“Morgan has asked that I stay here and hold this castle with the wounded and another two hundred men—including the crews of the ships.”
“Good,” I said. “It will be nice to have someplace to return to.”
“If we do not starve. I have asked Morgan to leave us the provisions we will need. He seems to think you will find enough from the Spanish along the river.” He looked at the ruin around us, and his long expression told what he thought of that idea.
“You will stay here,” I told Pete.
“Oui,” Gaston seconded.
“Oh, oui,” Chris said firmly.
Pete grimaced, and Pierrot chuckled at him as he stood. “You damn fool, listen to those who love you.”
“Oui,” Chris breathed.
Pierrot patted me on the shoulder and went about his duties
Pete looked up at his matelot and nodded with a warm smile. “AllRight, I’llNa’MakeYa DoThisAgin.”
Chris snorted and whispered in English, “That is not why. I don’t want you dead: that is why. I love you.” He flushed.
Pete grinned. “IKnow.”
Chris rolled his eyes.
I was reminded again of the passage by Plato in which he extolled the virtues of an army comprised of lovers. He had believed such an army would be powerful indeed, because no man will fight as hard as when he stands shoulder to shoulder with one he loves.
I clapped Chris’ shoulder. “You will not change him.”
“Non,” he said, encompassing worlds of resignation and bemusement in the one word.
I leaned close and whispered to him, “I am proud of you.”
Chris smiled. “Thank you.”
Knowing them safe, Gaston and I went about tending the rest of the wounded as best we could. That night we collapsed with sad hearts next to our friends. I asked the Gods to love the dead—and the men who made them that way; as though they were fools, perhaps they would be less so with more guidance.
One Hundred and Ten
Wherein We March to Death and Ruin
We stayed at San Lorenzo for six full days. During that time, Morgan sent ships up and down the coast to steal canoes with which to navigate the upper river—and provisions if they could find any. Meanwhile, the sixteen hundred or so men we now had ate much of the food on the ships. They did repair damage and cut wood for the fortress, though; and form a bucket chain to fill her cisterns.
Gaston and I watched men die, or wish they could. There were close to a hundred wounded men, and there was not enough laudanum to dose them all, and it seemed cruel to give even the worst a brief respite from pain if it could not be continued. So we cared for them as best we could, and removed flesh and limbs that would never heal or showed signs of putrefaction.
Pete thankfully continued to improve, enough so that his libido returned. Much to my dismay and amusement, I was roused from slumber one night by their amorous activities—as Gaston and I were lying directly next to them—and saw that their trysting was of such a position it was obvious Pete was in the wrong hole.
I teased him about it the next morning when Chris was fetching their rations and Gaston was busy with patients. “So how is the squishy hole?”
Pete snorted with surprise and amusement. “Squishy. IPreferTheOther. ItHoldsTighter. ButIRealized IMightDie, AndIWanted TaKnowAforeIDied. Didna’GoThereWit’Sarah. ThatWereStriker’s. IDidna’Want MySeedIn’ ErBellyConfusin’Things.”
“What if Chris gets with child?”
He sighed. “One. NoOneWants’ImDead. NoMatterWhat May ’AppenTaUs, Chris’llLive. Two. NoOne’llHarm APregnantWoman—Na’IfSheBeOne O’OurOwn. Three. ’EWillNa’Show AforeWeLeave’Ere. Four.” He grinned. “TheGods’AveBeen KnownTaHateYou An’YurMatelot OnTheMatter, ButNa’Me.”
I had to laugh at his perilous reasoning. “You damn fool, until now you have not given Them the opportunity.”
“An’Five,” he said seriously. ‘Iffn’IDie, There’llBeAnother MeTa CarryOn.”
As I would not want a world without a Pete—and I was not even he—I could well understand the last. I found myself heartened that there were two little versions of Gaston somewhere in the world that would carry on in the event the unthinkable occurred. And two more of me as well, if the Gods were kind and protected them even if They could not aid me.
“I understand,” I said soberly. “I will say nothing else of it.”
“An’,” he added seriously. “WeCouldNa’Stay OnTheShip. I’AveAReputation, An’TheFrench BeWonderin’WhyI TookOnSuchAWeak Lookin’Matelot. TheyMadeFarMore CommentO’It ThanThe EnglishThat Saw’Im.”
“Damn French,” I said.
“Aye,” he said. “SoI’AdTaProve WeCouldFight, That’ECouldFight, An’No OneThought ThisWould BeABattleLikeItWas. ByTheTimeWeKnew, ICouldNa’Send’ImBack. AndAye, IBeGreatlyRelieved ItBeMeWhoBe Wounded. IfItWere’Im, I’dWantTaKillMeself.”
I had wondered why they would take such a risk, and wrongly assumed it was due to Pete’s boredom. I was glad to hear I had underestimated him—and that brought guilt.
“Do you feel he will wish to fight again?” I asked.
Pete shook his head. “Naw. ’EFought. ’EFoughtGood, ButItWereFer MeAn’Because ’EWereThere WithNoPlaceTaRun. ’ETookNoJoyInIt.”
“That is a relief, I suppose; unless you still wish to die on the field of battle or at least not safe in your bed.”
He snorted. “Will, ASafeBed BeSoundin’Good.”
I chuckled. “Come now, you have been wounded before.”
“Na’Lately. I’mNa’ABoy NoMore. IUsedTo’AveNothin’. NowIDo. Don’tWantTaLoseIt.” He sighed and smiled. “Don’WantTa SitAboutAn’ Whine’BoutNa’Losin’ ItLikeStrikerNeither.”
“Aye,” I said with a smile at the last. “When I traveled Christendom, I took risks I would never take now. It did not matter.”
“Aye,” he said. “NowItMatters.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “It MatteredWith StrikerToo, ButIThinkI WereAFoolThese LastYears Aroun’’Im OnAccountO’ ’ImWishin’TaBe SoCautious. IFeltOneO’UsOught TaTake RisksElseWeWould DoNuthin’ ButBecome OldMen. ItScaredMe. Now, WithChris, ItBeDifferent.
“WithStriker, Iffn’IDied, IThoughtItWould Serve’Im Somehow. That’ECouldSit AboutWith’Is WifeAn’Mourn MeAn’IsYouth. ItWereMaudlin AnFoolish. IfILeaveChris, Who’llTake CareO’’Im?”
“Well the Gods know Gaston and I have done a piss-poor job on that account,” I sighed. “But, if something dreadful were to befall you and not us, then we would do all in our power.”
He grinned. “Aye, ButNowYaPoor BastardsAreMore LikelyTaDie ThanIAm ThisYear.” He sobered and frowned. “TrulyWill. Don’BeBrave OnThisShite Campaign.”
I laughed, though I knew him sincere. “I swear I will not. It is not my war, and I have nothing left to prove.”
“Na’YaDon’t,” he said with a smile. “NoneO’UsDo. Na’Anymore.”
I thought that sentiment applied to us all, and not merely those we knew well and loved. I dearly wished that Morgan could be convinced of such a thing. Listening to him talk, this campaign was more about showing the Spanish a thing or two than it was about the plunder; and I saw him as sincere in that regard. He truly wished to be renowned in history.
I truly did not wish to be part of his bid for infamy—in any way. In those days of general confusion and disorder, with ships coming and going at all hours, Gaston and I considered slipping away. We were not sure how we would abscond with our friends, though. Upon discussing the matter with them, they encouraged us to seek our own escape if it came to that. They were all sure they would be well enough to catch up with us or our loved ones in France at a slower pace if necessary.
Gaston and I approached Pierrot when he came to ask of the wounded.
“We do not wish to add to your concerns, but one of us, or Chris, needs to board your ship and retrieve an item Pete stashed there,” I whispered. The item in question was our gold. “We intend to leave some part of it with you,” I assured him.
Pierrot grimaced t
o hide a snort of amusement. Then he shook his head. “It is not wise. Not now. I am being watched; and Morgan chastised me for taking on Pete and his matelot—and especially for allowing said matelot to enter the battle. He is very keen that small, thin cousins be protected.”
I sighed with disappointment.
“Do not fret,” he continued. “When all is chaos upon your return, then we shall see about spiriting you away. There is a place on my ship where you can be hidden—a secret compartment. If you can swim to my ship in the night, my men can get you aboard and hidden.”
“Thank you,” Gaston said. “That is a relief.”
Pierrot smiled grimly and patted my man’s shoulder. “You must survive to return, though. Be very careful. And do not worry so much about Pete and his man: I will do what I can for them.”
“And they will do what they can to watch your back in return,” I told him.
“I hope so,” he said with a smile.
He left us with hope and a sense of purpose.
Though it was not a thing discussed by many, Morgan waited until after Bradley died on the Seventh to announce we would proceed up river on the Ninth.
On the night of the Eighth, Cudro and Ash broke away from their duties and joined us for a farewell meal with Pete and Chris. We toasted one another’s safety until we should all meet again—wherever and whenever that might be, as it was obvious now that we would probably not leave this coast together on the same vessel.
Pete, Chris, Gaston and I might leave together on the Josephine if all went well, but it would be difficult for Cudro to slip away due to his duties as a captain. Of course, his being a captain gave him some say as to where his ship would sail after this war. He was sure they could get to the Northern colonies; and that even without any booty from Panama, they would have enough to book passage to anywhere in Christendom.
We discussed where our friends might be with the Magdalene, and assured ourselves that should any of us become separated, we all knew where to go to find one another again. That night, Gaston and I walked to the edge of the forest and prayed out loud. Despite this, I did not sleep well.
In the morning, Morgan led us south up the river. We were now approximately thirteen hundred men in nearly a score of stolen canoes and caraques, and a handful of buccaneer boats with shallow hulls—the new Virgin Queen thankfully not among them. I feared for the safety of these vessels on the treacherous river; especially since we were crammed into them in such numbers they rode dangerously low in the water. Of a necessity, with only enough space to carry our men, we had left behind the remaining provisions. This was a boon for Pierrot, but a horrible thing for the rest of our forces. Men were complaining of empty bellies by midday.
Our progress was slow on the unfamiliar water. Our four guides from Providence Island had traversed this river before, but they had not been the pilots of the boats they rode in, and they were not sailors in general. They knew little of navigation or the needs of vessels beyond a canoe.
Gaston and I were thankfully on one of the larger vessels with Morgan; but despite the actual deck to stand upon, we were indeed standing and little else. Men could sit or kneel—if they kept their knees pulled in and did not mind staring at crotches. At least Gaston and I could take turns sitting on the medicine chest; though, every time I felt its sturdy presence under my arse, I could only dread how heavy it would become when we had to carry it.
My matelot and I were also fortunate in that we carried a small horde of boucan. We had no intention of sharing it. We had discussed the matter and made a solemn vow to not give any away no matter how moved we were with compassion for the plight of those around us.
And wisdom also gave us one more modicum of comfort in relation to our brethren: we were slathered in fat to keep the mosquitoes at bay.
Morgan called a halt after approximately six leagues at a place our guides named De los Bracos. Everyone gratefully clambered from the boats and stretched their aching limbs. Then men spread into the surrounding fields and forests to see what the closest plantations might have for victuals. They found nothing except evidence the Spanish had fled before us. That night there was much grumbling around the fires, both from mouths and empty bellies.
The next day, we started early and traveled until we reached a place called Cruz de Juan Gallego. We found no Spaniards and no provisions. We also saw in the waning twilight that the way ahead would quickly become impassable for the larger vessels. The River Chagre was unusually low this year, and the navigable channels were hindered here and there with clumps of debris from some previous year’s flooding. The Spanish apparently did not try to navigate anything other than canoes or shallow-bottomed boats and barges beyond this point, even when the river was high. Our guides assured us the way would be clear to walk on the western bank of the river in only a few leagues. Where we now stood, the forest was so thick it was nearly impenetrable.
That night, Gaston and I chewed on tiny bits of boucan and smoked a pipe to disguise the smell of food. Most of the men were smoking pipes because they had nothing to fill their bellies with but smoke. We visited with Cudro and Ash for a time, and found them doing much the same: hoarding their food and lying about it.
On the third day, Morgan left a hundred or so men with the boats. He stupidly ordered them to remain with the craft and not venture ashore on pain of death. He was afraid they would encounter some Spanish attack if they ventured out seeking food, and be cut off from the boats and lose them. As he and his officers walked away, I saw clearly upon many of the faces of the men so tasked that they were not so foolish as to steadfastly honor his wishes—on pain of death or not—if it meant starving to death.
We then attempted to hack our way alongside the river for an hour. When that proved absurdly difficult, Morgan ordered half our men into the canoes. Then we laboriously worked our way up river—often wading with the canoes on our shoulders—for half the day to a place called Cedro Bueno. There was no food or Spaniards there, either. Six hundred of us milled about, pulled leeches from one another, and destroyed the few available buildings out of anger and boredom as the canoes returned down river to fetch the rest of our forces—save those guarding the boats.
Some of the men were becoming weak with hunger. Morgan and his officers were not, though I saw no evidence of them eating. Gaston and I pretended to be hungry, as did Cudro and Ash.
The fourth day, three-quarters of our men walked along the western river bank. The way was much clearer, as the guides had promised. Those weak with hunger continued in the canoes. The next section of water was easier to traverse as well. To increase our speed, one of our guides took two canoes and some of our stronger men to paddle them and roved ahead to search for ambuscades.
Around midday, our guide on land told us we approached a post called Torna Cavallos. Soon after, the guide on the river yelled from up ahead that he had found a Spanish position. Careless and starving, cheering buccaneers rushed toward the temporary Spanish fortifications. They found nothing: no Spaniards and no food. However, the place looked very recently abandoned. We even found scattered crumbs the birds had not yet eaten from the last of the defenders’ meals.
Frustrated, Morgan and I discussed it with our guides. They flattered us by saying that of course the Spanish would run from such a force. They also said there were likely Indian spies nimbly dancing through the impenetrable forest all around us, warning their masters of our approach hours in advance.
Morgan ordered that every man stay with his brethren. He wanted no parties wandering into the woods to chase animals for food. He was afraid lone men would be captured and tortured to draw others into a trap—as he averred Indians were known to do.
Meanwhile, some of our men had found a cache of leather bags. They were empty, yet arguments broke out over them until the winners happily carried away at least a piece of one. They cut the leather into strips, beat it soundly between rocks to tenderize it, heated it over a fire, and ate it. Gaston doubted they could derive n
ourishment from it, but all who supped on it claimed it did much to ease their bellies.
Gaston and I pretended a strip of boucan was leather; and pounded it viciously before cutting it into tiny bits and eating it while grimacing.
Morgan ordered us onward, and we marched until nightfall and a place called Torna Munni where we found another recently deserted ambuscade. That night, men began to talk loudly of eating any Spaniard or Indian we caught.
Fully half our men were in canoes due to the weakness of hunger on the fifth day. Gaston looked them over, but there was nothing he could do and it filled him with guilt and sadness. Even if we broke our vow and shared our boucan, we could not begin to give them all a taste, much less feed them.
At noon on the fifth day we came to a place called Barbacoa. Which, of course, sounded quite promising; and which, as we should have expected, was quite devoid of Spaniards and food. There was another ambuscade, but this one did not appear to have been finished or occupied: causing men to jest that by the time we reached Panama, the terrified Spanish would simply throw open the gates and leave the city defenseless. Other men remarked that if that were to occur, the Spanish would also leave the city empty of treasure and food. I thought our enemy was wisely withdrawing all its forces to defend the city, instead of having them spread out across the countryside to be picked away as we advanced.
We sent large parties of men to search the plantations we could see from the river. They proved empty as well. However, one of our groups found a recently hollowed grotto in a hillside. It contained a stash of food including corn, meal, wine, and plantains. Those men were to be commended, because they did not return with this glorious bounty with stuffed mouths and filled bellies—though I was sure they had all eaten something.
Morgan ordered that the food be divided among those most in need. Gaston assessed the men in serious condition and they were fed. In the end, only about three hundred men received enough food to stave off death. The rest went hungry, but with better spirits in that they had found something at all. Since we had lost so much time in that endeavor, Morgan urged us on into the night until we at last chose to stop at yet another abandoned plantation near the river.
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