PIRATE: Privateer (19 page)

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P
ORT
R
OYAL
’
S
provost marshal was in a sour mood. He scowled at the young lieutenant from the
Swan
who had walked into his office and announced that he was leaving Hector in his marshal’s custody. ‘And what am I supposed to do with him?’ the marshal demanded.
‘The gaol is already full.’

‘There’s no need to lock him up. He’s given his parole,’ answered the lieutenant. He was pink-faced and overweight and breathing heavily though it was only a short walk
from the docks. ‘
Swan
took a week to get here from Cartagena. We have to go back out on patrol immediately.’

‘I can’t accept the prisoner without a warrant signed by the civil authority.’ The provost did not bother to get up from behind his desk, and scarcely glanced at Hector
standing off to one side with his three friends.

The lieutenant was keen to put an end to the exchange. ‘Where can I find someone to provide that warrant?’

The provost marshal glowered at his visitor. ‘There’s a war on. The French have raided the coast four times in as many weeks. Burned plantations, seized slaves. Half the government
is away serving with the militia.’

‘Surely there must be someone?’

‘You could try asking Mr Reeve. He’s the secretary to the Governor. Came out from England with His Lordship.’ The provost marshal picked up a document from his desk and
ostentatiously began looking through it. Clearly the meeting was over.

The lieutenant pulled a face. He nodded at Hector to follow him, and the little group went out into Port Royal’s main thoroughfare, the High Street. Hector had been in Port Royal some
years earlier, and from what he could see the town had got busier, more prosperous, even more dissolute. Many more of the shops were now selling luxury goods – jewellery, perfumes, imported
wines and expensive furniture, fine clothes. From one such shop a well-dressed woman emerged followed by a black manservant with a pile of three hat boxes balanced on his head. At the western end
of the street the stallholders in the meat market had already cleared their counters before their produce spoiled in the tropical heat. Farther on towards the intersection with New Street, the
vegetable sellers were still trying to get rid of the last of their yams, coconuts, potatoes and plantains. A few even had displays of imported apples, cabbages and pears. But the crowds were
thinning as the shoppers headed home for their customary three-hour break at midday. For most of them this was to avoid the worst of the heat, though others took it as an excuse to make for one of
the taverns located every few yards along the street. Knots of drunks and down-and-outs already loitered near these drinking dens. And of course there were parties of rowdy sailors. They were
ogling and catcalling the women, though the common townswomen of Port Royal were a rough-looking lot. They wore neither shoes nor stockings, and their usual dress was a dirty smock or coarse linen
petticoat and a straw hat. Many puffed at red clay pipes. Hector observed that almost as many women as men frequented the ale houses.

King’s House, the official residence of the Governor, was less than a five-minute walk away. The building had twice the frontage of other houses in the High Street, but was rather
shabbier. The brickwork was in need of cleaning and repointing, and the yellow paint on the window frames was peeling. There was no sentry on the door and the place had a deserted air. Balchen, the
naval lieutenant, was obliged to ask a bored-looking clerk in the gloomy entrance hall how to get to the Governor’s secretariat. He was directed up a flight of stairs to an office at the back
of the building. There was no answer to his knock so the lieutenant pushed his way in, followed by his little group. Hector and his companions found themselves in a small, dingy room containing
several large cupboards that stood open, revealing shelf after shelf of files neatly tied with twine. By the window a large, plain table was heaped with more bundles of papers. In the far corner
stood a church lectern. Barely visible behind it was the top of a lawyer’s wig. Just as Hector realized that the lectern was a stand-up desk the wig moved and a small, rotund man darted into
view. He reminded Hector of a robin briskly hopping out from behind a bush. He stared at his visitors through thick round glasses and asked what they wanted.

‘I’ve come to find Mr Reeve, the Governor’s secretary,’ said the lieutenant.

‘You’ve found him.’

The lieutenant was taken aback. ‘My apologies, sir. I had not meant to disturb you without first being announced,’ he stammered.

‘No matter,’ said the man brusquely. ‘I am George Reeve. What can I do for you?’

‘With respect, sir, the provost marshal is asking for an official affidavit before he will accept one of these men into his custody. I would be grateful if your staff could prepare such a
document.’

‘I have no staff,’ said Mr Reeve sharply. ‘They are either sick or malingering.’ He peered at Hector and his friends, reminding Hector more than ever of a robin, this
time inspecting newly turned soil for the presence of worms. ‘Who is it you want to lock up?’

The lieutenant pointed out Hector. ‘This man, sir. Hector Lynch.’

‘And what is he convicted of?’

‘He is not yet convicted, sir. The Spaniards in Cartagena sent him to be tried as a pirate.’

‘And the others?’

‘They are his friends. They insisted on accompanying him.’

‘I see. Then I will prepare the affidavit myself. If you would step out of the room for a few moments and take Mr Lynch’s friends with you, I will set down Mr Lynch’s
details.’

Clearly relieved, the lieutenant ushered Jacques, Jezreel and Dan out of the room. The Governor’s secretary darted back behind his lectern.

‘Mr Lynch,’ said his disembodied voice. ‘Your name, age, and place of birth, please.’

‘Hector Lynch, twenty-eight years old, born in the County of Cork, Ireland.’

‘And how long is it since you left that place?’

Hector needed a moment to calculate. ‘It’s some five years since we were taken.’

‘What do you mean by “we were taken”?’

‘My sister and I were both kidnapped by Algerine corsairs. Carried off to North Africa. I have not been back to Ireland since.’

‘How extraordinary!’ Mr Reeve popped out from behind his lectern.

‘The Algerines raided for slaves, sir. They took the entire village.’

‘No, no. That’s not what I mean. Do you know who the new Governor of Jamaica is?’

‘I’m sorry. I have been out of touch.’

‘His Excellency the Governor is William O’Brien, the second Earl of Inchiquin. Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘The family is Irish aristocracy, is it not?’

‘Indeed. But there are many Irishmen in Jamaica. It is the coincidence that is extraordinary.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Lord Inchiquin was also a prisoner of the Algerines for some years. Captured by Barbary corsairs. He will be most interested to hear your story.’

Mr Reeve was positively beaming. ‘Only this morning he told me he needed something to distract him, if only for a little while, from his present duties. He finds them both tedious and
taxing.’

The Governor’s secretary was already halfway to the door. ‘Mr Lynch, your visit could scarcely be better timed. His Lordship is spending the siesta here in his apartments. If you
would wait here a moment I will see if he will receive you, informally of course.’

With that, the little man darted out of the room.

As Hector waited, he strolled over to the window. To one side the rear of King’s House looked out over the neighbouring backyard. He could see the roof of a cookhouse, the square box of
the latrine standing on stilts, and various sheds and outhouses. A black washerwoman was hanging out clothes on a line. As he gazed down on this domestic scene, he recalled that the only Earl of
Inchiquin he had ever heard of had earned the nickname ‘O’Brien of the Burnings’, from the ferocity with which he had behaved during the recent civil wars. It was said that the
Earl had fled to the continent and become a mercenary soldier. He could only suppose that the current Earl and Governor of Jamaica was his son.

Mr Reeve came back into the room. ‘His Lordship will see you immediately,’ he announced brightly, and led Hector across the landing. The room opposite was much grander than the
secretary’s poky little office. It was a high-ceilinged salon, expensively furnished with heavy velvet curtains, a Turkey carpet, an escritoire inlaid with ivory, and gilded chairs arranged
around a large mahogany conference table. Also it commanded a fine view over the High Street. On the window seat and eating an orange was a heavy-set man dressed in a long, loose dressing gown. His
fleshy face was covered with beads of sweat, and there was an underlying grey pallor which spoke of ill-health. Hector put his age at about fifty. As the Governor turned to inspect his visitor,
Hector saw that the man’s left eye was concealed under a black patch.

‘So, Reeve, this is your Barbary captive!’

‘Yes, Your Excellency. He is Hector Lynch. He was a prisoner for some years in Algiers.’

The Earl regarded Hector with interest. ‘As a slave?’

‘Yes, Your Excellency. Though I was well treated by my master. He was an educated man.’

‘More than can be said for these tiresome Jamaican planters,’ observed Inchiquin. He waved his orange. ‘We are fellow unfortunates. I was captured at sea by corsairs while on
my way with my father to serve the Portuguese.’

He prised off a segment of the orange and popped it into his mouth. ‘My father was quickly ransomed, but I was left to kick my heels in captivity for another couple of years until the
funds were raised. Who paid your price?’ It was common knowledge that almost the only way Christian slaves emerged from the slave barracks in Barbary was if their families or charities paid
for their release.

‘I wasn’t ransomed, my lord. My master’s ship was sunk in a naval action while I was aboard her. I was taken prisoner by Christians.’

‘And who was your master?’

‘His name was Turgut Reis. He was head of the taifa, the league of corsair captains.’

The Earl paused in his eating. ‘I spent long enough in Algiers to know what the taifa is,’ he said. ‘Are you telling me that you sailed with a Captain of Galleys?’

‘Yes, as his assistant.’

‘And then . . . ?’

Hector explained how he had been captured after a sea battle with an English warship, sold as a galley slave in the French Navy, wrecked on the coast of Morocco and had then managed to escape.
He glossed tactfully over his more recent adventures with the buccaneers in the South Sea, fearing that it would only strengthen the charge of piracy against him.

By the time Hector had finished his tale, the skin and pips of the Governor’s orange lay in a fine porcelain dish beside him. Inchiquin turned to his secretary. ‘Reeve, you say that
our newfound allies the Spaniards want this man tried for piracy?’

‘That is correct, my lord.’

Inchiquin got to his feet and walked over to the conference table, on which lay a map of the Caribbean.

‘Lynch, come over here.’

Hector joined the Governor and stood looking down at the map. The Earl waved a plump hand over the details.

‘Lynch, you’ve served a Captain of Algerine Galleys. So you know how sea brigands operate. There’s a French warship on the loose. It is interfering with traffic between Havana,
Porto Bello and Cartagena. Merchant captains are frightened to sail. Our trade is badly hurt.’

The Governor belched gently. His breath had a fetid smell. As he leaned over the chart, a drip of sweat fell on the paper. Once again, Hector sensed that Inchiquin was a sick man.

‘We know that the French warship hasn’t returned to Saint-Domingue, and there are reports of store ships leaving Petit Goâve and heading west. So the French must have set up a
secret base somewhere closer to the trade routes. Where do you think that is?’

Hector recalled his days with Turgut Rais. The Algerine galley had lurked at the cruciero, the maritime crossroads between Spain and Italy, ready to ambush its prey. There had been a friendly
port nearby on the Sardinian coast where the galley had taken on food and water. In the South Seas the buccaneers had done the same. They had set up a base on an uninhabited island where they could
careen their vessels and keep a stock of food. He scanned the chart.

‘Your Excellency, my guess would be that the French warship is based here.’ Hector placed his finger on the small speck of an island some hundred miles off the coast of Central
America. The island lay within the triangle of ports that Inchiquin had listed.

‘On Providencia! Exactly what I thought myself,’ exclaimed the Governor triumphantly. His eyes bright, he turned to Reeve. ‘I think we can do better with Mr Lynch than put him
on trial for piracy.
Swan
also brought a letter from Don Martin, the Governor of Cartagena. He asks for urgent help in tracking down this French raider.’ The Earl’s voice was
rising with excitement.

‘What do you propose, my lord?’ asked Reeve. Hector detected a note of caution in his voice.

‘You mentioned earlier that Mr Lynch has three companions. Do they look like seafarers?’

‘They do, my lord.’

‘Then let’s not waste them! The Spaniards can wait a little longer for their piracy trial. I’ll give Mr Lynch here a chance to prove his worth. He and his friends can go after
that Frenchman and find where he is cowering so the Spaniards can send the armada de barlovento to smoke the rogue out. That’s just the task for someone who has sailed with the Barbary
corsairs.’

The secretary sucked his teeth. ‘In what capacity will you send Mr Lynch? It would be unfortunate if it was said that you were abetting a pirate.’

‘Write out a privateer’s commission for him.’

‘But, my lord, I must remind you that the Board in London has discouraged the granting of privateer licences.’

‘These are exceptional circumstances,’ Inchiquin said firmly. ‘Jamaica is stripped of good men. Here are four active seamen, experienced and available. There is no need for
delay. Write out Mr Lynch’s privateer commission now. Send a copy to London for the Board’s approval. Meanwhile Mr Lynch and his colleagues can get on with the job.’