Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  The dugout canoes had already been launched, bobbing alongside the two frigates anchored on the sea side of the Cayo de Carena. Directly ahead of them lay the Point, over­looking the entry to Jamaica Bay.

  Katherine felt the gold inlay of the musket's barrel, cold and hard against her fingertips, and tried to still her pulse as she peered through the dim moonlight. Up the companionway, on the quarterdeck, Winston was deep in a final parlay with Guy Bartholomew of the Swiftsure. Like all the seamen, they kept casting anxious glances toward a spot on the shore across the bay, just below the vigia, where the advance party would signal the all-clear with lanterns.

  The last month had not been an easy time. After the death of Jacques le Basque, Tortuga was plunged into turmoil for a fortnight, with the English and French boucaniers at Basse Terre quarreling violently over the island's future. There had nearly been war. Finally Bartholomew and almost a hundred and fifty seamen had elected to join Winston in his attempt to seize a new English privateering base at Jamaica. But they also demanded the right to hold Villa de la Vega for ransom, as Jackson had done so many years before. It was the dream of riches that appealed to them most, every man suddenly fancying himself a second Croesus. Finally Winston and Bar­tholomew had drawn up Articles specifying the division of spoils, in the tradition of the boucaniers.

  After that, two more weeks had passed in final prepara­tions, as muskets and kegs of powder were stockpiled. To have sufficient landing craft they had bartered butts of kill-devil with the Cow-Killers on Hispaniola for ten wide dugout canoes—all over six feet across and able to transport fifteen to twenty men. With the dugouts aboard and lashed securely along the main deck of the two ships, the assault was ready.

  They set sail as a flurry of rumors from other islands began reaching the buccaneer stronghold. The most disquieting was that a French fleet of armed warships had already been dis­patched south by the Chevalier de Poncy of St. Christopher, who intended to restore his dominion over Tortuga and ap­point a new French commandant de place.

  Yet another story, spreading among the Spanish planters on Hispaniola, was that an English armada had tried to in­vade the city of Santo Domingo on the southern coast, but was repulsed ingloriously, with hundreds lost.

  The story of the French fleet further alarmed the English buccaneers, and almost two dozen more offered to join the Jamaica expedition. The Spanish tale of a failed assault on Santo Domingo was quickly dismissed. It was merely another in a long history of excuses put forward by the audiencia of that city to explain its failure to attack Tortuga. There would never have been a better time to storm the island, but once again the cowardly Spaniards had managed to find a reason for allowing the boucaniers to go unmolested, claiming all their forces were needed to defend the capital.

  The morning of their departure arrived brisk and clear, and by mid-afternoon they had already made Cape Nicholao, at the northwest tip of Hispaniola. Since the Windward Passage lay just ahead, they shortened sail, holding their course west by southwest till dark, when they elected to heave-to and wait for morning, lest they overshoot. At dawn they were back underway, and just before nightfall, as planned, they had sighted Point Morant on the eastern tip of Jamaica. Winston ordered the first stage of the assault to commence.

  The frigates made way along the southern coast till they neared the Point of the Cayo de Carena, the wide cay at the entry to Jamaica Bay. Then, while the Swiftsure kept station to watch for any turtling craft that might sound the alarm, Winston hoisted the Defiance's new sails and headed on past the Point, directly along the coast. The attack plan called for an advance party to proceed overland from the rear and sur­prise the vigia on the hill overlooking the bay, using a map prepared by their Spanish pilot, Armando Vargas. Winston appointed Atiba to lead the men; Serina went with them as translator.

  They had gone ashore two hours before midnight, giving them four hours to secure the vigia before the attack was launched. A signal of three lanterns on the shore below the vigia would signify all-clear. After they had disappeared up the trail and into the salt savannah, the Defiance rejoined the Swiftsure, at which time Winston ordered the fo'c'sle unlocked and flintlocks distributed, together with bandoliers of powder and shot. While the men checked and primed their muskets, Winston ordered extra barrels of powder and shot loaded into the dugouts, along with pikes and half-pikes.

  Now the men stirred impatiently on the decks, new flint­locks glistening in the moonlight, anxious for their first feel of Spanish gold. . . .

  Katherine pushed through the crowd and headed up the companionway toward the quarterdeck. Winston had just dismissed Bartholomew, sending him back to the Swiftsure to oversee final assignments of his own men and arms. The old boucanier was still chuckling over something Winston had said as she met him on the companionway.

  "See you take care with that musket now, m'lady." He doffed his dark hat with a wink as he stepped past. "She's apt to go off when you’d least expect."

  She smiled and nodded, then smoothly drew back the hammer on the breech with an ominous click as she looked up.

  "Then tell me, Guy, is this what makes it fire?"

  "God's blood, m'lady." Bartholomew scurried quickly past, then glanced uncertainly over his shoulder as he slid across the bannister and started down the swaying rope lad­der, headed for the shallop moored below.

  "Hugh, how long do you expect before the signal?"

  "It'd best be soon. If not, we won't have time to cross the bay before daylight." He peered through the dark, toward the hill. "We've got to clear the harbor and reach the mouth of the Rio Cobre while it's still dark, or they'll see us from the Passage Fort."

  "How far up the river is the fort?"

  "Vargas claims it's only about a quarter mile." He glanced back toward the hill. "But once we make the river, their cannon won't be able to touch us. It's only when we're ex­posed crossing the bay that we need worry."

  "What about the militia there when we try to storm it?"

  "Vargas claims that if they're not expecting trouble, it'll

  be lightly manned. After we take it, we'll have their cannon, together with the ordnance we've already got. There's nothing else on the island save a few matchlock muskets."

  "And their cavalry."

  "All they'll have is lances, or pikes." He slipped his arm around her waist. "No, Katy, after we seize Passage Fort, the Spaniards can never get us out of here, from land or sea. Jamaica will be ours, because this harbor will belong to us."

  "You make it sound too easy by half." She leaned against him, wishing she could fully share his confidence. "But if we do manage to take the fort, what about Villa de la Vega?"

  "The town'll have to surrender, sooner or later. They'll have no harbor. And this island can't survive without one."

  She sighed and glanced back toward the shore. In the moonlight the blue mountains of Jamaica towered silently above the bay. Would those mountains some day stand for freedom in the Caribbean, the way Tortuga once did . . . ?

  She sensed Winston's body tense and glanced up. He was gazing across the bay toward the shore, where a dim light had suddenly appeared. Then another, and another.

  "Katy, I've waited a long, long time for this. Thinking about it, planning it. All along I always figured I'd be doing it alone. But your being here . . ." He seemed to lose the words as he held her against him. "Tonight we're about to do something, together, that'll change the Americas for­ever."

  The oars bit into the swell and the dark waters of the bay slapped against the bark-covered prow, an ancient cadence he remembered from that long voyage north, ten years past. Where had all the years gone?

  Behind him was a line of dugouts, a deadly procession of armed, grim-faced seamen. All men of Tortuga, not one among them still welcome in any English, French, or Dutch settlement.

  Was it possible to start over with men like these? A new nation?

  "Mira," Vargas whispered over the rhythm of the oars. His dark
eyes were glistening as he pointed toward the entry to the harbor, a wide strait that lay between the Point of the Cayo de Carena and the mainland. Around them the light surf sparkled in the moonlight. "Is not this puerto the finest in all the Caribbean?" He smiled back at Winston, showing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. "No storm reaches here. The smallest craft can anchor safely, even in a huracan. "

  "It's just like I figured. So the spot to situate our cannon really is right there on the Point. Do that and nobody could ever get into the bay."

  Vargas laughed. "Si, that is true. If they had guns here, we could never get past. But Jamaica is a poor island. The Passage Fort over on the river has always been able to slow an assault long enough for them to empty the town. Then their women and children are safe. What else do they have worth stealing?"

  "Hugh, is this the location you were talking to John about?" Katherine was studying the wide and sandy Point.

  "The very place. That's why I had him stay with the Defiance and keep some of the lads."

  "I hope he can do it."

  "He'll wait till sun-up, till after we take the fort. But this cay is the place to be, mark it."

  "You are right, senor," Vargas continued as they steered on around the Point. "I have often wondered myself why there was no port city out here. Perhaps it is because this island has nothing but stupid agricultores. "

  Their tiny armada of dugouts glided quickly across the strait, then hugged the shore, headed toward the mouth of the Rio Cobre. Now they were directly under the vigia.

  As they rowed past, five figures suddenly emerged from the trees and began wading toward them. Winston immedi­ately signaled the dugouts to put in.

  Atiba was grinning as he hoisted himself over the side. "It was simple." He settled among the seamen. "There were only two whoreson Spaniards."

  "Where's Serina?" Katherine scanned the empty shore­line. "Did anything happen?"

  "When a woman is allowed to sit in council with warriors, there are always damnable complications." Atiba reached and helped one of the English seamen in. "She would not have us act as men and kill the whoresons both. So she is still up there on the mountain, holding a musket."

  "You're not a better man if you murder their militia." Katherine scowled at him. "After you take a place, you only need hold it."

  "That is the weak way of a woman, senhora." He glanced toward the hill as again their oars flashed in the moonlight. "It is not the warrior way."

  Winston grimaced, but said nothing, knowing the killing could be far from over.

  In only minutes they had skirted the bay and were approaching the river mouth. As their dugouts veered into the Rio Cobre, the whitecaps gave way to placid ripples. The tide had just begun running out, and the surface of the water was flawless, reflecting back the half-moon. Now they were surrounded by palms, and beyond, dense forests. Since the rainy season was past, the river itself had grown shallow, with wide sand bars to navigate. But a quarter mile farther and they would be beneath the fort.

  "Jamaica, at last." Winston grinned and dipped a hand into the cool river.

  Katherine gazed up at the Passage Fort, now a sharp silhouette in the moonlight. It had turrets at each corner and a wide breastwork, from which a row of eighteen-pound cul­verin projected, hard fingers against the sky. "I just pray our welcome celebration isn't too well attended."

  As they rowed slowly up the river, the first traces of dawn were beginning to show in the east. She realized their attack would have to come quickly now. Even though the vigia had been silenced, sentries would doubtless be posted around the fort. There still could be a bloody fight with small arms if they were spotted in time for the Spaniards to martial the militia inside. Let one sentry sound the alarm and all surprise would be lost.

  "I think we'd best beach somewhere along here." Bartholomew was sounding with an oar. The river was growing increasingly sandy and shallow. "She's down to no more'n half a fathom."

  "Besides that, it's starting to get light now." Winston nod­ded concurrence. "Much farther and they might spy us. Sig­nal the lads behind to put in."

  "Aye." He turned and motioned with his oar. Quickly and silently the dugouts veered into the banks and the men began climbing over the sides. As they waded through the mud, each carrying a flintlock musket and a pike, they dragged the dugouts ashore and into the brush.

  "All right, masters." Winston walked down the line as they began to form ranks. "We want to try taking this place without alerting the whole island. If we can do that, then the Spaniards'll not have time to evacuate the town. Remember anything we take in either place will be divided according to the Articles drawn. Any man who doesn't share what he finds will be judged by the rest, and may God have mercy on him." He turned and gazed up the hill. There was a single trail leading through the forest. "So look lively, masters. Let's make quick work of this."

  As they headed up the incline, the men carefully holding their bandoliers to prevent rattling, they could clearly see the fort above the trees. Now lights began to flicker along the front of the breastwork, torches. Next, excited voices began to filter down, faint in the morning air.

  Armando Vargas had moved alongside Winston, his eyes narrow beneath his helmet and his weathered face grim. He listened a moment longer, then whispered, "I fear something may have gone wrong, senor."

  "What are they saying?" Winston was checking the prime on his pistols.

  "I think I hear orders to run out the cannon." He paused to listen. "Could they have spotted our masts over at the cayo? It is getting light now. Or perhaps an alert was sounded by the vigia after all." He glared pointedly back toward Atiba. "Perhaps it was not so secure as we were told."

  Behind them the seamen had begun readying their flint­locks. Though they appeared disorganized, they handled their muskets with practiced ease. They were not raw recruits like Barbados' militia; these were fighting men with long expe­rience.

  They continued quickly and silently up the path. Now the moon had begun to grow pale with the approach of day, and as they neared the rear of the fortress they could see the details of its stonework. The outside walls were only slightly higher than a man's head, easy enough to scale with grapples if need be.

  As they emerged at the edge of the clearing, Winston suddenly realized that the heavy wooden door at the rear of the fort was already ajar.

  Good Christ, we can just walk in.

  He turned and signaled for the men to group. "It's time, masters. Vargas thinks they may have spotted our masts, over at the Point, and started to ready the guns." His voice was just above a whisper. "In any case, we'll need to move fast. I'll lead, with my lads. After we're inside, the rest of you hit it with a second wave. We'll rush the sentries, then take any guards. After that we'll attend to the gunners, who like as not won't be armed."

  Suddenly more shouts from inside the fort drifted across the clearing. Vargas motioned for quiet, then glanced at Win­ston. "I hear one of them saying that they must send for the cavalry."

  "Why?"

  He paused. "I don't know what is happening, but they are very frightened in there, senor."

  "Good God, if they get word back to the town, it's the end of any booty."

  "Hugh, I don't like this." Katherine stared toward the for­tress. There were no guards to be seen, no sentries. Everyone was inside, shouting. "Maybe it's some kind of ruse. Some­thing has gone terribly wrong."

  "To tell the truth, I don't like it either." He cocked his pistol and motioned the men forward. "Let's take it, mas­ters."

  Some fifty yards separated them from the open door as they began their dash forward across the clearing. Now they could hear the sound of cannon trucks rolling over paving stone as the guns were being set.

  Only a few more feet remained. Would the door stay open? Why had there been no musket fire?

  As Winston bounded up the stone steps leading to the door, hewn oak with iron brackets, still no alarm rose up, only shouts from the direction of the cannon at t
he front of the breastwork. He seized the handle and heaved it wide, then waved the others after him. Atiba was already at his side, cutlass drawn.

  Now they were racing down the dark stone corridor, a gothic arch above their heads, its racks of muskets un­touched.

  My God, he thought, they're not even going to be armed. Only a few feet more . . .

  A deafening explosion sounded from the front, then a sec­ond and a third. Black smoke boiled up as a yell arose from the direction of the cannon. The guns of the fort had been fired.

  When they emerged at the end of the corridor and into the smoky yard, Spanish militiamen were already rolling back the ordnance to reload. The gunners froze and looked on dumbfounded.

  “!Ingles Demonio!'' One of them suddenly found his voice and yelled out, then threw himself face down on the paving stones. One after another, all the others followed. In mo­ments only one man remained standing, a tall officer in a silver helmet. Winston realized he must be the gunnery com­mander.

  He drew his sword, a long Toledo-steel blade, and stood defiantly facing Winston and the line of musketmen.

  "No." Winston waved his pistol. "It's no use."

  The commander paused, then stepped back and cursed his prostrate militiamen. Finally, with a look of infinite humili­ation, he slowly slipped the sword back into its scabbard.

  A cheer went up from the seamen, and several turned to head for the inner chambers of the fortress, to start the search for booty. Now the second wave of the attack force was pour­ing through the corridor.

  "Katy, it's over." Winston beckoned her to him and and boxed ceremoniously. "Jamaica is . . ."

  The yard erupted as the copestone of the turret at the cor­ner exploded, raining chips of hard limestone around them.

  "Great God, we're taking fire from down below." He stood a moment in disbelief. Around him startled seamen began to scurry for cover.

  Even as he spoke, another round of cannon shot slammed into the front of the breastwork, shaking the flagstone under their feet.

  "Who the hell's in charge down there? There were no or­ders to fire on the fort. . . ."

  Another round of cannon shot crashed into the stone facing above them.

  "Masters, take cover. There'll be hell to pay for this, I promise you." He suddenly recalled that Mewes had been left in command down below. "If John's ordered the ships into the bay and opened fire, I'll skin him alive."

  "Aye, and with this commotion, I'll wager their damned cavalry lancers will be on their way soon enough to give us a welcome." Bartholomew was standing alongside him. "I'd say we'd best secure that door back there and make ready to stand them off."

  "Order it done." Winston moved past the gunners and headed toward the front of the breastwork, Katherine at his side. As they approached the Spanish commander, he backed away, then bowed nervously and addressed them in broken English.

  "You may receive my sword, senor, in return for the lives of my men. I am Capitan Juan Vicente de Padilla, and I offer you unconditional surrender. Please run up your flag and sig­nal your gunships."

  "We've got no flag." Winston stared at him. "Yet. But we will soon enough."

  "What do you mean, mi capitan? You are Ingles." His dark eyes acquired a puzzled expression. "Of course you have a flag. It is the one on your ships, down in the bay."

  "Hugh, what's he talking about? Has John run up English colors?" Katherine strode quickly past the smoking cannon to the edge of the breastwork and leaned over the side.

  Below, the bay was lightening in the early dawn. She stood a moment, then turned back and motioned Winston to join her. Her face was in shock. He shoved his pistol into his belt and walked to her side.

  Headed across the bay, guns run out, was a long line of warships. Nearest the shore, and already launching longboats of Roundhead infantry, were the Rainbowe and the Marsten Moor— the red and white Cross of St. George fluttering from their mizzenmasts.