by Tim Severin
‘And the Governor will seek your advice?’ said Maria cautiously. She sensed that Blackmore was approaching the crux of the matter, and she knew that it would be unpleasant.
‘Governor Inchiquin is not well. This oppressive weather has made his illness very much worse. He has taken to his sickbed and delegated all his official duties to a council of three nominated by the Assembly. I am one of those who were selected.’
‘I congratulate you and hope that the Governor recovers his full health in due course,’ said Maria flatly.
‘More likely the Governor will never recover.’ Blackmore’s gravelly voice held no trace of regret.
Maria shifted slightly in her chair as if about to rise.
Captain Blackmore deliberately allowed his gaze to drift downward from her face and linger on her bust. ‘If this pirate Lynch does turn out to be your husband, you can come to me for help.’ His tone left no doubt how he expected to be rewarded for his assistance.
Climbing the stairs to her room, Maria felt a tightening knot of fear as she wondered if Hector knew the danger he faced on his return to Port Royal – and how she could possibly warn him. More practically, when she reached her bedchamber, she closed the door and wedged a chair under the handle.
*
ABOARD THE Speedy Return the leaden colour of the sky was worrying Jacques. He was easily seasick and he feared that he could be called upon to handle the rig on a heaving, slippery deck.
‘You don’t think that a hurricane is on the way, do you?’ he muttered to Hector. The two men were sharing the afternoon watch. Despite the ominously overcast sky, the north-west wind was holding steady and they had been able to lash the helm, and as a result had very little to do.
‘Wrong season,’ came the brief answer. Hector had been in a half-trance, daydreaming of what he would say to Maria now that he knew she could be waiting for him in Port Royal.
‘It’ll be a pity if bad weather keeps the crowds away when we sail into port flying de Graff’s own flag upside down. It’ll spoil the effect,’ said Jacques.
‘That’s not a storm sky. The clouds are too stationary,’ Hector reassured his friend. He had insisted that de Graff surrender his personal ensign. The white cross on a blue ground with a single large fleur-de-lis at its centre would be proof of his mission’s success. He intended to hand it to Governor Inchiquin as a trophy.
Jacques stifled a yawn. ‘I’m looking forward to spending some of the compensation that de Graff paid for stealing our salvage from the Spanish wreck.’
‘And what will you do after sampling the delights of Port Royal?’ asked Hector. His happy anticipation of seeing Maria was tempered by the knowledge that he and his friends would soon be going their separate ways. Dan had already left. He had volunteered to go with the longboat and the Coromantee sailors to the Miskito coast. There he would introduce them to his own people, and plead their case before the council of elders. At the last moment the Reverend Watson had changed his mind and decided to accompany them, as had Allgood and the other two men Jezreel had recruited. Now there were only Hector, Jezreel, Jacques and Bartaboa to handle the pink, a sufficient number if the weather did not break.
Jacques grinned. He was cheering up. ‘Depends how much money remains after I’ve had my debauch.’
‘We don’t yet know how much there is to begin with,’ Hector cautioned. ‘De Graff promised goods to the value of our salvage. But I haven’t had time to check the chests and bags that his men put aboard.’
Jacques was not to be discouraged. ‘Port Royal is a den of thieves. I’m sure we’ll find someone willing to take everything off our hands, no questions asked.’ He broke off and squinted forward over the bows. ‘I think I see high mountains dead ahead.’ Hector followed the direction of his gaze. Far in the distance appeared a faint irregular line, about a hand’s breadth above the horizon. Against the gloomy backdrop of the sky the line was difficult to make out but it could be the crest of a mountain ridge. There seemed to be a darker solid patch beneath it, possibly a land mass. Hector wished that Dan were still aboard. The Miskito’s keen eyesight would have settled any doubt.
‘If that’s Jamaica, we should reach Port Royal before noon tomorrow.’ His heart beat a little faster at the knowledge that he could be very close to Maria.
From the main deck below them Jezreel had noticed the sudden air of activity. He put aside the rope he was splicing and came up the companionway to join them.
‘Jamaica!’ exclaimed Jacques, pointing.
‘Can’t be absolutely sure yet,’ Hector warned.
Jezreel studied the horizon and as he did so a shaft of sunlight broke through a cleft in the clouds. For a moment it lit up a patch of sea midway between the Speedy Return and the land. Sailing in that circle of light was a vessel. Hector knew her instantly. She was the Swan, the same elderly naval frigate which had brought him and his friends from Cartagena to face justice in Port Royal. She was heading towards them.
Jezreel also recognized the warship. ‘That’s Jamaica all right. The Swan must be on patrol, watching out for any French attack on the coast.’
‘Can’t we ignore her and sail past?’ Jacques suggested. He was still not sure about the coming weather and wanted to be snug in port as soon as possible.
Hector thought for a moment. ‘That would be easy enough. Swan is a slow sailer as I recall. But it would give the wrong impression, as if we had something to hide. Best if we report to her captain.’ Privately he was disappointed that their arrival in Port Royal and his chance to locate Maria would be delayed, if only for a few hours.
They watched the Swan’s lumbering approach. It was obvious that her captain wanted to intercept the pink. When still a mile away he fired a windward gun, the signal to call a halt. Dutifully, the Speedy Return let fly her topsail to show that she understood the command, and Hector and his three shipmates began to douse the brig’s sails. The pink lay waiting as the larger vessel closed the gap and lowered a boat.
‘That’s the same lieutenant who handed us over to the provost marshal in Port Royal,’ said Jezreel. A fat, yellow-haired young officer could be seen in the stern sheets of the boat as it rowed towards them with the boarding party.
Hector felt a faint prickle of alarm. He had a premonition that something was about to go wrong. He should not have stopped for the Swan, but headed directly for Port Royal.
A sailor from the boarding party swung himself nimbly up on to the deck of the Speedy Return. He turned and held out an arm to help his more clumsy officer. Hector remembered the young lieutenant’s name. It was Balchen, George Balchen. He was a plodder, a little lazy and lacking in imagination and – from what Hector could recall from conversations on the voyage from Cartagena to Port Royal – had an uncle on the Navy Board in London. That was probably how Balchen had got his comfortable posting on the Jamaica station.
With a grunt the lieutenant heaved himself on to the Return’s deck and straightened up, catching his breath as he looked about him. Hector noticed for the first time that the lieutenant’s eyes were pale grey and very close-spaced. They came to rest on him and Balchen’s expression of astonishment was rapidly replaced by one of suspicion. He frowned, trying to recall exactly what had been said when he left Hector and his friends after the meeting with Secretary Reeve at King’s House in Port Royal.
‘What are you doing here!’ he exclaimed. ‘Broke your parole, did you? I should have made sure you were locked up.’
‘My friends and I were released on the orders of the Governor,’ said Hector stiffly.
The lieutenant gave a snort of disbelief. He turned to the men of his boarding party. ‘Search this ship! Find out what she’s carrying,’ he ordered.
He faced Hector again. ‘The last time I set foot on this vessel it was to seize her as a smuggler. I see you’ve changed her to a brig, hoping she won’t be recognized.’
Hector tried to sound reasonable. ‘We adapted her rig because she sailed better that way. We were cha
sing French filibustiers.’
Balchen guffawed. ‘With what crew? I see only four of you. Hardly enough to go tackling the French.’
‘It’s complicated . . .’ began Hector.
‘I’m sure it is,’ snapped Balchen. One of his sailors was coming forward, carrying a small canvas sack. Hector recognized one of the bags put aboard by de Graff. Judging by the way it bulged, it contained a variety of hard-edged objects.
‘I think you should look at this, sir. Found it tucked away in the forepeak,’ said the sailor. He opened the mouth of the sack and pulled out the topmost item – a two-handled silver bowl. It was a valuable piece, about eight inches high, its rim ornately decorated with a scrollwork of flowers. It would have graced a very rich man’s table.
‘Christ alive! Not even smuggling. That’s loot!’ exclaimed Balchen. He took the bowl from the sailor and inspected it closely. ‘Some sort of crest, Latin inscription. Don’t know what it says.’ He turned the bowl upside down and looked at the base. ‘Hallmark is a lion, so it must be English-made, though no knowing who owned it before this gang of villains got their hands on it.’
‘Another three bags, sir, much the same. Bowls, jugs, some plate, jewellery too,’ said the sailor.
Hector decided that matters were getting out of hand. ‘Lieutenant, those items are legitimate prize. I have a privateer’s commission from the Governor.’
Balchen raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Let’s see it then.’
Hector hurried to find the parchment that Mr Reeve, the Governor’s secretary, had provided. He handed it to the lieutenant, who read through it slowly. When he had finished he looked up at Hector with a triumphant smirk. ‘This document is a fake.’
‘It is genuine, prepared by Mr Reeve the Governor’s secretary and signed by Lord Inchiquin himself,’ objected Hector.
The lieutenant sneered. ‘Lynch, you’ve picked the wrong man to try to hoodwink. I happen to know that the Navy Board has banned the practice of giving out privateering commissions. They are no longer issued. They encourage piracy.’
‘I can assure you this one is genuine,’ Hector repeated.
‘If this were a French commission I’d say you purchased it.’ Like everyone else Balchen had heard tales of how the governors of the French-held islands made money by selling privateering commissions with the names left blank, to be filled by the purchaser.
‘Could be he’s working with the French, and all,’ said another sailor who had joined them. He held up de Graff’s flag.
Balchen’s eyes bulged with shock. ‘So you’re a traitor as well as a pirate!’ he burst out.
‘That flag is not mine. It is intended as a gift for Governor Inchiquin.’
Balchen swung round on his heel and shouted to his men, ‘We’re taking charge of this ship right now. Put this lot under arrest and take them across to the Swan.’
Hector made one last attempt to retrieve the situation. ‘Lieutenant, you’re making a mistake. Lord Inchiquin sent us to locate a French ship that had been raiding shipping. We are on our way back to Port Royal to report that we have found the vessel. She is commanded by Sieur de Graff and, when last seen, was hung up on the Vipers Reef. If the Governor acts quickly, he or our Spanish allies may be able to send a naval force to intercept de Graff and deal with him.’
A slow, knowing grin spread over Balchen’s face. ‘Lynch, if you were a better liar, you wouldn’t make such extravagant claims and you would make sure of your facts. Lord Inchiquin is gravely ill. He has placed the government in the hands of a committee of planters. They couldn’t care less about de Graff. When we reach Port Royal, I will hand you over to the provost marshal, properly this time, and make sure you are locked up, even if I have to turn the key myself.’
*
THE LIEUTENANT WAS as good as his word. Forty-eight hours later Hector was seated on a rough bench in a small box of a room, some three paces by two, with a brick floor and a single, small barred window high up in one wall. The provost marshal of Port Royal had put him in a cell by himself after Balchen warned that he was the ringleader of what the lieutenant called a gang of damned, bloody pirates. Jacques, Jezreel and Bartaboa were somewhere in the same gaol, but communication with them was impossible. The Marshalsea prison was one of the best-built structures in the town. The walls were three feet thick, the doors iron-plated, and the roof was strengthened with double beams to deter anyone from escaping upwards.
Hector rose to his feet and banged on the door, calling for the warder. After a delay a small hatch built into the thick door slid back, and he found himself looking into the pimply face of a boy who must have been no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Hector guessed that he was the son of a regular prison guard, standing in for his father. ‘What do you want?’ said the lad. He blushed as his adolescent voice broke awkwardly, one moment high, the next low and croaking.
‘Will you carry a message to Government House for me, to Mr Reeve, the Governor’s secretary?’
‘Why should I do that?’ asked the lad. His eyes shifted nervously, and he brought up a hand to wipe his nose.
‘For payment,’ said Hector.
The boy looked interested but doubtful. ‘Have you the money with you?’
‘I’ve money hidden away. I can get it later.’
‘Not likely.’ The tone was dismissive.
‘You know that my friends and I were caught with loot from piracy?’ said Hector. The lad’s expression told him that rumours about their arrest had spread. ‘There’s more hidden away. Some of it could be yours.’
The youthful eyes were shrewd and calculating. ‘All right. I’ll carry your message when I’m free to do so, after my father comes back on duty.’
‘First I need paper, pen and ink,’ said Hector.
The hatch slid shut and Hector paced up and down patiently until once again the hatch opened, and a hand thrust in a sheet of paper torn from a school exercise book, pen and ink. Hector sat on the bench and hurriedly scrawled a note to Reeve while the boy waited. When the note was ready, Hector handed the paper back.
‘The ink and pen as well,’ demanded the youth.
Hector obeyed. The hatch was shut, and he sat down to wait.
*
ANOTHER FULL DAY dragged past. It was not until close to sunset that the door to his cell swung open, and Mr Reeve walked in. The change in the secretary’s manner and appearance was a shock. He looked wan, untidy, his wig askew and – for some reason – shamefaced. His air of bustling efficiency was gone. Now his manner was both hesitant and demoralized.
‘Mr Reeve, thank you for coming to see me,’ began Hector. Over the secretary’s shoulder he could see a warder, a man this time, standing at the open door and supervising the interview.
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ said Reeve. He glanced about him, looking for a chair on which to sit down. But there was only the single bench.
‘My friends and I have been arrested for piracy, for joining the French. I hope you’ll be able to set matters straight,’ said Hector.
The secretary held up his hand to stop him. ‘Sadly, I’m no longer kept informed of what is going on.’
Hector blinked in surprise.
Reeve’s shoulders seemed to sag a little. ‘Lord Inchiquin is very sick and has gone to stay in the countryside. This oppressive weather in town only makes his illness worse. His day-to-day duties are now being performed by a select committee of the Assembly.’
‘So I was told,’ said Hector, ‘but surely your office still functions.’
Reeve shook his head. ‘I am passed by. My appointment is as secretary to the Governor. Technically, if he is not in post, I have no authority.’
‘Surely you will be able to verify that my commission as a privateer is genuine. You drafted it,’ said Hector.
The secretary looked embarrassed. ‘Indeed I did, and in good faith.’
‘So why can’t you consider it now?’
‘Because to do so would injure Lord In
chiquin.’ Reeve saw Hector’s puzzled expression. ‘As I explained at the time, a privateer’s commission is exceptional.’
Hector was so baffled that, without meaning to, he spoke sharply, ‘Nevertheless you wrote out a commission, took it to Lord Inchiquin to sign, and arranged for me to have the Speedy Return and provisions from government stores.’
The secretary looked pained. ‘That is the problem. Lord Inchiquin should have waited for your commission to be approved by London. Instead he acted hastily and allowed the Speedy Return to sail.’
Hector felt as if the walls of the cell were closing in around him. ‘I don’t see how that affects matters now.’
Reeve adopted an apologetic tone. ‘Please, Mr Lynch, you have no idea to what lengths the planters will go to be rid of Lord Inchiquin. They hate and resent him. If they can show that he issued an illegal commission and allowed government stores to be used, they could hurt him badly. Even get him dismissed.’
Hector glared at the distressed man so fiercely that Reeve dropped his gaze.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Reeve. ‘My loyalty is to His Lordship.’
‘So you cannot help me?’ said Hector bitterly.
‘Not at this time. Maybe when His Lordship has recovered his health and taken up the reins of government again.’
‘But that may be too late! Here they have a short way of dealing with pirates,’ Hector burst out.
Reeve flinched. ‘If there’s anything I can do in a private capacity, please tell me.’
Hector thought furiously. He and his companions were now friendless and abandoned in Port Royal. No one would even know they were being held in gaol. ‘There is one thing you can do,’ he said sourly. ‘I’m told that there is a young woman recently come to Port Royal. She’s in her early twenties, good-looking, with dark chestnut hair, and speaks with a slight Spanish accent. If you could try to trace her and tell her where she can reach me, I would be very obliged.’
The secretary looked relieved that there was something he could do to ease his conscience. ‘This woman, does she have a name?’