PIRATE: Privateer

by Tim Severin

  His furious lunge was directed straight for the young man’s heart. There was no skill to it, just a straightforward thrust, delivered in white-hot fury. Felipe Fonseca took a half-step back. His own sword swept up and deflected the lunge to one side. De Graff sprang forward again and lunged once more, this time a downward slant. He aimed for the thigh. He wanted to cripple his tormentor and then deal with him at leisure. Once again Felipe flicked aside the attack with his own blade. As steel clashed, then slithered on steel, a sudden sobering awareness penetrated de Graff’s boiling anger. He was attacking a trained swordsman. He felt it through his hand and wrist and along his sword arm to his shoulder. The young man facing him knew how to wield a weapon. De Graff dropped his glance to his opponent’s feet. The young Spaniard had shifted to a duellist’s stance, one foot pointing towards his opponent, the other slightly at an angle, the leading knee bent. His entire body was in balance, ready to advance, retreat, or step aside.

  De Graff made a huge effort to control his anger. He backed away as he sized up his situation. Immediately Felipe Fonseca took two quick paces forward and his sword darted at the captain’s face. De Graff jerked his head back just in time. He retreated still farther until he was safely out of killing range. The boarders from the Sainte Rose who had followed de Graff were standing in a ring around the two men. They had to shuffle back hastily. It occurred to de Graff to shout to one of them to pistol the upstart Spaniard where he stood. But a spirit of pride flickered long enough to make de Graff reject the idea. He had a reputation to protect. Laurens de Graff was known throughout the Caribbean as a crack shot and an outstanding swordsman. His enemies sometimes surrendered without a fight because they feared him so much, and because he was known to be chivalrous and to treat his opponents well. Such notoriety was priceless. It would be lost if the story spread that when de Graff found himself challenged to a sword fight, man to man, he had his youthful opponent shot.

  Carefully de Graff eased his left arm out of his close-fitting dress coat. The fashionable long skirts, extravagant lapels and pocket flaps were nothing but an encumbrance now. He had to be rid of it. He transferred his sword to his left hand in order to free his right arm and there was a moment when the young Spaniard had him at a disadvantage. Felipe Fonseca could have struck but instead he merely flicked his sword tip from side to side, almost playfully. His opponent’s confidence and sense of fair play annoyed de Graff still further.

  The weapons held by the two men were much alike. Both were rapiers. Fonseca’s had curling counterguards and knucklebow of steel. Like all rapiers, it was primarily designed for thrusting. But the thirty-six-inch blade also had cutting edges for slashing blows. De Graff’s weapon had an ornate handle of carved ivory as it was partly for show. Yet it was also a killing weapon, and though the blade was shorter by two inches than the Spaniard’s, the disadvantage was cancelled by the frigate captain’s longer reach.

  For several seconds the two men faced one another. Then to de Graff’s astonishment, his opponent stepped forward boldly, rapped his blade firmly against the captain’s sword, and as the metal rang and quivered, launched a deadly attack. The flickering point of his rapier first menaced the captain’s throat, then changed direction in mid-air and was aimed at his stomach. De Graff gave ground, springing back, beating the blade aside. He had almost forgotten how to fight like this. Shipboard combat was very different. It was crude and bludgeoning. The weapons of choice were cutlass, boarding axe, club and dagger, used hand to hand, chest to chest, in tight, close-packed brawls. Now he was faced with a rapier at arm’s length and fast-moving but just as deadly. He dredged up from his memory the lessons he had learned from a fencing master when he had ambitions to become a naval officer. That was long ago, before he had turned his coat and become a filibustier captain.

  Lunge, parry and riposte – the rhythm of the rapier duel came back to him. High guard, low guard, the muscles of his sword arm seemed to have a memory of the moves and counter-moves. Yet he was obliged to give ground all the time – stepping backwards, circling slowly, fending off the attacks. His fencing master had told him to watch his opponent’s feet. They would signal the direction of the next attack. But Fonseca was so lithe and he moved so quickly that it was difficult to anticipate his next onslaught. Again and again, his sword only just missed his target. De Graff was sweating with effort, hard put to maintain his defence though he was the bigger, stronger man. He tried to break Fonseca’s rapier with a smashing sideways cut, knowing that the young Spaniard would block the blow with his blade. But the clash of metal told de Graff that Fonseca’s rapier was forged from good Toledo steel, almost impossible to splinter.

  Fonseca kept probing for his enemy’s weakness. Then he found it. He made as if to strike at de Graff’s face. But it was a feint. As de Graff moved his sword to ward off the thrust, the young Spaniard dropped his sword hand low and to the right, pivoted on his leading foot, and lunged. The tip of his rapier pierced de Graff’s left hip. An inch closer to the belly and the fight would have ended there and then. De Graff felt the lancing pain and knew he had been hurt. In desperation he counter-attacked, delivering a slash at Fonseca’s neck, and when that was blocked, lunged at full stretch, hoping to take advantage of his longer reach. His target was Fonseca’s leading leg, fully extended and vulnerable. Like a dancer, Fonseca drew back, rose on tiptoe, and then a moment later his sword point was descending towards the back of de Graff’s neck as the bigger man was still leaning forward. It was only by chance that de Graff was not skewered. He slipped and canted sideways, saving himself with a grunt. As he straightened up, he knew that he was losing the fight. It would not be long before he received a mortal hit from Fonseca’s deadly swordplay. He threw aside all caution and made an all-out thrust at the young man’s chest. As Fonseca’s blade came across to parry, de Graff stepped forward. As blade met blade with a clash he pressed down on his sword with all his weight until the hilts of the two rapiers slammed together. In that same moment he grabbed the Spaniard’s sword arm with his free hand and forced it aside, twisting his sword point up into the young man’s face. He felt the tip enter the eye, and then suddenly the fight was over. The young man pitched backwards and crashed to the deck.

  Panting with exertion, de Graff stood over the body. A dull pain was spreading from his injured hip, and he was aware of the blood seeping down his breeches. A whiff of smoke in his nostrils reminded him that the Sainte Rose had been attacked with fire-pots and was in danger of burning. He turned. To his relief there were only a few wisps of smoke curling up from the main hatch. There was no sign of panic. The fire must have been extinguished. His gaze traversed the length of his ship. Standing at the rail was Anne-Marie Kergonan. She was looking down at the deck where the fight had taken place. She was staring straight at him, her face set. But he could not tell what she was thinking – whether she was appalled at what she had seen, relieved at the outcome, or indifferent.

  *

  PORT ROYAL’S provost marshal was in a sour mood. He scowled at the young lieutenant from the Swan who had walked into his office and announced that he was leaving Hector in his marshal’s custody. ‘And what am I supposed to do with him?’ the marshal demanded. ‘The gaol is already full.’

  ‘There’s no need to lock him up. He’s given his parole,’ answered the lieutenant. He was pink-faced and overweight and breathing heavily though it was only a short walk from the docks. ‘Swan took a week to get here from Cartagena. We have to go back out on patrol immediately.’

  ‘I can’t accept the prisoner without a warrant signed by the civil authority.’ The provost did not bother to get up from behind his desk, and scarcely glanced at Hector standing off to one side with his three friends.

  The lieutenant was keen to put an end to the exchange. ‘Where can I find someone to provide that warrant?’

  The provost marshal glowered at his visitor. ‘There’s a war on. The French have raided the coast four times in as many weeks. Burned plantations,
seized slaves. Half the government is away serving with the militia.’

  ‘Surely there must be someone?’

  ‘You could try asking Mr Reeve. He’s the secretary to the Governor. Came out from England with His Lordship.’ The provost marshal picked up a document from his desk and ostentatiously began looking through it. Clearly the meeting was over.

  The lieutenant pulled a face. He nodded at Hector to follow him, and the little group went out into Port Royal’s main thoroughfare, the High Street. Hector had been in Port Royal some years earlier, and from what he could see the town had got busier, more prosperous, even more dissolute. Many more of the shops were now selling luxury goods – jewellery, perfumes, imported wines and expensive furniture, fine clothes. From one such shop a well-dressed woman emerged followed by a black manservant with a pile of three hat boxes balanced on his head. At the western end of the street the stallholders in the meat market had already cleared their counters before their produce spoiled in the tropical heat. Farther on towards the intersection with New Street, the vegetable sellers were still trying to get rid of the last of their yams, coconuts, potatoes and plantains. A few even had displays of imported apples, cabbages and pears. But the crowds were thinning as the shoppers headed home for their customary three-hour break at midday. For most of them this was to avoid the worst of the heat, though others took it as an excuse to make for one of the taverns located every few yards along the street. Knots of drunks and down-and-outs already loitered near these drinking dens. And of course there were parties of rowdy sailors. They were ogling and catcalling the women, though the common townswomen of Port Royal were a rough-looking lot. They wore neither shoes nor stockings, and their usual dress was a dirty smock or coarse linen petticoat and a straw hat. Many puffed at red clay pipes. Hector observed that almost as many women as men frequented the ale houses.

  King’s House, the official residence of the Governor, was less than a five-minute walk away. The building had twice the frontage of other houses in the High Street, but was rather shabbier. The brickwork was in need of cleaning and repointing, and the yellow paint on the window frames was peeling. There was no sentry on the door and the place had a deserted air. Balchen, the naval lieutenant, was obliged to ask a bored-looking clerk in the gloomy entrance hall how to get to the Governor’s secretariat. He was directed up a flight of stairs to an office at the back of the building. There was no answer to his knock so the lieutenant pushed his way in, followed by his little group. Hector and his companions found themselves in a small, dingy room containing several large cupboards that stood open, revealing shelf after shelf of files neatly tied with twine. By the window a large, plain table was heaped with more bundles of papers. In the far corner stood a church lectern. Barely visible behind it was the top of a lawyer’s wig. Just as Hector realized that the lectern was a stand-up desk the wig moved and a small, rotund man darted into view. He reminded Hector of a robin briskly hopping out from behind a bush. He stared at his visitors through thick round glasses and asked what they wanted.

  ‘I’ve come to find Mr Reeve, the Governor’s secretary,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘You’ve found him.’

  The lieutenant was taken aback. ‘My apologies, sir. I had not meant to disturb you without first being announced,’ he stammered.

  ‘No matter,’ said the man brusquely. ‘I am George Reeve. What can I do for you?’

  ‘With respect, sir, the provost marshal is asking for an official affidavit before he will accept one of these men into his custody. I would be grateful if your staff could prepare such a document.’

  ‘I have no staff,’ said Mr Reeve sharply. ‘They are either sick or malingering.’ He peered at Hector and his friends, reminding Hector more than ever of a robin, this time inspecting newly turned soil for the presence of worms. ‘Who is it you want to lock up?’

  The lieutenant pointed out Hector. ‘This man, sir. Hector Lynch.’

  ‘And what is he convicted of?’

  ‘He is not yet convicted, sir. The Spaniards in Cartagena sent him to be tried as a pirate.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘They are his friends. They insisted on accompanying him.’

  ‘I see. Then I will prepare the affidavit myself. If you would step out of the room for a few moments and take Mr Lynch’s friends with you, I will set down Mr Lynch’s details.’

  Clearly relieved, the lieutenant ushered Jacques, Jezreel and Dan out of the room. The Governor’s secretary darted back behind his lectern.

  ‘Mr Lynch,’ said his disembodied voice. ‘Your name, age, and place of birth, please.’

  ‘Hector Lynch, twenty-eight years old, born in the County of Cork, Ireland.’

  ‘And how long is it since you left that place?’

  Hector needed a moment to calculate. ‘It’s some five years since we were taken.’

  ‘What do you mean by “we were taken”?’

  ‘My sister and I were both kidnapped by Algerine corsairs. Carried off to North Africa. I have not been back to Ireland since.’

  ‘How extraordinary!’ Mr Reeve popped out from behind his lectern.

  ‘The Algerines raided for slaves, sir. They took the entire village.’

  ‘No, no. That’s not what I mean. Do you know who the new Governor of Jamaica is?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I have been out of touch.’

  ‘His Excellency the Governor is William O’Brien, the second Earl of Inchiquin. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘The family is Irish aristocracy, is it not?’

  ‘Indeed. But there are many Irishmen in Jamaica. It is the coincidence that is extraordinary.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Lord Inchiquin was also a prisoner of the Algerines for some years. Captured by Barbary corsairs. He will be most interested to hear your story.’

  Mr Reeve was positively beaming. ‘Only this morning he told me he needed something to distract him, if only for a little while, from his present duties. He finds them both tedious and taxing.’

  The Governor’s secretary was already halfway to the door. ‘Mr Lynch, your visit could scarcely be better timed. His Lordship is spending the siesta here in his apartments. If you would wait here a moment I will see if he will receive you, informally of course.’

  With that, the little man darted out of the room.

  As Hector waited, he strolled over to the window. To one side the rear of King’s House looked out over the neighbouring backyard. He could see the roof of a cookhouse, the square box of the latrine standing on stilts, and various sheds and outhouses. A black washerwoman was hanging out clothes on a line. As he gazed down on this domestic scene, he recalled that the only Earl of Inchiquin he had ever heard of had earned the nickname ‘O’Brien of the Burnings’, from the ferocity with which he had behaved during the recent civil wars. It was said that the Earl had fled to the continent and become a mercenary soldier. He could only suppose that the current Earl and Governor of Jamaica was his son.

  Mr Reeve came back into the room. ‘His Lordship will see you immediately,’ he announced brightly, and led Hector across the landing. The room opposite was much grander than the secretary’s poky little office. It was a high-ceilinged salon, expensively furnished with heavy velvet curtains, a Turkey carpet, an escritoire inlaid with ivory, and gilded chairs arranged around a large mahogany conference table. Also it commanded a fine view over the High Street. On the window seat and eating an orange was a heavy-set man dressed in a long, loose dressing gown. His fleshy face was covered with beads of sweat, and there was an underlying grey pallor which spoke of ill-health. Hector put his age at about fifty. As the Governor turned to inspect his visitor, Hector saw that the man’s left eye was concealed under a black patch.

  ‘So, Reeve, this is your Barbary captive!’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency. He is Hector Lynch. He was a prisoner for some years in Algiers.’

  The Earl regarded Hector with interest. ‘As a
slave?’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency. Though I was well treated by my master. He was an educated man.’

  ‘More than can be said for these tiresome Jamaican planters,’ observed Inchiquin. He waved his orange. ‘We are fellow unfortunates. I was captured at sea by corsairs while on my way with my father to serve the Portuguese.’

  He prised off a segment of the orange and popped it into his mouth. ‘My father was quickly ransomed, but I was left to kick my heels in captivity for another couple of years until the funds were raised. Who paid your price?’ It was common knowledge that almost the only way Christian slaves emerged from the slave barracks in Barbary was if their families or charities paid for their release.

  ‘I wasn’t ransomed, my lord. My master’s ship was sunk in a naval action while I was aboard her. I was taken prisoner by Christians.’

  ‘And who was your master?’

  ‘His name was Turgut Reis. He was head of the taifa, the league of corsair captains.’

  The Earl paused in his eating. ‘I spent long enough in Algiers to know what the taifa is,’ he said. ‘Are you telling me that you sailed with a Captain of Galleys?’

  ‘Yes, as his assistant.’

  ‘And then . . . ?’

  Hector explained how he had been captured after a sea battle with an English warship, sold as a galley slave in the French Navy, wrecked on the coast of Morocco and had then managed to escape. He glossed tactfully over his more recent adventures with the buccaneers in the South Sea, fearing that it would only strengthen the charge of piracy against him.

  By the time Hector had finished his tale, the skin and pips of the Governor’s orange lay in a fine porcelain dish beside him. Inchiquin turned to his secretary. ‘Reeve, you say that our newfound allies the Spaniards want this man tried for piracy?’