PIRATE: Privateer (17 page)

‘Juan Fonseca will not withdraw his charge of piracy against Hector,’ he said.

‘Can’t you try to persuade him?’ said Baltasar.

His father shook his head. ‘Fonseca is a man of strong principles. I respect him for it even though he is my commercial rival. Besides, Hector admitted his part in the pillaging of the
San Gil
in the presence of the relator.’

‘Then why don’t we approach the relator? Make it worth his while to bury the matter in his files?’ said Baltasar.

‘A bribe might be wasted,’ said his father calmly. ‘The relator could take the money and still forward the charge to the Alcalde. Besides, Fonseca would insist.’

Baltasar looked despondent. His boyish enthusiasm had gone. ‘There must be some way out of this mess.’

‘There is,’ said his father. He rose to his feet. ‘The Governor, Don Martin, has the power to intervene. I have no wish for the garrotte to be put around the throat of the man
who saved my son’s life.’ He looked at Hector with profound sympathy and was rewarded with a flicker of wary hope in Hector’s eyes. The merchant went to the door and called for
his carriage to be made ready. Turning to his son he said, ‘Baltasar, it’s now nearly noon and I don’t have an appointment to see Don Martin. He won’t be receiving anyone
until the worst of the day’s heat is over, and even then I’ll have to wait my turn. You and Hector will have to be patient.’

It was nearly midnight when Alfonso Corbalan finally returned from his mission. Baltasar and Hector were still up, waiting in the central courtyard. Everyone else had gone to bed. The household
servants had left a few lanterns burning, and their lights reflected in the black sheen of the ornamental pond. They heard the noise of an approaching carriage, and a few moments later the merchant
came striding briskly through the shadows.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long,’ he said as he laid his hat and cane on a stone bench. ‘There was a ball at the Governor’s palace and I had to wait for
an interval when I could speak with Don Martin privately.’

Anxiously Hector tried to read the merchant’s expression. But as usual the man’s face gave nothing away.

‘The best he could offer was to reduce the death sentence to ten years of hard labour.’

Because he was so tense, Hector’s senses were all the more acute. He became aware that the still night air carried a faint scent of jasmine.

‘I reminded him that Spain and England are now allies, though recent ones, and piracy is a scourge for both our nations.’

Listening to his dry voice, Hector failed to see where this argument was leading.

‘I pointed out that we had caught a confessed pirate who is a subject of the English king. Instead of executing him out of hand, we could send him to Jamaica for the English to deal with.
They would see it as a friendly act, implying that we trust the English to exact punishment on our behalf. In addition we win over their public opinion. The English mob always enjoys a public
hanging.’

‘But how can that help Hector?’ Baltasar broke in, shocked. ‘He will be choked by a rope instead of by a public garrotte.’

‘For a start Juan Fonseca is not in Jamaica,’ answered his father. ‘He will not be on hand to give direct evidence. His testimony will not be so strong. Besides –’
and here the merchant paused – ‘I have a friend in Port Royal who might nudge English justice off-course.’

‘And the Governor agreed?’ asked Baltasar.

‘He did. A frigate from Jamaica, the
Swan
, is due in Cartagena in the next few days, bringing a delegation from the newly appointed Governor of Jamaica. It’s both a courtesy
visit and to confirm the alliance between Spain and England. When the
Swan
returns, Hector will be aboard. If he gives his parole, he will not even be in irons.’

‘What then?’

‘He will be handed over to the authorities in Port Royal. It will be up to them to decide his fate.’

The merchant looked at Hector. There was compassion as well as regret in his final words. ‘I’ll send a message to my friend in Port Royal, alerting him to your difficulties. It is
the best I can do.’

‘Señor Corbalan, I am grateful,’ said Hector.

But he was thinking that even the help of the merchant’s mysterious Jamaican friend might not be enough. If the Jamaican authorities checked their records, they would find that one Hector
Lynch was already on their wanted list for piracies committed in the South Sea.

T
HE COMMANDER OF
His Most Christian Majesty’s frigate
Sainte Rose
was in an unusually good humour. Seated at his dining table in the great
cabin he watched his guests working their way through a lavish luncheon. They were now on their fourth dish: fricassee of fresh-caught amberjack prepared with sorrel sauce. It was exceptionally
succulent, even by the standards of his personal cook, and there were three more courses to follow, culminating in soursop flan. Captain Laurens Cornelis Boudewin de Graff was particularly fond of
soursop. Its slightly tart, delicate flavour reminded him of the quinces he had eaten as a child. He recalled being told that the quince had been a symbol of fertility for the ancient Greeks and
they dedicated the fruit to the goddess of love. Laurens de Graff wondered if soursop might have the same significance in the Americas. That line of thought was in response to the presence of the
woman seated opposite him.

Anne-Marie Kergonan was wearing a low-cut dress of russet-coloured material. For practical reasons she had cut her hair short and it was a close mass of unruly dark brown curls. De Graff was
finding the result very attractive and he doubted that Anne-Marie had any idea that she was in the height of Paris fashion. According to an ensign recently arrived from France, arranging your hair
in this way was all the rage among the young women at the Sun King’s court. They called the style ‘hurluberlu’.

Laurens de Graff beckoned to his steward and murmured a quiet instruction. The man left the cabin. Anyone at the table who had sharp hearing might then have detected the noise of shuffling feet
outside the cabin door. There was a pause, and a voice said softly, ‘
Un
,
deux
. . .’ A moment later the sound of music came wafting into the cabin. Three violas, two
trumpets and an oboe – Captain de Graff’s private band of shipboard musicians – were playing a passepied, a Breton dance. The captain hoped that his special guest recognized the
compliment in the choice of tune.

A look of astonishment appeared on Anne-Marie’s face. The officers on the
Sainte Rose
already knew of their captain’s penchant for carrying a band on his ship, but this was
the first time the band had performed since the Breton woman had come aboard. De Graff concealed a smile of satisfaction. Persuading her to join the ship had not been easy. It had required weeks of
pressure from Governor de Cussy. He had given broad hints that his enquiry into the shooting of the sailor Rassalle would be set aside, even forgotten, if Anne-Marie would agree to sail on the
Sainte Rose.
She had negotiated shrewdly, wanting to know what lay behind the Governor’s innuendos. Eventually she had wormed out of him that the frigate might go fishing for a Spanish
wreck, the same ship she and her brothers had investigated on the Vipers. Her advice on the position and working of the wreck would be invaluable. If the salvage was a success, she and her brothers
would be well rewarded, and the murder charge forgotten. Although she was cautious about putting her trust in the Governor’s promises – and well aware that there was more to de
Graff’s interest in her than as someone who could identify the location of the Spanish wreck – she was confident of out-manoeuvring both men.

De Graff’s gaze shifted to the centrepiece on his table. The handsome silver candelabrum was the only item he had kept back from the valuables seized from the
Morvaut
. The remainder
he had handed over to de Cussy, as promised. He wondered if Anne-Marie Kergonan recognized the candle holder now that it had been repaired so cleverly. The silversmith was a gifted craftsman who
had been sent to Petit Goâve to serve the last years of a sentence for handling stolen goods. He had reshaped the bent and twisted sticks, restored the detailing and fine scrollwork on the
stem and base. Now, lovingly polished, the candelabrum stood on the white tablecloth, points of light glinting where the sunshine reflected from the surface of the sea below the stern windows. The
candlestick revived a worm of doubt in de Graff’s mind. There was something suspicious about the escape of the prisoners on the
Morvaut
. The way they had slipped from his grasp had
been too slick, too improbable. And there was something about that young man, Lynch, which made him uneasy.

Captain de Graff’s eyes slid back to Anne-Marie. She was talking animatedly to the man seated on her right, the young ensign who had spoken about the Parisian hairstyle. To his surprise,
de Graff felt a stab of jealousy. He decided that he would put on a musical soirée the very next evening. At dusk he would assemble his musicians on the quarterdeck. Anne-Marie Kergonan
would learn that Captain Laurens de Graff was more than just a patron of the arts. He would reveal that he was himself an accomplished performer on both the trumpet and the viola.

His musings were cut short by the officer of the watch. The man had served for years as a filibustier under de Graff and held the courtesy rank of second lieutenant aboard the frigate. So there
was no hint of naval formality as he barged into the room.

‘Within cannon range soon,’ he said brusquely.

De Graff pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘Please excuse me for a few moments while I attend to my duties. Then I shall rejoin you.’ He treated Anne-Marie to a slight bow
and was a little irritated that she failed to acknowledge his gallantry. Pointedly, she looked down at the tablecloth and toyed with a fork.

He followed the officer up to the quarterdeck and crossed to the leeward rail. The ship they had been chasing for the past six hours was now less than a mile away and still desperately ploughing
ahead under all sail. But the
Sainte Rose
was gaining steadily. In less than an hour he would have taken another prize. A gust of wind combined with a sudden heave of swell to make the
frigate lurch and swoop. De Graff reached up and grasped a shroud to steady himself. He was calm, almost bored. The taking of prizes had become routine over the past few weeks. Governor de Cussy
had ordered him to patrol the shipping lanes off Tierra Firme and disrupt the enemy’s commerce. He had done exactly as he was asked. He had captured a dozen of their merchant ships and sent
the prizes back to Petit Goâve for sale.

The task had been easy enough. The
Sainte Rose
was one of very few ships of force in the region. The English had a pair of frigates but they seldom ventured this far west. The only real
threat was the three warships of the armada de barlovento, the squadron tasked to defend Spain’s interest in the western Caribbean. But he had seen no sign of them and very soon he and the
Sainte Rose
would vanish. He would head for the secluded anchorage on the island of Providencia and hide there while he careened his vessel. De Cussy had promised to send him a store ship
with supplies.

De Graff released his grip on the shroud. The palm of his hand was sticky with black tar that had melted in the sun. He noted with irritation that several spots of tar had also dripped on the
immaculate white breeches he had worn for the luncheon. It would mean changing his clothes before he returned to the table. He decided he would rather stay on deck and see out the capture of the
Spanish merchantman. Slapdash maintenance of the frigate was the price he paid for having so many of his ex-filibustiers on his crew. But it was worth it. In action they were twice as aggressive as
regular navy men. He clicked his fingers at the helmsman’s mate. ‘Have my steward send a clean cloth soaked in turpentine,’ he snapped. The man ran to obey. The only sure way to
control filibustiers, De Graff thought to himself, was through a mixture of fear and respect. It helped that his men knew their captain had a violent temper.

‘Captain! I know that ship,’ called one of the deck watch as he came over. He wore the leather cap which marked him as a former cattle hunter.

‘How so?’ demanded de Graff.

‘Four years ago, off Porto Bello. She fought us off until nightfall, then escaped in the dark.’

De Graff took a closer look at the chase. He could tell from her lines that she was locally built, perhaps in Cartagena. Sturdy and plump, she was no greyhound of the sea. Indeed if the
Sainte Rose
had not been so heavily fouled with weed, the frigate would have overtaken her several hours ago.

The watchkeeper was speaking again. ‘We tried to board and carry the ship. But her captain was a tough old bird. He stood by the rail with a cutlass and hacked the fingers off the first
man who laid a hand on his ship. Fearless he was, though a cripple. Moved like a crab.’

‘Well there won’t be any lost fingers this time,’ said de Graff. ‘Run out all our starboard guns and show we can smash him to splinters if we want. And put a shot into
his hull for good measure.’