PIRATE: Privateer

by Tim Severin

  Dan went off to scout and came back within twenty minutes to report that Los Picos was lying at anchor very close to the shore. There was no sign of activity on the boat. Julio’s companion was sitting on the beach waiting for him to return.

  They reset the ambush.

  Once again they waited, and an hour later their second victim walked straight into the trap.

  ‘Just two more mutineers to deal with,’ said Hector. He tried to sound confident but he knew that he would have to improvise from now on. ‘Baltasar, if you’re feeling strong enough, I’d like you to come along with Dan and me. I may need your advice.’

  Leaving Jacques and Jezreel to guard their prisoners, Hector, Dan and Baltasar circled inland so they could approach the landing beach without being seen. They crawled the last fifty yards across the dunes until they had a clear view of the anchorage.

  A small skiff was drawn up on the beach where Julio and his comrade had come ashore with their prisoners. Some seventy yards farther out a bark rode at anchor, her sails neatly furled. Los Picos was similar in design to the Morvaut but newer and sleeker. A figure was leaning on the rail, idly staring down into the brilliant turquoise water.

  ‘That’s Miguel Roblandillo. He’s the ringleader,’ said Baltasar. There was an edge of pure hatred in his voice.

  The figure looked up and gazed towards the shore. For a moment Hector had the feeling that the mutineer was looking directly at him. ‘Can he and his companion handle Los Picos on their own?’ he asked. He found himself whispering though the bark was far away.

  ‘Miguel’s a competent sailor,’ Baltasar replied reluctantly.

  They cautiously made their way back to where there was no risk of being seen from the ship.

  ‘I fear that if the two men on the bark take fright, they will sail away, leaving us all stranded,’ Hector said.

  Dan nodded in agreement. ‘Without their jolly boat, I doubt that they’ll attempt to come ashore. More likely they’ll simply wait for their companions to return. And then, if no one shows up, they’ll head off.’

  There was the sound of a musket shot. Dan’s head jerked up. ‘There! They’re trying to attract the attention of the shore party now.’

  The strap of the cartridge box which Hector was wearing was too tight. As he reached for the buckle to adjust it, he noticed for the first time that the figure of the shooter in the hunting scene on the flap was picked out in gold.

  ‘Baltasar, how good is this musket of yours?’

  ‘My father gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday. He ordered it from Brachie, the gunsmith in Dieppe. He wanted to give me a Spanish-made gun but Brachie’s weapons are said to be the best there are. It cost a small fortune.’

  ‘Do you know how it shoots?’

  The Spaniard smiled grimly. ‘I’ve hunted with that gun for three years. I know exactly how it shoots.’ He gave Hector a level stare. ‘But I’m in no condition to aim straight.’

  Hector looked across at Dan.

  ‘You are as good a marksman as I am,’ said the Miskito quietly.

  Hector turned back to Baltasar. ‘I estimate the range at about a hundred paces.’

  ‘Aim between five and six feet above your target.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. The gun shoots straight.’

  Hector hefted the musket and put it to his shoulder. The weapon was beautifully balanced. It was already loaded but he could not afford a misfire. He opened the cartridge box. As he had expected, it contained a dozen cartridges neatly arranged in their slots as well as everything needed to service the gun – extra flints, a turn screw for adjusting the lock, a tiny flask of oil, squares of cloth, beeswax, a priming wire. There were also two attachments for the ramrod. One, a tow worm, was for holding the strips of cloth when cleaning the barrel. The other, a ball screw, was for extracting the bullet after it had been inserted in the barrel. He fitted the ball screw to the musket’s ramrod and hooked out the wadding and bullet. After he had then shaken out the loose powder charge, he carefully cleaned the empty barrel. He thumbed back the frizzen, took a fresh cartridge from the box, tore it open with his teeth, and sprinkled a small quantity of powder on to the flash pan. Before he closed the frizzen, he pressed his fingertip on the powder and held it up for inspection. The grains were dry and even.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Baltasar, who had been watching the ritual. ‘My father ordered a hundred pounds of best Normandy powder to go with the gun.’

  Hector set the hammer to half cock. He tipped the remainder of the powder out of the cartridge and down the musket barrel, dropped in the musket ball and was about to push down the paper of the cartridge as wadding when Dan stopped him. The Miskito had opened a second cartridge and taken out the bullet.

  ‘Two would be better,’ he said, holding up the lead ball.

  Hector glanced across at Baltasar. ‘Aim another couple of feet higher,’ said the Spaniard.

  Hector dropped the second ball down the barrel, and seated everything firmly home with the ramrod.

  ‘Wait at least five minutes,’ he said to Dan. Holding the musket carefully before him, he crawled off to his firing position.

  Below him nothing had changed. There was still the peaceful scene of the jolly boat drawn up on the beach, the bark riding at anchor beyond it on the calm sea. The same man was standing on the deck of Los Picos.

  Hector reached forward and scooped together a little mound of sand. He patted it down firmly, placed the gun on the rest, and sighted down the barrel. There was no wind, and the bark lay on her anchor with the full length of her hull exposed.

  He pulled back the hammer and waited.

  The minutes dragged past. The man on the deck of the bark strolled away to the base of the mast, where he was part hidden. Hector saw his head tilt back and guessed that he was drinking from the tub of water normally kept there.

  All of a sudden there was the loud crack of a musket shot. It came from directly behind Hector. Dan had fired the second gun. The man on the bark immediately stepped back into view. He still had the water dipper in his hand. He walked quickly to the near rail and gazed expectantly towards the beach.

  Hector aimed six feet above the target, took in a half-breath, and held it. Then he gently squeezed the trigger.

  SIX

  THEY BURIED THE BODY OF Miguel Roblandillo among the sand dunes that evening. The musket ball, an ounce of lead fired from a hundred paces, had shattered his lower jaw, killing him instantly. His companion surrendered meekly as soon as Dan and Hector rowed out in the jolly boat to take possession of the bark.

  ‘I am forever in your debt,’ said Baltasar. He had a cheerful boyish face below the bandage wrapped around his head. Tufts of curly dark brown hair sprouted from the top of the dressing and made him look even younger. ‘You must tell me what I can do to help you.’

  ‘We were headed for Curaçao when we were marooned,’ said Hector. After the burial he and his friends had transferred to Los Picos to discuss their plans. The three surviving mutineers remained on-shore. It had not even been necessary to discuss their fate. They would be left behind when the bark sailed. They could fend for themselves.

  ‘Jezreel is thinking of returning to England,’ continued Hector. ‘Jacques and Dan have not yet decided on their plans.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I intend to rejoin my wife, Maria. She’s waiting for me on Tortuga.’

  ‘And after that?’

  Hector shrugged. ‘I’ll make a living somehow, find a home for us.’ The truth was that he had no idea what to do next. The loss of the salvage from the galleon had put an end to his hopes of moving somewhere where he could start a new life with Maria, perhaps even leaving the sea.

  ‘Maria is a Spanish name.’

  ‘Her family comes from Andalusia. She was employed in Peru and later in the Marianas.’

  ‘So she might consider returning to the colonies.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Baltasa
r brightened. ‘I have a suggestion. Instead of continuing to Curaçao and an uncertain future, why not accompany me back to Cartagena? Remember, England and Spain are no longer enemies. I can make sure you are welcome.’

  Hector glanced at his friends for their reaction. They were listening carefully, but their faces gave nothing away. Spain’s Caribbean colonies had been out of bounds to them for so long that venturing there at the suggestion of this enthusiastic young man might seem foolhardy.

  The Spaniard pressed on eagerly. ‘My family has much influence in Cartagena. My father is a leading merchant, a member of the advisory council, and greatly respected. When he hears how you saved my life and this ship, he will do everything to assist you.’

  Hector phrased his next remark carefully. ‘I don’t understand why your crew mutinied. They had little to gain.’ Coming aboard Los Picos he had noted the absence of any goods in her hold, and he found it odd that a small, empty merchantman had such a well-educated and affluent captain as Baltasar.

  ‘I’ll show you why they took the ship,’ said the Spaniard. He ushered them into the small cabin in the stern and rolled back the red-and-white checked canvas which served as a floor covering. He levered up several planks to expose a hidden locker. Stacked inside the cavity were small canvas bags. They were instantly recognizable as the bags used for transporting coin, and they filled the space entirely.

  ‘A little over seven thousand pesos in silver,’ announced Baltasar.

  Jacques gave a low whistle of astonishment.

  ‘Every few months my father sends a large payment to his trading partners,’ said the young Spaniard. ‘He settles his accounts with them in cash. The transfer is my responsibility.’

  ‘And your crew got to know of the money?’ asked Jezreel.

  ‘That’s right. I think Miguel Roblandillo heard that I was to be in charge for this voyage and worked out why. Somehow he managed to interfere with the regular crew and get himself aboard. When Julio said he was persuaded into the mutiny he was probably telling the truth.’

  Hector had been thinking over Baltasar’s explanation. ‘Doesn’t your father believe in normal letters of credit?’

  There was a worldly-wise twinkle in Baltasar’s eyes as he replied. ‘Hector, half the business done out of Cartagena is undercover. Laws passed far away in Spain forbid us to trade with foreigners except under strict licence. Yet we need the foreign goods and we have the bullion to pay for them.’

  Hector looked down at the nest of sacks, row upon row of pesos. Los Picos was carrying more silver than they had been able to salvage from the Vipers. ‘And your father could arrange a passage to England for Jezreel?’ he said.

  The Spaniard’s grin grew broader. ‘There’s not a port in the Caribbean where my father does not have excellent contacts and can call in favours. He can even arrange for Maria to come from Tortuga to Cartagena, if that’s what you want.’

  Hector was warming to Baltasar. Despite his initial concerns, he found the young Spaniard to be refreshingly honest and open. It occurred to Hector that perhaps he should think of setting up as a merchant-smuggler himself. It would be a way of providing for Maria without resorting to outright piracy or plundering wrecks. If it was done discreetly, he and Maria might even live a more normal life.

  The Spaniard seemed to guess his thoughts. ‘Hector, I’ve been thinking of establishing my own trading house. Of course my father must agree and I would need him to loan me the capital to get me started. But what would you say to the idea that you and your friends enter a partnership with me.’ He made a sweeping gesture. ‘Our base could be in Cartagena and we would trade from one end of the Caribbean to the other. Dan would be our agent among the mainland peoples. And Jacques our contact with the French colonies.’

  ‘France and Spain are at war,’ objected Jacques. ‘So how would a Frenchman be treated in your city? Especially one who bears a mark like this.’ He touched the galérien’s brand, faintly visible on his cheek.

  Baltasar was undeterred in his enthusiasm. ‘We turn it to advantage. We’d say that you were sent to the galleys after being found guilty, though you were innocent of any crime. This made you renounce your allegiance to France. Besides, provided you don’t come to the attention of the Governor or the authorities, no one will even question your presence in the city.’

  ‘Then I’m happy to take my chances in Cartagena,’ said Jacques.

  ‘I’ll go along with that,’ added Jezreel, and Dan nodded his agreement.

  Baltasar slapped Hector on the shoulder. ‘Soon you’ll be seeing your Maria again. She’ll persuade you that a life in Cartagena is so pleasant that both of you will wish to stay.’

  *

  BALTASAR WAS still bubbling over with optimism as Los Picos steered into Cartagena’s anchorage five days later. As the vessel passed before the seaward rampart he pointed out the natural features that made the city impregnable to any attack from the sea.

  ‘An enemy would be crazy to try to land troops directly on the beach. His ships would wreck on dangerous shallows, and if men did manage to get ashore, the ground is so waterlogged that they would drown in their trenches.’

  Hector suppressed a twinge of anxiety. He and his friends were entering the stronghold of what had once been a feared enemy. In his mind’s eye he could imagine the lookouts on the battlements now gazing down on the little bark as it crept under the muzzles of their cannon.

  They turned to port, committing themselves to the channel that led into the great six-mile-long lagoon behind the city, where an entire fleet could lie safely at anchor. ‘And should his squadrons try to force the entrance to the harbour,’ Baltasar was saying proudly, ‘they must run the gauntlet of Santa Catalina, San Lucas, Santo Domingo, Santiago and La Cruz.’ He rattled off the names of the forts and bastions, batteries, curtain walls and watch towers which defended the city.

  The bark eased into the anchorage and Hector’s attention was caught by the spectacle of three huge galleons moored in the inner harbour. Built like floating castles, they were the largest ships he had ever seen.

  Baltasar noted his interest. ‘There lies a reason why Cartagena prospers,’ he said, gesturing towards the galleons. ‘As soon as the treasure galleons have loaded their cargoes of silver and gold at Porto Bello, they come to Cartagena. Here they lie in safety, protected from storms and pirates as they wait for the sailing season and their return to Havana.’ He continued in full flow. ‘Just think of it! Cartagena is the only port in South America where the flota, the annual fleet from Spain, stays for any length of time. Everything from the interior – the gems, the timber and hides, the coffee and chocolate – must pass through this port. That is why four generations of my family have stayed here and prospered. We are Cartagena-born and proud of it.’

  Looking around, Hector could tell that Baltasar was right. Cartagena was indeed thriving. He could see merchant ships of every size and type, from substantial ocean-going vessels to small coasters. Some lay at anchor waiting to move to the wharves. Others were already alongside the quays, taking on or discharging cargo. As his gaze swept past the mass of shipping, something stirred faintly in his memory, just as the young Spaniard called across to Dan, who was at the helm, ‘Head for that jetty on the far side! That’s where we dock.’

  Hector thought it odd that he could see no sign of any officials waiting at the quay where Los Picos was to tie up. The coastguard at the harbour entrance must have reported their approach. There should have been men sent by the usual authorities – the collector of customs, the port office, and the magistrate responsible for checking the papers of any passengers.

  There was no one. The bark was ignored. Los Picos might as well have been a ghost ship.

  It was evident too that Baltasar was careful not to draw attention to their arrival. ‘I suggest Jezreel and your two other friends stay on board until after dark,’ he said as soon as the bark had made fast. ‘Later this evening my father will send some of his staff to remove the s
ilver and carry it to our vaults.’

  He jumped nimbly on to the dock.

  ‘Come on, Hector,’ he said, ‘I want to introduce you to my father.’

  They set off at a brisk pace through the city. Hector was impressed by what he saw. The usual dockside clutter of warehouses and sheds soon gave way to well-paved streets of two-storey houses with neat wooden balconies and freshly painted shutters. They passed across several small plazas. Each had a fountain in the centre, and along the sides were arcades of shops selling food, clothing and housewares. At portable stalls one could buy fruit juice and other drinks. The most popular beverage, according to Baltasar who was enjoying playing the guide, was a milky grey drink made from fermented plant sap and imported from New Spain, where it had long been a favourite of the native peoples. Hector could see for himself another contribution of those earlier inhabitants of the continent. Many passers-by had copper-coloured faces, high cheekbones with narrow slightly slanting eyes, and long straight black hair. The citizens of Cartagena were of every mix of race and colour – from the darkest black of Africa to the pasty white of immigrants recently arrived from Europe.

  The farther that he and Baltasar advanced into the city, the taller and more impressive the buildings became. They passed a number of convents and large churches – Cartagena seemed to be a city of churches – until eventually they reached what was evidently the wealthiest quarter of the city. Here the houses bordered on the palatial. They were three or even four storeys high, with ornate ironwork gates and balconies swathed in flowering shrubs. In this sector the majority of the people were white and richly dressed. Liveried servants held parasols to shield them from the hot sunshine and, if they had been shopping, carried their purchases for them. Occasionally a coach rattled past, door panels gleaming and a driver, usually a black man, handling the reins.

  Finally Baltasar turned into a street broader than most and came to a halt in front of a particularly imposing mansion. Its outer wall was decorated with patterns of blue and white tiles. At his knock the massive double door with its huge iron studs and a spy hole was opened by a footman wearing a uniform of white and burgundy. Beyond was a large entrance hall floored with marble. It was expensively furnished with carved chests, a couple of small bronze statues, a tall clock. Everything looked as though it had been shipped in from Spain.