Freebooter

by Tim Severin

  ‘I need a word with the captain,’ said Dann, not the least abashed.

  ‘Very well,’ said Baldridge and moved aside to let them troop into an office so small that they had to squeeze together to find standing room. Henry Avery sat at a small table, pen in hand and a wine glass at his elbow. He was wearing mariner’s spectacles. The two round eyepieces set in leather frames were held against his face with a ribbon tied behind his head. He was using them while making notes on a loose sheet of paper and in front of him lay the leather document case, its flap open. A half-empty decanter and a wine glass marked where Baldridge had been sitting though his chair was now occupied by the maki. The animal was glaring at the intruders, making an alarmed chattering noise.

  ‘What is it, Dann?’ asked Avery.

  ‘Thought you should meet these men here,’ said the coxswain bluntly, indicating Jezreel and Hector with his thumb. ‘This is Hector Lynch, captain. He’s a navigator who can also draw maps.’

  Avery removed his spectacles, and studied Hector for a long moment before finally saying, ‘Tell me what you make of this.’ He reached into the document case and took out the topmost item, a single large sheet of paper, spotted with mildew and with a large tear across one corner. He smoothed it flat and pushed it across the table.

  The movement frightened the maki. With a sudden bound it jumped from the chair onto the table, knocking over the empty wine glass, then sprang into Baldridge’s arms. Stroking his pet, the trader looked on as Hector examined the paper in front of him. It was a roughly sketched nautical chart. A long coastline was drawn in brown ink, several towns were indicated with a house symbol and a series of straight lines were labelled with letters of the alphabet. He presumed that these lines provided compass bearings to certain coastal features listed elsewhere, probably in a logbook. One end of the coastline bent sharply, more than a right angle, creating a headland. Some distance away, facing this headland, was another coastline. He was looking at the entrance to a broad strait. In the lower right hand corner of the page was inset a much more detailed chart. It depicted a crab-shaped island with what could be an anchorage between the claws. Small crosses marked outlying rocks, and there were several ill-defined reefs. Neither chart had anything to show scale nor a compass rose for the cardinal points.

  ‘Any details that you recognize?’ asked Avery.

  Hector shook his head.

  ‘Nothing you can tell me?’

  ‘Never sailed there,’ he admitted. ‘Nor heard of those towns.’

  A quick light of interest gleamed in Avery’s eyes. ‘What towns?’

  Hector bent to take a closer look. ‘Jerada, Maiwan, Failak, Mayyun, though the last is probably a cape or an island, not a town. Beside it are the words “the gate of Alexander”.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘That’s what written.’

  ‘So you can read Moorish script?’ Avery commented.

  Hector had scarcely noticed. As a young man he had learned his first principles of navigation when secretary-slave to a Turkish corsair in Algiers. He read Arab letters as naturally as Roman ones.

  ‘Do you speak the language as well?’ asked Avery.

  ‘A little.’ His hangover was receding but he still felt bilious and out of sorts.

  Baldridge, still cradling the maki in his arms, leaned in to take a quick look at the chart. ‘My guess is that’s a drawing of the mainland coast a good way north of here,’ he said.

  Despite his headache, Hector looked down again at the chart, scanning it more closely this time and searching to see if there was any mention of Libertalia. To his chagrin, there was nothing.

  ‘I have a vacancy for a good navigator aboard the Fancy. Would you be interested?’ said Avery.

  Hector hesitated. The interview was going exactly as Jezreel would have wished, yet it was clear to him that Avery and his men were intending to cruise for plunder, and he was uncomfortable with the notion of joining them. ‘I came to St Mary’s for a different purpose,’ he said.

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘To locate Captain Misson and his colony at Libertalia.’

  Beside him Baldridge made a derisive noise through his nose. Avery, however, was attentive and polite. ‘In Corunna some of the men talked about the place, though I have no knowledge of it,’ he said in a serious voice as he took a long careful look at the chart in front of him as though he too was prepared to believe that he might find Libertalia written there.

  ‘I wish to settle there, with my wife,’ Hector told him.

  Avery put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers together. ‘In that case, I’ll strike a bargain with you: come aboard Fancy as navigator, and if we should find this Libertalia on our voyage, you will be free to leave the ship and stay there.’

  He looked directly at Hector, holding his gaze. ‘Jezreel here can accompany you. He has the appearance of someone capable of handling himself in a tight situation.’

  Hector was beginning to feel trapped. ‘Thank you, but I made a promise to my wife. I’ve been in some difficulties with the authorities and I swore to her that I would stay away from anything that might result in further trouble.’

  ‘I understand your position. Indeed I sympathize.’ Avery cast a quick glance at his coxswain. ‘Dann may have mentioned that Fancy cruises for the benefit of her company.’ He smiled encouragingly and reached forward to extract another sheet of paper from the document case. ‘But we are scrupulous. You might like to read this.’

  It was an open letter over Avery’s signature addressed to the captains of all Dutch and English ships. Should they encounter the warship at sea, they were to signal by furling their mizzen sail and hoisting a balled-up flag to the masthead. Then Fancy would ignore them and allow them to go on their way.

  ‘If you join my company, you’ll help me write several copies of that letter,’ said Avery. ‘They will be left at every port we visit and given to every ship we encounter. It will make our peaceful intentions clear.’

  Hector handed back the letter. He was mystified how Avery proposed to make a profit from Fancy’s voyage without molesting English or Dutch ships. It was common knowledge that these nations profited most from the trade to India and beyond.

  Jezreel spoke up. He had made up his own mind. ‘I’m ready to volunteer for Fancy and there’s another of my shipmates who will likely do the same.’

  ‘His name?’ asked Avery settling his spectacles back on his nose and picking up a pen.

  ‘Jacques Bourdon.’

  Avery paused, pen poised. ‘French?’ he sounded uncertain. Hector recalled that in his navy days Avery had fought against the French at the battle off Beachy Head.

  ‘Yes, and a prime hand.’

  The pen still hovered. ‘What skills does he have?’

  ‘He’s an excellent cook.’ Jezreel evidently saw no need to mention that Jacques was also expert at picking locks, cheating at cards and could tell the difference between paste jewellery and the genuine article, and its discounted value when sold to a fence.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Avery, scratching down the name.

  All of a sudden, Baldridge let out a curse and glanced down at his silk shirt front. A pale yellow stain was spreading where the maki had sprayed him. ‘If you want to continue your discussion you’ll have to do it elsewhere,’ the trader growled.

  ‘I think we’ve finished here. Thank you for your hospitality,’ said Avery urbanely. He slid all the documents back inside the case and stood up. ‘If you do decide to join Fancy, let Dann know,’ he told Hector. ‘But don’t leave it too long. From what I saw on the jetty I have the impression that there will be plenty of volunteers lining up to take part in our venture.’

  They followed Baldridge out of the warehouse and the trader supervised his bodyguards as they bolted and padlocked the storehouse doors. Dann and Avery then set off to make a round of the drinking dens, to interview volunteers. Jezreel, sensing that Hector wished to be alone, went
in search of Jacques.

  Hector walked back to the jetty, deserted now. For a long time he stood, gazing out at the ships in the anchorage, thinking. Henry Avery had made a very good impression on him. It was clear that Long Ben was astute and meticulous, a natural leader. If he was as competent as he seemed, Fancy’s venture – whatever it was – stood a good chance of succeeding. It was also significant that John Dann, who knew Avery well, held his captain in high regard. Nevertheless, Hector felt faint stirrings of unease. He could not put his finger on the exact reason but he had a vague suspicion that something lay hidden behind Avery’s polite, thoughtful exterior. Hector wondered whether Avery was playing some sort of double game and, if so, whether joining him would bring in enough money to set up a new life with Maria.

  His thoughts turned to the sketch map that Avery had showed him. Judging by Avery’s eagerness to offer him the task of navigator, Avery was convinced the chart contained valuable intelligence that would result in a highly profitable cruise for the Fancy and her company. Hector was confident he had the skill and experience to make the best use of the sketch if he went aboard as navigator.

  Without knowing it, Hector was drifting towards a decision. He had told Avery that he did not recognize anything on the map, but that was not entirely true. There was something familiar about the profile of the coastline where it formed the entry to a wide strait. He had seen it before, but he could not remember where. Doubtless it would come to him, and when it did, he would keep the information to himself. If Avery was keeping secrets from his company, then he would do the same.

  Hector sucked in several deep, slow breaths, trying to rid himself of the lingering effects of his over-indulgence. Then he began to trudge back towards his lodgings, already composing in his mind the letter that he would write to Maria. He would explain what a disappointment St Mary’s had proved to be, and that by sailing with Avery he was able to search farther afield for Libertalia. Naturally he had to mention that the Fancy was a freebooter but he would reassure Maria that he had been given a promise that the vessel would not molest friendly shipping.

  Before going aboard Fancy with Jezreel and Jacques, he would search out which of the ships in St Mary’s harbour was next due to sail for the Atlantic and ask for the letter to be handed on. But where he would be when Maria received and read that letter, he had no idea.

  FOUR

  Hector was on lookout duty. He sat on stony ground at the highest point of the crab-shaped island of the sketch map that Avery had shown him in Baldridge’s office. The noonday heat reflecting from the sun-baked stones around him was making the skin on his cheekbones feel scorched and drawn. The island, he was thinking, was one of the most desolate places on the face of the earth. All rock and grey-black gravel, there was no water, little vegetation and no signs of life. Below and in front of him a myriad of small whitecaps flecked the glittering surface of the Small Channel. They were whipped up by the breeze that regularly rose one or two hours after dawn as the sun climbed in the sky, hotter and hotter. If he turned around, he had a view of Fancy where she lay at anchor in the bay between the claws of the crab, an old mainsail spread as an awning to keep the blistering sun off her deck. The warship looked very different from when he had first laid eyes on her. The carpenters had taken their axes and saws to the higher parts at bow and stern, removed the fore and after decks, knocked away the cabins, and removed all top hamper. Even the carved figurehead – a gilded lion holding the royal arms in its paws, as it turned out – had been cut away and dumped, a sacrifice to lessen weight. The purpose was to lower the profile of the ship so that she sailed closer to the wind and was easier to handle, and to give the deck guns more working space. Now Fancy was leaner and lighter, and any seafarer could see that she was very evidently a predator poised for action.

  All this under Henry Avery’s direction. Long Ben was intent on robbing the richest, slowest convoy in all these seas. He intended to waylay the fleet of the Great Mogul himself and plunder his ships bringing pilgrims back from Mecca. The plan was breathtakingly audacious and full of risks. If successful it could make very wealthy men of everyone, from captain to deckhand, who played an active part in the enterprise.

  Hector’s misgivings about his captain had faded during the four months it had taken to reach the island. On the voyage northward he had seen qualities in Long Ben that were rare in a freebooter: Fancy’s captain took few risks, planned carefully and made it his business to see that every task was done properly. He had also kept his word about issuing letters telling Dutch or English ships that they had nothing to fear from Fancy. At the various ports of call along the African coast he had sent Hector ashore to leave copies of the letter, and this had given him ample opportunity to pursue his enquiries about where to find Libertalia. The result, Hector thought gloomily to himself, had been disappointing. No one could provide a clear answer, and he was on the point of accepting that Jezreel had been right: Libertalia was a fantasy. Worse, he was beginning to question if Captain Misson really existed. Many had heard his name, but he had yet to talk with anyone who had actually met the mysterious French captain.

  The clatter of loose stones slithering underfoot broke into his thoughts. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Jacques toiling up the slope to join him, a full water skin slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Move over,’ said the Frenchman as he eased himself on the ground, panting from the heat. He dumped the water skin between them, and the sloshing sound reminded Hector just how thirsty he was.

  Jacques screwed up his eyes, squinting into the distance, checking the horizon to the north-west. ‘No sighting?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Hector croaked. He reached for the water skin and took a mouthful, swirling it around his mouth before swallowing. He replaced the bung and set the water skin down carefully. It would have to last another three hours before his replacement arrived to take up the watch.

  ‘Maybe we’ve missed them,’ said Jacques. He gave Hector a sideways glance. ‘You’ve lived among them, what do you think?’

  ‘It’s possible. Their holy month finished with first new moon early in July, and now we’re into September.’ The previous evening he had double-checked the lunar calendar in Fancy’s navigation almanac.

  ‘More than enough time to pass by and get home,’ said Jacques, ‘unless the pilgrimage was delayed.’

  Hector shook his head. ‘The hajj always takes place in the twelfth month by their reckoning.’

  Jacques was finding the sharp-edged rocks uncomfortable beneath him and shifted his position. ‘What does Avery think? Has he talked to you about it?’

  ‘Avery’s prepared to wait,’ said Hector. Avery, he had noted, had the patience to play the long game while men like Thomas Tew were always in a hurry, rushing about, responding to every sniff of gold.

  ‘He can’t wait for ever. The others are getting restless.’ Jacques gestured towards the ships anchored close to Fancy and dwarfed by the warship. There were five of them, all sloops including Tew’s Amity, drawn by the same rumour of great riches to be had. They reminded Hector of wolves assembling around the leader of the pack.

  ‘They elected Avery to overall command. They’ll follow his lead.’

  ‘Only as long as their supplies last. Then they’ll go their own ways.’

  And what if this ambush is successful? Hector asked himself. If the loot is even a fraction of what is rumoured, it will be too much of a temptation. He felt a slight prick of anxiety as he wondered how the plunder was to be divided among crews of the wolf pack without fighting breaking out.

  He took another long look to the north, the direction from which Avery’s hoped-for victims should approach. The sea was empty. There was still no sight of approaching sails.

  Hector smiled wryly as he recalled John Dann’s describing his captain as a real ‘dry boots’, a cunning fellow. It had been clever of Avery to show him the letter informing the captains of Dutch and English vessels that they had nothing to fear from
the warship. At the time it had allayed his misgivings about joining Fancy. Only later had he realized that Avery’s real reason for this apparent forbearance had been to avoid the word spreading that Fancy was on the prowl. He wanted his intended prey to know nothing of the approaching menace. Then he could strike and take them unawares.

  ‘I’ve been offered odds of four to one that the Moors will avoid the Small Channel,’ said Jacques.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Hathaway. He reckons it is too narrow and dangerous for their ships. He thinks they’ll be passing to the west, using the Big Channel.’

  Hathaway was Fancy’s quartermaster, a hard-faced, quick-tempered bull of a man. The crew had elected Hathaway to represent them, and by the unwritten laws of freebooter custom the quartermaster was second only to the captain in authority aboard ship. Hector tried to have as little as possible to do with the man. He found Hathaway to be pugnacious and self-important.

  ‘Hathaway’s ill informed,’ Hector said. ‘The Big Channel has a bad reputation. The locals call it “The Straits of Grief”.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A trader in the last port we visited. The Small Channel is known as the Strait of Alexander because it’s believed that Alexander came this way returning from his invasion of India.’

  ‘Then he must have had damned good pilots to get through,’ Jacques said. He swivelled round and pointed. ‘See where the whitecaps clash together in the middle. There must be a powerful swirl or counter-current running.’

  Hector had leaned forward, concentrating. To the north where the sky met the sea everything was distorted through the heat haze. Within the quivering band of the horizon he thought he glimpsed a lighter, brighter patch. He stared until his eyes hurt, then touched Jacques on the arm. ‘There! Do you see?’

  Jacques gazed in the same direction for a full minute. ‘Could be sails, several of them.’ He gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘If so, it can only be them. It’s the pilgrim fleet, at last.’