The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  Panama promised wealth; the district around it already provided beauty. To their right the plain undulated towards the sea, clearly not the parade ground they had first supposed it, but rather a rabbit warren of bushes and ravines, not deep, but sufficient to hide a man. Or men. And beyond it the eternal surf played on the endless beach, guardians of an ocean which stretched half-way round the world to the kingdoms of the Great Khan, and the Mikado of Japan. The sun, rising from out of the forest behind them, sent a long swathe of glowing gold across that fathomless sea, suggestive of the prize they sought, if they had the courage, and the stamina, and the ability.

  For Panama was awake. The gates were open, and out there came squadron after squadron of lancers, dressed in bright uniforms, with brighter pennants flying from their spearheads, yellow and red. Kit looked around, and found Jean and Bart Le Grand staring with him. How many men present had a long score to settle with the Spanish lancers?

  Behind the lancers there came the tramp of infantry, displacing as much dust as even the horses, an immense mass of men in breastplates and helmets, pikes or muskets at their shoulders, every step matching every other. This was the Spanish tercio, the infantry division which had conquered the world with the same ease as it had conquered Europe.

  'By Christ,' someone muttered. 'But there are thousands of them.'

  The buccaneers watched the enemy form line, the infantry in the centre in a solid body, the horsemen milling about on each wing. Nor apparently were the Spaniards yet finished summoning their army; a real cloud of dust rose from close by the city gates. More cavalry? Morgan stared through his telescope, his whole face a frown. 'Cattle, by God. They mean to rout us with cattle.' He closed the glass with a snap, turned to face his army. 'You'll run, God damn you. Make for the plain, and take shelter in the ravines. But stay close.'

  The buccaneer army debouched from the road without any further hesitation, making little noise beyond pants and grunts as they staggered for the plain. From the Spanish ranks there rose a cheer, as they assumed their enemies to be already defeated.

  'Kit Hilton,' Morgan bellowed. 'Bart Le Grand. Jean DuCasse. All you men who were boucaniers. Assemble here, by God.'

  Kit left the men who had crewed the canoe with him, ran to Morgan's side, trailing his heavy musket. Soon there were two dozen of them.

  'We've a hard day ahead of us, lads,' Morgan said. 'They outnumber us, and they're regular troops. Our boyos are weak with hunger, and they'll need all their strength. So isn't it a good thing the commandant has done, driving those beef cattle towards us?'

  The herd was continuing to approach at a gallop, the hammer of their hooves making the earth shake, while the dust cloud eddied above them.

  'You leave it to us,' Bart said. 'We'll not waste a ball, Admiral. Come on, my bravos. To that ridge.'

  Kit followed him across the uneven turf. Outnumbered, two to one, by regulars. His belly rose to meet his heart, and his heart sank to meet his belly. What hope had they? But perhaps, after they had slaughtered some of the cattle, Morgan would lead them back into the forest and safety.

  Except that what safety could there be for a defeated band of buccaneers, fifty miles and incredible hardships away from their ships, who had even lost faith in their general?

  Supposing they survived the cattle. He lay on his belly on the already dry earth, and watched the tossing horns, the scorching hooves, the seething dust pounding towards him. Nothing would stop them now. His throat tightened.

  'That big black bull,' Bart growled. 'And those on either side. We must drop them together, friends, or they will trample us to death. Take your sights. But wait for my command.'

  Kit licked his lips, and found he had no saliva. But his breeches were wet. Christ, how frightened he was. The stampeding cows were not more than a hundred yards away. Would Bart ever give the command? Would there be time even to squeeze the trigger? And suppose the flint misfired?

  'Fire,' Bart shouted, and the muskets rippled flame and sent black smoke up to join the dust.

  'Load,' Bart shrieked. 'Load, you miserable sons of whores. Load.'

  Desperately Kit crammed a ball into the muzzle of his gun, and rammed it down. There were cows all around him now, hurtling past, lowing and roaring, but separated by the wall of flame which had been hurled at them as much as by the dozen which had collapsed to form a mound immediately before the score of crouching men. And now the muskets were sounding again, driving the herd of cattle into two ever-divergent streams; at this range not even a musket could miss.

  The sound lessened, although the dust continued to whirl and make them cough and choke. And now it was replaced by a tremendous whoop as Morgan led the main body forward. Men swarmed around Kit, tearing at the still breathing cows, slicing through quivering limbs and stripping the tough hide away from the warm red meat beneath. Some were already lighting fires to roast their breakfast; the main part just crammed the raw meat into their mouths. 'Kit. Kit. Where are you, Kit.'

  Jean carried a beefsteak in each hand. They had been charcoal broiled, so that the outsides were black but blood still oozed.

  'Eat one of these,' Jean commanded. 'And feel the strength flow back into your limbs.'

  The meat was hard and tasteless, but to teeth which had chewed nothing but leather belts for three days it was like eating the tenderest of sucking pigs. Saliva mingled with the blood which filled his mouth.

  'You shoot good, Master Hilton,' Agrippa tore at a rib. 'Now we must all fight good, eh?'

  The dust had cleared, and the Spanish army lay in front of them, amazingly still, whereas surely, Kit thought, had they but launched an attack while the buccaneers were feeding, the victory would immediately have been theirs. No doubt they counted the victory secure in any event. And the moment was already past, for the bugle was sounding again, and the men were reluctantly scrambling to their feet, many tucking meaty ribs and lumps of steak into their belts.

  Morgan had moved to the front. 'Musketeers,' he bellowed. 'Bart Le Grand, take the right flank with a hundred men. Kit Hilton, take the left. Not sharpshooters only, now. Any man who can fire a musket quickly and knows how to aim. The rest follow us.'

  'You'll march with me, Jean,' Kit said.

  'I would like that privilege also, Master Hilton,' Agrippa said.

  'And you shall have it, by God. Come, load those pieces.'

  The main body was already moving forward; Morgan's captain had unfurled a tremendous Cross of St George at the head of the column, flying from a long spar.

  'You and you and you,' Kit bellowed, singling out men with clean-looking firepieces. 'To me on the flank. Come on, now. Make haste.'

  For he could see what Morgan feared. As the buccaneer army advanced across the plain, the two bodies of lancers had also moved forward, trotting from their positions in line with the tercio, and obviously meaning to charge the flanks of the attacking army. The cattle still stampeded aimlessly across the open ground beneath their banner of eddying dust, and behind them also now were the steaming carcasses and smouldering fires of half an hour ago. And now the thudding of the hooves was growing loud again as the horsemen approached, gradually fanning out into a line as they drew parallel with the buccaneers.

  The bugle sounded, and the flagstaff was placed in the ground; they were still out of range of the infantry, at a quarter of a mile distance.

  'I think we are opposed by a fool,' Agrippa muttered, settling the stock of his firepiece into his shoulder.

  'Hold your fire,' Kit commanded, remembering how Bart had controlled them against the cattle. He walked up and down the line of half-naked, bearded, sweating savages he had been asked to lead. 'Hold your fire.' He took his place at one end of the line, and heard the rattle of cutlasses behind him. The cavalry-were lowering their lances, and the trot was becoming a canter. He estimated there were just over a hundred of them on each flank.

  'Remember Hispaniola,' Portuguese Bart yelled, and the cry was taken up. 'Remember Hispaniola.'

/>   'Fire,' Kit shouted, as the range closed, and the muskets rippled with explosion and smoke. The lancers did not check, but a good score of their number fell, and the collapsing horses brought down several more.

  'Load,' Kit yelled. 'Load, make haste. Load.'

  But there was not time. The horsemen were coming on again.

  'Pistols,' he bellowed. 'Pistols and cutlasses. Steady now.' He drew his own weapon, braced his feet as if he would fight a duel, and fired; a horse in front of him reared and whinnied, throwing its rider and falling backwards on to him. And then the noise of the immediate conflict was drowned in a tremendous roar, and he looked over his shoulder. Morgan had deemed the safety of his wings in good hands, and had given the order to charge. With a howl of contempt and fury a thousand buccaneers launched themselves in a small, tight body against the very centre of the imposing force in front of them.

  But for the time being Kit and his musketeers were fully engaged with the horsemen. Now the melee became general, and in the first rush three of the buccaneers went down with spears in their bellies. But at close quarters the spears could only be used once, and long before the horsemen could control their mounts or drag their swords free they were seized and jerked from their saddles, and butchered on the ground. Cutlasses rose and fell, blood splattered and stained the brilliant steel, men howled, with pain and despair and with exultation, horses neighed with utter terror and added to the confusion as they raced to and fro.

  But this fight was won. 'To me,' Kit bellowed, his voice hoarse and sweat running down his cheeks. 'To me. Follow me. Jean. Agrippa.'

  'We are here,' Jean shouted. And so were still seventy others. Kit pointed his cutlass in the direction of the city, and advanced at a run, and checked in amazement. For now the dust again cleared, and in front of him the much-vaunted Spanish infantry were fleeing in every direction, some seeking the seashore and the boats which waited there, others running with desperate fear for the terrible safety of the forest. Morgan's charge had won the day, and already the buccaneers were battering at the gates of the city itself.

  Had ever a day been so hot, and it was still early in the morning? Had such a day ever been seen, in all the brief history of America? For had such a city ever fallen to so few men, and to such men? They ran through the streets, no longer fearing opposition where there was none. The houses were shuttered and silent, and perhaps empty. They reached the central square, and gazed in amazement at the immensity of the cathedral, rising up and up and up, its square tower the one they had seen from the forest. Then they gave a whoop, and ran for the great barred doors.

  Others had found the city hall, and beneath it, the dungeons. Here there were shouts and screams, and the buccaneers seized glaring torches and made their way down the noisome corridors, bursting open the doors of the cells to release the things that lay within. For these were surely not men. Some had lost one eye, some both; the marks of the fire still clung to their temples and foreheads. Others had lost cars and fingers and toes, and others whole limbs. More than one had been castrated. And all had been whipped so savagely their backs were masses of festering sores, while all showed the bones and paper-thin skins of men who had been starved as a matter of course. And these were the lucky ones, whom the Inquisition had not yet burned.

  'By God,' Morgan said. 'By God. We'll have a Spanish life for every mark on every body. What say you, boys?' The roar of angry lust filled the gaol.

  'Make them scream, boyos,' Morgan shouted. 'And make them yield every last drop of wealth they possess. Tear it from their living bellies if you have to. And bring it to the square in front of the cathedral. For mark my words; we share and share alike, according to the articles under which we sail. The man who forgets that hangs.'

  They uttered another scream and poured into the square once again, their yells mingling with those already issuing from the cathedral, where some of the buccaneers were dragging out the great gold services and tearing down the crosses from the walls, while others had invaded the offices at the back of the building, and the cellars below, and reached the hiding nuns.

  That was too terrible to contemplate. Kit found himself in the midst of a band rampaging down a side street, ignoring promising shops and smaller dwellings as they searched for bigger game, and finding a mansion at the end of the street, set back from the road behind wrought-iron railings and a huge, locked gate. But these were seamen. They swarmed over the wall in a matter of seconds, advanced across the splendid garden, kicking aside rose bushes and flowering oleander, their sweat and the blood on their arms drenching even the odour of the jasmine.

  A dog barked, and two ran from the rear of the building. They were met by swinging cutlasses and stretched lifeless on the patio before the front entrance. Now, Kit thought, this day, we avenge your death, Grandmama. Fully. But he felt sick.

  The door was barred, but had never been intended to resist so tumultuous an assault. Muscular shoulders were hurled against it, regardless of bruised flesh or broken skin, and it flew open. Kit was one of the first through, scattering across a parquet floor beneath a high, painted ceiling, to come to rest against a mahogany dresser, to stare at the huge vases in front of him, filled with bright flowers.

  'By Christ,' someone said. 'Solid silver.'

  'There'll be more,' another said, and ran into the inner room. Here double doors opened on to the centre courtyard, a place of peace and more flowers, where a fountain played. ' 'Tis a palace.'

  'And empty?' someone demanded.

  'There'll be cellars.' The first speaker, whose name was Scotch Mack, had taken command. 'We'll to them first. Come on, lads.'

  They flooded across the courtyard to the kitchen, where the fires still glowed in the huge ovens; it was so early the family had not yet even had time to breakfast before the disaster had fallen on their city. A pan of cooking fat simmered gently, giving its tang to the already rancid air. And there, sure enough, was the door leading down to the cellars. This too was barred, and this too was torn from its hinges in a matter of seconds. They tumbled down the staircase to find themselves in the midst of endless rows of bottles.

  'French wine, by God,' Mack shouted, and seized one, to snap off the neck against a pillar and upend it over his face. They all followed his example. Warm liquid splashed on to Kit's cheeks and flooded down his neck; some found its way into his mouth and helped to calm his tumbling nerves.

  But already the buccaneers were battering against an inner door, and a moment later they gazed at the people inside. A man, well past middle age, tall and with some dignity in his face to offset his obvious fear. A woman, no doubt the man's wife, for she was of an age with him, like him wearing an undressing-robe over her nightclothes, thin and pale, with white hair loose on her shoulders. Two Negro women, dressed, and wearing aprons. And another woman, younger than the couple, although considerably older than any of the buccaneers. Their daughter, Kit estimated. She was tall and plump; her hair was a rich brown and her face had the aquiline splendour of a woman accustomed to rule. Now she stood in front of her parents and her servants, her hands clasped. She wore a deep blue robe which brushed the floor, and her hair was also loose, gathered in a long strand over one shoulder.

  'By God,' someone grumbled. 'They're old.'

  'They'll have children,' Mack promised. 'And gold, buried.' He seized the younger woman by the hair, dragged her against him. She gasped for breath, and tried to maintain her dignity as he brought her close. 'Gold,' Mack shouted into her face, and she gagged on his breath. 'Where have ye buried your gold?'

  She tried to shake her head, but that was impossible.

  Her father spoke, in a thin voice which trembled. 'We have no gold buried, monsieurs,' he said in French. 'What we own you see about you. You are welcome to it. Leave us only our lives, I beg of you.'

  Mack stared at him for a moment, and then thrust out the hand holding his cutlass. The old man swayed backwards, but the thrust none the less split his undressing-robe and nightshirt, and slashe
d his chest. He stared down at the blood in horror.

  'Bring them,' Mack shouted, and started up the stairs, still holding the woman's hair, so that she had to run behind him, her body dragged forward. She struck at him with her fists, and another of the buccaneers swept her legs from the floor. The pair of them carried her up the stairs, and deposited her on the kitchen table. The rest brought the other four people. Kit found himself holding the old woman by the arms as he pushed her forward. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and whispered in French, 'But you are only a boy.'

  The sickness in his belly grew, into a huge solid mass which threatened to erupt at any moment.

  Mack was shaking the younger woman to and fro by the hair, in front of the old man. 'Gold,' he repeated. 'Tell us where you have hidden your gold.'

  The old man fell to his knees, still clutching the blood seeping from the wound in his chest. 'Oh, God,' he begged. 'Oh, God.'

  The two Negresses cowered against the wall; the woman Kit was holding also sank to her knees, and he let her go. The younger woman said something in Spanish, her face twisted with pain as Mack dragged on her hair.

  'We'll make ye squeal,' he growled. He looked around him, quickly, searching the kitchen with his gaze. The woman's eyes followed his, rolling. And then he smiled; he had seen the pan of cooking fat. 'Heat that up,' he said.

  One of the men gave a whoop, and thrust the pan over the flames. Immediately it began to sizzle, and the aroma drifted through the kitchen. Mack let go of the woman long enough to grasp the front of her undressing-robe and tear it free. Underneath was a white nightgown, and this too was torn away, to reveal large, sagging breasts, nipples hard with terror, flesh white and filled with pumping blue blood-vessels.

  'Over here,' Mack said. 'We'll cook ourselves some breakfast.'

  The woman screamed, a shriek of real terror as she understood what was going to happen to her. Kit ran from the kitchen and up the stairs. So she was a member of the nation which had murdered Grandmama. Against whom his family had fought all of their lives. Against whom he must fight all of his life and against whom he had sworn eternal vengeance. But in such a bestial fashion?