Balthasar's Odyssey (39 page)

So I hastened back to the ship and went straight to the captain's quarters. He was alone and deep in thought, or in silent conversation with his demons. After politely asking me to sit down, he looked up and said ponderously:

“Well, what's the matter?”

But when he heard that Gabbiano wanted to tell him about the alleged dangers of trying to sail to London, he started to listen intently. Then he looked at me wide-eyed, stood up, and patted me on the shoulder. He'd just leave me a moment and give some orders, then we'd go and talk to to Master Gabbiano together.

As I was waiting, the captain returned for a moment, saying he was arranging for us to leave. I took him to mean for Gabbiano's house, but either I misunderstood or else he was deliberately misleading me, for he was soon back again to tell me, without any ambiguity this time, that he'd just ordered his men to hoist sail and cast off in order to leave Lisbon as fast as possible.

“We're heading out to sea already!” he announced.

I bounded up in amazement. He told me to sit down while he explained.

“Didn't you notice anything at that person's house?”

I'd noticed lots of things, but I couldn't tell which he meant, nor why he referred to Gabbiano as “that person”.

“That Gabbiano's?” he prompted me.

Then I understood, and was appalled. If, as I knew from experience, the madman in front of me went into a frenzy just when he saw a gull, what state was he likely to be in when he heard that the name of the man asking him to postpone his voyage was the same, in Italian, as the bird's! I was lucky he regarded me as a friend come to warn him of the plot, rather than a demon disguised as a Genoese traveller. It's a good thing my name's Embriaco, and not Marangone, like a colleague of my father's from Amalfi. His name means “cormorant”!

So we'd already left Lisbon!

My first thought was not for myself and the others on board, my companions in misfortune, who were going to having to run the gauntlet of warring gunships and perhaps be killed or taken captive. No, strangely enough the people I felt sorry for were those we'd left behind in Lisbon. The captain had absolutely no right not to wait for them to rejoin the ship before it left, though I realised that his culpable negligence would probably save their lives and spare them all the woes those on board would inevitably encounter.

I knew that Durrazzi and Esfahani, the two friends I'd made during the voyage, were still ashore. They'd left the ship at the same time as I did this morning, and were to remain in town in order to be my guests for dinner this evening.

But all that has been overtaken by events. I'm heading for the unknown in the power of a madman, and my friends are probably standing on the quayside wringing their hands as they watch the
Sanctus Dionisius
vanish inexplicably in the distance.

I'm not the only person on board who feels helpless and distraught this evening. The few passengers and all the crew are in the position of hostages whom no one will ever ransom. Whether we're hostages to the captain or to the demons that pursue him, or to fate, as future victims of war, we all, merchants and mariners alike, rich and poor, aristocrats or servants, feel like a pack of lost souls.

At sea, 7 June 1666

Instead of sailing northward along the Portuguese coast, the
Sanctus Dionisius
has for the last three days been heading west, due west, as if it were making for the New World. We are now in the middle of the vast Atlantic, the sea's getting rough, and every time a wave hits the ship I can hear shouting and yelling.

I ought to be frightened, but I'm not. I ought to be angry, but I'm not. I ought to be rushing about in all directions and bombarding the crazy captain with questions, but I'm sitting cross-legged in my room on a blanket folded in four, as mild as a flock of sheep. As mild as old people dying.

At the moment I'm not afraid of being shipwrecked or being taken captive. I just dread being sea-sick.

8 June

Now, on the evening of the fourth day, the captain, perhaps thinking he's thrown his demons off the scent, has just changed direction and is steering north.

I still can't shake off my queasiness and dizzy spells. So I keep to my cabin and don't write much.

Maurizio brought me the same supper as the sailors. I couldn't touch it.

12 June

Today is the ninth day of our voyage to London, and the
Sanctus Dionisius
has stood still for three hours on the open sea — though I couldn't say what our position is or which is the nearest coast.

We'd just passed another Genoese ship, the
Alegrancia,
which made signs to us and sent us a messenger, whom we hoisted on board. Rumours immediately started to circulate confirming that a fierce battle was taking place between the Dutch and the English, making our route dangerous.

The messenger stayed only a few minutes in the captain's quarters. Then Centurione shut himself up alone for some time, issuing no orders to the crew, while the ship was buffeted about where it lay, sails furled. He was probably trying to make up his mind. Should he turn back? Take shelter somewhere and wait for more news? Or try to steer round the combat zone?

According to Maurizio when I asked him this evening, we're now still on much the same course as before, but slightly more to the north-east. I told him frankly that I thought it rash of the captain to take such risks, but again the young man pretended not to hear. I didn't press the matter, not wanting to weigh down his young shoulders with such anxieties.

22 June

Last night, unable to sleep and feeling queasy again, I went for a walk round the deck, and in the distance, on our left, I noticed a curious light that looked to me like a ship on fire.

Today it was clear no one else had seen it. I was beginning to think my eyes had deceived me when, in the evening, I heard the sound of gunfire in the distance. This time everyone on board is in a flutter, and we're heading blithely for the scene of the battle. No one dreams of arguing with the captain or challenging his authority.

Am I the only one who knows he's out of his mind?

23 June

The din of war grows louder before and behind us, but we still sail imperturbably on toward our destination — and our destiny.

I'll be very surprised if we ever arrive in London safe and sound. But I'm not an astrologer or a seer, thank God, and I'm often wrong. I only hope I'm wrong this time. I've never asked Heaven to save me from error — only from misfortune.

I'd like my path through life to go on for a long while yet and be full of wrong turnings. Yes, I want to live for some years still, and make a lot more mistakes, even commit a few more sins worth remembering.

It's fear that makes me write such nonsense. I shall now dry my ink, put my notebook away, and listen calmly, like a man, to the sounds of war nearby.

Saturday, 26 June 1666

I'm still free, and at the same time I'm a prisoner.

This morning, at dawn, a Dutch gunboat approached us and ordered us to stow our sails and hoist the white flag. We did so.

Some soldiers came on board and seized the ship, and now, according to Maurizio, they're taking us to Amsterdam.

And who knows what will happen to us there?

I suppose all the cargo will be confiscated, but I don't care about that.

I suppose we'll all be taken prisoner too, and our belongings seized. So I shall lose the money Gabbiano gave me, as well as my own, and as well as this book and all my writing things.

It puts me off trying to write.

In captivity, 28 June 1666

The Dutch threw two sailors into the sea. One was English but the other was a Sicilian. I'd heard shouts of terror and a great uproar. I rushed to see what was the matter, but when I saw the crowd, and the armed soldiers gesticulating and shouting and bawling in their own language, I turned back. It was Maurizio who told me what had happened, a bit later. He was shaking in every limb, and I tried to comfort him, though I'm far from easy in my own mind.

Up till now, everything had gone fairly calmly. We were all resigned to being diverted to Amsterdam: we were sure the captain couldn't have got away with his weird behaviour for ever. But today's carnage has brought it home to us that we are prisoners and likely to remain so indefinitely, and that the most reckless and the most unlucky among us may come to a sticky end.

The English sailor was reckless — and probably tipsy — enough to tell the Dutch their navy would be defeated in the end. And the Sicilian was unlucky enough to be standing by and anxious to intercede on his comrade's behalf.

In captivity, 29 June

I don't leave my room any more, and I'm not the only one. Maurizio tells me the decks are deserted. Only the Dutch are to be seen; the crew only leave their quarters to carry out orders. The captain is now supervised constantly by a Dutch officer who issues commands through him. I have no complaints about that.

2 July

Last night, after blowing out my lamp, I suddenly felt cold, although I was just as warmly dressed as I had been recently, and the day had been quite mild. Perhaps the sensation was due to fear rather than cold. And I dreamed I was seized by the Dutch sailors, dragged along the ground, then stripped and flogged till I bled. I believe I cried out with the pain, and this was what woke me up. I couldn't get back to sleep afterwards. I tried, but my head was like a fruit that wouldn't ripen, and my eyes wouldn't stay shut.

4 July

Today a Dutch sailor pushed my cabin door open, looked round, then went away. A quarter of an hour later one of his colleagues did exactly the same, but this one did mutter something meant to convey “Good-day”. It seemed to me they were looking for someone rather than something.

We can't be far from our Dutch destination now, and I keep wondering what attitude I should adopt when we get there. Above all, what ought I to do with the money that was entrusted to me in Lisbon, with my own money, and with this notebook?

I have two alternatives.

Either I assume I'm to be treated as a foreign trader, with consideration and perhaps even permission to enter the United Provinces, in which case I ought to take all my “treasure” with me when I go ashore.

Or I assume that the
Sanctus Dionisius
is to be regarded as a prize, in which case its cargo will be confiscated and everyone on board, including me, held for a while, then sent away, together with their ship. In which case it would be best to leave my “treasure” in some safe hiding-place, pray that nobody finds it, and try to recover it when the present ordeal is over.

After hesitating for a couple of hours, I've decided on the second alternative. I only hope I shan't regret it!

Now I'm going to put my notebook and my writing things away in the same hiding-place where Gregorio's money is already — behind a loose plank in the wall. I shall stow half the money I have left there too, though I ought to keep a reasonable amount on me: otherwise they'll smell a rat and make me produce the lot.

I'm tempted to keep my notebook with me. Money comes and goes, but these pages are my own flesh, my own last companion. I can hardly bear to part with them. But I suppose I must.

14 August 1666

I haven't written a line for more than forty days. I've been ashore, in confinement, while my notebook was still in its hiding-place on the ship. But now we're both safe, thank God! and reunited at last.

I'm too shaken up to write today. Tomorrow I'll have my joy more under control, and I'll tell all then.

I still find it difficult to write, but it's even more difficult not to. So though I shall set down the misadventure that now finds a happy ending, I'll skip most of the details, like someone leaping from stone to stone to cross a stream.

On Wednesday, 8 July, the
Sanctus Dionisius
crawled into Amsterdam harbour like a captured beast on a leash. I was on deck, my canvas bag over my shoulder, my hands on the rail, my eyes on the pink walls, the brown roofs, and the black hats on the quay — though all my thoughts were elsewhere.

As soon as we'd berthed, we were ordered — without violence but without ceremony either — to leave the ship and proceed to a building at the end of the quay. And there we were shut up. It wasn't really a prison — just a space with a roof over it, with sentries on duty at the two doors to prevent us from leaving. We were divided into two or three groups: the one I was in included the few remaining passengers and part of the crew, but not Maurizio or the captain.

On the third day a dignitary from the town came and inspected the premises. When he saw me, he said a few reassuring words, but he still wore a stern expression and he didn't make any definite promises.

A week after that the captain arrived, with various other people I didn't know. He picked out by name the sturdiest of the sailors — clearly to unload the cargo from the ship. They were brought back to the shed at the end of the day, and sent for again the next day, and the day after that.