'Damn and blast! We cannot stir but we have a pilot,' Powlett snarled. 'If the Don keeps his part o' the bargain . . .'
A tropical dusk fell and lights began to glimmer in the violet gloom ashore, the barge crew long since returned. A long bulking shadow in the sea nearby was the high brown island that sheltered Ylo-Ylo, and the peculiar odours of a foreign shore could be occasionally made out, but for want of a pilot the ship lay unmoving in the night.
The next day was only an hour old when activity was seen ashore, which resolved into a twin outrigger boat skimming its way directly towards Artemis. Two men were aboard, a Spaniard and a Filipino. The boat, with its single brightly coloured lateen sail, smartly came about in a rainbow shower of spray and drifted up to the side.
The boat-boy flung a painter of coarse coir rope aboard the frigate and the Spaniard climbed the side. 'Piloto,' he stated loudly, as though not expecting to be understood by the English officers.
His eyebrows lifted at Rowley's fractured welcome, to which he replied in loud but simple words.
'Our pilot, sir,' said Rowley. 'Mr, er, Salcedo. I think he begs that the bangkha be towed astern, as they will use it later in their return.'
'Very well,' Powlett answered.
His keen look at the man seemed to discommode him, or it could have been the sheer intimidating size of the frigate, much bigger than the usual trading vessels of the region. Salcedo was short and stumpy with an Iberian intensity, but his attempt at swagger did not convince.
He went to the side and shouted angrily at the boat-boy, who doused and stowed the sail, paying out more of the painter and doubling it around the mast. He scrambled awkwardly up the side, and as he came over the bulwark stumbled and sprawled headlong.
Salcedo's eyes flickered to the quarterdeck gathering and back to the helpless boat-boy. He snorted angrily. From inside his shirt he drew out a peculiar short coil of a black flexible substance, chased in leather at one end, the other terminating in a knobby excrescence. He lashed at the boat-boy who waited motionless on hands and knees, but when the blows ceased he looked up with a deadly hatred.
Powlett's face hardened. 'Take that man forward, and see he's messed comfortably.'
Prewse motioned to Kydd, who led away the boat-boy.
It seemed the logical thing. Pinto was a Portuguese, which was nearly Spain, and in the event grudgingly admitted to the language. Kydd handed the man over, his brown face and black eyes clearing at the rough sympathy his treatment had earned from the sailors.
Pinto, it became clear, knew more than a little Spanish, for he was able to explain Salcedo's curious instrument. 'He was beat wi' the pizzle o' the horse,' he said blank-faced. 'Ver' painful but hurt th' honour more.'
'What's his name?'
'He say his name Goryo — this is the Ylongos name, he come from Guimaras.'
'Tell 'im we'll see him right, mate,' Petit said.
By the time Kydd had reached his post at the helm the ship was at stations to unmoor ship. The anchor was broken easily enough from the sandy sea-bed and sail dropped from every yard. With a graceful sway Artemis reached out over the sparkling seas towards the eastern horizon, almost exactly half-way along the barrier of the Philippines.
The pilot stood impassive next to the wheel, but all the officers of Artemis and the sailing master were on the quarterdeck as well. It was hard to take, trusting the safety of the ship to one man, and there was an aura of apprehension among them.
Panay was left astern, but other islands large and small were scattered about on all sides. By early afternoon one in particular loomed across their path, and in the background the grey-blue of a continous mountainous coast in the further distance stretched as far as they could see in both directions — a complete block on their further progress.
Powlett was taking no chances. In the forechains, Kydd was heaving the lead, a skilled and wet job. Held by a canvas belt to the shrouds, he stood alone on the narrow platform at their base, leaning out over the sea hissing past below. He began each cast with a swing, which would get bigger and bigger, until he could whirl the long lead weight in a neat circle over his head before sending it plummeting into the sea well ahead. The line would rush out while the vessel overran the position, and when the line was vertical Kydd interpreted the depth from the nearest mark to the water — red bunting, black leather, a blue serge, or if it lay between marks it would be estimated as a 'deep'. It was not a job for the faint-hearted. A hesitant fist on the line could bring the seven-pound lead down on an unprotected skull.
'No bottom with this line!' bawled Kydd, as cast after cast brought no sudden slackening of the line. He continued his work steadily, with the same result, the wet line rapidly soaking him.
Ahead lay the island. The officers' faces tightened as the frigate sailed closer. 'This is the island of Masbate, apparently,' Rowley said, in response to Salcedo's grunting. Artemis kept her course, anxious eyes staring forward all along her deck.