by Dudley Pope
Looking round at the rest of the ships, she could see that all had their sails drawing now, but because the Griffin and the Peleus had been well ahead when the wind dropped they were a couple of miles or more farther to the east. She could imagine Diana’s relief. And Mrs Judd’s. It was absurd that three women in effect commanded three buccaneer ships. Of course, they did not really command them: Ned had left one of his best seamen with five others and so had Thomas and Saxby, but being polite they deferred to the women. At least, she laughed to herself, there was no doubt that Mrs Judd regarded herself as the master (or should it be mistress?) of the Phoenix.
Did she ever again want to go through the strain of an expedition? Supposing there was so much purchase that Ned’s share was enough to start a decent plantation in Jamaica? They could sell Kingsnorth (by agreement with Ned’s brother) and her own estate, and say goodbye to Barbados. It was a pleasant island but it held no happy memories for either of them, and Jamaica was more beautiful and according to Ned, with its huge anchorage would soon be the axle upon which the trade of the West Indies would revolve.
Yet could she and Ned, after the roaming life at sea of the past year or so, settle down in a plantation house, bait for mosquitoes and sandflies and the happy hunting ground of pompous planters, vainglorious soldiers and drunken sea captains, and their dreary wives for whom excitement comprised an hour’s storm with lightning?
No, despite all this worrying about Ned, it was worth it. Well, she did not enjoy the worrying, but balancing one kind of life against another she preferred this. Tonight when they made love there would be a joyful screaming zest, a fantastic togetherness emphasized by their recent parting. Ned had once said that you had to risk dying occasionally to be able to put a value on living, and this was what he meant. But the waiting…and it always seemed to be the women who waited. Would you, madam, she asked herself ironically, prefer instead to give lemonade to the dreary wives (some would prefer sherry but none would ask) discussing the details of their last pregnancy, the merits of various midwives and, who knows what these women talked about as they embroidered, perhaps the sexual shortcomings of their husbands…
“’Bout a mile ma’am.” The seaman startled her, bringing her suddenly back to the quarterdeck of the Griffin from the imaginary drawing-room of a non-existent plantation house. The man had something more to say, though: he had that hangdog look of someone with bad news.
“That fort on the northern side as you go in, ma’am…”
“Yes, San Felipe de Todo Fierro – the Iron Fort.”
“It’s got colours flying, ma’am.”
“Not a white flag?”
“No, red and gold, ma’am: the Spanish flag.”
“Can you see flags on the castle at the far end?”
“No flags on the others, ma’am, not as far as we can see.”
“And no sign of Jensen and his boats? One might be trying to reach us with orders.”
“Nothing ma’am, we’ve been lookin’.”
Now what? The seaman had quite reasonably left the decision to her. Had Ned’s men forgotten to lower the flag and hoist a white flag in its place? If the Spanish still held the Iron Fort, there should be smoke from guns – the cannon of the Spanish, and the puffs (he had warned they would be little more) of Ned’s falcons.
No smoke, no fighting: it seemed simple enough: some sot had forgotten to lower the flag.
“We’ll sail straight in and anchor as Mr Yorke instructed. Don’t forget the reefs along the southern side.”
She looked round. The Peleus was now five hundred yards astern in the Griffin’s wake, and she wished she could talk to Diana. Having told the seaman to steer for the anchorage she was now having doubts. Her stomach seemed suddenly full of cold water, and the mountains round Portobelo were slashed with black and ominous shadows which she could have sworn were not there two minutes ago.
That flag. Think about it now. Carefully consider it on its flagpole. Ned would have made sure it was changed for a white one, because he knew it would be the first thing the ships would see as they came in. No white flag – stay out. That was obvious enough. But there was no smoke anywhere except, she could now see as the bearing changed, for wisps coming from a few chimneys in the town, cooking the first meal of the day and making a smoky haze in the light wind.
It could mean – she forced herself to consider it – that the whole attack had failed: that the buccaneers had been driven off somewhere in the mountains and that was why there was no gun smoke at any of the forts. Defeated, they could be making their way back over the mountains to the Rio Guanche, to rejoin the boats. In which case she should be leading the fleet to the mouth of the Guanche to pick them up.
The seaman seemed to sense her indecision and offered her the perspective glass. It was the second best one, and a section of the lens was blurred by what seemed to be mildew in the glass, but as she looked at the fort, Todo Fierro, it seemed to be enormous. There were the guns, some pointing across the entrance but the others aimed towards the ships, menacing, black eyes in the square embrasures of the battlements.
She moved the glass so she could see beyond the fort and into the harbour. Yes, on the same side as Todo Fierro was San Fernando. No flag. Swing right, and there at the far end was San Gerónimo, enormous – but no flag. And farther to the right, Triana, with no flag. And surrounding the base of the fort, like grass round a tree stump, and extending even more to the right, was Portobelo. What was that small brown patch below Triana? A dozen or so boats and canoes. She realized, much to her relief, that Jensen and his men had arrived safely.
Chapter Seventeen
Gottlieb was calling urgently from the top of the steps, and without waiting to hear what he was saying Ned ran up them two at a time, fear making him weightless. He had not heard Gottlieb’s words but guessed the message. From the battlements his eyes confirmed it: the two leading ships, the Griffin and the Peleus, had just picked up a good breeze, so they could lay the harbour entrance, and with the perspective glass which Gottlieb handed to him he thought he could make out the Griffin’s bow wave.
The Iron Fort’s guns would be loaded, and even now the Spanish gunners under that mulish sergeant would be preparing to open fire. The ships would be in range in about five minutes, he calculated. Secco and the captain would not yet have passed San Fernando; they had a mile to go along a very rough and steep track, and then perhaps minutes of heated argument.
“Go down and join Saxby guarding the bullion,” he told Gottlieb and ran down the steps after him. Thomas was getting the last of his prisoners out of the courtyard, and one falcon remained.
“Hurry up, Thomas!” Ned shouted. “Get that gun out – take it to Triana. I want every man out of the castle within two minutes!”
With that he flung open the door leading down to the magazine. “Burton? Burton, are you there?”
“Aye aye, sir,” the seaman’s voice came echoing up the stairway. “Mind the fuse sir, it’s hitched round that heavy rock on the top step and then runs down the right side, to me down here with the powder.”
“Where have you left the lighted slow-match?”
“Looped over the door handle of the guardroom, sir: there should be a seaman watching it.”
“I’ll get it. Meanwhile cut back your fuse here to give us ten minutes’ burning time.”
“Ten minutes, sir? That’s cutting it close – very unreliable stuff, this fuse.”
“Cut it, all the same. Leave the end across a step and then come up here. I’m going for the slow-match.”
It all took so much time: it was like trying to swim in a butt of molasses. But unless he did everything himself, he had to explain and give orders, and there was neither the time nor the opportunity.
He nearly missed a step, and flung his arms out like wings to keep his balance. Now would be just the tim
e to break a leg. There was the last falcon rumbling through the big gates, hauled by trotting buccaneers, and a quick glance round the courtyard showed that all the prisoners had now been marched out.
He saw the sentry at the guardroom, who confirmed that he was the last man left in the castle, apart from Ned and Burton, and immediately offered whatever help was needed when he saw Ned uncoiling the slow-match.
“No,” Ned said, “go outside and make sure there’s no one within five hundred yards. Shout to Saxby and Sir Thomas to expect a bang in a very few minutes. And then get under cover yourself!”
As the man ran out through the gates, Ned coiled the slow-match over his left shoulder, carefully holding the burning end in his right hand. For a moment he remembered the fortress at Santiago. Cuba seemed a lifetime away, and every extra moment he wasted now brought Aurelia and Diana nearer Todo Fierro’s guns.
From the top of the magazine steps he called down to Burton: “All ready down there?”
“Yes sir: I’m holding the end for you.”
“Put it down across the step and come up here.”
“Why sir?” The man sounded puzzled, almost afraid that he had done something wrong.
“I have the burning match and there’s no need for both of us to be down there. You come up – I want you to go off and warn Sir Thomas of what to expect.”
“I’ll do that afterwards, sir,” Burton said stolidly. “In the meantime I’ll hold this end of the fuse ready. It’s easier to light it with two people and the less time we have your match spluttering sparks all over the powder down here the better…”
Ned realized that Burton was right and, jamming a stone under the door to prevent it blowing shut and leaving them in darkness on the stairs, he walked down carefully towards the man, holding his left hand under the sizzling end of the slow-match. Although it did indeed burn slowly, the narrow tunnel of the stairway seemed to emphasize the crackling.
“Here were are, sir,” Burton said. “Once this fuse is alight, we should hurry…”
Ned held the spluttering end of his match against the piece of fuse being held out by Burton, who blew on it gently. “That’s it!” he said suddenly as the fuse began sparking and sputtering. He put it down on the step where it looked like a thick piece of marline. “Now sir, let’s step out!”
Ned pushed Burton up the steps, took one last look down at the short length of sputtering fuse, whose other end he knew was buried deep in a cask of powder, and then hurried up to the courtyard. Remembering Santiago, he shut the door of the magazine as he threw away the slow-match and grinned at a puzzled Burton. “Childhood habit, shutting doors of magazines,” he said, and then stood back and bellowed in every direction, to make sure no men remained.
“Come on, sir!” Burton said urgently. “That fuse can burn in fits and starts, five minutes or fifteen, and we’ve already used up two.”
“Let’s make for Saxby and the bullion and watch from there. Not so far to come back if the fuse goes out!”
Burton shuddered at the thought of having to go back into the magazine. “Don’t even joke about it, sir!”
The two men reached Saxby breathless, but Ned knew that the perspiration which soaked his jerkin and breeches was not caused only by running a few hundred yards. And Burton’s jerkin, too, was stuck to his body. He undid the buttons and opened it. “Sweaty place, that magazine,” he said to no one in particular.
“There’ll be a lot of masonry flying about,” Ned warned Saxby. “Tell your men to get behind what shelter they can.”
It must be four minutes now. He looked across at Burton and then realized that from where he was standing he could see the length of the harbour and beyond. Out to sea were two ships. Presumably the rest were still round the headland to the south.
Santiago! He seemed to shrivel as a spasm of fear reminded him that the blowing up of El Morro had signalled the buccaneers’ victory: had told Aurelia and Diana (and Mrs Judd for that matter) that Santiago was now in the possession of the buccaneers and they could sail into the harbour of Santiago to collect the purchase.
That was how they would interpret the explosion here: that everything was ready for them to sail in and load the bullion.
Should he run back to the magazine and douse that fuse? Four minutes to go.
The sun was scorching, and Saxby must have chosen the dustiest and smelliest place to put the bullion. Almost half a mile from here to Triana, and the fort grew out of the town like a huge cababage. There was no time to reach the magazine: it was due to go up in three minutes.
Three minutes, perhaps fewer. Burton was staring at San Gerónimo as though willing the fuse to continue burning.
The Griffin was sailing in fast. He could imagine only too clearly an excited Aurelia using that defective perspective glass to examine the forts and the anchorage. She would be puzzled by the Spanish flag still flying above Todo Fierro. Why there and not San Fernando, San Gerónimo and Triana? Would she be suspicious? There was no gun smoke, no sign of fighting: no, she would not be suspicious. And he was now certain that when this dam’ place blew up, she would sail in joyfully, close in under Todo Fierro where she knew the water was deepest: at just the right range for the Spanish gunners to smash the Griffin with plunging fire.
Two minutes to go. As he looked at the Griffin’s sails against the horizon, trying to measure the distance to the entrance, he found himself watching with the right side of his eyes for the first puffs of smoke showing that the Iron Fort had opened fire: on the Griffin, Aurelia and five seamen.
Ten minutes had passed. The Griffin caught another strong puff which heeled her over, thrusting her towards the guns of Todo Fierro, a surge of power in the sails which must be exciting for Aurelia, who could not know it was carrying them all to their death. That benighted fuse snaking into the magazine had gone out. He looked across at Burton, who shrugged his shoulders.
It did not matter, Ned realized. If San Gerónimo blew up, Aurelia would misinterpret it and lead the fleet in, to be battered by the guns of Todo Fierro. If San Gerónimo did not blow up, she would still innocently sail under the Spanish guns. She was doomed whatever happened.
Yet…yet…an idea seemed to be fluttering round his head like a sparrow with a broken wing. He tried to grasp at it so that he could examine it. Yes! He saw it clearly now: there was a way of warning her, but he could not do it by himself. Nor was he sure it was fair to ask the others to help. “You’re leaving it late, Ned,” Thomas said, appearing apparently out of thin air. “I’ve got the prisoners stowed,” he reported and added: “The Griffin must be almost in range of Todo Fierro.”
“The fuse,” Ned said. “It was cut for ten minutes. We think it has gone out.” He did not mention his fear that Aurelia would misunderstand the explosion, if it had come: she was coming in anyway, explosion or no explosion; she was sailing into the very muzzles of the Iron Fort’s guns.
“Ten minutes – that means it could be five or fifteen.”
“I know.” Ned considered a few more seconds. Thomas’ fears for Diana must be a mirror of his own for Aurelia, except that Thomas had to trust him: Thomas had no choice but to leave Diana’s safety in another man’s hands. Could he leave Aurelia’s life in Thomas’? He was far from sure but was thankful that it did not arise. It just made the question easier to ask. “Thomas –”
The note in his voice made Thomas jerk round, all attention.
“–there’s one chance.”
“Let’s try it, then!”
“It means firing three or four of San Gerónimo’s guns towards the entrance. Aurelia will think the Spanish still hold it and are firing at her.”
“It could save them,” Thomas said. “Can just the two of us manage it in time? I mean, carry up the powder, load the guns…we don’t have to shot them.”
“I’ll help, sir,” Burt
on said, and then added grimly: “May not be necessary to fire ’em; the fuse mayn’t have gone out!”
“In that case we can wave to them as we go up through the clouds,” Thomas said. “There won’t be time for conversation!”
Ned turned, hurriedly explained to Saxby, and said to the other two: “Come on then, the Griffin must be less than a mile from Todo Fierro.”
The earth gave a great rumbling belch which picked up the men like leaves in a sudden swirl of wind and hurled them several feet, as though the world, like a ship, had given a sudden lurch sliding them all into the lee scuppers.
The flash, brighter than the sun, momentarily blinded them, while the thundering explosion left them deafened, their ears ringing like gongs struck twice.
Then came the drumming on the earth of shattered stone thrown up in giant parabolas and now landing round them, and men screamed as pieces broke limbs.
As Ned blinked his sight back, realizing that an unnatural twilight had fallen over this end of the anchorage, he looked up to see smoke and debris billowing in great sulphurous yellow thunderclouds streaked with black and speckled with brown dust.
He staggered to his feet and looked towards the Griffin, but the light east wind was now carrying the seeming-solid mass of smoke and dust along the harbour towards the entrance like a sudden and blinding line squall. He saw Thomas crawling around on all fours like a bewildered bulldog, coughing as he breathed in smoke and dust. Between spasms he was cursing monotonously. Beyond him Ned could see, as though it was the root of the smoke, San Gerónimo. The outer walls still stood, but the tops were ragged as though chopped with a blunt axe.
Saxby was lying flat on his back, bleeding from a cut somewhere on his head which was soaking his hair. Ned then realized that his own left arm had no strength in it and a dull ache just above the wrist was now turning into a sharp pain.
