by Tim Severin
At length he crossed a shallow patch where finally he trod on firm sand instead of ooze, and guessed it was where the sandbar joined the river bank. Then gaps began to appear in the wall of mangroves, and finally he arrived at an opening where he could stagger up the bank and push his way through the undergrowth.
A warning shout stopped him. One of the Bay Men was facing him, musket levelled. It was a logcutter named Johnson who had joined the refugee flotilla as it followed the coast.
'It's me. Hector Lynch. I'm here with Jezreel,' he explained. He was dripping blood, exhausted and covered in slime.
Johnson lowered his gun. 'Didn't expect to see you here again. Where's that Indian friend of yours?'
'He's back beyond the sandbar, waiting. He can help us get clear.'
His statement was met with a look of disbelief. 'That I doubt,' said the Bay Man but he led Hector to where the remainder of the group were gathered in a fold of ground, safe from a stray cannonball. They had abandoned their hunting trip and were discussing what they should do.
'Lynch says that there's a way we can get clear,' said Johnson by way of introduction.
'Let's hear it then.' The speaker was an older man with a mouthful of badly rotted teeth and dressed in a tattered smock. Like his colleagues', his hair hung down to his shoulders in a greasy, matted tangle.
Hector raised his voice. 'Dan - that's my Miskito friend -says that we must be ready to break out an hour after the tide turns.'
'That's nonsense,' someone shouted from the back of the group. 'Our best chance is to wait until dark. Then make a run for it in the boats.'
'Dark will be too late,' Hector answered him. 'Well before sunset the tide will have risen far enough for the Spaniards to sail in. Their cannon will smash our boats to pieces.'
Jezreel came to his support. The big man was standing a little to one side of the gathering. 'If we make a dash for it soon after the tide turns, we do stand a chance because we'll be able to pick our course. Our pirogues will have room to manoeuvre while the Spanish ship is still confined to the deeper water. If we can get around the patrol ship, we can outpace her in the open sea.'
His intervention was met with a murmur of approval from several of the Bay Men and someone called out, 'Better than waiting here to be killed or captured by the Dons. I don't fancy being hauled off to a Havana gaol.'
'There's more!' Hector called out. 'Dan has asked that while we are waiting for the tide to turn, we dump as much trash as possible into the river — dead trees, branches, that sort of thing.'
'Does he think that the Spanish ship will get tangled up in all the driftwood?' This sally brought mocking laughter from the audience.
Again Jezreel came to his rescue. 'All of us know that the Miskito have no love for the Spaniards. I, for one, will do what
Dan asks.' He left the group and began to make his way along the river bank. About a dozen men followed him, and soon they were manhandling fallen trees and dead branches down the river bank and shoving them into the river. Hector watched the flotsam drift away and turn slowly in the current as it was carried seaward.
The other Bay Men showed no interest in helping. Several sat down on the ground and lit their tobacco pipes. Hector walked over to the older man who had been sceptical. 'If you won't help Jezreel and the others, you can at least make sure that everyone is ready to embark the pirogues the moment I give the word. I must go back to where I can keep an eye on the patrol ship, and see what my friend is doing.'
The Bay Man regarded him quizzically for several moments, then nodded. 'All right then. My mates and I will stand by.'
Hector found a vantage point on the river bank where he could keep watch on the Spanish guard ship and also see where Dan was hidden. The brigantine was still patrolling back and forth, following the same track each time as if there was a furrow in the water. He wondered why the captain did not anchor and wait for the tide to turn, and could only suppose that the Spanish commander wanted to be ready in case the Bay Men made a sudden sally.
He shifted his gaze to where he knew Dan lay concealed with his sunken canoe, but could see nothing except the green border of the mangrove swamp. Dotted about the estuary were the black shapes of the timber that Jezreel and his companions had thrown into the river. A few pieces had grounded in the shallows and lay stranded, but most of them had already been carried out over the bar. Several were already out beyond the Spanish guardship.
He concentrated on the area of broken water where the river ran out over the sandbar. The wavelets were much smaller than earlier. The tide was definitely on the turn. Soon it would be making up the channel.
Hector looked back in Dan's direction. Still there was nothing to see, only the scatter of flotsam and the Spanish vessel. Each sector of its patrol was taking about twenty minutes. He estimated that when the vessel had turned one more time, the moment would come for the Bay Men to break out from the trap.
He sucked at an open cut on his thumb. The blood was attracting more insects. Then something caught his eye. A chunk of flotsam, a log perhaps, seemed out of place. It lay among the other floating debris, part-way between the Spanish ship and the shore. He looked harder, shading his eyes. Unlike the rest of the flotsam which was nearly stationary, the log was moving slowly. Then Hector realised that it was not a log, but the hull of the upturned hunting canoe. Dan was swimming beside it, quietly pushing it forward. He was headed towards the place where the brigantine was bound to turn.
Hector ran back to where the Bay Men were waiting. 'It's time to go!' he shouted.
They gathered round their pirogues and began to manhandle them into the river. Hector joined Jezreel who was already stepping the mast on their own pirogue. In less than five minutes, the three boats were dropping downriver, their sails filling as they headed towards the sea.
The Spaniards had seen them move. The brigantine opened a ragged fire but the range was too great for accuracy, and the shots splashed harmlessly into the water. Hector counted six guns, all on her port side, and knew that there would be a brief respite while the gunners reloaded.
'Steer for the left-hand edge of the channel,' he said to Otway who was at the pirogue's helm. It was important to lure the brigantine in the direction where Dan lay waiting. A rapid clatter of wavelets slapping against the hull told that the pirogue was now crossing the bar. The water was less than three feet deep, and there was a brief scraping sound as the bottom of the pirogue touched the sand. Hector felt the hull shiver beneath his feet. But the boat's progress was scarcely checked. Now they were in deeper water, and picking up speed as the sail filled in a strengthening breeze.
Two hundred yards ahead the Spanish patrol ship had reached the end of her track and begun to turn. Her port guns had not yet been reloaded. Hector could imagine the gun crews crossing the deck to help their comrades prepare the starboard battery for the killer blow. They would be checking that each gun was properly charged, its shot wadded firmly home, priming powder in place, match burning. All they then had to do was wait until the brigantine came round on her new course and steadied. Then they would make the final adjustment to bring their guns to bear. By that time the pirogues would be within point blank range.
'We're done for,' muttered Johnson, 'but we'll not go without a fight.' He was checking his musket, waiting for the Spanish ship to come within range.
Hector's gaze searched the water beside the patrol ship. He could no longer see the dark shape that was Dan and the upturned canoe. Perhaps the Spanish vessel had run him down.
Then, unexpectedly, the brigantine appeared to falter. Halfway through her turn, she hung in one position, her bow directly downwind, her stern towards the pirogues and unable to bring any of her cannon to bear. There was confusion visible on her deck. Sailors were climbing into the rigging, trying to readjust the sails. Others were scurrying along the deck, apparently without purpose.
'Their helmsman's a right blunderer,' said Otway who was steering the pirogue. 'He's lost control o
f the ship.'
'Head directly for the brigantine,' yelled Hector. 'There's a man in the water. We have to pick him up.'
Otway hesitated and Jezreel gave him a great shove which sent him flying. Seizing the tiller the big man set the pirogue's course towards Dan's head which had bobbed to the surface. Hector looked round to see what was happening with the other two pirogues. Both had set extra sails and were increasing speed. They were drawing away. Soon they would be past the Spanish patrol vessel, and out of danger.
There was a ragged volley from the Spaniards, musketry not cannon. Some of the musket balls whizzed overhead, but others puckered the water around the swimmer. The Spaniards had seen Dan. He ducked down, making a more difficult target.
'Now that's a foolish thing to do. Let's see how far he gets,' said Johnson. On the stern of the brigantine half a dozen sailors were clustered at the rail, an officer with them. A rope had been lowered, and one man was climbing over, ready to descend. The Bay Man slid the ramrod back into its place beneath the long barrel of his gun, crouched down in the pirogue, and held steady. There was a second's pause before he pulled the trigger. The noise of the shot was followed immediately by the sight of the sailor losing his hold and tumbling down into the water.
Hector pushed past to where he could look forward, directly down into the sea. He heard a musket ball thump into the woodwork beside him, and more shots from the Bay Men. Less than ten yards away, Dan's head had reappeared, the long black hair sleek and wet. He was grinning. Hector gestured to Jezreel at the helm, pointing out the new course. A moment later, Dan's hand reached up and in one smooth movement the Miskito wriggled aboard.
'What did you use?' asked Hector.
'My cousin's striking iron,' his friend replied. 'I slipped it between the rudder and the stern post when the steering was hard over. It'll have driven in even further when the rudder was centred. They'll not get it free until they have a man down who can hack it out with a chisel. Until then their rudder's jammed.'
Hector was aware that the sound of the Spaniards' musketry
was growing more distant. Jezreel had turned the pirogue so the boat was running directly away from the brigantine, presenting the smallest target. Looking astern, he could see the patrol ship was still crippled, driving helplessly downwind. By the time she was under control again, it would be dark and the three pirogues would have made their escape. Several of the Bay Men were already on their feet, waving their hats at the enemy and jeering. One man turned his back and dropped his pantaloons in derision.
'The Bay Men have agreed to go farther south,' Hector explained to his Miskito friend. 'There are former buccaneers among them who claim to know the hidden places on the coast where their old comrades-in-arms gather. They plan to rejoin them, finding safety in numbers now that there's a Spanish warship on the prowl.'
'Then they'll have to go hungry for a while. We can't go back to collect the sea cow. But it means we can pick up Jacques on our way,' said Dan.
He settled himself more comfortably against a thwart, and Hector found himself contemplating how the unselfish comradeship of men like Dan and Jacques contrasted with the cold-hearted, self-serving avarice of men like Captain Coxon.
SEVEN
Jacques had at last been able to try out his pimento sauce. It was something he had wanted to do ever since he first tasted one of the dark brown berries. The flavour had intrigued him, a peppery mix of clove and nutmeg with a hint of cinnamon. He had bought a handful of pimentos in the spice market at Petit Guave and kept them safe and dry in a cartridge box. Now he crushed his hoard and sprinkled the fragments into the cavity of a large fish Dan had gutted for their supper. Adding coconut milk and salt, the ex-galerien had wrapped the fish in leaves and buried it in a pit of charcoal coals to bake for three hours. Finally, he watched as Hector, Dan and Jezreel sampled the result.
'What do you think of the gravy?' he enquired proudly. He had carefully poured off the juices into an empty coconut shell and was dipping each piece of fish into the sauce before handing out the food.
'I would have added some ginger,' said Jezreel, pursing his lips and adopting a solemn expression.
For an instant the Frenchman took the suggestion seriously. Then he realised that the prize fighter was poking fun at him. 'Being English, you'd put in sugar and oats and make a porridge of it,' he retorted.
'That's if I were Scots, not English. You'll have to learn the difference, Jacques.' The big man licked his fingers. 'But this will do for a start. Some day I will have to show you how to make a decent pudding. Only the English know how to make puddings.'
The banter between the former prize fighter and the ex-galerien had begun within moments of their first meeting when the three pirogues had collected Jacques from the beach where Dan had left him. Then they had continued along the coast to a sheltered inlet which, according to Otway, was a favourite careenage for buccaneer ships. 'It's known as Bennett's Cove,' he had explained. 'If we wait here, there's a good chance that a buccaneer vessel will show up, and we can volunteer for her crew.' Hector thought again of the Coxon's Hole on the chart he'd copied for Snead in Port Royal, but said nothing. His previous encounter with buccaneers had left him wary of joining their company. Anyone associated too closely with them might finish up condemned for piracy and dangling on the end of a hangman's rope.
Fortunately the past two weeks had brought a change in the weather, with day after day of blue skies and brilliant sunshine tempered by a sea breeze which kept off the midges and mosquitoes. So the friends were lounging contentedly on the beach while the rest of their party was some distance away, close to the three pirogues drawn up on the strand.
Jezreel finished eating and lay back on the sand, stretching out his massive frame. 'This is the life. Can you imagine what conditions are like back home? March gales most likely, and rain. Can't say I feel like going back there for a while, even if the logwood cutting didn't work out.'
'Only a dolt would think of making his fortune by chopping wood,' Jacques observed. 'Anyone with brains would let others do the work, then relieve them of their profits.'
'You talk like a thief.'
'I only took what others were too stupid to keep safe,' said Jacques smugly. Jezreel looked over at Hector, eyebrows raised. 'He was a pickpocket in Paris,' the young man explained. "Until he got caught and sent to the galleys. That was where we met.'
'Nimble fingers make light work,' announced Jacques lazily. He extended one arm up in the air, and closed his fist. When he opened it, there was a pebble held between forefinger and thumb. Closing his fist, he opened it again, and his hand was empty.
'Saw plenty of tricks like that when I was in the fight game,' grunted Jezreel. 'The booths were full of mountebanks and charlatans. Many pretended they were from foreign lands. You would have done well with that foreign accent of yours.'
'Given an audience, I wouldn't even have needed to speak,' rejoined Jacques.
'No wonder it's called dumb show.'
Jacques shied the pebble at Jezreel who caught it deftly and, in the same movement, threw it back. The stone bounced off the Frenchman's hat, dislodging a small black object which fell to the sand.
'Watch what you're doing! I don't want to smell like a logwood cutter,' said Jacques and was about to tuck the item back into the hatband.
'What have you got there?'
Jacques passed the object across to his new friend who looked at it, puzzled. It was the size and shape of a large black bean, slightly shrivelled.
'Why would you want to wear a dried dog turd in your hat?' Jezreel asked.
'Smell it.'
'You must be joking!' 'No, go on.'
Jezreel held it up to his nose and sniffed. It had a definite musky smell. 'What is it?'
'A cayman's cod. I bought it in the market the same time I got the pimentos you've just been enjoying.' Jacques took back the object. 'It's a gland. Crocodiles and caymans have them in their crotch and armpit, and they give off a plea
sant smell. Better than a reeking blood-soaked smock.'
"Well, thank god you didn't put it in the sauce as well.'
Their exchange was brought to an end by a shout from Otway. He was at the back of the beach where the rise of the dunes gave him a vantage point. 'Ship! Standing in,' he called.
Everyone got hurriedly to their feet and gazed out to sea. The sun was behind them so they could easily make out the pale flash of the sails. To Hector's inexperienced eye the vessel looked very much like the Spanish guard ship, for she had two masts and was a similar size. He felt a twinge of fear that the Bay Men had been caught off guard once again. He doubted that they would be able to escape a second time. But Otway was jubilant.
'That's Captain Harris's ship, I'm sure. I served on her once. We're in luck. Peter Harris is as bold a commander as you could wish.'
He was proved right when the newcomer dropped anchor and sent her boats ashore, towing a string of empty barrels. Captain Harris had called at Bennett's Cove to take on fresh water.
'The ship is headed south to Golden Island,' announced Otway who had found former shipmates among the watering party. 'There's to be a gathering of the companies there. But no one seems to know the full details. It's to be decided by a council.'
"Will Captain Harris take on any new men?' asked Hector.
'That's for the ship's crew to decide.' Seeing Hector's look of incomprehension, Otway added, 'Among buccaneers everything is decided by vote. Even the captain is chosen by election.'
'It makes sense, Hector,' said Jacques. 'No one gets any pay. They work for their share of plunder. The larger the crew, the smaller the share-out.'
