by Tim Severin
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long,’ he said as he laid his hat and cane on a stone bench. ‘There was a ball at the Governor’s palace and I had to wait for an interval when I could speak with Don Martin privately.’
Anxiously Hector tried to read the merchant’s expression. But as usual the man’s face gave nothing away.
‘The best he could offer was to reduce the death sentence to ten years of hard labour.’
Because he was so tense, Hector’s senses were all the more acute. He became aware that the still night air carried a faint scent of jasmine.
‘I reminded him that Spain and England are now allies, though recent ones, and piracy is a scourge for both our nations.’
Listening to his dry voice, Hector failed to see where this argument was leading.
‘I pointed out that we had caught a confessed pirate who is a subject of the English king. Instead of executing him out of hand, we could send him to Jamaica for the English to deal with. They would see it as a friendly act, implying that we trust the English to exact punishment on our behalf. In addition we win over their public opinion. The English mob always enjoys a public hanging.’
‘But how can that help Hector?’ Baltasar broke in, shocked. ‘He will be choked by a rope instead of by a public garrotte.’
‘For a start Juan Fonseca is not in Jamaica,’ answered his father. ‘He will not be on hand to give direct evidence. His testimony will not be so strong. Besides –’ and here the merchant paused – ‘I have a friend in Port Royal who might nudge English justice off-course.’
‘And the Governor agreed?’ asked Baltasar.
‘He did. A frigate from Jamaica, the Swan, is due in Cartagena in the next few days, bringing a delegation from the newly appointed Governor of Jamaica. It’s both a courtesy visit and to confirm the alliance between Spain and England. When the Swan returns, Hector will be aboard. If he gives his parole, he will not even be in irons.’
‘What then?’
‘He will be handed over to the authorities in Port Royal. It will be up to them to decide his fate.’
The merchant looked at Hector. There was compassion as well as regret in his final words. ‘I’ll send a message to my friend in Port Royal, alerting him to your difficulties. It is the best I can do.’
‘Señor Corbalan, I am grateful,’ said Hector.
But he was thinking that even the help of the merchant’s mysterious Jamaican friend might not be enough. If the Jamaican authorities checked their records, they would find that one Hector Lynch was already on their wanted list for piracies committed in the South Sea.
SEVEN
THE COMMANDER OF His Most Christian Majesty’s frigate Sainte Rose was in an unusually good humour. Seated at his dining table in the great cabin he watched his guests working their way through a lavish luncheon. They were now on their fourth dish: fricassee of fresh-caught amberjack prepared with sorrel sauce. It was exceptionally succulent, even by the standards of his personal cook, and there were three more courses to follow, culminating in soursop flan. Captain Laurens Cornelis Boudewin de Graff was particularly fond of soursop. Its slightly tart, delicate flavour reminded him of the quinces he had eaten as a child. He recalled being told that the quince had been a symbol of fertility for the ancient Greeks and they dedicated the fruit to the goddess of love. Laurens de Graff wondered if soursop might have the same significance in the Americas. That line of thought was in response to the presence of the woman seated opposite him.
Anne-Marie Kergonan was wearing a low-cut dress of russet-coloured material. For practical reasons she had cut her hair short and it was a close mass of unruly dark brown curls. De Graff was finding the result very attractive and he doubted that Anne-Marie had any idea that she was in the height of Paris fashion. According to an ensign recently arrived from France, arranging your hair in this way was all the rage among the young women at the Sun King’s court. They called the style ‘hurluberlu’.
Laurens de Graff beckoned to his steward and murmured a quiet instruction. The man left the cabin. Anyone at the table who had sharp hearing might then have detected the noise of shuffling feet outside the cabin door. There was a pause, and a voice said softly, ‘Un, deux . . .’ A moment later the sound of music came wafting into the cabin. Three violas, two trumpets and an oboe – Captain de Graff’s private band of shipboard musicians – were playing a passepied, a Breton dance. The captain hoped that his special guest recognized the compliment in the choice of tune.
A look of astonishment appeared on Anne-Marie’s face. The officers on the Sainte Rose already knew of their captain’s penchant for carrying a band on his ship, but this was the first time the band had performed since the Breton woman had come aboard. De Graff concealed a smile of satisfaction. Persuading her to join the ship had not been easy. It had required weeks of pressure from Governor de Cussy. He had given broad hints that his enquiry into the shooting of the sailor Rassalle would be set aside, even forgotten, if Anne-Marie would agree to sail on the Sainte Rose. She had negotiated shrewdly, wanting to know what lay behind the Governor’s innuendos. Eventually she had wormed out of him that the frigate might go fishing for a Spanish wreck, the same ship she and her brothers had investigated on the Vipers. Her advice on the position and working of the wreck would be invaluable. If the salvage was a success, she and her brothers would be well rewarded, and the murder charge forgotten. Although she was cautious about putting her trust in the Governor’s promises – and well aware that there was more to de Graff’s interest in her than as someone who could identify the location of the Spanish wreck – she was confident of out-manoeuvring both men.
De Graff’s gaze shifted to the centrepiece on his table. The handsome silver candelabrum was the only item he had kept back from the valuables seized from the Morvaut. The remainder he had handed over to de Cussy, as promised. He wondered if Anne-Marie Kergonan recognized the candle holder now that it had been repaired so cleverly. The silversmith was a gifted craftsman who had been sent to Petit Goâve to serve the last years of a sentence for handling stolen goods. He had reshaped the bent and twisted sticks, restored the detailing and fine scrollwork on the stem and base. Now, lovingly polished, the candelabrum stood on the white tablecloth, points of light glinting where the sunshine reflected from the surface of the sea below the stern windows. The candlestick revived a worm of doubt in de Graff’s mind. There was something suspicious about the escape of the prisoners on the Morvaut. The way they had slipped from his grasp had been too slick, too improbable. And there was something about that young man, Lynch, which made him uneasy.
Captain de Graff’s eyes slid back to Anne-Marie. She was talking animatedly to the man seated on her right, the young ensign who had spoken about the Parisian hairstyle. To his surprise, de Graff felt a stab of jealousy. He decided that he would put on a musical soirée the very next evening. At dusk he would assemble his musicians on the quarterdeck. Anne-Marie Kergonan would learn that Captain Laurens de Graff was more than just a patron of the arts. He would reveal that he was himself an accomplished performer on both the trumpet and the viola.
His musings were cut short by the officer of the watch. The man had served for years as a filibustier under de Graff and held the courtesy rank of second lieutenant aboard the frigate. So there was no hint of naval formality as he barged into the room.
‘Within cannon range soon,’ he said brusquely.
De Graff pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘Please excuse me for a few moments while I attend to my duties. Then I shall rejoin you.’ He treated Anne-Marie to a slight bow and was a little irritated that she failed to acknowledge his gallantry. Pointedly, she looked down at the tablecloth and toyed with a fork.
He followed the officer up to the quarterdeck and crossed to the leeward rail. The ship they had been chasing for the past six hours was now less than a mile away and still desperately ploughing ahead under all sail. But the Sainte Rose was gaining steadily. In less than an hour h
e would have taken another prize. A gust of wind combined with a sudden heave of swell to make the frigate lurch and swoop. De Graff reached up and grasped a shroud to steady himself. He was calm, almost bored. The taking of prizes had become routine over the past few weeks. Governor de Cussy had ordered him to patrol the shipping lanes off Tierra Firme and disrupt the enemy’s commerce. He had done exactly as he was asked. He had captured a dozen of their merchant ships and sent the prizes back to Petit Goâve for sale.
The task had been easy enough. The Sainte Rose was one of very few ships of force in the region. The English had a pair of frigates but they seldom ventured this far west. The only real threat was the three warships of the armada de barlovento, the squadron tasked to defend Spain’s interest in the western Caribbean. But he had seen no sign of them and very soon he and the Sainte Rose would vanish. He would head for the secluded anchorage on the island of Providencia and hide there while he careened his vessel. De Cussy had promised to send him a store ship with supplies.
De Graff released his grip on the shroud. The palm of his hand was sticky with black tar that had melted in the sun. He noted with irritation that several spots of tar had also dripped on the immaculate white breeches he had worn for the luncheon. It would mean changing his clothes before he returned to the table. He decided he would rather stay on deck and see out the capture of the Spanish merchantman. Slapdash maintenance of the frigate was the price he paid for having so many of his ex-filibustiers on his crew. But it was worth it. In action they were twice as aggressive as regular navy men. He clicked his fingers at the helmsman’s mate. ‘Have my steward send a clean cloth soaked in turpentine,’ he snapped. The man ran to obey. The only sure way to control filibustiers, De Graff thought to himself, was through a mixture of fear and respect. It helped that his men knew their captain had a violent temper.
‘Captain! I know that ship,’ called one of the deck watch as he came over. He wore the leather cap which marked him as a former cattle hunter.
‘How so?’ demanded de Graff.
‘Four years ago, off Porto Bello. She fought us off until nightfall, then escaped in the dark.’
De Graff took a closer look at the chase. He could tell from her lines that she was locally built, perhaps in Cartagena. Sturdy and plump, she was no greyhound of the sea. Indeed if the Sainte Rose had not been so heavily fouled with weed, the frigate would have overtaken her several hours ago.
The watchkeeper was speaking again. ‘We tried to board and carry the ship. But her captain was a tough old bird. He stood by the rail with a cutlass and hacked the fingers off the first man who laid a hand on his ship. Fearless he was, though a cripple. Moved like a crab.’
‘Well there won’t be any lost fingers this time,’ said de Graff. ‘Run out all our starboard guns and show we can smash him to splinters if we want. And put a shot into his hull for good measure.’
It took the frigate’s crew ten minutes to carry out his order. The frigate was upwind of her target and heeling to the wind. The lids on her lower gun ports had been kept closed to keep out the sea. Now helm and sails had to be adjusted so that the frigate sailed on a more level keel, and the gun ports freed.
Above the sound of the wind and waves and the creaking of the ship de Graff heard the lids to the gun ports swing open, one by one. They would be made fast while the guns were used. Then, like trapdoors, they would drop back to seal up the hull when the guns were retracted. Next came the squeal of blocks and the grumble of the truck wheels as the cannon were hauled forward until their black muzzles emerged from the ship’s side. To the Spanish sailors on the merchantman it would be a chilling sight.
His steward appeared at de Graff’s side with the turpentine-soaked rag he had demanded. Fastidiously the captain wiped his hands clean of the sticky rigging tar, making sure that nothing soiled the lace cuffs of his shirt.
A single cannon shot and a hole appeared in the mainsail of the merchant ship. The gunner on Sainte Rose had either aimed too high, or he was loath to damage the target, which would reduce its value as a prize.
In response the Spanish vessel suddenly luffed up, and a ragged sequence of four cannon shots came back. Her entire broadside. None of the cannonballs struck the frigate.
‘Fools,’ muttered de Graff. He had no wish to exchange cannonades. It was a waste of gunpowder which he could ill afford. Only three barrels of powder remained on the frigate – another reason to head for the careenage at Providencia and wait for the re-supply that de Cussy had promised.
De Graff took a speaking trumpet from the officer of the watch. As he raised it to his lips, he saw out of the corner of his eye that the gunfire had brought his lunch guests out on deck. Anne-Marie was standing in the waist of the ship. She was with two rough-looking sailors, whom he recognized as her brothers. Like everyone else, they were watching what the Spanish ship would do next.
‘Main deck gunners only! Aim for her mast,’ de Graff called down. It was a way of conserving powder. The gun layers on the open main deck had a much clearer view of the target than their comrades peering through the gun ports a deck below them. The Spaniard had a single mast. If that came down, the vessel would be crippled, and the fight would be over.
At ragged intervals the frigate’s guns fired, each cannoneer trying his skill. One round shot struck splinters from the merchantman’s rail. More holes appeared in the rigging. De Graff wished the frigate carried some chain shot: the two cannonballs linked with a short length of chain stood a better chance of taking down the mast as they whirled through the air. But his cannoneers had only round shot at their disposal, and most of the balls flew overhead and skipped across the sea beyond their target. All the time the gap between the vessels was narrowing. Now and again the Spaniard would yaw ponderously and lose off a shot or two at her looming tormentor. One shot even struck the frigate’s hull, but it was lightweight, a four-pound ball and did no damage. The men on the Sainte Rose jeered.
Finally the captain of the merchantman must have realized the hopelessness of his position. The vessel suddenly let fly its sheets, and the sails spilled wind. The ship was surrendering.
‘Bring her close enough to board,’ de Graff growled at the helmsman. The frigate was much the taller ship and loomed over her victim. Standing on the quarterdeck as the two ships came together, he found himself looking down on the merchantman. He looked for the limping captain that the watchkeeper had spoken of. But he could not see him. The vessel appeared to be commanded by a younger man. He stood on the aft deck, holding a sword and glaring angrily up at the frigate. On deck his men were milling about. They looked cowed.
The gap between the vessels narrowed. Grapnels flew. A web of ropes began to bind the ships together as the boarding party assembled on the frigate. De Graff took a quick glance amidships. The Kergonan woman was still there, watching. She had been undeterred by the gunfire. She was clearly a woman with courage.
Laurens de Graff decided to lead the boarding party himself. He knew that he looked splendidly dashing in his blue and white uniform. He descended the companionway to the frigate’s main deck, and made his way to the rail. ‘Do you surrender?’ he bellowed across the gap.
The young captain cupped one hand around his ear as if he had not heard clearly.
‘Surrender!’ shouted de Graff.
There was a heavy grinding thump as the hulls of the two ships touched in the swell and rebounded apart.
‘Do you surrender?’ repeated de Graff. The two ships were again coming together. He waited for the precise moment and jumped across the gap, coat tails flying, and landed deftly on the merchantman’s deck.
The young man had left the aft deck and was coming towards him.
‘In the name of His Most Christian Majesty, I declare this ship to be a prize of war,’ de Graff announced in Spanish as the man stood quietly across the deck from him.
‘I am Luis Felipe Fonseca,’ the young man replied calmly. ‘The title of this vessel is San Gil. May I know your n
ame and rank?’
It was an unexpected reply, spoken in heavily accented, clumsy French. For a brief moment de Graff was at a loss. ‘Captain Laurens de Graff,’ he answered. He could hear the thuds of feet landing on deck behind him as his men began to jump down on to the merchantman. ‘This ship is a prize of war,’ he repeated, this time in French. Then he added, ‘You are my prisoner.’
The young man stood only a couple of yards away, a look of incomprehension on his frank, open face.
All of a sudden de Graff became aware of a familiar smell. It took a moment for him to identify what it was. Then he recognized the distinctive stench of turpentine. For a moment he thought the smell came from his hands where he had just cleaned them. Then he noticed a large, damp stain on the deck by his feet.
He whirled about and looked at his own ship, even as there came a muffled crash and someone shouted, ‘Fireballs! Fire below!’ There were cries of alarm from the frigate and a volley of curses.
Too late he understood. The young Spaniard had duped him. Out-gunned, the Spaniards had prepared balls of oakum and hemp and rags, soaked in tar and turpentine, and hidden them. They had waited until the Sainte Rose was close enough, then they had lobbed the burning fireballs and pots of tar into the frigate.
There was a much louder explosion, this time from within the frigate’s hull. A spout of black smoke shot up from the forward hatch of his own ship. De Graff swore. His crew had left the frigate’s lower gun ports open. The carelessness of his filibustiers had put his ship at risk. The Spaniards had succeeded in tossing at least one firepot through an open gun port. If the fire spread to the frigate’s powder, his ship would be blown apart.
He spun round to face the young Spaniard. Felipe Fonseca had a recklessly triumphant expression. He was proud that his ruse had succeeded. Seldom in Laurens de Graff’s long and lucrative career as a filibustier had he been hoodwinked, and never by someone half his age. With murder in his heart he drew his sword and advanced on the young Spaniard, intending to run him through like a chicken skewered on a spit.
