by Tim Severin
Following his companion’s glance, Hector saw the snouts of two large alligators gliding across the water towards them.
‘You’ll see plenty of others,’ explained his companion. ‘Mostly the caymans stay their distance. But if they are hungry or in a bad humour, just occasionally they will run at you and take you down.’
Working quickly, they began to butcher the wild bull into quarters. Here, too, Jezreel was an adept. The blade of his hunting knife sliced through skin and flesh, skilfully working around the bones and severing the sinews, until the slabs of fresh meat had been separated from the carcass. They dropped them into the canoe, and pushed off, heading back towards their camp. Looking over his shoulder, Hector saw the caymans crawling up the slope. As he watched, they began to snap and chew at the bloody carcass, like huge olive brown lizards attacking a lump of raw flesh.
When they arrived at their original departure point, Jezreel secured the canoe. Then he leaned over and picked up a great slab of raw beef from the bilges. With his knife he cut a long slit in its centre. ‘Stand closer,’ he demanded, ‘and take off your hat.’ Hector did as he was told, and before he could react, his companion held up the meat, and slipped it over the young man’s head so the beef hung like a tabard, front and back, the blood soaking through his shirt. ‘Best way to fetch it to camp,’ said Jezreel. ‘Leaves your hands free so you can carry a musket. If it’s too heavy, I’ll trim off a portion and lighten the load.’ He carved slits in two more of the meaty parcels, and with a double load draped over his own massive shoulders, started walking back along the track.
As they trudged back along the path, Hector asked about the explosion that had scared the cattle. ‘At first I thought it was Captain Gutteridge signalling his return. But the sound came from the savannah. It wasn’t Spaniards was it?’
Jezreel shook his head. ‘If it had been Spaniards, we would have made ourselves scarce. That was one of our companions preparing logwood.’
‘But it sounded like a cannon shot.’
‘Most of the logwood is small stuff, easy to handle. From time to time you fell a big tree, maybe six feet around, and the wood is so tough that it’s impossible to split into smaller pieces. So you blow it apart with a charge of gunpowder, shrewdly placed.’
‘The captain asked me to make a list of all the logwood ready to load. Can we do that tomorrow?’ asked Hector. But the giant did not reply. He was looking away to the north where a thick bank of cloud had formed. It lay in the lower sky as a heavy black line, its upper edge as clean and sharp as if trimmed with a scythe. It looked motionless, yet unnatural and menacing.
‘Tomorrow may prove difficult,’ Jezreel said.
THE CLOUD BANK was still there at dawn. It had neither dispersed nor come any closer. ‘What does it signify?’ Hector asked. He and Jezreel were eating a breakfast of fresh beef strips cooked on the barbacoa.
‘The sailors call it a North Bank. It could be a sign that the weather is changing.’
Hector looked up at the sky. Apart from the strange black North Bank, there was not a cloud in the sky. There was only the same baking haze that he had seen every day since his arrival on the Campeachy coast. He detected just the faintest breath of a breeze, barely enough to disturb the plume of smoke rising from their cooking fire.
‘What makes you say that?’ he enquired.
Jezreel pointed with his chin towards dozens of man of war birds that were circling over the area where the hunt had taken place. The fork-tailed sea birds were dipping down in spirals, then rising up, clearly disturbed, and constantly uttering their shrill high-pitched cries. ‘They don’t come inland unless they know something is going to happen. And these last two days I’ve noticed something odd about the tides. There’s been almost no flood, only ebb. The water has been retreating as if the sea is gathering its strength.’ He rose from his seat and added, ‘If we are checking on the logwood stocks, we better hurry.’
As it turned out, the logwood cutters still had much work to do. Their caches of timber were widely scattered, and they had yet to carry them to the landing place on the creek. Jezreel was more advanced in this work than his companions because he had the strength of two men. Transporting the billets of wood was as much drudgery as cutting the timber in the first place. The men worked like pack animals, stooped under immense loads which Hector calculated at two hundred pounds a time, and staggering through the swamps. He wondered why the Bay Men did not make rafts of the timber and float them along the many backwaters, but realised the reason when one of the logs slipped from Jezreel’s load. The dense timber sank like a rock.
An hour before sunset the wind, which had continued faint all day, moved into the north and began to strengthen. The increase was steady, rather than dramatic, but continued through the night. At first Hector, dozing on his platform, was aware only that the sides of his cloth pavilion were stirring and lifting in the breeze. But within an hour the folds of cloth were flapping and billowing, and he got up and took down the cloth because it was evident that no insects would be flying in such conditions. He enjoyed the respite for a short while, listening to the rushing of the wind as it swept through the mangroves. But soon the wind was plucking at the thatch of his shelter and he found it difficult to get to sleep. He lay there, thinking of Susanna and wondering whether he would be able to see her again after Gutteridge had loaded the logwood and brought him back to Jamaica. Maybe he would have earned enough money from the logwood sale to invest in a commercial enterprise and start to make the fortune that would impress the young woman into accepting him as a formal suitor. Riches, by all accounts, were swiftly gained in the Caribees.
Eventually he did fall into a deep sleep, only to be woken shortly before daybreak by a rattling noise. The wind was so strong that the fiercer gusts were shaking the entire fabric of his shelter. Unable to rest, Hector swung his legs over the side of his sleeping platform, and stood up. To his shock, he found that he was standing in six inches of water.
As the light rapidly strengthened, he saw that the entire camp site was under water. In places it was submerged to a depth of at least a foot. The flood was flowing inland like a vast river. He dipped a finger into the water and sucked on it. He tasted salt. The sea was invading the land.
Splashing his way out of the hut, he found Jezreel assembling a bundle of his possessions, his guns and powder, a coil of rope, a water bottle, a hatchet, food. ‘Here, take these, you may need them later,’ he said to Hector, handing him a spare water bottle, a cutlass and a gun. ‘What’s happening?’ enquired Hector. He had to raise his voice for the sound of the wind had now risen to a steady roar. ‘It’s a North,’ shouted the giant. ‘December and January is their time and this looks to be a bad one.’
The big man looked round to make sure that he had everything he needed, then led Hector inland towards a swell of rising ground. As they waded through the water, the young man observed that the water level was constantly rising. It was now halfway up the supports of his sleeping platform.
‘How much higher will it flood?’ he shouted.
Jezreel shrugged. ‘No way of telling. Depends how long the gale blows.’
They reached the knoll. Here stood a single enormous tree, fifteen or twenty feet around its base. Lightning must have struck it, for all but a handful of the upper branches were shorn away, and those which survived bore no leaves. Jezreel went to its farther side. There the lightning had left a jagged open gash which extended almost down to the ground. Jezreel swung his hatchet and began to widen the crevice, enough to jam in hand or foot. ‘You better climb up first. You are more nimble,’ he advised Hector. ‘Take the rope and get as high as you can. At least up to the first large branches. Once you’re there, lower the rope to me and we’ll haul up our gear.’
Half an hour later they were both seated some twenty feet above the ground, each astride a thick branch. ‘Might as well make ourselves secure,’ said Jezreel, passing him the end of their rope. ‘If the wind gets stronger we
’ll be blown off like rotten plums.’
Fastened in place with a rope around his waist, Hector watched the floodwaters rising. It was an extraordinary sight. A great swirling, rippling brown mass of water was sliding inland, carrying everything before it. Branches, leaves, all sorts of clutter were being swept along. Bushes disappeared. The corpse of a wild pig floated by. What made the scene all the more remarkable was that the sky still remained bright and sunny, except for the ominous bank of cloud which lay heavily on the horizon. ‘Will rain come?’ Hector asked his companion.
‘No, a North is not like a hurricane,’ answered Jezreel. ‘Everyone knows of the hurricane and the downpours it brings. But a North stays steady as long as that black cloud is there, and without any rain. But it can be just as fatal if you are on a lee shore.’
By mid afternoon the wind had risen to gale force and was threatening to pluck Hector from his perch. He felt the great dead tree vibrating in the blasts, and wondered if its dead roots would hold. If the tree were toppled, he could not see how they would survive.
‘What about the others?’ he shouted above the clamour of the wind.
‘They’ll do the same as us, if they can find a refuge high enough,’ Jezreel called back. ‘But it’s the end of my stay here.’
‘What do you mean?’ shouted Hector.
‘Nothing will remain after this flood,’ answered the big man. ‘All our stock of logwood is being washed away. Some may stay in place, but the rest will shift and be buried in the mud. It will take weeks to salvage it, and even then it will be almost impossible to bring it to the landing place. A North rarely lasts more than a day or two, but it will be weeks before the flood waters recede far enough for us to begin any recovery. Besides, all our food stores will have been destroyed, and the gunpowder soaked and ruined.’
Glumly Hector looked down at the swirling water. His mind was on Gutteridge and his sloop. Unless the captain had found a truly secure anchorage there was little chance that his vessel would survive.
That evening they ate a meal of cold meat washed down with gulps of water. From time to time they shifted position by a few inches, cautiously easing the discomfort of their perch because the gale still raged. Occasionally a bird flashed past them, swept helplessly downwind.
The gale began to slacken about the time the stars came out and, looking north, Hector saw that the long black cloud had gone. ‘That means the North is finished,’ Jezreel told him.
They dozed fitfully and at sunrise looked out on a scene of devastation. The flood water extended as far as the eye could see. Here and there the tops of small trees were still visible, but their branches had been stripped of foliage. The only movement was the small, reluctant swirls and eddies in the brown flood which told that the water had reached its peak and was slowly beginning to recede.
‘It’ll be some hours yet before we can descend,’ Jezreel warned. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, and there was a companionable silence between them.
‘Tell me,’ said Hector, ‘how did you finish up here of all places?’
Jezreel waited several moments before answering. ‘Those scars on my face are the mark of my former profession. Did you ever hear of Nat Hall, the “Sussex Gladiator”?’
When Hector did not reply, he continued. ‘You might have done if you had lived in London and visited Clare Market or Hockley in the Hole. It was there I fought trials of skill, gave exhibitions, taught classes too. The singlestick was my favourite, though I was handy enough with the backsword.’
‘I’ve seen prize fights at home,’ said Hector. ‘But that was with fists, between farmers at the country fairs.’
‘You are talking about trials of manhood,’ the big man corrected him. He stretched out his hands to show the callused knuckles. ‘That’s what fistics leave you with, and maybe a flattened nose and mis-shapen ears. Trials of skill are different. They’re done with weapons. My nose was shaped by a blow from a singlestick, and the same caused my scars. Had I received a slash from a backsword that would have left no ear at all.’
‘It must take courage to follow such a dangerous profession,’ commented Hector.
Jezreel shook his head. ‘I drifted into it. I was always very big for my age, and strong too. By the time I was fourteen, I was taking wagers on feats of strength – breaking thick ropes, pulling saplings up by their roots, lifting heavy stones, that sort of thing. Eventually I found my way to London where a showman promised me that I would be the new English Samson in his theatre. But I was never quite good enough, and he was a cheat.’
Jezreel leaned over from his branch and spat down into the flood water. He waited for a moment, watching the blob of spittle float on the surface. Slowly it drifted seawards. ‘On the ebb,’ he commented as he settled back against the tree trunk, and continued with his tale. ‘I was always quick, as much as I was strong. Have you ever seen hot work at the singlestick?’ he asked.
‘Never. Is it some sort of cudgel?’
Jezreel made a grimace of distaste. ‘That’s what some people call it, but gives the wrong idea. Imagine a short sword, but with a blade of ash, and a basket handle. Two men stand face to face, no more than a yard apart, easy striking distance. They hold their weapons high and make lightning cuts and slashes at one another. Each blocks the other’s blow and strikes back in an instant. The target is any part of the body above the waist. The feet must stay on the ground, not moving.’
Jezreel’s right hand was above his head now and, with bent wrist, he was whipping an imaginary blade through the air, down and sideways, slashing and parrying. For a moment Hector feared that the big man would lose his balance on the branch and tumble into the flood.
‘How is the winner decided?’ he asked.
‘Whoever first suffers a broken head is the loser. To win you must draw blood with a blow to the head, hence my scars.’
‘But that doesn’t explain why you are here now.’
The prize fighter waited a long time before he continued. ‘Like I told you, singlestick was my favourite, but I was handy with the short sword too. It’s the same style and technique but with a sharp metal blade, and when you fight for big money, the crowd wants to see the blood flow freely.’
Hector sensed that the big man was finding it difficult to speak of his past.
‘I was matched against a good man, a champion. The purse was very big and I knew that I was outclassed. He need not have cheated. He cut me across the back of my leg, tried to hamstring me, and in my anger and pain I lashed out with a lucky stroke. It split his skull.’
‘But it was an accident.’
‘He had a patron, a powerful man who lost both his wager and his investment. I was warned that I would be tried for murder, so I fled.’ Jezreel gave a bitter smile. ‘One thing, though, all that exercise with singlestick or backsword will have its uses.’
‘I don’t grasp your meaning,’ said Hector.
‘This cursed flood has put an end to my hopes of making a living out of logwood. I expect my comrades will go back to what they did before – buccaneering. I think I’ll join them.’
When eventually Jezreel judged it was safe to descend from their perch, Hector accompanied the prize fighter as they waded waist deep through the retreating flood water. They found their camp was wrecked. The huts still stood, though skewed and made lopsided by the current, but all their contents were either washed away or ruined. There was nothing to salvage. They made their way to the landing place among the mangroves and were relieved that the pirogue was undamaged though they had to extract it from the upper branches of a mangrove thicket where it had lodged. Just when they had succeeded in relaunching the pirogue, the two other Bay Men straggled in. They too had shifted for themselves and managed to climb out of harm’s way.
‘What do we do now?’ asked the man with the scarred face whom Jezreel called Otway.
‘Best try to link up with Captain Gutteridge . . . if his ship still floats,’ answered Jezreel. The little group
stacked their last remaining possessions into the pirogue, then paddled out from among the mangroves, and along the coast in the direction they had last seen the sloop. They had not gone more than five miles when they saw in the distance a sight which confirmed Jezreel’s fears. Cast up a hundred yards into the coastal swamp was the dark outline of a ship. It was Gutteridge’s sloop. She lay on her side. A shattered stump showed where the mainmast had once stood. The spar itself lay across the deck in a tangled web of rigging. The mainsail was draped over the bow like a winding sheet.
‘Poor sods,’ breathed Otway. ‘She must have driven ashore in the gale. I doubt there were any survivors.’
They paddled their pirogue closer, looking for any signs of life. Jezreel fired his musket as a signal. But there was no response, no answering shot, no call. The big man reloaded and fired again in the air – still there was nothing. The shattered hulk was abandoned, dark, and silent.
SIX
THE NORTH’S baleful effect was detected far to the south. In Dan’s homeland on the Miskito coast his people saw the tide recede beyond its normal range, then flood in with unusual strength, and they knew that it signified a great, distant upheaval. The flotsam washed ashore was still being gathered by children from the Miskito villages when Dan came home a fortnight later. He recounted how he and Jacques had been taken by Coxon’s buccaneers and sent aboard L’Arc-de-Ciel to Petit Guave. The French settlement had been abuzz with preparations for a free-booting raid on the Spanish Main, and the governor, Monsieur de Pouncay, was absent. Rather than wait for his return to decide if their prisoners were guilty of piracy, Captain Coxon’s prize crew saw their chance of easy plunder. They volunteered to join the French expedition, freed their prisoners, and recruited Dan to pilot them to the Miskito coast for it was from there that the French proposed to march on the Spanish settlements in the interior. Jacques was happy to join them as he had encountered several former acquaintances from the Paris gaols among the freebooters. But when the French expedition disembarked, Jacques had changed his mind, preferring to stay behind on the beach and watch out for any Spanish patrol ships and wait for Dan to return from a visit to his Miskito family.
