Malcolm held it to Kit’s lips and helped him drink hot soup, then consented to eat some himself. It was terrible, no salt, no pepper, watery and thin-but it was hot. Kit struggled to sit up, then begged to know who their rescuers were.
”I am Vilibaldo de Oliveira Salazar, the military governor of Lourengo Marques,” the governor introduced himself proudly, sweeping a courtly bow. He was a small man with sharp eyes and a thin face. He wore expensive velvet garments under his armor despite the grime. “This is Joao Braz, the Sergeant of my command, and these are my soldiers, Francisco, Amaro, Lorenco, Mauricio, Ricardo.”
The soldiers saluted sharply.
The big man with the wheel lock rifle shuffled forward. “Please, Father, I am Rolando Goulart, a humble blacksmith. I speak for the artisans of Lourengo Marques when I bid you welcome. This is Bastien, my assistant.”
Bastien was the man who’d been so excited by Malcolm’s Basque name and accent.
”And this is Vincente, our butcher and tanner, Huberto the miller, Nicolau the cooper, Xanti our baker, and Mikel his assistant…” More Basques, Malcolm realized. The farmers and husbands who tended the community’s herds also proved to be Basques: Narikis, Mikolas, Peli, Kepa, Posper, and Satordi.
The other five men were stranded sailors, as Malcolm had suspected. Three were Portuguese, introducing themselves shyly as Rodrigo, Adao, and Pedro. Erroman and Zadornin were both Basques. There were no women in evidence.
”Please,” Vilibaldo de Oliveira Salazar begged, “if you are strong enough, Father Almada, tell us of yourselves and your misfortunes.”