Margo …
They searched the body for signs of violence, but found no trace of systematic torture. Malcolm swallowed once, then followed Kit through ankle-deep mud past an idle blacksmith’s forge, what was clearly a cooper’s workshop, and a small gristmill. In the distance, the fort’s rough wooden gates were shut.
”Lean against me,” Kit muttered from cover of the gristmill.
”You’re older, more likely to succumb to exhaustion. You lean against me. I know enough Portuguese to get by until you `come around.’ “
Kit didn’t argue. He just draped one arm across Malcolm’s shoulder and let his weight sag. Malcolm hastily slid an arm around Kit’s back. All right, we’re shipwrecked Jesuits who’ve struggled up the coast in a terrible storm … .
He half carried Kit across the open, muddy ground toward the gates. “Help! Hello inside, help us!” Malcolm shouted in rough Portuguese, heavily accented with Basque pronunciation. “In the name of Christ, help us!”
A suspicious sentry appeared at the top of the wall. “Who are you? Where have you come from?”
”We are Jesuits! Father Francis Xavier sent us to you from Goa. Our ship went down in this storm, south of here! This is Lourengo Marques, is it not? Please God let it be…”
The sentry’s eyes had gone wide. A hasty shout relayed Malcolm’s message. A moment later the gates creaked open. Then Portuguese traders swarmed outside, lifting Kit’s stumbling figure to carry him while others supported Malcolm. He staggered like a man in the final stages of exhaustion and allowed his escort to take most of his weight.