprung.’
Unguardedly, Nicholas laughed. He straightened his face. He said, ‘Then I must go. But it is a very fair question. I think you should decide between you what you will do with the boy in Madeira, while I go and ensure that he gets there.’
The next day, towards noon, the horizon offered a cluster of misty blue slopes. ‘The Pillars of Hercules?’ Gelis said hopefully.
‘Na, na,’ said the fat woman Bel. ‘What could that be but a great island? A steep, woody devil topped by a rain-cloud, which means fast rivers for milling, and good soil to swell out your canes, and warm-weather flowers to turn into beeswax, and grapes twelve inches long in the bunch for your wine. That’s the Isle of Madeira, and ye can pey me twa ducats. Yes, Master Gregorio?’
Gregorio smiled. He said, ‘We have a good navigator. You should have saved your two ducats.’
‘It kept hope alive,’ Gelis said. ‘But are we sure? Master vander Poele, where are you?’
He was within earshot, and better rested. He said, ‘I don’t know. How much money was it again?’
‘Two ducats it’s Madeira,’ said Gregorio helpfully.
‘The dear Lord forgive me,’ said Nicholas. ‘I meant to get to Madeira. But I’m afraid those are the Pillars of Hercules.’
He was delighted, walking away, to see that for a single brief moment they believed him.
A true landfall. Despite the winds, despite the mishaps, the ship was on perfect course for a land which had been found within living memory, lying elusive and quiet at the edge of the Green Sea of Shades, where, even yet, the straying ship might not find her.
Nicholas had seen it all for himself, shinning barefoot early that morning to the peak of the yardarm, watched by the narrowed eyes of da Silves. Below him, the ship leaned away from the light, the long shadows sliding in rhythm as she shouldered the waves running under her. She had come through her trials: the trials that, but for his haste, should have been conducted off Lagos, with a whole repairyard of craftsmen to support him.
As it was, they had set her to rights as they went. She would sail into the harbour of Funchal with her spars and rudder in order, her sails easy, her trim well-judged, and her crew at the beginning of making a vigorous, if somewhat opinionated team. He wanted her to look well, for he didn’t know what awaited him.
They neared the anchorage just before dusk. For the last hour or two, among all the bustle of refurbishing ship, they all took time to stand on deck beneath the soft, blustering wind from the sails and watch the island appear; the biggest of the archipelago, thirty-five miles in length: a wild, mountainous, uninhabited place less than fifty years since, and now growing to wealth under the rule of its Portuguese captains.
The bay of the southern capital opened up. Nicholas saw a sprinkling of low painted houses on the volcanic slopes behind it, and the white of a chapel, and a large house, higher up, above which he thought he caught sight of a flagstaff. Low by the shingle he could see the rectangle of a stone customs house from which a boat was putting off, no doubt to lead them to their anchorage.
Jorge da Silves was ready. As the boat threaded towards him, he began to guide the San Niccolò to the edge of the swaying flock of fisher-vessels and barges and row-boats that occupied the inner part of the bay, while Nicholas watched.
These were not what interested him. From a long way off, he had seen the masts of two much larger ships, one a roundship and one a caravel like his own. The roundship, for all her peculiarities of shape and her unnatural colour, was one so well known to him that he identified her from her outline alone. The caravel, painted blue, was a strange
r, and in spite of the uncertain gusts in the bay, the San Niccolò edged past at close enough quarters for him to see the name on her side: the Fortado.
‘Have you heard of her?’ It was Godscalc, surprisingly, standing beside him.
Nicholas said, ‘Yes. She’s Portuguese owned, and does a trade in yew bowstaves and sugar. I suspect she brought David de Salmeton from Porto Santo to Funchal.’ The caravel, in the poor light, showed some activity. The roundship, on the other hand, looked almost deserted, as if most of her crew were on shore. Occasionally she gave a small shiver, accompanied by a hollow drumming that carried fitfully over the water. Her topsides were scarlet.
The harbour boat, arriving and amiable, allowed them to drop anchor a judicious distance away from both the roundship and caravel. Godscalc watched the manoeuvre without pleasure. He said, ‘And that, I suppose, is your Ghost, with her horses. You still think her reincarnation will pass muster? David de Salmeton must know her as well as Simon – Who is that going ashore?’
‘Diniz,’ Nicholas said. The boy jumped into the harbour boat as he spoke and looked up, his face set in the lamplight. ‘He wished to leave first.… What were you asking? Would de Salmeton recognise the Ghost as the Doria? Not for sure. He didn’t see her on Cyprus, and has no proof, although he’ll suspect her, of course.’
‘And Simon?’ said Godscalc.
‘If he were to board her, perhaps. But I remind you. Ochoa de Marchena is a pirate. If threatened with boarding, he’ll sail. Are you going below? It is customary to give a supper on deck, and they’ll wish to put up the awnings.’
‘A supper?’ said Godscalc.
‘To celebrate our arrival. And say farewell, of course, to the ladies, whose magnificence we ought to try to match.’ The awnings lay on deck already, and were being untied with the greatest alacrity.
‘The ladies are going this evening?’ said Godscalc.
‘To stay with the Captain of Funchal. Diniz has gone to arrange it, and then will take horse to his family estate, where they will join him tomorrow. Ponta do Sol, twenty-five miles round the coast to the west.’