by Dudley Pope
He walked back to the foot of the stairs. “Very well, Roberts, I’m going to start now.”
“Good luck, sir,” the man said, and Ned was glad to see he came down another step and held the lantern to throw more light.
The fuse was not very long: about eight feet, and no one was too sure how reliable it was. It has been made on board the Griffin on the voyage from Jamaica, according to a method that Burton had once heard about. The fuse was made of the bark of the mangroves growing at the water’s edge and the men had sliced off as much bark as they could reach. For the next four days, while they were at sea, the reddish strips had been kept in the sun, drying. As soon as Burton – and everyone else on board it seemed, who now took a sudden interest in the experiment – reckoned it was dry enough it was hammered and hammered until the fibrous strips could be cut as narrow as line, and then plaited into a long fuse. Burton tried a foot length as an experiment and it sputtered and crackled, but it burned steadily from one end to another, taking eight minutes. No one but a foolish optimist would rely on that rate, though.
Ned pulled over a bag of powder and rested it against the bottom step. He made a small slit in the top, pushed a few inches of fuse into it, and then put a second bag on the step above, overhanging it sufficiently that when he made a slit the powder poured on to the lower bag, partly burying the end of the fuse. Carefully he walked up the steps, paying out fuse as he ascended. He ran out of fuse four steps from the top. He looked up to see perspiration pouring from Roberts’ face. The man was shaking and embarrassed.
“Don’t worry,” Ned said, “being so close to so much powder and holding a lantern is enough to turn your hair white.”
“Oh, it ain’t for me,” Roberts said apologetically, “I was all right when I was feeling around in the dark!”
“What’s the matter now, then?”
“Well, sir, I got to thinking what’d happen if you fell and broke a leg or something, and there’s no one to hold the lantern while I get you out.”
Ned laughed and thanked him. “We can start now. Go and tell the party to start making their way down to the town and give a whistle when they’ve started. You follow them and I’ll be along soon.”
“Right ho, sir. You want to step up here for the time being with the lantern?”
“No, give it to me here: I’m afraid of pulling the fuse out of the bags.”
Roberts disappeared into the darkness. Ned shone the lantern at the stonework. The magazine was a good twelve feet down, made of thick stone blocks which fitted perfectly. How many tons of powder? Roberts had counted the bags and barrels, so they would be able to make a guess afterwards.
Supposing an hour goes by and there is no explosion?
Should he come back? This mangrove fuse – it could take an hour to burn, or fifteen minutes. Or it could go out. He pictured himself coming back through the castle door after an hour and heading for the magazine to find out what happened to the fuse, and suddenly seeing a flash. That would be the last thing he would ever see. Where the devil was Roberts’ whistle?
At that moment a hoarse voice said: “Sir – everyone’s on their way down the hill. That whore’s making a fuss.”
“Roberts!” Ned said crossly. “You’re supposed to have gone with them!”
“Yes, sir, but I got frightened when I thought of you holding the fuse in one hand and the lantern in the other. You need a third hand to open the lantern door and with me here we’ve got a hand to spare.”
Ned grinned at him and passed up the lantern, holding the fuse which looked like a thin, reddish snake.
“Now, set the lantern down on the ground where I can reach the candle with the fuse. I want to keep the fuse flat on the step, so there’s no strain on it.”
Roberts put the lantern down, moving it until it was level with the fuse.
“I hope there’s no loose powder on these steps,” Ned said.
“Wait, sir,” Roberts said urgently. He went up to the magazine entrance, put the lantern down on the ground outside, then came back down the stairs and, crouching down, blew vigorously where he had been standing. “Now, sir, if you’ll just give me a bit of room.” He then blew vigorously until he was sure there were no loose grains on the four steps over which the fuse passed. After that he went up and brought the lantern back, positioning it carefully.
“Open the lantern door, then,” Ned said.
It swung open easily, showing it was in regular use, and Ned held the end of the fuse over the candle flame. For a minute or more nothing happened; then the plaited mangrove began to splutter and glow.
“It’s like a bad-tempered snake,” Roberts said, shutting the lantern as soon as Ned took out the fuse and put it down gently on the step. Both men watched the fuse like rabbits caught by a stoat.
“It’s burning evenly. But faster than I expected. Come on Roberts!”
At the top of the steps Ned carefully shut the magazine door and locked it. He was far from sure why he did that but said casually to Roberts: “There might be a draught.”
“Yes, sir,” Roberts said politely, “I was thinking the same thing.”
The two men then marched to the main door and set off down the hill after the rest of the party. Although neither of them realized it, they slowed down gradually as they left the castle behind them, but they were almost at the bottom of the valley, close to Santiago itself, before they caught up with the party, all of whom were sitting beside the path.
“Thought I’d better halt here, sir,” Day explained. “Didn’t want us marching into the town without the drums beating!”
“You were quite right,” Ned said, cursing himself for having forgotten the chance that they would get down so quickly. “We’ll wait here,” he announced to the rest of the men. “But try and find some boulders to shelter behind, because when the magazine goes up…”
The whore was arguing with the major, but Ned interrupted, tapping the major on the shoulder. It seemed only fair to warn him.
“Major, your castle might explode soon, so you and your officers and your, ah, friend, will have to lie down behind some boulders. For your own safety,” he added.
It was difficult to estimate the time. The moon, now waning, rose while they were lying on the ground behind their boulders, and moved quickly on its westward path. Ned guessed as the time dragged past. Fifteen minutes, half an hour… He almost dozed.
“How long do you reckon it’s been, sir?” Roberts whispered.
“More than an hour. It’s gone out.”
“Well, not our lucky day,” Roberts said philosophically.
“Give me the lantern.”
“Why – where are you going, sir?”
“I’m going to check that fuse. You stay here in charge of the party.”
“Indeed, I don’t, sir,” Roberts said angrily. “If you’re going back, then I’m coming with you.”
“You’ll do as you’re told and stay here, Roberts.”
“My bloody oath, I –”
The flash lit distant mountain peaks before almost blinding them; the land trembled so violently that Ned thought the whole ridge was going to collapse on top of Santiago. It was not so much the sound of an explosion but a vast noise, a massive thunderclap that rumbled, reverberated and echoed, and as it stopped thousands of frightened dogs began barking, startled gulls mewed and wheeled below, and landbirds fled with shrill cries. Then the Castillo, its walls blown into separate blocks and chips, angled pieces and coping stones, began tumbling out of the sky, and the whore began a shrill chant which seemed to be one enormously long word but was every prayer she ever knew strung together.
Chapter Twenty-One
At first light Ned saw the Griffin making the turn into the narrow entrance, her mainsail slamming as she occasionally lost the wind. Close astern were the Peleus and
the Phoenix, but the cliffs hid the other four privateers he knew would be waiting their turn to come in.
Standing there on the Catalina battery with Roberts and Day and looking up at the still-smoking pile of rubble that at sunset yesterday had been the Castillo, Ned found it hard to believe. Most if not all of the town’s most important citizens were now assembled in the plaza; three bronze guns here at the battery and nine more at the jetty would ensure the defence of Jamaica’s harbour; and Thomas and Saxby with their men were rounding up everything of value in Santiago that could be carried away as purchase.
He knew Aurelia would be standing on the Griffin’s foredeck, excited, perhaps frightened (but he thought not), and maybe worried at the sight of the grim pile at the cliff top. The ships at Aguadores would have seen the flash and heard the explosion and she would be fearful for his safety until the Griffin could see the Catalina battery. Now the sight of a white flag flying at each end (linen sheets from the Griffin and, Aurelia had said emphatically, to be returned as soon as all the ships were in port) might reassure her: they showed that Santiago had been captured by the buccaneers. He imagined Diana, too, standing at the bow of the Peleus, a brunette Viking, anxious to see Thomas. Last night might well have been the first time they had slept apart for some years, and sleeping alone was the ultimate solitude, as he had just learned.
“We must get back to the plaza,” he told the three men. “Sir Thomas will want to know that the ships are coming in.”
With the sun still below the horizon it was cool, but the stench in Santiago was appalling; piles of rotting garbage scattered every few yards along the streets were being raked over by dogs and hogs. Once the sun was blazing down the smell would become almost unbearable.
In the plaza at least half the buccaneers were standing at intervals round the four sides holding muskets and pistols trained on a couple of hundred men and women who were sitting or lying on the flagstones, most covered with blankets and many moaning as if mourning at a funeral. In one corner of the plaza Ned saw the reflection of metal and realized it was a pile of gold and silver objects, presumably plates and goblets, cutlery and probably articles from the cathedral, which formed half of one side of the plaza.
From time to time four or five buccaneers walked into the plaza from side roads and added more items to the pile, handling the precious metals as nonchalantly as foresters might pile up logs for the winter.
Ned then realized that one of the three men slowly walking across the plaza and talking to the assembled Spaniards was Thomas, whom he found in excellent spirits.
“The Griffin is coming in, with the Peleus close astern.”
“Excellent, Ned. Let’s hope they can get alongside the jetty without stoving in a plank or two!”
“I checked the guns: twelve bronze altogether, and 1,500 shot to fit them.”
“That should protect the anchorage for a while and old General Heffer is going to be pleased. Now, I must get on. Some of these people are not being helpful. In fact you and your men can stay with me to scare them.”
Thomas had managed to find a privateersman who spoke passable Spanish, and once he had taken Santiago he discovered a Spaniard with good English. Now Thomas was checking the identities of his prisoners, and the more important were being sent to one corner of the plaza: they would not be freed until a good ransom was paid.
“Who have you found up to now?” Ned asked.
“Most of those that matter: the town governor was in his bed – he’s over there now, in the special corner. The bishop of Santiago, the Intendente, who is in effect the town treasurer, the mayor, some important officials from Havana who were visiting the governor… I’m just checking these people to find a few wealthy business men.”
“And the town treasury?”
“That was the first place we captured after your bang! No time to count the gold but there are bags of coins, ingots… I’ve never seen so much in my life. I have twenty men guarding it. We’ll carry it out to the Griffin and Peleus, but we’ll include men from each of the privateers in the guards, just so they’ll rest easy in their minds.”
With that, Thomas pointed and asked the translator: “Who is this man?”
The portly Spaniard sitting with a gaudy blanket round his shoulders stood up nervously and bowed. He listened to the translator, who then gave his reply. “He is a dealer in slaves.”
“How many does he import a year?”
“Not many because he buys most of them from the market in Havana and resells in this part of the island.”
“How many does he sell a year?”
Ned noticed the cunning look in the fat dealer’s eyes. The translator was speaking slowly when he translated into Spanish, giving his fellow countryman time to think. Ned tapped the translator on the arm. “Talk faster when you translate. I speak Spanish, and one mistake by you means your throat will be cut. And you are responsible for people answering honestly.”
Thomas immediately understood what was in Ned’s mind, knowing he did not speak Spanish.
“Ned! I’d forgotten that you speak Spanish – and French, of course. Anyway, let this fellow exercise his tongue, but I’d be grateful if you’d listen.”
“But señor,” the man protested. “I am doing my best. This man is very wealthy and very cruel, and when you go he will probably have me bastinadoed for helping you!”
“Most unfortunate,” Thomas said. “When we go, I suggest you move to the other end of the island. Now, how many slaves does he sell a year?”
Day had taken out his knife and was absent-mindedly stropping it against the leather sleeve of his jerkin, and the slave dealer was watching the blade nervously as it turned over and slid along, turned over and slid back.
“He says five hundred a year, but he is lying. Ten times as many.”
Ned nudged Day. “Scare him a little, but don’t hurt him.”
Day gave a truly diabolical laugh, tossed his knife in the air, caught it without looking and then prodded the fat Spaniard’s stomach with his finger, as though seeking a soft place to insert the blade. The Spaniard fainted, collapsing beside his wife like a poleaxed steer.
Thomas wrote on the slate he was carrying. “I’ll put him down for the value of five thousand slaves. Who’s next?”
It took him two hours to select forty-one of Santiago’s leading citizens and put a price on their heads. In each case the husband was released to go off and find the money while the wife and children were kept in the plaza.
“Every one of them a married man,” Thomas commented to Ned. “I’m not sure of the significance.”
“It’s a bad place for bachelors,” Ned said. “By the way, how are these people going to pay ransom if you’ve already looted their homes?”
“You are new to the game,” Thomas said. “When we looted the houses we took plate, any jewellery we could find, and money. But as usual we found very little money. They hide their coins – bury them in the garden, put them up a chimney, under a stair…”
“But they were not expecting buccaneers – we know that.”
Thomas bellowed with laughter, a roar which made mothers and daughters clasp each other in fear that it was the preliminary to a massacre. “Not buccaneers, Ned; they’re frightened of the Spanish tax men!”
“Do they pay such heavy taxes?”
“I don’t know what they pay, but they are charged heavy taxes. These islands, and the Main and Mexico, have to support themselves with local taxation: they get nothing from the gold and silver mining: that goes direct to the Spanish crown.” He glanced up at the sun, which was now heating the plaza. “Well, now we wait for the ransom to arrive. Let’s go over and see our womenfolk and make arrangements to start loading the ships.”
By dawn next day each of the seven privateers was loaded. The Griffin had three of the brass culverins stowed i
n her hold, the Peleus three, the Phoenix two and the other four privateers had one each. Thomas Whetstone had found five brass three-pounders on ordinary carriages, owned by the army and left in the town, while in the town hall were stored ninety breast, back and headpieces of armour. Neither he nor Ned were very sure how much use armour would be – anyone wearing them would be assumed to be Spanish because of the design, but Ned suggested that for a particular occasion they could be painted an unusual light colour.
The Catalina battery had a bigger magazine than anyone expected: Ned guessed that much of the material stored in it had been brought down recently from the castle, in anticipation of building the second battery mentioned by the major. Anyway, the Griffin, Peleus and Phoenix were each carrying five hundred roundshot for the cannons, while the Griffin had thirty barrels of powder, the Peleus seventy-five Spanish muskets and twenty-five barrels of bullets, and the Phoenix had three hundred empty grenade cases and ten barrels of brimstone. She also had two hundred bundles of slowmatch, although Burton’s verdict on it was that the plaited mangrove was more reliable.
The gold, silver and pewter plate, flagons, tankards, candelabra and cutlery had been listed, stowed in sacks and finally distributed in the holds of the seven privateers; the jewellery by common consent had been locked in a thick blanket chest and stowed in the Griffin with four armed men guarding it. The money, in sacks and boxes, was in the Peleus and the Griffin.
Except for twenty-two wives still under guard in the plaza awaiting ransom payments by their husbands, the buccaneers were ready to sail, and Thomas had been rowed over to the Griffin.
“Those damned women,” he said. “Or damned husbands, rather. I shouldn’t have been so soft-hearted and sent them mattresses to sleep on, and blankets. What sort of husband would leave his wife in the plaza, captive to buccaneers?”