Admiral (36 page)

“You cleared that treasure very quickly!” Ned commented.

“Aye,” said Saxby, “once the Spaniards had translated for us, I made sure all my lads knew what was there. Amazing how light a hundredweight box becomes when you know it’s full of emeralds, some of which are yours!”

Ned laughed and told Saxby that Sir Thomas would now be transferring the prisoners to Triana, and Burton had run a fuse down into the magazine.

Saxby nodded and commented: “It might do the trick… There’ll be a devil of an echo between these mountains, and plenty of smoke.”

Ned saw Thomas and pointed to the gate. The bearded man understood at once and gave orders to his sentries before joining Ned.

“I was thinking that as soon as I’ve got the prisoners there, I might run a fuse down to Triana’s magazine as well,” Thomas said. “It’ll be good insurance if the prisoners locked in the dungeon know that a few sparks from a flint and steel can send them to eternity…”

Ned thought of the people in the town of Portobelo. Many would still be having their breakfast. Apart from the trumpeter from San Gerónimo sounding a call which Ned thought few in the town would have recognized as an alarm, did anyone realize that Triana fort in their midst, and San Gerónimo, very close, were in the hands of buccaneers? And with a fuse running into Triana magazine, the buccaneers had the fort as a hostage: blowing it up would kill the garrisons and probably damage the town. Ned had no intention of doing it, but the threat would be useful.

He was turning to go back up the steps to the battlements when he saw a sweating, breathless and weary Secco come through the door, followed by Coles, Brace, Gottlieb and Rideau.

Secco came straight over, digging the pike into the ground to indicate his rage. “I failed,
almirante
,” he said angrily. “The sergeant commanding that garrison is too stupid to breathe! He is a local man and did not even understand a flag of truce. Either he does not realize that blowing up San Gerónimo will kill all his comrades, or he is so
loco
that he will surrender only if ordered to do so by a senior officer!”

“You did your best. So the Iron Fort will fire at the ships as they try to come in.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. We did all we could…”

“Secco did all he could to persuade that sergeant,” Brace said. “The man was too stupid.”

Ned realized that the admiral of the Brethren was really doing little more than a seaman’s job by standing on the battlements looking for ships, and something Secco had just said was stirring an idea.

“Gottlieb, would you go up to the battlements and keep a look-out for our ships?”

“Gladly!” The Dutchman set off up the steps.

“Secco,” Ned said quietly. “You said that sergeant in the Iron Fort would only surrender ‘if ordered to do so by a senior officer’? Are you sure of that?”

The Spaniard nodded vigorously. “Yes. He’s born out here – no initiative, no brain, no ambition: being a soldier keeps him fed – and very well, judging from his belly – and that’s all he’s interested in.”

“We have a senior officer here.”

Secco looked puzzled and then exclaimed: “Yes, Triana had a captain, Peralta. He’s probably in command of all four garrisons. He has the authority to deal with that crazy sergeant.”

“Providing we can persuade him!” Coles said.

“We’ll persuade him! He understands about fuses leading into magazines,” Ned said grimly. “Let’s find him and you can take him to Todo Fierro. Don’t mention we have any ships coming in; let him think we’re just completing the capture of all the forts.”

Secco pointed to a group of prisoners still standing in front of the falcons while twenty or thirty more were being marched out of the castle on their way to Triana. “That’s the captain, with the large hat and plume.”

“Call him over: we don’t want to stand in front of the guns!”

The Spaniard was stocky, with a plump face rather than fat, a thin beard and moustaches which obviously took up more of his virility and of his servant’s time than their growth warranted, bulging eyes too close together, a surprisingly well shaped nose, and a narrow-lipped mouth. Ned watched him while Secco demanded his name, rank and position, and instinctively reached several conclusions.

Obviously he was a nephew of someone with influence. Not the son, or he would have a better position, but an unimportant nephew. It seemed unlikely that he had an ambition that could not be satisfied by a good cook: his complexion had that chubby pinkness reflecting too much rich food and good wine, not enough exercise and, Ned suspected, no interest in women.

He was the kind of man who, given the choice of being the uncrowned king of tiny Portobelo or a minor prince in a place like Panama, would choose Portobelo. He would not miss lively company: the knights of the dining table needed only a knife and a fork and a kitchen to turn the most provincial town or village into a gourmet’s paradise.

The Spanish captain, assuming Secco was in command and thankful at finding someone who spoke Spanish, was outraged and needed to complain and excuse himself to someone. If the garrisons had not been stripped to send the men to Jamaica, he declared, the buccaneers would never have marched a hundred yards along the track: he had protested when the five transports took the rest of the garrison to Jamaica, particularly since every town had to yield levies – untrained men, he said contemptuously.

Secco interrupted to tell him that San Gerónimo would be blown up with all the prisoners in it unless the Iron Fort surrendered.

“The Iron Fort has its own commanding officer – and anyway, you would never dare!”

“The fuses are laid into the magazine of this fort and Triana,” Secco said casually, adding: “The sergeant at Todo Fierro, Gonzales, is superior to you, then? You cannot order him to surrender?”

Captain Peralta’s eyes jerked from Secco to Ned. He was beginning to realize that the threat to blow up the castles was not an idle one, and he was obviously startled that Secco knew the name of the sergeant commanding at Todo Fierro.

“Well, no, obviously he is not superior, but the garrisons of Triana (myself included, San Gerónimo and San Fernando) were captured by a trick. Sergeant Gonzales obviously does not intend to fall into a trap. You can’t take the fort by direct attack. He knows that and will not surrender.”

“He will, or you go to Heaven propelled by a few tons of gunpowder,” Secco said, translating from a comment by Ned, who found he could understand the Spaniard.

“But how can –”

“He will surrender if he gets orders from a superior officer. You are in command of all the garrisons –” Secco was not sure, but it seemed a reasonable guess “–so you will give him the orders. We go round there now. If you fail and the sergeant does not surrender, then this fort is blown up. Triana, too, if I know my admiral.” Secco added with a cruel laugh which startled Ned until he saw an eye wink.

“But the Viceroy! I shall be accused of treason,” Captain Peralta protested. “They are always looking for traitors, or scapegoats, when something goes wrong.”

Secco shook his head sadly. “Who would ever have thought a quiet posting like Portobelo would land you in such trouble! You avoided being sent to Jamaica, but now it looks as thought the price you must pay is being hoisted on gunpowder. Unless, of course, you give the correct orders to the sergeant, when the certainty of gunpowder is replaced by the possibility of the Viceroy blaming you, although I don’t see why he should.”

Suddenly Gottlieb, standing at the top of the steps, shouted down: “Two sail in sight. They’re three or four miles out and trying to make up over the current with a trifling breeze.”

“Very well, keep reporting,” Ned shouted, and saw that Thomas and several guards were returning for the rest of the prisoners and the guns.

If the ships picked up a sudden puff of wind they would be at the entrance long before Captain Peralta, Secco and an escort could reach the Iron Fort. Still, it was only chance and so had to be taken.

He said to Secco in English: “Take him to the fort and see if you can get him there before the ships arrive. The sergeant will surrender, I’m sure. Take enough men that you can nail all the guns. But make haste. As soon as you have control of the fort, haul down the Spanish colours – I see that the sergeant has hoisted them. But if the first ship looks as though she might come in before the Spanish flag’s down, don’t be surprised if you hear and see this place go up; I’m not risking anyone to those Spanish guns.”

Aurelia was nearly in tears of frustration. The wind had not only turned light once they were abreast of the Rio Guanche, but it was puffing round in circles like a child blowing a dandelion. The fleet was now stretched across several miles of sea, each ship wary of accidentally drifting into another, sails hanging down like drying laundry.

The current – Ned had called it a counter-current here because it flowed eastward, in the opposite direction to the west-going current further out – was carrying them along the coast in the right direction but, with no wind to steer by, the ships most probably would soon be carried right past Portobelo.

What would Ned do? It was too deep to anchor – she had been delighted with herself for having that idea, but the seaman with the lead reported twelve fathoms. Certainly they (but probably not all the ships) had enough cable to anchor in seventy-two feet, but none of them had enough men to get the anchors up again from that depth when the wind set in. Weighing at Bahia las Minas had been easy – shallow water and no wind.

More important, perhaps, what was Ned doing? By now he should have secured the forts and Søren Jensen should have led several of the boats round from the Rio Guanche. If everything had gone according to plan – she shrugged her shoulders: how often did that happen? – the boats should be waiting in Portobelo to bring the bullion out to the ships as soon as they anchored off the town.

She felt a slight breath on her cheek and glanced at the telltales, feathers strung on a line and attached to the shrouds where the helmsmen could see them. Yes, they were fluttering, and even before she could remember the right order to give, the seamen were trimming the sheets and the two men at the heavy tiller were leaning on it. The sails flapped three or four times and then slipped comfortably into curves.

Aurelia moved over to the compass, where a seaman was anxiously staring at the gap in the cliffs that was the entrance to Portobelo. “Bearin’ sou’east ma’am,” he reported. “If this breeze ’olds we’ll be able to sail straight in, what with the current taking us down.”

Looking round at the rest of the ships, she could see that all had their sails drawing now, but because the
Griffin
and the
Peleus
had been well ahead when the wind dropped they were a couple of miles or more farther to the east. She could imagine Diana’s relief. And Mrs Judd’s. It was absurd that three women in effect commanded three buccaneer ships. Of course, they did not really command them: Ned had left one of his best seamen with five others and so had Thomas and Saxby, but being polite they deferred to the women. At least, she laughed to herself, there was no doubt that Mrs Judd regarded herself as the master (or should it be mistress?) of the
Phoenix
.

Did she ever again want to go through the strain of an expedition? Supposing there was so much purchase that Ned’s share was enough to start a decent plantation in Jamaica? They could sell Kingsnorth (by agreement with Ned’s brother) and her own estate, and say goodbye to Barbados. It was a pleasant island but it held no happy memories for either of them, and Jamaica was more beautiful and according to Ned, with its huge anchorage would soon be the axle upon which the trade of the West Indies would revolve.

Yet could she and Ned, after the roaming life at sea of the past year or so, settle down in a plantation house, bait for mosquitoes and sandflies and the happy hunting ground of pompous planters, vainglorious soldiers and drunken sea captains, and their dreary wives for whom excitement comprised an hour’s storm with lightning?

No, despite all this worrying about Ned, it was worth it. Well, she did not enjoy the worrying, but balancing one kind of life against another she preferred this. Tonight when they made love there would be a joyful screaming zest, a fantastic togetherness emphasized by their recent parting. Ned had once said that you had to risk dying occasionally to be able to put a value on living, and this was what he meant. But the waiting…and it always seemed to be the women who waited. Would you, madam, she asked herself ironically, prefer instead to give lemonade to the dreary wives (some would prefer sherry but none would ask) discussing the details of their last pregnancy, the merits of various midwives and, who knows what these women talked about as they embroidered, perhaps the sexual shortcomings of their husbands…

“’Bout a mile ma’am.” The seaman startled her, bringing her suddenly back to the quarterdeck of the
Griffin
from the imaginary drawing-room of a non-existent plantation house. The man had something more to say, though: he had that hangdog look of someone with bad news.

“That fort on the northern side as you go in, ma’am…”

“Yes, San Felipe de Todo Fierro – the Iron Fort.”

“It’s got colours flying, ma’am.”

“Not a white flag?”

“No, red and gold, ma’am: the Spanish flag.”

“Can you see flags on the castle at the far end?”

“No flags on the others, ma’am, not as far as we can see.”

“And no sign of Jensen and his boats? One might be trying to reach us with orders.”

“Nothing ma’am, we’ve been lookin’.”

Now what? The seaman had quite reasonably left the decision to her. Had Ned’s men forgotten to lower the flag and hoist a white flag in its place? If the Spanish still held the Iron Fort, there should be smoke from guns – the cannon of the Spanish, and the puffs (he had warned they would be little more) of Ned’s falcons.

No smoke, no fighting: it seemed simple enough: some
sot
had forgotten to lower the flag.

“We’ll sail straight in and anchor as Mr Yorke instructed. Don’t forget the reefs along the southern side.”