by Tim Severin
Both his listeners nodded. De Graff had a bored expression on his face as if he did not need the lecture. Jezreel continued. ‘The challenger, Anne-Marie Kergonan, will then load her fusil, take aim and shoot at the challenged, Captain Laurens Cornelis de Graff. After the first shot, it will be the turn of the captain to fire. The exchange of shots will continue until one or other of the duellists is killed or wounded. Is that clear?’
Again, de Graff and Anne-Marie nodded.
‘One more thing – whoever is receiving fire is obliged to remain absolutely still. That is the custom. If either party attempts to evade the bullet or distract the opponent’s aim, it will be my duty to shoot him or her out of hand. Is that clear?’
Again his listeners nodded.
‘Good. Then let us go to the island,’ said Jezreel. He went to the rail and beckoned to the longboat to come alongside.
*
HECTOR WATCHED THEM go ashore on the island. Too far away for him to make out the details, he could see Jezreel take up his place at the water’s edge, then the longboat rowed clear. Anne-Marie and de Graff began walking off in opposite directions. He counted the number of their paces. It was between thirty and forty, and the distance between them was at least seventy yards when Jezreel must have called a halt. He saw the two duellists turn and face one another. He wondered if Anne-Marie had the strength to hold the long-barrelled hunting gun steady. What followed would require skilful marksmanship. That was why men like her dead husband, the cattle hunter, had chosen this strange way to settle their quarrels. They prided themselves on accuracy with a gun.
De Graff was standing very tall, his back straight. He held his musket cradled in his arms and looked directly at his opponent. He had not deigned to turn side on and present a narrower target. Even at that distance his posture was one of boredom, not fear. Facing him, Anne-Marie was taking her time. Hector saw her place the butt of her hunting gun on the sand, pour in a measure of powder, drop in the musket ball, and ram it home. Deliberately she slid the ramrod back into its slot. Then she raised the weapon to her shoulder. Legs braced, she seemed to pause for a long time, the gun levelled. De Graff was like a blue and white statue. He had taken off his hat and placed it on the ground beside him. A whisper of breeze lifted his yellow hair.
There was a puff of smoke as Anne-Marie pulled the trigger, followed by the hollow report of the musket shot.
For a brief moment de Graff stayed standing. Then his own musket slipped from his arms and, very slowly, he toppled over to one side, fell to the sand, and lay without moving. Jezreel was running forward to assist him. Anne-Marie had dropped her fusil, and she too was running along the strand towards her victim.
Hector had to squint against the glitter of the sunshine off the bright sea. Jezreel had knelt down beside de Graff’s body, presumably to check the extent of the wound. Anne-Marie joined him, and from her movements he guessed that she was tearing a strip from her dress to use as a bandage.
Then Jezreel stood up and came striding back down the beach to the water’s edge. He waved to the waiting longboat, beckoning it closer. Three or four of the oarsmen jumped into the shallows and ran up the beach. They picked up their captain, carried him back and put him in the longboat. Jezreel and Anne-Marie scrambled aboard and then the boat sped off towards the stranded frigate.
‘He’s badly hurt by the look of it,’ observed Jacques. He had come to stand alongside Hector at the rail. They watched the longboat reach the Sainte Rose and the wounded captain being hoisted aboard.
‘Let’s hope they have a competent surgeon,’ said Hector. He held no real dislike for de Graff.
‘De Graff runs that ship more like a buccaneer than a royal vessel. There should be a good sawbones aboard,’ said Jacques. It was common practice among buccaneers and privateers to club together before a voyage and hire their own surgeon who could deal with shipboard illness and battle wounds.
‘I think I ought to go across and see if I can help,’ said Hector. He had been a surgeon’s assistant at one time and had dealt with gunshot wounds.
‘Hello, it seems that they’re coming to us for something,’ observed Jacques not long afterwards. The longboat had again put off from the frigate and was rowing rapidly towards them. When the boat was within earshot, a man stood up and began shouting urgently.
‘What’s he calling for?’ asked Hector.
‘He’s asking for a priest. Anne-Marie must be a crack shot,’ observed Jacques dourly.
Hector ran in search of Watson. He found him seated on a cannon, hat on head and Bible in hand. He was reading passages from Scripture, first in English, then consulting a slip of paper and mouthing the translation to his audience of two of the Coromantee sailors. ‘Reverend, the frigate is calling urgently for a priest,’ Hector told him.
Watson looked up. ‘If it’s to administer the last rites, then Graff will want a Papist, not me.’
‘I doubt he’ll care very much what sort of clergyman he gets. I’ll go with you,’ said Hector brusquely.
Watson closed his Bible with a snap and accompanied him to where the longboat had already pulled alongside. Moments later they were being rowed towards the Sainte Rose. ‘Is your captain badly hurt?’ Hector asked one of the oarsmen in French.
‘In the heart,’ came the reply, and the man bent to his next stroke.
A boarding ladder had been lowered, and an impatient-looking naval officer was waiting to escort them. As Hector was hurried across the deck, he noted that de Graff’s crew had already got on with making good the damage to their ship. Men were splicing broken cordage, a team of carpenters and their mates were busy with drawknives, shaping a new topmast, and from below came the sound of hammering. Doubtless the hull planking was being repaired. The crew were rough, ill-disciplined and often tipsy, but in an emergency they were good seamen.
They stopped before a handsome door of carved mahogany set under the break of the poop deck. Their escort knocked discreetly and stood aside for Hector and the parson to enter.
After the poky accommodation of the Speedy Return, the frigate captain’s cabin was palatial. It extended across the full width of the ship. A broad stern window let in bright sunshine that lit up every corner of the room. On the floor was a fine carpet patterned in red and black. The bulkheads were hung with paintings. An inlaid writing desk stood beside a glass-fronted cabinet containing books and rolled-up charts. There were half a dozen gilt chairs of the type Hector would have expected to see in a salon.
Seated on one of them was Anne-Marie Kergonan. She was dressed with particular care. Her fringed petticoat and silk gown were in green and gold, and she had tied matching bows in her hair. From a ribbon of green watered silk around her throat hung a heavy gold man’s ring set with a large green gem.
Hector was lost for words. He could scarcely recognize the fierce duellist who had gone ashore dressed soberly and carrying a fusil. He came to the conclusion that de Graff must have kept an entire wardrobe for her on his ship. Anne-Marie’s hands were demurely folded on her lap, and she gave him an enigmatic, self-assured look.
An even greater surprise was de Graff. Hector had expected to find him on the point of death. Instead, the filibustier captain was very much alive. Propped on cushions, he was sitting up in a sea cot suspended by ropes from the deck beams. His uniform coat was draped over his shoulders. Opened at the front, it revealed a thick swathe of bandages covering his bare chest. He looked alert and healthy apart from a slight pallor that Hector put down to loss of blood.
‘Thank you for bringing a churchman, Monsieur Lynch. I’m glad to see he has his Bible with him.’
Watson was looking equally taken aback.
Hector recovered his composure. ‘Captain, I am pleased to see that you are not badly hurt. And I trust that honour has been satisfied.’
De Graff grinned. ‘More than satisfied. You might say that honour has been retrieved.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’
De G
raff shifted, easing his position in the cot. ‘My wound is painful but not fatal and it has made me see things differently.’
Hector allowed himself a quick glance at Anne-Marie. She had one hand up to her throat and was fingering the ring on the ribbon. She was looking mildly triumphant.
‘I never thought I would encounter a woman who would challenge me to a duel nor aim a fusil so well,’ said de Graff. ‘Such a woman is beyond compare.’
Hector waited for the filibustier to go on.
‘So I have asked Anne-Marie to be my wife. She has agreed.’
Hector felt his mouth drop open with shock.
De Graff attempted a small bow in his direction. ‘I am in your debt, Monsieur Lynch. Thanks to you I have come to realize that my recent actions were unthinking. They were driven by jealousy. In my business jealousy is a dangerous weakness. Marrying Anne-Marie Kergonan will mean I need no longer be swayed by it. I will think clearly again.’
Hector looked from him to Anne-Marie. The ring on the neck ribbon must be a token from de Graff.
‘Let me be the first to congratulate you,’ he said to the Frenchman.
‘Not until the priest here has solemnized our vows. Mr Lynch, I would be glad if you would act as one witness. Lieutenant DuBois here will act as the other.’
The Reverend Watson had recovered from his astonishment. He took off his hat, opened his Bible and cleared his throat. He was about to begin reading when, suddenly, he paused, looked up and said to de Graff, ‘Captain, you do know that it is customary for the minister to receive a marriage fee.’
‘Yes, yes, we’ll deal with that later,’ de Graff answered brusquely, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Please get on with it.’
It took Watson no more than five minutes to perform the ceremony and pronounce Captain Laurens Cornelis de Graff and Anne-Marie Kergonan to be man and wife.
‘Well, that calls for a celebration,’ said de Graff as the parson closed his Bible and replaced his hat on his head. The naval officer went across to a walnut cabinet and took out half a dozen crystal glasses and a bottle of fine cognac. He poured and handed out the drinks and the assembled company toasted the marriage.
De Graff was in an expansive mood. ‘Mr Lynch, I will give instructions that goods to the same value of those taken from the Morvaut are placed aboard the longboat taking you and the minister back to your ship. I hope you will excuse me if I don’t escort you, but my wound is too fresh to allow me to walk.’
Hector had turned to leave the cabin when he was brought to a halt by Watson saying loudly, ‘Captain de Graff, there is still the matter of my fee.’
A wave of embarrassment swept over Hector. He was ashamed at the parson’s naked greed as he waited for Watson to name his price. Fortunately de Graff seemed not the least put out. ‘Of course, Monsieur, tell me what you want. I count myself lucky that a priest was so close to hand.’
‘I would like the longboat,’ announced Watson.
There was a bemused silence.
‘My ship’s longboat?’ asked de Graff.
‘Yes. I would be obliged if the boat could be handed over to me. That will be my fee.’
De Graff looked completely baffled. ‘But I need the longboat to set the anchors when we attempt to pull the Sainte Rose off the reef by her capstan.’
Watson was adamant. ‘It will be enough if the longboat is delivered to the Speedy Return after the anchors have been set.’
De Graff looked across at Hector. Both men were disconcerted.
‘Reverend, we don’t need a longboat,’ Hector interjected. ‘It’s too big to carry on the Speedy Return. We’d have to tow it all the way to Port Royal. We already have the cockboat as a tender and that is sufficient.’
‘The longboat is not for us,’ said Watson.
‘Then for whom?’ asked Hector. He could not imagine why the parson wanted a thirty-foot open boat equipped with mast and sails.
‘You are forgetting our Coromantee crew. We cannot take them back to Port Royal. They would be treated as runaways, branded or chained, perhaps both. Certainly they would be whipped.’
‘And what good would the longboat be for them?’
‘I’ve been talking with Dan. He tells me that his people are partly descended from men from Africa wrecked on their shore. The Miskito might look favourably on a boatload of black sailors who reach them. You have seen that they are prime seamen. I propose giving them the longboat and enough water and food to see them safely to the Miskito shore. There they can take their chances.’
Hector looked at the parson. Watson had removed his hat once again, and he was passing his hand through the last few long strands of lank greasy hair. His eyes were pleading.
Hector knew that he owed a debt to his African sailors. The Return could make it back to Port Royal without their help. A skeleton crew could handle the pink.
‘If Captain de Graff agrees to provide you with the longboat, I will let the Coromantees leave. Will you go with them?’
The minister shook his head. ‘No. My work is still among the oppressed. I will return to Port Royal with you and somehow get myself to another island where I can continue my ministry.’
Hector caught de Graff’s eye. The filibustier captain spread out his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘So be it. If you and Mr Lynch will return directly to your ship, I will have the boatswain arrange for all my ship’s anchors to be carried out, ready for hauling off on the height of the next spring tide. Once the anchors are properly set, the longboat will be handed over to you.’
‘Can I have your word on that?’ said Watson.
‘You don’t need my word,’ answered de Graff with a gallant nod towards Anne-Marie. ‘My wife will make sure that I keep the bargain.’
THIRTEEN
IN PORT ROYAL THE WEATHER had turned very peculiar. Thunderclouds billowed and massed over the town, their undersides dark and swollen. But they never released rain. The sea breeze which normally cooled the town by day failed. The air trapped under the cloud blanket was stiflingly hot and oppressive. Drawn into the lungs it felt as if it had already been breathed twice over. Everyone suffered. There was a general run of headaches and fevers and the lowering sky produced a widespread sense of foreboding. The evenings drew dark almost the moment the sun went down, and at that early hour many townsfolk took to their beds and hammocks. They lay sweating, unable to sleep, listening to the hum and whine of the flying insects that multiplied and thrived in the sultry conditions. In the front room of his town house, Captain Blackmore, planter and council member, could feel the sweat trickling down his back and pooling in the little hollow at the base of his spine. Although only a short while after sunset, it was already so dark that he had called on the servants to light the candles. He sat at a table and watched a beetle cautiously explore the wooden surface. The insect was the size, shape and colour of a roasted coffee bean.
The planter leaned forward and picked up a candle holder from the table. He held it over the beetle and carefully tilted the light so that a runnel of melted wax dripped down and landed on the insect’s back. The splash of molten wax caused the beetle to turn and scuttle for cover. The planter quickly laid his arm on the table, blocking the insect’s escape. The beetle turned back. As it did so, the planter dripped a larger splash of liquid on to its carapace. The beetle raised its wings, trying to fly away. But it was too late, the wax was congealing, holding it down, trapping it. A third cascade of the wax and the beetle died, entombed like a fly in amber.
Captain Blackmore put down the candle and looked across at Maria seated opposite him. They were alone. ‘I gather that you spend much of your free time on the waterfront,’ he said.
‘I can assure you, sir, that I am not neglecting my duties to your children,’ answered Maria. The planter had called her unexpectedly to the interview after finishing his supper. The three children in her charge were asleep upstairs, and the planter’s mother, Mrs Blackmore, had not yet returned from a visit to friends for goss
ip and a game of whist.
‘Quite so. Señor Pimiento tells me that they are making fair progress in learning Spanish.’
‘The little girl in particular.’
‘It is not fitting for the governess of my children to frequent the waterfront. It gives the wrong impression.’
The planter looked at Maria pensively, his fingers toying with the base of the candlestick. His brooding gaze unsettled her. She looked down at her hands clasped on her lap, and strained her ears hoping to hear the footsteps of Mrs Blackmore returning to the house. She wished fervently for some sort of interruption to the interview. The planter allowed the silence to drag out before he said quietly, ‘I’m told that a pirate by the name of Lynch was sent here by the Spanish authorities in Cartagena to be tried for piracy. But he seems to have disappeared. Would he be a relation of yours?’
Despite the heat in the stuffy room, Maria felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over her. Her stomach muscles tensed. She wondered how Blackmore had come by his information and whether it was correct. Struggling to keep her voice steady, she said, ‘It is true that I am married, and that my husband is a seafarer. But he is no pirate. There must be other Lynches serving at sea. It is a common enough name in the Caribbees.’
‘I expect to have a hand in the man’s fate when this particular Lynch is back in custody,’ said the captain. He paused to allow the significance of his remark to sink in.
Maria forced herself to sound meek. ‘Forgive me, sir, but if he is accused of piracy does he not face trial before the chief justice?’
‘He does, and if the chief justice finds this Lynch guilty of piracy – as he surely will – he will condemn him to be hanged and his body put on show at Gallows Point. But first the Governor must approve the death sentence.’