Sea Robber (3 page)

Cook, his face only inches away from Hector’s, peered into the dungeon. Hector briefly caught the scent of perfume that he was using. ‘A bachelor’s delight,’ Cook breathed wonderingly. Puzzled for an instant, Hector suddenly comprehended his meaning. Several of the captives in the dungeon had sensed they were being observed. They had raised their heads and looked up towards the spyhole. Hector could just make out their faces and the occasional gleam of an eye. Every one of them was a woman. This was a dungeon exclusively for female slaves awaiting shipment.

‘De er alle solgt,’ said a husky voice. A Danish gaoler was standing in the corridor, a few paces away. He tapped his chest with one hand.

Hector stepped back from the window. He remembered from the supercargo’s ledger that ‘solgt’ meant ‘sold’. The Dane presumed they were potential slave buyers examining the sale stock.

‘How do you feed the prisoners?’ Hector asked. He pointed to his mouth and pretended to eat and drink, then gestured towards the dungeon. The gaoler imitated the process of picking up a long-handled shovel, loading the blade and thrusting it between the bars.

‘Like feeding animals,’ muttered Cook.

‘Kom!’ The Dane made it clear that they should leave. He escorted them back to the door at the head of the stairway and closed it behind them.

‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Cook as they walked back across the compound. They passed a blacksmith’s workplace. Instead of horseshoes, there were heaps of chains and ankle rings. Cook stopped. Hanging from a row of hooks were several long, thin metal rods.

‘That’s what the gaoler meant when he touched his chest,’ he said. ‘Those rods are branding irons. I saw them used to mark wild cattle in the Caribbees. When the slaves are sold, they’re branded on the breast to show who their new owner is.’

He paused, as if a thought had occurred to him. ‘That Frenchman, your friend, has a brand on his cheek, as I remember?’

‘Yes,’ answered Hector. ‘The letter G. It stands for “galérien”. It was burned on him when he was convicted in France and sent to the royal galleys. But the mark hardly shows when he has a tan.’

‘Perhaps you’d ask him if he could come across to the
Revenge
later this evening and meet one of my crew – another Frenchman. He’s also an ex-convict and speaks very little English. He’s very sick, and likely to die. Another case of Guinea fever. Perhaps your Jacques can have a few last words with him?’

‘Jacques is out on the
Carlsborg
, with Jezreel. They’re on the same watch.’

‘Then why don’t I bring you and your Indian friend out to your ship on the
Revenge
’s launch so that you can ask Jacques if he’ll do me this favour? I’d appreciate it.’

Hector hesitated. Cook’s offer somehow rang false, but he couldn’t define why. The buccaneer persisted.

‘When does Jacques have to go back on watch?’

‘Tomorrow. He and Jezreel have the morning watch. Dan and I will be joining them.’

‘Sounds as though you all stick together. Just like the old days.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Then it’s settled. I’ll see you and Dan on the beach around sunset and bring you back out to the
Carlsborg
.’ Cook straightened the lace at his neck and brushed a speck of dust off the sleeve of his coat. ‘Lynch, think over my offer about joining the crew of the
Revenge
. Meanwhile I had better pay my respects to the commandant.’

He turned away and went towards the Governor’s office.

‘J
ACQUES SHOULD HAVE
been back by now,’ said Jezreel. It was the following morning and the first glow of the sunrise was defining the horizon. In the dim light the former prizefighter appeared even more of a Goliath than usual as he leaned on the rail and gazed aft to where the
Revenge
was anchored a hundred yards astern of the Danish slaver. The previous evening the Frenchman had gone across to Cook’s ship. But he hadn’t returned as yet.

‘I can’t understand what’s keeping him,’ said Hector anxiously. He was on anchor watch with Jezreel and Dan aboard the
Carlsborg.
The
Revenge
had been a black, ill-defined shadow during the night. Now her outline was becoming clearer, the masts and spars taking shape against the sky. Hector usually enjoyed this early hour. It was the coolest part of the day, and there was little to do but track the passage of time as the stars disappeared one by one until only the brightest remained. He and his companions had been assigned to the foredeck where their task was to check the ship didn’t override her anchor cable. Should that happen, they were to alert the officer of the watch and, with the help of the two Danish sailors who preferred to stay on the aft deck, they were to hoist a jib or a staysail to trim the angle of the vessel to her mooring.

‘Where’s our petty officer?’ asked Jezreel.

‘He went below ten minutes ago,’ answered Dan.

‘Probably seeking his bottled comfort.’ The petty officer in charge of the watch, an elderly Dane by the name of Jens Iversen, was a notorious tippler. His clothes reeked of alcohol and tobacco.

‘Jacques will lose a day’s pay over this,’ observed Dan. Iversen was a very zealous employee of the Company. He would consider it worth reporting Jacques’ lateness to the
Carlsborg
’s captain so that even the paltry sum of a deckhand’s daily wage could be trimmed from the vessel’s operating costs.

Dan cocked his head on one side. He had heard something. ‘Sounds like the
Revenge
is lowering a boat. Maybe that’s Jacques on his way back now.’ He went to the starboard rail and leaned out so that he could see more easily down the length of the ship. The squeal of blocks came clearly over the water. A few moments later there were shouted orders, then several blasts on a whistle.

‘That’s odd,’ observed Hector. ‘It’s more like a ship getting under way. Dan, can you make out what’s happening?’

A shift of wind caught the
Carlsborg
so that the Danish vessel swung on her cable, obscuring Dan’s view. He crossed the deck and looked aft again towards the
Revenge
. Now there was enough daylight to see considerable activity on the other ship. Men were aloft on her spars, others were climbing to join them, and a larger group of seamen was clustered on her main deck. They were bent over and moving slowly in a circle.

‘They’re raising anchor,’ Dan exclaimed.

‘Then where’s Jacques?’ Hector asked, a note of alarm in his voice.

‘Maybe they’re just shifting their anchorage,’ said Jezreel. He was also at the rail, eyes fixed on the smaller vessel.

‘They are setting too much sail for that.’

As they watched, the
Revenge
’s anchor emerged dripping from the water. The men on her yards unloosed the sails, the canvas flapped and filled.

Hector was struck by how clumsily Cook and his crew handled their ship. There was a muddle on the foredeck. One corner of the lower forecourse had wrapped around itself, and the sail was being untwisted. Also the mizzen spar was canted at the wrong angle and needed to be lowered and rehoisted into position. Instead of forging ahead, the
Revenge
began to fall back, partially out of control and crabbing sideways through the water. It was all very unseamanlike and in sharp contrast to the skill shown by her launch crew when they’d come ashore through the surf the previous day.

Hector was more and more agitated by Jacques’ absence. He feared the Frenchman might be below deck on the
Revenge
sleeping off a hangover, completely unaware the ship was getting under way. Or perhaps he’d decided to join the buccaneer crew? Cook had seemed keen to recruit him. But, Hector told himself, Jacques would never accept Cook’s offer without first consulting his friends. Besides, Jacques had left his favourite cooking utensils, his batterie de cuisine, aboard the
Carlsborg
. He would not leave the ship without taking his simmering pans and skimmers, the bake kettle in which he made excellent loaves, even at sea, and the splendid collection of spices he had acquired on his travels and jealously hoarded in a locked box, its interior neatly compartmented like an apothecary’s chest.

‘What a foul-up,’ said Jezreel, watching the disarray aboard the
Revenge
. ‘Can’t imagine how they think they can sail her through Magellan’s channel.’ Earlier Hector had told him of Cook’s proposed journey.

Slowly the crew of the
Revenge
got their vessel under some degree of control. She began to move forward, and a ripple appeared under her bow. Hector watched the two masts swing into line, then open up again as her helmsman set her on course. He saw that the
Revenge
was intending to pass close to windward of the anchored Danish ship and this, he thought despairingly, might give Jacques a final chance to return to the
Carlsborg
. He might be able to jump overboard and swim.

Hector left the foredeck and hurried down to the waist of the slave ship. This was where the
Carlsborg
’s smallest tender, the little cockboat, was stowed. He was going to ask Iversen for permission to launch it. Jacques was a weak swimmer at best.

The petty officer had reappeared on deck. Now he was standing at the taffrail with the two Danish sailors and watching the
Revenge
get under way. The scornful expression on his face left little doubt what he thought of the incompetence of the
Revenge
’s crew.

Perched on the bowsprit of Cook’s ship, two deckhands were trying to throw a loop of rope around an anchor fluke so that it could be hauled up and made fast. But they were making a mess of it. Twice they cast the rope, and twice they missed. The third time the rope passed under the anchor, but the man who was meant to catch the free end mistimed his snatch. He lost his grip, swivelled around the bowsprit and hung perilously at arm’s length, feet kicking in thin air, until he heaved himself back up. The rope splashed uselessly into the sea. His clumsiness drew a mocking guffaw from the Danish spectators, their laughter loud enough to be heard by the hapless sailor.

Hector looked anxiously for Jacques. But he was nowhere to be seen. The
Revenge
was gathering pace, setting out on her voyage.

A sudden shout from the
Carlsborg
’s stern deck made Hector look in that direction. Iversen had his hands cupped around his mouth and was calling out. He waved an arm. For a moment Hector thought he was bidding a farewell. But then the Dane gesticulated again, more urgently, and it was clear he was signalling to the other ship that she was coming too close and must stand clear.

Neither the captain nor the helmsman aboard the
Revenge
appeared to have heard the warning cry, nor were they conscious of the danger. Their vessel maintained course.

The Danish petty officer shouted again, more loudly this time, roaring at the top of his lungs.

‘Maybe they’ll skim by us so close that Jacques can jump across and rejoin us,’ said Jezreel hopefully. He had appeared at Hector’s elbow.

‘I don’t think so. No one handles a ship that neatly.’

The shouts and yells had brought the
Carlsborg
’s first mate on deck. He was tousled and dishevelled and still wearing a nightshirt. The moment he saw the danger, he turned and ran back down to his cabin and reappeared with a speaking trumpet in his hand. Putting it to his lips, he bellowed another warning to the
Revenge
.

By now Cook’s ship was fifty paces astern and steadily closing the gap. It was also obvious that the wind and current would not allow her to pass the
Carlsborg
on her windward side. The
Revenge
had to change her original course and pass downwind.

The first mate shouted again, red in the face with anger. This time the captain of the
Revenge
must have heard him, for Hector saw Cook wave acknowledgement. Then he turned towards his helmsman and Hector heard him shout clearly, ‘Hard to starboard, you fool.’

Hector saw the helmsman fling his weight on the helm and put it to port, the wrong direction.

‘What a dolt,’ exclaimed Jezreel.

But Hector had spotted Jacques. The Frenchman was standing at the foot of the
Revenge
’s foremast, stock-still and staring towards the
Carlsborg
. Beside him stood a man Hector did not recognize. He was holding a pistol to Jacques’ head. The tableau was clearly visible, and was meant to be. With a sickening lurch, Hector understood exactly what was happening.