10
And then did I take up the honorable and exalted trade of ocean-going pilot, the finest of all maritime professions, which my father had mastered in his twelve years of Trinity House, and which my late brother Thomas also had attained. It humbled me to be following in their path without having undergone their long and strenuous licentiate period, and it struck me as hugely ironical that I would do my piloting for Portugals instead of for the Queen.
But I had no fear of doing it badly and disgracing all the Battells of time past and time to come. Don João had said it himself, that I am clever and learn things quickly. I mean no immodesty, but it is true. And also I was then no novice at sea, having made a voyage from England to Brazil, and one from Brazil to Africa, along with many lesser ones in the seas of Europe, even as far as Muscovy, and I had not made those voyages with my eyes closed. Finally I had already had one taste of piloting, when I sailed Governor Serrão’s pinnace down the Kwanza from Masanganu to São Paulo de Loanda, and though that is not the same as going out into the Atlantic, still, it calls for some skill.
What is it, this craft of piloting, that I value so high?
It is nothing less than the heart of navigation: the art of guiding vessels from one place to another when land or navigational marks are in sight.
I do not mean to scorn the science of navigating in the open sea, which is the province of the ship’s master, unless master and pilot be combined in one individual. That is called grand navigation, and it is no trifling aspect of seamanship. A Magellan or a Columbus or, supremely, a Drake who points his bow into unknown seas is scarce to be mocked.
And yet, I must say, what is grand navigation once one is out in the great waters, except the doing of the same task day after day, that is, keeping the wind to one’s back and the deck above the waves, and seeing to it that you sail toward sunset if westering is your aim, and the other way if you would go the other way? Whereas the pilot—ah, the pilot must cope with a thousand thousand perils, and have every science at his command to prevent disaster, and his task is full of intricacies in every moment.
Mind you, the pilot does not have land constantly in sight. The prudent seaman does not often choose to keep close inshore—there are too many dangers and mysteries there—but rather prefers to take himself to deeper waters, beyond what we call the kenning, which is the distance at which the coast is visible from the masthead. But it is the pilot’s duty to sight capes and headlands often enough to be sure of his vessel’s position. Where the territory is well known, he has his rutter or portolano to tell him of the points he must watch for: his book of charts, compiled by generations of his predecessors, marking each promontory, each island, each snag or speck that is a landmark to him. And where he sails an unknown coast he must use his wits to learn the landmarks, and use his instruments when no landmarks are ready at hand for him.
So we feel our way, with compass and lead, with cross-staff and quadrant, with astrolabe and plumb-bob. We strive never to veer dangerously close ashore, nor to let ourselves be driven perilously far to sea. We must know the winds and the stars and the messages of the clouds.
There is more. A time comes in the voyage when landfall must be made; and then there are new pothers, for the pilot must deal in shoals and reefs, in tides, in sudden bores and currents. The moon rules the tides and the pilot must then live by the moon in her phases, or risk running his ship aground and running himself to the land of simpletons. So it was a sizable assignment that Don João was offering me, made doubly difficult in that I had never seen these African waters before—unskilled pilot bluffing his way in unfamiliar seas!—and triply difficult for having as my companions a crew of Portugals who had no reason to love or respect me or to share with me such knowledge of the route as they might themselves have.
The pinnace I was given was the Infanta Beatrix, a larger vessel than the one I had had on the river, perhaps seventy or eighty tons. Perhaps it was more of a caravel than a pinnace, in fact, for it had three masts, including one little one at the stern-castle, and her sails were lateens, that would let her run before the wind and also go near it, that is, sail with a side wind. But in addition there was some mongrel arrangement for square-rigging her on the fore-mast, if need be.
They let me go aboard her to make examination and grow familiar with her. For to a mariner a new ship is much like a new woman, that needs a little getting used to. All women have the same parts, in more or less the same places; but yet they differ in size and shape and in their workings, and even an expert saddleman takes a few moments to learn the way of her. With a ship even more so. The hull is below and the masts overhead, but there are many varieties of placement within that arrangement, and one must seek out and know ahead of time the details of sails and spars and spirits, shrouds and tacklings, braces and stays, ratlines and cables, and all of that. So I wandered about, discovering the Infanta Beatrix. She was tight and sturdy, a handy ship, promising ease of sailing. There was a cabin for me in the poop, though small, and for my guidance I had some instruments and also various books of tables, old and much water-stained but still usefuclass="underline" an ephemerides, an almanac, a table of tides, and a rutter-book. Not one of these gave the complete information of the coast, yet each held a part, and by employing them all and the protection of God besides I thought I would be able to find my way up the coast the first time. After that I should be able to manage it less hesitantly.
The crew was a smallish one. The master, who was my superior officer and had command of all and responsibility for the cargo, was one Pedro Faleiro, who seemed to me weak-willed and short-tempered, but not evil. Of others we had a carpenter and a caulker and a cooper, a gunner, a boatswain, a quartermaster, and a company of ordinary seamen, all roguish and lame-spirited, that struck me very different from English sailors in all respects. Yet they seemed to know one rope from another, which was all I would ask of them. I think I would not have cared to cross the ocean with such men, but a journey of fifty or one hundred leagues up the coast and back was a different matter.
Though I was English and not a Papist, they were outwardly friendly to me, and Faleiro and some others invited me to take the Mass with them on the eve of sailing. “Nay,” I said, “it is not my custom,” and their faces clouded, but only for an instant, and they let me be. So off they went to their Romish mysteries, their swallowing of wafers and guzzling of wine, that is, their eating of the body of Jesus and the drinking of His blood, as they themselves will admit to believing they are doing.
I would not have minded some word or two of God’s blessing myself before putting to sea. But there happen not to be any chapels of the Anglican rite in this part of Africa, and I saw no value to me in the Latin ceremony, which is not a conduit for the divine power but rather an impediment to it. Instead I went off apart by myself and looked toward the sky, and said within my soul, “Lord, I am Andrew Battell Thy servant, and I have fallen into a strange fate, which no doubt Thou had good reason for sending upon me. I will do Thy bidding in all things and I look to Thee to preserve me and to keep my body from peril and my soul from corruption. Amen.”