The Last Crusade: The Epic Voyages of Vasco Da Gama (29 page)

Forbidden or not, he added, the Africans “are extream fond of these Fishes, and refresh themselves by having Communication with them,” though far from being ravishing mermaids, the fish-women had “a hideous Face, like the Snout of a Hog.” The purely human inhabitants of the coast were even more awful. Farther inland, it was reported, there ruled a great king whose subjects, “when they kill any of their Enemies, cut off their Privy-Members, and having dried them, give them their Wives to wear about their
Neck, of which they are not a little Proud: For they who have the most are the most esteemed, in regard that Evidences the Husband to be the more hardy and valiant.” Possession of a “Chaine of mens members,” another traveler helpfully explained, was equivalent to being knighted in Europe; for the warriors of East Africa it was as great an honor “as it is with us to weare the golden Fleece, or the Garter of England.”

The Portuguese stoutly persevered, and on March 29 a light wind finally blew them north. Slowly they made headway against the current, the heavy work of continually casting and weighing anchor leaving a catalog of blisters on the seamen’s hands.

On April 1 they sailed up to a large archipelago of tropical islands edged with mangrove forests and ringed by vibrant coral reefs. Boats plied between the islands and the mainland, and there were sizable trading posts near the shore. The night before, while the Portuguese were still too far away to make out the terrain, the Arab pilot had insisted that the islands were part of the mainland. By now Gama was convinced that everyone was conspiring against him, and he had the pilot soundly flogged. To commemorate the event, the Portuguese named the first of the islands the “Island of the Flogged One.”

Gama decided to carry on, and three days later they came across another archipelago. This time both of the Muslim pilots recognized it. Three leagues back, they declared, the fleet had sailed straight past an island inhabited by Christians.

The captain-major was convinced the pilots had made him overshoot a friendly port on purpose. All day the ships maneuvered to reach it, but a strong wind was against them. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, or, as it was later interpreted, a miracle sent by God, because the island of Kilwa was home to the most powerful ruler on the coast, and he was no Christian. Far from trying to lead the Portuguese away, the disappointed pilots had been trying to draw them into a trap.

When it became clear that there was no going back, the pilots tried a new tack. A big city called Mombasa lay four days’ sailing
ahead, they said, and powerful Christians also lived there. It was already late, but the wind was high and the fleet bore away to the north. As night fell the lookouts made out a large island ahead—another place, claimed the Mozambique pilot, with both Christian and Muslim towns. Gama pressed on regardless, and with the favorable wind the ships made good progress until the
São Rafael
suddenly hit a shoal and ran aground.

It was two hours before daybreak, and the fleet was several miles from land. The crew shouted at the top of their voices to the other ships, which were following behind and could easily have rammed them in the dark. The
São Gabriel
and the
Berrio
came to a stop just in time and lowered their boats.

By dawn the tide had fallen and the
São Rafael
was revealed sitting high and dry on its shoal. In the background, on the coast, was a magnificent range of lofty mountains with a settlement at its feet. Seeing a business opportunity, the locals paddled out to the stricken ship and did a brisk trade in oranges, which the sailors thought were much better than the fruit back home. Gama rewarded them with the usual trinkets, and two stayed on board.

By now the
São Rafael
had lowered all its anchors. The men in the boats laboriously heaved each anchor forward of the bow and away from the shoal before shouting out to their comrades on board to pay out the cable. When the tide rose later in the day, the ropes tensed and the ship floated off amid much relief and cheering.

Finally the fleet arrived off Mombasa.

It was April 7, a Saturday. Ahead was a lushly wooded island clasped by the protective arms of the mainland. A large walled city rose on a rocky height facing the ocean. A beacon marked the shoals in front, and a fort almost level with the water guarded the bar. The harbor was just in sight around the north side of the island, and the Portuguese could see a large number of ships moored there, dressed in flags as if for a celebration. They were clearly in a wealthy and important port, and not wanting to be outdone, they ran up their own flags. They put on a good show, but in reality the fleet
was in poor shape. With many sailors dead from scurvy and many still painfully ill, the ships had been undermanned for weeks. The one thing that cheered up the survivors was the prospect of landing the next day to hear Sunday mass. The pilots had told them that the Christians had their own quarter of the city, ruled by its own judges and lords; they would receive the newcomers with great honor, they assured them, and would invite them to their fine houses.

The night watch took over and the rest of the men bedded down in their usual nooks, eager for morning to come.

About midnight the watch cried out. A dhow was approaching from the city carrying perhaps a hundred men, all armed with cutlasses and bucklers. It bore down on the flagship, and the armed men tried to clamber on board. Gama barked out orders and his soldiers lined up around the decks, blocking the way. He eventually allowed four of the leaders aboard, but only after they had laid down their weapons.

Gama slid from soldier to diplomat. He begged his visitors to excuse his precautions and not take offense; he was a stranger, he added as he offered them food, and he didn’t know how things worked in their city. His guests, all smiles, explained that they had merely come to look at the fleet because it was such a striking sight; carrying arms, they added, was their custom in peace or war. The sultan had been eagerly expecting the foreigners’ arrival; he would have come himself if it weren’t so late.

The delicate parley continued for two hours. When the four men left, the Portuguese were still convinced they had come to see if they could capture one of the ships. They were, after all, Muslims, though they, too, had confirmed that there were indeed many Christians on the island.

Sunday morning arrived, and with it a present from the sultan of Mombasa: a sheep, together with crates of oranges, lemons, and sugarcane. Clearly the Europeans had already become minor celebrities along the coast, because they received a stream of callers all day. Among them were two envoys who presented Gama with the
sultan’s ring as a pledge of the visitors’ security and promised that they would be supplied with everything they needed if they entered the port. The envoys were pale-skinned and said they were Christians; they were very plausible, and the Portuguese believed them. Gama sent them back with a string of coral beads for the sultan—an unremarkable gift on a coast brimming with coral reefs—and the message that he intended to head into the harbor the following day. At the same time, he sent two of the degredados to repeat his friendly greetings to the sultan in person and to reconnoiter the scene.

As soon as the two men landed, a crowd gathered around them and followed them through the narrow streets to the palace. A series of four doorways, each manned by a doorkeeper holding a drawn cutlass, led to the audience chamber. The sultan received the foreigners hospitably, and he ordered his men to show them around the city.

The group wound through handsome streets lined with three-story buildings. Fine plaster ceilings could be seen through the windows. The women were draped in silk and glittered with gold and precious stones, while coffles of slaves shuffled by in irons.

The tour halted at the house of two merchants who were introduced as Christians. They showed the visitors an image they worshipped, which seemed to be the Holy Ghost painted as a white dove. There were many other Christians in the city, the guides explained, and when their ships came into the harbor they would meet them all. The itinerary ended back at the palace, where the sultan reappeared and handed the two men samples of cloves, pepper, and sorghum. They were for sale in great quantities, he said, and he would permit the visitors to load their ships with them. He also had warehouses full of silver, gold, amber, wax, ivory, and other riches, and he promised to undercut the competition.

Gama received the messages and the reports of the city with much satisfaction. The three captains consulted. As an insurance policy in case anything went wrong in India, they decided to put into the port and stock up with spices.

The fleet weighed anchor, but the
São Gabriel
refused to turn and it drifted onto a shoal. The next ship ran straight into it, and all three anchored again to sort themselves out.

The shoal turned out to be another instance of divine providence at work. There were still several Africans and Arabs on the ships, and now they decided the Christians were never going to go nearer the shore. They signaled to each other, ran for the stern, and jumped into a dhow that was tied alongside. Seconds later the two pilots jumped overboard and swam to the boat.

Vasco da Gama began to suspect that a deep plot was in hand. That night, he set about interrogating two men from Mozambique who had not managed to escape. Since it was commonly believed that reliable answers were only given under torture, he had some oil heated to boiling point and dripped on their skin.

Between their shouts of pain they gasped out the gist of the plot. News of the Christians’ arrival and their attacks on Mozambique had preceded them up the coast, and plans had been laid to capture them as soon as they entered the port.

Gama ordered more boiling oil applied to more smoking skin. One of the interrogees squirmed out of his tormentors’ grasp and threw himself into the sea, his hands still tied together. The other suicidally followed suit a few hours later. The Portuguese thanked God for once again saving them from the Infidel’s evil grasp.

Around midnight, two canoes paddled silently toward the fleet and halted just out of sight. Dozens of men dived noiselessly off the edge and swam up to the ships. Several surfaced at the side of the
Berrio
, took out their knives, and cut through the anchor cables. Their skin and weapons glinted in the moonlight, but the night watch took them for a school of tuna. As the caravel began to drift, the sailors finally caught on and raised the alarm. More swimmers had already climbed on board the
São Rafael
and were swarming around the rigging of the mizzenmast, about to sever the ropes. When they were spotted they slipped silently into the water and swam away.

“These and other wicked tricks were practiced upon us by these
dogs,” recorded the Chronicler, “but our Lord did not allow them to succeed, because they were unbelievers.”

The Portuguese were still convinced that half the population of Mombasa was Christian, but they were troubled that there was no sign of them coming to their aid. They eventually concluded that there was a war going on between the Christians and Muslims; clearly the slaves they had seen were captured Christian soldiers. In any case the Christian merchants, they persuaded themselves, were only temporary residents and so were unable to do anything without the sultan’s permission.

By now the crews had finally recovered their strength. Perhaps the ample supply of citrus fruit had helped; more likely, the Portuguese believed, it was another miracle. The captain-major waited two more days for Christians to arrive who might furnish him with a replacement pilot. Then, on April 13, he ordered the fleet to set sail, still none the wiser about how to cross the Indian Ocean.

A
T DAWN THE
next day the watchkeepers spotted two boats in the open sea, and the ships immediately set off in hot pursuit. If there were no pilots for hire, Gama had decided, one would have to be captured.

One of the boats escaped to the mainland, but by late afternoon the fleet caught up with the other. Inside were seventeen Muslims, some gold and silver, and a great deal of maize. One elderly man had a distinguished look about him, and clinging to his side was his young wife. As the ships closed in the sailors and passengers threw themselves overboard, but the Portuguese jumped in their boats and fished them out of the sea.

To Gama’s annoyance, none of the new captives was a pilot, and the fleet was forced to continue up the coast.

Thirty leagues north of Mombasa the Portuguese found themselves near another sizable town. At sunset they anchored for the night, keeping a close watch for any signs of nefarious activity along the shore.

The next day was April 15, Easter Sunday, but only the usual morning prayers were said. The explorers looked warily around them, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Ahead the coastline curved majestically between two distant rocky points to form a broad, undulating bay. At low tide the surf crashed onto coral reefs that stretched well out from the sandy beach, exposing glinting pools and low rocks spread with tattered green blankets of algae in the shallows. The town spread along the shore amid extensive palm groves flanked by farms and orchards. Well-kept villas roofed with palm thatch stood tall and white against the limpid blue sky; unlike most blank-walled Arab houses, they had many windows and roof terraces that looked out to sea. The scene reminded the Portuguese of Alcochete, a favorite resort of Portuguese royalty—and the birthplace of Manuel I—on the Tagus estuary above Lisbon.

The men who had been seized from the boat told their captors that they were in front of the city of Malindi. They had just come from there themselves, they added, and they had seen four ships belonging to Christians from India in the port. If the strangers would let them go, they would provide them with Christian pilots, together with water, wood, and any other provisions they cared to name.

Gama was badly in need of some help, and he listened to their advice. He moved the fleet toward the city and anchored half a league away. The inhabitants kept their distance: perhaps they had already been warned that the foreigners went around capturing ships and kidnapping their passengers and crews.