Buccaneer Read Free Page A

was uncomfortably aware of Coxon standing not ten feet away and observing him closely.
    ‘Your shipmates should reach Petit Guave in less than three days from now,’ the buccaneer captain observed. ‘If the authorities there believe their story, they’ll have nothing to worry about. If not . . .’ He gave a mirthless laugh.
    Hector knew that Coxon was goading him, trying to get a reaction.
    ‘Unusual, isn’t it . . .’ the captain went on and there was a hint of malice in his voice, ‘that Sir Thomas Lynch’s nephew should associate himself with a branded convict? How does that come about?’
    ‘We were both shipwrecked on the Barbary coast, and had to team up if we were to save ourselves and get clear,’ explained Hector. He tried to make his answer sound casual and unconcerned, though he was wracking his brains to think how he could learn more about his supposed relative, Sir Thomas Lynch, without arousing Coxon’s suspicion. Should the buccaneer discover he had been hoodwinked, any hope of reuniting with his friends would be lost. It was best to turn the questioning back on his captor.
    ‘You say you are bound for Jamaica. How long before we get there?’
    Coxon was not to be put off. ‘You know nothing of the island? Didn’t your uncle speak of it?’
    ‘I saw little of him when I was growing up. He was away much of the time, tending to his estate’ – that at least was a safe guess.
    ‘And where did your spend you childhood?’ Coxon was probing again.
    Fortunately the interrogation was interrupted by a shout from one of the lookouts at the masthead. He had seen another sail on the horizon. Immediately, Coxon broke off his questioning and began bawling orders at his crew to set more sail and take up the chase.

    A MID ALL the activity Hector sauntered over to the freshwater butt placed at the foot of the mainmast. It was only a few hours to sunset yet the day was still uncomfortably hot, and a pretence of thirst was an opportunity to move out of Coxon’s earshot.
    ‘What’s Jamaica like?’ he asked a sailor who was drinking from the wooden dipper.
    ‘Not what it was,’ replied the man. He was a rough-looking individual. The hand which held the pannikin lacked the top joints of three fingers, and his nose had been badly broken and set crooked. He smelled of stale sweat. ‘Used to be a grog shop at every corner, and harlots on parade in every street. They’d stroll up and down in their petticoats and red caps, as bold as you like, ready for all kinds of fun. And no questions asked about where you got your silver.’ The man belched, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and handed Hector the dipper. ‘That changed when our Henry got his knighthood. Things went quiet, but it’s all still there if you know what to look for, and hold your tongue afterwards.’ He gave Hector a sly look. ‘I reckon that even though he’s Sir Henry now, he still looks after his own. His sort will never be satisfied, however much he’s got.’
    Another titled Jamaican, and a rich one, Hector thought to himself. He wondered who this Sir Henry might be, and if he had any dealings with his ‘uncle’. He took a sip from the pannikin.
    ‘Wouldn’t mind getting a taste of those harlots myself,’ he observed, hoping to strike a comradely note. ‘We were more than six weeks at sea from Africa.’
    ‘No whoring this cruise,’ answered the sailor. ‘Port Royal is where the strumpets wag their tails, and the captain stays clear of that port unless he’s invited in. Nowadays he carries a Frenchy’s commission.’
    ‘From Petit Guave?’
    ‘The deputy governor there gives them out already signed and the names left blank. You fill in what you want and then go a-hunting, just as long as you let him have a tenth of any takings. Used to be much the same in Jamaica until that bastard Lynch started interfering.’
    Before Hector could ask what he meant, he heard Coxon’s steps on the deck behind him, and the