Buccaneer

by Tim Severin

  ‘These are nuchunga,’ said the knower of chants. ‘They represent the hidden spirits which always surround us. They can help restore the patient’s soul. The patient is sick because his soul has been attacked. With my song lines I try to summon the assistance of the nuchunga.’

  ‘Let’s get out into the fresh air,’ coughed the surgeon after some minutes of listening to the Kuna’s chanting.

  As they made their way back to the village with the igar wisid, Hector asked about the pale-skinned Kuna he had seen at the council meeting on Golden Island. Was he suffering from some sort of sickness?

  For several paces, the igar wisid said nothing. When he spoke, he sounded reluctant to talk about the subject.

  ‘He is one of the children of the moon. They are born among us, and never change their colour. Their skins remain white, and their hair stays pale. They are only happy in the darkness. Then they skip and sing. Their eyes can see in the dark, and they shun the light. It is our custom that they only marry among themselves.’

  ‘He had many sores as well as bites from insects. Are you able to help such problems with your chants?’ Asking the question, Hector felt a little ashamed. He was thinking not so much of Smeeton’s researches, but his own torments from biting insects. He was hoping that the Kuna had something to treat the stings and pain.

  ‘The great Mother and Father created these children of the moon and they will always be as they are. Chants would have no effect on their condition. Poultices made from forest plants offer a little relief to their suffering.’

  They arrived back at the Kuna village and, out of courtesy to the village elders, spent some time in the longhouse, answering their questions. The Kuna wanted to know the number of buccaneers, where they were from, and what they intended. Hector had the impression that the Kuna were pleased to see anyone who would harry the Spaniards but suspicious that the foreigners might wish to stay. It was as Smeeton and Hector were leaving the village to rejoin their colleagues that the igar wisid quietly came up to Hector and placed a small packet in his hand. It was a leaf folded over and tied with a length of plant fibre. ‘You asked about the poultices prepared for the children of the moon,’ he said. ‘I have been able to find this for you. It is some of the ointment used in those poultices and has been given to me by one of the children of the moon. I hope you will find it useful.’

  ‘What does it contain?’

  The Kuna gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I know only that it contains the seed of a certain fruit whose name has no translation. The seed is hard and black, about the size of a child’s fist, and the ina duled grinds it into powder which he then mixes into a paste with other herbs. The paste also cures ulcers and other sores of the skin.’

  Hector unslung his knapsack and as he was stowing away the packet, Smeeton asked, ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’

  ‘Some sort of skin ointment,’ Hector explained.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s effective. It’s not much to show for our enquiries.’

  But Hector did not reply. He was noticing that what he had thought was a small dark mound of dirt beside the path had uncoiled itself and was slithering off into the undergrowth.

  EIGHT

  WHITE SPLINTERS of snapped branches, churned-up mud and scrapes where the moss had been knocked off rocks told them when they had rejoined the main trail. Shortly afterwards they met a buccaneer returning back down the path. He was soaked with sweat and in a bad temper. ‘Shit-awful country,’ he growled, eyeing them morosely. ‘I’ve had enough of clambering through this stinking forest. I’m going back to the boats.’

  ‘How far ahead is the column?’ Smeeton asked.

  ‘Over the next crest,’ came the surly answer. ‘A company of idiots, if you ask me. Some of them are cracking open the rocks and searching for gold. If anything glitters or sparkles they think they’ve discovered the mother lode.’ He gave a derisive snort. ‘Fool’s gold, more likely.’ He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from the browband before heading on towards the sea.

  ‘A very republican rule, as I mentioned,’ said Smeeton coolly, ‘a buccaneer can abandon a project with the agreement of his fellows, and he will not be treated as a deserter as would be the case if he was a military man. Admittedly, it is unusual to see a single buccaneer turn back. Normally they fall away in groups.’

  They reached the buccaneer camp just before dusk and found the expedition in a sour mood. The exhausted men were lying on the ground or seated in small groups around sputtering camp fires. Everything was already damp, and to make matters worse a brief shower of rain was followed by a fine drizzling mist that soaked through their clothes. In the grey evening light Hector tracked down his friends and found Dan skinning the carcasses of several small animals about the size of hares that he had hunted. Jezreel and Jacques were looking on critically.

  ‘How do you propose cooking them?’ Jezreel was asking the Frenchman.

  ‘To my way of thinking they have the head of a rabbit, the ears of a rat, and hair like a pig. So I can broil, fry or bake them depending on your choice,’ Jacques replied, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He sounded weary.

  ‘Just as long as you don’t bring out the flavour of rat,’ observed Jezreel. Turning to Hector he said, ‘The captain was looking for you earlier.’

  The young Irishman was surprised. ‘Captain Harris?’

  ‘Yes, he wanted you to attend another council with the other captains and a couple of the Kuna chiefs. But I said that you had gone off with our surgeon.’

  ‘Did the council meet?’

  ‘It was a bad-tempered affair with a lot of shouting. I listened on the fringes. Everyone is grumbling and complaining. It seems that no one expected this journey to be such hard going. Coxon was particularly angry. He feels his leadership is being called into question. He and Harris were at one another’s throats. Your name came up. Coxon called you a little whoreson – that was the exact phrase he used – and asked Harris why he had brought you along to the last council meeting. Harris replied that it was none of Coxon’s business and he did not trust the interpreter that Coxon had provided.’

  ‘Was anything decided?’

  ‘Sawkins is elected to command the forlorn. He’s to choose eighty of our best men to lead the attack when we come into contact with the enemy.’

  ‘Well, at least they got the right man. Sawkins has a reputation as a fire-eater, always ready to lead the charge.’

  ‘Perhaps too much so,’ said Jezreel with a slight frown. ‘In the ring I learned it’s seldom a good idea to rush in. Better to bide your time until you see the right opening. Then strike.’

  At that instant there was a shockingly loud explosion very close by. Everyone sprang to their feet and looked in the direction of the noise. A small group of buccaneers had been seated around a camp fire, now one of them was clutching his face and crying out in pain. He seemed unable to get to his feet.

  ‘What in the devil’s name was that?’ asked Jacques, bewildered. But Hector had grabbed his knapsack of medicines and was already running towards the scene. ‘Bring the medicine chest,’ he called back over his shoulder, ‘and find Smeeton. There are people hurt.’

  He arrived at the spot to find the buccaneer was badly burned. His thigh had been torn open by the blast. Hector knelt beside the victim. ‘Lie still,’ he said. ‘A surgeon will be here soon, and we must clean the wound.’

  The man was gritting his teeth in pain and staring down at the damaged leg. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid bastard,’ he repeated savagely.

  Hector gently eased back the shredded clothing. Underneath were patches of charred and blistered skin. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s this rain. Gets into the gunpowder, and makes it useless. Gabriel who has the wits of wooden block was trying to dry out his powder. Spread it on a dish and held it over the fire. Too close, and the whole lot blew up.’

  ‘Hector, I’ll take over now.’ It was Smeeton. The surgeon had arrived with Jezreel carrying the medicine ch
est. ‘Get someone to fetch a basin of water, and I’d be obliged if you would pass me a pair of small tongs from the chest. Search this man’s pack and see if there’s anything in it which can be used for bandages.’

  For several minutes the surgeon cleaned and probed with his forceps, removing traces of cloth and dead skin. The surface of the thigh was pitted with several irregular wounds, the largest two or three inches across. The skin around them was a dead white or a flaring angry red.

  ‘This is going to take a very long time to heal,’ commented Smeeton. With a start Hector realised that the surgeon was speaking to him in Latin.

  ‘Will he lose the leg?’ asked Hector, also in Latin. He had a nightmare vision of having to use the saws and clamps he had cleaned and sharpened.

  ‘Only if there is an infection. No bones are broken.’

  ‘What are you two gabbling about!’ An angry shout ended their discussion. Coxon was standing over them, his face working with anger. ‘God’s Bones! Can’t you talk in English. What’s the matter with this wretch?’

  Smeeton rose to his feet, wiping his hands on a cloth. ‘He’s badly injured in the thigh by an explosion of gunpowder. From now on he’ll have to be carried in a litter.’

  ‘I’ll not have the column slowed down by invalids,’ Coxon snapped. ‘If tomorrow morning he cannot get on his feet, we leave him here. He’s wasted enough gunpowder as it is.’ The buccaneer captain’s glance fell on Hector who had remained kneeling beside the injured man. ‘You again,’ he barked. ‘A pity you weren’t standing closer to the blast,’ and he turned on his heel and strode away across the soggy ground.

  ‘Not much sympathy there,’ sighed Smeeton. ‘Hector, look in the medicine chest for a jar of basilicon, and add hyperium and aloe if they are readily to hand. You should know where to find them.’

  Hector did as he was asked and watched the surgeon spread the salve on the open wounds.

  ‘Best keep your leg covered with a cloth to prevent insects feasting on the sores,’ Smeeton told his patient. ‘Tomorrow we will decide what is to be done.’

  NEXT MORNING the injured man could barely hobble, even with a crutch cut for him. So while the column were breakfasting on the last of their doughboys, mildewed and mushy with damp, Smeeton asked Hector to prepare a good quantity of the healing salve. ‘We’ll leave it with him, and he can attend to his own wound. In a day or so he should be able to begin making his way back to the ships by slow stages. I doubt that he will have the strength to catch up with us.’

  That day’s march, it turned out, would have been impossible for the invalid. The Kuna guides led the column up the steep side of a mountain. In places the narrow path skirted the edge of ravines and was only wide enough for one man at a time. Here each buccaneer had to hold on to the vegetation to prevent himself slipping over the edge. It was small consolation that the Kuna guides told them that they were now crossing the watershed, and that the next stream they reached flowed towards the South Sea. When they descended the far slope, it was to find that the trail often used the stream bed itself. They had to wade knee-deep in the water, avoiding sink holes and hidden snags.

  Eventually, and after another two days of this tortuous progress, the stream grew wide and deep enough for the Kuna to provide a number of small dugout canoes to carry them. But there were only enough boats for half the expedition, and the remainder of the column still had to march along the slippery, overgrown banks. The men who thought themselves lucky to be in the canoes quickly found that their optimism was misplaced. Dozens of fallen trees lay across the stream, and there were so many shallows and rapids that much of each day was spent manhandling the craft over the obstacles. Hector found himself treating numerous sprains and cuts and gashes, and the contents of the medicine chest were rapidly depleted.

  Only after a full week of this wearisome marching and canoeing did the Kuna guides finally announce that the buccaneers were close to their target. The town of Santa Maria was less than two miles downriver. That night the tired expedition made camp on a spit of land, and ate cold food for fear that the smoke from their cooking fires would alert the Spanish garrison.

  HECTOR AWOKE to the sound of a distant musket shot and the staccato beat of a drum. For a moment he lay with his eyes closed. He was aware that he was lying on the ground and that a sharp lump of stone was pressing into his hip but he was hoping to steal a few more moments of sleep. Then he heard the drum again. It was sounding an urgent tattoo. He rolled over and sat up. It was daybreak and he was in a small makeshift shelter made of leafy branches of the sort that the Kuna had taught the buccaneers to construct during their long march over the mountains. Beside him Jacques was still snoring softly, but Jezreel had heard the sounds. The prize fighter was propped up on one elbow and wide awake.

  ‘Last time I heard that noise I was still in the fight game,’ observed Jezreel. ‘We had a drummer who walked up and down the streets, rattling away and announcing when the next bout would take place. I’d say that this time it means that the good citizens of Santa Maria have learned we are here, and they’re getting ready to greet us.’

  ‘Do you know where Dan has got to?’ asked Hector. He had not seen the Miskito since the previous evening when Dan had gone off to talk with the other strikers.

  ‘He’s probably still with his chums.’

  ‘Get up! On your feet! Time to move!’ There were shouts outside, and Hector recognised the hoarse voice of Harris’s quartermaster.

  He followed Jezreel out of the low doorway to find that the buccaneer camp was stirring. Men were emerging from their shelters, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and looking around for their comrades or heading off into the bushes to relieve themselves.

  ‘Muster to your companies! ’ The yelling was insistent.

  Captain Sawkins came loping towards them. He was wearing a bright yellow sash that made him look very dashing. ‘You and you,’ he said briskly, pointing to Jezreel and to Jacques who had just appeared. ‘I want both of you in the forlorn. Attend to my flag.’ He hurried on, selecting other men for the initial attack.

  Left to himself, Hector looked around trying to find Smeeton. A little distance away the surgeon was talking to Harris and the other captains. He went towards them.

  ‘Hector,’ said the surgeon catching sight of him. ‘Take your knapsack and go forward with Captain Harris and deal with any minor injuries on the battlefield itself. Leave the medicine chest here. I will set up a medical station where the worse injuries can be brought back for treatment. Hurry now.’

  Hector found himself following Harris and the other captains through the woodland in the direction of where the drum had sounded. The ground rose steadily and they had to push their way through dense undergrowth, unable to see more than a few yards ahead. Their Kuna guides were nowhere to be seen, and it took nearly half an hour to arrive at a vantage point on a low ridge. From there they had a clear view of their objective, the gold-rich town of Santa Maria they had struggled so hard to reach.

  Their first impression came as a shock. They were expecting a substantial colonial town with stone-built ramparts and paved streets, red-tiled roofs and a market square, perhaps even with a fort and cannon to guard its treasures. Instead the scene was of a haphazard scatter of thatched buildings which amounted to little more than an overgrown village built on open land sloping gently down to the river. There was no defensive wall, no gate, not even a watchtower. But for the Spanish flag hanging limp from its pole, the place might even have been mistaken for a large Kuna settlement. In addition the town looked deserted.

  ‘Is that really Santa Maria?’ said Harris wonderingly as he stepped back into the fringe of the woodland so as not to be seen from the town.

  ‘Must be. There’s a Spaniard scuttling for cover,’ observed Captain Sharpe. A figure dressed in an old-fashioned breastplate and helmet had run out from one of the thatched houses and was heading towards a crude stockade built a little way to one side of the settlement.

&
nbsp; ‘That’s their only defence,’ stated Harris, narrowing his eyes as he gazed down towards the Spanish position. ‘The palisade can’t be more than twelve feet high, and it’s only made of wood posts. That may be enough to defend against a Kuna attack using bows and arrows, but nothing to stop a force of musketeers. The Spanish garrison must be holed up inside, and scared out of their wits.’

  ‘That’s no reason for us to be reckless,’ said a harsh voice from behind him. Coxon had joined them. He was accompanied by a spear-carrying Kuna. It was the Indian who had been wearing the brass helmet at the original conference on Golden Island, though now he had put aside his shining headgear. ‘We will wait for our Kuna allies. They are bringing up two hundred of their warriors in support.’

  Coxon was making it clear that he was in command of the attack. ‘I have given orders for Captain Sawkins to muster the forlorn in the cane brakes by the river.’

  ‘Surely we should attack at once.’ Harris spoke sharply, showing his frustration. ‘The Spaniards may have sent for reinforcements. We need to take the place before they get here.’

  ‘No! If we play our cards right, we might be able to get the Spaniards to hand over what we want – the gold and valuables – without a fight.’