Chapter 1 of Voyage of Malice
From the foremost cabin of La Marie, Jacob Delpech steadied himself as best he could against the brine-splashed frame of the porthole. He stooped to avoid hitting his head on the coarse timber beam, so low was the cabin where he and his Huguenot brethren were incarcerated. But the view was certainly worth the effort, he thought, as the French pink, a three-masted cargo ship, pitched and rolled into the Bay of Cadiz.
‘So this is the gateway to the ocean sea,’ he said, almost to himself.
Mademoiselle Marianne Duvivier, standing next to him, made a comment on the pageant of colour growing nearer and bigger. Indeed, the Spanish port’s importance was attested by the multitude of foreign merchant ships anchored here and there, flying their colours atop their main masts.
It occurred to Jacob that they were now only one stop away from their Caribbean island prison. That is, provided the ship, more apt for coastal ferrying than sailing the great sea, did not turn turtle en route—for she bobbed like a barrel.
The passage from Gibraltar, though short, had been rough enough to shake up the stomachs of the hardiest of seafarers. In fact it had finished off two prisoners in the cabin next door, which housed galley slaves too old or too infirm for service. However, miraculously perhaps, the eighty or so Protestant prisoners were none the worse for wear despite being at the bow of the ship, that part which took the full brunt of the waves. But unlike the poor lame wretches next door, at least they bore no visible chains. And most of the Huguenot men and women seemed to be gaining their sea legs at last.
To Marianne Duvivier’s great relief, they could now spy La Concorde, the great ship that had accompanied them much of the way from Marseille, and which carried a greater load of galley slave labour and Huguenot prisoners. More efficient and faster than La Marie, she had sailed ahead from Gibraltar and was already at anchor in the ancient Andalusian harbour. Significantly larger and built for the high seas, she was also more stable and seemed to sit in the port waters like an albatross among chicks, hardly bobbing amid the ripples.
La Marie dropped her anchors just a gunshot from La Concorde, but not close enough for prisoners to exchange words, nor parallel so that they could see each other. Nevertheless, Marianne Duvivier was still standing at the gun port an hour after their arrival, hoping for her grandmother to show her head through a porthole of the great ship.
She turned to Jacob, who had joined her again. In her resolute and selfless way, she said, ‘I am so glad it was my grandmother and not I who was sent aboard the Concorde.’ She was referring to the cruel separation from Madame de Fontenay at the embarkation point in Marseille. Jacob had since fathomed that separating grandmother and granddaughter was certainly a ploy between guards so that the girl could be more easily singled out and plucked from the crowd. However, her ravisher had ended up drowning with the first mate and another seaman when the longboat he was rowing capsized in the port of Toulon, the day after his failed abduction. And by a strange twist of fate, or Providence maybe, his death had granted her protection, for sailors were deeply superstitious.
‘Yes, quite,’ said Jacob, nodding towards the Spanish quay. ‘Otherwise she may have been leaving the ship earlier than planned.’
The girl followed his eyes to where the dead prisoners, bound in hessian sacks, were being hoisted to quay from the longboat, then unceremoniously dumped like dead pigs onto a barrow. It was still early morning. The harbour was just beginning to stir in the grey light, and they could clearly hear the vociferations in French and Spanish about the stench emanating from the bodies. The Spaniard made several signs of the cross before taking up the shafts of the barrow, then wheeled the dead men away to God-knows-where.
Delpech felt a pang of injustice for the galley slave, whom he had known to have been a God-fearing shoemaker whose only crime had been the illicit purchase of salt. His wife and children would not even be able to mourn his passing properly without the body, he thought. He inwardly prayed for the man’s soul to accept a place in heaven, if it so pleased God.
‘I would willingly miss three days’ worth of rations for a place on board the Concorde,’ said one white-haired gentleman, a surgeon named Emile Bourget.
‘Can’t say you would be missing much,’ said Madame Fesquet, the middle-aged matron who had comforted Marianne after the attempted abduction.
‘Let us not allow our regrets to undermine us, my dear Professor,’ said Jacob, touching the man’s arm. ‘Instead let us spend our effort seeking God’s grace in our misfortune.’
‘Yes, you are right, Sir,’ said Bourget. ‘Forgive me my weakness.’
Madame Fesquet, in her matronly way, said, ‘Praise be to God that we have arrived safely and have been granted this reprieve from the treacherous sea!’
Jacob thought she needn’t be so loud; she might rouse the guards. But he bowed his head and said Amen anyway. After all, she was of goodwill and was only voicing her support of his remark.
Delpech had inadvertently become something of a moral touchstone among even these adamantly virtuous people. He had become their spokesman whenever their meagre rights of humanity needed to be reaffirmed to the captain, even though these demands were always made through the guards. The unsolicited honour no doubt had something to do with his forthright eloquence, his former position and fortune, and perhaps most of all, his standing up to the sailor who had one night tried to ravish the girl from the cabin.
Yet in truth, all Jacob Delpech really wanted was to lie low and get through this nightmare until he could find a way to escape the madness. And, with God’s help, recover his wife and children.
The Huguenot ladies and gentlemen agreed to take advantage of the month-long stop in the Spanish port to swab the planks of their cabin, and to reduce the number of vermin. But undertaking the former required water and cloths, at the very least.
Jacob bravely accepted the task of go-between. He decided, however, to wait for the most appropriate moment when the soil buckets had been emptied, and when the least volatile guard came on duty. So it was not until after their noon slops—a mix of pellet-like peas and half-boiled fish—that he was able to put the question to the guard through the iron slats of the half-timbered door.
GUARD: What now?
DELPECH: We desire to speak to the captain.
GUARD: Cap’ain’s busy.
DELPECH: It is a matter of hygiene.
GUARD: Don’t care what it’s about, mate, I said he’s busy. And when he’s busy, it means he don’t wanna be disturbed, savvy?
DELPECH: Then would you please be so kind as to ask him if we may be supplied with extra buckets and some rope so that we can haul seawater into the cabin.
GUARD: So you can escape more like, cheeky bugger!
DELPECH: Not at all. We would simply like to clean the cabin.
GUARD: I’ll give you a bucket, all right, a bucket of heretic shit if you don’t watch out!
DELPECH: Then would you kindly supply us with the water yourselves? And some sackcloth? I pray that you put my demand to the captain, or at least to the first mate, should the captain be unavailable. Will you do that?
GUARD: Pwah. All right, but woe betide you if I get my arse kicked!
Jacob Delpech had become as inured to threats as he had to the revolting stench of the cabin, full of unwashed people and buckets of excrement. Over the past two years, from one prison to another, he had been threatened with hanging, perishing in damnation, being burnt alive at the stake, having his balls stuffed into his mouth, and finally, being sent to America. Only the last threat had so far been carried out, which enabled him to take the guard’s colourful language with a pinch of salt, and to pursue his demands calmly and collectedly.
An hour went by before the key clunked in the lock.
‘Where’s the prat who asked for water?’ said the guard, peeking through the iron slats of the door.
‘I am the one who asked for water. And rope,’ said Jacob, who was still by the door, imperturbable.
‘It’s your lucky day, pal. The captain sends his blessings!’
The door was flung open, and three men with malicious grins stood in the doorway, each holding a pail. Delpech instinctively held up his hands to shield his head as three columns of water drenched him and those immediately around him from head to foot. The men laughed out loud. Then the guard pulled the heavy door shut and turned the key in the lock.
Jacob prayed inwardly for the strength to continue to suffer humiliation, torture, and even death for his faith. However, at least the guard’s threat was only partially carried out. Thankfully, seawater was all that was in the buckets.
Nevertheless, to state that Delpech was becoming weary of the crew’s scorn—scorn that he suspected was fuelled by a callous captain—was an understatement. But he kept it to himself, and prayed the day would come when he could escape to carry out his plan.
*
Captain Joseph Reners, thirty-nine, was a merchant. A strong leader and very proud of his person, he was as able with low life as he was with the elite, and he enjoyed the company in both the Old World and the New. He loved his occupation, buying and selling, which took him to places where a man could forget himself. What he disliked, though, were the bits in-between, the seafaring bits which were either extremely dangerous or downright boring.
He vaunted himself as being well travelled and delighted in thrilling the bourgeoisie in Cadiz, especially the ladies, with tales of peril at sea and man-eating savages called cannibals. Given his gregarious nature, he had acquired expert knowledge of parlour games and card playing. In short, he lived for the social life on land, and this latest venture transporting galley slaves and Huguenots gave him the means to indulge wholeheartedly in his passions, from Cadiz to the Spanish Main. Nevertheless, over the years he had traced a regular circuit and by consequence had a reputation to keep up, at least in Europe, if he were not to be shunned by his usual hosts.
Consequently, a day after the water-throwing incident, the crew’s degree of crassness towards their prisoners slipped down a few notches, and their attitude became, if not respectful, at least more tolerable. The soil buckets were emptied before they were completely full, and the peas were cooked, so they no longer ended up in those buckets. The salted beef, however, remained as tough as boot leather, and the cold fish still resembled a kind of briny porridge. But most of all, the Huguenot detainees no longer ran the risk of being drenched by buckets of seawater whenever they knelt down to pray.
Jacob correctly supposed that this change was owing to the captain’s desire to show a façade of respectability and humanity during his stay in the Spanish port town.
What is more, the shift in behaviour was sustained and even enhanced, thanks to a series of visits paid to the Huguenots during their stopover.
Dutch and English Protestant merchants who had settled in the Iberian port quickly got wind of the ‘cargo’ of Huguenots. It had become a normal occurrence to hear of lame slaves being transported to the New World. But how could respectable, devout Christians be stripped of their earthly possessions and dispelled from their homeland for simply remaining faithful to their religious conscience?
Despite Louis XIV’s attempt to draw a veil over his religious purge and conceal it from the outside world, word had nevertheless percolated out of France. Tens of thousands of Huguenot escapees had taken with them to Geneva, Bearn, Brandenburg, Saxony, Amsterdam, and London tales of unfair trials, family separations, enslavement, and incarceration. French etiquette was quickly going out of fashion. It was losing its capacity to charm the breeches off the European bourgeoisie as the darker side of the Sun King was becoming apparent. And here in Cadiz was the chance to see the living proof.
The captains of neither La Marie nor La Concorde did anything to prevent visits to their ships. On the contrary, Reners for one was astute enough to give orders not to impede such visits, as proof that he himself had nothing to hide, that he was only carrying out the King’s orders. When asked at his hosts’ table about his cargo of Huguenots, he would make a point of stating that the poor wretches on his ship were treated with humanity, even allowed to pray to their God, in spite of their disloyalty to their King.
On the morning of 22 October 1687, the second morning after the French ships’ arrival, Mr Izaäk van der Veen and his wife were the first of the Protestant merchants to visit La Marie. The Dutchman was an influential broker with links to counters in Holland and the West Indies. He had done business with the captain on numerous occasions, usually for the purchase of barrels of French wine which went down well with the multi-cultured population of Cadiz, as well as his Flemish buyers.
Mrs van der Veen, a straight-faced and well-endowed lady with mothering hips, climbed aboard La Marie, taking care not to dirty her dress in the rigging. The Dutchman knew the ship from previous visits, although this time neither he nor his wife was there to choose barrels of beverage. This was just as well, as the space normally given over to wine and spirits had been converted for the captain’s human cargo.
Both Mr and Mrs van der Veen were dressed with sobriety in accordance with their reformist beliefs. They were greeted by the second in command. This did not disgruntle the visitors in the slightest, as they knew of the captain’s legendary distaste for dwelling on board his ship. The remaining crew were busy offloading cargo destined for Cadiz. The visiting couple advanced carefully to avoid slipping on the wet decking, and continued past sailors swabbing the main deck.
Mr van der Veen followed the second mate down the scuttle hatch into the tween deck, and then turned to assist his wife. She immediately noticed that the open space that once spanned from the capstan to the windlass was now partitioned off into cabins. And thank goodness she had thought to perfume her handkerchief, which she now held to her nose. The savoury and sickly smell of food, urine, tar, and dank timber grew stronger as they advanced towards the galley slave cabin, where a large rat stood nibbling at a flat square of flesh—a prize stolen from an inmate’s bowl. The rat had grasped that a man inside the cabin who carelessly placed his bowl on the ground had no chance of catching the rodent once it had scooted with the food under the door. But on the approach of the intruders, the hideous creature showed its teeth, jealously took up its prize, and indignantly scampered away.
Mrs van der Veen and her husband turned to each other with a look which said they were dreading to see the conditions in which their brothers and sisters in faith were being held captive.
Then the sound of a woman’s voice rose up in song. It was spontaneously joined by a host of male and female voices, and the Dutch lady recognised a psalm that sounded beautiful, sung in the French language.
They hastened their step to the Huguenots’ cell and stood to watch through the iron slats. The inmates nearest the door stopped their song, and for a suspended moment stood watching the couple staring back at them.
Mrs Van der Veen, who spoke some French, had prepared her introductory sentence in her head that morning. But it did not come out, so absorbed was she by the piteous sight of the scene before her. Instead she put her hands together in prayer. Her husband followed suit. Then gradually, like a wave leading from the door, the Huguenots also stood or knelt in silent prayer.
At last, the Dutch couple looked up, and their eyes met those of a slim gentleman with cropped hair who took a step from the crowd.
‘Madame,’ he said in French. ‘Do not pity us but rather our persecutors. For we are the privileged few whom the Lord has graced with the chance to earn a place in heaven. There is no need to shed your tears for us.’
‘Monsieur, please forgive us,’ said Mrs Van der Veen. ‘We were not prepared to see such injustice before our very eyes.’
The second mate who had accompanied them was standing sheepishly with the guard, three paces back. Mr van der Veen turned to them and asked in Spanish to open the door so that he and his wife could enter the cell. The second mate gave the nod to the guard, who opened the door, then locked it behind them.
The gaunt-looking man with the cropped head introduced himself. ‘I am Jacob Delpech de Castanet,’ he said. Other men and women huddled around them without thronging, and introduced themselves in the gentlest manner.
‘Dear lady, your heart is noble and kind,’ said one young lady who introduced herself as Mademoiselle Duvivier. ‘But please do not be afraid to hold your handkerchief to your nose. We understand that the odours must be intolerable to someone unused to this despicable den.’
‘Thank you for your consideration,’ said Mrs Van der Veen, ‘but allow me the honour of sharing a part of your humiliation and suffering with you. It will make me nobler.’
Mr van der Veen said slowly in Spanish, ‘If we can bring you any comfort at all, we shall be eternally grateful.’
Mrs van der Veen said in French, ‘I shall bring you vials of perfume, which will at least sweeten the air around you, as well as other provisions. Please tell us what you need most.’
‘You are kind, my good lady,’ said one Huguenot woman.
‘A splendid idea,’ said Madame Fesquet. ‘It will distance the bad smells that breed disease.’
Mademoiselle Duvivier said, ‘The disease is also brought by the vermin, I fear. As Jesus tells us to travel through life in a clean body, we should very much like to embark on our voyage in a clean cabin.’
‘We have been enclosed in this cabin for the past four weeks,’ said Jacob. ‘Alas, in spite of our demands, we are deprived of water and rags for swabbing.’
‘I will ask the captain to see to it that you are equipped,’ said Mr van de Veen, who then let his wife translate.
*
By the following morning, not only was the Huguenots’ wish for water and cloth granted, but more visits followed from other Dutch and English contingents, and continued throughout the Huguenots’ stay in Cadiz harbour. Each visit uplifted their spirits, like a rag of blue sky in an otherwise murky firmament. They saw each visit as a ray of God’s love that galvanised their faith and filled their souls with new courage. It meant He had not abandoned them. Now they could embark on the long, perilous voyage across the great sea, secure in the knowledge that their place in heaven was assured. What, after all, was earthly suffering compared to eternal life?
The visiting parties also brought very earthly provisions: dried sausage, cheese, bread, fruit, clothing, writing kits. They even managed to smuggle in miniature Bibles and a few other books for the voyage, one of which would shape the course of Jacob’s destiny.
The book in question was at first given to Professor Bourget by a rosy-faced Englishman with sparse white hair for whom Jacob acted as interpreter. Delpech still possessed remnants of English, having learnt it as a young man when his father had taken a position there in 1663 to learn about medicine. However, the book was of no use to the professor, a surgeon who knew only his mother tongue, German, Latin, and Greek. Jacob’s father had been a physician and herbalist, and during previous conversations with Bourget, it had come to light that Delpech had always nurtured a fond interest in the Lord’s natural world. So it was without regret that the professor gave the book to Jacob.
It was an old book that the elderly Englishman had kept since his younger days. He had spent half his career as a ship’s surgeon for the East India Company. The book was The Surgeon’s Mate.
*
On the twenty-first of November, one month to the day of her arrival, the pink lowered her sails and turned her prow towards the open sea.
Jacob Delpech was eager to reach the New World. Before setting out from the Bay of Cadiz, he had been able to converse in his broken English with a Dutchman by the name of Marcus Horst, who was familiar with the West Indies. ‘There are a great many islands, large and small,’ he had said. ‘You must hold firm. It would not be so difficult to escape to an English settlement by cargo ship. From there you can gain passage aboard a ship bound for London or Amsterdam.’
La Marie and La Concorde were escorted by Le Solide, commanded by Admiral Chateaurenaud, chief of the French fleet. As they left the Bay of Cadiz, Jacob knelt with a group of fellow inmates to give thanks to God for the reprieve before the storm, and for the rays of light that had brought them comfort, hope, and their Holy Bibles.
The sound of the key in the lock made Jacob look up in time to see the door swing open. Next thing, he saw two men, two buckets, and a shaft of seawater.
‘Enough of yer jabbering to false gods!’ bellowed one of the guards.
‘Or we’ll come in and search yer all for fake Bibles,’ said his mate. ‘And if we find any, it’s twelve lashes for heresy!’
