HF - 03 - The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  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 knell 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.

  Panama promised wealth; the district around it already provided beauty. To their right the plain undulated towards the sea, clearly not the parade ground they had first supposed it, but rather a rabbit warren of bushes and ravines, not deep, but sufficient to hide a man. Or men. And beyond it the eternal surf played on the endless beach, guardians of an ocean which stretched half-way round the world to the kingdoms of the Great Khan, and the Mikado of Japan. The sun, rising from out of the forest behind them, sent a long swathe of glowing gold across that fathomless sea, suggestive of the prize they sought, if they had the courage, and the stamina, and the ability.

  For Panama was awake. The gates were open, and out there came squadron after squadron of lancers, dressed in bright uniforms, with brighter pennants flying from their spearheads, yellow and red. Kit looked around, and found Jean and Bart Le Grand staring with him. How many men present had a long score to settle with the Spanish lancers?

  Behind the lancers there came the tramp of infantry, displacing as much dust as even the horses, an immense mass of men in breastplates and helmets, pikes or muskets at their shoulder
s, every step matching every other. This was the Spanish tercio, the infantry division which had conquered the world with the same ease as it had conquered Europe.

  'By Christ,' someone muttered. 'But there are thousands of them.'

  The buccaneers watched the enemy form line, the infantry in the centre in a solid body, the horsemen milling about on each wing. Nor apparently were the Spaniards yet finished summoning their army; a real cloud of dust rose from close by the city gates. More cavalry? Morgan stared through his telescope, his whole face a frown. 'Cattle, by God. They mean to rout us with cattle.' He closed the glass with a snap, turned to face his army. 'You'll run, God damn you. Make for the plain, and take shelter in the ravines. But stay close.'

  The buccaneer army debouched from the road without any further hesitation, making little noise beyond pants and grunts as they staggered for the plain. From the Spanish ranks there rose a cheer, as they assumed their enemies to be already defeated.

  'Kit Hilton,' Morgan bellowed. 'Bart Le Grand. Jean DuCasse. All you men who were boucaniers. Assemble here, by God.'

  Kit left the men who had crewed the canoe with him, ran to Morgan's side, trailing his heavy musket. Soon there were two dozen of them.

  'We've a hard day ahead of us, lads,' Morgan said. 'They outnumber us, and they're regular troops. Our boyos are weak with hunger, and they'll need all their strength. So isn't it a good thing the commandant has done, driving those beef cattle towards us?'

  The herd was continuing to approach at a gallop, the hammer of their hooves making the earth shake, while the dust cloud eddied above them.

  'You leave it to us,' Bart said. 'We'll not waste a ball, Admiral. Come on, my bravos. To that ridge.'

  Kit followed him across the uneven turf. Outnumbered, two to one, by regulars. His belly rose to meet his heart, and his heart sank to meet his belly. What hope had they? But perhaps, after they had slaughtered some of the cattle, Morgan would lead them back into the forest and safety.

  Except that what safety could there be for a defeated band of buccaneers, fifty miles and incredible hardships away from their ships, who had even lost faith in their general?

  Supposing they survived the cattle. He lay on his belly on the already dry earth, and watched the tossing horns, the scorching hooves, the seething dust pounding towards him. Nothing would stop them now. His throat tightened.

  'That big black bull,' Bart growled. 'And those on either side. We must drop them together, friends, or they will trample us to death. Take your sights. But wait for my command.'

  Kit licked his lips, and found he had no saliva. But his breeches were wet. Christ, how frightened he was. The stampeding cows were not more than a hundred yards away. Would Bart ever give the command? Would there be time even to squeeze the trigger? And suppose the flint misfired?

  'Fire,' Bart shouted, and the muskets rippled flame and sent black smoke up to join the dust.

  'Load,' Bart shrieked. 'Load, you miserable sons of whores. Load.'

  Desperately Kit crammed a ball into the muzzle of his gun, and rammed it down. There were cows all around him now, hurtling past, lowing and roaring, but separated by the wall of flame which had been hurled at them as much as by the dozen which had collapsed to form a mound immediately before the score of crouching men. And now the muskets were sounding again, driving the herd of cattle into two ever-divergent streams; at this range not even a musket could miss.

  The sound lessened, although the dust continued to whirl and make them cough and choke. And now it was replaced by a tremendous whoop as Morgan led the main body forward. Men swarmed around Kit, tearing at the still breathing cows, slicing through quivering limbs and stripping the tough hide away from the warm red meat beneath. Some were already lighting fires to roast their breakfast; the main part just crammed the raw meat into their mouths. 'Kit. Kit. Where are you, Kit.'

  Jean carried a beefsteak in each hand. They had been charcoal broiled, so that the outsides were black but blood still oozed.

  'Eat one of these,' Jean commanded. 'And feel the strength flow back into your limbs.'

  The meat was hard and tasteless, but to teeth which had chewed nothing but leather belts for three days it was like eating the tenderest of sucking pigs. Saliva mingled with the blood which filled his mouth.

  'You shoot good, Master Hilton,' Agrippa tore at a rib. 'Now we must all fight good, eh?'

  The dust had cleared, and the Spanish army lay in front of them, amazingly still, whereas surely, Kit thought, had they but launched an attack while the buccaneers were feeding, the victory would immediately have been theirs. No doubt they counted the victory secure in any event. And the moment was already past, for the bugle was sounding again, and the men were reluctantly scrambling to their feet, many tucking meaty ribs and lumps of steak into their belts.

  Morgan had moved to the front. 'Musketeers,' he bellowed. 'Bart Le Grand, take the right flank with a hundred men. Kit Hilton, take the left. Not sharpshooters only, now. Any man who can fire a musket quickly and knows how to aim. The rest follow us.'

  'You'll march with me, Jean,' Kit said.

  'I would like that privilege also, Master Hilton,' Agrippa said.

  'And you shall have it, by God. Come, load those pieces.'

  The main body was already moving forward; Morgan's captain had unfurled a tremendous Cross of St George at the head of the column, flying from a long spar.

  'You and you and you,' Kit bellowed, singling out men with clean-looking firepieces. 'To me on the flank. Come on, now. Make haste.'

  For he could see what Morgan feared. As the buccaneer army advanced across the plain, the two bodies of lancers had also moved forward, trotting from their positions in line with the tercio, and obviously meaning to charge the flanks of the attacking army. The cattle still stampeded aimlessly across the open ground beneath their banner of eddying dust, and behind them also now were the steaming carcasses and smouldering fires of half an hour ago. And now the thudding of the hooves was growing loud again as the horsemen approached, gradually fanning out into a line as they drew parallel with the buccaneers.

  The bugle sounded, and the flagstaff was placed in the ground; they were still out of range of the infantry, at a quarter of a mile distance.

  'I think we are opposed by a fool,' Agrippa muttered, settling the stock of his firepiece into his shoulder.

  'Hold your fire,' Kit commanded, remembering how Bart had controlled them against the cattle. He walked up and down the line of half-naked, bearded, sweating savages he had been asked to lead. 'Hold your fire.' He took his place at one end of the line, and heard the rattle of cutlasses behind him. The cavalry-were lowering their lances, and the trot was becoming a canter. He estimated there were just over a hundred of them on each flank.

  'Remember Hispaniola,' Portuguese Bart yelled, and the cry was taken up. 'Remember Hispaniola.'

  'Fire,' Kit shouted, as the range closed, and the muskets rippled with explosion and smoke. The lancers did not check, but a good score of their number fell, and the collapsing horses brought down several more.

  'Load,' Kit yelled. 'Load, make haste. Load.'

  But there was not time. The horsemen were coming on again.

  'Pistols,' he bellowed. 'Pistols and cutlasses. Steady now.' He drew his own weapon, braced his feet as if he would fight a duel, and fired; a horse in front of him reared and whinnied, throwing its rider and falling backwards on to him. And then the noise of the immediate conflict was drowned in a tremendous roar, and he looked over his shoulder. Morgan had deemed the safety of his wings in good hands, and had given the order to charge. With a howl of contempt and fury a thousand buccaneers launched themselves in a small, tight body against the very centre of the imposing force in front of them.

  But for the time being Kit and his musketeers were fully engaged with the horsemen. Now the melee became general, and in the first rush three of the buccaneers went down with spears in their bellies. But at close quarters the spears could only be u
sed once, and long before the horsemen could control their mounts or drag their swords free they were seized and jerked from their saddles, and butchered on the ground. Cutlasses rose and fell, blood splattered and stained the brilliant steel, men howled, with pain and despair and with exultation, horses neighed with utter terror and added to the confusion as they raced to and fro.

  But this fight was won. 'To me,' Kit bellowed, his voice hoarse and sweat running down his cheeks. 'To me. Follow me. Jean. Agrippa.'

  'We are here,' Jean shouted. And so were still seventy others. Kit pointed his cutlass in the direction of the city, and advanced at a run, and checked in amazement. For now the dust again cleared, and in front of him the much-vaunted Spanish infantry were fleeing in every direction, some seeking the seashore and the boats which waited there, others running with desperate fear for the terrible safety of the forest. Morgan's charge had won the day, and already the buccaneers were battering at the gates of the city itself.