Richard Woodman [Richard Woodman] - The Disastrous Voyage of the Santa Margarita

THE DISASTROUS VOYAGE OF THE SANTA MARGARITA

Richard Woodman

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First world edition published 2008 in Great Britain and in 2009 in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

915 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright 2008 by Richard Woodman.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Woodman, Richard, 1944

The disastrous voyage of the Santa Margarita

1. Shipwrecks - Fiction 2. Sea stories

I. Title

823.9'14[F]

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-196-5 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6723-0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-102-7 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

Further Titles by Richard Woodman from Severn House

DEAD MAN TALKING

THE EAST INDIAMAN

THE GUINEAMAN

THE ICE MASK

THE PRIVATEERSMAN

One

El Sobrasaliente

The Devil! There is always a priest!

The seor should mind his tongue.

The tall figure standing beneath the rustling fronds of the sugar palm spun round to glare open-mouthed at the diminutive figure behind him.

Devil take you! the man gasped. Where in the name of God did you spring from? His hand flew to the hilt of a dagger in his waistband, his face drained of colour.

The dwarf drew back, but appeared otherwise unmoved by the tall mans reaction. I have been following you, seor, he answered, his bearded face with its bulging forehead cocked on one side, his wide, thick-lipped mouth in a grin that revealed broken and caried teeth. To the astonished man, this misshapen lump of humanity was a hideous and a terrifying figure. His grip tightened upon the hilt of his stiletto, which caught the light filtering through the palm fronds above.

For what purpose, you damned and hellish imp? he asked, partially recovering his nerve, and lowering the blade.

Appearing not to notice this restoration in his quarrys spirits, the dwarfs grin widened into a leer. You spoke before like an heretic; now you tremble like one of the faithful caught with his

He got no further. The tall man shot out his right hand, grasped his tormentor by the throat and with a single swing thrust the dwarf, with a sickening thump of his head, against the rough bark of the palm trees bole. Then he lowered his own head to a point that was level with his prisoners, spitting his words in the dwarfs face.

What business am I of yours, eh, you dog? Who sent you to spy upon me? After a moment to allow the questions to penetrate a mind more concerned with sucking in another breath than comprehending his interrogator, he released the dwarf, who sank to his knees, gasping for air.

Their positions now reversed, the tall man straightened up and stood over his victim, patiently waiting as the wretch struggled to inhale. When the dwarf looked up, the tall man raised his right eyebrow; a mute but eloquent transfiguration of his expression in which the now desperate but perspicacious dwarf perceived a shred of compassion.

Seor... Don Iago... he gasped.

You know my name, you damned fiend! Astonished, Don Iagos face hardened again.

I know what you are called, seor.

You are bold, and, the man added, softening slightly, I think lack not courage.

You do me some honour and, please believe me, seor, I come as a friend.

A friend? You! In this manner? How can you come as a friend?

To say that there are those that speak against you.

How so? Who speaks against me?

The dwarf shrugged. Some that I have heard of.

And what do they say?

That you are an heretic.

The tall man sighed. How conspicuous in his conduct at the Mass does a man have to be before he is charged with Pharisaic pride? he said, half to himself. Have these whisperers not perceived me at my devotions? Christ knows I have worn my knees to the bone or is it, he went on before the dwarf could answer, because I have come among them in these heathen clothes? He plucked at the loose cotton pantaloons, common to the Chinese who manned the junks from Guandong, that he wore under a loose shirt.

Seor, I...

But the man the dwarf called Don Iago turned away, returning his attention to the great ship offshore, riding to her anchor surrounded by Chinese junks. She lay in deep water off the beach that spread beyond the shade of the palm grove and the tangle of vegetation marking the edge of the forest. For a moment the air was troubled only by the rustling fronds overhead, but then the noise of her loading came across the water again. They could see bales and boxes being hauled aboard from the crowd of junks and sampans that lay moored about her like piglets suckling from a gigantic mother, except that the traffic was the other way. Borne aloft by the great ships yard and stay tackles, the riches of China were hoisted aboard the capacious hull that, day by day, sank lower in the water. Despite this activity in filling her holds, small gangs of seamen toiled in her upper rigging and Iago knew them to be rattling down, fitting chafing gear, worming and serving, setting up the lanyards in their euphroes and deadeyes as the upper yards were secured preparatory to sailing.

Iago was impressed by the no. She was enormous. He knew the Spanish were capable of building such large ships in their colonial shipyards in Havana, on the Caribbean island of Cuba, vessels to rival those built in Spain itself, but the ship at which he was staring had been built here, in the Philippines, on a slip at Cavite less than a mile from where she now lay, loading the produce of China for the passage across the Pacific to Acapulco on the coast of New Spain. He stared upwards in some wonder, for she bore three yards on her fore and mizzen-masts, the uppermost a recent innovation in Spanish ship-fitting. He had heard of such a tall rig with this additional yard and sail this juanete or topgallant, set above what had, until recently, been the topsail.

But Iago, who had been watching the no for some days, was troubled by the dwarfs intrusion and the intelligence he imparted, and could no longer concentrate upon the loading of the Santa Margarita.

Tis not enough, Iago muttered vehemently, half to himself, to have suffered shipwreck and misfortune, but these damned vultures would have a man at the stake for heresy.

You condemned a priest to damnation, ventured the dwarf, standing and rubbing his throat. I heard you say so...

Iago returned his attention to the dwarf, ignoring the hostile implication of the freaks remark. You look Spanish to me, he said, regarding the dwarf. You are not an Indian.

I was born in the islands, seor, not here in Cavite but in Manila. The dwarf gestured to the eastwards where, on the farther shore of the great bay, the city of Manila lay behind its newly built walls. My father was an