Buccaneer

by Tim Severin

  He was about to say that a single hit from a cannonball would shatter a pirogue when he felt the canoe tilt underneath him. He grabbed for the rim of the little craft, but it was too late. Water was pouring in over the gunwale. Looking back over his shoulder he saw Dan was leaning sideways, pressing down at an angle, deliberately flooding the canoe. As the water rose within the hull, the canoe began to sink, settling on an even keel until it was awash and almost nothing showed above the surface. Hector slid out into the water. He found that he could stand, though his feet were sinking several inches into silt. By bending his knees slightly, only his head remained above water. ‘No point in making ourselves obvious,’ explained Dan calmly. ‘Miskito fishermen do likewise whenever they see a strange ship approaching.’

  Now the brigantine was nearing the limit of her present course. Hector could see the sailors preparing to haul in on the sheets and braces. Men armed with muskets were clustered along the rail, looking into the river mouth and pointing at the beached pirogues. He heard a shouted command from the sailing master, and again the brigantine began to turn, this time presenting stern and rudder towards him. The guardship was close enough now for him to see that the crest on her ensign was a black eagle, wings spread under a royal crown.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ he asked Dan.

  There was a long silence, and then the Miskito said, ‘Hector, do you think you can reach the Bay Men’s camp without being seen from that ship? It’ll be hard going.’

  Hector looked at the distance he would have to cover. It was almost a mile.

  ‘You won’t be able to push through the mangroves. They grow together too thickly,’ Dan warned. ‘You’ll have to work your way along the edge of the mangroves, staying in the shallows.’

  ‘I believe I can manage,’ Hector answered him.

  ‘Tell the Bay Men to be ready to break out an hour after low water. At that time their pirogues will be able to get over the bar, but the Spaniards will not yet have enough depth to enter the river.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll stay here with the canoe and deal with the guard ship.’

  Hector tried to read his friend’s expression. ‘Is this another of those Miskito skills, like killing sea cows and sinking canoes?’

  ‘Sort of . . . but the Bay Men can make it easier for me. Tell them to gather up all the dead branches and fallen tree trunks and other lumber they can find, and launch them into the river while the tide is still on the ebb. They might even cut down a few trees and float them too.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘But make sure they are floaters, not sinkers like their logwood.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You’ll have to hurry. There’s not more than three hours of ebb left. When I see trees and other trash floating downriver, I’ll know that you’ve managed to reach the camp. As soon as I make my move, you must get the Bay Men to start downriver in the pirogues.’

  ‘How will I know when that is?’

  ‘Find a place from where you can keep an eye on me here. My plan, if it is going to work, will be obvious. Now go.’

  Hector turned to leave. The water was pleasantly warm, but rotting vegetation had coloured it a deep brown so it was impossible to see where he was putting his feet. Within a few paces he understood Dan’s warning that progress would be difficult. The mangroves spread their roots sideways underwater, and he found himself tripping and stumbling over their new shoots as he half-swam, half waded towards his destination. Soft slime underfoot made it difficult to take a firm step, and often he sank ankle deep into the mud. When he tried to withdraw his foot, the ooze clung to him, holding him back. To keep his balance, he grasped at the mangroves and found that their bark was scaly and ridged. Soon his palms were raw and painful. He tried to stay hidden within the overhang of the mangroves, but there were sections where their matted roots made an impenetrable barrier and he was forced to swim along their outer edge, holding his breath and ducking down to avoid being seen from the Spanish patrol ship. As he floundered on, his breaths came in gasps and he had an unwelcome memory of the final moments of the hunted sea cow.

  It was difficult to judge his progress. On his right the wall of mangroves seemed endless, a barrier of fleshy green waxy leaves at head level, their tangle of black and grey roots beside his shoulder. Small crabs scuttled away in fright, disappearing downwards into the water. Black and orange insects crawled upward in rapid jerks. Once he glimpsed the hurried sideways undulations of a snake swimming deeper into shelter. A little farther on he disturbed a colony of egrets and he feared they had betrayed his position as they flapped up into the sky like scraps of white paper.

  The biting insects again found him a juicy victim, settling on his face the moment his head appeared above the surface, some delivering a jab as painful as a wasp sting. But his worst torment were the shellfish. Viciously sharp-edged, they clung in great clusters to the roots of the mangroves. Whenever he brushed against them, they lacerated his skin. Soon he was bleeding from dozens of slashes and cuts, and he wondered if blood in the water would attract caymans. He knew that the reptiles lived in the mangroves, and Jezreel had mentioned that he had occasionally encountered pythons in the swamps.

  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 of 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.’