Buccaneer (20 page)

Hector stepped from cover and immediately attracted several musket shots from the palisade. But the range, some four hundred yards, was too great for accurate shooting and he did not even know where the shots went.

Anxiously he held the lance higher and waved it from side to side so that the white cloth could be seen clearly. The musketry ceased.

Hector walked slowly forward. A hard knot of fear formed in his stomach and within a few paces the staff was slippery with sweat from his hands. He took deep slow breaths to calm himself, and concentrated on keeping the white flag visible. After about fifty yards he stole a quick glance to his right, hoping to see where Jezreel and Jacques were with Sawkins’ assault group. But a fold of ground obscured his view. He hoisted the white flag still higher and decided that he would keep his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the wooden palisade as if this focus would somehow make them respect his flag of truce.

The ground between the palisade and the edge of the woods where he had emerged was rough pasture dotted with low scrubby bushes. He guessed that the original woodland had been cut back by the Spaniards to give a clear field of fire from the stockade, but over the years this precaution had been neglected. The bushes and long grass had been allowed to grow back so that he was obliged to pick his route carefully, making sure to stay within full view of the stockade. From time to time briars and thorns snagged his breeches, and he wondered what would happen if he put his foot into a hole, tripped, and fell. Would the Spanish musketeers think it was a trick, and shoot? There was no doubt that their marksmen were on edge and that they kept their sights trained on him as he moved closer.

An insect landed on his shirtless shoulder, and a second later he felt the burning pain of a bite. He clenched his teeth and restrained himself from slapping away the insect. He needed both hands to hold the white flag high and steady.

Perhaps three or four minutes had passed since he had left Coxon and the other captains, and still there had been no response from the Spanish stockade. No musket fire, no movement. Everything was quiet. He began to breathe a little more easily. He became conscious of the warmth of the morning sun on his skin, a faint smell of something sweet – rotting fruit on the ground under the bushes perhaps – and a black shape circling in the sky high above the stockade, a bird of prey.

Steadily he paced onward.

He had covered perhaps half the distance to the stockade safely when, without warning, there was a sudden fusillade of shots, followed by a fierce, defiant yell. Shocked, he faltered in his stride, scarcely believing that the Spaniards had ignored his flag of truce. But there was no gun smoke billowing from the palisade, and in the same instant he realised that the gunfire had not come from the Spaniards, but from behind him. It was Sawkins and the forlorn who had begun shooting.

Seconds later came the counter-fire from the stockade, an irregular succession of shots as the defenders responded. This time he clearly heard the hum of musket balls whizzing past him. Some of the Spanish marksmen were taking him as their target where he stood exposed on the open ground. A musket ball slashed through a nearby bush, followed by the noise of the cut twigs pattering to the ground. Another musket ball hummed past his head.

Appalled, he threw away the staff and flag and flung himself to the ground, seeking cover. As he lay there, face down to the earth, he heard another volley of musketry from behind him and then a second cheer.

He lay still, not daring to move. For a moment he considered jumping to his feet and running back towards the woods, but dismissed the idea as suicidal. He was certain to be cut down by the Spanish marksmen.

Another cheer, and this time much closer. There was a tearing and crashing, and the thump of running feet. Cautiously he looked up and to his right. Some forty yards away was Sawkins, instantly identifiable in his bright yellow sash. He was bounding forward through the long grass, whooping and shouting and charging straight at the stockade, musket in one hand and cutlass in the other. Close behind him a score of heavily armed buccaneers was running full pelt towards the Spanish defences. As Hector watched, one of the buccaneers dropped to one knee, took aim with his musket and fired at the palisade. A second later he was back on his feet and careering onward, ready to use his musket as a club.

Within a few moments the first of the forlorn had reached the stockade. Someone must have found a chink between the wooden posts because two or three of the attackers were levering away with some sort of crowbar. A second later a small section of the palisade collapsed, leaving a small gap.

Now the buccaneers were tearing at the opening, making it wider. Later arrivals were thrusting their musket barrels through the loopholes and shooting in at the defenders. In the general mayhem there seemed to be little or no resistance from the Spanish garrison.

Shakily Hector started to get up. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ said someone with a French accent. It was Jacques, musket in hand. He was clearly shocked at the sight of Hector rising from the ground.

‘I was on my way to parley, carrying a white flag, when you attacked,’ blurted Hector. He was still appalled by his narrow escape.

‘We didn’t see you,’ said Jacques. ‘You could have got yourself gunned down and that for nothing.’

‘But I was on my way to offer the garrison safe conduct if they surrendered the town gold.’

‘Christ! What imbecile came up with that idea?’

‘Captain Coxon sent me.’

‘Coxon? But he must have known that Captain Sawkins’ idea of a battle is to charge straight at the enemy. That’s why Sawkins was given the forlorn.’

‘But Coxon had ordered Sawkins to await his signal before launching an attack.’

‘Did he?’ Jacques looked incredulous. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Sawkins didn’t mention it to myself nor Jezreel or any of the others. He brought us up through cane brakes, and as soon as we had a clear sight of the Spanish position, gave the order to fire and charge.’

‘Coxon claimed that the parley would also give the forlorn more time to get into position and prevent the Spaniards from learning our strength.’

Jacques grimaced with disgust. ‘Now you may have the truth of it. A white flag can be a ruse. But it was crazy of you to volunteer to carry it.’

‘I didn’t volunteer,’ confessed Hector. ‘Coxon ordered me to do it, and I thought it was a genuine parley.’

Jacques gave him a searching look. ‘Hector, I would say that Captain Coxon very nearly arranged your death.’

B
Y NOW
the fight at the palisade was over, and the Spanish garrison had surrendered. The battle had lasted barely twenty minutes, and the buccaneers had complete mastery of the stockade and the town itself. Hector went forward with Jacques to where the Spanish prisoners were being herded together. They were a sorry-looking lot, men of all ages from teenage lads to greybeards. Some of their weapons were arquebuses so obsolete that they required props on which to support the clumsy barrels.

‘No wonder their rate of fire was so dismal,’ commented Jacques. ‘It must have taken ages to reload. How could anyone ever think that they were capable of defending this place?’

‘Perhaps it was not worth defending,’ said Hector. He had seen the disappointed expressions on the faces of buccaneers returning from investigating the settlement. They had with them a frightened Spaniard dressed in the clothes of a clerk.

‘What a dump!’ exclaimed one of the buccaneers. ‘Nothing of value. Just miserable houses and wretched people.

‘Didn’t you find any gold?’ asked Jacques hopefully.

The man laughed bitterly. ‘There’s a town treasury all right. We kicked in the door. But it was empty. This fellow was hiding nearby. He’s some sort of a bookkeeper.’

‘Perhaps you’ll let me question him,’ Hector suggested.

‘Go ahead. He’s in a complete funk. Thinks we’ll hand him over to the Kuna.’

The Spaniard was more than eager to answer any question that Hector put to him. The townsfolk of Santa Maria had known for days that the buccaneers were approaching, so the governor had arranged a fleet of boats to evacuate as many of the women and children as possible. The treasury had been emptied out, three hundred weight of gold put aboard a small sloop and sent by river to the capital in Panama. Finally the governor, his deputy, the local dignitaries and the priests had also left. All that remained in Santa Maria were townsfolk who were too poor or insignificant to get away.

‘So that’s it then,’ exclaimed Jacques. ‘We’ve come all this way, done all the marching and wading through rivers and lying on hard ground and eating vile food, only to find that the cupboard is bare.’ He gave a snort of disgust.

At this point Captain Sawkins walked up to them. His yellow sash was speckled with flecks of gunpowder, and there was a sword cut in the shoulder of his buff coat. ‘What have you managed to find out from this Spaniard?’ he asked.

Hector told him about the Spanish withdrawal, and immediately Sawkins was eager to set off in pursuit. ‘If we hurry we might catch up with that boat carrying the gold dust. There’s a pirogue the Spaniards left behind which we can use.’

He crooked a finger at Hector. ‘You come along, and bring that Spaniard with you. He’ll be able to identify the boat for us.’

‘I am assistant to Surgeon Smeeton. He’s waiting for me at the camp,’ Hector reminded him. ‘I’ll need to inform him where I’m going.’

‘Then do so, and while you’re about it, bring some more medicines with you. We may have some fighting to do.’ Sawkins glanced at Jezreel and Jacques. ‘You two are still members of the forlorn. You also come with me. Be ready to set off downriver in an hour.’

H
ECTOR RAN
back to where he had left his knapsack, stopping to pick up the abandoned spear and put on his shirt. When he got back to the camp, it was to find the bald quartermaster from Harris’s ship seated on a log, his head bowed. Smeeton was standing over him and sewing a flap of skin back onto the quartermaster’s scalp.

‘Hector, there you are,’ said the surgeon as casually as if he was in his consulting rooms in Port Royal. ‘A minor head wound, and you see the advantages of hair loss. No need to shave the hair away before deploying needle and thread.’

His stitching finished, the surgeon wrapped a bandage around the wound, and the quartermaster got up and walked away.

‘Captain Sawkins has asked me to accompany him downriver, in pursuit of the Spanish treasure,’ said Hector.

‘Then by all means go,’ answered Smeeton. ‘There’s precious little medical work for you here. We lost just two dead in the entire action, and half a dozen wounded, so there’s hardly enough work to go around. The other companies have brought along at least a couple of surgeons apiece. In fact we seem to have so many medical men on this expedition that I’m thinking of returning to the ships, accompanying the walking wounded. Now that we’ve crossed the isthmus I don’t expect to add much to my pharmacopoeia.’

‘Is it all right if I take some medicines with me?’ Hector asked. ‘Captain Sawkins requested I do so.’

Smeeton smiled indulgently. ‘But of course. It’ll be a chance to use those notes you made while sorting through the medicine chest.’

Hector opened the chest and looked inside. The salves and ointments used up during the march across the isthmus had been replaced by Smeeton’s collection of items he thought might possess curative powers – dead snakes, odd-shaped roots, dried leaves, strips of bark, seeds, coloured earth, monkey dung, even the skull of a creature like a dwarf elephant that Dan and other Miskito strikers had found feeding beside the river. The animal’s flesh had provided fresh meat for three dozen hungry buccaneers. The surgeon had kept the cranium.

Then his eye fell on the packet that the Kuna medicine man had given him. It was the ointment made for the children of the moon as a poultice for their skin sores. He took the packet from the chest, consulted his notes and found a jar labelled ‘Cantharides’. Turning his back so Smeeton could not see what he was doing, the young man carefully untied the leaf wrapper of the Kuna medication. Inside was a blob of pale waxy ointment about the size of his fist. Spreading the leaf on the ground, Hector carefully tipped out several spoonfuls of yellowish-brown powder from Smeeton’s medicine jar and, using a twig, stirred the powder into the Kuna salve. Then he wrapped up the packet once again, and returned both it and the jar to the chest.