by Dudley Pope
“How many men are rowing the canoe that brought you out?”
“Two. I was–”
“Tell them to row you back, now.”
“But I must–”
“Unless you want to swim. Can you swim?”
“But Sir Harold will–”
“Good day,” Ned said, turning his back on Hamilton and watching as the inverted V of the sheer legs rose up in the air, forming an arch which could be used to raise the mast.
Hamilton turned to Aurelia, hands held out pleading.
“I should go,” Aurelia said crossly, “or he’ll order me to throw you over the side.”
The next caller was Saxby, who had just come over from the Phoenix.
“Had a bit o’ luck sir. Both those Spanish seamen I signed on when we took the Phoenix as a prize know Boquerón, and guess what? The Phoenix, when she was Spanish before we captured her, was anchored in Boquerón for eight weeks while they used their boats to load sugar and cotton and hides from the shore. They both know it well – both the bay and the village, and even some of the towns and villages nearby. They used to go to Mass at various places because the priest of Boquerón was defrocked while they were there. Some trouble with his two servants. Two,” Saxby said contemptuously, “and he got caught.”
“One can’t resist the hot-blooded señoritas, Saxby,” Ned said.
“Indeed you can’t,” Saxby agreed, “but these were young men. Anyway,” he produced a folded paper from his pocket, “my men have drawn a rough chart, complete with soundings. They’re sure of the soundings and bearings because they used to put down fish traps every night and they didn’t buoy them, else the local fishermen’d steal ’em, so they relied on bearings to find the traps again.”
Ned unfolded the chart which Saxby had redrawn in ink and saw it had plenty of detail. “Hmm, a convenient little coral island with palms in the middle to mark that outer reef. And mangroves growing on coral to mark the entrance of the reef protecting the bay. A lake and marshes just inland near Boquerón. Ah, there’s San Germán, about nine miles inland. Isn’t that where the old church is? Mayagüez is further along the coast – probably the most important port around there. Look at that town called Cabo Rojo a good three miles inland. I thought ‘Cabo’ meant ‘cape’. Oh, that’s the town up there: the cape itself is right down here, miles away to the south, ten miles at least, the real south-western tip of Porto Rico. Well done; tell the men I appreciate their care. I’ll have a talk with them later – they’ve probably some ideas where we might find our friends.”
Saxby shook his head, looking sombre. “Reckon all we’ll find is graves, unless they throw the bodies on the town midden.”
“We’ll see,” Ned said, “but in the meantime keep those sort of thoughts to yourself: the men must think we can rescue them. Men’ll take chances when there’s a hope.”
“True, sir, I haven’t mentioned my doubts to anyone else.”
“Is this my copy of the chart?” Ned held up the paper, folding it and tucking it in his pocket when Saxby nodded. “By the way, we’ll need a couple of your boats to help tow the mast out this evening, when the wind has dropped, and every man you can spare to help parbuckle it on board. And you, of course. Lobb took the mast out with the sheer legs, but he’s never put one back. I think he’d like to have you standing beside him.”
“He learns fast,” Saxby commented. “If you ever find someone to replace him, I’d be glad to have him.”
“I’ve no doubt you would,” Ned said. “Let’s get on shore and see how Lobb’s getting on. I’d like to get that yard on board this evening, too. By the way, the Governor has been inquiring about the boat with the three men from the Peleus.”
“I guessed as much: I saw a canoe bringing out that fop of a secretary. What did you tell him, sir?”
“Nothing. He’d heard from somewhere – the secretary, I mean – that we were going to sail as soon as we get this damned mast stepped, but has no idea where – or why.”
“That’s right, let’s keep Sir Harold guessing. Probably thinks we’re going off to meet the rest of our ships and seize Cartagena!”
“If he’s scared about what we might do, think of the Spanish Governor! In fact, when the Dons find out they’re losing ships, they’ll blame me. Still, if they complain to Madrid, giving dates, we can probably prove to Sir Harold that we were still in Jamaica sawing planks and digging trenches…”
“He’ll probably confiscate your land,” Saxby said, “just out of spite.”
“I’ve thought of that, and Sir Thomas’ too, especially if he’s been killed by the Dons. Still, we can play the game of ‘if’ all night,” Ned said, walking towards the entryport, where a boat waited.
At noon next day, with the mast stepped and men grunting with the effort of swaying up the yard and reeving the running rigging, Martha Judd reported to Ned: “Two of those men can answer questions now. The third’s got a fever and is delirious. I’ve had his hammock slung up forward so he doesn’t disturb the others.”
Ned nodded and waved to Saxby, who followed him down the ladder. Going from the harsh brightness of the sun into the half darkness below, Ned paused for a minute to let his eyes make the change.
“Martha says one of them is delirious,” he told Saxby.
“Not surprised. They looked like boucan when I first saw them. By rights they ought to be dead. Remember those notches? I wonder exactly how long they took to get here?”
“It’s about six hundred miles from Boquerón, but I doubt they know the date they left. I still can’t get over that boat sailing itself into here.”
Saxby said: “It’s not surprising really, if the boat sailed along the coast with a following wind. The wind then funnels in through the entrance, and the tide was making, so the current’d help carry them in. Might have been a different story with an ebb tide.”
“That was one of the first lessons you ever taught me about seamanship, Saxby: always make a landfall on a flood tide, so that if you accidentally go aground, the tide’s still making and will probably float you off. Even if the rise and fall is a matter of inches!”
Saxby laughed cheerfully as he led the way to the two men in the hammocks. “I must admit you seem to have remembered everything, sir, but at the time I didn’t think you were paying much attention.”
“That was before I ever thought we might have to use the Griffin to escape from Barbados,” Ned said. “It took Cromwell to show me my own neighbours could be my worst enemies.”
He reached the first hammock. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thanks Mr Yorke,” the man said. “Mighty sore from the sunburn but not so weak. That Mrs Judd is feeding us up as if she’s going to cook us for Christmas.”
“She may well be planning to do that. Now, tell me what happened – first, why did Sir Thomas go into a Spanish port?”
“Water,” the man said simply. “Y’see sir, most of the casks had been left empty while Sir Thomas was up in the mountains starting to build his house. When he came back and said we was sailing, well, the mate sent the casks on shore to fill ’em, but Sir Thomas thought he was just having the water changed so we had it fresh: he didn’t know most of ’em had been empty for weeks.”
“What’s that got to do with going into Boquerón?”
“Leaving the casks empty all that time, sir, the staves dried out. We didn’t pay much attention when we filled ’em – just reckoned they was weeping a few drops of water and it’d stop once the wood took up, that’s what we thought, and o’ course we stowed ’em below out of sight and sailed that same evening, an’ you watched us go from the Phoenix.”
“And the casks were still weeping?”
“Yes, sir, though we didn’t know. We were abeam of Cow Island, this end of Hispaniola, w
hen the carpenter came up and reported a lot of water in the bilges, and when Sir Thomas went below to see what was happening he tasted it, and it was fresh, not salty.
“Well, we checked the casks – at least, we thought we did. We didn’t move them all and reckoned about half had been weeping. We guessed the casks that weren’t weeping weren’t leaking, and that was our mistake.”
“In what way?” Ned asked.
“Well, sir,” the seaman said shamefacedly, “they weren’t weeping because they were already empty: they’d lost all their water and the outsides had dried. We found that out much later when we was hoisting up a cask just as we got to the eastern end of Hispaniola, just starting to cross the Mona Passage. The cask came up light. We rigged up the tackle on the next one, and that came up empty too. Then we got down in the hold and started shifting the casks a bit sharpish. No water. Well, maybe we had fifty gallons all told.”
“What did Sir Thomas decide to do then?”
“Well, sir, I only heard the gossip, but it all put him in a mortal rage because he was in such a hurry to get to St Martin, and after all the beating we’d done to get where we was, he weren’t keen on running six hundred miles back here to get more water. He reckoned the casks were wet enough inside so the wood would be swelling gradually so they’d take up.
“Now this is just wot I ’eard, sir. Sir Thomas reckoned that because of the new peace treaty wot’s been signed with Spain, that the governors – viceroys, that’s what they’re called, leastways I think so – would have had orders from Spain, or at least news of the treaty.
“So ’e reckoned ’e’d chance ’is arm and anchor off a Spanish port and send a boat in to ask for a safe conduct to send in the rest of the boats to fill the casks. Offered hostages, too, ’e did.”
Ned saw the man was perspiring with the excitement of telling his story. “Did the Spanish take him up on the hostages?”
“No. I ’eard they pretended to be offended at the very idea. Come and take all the water you want, they said. Five or six wells right at the village of Boquerón, a few ’undred yards back o’ the beach, with a track to roll the casks. It all looked so easy, an’ the Dons so ’elpful. Fooled us all, they did. Our men start rolling the casks up the track – leastways, all they could get in the boats. The three of us was off the ship.”
“How did the three of you escape?”
The seaman now looked embarrassed. “Well, to be honest sir, we all fancied a bit o’ fresh fish, so as soon as – I shouldn’t be admitting this – soon as Sir Thomas and the lady was out of sight below and the other three boats ran up on the beach and started rollin’ the casks, we went off in the fourth boat with fishin’ lines. Not far – not more’n a quarter o’ a mile. We’d put the lines down and was rowin’ slow when we heard shots an’ the next minute saw a crowd of Spanish soldiers gallop along the track to the boats and some fishermen come out of the bushes behind the beach, and they drag the boats down to the water and start rowing towards the ship. We watched for a minute or two, then guessed what was going on. We moved so’s the ship was between the Dons and us, so the soldiers couldn’t see us, and rowed out of the bay, and the minute we got through the reef and clear the land so we ’ad a bit o’ breeze, we hoisted the sail. The Dons must ’ave seen us then, but they didn’t worry.”
“Why couldn’t you catch fish to eat?” Saxby asked.
The seaman shook his head angrily. “We did, big ones, an’ every time they broke the line and we lost the ’ooks.”
“The pistols and cutlasses?”
“Well, Mr Saxby, we was also guarding the ship, as you might say–”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Saxby interrupted coldly, “the Dons took the ship, didn’t they?”
“–well, yes Mr Saxby, but we weren’t daft enough to go off unarmed. We took a pistol each and a cutlass.”
“Very useful, the cutlasses. You could cut a notch in the thwart each day and keep a reckoning.”
“Mr Yorke,” the man said, directing his appeal to Ned, “we admit we was wrong goin’ off fishin’, but three of us couldn’t ’ave ’eld the ship against all them Dons – three boats full o’ ’em – and if we ’adn’t escaped, you wouldn’t know nothing about wot ’appened.”
Ned nodded. “That’s the only thing in your favour. What’s the last landmark you remember?”
“The other two was unconcherous, o’ course, but I just saw the eastern end of Jamaica. I wasn’t making much sense by then; just hollering for help although the land must have been ten miles away, p’raps more. A long ’ard sail it is, from Boquerón to Port Royal.”
Ned looked at the man in the second hammock. “Did you hear all that this fellow said?”
“Yes, Mr Yorke, an’ what you an’ Mr Saxby said, too.”
“Has he forgotten anything that we ought to know – about the Peleus and Sir Thomas, and the men?”
“Nothin’, sir. To begin with the Dons was all nice an’ friendly. Proper took Sir Thomas in, they did – I was with him when he went on shore the first time, with a flag of truce. Everyone was nice – not just the mayor but the fishermen: even the little kiddies came out an’ smiled an’ waved.”
“Very well,” Ned said, “we’ll be sailing in a few hours. Mrs Judd will be going back to her own ship, but you’ll be looked after. As soon as you’re fit enough you’ll have to help work the ship.”
Chapter Nine
A brisk wind settled down from the east as soon as the Griffin cleared Port Royal. Ned commented sourly to Aurelia while they inspected the chart spread on the saloon table (the ship pitching into the head seas and rolling with a corkscrew effect was both tiring and irritating): “Draw a straight line directly into wind and sea, and that’s our course for Boquerón, six hundred miles of this crashing about!”
A ruler with one end on Port Royal and the other on Cabo Rojo, at the south-western tip of Porto Rico, close to Boquerón, showed the course as a straight line if the Griffin could sail directly into the wind, but she had to keep tacking, the wind first on one side and then on the other, the ship progressing like a crab scrabbling along a narrow gully.
For four hundred miles the mountains and forests of Hispaniola would lie to the north of them, a land barrier preventing the Griffin taking long tacks to the north, so that the crab might well have been lamed, able to take long strides to the southwards but only short ones to the north.
Once out of Port Royal there had been the familiar beat to windward as far as Morant Point, the eastern end of Jamaica; then the seas had become wilder and – although it might have been their imagination – the wind freshened as they crossed the 120-mile gap to the western end of Hispaniola which further north became the Windward Passage between Cuba and Hispaniola.
Tack, tack, tack, with the Phoenix following astern at the Griffin’s heels like a well trained dog. By now spray and the occasional sea sweeping the Griffin’s decks had washed away the evidence of more than a month in port. The whiskery tails of frayed ropes had been cut off before serving or resplicing, wood shavings from the final tapering of the yard to take the end fittings for the braces, pieces of old canvas cut from the sails when they were being patched…all the scraps that the wind blew to hiding places behind coamings, gun carriages, the tails of ropes made up on kevils – all were sluiced over the side. But if the constant spray and the occasional sea washed the decks clean, some of the water found its way down through the deck seams, working its way past the pitch and the caulking beneath it to drip usually on to a sailor’s last dry blouse or the cook’s bag of rice or flour.
Water, Ned had noticed years ago, never dripped directly into the bilge, where it would do no harm and the pump would later clear it; no, as if directed by a wilful spirit, it fell on any dry object that would be damaged by salt water. A keg of gunpowder, a wooden box (assumed to be waterproof) of wh
eel-lock pistols which were not inspected until too late to stop the pistols rusting despite the grease smeared on them, sacks of freshly boucanned beef, a bag of clothes…all were sodden by the time the Griffin had thrashed her way up to Cape Gravois, at the Jamaica end of Hispaniola, and once again tacked south-eastwards. The men at the helm kept steering as close to the wind as possible, without slowing down the ship, but as soon as Hispaniola’s mountains were low on the northern horizon, almost a grey smear like a distant cloud, and the Griffin was tacked north again, they found that because the ship’s usual leeway had combined with a strong west-going current driven by the Trade winds, by the time they reached the coast of Hispaniola again they were depressingly close to Cow Island in the wide and shallow bay beyond Cape Gravois, having made little progress towards Boquerón.
As they tacked south-eastwards yet again, Ned inspected the rigging with Lobb. They found, as expected, that the ropes of the mainmast shrouds had stretched so that now the shrouds on the lee side were much too slack.
“Not dangerous,” Ned said, shrugging his shoulders, “but if there’s much more stretch we’ll have to find a quiet bay on the lee side of one of these headlands and go in to anchor, so we can take up on these lanyards.”
Lobb looked up the mast with a critical eye: the masthead was gyrating like a man waving his stick in the air and drawing imaginary circles on the blue sky: the sails were bulging with the weight of the wind, but there was no sign of chafe on the canvas nor the peephole of blue warning that the stitching of a seam was beginning to part.
“A new mast and green wood,” Lobb commented, “so it’s got plenty of spring in it. Enough to take care of those slack shrouds, I reckon.”
With the sun dipping down towards the western horizon and darkness due in a couple of hours, Ned began timing the length of each tack. He had already noted that the Griffin had stayed on the last tack to the south for three hours. It was well over a hundred miles from Cow Island to the two islands off the end of the next bight – Alta Vela (which, as its name implied, looked from a distance like a high sail) and Beata Island, which was just lodged off Punta Beata, the southern-most tip of Hispaniola. With this damned current running so strongly to the west and heading them, they would be lucky to sight Alta Vela by nightfall tomorrow…