PIRATE: Privateer (6 page)

De Graff looked at Hector. ‘You are . . . ?’

‘Hector Lynch. I have chartered the pinnace
Morvaut
.’

‘Chartered for what purpose?’

‘To fish for wrecks on the Vipers.’

Shrewd grey eyes regarded Hector. De Graff’s face was expressionless. ‘And have you had any success?’

An impulse made Hector cautious. ‘Some success, not much.’

De Graff beckoned to the petty officer and murmured something in his ear. Then he turned back to Hector. ‘Let us go to the poop deck. I presume you have proof of what you claim to
be.’

As they mounted the companionway, Hector noticed that the petty officer and two sailors had commandeered the
Morvaut
’s skiff and were rowing across to visit the pinnace.

‘Your name sounds English,’ said de Graff as they reached the frigate’s poop deck. Two junior officers moved respectfully to one side.

‘I was born in Ireland but am currently living with my wife in Tortuga,’ Hector answered, and then corrected himself, ‘. . . in Tortille.’

A lift of the eyebrow. De Graff was waiting for him to go on. ‘My wife is originally from Spain,’ Hector added lamely.

‘My own wife is from the Canaries,’ said de Graff amiably, ‘though I see little of her nowadays, being at sea so much. May I see your papers?’

Hector looked across at Anne-Marie. From the wallet she was carrying she produced the charter agreement that had been carefully drawn up between them.

The filibustier captain read through the document carefully. Then he looked up. ‘It seems to be in order.’

Hector felt a wave of relief. He had worried that the filibustier might find some excuse to delay them on the journey to Tortuga.

‘You say that you were born in Ireland?’ said de Graff.

‘Yes.’

‘That makes you a subject of the King of England.’

Hector could not understand why de Graff was so particular on this point.

‘Madame,’ the filibustier captain said, turning to Anne-Marie, ‘Monsieur Lynch tells me that you are the owner of the pinnace.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ Anne-Marie corrected him. ‘I am part-owner. I have equal shares with my brothers.’

‘And you are on your way to Tortille?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Umm . . .’ De Graff was looking across towards the pinnace. Hector began to have the first stirrings of concern. There was an undercurrent of deviousness to de Graff’s urbane
manner.

They chatted on inconsequential matters until the petty officer returned from his inspection of
Morvaut
. De Graff took him to one side, and it was clear that he was listening to the
man’s report. Then the filibustier walked across to where Anne-Marie and Hector were waiting for him.

‘Monsieur Lynch,’ de Graff began, ‘I have to inform you that you are my prisoner.’

Hector gaped with shock. ‘On what grounds?’ he demanded.

‘As an enemy combatant.’

‘How can that be?’ Hector’s mind was whirling.

De Graff gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Perhaps the news reached Tortille after you had left on this fishing trip of yours.’

Hector felt his throat go dry. ‘What news?’

‘England and France are at war.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Hector retorted. He was utterly taken aback. France and England were always wary of one another in the Caribbean but their mutual hostility towards Spain
had kept them in an uneasy alliance.

De Graff smoothed his splendid moustache. He looked pleased with himself. ‘I’m not a politician but I gather that the war is to do with alliances in Europe. My lord, the Sun King
–’ de Graff allowed himself a mocking smile – ‘has aroused such envy among other sovereigns that several of the European nations have leagued against him. Even
Spain.’

Hector decided his only course was to brazen it out. ‘I can’t see how that gives you the right to detain me—’ he began forcefully.

‘. . . You and your associates,’ interjected de Graff quietly. ‘Bring me my commission,’ he said to a junior officer.

A little while later the man reappeared, carrying a large leather folder. De Graff took out a parchment. Without a word he handed it to Hector to read.

In florid, formal French with its particular spellings the document stated that ‘Laurens-Cornille Baldran, sieur de Graff, lieutenant de roy en l’isle de Saint-Domingue’ was
appointed as ‘Capitaine de Fregate legere’. He was to carry out faithfully the instructions received from his superiors. The document bore the signature of the Seigneur de Cussy,
Governor pour le Roi du cote et isles de Saint-Domingue en l’Amerique sous le vent.

De Graff waited for Hector to finish reading before he said silkily, ‘As you see, my instructions require me to detain enemy nationals and seize their goods and possessions.’

To Hector’s surprise, Anne-Marie spoke up in his support. ‘Major de Graff, you have no right to detain Monsieur Lynch. He has a perfectly legitimate contract with me, a French
subject, to conduct salvage operations with a French vessel.’

De Graff turned to Anne-Marie, and though his eyes expressed admiration, he spoke with the tone of someone who would allow no argument.

‘Mademoiselle Kergonan, I was coming to that. A vessel chartered by an enemy subject becomes, as it were, a ship of that nation.’

Anne-Marie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling me that you intend to seize the
Morvaut
?’

‘The moment you entered into a contract with Monsieur Lynch, the vessel effectively became his instrument and available for hostilities.’

‘Fishing for wrecks is not a hostile act.’

De Graff smiled grimly. ‘The profits could be used to assist the enemy. For that reason I am also confiscating Monsieur Lynch’s salvage.’

Belatedly Hector noticed Yannick Kergonan smirking up at him from the main deck. On the deck beside him were the two knapsacks in which Jacques had stored their silver from the galleon. Hector
guessed that the Breton had told the petty officer where to look for the knapsacks when he visited the pinnace.

Laurens de Graff was speaking again. ‘Mademoiselle, I must ask you also to hand over your proceeds from the wreck.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Anne-Marie snapped back at him.

De Graff sighed. ‘Your charter contract clearly states that half the salvage goes to you and your brothers as owners of the vessel. That half, too, must be relinquished.’

‘It belongs to us, French subjects.’

De Graff’s voice hardened. ‘As captain of this vessel I am within my rights to confiscate all goods found on a suspect vessel.’

Anne-Marie Kergonan exploded with rage. ‘That is pure piracy.’

Hands on hips, she stormed at de Graff with the violence of a fishwife. He was a crook, a cheat, and nothing better than a sea robber, and she would expose his villainy to Governor de Cussy the
moment she reached Petit Goâve.

The filibustier was unmoved. ‘Mademoiselle, please return to your vessel. I shall send a petty officer and some sailors as prize crew. The
Sainte Rose
will escort her to Petit
Goâve. Monsieur Lynch will rejoin his comrades on your pinnace and they will be put in irons for the journey.’

‘And my brothers, what are they to do?’ Anne-Marie demanded, her face suffused with anger.

De Graff shrugged. ‘Naturally I must replace the prize crew I’m sending with you, so I will retain them on the
Sainte Rose
. I believe they will find themselves among former
comrades.’

*

H
ECTOR SAT QUIETLY
in the tender as it returned to the pinnace. Anne-Marie was still seething with rage. She was even angrier after they were back aboard
the
Morvaut
and a gloating French sailor emerged from the main hatch. He held up for them to see the heavy sacks in which Yannick had hidden the Kergonans’ share of the salvage in the
bilge.

‘My stupid oaf of a brother,’ she raged. ‘If he’d kept his mouth shut, de Graff wouldn’t have known about our haul.’ She stormed off to the cabin, making it
clear that even though
Morvaut
was in the hands of a prize crew, the cabin was her territory.

The tender made one final trip to the
Sainte Rose
, carrying away the Kergonans’ share of booty and returning with four sets of leg irons and lengths of chain. These were used to
shackle Hector and his comrades together at the ankle, while the free end of the chain was padlocked to a ring bolt on the foredeck.

‘What are you looking so smug about, Jacques?’ growled Jezreel as the ex-galérien tore off a strip of his shirt and wrapped it around his ankle under the leg iron to prevent
it chafing.

‘That padlock – typical government rubbish made by the cheapest contractor. Give me a spike and I could open it in less than a minute.’

‘All in good time,’ said Hector quietly. He was watching the prize crew tie off the tender to
Morvaut
’s stern. He counted five of them in addition to the petty officer
in charge.

‘Much more treatment like this, and I’ll lose patience. Then someone will get hurt,’ Jezreel said. He was rubbing a bruise on his shoulder where one of the prize crew had
struck him with a musket butt when he moved too slowly.

‘Just hold on for a while,’ said Hector. Already he was beginning to wonder if there might be some way of escape.

The distant shrill of a bosun’s whistle came across the water. The
Sainte Rose
was getting under way again. Her topsails were being braced around, and the main courses sheeted
in.

‘Goodbye to our silver,’ said Jacques. ‘That’s already in de Graff’s own pocket or shared out with his crew.’

Aboard the
Morvaut
the petty officer was telling his men to hoist the mainsail.

‘You there!’ he shouted at Hector’s group. ‘Make yourselves useful. Get the foresail up.’

The length of their leg chains allowed the prisoners to shuffle as far as the foresail halyard.

‘Jacques,’ Hector said under his breath, ‘can you get yourself a pick-lock?’

‘Nothing easier,’ said the Frenchman. ‘See that little runt-like fellow with the red cap. He’s from Paris. I recognize his accent.’ He called out a string of words
which sounded French but Hector found completely incomprehensible.

The man in the red cap replied similarly.

‘What’s that all about?’ Hector asked.

‘Street beggar’s slang. Told him that if they didn’t have a decent cook, I could do the job.’

‘And his reply?’

‘He said he would check with his boss.’

Some time later the Parisian came to the foredeck, unlocked Jacques’ chain, and led him to the cook box. The boy looped the chain through the handle of a large iron cauldron and closed the
padlock. ‘Let’s see if you can cook as well as you claim,’ he said to Jacques. ‘The last time I was on a prize crew, it was aboard a Dutch fluyt, and I got sick of bean soup
and stockfish stew.’

‘I’ll do better than that,’ Jacques assured him, and within the hour had served up a gratin of peas, biscuit and crumbled cheese. When he was returned to the foredeck, he
silently pulled a fork out from his shirtfront. ‘Any time you want us free of our chains, Hector, just let me know,’ he said with a grin.

Hector waited until well after dark when everyone was settled for the night. The moon was showing through rents in the cloud cover and gave enough light to see the outline of the
Sainte
Rose
. The frigate was under reduced sail and half a mile upwind, keeping pace with the pinnace. Whatever happened aboard the
Morvaut
would have to be done without alerting the
warship.

The petty officer and three of his men, their stomachs full of Jacques’ gratin, had gone to sleep on the main deck. Two men were left on watch, one as helmsman and the other as lookout.
From time to time they were passing between them a bottle that Jacques had taken care to half-fill from the small keg of looted rum and leave on view. Anne-Marie was not to be seen. The only time
she had opened the door of the cabin was to accept a plate of food.

Around him Hector could sense his friends awake and ready for his word.

‘Let’s go,’ he whispered.

Jacques wriggled across to the ring bolt and, using the fork, worked at the padlocks, one by one, until all the prisoners were free. Dan wrapped a length of chain around his hand, slithered away
to the rail and crouched there, waiting. Without raising his head, Hector watched the two sailors at the helm. The next time he saw the bottle pass between them he reached out and tapped Dan on the
ankle. In one quick movement the Miskito half rose, slid over the windward rail and disappeared overboard.

Along her entire length
Morvaut
was girdled with a rubbing strake, a thick plank that acted as a fender when she was docked. This plank protruded nearly two inches from the hull, and Dan
had said it was enough for him to get a purchase with bare feet. Now, with one hand grasping the rail to prevent him falling into the sea, he was invisible from the helm as long as he stayed
crouching down. Only if the lookout walked right to the edge of the vessel and looked overboard would the Miskito be seen.

Hector watched the rail. Once or twice he had a brief glimpse of Dan’s hand, moving like a crab as the Miskito inched his way aft, using the rubbing strake as a ledge.

Minutes passed, and Hector could only hope that Dan had successfully reached the stern, and was hanging there waiting for his opportunity.

After what seemed like an age, the helmsman’s comrade left his post. The rum bottle was empty and he came aft to pour a refill. He reached the cook box and bent down to remove the bung
from the rum keg. At that moment Jezreel rose and in two strides he was above the sailor. He smashed his clenched fist down on the back of the man’s head. The stunned sailor toppled forward;
Jezreel caught him and eased him gently to the deck.

The commotion had not caught the attention of the helmsman when Dan dropped quietly over the gunwale behind him. In a single smooth movement the Miskito whipped a loop of chain around the
helmsman’s neck and choked off any sound. The man thrashed from side to side in anguish. Grimly Dan tightened the garrotte. Now was the most dangerous moment. The tiller swung free and the
pinnace, unchecked, swung up into the wind. There was a lurch and then a slap of canvas loud enough to wake a light sleeper. Stepping closer to his victim, Dan twisted the noose more fiercely until
the choking helmsman’s legs gave way. Even as he collapsed unconscious to the deck, Dan grabbed for the tiller and hauled it towards him, steadying the pinnace and bringing
Morvaut
back on course. The little boat sailed on quietly.