Abruptly, Sidias spoke up. Until now, the Greek had been standing to one side. He was not a member of the company and had no vote in the council. Nor was he entitled to a share in plunder though he had amassed considerable winnings from backgammon.
He walked over and stood by the pile of ship's goods. 'My name does not appear on any of the lists. Therefore I propose that I go ashore and find a broker to purchase these items.'
'How do we know you will not cheat us?' The question came from one of the men who had lost heavily to Sidias.
The Greek threw out his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'I will put down a deposit of fifty pounds in coin for this material. If I sell the stock for more, then I get to keep the profit as reward for my troubles. If I cannot find a buyer, then I would accept the loss. Surely that is fair.'
There was some murmuring among the men, and it was clear that Sidias was not entirely trusted. But when Gifford put the matter to the vote, it was agreed that £50 would cover the value and that the ship's launch would ferry Sidias and his goods to the jetty. After that, he was on his own.
The quartermaster moved on to other matters. 'It will be too dangerous to land as a single group. To do so would draw the attention of the authorities. Instead we go ashore in small groups, over the next few days, no more than ten or twelve at a time and disperse.'
'How do we do that?' asked the cooper.
Sharpe intervened. 'Buy passage on local ships and quietly leave. Your silver will open many doors.'
'And what about those who have no silver?' Hector searched the faces of the crowd, to see who had asked the question. The tone had been bitter. He saw it was one of a dozen or so men who were inveterate gamblers. During the return voyage they had wagered away all their plunder, mostly to Sharpe himself.
There was an awkward silence and for a moment Hector thought that there might be violence. He sensed a wave of sympathy wash through the assembled crew. A couple of the malcontents were armed. They could set upon Sharpe and give him a beating.
Sharpe must have spotted the danger for he turned to Gifford. 'Quartermaster, I propose that Trinity is given to all those who have no money. They can use the vessel in whatever manner they wish, though I suggest they sail her to a port where she will not be recognised as a Spanish built. Thus they get away from Antigua and may have a chance to earn some capital.'
There was a murmur of approval from the crew, and the moment of tension passed.
'Neatly done,' murmured Jacques beside Hector. 'Our captain is as slippery as ever. He's got rid of Trinity and saved his own skin.'
Gifford was already drawing lots to decide the order of disembarkation. Hector and his friends were among the earliest to be set ashore, and they had barely time to collect their share of plunder which amounted to some three thousand pieces of eight each, mostly in coin but also in broken pieces of plate before they were on their way to the jetty.
As they climbed up the steps they found Sidias already there, seated on a roll of sailcloth and looking very satisfied with himself.
'How will you get all this stuff to the town for sale?' asked Hector.
'I won't bother,' the Greek replied. 'It can stay here and rot.'
'But you just paid fifty English pounds for it,' Hector said.
'And I'll pay your giant friend another five shillings if he carries this into town.' With his foot Sidias nudged the heavy ingot brought up from Santo Rosario's bilge.
'Lead's not that valuable,' said Hector.
'It's not lead,' answered the Greek with a crafty grin. 'Those nincompoops wouldn't recognise raw silver if they shat it out
of their posteriors. This "lead" as you call it is a half-smelted silver from the Potosi mines. Fifty per cent pure. On its way for further smelting in Panama. I'd say it's worth seventy or eighty English pounds. Enough to set me up here as a shopkeeper.'
Jacques let out a groan, 'Hector, do you remember how many more of those ingots were in the Santo Rosario's bilge? Seven or eight hundred wasn't it? So many that we thought it was nothing more than ballast and paid no attention. We gave away a fortune. The Spaniards in Paita must still be laughing themselves sick at our stupidity.'
EIGHTEEN
The sunny Caribbean had been left far behind. A small group of port officials, dressed in long cloaks and broad-brimmed hats, stood waiting patiently on the wharf for the ship to make fast. A cold penetrating drizzle was drifting down, soaking everything it touched. The fronts of the warehouses which lined the dockside were streaked with rainwater dripping from slate roofs. The air smelled of damp, fish refuse and wet sacking. This was Dartmouth in Devon on a blustery March day, and the four friends were sheltering under the awning rigged to protect the cargo hatch of the merchant ship that had brought them from Antigua. It had been a plodding six weeks' voyage across the Atlantic, and the ship's agent had insisted on being paid in English coin, grossly overcharging them. But they had been glad to accept his price, knowing that every mile would put them at a greater distance from the South Seas raid. Their only concern had been to discover that a dozen others of Trinity's former crew, including Basil Ringrose, were among their fellow passengers.
The mooring ropes were made fast, and the little covey of officials on the dockside moved forward as a gangplank was manhandled into place.
Without warning Jacques put out an arm, holding back his companions.
'What's the matter?' asked Hector.
'I'd recognise a police agent anywhere,' the Frenchman said softly.
'We don't have police in England,' Jezreel corrected him. 'That's only for uncivilised foreigners like you.'
'Call him what you want. But the tall fellow with the satchel is something to do with the law. And those other two close behind are the same. I spent too many months on the run in Paris not to recognise legal jackals when I see them.'
The tall man with the satchel was making his way onto the ship. Behind him, his two assistants took up position on either side of the gangplank, blocking it.
The ship's master, a rotund and genial Welshman with a beerswiller's belly, waddled forward from where he had been standing to supervise the process of docking. Hector was near enough to hear him demand of the stranger, 'From the customs office, are you?'
The tall man did not reply directly but opened his satchel and took out some sort of document which he showed to the captain. Hector watched the captain read through the paper, then glance nervously towards the place where Ringrose and the others from Trinity were gathered, waiting to disembark.
'Gentlemen!' he called out. 'Would you be kind enough to step this way? There's something which may require your attention.'
Ringrose and the others sauntered over though Hector could tell from their watchful manner that they were on their guard.
'This is Mr Bradley,' said the captain. 'He comes with a warrant from the High Court of Admiralty and has a watch list of persons whom he has been instructed to escort to London.'
The law officer consulted his hand bill. 'Which one of you is Bartholomew Sharpe?'
When there was no reply, he looked around the little group and read out Samuel Gifford's name. Again he received no acknowledgement, and this time he stared straight at Ringrose and said, 'I presume that you are Mr Ringrose. You fit the description I have here.' He consulted the paper again. 'About thirty years of age though may look younger, average height and well set up, curly chestnut hair and fair complexion.'