by Tim Severin
Casually he tossed the speculum back into the medicine chest where it fell with a metallic clatter among the other instruments. ‘Over the next few days,’ he went on, ‘I want you to clean and oil all these instruments, sharpen them as needed, and wrap them in well-greased cloth. They must not be allowed to rust.’
Looking into the chest, Hector noted wicked-looking saws and chisels, clamps and drills, pincers and nippers of different shapes and with strangely shaped jaws, even an ebony mallet.
Smeeton pulled a small cloth-bound notebook from his pocket. ‘This is something else you will need. I want you to write a list of all the plasters, unguents, chemical oils, syrups, electuaries, pastilles and simples that you find, together with their quantities. I will advise you what each is suitable for so that you may make your own directory.’
HECTOR HAD GOT as far as listing that a plaster of sweet clover would, in Smeeton’s words, ‘dispel windiness’, when their ship reached Golden Island. Six other vessels were already waiting at the rendezvous, a small bay facing directly across to the mainland little more than a mile away. The anchorage was ideal for their clandestine purpose. From seaward it was completely hidden behind the island’s rocky peak with its cover of thick scrub and stands of ceiba trees, while a narrow fringe of beach provided level ground for a camp. Numbers of men could be seen moving about under the coconut palms, and a row of cooking tents had been set up on the beach.
‘This is almost as large an undertaking as when Morgan sacked Panama. The size of that raid is famous among my people,’ commented Dan looking out over the assembled shipping.
‘Surely the Spaniards will have taken precautions against another attack,’ said Hector. Standing on deck beside the Miskito, he had been thinking about Susanna yet again and wondering if any of the buccaneer ships might later be returning to Jamaica. If so, he would try to persuade his friends to go back there with him.
‘The thirst for gold is a great lure,’ replied the Miskito. He pointed to a canoe which had just entered the bay and was working its way between the anchored ships, heading towards the beach. ‘I’d say those fellows may have something to do with what happens.’
‘Do you know who they are?’ asked Hector. The dozen or so occupants of the canoe were too dark-skinned to be Europeans. One of them was wearing on his head what looked like a metal bowl.
‘They are Kuna, the people who live over there in the mountains.’ Dan gestured towards the mainland where ranges of forest-clad hills rose in rank after rank, wreathed with grey wisps of low cloud. On Golden Island the weather was as brilliant and sunny as when they had joined the ship. By contrast the mainland gave the impression of being gloomily drenched in drizzle and mist.
‘Hector Lynch,’ said a voice behind them. Startled, they turned to find Captain Harris had come on deck. ‘Your companion, the Frenchman, said that you speak Spanish.’
‘That’s true. My mother is Spanish.’
‘I need you to accompany me ashore. The captains are holding a council with the Indian chiefs. No one among us speaks the Kuna tongue, but the Indians have lived alongside the Spaniards long enough for them to have a knowledge of their language.’
‘I will do my best.’
Harris led the way to a rope ladder, and soon Hector was being ferried ashore with his captain. As he passed through the buccaneer flotilla, Hector could see that Harris’s vessel was the largest in the company. The next in size was an eight-gun sloop which seemed vaguely familiar, while the smallest was a pinnace so tiny that it carried no cannon at all. Whatever the buccaneers had in mind, Hector concluded, it depended on their strength in numbers of men, not the firepower of their vessels.
He followed Harris up the beach. Standing in a group beside the path were the Indians who had just arrived by canoe. The Kuna were not as tall as the Miskito, the only natives of the Caribbean he had met so far, but they were well set up and sturdy, with dark brownish-yellow skin and straight black hair. Their faces were dominated by strong noses from which deep furrows extended down to the corners of their mouths, giving them a solemn and severe expression. The leader appeared to be the man who wore the metal bowl on his head which proved to be a vintage Spanish helmet made of polished brass. Like most of his fellows, he was stark naked except for a funnel-shaped penis cover of gold fastened by a string around his waist. From his nose dangled a crescent-shaped plate of gold. Yet the Indian who most attracted Hector’s attention was the only Kuna who covered his body. He was wrapped in a blanket from his ankles to his neck. All of his visible skin – his arms and feet, and face – was a ghostly unnatural white and disfigured with red blotches and bites. When he turned to look at Hector, his eyes were half closed, the lids fluttered, and specks of blood were seeping from cracked lips.
Harris politely doffed his hat as he walked past the Kuna, and Hector followed him into the little clearing in the coconut grove where the other buccaneer leaders were already assembled. Hector counted seven captains, together with their aides, and they were standing in small groups, talking together. One of the captains, who was facing away, reached up and scratched the back of his neck. All at once, Hector knew why the eight-gun sloop in the bay had seemed familiar. It was the vessel which had intercepted L’Arc-de-Ciel. Even as the realisation dawned, John Coxon turned to greet Peter Harris and his eye fell on Hector. The quick flush of anger which discoloured his features left no doubt that he recognised the young man.
‘Captain Harris, it would have been better if you had been with us earlier,’ Coxon grated. ‘We have been in consultation with the Kuna for these past five days, and are ready to make a decision.’
‘I bring the largest company so it was only right that you should wait,’ retorted Harris, and Hector detected a simmering rivalry between the two men.
‘Let’s get down to business,’ said another of the captains soothingly. A man of medium height, his round soft face had the down-turned fleshy mouth and protruding lips of a carp. Obviously unwell, he was leaning on a stick and sweating heavily as he looked round the gathering with watery pale blue eyes. Hector thought he detected a whiff of manipulation, of fraudulence.
‘That’s right, Captain Sharpe. We must not keep our Kuna friends waiting,’ agreed Coxon. He crossed to where some benches had been set out under the trees, and beckoned the Kuna to be seated. The pale man in the blanket did not come forward but moved to stand in a patch of deep shade.
As the meeting proceeded, Hector was able to put names to the other buccaneer captains. Two of them, Alleston and Macket, seemed to be lesser figures, for they said little. A third man, Edmund Cook, was a puzzle. For a seagoing man he dressed very fastidiously. He wore a deep, curving lace collar over a loose mauve tunic and had tied a bunch of ribbons to one shoulder. By contrast Captain Sawkins, seated next to him, cared nothing for his appearance. His unshaven cheeks were stubbled and grimy, and he was obviously someone who preferred action to words. He kept glancing impatiently from one speaker to the next, and fiddling with the handle of the dagger in his belt. When Coxon and Harris bickered, as they did constantly, Sawkins tended to side with Harris.
Only two of the Kuna spoke Spanish, and their strong accents were difficult to follow. With each sentence, their gold nose plates bobbed up and down on their upper lips and distorted the words. Occasionally when no one could understand anything, the speaker would lift up the plate with one hand and address his listeners from under it. Hector was able to gather that the Kuna were confirming an offer of guides and porters to the buccaneers if they would launch a raid against a Spanish mining settlement in the interior. It was clear that the Kuna loathed the Spaniards. According to the Indians, the Spanish miners used gangs of slaves to wash gold dust from the rivers, then brought their production to a town called Santa Maria. Every four months the collected gold was taken on to the city of Panama, and the next shipment was due to be sent out soon.
‘Let’s not waste any more time.’ It was Captain Sawkins who spoke. He looked as though he wa
nted to spring to his feet and rush into action immediately, sword in hand. ‘Every day we spend here increases the chance that the gold will slip through our fingers.’
‘What about our ships? Who’s to guard them while the men are away?’ asked Macket cautiously.
‘I suggest that you and Captain Alleston stay here with a detachment,’ proposed Coxon. ‘The final division of the booty will only be made when we return, and your men will receive full shares.’
A fit of coughing made him look towards Captain Sharpe. ‘Do you feel well enough to accompany us?’ he asked.
‘Of course I do. I’ll not miss a chance like this,’ answered the ill-looking buccaneer.
‘Then it’s decided,’ concluded Coxon. ‘We set out for Santa Maria in, say, three days’ time. We march in ships’ companies but all under one single commander.’
‘And who is that commander to be?’ asked Harris ironically. Hector suspected that the decision had already been taken before their arrival.
‘Captain Coxon would be the most suited to lead us,’ explained Sharpe. ‘After all, he was with Morgan at Panama. He is the most experienced.’
Coxon was looking smug. He had slipped his hand inside his shirt front and was scratching contentedly. Hector recognised the gesture.
Then Coxon turned to the Kuna and, deliberately ignoring Hector as the interpreter, he spoke in broken Spanish of their decision. The Kuna looked pleased, and rose to return to their canoe.
‘I wonder where they get the gold to make those nose plates of theirs?’ muttered a sailor standing next to Hector. The voice was familiar and Hector glanced around to find that the speaker was one of Coxon’s men, the sailor with the missing fingers. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’ said the sailor recognising him in return. ‘Just remember who is in command of this expedition,’ and he gave an evil smile.
HOWEVER MUCH Hector disliked and mistrusted Coxon, he had to admit that the buccaneer captain knew his business. Before the meeting closed, Coxon gave strict orders that no vessel was to sail from Golden Island for fear that news of the raid might get out. Then the next day every man on the expedition was issued with lead for bullets and twenty pounds of powder from the common stock. In addition, the camp cooks were put to baking buns of unleavened bread, four to a man, as marching rations.
‘If this is all we get to eat, we’ll soon be asking Hector for those cassia pods he’s got in his knapsack,’ said Jacques looking dubiously at the food. ‘No wonder they’re called doughboys.’
He, Jezreel and Hector were on the landing beach in the early dawn of the third day after the conference. Half the expedition had already disembarked, and Dan had gone ahead to scout.
‘Don’t look so miserable,’ he said to Hector who was feeling dispirited that he could not yet return to Jamaica. ‘Imagine coming back to your lady with your pockets full of gold dust.’
‘As a surgeon’s assistant you are not supposed to be involved in any fighting,’ Jezreel added. ‘Just make sure that the medicine chest stays with the column. A supply of medicines is the next best thing to a keg of rum to keep up the men’s morale.’
Dan was coming towards them, accompanied by one of the Kuna guides. ‘Hector, can you translate? This man has something to say but I can’t follow his Spanish.’
Hector listened to the guide, then explained. ‘Everyone is to stay on the footpath. He says the spirits of the forest must be respected. If they are disturbed or angered, they will cause harm.’ He shifted the knapsack on his shoulders. It contained a basic medical kit that Smeeton had picked out for him. The surgeon himself had still not landed, and the main medicine chest lay on the ground, awkward and heavy.
‘Here, I’ll take that,’ said Jezreel, lifting the chest on his shoulder. ‘That’s Harris’s green flag up ahead.’
It was another sign of Coxon’s competence, Hector thought to himself. The buccaneer captain had given instructions that after landing every man was to muster to his own captain’s flag and follow it as the column moved inland. It should mean that the unruly and ill-disciplined buccaneers kept some sort of order on their march and did not degenerate into a chaotic mob. Captain Sawkins and Captain Cook, Hector now saw, had both chosen to display red banners with yellow stripes, but luckily Cook had distinguished his flag by adding the outline of a hand holding a sword.
Captain Sharpe’s troop was beginning to move off behind their red flag hung with green and white ribbons. They had been chosen to lead the march and behind them the column slowly got into motion, more than 300 men slipping and stumbling along the shingle beach until they reached a river mouth. Here the Kuna guides turned inland, leading the men through an abandoned plantain grove and then into the forest itself where the trees formed a canopy overhead, blocking out the sunlight. The ground underfoot was soggy with dead leaves and forest mould, the air heavy and damp. The only sounds were the low voices of the men, an occasional burst of laughter, or someone hawking and spitting. The ground sloped upward, the path twisting to avoid places where the trees grew so close together as to be impassable, their trunks wet and glistening. Occasionally the walkers came to a small stream which they splashed across. Those who were already thirsty in the muggy heat, used their hats to scoop up water and drank.
In the early afternoon they halted. The Kuna had already prepared bivouacs for them, small huts with cane walls and thatched roofs built in another abandoned plantain patch. Several buccaneers preferred to go to sleep outside on the open ground, but the Kuna became agitated. The travellers must stay indoors, they insisted. Anyone who slept on the ground risked being bitten by venomous snakes. Hector wondered if this was merely an excuse to prevent the men from straying, but suddenly there was a shout of alarm, followed by some sort of commotion. He saw a cutlass rising and falling. Smeeton, who had joined the column belatedly, hurried off towards the spot, and Hector followed him, curious to see what all the fuss was about. He found a shaken-looking buccaneer holding up the headless corpse of a snake on the tip of his cutlass. The snake was at least four feet long, mottled brown and green. Smeeton found the severed head, picked it up and cautiously prised open the jaws. The poison fangs were unmistakable. ‘A true viper, and with a bite almost certainly mortal. Excellent,’ the surgeon enthused. He turned over the diamond-shaped head to inspect a yellow patch on the throat, and asked the buccaneer if he could also keep the dead body. Then he stepped behind Hector and the young man felt the flap of his knapsack open. There came the sensation of the dead snake being slid inside. Hector’s skin crawled.
‘The first reward of our venture,’ announced Smeeton from somewhere behind him. ‘Cut up into small morsels, it will make an essential ingredient in our Theraci Londini, vulgarly known as London Treacle.’
‘What’s that for?’ asked Hector, uncomfortably aware of the coils of the dead snake pressing against his back. The dead animal was remarkably heavy.
‘A sovereign cure for the plague. Snake fragments steeped in a variety of herbs. Perhaps the Kuna will have their own recipe. Fiery Serpent one day, true viper another.’ He gave a satisfied chuckle.
NEXT MORNING Smeeton was eager to track down a Kuna doctor and begin asking about native medicines. Leaving the expedition to trudge deeper into the cordillera, he and Hector were taken by one of the Kuna guides to a nearby village. Away from the hubbub and disturbance of the column, Hector could hear the sounds of the forest. There were the chattering and cooing of birds, the sudden clatter of wings and sometimes a glimpse of red and vivid green or bright blue and yellow as the birds flew to a safe distance, occasionally settling again on an overhanging branch like an exotic blossom. Close at hand came a succession of bold hooting sounds. Minutes later, a troop of black monkeys came swarming through the treetops. They were foraging for wild fruit and, to Hector’s astonishment, deliberately pelted the travellers with the skins and stones left over from their meal. One self-confident male scampered until he was directly over them and purposefully urinated to show his disdain, th
e liquid pattering down on the forest floor.
The cane-and-thatch houses of the Kuna village were scattered across a spur of high ground, each house approached through its own plantain grove. The centre of the settlement was a longhouse as massive and lofty as the largest barn that Hector had ever seen. Like the other Kuna buildings, it had no upper floor, and its vast roof was held up on immensely thick wooden pillars. In the half-light of the windowless interior the two visitors were introduced to the village doctor. He and half a dozen village elders were waiting for them, reclining in hammocks suspended between the columns.
The village doctor had a lined, intelligent face with dark hooded eyes, and could have been anything between fifty and seventy years old. Luckily, he also spoke Spanish.
‘How much time has your friend got?’ he asked Hector when the young man explained that Smeeton was a surgeon and hoping to learn from the Kuna doctors.
‘We must rejoin our companions later in the day,’ said Hector.
The Kuna looked amused. ‘For five years I was an assistant to my father. Next I was sent to study with one of my father’s friends. I stayed with him for another twelve years. Only then could I begin to look after my patients.’
‘My colleague just wants to learn about what plants can heal, and how to employ them. I can take notes and, if it is permitted, take away a few samples.’
The Kuna made a restraining gesture. ‘Then he should talk with an ina duled. He is the one who prepares medicines. I am an igar wisid, a knower of chants. Medicine by itself does not cure. True health is to be found through the spirit world.’
Smeeton looked disappointed when Hector translated, and asked,‘Perhaps the knower of chants has some patients at this time that I could see?’
The igar wisid swung down from his hammock. ‘Come with me.’
He led his visitors a short distance out of the village to a small hut isolated in a clearing. The building seemed to be on fire, for a haze of smoke was seeping out through the thatch. The Kuna pushed open the low door and ducked inside. Hector stooped to follow him and found himself choking for breath. The interior of the hut was so thick with smoke that his eyes watered and he could scarcely see. A man lay motionless in a hammock strung across the small room. Beneath the hammock stood an array of dolls, dozens of them. Some were no more than six inches high; others three or four times that size. Nearly all were human figures. They were carved from wood, and some appeared to be very ancient for they had lost all shape and were stained black with age. The Kuna doctor crouched down and began rearranging them, crooning to himself. ‘Ask what he is doing,’ said Smeeton.