PIRATE: Privateer by Tim Severin Read Free Book Online

a pistol shot. Gaston looked down foolishly. A bullet had splintered
the deck beside his bare foot. Anne-Marie Kergonan held the smoking pistol in her hand. ‘Next time I aim for your crotch,’ she said.
    ‘What’s going on?’ demanded an angry voice. At the head of the companion ladder leading down from the poop deck stood an officer. Tall and good-looking, he was impeccably
dressed in a long dark blue coat edged with silver lace, well-polished bucket-top boots, white stockings and maroon breeches. A pale blue sash was wound around his waist. Hatless, he wore his thick
blond hair long and loose. But the most remarkable item of his appearance was his carefully brushed moustache. It was arranged in the old-fashioned Spanish style. The ends of the moustache curled
upwards on each side of his nose in two luxuriant and impressive curves.
    Hector would have judged the man as a dandy, but for Yannick’s reaction. It was completely unexpected. The Breton suddenly went quiet. ‘I’m sorry, captain,’ he mumbled
apologetically. He dropped his glance. ‘Don’t like to hear my sister spoken about that way.’
    ‘It seems she is well able to look after herself,’ observed the officer caustically. He turned to Anne-Marie and bowed. ‘Major Laurens de Graff, at your service.’
    This time Hector had no need to search his memory. Laurens de Graff was the most renowned filibustier in the Caribbean. He was said to be clever, arrogant, dangerous, and prone to outbursts of
violent temper. Born in the Netherlands, he had joined the Spanish Navy and risen to the rank of captain before being captured by pirates. He had promptly turned his coat and become a filibustier
himself. For fifteen years he had been achieving a string of remarkable successes. Evading the squadrons that his former masters had sent after him, he had captured ship after ship and become a
byword for courage, seamanship and daring. The English had tried to recruit him as a mercenary captain, offering to pay him well, but Hector had heard that Laurens de Graff had preferred to throw
in his lot with the French. They had given him a commission as a major in their colonial militia and allowed him to use their harbours for refuge and re-supply. But how he came to be in command of
a royal French warship was a mystery.
    De Graff was treating Anne-Marie Kergonan to a frankly appraising look.
    ‘A pleasure to welcome you aboard my ship, madam,’ he said.
    He turned to face Yannick. ‘Yannick Kergonan, isn’t it? You were with us at Campeche.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Yannick. ‘Nearly got caught by the Spaniards.’
    De Graff looked at Hector. ‘You are . . . ?’
    ‘Hector Lynch. I have chartered the pinnace
Morvaut
.’
    ‘Chartered for what purpose?’
    ‘To fish for wrecks on the Vipers.’
    Shrewd grey eyes regarded Hector. De Graff’s face was expressionless. ‘And have you had any success?’
    An impulse made Hector cautious. ‘Some success, not much.’
    De Graff beckoned to the petty officer and murmured something in his ear. Then he turned back to Hector. ‘Let us go to the poop deck. I presume you have proof of what you claim to
be.’
    As they mounted the companionway, Hector noticed that the petty officer and two sailors had commandeered the
Morvaut
’s skiff and were rowing across to visit the pinnace.
    ‘Your name sounds English,’ said de Graff as they reached the frigate’s poop deck. Two junior officers moved respectfully to one side.
    ‘I was born in Ireland but am currently living with my wife in Tortuga,’ Hector answered, and then corrected himself, ‘. . . in Tortille.’
    A lift of the eyebrow. De Graff was waiting for him to go on. ‘My wife is originally from Spain,’ Hector added lamely.
    ‘My own wife is from the Canaries,’ said de Graff amiably, ‘though I see little of her nowadays, being at sea so much. May I see your papers?’
    Hector looked across at Anne-Marie. From the wallet she was carrying she