Tim Severin - Buccaneer

'Three sail and bearing directly down for us!' exclaimed Watling as the sun finally dispelled the last of the dawn haze.

Hector craned to one side to look forward over the seaman's shoulder. About two miles distant were three sailing ships. They were heading straight for the buccaneer canoes which were advancing in no sort of formation.

'Warships by the look of them, barca longas,' said Watling, 'and in a hurry to engage us.'

There was a halloo from the nearest canoe about eighty yards away to their right. It was Sawkins himself. Typically his boat had outstripped the rest, and was several lengths in advance of the company. The captain was standing up in his canoe, waving his hat and gesturing that Watling's canoe should turn directly towards the enemy.

'Not much else we can do,' muttered Watling darkly. 'The Spaniards have the advantage of us. The wind is right behind them, and they can pick their prey.' But he appeared remarkably composed as he bent forward and began to unfasten his musket.

Only when he had checked and loaded the weapon did he look up again. By then it was clear to Hector that the leading Spanish vessel was shaping course to pass through the gap between Sawkins' canoe and the one in which he now sat. It would allow the Spanish vessel to use her gun batteries on both sides.

'Any good with a musket?' Watling asked Hector.

'I haven't had much practice recently.'

'Better if you act as my loader then,' suggested the seaman. 'Get your own gun ready, and hand it to me when I've fired mine. Then take my gun and set it up again. If we're quick about it, I should be able to get off at least three shots, maybe more.

While Hector prepared his own musket, Watling sat quietly, his gun held across his lap, until the leading Spanish ship was almost within range.

'Stand by to receive cannon fire,' he said softly.

A moment later there was a loud bang and a billow of smoke from the deck of the Spanish vessel. The air was filled with the whistle of flying metal, and the surface of the sea a good thirty yards ahead of the canoe spouted small jets of foam.

'Scrubby shooting at this range,' said Watling dryly.

Again the bang of a cannon. This time the Spanish ship was firing in the opposite direction, towards Sawkins' canoe. Hector could not see where the shot fell.

'They'll do better next time,' said Watling, and he crouched down in the canoe. Hastily Hector followed his example, kneeling in the bilge and bending as low as possible. Nevertheless he felt very vulnerable. Behind him the other men were also ducking down.

Another shot from a cannon, and the sound of metal hurtling through the air. It was much closer this time. There was a sudden drone as something skimmed off the surface of the sea. The Spaniards must have loaded their guns with small shot. Watling let out a grunt as he shifted position. Now he was half-reclining in the bottom of the canoe, the barrel of his musket resting on the gunnel, and taking aim towards the Spanish ship. Hector felt the canoe rock slightly from side to side as the buccaneers behind him also took up their firing positions. 'Steady!' came a warning voice. It was the man farthest in the bow. 'Let me take the first shot.'

There was the sound of a musket firing, the familiar smell of gunpowder, and a slight tremor down the length of the canoe. Hector raised his head and squinted towards the Spanish ship. He could see men on deck and in the lower rigging and the steersman at the helm. Next to him was a man dressed in a long dark coat with slashes of silver braid. He must be the captain. A group of four Spanish sailors were gathered near the rail and, almost too late, Hector realised that they were a gun crew preparing to fire. He ducked down as their cannon spurted a stab of flame, and something smartly rapped the hull of the canoe. From behind him came an oath.

One of Watling's bare feet was pushing against his shoulder as the sailor braced himself and took aim. The crack of his musket was followed by a snort of satisfaction. Then Wading was passing back his musket and beckoning for Hector to hand him his own gun. Another wriggle as the sailor adjusted his firing position, and fired a second shot. Hector had to half-kneel in order to reload the empty gun. His head and body were now well above the level of the canoe's rim. He prised open the waxed lid of his cartouche box and pulled out a charge of powder in its paper wrapping. Tearing off the end of the cartouche with his teeth, he carefully tipped the powder into the musket barrel. Wrapping a strip of paper around a musket ball to make it a tight fit, he tamped it firmly down the barrel with the ramrod. Then, turning the musket on its side, he checked that the pin hole leading to the chamber was clear before he reached for his powder horn and poured a pinch of gunpowder into the firing pan and closed its cover. He was concentrating so closely on his work that he scarcely noticed the sound of the third cannon shot from the Spanish vessel.

Their aim must have been poor for he was only conscious of Watling urging him to hurry. 'Quick! Their helm is exposed.' Hector passed the reloaded musket forward, and this time Watling sat up on his thwart and faced over the stern of the canoe to take his aim. His musket barrel was beside the young man's face as he pulled the trigger. Hector was half-deafened by the explosion. But Watling was grinning with triumph. 'Two out of three,' he exulted, baring his teeth.

The men behind Hector had also been firing, though how many shots they had got off he could not tell. When he next looked towards the Spanish vessel, the barca longa had passed through the gap between the two canoes and was now downwind. It would take some time for her crew to turn the ship and bring her back into action. For the moment the danger from that direction was over.

A low groan dispelled his sense of relief. The man seated directly behind him in the canoe was holding his shoulder. Blood was staining his shirt. 'Here, let me look at that,' said Hector, and was about to climb back over the thwart with his medical knapsack when he was stopped by a sharp order from Watling. 'Leave that for later,' the sailor snapped. 'Here comes the next one.'

Hector glanced up to see a second Spanish warship steering for the same gap between his own canoe and Sawkins' boat. A broad white, gold and red pennant flying from the warship's masthead indicated that this must be the command vessel in the Spanish squadron.

Watling was speaking to him again, his voice urgent. 'Reload your own musket, and this time use it yourself. We'll not have much support from our captain from now.' A hurried glance towards Sawkins' canoe showed that only three members of its crew were visible in their normal places. Their companions must have been killed or wounded.

There was a nudge in his back. 'Here, take my gun as well!' The buccaneer with the bloody shoulder seated behind him was thrusting forward his musket for Hector to use. 'Aim for the helm, always for the helm,' the man advised, his face screwed up in pain.

This time Hector knew what to expect. Copying Watling's example he lay in the bottom of the canoe and rested the barrel of his gun on the rim of the hull. He drew back the hammer and waited patiently. The oncoming Spanish warship was following exactly the same track as its escort. Again the sounds of cannon, the clouds of black smoke, and this time the sharper reports of muskets as the Spaniards on deck opened fire on the small low-lying canoes.

Hector was no longer conscious of where the bullets went. His world narrowed to a single image — the figure of the man steering the Spanish vessel. He focused along the sights of his musket and carefully swivelled the muzzle to follow his target. He was faintly aware of the motion of the canoe on the slight swell, the hull rolling a few inches, just enough to make the target rise and fall in his aim. The motion was regular enough for him to calculate when the moment was right. He took a long slow breath and held it, waited for the uproll and then gently squeezed the trigger.