The Scent of Betrayal

by David Donachie

  The boom of the gun made everyone on deck spin round towards the Spanish warships. The leading galley had fired off a signal gun, judging by the puff of black smoke which wafted away to leeward. A set of flags broke out at the masthead and the cutter, which had been heading for Bucephalas, immediately swung round on to a new course, its bows now aimed for the shallows.

  ‘He seems to have lost interest in us,’ said James.

  Just then they heard a grinding sound. The bows lifted slightly and the masts swayed as the ship lost all forward motion. That sound of sand on wood told Harry all he needed to know and he ran forward. It was impossible to see anything in the muddy waters, but they’d run aground. Not badly, since they’d hardly had steerage-way, but enough to bring forth a stream of curses from the Captain. It was, to his mind, typically Spanish, to maintain a marked channel that was no longer clear. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have been too troubled by such an event, knowing that the boats, given such a soft sandy bottom, could tow him off. But this particular incident immobilised him at what might prove to be an inconvenient moment.

  ‘Get a party over the side with the kedge anchor,’ he shouted, ‘and a cable to the capstan. Pender, drop the best bower to make it look as though we’ve hove to, at that distance the Dons won’t know if we still have way on the ship.’

  He made his way back to the quarterdeck, observing that the cutter had closed a great deal of the distance. The lead galley hove to as it came alongside and the officer climbed aboard. Behind him the men were already rowing away from the ship to drop an anchor that he could use to haul himself clear. It was in place before the galleys got under way again. The leader, towing the Fort Balize cutter, was heading straight for him. The others were taking a more southerly course which would bring them across his stern. Still stuck fast, there was nothing he could do about it. As the range between the Spanish ship and Bucephalas shortened, Harry examined the galley’s lines. Over-elaborate in the Spanish manner, she was nevertheless a formidable instrument in any situation which suited her build. He calculated that she carried four heavy-calibre guns, two in the bows and two in the stern. Long habit made him wonder about her Captain and her crew. He was aware, more than most, that even the finest, best-armed sailing ship was only a fraction of the equation. Success depended on a decisive and competent officer on the quarterdeck, in command of a well worked-up crew that acted as one unit. The French Navy built better ships than the British, the Spanish generally carried a superior number of guns on their line-of-battle ships. But both nations lacked the uninterrupted sea service that, forming everyone aboard into a single entity, made the Royal Navy so formidable an instrument.

  ‘Galley’s putting a boat over the side, Capt’n,’ cried the lookout, unnecessarily, since they could now see the other deck quite clearly. ‘And there’s a well-dressed party that’s about to get aboard.’

  ‘Well, let us break out some decent wine,’ said Harry. ‘And Pender, raid our stores for the very finest cold collation.’

  ‘Are we seeking to impress him, brother?’ asked James.

  ‘Not really. But if he’s anything like the Spaniards I’ve come across, he’ll be as proud as the proverbial peacock. Anything less than our best will offend him. In fact, given the number of galleys in this little fleet, let’s give the fellow a commodore’s salute.’

  The first of the guns boomed out before he was halfway across the gap between the ships, the white smoke drifting away in the soft breeze. Gun followed gun until the full entitlement of thirteen was complete.

  ‘Navarro,’ called the Spanish coxswain from the bows of his Captain’s barge, boathook extended to hook on just aft of the gangway. The name of the ship was followed by the name of her commander, just in case these Englishmen needed to be over-awed. ‘El Señor Felipe San Lucar de Barrameda.’

  ‘The length of his name is certainly impressive,’ said James. ‘Almost as gorgeous as his attire.’

  His clothing was more than that, a fact very evident when he came aboard to the sound of the boatswain’s whistle. El Señor Felipe San Lucar de Barrameda was a very tall man, unusual in a sailor of any race, though his build was of sufficient girth to avoid any hint of lankiness. The coat he wore was of mid-blue watered silk, set off by an equally fine cream waistcoat in the same material. His linen was as white as the wig on his head and the dark eyes flashed with a hauteur that made his gold-fringed tricorne hat, swept elegantly to one side as he bowed, seem appropriate rather than theatrical. His skin was of a sallow hue, carefully kept from any exposure to the sun; the moustache and beard a thin black carefully barbered line around the full red lips of his mouth.

  The man behind him was very different, more suited to their location off Fort Balize. A doleful Captain of infantry, he was as sad as the place itself. The dark skin that Harry had noticed while he was still in the cutter was even more marked when set in contrast to that of his superior officer. His heavy black moustache trailed at either side of thick purple lips and the braid, like the buttons on his uniform, was tarnished and green. The cloth of his linen coat, which had once been a beige colour, was now so stained that it resembled the muddy Mississippi water that slid by the ship’s hull. There was a mildewed air about him, as though while not in any way wet he was never actually completely dry. Harry stepped forward to introduce himself, speaking French and making as formal a bow as the Spaniard.

  ‘I’ve prepared some refreshments in my cabin, Don Felipe San Lucar de Barrameda. A humble repast, not fit for a man of your illustrious station, but the best that a poor ship like mine can do.’

  The Spaniard took this rubbish at face value, which was more than James could manage. Unaware of Harry’s motives for such grovelling, and lacking his experience with the notoriously stiff-backed Dons, he quite failed to see his brother’s words for what they were: outrageous flattery to a man who looked as though he would settle for no less. His subsequent remark, delivered in English, might have gone unnoticed, but James, likewise, had decided to speak French.

  ‘Nonsense, brother. I dare say our guest has been on short commons the whole commission and will welcome a square meal.’

  The Spaniard’s eyes only opened a fraction. But on such a haughty countenance it was enough to convey a measure of the shock James had achieved.

  ‘Allow me, Señor, to name my brother, James,’ said Harry, giving the younger Ludlow a glare of such intensity as to melt ice. ‘A man renowned, I might add, for his wit.’

  ‘Delighted,’ the Spaniard replied in English, with just the right intonation to let James know he was anything but.

  ‘You speak English, sir?’

  ‘I was a prisoner for three years, Captain Ludlow, during the last war.’

  ‘My condolences, Señor. That is rarely a pleasant experience for any man, let alone a man bred to fight. I can only hope that those who had charge of your confinement left you with a good impression of my country.’

  San Lucar de Barrameda didn’t answer that, which left Harry looking both concerned and rather foolish. James grinned as the Spaniard stepped to one side, exposing the officer who’d come out from Fort Balize.

  ‘Captain Pasquale Fernandez, a native of Havana. Commander of the Cuban regiment which provides the garrison at Fort Balize.’

  Fernandez did his best to appear elegant. But the condescending way in which San Lucar de Barrameda had referred to his Cuban origins, plus his own complete lack of natural grace, undermined him. And in the presence of his immaculate superior the attempt at a deep bow looked comical.

  ‘Please follow me, gentlemen,’ said Harry, leading the way towards his cabin. ‘Pender, something to drink for the barge crew and Captain Fernandez’s men in the cutter.’

  The party walked just far enough away from Harry to allow him to whisper more orders. ‘Get Dreaver to man the capstan and see if he can ease us clear. One pawl at a time. I don’t want our guests to know.’

  Progress to the cabin was agonisingly slow, as San Luca
r de Barrameda examined each one of Harry’s guns. He was particularly taken by the squat carronades, and spent an inordinate amount of time studying their outline. Clearly he longed to ask about them in detail, these being a type of cannon he could only have heard of and never seen, but good manners forbade him to do so. And just so that he would get Harry’s previous flattery in context, the Captain of the Bucephalas didn’t oblige him. Finally he dragged himself away and followed Harry into the day cabin. This boasted a table laid out with everything of quality, in silver and plate, that the Ludlow brothers owned. If the food, the best that Tortola could offer, wasn’t perfect, the wines were exceptional, a fact that actually registered on the masklike face of their guest.

  ‘Pender,’ said Harry softly, after drinks had been poured, ‘get that stuff from the Gauchos on deck, so that our Spanish peacock can examine it. Put it beside that raft.’

  Pender left a scene of restrained conversation. Direct questions were avoided. Even James knew that there was a protocol in these things: the polite exchange of conversation regarding each sovereign’s health, larded with flattery as to the numerous virtues of the two nations; the enquiries regarding the nature of each other’s task, without in any way indicating unseemly inquisitiveness. Even if the word privateer surprised him, it would have taken a very observant onlooker to notice the effect on San Lucar de Barrameda, determined to abide the rules. And, as befitted a man of his station, he ate and drank sparingly. Not so his fellow officer. Fernandez, presented with an opportunity to eat and drink things he rarely saw, slurped and munched away, taking no part in the exchange of pleasantries. Indeed, his indulgence forced his superior to continue with his gossip for some time, until, finally losing patience, he said a sharp word in Spanish that had the infantry Captain sitting bolt upright in his chair. Then having served notice of a change of mood, he turned to Harry.

  ‘I am, sir, curious as to why an English privateer should be in these waters, which I would remind you, are wholly the province of His Most Catholic Majesty.’

  Harry stood up abruptly, turned, and reached into his desk drawer. His hand emerged holding the packet that contained the log and papers of the Gauchos.

  ‘Would you return to the deck with me, sir? I have something very unpleasant to show you.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SPANIARD was surprised by this suddenness and he recoiled slightly. With an evident expression of distaste at such unseemly behaviour, he pulled himself to his feet in preparation. Then, with his mask of indifference firmly back in place, he followed Harry to the deck. The Navarro had now come quite close, and like Bucephalas had dropped anchor. She lay bow on, her oars now shipped. There was some form of cage on the foredeck but Harry was so busy shepherding his guest that he couldn’t spare it a proper look. The items that had been fetched off the sinking ship were laid out on the deck. On seeing them, San Lucar de Barrameda stopped dead, clearly perplexed. After a moment of examination he raised his eyes to meet the steady, sad gaze of his host.

  ‘It is never a pleasant duty to tell a fellow sailor that one of his country’s ships has been lost.’ Harry handed him the packet. ‘These are the ship’s papers of a merchant vessel we came across called Gauchos de Andalusia.’

  Harry got no further. This time San Lucar de Barrameda reacted as if he’d been slapped. His eyes held a startled expression and what little blood he had in his face drained away.

  ‘Gauchos?’ he whispered.

  ‘We came across her drifting, with not a soul aboard, about a day’s sailing to the south of the delta.’ The Spaniard couldn’t help it. He looked at the guns lining the side as Harry continued quickly, ‘It was no act of ours that left her so. Nor was she fired on by any other vessel. Apart from an attempt to open her planking below the waterline, she was undamaged. Indeed we tried to tow her to Fort Balize. I’m sorry to say we didn’t succeed.’

  ‘Where did this take place?’ de Barrameda snapped.

  Quite clearly, in his shock, he’d failed to hear all that Harry had said. The explanation which followed was complex, since he could only guess at the precise location. Certainly, the chart showed the Spanish merchantman’s course, but lacking an accurate position of his own, Harry couldn’t say with any conviction how long she’d been drifting and at what point they’d intercepted her. His reference to soup tureens and some sticky blood on the deck brought a growl of impatience, which Harry reacted to with stoical forbearance. He couldn’t advance a full explanation of what had occurred, even if he did list the thoughts he’d had, and this was frustrating his guest. But as he tried San Lucar de Barrameda recovered some of his composure, only the pressure of his lips now betraying the depth of his anxiety. James was watching him closely, and he was probably the only one to see the skin tighten around his cheeks when Harry mentioned the sweet-tasting granules. By the time he’d heard about the top layer of boxes in the hold being opened such evidence of discomfort had disappeared.

  ‘Naturally, unable to save the ship, we took out as much as we could in the way of personal possessions, plus everything that might provide a clue to what actually happened. Then we set course for New Orleans.’

  ‘That may account for your presence off Balize, Captain Ludlow. But it does not explain your presence so far north in the Gulf of Mexico. Just where were you headed when you came across the Gauchos?’

  James, when he saw Harry’s face, with that tightness a man adopts when suppressing a curse, suddenly understood what he was up to. Harry knew full well that Pollock was telling the truth. The Spanish might not welcome French colonists with any greater degree of enthusiasm than the American. The plan to drop them at Fort Balize having gone awry, his brother was trying to sneak the Frenchmen upriver on the back of this unfortunate discovery. Worried by the possibility of a refusal, he was keen not to ask that they be allowed to stay. A firm no would leave him with the unpleasant alternative of putting them ashore surreptitiously or even worse taking them elsewhere. De Barrameda had spotted the flaw and Harry was about to be forced to explain himself.

  ‘I think there’s one other thing you should see, Captain.’ Harry nodded to Pender, who was standing by the tarpaulin that covered the raft. ‘We found this as well, just before we raised Fort Balize. It was drifting on the tide. There were half a dozen casks tied to it, all empty, which we suppose had been used to dispose of the crew.’

  De Barrameda stared at the body impassively, which was more than could be said for Harry’s crew. Denied the chance for a close look when it came aboard, they pressed forward as much as decency allowed.

  ‘I’m sure you will recognise this form of punishment as one usually confined to pirates.’

  Harry’s crew were not alone in their curiosity. Fernandez had actually walked up to the raft, and, like man who coveted them, knelt down to finger the victim’s boots. To look at the state of his own footwear, scuffed and practically worn through with exposure to sea and sand, it wasn’t too fanciful a notion. Suddenly he crossed himself. Then he stood up and resumed the stance he’d adopted since coming on deck, shoulders hunched, sucking his teeth, the picture of indifference. Hardly surprising since the entire conversation had taken place in a language he didn’t comprehend.

  ‘This was not the work of pirates,’ said de Barrameda.

  ‘Naturally,’ Harry replied, ‘I bow to your superior knowledge. But I’m at a loss to know how you can be so certain.’

  ‘If you cast your eyes over my ship, you will observe that there is a caged man on the deck.’

  Harry turned to look, as did James and everyone else aboard. The Navarro had swung round slightly, giving a clearer view of her foredeck. The cage was easy to see now. Just as obvious was the man hanging by his wrists from the roof.

  ‘Henri-Luc Charpentier, who claims to lead the vermin who occupy Barataria Bay. I burnt four of their vessels and chased the crews into the swamps. There have been no pirates at sea for days.’

  De Barrameda suddenly rapped out a series of orders
that made Fernandez jerk to attention. Harry only understood a fraction of what he said, but little genius was required to guess the rest. Once he’d received his instructions, Fernandez was over the side and into his cutter at the pace of a scalded cat. The rowers caught his mood and grabbed their oars. De Barrameda waited till they’d pushed off from the side, frowning at the untidy nature of their efforts, before composing his features once more, in order to address Harry.

  ‘How can we thank you, Captain? You say it is sad to tell a man of the sinking of one of his country’s ships.’ He nodded in the direction of the desiccated body. ‘How much worse to know that friends have suffered such a dread fate at sea.’

  ‘Captain Rodrigo was a friend?’ asked Harry, solicitously.

  Out of the corner of his eye Harry could see the Spanish cutter heading for the Navarro, not Fort Balize or the mouth of the river. Given the proximity of de Barrameda’s ship any orders could easily have been shouted, which could only mean that the Spaniard didn’t want him to hear them. That made him uneasy.

  James, less distracted, was concentrating on this hidalgo sailor, observing the effect of Harry’s question. He saw the skin tighten around the mouth again. Clearly the grief that the Spanish officer was about to convey made him uncomfortable.

  ‘He was, indeed,’ de Barrameda replied. Then, as if aware of the discomfort this would cause his hosts, he waved an elegant hand towards his ship.

  ‘As you will observe, I have sent Captain Fernandez over to the Navarro. I have given orders to my master to signal the galley with the best oarsmen aboard. They will row upriver at speed. The Barón de Carondelet must be told what has happened.’

  ‘And who, pray, is the Barón de Carondelet?’ asked James.

  ‘He is the Governor of Louisiana,’ snapped the Spaniard, as if such ignorance was inexcusable. ‘You, of course, must make your way there too. And as soon as my present mission is complete, I, along with the rest of my fleet, shall accompany you.’