“You’re fortunate that insurance premiums have fallen since the peace with the English,” Alfonso points out spitefully. “Besides, you can always recover it with your own corsair.”
Lolita, looking at Captain Virués, sees a shadow pass over the officer’s face when he hears the word corsair. Since their conversation on the night of the English ambassador’s reception, neither of them has mentioned Pépé Lobo, but she assumes that Virués is aware of the sailor’s adventures. Since being fitted out by the houses of Palma and Sánchez Guinea, the corsair cutter has been mentioned several times in the Cádiz newspapers. Among its first seizures were a polacca carrying a cargo of 3,000 fanegas of wheat and the fortunate capture of a brigantine out of Puerto Rico carrying enough cocoa, sugar and dyewood to repay their original investment. The most recent report appeared in El Vigía de Cádiz exactly a week ago: “Arrived into port today a French místico captured by the crew of the corsair Culebra en route between Barbate and Cádiz carrying a cargo of aguardiente, wheat, leather and mail …” What the newspaper fails to mention is that the místico was fitted with six cannons and steadfastly resisted capture; and that, when it finally dropped anchor, there were two gravely injured crewmen aboard the Culebra and two more of Pépé Lobo’s men at the bottom of the sea.
THE HUGE GAFF-SAIL flaps wildly, causing the cutter to lurch and roll violently while the mast and the black hull of the boat shudder. Astern, next to the two helmsmen struggling to maneuver the leather-encased iron tiller, Pépé Lobo steers the crippled vessel into a headwind that shivers the slack jib and sends the long boom swinging above his head. He can smell the linstocks smoking on the starboard side next to the four 6-pound guns which, on the orders of bo’sun Brasero are pointed at a tartane lurching within pistol range, its triangular sails flapping loose. Lobo knows that, with things as they are, the purpose of aiming the cannons at the prey from such close range is mostly to command respect. Firing would be impossible without endangering his own men; the raucous boarding party, led by Ricardo Maraña and armed with pikes, axes, pistols and cutlasses, have the tartane’s crew cornered in the stern, some eighteen men retreating along the deck. On the starboard side, below the mainmast channels, the planking and part of the gunwale have been blown to pieces, indicating the spot where the Culebra, having run it down, rammed its prey—the tartane, ignoring the signals, was attempting to escape—just long enough for twenty men armed to the teeth to leap from one ship to the other.
Maraña is a professional. He does this better than anyone. In such situations it is vital not to allow your adversary time to think; Maraña operates with his customary efficiency. Hands on the gunwale of the cutter, keeping a weather eye on the position of the Culebra’s sails and sheets with respect to the wind, ensuring they stay abreast of the tartane, Pépé Lobo watches his first mate move across the deck of the captured brig. Pale, hatless, dressed entirely in black, the lieutenant of the Culebra brandishes a sword in his right hand, a pistol in his left and another pistol tucked in his belt. Since boarding the vessel, neither he nor his men have had to use their swords or fire a single shot. Overwhelmed by the ferocity of the assault, by the shouting and the appearance of the corsairs, the crew of the tartane seem unsure whether to offer resistance. One or two appear to consider the idea, only to falter and retreat. They are intimidated by the aggressive manner of their assailants, by the shouting and the threats, by the intrepid air of the young leader and the insolent, devil-may-care way he jabs his sword at them and tells them to throw down their weapons. They cower next to the helm, which lurches and jolts since there is no one manning it. The flag of two red and three yellow stripes—flown both by patriots and by those loyal to Joseph Bonaparte—flutters from a short ensign staff on the taffrail. Below it, a man who appears to be the tartane’s owner stands waving his arms, as though encouraging his men to resist—or perhaps to discourage them. From the Culebra it is possible to see a brawny man grabbing a large knife or a machete and confronting Maraña, but the first mate simply shoves him aside and, with astonishing composure, elbows his way through the crew members to the owner and coolly presses the pistol against the man’s chest while, with his other hand, he cuts the halyard of the flag and it plummets into the sea.
Suicidal son of a bitch, mutters Pépé Lobo. He always has to go in with all sails set, heading straight for hell. El Marquesito, they call him—The Little Marquis. Lobo is still smiling as he turns to Brasero the bo’sun.
“Clear the decks,” he orders. “Make fast the cannons and lower the launch.”
The bo’sun blows his whistle and runs the length and breadth of the cutter—seventy-five feet by eighteen—giving the appropriate orders. Meanwhile, aboard the tartane, as the men in the boarding party disarm their adversaries and force them below decks, Maraña goes over to the gunwale and gives the signal—arms raised, wrists crossed—meaning the boat has surrendered and is under their control. Then he disappears into the deckhouse. Lobo takes out his pocket watch and checks the time—9:48 a.m.—then tells the ship’s clerk to make a note of it in the log. He looks out to larboard toward the hazy dark shape he can just make out through the gray mists shrouding the coast: they are east of the Aceitera bank, about two miles south of Cape Trafalgar. So ends the pursuit that began at dawn, when from the deck of the Culebra a single sail was spotted heading north, having almost crossed the Straits. Though they approached flying no flag, the crew of the tartane, clearly suspicious, set more sail with the east wind trying to make it to shelter at Barbate. But the swifter Culebra, with its copper-sheathed hull, sailing under full canvas including the fore and gaff topsails, gave pursuit for an hour and a half. They hoisted their French corsair flag and in response the tartane hoisted theirs without slowing down; finally Captain Lobo gave the order to haul down the French flag and raise the Spanish corsair flag, and mark the change with a cannon shot. The tartane slackened its sheets, the Culebra maneuvered to come alongside so it could get Maraña and his men aboard, and that was the end of the story. For now.
“Bo’sun!”
Brasero rushes over. Dark-skinned, thickset, with gray hair and mustaches, barefoot like most of the crew, Brasero’s face, etched with deep lines like knife wounds, is smiling now they have made their capture. The crew of the cutter are in high spirits: while the men busy themselves lowering the launch and deciding who will sail the tartane back to Cádiz or Tarifa, they make guesses about the cargo in her hold and what their share might be once it has been brought ashore and sold.
“Put two men up with a spyglass, I want them looking out for any sail. And keep a weather eye to windward … I don’t want the Barbate brigantine catching us off guard.”
“Yes, señor.”
Pépé Lobo is a cautious sailor; he does not want any surprises. The French have a fast, 12-gun brig, moored sometimes near Barbate, sometimes near Sanlúcar, an implacable ship they use to patrol the coast. At sea, the roles in the game of cat and mouse can swiftly be reversed; the hunter can become the hunted. It’s a matter of luck, and also of having a good eye and good seafaring instincts. In this occupation, a little healthy doubt and a perpetual mistrust of the weather, the sea, the wind, the sails, the enemy and even your own crew are essential qualities for remaining free and alive. A week ago, the Culebra reluctantly abandoned a vessel that had already surrendered—a small schooner, cornered in the cove at Bolonia—when they spotted the sails of the French brig approaching rapidly from the west; a fact that also forced the corsair to make a tiresome detour into the Straits, where it would be protected by the Spanish gun emplacements at Tarifa.
The launch carrying the ship’s clerk, the first officer and the crew who will sail the captured tartane back to port is already pulling away from the Culebra, rowing hard against the swell. The tartane is still a pistol shot away, within hailing distance. Ricardo Maraña reappears on deck carrying a brass loud-hailer which he uses to communicate the name, cargo and destination of the captured ship. It is the Teresa del Palo, fit
ted with two 4-pounders, registered in Málaga, en route from Tangier to the mouth of the Barbate River with a cargo of leather, oil and jars of olives, raisins and almonds. Pépé Lobo nods, satisfied. Given the cargo and its destination any Prize Court*1 would rule it fair game. He glances up at the pennant indicating the wind direction, then out to sea where the clouds scud high in the gray sky. The east wind rose last night and will hold firm, so there should be no problem sailing the tartane back to Cádiz with the Culebra as escort. For three weeks now, they have been plying the waters between Gibraltar and the cape Santa María. A few days in port will do everyone good—the plummeting barometer further suggests this is a sensible idea and, who knows, perhaps the Prize Court has reached a decision on one of their previous captures; that way the officers and crew can be paid what is due to them according to the Letter of Marque and their contract with the shipowners. One-third of the proceeds is to be divided among the crew, with seven parts paid to the captain, five to the first officer, three to the bo’sun and the ship’s clerk, two parts to each sailor and one to shipboys or cabin boys, not counting the eight parts set aside for the gravely injured, to cover funeral expenses and for orphans and widows.
“Cannons have been secured and tampions fixed, Captain. No sign of a sail on the horizon.”
“Thank you, bo’sun. As soon as Señor Maraña and the boarding party get back, trim the sheets.”
“Destination?”
“Cádiz.”
The bo’sun gives a broad smile, as does the first helmsman—a strapping blond man nicknamed “the Scotsman,” although his name is Machucha and he hails from San Roque. Then, while Brasero heads back toward the bow, checking that everything on deck has been stowed, the sheets and halyards are clear for the maneuver, the linstocks doused, the cartridges stowed in the gunpowder room and the cannonballs in their rack and covered with tarps, the smile spreads to the rest of the crew. They are far from being the worst of men, given what was available, especially since the Army and the Royal Armada are trying to enlist any man capable of carrying a rifle or hauling a rope. Nor were they easy to recruit, given the times. Of the forty-nine men aboard—including a cabin boy age twelve and a deckhand of fourteen—one-third are seamen, fishermen and sailors lured by the prospect of good captures and a guaranteed sum of 130 reales a month. Lobo earns 500, and his first officer 350—an advance against future spoils. The rest are made up of harbor rats, ex-convicts with no history of violent offenses who managed to avoid general call-up by bribing recruiting officers, and a handful of foreigners recruited at the last minute in Cádiz, Algeciras and Gibraltar: two Irishmen, two Moroccans, three Neapolitans, an English artilleryman and a Maltese Jew. The Culebra has been operating for four months and in that time has made seven captures, which, assuming the Prize Court rules that they were all fair game, is an excellent tally. Enough to satisfy all the men aboard, who are now inured to the sea and battle—fortunately, only two of the captures have resulted in blood being spilled.
Pépé Lobo removes his hat and looks up at the crow’s nest above the head of the sail that is snapping and straining at the topping lift in the heavy swell.
“Anything out toward Barbate?”
Nothing, the call comes down, all clear. The launch is already on its way back from the tartane, bearing Ricardo Maraña and his men, as well as the ship’s clerk, who is hugging the captured log to his chest. Lobo takes a tinderbox from his pocket and, leaning on the taffrail to shield himself from the wind, lights up a cigar. A corsair ship is a collection of flammable substances, of wood and tar and gunpowder, and only the captain and first officer are allowed to smoke without permission, a privilege Lobo exercises as little as possible. He is not much of a smoker, unlike Ricardo Maraña who, despite his weak lungs and his bloodstained handkerchiefs, smokes cigars by the boxful. Twelve at a time.
Cádiz. Lobo himself is not unhappy at the prospect of dropping anchor there. The cutter needs some refitting and repair and he has to visit the Prize Court, to grease a few palms to speed up the paperwork, though he is confident that the Sánchez Guineas will have taken care of things. But magistrates and bureaucrats aside, the captain of the Culebra will be happy to reach terra firma and stretch his legs. This is what he is thinking as he blows smoke between his teeth. It is about time. He feels the need to wander the streets of Santa María and the bars of La Caleta. Yes. Now and then, even he needs a woman. Or several.
Lolita Palma. The memory brings a smile to his lips, one that is brooding and sardonic, since he is smiling to himself. Leaning on the top of the gunwale, with Cape Trafalgar silhouetted in the distance as the mist begins to lift, Pépé Lobo thinks back. There is something about the woman—something that, curiously, has nothing to do with money—that has awakened unfamiliar feelings. He is not a man given to introspection, but a determined hunter looking for an opportunity, for the stroke of luck every sailor dreams of, for the fortune the sea sometimes bestows on those prepared to take risks. Captain Lobo is a corsair of necessity; it is not a vocation, but the result of the way he lives. Of the times he lives in. Since he first shipped out at the age of eleven, he has seen too many pitiful wretches who once stood where he now stands. He does not want to end up in a tavern, telling his life story to young sailors, embellishing it in exchange for a glass of wine. This is why he is patiently, tenaciously chasing after a future somewhere beyond this precarious world, a world he is determined never to return to if he should manage to leave it behind: a small income, a home of his own, a porch where he can sit out in the sun; cold and damp only in rain and winter. With a woman to warm his bed and his belly, not having to listen to the wind howl with a terrible foreboding and an anxious glance at the barometer.
As for Lolita Palma, when he thinks of her his mind is filled with complex ideas. Too complex, given his accustomed thoughts. Though his employer and partner is still a virtual stranger with whom he has barely exchanged a few words, the corsair feels a strange affinity with her; an understanding that includes a certain physical warmth. Pépé Lobo has dropped anchor in too many ports to delude himself. Which is why his reaction to Lolita Palma surprises him. It also worries him, since he is never one to mix business and pleasure. He can have his pick of young, pretty women—now and then he may have to pay in advance, but even this he can find comforting. Or convenient. The heir to the Palma house, on the other hand, is far from being pretty, at least not according to the classical definition of beauty. But she is not unattractive. Not at all. Her features are regular and pleasing, her eyes intelligent, her body shapely, from what one can divine beneath her loose-fitting clothes. Above all, there is something about her manner when she talks, when she is silent, a curious calmness in her poised serenity, a self-assurance that is intriguing, and that—on this crucial point the corsair is not entirely clear—he somehow finds attractive. This is what surprises him. And worries him.
He first noticed it at the end of March during Lolita Palma’s visit to the Culebra, when the cutter was preparing to put to sea. Pépé Lobo had planted the idea of the visit, and to his astonishment, she came to see the ship—though not immediately—in the company of the Sánchez Guineas. She arrived unexpectedly on a small boat from the port, clutching a parasol, accompanied by Don Emilio and his son Miguel, who had given him just enough notice to make the cutter ready for the visit. Some of the equipment was not yet stowed, one of the 10cwt anchors was on deck, the boom and rigging lay at the foot of the bare mast, and a barge alongside was unloading the iron ballast. But every rope was coiled and in its place, the standing rigging recently tarred, the hull had just had two coats of black paint above the waterline, the gunwales and the railings smelled of teak oil and the deck had recently been scrubbed with holystone. It had been a pleasant, sunny day; the sea was like a mirror. When Lolita Palma came aboard—she refused to be hoisted aboard by windlass, resolutely hiking her skirts and climbing the wooden slats of the starboard gangplank—the cutter looked magnificent, floating at anchor opposite the ca
pe of La Vaca and the battery at Los Corrales, the bows turned into the light breeze blowing along the reef. It was a strange situation. After the initial greetings, Ricardo Maraña, wearing a black jacket and a hastily knotted tie, did the honors with the elegant assurance of a well-bred rake. The men working on deck stepped back, smiling stiffly like simpletons with that mute timidity that seafarers, accustomed to women of easy virtue, demonstrate when faced with a woman who is, or appears to be, a lady. Pépé Lobo, following behind with the Sánchez Guineas, watched his visitor move easily about the boat, thanking the crew with a gentle smile, a nod of the head, asking appropriate questions about this or that. She was dressed in dark gray with a cashmere shawl around her shoulders and an English straw hat, its wide brim turned down slightly, framing her face and emphasizing her intelligent eyes. She was interested in everything: the eight 6-pound cannons, four on either side with two free gunports in the bow, ready to be used if necessary; the sockets into which smaller-caliber blunderbusses and pedreros*2 could be slotted, the battens nailed in a fan shape beneath the tiller to provide support for the helmsman in heavy swell, the bilge pump located behind the lightwell above the wardroom; the hawse-hole through which the anchor chains would run, and the long, almost horizontal bowsprit slightly to larboard of the central gangway. “All typical,” the first officer explained to her, “of this type of light, rapid vessel, fore-and-aft rigged to carry a lot of canvas on a single mast, perfect for corsairs, mailboats and smugglers. The English call it a cutter, the French a côtre; in Spain we call it a balandra.” Contrary to what he expected, Pépé Lobo found the proprietress of the house of Palma knowledgeable on the subject of ships and sailing, so much so that he heard her inquire about the rigging and about how the cutter handled given the lack of shrouds to support the mast in heavy seas, in particular inquiring about the magnificent mast with its pronounced curve toward the bow. It was made of flexible, resistant Riga wood with no knotholes, fashioned from the mainmast of one of the 74-gun French ships from Admiral Rosily’s flotilla.