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wait until Coxon's watchman — there was little doubt that the lookout was one of Coxon's crew - grew inattentive or was withdrawn from his post.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.'