by Dudley Pope
“Where is the bullion?”
“In the first two cells that Sir Thomas is emptying.”
“Very well, get your men and start carrying! Don’t forget the sentries. And a good five hundred yards away. Have you seen Burton?”
“He’s there, sir,” Saxby exclaimed, pointing at one of the guards. Ned called him.
“Have we plenty of slow-match, Burton?”
“Yes, with the falcons, sir.”
“Good, get some. A quarter of an hour’s burning time. Fuse the magazine of this castle so we can blow it up.”
“Yes, sir,” Burton said calmly, as though Ned had just told him to load a pistol. “Fifteen minutes. And shall I stand guard over it when it’s done?”
“Yes. Take a couple of men – you may have to shift the barrels of powder round. But make haste!”
Thomas and his men already had the Spanish prisoners out of the first cell and Saxby was leading the first of the buccaneers up the stairs, wedges of silver under each arm, to show them where to stow it among the bushes and prickly pear on the edge of the swamp.
Up in the courtyard, Ned wondered when the place had last been so busy. A dozen buccaneers were ramming bags of langrage into the falcons and training them round to cover a corner already black with prisoners – all of whom, Ned was surprised to notice, were sitting on the ground with their backs to the guns. Thomas strolled over to him.
“They know the guns are there and being loaded, but they can’t see what’s going on. Must be very worrying!”
“It’d worry me,” Ned admitted, “but as soon as we’ve got the bullion out of the castle, we’ll transfer them all to Triana.”
“Why not leave them here?” Thomas said, the surprise obvious in his voice.
“Because the moment we sight a sail approaching the other end of the harbour, I’m going to blow the place up.”
“My goodness,” Thomas said. “That’ll warn Aurelia and Diana all right. Unless they think we’re inside. Or they might try and rescue us.”
“Perhaps, but it should put the fear of God into the Dons in the Iron Fort and keep them away from the guns. I want to discourage them from interfering when we row out with Jensen and his boats.”
“Ah, that’s an idea with merit,” Thomas said. “Anything that means we don’t have to climb back over those damnable mountains!”
“I’m going up to the battlements again: you’re in charge of the courtyard. Saxby’s getting out all the bullion, as you can see, and Burton’s running a slow-match into the magazine. As soon as Saxby’s got up the bullion, start transferring your prisoners to Triana. If any start making difficulties, shoot one or two to encourage the others to be more obliging. And Thomas, watch out for the good folk of Portobelo: they might suddenly take it into their silly heads to make a foray. It might be funny to have the butchers, bakers and candlestick makers set about us, but we might be laughing so much they’d succeed! When you have the prisoners in Triana, move our guns out of here.”
Up on the battlements once again, Ned searched the sea horizon at the entrance with the perspective glass. No sails, no whitecaps, and judging from the near silence of the palm trees round San Gerónimo, next to no wind: the little fleet could be just drifting with the current, sails hanging like heavy curtains. Aurelia and Diana would be going mad with frustration, knowing they were due in Portobelo about ten o’clock – in an hour or so’s time – and knowing equally well they would be very late. They would be terrified that they were letting him down, never guessing that for perhaps the only time in his life he was glad that the women were late.
The thudding of feet and a man gasping for breath made him swing round to find Søren Jensen standing there, a cheerful grin on a face red and stiff with sunburn.
“The boats are all alongside the jetty, sir. Where do you want the powder, shot and provisions?”
“Er…it’s good to see you, Jensen. There’s been a change of plan. That damned Iron Fort has not surrendered…”
“And those guns can…”
“Exactly.”
“And we have to warn our ships!”
“Exactly!”
“Sir,” Jensen said eagerly, “I’ll unload three of the boats, double-bank the oars and we’ll try to get past the Iron Fort to warn the fleet. One of the boats will, for certain.”
If anyone could do it, Jensen was the man, but Ned realized that just warning the fleet solved nothing. With the fleet outside of Portobelo, the buccaneers and the bullion inside and the Iron Fort in between, there was stalemate, unless they were prepared to carry the bullion over the track back to the Rio Guanche, and meet the fleet there, using the boats that had remained. But what was Saxby’s estimate? Five crates of silver, each weighing more than a hundredweight, twelve big canvas bags of silver coins, most of them pieces of eight, a hundred-pound crate packed with emeralds and another the same weight, containing a mixture of pearls and more emeralds. They could, of course, raid Portobelo for donkeys and carts – indeed the prisoners could be made to help – or they could break open the crates and make lighter loads. Still, a loaf of silver weighed seventy pounds.
But with Jensen’s boats here, how much easier and safer it would be to load all the treasure into the ships anchored in front of the town! It boiled down to this, Ned decided. Would blowing up San Gerónimo with an almighty bang frighten the Iron Fort’s garrison into surrendering? The Iron Fort had the key to everything. Well, he would have to wait for Secco and get his opinon.
He said to Jensen: “Take your boats to the next fort, Triana, and secure them there. Leave boatkeepers and then join Saxby with your men.”
Ned finally stood alone on the battlements. So this is how it feels to capture a king’s ransom, he told himself. Well, he felt flat; it was about as exciting as catching a cold, because at the moment he, like its rightful owner, His Most Catholic Majesty, could not spend even one piece of eight.
He walked along the top of the battlements, watching to seaward for the first glimpse of a sail. You have gone mad, he told himself. The amount of treasure you have captured would probably pay all the expenses of running England for a year – army, navy, the King and his court, and the great number of functionaries needed to do all the paperwork – and yet you are striding along with a face as long as a yard of pump water, feeling sorry for yourself. Why?
He stopped, startled by both the question and the obvious answer: he was in here and Aurelia was out there, the Iron Fort was in between, and no amount of treasure could bring them together.
He heard someone calling his name from the top of the stairs. It was Saxby, who reported: “The last boxes and bags coming up from the dungeon now, sir. The quantities are unbelievable. Some of these Spanish fellows have been translating what is painted on the boxes and bags. Millions of pieces of eight, sir: millions. Emeralds – thousands of ’em. Pearls, too, from Margarita Island I suppose.”
“You’ve got it all well guarded? The Dons might suddenly sally out from the town.”
“Every musket and pistol we have is loaded and has a man behind it in a circle round the treasure, sir. Sir Thomas is guarding his prisoners with the falcons.”
So the Castillo de San Gerónimo now contained only Spanish prisoners. He walked down the steps with Saxby.
“You cleared that treasure very quickly!” Ned commented.
“Aye,” said Saxby, “once the Spaniards had translated for us, I made sure all my lads knew what was there. Amazing how light a hundredweight box becomes when you know it’s full of emeralds, some of which are yours!”
Ned laughed and told Saxby that Sir Thomas would now be transferring the prisoners to Triana, and Burton had run a fuse down into the magazine.
Saxby nodded and commented: “It might do the trick… There’ll be a devil of an echo between these mountains, and plenty of smo
ke.”
Ned saw Thomas and pointed to the gate. The bearded man understood at once and gave orders to his sentries before joining Ned.
“I was thinking that as soon as I’ve got the prisoners there, I might run a fuse down to Triana’s magazine as well,” Thomas said. “It’ll be good insurance if the prisoners locked in the dungeon know that a few sparks from a flint and steel can send them to eternity…”
Ned thought of the people in the town of Portobelo. Many would still be having their breakfast. Apart from the trumpeter from San Gerónimo sounding a call which Ned thought few in the town would have recognized as an alarm, did anyone realize that Triana fort in their midst, and San Gerónimo, very close, were in the hands of buccaneers? And with a fuse running into Triana magazine, the buccaneers had the fort as a hostage: blowing it up would kill the garrisons and probably damage the town. Ned had no intention of doing it, but the threat would be useful.
He was turning to go back up the steps to the battlements when he saw a sweating, breathless and weary Secco come through the door, followed by Coles, Brace, Gottlieb and Rideau.
Secco came straight over, digging the pike into the ground to indicate his rage. “I failed, almirante,” he said angrily. “The sergeant commanding that garrison is too stupid to breathe! He is a local man and did not even understand a flag of truce. Either he does not realize that blowing up San Gerónimo will kill all his comrades, or he is so loco that he will surrender only if ordered to do so by a senior officer!”
“You did your best. So the Iron Fort will fire at the ships as they try to come in.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. We did all we could…”
“Secco did all he could to persuade that sergeant,” Brace said. “The man was too stupid.”
Ned realized that the admiral of the Brethren was really doing little more than a seaman’s job by standing on the battlements looking for ships, and something Secco had just said was stirring an idea.
“Gottlieb, would you go up to the battlements and keep a look-out for our ships?”
“Gladly!” The Dutchman set off up the steps.
“Secco,” Ned said quietly. “You said that sergeant in the Iron Fort would only surrender ‘if ordered to do so by a senior officer’? Are you sure of that?”
The Spaniard nodded vigorously. “Yes. He’s born out here – no initiative, no brain, no ambition: being a soldier keeps him fed – and very well, judging from his belly – and that’s all he’s interested in.”
“We have a senior officer here.”
Secco looked puzzled and then exclaimed: “Yes, Triana had a captain, Peralta. He’s probably in command of all four garrisons. He has the authority to deal with that crazy sergeant.”
“Providing we can persuade him!” Coles said.
“We’ll persuade him! He understands about fuses leading into magazines,” Ned said grimly. “Let’s find him and you can take him to Todo Fierro. Don’t mention we have any ships coming in; let him think we’re just completing the capture of all the forts.”
Secco pointed to a group of prisoners still standing in front of the falcons while twenty or thirty more were being marched out of the castle on their way to Triana. “That’s the captain, with the large hat and plume.”
“Call him over: we don’t want to stand in front of the guns!”
The Spaniard was stocky, with a plump face rather than fat, a thin beard and moustaches which obviously took up more of his virility and of his servant’s time than their growth warranted, bulging eyes too close together, a surprisingly well shaped nose, and a narrow-lipped mouth. Ned watched him while Secco demanded his name, rank and position, and instinctively reached several conclusions.
Obviously he was a nephew of someone with influence. Not the son, or he would have a better position, but an unimportant nephew. It seemed unlikely that he had an ambition that could not be satisfied by a good cook: his complexion had that chubby pinkness reflecting too much rich food and good wine, not enough exercise and, Ned suspected, no interest in women.
He was the kind of man who, given the choice of being the uncrowned king of tiny Portobelo or a minor prince in a place like Panama, would choose Portobelo. He would not miss lively company: the knights of the dining table needed only a knife and a fork and a kitchen to turn the most provincial town or village into a gourmet’s paradise.
The Spanish captain, assuming Secco was in command and thankful at finding someone who spoke Spanish, was outraged and needed to complain and excuse himself to someone. If the garrisons had not been stripped to send the men to Jamaica, he declared, the buccaneers would never have marched a hundred yards along the track: he had protested when the five transports took the rest of the garrison to Jamaica, particularly since every town had to yield levies – untrained men, he said contemptuously.
Secco interrupted to tell him that San Gerónimo would be blown up with all the prisoners in it unless the Iron Fort surrendered.
“The Iron Fort has its own commanding officer – and anyway, you would never dare!”
“The fuses are laid into the magazine of this fort and Triana,” Secco said casually, adding: “The sergeant at Todo Fierro, Gonzales, is superior to you, then? You cannot order him to surrender?”
Captain Peralta’s eyes jerked from Secco to Ned. He was beginning to realize that the threat to blow up the castles was not an idle one, and he was obviously startled that Secco knew the name of the sergeant commanding at Todo Fierro.
“Well, no, obviously he is not superior, but the garrisons of Triana (myself included, San Gerónimo and San Fernando) were captured by a trick. Sergeant Gonzales obviously does not intend to fall into a trap. You can’t take the fort by direct attack. He knows that and will not surrender.”
“He will, or you go to Heaven propelled by a few tons of gunpowder,” Secco said, translating from a comment by Ned, who found he could understand the Spaniard.
“But how can –”
“He will surrender if he gets orders from a superior officer. You are in command of all the garrisons –” Secco was not sure, but it seemed a reasonable guess “–so you will give him the orders. We go round there now. If you fail and the sergeant does not surrender, then this fort is blown up. Triana, too, if I know my admiral.” Secco added with a cruel laugh which startled Ned until he saw an eye wink.
“But the Viceroy! I shall be accused of treason,” Captain Peralta protested. “They are always looking for traitors, or scapegoats, when something goes wrong.”
Secco shook his head sadly. “Who would ever have thought a quiet posting like Portobelo would land you in such trouble! You avoided being sent to Jamaica, but now it looks as thought the price you must pay is being hoisted on gunpowder. Unless, of course, you give the correct orders to the sergeant, when the certainty of gunpowder is replaced by the possibility of the Viceroy blaming you, although I don’t see why he should.”
Suddenly Gottlieb, standing at the top of the steps, shouted down: “Two sail in sight. They’re three or four miles out and trying to make up over the current with a trifling breeze.”
“Very well, keep reporting,” Ned shouted, and saw that Thomas and several guards were returning for the rest of the prisoners and the guns.
If the ships picked up a sudden puff of wind they would be at the entrance long before Captain Peralta, Secco and an escort could reach the Iron Fort. Still, it was only chance and so had to be taken.
He said to Secco in English: “Take him to the fort and see if you can get him there before the ships arrive. The sergeant will surrender, I’m sure. Take enough men that you can nail all the guns. But make haste. As soon as you have control of the fort, haul down the Spanish colours – I see that the sergeant has hoisted them. But if the first ship looks as though she might come in before the Spanish flag’s down, don’t be surprised if you hear and see t
his place go up; I’m not risking anyone to those Spanish guns.”
Aurelia was nearly in tears of frustration. The wind had not only turned light once they were abreast of the Rio Guanche, but it was puffing round in circles like a child blowing a dandelion. The fleet was now stretched across several miles of sea, each ship wary of accidentally drifting into another, sails hanging down like drying laundry.
The current – Ned had called it a counter-current here because it flowed eastward, in the opposite direction to the west-going current further out – was carrying them along the coast in the right direction but, with no wind to steer by, the ships most probably would soon be carried right past Portobelo.
What would Ned do? It was too deep to anchor – she had been delighted with herself for having that idea, but the seaman with the lead reported twelve fathoms. Certainly they (but probably not all the ships) had enough cable to anchor in seventy-two feet, but none of them had enough men to get the anchors up again from that depth when the wind set in. Weighing at Bahia las Minas had been easy – shallow water and no wind.
More important, perhaps, what was Ned doing? By now he should have secured the forts and Søren Jensen should have led several of the boats round from the Rio Guanche. If everything had gone according to plan – she shrugged her shoulders: how often did that happen? – the boats should be waiting in Portobelo to bring the bullion out to the ships as soon as they anchored off the town.
She felt a slight breath on her cheek and glanced at the telltales, feathers strung on a line and attached to the shrouds where the helmsmen could see them. Yes, they were fluttering, and even before she could remember the right order to give, the seamen were trimming the sheets and the two men at the heavy tiller were leaning on it. The sails flapped three or four times and then slipped comfortably into curves.
Aurelia moved over to the compass, where a seaman was anxiously staring at the gap in the cliffs that was the entrance to Portobelo. “Bearin’ sou’east ma’am,” he reported. “If this breeze ’olds we’ll be able to sail straight in, what with the current taking us down.”
