Tim Severin - Corsair

‘I can guess,’ Hector answered.

‘That’s how I was branded three years ago. I was a galerien, a convict galley oarsman. But I was too slippery for them, and managed to get myself a pardon. Paid a clever lawyer to say that there had been a case of mistaken identity and there were plenty of other vagabonds and rogues called Jacques Bourdon – and they had taken up the wrong one. But it took him so long to get my case heard that I had already been marked for galley service by the time my pardon came through. And the lawyer had cost me all the money I had, so I had to go back to my old trade when I returned to Paris. That was the only way to stay alive.’

‘Your old trade?’

Jacques Bourdon shot out his right hand, and for a moment Hector thought the convict was going to hit him. But Bourdon only raised his thumb. Burned into the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger was the letter V. ‘Don’t often see someone with two brands, do you?’ he boasted. ‘That one stands for voleur. I’m a thief, and a good one too. Started by nicking things when I was a youngster, and didn’t get properly caught until I was in my teens when I stole a pair of candlesticks from a church. That’s how I got my first brand. But I wouldn’t do anything so obvious as church robbing now. I pick pockets and locks. It’s less risky, and I wouldn’t have been caught the second time if a jealous rat had not informed on me.’

‘What about all those others?’ asked Hector. ‘What have they done that they find themselves here?’

‘I didn’t bother to ask. But you can be sure that they’re the usual riff-raff. There’ll be swindlers and murderers and thieves like me. Some won’t have paid their debts, and others have committed perjury. Probably some smugglers, too. Rascals caught moving contraband tobacco or avoiding the salt tax. Then there are the deserters from the army. Like you, they’re lucky not to have been hung or shot. And naturally every last one of them will swear that they are innocent of the crimes for which they have been found guilty and sent here. A few might even be telling the truth.’

Hector was silent. It seemed to him that this prison was the sink of injustice. Then he said, ‘But surely, if you were able to get a pardon, the innocent ones could do the same.’

The pickpocket regarded him sardonically. ‘Yes, if they have enough money hidden away or someone on the outside who can help. But once inside here, the chances of getting out are almost nil. Deserters and renegades like yourself are condemned for life, and even if by some miracle their cases come up for review, the Galley Corps has often lost track of its own oarsmen and can’t locate them.’

Hector recalled the clerk who had just written down their details in the ledger. ‘But surely it’s all recorded in the official files.’

Bourdon laughed outright. ‘The clerks couldn’t care less whether their book entries are correct. Half the time they know they are being told lies, and so they scribble down what pleases them. If a man gives a false name, that’s accepted. And if he lies about the reason why he is sent to the galleys, then that’s all right too. And if the entrant stays silent before the clerk, or he’s too frightened and confused to answer why he’s been condemned, or he doesn’t even know the charge against him, do you know what the clerks write down then? They note down that he has been condemned to the galleys and add “without saying why”. Goodbye to any hope of redemption.’

‘I find that difficult to believe.’ Hector’s spirits were sinking even further. ‘Everyone knows why they are here, or at least has some idea of the reason?’

‘Listen to me, Irishman,’ said the pickpocket, seizing Hector by the arm. ‘There were people who walked with me all the way from Paris who had not the least inkling why they were in chains. Maybe an unknown enemy had reported them to the authorities. All it takes is an accusation planted in the right quarters and accompanied by a juicy bribe. Then there’s a show trial at which you have to prove your innocence when you are already presumed to be guilty. And heaven help you if you are a Protestant and you are answering to a Catholic judge. Being a Protestant is getting dangerous in France.’

THIRTEEN

NEXT MORNING Hector awoke from a fitful sleep to hear his name being shouted aloud. A guard was banging on the open cell door and calling out that he and Dan were to make themselves ready for an interview with the commissaire of the Arsenal. As he got to his feet, Hector was surprised to hear Bourdon call out impudently, ‘What about me?’ In answer, the guard opened the door, walked across the room and struck him hard across the mouth. Undeterred, the pickpocket asked, ‘So who’s the commissaire now? Another of Brodart’s friends?’ The guard scowled as he turned on his heel and the pickpocket called out to his retreating back, ‘Whoever it is, tell him that Jacques Bourdon’s a man with whom he can do a little business!’

‘What did you do that for?’ Hector asked. ‘It only made him angry.’

The pickpocket shot Hector a quizzical glance. ‘I don’t suppose you even know who Brodart is,’ he said.

Hector shook his head.

‘Jean Brodart is our lord and master. He’s Intendant of Galleys and chief administrator of the Galley Corps, appointed by Minister Colbert himself. He’s also one of the most corrupt men in the kingdom. Brodart and his cronies are skimming every livre that King Louis pays out for his precious Galley Corps. They’re up to every trick, whether putting non-existent workers on the payroll, demanding kickbacks from suppliers, selling off surplus stores, writing up fraudulent bills of lading. Believe me, compared to the Intendant and his gang, the swindlers and fraudsters on the chain were innocent lambs. Wait and see, my message will get through. Brodart’s underlings can’t resist even the smallest crumb.’

When the guard returned half an hour later it was to escort Hector and Dan back to the administration building and up a staircase to the first floor until they arrived before a door guarded by a sentry in a blue uniform with white crossbelts. Their escort knocked, and they were shown into a large room lit by tall windows which gave a view across the city.

‘I understand you are latecomers with the consignment from Livorno,’ began the commissaire, who had been standing looking out towards the distant roof tops. Commissaire Batiste was a pear-shaped man, badly shaved, and with several expensive rings glittering on his puffy fingers. ‘I have a note here saying that you are to be assigned to the galley St Gerassimus . That is very irregular, particularly because the St Gerassimus has not yet joined the fleet, though she is expected shortly. Do you have any idea why you are singled out for special treatment?’

‘No, sir,’ Hector answered. ‘No one has told us anything.’

‘The Arsenal is going to need every able-bodied man that can be found so I have decided that you will be held here pending the arrival of the St Gerassimus , and put to work. Later her captain can explain matters more fully.’ He scribbled something on a piece of paper and, turning towards the guard, said, ‘They are to be enrolled under premier comite Gasnier. Go and find Gasnier, wherever he is, and deliver them in person, and get his signature on this paper as a receipt. And tell the comite that he’s to train them to be productive.’

They returned to the ground floor and, escorted by the guard, began to make their way through the Arsenal, searching for the comite. The place was an immense, sprawling maze of warehouses, magazines, depots and armouries, so their quest took them first to an iron foundry where anchors and chains and metal fittings were being forged, then to a vast draughty shed where sails were spread on the floor or hung from beams to be cut and sewn. Next was a ropewalk in which teams of men were twisting huge ropes and cables, then several woodworking galleries where mast makers and carpenters were shaving and straightening spars and oars, and finally a melting shop where half-naked labourers toiled over the huge pots that bubbled with boiling pitch and tar. Finally they reached a series of long, low, barn-like structures. The smell of rotting seaweed and the sight of ships’ masts protruding over the perimeter wall told Hector that this side of the Arsenal bordered directly on the harbour. Their escort took them through a side door and, all at once, they were looking down on the skeleton of a galley which lay in dry dock. Two dozen men armed with mallets were swarming over the vessel, busily knocking her to pieces. ‘Comite Gasnier!’ the guard called out over the din of the hammers. A paunchy bald man, dressed in scuffed work clothes, was standing at the edge of the dry dock, supervising the work. He waited for a moment, to satisfy himself about some detail, then came over to speak to them.