"Pinnace is afloat, Cap'n. I'm thinkin' we should stow the
goods and be underway. If we're goin'." Mackintosh's silhouette was
framed in the doorway of the Great Cabin, his eyes gaunt in the lantern
light. Dark had dropped suddenly over the _Discovery_, bringing with it
a cooling respite from the inferno of day.
"We'll cast off before the watch is out. Start loading the cloth and
iron-work"--Hawksworth turned and pointed toward his own locked sea
chest--"and send for the purser."
Mackintosh backed through the doorway and turned automatically to
leave. But then he paused, his body suspended in uncertainty for a long
moment. Finally he revolved again to Hawksworth.
"Have to tell you, I've a feelin' we'll na be sailin' out o' this piss-
hole alive." He squinted across the semi-dark of the cabin. "It's my
nose tellin' me, sir, and she's always right."
"The Company's sailed to the Indies twice before, Mackintosh."
"Aye, but na to India. The bleedin' Company ne'er dropped anchor in
this nest o' Portugals. 'Twas down to Java before. With nothin' but a
few Dutchmen to trouble o'er. India's na the Indies, Cap'n. The Indies
is down in the Spice Islands, where seas are open. The ports o' India
belong to the Portugals, sure as England owns the Straits o' Dover. So
beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, this is na the Indies. This might well be
Lisbon harbor."
"We'll have a secure anchorage. And once we're inland the Portugals
can't touch us." Hawksworth tried to hold a tone of confidence in his
voice. "The pilot says he can take us upriver tonight. Under cover of
dark."
"No Christian can trust a bleedin' Moor, Cap'n. An' this one's got a
curious look. Somethin' in his eyes. Can't tell if he's lookin' at you
or na."
Hawksworth wanted to agree, but he stopped himself.
"Moors just have their own ways, Mackintosh. Their mind works
differently. But I can already tell this one's not like the Turks."
Hawksworth still had not decided what he thought about the pilot. It
scarcely matters now, he told himself, we've no choice but to trust
him. "Whatever he's thinking, he'll have no room to play us false."
"Maybe na, but he keeps lookin' toward the shore. Like
he's expectin' somethin'. The bastard's na tellin' us what he knows. I
smell it. The nose, Cap'n."
"We'll have muskets, Mackintosh. And the cover of dark. Now load the
pinnace and let's be on with it."
Mackintosh stared at the boards, shifting and tightening his belt. He
started to argue more, but Hawksworth's voice stopped him.
"And, Mackintosh, order the muskets primed with pistol shot."
Hawksworth recalled a trick his father had once told him about, many
long years past. "If anybody ventures to surprise us, we'll hand them a
surprise in turn. A musket ball's useless in the dark of night, clump
of pistol shot at close quarters is another story."
The prospect of a fight seemed to transform Mackintosh. With a grin he
snapped alert, whirled, and stalked down the companionway toward the
main deck.
Moments later the balding purser appeared, a lifelong seaman with an
unctuous smile and rapacious eyes who had dispensed stores on many a
prosperous merchantman, and grown rich on a career of bribes. He
mechanically logged Hawksworth's chest in his account book and then
signaled the bosun to stow the heavy wooden trunk into the pinnace.
Hawksworth watched the proceedings absently as he checked the edge on
his sword. Then he slipped the belt over his shoulder and secured its
large brass buckle. Finally he locked the stern windows and surveyed
the darkened cabin one last time.
The _Discovery_. May God defend her and see us all home safe. Every
man.
Then without looking back he firmly closed the heavy oak door, latched
it, and headed down the companionway toward the main deck.
Rolls of broadcloth lay stacked along the waist of the ship, and beside
them were muskets and a keg of powder. George Elkington was checking
off samples of cloth as they were loaded irto the pinnace, noting his
selection in a book of accounts.
Standing next to him, watching idly, was Humphrey Spencer, youngest son
of Sir Randolph Spencer. He had shipped the voyage as the assistant to
Elkington, but his real motivation was not commerce but adventure, and
a stock of tales to spin out in taverns when he returned. His face of
twenty had suffered little from the voyage, for a stream of bribes to
the knowing purser had reserved for him the choice provisions,
including virtually all the honey and raisins.
Humphrey Spencer had donned a tall, brimmed hat, a feather protruding
from its beaver band, and his fresh doublet of green taffeta fairly
glowed in the lantern's rays. His new thigh-length hose were an
immaculate tan and his ruff collar pure silk. A bouquet of perfume
hovered about him like an invisible cloud.
Spencer turned and began to pace the deck in distraught agitation,
oblivious to his interference as weary seamen worked around him to drag
rolls of broadcloth next to the gunwales, stacking them for others to
hoist and stow in the pinnace. Then he spotted Hawksworth, and his eyes
brightened.
"Captain, at last you're here. Your bosun is an arrant knave, my life
on't. He'll not have these rogues stow my chest."
"There's no room in the pinnace for your chest, Spencer."
"But how'm I to conduct affairs 'mongst the Moors without a gentleman's
fittings?" He reviewed Hawksworth's leather jerkin and seaboots with
disdain.
Before Hawksworth could reply, Elkington was pulling himself erect,
wincing at the gout as his eyes blazed. "Spencer, you've enough to do
just mindin' the accounts, which thus far you've shown scant aptness
for." He turned and spat into the scuppers. "Your father'd have me make
you a merchant, but methinks I'd sooner school an ape to sing. 'Tis
tradin' we're here for, not to preen like a damn'd coxcomb. Now look to
it."
"You'll accompany us, Spencer, as is your charge." Hawksworth walked
past the young clerk, headed for the fo'c'sle. "The only 'fittings'
you'll need are a sword and musket, which I dearly hope you know enough
to use. Now prepare to board."