The Privateer

  Josephine Tey

  The Privateer

  THE PRIVATEER

  By

  GORDON DAVIOT

  (Josephine Tey)

  (1896–1952)

  LONDON: PETER DAVIES

  FIRST PUBLISHED 1952

  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN FOR PETER DAVIES LIMITED

  BY RICHARD CLAY AND COMPANY LIMITED.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  1

  Below the veranda in the noon sunlight stood a cluster of slaves and bond-servants, bright and noisy as macaws.

  In other climes light is a negative thing: a mere absence of darkness. But in the islands when the fronds of the palm-trees move in the wind the light runs in and out among them like a live thing. So now when the restless island wind played with the kerchiefs and the petticoats the light, too, danced and ran, and the crowd moved continuously, like a field of flowers in the sun.

  Only one among them did not move: the young man with the black hair who was leaning against the jacaranda tree. He looked equable but absent-minded.

  A house-slave staggered on to the veranda carrying the estate-book. They greeted him with jests and laughter, and he stuck his tongue out at them. He put the book down on the table and fled from their mockery. Then the factor came, and waited by the table, and some of the chatter and shrieking died away. Their interest narrowed on the book. They all knew the book. Indeed, to some of them it represented all the identity they had ever had. And today the book was of acute importance.

  Then their master walked on to the veranda, and the crowd hushed to stillness in the dancing wind and the light. After him came his son, to stand behind his father’s shoulder.

  The factor sat down at the table and opened the book, and the tired, middle-aged man stepped forward a little so that they might see him the better, and began to speak to them.

  They listened to him, but only with their ears. They knew already all that he had to say. The drought. The blighted canes. The lack of work for them. The lack of food. The lack of money to buy any, to keep them alive until next season. They knew it all already. They had lived with the drought and alongside the dead canes and the blasted cocoa trees. They had come there this morning to be given their freedom. That was all that interested them.

  There was a written paper for each of them, he said, that would show to all that they were free men and not runaways, and they must keep the paper and show it to any who asked.

  Then the factor called the first name.

  ‘John Alison.’

  A negro capered like a figure on the end of a string.

  ‘Field hand. Slave.’

  ‘You may go,’ said his master, and the black took the magic piece of paper from the factor and bounded laughing back to the throng.

  ‘Michel Duchesne.’

  The Frenchman came forward; a small, gnarled man.

  ‘Field hand. Bondsman. Engaged for seven years; has served five.’

  ‘You may go.’

  ‘Ah Ling.’

  The Chinese bowed.

  ‘Field hand. Slave.’

  ‘You may go.’

  ‘Elias Brown.’

  The mulatto came smiling.

  ‘Field hand. Slave.’

  ‘You may go.’

  ‘Maria Perez.’

  The Indian half-breed swung her full skirts in a curtsey.

  ‘Sorter. Slave.’

  ‘You may go.’

  ‘William Chapman.’

  The huge jailbird shouldered his way out of the crowd.

  ‘Field hand. Slave.’

  ‘You may go.’

  ‘Candlemas.’

  The Indian came doubtfully.

  ‘Field hand. Slave.’

  ‘You may go.’

  ‘Henry Morgan.’

  The young man detached himself from the tree.

  ‘Field hand. Of late, clerk in the estate office. Bondsman. Engaged for four years and has served two.’

  ‘You may go.’

  The young man took his discharge and was turning away when the youth came from behind his father and said: ‘Wait! It was you who caught my pony the day he bolted. Wasn’t it?’

  ‘That was I.’

  ‘Here!’ said the youth, and flung a coin. It was a gold coin, and it lay in the dust while the young man eyed it. And everyone else eyed the young man.

  ‘Does a Welshman refuse good money?’ asked the youth.

  ‘No. But a Morgan cannot pick it up.’

  ‘It seems to be deadlock.’

  ‘Not quite. You could make it a loan.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the youth, amused. ‘A loan it is.’

  ‘Pick it up,’ said the young man to the slave who was standing nearest; and the slave did meekly as he was bid and handed over the coin.

  The young man bowed to his benefactor. ‘At the usual rate of interest, sir,’ he said, and turned away.

  ‘Jan Martin,’ summoned the factor.

  But the young man did not wait to see. He went back to his tree, picked up the bundle that was lying there ready, and walked away without a backward glance.

  ‘Harr-ee!’ cried a girl, breaking from the press and running after him. ‘Harr-ee!’

  She came to the edge of the terrace as he came level with her on the path below.

  ‘Good-bye, Chloe,’ he said, without stopping.

  ‘But, Harr-ee! You are not going now, this minute, are you? You are staying for the festa, for the dance, for the celebration? Surely! You are not going before tonight!’

  But he went steadily away.

  ‘Harr-ee!’

  ‘Good-bye,’ he called, without turning his head.

  She stood on the terrace pouting, and watched him grow small down the long avenue to the lane.

  When she could no longer see him she went back to her fellows.

  And Henry Morgan walked away into the landscape with a bundle of clothes, and a gold coin, and his freedom.

  He knew better what to do with the coin than what to do with his freedom. Having had a more intimate acquaintance with the estate’s finances than is the lot of most servants, he had known weeks ago that this must come, and he had lain awake of nights on his bed on the office floor pondering his future.

  That he slept in peace in the office quiet, and not among the snores, stenches, and quarrelling in the bunkhouse was typical of Henry Morgan. When he had first asked the factor’s permission to spread his pallet there of nights, the factor had said tartly that his office was neither a hospital nor a flop-house. Henry accepted the prohibition with the proper disappointment and began to make mistakes in his arithmetic. He continued to make mistakes in his arithmetic, and when the maddened factor asked what had come over that alert and accurate brain of his, he had explained that sleepless nights in the bunkhouse forbade that his brain should ever be either alert or accurate. After that Henry slept on the office floor. And until three or four weeks ago had slept unmoving till cockcrow.

  But of late he had lain awake thinking about his freedom. And today, walking away to his future, he still did not know what he was going to do with it.

  It was much too hot to be walking with any degree of pleasure, even in the shade, but at least he had an immediate purpose. He was going to keep on walking until he came to the sea. The sea was the symbol of his freedom. The sea was freedom made tangible and manifest.

  And he amused himself by picturing h
ow it would look. In what mood would he find it? Pale and translucent? Or patterned purple and green by the shoals? Or leaping all over into little white tufts like a baby’s cockscomb? Or oily and dark, indigo-blue, with a sullen swell?

  It was in its taffeta mood. Palest blue taffeta, of the very best quality. He stretched himself out in the shade and looked at it. Bland and innocent, it lay at his feet, curling at the edges into a foam demure as lace.

  The sea. He gave a great sigh and his eyelids drooped. The sea. He was alone and free, and the world was his for the taking. What did it matter that he was two years short of the sum he had counted on? He had never been quite sure, in any case, what he was going to do with the money. What most people did with money in Barbados was to buy land. Fine, rich, virgin land that would pay a man back a hundred-fold—when there was no drought. But not he. It was from land that he had run away. He had had some idea of buying a place in one of the foot companies that defended Barbados against the importunities of Spain. That had seemed an appropriate occupation for the nephew of two distinguished soldiers and the descendant of more. Now that was no longer possible, but he was something short of heartbroken. It had been only an idea. The world was full of ideas, running over with opportunity. He could no longer buy his future, but there was nothing to hinder his making it.

  He lay supine in the shade, so relaxed that he could feel the earth pushing up against him. The leaves whispered above him, the insects sang past him in endless pursuit of unimaginable business, the surf made a soft susurration in his ears. Free. He was free. There was nothing a man could not do if he was young and free.

  For an hour he lay there unmoving and dreamed; but no longer. Leisure palled. Leisure was never a love of Henry Morgan’s. Moreover, when you are young you grow hungry, and when you are free you do not have to eat food out of the communal trough any more. Good food waited for him in Bridgetown. He would go and get it. He would sit like a lord at a table covered with a fair white cloth and pick and choose from a dozen dainties while menials hovered round to anticipate his wishes. A pair of denim breeches and a frieze coat were perhaps not the best introduction to the finest places in Bridgetown, but he had money to pay for what he wanted. He might lack the sum that would set him up as commander of a company, but he had, thank God, enough to buy himself the best meal west of the Azores.

  This more practical dream lasted him to the outskirts of Bridgetown, where his youth and his hunger betrayed him. It was late afternoon: dinner-time; and from all around him in the frowsy suburb there rose the succulent smells of cooking. His boy’s stomach yearned and his teeth were awash. Ignoring the unswept porch and the fish-heads in the dust, he stopped at a workman’s eating-house and wolfed an enormous bowlful of fish stew, hot and spiced and various. It might not be the best meal west of the Azores, but no meal had ever tasted better.

  He topped it off with the usual rum, and sat, gorged and amiable, playing with the black babies who rolled at his feet in the dust. They were very beautiful, the babies; fat and merry. One had found a drooping scarlet flower and had stuck it behind his ear in imitation of the local bloods. His innocently rakish eye, together with the coquettish bloom, enchanted Henry, and he laughed aloud. Which had the effect of recalling him to his own purposes. He reminded himself that enchanting black babies grew up to be stupid and unreliable adults of uncontrolled imagination and invincible laziness, and having by this sternness detached himself from their infant wiles, he took his bundle and sauntered on into the town.

  The thatch and rain-stained plaster gave place to stone and tiles, and pleasant arcades against the heat. He lingered by the shop-windows, planning a wardrobe for himself. He hung over the sea-wall, counting the ships in harbour and analysing their rig. The sea had stopped being taffeta and was now a burning shield of silver, so fierce and colourless that the ships lacked reflection and stood as if stranded on it.

  ‘Looking for me, John-ny?’ a woman said, laying her elbows on the wall alongside him.

  ‘No,’ he said, and moved on.

  Along the harbour front were the taverns and eating-houses. The more popular hummed and clattered, and hot gusts that were as strong of human sweat as of food came reeking from their open doors. From one a sailor was pitched drunk into the gutter. He sat up, shaken and bewildered, and presently began to laugh tipsily to himself. ‘Change of scene. Change of scene,’ he said to Morgan as he passed. ‘Vastly puzzling.’ The quieter places were not yet full—or perhaps were never full. Henry passed them all in review—he was in no hurry to eat now, but he had a thirst—and chose the Dolphin, one of the older and less garish places with a garden at the back of it. After the brilliance of the harbour the interior was so dark that he was for a moment at a loss. He put out his hand and felt a chair-back. So it was the kind of place that had chairs. He had no idea that such elegance existed in Bridgetown. The chair was empty, and he sat down on it against the wall.

  A voice in the dimness asked his wants and, remembering his former promises to himself, he said: ‘I want some imported wine. Have you claret?’

  ‘We have claret,’ said the voice, ‘but I doubt if you’d like it.’

  ‘Why? Has it not carried?’

  ‘Claret’s a wine for the quality.’

  There was a moment’s pause. He could see the man now, and realised that it was not at all dark in the room. The front part of the building was used, it seemed, for those who wanted merely to drink and talk. Three arches divided it from the rear portion, which was furnished with dining-tables and was open to the garden.

  ‘Bring me the wine,’ he said, ‘and let me be the judge of quality.’

  The quietness of the reprimand daunted the waiter, and he went away hostile but obedient. He came back and set the wine down with a gesture that was as near insult as he could make it.

  Henry had silver in his pocket, but his Celt vanity, pricked by the man’s sneer, was too much for him. He dropped his gold piece with a fine casual movement on to the table, so that it rolled a little and spun before settling. The waiter checked his dawning expression of surprise and went to get change.

  Henry was childishly delighted—until he saw his change.

  ‘Claret’s expensive,’ said the waiter, enjoying him.

  ‘I gave you a gold piece.’

  ‘You gave me a Spanish “eight”.’

  ‘A gold piece,’ Henry said through his teeth.

  ‘I don’t think that’s very likely, now, is it?’ said the man, with a diabolic air of reasonableness, and Henry, with contracted heart, realised that on appearances it was indeed unlikely. Who would take his word against the waiter’s?—the word of a man in workman’s clothes who claimed to have paid for a flagon of wine with a gold piece?

  ‘The gentleman gave you a gold piece, cock,’ said a gentle Cockney voice on his right.

  The waiter favoured the man at the next table with a baleful glare.

  ‘And who—’ he began.

  ‘Me and my friends don’t like mistakes,’ said the little elderly man in the same reflective croon, and the waiter looked suddenly doubtful.

  ‘A conspiracy, is it?’ he said, and began to retreat. ‘Or should I say a cons-pyracy?’ With which fling he gave the proper change, retired to the doorway, and stood there glowering.

  ‘Thank you,’ Henry said to his neighbour. ‘I am much obliged to you, sir.’

  ‘It’s nothing, nothing,’ said the little man. ‘Your good health.’

  The wine tasted thin and harsh after the island rum, but it was cool from the cellar, and Henry was glad of it. The place was pleasant, and the customers had the air of habitués. No one had taken any notice of the altercation with the serving-man; perhaps they had not overheard it.

  From beyond the archway he met the glance of a man who was dining there with a friend. The man did not look away when their eyes met, and Henry wondered whether it was that the man found him interesting or whether he found him so insignificant as to represent merely a blank space. />
  He became aware that his companion was talking to him.

  ‘You belong to the island, young man?’

  Henry said that he had been employed in Barbados, but was now planning a different future.

  ‘What name do you go by?’

  ‘My own.’

  ‘Well, well, don’t jump down my throat, boy. I go by the name of Bartholomew Kindness, and Kindness was my father’s name and Bartholomew is what I was baptised.’

  ‘I had not meant— My name is Henry Morgan.’

  ‘From old England,’ Bartholomew said, approving.

  ‘Wales,’ said the conscientious Morgan.

  ‘And what, if you won’t jump down my throat, are you planning for the future?’

  Henry said that he had not yet decided, but that if Bartholomew had no immediate plans for this evening and had not yet dined he would be very glad to be his host.

  For one horrible moment, while Bartholomew hesitated, Henry was afraid that Bartholomew was doubting his ability to afford it and was going to refuse out of sheer good heart.

  But Bartholomew’s heart was bigger even than that. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I should be greatly honoured.’

  Before he could sound Bartholomew about his own affairs, Mad Meg came in from the street, and made her mechanical round of the tables. That part of her dirty white locks which did not stand on end hung down to her sharp chin, and from their ambush her pale old eyes looked forth, bright and glowing as coals. ‘Ribbons and laces,’ she said, ‘ribbons and laces,’ exhibiting from her crone’s fingers the same tattered merchandise that served her year in, year out.

  The proprietor noticed her with resignation, and the waiter with fury and loathing. Neither was prepared to risk her curses. No Brahminee bull was ever safer in Hind than Mad Meg in Bridgetown.

  She paused to stare at Morgan, aware perhaps that here was a new face. A little embarrassed by her withdrawn regard and by the attention that her interest was bringing upon him, he bade her good-afternoon.

  ‘Black hair and blue eyes,’ she said. And then, irrelevantly: ‘It’s green, green, in Kildare.’