PIRATE: Privateer (13 page)

Baltasar slumped back on the sand, and Hector looked across towards Jezreel. The big man lay pressed against the ground, his face turned towards him. Hector gave a slight nod, then turned his
attention back to the beach and kept very still.

The man with the musket came on. He was walking casually, feet sinking deep into the white sand as soft as sifted flour. He held his musket in both hands across his body, his attention fixed on
the ground ahead of him. It was clear that he was following the track that Baltasar had left behind.

He passed the place where Jezreel was hidden. The flock of seagulls, alarmed by his presence, lifted off from the sand, flew a few yards downwind and settled again ahead of him.

Hector quietly raised his right hand.

Jezreel stood. In a couple of strides he was on the crest of the dune. He brought the useless musket to his shoulder. Unaware of the giant aiming a gun down on him, Julio had paused for a
moment. He reached for the leather strap which held his cartridge box, and adjusted it so that it sat more comfortably across his chest. He was close enough for Hector to see the dark patches of
sweat staining his shirt at the armpits. Irritably the mutineer swatted an insect that had settled on his cheek.

‘Stay right where you are,’ growled Jezreel, just loud enough to be heard by his victim.

The sailor spun round. The sight of Jezreel, wild and savage, pointing the musket at him made him freeze.

Hector sprang to his feet and careered down the slope of the dune. He snatched the musket from Julio’s grasp. The mutineer gaped at him in astonishment. Hector stepped back to give himself
room, cocked the musket, and pointed the gun at the man’s stomach. ‘Down on your knees,’ he snapped.

The terrified sailor did as he was told, even as Hector became aware that Baltasar was limping down the slope towards them. ‘You treacherous bastard,’ the Spaniard spat at their
captive as he arrived in front of him. ‘Next time shoot straighter.’ Baltasar turned to Hector. ‘The swine tried to shoot me with my own gun.’

Hector glanced down at the musket in his hands. The polished stock was of fine walnut and the brass fittings were engraved with filigree patterns. The gunsmith had stamped his initials on the
lockplate.

‘Where’s Luis?’ demanded Baltasar, glaring down at the kneeling sailor.

Their prisoner cringed. ‘I wanted no part in this. The others forced me. Luis is back there, waiting.’

Baltasar was bitter. ‘Waiting for what? For you to report back that you had shot me down like a dog. My father and grandfather were good to your family. And this is how you repay
us.’ He turned away in disgust.

Hector prodded their captive with the muzzle of the gun. ‘On your feet!’ He took the pistol hanging from a hook on the man’s belt. ‘And hand over that strap and cartridge
box.’ The man did as he was told, and as Hector slung the belt over his shoulder he noted that the cartridge box was also particularly fine. Riveted to the leather flap, a large silver
medallion depicted a hunting scene – a shooter aiming at a wild boar.

Jacques arrived and lashed the man’s wrists together with a length of their home-made fishing line. ‘Take him away and stick a gag in his mouth,’ Hector told the Frenchman.
‘I expect his comrade will soon come looking for him.’

Dan went off to scout and came back within twenty minutes to report that
Los Picos
was lying at anchor very close to the shore. There was no sign of activity on the boat. Julio’s
companion was sitting on the beach waiting for him to return.

They reset the ambush.

Once again they waited, and an hour later their second victim walked straight into the trap.

‘Just two more mutineers to deal with,’ said Hector. He tried to sound confident but he knew that he would have to improvise from now on. ‘Baltasar, if you’re feeling
strong enough, I’d like you to come along with Dan and me. I may need your advice.’

Leaving Jacques and Jezreel to guard their prisoners, Hector, Dan and Baltasar circled inland so they could approach the landing beach without being seen. They crawled the last fifty yards
across the dunes until they had a clear view of the anchorage.

A small skiff was drawn up on the beach where Julio and his comrade had come ashore with their prisoners. Some seventy yards farther out a bark rode at anchor, her sails neatly furled.
Los
Picos
was similar in design to the
Morvaut
but newer and sleeker. A figure was leaning on the rail, idly staring down into the brilliant turquoise water.

‘That’s Miguel Roblandillo. He’s the ringleader,’ said Baltasar. There was an edge of pure hatred in his voice.

The figure looked up and gazed towards the shore. For a moment Hector had the feeling that the mutineer was looking directly at him. ‘Can he and his companion handle
Los Picos
on
their own?’ he asked. He found himself whispering though the bark was far away.

‘Miguel’s a competent sailor,’ Baltasar replied reluctantly.

They cautiously made their way back to where there was no risk of being seen from the ship.

‘I fear that if the two men on the bark take fright, they will sail away, leaving us all stranded,’ Hector said.

Dan nodded in agreement. ‘Without their jolly boat, I doubt that they’ll attempt to come ashore. More likely they’ll simply wait for their companions to return. And then, if no
one shows up, they’ll head off.’

There was the sound of a musket shot. Dan’s head jerked up. ‘There! They’re trying to attract the attention of the shore party now.’

The strap of the cartridge box which Hector was wearing was too tight. As he reached for the buckle to adjust it, he noticed for the first time that the figure of the shooter in the hunting
scene on the flap was picked out in gold.

‘Baltasar, how good is this musket of yours?’

‘My father gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday. He ordered it from Brachie, the gunsmith in Dieppe. He wanted to give me a Spanish-made gun but Brachie’s weapons are said to be
the best there are. It cost a small fortune.’

‘Do you know how it shoots?’

The Spaniard smiled grimly. ‘I’ve hunted with that gun for three years. I know exactly how it shoots.’ He gave Hector a level stare. ‘But I’m in no condition to aim
straight.’

Hector looked across at Dan.

‘You are as good a marksman as I am,’ said the Miskito quietly.

Hector turned back to Baltasar. ‘I estimate the range at about a hundred paces.’

‘Aim between five and six feet above your target.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No. The gun shoots straight.’

Hector hefted the musket and put it to his shoulder. The weapon was beautifully balanced. It was already loaded but he could not afford a misfire. He opened the cartridge box. As he had
expected, it contained a dozen cartridges neatly arranged in their slots as well as everything needed to service the gun – extra flints, a turn screw for adjusting the lock, a tiny flask of
oil, squares of cloth, beeswax, a priming wire. There were also two attachments for the ramrod. One, a tow worm, was for holding the strips of cloth when cleaning the barrel. The other, a ball
screw, was for extracting the bullet after it had been inserted in the barrel. He fitted the ball screw to the musket’s ramrod and hooked out the wadding and bullet. After he had then shaken
out the loose powder charge, he carefully cleaned the empty barrel. He thumbed back the frizzen, took a fresh cartridge from the box, tore it open with his teeth, and sprinkled a small quantity of
powder on to the flash pan. Before he closed the frizzen, he pressed his fingertip on the powder and held it up for inspection. The grains were dry and even.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Baltasar, who had been watching the ritual. ‘My father ordered a hundred pounds of best Normandy powder to go with the gun.’

Hector set the hammer to half cock. He tipped the remainder of the powder out of the cartridge and down the musket barrel, dropped in the musket ball and was about to push down the paper of the
cartridge as wadding when Dan stopped him. The Miskito had opened a second cartridge and taken out the bullet.

‘Two would be better,’ he said, holding up the lead ball.

Hector glanced across at Baltasar. ‘Aim another couple of feet higher,’ said the Spaniard.

Hector dropped the second ball down the barrel, and seated everything firmly home with the ramrod.

‘Wait at least five minutes,’ he said to Dan. Holding the musket carefully before him, he crawled off to his firing position.

Below him nothing had changed. There was still the peaceful scene of the jolly boat drawn up on the beach, the bark riding at anchor beyond it on the calm sea. The same man was standing on the
deck of
Los Picos
.

Hector reached forward and scooped together a little mound of sand. He patted it down firmly, placed the gun on the rest, and sighted down the barrel. There was no wind, and the bark lay on her
anchor with the full length of her hull exposed.

He pulled back the hammer and waited.

The minutes dragged past. The man on the deck of the bark strolled away to the base of the mast, where he was part hidden. Hector saw his head tilt back and guessed that he was drinking from the
tub of water normally kept there.

All of a sudden there was the loud crack of a musket shot. It came from directly behind Hector. Dan had fired the second gun. The man on the bark immediately stepped back into view. He still had
the water dipper in his hand. He walked quickly to the near rail and gazed expectantly towards the beach.

Hector aimed six feet above the target, took in a half-breath, and held it. Then he gently squeezed the trigger.

T
HEY BURIED THE BODY OF
Miguel Roblandillo among the sand dunes that evening. The musket ball, an ounce of lead fired from a hundred paces, had
shattered his lower jaw, killing him instantly. His companion surrendered meekly as soon as Dan and Hector rowed out in the jolly boat to take possession of the bark.

‘I am forever in your debt,’ said Baltasar. He had a cheerful boyish face below the bandage wrapped around his head. Tufts of curly dark brown hair sprouted from the top of the
dressing and made him look even younger. ‘You must tell me what I can do to help you.’

‘We were headed for Curaçao when we were marooned,’ said Hector. After the burial he and his friends had transferred to
Los Picos
to discuss their plans. The three
surviving mutineers remained on-shore. It had not even been necessary to discuss their fate. They would be left behind when the bark sailed. They could fend for themselves.

‘Jezreel is thinking of returning to England,’ continued Hector. ‘Jacques and Dan have not yet decided on their plans.’

‘And you?’

‘I intend to rejoin my wife, Maria. She’s waiting for me on Tortuga.’

‘And after that?’

Hector shrugged. ‘I’ll make a living somehow, find a home for us.’ The truth was that he had no idea what to do next. The loss of the salvage from the galleon had put an end to
his hopes of moving somewhere where he could start a new life with Maria, perhaps even leaving the sea.

‘Maria is a Spanish name.’

‘Her family comes from Andalusia. She was employed in Peru and later in the Marianas.’

‘So she might consider returning to the colonies.’

‘I suppose so.’

Baltasar brightened. ‘I have a suggestion. Instead of continuing to Curaçao and an uncertain future, why not accompany me back to Cartagena? Remember, England and Spain are no
longer enemies. I can make sure you are welcome.’

Hector glanced at his friends for their reaction. They were listening carefully, but their faces gave nothing away. Spain’s Caribbean colonies had been out of bounds to them for so long
that venturing there at the suggestion of this enthusiastic young man might seem foolhardy.

The Spaniard pressed on eagerly. ‘My family has much influence in Cartagena. My father is a leading merchant, a member of the advisory council, and greatly respected. When he hears how you
saved my life and this ship, he will do everything to assist you.’

Hector phrased his next remark carefully. ‘I don’t understand why your crew mutinied. They had little to gain.’ Coming aboard
Los Picos
he had noted the absence of any
goods in her hold, and he found it odd that a small, empty merchantman had such a well-educated and affluent captain as Baltasar.

‘I’ll show you why they took the ship,’ said the Spaniard. He ushered them into the small cabin in the stern and rolled back the red-and-white checked canvas which served as a
floor covering. He levered up several planks to expose a hidden locker. Stacked inside the cavity were small canvas bags. They were instantly recognizable as the bags used for transporting coin,
and they filled the space entirely.

‘A little over seven thousand pesos in silver,’ announced Baltasar.

Jacques gave a low whistle of astonishment.

‘Every few months my father sends a large payment to his trading partners,’ said the young Spaniard. ‘He settles his accounts with them in cash. The transfer is my
responsibility.’