by Tim Severin
The road was very bad, little more than a dirt track which, after passing a neighbouring plantation, climbed inland by a series of tight curves on to a spur ridge covered with dense forest. On either side grew immense trees, mostly mahogany and cedar, smothered with rope-like lianas and other climbing plants. Some showed the pale flowers of convolvuli, others hung from the branches in shaggy grey beards. Here and there was the bright crimson or yellow blossom of an orchid. A profusion of ferns and canes sprouted between the massive tree trunks, forming impenetrable thickets of greenery above which hovered butterflies of extraordinary shapes and colours, dark blue, lemon yellow and black. In the background was the constant chatter and calls of unseen birds, ranging from a flutelike whistle to the harsh cawing of crows. All this Hector barely noticed. For him the first few hours of the journey passed in a daze. He was acutely aware of the nearness of Susanna, her warmth and softness, and the jolting of the carriage which occasionally brought her knee in contact with his, a contact which, if he was not mistaken, she occasionally allowed to linger. Her brother rode on ahead so they were left alone to their conversation, ignored by the driver seated on the box in front of them. In this heady atmosphere Hector found himself pouring out his life story, telling his companion about his days in Barbary, the time he had spent as a prisoner of the Turks, his escape, and how he came to be aboard L’Arc-de-Ciel.
It was as they crossed the watershed and began to descend the farther slope and the forest began to thin out in more open woodland that he finally thought to ask her, ‘Why did Captain Coxon bring me to Llanrumney?’
Susanna replied without hesitation. ‘Knowing Coxon’s reputation, I would say that he was trying to curry favour with Henry Morgan. As you already know, Sir Henry is at odds with my uncle who is expected to return here for a second term as governor. Morgan is always looking for ways to gain advantage over Sir Thomas, whom he sees as his rival. The fact that a nephew of Sir Thomas was found aboard a stolen ship could have been useful in his power struggle. Coxon would have been keen to deliver you into Henry Morgan’s hands so that it could be shown that the Lynch family stooped to robbery on the high seas.’
‘But Coxon had no proof of that,’ Hector objected.
‘If the French at Petit Guave decide that your friends stole L’Arc-de-Ciel, then you too would be guilty of piracy, and Morgan could have you hanged. That would be a neat twist and give Morgan a great deal of satisfaction because it was Sir Thomas who brought in the death penalty for buccaneering. He said it was little better than piracy. Then again, perhaps Morgan would have you thrown in prison and held, to be used as a pawn when Sir Thomas returns.’
Hector shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But it is Coxon who acts the pirate, not me.’
Susanna gave a snort of derision. ‘The truth is of no consequence. What matters is the way the wind is blowing, who has the most power on this island, the most influence back in London, or the most money to lay out in bribes.’
She broke off her explanation as her brother Robert appeared alongside the carriage and reined in his horse. He was looking worried. ‘Listen!’ he said, ‘I think I hear noises in the woods, somewhere over to the left.’
Moments later came the sound of a gunshot, followed by whoops and shouts, and then the baying of dogs. The carriage driver hastily reached under his seat and produced a blunderbuss even as Robert pulled a pistol out of his saddlebag and began to load it. ‘Hector,’ he said urgently, ‘I think you had better get up on your horse in case we have to defend ourselves. There’s a sword in my luggage. I trust you know how to use it.’
‘What’s the trouble?’ Hector asked as he began to search for the weapon.
‘No one lives in these woods,’ came the reply. ‘I fear we might have run into a roving gang of maroons.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Runaway slaves.’
Hector paused as the shouts came again, very much louder and closer. Now there was also the noise of bodies crashing through the undergrowth. Unsheathing the sword that he found, Hector unfastened his horse from the carriage and swung up into the saddle. The disturbance seemed to be coming from behind the carriage, and he turned his horse to face back down the track. A minute later several black shapes burst out of the undergrowth and raced across the path before vanishing into the thickets on the opposite side. They were pigs, wild ones, led by a massive boar, its jaws flecked with foam. The boar smashed a gap through the undergrowth, and behind him scampered at least a dozen piglets, small dark hairy creatures, which disappeared equally suddenly from view. Then came an interval when the track was empty until, equally abruptly, a human figure sprang out onto the path. He was a tall, black man with long matted hair down to his shoulders. Barefoot and naked to the waist, his only garment was a pair of tattered loose pantaloons. In one hand he held a hunting spear, and there was a heavy cutlass hanging from a strap over his shoulder. He was some thirty yards away. He checked his stride and turned to face Hector. For a moment he paused, seeing the young man, sword in hand, the carriage behind him with its driver and the seated woman, a second rider armed with a pistol. There was no fear, only calculation in the black man’s expression. Behind him half a dozen hunting dogs appeared on the track, running nose down and following the scent of the wild pigs. They also crossed the path and disappeared on the far side. But the black man stayed where he was, eyeing the travellers. Hector felt a cold spike of fear as a second, then a third black man appeared from the bushes. They too were armed. One of them held a musket. All three stood still, sizing up the travellers. Hector tightened his grip on the sword, the hilt now slippery with his sweat. Beneath him the horse, alarmed by the dogs and the wild-looking strangers, began to fidget nervously. Hector feared that the animal might rear up. If he was thrown to the ground, the hunters might take their chance to attack. He was also very conscious of Susanna in the carriage just behind him. She must be looking back, seeing the danger and aware that only he stood between her and the runaway slaves. For what seemed like an age, both sides regarded one another in total silence. Then a sudden burst of barking deep within the undergrowth broke the tension. The hunting dogs must have cornered their prey because the sound rose to an excited crescendo. The nearest black man turned and, raising his spear, waved his comrades onward towards the sound of the hunting pack. As suddenly as they had arrived, all three hunters vanished into the undergrowth.
Hector found himself in a cold sweat of relief as he looked back at Susanna. She was slightly pale but otherwise remarkably calm. Her brother seemed to be the more shocked. ‘I never thought there were maroons in this area,’ he said, and he sounded contrite. ‘If I had known, I would have arranged an escort, or made sure we had travelled in greater company for safety. They were hunting well outside their usual territory.’
‘Those men looked savage,’ Hector commented.
‘That’s how they got their name,’ Robert explained. ‘The Spaniards called them cimarron, meaning wild or untamed. The first maroons were slaves whom the Spanish left behind on the island when the English took Jamaica from Spain. Now the maroons have gone native. They’ve established themselves in the roughest parts of the country, in areas too difficult for them to be rooted out.’
‘Mr Lynch was telling me that his best friend is also a native, a Miskito,’ Susanna intervened.
‘Oh, the Miskito are very different,’ her brother replied. ‘They are good allies to the English and the French, or so I’m told. Besides, they are not found in Jamaica. They live on the mainland, and they hate the Spanish.’
‘Mr Lynch’s mother is Spanish,’ warned Susanna.
‘I’m sorry,’ Robert replied, blushing. ‘Nothing I say seems to strike the right note.’
‘I’ve never heard of the maroons before,’ Hector hastened to assure him. ‘They seem to live in much the same way as the first buccaneers . . . by hunting wild animals.’
‘That’s true,’ said Robert. ‘Indeed my uncle told me that the buccaneers are named a
fter the boucans, the racks on which they grill the flesh of the beasts they kill. It’s a French word, the same which the Spanish call a barbacoa or barbecue.’
‘I’m sure Mr Lynch finds all this fascinating,’ said his sister. ‘But don’t you think we should be getting on our way. If we stand here talking long enough, the maroons may return and find us here.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course,’ her brother replied. And then to Hector’s chagrin he added, ‘Just in case we do encounter any further trouble, perhaps it would be best if he kept my sword for the moment and stayed on horseback.’
THE LITTLE GROUP travelled on and as if to make up for his lapse of judgement, Robert made a point of riding beside Hector. He chatted with the young Irishman in his friendly manner, explaining to him the more interesting features of the countryside as gradually the land began to slope downward and became more open until eventually they were riding through open savannah. He pointed out wild cattle grazing among the low bushes, and spoke enthusiastically about the fertility of the soil. ‘What you do is purchase one hundred acres of prime Jamaican land and invest just four hundred pounds in half a dozen slaves and spades and tools. You have your slaves clear the ground, then plant and cultivate cocoa, and in the fourth year the crop will give you back your original investment. After that, if you are shrewd and your slaves have also set cassava and maize and built their own huts, you have no further expenses. Year after year your cocoa will bring in four hundred pounds back and maybe more. Everything is pure profit.’
But Hector could think only about Susanna riding in the carriage so close to him, and he found it difficult to pay attention to her brother and his business talk. He forced himself not to glance around to look at her, for fear of seeming foolishly besotted. Luckily Robert did not seem to notice his listener’s preoccupation and prattled on until, from behind, Susanna called out.
‘Robert, do stop talking about money and point out that bird to Mr Lynch. There, over to your left beside the bush with orange flowers. He will not have seen anything like it before.’
Indeed, at first sight, Hector thought that Susanna was mistaken. A large brown and grey butterfly was feeding on the blossoms, moving from one flower to the next. Then Hector saw that it was not a butterfly but a tiny bird, just over an inch long, which was hovering in position, its wings a blur. Turning aside he rode closer, and the bird suddenly rose from the bush and came towards him. For several seconds the tiny creature hovered close beside his head, and he distinctly heard the sound of its wings, a delicate hur! hur! hur!
‘Your first hummingbird, Mr Lynch!’ called out Susanna.
‘It is indeed a remarkable creature. It makes a sound like a miniature spinning wheel,’ Hector agreed, able at last to turn and look directly at her.
‘You have the soul of an artist, Mr Lynch,’ she said, with a smile of delight which made him dizzy. ‘Wait until you’ve seen its cousin. The one they call a streamer. It flies in the same way and has two long velvet black tail feathers which dangle in the air, and you can hear them fluttering. When the sunlight strikes its breast, the feathers flash emerald, then olive or deepest black as the creature turns.’
Hector was tongue-tied. He wanted desperately to say something gallant to this divine creature, to continue the conversation, but he could find no words. The way he looked at her, though, could have left no doubt about the way he felt.
It was some hours later, as the sun was nearing the horizon, that he heard a sound he recognised. It was a long-drawn-out call like a distant trumpet and he had heard it before, on the coast of Africa, and knew it to be someone blowing a call on a conch shell. ‘Are we so close to the sea?’ he asked Robert.
‘No,’ the young man replied. ‘It’s one of our farm workers calling in the hogs. They feed by day in the savannah, but come back to the sty at night when they hear that call. They are unexpectedly intelligent animals. That sound also means that this is where we turn off for Spanish Town.’
He reached out to offer Hector a handshake of farewell.
‘The road to Port Royal is straight ahead. It’s no more than a couple of hours’ walk to the ferry. If you hurry, you should be able to get there while it is still daylight. I wish you well.’
With sudden dismay, Hector realised that his journey beside Susanna was at an end. Crestfallen, he swung himself out of the saddle of his borrowed horse, and handed the reins to Robert. ‘Thank you for allowing me to accompany you this far,’ he said.
‘No, it is I who have to thank you,’ Robert replied. ‘Your presence helped deter the maroons from attacking us. If we had been fewer, we might have become their prey.’
Walking stiffly across to the carriage, Hector stood beside its door and looked up into Susanna’s blue eyes. Once again, he did not know what to say. He did not dare to take her hand, and she did not offer it. Instead she gave him a demure smile, less coquettish now, more serious. ‘Goodbye, Hector,’ she said. ‘I hope you find your friends and, after that, perhaps your path will lead you back to Jamaica so we will meet again. I feel there is more that we have in common than just our names.’ With that the carriage moved away, leaving Hector standing in the red dirt road, and hoping fervently he had been more than a day’s amusement for the first girl he had ever fallen in love with.
FOUR
PORT ROYAL had more taverns than Hector imagined possible in such a small area. He counted eighteen of them in the ten minutes it took him to walk from one end of the town to the other. They ranged from The Feathers, a grimy-looking alehouse close by the fish market, to the new-built Three Mariners where he turned back, realising that he had reached the town limits. Retracing his steps along the main waterfront, Thames Street, he found himself skirting around stove-in barrels, broken handcarts, discarded sacking, and several drunks lying snoring in the rubbish or slumped against the doors of the warehouses which lined one side of the street. The wharves across the road were built on pilings because Port Royal perched on the tip of a sand spit and land was very scarce. Every berth was occupied. Vessels were loading cargoes of tobacco, hides and skins, indigo and ebony, and above all sugar whose earthy, sickly sweet smell Hector was beginning to recognise. Whenever he met a longshoreman or a half-sober sailor he asked if any of the vessels might be bound for Petit Guave, but he was always disappointed. Often his request was ignored, or the hurried reply was accompanied by an oath. It seemed that Port Royal was a place where most inhabitants were too busy making money or spending it in debauchery for them to give a civil response.
The town was also astonishingly expensive. He had arrived there at dawn on the morning after saying goodbye to Susanna and her brother, and the ferryman had demanded six pence to bring him from the mainland. It was no more than a two-mile trip across the anchorage, and Hector had been obliged to spend half the night on the beach until the night breeze was favourable. He had no money for the fare so he had sold his coat to the ferryman for a few coins. Now, looking for something to eat for his breakfast, Hector turned into one of the taverns – it was the Cat and Fiddle – and was taken aback by the price of a meal. ‘Just a drink of water will suffice,’ he said.
‘You can have beer, Madeira wine, punch, brandy, or rap,’ the man replied.
‘What’s rap?’
‘Good strong drink made from molasses,’ came the reply, and when he insisted that water was enough, he was advised to stick with beer. ‘Nobody drinks water here,’ observed the potman. ‘The local water gives you the gripes. The only drinkable stuff has to be brought in barrels from the mainland so you’ll still have to pay: a penny a jug.’
Hungry and thirsty, Hector abandoned the tavern and went back out into the street where a frowzy strumpet flaunted herself from an upper window and beckoned to him. When he shook his head, she spat over the balcony. It was not ten in the morning yet, but the day was already hot and sticky, and he had not the least idea what he should do, or where he should stay. He had resolved to remain in Port Royal until he could find passage to catch up w
ith Dan and Jacques, but first he had to find some sort of employment and a roof above his head.
He cut through a narrow laneway and emerged on the high street. The close-packed houses were substantial, brick built and two or three stories high. Most had shops or offices on the ground floor, and living accommodation above them. Shoulder to shoulder with alehouses and brothels were the premises of tradesmen – cordwainers with their shop windows full of shoes, tailors displaying rolls of cloth, two or three furniture makers, a hatter and a pipemaker as well as three gunsmiths. Their businesses seemed to be flourishing. He passed a vegetable market at the central crossroads and reached the end of the street. Here the early-morning meat market was already closing down because the slabs of hog flesh and beef on display would soon begin to stink. Large, black flies were settling on the blood-encrusted tables, and he was puzzled to see two men lugging between them what looked like a heavy shallow cauldron. On closer inspection it turned out to be an unsold turtle, upside down and still alive. Curious to see what they would do with it, he watched them carry the animal to a short ramp leading down to the water’s edge. There they placed it in a fenced holding pen half in and half out of the water, a turtle crawl where the creature could drag itself into the shallows, to await the next day’s sales.
At the end of the high street, he was close back where he had started, for he recognised the bulk of the fort which guarded the anchorage. Turning left, he entered a thoroughfare that looked more respectable, though the roadway was still nothing more than an expanse of hard packed sand. He noted the door plaques of several doctors, then a goldsmith’s shop, securely shuttered. Next to an apothecary’s hung a trade sign which raised his hope: it depicted a pair of mapmaker’s compasses and a pencil stub. The proprietor’s name was written underneath in black letters on a scroll: Robert Snead.