PIRATE: Privateer (32 page)

‘I congratulate you and hope that the Governor recovers his full health in due course,’ said Maria flatly.

‘More likely the Governor will never recover.’ Blackmore’s gravelly voice held no trace of regret.

Maria shifted slightly in her chair as if about to rise.

Captain Blackmore deliberately allowed his gaze to drift downward from her face and linger on her bust. ‘If this pirate Lynch does turn out to be your husband, you can come to me for
help.’ His tone left no doubt how he expected to be rewarded for his assistance.

Climbing the stairs to her room, Maria felt a tightening knot of fear as she wondered if Hector knew the danger he faced on his return to Port Royal – and how she could possibly warn him.
More practically, when she reached her bedchamber, she closed the door and wedged a chair under the handle.

*

A
BOARD THE
Speedy Return
the leaden colour of the sky was worrying Jacques. He was easily seasick and he feared that he could be called upon to
handle the rig on a heaving, slippery deck.

‘You don’t think that a hurricane is on the way, do you?’ he muttered to Hector. The two men were sharing the afternoon watch. Despite the ominously overcast sky, the
north-west wind was holding steady and they had been able to lash the helm, and as a result had very little to do.

‘Wrong season,’ came the brief answer. Hector had been in a half-trance, daydreaming of what he would say to Maria now that he knew she could be waiting for him in Port Royal.

‘It’ll be a pity if bad weather keeps the crowds away when we sail into port flying de Graff’s own flag upside down. It’ll spoil the effect,’ said Jacques.

‘That’s not a storm sky. The clouds are too stationary,’ Hector reassured his friend. He had insisted that de Graff surrender his personal ensign. The white cross on a blue
ground with a single large fleur-de-lis at its centre would be proof of his mission’s success. He intended to hand it to Governor Inchiquin as a trophy.

Jacques stifled a yawn. ‘I’m looking forward to spending some of the compensation that de Graff paid for stealing our salvage from the Spanish wreck.’

‘And what will you do after sampling the delights of Port Royal?’ asked Hector. His happy anticipation of seeing Maria was tempered by the knowledge that he and his friends would
soon be going their separate ways. Dan had already left. He had volunteered to go with the longboat and the Coromantee sailors to the Miskito coast. There he would introduce them to his own people,
and plead their case before the council of elders. At the last moment the Reverend Watson had changed his mind and decided to accompany them, as had Allgood and the other two men Jezreel had
recruited. Now there were only Hector, Jezreel, Jacques and Bartaboa to handle the pink, a sufficient number if the weather did not break.

Jacques grinned. He was cheering up. ‘Depends how much money remains after I’ve had my debauch.’

‘We don’t yet know how much there is to begin with,’ Hector cautioned. ‘De Graff promised goods to the value of our salvage. But I haven’t had time to check the
chests and bags that his men put aboard.’

Jacques was not to be discouraged. ‘Port Royal is a den of thieves. I’m sure we’ll find someone willing to take everything off our hands, no questions asked.’ He broke
off and squinted forward over the bows. ‘I think I see high mountains dead ahead.’ Hector followed the direction of his gaze. Far in the distance appeared a faint irregular line, about
a hand’s breadth above the horizon. Against the gloomy backdrop of the sky the line was difficult to make out but it could be the crest of a mountain ridge. There seemed to be a darker solid
patch beneath it, possibly a land mass. Hector wished that Dan were still aboard. The Miskito’s keen eyesight would have settled any doubt.

‘If that’s Jamaica, we should reach Port Royal before noon tomorrow.’ His heart beat a little faster at the knowledge that he could be very close to Maria.

From the main deck below them Jezreel had noticed the sudden air of activity. He put aside the rope he was splicing and came up the companionway to join them.

‘Jamaica!’ exclaimed Jacques, pointing.

‘Can’t be absolutely sure yet,’ Hector warned.

Jezreel studied the horizon and as he did so a shaft of sunlight broke through a cleft in the clouds. For a moment it lit up a patch of sea midway between the
Speedy Return
and the land.
Sailing in that circle of light was a vessel. Hector knew her instantly. She was the
Swan
, the same elderly naval frigate which had brought him and his friends from Cartagena to face justice
in Port Royal. She was heading towards them.

Jezreel also recognized the warship. ‘That’s Jamaica all right. The
Swan
must be on patrol, watching out for any French attack on the coast.’

‘Can’t we ignore her and sail past?’ Jacques suggested. He was still not sure about the coming weather and wanted to be snug in port as soon as possible.

Hector thought for a moment. ‘That would be easy enough.
Swan
is a slow sailer as I recall. But it would give the wrong impression, as if we had something to hide. Best if we report
to her captain.’ Privately he was disappointed that their arrival in Port Royal and his chance to locate Maria would be delayed, if only for a few hours.

They watched the
Swan
’s lumbering approach. It was obvious that her captain wanted to intercept the pink. When still a mile away he fired a windward gun, the signal to call a halt.
Dutifully, the
Speedy Return
let fly her topsail to show that she understood the command, and Hector and his three shipmates began to douse the brig’s sails. The pink lay waiting as
the larger vessel closed the gap and lowered a boat.

‘That’s the same lieutenant who handed us over to the provost marshal in Port Royal,’ said Jezreel. A fat, yellow-haired young officer could be seen in the stern sheets of the
boat as it rowed towards them with the boarding party.

Hector felt a faint prickle of alarm. He had a premonition that something was about to go wrong. He should not have stopped for the
Swan
, but headed directly for Port Royal.

A sailor from the boarding party swung himself nimbly up on to the deck of the
Speedy Return
. He turned and held out an arm to help his more clumsy officer. Hector remembered the young
lieutenant’s name. It was Balchen, George Balchen. He was a plodder, a little lazy and lacking in imagination and – from what Hector could recall from conversations on the voyage from
Cartagena to Port Royal – had an uncle on the Navy Board in London. That was probably how Balchen had got his comfortable posting on the Jamaica station.

With a grunt the lieutenant heaved himself on to the
Return
’s deck and straightened up, catching his breath as he looked about him. Hector noticed for the first time that the
lieutenant’s eyes were pale grey and very close-spaced. They came to rest on him and Balchen’s expression of astonishment was rapidly replaced by one of suspicion. He frowned, trying to
recall exactly what had been said when he left Hector and his friends after the meeting with Secretary Reeve at King’s House in Port Royal.

‘What are you doing here!’ he exclaimed. ‘Broke your parole, did you? I should have made sure you were locked up.’

‘My friends and I were released on the orders of the Governor,’ said Hector stiffly.

The lieutenant gave a snort of disbelief. He turned to the men of his boarding party. ‘Search this ship! Find out what she’s carrying,’ he ordered.

He faced Hector again. ‘The last time I set foot on this vessel it was to seize her as a smuggler. I see you’ve changed her to a brig, hoping she won’t be
recognized.’

Hector tried to sound reasonable. ‘We adapted her rig because she sailed better that way. We were chasing French filibustiers.’

Balchen guffawed. ‘With what crew? I see only four of you. Hardly enough to go tackling the French.’

‘It’s complicated . . .’ began Hector.

‘I’m sure it is,’ snapped Balchen. One of his sailors was coming forward, carrying a small canvas sack. Hector recognized one of the bags put aboard by de Graff. Judging by the
way it bulged, it contained a variety of hard-edged objects.

‘I think you should look at this, sir. Found it tucked away in the forepeak,’ said the sailor. He opened the mouth of the sack and pulled out the topmost item – a two-handled
silver bowl. It was a valuable piece, about eight inches high, its rim ornately decorated with a scrollwork of flowers. It would have graced a very rich man’s table.

‘Christ alive! Not even smuggling. That’s loot!’ exclaimed Balchen. He took the bowl from the sailor and inspected it closely. ‘Some sort of crest, Latin inscription.
Don’t know what it says.’ He turned the bowl upside down and looked at the base. ‘Hallmark is a lion, so it must be English-made, though no knowing who owned it before this gang
of villains got their hands on it.’

‘Another three bags, sir, much the same. Bowls, jugs, some plate, jewellery too,’ said the sailor.

Hector decided that matters were getting out of hand. ‘Lieutenant, those items are legitimate prize. I have a privateer’s commission from the Governor.’

Balchen raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Let’s see it then.’

Hector hurried to find the parchment that Mr Reeve, the Governor’s secretary, had provided. He handed it to the lieutenant, who read through it slowly. When he had finished he looked up at
Hector with a triumphant smirk. ‘This document is a fake.’

‘It is genuine, prepared by Mr Reeve the Governor’s secretary and signed by Lord Inchiquin himself,’ objected Hector.

The lieutenant sneered. ‘Lynch, you’ve picked the wrong man to try to hoodwink. I happen to know that the Navy Board has banned the practice of giving out privateering commissions.
They are no longer issued. They encourage piracy.’

‘I can assure you this one is genuine,’ Hector repeated.

‘If this were a French commission I’d say you purchased it.’ Like everyone else Balchen had heard tales of how the governors of the French-held islands made money by selling
privateering commissions with the names left blank, to be filled by the purchaser.

‘Could be he’s working with the French, and all,’ said another sailor who had joined them. He held up de Graff’s flag.

Balchen’s eyes bulged with shock. ‘So you’re a traitor as well as a pirate!’ he burst out.

‘That flag is not mine. It is intended as a gift for Governor Inchiquin.’

Balchen swung round on his heel and shouted to his men, ‘We’re taking charge of this ship right now. Put this lot under arrest and take them across to the
Swan
.’

Hector made one last attempt to retrieve the situation. ‘Lieutenant, you’re making a mistake. Lord Inchiquin sent us to locate a French ship that had been raiding shipping. We are on
our way back to Port Royal to report that we have found the vessel. She is commanded by Sieur de Graff and, when last seen, was hung up on the Vipers Reef. If the Governor acts quickly, he or our
Spanish allies may be able to send a naval force to intercept de Graff and deal with him.’

A slow, knowing grin spread over Balchen’s face. ‘Lynch, if you were a better liar, you wouldn’t make such extravagant claims and you would make sure of your facts. Lord
Inchiquin is gravely ill. He has placed the government in the hands of a committee of planters. They couldn’t care less about de Graff. When we reach Port Royal, I will hand you over to the
provost marshal, properly this time, and make sure you are locked up, even if I have to turn the key myself.’

*

T
HE LIEUTENANT WAS
as good as his word. Forty-eight hours later Hector was seated on a rough bench in a small box of a room, some three paces by two,
with a brick floor and a single, small barred window high up in one wall. The provost marshal of Port Royal had put him in a cell by himself after Balchen warned that he was the ringleader of what
the lieutenant called a gang of damned, bloody pirates. Jacques, Jezreel and Bartaboa were somewhere in the same gaol, but communication with them was impossible. The Marshalsea prison was one of
the best-built structures in the town. The walls were three feet thick, the doors iron-plated, and the roof was strengthened with double beams to deter anyone from escaping upwards.

Hector rose to his feet and banged on the door, calling for the warder. After a delay a small hatch built into the thick door slid back, and he found himself looking into the pimply face of a
boy who must have been no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Hector guessed that he was the son of a regular prison guard, standing in for his father. ‘What do you want?’ said
the lad. He blushed as his adolescent voice broke awkwardly, one moment high, the next low and croaking.

‘Will you carry a message to Government House for me, to Mr Reeve, the Governor’s secretary?’

‘Why should I do that?’ asked the lad. His eyes shifted nervously, and he brought up a hand to wipe his nose.

‘For payment,’ said Hector.

The boy looked interested but doubtful. ‘Have you the money with you?’

‘I’ve money hidden away. I can get it later.’

‘Not likely.’ The tone was dismissive.

‘You know that my friends and I were caught with loot from piracy?’ said Hector. The lad’s expression told him that rumours about their arrest had spread. ‘There’s
more hidden away. Some of it could be yours.’

The youthful eyes were shrewd and calculating. ‘All right. I’ll carry your message when I’m free to do so, after my father comes back on duty.’

‘First I need paper, pen and ink,’ said Hector.

The hatch slid shut and Hector paced up and down patiently until once again the hatch opened, and a hand thrust in a sheet of paper torn from a school exercise book, pen and ink. Hector sat on
the bench and hurriedly scrawled a note to Reeve while the boy waited. When the note was ready, Hector handed the paper back.

‘The ink and pen as well,’ demanded the youth.

Hector obeyed. The hatch was shut, and he sat down to wait.