PIRATE: Privateer

by Tim Severin

  They emerged from the shop when the rain stopped and set off towards York Street, Maria holding the little girl by the hand. She was busy keeping an eye on Charles, making sure that he did not double back and evade her. So she did not see Jezreel.

  That afternoon came the ritual inspection of the children by their father. Maria smartened up her charges to look presentable and brought them into the front room which Captain Blackmore used as an office and to entertain. As usual the fat man with the goatee beard was also present. Maria had learned that he was Señor Pimiento, the commercial agent sent from Cartagena to oversee the operation of the asiento, the licence to trade with the Spanish colonies. His role was to question the children in Spanish to see what progress they were making in learning the language. Henry, the elder boy, was proving himself to be a dunce. On this occasion he stared back mulishly at his questioner, barely able to utter a single phrase. Charles stumbled through a few stiff sentences. Fortunately the little girl, Mary, had an ear for languages and she chattered away, charming her interrogator. Maria hovered discreetly in the shadows, puzzling about the Spaniard. She detected an undercurrent of understanding between him and the captain which she found difficult to fathom. She was careful not to catch Captain Blackmore’s eye for she was aware of the covert glances he made in her direction. Every night, when staying at the Port Royal house, after she had put the children to bed, she locked her bedroom door.

  At daybreak next morning, while the children were still asleep, she quietly left the house to search for Hector. Yesterday’s thunderstorm had cleared the air, and the sky was a pale sapphire blue. She headed directly to the waterfront, her spirits lifted by her sense of purpose. It was less than a five-minute walk, and she had got to know several of the nightwatchmen during previous visits on the same quest. It was to them that she would direct her questions, asking if they had seen a party of four men, one of them a big tall man with a scarred face who looked like a prize-fighter, and another a Miskito Indian.

  But yet again she was disappointed. None of her informants could help. Afterwards she stood on the edge of the quay, gazing out over the mass of shipping waiting at anchor until there was space alongside at the dock. She wondered if perhaps Hector and his friends were asleep on one of those vessels. She felt frustrated that she had so little time to spend searching for him on each visit to Port Royal. She had a recurring worry that Hector might come ashore in Port Royal only long enough to take passage to Tortuga to join her, and arrive there to find her gone and with no clue as to where to look for her. Sometimes she feared that she had made a mistake in setting out to search for him. Perhaps she should have stayed in Tortuga.

  She took a deep breath and told herself not to be defeatist. She would find an excuse to come back to the waterfront later in the day. There were plenty of idlers hanging around the docks who had nothing better to do than watch the comings and goings. She would ask them. A bout of heavy coughing drew her attention to two old men rummaging through the rubbish on the dock. She guessed that, like many elderly people, they got up early, and they came to the waterfront on the off-chance that they could scavenge something worth keeping. She could hear them bickering, their voices raised in dispute.

  ‘You owe me three pesos,’ one of them was saying.

  ‘You’ve no proof!’ said the other. ‘That big fellow never said he saw a heel hanger.’

  ‘He didn’t know what to look for. You saw the scars on his knuckles. Probably had his brains rattled loose.’

  Maria came alert. ‘Excuse me. Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Big, ugly ruffian. Watched the execution with us yesterday,’ replied the old man, eyeing her suspiciously.

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘No, but I reckon he was friends with those hempcracks, though he acted as if he didn’t know them. Looked a right villain himself, as if he had been in any number of fights.’

  Maria kept her hopes in check. ‘Where is he now?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘We saw him go down the High Street. He turned down Sweetings Lane, maybe he was on his way to have a drink. You could ask that fellow over there.’

  A bleary-eyed servant had just emerged from the door of the nearby tavern. The faded sign had a badly drawn image of a fully-rigged ship and the name of the ale house – the Three Mariners. He crossed to the edge of the quay and dumped a bucket of slops into the already foul water. Maria hurried after him.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a big man, well over six foot. I’m told he came here yesterday. He looks as if he might have been a prize-fighter. Broken hands and some scars on his head. Have you seen him?’

  The servant put down the bucket, hawked up a gob of phlegm, and spat it into the water. ‘Can’t help. James was serving yesterday evening, he might know. You’ll find him inside, sweeping up.’

  Maria went into the tavern. The place reeked of sweat and tobacco and strong drink. A man in an apron was pushing a broom around the filthy floor.

  ‘Are you James?’ Maria asked.

  The man nodded.

  ‘I’m told you were working here last night. Did you see a big man with the looks of a prize-fighter?’

  The servant treated her to a long, calculating inspection. Maria thought he was probably wondering if she was trying to track down an errant husband. She hoped she did not look too vengeful.

  ‘This man might have been in the company of three others,’ she coaxed. ‘One of them a Miskito Indian. And another would be speaking with a French accent.’

  James leered, showing broken teeth. ‘Didn’t see him yesterday. But he was here with his friends more than a week ago. The mounseer ordered claret.’ He used the broom to rearrange the little pile of sawdust he had accumulated. ‘Typically Frenchified, putting on airs.’

  Maria could feel her heart pounding. Hector was here in Port Royal. ‘Do you know where I can find them now?’ she asked.

  James turned and shouted into the back of the room. ‘Herbert! Do you know what happened to that foursome who were here the other week? One of them was a bruiser you wouldn’t want to meet on a bad day, another an Indian.’

  ‘I saw the big fellow a couple of days ago,’ came back a disembodied answer. ‘He was coming off that smugglers’ pink anchored up by James Fort. Next to the government warehouse.’

  Maria spun round and hurried from the tavern. Abandoning all pretence of composure, she ran the length of the quay, passing the line of moored ships. ‘What’s the hurry, darling!’ she heard someone shout. ‘Hope he’s worth it!’

  She reached the end of the dock, the blood pounding in her ears. A watchman was sitting on a pile of lumber, smoking a clay pipe.

  ‘I’m looking for the smuggling boat,’ she blurted.

  He removed the pipe from his mouth, and blew out a stream of smoke. ‘You mean the Speedy Return,’ he said.

  ‘Where is she now?’ asked Maria breathlessly.

  ‘She was moored here for almost a month,’ said the man. ‘But she left last night. All very odd. No one seems to know where she’s headed, or when she’ll be back.’

  NINE

  JACQUES HAD PREPARED a stew to be eaten on the first day at sea. He had boiled beef, ham and capon together, then added onions, peppers, okra and sweet herbs, and the flesh of a dozen land crabs.

  ‘It won’t last in this heat so might as well finish up the lot,’ he said, doling out the concoction for the crew’s breakfast. Bartaboa’s recruits had emerged on deck and, except for Dan still at the helm, the entire complement of the Speedy Return were gathered round the Frenchman’s galley.

  ‘If the fodder and weather continue like this, it’ll be a pleasant voyage,’ commented Bartaboa. He picked a speck of crab shell off the tip of his tongue and held it up for inspection. The pink was gliding along comfortably under plain sail, drawing a clean wake across a sea which sparkled with myriad points of early morning sunlight.

  One of the black men muttered something in his own l
anguage. ‘He says it’s very good crab pepper pot,’ Bartaboa translated.

  ‘You speak their language?’ asked Jacques curiously. He looked round at the circle of black faces. The men ranged between twenty and forty in age, and appeared able-bodied and fit. They wore the usual slave costume of a coarse cotton shirt, loose trousers and straw hat or, more frequently, a headscarf. He noted that several had small ritual scars carved on their cheeks.

  ‘They’re Coromantees, from the same tribe as my grandmother. She taught me the lingo when I was very small,’ explained the sailing master.

  Hector decided this was the moment to tackle Bartaboa directly. ‘You and the Reverend Watson owe an explanation,’ he demanded.

  Bartaboa was not the least put out. ‘These men had already decided to run. They were planning to join the rebel maroons in the hills—’

  ‘How did you know that?’ interrupted Hector.

  The parson spoke up. ‘Through me. I was their minister on their plantation. Some of them speak enough English to explain their plan.’

  Bartaboa’s mouth twitched in amusement. ‘The Reverend is known for his scandalous ideas. He believes that all men are equal before God.’

  ‘Have you explained to them the purpose of our voyage?’ asked Hector.

  ‘Only vaguely. They’re just glad to be off the plantation.’

  Hector struggled to control his irritation. ‘And what do they think will happen to them when we return to Port Royal?’

  ‘They really don’t care. The way I see it, we may never get back.’

  Hector was blunt. ‘Make it clear that I am the captain, and they must obey orders. Tell them that we are in search of a French ship far more powerful than ourselves, a ship that could destroy us if we make mistakes.’

  The sailing master turned to the Coromantees and spoke at length. They listened carefully, their faces expressionless. When he had finished, the oldest man, who appeared to be their leader, responded slowly and deliberately. The others nodded in agreement.

  ‘They will follow your orders until such time as they decide to go their own way,’ Bartaboa told Hector.

  ‘And do they understand the dangers of this voyage?’ Hector insisted.

  ‘They do,’ said the sailing master seriously. ‘And don’t worry. I’ll make it my responsibility that they learn the ropes.’

  *

  THE SAILING MASTER was as good as his word. Within a day the Coromantees could name in English the different parts of the rigging and understand the words of command. They were coastal people, born seamen, and Hector had seldom seen such a competent crew. After Bartaboa set them to shaping two new square sails, they showed themselves equally good with needle and thread. The sailing master had already obtained two suitable spars from the government stores in Port Royal and was still determined to re-rig the Speedy Return as a brig.

  ‘Do you think you could teach them to be as good at gunnery as they are at needlework?’ Hector asked Reverend Watson. The two of them were watching the former slaves stitching away industriously.

  The parson’s long thin face gave him a lugubrious expression. ‘It would take considerable time,’ he replied.

  ‘And what happens if we get into a gun battle before then?’

  The minister pursed his lips. ‘I’d have all our cannon ready loaded before the battle began. You and your friends could aim and fire them one by one. But there’d be no chance of delivering a broadside.’

  ‘And after that, when all the guns are fired?’ Hector prompted him.

  ‘I’d pray to the Lord.’

  ‘Then let’s hope he hears you,’ said Hector. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Dan, who had been at the masthead as lookout, was sliding down the back stay. He must have seen something.

  ‘We’ve got company, about eight miles to the north of us,’ said the Miskito.

  ‘What sort of ship?’ Hector asked. From the deck it was impossible to see that far.

  ‘Difficult to say, but about our size and sailing the same course. I’ll take another look at mid-afternoon when the sun is lower, that should show up some extra details.’

  Four hours later he climbed back to the masthead and shouted down that the unknown vessel was a brigantine similar to the Speedy Return. The two boats were heading on almost parallel tracks, and travelling at the same pace. The stranger was flying no flag.

  Hector called to Bartaboa, who was busy showing the former apprentice tailor how to work a cringle into the edge of one of the new sails. ‘Maybe you know that vessel. She could be one you’ve encountered before.’

  ‘No use my climbing to the masthead,’ confessed the sailing master. ‘My distance eyesight is gone. I’ll have to wait until she’s closer.’

  ‘I’ll ask Dan to show you.’ Hector beckoned to the Miskito, and Bartaboa looked on in open astonishment as Dan descended to the deck and went to Jacques’ cooking fire. He picked up a lump of charcoal and drew the outline of a sailing ship on an off-cut of sail canvas.

  ‘Didn’t know you were an artist,’ the sailing master commented admiringly.

  ‘Can you identify her?’ asked Hector. For some time he had been wondering if the presence of the unknown ship was more than a coincidence.

  Bartaboa studied the drawing for a moment. ‘If I knew more about her rig . . .’

  With a few strokes of his charcoal Dan added more detail of the sails and spars.

  Bartaboa’s brow cleared. ‘French! No doubt about it. Only the French would think of setting a jib when the wind is nearly astern, though it does them little good.’

  Hector recalled his conversation with Lord Inchiquin. He pictured the chart on which he had pointed out to the Governor that the island of Providencia was the most likely base for the French frigate. A vessel which had set out from, say, Petit Goâve for Providencia would be following much the same route as the Speedy Return starting from Port Royal. There was a real possibility that the two ships had the same destination.

  He spoke to the sailing master. ‘If we convert our vessel into a brig as you propose, how much more speed can you get out of her?’

  ‘Depends on the wind direction,’ said the sailing master. He glanced up at the gaff sail. With the wind from nearly directly astern, it was eased far outboard. ‘I’d say we could sail one or two knots faster.’

  ‘And how long to make the change?’ Hector asked.

  ‘A couple of hours as soon as we have the canvas finished. The spars don’t require any shaping.’

  ‘Can you manage the changeover in the dark?’

  Bartaboa grinned. ‘With this crew, easily.’

  ‘Then as soon as dusk falls, I want you to switch the rig.’ Hector turned to Dan. ‘When we are no longer visible to that ship, adjust course. Slant up towards her so that at dawn we are within gunshot.’

  ‘Do you mean to sink her?’ asked the Miskito.

  ‘If her captain guesses we too are bound for Providencia, he might get there ahead of us and warn the French frigate. But it would be better if we board and take her. We know very little about the island, and he might be persuaded to talk.’

  *

  AT NIGHTFALL THE pink’s crew lowered the big gaff sail, rove fresh halyards and repositioned blocks. Then they hoisted the two new cross-spars in their slings with the new-made square sails held furled with sailmakers’ twine. When Bartaboa was satisfied that all was in place, a powerful heave on the sheets snapped the twine. The sails dropped open and in the starlight Hector looked up to see them belly out and fill, capturing the following breeze. He felt the Speedy Return gently accelerate, thrusting through the water. Already Jacques had doused the galley fire, and forbidden lanterns and candles. At the helm Dan shifted the tiller a fraction to alter course, steering by the stars and the direction of the wind. Without lights and in silence the pink ran across the blue-black sea.

  They spent the night peering through the darkness. Caught up in the excitement of the pursuit, those who slept did so in short snatches. Ba
rtaboa roamed the deck, laying a hand on the sheets one by one to feel their tension, muttering instructions to his men to haul in or ease out. The Reverend Watson went from cannon to cannon with Jezreel and the two Port Royal sailors, and they loaded the guns with powder and shot. Hector fretted that he might have made the wrong decision. Bartaboa could have been mistaken: the vessel they were pursuing might not be French, or it might not be headed for Providencia. Worse, it could prove to be heavily armed and well manned. The result would be disastrous.

  The first glow of dawn appeared astern, and as the light strengthened, Dan, who had been at the helm all night, let out a sigh of satisfaction. Fine off the starboard bow and no more than half a mile ahead was the mysterious vessel, sailing steadily onward.

  ‘Definitely French,’ Bartaboa confirmed. ‘That flag is false.’ Two men on the poop deck of the ship had seen the approaching Speedy Return and were running up a large ensign, a red eagle on a white field.

  ‘What are they pretending to be?’ asked Jezreel.

  ‘Brandenburgers. The Danes have given them a licence to traffic in slaves.’

  Hector was debating his next move. Even as they hoisted false colours, the crew of the French ship were dragging extra sails up from below deck. They had been taken by surprise and were intending to spread more canvas, hoping to escape their pursuers. That was encouraging. They did not feel sufficiently confident to offer a fight. On the other hand, the French captain must have noted that the Speedy Return was now rigged as a brig and would sail best before the wind. By changing course so that the wind was no longer from astern, the French might yet draw clear. There was no time to be lost.

  ‘Can you put a shot across her bows at this range?’ Hector asked the Reverend Watson.

  ‘If you will follow me, I will hope to demonstrate that I retain the art of cannonry,’ answered the parson. Under the shadow of his low-crowned black hat there was a gleam of excitement in his eye. With long, gangly strides he led the way along the line of half a dozen cannon on the starboard side. Reaching the foremost gun, he patted the breech affectionately. ‘This one should shoot true,’ he said.