PIRATE: Privateer (23 page)

‘It won’t last in this heat so might as well finish up the lot,’ he said, doling out the concoction for the crew’s breakfast. Bartaboa’s recruits had emerged on
deck and, except for Dan still at the helm, the entire complement of the
Speedy Return
were gathered round the Frenchman’s galley.

‘If the fodder and weather continue like this, it’ll be a pleasant voyage,’ commented Bartaboa. He picked a speck of crab shell off the tip of his tongue and held it up for
inspection. The pink was gliding along comfortably under plain sail, drawing a clean wake across a sea which sparkled with myriad points of early morning sunlight.

One of the black men muttered something in his own language. ‘He says it’s very good crab pepper pot,’ Bartaboa translated.

‘You speak their language?’ asked Jacques curiously. He looked round at the circle of black faces. The men ranged between twenty and forty in age, and appeared able-bodied and fit.
They wore the usual slave costume of a coarse cotton shirt, loose trousers and straw hat or, more frequently, a headscarf. He noted that several had small ritual scars carved on their cheeks.

‘They’re Coromantees, from the same tribe as my grandmother. She taught me the lingo when I was very small,’ explained the sailing master.

Hector decided this was the moment to tackle Bartaboa directly. ‘You and the Reverend Watson owe an explanation,’ he demanded.

Bartaboa was not the least put out. ‘These men had already decided to run. They were planning to join the rebel maroons in the hills—’

‘How did you know that?’ interrupted Hector.

The parson spoke up. ‘Through me. I was their minister on their plantation. Some of them speak enough English to explain their plan.’

Bartaboa’s mouth twitched in amusement. ‘The Reverend is known for his scandalous ideas. He believes that all men are equal before God.’

‘Have you explained to them the purpose of our voyage?’ asked Hector.

‘Only vaguely. They’re just glad to be off the plantation.’

Hector struggled to control his irritation. ‘And what do they think will happen to them when we return to Port Royal?’

‘They really don’t care. The way I see it, we may never get back.’

Hector was blunt. ‘Make it clear that I am the captain, and they must obey orders. Tell them that we are in search of a French ship far more powerful than ourselves, a ship that could
destroy us if we make mistakes.’

The sailing master turned to the Coromantees and spoke at length. They listened carefully, their faces expressionless. When he had finished, the oldest man, who appeared to be their leader,
responded slowly and deliberately. The others nodded in agreement.

‘They will follow your orders until such time as they decide to go their own way,’ Bartaboa told Hector.

‘And do they understand the dangers of this voyage?’ Hector insisted.

‘They do,’ said the sailing master seriously. ‘And don’t worry. I’ll make it my responsibility that they learn the ropes.’

*

T
HE SAILING MASTER
was as good as his word. Within a day the Coromantees could name in English the different parts of the rigging and understand the
words of command. They were coastal people, born seamen, and Hector had seldom seen such a competent crew. After Bartaboa set them to shaping two new square sails, they showed themselves equally
good with needle and thread. The sailing master had already obtained two suitable spars from the government stores in Port Royal and was still determined to re-rig the
Speedy Return
as a
brig.

‘Do you think you could teach them to be as good at gunnery as they are at needlework?’ Hector asked Reverend Watson. The two of them were watching the former slaves stitching away
industriously.

The parson’s long thin face gave him a lugubrious expression. ‘It would take considerable time,’ he replied.

‘And what happens if we get into a gun battle before then?’

The minister pursed his lips. ‘I’d have all our cannon ready loaded before the battle began. You and your friends could aim and fire them one by one. But there’d be no chance
of delivering a broadside.’

‘And after that, when all the guns are fired?’ Hector prompted him.

‘I’d pray to the Lord.’

‘Then let’s hope he hears you,’ said Hector. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Dan, who had been at the masthead as lookout, was sliding down the back stay. He must have
seen something.

‘We’ve got company, about eight miles to the north of us,’ said the Miskito.

‘What sort of ship?’ Hector asked. From the deck it was impossible to see that far.

‘Difficult to say, but about our size and sailing the same course. I’ll take another look at mid-afternoon when the sun is lower, that should show up some extra details.’

Four hours later he climbed back to the masthead and shouted down that the unknown vessel was a brigantine similar to the
Speedy Return
. The two boats were heading on almost parallel
tracks, and travelling at the same pace. The stranger was flying no flag.

Hector called to Bartaboa, who was busy showing the former apprentice tailor how to work a cringle into the edge of one of the new sails. ‘Maybe you know that vessel. She could be one
you’ve encountered before.’

‘No use my climbing to the masthead,’ confessed the sailing master. ‘My distance eyesight is gone. I’ll have to wait until she’s closer.’

‘I’ll ask Dan to show you.’ Hector beckoned to the Miskito, and Bartaboa looked on in open astonishment as Dan descended to the deck and went to Jacques’ cooking fire. He
picked up a lump of charcoal and drew the outline of a sailing ship on an off-cut of sail canvas.

‘Didn’t know you were an artist,’ the sailing master commented admiringly.

‘Can you identify her?’ asked Hector. For some time he had been wondering if the presence of the unknown ship was more than a coincidence.

Bartaboa studied the drawing for a moment. ‘If I knew more about her rig . . .’

With a few strokes of his charcoal Dan added more detail of the sails and spars.

Bartaboa’s brow cleared. ‘French! No doubt about it. Only the French would think of setting a jib when the wind is nearly astern, though it does them little good.’

Hector recalled his conversation with Lord Inchiquin. He pictured the chart on which he had pointed out to the Governor that the island of Providencia was the most likely base for the French
frigate. A vessel which had set out from, say, Petit Goâve for Providencia would be following much the same route as the
Speedy Return
starting from Port Royal. There was a real
possibility that the two ships had the same destination.

He spoke to the sailing master. ‘If we convert our vessel into a brig as you propose, how much more speed can you get out of her?’

‘Depends on the wind direction,’ said the sailing master. He glanced up at the gaff sail. With the wind from nearly directly astern, it was eased far outboard. ‘I’d say
we could sail one or two knots faster.’

‘And how long to make the change?’ Hector asked.

‘A couple of hours as soon as we have the canvas finished. The spars don’t require any shaping.’

‘Can you manage the changeover in the dark?’

Bartaboa grinned. ‘With this crew, easily.’

‘Then as soon as dusk falls, I want you to switch the rig.’ Hector turned to Dan. ‘When we are no longer visible to that ship, adjust course. Slant up towards her so that at
dawn we are within gunshot.’

‘Do you mean to sink her?’ asked the Miskito.

‘If her captain guesses we too are bound for Providencia, he might get there ahead of us and warn the French frigate. But it would be better if we board and take her. We know very little
about the island, and he might be persuaded to talk.’

*

A
T NIGHTFALL THE
pink’s crew lowered the big gaff sail, rove fresh halyards and repositioned blocks. Then they hoisted the two new cross-spars in
their slings with the new-made square sails held furled with sailmakers’ twine. When Bartaboa was satisfied that all was in place, a powerful heave on the sheets snapped the twine. The sails
dropped open and in the starlight Hector looked up to see them belly out and fill, capturing the following breeze. He felt the
Speedy Return
gently accelerate, thrusting through the water.
Already Jacques had doused the galley fire, and forbidden lanterns and candles. At the helm Dan shifted the tiller a fraction to alter course, steering by the stars and the direction of the wind.
Without lights and in silence the pink ran across the blue-black sea.

They spent the night peering through the darkness. Caught up in the excitement of the pursuit, those who slept did so in short snatches. Bartaboa roamed the deck, laying a hand on the sheets one
by one to feel their tension, muttering instructions to his men to haul in or ease out. The Reverend Watson went from cannon to cannon with Jezreel and the two Port Royal sailors, and they loaded
the guns with powder and shot. Hector fretted that he might have made the wrong decision. Bartaboa could have been mistaken: the vessel they were pursuing might not be French, or it might not be
headed for Providencia. Worse, it could prove to be heavily armed and well manned. The result would be disastrous.

The first glow of dawn appeared astern, and as the light strengthened, Dan, who had been at the helm all night, let out a sigh of satisfaction. Fine off the starboard bow and no more than half a
mile ahead was the mysterious vessel, sailing steadily onward.

‘Definitely French,’ Bartaboa confirmed. ‘That flag is false.’ Two men on the poop deck of the ship had seen the approaching
Speedy Return
and were running up a
large ensign, a red eagle on a white field.

‘What are they pretending to be?’ asked Jezreel.

‘Brandenburgers. The Danes have given them a licence to traffic in slaves.’

Hector was debating his next move. Even as they hoisted false colours, the crew of the French ship were dragging extra sails up from below deck. They had been taken by surprise and were
intending to spread more canvas, hoping to escape their pursuers. That was encouraging. They did not feel sufficiently confident to offer a fight. On the other hand, the French captain must have
noted that the
Speedy Return
was now rigged as a brig and would sail best before the wind. By changing course so that the wind was no longer from astern, the French might yet draw clear.
There was no time to be lost.

‘Can you put a shot across her bows at this range?’ Hector asked the Reverend Watson.

‘If you will follow me, I will hope to demonstrate that I retain the art of cannonry,’ answered the parson. Under the shadow of his low-crowned black hat there was a gleam of
excitement in his eye. With long, gangly strides he led the way along the line of half a dozen cannon on the starboard side. Reaching the foremost gun, he patted the breech affectionately.
‘This one should shoot true,’ he said.

He gestured towards a row of half a dozen round shot lying neatly in a tray. ‘I took the liberty last night of preparing for just such an eventuality, captain. These are the nearest to a
perfect sphere. Jezreel has already loaded the first.’

A satchel of greased leather was hanging from the gun carriage. Watson reached in and took out a length of matchcord wound around a short stick. ‘Run out the gun, if you please,’ he
said to Jezreel, who had joined them. Helped by three of the Coromantee sailors, Jezreel hauled on the tackles until the muzzle of the gun projected through the gun port. Meanwhile Watson had knelt
down in the shelter of the gunwale. For a moment Hector thought he was about to say a prayer. But then came clicking sounds as he struck a steel and flint, out of the wind, and set fire to the
matchcord. He straightened up and handed the glowing linstock to Hector. ‘Please hold this for a moment while I set a quill,’ he said.

From the leather satchel he produced a thick quill cut from the wing feather of a large bird. ‘Old-fashioned but effective,’ he commented as he held it up to check that the hollow
shaft was filled with fine gunpowder. ‘I am accustomed to use a swan quill, but this would seem to have been cut from a seabird’s feather, a pelican perhaps.’ To Hector he sounded
like a pedantic schoolmaster.

He stepped across to the breech of the gun and removed the small lead plate which covered the touch hole. With a sharp knife he trimmed the end of the quill to a sharp point and, as soon as the
fine powder began to dribble out, thrust the quill firmly into the touch hole. ‘Now the linstock, if you please,’ he said, taking the lit matchcord from Hector. Removing his black hat,
he bent over the gun, standing slightly to one side and sighting along the barrel. Nothing happened for several moments and Hector found himself with nothing to do but stare patiently at the
parson’s mottled scalp. He refrained from looking back towards Dan at the helm. The Miskito knew that he should be keeping the vessel as steady as he could. The
Speedy Return
was
moving with a regular, slight corkscrew motion in the following sea. She pitched and rolled gently.

The parson brushed back a long strand of hair that was dangling down and interfering with his vision. Then, abruptly, he brought the linstock towards the gun. The powder in the quill ignited.
There was a loud explosion and the gun fired and sprang back against the restraining ropes. Positioned upwind of the cloud of grey-black gun smoke which belched out, Hector was able to follow the
brief flight of the six-pound round shot. To his disappointment it struck the sea short of the French ship and went skipping across the water three or four times before it vanished harmlessly into
the sea.

The parson was unruffled. ‘It seems I must make allowances for the deficiencies of naval gunpowder,’ he said calmly. Jezreel was already busy with sponge, rammer and ladle, preparing
the gun for the next shot.

Twice more the
Speedy Return
’s foremost gun fired, and the fall of shot crept closer to the target. It took three or four minutes each time to fire, swab and reload, and the pink
had come closer to her target. There was no answering cannon shot from the French.