Buccaneer

by Tim Severin

  Watling was back at the rail, bawling at the men in the launch. ‘Get a move on! Tie the launch off the stern and lend a hand.’

  ‘What about the men still on shore? We cannot abandon them!’ Hector blurted.

  Watling swung round, face hard set, his eyes furious. ‘They shift for themselves,’ he snapped.

  ‘But Jacques is not back yet, and Will was with Dan. He must still be on the island.’

  An angry scowl spread across Watling’s face. He was about to lose his temper.

  ‘Do you question my orders?’

  ‘Look over there,’ said Hector, pointing towards the beach. ‘You can see Jacques now. He’s standing there, waiting to be picked up by a boat.’

  ‘Let him swim,’ snarled Watling. He turned back and shouted at the men to get to the capstan and begin retrieving the anchor.

  Hector was about to say that Jacques did not know how to swim when Jezreel, short sword in hand, strode across the deck and stood beside the capstan.

  ‘The first person who slots in a capstan bar loses his fingers,’ he announced. Then he casually whipped his sword through the air, the blade making a figure of eight and a low swishing sound as he turned his wrist.

  The approaching sailors stopped short. They looked warily at the ex-prizefighter.

  ‘The anchor stays down until Jacques is safely aboard,’ Jezreel warned them.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ growled one of the sailors. It was Duill, the second quartermaster. He made his way to the quarterdeck. ‘General, may I have the loan of one of your pistols so I can put a bullet in that bugger’s guts.’

  Hector forestalled him. Stepping across to where the ship’s armament was being made ready, he picked up a loaded blunderbuss, and pointed it at Duill’s stomach. ‘This time it’s your corpse that will have to go over the side,’ he said grimly.

  Everyone stood still, waiting to see what would happen. Watling looked as if he was about to spring at Hector. Duill was eyeing the gap between himself and the muzzle of the gun. Into this tense lull came a languid voice. ‘No need for so much fuss. I’ll take the launch, if someone will care to accompany me, and collect our French friend. ’

  It was Bartholomew Sharpe. He sauntered across the deck casually.

  ‘What about Will the Miskito,’ Hector asked, his voice harsh with strain.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to look after himself,’ said Sharpe soothingly. ‘He’s got a gun and ammunition, and will make himself comfortable until we can get back to collect him or another ship comes along.’ He attempted a lighter touch. ‘Your friend Jacques is another matter. What would we do without his pimento sauce?’

  ‘Then get on with it,’ snapped Watling. Hector could see that the new captain was keen to re-establish his authority and show that he, not Sharpe, was in command. ‘The launch picks up the Frenchman, and we waste no more time getting ready for action.’

  Twenty minutes later, a relieved Jacques was scrambling aboard clutching a sack of salad leaves, and Trinity’s anchor was emerging dripping from the sea as the ship began to gather way.

  ‘Don’t fret about Will. A Miskito will be able to look after himself on the island,’ Dan quietly reassured Hector. ‘There’s more to worry about close at hand.’

  He nodded towards the foredeck where a sullen-looking Duill was standing by to oversee the catting of the anchor. ‘The crew don’t like what happened. They think we were prepared to sacrifice them in favour of our friends. From now we’ll have to watch our backs.’

  FOURTEEN

  ‘EACH GRENADIER will receive a bonus of ten pieces of eight,’ declared Watling from the rail of the quarterdeck, his gaze sweeping across the assembled crew. It was a fortnight since Trinity had run from Juan Fernandez, easily slipping past the Spanish squadron. Now she lay hove-to off the mainland coast and in sight of the long, dark line of hills which loomed behind Arica.

  ‘If he still has both his hands to count the money,’ mocked a voice at the back of the crowd.

  Watling ignored the gibe. ‘The success of our assault may depend on our grenadiers. Who will volunteer?’

  His plea was met with silence. The men were nervous about touching the home-made bombs now they had been filled with gunpowder and fitted with their stubby fuses.

  ‘If you handle grenades properly, they are safe,’ Watling insisted. ‘I myself will show how it’s done.’

  ‘How about giving them out to the bastards who made them,’ suggested the same anonymous voice. ‘If they get it wrong, they’ll know who’s to blame.’

  The sally caused a ripple of laughter, and Duill was smirking as he stepped forward and beckoned to Hector and his friends. ‘You heard what the general said. He’ll tell you what to do.’

  Hector watched as Watling picked up one of the grenades from a wooden box at his feet. The young man had to admit that Watling, though bull-headed and short-tempered, was prepared to lead by example.

  ‘Each grenadier will carry three of these in a pouch on his right side, and a length of slow match wrapped around his left wrist. When the time comes, he turns his left shoulder towards the enemy, takes up a grenade in his right hand like so, blows on the slow match to make it glow, and brings the lighted match to the fuse.’

  Watling mimed the action.

  ‘He then steps forward with his left foot and bends his right knee so he is in a crouching position. After checking that the fuse is burning steadily, he stands up and hurls the grenade, keeping his right arm straight.’

  ‘Let’s hope that none of those buggers is left-handed,’ shouted the wag, and Watling had to wait until the ensuing guffaws had subsided.

  ‘I propose that Trinity stays out of sight over the horizon so as not to alert the defenders to our presence, and under cover of darkness our boats land our force some five leagues to the south of the town. We spend our first day ashore in hiding. At nightfall we leave behind our boats under guard and advance across country to a point close to Arica from which we can launch a dawn assault. We capture the town before the citizens are awake.’

  ‘How many men in the attack?’ Jezreel asked.

  ‘Everyone who is fit enough. It must be a forced march if we are to take the town by surprise. Then, as soon as we have seized Arica, we signal to our boats. They come to pick us up and we begin loading our plunder.’

  ‘What happens if the raid runs into trouble? How do we get back to the ship safely?’

  ‘There will be two different signals: a single fire with white smoke tells our boat crews to come halfway to meet us and evacuate the force; two white smokes is the sign that we have captured the town and they enter into harbour to collect us and our plunder.’

  Watling gestured towards the distant hills. ‘You have all heard the rumour of a mountain which is made of solid silver, and how the Spaniards of Peru keep the native people in chains, toiling away like ants to dig out the bullion. In the next forty eight hours, we will relieve them of their riches.’

  ‘I FEEL LIKE a worker ant myself,’ said Jacques at noon the next day. He was burdened down with a musket and cartridge box, a pistol and a cutlass as well as a satchel containing three grenades. He was gasping from the heat. ‘This place is a furnace.’

  Jezreel had persuaded his friends that they should take on the role of grenadiers. The ex-prizefighter had argued that by volunteering for such dangerous work they might improve their standing with the rest of Trinity’s crew. Until there was a chance of breaking away on their own, it was safer if the four of them showed willing to cooperate with their shipmates.

  Watling’s column had spent an uncomfortable night on the rocky foreshore, shivering in a cold clammy mist that had oozed in from the sea. At daybreak they had set out across country, leaving a handful of men under Basil Ringrose to guard the boats and wait for the signal fires. Within half an hour the sun had sucked up the mist and the day had turned blisteringly hot. The men, ninety-two of them, had marched for hours and had not seen a single house or field o
r sign of human occupation. The landscape was utterly barren, a sun-blasted expanse of scoured rock and sand with an occasional steep-sided ravine. The only vegetation was a few spiny plants or stunted bushes with dry, brittle branches, and they had not found a single stream or pond where they could refill their water canteens.

  Jacques gave a yelp of pain, took a half stride, and sat down, clutching at his foot. He had stepped on one of the needle-like spines of a desert plant and it had pierced right through the thick leather sole of his boot. ‘Surely Arica can’t be much farther now,’ he said through dry, cracked lips as he began to remove his boot.

  ‘Beyond that next rise of ground, perhaps,’ Hector answered. In the distance the low hills shimmered in the heat.

  ‘Why would anyone want to live in such a desperate place,’ muttered Jacques as he searched for the broken end of the offending spine.

  ‘To be near the source of so much silver,’ said Hector. The weight of his three grenades was pressing uncomfortably on his right hip and he eased the satchel strap across his chest. He had decided against carrying a musket, but wore the cutlass that Jezreel had provided him with.

  ‘I would rather be marooned on a desert island than live in such a hellish place,’ Jacques grumbled.

  A slight movement on the gravel caught Hector’s attention. A scorpion was edging away in the shade of a low shrub whose small white flowers were the only colour in the landscape of drab grey and brown.

  ‘Here comes Dan now,’ said Jacques, grimacing as he plucked out the broken spine. ‘I wonder what he’s found.’

  The Miskito had gone forward to scout, leaving his satchel of grenades with Jezreel. Now Dan was returning, musket balanced on his shoulder and loping along as if the blazing heat was nothing. As usual, it was difficult to read anything into his expression.

  ‘Arica’s a mile beyond that ridge, and the town is expecting us,’ he announced.

  Watling came striding up. ‘What do you mean, expecting us?’ he demanded.

  ‘The Spaniards have built a barricade of timber and earth across the main approach leading into the town. It’s manned by soldiers, a lot of them. There’s also a fort over to one side, and that seems to have a large garrison on the alert.’

  ‘How many defenders?’

  ‘It’s impossible to say. But several hundred.’

  Watling took off his broad-brimmed hat, wiped his brow with a large orange handkerchief, and beckoned to Duill, his second in command. ‘The Miskito says that Arica is expecting an attack. The place may have been reinforced.’

  Duill showed his teeth in a wolfish smile. ‘That only goes to prove they have something worth defending.’

  Watling brushed the fine desert dust off his sleeve. He turned to Dan. ‘Do you think that we’ve been seen?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly,’ the Miskito replied. ‘Three horsemen over on our right flank. They have been shadowing us for the past two hours. They know our strength, and purpose.’

  ‘Then that decides it,’ said Watling firmly. ‘There’s no going back. If we are seen in retreat, Arica’s garrison will come out in pursuit and things will go badly for us. We stick to the original plan. When we reach the high ground ahead of us, we camp for the night. In the morning we advance on the town and rush the barricade.’

  HECTOR WAS surprised that Arica was such an ordinary, rundown place. He lay on the ridge above the town as the sky began to lighten and the streets of Arica emerged from the shadows. They had been laid out in the grid pattern familiar from La Serena. But he saw nothing to match La Serena’s fine stone buildings. Arica’s houses were unpainted single-storey dwellings made of what looked like humble mud brick. The single church tower was modest in size, and the perimeter wall of the fort that Dan had mentioned was no higher than the flat roofs of the nearby houses which surrounded it. From his vantage point Hector could see down into the parade ground where soldiers were emerging from their barracks and assembling for dawn muster. What held his attention was the makeshift outwork of rubble and earth which blocked the main approach to the town. It was at least fifty paces in length and built to a height so that a defender could rest his musket on it and take steady aim. There were sentinels posted at regular intervals and an officer was walking behind the line, checking that his lookouts were alert. Hector could see no sign of artillery, and for this he breathed a sigh of relief. To attack into the mouths of cannon would have been suicidal.

  ‘On your feet! First rank make ready!’ It was Watling, his army training evident. This was to be a disciplined assault, unlike previous campaigns against towns which had often been little more than an unruly rush against the defence. This time the buccaneers were to advance in three waves. The first and second were to alternate, one moving forward as the other gave covering fire, leapfrogging forward until they were close enough to reach the breastwork in a concerted charge. The four grenadiers and a dozen of the older, less active men were being held back in reserve. Under Bartholomew Sharpe they would stay fifty yards in the rear of the attack, ready to be called on wherever the need arose.

  ‘Advance!’ Watling was moving forward. Behind him the first wave of buccaneers began to make their way down the slope at a fast walk. Each man had an orange ribbon tied to his left shoulder to identify him in the coming engagement. Hector tried to judge the distance they would have to cover. It was perhaps half a mile. Several outhouses and barns would provide some cover, and there was an occasional fold in the ground where a man could crouch down in safety and reload his musket. Below him the officer in charge of the barricade had already turned towards the town and was gesticulating urgently. He must have seen the movement on the hill. Moments later a squad of armed men came running out from the town and took up their positions at the outwork. Counting them, Hector calculated that there must be at least forty musketeers facing the buccaneer attack. Allowing for the fact that a great many more Spanish soldiers were being held in reserve in the fort, Watling’s force was heavily outnumbered. If the buccaneers were to take Arica, they would have to rely on their superior musketry and the professional ferocity of their assault.

  The second wave had left its position and was also advancing down the slope. The men spread out in a skirmishing line, wide gaps between them to reduce the target. A scatter of shots came from the barricade, but the range was too great and the firing quickly died away. Hector supposed that a Spanish officer had restrained his men.

  ‘I suppose we should get moving too!’ said Sharpe in a relaxed voice. He got casually to his feet as though about to go for a stroll in the country and puffed on a clay pipe. He took the pipe stem from his mouth, blew out a thin plume of smoke, and watched the smoke hang in the air before slowly dissipating. ‘Perfect day for a grenadier,’ he observed. ‘No chance of the match blowing out in the wind.’ He glanced up at the cloudless sky and gave a sardonic smile, ‘And of course no likelihood of a rain shower to extinguish it.’

  Hector held out the length of match cord that had been issued to him. Sharpe sucked vigorously on the pipe, then thrust the end of the cord into the glowing tobacco. ‘You’ve got enough match there for about five hours. Let’s hope the battle is over by that time,’ he said as he handed it back. Hector blew gently on the glowing end of the cord, wound the extra length around his wrist, then held the burning end between his fingers. He waited for Sharpe to light the match held out by his companions, and they began to make their way cautiously down the hill towards Arica.

  The front rank of buccaneers were now within range of the barricade. One by one they paused, took aim and fired towards the defenders behind their earthwork. Hector thought he saw splinters and spurts of dust fly up. There was a scatter of answering musketry from the Spanish defenders, but they were outranged by the buccaneers’ better weapons and their response did no damage. The second wave of attackers was passing through the front line of skirmishers, and had taken up their positions. There was no cheering. The only sounds were the flat detonations of their flintlocks, and th
e shouted insults and defiance from the Spaniards.

  Moments later Hector saw the first of the buccaneers fall. The man was on his feet, taking aim, and the next instant he spun round and dropped to the ground. There was a whoop of triumph from the barricade.

  Watling shouted an order and waved his orange handkerchief. His signal was followed by a ragged volley and all of a sudden the buccaneers were running forward in a concerted rush. Now they were shouting and hallooing, muskets and cutlasses in hand. A crackle of musketry from the barricade, and this time Hector saw at least three of the assailants knocked down before the first of them reached the earthwork and began to scramble over. There was a glimpse of a single buccaneer – he was almost sure it was Duill – balancing on top of the barricade and swinging his musket by the barrel, using it as a club to strike downward. A dozen of his men had gone wide, intending to get around the end of the barricade, even as their comrades swarmed over the obstacle. For several minutes the outcome of the pitched battle was in the balance. Men were shouting and yelling, hacking and stabbing. There was the clash of metal in the dust and smoke, cries of pain, and several times Hector heard the lighter crack of pistol shots.

  The furore began to ease, and Watling was climbing up back on the barricade and beckoning urgently to the reserve. ‘Close up, close up,’ he was yelling. ‘Hold our ground.’

  He jumped back down out of sight as Hector and his comrades ran the last few paces to the barricade and clambered over. On the far side was a scene of devastation. Corpses lying in the dust, the ground was torn and tramped and stained with blood. A buccaneer with a terrible gash on the side of his face was stumbling around in a daze, and at least thirty or forty Spaniards were standing or sitting on the ground in a state of shock, their faces black with powder smoke and several of them wounded. ‘Guard the prisoners while we move forward,’ Watling bawled. There was the sound of more musket fire. From within the town the defenders of Arica were sniping at the attackers.