by Jenny Barden
She half-closed her eyes, seeing only shadow and light, imagining Will in the dance, and the music of lutes, viols and flutes. His cape was thrown back, and in his handsome face there was pride. He was holding her for the lift, taking quick, springing leaps, supporting her with ease as she leapt for the volta, and she supposed his hands were on her hips, lifting her high, whirling her round. Then she was turning as he lowered her, seeing those looking on by the oak-panelled walls: her mother and Old Nan – they were smiling as she laughed. Lettie and Jane – let them see her with her love. Peryn Fownes and Godfrey Gilbert – she was content for them to gape, knowing that for all they had expected, she had made her choice regardless of fortune. She was with a man who was the best, beyond compare, without equal – and she loved him. She loved him. She carried on dancing over the beach, skipping and leaping, spinning round and around.
And when she slowed, out of breath, then the sea and the mangroves, the fort and the sun were all turning about her, and the Cimaroon was dancing, too, and drifting by in the water was the little shoot with two leaves.
Kit pushed past creepers and tangles of thorns. He followed paths that no Spaniard had ever used, looked up beneath trees that spiralled to the sky, and ferns that arched heavenward like great feathered fans. His sight was keen as he peered into the forest, scouring the furthest reaches for any movement near the ground, any flash of colour other than green, looking for something he could barely believe in, though for years the hope had persisted. Yet this was reality. This was his world waking up: the warm, damp forest glistening with spangles of light, ringing with whoops and shrieks – and what he searched for were Englishmen as the messenger had told him: Englishmen near the road.
He quickened his pace, ducking under spiderwebs as dense as wool, brushing aside leaves as huge as barrow wheels, straining to hear in an animal bedlam. He stopped and caught his breath. At times there were pauses in the racket: lulls that he tried to explore, alert for the trace of voices, signs of people – the crackle of footsteps through the forest.
Kit listened. In the next interval there was only haze: a barely audible fuzz, and then three notes – a beginning: birdsong that reminded him of mornings in the past, beautiful and liquid, full of freshness and promise. Then the memory was gone, overlain by a howl. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He carried on walking.
Slashing with his machete, his progress became faster, he ran when he could, bounding down gullies in drifts of dry leaves, thinking of another sound that was autumn and everything it evoked: beechmast and acorns and windfalls in wet grass – charging with Will along comb lines of stubble. Then all that fell away, driven to oblivion in the heat.
He stared ahead. In the distance there were leaves and fronds, and more of the same in all the spaces beyond. He ploughed on regardless, ignoring the thorns and mosquitoes, and the sores on his feet, impelled by another sound, very faint but unnatural. Then he recognised what it was.
He pulled up and crept forward. He had no idea of the source of the ringing, whether it was moving or almost still, approaching or receding, near or far. But he realised that the sound of the mule bell could only have come from the road. He also realised what it meant.
There were Spaniards passing by.
20
Attack
‘. . . Certain English and French corsairs, together with a number of cimarrones . . . attacked certain mule-trains conveying gold and silver from this city to that of Nombre de Dios, . . . amongst this being 18,300 pesos of fine gold which came for Your Majesty from the jurisdiction of Popayan . . .’
—From the report of the Audiencia of Panamá to King Philip II of Spain sent 4th May 1573
The Royal Road, near Nombre de Dios, the Americas
April 1573
THEY WERE COMING. Will could sense it: a faint vibration in the earth rising through the grass sweating beneath him. He looked between stalks, below flowers and seed-heads that were buzzing with busy insects, seeing a sultry sky, and faraway trees, with nothing to suggest any interruption to the peace. But he could hear them. He could hear mule bells behind the thrum, and a slight rustling as Morrys turned. Will met his eye then peered ahead. A tiny wisp of smoke rose from the lock of his caliver, and he cupped his hand over the pan, guarding the primer from the match. The smouldering was slight, and the acrid whiff of saltpetre would be lost in the meadow’s sweetness; it would not be noticed from the road. He was ready – calmer than he had ever been before any action on the venture, but tense, even so, knowing that this would be the last.
He moved his hand to the trigger guard and prepared to take aim. The tinkling became louder, along with the swish of tramping through grass, a ripple of laughter and the low voices of men. The sight of them came with a shout: Drake’s voice.
‘Yield!’
Will lurched to his feet as a shot cracked out, and suddenly Drake was bellowing above the whinnying of a horse, ‘In the name of Elizabeth, Queen of England! . . .’
A roar overwhelmed everything. Will joined in the battle cry rising from the others breaking cover, sighting on Spaniards so close he could see their teeth as their mouths opened. A few were quick to react. An arrow streaked overhead. Another whipped into the grass.
‘Fire!’ Drake yelled, levelling both of the wheellock pistols that had been a gift to him from Le Testu. Will saw flame stream from their muzzles at the moment he was deafened by a blazing volley: a barrage of bullets and bolts that drew screams from behind smoke. Then Drake’s men charged, running at a pelt for the Spanish vanguard, all fifteen, except for him. Will had his caliver trained on a horse: a small bay jennet that almost fell then reared up, dismounting a caballero before galloping across the pasture. The man was dragged behind, caught by a stirrup until his boot was torn loose. Will held his aim. He swept round his matchlock, keeping the jennet in his sights. He could not let the horse escape. They were too close to Nombre de Dios, perhaps an hour’s march for a man, but much less for a bolting horse. He braced for the recoil, finger on the trigger, but the horse collapsed before he had fired. Its legs thrashed, and then stilled. Around the place where it had dropped, men sprang up from the ground. The Cimaroons emerged like phantoms from the scrub, and from the cut in the bluff where the city road left the floodplain. Like burning over paper, they swept south in a wavering line.
Distant gunfire made Will turn. The smoke had thinned and he saw the convoy: the line of mules so long that it stretched back out of sight, men running alongside and drovers cowering. Others were taking flight, making for the riverbank. An armoured Spaniard splashed lumbering downstream. Will fired without waiting for the man to come closer. What mattered was the convoy: stopping the mules, securing the road. He barely paused to see the man falter. He was already in a lope and dashing after Drake.
His focus was on a skirmish where he could hear the clash of blades. Rushing past mules, he shouldered his firearm, feeling the strain in his legs of the past day’s hard marching. He breathed in gasps while gnats rose in clouds and stuck to his sweat. Yet his spirits soared as he ran. The mules were kneeling down. One by one the mules slumped to the ground, snorting and champing, each taking down the next. This was the plan unfolding, the design playing out. The muleteers were surrendering: black slaves with rolling eyes who crouched low with their hands raised.
Will drew his sword to a Spaniard who turned tail and fled.
‘Let them go!’ someone called. But he was already bounding on, leaving those trying to escape to the Cimaroons who gave chase, whooping and firing arrows.
At the rear of the next mule train, animals were milling in a tangle of reins. Will heard Ox shouting, ‘Bring down the lead!’
Close to sprinting, Will ran along the line, aware that a few men were following, and that, one after another, the mules were settling in the grass. But he was looking ahead, searching for Drake, his fear catching up. He stared at the high ground at the end of the pasture. Traces of smoke drifted above a winding paved road. The r
oad led from a pass. The French had taken position there, ready to block the retreat once the convoy descended. He had expected to spot the Huguenots at the foot of the far rise. Yet the only Frenchmen he could see were those rushing towards him. They fell on loads, tearing at bindings, dragging away saddlebags, calling excitedly.
‘Argent . . .’
‘Silver!’
‘Gold!’ one of Drake’s men roared. ‘There’s gold in lumps – quoits a handspan wide!’
Will pushed on, half-sprinting, half-striding, passing mules and the Cimaroons who were rushing up to halt them. Across the riverbed, at a distance, men were scrambling north the other way: the remnants of the Spanish escort, wading through the shallows, trying to escape. Will slowed to a fast walk. His breathing was hoarse. He was drenched in sweat. How many mules had he overtaken? A hundred and seventy? Maybe more, and all loaded with treasure as far as he could tell. Only at the end of the line could he see the high ground clearly, and the evidence of a struggle on the slopes beside the road: glimpses of baggage in the vegetation, mules that had broken free and a few men prone. Straggling over the pasture were Frenchmen in ragged groups. They appeared from between the trees, out of thickets, rising from the grass – some shuffling, others racing. He dodged between them. He could see people on the bank, near the place where the paved road ended. He broke into a run. One of them was Drake.
Will caught up. Drake made for a huddle around someone injured: a man with bloody hands – Will noticed when the others moved. Then apprehension shot through him when he saw the man’s white hair: he was Le Testu.
Drake sat down next to Le Testu quietly. Will squatted on his haunches nearby. Le Testu made a sound as if there was liquid in his throat. Drake’s response was to take off his jerkin and push it like a pillow under the old man’s head. Then Drake took one of the wheellocks from his belt.
‘These pistols are fine pieces.’ Drake secured back the pistol’s hammer, extracted the little ramrod from under the barrel and proceeded to clean out the bore. ‘They made the Spaniards skip away prettily. I thank’ee for your gift.’
Will wondered whether Le Testu could hear. His pale-lashed eyes were almost closed, and he was quiet for a while save for the bubbling in his windpipe. One glance at his wound had been enough to make Will blench. It was easier to fix on the old man’s face. His lips were drawn back in a grimace. Will hoped Le Testu was stunned, but then, in a drawl, he began to speak.
‘We have stopped . . . the silver train?’
‘Aye, all three lines of mules.’ Drake carried on scouring out the barrel of the pistol, tipping the handgun upside down, and knocking out the residue inside. He turned to Le Testu, and did not look away. ‘Beasts for half a mile, and carrying enough gold and silver to buy a small kingdom. You led your men well, my friend.’
Will saw a smile begin to play on Le Testu’s lips, but then he winced.
‘No better than you. Now you must go. Take the treasure while you can.’
‘Therein lies a happy problem.’ Drake raised his eyes to the lowland spread before them, and Will saw, just as Drake must have done, the long, long lines of kneeling mules and scattered loads, with men amongst them still unroping packs, tearing open saddlebags, and piling up trophies that flashed and glinted in the sun.
With a click Drake opened the pistol’s priming pan.
‘We have more than we can carry.’ He spoke while he cleaned out the pan. ‘I would say that we can only bear away a tenth on our backs.’
‘You cannot use the mules?’
‘Not by the way we came. The forest is too thick. To clear a path for the beasts would delay us.’
Le Testu gasped.
‘You should at least take the gold . . .’
‘Certainly.’ Drake returned his gaze to the pasture and the mounting heaps of booty. ‘There must be over half a ton, which leaves us with a prodigious quantity of silver; I’d say maybe fifty times as much.’
The old man’s breath rattled to a gurgle, and the half-dozen Frenchmen around him began to shuffle forward. But Le Testu raised a blood-smeared hand, and no one moved between him and Drake.
‘Take what you can,’ Le Testu whispered. ‘And when the Spaniards return, they will want to pick up their treasure, and not chase after you.’
Drake turned the pistol muzzle-up, took a small twist of paper, and tore a hole to release the charge. Carefully he poured the powder inside the barrel.
‘Aye.’ Drake inclined his head. ‘But I would like the Spaniards to find their treasure gone completely. I want them to feel its loss. Let them think that with the help of the angels we have swept it clean away.’ He popped in the paper after the charge, and then a small lead ball which he rammed tight with the rod. ‘I thought we could hide it.’ He smiled, and cast a quick look at Le Testu.
Will knew the old man was listening. Le Testu held his hands to his stomach, and the pulp of fabric and tissue through which his innards glistened.
‘It may be possible . . .’ he muttered, ‘if you are quick.’
Le Testu beckoned to one of his mariners and spoke urgently to him in French, pointing with a bloody finger towards the islands in the riverbed.
‘My men will bury what they can . . . over there.’ The mariner was already sprinting down towards the river. ‘I am sure you will find other places. Later . . . you can dig the treasure up.’
Drake nodded as, with a little spanner, he cranked round the shaft of the pistol’s firing wheel.
‘We will leave as soon as the bulk is concealed.’
Will heard the wheel lock into place, taut against the mainspring.
Le Testu slumped back.
‘I will rest . . . and then follow.’
‘Rest well, my friend.’
Drake primed the pan and shut the cover, then he pulled back the dog-hammer with the piece of pyrite in its jaws that would, on a pull of the trigger, strike the wheel set spinning and release a shower of sparks.
‘Here’s a faithful dog come back to stay with you.’ He wrapped Le Testu’s hand around the pistol butt. Then he looked up at the two Frenchmen who were nearest. ‘You will guard over him.’
It was a statement, not an order. They murmured their assent: ‘Oui, Capitaine.’
Though the old man’s eyes were staring at the sky, Will saw his fingers slowly slide over the trigger.
Drake bent and kissed Le Testu’s brow.
‘Adieu.’
He stood and marched down the slope. Will followed him at a stride. Within a few paces they were running.
‘Some of those crab burrows should make good hiding places – and no need for digging!’ Drake’s speech came in jolts as he swept his arm towards the river. ‘And those tree trunks, under the roots. See to it, Will, and remember where everything is put.’
Will scanned the terrain. He could see the crab holes that Drake meant, and the huge creatures scuttling near them, some blue and some grey, waving pincers like fists, and the dark pits beneath the tangled roots of washed-up trees that would make excellent nooks for secreting their haul.
‘Aye, Captain. Just the silver?’
‘As best you can.’ Drake ran towards the end of the last mule train. ‘We’ve not the time for much sorting. Leave the gold and I’ll split up the loads.’ He clapped Will’s back, and bounded off at a tangent.
Will ran along the line, between the mules and the riverbank.
‘Bury the silver! Hide it!’ Shouting, he signed for the men to follow him. ‘Over there! Bring the bars! We’re going to feed the crabs!’
The men were nervous. They twitched and cowered, glancing around furtively. Kit could not tell whether they were English or Spanish. They wore the loose slops of mariners, and they were alone, without any slaves, but their jabbering made no sense to him. He edged closer through the undergrowth, sliding around rocks, keeping silent.
Peering out from the forest, he saw the backs of the men, only steps away from him, and the grassland before them, dipping st
eeply to the river. There were scores of mules in the pasture, mostly bunched up in strings, though packsaddles and crates lay scattered around them. But what drew his attention was the bundle near the men. It was a body, he realised, when he focused on the shape: a man injured, and not dead, who raised blood-stained fingers to flick feebly at the gathering insects. What had happened to him and all the mules left abandoned? Had there been an attack? One of the jittery men waved at the flies, but a moment later he turned to stare across the lowland. Suddenly, with a guttural cry, he pulled his friend down into the grass. Kit could hear snatches of their agitated conversation, enough to convince him that they were neither English nor Spanish, though their way of talking stirred distant memories. Then he realised the men must be French, having come across their language in Plymouth years before. So he kept still and quiet, and let the ants crawl over his skin.
The wounded man made a gurgling noise but gradually that faded. He did not answer when the Frenchmen spoke to him, and his hands were limp when they raised his arms. Were they going to carry him? Kit thought that they might until they darted away down the slope. After that, he supposed the wounded man was dead. The Frenchmen ran off into the forest, heading east.
What he saw next almost made Kit run as well.
There was movement: a dark ripple in the distance that suggested a crowd was approaching, and dust above it making the details hazy. Kit crept in shadow towards a gap in the vegetation. He looked along the valley; then he was certain. There were soldiers marching south from the direction of the city: men carrying pikes and lances – a troop led by a horseman. No Englishman would have a horse. The soldiers were probably Spanish. He should flee, but something held him. He searched for signs of the possibility he could not dismiss – that Englishmen might be linked with what he could see of a recent attack. He kept silent and peered out.
