Aztec Fire

by Gary Jennings

  He knew powder and ordnance, however, and cross-examined us thoroughly on both subjects. He hammered me not only about powder composition but about the texture of the granules, on corning techniques, and on which grades of powder were best for various calibers of cannons.

  He seemed even more skeptical of—and more offended by—Luis than he was of me, the indio. Obviously, he expected indios, whom he thought were little better than savages, to end up as bilge slaves. That a Spaniard with a reputation for dabbling in black magic and being a cardsharp ended up in this hell of hells meant to the captain that Luis was intrinsically devious, no doubt dangerous—and a traitor to his own kind.

  Not half-bad assumptions.

  Still, he had no other options. The savage and the cardsharp were his only hope.

  Capitán Zapata finally said, “If either of you have lied to me about your skills, I will have you keelhauled until your flesh has ground off your bones.” He sighed. “Tell me what you need to get started.”

  We needed help, especially Luis with the cannons. But he knew better than to personally suggest Arturo. The captain despised Luis with such special vehemence he might reject him out of contempt for Luis alone. But we had to say something. Arturo had helped us and he faced certain death in the bilge.

  “The bilge has another man who knows armaments,” I said. “A seaman named Arturo. He was once an artillery sergeant in the army. We need him to help us with the cannons.”

  I didn’t add that like Luis, Arturo had an unpleasant mishap with Spain’s army that had persuaded him to change his vocation, geography, and identity.

  He actually looked at me. For the first time. Directly. In the eye. Without blinking. His eyes were red and I could see his skin was sagging. He looked sick, even feverish. I suspected he had lost a lot of weight.

  He’d been sick.

  “We want the seaman Arturo, Capitán Zapata,” I said.

  “I don’t trust him.”

  I met his arrogant stare. “We need him. You have punished him for wrongdoing. He will work harder for you now. And with complete loyalty. He won’t want to return to the bilge.”

  He continued to stare at me, unblinking. “The three of you will have to be replaced in the bilge.”

  Giving Luis a withering glance of searing scorn, the captain turned on his heels and headed for his cabin, probably praying the wind and stink would not change direction.

  “One more thing, Capitán,” I said softly.

  He spun around, his face a mask of barely suppressed fury. For a moment I thought I’d gone too far.

  “What?”

  “In order to mix powder we need clean skin and clean, dry clothes. Ideally, of white cloth. We don’t want to contaminate the powder or get it on our clothing. It could cause a fire.”

  He stared at me again, appraisingly—then looked away. “Very well. The first officer will arrange for it. And anything else you need to get the cannons ready.”

  He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard and spoke discreetly low. “I’ve suspected for some time that the previous powder and cannon masters were buying inferior powder and cannonry, billing us for top grade, and pocketing the difference. As soon as the new materials arrived they jumped ship and disappeared. The scum that got blown up were their inept replacements. I’m especially concerned about our cannonry.” He shook his head with disgust. “I’ve also been out ill for six weeks and can still barely get out of bed. I foolishly relied on others.”

  He stared at us again, no doubt wondering if permitting bilge slaves to take over command of the ship’s armaments was a nightmare conjured up in hell during a fit of fever.

  For a moment his eyes grew wild, as if he were staring at demons, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

  I froze, wondering if he was going to hack us to death.

  Then he spun around and rushed for his cabin.

  PART XII

  THE CHIMNEYS OF HELL

  FIFTY

  THE FIRST MATE, Ortega de Gasset, was a hulking bear of a man with a full beard, a chest like a wine barrel, a nose like a barnacle, and a surprisingly dark complexion for a Spaniard. The galleon’s crew was largely self-equipped, favoring for the most part cotton trousers, rope belts, and rope sandals. The mates wore white shirts and trousers with black horizontal stripes, narrow-brimmed straw hats with chin cords, and quirts with lead-weighted rawhide butt stocks looped to their wrists.

  Ortega showed us to the quarters of the late cannon master and his departed assistant. Cramped, it had room for two hammocks and two sea chests. We inherited whatever meager possessions they had, including clothes. He had a sailor bring us a large bucket with a long rope knotted to the handle.

  “For washing. Tie it off on the rail before you throw it in for seawater,” Ortega said. “Lose it, and we’ll throw you in after it.”

  I had no reason to doubt they would.

  He gave us a bar of lye soap, a stiff bristle brush with a wood handle, and some clean rags to wash and dry with. Also a large deep pan packed with salt beef, tortillas, cooked beans, a bucket of drinking water, and a lime to share for preventing the dreaded scourge, scurvy.

  We ignored the bathing gear. Attacking the food and water, we devoured and drank everything in one sitting. We never even looked up at each other. I’m not sure I took a breath.

  We finally got around to filling the roped bucket, after which we bathed one at a time. The nonbather hauled in more buckets of seawater. We needed six bucketfuls each, half a bar of lye soap, and ample scrubbing to get the bilge stink out of our skin and hair.

  Well before we were finished, our raw reddened bodies burned from lye, scrubbing, and the brine.

  As powder and cannon masters, we wore the same striped clothes and narrow-brimmed straw hats as the mates—for which I was glad, otherwise some officer on deck would have mistaken me for the bilge slave I used to be and break a belaying pin over my head.

  The dead men’s clothes fit tolerably, and just as we were dressing, First Mate Gasset came to pick us up for a tour of the cannonry and powder storage facilities. He told us Arturo was being released to join us later.

  Luis spent an inordinate amount of time examining the weapons, even climbing on top of the barrels to better peer inside their muzzles.

  He said nothing but did not seem pleased.

  Nor was I reassured by the condition of the powder kegs, stored in several different sites.

  I followed Luis’s example and ignored the first mate’s questions.

  “Please tell the captain,” Luis said, “we would like to speak with him in private at his earliest convenience.”

  “We now need some time to prepare notes,” I said.

  First Mate Gasset stared at us a long minute, disappointed we were not sharing any information with him.

  “Muy bien,” he finally said—and left our cramped cabin.

  Luis and I stared at each other in silence. For a long time. Finally Luis spoke: “What did you see?”

  “El Capitán was unfortunately right—dead right. The only decent batch of powder this ship had was the test batch. After they finished the test, they were finished. The rest of the store is powder for blowing up stumps—if that. A lot of it was spoiled by water on other voyages, then acquired for this ship at a reduced price. The cannonry?”

  “Someone replaced whatever cannons they previously had with rusted-out, broken-down junk, probably while the captain was ashore,” Luis said. “In fact, a defective cannon might have been more of the reason for the explosion that sent the cannon master to Hades than the tampered powder.”

  “What’s the worst cannon problem?” I asked.

  “Cracks. Some of the breeches and barrels have hairline cracks which have been blacked over to make them less visible.”

  “So we’re entering Pirate Alley defenseless?” I asked.

  “Even if the cannons worked, you say the powder is only good for demolition work at best.”

  “W
hat should we do?”

  “Tell the captain but otherwise keep it to ourselves,” Luis said. “He won’t want the word to get out.” He rolled his eyes to the heavens. “We will probably end up as shark bait before this voyage is done. Even if we make it, the ship can’t return without being refitted with cannon and powder at great cost. When that happens, the Manila viceroy will have the captain’s hide.

  “But, of course, he will avoid that punishment if the ship is attacked by pirates. Unable to defend ourselves, all of us will be killed.”

  “We have to assume we’ll be attacked,” I argued. “Arturo says it’s standard procedure for pirates to test the mettle of all ships, backing off only when they see the ship’s powder is dry and the cannoneer’s aim is good. But we can hope they don’t attack.”

  “Hope is for old women and small children. We need a strategy,” Luis said.

  He stroked the stubble on his chin. “There’s no way you can reconstitute the powder we have so it is munitions quality?”

  I had already answered that question twice. “No.”

  “Perhaps once again we need the hand to be faster than the eye.”

  “Luis, this isn’t about swindling rich widows out of their jewelry, it’s about surviving in this hell ship, about fighting murderous pirates with gunpowder so weak, it goes ‘poof’ and sends cannonballs six feet—the length of our coffins. We are on our way to hell—”

  “Chimneys of Hell,” Luis said.

  “Chimneys of hell? What is that? A shortcut to hell?”

  “A weapon that would blow the cojones off the toughest pirates.”

  Just then First Mate Gasset hammered on our door. “Capitán Zapata wants to see you now. He’s not pleased. When he’s not pleased, it does not pay to keep him waiting.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  LUIS AND I entered the captain’s compartment. First Mate Gasset shut the door and stood behind us. Capitán Zapata was seated at his desk working on the ship’s log.

  I was sure we’d scrubbed away all our bilge odor and dirt. Still, Capitán Zapata, looking up at us, sniffed, snorted, and glared at us as balefully as if we reeked of burning brimstone.

  First Mate Gasset shouted, “Atención!” Snapping to attention, he pulled himself up ramrod-straight. His arms riveted to his sides, he stared fixedly at some invisible object immediately above the captain’s head. Luis did the same.

  Ayyo … Luis and I were no longer bilge slaves. A split second after Gasset and Luis snapped to attention, I aped their example.

  Unlike those two, I had no military training, but I also had ample reason to avoid the wrath of the captain. He was far too quick to lash men to the mast, strip off their shirts—then their backs.

  He finally looked up from his log. Glaring at us with supreme disdain, his forehead again wrinkled in disgust.

  “You examined the powder and cannonry?” he asked, pen still in hand, glancing down at his open leather-bound log.

  “Sí, Capitán,” Luis said.

  “And …?”

  “Request permission to speak to the captain alone,” I said.

  First Mate Gasset bristled, clearly irritated at our presumption. Capitán Zapata stared at us also irritated … but reluctantly curious.

  He put down his pen.

  “This better be good,” he said.

  “We understand, sir,” Luis said.

  At least, however, we had his attention.

  “Very well,” he said. “First Mate Gasset, you can leave now.”

  First Mate Gasset saluted, spun angrily on his right heel, and left the cabin.

  But he shut the door with care, quietly.

  “Well, what is so bad about our defenses that we require utter privacy?”

  I glanced at Luis out of the corner of my eye.

  “Don’t just stand there like statues. Spit it out.”

  “Señor Capitán,” I said, unsure as to how to address him, “how many new crew members did you take on in port?”

  “Virtually all the officers. The ship was in dry dock, up on a gridiron for much-needed repairs. I caught something in Manila on the last run and was in my sickbed—down with the contagion.” He looked away. “The doctor thought it might kill me.”

  “I don’t know what the cannon master ordered,” I said, “but ninety percent of the powder is junk—barely fit for blowing up tree stumps. If you use it to propel cannon shot, you won’t get power or accuracy.”

  “Why did the last cannon explode?”

  “Defective ordnance.” I was only partially dishonest. As potent as the powder had been, it would not have blown up a well-built cannon.

  “The rest of the ordnance?” Capitán Zapata asked Luis.

  “Most are as bad as the one that exploded. I could perhaps squeeze three or four worthy of firing light rounds, but we don’t have the gunpowder even for those.”

  “He is saying,” I piped in, “that we will enter Pirate Alley unarmed … defenseless.”

  “Dios mío! I am doomed. How could this have happened?”

  Luis said, “If the boat was in dry dock and if you were off the vessel—sick and unable to supervise delivery and installation—someone could have replaced your functional cannons with dysfunctional junk. I doubt you took those cracked rusted-out wrecks on your previous voyages.”

  “I’ve been too sick to inspect anything. The first mate. He was in charge of the ship. I’ll have him—”

  Luis held up his hand to stop him. “Pardon, Capitán, but you don’t want this information to leave this room. If you punish the first mate, we will not only lose a needed fighting man, but his screams will let everyone on board know that there is a serious problem. We have to keep the information from the crew.”

  “Do not say a word to anyone,” Capitán Zapata said.

  “Sí, Capitán,” Luis said. “That’s why we asked for privacy.”

  The captain stood up. “The irony is I’m getting my sea legs back. I’m actually well enough to go out on deck an hour or two a day. If there was anything that could be done to fix the cannons—”

  “There isn’t,” Luis said.

  “Without firepower we’re doomed. When we reach the Manila coast and straits, the place they call Pirate Alley, marauders will harass us. If we don’t drive them back with multiple rounds, they’ll swarm us like vultures. We’ll never survive that gauntlet.”

  “Capitán,” Luis said, “with your permission I do have one or two ideas. But we would need to take a small detour—to the port of Hong Kong. I know the port well, and know a way to arm this vessel.”

  The captain stared at Luis, his mouth gaped, as if he had slammed him in the face and called his mother a puta. He appeared even more stunned than when we told him his ship was disarmed.

  “Are you loco in the cabeza? Hong Kong is a pirate’s haven. It’s over six hundred sea miles from Manila. You’re suggesting we go there and buy new cannons and gunpowder? That’s impossible. Pirates don’t sell cannons, they use them to get booty.”

  “I’m not talking cannonry, not even explosives.”

  “What then?” Capitán Zapata stared at Luis, incredulous. “What could possibly serve as a substitute for cannon and shot?”

  “Something far more lethal,” Luis said.

  “What is more frightening than cannon shot?”

  “The Chimneys of Hell,” Luis said.

  FIFTY-TWO

  WHILE HE STARED at Luis as if my amigo were a madman, the captain looked as if he was getting feverish again.

  “Explain yourself,” he said. He spoke calmly but his eyes told me he was thinking about having us keelhauled.

  “I am sure you know about the weapons called fireships,” Luis said.

  “Of course. They are Trojan horses filled with fire. Fire has always been the most frightening weapon in any navy’s arsenal. A couple of thousand years ago the Greeks invented a combustible we call Greek Fire. They hurtled it in pots, shot it out of tubes, and even rammed flaming boats into e
nemy ships.”

  Luis nodded, happy the captain knew about the weapon. “The ancient Chinese commanders crammed ships with combustibles—dry reeds, wood shavings, brush, fatty oil. Locking them to the enemy vessels with hooks and ropes, they set them ablaze, incinerating both ships. The Crusaders employed them, too.”

  “The English pirate, Francis Drake,” the captain said meditatively, “used them against our Armada in 1588. When our ships were anchored off Calais in the Channel, the English sent blazing boats into our Armada’s midst, scattering our intrepid navy like a flock of foolish pigeons.

  “Let no one forget,” the captain said, stroking his chin, deep in thought, “our fireships saved the day at the Battle of Lepanto in 1571. In combination with Venice and the Vatican, we beat the Turks at sea for the first time in history. There were more than two hundred oar-driven galleys on each side, and our fireboats struck terror in their hearts like hellfire itself.”

  “I myself commanded a fireboat in the Battle of Trafalgar,” Luis said.

  “Not that you did us much good,” Capitán Zapata jeered. “Those British bastardos beat us and the French without losing a ship.”

  “I also commanded a hell-burner against the Bey of Algiers,” Luis added.

  I wondered how many of Luis’s heroic naval exploits were true. I could see from the captain’s face he was wondering the same thing.

  “The Acapulco authorities advised me of your considerable criminal record,” the captain said, “forewarning me of your treacherous and deceitful lifestyle. For years both the colony’s constabulary and the Inquisition have been after you for your innumerable crimes against Church, Crown, and the stainless honor of Spanish womanhood. If memory serves, the charges against you included the seduction and swindling of wealthy widows, the reading of their fortunes with devil cards—again to divest them of both dinero and virtue—and of course for assorted charges of murder-most-foul. After you were so exposed you fled from military service …”

  “None of that was proven,” Luis said, brazening out the embarrassing exposure. “Moreover, none of my alleged misdeeds belies the efficacy of fireships—or their relevance to our plight. Sailors today all ply ships with billowing sails, tar-caulked seams, ropes rubbed down with fat, and holds bursting with black powder … pirate vessels included. There’s almost nothing a ship has these days that isn’t burnable, that won’t burst into flames if exposed to fire.”