Admiral

by Dudley Pope

  Thomas turned to face Ned, his fingers now clasping his beard and his brows lowered. “We’ve lost two thirds of our men. Or we might have. Let’s say that, with Old Providence in sight, we can’t see two thirds of our ships. Don’t you think that’s disastrous?”

  Ned looked round quickly. None of the Griffin’s men was within earshot. With the ship becalmed most of those on watch were in the shade and Lobb had tactfully moved up to the fo’c’sle, from where he could keep an eye on the rest of the deck.

  Ned shook his head and assumed a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “We have here –” he waved round the horizon at the seven ships “– 250 in our own three ships, and probably an average of fifty in each of the other four. That’s 250 plus 200. So we have at least 450 men, all of them better trained than they were before, thanks to the three weeks with Heffer’s instructors.

  “So, leaving some men in the ships, we have to do with 400 (and complete surprise) what the Spanish could only do with thousands. But we can be fairly sure that most of Providence’s Spanish garrison has gone to Jamaica with the Portobelo people.”

  Thomas wagged a warning finger. “You can’t be sure of that!”

  “No,” Ned admitted, “but I believe the reports that Heffer received the day before we sailed, that Spanish troops had landed at Runaway Bay. They could only be the men from Portobelo and Providence. The Dons are leaving us open doors, my lord bishop. We need not bother to knock.”

  The breeze began at five o’clock in the evening with a series of light puffs making dancing shadows on the water, and by six o’clock it had settled in steadily from the northeast, sending Thomas and Diana back to the Peleus and allowing the seven ships to stretch down towards Old Providence. The conditions were perfect for being sure of keeping just far enough to the west to avoid running up on Low Cay but close enough to Santa Catalina to need only a few tacks to arrive off the little port.

  A clear sky meant a starlit night, and with the darkness they could see Old Providence clearly as they approached, a black hump on a bluish-black horizon. By dawn the Griffin, leading the little squadron, was about three miles from the northwestern corner of Santa Catalina, and as soon as it was light Lobb spotted the particular cliff which looked like an enormous profile of a man’s face. After that it became something of a competition between Lobb, Ned and Aurelia to identify objects marked on the chart.

  From the northwest, Santa Catalina at first looked like a part of the main island, although a sharp eye could pick out the castle of Santa Teresa sitting four-square in the middle of the smaller island.

  Finally they had worked out the approach through the rocks, coral reefs and cays: from northwest of Santa Catalina they had to steer for “The Face” as they christened the profile on the cliff, keeping it southeast by east, which also held a hill on the mainland – which they dubbed Fairway Hill – in line with it.

  Once the two cays off the north coast lined up, the Griffin turned a couple of points to the east to avoid Cat Rock and then, as soon as they could see Split Hill with its great chasm over the southern end of Santa Catalina, they steered southeast.

  Both Ned and Lobb were perspiring. It was a warm morning, although the sun was still below the horizon, but the seas breaking over isolated rocks and swirling over long stretches of coral reef warned that one mistake in identifying a hill, cay or rock (or a slight inaccuracy in the chart) would sink the Griffin and, because they were following close in their anxiety to steer precisely in the Griffin’s wake, the rest of the ships.

  Lobb pointed to a position about five hundred yards to the southwest of “The Face”. “That’s about where you wanted us to anchor, wasn’t it sir?”

  It was the place Ned had chosen from the chart, but before answering he looked closely at the forts, which he could now distinguish as shadowy geometric shapes compared with the humps and bumps of Puerto Catalina on Old Providence, and they would be able to see along the narrow channel between the two islands. He turned to Lobb. “Yes, anchor there, and hoist out the boat and canoes as quickly as possible: the place seems asleep.”

  Lobb gave a series of orders and the Griffin turned into the wind and, as her headsails came sliding down, the big mainsail slatted. A shout and a wave of the hand set several men to work lowering the anchor and letting it go with a splash. The cable snaked out and as the Griffin dropped back the Peleus, with sails flapping, came in to anchor on one side and the Phoenix on the other, while the remaining buccaneers anchored close to leeward.

  Within twenty minutes, the Griffin’s boats and canoes were leading nearly a score of other boats crowded with heavily-armed men and being rowed and paddled for the town. Ned had managed to persuade Aurelia to stay on board by convincing her that someone responsible had to remain with the five boatkeepers, and that she had the authority (and by implication the knowledge) to shift the Griffin’s berth in an emergency. He had anchored the buccaneer ships out of range of any Spanish guns – and by the same token the forts were out of range of the buccaneer guns.

  The oar blades spattered him with drops of spray and the outline of the roofs of the houses forming the little port were becoming sharper as the sun, still beyond the horizon, reflected in the dawn haze behind them. It was too early for colours; Puerto Catalina was heavy with shadow, a jumbled mosaic of black and various greys. No doubt when it came the sun would show that the colours daubed on the houses were gaudy, and peeling or crumbling. Ned reflected that one rarely noticed a French or Spanish house newly painted, yet they must have been at some time or another to reach the faded state in which one always saw them.

  The wind was light – too weak to carry out to sea the stench of the town, which was strong enough to make Ned wish he smoked a pipe. A year’s rotting vegetables, a decade’s sewage, and straw befouled and rejected long since by donkeys and horses – all must be heaped in the plaza and left to mull under the scorching sun. Spasmodically it would be spread by the torrential typical thunderstorms that frequently came of an afternoon and delivered in an hour as much water as a couple of days’ steady rain in England.

  As Ned’s eyes searched the beach, cobbled streets, wide balconies and flat roofs he wondered that the smell was not visible, like a fog, or cloud of smoke spreading of its own accord from a giant bonfire. The idea of a visible smell amused him for two or three minutes, until he was roused by the grunts and curses of the men at the oars, and the hurried warning that one of the Peleus’ boats was catching up and likely to reach the beach first.

  As his boat’s keel scraped on the sand and he leapt over the gunwale, careful to protect his pistol from the splashing, Ned realized what was strange about Puerto Catalina: there was not a man, woman or child in sight. No fisherman was preparing his rowing boat before the heat of the sun made it hard work, no woman stared curiously from a balcony as she hung bedding over the rail to air, there were no black-haired, dark-eyed children peering round a corner, curiosity overcoming fear, no old women were sitting on the ground mending nets ready for their men to start the day’s fishing.

  A cockerel crowed and fluttered its feathers to remind its brood who was master; a pack of five mongrel dogs ran yapping down a side-street on to the track between the beach and the buildings. The leader saw the boats, suddenly stopped and turned snarling on its four pursuers, who turned and slunk away, fearful of the strangers.

  No shouted challenge, no scraping of a sword pulled from its scabbard, no musket shot, no flash and blast of a cannon, no sign of an ambush. Puerto Catalina was deserted: everyone must have fled inland or rushed over the bridge to Catalina Island. Gesturing to Lobb and several seamen to follow, and waving to Thomas, who was just about to jump down from his beached boat, Ned walked across the dusty track to the nearest house, which was built of wood on stone foundations. The front door was locked and so was the back, but a row of cabbages growing in the garden were missing the first three in the row and
the gardener’s footprints had not been washed away by the rain.

  All the houses by the track obviously belonged to poor people: higher up the hillside above the port the homes were larger and more imposing, and no doubt there lived the port captain, the garrison commander, the mayor, and the town treasurer. The island governor, though, would probably live in remote splendour in Santa Teresa castle, across on Santa Catalina.

  Thomas walked up to him, followed by a worried-looking Leclerc.

  “Have the birds flown?” Thomas asked.

  “Only walked across the bridge, I suspect,” Ned gestured to Santa Catalina. “They must have spotted us last night…”

  Thomas nodded and grimaced. “They could have seen us with a good perspective glass, I suppose. I thought we were too far away and didn’t expect them to be keeping much of a look-out.”

  Leclerc held out his hands, palms uppermost. “There was nothing we could do about it – we were becalmed where Nature left us. Shall we look at the houses here before we call on the Spaniards over at the island?”

  “Looking at the houses” was a polite way of asking if the buccaneers could search them for purchase, and forcing himself to remember that if the positions were reversed, the Spaniards would not only loot but then probably set fire to the town, Ned nodded. After passing the word to Lobb, he walked with Thomas along the track beside the channel between the two islands, away from the town.

  Thomas stopped and pointed to a trail of horse droppings. They were still damp, an indication that a horse had passed within the last hour. Then Ned noticed that the bridge, a crude affair of planks, had been pulled back on to Santa Catalina island.

  A bucket full of earth seemed suddenly to hit Ned in the face, and while falling he heard the noise of tearing calico and then the thump of a cannon firing. As he hit the ground he remembered noticing the ditch on the seaward side of the track and rolled a couple of times and then fell into it with a thump that knocked the breath out of him. A moment later the whole side of the hill seemed to collapse on him. He still had his eyes tight shut when the hill started to wriggle and curse, and although for the moment Ned could not clear the dust from his eyes, it became quite obvious that the landslide was called Thomas Whetstone, who had chosen the same ditch for shelter.

  “You alright, Ned?”

  “Will be, when I clear my eyes. Get your knee out of my stomach. What about you?”

  “M’dignity suffered, but that’s all.”

  “I saw that damn’d fort just as we stopped: until then it was hidden by a hill. We walked right into their –”

  Ned stopped talking a moment as two more cannon balls thudded into the bank below them and whined as they ricocheted up from rocks.

  “–field of fire and, to make it easier for them to aim, stopped and stood there gossiping.”

  “They’re dropping the balls about ten yards short,” Thomas said. “That first one was well down the bank. You were unlucky it heaved up a shovelful of earth.”

  “Better be hit by that than a ricocheting ball… Ah I can see again… I hope Leclerc doesn’t try to rescue us.”

  “I shan’t dissuade anyone from trying,” Thomas said, “otherwise we’ll be here until nightfall – that is, unless they start firing langrage.”

  “My lord bishop,” Ned said, “forget about your dignity and start counting.”

  “Counting what?”

  “Cannons. I’m sure that fort –” He broke off as two more roundshot fell short, but one of them sprayed stones and earth into the ditch.

  “–has only two guns. It takes time to load ’em and we’re out of the effective range of muskets. So we’ll just wait for the next two rounds, then climb out of this ditch and rejoin our friends with all speed, and wait for them to finish looting.”

  “I noticed you walked away after giving them permission. Doesn’t sit well with you, eh?”

  “No. If they were warehouses or the treasury, I’d join in. But people’s homes…”

  Thomas rumbled his agreement. “Yes, it’s the part I don’t like either. Dam’ poor gunners at that fort – they take so long to load.”

  “You’re ready to leave here the moment after they next fire?”

  Thomas was just answering when the ripping of calico and two thumps, then the sound of the guns firing, warned that the Spanish gunners had increased the elevation so that both shot hit the hillside ten yards above them, and rocks were still tumbling down on to the track as the two men scrambled out of the ditch and stood for moment looking across at the fort.

  “No muskets,” Ned said. “Let’s walk back, though I feel like running.”

  “Yes, walk,” Thomas agreed. “Looks better, and anyway my knees are a little shaky. That first ball ricocheted between us, you know!”

  “Did it?” exclaimed a startled Ned. “How do you know?”

  “Didn’t you see it? A greyish blur, like an owl swooping over you at night.”

  They met Leclerc half-way back to the port, and once the Frenchman had assured himself they were unwounded he waved and scrambled back up the slope among the houses, passing some of the buccaneers carrying their spoils down to the boats.

  Thomas sat down on the worn stone step of a house overlooking the beach, his back against the front door. “Buccaneers! They look more like wives coming back from the market,” he exclaimed. “Sacks of rice and baskets of fruit and vegetables instead of gold and silver!”

  “The people must have had good warning and carried their valuables into Santa Catalina,” Ned said. “I wonder what they’ve done with their livestock – driven it into the mountains?”

  Thomas looked across at Santa Catalina, sitting squarely in front of him like the top of a large hill sliced off and set down in the sea.

  “There’s only one way into that place,” he said, “and that’s across the bridge they’ve inconveniently removed. We’d never get up those cliffs – it’d be hard work for goats.”

  When Ned did not reply, Thomas said diffidently: “There’s no reason why we should bother with it, I suppose; Portobelo is our target.”

  Thomas was quite right; Ned knew that if he was honest with himself his sole idea in attacking the two islands was to stir up the Spanish, frightening the Viceroy in Panama into withdrawing his soldiers from Jamaica. Yet the Providence garrison could only be recalled once the Spanish Viceroy knew that Providence and Portobelo were in danger or lost – and that could only be after the Portobelo raid. It would take days, perhaps two or three weeks, for the word to cross the Isthmus…

  “You could say we’ve captured Providence without firing a shot,” Ned said dryly. “With the Spanish shut up in that island across the way, there’s not much they can do. Nor us, I suppose, although we can use the anchorage and hunt down their beeves…”

  As if the Spanish had been listening to him, the crash of a cannon echoed between the two islands.

  Both men, realizing this new gun was on the south side of Santa Catalina, looked across at the ships. A tall column of water leapt up two hundred yards or more short of the nearest privateer.

  “Extreme range,” Thomas commented. “No need to worry.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The ball didn’t bounce. When you throw a flat stone low on to the surface of a pond, it skates because of the low elevation. Throw a rounded pebble into the middle and it sinks where it hits because it is landing almost vertically. Obvious, Ned.”

  “Yes, your grace; it was a silly question.”

  “More to the point, though, one can see it is the extreme range for any guns they are likely to have over there.”

  At that moment Leclerc and several other captains appeared, breathless, after running down some of the side-streets. Ned pointed out where the shot had landed, but two of the captains were not convinced about
the range, wanting to go back on board their ships and anchor further out.

  “You can’t get much further out because there’s a reef to seaward of us,” Ned said. “You can come closer in towards here, or back the way we came.”

  At that moment the gun fired again and there was another spurt of water in the same place.

  “That’s his ship,” Leclerc said, pointing to one of the captains.

  “Don’t expect any sympathy from us,” Thomas said sourly. “This earth on our clothes comes from the ditch up the hill there, where we were the sole targets of two guns, as you saw. Well within range, I assure you.”

  Leclerc spoke in rapid French to the captain, Rideau, who shrugged and started off up the hill to rejoin his men.

  “What do we do now?” Leclerc asked.

  “Capture Santa Catalina and then get under way for Portobelo,” Ned said, and was surprised to hear his own voice speaking so matter-of-factly about a decision he was unaware he had made.

  “This afternoon?” Leclerc asked, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  “No, tomorrow morning. It’ll take the rest of the day for the men to get what they want from Puerto Catalina.”

  Back on board the Griffin, with Thomas having collected Diana from the Peleus on the way, Ned heard Aurelia’s description of the cannon which had fired at the anchorage.

  “Five shots, as you heard,” she said. “And all the balls landed in more or less the same place, two or three hundred yards short of the nearest ship, La Meduse. When they fired no more I decided that was as far as they could reach, so I told the men we should not move the Griffin. They wanted to fire back, but with the perspective glass I could see the Spanish have the gun almost hidden among the rocks. And if they couldn’t reach us I guessed we could not reach them…”

  Ned looked at Diana, who was sitting on the settee in the cabin next to Aurelia, her hair hanging down in well-brushed ringlets and looking, but for her divided skirt, as though she was paying a social call on a country neighbour. “And what did the bishop’s lady think?”