PIRATE: Privateer (15 page)

*

I
T WAS PITCH DARK
when the Petit Goâve smugglers put Maria ashore in Jamaica. Sunrise revealed that they had left her on an open beach. The place
was deserted. There were no buildings, not even a fisherman’s shack, and no people to be seen. The only sign of human activity was the faint trace of a footpath which came down to the shore
through the featureless rough scrubland that stretched inland. Feeling helpless and betrayed, she found a patch of shade under a stunted palm tree and sat down to wait. Sooner or later, she
reasoned, someone would appear. Then she would ask the best way to get to Port Royal.

The entire morning passed with nothing happening but the breeze strengthening. The sea, which had been calm that night, gradually became rough. The waves built up, crashing steadily on the
strand. She found a hypnotic satisfaction in watching their rhythm, so it was with a start that, shortly after midday, she noticed a small boat sailing slowly along the coast towards her. She drew
back farther into the shadows and kept still, waiting to see what would happen. The boat crept closer and she identified it as a humble barge of the same type that had brought supplies out to
Tortuga. When it drew level with where she sat, the single sail was lowered and a crewman threw the anchor overboard. The boat came to a halt no more than fifty yards off the beach. Moments later
there was a long echoing moan. It was the sound of a conch shell being used as a trumpet.

Soon afterwards a black man emerged on to the beach from the footpath. He was young and muscular and wore only a pair of ragged pantaloons. He hefted a small barrel on his shoulder. Judging by
the way he walked down the slope towards the sea, the keg was heavy. He did not pause when he reached the water’s edge, but waded out into the waves. When he could no longer stand, he dropped
the barrel – it barely floated – and began swimming out to sea, pushing the barrel ahead of him. Frequently the larger waves broke over his head. Maria watched the man struggle, trying
to keep moving forward. Occasionally he was rolled right over in the surf still clutching the barrel. Once or twice it was swept out of his grasp, and he had to swim to retrieve it. Yet he
persisted, and eventually she saw him reach the anchored coaster. There, two crewmen looped a rope around the barrel and hoisted it aboard.

The man swam back to the beach and disappeared up the path. A few minutes later he returned with a second barrel on his shoulder. This time he was followed by half a dozen other men, similarly
burdened. They were all black except for a mulatto with greying hair who looked on. Maria guessed he was the overseer of a slave gang. She got to her feet and went over to speak with him.

‘How do I get to Port Royal from here?’ she asked.

‘Port Royal is no place for a woman on her own,’ he replied in a deep, drawling voice. He must have already noticed her earlier for he did not seem surprised.

Tiredness made Maria short-tempered. ‘I’ve lived in Tortuga on my own,’ she retorted sharply.

‘Maybe. But Port Royal far outstrips Tortuga in villainy. Wickedest city in the world, and proud of it.’

‘I’m expecting to find my husband there,’ said Maria stubbornly.

The mulatto turned his gaze on her. ‘Before you go wandering the streets of Port Royal in search of him, you’d be wise to find yourself somewhere to live. Else you could find more
than you bargained for.’

‘I don’t have anyone to turn to,’ said Maria. ‘I’m willing to find work.’

She sensed a weakening of the man’s indifference. After a pause he said, ‘When we’ve finished loading that drogher out there, you come with me. That’s Captain
Blackmore’s rum we are hauling, and I can set you down at his place. He might give you work.’

‘Who’s Captain Blackmore?’ asked Maria.

‘He’s in thick with the Spaniards,’ said the mulatto. He gave Maria a sideways look. Maria was discomfited to realize that her accent had betrayed her. She was well aware that
Spaniards, the long-time foe, might not be welcomed in Port Royal.

*

T
HE SAME THOUGHT
was uppermost in her mind the following morning as she turned in through the imposing gates of Captain Blackmore’s plantation. The
mulatto’s mule-drawn cart had dropped her on the rutted approach road. On the approach they had passed field after field where men were clearing weeds, cutting, trimming and stacking cane,
loading carts with the stalks. Most labourers were black slaves, though there were a few desperate-looking white men, whom she guessed were indentured workers. To her right she could see the simple
thatched huts of wattle and daub where the black slaves lived. Ahead, about a quarter of a mile away, the great house stood on the crest of a knoll. She could smell the faint aroma of boiling sugar
and knew that somewhere out of sight was the boiling house and all that went with it – the crushing mill, curing house, trash house, and the distillery.

The great house itself was not what she had expected. An austere, square-built building, it had walls of grey stone. The original two storeys had been extended upward by inserting windows into a
steeply pitched roof of red tiles. The result was to make the place look functional rather than elegant. Cotton trees and palms had been planted in an attempt to soften the severity of the site,
but Maria had the impression that the greenery was added as an afterthought.

She walked towards the house. Three children were playing noisily on the dusty space which passed for a lawn. Two were boys, one about eight years old and the other a year younger. The third
child was a girl who must have been about five. Doubtless they were brothers and a sister. All three had flaxen hair, pale skins and loud voices. The older boy, in particular, was shouting at the
top of his lungs, giving orders to the others. The little girl must have been slow to obey because her brother suddenly lashed out. He swung an arm at his sister and smacked her across the ear. He
was six inches taller than his victim, and beefy, and the blow knocked her off her feet. She fell to the ground with a wail of pain. To Maria’s dismay, the younger boy then ran across and
kicked his sister as she lay on the ground. He stood over her, preparing to deliver another kick.

Without thinking, Maria darted forward, seized the younger boy by the shoulder, and hauled him back. ‘Stop that, you little brute,’ she said fiercely. The boy glared at her, his face
red with anger. He tried to twist out of Maria’s grasp, but she held on more tightly. ‘That hurts!’ he shrilled and threw a punch at Maria. She held him away as he continued to
struggle. His sister lay curled up on the ground, bawling. The elder brother made no move, a slight smirk on his face.

Maria looked round. She could not imagine that the children had been left unattended. A black woman, dressed in a dingy cotton pinafore and with her hair tied up in a bandana, was slouching
towards them without urgency. Maria guessed that she was meant to supervise their play.

‘Get her off me,’ yelled the child in Maria’s grasp. He managed to reach Maria’s shins with a kick.

‘Stop that!’ she snapped and shook him.

‘What’s all the commotion about?’ said a voice.

Maria turned to see a white woman, who must have come out from the great house. She was thin and bony, with straggly reddish hair and skin blotched by the sun. She was too old to be the
children’s mother. Maria guessed she was an elderly aunt or, more likely, their grandmother.

‘I was just calming things down,’ Maria said. She released the boy, who backed away, glaring at her. The little girl got back on her feet. ‘Charlie kicked me,’ she sobbed
theatrically.

‘Charles, how many times do I have to tell you that you are not to attack your sister,’ scolded the woman. She rounded on the older boy. ‘And Henry, you are not to allow
it.’

Maria waited for a lull in the screams of the little girl. ‘Please could you tell me where I might find Captain Blackmore?’ she asked.

‘The captain’s gone to Port Royal. He won’t be back for several days,’ replied the woman. She brushed back a strand of loose hair. ‘I am his mother. I can speak for
him.’

‘My name is Mary Lynch,’ said Maria. ‘I am recently arrived in Jamaica, and hoping to find employment.’

The older woman was eyeing her, sizing her up. ‘What sort of employment?’ she asked in a neutral tone.

Maria drew herself up straight. She realized that she appeared dusty and bedraggled but she did not want to seem desperate. ‘I’ve looked after children,’ she said firmly. She
knew that her statement risked being taken as a criticism of the scuffle.

Fortunately Mrs Blackmore ignored the inference. ‘And where was that?’

Maria decided to risk revealing her Spanish connections. If what the mulatto overseer had said was correct, Mrs Blackmore’s son was on good terms with certain Spaniards he dealt with.
‘In Peru. I was with the family of a senior judge.’

Mrs Blackmore threw a quick glance towards the black woman. She was out of earshot.

‘The captain has spoken of having his grandchildren learn to speak Spanish,’ she said. ‘He believes it would prove to be a most useful accomplishment should they continue with
our plantation.’

‘I could certainly teach them to speak good Spanish, and their letters as well,’ said Maria.

Mrs Blackmore gave a slight sniff. ‘Do you carry any sort of written recommendation from the judge?’

‘My luggage has not yet arrived,’ Maria lied.

The older woman treated her to a glance full of disbelief. ‘In that case the most I would be willing to offer is a trial period as a governess. Just board and lodging. If you prove
satisfactory after, say, four months, I will consider some sort of payment.’

‘That is very kind of you,’ said Maria quietly, though she thought the captain’s mother was quick to take advantage of another’s weakness.

‘However,’ continued Mrs Blackmore, ‘the captain must agree.’

Maria’s heart sank. Her good fortune was about to desert her just as she thought she had found a place to stay while she searched for Hector. But Mrs Blackmore’s next words caused
her hopes to revive.

‘As I said, the captain is now in Port Royal. I am going there with the children this afternoon. You can come with us and meet him.’

It was a joltingly uncomfortable carriage ride to reach Port Royal. During the four-hour journey, Maria learned that the children’s mother, Mrs Blackmore’s daughter-in-law, had died
of fever two months earlier. After a suitable interval the captain would be travelling to England ‘to look for a new bride as there’s no one here remotely suitable’, as his mother
put it haughtily. In the meantime the children were being looked after by household staff until a governess could be found who was satisfactory. Judging by Mrs Blackmore’s supercilious tone,
finding a tolerable governess on Jamaica was as unlikely as finding a suitable wife. With every sentence the old woman made it clear to Maria that the Blackmores were extremely rich and snobbish,
and regarded themselves and their fellow planters as the rightful rulers of Jamaica. The captain, Mrs Blackmore was at pains to state, was a leading member of the Assembly, the island parliament.
‘London has sent yet another appalling man as Governor!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s forever meddling in our affairs, without understanding them. Not like dear Sir
Henry.’

Seeing that Maria had not the least idea whom she was talking about, the old woman added, ‘Sir Henry Morgan. He was one of the best Governors we ever had, and a brave soldier. A close
friend of my husband.’

Maria knew of Morgan only by his Spanish reputation. To them he was Morgan the Pirate. She said nothing.

‘It was a sad day when they buried him,’ continued the older woman.

‘Was he killed in action?’ asked Maria, feigning innocence.

‘Heavens no! Died in his bed. Probably drunk, mind you. Had a tremendous send-off. Carriage and horses, and a twenty-two gun salute. We buried him over there in the Palisadoes.’ Mrs
Blackmore pointed out of the carriage window. In the distance, across a lagoon, Maria could see the outline of a sizeable town. She realized that they had reached the coast and that Port Royal was
built on a long, low spit of land that projected out into the Caribbean.

The carriage drew up at a stone jetty where a ferry was waiting. As Maria shepherded the three children on to the boat – young Charles shooting her a look of pure hatred – she felt a
quickening excitement. She had already decided on her course of action. As soon as she had completed her interview with Captain Blackmore, she would visit the docks. There she would ask if anyone
had seen a group of four men – among them a Miskito and a big powerful man who looked like a prize-fighter.

The arrival in Port Royal itself came as a shock. The ferryman had to roar and shout to force his way through the swarm of skiffs and small boats blocking the landing steps. The quays themselves
were black with people. Ships lined the wharves two or three deep. More vessels lay at anchor, waiting to take their places. Everywhere was noise and bustle. The chance of tracking Hector down in
this confusion was remote.

On shore Maria found her surroundings even more daunting. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. People were picking their way through the clutter of barrels and boxes and bales. They pushed past her
rudely and to her dismay she could hardly understand the snatches of conversation she overheard. She spoke fluent English, but on the dockside there were so many accents and strange words that she
was often at a loss to know their meaning. Only the frequent curses were unmistakable. The sudden boom of a cannon made her jump. Mrs Blackmore noted her alarm. ‘That’ll be a newly
arrived ship,’ she said. ‘The captain is letting everyone know that he has a cargo for auction, slaves probably.’

They left the waterfront and Maria felt even more bewildered. Mrs Blackmore was a person of sufficient importance for two burly porters to be hired to shepherd the little party through the
scrum. Even so, they were jostled and pushed. Maria was accustomed to the orderly layout of Spain’s colonial townships and she was dumbfounded by the higgledy-piggledy arrangement of the
streets. It seemed to her that a ramshackle European town had been uprooted and dumped on the sandspit. The houses were jammed up so close to one another that the only room for their expansion was
upwards. Many were tall and narrow, four storeys high, and they seemed to be ready at any moment to topple forward into the street. Every few yards there was a tavern, and trade was brisk. Drunks
accosted the little party, and the porters were kept busy fending them off. Maria’s head whirled. Her eyes and ears were battered by the hubbub and bustle. She wondered with increasing
desperation how she would ever manage to track down Hector in this disarray and tumult.