PIRATE: Privateer

by Tim Severin

  ‘This will come in useful,’ he said, rubbing away the rust with his thumb.

  ‘To beat someone to death?’ commented Jacques.

  ‘With the flint we can start a cooking fire,’ explained the Miskito patiently.

  ‘If the bastards had left us anything to cook,’ objected Jacques. ‘I don’t fancy living off blue-footed maniacs from now on, if that’s what you are about to suggest.’

  ‘I have something else in mind. Just stop complaining and get that cooking fire started, I’ll be back with some food soon enough,’ Dan told him.

  The Miskito walked off along the beach to where a ledge of rock projected into the sea. There he waded out until knee deep in the water. He could be seen stooped over, searching the loose rocks beneath his feet.

  Meanwhile Hector had located the well that the brigands had dug. It was a shallow drift excavated into the hard-packed sand at the back of the beach. Water was oozing into the shallow basin. He scooped up the contents in the palm of his hand and tasted. The water was brackish but drinkable. There was more than enough to satisfy their needs.

  Jezreel took on the chore of sweeping up and burying the worst of the filth of the brigand camp. Then he used timber salvaged from the skiff to build a frame which he covered with some abandoned flour sacks. ‘It’s nowhere near watertight but at least it will keep off the sun,’ he said, as he completed the humble shelter.

  Within half an hour Dan returned with an ample haul of limpets and other shellfish that he had gathered among the rocks. Jacques roasted the catch in the ashes of the fire, and after they had eaten the meal, which Jacques had to admit was very tasty, the four of them sat on the sand and gazed out on the sea. It was a balmy evening and there was a perfect calm. A flock of pelicans flew laboriously past, not more than six feet above the water, their wings beating in solemn unison.

  ‘Tomorrow we explore the island,’ said Hector.

  Jacques had cheered up considerably now that he had a full stomach. ‘We could be worse off. A few days’ rest will be time enough for our sores to heal.’

  ‘Have you been able to work out exactly where we are?’ Jezreel asked Hector.

  He shook his head. ‘Somewhere quite close to the mainland. That piragua was not designed to go very far out to sea.’

  But he knew that they could no longer plan on going to Curaçao. The loss of the skiff had changed everything. He doubted they would find materials on such a barren island to build a replacement boat. They would have to survive until a passing vessel rescued them, and there was no way of knowing when that might happen, or where the vessel might take them. In the meantime Maria would be wondering why he had not returned. Yet he did not regret refusing Lucas’ invitation to join his murderous band. He had kept his promise to Maria that he would do everything to avoid returning to a life of piracy.

  FIVE

  NEXT MORNING THEY SET OUT inland to investigate their new home. The day was scorchingly hot under the bowl of a cloudless pale blue sky, and there was no breeze. The still air carried the chirping and clicking and buzzing of a myriad of unseen insects as well as the distant sound of the sea receding behind them as they walked. Everything that met the eye was bleached pale yellow or tawny brown. They picked their way across a barren landscape where thin plates of loose rock clattered and shifted awkwardly beneath their feet. Twice they disturbed flocks of small dun-coloured birds that looked like sparrows. Otherwise the place was a wilderness. Low thorny bushes tore at their clothes and strange bulbous plants sprouted from the stony soil. Each was the size of a man’s head and armed with fearsome arrays of three-inch-long spikes. The plant had a fluffy topknot and inside was a small pink fruit which tasted and smelled like wild strawberry. But collecting the fruit was hazardous. The ground was littered with the fallen spikes, sharper than any needle. Soon both Jacques and Hector were limping from puncture wounds in their feet.

  The island sloped very gently upwards until after a couple of hours they crested a low ridge and found themselves looking once again at the sea. They had arrived at the centre and found nothing.

  ‘Might as well go the whole way across now we are here,’ said Hector. They went on towards the farther shore. As they approached, the ground turned soft and boggy and they came to an area of reeds. Beyond it, the hot air shimmered over a dreary expanse of saltwater marsh. It was here that they found the only evidence of human activity. Four artificial conical mounds stood on a dike. About four feet high, they were a dirty brown.

  ‘Salt piles,’ said Jezreel. ‘I came across them on the Mexican coast. The salt rakers scrape up the salt in heaps which they cover in dry grass and then set alight. It makes a hard shell to protect the salt against the rain.’

  He picked up a stone and walked over to one of the mounds and struck it hard. The outer shell of the mound cracked and he peered inside.

  ‘Nobody has attended this in a long time,’ he announced. He dropped the stone and looked at Hector. ‘Do you think we should shift our camp here and wait for the salt rakers to return?’

  Hector thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. It could be weeks or even months before they come back, and we have to stay near our well. I doubt there’s any other fresh water in this wilderness.’

  They turned aside and began following the shoreline, heading back for their camp. On the way Dan spotted a treasure that made their entire journey worthwhile. They were clambering over a stretch of slippery, seaweed-covered rocks when he noticed something trapped between two sea-washed boulders. Wading into the sea he found that the receding tide had exposed the rotting remnants of a small broken barrel. It must have drifted ashore, carried by wind and currents after someone jettisoned it as useless. Dan wasted no time in freeing his find and carrying it on to land. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he pulled off the rotting staves and held up the two rusty metal hoops that had once held them together. ‘Now we can make ourselves some decent knives,’ he said.

  Carrying their trophy they arrived back in camp in the late afternoon. There, Hector smoothed a patch of sand and traced a wavering line with his finger.

  ‘I believe I know where we are,’ he said. ‘This is the coast of the Main.’ He made some small circles to one side. ‘And these are the offshore islands. I can’t remember how many there are but one of them about halfway along is known as Salt Island. That, I think, is where we are stranded.’

  His companions all gazed down at the sketch. ‘What are the chances of a ship passing this way?’ asked Jacques.

  ‘Only fair.’ Hector made a mark at each end of the line. ‘Here and here are Curaçao and Cartagena. One is Dutch and the other Spanish. They are not supposed to trade with one another. But there must be an occasional ship between them, a smuggler perhaps.’

  ‘So you think we could be here for some time?’ said Jezreel.

  ‘I’m afraid so. We’ll prepare a signal fire and light it if we see a passing ship. But we’d better be prepared for a long stay.’

  He looked up and searched the faces of his companions. Jezreel was resigned. Jacques seemed a little disappointed. As usual Dan was expressionless. Hector had a sense that in the weeks to come they would depend on their Miskito comrade.

  *

  ON TORTUGA a shopkeeper had told Maria that Morvaut had arrived in Petit Goâve and was being held there. The shopkeeper had a brother on the main island, and when she asked about Hector, the man was more interested in providing a lurid description of the knife fight between Yannick Kergonan and Rassalle. He told her that Yannick’s sister was forbidden to leave the settlement, pending her trial for murder. ‘She’s lived up to her name as the Tigress,’ he commented with more than a hint of local pride. He had no news of Hector.

  Maria waited for another few days and when Hector still did not appear, she decided she would take passage to Petit Goâve. There she would ask Anne-Marie Kergonan what had happened to her husband.

  It was another week before she found a supply boat heading in the right directio
n, and there were many stops at plantation landing stages along the coast before she was finally set ashore at Petit Goâve. It was midday and the settlement looked deserted. Most of the inhabitants were indoors, sheltering from the heat. So she was lucky that the first person she met was a serving woman who worked in the tavern where the fight had taken place. She was told that if she was looking for Anne-Marie Kergonan she should follow a cart track that led out of town, through a coconut grove and past several smallholdings. After half a mile she couldn’t fail to recognize the cabin where the Breton woman was staying. It was the one with a white goat tethered in the front yard.

  The cabin was in remarkably good repair. The palm thatch roof had been replaced recently, and someone had planted rows of vegetables in the front yard. A double line of large seashells marked the edges of the path leading to a freshly painted blue door. Maria knocked and waited while the goat regarded her balefully. She had always dismissed the superstition that goats were agents of the Devil. But the creature’s black rectangular pupils did appear diabolical against the yellow of its eyes. She gave a shiver of apprehension at the thought she was visiting a killer.

  After a short interval Anne-Marie opened the door. She was wearing man’s clothes of baggy breeches and a long, loose shirt of linen. Both were freshly washed and pressed. Maria was conscious that her own petticoat and skirt were stained and crumpled after the long journey. She felt dowdy and uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ve come from Tortuga to ask about my husband, Hector . . .’ she began.

  The Breton gave her an appraising glance.

  ‘He and his friends should have returned by now,’ continued Maria.

  Anne-Marie stepped to one side. ‘Why don’t you come in,’ she said. ‘It’s easier to talk inside rather than standing out in the sun.’

  Anne-Marie led her guest to a seat beside the scrubbed table in the middle of the room. She set two bowls before them, and took down an earthenware jug from a shelf.

  Maria looked around. The interior of the cabin was as spruce and well-ordered as the exterior. The earth floor had been swept. Everything had been neatly put on shelves or hung from pegs on the walls. Through the open back door she could see a raised hearth under an open-sided shelter where the cooking was done. A garland of white flowers was draped around the neck of a tall water container in one corner. The only item which jarred with the peaceful domestic setting was a long-barrelled musket hanging from its leather straps on one wall.

  The Breton noted her glance. ‘The gun was the only item of value from my husband’s estate,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea you have been widowed.’

  Anne-Marie gave a dismissive shrug. ‘He was no loss.’

  On her way to the cabin Maria had wondered if she should raise the matter of Yannick’s death. Already it was clear to her that Anne-Marie was someone who preferred to get straight to the point. ‘In Tortuga I heard the news about your brother. I’d like to offer my sympathies.’

  Anne-Marie poured a steady stream of goat’s milk from the earthenware jug into the two bowls, sat down and took a sip from one, before pushing the other across the table to Maria. ‘My brother Yannick was destined for an early grave,’ she said quietly. She put down the bowl and looked straight at Maria. ‘You were asking about your husband.’

  ‘I haven’t had any word from him, nor his friends. I beg you, please tell me what has happened to him or where he might have gone.’

  Anne-Marie regarded her visitor for several seconds before replying. To her surprise she found herself envying the tired-looking, resolute young woman seated in front of her. Maria was plainly in love with her husband and determined to find him. The Breton wished that she herself felt so strongly for someone that she had the same courage and sense of purpose.

  ‘I believe that Hector and his friends are safe. But I have no idea where they might be.’

  ‘Then at least please tell me all you know.’

  Anne-Marie took a deep breath. ‘What I am about to say must stay between us. I am in enough trouble already.’

  Maria gave her a look full of pleading. ‘You have my word that I will tell no one.’

  In a calm voice Anne-Marie described everything that had happened on the Morvaut, from the time spent fishing the wreck on the Vipers until her interview with a furious de Graff after the loss of his prisoners. The only part she omitted was how she had helped Hector and his friends to slip away. She did not want to be asked her reasons for assisting Hector to escape.

  ‘Surely Captain de Graff turned back and tried to find the skiff?’ Maria asked.

  ‘He did. But the boat had vanished. There was no trace of it.’

  ‘Had it sunk?’ There was a tremor in Maria’s voice.

  The Breton shook her head. ‘The weather was fine. Your husband and his comrades are good sailors. I don’t think they would have drowned.’

  ‘Then what happened to them? Where did they go?’

  ‘I’ve asked myself the same question many times. The obvious answer is that they set course either to Cuba or to Jamaica. Which of the two do you think more likely?’

  ‘Jamaica. All four of them have had their troubles with the Spanish authorities.’

  Anne-Marie collected up the empty bowls and was about to get up from the table when she saw the tears beginning to well up in Maria’s eyes.

  ‘Did Hector ever talk about me?’ Maria asked.

  ‘Of course. He told me that he was looking forward to getting back to Tortuga because you were waiting for him.’

  It was a lie, but the Breton saw how her visitor was drooping with exhaustion, emotional as well as physical. ‘Do you have somewhere to stay in Petit Goâve?’ she asked gently.

  Maria shook her head. ‘I came to Petit Goâve to seek you. What I would do next depended on what you told me.’

  ‘Well you’ve found me and heard my story, and now you are welcome to stay. I’ll be pleased to have your company. I don’t see my other brothers. They’ve been forced to join de Graff’s crew and are not allowed ashore for fear they might run off.’

  Belatedly Maria remembered that Anne-Marie had to deal with her own difficulties. ‘What about you? Is it true that you are to be tried for shooting your brother’s killer?’

  ‘The Governor isn’t in a hurry to set a date for a court hearing.’

  Maria detected the scepticism in the Breton’s reply. ‘And you think he has a reason?’

  Anne-Marie allowed herself a world-weary grimace. ‘Every time I’m summoned to the Governor’s office for questioning, I find Captain de Graff also there. He seems to be taking a close interest in my well-being.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s there as a witness.’

  ‘He makes a great effort to be charming.’

  ‘And is he?’

  The Breton shrugged. ‘He has a certain allure. But I suspect his attention may have more to do with what your husband and his friends were doing on the Vipers.’ She paused as a fresh thought occurred to her. ‘Maria, you say that Hector and his comrades most likely headed for Jamaica.’

  Maria nodded. ‘Hector sometimes said that Jezreel might want to return to London. If that’s the case, then the four of them would have gone to Port Royal. From there Jezreel could easily find a ship to England.’

  ‘Would you be willing to go yourself to Jamaica in the hope of finding Hector?’ said Anne-Marie slowly.

  Maria sat up straighter, a spark of hope in her eyes. ‘Of course. There’s nothing keeping me in Tortuga except to wait for Hector’s return. The place is a den of thieves.’ She stopped abruptly, embarrassed as she remembered that Tortuga was home for the Kergonans.

  But the Breton took no offence. ‘You may be glad of those thieves. My brothers were smugglers, and Morvaut wasn’t the only boat to land illegal cargoes into Jamaica. I can speak with some of their associates.’

  ‘You mean you can arrange for them to take me to Jamaica?’

  ‘Not to Port Royal. More likely they will
drop you off at some deserted spot on the coast.’ Her voice grew serious. ‘You’ll be taking a risk. If you do get to Port Royal, you’ll discover it is as much a thieves’ den as Tortuga.’

  ‘I can take care of myself,’ said Maria stubbornly.

  ‘Suppose you don’t find Hector? What will you do then?’

  The young Spanish woman set her jaw. ‘I’ll continue to look for him. Make enquiries. Someone must have news of him.’

  ‘And how will you support yourself?’

  ‘I still have a little money from what he left with me. When that runs out, I’ll find work. I’ve looked after children and I am a capable seamstress.’

  Anne-Marie leaned forward and laid a hand on Maria’s arm. ‘I’ll make enquiries among the smugglers. But in the meantime I suggest that you keep out of sight. It would be a disaster for both of us if Governor de Cussy or Captain de Graff hears that Hector Lynch’s wife is within their reach.’

  *

  ON SALT ISLAND the weeks passed slowly. The lives of the castaways became routine. Before sunrise each day they set out from camp in pairs and headed in opposite directions along the beach. They scouted quietly, keeping a lookout for the humped back of a turtle, black against the shadowy sand as the creature crawled laboriously back to the sea after laying its clutch of eggs. The strength of two men was needed to turn a turtle. Grabbing the creature by the flippers, they heaved it upside down and dragged it to the camp to be butchered. On their best morning they captured four of the animals in this way. When Hector objected that this was needless slaughter, Dan reminded him that the turtle nesting season would soon be over. It was better to catch as many as possible while they could. They had plenty of salt at hand to cure the meat and they were building up a reserve of food for the future.

  Jezreel set himself to stripping the leaves of desert plants and rolling their fibres into cord to make fishing lines while Dan extracted iron nails from the wreckage of the skiff and turned them into hooks. They roasted the catch – chunks of barracuda and sea bass – on the skewers over their camp fire. To vary their diet, Jacques tried out various plants to see if they were edible. If they were, he baked the roots and stems in the ashes though many of the results were tasteless and stringy. He buried any rejected vegetables in shallow pits and waited for them to rot in the heat. Eventually he succeeded in pressing out a fermented juice, cloudy white, which smelled and tasted foul, but at least had the tang of alcohol.