The Scent of Betrayal (8 page)

‘We have a mystery on our hands, James,’ he said, passing the telescope to his brother. ‘A ship that has no crew, no flags, and no apparent destination.’

‘I take it we are about to investigate.’

‘Most certainly,’ Harry replied, as Pender handed him a sword and his pistols.

‘Perhaps they all perished in the recent storm,’ said James. ‘Swept overboard.’

‘No, brother. That fellow has not been in any storm. In fact, given that he has new canvas aloft that’s in a pristine state, I doubt he’s been made to suffer even a serious blow.’

‘How could he avoid it?’

‘Easily, James. He may not have been at sea for very long. Perhaps, for instance, he’s just set sail from the security of a well-protected harbour.’

Harry changed course immediately. But he made sure before he did so that the lookout understood his dual responsibilities. He must keep an eye on that deserted deck. But just as much of his concentration should be set to watching the horizon, to ensure that this ship, wallowing in the water, was not some elaborate form of bait.

HARRY APPROACHED
the high-sided caravel with excessive caution, guns loaded and run out and men in the tops with muskets to cover the deck. The whole ship creaked eerily as the light wind and the leeway of the Gulf waters inched it along over the gentle swell. The unmanned wheel spun back and forth, jerking occasionally as the sails took the wind, only to ease back as the vessel, lacking a firm rudder, payed off. His shouts through the speaking trumpet elicited no response. He ordered Pender to lower a boat so that he could be rowed round for a thorough inspection along the waterline. Close to the lowered bows the list to starboard was more evident. He also observed the dark red line that ran from one of the forward scuppers, staining the ship’s painted side. And here and there on the bulwarks the wood showed clean and bright where a sharp instrument had hacked at it. Had this caravel recently been in a fight? A call to
Bucephalas
saw a grappling iron cast that lashed tight brought the drifting ship to a halt. Pender then brought the barge in under the main chains. There was no need of a rope to get aboard, the chains being so close to the waterline, and Harry jumped up as soon as she touched. Scrabbling over the bulwarks he threw himself onto the deck and drew his sword. Pender was beside him before he’d cleared his scabbard, followed by the rest of the barge crew.

The sight that greeted them was the stuff of sailors’ deepest superstitions. A vessel devoid of human life, with no indication where the crew had gone. The planking was spotted here and there, in some kind of square, with dark, dried blood, but it was insufficient for any fierce contest and the rest of the deck was
merely untidy in the manner to be expected of a merchant vessel. The four small-calibre guns the ship carried were bowsed tight against their ports, with no indication that they’d even been loosened from their breechings. The chicken-coop, set amidships on the foredeck, was empty, feathers weaving to and fro on the breeze. Harry examined the cut marks on the rail, touching the slight drop of blood that lay at the centre of a few of them. All seemed confined to a small area, as though they’d been part of some concentrated task. But the deck by the scupper was different, showing much more evidence of bloodletting. He knelt beside the largest stain, one deep enough to have resisted the warm Tropical air. It retained a slightly tacky feel and a corrupt odour, which had Harry sniffing at the ends of his stained fingers.

Pushing himself upright he stood for a moment in silent contemplation before making his way to the wheel to take control of the ship. The orders he issued to his boarding party had them easing the braces so that by backing and filling he could bring her under his own control. From his position by the wheel, looking along the canted deck, the list was very obvious, though he reckoned it posed no immediate danger. Wooden ships were hard to sink and, given that there was no sound of any pressure on the bulkheads below, this one had a long way to go before the water threatened to make it founder. Handing Pender his sword, he turned towards the cabin door and drew one of his pistols. Gingerly, he pushed it open and entered the shaded interior. The master’s day cabin, off to his right, had an open chart on the table, with a quill pen standing ready in the inkwell and a pair of dividers, accompanied by a ruler, on top. The course penned on the chart indicated that this ship had been bound for the Keys, no doubt intent on using the Florida Channel to exit into the Atlantic. A faint odour of recently cooked food assailed his nostrils as he passed what would have been the steward’s quarters. This increased the moment he opened the main cabin door, though in the Captain’s quarters it had a stale quality.

The cabin was, in the nature of such ships, exceedingly spacious and well appointed. The dining table, set across, bore the remains of a feast, all of it in a heap where it had slid as the vessel wallowed in the swell. A huge silver tureen occupied the centre of the confused mass of dishes. The rack of decanters, half full, sat atop a wine cooler, gleaming as the sunlight streaming through the casements to play upon the delicate crystal. Pender, hard on Harry’s heels, examined the side cabins, shaking his head to indicate that they too were devoid of humanity. Meanwhile Harry separated the dishes on the table. Set for three, the half-finished food on two of the plates was cold. The other plate was clean and Harry noticed that only two chairs had been brought to the table. The soup in the tureen had congealed. All three glasses, locked into slots and thus still upright, carried a residue of wine at the bottom. He spotted the chronometers as he walked round the table towards the Captain’s carved desk, beautiful pieces encased in fine mahogany. Silently he studied them. But being set to a different time than those he used himself, they told him little regarding his actual position.

The centre of the bulkhead behind him was dominated by two portraits, one large and imposing, the other much smaller. Harry assumed the dominant one to be the Captain. He was florid of complexion, dressed in a dark burgundy velvet coat, a thick red band bearing a diamond-studded star across his waistcoat. One leg was set forward and in his hand he held what looked like an Imperial Roman baton. The eyes gazed over the artist’s head at some unseen but decidedly puissant destiny. His back was to a set of small-paned windows, hung with blue damask drapes edged with gold, through which a white wake stretched endlessly off into the deep blue sea. His other hand, fingers splayed out, rested on an elaborately carved desk, beside a large globe. Turning to look behind him, Harry was confronted, over the laden table, with the very same setting, lacking only the globe and the ship’s wake. Clearly, when he’d stood to be immortalised he’d done so in this
very cabin. The smaller portrait showed a rather bland-looking female, whose eyes lacked any expression, leaving Harry to conclude that the male portrait was the far better picture.

A quick search of the desk drawers produced the usual detritus of a Captain’s life; writing materials, manifests, sealing wax, the personal pieces that any travelling man hoards. One drawer contained a brace of expensive pistols still in their case, the brass plate on the top of the box stating that they were the property of one J. B. Rodrigo. In another, papers, marked with the same name, that looked like some form of commission, judging by the flowing officialese of the writing and the heavy embossed seals at the base – not that he could make any sense of them. But the Captain’s log, once he’d opened it at the most recent page, told him all he needed to know.

Spanish was not a language Harry was overly familiar with, having just enough to make himself understood in an Iberian port, but the odd word made sense. The names, dates, and courses he could decipher. These told him that this ship, the
Gauchos de Andalusia
under the command of one Juan Baptiste Rodrigo, had left New Orleans five days previously, and had only cleared the Mississippi delta at Fort Balize in the last 36 hours. He thought he recognised the words that indicated Rodrigo had, in fog, followed the wrong channel out of the delta, and ended up stuck on a sandbank for his pains.

Harry knew Pender was watching him, dying to ask questions, but he merely looked at him as if he had the answer to this mystery. Pender shook his head to indicate the opposite and his Captain turned to finish his examination. The foot-lockers revealed little except that whoever had occupied this cabin was masculine and a fussy dresser. They were full of fine garments, coats, waistcoats, breeches, and shirts, all carefully packed and smelling of camphor. The sleeping cabin, with its double cot, appeared to have been occupied by a couple, though there were few female garments. Lastly he examined the main door to the cabin, which had a lock but no key. He was just about to institute a search for
it when he remembered Pender’s skills in that department.

‘Please secure the door behind us,’ Harry said as he made to leave. ‘I don’t want anyone in here just yet.’

There was a slight pause before Pender responded with the obligatory, ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’ Harry heard the rattle of picks as he made his way up the corridor to emerge once more onto the sunlit deck.
Bucephalas
was now alongside, with James leaning nonchalantly on the rail. Harry, a great deal higher up than his brother, leant over and called to him.

‘What have you found?’ asked James.

‘Apart from the fact that she’s Spanish, and was Captained by a fellow called Rodrigo, there’s nothing that would make any sense, as yet.’

‘The ship is empty, then?’

‘So far. I’ve yet to look below.’

‘Will she float?’

‘I think so,’ Harry replied. ‘Why?’

‘I just thought we might solve two problems in one by requesting that our French guests take this ship to New Orleans themselves?’

‘No, brother. I can’t put that many men aboard without making her more secure. That means frapping the hull with a tarred sail, which would take for ever. With the hold full of cargo and water we would be hard pressed to come at the source of the leak even if we pumped ship all day. And doing that could move whatever it is that’s kept her afloat this long. The odds suggest that matters would be best left as they are. Besides, even frapped, we’d need to go with them as far as the delta just in case it failed. And then there’s the salvage value to consider. Nothing would induce me to hand that over to them as well.’

‘If they were on this deck while our crew are on their own it would lessen the danger of an ugly incident.’

‘Not if our crew thought we were enriching them even more.’

‘Captain!’ Harry turned to see Dreaver standing by the companionway, his sharp, foxy features screwed up in apparent
confusion. ‘There’s something mighty odd down below here that I reckon you should see.’

Harry followed him down the steps into the waist, then on down to the lower deck. The caravel, being a cargo ship, had deep holds below the crew’s sleeping quarters. These, cramped and filthy, were arranged round the sides of the vessel. The hatches were open and piles of pungent tobacco lay strewn around each lip. As Harry approached he stepped on a brown substance spread about on the floor. It was the colour of hard sand, yet it glistened slightly and made a peculiar scrunching sound underfoot. He bent to touch it, picking up a faint odour of molasses. Gingerly he pinched some in his hand and raised it to his nose, sniffing like a nervous animal. Then he put some on his tongue.

‘What is that stuff, your honour?’

‘That I don’t know, Dreaver. But it tastes and smells just like sugar.’

‘Ain’t like no sugar I ever saw.’

Harry shook his head slowly, then looked around him. The empty boxes that had contained the mess had been thrown carelessly into an untidy pile. Dreaver lowered a lantern into the hold to reveal that all the containers still inside had their lids torn off, with deep indentations in the contents as though some of each had been removed. A great deal had spilt down the sides of the bales of cotton which formed the next layer of cargo, and where it had come into contact with damp it formed an unpleasant sludge. Harry could hear the water sloshing around at the lower levels, but it was clearly confined, since a quick calculation of the total number of barrels he could see, added to what he suspected still lay below, showed that the
Gauchos
had left port with a full cargo. It was a thoughtful Harry Ludlow who examined the empty bread room and the barren meat and dry goods stores. Returning to the main deck, idly casting an eye towards the forepeak, he observed that the manger was empty. No pigs, cattle, or goats filled the space, though the odour from the disturbed straw bore witness to their recent presence.

‘Dreaver, a word to my brother, if you please. Inform him
that we will be towing the ship. Ask Pender to take charge of a party aboard to secure the cable as well as a man to ease the rudder. If my brother wishes to come aboard himself, he may do so.’

James, having learned all about the layout of the main cabin from Pender, joined Harry in the set of cabins immediately below. There were two on each side of a large oak table. Harry was in the one furthest from the door, fingering the garments that he’d laid out on top of some crisp linen sheets. The smell of camphor was quite strong. A sea-chest lay open before him, the bright colour of expensive material gleaming in the fitful light that filtered through the salt-encrusted casements.

‘A woman?’ said James.

Harry nodded. ‘It may be that you will know more than I about this. But my guess is that these are the property of someone reasonably young. The garments are exceedingly vivid, though not what I would term fashionable.’

James took the piece that Harry was holding, fingering the elaborate embroidery that edged the upper part of the dress. ‘This is made of some form of very fine animal skin, Harry. No trace of any kind of struggle?’

‘None. I can’t even say for certain that this cabin was occupied. The cot is made up but appears unused.’

James looked around, noticing the mirror above the chest, with combs, pins, and some lace hanging beside it.

‘There was certainly a lady next door, but I think she’s older, judging by the clothes. Certainly she was untidier and may well have been sea-sick.’ James needed no telling about that. A cabin occupied by someone who’d suffered that affliction had a smell all of its own which lasted for days after the event. ‘And we’re overburdened with art. There are two paintings in the main cabin, and a case containing a portrait in the cabin opposite. It would be interesting to know if it was painted recently.’

‘Shall I have a look?’ asked James, curious to know why, but prepared to wait for an answer.

‘By all means.’

He was gone less than a minute. The crumpled, sick-stained
sheets in the corner overbore the vinegar which had been used to contain the smell. Returning with the round leather container, an object specially designed to carry rolled-up works of art, he pulled the portrait out gently and opened it. The light wasn’t good but both could see the pale features of a young woman who was quite a beauty. Her eyes, modestly cast down, indicated rigid Spanish decorum. The chair in which she sat had a high back with an armorial carving at the top. A dog wearing a jewelled collar sat at her feet, while in the background a white wooden mansion stood surrounded by trees draped in moss.