by Tim Severin
‘Roparzh and Yacut,’ she said. ‘They are well, thank you.’
‘I’ve added them to my crew,’ interrupted de Graff.
De Cussy raised an eyebrow. He had noted that Anne-Marie looked less than pleased. ‘I’m sure you had good reason,’ he said.
‘A waste of prime seamen otherwise. I intercepted their boat, Morvaut, in questionable circumstances,’ de Graff continued. ‘They had four suspicious strangers aboard – a big Englishman, and a Miskito Indian, as well as a Frenchman renegade. Their leader was a young man. Calls himself Hector Lynch.’
‘The name means nothing to me.’
‘I arrested them and impounded the Morvaut. But they escaped.’
‘In the middle of the sea?’
‘Stole the ship’s tender and made off.’
‘And you followed?’
‘Of course. We turned back and spent two days searching for them. They couldn’t have got far. But they had vanished. I decided to bring the Morvaut into port without wasting any more time.’
‘And what were they doing aboard the Morvaut? You think they were spies?’
‘No. The Kergonans had taken them out to the Vipers.’
De Graff shot the Governor a knowing glance, which made de Cussy pause for a moment.
‘Perhaps we should discuss this matter privately.’
While the others were talking, Anne-Marie had been observing several small boats putting out from the frigate. Crowded with sailors, they were heading directly for the landing in front of the cluster of wooden houses and thatched huts that made up the settlement of Petit Goâve. The crew of the Sainte Rose were obviously on their way to the drinking dens and brothels for which the place was renowned.
‘If you will excuse me, Your Excellency. My brothers are coming ashore and I should go to meet with them. Naturally we will be contesting the seizure of our vessel and will seek the return of our property. You will grant us justice, I hope.’ She faced de Graff and treated him to a withering glance. ‘Captain, I bid you goodbye. I shall remember your company.’
Her remark produced a flicker of amused interest on de Graff’s face as he watched Anne-Marie stalk off the jetty.
‘A fiery young woman,’ commented de Cussy.
‘Carries a pistol in her sash, if you hadn’t noticed,’ said de Graff.
‘I’d say she’d be more than most men could handle, however much they wanted.’
Together the two men made their way to where de Cussy had set up an office in a tobacco warehouse he owned on the outskirts of Petit Goâve. The colony he governed was a string of isolated settlements dotted around the western fringe of the island the Spaniards knew as Hispaniola and, in practice, its capital was effectively located wherever he happened to be at the time. His tobacco warehouse was one of the few buildings in Petit Goâve which had an upper storey, and the two men mounted a set of outside stairs that led to the Governor’s private quarters. Once inside, de Cussy waved his visitor to a chair and despatched a servant to bring them some refreshments. He waited until the man had left the room before saying, ‘You mentioned the Vipers. Tell me more.’
‘When we searched the Morvaut, we found a considerable quantity of valuables aboard. Mostly silver, but some gold and jewellery too. The Kergonans said it was salvage they had taken from a Spanish wreck on the Vipers.’
‘And you confiscated this haul?’
‘Yes. I used the excuse that they and their vessel had been hired by this Lynch fellow. He’s Irish born so a subject of the King of England. But, by the look of him, I would say that he’s a free agent.’
The Governor smiled thinly. ‘And where exactly is this booty now?’
‘Safe in a strongbox in my cabin on the Sainte Rose.’
‘You realize, of course, that His Majesty is entitled to a ten per cent share of its value. That is the rule for all prize taken at sea by a royal ship.’
‘I was coming to that,’ said de Graff. ‘I propose to hand over half to you as His Majesty’s representative rather than the usual ten per cent.’
For a split second de Cussy stared in open astonishment. Then his good sense quickly got the better of him. He was being offered a bribe.
‘Very generous. His Majesty will be pleased,’ he responded drily, and waited for de Graff to continue.
The frigate captain leaned forward. ‘This wreck may well contain far more treasure than the Morvaut was able to salvage.’
‘And what gives you that idea?’
‘The Morvaut is too small a vessel to fish a wreck properly. I understand there was a single diver aboard, this Miskito Indian. If the wreck was searched with a full team of divers, the rewards could be immense.’
The Governor understood what de Graff had in mind. ‘You want me to authorize you to go there with the Sainte Rose and use her for salvage work, is that it?’
The frigate captain said nothing. His silence was enough.
De Cussy looked out of the window for a full minute without saying a word. From where he sat, he could see over the broad sweep of the bay. The frigate lay at anchor against a backdrop of intense tropical green where a headland covered with lush vegetation sheltered the anchorage. A lone heron was gliding down towards the near shoreline and, as he watched, the bird landed. The broad outstretched wings gave a final slow shake and flap, and it stalked briskly into the shallows. It came to a halt, the snake-like neck curved back, and the eyes scanned the water, the beak ready to stab. The heron, he thought to himself, knew where the fish tended to gather. That is how he ought to deploy de Graff and the Sainte Rose.
He swivelled in his chair and faced the captain. ‘What you ask is impossible. We are at war. The Sainte Rose is the only ship of force with which to protect the colony. It would be madness to send her off on a salvage adventure.’
‘Yet His Majesty would be delighted if we recovered so much treasure,’ said the filibustier. ‘There would be promotion and honours for those concerned. The royal dividend would be enough to finance this colony for several years.’
De Cussy returned his gaze to the distant warship. The wind must be shifting for she was swinging to her anchor. He had to admit that the frigate captain was very shrewd in dressing up his proposal as being in the interests of France. He decided to test de Graff a little further.
‘If the rewards will be so immense, why is it necessary to use the Sainte Rose? Could you not persuade investors to equip another vessel for salvage work?’ he said.
De Graff shook his head. ‘Proper salvage will take many weeks. As soon as the Spanish know that an interloper is working the wreck, they will send vessels to drive off the intruder. Only a well-armed ship is able to see out the task.’
Governor de Cussy chose his words carefully. ‘This can only be done with authorization from Paris.’
De Graff sensed that the Governor was tempted by his proposition. ‘You will not regret it if you recommend to Paris that the Sainte Rose is assigned to this task.’
‘I agree only to ask for permission to despatch the Sainte Rose to intercept enemy trade by sea.’
‘How will that help?’
The Governor stood up and went over to the window. The heron had just speared a fish. It was holding its victim up in the air. The fish wriggled, flashing silver, frantic to escape. A swift movement, and it was nothing more than a bulge in the heron’s throat. Keeping his back to his guest, de Cussy spoke slowly and precisely. ‘To inflict the greatest damage on the enemy, the frigate must be at the heart of their shipping routes, not here on the fringe where her presence is known and can be avoided.’
‘And you have a location in mind?’
‘The island of Providencia, formerly an English colony, has been abandoned. I will suggest to Paris that you establish a temporary base for the Sainte Rose there.’
De Graff could picture exactly what the Governor had in mind. The island of Providencia commanded the sea routes between Cartagena, Havana and Porto Bello. From there the Sainte Rose could pounce
on all the passing shipping.
The frigate captain shook his head in admiration. ‘Governor, you would have made an excellent admiral.’
What the Governor had left unsaid – and de Graff knew full well – was that Providencia was less than a day’s sail from the Vipers. If the Sainte Rose was based on Providencia and unsupervised, de Graff would be able to conduct salvage operations whenever he wanted.
De Cussy turned and held up a hand in warning. ‘You must be patient. It will take some months before I receive an answer from Paris. I presume you know the precise location of the wreck?’
The filibustier’s expression hardened. ‘That is why I added the Kergonans to my crew. I’ll make sure they tell me.’
The servant entered with a tray of wine and some cheese, and the two men quickly dropped the subject. For some time they chatted amiably about other matters – the prospects for the tobacco crop, the recent hurricane that had devastated the eastern end of the island, rumours of military reinforcements arriving from England and being deployed on Jamaica. Eventually, when the heat had gone out of the day, the Governor suggested that they should take a stroll through the town.
*
MEANWHILE ANNE-MARIE had located her brothers. They had chosen the nastiest tavern in Petit Goâve. It lay right on the waterfront, a down-at-heel shed with a reed thatch roof weathered to a dingy grey. Several half-starved dogs dozed against walls of planks warped by sun and rain. Chickens scratched the dirt around the open doorway, and by the corner posts were patches of damp in the dust where the customers had relieved themselves. From inside came the sounds of loud conversation, bursts of tipsy laughter, and someone playing clumsily on a fiddle. After a childhood spent on Tortuga, Anne-Marie knew what to expect as she stepped in through the open door. The floor of the tavern was grimy beach sand stained with spilled drinks and scuffed by boot heels. Shafts of sunlight entered through the unglazed windows and struggled to penetrate thick clouds of tobacco smoke. Along the far wall were rough wooden shelves stacked with bottles and tankards. Below them, on stands, were several kegs and a battered serving counter. The smell was of rum, beer, unwashed bodies and stale tobacco. The place was packed with customers. They sat on benches and stools around tables set far enough apart for the serving women to push their way through with more drinks. Occasionally one of the drinkers got up to accompany a serving woman. The two of them disappeared behind a length of sailcloth hung over a sagging rope which screened off the far end of the room. The tavern did double duty as a brothel.
Anne-Marie’s entry attracted several glances. Most of the drinkers were men from the Sainte Rose so they recognized her immediately. Free of shipboard constraints they ogled her and there were several catcalls of approval. Near the counter a heavyset man in a stained apron was staring at her in a calculating manner. She guessed he was the tavern owner and wondering if her presence would cause trouble. But the shrewdest appraisal came from the serving women. There were about a dozen of them, and their ages could have been anything between fifteen and forty. A few paused briefly in their work and looked her over carefully, then went back to attending to the customers. Others glared, not troubling to conceal their hostility. These were dressed in brightly coloured skirts that had been chosen to set off the colour of their skins which ranged from jet black to a pale coffee. Every one of them was naked from the waist up.
Anne-Marie looked around the press of drinkers, searching out her brothers. The three of them were at a table some distance into the room and seated with a couple of men she did not recognize. Unwilling to force her way through the crowd she stood waiting until they noticed her presence, and then she beckoned. Yannick scowled and deliberately raised his tankard to his lips before slowly getting to his feet. Roparzh and Yacut stayed where they were.
As he slouched towards her, she saw Yannick was very drunk. He staggered, swerving between the tables. He was passing one group when someone put out a leg and deliberately tripped him. He fell forward, reaching out, and dragged down one of the other drinkers. Immediately there were angry shouts and several curses as drinks were spilled. Then Yannick was back on his feet and looking round to see who had tripped him.
The fiddler stopped playing. Suddenly there was a silence as half the room waited to see what the sullen Breton would do next.
With an oath Yannick lunged, clawing for his victim. But he had mistaken the man responsible for his fall. Within a heartbeat the scuffle was threatening to turn into a general brawl. Bystanders were knocked off their seats, pushed and shoved, took offence and began to fight amongst themselves. Several of the serving women dodged behind the curtain. The others withdrew to the side of the room and looked on, arms folded under bare breasts. It was a scene they had witnessed many times.
The tavern owner was quick to intervene. He charged through the crowd with several of his regular customers at his back to help him. They seized Yannick and the other struggling men and bundled them towards the door and out into the street. Anne-Marie beat a tactful retreat before them.
Outside, only Yannick and his real tormentor wanted to keep up their quarrel. Anne-Marie saw that it was the same sailor, Gaston Rassalle, who had insulted her on the Sainte Rose. Both men were in an ugly mood, glaring at one another. Rassalle spat on the ground contemptuously. He reached behind his back and pulled a knife from its sheath on his belt.
‘I should have gutted you at Vera Cruz,’ he sneered as he crouched in a fighting stance.
There was a glint of steel as a knife also appeared in Yannick’s hand. ‘Then it’s time you tried your luck,’ he replied, and jabbed the blade towards his opponent.
Anne-Marie knew it was futile for her to intervene. More and more men were emerging from the open door of the tavern. They hurried up to form a ring around the two fighters. Shouting encouragement, they urged the contestants to get on with their fight. The air was thick with blood lust.
Rassalle began to circle to his right, shuffling across the sand. Yannick kept pace, moving sideways so that he kept facing square to his opponent. Whenever Rassalle changed direction and moved in the opposite direction, so too did the Breton. They stared at one another, eyes locked in mutual hatred.
Abruptly Yannick hurled himself across the gap, slashing with his blade. But Rassalle had seen the Breton gather and tense before he sprang and anticipated the attack. He skipped away as the crowd hurriedly fell back to give him room. Now it was Yannick’s turn to jump out of arm’s reach.
‘Get on with it!’ someone shouted from the crowd. ‘If you want to dance, I’ll call for the fiddler.’
The spatter of laughter from the onlookers goaded Yannick to try again. This time he stabbed rather than slashed with his blade. He extended his arm forward like a swordsman and thrust, aiming for Rassalle’s chest.
Rassalle was too quick for him. He turned his body sideways and avoided the point of the knife. Grabbing the Breton’s wrist before Yannick could withdraw, Rassalle stepped forward, forcing Yannick’s knife hand downward and closing with his opponent. The two men collided with a thud. For a couple of seconds they stood, chest to chest, grunting and straining against one another as Rassalle maintained his grip. Only when Yannick used his free arm to launch a punch at his enemy’s head did he succeed in breaking clear. By then Rassalle’s knife had done its work. He had slid the blade deep into the Breton’s stomach, low down on the left-hand side.
Yannick stepped back, apparently untroubled. He was breathing deeply, his chest heaving. For a long moment he stood upright, still glaring at his opponent. He raised his left arm and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then gave a slight cough. A look of puzzlement crossed his face. He made as if to step forward but seemed to lose control of the movement. He let go his knife and clutched at his side. Then he dropped to his knees on the dirt.
A tremor ran through the watching crowd. Rassalle remained standing where he was. He looked down at his victim with narrowed eyes, knife in hand and waiting.
Yannick
coughed again and tried to get back on his feet. He pushed himself half upright with one hand, the other still clutching his belly. In that instant the crowd could see the stain of blood spreading across the front of the shirt. Then the effort was too much for him and he slumped forward face down.
There was a commotion to Anne-Marie’s right. Her two other brothers were pushing their way through the crowd, which opened out to give them space. Roparzh and Yacut were even more drunk than their brother. Their eyes were bloodshot and they could barely stand. They came to a halt at the edge of the ring of spectators and looked down stupidly at Yannick on the ground. Yacut gave a great, rum-sodden belch as he turned towards Rassalle. Something in his addled brain urged him to take revenge. He shook his head as if trying to clear his vision and let out a low growl of anguish. With his hands held out like claws in front of him he began to advance on Rassalle, who watched him come on, his bloodied knife at the ready.
A shot rang out.
Rassalle snapped forward, folding in half. He screamed in pain. He took a pace backwards. Then he too sank to the ground and curled up in a ball, whimpering with anguish.
The startled crowd turned their gaze on Anne-Marie. She stood with the pistol still held out in front of her, the barrel at the same slight downward angle as when she had pulled the trigger. A wisp of gunpowder smoke hung in the hot tropical air.
Rassalle was moaning, writhing from side to side. ‘Gut shot,’ someone in the crowd said.
‘It was meant to be his groin,’ said Anne-Marie calmly. ‘Now someone call a surgeon.’
*
KNIFINGS AND SHOOTINGS were sufficiently common in Petit Goâve for no one to bother reporting them to the authorities. Governor de Cussy learned about the fight while on his evening stroll through the settlement. He and de Graff had reached the spot where the fight had taken place when one of the idlers outside the tavern brazenly called out, ‘Will you hang her, Governor?’
The owner of the tavern was hurrying over, wiping his hands on a soiled cloth. ‘What’s that fellow talking about?’ snapped de Cussy.
