Buccaneer

by Tim Severin

  Hector looked carefully. A light grey haze was rising from the greenery. It might be smoke or a patch of late-morning mist that had not yet cleared. ‘They hide themselves like fugitives. Surely the authorities would not send ships here to arrest them,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the Spanish they are afraid of,’ Gutteridge explained. ‘The Spaniards claim all of Campeachy as their territory and regard the Bay Men as trespassers who steal the timber. If the Spanish patrols catch the loggers, they are carried off to the cities where they are thrown into prison or auctioned off as slaves.’

  He was shading his eyes with his hands and staring long and hard. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Yes, that’s smoke all right. We stop here.’

  He despatched Hector with a sailor into the ship’s hold with orders to bring up a barrel of rum. Stooping under the deck beams, Hector noted that the cargo space was three-quarters empty. In one corner were stacked a few rolls of cloth. Elsewhere were several cases of hammers, axes, cutlasses, wedges, crowbars. Against a bulkhead several more chests contained blocks of refined sugar. But the bulk of the sloop’s cargo was three dozen barrels and casks of varying sizes, ranging from a little eighteen-gallon rundlet to a massive puncheon. He checked their contents. Perhaps a quarter of them were kegs of gunpowder, the rest held rum, great quantities of it. With the help of his companion, Hector rolled a rum barrel to the companion-way, and rigged a block and tackle to raise the cask on deck. There a rough table had already been made by laying planks across yet more barrels, and was set with loaves of ship’s bread, ham and salted beef.

  ‘Here they come now in that pirogue,’ said Gutteridge, looking towards the shore. A large dugout canoe was already halfway out to the ship, paddled by three men. It was difficult to see much of the men because all were wearing hats with extravagantly broad, drooping brims which completely shaded their faces.

  The captain himself went to the ship’s rail, ready to hand his visitors up on deck. ‘Greetings, my friends, greetings! Welcome to my ship!’ he called out jovially. Hector could see that the newcomers were heavily armed. Each man had his musket, and there were pistols tucked in their belts. One of them paused his stroke for a moment, waved his paddle in the air, and let out a great whoop of elation.

  Moments later their canoe was alongside, and the three logwood cutters were climbing over the rail. Gutteridge was slapping them on the back and gesturing towards the table of food and the keg of rum. Hector had never seen such uncouth characters. Their tangled hair hung down to their shoulders, and their beards were matted and unwashed. Every garment was filthy and reeking of sweat. Two of them had facial wounds – one had a scar that ran from his ear down the side of his neck, and another was lacking an eye. The third man in the group seemed to be their leader and was a colossus. He stood nearly six and a half feet, with heavily muscled shoulders and arms, and the knuckles on his enormous hands were callused. His face looked as if it had been struck a dozen times for there was a tracery of fine scars across his forehead and cheeks, and his nose had been flattened by a cruel blow. All three men carried themselves with a swaggering menace as they set foot on deck and looked around. Most striking of all was the colour of their skin. Their hands and faces were a strange dark red as though they had been roasted on a spit or were suffering from some strange disfiguring disease.

  To Hector’s astonishment, Gutteridge continued as if he was greeting long-lost bosom friends. ‘Come! Be seated! You are most welcome. This is the festive season!’ He was ushering the new arrivals to the empty kegs which served as seats beside the rough table, and already had begun to pour neat rum into pewter mugs which he handed to his guests. With barely a word said between them, the loggers swilled down their first drinks and held out their tankards for more. The giant reached out for a loaf of bread. He tore it in half, and then began softening it by splashing rum on the crust. He crammed the soggy mass into his mouth.

  ‘Hector!’ called the captain. ‘Take the top off that barrel. We must not stint our guests.’

  As Hector was prising open the barrel, a musket shot rang out just behind him, and he almost dropped the chisel. He turned to find one of the logwood cutters had loosed off a shot into the air. ‘Bravo!’ cried Gutteridge, not in the least taken aback. He poured the man another drink, and then took a swig from his own tankard. ‘Here’s to Kill-devil! There’s plenty more where it came from.’ Then he ordered the ship’s cannon, a miserable little six-pounder, to be loaded and primed. With a theatrical gesture, he brought a lighted match to the touch hole, and the resulting explosion caused a flock of pelicans to flap up from the mangrove swamps and fly away in fear.

  The headlong carousal lasted all afternoon, and by sunset the three logwood cutters were incapable of getting to their feet. One had fallen from his seat and was sprawled on deck, and the others were head down on the table, snoring. Gutteridge himself was little better. He tried to make his way to his cabin, but staggered so drunkenly that Hector feared his captain would blunder over the ship’s side. He put an arm round Gutteridge’s shoulders, and steered him back to his cabin where the man toppled face down onto his bunk.

  Next morning, to Hector’s awe, the Bay Men were calling for more rum to wash down their breakfast. They had iron constitutions because they seemed no worse for their debauch, and to all appearances were ready to carry on drinking for the rest of the day. Gutteridge was looking bilious as he appeared shakily from his cabin and finally managed to steer the conversation around to the question of trade. Did the Bay Men have any stocks of logwood ready for sale? He was told that the three men cut their timber individually, but pooled production. They were willing to exchange their timber for barrels of rum and additional supplies, but would need a few days to bring all their logs to a central stockpile close to a landing place.

  ‘Hector,’ said Gutteridge, ‘perhaps you would oblige me by going ashore with our friends. They can show you how much logwood they have ready, and how much more is yet to be got together. Then we can calculate a fair price. Meanwhile I’ll take the sloop farther up the coast and locate other suppliers. I should be gone two or three days, at most a week. When I return we will commence loading.’

  Hector was eager to go ashore and see the countryside, but before he clambered down into the pirogue, Gutteridge found an excuse to take him aside and speak to him privately. ‘Be certain to put some mark on the existing stocks, something to show that we have a claim to it,’ he said. ‘The Bay Men can be fickle. With you on hand, they will not sell to the next ship that turns up. But I also want you to check on the logs they have on offer. There’s something I must show you.’

  He led Hector to a cubbyhole beneath the poop deck, and pulled out a billet of wood about three feet long. The timber was close-grained and the darkest red, almost black. ‘This is what cost me the profits of my last voyage,’ the captain said, handing the sample to Hector to inspect. ‘That’s logwood. Some people call it bloodwood because if you chop it into shavings and steep it in water, the stew looks like blood. Dyers add it in their vats for colouring cloth. They pay a handsome price, but only for the best quality. What do you make of it?’

  Hector hefted the billet in his hands. It was very heavy and seemed flawless. It gave off a very faint odour, like the smell of violets. ‘Here, let me show you,’ said Gutteridge, taking it back from him. He struck the length of timber fiercely against a bulkhead, and the end section of the billet flew off. The exposed interior was hollow, rotted through. The cavity had been packed with dirt as a makeweight. ‘More than half my last cargo was like that,’ Gutteridge said. ‘Useless, though I had paid top price. The loggers had already sold all their good stock, and they then spent weeks preparing the dross. They had covered the ends of all the rotten billets with plugs of decent wood, disguising the rubbish. It was cleverly done, and I was taken in. That’s how I lost my capital.’

  Shortly afterwards Hector rode thoughtfully ashore in the pirogue with the three Bay Men. By an unspoken agreement it seeme
d that he was assigned to accompany the giant whose name was Jezreel. But beyond that he knew nothing. Jezreel only grunted, ‘Get a hat and bring some cloth’ and had then fallen silent. Hector presumed that their solitary life made the Bay Men taciturn. None of them had said a word of thanks when Gutteridge handed each of them a sack stuffed with provisions and several bottles of rum to take back ashore.

  His companions steered the pirogue into a gap in the mangroves, and a little way inside beached the vessel on a patch of hard sand. From there a narrow path threaded its way through a dreary wasteland of swamp. Within a few paces Hector felt a fierce stab of pain on the back of his neck as if a hot ember had landed on his skin. It was a biting insect and he slapped it away. Seconds later there were three or four more stings as he was attacked by swarms of mosquitoes. He squirmed in discomfort, for the insects were gorging on every exposed part of his body, even biting through his clothing. He stooped and splashed water from a puddle onto his face and bathed his arms. But the respite was only temporary. He could feel the insects settling on his face, and his eyelids were already beginning to puff up with the effect of their bites. He wondered how his companions put up with such an onslaught for they seemed untroubled.

  When they reached a place where the path divided, the other Bay Men turned aside, leaving the giant Jezreel to stride forward, his sack of food and drink over his shoulder as if it was empty. Hector trotted behind him, still frantically sweeping aside the insects. A few minutes of hard walking brought them to where the mangroves gave way to more open, marshy scrubland. Here sloughs and ponds of stagnant water were linked by a great network of shallow creeks and channels. Marsh birds – herons, egrets, curlews and plovers – stalked the soggy ground, feeding on insects and small fish. Hector wondered how anyone could live in such watery surroundings, yet Jezreel waded through the obstacles without breaking stride. Soon they came to Jezreel’s camp. It was no more than a huddle of simple open-sided huts, their roofs thickly thatched with palm leaves. In every hut were platforms raised on stakes at least three feet above the ground. One of the platforms appeared to be Jezreel’s sleeping place, another was his living quarters. A few yards away his cooking place was yet another elevated platform, this time covered with earth.

  ‘The flooding must be very bad,’ observed Hector who had quickly understood the reason for this arrangement. Jezreel made no reply but took down a cloth bundle hanging from the thatch and tossed it across to Hector. ‘Spread that. It helps against the insects.’ Unwrapping the cloth, Hector found it contained a slimy yellow lump of rancid animal fat. Gingerly he began to smear it across his face and neck. The suet smelled and felt foul but seemed to discourage the worst of the insect attacks. Now he appreciated why the logwood cutters seldom removed their broad-brimmed hats. Their headgear prevented the mosquitoes tangling and biting in their hair. ‘Make yourself a pavilion over there,’ continued the Bay Man indicating one of the shelters. Hector saw that he was to rig up a canopy, using the cloth he had brought from the ship. It would keep away the insects from his bed.

  ‘Know how to shoot?’ asked Jezreel. Clearly he was someone who wasted few words.

  Hector nodded.

  ‘We’ll get in some fresh meat for your captain when he returns.’

  The big man reached up and tugged a musket from where it had been stored within the thatch, and handed it to the young man. From a hanging satchel he produced half a dozen charges of gunpowder wrapped in paper, a small powder horn, and a bag of bullets. Checking over the gun, Hector saw that it was an old-fashioned matchlock. To fire it, he would need to load, then add powder to the priming pan and keep the fuse lit until he was ready to pull the trigger. He thought to himself that a flintlock would have been much easier to use in such wet conditions, and could only suppose that Jezreel had been unable to obtain modern weapons.

  He followed the giant out of the camp, and was led at the same brisk pace deeper into the swampy savannah. The ground was moist and soggy with a thin layer of rotting leaves covering yellow clay. From time to time they passed scatterings of pale wood chips on the ground. ‘Logwood,’ explained the big man, and seeing that Hector was puzzled, he added. ‘Only the dark heartwood is taken. You must trim away the rest. The sap rind is near white or yellow.’

  They walked on in silence.

  Eventually they came to the margins of a wide, shallow lagoon. Here and there were low islands covered with grass and small thickets of brushwood. Hauled up on the shore was a small dugout canoe, evidently kept by Jezreel for his hunting trips. The boat was little larger than the one Hector had used in his escape from Port Royal. There were two paddles wedged under the thwarts.

  THEY WADED OUT into the shallows, pushing the little craft ahead of them and holding their muskets high. Jezreel gestured for Hector to climb in and take a seat in the bow, then the big man took up his position in the stern and soon they were moving forward across the mere. From where he was sitting, Hector felt the canoe surge forward each time Jezreel took a stroke. By comparison his own efforts felt feeble. Neither of them said a word.

  After some fifteen minutes Jezreel abruptly stopped paddling, and Hector followed suit. The canoe glided forward as Hector felt a tap on his shoulder, and the giant’s hand appeared in the corner of his vision. Jezreel was pointing away into the distance. On the shore of an island and difficult to see against the background vegetation stood half a dozen wild cattle. They were smaller than the domestic cows that Hector had known at home in Ireland, dark brown in colour, almost black, and armed with long curving horns. Three of them were standing up to their hocks, feeding on lilies. The others were on the shore, grazing.

  Behind him there was the sound of flint on steel. A moment later his companion passed him a length of glowing slow match. Hector fixed it in the jaws of his musket’s firing lock. Very gently, they stalked the wild cattle, closing the gap without being observed. From time to time one of the animals would raise its head from feeding, and scan for danger.

  Hector calculated that they had got within a very long musket shot when, unexpectedly, there came the thump of a distant explosion. For a moment he thought that Gutteridge’s sloop had returned and was firing a signal gun. But the sound had come, not from the sea behind them, but somewhere over to his left, from the savannah.

  Whatever the source of the detonation, it had stampeded the wild cattle. Tails held high in panic, they abandoned their island and dashed deeper into the lake, then began swimming away. All that was visible was a line of horned heads disappearing in the distance.

  Hector was about to turn and speak to Jezreel when the big man’s voice said ‘Hold still!’ and the muzzle of a musket slid past beside his right cheek. The barrel was placed on his shoulder. He froze in position, all thought of paddling gone. Instead he gripped the sides of the canoe, scarcely breathing. He heard Jezreel behind him shifting his stance, and felt the musket barrel on his shoulder move a fraction. There was a whiff of slow match. The next moment there was the flat explosive crack of the weapon firing. The sound was so close to Hector’s face that it made his head ring, and left him half deaf. His eyes watered with the cloud of gun smoke, and for a moment his vision was obscured. When the gun smoke blew away, he looked forward to where the cattle had been swimming. To his amazement one of the animals had swerved aside. The creature was already dropping back, separating from its fellows. Jezreel’s marksmanship was far out of the ordinary. To have hit his target from such a distance while seated in an unstable canoe was a remarkable feat. Even Dan, whom Hector considered the best marksman he knew, would have found it difficult to achieve such accuracy.

  Already Jezreel was back at work, driving the canoe forward with huge paddle strokes. Hastily Hector joined his effort, for the wild cow was still able to flounder through the water and had turned directly for shore. Moments later it was in the shallows, and with great thrashing leaps was plunging towards safety, blood streaming from its neck and staining the water a frothy red.

  The t
wo hunters reached their prey while the animal was still hock deep on the shelving edge of the lake. It was a young bull, wounded and very angry. It turned to face its tormentors, snorting with pain and rage, and lowered its vicious horns.

  Hector put down his paddle. The bull was perhaps fifteen yards away, still at a safe distance. The young man poured priming powder into the pan of his musket, blew gently on the burning matchcord to make it glow, raised his musket, and pulled the trigger. At that range it was impossible to miss. The ball struck the bull in the chest and he saw the animal stagger with the impact. But the animal was young and strong, and did not drop. It still stood on the same spot, menacing and dangerous. Hector expected his companion to hold back, until the two men had reloaded, then finish off their prey. Instead Jezreel drove the canoe into the shallows, and leaping out into the water began to wade towards the wild bull. To Hector’s alarm he saw that the logwood cutter was empty-handed. There was a long hunting knife in Jezreel’s belt but it stayed in its sheath. The young man watched him advance until, at the last moment, the bull lowered its head and charged. The attack could have been mortal. But Jezreel stood his ground, and in one sure movement leaned down and seized the creature’s horns before the animal could lift its head and impale him. As Hector watched, the big man twisted and, using his great strength, threw the bull off its feet. In a welter of foam and muddy water, the beast fell on its side, the logwood cutter dropped one knee on the animal’s neck, then forced its head under water. For several moments there was a succession of desperate heaves as the trapped animal attempted to escape. Then gradually its struggles eased and, after one last shudder, it ceased to move.

  Jezreel held the drowned creature’s head submerged a full minute to make sure that it was really dead. Then he rose to his feet and called to Hector. ‘Pull the canoe up on land, then come and give me a hand to butcher the beast. We’ll take what we can carry, and they can have the rest.’