Buccaneer

by Dudley Pope

  “Mebbe, but yon ship has paint on it. You don’t see paint on a Don – leastways, not a little sloop like that, nor even a bigger one like this.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The two ships, sails furled, drifted westward half a mile from each other, slowly turning like a pair of ospreys playing in the air currents over a headland. The boat from the Pearl was streamed by her painter from the Griffin’s stern and the five men and one woman who had rowed across in her were sitting or standing round on the Griffin’s low poop talking to Yorke, Saxby, Aurelia and Burton. Mrs Judd and Mrs Bullock made sure they stayed within earshot by busying themselves with various mugs of rumbullion and limejuice, though no one seemed to be very thirsty.

  Yorke had stood back and let Saxby greet the visitors, while Burton had a dozen men below with muskets and pistols, waiting for his shout, but very ostentatiously no one was near the Griffin’s great guns. There was no hint that they were loaded.

  The visitors were English and had accepted Saxby as the master, Burton as the mate, Simpson as another mate, and obviously did not know what to make of Yorke and Aurelia, whom Saxby had simply introduced as “Mr Yorke” and “Mrs Wilson”.

  When the four men and women had been introduced by their leader, Yorke was struck by the idea that the woman’s role on board the Pearl might bear comparison with Aurelia’s in the Griffin: she was English and, at a guess, came from somewhere no farther east than Hampshire and no farther west than Dorset. Like the leader who introduced her, she spoke clearly; meeting her in an English town one would assume she was the lady of the manor. Black-haired with deep brown eyes, she had wide sensuous lips that smiled easily, a tiny nose, a slim body that could become plump and a way of moving that missed being graceful because she moved too quickly. She was dressed in what could in London become a striking new fashion, Ned thought: her skirt had been slit vertically front and back and the edge of each half had been sewn together to make two tubes. It meant she could swing her legs over the bulwarks and thwarts, or scramble up a rope ladder (as she had done before the Griffins realized she was a woman). On her, the divided skirt looked thoroughly womanly. What Ned found disconcerting was the upper part of her body: she wore a man’s jerkin made of fine cloth, and there was nothing beneath it except herself, and she had the most prominent nipples that Ned had ever seen.

  He was covertly looking at them when the leader repeated a question and Ned turned with a polite: “I beg your pardon?”

  “I didn’t hear your name when the master introduced us. My name’s Whetstone.”

  “Yorke. Edward Yorke.”

  The man’s eyes lowered a moment, as though searching his memory. “I knew a George Yorke once. About your age.”

  Were the waters of the Spanish Main a place to exchange confidences? Ned decided to wait.

  “I’ve heard of a Thomas Whetstone, too.”

  The men laughed and the woman smiled, saying: “The scapegrace nephew of Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector, regicide, warrior – and so on.”

  Whetstone, who Yorke now realized was Sir Thomas Whetstone, one of London’s more notorious gamblers before the Revolution, smiled and, holding the woman’s arm, said formally: “Miss Diana Gilbert-Manners, whom I have to introduce as my mistress because my wife is still alive in England and quite devoted to her uncle-by-marriage.”

  Aurelia had heard the introduction and Ned said: “Mrs Wilson – Aurelia – is French. Or rather was born in France. She sailed with us from Barbados.”

  At once he could have bitten his tongue: Whetstone nodded and said: “Now I place you! The Kingsnorth plantation. Your father is Ilex. Two estates in Kent. Your brother George is the heir.”

  “Thomas, be tactful,” Diana said. She had a deep, rich voice compared with Aurelia’s lighter and more musical tones, and she turned to Ned. “In these days, Mr Yorke, it’s wiser to consider politics more carefully than armorial bearings. Mrs Wilson is obviously that wretched man Wilson’s wife. He’s a Parliamentarian. Are you?”

  The question was direct but not threatening; obviously she wanted to get politics to one side so they could talk freely. Whetstone made no secret that he was Cromwell’s nephew and Ned now remembered having heard that he left England because of debts but could not recall if that was before or after the Revolution. Anyway, it was more relevant now that, inexperienced as the Griffins were, the Pearl was too small to harm her.

  “No, I’m not,” Ned said quietly, and decided to tell them a little more so that Whetstone could be forced to reveal more about himself. “In fact my father refused to compound and he and my brother have gone to France, and an expedition sent out here under Admiral Penn and General Venables was supposed to sequestrate Kingsnorth and arrest me. So I left Barbados with those of my people who wanted to come.”

  “And Mrs Wilson?” Diana Gilbert-Manners obviously wanted to make no mistakes. “Pardon my bluntness, but we live in strange times.”

  Whetstone gave a dry laugh, gesturing at his mistress’ skirt and Aurelia’s breeches.

  Aurelia answered while Ned was still thinking what to say.

  “I loved Edouard from the time I met him, three years ago. I hated my husband from a few hours after the wedding ceremony.”

  The other woman nodded. “I understand. Some men become brutes when marriage vows make them masters. That is why I have Thomas under control!”

  Whetstone looked impishly at Aurelia. “Mrs Wilson will not make the same mistake again!”

  Aurelia shook her head. “I have not made the mistake, but I am still married…”

  Whetstone’s jaw dropped and Diana Gilbert-Manners looked startled. “My dear,” she said, dropping her voice, “do you mean that you and Mr Yorke – er, don’t…er, aren’t…?”

  “No. Not until I can obtain a divorce.”

  “Or your husband dies,” Whetstone said grimly. “I respect your scruples, but you wreck two lives, you know; your own and Yorke’s.”

  Aurelia turned away. “Please,” she said. “It is hard enough now…”

  “Of course, of course,” Whetstone said. “None of our business, but remember, dear lady, the Caribbee is not England; here we are our own lawmakers, judges – and executioners. Life can be cut very short. Hurricanes, the Dons, the gallows, the rack, rocks, drunken brawls: few men die of old age out here beyond the Line, madam. Seize happiness when it smiles at you, that’s my motto.”

  Diana Gilbert-Manners had the glowing mixture of health and happiness that showed she both agreed with and benefited from Whetstone’s philosophy. Whetstone, Ned realized as he watched the man talking, was a handsome man. A thick and roughly-trimmed square black beard and flowing moustaches certainly obscured his face but his mouth was generous, his brown eyes deepset with wrinkles at the corners which revealed a good sense of humour, and long black curly hair that was so neatly dressed that Ned guessed it was his mistress’ pleasure to comb it.

  He wore a loose jerkin but instead of breeches and hose he wore the short frock, or circular apron, which had been popular with seamen half a century ago. His legs were bare from the knees down, heavily tanned like his arms and face. And that, Ned realized, was what was so fascinating about Whetstone’s mistress: unlike the white women of gentle birth who lived in the tropics, she was deeply tanned: her face, neck and shoulders. And, because he could not see any white line starting, Ned suspected the rest of her body too; certainly her breasts.

  Aurelia was beginning a slight tan; the sun reflecting up from the sea came under the brim of her hat, and despite Ned’s suggestion that she let the sun tan her face naturally, she had all the upper-class attitude towards tan: only servants were tanned because they worked in the fields.

  However, as Whetstone had just said, out here the old rules did not apply, but it was going to take Aurelia a long time to accept that. It was a pity that Diana Gilbert-Manners and Whetston
e would not be around to help start her re-education.

  Whetstone coughed, a well-modulated cough that indicated that what he was about to say came outside the boundary of normal polite conversation but that he knew it and Ned was not obliged to answer.

  “I get the impression, Yorke, that you ran the plantation and that this man Saxby –” he nodded at the master, who was over on the other side of the deck talking with the rest of Whetstone’s party “–is the master of the ship, and you have few experienced crew.”

  Ned nodded but said mildly: “Does it show as clearly as that?”

  “No, not really, providing you are simply trading between Barbados and Curaçao.”

  “What makes you think that we are not?” Ned asked out of curiosity.

  “You have been in collision within the last few days –” he turned and pointed to the starboard quarter “–and that gouge across your deck was caused by roundshot which came through one bulwark and went out of the other. And I’ve seen four men with bandages.”

  “That shows we have been in action, but surely not that we are inexperienced?”

  “There are other shot holes, but I note your guns have not been fired because the paint inside the bulwark is not scorched. That means that some ship – a Spanish guarda costa? – fired a few broadsides and then collided with you, presumably because you made a mistake that she did not anticipate.”

  “Thomas! Apologize at once!” Diana Gilbert-Manners was angry with him now.

  “No, ma’am,” Ned said, “there’s no need. He’s quite correct except for the last part: Saxby ran across the guarda costa’s bow, so she lost her jibboom and bowsprit and that brought her mast down.”

  “So thanks to Saxby you lived to tell the story,” Whetstone commented grimly. “But what were you doing so close to the Main? The Dons normally stay within sight of the coast.”

  Ned told him of their smuggling visit to Carúpano and the guarda costa’s trap off Cumaná.

  “Yes, that’s an old trick,” Whetstone commented. “The mayor makes a profit both ways. They don’t do it to the Dutch, who seem to have the smuggling monopoly along the Main, and the Dons need their regular calls so they can dispose of their hides and coffee and tobacco. And salt, of course: salt mined by all their prisoners. Don’t get captured off the Main: it’s terrible working in those salt mines. Not salt pans, where they let in sea water and wait for the sun to evaporate the water and leave the salt behind, but deep mines. Like coal mines. The deposit of centuries.”

  “You sound as if you are speaking from experience!”

  Diana Gilbert-Manners’ hand gripped his arm as Whetstone said quietly: “I am. I’m one of the few who ever escaped alive.”

  “We never take Spanish prisoners,” Diana Gilbert-Manners said, in the sort of tone she might have used to say that they never drank Spanish red wine.

  “What are you doing now, then?” Aurelia asked.

  “Buccaneering. The Spaniards call it piracy,” Whetstone said with a mirthless laugh.

  “This is privateering, then? You have the commission, or letter of marque?”

  “One could call it ‘privateering’ out of politeness, dear lady, but I do not have a letter of marque – who is there to issue one to a Royalist nephew of the Lord Protector? More to the point, to whom would I show it? Who would bother or dare to ask?”

  “I wish to ask you a question, Sir Thomas, but do not feel obliged to answer. But first I must ask Edouard’s permission. Forgive me for a moment.” She whispered for several moments to Ned, who nodded several times. “Alors, you know already we are not very experienced smugglers, and our next attempt could be our last. When your ship came in sight, we were all debating – well, what the future held for us.”

  Whetstone held his mug upside-down so that Mrs Judd could see it. She bustled over with a jug and poured rumbullion until Whetstone told her to stop, and when he said he would like limejuice with it she bellowed for Mrs Bullock, who hurried over with another jug.

  “’Ow about you, dearie?” Mrs Judd asked Diana. “You ain’t drinking.”

  “Thank you, no; I leave it to the men.”

  “Very wise. Once they get a skinful you can make ’em do anything!”

  Whetstone gave a bellow of laughter and Diana said cheerfully: “I learned that lesson at my mother’s knee!”

  As soon as the two women had moved away, Whetstone said: “When did you leave Barbados?”

  “About a week before Penn and Venables arrived.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “We had a look at Antigua and then Montserrat.”

  “Why?”

  “In case I could buy a plantation. It was a silly idea, but my father’s letter telling me he and my brother were going to France and warning me to get away was a shock.”

  “Bad place, Antigua,” Sir Thomas said, shaking his head. “Wrong type of men go there. Like all the rubbish that drifts into one corner of a harbour. Then what did you do?”

  “Well, we decided to try smuggling. We had the sugar loaded at Kingsnorth, and some trade goods I bought in Antigua. We went into Carúpano, told them we’d trade only for cash and did good business.”

  Whetstone nodded. “That’s why the mayor betrayed you. His people were left with goods they normally exchange, and he guessed you were English and new to the game. But after you’ve sold all your sugar and trade goods, what then?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to decide,” Ned said. He was cautious enough not to say that with the ship full of money but empty of goods, they had no idea when Diana looked at Whetstone and gave a jolly laugh that made her breasts vibrate in a way that made Ned suddenly thankful, for his own peace of mind, that Aurelia’s jerkin was less revealing.

  “Oh Thomas, all this is a familiar story, eh?” she exclaimed.

  Whetstone nodded ruefully and explained. “I left England with the Pearl and Diana. My debtors were proving very insistent. Diana had money which she was quite prepared to spend on my welfare but she adopted quite a callous attitude towards the fate of the debtors.”

  “What he means,” Diana said, “is that I paid for all provisions and trade goods for the Pearl and the wages of her crew for three months –”

  “Why three months?” Aurelia asked.

  “You’ll see in a moment,” Diana said. “Then, having a pretty shrewd idea from Thomas what his Uncle Oliver was planning, we embarked my family at Portland and took them to France with their most treasured possessions. Now you continue, Thomas.”

  “Well, I signed on men that I selected very carefully. I wasn’t concerned if he was an escaped murderer, a lawyer, a counting house clerk or a pickpocket – they all have much in common, of course – but I was very careful with seamen. I made it clear we were bound for the West Indies and they’d be paid for three months. After that, I told ’em, we’d all be earning our own pay, and it would make them rich men or see them launched over the side sewn up in a hammaco. I was careful signing on seamen because I didn’t want any sea lawyers arguing at the end of the three months.”

  “Did you have any?” Ned asked.

  “One.”

  “Tell them, Thomas.”

  Whetstone looked embarrassed. “We were somewhere south of Barbados when this fellow starts grumbling. We had not yet begun buccaneering but we’d met a couple of buccaneering ships and had good news from them. Well, this man really starts causing trouble and came towards me one day with a knife screaming he was going to kill me. I must say I believed him, and so did the rest of the crew.”

  “Thomas, finish the story!” Diana said.

  “There’s not much more to it. Before he could get to me a couple of men had grabbed him and slung him over the side.”

  “Did you have any more trouble with him?” Ned asked.

  Wh
etstone shook his head. “We didn’t stop.”

  Diana saw the shocked look on Aurelia’s face. “You must understand, my dear, that one bad man can infect the crew. Our men knew that and threw him over the side. Remember, out here you face yellow fever, the Spanish and mutiny. All can kill you, if you let them. We have stayed alive because Thomas has a loyal crew – and is a successful buccaneer.”

  Whetstone tapped Ned’s arm. “Believe me, success is the best protection!”

  Aurelia asked the question just as Ned was trying to phrase the sentence. “What is buccaneering really? Is that an indiscreet question?”

  “Buccaneering…well, earlier you mentioned a letter of marque and I don’t have one, so what we’re doing I suppose is piracy. It’s legal if you have a letter (sometimes it is called a commission), and illegal if not. But that’s not important: just remember that if the Dons or yellow fever catch you, they kill you, whether you have a commission or not. Anyway, let’s call it buccaneering.

  “Buccaneering really means some English governor or other gives you this commission to make war on the country’s enemies – I nearly said ‘the King’s enemies’ – at your own expense and using your own ship. We’re at war with Spain, so a buccaneer, or privateer, can capture Spanish ships and cargoes and bring them into an English port where the Admiralty court considers it all and condemns the Spaniard as a prize to the buccaneer.”

  “So then you sell the ship and cargo?” Ned asked.

  Whetstone gave a bitter laugh.

  “In the old days, the court charged various fees, the judge had to be paid, and the King had a percentage, and you had what was left: you sold ship and cargo, ransomed the crew (or let them free) and that was that.”

  “What is different now?” Aurelia asked.

  “Madame,” Whetstone said heavily, “your friend and I share two things in common. We have superb tastes in the women we love, and we are Royalists. Pray tell me what English Admiralty court today will listen to us, and legally condemn our captures as prizes? Can you imagine those Roundheads in Barbados? Or Antigua? Or Surinam? That is why I have no commission, or letter of marque. That’s why what I do is called piracy. And why Diana said we act as our own judge out here… When we’ve fought a Spanish ship and captured her, we hardly need an English Admiralty court judge to charge us a fee and tell us she is Spanish and our prize…”