by Tim Severin
'Did the council meet?'
'It was a bad-tempered affair with a lot of shouting. I listened on the fringes. Everyone is grumbling and complaining. It seems that no one expected this journey to be such hard going. Coxon was particularly angry. He feels his leadership is being called into question. He and Harris were at one another's throats. Your name came up. Coxon called you a little whoreson — that was the exact phrase he used — and asked Harris why he had brought you along to the last council meeting. Harris replied that it was none of Coxon's business and he did not trust the interpreter that Coxon had provided.'
'Was anything decided?'
'Sawkins is elected to command the forlorn. He's to choose eighty of our best men to lead the attack when we come into contact with the enemy.'
'Well, at least they got the right man. Sawkins has a reputation as a fire-eater, always ready to lead the charge.'
'Perhaps too much so,' said Jezreel with a slight frown. 'In the ring I learned it's seldom a good idea to rush in. Better to bide your time until you see the right opening. Then strike.'
At that instant there was a shockingly loud explosion very close by. Everyone sprang to their feet and looked in the direction of the noise. A small group of buccaneers had been seated around a camp fire, now one of them was clutching his face and crying out in pain. He seemed unable to get to his feet.
'What in the devil's name was that?' asked Jacques, bewildered. But Hector had grabbed his knapsack of medicines and was already running towards the scene. 'Bring the medicine chest,' he called back over his shoulder, 'and find Smeeton. There are people hurt.'
He arrived at the spot to find the buccaneer was badly burned. His thigh had been torn open by the blast. Hector knelt beside the victim. 'Lie still,' he said. 'A surgeon will be here soon, and we must clean the wound.'
The man was gritting his teeth in pain and staring down at the damaged leg. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid bastard,' he repeated savagely.
Hector gently eased back the shredded clothing. Underneath were patches of charred and blistered skin. 'What happened?'
'It's this rain. Gets into the gunpowder, and makes it useless. Gabriel who has the wits of wooden block was trying to dry out his powder. Spread it on a dish and held it over the fire. Too close, and the whole lot blew up.'
'Hector, I'll take over now.' It was Smeeton. The surgeon had arrived with Jezreel carrying the medicine chest. 'Get someone to fetch a basin of water, and I'd be obliged if you would pass me a pair of small tongs from the chest. Search this man's pack and see if there's anything in it which can be used for bandages.'
For several minutes the surgeon cleaned and probed with his forceps, removing traces of cloth and dead skin. The surface of the thigh was pitted with several irregular wounds, the largest two or three inches across. The skin around them was a dead white or a flaring angry red.
'This is going to take a very long time to heal,' commented Smeeton. With a start Hector realised that the surgeon was speaking to him in Latin.
'Will he lose the leg?' asked Hector, also in Latin. He had a nightmare vision of having to use the saws and clamps he had cleaned and sharpened.
'Only if there is an infection. No bones are broken.'
'What are you two gabbling about!' An angry shout ended their discussion. Coxon was standing over them, his face working with anger. 'God's Bones! Can't you talk in English. What's the matter with this wretch?'
Smeeton rose to his feet, wiping his hands on a cloth. 'He's badly injured in the thigh by an explosion of gunpowder. From now on he'll have to be carried in a litter.'
'I'll not have the column slowed down by invalids,' Coxon snapped. 'If tomorrow morning he cannot get on his feet, we leave him here. He's wasted enough gunpowder as it is.' The buccaneer captain's glance fell on Hector who had remained kneeling beside the injured man. 'You again,' he barked. 'A pity you weren't standing closer to the blast,' and he turned on his heel and strode away across the soggy ground.
'Not much sympathy there,' sighed Smeeton. 'Hector, look in the medicine chest for a jar of basilicon, and add hyperium and aloe if they are readily to hand. You should know where to find them.'
Hector did as he was asked and watched the surgeon spread the salve on the open wounds.
'Best keep your leg covered with a cloth to prevent insects feasting on the sores,' Smeeton told his patient. 'Tomorrow we will decide what is to be done.'
Next morning the injured man could barely hobble, even with a crutch cut for him. So while the column were breakfasting on the last of their doughboys, mildewed and mushy with damp, Smeeton asked Hector to prepare a good quantity of the healing salve. 'We'll leave it with him, and he can attend to his own wound. In a day or so he should be able to begin making his way back to the ships by slow stages. I doubt that he will have the strength to catch up with us.'
That day's march, it turned out, would have been impossible for the invalid. The Kuna guides led the column up the steep side of a mountain. In places the narrow path skirted the edge of ravines and was only wide enough for one man at a time. Here each buccaneer had to hold on to the vegetation to prevent himself slipping over the edge. It was small consolation that the Kuna guides told them that they were now crossing the watershed, and that the next stream they reached flowed towards the South Sea. When they descended the far slope, it was to find that the trail often used the stream bed itself. They had to wade knee-deep in the water, avoiding sink holes and hidden snags.
Eventually, and after another two days of this tortuous progress, the stream grew wide and deep enough for the Kuna to provide a number of small dugout canoes to carry them. But there were only enough boats for half the expedition, and the remainder of the column still had to march along the slippery, overgrown banks. The men who thought themselves lucky to be in the canoes quickly found that their optimism was misplaced. Dozens of fallen trees lay across the stream, and there were so many shallows and rapids that much of each day was spent manhandling the craft over the obstacles. Hector found himself treating numerous sprains and cuts and gashes, and the contents of the medicine chest were rapidly depleted.
Only after a full week of this wearisome marching and canoeing did the Kuna guides finally announce that the buccaneers were close to their target. The town of Santa Maria was less than two miles downriver. That night the tired expedition made camp on a spit of land, and ate cold food for fear that the smoke from their cooking fires would alert the Spanish garrison.
Hector awoke to the sound of a distant musket shot and the staccato beat of a drum. For a moment he lay with his eyes closed. He was aware that he was lying on the ground and that a sharp lump of stone was pressing into his hip but he was hoping to steal a few more moments of sleep. Then he heard the drum again. It was sounding an urgent tattoo. He rolled over and sat up. It was daybreak and he was in a small makeshift shelter made of leafy branches of the sort that the Kuna had taught the buccaneers to construct during their long march over the mountains. Beside him Jacques was still snoring softly, but Jezreel had heard the sounds. The prize fighter was propped up on one elbow and wide awake.
'Last time I heard that noise I was still in the fight game,' observed Jezreel. 'We had a drummer who walked up and down the streets, rattling away and announcing when the next bout would take place. I'd say that this time it means that the good citizens of Santa Maria have learned we are here, and they're getting ready to greet us.'
'Do you know where Dan has got to?' asked Hector. He had not seen the Miskito since the previous evening when Dan had gone off to talk with the other strikers.
'He's probably still with his chums.'
'Get up! On your feet! Time to move!' There were shouts outside, and Hector recognised the hoarse voice of Harris's quartermaster.
He followed Jezreel out of the low doorway to find that the buccaneer camp was stirring. Men were emerging from their shelters, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and looking around for their comrades or heading off into the bushe
s to relieve themselves.
'Muster to your companies! ' The yelling was insistent.
Captain Sawkins came loping towards them. He was wearing a bright yellow sash that made him look very dashing. 'You and you,' he said briskly, pointing to Jezreel and to Jacques who had just appeared. 'I want both of you in the forlorn. Attend to my flag.' He hurried on, selecting other men for the initial attack.
Left to himself, Hector looked around trying to find Smeeton. A little distance away the surgeon was talking to Harris and the other captains. He went towards them.
'Hector,' said the surgeon catching sight of him. 'Take your knapsack and go forward with Captain Harris and deal with any minor injuries on the battlefield itself. Leave the medicine chest here. I will set up a medical station where the worse injuries can be brought back for treatment. Hurry now.'
Hector found himself following Harris and the other captains through the woodland in the direction of where the drum had sounded. The ground rose steadily and they had to push their way through dense undergrowth, unable to see more than a few yards ahead. Their Kuna guides were nowhere to be seen, and it took nearly half an hour to arrive at a vantage point on a low ridge. From there they had a clear view of their objective, the gold-rich town of Santa Maria they had struggled so hard to reach.
Their first impression came as a shock. They were expecting a substantial colonial town with stone-built ramparts and paved streets, red-tiled roofs and a market square, perhaps even with a fort and cannon to guard its treasures. Instead the scene was of a haphazard scatter of thatched buildings which amounted to little more than an overgrown village built on open land sloping gently down to the river. There was no defensive wall, no gate, not even a watchtower. But for the Spanish flag hanging limp from its pole, the place might even have been mistaken for a large Kuna settlement. In addition the town looked deserted.
'Is that really Santa Maria?' said Harris wonderingly as he stepped back into the fringe of the woodland so as not to be seen from the town.
'Must be. There's a Spaniard scuttling for cover,' observed Captain Sharpe. A figure dressed in an old-fashioned breastplate and helmet had run out from one of the thatched houses and was heading towards a crude stockade built a little way to one side of the settlement.
'That's their only defence,' stated Harris, narrowing his eyes as he gazed down towards the Spanish position. 'The palisade can't be more than twelve feet high, and it's only made of wood posts. That may be enough to defend against a Kuna attack using bows and arrows, but nothing to stop a force of musketeers. The Spanish garrison must be holed up inside, and scared out of their wits.'
'That's no reason for us to be reckless,' said a harsh voice from behind him. Coxon had joined them. He was accompanied by a spear-carrying Kuna. It was the Indian who had been wearing the brass helmet at the original conference on Golden Island, though now he had put aside his shining headgear. "We will wait for our Kuna allies. They are bringing up two hundred of their warriors in support.'
Coxon was making it clear that he was in command of the attack. 'I have given orders for Captain Sawkins to muster the forlorn in the cane brakes by the river.'
'Surely we should attack at once.' Harris spoke sharply, showing his frustration. 'The Spaniards may have sent for reinforcements. We need to take the place before they get here.'
'No! If we play our cards right, we might be able to get the Spaniards to hand over what we want - the gold and valuables — without a fight.'
'And how would you propose doing that?' Harris demanded. His tone was mocking.
'We pretend that we are a far larger force than is the case, and propose to the Spaniards that they withdraw from Santa Maria unharmed, provided they leave behind the treasury and any gold dust recently brought in.'
'What makes you think that they will accept?'
'It's worth a try,' Coxon answered, and a sly expression passed across his face. 'Besides, if we begin a parley, it will distract the Spaniards from launching a sortie and discovering our true strength.'
Harris looked sceptical. 'There's no sign that the Spaniards are going to leave the shelter of that stockade.' As if to support his words, a ragged volley of musket fire came from the Spanish position. Puffs of smoke burst out from the loopholes cut in the stockade. The defenders must have glimpsed Sawkins' assault party forming up in the cane brakes because the shots were aimed towards the river. There was no sign of the Kuna auxiliaries.
'That makes my point for me,' said Coxon caustically. 'If the Spaniards are concerned for their own skins, they will agree to abandon their position. We will offer them full honours. We have nothing to lose.' He glanced at Hector, a calculating gleam in his eye.
'And, Captain Harris, you have provided exactly the right person to carry our message to the Spaniards. This young man, as you have assured me so often, speaks excellent Spanish. He can take our offer to the stockade under a flag of truce, and we will wait here for the answer. Captain Sawkins will await my signal before he launches the first attack.'
When Harris did not reply, Coxon took his silence as assent. Addressing Hector, the buccaneer said, 'Lynch, you are to approach the stockade carrying a flag of truce. There you will ask to speak to the Spanish commander. Inform him that we are in overwhelming strength - tell him, we are over one thousand muskets. He's no way of knowing our true numbers - and, to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, we are willing to allow him and his garrison to withdraw peacefully. Our only condition is that all valuables are left within the town. If he agrees to these terms, his men will be permitted to retain their weapons and leave with full honours, colours flying and drums beating. Do you understand your instructions?'
'Yes,' replied Hector. He was relieved that Coxon seemed no longer to resent his presence, but a little puzzled by his abrupt change of manner. Coxon now appeared to place his trust in him.
'Good. Put down your knapsack, and use your shirt as a white flag. You'll need some sort of staff.' Coxon glanced at the spear that his Kuna companion was carrying. 'That spear will do. Ask for the loan of it.'
In slow careful Spanish Hector explained to the Kuna what was proposed. The man looked baffled. 'But we have to kill the Spaniards,' he said.
'Get on with it,' snapped Coxon. 'We haven't got all day to stand talking.'
Hector repeated his request, and reluctantly the Kuna handed over his lance. The young man tied his shirt to the shaft and was about to step out into the open when Coxon caught him by the elbow. 'Don't go too fast! Walk slowly. Remember we are also giving Captain Sawkins time for his forlorn to take up position.'
Hector stepped from cover and immediately attracted several musket shots from the palisade. But the range, some four hundred yards, was too great for accurate shooting and he did not even know where the shots went.
Anxiously he held the lance higher and waved it from side to side so that the white cloth could be seen clearly. The musketry ceased.
Hector walked slowly forward. A hard knot of fear formed in his stomach and within a few paces the staff was slippery with sweat from his hands. He took deep slow breaths to calm himself, and concentrated on keeping the white flag visible. After about fifty yards he stole a quick glance to his right, hoping to see where Jezreel and Jacques were with Sawkins' assault group. But a fold of ground obscured his view. He hoisted the white flag still higher and decided that he would keep his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the wooden palisade as if this focus would somehow make them respect his flag of truce.
The ground between the palisade and the edge of the woods where he had emerged was rough pasture dotted with low scrubby bushes. He guessed that the original woodland had been cut back by the Spaniards to give a clear field of fire from the stockade, but over the years this precaution had been neglected. The bushes and long grass had been allowed to grow back so that he was obliged to pick his route carefully, making sure to stay within full view of the stockade. From time to time briars and thorns snagged his breeches, and he wondered what would hap
pen if he put his foot into a hole, tripped, and fell. Would the Spanish musketeers think it was a trick, and shoot? There was no doubt that their marksmen were on edge and that they kept their sights trained on him as he moved closer.
An insect landed on his shirtless shoulder, and a second later he felt the burning pain of a bite. He clenched his teeth and restrained himself from slapping away the insect. He needed both hands to hold the white flag high and steady.
Perhaps three or four minutes had passed since he had left Coxon and the other captains, and still there had been no response from the Spanish stockade. No musket fire, no movement. Everything was quiet. He began to breathe a little more easily. He became conscious of the warmth of the morning sun on his skin, a faint smell of something sweet — rotting fruit on the ground under the bushes perhaps — and a black shape circling in the sky high above the stockade, a bird of prey.
Steadily he paced onward.
He had covered perhaps half the distance to the stockade safely when, without warning, there was a sudden fusillade of shots, followed by a fierce, defiant yell. Shocked, he faltered in his stride, scarcely believing that the Spaniards had ignored his flag of truce. But there was no gun smoke billowing from the palisade, and in the same instant he realised that the gunfire had not come from the Spaniards, but from behind him. It was Sawkins and the forlorn who had begun shooting.
Seconds later came the counter-fire from the stockade, an irregular succession of shots as the defenders responded. This time he clearly heard the hum of musket balls whizzing past him. Some of the Spanish marksmen were taking him as their target where he stood exposed on the open ground. A musket ball slashed through a nearby bush, followed by the noise of the cut twigs pattering to the ground. Another musket ball hummed past his head.
Appalled, he threw away the staff and flag and flung himself to the ground, seeking cover. As he lay there, face down to the earth, he heard another volley of musketry from behind him and then a second cheer.