Buccaneer by Tim Severin Page A

his drawing materials and gazed sightlessly out of the window, dreaming of what it must be like to hold her in his arms. Once or twice he even dared to wonder whether she too was thinking about him.
    His reverie was broken by the sound of Snead’s footsteps on the stair. With a start Hector realised that it was late in the day. When the architect entered the room, he glanced over the part-finished copy that Hector had been working on, and appeared to be satisfied with what he saw, for he sat down heavily on the bench at the end of the table and announced that it was time for Hector to stop work. ‘So you say your name is Lynch,’ he observed, picking up the quill pen that Hector had been using. ‘Not a convincing nom de plume.’ He waved the feather in the air, smirking owlishly at his pun. ‘I would have thought you could have come up with something more original.’
    Hector realised that Snead was convinced that he was sheltering a fugitive indentured man, also that the architect was very tipsy. He smelled the rum on his new employer’s breath.
    ‘Lynch is my real name, sir,’ Hector protested.
    Snead seemed not to hear him. He gave a drunken hiccup and stared at Hector. ‘You can’t be a Lynch. You don’t look like one.’
    Hector saw his opportunity. ‘You know the Lynches, sir?’ he asked.
    ‘Who doesn’t? Richest family on the island. I’ve done surveys for three of their plantations. They must own at least thirty thousand acres.’
    ‘Have you met Robert Lynch or his sister?’ Hector was desperate to glean a few more details about Susanna.
    ‘Young Robert? He came to the office a few times when I was doing drawings for their new townhouse here in Port Royal. And a very elegant structure it is, if I do say so myself,’ Snead hiccuped.
    ‘And what about his sister?’
    ‘You mean Susanna? I think that’s her name. Quite a catch, that one. I doubt there’s anyone on the island who would be a match for her. She’ll probably find her husband in London next time she goes there. Pretty girl but said to be headstrong.’
    Snead swivelled round on the bench to face the door. Raising his voice, he shouted for food to be brought. A voice answered from somewhere deep within the house, and a little while later an elderly woman, whom Hector presumed to be Snead’s housekeeper, appeared with a tray of food which she placed on the table.
    ‘Come on. You share this with me,’ said the architect, waving to a seat near him as he began to ladle soup into his mouth. Hector came to the conclusion that the architect was a lonely man and eager for company.

    I T WAS MID - MORNING on the following day that Hector received an unwelcome jolt of recognition. He had slept the night in a small room on the topmost floor of Snead’s premises, and next morning with the tropical sunlight flooding his work table from the open window, he had made good progress with copying the first chart. He was at the stage when he had drawn the coastline and all its islands and reefs, and begun to write in their names, consulting the handwritten notes from the original. He was labelling the anchorages and harbours when he saw that one of the anchorages was marked ‘Captain Coxon’s Hole’. He checked the handwritten notes again, and there was no mistake. A small natural harbour on one of the islands had been named after the buccaneer. Hector could see that it made an ideal refuge. The island lay far enough off the mainland to be rarely visited, and the anchorage was very discreet. It was concealed behind a reef, and protected by a low ridge of hills. So when Snead came to check on his employee’s progress just before his noontime visit to the tavern, Hector casually asked how Coxon’s Hole had got its name. The reaction he received was a surprise.
    ‘It’s named after a friend of mine,’ Snead announced and he sounded proud of the association. ‘He used to have a house here in Port Royal. Knows that coast as well as anyone.