PIRATE: Privateer (4 page)

In response, it was Anne-Marie who promptly clambered on to the urca. Clearly this surprised the bearded man, whom Hector took to be the captain. ‘You’d better come up as
well,’ he called down to Hector. ‘But the others stay where they are.’

Hector hoisted himself up on to the urca, his satchel of maps slung across his shoulder. The bearded man looked his two visitors up and down with suspicion. ‘You want water?’

‘Yes, and some stores if you can spare them,’ Hector answered. A young man stood next to the captain. Judging by their resemblance, they were father and son. The rest of the crew
– several older mariners and a cabin boy – were unremarkable.

‘It’s too hot to stand here in the sun,’ said the captain. He turned and limped heavily towards a door at the break of the aft deck. He stood aside to let Anne-Marie precede
him, and Hector had to duck to follow them into the captain’s accommodation. A curtained bunk was built into one bulkhead. There was a small table, a couple of chairs, and a cushioned bench
running the width of the little cabin. ‘Please be seated,’ said the captain. He lowered himself on to one of the chairs and used both hands to move his useless leg into a more
comfortable position. Anne-Marie took her place on the bench, and Hector, preferring to keep his distance, sat on one of the chairs.

‘Felipe!’ called the captain through the open door. ‘Come in and join us and bring some wine.’ A few moments later the young man appeared holding an onion-shaped flask of
wine and four small leather tankards that he placed on the table before his father. Anne-Marie moved farther along the bench so the captain’s son could sit beside her.

‘Welcome aboard the
San Gil
,’ said the captain. He leaned forward and splashed a generous portion of red wine into each tankard. ‘I am Juan Garcia Fonseca, and my ship
is bound for our home port, Cartagena.’

He looked enquiringly at Hector.

‘Enrique Benavides of His Majesty’s Corps of Engineers, at your service,’ Hector said, ‘and this is Anne-Marie Bretana, owner of the pinnace
Morvaut
.’

Fonseca gave a small bow towards Anne-Marie before addressing his next question to Hector. ‘May I ask what you are doing in these waters?’

Hector hesitated. He had been given little time to practise his deception. ‘I am on my way back to Madrid after a posting to Valdivia as Deputy Inspector of Fortifications.’ Valdivia
was three thousand miles away at the far end of Peru. It was a reasonable guess that Captain Juan Fonseca had never been there or knew any of the citizens. ‘In Panama I received instructions
to interrupt my journey and make more accurate charts of reefs in this region.’

‘Not the best time of year to do so,’ commented the Spaniard drily.

‘Due to the recent heavy loss of shipping on this route, the matter was considered to be of the utmost importance.’ Hector opened his satchel and began to set out his sketch maps.
‘I’m hoping that you might be able to add some extra details, from your own experience of these waters.’

Juan Fonseca leafed through one sheet after another, and nodded approvingly. ‘It will be a real service to mariners if we can get decent charts of this region. I am able to add some
information about the currents.’

Hector heard a voice calling outside. He guessed it was a Spanish crew member trying to start a conversation with the two Kergonan brothers waiting in the skiff.

The captain picked up his tankard and raised it as a toast.

‘I think it appropriate to raise a glass to the memory of Carlos Serrano,’ he said.

‘To Carlos Serrano,’ echoed Hector cautiously. He had not the least idea who Carlos Serrano was. But Captain Fonseca obviously thought he was someone whose memory was worthy of
respect.

The captain took a sip of wine and put down his tankard. ‘Now,’ he said casually, ‘tell me the truth. Tell me who you really are and what you are doing here.’

Hector blustered. ‘As I said, I am surveying the Vipers—’

Fonseca cut him short. ‘. . . The Vipers are marked on official maps as the Serrano Bank. They are named after the castaway Pedro Serrano who was shipwrecked there. He survived on his own
for eight years, eating turtles and catching rainwater in their upturned shells. He was covered in a thick pelt of hair like a beast when they found him, so it is said. There’s not a sailor
in Panama who would not have told you the tale, and you would have known his name was Pedro, not Carlos.’

The captain smiled grimly. ‘Señor Benavides, if that is your real name, which I doubt, I suggest that you tell me the truth about yourself and this charming lady here.’

‘Here is the truth,’ interrupted Anne-Marie. She reached inside her scarlet sash and produced a short-barrelled pistol. There was a click as she cocked the weapon and placed it
against the head of Felipe Fonseca. ‘We only want some fresh water and a little food. Nothing that you can’t spare. Then you can proceed on your way.’

Captain Fonseca sat very still. Then he spoke slowly and carefully. ‘It is a novelty to be waylaid aboard my own ship by a woman.’ He looked completely unperturbed.
‘Felipe,’ he said to his son, ‘do exactly as you are told. I suspect the lady means what she says.’

He levered himself to his feet and limped out of the cabin, followed by Felipe with Anne-Marie still holding the gun to his head.

The moment Anne-Marie emerged on deck, she let out a piercing whistle. In response her two brothers in the skiff rowed across and clambered aboard. It was all done with so little fuss that
Hector had the feeling that this routine was something the Bretons had done before. Wordlessly Yannick and Roparzh removed the two blunderbusses from the crew of the urca and herded the sailors
into a group.

As they shuffled meekly together, the Spanish cabin boy took it into his head to make a dash at Anne-Marie, trying to seize her pistol. Hector was so surprised that, without a second thought, he
reached out and grabbed the lad by the collar. The boy swung round, flailing in the air with his fists, until a sharp command from Captain Fonseca made him stop.

Felipe had gone pale, but Anne-Marie’s hand was as steady as her voice. ‘Hector, select two men from the crew and supervise them while they fetch water jars and place them in our
boat. Roparzh, see what sails there are.’

‘At least leave me a jib,’ said the Spanish captain calmly. He seemed to know exactly what the Bretons were doing.

Her brother prodded one of the Spanish sailors with the muzzle of his blunderbuss. ‘
Gouel!
’ he ordered in Breton, and when the man looked blank, pointed up at the
San
Gil
’s mainsail. ‘
Voiles! Vela!
’ and followed the sailor below.

Hector picked out two of the older Spaniards, and they began to lug the heavy water jars from their stowage by the galley. As they lowered the jars into the
Morvaut
’s tender,
Roparzh reappeared with the Spanish sailor. Between them they were dragging a length of canvas which they dumped near the mast. Next Yannick eased off the main halyard until the mainsail lay in an
untidy heap on deck.

With her free hand Anne-Marie beckoned to the cabin boy, who stood glowering at her. ‘You help the cook, don’t you?’ she said in slow, careful Spanish.

The lad nodded.

‘Fetch me his oil,’ she said.

‘Do as she says,’ ordered Fonseca quietly. He appeared to accept whatever was to happen next. The boy meekly went off on his errand. More sails were heaped on deck. The cabin boy
came back with a greasy pan of cooking oil and was told to dump it on the cloth. As Hector brought the last water jar from the galley, he met Roparzh with a rum bottle in his hand. The Breton took
a swig. ‘Pity about the waste. But I’ve found a small keg which I’ll put in the skiff,’ he said. He sprinkled the remaining contents of the bottle on the heap of canvas.
Hector saw growing distress on the faces of the crew.

Finally Roparzh fetched a lump of glowing charcoal from the galley and tossed it on the sails.

In the hot sunshine everyone stood and watched in silence as the fire gradually took hold. A tendril of grey smoke oozed upwards. There was a slight explosive puff as a puddle of rum caught
alight. A line of flame ran up a fold of dry canvas, and suddenly all of
San Gil
’s sails were ablaze except for a single headsail which had been left hanging from its stay.

Anne-Marie pressed the pistol more firmly to Felipe’s head. ‘Can you swim?’ she asked. The young man nodded cautiously.

She addressed his father. ‘Captain Fonseca, if anyone shoots at us, you will be pulling your son’s corpse from the sea.’

‘I understand,’ said Juan Garcia wearily.

Anne-Marie began to hustle Felipe into the skiff. ‘Come on, Hector,’ she said. ‘It’s time to go.’ Hector climbed down into the boat. Roparzh handed down a small keg
of rum to his brother, and the two Breton men took their places and began to row. As the gap widened between the skiff and the urca, Anne-Marie reached into a pocket, withdrew a handful of silver
cobs, and flung them. The scatter of money arced through the air and clattered on to the deck of the urca. The crew paid no attention. They were busy with buckets, dipping up seawater to douse the
fire.

Anne-Marie tapped her prisoner on the shoulder. ‘Over you go,’ she said cheerfully. Felipe, white-faced, slid over the side and began to swim back to the urca.

Hector glared at her. ‘We agreed no piracy,’ he said accusingly.

She showed white teeth in a mischievous smile. ‘I only said that I would pay for what we needed. How long do you think it would be before they sent the
guarda costa
after us? With
only a single foresail it’ll take Captain Fonseca at least a week to get to Cartagena, enough time for us to finish exploring the wreck. Then we head for Tortuga.’

She glanced back at the urca. The plume of smoke was gone. The fire must have been under control.

‘Captain Fonseca has suffered only a scorched deck, and perhaps an injury to his pride,’ she said.

When they reached the
Morvaut
Anne-Marie climbed aboard first and, turning, held out her hand for Hector to pass up his satchel of maps. He stood up and held out the satchel at
arm’s length. At that moment Yannick deliberately caused the tender to tip. It was a sudden, violent lurch, intended to throw Hector into the water. Caught off-guard, Hector lost his balance
and seized the proffered hand. With one smooth movement Anne-Marie hoisted him safely up to the deck. For a long moment she stood, holding his hand in hers. Then she gave a brief and unmistakable
squeeze of invitation.

M
ORVAUT
WAS FINALLY
on her way to Tortuga, running comfortably before a steady north-west breeze. Hector, Dan and
Jezreel had gathered on the foredeck in the last of the evening sunshine. They were looking on as Jacques weighed out their hack silver into four equal portions. He was using an ingenious set of
balance scales he had rigged up from a soup ladle and pewter dipping bowl.

‘Nearly fifteen pounds’ weight a share,’ announced the Frenchman. ‘Add the jewels and cobs, and I’d say that each of us is £200 richer than when we started
out.’

‘Worth the effort, even if not as good as Phipps,’ said Jezreel. The success of William Phipps was legendary. He had located the wreck of a great galleon, the
Nuestra
Señora de la Pura y Limia Concepción
, on shoals north of Hispaniola and brought up thirty tons of silver. Phipps’ success had earned him an audience with the English king
and a knighthood.

‘Phipps took scores of divers with him as well as a Bahamian tub,’ Hector pointed out. He felt that Dan’s solo effort should be recognized. Phipps’ salvage team had
deployed a wood-and-leather diving bell weighted with lead. It was crude but effective in helping the divers ransack the wreck. Dan had merely jumped overboard from the
Morvaut
, with a heavy
stone to pull him down.

‘If we brought back as much as Phipps, we could wipe clean the slate,’ said Jezreel.

Hector wondered if Jezreel was secretly hoping that one day he would be able to return to London and go back to prizefighting, as either a contestant or a manager. Watching Jacques stow their
salvage portions safely into two knapsacks, he doubted that the Frenchman had similar ambitions. Returning to France would be difficult for Jacques. He would wear a galérien’s brand on
his cheek for the rest of his life and there was a second brand, V for voleur, on his right hand, between thumb and forefinger. As far as Hector was aware, Jacques had no family and the only women
he had left behind in Paris were ladies of easy virtue. Dan, by contrast, was free to return to his people any time he chose. Yet Dan enjoyed travelling, and the Miskito people considered it
normal, even desirable, for a young man to wander away from home and see the world.

Hector glanced aft.

Anne-Marie was nowhere to be seen, and he presumed she was in the cabin. Two of her brothers, Yannick and Yacut, were busy on some rope work while Roparzh was at the helm. Hector would have
preferred that the brothers were not so openly hostile towards him and his companions. The Bretons made a point of speaking their own language between themselves and refused to take their meals
with Hector and his friends. He was glad that the voyage would soon be over.