‘Which ship is that?’ enquired Cook, squinting against the glare as he looked out to sea.
Belatedly Hector realized Cook and his companions were the same party of sailors he’d just seen come ashore in the launch. ‘The big merchantman, flying the Danish flag.’
‘A fine vessel. She looks well armed.’
‘Thirty-six guns.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Cook looked impressed. He turned to face Hector. ‘But a ship is only as good as her crew. I didn’t know Jezreel was a sailor. He’s more at home in the ring, cutting capers with his backsword, isn’t he?’
‘The Carlsborg is short-handed. Her captain headed off with half the crew to find a source of prime slaves. There are few to be had here at the fort.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Cook. ‘We haven’t yet had time to pay our respects to the Governor. Not that we’ll be staying very long.’
‘What brings you here?’ Hector asked cautiously. Something about Cook and his companions made him suspicious. They didn’t look like merchants interested in trade. ‘What happened after you and the others left us off Peru?’
Cook looked vague. ‘It’s a long story. Some of us found regular work back in the Caribbean. A few gave up the sea altogether. More recently my friends and I got an offer. A group of investors asked if we might try a roving commission . . .’ His voice trailed off. He chewed his lip as he gazed out at the anchored ships, a thoughtful look on his face, and glanced down again at Hector and said, ‘So you’ve become a mere bookkeeper.’
‘Our supercargo died of breakbone. I’ve been asked to take over temporarily.’
‘It’s good to meet a former shipmate. If you’ve got a spare moment, perhaps you can show me around.’
Grateful for an excuse to put aside the ledger, Hector got to his feet and led Cook around the side of the fort, heading towards the main gate. The rest of the shore party stayed behind in the shade of the lean-to. As Hector left, he heard one of them ask Dan if he knew where they could find some palm toddy as their throats were dry.
‘I’m elected captain for the venture,’ said Cook casually.
His remark confirmed what Hector had already begun to suspect. Only buccaneer crews chose their captains by popular vote. Merchant crews obeyed officers appointed by the owners. Cook was tactfully letting it be known that he and his men had returned to buccaneering. They’d gone back to a life of sea thievery.
‘You wouldn’t care to join us, would you?’ asked Cook softly. ‘I seem to remember you’ve some medical knowledge that could come in handy, and your friend is an excellent striker.’ The skill of the Miskito Indians at harpooning fish and turtles was greatly valued among buccaneers. It fed hungry crews.
Hector muttered something about having to consult his companions, but his reply seemed only to encourage Cook.
‘I’m sure that Jezreel would be more than welcome. And the Frenchman who was usually in your company – what’s his name?’
‘Jacques.’
‘Yes, Jacques. I can still taste the pimento sauce he made for us when we were off Panama.’
Cook was pressing his point very strongly, Hector thought to himself. He decided to pry a little further. ‘You’re not planning to return to the South Sea, are you?’
‘We called in here to pick up wood and water. It’ll be a long voyage, south and west across the Atlantic, then through Magellan’s Strait and along the coast of Peru. But it’s the route that will bring us there undetected.’
Hector’s mind raced. He was desperate to reach Peru and track down a young Spanish woman, Maria. At his trial for piracy the prosecution had relied on her evidence for his conviction, and when Maria had retracted at the last moment, the case against Hector collapsed. She had returned to South America, and Hector had devoted himself to finding her again. He was deeply in love with her. He could picture her face and quiet smile, hear the sound of her voice, and – in scenario after scenario – rehearsed the moment when he might stand before her again and tell her of his feelings. At least half a dozen times each day he read the letter she had smuggled to him after the trial, though it was falling to pieces along the folds. He knew the words by heart. ‘I cherish every hour that we spent together,’ she had written. ‘You will always be in my thoughts.’ His burning dream was to hold Maria close, feel her respond and know that she wished to share his future, however uncertain that might be.
Here, unforeseen and very tempting, was the perfect chance for him to reach Peru directly and find her. If he stayed with the Carlsborg, the best he could hope for was to arrive in the West Indies. Then he would still have to make his way overland across Panama and onward. If the Spanish discovered his identity during this journey, nothing would save him a second time from being tried for piracy and found guilty. Then it was prison or the garrotte.
‘Which is your ship?’ he asked Cook cautiously.
They had passed along the length of the fort’s wall and were about to turn the corner below the eastern bastion, losing sight of the anchorage. Cook paused for a moment and pointed. ‘There, anchored just astern of your Danish ship. That’s our vessel. We’ve decided to call her the Revenge.’
He gave Hector a meaningful glance and it occurred to the young man that Cook and his colleagues were seeking retribution for the defeats inflicted on them during their raids into the Pacific. Hector’s initial excitement deflated abruptly. Maria was Spanish, and he had no desire to go fighting the Spaniards again.
Also, as he observed the Revenge, Cook’s ship looked ill suited for such an ambitious enterprise. She was shabby and sea-worn, and much smaller than the Carlsborg. He doubted that she carried more than eight cannon, and he wondered how successful the Revenge would be against colonial shipping in the South Sea. The Spanish vessels would be far better armed. On the whole, he’d be wiser to stay with the Carlsborg.
They resumed their walk along the foot of the fortress wall with its massive grey and white stones. Glancing up, Hector saw a Danish sentry watching them incuriously from the battlements. The man had draped a chequered cloth over his head to keep off the sun and was looking bored. Standing guard on a slaving fort was dull work. There was little risk of attack from the outside, so the task was more like being a prison warder. What mattered was to prevent a rebellion and escape by the slave inmates.
The main gate stood open, and they turned in. Ahead, the principal compound was an open expanse paved with brick that radiated the heat back so that the air danced. On their right were the slave holes, dreaded for good reason. Hector had been shown them briefly and the sight had left him sickened. The slave holes were the size and shape of large bread ovens and just large enough for one man to be thrust inside. Then the door was locked. Once incarcerated, the victim was left to broil until the captors decided that he risked dying of suffocation. Often they preferred to pull out a corpse. The slave holes were used for punishment to maintain discipline.
An African was standing beside the flight of steps leading up to the commandant’s office. His billowing robe of yellow striped with red served to emphasize his muscular bulk, and he must have stood at least six and a half feet tall. A three-cornered black cocked hat, edged with silver braid and decorated with a cluster of drooping ostrich plumes, was placed squarely on his head, and in one hand he held his badge of office, a long, elaborately carved staff. With the other he was fanning himself with a delicate Chinese fan. As the two white men approached, he looked them up and down in a calculating manner. His fleshy face was marked with tribal scars and the whites of his eyes were discoloured and bloodshot. Judging the visitors to be unimportant, the chief deliberately turned away.