Tim Severin - Buccaneer

'Pull the trigger,' snarled Sharpe.

A moment later there was a loud explosion and, to Hector's horror, the friar was thrown backward and fell to the deck. A great stain of blood spread across his gown. Jezreel, standing with the smoking pistol in his hand, looked down at the weapon in disbelief. He was too shocked to speak.

'A genuine mistake’ said Sharpe smoothly. Stepping forward quickly he took back the pistol. 'I thought the weapon was charged but not fully loaded.'

Hector had gone forward to where the priest lay. A dark red rivulet, glinting in the sun, was trickling from under the body and seeping its way to the scuppers. He knelt down and placed his hand on the man's chest. Through the thick brown cloth he could detect a faint heart beat. 'He's still alive!' he called out, looking around frantically for a surgeon. A moment later Ringrose was at his side, his ringers gently probing for the entry wound. 'Gut shot,' he muttered under his breath. 'He'll not live.'

'Get out of my way!' ordered a hoarse voice. Hector was aware of a shadow falling over him. He looked up. It was a crew man by the name of Duill who had always seemed to him to be particularly uncouth and brutish. He had enormously wide shoulders, a short body and a neck that seemed too long to support a small round head. It was as if he had been put together from the body parts of strangers. 'Bugger off 1.' growled Duill. His speech was slightly slurred, and Hector smelled the reek of brandy on his breath. 'This is what we do to Papists.' He leaned down and, pushing Hector aside, took the priest by the shoulders and began to drag the dying man towards the ship's rail.

'Here, give me a hand,' he called out. A second crew man, obviously one of Duill's cronies, ran forward. He stumbled momentarily, and gave a whooping laugh. The two drunks took the priest by the shoulders and feet and began to swing him back and forth between them like a heavy sack. 'One, two and away,' they chanted, and with a drunken cheer heaved the body over the rail and into the sea. Then they toppled against one another and broke into boozy laughter.

'Savages!' murmured Ringrose. He had risen to his feet and had gone pale.

'The priest was still alive,' groaned Hector. He felt that he was going to vomit.

Ringrose gripped his arm. 'Steady, Lynch. Remember where we are. Look at the men.'

The crew of the Trinity were staring at the patch of blood on the deck. Many of them were silent and thoughtful. But at least a score of them were grinning broadly. Suddenly Hector remembered Peralta's warning. They were like a wolf pack gloating over a kill. They had enjoyed the spectacle.

'Of course he knew his pistol was loaded,' said Jacques. It was just after sunset on the evening of the murder, and the four friends were gathered by the lee rail to discuss the atrocity. 'In the toughest Paris gangs the leader would select one of his men at random and order him to slit a throat or break an innocent head. If the man refused or delayed, then he was likely to suffer that same fate himself. That was the gang leader's way to gain respect and impose his authority.' 'But I was tricked,' said Jezreel.

'Sharpe's more cunning. He has shown the crew that he's ruthless, and at the same time made sure that he does not have blood on his own hands.'

'So why did he pick on me?' added Jezreel. His face set hard. 'Why was I the one selected to do the job?'

'Because he wants to bind us to him,' said Dan quietly. The others looked at the Miskito in surprise. It was rare for him to make any comment. Immediately, he had their complete attention. 'Remember when Coxon refused to include Hector in his group returning to Golden Island? We stuck together, Coxon was made to look a fool, and several of the other men came over to our side. Sharpe doesn't want that happening to him when he is in charge.'

Hector was beginning to understand the point that Dan was making. 'So you think Sharpe was making sure we stay on Trinity?

Dan nodded. 'Several men have already approached me to ask if I was satisfied with Sharpe as general. They are plotting to depose him by vote. If that fails, they are planning to leave the expedition.'

'You mean that if we went with them back to the Caribbean, word of the priest's death is sure to get out and Jezreel could finish up on the gallows in Port Royal.'

'Sharpe knows that we stay together as a group, and he needs us,' Dan said, and his unhurried manner of speaking gave his words all the more weight. 'Consider who we are. When it comes to hand-to-hand fighting, no one aboard this vessel is more skilled than Jezreel. The men look up to him. They like him to be on their side when we send out a boarding party. Hector is the best interpreter. Plenty of others can speak some Spanish, but Hector has a knack of getting along well with the Spaniards, men like Peralta. They confide in him.'

'What about Jacques, surely there's nothing special about him?' said Jezreel showing a glimmer of his usual banter.

Dan gave a faint smile. 'Surely you know that on a ship a good cook is more valuable than a good captain.' The smile vanished, to be replaced by a solemn expression. 'As for myself, there are only two Miskito strikers left with the expedition. Without us the company would be even hungrier than they are now. And starving men are discontents.'

That was true enough, thought Hector. Finding enough food to satisfy Trinity's large crew was a constant problem.

'Capitan Peralta said to me as far back as Panama that the expedition would disintegrate,' he said.

'This is worse than when I killed a man in a prize fight,' said Jezreel glumly, looking down at his hands. 'At least that was in a fit of rage. This time I have been made a dupe.'

'The situation is not hopeless,' Hector comforted him. 'Given enough time, the death of the priest will be forgotten or

perhaps Sharpe's double-dealing will be exposed. But for the moment our general holds the advantage. However unwilling we may be, he has bound us to him, just as Dan says, and we must wait until matters right themselves.'

TWELVE

Hector watched Bartholomew Sharpe throw himself a double four. Passage was a brutally simple game of dice but well suited to the gamblers aboard Trinity. They wanted to wager their loot with the least effort and the quickest results. The rules were straightforward: three dice and two players. The first player to get a double using only two of the dice, then threw the third. If the total on all three dice was more than ten, that man won. Ten or under and he lost.

The captain threw again, a five, and reached out to sweep up the coins wagered by his opponent. As he transferred his winnings into a purse, he became aware of Hector standing behind him. 'What do you want?' Sharpe asked brusquely, turning to glare at the young man. Hector detected a moment of unease in his captain's eyes and the briefest flicker of dislike. It was enough to make him wonder if his new captain might become just as much a threat as Captain Coxon, as dangerous but more subtle.

'A word in private, please.'

Sharpe treated his gambling victim to a shrug of false sympathy. 'That's enough for today. I've won back all the money I lent you, and you'll need more plunder before we play again.'

He deliberately left his dice on the capstan head. It was not something he would have risked with more sophisticated gamblers in London or professional players though the three dice were masterpieces of the counterfeiter's art. Two were paired delicately so they tended to come up with doubles. The other, of course, was adjusted so it gave a high number. It was that last dice which had a very slight discolouration of one of the pips, just enough for Captain Sharpe to recognise. Naturally he always took care that he lost several throws before he began to use the three dice in the correct sequence, and now after two months of gambling he judged that he personally held fully ten per cent of all the plunder taken on the cruise.