Tim Severin - Buccaneer

'You talk like a thief.'

'I only took what others were too stupid to keep safe,' said Jacques smugly. Jezreel looked over at Hector, eyebrows raised. 'He was a pickpocket in Paris,' the young man explained. "Until he got caught and sent to the galleys. That was where we met.'

'Nimble fingers make light work,' announced Jacques lazily. He extended one arm up in the air, and closed his fist. When he opened it, there was a pebble held between forefinger and thumb. Closing his fist, he opened it again, and his hand was empty.

'Saw plenty of tricks like that when I was in the fight game,' grunted Jezreel. 'The booths were full of mountebanks and charlatans. Many pretended they were from foreign lands. You would have done well with that foreign accent of yours.'

'Given an audience, I wouldn't even have needed to speak,' rejoined Jacques.

'No wonder it's called dumb show.'

Jacques shied the pebble at Jezreel who caught it deftly and, in the same movement, threw it back. The stone bounced off the Frenchman's hat, dislodging a small black object which fell to the sand.

'Watch what you're doing! I don't want to smell like a logwood cutter,' said Jacques and was about to tuck the item back into the hatband.

'What have you got there?'

Jacques passed the object across to his new friend who looked at it, puzzled. It was the size and shape of a large black bean, slightly shrivelled.

'Why would you want to wear a dried dog turd in your hat?' Jezreel asked.

'Smell it.'

'You must be joking!' 'No, go on.'

Jezreel held it up to his nose and sniffed. It had a definite musky smell. 'What is it?'

'A cayman's cod. I bought it in the market the same time I got the pimentos you've just been enjoying.' Jacques took back the object. 'It's a gland. Crocodiles and caymans have them in their crotch and armpit, and they give off a pleasant smell. Better than a reeking blood-soaked smock.'

"Well, thank god you didn't put it in the sauce as well.'

Their exchange was brought to an end by a shout from Otway. He was at the back of the beach where the rise of the dunes gave him a vantage point. 'Ship! Standing in,' he called.

Everyone got hurriedly to their feet and gazed out to sea. The sun was behind them so they could easily make out the pale flash of the sails. To Hector's inexperienced eye the vessel looked very much like the Spanish guard ship, for she had two masts and was a similar size. He felt a twinge of fear that the Bay Men had been caught off guard once again. He doubted that they would be able to escape a second time. But Otway was jubilant.

'That's Captain Harris's ship, I'm sure. I served on her once. We're in luck. Peter Harris is as bold a commander as you could wish.'

He was proved right when the newcomer dropped anchor and sent her boats ashore, towing a string of empty barrels. Captain Harris had called at Bennett's Cove to take on fresh water.

'The ship is headed south to Golden Island,' announced Otway who had found former shipmates among the watering party. 'There's to be a gathering of the companies there. But no one seems to know the full details. It's to be decided by a council.'

"Will Captain Harris take on any new men?' asked Hector.

'That's for the ship's crew to decide.' Seeing Hector's look of incomprehension, Otway added, 'Among buccaneers everything is decided by vote. Even the captain is chosen by election.'

'It makes sense, Hector,' said Jacques. 'No one gets any pay. They work for their share of plunder. The larger the crew, the smaller the share-out.'

Otway had an embarrassed look on his face. 'Of course I've said that we all want to join. But the ship is already overcrowded with more than a hundred men aboard, and they are reluctant to add any more.' He was avoiding looking at the others. 'I am known to them already, so the crew is willing to add me to their number, together with my partner over there.' He nodded towards the one-eyed Bay Man who had worked with him at logwood cutting. '. . . and naturally they'll take Dan aboard if he is willing.'

'Why naturally?' asked Hector. He was not sure whether he wanted to join such suspect company but it rankled that they were being so choosy.

'The buccaneers always need strikers,' Dan explained. 'They are not fishermen and they don't have time to go ashore and hunt. They rely on Miskito strikers to get fish and turtle for them, otherwise they would go hungry.' He turned to Otway. 'Tell your friends that I'll not join unless my three friends here come with me.'

Otway went off to consult with the watering party, and returned with the news that if Dan would bring Jacques, Jezreel and Hector out to the ship, they could make their case to the assembled crew.

When the little group came aboard with the last of the full water barrels, they found the crew already gathered in the waist of the ship and looking on with interest. Standing in the front rank was a vigorous-looking clean-shaven man, wearing a cocked hat trimmed with green ribbon. Hector presumed he was Captain Harris, though he took no part in the proceedings. The spokesman for the buccaneer company was a bald seaman with a gravelly voice hoarse from years of shouting.

'That'll be the quartermaster,' muttered Jacques. 'He's as important as the captain. Divides the plunder and looks to the running of the ship. Issues arms and all the rest.'

It was the quartermaster who opened the meeting. Addressing the assembly he announced, 'The Miskito tells me that he will only come with us as a striker if we take on his companions. What do you say?'

'How about the Miskito himself. Is he worth it?' called a voice.

'Judging by the number of turtle shells on the beach, he is,' answered someone who must have been ashore with the watering party.

'That big man looks right for us,' observed another. 'But he could be a clumsy slug with that antique gun of his.'

Jezreel was still carrying his old-fashioned matchlock musket.

The quartermaster turned to Jezreel. 'Your gun might be good enough for hunting cattle, but on this ship we don't use firelocks. By the time you've reloaded and fiddled with the match, your enemy will be on you.'

'Then I would use this,' announced Jezreel sliding the ramrod out from under his musket's barrel. He pointed it at the watching crowd. 'Any of you fellows willing to run at me with your cutlasses? Point or edge, it will not matter.'

The quartermaster beckoned to two crew men who stepped forward and drew their cutlasses. But, aware that their comrades were looking on, their charge was half-hearted. Jezreel merely stepped to one side and dodged them.

'Is that the best you can do?' he asked, goading them.

Now his two attackers were genuinely annoyed. Their resentment showed in the angry slashes they launched at their opponent. One man aimed for the giant's head, the other for his knees. But neither blow landed. The rod in Jezreel's hand darted out, faster than anyone could follow, and both his attackers dropped their weapons, cursing. Each was holding his hand where the ramrod had flicked across their knuckles.

'Stage fighter!' cried someone from the back of the crowd. 'I seen that trick done before.'

'Very likely,' called out Jezreel. 'Would anyone else like to try their luck? I'll face three of you at a time, if you wish.'

There were no takers, and the quartermaster intervened. 'We'll put it to the vote. All who wish to accept this man into our company raise your hands. Any objector speak up.' There was a silent show of hands.

'Who joins with you as your mate?' asked the quartermaster.

'Both my friends,' Jezreel answered placidly, sliding the ramrod back in place.

'Only one companion, that's the custom,' insisted the quartermaster. He was frowning now.

'How about that fellow with a brand on his cheek,' suggested an onlooker. 'He looks as if he can handle trouble.'