PIRATE: Privateer (35 page)

The vibration underfoot increased and, before his eyes, the massive structure of the fort began to slide slowly and unstoppably into the empty harbour. It was an appalling yet majestic
sight.

He seized Maria by the arm. ‘We must find a refuge, a sanctuary, before the water returns,’ he blurted.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Jacques, his voice sharp with alarm.

‘I’ve a feeling that the sea will come flooding back. And I fear the consequences.’

‘First I have to save my family,’ insisted Bartaboa. He began to run, heading full pelt along the quay towards the ferry landing. The Three Mariners stood nearby. Hector and the
others followed.

As they ran, the shivering of the ground grew stronger. It was accompanied by a low vibrating hum, which seemed to rise up into the bones. It was difficult to keep on a straight line and not
weave from side to side. They were like drunkards in a tipsy foot race. An entire section of the quay ahead of them slid sideways, breaking away from the road. Sailors, longshoremen, potboys,
serving women, who had already scuttled out from the buildings fearing their collapse, now looked about them in alarm. A nearby warehouse, a rope store, dropped downwards as if the ground had
opened up beneath it. Farther along the waterfront two buildings tipped forward. A stack of large barrels which had somehow survived the initial shock disintegrated. The hogsheads tumbled, then
rolled in all directions.

The trembling continued.

They ran on desperately and reached the Three Mariners only twenty paces behind Bartaboa. He dashed inside, calling for his family. They heard his voice, deep within the building, shouting
frantically. Then, without warning, the entire tavern fell in on itself, burying everyone who was inside.

They pulled up short, out of breath and horrified. Jezreel was about to continue towards the ruined tavern when Hector shouted at him to go no farther. ‘There’s nothing you can do.
There’s worse to come. Remember what happened when the hurricane hit us in Campeche.’

Hector turned to face the others and explain. ‘The sea ebbed away, and then came back over the land in a terrible flood that nearly drowned us. I fear that is about to happen here, only
far worse. We have to get somewhere high enough to be safe when the sea returns.’

‘We should take refuge in one of the forts,’ suggested Jacques.

‘The forts aren’t safe,’ Hector told him. ‘You saw how Fort Carlisle fell, so can the others.’

‘I still don’t understand why it collapsed,’ insisted Jacques.

‘Nor do I,’ Hector admitted, ‘but we must leave the waterfront. It is too exposed.’

Cautiously they made their way into the town and along the High Street. Here they saw the first looters. A gang of toughs was scrabbling through the wreckage of a jeweller’s shop. The
passers-by ignored them. Most of the townsfolk had glazed looks on their faces as they wandered aimlessly or stood in the middle of the street, well clear of the standing buildings. Women clutched
their children to them, and on one corner a number of injured had been laid out on the ground and a black-clad surgeon was attending to their wounds. Most of the injuries seemed to be head wounds
and broken limbs.

Hector racked his brains, trying to make sense of what was happening. He was beginning to detect a pattern in the trail of destruction. The waterfront had suffered the worst, and the poorer part
of town. By contrast, fewer of the buildings near the central marketplace were damaged. There had to be a reason for the difference. But there was no time to stop and think. He was sure that the
worst of the calamity was yet to come. The surface of the ground was still vibrating. It put him in mind of a great beast gently twitching its skin, as it prepared to rid itself of biting insects
with a major spasm. Sooner or later that paroxysm would occur.

They were halfway along Main Street when the next strong tremor came. The ground shook violently, and several buildings on the side closer to the harbour began to disintegrate. Tiles slid off
their roofs and thumped to the sandy ground. Their upper floors began to sway. A three-storey building which had a bakery on the ground floor collapsed in on itself. Hector felt a jelly-like
sensation on the spot where he was standing. He looked down and saw a faint ripple disturb the surface of the ground. Water oozed to the surface as if squeezed from the depths. Before his eyes the
ground on which Port Royal was built was turning to a substance like thick gruel. In a moment of gallows humour he wished that the Reverend Watson was still with them. The pastor would have
appreciated the biblical explanation for the disaster destroying the city.

‘A house built on sand will not stand,’ Hector quoted out loud.

His companions gaped at him.

‘Port Royal is built on sand,’ he shouted at them. He understood now. ‘The sand under the foundations has become soggy and unstable. It slips away from underneath the city each
time the earth shakes.’

‘How can the sand be wet when the sea is retreating?’ asked Jacques.

‘I don’t know. Maybe it has become saturated deep down, over the years.’

‘So what are we to do?’ asked Maria.

‘Go where there is rock, not sand, beneath us,’ he answered.

All of a sudden an image came into his mind: on a seaman’s chart the city appeared as a long thin curve extending out from the land. The curve finished in a hook on its seaward end. Strip
away the buildings, and any mariner would recognize it as the outline of a reef seen from above.

‘Port Royal stands on the spine of a reef. We have to go where the reef is made of strong coral, not weak sand.’

Jacques frowned. ‘How do we know where that coral is? We haven’t got time to dig down and find out.’

Hector was very clear in his own mind now. ‘Remember the Vipers, and where we found the first salvage from the Spanish wreck? Downwind and downcurrent. That’s where the sand builds
up, in the lee of a reef. Under Port Royal it should be no different. The coral will be on the side which faces the prevailing wind.’

He started to lead them away from the High Street, down Tower Street that led to the south shore. ‘The windward side of Port Royal is in this direction.’

Jacques was looking doubtful. ‘Surely that puts us into danger. When the sea comes rushing back in, we’ll be swept away.’

‘We must find somewhere that is higher up, but also strong and well protected.’ Even as he said it, Hector wondered if that would be possible.

Unexpectedly Maria spoke up. ‘There is a place. I was there on Sunday morning after church service. It’s right on the shoreline but quite high, and very strongly built.’

‘We have to hurry!’ said Hector.

‘It’s no distance – a high stone platform built for guns, called Morgan’s Line.’

They set off at a run and turning a corner they saw the fortification. About fifteen feet high it was solidly built from sizeable blocks of cut stone. On the flat top stood a row of heavy
cannon, their muzzles jutting through the embrasures of a parapet on the seaward side. There was no sign of a guard or any artillerymen. They must have gone to either their barracks or their homes,
or perhaps to loot. Morgan’s Line was deserted.

They climbed the stone steps to the top of the platform and Jezreel walked over and looked out through one of the embrasures in the parapet. ‘Hector, I hope you’re right in thinking
that this is the place to be.’

Hector joined him at the embrasure. They could scarcely be closer to the shore. The high-tide mark was no more than ten paces from the base of the gun platform. Farther out was the same
extraordinary sight that they had witnessed at the harbour. The sea had gone. It had retreated for at least a mile, leaving behind a dreary expanse of rounded boulders and hummocks of worn coral
divided by narrow channels.

‘When is the sea going to return?’ asked Maria wonderingly. She had come up to stand at Hector’s shoulder, looking out at the eerie sight.

‘It’s returning already,’ said Jezreel quietly. There was awe in his voice, and fear.

Far, far out a thin white line extended right across the horizon. For a little while the line appeared to be stationary, but soon it became obvious that the line was advancing towards them. In
another minute it was close enough to be revealed as a wall of water surging forward.

‘Oh my God!’ breathed Maria. Her eyes were wide with shock. Hector threw an arm around her. ‘When the wave strikes, shelter behind a battlement and hang on as hard as you can.
Remember that the backwash may be as dangerous as the first onslaught,’ he said.

The wave appeared to accelerate. It was moving as fast as a horse could gallop, and growing taller. Where once it had been less than the height of a man, now it was double or treble that height.
It was roiling and tumbling forward on itself, the leading edge smashing down on the coral shelf in a welter of foam, only for another wall of water to rear up and rush forward.

Maria stood, transfixed. ‘Get behind a battlement!’ yelled Hector and dragged her into shelter just as the giant wave roared up the foreshore and struck the base of Morgan’s
Line.

A dirty white curtain of foam, spray, debris and solid water climbed the face of the battery and rose high above their heads. Then it toppled forward and came crashing down on them. They
cowered, feeling the whole gun platform shake. A moment later the water was swirling around their feet and legs, threatening to sweep them away. They grabbed for the nearest cannon and clung on as
the water plucked and pushed at them. Then the tidal wave reversed direction and began draining away almost as fast as it had arrived.

‘It didn’t overtop the battery!’ crowed Jacques, standing up. His shirt and breeches were soaking wet. He looked as if he had been thrown bodily into the ocean. They noticed a
strange sound, a roaring, swirling noise like a great river in flood. They moved across to the landward side of the platform and looked down. The sea was pouring steadily into the town. Three or
four feet deep it was swirling along the street, carrying everything before it. No longer the clean blue of the sea, the flood water was a dirty brown, stained with sand and slime, and covered with
dingy scum.

Hector was staring across the town, towards the harbour. ‘Something terrible has happened,’ he said. It was difficult to be certain but Port Royal in that direction seemed different.
The city skyline had changed. He could no longer make out the roofs of the taller buildings near the harbour. The great warehouses were gone. He remembered the bell tower of a church but it had
disappeared. Oddest of all were the masts of several ships. They seemed to be much closer than before, almost as though they protruded from the houses.

The gun platform heaved up under their feet as another earth tremor struck. The surface of the flood below them leapt and pulsated in thousands of short, steep waves which slowly subsided.

‘This can’t go on! It feels like the end of the world!’ gasped Jacques.

They waited fearfully, silently counting the minutes, expecting another after-shock. But instead there was an uncanny stillness as if the earth had expended all its energy and lay exhausted.
Very slowly the flood water began to recede.

‘We should go down and see if we can help out in the town,’ said Maria.

Hector shook his head. ‘We must wait a little longer. I think the earthquake has disturbed the sea floor. It’s like a basin of water which has been shaken. The ripples slop back and
forth until they settle.’

Scarcely had he spoken than the sea began to rise again. This time there was no wall of water suddenly crashing across the foreshore, but a steep swell that heaved in from the sea. The flood
water in the street rose again.

It was mid-afternoon, three hours later, when they finally decided it was safe enough to leave the safety of the gun platform. By then they were hungry and fiercely thirsty. In search of
something to eat they made their way down the steps of the gun platform and waded through water that came up to their knees. They found that the nearest houses had survived remarkably well. Many
had cracks in their walls and ugly gaps where the plaster had fallen away. Window frames were out of true, and what glass remained was nearly always shattered. But as structures they were still
intact. Householders who had taken refuge on the upper floors were emerging from their front doors. They treated Hector and his companions to suspicious glances, fearing them to be looters. Some
ostentatiously fingered pistols and blunderbusses until they considered the danger past. Then they returned to taking stock of the damage or comparing stories of their woes. A few set their slaves
and servants to the dreary task of salvaging furniture that had been inundated.

Crossing York Street, Maria caught sight of Captain Blackmore. He had managed to obtain a small dug-out canoe from somewhere and with the help of a servant was pulling it along. His three
children were riding in the canoe and looking about themselves in wonder. Maria drew back into a doorway and waited until they were out of sight.

Hector had noticed her reaction. ‘Who were they?’ he asked.

‘The children I was teaching Spanish to, and their father,’ she replied.

Hector glanced at her sharply. ‘The same Captain Blackmore who’s been pestering you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve too kind a heart, Maria. It’s a pity the sea didn’t take him. Covetous swine like that always seem to float to the surface.’

Maria said nothing. She doubted she would ever see the captain again, and was relieved and glad that the children were safe.

They turned out on to the High Street and Maria let out a gasp of dismay. Nothing could have prepared them for the sight on the far side of the road.

A great swathe of Port Royal had vanished. Where once had been a long frontage of shops and dwelling houses, only two blocks remained upright, and even they were battered and damaged like the
stumps of broken teeth. Much more shocking was what lay immediately behind them: the sea itself. The High Street was now part of a new waterfront. The flood had advanced right into the city,
drowning everything in its path, and had not retreated. Here the city resembled the victim of an accident left lying face down in the shallows. Partly submerged buildings were all that was left of
what had once been the commercial district. Some still showed their upper floors, but many were reduced to nothing more than a buckled roof or the jagged edge of a broken wall sticking up from the
water.