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  After a while, an oared boat came into view from the far side of the vessel. Unlike the little skiff in which Jezreel had rowed Tew ashore, this was a pinnace manned by six oarsmen. A single figure sat in the stern.

  ‘I’m curious to see who that is,’ said Jezreel.

  ‘Where’s Jacques?’ Hector asked.

  ‘Gone to the market to buy some fresh coconuts. Said that you’d find that coconut water is a great tonic after too much rum.’ He stood up and gave Hector a quizzical glance. ‘A walk to the landing place would also do you good.’

  ‘Let me clear my head first,’ Hector answered. He went to the rainwater butt at the side of the tavern, doused his head and took several sips of water from his cupped hands before accompanying Jezreel to the jetty. Sixty or seventy men, the greater part of St Mary’s roving population, were already gathered there. Nearly all of them looked to be suffering from the effects of the previous day’s heavy drinking session, and there was an undercurrent of curiosity mingled with apprehension. He overheard someone claim that he recognized the vessel: ‘She’s the Charles, a man of war. Saw her on the Thames two years ago. I heard she was hired by the government and fitting out for the Caribbean.’

  ‘Then they took a wrong turn. Should string up their navigator,’ said someone else, and there was a spatter of laughter.

  Hector had slept in his clothes and he was aware that he stank of sweat and booze. A wave of nausea came over him as he stood among the crowd, waiting for the pinnace to discharge its passenger. He was wishing that he had stayed lying flat on the floor of the rented room.

  Close by him someone announced in disbelief, ‘That’s Long Ben sitting on his arse, being rowed. What’s he doing in command? I sailed with him three years ago and he was no more than junior master’s mate.’

  Hector craned his neck to see whom the speaker meant, but the wall of spectators blocked his view until the crowd moved back to allow the crew of the pinnace and their commander to climb up on the jetty. Hector found himself jostled to one side. A loose plank wobbled under his feet, and if Jezreel had not reached out and grabbed him, he would have fallen into the water. By the time he had regained his balance, the new arrivals were already shouldering their way through the press of onlookers. He scanned their faces, trying to pick out their leader. He was curious to learn what sort of man could make the dizzy ascent in just three years from junior master’s mate to captain of a government warship.

  The same speaker who claimed to know ‘Long Ben’ called out, ‘You’ve done well for yourself since Beachy Head! Any chance I can have a share?’

  The man who responded could have been anything between thirty and fifty years old, and everything else about him was characterless and unremarkable. His slightly chubby face was clean-shaven so that his cheeks showed ruddy patches where the sun had burned his fair skin. His hair was a nondescript mousey brown, growing thin on top, and he wore the same ordinary seaman’s clothes as his companions. With his bland features, he would not have stood out in a crowd, and even his height was nothing unusual. Jezreel was a head taller, and Hector wondered how the warship’s commander had got his nickname of Long Ben. Yet clearly he was the leader of the little group. He had a leather folder clamped under his arm, some sort of chart case.

  ‘You can have your share if you’re willing to earn it. That’s why Fancy’s here,’ he called back. ‘After I’ve paid my respects to Mr Baldridge, I’ll speak with volunteers.’

  The stranger’s deep, husky voice was his distinguishing feature: it carried complete self-assurance. It was the sort of voice that persuaded the listener that the speaker had given full and careful consideration to what he was saying and that he knew exactly what he was talking about. Hector had never heard anything like it before, and he concluded that the secret of Long Ben’s authority was a rare ability to make men pay close attention to whatever he had to say and accept his way of thinking.

  ‘What’s on offer?’ shouted another onlooker, his words slurred.

  ‘I’ll tell you when you’re sober,’ came the riposte.

  There was laughter and a ripple of excitement as people turned to one another and began to speculate what might be involved.

  ‘Now if someone could show me where I can find Mr Baldridge . . .’ prompted Long Ben, looking around.

  ‘This way, Captain!’ A small, bow-legged ruffian darted forward. Despite the heat, he was wearing a sailor’s thrum cap. The cap’s shaggy surface of loose woollen threads made it look as if he had some strange furry animal on his head. ‘You’ll find Mr Baldridge in his warehouse . . .’ and he led the Fancy’s captain off the jetty.

  One of the pinnace’s oarsmen approached Jezreel. ‘Where’s the nearest place I can get decent fuddle?’ he asked brightly. He had wide-set blue eyes in a pleasant freckled face and curly reddish hair. He clipped his words short, speaking with a chirpy accent.

  The big prize-fighter pointed to the tavern immediately next to Baldridge’s warehouse. ‘That’s the closest place but not the cheapest. You’ll be paying over the odds.’

  ‘I’ve plenty of chink,’ said the man. ‘Care to join me? I’m John Dann, coxswain of the Fancy.’

  ‘If my friend here can come along as well. His name’s Hector and I’m Jezreel. It would be good to hear the news from London.’

  ‘By all means,’ said the stranger.

  More strong drink was the last thing that Hector wanted and he was finding the newcomer’s rapid-fire speech difficult to follow. But in the faint hope that the newcomer might know something about Libertalia, he tagged along as John Dann led them briskly in the direction of the tavern. The sailor’s rolling gait spoke of many weeks spent on a swaying deck before setting foot on solid land.

  ‘How did you know he’s from London?’ Hector asked his friend in a low voice.

  ‘By his accent, and because he uses London cant. “Chink” means money in your pocket.’

  Dann must have overheard for he glanced back over his shoulder and added, ‘Born and bred in Clerkenwell, though Rochester is now my home. Moved there to be near the navy yard.’

  Hector quickened his pace to draw level with the coxswain. ‘Have you ever come across a ship called the Victoire, under a captain by the name of Misson?’

  ‘Sounds French. She could have been at Beachy Head.’

  Hector’s hope flickered into life. ‘When was that?’ he asked eagerly. ‘What happened at Beachy Head?’

  Dann gave a dismissive snort. ‘The French fleet swaddled both us and the cheese-heads.’

  Hector had heard the Dutch called cheese-heads, and guessed that ‘swaddled’ meant giving someone a thrashing. ‘And you were there?’

  ‘So was Henry Avery, though I wasn’t his coxswain, nor was he the captain.’

  John Dann’s sharp Cockney accent was making Hector’s headache worse. ‘Then Long Ben’s real name is Henry Avery?’

  The coxswain smirked. ‘Only when it suits him.’

  They reached the tavern, finding the place deserted except for a handful of listless customers seated at the tables. The Londoner lost no time in calling out for drinks, a large brandy punch for himself, and whatever his companions wanted. Wisely, Hector settled for lime juice and water while Jezreel chose strong beer mixed with rum. Waiting for his drink, Hector looked around. It was evident that the tavern’s customers were able to pay for the very best. Makeshift shelves displayed ranks of Rhenish and Madeira wine in bottles, and the coxswain’s rum punch was ladled from a large silver bowl that Hector imagined had a temporary home in the drinking den until the landlord, presumably Baldridge, shipped it onward for sale elsewhere.

  John Dann took his first long sip and let out a sigh of satisfaction. ‘So,’ he said, waving his tankard in Jezreel’s direction, ‘would you think of joining the Fancy? We need big strong cullies like you.’

  It was clear that he too was on a recruiting mission for his vessel.

  Jezreel considered for a moment. ‘I’d need to know about he
r captain.’ He waited until Dann had again buried his face in his tankard before catching Hector’s eye. It was evident that the prizefighter had his suspicions about the Fancy.

  Dann puffed up his chest. ‘You won’t find a more cunning cove than Henry Avery. He’s a sly fellow, a real dry boots.’

  ‘And what about his officers?’

  Dann allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. ‘There aren’t any.’ His tongue flicked over his lips, as he savoured the taste of the rum. ‘We’ve a quartermaster, a bosun and a first-rate gunner, but it’s only by the say-so of the ship’s company.’

  The message was clear. Fancy was not a king’s ship. She was not even a privateer, cruising with a government licence to provide legal cover for her activities. She was a vessel outside the law. Her crew were outright pirates and the ship was theirs – a freebooter.

  Jezreel raised his bushy eyebrows questioningly, and Hector knew what was going through his mind. A forty-six-gun man-of-war belonged in a royal navy or, at very least, was the property of a rich and powerful trading company. How the Fancy came to be in the hands of a roving gang of sea robbers was intriguing.

  John Dann sensed their quickening interest. ‘It’s thanks to Henry Avery. He was first mate of the Charles, as she was then. We were with the fleet bound for the Caribbees but got stuck in Corunna port. Swinging on the anchor for more than half a year, no one paid, and everyone bored out of their minds and unhappy. Rumour got about that we were to be sold to the Spaniards. It was Avery suggested we take the matter into our own hands.’

  ‘Didn’t your officers intervene?’ asked Hector.

  ‘The admiral was ashore most of the time, wining and dining with the locals. One captain dead, another so dozy he never noticed that Avery was chatting with the lads. Rowed round the fleet, giving them ideas.’

  The coxswain smiled at the memory. ‘Picked his moment, too. Admiral was away, and that same evening the captain of the Charles retired to bed early, weeping drunk. As soon as it was dark Avery got together a bunch of us, cut the cable and we put to sea.’

  ‘You stole the ship?’ said Hector amazed.

  Dann grinned. ‘As neat as kiss your hand! As we were sailing out, the captain of the frigate anchored next to us calls out that he heard there was a mutiny brewing. Avery shouts back, “Indeed that’s true!”, bold as brass. Then we were gone.’

  ‘And what happened next?’ Hector enquired.

  ‘Avery was very fair. Next morning he offers command of the ship back to the Charles’s captain. When he turned it down, we put him ashore with the men loyal to him. The rest of us voted to serve under Avery. We renamed our ship as the Fancy and set course for the Guinea coast. There we heard about your Mr Baldridge and how this is the place for the real rum quids.’

  For a moment, Hector thought that the coxswain was referring to the contents of his tankard, then realized that rum quids must mean booty in London cant.

  Dann drained the last of his punch, and gestured for a refill. ‘We heard tell that a lucky crew made a rich haul north of here. Sloop by the name of Amity under Thomas Tew.’

  ‘That was last season,’ said Jezreel. ‘I’m with Tew’s company this voyage.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’ said the coxswain looking at Jezreel with interest.

  It was becoming clear to Hector that this was Dann’s first trip to Madagascar and he was unlikely to have any information about Libertalia.

  He tried one last approach. ‘Who told you about St Mary’s?’

  ‘First mate of a slave ship we took when we were off the Guinea coast.’ Hector noted the outright admission of piracy. ‘He said he’d done business with Baldridge in the past and still had his charts and logbooks. He could bring us here to re-supply, and afterwards show us where to make our fortunes.’

  The coxswain coughed, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘But he was already taken with the Guinea fever.’ He gave a quick grin. ‘Don’t worry. There’s been no sickness on the Fancy since we tipped his corpse into the sea, along with twenty of our company, and that was before we rounded the Cape.’

  ‘What happened to those charts and notes?’ Hector asked. The dead man’s logbooks might have contained some reference to Libertalia.

  ‘Avery has them. They’re all a muddle: loose pages torn from notebooks, sketches of the coastline, scraps of paper with foreign writing on them, a few unfinished charts with no clue where they’re from. He’s gone to ask Baldridge if he can make sense of them.’

  Hector stifled a sour-tasting belch. His stomach was in such turmoil that he thought he might have to leave the tavern and find a place to throw up. ‘Maybe I could help if I took a look,’ he managed to murmur.

  Dann looked at him doubtfully. ‘Are you a navigator?’

  Fortunately Jezreel came to the rescue. ‘He can read an almanac as quick as you and I could judge a hand of cards . . . and equally good with charts.’ He launched into a tale of how Hector had located a passage through a coral reef in the Caribbean and succeeded in luring aground a warship that had been chasing them.

  When he finished, Dann leaned forward and clapped Hector on the shoulder enthusiastically. ‘Then I must bring you to meet the captain. No time like the present.’

  He beckoned to the tavern keeper. ‘Cancel that second drink,’ he told him. ‘What’s the best kill-devil you have? I’ll take a bottle of it back to the ship with me.’

  While the coxswain was shown the selection of bottled rums, Hector had a chance to speak with Jezreel on his own.

  ‘Thanks for your support. Maybe I’ll turn up something about Libertalia.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Jezreel. ‘But I’m hoping Avery will offer you a berth aboard the Fancy. When he hears that you are a navigator, he may agree to take on Jacques as well.’

  ‘I thought we’d be joining you on the Amity?’

  ‘Tew’s already got a full crew. Besides, I wouldn’t trust the Amity to last out her next voyage. She’s in poor condition and badly shook.’

  He fell silent. Dann was coming back towards them, a swarthy fist wrapped around a flask.

  ‘Let’s go!’ said the Londoner, ushering them outdoors with the confidence of someone who had spent weeks, not hours, in the settlement.

  ✻

  He was equally self-assured in dealing with the two brawny men posted in front of the solid double doors of Baldridge’s warehouse. Hector recognized them as the native bodyguards who had been with Baldridge on the forest path the previous morning. They eyed him suspiciously but made no effort to stop the coxswain leading him and Jezreel inside. This was Hector’s first time to enter the warehouse because the building was closed to visitors unless they had business with Baldridge or his store men. His first impression was of a well-provisioned and orderly stockroom. Shafts of light entered through tall narrow openings in the thick walls to illuminate a cavernous interior some forty paces long and twenty wide. To his right were heaps of shovels and axes, barrels of nails, woven baskets overflowing with carpenter’s adzes, hammers and saws, all the tools and material needed for the clearing and maintenance of an isolated settlement like St Mary’s. There was even a blacksmith’s anvil. An open crate held bundles of long-stemmed clay pipes tied together with twine. To his left was the wet store: pyramids of barrels neatly stacked by size, from large hogsheads to firkins, many of them exuding a hint of their contents. The air was rich with the smell of rum, brandy and tobacco. Somewhere in the darker recesses, Hector guessed, would be the crates and boxes with the wines that Baldridge imported and on which, according to rumour, he charged a mark-up of nine hundred per cent.

  As the visitors moved deeper into the storehouse in search of the Fancy’s captain, they came across rack after rack of muskets, piles of small boxes containing gun flints and lead shot, and – beyond a low stone barrier that served as a firebreak – yet more barrels. Unlike the wine and spirit barrels stacked on their sides, these were stored upright and Hector knew that they were gunpowder kegs. T
he building was both an armoury and a magazine.

  ‘Pull the trigger on one of those and it’d blow your noddle off,’ commented Dann as they passed a stack of antiquated carbines. Hector guessed that the obsolete muskets were traded to native warlords in exchange for slaves. By contrast several racks contained muskets of the most recent design, more suited for sea combat, and he had a hunch that they were destined for the arms chests of vessels such as Tew’s pirate sloop.

  The farthest end of the warehouse was screened off with a length of heavy canvas hung from a rope. He would have liked to have looked behind the curtain. This was likely to be where Baldridge kept the inbound goods he did not want any visitor to see: the looted items that his customers had bartered in exchange for their munitions.

  A sudden loud gulp followed by a high-pitched cackle made them jump. ‘Christ’s bones! What’s that!’ exclaimed Dann, swivelling round in surprise. The weird sounds had come from above, and Hector looked up to see an odd-looking creature clinging to the rope that held up the curtain. The size of a small dog, it had grey fur and a very long bushy tail with bold black and white rings. It was peering down at them with very round eyes that were a startling orange-yellow.

  ‘The local people call it a maki,’ he said. ‘It’s harmless.’

  The creature jumped nimbly down from its perch, landed on the top of a barrel and scampered off down the floor of the warehouse, the ringed tail held high.

  ‘Half squirrel, half cat and all monkey,’ muttered the Londoner. The creature raced to a wooden partition that divided off what appeared to be a storekeeper’s cubicle. It gave a great leap, scrabbled for purchase and dropped out of view on the far side.

  Moments later a door in the partition swung open and Baldridge looked out, scowling. ‘What is it?’ he snapped, seeing the visitors.