Buccaneer (36 page)

Hector felt the deck tilt slightly beneath his bare feet. The warm breeze was strengthening. Beneath an overcast sky
Trinity
was running on a course parallel to the Peruvian coast, which was no more than a faint line on the horizon. As her captain had implied, her hunting ground was the broad strip of sea along which the coasting vessels travelled back and forth between the Peruvian ports. Here, only a week ago, the buccaneers had already taken one ship with 37,000 pieces of eight in chests and bags. Equally encouraging they had captured a government advice boat on its way to Panama with despatches. Hector had translated the official letters and it appeared that the Spanish authorities believed that all the buccaneers had left the South Sea. It meant that the coastal shipping might again be venturing out from their well-defended ports.

He sauntered forward to the bows where Jacques was taking his turn as lookout.

‘Has the chase made any move to get away from us?’ he asked. Since first light
Trinity
had been tracking a distant sail, and the gap between the two vessels had narrowed to less than a mile. The Spaniard had proved to be a merchant vessel of medium size and, judging from her smart paintwork, a ship that was making money for her owners.

‘She’s still plodding along. I doubt she suspects anything yet,’ replied the Frenchman. He gave one of his sardonic grins. ‘Bartholomew Sharpe is a past master in fakery. If we set too much canvas, they would be suspicious.’

Hector glanced up at the spars.
Trinity
was proceeding under plain sail as if she was an ordinary merchant ship going about her business, not a predator closing in on her victim.

‘How long before they realise their mistake?’

‘Perhaps another hour.
Trinity
has the lines of a locally built ship. That must reassure them more than our Spanish colours.’

‘You’re beginning to sound like a right sailor.’

‘I’ve grown to appreciate this roving life,’ Jacques answered, rubbing his cheek where his ex-galerien brand was now barely visible beneath his deep tan. ‘It’s better than scrabbling for an existence in the Paris stews.’

‘Then it’s lucky that our dice fell that way.’

Before the vote in the general council, the four friends had been undecided whether or not to support Bartholomew Sharpe. Jacques had suggested that they leave it to chance by throwing dice. If the number was high, they would vote in Sharpe’s favour, a low number and they would side with Dampier and the other malcontents. The dice had shown a six and a four.

‘That wasn’t luck, as Jezreel and Dan already know,’ Jacques confessed.

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘I didn’t waste my time when I was nearly left behind on shore on Juan Fernandez. Do you remember those two dice that Watling flung into the bushes, the ones he took from Sharpe?’

‘Were they the dice you used?’

‘Yes, I searched for them because I thought they might come in handy one day. I knew they were loaded.’

‘I don’t remember you gambling against Sharpe.’

Jacques treated Hector to a look which told him that in many ways he was still very naive. ‘I didn’t. But I watched the pattern of his play. Did you ever wonder why the game the crew is so fond of is called Passage?’

‘I think you’re going to tell me.’

Jacques allowed himself a crafty smile. ‘That’s how the English pronounce passe dix – “more than ten”, its French name. The game was invented in France and there’s little that I don’t know about how to cheat at it.’

‘So our captain is not the only one who knows all about fakery and deception,’ Hector rejoined.

A movement aboard the Spanish vessel caught his eye. The crew were reducing sail in response to the strengthening of the wind. From the quarterdeck behind him came a low command. Sharpe was issuing orders.

‘Do as they do, but take your time about it! The slower you are, the more ground we will gain,’ he called.

No more than a dozen of
Trinity
’s crew went to obey him. The rest of the buccaneers were hidden, either crouching behind the bulwarks or waiting below deck. A glimpse of so many men would instantly warn their prey that
Trinity
was not an innocent merchant vessel.

‘Lynch! Come back here to the quarterdeck,’ called Sharpe. ‘I’ll want you to address the Spaniards when we are within speaking distance. ’

Hector made his way back to the helm but his assistance was not needed. Half an hour later when the gap between the two ships was less than three hundred paces, the Spanish ship suddenly veered aside, there was the sound of a cannon shot, and a neat round hole was punched in
Trinity
’s forecourse.

‘All hands now!’ shouted Sharpe. There was a surge of activity as the full complement of sail handlers sprang into action. Extra sails blossomed along the yards and
Trinity
accelerated forward, showing her true pace. Within moments she was ranging up to windward, rapidly overhauling her prey. Her best marksmen took their positions, some in the rigging, the others along the rail, and they moved unhurriedly, confident in their skill. By contrast there was a panicked flurry of action on the deck of the Spanish vessel. Men were hastily clearing away loose deck clutter and erecting makeshift firing positions. It was evident that
Trinity
’s victim was utterly unused to violent confrontation.

Another bang from the chase’s cannon, and again the shot was wasted. It threw up a spout of water as it plunged into the sea well short of its mark. The wind had raised a short rolling sea, making it difficult for the Spanish gun crew to aim their weapon accurately.

‘Seems they have only a single cannon aboard,’ commented Sharpe calmly, ‘and their gunners need some practice.’

Trinity
’s musketeers had not yet fired a single shot, but were waiting patiently for their target to come within easy range. Samuel Gifford, the quartermaster, had warned them that they were not to waste ammunition. The ship’s supply of lead for making bullets had been badly depleted by the raid on Arica.

There was a ragged scatter of firing from the Spanish ship, and a spent musket ball struck
Trinity
’s mainsail, dropped onto the deck, and rolled towards the scuppers. Jezreel reached down and picked it up. The bullet was still warm. ‘Here, Jacques, you might return the compliment,’ he said, tossing the bullet to his friend.

Bartholomew Sharpe was watching the gap between the two ships carefully, gauging the distance and the speed of the two vessels. ‘Hold her just there,’ he told the helmsman when
Trinity
was level with the Spanish ship, a hundred yards away and upwind, close enough for the buccaneers to pick their individual targets. The figure of the Spanish captain was clearly visible. He was darting back and forth among his men, obviously encouraging them to stand firm. ‘You would have thought they would see sense and surrender,’ Sharpe muttered to himself. Hector remembered how Sharpe had tricked Jezreel into shooting an innocent priest, and was surprised by the captain’s reluctance to press home the attack. The captain, it seemed, was capable of compassion as well as savagery.

The Spanish had once again reloaded their single cannon and this time the shot struck
Trinity
amidships. Hector felt the hull quiver, but a moment later the carpenter came up on deck to report that no damage had been done. The cannonball had been too light to penetrate the heavy planking.

‘Open fire! Clear their decks!’ ordered Sharpe after a pause, and the musketry began. Almost immediately the figures on the deck of the Spanish ship began to fall. Their captain was among the first to be hit. He was making his way towards the entrance to his cabin at the break of the poop deck when a musket ball struck him for he suddenly pitched sideways and lay still. Seeing their commander go down, the two steersmen abandoned the helm and ducked into cover. The Spanish vessel, no longer under control, slowly began to turn up into the wind and lose speed.

‘Close to fifty paces,’ Sharpe told his steersman, and
Trinity
moved into even easier range for her musketeers.
Trinity
possessed the advantage in height, and her marksmen were shooting downwards on their targets now. In a short time not a single Spanish seaman was visible. They had all fled below hatches, leaving only their dead and badly wounded on the deck. Their vessel slowed to a halt, the wind spilling from her sails, the canvas flapping uselessly.

‘Call on them to surrender,’ Sharpe ordered Hector, handing him a speaking trumpet. ‘Say we will do them no harm.’

Hector took the speaking trumpet and had to repeat his shouted instructions three or four times before a small group of sailors emerged warily from the hatches and made their way to the sheets and halyards. Minutes later they had brailed up the sails and the Spanish ship lay rolling on the swell, waiting submissively for her captors to take possession.

‘The sea’s too rough for us to go alongside. We risk damaging our ship,’ observed Ringrose.

‘Then lower the pinnace,’ Sharpe told him, ‘and go across with half a dozen men and see what we’ve caught. Take Lynch with you as interpreter.’ Sharpe was looking satisfied with himself for he had not had a single one of his own men killed or injured, and the Spanish ship appeared to be a juicy prize.

As Hector helped ease the pinnace into the water, Jezreel appeared beside him, carrying his smallsword. ‘I think I’ll go with you in case it is a trick. The Spaniards gave up all too easily. I’m suspicious that they’ve merely retreated below deck and are waiting to ambush us.’

Hector murmured his thanks, and the two friends helped to row the boat across to the waiting prize. As he approached the Spanish ship, Hector looked up at its wooden side and, as always, was struck by the fact that the vessel which had seemed so low in the water from a distance, was much higher and more awkward to board when seen from close at hand. Timing his leap, Hector jumped for the rail of the ship, caught hold and swung himself aboard. Jezreel, Ringrose and three of
Trinity
’s men armed with muskets and cutlasses followed him.

The body of the dead Spanish captain was the first sight that met Hector’s eyes. It lay where it had fallen, close to the break of the poop deck. The captain had dressed in a faded blue uniform jacket which was now soaked with blood. His hat had rolled off, revealing wisps of grey hair surrounding a bald patch of scalp. One hand was flung out as if still reaching out to open the door to his cabin. Standing beside the corpse was a thin-faced young man, no more than Hector’s own age, and he was pale with shock. Hovering in the background half a dozen sailors were casting nervous glances at the boarding party.

‘Who is in charge?’ asked Hector quietly.

There was a pause before the young man answered shakily, ‘I suppose I am. You killed my father.’

Hector glanced down at the corpse. The face was turned to one side, and the profile was enough for him to see the resemblance.

‘I’m very sorry. If you had not opened fire on us, this would not have happened.’

The young man said nothing.

‘What is the name of your vessel?’ Hector enquired as gently as possible.

‘
Santo Rosario
. We sailed from Callao yesterday morning.’ The young man’s voice was thick with misery.

‘With what cargo?’

Again the captain’s son did not reply. Hector recognised the symptoms of deep distress and realised that there was little point in asking any more questions. ‘There will be no more bloodshed if you and your men cooperate peacefully. We’ll search the ship, and after that my captain will decide what is to be done.’

Behind him he heard Jezreel warning the other members of the boarding party to watch out for hidden surprises. Then came the sounds of the men opening up the hatches to the cargo hold.

Searching a captured ship was always a tense time. No one knew what might be found in the darkness of the hold, a desperate sailor lurking with a knife or cudgel, or someone holding a lighted match near the gunpowder store and threatening to blow up the ship unless the boarders withdrew. Ringrose kept a pistol pointing at the crew of
Santo Rosario
while he and Hector waited to learn what the ship had been carrying.

There was disappointment on the faces of the buccaneers as they re-emerged from the hatchways. ‘Just some sacks of coconuts and a few bales of cloth which might be useful for sail-making,’ one of them exclaimed. ‘The ship’s in ballast. There are several hundred ingots of lead in the bilges.’

‘If it’s lead, then that will make the quartermaster happy,’ commented Ringrose. ‘Bring up a sample so we can take a closer look.’

When the buccaneer returned, he was cradling a misshapen lump of some dull grey metal in his arms. Ringrose took out his knife and scratched the surface of the ingot. ‘Not lead, more like unrefined tin,’ he announced. ‘Gifford will be disappointed. But at a pinch it just might do for making bullets. We’ll take one of them back to
Trinity
to try it out.’

Hector turned to the young man. ‘My captain will want to see the ship’s papers,’ he said. ‘And any other documents such as bills of lading, letters, maps, charts. Also I need to speak with the pilot.’

The captain’s son looked back at him with grief-stricken eyes. ‘My father took charge of everything. This was his own ship, held in partnership with friends. He had sailed these waters all his life, he didn’t need a pilot or charts. Everything was in his head.’

‘Nevertheless I must examine the ship’s papers.’ said Hector.

The young man seemed to accept the inevitable. ‘You’ll find them in his cabin.’ He turned and walked to the stern rail, where he stood, staring down into the sea, lost in his private wretchedness.

As Hector made his way towards the captain’s cabin, Jezreel, who had reappeared on deck, fell in step beside him. ‘There’s still something not quite right here,’ the big man muttered. ‘If the ship was sailing empty why did they put up a fight? They had nothing worth defending. And why would such a fine ship as this one be on a purposeless voyage?’

‘Perhaps the ship’s papers will tell us,’ answered Hector. They skirted round the body of the captain and had reached the door to his cabin. Hector attempted to open it. To his surprise the door was locked.