HF - 03 - The Devil's Own (12 page)

"Where was this?' 'Barbados
,
sir.'

Now Jean was also eating, the blood rolling down his chin. 'And you made your way from Barbados to Port Royal?'

'Indeed, sir. After being a slave, and having escaped, all other aspects of life come easy.'

Kit stared at the man. There had been no slaves on Tortuga; there had been no reason for them. And the knowledge that they were employed in the islands farther south, and in Jamaica as well, for that matter, had never really meant much to him before. He had put them down as a people apart, black people. But here was a black man speaking with a more educated choice of words than anyone in the fleet.

Agrippa was smiling at him. 'Because I was a slave, Master Hilton, does not mean that I am a mindless savage. I do not come from the great river, from the great bay. My lands are farther north. I am a Mandingo, sir. There is Arab blood in my veins.'

'And where did you learn such good English?'

'My master taught me. He was an intelligent man, and he perceived my own intelligence, and so taught me more.'

And yet scarred your back,' Jean observed.

'Have you not observed, Monsieur DuCasse, that it is the most intelligent people who are the most cruel? As perhaps they think more quickly than stupid people, so they have more time to think, but no more subjects to think about, and so they must fill the empty spaces with their desires. And deep down inside all of us there is a desire to hurt, to be cruel.'

'My God,' Jean said. 'A Negro philosopher.'

'There were philosophers in North Africa long before any were discovered in France, Monsieur DuCasse.'

Jean frowned, and then smiled. 'Why, I suppose you are right, Master Agrippa. And I thank you for securing our bird for us. Now I must rejoin my men.'

'And I also.' Kit stood up, and hesitated, then thrust out his hand. ' 'Tis strange, how people meet, Master Agrippa. My thanks.'

The Negro hesitated in turn, and then closed his fingers over those of the boy. 'I have never shaken hands with a white man.'

Kit was embarrassed. 'I'd have you march with my section. I'll speak with the Admiral.'

Agrippa's grin had returned. 'I march with my own section, Master Hilton. At its head.'

'You?'

'Why not? Admiral Morgan wishes only the strength in a man's mind, the strength in his arm. He shows no interest in the colour of his skin.'

'Aye. He has the hallmarks of greatness.'

'Which is why we follow him, Master Hilton. For be sure that many of us will die, before we regain the mouth of the Chagres. Now I bid you farewell. I will see you in Panama.'

A strange meeting, with a strange man. But a most valuable one, if only because it had taken some of the griping pain from his belly, Kit thought. Next day he looked for the big man, but did not find him. The army straggled now, a long column of sweating and cursing and starving men. At least the rain had ceased two days ago, and the forest was again dry. And now they were descending, and walking was easier. But it was distressing to hear the wind growling in his belly, and to listen to the grunts and farts of the men around him, to watch them chewing at their belts, and tearing leaves from the trees to cram into their mouths. Now they all suffered from leaking bellies as well, the more nauseating because they could excrete only liquid. Within a week they would be too weak to raise a weapon, much less force their way through the jungle.

Within a week. He had lost track of days. They came and they went. They had paddled up the River Chagres for nearly a week; they had left their canoes at Cruces, and they had marched through the forest for nearly a week. And now it was again night, and the men groaned and cursed and snored around him. And yet there had been no suggestion of mutiny. Was it because they knew that they could only go on, or die? Or was it because they trusted their Admiral? He had led them into hell before. Surely he would lead them out the other side, this time again.

'Whisht.' Portuguese Bart, crawling through the darkness. But a darkness already tinged with grey.

Kit sat up. 'What is it?'

'The Admiral summons his commanders to a conference,'

Bart whispered. 'Come quietly.'

Kit picked up his cutlass, it was second nature now, whether he needed it to slash at a jungle creeper or to protect himself from snake or spider, and made his way along the column, past the line of sleeping men, lying as they had fallen from yet another endless march through the forest. It took him half an hour to reach the head, and by then the dawn chill was already spreading through his bones, and the first light was commencing to shroud a grey mist across the trees.

They crossed a sudden open space, and came once again to the trees. Here they grouped, near a hundred of them, the men who would be responsible for making the buccaneers fight, when it came to that.

And in their centre was the Admiral. 'Hush,' Morgan said. 'Listen.'

Across the suggestion of dawn a bell tolled, gently in the distance. They stared through the trees, but could see nothing; the mist blanketed the forest in front of them.

'A mule train, you think?' Jackman whispered.

'How can that be?' Sharp demanded. 'There is not a Spaniard in all America but knows we are in this forest.'

'That bell is the cathedral in Panama City,' Morgan said, grinning at them. 'We have arrived, my bravos. Awake your men, and bring them forward. We will leave the forest under cover of this mist, and be in position before the city awakes.' He drew his cutlass, and raised it above his head. 'This day we unlock the doors to more wealth than any man here has ever dreamed of, let alone seen. Today we make ourselves immortals, lads. This day Henry Morgan comes to Panama.'

Supposing they lived to tell of it. For now the mist would lift. Kit knew the signs too well, from his years in Hispaniola. There was the sudden increase in heat, the sudden closeness of the air, the sudden change in the colour of the vapour around them, from white to yellow. And where were they, in relation to their goal? He doubted even the Admiral knew that. The bell had ceased to toll some time before, or its knell had been lost in the clank and rustle of twelve hundred men tramping across the ground.

Certainly they had left the forest, some time ago, and now

followed a well-defined path down the hillside, but even the path was flattening out. And was this path not the Gold Road, which led straight through the main gate of Panama City itself? Would they not see the enemy until they banged on those iron-bound portals?

Or could Panama also have been abandoned? There was a dream, born of fear, of the nagging, grinding pain in his belly, a pain induced as much by fear as by hunger. Now he marched on the Spaniards, as they had once marched on him. He had been less afraid, then. He had known less of what life and death were about.

The mist cleared. The sun drew it from the ground as a woman might whisk the sheet from the bed she would remake. And the buccaneer army stopped, and stared, while a rumble of amazed murmur rose from their ranks. They had almost arrived at the foot of the empty hillside, worn free of trees and most of its grass by the fall of how many hundreds of thousands of feet, down which the Gold Road flowed? The road itself continued in front of them, skirting the plain to arrive at the gates of the city, huge timber erections studded with iron, which filled the open spaces in the high stone walls, while beyond the walls there could be no doubt that here was a city; the rooftops and the balconies rose above the battlements, and above even the rooftops there rose the towers of the four cathedrals. These towers now once again gave off a peal of bells, summoning the people of Panama to arms.

Panama promised wealth; the district around it already provided beauty. To their right the plain undulated towards the sea, clearly not the parade ground they had first supposed it, but rather a rabbit warren of bushes and ravines, not deep, but sufficient to hide a man. Or men. And beyond it the eternal surf played on the endless beach, guardians of an ocean which stretched half-way round the world to the kingdoms of the Great Khan, and the Mikado of Japan. The sun, rising from out of the forest behind them, sent a long swathe of glowing gold across that fathomless sea, suggestive of the prize they sought, if they had the courage, and the stamina, and the ability.

For Panama was awake. The gates were open, and out there came squadron after squadron o
f lancers, dressed in bright
uniforms, with brighter pennants flying from their spearheads, yellow and red. Kit looked around, and found Jean and Bart Le Grand staring with him. How many men present had a long score to settle with the Spanish lancers?

Behind the lancers there came the tramp of infantry, displacing as much dust as even the horses, an immense mass of men in breastplates and helmets, pikes or muskets at their shoulders, every step matching every other. This was the Spanish
tercio,
the infantry division which had conquered the world with the same ease as it had conquered Europe.

'By Christ,' someone muttered. 'But there are thousands of them.'

The buccaneers watched the enemy form line, the infantry in the centre in a solid body, the horsemen milling about on each wing. Nor apparently were the Spaniards yet finished summoning their army; a real cloud of dust rose from close by the city gates. More cavalry? Morgan stared through his telescope, his whole face a frown. 'Cattle, by God. They mean to rout us with cattle.' He closed the glass with a snap, turned to face his army. 'You'll run, God damn you. Make for the plain, and take shelter in the ravines. But stay close.'

The buccaneer army debouched from the road without any further hesitation, making little noise beyond pants and grunts as they staggered for the plain. From the Spanish ranks there rose a cheer, as they assumed their enemies to be already defeated.

'Kit Hilton,' Morgan bellowed. 'Bart Le Grand. Jean DuCasse. All you men who were
boucaniers.
Assemble here, by God.'

Kit left the men who had crewed the canoe with him, ran to Morgan's side, trailing his heavy musket. Soon there were two dozen of them.

'We've a hard day ahead of us, lads,' Morgan said. 'They outnumber us, and they're regular troops. Our boyos are weak with hunger, and they'll need all their strength. So isn't it a good thing the commandant has done, driving those beef cattle towards us?'

The herd was continuing to approach at a gallop, the hammer of their hooves making the earth shake, while the dust cloud eddied above them.

'You leave it to us,' Bart said. 'We'll not waste a ball, Admiral. Come on, my bravos. To that ridge.'

Kit followed him across the uneven turf. Outnumbered, two to one, by regulars. His belly rose to meet his heart, and his heart sank to meet his belly. What hope had they? But perhaps, after they had slaughtered some of the cattle, Morgan would lead them back into the forest and safety.

Except that what safety could there be for a defeated band of buccaneers, fifty miles and incredible hardships away from their ships, who had even lost faith in their general?

Supposing they survived the cattle. He lay on his belly on the already dry earth, and watched the tossing horns, the scorching hooves, the seething dust pounding towards him. Nothing would stop them now. His throat tightened.

'That big black bull,' Bart growled. 'And those on either side. We must drop them together, friends, or they will trample us to death. Take your sights. But wait for my command.'

Kit licked his lips, and found he had no saliva. But his breeches were wet. Christ, how frightened he was. The stampeding cows were not more than a hundred yards away. Would Bart ever give the command? Would there be time even to squeeze the trigger? And suppose the flint misfired?

'Fire,' Bart shouted, and the muskets rippled flame and sent black smoke up to join the dust.

'Load,' Bart shrieked. 'Load, you miserable sons of whores. Load.'

Desperately Kit crammed a ball into the muzzle of his gun, and rammed it down. There were cows all around him now, hurtling past, lowing and roaring, but separated by the wall of flame which had been hurled at them as much as by the dozen which had collapsed to form a mound immediately before the score of crouching men. And now the muskets were sounding again, driving the herd of cattle into two ever-divergent streams; at this range not even a musket could miss.

The sound lessened, although the dust continued to whirl and make them cough and choke. And now it was replaced by a tremendous whoop as Morgan led the main body forward. Men swarmed around Kit, tearing at the still breathing cows, slicing through quivering limbs
and stripping the tough hide
away from the warm red meat beneath. Some were already lighting fires to roast their breakfast; the main part just crammed the raw meat into their mouths. 'Kit. Kit. Where are you, Kit.'