Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [76]
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