Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [158]
She had keen sight. The two boats, once towed at the rear of the Niccolò, lay upside down on the same strip of shore they were standing on, but far off down the river: so far that in the luminous glow from the sky they might have been river-horses, crouched and lowering. As they squinted, the distant figure of Jorge da Silves detached itself from the shadows and the solitary, mournful pipe of his whistle reached them again; in summons, not in warning. Ahmad stood beside him.
The boats had been destroyed. It was the first thing they saw, running over the mud. Buckled, battered and split, these portable barges would never carry them to the upper Gambia, and from the Joliba east to the River of Jewels. It had been done by many hatchets. Godscalc said, ‘But where is the ship?’ And Jorge da Silves pointed.
The swampy islet was yet further downstream by some distance, and the Niccolò had driven on it with some force, spinning round so that her bow had run high on the slime and the rest of her was tilted over, a third among bushes and the remainder still in her natural element. She glimmered, fragile as tortoiseshell in the misty, rippling light which touched, now and then, one or other of her three intact masts.
Nothing else stirred. She had come there by no error of navigation: her cable must have been cut; perhaps she had even been driven there. Godscalc said, ‘The men? What sign of the men?’
‘None,’ said Jorge da Silves. Then he said, ‘Someone is coming.’
They looked behind, expecting Doria. Then, as da Silves didn’t turn, they followed his gaze to the caravel. A bark canoe had put off and was approaching; black as flotsam and poled by one man. They heard the splash as his blade touched the water, first on one side and then on the other. They didn’t speak. He came nearer. They saw, bit by bit, that he was European, and bare-headed, and wearing a torn, open shirt black with bloodstains. They saw it was Nicholas.
Jorge da Silves began shouting, and Vito and Fernao and half the others. Bel didn’t call. She’d put Ahmad and two of the crew to piling up firewood, and before the bark touched the mud, the stack was alight, and their shadows were running behind them. Nicholas lowered his oar, hesitated, and stepped heavily into the water, while others ran the boat up. Diniz ran up to him, but Jorge da Silves stayed, and Godscalc, and Gelis. Gelis had made no effort to help with the bonfire.
Nicholas stood and looked at Father Godscalc. He said, ‘I have lost Melchiorre.’
His voice turned Bel cold. Diniz halted. Godscalc stepped forward and took Nicholas by the arm, drawing him to stand on the mud. His feet were bare and cut, but the blood on his shirt was not his own. Godscalc said, ‘You saved everyone else.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I have lost Melchiorre. Will you search the beach? Who is fit? Diniz this way, with a brand, and you, Vito, go there.’ His voice lost momentum. He added, ‘Saloum is still on board.’
‘And Lopez?’ said Jorge da Silves. ‘Shall we look for him, too?’
‘I have looked already,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then come and sit by the fire,’ Godscalc said. The wounded lay there already, and the others moved about nervously, looking at each other and at Jorge and Nicholas. Two fireflies far down each beach were the search parties, in quick counter-motion. Behind, the bush loomed and threatened.
Jorge da Silves said, ‘Well, talk, man! Sit if you must, but for God’s sake, tell us what happened! I have men here to think of.’
Godscalc lifted a large arm and pushed. Jorge staggered, and snatched at his scabbard. Gelis said, ‘Listen.’
From far away, Diniz was calling. Nicholas woke from his trance. He was running before the rest started.
They had found Melchiorre. Melchiorre the Florentine second mate; the good, competent seaman who had sailed with Nicholas on the Ciaretti. He lay where the river had cast him, with a hackbut hole drilled through his back. Nicholas knelt by his head; Godscalc joined him, and Bel gave them light. The man gasped. Nicholas slipped