Buccaneer

'As soon as they are brought to Petit Guave, they will be sold. You say they are loyal. That should make them excellent slaves.'

He looked straight at Hector as if to challenge the young man into raising an objection. 'I believe your uncle employs more than sixty Africans on his own Jamaican plantations. I am sure he would approve.'

At a loss for words, Hector could only stare back, trying to gauge the buccaneer's temper. What he saw discouraged hope. Captain Coxon's eyes reminded him of a reptile. They protruded slightly and the expression in them was utterly pitiless. Despite the balmy sunshine, Hector felt a chill seeping deep within him. He was not to allow himself to be deceived by the pleasantness of his surroundings, with the warm tropical breeze ruffling the brilliant sea, and the soft murmuring sound as the two ships were gently moving against one another, hull to hull. He and his companions had arrived where self-interest was sustained by cruelty and violence.

_TWO

Coxon's tatterdemalion company wasted little time in securing their prize. Within half an hour L'Arc-de-Ciel had been cast off and was bound for Petit Guave. Hector was left on the deck of the buccaneers' ketch wondering if he would ever see Dan, Jacques and the others again. As he watched the little sloop grow smaller in the distance, Hector was uncomfortably aware of Coxon standing not ten feet away and observing him closely.

'Your shipmates should reach Petit Guave in less than three days from now,' the buccaneer captain observed. 'If the authorities there believe their story, they'll have nothing to worry about. If not. . .' He gave a mirthless laugh.

Hector knew that Coxon was goading him, trying to get a reaction.

'Unusual, isn't it . . .' the captain went on and there was a hint of malice in his voice, 'that Sir Thomas Lynch's nephew should associate himself with a branded convict? How does that come about?'

'We were both shipwrecked on the Barbary coast, and had to team up if we were to save ourselves and get clear,' explained Hector. He tried to make his answer sound casual and unconcerned, though he was wracking his brains to think how he could learn more about his supposed relative, Sir Thomas Lynch, without arousing Coxon's suspicion. Should the buccaneer discover he had been hoodwinked, any hope of reuniting with his friends would be lost. It was best to turn the questioning back on his captor.

'You say you are bound for Jamaica. How long before we get there?'

Coxon was not to be put off. 'You know nothing of the island? Didn't your uncle speak of it?'

'I saw little of him when I was growing up. He was away much of the time, tending to his estate' — that at least was a safe guess.

'And where did your spend you childhood?' Coxon was probing again.

Fortunately the interrogation was interrupted by a shout from one of the lookouts at the masthead. He had seen another sail on the horizon. Immediately, Coxon broke off his questioning and began bawling orders at his crew to set more sail and take up the chase.

Amid all the activity Hector sauntered over to the freshwater butt placed at the foot of the mainmast. It was only a few hours to sunset yet the day was still uncomfortably hot, and a pretence of thirst was an opportunity to move out of Coxon's earshot.

'What's Jamaica like?' he asked a sailor who was drinking from the wooden dipper.

'Not what it was,' replied the man. He was a rough-looking individual. The hand which held the pannikin lacked the top joints of three fingers, and his nose had been badly broken and set crooked. He smelled of stale sweat. 'Used to be a grog shop at every corner, and harlots on parade in every street. They'd stroll up and down in their petticoats and red caps, as bold as you like, ready for all kinds of fun. And no questions asked about where you got your silver.' The man belched, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and handed Hector the dipper. 'That changed when our Henry got his knighthood. Things went quiet, but it's all still there if you know what to look for, and hold your tongue afterwards.' He gave Hector a sly look. 'I reckon that even though he's Sir Henry now, he still looks after his own. His sort will never be satisfied, however much he's got.'

Another titled Jamaican, and a rich one, Hector thought to himself. He wondered who this Sir Henry might be, and if he had any dealings with his 'uncle'. He took a sip from the pannikin.

'Wouldn't mind getting a taste of those harlots myself,' he observed, hoping to strike a comradely note. 'We were more than six weeks at sea from Africa.'

'No whoring this cruise,' answered the sailor. 'Port Royal is where the strumpets wag their tails, and the captain stays clear of that port unless he's invited in. Nowadays he carries a Frenchy's commission.'

'From Petit Guave?'

'The deputy governor there gives them out already signed and the names left blank. You fill in what you want and then go a-hunting, just as long as you let him have a tenth of any takings. Used to be much the same in Jamaica until that bastard Lynch started interfering.'

Before Hector could ask what he meant, he heard Coxon's steps on the deck behind him, and the captain's voice snapped.

'Enough of that! You're speaking to Governor Lynch's nephew. He'll not wish to hear your opinions!'

The sailor glared at Hector. 'Nephew to Lynch, are you! If I'd known, I'd have pissed in the dipper before you drank from it,' and with that he turned and stalked away.

Hector brooded on the sailor's information throughout the two days and nights it took to reach Jamaica. The pursuit of the distant sail had been abandoned when it became clear that there was no hope of catching the prey. Each night the young man bedded down on a coil of rope near the sloop's bows, and by day he was left alone. Any buccaneer who came his way either ignored him or gave him a black look so he presumed that his alleged relationship to Lynch had become common knowledge. Coxon paid him no attention. When dawn broke on the third morning he was feeling stiff and tired and concerned for his own fate as he got to his feet and looked out over the bowsprit towards their landfall.

Straight ahead, Jamaica rose from the sea, high and rugged, the first rays of the sun striking patterns of vivid green and dark shadow across the folds and spurs of a mountain range which reared up a few miles inland. The ketch was heading into a sheltered bay where the land sloped down more gently to a beach of grey sand. There was no sign of a harbour though beyond the strand was a cluster of pale dots which Hector presumed were the roofs of huts or small houses. Otherwise the place was deserted. There was not even a fishing boat to be seen. Captain Coxon had made a discreet arrival.

Within moments of her anchor splashing into water so clear that the rippled sand of the sea floor could be seen four fathoms down, Coxon and Hector were being rowed ashore in the ship's cockboat. Til be back in less than two days,' the buccaneer captain told the boat crew as they hauled up on the beach. 'No one to stray out of sight of the ship. Stay close at hand and be ready to set sail as soon as I return.' He turned to Hector. 'You come with me. It's a four-hour walk. And you can make yourself useful.' He removed the heavy coat he was wearing, and handed it to the younger man to carry. Hector was surprised to see the curls of a wig sticking out of one of its pockets. Underneath his coat Coxon was wearing an embroidered linen shirt with a ruffled front and lace at the cuffs. His stockings and breeches were clean and brushed and of fine quality, and he had changed into a new pair of shoes with silver buckles. Hector wondered at the reason for such elegant clothes.

'Where are we going?^’ he asked.

'To Llanrumney,' was the brusque reply.

Not daring to ask an explanation, Hector followed the buccaneer captain as he set off. After so many days at sea since leaving Africa, the ground tilted and swayed beneath the young man's feet, and until he found his land legs it was difficult to keep up with Coxon's brisk pace. At the back of the beach they skirted around a small hamlet of five or six wooden huts thatched with plantain leaves and occupied by families of blacks, usually a woman with several children. There were no menfolk to be seen and no one paid them a second glance. They came upon the start of a footpath which led inland, and very soon the hollow, open sounds of the sea had been replaced by the buzzing and chirping of the insects and birds in the dense vegetation on either side of the trail. The air was hot and humid, and in less than a mile Coxon's fine shirt was sticking to his back with sweat. At first the track kept to the bank of a small river but then it branched off to the left where the river was joined by a tributary stream, and here Hector saw his first native birds, a small flock of bright green parrots with yellow beaks which flew away with quick wing beats, chattering and scolding the intruders.

Coxon stopped to take a rest. 'When was the last time you saw your uncle?' he asked.

Hector thought quickly. 'Not since I was a boy. Sir Thomas is my father's oldest brother. My father, Stephen Lynch, died when I was sixteen and afterwards my mother moved away and kept in touch only with an occasional letter.' At least part of that statement was true, he thought to himself. Hector's father, of minor Anglo-Irish gentry, had died while Hector was in his teens, and his mother, originally from Galicia in Spain, could well have returned to her own people.

He did not know what had happened to her since he had been locked away on the Barbary coast. But one thing was sure: his father had never referred to anyone called Sir Thomas Lynch, and he was certain that Sir Thomas was nothing whatever to do with his family.

'Rumour has it that Sir Thomas is seeking to be reappointed as governor. Do you know anything about that?' said Coxon. He had begun scratching again, this time at his waistband.

'I haven't heard. I've been away from home too long to keep up with family news,' Hector reminded him.

'Well, even if he was already back on the island you wouldn't find him at Llanrumney . . .' — again the strange name. 'He and Sir Henry never saw eye to eye on anything.'

Hector seized his opportunity to learn more. 'Sir Henry . . . ? Whom do you mean?'

Coxon gave him a sharp glance. There was mistrust in his look. 'You've not heard of Sir Henry Morgan?'

Hector did not answer.

'I was with him when he captured Panama in seventy-one. We needed nearly two hundred mules to carry away what we took,' Coxon said. He sounded boastful. 'Panama silver bought him Llanrumney, though he fell out with your uncle who accused him of false accounting of the spoils. Had him sent as a prisoner for trial in England, but the old fox had powerful friends in London, and he's back here now as lieutenant governor.'

The buccaneer captain stooped down and removed a shoe. There was a patch of blood on the heel of his stocking. A blister must have burst.

'So it will be in your best interests to be discreet until we know his mood and what is our own situation,' he added darkly.

It was another several hours of hot and weary walking before Coxon announced that they were almost at their destination. By then the captain was limping badly, and they were making frequent stops so that he could attend to his oozing blisters. A journey he had predicted would last four hours had taken nearly six, and it was almost nightfall before they finally emerged from a patch of woodland and into an area of cultivation. The native vegetation had been cleared back here and, in its place, field after field had been laid out and thickly sewn with tall green plants like giant stalks of grass. It was Hector's first sight of a sugar plantation.

'There's Llanrumney,' said Coxon, nodding towards a substantial one-storey building situated on the far slope so that it looked out over the cane fields. Off to one side were various large sheds and outbuildings which Hector took to be workshops for the estate. 'Named it after his home place in Wales.'

They found their way along a cart track cut through the cane fields, seeing no one until they were close to the house. Coxon seemed cautious, almost furtive, as though he wished to conceal his arrival. Eventually a white man, apparently a servant for he was dressed in a simple livery of a red jacket and white pantaloons, stopped them. He looked at them doubtfully, the buccaneer captain in his sweat-stained garments, Hector barefoot and wearing the same loose cotton shirt and trousers he had worn aboard ship. 'Do you have invitations?' he asked.

'Tell your master that Captain John Coxon wishes to speak with him privately,' the buccaneer told him curtly.

'Privately will not be possible,' answered the servant, hesitantly. 'Today's his day for Christmas entertainment.'

'I have come a long way to see your master,' snapped Coxon. 'I'm an acquaintance of long standing. I need no invitation.'

The servant quailed before the testy edge to his visitor's voice. 'Sir Henry's guests have already arrived and they are in the main reception room. If you would wish to refresh yourself before meeting them, please follow me.'

Hector had been standing with the captain's coat over his arm. It was evident that he was thought to be some sort of attendant and was not included in the invitation into the house. 'I'll be introducing my companion to Sir Henry,' Coxon announced firmly.

The servant's glance took in Hector's workaday costume. 'Then if you'll allow, I'll have him given something more suitable to wear. Sir Henry's gathering includes many of the most important men on the island, and their ladies.'

They followed the man to a side entrance of the main building. Tethered in front of its long sheltered porch were a dozen or more horses, and off to one side stood a couple of light, two-wheeled open carriages.

The servant showed Coxon into a side room, telling him that water and towels would be brought. Then he led Hector to the rear of the building and into the servants' quarters.

'I took you for an indentured man like myself,' he apologised.

'What's that?'

The servant, evidently an under-steward, had opened a cupboard and was sorting through some clothing. He found a pair of breeches and turned to face Hector.

'Indentured?' he said, sounding surprised. 'It means pledged to serve your master in return for the cost of your passage out from England and your upkeep while you're here.'

'For how long?'

'I signed for ten years, and still have seven years left. Here, try these breeches on. They are about the right size.'

As Hector pulled on the garment, the under-steward managed to find a short waistcoat and a clean lawn shirt with a frilled neck and wristbands. 'Here, put these on too,' he said, 'and this broad leather belt. It'll hide any gaps. And here's a pair of shoes that should fit, and stockings too.' He stood back and looked Hector over. 'Not bad,' he commented.

'Whom do these clothes belong to?' Hector asked.

'A young fellow came out here from England a couple of years back. Was intending to become an overseer, but he caught a flux and died.' The servant gathered up Hector's old clothes and tossed them into a corner. 'Forgot to ask your name,' he said.

'Lynch, Hector Lynch.'

'No relation to Sir Thomas are you?'

Hector decided it was wiser to be vague. 'Not as far as I am aware.'

'Just as well. Sir Henry can't abide Sir Thomas ... or his family for that matter.'

Hector saw his chance to learn more. 'Does Sir Thomas have a large family?'

'Big enough. Most of them live down near Port Royal. That's where they have their other properties.' He paused, and his next words came as a shock. 'But this being so near Christmas, Sir Henry has invited a few of them this evening. They came by carriage, a full day's journey. And one of them is quite a beauty.'

Hector could think of no escape as he was led back to where Coxon was waiting. The buccaneer captain had cleaned himself up and put on his wig. He looked more of a gentleman and less of a brigand. Taking Hector by the elbow, he led him aside and whispered harshly. 'Once we step into that room, you are to hold your tongue until I've found out Sir Henry's temper.'

The under-steward brought them before a pair of tall double doors. A buzz of conversation could be heard coming from the other side, and the strains of music, a couple of violins and a virginal by the sounds. As the servant was about to pull open both doors, Coxon stopped him. 'I can manage that myself,' he said. The buccaneer captain eased open one door and quietly stepped inside, pulling Hector behind him.

The room was thronged with guests. They were mostly men, but there was also a scattering of women, many using fans to lessen the stifling atmosphere. Scores of candles were adding to the lingering heat of the day, and although the windows stood open, the room was uncomfortably warm. Hector, who had seen the lavishly decorated salons of wealthy Barbary merchants, was surprised by how plainly this reception room was furnished. Although it was some thirty paces long, its plaster walls were bare except for one or two indifferent paintings, and there were no carpets to cover the hardwood floor. The room had a raw, unfinished look as though the owner, having constructed it, had no further interest in making it comfortable or attractive. Then he saw the sideboard. It must have been forty feet in length. It was covered from end to end with refreshments for the guests. There were heaps of oranges, pomegranates, limes, grapes and several varieties of luscious-looking fruit unknown to Hector, as well as massed arrangements of coloured jellies and sugar cakes, rank upon rank of wine bottles, and several large basins of some sort of punch. But it was not the array of exotic food which caught his eye. Every one of the platters, salvers and bowls holding the food and drink, as well as the ladles, tongs and serving implements beside them, appeared to be of solid silver, and if they were not of silver, they were made of gold. It was a breathtakingly vulgar display of bullion.

No one in the gossiping throng had noticed their entrance. Hector felt Coxon's hand on his elbow. 'Stay here until I come to fetch you, and remember what I said . . . not a word to anyone until I have spoken with Sir Henry.' Hector watched the captain make his way discreetly through the assembly of guests. He was heading towards a group of men in the centre of the gathering. They were standing talking to one another, and it was evident from the space that had been left clear around them, the richness of their dress and their self-confident manner that they were the host and his chief guests. Among them was a tall, thin man with a sallow, almost sickly complexion, dressed in a plum-coloured velvet gown with gold trimming and a full-bottomed wig. He was talking to a fat, red-faced colleague in vaguely military attire who had several decorations pinned to his chest and wore a broad sash of blue silk. All the men in the group were holding glasses, and from their manner Hector guessed they had been drinking heavily. As he watched, Coxon reached the little group and, sidling round until he was next to the taller man, whispered something in his ear. His listener turned and, on seeing Coxon, an expression of irritation crossed his face. He was either annoyed at being interrupted or angered by the sight of Coxon. But the buccaneer stood his ground, and was explaining something, speaking rapidly, making some sort of point. When he stopped, the tall man nodded, turned and looked in Hector's direction. It was clear that whatever Coxon had been saying, it concerned Hector.

Coxon pushed his way back to where Hector waited. The buccaneer was flushed and excited, perspiring heavily under his wig, the sore patches on his neck prominent against the paler skin. 'Sir Henry will see you,' he said. 'Look smart now and follow me.' He turned and began to lead Hector into the centre of the room.

By now the little exchange had attracted the attention of several guests. Curious glances followed the newcomers' progress, and a path opened up for them as they walked forward. Hector felt himself light-headed as well as awkward in his borrowed clothes. With chilling certainty he knew that his deception was about to be exposed.

By the time the two men had reached the centre of the room, the babble of conversation was lessening. A hush had spread among the nearest spectators. The late arrival of two unfamiliar faces must have been some sort of diversion, for people were craning their necks to see what was happening. Coxon came to a halt before the taller man, bowed, and announced with a flourish:

'Sir Henry, allow me to introduce to you a young man that I took from a merchant ship recently. The vessel was stolen from its rightful owners and was in the hands of the thieves.

This is the young man's first visit to our island, but he comes with excellent connections. May I introduce Hector Lynch, nephew to our esteemed former governor Sir Thomas Lynch who, no doubt, will be in your debt for the rescue.'

The tall man in the plum-coloured coat turned to face Hector, who found himself looking into the pale eyes of Sir Henry Morgan, lieutenant governor of Jamaica.

'Lynch, did you say?' Sir Henry's voice was surprisingly thin and high pitched. He spoke with a slight slur, and Hector realised that the lieutenant governor was tipsy. He also looked very unhealthy. The whites of his eyes had a yellowish tinge, and though he must have been in his late forties, he did not carry his years well. Everything about him was gaunt — his face, shoulders and legs, yet his belly was bloated and jutted out unnaturally, straining the lower buttons of his coat. Hector wondered if Morgan was suffering from some sort of dropsy, or perhaps the effects of regular heavy drinking. But the eyes that looked him over were bright with intelligence, and speculative.

'Byndloss, did you hear that?' Morgan was speaking to his military-looking colleague, evidently a drinking companion to judge by the familiar tone. 'This young fellow is Sir Thomas's nephew. We must make him welcome to Llanrumney.'

'Didn't know Sir Thomas had any more nephews,' grunted Byndloss rudely. He too was drunk. His complexion was on its way to matching his red uniform jacket. Hector sensed a stir of unease from Coxon beside him.

'A junior branch of the family,' the buccaneer captain explained swiftly. His tone was obsequious. 'His father, Stephen, is the youngest of Sir Thomas's brothers.'

'Then how come he's not been out to visit us before? Some Lynches must think themselves too grand for us?' observed Byndloss petulantly. He took another drink from his glass, spilling a few drops down his chin.

'Don't be so prickly,' Sir Henry Morgan chided his friend.

'This is the Christmas season, a time to put aside our differences, and of course for families to get together.' Turning to Hector, who had still not said a word, he added in that high voice, 'Your family will be delighted by your arrival. I am pleased that it should have taken place under my roof.' From his greater height he looked out over his guests, and called out, 'Robert Lynch, where are you? Come and meet your cousin Hector!'

Hector could only stand helplessly, paralysed by the certain knowledge that his deception was about to be exposed in public.

There was a stir at the back of the gathering and a young man shouldered his way forward through the crowd of onlookers. Hector saw that Robert Lynch was about his own age, a round-headed, pleasant-looking fellow dressed fashionably in a brocade vest tied with a buckled girdle. His freckles and round grey-blue eyes gave him a remarkably boyish look.

'My cousin Hector, did you say?' Robert Lynch sounded eager, yet puzzled.

He stepped into the circle surrounding his host, and looked closely at Hector. He seemed baffled.

'Yes, yes. Your uncle Stephen's son ... he landed unexpectedly just this morning, with Captain Coxon.' Morgan answered, and turning to Hector asked, 'Where did you say you are from?'

For the first time at that gathering, Hector spoke. His false identity was about to be exposed, and he knew he couid no longer maintain the deception. 'There's a misunderstanding . . .' he croaked. His throat was dry from nerves.

Morgan checked, his eyes narrowed and he was about to speak, when Robert Lynch announced in astonishment, 'But I don't have an uncle. Two aunts, yes, but no Uncle Stephen. No one ever said anything about a cousin Hector.'

For a long, unpleasant moment, Sir Henry Morgan said nothing. He stared at Hector, then switched his gaze to Coxon, who was rooted to the spot. Hector and all those in earshot tensed, awaiting an outburst of rage. Instead Morgan let loose a sudden, ringing neigh of laughter. 'Captain Coxon, you've been taken in! You've swallowed the gudgeon, every last morsel. Sir Thomas's nephew indeed!' Beside him, Byndloss let out a guffaw and, waving his glass, added, 'Are you sure that he's not Sir Thomas's son and heir?'

A wave of sycophantic laughter washed around them as the crowd of onlookers joined in the mirth.

Coxon flushed crimson with embarrassment. He clenched his hands by his side and swung to glare straight at Hector. For an instant the young man thought that the buccaneer, his face working with anger, was about to strike him, but Coxon only snarled, 'You will regret this, you little swine!' and turned on his heel. Then he stalked out of the room, followed by the hoots of laughter, and someone calling out over the heads of the crowd, 'He's Sir Hector, you know.'

Like a good host, Morgan turned back to his friends who were still smirking at Coxon's humiliation, and they took up their former conversation. Pointedly, Hector was ignored. Awkwardly he stood there in his borrowed clothes, uncertain what he should do next. He feared to follow Coxon in case the buccaneer captain might be waiting for him outside the door.

While he stood there hesitating, a sharp rap on his elbow made him jump, and a female voice said playfully, 'I would very much like to meet my new cousin.' He turned to find himself looking into the mischievous smile of a young woman in a light evening cloak of turquoise satin. She was a couple of inches shorter than himself, and no more than seventeen years old. Yet the shape of her body was accentuated by a tight bodice whose low neckline was only partially covered by a lace-trimmed gorget to reveal the curves of full womanhood. Involuntarily Hector found himself reflecting that women ripened in the Jamaican climate as early and seductively as the island's exotic fruit. Her dark brown hair was arranged so that it tumbled down to her shoulders, but she had left a fringe of curls to frame the wide-set blue eyes which now regarded him with such amusement. In her hand was the fan which she had used to attract his attention. 'I am Susanna Lynch, Robert's sister,' she told him in a light, attractive voice. 'It's not often that a relation appears from nowhere.'

Hector found himself blushing. 'I'm sorry,' he began, 'I meant no disrespect. Lynch truly is my family name. The deception was forced upon me to protect myself and my friends . . .'

She interrupted him with a quick grimace. 'I don't doubt it. Captain Coxon has a reputation as a ruthless man, always eager to advance himself. In him you have made a dangerous enemy. Someone you had best avoid in future.'

'I know almost nothing about him,' Hector confessed.

'He's a ruffian. He used to consort with Henry Morgan in the days when harrying the Spanish was permitted. But that's against government policy now, largely thanks to the efforts of our "uncle".' Here she smiled teasingly. 'Men like Coxon still hang around on the fringes, waiting to snap up anything that has been overlooked. There are plenty who would help him.'

'I gather that sometimes includes Sir Henry.'

She gave him a sharp glance. 'You are quick on the uptake. I heard Morgan say that you only landed this morning in Jamaica, yet you've already sniffed out a few truths.'

'Someone told me that Sir Henry Morgan's preferences still incline towards his former buccaneering friends.'

'Indeed they do,' Susanna said casually. Hector had to admire the young woman's self-confidence, for she did not bother to drop her voice. 'Henry Morgan is still as gold-hungry as ever. But he is now on the governing council and a very powerful man. He's someone else you should be wary of.'

With every moment Hector found himself appreciating much more than Susanna Lynch's self-confidence. The way she stood before him, with her eyes boldly seeking his, left no doubt that she was deliberately calling for his attention. She was a very alluring young lady, and knew it. With a pang, Hector realised that he had never before had an opportunity to engage closely with a young woman so obviously on display. He realised that he was succumbing to her good looks and, without wishing to, falling under the spell of her provocation.

'Then I'm at a loss as to what I should do next,' he admitted. 'I feel stranded. I don't know anyone in Jamaica.'

She gave him a calculating look, though there was softness in it. 'No one at all?'

'My friends were despatched to the French colony at Petit Guave, and I need to try to join them.'

'One thing is for certain. You should get away from Llanrumney as soon as possible. You'll get no sympathy in this place.' She thought for a moment, then treated him to a quick smile which made his heart race. 'Tomorrow Robert and I return home — we live on the opposite side of the island, near Spanish Town, not far from Port Royal. You can travel with us, and from there continue to Port Royal itself. That's the best place to find news of your friends, or even a ship that will take you to rejoin them.'

_THREE

That night Hector found it almost impossible to get to sleep. The friendly under-steward arranged a cot for him in the servants' quarters, but keen yearnings for Susanna Lynch kept the young man awake for several hours, and when he opened his eyes soon after dawn, her image was the first thing in his mind. Dressing hurriedly, he went to find someone who might be able to tell him where she could be found. To his delight the under-steward told him that the carriage belonging to Susanna Lynch was already prepared. She and her brother Robert were to set out for home shortly, and word had been sent that Hector was to travel with them.

'Will they breakfast with Sir Henry first?' he asked, impatient for his first sight of Susanna that day. The indentured man gave a world-weary laugh.

'Sir Henry and his cronies were up drinking until well past midnight. My master will not be out of his bed much before noon.'

'What about Captain Coxon? Where's he?' Hector asked. He had a sudden, vivid recollection of the furious expression on the buccaneer's face as he had left the party.

'Disappeared last night, after you made such a fool of him. I suppose he went back to his ship with his tail between his legs.' The servant grinned. 'He's an arrogant blackguard. Likes to let everyone know what a hard man he is. Can't say I would want to be in your shoes if he ever gets his hands on you.'

'Someone else said much the same to me last night,' admitted Hector, 'and talking about shoes, shouldn't I be returning these borrowed clothes to you?'

'You can keep them.'

'Won't your master find out?'

'I doubt it. The rum has been rotting his brain for a long time now. When he was campaigning against the Spaniards some years back, he and his friends blew themselves up. They were sitting carousing in the wardroom of a King's ship, and some drunken fool dropped his lighted pipe into a scatter of loose gunpowder on the floor. The explosion split the vessel into matchwood. Sir Henry was only saved because he was sitting at the far side of the table.'

Thanking the man for his kindness, Hector made his way outside to find that one of the carriages he had seen the previous evening was already standing before the front door of the main house. 'Is this the Lynches' carriage?' he asked the driver who, by the look of him, was another indentured servant. But before the man could answer, Susanna and her brother stepped out on the porch. Suddenly Hector felt his stomach go hollow. Susanna had chosen to wear a loose gown of fine cotton, dark pink, with short sleeves. It was open at the front to reveal a bodice laced with ribbon, and her grey skirt was looped up at one side to show a matching satin petticoat. Her hair was held back by a ribbon embroidered with roses. She looked ravishing.

Her brother greeted Hector cheerfully. 'You caused quite a stir yesterday evening! I'm told that the fellow you discomforted is an utter scoundrel, and well deserved to be put in his place. Always creeping about and trying to ingratiate himself. My sister tells me that your family name really is Lynch.'

'It's a happy coincidence which I was obliged to turn in my favour.'

'Well, no harm done. Susanna tells me that you will travel with us, so I've arranged an extra horse for you.'

To his chagrin Hector saw that a groom had appeared from behind the house, leading two saddle horses. But Susanna came to his rescue. 'Robert, you are not to deprive me of Mr Lynch's company. It will make the journey pass more agreeably if he joins me in the carriage, at least for the first few hours.'

'As you please, Susanna. His horse can be attached to the carriage until needed,' answered her brother meekly, and Hector could see that Robert usually gave way to his sister. Susanna Lynch climbed into the carriage and took her seat. 'Come, sit beside me, Hector. After all, we are cousins,' she said invitingly, and gave a throaty chuckle which sent Hector's mind reeling.

The road was very bad, little more than a dirt track which, after passing a neighbouring plantation, climbed inland by a series of tight curves on to a spur ridge covered with dense forest. On either side grew immense trees, mostly mahogany and cedar, smothered with rope-like lianas and other climbing plants. Some showed the pale flowers of convolvuli, others hung from the branches in shaggy grey beards. Here and there was the bright crimson or yellow blossom of an orchid. A profusion of ferns and canes sprouted between the massive tree trunks, forming impenetrable thickets of greenery above which hovered butterflies of extraordinary shapes and colours, dark blue, lemon yellow and black. In the background was the constant chatter and calls of unseen birds, ranging from a flutelike whistle to the harsh cawing of crows. All this Hector barely noticed. For him the first few hours of the journey passed in a daze. He was acutely aware of the nearness of Susanna, her warmth and softness, and the jolting of the carriage which occasionally brought her knee in contact with his, a contact which, if he was not mistaken, she occasionally allowed to linger. Her brother rode on ahead so they were left alone to their conversation, ignored by the driver seated on the box in front of them.

In this heady atmosphere Hector found himself pouring out his life story, telling his companion about his days in Barbary, the time he had spent as a prisoner of the Turks, his escape, and how he came to be aboard L'Arc-de-Ciel.

It was as they crossed the watershed and began to descend the farther slope and the forest began to thin out in more open woodland that he finally thought to ask her, 'Why did Captain Coxon bring me to Llanrumney?'

Susanna replied without hesitation. 'Knowing Coxon's reputation, I would say that he was trying to curry favour with Henry Morgan. As you already know, Sir Henry is at odds with my uncle who is expected to return here for a second term as governor. Morgan is always looking for ways to gain advantage over Sir Thomas, whom he sees as his rival. The fact that a nephew of Sir Thomas was found aboard a stolen ship could have been useful in his power struggle. Coxon would have been keen to deliver you into Henry Morgan's hands so that it could be shown that the Lynch family stooped to robbery on the high seas.'

'But Coxon had no proof of that,' Hector objected.

'If the French at Petit Guave decide that your friends stole l’Arc-de-Ciel, then you too would be guilty of piracy, and Morgan could have you hanged. That would be a neat twist and give Morgan a great deal of satisfaction because it was Sir Thomas who brought in the death penalty for buccaneering. He said it was little better than piracy. Then again, perhaps Morgan would have you thrown in prison and held, to be used as a pawn when Sir Thomas returns.'

Hector shook his head in bewilderment. 'But it is Coxon who acts the pirate, not me.'

Susanna gave a snort of derision. 'The truth is of no consequence. What matters is the way the wind is blowing, who has the most power on this island, the most influence back in London, or the most money to lay out in bribes.'

She broke off her explanation as her brother Robert appeared alongside the carriage and reined in his horse. He was looking worried. 'Listen!' he said, ⁽I think I hear noises in the woods, somewhere over to the left.'

Moments later came the sound of a gunshot, followed by whoops and shouts, and then the baying of dogs. The carriage driver hastily reached under his seat and produced a blunderbuss even as Robert pulled a pistol out of his saddlebag and began to load it. 'Hector,' he said urgently, 'I think you had better get up on your horse in case we have to defend ourselves. There's a sword in my luggage. I trust you know how to use it.'

'What's the trouble?' Hector asked as he began to search for the weapon.

'No one lives in these woods,' came the reply. 'I fear we might have run into a roving gang of maroons.'

'Who are they?'

'Runaway slaves.'

Hector paused as the shouts came again, very much louder and closer. Now there was also the noise of bodies crashing through the undergrowth. Unsheathing the sword that he found, Hector unfastened his horse from the carriage and swung up into the saddle. The disturbance seemed to be coming from behind the carriage, and he turned his horse to face back down the track. A minute later several black shapes burst out of the undergrowth and raced across the path before vanishing into the thickets on the opposite side. They were pigs, wild ones, led by a massive boar, its jaws flecked with foam. The boar smashed a gap through the undergrowth, and behind him scampered at least a dozen piglets, small dark hairy creatures, which disappeared equally suddenly from view. Then came an interval when the track was empty until, equally abruptly, a human figure sprang out onto the path. He was a tall, black man with long matted hair down to his shoulders. Barefoot and naked to the waist, his only garment was a pair of tattered loose pantaloons. In one hand he held a hunting spear, and there was a heavy cutlass hanging from a strap over his shoulder.

He was some thirty yards away. He checked his stride and turned to face Hector. For a moment he paused, seeing the young man, sword in hand, the carriage behind him with its driver and the seated woman, a second rider armed with a pistol. There was no fear, only calculation in the black man's expression. Behind him half a dozen hunting dogs appeared on the track, running nose down and following the scent of the wild pigs. They also crossed the path and disappeared on the far side. But the black man stayed where he was, eyeing the travellers. Hector felt a cold spike of fear as a second, then a third black man appeared from the bushes. They too were armed. One of them held a musket. All three stood still, sizing up the travellers. Hector tightened his grip on the sword, the hilt now slippery with his sweat. Beneath him the horse, alarmed by the dogs and the wild-looking strangers, began to fidget nervously. Hector feared that the animal might rear up. If he was thrown to the ground, the hunters might take their chance to attack. He was also very conscious of Susanna in the carriage just behind him. She must be looking back, seeing the danger and aware that only he stood between her and the runaway slaves. For what seemed like an age, both sides regarded one another in total silence. Then a sudden burst of barking deep within the undergrowth broke the tension. The hunting dogs must have cornered their prey because the sound rose to an excited crescendo. The nearest black man turned and, raising his spear, waved his comrades onward towards the sound of the hunting pack. As suddenly as they had arrived, all three hunters vanished into the undergrowth.

Hector found himself in a cold sweat of relief as he looked back at Susanna. She was slightly pale but otherwise remarkably calm. Her brother seemed to be the more shocked. 'I never thought there were maroons in this area,' he said, and he sounded contrite. 'If I had known, I would have arranged an escort, or made sure we had travelled in greater company for safety. They were hunting well outside their usual territory.'

'Those men looked savage,' Hector commented.

'That's how they got their name,' Robert explained. 'The Spaniards called them cimarron, meaning wild or untamed. The first maroons were slaves whom the Spanish left behind on the island when the English took Jamaica from Spain. Now the maroons have gone native. They've established themselves in the roughest parts of the country, in areas too difficult for them to be rooted out.'

'Mr Lynch was telling me that his best friend is also a native, a Miskito,' Susanna intervened.

'Oh, the Miskito are very different,' her brother replied. 'They are good allies to the English and the French, or so I'm told. Besides, they are not found in Jamaica. They live on the mainland, and they hate the Spanish.'

'Mr Lynch's mother is Spanish,' warned Susanna.

'I'm sorry,' Robert replied, blushing. 'Nothing I say seems to strike the right note.'

'I've never heard of the maroons before,' Hector hastened to assure him. 'They seem to live in much the same way as the first buccaneers ... by hunting wild animals.'

'That's true,' said Robert. 'Indeed my uncle told me that the buccaneers are named after the boucans, the racks on which they grill the flesh of the beasts they kill. It's a French word, the same which the Spanish call a barbacoa or barbecue.'

'I'm sure Mr Lynch finds all this fascinating,' said his sister. 'But don't you think we should be getting on our way. If we stand here talking long enough, the maroons may return and find us here.'

'Yes, yes. Of course,' her brother replied. And then to Hector's chagrin he added, 'Just in case we do encounter any further trouble, perhaps it would be best if he kept my sword for the moment and stayed on horseback.'

The little group travelled on and as if to make up for his lapse of judgement, Robert made a point of riding beside Hector. He chatted with the young Irishman in his friendly manner, explaining to him the more interesting features of the countryside as gradually the land began to slope downward and became more open until eventually they were riding through open savannah. He pointed out wild cattle grazing among the low bushes, and spoke enthusiastically about the fertility ot the soil. 'What you do is purchase one hundred acres of prime Jamaican land and invest just four hundred pounds in half a dozen slaves and spades and tools. You have your slaves clear the ground, then plant and cultivate cocoa, and in the fourth year the crop will give you back your original investment. After that, if you are shrewd and your slaves have also set cassava and maize and built their own huts, you have no further expenses. Year after year your cocoa will bring in four hundred pounds back and maybe more. Everything is pure profit.'

But Hector could think only about Susanna riding in the carriage so close to him, and he found it difficult to pay attention to her brother and his business talk. He forced himself not to glance around to look at her, for fear of seeming foolishly besotted. Luckily Robert did not seem to notice his listener's preoccupation and prattled on until, from behind, Susanna called out.

'Robert, do stop talking about money and point out that bird to Mr Lynch. There, over to your left beside the bush with orange flowers. He will not have seen anything like it before.'

Indeed, at first sight, Hector thought that Susanna was mistaken. A large brown and grey butterfly was feeding on the blossoms, moving from one flower to the next. Then Hector saw that it was not a butterfly but a tiny bird, just over an inch long, which was hovering in position, its wings a blur. Turning aside he rode closer, and the bird suddenly rose from the bush and came towards him. For several seconds the tiny creature hovered close beside his head, and he distinctly heard the sound of its wings, a delicate hur! hur! hur!

'Your first hummingbird, Mr Lynch!' called out Susanna.

'It is indeed a remarkable creature. It makes a sound like a miniature spinning wheel,' Hector agreed, able at last to turn and look directly at her.

'You have the soul of an artist, Mr Lynch,' she said, with a smile of delight which made him dizzy. 'Wait until you've seen its cousin. The one they call a streamer. It flies in the same way and has two long velvet black tail feathers which dangle in the air, and you can hear them fluttering. When the sunlight strikes its breast, the feathers flash emerald, then olive or deepest black as the creature turns.'

Hector was tongue-tied. He wanted desperately to say something gallant to this divine creature, to continue the conversation, but he could find no words. The way he looked at her, though, could have left no doubt about the way he felt.

It was some hours later, as the sun was nearing the horizon, that he heard a sound he recognised. It was a long-drawn-out call like a distant trumpet and he had heard it before, on the coast of Africa, and knew it to be someone blowing a call on a conch shell. 'Are we so close to the sea?' he asked Robert.

'No,' the young man replied. 'It's one of our farm workers calling in the hogs. They feed by day in the savannah, but come back to the sty at night when they hear that call. They are unexpectedly intelligent animals. That sound also means that this is where we turn off for Spanish Town.'

He reached out to offer Hector a handshake of farewell.

'The road to Port Royal is straight ahead. It's no more than a couple of hours' walk to the ferry. If you hurry, you should be able to get there while it is still daylight. I wish you well.'

With sudden dismay, Hector realised that his journey beside Susanna was at an end. Crestfallen, he swung himself out of the saddle of his borrowed horse, and handed the reins to Robert.

'Thank you for allowing me to accompany you this far,' he said.

'No, it is 1 who have to thank you,' Robert replied. 'Your presence helped deter the maroons from attacking us. If we had been fewer, we might have become their prey.'

Walking stiffly across to the carriage, Hector stood beside its door and looked up into Susanna's blue eyes. Once again, he did not know what to say. He did not dare to take her hand, and she did not offer it. Instead she gave him a demure smile, less coquettish now, more serious. 'Goodbye, Hector,' she said. 'I hope you find your friends and, after that, perhaps your path will lead you back to Jamaica so we will meet again. I feel there is more that we have in common than just our names.' With that the carriage moved away, leaving Hector standing in the red dirt road, and hoping fervently he had been more than a day's amusement for the first girl he had ever fallen in love with.

_FOUR

Port Royal had more taverns than Hector imagined possible in such a small area. He counted eighteen of them in the ten minutes it took him to walk from one end of the town to the other. They ranged from The Feathers, a grimy-looking alehouse close by the fish market, to the new-built Three Mariners where he turned back, realising that he had reached the town limits. Retracing his steps along the main waterfront, Thames Street, he found himself skirting around stove-in barrels, broken handcarts, discarded sacking, and several drunks lying snoring in the rubbish or slumped against the doors of the warehouses which lined one side of the street. The wharves across the road were built on pilings because Port Royal perched on the tip of a sand spit and land was very scarce. Every berth was occupied. Vessels were loading cargoes of tobacco, hides and skins, indigo and ebony, and above all sugar whose earthy, sickly sweet smell Hector was beginning to recognise. Whenever he met a longshoreman or a half-sober sailor he asked if any of the vessels might be bound for Petit Guave, but he was always disappointed. Often his request was ignored, or the hurried reply was accompanied by an oath. It seemed that Port Royal was a place where most inhabitants were too busy making money or spending it in debauchery for them to give a civil response.

The town was also astonishingly expensive. He had arrived there at dawn on the morning after saying goodbye to Susanna and her brother, and the ferryman had demanded six pence to bring him from the mainland. It was no more than a two-mile trip across the anchorage, and Hector had been obliged to spend half the night on the beach until the night breeze was favourable. He had no money for the fare so he had sold his coat to the ferryman for a few coins. Now, looking for something to eat for his breakfast, Hector turned into one of the taverns - it was the Cat and Fiddle — and was taken aback by the price of a meal. 'Just a drink of water will suffice,' he said.

'You can have beer, Madeira wine, punch, brandy, or rap,' the man replied.

'What's rap?'

'Good strong drink made from molasses,' came the reply, and when he insisted that water was enough, he was advised to stick with beer. 'Nobody drinks water here,' observed the potman. 'The local water gives you the gripes. The only drinkable stuff has to be brought in barrels from the mainland so you'll still have to pay: a penny a jug.'

Hungry and thirsty, Hector abandoned the tavern and went back out into the street where a frowzy strumpet flaunted herself from an upper window and beckoned to him. When he shook his head, she spat over the balcony. It was not ten in the morning yet, but the day was already hot and sticky, and he had not the least idea what he should do, or where he should stay. He had resolved to remain in Port Royal until he could find passage to catch up with Dan and Jacques, but first he had to find some sort of employment and a roof above his head.

He cut through a narrow laneway and emerged on the high street. The close-packed houses were substantial, brick built and two or three stories high. Most had shops or offices on the ground floor, and living accommodation above them. Shoulder to shoulder with alehouses and brothels were the premises of tradesmen — cordwainers with their shop windows full of shoes, tailors displaying rolls of cloth, two or three furniture makers, a hatter and a pipemaker as well as three gunsmiths. Their businesses seemed to be flourishing. He passed a vegetable market at the central crossroads and reached the end of the street. Here the early-morning meat market was already closing down because the slabs of hog flesh and beef on display would soon begin to stink. Large, black flies were settling on the blood-encrusted tables, and he was puzzled to see two men lugging between them what looked like a heavy shallow cauldron. On closer inspection it turned out to be an unsold turtle, upside down and still alive. Curious to see what they would do with it, he watched them carry the animal to a short ramp leading down to the water's edge. There they placed it in a fenced holding pen half in and half out of the water, a turtle crawl where the creature could drag itself into the shallows, to await the next day's sales.

At the end of the high street, he was close back where he had started, for he recognised the bulk of the fort which guarded the anchorage. Turning left, he entered a thoroughfare that looked more respectable, though the roadway was still nothing more than an expanse of hard packed sand. He noted the door plaques of several doctors, then a goldsmith's shop, securely shuttered. Next to an apothecary's hung a trade sign which raised his hope: it depicted a pair of mapmaker's compasses and a pencil stub. The proprietor's name was written underneath in black letters on a scroll: Robert Snead.

Hector pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He found himself in a low-ceilinged room, furnished sparsely with a large table, half a dozen plain wooden chairs and a desk. In the light of an open window an older man was seated at the desk. He was wearing a shabby wig and a rumpled gown of brown linen. His head was bent over his work as he scratched away with a quill pen. On hearing his visitor enter, he looked up and Hector saw that the man had thick spectacles balanced on a nose that showed a drunkard's broken veins.

'Can I help you?' the man asked. He removed the spectacles and rubbed a hand across his eyes. They were bloodshot.

'I would like to speak with Mr Snead,' Hector said.

'I am Robert Snead. Are you looking for a design or practical advice?' The man's near-sighted gaze took in Hector's clothing which, now that he had sold his jacket, was not as respectable as it had seemed earlier.

'I hope to find employment, sir,' Hector answered. 'My name is Hector Lynch. I have worked with maps and charts, and have a fair hand.'

Robert Snead looked uneasy. 'I am an architect and surveyor, not a mapmaker.' He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 'Anyone who makes maps and charts, or sells them, needs to have a licence.'

'I did not know,' Hector apologised. 'I saw the sign outside and thought it was for a mapmaker.'

'We use many of the same tools of trade,' Snead admitted. He gave Hector a shrewd glance. 'Is it true that you can work with charts?'

'Yes, sir. I have worked with coastal maps, harbour plans, and the like.' Hector thought it politic not to mention that his work had been for a Turkish admiral in Barbary.

Snead thought for a moment. Then, sliding a sheet of paper and a pen across the desk towards him, he said, 'Show me what you can do. Draw me an anchorage protected by a reef, showing the depths and marking the best place where a vessel might lie.'

Hector did as he was asked, and after Snead had inspected the little drawing, he rose from his chair and said cautiously, 'Well . . . there may be something for you to do after all, for a few days at least. If you will follow me.' He led Hector up a flight of stairs at the back of his shop and brought him into the room directly above. Its balcony looked out over the street. Here too was a broad table, apparently used for entertaining as it was set with pewter plates and mugs and there were several chairs and a bench beside it. Snead pushed aside the tableware to leave a clear space, and crossing to a chest standing in one corner lifted the lid and took out several sheets of parchment. He laid them on the table and began to leaf through them. 'These are for the conveyancing lawyers and landowners,' the architect explained. The top sheets were surveyor's plans of what seemed to be plantations, and it was evident that an important part of the architect's job was to make drawings that established the boundaries of newly cleared estates. These sheets Snead laid aside until he came to what was obviously a sea chart concealed among the other papers. The chart was in some detail for it extended across two sheets of parchment. Snead took just one of the pages and spread it out on the table. 'Can you make a fair copy of that?' he asked, peering over his spectacles, and carefully turning the second sheet face down.

Hector glanced down at the map. It was a navigation chart. It showed a length of coastline, various off-shore islands and a number of landmarks which would be useful to anyone navigating along the coast. He had no idea what coast it displayed.

'Yes,' he replied. 'That should not be difficult.'

'How long would it take you?'

'Two days, perhaps less.'

'Then you've got yourself ten days' work if the first copy is to my satisfaction. I'll want five copies made and I'll pay two pounds for each, plus a bonus if they are ready by next Wednesday.' He paused, and gave Hector a sly look. 'But you don't leave this house, and you don't speak to anyone about the work. I'll arrange for my housekeeper to prepare your meals, and you can sleep in a spare room in the garret. Do you understand?'

'Yes, of course,' said Hector. He was scarcely able to believe his good fortune. On his first morning in Port Royal he had found both employment and accommodation. With the pay he could resume his search for a ship that would take him to Petit Guave.

'Good,' said Snead, 'then you can begin work as soon as you have gone to collect your things.'

'I have nothing to collect,' Hector admitted.

Snead looked him up and down, a gleam of understanding in his eyes.

'Runaway, are you? Well, that's no concern of mine,' he said with obvious satisfaction, 'but if you breathe a word to anyone about your work, I'll see to it that your master learns exactly where you are to be found.' He nodded towards the pile of surveys. 'Most of the big landowners and the wealthy merchants come to seek my services, and I can soon find out who is missing an indentured man.'

Before the day was out, Hector had discovered that Snead was not as fierce as he at first made out. The architect had scarcely left the young man to his work in the upper room when he came back up the stairs and announced that he was closing his shop and would be back in half an hour. If Hector needed additional supplies of paper, pens and ink, he would find them in the downstairs office. A moment later the young man heard the front door close, and glancing out of the window he saw Snead walking off down the street, then turn into a nearby alehouse. When Snead came back rather more than an hour later, Hector concluded that his employer was drunk. He heard him knock over a chair as he fumbled his way back to his desk. By then Hector had identified the region shown by the chart he was copying.

It was a map of the Caribbean shores of Central America. He remembered the general outline of the coast from the smaller scale chart that he had used aboard L'Arc-de-Ciel. Now he was being asked to copy out a larger and much more accurate version which covered the northern half of that coast. He guessed that the second sheet, the one that Snead had hidden from him, showed the southern portion. Clearly someone had recently sailed along the coast and made numerous observations. The sheet in front of him was covered with handwritten notes to help a navigator recognise his landfall, then track his progress, avoiding reefs and other outlying dangers, select from a number of different harbours and anchorages, and find watering places. Whoever had written these notes had not ventured more than a few miles inland because the interior of the countryside was left blank.

The map seemed harmless and it was puzzling that Snead was being so secretive about it. Hector supposed that even if the architect was caught dealing in maps without a licence, he would receive only a minor penalty. Yet more mysterious was the fact that he needed five copies.

As Hector began work, Susanna's image kept appearing in his thoughts. He saw her walking in the garden of her father's plantation house, or as he had last seen her, seated in a carriage and smiling at him gravely. From time to time he put aside his drawing materials and gazed sightlessly out of the window, dreaming of what it must be like to hold her in his arms. Once or twice he even dared to wonder whether she too was thinking about him.

His reverie was broken by the sound of Snead's footsteps on the stair. With a start Hector realised that it was late in the day. When the architect entered the room, he glanced over the part-finished copy that Hector had been working on, and appeared to be satisfied with what he saw, for he sat down heavily on the bench at the end of the table and announced that it was time for Hector to stop work. 'So you say your name is Lynch,' he observed, picking up the quill pen that Hector had been using. 'Not a convincing nom de plume.' He waved the feather in the air, smirking owlishly at his pun. 'I would have thought you could have come up with something more original.'

Hector realised that Snead was convinced that he was sheltering a fugitive indentured man, also that the architect was very tipsy. He smelled the rum on his new employer's breath.

'Lynch is my real name, sir,' Hector protested.

Snead seemed not to hear him. He gave a drunken hiccup and stared at Hector. 'You can't be a Lynch. You don't look like one.'

Hector saw his opportunity. 'You know the Lynches, sir?' he asked.

'Who doesn't? Richest family on the island. I've done surveys for three of their plantations. They must own at least thirty thousand acres.'

'Have you met Robert Lynch or his sister?' Hector was desperate to glean a few more details about Susanna.

'Young Robert? He came to the office a few times when I was doing drawings for their new townhouse here in Port Royal. And a very elegant structure it is, if I do say so myself,' Snead hiccuped.

'And what about his sister?'

'You mean Susanna? I think that's her name. Quite a catch, that one. I doubt there's anyone on the island who would be a match for her. She'll probably find her husband in London next time she goes there. Pretty girl but said to be headstrong.'

Snead swivelled round on the bench to face the door. Raising his voice, he shouted for food to be brought. A voice answered from somewhere deep within the house, and a little while later an elderly woman, whom Hector presumed to be Snead's housekeeper, appeared with a tray of food which she placed on the table.

'Come on. You share this with me,' said the architect, waving to a seat near him as he began to ladle soup into his mouth. Hector came to the conclusion that the architect was a lonely man and eager for company.

It was mid-morning on the following day that Hector received an unwelcome jolt of recognition. He had slept the night in a small room on the topmost floor of Snead's premises, and next morning with the tropical sunlight flooding his work table from the open window, he had made good progress with copying the first chart. He was at the stage when he had drawn the coastline and all its islands and reefs, and begun to write in their names, consulting the handwritten notes from the original. He was labelling the anchorages and harbours when he saw that one of the anchorages was marked 'Captain Coxon's Hole'. He checked the handwritten notes again, and there was no mistake. A small natural harbour on one of the islands had been named after the buccaneer. Hector could see that it made an ideal refuge. The island lay far enough off the mainland to be rarely visited, and the anchorage was very discreet. It was concealed behind a reef, and protected by a low ridge of hills. So when Snead came to check on his employee's progress just before his noontime visit to the tavern, Hector casually asked how Coxon's Hole had got its name. The reaction he received was a surprise.

'It's named after a friend of mine,' Snead announced and he sounded proud of the association. 'He used to have a house here in Port Royal. Knows that coast as well as anyone. Discovered that anchorage and been using it on and off ever since.'

Hector puzzled over the architect's answer all that afternoon, and when Snead was in a particularly good mood at supper, he asked the architect when he had last seen his friend. 'Not for the past couple of years but — who knows — he could turn up at any time.'

Hector noted how Snead had cast a quick glance towards the finished chart still lying on the end of the table. Alarmed, Hector risked a further question.

'Is Captain Coxon a good customer then?'

His enquiry was met with a suspicious stare. Then Snead must have decided that he could trust his new assistant. Rising from his chair he took the second page of the chart from the chest and laid it beside the one that Hector had just completed. As Hector had suspected, the two maps covered almost the entire Caribbean coast of Central America. Waving his hand over the maps, Snead exclaimed, 'There you have it! The key to the South Sea!' Then he sat back down heavily in his usual place and picked up his tankard.

'The South Sea?' Hector asked. 'But that's on the far side of the isthmus. Is that not another word for the Pacific?'

'You misunderstand me,' Snead declared, waving at the map again. 'Here we have the gateway. The riches lie beyond. We are opening the way for our clients.'

'And will we also provide them with charts of the South Sea?' Hector enquired.

Snead looked at him in drunken astonishment.

'Charts of the South Sea!' he exclaimed. 'You speak of Golconda and the Valley of Diamonds! If I had such charts, either I could command a king's ransom or both of us would find ourselves victims of a Spanish stiletto.'

'For what reason?'

'How else do the Spaniards sail up and down the coast of Peru, and safely bring back the silver from their mines and the other products of their possessions in South America, if they did not have such maps? But they are state secrets. Men would murder for them. That is why men talk of the South Sea Adventure.'

Abruptly the architect must have realised that he had said too much for he quickly swept up both charts, rose to his feet and walked unsteadily across the room to put them back in the chest. Then, mumbling a farewell, he set out for his evening's drinking in the tavern.

Next morning Snead had still not appeared in his shop when Hector heard a knock on the door to the street. Opening it, he found a middle-aged, weather-beaten man dressed in a sea captain's coat that looked the worse for wear. 'I wish to speak with Robert Snead,' the visitor asked.

'I'm afraid he is not available’ Hector said. 'Perhaps I can help.'

The man stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. He looked carefully at Hector, then said, 'I've come for a chart.'

'I'm afraid that Mr Snead is an architect. . .' Hector began, but his response was brushed aside.

'I know all about that,' the man replied, 'but I've bought maps from him before. The name is Gutteridge, Captain Gutteridge.'

'Then perhaps you will wait here, and I will consult Mr Snead,' Hector answered. Leaving Gutteridge in the shop he hurried up to the architect's bedchamber. He found Snead still in bed, huddled under a quilt and dressed in his nightclothes. He was looking liverish and the room stank of liquor.

'There's a Captain Gutteridge in the shop,' Hector began. 'He's come for a map. I told him that you do not deal with maps. But he says he's bought them from you before.'

Snead gave a groan. 'And never paid me for them either,' he said sourly. 'Go back down, and tell Captain Gutteridge that he won't get any more charts until he's settled his account.'

On his way back to the shop, Hector found that the captain had followed him up the stairs and was now standing in the room where Hector worked, looking down at the chart being copied.

'That. . .' said Gutteridge, tapping the chart with a blunt forefinger, 'will do me very well.'

'I'm afraid it is not for sale. It's a special order.'

'I suppose it must be for that lot who are assembling off Negril.^’

'I have no idea. They are for Mr Snead's private clients.'

Gutteridge noticed the stain of ink on Hector's fingers. 'Are you his draughtsman?' he asked, and when Hector nodded, he gave the young man a sideways look and said, 'How about letting me have a copy, on the side. I'd make it worth your while.'

'That's not possible, I'm afraid. And Mr Snead asked that you settle your account.'

Gutteridge shrugged. He seemed unperturbed. 'Then I'll do without. A pity. I wish you good day.' He descended the stairs but on reaching the ground floor, he turned and made one last appeal to Hector. 'If you change your mind,' he said, 'you'll find my ship, the Jamaica Merchant, at the quay at Thames Street. She'll be there for three days at most, then I sail for Campeachy to load logwood.'

Hector hesitated for a moment before asking, 'By any chance will you be calling at Petit Guave on your way?'

Gutteridge fingered the lapel of his shabby coat. 'I'm thinking of it. French brandy is popular with the Bay Men.' Then he walked across the shop and let himself out into the street.

The moment Gutteridge left, Hector hurried back to his work table. He still had two more charts to prepare and it was only three days before they must be ready. If he could finish them in time and get his pay from Snead, he might be able to purchase a passage aboard the Jamaica Merchant and find his way to Petit Guave to rejoin Jacques and Dan. Glancing out of the window as he picked up his pen, he watched Gutteridge walking away down the street. As the sea captain passed the door to Snead's favourite tavern Hector saw a figure which he recognised. Loitering on the doorstep of the grog shop was the sailor he had met on Coxon's ship, the man with the broken nose and missing fingers.

'I'll want you to be on hand next Wednesday when my clients come to collect their charts,' said Snead who had finally come into the room behind him. The architect was unshaven and pale. 'There may be last minute changes to be made. I trust you will have all five copies ready.'

'Yes, of course,' said Hector. He tried to sound confident, but it was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Captain Coxon was one of the clients and likely to collect his chart in person. He was fearful of meeting the buccaneer again. If he and Coxon came face to face, it could only turn out badly. Coxon was certain to take revenge for his humiliation, and at least one of his men was in town to help him do so. Hector imagined he would be lucky if he escaped with nothing more than a severe beating, but it could be much worse. From the little he had seen of Port Royal, it was a lawless seaport where corpses were regularly found floating in the harbour.

When Wednesday came, Hector was in an agony of anticipation. By ten o'clock in the morning he had completed the fifth copy of the chart, though the ink was still wet and he had to go down to Snead's desk to take a pouncet box of sand to sprinkle over the parchment. 'When will your clients arrive?' he asked the architect.

'We gather in the tavern this evening,' Snead told him. 'As soon as everyone is present, I will bring them across to inspect the work.'

The architect had dressed more carefully than usual and was shaved though he had nicked his chin with the razor in several places, and there were flecks of dried blood on his neckcloth. Hector wondered how much longer the architect would be able to do his own drawings now that his hand shook so badly. If the evening passed off well and Coxon did not appear, perhaps it was the moment to ask for permanent employment as a draughtsman. If Snead took him on permanently, it would mean that he could stay on in Port Royal and perhaps meet Susanna again. Increasingly Hector was aware that his attraction to the young woman was in conflict with his loyalty towards Dan, Jacques and his former shipmates. He could still accept Gutter-idge's offer and sail for Petit Guave and there rejoin his friends. But he would have to hurry. The Jamaica Merchant was due to sail next day. Unable to make up his mind what he should do, he told himself that the events of the evening would decide the matter for him.

At sunset just before Snead left for his meeting in the tavern, he told Hector to prepare the upper room. He was to have all five copies of the chart set out on the table for inspection, and make sure that wine and grog were to hand. Then he was to go up to his own room in the garret and be ready if Snead called him. If summoned, he was not to speak to anyone, and he was to forget the faces of those in the room. Hector, still hoping that his fears of meeting Coxon were unfounded, made sure everything was ready but instead of withdrawing to the garret he stationed himself at the upper window. From there he could at least see who would be coming to collect the charts, and ii necessary he could make his escape.

The street outside was as busy as usual in the cool of the evening. Clumps of drunken sailors stumbled and lurched from one alehouse and grog shop to the next, working whores paraded enticingly or disappeared up sidestreets and into doorways with their customers, several gaunt beggars importuned for alms, and - just once — a small patrol of militiamen straggled past, their uniforms ill-fitting and shabby. It was ten o'clock before he saw the door of the tavern open, the light spilling out, and a group of half a dozen men emerge. He recognised Snead at once, for the architect's walk was familiar. There was enough of a moon to cast shadows, and as the little group began to walk towards the shop they passed into a pool of darkness. A few moments later Snead's clients were at the door. Hector stood very still, listening. He had left the window open, and the sounds of the visitors came up to him clearly. He heard Snead, tipsy as usual, fumbling at the lock. The architect was apologising to his guests.

'Hurry up, man,' said a voice. 'I don't wish to be kept standing in the street for all to see.'

Hector knew Coxon's voice at once. The buccaneer's harsh bullying tone was unmistakable. The door opened, and Hector heard the men walk towards the stairs. Footsteps sounded on the boards.

Hector quietly tiptoed across to the table, gathered up one set of the charts, folded it in a neat square, and stuffed it into his shirt front. Stepping out onto the balcony, he swung a leg over the rail, and climbed over until he could let himself hang, his arms at full stretch. Then he let go. He had expected to land on the hard packed sand of the street. But as he dropped, his feet touched something soft, there was a grunt of surprise, and Hector sprawled sideways. As he struck the ground, he realised that he had not seen the man who was standing in the shadow of the doorway. Someone had been left as a lookout, and he was as startled as Hector.

Hector sprang to his feet as the stranger recovered and with a grunt of anger reached out to grab him. The young man ducked and twisted to one side, and sprinted away up the street. He expected to hear the sounds of running feet behind him as the lookout gave chase. But there was nothing. Hector could only imagine that the sentinel had gone inside to report on the incident and ask instructions. Hector forced himself to slow down to a walk. Earlier that afternoon he had consulted a town plan that Snead had made for the town commissioners. The drawing showed the haphazard pattern of Port Royal's roads and alleyways, and Hector had picked out a discreet route that would bring him to the quayside on Thames Street. There he would search for the Jamaica Merchant and offer his services to Captain Gutteridge. But he had not calculated on colliding with one of Coxon's men. He was certain that the lookout was from the buccaneer's crew, most likely the man with the broken nose.

Hector shivered slightly as he tried to anticipate how the buccaneers would hunt him. Port Royal was such a small place that, without shelter, he would soon be found. He wondered just how many of the citizens, besides Snead, were friends with Captain Coxon and would be pleased to join the pursuit. If Snead were to mention that his assistant had been speaking with Captain Gutteridge earlier, the buccaneer would quickly guess where his quarry was heading. The young man was uncomfortably aware that, if he was to escape Coxon, he would have to move very quickly but also in an unexpected direction.

Making up his mind. Hector walked rapidly in the direction of Thames Street and turned up a narrow alleyway, Sea Lane, which brought him out on the waterfront. Away to his right stretched the line of ships tied to the wharves, their masts and spars and rigging making a black tracery against the night sky. His difficulty was that he did not know which of the vessels was the Jamaica Merchant. The most likely candidate was a small sloop almost at the farthest end of the wharf. But there was no one he could ask for information, and he did not want to draw attention to himself by rousing a night watchman and asking for directions.

For several moments he stood motionless, wondering what he should do. He had paused in the shelter of a warehouse doorway, and as he looked along the quay, two men appeared not fifty yards from him. They ran out from a laneway and turned to look in his direction. Hector shrank back farther into the shadow and when he peered out again, he saw that the men had decided to go in the opposite direction. They were proceeding briskly along the waterfront, looking into every side road, clearly searching for someone. At the farthest end of the quay, they halted. They appeared to confer together, and then one of them walked away and out of sight. His companion stayed where he was. There was enough moonlight to show that the figure had seated himself on a pile of lumber at a position where he could scan the waterfront.

Hector tried to think of a way of getting past the lookout. He toyed with the idea of mingling with a gang of sailors returning to their ship, but then rejected the scheme. There was no guarantee that such a group would show up or welcome him in their company. Nor that they would be returning to the Jamaica Merchant. Or he could wait until Coxon's watchman — there was little doubt that the lookout was one of Coxon's crew - grew inattentive or was withdrawn from his post. But that might not happen and Hector was still faced with the problem of identifying the Jamaica Merchant.

Then he remembered the turtle crawl.

He slipped quietly out of the warehouse doorway and darted back into Sea Lane. Keeping to the shadows he retraced his steps until he reached the high street. There he turned to his right until he came to the empty stalls and tables of the meat market. It would be another two or three hours before the butchers and meat sellers arrived to prepare their booths. Finding his way to the ramp, Hector climbed over the low palisaded fence which surrounded the turtle pen. Removing his shoes and stockings, he walked barefoot down the slope until he felt the sea water on his feet. Treading carefully, he continued forward down the slope. He was in the shallows now, the water up to his knees. He put each foot down gently and slowly, anxious not to make any splashes. Suddenly his foot touched a hard round surface, which moved sluggishly to one side. He had trodden on a resting turtle. Cautiously he pushed forward with his leg until he found a gap between the animal and its neighbour. There must have been at least a dozen large turtles lying in the shallows, close-packed like flat boulders. Most of the creatures ignored him, but one of them rose up with a swirling surge that almost knocked him off his feet. Then he had reached the far end of the turtle pen, where the water was now up to mid-thigh. Floating, half submerged at the far end of the turtle pen was a small dugout canoe. He had noticed it on his previous visit, and supposed that the turtle men used it to bring their catch closer to the ramp, loading the captive turtles on the canoe rather than dragging them through the water.

Carefully Hector lifted one end of the canoe and placed it on the fence. Here the wooden palings projected less than two or three inches above the water. Slowly Hector eased the little canoe out over the fence, sliding it carefully across the obstruction. As soon as the canoe was on the seaward side, Hector clambered over the fence, and hauled himself aboard, straddling the dugout. He paused tor a moment to check that the charts in his shirt were still dry, and then he lay back and pulled his legs inboard. The canoe was very small, barely longer than his own body and it fitted him like a narrow coffin. But that suited his plan.

He lay face up, the bilge water soaking into the back of his clothes. Dipping his hands into the warm water of the harbour on either side of his little vessel, he began to paddle gently. Barely moving, the dugout drifted forward, and Hector gently steered it towards the town quays.

He kept close to the shore where the looming bulk of the fort threw a dark shadow. Only someone standing right at the edge of the parapet and looking directly downward would have seen him. There was no warning shout, and as soon as he reached the wharves themselves, he pushed himself in amongst the wooden piles, sliding the little dugout into the space beneath the decking. Twice he thought that his progress was blocked by a cross brace, but he managed to find a way around. The fetid air under the quay stank of ordure, and he heard the rustle and squeak of rats. As he progressed, Hector counted the number of ships' hulls he passed. The first one was obviously a ship of war, probably the frigate on the Jamaica station, for he heard the stamp and call of a sentry answering the officer of the watch. Then there were two more hulls, large merchant ships, too substantial to belong to Gutteridge who had said the Jamaica Merchant was his own vessel and Gutteridge was not a wealthy man. Hector eased past the next five hulls until he came to the last in line, the modest vessel he suspected being the Jamaica Merchant. The stem post was worn and chewed, and there was a patched area where the hull had been poorly mended.

Gently Hector eased the little canoe from under the wharf and around the rudder of the sloop. He could hear the gentle slap of wavelets against the timber. With one hand he fended off the hull as he paddled forward until he had brought the canoe to the farther side of the sloop, away from the dock. He sat up carefully and placed a hand in a scupper hole. Silently he blessed the fact that the little sloop was so small that it lay low in the water. Then, taking a deep breath, he stood up in the bottom of the canoe, feeling it tilt alarmingly beneath him. He reached up with his right hand and laid hold of the capping rail. Then he pulled himself aboard. As his foot left the canoe, he gave a gentle kick and it floated away out of sight. With luck it would not be found until much later, and such a worthless craft might not even be worth reporting.

There was no one on deck as he began to worm his way cautiously aft. If the little sloop was anything like L'Arc-de-Ciel this was where he would find the captain's cabin. He still had no idea whether he was aboard the Jamaica Merchant or another vessel but now there was no turning back. When he came to the cabin door, he crouched down. Judging that it was another three or four hours until daybreak, he did not wish to alarm whoever was asleep inside. So he waited.

As the time passed, he became aware of soft snoring from within the cabin. That was reassuring. Sometimes a ship captain would choose to spend his nights ashore rather than on his vessel, but Hector had an idea that Captain Gutteridge, if he did not pay his bills, was not welcome in the local boarding houses. The young man squeezed himself more tightly into a corner behind a pile of sacks, hoping that he was not discovered by a sailor before he had a chance to speak with the captain.

The sky began to lighten, and he heard the sounds of the port awakening. There was the cry of gulls, the hawking and spitting of a longshoreman arriving for work, the mutter of voices as dockers began to assemble. He felt, rather than saw, Coxon's watcher still on the quay, not ten yards away, still scanning the length of the wharves, waiting for him.

The snores behind the cabin door changed in pitch. They stopped, then started again, and Hector heard the sleeper turn over in his bunk. He was nearly awake. Softly Hector tapped on the door. The snores continued. The young man tapped again, and this time the snoring ceased altogether. A short while later he heard the sound of bare feet as someone came to the door, paused, and opened it cautiously. In the half light Hector was relieved to see that it was indeed Captain Gutteridge. He held a cudgel in his hand.

'May I come in? I have your chart,' Hector said, speaking in scarcely above a whisper.

Gutteridge looked down at him, and there was a flash of recognition in his eyes. He drew back the door, and Hector slipped inside. The captain closed the door behind him.

Inside the small cabin it was stuffy and airless. It smelled of unwashed clothes, and Gutteridge himself was dishevelled.

'Here, I have your chart for you,' Hector repeated, bringing out the charts from his shirt. 'But Mr Snead will not be pleased.'

Gutteridge reached for the folded sheets, opened them, and gave the maps a quick glance. He looked up, a look of satisfaction on his face. 'Serve the greedy sot right,' he said. 'What do you want in return? We never agreed a price.'

'Mr Snead has men searching for me.'

Gutteridge gave him a penetrating look. 'Mr Snead ... or Mr Snead's friends?' he said grimly. 'The word's out that there's an assembly off Negril. Several hard cases are recruiting for some sort of mischief. One of my own men ran off yesterday to volunteer.'

'So you'll be needing a replacement,' said Hector.

'Yes, but I wouldn't want to make enemies of that lot.'

'No one need know. You could conceal me aboard until your ship sails. Then I can make myself useful until we reach Petit Guave. That would be a fair price for the map.'

Gutteridge nodded. 'All right. We have a bargain.' He reached down and pulled at a trap door in the cabin floor. 'This leads down to the aft hold. You can stay down there.' He reached for an earthenware jug standing on the floor beside his bunk. 'Take this water with you. It'll be enough until I can get you some food later in the day.'

Hector sat down on the edge of the open hatch, his legs dangling into the dark space below. He looked up at Gutteridge. 'And when do you expect to reach Petit Guave?' he asked.

Gutteridge avoided his eyes and did not answer.

'You said you were stopping there, to take on brandy,' Hector reminded him.

Gutteridge was shamefaced. 'No, I did not say that. I said only that I was thinking of stopping there on the way to Campeachy.'

'But I have friends in Petit Guave ... a Miskito and a Frenchman. This is why I want to join you.'

Gutteridge continued to look evasive. 'Maybe on the return trip .. .' he said lamely. 'And if we bring back a good load of logwood, I'll cut you in for five per cent of the profit.'

He gave Hector a gentle push with his foot, and the young man dropped down into the darkness, suddenly aware that he was unlikely to see either Susanna or Dan and his friends until his voyage to Campeachy was over.

_FIVE

'Christmas,' said Captain Gutteridge cheerfully, 'is the best season to take up logwood.' He was leaning over the rail as his vessel edged slowly along a low swampy coast. Beyond the swamp a cloudless sky came down to the horizon in a pale harshness that made Hector's eyes ache. The land was so flat that all he could see was the endless dark green barrier of mangroves on their tangled mud-coloured roots and the feathery top of an occasional palm tree. It had taken less than ten days to sail from Port Royal to the Campeachey coast, and Gutteridge was in good humour. 'You'll be back in Jamaica before you know it,' he was saying. With Hector's stolen chart in hand, he was carefully tracking their progress. 'Logwood fetches a hundred pounds a ton on the London market, and with your share of the profit you can begin to make your fortune.'

Everyone in the Caribees, Hector thought to himself, was ready with advice on how to make vast great riches. Earlier it had been Robert Lynch, now it was the threadbare captain of a worn-out trading sloop. He no longer resented Gutteridge for his dishonesty over the mythical trip to Petit Guave. It was three weeks since Hector had last seen Dan, Jacques and the two Laptots, and he had accepted that whatever had happened to them in the French colony it was too late for him to make a difference. As for his yearning to see Susanna again, perhaps the captain was right. The niece of Sir Thomas Lynch would be more impressed with a rich suitor than a penniless admirer. Maybe a lucrative trip to the Campeachy coast would be his first step on the road to making a fortune.

He turned his attention back to the shoreline. 'The logwood cutters call themselves Bay Men and they live scattered all along the coast,' Gutteridge told him. 'Maybe five or six of them live together in a shared camp. They could be anywhere, so we cruise quietly along the shore until they spot us and make a signal. Then we drop anchor and they'll come out to trade. They'll exchange their stock of logwood for the goods we bring. Our profit is rarely less than five hundred per cent.'

'How do we know what they want?'

The captain smiled. 'They always want the same thing.'

'But wouldn't they get a better price if they brought their logwood to Jamaica themselves?'

'They can't. Too many of them are wanted by the authorities. They'd be arrested the moment they set foot ashore. Many of them are ex-buccaneers who failed to come in and surrender when there was an amnesty. The rest are knaves and ruffians. They like the independent life, though I can't say I envy them.'

Now Gutteridge was staring fixedly at a stretch of mangrove. 'Is that smoke?' he asked. 'Or are my eyes playing tricks?'

Hector looked carefully. A light grey haze was rising from the greenery. It might be smoke or a patch of late-morning mist that had not yet cleared. 'They hide themselves like fugitives. Surely the authorities would not send ships here to arrest them,' he said.

'It's the Spanish they are afraid of,' Gutteridge explained. 'The Spaniards claim all of Campeachy as their territory and regard the Bay Men as trespassers who steal the timber. If the

Spanish patrols catch the loggers, they are carried off to the cities where they are thrown into prison or auctioned off as slaves.'

He was shading his eyes with his hands and staring long and hard. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. 'Yes, that's smoke all right. We stop here.'

He despatched Hector with a sailor into the ship's hold with orders to bring up a barrel of rum. Stooping under the deck beams, Hector noted that the cargo space was three-quarters empty. In one corner were stacked a few rolls of cloth. Elsewhere were several cases of hammers, axes, cutlasses, wedges, crowbars. Against a bulkhead several more chests contained blocks of refined sugar. But the bulk of the sloop's cargo was three dozen barrels and casks of varying sizes, ranging from a little eighteen-gallon rundlet to a massive puncheon. He checked their contents. Perhaps a quarter of them were kegs of gunpowder, the rest held rum, great quantities of it. With the help of his companion, Hector rolled a rum barrel to the companion-way, and rigged a block and tackle to raise the cask on deck. There a rough table had already been made by laying planks across yet more barrels, and was set with loaves of ship's bread, ham and salted beef.

'Here they come now in that pirogue,' said Gutteridge, looking towards the shore. A large dugout canoe was already halfway out to the ship, paddled by three men. It was difficult to see much of the men because all were wearing hats with extravagantly broad, drooping brims which completely shaded their faces.

The captain himself went to the ship's rail, ready to hand his visitors up on deck. 'Greetings, my friends, greetings! Welcome to my ship!' he called out jovially. Hector could see that the newcomers were heavily armed. Each man had his musket, and there were pistols tucked in their belts. One of them paused his stroke for a moment, waved his paddle in the air, and let out a great whoop of elation.

Moments later their canoe was alongside, and the three logwood cutters were climbing over the rail. Gutteridge was slapping them on the back and gesturing towards the table of food and the keg of rum. Hector had never seen such uncouth characters. Their tangled hair hung down to their shoulders, and their beards were matted and unwashed. Every garment was filthy and reeking of sweat. Two of them had facial wounds - one had a scar that ran from his ear down the side of his neck, and another was lacking an eye. The third man in the group seemed to be their leader and was a colossus. He stood nearly six and a half feet, with heavily muscled shoulders and arms, and the knuckles on his enormous hands were callused. His face looked as if it had been struck a dozen times for there was a tracery of fine scars across his forehead and cheeks, and his nose had been flattened by a cruel blow. All three men carried themselves with a swaggering menace as they set foot on deck and looked around. Most striking of all was the colour of their skin. Their hands and faces were a strange dark red as though they had been roasted on a spit or were suffering from some strange disfiguring disease.

To Hector's astonishment, Gutteridge continued as if he was greeting long-lost bosom friends. 'Come! Be seated! You are most welcome. This is the festive season!' He was ushering the new arrivals to the empty kegs which served as seats beside the rough table, and already had begun to pour neat rum into pewter mugs which he handed to his guests. With barely a word said between them, the loggers swilled down their first drinks and held out their tankards for more. The giant reached out for a loaf of bread. He tore it in half, and then began softening it by splashing rum on the crust. He crammed the soggy mass into his mouth.

'Hector!' called the captain. 'Take the top off that barrel. We must not stint our guests.'

As Hector was prising open the barrel, a musket shot rang out just behind him, and he almost dropped the chisel. He turned to find one of the logwood cutters had loosed off a shot into the air. 'Bravo!^’ cried Gutteridge, not in the least taken aback. He poured the man another drink, and then took a swig from his own tankard. 'Here's to Kill-devil! There's plenty more where it came from.' Then he ordered the ship's cannon, a miserable little six-pounder, to be loaded and primed. With a theatrical gesture, he brought a lighted match to the touch hole, and the resulting explosion caused a flock of pelicans to flap up from the mangrove swamps and fly away in fear.

The headlong carousal lasted all afternoon, and by sunset the three logwood cutters were incapable of getting to their feet. One had fallen from his seat and was sprawled on deck, and the others were head down on the table, snoring. Gutteridge himself was little better. He tried to make his way to his cabin, but staggered so drunkenly that Hector feared his captain would blunder over the ship's side. He put an arm round Gutteridge's shoulders, and steered him back to his cabin where the man toppled face down onto his bunk.

Next morning, to Hector's awe, the Bay Men were calling for more rum to wash down their breakfast. They had iron constitutions because they seemed no worse for their debauch, and to all appearances were ready to carry on drinking for the rest of the day. Gutteridge was looking bilious as he appeared shakily from his cabin and finally managed to steer the conversation around to the question of trade. Did the Bay Men have any stocks of logwood ready for sale? He was told that the three men cut their timber individually, but pooled production. They were willing to exchange their timber for barrels of rum and additional supplies, but would need a few days to bring all their logs to a central stockpile close to a landing place.

'Hector,' said Gutteridge, 'perhaps you would oblige me by going ashore with our friends. They can show you how much logwood they have ready, and how much more is yet to be got together. Then we can calculate a fair price. Meanwhile I'll take the sloop farther up the coast and locate other suppliers.

I should be gone two or three days, at most a week. When I return we will commence loading.'

Hector was eager to go ashore and see the countryside, but before he clambered down into the pirogue, Gutteridge found an excuse to take him aside and speak to him privately. 'Be certain to put some mark on the existing stocks, something to show that we have a claim to it,' he said. 'The Bay Men can be fickle. With you on hand, they will not sell to the next ship that turns up. But I also want you to check on the logs they have on offer. There's something I must show you.'

He led Hector to a cubbyhole beneath the poop deck, and pulled out a billet of wood about three feet long. The timber was close-grained and the darkest red, almost black. 'This is what cost me the profits of my last voyage,' the captain said, handing the sample to Hector to inspect. 'That's logwood. Some people call it bloodwood because if you chop it into shavings and steep it in water, the stew looks like blood. Dyers add it in their vats for colouring cloth. They pay a handsome price, but only for the best quality. What do you make of it?'

Hector hefted the billet in his hands. It was very heavy and seemed flawless. It gave off a very faint odour, like the smell of violets. 'Here, let me show you,' said Gutteridge, taking it back from him. He struck the length of timber fiercely against a bulkhead, and the end section of the billet flew off. The exposed interior was hollow, rotted through. The cavity had been packed with dirt as a makeweight. 'More than half my last cargo was like that,' Gutteridge said. 'Useless, though I had paid top price. The loggers had already sold all their good stock, and they then spent weeks preparing the dross. They had covered the ends of all the rotten billets with plugs of decent wood, disguising the rubbish. It was cleverly done, and I was taken in. That's how I lost my capital.'

Shortly afterwards Hector rode thoughtfully ashore in the pirogue with the three Bay Men. By an unspoken agreement it seemed that he was assigned to accompany the giant whose name was Jezreel. But beyond that he knew nothing. Jezreel only grunted, 'Get a hat and bring some cloth' and had then fallen silent. Hector presumed that their solitary life made the Bay Men taciturn. None of them had said a word of thanks when Gutteridge handed each of them a sack stuffed with provisions and several bottles of rum to take back ashore.

His companions steered the pirogue into a gap in the mangroves, and a little way inside beached the vessel on a patch of hard sand. From there a narrow path threaded its way through a dreary wasteland of swamp. Within a few paces Hector felt a fierce stab of pain on the back of his neck as if a hot ember had landed on his skin. It was a biting insect and he slapped it away. Seconds later there were three or four more stings as he was attacked by swarms of mosquitoes. He squirmed in discomfort, for the insects were gorging on every exposed part of his body, even biting through his clothing. He stooped and splashed water from a puddle onto his face and bathed his arms. But the respite was only temporary. He could feel the insects settling on his face, and his eyelids were already beginning to puff up with the effect of their bites. He wondered how his companions put up with such an onslaught for they seemed untroubled.

When they reached a place where the path divided, the other Bay Men turned aside, leaving the giant Jezreel to stride forward, his sack of food and drink over his shoulder as if it was empty. Hector trotted behind him, still frantically sweeping aside the insects. A few minutes of hard walking brought them to where the mangroves gave way to more open, marshy scrubland. Here sloughs and ponds of stagnant water were linked by a great network of shallow creeks and channels. Marsh birds — herons, egrets, curlews and plovers — stalked the soggy ground, feeding on insects and small fish. Hector wondered how anyone could live in such watery surroundings, yet Jezreel waded through the obstacles without breaking stride. Soon they came to Jezreel's camp. It was no more than a huddle of simple open-sided huts, their roofs thickly thatched with palm leaves. In every hut were platforms raised on stakes at least three feet above the ground. One of the platforms appeared to be Jezreel's sleeping place, another was his living quarters. A few yards away his cooking place was yet another elevated platform, this time covered with earth.

'The flooding must be very bad,' observed Hector who had quickly understood the reason for this arrangement. Jezreel made no reply but took down a cloth bundle hanging from the thatch and tossed it across to Hector. 'Spread that. It helps against the insects.' Unwrapping the cloth, Hector found it contained a slimy yellow lump of rancid animal fat. Gingerly he began to smear it across his face and neck. The suet smelled and felt foul but seemed to discourage the worst of the insect attacks. Now he appreciated why the logwood cutters seldom removed their broad-brimmed hats. Their headgear prevented the mosquitoes tangling and biting in their hair. 'Make yourself a pavilion over there,' continued the Bay Man indicating one of the shelters. Hector saw that he was to rig up a canopy, using the cloth he had brought from the ship. It would keep away the insects from his bed.

'Know how to shoot?' asked Jezreel. Clearly he was someone who wasted few words.

Hector nodded.

'We'll get in some fresh meat for your captain when he returns.'

The big man reached up and tugged a musket from where it had been stored within the thatch, and handed it to the young man. From a hanging satchel he produced half a dozen charges of gunpowder wrapped in paper, a small powder horn, and a bag of bullets. Checking over the gun, Hector saw that it was an old-fashioned matchlock. To fire it, he would need to load, then add powder to the priming pan and keep the fuse lit until he was ready to pull the trigger. He thought to himself that a flintlock would have been much easier to use in such wet conditions, and could only suppose that Jezreel had been unable to obtain modern weapons.

He followed the giant out of the camp, and was led at the same brisk pace deeper into the swampy savannah. The ground was moist and soggy with a thin layer of rotting leaves covering yellow clay. From time to time they passed scatterings of pale wood chips on the ground. 'Logwood,' explained the big man, and seeing that Hector was puzzled, he added. 'Only the dark heartwood is taken. You must trim away the rest. The sap rind is near white or yellow.'

They walked on in silence.

Eventually they came to the margins of a wide, shallow lagoon. Here and there were low islands covered with grass and small thickets of brushwood. Hauled up on the shore was a small dugout canoe, evidently kept by Jezreel for his hunting trips. The boat was little larger than the one Hector had used in his escape from Port Royal. There were two paddles wedged under the thwarts.

They waded out into the shallows, pushing the little craft ahead of them and holding their muskets high. Jezreel gestured for Hector to climb in and take a seat in the bow, then the big man took up his position in the stern and soon they were moving forward across the mere. From where he was sitting, Hector felt the canoe surge forward each time Jezreel took a stroke. By comparison his own efforts felt feeble. Neither of them said a word.

After some fifteen minutes Jezreel abruptly stopped paddling, and Hector followed suit. The canoe glided forward as Hector felt a tap on his shoulder, and the giant's hand appeared in the corner of his vision. Jezreel was pointing away into the distance. On the shore of an island and difficult to see against the background vegetation stood half a dozen wild cattle. They were smaller than the domestic cows that Hector had known at home in Ireland, dark brown in colour, almost black, and armed with long curving horns. Three of them were standing up to their hocks, feeding on lilies. The others were on the shore, grazing.

Behind him there was the sound of flint on steel. A moment later his companion passed him a length of glowing slow match. Hector fixed it in the jaws of his musket's firing lock. Very gently, they stalked the wild cattle, closing the gap without being observed. From time to time one of the animals would raise its head from feeding, and scan for danger.

Hector calculated that they had got within a very long musket shot when, unexpectedly, there came the thump of a distant explosion. For a moment he thought that Gutteridge's sloop had returned and was firing a signal gun. But the sound had come, not from the sea behind them, but somewhere over to his left, from the savannah.

Whatever the source of the detonation, it had stampeded the wild cattle. Tails held high in panic, they abandoned their island and dashed deeper into the lake, then began swimming away. All that was visible was a line of horned heads disappearing in the distance.

Hector was about to turn and speak to Jezreel when the big man's voice said 'Hold still!' and the muzzle of a musket slid past beside his right cheek. The barrel was placed on his shoulder. He froze in position, all thought of paddling gone. Instead he gripped the sides of the canoe, scarcely breathing. He heard Jezreel behind him shifting his stance, and felt the musket barrel on his shoulder move a fraction. There was a whiff of slow match. The next moment there was the flat explosive crack of the weapon firing. The sound was so close to Hector's face that it made his head ring, and left him half deaf. His eyes watered with the cloud of gun smoke, and for a moment his vision was obscured. When the gun smoke blew away, he looked forward to where the cattle had been swimming. To his amazement one of the animals had swerved aside.

The creature was already dropping back, separating from its fellows. Jezreel's marksmanship was far out of the ordinary. To have hit his target from such a distance while seated in an unstable canoe was a remarkable feat. Even Dan, whom Hector considered the best marksman he knew, would have found it difficult to achieve such accuracy.

Already Jezreel was back at work, driving the canoe forward with huge paddle strokes. Hastily Hector joined his effort, for the wild cow was still able to flounder through the water and had turned directly for shore. Moments later it was in the shallows, and with great thrashing leaps was plunging towards safety, blood streaming from its neck and staining the water a frothy red.

The two hunters reached their prey while the animal was still hock deep on the shelving edge of the lake. It was a young bull, wounded and very angry. It turned to face its tormentors, snorting with pain and rage, and lowered its vicious horns.

Hector put down his paddle. The bull was perhaps fifteen yards away, still at a safe distance. The young man poured priming powder into the pan of his musket, blew gently on the burning matchcord to make it glow, raised his musket, and pulled the trigger. At that range it was impossible to miss. The ball struck the bull in the chest and he saw the animal stagger with the impact. But the animal was young and strong, and did not drop. It still stood on the same spot, menacing and dangerous. Hector expected his companion to hold back, until the two men had reloaded, then finish off their prey. Instead Jezreel drove the canoe into the shallows, and leaping out into the water began to wade towards the wild bull. To Hector's alarm he saw that the logwood cutter was empty-handed. There was a long hunting knife in Jezreel's belt but it stayed in its sheath. The young man watched him advance until, at the last moment, the bull lowered its head and charged. The attack could have been mortal. But Jezreel stood his ground, and in one sure movement leaned down and seized the creature's horns before the animal could lift its head and impale him. As Hector watched, the big man twisted and, using his great strength, threw the bull off its feet. In a welter of foam and muddy water, the beast fell on its side, the logwood cutter dropped one knee on the animal's neck, then forced its head under water. For several moments there was a succession of desperate heaves as the trapped animal attempted to escape. Then gradually its struggles eased and, after one last shudder, it ceased to move.

Jezreel held the drowned creature's head submerged a full minute to make sure that it was really dead. Then he rose to his feet and called to Hector. 'Pull the canoe up on land, then come and give me a hand to butcher the beast. We'll take what we can carry, and they can have the rest.'

Following his companion's glance, Hector saw the snouts of two large alligators gliding across the water towards them.

'You'll see plenty of others,' explained his companion. 'Mostly the caymans stay their distance. But if they are hungry or in a bad humour, just occasionally they will run at you and take you down.'

Working quickly, they began to butcher the wild bull into quarters. Here, too, Jezreel was an adept. The blade of his hunting knife sliced through skin and flesh, skilfully working around the bones and severing the sinews, until the slabs of fresh meat had been separated from the carcass. They dropped them into the canoe, and pushed off, heading back towards their camp. Looking over his shoulder, Hector saw the caymans crawling up the slope. As he watched, they began to snap and chew at the bloody carcass, like huge olive brown lizards attacking a lump of raw flesh.

When they arrived at their original departure point, Jezreel secured the canoe. Then he leaned over and picked up a great slab of raw beef from the bilges. With his knife he cut a long slit in its centre. 'Stand closer,' he demanded, 'and take off your hat.' Hector did as he was told, and before he could react, his companion held up the meat, and slipped it over the young man's head so the beef hung like a tabard, front and back, the blood soaking through his shirt. 'Best way to fetch it to camp,' said Jezreel. 'Leaves your hands free so you can carry a musket. If it's too heavy, I'll trim off a portion and lighten the load.' He carved slits in two more of the meaty parcels, and with a double load draped over his own massive shoulders, started walking back along the track.

As they trudged back along the path, Hector asked about the explosion that had scared the cattle. 'At first I thought it was Captain Gutteridge signalling his return. But the sound came from the savannah. It wasn't Spaniards was it?'

Jezreel shook his head. 'If it had been Spaniards, we would have made ourselves scarce. That was one of our companions preparing logwood.'

'But it sounded like a cannon shot.'

'Most of the logwood is small stuff, easy to handle. From time to time you fell a big tree, maybe six feet around, and the wood is so tough that it's impossible to split into smaller pieces. So you blow it apart with a charge of gunpowder, shrewdly placed.'

'The captain asked me to make a list of all the logwood ready to load. Can we do that tomorrow?' asked Hector. But the giant did not reply. He was looking away to the north where a thick bank of cloud had formed. It lay in the lower sky as a heavy black line, its upper edge as clean and sharp as if trimmed with a scythe. It looked motionless, yet unnatural and menacing.

'Tomorrow may prove difficult,' Jezreel said.

The cloud bank was still there at dawn. It had neither dispersed nor come any closer. 'What does it signify?' Hector asked. He and Jezreel were eating a breakfast of fresh beef strips cooked on the barbacoa.

'The sailors call it a North Bank. It could be a sign that the weather is changing.'

Hector looked up at the sky. Apart from the strange black North Bank, there was not a cloud in the sky. There was only the same baking haze that he had seen every day since his arrival on the Campeachy coast. He detected just the faintest breath of a breeze, barely enough to disturb the plume of smoke rising from their cooking fire.

'What makes you say that?' he enquired.

Jezreel pointed with his chin towards dozens of man of war birds that were circling over the area where the hunt had taken place. The fork-tailed sea birds were dipping down in spirals, then rising up, clearly disturbed, and constantly uttering their shrill high-pitched cries. 'They don't come inland unless they know something is going to happen. And these last two days I've noticed something odd about the tides. There's been almost no flood, only ebb. The water has been retreating as if the sea is gathering its strength.' He rose from his seat and added, 'If we are checking on the logwood stocks, we better hurry.'

As it turned out, the logwood cutters still had much work to do. Their caches of timber were widely scattered, and they had yet to carry them to the landing place on the creek. Jezreel was more advanced in this work than his companions because he had the strength of two men. Transporting the billets of wood was as much drudgery as cutting the timber in the first place. The men worked like pack animals, stooped under immense loads which Hector calculated at two hundred pounds a time, and staggering through the swamps. He wondered why the Bay Men did not make rafts of the timber and float them along the many backwaters, but realised the reason when one of the logs slipped from Jezreel's load. The dense timber sank like a rock.

An hour before sunset the wind, which had continued faint all day, moved into the north and began to strengthen. The increase was steady, rather than dramatic, but continued through the night. At first Hector, dozing on his platform, was aware only that the sides of his cloth pavilion were stirring and lifting in the breeze. But within an hour the folds of cloth were flapping and billowing, and he got up and took down the cloth because it was evident that no insects would be flying in such conditions. He enjoyed the respite for a short while, listening to the rushing of the wind as it swept through the mangroves. But soon the wind was plucking at the thatch of his shelter and he found it difficult to get to sleep. He lay there, thinking of Susanna and wondering whether he would be able to see her again after Gutteridge had loaded the logwood and brought him back to Jamaica. Maybe he would have earned enough money from the logwood sale to invest in a commercial enterprise and start to make the fortune that would impress the young woman into accepting him as a formal suitor. Riches, by all accounts, were swiftly gained in the Caribees.

Eventually he did fall into a deep sleep, only to be woken shortly before daybreak by a rattling noise. The wind was so strong that the fiercer gusts were shaking the entire fabric of his shelter. Unable to rest, Hector swung his legs over the side of his sleeping platform, and stood up. To his shock, he found that he was standing in six inches of water.

As the light rapidly strengthened, he saw that the entire camp site was under water. In places it was submerged to a depth of at least a foot. The flood was flowing inland like a vast river. He dipped a finger into the water and sucked on it. He tasted salt. The sea was invading the land.

Splashing his way out of the hut, he found Jezreel assembling a bundle of his possessions, his guns and powder, a coil of rope, a water bottle, a hatchet, food. 'Here, take these, you may need them later,' he said to Hector, handing him a spare water bottle, a cutlass and a gun. 'What's happening?' enquired Hector. He had to raise his voice for the sound of the wind had now risen to a steady roar. 'It's a North,' shouted the giant. 'December and January is their time and this looks to be a bad one.'

The big man looked round to make sure that he had everything he needed, then led Hector inland towards a swell of rising ground. As they waded through the water, the young man observed that the water level was constantly rising. It was now halfway up the supports of his sleeping platform.

'How much higher will it flood?' he shouted.

Jezreel shrugged. 'No way of telling. Depends how long the gale blows.'

They reached the knoll. Here stood a single enormous tree, fifteen or twenty feet around its base. Lightning must have struck it, for all but a handful of the upper branches were shorn away, and those which survived bore no leaves. Jezreel went to its farther side. There the lightning had left a jagged open gash which extended almost down to the ground. Jezreel swung his hatchet and began to widen the crevice, enough to jam in hand or foot. 'You better climb up first. You are more nimble,' he advised Hector. 'Take the rope and get as high as you can. At least up to the first large branches. Once you're there, lower the rope to me and we'll haul up our gear.'

Half an hour later they were both seated some twenty feet above the ground, each astride a thick branch. 'Might as well make ourselves secure,' said Jezreel, passing him the end of their rope. 'If the wind gets stronger we'll be blown off like rotten plums.'

Fastened in place with a rope around his waist, Hector watched the fioodwaters rising. It was an extraordinary sight. A great swirling, rippling brown mass of water was sliding inland, carrying everything before it. Branches, leaves, all sorts of clutter were being swept along. Bushes disappeared. The corpse of a wild pig floated by. What made the scene all the more remarkable was that the sky still remained bright and sunny, except for the ominous bank of cloud which lay heavily on the horizon. 'Will rain come?' Hector asked his companion.

'No, a North is not like a hurricane,' answered Jezreel. 'Everyone knows of the hurricane and the downpours it brings.

But a North stays steady as long as that black cloud is there, and without any rain. But it can be just as fatal if you are on a lee shore.'

By mid afternoon the wind had risen to gale force and was threatening to pluck Hector from his perch. He felt the great dead tree vibrating in the blasts, and wondered if its dead roots would hold. If the tree were toppled, he could not see how they would survive.

'What about the others?' he shouted above the clamour of the wind.

'They'll do the same as us, if they can find a refuge high enough,' Jezreel called back. 'But it's the end of my stay here.'

'What do you mean?' shouted Hector.

'Nothing will remain after this flood,' answered the big man. 'All our stock of logwood is being washed away. Some may stay in place, but the rest will shift and be buried in the mud. It will take weeks to salvage it, and even then it will be almost impossible to bring it to the landing place. A North rarely lasts more than a day or two, but it will be weeks before the flood waters recede far enough for us to begin any recovery. Besides, all our food stores will have been destroyed, and the gunpowder soaked and ruined.'

Glumly Hector looked down at the swirling water. His mind was on Gutteridge and his sloop. Unless the captain had found a truly secure anchorage there was little chance that his vessel would survive.

That evening they ate a meal of cold meat washed down with gulps of water. From time to time they shifted position by a few inches, cautiously easing the discomfort of their perch because the gale still raged. Occasionally a bird flashed past them, swept helplessly downwind.

The gale began to slacken about the time the stars came out and, looking north, Hector saw that the long black cloud had gone. 'That means the North is finished,' Jezreel told him.

They dozed fitfully and at sunrise looked out on a scene of devastation. The flood water extended as far as the eye could see. Here and there the tops of small trees were still visible, but their branches had been stripped of foliage. The only movement was the small, reluctant swirls and eddies in the brown flood which told that the water had reached its peak and was slowly beginning to recede.

'It'll be some hours yet before we can descend,' Jezreel warned. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, and there was a companionable silence between them.

'Tell me,¹ said Hector, 'how did you finish up here of all places?'

Jezreel waited several moments before answering. 'Those scars on my face are the mark of my former profession. Did you ever hear of Nat Hall, the "Sussex Gladiator"?^’

When Hector did not reply, he continued. 'You might have done if you had lived in London and visited Glare Market or Hockley in the Hole. It was there I fought trials of skill, gave exhibitions, taught classes too. The singlestick was my favourite, though I was handy enough with the backsword.¹

'I've seen prize fights at home,' said Hector. 'But that was with fists, between farmers at the country fairs.¹

'You are talking about trials of manhood,' the big man corrected him. He stretched out his hands to show the callused knuckles. 'That's what fistics leave you with, and maybe a flattened nose and mis-shapen ears. Trials of skill are different. They're done with weapons. My nose was shaped by a blow from a singlestick, and the same caused my scars. Had I received a slash from a backsword that would have left no ear at all.'

'It must take courage to follow such a dangerous profession,¹ commented Hector.

Jezreel shook his head. 'I drifted into it. I was always very big for my age, and strong too. By the time I was fourteen, I was taking wagers on feats of strength - breaking thick ropes, pulling saplings up by their roots, lifting heavy stones, that sort of thing. Eventually I found my way to London where a showman promised me that I would be the new English Samson in his theatre. But I was never quite good enough, and he was a cheat.'

Jezreel leaned over from his branch and spat down into the flood water. He waited for a moment, watching the blob of spittle float on the surface. Slowly it drifted seawards. 'On the ebb,' he commented as he settled back against the tree trunk, and continued with his tale. 'I was always quick, as much as I was strong. Have you ever seen hot work at the singlestick?' he asked.

'Never. Is it some sort of cudgel?'

Jezreel made a grimace of distaste. 'That's what some people call it, but gives the wrong idea. Imagine a short sword, but with a blade of ash, and a basket handle. Two men stand face to face, no more than a yard apart, easy striking distance. They hold their weapons high and make lightning cuts and slashes at one another. Each blocks the other's blow and strikes back in an instant. The target is any part of the body above the waist. The feet must stay on the ground, not moving.'

Jezreel's right hand was above his head now and, with bent wrist, he was whipping an imaginary blade through the air, down and sideways, slashing and parrying. For a moment Hector feared that the big man would lose his balance on the branch and tumble into the flood.

'How is the winner decided?' he asked.

'Whoever first suffers a broken head is the loser. To win you must draw blood with a blow to the head, hence my scars.'

'But that doesn't explain why you are here now.'

The prize fighter waited a long time before he continued. 'Like I told you, singlestick was my favourite, but I was handy with the short sword too. It's the same style and technique but with a sharp metal blade, and when you fight for big money, the crowd wants to see the blood flow freely.'

Hector sensed that the big man was finding it difficult to speak of his past.

'I was matched against a good man, a champion. The purse was very big and I knew that I was outclassed. He need not have cheated. He cut me across the back of my leg, tried to hamstring me, and in my anger and pain I lashed out with a lucky stroke. It split his skull.'

'But it was an accident.'

'He had a patron, a powerful man who lost both his wager and his investment. I was warned that I would be tried for murder, so I fled.' Jezreel gave a bitter smile. 'One thing, though, all that exercise with singlestick or backsword will have its uses.'

'I don't grasp your meaning,' said Hector.

'This cursed flood has put an end to my hopes of making a living out of logwood. I expect my comrades will go back to what they did before — buccaneering. I think I'll join them.'

When eventually Jezreel judged it was safe to descend from their perch, Hector accompanied the prize fighter as they waded waist deep through the retreating flood water. They found their camp was wrecked. The huts still stood, though skewed and made lopsided by the current, but all their contents were either washed away or ruined. There was nothing to salvage. They made their way to the landing place among the mangroves and were relieved that the pirogue was undamaged though they had to extract it from the upper branches of a mangrove thicket where it had lodged. Just when they had succeeded in relaunching the pirogue, the two other Bay Men straggled in. They too had shifted for themselves and managed to climb out of harm's way.

'What do we do now?' asked the man with the scarred face whom Jezreel called Otway.

'Best try to link up with Captain Gutteridge ... if his ship still floats,' answered Jezreel. The little group stacked their last remaining possessions into the pirogue, then paddled out from among the mangroves, and along the coast in the direction they had last seen the sloop. They had not gone more than five miles when they saw in the distance a sight which confirmed Jezreel's fears. Cast up a hundred yards into the coastal swamp was the dark outline of a ship. It was Gutteridge's sloop. She lay on her side. A shattered stump showed where the mainmast had once stood. The spar itself lay across the deck in a tangled web of rigging. The mainsail was draped over the bow like a winding sheet.

'Poor sods,' breathed Otway. 'She must have driven ashore in the gale. I doubt there were any survivors.'

They paddled their pirogue closer, looking for any signs of lite. Jezreel fired his musket as a signal. But there was no response, no answering shot, no call. The big man reloaded and fired again in the air — still there was nothing. The shattered hulk was abandoned, dark, and silent.

_SIX

The North's baleful effect was detected far to the south. In Dan's homeland on the Miskito coast his people saw the tide recede beyond its normal range, then flood in with unusual strength, and they knew that it signified a great, distant upheaval. The flotsam washed ashore was still being gathered by children from the Miskito villages when Dan came home a fortnight later. He recounted how he and Jacques had been taken by Coxon's buccaneers and sent aboard L'Arc-de-Ciel to Petit Guave. The French settlement had been abuzz with preparations for a free-booting raid on the Spanish Main, and the governor, Monsieur de Pouncay, was absent. Rather than wait for his return to decide if their prisoners were guilty of piracy, Captain Coxon's prize crew saw their chance of easy plunder. They volunteered to join the French expedition, freed their prisoners, and recruited Dan to pilot them to the Miskito coast for it was from there that the French proposed to march on the Spanish settlements in the interior. Jacques was happy to join them as he had encountered several former acquaintances from the Paris gaols among the freebooters. But when the French expedition disembarked, Jacques had changed his mind, preferring to stay behind on the beach and watch out for any Spanish patrol ships and wait for Dan to return from a visit to his Miskito family.

'Weren't they happy to see you again?' asked Jacques. He had been surprised to see Dan reappear after less than a week. Dan looked up from where he was kneeling on the sand, about to butcher a turtle for their midday meal.

'Of course. They wanted to hear about all the places I had seen during my travels.'

'And didn't they expect you to stay at home?'

'That's not our custom,' the Miskito replied. 'Our young men are encouraged to join the foreign raiding parties who come to our coast. They get well rewarded as scouts and hunters.'

He turned the turtle on its back and tickled it under the chin with the point of his cutlass. The creature extended its neck, and with a lightning stroke he chopped down with his blade. The head spun away, the beaked jaws still snapping and narrowly missing Jacques who jumped aside.

'How are you going to get into the shell?' the Frenchman asked.

'It's easy. You slip the tip of your cutlass into this slot where the upper and lower shells meet. Then carefully slice sideways, following right around the joint. If you try to cut anywhere else, you'll find it impossible.'

Jacques rubbed the galerien's brand on his cheek as he watched his companion. Within moments the Miskito had prised apart the turtle, opening it like a clam shell.

'Why, the gut's like the intestines of a cow,' the Frenchman noted in surprise.

'I suppose that's because the turtles also feed on grass.'

'But they are sea creatures.'

'If it's calm tomorrow,' answered the Miskito, 'I'll take you out in a canoe to where you can see four fathoms down. You'll see grass growing on the sea floor. That's the turtle's food.'

He turned back to his work and pointed out two discoloured patches of flesh in the body of the turtle, close to the muscles of the front flippers. 'You must cut those out,' he said. 'If you don't, the flesh will have a bad taste when cooked.'

'Just leave the cooking to me,' said Jacques impatiently. He was of the opinion that the Miskito showed a great lack of imagination by only grilling or boiling turtle meat. He had already suggested to Dan that a sauce of lemon juice, pimento and pepper would enhance the flavour.

'As you wish,' said Dan equably. 'For frying the meat, use that yellowish fat on the inside of the lower shell. But please leave me the greenish fat of the upper shell.'

'Is it poisonous?' asked Jacques who felt that perhaps he was too hasty in his culinary plans.

'Not at all. I'll set the shell upright in the sand after we've got all the meat out of it. When the sun has softened the green fat, you can scrape it off and eat it raw. It's delicious.'

A halloo attracted their attention. A hundred yards offshore a dugout canoe was passing down the coast under a small triangular sail. Its occupant was standing up and waving to them. Immediately Dan got to his feet and waved back, beckoning the newcomer to come to land. 'That's Jon, one of my cousins,' the Miskito explained. 'He's been away on a fishing trip.'

Dan hurried down the slope of the beach to greet his relative, and to Jacques's astonishment, as the newcomer stepped out of his canoe Dan fell flat on his face on the sand. For a moment Jacques thought that his friend had tripped. But then the Miskito got to his feet, and his cousin also dropped prone in front of Dan, and lay spreadeagle and face down for the space of a few heartbeats, then stood up again. Next the two men threw their arms around one another and hugged tightly, each with his face pressed against the other's neck. Jacques, who had walked towards them, distinctly heard both men snuffling loudly and with gusto. His puzzlement must have shown, for when Dan introduced the Frenchman, he added, 'Don't look so surprised. That's our way of greeting someone we are fond of and have not seen for a long time. We call it kia walaia. It means "to smell, to understand".'

The two Miskito exchanged news and when Dan turned back to Jacques, he was looking thoughtful. 'Jon has been fishing to the north. He heard rumours of a party of white men travelling along the coast in pirogues. Three boatloads of them. They are coming this way, but very slowly, for they are weak and sickly. Also he says that a Spanish patrol ship was seen five days ago.'

Dan asked his cousin a few more questions, then added, 'My guess is that the men in the pirogues are English or French. If so, they should be warned about the Spanish patrol ship. Jon is willing to lend me his canoe if I want to go there to find out more. I could be back inside three days if this wind holds.' Dan seemed eager to make the trip.

Jacques considered for a moment before replying. 'All right then. I'll wait here for you.'

'In the meantime you can try out your turtle recipe on my cousin,' said Dan cheerfully.

The unidentified travellers were much closer than expected. Before noon on the second day Dan glimpsed the three pirogues. They were beached inside a river mouth less than thirty miles from where he had left Jacques. Cautiously Dan steered across the sandbar at the river mouth, keeping close under the bank so that the canoe's sail brushed the overhanging branches of the mangroves which stretched away in an unbroken wall on both sides of the estuary. When he reached the travellers' camp, the first person he saw was Hector. Moments later the two friends were greeting one another with astonished delight.

'How on earth did you get here?' the Miskito exclaimed as Hector helped him haul his canoe up on the muddy bank. 'I thought you were in Jamaica.'

T managed to get away and join the Bay Men,' Hector explained. 'But we were flooded out by a bad storm, and had to abandon the site. Coming down the coast we met up with these other logwood cutters. They had all suffered the same misfortune. We joined forces, keeping the largest of our boats. But it's been a difficult journey. We've been living on wild fruit and an occasional seabird we shot.'

Dan could see that the survivors were in a bad way. There were about twenty men in the party and they looked emaciated. One man was shivering with fever. 'There's a Spanish cruiser in the area. You know what will happen if they catch the Bay Men,' he warned Hector.

'But they've resolved to go no further until they've filled their bellies. That's why they decided to stop here in the estuary. They intend to go inland and hunt wild cattle or pigs, if they can find them.'

Dan shook his head. 'That's foolish. The Spaniards could be here by then. I'll fetch meat for them.'

'Jezreel!' Hector called out, 'I want you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Dan. He was with me in Barbary.'

The prize fighter's glance took in the Miskito's long black hair and the narrow face with its high cheekbones and dark, sunken eyes like polished pebbles. 'Did I hear you say that you can get food for us?'

Hector glanced into the Miskito's canoe. 'You haven't even brought a musket with you.'

'I won't need one. This is my cousin's canoe and he left his fishing gear in it. But you'll have to help me.'

Mystified, Hector was about to step into the bow of the canoe when Dan stopped him. 'No, your place is in the stern,' he said. 'I'll tell you what to do.'

Under Dan's instructions, Hector hoisted the little sail and together the two men rode the river current out across the bar and to the sea. Instead of heading out to the fishing grounds as Hector had expected, Dan told him to steer close along the shore. 'Stay in the shallows, close to the mangroves,' he instructed.

Occasionally Dan rose to his feet and stood in the bow, silently scanning the surface of the water. Every time he did this, Hector feared that the canoe would capsize through his own lack of skill as steersman. But Dan shifted his weight to counteract any clumsiness and, sensing his friend's uneasiness, would soon sit down again.

'What are we looking for?' Hector asked his friend. He spoke in a whisper for it seemed to him that Dan was listening as well as watching for his mysterious prey.

An hour passed, and then another, and still Dan had not found what he was searching for. Then, suddenly, he held up his hand in warning. His gaze was fixed on something in the water, not fifty yards away and close to the edge of the mangroves. He reached down into the bottom of the canoe, not taking his eyes off what he had seen, and eased out from the bilge a straight staff about eight or nine feet long. With his free hand Dan groped between his feet and produced what appeared to be an oversized weaver's bobbin wrapped around with several fathoms of cord. The free end of the cord was lashed to a barbed metal spike as long as his forearm. Carefully Dan pushed the shank of the spike into a socket in one end of the staff. Then he unwound enough cord until he could slip the bobbin over the butt of the pole. Now he rose to his feet and stood in the canoe, the harpoon in his hand. Using it as a pointer, he showed Hector the direction that he should steer.

Hector squinted against the glare of the late-afternoon sunlight as he tried to make out the target. But there was nothing unusual. The water was green-grey and opaque, cloudy with particles of vegetable matter. He thought he saw a slight ripple, but could not be sure. The canoe slipped forward silently.

Ahead of him Dan had moved into the classic posture of a man about to throw a javelin: his left arm pointed forward, his right arm bent. The hand which held the harpoon shaft at its balance point was close beside his ear. He stood poised, ready.

Hector heard a faint breath, the puffing sound of lungs expelling air. He leaned sideways, trying to see around Dan, hoping to identify the source of the sound. His sudden movement upset the balance of the boat even as Dan threw.

The harpoon soared through the air. But as it left Dan's hand, Hector knew that he had spoiled his friend's aim. He saw Dan twist his body, swivelling to keep the direction of his throw. 'I'm sorry, Dan,' he blurted, apologising for his clumsiness.

His words were lost in the explosive upheaval at the spot where the harpoon had struck the water. The metal spike and the first two feet of shaft plunged out of view. A second later the surface of the sea rose up in a great, roiling mass. A large grey-brown shape surged upwards, water sluicing off a rounded back. Hardly had this shape appeared than it sank downwards almost as quickly, returning into the murky water, and the sea was closing over it in a small whirlpool. The entire length of the harpoon vanished, dragged downward.

The Miskito spun round, plucked the canoe's short mast out of its place and hastily wrapped the sail around the spar. Dropping the untidy bundle on the thwarts he picked up a paddle, knelt in the bottom of the canoe, and began to paddle with all his strength. 'Over there!' he shouted back at Hector who was trying to follow his friend's example. Looking forward, Hector saw that the harpoon's shaft had risen back to the surface, and was floating free a few yards ahead of them. Leaning forward as the canoe came level with the pole, Dan retrieved it. Both the metal spike and the wooden spool were gone. With a clatter Dan flung the shaft into the bottom of the canoe and was already scanning the surface of the water again. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and pointed. A little way ahead floated the wooden spool. It was spinning rapidly in the water, the coils of line unreeling and making the spool bob and twist as if it had a life of its own. The line was being stripped from the reel at a great pace.

'Come on!' urged Dan. 'We must get that too!' He was digging furiously at the water with his paddle. They reached the gyrating spool when only a few turns of the line remained. Dan dropped his paddle and threw himself forward to grab the bobbin. In one swift movement he had hoisted it inboard and jammed the spool under a thwart as he called, 'Hang on, Hector!'

An instant later Hector felt himself flung backward, the thwart striking him painfully in the small of the back as the canoe suddenly shot forward. The line had snapped taut, droplets of water squeezing from the fibres. It had become a tow rope linked to an unseen and powerful underwater force. The canoe swayed from side to side as it tore onward, lurching wildly. The pull of the line was both forward and down, and for a terrifying moment Hector thought that the entire canoe would be dragged underwater as the bow dipped and the water rose to barely an inch below the rim of the dugout.

For three or four minutes the mad, careering rush went on. In the bow Dan anxiously watched the line where it was pulled taut across the edge of the canoe. Hector was sure that the cord was too thin to resist the strain. He wondered what would happen if it snapped suddenly.

Then, without warning, the water ahead of the canoe again burst into swirling turbulence. The grey-brown shape emerged in a welter of foam, and this time Hector distinctly heard the air rushing out of animal lungs. 'Palpa!' shouted Dan in triumph. 'A big one.'

It took a full hour before the harpooned creature was exhausted and by that time the canoe had been dragged far along the coast. Gradually, the intervals between each surfacing of their prey grew shorter as the animal came up for air more frequently. With each appearance Hector could see more of it. At first it reminded him of a small whale, then of one of the seals he had seen when they hauled themselves out on the rocks off his native Ireland. But this animal was much larger than any seal he had known, seven or eight feet long, and far stouter. When it turned its head to look back at the hunters, he saw long pendulous lips, piggy eyes and a sprouting of whiskers.

Finally the creature gave up the struggle. It no longer had the strength to dive. It lay wallowing on the surface, close enough for Dan to pull in on the line and haul the canoe right alongside. From his cousin's fishing gear he produced a second harpoon head, shorter and more stubby this time, and fitted it to the staff. He chose his moment and stabbed down several times. A stain of blood spread in the water. There were a few last convulsive heaves. Then the creature lay still. 'Palpa. Your sailors call it sea cow,' said Dan with evident satisfaction. 'And a good fat one too. There will be enough meat to feed everyone.'

'What does it taste like?' asked Hector looking at the bloated shape. He recalled an old sailor's yarn that claimed such creatures were mermaids because they suckled their young at their breasts. But this animal looked more like an overgrown and bloated seal with a drooping pug face.

'Some say it tastes like young cow. Others that it is like the finest pork.' Dan was lashing the carcass alongside the canoe. 'It'll be a slow journey back to camp. One of us can sleep while the other steers.'

Hector was still conscious that not everything had gone to plan. The hunt had taken far longer than it should. 'I'm sorry that I spoiled your aim, Dan.'

His friend gave a dismissive shrug. 'You did well. It takes years to learn how to strike palpa properly. If my striking iron had been better placed, the palpa would have died more quickly. What matters is that the creature did not escape, and we have the meat we promised.'

It took the entire night, and more, to sail back to where they had started. The drag of the dead sea cow slowed the canoe to less than walking pace, and the sun was well above the horizon by the time they approached the river mouth. It was promising to be another very humid and hazy day. They were keeping close to the green wall of mangroves along the shoreline to escape the worst effect of the ebbing tide when they heard the distant thud of an explosion.

'What's that!' Hector blurted, sitting up in alarm. He and Dan had changed positions in the canoe, and he had been dozing in the bow as his friend steered the craft.

'It sounded like a cannon shot,' said Dan.

'But the Bay Men have only got muskets.'

Again there came the thump of a distant explosion, followed by another. This time there was no doubt. It was cannon fire.

'Dan, I think we had better leave the sea cow where we can collect it later, and go ahead to see what's happening.'

Dan brought the canoe to the edge of the mangroves. He untied the carcass of the sea cow and fastened it securely to a lattice of roots. 'It should be safe here if the tide does not wash it away,' he said.

Warily the two men edged their little vessel forward until they reached the point where they had a clear view of the river mouth.

A two-masted brigantine was sailing slowly across the estuary, but making no attempt to enter the river. The large ensign flying from her stern was clearly visible, three bands of red, white and gold and in the centre some sort of crest. As they watched, the vessel came within a pistol shot of the far bank and began to turn. A few minutes later she had taken up her new course and was retracing her path across the mouth of the river. Hector was reminded of a terrier that has cornered a rat in a hole and is pacing up and down excitedly, waiting to finish off the prey.

'It's the Spanish patrol ship you were warned about,' he said.

There was a cloud of black smoke and the sound of a single cannon. He could not see where the shot landed, but clearly it was aimed towards the three pirogues still lying beached on the river bank.

'That's to make it clear who has the upper hand,' commented Dan. "With six cannon a side and maybe forty men aboard, the Spaniards have got it all worked out.' He was backing water, forcing the canoe into the fringe of mangroves.

'What are they waiting for?' Hector asked.

'For the tide to turn. See that line of broken water on the bar at the river entrance. The river current and ebbing tide are too strong for the brigantine to make any headway upriver. Besides, the pilot will be cautious. He's waiting for the flood tide, and when he's sure there's enough water to carry him in over the bar, he'll take the ship upriver and blast the pirogues to pieces.'

Hector examined the Spanish guardship now heading directly towards where he and Dan lay hidden. Doubtless every pair of eyes on board the patrol vessel was looking towards the pirogues in the river. Still, he felt vulnerable and exposed.

He was about to say that a single hit from a cannonball would shatter a pirogue when he felt the canoe tilt underneath him. He grabbed for the rim of the little craft, but it was too late. Water was pouring in over the gunwale. Looking back over his shoulder he saw Dan was leaning sideways, pressing down at an angle, deliberately flooding the canoe. As the water rose within the hull, the canoe began to sink, settling on an even keel until it was awash and almost nothing showed above the surface. Hector slid out into the water. He found that he could stand, though his feet were sinking several inches into silt. By bending his knees slightly, only his head remained above water. 'No point in making ourselves obvious,' explained Dan calmly. 'Miskito fishermen do likewise whenever they see a strange ship approaching.'

Now the brigantine was nearing the limit of her present course. Hector could see the sailors preparing to haul in on the sheets and braces. Men armed with muskets were clustered along the rail, looking into the river mouth and pointing at the beached pirogues. He heard a shouted command from the sailing master, and again the brigantine began to turn, this time presenting stern and rudder towards him. The guardship was close enough now for him to see that the crest on her ensign was a black eagle, wings spread under a royal crown.

'Is there anything we can do?' he asked Dan.

There was a long silence, and then the Miskito said, 'Hector, do you think you can reach the Bay Men's camp without being seen from that ship? It'll be hard going.'

Hector looked at the distance he would have to cover. It was almost a mile.

'You won't be able to push through the mangroves. They grow together too thickly,' Dan warned. 'You'll have to work your way along the edge of the mangroves, staying in the shallows.'

'I believe I can manage,' Hector answered him.

'Tell the Bay Men to be ready to break out an hour after low water. At that time their pirogues will be able to get over the bar, but the Spaniards will not yet have enough depth to enter the river.'

'And what are you going to do?'

'I'll stay here with the canoe and deal with the guard ship.'

Hector tried to read his friend's expression. 'Is this another of those Miskito skills, like killing sea cows and sinking canoes?'

'Sort of. . . but the Bay Men can make it easier for me. Tell them to gather up all the dead branches and fallen tree trunks and other lumber they can find, and launch them into the river while the tide is still on the ebb. They might even cut down a few trees and float them too.' He gave a thin smile. 'But make sure they are floaters, not sinkers like their logwood.' 'Anything else?'

'You'll have to hurry. There's not more than three hours of ebb left. When I see trees and other trash floating downriver, I'll know that you've managed to reach the camp. As soon as I make my move, you must get the Bay Men to start downriver in the pirogues.'

'How will I know when that is?'

'Find a place from where you can keep an eye on me here. My plan, if it is going to work, will be obvious. Now go.'

Hector turned to leave. The water was pleasantly warm, but rotting vegetation had coloured it a deep brown so it was impossible to see where he was putting his feet. Within a few paces he understood Dan's warning that progress would be difficult. The mangroves spread their roots sideways underwater, and he found himself tripping and stumbling over their new shoots as he half-swam, half waded towards his destination. Soft slime underfoot made it difficult to take a firm step, and often he sank ankle deep into the mud. When he tried to withdraw his foot, the ooze clung to him, holding him back. To keep his balance, he grasped at the mangroves and found that their bark was scaly and ridged. Soon his palms were raw and painful. He tried to stay hidden within the overhang of the mangroves, but there were sections where their matted roots made an impenetrable barrier and he was forced to swim along their outer edge, holding his breath and ducking down to avoid being seen from the Spanish patrol ship. As he floundered on, his breaths came in gasps and he had an unwelcome memory of the final moments of the hunted sea cow.

It was difficult to judge his progress. On his right the wall of mangroves seemed endless, a barrier of fleshy green waxy leaves at head level, their tangle of black and grey roots beside his shoulder. Small crabs scuttled away in fright, disappearing downwards into the water. Black and orange insects crawled upward in rapid jerks. Once he glimpsed the hurried sideways undulations of a snake swimming deeper into shelter. A little farther on he disturbed a colony of egrets and he feared they had betrayed his position as they flapped up into the sky like scraps of white paper.

The biting insects again found him a juicy victim, settling on his face the moment his head appeared above the surface, some delivering a jab as painful as a wasp sting. But his worst torment were the shellfish. Viciously sharp-edged, they clung in great clusters to the roots of the mangroves. Whenever he brushed against them, they lacerated his skin. Soon he was bleeding from dozens of slashes and cuts, and he wondered if blood in the water would attract caymans. He knew that the reptiles lived in the mangroves, and Jezreel had mentioned that he had occasionally encountered pythons in the swamps.

At length he crossed a shallow patch where finally he trod on firm sand instead of ooze, and guessed it was where the sandbar joined the river bank. Then gaps began to appear in the wall of mangroves, and finally he arrived at an opening where he could stagger up the bank and push his way through the undergrowth.

A warning shout stopped him. One of the Bay Men was facing him, musket levelled. It was a logcutter named Johnson who had joined the refugee flotilla as it followed the coast.

'It's me. Hector Lynch. I'm here with Jezreel,' he explained. He was dripping blood, exhausted and covered in slime.

Johnson lowered his gun. 'Didn't expect to see you here again. Where's that Indian friend of yours?'

'He's back beyond the sandbar, waiting. He can help us get clear.'

His statement was met with a look of disbelief. 'That I doubt,' said the Bay Man but he led Hector to where the remainder of the group were gathered in a fold of ground, safe from a stray cannonball. They had abandoned their hunting trip and were discussing what they should do.

'Lynch says that there's a way we can get clear,' said Johnson by way of introduction.

'Let's hear it then.' The speaker was an older man with a mouthful of badly rotted teeth and dressed in a tattered smock. Like his colleagues', his hair hung down to his shoulders in a greasy, matted tangle.

Hector raised his voice. 'Dan - that's my Miskito friend -says that we must be ready to break out an hour after the tide turns.'

'That's nonsense,' someone shouted from the back of the group. 'Our best chance is to wait until dark. Then make a run for it in the boats.'

'Dark will be too late,' Hector answered him. 'Well before sunset the tide will have risen far enough for the Spaniards to sail in. Their cannon will smash our boats to pieces.'

Jezreel came to his support. The big man was standing a little to one side of the gathering. 'If we make a dash for it soon after the tide turns, we do stand a chance because we'll be able to pick our course. Our pirogues will have room to manoeuvre while the Spanish ship is still confined to the deeper water. If we can get around the patrol ship, we can outpace her in the open sea.'

His intervention was met with a murmur of approval from several of the Bay Men and someone called out, 'Better than waiting here to be killed or captured by the Dons. I don't fancy being hauled off to a Havana gaol.'

'There's more!' Hector called out. 'Dan has asked that while we are waiting for the tide to turn, we dump as much trash as possible into the river — dead trees, branches, that sort of thing.'

'Does he think that the Spanish ship will get tangled up in all the driftwood?' This sally brought mocking laughter from the audience.

Again Jezreel came to his rescue. 'All of us know that the Miskito have no love for the Spaniards. I, for one, will do what

Dan asks.' He left the group and began to make his way along the river bank. About a dozen men followed him, and soon they were manhandling fallen trees and dead branches down the river bank and shoving them into the river. Hector watched the flotsam drift away and turn slowly in the current as it was carried seaward.

The other Bay Men showed no interest in helping. Several sat down on the ground and lit their tobacco pipes. Hector walked over to the older man who had been sceptical. 'If you won't help Jezreel and the others, you can at least make sure that everyone is ready to embark the pirogues the moment I give the word. I must go back to where I can keep an eye on the patrol ship, and see what my friend is doing.'

The Bay Man regarded him quizzically for several moments, then nodded. 'All right then. My mates and I will stand by.'

Hector found a vantage point on the river bank where he could keep watch on the Spanish guard ship and also see where Dan was hidden. The brigantine was still patrolling back and forth, following the same track each time as if there was a furrow in the water. He wondered why the captain did not anchor and wait for the tide to turn, and could only suppose that the Spanish commander wanted to be ready in case the Bay Men made a sudden sally.

He shifted his gaze to where he knew Dan lay concealed with his sunken canoe, but could see nothing except the green border of the mangrove swamp. Dotted about the estuary were the black shapes of the timber that Jezreel and his companions had thrown into the river. A few pieces had grounded in the shallows and lay stranded, but most of them had already been carried out over the bar. Several were already out beyond the Spanish guardship.

He concentrated on the area of broken water where the river ran out over the sandbar. The wavelets were much smaller than earlier. The tide was definitely on the turn. Soon it would be making up the channel.

Hector looked back in Dan's direction. Still there was nothing to see, only the scatter of flotsam and the Spanish vessel. Each sector of its patrol was taking about twenty minutes. He estimated that when the vessel had turned one more time, the moment would come for the Bay Men to break out from the trap.

He sucked at an open cut on his thumb. The blood was attracting more insects. Then something caught his eye. A chunk of flotsam, a log perhaps, seemed out of place. It lay among the other floating debris, part-way between the Spanish ship and the shore. He looked harder, shading his eyes. Unlike the rest of the flotsam which was nearly stationary, the log was moving slowly. Then Hector realised that it was not a log, but the hull of the upturned hunting canoe. Dan was swimming beside it, quietly pushing it forward. He was headed towards the place where the brigantine was bound to turn.

Hector ran back to where the Bay Men were waiting. 'It's time to go!' he shouted.

They gathered round their pirogues and began to manhandle them into the river. Hector joined Jezreel who was already stepping the mast on their own pirogue. In less than five minutes, the three boats were dropping downriver, their sails filling as they headed towards the sea.

The Spaniards had seen them move. The brigantine opened a ragged fire but the range was too great for accuracy, and the shots splashed harmlessly into the water. Hector counted six guns, all on her port side, and knew that there would be a brief respite while the gunners reloaded.

'Steer for the left-hand edge of the channel,' he said to Otway who was at the pirogue's helm. It was important to lure the brigantine in the direction where Dan lay waiting. A rapid clatter of wavelets slapping against the hull told that the pirogue was now crossing the bar. The water was less than three feet deep, and there was a brief scraping sound as the bottom of the pirogue touched the sand. Hector felt the hull shiver beneath his feet. But the boat's progress was scarcely checked. Now they were in deeper water, and picking up speed as the sail filled in a strengthening breeze.

Two hundred yards ahead the Spanish patrol ship had reached the end of her track and begun to turn. Her port guns had not yet been reloaded. Hector could imagine the gun crews crossing the deck to help their comrades prepare the starboard battery for the killer blow. They would be checking that each gun was properly charged, its shot wadded firmly home, priming powder in place, match burning. All they then had to do was wait until the brigantine came round on her new course and steadied. Then they would make the final adjustment to bring their guns to bear. By that time the pirogues would be within point blank range.

'We're done for,' muttered Johnson, 'but we'll not go without a fight.' He was checking his musket, waiting for the Spanish ship to come within range.

Hector's gaze searched the water beside the patrol ship. He could no longer see the dark shape that was Dan and the upturned canoe. Perhaps the Spanish vessel had run him down.

Then, unexpectedly, the brigantine appeared to falter. Halfway through her turn, she hung in one position, her bow directly downwind, her stern towards the pirogues and unable to bring any of her cannon to bear. There was confusion visible on her deck. Sailors were climbing into the rigging, trying to readjust the sails. Others were scurrying along the deck, apparently without purpose.

'Their helmsman's a right blunderer,' said Otway who was steering the pirogue. 'He's lost control of the ship.'

'Head directly for the brigantine,' yelled Hector. 'There's a man in the water. We have to pick him up.'

Otway hesitated and Jezreel gave him a great shove which sent him flying. Seizing the tiller the big man set the pirogue's course towards Dan's head which had bobbed to the surface. Hector looked round to see what was happening with the other two pirogues. Both had set extra sails and were increasing speed. They were drawing away. Soon they would be past the Spanish patrol vessel, and out of danger.

There was a ragged volley from the Spaniards, musketry not cannon. Some of the musket balls whizzed overhead, but others puckered the water around the swimmer. The Spaniards had seen Dan. He ducked down, making a more difficult target.

'Now that's a foolish thing to do. Let's see how far he gets,' said Johnson. On the stern of the brigantine half a dozen sailors were clustered at the rail, an officer with them. A rope had been lowered, and one man was climbing over, ready to descend. The Bay Man slid the ramrod back into its place beneath the long barrel of his gun, crouched down in the pirogue, and held steady. There was a second's pause before he pulled the trigger. The noise of the shot was followed immediately by the sight of the sailor losing his hold and tumbling down into the water.

Hector pushed past to where he could look forward, directly down into the sea. He heard a musket ball thump into the woodwork beside him, and more shots from the Bay Men. Less than ten yards away, Dan's head had reappeared, the long black hair sleek and wet. He was grinning. Hector gestured to Jezreel at the helm, pointing out the new course. A moment later, Dan's hand reached up and in one smooth movement the Miskito wriggled aboard.

'What did you use?' asked Hector.

'My cousin's striking iron,' his friend replied. 'I slipped it between the rudder and the stern post when the steering was hard over. It'll have driven in even further when the rudder was centred. They'll not get it free until they have a man down who can hack it out with a chisel. Until then their rudder's jammed.'

Hector was aware that the sound of the Spaniards' musketry