Sea Robber (25 page)

J
ACQUES
B
OURDON
, former Parisian pickpocket, burglar and ex-galérien, enjoyed masquerading as a seasoned mariner. Wearing a set of Eaton’s better clothing, he perched on the centre thwart of the native sailing canoe as it headed north along the coast of Guahan. Normally Jacques disliked small boats. He found them slow, wet and unsteady, and they made him seasick. But this vessel was different. The side float made it much more stable, almost comfortable, and the stiff breeze pushed the vessel along at a fine pace. This would not be a long trip.

Jacques shifted position slightly so that he could see past the sail of palm-leaf matting. The canoe – he had managed to learn from the crew that they called it a ‘galaide layak’ – was running into a sheltered bay. There was no sign of any coral reef. Deep water extended all the way to a short wooden pier, where a collection of thatched roofs lay along the lower part of an attractive valley. The grasslands on the slopes above the settlement were washed a pale lime-green by the morning sunshine.

‘Aganah?’ he asked, pointing forward. Close to the jetty rose the solid square shape of a small fort. It had to be the Spaniards’ Presidio.

The boatman with the extravagant bush of hair nodded.

Ten minutes later Jacques had clambered up on to the pier and was walking by himself towards the settlement. The houses with their weathered grey thatch were nothing more than overgrown cabins, too humble for the Governor of the Ladrones. His residence would be inside the fort itself, safe behind its fifteen-foot walls of coral blocks. Two small towers served as cannon platforms, and an open space had been left clear to provide a field of fire. But there was no sign of a sentry on the parapet, and the double gates of the entrance were closed.

Jacques picked up a stone and banged on one of the gates. The thick timber gave back a muffled thud. After an interval a voice demanded to know their business.

‘Visiteur,’ Jacques shouted, emphasizing his French accent.

The heavy gate eased just enough to enable him to step inside. Immediately he was through, it was dragged shut behind him. Jacques looked around. The area within the walls was considerably larger than he had expected. There was space for a little chapel, a barracks block and several storehouses. They were all modest, single-storey buildings with tile roofs and mud-brick walls. Small windows had unpainted shutters against the sun, and one or two were barred. The only substantial two-storey building had a balcony and porch and overlooked the parade ground. Judging by the flagstaff in front of it, this was where the Governor and his senior staff had their offices and accommodation.

Jacques presumed the four men whose combined strength had been required to shift the heavy gate were members of the garrison. They were uncommonly slovenly and, judging by their expressions, they resented being disturbed.

‘The Governor?’ Jacques asked in Spanish. Before he received an answer, he became aware of a man in a faded blue jacket of military cut, who emerged from the larger building and was striding across the parade ground.

‘You must be from the foreign ship,’ announced the newcomer. A short, brisk man in his mid-forties, everything about him spoke of a regimental background: close-cropped iron-grey hair, straight back and square shoulders, crisp manner of speech, the frank appraising stare he gave the visitor.

‘My name is Louis Brodart. I am sailing master of the
Gaillon
,’ Jacques said in French. Inwardly he was gleeful. It was unlikely anyone but a Parisian would know that the Gaillon district of the city was renowned for its open sewer. Or that he had borrowed the surname of the most corrupt government official in France, the Intendant of the Royal Galleys.

‘Sarjento Mayor Damian de Esplana, at your service,’ answered the officer. He spoke halting but competent French. ‘Welcome to the Presidio of Guahan.’

Jacques decided he should get straight to the point. ‘My captain asked me to deliver his compliments to the Governor.’

‘Don Fernando de Costana is absent. I am the commanding officer of the garrison.’

‘Will the Governor be returning soon?’

‘He has gone to another island to deal with the indios. I do not expect him back for at least a month.’ If the Sarjento Mayor had noticed the galérien’s brand, he was too polite to mention it.

‘A pity. My captain’s instructions are to present our credentials solely to the Governor. The Secretary of the Navy, the Marquis de Seignelay, was most particular in this regard.’

Esplana brightened. ‘Then, by all means, your captain can take his vessel to Saipan, the island where Don Fernando has gone. But first let me offer you some refreshment. I would appreciate hearing news from the outside world. We see few ships.’

He escorted his visitor towards the building with the porch. On the way they passed a sizeable vegetable patch dug in a corner of the parade ground. The Sarjento Mayor gestured apologetically.

‘Not a very military sight. My men are better gardeners than soldiers. But under the circumstances, it is sensible to grow some of our own food.’

Esplana’s office was entered through a side door. The room was spartan, with whitewashed walls, a plain desk with a black iron candlestick, four chairs, an army chest and no decoration except for a small wooden cross, a mirror of polished steel and a sword and baldric hanging from a peg. A servant appeared with a tray of glasses. Jacques picked up his drink and tasted. It was mildly fizzy, with a pleasant, alcoholic tang. Esplana noted his appreciation. ‘The natives call it “tuba”. Fermented from the sap of the coconut palm.’

When the servant had withdrawn, Esplana gestured for the Frenchman to take a seat. Going to his desk, Esplana adopted a more serious expression. ‘Thank you for coming here so promptly in answer to my message.’

‘My captain regrets he is unable to bring his vessel directly to your port. He’s instructed to seek out new lands for trade and plantation. Our visit to the Ladrones—’

‘Las Marianas,’ Esplana corrected him. ‘They were renamed some years ago during the regency of the late King’s widow.’

Jacques wondered if his slip had aroused the Spaniard’s suspicion. A French government mission would be expected to know the archipelago’s official new name, though ordinary mariners still spoke of the Thief Islands. He ploughed on. ‘We called at the Marianas only to take on water. Very shortly we continue on our way.’

Esplana placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward, his eyes grave, almost pleading. ‘Before you depart, I hope your captain will find time to prove the friendship that exists between our two countries.’

‘My captain has authorized me to decide what is in the best interest of our mission,’ said Jacques neutrally. He waited for the Spaniard to explain.

‘You have seen the indios, the naked natives, I’m sure,’ said Esplana. ‘The Governor is charged with their reducción, as we say – their conversion to the faith, their civilization. But they resist fiercely.’

‘The few we have met seemed friendly enough, though in need of clothing.’

‘Don’t be fooled. The Chamorro are vicious, brave and stubborn. They cling to their old ways. Governor Costana has taken the best of the men and sailed north to Saipan to put down an uprising there. The Chamorro murdered a missionary priest.’ The Spaniard gestured towards the door. ‘You’ve seen the sort of men I’ve been left to work with. Idlers, drunks, former gaolbirds sent here from New Spain.’

That explained the absence of a lookout at the fort and the closed gates, Jacques thought. The Sarjento Mayor had decided to stay bottled up within the Presidio. ‘The town did seem to be very quiet,’ he ventured.

‘The situation is very tense,’ Esplana went on. His eyes flicked towards the open window. ‘We hold hostages, a couple of the Chamorro chiefs, but . . .’

‘The message boat you sent was manned by indios, as you call them.’

‘They belong to a clan that favours us. Fortunately the Chamorro spend more time fighting among themselves than trying to defeat us. Without the rivalry between the clans we would be lost.’

‘Are they well armed?’

‘Thank God, no. They have no firearms. They use slings and spears tipped with human bone.’ The Spaniard gave a sour smile. ‘They say they prefer killing the taller strangers because their longer shinbones make better spear points.’

‘Dangerous foes,’ Jacques agreed.

Esplana was blunt. ‘Your men and the firepower of the
Gaillon
’s cannon would make a great difference.’

Jacques seized the opening. ‘Unfortunately we must conserve our gunpowder. Much of what we took aboard in Brest when we sailed was useless. The rest got wet on the voyage and is spoiled.’

‘I can remedy that,’ said Esplana promptly. ‘I can send you twenty, maybe thirty kegs, from our own reserves.’

‘Won’t that leave you short?’ asked Jacques.

‘I still have enough to repel an assault on the Presidio. I am expecting resupply quite soon. The Acapulco Galleon should pass through the straits within the month.’

‘The Acapulco Galleon?’ Jacques was momentarily at a loss.

‘You would know it better as the Manila Galleon.’

Jacques must have continued to look puzzled because the Sarjento Mayor went on, ‘I speak of the galleon on its westward trip, to the Philippines. The vessel carries travellers on their way from New Spain to Manila and the silver needed there to pay for the China trade. Either it makes a stop in Guahan to unload mail and passengers. Or, if the voyage is behind schedule, the ship waits in the straits north of here, and our friendly natives go out to take off the supplies.’

So that’s why the Chamorro came out to huckster with us, Jacques thought. They greet any passing ship in this fashion.

Esplana continued to press his case. ‘And even if the Acapulco Galleon cannot spare the munitions, a patache is also due from New Spain. Indeed, she may get here sooner than the galleon. The patache carries stores specifically destined for us, including gunpowder. Afterwards she continues on to Manila. If your vessel could sail to Saipan to assist the Governor, we could breathe easily. Don Costana will teach the indios a lesson, with the help of your cannon.’

‘Very well,’ said Jacques. ‘On behalf of my captain, I assure you that the
Gaillon
will go to the assistance of your Governor. We can save a few days if you send us the gunpowder we require and a native who can pilot us to Saipan.’

They toasted their agreement and drained their glasses. As the officer poured him another drink, Jacques gave him what he hoped was a friendly look. ‘It must be a lonely life here.’

‘For most of us it is,’ confessed the Spaniard. ‘My troops, if you can call them that, form attachments with local women. For myself, I have devoted my life to the service of my country.’

‘How about Governor Costana? Does he feel the same?’ asked Jacques offhandedly. He intended to lead the conversation around to the Governor and his domestic arrangements. That way he would be able to tell Hector whether Maria was living in the fort.

‘He was posted here from Peru. The result of some scandal, I believe. He brought his wife with him, Doña Juana. A fine woman. She too has a sense of duty.’

From the parade ground came the sound of the chapel bell striking noon. To Jacques’ disappointment, Esplana got to his feet. ‘I would ask you to join us for our midday meal. But frankly our cook is useless, and the sooner you carry my message back to your vessel, the happier I will be.’

As Jacques accompanied the Spaniard outside, he thought quickly.

‘Commandant, I have a small favour to ask.’

‘What is it?’

‘That vegetable garden . . .’

‘It varies an otherwise monotonous diet.’

‘Would it be possible for me to carry back some of the produce to the ship? I see there are some carrots and celery. My captain would greatly appreciate some green stuff on his table.’

‘Of course. I’ll have a man select what you need.’

‘And we are also short of spices. I understand this island produces excellent ginger.’

Esplana smiled. ‘You live up to your nation’s reputation. Our mess cook is so incompetent he thinks salt is an exotic spice. But maybe the Governor’s kitchen has some ginger to spare. If you will accompany me, I will make enquiries.’

They walked across to the main entrance of the administration building. Esplana knocked. The door was opened by a maidservant in her teens. She wore a shawl worked with Peruvian patterns, and Jacques guessed she’d been brought from South America with the Governor’s entourage. She curtsied politely.

‘Ask your mistress if we may speak with her cook,’ Esplana said.

The girl held the door open for them to step inside and disappeared into an inner room to consult her mistress.

A moment later a door opened, and a young, handsome, dark-haired woman dressed in a plain brown skirt and grey bodice stepped out.

‘Sarjento Mayor,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid our cook is not here. He accompanied the Governor.’ Her glance took in Jacques and for a heartbeat she seemed to falter.

‘May I introduce Monsieur Brodart of the French ship
Gaillon
,’ said Esplana. He turned to Jacques. ‘I have the pleasure of introducing Señorita Maria da Silva.’