HF - 03 - The Devil's Own (13 page)

Jean carried a beefsteak in each hand. They had been charcoal broiled, so that the outsides were black but blood still oozed.

'Eat one of these,' Jean commanded. 'And feel the strength flow back into your limbs.'

The meat was hard and tasteless, but to teeth which had chewed nothing but leather belts for three days it was like eating the tenderest of sucking pigs. Saliva mingled with the blood which filled his mouth.

'You shoot good, Master Hilton,' Agrippa tore at a rib. 'Now we must all fight good, eh?'

The dust had cleared, and the Spanish army lay in front of them, amazingly still, whereas surely, Kit thought, had they but launched an attack while the buccaneers were feeding, the victory would immediately have been theirs. No doubt they counted the victory secure in any event. And the moment was already past, for the bugle was sounding again, and the men were reluctantly scrambling to their feet, many tucking meaty ribs and lumps of steak into their belts.

Morgan had moved to the front. 'Musketeers,' he bellowed. 'Bart Le Grand, take the right flank with a hundred men. Kit Hilton, take the left. Not sharpshooters only, now. Any man who can fire a musket quickly and knows how to aim. The rest follow us.'

'You'll march with me, Jean,' Kit said.

'I would like that privilege also, Master Hilton,' Agrippa said.

'And you shall have it, by God. Come, load those pieces.'

The main body was already moving forward; Morgan's captain had unfurled a tremendous Cross of St George at the head of the column, flying from a long spar.

'You and you and you,' Kit bellowed, singling out men with clean-looking firepieces. 'To me on the flank. Come on, now. Make haste.'

For he could see what Morgan feared. As the buccaneer army advanced across the plain, the two bodies of lancers had
also moved forward, trotting from their positions in line with the
tercio,
and obviously meaning to charge the flanks of the attacking army. The cattle still stampeded aimlessly across the open ground beneath their banner of eddying dust, and behind them also now were the steaming carcasses and smouldering fires of half an hour ago. And now the thuddi
ng of the hooves was gr
owing loud again as the horsemen approached, gradually fanning out into a line as they drew parallel with the buccaneers.

The bugle sounded, and the flagstaff was placed in the ground; they were still out of range of the infantry, at a quarter of a mile distance.

'I think we are opposed by a fool,' Agrippa muttered, settling the stock of his firepiece into his shoulder.

'Hold your fire,' Kit commanded, remembering how Bart had controlled them against the cattle. He walked up and down the line of half-naked, bearded, sweating savages he had been asked to lead. 'Hold your fire.' He took his place at one end of the line, and heard the rattle of cutlasses behind him. The cavalry-were lowering their lances, and the trot was becoming a canter. He estimated there were just over a hundred of them on each flank.

'Remember Hispaniola,' Portuguese Bart yelled, and the cry was taken up. 'Remember Hispaniola.'

'Fire,' Kit shouted, as the range closed, and the muskets rippled with explosion and smoke. The lancers did not check, but a good score of their number fell, and the collapsing horses brought down several more.

'Load,' Kit yelled. 'Load, make haste. Load.'

But there was not time. The horsemen were coming on again.

'Pistols,' he bellowed. 'Pistols and cutlasses. Steady now.' He drew his own weapon, braced his feet as if he would fight a duel, and fired; a horse in front of him reared and whinnied, throwing its rider and falling backwards on to him. And then the noise of the immediate conflict was drowned in a tremendous roar, and he looked over his shoulder. Morgan had deemed the safety of his wings in good hands, and had given the order to charge. With a howl of contempt and fury a thousand buccaneers launched themselves in a small, tight body
against
the very centre of the imposing force in front of them.

But for the time being Kit and his musketeers were fully engaged with the horsemen. Now the melee became general, and in the first rush three of the buccaneers went down with spears in their bellies. But at close quarters the spears could only be used once, and long before the horsemen could control their mounts or drag their swords free they were seized and jerked from their saddles, and butchered on the ground. Cutlasses rose and fell, blood splattered and stained the brilliant steel, men howled, with pain and despair and with exultation, horses neighed with utter terror and added to the confusion as they raced to and fro.

But this fight was won. 'To me,' Kit bellowed, his voice hoarse and sweat running down his cheeks. 'To me. Follow me. Jean. Agrippa.'

'We are here,' Jean shouted. And so were still seventy others. Kit pointed his cutlass in the direction of the city, and advanced at a run, and checked in amazement. For now the dust again cleared, and in front of him the much-vaunted Spanish infantry were fleeing in every direction, some seeking the seashore and the boats which waited there, others running with desperate fear for the terrible safety of the forest. Morgan's charge had won the day, and already the buccaneers were battering at the gates of the city itself.

Had ever a day been so hot, and it was still early in the morning? Had such a day ever been seen, in all the brief history of America? For had such a city ever fallen to so few men, and to such men? They ran through the streets, no longer fearing opposition where there was none. The houses were shuttered and
silent, and perhaps empty. They
reached the central square, and gazed in amazement at the immensity of the cathedral, rising up and up and up, its square tower the one they had seen from the forest. Then they gave a whoop, and ran for the great barred doors.

Others had found the city hall, and beneath it, the dungeons. Here there were shouts and screams, and the buccaneers seized glaring torches and made their way down the noisome corridors, bursting open the doors of the cells to release the things that lay within. For these were surely not men. Some had lost
one eye, some both; the marks of the fire still clung to their temples and foreheads. Others had lost cars and fingers and toes, and others whole limbs. More than one had been castrated. And all had been whipped so savagely their backs were masses of festering sores, while all showed the bones and paper-thin skins of men who had been starved as a matter of course. And these were the lucky ones, whom the Inquisition had not yet burned.

'By God,' Morgan said. 'By God. We'll have a Spanish life for every mark on every body. What say you, boys?' The roar of angry lust filled the gaol.

'Make them scream, boyos,' Morgan shouted. 'And make them yield every last drop of wealth they possess. Tear it from their living bellies if you have to. And bring it to the square in front of the cathedral. For mark my words; we share and share alike, according to the articles under which we sail. The man who forgets that hangs.'

They uttered another scream and poured into the square once again, their yells mingling with those already issuing from the cathedral, where some of the buccaneers were dragging out the great gold services and tearing down the crosses from the walls, while others had invaded the offices at the back of the
building
, and the cellars below, and reached the hiding nuns.

That was too terrible to contemplate. Kit found himself in the midst of a band rampaging down a side street, ignoring promising shops and smaller dwellings as they searched for bigger game, and finding a mansion at the end of the street, set back from the road behind wrought-iron railings and a huge, locked gate. But these were seamen. They swarmed over the wall in a matter of seconds, advanced across the splendid garden, kicking aside rose bushes and flowering oleander, their sweat and the blood on their arms drenching even the odour of the jasmine.

A dog barked, and two ran from the rear of the building. They were met by swinging cutlasses and stretched lifeless on the patio before the front entrance. Now, Kit thought, this day, we avenge your death, Grandmama. Fully. But he felt sick.

The door was barred, but had never been intended to resist so tumultuous an assault. Muscular shoulders were hurled against it, regardless of bruised
flesh or broken skin, and it
flew open. Kit was one of the first through, scattering across a parquet floor beneath a high, painted ceiling, to come to rest against a mahogany dresser, to stare at the huge vases in front of him, filled with bright flowers.

'By Christ,' someone said. 'Solid silver.'

'There'll be more,' another said, and ran into the inner room. Here double doors opened on to the centre courtyard, a place of peace and more flowers, where a fountain played. ' 'Tis a palace.'

'And empty?' someone demanded.

'There'll be cellars.' The first speaker, whose name was Scotch Mack, had taken command. 'We'll to them first. Come on, lads.'

They flooded across the courtyard to the kitchen, where the fires still glowed in the huge ovens; it was so early the family had not yet even had time to breakfast before the disaster had fallen on their city. A pan of cooking fat simmered gently, giving its tang to the already rancid air. And there, sure enough, was the door leading down to the cellars. This too was barred, and this too was torn from its hinges in a matter of seconds. They tumbled down the staircase to find themselves in the midst of endless rows of bottles.

'French wine, by God,' Mack shouted, and seized one, to snap off the neck against a pillar and upend it over his face. They all followed his example. Warm liquid splashed on to Kit's cheeks and flooded down his neck; some found its way into his mouth and helped to calm his tumbling nerves.

But already the buccaneers were battering against an inner door, and a moment later they gazed at the people inside. A man, well past middle age, tall and with some dignity in his face to offset his obvious fear. A woman, no doubt the man's wife, for she was of an age with him, like him wearing an undressing-robe over her nightclothes, thin and pale, with white hair loose on her shoulders. Two Negro women, dressed, and wearing aprons. And another woman, younger than the couple, although considerably older than any of the buccaneers. Their daughter, Kit estimated. She was tall and plump; her hair was a rich brown and her face had the aquiline splendour of a woman accustomed to rule. Now she stood in front of her parents and her servants, her hands clasped. She wore a deep blue robe which brushed the floor, and her hair was also loose, gathered in a long strand over one shoulder.

'By God,' someone grumbled. 'They're old.'

'They'll have children,' Mack promised. 'And gold, buried.' He seized the younger woman by the hair, dragged her against him. She gasped for breath, and tried to maintain her dignity as he brought her close. 'Gold,' Mack shouted into her face, and she gagged on his breath. 'Where have ye buried your gold?'

She tried to shake her head, but that was impossible.

Her father spoke, in a thin voice which trembled. 'We have no gold buried, monsieurs,' he said in French. 'What we own you see about you. You are welcome to it. Leave us only our lives, I beg of you.'

Mack stared at him for a moment, and then thrust out the hand holding his cutlass. The old man swayed backwards, but the thrust none the less split his undressing-robe and nightshirt, and slashed his chest. He stared down at the blood in horror.

'Bring them,' Mack shouted, and started up the stairs, still holding the woman's hair, so that she had to run behind him, her body dragged forward. She struck at him with her fists, and another of the buccaneers swept her legs from the floor. The pair of them carried her up the stairs, and deposited her on the kitchen table. The rest brought the other four people. Kit found himself holding the old woman by the arms as he pushed her forward. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and whispered in French, 'But you are only a boy.'

The sickness in his belly grew, into a huge solid mass which threatened to erupt at any moment.

Mack was shaking the younger woman to and fro by the hair, in front of the old man. 'Gold,' he repeated. 'Tell us where you have hidden your gold.'

The old man fell to his knees, still clutching the blood seeping from the wound in his chest. 'Oh, God,' he begged. 'Oh, God.'

The two Negresses cowered against the wall; the woman Kit was holding also sank to her knees, and he let her go. The younger woman said something in Spanish, her face twisted with pain as Mack dragged on her hair.

'We'll make ye squeal,' he growled. He looked around him, quickly, searching the kitchen with his gaze. The woman's eyes followed his, rolling. And then he smiled; he had seen the pan of cooking fat. 'Heat that up,' he said.

One of the men gave a whoop, and thrust the pan over the flames. Immediately it began to sizzle, and the aroma drifted through the kitchen. Mack let go of the woman long enough to grasp the front of her undressing-robe and tear it free. Underneath was a white nightgown, and this too was torn away, to reveal large, sagging breasts, nipples hard with terror, flesh white and filled with pumping blue blood-vessels.