Tim Severin - Buccaneer

'We'll have to fight our way into Arica so I might as well give you a few tips on hand-to-hand combat while we are waiting for Dan to get back,' Jezreel said to Hector. He handed him a cutlass and stood back, raising his short sword. 'Now strike at me!'

The two of them sparred, Jezreel easily deflecting Hector's blows before making his counterstrokes which usually slipped past his opponent's defence. Occasionally Jezreel stopped and adjusted the position of Hector's sword arm. 'It's all in the wrist action,' Jezreel explained. 'Keep your guard up high, flex the wrist as you parry, then strike back. It must all be one swift movement. Like this.' He knocked aside Hector's weapon and tapped him on the shoulder with the flat of his own blade.

'I don't have your height advantage,' Hector complained.

'Just stick to the basics and stay light on your feet,' the ex-prizefighter advised. 'In battle there's no time for fancy sword play, and you can expect your opponent to fight dirty like so!'

This time he distracted Hector by aiming a high blow at his head, and at the same time moved close enough to pretend to knee him in the groin. 'And always remember that in a close scuffle, the hilt of your sword is more effective than the edge. More men have been clubbed down in a brawl than were ever run through or cut.'

Hector lowered his cutlass to rest his arm. Just then there was the sound of a musket shot, closely followed by two more in quick succession. They came from Trinity s launch which had gone to meet Dan and Will and shoot wild goats. The crew were rowing frantically back to the ship. Clearly something had gone wrong.

'Loose the topsail to show we've heard their signal!' Watling bellowed. Half a dozen men ran to obey his command, and

Hector found himself with the rest of the crew, waiting anxiously at the rail for the launch to come within shouting distance.

'I can see Dan in the boat, but not Will,' muttered Jezreel.

Just then Watling stepped up beside him, cupping his hands around his mouth and using his drill sergeant's voice to call out. 'What's the trouble?'

'Spaniards! Three ships hull-down to the east,' came back a shout. 'They're heading this way.'

'Shit!' Watling swore and turned on his heel, looking out to sea. 'We can't see anything from here. The headland blocks our view.'

He hurried back to the rail and bellowed again at the approaching launch. 'What sort of vessels?'

'They have the look of men of war, but it's difficult to be sure.'

Watling glanced up at the sky, gauging the direction and strength of the wind. 'Quartermasters! Call all hands and prepare to raise anchor. We have to get out of this bay. It's a trap if the Spaniards find us here.' He caught a seaman by the shoulder and barked, 'You! Get two of your fellows and bring up all the weapons we have. I want them loaded and ready on deck in case we have to fight our way clear.'

There was a rush of activity as men began to bring the galleon back to life after weeks of idleness. They cleared away the deck clutter, braced round the yards ready to catch the wind, and hoisted a foresail and the mizzen so that Trinity hung on her anchor, ready to break free and sail out of the bay at a moment's notice. Quartermaster Gifford himself took the helm and stood waiting.

Watling was back at the rail, bawling at the men in the launch. 'Get a move on! Tie the launch off the stern and lend a hand.'

'What about the men still on shore? We cannot abandon them!' Hector blurted.

Watling swung round, face hard set, his eyes furious. 'They shift for themselves,' he snapped.

'But Jacques is not back yet, and Will was with Dan. He must still be on the island.'

An angry scowl spread across Watling's face. He was about to lose his temper.

'Do you question my orders?'

'Look over there,' said Hector, pointing towards the beach. 'You can see Jacques now. He's standing there, waiting to be picked up by a boat.'

'Let him swim,' snarled Watling. He turned back and shouted at the men to get to the capstan and begin retrieving the anchor.

Hector was about to say that Jacques did not know how to swim when Jezreel, short sword in hand, strode across the deck and stood beside the capstan.

'The first person who slots in a capstan bar loses his fingers,' he announced. Then he casually whipped his sword through the air, the blade making a figure of eight and a low swishing sound as he turned his wrist.

The approaching sailors stopped short. They looked warily at the ex-prizefighter.

'The anchor stays down until Jacques is safely aboard,' Jezreel warned them.

'We'll see about that,' growled one of the sailors. It was Duill, the second quartermaster. He made his way to the quarterdeck. 'General, may I have the loan of one of your pistols so I can put a bullet in that bugger's guts.'

Hector forestalled him. Stepping across to where the ship's armament was being made ready, he picked up a loaded blunderbuss, and pointed it at Duill's stomach. 'This time it's your corpse that will have to go over the side,' he said grimly.

Everyone stood still, waiting to see what would happen. Watling looked as if he was about to spring at Hector. Duill was eyeing the gap between himself and the muzzle of the gun.

Into this tense lull came a languid voice. 'No need for so much fuss. I'll take the launch, if someone will care to accompany me, and collect our French friend. '

It was Bartholomew Sharpe. He sauntered across the deck casually.

'What about Will the Miskito,' Hector asked, his voice harsh with strain.

'I'm sure he'll be able to look after himself,' said Sharpe soothingly. 'He's got a gun and ammunition, and will make himself comfortable until we can get back to collect him or another ship comes along.' He attempted a lighter touch. 'Your friend Jacques is another matter. What would we do without his pimento sauce?'

'Then get on with it,' snapped Watling. Hector could see that the new captain was keen to re-establish his authority and show that he, not Sharpe, was in command. 'The launch picks up the Frenchman, and we waste no more time getting ready for action.'

Twenty minutes later, a relieved Jacques was scrambling aboard clutching a sack of salad leaves, and Trinity's anchor was emerging dripping from the sea as the ship began to gather way.

'Don't fret about Will. A Miskito will be able to look after himself on the island,' Dan quietly reassured Hector. 'There's more to worry about close at hand.'

He nodded towards the foredeck where a sullen-looking Duill was standing by to oversee the catting of the anchor. 'The crew don't like what happened. They think we were prepared to sacrifice them in favour of our friends. From now we'll have to watch our backs.'

FOURTEEN

'Each grenadier will receive a bonus of ten pieces of eight,' declared Watling from the rail of the quarterdeck, his gaze sweeping across the assembled crew. It was a fortnight since Trinity had run from Juan Fernandez, easily slipping past the Spanish squadron. Now she lay hove-to off the mainland coast and in sight of the long, dark line of hills which loomed behind Arica.

'If he still has both his hands to count the money,' mocked a voice at the back of the crowd.

Watling ignored the gibe. 'The success of our assault may depend on our grenadiers. Who will volunteer?'

His plea was met with silence. The men were nervous about touching the home-made bombs now they had been filled with gunpowder and fitted with their stubby fuses.

'If you handle grenades properly, they are safe,' Watling insisted. 'I myself will show how it's done.'

'How about giving them out to the bastards who made them,' suggested the same anonymous voice. 'If they get it wrong, they'll know who's to blame.'