PIRATE: Privateer

by Tim Severin

  *

  IT MUST HAVE BEEN the best part of an hour later when Hector accepted that he would not be able to reach the Speedy Return. The blow to his head had weakened him, and a deathly tiredness was setting in. The muscles in his shoulders ached. There were moments when a thick dark veil blotted out his vision, robbing him of sight. His head ached viciously. He raised one hand and touched where it hurt most, and felt the gash in his scalp. With increasing frequency his mouth and nose dipped below the surface. He knew he was using his strength to keep afloat rather than move forward. Everything was hazy and indistinct.

  Then he was conscious that Dan was at his side, helping him as best he could. But he had no idea how long the Miskito had been there. In a moment of clarity he knew that Dan was also tiring. The Miskito was a powerful swimmer, but supporting his friend in the water over such a distance was sapping his strength.

  ‘Save yourself,’ gasped Hector. A wave splashed into his open mouth. He choked and coughed, another sliver of energy wasted.

  ‘I stay by you,’ answered Dan.

  Hector was too tired to argue and too feeble to insist. They were now beyond the range of the musketeers but the sea breeze had built up a small choppy sea, and he could no longer make out the Speedy Return. Dispirited, he wondered if they had been swimming in the wrong direction.

  ‘I can’t go on,’ he murmured. His throat hurt from so much salt water, and there was a ringing sound in his ears. A profound lethargy overcame him and he closed his eyes; the sea was welcoming him.

  When he opened his eyes to take a final despairing look, his vision was blurred and there was a racking pain in his head. A seal was approaching, its sleek black head and liquid brown eyes coming directly towards him. He knew that he was hallucinating. Seals did not live in those waters. Unexpectedly, two strong hands gripped his wrists and pulled his arms forward. He reached out and at last there was something to hold on to. Its surface was smooth and slippery but it was a support that kept his face above the water. With slow comprehension he realized that his arms were clasped around a man’s neck, and that he was riding on a swimmer’s back. The wet, rough sensation against his cheek was a mass of tightly curled hair.

  One of the Coromantees was towing him forward. He closed his eyes again and hung on.

  Time passed, he had no idea how long. He was dimly aware that the swimmer changed. Another replaced the man supporting him, and again he felt the powerful movements of someone underneath him swimming forward.

  He continued to slip in and out of consciousness until a painful blow on his shoulder jolted him out of his stupor. He was looking directly up at the bow of a rowing boat. The keel had struck him. There was momentary confusion as the rowers spun the boat, the blade of an oar banged him on the ear, and then he was being hoisted aboard, the gunwale scraping his ribs. He heard someone shouting an order in a French accent, urging the rowers to get the boat back to the ship. He knew that the speaker was Jacques, and that the cockboat from the Speedy Return had saved him.

  ELEVEN

  STANDING FACING HIS audience in the waist of the Speedy Return, Hector swallowed gently to clear his throat, still sore from taking in so much seawater twenty-four hours earlier. His headache had subsided to a dull throb which he could ignore. All the dizziness and blackouts had gone, and Dan had stitched up the gash in his scalp left by a flying splinter. Watching the ring of expectant faces waiting to hear what he proposed to do next, it occurred to Hector that an outsider would scarcely have been able to tell that the attempt to launch a fireship had been such an utter disaster. The weather was just as sunny and pleasant as it had been every day for the past week, and if there was an air of disappointment aboard the Speedy Return, it was very muted.

  ‘Yesterday I had hoped that we would damage the Sainte Rose so badly that she would be unable to set sail. Today I propose we sink her.’

  An astonished silence greeted his words. Then came the strange guttural sounds of Bartaboa translating his statement to the Coromantees. Allgood, the sailor with the missing fingers, was looking at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Captain,’ he asked, ‘if you are so sure you can sink the frigate why did we not try that yesterday? Instead we’ve handed the Meteor to de Graff and made him stronger.’

  ‘It is because de Graff and his men have got their hands on the Meteor that we can now destroy his ship.’

  A general look of puzzlement spread among his listeners.

  Jezreel spoke up. ‘You’ll have to explain, Hector. Maybe I’m being slow but I can’t see how that changes anything.’

  Hector’s head wound had begun to itch. He resisted the urge to reach up and scratch. ‘What do you think de Graff and his men will be doing over the next few days?’

  ‘Celebrating their victory and getting the frigate ready for the sea with the help of fresh supplies from the Meteor,’ said Jezreel immediately.

  ‘Precisely. They will not expect another attack.’

  ‘And what sort of attack do you have in mind?’ asked the Reverend Watson cautiously.

  Jacques already knew the answer. ‘It’s all that rum and brandy on board the Meteor, isn’t it, Hector? You think that de Graff’s men will be drunk and incapable for the next few days.’

  ‘That’s right, Jacques. We saw the sort of men who sail with de Graff on the day he put a prize crew aboard the Morvaut. They were hard drinkers, every last one, always at the bottle. Imagine what they will be like now that they’ve got their hands on the Meteor’s cargo, with all that rum and brandy. They probably had their tongues hanging out for it.’

  The parson was still unconvinced. ‘Even if de Graff’s gun crews are blind drunk and the Return manages to get into the anchorage, we can do little harm to the frigate. Our sakers may inflict some damage but they’re unlikely to sink her.’

  Hector allowed a moment to pass before he responded. Then he said slowly and deliberately, ‘I don’t intend to take the Speedy Return into the bay. We can dispose of the Sainte Rose without firing a shot.’

  Now even Jezreel was beginning to look at him as though his head wound had done damage to his brain. He ploughed on. ‘De Graff is renowned for his boldness, courage and cunning. But what are his weaknesses?’

  No one replied, so he answered for them. ‘He is also known for his high opinion of himself, his gallantry, and his vicious temper. It is these that I intend to exploit.’

  He paused and looked across at Jacques. If anyone could guess his plan it would be the Frenchman. Besides, he would need Jacques’ help. But Jacques was silent, a slight frown on his face as he tried to puzzle out what scheme Hector was hatching.

  ‘Two days ago when Dan and I went ashore to spy out de Graff’s camp we saw a woman walking the beach with him. We recognized her as Anne-Marie Kergonan. She’s from Tortuga.’

  ‘You think this woman can help us?’ interjected Bartaboa. There was deep scepticism in his voice.

  ‘Indirectly. I don’t know if she is willingly with de Graff or whether she is some sort of prisoner,’ Hector told him. ‘But one thing is sure: de Graff will fly into a rage if an enemy or a rival whisks this woman away from him.’

  Bartaboa was still doubtful. ‘That would be true if she is his wife or mistress. But you admit that she may only be some sort of prisoner.’

  ‘You miss my point,’ said Hector. He looked round the faces of his audience, trying to judge whether his listeners were open to persuasion. ‘It’s de Graff’s reaction that counts. He would be mortified if the story came to be told how a woman was filched from under his nose. It doesn’t matter whether she was his mistress or his captive. His pride will cloud his judgement.’

  ‘So you propose to steal this woman, and then what?’ asked Bartaboa.

  Jacques supplied the answer. ‘De Graff will try to get her back, at any cost.’

  ‘And that’s when we will arrange to have his ship destroyed,’ added Hector.

  The parson’s brow cleared. ‘You mean we take this woman
, and lure de Graff out of the careenage. Then we lead him to some place where the Spanish flota can deal with him,’ said the Reverend.

  ‘That is one way of doing it,’ said Hector, though it was not what he had in mind.

  *

  THE TEMPTATION TO scratch at the wound in his scalp was almost impossible to resist. This time it was not the stitches which were tormenting him, but mosquitoes. He could hear their whine and, from time to time, felt a piercing needle stab of pain as one of them settled on his bleeding scalp and began to feed. Hector gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the ordeal. It was close to midnight and he could see de Graff’s camp fires between the trees. He and Dan had landed from the cockboat, not on the same beach as before, but on the low spit of land across the channel from the shore battery. This time Jacques accompanied them. They had made a wide circle, staying a safe distance inland. Then they had crept through the coconut groves which fringed the bay until they were some hundred paces from the filibustier’s camp. Judging by the sound of drunken singing and loud voices, Hector had been right to assume that de Graff’s men would celebrate the capture of the Meteor with a debauch.

  ‘Where do you think we find the Kergonan woman?’ whispered Jacques.

  ‘Dan and I saw a separate tent set back among the trees. That’s probably for her,’ replied Hector softly.

  Treading carefully, the three men crept towards the isolated tent. Its shape reminded Hector of the small pavilions that hucksters set up at fairs. De Graff must have found it in the cargo of some merchant vessel. The tent was bulky enough to shield them from the main campsite, and they reached it without trouble. There was no one on guard, and for a few moments the three of them stood quietly listening. All they could hear was the background noise of laughter and braying voices from the main camp. There was no sound from inside the tent, and Hector feared it might be unoccupied. He knelt down on the sand and began to cut a slit in the rear panel. The material was unexpectedly tough, and he had to saw with his knife blade to slice through the fabric. From time to time he paused and listened again, but still could hear nothing to suggest he had been discovered. A succession of musket shots made his heart leap into his mouth, but it was only de Graff’s rowdies shooting off their guns into the air in drunken celebration. Finally the slit was large enough for Hector to crawl through.

  On hands and knees he entered. The door flap of the tent facing the bay was open, fastened back to let in the air. Slowly and carefully he rose to his feet, holding his breath. Enough light came in through the opening for him to see that the tent was comfortably furnished and a hammock was strung between two of the tent poles. Disappointingly the hammock hung limp and unoccupied. The light from the distant fire glinted off the barrel of a long hunting gun, propped against a chest, and he decided that he had made an error. The tent was occupied by a man, not by Anne-Marie Kergonan. Perhaps it was de Graff’s own tent. Hector let out his breath. His plan had miscarried. He was about to crouch down and wriggle out through the slit in the back of the tent when he felt something hard and blunt pushed into his back.

  ‘Tourne-toi,’ said a voice he recognized.

  He turned and looked into the face of Anne-Marie Kergonan. She had a pistol in her hand and it was levelled at his stomach. Astonishingly, she did not appear to be in the least surprised.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ she said quietly, this time in English, ‘even in the dark and on your hands and knees. But I needed to be sure. Otherwise I would have pulled the trigger.’

  Hector had recovered from his astonishment. ‘Did I make that much noise?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not so much. But when a woman lives among so many men, not all of whom are gentlemen, she sleeps lightly and keeps a pistol close to hand.’

  ‘I’ve come to take you away. There’s a ship standing by,’ said Hector. He kept his voice low.

  ‘And why should I want to go with you?’ asked the Breton.

  ‘I thought that de Graff might be holding you as a prisoner,’ ventured Hector.

  ‘And what made you think that?’ There was a mocking tone in her voice.

  Hector was confused. He was aware that Dan and Jacques were standing behind the tent, waiting for him. They could hear the conversation.

  ‘When we last met, you were furious with de Graff for seizing our salvage from the Vipers.’

  ‘So now you want me to run away with you and your friends, who, I presume, are waiting outside?’

  ‘That’s right. And we must move quickly . . .’

  Anne-Marie held up her hand to silence him. ‘I need a moment to think.’

  Hector’s eyes were fully used to the dim light inside the tent. The Breton was dressed in a light shift, her shoulders bare, her hair cut short. Her expression was impossible to read, the lustrous eyes were deep pools of darkness.

  ‘Tell me more about this ship of yours, and where you are going,’ she demanded.

  ‘She’s the Speedy Return, based in Port Royal.’

  ‘Not a place that would welcome a French woman,’ she said drily.

  ‘I could arrange for you to get back to Tortuga, if that is what you want. I’ll be going there myself to find my wife, Maria.’

  There was an odd note to her voice as she replied. ‘So you’ve not heard from Maria recently?’

  Hector was puzzled. ‘No.’

  ‘Then I have to tell you that she’s no longer in Tortuga.’

  Hector was taken aback. He had thought to rescue or even kidnap Anne-Marie Kergonan. Instead they were discussing Maria.

  He heard Jacques hiss from outside the tent, ‘Hector, hurry up! We can’t stay here all night.’

  Anne-Marie gave a low throaty laugh. She seemed to have made up her mind. ‘All right. I’ll come with you. But first I gather a few things together.’

  Hector moved to stand just inside the door of the tent where he could keep watch, looking towards the camp fire. The sounds of revelry were dying down. He guessed that de Graff’s men had drunk themselves senseless or were beginning to settle down for the night.

  There was a rustling at his elbow and there was Anne-Marie. Under one arm she had a bundle, presumably of clothes. With her free hand she was carrying the long-barrelled musket he had seen propped against the chest.

  ‘A souvenir of a previous life,’ she answered, seeing his surprise.

  He touched her on the shoulder, feeling the smooth skin, and pointed the direction she should go. They slipped out of the tent and Dan and Jacques appeared from the darkness. Together they began to retrace the path to where they had left the cockboat.

  They had gone only a short distance when someone belched loudly. They froze. A man was urinating against a tree trunk not twenty yards away. He was standing with his back towards them, and must have come up from the beach to relieve himself. He had only to turn and they would be seen.

  Jacques reacted quickly. He stumbled forward as if tipsy and took up a position on the far side of the sailor. He fumbled at his belt, humming under his breath.

  ‘Bordel de merde! Fous-moi le camp vite faite,’ snarled the sailor.

  ‘T’énerve pas,’ muttered Jacques. He hiccuped and moved a few yards away. There he dropped his breeches, squatted down and broke wind noisily. The sailor hurriedly adjusted his clothing and stalked away in disgust and without another glance.

  As soon as the sailor was gone, Jacques pulled up his breeches and hurried back to join the others.

  ‘I’ll soon be qualified to be a sailing master.’ He grinned. ‘I remembered to fart from upwind.’

  *

  ANNE-MARIE WAS BEGINNING to wonder why Hector and his companions were wasting time. They had reached the beach where they had left their cockboat and launched the little boat without the alarm being raised. Now, instead of rowing off to rejoin their ship, they were drifting aimlessly in the entrance to the bay. Dan and Hector were at the oars, and Jacques was seated in the stern beside her. She could see a scar crusted with dried blood on Hector’s scalp.
Someone had shaved away a patch of hair and done some neat stitching. The wound looked fresh.

  ‘There’ll be some fierce hangovers on-shore,’ observed Jacques to no one in particular.

  ‘Let’s hope it spoils their aim,’ Dan answered. The Miskito gave a gentle pull with his blade to keep the cockboat pointing out to sea. Anne-Marie noted that his gaze kept returning to the hillside overlooking the channel.

  Hector was asking her a question. ‘Anne-Marie, did de Graff mention when the Sainte Rose would be ready to sail?’

  ‘He wanted it to be last week. He was cursing the men and threatening to punish any idlers. He cheered up, though, when he got his hands on the store ship.’

  ‘Is there a lot still to be done on the frigate?’

  ‘Only some rigging and getting the rest of her guns aboard. The men have already started to bring their gear back on to the ship. The plan was to dismantle their camp after last night’s celebrations.’

  ‘There’s someone up there now!’ Dan broke in quietly. The first rays of the early morning sun were turning the hillside a vivid green. Tendrils of mist curled up where the overnight dew was burning off the foliage. Anne-Marie could make out the figure of a man standing beside the muzzle of one of the guns. He looked down at them and then ran off.

  ‘Here comes their launch now. Time to be on our way,’ said Hector. He and Dan bent to their oars and began to row the skiff seaward. Anne-Marie turned in her seat and saw the frigate’s launch in the distance, coming towards them. Her absence must have been discovered and they were giving chase.

  ‘Excuse me, madam. Perhaps you would prefer to look the other way,’ said Jacques. The skiff wobbled as he rose to his feet, dropped his breeches and exposed his buttocks towards the hillside. Anne-Marie saw there were now half a dozen men standing beside the gun battery.