By the time Diniz came up from his supper to discover the cause of the banging and rolling, the wind was dead astern and the Ghost had changed her shape yet again. The forecastle and poop both seemed higher; the boats were differently stowed and the rail of the quarter-deck altered; while her mizzen-sail, which had been a triangular lateen, was now square, although at present reefed in order to slow her. Lastly, the mysterious chests which had lain on her deck were now dismantled, disclosing six bombards and four breechloading swivel-guns. In the waist, neatly folded, lay a quantity of old thin sailcloth.
‘What are you doing?’ Diniz said. ‘They’ve put out our lamps.’
‘My lamp has been taken away,’ said the angry voice of Gelis almost immediately.
‘That is right, my treasured ones,’ said Ochoa de Marchena. ‘See, pick your way to the binnacle. Per gratia di Dio et del beato messer Sante Niccholò, as they say in the Levant. We show no lights while we catch up with the Fortado, for there is no moon and the stars are cloud-covered. And just recently we have come into the path of the north-easterly, which will propel us all the way to Arguim, once our business is finished.’
‘You are going to blow her out of the water!’ said Diniz exultantly.
‘Nonsense,’ said Nicholas, his face suspended diabolically in the same binnacle light. ‘We intend to put her to a small inconvenience before the night is quite over, but it won’t be for some hours yet, and there is no need for the lady to lose sleep or her lamp. I shall have it put back, demoiselle, so long as you have no objection to having your doorway made fast. One gleam from that, and it might be the Fortado which blows us out of the water.’
‘Then I’d rather be on deck when she did it,’ Gelis said. ‘Keep your lantern.’
She was not on deck, however, when they caught up with the Fortado, for Ochoa, a cape over the glory of his stolen cuirass and sword, had dispatched her below, together with the three or four whores from the forecastle and the groom for the horses.
Up on deck, the big stern lantern was cold, and every other light was extinguished except for the two binnacles, secure in their boxes. The sailcloth had gone, but beside the guns the faintest glow showed where the slow-matches burned in their barrels and men moved about on bare feet, speaking softly. Diniz said, ‘Where is she? The Fortado? Has she seen us?’
‘There,’ said Nicholas, pointing ahead and to the right. Having no armour, he had borrowed for himself and Diniz from the seamen’s stock of leather tunics and helms. ‘No. She’s darkened, as we are. When we reach the top of the swell, you can just see the green of her wake. We want to get between her and the wind on the same tack, so that she loses way and may even broach-to. Then we fire as we pass her.’
‘The cannon?’ said Diniz. He sounded breathless. ‘You said –’
‘I said we’d mind our manners. The cannon are only there in case she doesn’t mind hers.’ As he spoke, the rigging shuddered under his hand, although the sky was so dark he could see no one. He said, ‘We’re going to slow her, that’s all. We can do it with handguns.’
‘I can use one,’ said Diniz. ‘Where are they?’
He told him, and let Ochoa give him his orders. The others already had theirs. The best three marksmen to fire first; shattering the rudder as they came up. Then, as they came abreast, as many balls as they could let off against the concave cloth, the sheets and braces of the temporary squaresail.
‘For, see, my angels, my little mice,’ said Ochoa de Marchena. ‘Her mizzen-sail cannot be set in this wind, for it would steal the wind from the rest; and she has her foresail held flat as a board until the wind settles, much though she would like to fly after your poor San Niccolò, labouring ahead in the dark (although you may be calm, Jorge will not risk his life until he has his honour). So we must wrest from her the squaresail, which I will take my oath is the only one that she has, and is of light flax of the kind that might even rip free from its sheets and yard and take to the sky like a bird, like an expensive bird never to be captured. And even if it is not, she may turn round to the wind and be caught aback, and then what will happen? Delay, delay, my children. Delay and mortification.’
A small inconvenience, nothing more. The Vatachino and Simon were not on board; this was a matter of trade, not of war. If she still had her cannon from her Ceuta days (and Ochoa had seen no sign of them), the Fortado was unlikely to test them against the gleaming power of the roundship’s armoury, trained on her flank.
Any crew worth the name could repair small-arms damage; could replace a main with a lateen sail, patch canvas and splice rope and rig up jury spars. The beauty of it was that it took time, and the Fortado’s sailing thereafter would be sluggish – sluggish enough to let the little San Niccolò fly ahead to the market at Arguim, and for himself to follow briskly and do his business there, and transfer to the San Niccolò before anyone stopped him, such as Father Godscalc.
It was a reasonable plan, and it began well enough, for the watch on the Fortado was evidently poor and no warning cries, or whistles, or drumbeats floated back to the Ghost, although her bow wave must now have been visible. Admired by Nicholas from Ochoa’s side, the roundship spread her canvas, presented her gleaming red quarter to the formidable wind and began to cut through the heaving sea and up towards the weather side of the other ship’s stern.
Ochoa, a burning slow-match over each ear, stood gripping the rail of the poop, his eyes on the just-discernible dark shape ahead and her seething green wake off his beam. The helmsman and his mate waited, rigid and ghostly in the compass light. And throughout the dark and silent roundship, points of dusky red flame glimmered along the deck, in the waist, on the forecastle, above in the rigging where the hackbutters waited, Diniz among them, their guns primed and their matches ready to touch.
Then they were within range of the Fortado’s sternpost, and Ochoa gave the order to fire.
The noise and flame from the handguns followed instantly, but only one of the balls struck the rudder, for even as they fired, the Fortado started to turn by the lee. At the same instant, the stern lantern of the caravel sprang to life, flinging a great yellow beam over the water, and followed by other lamps at masthead and rigging and poop, so that the Ghost, looming to windward, became brilliant.
They had been tricked. The Fortado, fully manned and alert, had seen them and was waiting, prepared for them. The light showed her stern and waist busy with men, their voices now ringing out. And although her squaresail had spilled air, it could be seen that the caravel’s mainbraces were manned, and a moment later the foresail broke out and, catching the wind not yet masked by the Ghost, began to assist her to swing.
Ochoa screamed orders. The vessel shook as her sails were reset and she rolled, her pace slackening. The caravel continued to turn. The Ghost’s hackbutters, hardly hesitating, kept up their deliberate fire, and with the rudder much less accessible, transferred their attentions to the retreating mainsail and rigging. In the lamplight, the activity on the Fortado was quite clear, and also the immobile figure of a knight in full armour, plumed helmet and all, standing exposed on the poop deck. Another, in worn helm and cuirass, bellowed orders below him.
The knight was unknown, but Nicholas recognised the helm and the voice of the master. They belonged to Mick Crackbene, the man he had fought and got rid of at Lagos. Got rid of for ever, he’d hoped. Nicholas started to run.
Seized and dragged into darkness, Diniz was swinging the stock of his handgun before he saw his assailant. ‘Get down,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or cover your face. Crackbene’s there. Crackbene’s sailing that ship. He mustn’t see us.’ He pulled his own neckerchief from his jerkin and held it out. The boy jerked to his knees.
The deck swayed. Ochoa’s voice and the mate’s shouted hoarsely. Diniz glared at the Fortado. Ignoring the kerchief and Nicholas, he lurched to his feet with his weapon, paused, and launched himself directly into the light. It wasn’t surprising. Prisoner of his grandfather, Diniz had been wrested from Cyprus on the same roundship on w
hose deck he now stood, and Michael Crackbene had been his gaoler.
Nicholas scrambled after. The Fortado was already slanting away, her mainsail adapting, her blue starboard flank beginning to lift as she was set to veer west and north. Something glittered along the line of her rail. The man in armour still stood at the stern, but the other had changed his position. Judging Diniz just within reach, Nicholas obeyed a roll of the ship and flung himself on him. As the boy crashed, collapsing beneath him, Nicholas realised what he had seen: a line of swivelling cannon, hitherto covered. Then he understood what Ochoa was shouting, and heard the comito repeat the command, and saw that in the moments he had missed, the three great bombards and two breechloaders along the Ghost’s starboard rail were all standing ready and manned, the matches ready to touch.
He thought afterwards that he shouted an order, but if so, it had no effect. In explosion after thundering explosion, the Ghost’s leeside bombards fired one by one at each heave of the ship; fired at the Portuguese caravel Fortado, licensed by her monarch to trade off the Guinea coast. The first three-hundred-pound ball shredded her mainsail. The second raked her from rail to rail just above the well of the deck, so that two of her cannon sprang into the sea. The third pierced the pavilion of the poop, and went on to break her mizzen in half.
There was no fourth, for Nicholas had got to the swivel-gunner by then, and knocked him back from his post. The man rounded on him; others loomed; the mate leaped forward, his hand on his sword, and Nicholas whipped out his blade. High on the poop deck Ochoa held back at first and said nothing. Then he shrieked a command, and then another, in his mumbling, furious voice. The men stood panting, their fists doubled, but on the second invitation they jumped as if he had flayed them and, abandoning the guns, scampered to set their hands to the toil of getting the ship on her way.
Even so, the ship’s lash came out before the sails were drawing to Ochoa’s satisfaction, for it was plain that his men had no relish for running off from a prize, and especially one that had been all set, by God, to tempt them round and rake them with a broadside. But Ochoa, for all his fancy clothes, had a rude way, Nicholas suspected, with dissidents. At least, before Diniz was fully recovered the sails had filled, the helm returned to its course and, picking up speed, the Ghost abandoned her victim and, flying before the steady, violent wind, resumed her passage to Arguim.
Searching for Diniz, Nicholas found him sitting clutching his broken head in the great cabin, with the lamp lit and Gelis van Borselen busy with water and linen beside him. Nicholas hesitated, seeing the light; and then said nothing. At present the Fortado was in no state to follow, and although she might try to fire, they must be at the extreme range of her guns or passing beyond it. He stood, therefore, one hand pressed above to the deckhead against the tilting and rolling beneath him, and said, ‘Is it bad? Diniz, I’m sorry. The rascals were turning to give us a broadside.’
He didn’t know what to expect. In fact Diniz jerked up his head on hearing his voice, sending the bowl of pink water surging over the cabin and splashing the girl with its contents. Diniz exclaimed, ‘She says we fired first, and I missed it! She says the mizzenmast broke, and the poop was wrecked. He must be dead. You must have killed half of them.’
‘I didn’t mean to kill any of them,’ Nicholas said. ‘It was Ochoa’s idea.’
He turned his eyes from the flushed face of Diniz to the girl. Her hair ruffled, her hood fallen back, she looked as composed as a tall marble caryatid, undisturbed by battle or gunfire, far less her recent feminine company. She said, ‘From what you say, it was just as well he conceived it. There was a man on the Fortado who knew you both?’
‘He may not have seen us,’ said Nicholas. ‘In any case –’
‘He’s probably dead,’ Diniz repeated. The bandage-end, not yet neatened, hung rakishly over one cheek in a style reminiscent of one of Ochoa de Marchena’s confections.
Nicholas said, ‘In the name of hell, what has come over you? You were excessively lofty about the Lalaing brothers calling out Arabs in Ceuta, but you don’t seem to have many qualms about Christians.’
Diniz said, ‘I suppose the Genoese in Famagusta weren’t Christians!’ Then he sucked in his breath.
Nicholas swore. Gelis said, ‘How exciting. I can’t remember when I last debated religion. I think Diniz is right.’
Diniz said, ‘I shouldn’t have spoken.’
‘Why not?’ said Gelis van Borselen. ‘We mustn’t lose sight of the wider issues. Involuntary martyrdom of its nature is sad, but consider the souls you will proceed to encounter and save, now this man and his friends can’t denounce you.’
‘They can’t anyway,’ Nicholas said. ‘Even if they speak from their coffins. There is no way they can get to Arguim before us. Can I finish that for you?’
She had begun to tie the end of the bandage, forcing Diniz’ glowering face down. She turned her head from left to right slowly. Diniz said, ‘If we hadn’t fired first, they’d have killed us.’
He wasn’t speaking to Gelis. ‘Ah,’ said Gelis none the less. ‘Ah, but they might have fired over our heads. I’m sure that’s what Nicholas has in mind. You don’t mind if I call you Nicholas, Claes? Or Nikko, perhaps?’
‘You needn’t call me anything,’ Nicholas said, ‘after Arguim. May I tell you both what is going to happen there? We three transfer by boat from the Ghost to the Niccolò, so that it appears we’ve been there all the time. The Ghost has no permit to sell, but the Portuguese factor is greedy for horses. The Niccolò will even offer to help with the paperwork. Meanwhile the demoiselle packs, takes her companion and lands. The trading-post is quite large, and the factor’s wife will be happy to entertain two charming ladies and set them aboard the next ship for Madeira.’ He finished on a reasonable note. In fact, he didn’t care how he finished.
Gelis had completed her task. The circlet of linen was tied in a chic lovers’ knot. She picked up the bowl and held it on her splashed skirts. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I mustn’t kill anybody? And Diniz has to go back as well?’
Diniz said, ‘No, of course I’m going on. But he’s right. You must go, and Bel. It’s far too dangerous.’
‘What a discovery,’ Gelis said. ‘You made a promise at Ponta do Sol. You don’t go unless I come with you.’
She raised her brows at the boy. The boy glanced at Nicholas who, steadied by the negligent arm over his head, continued to sway with his eyes almost shut. Diniz said, ‘Then I take it back. I don’t need protecting from him. I thought you’d have seen that by now. And I thought he’d get rid of you, anyway.’
‘You thought he could get rid of me?’ Gelis said. ‘May God in His mercy give me patience. He can barely get his ship to obey him, never mind anything else. Of course I shan’t go. And Bel had better stay on board, we may need her. Tell me, Nikko …’
‘No,’ said Nicholas.
‘Claes? Tell me, Claes, how you expect to go on? Certainly, you will beat the Fortado to Arguim, but since she has not unhappily sunk, she will surely hunt this ship south and impeach her?’
‘Impeach the Ghost?’ Nicholas said. ‘You haven’t seen what we’ve done. Come and look at her.’ He was far from at ease in her company, but his arm had grown numb, and the bench she occupied was his bed.
She made no demur. They walked, leaving Diniz, the length of the deck. The lamps had been lit. The false erections were already half down, and the guns cleaned, cooled and covered. Fulfilling his hopes, the men sniggered and called as she passed, saying nothing. The bawds were all out of sight.
He took her to the side – the side which, throughout, had faced the Fortado. Firmly pegged and smoothed from long practice, a length of sailcloth covered her strakes from bow to stern and down to the waterline. Seen at night; seen even over the water by lamplight, the roundship appeared painted white; appeared to be without flag or name, and with few of the characteristics of either the Ghost or her shell the Doria.
Rolling with the ship, the master app
roached them. Nicholas said, ‘That’s why Ochoa couldn’t turn fully and follow. There was only enough cloth for one side. Just as well, you ravening jackal. You might have ruined the game.’
Manifest in clean lilac taffeta, Ochoa gave an agreeable wink. ‘So whatever the mischief, demoiselle, the Fortado cannot say it was the fault of our splendid red Ghost.’
‘Can’t they?’ Gelis said.
‘She means,’ Nicholas said, ‘that whoever the caravel thought had attacked her, she would still blame the Ghost.’
Ochoa de Marchena leaned over and patted the demoiselle’s sleeve. ‘There is acumen. But we, too, have our genius. Yes, the Ghost will be accused. Our enemy’s crew will be instructed to report their attacker as red, and of our style and even our name. But a man paid to lie can be paid more to come out with the truth. And if two such poor men, taken separately, confide to the Portuguese agent that the marauder was really white, and had no name and no flag, and was shaped thus and thus – will the truth not prevail?’
‘The truth?’ said Gelis.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do you know, I think I might go to bed.’
Chapter 15
THE DAY AFTER THAT, the cry of ‘Tier-ra!’ came from the masthead, and Nicholas, already on deck, stayed to watch the line between sea and sky darken.
Land. The edge of the desert.
The selfsame cry heard off Madeira had brought him a shock of delight stronger than all his cares at that moment. Off Grand Canary the call, no less thankful, had seemed to promise reunion at last with his caravel, and separation, at last, from his penance.
In both he had been disappointed. The girl was still in his life, like an ulcer.
The dispute had hung in the air for three days, during which Diniz and Gelis van Borselen had to put up with one another at table, and with Nicholas rather less often, since he spent most of his time on the poop deck.
The Fortado lay crippled somewhere behind. Somewhere ahead, sailing at a caravel’s speed, was the San Niccolò. It would be pleasant to raise her.