I’d not seen one hair on my chin when I was commissioned into the Sotopoli Oceanic Company; but before I’d feel land beneath my feet again for more than a single season, my beard had grown to my chest. A recent windfall from the latest voyage has reacquainted me with the land. My young family and our quaint little homestead are far too dear to risk, and so I will not take to the oceans again. However, in my life atop the waves I saw the three great oceans and all those fabled lands beyond Christendom: Barat, Sinae, the Spice Isles, Mexico and Occidinessia.
While I count some dozen of my years as a sailor, the greatest extents of those travels were as part of just one voyage - the last, under the command of the great surveyor and privateer Harold Witcliffe. As the sole survivor of Witcliffe’s expedition, I have been hounded for questioning these whole two years since my return, first by agents of the state, then by all my neighbours and the townsfolk and thereafter by a quite relentless stream of scholars from across the Confederation and beyond. So tiresome have these questions become that I have set about recording the typical answers in this here book, though I am by no means a natural bard or storyteller. But that Edwinson, or Epiron - two dear fellows of the voyage, had survived to tell you of it. They'd no doubt do so in cleverer and more beautiful words.
Most of a sailor’s voyages are mundane, I will therefore save boring you with an exhaustive account of them, other than to say that I’d been rounding the cape for near ten years by the time I was commissioned on Witcliffe’s expedition.
Upon meeting the great surveyor it came as a shock to us Hellenes of the crew that he was fluent not only in the classical tongue, as most educated men are, but in the modern dialect of our genus. The few Saksixmen I’d ever met who knew our language had all grown up right about the Hellopoli of Southampton, Bristowe or London; save one had married a Hellene maid. However, Witcliffe had attained his fluency in a mere quarter year from the London Hellenes - for the sole purpose of the expedition. We were all, having been raised in Saksland, Saksix speakers too, though much impressed were we by his efforts to speak in our tongue. I too am something of a linguist, having learnt many of the Latinates, some Arab and a little Barati in the service of the company.
While rounding Africa over those long months, so often depleted, Witcliffe and the others members of the crew not of the company became feverish to hear of Barat.
“Tell me again of the market at Goa - spare no detail”. So I recounted of the great alien fruits in their bright colours and odd shapes - of the vast mounds of spices as if dunes of sand and of hawkers who served food other than hardtack and salted fish.
Finally, on a day which felt to us like mid-may, but was instead close to Yule, we saw substantial land for the first time since the Eastern cape and made head long toward it. Within a half mile suddenly the fishermen’s huts were visible, then the odd person. However, on seeing the ship they became easily frightened and sprang off out of sight as quickly as they could. Now, even the most sea-hardy old boys aboard were itching for the comforts of land. The jubilation of sailors on a long voyage upon reaching shore far surpasses any Yule feast, I assure you. It was due to this excitement that we did ignore the warning signs.
Surmising that we were too far to the south, and not yet spying a decent port, we reluctantly pushed further up coast before making anchor. However, the further north we sailed, the more wicked the sights became. The weather came to compliment the destruction; foul black clouds, roaring winds and in the distance a curtain of rain so thick as to obscure the horizon. The huts were very often burnt to cinders - and finally, hoisted over a crumbling red brick look-out tower we saw the triple cross flag of the fearsome Omani Kingdom flying, where on all previous voyages had been the Banner of Bangalore.
“They chase our wake - seven galleys - drawing ever closer.” Said Gildamir, to hear a measure of terror in our chief marine’s voice was most disquieting.
“Have we room to escape?”
“Unlikely at their speed, save perhaps to head straight back out to sea.”
“With that tempest brewing?”
The priest Thoread began wailing protests to Poseidon as the thud of a canon ball came crashing into the water, so close as to spray those at the stern.
“A warning…” Witcliffe shouted to reassure us, though in his voice was much doubt. “Make haste to my quarters, second drawer down, find the African standard and hoist it.”
Thoread was instantly incensed, fighting against the terrible tremors of the ship he went to meet Witcliffe at his eyes.
“The lord of the Ocean shall not look kindly on our vessel beneath the Nazarene’s cross.”
“If Poseidon should sink every Christian ship, at least he’ll take the Omanis with us.”
“I knew of your privateering as I boarded. But so mercenary? I could not have fathomed. For shame.”
“Captain Witcliffe - that is how you’ll address me lest you wish for a flogging, priest!”
“Well, Captain, as much as its your duty to guide this ship, it is mine to guide our souls. Your apostasy will not go unpunished.”
Witcliffe reached to his back belt and cracked a cat o’ nine tails against the air.
“And nor shall your insubordination.”
The captain looked behind and several of us made haste to hoist the green cross flag. Thoread looked dumbfounded, searching for sympathetic eyes, a voice which would rise up to defend the order of the land from whence we came, where a priest of lofty birth should never suffer a whipping from an upstart privateer of a lesser name. However, among us men of the sea the captain’s rank was clearly greater. We made closer to the coast, almost at risk of beaching over the cracking sound of three firm lashes against the priest’s alabaster back and his hideous screeching.
Finally the Omanis reached us and were permitted with a great show of kindness to board. Witcliffe and some Latinate speakers, I included, had come forward, while those who could not feign an African identity stayed quite far behind. Witcliffe signed the cross at the Omani captain before speaking. Their captain’s stature belied the power he held over his crew. Squat almost to the point of roundness, with straggly hair, as black as Whitby jet. His bulbous eyes almost popping from his head as he surveyed our ship.
“Parlo Afrikano M’amiko? Mi na parlo Arabo”.
“Yusuf” yelled the Omani captain. The man Yusuf hurried quite as quickly as his balance allowed across the board to our ship. (The following exchange was in Afrikano, though I translate it for the reader)
“What is your purpose in our sea?” Asked Yusuf.
“Exploration, and, with god’s grace, to spread the good word among the heathens.”
“And why did you wait until we were in sight to hoist your flag? Pirates seek to hide their identity, and think nothing of pretending another should it benefit them.” Witcliffe gave himself just a moment to compose his thoughts, careful not to take too long.
“We were not aware on our departing of Oman’s presence on this coast. Expecting to be met by hostile heathens we did what was necessary to reach shore in safety.”
“A Christian must never hide their allegiance to the lord. What are the martyrs thinking as they look down from the heavens at your display of Lukewarm faith?”
“Some of us must accept a measure of sin in the name of a greater cause. If I am hellhound for hiding the flag, yet it allows us to teach the heathens in Barat of the Lord, so be it.”
Yusuf and his captain spent some time deliberating in Arabic, far too fast for me to comprehend, with the captain’s shouts ever more barking in their tone. Then, without asking, the Captain barged passed us and tried to quiz the rest of the crew attempting to busy themselves and shrink their presence.
“You will not get anything from them, Northern heathens, slaves. Ones so insensible as to reject Christ are incapable of learning other languages.” I called out, forgetting myself. However, Witcliffe gave me the faintest smile in return.
“This is not my experience. True brilliance is reserved for the servants of the Lord, however many heathens are imbued with Satan’s cunning.”
While still facing the Omanis with a broad smile Witcliffe whispered through the side of his mouth at me,
“Get below deck, prepare the canons on both lines facing their nearest ships.”
I confess that this order seemed to me like suicide, but the likely captivity we should face when they grew tired of our facade may well have been a worse fate. I dropped in an instant to my belly, and went crawling across the sodden, splintery deck to a hatch behind us. Hurtling down, I gave orders to load the canons, a challenge to do so all in silence. With the balls placed in the barrels and the charges ready to be lit, I started trembling upon realising that Witcliffe had not given me orders of an exact moment to fire. Did he mean right away? Should we choose the wrong time might it doom our brothers atop deck? The very instant we pushed the canons forth our adversaries would know our plan. Their small galleys were not decked as ours, two canons each on either side. We had to assume they were as ready to fire as we.
The men and I were all silent, sweating profusely not only under the baking heat but the trepidation also. Thwack! The door to the range was slammed wide open. Gildamir acting on instinct lept forward and thrust his sabre into the neck of the first Omani who entered.
“NOW!” I roared. A shot was fired into the range from the Omani crew at the door, cracking the skull of one of ours, his blood and brains bursting about the room. Gildamir slammed his great flame against the door and I rushed to take the place of our fallen brother. Eighteen guns all fired at once, the range filled with light and smoke and sound. The two closest Omani galleys were asplintered and we drew back the canons, reloading them in a fit. Atop deck were the sounds of banshee wails and thunderous shots. We could only imagine the Martian scene.
While I count some dozen of my years as a sailor, the greatest extents of those travels were as part of just one voyage - the last, under the command of the great surveyor and privateer Harold Witcliffe. As the sole survivor of Witcliffe’s expedition, I have been hounded for questioning these whole two years since my return, first by agents of the state, then by all my neighbours and the townsfolk and thereafter by a quite relentless stream of scholars from across the Confederation and beyond. So tiresome have these questions become that I have set about recording the typical answers in this here book, though I am by no means a natural bard or storyteller. But that Edwinson, or Epiron - two dear fellows of the voyage, had survived to tell you of it. They'd no doubt do so in cleverer and more beautiful words.
Most of a sailor’s voyages are mundane, I will therefore save boring you with an exhaustive account of them, other than to say that I’d been rounding the cape for near ten years by the time I was commissioned on Witcliffe’s expedition.
Upon meeting the great surveyor it came as a shock to us Hellenes of the crew that he was fluent not only in the classical tongue, as most educated men are, but in the modern dialect of our genus. The few Saksixmen I’d ever met who knew our language had all grown up right about the Hellopoli of Southampton, Bristowe or London; save one had married a Hellene maid. However, Witcliffe had attained his fluency in a mere quarter year from the London Hellenes - for the sole purpose of the expedition. We were all, having been raised in Saksland, Saksix speakers too, though much impressed were we by his efforts to speak in our tongue. I too am something of a linguist, having learnt many of the Latinates, some Arab and a little Barati in the service of the company.
While rounding Africa over those long months, so often depleted, Witcliffe and the others members of the crew not of the company became feverish to hear of Barat.
“Tell me again of the market at Goa - spare no detail”. So I recounted of the great alien fruits in their bright colours and odd shapes - of the vast mounds of spices as if dunes of sand and of hawkers who served food other than hardtack and salted fish.
Finally, on a day which felt to us like mid-may, but was instead close to Yule, we saw substantial land for the first time since the Eastern cape and made head long toward it. Within a half mile suddenly the fishermen’s huts were visible, then the odd person. However, on seeing the ship they became easily frightened and sprang off out of sight as quickly as they could. Now, even the most sea-hardy old boys aboard were itching for the comforts of land. The jubilation of sailors on a long voyage upon reaching shore far surpasses any Yule feast, I assure you. It was due to this excitement that we did ignore the warning signs.
Surmising that we were too far to the south, and not yet spying a decent port, we reluctantly pushed further up coast before making anchor. However, the further north we sailed, the more wicked the sights became. The weather came to compliment the destruction; foul black clouds, roaring winds and in the distance a curtain of rain so thick as to obscure the horizon. The huts were very often burnt to cinders - and finally, hoisted over a crumbling red brick look-out tower we saw the triple cross flag of the fearsome Omani Kingdom flying, where on all previous voyages had been the Banner of Bangalore.
“They chase our wake - seven galleys - drawing ever closer.” Said Gildamir, to hear a measure of terror in our chief marine’s voice was most disquieting.
“Have we room to escape?”
“Unlikely at their speed, save perhaps to head straight back out to sea.”
“With that tempest brewing?”
The priest Thoread began wailing protests to Poseidon as the thud of a canon ball came crashing into the water, so close as to spray those at the stern.
“A warning…” Witcliffe shouted to reassure us, though in his voice was much doubt. “Make haste to my quarters, second drawer down, find the African standard and hoist it.”
Thoread was instantly incensed, fighting against the terrible tremors of the ship he went to meet Witcliffe at his eyes.
“The lord of the Ocean shall not look kindly on our vessel beneath the Nazarene’s cross.”
“If Poseidon should sink every Christian ship, at least he’ll take the Omanis with us.”
“I knew of your privateering as I boarded. But so mercenary? I could not have fathomed. For shame.”
“Captain Witcliffe - that is how you’ll address me lest you wish for a flogging, priest!”
“Well, Captain, as much as its your duty to guide this ship, it is mine to guide our souls. Your apostasy will not go unpunished.”
Witcliffe reached to his back belt and cracked a cat o’ nine tails against the air.
“And nor shall your insubordination.”
The captain looked behind and several of us made haste to hoist the green cross flag. Thoread looked dumbfounded, searching for sympathetic eyes, a voice which would rise up to defend the order of the land from whence we came, where a priest of lofty birth should never suffer a whipping from an upstart privateer of a lesser name. However, among us men of the sea the captain’s rank was clearly greater. We made closer to the coast, almost at risk of beaching over the cracking sound of three firm lashes against the priest’s alabaster back and his hideous screeching.
Finally the Omanis reached us and were permitted with a great show of kindness to board. Witcliffe and some Latinate speakers, I included, had come forward, while those who could not feign an African identity stayed quite far behind. Witcliffe signed the cross at the Omani captain before speaking. Their captain’s stature belied the power he held over his crew. Squat almost to the point of roundness, with straggly hair, as black as Whitby jet. His bulbous eyes almost popping from his head as he surveyed our ship.
“Parlo Afrikano M’amiko? Mi na parlo Arabo”.
“Yusuf” yelled the Omani captain. The man Yusuf hurried quite as quickly as his balance allowed across the board to our ship. (The following exchange was in Afrikano, though I translate it for the reader)
“What is your purpose in our sea?” Asked Yusuf.
“Exploration, and, with god’s grace, to spread the good word among the heathens.”
“And why did you wait until we were in sight to hoist your flag? Pirates seek to hide their identity, and think nothing of pretending another should it benefit them.” Witcliffe gave himself just a moment to compose his thoughts, careful not to take too long.
“We were not aware on our departing of Oman’s presence on this coast. Expecting to be met by hostile heathens we did what was necessary to reach shore in safety.”
“A Christian must never hide their allegiance to the lord. What are the martyrs thinking as they look down from the heavens at your display of Lukewarm faith?”
“Some of us must accept a measure of sin in the name of a greater cause. If I am hellhound for hiding the flag, yet it allows us to teach the heathens in Barat of the Lord, so be it.”
Yusuf and his captain spent some time deliberating in Arabic, far too fast for me to comprehend, with the captain’s shouts ever more barking in their tone. Then, without asking, the Captain barged passed us and tried to quiz the rest of the crew attempting to busy themselves and shrink their presence.
“You will not get anything from them, Northern heathens, slaves. Ones so insensible as to reject Christ are incapable of learning other languages.” I called out, forgetting myself. However, Witcliffe gave me the faintest smile in return.
“This is not my experience. True brilliance is reserved for the servants of the Lord, however many heathens are imbued with Satan’s cunning.”
While still facing the Omanis with a broad smile Witcliffe whispered through the side of his mouth at me,
“Get below deck, prepare the canons on both lines facing their nearest ships.”
I confess that this order seemed to me like suicide, but the likely captivity we should face when they grew tired of our facade may well have been a worse fate. I dropped in an instant to my belly, and went crawling across the sodden, splintery deck to a hatch behind us. Hurtling down, I gave orders to load the canons, a challenge to do so all in silence. With the balls placed in the barrels and the charges ready to be lit, I started trembling upon realising that Witcliffe had not given me orders of an exact moment to fire. Did he mean right away? Should we choose the wrong time might it doom our brothers atop deck? The very instant we pushed the canons forth our adversaries would know our plan. Their small galleys were not decked as ours, two canons each on either side. We had to assume they were as ready to fire as we.
The men and I were all silent, sweating profusely not only under the baking heat but the trepidation also. Thwack! The door to the range was slammed wide open. Gildamir acting on instinct lept forward and thrust his sabre into the neck of the first Omani who entered.
“NOW!” I roared. A shot was fired into the range from the Omani crew at the door, cracking the skull of one of ours, his blood and brains bursting about the room. Gildamir slammed his great flame against the door and I rushed to take the place of our fallen brother. Eighteen guns all fired at once, the range filled with light and smoke and sound. The two closest Omani galleys were asplintered and we drew back the canons, reloading them in a fit. Atop deck were the sounds of banshee wails and thunderous shots. We could only imagine the Martian scene.
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