by Tim Severin
Jezreel sat hunched at the tiller, wearing an oiled cape.
‘Squall from the east. Won’t last long,’ he called.
It was full daylight. The raindrops were bouncing off the sea and creating a fine mist. It was impossible to see more than fifty yards in any direction.
Hector scuttled over to the shelter of the windward rail and huddled there. Someone had adjusted the sails in the night and the pinnace was close-hauled. Above the patter of the rain he could hear the hull hissing through the water.
After some twenty minutes the rain ended abruptly. The sun came out as the rain belt passed on downwind of them.
Jezreel let out a grunt of surprise. ‘Where the devil did he come from!’
Hector stood up and peered upwind. About half a mile away was a sizeable vessel. It had been hidden in the rain bank and was now fast bearing down on them. Hector’s gaze went to the main-top. Hoisted there was a large flag, three gold lilies on a white field, the ensign of France. At the foremast flew another, smaller flag – blue background, white cross and at its centre a single white fleur-de-lis. He did not know what it signified.
Jezreel sounded relieved. ‘Thank Christ! If that had been a Spaniard we’d be running for our lives or blown out of the water by now.’
Hector was counting the number of gun ports. This was a ship of force, a light frigate of fourteen guns.
Everyone aboard the Morvaut gathered at the rail to watch the stranger closing in. The Kergonan brothers were grinning broadly and thumping one another on the back. They shouted something in Breton to their sister.
‘What are they so pleased about?’ asked Hector.
‘Yannick recognizes the frigate,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘It’s the Sainte Rose. A king’s ship. She’s based in Saint-Domingue. It’s good to see a friend.’
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the frigate yawed, brought a forward gun to bear, and there was a puff of smoke.
‘Putain!’ exclaimed Jacques, shocked. The ball had come skipping across the sea and punched a neat hole in Morvaut’s jib. Six feet lower and it would have shattered the pinnace’s bow.
Yannick Kergonan ran to the helm, shoving Jezreel aside. He pushed the tiller across and his brother let fly the sheets.
The pinnace instantly lost speed.
‘What the hell did he do that for?’ yelled Jacques. He was scrabbling in the sack that contained the Morvaut’s collection of flags. Like most vessels of dubious origin, the pinnace carried a selection of national flags to suit the occasion – English, French, Spanish, Danish, Hollander, even a Brandenburg ensign. He picked out the flag of a French merchant ship, blue with a broad white cross. Hector noticed the resemblance to the unknown flag flown by the frigate. Standing at the taffrail, Jacques began flapping the flag frantically.
His reward was another cannon shot. This time there was a sinister rushing sound as the ball flew over the pinnace.
‘Blind idiots!’ Jacques yelled.
Yannick had climbed up on the rail. Clinging with one hand to a shroud, he was waving a white sheet. His two brothers ran to the halyards and let down the mainsail with a rush. Very soon Morvaut was at a standstill, rolling awkwardly on the waves.
The frigate came tearing on, and for a time Hector thought the larger vessel was intent on ramming the Morvaut. But at the last moment the Sainte Rose turned up into the wind, backed her topsails and brailed the courses, and took up station within hailing distance.
A man dressed in a grey and blue coat appeared amidships. He raised a speaking trumpet and bellowed that the Morvaut was to send across her captain and any documents that proved the vessel’s nationality and a list of her cargo.
‘Too lazy to send their own boarding party?’ Jacques grumbled. ‘Let me go. I’ll tell them what I think of their gunnery.’
‘Your galérien’s brand won’t make the right impression,’ Hector told him. ‘It’s better that I go across with the Kergonans and explain our business. It shouldn’t delay us for long.’
In no time at all Anne-Marie Kergonan appeared from the little cabin holding a sheaf of papers wrapped in oilskin, which she slid into a wallet ready to take to the Sainte Rose. They must be the Morvaut’s documents, Hector thought to himself. She was a cool customer. Not even a near-miss from a seventeen-pound cannonball knocked her off-stride.
‘Have you included a copy of our charter agreement?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Anne-Marie replied. She was again wearing her broad red sash and Hector saw the slight bulge of the hidden pistol. ‘Not expecting to hold up the captain of a warship, are you?’ he observed sourly.
She answered him with a sardonic smile. ‘You never know when it might be useful.’
Yannick and Yacut rowed the two of them across in the tender. As they covered the last few yards to the Sainte Rose, a voice shouted down in French. ‘Yannick! You little shit!’
Anne-Marie leaned forward and quietly asked her brother, ‘Who’s that, Yannick?’
Yannick was scanning the faces lining the rail of the frigate. ‘Gaston Rassalle. We fought at Campeche together. Can’t imagine what he’s doing on a king’s ship.’ He rested on his oar for a moment, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back. ‘Shame they haven’t hung you yet.’
Hector was aware of whistles and jeers as they came closer. He was trying to recall the details of what had happened at Campeche. There had been a great raid by filibustiers, as the French called the buccaneers. Hundreds of French and Dutch pirates had overrun the town, only to find that the citizens had fled with all their valuables. The disappointed raiders had wreaked havoc, smashing the place. There had been an orgy of rape and pillage, innocent prisoners strung up. Looking at Yannick’s spiteful face, it was just the sort of atrocity that he would have imagined of the Breton.
A rope ladder had been lowered so they could scramble up the side of the frigate. Yannick went up first, then Hector. As he reached the main deck, he was surprised how untidy it was. There was an unsightly clutter of ropes, tubs, odds and ends, and a coop containing several scruffy hens. The planking was stained where gobs of chewing tobacco had been spat. It did not look like a navy ship. Nor were the crew any better. The men staring at him were an uncouth lot. None of them wore uniform. They were dressed in a motley collection of clothes, and he got the impression that several of them were drunk.
He looked around, seeking an officer. A man in a greasy blue and grey coat with silver facings was holding the speaking trumpet. Hector guessed he was a petty officer.
‘I am Hector Lynch,’ he began to say in French. Behind him he heard a chorus of appreciative grunts and whistles from the crew. Anne-Marie must have reached the deck.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the frigate’s sailors step up to Yannick Kergonan and thrust his face forward to within a few inches of the Breton. The man had smudges of gunpowder on his bare forearms and unwashed clothes. Hector guessed he was a cannonier, a ship’s gunner.
‘Had I known you were aboard that piss pot, I’d have aimed lower,’ slurred the sailor.
‘You couldn’t hit a sow at ten paces,’ the Breton sneered.
‘Wouldn’t be able to tell if that sow was your sister,’ retorted the gunner.
Yannick’s hand dropped to the hilt of his knife.
‘Steady, Yannick.’ The sharp warning came from Anne-Marie. She was only a yard away.
Yannick slowly withdrew his hand.
‘Taking orders from the sow then,’ jeered the cannonier. There was a sudden movement, followed by the sound of a pistol shot. Gaston looked down foolishly. A bullet had splintered the deck beside his bare foot. Anne-Marie Kergonan held the smoking pistol in her hand. ‘Next time I aim for your crotch,’ she said.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded an angry voice. At the head of the companion ladder leading down from the poop deck stood an officer. Tall and good-looking, he was impeccably dressed in a long dark blue coat edged with silver lace, well-polished bucket-to
p boots, white stockings and maroon breeches. A pale blue sash was wound around his waist. Hatless, he wore his thick blond hair long and loose. But the most remarkable item of his appearance was his carefully brushed moustache. It was arranged in the old-fashioned Spanish style. The ends of the moustache curled upwards on each side of his nose in two luxuriant and impressive curves.
Hector would have judged the man as a dandy, but for Yannick’s reaction. It was completely unexpected. The Breton suddenly went quiet. ‘I’m sorry, captain,’ he mumbled apologetically. He dropped his glance. ‘Don’t like to hear my sister spoken about that way.’
‘It seems she is well able to look after herself,’ observed the officer caustically. He turned to Anne-Marie and bowed. ‘Major Laurens de Graff, at your service.’
This time Hector had no need to search his memory. Laurens de Graff was the most renowned filibustier in the Caribbean. He was said to be clever, arrogant, dangerous, and prone to outbursts of violent temper. Born in the Netherlands, he had joined the Spanish Navy and risen to the rank of captain before being captured by pirates. He had promptly turned his coat and become a filibustier himself. For fifteen years he had been achieving a string of remarkable successes. Evading the squadrons that his former masters had sent after him, he had captured ship after ship and become a byword for courage, seamanship and daring. The English had tried to recruit him as a mercenary captain, offering to pay him well, but Hector had heard that Laurens de Graff had preferred to throw in his lot with the French. They had given him a commission as a major in their colonial militia and allowed him to use their harbours for refuge and re-supply. But how he came to be in command of a royal French warship was a mystery.
De Graff was treating Anne-Marie Kergonan to a frankly appraising look.
‘A pleasure to welcome you aboard my ship, madam,’ he said.
He turned to face Yannick. ‘Yannick Kergonan, isn’t it? You were with us at Campeche.’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Yannick. ‘Nearly got caught by the Spaniards.’
De Graff looked at Hector. ‘You are . . . ?’
‘Hector Lynch. I have chartered the pinnace Morvaut.’
‘Chartered for what purpose?’
‘To fish for wrecks on the Vipers.’
Shrewd grey eyes regarded Hector. De Graff’s face was expressionless. ‘And have you had any success?’
An impulse made Hector cautious. ‘Some success, not much.’
De Graff beckoned to the petty officer and murmured something in his ear. Then he turned back to Hector. ‘Let us go to the poop deck. I presume you have proof of what you claim to be.’
As they mounted the companionway, Hector noticed that the petty officer and two sailors had commandeered the Morvaut’s skiff and were rowing across to visit the pinnace.
‘Your name sounds English,’ said de Graff as they reached the frigate’s poop deck. Two junior officers moved respectfully to one side.
‘I was born in Ireland but am currently living with my wife in Tortuga,’ Hector answered, and then corrected himself, ‘. . . in Tortille.’
A lift of the eyebrow. De Graff was waiting for him to go on. ‘My wife is originally from Spain,’ Hector added lamely.
‘My own wife is from the Canaries,’ said de Graff amiably, ‘though I see little of her nowadays, being at sea so much. May I see your papers?’
Hector looked across at Anne-Marie. From the wallet she was carrying she produced the charter agreement that had been carefully drawn up between them.
The filibustier captain read through the document carefully. Then he looked up. ‘It seems to be in order.’
Hector felt a wave of relief. He had worried that the filibustier might find some excuse to delay them on the journey to Tortuga.
‘You say that you were born in Ireland?’ said de Graff.
‘Yes.’
‘That makes you a subject of the King of England.’
Hector could not understand why de Graff was so particular on this point.
‘Madame,’ the filibustier captain said, turning to Anne-Marie, ‘Monsieur Lynch tells me that you are the owner of the pinnace.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ Anne-Marie corrected him. ‘I am part-owner. I have equal shares with my brothers.’
‘And you are on your way to Tortille?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Umm . . .’ De Graff was looking across towards the pinnace. Hector began to have the first stirrings of concern. There was an undercurrent of deviousness to de Graff’s urbane manner.
They chatted on inconsequential matters until the petty officer returned from his inspection of Morvaut. De Graff took him to one side, and it was clear that he was listening to the man’s report. Then the filibustier walked across to where Anne-Marie and Hector were waiting for him.
‘Monsieur Lynch,’ de Graff began, ‘I have to inform you that you are my prisoner.’
Hector gaped with shock. ‘On what grounds?’ he demanded.
‘As an enemy combatant.’
‘How can that be?’ Hector’s mind was whirling.
De Graff gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Perhaps the news reached Tortille after you had left on this fishing trip of yours.’
Hector felt his throat go dry. ‘What news?’
‘England and France are at war.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Hector retorted. He was utterly taken aback. France and England were always wary of one another in the Caribbean but their mutual hostility towards Spain had kept them in an uneasy alliance.
De Graff smoothed his splendid moustache. He looked pleased with himself. ‘I’m not a politician but I gather that the war is to do with alliances in Europe. My lord, the Sun King –’ de Graff allowed himself a mocking smile – ‘has aroused such envy among other sovereigns that several of the European nations have leagued against him. Even Spain.’
Hector decided his only course was to brazen it out. ‘I can’t see how that gives you the right to detain me—’ he began forcefully.
‘. . . You and your associates,’ interjected de Graff quietly. ‘Bring me my commission,’ he said to a junior officer.
A little while later the man reappeared, carrying a large leather folder. De Graff took out a parchment. Without a word he handed it to Hector to read.
In florid, formal French with its particular spellings the document stated that ‘Laurens-Cornille Baldran, sieur de Graff, lieutenant de roy en l’isle de Saint-Domingue’ was appointed as ‘Capitaine de Fregate legere’. He was to carry out faithfully the instructions received from his superiors. The document bore the signature of the Seigneur de Cussy, Governor pour le Roi du cote et isles de Saint-Domingue en l’Amerique sous le vent.
De Graff waited for Hector to finish reading before he said silkily, ‘As you see, my instructions require me to detain enemy nationals and seize their goods and possessions.’
To Hector’s surprise, Anne-Marie spoke up in his support. ‘Major de Graff, you have no right to detain Monsieur Lynch. He has a perfectly legitimate contract with me, a French subject, to conduct salvage operations with a French vessel.’
De Graff turned to Anne-Marie, and though his eyes expressed admiration, he spoke with the tone of someone who would allow no argument.
‘Mademoiselle Kergonan, I was coming to that. A vessel chartered by an enemy subject becomes, as it were, a ship of that nation.’
Anne-Marie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling me that you intend to seize the Morvaut?’
‘The moment you entered into a contract with Monsieur Lynch, the vessel effectively became his instrument and available for hostilities.’
‘Fishing for wrecks is not a hostile act.’
De Graff smiled grimly. ‘The profits could be used to assist the enemy. For that reason I am also confiscating Monsieur Lynch’s salvage.’
Belatedly Hector noticed Yannick Kergonan smirking up at him from the main deck. On the deck beside him were the two knapsacks in which Jacques had stored their s
ilver from the galleon. Hector guessed that the Breton had told the petty officer where to look for the knapsacks when he visited the pinnace.
Laurens de Graff was speaking again. ‘Mademoiselle, I must ask you also to hand over your proceeds from the wreck.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Anne-Marie snapped back at him.
De Graff sighed. ‘Your charter contract clearly states that half the salvage goes to you and your brothers as owners of the vessel. That half, too, must be relinquished.’
‘It belongs to us, French subjects.’
De Graff’s voice hardened. ‘As captain of this vessel I am within my rights to confiscate all goods found on a suspect vessel.’
Anne-Marie Kergonan exploded with rage. ‘That is pure piracy.’
Hands on hips, she stormed at de Graff with the violence of a fishwife. He was a crook, a cheat, and nothing better than a sea robber, and she would expose his villainy to Governor de Cussy the moment she reached Petit Goâve.
The filibustier was unmoved. ‘Mademoiselle, please return to your vessel. I shall send a petty officer and some sailors as prize crew. The Sainte Rose will escort her to Petit Goâve. Monsieur Lynch will rejoin his comrades on your pinnace and they will be put in irons for the journey.’
‘And my brothers, what are they to do?’ Anne-Marie demanded, her face suffused with anger.
De Graff shrugged. ‘Naturally I must replace the prize crew I’m sending with you, so I will retain them on the Sainte Rose. I believe they will find themselves among former comrades.’
*
HECTOR SAT QUIETLY in the tender as it returned to the pinnace. Anne-Marie was still seething with rage. She was even angrier after they were back aboard the Morvaut and a gloating French sailor emerged from the main hatch. He held up for them to see the heavy sacks in which Yannick had hidden the Kergonans’ share of the salvage in the bilge.
‘My stupid oaf of a brother,’ she raged. ‘If he’d kept his mouth shut, de Graff wouldn’t have known about our haul.’ She stormed off to the cabin, making it clear that even though Morvaut was in the hands of a prize crew, the cabin was her territory.
