Читать книгу Golden Lion - Уилбур Смит, Wilbur Smith - Страница 18

The Delft, still lying at anchor, emerged from the dawn half-light. Ned Tyler turned the Golden Bough’s bows into the east so as to come up on the Dutch caravel’s larboard side, thus trapping her between them and the sandbars that stood a short way offshore at the mouth of a river delta. As they drew nearer, with the Golden Bough making little more than two knots in a breeze so faint that he could barely feel it on the back of his neck, Hal could see a scattering of men at her gunwales and atop the mizzen. A few more were up the rigging, ready to scramble out along the yards to release the sails. Clearly Tromp had left only a skeleton crew behind when he set off on his expedition to capture the Bough.

They were crouching under the forecastle bulwarks, Hal with his flintlock primed and his sword, only recently cleansed of the blood it had gathered earlier in the morning, in his right hand.

‘Aye, well our naked ensign staff should help ease their minds,’ Big Daniel replied, just as quietly. ‘They’ll reckon their skipper won the ship an’ struck our colours.’

There were just a few of the Bough’s men still on deck, and most of those were doing their best to avoid detection. As for the rest, Hal had ordered them to stay below, as if confined there as Tromp’s prisoners, until he gave the word. Tromp himself stood eight paces aft of Hal with his left hand gripping the rail at the foremost end of the deck just above the bowsprit, while his right hand clutched Hal’s own speaking trumpet. The morning air was still cool, yet sweat ran in rivulets down the Dutchman’s face and splashed in fat drops on the deck, for Aboli was crouched behind him with a ballock knife in hand. The African held the dagger’s wickedly sharp blade between Tromp’s legs, poised to geld the Dutchman should he deviate by so much as a flicker from the charade that Hal had contrived.

‘I reckon Tromp is as keen for this ruse to work as we are,’ Hal observed, to which Big Daniel nodded agreement, but tried to suppress a smile.

The remainder of Hal’s men, armed with steel and muskets, were poised below decks, eager to pour from the hatches and board the caravel. All the gun ports were closed, but the gun crews were hidden behind them, with their culverins readied to spit fire and iron fury at the Delft. Hal was hoping it would take only one salvo to destroy her crew’s resolve for that way he could keep the caravel for the most part intact, which would make her a far more valuable prize.

Hal took a deep breath, his nose filling with the scent of the tarred planks by his face, then looked up at Tromp and hissed, ‘Now, sir, speak your piece … unless you have your mind set on becoming a eunuch.’

The Dutchman hesitated for no longer than a moment, scratching the tuft of beard at his chin, glanced down at the blade poking between his legs then raised the speaking trumpet to his mouth, took a deep breath and yelled,

‘Men of the Delft! We have won a glorious victory!’ Hal knew enough Dutch to be satisfied so far, as Tromp called across the calm water, ‘I bring you the English ship the Golden Bough, all the treasures in her belly, and all her stores that will soon be in your bellies, too!’

The Dutch sailors’ cheers carried across to them and Hal watched Tromp raise his fist to the sky in a gesture of triumph, for he need say no more and his job was done. Aboli looked over his shoulder and gave Hal a great grin. The deception had worked!

Hal waited until they were barely a canvas off the Delft’s stern, looming over the much smaller vessel and on the point of colliding with her before he stood, as did the other men beside him.

‘To me, men of the Bough!’ Hal yelled and the hatches opened, spewing armed men onto the deck. Englishmen, Welsh, Scots and Irish all armed with cutlasses and muskets shouted, ‘Hal and the Bough!’ Beside them ran the Amadoda, gripping their lances and boarding axes and whooping with the joy of being unleashed once more. On the gundeck below, the ports were knocked out and the culverins run out loaded and primed.

As his men crowded the main deck, Hal took the speaking trumpet from Tromp who surrendered it with a sad sigh. The threat of Aboli’s knife was still close enough to his generative organs to keep his attention focussed.

‘Men of the Delft,’ Hal roared in his basic, working Dutch, ‘your captain won no victory. He and his men fought bravely, but there were far fewer of them than us and they are now my prisoners. Give up your ship and I will treat you well and give you food to eat. Refuse and I will send you to the sea bed without a crumb in your bellies.’

The Bough’s crew lining the gunwales yelled threats and made crude gestures, but they were all unnecessary. The prospect of a square meal alone was enough for the men of the Delft. They threw up their hands and surrendered without so much as a shot fired or blow struck.

The man who came into the cockpit holding a ship’s lantern before him grimaced at the stench of fresh faeces. Seeing the corpse, he stopped and cast his light over it, prodded it with the toe end of his boot, then turned back to a tall African whose lean, muscled body glistened by the candle’s glow.

‘This one’s for the crabs,’ he said, and by the lamplight Pett saw that although the man was still young he bore the unmistakable air of a leader of men. His face derived much of its character from an eagle-beaked nose that spoke of high birth and he carried himself with the assurance that came both from giving commands upon which other men’s lives depended and also knowing that they would always be obeyed.

Pett had positioned himself as far from the door to the cockpit as his chain would allow and had still not been spotted by the two men, whose arrival had told him all he needed to work out the general sequence of events that must have occurred since the expeditionary party had left the Delft. Evidently, the Dutch had not succeeded and the price of their failure was the capture of their ship. Here, then, was the victorious captain. He greatly interested Pett, though he was not yet clear in his mind whether he should look on this young commander as a potential client, or a man whom other clients might want dead.

‘Even the crabs must eat, Gundwane,’ the African said, giving the body a disdainful poke with his cutlass. This man looked every inch the warrior and he was very clearly his captain’s most trusted associate. Aboard ship, that would make him the first mate. Pett categorized the African as a potential impediment, to be considered and accounted for should the captain ever need killing. That aside, he had no interest in him, though it did strike him that he had never seen a black first mate before.

‘It is a tragedy, sir, that the man died on the very cusp of our salvation,’ Pett now spoke up.

He could have died quicker. Much quicker, the Saint sniped in a voice that echoed so loudly around Pett’s skull that he could scarce believe others could never detect it. His own voice, however, had been heard, for the white man spun round, lifting the lantern even as instinct made him grip the hilt of the fine sword scabbarded at his hip. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, peering into the gloom.

‘My name is Pett, sir. I have been chained down here like a slave for these last weeks, so many I have lost count. Yet my prayers have been answered at last. I hardly dared believe my ears when I heard English voices above.’ He rattled his leg chain to emphasize his predicament. ‘Are you of the ship that cheese-head Captain Tromp meant to capture?’

‘I am Sir Henry Courtney, captain of the Golden Bough,’ the young man said, ‘and you’ll be glad to know your captivity is over, Mr Pett.’

Courtney gestured at the stinking corpse. ‘Of what did this man die?’ he asked.

He died of boredom while you took an age to choke the life out of him, the Saint told Pett.

‘Hunger?’ Pett said with a shrug. ‘I am not a man of medicine, Captain. Nor did I know the poor man well, though I can attest to what you have yourself no doubt discovered: this is a ship crewed by starving men. They showed no human kindness towards me, seeing me as just another mouth to feed, and throwing me in this floating dungeon. But this one soul who shared my confinement became a true companion. For which reason I would humbly entreat your permission to be allowed to prepare the body for burial myself, rather than have it done by someone who has never laid eyes on the deceased man before now.’ He raised a hand. ‘If it please you, Captain.’

‘I have no objections,’ Henry Courtney said, then turned to the black man. ‘Ask Captain Tromp where we will find the key to Mr Pett’s irons, or failing that have the carpenter bring his tools.’

‘Yes, Gundwane,’ the African said, disappearing back up the stairwell.

‘Very kind of you, Captain, much obliged.’ Pett affected a sombre expression to hide the relief he felt at the prospect of wrapping the corpse in its burial shroud. He had no desire to let anyone else see the bruises on the dead man’s neck, nor the swollen tongue and eyes that would betray the true cause of his death.

‘How did you come to be Captain Tromp’s prisoner?’ Captain Courtney asked, by now as oblivious to the stink as any man used to life at sea.

Pett sighed, not too theatrically, he hoped. ‘’Tis a sad and somewhat lengthy tale, Captain, the telling of which will be easier once I have fed my empty belly and sluiced my parched throat.’

‘Of course, how thoughtless of me,’ Courtney nodded. ‘You must join me for dinner, Mr Pett. For now, though, if you will excuse me, I have the rest of the ship’s inventory to inspect. Have no fear, one of my men will return to free you at the soonest opportunity.’

‘Of course, Captain,’ Pett said, still barely believing his luck. Truly the Lord works in mysterious ways, he thought, as the young captain disappeared. Now he was left alone in the darkness, and yet he was not alone at all, for the Saint and all the angels were with him and William Pett felt truly blessed by their presence.

When Tromp had ruefully admitted that there was neither gold, nor spice in his holds, Hal had presumed that there was nothing of any value aboard the Delft. And at first glance that presumption appeared to be entirely correct. Most of the hold was entirely bereft of cargo and was now being used as quarters for the Delft’s petty officers and as a place to treat men whose emaciation had made them too ill or feeble to work. But at its far bow end there were twelve barrels neatly stacked and lashed down with ropes to keep them from moving in the event of rough seas. Using his cutlass Aboli prised off one of the lids to find the barrel stuffed with sweet-smelling wood shavings and dried grass. When Hal caught up with him, he thrust his hand deep into the barrel. After a good rummage his fingers detected several small boxes. Hal pulled out one of them and, upon opening it, found a glass vial inside, no bigger than his thumb.

‘I don’t think much of Captain Tromp’s wine cellar,’ he joked, holding the vial up to the ship’s lantern and trying to peer through the thick green glass.

‘I have heard Hindoo sailors from India talk of Amrit, the Nectar of Immortality. Perhaps it is that,’ Aboli ventured, with a grin.

Hal laughed. ‘If Tromp had found the elixir of life I doubt he would be sailing this worm-riddled Portuguese tub and picking fights with the likes of us.’ He pulled the cork stopper and sniffed the vial’s contents. ‘Whatever it is, it’s sour,’ he said.

‘I know a good way of testing the man to see if he is indeed immortal,’ Aboli said, waving his cutlass, but Hal was in no mood to laugh. He had clung on to the smallest hope that Tromp might have been carrying a more valuable cargo than he had let on. Clearly, however, he had nothing of any worth whatever on board. And yet, there had to have been some reason why these vials had been boxed with such care. The liquid they contained was certainly not a scent for which fashionable women would pay good money. Nor could it be some sort of medical potion, for if it were there would be labels promoting its properties. Hal felt a brief tremor of shock as the thought struck him that he might just have inadvertently inhaled a dose of poison, but a moment’s reflection told him that he was entirely unharmed.

The puzzle deepened as Aboli opened the next barrel, from which Hal pulled three pieces of desiccated old wood, getting a splinter in his thumb for his trouble. Each piece was dark as an old ship’s timber, though none had the telltale signs of shipworm. ‘Do you have any idea at all what these might be?’ Hal asked, quite at a loss for a suggestion of his own. Aboli held up his hands and shrugged, admitting that he too was defeated.

‘Well, there’s only one man who can solve this conundrum,’ Hal said. ‘Go and fetch Tromp and let’s hear what he has to say for himself.’

A few minutes later, Aboli returned to the hold, accompanied by the Delft’s former master. Hal held up the pieces of wood and asked, ‘What in heaven’s name are these?’

Tromp grinned. ‘You should not take the name of heaven in vain, Captain. Those are pieces of the true cross.’ Hal had personal experience of Christianity’s most precious relics. So for a second he was almost prepared to believe that he was holding part of the cross on which Christ himself had died. But if so, why was Tromp smiling? Was he so lacking in faith that he could make a joke of the Saviour’s suffering?

Hal kept his counsel for the time being. He said nothing as he put the pieces of wood back where he’d found them and then held up the green glass vial that had been his first discovery.

‘Ah,’ Tromp nodded cheerfully. ‘I see you have found that most sacred of treasures, the ancient bottle that contains the milk of the Virgin Mary. There is another in there that holds the tears the Blessed Mother shed as she watched her son die.’

Now Hal spoke, and his voice was tense with anger. ‘By God, sir, I’ll ask you not to take the names of Our Lord Jesus Christ and his blessed mother Mary in vain. You may find your blasphemy amusing. Be assured that I do not.’

The Dutchman raised his palms submissively. ‘I can see you are a man who is not easily fooled, Captain Courtney,’ he said. ‘But you are a rarity in that regard, or so I had hoped, for it was my intention to make hundreds of pounds from selling such curiosities.’ He scratched his pointed beard. ‘Or as I intended to describe them, such holy relics.’