by Tim Severin
‘The Kergonan woman,’ said the innkeeper. ‘She shot Gaston Rassalle in the guts. Surgeon says he’ll not live.’
‘Why did she do that?’
‘Rassalle had knifed her brother,’ said the man.
De Cussy was taken aback. He had been expecting a sordid tale of one of the tavern whores engaged in a brawl.
‘It didn’t happen in my place, but out here,’ the innkeeper added defensively.
‘And where’s the woman now?’
‘She and her other brothers carried off the injured one. They took him to the house of a distant kinsman. Cousin of that ne’erdo-well she was married to.’ The tavern owner grimaced. ‘Those worthless Bretons always stick together.’
‘Did you see the fight yourself?’
The innkeeper shook his head. ‘No. But plenty did. And some of them will stand witness. Yannick Kergonan had few friends.’
The Governor was quick to note the past tense. ‘What do you mean, had few friends?’
‘Surgeon says that he’s as like to die as is Rassalle. Neither will live out the week.’
De Cussy dismissed the tavern keeper. Taking de Graff by the elbow, he walked on casually as though the fracas was no more than a minor disturbance. He waited until they were halfway back to his office before he said quietly to the filibustier, ‘Looks as though you’ve lost one of the men who could locate that wreck for you.’
De Graff sounded irritated. ‘A pity. Yannick Kergonan was the sharpest of the three brothers.’
‘What about the other two? Will they know where to look on the Vipers?’
‘Can’t say. I’ll take them to Providencia aboard the Sainte Rose and tickle up their memories.’ He swung a savage cut with the cane he was carrying. His target was a wild shrub with red flowers growing at the side of the path. Petals fluttered to the ground.
‘The sister was aboard the pinnace too,’ suggested the Governor softly.
De Graff came to a halt and turned to face the Governor. The filibustier’s eyes were hard and probing. ‘And how would I get her to cooperate? I draw the line at taking a cane to a woman.’
‘You won’t have to,’ the Governor assured him. ‘Mademoiselle Kergonan will soon be on a charge of murder. I will make it clear that if she cooperates, her case will be dropped. She and her surviving brothers might even get their pinnace back.’
De Graff pursed his lips. ‘A woman aboard a warship. The men won’t like it.’
The Governor chuckled. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you worry about the opinions of your crew. You could make it evident that you are smitten by her charms. Captains have been known to smuggle their mistresses aboard.’
De Graff tugged at his moustache. He was clearly intrigued by de Cussy’s suggestion. ‘Is that a challenge?’ he asked.
De Cussy allowed himself a sly smile. ‘A challenge that most men would like to take.’
*
THREE HUNDRED MILES to the south Hector sat in the skiff and waited for the sun to sink beneath the horizon. Just a week ago he would have been happy for the superb spectacle of a Caribbean sunset to linger in the sky for as long as possible. Now all he wanted was for the blazing red circle to drop out of sight. The sides of the boat and the thwarts were scorching to touch, and though their skins were toughened by years of living in the tropics, he and his companions were suffering burns and exposure. Gingerly Hector ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip. It was painfully cracked. He could feel the sores beginning to develop on his arms and legs and buttocks. His hands and feet had puffed up, his bowels had blocked, and he was afflicted by an occasional headache and increasing lethargy. Dan seemed to be affected the least. Perhaps his dark Miskito skin was less delicate. Jezreel, on the other hand, was in trouble. Weeping sores had broken out on his face, even under the thick beard, and his bare shins were blistered. Jacques doled out their ration of drinking water each day, and with a full jar remaining, fresh water was not yet a worry. But there was none to spare to wash and clean their wounds and oozing scabs.
Dan gave a grunt and stood up. For a moment Hector thought his friend had seen a ship on the horizon. But Dan was looking up into the evening sky. A lone seabird was flying towards them, gliding on outstretched wings. The creature was curious about the tiny boat all by itself on the sea. Dan faced towards the bird, quietly raised both his arms parallel to the water and stood motionless. The bird swooped closer. It made several passes, flying in lazy circles down one side of the little boat, then turning and coming again. Dan waited patiently. Finally, with a slight clatter of wings, the bird settled. It gripped Dan’s outstretched right arm with bright blue web feet. The Miskito’s left hand flashed across and he grabbed the creature by the neck. A quick wrench and a sound like someone cracking their knuckles and the bird went limp, its neck broken. Without a word, Dan handed the carcass to Jacques. He stripped away the feathers, and while the flesh was still warm tore the breast into four parts and shared them out. The four friends chewed quietly.
‘You’d think those birds would learn not to land on us,’ said Jezreel. It was the third time it had happened.
‘They’ve got to live up to their name,’ said Hector.
‘You mean “boobies”?’
‘Bobo is Spanish for stupid.’
‘We call them fou à pieds bleus in France: blue-footed maniacs,’ added Jacques as he tossed the carcass overboard. ‘Hector, how long do you think before we see land?’
It was a question they debated several times a day. They could not be certain that they were heading in the right direction all the time. There might be currents against them or in their favour, and they had to take their leeway into account. Whenever the wind suited, they hoisted the tarpaulin as a simple square sail. One oar was used for the mast, the second was the yard. If the wind died or turned against them, they took it in turns to row; Jezreel on his own, the others in pairs. But even by the most generous calculation they were making no more than two or three knots through the water. That was scarcely walking pace.
‘My guess is that we could sight land in another two to three days,’ said Hector. The calm competence of his friends was heartening. They were accustomed to the sea and had the steadfastness needed to make the voyage. Should bad weather hit them, they would handle the little boat well. The rest was up to fate. He hoped that Maria, waiting for him back in Tortuga, was being as patient. He was grateful that none of his companions had mentioned her. They all knew that he was worried. As the days passed and he became more and more overdue, she would become concerned. Yet there was nothing he could do except wait until they reached land and he could find some means of sending her a message.
The light was nearly gone. Hector looked up into the heavens and located the Fish’s Mouth, the star the Arabs called Fomalhaut. It lay in the constellation of Pisces and it always showed him whether the skiff was still headed in the right direction. By day he steered by the position of the sun in its arc and by observing the pattern of the wind and waves. But these were vague and uncertain guides. Only the stars were reliable. Now he was pleased to see that Fomalhaut lay almost directly in line with the skiff’s makeshift mast and that meant they were still on course. Since early afternoon they had enjoyed the advantage of a light breeze in their favour and were making good progress. If the breeze held steady throughout the night, it would allow the four of them to rest, each man judging his two hours at the helm by heaven’s clock – the eternal swing of the Wain around the Pole Star.
There was a sound of splashing water. Dan was bailing out the bilge, using a wooden scoop they had found fastened by a cord in the skiff. The little boat was chronically leaky. They had tried to staunch the leaks by stuffing strips of cloth into the cracks. But the hull was so fragile that the planks threatened to split farther apart. Only regular bailing was keeping them afloat. At first it had taken only five minutes in every hour to tip the water back into the sea. Now it was taking twice as long.
They had sighted severa
l sails at a distance since evading the Sainte Rose, but had not sought help. There was always a chance that it was Captain de Graff coming back to look for them, and if they were Spanish or English ships, four men found in an open boat in time of war would be hauled off to Jamaica or Cartagena for weeks of interrogation. After a brief discussion they had agreed that their best choice was to head for the Dutch free port in Curaçao. There no questions would be asked and they could quietly slip back into a normal life. Hector had even been toying with the idea of arranging for Maria to join him there.
That night passed as usual. Under a starry and cloudless sky the air cooled quickly, and by the time Hector came on watch shortly before dawn, he was shivering from the chill. He had left the Morvaut dressed only in a shirt and breeches, and he huddled at the tiller waiting for the sun to rise and bring warmth to his bones.
When the sun did finally climb up out of the sea, he became aware of a faint smudge on the horizon to the south-east. It was barely noticeable and lay off their course so he waited until the sun was fully up before he nudged Dan awake.
‘Do you see land over there?’ he asked the Miskito.
Dan shaded his eyes. He had the keenest eyesight among them. ‘An island, a smallish one. Do you know which it is?’
Hector tried to visualize the chart of the Caribbean. Along the coast of South America extended an irregular chain of islands. He knew little about them. Most of the larger ones were claimed by the Spaniards, and it was safe to assume that the smaller ones were uninhabited.
‘It can’t be Curaçao. It lies too far off our course.’
Jezreel had woken up. He joined them in staring at the distant sea mark. ‘How far away do you think it is?’
‘Ten or fifteen miles,’ said Dan.
‘I could row us there by early afternoon,’ Jezreel offered. ‘We could find a quiet landing place, go ashore and mend our boat. Even if the place is inhabited, we would be on our way again without anyone knowing.’
Hector looked at the others, seeking their opinion. Dan and Jacques both nodded their agreement, and Jezreel promptly began to dismantle their jury rig. Within minutes he was seated on the central thwart and rowing powerfully towards the distant land.
Slowly, very slowly, the island began to take shape. It was desolate-looking, low and nearly flat. The interior rose only a few feet above the level of the sea. Towards the eastern end a couple of white sand beaches were backed by dunes. But otherwise the place was featureless. There were no hills or trees, and from a distance no hint of human occupation.
It was a desert island.
As the sun rose higher, the glare from the sea made it more and more difficult to pick out even those few details. Then a thick heat haze arose, and as the skiff crept nearer, the shoreline distorted into an indistinct shimmering blur.
‘We’ll be lucky to find fresh water in a place like that,’ said Jacques. The outline of the island was dancing and wavering in the hot air. Hector joined Dan on the oar bench so that they could take over from Jezreel and row the final mile.
All of a sudden Jacques called out in surprise.
Hector turned in his seat and looked forward.
Emerging from the haze a boat was coming straight towards them. It was a piragua, a large canoe of local design. The long, narrow hull was carved from a single huge tree, and the sides were built up with planks to make it fit for coastal passages. For a brief moment Hector thought they had blundered on a native tribe. But then he saw that one or two of the men rowing the piragua were wearing large hats to shade them from the sun. He had never seen Indians who wore such hats, and they rarely rowed. They preferred to use paddles.
‘Who in God’s name are they?’ breathed Jacques.
‘Whoever they are, there’s no escaping them,’ said Jezreel.
The piragua was coming on apace, rapidly closing the gap. Some instinct made Hector reach for the pistol that Anne-Marie had handed him. He hid it inside his shirt.
‘Saludos!’ shouted the leading man in the piragua.
The canoe was thirty yards away, and Hector could get a good look at its crew. There were a dozen of them, and all were so heavily bearded and unkempt that it was difficult to tell whether they were white men or native. Two wore greasy leather caps with long visors to shade their eyes. The rest favoured either broad-brimmed hats or coloured headcloths.
The piragua was turned and slowed so the oarsmen could inspect the skiff, and a shiver of apprehension ran up Hector’s spine. Never in his life had he seen such a gang of cut-throats. They were like a pack of starving wolves sizing up their prey.
‘Saludos!’ called their leader again, and then he switched to English. ‘What happened to you?’
Hector thought quickly for a plausible answer. ‘Castaway!’ he shouted back.
‘Then welcome to our camp!’ came the reply, and the captain of the piragua waved them towards the shore. It was not an invitation, but a command.
As they were escorted towards the beach, Hector caught a glimpse of a musket barrel protruding over the gunwale of the piragua. Judging by its length the gun was one of the old-fashioned but deadly muskets favoured by sharp shooters who hunted wild cattle on remote islands. Such men were reputed to be as untamed and dangerous as their prey.
‘Brigands,’ muttered Jezreel under his breath.
‘Let me do the talking,’ Hector said, just loud enough for his companions to hear him.
The piragua beached alongside them as he and Dan ran the little skiff on to the sand. Several of the brigands hurried across to lay hands on the little boat and drag it up above high water mark. It gave them the chance to look inside and check its contents. ‘Nada. No weapons, Lucas,’ one of them shouted to their leader.
The man they called Lucas walked over to interview the new arrivals. He had hard, cunning eyes whose calculating look failed to match the smile on his face.
‘So what brings you here?’ he asked with false geniality.
Hector tried to place the man’s accent. His voice had a slight burr. He could originally have been from Scotland.
‘Bastard of a captain set us adrift,’ Hector lied. The beach seemed to sway beneath him. He had yet to regain his land legs and was feeling unsteady on his feet.
‘Why?’
‘We didn’t like the way he treated us, the stupid sod,’ said Hector.
‘So you mutinied.’
‘We had no choice. If he had kept doing things his way, we’d have gone to the bottom.’
Hector hoped that the sour tone he had adopted would be convincing. The brigand’s false smile puckered the scar which ran up from the corner of his mouth and vanished into the tangle of filthy black curls which emerged from under his hat.
‘Where did it happen?’
Hector waved vaguely out to sea. ‘Four days back. He gave us some water and a little food and sent us off.’
Lucas was looking at him calculatingly. ‘You were lucky to arrive here when you did. We were just heading off.’ He paused, his eyes shrewdly assessing the four men. ‘Maybe you would like to join us.’
Hector was at a loss as to how to reply. He had worked out exactly who the piragua men were. They were sea bandits, butchers who preyed off local villages and passing ships. They obeyed no laws and had no scruples. Runaway indentured men, escaped felons, murderers and thieves, they came together in small bands and roamed the coast. They descended on small undefended villages to rape and loot. If they came across a small ship at anchor they went aboard and slaughtered the crew, then stole the cargo. They were enemies of all nations and were hunted down like vermin. Beside such villains, men like Major de Graff were saintly.
‘We’re exhausted,’ Hector temporized. ‘We need to rest and gain our strength.’
The brigand’s expression did not change but he stiffened slightly, as if insulted by Hector’s lack of enthusiasm to join his band. ‘You mean you would prefer to remain on this godforsaken lump of rock and sand?’ he asked.
Hector did not reply, and Lucas turned towards Hector’s companions. ‘What about you,’ the brigand asked. ‘Any of you want to join us?’
Jezreel shook his head, and Jacques looked away. Dan stared back silently.
‘So be it,’ rasped Lucas. His hand dropped to the butt of the pistol in his sash. For a moment Hector thought he was about to be shot. But the brigand turned to shout at his men. ‘Take anything useful. Then smash up their boat.’
While Hector and his friends looked on helplessly, the brigands removed the rope, oars and tarpaulin from the skiff and put them aboard their piragua. They also stole the two water jars and all the remaining food. Then they rolled the skiff upside down on the sand. Two of the ruffians fetched hatchets from the piragua and splinters flew as they hacked a great hole in the bottom of the upturned boat.
Once the skiff was ruined, Lucas waved to his crew to go back aboard the piragua and announced waspishly, ‘This place has no people, and few ships pass by. You’ll wish that you’d stayed out at sea in that cockleshell.’
With one last look at the splintered wreckage, he strode off down the beach and waded out to where the piragua was waiting. He climbed aboard and his crew began to row.
‘God help any village they come across,’ said Jezreel grimly as he watched them leave.
‘Why would they want to strand us here?’ Jacques demanded.
‘So we cannot warn others of their presence. We should be thankful that they did not murder us out of hand,’ Hector answered.
*
THE BRIGANDS’ abandoned camp was a scene of squalor. A blackened pit and scorch marks showed where they had lit their cooking fire. Nearby were the shells of dozens of turtles that had provided their main diet. Broken bottles and filthy rags lay scattered about. Judging by the smell, they had not troubled themselves to go very far for their latrine.
‘Ugh, they lived like animals,’ mumbled Jacques, trying to avoid breathing through his nose.
Dan sifted through the rubbish and came across the remains of a broken musket. Its firing lock was damaged beyond repair.
