Tim Severin - Buccaneer

'No one lives in these woods,' came the reply. 'I fear we might have run into a roving gang of maroons.'

'Who are they?'

'Runaway slaves.'

Hector paused as the shouts came again, very much louder and closer. Now there was also the noise of bodies crashing through the undergrowth. Unsheathing the sword that he found, Hector unfastened his horse from the carriage and swung up into the saddle. The disturbance seemed to be coming from behind the carriage, and he turned his horse to face back down the track. A minute later several black shapes burst out of the undergrowth and raced across the path before vanishing into the thickets on the opposite side. They were pigs, wild ones, led by a massive boar, its jaws flecked with foam. The boar smashed a gap through the undergrowth, and behind him scampered at least a dozen piglets, small dark hairy creatures, which disappeared equally suddenly from view. Then came an interval when the track was empty until, equally abruptly, a human figure sprang out onto the path. He was a tall, black man with long matted hair down to his shoulders. Barefoot and naked to the waist, his only garment was a pair of tattered loose pantaloons. In one hand he held a hunting spear, and there was a heavy cutlass hanging from a strap over his shoulder.

He was some thirty yards away. He checked his stride and turned to face Hector. For a moment he paused, seeing the young man, sword in hand, the carriage behind him with its driver and the seated woman, a second rider armed with a pistol. There was no fear, only calculation in the black man's expression. Behind him half a dozen hunting dogs appeared on the track, running nose down and following the scent of the wild pigs. They also crossed the path and disappeared on the far side. But the black man stayed where he was, eyeing the travellers. Hector felt a cold spike of fear as a second, then a third black man appeared from the bushes. They too were armed. One of them held a musket. All three stood still, sizing up the travellers. Hector tightened his grip on the sword, the hilt now slippery with his sweat. Beneath him the horse, alarmed by the dogs and the wild-looking strangers, began to fidget nervously. Hector feared that the animal might rear up. If he was thrown to the ground, the hunters might take their chance to attack. He was also very conscious of Susanna in the carriage just behind him. She must be looking back, seeing the danger and aware that only he stood between her and the runaway slaves. For what seemed like an age, both sides regarded one another in total silence. Then a sudden burst of barking deep within the undergrowth broke the tension. The hunting dogs must have cornered their prey because the sound rose to an excited crescendo. The nearest black man turned and, raising his spear, waved his comrades onward towards the sound of the hunting pack. As suddenly as they had arrived, all three hunters vanished into the undergrowth.

Hector found himself in a cold sweat of relief as he looked back at Susanna. She was slightly pale but otherwise remarkably calm. Her brother seemed to be the more shocked. 'I never thought there were maroons in this area,' he said, and he sounded contrite. 'If I had known, I would have arranged an escort, or made sure we had travelled in greater company for safety. They were hunting well outside their usual territory.'

'Those men looked savage,' Hector commented.

'That's how they got their name,' Robert explained. 'The Spaniards called them cimarron, meaning wild or untamed. The first maroons were slaves whom the Spanish left behind on the island when the English took Jamaica from Spain. Now the maroons have gone native. They've established themselves in the roughest parts of the country, in areas too difficult for them to be rooted out.'

'Mr Lynch was telling me that his best friend is also a native, a Miskito,' Susanna intervened.

'Oh, the Miskito are very different,' her brother replied. 'They are good allies to the English and the French, or so I'm told. Besides, they are not found in Jamaica. They live on the mainland, and they hate the Spanish.'

'Mr Lynch's mother is Spanish,' warned Susanna.

'I'm sorry,' Robert replied, blushing. 'Nothing I say seems to strike the right note.'

'I've never heard of the maroons before,' Hector hastened to assure him. 'They seem to live in much the same way as the first buccaneers ... by hunting wild animals.'

'That's true,' said Robert. 'Indeed my uncle told me that the buccaneers are named after the boucans, the racks on which they grill the flesh of the beasts they kill. It's a French word, the same which the Spanish call a barbacoa or barbecue.'

'I'm sure Mr Lynch finds all this fascinating,' said his sister. 'But don't you think we should be getting on our way. If we stand here talking long enough, the maroons may return and find us here.'

'Yes, yes. Of course,' her brother replied. And then to Hector's chagrin he added, 'Just in case we do encounter any further trouble, perhaps it would be best if he kept my sword for the moment and stayed on horseback.'

The little group travelled on and as if to make up for his lapse of judgement, Robert made a point of riding beside Hector. He chatted with the young Irishman in his friendly manner, explaining to him the more interesting features of the countryside as gradually the land began to slope downward and became more open until eventually they were riding through open savannah. He pointed out wild cattle grazing among the low bushes, and spoke enthusiastically about the fertility ot the soil. 'What you do is purchase one hundred acres of prime Jamaican land and invest just four hundred pounds in half a dozen slaves and spades and tools. You have your slaves clear the ground, then plant and cultivate cocoa, and in the fourth year the crop will give you back your original investment. After that, if you are shrewd and your slaves have also set cassava and maize and built their own huts, you have no further expenses. Year after year your cocoa will bring in four hundred pounds back and maybe more. Everything is pure profit.'

But Hector could think only about Susanna riding in the carriage so close to him, and he found it difficult to pay attention to her brother and his business talk. He forced himself not to glance around to look at her, for fear of seeming foolishly besotted. Luckily Robert did not seem to notice his listener's preoccupation and prattled on until, from behind, Susanna called out.

'Robert, do stop talking about money and point out that bird to Mr Lynch. There, over to your left beside the bush with orange flowers. He will not have seen anything like it before.'

Indeed, at first sight, Hector thought that Susanna was mistaken. A large brown and grey butterfly was feeding on the blossoms, moving from one flower to the next. Then Hector saw that it was not a butterfly but a tiny bird, just over an inch long, which was hovering in position, its wings a blur. Turning aside he rode closer, and the bird suddenly rose from the bush and came towards him. For several seconds the tiny creature hovered close beside his head, and he distinctly heard the sound of its wings, a delicate hur! hur! hur!

'Your first hummingbird, Mr Lynch!' called out Susanna.

'It is indeed a remarkable creature. It makes a sound like a miniature spinning wheel,' Hector agreed, able at last to turn and look directly at her.

'You have the soul of an artist, Mr Lynch,' she said, with a smile of delight which made him dizzy. 'Wait until you've seen its cousin. The one they call a streamer. It flies in the same way and has two long velvet black tail feathers which dangle in the air, and you can hear them fluttering. When the sunlight strikes its breast, the feathers flash emerald, then olive or deepest black as the creature turns.'

Hector was tongue-tied. He wanted desperately to say something gallant to this divine creature, to continue the conversation, but he could find no words. The way he looked at her, though, could have left no doubt about the way he felt.