PIRATE: Privateer

by Tim Severin

Hector swung round to face Bartaboa. ‘Put her head to wind. Act as if we’ve been taken by surprise, and make a mess of it!’

  The sailing master threw his weight on the tiller. The bow swung, the sails began to tremble and sag. Then the wind was from their wrong side and they flapped and clattered in noisy confusion. Sheets and braces went slack, and then creaked and twanged in protest as they came taut at the wrong angle. The blocks slammed and rattled. The Speedy Return stopped head to the wind, like a drunk stumbling into a door jamb. Bartaboa timed the recovery to perfection. He waited as the pink wallowed and lurched, then he heaved back on the tiller just in time for the pink to swing round on her previous course and begin to move again.

  Aboard the pursuing frigate it must have appeared as if the helmsman on the Speedy Return had suddenly seen the reefs, and clumsily tried to turn away from them before his captain had countermanded the manoeuvre.

  De Graff pounced. Hector saw extra sails break out on the frigate and she gathered speed, racing down on her victim. He looked ahead over the bows of the pink. As if on cue, the Vipers were showing. Waves burst in a broken arc ahead of the little vessel. Here and there patches of white foam swirled over coral outcrops. In the gaps the sea was lifting in a succession of low, powerful swells as it forced its way across submerged dangers. To the north, as far as the eye could see, an expanse of broken water gave warning that an underwater barrier of rock and sand and boulders extended across the vessel’s track. It was a sight to appal any mariner.

  He heard a shout from Dan. The Miskito was pointing urgently, his arm rigid, the hand still holding the scrap of paper that was his chart. He must have seen the entrance to the channel.

  ‘Not too fast!’ Hector hissed at Bartaboa. ‘We must keep de Graff on tenterhooks.’ Bartaboa called something to his Coromantee sailors. One of them grinned with pleasure as he and a companion eased out a sheet. Its sail spilled a little wind, barely enough to be noticed. But the Speedy Return slowed fractionally.

  Another quick look aft, and Hector saw that the Sainte Rose was directly behind them now, less than a musket shot away, closing in for the kill. The frigate’s entire crew were on deck, gazing at their victim, waiting for the Speedy Return either to turn and be boarded, or to smash on to the reefs. De Graff himself was instantly recognizable, a tall figure in blue and white, standing by himself at the windward rail.

  ‘Another two cables!’ Dan shouted down. ‘Then hard to starboard.’

  Hector felt the swooping change as the Speedy Return passed over the hidden outer fringe of the reef. The hull rose and then dropped swiftly as a gathering swell passed beneath her keel. Now there was no time to look back at the frigate. He concentrated on what lay ahead. The colour of the sea had changed. Once a pure bright blue, it had turned insipid beige. They were running over sandy shallows. All of a sudden a darker patch flashed by to starboard, clearly visible – a large coral head, its jagged crest inches below the surface of the sea. It would punch a hole into the hull of any ship that ran on to it at speed. In the next few moments more coral heads appeared on either hand. The Speedy Return was thrusting headlong into the coral maze, seeking her hidden, crooked path.

  He heard Bartaboa let out an oath, and one of the Coromantees ran past him and flung his weight on the tiller to assist. The pink heeled and shot off on a new course. Looking up at Dan, Hector saw that the Miskito was beckoning, indicating a change of direction. Out of the corner of his eye Hector noticed a dark patch in the water beside the ship. At first he thought it was more coral, but the black shape was keeping pace with the ship, racing alongside her. It was her shadow on the sea floor. The water was less than a fathom deep.

  The pink dashed onward, deep among the breakers. White water tossed and tumbled on either side. Both helmsmen kept their eyes fixed on Dan at the masthead.

  The Miskito pointed another change of direction, and the pink heeled as the rudder came over again. Bartaboa was swearing steadily in a low voice. Hector found himself gripping the rail fiercely, his knuckles white. One of the Coromantee sailors, standing by the starboard main brace, flashed him a grin of pure delight as he enjoyed the madcap ride.

  ‘De Graff’s decided to follow you,’ said a calm voice. Hector had forgotten all about Anne-Marie Kergonan. She was standing close to the stern, dressed in a white shirt and a dark brown dress, her hair held back by a crimson and white scarf. She seemed utterly composed, staring aft. Hector swung round to follow her gaze.

  It was true. The Sainte Rose was also entering the area of white water. De Graff must have grasped that the Speedy Return knew of a channel through the Vipers and was using it to slip through his fingers. He was relying on staying directly in his quarry’s wake. But he was taking a terrible risk.

  ‘He’s more of a fool than I thought,’ murmured Anne-Marie to herself, just loud enough for Hector to overhear.

  Next came an awful thump followed by a grinding sound as the hull of the pink scraped against coral. Hector’s heart leapt into his mouth. He waited for the sickening crash as the vessel came to a halt, gashed open by the reef. But there was only a brief tremor through the hull, the speed scarcely dropped, and then she had slithered past the obstacle and was moving freely again.

  ‘Good Dutch shipbuilding,’ joked Bartaboa, in an attempt to relieve the tension. But his face remained taut with apprehension.

  ‘How much farther to go?’ Hector yelled up to Dan.

  ‘Less than two cables. Then we’re through the worst.’

  Hector allowed himself a brief moment of hope. Perhaps the Speedy Return would wriggle through the reefs with only a few feet of planking scratched and gouged by the coral. But then what? If de Graff managed to follow the same channel, the pursuit would resume. This time there would be no escape. As soon as they were back on the open sea, the frigate was sure to overtake the smaller vessel. He could picture the outcome: half a dozen round shot to disable the pink, then de Graff’s ship alongside and grappled fast, his men, vastly superior in numbers, dropping on to the deck of their quarry to take possession. Any resistance would be futile. Hector decided that when that moment came, he would order Dan, Jezreel and the others to surrender. He would accept sole responsibility for enraging de Graff, and hope the filibustier would deal leniently with the rest of them.

  A full-throated howl interrupted his thoughts. One of the Coromantees, the same man who had grinned at him when easing out the main sheet, was bellowing with glee. Head thrown back, he was doing a shuffling dance on deck, clicking his fingers and crowing with delight.

  Hector looked to see the reason. The Sainte Rose was at a dead stop, her bow at a strange upward angle, her hull canted over to one side. Her foremast had carried away and toppled forward. Rigging and sails lay jumbled across the foredeck. A snapped main topmast hung suspended like a broken wing. Her deck was alive with men trying to bring the damage under control.

  ‘She’s run on the reef!’ Bartaboa burst out, his voice exultant. ‘They’ll not get her off in a hurry.’ He gesticulated excitedly to his crew. ‘Throw off the sheets! No hurry now.’ Then he remembered where he was, and relayed his orders in their language.

  The crew of the Speedy Return scrambled to obey their instructions as Hector took in the scope of the disaster that had overtaken de Graff. The Sainte Rose was solidly aground. The force of the impact had carried her forward for half her length, the hull sliding up on the coral outcrop. De Graff was helpless.

  Hector thought quickly. ‘The tide? How’s it making?’ he demanded of Bartaboa.

  The sailing master was still shouting orders. He broke off long enough to take a look at the two small islands before answering, ‘Two hours past high water is my guess.’

  Hector stepped across to where the Reverend Watson had been observing events. ‘Can your sakers reach that far?’ he asked.

  Watson nodded. ‘Easily.’

  Hector turned back to Bartaboa. ‘Bring her head to wind. We anchor here.’

  The sailing master star
ed back at him in surprise. ‘Why don’t we sail on for Port Royal and leave de Graff and his men to their fate?’

  ‘I have a debt to collect,’ Hector told him.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Bartaboa ordered his men to brail up the sails and drop anchor. The Speedy Return drifted to a halt little more than a hundred paces from the spot where the Morvaut had fished for the Spanish wreck.

  Dan came sliding down the backstay and dropped on deck. ‘Be careful, Hector. De Graff’s more dangerous than a wounded jaguar. He’s got at least a hundred men on that frigate. That’s more than we could handle if they get too close.’

  ‘I don’t plan on allowing that to happen,’ said Hector. He turned to the Reverend Watson. ‘If I can bring one of your guns to bear, can you put a round shot into the frigate for me?’

  ‘With pleasure and as often as you like!’ the parson answered, his eyes sparkling.

  It took half an hour to attach a spring to the anchor cable and haul in so that the pink swung broadside on to the frigate. Meanwhile from the Sainte Rose there was the distant thump of axes followed by a number of heavy splashes as de Graff’s men cut away the fallen spars and rigging, then heaved some of their guns overboard, trying to lighten the ship. Then they lowered their longboat, and a double team of oarsmen attempted to haul the ship off the coral. But the frigate stayed, stuck fast.

  ‘Time to attract their attention,’ observed the parson. With Jezreel’s help he had loaded one of the pink’s sakers and spent several minutes aiming the gun, making minute adjustments until he was satisfied. ‘Here you are, captain,’ he said to Hector, handing him a length of lit matchcord. ‘You brought us through the Vipers, so you should do the honours.’

  Hector touched the glowing tip of the cord to the saker’s vent. The gun fired, and there was a triple splash as the cannonball skipped across the sea towards its target. It must have struck the frigate’s hull. They saw men thrown to the deck. The dangling topmast broke free and came crashing down.

  ‘Jezreel, be so kind as to swab out the barrel. We’ll get ready for a second round,’ said the parson.

  He was less than halfway through the reload when de Graff’s own flag, the privateersman’s colours of blue with a white cross and the fleur-de-lis in the centre, was hauled down from the mizzen.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Bartaboa.

  ‘We wait for de Graff to come to us,’ Hector told him.

  ‘You seem very confident.’

  ‘He plays by his own set of rules. He’ll want to come to some sort of agreement,’ said Hector.

  The frigate’s longboat had given up the attempt to pull the Sainte Rose off the reef and was alongside de Graff’s ship. After a short stay it pushed off and came towards the anchored pink. Someone in the bow was holding up a white sheet.

  ‘Are we going to let them come alongside?’ asked Bartaboa nervously.

  ‘Only long enough for de Graff to come aboard. No one else,’ said Hector. The tall figure of the filibustier captain could be seen seated in the stern of the approaching vessel. Bartaboa cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted the warning. Jezreel, Dan and three of the Coromantee sailors lined the rail, pointing loaded muskets down at the visitors.

  De Graff grabbed for the shroud chains and swung himself on to the main deck. The filibustier captain carried neither pistol nor sword. Nevertheless he had chosen to wear a richly ornamented baldrick across his immaculate dark blue tunic. From the polished toes of his bucket boots to his broad-brimmed hat with its white plume to match his breeches, he cut an elegant figure that Hector knew was designed to impress.

  ‘Mr Lynch,’ said de Graff. ‘Hector Lynch, isn’t it?’ His china-blue eyes flicked towards the watching crew. If he was surprised to see how few they were – and that several looked to be former slaves – he did not show it.

  ‘We have some unfinished business,’ Hector said bluntly. He was determined not to be overawed by a man he had just outwitted, however formidable the other captain appeared. ‘Some time ago you intercepted a pinnace I had chartered, the Morvaut, and seized some valuables from me and my companions. I want them returned. If they are no longer in your possession, I demand equal value as compensation.’

  The filibustier raised a hand to his luxuriant moustache. ‘I am happy to oblige. Is there anything more?’ His voice was languid, as if discussing a minor detail.

  ‘Nothing. As soon as we have received the value of our property, the Speedy Return will continue on her voyage. You and your crew will be at liberty to continue with your efforts to get your ship off the reef. Should that prove impossible, I’m sure your carpenters can construct additional boats to carry your crew back to Providencia.’

  De Graff treated Hector to a patronizing stare. ‘You know all about small boat journeys, I seem to remember. To satisfy my curiosity, tell me how you managed to get away from my prize crew on that pinnace and then disappear.’

  Listening carefully to the cool, dispassionate voice, Hector had become aware of a pent-up fury behind the disdainful courtesy. He was about to answer when a voice from behind him said, ‘They escaped with my help.’

  Anne-Marie had withdrawn into the cabin when de Graff came aboard. Now she stepped out on to the open deck and addressed the filibustier captain boldly.

  The change in de Graff was startling. The veneer of politeness cracked. He rounded on the Breton, his features flushed with anger. ‘I thought as much at the time, you bitch!’ he spat.

  There was no mistaking the venom in his voice. All civility had vanished. De Graff was bitter and ferocious. ‘You’ve been leading me a dance, haven’t you? It wouldn’t surprise me if you haven’t been playing the whore with this young man as well.’

  Anne-Marie laughed in his face. ‘You fool! I helped this young man escape because he put the woman he loved before all else. He chartered my boat and went fishing wrecks to raise money for his life with her. That appealed to me more than someone who thought of nothing but riches and the luxuries they could buy.’

  De Graff’s lip curled. ‘You expect me to believe that, when you ran away with him at the first opportunity. Doubtless you gloated when you saw the Sainte Rose run aground.’

  Anne-Marie was having difficulty holding back her temper. Her voice shook. ‘Your pride and self-regard led you on to that reef!’ she retorted.

  ‘So speaks the daughter of a common prostitute and the widow of a drunk,’ said de Graff savagely.

  To Hector’s astonishment, Anne-Marie took a quick pace towards the filibustier captain and slapped him full across his cheek. ‘I demand satisfaction for that insult,’ she snapped. Her eyes blazed with anger.

  De Graff shook his head in amazement. ‘You what?’

  ‘Satisfaction for that last remark. You enjoy acting the gentleman. Now prove it is more than sham.’

  ‘Are you challenging me to a duel?’ The filibustier was incredulous.

  ‘I am.’ Anne-Marie Kergonan was quivering with fury.

  ‘And what weapons are we to use?’ De Graff asked. He was back in control of himself, his voice icily sarcastic.

  ‘The insult was yours, so the choice is mine,’ she replied, her jaw set firmly.

  ‘Not pistols, I hope. I heard what you did to that man who disposed of your brother.’ Now de Graff’s words had a mocking ring.

  ‘No, not pistols.’

  ‘Rapier? Broadsword? I doubt that you have the reach,’ said the filibustier. He raised an eyebrow in amusement. He was enjoying baiting her.

  ‘You insulted both my husband and my mother, so I will defend their good name in the manner of which they would approve.’

  For a moment de Graff looked baffled. Then his brow cleared. ‘You mean a duel with fusils?’

  ‘Exactly,’ snapped the Breton. ‘Muskets. There is sufficient space on that island over there.’ She gestured off to starboard, towards the low islet.

  De Graff appealed to Hector. ‘This woman has gone out of her wits.’

  Anne-M
arie seized Hector’s sleeve and pulled him round so that they were face to face, barely inches apart. ‘Hector, you owe me this,’ she said slowly and deliberately. ‘That night you and your friends left the Morvaut in that cockboat I could have raised the alarm. But I didn’t.’

  Looking directly into those angry, unblinking eyes, Hector saw how Anne-Marie Kergonan deserved the nickname Tigress. She was single-minded, implacable and fearless. She was also deadly serious that she intended to fight a duel with de Graff.

  After the space of a heartbeat, Anne-Marie added in a quieter voice, ‘If this goes wrong, look for Maria in Port Royal. That is where I told her to go in search of you.’

  She released his sleeve, and Hector found himself saying, ‘I will make certain the duel is conducted fairly. Jezreel will be in charge. He knows the customs.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anne-Marie. Ignoring de Graff, she strode away in the direction of the cabin.

  Hector beckoned to Jezreel. The ex-prize-fighter was still at the midships rail with a loaded musket, making sure that the longboat from the Sainte Rose stayed well clear. When Jezreel had joined him, Hector said, ‘Anne-Marie has challenged de Graff to a duel with muskets. I’m putting you in charge.’

  Jezreel took the matter in his stride. ‘Who is to fire first?’ he asked de Graff.

  The filibustier captain shrugged. ‘My opponent’s sex gives her precedence.’

  ‘Do you have your own fusil aboard your ship?’

  ‘An ordinary musket should do just as well.’

  ‘You can take this,’ said Jezreel, handing over his musket. ‘It shoots straight, though it doesn’t have much range.’

  De Graff accepted the gun and looked towards the island. ‘That won’t make much difference. I doubt there’s enough room for a full ground. Let’s get this over with.’

  Anne-Marie reappeared, carrying the long hunting gun she had brought aboard. Jezreel beckoned her forward so that both she and de Graff could hear what he had to say.

  ‘My task is to remind you of the rules so there are no mistakes. The three of us will be set ashore on that island over there. Each will carry a gun of their choice, a powder flask and a bag of bullets, but only my musket will be loaded. I will stay at the landing place. You will walk in opposite directions until you are separated by a distance which I calculate is not less than fifty paces. When I call upon you to stop, you turn to face one another. Is that clear so far?’