PIRATE: Privateer by Tim Severin

farther shore. As they approached, the ground turned soft and boggy and they came to an
area of reeds. Beyond it, the hot air shimmered over a dreary expanse of saltwater marsh. It was here that they found the only evidence of human activity. Four artificial conical mounds stood on a
dike. About four feet high, they were a dirty brown.
    ‘Salt piles,’ said Jezreel. ‘I came across them on the Mexican coast. The salt rakers scrape up the salt in heaps which they cover in dry grass and then set alight. It makes a
hard shell to protect the salt against the rain.’
    He picked up a stone and walked over to one of the mounds and struck it hard. The outer shell of the mound cracked and he peered inside.
    ‘Nobody has attended this in a long time,’ he announced. He dropped the stone and looked at Hector. ‘Do you think we should shift our camp here and wait for the salt rakers to
return?’
    Hector thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. It could be weeks or even months before they come back, and we have to stay near our well. I doubt there’s any other fresh water
in this wilderness.’
    They turned aside and began following the shoreline, heading back for their camp. On the way Dan spotted a treasure that made their entire journey worthwhile. They were clambering over a stretch
of slippery, seaweed-covered rocks when he noticed something trapped between two sea-washed boulders. Wading into the sea he found that the receding tide had exposed the rotting remnants of a small
broken barrel. It must have drifted ashore, carried by wind and currents after someone jettisoned it as useless. Dan wasted no time in freeing his find and carrying it on to land. He gave a grunt
of satisfaction as he pulled off the rotting staves and held up the two rusty metal hoops that had once held them together. ‘Now we can make ourselves some decent knives,’ he said.
    Carrying their trophy they arrived back in camp in the late afternoon. There, Hector smoothed a patch of sand and traced a wavering line with his finger.
    ‘I believe I know where we are,’ he said. ‘This is the coast of the Main.’ He made some small circles to one side. ‘And these are the offshore islands. I
can’t remember how many there are but one of them about halfway along is known as Salt Island. That, I think, is where we are stranded.’
    His companions all gazed down at the sketch. ‘What are the chances of a ship passing this way?’ asked Jacques.
    ‘Only fair.’ Hector made a mark at each end of the line. ‘Here and here are Curaçao and Cartagena. One is Dutch and the other Spanish. They are not supposed to trade
with one another. But there must be an occasional ship between them, a smuggler perhaps.’
    ‘So you think we could be here for some time?’ said Jezreel.
    ‘I’m afraid so. We’ll prepare a signal fire and light it if we see a passing ship. But we’d better be prepared for a long stay.’
    He looked up and searched the faces of his companions. Jezreel was resigned. Jacques seemed a little disappointed. As usual Dan was expressionless. Hector had a sense that in the weeks to come
they would depend on their Miskito comrade.
    *
    O N T ORTUGA a shopkeeper had told Maria that
Morvaut
had arrived in Petit Goâve and was being held there. The
shopkeeper had a brother on the main island, and when she asked about Hector, the man was more interested in providing a lurid description of the knife fight between Yannick Kergonan and Rassalle.
He told her that Yannick’s sister was forbidden to leave the settlement, pending her trial for murder. ‘She’s lived up to her name as the Tigress,’ he commented with more
than a hint of local pride. He had no news of Hector.
    Maria waited for another few days and when Hector still did not appear, she decided she would take passage to Petit Goâve. There she would ask Anne-Marie Kergonan what had happened to her
husband.
    It was another week before she found a supply boat heading in the