We sighted Providence Island on December Fourteenth and arrived in force on the Fifteenth. With four frigates and two sloops full of armed buccaneers arriving in their harbor, the Spanish raised a flag indicating they wished to parley before we had finished lowering our sails. Thus I finally had something to do. Morgan, Collier, and I, and an honor guard of four burly men, rowed ashore to meet with the Spanish party. I asked Morgan how he wished to style himself, and he came up with several lavish titles before finally deciding upon one. We met the Spanish in an open area just between the range of their fort’s cannon and our ship’s.
The garrison’s commander made great show of being impressed with Morgan’s title of Admiral of the Buccaneers and Defender of Jamaica. He made it very clear he did not wish to truly battle such a formidable foe, but he could not very well simply hand the castle to us with no shots fired without a loss of honor and dignity he would find too great to bear. Thus, he wished for the Great Admiral Morgan to do him the favor of engaging in a mock battle—in which all shots would be fired in the air—and thus allow him to depart with dignity. He also asked—as they had insufficient boats for the task—if we would be so kind as to sail his three hundred men to the mainland. In exchange for these courtesies, he agreed to leave the castle, its cannon, and more importantly, its stores, intact and ready for our use.
Morgan graciously agreed to these terms. Thus the battle to take Providence Island was waged within our persons, by our fighting ourselves to not laugh in the face of the earnest Spaniard; and then with our men in explaining that they must not shoot the Spaniards on the morrow; and then with the captains in convincing them to haul three hundred Spaniards to the mainland. On the morning of the Sixteenth, the mock battle took place; and the Spanish marched out and we marched in.
We were also fortunate in that four of the Commander’s men—all former bandits from the Main—agreed to stay on as our guides, and claimed to be very familiar with the passage to Panama. By way of proof, they spoke of many details the Spanish maps did not show. All present at this viewing of the maps judged the men to be sincere and greedy and not duplicitous.
The remainder of our fleet trailed in over the next few days. They were all quite happy to see we had a fortress waiting for them. Many of the men ashore attempted to tell their laggard fellows that we had taken the place after much valor and warfare. There was a good deal of laughter over the matter, and everyone was in fine spirits and jested that Panama would be much the same—especially since Morgan was sure we would take them by surprise.
On the morning of the Nineteenth, Bradley sailed with his Mayflower, Pierrot’s Josephine, a small frigate named Fortune, and four hundred men to take the fortress of San Lorenzo at the mouth of the River Chagre in preparation for the fleet’s arrival. Gaston and I had been somewhat surprised when Pierrot agreed to go on this mission. We had spoken with him briefly when he arrived at Providence, but little of import could be said except for his whispered assurance that our friends were well when we embraced in greeting.
Cudro arrived that afternoon. The new Virgin Queen was indeed slow. We were quite pleased to see her arrive, though, and know that they too were safe and well.
Leaving a small garrison of fifty men behind—and one small craft in case they needed to flee the Spanish—we sailed from Providence Island on Christmas. We sighted our ships and the fortress on January Second, Sixteen Hundred and Seventy-One. The easterly winds had favored our smaller fore-and-aft rigged vessels in contrast to the square-rigged frigates; and Morgan had also commanded that all ships stay together even if it meant sailing with less canvas; and so the entire fleet arrived on the same day. There was great cheering when we saw the Brethren Jolie Rouge flying above the castle. Morgan was so delighted he chose to sail into the river’s mouth to achieve the cove containing the fortress’ wharf—so that he could triumphantly walk to the site of our conquest instead of rowing ashore.
The skeleton crews of the three ships had waved in greeting when we arrived. As we neared the river mouth they began to signal frantically. Collier’s master of sail yelled for his men to trim sail and picked his way forward through the deck crowded with buccaneers to reach the bow. He leaned over the rail, cursed loudly, and everyone standing was thrown to their knees as the air was torn asunder by the horrible sound of wood splintering against rock.
Gaston and I looked to one another, forced our way through the panicked and milling men to our cabin, and gathered our things. When we emerged, it was obvious the ship was sinking. Her boats and canoes had been lowered, but they could only hold a tenth of the men aboard—almost none of whom could swim. The Satisfaction was going down in somewhat deep water next to the rocky bar at the mouth of the river. The shore was actually within range of our cannon. It would be an easy swim, if not for the river’s current sweeping into the sea.
We retreated to the quarterdeck, and there I left Gaston while I went to brave the hatch for a floating barrel or crate. I found one, and wrestled it on deck and rolled it to my matelot. We prized the lid off, placed the medicine chest and our powder and pistols inside, and pounded the lid down tight. Then we bundled the rest of our possessions and affixed them to the outside of the hogshead. We next acquired a long length of rope. Once we had that, we stared at one another.
“I am going,” I said.
“Where?” he asked with a smile.
I pointed to the northern shore closest to the ship. “I will dive over and let the current take me a little, and then you will anchor me so that I can swim across it in an arc to the shore.”
He took a deep breath and nodded. “I will follow with the barrel once you are anchored there.”
I looked around as he knotted the rope about my shoulder and chest. The water was confusion. Many of the smaller vessels had been attempting to lead, follow, or accompany us into the deceptive river mouth. Five of them had found the rocky escarpment beneath the water and were now sinking much faster than the Satisfaction. There were men thrashing about in the current and being pulled out to sea or sinking before the rescue boats could reach them.
Some of our craft—including, thank the Gods, the new Virgin Queen —had actually steered into the deeper channel to the south—the part of the river that lay within range of the fortress’s guns, which sat high above us on a cliff. Here, as elsewhere, the Spanish had proven they understood much about the defense of waterways. As a country, they might not have excelled at sailing the seas, but they knew damn well how to prevent other people from sailing into their ports. And Cudro might not have known the east coast of Hispaniola, but the man understood Spanish defense works.
The tilting deck of the Satisfaction was barely more orderly than the sea. Morgan had initially chosen to stay with the ship, but he had entrusted his personal items to the men on the first boat. Now men were urging him to board the next rescue boat. Collier was running about commanding men to salvage what they could and not overload the rescue craft. Our boats were still emptying men onto the nearest ships. Another wave of boats had reached us from those same ships, but it was obvious they could not take everyone. The men who realized they would not yet be able to row away were retreating to the quarterdeck.
Gaston tied his end of the rope off on a staunch rail. We kissed briefly. I dove into the water.
The rope was heavy about my shoulders, and I was initially worried that I might not be able to float with it around me. Then the current buoyed me up and out, and I merely needed to tread water to keep my head up until Gaston decided I had gone far enough. The loop around my chest closed like some giant jaw, and I forced thoughts of malicious sea creatures from my head as I began to swim across the current. It proved far easier than swimming against it ever would—that would have been extremely difficult and gained me nothing.
At last I reached the shore. I glanced at the boat—and saw the bow was beneath the waves and much of her waist with it. There were a dozen men standing around Gaston on the quarterdeck. I quickly made my end fast aro
und a scrubby tree trunk and then looped it around my waist and got a good grip on it. To my dismay, Gaston was the not the next person in the water. A man I did not know pulled himself along the arc of rope running between Gaston and me. He was followed by man after man until all those left on the quarterdeck were on the rope. When the first man was ashore and helping me pull the next man in, Gaston untied his end and stepped only a short distance into the water with the barrel. We now had enough men to start hauling the rest in, and Gaston was soon at my side along with our possessions.
Happy men were applauding us for being clever and knowing how to swim; elsewhere desperate men were still being fished from the water; and our sad flagship was finishing her descent beneath the waves with nearly all her provisions and munitions.
I said a silent prayer of thanks to Poseidon.
We walked along the northern shore until we were across from the fort’s cove and wharf. There we waited until the fleet’s boats finished rescuing the men in the water and were available to rescue the men on the wrong side of the river. Two hours after we struck the rocks, Morgan was able to walk up the winding path to the fortress of San Lorenzo; six ships and all they contained save men were lost; and ten men were drowned.
We followed Morgan up the path with Cudro and Ash. We could smell death and charred wood as we neared the top. Our Admiral stood talking quietly with a very grim Pierrot. Then he was casting about until he spied us. He waved for us to hurry to him and we ran the last distance and joined him in following Pierrot inside the fortress.
It was burned: nearly every structure within the walls was fire damaged; and there were piles of dead men everywhere: some ours, and very many theirs. Pierrot led us past this carnage to a standing corner of a building. In the shade there, a man lay on a cot. His face was so drawn with pain and of such grey pallor I had difficulty recognizing him as Bradley. Gaston quickly knelt at his side, glanced down his body, and pulled the bloody blanket aside to reveal two cauterized stumps.
“What happened?” Gaston asked.
“Cannon ball,” Pierrot said. “It tore both his legs off at the same time. A man near him put a torch to him to keep him from bleeding to death.”
“Will he live?” Morgan asked, and knelt beside the bed to pat Bradley’s face with concern. When his old friend did not respond, he turned to Gaston.
My man was examining the stumps. “Will he want to?” he asked quietly. Then he shook his head. “He has lost too much blood. I am surprised he still lives.”
Morgan stood. “How many men?”
“We have one hundred and fifty men dead or wounded,” Pierrot said. “More wounded than dead, thank God. But more will die. They had three hundred and fourteen. They have thirty now.”
“Well, you made a fine accounting of yourselves,” Morgan said.
Pierrot sighed and nodded agreeably. “That we did. We were lucky with the fire. You should know that this fort was not meant for so many. The President of Panama sent several hundred reinforcements—regular infantry and Indians both—just a few days before we arrived. They know we are here and where we are going.”
Morgan swore quietly, and his words were soft as well. “Do not tell anyone of that. It will discourage the men.”
Pierrot snorted. “As you wish.”
I heard no more: Gaston had begun to follow the trail of wounded away from Bradley and around the corner. I hefted the medicine chest and followed him.
As their horrendous battle had been five days ago, almost all of the men who had received mortal wounds were dead. The rest had been tended by the ship’s surgeons. As most of the surviving wounded had burns, there was little to be done for them. Gaston focused his attention on those with musket or arrow wounds.
He had conferred with the surgeons on five when I spied Chris sitting with his back to a wall and his face buried in his hugged knees. Pete lay on the ground beside him with a bloody bandage about his chest. I ran to them.
Startled, Chris looked up. “Oh thank God,” he breathed—in English.
“Naw, ThankTheGods,” Pete drawled and grinned at me.
I knelt to embrace them. I looked for Gaston and found him arriving to kneel on the other side of Pete.
“What?” my matelot asked as he lifted the bandage.
“Arrow,” Pete said and gasped and cursed as Gaston probed the wound.
“It went right through him,” Chris said—thankfully in French. “He broke it off and… Never mind. I tried to remember what Will did for your wound. I poured rum on it and pressed a bandage tightly on both sides. I did not know if I should stitch it, so I did not. He bled, but not a great deal.”
I looked and saw a short slash of a wound between two of Pete’s ribs, far out on the right side of his chest. Gaston had him roll onto his left side and he examined another slit resting between two ribs opposite the one in the front.
“Did it enter from the front?” my man asked.
“Non, the back. We were retreating. We would dash in and out and…” Chris shook his head.
“You are a lucky bastard and you will live,” Gaston pronounced. “It shows no sign of sepsis, and it apparently missed your organs.”
“Tol’Ya,” Pete said to Chris.
His matelot sighed and appeared close to tears.
“What happened here?” I asked.
Chris sighed and looked about. “We arrived in the morning, and Bradley had everyone put ashore. We marched down the coast and climbed up the mountain to attack this damn place from behind.” He shrugged. “Well, it cannot be attacked from the front. It has cliffs on three sides.
“We arrived in the forest behind it in the middle of the afternoon. There was a great wooden palisade, and then a deep trench—two men deep at least—and then another palisade. The Spaniards had the land well-cleared, and they and their Indians could fire on us with cannon, muskets, and arrows before we could get in range of their walls with grenadoes or fire pots.
“We attacked anyway. We would run at them and try to fire and chase them off the walls long enough for our men to get close and attack the palisade itself. I have read about such battles. They are always spoken of by observers or officers—or stupid historians who never even saw a battle. They are not described by the men who wage them,” he said vehemently.
“It was hellish. It was night. Men were screaming. The Spanish were taunting us from the wall and laughing at our wounded—who we could not reach to rescue. I could barely see for the smoke and darkness. And then the cannon balls would come and… Twice men standing near us were there, and then they were simply gone.” He shuddered.
“’EDidGood. Never’AdTaLook Fer’Im. KeptShootin’ An’Reloadin’.”
Chris snorted. “I could do nothing else.” He regarded his hands. “It was as if I did not have a thing to do—a logical task—I would go mad. And I had the musket in my hands, so I kept shooting.”
“We have all been there,” I said kindly. “You did as you should.”
He sighed. “Until Pete got shot. I saw the arrow protruding from his chest, and I screamed.” The remembered horror contorted his face.
“LikeAGirl. NoOne’Eard’Im,” Pete said with a grin.
I laughed. “I doubt it.”
Chris glared at us. “It is not funny. He had an arrow in his chest. I tried to drag him further into the trees, but he was cursing and he stood his ground. He pulled the arrow further out of him and snapped it off and told me to pull the fletched half out of his back. So I did, and while I was at it, this arse reloads his musket and shoves the arrow in the barrel with the paper of his cartouche as wadding. Then he yelled some stupid thing about sending it back and he fired high over the wall. The damn arrow caught fire from the powder and arced over the wall and landed on a thatched roof. It caught fire. Then everyone near us was doing it: firing burning arrows onto their roofs.
“The Spaniards did not see the burning buildings behind them until the fires were raging. Then many of them turned their attention from
the walls and we were finally able to get men close enough to burn the outer palisade until it could be pushed down to use as a drawbridge across the trench. Once that happened, I finally got Pete to sit and let me tend his wound.
“We finally took the fort. It has been five days since then, and we have had no food save what we carried, and we have had to haul water up from the river—the Spanish used all they had fighting the fire—and the fire burned all their stores. And there are dead bodies everywhere and the only ones being buried are ours. There were more of theirs. And they’ve been torturing the few Spaniards who lived.”
“So you have not had any food?” I asked.
“Our boucan, nothing more. Thank God you arrived with the rest of the provisions.”
I grimaced. “About that…” I told them of losing the ships.
Chris was aghast, but Pete laughed until he gasped with pain.
“So, our hero is not dead then,” Pierrot appeared above us to say.
We chuckled.
“Non, it will take more than an arrow to fell Pete the Lionhearted,” I said.
“Are you well?” Gaston asked Pierrot.
Our friend smiled and showed Gaston a stitched gash on his leg. “I will live.” He grimaced. “Tell me, my friends, did they not even look for a reef?”
“Non,” I said. “Not until they saw men from the other ships attempting to signal us.”
“How much did we lose?” he asked. “Morgan was vague.” I told him. He whistled with sad appreciation. “He will have to move quickly now. There is no food. And I pray for you all that you will not have to take another fortress like this one.”
“You pray for us?” I asked.
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