Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [97]
‘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 approached 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.
Ochoa was soothing. The caravel had had four hours’ start; she had spent more time in easier waters; Jorge was experienced in choosing a course and would not, like the Ghost, have had to stop or to deviate. Moreover, the Niccolò would be in urgent need of provisions, having loaded nothing since Lagos but some hurried barrels of water at Funchal. They would meet her at Arguim.
Detecting a note of anxiety, Nicholas didn’t argue. The roundship, lunging and hissing, was close to her maximum speed. More canvas would put her bows under.
He had had his blazing row with Ochoa, and had hammered it into his head that so long as he, the patron, was on board, no cannon would fire without his permission. It was not a popular edict. The crew were Ochoa’s, and unused to an employer who meddled. When a man showed too bold a resentment, Ochoa put him promptly in chains, which was even less popular. The little mice