Buccaneer (22 page)

‘You were set up,’ Jezreel had confirmed when Hector told him what had happened during the attack. ‘We could not see you and your flag of truce from the cane brakes where the forlorn assembled. Yet you must have been visible to Coxon up on the ridge. He must have enjoyed watching you walk trustingly towards the Spanish guns.’

‘And Coxon himself took care to stay out of harm’s way,’ the big man added. ‘He waited until Santa Maria had fallen before he came down from the ridge. Some are saying that our commander lacks courage.’

Now Coxon was somewhere far behind Sawkins and in the early light of dawn the forlorn was advancing on Panama in boats provided by the Kuna – two large piraguas and five small canoes. Jezreel, Dan and Jacques had been assigned to a piragua while Hector had been provided with a musket and ammunition and put with five other men in one of the little dugouts.

Hector put down his paddle and leaned forward to check the lashings that held his musket to the side of the canoe. Dan had advised him to make sure that the knots were tight, the muzzle stoppered, and the lock well wrapped in waxed cloth so that it stayed dry. Also that his cartridge box was fastened somewhere safe, and well sealed with grease, so he didn’t lose the gun or wet the ammunition if there was a capsize.

It had been good advice. The canoe had not tipped over but the four days since leaving Santa Maria had brought frequent cloudbursts, heavy and unpredictable, which had drenched his clothes and knapsack and ruined Hector’s last remaining store of food. Only his medical notebook had stayed dry. He had put it inside a watertight tube he had made from the hollow stem of a giant cane, sealing the cut end with a soft wooden plug driven in tight.

Hector picked up his paddle and resumed the stroke. Conversation was limited to talking to the man directly in front or behind. Seated just ahead of him was a weatherbeaten buccaneer by the name of John Watling. His scars and gruff manner of speech with its occasional military jargon marked him as a veteran soldier.

‘I’m told that Sawkins can’t abide oaths and profanity.’ Hector said.

‘Doesn’t like gaming either. Says it’s sinful and I agree with him,’ Watling replied over his shoulder. ‘If he finds a pack of cards or a set of dice, he throws them in the sea. He makes his people observe the Sabbath too.’

‘Yet he doesn’t hesitate to plunder fellow Christians.’

‘Course not. They’re Papists, aren’t they? He sees them as fair game and it doesn’t matter if we don’t have a Jamaica commission.’

The mention of Jamaica made Hector think of Susanna yet again.

‘I’m hoping to get back to Jamaica soon. Left a girl there,’ he said casually though full of pride. It was an exaggeration but it gave him some small throb of satisfaction to pretend that Susanna was in his life.

‘Then you better hope that our venture on Panama turns out to be more profitable than Santa Maria. No one’s going to be welcome back in Jamaica without a deal of plunder in his purse.’

‘That won’t make any difference to my girl,’ Hector boasted.

‘She’ll have no say in it,’ said Watling curtly. ‘We’ve left a right bad taste behind us in Port Royal. Our captains told the authorities that they were going to cut logwood in Campeachy. Even got government licences to do so. But the moment they cleared the land, they headed for the Main and began this mischief.’

‘I can’t see how that will affect me when I get back to Port Royal. I joined up later.’

‘It’ll make no difference,’ grunted Watling. He paused his paddling to take up a wooden scoop lying at his feet and bail out a quantity of bilgewater. ‘There’s meant to be a truce between England and Spain, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve been disowned.’

‘Disowned?’

‘Put beyond the law.’ Watling made it sound very casual. ‘If we come back with our pockets full of treasure, it will all be forgotten. Just like Drake back in the time of Queen Bess. The Spaniards still call him the Great Pirate, but the English think he is a national hero and he was knighted by the Queen.’ He half-turned to face back at Hector. ‘So if you come home in a ship with sails of silk, then you’ll be a hero too. If not . . .’ – he made a gesture of rope being placed around his neck, and pulled upward – ‘We’ll be choked off. All of us that are caught . . .’

Watling’s blunt prediction filled Hector with foreboding. It was too late to leave the expedition before it reached Panama, even if he was prepared to abandon Dan and his other friends. No longer did he have the excuse that he was only serving as a medical orderly in the campaign. Captain Sawkins had insisted that he carried the musket if he was to travel with the forlorn. The more he thought about his predicament, the more Hector was undecided whether he preferred the attack on Panama to fail so that the expedition would disband, or for the assault to succeed so that he could return to Jamaica and buy himself out of trouble.

There was a long silence, broken only when Watling commented, ‘Nice to think it’s St George’s Day. A good omen!’

But Hector did not answer. He had counted a total of seventy-six men in Sawkins’ tiny flotilla. That seemed far too few to assault a major Spanish stronghold. The rest of the buccaneer expedition was lagging far behind, and he doubted that fire-eating Sawkins would wait for them to catch up. Somewhere over to his left were Dan, Jezreel and Jacques in their piragua, but it was too far away to see which one it was. On his right and visible on the low shoreline against the sunrise was the stump of a tower which one of his companions, a man who had marched with Morgan, said was the Cathedral of Old Panama. The vanguard must be getting very close to its target.

‘Three sail and bearing directly down for us!’ exclaimed Watling as the sun finally dispelled the last of the dawn haze.

Hector craned to one side to look forward over the seaman’s shoulder. About two miles distant were three sailing ships. They were heading straight for the buccaneer canoes which were advancing in no sort of formation.

‘Warships by the look of them, barca longas,’ said Watling, ‘and in a hurry to engage us.’

There was a halloo from the nearest canoe about eighty yards away to their right. It was Sawkins himself. Typically his boat had outstripped the rest, and was several lengths in advance of the company. The captain was standing up in his canoe, waving his hat and gesturing that Watling’s canoe should turn directly towards the enemy.

‘Not much else we can do,’ muttered Watling darkly. ‘The Spaniards have the advantage of us. The wind is right behind them, and they can pick their prey.’ But he appeared remarkably composed as he bent forward and began to unfasten his musket. Only when he had checked and loaded the weapon did he look up again. By then it was clear to Hector that the leading Spanish vessel was shaping course to pass through the gap between Sawkins’ canoe and the one in which he now sat. It would allow the Spanish vessel to use her gun batteries on both sides.

‘Any good with a musket?’ Watling asked Hector.

‘I haven’t had much practice recently.’

‘Better if you act as my loader then,’ suggested the seaman. ‘Get your own gun ready, and hand it to me when I’ve fired mine. Then take my gun and set it up again. If we’re quick about it, I should be able to get off at least three shots, maybe more.

While Hector prepared his own musket, Watling sat quietly, his gun held across his lap, until the leading Spanish ship was almost within range.

‘Stand by to receive cannon fire,’ he said softly.

A moment later there was a loud bang and a billow of smoke from the deck of the Spanish vessel. The air was filled with the whistle of flying metal, and the surface of the sea a good thirty yards ahead of the canoe spouted small jets of foam.

‘Scrubby shooting at this range,’ said Watling dryly.

Again the bang of a cannon. This time the Spanish ship was firing in the opposite direction, towards Sawkins’ canoe. Hector could not see where the shot fell.

‘They’ll do better next time,’ said Watling, and he crouched down in the canoe. Hastily Hector followed his example, kneeling in the bilge and bending as low as possible. Nevertheless he felt very vulnerable. Behind him the other men were also ducking down.

Another shot from a cannon, and the sound of metal hurtling through the air. It was much closer this time. There was a sudden drone as something skimmed off the surface of the sea. The Spaniards must have loaded their guns with small shot. Watling let out a grunt as he shifted position. Now he was half-reclining in the bottom of the canoe, the barrel of his musket resting on the gunnel, and taking aim towards the Spanish ship. Hector felt the canoe rock slightly from side to side as the buccaneers behind him also took up their firing positions. ‘Steady!’ came a warning voice. It was the man farthest in the bow. ‘Let me take the first shot.’

There was the sound of a musket firing, the familiar smell of gunpowder, and a slight tremor down the length of the canoe. Hector raised his head and squinted towards the Spanish ship. He could see men on deck and in the lower rigging and the steersman at the helm. Next to him was a man dressed in a long dark coat with slashes of silver braid. He must be the captain. A group of four Spanish sailors were gathered near the rail and, almost too late, Hector realised that they were a gun crew preparing to fire. He ducked down as their cannon spurted a stab of flame, and something smartly rapped the hull of the canoe. From behind him came an oath.

One of Watling’s bare feet was pushing against his shoulder as the sailor braced himself and took aim. The crack of his musket was followed by a snort of satisfaction. Then Watling was passing back his musket and beckoning for Hector to hand him his own gun. Another wriggle as the sailor adjusted his firing position, and fired a second shot. Hector had to half-kneel in order to reload the empty gun. His head and body were now well above the level of the canoe’s rim. He prised open the waxed lid of his cartouche box and pulled out a charge of powder in its paper wrapping. Tearing off the end of the cartouche with his teeth, he carefully tipped the powder into the musket barrel. Wrapping a strip of paper around a musket ball to make it a tight fit, he tamped it firmly down the barrel with the ramrod. Then, turning the musket on its side, he checked that the pin hole leading to the chamber was clear before he reached for his powder horn and poured a pinch of gunpowder into the firing pan and closed its cover. He was concentrating so closely on his work that he scarcely noticed the sound of the third cannon shot from the Spanish vessel. Their aim must have been poor for he was only conscious of Watling urging him to hurry. ‘Quick! Their helm is exposed.’ Hector passed the reloaded musket forward, and this time Watling sat up on his thwart and faced over the stern of the canoe to take his aim. His musket barrel was beside the young man’s face as he pulled the trigger. Hector was half-deafened by the explosion. But Watling was grinning with triumph. ‘Two out of three,’ he exulted, baring his teeth.

The men behind Hector had also been firing, though how many shots they had got off he could not tell. When he next looked towards the Spanish vessel, the barca longa had passed through the gap between the two canoes and was now downwind. It would take some time for her crew to turn the ship and bring her back into action. For the moment the danger from that direction was over.

A low groan dispelled his sense of relief. The man seated directly behind him in the canoe was holding his shoulder. Blood was staining his shirt. ‘Here, let me look at that,’ said Hector, and was about to climb back over the thwart with his medical knapsack when he was stopped by a sharp order from Watling. ‘Leave that for later,’ the sailor snapped. ‘Here comes the next one.’

Hector glanced up to see a second Spanish warship steering for the same gap between his own canoe and Sawkins’ boat. A broad white, gold and red pennant flying from the warship’s masthead indicated that this must be the command vessel in the Spanish squadron.

Watling was speaking to him again, his voice urgent. ‘Reload your own musket, and this time use it yourself. We’ll not have much support from our captain from now.’ A hurried glance towards Sawkins’ canoe showed that only three members of its crew were visible in their normal places. Their companions must have been killed or wounded.

There was a nudge in his back. ‘Here, take my gun as well!’ The buccaneer with the bloody shoulder seated behind him was thrusting forward his musket for Hector to use. ‘Aim for the helm, always for the helm,’ the man advised, his face screwed up in pain.

This time Hector knew what to expect. Copying Watling’s example he lay in the bottom of the canoe and rested the barrel of his gun on the rim of the hull. He drew back the hammer and waited patiently. The oncoming Spanish warship was following exactly the same track as its escort. Again the sounds of cannon, the clouds of black smoke, and this time the sharper reports of muskets as the Spaniards on deck opened fire on the small low-lying canoes.

Hector was no longer conscious of where the bullets went. His world narrowed to a single image – the figure of the man steering the Spanish vessel. He focused along the sights of his musket and carefully swivelled the muzzle to follow his target. He was faintly aware of the motion of the canoe on the slight swell, the hull rolling a few inches, just enough to make the target rise and fall in his aim. The motion was regular enough for him to calculate when the moment was right. He took a long slow breath and held it, waited for the uproll and then gently squeezed the trigger.

He ignored the recoil of the butt against his shoulder as he watched, never taking his eye off the figure of the helmsman. The man spun round and dropped.

‘Thought you said you were out of practice! My turn now,’ crowed Watling who had observed his shot. Within moments another man had appeared at the helm of the Spanish vessel, a replacement steersman, and he was taking control. Watling hunched over his own weapon and took aim. He fired, and there was a brief moment when it seemed that he had missed his mark. The new helmsman was still upright, unharmed. Then, slowly and inexplicably, the warship began to turn sideways, losing speed.