PIRATE: Privateer (5 page)

‘Do you think we’ll be able to find our way back to the wreck next year?’ Jacques asked.

‘Only worth it if the Spaniards haven’t come back to finish the job while we’re away,’ said Dan. The final week of fishing the wreck had been tantalizing. Jezreel and
Hector had gone off exploring in the skiff. They had spent hours rowing around the site, scanning the sea floor through a glass-bottomed bucket, looking for other debris from the wreck. The search
had taught Hector a great deal more about the shape and structure of the reef, and he had noted several promising locations that looked to be worth investigating. But the sailing season was on them
and there was an increasing risk of being caught by another, less gullible Spanish vessel. They had decided it was prudent time to leave the wreck site and get back to Tortuga safely with what they
had found. After some grumbling, the Kergonans had agreed.

‘How long before we reach Tortuga?’ Dan asked Hector. The Kergonans owned and operated the pinnace, but when it came to navigation, everyone relied on Hector’s expertise.

‘A couple of days if this wind holds,’ Hector said. His gaze was fixed on the last moments of the sunset. He never tired of watching the final moments of the gap close between the
horizon and the sun. That evening the sun had turned a blazing orange red, and as the lower rim touched the sea the perfect circle began to distort, expanding and flattening to an oval, then
shrinking to one last sliver as the sun slipped out of sight. He waited for a flash of green, but none came. Then the sun was gone, leaving the underbellies of the clouds a deep, fiery pink. The
wind seemed to have settled, and the air was mild and balmy.

‘I think I’ll turn in,’ he said to his friends. He had left his mattress under a tarpaulin cover near the helm. As he went to fetch it, he passed the Kergonans. Yannick spat
and muttered something in Breton. Yacut scowled.

Hector spread his mattress on the deck by the foot of the mainmast and lay down. For a long time he gazed past the curve of the mainsail and up at the sky, thinking of his present situation. He
had not seen Ireland since being kidnapped as a teenager by the Barbary corsairs. His father was dead these several years, and he had lost touch with his mother, whom he supposed had returned to
Spain. His sister, also taken by the corsairs, had been absorbed into a Moroccan harem and no longer wished to have any contact with him. Maria and his small circle of friends were all he had.

His thoughts turned to the immediate future. The silver and other valuables he was bringing back to Tortuga should mean he and Maria could live comfortably while they decided where they might go
next. For their next move it would be wise to avoid any of the Spanish colonies where his piratical past might be revealed. The same was true of Jamaica. The authorities in Port Royal were
arresting former buccaneers and putting them on trial. Maybe he and Maria should move to one of the French colonies in the Caribbean, perhaps to Petit Goâve or Saint-Domingue. The officials
sent there from France did not pry too closely into a settler’s background, and he and Maria both spoke French well enough to get by.

He noticed that a thin veil of cloud, very high up, was spreading from the north. The stars were disappearing. As a precaution he pulled a length of tarpaulin over him. Then he fell asleep.

*

H
E AWOKE TO A RATTLE
of heavy rain on tarred canvas. Someone must have pulled the tarpaulin right over him as he slept. It was airless and stuffy
underneath the makeshift cover, and cracks of pale daylight were seeping under the edges. The slant of the deck had increased.
Morvaut
was heeling to the wind. He rolled off the mattress and
got to his feet, pulling the tarpaulin around his shoulders and holding the mattress under his arm to keep it dry.

Jezreel sat hunched at the tiller, wearing an oiled cape.

‘Squall from the east. Won’t last long,’ he called.

It was full daylight. The raindrops were bouncing off the sea and creating a fine mist. It was impossible to see more than fifty yards in any direction.

Hector scuttled over to the shelter of the windward rail and huddled there. Someone had adjusted the sails in the night and the pinnace was close-hauled. Above the patter of the rain he could
hear the hull hissing through the water.

After some twenty minutes the rain ended abruptly. The sun came out as the rain belt passed on downwind of them.

Jezreel let out a grunt of surprise. ‘Where the devil did he come from!’

Hector stood up and peered upwind. About half a mile away was a sizeable vessel. It had been hidden in the rain bank and was now fast bearing down on them. Hector’s gaze went to the
main-top. Hoisted there was a large flag, three gold lilies on a white field, the ensign of France. At the foremast flew another, smaller flag – blue background, white cross and at its centre
a single white fleur-de-lis. He did not know what it signified.

Jezreel sounded relieved. ‘Thank Christ! If that had been a Spaniard we’d be running for our lives or blown out of the water by now.’

Hector was counting the number of gun ports. This was a ship of force, a light frigate of fourteen guns.

Everyone aboard the
Morvaut
gathered at the rail to watch the stranger closing in. The Kergonan brothers were grinning broadly and thumping one another on the back. They shouted something
in Breton to their sister.

‘What are they so pleased about?’ asked Hector.

‘Yannick recognizes the frigate,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘It’s the
Sainte Rose
. A king’s ship. She’s based in Saint-Domingue. It’s good to see a
friend.’

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the frigate yawed, brought a forward gun to bear, and there was a puff of smoke.

‘
Putain!
’ exclaimed Jacques, shocked. The ball had come skipping across the sea and punched a neat hole in
Morvaut
’s jib. Six feet lower and it would have
shattered the pinnace’s bow.

Yannick Kergonan ran to the helm, shoving Jezreel aside. He pushed the tiller across and his brother let fly the sheets.

The pinnace instantly lost speed.

‘What the hell did he do that for?’ yelled Jacques. He was scrabbling in the sack that contained the
Morvaut
’s collection of flags. Like most vessels of dubious origin,
the pinnace carried a selection of national flags to suit the occasion – English, French, Spanish, Danish, Hollander, even a Brandenburg ensign. He picked out the flag of a French merchant
ship, blue with a broad white cross. Hector noticed the resemblance to the unknown flag flown by the frigate. Standing at the taffrail, Jacques began flapping the flag frantically.

His reward was another cannon shot. This time there was a sinister rushing sound as the ball flew over the pinnace.

‘Blind idiots!’ Jacques yelled.

Yannick had climbed up on the rail. Clinging with one hand to a shroud, he was waving a white sheet. His two brothers ran to the halyards and let down the mainsail with a rush. Very soon
Morvaut
was at a standstill, rolling awkwardly on the waves.

The frigate came tearing on, and for a time Hector thought the larger vessel was intent on ramming the
Morvaut
. But at the last moment the
Sainte Rose
turned up into the wind,
backed her topsails and brailed the courses, and took up station within hailing distance.

A man dressed in a grey and blue coat appeared amidships. He raised a speaking trumpet and bellowed that the
Morvaut
was to send across her captain and any documents that proved the
vessel’s nationality and a list of her cargo.

‘Too lazy to send their own boarding party?’ Jacques grumbled. ‘Let me go. I’ll tell them what I think of their gunnery.’

‘Your galérien’s brand won’t make the right impression,’ Hector told him. ‘It’s better that I go across with the Kergonans and explain our business. It
shouldn’t delay us for long.’

In no time at all Anne-Marie Kergonan appeared from the little cabin holding a sheaf of papers wrapped in oilskin, which she slid into a wallet ready to take to the
Sainte Rose
. They must
be the
Morvaut
’s documents, Hector thought to himself. She was a cool customer. Not even a near-miss from a seventeen-pound cannonball knocked her off-stride.

‘Have you included a copy of our charter agreement?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ Anne-Marie replied. She was again wearing her broad red sash and Hector saw the slight bulge of the hidden pistol. ‘Not expecting to hold up the captain of a
warship, are you?’ he observed sourly.

She answered him with a sardonic smile. ‘You never know when it might be useful.’

Yannick and Yacut rowed the two of them across in the tender. As they covered the last few yards to the
Sainte Rose
, a voice shouted down in French. ‘Yannick! You little
shit!’

Anne-Marie leaned forward and quietly asked her brother, ‘Who’s that, Yannick?’

Yannick was scanning the faces lining the rail of the frigate. ‘Gaston Rassalle. We fought at Campeche together. Can’t imagine what he’s doing on a king’s ship.’ He
rested on his oar for a moment, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back. ‘Shame they haven’t hung you yet.’

Hector was aware of whistles and jeers as they came closer. He was trying to recall the details of what had happened at Campeche. There had been a great raid by filibustiers, as the French
called the buccaneers. Hundreds of French and Dutch pirates had overrun the town, only to find that the citizens had fled with all their valuables. The disappointed raiders had wreaked havoc,
smashing the place. There had been an orgy of rape and pillage, innocent prisoners strung up. Looking at Yannick’s spiteful face, it was just the sort of atrocity that he would have imagined
of the Breton.

A rope ladder had been lowered so they could scramble up the side of the frigate. Yannick went up first, then Hector. As he reached the main deck, he was surprised how untidy it was. There was
an unsightly clutter of ropes, tubs, odds and ends, and a coop containing several scruffy hens. The planking was stained where gobs of chewing tobacco had been spat. It did not look like a navy
ship. Nor were the crew any better. The men staring at him were an uncouth lot. None of them wore uniform. They were dressed in a motley collection of clothes, and he got the impression that
several of them were drunk.

He looked around, seeking an officer. A man in a greasy blue and grey coat with silver facings was holding the speaking trumpet. Hector guessed he was a petty officer.

‘I am Hector Lynch,’ he began to say in French. Behind him he heard a chorus of appreciative grunts and whistles from the crew. Anne-Marie must have reached the deck.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the frigate’s sailors step up to Yannick Kergonan and thrust his face forward to within a few inches of the Breton. The man had smudges of
gunpowder on his bare forearms and unwashed clothes. Hector guessed he was a cannonier, a ship’s gunner.

‘Had I known you were aboard that piss pot, I’d have aimed lower,’ slurred the sailor.

‘You couldn’t hit a sow at ten paces,’ the Breton sneered.

‘Wouldn’t be able to tell if that sow was your sister,’ retorted the gunner.

Yannick’s hand dropped to the hilt of his knife.

‘Steady, Yannick.’ The sharp warning came from Anne-Marie. She was only a yard away.

Yannick slowly withdrew his hand.

‘Taking orders from the sow then,’ jeered the cannonier. There was a sudden movement, followed by the sound of a pistol shot. Gaston looked down foolishly. A bullet had splintered
the deck beside his bare foot. Anne-Marie Kergonan held the smoking pistol in her hand. ‘Next time I aim for your crotch,’ she said.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded an angry voice. At the head of the companion ladder leading down from the poop deck stood an officer. Tall and good-looking, he was impeccably
dressed in a long dark blue coat edged with silver lace, well-polished bucket-top boots, white stockings and maroon breeches. A pale blue sash was wound around his waist. Hatless, he wore his thick
blond hair long and loose. But the most remarkable item of his appearance was his carefully brushed moustache. It was arranged in the old-fashioned Spanish style. The ends of the moustache curled
upwards on each side of his nose in two luxuriant and impressive curves.

Hector would have judged the man as a dandy, but for Yannick’s reaction. It was completely unexpected. The Breton suddenly went quiet. ‘I’m sorry, captain,’ he mumbled
apologetically. He dropped his glance. ‘Don’t like to hear my sister spoken about that way.’

‘It seems she is well able to look after herself,’ observed the officer caustically. He turned to Anne-Marie and bowed. ‘Major Laurens de Graff, at your service.’

This time Hector had no need to search his memory. Laurens de Graff was the most renowned filibustier in the Caribbean. He was said to be clever, arrogant, dangerous, and prone to outbursts of
violent temper. Born in the Netherlands, he had joined the Spanish Navy and risen to the rank of captain before being captured by pirates. He had promptly turned his coat and become a filibustier
himself. For fifteen years he had been achieving a string of remarkable successes. Evading the squadrons that his former masters had sent after him, he had captured ship after ship and become a
byword for courage, seamanship and daring. The English had tried to recruit him as a mercenary captain, offering to pay him well, but Hector had heard that Laurens de Graff had preferred to throw
in his lot with the French. They had given him a commission as a major in their colonial militia and allowed him to use their harbours for refuge and re-supply. But how he came to be in command of
a royal French warship was a mystery.

De Graff was treating Anne-Marie Kergonan to a frankly appraising look.

‘A pleasure to welcome you aboard my ship, madam,’ he said.

He turned to face Yannick. ‘Yannick Kergonan, isn’t it? You were with us at Campeche.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Yannick. ‘Nearly got caught by the Spaniards.’