PIRATE: Privateer (14 page)

‘And your crew got to know of the money?’ asked Jezreel.

‘That’s right. I think Miguel Roblandillo heard that I was to be in charge for this voyage and worked out why. Somehow he managed to interfere with the regular crew and get himself
aboard. When Julio said he was persuaded into the mutiny he was probably telling the truth.’

Hector had been thinking over Baltasar’s explanation. ‘Doesn’t your father believe in normal letters of credit?’

There was a worldly-wise twinkle in Baltasar’s eyes as he replied. ‘Hector, half the business done out of Cartagena is undercover. Laws passed far away in Spain forbid us to trade
with foreigners except under strict licence. Yet we need the foreign goods and we have the bullion to pay for them.’

Hector looked down at the nest of sacks, row upon row of pesos.
Los Picos
was carrying more silver than they had been able to salvage from the Vipers. ‘And your father could arrange
a passage to England for Jezreel?’ he said.

The Spaniard’s grin grew broader. ‘There’s not a port in the Caribbean where my father does not have excellent contacts and can call in favours. He can even arrange for Maria
to come from Tortuga to Cartagena, if that’s what you want.’

Hector was warming to Baltasar. Despite his initial concerns, he found the young Spaniard to be refreshingly honest and open. It occurred to Hector that perhaps he should think of setting up as
a merchant-smuggler himself. It would be a way of providing for Maria without resorting to outright piracy or plundering wrecks. If it was done discreetly, he and Maria might even live a more
normal life.

The Spaniard seemed to guess his thoughts. ‘Hector, I’ve been thinking of establishing my own trading house. Of course my father must agree and I would need him to loan me the
capital to get me started. But what would you say to the idea that you and your friends enter a partnership with me.’ He made a sweeping gesture. ‘Our base could be in Cartagena and we
would trade from one end of the Caribbean to the other. Dan would be our agent among the mainland peoples. And Jacques our contact with the French colonies.’

‘France and Spain are at war,’ objected Jacques. ‘So how would a Frenchman be treated in your city? Especially one who bears a mark like this.’ He touched the
galérien’s brand, faintly visible on his cheek.

Baltasar was undeterred in his enthusiasm. ‘We turn it to advantage. We’d say that you were sent to the galleys after being found guilty, though you were innocent of any crime. This
made you renounce your allegiance to France. Besides, provided you don’t come to the attention of the Governor or the authorities, no one will even question your presence in the
city.’

‘Then I’m happy to take my chances in Cartagena,’ said Jacques.

‘I’ll go along with that,’ added Jezreel, and Dan nodded his agreement.

Baltasar slapped Hector on the shoulder. ‘Soon you’ll be seeing your Maria again. She’ll persuade you that a life in Cartagena is so pleasant that both of you will wish to
stay.’

*

B
ALTASAR WAS
still bubbling over with optimism as
Los Picos
steered into Cartagena’s anchorage five days later. As the vessel passed before
the seaward rampart he pointed out the natural features that made the city impregnable to any attack from the sea.

‘An enemy would be crazy to try to land troops directly on the beach. His ships would wreck on dangerous shallows, and if men did manage to get ashore, the ground is so waterlogged that
they would drown in their trenches.’

Hector suppressed a twinge of anxiety. He and his friends were entering the stronghold of what had once been a feared enemy. In his mind’s eye he could imagine the lookouts on the
battlements now gazing down on the little bark as it crept under the muzzles of their cannon.

They turned to port, committing themselves to the channel that led into the great six-mile-long lagoon behind the city, where an entire fleet could lie safely at anchor. ‘And should his
squadrons try to force the entrance to the harbour,’ Baltasar was saying proudly, ‘they must run the gauntlet of Santa Catalina, San Lucas, Santo Domingo, Santiago and La Cruz.’
He rattled off the names of the forts and bastions, batteries, curtain walls and watch towers which defended the city.

The bark eased into the anchorage and Hector’s attention was caught by the spectacle of three huge galleons moored in the inner harbour. Built like floating castles, they were the largest
ships he had ever seen.

Baltasar noted his interest. ‘There lies a reason why Cartagena prospers,’ he said, gesturing towards the galleons. ‘As soon as the treasure galleons have loaded their cargoes
of silver and gold at Porto Bello, they come to Cartagena. Here they lie in safety, protected from storms and pirates as they wait for the sailing season and their return to Havana.’ He
continued in full flow. ‘Just think of it! Cartagena is the only port in South America where the flota, the annual fleet from Spain, stays for any length of time. Everything from the interior
– the gems, the timber and hides, the coffee and chocolate – must pass through this port. That is why four generations of my family have stayed here and prospered. We are Cartagena-born
and proud of it.’

Looking around, Hector could tell that Baltasar was right. Cartagena was indeed thriving. He could see merchant ships of every size and type, from substantial ocean-going vessels to small
coasters. Some lay at anchor waiting to move to the wharves. Others were already alongside the quays, taking on or discharging cargo. As his gaze swept past the mass of shipping, something stirred
faintly in his memory, just as the young Spaniard called across to Dan, who was at the helm, ‘Head for that jetty on the far side! That’s where we dock.’

Hector thought it odd that he could see no sign of any officials waiting at the quay where
Los Picos
was to tie up. The coastguard at the harbour entrance must have reported their
approach. There should have been men sent by the usual authorities – the collector of customs, the port office, and the magistrate responsible for checking the papers of any passengers.

There was no one. The bark was ignored.
Los Picos
might as well have been a ghost ship.

It was evident too that Baltasar was careful not to draw attention to their arrival. ‘I suggest Jezreel and your two other friends stay on board until after dark,’ he said as soon as
the bark had made fast. ‘Later this evening my father will send some of his staff to remove the silver and carry it to our vaults.’

He jumped nimbly on to the dock.

‘Come on, Hector,’ he said, ‘I want to introduce you to my father.’

They set off at a brisk pace through the city. Hector was impressed by what he saw. The usual dockside clutter of warehouses and sheds soon gave way to well-paved streets of two-storey houses
with neat wooden balconies and freshly painted shutters. They passed across several small plazas. Each had a fountain in the centre, and along the sides were arcades of shops selling food, clothing
and housewares. At portable stalls one could buy fruit juice and other drinks. The most popular beverage, according to Baltasar who was enjoying playing the guide, was a milky grey drink made from
fermented plant sap and imported from New Spain, where it had long been a favourite of the native peoples. Hector could see for himself another contribution of those earlier inhabitants of the
continent. Many passers-by had copper-coloured faces, high cheekbones with narrow slightly slanting eyes, and long straight black hair. The citizens of Cartagena were of every mix of race and
colour – from the darkest black of Africa to the pasty white of immigrants recently arrived from Europe.

The farther that he and Baltasar advanced into the city, the taller and more impressive the buildings became. They passed a number of convents and large churches – Cartagena seemed to be a
city of churches – until eventually they reached what was evidently the wealthiest quarter of the city. Here the houses bordered on the palatial. They were three or even four storeys high,
with ornate ironwork gates and balconies swathed in flowering shrubs. In this sector the majority of the people were white and richly dressed. Liveried servants held parasols to shield them from
the hot sunshine and, if they had been shopping, carried their purchases for them. Occasionally a coach rattled past, door panels gleaming and a driver, usually a black man, handling the reins.

Finally Baltasar turned into a street broader than most and came to a halt in front of a particularly imposing mansion. Its outer wall was decorated with patterns of blue and white tiles. At his
knock the massive double door with its huge iron studs and a spy hole was opened by a footman wearing a uniform of white and burgundy. Beyond was a large entrance hall floored with marble. It was
expensively furnished with carved chests, a couple of small bronze statues, a tall clock. Everything looked as though it had been shipped in from Spain.

Baltasar hurried across the hallway. The far door opened on to a large courtyard laid out with flowerbeds and shade trees and a long ornamental pond. The buildings overlooking the courtyard were
so immaculately whitewashed that the glare made Hector’s eyes hurt. Without a pause Baltasar escorted him up a wrought-iron stairway that brought them to a gallery running the full length of
the building. He threw open the first door they came to and announced in a loud voice, ‘Father, I’m back! And here’s someone I want you to meet!’

Hector stepped inside and found himself in a large and spacious office. The ceiling with its exposed beams was a full fifteen feet above his head and two enormous windows stood open to let in a
cool breeze. Someone had taken care not to fill the room with unnecessary clutter: apart from two large chests ranged against the wall and a carved armoire, the only major item of furniture was a
massive oak table. It was placed where the light fell across the neat stacks of paper arranged on its surface. Seated at the table on an old-fashioned Spanish chair with a leather backrest was a
middle-aged balding man dressed in a plain lead-coloured tunic with a lace collar. He had a deeply lined face, hooded brown eyes, and an expression of guarded surprise as he looked at his
visitors.

‘This is Hector Lynch,’ said Baltasar breathlessly. ‘My crew mutinied and set me and Pedro ashore on the Isla del Sal. They killed Pedro, but I escaped, thanks to Hector and
his friends.’ He was about to plunge into a full description of all that had happened on Salt Island when his father held up his hand to stop him.

‘I am glad to see you are safe. Where is
Los Picos
now?’

Hector looked between the two men. He was unable to see a family resemblance. That is until the father spoke. Both of them had exactly the same intonation and phrasing though the father spoke
more softly and quietly.

‘At her usual berth in the harbour,’ said Baltasar. ‘And the silver is still on board.’

Hector thought he detected a flicker of relief on the older man’s face.

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Baltasar’s father, turning to Hector. ‘I am Alfonso Corbalan. You are welcome to my home. I hope you will stay as my
guest.’

His son interrupted. He was still exuberant. ‘Father, Hector has three companions aboard
Los Picos
.’

‘Of course they too will be my guests.’ The merchant eyed Hector, who was still dressed in the ragged and patched clothes he had worn on the island. ‘I am sure that
Señor Lynch would like to bathe and rest. It sounds as if you have all had a considerable ordeal.’ He reached for a small silver bell on the table and rang it. ‘Baltasar, we
should leave your full account of what happened until dinner this evening. Your mother and sisters will also want to hear the details. And by then Señor Lynch’s companions will have
joined us.’

A servant appeared in the doorway.

‘Miguel, make four guest rooms ready. And send for the tailor. He is to measure Señor Lynch for a new suit of clothes, which must be ready by the time we dine. The tailor is also to
send his assistants to the dock to do the same for Señor Lynch’s companions.’

He waited until the servant had left the room, and turned to his son.

‘There is another matter, however, which needs immediate attention.’

‘What is it, Father?’

‘You say that your crew mutinied?’ asked the merchant mildly, though Hector detected a steely undertone to the question.

Baltasar sounded apologetic. ‘Not Pedro the sailing master, of course. The ringleader was a man called Miguel Roblandillo.’

‘I remember him. Hired at the last moment,’ said his father quietly.

‘Roblandillo persuaded the others to mutiny,’ said the son.

‘And what happened to him?’

‘Hector shot him.’

The merchant gave Hector a quick, approving glance. ‘And the others?’

‘We left them on the island.’

‘Then they must be hunted down.’ The merchant’s mildness had vanished. His face was hard-set and bleak. ‘Tomorrow morning as soon as the office of the Alcalde del Crimen
is open you will swear a deposition identifying them as pirates and mutineers. Then we can act.’

‘What do you propose, Father?’ asked Baltasar obediently.

‘No one flouts the authority of the house of Corbalan. I want the mutineers picked up before they have a chance to escape and brought back here to stand trial. By tomorrow evening a
government coastguard vessel will be on her way to Isla del Sal. I am sure the Governor will agree to my request.’

The merchant’s gracious manner returned just as quickly. ‘Baltasar, why don’t you show Señor Lynch around our home. I hope that he will be staying with us for some
time.’

Baltasar was beaming as he left the office with Hector. ‘My father likes you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Tomorrow after we get back from the magistrate’s office, I’ll
put to him my idea that I should have my own trading house in association with you and your friends.’

As Hector was shown the splendours of the Corbalan home, he allowed himself to be swayed by his guide’s infectious optimism. He admired the elegant ballroom with its glittering chandeliers
and panelled walls, the dining room with a mahogany table that seated twenty-four, the twin reception rooms, one for formal occasions, the other for private meetings, and a collection of paintings
that would not have looked out of place in a ducal palace. All this luxury, he reflected, had been purchased with profits from trade and commerce, much of it conducted on the very fringes of
legality, yet so subtly that it avoided the risks that sent men to prison at hard labour or the gallows. For the first time in many months he saw a way out of his difficulties.