PIRATE: Privateer (9 page)

Abruptly Yannick hurled himself across the gap, slashing with his blade. But Rassalle had seen the Breton gather and tense before he sprang and anticipated the attack. He skipped away as the
crowd hurriedly fell back to give him room. Now it was Yannick’s turn to jump out of arm’s reach.

‘Get on with it!’ someone shouted from the crowd. ‘If you want to dance, I’ll call for the fiddler.’

The spatter of laughter from the onlookers goaded Yannick to try again. This time he stabbed rather than slashed with his blade. He extended his arm forward like a swordsman and thrust, aiming
for Rassalle’s chest.

Rassalle was too quick for him. He turned his body sideways and avoided the point of the knife. Grabbing the Breton’s wrist before Yannick could withdraw, Rassalle stepped forward, forcing
Yannick’s knife hand downward and closing with his opponent. The two men collided with a thud. For a couple of seconds they stood, chest to chest, grunting and straining against one another
as Rassalle maintained his grip. Only when Yannick used his free arm to launch a punch at his enemy’s head did he succeed in breaking clear. By then Rassalle’s knife had done its work.
He had slid the blade deep into the Breton’s stomach, low down on the left-hand side.

Yannick stepped back, apparently untroubled. He was breathing deeply, his chest heaving. For a long moment he stood upright, still glaring at his opponent. He raised his left arm and wiped the
back of his hand across his mouth, then gave a slight cough. A look of puzzlement crossed his face. He made as if to step forward but seemed to lose control of the movement. He let go his knife and clutched at his side. Then he dropped to his knees on the dirt.

A tremor ran through the watching crowd. Rassalle remained standing where he was. He looked down at his victim with narrowed eyes, knife in hand and waiting.

Yannick coughed again and tried to get back on his feet. He pushed himself half upright with one hand, the other still clutching his belly. In that instant the crowd could see the stain of blood
spreading across the front of the shirt. Then the effort was too much for him and he slumped forward face down.

There was a commotion to Anne-Marie’s right. Her two other brothers were pushing their way through the crowd, which opened out to give them space. Roparzh and Yacut were even more drunk
than their brother. Their eyes were bloodshot and they could barely stand. They came to a halt at the edge of the ring of spectators and looked down stupidly at Yannick on the ground. Yacut gave a
great, rum-sodden belch as he turned towards Rassalle. Something in his addled brain urged him to take revenge. He shook his head as if trying to clear his vision and let out a low growl of
anguish. With his hands held out like claws in front of him he began to advance on Rassalle, who watched him come on, his bloodied knife at the ready.

A shot rang out.

Rassalle snapped forward, folding in half. He screamed in pain. He took a pace backwards. Then he too sank to the ground and curled up in a ball, whimpering with anguish.

The startled crowd turned their gaze on Anne-Marie. She stood with the pistol still held out in front of her, the barrel at the same slight downward angle as when she had pulled the trigger. A
wisp of gunpowder smoke hung in the hot tropical air.

Rassalle was moaning, writhing from side to side. ‘Gut shot,’ someone in the crowd said.

‘It was meant to be his groin,’ said Anne-Marie calmly. ‘Now someone call a surgeon.’

*

K
NIFINGS AND SHOOTINGS
were sufficiently common in Petit Goâve for no one to bother reporting them to the authorities. Governor de Cussy learned
about the fight while on his evening stroll through the settlement. He and de Graff had reached the spot where the fight had taken place when one of the idlers outside the tavern brazenly called
out, ‘Will you hang her, Governor?’

The owner of the tavern was hurrying over, wiping his hands on a soiled cloth. ‘What’s that fellow talking about?’ snapped de Cussy.

‘The Kergonan woman,’ said the innkeeper. ‘She shot Gaston Rassalle in the guts. Surgeon says he’ll not live.’

‘Why did she do that?’

‘Rassalle had knifed her brother,’ said the man.

De Cussy was taken aback. He had been expecting a sordid tale of one of the tavern whores engaged in a brawl.

‘It didn’t happen in my place, but out here,’ the innkeeper added defensively.

‘And where’s the woman now?’

‘She and her other brothers carried off the injured one. They took him to the house of a distant kinsman. Cousin of that ne’erdo-well she was married to.’ The tavern owner
grimaced. ‘Those worthless Bretons always stick together.’

‘Did you see the fight yourself?’

The innkeeper shook his head. ‘No. But plenty did. And some of them will stand witness. Yannick Kergonan had few friends.’

The Governor was quick to note the past tense. ‘What do you mean,
had
few friends?’

‘Surgeon says that he’s as like to die as is Rassalle. Neither will live out the week.’

De Cussy dismissed the tavern keeper. Taking de Graff by the elbow, he walked on casually as though the fracas was no more than a minor disturbance. He waited until they were halfway back to his
office before he said quietly to the filibustier, ‘Looks as though you’ve lost one of the men who could locate that wreck for you.’

De Graff sounded irritated. ‘A pity. Yannick Kergonan was the sharpest of the three brothers.’

‘What about the other two? Will they know where to look on the Vipers?’

‘Can’t say. I’ll take them to Providencia aboard the
Sainte Rose
and tickle up their memories.’ He swung a savage cut with the cane he was carrying. His target was
a wild shrub with red flowers growing at the side of the path. Petals fluttered to the ground.

‘The sister was aboard the pinnace too,’ suggested the Governor softly.

De Graff came to a halt and turned to face the Governor. The filibustier’s eyes were hard and probing. ‘And how would I get her to cooperate? I draw the line at taking a cane to a
woman.’

‘You won’t have to,’ the Governor assured him. ‘Mademoiselle Kergonan will soon be on a charge of murder. I will make it clear that if she cooperates, her case will be
dropped. She and her surviving brothers might even get their pinnace back.’

De Graff pursed his lips. ‘A woman aboard a warship. The men won’t like it.’

The Governor chuckled. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you worry about the opinions of your crew. You could make it evident that you are smitten by her charms. Captains have
been known to smuggle their mistresses aboard.’

De Graff tugged at his moustache. He was clearly intrigued by de Cussy’s suggestion. ‘Is that a challenge?’ he asked.

De Cussy allowed himself a sly smile. ‘A challenge that most men would like to take.’

*

T
HREE HUNDRED MILES
to the south Hector sat in the skiff and waited for the sun to sink beneath the horizon. Just a week ago he would have been happy for
the superb spectacle of a Caribbean sunset to linger in the sky for as long as possible. Now all he wanted was for the blazing red circle to drop out of sight. The sides of the boat and the thwarts
were scorching to touch, and though their skins were toughened by years of living in the tropics, he and his companions were suffering burns and exposure. Gingerly Hector ran the tip of his tongue
over his lower lip. It was painfully cracked. He could feel the sores beginning to develop on his arms and legs and buttocks. His hands and feet had puffed up, his bowels had blocked, and he was
afflicted by an occasional headache and increasing lethargy. Dan seemed to be affected the least. Perhaps his dark Miskito skin was less delicate. Jezreel, on the other hand, was in trouble.
Weeping sores had broken out on his face, even under the thick beard, and his bare shins were blistered. Jacques doled out their ration of drinking water each day, and with a full jar remaining,
fresh water was not yet a worry. But there was none to spare to wash and clean their wounds and oozing scabs.

Dan gave a grunt and stood up. For a moment Hector thought his friend had seen a ship on the horizon. But Dan was looking up into the evening sky. A lone seabird was flying towards them, gliding
on outstretched wings. The creature was curious about the tiny boat all by itself on the sea. Dan faced towards the bird, quietly raised both his arms parallel to the water and stood motionless.
The bird swooped closer. It made several passes, flying in lazy circles down one side of the little boat, then turning and coming again. Dan waited patiently. Finally, with a slight clatter of
wings, the bird settled. It gripped Dan’s outstretched right arm with bright blue web feet. The Miskito’s left hand flashed across and he grabbed the creature by the neck. A quick
wrench and a sound like someone cracking their knuckles and the bird went limp, its neck broken. Without a word, Dan handed the carcass to Jacques. He stripped away the feathers, and while the
flesh was still warm tore the breast into four parts and shared them out. The four friends chewed quietly.

‘You’d think those birds would learn not to land on us,’ said Jezreel. It was the third time it had happened.

‘They’ve got to live up to their name,’ said Hector.

‘You mean “boobies”?’

‘
Bobo
is Spanish for stupid.’

‘We call them
fou à pieds bleus
in France: blue-footed maniacs,’ added Jacques as he tossed the carcass overboard. ‘Hector, how long do you think before we see
land?’

It was a question they debated several times a day. They could not be certain that they were heading in the right direction all the time. There might be currents against them or in their favour,
and they had to take their leeway into account. Whenever the wind suited, they hoisted the tarpaulin as a simple square sail. One oar was used for the mast, the second was the yard. If the wind
died or turned against them, they took it in turns to row; Jezreel on his own, the others in pairs. But even by the most generous calculation they were making no more than two or three knots
through the water. That was scarcely walking pace.

‘My guess is that we could sight land in another two to three days,’ said Hector. The calm competence of his friends was heartening. They were accustomed to the sea and had the
steadfastness needed to make the voyage. Should bad weather hit them, they would handle the little boat well. The rest was up to fate. He hoped that Maria, waiting for him back in Tortuga, was
being as patient. He was grateful that none of his companions had mentioned her. They all knew that he was worried. As the days passed and he became more and more overdue, she would become
concerned. Yet there was nothing he could do except wait until they reached land and he could find some means of sending her a message.

The light was nearly gone. Hector looked up into the heavens and located the Fish’s Mouth, the star the Arabs called Fomalhaut. It lay in the constellation of Pisces and it always showed
him whether the skiff was still headed in the right direction. By day he steered by the position of the sun in its arc and by observing the pattern of the wind and waves. But these were vague and
uncertain guides. Only the stars were reliable. Now he was pleased to see that Fomalhaut lay almost directly in line with the skiff’s makeshift mast and that meant they were still on course.
Since early afternoon they had enjoyed the advantage of a light breeze in their favour and were making good progress. If the breeze held steady throughout the night, it would allow the four of them
to rest, each man judging his two hours at the helm by heaven’s clock – the eternal swing of the Wain around the Pole Star.

There was a sound of splashing water. Dan was bailing out the bilge, using a wooden scoop they had found fastened by a cord in the skiff. The little boat was chronically leaky. They had tried to
staunch the leaks by stuffing strips of cloth into the cracks. But the hull was so fragile that the planks threatened to split farther apart. Only regular bailing was keeping them afloat. At first
it had taken only five minutes in every hour to tip the water back into the sea. Now it was taking twice as long.

They had sighted several sails at a distance since evading the
Sainte Rose
, but had not sought help. There was always a chance that it was Captain de Graff coming back to look for them,
and if they were Spanish or English ships, four men found in an open boat in time of war would be hauled off to Jamaica or Cartagena for weeks of interrogation. After a brief discussion they had
agreed that their best choice was to head for the Dutch free port in Curaçao. There no questions would be asked and they could quietly slip back into a normal life. Hector had even been
toying with the idea of arranging for Maria to join him there.

That night passed as usual. Under a starry and cloudless sky the air cooled quickly, and by the time Hector came on watch shortly before dawn, he was shivering from the chill. He had left the
Morvaut
dressed only in a shirt and breeches, and he huddled at the tiller waiting for the sun to rise and bring warmth to his bones.

When the sun did finally climb up out of the sea, he became aware of a faint smudge on the horizon to the south-east. It was barely noticeable and lay off their course so he waited until the sun
was fully up before he nudged Dan awake.

‘Do you see land over there?’ he asked the Miskito.

Dan shaded his eyes. He had the keenest eyesight among them. ‘An island, a smallish one. Do you know which it is?’

Hector tried to visualize the chart of the Caribbean. Along the coast of South America extended an irregular chain of islands. He knew little about them. Most of the larger ones were claimed by
the Spaniards, and it was safe to assume that the smaller ones were uninhabited.

‘It can’t be Curaçao. It lies too far off our course.’

Jezreel had woken up. He joined them in staring at the distant sea mark. ‘How far away do you think it is?’

‘Ten or fifteen miles,’ said Dan.

‘I could row us there by early afternoon,’ Jezreel offered. ‘We could find a quiet landing place, go ashore and mend our boat. Even if the place is inhabited, we would be on
our way again without anyone knowing.’