Freebooter

by Tim Severin

  ‘Luckily someone saw you leaving and sent word. I ran all the way,’ he gasped, as he caught his breath.

  ‘Another few minutes and we would not have been able to pick you up,’ Hector told him. ‘What did you shout to the helmsman that made him change his mind?’

  Luis chuckled. ‘I called out that I’d brought some mithi keka for you and the crew to enjoy on the trip to Swally Hole. I was counting on the fact that either he or his son has a sweet tooth.’

  He passed across the package he had been carrying.

  ‘What is it?’ Hector enquired. The package was loosely covered in muslin.

  ‘Take a look, but please handle it carefully.’

  Hector unwound the cloth to expose a wheel-shaped cake, a foot across and an inch thick. The surface was studded with small nuts embedded in a glaze of honey, and there was an aroma of cinnamon mingled with unknown spices.

  ‘Bolo doce, a local speciality of the Portuguese in Surat,’ Luis explained. ‘We eat it on feast days.’

  He looked over Hector’s shoulder at the helmsman for approval. The man was nodding appreciatively and grinning, while his son’s eyes were bright with anticipation.

  ‘I promised my father that I’d put the package into your hands personally, so it only remains to wish you a safe journey. Take good care of yourselves.’ Luis embraced Jezreel, then Hector. Balancing on the gunwale, he launched himself into an ambitious leap that brought him most of the way to the bank, landing up to his waist in the swirling brown water with a great splash. Floundering his way on shore, he turned and waved goodbye.

  Jezreel and Hector went back to where they had been sitting. Making himself comfortable, Hector carefully placed the package beside him. He would share out the bolo doce before they reached Swally Hole. As for the little pistol that Luis had wrapped inside the muslin, he would find the right moment to transfer the weapon to an inside pocket when no one was looking. Maynard’s captain would not be pleased that one of his passengers, a confessed pirate, had come aboard armed.

  The current in the Tapti and the strong ebb tide made for rapid progress. The four oarsmen in the bow needed only to take an occasional pull with their blades to keep their vessel in mid-stream. Within minutes the lighter was level with the shipyards on the south bank. The rhythmic tap tap of hammers carried clearly though the shipwrights perched on the skeletons of the half-built vessels did not look up from their work. Then came the last outlying houses of Surat itself – a straggle of low, mean huts that petered out as the river widened and took a bend. Within another mile there was nothing on either bank but an impenetrable dark green wall above the tangled grey roots of mangrove swamps. Here the river was utterly deserted, with not even a fisherman in sight.

  Hector had not realized how much he had missed travelling by water, with its gliding progress and the soothing gurgle of water sliding past a vessel’s hull. The bales of calico underneath him made a comfortable mattress. He settled back and closed his eyes, appreciating the warmth of the sun on his face and the slight rocking of the boat beneath him. He was glad to be leaving Hindustan, though sorry to leave Jacques behind. His thoughts turned to the moment when he saw Maria again, and he began to rehearse in his mind what he should say to her.

  Time passed, though he had no idea how long it was that he had been dozing. Something woke him. It was not Jezreel, for he could hear steady breathing beside him. The big man had also fallen asleep, an arm held across his face shielding his eyes from the sun. Hector raised his head. He had slid down until he was lying almost horizontal, his head on his bundle of possessions, his feet towards the lighter’s bow. He began to sit up straight, squinting against the harsh glare of the sun off the surface of the river.

  Something flashed across his vision, a split second of shadow. The next instant a loop of cloth dropped past his mouth and nose, then clamped around his neck, and tightened. His hands flew up as he began to choke. He scrabbled with his fingers, trying to relieve the pressure of the noose. His head was hauled back, and he found himself staring up at the cloudless sky. Someone behind him was twisting the garrotte ever tighter. He felt his attacker press up behind him, smelled sweat and the sharp odour of curry on the man’s breath. The helmsman was trying to throttle him. In desperation he threw himself to one side, wriggling and thrashing. He tried to call to Jezreel for help, but the cloth around his throat was so tight that no words came out. There was a roaring in his ears and he jerked forward abruptly, hoping to dislodge the man behind him. But the move had been anticipated. His attacker stayed clamped on his back. Ahead of him all four oarsmen had left their benches. One of them, a small man with a badly pockmarked face, was scrambling across the bales of cloth towards him and holding a short-bladed knife. The other three were advancing on Jezreel. Hector, both hands on the garrotte around his throat, was struggling to break free when the pockmarked attacker reached him and took hold of his left hand. He jerked it forward and pressed it down on the rough canvas surface of the bale beneath him. In a moment of awful clarity Hector knew what was happening: the man with the knife was about to cut off a finger. The realization produced a surge of panicked strength and he managed to snatch back his hand, then rolled away. With his one free hand he groped for Luis’s bolo doce. His fingers brushed the stickiness of the cake and he fumbled for what lay beneath. The pain in his neck was becoming unbearable, and in a few seconds he would black out. Fortunately, the butt of the little pistol was toward him and fitted into the palm of his hand. He was pinioned so tightly that there was no way of taking aim or selecting his target. All he could do was bring his arm around his body, hold the little pistol under his armpit, press the muzzle against whoever was behind him and pull the trigger.

  He barely heard the shot. Instantly the pressure on the garrotte eased, and the cloth slipped clear. He bent forward, gasping to draw air into his lungs. In front of him the knifeman was hesitating, disconcerted by the sudden turn of events. Hector lashed out with his foot and was lucky. The man had been crouching to do his work, and the kick connected with his pockmarked face, knocking him off balance. Hector twisted around. The helmsman was sitting on the stern deck, shocked and clutching his side. Blood was oozing between his fingers. His turban, his strangler’s noose, was lying beside him. His son, alarmed and wide-eyed, was holding the tiller and keeping course in mid-river.

  Hector turned his attention back to his knife-wielding attacker. Still short of breath, Hector knew he did not have the strength to take him on. He saw the knifeman glance warily toward the pistol in his hand. Hector raised the gun and took deliberate aim. Duped, his attacker edged backward, casting anxious glances to the other oarsmen for help. But Jezreel had them fully occupied. The ex-prize-fighter had picked up the gang plank. He gave a great intimidating roar and advanced across the cotton bales towards his three opponents. One man threw the knife he was carrying but missed. Then Jezreel was close enough to swing the gang plank in a great scything sweep that knocked the nearest man overboard. The other two retreated towards the bows, allowing Jezreel to come close enough to drop the gang plank and pick up an oar instead. Using it as a quarterstaff he clubbed one of his opponents to his knees, then rammed the other in the stomach with the butt end. Then he stood back, allowing time for both victims to abandon the vessel and jump into the river. A moment later, Hector’s attacker followed their example.

  ‘Now for the others,’ Jezreel announced grimly. He stalked back toward the stern deck and glared menacingly at the helmsman’s son. The youngster was frozen in place, gripping the tiller, his eyes stretched wide with fear. ‘Clear off, you little turd,’ Jezreel growled and made as if to use the oar as a club. The boy needed no further encouragement. He too jumped into the river and began to swim for shore. Setting the oar aside, Jezreel bent down and took the wounded helmsman by the shoulders. Then he casually dragged him to the edge of the boat, and threw him into the river.

  ‘Incompetent bastards,’ Jezreel commented, straightening up. He was completely c
alm. ‘They waited until you had a loop round your throat. I was half awake by the time they got to me.’

  ‘Manuj Dosi must have recruited them at short notice. They weren’t professional killers,’ Hector said. Without a helmsman, the lighter was spinning slowly on the surface of the river and had drifted close to the northern bank. If something wasn’t done quickly, it would run aground. ‘Take the helm for a moment and try to bring her back into mid-stream. I’ll see if there’s some sort of sail.’

  After a few moments searching in the bows, he found a small, tattered sail wrapped around its spar. With Jezreel’s help he hoisted on the stubby mast, and the two of them took turns, one steering, the other adjusting the set of the sail or rowing, while the last of the ebb brought the lighter down to Swally Hole.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Five months later, Hector stood at Maynard’s stern rail and felt his heart beat a little faster. Captain Phillips had brought his vessel within a cable’s length of the shore and dropped anchor in seven fathoms. As the vessel swung head to wind and steadied, Hector caught a glimpse of red-tiled roofs and the bell tower of a church beyond the battlements of the two forts whose cannon commanded the roadstead. Rows of neat two-storey houses extended up the slope behind the little town, their whitewashed walls dazzling in the July sunshine. The sails of two windmills on the crest of a nearby hill were turning slowly as the onshore breeze picked up strength.

  Santa Cruz of Tenerife was as sleepy-looking and peaceful as when he had said goodbye to Maria there two years ago. He remembered the sadness of that day. They had both known it would be hard to endure being apart, but they had believed the decision would lead to a better future. They told one another that the separation was only temporary and had talked about how it would be when Hector sent word that he had found a home for them in Libertalia. Neither of them had foreseen the emptiness of that dream.

  From behind him, Phillips’ croaking voice interrupted his thoughts: ‘You have the rest of the day to locate your wife and child, and bring them aboard.’ With an effort, Hector pushed aside his dread that Maria might have moved away or – worse – the birth of their child had gone wrong.

  ‘If you’re not back before dark, I’ll inform the authorities that you’re a convicted pirate and they’ll bring you back in irons,’ Phillips continued, before giving a wheezing cough.

  When Hector had first laid eyes on Maynard’s captain, he had mistaken him for a sickly clerk. Phillips, though still in middle age, had lost most of his hair. He made the most of what was left of it by combing long strands over a bald, mottled scalp. Thin wrists emerged from the frayed cuffs of the sea coat, shiny with wear, and he shuffled rather than walked about the deck, frequently holding on to rigging for support. There was nothing to indicate that the stooped, frail-looking figure was a very competent mariner. He had brought his ship from Surat to the Canaries in near record time and without a single mishap.

  ‘I give my word that I will return by dusk,’ Hector promised. He was confident that he remembered correctly the house where he had left Maria with her cousins’ family. If he was wrong, Santa Cruz was a small enough place, perhaps two or three thousand inhabitants at most, for him to make enquiries and track her down.

  He cupped his hands and shouted in Spanish to a local boatman who was rowing out to Maynard, looking for a chance to earn a few coins. He needed to be brought on land, he called, and would be ready in a few minutes. He hurried down to the little cabin he shared with Jezreel, and sorted through his meagre bundle of belongings. He selected his only clean shirt and a coloured handkerchief to tie around his neck. He had no spare breeches so he pulled on a pair of jamas, the loose knee-length trousers of light cotton that he had acquired in Delhi. He took a moment to examine his face in the cracked mirror fixed to the bulkhead and wondered how much his appearance had changed since he last saw Maria. She would expect him to be tanned but even in the dim light of the windowless cabin, he could see flecks of grey in his hair and beard stubble. For a moment he considered wearing the gorgeously embroidered jacket that came with his serapha, but decided that it would create entirely the wrong impression. If he succeeded in finding Maria, he reminded himself, it was to tell her that their dream of Libertalia had come to nothing. He would be misleading her if he showed up dressed up in such finery when, in truth, he was being transported to London to face the charge of piracy.

  The boatman eyed him with curiosity as he climbed down the rope ladder and settled himself in the stern. ‘No one else coming ashore with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Just me. I must be back aboard by dusk so I may need you to bring me back out to the ship later.’

  ‘A short visit, then?’ The boatman was obviously keen to find out more about his passenger. He had noticed the resentful faces staring down from Maynard’s rail. Captain Phillips was allowing no one else to go ashore.

  Hector was too on edge to want to get into a conversation, so said nothing.

  ‘That’s an English ship, isn’t it?’ said the boatman, settling to the oars and beginning to row.

  When Hector did not respond, the boatman tried again. ‘Don’t recognize her. Sometimes we get Bristol vessels, coming to buy our Canary wine. I’ve a brother who has a fair amount ready for shipment if you’re interested: good quality stuff, nice and sweet, with a fine colour – pale with just a hint of green.’

  Hector gave up the attempt to ignore the man. ‘The vessel’s not here to buy wine. She’s an East India Company ship, seven months out from India, bound for London.’

  ‘Thought I recognized the flag,’ said the boatman. ‘How come you speak such good Spanish?’

  ‘My mother was from Galicia,’ Hector told him curtly.

  ‘That accounts for the accent,’ said the boatman. He took several pulls with the oars, before adding, ‘If it’s seven months you’ve been at sea, I know of a good tavern where there are some very obliging serving maids.’

  Hector lost patience. ‘I’m not looking for a tavern or for girls. I’m coming here to find my wife,’ he snapped.

  The boatman was so startled that he almost missed his stroke. ‘Your wife! Who would she be?’

  Hector scowled at him. ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Sorry if I gave offence.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence until they were approaching the landing place at which point Hector decided that he had been unnecessarily rude. ‘My wife’s name is Maria. She has long dark hair and dark eyes.’

  ‘We’ve a lot of Marias in Santa Cruz,’ observed the boatman sulkily. He had not yet got over Hector’s rebuff. ‘Most of them have dark hair and dark eyes.’

  ‘She’s not from Santa Cruz,’ Hector informed him. ‘She’s been staying here with her cousins. Her own people are from Andalucia, though we first met in Peru.’

  Unexpectedly the boatman beamed. ‘Then that must be Maria who lives at Alonso Fernandez’s house on Calle San Cristobal. His people are from Andalucia originally.’

  With a sudden surge of excitement Hector stared at him. ‘You know my Maria?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘She looked after my two young nephews when my sister was laid up with a bad bout of fever. Always generous with her time. A good woman.’ He gave Hector a thoughtful look. ‘She’s got a little one of her own to look after now.’ There was a tone of reproof in his voice.

  ‘Boy or girl?’ Hector blurted.

  ‘You don’t know?’ This time it was definitely an accusation.

  Hector felt he had to offer an explanation. ‘I have to go to sea to earn my living. My last voyage turned out to be far longer than I anticipated.’

  The boatman was regarding him with open distaste. ‘Then you don’t deserve her,’ he grunted and spat over the side.

  They turned into the narrow inlet that led to the town’s landing place. Four or five men were gathered at the head of the slipway. Judging by the look of them, they included a port officer and a couple of customs men. There was also a militiaman armed wit
h a musket. None of them appeared to be over-friendly and Hector sensed that his unannounced arrival had to be handled with tact.

  With a final heave on his oars, the boatman sent the keel of his boat grinding up the slipway, and Hector climbed out into two inches of water. It was the first time he had set foot on land for seven months. The ground tilted and swayed beneath his feet.

  ‘I would be grateful if I could be allowed to spend a few hours in Santa Cruz,’ Hector explained to the circle of mistrustful faces.

  ‘Why has your captain not contacted the authorities for permission to anchor in the roadstead?’ demanded one of the reception committee. He was dressed in a uniform coat of dark green and though it was a warm day he had chosen to wear a wig. Hector guessed he was an official from the mayor’s office, probably the port superintendent.

  ‘Captain Phillips sets sail again this evening,’ Hector replied in what he hoped was a suitably humble tone.

  The official was openly hostile. ‘Return to your ship, and tell the captain that he must depart immediately.’

  ‘I need just an hour or so,’ Hector pleaded.

  The boatman, who had dragged his boat a few feet onto the slipway, sauntered over to join the group. ‘He claims he’s come to meet his wife.’

  The official did not seem to have heard. Addressing Hector in loud, formal tones, he announced, ‘You are refused permission to land. Further, if your captain does not leave within the next two hours, I will authorize the batteries to open fire.’

  ‘Gonzalez, don’t be so pompous,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Hector’s heart leaped. He spun round, almost falling. Walking briskly towards them was Maria. She was dressed in a pale blouse and long dark skirt, with a light scarf over her shoulders. She was almost exactly as he remembered her – poised and beautiful, the same light freckles, the dark eyes full of life and the same air of quiet competence. She was holding a toddler on her hip.