The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  Or perhaps he did not doubt himself, but only the horrors that would come afterwards. For now he had two memories to haunt his midnight hours; the priest had joined Grandmama.

  'The lake,' someone shouted from the canoe in front of him. The word had been passed down the command. 'The lake,' one of his own crew shouted. He turned, and cupped his hands to call the glad news. 'The lake,' he bellowed at those behind him, and listened to the word rippling down the column like a feu de joie.

  But was it a lake? Or had they in some fantastic fashion managed to cross the isthmus in four days? For the banks of the river were widening, and even disappearing from sight; he could see no land ahead, only the swarm of canoes, spreading out like a cavalry charge as they reached the open water, after the constant effort of pulling against the current over the previous days. Now they entered a world of light and air, compared with the oppression of the huge trees. Flocks of wild duck rose from the reeds on either hand, and scattered towards the sky, eagerly watched by the men, who were already weary of a diet of rotting beef. Reeds were everywhere, emerging in patches above the surface and then disappearing again. Now indeed they needed the Indian guides, or they might row round and round in circles for the rest of their lives. But the Admiral's canoe, painted a bright red so that there could be no mistakes in identification, rowed steadily forward, bearing just west of south, until even the reed-beds and the flanking forest had disappeared, and they followed an open expanse.

  And now he could see land again. The morning sun reflected from the walls. Cruces. Filled with armed Spaniards determined to halt this expedition here and now. How would Morgan command the assault? Would he merely point his sword at those battlements, and leave it to the desperate valour of his buccaneers? Kit rather suspected that would be the case, and felt relieved that there were close on fifty canoes between his own and the front. He would not have to be a forlorn hope on this occasion.

  Morgan's boat headed straight for the beach beneath the walls; the roofs of the town, dominated by the church, were now clearly in view. But the Spaniards were wasting no powder. The loopholes remained silent, staring at the canoes.

  'Give way,' Kit shouted. 'Make haste. Paddle you devils. Paddle.'

  For the exhilaration of battle was once again seizing hold of him, and he no longer wanted to lag behind. He wished to be up there with the leaders, with the Admiral and with the van. But each of the hundred and forty canoes had increased its speed, and the whole little armada surged at the walls. Yet still there was no fire, and now he saw that the main gate was open, swinging to and fro on its hinges.

  'By Christ,' he whispered. Morgan had seen it too. The lead canoes were already beached, and the buccaneers were pouring ashore and up the beach, their bandannas forming a brightly coloured pattern of bouncing balls, and led by the Admiral himself; Morgan had retained his broad-brimmed black hat, although like them he had shaved his head.

  'Hurry,' Kit begged his men. 'Hurry, you bastards.'

  The bottom grated and they dropped their paddles. Kit was already over the side, splashing through knee-deep water as he gained the beach, to join the mob which flooded through the open gates, to debouch into the single street of the town, to stop, and stare at the empty houses, the open doors. To listen to the silence which gradually overcame even the cries of the invaders.

  They huddled, insensibly, and looked towards the church. Morgan had entered there, and now he stood on the steps and faced them. 'They've gone,' he shouted. 'Run like the curs they are. They'll not have left much behind them, lads, but what they have we must find. Or we'll go hungry for the next couple of days, eh? Scatter now, and discover what you may. Kill me every Spaniard you find. We'll have no quarter. Remember that. And find food, lads. But reassemble on the note of the bugle. Forget that, and you are dead men.'

  The buccaneers gave a tremendous whoop, and tore at the houses on either side. Empty, stripped of anything valuable. And yet containing enough for destruction. Beds and articles of furniture were slashed and cut and pounded into rubble; doors were torn from their hinges, windows poked out. Cellars were tumbled. But no article of food was found, much less any of gold. Tempers began to run high, curses and oaths mingled with the sweat and the clash of arms to disturb the still air.

  Until a roar of joy sent them back to the street, and milling into the square. Bart's men had forced the great doors to the church cellars. Here too there were no men. But here there were casks of wine, row upon row of them.

  'They'll be fit for naught for days,' Kit muttered. He stood close by the Admiral.

  'Aye,' Morgan said. 'But there's none of us here will restrain them from that liquor.'

  They were already stoving in the casks, holding out mugs and even hands for a first taste of the flowing red liquid. And now the first cup was filled, and the man who had thrust the first bung raised it high. 'Here's to ye, Admiral Morgan,' he bellowed, and gulped at the wine, allowing it to flow out of his mouth and down his cheeks, cascade over his shoulders. 'By Christ, but that was good. And another, lads.' He bent to refill his mug, and gave a shriek of agony, which was echoed by the man beside him, who had also finished a mug.

  Cups dropped, and the men crowding round the barrels reeled backwards. Three of them lay on the floor of the cellar, gasping and writhing.

  'Poisoned, by Christ,' Morgan said. 'We should have known. By God, lads, we had better be on our way. You'll know what to do to those Dons when we catch up with them.'

  'But what will we eat?' asked a voice.

  Morgan stared at them. 'You'll eat in Panama City,' he shouted. 'What are you, then, afraid of going hungry for a day or two? The sooner you get back to the trail, the sooner we'll be there.'

  In the square the first drops of rain began to fall.

  * * *

  A bugle blast wailed through the forest, and the weary men stopped moving. Many immediately sank to their knees and then on to their bellies, regardless of the soaking leaves or the inches-deep mud stirred up by those who had gone before. And where they fell, they lay. There was no point in calling them to stack arms, in commanding them to pitch tents. They possessed neither food nor cover. At least half of them shook with fever. But they marched, and would continue to march, through the endless jungle. Because to stop meant death.

  Kit pushed his way past the wet branches, and found Jean. The Frenchman sat on a fallen log, and had taken off his belt, already half chewed into strands.

  'That is worse,' Kit said. 'It but makes the juices flow.'

  'Aye. But my belly is filled with gripes and wind. I explode as I walk,' Jean said. 'Think you these men will have the strength to fight, when we reach the ocean? How does the Admiral know he can trust these Indians? How do we know we are not being led round in circles?'

  'Because we are seamen, and are following the course of the sun,' Kit reminded him. 'So, eventually, we must again come to the sea. We know it is there.'

  'I wish I possessed your confidence,' Jean grumbled. 'Whisht.'

  Something had moved in the bushes close by. Kit turned, slowly. Behind them the army was still settling, with an enormous rustle of sound, but muted; there was no laughter and no shouting, there was no reason for either. There were only sighs and curses. And in the jungle something had moved, not twenty feet away.

  'A Spanish scout, you think?' Jean whispered.

  'I doubt it. They can have no doubts where we are and in which direction we are headed.' Kit dropped to his knees, cautiously parted the bushes to make his way forward. 'By Christ.'

  Jean was at his side, peering into the gloom. And drawing his breath sharply. In front of them was a large bird, with brightly coloured wings, one of which seemed broken, for it could do no more than drag itself through the bushes.

  'What is it?' Jean whispered.

  'Some kind of pheasant, perhaps,' Kit said.

  'But it will be good to eat.'

  'Aye. You go that way.' Cautiously he wormed his way through the grass behind the bird, his kn
ife in his hand. His powder was too damp to fire, and in any event, he had no wish to alert anyone else to his prize. His mind was entirely caught up with the problems of his own belly.

  The bird had heard him coming. It turned and scuttled through the trees, away from Jean as well, moving much faster than they could. He rose to his feet in frustration, threw himself full length, missed the tail feathers by inches, and listened to the squawk of terror. He reared back on his heels, and gazed at the black man. He had seen him before, marked him for his size and his demeanour, for he was about the biggest man he had ever seen, and carried himself with a studied dignity. His face was long, and the colour of midnight, which he accentuated by wearing a white bandanna. His expression was bland and disinterested, even now, as he held the fluttering bird in his hands. Like everyone else, he wore only a pair of breeches and his feet were bare. Unlike most of the others, however, his only weapon was his cutlass. Perhaps he knew sufficient about tropical forests to understand that powder was not a reliable commodity in these conditions.

  Now he grinned at the two young men, and with a sudden twist of his wrists ended the pheasant's life.

  'We saw him first,' Jean muttered, rising from the bushes to the left.

  The giant continued to smile. 'We saw him together, Monsieur DuCasse,' he said, his voice quiet. 'But we will have to share him raw.'

  Kit frowned at him. 'You do not claim him as your own?'

  I will share him with you two gentlemen, Master Hilton,' he said. 'But no others.' He squatted, was already plucking at the feathers.

  'How are you called?' Jean asked.

  The Negro shrugged. 'I no longer have a name of my own, sir. I was given a title by my late owner. Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. How does that sound, sir?'

  'By God,' Kit said. 'He had a sense of humour, your owner.'

  Agrippa shrugged again, and tore off a wing, which he offered to Kit. 'He was a devil, Master Hilton. You will still find the marks of his whip on my back.'

  "Where was this?' 'Barbados, sir.'

  Now Jean was also eating, the blood rolling down his chin. 'And you made your way from Barbados to Port Royal?'

  'Indeed, sir. After being a slave, and having escaped, all other aspects of life come easy.'

  Kit stared at the man. There had been no slaves on Tortuga; there had been no reason for them. And the knowledge that they were employed in the islands farther south, and in Jamaica as well, for that matter, had never really meant much to him before. He had put them down as a people apart, black people. But here was a black man speaking with a more educated choice of words than anyone in the fleet.

  Agrippa was smiling at him. 'Because I was a slave, Master Hilton, does not mean that I am a mindless savage. I do not come from the great river, from the great bay. My lands are farther north. I am a Mandingo, sir. There is Arab blood in my veins.'

  'And where did you learn such good English?'

  'My master taught me. He was an intelligent man, and he perceived my own intelligence, and so taught me more.'

  And yet scarred your back,' Jean observed.

  'Have you not observed, Monsieur DuCasse, that it is the most intelligent people who are the most cruel? As perhaps they think more quickly than stupid people, so they have more time to think, but no more subjects to think about, and so they must fill the empty spaces with their desires. And deep down inside all of us there is a desire to hurt, to be cruel.'

  'My God,' Jean said. 'A Negro philosopher.'

  'There were philosophers in North Africa long before any were discovered in France, Monsieur DuCasse.'

  Jean frowned, and then smiled. 'Why, I suppose you are right, Master Agrippa. And I thank you for securing our bird for us. Now I must rejoin my men.'

  'And I also.' Kit stood up, and hesitated, then thrust out his hand. ' 'Tis strange, how people meet, Master Agrippa. My thanks.'

  The Negro hesitated in turn, and then closed his fingers over those of the boy. 'I have never shaken hands with a white man.'

  Kit was embarrassed. 'I'd have you march with my section. I'll speak with the Admiral.'

  Agrippa's grin had returned. 'I march with my own section, Master Hilton. At its head.'

  'You?'

  'Why not? Admiral Morgan wishes only the strength in a man's mind, the strength in his arm. He shows no interest in the colour of his skin.'

  'Aye. He has the hallmarks of greatness.'

  'Which is why we follow him, Master Hilton. For be sure that many of us will die, before we regain the mouth of the Chagres. Now I bid you farewell. I will see you in Panama.'

  A strange meeting, with a strange man. But a most valuable one, if only because it had taken some of the griping pain from his belly, Kit thought. Next day he looked for the big man, but did not find him. The army straggled now, a long column of sweating and cursing and starving men. At least the rain had ceased two days ago, and the forest was again dry. And now they were descending, and walking was easier. But it was distressing to hear the wind growling in his belly, and to listen to the grunts and farts of the men around him, to watch them chewing at their belts, and tearing leaves from the trees to cram into their mouths. Now they all suffered from leaking bellies as well, the more nauseating because they could excrete only liquid. Within a week they would be too weak to raise a weapon, much less force their way through the jungle.

  Within a week. He had lost track of days. They came and they went. They had paddled up the River Chagres for nearly a week; they had left their canoes at Cruces, and they had marched through the forest for nearly a week. And now it was again night, and the men groaned and cursed and snored around him. And yet there had been no suggestion of mutiny. Was it because they knew that they could only go on, or die? Or was it because they trusted their Admiral? He had led them into hell before. Surely he would lead them out the other side, this time again.

  'Whisht.' Portuguese Bart, crawling through the darkness. But a darkness already tinged with grey.

  Kit sat up. 'What is it?'

  'The Admiral summons his commanders to a conference,'

  Bart whispered. 'Come quietly.'

  Kit picked up his cutlass, it was second nature now, whether he needed it to slash at a jungle creeper or to protect himself from snake or spider, and made his way along the column, past the line of sleeping men, lying as they had fallen from yet another endless march through the forest. It took him half an hour to reach the head, and by then the dawn chill was already spreading through his bones, and the first light was commencing to shroud a grey mist across the trees.

  They crossed a sudden open space, and came once again to the trees. Here they grouped, near a hundred of them, the men who would be responsible for making the buccaneers fight, when it came to that.

  And in their centre was the Admiral. 'Hush,' Morgan said. 'Listen.'

  Across the suggestion of dawn a bell tolled, gently in the distance. They stared through the trees, but could see nothing; the mist blanketed the forest in front of them.

  'A mule train, you think?' Jackman whispered.

  'How can that be?' Sharp demanded. 'There is not a Spaniard in all America but knows we are in this forest.'

  'That bell is the cathedral in Panama City,' Morgan said, grinning at them. 'We have arrived, my bravos. Awake your men, and bring them forward. We will leave the forest under cover of this mist, and be in position before the city awakes.' He drew his cutlass, and raised it above his head. 'This day we unlock the doors to more wealth than any man here has ever dreamed of, let alone seen. Today we make ourselves immortals, lads. This day Henry Morgan comes to Panama.'

  Supposing they lived to tell of it. For now the mist would lift. Kit knew the signs too well, from his years in Hispaniola. There was the sudden increase in heat, the sudden closeness of the air, the sudden change in the colour of the vapour around them, from white to yellow. And where were they, in relation to their goal? He doubted even the Admiral knew that. The bell had ceased to toll some time before, or its k
nell had been lost in the clank and rustle of twelve hundred men tramping across the ground.

  Certainly they had left the forest, some time ago, and now

  followed a well-defined path down the hillside, but even the path was flattening out. And was this path not the Gold Road, which led straight through the main gate of Panama City itself? Would they not see the enemy until they banged on those iron-bound portals?

  Or could Panama also have been abandoned? There was a dream, born of fear, of the nagging, grinding pain in his belly, a pain induced as much by fear as by hunger. Now he marched on the Spaniards, as they had once marched on him. He had been less afraid, then. He had known less of what life and death were about.

  The mist cleared. The sun drew it from the ground as a woman might whisk the sheet from the bed she would remake. And the buccaneer army stopped, and stared, while a rumble of amazed murmur rose from their ranks. They had almost arrived at the foot of the empty hillside, worn free of trees and most of its grass by the fall of how many hundreds of thousands of feet, down which the Gold Road flowed? The road itself continued in front of them, skirting the plain to arrive at the gates of the city, huge timber erections studded with iron, which filled the open spaces in the high stone walls, while beyond the walls there could be no doubt that here was a city; the rooftops and the balconies rose above the battlements, and above even the rooftops there rose the towers of the four cathedrals. These towers now once again gave off a peal of bells, summoning the people of Panama to arms.