by Tim Severin
Hector glanced down at the map. It was a navigation chart. It showed a length of coastline, various off-shore islands and a number of landmarks which would be useful to anyone navigating along the coast. He had no idea what coast it displayed.
'Yes,' he replied. 'That should not be difficult.'
'How long would it take you?'
'Two days, perhaps less.'
'Then you've got yourself ten days' work if the first copy is to my satisfaction. I'll want five copies made and I'll pay two pounds for each, plus a bonus if they are ready by next Wednesday.' He paused, and gave Hector a sly look. 'But you don't leave this house, and you don't speak to anyone about the work. I'll arrange for my housekeeper to prepare your meals, and you can sleep in a spare room in the garret. Do you understand?'
'Yes, of course,' said Hector. He was scarcely able to believe his good fortune. On his first morning in Port Royal he had found both employment and accommodation. With the pay he could resume his search for a ship that would take him to Petit Guave.
'Good,' said Snead, 'then you can begin work as soon as you have gone to collect your things.'
'I have nothing to collect,' Hector admitted.
Snead looked him up and down, a gleam of understanding in his eyes.
'Runaway, are you? Well, that's no concern of mine,' he said with obvious satisfaction, 'but if you breathe a word to anyone about your work, I'll see to it that your master learns exactly where you are to be found.' He nodded towards the pile of surveys. 'Most of the big landowners and the wealthy merchants come to seek my services, and I can soon find out who is missing an indentured man.'
Before the day was out, Hector had discovered that Snead was not as fierce as he at first made out. The architect had scarcely left the young man to his work in the upper room when he came back up the stairs and announced that he was closing his shop and would be back in half an hour. If Hector needed additional supplies of paper, pens and ink, he would find them in the downstairs office. A moment later the young man heard the front door close, and glancing out of the window he saw Snead walking off down the street, then turn into a nearby alehouse. When Snead came back rather more than an hour later, Hector concluded that his employer was drunk. He heard him knock over a chair as he fumbled his way back to his desk. By then Hector had identified the region shown by the chart he was copying.
It was a map of the Caribbean shores of Central America. He remembered the general outline of the coast from the smaller scale chart that he had used aboard L'Arc-de-Ciel. Now he was being asked to copy out a larger and much more accurate version which covered the northern half of that coast. He guessed that the second sheet, the one that Snead had hidden from him, showed the southern portion. Clearly someone had recently sailed along the coast and made numerous observations. The sheet in front of him was covered with handwritten notes to help a navigator recognise his landfall, then track his progress, avoiding reefs and other outlying dangers, select from a number of different harbours and anchorages, and find watering places. Whoever had written these notes had not ventured more than a few miles inland because the interior of the countryside was left blank.
The map seemed harmless and it was puzzling that Snead was being so secretive about it. Hector supposed that even if the architect was caught dealing in maps without a licence, he would receive only a minor penalty. Yet more mysterious was the fact that he needed five copies.
As Hector began work, Susanna's image kept appearing in his thoughts. He saw her walking in the garden of her father's plantation house, or as he had last seen her, seated in a carriage and smiling at him gravely. From time to time he put aside his drawing materials and gazed sightlessly out of the window, dreaming of what it must be like to hold her in his arms. Once or twice he even dared to wonder whether she too was thinking about him.
His reverie was broken by the sound of Snead's footsteps on the stair. With a start Hector realised that it was late in the day. When the architect entered the room, he glanced over the part-finished copy that Hector had been working on, and appeared to be satisfied with what he saw, for he sat down heavily on the bench at the end of the table and announced that it was time for Hector to stop work. 'So you say your name is Lynch,' he observed, picking up the quill pen that Hector had been using. 'Not a convincing nom de plume.' He waved the feather in the air, smirking owlishly at his pun. 'I would have thought you could have come up with something more original.'
Hector realised that Snead was convinced that he was sheltering a fugitive indentured man, also that the architect was very tipsy. He smelled the rum on his new employer's breath.
'Lynch is my real name, sir,' Hector protested.
Snead seemed not to hear him. He gave a drunken hiccup and stared at Hector. 'You can't be a Lynch. You don't look like one.'
Hector saw his opportunity. 'You know the Lynches, sir?' he asked.
'Who doesn't? Richest family on the island. I've done surveys for three of their plantations. They must own at least thirty thousand acres.'
'Have you met Robert Lynch or his sister?' Hector was desperate to glean a few more details about Susanna.
'Young Robert? He came to the office a few times when I was doing drawings for their new townhouse here in Port Royal. And a very elegant structure it is, if I do say so myself,' Snead hiccuped.
'And what about his sister?'
'You mean Susanna? I think that's her name. Quite a catch, that one. I doubt there's anyone on the island who would be a match for her. She'll probably find her husband in London next time she goes there. Pretty girl but said to be headstrong.'
Snead swivelled round on the bench to face the door. Raising his voice, he shouted for food to be brought. A voice answered from somewhere deep within the house, and a little while later an elderly woman, whom Hector presumed to be Snead's housekeeper, appeared with a tray of food which she placed on the table.
'Come on. You share this with me,' said the architect, waving to a seat near him as he began to ladle soup into his mouth. Hector came to the conclusion that the architect was a lonely man and eager for company.
It was mid-morning on the following day that Hector received an unwelcome jolt of recognition. He had slept the night in a small room on the topmost floor of Snead's premises, and next morning with the tropical sunlight flooding his work table from the open window, he had made good progress with copying the first chart. He was at the stage when he had drawn the coastline and all its islands and reefs, and begun to write in their names, consulting the handwritten notes from the original. He was labelling the anchorages and harbours when he saw that one of the anchorages was marked 'Captain Coxon's Hole'. He checked the handwritten notes again, and there was no mistake. A small natural harbour on one of the islands had been named after the buccaneer. Hector could see that it made an ideal refuge. The island lay far enough off the mainland to be rarely visited, and the anchorage was very discreet. It was concealed behind a reef, and protected by a low ridge of hills. So when Snead came to check on his employee's progress just before his noontime visit to the tavern, Hector casually asked how Coxon's Hole had got its name. The reaction he received was a surprise.
'It's named after a friend of mine,' Snead announced and he sounded proud of the association. 'He used to have a house here in Port Royal. Knows that coast as well as anyone. Discovered that anchorage and been using it on and off ever since.'
Hector puzzled over the architect's answer all that afternoon, and when Snead was in a particularly good mood at supper, he asked the architect when he had last seen his friend. 'Not for the past couple of years but — who knows — he could turn up at any time.'
Hector noted how Snead had cast a quick glance towards the finished chart still lying on the end of the table. Alarmed, Hector risked a further question.
'Is Captain Coxon a good customer then?'
His enquiry was met with a suspicious stare. Then Snead must have decided that he could trust his new assistant. Rising from his chair
he took the second page of the chart from the chest and laid it beside the one that Hector had just completed. As Hector had suspected, the two maps covered almost the entire Caribbean coast of Central America. Waving his hand over the maps, Snead exclaimed, 'There you have it! The key to the South Sea!' Then he sat back down heavily in his usual place and picked up his tankard.
'The South Sea?' Hector asked. 'But that's on the far side of the isthmus. Is that not another word for the Pacific?'
'You misunderstand me,' Snead declared, waving at the map again. 'Here we have the gateway. The riches lie beyond. We are opening the way for our clients.'
'And will we also provide them with charts of the South Sea?' Hector enquired.
Snead looked at him in drunken astonishment.
'Charts of the South Sea!' he exclaimed. 'You speak of Golconda and the Valley of Diamonds! If I had such charts, either I could command a king's ransom or both of us would find ourselves victims of a Spanish stiletto.'
'For what reason?'
'How else do the Spaniards sail up and down the coast of Peru, and safely bring back the silver from their mines and the other products of their possessions in South America, if they did not have such maps? But they are state secrets. Men would murder for them. That is why men talk of the South Sea Adventure.'
Abruptly the architect must have realised that he had said too much for he quickly swept up both charts, rose to his feet and walked unsteadily across the room to put them back in the chest. Then, mumbling a farewell, he set out for his evening's drinking in the tavern.
Next morning Snead had still not appeared in his shop when Hector heard a knock on the door to the street. Opening it, he found a middle-aged, weather-beaten man dressed in a sea captain's coat that looked the worse for wear. 'I wish to speak with Robert Snead,' the visitor asked.
'I'm afraid he is not available’ Hector said. 'Perhaps I can help.'
The man stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. He looked carefully at Hector, then said, 'I've come for a chart.'
'I'm afraid that Mr Snead is an architect. . .' Hector began, but his response was brushed aside.
'I know all about that,' the man replied, 'but I've bought maps from him before. The name is Gutteridge, Captain Gutteridge.'
'Then perhaps you will wait here, and I will consult Mr Snead,' Hector answered. Leaving Gutteridge in the shop he hurried up to the architect's bedchamber. He found Snead still in bed, huddled under a quilt and dressed in his nightclothes. He was looking liverish and the room stank of liquor.
'There's a Captain Gutteridge in the shop,' Hector began. 'He's come for a map. I told him that you do not deal with maps. But he says he's bought them from you before.'
Snead gave a groan. 'And never paid me for them either,' he said sourly. 'Go back down, and tell Captain Gutteridge that he won't get any more charts until he's settled his account.'
On his way back to the shop, Hector found that the captain had followed him up the stairs and was now standing in the room where Hector worked, looking down at the chart being copied.
'That. . .' said Gutteridge, tapping the chart with a blunt forefinger, 'will do me very well.'
'I'm afraid it is not for sale. It's a special order.'
'I suppose it must be for that lot who are assembling off Negril.’
'I have no idea. They are for Mr Snead's private clients.'
Gutteridge noticed the stain of ink on Hector's fingers. 'Are you his draughtsman?' he asked, and when Hector nodded, he gave the young man a sideways look and said, 'How about letting me have a copy, on the side. I'd make it worth your while.'
'That's not possible, I'm afraid. And Mr Snead asked that you settle your account.'
Gutteridge shrugged. He seemed unperturbed. 'Then I'll do without. A pity. I wish you good day.' He descended the stairs but on reaching the ground floor, he turned and made one last appeal to Hector. 'If you change your mind,' he said, 'you'll find my ship, the Jamaica Merchant, at the quay at Thames Street. She'll be there for three days at most, then I sail for Campeachy to load logwood.'
Hector hesitated for a moment before asking, 'By any chance will you be calling at Petit Guave on your way?'
Gutteridge fingered the lapel of his shabby coat. 'I'm thinking of it. French brandy is popular with the Bay Men.' Then he walked across the shop and let himself out into the street.
The moment Gutteridge left, Hector hurried back to his work table. He still had two more charts to prepare and it was only three days before they must be ready. If he could finish them in time and get his pay from Snead, he might be able to purchase a passage aboard the Jamaica Merchant and find his way to Petit Guave to rejoin Jacques and Dan. Glancing out of the window as he picked up his pen, he watched Gutteridge walking away down the street. As the sea captain passed the door to Snead's favourite tavern Hector saw a figure which he recognised. Loitering on the doorstep of the grog shop was the sailor he had met on Coxon's ship, the man with the broken nose and missing fingers.
'I'll want you to be on hand next Wednesday when my clients come to collect their charts,' said Snead who had finally come into the room behind him. The architect was unshaven and pale. 'There may be last minute changes to be made. I trust you will have all five copies ready.'
'Yes, of course,' said Hector. He tried to sound confident, but it was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Captain Coxon was one of the clients and likely to collect his chart in person. He was fearful of meeting the buccaneer again. If he and Coxon came face to face, it could only turn out badly. Coxon was certain to take revenge for his humiliation, and at least one of his men was in town to help him do so. Hector imagined he would be lucky if he escaped with nothing more than a severe beating, but it could be much worse. From the little he had seen of Port Royal, it was a lawless seaport where corpses were regularly found floating in the harbour.
When Wednesday came, Hector was in an agony of anticipation. By ten o'clock in the morning he had completed the fifth copy of the chart, though the ink was still wet and he had to go down to Snead's desk to take a pouncet box of sand to sprinkle over the parchment. 'When will your clients arrive?' he asked the architect.
'We gather in the tavern this evening,' Snead told him. 'As soon as everyone is present, I will bring them across to inspect the work.'
The architect had dressed more carefully than usual and was shaved though he had nicked his chin with the razor in several places, and there were flecks of dried blood on his neckcloth. Hector wondered how much longer the architect would be able to do his own drawings now that his hand shook so badly. If the evening passed off well and Coxon did not appear, perhaps it was the moment to ask for permanent employment as a draughtsman. If Snead took him on permanently, it would mean that he could stay on in Port Royal and perhaps meet Susanna again. Increasingly Hector was aware that his attraction to the young woman was in conflict with his loyalty towards Dan, Jacques and his former shipmates. He could still accept Gutter-idge's offer and sail for Petit Guave and there rejoin his friends. But he would have to hurry. The Jamaica Merchant was due to sail next day. Unable to make up his mind what he should do, he told himself that the events of the evening would decide the matter for him.
At sunset just before Snead left for his meeting in the tavern, he told Hector to prepare the upper room. He was to have all five copies of the chart set out on the table for inspection, and make sure that wine and grog were to hand. Then he was to go up to his own room in the garret and be ready if Snead called him. If summoned, he was not to speak to anyone, and he was to forget the faces of those in the room. Hector, still hoping that his fears of meeting Coxon were unfounded, made sure everything was ready but instead of withdrawing to the garret he stationed himself at the upper window. From there he could at least see who would be coming to collect the charts, and ii necessary he could make his escape.
The street outside was as busy as usual in the cool of the evening. Clumps of drunken sailors stumbled and lurched from one
alehouse and grog shop to the next, working whores paraded enticingly or disappeared up sidestreets and into doorways with their customers, several gaunt beggars importuned for alms, and - just once — a small patrol of militiamen straggled past, their uniforms ill-fitting and shabby. It was ten o'clock before he saw the door of the tavern open, the light spilling out, and a group of half a dozen men emerge. He recognised Snead at once, for the architect's walk was familiar. There was enough of a moon to cast shadows, and as the little group began to walk towards the shop they passed into a pool of darkness. A few moments later Snead's clients were at the door. Hector stood very still, listening. He had left the window open, and the sounds of the visitors came up to him clearly. He heard Snead, tipsy as usual, fumbling at the lock. The architect was apologising to his guests.
'Hurry up, man,' said a voice. 'I don't wish to be kept standing in the street for all to see.'
Hector knew Coxon's voice at once. The buccaneer's harsh bullying tone was unmistakable. The door opened, and Hector heard the men walk towards the stairs. Footsteps sounded on the boards.
Hector quietly tiptoed across to the table, gathered up one set of the charts, folded it in a neat square, and stuffed it into his shirt front. Stepping out onto the balcony, he swung a leg over the rail, and climbed over until he could let himself hang, his arms at full stretch. Then he let go. He had expected to land on the hard packed sand of the street. But as he dropped, his feet touched something soft, there was a grunt of surprise, and Hector sprawled sideways. As he struck the ground, he realised that he had not seen the man who was standing in the shadow of the doorway. Someone had been left as a lookout, and he was as startled as Hector.
Hector sprang to his feet as the stranger recovered and with a grunt of anger reached out to grab him. The young man ducked and twisted to one side, and sprinted away up the street. He expected to hear the sounds of running feet behind him as the lookout gave chase. But there was nothing. Hector could only imagine that the sentinel had gone inside to report on the incident and ask instructions. Hector forced himself to slow down to a walk. Earlier that afternoon he had consulted a town plan that Snead had made for the town commissioners. The drawing showed the haphazard pattern of Port Royal's roads and alleyways, and Hector had picked out a discreet route that would bring him to the quayside on Thames Street. There he would search for the Jamaica Merchant and offer his services to Captain Gutteridge. But he had not calculated on colliding with one of Coxon's men. He was certain that the lookout was from the buccaneer's crew, most likely the man with the broken nose.
