Buccaneer

by Tim Severin

  The banter between the former prize fighter and the ex-galerien had begun within moments of their first meeting when the three pirogues had collected Jacques from the beach where Dan had left him. Then they had continued along the coast to a sheltered inlet which, according to Otway, was a favourite careenage for buccaneer ships. ‘It’s known as Bennett’s Cove,’ he had explained. ‘If we wait here, there’s a good chance that a buccaneer vessel will show up, and we can volunteer for her crew.’ Hector thought again of the Coxon’s Hole on the chart he’d copied for Snead in Port Royal, but said nothing. His previous encounter with buccaneers had left him wary of joining their company. Anyone associated too closely with them might finish up condemned for piracy and dangling on the end of a hangman’s rope.

  Fortunately the past two weeks had brought a change in the weather, with day after day of blue skies and brilliant sunshine tempered by a sea breeze which kept off the midges and mosquitoes. So the friends were lounging contentedly on the beach while the rest of their party was some distance away, close to the three pirogues drawn up on the strand.

  Jezreel finished eating and lay back on the sand, stretching out his massive frame. ‘This is the life. Can you imagine what conditions are like back home? March gales most likely, and rain. Can’t say I feel like going back there for a while, even if the logwood cutting didn’t work out.’

  ‘Only a dolt would think of making his fortune by chopping wood,’ Jacques observed. ‘Anyone with brains would let others do the work, then relieve them of their profits.’

  ‘You talk like a thief.’

  ‘I only took what others were too stupid to keep safe,’ said Jacques smugly.

  Jezreel looked over at Hector, eyebrows raised. ‘He was a pickpocket in Paris,’ the young man explained. ‘Until he got caught and sent to the galleys. That was where we met.’

  ‘Nimble fingers make light work,’ announced Jacques lazily. He extended one arm up in the air, and closed his fist. When he opened it, there was a pebble held between forefinger and thumb. Closing his fist, he opened it again, and his hand was empty.

  ‘Saw plenty of tricks like that when I was in the fight game,’ grunted Jezreel. ‘The booths were full of mountebanks and charlatans. Many pretended they were from foreign lands. You would have done well with that foreign accent of yours.’

  ‘Given an audience, I wouldn’t even have needed to speak,’ rejoined Jacques.

  ‘No wonder it’s called dumb show.’

  Jacques shied the pebble at Jezreel who caught it deftly and, in the same movement, threw it back. The stone bounced off the Frenchman’s hat, dislodging a small black object which fell to the sand.

  ‘Watch what you’re doing! I don’t want to smell like a logwood cutter,’ said Jacques and was about to tuck the item back into the hatband.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  Jacques passed the object across to his new friend who looked at it, puzzled. It was the size and shape of a large black bean, slightly shrivelled.

  ‘Why would you want to wear a dried dog turd in your hat?’ Jezreel asked.

  ‘Smell it.’

  ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘No, go on.’

  Jezreel held it up to his nose and sniffed. It had a definite musky smell.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A cayman’s cod. I bought it in the market the same time I got the pimentos you’ve just been enjoying.’ Jacques took back the object. ‘It’s a gland. Crocodiles and caymans have them in their crotch and armpit, and they give off a pleasant smell. Better than a reeking blood-soaked smock.’

  ‘Well, thank god you didn’t put it in the sauce as well.’

  Their exchange was brought to an end by a shout from Otway. He was at the back of the beach where the rise of the dunes gave him a vantage point. ‘Ship! Standing in,’ he called.

  Everyone got hurriedly to their feet and gazed out to sea. The sun was behind them so they could easily make out the pale flash of the sails. To Hector’s inexperienced eye the vessel looked very much like the Spanish guard ship, for she had two masts and was a similar size. He felt a twinge of fear that the Bay Men had been caught off guard once again. He doubted that they would be able to escape a second time. But Otway was jubilant.

  ‘That’s Captain Harris’s ship, I’m sure. I served on her once. We’re in luck. Peter Harris is as bold a commander as you could wish.’

  He was proved right when the newcomer dropped anchor and sent her boats ashore, towing a string of empty barrels. Captain Harris had called at Bennett’s Cove to take on fresh water.

  ‘The ship is headed south to Golden Island,’ announced Otway who had found former shipmates among the watering party. ‘There’s to be a gathering of the companies there. But no one seems to know the full details. It’s to be decided by a council.’

  ‘Will Captain Harris take on any new men?’ asked Hector.

  ‘That’s for the ship’s crew to decide.’ Seeing Hector’s look of incomprehension, Otway added, ‘Among buccaneers everything is decided by vote. Even the captain is chosen by election.’

  ‘It makes sense, Hector,’ said Jacques. ‘No one gets any pay. They work for their share of plunder. The larger the crew, the smaller the share-out.’

  Otway had an embarrassed look on his face. ‘Of course I’ve said that we all want to join. But the ship is already overcrowded with more than a hundred men aboard, and they are reluctant to add any more.’ He was avoiding looking at the others. ‘I am known to them already, so the crew is willing to add me to their number, together with my partner over there.’ He nodded towards the one-eyed Bay Man who had worked with him at logwood cutting. ‘. . . and naturally they’ll take Dan aboard if he is willing.’

  ‘Why naturally?’ asked Hector. He was not sure whether he wanted to join such suspect company but it rankled that they were being so choosy.

  ‘The buccaneers always need strikers,’ Dan explained. ‘They are not fishermen and they don’t have time to go ashore and hunt. They rely on Miskito strikers to get fish and turtle for them, otherwise they would go hungry.’ He turned to Otway. ‘Tell your friends that I’ll not join unless my three friends here come with me.’

  Otway went off to consult with the watering party, and returned with the news that if Dan would bring Jacques, Jezreel and Hector out to the ship, they could make their case to the assembled crew.

  WHEN THE LITTLE group came aboard with the last of the full water barrels, they found the crew already gathered in the waist of the ship and looking on with interest. Standing in the front rank was a vigorous-looking clean-shaven man, wearing a cocked hat trimmed with green ribbon. Hector presumed he was Captain Harris, though he took no part in the proceedings. The spokesman for the buccaneer company was a bald seaman with a gravelly voice hoarse from years of shouting.

  ‘That’ll be the quartermaster,’ muttered Jacques. ‘He’s as important as the captain. Divides the plunder and looks to the running of the ship. Issues arms and all the rest.’

  It was the quartermaster who opened the meeting. Addressing the assembly he announced, ‘The Miskito tells me that he will only come with us as a striker if we take on his companions. What do you say?’

  ‘How about the Miskito himself. Is he worth it?’ called a voice.

  ‘Judging by the number of turtle shells on the beach, he is,’ answered someone who must have been ashore with the watering party.

  ‘That big man looks right for us,’ observed another. ‘But he could be a clumsy slug with that antique gun of his.’

  Jezreel was still carrying his old-fashioned matchlock musket.

  The quartermaster turned to Jezreel. ‘Your gun might be good enough for hunting cattle, but on this ship we don’t use firelocks. By the time you’ve reloaded and fiddled with the match, your enemy will be on you.’

  ‘Then I would use this,’ announced Jezreel sliding the ramrod out from under his musket’s barrel. He pointed it at the watching crowd. ‘Any of you f
ellows willing to run at me with your cutlasses? Point or edge, it will not matter.’

  The quartermaster beckoned to two crew men who stepped forward and drew their cutlasses. But, aware that their comrades were looking on, their charge was half-hearted. Jezreel merely stepped to one side and dodged them.

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’ he asked, goading them.

  Now his two attackers were genuinely annoyed. Their resentment showed in the angry slashes they launched at their opponent. One man aimed for the giant’s head, the other for his knees. But neither blow landed. The rod in Jezreel’s hand darted out, faster than anyone could follow, and both his attackers dropped their weapons, cursing. Each was holding his hand where the ramrod had flicked across their knuckles.

  ‘Stage fighter!’ cried someone from the back of the crowd. ‘I seen that trick done before.’

  ‘Very likely,’ called out Jezreel. ‘Would anyone else like to try their luck? I’ll face three of you at a time, if you wish.’

  There were no takers, and the quartermaster intervened. ‘We’ll put it to the vote. All who wish to accept this man into our company raise your hands. Any objector speak up.’ There was a silent show of hands.

  ‘Who joins with you as your mate?’ asked the quartermaster.

  ‘Both my friends,’ Jezreel answered placidly, sliding the ramrod back in place.

  ‘Only one companion, that’s the custom,’ insisted the quartermaster. He was frowning now.

  ‘How about that fellow with a brand on his cheek,’ suggested an onlooker. ‘He looks as if he can handle trouble.’

  ‘Can either of you read or write?’ The unexpected question came from a grey-haired man soberly dressed in a dark suit who was standing next to the captain.

  Before Hector could answer, Jacques spoke up. ‘Not as well as my friend here. He makes maps and navigates, and speaks Latin and Spanish and talks to me in French.’

  ‘I don’t want an interpreter. I require an assistant. Someone who’s more adept than just a loblolly boy,’ said the grey-haired man. From the way he chose his words it was clear that he was well educated.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ said the quartermaster. He was anxious to close the meeting. ‘We take on the big man and his French friend at full share. The other one, if he shows he’s any use, can be signed on as mate to our surgeon. His share can be agreed later.’

  As the meeting broke up, the grey-haired surgeon walked over to Hector and, after asking his name, enquired, ‘Have you any medical experience?’

  ‘None, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No matter. You will learn as we go along. I am Smeeton, Basil Smeeton, and I had a medical practice in Port Royal before coming along on this adventure. Where did you get your Latin?’

  ‘With the friars in Ireland where I grew up.’

  ‘Good enough to converse in that tongue?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Sometimes when discussing a patient’s details,’ said Smeeton meaningfully, ‘it is better that the patient himself is kept in the dark.’

  ‘I understand. But you mentioned a loblolly boy.’

  ‘Surgeon’s helper. Changes dressings and feeds gruel to the bedridden. I’m expecting more than that from you.’

  Surgeon Smeeton’s urbane manner was at such odds with the rough company aboard a buccaneer ship that Hector wondered why he was there. As if reading his thoughts, Smeeton went on, ‘Where we are going – which, incidentally, is a land called Darien on the Main – I expect we will be meeting peoples and races whose practice of medicine is very different from ours. Much may be learned from them, perhaps in surgery but more likely in the use of plants and herbs. It is a subject which interests me greatly. I hope you’ll be able to help me with my enquiries.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ Hector promised.

  ‘There should be plenty of time for research as we won’t be the only medical team with the expedition. Every crew like ours recruits at least one surgeon to sail with them, sometimes two or three. You might say that they enjoy the best medical services that their plunder – or prize as they prefer to call it – can buy.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘They even take out insurance against injury.’

  ‘How can that be?’ asked Hector. He did not think that Captain Harris’s crew looked wealthy enough to afford medical care.

  ‘If a man gets permanently disabled during the cruise, he receives a special bonus at the end when the quartermaster divides up the prize – this much for a lost eye, more for a limb that has to be amputated, or a hand blown off, and so on. The rates are all agreed at the start when the crew sign their mutual agreement. Very enlightened.’

  By now Jacques had reappeared, a brand new musket in his hands. He was looking pleased with himself. ‘How about this! Latest model flint lock issued by the quartermaster. Gave one to Jezreel as well.’ He pulled back the cock and squeezed the trigger. A shower of sparks fell from the striking plate. ‘No more fiddling around and keeping slow match dry in the rain.’ He turned the gun over to show Hector the gunsmith’s mark. ‘What’s more, it’s French-made. Look, MAGASIN/ ROYAL. God only knows how it got here from King Louis’s armoury.’

  Hector took him aside and said in a low voice. ‘Are you sure that you want to join up with this crew?’

  ‘Too late. Jezreel and I have already signed articles. We are promised one full share of any loot after the investors have been repaid. You’ll be able to put in for your own share as soon as you’ve proved your worth. Why, you may even get a surgeon’s share and a half, and that’s as much as the gunner and the carpenter.’

  ‘What about the Bay Men who are being left behind?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be picked up by other ships passing this way,’ Jacques said casually.

  ‘But from what the surgeon just told me, we will be away for some time and I had been hoping to get back to Jamaica.’

  ‘But you only recently left there . . .’ began Jacques. He paused and gave Hector a shrewd glance. ‘. . . any special reason?’

  When Hector did not reply, the Frenchman rolled his eyes and said, ‘Don’t tell me! It’s a woman.’

  Hector felt himself starting to blush.

  ‘Who is she then?’ Bourdon asked, smirking.

  ‘Just someone I met.’

  ‘Just met! And you were hardly there any time at all. She must be exceptional.’

  ‘She is.’ Hector was increasingly tongue-tied, and fortunately Jacques detected his embarrassment.

  ‘All right then. I won’t say any more. But don’t be too surprised if she breaks your heart.’

  THE SURGEON wasted no time introducing Hector to his new duties. As soon as the ship had set sail, he led Hector to where a sailor was sitting in a quiet corner of the deck, with a bandage round his leg.

  ‘Did you ever see a Fiery Serpent?’ Smeeton asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then I’ll show you one.’ Addressing the sailor, he said, ‘Now, Arthur. Time to take a pull.’

  The sailor carefully unwrapped the bandage and Hector saw that it covered a small stick attached to his leg by a thin brown thread.

  ‘Watch carefully, Hector. I want you to do this job in future.’ The surgeon took the stick between finger and thumb and rotated it very, very gently, winding in the thread. Looking closely, Hector saw that he was pulling the thread out of the flesh of the leg. ‘That’s your living Fiery Serpent. Getting it out hurts like the devil,’ announced the surgeon. ‘Strain gently, just enough to ease it out, an inch or two at a time, morning and evening. Pull too hard, and the creature will snap, and disappear back inside the flesh. Then you get an infection.’ Turning to the sailor, he said. ‘You may put back the bandage. Tomorrow my assistant will take a turn or two.’

  As they walked away, Hector asked, ‘What length will the serpent be?’

  ‘Two feet would be normal,’ replied the surgeon. ‘Of course it is no serpent at all, but a flesh-eating worm. It causes a burning sensation as it is drawn
out, hence the name.’

  ‘And how does the victim acquire such a parasite?’

  Smeeton shrugged. ‘We have no idea. That is the sort of knowledge we may gain from enquiry among the native peoples. Right now you can put your Latin to use by helping me arrange the contents of my medicine chest. I threw it together in a hurry when leaving Port Royal and it is still in disorder.’

  He brought Hector to a small cabin under the foredeck. ‘As surgeon,’ he said, pulling out a leather chest from where it had been wedged in a corner, ‘I have the privilege of a cabin to myself, because it can also be rigged as a sick bay. Everyone else, even our captain and the quartermaster, has no right to any special accommodation. At night everyone lies down and sleeps wherever he wishes on the ship, on the plank as they say.’

  He undid a strap and threw back the lid of the medicine chest. Inside was a jumble of phials and jars, small wooden containers, packets wrapped in paper and cloth, and objects which looked like dried plants, as well as an array of metal implements which reminded Hector of a carpenter’s tool kit.

  ‘Before we sailed, I was provided with one hundred pieces of eight from the common purse to stock it with what I considered might be needed.’

  Smeeton reached in and picked out what looked like a pair of tongs with rounded tips. He snapped the jaws together with a clacking sound. ‘The speculum ani,’ he announced, ‘useful for dilating the fleshy lips of a wound when extracting a bullet. In fact it is designed for dilating the arse gut.’ He gave Hector an amused glance. ‘You might think that a surgeon’s work on such a venture as ours would be concerned mostly with the effects of battle, but it is not.’

  He waved the speculum in the air to emphasise the point. ‘The chief ailments which afflict the sailor are concerned with his digestion – constipation and the flux. For the former we can administer a syrup of cassia pods or licorice juice at one end or, if there is a stoppage, we may dilate the fundament with this implement and extract the offending blockage at the other end. That will provide comfort and remedy.’