Tim Severin - Buccaneer

The Spanish captain reached the little creek where his cockboat was waiting for him. Every member of its crew was a black man because Don Francisco preferred to work with negroes. Most were freed slaves and he found them loyal and less likely to desert in search of better pay in the merchant marine. Now they would have half an hour of steady rowing to bring him to his ship. After Morgan had sacked Panama, the city had been rebuilt in a safer location and the planners of New Panama had been so fearful of an attack from the sea that they had picked an easily defended promontory with shoal water all around it. This meant that the merchant ships and the armadilla were obliged to anchor well away from the shore and had no protection from the city's gun batteries. Don Francisco's earlier moment of cheerfulness subsided into a mood of resignation. Whatever happened in the next few days, he and the two other captains would be on their own. There would be no assistance from the landsmen.

He turned to look back over his shoulder as the cockboat pulled out of the creek. He had a clear view down the coast in the direction from which the pirates would come, and towards the ruins of the city that Morgan had sacked and burned. Most of the buildings had been of fine cedar wood, with beautiful carved balconies. All that had gone up in flames. Only the stone-built structures had survived, and one of them still rose above its neighbours. It was the old cathedral, still in use because its replacement in New Panama had not yet been consecrated. But Morgan's pirates had not got away with everything. Hearing that an attack was imminent, the priests had cleverly camouflaged the cathedral's beautiful altar piece, a soaring masterwork of carved wood smothered in gold leaf. They had painted it black, and the pirates had been duped. They ransacked the cathedral but failed to see the deception. The altar piece remained, and the citizens of New Panama still worshipped before it. As he settled back in his place in the stern of the boat, Don Peralta wondered if he too would be able to use deception to hoodwink the new invaders.

Hector was thankful that he had been selected for Captain Sawkins' vanguard. It put him well out of reach of Coxon. The buccaneer had tried using the Kuna balm spiked with the Spanish Fly, and the last time Hector had seen him, Coxon's face and neck had been disfigured with a great throbbing rash, a seeping expanse like a grotesque birthmark which was giving Coxon agony. Clearly, Hector felt that it was small retribution for what had happened on the ridge before Santa Maria.

'You were set up,' Jezreel had confirmed when Hector told him what had happened during the attack. 'We could not see you and your flag of truce from the cane brakes where the forlorn assembled. Yet you must have been visible to Coxon up on the ridge. He must have enjoyed watching you walk trustingly towards the Spanish guns.'

'And Coxon himself took care to stay out of harm's way,' the big man added. 'He waited until Santa Maria had fallen before he came down from the ridge. Some are saying that our commander lacks courage.'

Now Coxon was somewhere far behind Sawkins and in the early light of dawn the forlorn was advancing on Panama in boats provided by the Kuna — two large piraguas and five small canoes. Jezreel, Dan and Jacques had been assigned to a piragua while Hector had been provided with a musket and ammunition and put with five other men in one of the little dugouts.

Hector put down his paddle and leaned forward to check the lashings that held his musket to the side of the canoe. Dan had advised him to make sure that the knots were tight, the muzzle stoppered, and the lock well wrapped in waxed cloth so that it stayed dry. Also that his cartridge box was fastened somewhere safe, and well sealed with grease, so he didn't lose the gun or wet the ammunition if there was a capsize.

It had been good advice. The canoe had not tipped over but the four days since leaving Santa Maria had brought frequent cloudbursts, heavy and unpredictable, which had drenched his clothes and knapsack and ruined Hector's last remaining store of food. Only his medical notebook had stayed dry. He had put it inside a watertight tube he had made from the hollow stem of a giant cane, sealing the cut end with a soft wooden plug driven in tight.

Hector picked up his paddle and resumed the stroke. Conversation was limited to talking to the man directly in front or behind. Seated just ahead of him was a weatherbeaten buccaneer by the name of John Watling. His scars and gruff manner of speech with its occasional military jargon marked him as a veteran soldier.

'I'm told that Sawkins can't abide oaths and profanity.' Hector said.

'Doesn't like gaming either. Says it's sinful and I agree with him,' Watling replied over his shoulder. 'If he finds a pack of cards or a set of dice, he throws them in the sea. He makes his people observe the Sabbath too.'

'Yet he doesn't hesitate to plunder fellow Christians.'

'Course not. They're Papists, aren't they? He sees them as fair game and it doesn't matter if we don't have a Jamaica commission.'

The mention of Jamaica made Hector think of Susanna yet again.

'I'm hoping to get back to Jamaica soon. Left a girl there,' he said casually though full of pride. It was an exaggeration but it gave him some small throb of satisfaction to pretend that Susanna was in his life.

'Then you better hope that our venture on Panama turns out to be more profitable than Santa Maria. No one's going to be welcome back in Jamaica without a deal of plunder in his purse.'

'That won't make any difference to my girl,' Hector boasted.

'She'll have no say in it,' said Watling curtly. 'We've left a right bad taste behind us in Port Royal. Our captains told the authorities that they were going to cut logwood in Campeachy. Even got government licences to do so. But the moment they cleared the land, they headed for the Main and began this mischief.'

'I can't see how that will affect me when I get back to Port Royal. I joined up later.'

'It'll make no difference,' grunted Watling. He paused his paddling to take up a wooden scoop lying at his feet and bail out a quantity of bilgewater. 'There's meant to be a truce between England and Spain, and I wouldn't be surprised if we've been disowned.'

'Disowned?'

'Put beyond the law.' Watling made it sound very casual. 'If we come back with our pockets full of treasure, it will all be forgotten. Just like Drake back in the time of Queen Bess. The Spaniards still call him the Great Pirate, but the English think he is a national hero and he was knighted by the Queen.' He half-turned to face back at Hector. 'So if you come home in a ship with sails of silk, then you'll be a hero too. If not. . .' — he made a gesture of rope being placed around his neck, and pulled upward — 'We'll be choked off. All of us that are caught . . .'

Watling's blunt prediction filled Hector with foreboding. It was too late to leave the expedition before it reached Panama, even if he was prepared to abandon Dan and his other friends. No longer did he have the excuse that he was only serving as a medical orderly in the campaign. Captain Sawkins had insisted that he carried the musket if he was to travel with the forlorn. The more he thought about his predicament, the more Hector was undecided whether he preferred the attack on Panama to fail so that the expedition would disband, or for the assault to succeed so that he could return to Jamaica and buy himself out of trouble.

There was a long silence, broken only when Watling commented, 'Nice to think it's St George's Day. A good omen!'

But Hector did not answer. He had counted a total of seventy-six men in Sawkins' tiny flotilla. That seemed far too few to assault a major Spanish stronghold. The rest of the buccaneer expedition was lagging far behind, and he doubted that fire-eating Sawkins would wait for them to catch up. Somewhere over to his left were Dan, Jezreel and Jacques in their piragua, but it was too far away to see which one it was. On his right and visible on the low shoreline against the sunrise was the stump of a tower which one of his companions, a man who had marched with Morgan, said was the Cathedral of Old Panama. The vanguard must be getting very close to its target.