by Tim Severin
‘That is correct, my lord.’
Inchiquin got to his feet and walked over to the conference table, on which lay a map of the Caribbean.
‘Lynch, come over here.’
Hector joined the Governor and stood looking down at the map. The Earl waved a plump hand over the details.
‘Lynch, you’ve served a Captain of Algerine Galleys. So you know how sea brigands operate. There’s a French warship on the loose. It is interfering with traffic between Havana, Porto Bello and Cartagena. Merchant captains are frightened to sail. Our trade is badly hurt.’
The Governor belched gently. His breath had a fetid smell. As he leaned over the chart, a drip of sweat fell on the paper. Once again, Hector sensed that Inchiquin was a sick man.
‘We know that the French warship hasn’t returned to Saint-Domingue, and there are reports of store ships leaving Petit Goâve and heading west. So the French must have set up a secret base somewhere closer to the trade routes. Where do you think that is?’
Hector recalled his days with Turgut Rais. The Algerine galley had lurked at the cruciero, the maritime crossroads between Spain and Italy, ready to ambush its prey. There had been a friendly port nearby on the Sardinian coast where the galley had taken on food and water. In the South Seas the buccaneers had done the same. They had set up a base on an uninhabited island where they could careen their vessels and keep a stock of food. He scanned the chart.
‘Your Excellency, my guess would be that the French warship is based here.’ Hector placed his finger on the small speck of an island some hundred miles off the coast of Central America. The island lay within the triangle of ports that Inchiquin had listed.
‘On Providencia! Exactly what I thought myself,’ exclaimed the Governor triumphantly. His eyes bright, he turned to Reeve. ‘I think we can do better with Mr Lynch than put him on trial for piracy. Swan also brought a letter from Don Martin, the Governor of Cartagena. He asks for urgent help in tracking down this French raider.’ The Earl’s voice was rising with excitement.
‘What do you propose, my lord?’ asked Reeve. Hector detected a note of caution in his voice.
‘You mentioned earlier that Mr Lynch has three companions. Do they look like seafarers?’
‘They do, my lord.’
‘Then let’s not waste them! The Spaniards can wait a little longer for their piracy trial. I’ll give Mr Lynch here a chance to prove his worth. He and his friends can go after that Frenchman and find where he is cowering so the Spaniards can send the armada de barlovento to smoke the rogue out. That’s just the task for someone who has sailed with the Barbary corsairs.’
The secretary sucked his teeth. ‘In what capacity will you send Mr Lynch? It would be unfortunate if it was said that you were abetting a pirate.’
‘Write out a privateer’s commission for him.’
‘But, my lord, I must remind you that the Board in London has discouraged the granting of privateer licences.’
‘These are exceptional circumstances,’ Inchiquin said firmly. ‘Jamaica is stripped of good men. Here are four active seamen, experienced and available. There is no need for delay. Write out Mr Lynch’s privateer commission now. Send a copy to London for the Board’s approval. Meanwhile Mr Lynch and his colleagues can get on with the job.’
‘He will need a ship for the task,’ said the secretary. Once again Hector had the impression that Reeve was seeking to restrain the Earl’s enthusiasm.
‘There’s that smugglers’ vessel we captured just last week. Mr Lynch can use that.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Mr Reeve seemed resigned to accepting his master’s instruction. ‘But I would be remiss in my duty if I did not remind you that if the planters get to hear of this, they will be quick to complain to London that they were not consulted.’
‘Then let it be done discreetly. On my own sole recommendation.’ The Earl sat down heavily in a chair, mopping his face. The underlying greyish pallor was very noticeable.
‘Yes, my lord, it will be done,’ murmured Reeve and, taking Hector by the elbow, steered him out of the room.
The secretary did not utter a word until he had re-entered his office. ‘Mr Lynch, I’m afraid the Governor sometimes gets carried away by his schemes. He is difficult to deflect,’ he said apologetically. ‘He does not realize that there are limitations on his authority and that the planters here will seek to undo him. Alas, he is not popular with them.’
‘So you will delay the commission?’ asked Hector. His hopes had risen while hearing the Earl’s scheme.
‘I must of course carry out His Lordship’s instructions,’ said Reeve. ‘But I warn you that our resources are overstretched. Our able-bodied men are already in the militia. The Navy has taken the best of the sailors. You will have to recruit your own crew from what is left over.’
‘And what is this about a smugglers’ ship?’
Reeve spread his hands dismissively. ‘The Speedy Return. We captured her from some smugglers very recently. I am not a seafaring man myself so I cannot say whether it is suitable for the task. But she is all there is.’ He searched through a file until he found the writ for the seizure of the Speedy Return and disappeared with it behind his writing desk. Moments later, he reappeared. ‘Careful how you handle it. The ink is still wet. I’ve endorsed the warrant to say that you have charge of the vessel.’
‘I am truly grateful to you. I will not disappoint His Lordship’s trust in me,’ said Hector as he accepted the document. Events were moving so fast that he was only just getting over the fact that he no longer had to wait in Port Royal for a trial to begin.
‘Think nothing of it. If you call back here tomorrow in the morning, I will have your privateering licence drawn up and signed by His Excellency.’
The secretary gestured towards the piles of documents awaiting his attention. ‘I hope you will excuse me, Mr Lynch, but I must ask you to see your own way out. Please ask that navy lieutenant to step into my office. I will tell him that the Governor has personally accepted your parole and he may return to duty on his ship.’
Hector found Balchen waiting with Dan and the others in the gloomy entrance hall. He told the lieutenant that the Governor’s secretary wished to speak with him, and as soon as the lieutenant was safely out of earshot he informed his friends of the extraordinary turn of events.
There was a stunned silence. Then Jacques spoke up. ‘Hector, you astonish me. We came here expecting to leave you in civil custody awaiting trial for piracy. An hour later you tell us that you are about to be commissioned as a privateer and have been given a vessel.’
‘Not so fast,’ said Hector. ‘The Governor didn’t say who commands that mysterious French raider we are chasing after. Maybe he doesn’t know. But from everything I heard I can guess who it is. Our old friend Laurens de Graff.’
EIGHT
THE FOUR OF THEM decided to celebrate. The Three Mariners, a waterfront tavern, was only a few paces from King’s House and Don Alfonso had generously provided them with a purse of silver pesos for their expenses when they reached Port Royal. The taproom was packed with noonday drinkers, and the hubbub of conversation was so loud that Jacques had difficulty making himself understood when he insisted on a glass of claret rather than the beer the others chose. The four of them settled down at a table with their drinks.
‘What sort of vessel are we to use?’ asked Jezreel.
‘All that Reeve told me is that the ship is called the Speedy Return,’ said Hector. He had to raise his voice above the raucous singing of a party of dock workers. They had lurched into the tavern already drunk after deliberately breaking open a barrel of spirits they were loading.
‘Let’s hope that she’s as fast as her name. If we manage to find de Graff’s hideout, we’ll need to get away quick if he spots us,’ said Dan.
‘She could be quick . . . in the right hands,’ said a voice. All four of them turned to see the stranger. He sat by himself at the next table, a man of about forty, burly, hard-bi
tten and with the indefinable air of a mariner. He had short, dark, tightly curled hair, bloodshot eyes, and a deep tan which, on closer inspection, proved to be his natural skin colour. Hector guessed that the Spaniards would have called him a ‘terceron’, the son of one white parent and a mulatto.
‘Have you sailed on her?’ asked Dan.
‘One trip only,’ answered their neighbour. ‘I’d have screwed a couple of extra knots out of her, but her captain was a dolt. Now his crew will suffer for his stupidity.’
‘You don’t think much of him.’
The stranger shrugged. ‘The idiot put up a fight when the Navy intercepted him on a smuggling run. One of the boarding party was killed in the scuffle. Chief Justice Barnard will decide the sentence, and he’s a hard one.’
‘Where can we find the Speedy Return now?’ asked Hector. ‘My friends and I would like to take a look at her.’
‘You’ll find her tied up at King’s Wharf. She’s the brigantine-rigged pink.’
‘I’ll buy you another drink if you’ll come along with us and tell us what you know about the ship.’
The stranger gave him a disdainful glance. ‘Hoping to buy her cheap as a condemned prize?’
Hector shook his head. ‘No. My friends and I will be sailing on her soon.’
‘And who’s to be the captain?’
‘I am.’
The bloodshot eyes regarded Hector shrewdly. ‘So you might be needing a sailing master?’
Hector felt he was being rushed. There was something about the stranger which was vaguely unsettling. ‘Maybe. Depends if he’s the right man.’
‘Then you don’t need to buy me another drink. I’ll take you to see the Speedy Return just as soon as you’re ready. My name is Henry Bartaboa.’
*
A SHORT WHILE LATER Bartaboa was leading them along the quay. As they threaded a path through the bustle of porters and wharfingers and the clutter of sails, ropes, boxes, barrels and general litter, Hector managed to extract a few more details about their guide. Bartaboa was Jamaican born and his father had once owned an ale house in Port Royal. At an early age he had gone to sea and served in the Navy. For some unspecified demeanour – Hector suspected ill-discipline – he had been dismissed and gone to work on the sloops that traded up to Boston and New York. One thing was clear: with every sentence Henry Bartaboa revealed an intimate knowledge of ship handling and Caribbean sailing conditions.
They reached the farthest point of the quay where it ended at the foot of the curtain wall of Fort James.
‘There she is,’ said Bartaboa. He nodded towards a small two-masted vessel tied to the dock. To Hector’s eye the Speedy Return had an odd shape. Her hull narrowed to a very thin stern, and on top of it the shipwrights had built a broad poop deck, which extended out sideways over the sea and made her look out of proportion.
‘Built in Curaçao for sure,’ Bartaboa was saying. ‘That’s a pink’s hull. No mistaking the skinny tail. Typically Dutch. But the brigantine rig doesn’t suit her. Would be better to have a second set of square sails instead of that gaff and boom.’
‘And what would that achieve?’ asked Jacques. The ex-pickpocket from Paris was utterly bemused by the nautical jargon.
‘It would turn her into a brig, of course,’ answered the Jamaican. His tone indicated that he thought the Frenchman was an ignoramus.
‘We’ll take a closer look,’ said Hector. There was no watchman to be seen, and no one aboard the pink, so they clambered on to the ship. Everything about her appeared to be in good working order – ropes, sails, ground tackle. It was what Hector had expected. A smuggling vessel needed to be kept in good trim if it was to escape its pursuers, and the Speedy Return had only recently been captured.
‘How come she was taken?’ he asked Bartaboa.
‘That blockhead of a captain agreed to pick up a cargo of rum from the arse end of a bay, not thinking that he could find himself trapped.’ The Jamaican slapped the breech of one of the dozen six-pounder cannon lined up on deck. ‘As if these were enough for a gun battle against a frigate.’ He looked Hector straight in the eye. ‘Well, what do you think, captain? Are you going to need a sailing master for your new command?’
Hector let the question hang. ‘You haven’t told me why you want to ship out, and you haven’t even asked where we are headed.’
‘No need to,’ said Bartaboa. ‘If I stay around Port Royal I’ll be conscripted into the militia or made to serve on one of the Navy ships. I’ve had enough of that already.’
Hector came to a decision. ‘I would be glad to have you join my crew. But I don’t yet know what I can pay. I’m promised a privateering licence and the details are unclear.’
Bartaboa smiled sardonically. ‘The war with the French must be going badly. The planters won’t be happy to hear the government is handing out privateers’ papers. They think a privateer is just as likely to turn pirate and steal their cargoes.’
Hector heard the echo of Reeve’s warning. ‘For that reason you are not to speak about the commission to anyone. We sail as soon as we have found sufficient crew.’
The new sailing master glanced towards the quayside. ‘Then you could also take on my friend over there.’
Hector had been aware that a tall scarecrow of a man dressed in a clerical garb of long dark coat and low-crowned black hat had been following them at a distance ever since they had left the Three Mariners. Now he was standing on the quay.
‘Simeon, come over!’ shouted Bartaboa. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Don’t be put off by his manner of speaking, captain, nor by his cloth. Simeon Watson was once an artillery man.’
The gangling stranger scrambled on to the deck of the pink. Hector noticed that the soles of the man’s scuffed buckled shoes were coming apart from the uppers, and that his stockings were torn.
‘The Reverend Simeon Watson at your service,’ said the newcomer. He swept off his hat and bowed, exposing a scalp mottled with brown patches and draped with a few long strands of grey hair. His voice was rich and mellifluous, each word beautifully enunciated. It must have suited the pulpit.
‘The captain is taking on crew,’ Bartaboa told him.
‘Then I am even more at your service, sir,’ said this strange creature, bowing again.
Hector recovered from his astonishment. ‘Mr Bartaboa tells me that you were once a gunner.’
‘Sakers and demi-culverins were my wards before I took the cloth,’ intoned the clergyman. His eyes flicked towards the pink’s modest armament.
‘Don’t you have parishioners to look after here in Jamaica?’ asked Hector.
‘Sadly I am no longer able to minister to them,’ Watson replied.
Bartaboa interrupted. ‘His sermons cause some resentment. He would be well advised to stand for the offing.’
‘As my good friend so nautically puts it, it would be in my best interest to leave the island for a while,’ said the clergyman.
‘This ship does need a gunner. But as I’ve explained to Mr Bartaboa, any payment is doubtful until I have received further instructions,’ said Hector.
‘Even the slightest recompense will be an adequate stipend,’ said the clergyman. He replaced his hat and turned to look along the length of the little ship.
Hector wondered exactly what sort of trouble made the Reverend Simeon Watson so keen to find his berth immediately. But the chance to add a gunner to his fledgling crew was too good to ignore. Besides, he recalled that he himself and his friends had nowhere to stay while in Port Royal. It made sense to start using the pink as their base immediately.
‘Then it is settled. From this moment we regard the Speedy Return as our home. Mr Bartaboa is to prepare a list of naval stores he may need. The Reverend Watson will do the same for gunner’s supplies. Dan can help me obtain what is required by them. Jacques, I am putting you in charge of victualling.’
‘And what about me?’ asked Jezreel.
‘I’m giving you a more delicate task. We n
eed at least ten more men if we are to serve all the guns and handle the ship to best advantage. Go about the town and see if you can persuade the right men to join us. But do it very, very quietly. Try not to attract attention to yourself.’
*
IT WAS DIFFICULT for someone over six foot tall and with a face battered by years of prize-fighting to remain inconspicuous. But Jezreel persevered at his task for a full week. On Hector’s instructions he avoided the taverns for fear of getting into the sort of amiable conversation which would end up with him being asked awkward questions about what he was doing in Port Royal. Instead he loitered at the various markets, hung about the dockside, mingled with congregations as they left church. He was hoping to strike up casual conversations with men who looked as though they might join the Speedy Return. But the results of his efforts were meagre. He enlisted just three men. The first was a tailor’s assistant disgruntled with his master’s failure to pay his rightful wages. Jezreel hoped he might be useful as a sailmaker once he was on board. The other two were discharged sailors. However, one of them had lost all the fingers on his left hand as well as the thumb of his right hand. He could scarcely grasp a rope.
It was on the eighth day of his search for recruits that Jezreel left the ship soon after daybreak aware that Hector was growing increasingly fretful. Mr Reeve, the Governor’s secretary, had written out his privateer’s commission, though he had been worryingly vague about its terms. He had also provided an order which allowed Bartaboa and the Reverend Watson to draw on the Navy stores for gunpowder and shot, provisions, cordage and spare spars. All was ready and loaded. The pink only lacked crew.
The morning was hot and sultry and there was a heaviness in the air which warned of a thunderstorm later in the day. Jezreel paused in front of a vintner’s shop window in the High Street, taking advantage of his reflection in the glass to adjust his neckcloth to sit more loosely. Through the thick, distorting glass panes he could see bottles of Rhenish wine, Madeira, sherry, port, Canary and half a dozen types of brandy. There was a slightly different atmosphere in the town that day. The gangs of street children were more agitated than usual. They were darting here and there and seemed readier to fight and scuffle, quicker with their taunts and quarrels. They reminded Jezreel of terrier puppies with their nasty high-pitched yapping and needle-sharp teeth.