But as he was rummaging in his bag, he felt a shiver. A shadow came over them, blotting out the sunshine. Delpech looked up and saw in horror a red-stained goatee, eagle eyes, and a short, curved blade smeared in blood. It came hurtling down and severed the lad’s head from his shoulders. Jacob jerked back in disgust as blood spurted over his face.
‘Wrong side, Doctor,’ growled Captain Brook. ‘Should be seeing to our lads!’
Jacob promptly threw up.
Any wounded or dying cavaliers were quickly dispatched in a similar fashion by blade. There was no sense wasting lead shot on an incapacitated foe. Brook would argue that it was only right to put them all out of their misery, nice and quick. And it saved the buccaneers from any vengeful encounters in the future. For as the captain was like to say: ‘Dead men don’t bite back!’
It was monstrous. It was inhuman. Jacob failed to find any justice in it. It seemed that all the lines that had so neatly structured his existence were becoming increasingly blurred.
However, Jacob’s sense of survival enabled him to not dwell on the atrocities he had been part of. Instead he focussed on the buccaneers’ wounds. These mostly consisted of deep cuts and slices into the flesh, except one mate whose intestines had spewed out from a lateral slash to his belly. Jacob recognised Steven, the lad who had come running into Jacob’s quarters on the ship after Ducamp’s fall from the rigging, the lad who wanted to learn to read and write.
Jacob held his head, stroked his soft young beard, and said a prayer as the lad stared into the sun, until death took him. The doctor then laid down his head, closed his eyes, and moved on to the next injured sailor.
*
The buccaneers had spent the night travelling upstream. Once outside Bayamo, they had planned to rest while waiting for de Graaf to take up position on the south side of the township. However, they had been surprised to find not only ambushes that forced them to take a fatiguing detour through wild woodland, but also a timber stockade and a company of cavaliers whom they had virtually decimated. And all for just five dead and a few dozen wounded.
Brook had no difficulty firing them up for a last attack, to finish the job while Lady Luck was still with them.
A plan was swiftly devised and validated by vote. Two teams of half a dozen crack shots took up positions. They gave cover to a third group of about a dozen men who made their way to the gate with powder and axes.
Jacob watched them stealthily cross the laboured field where Spanish bodies lay strewn. They met no enemy fire. Soon after reaching the gate, there came a loud explosion from the stockade, then a series of quick, successive axe strokes on timber, and the great gate was flung open.
The whole horde of roaring, fearsome men stormed across the field without a shot fired at them and poured through the open gate.
The town had never once been worried by assailants, and there had been no need to erect a stone wall. However, the mayor had told the townsfolk to die rather than fall into the hands of the lascars. So they locked themselves in their houses and fired shots from their windows, causing the buccaneers to halt and take cover. But Brook had dealt with this kind of nuisance before; from experience, he knew it was an easy one to resolve.
He gave the nod to storm houses at the edge of town and pull out the women and children, who were hiding under tables and inside cupboards. Two men were captured. They were knocked about but not killed. These were not soldiers. Any able-bodied cavaliers would have fled—as would those at the barricades as soon as they got wind of events. Instead Brook sent them to the mayor to tell him he would slit the hostages’ throats and burn down the town if they did not surrender.
The mayor, entrenched in his residence with his retinue, returned a note, saying he had sent horsemen to Santiago, that a Spanish expedition was already on its way, and that the pirates would be annihilated if they remained.
Brook did not order the hostages to be killed. Instead he ordered a party of buccaneers to creep up and throw smoke pots through the downstairs windows of the mayor’s residence. By noon, the buccaneers had taken over the whole town.
*
Captain Brook, who had no time for women with their silly screams and petty demands, put Captain Cox in charge of selecting the finest maids. The captain of the Fortuna then had them ushered to the beautiful salons of the mayor’s residence, where the ground-floor windows had been opened to give the place an airing from the smoke. Old hags, ugly nags, and their sprogs were locked inside the church.
Ducamp and Blunt took charge of conducting the Spanish men to the edge of town, where they herded them into two wooden warehouses used for drying tobacco and storing cocoa beans. When they were done, Brook walked up to the warehouse under Ducamp’s charge. In his thick, gravelly voice, he ordered the town’s councillors to stand before him.
Five podgy, affluent-looking men, sweating buckets, showed themselves at the open doors. Of them, Señor Guiseppi Alonzo de la Firma del Barro Bravo stood erect and said, ‘There is expedition coming here from Santiago. You stay, you will be matados todos, todos. Leave now, and you will save your life.’
Brook grabbed the man by the lapels. He brought him up to his face and said in a low, seething voice, ‘You better think carefully where you’ve stashed yer coin, then! It might save your poxy lives. Savvy?’
He put the man down, stepped back outside, and gave the nod to Ducamp to lock the warehouse doors, which was promptly executed among indignant complaints in Spanish that the place was already like a bakehouse inside.
While the Spaniards were being left to stew in their juices, a party of buccaneers set to work on what buccaneers traditionally did best. They built a long fire in the middle of the main square. And over the fire, they made an extra-long boucan—a wooden grill placed on wooden stakes—where they could roast vast quantities of meat. Other contingents of rovers went rummaging for drink and cold food to whet the appetite.
The methodical slaughter of animals, especially the pigs, would curdle the blood of the hardiest prisoner, thought Jacob, who was busy patching up wounds. He imagined the anxiety the wretched prisoners must be going through on hearing the almost human squeals. But he realised too that this was all part of the ploy to instil fear in the hearts of the townsfolk, to make them loosen their tongues. It would leave them in a better disposition so that the buccaneers could steal away as quickly as they had come. However, Jacob could never imagine in a thousand years of Catholic purgatory what would happen next.
TWENTY-THREE
The plaza was soon a festival of many merry men, tucking ravenously into a feast of maize and meat, washed down with wine and rum.
A few hours later, once the sun’s heat had abated, many of them had taken quarters in houses with good beds; others were at the mayor’s residence with Captain Cox. Meanwhile, on the market square, Captain Brook summoned the five Spanish councillors to the shaded side, where the buccaneers had assembled a cosy array of seating.
The Spanish gentlemen, drenched in sweat, were visibly disgusted as they were escorted into the square, past pools of blood where animals were racked, gutted, and carved up. After passing the boucan, where dogs were stealing bones and half-eaten animal parts, they found themselves facing the snarl of Captain Brook, who was lounging in a magnificent armchair.
‘Jack Taylor, frow ’em somink to eat,’ said Brook, turning to one of the men at the boucan.
The sailor lobbed each of the Spaniards a pork chop from a dish. But either the gentlemen were not good at catching, or they were not hungry. They let the pieces of meat fall to the ground. After each failed catch, Jack Taylor feigned disappointment, which made his crewmates laugh out loud.
‘We do not eat with thieves!’ said the proudest of them in accented English.
Brook let his left hand, which was holding a bottle, drop to the side of his armchair, and motioned with the other for the white-haired Spaniard to approach, which he did.
‘You’ve had enough time to think, Señor,’ said the captain
warmly. ‘Now, you tell us where you’ve hidden your treasure, and we leave you in peace. That’s the deal.’
‘I take you to be a pirate,’ said the Spaniard with pride. ‘The vassals of the king of Spain do not make treaties with inferior persons!’ But he must have sensed his dignity might be contradictory to his health this time, because he added, ‘Soldiers on horseback will have already arrived in Santiago. You have no time to lose. If you leave now, you can escape the armada.’
However, this show of bravado and generosity did not have the desired effect.
‘Pin him down, lads!’ said Brook, businesslike.
The accompanying sailors who knew what this meant kicked away the man’s legs from beneath him, and held him face up on the ground. A roar of laughter rose up from the drunken sailors lounging around the boucan. They were glad for some entertainment now that their bellies were full.
‘Now what say you?’
‘Never will I bow to filth!’
‘Make ’im eat his own shit!’ shouted out one mate. After another swig of rum, Brook put down the bottle, then pushed on the armchair and sprang to his feet. As he did so, he reached for an axe that was leaning on the side of the armchair. He swung it over his shoulder as if he were ready to chop wood.
An expectant silence fell around the marketplace that was turning orange with the late-afternoon sun. The surrounding flora filled the balmy air with sweet-smelling perfume that mingled deliciously with the savoury smell from the boucan. Captain Brook was now stomping around the captive held to the floor.
‘Go now, por favor. Leave us in peace, and I will personalmente vouch for your safe passage,’ said the Spaniard.
‘We go when I say so, and that’s when you’ve told us where you’ve hidden your poxy coin, man. Entiendes?’
‘Never!’ said the Spaniard, whose pride had got the better of him again.
In a burst of rage, Brook roared and cussed. He then swung the axe from his shoulder and, in a nifty loop, slammed it down on the Spaniard’s forearm. The spectators let out a cheer of appreciation. The Spaniard let out a cry of horror. He clasped his handless arm, blood spouting out the severed end.
‘That’s what you get for slapping Captain Brook in the face!’
Brook tossed the axe aside and drew a pistol from his sash. He bent over the man still writhing on the floor, and grabbed him by the shirt front. He cocked his weapon and shoved it into his mouth. The captain then delivered one of his favourite catchphrases that never failed to captivate his audience. In a deep, seething voice, he said, ‘If you don’t feed me silver, I’ll feed you lead!’
But the proud Spaniard, who prized honour and courage above all things, could not bow down to a ladron, a vulgar thief.
‘Que el diablo te lleve!’ he said, and spat in the captain’s face.
From experience, Captain Brook knew that the first sacrifices sufficed to get what he wanted, and the quicker they were done, the better it was for everyone, including the townsfolk.
Brook pulled the pistol away from the Spaniard’s mouth and slowly stood up, still pointing with the barrel at an oblique angle. With a strange fascination, he observed the fear in the man’s eyes, then squeezed the trigger. The onlookers roared out in hilarity and disgust. There was a mess where the Spaniard’s head had been.
*
Jacob, who was sitting with Ducamp, had fallen into a deep snooze. Having become inured to the buccaneers’ cheers, he had not woken when the town councillors were marched onto the other side of the square. He suddenly woke now with the sound of the shot. He turned his head to the scene taking place forty yards across the square. He could not at first fathom what was taking place.
The captain was turning round the four Spaniards waiting in line. He said: ‘Like the man said, amigos, we have no time to lose! Entiendes?’
With a disgruntled shrug, the captain put his pistol back in his sash with its “brothers,” as he called them. He then picked up the axe and curled his finger at the next councillor.
‘What’s it to be, amigo? Silver for me, or steel for you?’ This was another one of the captain’s catchphrases, and the audience reacted accordingly. They were enjoying the show.
The man, in his mid-forties, with a paunch from good living, was febrile, and had pissed himself. He made the sign of the cross and stepped in front of the captain.
‘No tengo nada, Señor Capitán . . .’
Brook said not a word. He fondled the man’s buttons with his razor-sharp blade, and popped them off one at a time.
‘Es la verdad. Solo soy médico.’
‘On the floor! Now!’ shouted the captain. The man fell to his knees, holding his heart.
‘My God!’ said Jacob, appalled. He could hardly believe his eyes as he looked around for someone to react. But he only saw the engrossed onlookers, some drinking, others scoffing corn on the cob or meat, others just watching the show. Ducamp told him to keep calm and stay put.
‘Lay him flat, lads,’ said Brook, ‘and spread him out!’
‘Pwaah, fat bastard’s shit himself!’ said Taylor, which produced a few laughs and a crackle of applause as the fat man was thrown on his back. He began gasping for air, as though he were drowning. The spectators watched with bated breath. Taylor punched him in the face to make him lie flat.
‘For the love of Christ, man, stop this insanity!’ cried out Jacob, getting to his feet and breaking the unnatural silence.
Brook frowned and fired his bloodshot eyes in the direction of his interlocutor, who was moving towards him. Then the captain’s eyebrows straightened.
‘Ah, Doctor Delpech,’ he said in a comradely tone. ‘You wanna have a go?’ He took a few unsteady steps forward to beckon Jacob closer. ‘Sweet vengeance, Doctor!’
‘I have nothing against this man or any other man here.’
‘But he’s a Catholic.’
‘He is a Christian!’
‘Come on, Doctor, five pieces of eight for every finger, fifty for every limb. And if you manage to make the bugger talk, I’ll pay your indenture twofold!’
The captain’s eyes were glazed over, unblinking, as he made his offer in all earnestness. Jacob read for the first time in his life the look of a madman, rapt in his hellish folly.
‘Come on, Doctor, what do you say?’ he urged.
Captain Brook was always glad to initiate a new member to his ways, and what better draftee was there than a doctor? What greater stamp of approval could there be for his love of inflicting pain and death? Not a stronger emotion was there as what one felt upon seeing a man’s last breath; a doctor should know that. And there was no greater feeling than that of being the instigator of such emotion as pure terror. It overwhelmed by far all others. It was better than sex with women. It was the purest emotion he had ever experienced. It was the animal instinct of the predator, the confirmation of the sovereign force of the dominant.
Jacob had never thought such extreme madness could exist except in hell. He realised he was the only pillar of righteousness around. Deep down, he knew he had to act, or he would be as good as part of it. His Christian duty was to interpose.
Quashing his fear, he stepped forward and said, ‘Captain Brook, I beg you to come to your senses, Sir. I beseech you in the name of God, cease this cruelty and hate, or it shall be your demise, Sir.’
‘Hate? Who said I hate ’em? They might be Spanish filth, but they’ve got coin, and lots of it. I can smell it. So how can I bloody hate ’em, Doctor?’ said the captain, turning halfway to his audience, who laughed out loud.
‘Sir, these men deserve human decency. I beg you to take hold of yourself. There are other ways to win respect.’
Had this French doctor not administered the mercury unction that gave him relief from his syphilis, Brook would have ripped out his throat by now. Instead he roared: ‘I’ll show you respect, Doctor. I’ll show you how to get it from these dogs!’
‘NO . . . NO . . . Wait!’ shouted Jacob as the captain took a step back. T
hen he swung round and raised his battle-axe high above his head.
The Spaniard wheezed in horror as the incensed captain hammered down the heavy iron blade between his ribs. There was a thump, a squelch, the sound of smashed bones, expelled air, blood, and other matter, and the Spaniard gasped for air no more.
The captain turned to the remaining councillors. He roared: ‘Tell me where you’ve put the poxy coin!’
Ignoring Jacob’s continued protestations, which Brook put down to fatigue and a mild case of hysterics, the captain ordered the next man to step out of the line.
‘By God. How can you stand there?’ hurled Jacob at the group of sailors he had prayed with aboard the Joseph. ‘This man is mad,’ he said, with a stern eye for Quartermaster Blunt, who was among them. ‘In the name of the Lord, I beseech you, stop him!’
Ducamp now had caught up with Jacob, and, taking him firmly by the arm, he swung him round. In a low but resolute voice, the bosun said in French, ‘Are you out of your bloody mind, Delpech? Your life is on a thread, man, and I won’t let you lose it!’
Jacob said, ‘You cannot be part of this. You cannot let this go on.’
‘This is what the Spanish do, except they make it last longer. The captain puts on a show to force the others to talk.’
‘Bosun,’ called out the captain, twenty yards away, where his next victim was pleading on bended knee. ‘Tell the bloody doctor he is upsetting our proceedings. Tell him to put a sock in it, for the sake of his health!’
‘He’s calmed now, Sir. Just not used to campaigning, Sir.’
As the bosun answered, the noise of marching boots made everyone’s eyes turn to the south side.
‘You can thank your lucky stars this time, Delpech,’ said Ducamp as a mob came roaring into the square.
‘I thank God,’ returned Jacob.
It was the land contingent, headed by the tall figure of de Graaf.
Brook stood, legs apart, balancing the long shaft of the axe on his shoulder. As the Dutchman came nearer, Brook called out, ‘You took your bloody time, man!’
Voyage of Malice Page 21