Buccaneer hl-2

by Tim Severin

  'Really?' said Sharpe. 'I thought quartermaster Duill was second in command. Let him take over.'

  'Duill has disappeared,' answered the man. 'No one can find him, and we're in a bad way in the town.' He was begging now. 'Captain, come back down to assist us.'

  Sharpe descended the final rungs slowly and deliberately. 'Do all the men want me back in charge?'

  'Yes, yes. The situation is very bad.'

  Sharpe turned towards Hector and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his pale blue eyes. 'Hector, tell the men to abandon the attack on the fort and fall back.'

  'We are too few,' the exhausted-looking buccaneer was saying. 'Every time we overrun one of their barricades and move forward, the Spaniards come in behind us and reoccupy the position they just lost. We can't spare anyone to look after all our prisoners. Many of them make their escape and rejoin the fight.'

  They had reached the main square, and the extent of the raiders' difficulties was all too evident. The main force had fought its way into the heart of the town but the Spaniards had sealed off all the streets leading from the far side of the central square with piles of stone and rubble. They had placed sharpshooters where they could fire on anyone who tried to advance any further, and several buccaneers had been shot down as they tried to cross the open ground. Their bodies lay where they had fallen. Some two dozen of their comrades were now taking shelter in side alleys or crouching in doorways. Occasionally they fired towards the Spanish positions. A group of about twenty Spanish prisoners, clearly terrified, were lying face down on the ground watched over by a couple of wounded buccaneers. It was obvious that the attack had come to a standstill.

  'Our wounded are in that church over there,' said their guide, pointing. 'Our surgeons are with them. They broke into an apothecary shop and took some medical supplies. But the longer we stay here, the bolder the Spaniards are becoming. They're moving up closer. It's becoming dangerous even to venture out into the open.'

  He ducked as a musket ball struck the wall above his head. Somewhere in the distance a trumpet sounded.

  Sharpe took stock of the situation. 'The Spaniards are bringing up reinforcements, and we can expect a sortie from the garrison in the fort when they are in position. Then we'll be caught in a pincer movement, and crushed. We've no choice but to make an orderly retreat while we are still able to do so.'

  'What about our wounded in the church? We can't leave them!' said Hector.

  Sharpe treated him to a sour smile. 'You're always worried about leaving someone behind, aren't you? As you are so concerned, I suggest you dash off and check on the situation in the church. See if any of the men can be evacuated. Then report back to me. Hurry!'

  Hector swallowed hard. His throat was dry and he had a raging thirst. It occurred to him that no one had drunk anything that day. Nor had they eaten. 'Jezreel and Jacques, give me some covering fire!'

  He removed his grenade satchel and laid it on the ground. He would have to cross thirty yards of open ground before he reached the portico of the church, and he could be halfway there before the Spanish musketeers realised what he was doing. He took a deep breath and burst out from cover.

  As he sprinted across the plaza's flagstones, he expected a musket ball to strike him at any moment. But there was not a single shot and he crashed full tilt into the great wooden door. The heavy black iron handle was in his hand. He tugged the door open and threw himself inside.

  After the blinding sunshine of the plaza, the interior of the church was so dark that he had to pause and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. In front of him the nave was a nightmare scene. All the church furniture — benches, carved wooden screens, a confessional, even the lectern — had either been roughly pushed to one side or overturned and smashed. At the far end the altar stood bare, stripped of its cross. Wall hangings had been torn down and were now spread out on the floor to serve as bedding on which lay wounded men. The place smelled of vomit and excrement. From outside still came the crack of musket shots but here in the half-darkness the sounds were moans, coughs and an occasional whimper of pain. Somewhere a man was cursing, softly and steadily, as if to distract himself from his suffering.

  Hector looked around, trying to locate the surgeons. Someone was wearing a loose white cloak trimmed with gold and sitting on the step in front of the altar. He seemed to be unhurt. Hector went forward to speak with him. 'Are there any walking wounded?' he asked even as he realised that the seated figure was wrapped in the altar cloth. The man looked up. He was glassy-eyed and his breath stank of alcohol. 'Go look for yourself,' he mumbled. Appalled, Hector seized him by the shoulder and shook him. 'Where are the surgeons!' he shouted. Under his grip, Hector felt the limp and sagging movements of someone who was completely drunk. The man's head flopped back and forward loosely. 'The surgeons! Where are the surgeons?' Hector repeated angrily. The man hiccuped. 'Over there, waiting for a sermon,' he replied. He gave a tipsy laugh and waved vaguely towards the pulpit steps.

  Lolling there was another man. He had a bottle in his hand and was clearly as intoxicated as his colleague. Hector recognised one of the surgeons who had worked alongside Smeeton and stayed on with the expedition. He was waving the bottle at Hector. 'Come and join us, young man!' he called out, slurring his words. 'Come and enjoy the finest fruits of the apothecary's skill. The medicine to cure every ailment.' He raised the bottle to his mouth, drained the last of its contents, and tossed it on the floor where it broke with a loud crash. 'That fool Watling is all piss and wind. A hotbrain who led us all into a death trap.' He wiped drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. 'We are the only ones who will get out of this alive,' he announced solemnly. 'We, the honoured gentlemen of the medical profession, are always welcome guests. The Spaniards will look after us. They need our skills. You were Smeeton's assistant, weren't you? So why don't you join us?' His knees gave way, and he sat back heavily on the pulpit steps.

  Hector felt nausea rising within him, and a sense of betrayal. 'Won't you at least help the wounded get out of here?' he asked.

  'Let them take their chances. Why should we risk our lives?' the surgeon retorted.

  Hector made his way among the rows of wounded men.

  The injuries inflicted by musket bullets were brutal. Several of the men on the floor appeared to be dead already, others were delirious or lying with their eyes closed.

  Sick to his stomach, Hector found his way back to the door of the church. There was nothing he could do to help the wounded, and the longer he delayed, the more dangerous and difficult it would be for Sharpe to extricate the remainder of the buccaneers.

  He eased the church door open and peered out through a narrow crack. Little seemed to have changed. His comrades were still pinned down, facing across the barricade, occasionally firing at the Spaniards on the far side of the plaza.

  He darted out from the portico and set off at a dead run for the barricade. This time he jinked from side to side to distract the aim of the Spanish marksmen, and once again his luck held. He heard several musket shots, the smack of something which must have been a bullet striking the ground ahead of him. Then he was vaulting onto the barricade, and Jezreel was standing up to grasp him by the arm and drag him into cover.

  'There's nothing to be done about the wounded. And the surgeons are too drunk to join us,' Hector blurted.

  'Then we delay no longer!' said Sharpe briskly. 'Get the prisoners on their feet and bring them forward to the barricade. We fall back by the same route by which we entered the town. You, you and you . . .' He selected a dozen men. 'Stay here at the barricade. Each of you get behind one of the Spanish prisoners and use him as a shield. Put a gun muzzle to his spine, if necessary. As soon as the rest of us get back to the next barricade, we will give you covering fire. Then it's your turn to retreat, keeping the Spaniard between you and the enemy.'

  There was a scramble to abandon the forward position. It was now well past noon, and the day was at its hottest.

  As they retreated to
the second abandoned barricade, Hector noticed a corpse with an orange handkerchief clenched in its fist. John Watling had been hit in the throat by a Spanish bullet and his shirt front was drenched with his blood. Duill, his second in command, was nowhere to be seen, and Hector presumed that the quartermaster had either also been killed or had fallen into the hands of the Spanish. Sharpe, who seemed to relish his renewed command, set the men to searching the corpses for spare cartridge pouches and bullet bags.

  There was no respite from the Spanish counter-attack. As the buccaneers fell back street by street, their opponents kept pressing on, shooting down from the roof tops or suddenly appearing from lanes and passageways to fire and then slip away. The citizens of Arica knew the layout of their town and used that knowledge to their advantage. They paid no heed to their countrymen being used as human shields, and kept up their fire, killing or injuring several of their own people. If Sharpe had not been on hand to steady the buccaneers, their retreat could have become a panic-stricken flight.

  Eventually the raiders were at the place where they had started - the barricade where they had first attacked the town in the light of dawn. Here Sharpe took a brief head count. Nearly one-third of the raiding force, some twenty-eight men, were missing. They were either dead or had been captured. Among those who now crouched exhausted in the shelter of the earthwork, eighteen had serious wounds. Everyone was dispirited, drooping with thirst and hunger.

  'We'll be shot down like rabbits as we ascend the slope,' said Jacques despondently. 'The moment the Spaniards re-occupy this earthwork, it'll be like target practice for them.'

  'Has anyone still got any grenades left?' Jezreel asked. Hector shook his head. He had left his satchel behind after his run to the church.

  'I'm afraid I got rid of mine when we began the retreat,' said Jacques.

  'What about Dan's grenades? They should be here somewhere,' suggested Hector. He remembered that the Miskito had left his satchel by the breastwork when he went up the hill to act as lookout. After a few moments of searching Hector spotted the bag tucked away in a corner.

  He handed the satchel to Jezreel who brought out three grenades, then called out to Sharpe, 'Captain! Get going with the others. My friends and I will cover your retreat.'

  Sharpe looked at the grenades and frowned. 'They're unreliable.'

  'No matter. They will do the job.'

  Sharpe did not need to be asked a second time. 'Come on!' he shouted to his men. 'Turn loose any prisoners. Back up the hill!' He turned to Jezreel. 'Is there nothing we can do?'

  'Half a dozen men. Good shots. Place them half way up the slope where they have the range of the Spaniards. That might help.'

  The buccaneers began their flight, stumbling wearily up the hill, some using their muskets as crutches, others helped along by comrades.

  Jezreel started work on the grenades. He adjusted their fuses until he was satisfied, then buried them in the barricade a few paces apart. Looking over his shoulder to check that Sharpe and the main body of buccaneers were well on their way up the hill, he lit the three fuses and then shouted at his friends to turn and run.

  The three friends scrambled back across the rough ground. Behind them came a flurry of shots, and Jacques stumbled and fell. Hector ran across to him while Jacques was struggling to stand up. He seemed dazed and blood was gushing from his head. He clapped a hand to his ear and brought it away. 'The bullet clipped my ear!' he exclaimed with a relieved grin. 'It's nothing.' There was an explosion from the barricade. The first of the grenades had detonated, throwing up a spurt of smoke and dirt. Several Spanish militiamen who had ventured into the gateway, dived back into shelter.

  'Two more to go,' said Jezreel with a satisfied grunt.

  Holding out a hand, he helped Jacques to stand upright, then put an arm around him and began to assist him up the hill. 'When I was in the fight game, there was a troupe of actors who used our ring as a stage between-times. When they needed to bring on or take off an actor, they had a hidden assistant who set off an explosion with lots of smoke and noise. It worked every time.'

  FIFTEEN

  'It was a shambles!' Basil Ringrose was still fuming, his anger fuelled by the fact that he and his comrades had also very nearly fallen victim to the Spaniards. 'Two white smokes! I nearly took the boats right into Arica harbour. We would have been blown out of the water.'

  He glared angrily at Sharpe who was standing by the lee

  rail.

  Hector watched the two men bicker. It was two months since the defeat at Arica, yet the panicked desperation of the withdrawal still provoked recriminations. He, Jacques and Jezreel had reached the ridge behind the town to find Sharpe and the others uprooting dry weeds and brushwood to make a signal fire. 'One white smoke,' someone was saying. 'Let's hope that the boat crews are quick about it. We have to get out of here before the Spaniards catch up with us.' The words were scarcely spoken when Dan, who had rejoined them, had said quietly, 'That's not our worry now.' He was looking back towards Arica. From the town were rising two thick columns of white smoke, reaching into the sky on that windless, scorching day and hanging there in false welcome. Dan had gone running to the shore to intercept Ringrose and the small boats before they were lured into the Spanish trap. Sharpe and the rest of the survivors had hobbled and limped behind him, half-dead of thirst and utterly spent. Troops of Spanish horsemen had harassed them all the way, then rolled rocks down the cliffs at them as they scrambled into the boats.

  Back aboard Trinity, the men had divided into two camps, bitterly opposed: those who blamed Watling for the debacle and those who still detested Sharpe enough to resent serving under him again. After weeks of squabbling, a council had been held to decide the expedition's future. There was to be a simple vote: the majority would get to keep Trinity while the minority would receive the ship's launch and the canoes to do with them what they wanted. At the show of hands, seventy had chosen to keep on Sharpe as leader and forty-eight had been against. The losers had taken their share of the accumulated plunder and set out on the hazardous return voyage to Golden Island, intending to make the final leg of their journey back over the isthmus of Panama. Hector was sorry that William Dampier had gone with them, though he himself was in no hurry to return to the Caribbean now that he had given up his hopes of finding Susanna again. The longer he stayed away, the less likely he was to run across Captain Coxon. Hector had no doubt that Coxon remained a dangerous foe and would have his revenge if he ever had the chance.

  Ringrose was speaking once more, a frown replacing his normally cheerful expression. 'I say that it was Duill who betrayed our signals to the Spanish. They must have taken him prisoner and tortured him.'

  Sharpe shrugged. 'There's no way of knowing. What happened at Arica is in the past. Under my command we'll make no more shore landings against well-defended targets. We stick to what we do best - taking prizes at sea, and we cruise wherever there's the best chance to do so.'

  Hector found himself wondering if he and his three friends had been wise to vote for Sharpe. Life aboard Trinity had quickly reverted to its former easy-going ways. Dice and cards had reappeared, shipboard discipline had grown slack, the men were irritable and slovenly. Only their care for their ship and their weapons was irreproachable. The men's clothing was falling into rags and they were often short of food, but they kept the tools of their trade — their muskets and blunderbusses — clean and smeared with seal fat against the salt air. Their cutlasses, swords and daggers were regularly sharpened and oiled. Their diligence for the ship was no less impressive. They experimented endlessly with improvements to their galleon's performance by adjusting the rake of the masts or the angle of the spars, and crewmen spent hour after hour seated on deck with needles and thread, working to shape new sails under the direction of the ship's sailmaker, or using marlin spikes and fids to mend and splice and tune the rigging.

  Hector felt the deck tilt slightly beneath his bare feet. The warm breeze was strengthening. Beneath an
overcast sky Trinity was running on a course parallel to the Peruvian coast, which was no more than a faint line on the horizon. As her captain had implied, her hunting ground was the broad strip of sea along which the coasting vessels travelled back and forth between the Peruvian ports. Here, only a week ago, the buccaneers had already taken one ship with 37,000 pieces of eight in chests and bags. Equally encouraging they had captured a government advice boat on its way to Panama with despatches. Hector had translated the official letters and it appeared that the Spanish authorities believed that all the buccaneers had left the South Sea. It meant that the coastal shipping might again be venturing out from their well-defended ports.

  He sauntered forward to the bows where Jacques was taking his turn as lookout.

  'Has the chase made any move to get away from us?' he asked. Since first light Trinity had been tracking a distant sail, and the gap between the two vessels had narrowed to less than a mile. The Spaniard had proved to be a merchant vessel of medium size and, judging from her smart paintwork, a ship that was making money for her owners.

  'She's still plodding along. I doubt she suspects anything yet,' replied the Frenchman. He gave one of his sardonic grins. 'Bartholomew Sharpe is a past master in fakery. If we set too much canvas, they would be suspicious.'

  Hector glanced up at the spars. Trinity was proceeding under plain sail as if she was an ordinary merchant ship going about her business, not a predator closing in on her victim.

  'How long before they realise their mistake?'

  'Perhaps another hour. Trinity has the lines of a locally built ship. That must reassure them more than our Spanish colours.'

  'You're beginning to sound like a right sailor.'

  'I've grown to appreciate this roving life,' Jacques answered, rubbing his cheek where his ex-galerien brand was now barely visible beneath his deep tan. 'It's better than scrabbling for an existence in the Paris stews.'

  'Then it's lucky that our dice fell that way.'