you’d have to explain that she’s a leviathan, one of the richest, biggest ships in the world, more than sixteen hundred tons. You might be tempted to tell him about her cargo, about trade and about Macao and all sorts of illuminating things that are very, very private and very, very secret. But we are at war, us against the English and Dutch.
He opened the well-oiled lock and took out his private rutter to check some bearings for the nearest haven and his eyes saw the sealed packet the priest, Father Sebastio, had given him just before they had left Anjiro.
Does it contain the Englishman’s rutters? he asked himself again.
He weighed the package and looked at the Jesuit seals, sorely tempted to break them and see for himself. Blackthorne had told him that the Dutch squadron had come by way of Magellan’s Pass and little else. The Ingeles asks lots of questions and volunteers nothing, Rodrigues thought. He’s shrewd, clever, and dangerous.
Are they his rutters or aren’t they? If they are, what good are they to the Holy Fathers?
He shuddered, thinking of Jesuits and Franciscans and Dominicans and all monks and all priests and the Inquisition. There are good priests and bad priests and they’re mostly bad, but they’re still priests. The Church has to have priests and without them to intercede for us we’re lost sheep in a Satanic world. Oh, Madonna, protect me from all evil and bad priests!
Rodrigues had been in his cabin with Blackthorne in Anjiro harbor when the door had opened and Father Sebastio had come in uninvited. They had been eating and drinking and the remains of their food was in the wooden bowls.
“You break bread with heretics?” the priest had asked. “It’s dangerous to eat with them. They’re infectious. Did he tell you he’s a pirate?”
“It’s only Christian to be chivalrous to your enemies, Father. When I was in their hands they were fair to me. I only return their charity.” He had knelt and kissed the priest’s cross. Then he had got up and, offering wine, he said, “How can I help you?”
“I want to go to Osaka. With the ship.”
“I’ll ask them at once.” He had gone and had asked the captain and the request had gradually gone up to Toda Hiro-matsu, who replied that Toranaga had said nothing about bringing a foreign priest from Anjiro so he regretted he could not bring the foreign priest from Anjiro.
Father Sebastio had wanted to talk privately so he had sent the Englishman on deck and then, in the privacy of the cabin, the priest had brought out the sealed package.
“I would like you to deliver this to the Father-Visitor.”
“I don’t know if his Eminence’ll still be at Osaka when I get there.” Rodrigues did not like being a carrier of Jesuit secrets. “I might have to go back to Nagasaki. My Captain-General may have left orders for me.”
“Then give it to Father Alvito. Make absolutely sure you put it only in his hands.”
“Very well,” he had said.
“When were you last at Confession, my son?”
“On Sunday, Father.”
“Would you like me to confess you now?”
“Yes, thank you.” He was grateful that the priest had asked, for you never knew if your life depended on the sea, and, afterwards, he had felt much better as always.
Now in the cabin, Rodrigues put back the package, greatly tempted. Why Father Alvito? Father Martin Alvito was chief trade negotiator and had been personal interpreter for the Taiko for many years and therefore an intimate of most of the influential
Trust the Jesuits to get one of their men into such a vital position, Rodrigues thought with awe. Certainly if it hadn’t been for the Society of Jesus the flood of heresy would never have been stopped, Portugal and Spain might have gone Protestant, and we’d have lost our immortal souls forever. Madonna!
“Why do you think about priests all the time?” Rodrigues asked himself aloud. “You know it makes you nervous!” Yes. Even so, why Father Alvito? If the package contains the rutters, is the package meant for one of the Christian
And why does Toranaga want the Ingeles?
In my heart I know I should kill Blackthorne. He’s the enemy, he’s a heretic. But there’s something else. I’ve a feeling this Ingeles is a danger to all of us. Why should I think that? He’s a pilot—a great one. Strong. Intelligent. A good man. Nothing there to worry about. So why am I afraid? Is he evil? I like him very much but I feel I should kill him quickly and the sooner the better. Not in anger. Just to protect ourselves. Why?
I am afraid of him.
What to do? Leave it to the hand of God? The storm’s coming and it’ll be a bad one.
“God curse me and my lack of wits! Why don’t I know what to do easily?”
The storm came before sunset and caught them out to sea. Land was ten miles away. The bay they raced for was haven enough and dead ahead when they had crested the horizon. There were no shoals or reefs to navigate between them and safety, but ten miles was ten miles and the sea was rising fast, driven by the rain- soaked wind.
The gale blew from the northeast, on the starboard quarter, and veered badly as gusts swirled easterly or northerly without pattern, the sea grim. Their course was northwest so they were mostly broadside to the swell, rolling badly, now in the trough, now sickeningly on the crest. The galley was shallow draft and built for speed and kind waters, and though the rowers were game and very disciplined, it was hard to keep their oars in the sea and their pull clean.
“You’ll have to ship the oars and run before the wind,” Blackthorne shouted.
“Maybe, but not yet! Where are your
“Where they should be, by God, and where I want ’em to stay!”
Both men knew that if they turned into the wind they could never make way against the storm, so the tide and the wind would take them away from sanctuary and out to sea. And if they ran before the wind, the tide and the wind would take them away from sanctuary and out to sea as before, only faster. Southward was the Great Deep. There was no land southward for a thousand miles, or, if you were unlucky, for a thousand leagues.
They wore lifelines that were lashed to the binnacle and they were glad of them as the deck pitched and rolled. They hung on to the gunwales as well, riding her.
As yet, no water had come aboard. She was heavily ladened and rode lower in the water than either would have liked. Rodrigues had prepared properly in the hours of waiting. Everything had been battened down, the men forewarned. Hiro-matsu and Yabu had said that they would stay below for a time and then come on deck. Rodrigues had shrugged and told them clearly that it would be very dangerous. He was sure they did not understand.
“What’ll they do?” Blackthorne had asked.
“Who knows, Ingeles? But they won’t be weeping with fear, you can be sure.”
In the well of the main deck the oarsmen were working hard. Normally there would be two men on each oar but Rodrigues had ordered three for strength and safety and speed. Others were waiting below decks to spell these rowers when he gave the order. On the foredeck the captain oar-master was experienced and his beat was slow, timed to the waves. The galley was still making way, though every moment the roll seemed more pronounced and the recovery slower. Then the squalls became erratic and threw the captain oar-master off stroke.
“Watch out for’ard!” Blackthorne and Rodrigues shouted almost in the same breath. The galley rolled sickeningly, twenty oars pulled at air instead of sea and there was chaos aboard. The first comber had struck and the port gunwale was awash. They were floundering.
“Go for’ard,” Rodrigues ordered. “Get ’em to ship half the oars each side! Madonna, hurry, hurry!”
Blackthorne knew that without his lifeline he could easily be carried overboard. But the oars had to be shipped or they were lost.
He slipped the knot and fought along the heaving, greasy deck, down the short gangway to the main deck.
