Tim Severin - Buccaneer

'Come on! We are more than they are!' he yelled, and flung himself into the thick of the fight. He was conscious of someone at his left shoulder. It was Estevan and he was fighting grimly, protecting his captain's vulnerable side. Peralta shouted again, urging on his crew, and he felt a thrill of pride as they responded with a concerted charge. A score of them began to force the boarders back towards their own vessel. 'Well done! Well done!' he screamed, smashing his sword hilt into a sweating pirate face. His crewmen pressed forward. Now they had the initiative. The pirates were in retreat. Don Francisco was panting with effort. His foot skidded and he almost fell. The deck was slippery with blood. But it did not matter. Already the first of the pirates were jumping back into their piragua; their comrades were fighting a rearguard action. In another few moments the deck of his barca longa would be cleared. Now was the time to smash the enemy into oblivion.

Don Francisco grabbed his contremaestre by the shoulder. 'We must get to the forward patarero, Estevan!' he bellowed in the man's ear. 'Load it with the heaviest shot you can find.

Shoot down into that damned piragua, and send her to the bottom.' Estevan had never failed him in all those years they had served together on the royal ships. He always knew exactly what he was doing. Now he and Don Francisco sprinted forward to the bow, hurdling two badly wounded men sprawled on the deck. As Estevan ran, he was calling out to two of his own men to help him with the patarero.

The four of them reached the swivel gun where it sat on its mounting on the rail. Its muzzle was pointing skyward, left at that angle after the last time it had been fired. Peralta watched Estevan grab the breech and swing the weapon level so that two assistants could take their positions. One man stood at each side of the gun and clasped the barrel. At a command from the contremaestre, all three men heaved the patarero off its mount, then gently laid the weapon on deck ready to reload.

Peralta gave a smile of relief. Now the gun crew was behind the ship's rail, out of sight of the pirates in the piragua. Jeers, confused shouting, and the occasional report of a musket told him that his crew were managing to keep the pirates at bay, preventing them from climbing back aboard the barca longa. In another minute or two, the patarero would be reloaded, hoisted back into position, and then he and Estevan would tilt the gun so that it pointed directly down into the piragua. A single shot at such close range would be devastating. It would rip the bottom out of the pirate's craft, and that would be the end of the fight.

Perhaps it was an ember still smouldering inside the bronze barrel of the patarero which caused the disaster. Or maybe metal struck on metal and produced an unlucky spark, or the inexperienced gun crew bungled their work. Whatever the reason, there was a tremendous explosion on the foredeck. A dozen powder charges ignited simultaneously. Sections of planking flew into the air. Two of the gun crew were blown to pieces, and a blast of heat struck Peralta in the face. He threw up his hands to protect himself from the sheet of flame which followed, and felt a searing pain. Deafened by the clap of sound, he was thrown bodily over the ship's rail and into the sea.

Hector and his comrades in their canoe were only fifty paces away when the thunderclap of the explosion occurred. Something terrible had taken place on the barca longa's deck.

'Man in the water!' Hector shouted. He could see the head of someone swimming.

'Let him drown. He's just a Spaniard,' said a voice.

'No! He could be from our boarding party,' Hector insisted, thinking that perhaps it was Jacques or Jezreel who had been in the piragua. He started paddling. Ahead of him, John Watling followed his example. From the Spanish vessel there was no sound at all. Hector supposed that everyone aboard was too shocked and stunned to continue fighting.

When the canoe reached the swimmer, he proved to be an older man with short, nearly white hair. By his dark complexion it was evident that he was a Spaniard. He was supporting the unconscious body of a black man, holding his head above the sea. The negro was horribly wounded. His skin was lacerated and torn, his face a mask of blood.

'Here, grab on and let us help you,' Hector called out in Spanish as he reached down to take hold of the unconscious figure. The swimmer gave a nod of thanks, and the black man was lifted carefully into the canoe. 'You too,' Hector added, holding out his hand. 'Come aboard. You are our prisoner now.'

The stranger clambered into the canoe, and there was something about his manner which indicated that he was an officer.

'My name is Hector Lynch. I'm not a surgeon, but I have a few medicines with me which may help your friend here.'

'I will be grateful for that,' answered the stranger. 'Allow me to introduce myself. I am Capitan Francisco de Peralta, commander of the Santa Catalina that you and your colleagues have assaulted. The wounded man is my quartermaster, Estevan.'

"What do we do now? The black man needs proper medical attention,' Hector asked, addressing his colleagues.

'We could bring Peralta to his ship, and get him to call on the crew to surrender,' suggested Watling. He spoke enough Spanish to have followed Hector's conversation with their prisoner.

Cautiously they began to paddle their canoe towards the barca longa. One or two men could be seen moving about on deck of the stricken Spanish warship. There was a thin flicker of flame along the lower edge of the mainsail which had been set alight in the explosion. Someone was attempting to put out the fire, throwing water from a bucket. There was no sign of anyone from the boarding party from the piragua which was still on the opposite side of the Spanish vessel and out of sight.

The canoe had covered less than half the distance when there was a second explosion, even more thunderous than the first. This time it came from the stern of the Santa Catalina and was so powerful that it snapped the mainmast and sent it crashing over the side, trailing tattered sails and rigging. A black cloud of smoke rose in the air. Soon afterwards came the sounds of wailing and screams of pain.

Peralta went pale. 'God help my crew. They did not deserve that,' he muttered.

When Hector and the others reached the barca longa, they found carnage everywhere — broad streaks of blood on the deck, broken and shattered gear, scorched planking, the smell of burning. Only about a quarter of the crew seemed still alive, and the survivors were either badly wounded or in a state of shock. Peralta was grim-faced, appalled by the destruction.

Hector and Watling helped the capitan hoist the still unconscious black man aboard and lay him on deck, and Hector knelt beside the injured contremaestre, trying to remember how surgeon Smeeton had treated gunpowder burns.

'Any idea who's the senior Spanish survivor?' someone asked. Hector looked up. It was Sawkins. Miraculously the hot-headed buccaneer captain was still alive though there was a bloody bandage round his head, and his buff coat was smudged with gunpowder. He must have boarded from the piragua.

'This is Captain Francisco Peralta. He's the commander,' Hector answered.

'Ask him about those other ships. We need to know how they are manned and armed,' said Sawkins briskly. He was his usual terrier-like self, eager for action and gazing towards the four vessels which could be seen at anchor in the roadstead off Panama. Hector marvelled at the man's unquenchable energy.

The Spanish captain hesitated for a moment before replying. 'You'll find four hundred well-armed men aboard those ships.'

On the deck beside Peralta the black man stirred and opened his eyes. They were filled with pain. It was clear that he was mortally wounded.