by Tim Severin
EIGHTEEN
THE SUNNY Caribbean had been left far behind. A small group of port officials, dressed in long cloaks and broad-brimmed hats, stood waiting patiently on the wharf for the ship to make fast. A cold penetrating drizzle was drifting down, soaking everything it touched. The fronts of the warehouses which lined the dockside were streaked with rainwater dripping from slate roofs. The air smelled of damp, fish refuse and wet sacking. This was Dartmouth in Devon on a blustery March day, and the four friends were sheltering under the awning rigged to protect the cargo hatch of the merchant ship that had brought them from Antigua. It had been a plodding six weeks’ voyage across the Atlantic, and the ship’s agent had insisted on being paid in English coin, grossly overcharging them. But they had been glad to accept his price, knowing that every mile would put them at a greater distance from the South Seas raid. Their only concern had been to discover that a dozen others of Trinity’s former crew, including Basil Ringrose, were among their fellow passengers.
The mooring ropes were made fast, and the little covey of officials on the dockside moved forward as a gangplank was manhandled into place.
Without warning Jacques put out an arm, holding back his companions.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Hector.
‘I’d recognise a police agent anywhere,’ the Frenchman said softly.
‘We don’t have police in England,’ Jezreel corrected him. ‘That’s only for uncivilised foreigners like you.’
‘Call him what you want. But the tall fellow with the satchel is something to do with the law. And those other two close behind are the same. I spent too many months on the run in Paris not to recognise legal jackals when I see them.’
The tall man with the satchel was making his way onto the ship. Behind him, his two assistants took up position on either side of the gangplank, blocking it.
The ship’s master, a rotund and genial Welshman with a beerswiller’s belly, waddled forward from where he had been standing to supervise the process of docking. Hector was near enough to hear him demand of the stranger, ‘From the customs office, are you?’
The tall man did not reply directly but opened his satchel and took out some sort of document which he showed to the captain. Hector watched the captain read through the paper, then glance nervously towards the place where Ringrose and the others from Trinity were gathered, waiting to disembark.
‘Gentlemen!’ he called out. ‘Would you be kind enough to step this way? There’s something which may require your attention.’
Ringrose and the others sauntered over though Hector could tell from their watchful manner that they were on their guard.
‘This is Mr Bradley,’ said the captain. ‘He comes with a warrant from the High Court of Admiralty and has a watch list of persons whom he has been instructed to escort to London.’
The law officer consulted his hand bill. ‘Which one of you is Bartholomew Sharpe?’
When there was no reply, he looked around the little group and read out Samuel Gifford’s name. Again he received no acknowledgement, and this time he stared straight at Ringrose and said, ‘I presume that you are Mr Ringrose. You fit the description I have here.’ He consulted the paper again. ‘About thirty years of age though may look younger, average height and well set up, curly chestnut hair and fair complexion.’
Ringrose nodded. ‘I am Basil Ringrose.’
‘You are to accompany me to London.’
‘By whose authority?’
‘I am a marshal of the court.’
‘This is preposterous.’ Ringrose’s eyes flicked towards the gangway but he could see that there was no escape in that direction.
‘He’s taking only those who held some sort of rank on our expedition,’ Jacques whispered to Hector.
Bradley folded up his paper and replaced it in the satchel. Turning towards Ringrose he announced, ‘We leave for London in an hour’s time by coach. Bring only essential personal possessions with you.’
‘Am I under arrest?’ demanded Ringrose.
‘Detained for questioning.’
‘And what am I to be questioned about?’
‘His Excellency the Spanish ambassador has brought several complaints to the attention of the Court and demands redress. The charges include murder on the high seas, robbery and assault on Spanish possessions in contravention of existing treaties of friendship.’
‘His Excellency the ambassador,’ mimicked Jacques in the marshal’s tight voice, but speaking softly, ‘wields a broad brush. Where’s that bastard going now? I doubt he’s just getting himself out of the rain.’ Bradley was following the captain towards his cabin.
‘Probably off to inspect the ship’s manifest,’ said Dan, and was proved right when some minutes later, the captain’s steward came over to where Hector was still standing with his friends. ‘The marshal’s asking for you by name,’ the steward said, then added in a lower voice, ‘He’s a right puritan, that one.’
‘I’ll be there in just a moment,’ Hector assured him, and as soon as the steward was out of earshot he turned to his friends. ‘Get off the ship as soon as you can, and disappear! Take my sea chest and my prize money. Anything that may connect me with the Trinity.’
‘You’ll need to keep some money by you if they’re taking you to prison, to sweeten the gaolers,’ Jacques said.
‘I’ve a few coins in my purse. Enough to see me through. I’ll contact you when I know what’s happening. Where will I find you?’
‘In Clerkenwell,’ said Jezreel at once. ‘I’ll take Dan and Jacques there and find lodgings for us. Ask for “Nat Hall” or the “Sussex Gladiator” in Brewer’s Yard behind Hockley in the Hole. That’s the name they would know me by from the days when I used to perform the stage fights. It’s a rough part of town where few questions are asked. Also it’s full of foreign mountebanks who perform in the sideshows when there’s bull and bear baiting.’
As Hector turned to go, Jacques clapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Keep your wits about you, Hector, and rejoin us soon. Otherwise Jezreel will have me performing conjuring tricks, and Dan put up on display as a painted Indian.’
Ducking in through the low door to the captain’s cabin, Hector came face to face with the marshal.
‘Your name is Hector Lynch?’ Bradley asked. He had taken off his hat, revealing that he wore his straggly grey hair long and tied back in a queue.
There was no point in denying it. That was the name Hector had used when buying his passage, and it was entered on the ship’s passenger roster.
‘You speak Spanish?’
The question took Hector by surprise. ‘My mother was Spanish. Why do you ask?’
‘My instructions are to detain one Hector Lynch, but the name appears on a separate warrant and no physical description is given. Only that he speaks good Spanish. It is important that I make the correct identification.’ The marshal had the list of wanted men in his hand. ‘His Excellency the Spanish ambassador has particularly requested that you be brought to justice promptly.’
Hector was thunderstruck. ‘Why have I been singled out in this way?’
‘That I am not at liberty to say,’ replied the marshal stiffly. He gave a small, brittle cough. ‘Please be ready to leave within the hour.’
DURING THE LONG, slow and muddy journey to London in the coach provided for their transport, Hector and Ringrose talked much about the marshal’s watch list. When Hector told his companion about the interview with the lieutenant governor of Antigua, Ringrose gave a snort of disgust.
‘The greedy swine! He didn’t have enough men to seize Trinity so he took his bribe. Then the moment we were gone, he informed on us. There was plenty of time for his message to get here ahead of us in that tub of a merchantman, and have the marshal waiting on the quayside.’
‘Do you think that Sharpe, Gifford and the others have been picked up as well?’ Hector asked.
Ringrose looked thoughtful. ‘Probably not Sharpe. He’s astute. He told me h
e was going to Nevis before finding a ship bound for England. He must have suspected that vessels arriving direct from Antigua would be watched.’
The coach gave a sudden jolt on its unsprung axle as a wheel dropped into a rut. Both men had to hold on to their wooden seats or be thrown to the floor.
‘Lynch, how is it that marshal’s list is so accurate? He even had my physical description.’
‘Maybe Henry Morgan had a hand in it. A poacher turned gamekeeper never relents.’
‘But I’ve never met Sir Henry so he could not know what I look like.’
Hector watched the drenched countryside drag by and did not answer. He had his own suspicions of the informer’s identity, but he was far more perplexed that the Spanish ambassador should be showing such a special interest in him. He could think of no reason why the ambassador was so anxious to arrange his prosecution.
Finally, after six days of sluggish progress, the coach deposited him and Ringrose at the destination that Mr Bradley had arranged – the Marshalsea Prison in Southwark. Despite brick walls topped by revolving iron spikes and a massive entry gate plated with iron, the Marshalsea proved much more comfortable than Trinity’s dank and rat-infested accommodation. They were shown to a set of well-appointed rooms and told that their meals would be brought in from the outside.
‘Tomorrow morning, Mr Lynch, you are required to attend a preliminary assessment of your case,’ Bradley told him in his punctilious manner. ‘Customarily the High Court of Admiralty deals with matters of prizes taken by sea. It decides their legitimacy and value and awards portions. But there are new procedures to adjudicate on matters which might normally be dealt within a criminal court . . . that is to say, you will be appearing before a Court of Instance not a Court of Prize. Mr Brice, an attorney to the court, has been appointed to determine how your case should be dealt with.’
MR BRICE proved to be a man so unassuming and nondescript that for a moment Hector mistook him to be an under-clerk. The attorney was waiting to interview Hector in the prison governor’s office next morning. Of middling height and indeterminate age, Brice’s pallid features were so bland that Hector would later have difficulty in recalling exactly what Brice looked like. His clothing gave no clue to his status for he was dressed in a suit of plain drab whose only effect was to make him even less obtrusive. Had it not been for the gleam of penetrating intelligence when he caught Hector’s eye, Brice would have seemed a very ordinary person of little consequence.
‘My apologies for disturbing you, Lynch,’ Brice began in an affable tone. Various legal-looking documents and scrolls were spread on the governor’s desk and Brice was leafing through them casually. ‘I need to ask you a few more questions in relation to a charge arising from information provided by our lieutenant governor in Jamaica. Namely, that you were an originator of an illegal scheme to despoil the territories of a ruler in treaty and friendship with our king.
‘What is the evidence for this charge?’
Brice frowned. ‘We will come to that. First, would you be kind enough to write a few words on this sheet of paper for me?’
‘What should I write?’
‘Some of those exotic Caribee names that we hear from time to time – Campeachy, Panama, Boca del Toro, half a dozen will do.’
Hector, bewildered by the request, wrote down the names and handed the sheet back. Brice sprinkled sand on the wet ink, fastidiously poured the excess sand away, then laid the sheet on the desk. Selecting a large scroll from the pile of documents beside him, he undid the ribbon which held it. Hector had presumed the scroll was some sort of legal document but now he recognised it as a map. His mind leapt back to the days in Port Royal. It was one of the sheets that he had copied for the surveyor Snead in Jamaica.
Brice compared Hector’s writing with the names written on the map and gave a small cluck of recognition. ‘The same hand,’ he announced. ‘The deposition placed before the Court states you provided maps and charts, knowing they were to be used in the planning and execution of an expedition contrary to the interests of His Majesty.’
‘Who accuses me of this?’
Brice glanced down at his notes. ‘The witness has signed his statement and sworn to its truth. He sent this map as his evidence. His name is John Coxon, and he styles himself “Captain”. Do you know him?’
‘I do.’
‘There is also a letter from Sir Henry Morgan, the lieutenant governor in Jamaica. Sir Henry affirms that Captain Coxon’s testimony is credible.’
Hector felt a twinge of satisfaction mixed with outrage. He had guessed correctly. It was Coxon who had provided Morgan with the names of those who had been on the South Seas raid. Coxon was the turncoat and informer. He was still seeking to curry favour with Morgan just as he had done when he had tried to hand Hector over, believing him to be related to Governor Lynch.
The attorney was speaking again. ‘Did you provide maps to assist the planning and execution of this illegal raid?’
‘I was destitute and without employment. I had no idea that the charts would be used in that manner.’
‘Can anyone vouch for the truth of this or provide you with character?’
Desperately Hector tried to think of someone who might speak up on his behalf. Snead was far away and would never admit to copying. There was no one else who might speak up for him. Then he remembered the carriage ride from Morgan’s plantation in company with Susanna and her brother and the friendship that seemed to blossom between them.
‘There is someone,’ he said, ‘Mr Robert Lynch, the nephew of Governor Lynch, would speak up for me. He was in Jamaica when all this took place.’
Brice looked disappointed. His lips set in a thin line. ‘Sir Thomas Lynch is unavailable as he left London only recently to return to his duties as governor. Unfortunately Robert Lynch also cannot be here.’
Hector detected the sombre note in the reply. ‘Has something happened to Robert Lynch?’
‘Six months ago he died of the flux and, it is said, of chagrin. He had lost a great deal of money in indigo plantation.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. He was kind-hearted and generous.’
‘Indeed. Have you no one else to substantiate your story?’ Brice was looking at him as if genuinely interested in helping him.
Taking a deep breath, Hector said, ‘Perhaps Mr Lynch’s sister, Susanna, would be able to give evidence on my behalf in place of her brother.’
The attorney raised his eyebrows in shock. ‘Mr Lynch, if I were you I would think carefully before approaching that person. Sir Thomas Exton would not take it kindly that his daughter-in-law is called as a character witness in a criminal case.’
Hector tried to make sense of the reply. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Sir Thomas Exton is the Advocate General. He is also the senior member of the Admiralty Court. This means that he will be president of the Court if your case comes to trial. Last month his oldest son John – whom I may say has the reputation as an up-and-coming attorney in his own right – married Miss Susanna Lynch. That is why Sir Thomas delayed his departure for Jamaica. To celebrate the wedding.’
Hector’s spirits sagged. The news of Susanna’s wedding was not unexpected. He had always imagined that she would one day marry someone of her own background. But the knowledge that she was now the wife of a lawyer somehow made the announcement more hurtful.
‘I admit that I copied the maps but I was merely using my experience in cartography in the same way that I assisted Mr Ringrose in making drawings and plans of all the anchorages and places we visited in the South Seas.’
For the first time in the interview Hector sensed that he had said something to assist his case. Brice said softly, ‘You made maps in the South Seas? Tell me about them.’
‘Mr Ringrose always took sketches of the places where we anchored, and he drew profiles of the coast whenever we were near land. I helped him. Occasionally we took soundings with lead and line. Much as the Spaniards d
o when they prepared their own deroteros and pilot books.’
‘You have seen a pilot book for the Peruvian coast?’ Belatedly Hector realised that Brice knew exactly what a derotero was.
‘There was one aboard a vessel we captured – the Santo Rosario.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘It was returned to the Spaniards.’
A flicker of disappointment crossed the attorney’s face.
‘But we made notes and sketches before it was handed back,’ Hector hastened to add.
‘We?’
‘My colleague Dan and I.’
Brice looked at Hector with narrowed eyes.
‘If you still have this material, I would like to see a sample.’
‘If you allow me to contact my friend, that can be arranged.’
Brice began rolling up the Caribbean chart. ‘We will continue our discussion just as soon as you can produce some of those notes. Do you think you could have them available next week, perhaps on Thursday?’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’
‘I’ll ask Mr Bradley to bring you to somewhere more congenial than these rather depressing surroundings.’ He glanced around the prison governor’s austere office as he wound the ribbon neatly around the rolled-up chart, pausing only to say in a quiet, confidential voice, ‘Mr Lynch, I would be grateful if you talked to no one about my visit here today.’
‘As you wish,’ Hector assured him, though he was wondering why a lawyer like Brice knew such a complicated way to tie the ribbon. Either Brice was a fly-fisherman or he had seagoing experience.
BY THURSDAY, when Bradley came to collect him, Hector had assembled the material Brice had requested. Dan had brought the bamboo tube containing the notes and sketches, and Ringrose had lent his journals from the South Sea. After Hector introduced Dan to the marshal, the three of them set off on foot into Southwark’s tangle of alleyways. An overcast grey sky threatened yet another day of blustery showers as they joined the slow-moving mass of pedestrians, carts and carriages using London Bridge to cross the river. On the far side they turned right into a street lined with tall commercial buildings. After about a quarter mile they came to a shop front over which hung a trade sign showing an outline map of Britain and Ireland. Here Bradley led them down a narrow passageway and then up a flight of outside stairs to a large first-floor room at the rear of the building. Several windows looked out across London Pool and its constant activity of wherries and lighters attending to the needs of the anchored shipping. Beside a broad table littered with drawing instruments, Brice was waiting. With him was a stooped, rather bookish individual wearing a pair of spectacles.
