Buccaneer (8 page)

Abruptly the architect must have realised that he had said too much for he quickly swept up both charts, rose to his feet and walked unsteadily across the room to put them back in the chest. Then, mumbling a farewell, he set out for his evening’s drinking in the tavern.

N
EXT MORNING
Snead had still not appeared in his shop when Hector heard a knock on the door to the street. Opening it, he found a middle-aged, weather-beaten man dressed in a sea captain’s coat that looked the worse for wear. ‘I wish to speak with Robert Snead,’ the visitor asked.

‘I’m afraid he is not available,’ Hector said. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

The man stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. He looked carefully at Hector, then said, ‘I’ve come for a chart.’

‘I’m afraid that Mr Snead is an architect . . .’ Hector began, but his response was brushed aside.

‘I know all about that,’ the man replied, ‘but I’ve bought maps from him before. The name is Gutteridge, Captain Gutteridge.’

‘Then perhaps you will wait here, and I will consult Mr Snead,’ Hector answered. Leaving Gutteridge in the shop he hurried up to the architect’s bedchamber. He found Snead still in bed, huddled under a quilt and dressed in his nightclothes. He was looking liverish and the room stank of liquor.

‘There’s a Captain Gutteridge in the shop,’ Hector began. ‘He’s come for a map. I told him that you do not deal with maps. But he says he’s bought them from you before.’

Snead gave a groan. ‘And never paid me for them either,’ he said sourly. ‘Go back down, and tell Captain Gutteridge that he won’t get any more charts until he’s settled his account.’

On his way back to the shop, Hector found that the captain had followed him up the stairs and was now standing in the room where Hector worked, looking down at the chart being copied.

‘That . . .’ said Gutteridge, tapping the chart with a blunt forefinger, ‘will do me very well.’

‘I’m afraid it is not for sale. It’s a special order.’

‘I suppose it must be for that lot who are assembling off Negril.’

‘I have no idea. They are for Mr Snead’s private clients.’

Gutteridge noticed the stain of ink on Hector’s fingers. ‘Are you his draughtsman?’ he asked, and when Hector nodded, he gave the young man a sideways look and said, ‘How about letting me have a copy, on the side. I’d make it worth your while.’

‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid. And Mr Snead asked that you settle your account.’

Gutteridge shrugged. He seemed unperturbed. ‘Then I’ll do without. A pity. I wish you good day.’ He descended the stairs but on reaching the ground floor, he turned and made one last appeal to Hector. ‘If you change your mind,’ he said, ‘you’ll find my ship, the
Jamaica Merchant
, at the quay at Thames Street. She’ll be there for three days at most, then I sail for Campeachy to load logwood.’

Hector hesitated for a moment before asking, ‘By any chance will you be calling at Petit Guave on your way?’

Gutteridge fingered the lapel of his shabby coat. ‘I’m thinking of it. French brandy is popular with the Bay Men.’ Then he walked across the shop and let himself out into the street.

The moment Gutteridge left, Hector hurried back to his work table. He still had two more charts to prepare and it was only three days before they must be ready. If he could finish them in time and get his pay from Snead, he might be able to purchase a passage aboard the
Jamaica Merchant
and find his way to Petit Guave to rejoin Jacques and Dan. Glancing out of the window as he picked up his pen, he watched Gutteridge walking away down the street. As the sea captain passed the door to Snead’s favourite tavern Hector saw a figure which he recognised. Loitering on the doorstep of the grog shop was the sailor he had met on Coxon’s ship, the man with the broken nose and missing fingers.

‘I’ll want you to be on hand next Wednesday when my clients come to collect their charts,’ said Snead who had finally come into the room behind him. The architect was unshaven and pale. ‘There may be last minute changes to be made. I trust you will have all five copies ready.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Hector. He tried to sound confident, but it was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Captain Coxon was one of the clients and likely to collect his chart in person. He was fearful of meeting the buccaneer again. If he and Coxon came face to face, it could only turn out badly. Coxon was certain to take revenge for his humiliation, and at least one of his men was in town to help him do so. Hector imagined he would be lucky if he escaped with nothing more than a severe beating, but it could be much worse. From the little he had seen of Port Royal, it was a lawless seaport where corpses were regularly found floating in the harbour.

W
HEN
W
EDNESDAY
came, Hector was in an agony of anticipation. By ten o’clock in the morning he had completed the fifth copy of the chart, though the ink was still wet and he had to go down to Snead’s desk to take a pouncet box of sand to sprinkle over the parchment. ‘When will your clients arrive?’ he asked the architect.

‘We gather in the tavern this evening,’ Snead told him. ‘As soon as everyone is present, I will bring them across to inspect the work.’

The architect had dressed more carefully than usual and was shaved though he had nicked his chin with the razor in several places, and there were flecks of dried blood on his neckcloth. Hector wondered how much longer the architect would be able to do his own drawings now that his hand shook so badly. If the evening passed off well and Coxon did not appear, perhaps it was the moment to ask for permanent employment as a draughtsman. If Snead took him on permanently, it would mean that he could stay on in Port Royal and perhaps meet Susanna again. Increasingly Hector was aware that his attraction to the young woman was in conflict with his loyalty towards Dan, Jacques and his former shipmates. He could still accept Gutter-idge’s offer and sail for Petit Guave and there rejoin his friends. But he would have to hurry. The
Jamaica Merchant
was due to sail next day. Unable to make up his mind what he should do, he told himself that the events of the evening would decide the matter for him.

At sunset just before Snead left for his meeting in the tavern, he told Hector to prepare the upper room. He was to have all five copies of the chart set out on the table for inspection, and make sure that wine and grog were to hand. Then he was to go up to his own room in the garret and be ready if Snead called him. If summoned, he was not to speak to anyone, and he was to forget the faces of those in the room. Hector, still hoping that his fears of meeting Coxon were unfounded, made sure everything was ready but instead of withdrawing to the garret he stationed himself at the upper window. From there he could at least see who would be coming to collect the charts, and if necessary he could make his escape.

The street outside was as busy as usual in the cool of the evening. Clumps of drunken sailors stumbled and lurched from one alehouse and grog shop to the next, working whores paraded enticingly or disappeared up sidestreets and into doorways with their customers, several gaunt beggars importuned for alms, and – just once – a small patrol of militiamen straggled past, their uniforms ill-fitting and shabby. It was ten o’clock before he saw the door of the tavern open, the light spilling out, and a group of half a dozen men emerge. He recognised Snead at once, for the architect’s walk was familiar. There was enough of a moon to cast shadows, and as the little group began to walk towards the shop they passed into a pool of darkness. A few moments later Snead’s clients were at the door. Hector stood very still, listening. He had left the window open, and the sounds of the visitors came up to him clearly. He heard Snead, tipsy as usual, fumbling at the lock. The architect was apologising to his guests.

‘Hurry up, man,’ said a voice. ‘I don’t wish to be kept standing in the street for all to see.’

Hector knew Coxon’s voice at once. The buccaneer’s harsh bullying tone was unmistakable. The door opened, and Hector heard the men walk towards the stairs. Footsteps sounded on the boards.

Hector quietly tiptoed across to the table, gathered up one set of the charts, folded it in a neat square, and stuffed it into his shirt front. Stepping out onto the balcony, he swung a leg over the rail, and climbed over until he could let himself hang, his arms at full stretch. Then he let go. He had expected to land on the hard packed sand of the street. But as he dropped, his feet touched something soft, there was a grunt of surprise, and Hector sprawled sideways. As he struck the ground, he realised that he had not seen the man who was standing in the shadow of the doorway. Someone had been left as a lookout, and he was as startled as Hector.

Hector sprang to his feet as the stranger recovered and with a grunt of anger reached out to grab him. The young man ducked and twisted to one side, and sprinted away up the street. He expected to hear the sounds of running feet behind him as the lookout gave chase. But there was nothing. Hector could only imagine that the sentinel had gone inside to report on the incident and ask instructions. Hector forced himself to slow down to a walk. Earlier that afternoon he had consulted a town plan that Snead had made for the town commissioners. The drawing showed the haphazard pattern of Port Royal’s roads and alleyways, and Hector had picked out a discreet route that would bring him to the quayside on Thames Street. There he would search for the
Jamaica Merchant
and offer his services to Captain Gutteridge. But he had not calculated on colliding with one of Coxon’s men. He was certain that the lookout was from the buccaneer’s crew, most likely the man with the broken nose.

Hector shivered slightly as he tried to anticipate how the buccaneers would hunt him. Port Royal was such a small place that, without shelter, he would soon be found. He wondered just how many of the citizens, besides Snead, were friends with Captain Coxon and would be pleased to join the pursuit. If Snead were to mention that his assistant had been speaking with Captain Gutteridge earlier, the buccaneer would quickly guess where his quarry was heading. The young man was uncomfortably aware that, if he was to escape Coxon, he would have to move very quickly but also in an unexpected direction.

Making up his mind, Hector walked rapidly in the direction of Thames Street and turned up a narrow alleyway, Sea Lane, which brought him out on the waterfront. Away to his right stretched the line of ships tied to the wharves, their masts and spars and rigging making a black tracery against the night sky. His difficulty was that he did not know which of the vessels was the
Jamaica Merchant
. The most likely candidate was a small sloop almost at the farthest end of the wharf. But there was no one he could ask for information, and he did not want to draw attention to himself by rousing a night watchman and asking for directions.

For several moments he stood motionless, wondering what he should do. He had paused in the shelter of a warehouse doorway, and as he looked along the quay, two men appeared not fifty yards from him. They ran out from a laneway and turned to look in his direction. Hector shrank back farther into the shadow and when he peered out again, he saw that the men had decided to go in the opposite direction. They were proceeding briskly along the waterfront, looking into every side road, clearly searching for someone. At the farthest end of the quay, they halted. They appeared to confer together, and then one of them walked away and out of sight. His companion stayed where he was. There was enough moonlight to show that the figure had seated himself on a pile of lumber at a position where he could scan the waterfront.

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.