Buccaneer

by Tim Severin

  ‘My name is Hector Lynch.’ The hand stopped scratching. Then Coxon said slowly, ‘Any relation to Sir Thomas Lynch?’

  There was a wariness in the man’s tone. His question hung in the air. Hector had no idea who Sir Thomas Lynch was, but clearly he was someone well known to Coxon. Hector also had the distinct impression that Sir Thomas Lynch was a person whom the captain respected, perhaps even feared. Alert to the subtle change in the buccaneer’s manner, Hector seized the opportunity.

  ‘Sir Thomas Lynch is my uncle,’ he said unblushingly. Then, to increase the effect of the lie, he added, ‘It was why I agreed with my companions that we sail for the Caribbean without delay. After we had brought Dan to the Miskito coast, I intended to find Sir Thomas.’

  For an alarming moment Hector thought that he had gone too far, that he should have kept the lie simple. Coxon was staring at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Sir Thomas is not in the Caribees at this time. His estates are being managed by his family. You didn’t know?’

  Hector recovered himself. ‘I was in Africa for some months and out of touch. I received little news from home.’

  Coxon pursed his lips as he thought over Hector’s statement. Whatever Sir Thomas Lynch meant to the buccaneer, the young man could see that it was enough to make their captor reconsider his plans.

  ‘Then I will make sure that you are united with your family,’ the buccaneer said at last. ‘Your companions will stay aboard this ship while she is taken to Petit Guave, and I will send a note to the authorities there that they are associates of Sir Thomas’s nephew. It may stand in their favour. Meanwhile you can accompany me to Jamaica – I was already on my way there.’

  Hector’s mind raced as he searched Coxon’s statement for clues as to the identity of his supposed uncle. Sir Thomas Lynch had estates on Jamaica, therefore he must be a man of substance. It was reasonable to guess that he was a wealthy planter, a man who had friends in government. The opulence and political power of the West Indian plantation owners was well known. Yet at the same time Hector sensed something disquieting in Coxon’s manner. There was a hint that whatever the buccaneer captain was proposing was not entirely to Hector’s advantage.

  Belatedly it occurred to Hector that he should put in a good word for the Laptots who had proved their worth on the trans-Atlantic voyage.

  ‘If anyone is to be put on trial in Petit Guave, captain,’ he told Coxon, ‘it should not be either Benjamin here, nor his companion. They stayed with the ship even when their previous captain had died of fever. They are loyal men.’

  Coxon had resumed his scratching. He was raking the back of his neck with his nails. ‘Mr Lynch, you need have no worries on that score,’ he said. ‘They will never be put on trial.’

  ‘What will happen to them?’

  Coxon brought his hand away from his collar, inspected the fingernails for traces of whatever had been causing the irritation, and wriggled his shoulder slightly to relieve the pressure of the shirt on his skin.

  ‘As soon as they are brought to Petit Guave, they will be sold. You say they are loyal. That should make them excellent slaves.’

  He looked straight at Hector as if to challenge the young man into raising an objection. ‘I believe your uncle employs more than sixty Africans on his own Jamaican plantations. I am sure he would approve.’

  At a loss for words, Hector could only stare back, trying to gauge the buccaneer’s temper. What he saw discouraged hope. Captain Coxon’s eyes reminded him of a reptile. They protruded slightly and the expression in them was utterly pitiless. Despite the balmy sunshine, Hector felt a chill seeping deep within him. He was not to allow himself to be deceived by the pleasantness of his surroundings, with the warm tropical breeze ruffling the brilliant sea, and the soft murmuring sound as the two ships were gently moving against one another, hull to hull. He and his companions had arrived where self-interest was sustained by cruelty and violence.

  TWO

  COXON’S tatterdemalion company wasted little time in securing their prize. Within half an hour L’Arc-de-Ciel had been cast off and was bound for Petit Guave. Hector was left on the deck of the buccaneers’ ketch wondering if he would ever see Dan, Jacques and the others again. As he watched the little sloop grow smaller in the distance, Hector was uncomfortably aware of Coxon standing not ten feet away and observing him closely.

  ‘Your shipmates should reach Petit Guave in less than three days from now,’ the buccaneer captain observed. ‘If the authorities there believe their story, they’ll have nothing to worry about. If not . . .’ He gave a mirthless laugh.

  Hector knew that Coxon was goading him, trying to get a reaction.

  ‘Unusual, isn’t it . . .’ the captain went on and there was a hint of malice in his voice, ‘that Sir Thomas Lynch’s nephew should associate himself with a branded convict? How does that come about?’

  ‘We were both shipwrecked on the Barbary coast, and had to team up if we were to save ourselves and get clear,’ explained Hector. He tried to make his answer sound casual and unconcerned, though he was wracking his brains to think how he could learn more about his supposed relative, Sir Thomas Lynch, without arousing Coxon’s suspicion. Should the buccaneer discover he had been hoodwinked, any hope of reuniting with his friends would be lost. It was best to turn the questioning back on his captor.

  ‘You say you are bound for Jamaica. How long before we get there?’

  Coxon was not to be put off. ‘You know nothing of the island? Didn’t your uncle speak of it?’

  ‘I saw little of him when I was growing up. He was away much of the time, tending to his estate’ – that at least was a safe guess.

  ‘And where did your spend you childhood?’ Coxon was probing again.

  Fortunately the interrogation was interrupted by a shout from one of the lookouts at the masthead. He had seen another sail on the horizon. Immediately, Coxon broke off his questioning and began bawling orders at his crew to set more sail and take up the chase.

  AMID ALL the activity Hector sauntered over to the freshwater butt placed at the foot of the mainmast. It was only a few hours to sunset yet the day was still uncomfortably hot, and a pretence of thirst was an opportunity to move out of Coxon’s earshot.

  ‘What’s Jamaica like?’ he asked a sailor who was drinking from the wooden dipper.

  ‘Not what it was,’ replied the man. He was a rough-looking individual. The hand which held the pannikin lacked the top joints of three fingers, and his nose had been badly broken and set crooked. He smelled of stale sweat. ‘Used to be a grog shop at every corner, and harlots on parade in every street. They’d stroll up and down in their petticoats and red caps, as bold as you like, ready for all kinds of fun. And no questions asked about where you got your silver.’ The man belched, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and handed Hector the dipper. ‘That changed when our Henry got his knighthood. Things went quiet, but it’s all still there if you know what to look for, and hold your tongue afterwards.’ He gave Hector a sly look. ‘I reckon that even though he’s Sir Henry now, he still looks after his own. His sort will never be satisfied, however much he’s got.’

  Another titled Jamaican, and a rich one, Hector thought to himself. He wondered who this Sir Henry might be, and if he had any dealings with his ‘uncle’. He took a sip from the pannikin.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind getting a taste of those harlots myself,’ he observed, hoping to strike a comradely note. ‘We were more than six weeks at sea from Africa.’

  ‘No whoring this cruise,’ answered the sailor. ‘Port Royal is where the strumpets wag their tails, and the captain stays clear of that port unless he’s invited in. Nowadays he carries a Frenchy’s commission.’

  ‘From Petit Guave?’

  ‘The deputy governor there gives them out already signed and the names left blank. You fill in what you want and then go a-hunting, just as long as you let him have a tenth of any takings. Used to be much the same in Jamaica until that bastard Lynch started i
nterfering.’

  Before Hector could ask what he meant, he heard Coxon’s steps on the deck behind him, and the captain’s voice snapped.

  ‘Enough of that! You’re speaking to Governor Lynch’s nephew. He’ll not wish to hear your opinions!’

  The sailor glared at Hector. ‘Nephew to Lynch, are you! If I’d known, I’d have pissed in the dipper before you drank from it,’ and with that he turned and stalked away.

  HECTOR BROODED on the sailor’s information throughout the two days and nights it took to reach Jamaica. The pursuit of the distant sail had been abandoned when it became clear that there was no hope of catching the prey. Each night the young man bedded down on a coil of rope near the sloop’s bows, and by day he was left alone. Any buccaneer who came his way either ignored him or gave him a black look so he presumed that his alleged relationship to Lynch had become common knowledge. Coxon paid him no attention. When dawn broke on the third morning he was feeling stiff and tired and concerned for his own fate as he got to his feet and looked out over the bowsprit towards their landfall.

  Straight ahead, Jamaica rose from the sea, high and rugged, the first rays of the sun striking patterns of vivid green and dark shadow across the folds and spurs of a mountain range which reared up a few miles inland. The ketch was heading into a sheltered bay where the land sloped down more gently to a beach of grey sand. There was no sign of a harbour though beyond the strand was a cluster of pale dots which Hector presumed were the roofs of huts or small houses. Otherwise the place was deserted. There was not even a fishing boat to be seen. Captain Coxon had made a discreet arrival.

  Within moments of her anchor splashing into water so clear that the rippled sand of the sea floor could be seen four fathoms down, Coxon and Hector were being rowed ashore in the ship’s cockboat. ‘I’ll be back in less than two days,’ the buccaneer captain told the boat crew as they hauled up on the beach. ‘No one to stray out of sight of the ship. Stay close at hand and be ready to set sail as soon as I return.’ He turned to Hector. ‘You come with me. It’s a four-hour walk. And you can make yourself useful.’ He removed the heavy coat he was wearing, and handed it to the younger man to carry. Hector was surprised to see the curls of a wig sticking out of one of its pockets. Underneath his coat Coxon was wearing an embroidered linen shirt with a ruffled front and lace at the cuffs. His stockings and breeches were clean and brushed and of fine quality, and he had changed into a new pair of shoes with silver buckles. Hector wondered at the reason for such elegant clothes.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘To Llanrumney,’ was the brusque reply.

  Not daring to ask an explanation, Hector followed the buccaneer captain as he set off. After so many days at sea since leaving Africa, the ground tilted and swayed beneath the young man’s feet, and until he found his land legs it was difficult to keep up with Coxon’s brisk pace. At the back of the beach they skirted around a small hamlet of five or six wooden huts thatched with plantain leaves and occupied by families of blacks, usually a woman with several children. There were no menfolk to be seen and no one paid them a second glance. They came upon the start of a footpath which led inland, and very soon the hollow, open sounds of the sea had been replaced by the buzzing and chirping of the insects and birds in the dense vegetation on either side of the trail. The air was hot and humid, and in less than a mile Coxon’s fine shirt was sticking to his back with sweat. At first the track kept to the bank of a small river but then it branched off to the left where the river was joined by a tributary stream, and here Hector saw his first native birds, a small flock of bright green parrots with yellow beaks which flew away with quick wing beats, chattering and scolding the intruders.

  Coxon stopped to take a rest. ‘When was the last time you saw your uncle?’ he asked.

  Hector thought quickly. ‘Not since I was a boy. Sir Thomas is my father’s oldest brother. My father, Stephen Lynch, died when I was sixteen and afterwards my mother moved away and kept in touch only with an occasional letter.’ At least part of that statement was true, he thought to himself. Hector’s father, of minor Anglo-Irish gentry, had died while Hector was in his teens, and his mother, originally from Galicia in Spain, could well have returned to her own people. He did not know what had happened to her since he had been locked away on the Barbary coast. But one thing was sure: his father had never referred to anyone called Sir Thomas Lynch, and he was certain that Sir Thomas was nothing whatever to do with his family.

  ‘Rumour has it that Sir Thomas is seeking to be reappointed as governor. Do you know anything about that?’ said Coxon. He had begun scratching again, this time at his waistband.

  ‘I haven’t heard. I’ve been away from home too long to keep up with family news,’ Hector reminded him.

  ‘Well, even if he was already back on the island you wouldn’t find him at Llanrumney . . .’ – again the strange name. ‘He and Sir Henry never saw eye to eye on anything.’

  Hector seized his opportunity to learn more. ‘Sir Henry . . . ? Whom do you mean?’

  Coxon gave him a sharp glance. There was mistrust in his look. ‘You’ve not heard of Sir Henry Morgan?’

  Hector did not answer.

  ‘I was with him when he captured Panama in seventy-one. We needed nearly two hundred mules to carry away what we took,’ Coxon said. He sounded boastful. ‘Panama silver bought him Llanrumney, though he fell out with your uncle who accused him of false accounting of the spoils. Had him sent as a prisoner for trial in England, but the old fox had powerful friends in London, and he’s back here now as lieutenant governor.’

  The buccaneer captain stooped down and removed a shoe. There was a patch of blood on the heel of his stocking. A blister must have burst.

  ‘So it will be in your best interests to be discreet until we know his mood and what is our own situation,’ he added darkly.

  It was another several hours of hot and weary walking before Coxon announced that they were almost at their destination. By then the captain was limping badly, and they were making frequent stops so that he could attend to his oozing blisters. A journey he had predicted would last four hours had taken nearly six, and it was almost nightfall before they finally emerged from a patch of woodland and into an area of cultivation. The native vegetation had been cleared back here and, in its place, field after field had been laid out and thickly sewn with tall green plants like giant stalks of grass. It was Hector’s first sight of a sugar plantation.

  ‘There’s Llanrumney,’ said Coxon, nodding towards a substantial one-storey building situated on the far slope so that it looked out over the cane fields. Off to one side were various large sheds and outbuildings which Hector took to be workshops for the estate. ‘Named it after his home place in Wales.’

  They found their way along a cart track cut through the cane fields, seeing no one until they were close to the house. Coxon seemed cautious, almost furtive, as though he wished to conceal his arrival. Eventually a white man, apparently a servant for he was dressed in a simple livery of a red jacket and white pantaloons, stopped them. He looked at them doubtfully, the buccaneer captain in his sweat-stained garments, Hector barefoot and wearing the same loose cotton shirt and trousers he had worn aboard ship. ‘Do you have invitations?’ he asked.

  ‘Tell your master that Captain John Coxon wishes to speak with him privately,’ the buccaneer told him curtly.

  ‘Privately will not be possible,’ answered the servant, hesitantly. ‘Today’s his day for Christmas entertainment.’

  ‘I have come a long way to see your master,’ snapped Coxon. ‘I’m an acquaintance of long standing. I need no invitation.’

  The servant quailed before the testy edge to his visitor’s voice. ‘Sir Henry’s guests have already arrived and they are in the main reception room. If you would wish to refresh yourself before meeting them, please follow me.’

  Hector had been standing with the captain’s coat over his arm. It was evident that he was thought to be some sort
of attendant and was not included in the invitation into the house. ‘I’ll be introducing my companion to Sir Henry,’ Coxon announced firmly.

  The servant’s glance took in Hector’s workaday costume. ‘Then if you’ll allow, I’ll have him given something more suitable to wear. Sir Henry’s gathering includes many of the most important men on the island, and their ladies.’

  They followed the man to a side entrance of the main building. Tethered in front of its long sheltered porch were a dozen or more horses, and off to one side stood a couple of light, two-wheeled open carriages.

  The servant showed Coxon into a side room, telling him that water and towels would be brought. Then he led Hector to the rear of the building and into the servants’ quarters.

  ‘I took you for an indentured man like myself,’ he apologised.

  ‘What’s that?’

  The servant, evidently an under-steward, had opened a cupboard and was sorting through some clothing. He found a pair of breeches and turned to face Hector.

  ‘Indentured?’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘It means pledged to serve your master in return for the cost of your passage out from England and your upkeep while you’re here.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I signed for ten years, and still have seven years left. Here, try these breeches on. They are about the right size.’

  As Hector pulled on the garment, the under-steward managed to find a short waistcoat and a clean lawn shirt with a frilled neck and wristbands. ‘Here, put these on too,’ he said, ‘and this broad leather belt. It’ll hide any gaps. And here’s a pair of shoes that should fit, and stockings too.’ He stood back and looked Hector over. ‘Not bad,’ he commented.

  ‘Whom do these clothes belong to?’ Hector asked.

  ‘A young fellow came out here from England a couple of years back. Was intending to become an overseer, but he caught a flux and died.’ The servant gathered up Hector’s old clothes and tossed them into a corner. ‘Forgot to ask your name,’ he said.