by Tim Severin
‘Hector, I want you to tell the captain of that boat that we have been sent here from Porto Bello to make a proper chart of the Vipers.’
Hector looked at her in surprise. ‘Why would he believe such a tale?’
‘Show him those sketches of the reef you’ve been making. Flatter him. Ask him if he can add to our information. I speak reasonable Spanish, but not enough to be convincing.’
Hector glanced across at Jacques, who shrugged. ‘Go ahead, Hector. If it works, we can stay here for a few more days of fishing.’
Roparzh and Yannick had already brought the skiff alongside and were seated at the oars. Satchel in hand, Hector swung over the rail and joined them. Anne-Marie Kergonan stepped into her cabin and reappeared wearing a broad sash of red silk. Then she jumped into the bows of the tender and the skiff pushed off.
*
AS THEY APPROACHED the urca, they could see her crew lining the rail. All of them, including the two men who were pointing blunderbusses in their direction, were staring in fascination at Anne-Marie. She turned and waved, taking care to reveal her generous figure. ‘Necesitamos el agua!’ she called. To Hector she hissed, ‘Tell them that we are surveying the reefs and are willing to pay for food and water.’
Hector translated, and a stocky figure with a thick greying beard called out that the skiff could come alongside but only one person at a time was to climb aboard.
In response, it was Anne-Marie who promptly clambered on to the urca. Clearly this surprised the bearded man, whom Hector took to be the captain. ‘You’d better come up as well,’ he called down to Hector. ‘But the others stay where they are.’
Hector hoisted himself up on to the urca, his satchel of maps slung across his shoulder. The bearded man looked his two visitors up and down with suspicion. ‘You want water?’
‘Yes, and some stores if you can spare them,’ Hector answered. A young man stood next to the captain. Judging by their resemblance, they were father and son. The rest of the crew – several older mariners and a cabin boy – were unremarkable.
‘It’s too hot to stand here in the sun,’ said the captain. He turned and limped heavily towards a door at the break of the aft deck. He stood aside to let Anne-Marie precede him, and Hector had to duck to follow them into the captain’s accommodation. A curtained bunk was built into one bulkhead. There was a small table, a couple of chairs, and a cushioned bench running the width of the little cabin. ‘Please be seated,’ said the captain. He lowered himself on to one of the chairs and used both hands to move his useless leg into a more comfortable position. Anne-Marie took her place on the bench, and Hector, preferring to keep his distance, sat on one of the chairs.
‘Felipe!’ called the captain through the open door. ‘Come in and join us and bring some wine.’ A few moments later the young man appeared holding an onion-shaped flask of wine and four small leather tankards that he placed on the table before his father. Anne-Marie moved farther along the bench so the captain’s son could sit beside her.
‘Welcome aboard the San Gil,’ said the captain. He leaned forward and splashed a generous portion of red wine into each tankard. ‘I am Juan Garcia Fonseca, and my ship is bound for our home port, Cartagena.’
He looked enquiringly at Hector.
‘Enrique Benavides of His Majesty’s Corps of Engineers, at your service,’ Hector said, ‘and this is Anne-Marie Bretana, owner of the pinnace Morvaut.’
Fonseca gave a small bow towards Anne-Marie before addressing his next question to Hector. ‘May I ask what you are doing in these waters?’
Hector hesitated. He had been given little time to practise his deception. ‘I am on my way back to Madrid after a posting to Valdivia as Deputy Inspector of Fortifications.’ Valdivia was three thousand miles away at the far end of Peru. It was a reasonable guess that Captain Juan Fonseca had never been there or knew any of the citizens. ‘In Panama I received instructions to interrupt my journey and make more accurate charts of reefs in this region.’
‘Not the best time of year to do so,’ commented the Spaniard drily.
‘Due to the recent heavy loss of shipping on this route, the matter was considered to be of the utmost importance.’ Hector opened his satchel and began to set out his sketch maps. ‘I’m hoping that you might be able to add some extra details, from your own experience of these waters.’
Juan Fonseca leafed through one sheet after another, and nodded approvingly. ‘It will be a real service to mariners if we can get decent charts of this region. I am able to add some information about the currents.’
Hector heard a voice calling outside. He guessed it was a Spanish crew member trying to start a conversation with the two Kergonan brothers waiting in the skiff.
The captain picked up his tankard and raised it as a toast.
‘I think it appropriate to raise a glass to the memory of Carlos Serrano,’ he said.
‘To Carlos Serrano,’ echoed Hector cautiously. He had not the least idea who Carlos Serrano was. But Captain Fonseca obviously thought he was someone whose memory was worthy of respect.
The captain took a sip of wine and put down his tankard. ‘Now,’ he said casually, ‘tell me the truth. Tell me who you really are and what you are doing here.’
Hector blustered. ‘As I said, I am surveying the Vipers—’
Fonseca cut him short. ‘. . . The Vipers are marked on official maps as the Serrano Bank. They are named after the castaway Pedro Serrano who was shipwrecked there. He survived on his own for eight years, eating turtles and catching rainwater in their upturned shells. He was covered in a thick pelt of hair like a beast when they found him, so it is said. There’s not a sailor in Panama who would not have told you the tale, and you would have known his name was Pedro, not Carlos.’
The captain smiled grimly. ‘Señor Benavides, if that is your real name, which I doubt, I suggest that you tell me the truth about yourself and this charming lady here.’
‘Here is the truth,’ interrupted Anne-Marie. She reached inside her scarlet sash and produced a short-barrelled pistol. There was a click as she cocked the weapon and placed it against the head of Felipe Fonseca. ‘We only want some fresh water and a little food. Nothing that you can’t spare. Then you can proceed on your way.’
Captain Fonseca sat very still. Then he spoke slowly and carefully. ‘It is a novelty to be waylaid aboard my own ship by a woman.’ He looked completely unperturbed. ‘Felipe,’ he said to his son, ‘do exactly as you are told. I suspect the lady means what she says.’
He levered himself to his feet and limped out of the cabin, followed by Felipe with Anne-Marie still holding the gun to his head.
The moment Anne-Marie emerged on deck, she let out a piercing whistle. In response her two brothers in the skiff rowed across and clambered aboard. It was all done with so little fuss that Hector had the feeling that this routine was something the Bretons had done before. Wordlessly Yannick and Roparzh removed the two blunderbusses from the crew of the urca and herded the sailors into a group.
As they shuffled meekly together, the Spanish cabin boy took it into his head to make a dash at Anne-Marie, trying to seize her pistol. Hector was so surprised that, without a second thought, he reached out and grabbed the lad by the collar. The boy swung round, flailing in the air with his fists, until a sharp command from Captain Fonseca made him stop.
Felipe had gone pale, but Anne-Marie’s hand was as steady as her voice. ‘Hector, select two men from the crew and supervise them while they fetch water jars and place them in our boat. Roparzh, see what sails there are.’
‘At least leave me a jib,’ said the Spanish captain calmly. He seemed to know exactly what the Bretons were doing.
Her brother prodded one of the Spanish sailors with the muzzle of his blunderbuss. ‘Gouel!’ he ordered in Breton, and when the man looked blank, pointed up at the San Gil’s mainsail. ‘Voiles! Vela!’ and followed the sailor below.
Hector picked out two of the older Spaniards, and they beg
an to lug the heavy water jars from their stowage by the galley. As they lowered the jars into the Morvaut’s tender, Roparzh reappeared with the Spanish sailor. Between them they were dragging a length of canvas which they dumped near the mast. Next Yannick eased off the main halyard until the mainsail lay in an untidy heap on deck.
With her free hand Anne-Marie beckoned to the cabin boy, who stood glowering at her. ‘You help the cook, don’t you?’ she said in slow, careful Spanish.
The lad nodded.
‘Fetch me his oil,’ she said.
‘Do as she says,’ ordered Fonseca quietly. He appeared to accept whatever was to happen next. The boy meekly went off on his errand. More sails were heaped on deck. The cabin boy came back with a greasy pan of cooking oil and was told to dump it on the cloth. As Hector brought the last water jar from the galley, he met Roparzh with a rum bottle in his hand. The Breton took a swig. ‘Pity about the waste. But I’ve found a small keg which I’ll put in the skiff,’ he said. He sprinkled the remaining contents of the bottle on the heap of canvas. Hector saw growing distress on the faces of the crew.
Finally Roparzh fetched a lump of glowing charcoal from the galley and tossed it on the sails.
In the hot sunshine everyone stood and watched in silence as the fire gradually took hold. A tendril of grey smoke oozed upwards. There was a slight explosive puff as a puddle of rum caught alight. A line of flame ran up a fold of dry canvas, and suddenly all of San Gil’s sails were ablaze except for a single headsail which had been left hanging from its stay.
Anne-Marie pressed the pistol more firmly to Felipe’s head. ‘Can you swim?’ she asked. The young man nodded cautiously.
She addressed his father. ‘Captain Fonseca, if anyone shoots at us, you will be pulling your son’s corpse from the sea.’
‘I understand,’ said Juan Garcia wearily.
Anne-Marie began to hustle Felipe into the skiff. ‘Come on, Hector,’ she said. ‘It’s time to go.’ Hector climbed down into the boat. Roparzh handed down a small keg of rum to his brother, and the two Breton men took their places and began to row. As the gap widened between the skiff and the urca, Anne-Marie reached into a pocket, withdrew a handful of silver cobs, and flung them. The scatter of money arced through the air and clattered on to the deck of the urca. The crew paid no attention. They were busy with buckets, dipping up seawater to douse the fire.
Anne-Marie tapped her prisoner on the shoulder. ‘Over you go,’ she said cheerfully. Felipe, white-faced, slid over the side and began to swim back to the urca.
Hector glared at her. ‘We agreed no piracy,’ he said accusingly.
She showed white teeth in a mischievous smile. ‘I only said that I would pay for what we needed. How long do you think it would be before they sent the guarda costa after us? With only a single foresail it’ll take Captain Fonseca at least a week to get to Cartagena, enough time for us to finish exploring the wreck. Then we head for Tortuga.’
She glanced back at the urca. The plume of smoke was gone. The fire must have been under control.
‘Captain Fonseca has suffered only a scorched deck, and perhaps an injury to his pride,’ she said.
When they reached the Morvaut Anne-Marie climbed aboard first and, turning, held out her hand for Hector to pass up his satchel of maps. He stood up and held out the satchel at arm’s length. At that moment Yannick deliberately caused the tender to tip. It was a sudden, violent lurch, intended to throw Hector into the water. Caught off-guard, Hector lost his balance and seized the proffered hand. With one smooth movement Anne-Marie hoisted him safely up to the deck. For a long moment she stood, holding his hand in hers. Then she gave a brief and unmistakable squeeze of invitation.
THREE
MORVAUT WAS FINALLY on her way to Tortuga, running comfortably before a steady north-west breeze. Hector, Dan and Jezreel had gathered on the foredeck in the last of the evening sunshine. They were looking on as Jacques weighed out their hack silver into four equal portions. He was using an ingenious set of balance scales he had rigged up from a soup ladle and pewter dipping bowl.
‘Nearly fifteen pounds’ weight a share,’ announced the Frenchman. ‘Add the jewels and cobs, and I’d say that each of us is £200 richer than when we started out.’
‘Worth the effort, even if not as good as Phipps,’ said Jezreel. The success of William Phipps was legendary. He had located the wreck of a great galleon, the Nuestra Señora de la Pura y Limia Concepción, on shoals north of Hispaniola and brought up thirty tons of silver. Phipps’ success had earned him an audience with the English king and a knighthood.
‘Phipps took scores of divers with him as well as a Bahamian tub,’ Hector pointed out. He felt that Dan’s solo effort should be recognized. Phipps’ salvage team had deployed a wood-and-leather diving bell weighted with lead. It was crude but effective in helping the divers ransack the wreck. Dan had merely jumped overboard from the Morvaut, with a heavy stone to pull him down.
‘If we brought back as much as Phipps, we could wipe clean the slate,’ said Jezreel.
Hector wondered if Jezreel was secretly hoping that one day he would be able to return to London and go back to prizefighting, as either a contestant or a manager. Watching Jacques stow their salvage portions safely into two knapsacks, he doubted that the Frenchman had similar ambitions. Returning to France would be difficult for Jacques. He would wear a galérien’s brand on his cheek for the rest of his life and there was a second brand, V for voleur, on his right hand, between thumb and forefinger. As far as Hector was aware, Jacques had no family and the only women he had left behind in Paris were ladies of easy virtue. Dan, by contrast, was free to return to his people any time he chose. Yet Dan enjoyed travelling, and the Miskito people considered it normal, even desirable, for a young man to wander away from home and see the world.
Hector glanced aft.
Anne-Marie was nowhere to be seen, and he presumed she was in the cabin. Two of her brothers, Yannick and Yacut, were busy on some rope work while Roparzh was at the helm. Hector would have preferred that the brothers were not so openly hostile towards him and his companions. The Bretons made a point of speaking their own language between themselves and refused to take their meals with Hector and his friends. He was glad that the voyage would soon be over.
‘Do you think we’ll be able to find our way back to the wreck next year?’ Jacques asked.
‘Only worth it if the Spaniards haven’t come back to finish the job while we’re away,’ said Dan. The final week of fishing the wreck had been tantalizing. Jezreel and Hector had gone off exploring in the skiff. They had spent hours rowing around the site, scanning the sea floor through a glass-bottomed bucket, looking for other debris from the wreck. The search had taught Hector a great deal more about the shape and structure of the reef, and he had noted several promising locations that looked to be worth investigating. But the sailing season was on them and there was an increasing risk of being caught by another, less gullible Spanish vessel. They had decided it was prudent time to leave the wreck site and get back to Tortuga safely with what they had found. After some grumbling, the Kergonans had agreed.
‘How long before we reach Tortuga?’ Dan asked Hector. The Kergonans owned and operated the pinnace, but when it came to navigation, everyone relied on Hector’s expertise.
‘A couple of days if this wind holds,’ Hector said. His gaze was fixed on the last moments of the sunset. He never tired of watching the final moments of the gap close between the horizon and the sun. That evening the sun had turned a blazing orange red, and as the lower rim touched the sea the perfect circle began to distort, expanding and flattening to an oval, then shrinking to one last sliver as the sun slipped out of sight. He waited for a flash of green, but none came. Then the sun was gone, leaving the underbellies of the clouds a deep, fiery pink. The wind seemed to have settled, and the air was mild and balmy.
‘I think I’ll turn in,’ he said to his friends. He had left his mattress under a tarpaulin c
over near the helm. As he went to fetch it, he passed the Kergonans. Yannick spat and muttered something in Breton. Yacut scowled.
Hector spread his mattress on the deck by the foot of the mainmast and lay down. For a long time he gazed past the curve of the mainsail and up at the sky, thinking of his present situation. He had not seen Ireland since being kidnapped as a teenager by the Barbary corsairs. His father was dead these several years, and he had lost touch with his mother, whom he supposed had returned to Spain. His sister, also taken by the corsairs, had been absorbed into a Moroccan harem and no longer wished to have any contact with him. Maria and his small circle of friends were all he had.
His thoughts turned to the immediate future. The silver and other valuables he was bringing back to Tortuga should mean he and Maria could live comfortably while they decided where they might go next. For their next move it would be wise to avoid any of the Spanish colonies where his piratical past might be revealed. The same was true of Jamaica. The authorities in Port Royal were arresting former buccaneers and putting them on trial. Maybe he and Maria should move to one of the French colonies in the Caribbean, perhaps to Petit Goâve or Saint-Domingue. The officials sent there from France did not pry too closely into a settler’s background, and he and Maria both spoke French well enough to get by.
He noticed that a thin veil of cloud, very high up, was spreading from the north. The stars were disappearing. As a precaution he pulled a length of tarpaulin over him. Then he fell asleep.
*
HE AWOKE TO A RATTLE of heavy rain on tarred canvas. Someone must have pulled the tarpaulin right over him as he slept. It was airless and stuffy underneath the makeshift cover, and cracks of pale daylight were seeping under the edges. The slant of the deck had increased. Morvaut was heeling to the wind. He rolled off the mattress and got to his feet, pulling the tarpaulin around his shoulders and holding the mattress under his arm to keep it dry.
