‘And I thought thieving had risks,’ Pender yelled, his eyes screwed up with effort as he hauled once more on the wheel.
It was Harry’s turn to grin under his soaked muffler, which brought instant pain as the rough wool rubbed against skin made raw by friction and hardened salt. Pender didn’t often refer to his previous life as a thief, certainly never when others were around. A man who could pick even the most complex lock in seconds, he was nicknamed ‘Pious’ for the time he spent, so occupied, on his knees. Having come into Harry’s service by accident, he’d proved so much of an asset to him and brother James that life without him now seemed unthinkable. Just as unthinkable as that Pender should behave like any normal servant, and fail to tell both brothers, in no uncertain terms, when he thought they’d over-stepped the mark. Barred by the exigencies of the task at hand from his desire to pat his servant on the shoulder, Harry turned to look at Brissot. The idea of putting him on the wheel instead of one of his own men had paid off. With one of their own number responsible for conning the ship, the rest of the Ariadnes had worked with a greater will. The giant Frenchman’s sea-soaked beard, straggling over his chest, made him look more vulnerable than usual. But it also exposed the smile that told Harry that he too thought they were out of the woods.
The storm died away as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving an ocean full of heaving waves which, without the wind, had Bucephalas wallowing in the most uncomfortable manner. Men who’d survived the tempest now succumbed to the ship’s motion, retching over stomachs that had long been empty. In such a sea the galley fire stayed unlit, which meant that the succour which might have been provided by hot food or Willerby’s potions was unavailable. But after hours of this, as the sky cleared to bring forth a welcome burst of warm sunlight, the motion began to ease. Harry, finally convinced that the worst had passed, allowed himself to be unlashed from the wheel.
His hands, which had held on to the spokes for so many hours, seemed permanently set in the gripping position. Any attempt to move them provoked an agonising response. His eyes were like two drops of watered blood in his chalk-white face. Stiff from his ordeal, he had to be helped below. His cabin was a shambles of sodden clothes and broken furniture. James, Pender, and Brissot slept where they lay, impervious to the water that still lapped around their recumbent frames. Harry croaked his last instructions as he was helped to lie down, orders to be awakened at the first hint of danger from whatever source. Then, still wrapped in his oilskins, he fell into a deep sleep, grunting and groaning as in his tortured dreams he recalled every moment of the ordeal he’d so recently survived.
The same tub of fresh water had to be used for the entire crew, since sailing in the Tropics precluded extravagance in that area. But brackish as it was it served to wash the salt from their clothes and bodies. The water in the scuttlebutt, meant for drinking, was splashed liberally over eyes, noses, and ears, allowing all to return to something approaching their normal state. The pleasure of survival had some effect, keeping previous tensions below the surface for all of that day and most of the next. But soon they rose again, with the French passengers returning to the surly behaviour that had so characterised the voyage. No amount of smiles, or of spoken reassurance would convince them that every member of the English crew, particularly their captain, wasn’t scheming to cheat them; that the course they’d set, supposedly for New Orleans, wasn’t some kind of trick. James remarked on it, after observing a particularly sour exchange of looks between the two nationalities.
‘I tried to thank all of them,’ growled Harry, ‘for the help they rendered during the storm. Most refused to meet my eye and Brissot, who’d smiled at me like an old friend not 48 hours previously, just grunted. I could very easily have left St Croix without them and their damned chest.’
‘Perhaps another one of your lectures is required,’ said James.
‘I did not lecture them,’ Harry replied, guiltily.
‘You most certainly did, brother. Still, we’ll soon be shot of them, won’t we?’
‘Damn it, I hope you’re right. But I can’t even be sure of our true position. If one of them comes and demands another look at the chart, it will be all bluff. I wouldn’t be able to tell them, truthfully, where in hell’s name we are.’
The hurricane had not only thrown him off course, it had thrown his chronometers from their bulkhead, damaging them. Without these timepieces, one set to Greenwich and the other to local noon, he was unsure of his exact location. Bucephalas could be just off the mouth of the Mississippi or two hundred miles to the south, west, or east. All he knew was this: he was heading north towards a certain landfall. And that once he touched he would be able to reset his chronometers and shape a true course for his destination.
‘Still, it would be wise to speak with them again, Harry,’ said James.
‘And not just them,’ added Pender, in a doom-laden tone.
The unwelcome thought had barely registered in Harry’s mind when the cry from the masthead came clear. ‘Ship, your honour.’
‘Where away?’ he replied, automatically reaching for a telescope.
‘Twelve points off the starboard bow. Merchantman, for sure.’
Harry was halfway to the cap before the lookout finished the sentence, the fatigue of his recent ordeal dropping away as the excitement of a potential chase coursed through his veins. He fairly raced the path of the upper shrouds.
‘Something odd about her, your honour,’ the man said as Harry focused his telescope. ‘For a start she’s mighty low in the water, specially by the head. Her sails are set, but they don’t appear to be drawin’ much.’
‘I have her,’ Harry said as the ship leapt into view.
He swept the glass fore and aft, taking in the lowered bows and the correspondingly elevated stern, before concentrating on the deserted quarterdeck. A merchant vessel, built like an old-fashioned caravel, with the high poop and forecastle denoting her build, either Spanish or Portuguese. Then he took in the sails, alternately drawing and slacking as the wind caught them. There was nothing there that hinted at a ship in danger, more a suit of unstained canvas that would carry a vessel along comfortably in a steady breeze. With no hand on the rudder the ship was drifting before the wind. He raised his glass to the masthead, there to check for the flags that might warn of disease aboard, but the ship carried no pennant of any kind. Harry called for an increase in sail, then made his way back to the deck to take over the wheel.
‘We have a mystery on our hands, James,’ he said, passing the telescope to his brother. ‘A ship that has no crew, no flags, and no apparent destination.’
‘I take it we are about to investigate.’
‘Most certainly,’ Harry replied, as Pender handed him a sword and his pistols.
‘Perhaps they all perished in the recent storm,’ said James. ‘Swept overboard.’
‘No, brother. That fellow has not been in any storm. In fact, given that he has new canvas aloft that’s in a pristine state, I doubt he’s been made to suffer even a serious blow.’
‘How could he avoid it?’
‘Easily, James. He may not have been at sea for very long. Perhaps, for instance, he’s just set sail from the security of a well-protected harbour.’
Harry changed course immediately. But he made sure before he did so that the lookout understood his dual responsibilities. He must keep an eye on that deserted deck. But just as much of his concentration should be set to watching the horizon, to ensure that this ship, wallowing in the water, was not some elaborate form of bait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HARRY APPROACHED the high-sided caravel with excessive caution, guns loaded and run out and men in the tops with muskets to cover the deck. The whole ship creaked eerily as the light wind and the leeway of the Gulf waters inched it along over the gentle swell. The unmanned wheel spun back and forth, jerking occasionally as the sails took the wind, only to ease back as the vessel, lacking a firm rudder, payed off. His shouts through the speaking trump
et elicited no response. He ordered Pender to lower a boat so that he could be rowed round for a thorough inspection along the waterline. Close to the lowered bows the list to starboard was more evident. He also observed the dark red line that ran from one of the forward scuppers, staining the ship’s painted side. And here and there on the bulwarks the wood showed clean and bright where a sharp instrument had hacked at it. Had this caravel recently been in a fight? A call to Bucephalas saw a grappling iron cast that lashed tight brought the drifting ship to a halt. Pender then brought the barge in under the main chains. There was no need of a rope to get aboard, the chains being so close to the waterline, and Harry jumped up as soon as she touched. Scrabbling over the bulwarks he threw himself onto the deck and drew his sword. Pender was beside him before he’d cleared his scabbard, followed by the rest of the barge crew.
The sight that greeted them was the stuff of sailors’ deepest superstitions. A vessel devoid of human life, with no indication where the crew had gone. The planking was spotted here and there, in some kind of square, with dark, dried blood, but it was insufficient for any fierce contest and the rest of the deck was merely untidy in the manner to be expected of a merchant vessel. The four small-calibre guns the ship carried were bowsed tight against their ports, with no indication that they’d even been loosened from their breechings. The chicken-coop, set amidships on the foredeck, was empty, feathers weaving to and fro on the breeze. Harry examined the cut marks on the rail, touching the slight drop of blood that lay at the centre of a few of them. All seemed confined to a small area, as though they’d been part of some concentrated task. But the deck by the scupper was different, showing much more evidence of bloodletting. He knelt beside the largest stain, one deep enough to have resisted the warm Tropical air. It retained a slightly tacky feel and a corrupt odour, which had Harry sniffing at the ends of his stained fingers.
Pushing himself upright he stood for a moment in silent contemplation before making his way to the wheel to take control of the ship. The orders he issued to his boarding party had them easing the braces so that by backing and filling he could bring her under his own control. From his position by the wheel, looking along the canted deck, the list was very obvious, though he reckoned it posed no immediate danger. Wooden ships were hard to sink and, given that there was no sound of any pressure on the bulkheads below, this one had a long way to go before the water threatened to make it founder. Handing Pender his sword, he turned towards the cabin door and drew one of his pistols. Gingerly, he pushed it open and entered the shaded interior. The master’s day cabin, off to his right, had an open chart on the table, with a quill pen standing ready in the inkwell and a pair of dividers, accompanied by a ruler, on top. The course penned on the chart indicated that this ship had been bound for the Keys, no doubt intent on using the Florida Channel to exit into the Atlantic. A faint odour of recently cooked food assailed his nostrils as he passed what would have been the steward’s quarters. This increased the moment he opened the main cabin door, though in the Captain’s quarters it had a stale quality.
The cabin was, in the nature of such ships, exceedingly spacious and well appointed. The dining table, set across, bore the remains of a feast, all of it in a heap where it had slid as the vessel wallowed in the swell. A huge silver tureen occupied the centre of the confused mass of dishes. The rack of decanters, half full, sat atop a wine cooler, gleaming as the sunlight streaming through the casements to play upon the delicate crystal. Pender, hard on Harry’s heels, examined the side cabins, shaking his head to indicate that they too were devoid of humanity. Meanwhile Harry separated the dishes on the table. Set for three, the half-finished food on two of the plates was cold. The other plate was clean and Harry noticed that only two chairs had been brought to the table. The soup in the tureen had congealed. All three glasses, locked into slots and thus still upright, carried a residue of wine at the bottom. He spotted the chronometers as he walked round the table towards the Captain’s carved desk, beautiful pieces encased in fine mahogany. Silently he studied them. But being set to a different time than those he used himself, they told him little regarding his actual position.
The centre of the bulkhead behind him was dominated by two portraits, one large and imposing, the other much smaller. Harry assumed the dominant one to be the Captain. He was florid of complexion, dressed in a dark burgundy velvet coat, a thick red band bearing a diamond-studded star across his waistcoat. One leg was set forward and in his hand he held what looked like an Imperial Roman baton. The eyes gazed over the artist’s head at some unseen but decidedly puissant destiny. His back was to a set of small-paned windows, hung with blue damask drapes edged with gold, through which a white wake stretched endlessly off into the deep blue sea. His other hand, fingers splayed out, rested on an elaborately carved desk, beside a large globe. Turning to look behind him, Harry was confronted, over the laden table, with the very same setting, lacking only the globe and the ship’s wake. Clearly, when he’d stood to be immortalised he’d done so in this very cabin. The smaller portrait showed a rather bland-looking female, whose eyes lacked any expression, leaving Harry to conclude that the male portrait was the far better picture.
A quick search of the desk drawers produced the usual detritus of a Captain’s life; writing materials, manifests, sealing wax, the personal pieces that any travelling man hoards. One drawer contained a brace of expensive pistols still in their case, the brass plate on the top of the box stating that they were the property of one J. B. Rodrigo. In another, papers, marked with the same name, that looked like some form of commission, judging by the flowing officialese of the writing and the heavy embossed seals at the base – not that he could make any sense of them. But the Captain’s log, once he’d opened it at the most recent page, told him all he needed to know.
Spanish was not a language Harry was overly familiar with, having just enough to make himself understood in an Iberian port, but the odd word made sense. The names, dates, and courses he could decipher. These told him that this ship, the Gauchos de Andalusia under the command of one Juan Baptiste Rodrigo, had left New Orleans five days previously, and had only cleared the Mississippi delta at Fort Balize in the last 36 hours. He thought he recognised the words that indicated Rodrigo had, in fog, followed the wrong channel out of the delta, and ended up stuck on a sandbank for his pains.
Harry knew Pender was watching him, dying to ask questions, but he merely looked at him as if he had the answer to this mystery. Pender shook his head to indicate the opposite and his Captain turned to finish his examination. The foot-lockers revealed little except that whoever had occupied this cabin was masculine and a fussy dresser. They were full of fine garments, coats, waistcoats, breeches, and shirts, all carefully packed and smelling of camphor. The sleeping cabin, with its double cot, appeared to have been occupied by a couple, though there were few female garments. Lastly he examined the main door to the cabin, which had a lock but no key. He was just about to institute a search for it when he remembered Pender’s skills in that department.
‘Please secure the door behind us,’ Harry said as he made to leave. ‘I don’t want anyone in here just yet.’
There was a slight pause before Pender responded with the obligatory, ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’ Harry heard the rattle of picks as he made his way up the corridor to emerge once more onto the sunlit deck. Bucephalas was now alongside, with James leaning nonchalantly on the rail. Harry, a great deal higher up than his brother, leant over and called to him.
‘What have you found?’ asked James.
‘Apart from the fact that she’s Spanish, and was Captained by a fellow called Rodrigo, there’s nothing that would make any sense, as yet.’
‘The ship is empty, then?’
‘So far. I’ve yet to look below.’
‘Will she float?’
‘I think so,’ Harry replied. ‘Why?’
‘I just thought we might solve two problems in one by requesting that our French guests take this ship
to New Orleans themselves?’
‘No, brother. I can’t put that many men aboard without making her more secure. That means frapping the hull with a tarred sail, which would take for ever. With the hold full of cargo and water we would be hard pressed to come at the source of the leak even if we pumped ship all day. And doing that could move whatever it is that’s kept her afloat this long. The odds suggest that matters would be best left as they are. Besides, even frapped, we’d need to go with them as far as the delta just in case it failed. And then there’s the salvage value to consider. Nothing would induce me to hand that over to them as well.’
‘If they were on this deck while our crew are on their own it would lessen the danger of an ugly incident.’
‘Not if our crew thought we were enriching them even more.’
‘Captain!’ Harry turned to see Dreaver standing by the companionway, his sharp, foxy features screwed up in apparent confusion. ‘There’s something mighty odd down below here that I reckon you should see.’
Harry followed him down the steps into the waist, then on down to the lower deck. The caravel, being a cargo ship, had deep holds below the crew’s sleeping quarters. These, cramped and filthy, were arranged round the sides of the vessel. The hatches were open and piles of pungent tobacco lay strewn around each lip. As Harry approached he stepped on a brown substance spread about on the floor. It was the colour of hard sand, yet it glistened slightly and made a peculiar scrunching sound underfoot. He bent to touch it, picking up a faint odour of molasses. Gingerly he pinched some in his hand and raised it to his nose, sniffing like a nervous animal. Then he put some on his tongue.
‘What is that stuff, your honour?’
‘That I don’t know, Dreaver. But it tastes and smells just like sugar.’
The Scent of Betrayal Page 7