by Tim Severin
'Where will we go?' demanded an elderly sailor. Hector remembered him, a cooper by trade. He had made the barrels that had held their water supply for the long voyage around the Cape, a vital role. Now he was at a loss what to do. For him, like many of his shipmates, Trinity had become home.
'It must be each man for himself,' announced Sharpe. 'We go our separate ways. The authorities have lists of some of those who went to the South Seas. Any person on those lists is a wanted man.'
'Who made those lists and who is on them?' The question came from Gifford, the quartermaster. His bald scalp had turned the colour of mahogany, and his skin hung loose on his frame. He looked to have aged by at least ten years in the last few months.
Sharpe shrugged. 'I was not told. But some have already danced the Tyburn jig. Henry Morgan strung up one of our comrades recently.'
Gifford turned to address the entire crew. 'Does anyone wish to elect a new captain and continue with the cruise?'
His question was met with a silence. There was resignation in the expressions of the men. They were weary of voyaging. Those who had kept their plunder were eager to spend it.
'Very well,' announced Gifford. 'As quartermaster my duty is to supervise the final distribution of our prize. As soon as that is done, the company is dissolved.'
There followed an extraordinary ransacking of the ship. Men brought up on deck, piece by piece, all the items that Trinity had captured during her cruise and had not as yet been turned into cash — bolts of cloth for sail repairs, kegs of dried fruit, a firkin of wine, some painted church statues looted in La Serena, a spare ship's compass robbed from the Santo Rosario, even the lump of lead from her bilge which they had thought to melt down for musket balls. Everything was carried to the capstan and stacked in an untidy heap.
Abruptly, Sidias spoke up. Until now, the Greek had been standing to one side. He was not a member of the company and had no vote in the council. Nor was he entitled to a share in plunder though he had amassed considerable winnings from backgammon.
He walked over and stood by the pile of ship's goods. 'My name does not appear on any of the lists. Therefore I propose that I go ashore and find a broker to purchase these items.'
'How do we know you will not cheat us?' The question came from one of the men who had lost heavily to Sidias.
The Greek threw out his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'I will put down a deposit of fifty pounds in coin for this material. If I sell the stock for more, then I get to keep the profit as reward for my troubles. If I cannot find a buyer, then I would accept the loss. Surely that is fair.'
There was some murmuring among the men, and it was clear that Sidias was not entirely trusted. But when Gifford put the matter to the vote, it was agreed that £50 would cover the value and that the ship's launch would ferry Sidias and his goods to the jetty. After that, he was on his own.
The quartermaster moved on to other matters. 'It will be too dangerous to land as a single group. To do so would draw the attention of the authorities. Instead we go ashore in small groups, over the next few days, no more than ten or twelve at a time and disperse.'
'How do we do that?' asked the cooper.
Sharpe intervened. 'Buy passage on local ships and quietly leave. Your silver will open many doors.'
'And what about those who have no silver?' Hector searched the faces of the crowd, to see who had asked the question. The tone had been bitter. He saw it was one of a dozen or so men who were inveterate gamblers. During the return voyage they had wagered away all their plunder, mostly to Sharpe himself.
There was an awkward silence and for a moment Hector thought that there might be violence. He sensed a wave of sympathy wash through the assembled crew. A couple of the malcontents were armed. They could set upon Sharpe and give him a beating.
Sharpe must have spotted the danger for he turned to Gifford. 'Quartermaster, I propose that Trinity is given to all those who have no money. They can use the vessel in whatever manner they wish, though I suggest they sail her to a port where she will not be recognised as a Spanish built. Thus they get away from Antigua and may have a chance to earn some capital.'
There was a murmur of approval from the crew, and the moment of tension passed.
'Neatly done,' murmured Jacques beside Hector. 'Our captain is as slippery as ever. He's got rid of Trinity and saved his own skin.'
Gifford was already drawing lots to decide the order of disembarkation. Hector and his friends were among the earliest to be set ashore, and they had barely time to collect their share of plunder which amounted to some three thousand pieces of eight each, mostly in coin but also in broken pieces of plate before they were on their way to the jetty.
As they climbed up the steps they found Sidias already there, seated on a roll of sailcloth and looking very satisfied with himself.
'How will you get all this stuff to the town for sale?' asked Hector.
'I won't bother,' the Greek replied. 'It can stay here and rot.'
'But you just paid fifty English pounds for it,' Hector said.
'And I'll pay your giant friend another five shillings if he carries this into town.' With his foot Sidias nudged the heavy ingot brought up from Santo Rosario's bilge.
'Lead's not that valuable,' said Hector.
'It's not lead,' answered the Greek with a crafty grin. 'Those nincompoops wouldn't recognise raw silver if they shat it out
of their posteriors. This "lead" as you call it is a half-smelted silver from the Potosi mines. Fifty per cent pure. On its way for further smelting in Panama. I'd say it's worth seventy or eighty English pounds. Enough to set me up here as a shopkeeper.'
Jacques let out a groan, 'Hector, do you remember how many more of those ingots were in the Santo Rosario's bilge? Seven or eight hundred wasn't it? So many that we thought it was nothing more than ballast and paid no attention. We gave away a fortune. The Spaniards in Paita must still be laughing themselves sick at our stupidity.'
EIGHTEEN
The sunny Caribbean had been left far behind. A small group of port officials, dressed in long cloaks and broad-brimmed hats, stood waiting patiently on the wharf for the ship to make fast. A cold penetrating drizzle was drifting down, soaking everything it touched. The fronts of the warehouses which lined the dockside were streaked with rainwater dripping from slate roofs. The air smelled of damp, fish refuse and wet sacking. This was Dartmouth in Devon on a blustery March day, and the four friends were sheltering under the awning rigged to protect the cargo hatch of the merchant ship that had brought them from Antigua. It had been a plodding six weeks' voyage across the Atlantic, and the ship's agent had insisted on being paid in English coin, grossly overcharging them. But they had been glad to accept his price, knowing that every mile would put them at a greater distance from the South Seas raid. Their only concern had been to discover that a dozen others of Trinity's former crew, including Basil Ringrose, were among their fellow passengers.
The mooring ropes were made fast, and the little covey of officials on the dockside moved forward as a gangplank was manhandled into place.
Without warning Jacques put out an arm, holding back his companions.
'What's the matter?' asked Hector.
'I'd recognise a police agent anywhere,' the Frenchman said softly.
'We don't have police in England,' Jezreel corrected him. 'That's only for uncivilised foreigners like you.'
'Call him what you want. But the tall fellow with the satchel is something to do with the law. And those other two close behind are the same. I spent too many months on the run in Paris not to recognise legal jackals when I see them.'
The tall man with the satchel was making his way onto the ship. Behind him, his two assistants took up position on either side of the gangplank, blocking it.
The ship's master, a rotund and genial Welshman with a beerswiller's belly, waddled forward from where he had been standing to supervise the process of docking. Hector was near enough to hear him demand of the
stranger, 'From the customs office, are you?'
The tall man did not reply directly but opened his satchel and took out some sort of document which he showed to the captain. Hector watched the captain read through the paper, then glance nervously towards the place where Ringrose and the others from Trinity were gathered, waiting to disembark.
'Gentlemen!' he called out. 'Would you be kind enough to step this way? There's something which may require your attention.'
Ringrose and the others sauntered over though Hector could tell from their watchful manner that they were on their guard.
'This is Mr Bradley,' said the captain. 'He comes with a warrant from the High Court of Admiralty and has a watch list of persons whom he has been instructed to escort to London.'
The law officer consulted his hand bill. 'Which one of you is Bartholomew Sharpe?'
When there was no reply, he looked around the little group and read out Samuel Gifford's name. Again he received no acknowledgement, and this time he stared straight at Ringrose and said, 'I presume that you are Mr Ringrose. You fit the description I have here.' He consulted the paper again. 'About thirty years of age though may look younger, average height and well set up, curly chestnut hair and fair complexion.'
Ringrose nodded. 'I am Basil Ringrose.'
'You are to accompany me to London.'
'By whose authority?'
'I am a marshal of the court.'
'This is preposterous.' Ringrose's eyes flicked towards the gangway but he could see that there was no escape in that direction.
'He's taking only those who held some sort of rank on our expedition,' Jacques whispered to Hector.
Bradley folded up his paper and replaced it in the satchel. Turning towards Ringrose he announced, 'We leave for London in an hour's time by coach. Bring only essential personal possessions with you.'
'Am I under arrest?' demanded Ringrose.
'Detained for questioning.'
'And what am I to be questioned about?'
'His Excellency the Spanish ambassador has brought several complaints to the attention of the Court and demands redress. The charges include murder on the high seas, robbery and assault on Spanish possessions in contravention of existing treaties of friendship.'
'His Excellency the ambassador,' mimicked Jacques in the marshal's tight voice, but speaking softly, 'wields a broad brush. Where's that bastard going now? I doubt he's just getting himself out of the rain.' Bradley was following the captain towards his cabin.
'Probably off to inspect the ship's manifest,' said Dan, and was proved right when some minutes later, the captain's steward came over to where Hector was still standing with his friends. 'The marshal's asking for you by name,' the steward said, then added in a lower voice, 'He's a right puritan, that one.'
'I'll be there in just a moment,' Hector assured him, and as soon as the steward was out of earshot he turned to his friends. 'Get off the ship as soon as you can, and disappear! Take my sea chest and my prize money. Anything that may connect me with the Trinity.'
'You'll need to keep some money by you if they're taking you to prison, to sweeten the gaolers,' Jacques said.
'I've a few coins in my purse. Enough to see me through. I'll contact you when I know what's happening. Where will I find you?'
'In Clerkenwell,' said Jezreel at once. 'I'll take Dan and Jacques there and find lodgings for us. Ask for "Nat Hall" or the "Sussex Gladiator" in Brewer's Yard behind Hockley in the Hole. That's the name they would know me by from the days when I used to perform the stage fights. It's a rough part of town where few questions are asked. Also it's full of foreign mountebanks who perform in the sideshows when there's bull and bear baiting.'
As Hector turned to go, Jacques clapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Keep your wits about you, Hector, and rejoin us soon. Otherwise Jezreel will have me performing conjuring tricks, and Dan put up on display as a painted Indian.'
Ducking in through the low door to the captain's cabin, Hector came face to face with the marshal.
'Your name is Hector Lynch?' Bradley asked. He had taken off his hat, revealing that he wore his straggly grey hair long and tied back in a queue.
There was no point in denying it. That was the name Hector had used when buying his passage, and it was entered on the ship's passenger roster.
'You speak Spanish?'
The question took Hector by surprise. 'My mother was Spanish. Why do you ask?'
'My instructions are to detain one Hector Lynch, but the name appears on a separate warrant and no physical description is given. Only that he speaks good Spanish. It is important that I make the correct identification.' The marshal had the list of wanted men in his hand. 'His Excellency the Spanish ambassador has particularly requested that you be brought to justice promptly.'
Hector was thunderstruck. "Why have I been singled out in this way?'
'That I am not at liberty to say,' replied the marshal stiffly. He gave a small, brittle cough. 'Please be ready to leave within the hour.'
During the long, slow and muddy journey to London in the coach provided for their transport, Hector and Ringrose talked much about the marshal's watch list. When Hector told his companion about the interview with the lieutenant governor of Antigua, Ringrose gave a snort of disgust.
'The greedy swine! He didn't have enough men to seize Trinity so he took his bribe. Then the moment we were gone, he informed on us. There was plenty of time for his message to get here ahead of us in that tub of a merchantman, and have the marshal waiting on the quayside.'
'Do you think that Sharpe, Gifford and the others have been picked up as well?' Hector asked.
Ringrose looked thoughtful. 'Probably not Sharpe. He's astute. He told me he was going to Nevis before finding a ship bound for England. He must have suspected that vessels arriving direct from Antigua would be watched.'
The coach gave a sudden jolt on its unsprung axle as a wheel dropped into a rut. Both men had to hold on to their wooden seats or be thrown to the floor.
'Lynch, how is it that marshal's list is so accurate? He even had my physical description.'
'Maybe Henry Morgan had a hand in it. A poacher turned gamekeeper never relents.'
'But I've never met Sir Henry so he could not know what I look like.'
Hector watched the drenched countryside drag by and did not answer. He had his own suspicions of the informer's identity, but he was far more perplexed that the Spanish ambassador should be showing such a special interest in him. He could think of no reason why the ambassador was so anxious to arrange his prosecution.
Finally, after six days of sluggish progress, the coach deposited him and Ringrose at the destination that Mr Bradley had arranged — the Marshalsea Prison in Southwark. Despite brick walls topped by revolving iron spikes and a massive entry gate plated with iron, the Marshalsea proved much more comfortable than Trinity s dank and rat-infested accommodation. They were shown to a set of well-appointed rooms and told that their meals would be brought in from the outside.
'Tomorrow morning, Mr Lynch, you are required to attend a preliminary assessment of your case,' Bradley told him in his punctilious manner. 'Customarily the High Court of Admiralty deals with matters of prizes taken by sea. It decides their legitimacy and value and awards portions. But there are new procedures to adjudicate on matters which might normally be dealt within a criminal court . . . that is to say, you will be appearing before a Court of Instance not a Court of Prize. Mr Brice, an attorney to the court, has been appointed to determine how your case should be dealt with.'
Mr Brice proved to be a man so unassuming and nondescript that for a moment Hector mistook him to be an under-clerk. The attorney was waiting to interview Hector in the prison governor's office next morning. Of middling height and indeterminate age, Brice's pallid features were so bland that Hector would later have difficulty in recalling exactly what Brice looked like. His clothing gave no clue to his status for he was dressed in a suit of plain drab whose only effect wa
s to make him even less obtrusive. Had it not been for the gleam of penetrating intelligence when he caught Hector's eye, Brice would have seemed a very ordinary person of little consequence.
'My apologies for disturbing you, Lynch,' Brice began in an affable tone. Various legal-looking documents and scrolls were spread on the governor's desk and Brice was leafing through them casually. 'I need to ask you a few more questions in relation to a charge arising from information provided by our lieutenant governor in Jamaica. Namely, that you were an originator of an illegal scheme to despoil the territories of a ruler in treaty and friendship with our king.
'What is the evidence for this charge?'
Brice frowned. 'We will come to that. First, would you be kind enough to write a few words on this sheet of paper for me?'
'What should I write?'
'Some of those exotic Caribee names that we hear from time to time — Campeachy, Panama, Boca del Toro, half a dozen will do.'
Hector, bewildered by the request, wrote down the names and handed the sheet back. Brice sprinkled sand on the wet ink, fastidiously poured the excess sand away, then laid the sheet on the desk. Selecting a large scroll from the pile of documents beside him, he undid the ribbon which held it. Hector had presumed the scroll was some sort of legal document but now he recognised it as a map. His mind leapt back to the days in Port Royal. It was one of the sheets that he had copied for the surveyor Snead in Jamaica.
Brice compared Hector's writing with the names written on the map and gave a small cluck of recognition. 'The same hand,' he announced. 'The deposition placed before the Court states you provided maps and charts, knowing they were to be used in the planning and execution of an expedition contrary to the interests of His Majesty.'
'Who accuses me of this?'
Brice glanced down at his notes. 'The witness has signed his statement and sworn to its truth. He sent this map as his evidence. His name is John Coxon, and he styles himself "Captain". Do you know him?'
'I do.'
'There is also a letter from Sir Henry Morgan, the lieutenant governor in Jamaica. Sir Henry affirms that Captain Coxon's testimony is credible.'