the colour of peat.
‘Malo umbre – a bad man, that one,’ explained the newcomer. ‘Best you stay out of his way. He’s a kaporal and a friend of the aga di baston.’
‘Thank you for what you did,’ blurted Hector, still shocked.
The man shrugged. ‘He cheated me last week. Took my money for a gileffo, and then did nothing. Now he’s got a sore throat to remember me by.’
‘I’m sorry but I don’t understand.’
‘A gileffo is what you pay when you want to have the day off from work. It goes to a kaporal who then arranges with the scrivano that your name is not in the morning roll call.’
He saw that Hector was still too shaken to understand, so abandoned the explanation. ‘I am called Dan,’ he said, holding out his hand. As he shook hands, Hector noticed that his rescuer had a deep, lilting accent vaguely similar to the way the Devon sailor Dunton spoke.
‘I’m Hector, Hector Lynch,’ he explained. ‘I come from Ireland.’
‘I met some Irish when I was a small boy. With them I practised speaking English,’ said Dan. ‘They had run away from their masters and came to us. We sheltered them, the mesquins. Now I know what it was like for them to be slaves. They told us that they had been sold as punishment for making war in their own country, and sent far from their homes.’
It took Hector several moments to grasp that Dan was speaking about prisoners from Cromwell’s campaign in Ireland. He remembered his father telling him how thousands of Irishmen had been shipped to the West Indies and sold off to work as slaves on the plantations. Some of them must have fled their masters.
‘You are from the Caribees?’ he asked.
‘From the Main, the Miskito coast,’ replied Dan. ‘My people are Miskito, and we have no love for the Spanish who would take our lands. My father, who is a great man among us, sent me on a mission to the King of the English. I was to request that the Miskito become his subjects and, in return, he would supply us with guns to fight off the Spanish. It was my bad fortune to be captured by the Spanish even before I left the Main, and they put me on a ship for Spain to show me off to the people. But their ship was taken by corsairs, and I have finished up here.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘I’ve been here for six months now, and it was lucky for you that I was not at work today. I paid another gileffo to a more honest kaporal, and he arranged it. Here, let me carry your blanket. You need a proper place to put your things.’
Dan led Hector along the balcony, explaining that the bagnio was ruled by a senior Turk known as the guardian bashaw. Under him were his lieutenants, the assistant bashaws, and below them came the kaporals. ‘Most of the kaporals are all right provided you pay them a few coins,’ Dan stated. ‘Not like Emilio who gave you trouble. He blackmails young men. Threatens to have them punished under false charges unless they agree to be his lovers. He and the aga di baston – that’s the Turk in charge of beatings – have the same tastes. They both enjoy man love, and there are no women in the bagnio, only men.’
‘But Emilio is not a Turkish name,’ said Hector.
‘The kaporals are not Turks. They are from other countries. Emilio is from some place in Italy, but there are also kaporals from France and Spain, from all over. They are rinigatos, men who have taken the turban, and now have an easier life. You’ll find rinigatos everywhere. One has even become the guardian bashaw in another bagnio. A man like Emilio will never go back to Italy. He has too good a time here.’
They had reached another dormitory farther along the balcony. It was arranged in much the same way with tiers of closely packed bunks.
‘All the bunks are already taken,’ explained Dan, ‘but there’s enough room to sling a hammock in this space next to my bunk. Tomorrow I’ll get hold of some cords and rope. We Miskito use hammocks when we go on hunting trips
‘Malo umbre – a bad man, that one,’ explained the newcomer. ‘Best you stay out of his way. He’s a kaporal and a friend of the aga di baston.’
‘Thank you for what you did,’ blurted Hector, still shocked.
The man shrugged. ‘He cheated me last week. Took my money for a gileffo, and then did nothing. Now he’s got a sore throat to remember me by.’
‘I’m sorry but I don’t understand.’
‘A gileffo is what you pay when you want to have the day off from work. It goes to a kaporal who then arranges with the scrivano that your name is not in the morning roll call.’
He saw that Hector was still too shaken to understand, so abandoned the explanation. ‘I am called Dan,’ he said, holding out his hand. As he shook hands, Hector noticed that his rescuer had a deep, lilting accent vaguely similar to the way the Devon sailor Dunton spoke.
‘I’m Hector, Hector Lynch,’ he explained. ‘I come from Ireland.’
‘I met some Irish when I was a small boy. With them I practised speaking English,’ said Dan. ‘They had run away from their masters and came to us. We sheltered them, the mesquins. Now I know what it was like for them to be slaves. They told us that they had been sold as punishment for making war in their own country, and sent far from their homes.’
It took Hector several moments to grasp that Dan was speaking about prisoners from Cromwell’s campaign in Ireland. He remembered his father telling him how thousands of Irishmen had been shipped to the West Indies and sold off to work as slaves on the plantations. Some of them must have fled their masters.
‘You are from the Caribees?’ he asked.
‘From the Main, the Miskito coast,’ replied Dan. ‘My people are Miskito, and we have no love for the Spanish who would take our lands. My father, who is a great man among us, sent me on a mission to the King of the English. I was to request that the Miskito become his subjects and, in return, he would supply us with guns to fight off the Spanish. It was my bad fortune to be captured by the Spanish even before I left the Main, and they put me on a ship for Spain to show me off to the people. But their ship was taken by corsairs, and I have finished up here.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘I’ve been here for six months now, and it was lucky for you that I was not at work today. I paid another gileffo to a more honest kaporal, and he arranged it. Here, let me carry your blanket. You need a proper place to put your things.’
Dan led Hector along the balcony, explaining that the bagnio was ruled by a senior Turk known as the guardian bashaw. Under him were his lieutenants, the assistant bashaws, and below them came the kaporals. ‘Most of the kaporals are all right provided you pay them a few coins,’ Dan stated. ‘Not like Emilio who gave you trouble. He blackmails young men. Threatens to have them punished under false charges unless they agree to be his lovers. He and the aga di baston – that’s the Turk in charge of beatings – have the same tastes. They both enjoy man love, and there are no women in the bagnio, only men.’
‘But Emilio is not a Turkish name,’ said Hector.
‘The kaporals are not Turks. They are from other countries. Emilio is from some place in Italy, but there are also kaporals from France and Spain, from all over. They are rinigatos, men who have taken the turban, and now have an easier life. You’ll find rinigatos everywhere. One has even become the guardian bashaw in another bagnio. A man like Emilio will never go back to Italy. He has too good a time here.’
They had reached another dormitory farther along the balcony. It was arranged in much the same way with tiers of closely packed bunks.
‘All the bunks are already taken,’ explained Dan, ‘but there’s enough room to sling a hammock in this space next to my bunk. Tomorrow I’ll get hold of some cords and rope. We Miskito use hammocks when we go on hunting trips
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