Sea Robber

TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘They’re raising anchor,’ Dan exclaimed.

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

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

‘They are setting too much sail for that.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What a dolt,’ exclaimed Jezreel.

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

So too did the Carlsborg’s first mate. He turned on his heel and bolted for his cabin, his nightshirt flying out behind him. A moment later he reappeared, a pistol in one hand and a bunch of keys in the other. He screamed at the Danish sailors to look out for their lives as he darted past them towards the arms chest placed beside the helm. It was there in case an uprising by the slave cargo had to be suppressed with weapons. Inside were loaded muskets and a pair of the newfangled blunderbusses.

The officer unlocked and flung back the lid, and began frenziedly pulling out the guns. He thrust them into the hands of his Danish compatriots. Then, looking around in desperation, he saw Hector and his two friends still standing by the cockboat. Gathering up three more guns, he darted across the deck and pushed the weapons into their grasp. ‘Skyde. Skyde,’ he commanded breathlessly and pointed towards the oncoming ship. ‘Shoot. Shoot.’

From his vantage point at the Carlsborg’s rail, Hector looked down and saw armed sailors crouched on the Revenge’s foredeck. They were waiting to leap on to the larger vessel. Flat explosions of musket shots told him the Danes had opened fire, but he couldn’t see where their bullets struck. He felt the weight of the musket in his hands, thumbed back the lock and brought the weapon up to his shoulder as if to use it. But he already knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger while Jacques was held hostage. Instead he swung the muzzle of the gun menacingly, pretending to seek a target, and found himself staring over the gun’s sight at Cook. The buccaneer captain had moved forward to stand next to Jacques. Cook glanced up and must have seen Hector, for the buccaneer gave a sly smile and raised a finger to his forehead in a sarcastic salute.

The Revenge’s bowsprit was now so near that it was about to spear through the Carlsborg’s stern windows. At the last moment the buccaneer helmsman gave a deft touch, which laid his vessel alongside the stern quarter of the bigger ship with a grinding crash. A pair of light grappling hooks flew through the air and caught on the Carlsborg’s side rail. A moment later Cook’s men swarmed up.

There was the bang of a musket, then another. The Danish sailors had reloaded and were shooting downwards. Hector saw one of the buccaneers slip and fall back, tangling with one of his comrades. The two men tumbled back on to the Revenge’s foredeck. But the assault did not waver. Several musket balls whizzed past Hector’s head, fired from below by the boarders, but he ignored them. Deliberately he lowered his weapon. He was aware that neither Jezreel nor Dan had fired, either. The three of them had left the defence of the Carlsborg entirely to the Danes.

On the poop deck the first mate was cursing, a steady stream of oaths. He had discharged his pistol and was scrabbling in the arms chest, trying to find a blunderbuss. A few paces away the two Danish sailors had dropped their guns and stood helplessly, looking on. Beside the helm Iversen clutched his side, blood oozing through his fingers.

The first mate found his weapon and turned, ready to use it, when a shot rang out. He grunted abruptly and a bright crimson stain appeared on the front of his nightshirt. For a moment he stood there, bewildered, took a half-step backwards until he came up against the open lid of the arms chest. As he toppled over, the lid slammed shut beneath him and his body lay across it for a moment, before sliding to the deck, dead.

There was a sudden, still silence and the overpowering acrid smell of gunpowder. Hector hadn’t seen who had fired the fatal shot, but already the first wave of the Revenge’s boarding party – half a dozen men – were taking control of the poop deck. They relieved the two Danish sailors of their muskets and ordered them forward. A buccaneer put his arm around the shoulders of the wounded petty officer and helped him down to the main deck. The first mate’s body was pushed to one side, and a man whom Hector took to be the Revenge’s sailing master stepped up to the helm and began tentatively working it from side to side, trying it out.

At least two dozen more men from the Revenge were clambering up to the deck of the slaver. In their sea-stained smocks and wide breeches and broad-brimmed hats, they could have passed for the crew of any honest vessel. There was nothing to mark them out as sea bandits. Hector looked into their faces closely, trying to identify anyone among them who had sailed with him in the South Sea. He thought he recognized one or two, but it was impossible to be sure, for they pushed past him without a word. Unlike the chaotic departure of the Revenge, which had been a sham to lull their Danish victims, Cook’s men went about their business briskly and with barely a command spoken. Some took up position by the companionways and hatches, and as the sleepy crew of the Danish slave ship appeared, they faced the muzzles of their captors’ guns and quietly surrendered. A larger group of the buccaneers dispersed about the ship, checking sheets and braces, looking up at the spars, climbing into the rigging, searching out capstan bars, and then stood ready, waiting for orders.

By Hector’s estimate only half an hour had passed from the time Dan had heard the first sounds from the Revenge as she began to get under way. In that interval Cook’s men had captured a ship almost half as big again as their own and with three times as many cannon, and had done so without loss to themselves. They were complete masters of the Carlsborg.

Finally Cook himself came aboard with Jacques. The Frenchman looked crestfallen. ‘There wasn’t much I could do,’ he muttered to Hector. ‘I was hustled under hatches the moment I came aboard the Revenge last night. Shut up all night in the cable locker, where I couldn’t be heard.’

Cook called down to the men still on the Revenge. They were to cast off and resume course. The buccaneer captain turned and glanced at the musket Hector still held, cocked but never fired. ‘That was sensible of you. I didn’t imagine you could bring yourself to shoot at your old comrades.’

‘Where are you taking this ship?’ Hector asked. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Cook’s plan was more devious than first appeared.

‘As I told you yesterday,’ said Cook casually, ‘we head for the South Sea by way of Magellan’s Strait. But aboard this fine vessel rather than our worn-out tub.’

‘And the Carlsborg’s crew? What are you going to do with them?’

‘We’ll turn them loose in the Revenge’s longboat as soon as we are safely clear.’

‘I trust you’ll allow me and my friends to go with them.’

Cook treated Hector to an oily smile. ‘If that’s what you want. But it’s not what I would advise. If I were a Dane who had witnessed the capture of my ship, I would think maybe you and your friends had a hand in it.’

‘Hector, we’ll not be welcome back at the fort,’ cut in Jezreel. ‘We did nothing to fight off the attack.’

‘I couldn’t have expressed it better myself,’ observed Cook sardonically. He smoothed the lapels of his immaculate green coat before adjusting the lace at his throat.

Hector made one last attempt to regain the initiative. ‘I’d prefer if you gave us the cockboat so that we can head off on our own. Try to reach one of the English forts.’

Cook seemed amused. ‘Maybe you would make it, maybe not. I wouldn’t fancy falling into the hands of someone like that Akwamu chief we saw yesterday. You could be treated very nastily.’

Hector was conscious his three friends were looking at him, waiting for his lead.

‘Do we have another choice?’ he asked.

‘The offer I made yesterday still stands. I’ll recommend to my crew that all four of you join our company. They must vote on it, as you know. That’s the custom. But I’m sure they’ll vote in favour.’

‘My friends and I have had our fill of buccaneering,’ said Hector stubbornly.

‘Then, in view of our long-standing acquaintance and how helpful you’ve been in the capture of this fine ship, I’ll inform the crew that I’m willing to take you on, even if you haven’t signed articles. That way you’ll be free to leave the ship whenever you wish.’

Yet again Hector sensed that Cook was being dangerously subtle. ‘What would be our duties on board?’ he enquired cautiously.

‘Work the ship, stand watches, that sort of thing. Also I need a navigator who has already been around the Cape.’

‘But you’re heading through Magellan’s Strait.’

‘True. But I’m a cautious man, and if we have problems there, we’ll need to have an alternative route. When you left the South Sea last time, you came around the Cape, so I believe.’

Hector hesitated, still unwilling to commit himself when Jezreel intervened again. ‘Hector, I think we should accept Cook’s offer. At least until something better comes along.’

‘I don’t fancy taking my chances among the black men,’ agreed Jacques.

Hector looked across at Dan. He was always level-headed. Dan gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m with Jezreel and Jacques. We go to the South Sea aboard this ship. Besides, Hector, it will bring you closer to Maria, and we’d be happy to see that.’

Hector felt a surge of gratitude. He hadn’t realized his friends were aware of his longing to find Maria again. He’d no idea that his desire was so obvious.

‘All ready,’ called the sailing master from the poop deck.

‘So is it settled between us?’ asked Cook. There was a glint of triumph in his eyes.

Hector nodded his agreement.

Cook raised his voice so that he could be heard throughout the ship. ‘Time to move off. Remember, be slow and calm, as if the Carlsborg is simply heading down the coast to visit another trading post, and the Revenge is going with her.’

He grinned wolfishly as he turned back to face Hector. ‘We don’t want the fort mistaking us for pirates stealing Company property.’

‘I blame myself for telling you that her captain was away with half his crew,’ said Hector.

Cook shrugged. ‘I’d probably have found out for myself, from gossip among the canoe men. But I only decided finally to take the Carlsborg when you told me you and your friends would be on watch at dawn. The ideal time to capture a ship, and an opportunity I couldn’t ignore.’

‘And you counted on our loyalty to Jacques.’

‘Of course.’

‘What if the Governor raises the alarm when he sees the Carlsborg sail off before her captain has returned from the interior?’

‘Yesterday, after our little tour of the fort, I called in at the Governor’s office. I told him that my visit had made it clear there was a shortage of slave stock locally, so I would be taking the Revenge farther down the coast to trade.’

‘And he believed you?’

‘Naturally. He saw us as we left the slave pens. I took care to add that I would recommend to the Carlsborg’s first officer that he sail in company with me for a day or so, if he wished to pick up a few extra slaves. He would be able to return in time for her captain’s arrival.’ Cook gave a mirthless grin. ‘Before the Governor realizes the Carlsborg is overdue, I propose to make her vanish.’

With that, Cook walked away.

Hector slid a hand into his pocket and fingered Maria’s letter once again. His mind was in a tumult. Already he was calculating how many weeks it might be before he saw her again, and he felt a surge of happy anticipation at the thought that every mile the Carlsborg sailed would bring him closer to her. Yet he knew that he was also putting everything at risk by arriving on the coast of South America with a crew of ruffians whom the Spaniards considered barbaric pirates. He promised himself that at the very first opportunity he and his friends would abandon such unwelcome company.