The Masked Pirate. Guayaquil, 1687

By Juan Carlos Riofrío Martínez-Villalba

The pages of Guayaquil’s Harbour have not written worse tragedy than the one that occurred in 1687. The very noble and loyal city of Santiago de Guayaquil was completely ruined. Seventy-four fellow citizens offered their lives in the pirate invasion... Nobody gave them honor as heroes, although they deserved it. Many of them were not even buried.
Many families suddenly moved from opulence to the most humiliating misery. The population fled in terror to the interior of the Country and Guayaquil remained devastated for several years. It was the city of corpses, the city of memories, the city of terror... No one walked again its streets anymore. In 1688 his demolition was ordered.
But who remembers colonial Guayaquil? Who remembers that beautiful town that one day had the longest bridge in the world? The centuries passed and buried his memory, which Riofrio now takes out of the trunk and dust off in a masterly manner.
This book tells us about the catastrophe of 1687, with characters perfectly sculpted by Riofrío's pen. Throughout these lines their customs, voices and thoughts appear diaphanous. A historical novel that revives in a very colorful way the forgotten history of old Guayaquil times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Universidad de Los Hemisferios (Quito, Ecuador)
• Release date: Aug 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463912515

Juan Carlos Riofrío Martínez-Villalba

Juan Carlos Riofrío Martínez-Villalba (Guayaquil, 1 de marzo de 1976 - ), jurista y escritor ecuatoriano, descendiente lejano del primer novelista ecuatoriano, Miguel Riofrío (+1879). Siguiendo los impulsos de su sangre desde muy joven se dedicó a escribir, ganando concursos de poesía y cuento. Tiene tres carreras, una especialidad y dos doctorados. Licenciado en Derecho ecuatoriano y en Ciencias políticas por la Universidad Católica Santiago de Guayaquil, y también en Derecho canónico por la Pontificia Università della Santa Croce. Especialista en Derecho de las comunicaciones por la Universidad Andina Simón Bolívar. Doctor en Derecho por la Universidad Católica Santiago de Guayaquil y en Derecho Canónico por la Pontificia Università della Santa Croce. Su pluma se ha caracterizado por una gran versatilidad, que prueba nuevos estilos y técnicas de expresión. Se ha interesado por el arte, costumbres e historia de los lugares donde ha vivido (Guayaquil, Quito y Roma). En estas ciudades ha procurado fomentar, e incluso rescatar cuando lamentablemente se han perdido, varias de las antiguas costumbres locales. Entre sus obras literarias aparece “El corazón de la ciudad” (2003), “El Pirata enmascarado” (2007) y “Juegos de Pluma. Técnicas literarias llevadas al extremo” (2014), editadas por el Muy Ilustre Municipio de Guayaquil y por la Universidad de los Hemisferios. Actualmente se desempeña como Abogado del Estudio Jurídico Coronel & Pérez y como profesor de Derecho constitucional y Derecho de la Información en la Universidad de Los Hemisferios, donde años atrás fue Decano de la Facultad de Ciencias Jurídicas.

Book preview

Dedicatory

Dedicated to my dear Lady of La Mano Santa,

a time-honored devotion of Guayaquil

to which I am indebted and devoted.

to this most beautiful woman,

to whom devoting even all the books

on earth would not be enough.

°°° OPENING HISTORICAL ANNEX °°°

We find ourselves in the 17th Century. These were hard times for the kingdom of His Majesty King Charles II. Its weak borders, which spanned the globe from one end to the other, were constantly under attack by the emerging European powers, who struggled to wrest control from Spain, and end its world domination. Relations with two neighboring nations, England and France, were particularly strained: sometimes at war, sometimes in a state of fragile peace. And although troops were constantly fighting to maintain defined borders, European lands frequently passed from one hand to another. But in America, the dispute was set out in different terms — the battle in the colonies wasn’t yet for the defense of territories themselves, but rather to stop the looting of their riches by privateers.

In the Caribbean, British governors like Thomas Lynch of Jamaica and Robert Clarke of the Bahamas granted carte blanche to whichsoever vagabond pirate as wanted to sail at his leisure to those parts, to settle whatever real or imaginary offence as had supposedly been caused by the Spanish enemy. Nobody paid much mind to the question of whether they were times of peace or times of war; it was known that in America such news always arrived late. There were even those who would grant blank letters of marque (or permission to privateer), which were to be filled by the titleholder according to his taste and whim. The only thing the authorities checked scrupulously was that the pieces of eight paid for the permission to privateer were authentic and sufficient. Those who could not afford it had to settle for a license to fish, or hunt for small or large game — but this, after all, was still a grand title, and salved the consciences of many.

In this context, it is easy to understand why a man like François Grogniet would leave his modest and miserable home in the old continent, which was in the middle of a severe economic depression, to embark on a journey to the Caribbean Americas that carried little chance of return. The dream was of the unimaginable riches to be won by looting a well-stocked Spanish galleon, riches that were well-publicized in the vast amount of literature produced on the subject at the time.

Grogniet duly set out and arrived at the western part of the island of Santo Domingo, which at that time was home to a small French settlement. There, in 1681, he sought and quickly obtained a letter of marque that granted him a right of retaliation against Spanish forces. From that time onwards, he devoted himself forever to war at sea. In command of seventy men and a ship boasting six cannons, the Saint-François, he would spend the next five years hounding towns and merchant ships in the Caribbean, either alone at the helm or alongside other pirate chiefs. He did not use his first name but operated under the pseudonym Cachemarée. During these adventures, many of his men were killed, while others chose to abandon him.

It was at the end of this period that he decided to go to Panama to regroup. There, he managed to recruit two hundred buccaneers, among them a man who would become known as the Masked Pirate. His real name, though, was Pierre le Picard; a distinguished French captain of around 40 years of age, he had begun his career as a privateer at the service of France but became a renegade after the Peace of Nijmegen was signed in 1678. That’s no surprise; it has always been known that contracted privateers would commonly go their own way if events were not to their liking. Picard fit easily into the renegade scene; due to his vast experience, gained during years of fighting alongside distinguished pirates like El Olonés or Henry Morgan, Grogniet put him in command of the Santa Rosa de Viterbo. And once Picard had regrouped his forces, he crossed the isthmus in 1685 and took the leap into the Pacific Ocean.

*** *** ***

On this side of the world, those who make common cause against Spain soon end up knowing each other; it makes no difference whether you are a privateer, a pirate or a buccaneer, or whether you are Dutch, French or English. In the Pacific, Grogniet soon met, befriended and joined forces with the Englishman Edward Davis. Davis was captain of a powerful fleet that had been recruited years earlier just off the coast of Virginia and had conducted pirate attacks against several towns on the south coast. Later, another three English buccaneers joined with this coalition: Charles Swam, George D’Hout and Captain Townley.

Davis is sure to have told his friend Grogniet of his glorious deeds, of the bounty he had won, of the rules regarding its distribution and also, with a certain scornful tone, of his failures… Oh, Guayaquil! The night of December 18, 1684was one that haunted him. It was a bad and dark night when, under a quarter-moon, he had set out on the Guayas River in western Ecuador with his men and Charles Swam, a smuggler, all piled into thirteen large chalupa canoes. The plan had been the same as ever: leave the frigates far off where they couldn’t be spotted by lookouts, and from there navigate the rising waters of the river on chalupas, without disturbing the silence of the night, so that they could take the city by surprise. The trick was perfect and had worked a charm in Paita, Saña, Casma, Huancho and Huarmey. There was no reason, they supposed, that it should fail even for that unconquerable city, which had resisted even the Dutch admiral Jacques L’Hermite and the famed English privateer Thomas Cavendish, when both were in their prime.

In one of the chalupa canoes traveled a fearful pirate poet, William Dampier, and a black man whom he had captured the previous evening, whose name is not known. The captive told the assembled men about the harbor defenses: a fort on top of the mountain, a trench in the Villamar estuary, three hundred armed men… The statements alarmed the crew.

According to the plan, the city would appear when the chalupas reached the mouth of the canal — but nothing was to be seen. The clouds concealed the weak moon, and everything disappeared from view. When the chalupas passed in front of an island, the most attentive among the crew managed to make out the grim silhouette of a mountain crowned by the city. It was extremely dark, with not even a single headlamp shining. The boats started to separate from one another ahead of the attack, and the men readied their rifles, when suddenly a torch was lit in the harbor — and then another, and another, and another… The entire city was soon brightly illuminated. Davis tried to calm his men, saying the city was celebrating the eve of a saint’s holiday. But a moment later, a shot from a harquebus coming from the island proved him wrong. Then, the battle broke out in earnest. Guayaquil was now decked in candles, waiting for them!

The pirates made great efforts to make land, even more so when they heard Davis offering five hundred ounces of gold to the first man who managed to plant the flag on the city’s fort. But the port proved to be well-defended. One local Franciscan layman even sprang to the defense of the town with just a simple spear in his hands. Davis shot him at once and used a torch to spread fire over the rooftops of Sabaneta. Further ahead, though, the shots from Davis’ gun startled Dampier. He took off the ropes that had been binding the black captive, who wasted no time before jumping into the water and disappearing from sight. Dampier shouted rashly that they had been betrayed, and started to row furiously away from the coast. The others soon followed suit and exchanged their weapons for oars. The threats that Davis shouted at his fleeing crew were useless — the horrors already sown in that bloody night had deafened their ears.

Still, those were the men who followed Davis to Panama, where he met Grogniet in early 1685. From there, the men joined forces to assault several towns of the Pacific, from Mexico to Peru — but the coalition wouldn’t last six months. In July of that same year, Davis suffered great setbacks, and his men dispersed, with many of them enrolling instead with Grogniet. Thus, by 1687 Grogniet was in command of a force of 308 men, and a splendid 36-gun ship by the name of San Jacinto.

*** *** ***

Davis’ stories had had a profound impact on François Grogniet, who vowed that he would be the man to take Guayaquil. He spent the first months of 1687 waiting to enter the Gulf of La Culata, and then devoted himself to getting reinforcements and food supplies for his mission. For a buccaneer from the South Sea, this period of waiting could mean only one thing: a visit to the Galápagos Islands.

This archipelago is made up of two thousand craters located a thousand miles from the South American coast, the highest of which is 1867 yards above sea level. The islands rose to the surface five million years ago, and are still rising today at a rate of four inches per year since they are at a higher temperature than the surrounding rocks. And for pirates, the islands were a paradise; the tremendous pressure of the volcanic gases has left enormous and very deep ravines where treasure could be safely stashed away.

Pirate treasure is one of the archipelago’s many mysteries. Though it lies on the equator, in the tropical part of the world, penguins from the Antarctic flourish on the islands, and there are seals everywhere one cares to look. The cold-weather creatures arrived thousands of years ago with the cold Humboldt Current and managed to adapt to this rocky, volcanic environment, where they now live alongside centuries-old giant turtles, iguanas, strange crabs, lobsters, and sea lions. In the skies above the islands soar giant albatross, red- and blue-footed boobies, atrophied winged cormorants, dilated crop frigates, woodpeckers born without a tongue who instead use a thorn to eat insects, flamingos with long wrinkled legs that prevent them from sinking in the deep mud… It’s an untold multitude of species and life.

For the renegades of the 17th Century, all this made the islands a perfect place to rest, to stock up on food and to prepare their ships. Fleets used to gather on its beaches to design a joint strategy of war. Grogniet knew all this very well — that’s why he made the Galápagos his destination.

°°° NOVEL °°°

Chapter One

A Shred of happiness

Today, despite the agony I was in, I found a shred of happiness. The sun was already high in the sky when I heard a knock at the door. Having not the slightest intention of going out to plug holes in the hull of the ship, I stayed rocking myself in my hammock. Whatever position my body found itself in, melancholic memories filled my mind. It had already been two weeks, body of Christ! [1] This was becoming a habit. I closed my eyes and saw her frail figure peering out through the window: she greeted me without words, or else told me to keep quiet — and then she hid herself away. At other times, she appeared in the hammock on the balcony of her father’s house, and I greeted her from my boat. She was always up-to-date with the latest fashion trends, and in my mind I saw her in a magnificent red dress, covered in opulent decorations and with trailing ribbons in the long skirt. In this way, I relived the past, so that I wouldn’t have to face a world without María Josefa.

Interrupting my reflections, the knocking at the door insisted and finally succeeded in getting me out of my hammock. Stumbling, disheveled, with my nightshirt not fit for sight, I corralled my flaccid body to the entrance. The blood still hadn’t reached my brain. The door opened slowly at my weak push, the only one I was able to give, and behind it appeared the figure of José Salas. Still wearing his elegant captain’s uniform, he reeked after several months of life at sea. His pathetic attempt at a mustache became even more undetectable when he smiled.

Ignacio Barrionuevo, what a joy to see those dark circles under your eyes!, he cried when he saw my lethargic appearance. I bet you don’t know what I’ve brought for you.

He carried in his hands a heavy box, wrapped in thick paper.

No, I don’t know. What is it?, I asked, turning around with the intention of returning to the bedroom.

Neither do I. A stranger gave it to me in Puerto de Perico and begged me to make sure you received it, he replied. It was typical of him to speak using this sort of circumlocution. José was a Galician, but a good friend. I owed him my life and my agony too. "Believe me, he pleaded with me! This was before we set sail. The royal officers had just finished examining the ship and were going down the bridge with the magistrate of the Court and the prosecutor. [2] We were just about to board the ship when suddenly a mestizo appeared in the crowd screaming that he needed to speak with the captain urgently. If you had seen him!"

He rested his chin on his hand and paused for a moment to remember.

When he saw me, he instinctively bent down and covered his face, as if he was scared. Then he forgot his fear and handed me this here package, and begged me again and again to make sure you received it… He almost cried! What do you make of that?

I pretended to be sleepy and shrugged it off, taking a sideways glance at the package: a box made of fine wood, tied tightly with plenty of thick string. My friend ended up asking me the question that he, as a good Galician, had already hinted at.

Do you have any idea who he could be?

José, I appreciate your kindness, I said as I took the package — it was so heavy, good heavens! — and I’m glad everything went well in Panama, but I’m not feeling well. Excuse me — maybe we can talk tomorrow.

A moment of long stares passed between us. In the end, he asked,

Are you still worried about the matter with María Josefa?

At his question, I felt a lump in my throat that I couldn’t hide. Thank God, he finally realized that I preferred to be alone. He looked at me sympathetically, put his hand on my shoulder and left.

Only after swallowing the bitter pill of his question could I turn my attention to the mysterious box. I found a knife and started to cut the string, with increased haste when I glimpsed through the opened corner a mound of coins of precious metal. But it wasn’t the gold that took my breath away, but what I found on top… Sitting on top of the pile of coins, gleaming flawlessly and more brightly than any treasure, I saw a magnificent Italian double-edged dagger. Its handle was exquisitely carved in the shape of a shell, and the blade was engraved with suns. [3] What a splendid weapon! White, and made of steel! It didn’t show in my sleepy face, but thoughts of the battles, the love and the impiety it had seen radiated light and meaning into my soul. I heard again the words of don Lorenzo: A symbol of struggle, a weapon to defend, a dagger of attack. He was right; María Josefa didn’t need a sycophant who remembered her fondly, but somebody who still loved her.

The package contained something more: an old notebook with a worn black leather cover, with a folded note in the corner: Ignacio, the coins are for mom. Read this book and tell her what you deem convenient. Don’t let her read it! Just tell her that I’m back to being a good son of hers. I trust you. A warm embrace — The Masked Man.

He made me laugh with that Masked Man. What tales people told! Poor guy! God only knows what they would do to him if someone gave him away and they managed to find him. Intrigued by the note, I opened the book. It was his personal diary. The first pages had been torn off, or rather cut out with great care, and the intention to keep their contents secret forever. I would guess they contained summarized anecdotes of his low life and had been torn off so that they didn’t reach his mother’s ears. I turned the pages idly, reading only vaguely until my gaze fell upon a date that stopped my heart like a dagger:

Sunday, April 20th, 1687.

I read what followed the date, and my fear grew with each letter, even though my progress was slow because of the Masked Man’s terrible handwriting. Several pages looked to have been written at sea. But still, the content was clear. These pages narrated the horrifying story that, by tragic destiny, he had had to experience. I was left reeling by what I read. The diary brought to life places and events that I hadn’t been able to experience and hadn’t even known about until that moment. It filled in holes and answered disturbing questions that had remained unsettled until that point. They were tremendous incidents that had shaken our lives… The unhinged Picard, the English pirate D’Hout and the Frenchman who always dressed in black, Grogniet, with his awful coldness… they had all left a deep impression on us — or should I say a mark? It was the story of my village that many preferred to forget.

As I drank in the impressive stories, I was increasingly overwhelmed by the crazy notion of writing to relive the past, of somehow being able to revive the restless maiden with