HF - 03 - The Devil's Own (11 page)

'What are you?' he demanded. 'Men or girls?' He grasped the bushes and swung himself ashore. But even as his feet left the boat he shuddered; no one knew for sure what hell might be lying immediately beneath him. There was that man the day before yesterday who had stumbled into a teeming ants' nest and lost most of his flesh before he could be dragged clear. There was that canoe which had overturned, and amongst whose crew leather-backed brown monsters called caiman by the Indians had swarmed with savage destruction before anyone could attempt their rescue. And there were the four men who had already been bitten by snakes, and had died in seconds. Beside all of those horrors, which clung to the brown water and the green banks with unceasing determination, what were a handful of Spanish soldiers?

His feet stamped through the soft earth, found the hard. He drew his cutlass, waved his arm. He could hear the shouts of Jean's men and Bart's, a little farther up the river. And he could see, too, the shattered branches and the imprints on the earth where the Spaniards had rested their muskets. But the men were gone. They were pursuing a war of attrition, knowing they could not concentrate a sufficient force in the jungle to meet the buccaneers head on.

And they were pursuing it successfully.

Bart shouldered his way through the trees. 'Christ,' he said. 'What would I give for a stretch of open ground. I'd even settle for Hispaniola again.'

'So long as we would be doing the hunting there as well,' Jean said. 'Let us regain our canoes. The Admiral has said that we shall certainly meet with resistance at Cruces, and it cannot be more than a day away now.'

'And that will be long enough,' Bart grumbled. 'My men are down to their last mouthfuls of meat.'

Kit re-embarked his crew, took his place in the stern. They had wasted half an hour in that futile action, but as yet even the centre of the long column of canoes had not passed their landing. And now, by this natural leap-frogging process, their places in the van had been taken by another three canoes, and
they could allow themselves to relax. Until Cruces. For Morgan had indeed told them about this town, an important resting place on the
gold road from Panama to Nombre
de Dios, situated on the shore of the lake. The Spaniards would certainly fight for Cruces, and the town was fortified. There would the mettle of these men be tested. As if it had not been tested many times before. Perhaps it was his own mettle he questioned. But had he not led the assault on the Spanish brig? He had known no fear then. Only an anxious anger. So now was a strange time to start doubting himself.

Or perhaps he did not doubt himself, but only the horrors that would come afterwards. For now he had two memories to haunt his midnight hours; the priest had joined Grandmama.

'The lake,' someone shouted from the canoe in front of him. The word had been passed down the command. 'The lake,' one of his own crew shouted. He turned, and cupped his hands to call the glad news. 'The lake,' he bellowed at those behind him, and listened to the word rippling down the column like a
feu de joie.

But was it a lake? Or had they in some fantastic fashion managed to cross the isthmus in four days? For the banks of the river were widening, and even disappearing from sight; he could see no land ahead, only the swarm of canoes, spreading out like a cavalry charge as they reached the open water, after the constant effort of pulling against the current over the previous days. Now they entered a world of light and air, compared with the oppression of the huge trees. Flocks of wild duck rose from the reeds on either hand, and scattered towards the sky, eagerly watched by the men, who were already weary of a diet of rotting beef. Reeds were everywhere, emerging in patches above the surface and then disappearing again. Now indeed they needed the Indian guides, or they might row round and round in circles for the rest of their lives. But the Admiral's canoe, painted a bright red so that there could be no mistakes in identification, rowed steadily forward, bearing just west of south, until even the reed-beds and the flanking forest had disappeared, and they followed an open expanse.

And now he could see land again. The morning sun reflected from the walls. Cruces. Filled with armed Spaniards determined to halt this expedition he
re and now. How would Morgan
command the assault? Would he merely point his sword at those battlements, and leave it to the desperate valour of his buccaneers? Kit rather suspected that would be the case, and felt relieved that there were close on fifty canoes between his own and the front. He would not have to be a forlorn hope on this occasion.

Morgan's boat headed straight for the beach beneath the walls; the roofs of the town, dominated by the church, were now clearly in view. But the Spaniards were wasting no powder. The loopholes remained silent, staring at the canoes.

'Give way,' Kit shouted. 'Make haste. Paddle you devils. Paddle.'

For the exhilaration of battle was once again seizing hold of him, and he no longer wanted to lag behind. He wished to be up there with the leaders, with the Admiral and with the van. But each of the hundred and forty canoes had increased its speed, and the whole little armada surged at the walls. Yet still there was no fire, and now he saw that the main gate was open, swinging to and fro on its hinges.

'By
Christ,' he whispered. Morgan had seen it too. The lead canoes were already beached, and the buccaneers were pouring ashore and up the beach, their bandannas forming a brightly coloured pattern of bouncing balls, and led by the Admiral himself; Morgan had retained his broad-brimmed black hat, although like them he had shaved his head.

'Hurry,' Kit begged his men. 'Hurry, you bastards.'

The bottom grated and they dropped their paddles. Kit was already over the side, splashing through knee-deep water as he gained the beach, to join the mob which flooded through the open gates, to debouch into the single street of the town, to stop, and stare at the empty houses, the open doors. To listen to the silence which gradually overcame even the cries of the invaders.

They huddled, insensibly, and looked towards the church. Morgan had entered there, and now he stood on the steps and faced them. 'They've gone,' he shouted. 'Run like the curs they are. They'll not have left much behind them, lads, but what they have we must find. Or we'll go hungry for the next couple of days, eh? Scatter now, and disc
over what you may. Kill me every
Spaniard you find. We'll have no quarter. Remember that. And find food, lads. But reassemble on the note of the bugle. Forget that, and you are dead men.'

The buccaneers gave a tremendous whoop, and tore at the houses on either side. Empty, stripped of anything valuable. And yet containing enough for destruction. Beds and articles of furniture were slashed and cut and pounded into rubble; doors were torn from their hinges, windows poked out. Cellars were tumbled. But no article of food was found, much less any of gold. Tempers began to run high, curses and oaths mingled with the sweat and the clash of arms to disturb the still air.

Until a roar of joy sent them back to the street, and milling into the square. Bart's men had forced the great doors to the church cellars. Here too there were no men. But here there were casks of wine, row upon row of them.

'They'll be fit for naught for days,' Kit muttered. He stood close by the Admiral.

'Aye,' Morgan said. 'But there's none of us here will restrain them from that liquor.'

They were already stoving in the casks, holding out mugs and even hands for a first taste of the flowing red liquid. And now the first cup was filled, and the man who had thrust the first bung raised it high. 'Here's to ye, Admiral Morgan,' he bellowed, and gulped at the wine, allowing it to flow out of his mouth and down his cheeks, cascade over his shoulders. 'By Christ, but that was good. And another, lads.' He bent to refill his mug, and gave a shriek of agony, which was echoed by the man beside him, who had also finished a mug.

Cups dropped, and the men crowding round the barrels reeled backwards. Three of them lay on the floor of the cellar, gasping and writhing.

'Poisoned, by Christ,' Morgan said. 'We should have known. By God, lads, we had better be on our way. You'll know what to do to those Dons when we catch up with them.'

'But what will we eat?' asked a voice.

Morgan stared at them. 'You'll eat in Panama City,' he shouted. 'What are you, then, afraid of going hungry for a day or two? The sooner you get back to the trail, the sooner we'll be there.'

In the square the first drops of rain began to fall.

*
*
*

A bugle blast wailed through the forest, and the weary men stopped moving. Many immediately sank to their knees and then on to their bellies, regardless of the soaking leaves or the inches-deep mud stirred up by those who had gone before. And where they fell, they lay. There was no point in calling them to stack arms, in commanding them to pitch tents. They possessed neither food nor cover. At least half of them shook with fever. But they marched, and would continue to march, through the endless jungle. Because to stop meant death.

Kit pushed his way past the wet branches, and found Jean. The Frenchman sat on a fallen log, and had taken off his belt, already half chewed into strands.

'That is worse,' Kit said. 'It but makes the juices flow.'

'Aye. But my belly is filled with gripes and wind. I explode as I walk,' Jean said. 'Think you these men will have the strength to fight, when we reach the ocean? How does the Admiral know he can trust these Indians? How do we know we are not being led round in circles?'

'Because we are seamen, and are following the course of the sun,' Kit reminded him. 'So, eventually, we must again come to the sea. We know it is there.'

'I wish I possessed your confidence,' Jean grumbled. 'Whisht.'

Something had moved in the bushes close by. Kit turned, slowly. Behind them the army was still settling, with an enormous rustle of sound, but muted; there was no laughter and no shouting, there was no reason for either. There were only sighs and curses. And in the jungle something had moved, not twenty feet away.

'A Spanish scout, you think?' Jean whispered.

'I doubt it. They can have no doubts where we are and in which direction we are headed.' Kit dropped to his knees, cautiously parted the bushes to make his way forward. 'By Christ.'

Jean was at his side, peering into the gloom. And drawing his breath sharply. In front of them was a large bird, with brightly coloured wings, one of which seemed broken, for it could do no more than drag itself through the bushes.

'What is it?' Jean whispered.

'Some kind of pheasant, perhaps,' Kit said.

'But it will be good to eat.'

'Aye. You go that way.' Cautiously he wormed his way through the grass behind the bird, his knife in his hand. His powder was too damp to fire, and in any event, he had no wish to alert anyone else to his prize. His mind was entirely caught up with the problems of his own belly.

The bird had heard him coming. It turned and scuttled through the trees, away from Jean as well, moving much faster than they could. He rose to his feet in frustration, threw himself full length, missed the tail feathers by inches, and listened to the squawk of terror. He reared back on his heels, and gazed at the black man. He had seen him before, marked him for his size and his demeanour, for he was about the biggest man he had ever seen, and carried himself with a studied dignity. His face was long, and the colour of midnight, which he accentuated by wearing a white bandanna. His expression was bland and disinterested, even now, as he held the fluttering bird in his hands. Like everyone else, he wore only a pair of breeches and his feet were bare. Unlike most of the others, however, his only weapon was his cutlass. Perhaps he knew sufficient about tropical forests to understand that powder was not a reliable commodity in these conditions.

Now he grinned at the two young men, and with a sudden twist of his wrists ended the pheasant's life.

'We saw him first,' Jean muttered, rising from the bushes to the left.

The giant continued to smile. 'We saw him together, Monsieur DuCasse,' he said, his voice quiet. 'But we will have to share him raw.'

Kit frowned at him. 'You do not claim him as your own?'

I will share him with you two gentlemen, Master Hilton,' he said. 'But no others.' He squatted, was already plucking at the feathers.

'How are you called?' Jean asked.

The Negro shrugged. 'I no longer have a name of my own, sir. I was given a title by my late owner. Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. How does that sound, sir?'

'By God,' Kit said. 'He had a sense of humour, your owner.'

Agrippa shrugged again, and tore off a wing, which he offered to Kit. 'He was a devil, Master Hilton. You will still find the m
arks of his whip on my back.'