by Tim Severin
Baltasar hurried across the hallway. The far door opened on to a large courtyard laid out with flowerbeds and shade trees and a long ornamental pond. The buildings overlooking the courtyard were so immaculately whitewashed that the glare made Hector’s eyes hurt. Without a pause Baltasar escorted him up a wrought-iron stairway that brought them to a gallery running the full length of the building. He threw open the first door they came to and announced in a loud voice, ‘Father, I’m back! And here’s someone I want you to meet!’
Hector stepped inside and found himself in a large and spacious office. The ceiling with its exposed beams was a full fifteen feet above his head and two enormous windows stood open to let in a cool breeze. Someone had taken care not to fill the room with unnecessary clutter: apart from two large chests ranged against the wall and a carved armoire, the only major item of furniture was a massive oak table. It was placed where the light fell across the neat stacks of paper arranged on its surface. Seated at the table on an old-fashioned Spanish chair with a leather backrest was a middle-aged balding man dressed in a plain lead-coloured tunic with a lace collar. He had a deeply lined face, hooded brown eyes, and an expression of guarded surprise as he looked at his visitors.
‘This is Hector Lynch,’ said Baltasar breathlessly. ‘My crew mutinied and set me and Pedro ashore on the Isla del Sal. They killed Pedro, but I escaped, thanks to Hector and his friends.’ He was about to plunge into a full description of all that had happened on Salt Island when his father held up his hand to stop him.
‘I am glad to see you are safe. Where is Los Picos now?’
Hector looked between the two men. He was unable to see a family resemblance. That is until the father spoke. Both of them had exactly the same intonation and phrasing though the father spoke more softly and quietly.
‘At her usual berth in the harbour,’ said Baltasar. ‘And the silver is still on board.’
Hector thought he detected a flicker of relief on the older man’s face.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Baltasar’s father, turning to Hector. ‘I am Alfonso Corbalan. You are welcome to my home. I hope you will stay as my guest.’
His son interrupted. He was still exuberant. ‘Father, Hector has three companions aboard Los Picos.’
‘Of course they too will be my guests.’ The merchant eyed Hector, who was still dressed in the ragged and patched clothes he had worn on the island. ‘I am sure that Señor Lynch would like to bathe and rest. It sounds as if you have all had a considerable ordeal.’ He reached for a small silver bell on the table and rang it. ‘Baltasar, we should leave your full account of what happened until dinner this evening. Your mother and sisters will also want to hear the details. And by then Señor Lynch’s companions will have joined us.’
A servant appeared in the doorway.
‘Miguel, make four guest rooms ready. And send for the tailor. He is to measure Señor Lynch for a new suit of clothes, which must be ready by the time we dine. The tailor is also to send his assistants to the dock to do the same for Señor Lynch’s companions.’
He waited until the servant had left the room, and turned to his son.
‘There is another matter, however, which needs immediate attention.’
‘What is it, Father?’
‘You say that your crew mutinied?’ asked the merchant mildly, though Hector detected a steely undertone to the question.
Baltasar sounded apologetic. ‘Not Pedro the sailing master, of course. The ringleader was a man called Miguel Roblandillo.’
‘I remember him. Hired at the last moment,’ said his father quietly.
‘Roblandillo persuaded the others to mutiny,’ said the son.
‘And what happened to him?’
‘Hector shot him.’
The merchant gave Hector a quick, approving glance. ‘And the others?’
‘We left them on the island.’
‘Then they must be hunted down.’ The merchant’s mildness had vanished. His face was hard-set and bleak. ‘Tomorrow morning as soon as the office of the Alcalde del Crimen is open you will swear a deposition identifying them as pirates and mutineers. Then we can act.’
‘What do you propose, Father?’ asked Baltasar obediently.
‘No one flouts the authority of the house of Corbalan. I want the mutineers picked up before they have a chance to escape and brought back here to stand trial. By tomorrow evening a government coastguard vessel will be on her way to Isla del Sal. I am sure the Governor will agree to my request.’
The merchant’s gracious manner returned just as quickly. ‘Baltasar, why don’t you show Señor Lynch around our home. I hope that he will be staying with us for some time.’
Baltasar was beaming as he left the office with Hector. ‘My father likes you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Tomorrow after we get back from the magistrate’s office, I’ll put to him my idea that I should have my own trading house in association with you and your friends.’
As Hector was shown the splendours of the Corbalan home, he allowed himself to be swayed by his guide’s infectious optimism. He admired the elegant ballroom with its glittering chandeliers and panelled walls, the dining room with a mahogany table that seated twenty-four, the twin reception rooms, one for formal occasions, the other for private meetings, and a collection of paintings that would not have looked out of place in a ducal palace. All this luxury, he reflected, had been purchased with profits from trade and commerce, much of it conducted on the very fringes of legality, yet so subtly that it avoided the risks that sent men to prison at hard labour or the gallows. For the first time in many months he saw a way out of his difficulties.
*
IT WAS PITCH DARK when the Petit Goâve smugglers put Maria ashore in Jamaica. Sunrise revealed that they had left her on an open beach. The place was deserted. There were no buildings, not even a fisherman’s shack, and no people to be seen. The only sign of human activity was the faint trace of a footpath which came down to the shore through the featureless rough scrubland that stretched inland. Feeling helpless and betrayed, she found a patch of shade under a stunted palm tree and sat down to wait. Sooner or later, she reasoned, someone would appear. Then she would ask the best way to get to Port Royal.
The entire morning passed with nothing happening but the breeze strengthening. The sea, which had been calm that night, gradually became rough. The waves built up, crashing steadily on the strand. She found a hypnotic satisfaction in watching their rhythm, so it was with a start that, shortly after midday, she noticed a small boat sailing slowly along the coast towards her. She drew back farther into the shadows and kept still, waiting to see what would happen. The boat crept closer and she identified it as a humble barge of the same type that had brought supplies out to Tortuga. When it drew level with where she sat, the single sail was lowered and a crewman threw the anchor overboard. The boat came to a halt no more than fifty yards off the beach. Moments later there was a long echoing moan. It was the sound of a conch shell being used as a trumpet.
Soon afterwards a black man emerged on to the beach from the footpath. He was young and muscular and wore only a pair of ragged pantaloons. He hefted a small barrel on his shoulder. Judging by the way he walked down the slope towards the sea, the keg was heavy. He did not pause when he reached the water’s edge, but waded out into the waves. When he could no longer stand, he dropped the barrel – it barely floated – and began swimming out to sea, pushing the barrel ahead of him. Frequently the larger waves broke over his head. Maria watched the man struggle, trying to keep moving forward. Occasionally he was rolled right over in the surf still clutching the barrel. Once or twice it was swept out of his grasp, and he had to swim to retrieve it. Yet he persisted, and eventually she saw him reach the anchored coaster. There, two crewmen looped a rope around the barrel and hoisted it aboard.
The man swam back to the beach and disappeared up the path. A few minutes later he returned with a second barrel on his shoulder. This time he was fol
lowed by half a dozen other men, similarly burdened. They were all black except for a mulatto with greying hair who looked on. Maria guessed he was the overseer of a slave gang. She got to her feet and went over to speak with him.
‘How do I get to Port Royal from here?’ she asked.
‘Port Royal is no place for a woman on her own,’ he replied in a deep, drawling voice. He must have already noticed her earlier for he did not seem surprised.
Tiredness made Maria short-tempered. ‘I’ve lived in Tortuga on my own,’ she retorted sharply.
‘Maybe. But Port Royal far outstrips Tortuga in villainy. Wickedest city in the world, and proud of it.’
‘I’m expecting to find my husband there,’ said Maria stubbornly.
The mulatto turned his gaze on her. ‘Before you go wandering the streets of Port Royal in search of him, you’d be wise to find yourself somewhere to live. Else you could find more than you bargained for.’
‘I don’t have anyone to turn to,’ said Maria. ‘I’m willing to find work.’
She sensed a weakening of the man’s indifference. After a pause he said, ‘When we’ve finished loading that drogher out there, you come with me. That’s Captain Blackmore’s rum we are hauling, and I can set you down at his place. He might give you work.’
‘Who’s Captain Blackmore?’ asked Maria.
‘He’s in thick with the Spaniards,’ said the mulatto. He gave Maria a sideways look. Maria was discomfited to realize that her accent had betrayed her. She was well aware that Spaniards, the long-time foe, might not be welcomed in Port Royal.
*
THE SAME THOUGHT was uppermost in her mind the following morning as she turned in through the imposing gates of Captain Blackmore’s plantation. The mulatto’s mule-drawn cart had dropped her on the rutted approach road. On the approach they had passed field after field where men were clearing weeds, cutting, trimming and stacking cane, loading carts with the stalks. Most labourers were black slaves, though there were a few desperate-looking white men, whom she guessed were indentured workers. To her right she could see the simple thatched huts of wattle and daub where the black slaves lived. Ahead, about a quarter of a mile away, the great house stood on the crest of a knoll. She could smell the faint aroma of boiling sugar and knew that somewhere out of sight was the boiling house and all that went with it – the crushing mill, curing house, trash house, and the distillery.
The great house itself was not what she had expected. An austere, square-built building, it had walls of grey stone. The original two storeys had been extended upward by inserting windows into a steeply pitched roof of red tiles. The result was to make the place look functional rather than elegant. Cotton trees and palms had been planted in an attempt to soften the severity of the site, but Maria had the impression that the greenery was added as an afterthought.
She walked towards the house. Three children were playing noisily on the dusty space which passed for a lawn. Two were boys, one about eight years old and the other a year younger. The third child was a girl who must have been about five. Doubtless they were brothers and a sister. All three had flaxen hair, pale skins and loud voices. The older boy, in particular, was shouting at the top of his lungs, giving orders to the others. The little girl must have been slow to obey because her brother suddenly lashed out. He swung an arm at his sister and smacked her across the ear. He was six inches taller than his victim, and beefy, and the blow knocked her off her feet. She fell to the ground with a wail of pain. To Maria’s dismay, the younger boy then ran across and kicked his sister as she lay on the ground. He stood over her, preparing to deliver another kick.
Without thinking, Maria darted forward, seized the younger boy by the shoulder, and hauled him back. ‘Stop that, you little brute,’ she said fiercely. The boy glared at her, his face red with anger. He tried to twist out of Maria’s grasp, but she held on more tightly. ‘That hurts!’ he shrilled and threw a punch at Maria. She held him away as he continued to struggle. His sister lay curled up on the ground, bawling. The elder brother made no move, a slight smirk on his face.
Maria looked round. She could not imagine that the children had been left unattended. A black woman, dressed in a dingy cotton pinafore and with her hair tied up in a bandana, was slouching towards them without urgency. Maria guessed that she was meant to supervise their play.
‘Get her off me,’ yelled the child in Maria’s grasp. He managed to reach Maria’s shins with a kick.
‘Stop that!’ she snapped and shook him.
‘What’s all the commotion about?’ said a voice.
Maria turned to see a white woman, who must have come out from the great house. She was thin and bony, with straggly reddish hair and skin blotched by the sun. She was too old to be the children’s mother. Maria guessed she was an elderly aunt or, more likely, their grandmother.
‘I was just calming things down,’ Maria said. She released the boy, who backed away, glaring at her. The little girl got back on her feet. ‘Charlie kicked me,’ she sobbed theatrically.
‘Charles, how many times do I have to tell you that you are not to attack your sister,’ scolded the woman. She rounded on the older boy. ‘And Henry, you are not to allow it.’
Maria waited for a lull in the screams of the little girl. ‘Please could you tell me where I might find Captain Blackmore?’ she asked.
‘The captain’s gone to Port Royal. He won’t be back for several days,’ replied the woman. She brushed back a strand of loose hair. ‘I am his mother. I can speak for him.’
‘My name is Mary Lynch,’ said Maria. ‘I am recently arrived in Jamaica, and hoping to find employment.’
The older woman was eyeing her, sizing her up. ‘What sort of employment?’ she asked in a neutral tone.
Maria drew herself up straight. She realized that she appeared dusty and bedraggled but she did not want to seem desperate. ‘I’ve looked after children,’ she said firmly. She knew that her statement risked being taken as a criticism of the scuffle.
Fortunately Mrs Blackmore ignored the inference. ‘And where was that?’
Maria decided to risk revealing her Spanish connections. If what the mulatto overseer had said was correct, Mrs Blackmore’s son was on good terms with certain Spaniards he dealt with. ‘In Peru. I was with the family of a senior judge.’
Mrs Blackmore threw a quick glance towards the black woman. She was out of earshot.
‘The captain has spoken of having his grandchildren learn to speak Spanish,’ she said. ‘He believes it would prove to be a most useful accomplishment should they continue with our plantation.’
‘I could certainly teach them to speak good Spanish, and their letters as well,’ said Maria.
Mrs Blackmore gave a slight sniff. ‘Do you carry any sort of written recommendation from the judge?’
‘My luggage has not yet arrived,’ Maria lied.
The older woman treated her to a glance full of disbelief. ‘In that case the most I would be willing to offer is a trial period as a governess. Just board and lodging. If you prove satisfactory after, say, four months, I will consider some sort of payment.’
‘That is very kind of you,’ said Maria quietly, though she thought the captain’s mother was quick to take advantage of another’s weakness.
‘However,’ continued Mrs Blackmore, ‘the captain must agree.’
Maria’s heart sank. Her good fortune was about to desert her just as she thought she had found a place to stay while she searched for Hector. But Mrs Blackmore’s next words caused her hopes to revive.
‘As I said, the captain is now in Port Royal. I am going there with the children this afternoon. You can come with us and meet him.’
It was a joltingly uncomfortable carriage ride to reach Port Royal. During the four-hour journey, Maria learned that the children’s mother, Mrs Blackmore’s daughter-in-law, had died of fever two months earlier. After a suitable interval the captain would be travelling to England ‘to look for a new bride as there�
��s no one here remotely suitable’, as his mother put it haughtily. In the meantime the children were being looked after by household staff until a governess could be found who was satisfactory. Judging by Mrs Blackmore’s supercilious tone, finding a tolerable governess on Jamaica was as unlikely as finding a suitable wife. With every sentence the old woman made it clear to Maria that the Blackmores were extremely rich and snobbish, and regarded themselves and their fellow planters as the rightful rulers of Jamaica. The captain, Mrs Blackmore was at pains to state, was a leading member of the Assembly, the island parliament. ‘London has sent yet another appalling man as Governor!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s forever meddling in our affairs, without understanding them. Not like dear Sir Henry.’
Seeing that Maria had not the least idea whom she was talking about, the old woman added, ‘Sir Henry Morgan. He was one of the best Governors we ever had, and a brave soldier. A close friend of my husband.’
Maria knew of Morgan only by his Spanish reputation. To them he was Morgan the Pirate. She said nothing.
‘It was a sad day when they buried him,’ continued the older woman.
‘Was he killed in action?’ asked Maria, feigning innocence.
‘Heavens no! Died in his bed. Probably drunk, mind you. Had a tremendous send-off. Carriage and horses, and a twenty-two gun salute. We buried him over there in the Palisadoes.’ Mrs Blackmore pointed out of the carriage window. In the distance, across a lagoon, Maria could see the outline of a sizeable town. She realized that they had reached the coast and that Port Royal was built on a long, low spit of land that projected out into the Caribbean.
