Buccaneer

was growing more distant. Jezreel had turned the pirogue so the boat was running directly away from the brigantine, presenting the smallest target. Looking astern, he could see the patrol ship was still crippled, driving helplessly downwind. By the time she was under control again, it would be dark and the three pirogues would have made their escape. Several of the Bay Men were already on their feet, waving their hats at the enemy and jeering. One man turned his back and dropped his pantaloons in derision.

'The Bay Men have agreed to go farther south,' Hector explained to his Miskito friend. 'There are former buccaneers among them who claim to know the hidden places on the coast where their old comrades-in-arms gather. They plan to rejoin them, finding safety in numbers now that there's a Spanish warship on the prowl.'

'Then they'll have to go hungry for a while. We can't go back to collect the sea cow. But it means we can pick up Jacques on our way,' said Dan.

He settled himself more comfortably against a thwart, and Hector found himself contemplating how the unselfish comradeship of men like Dan and Jacques contrasted with the cold-hearted, self-serving avarice of men like Captain Coxon.

_SEVEN

Jacques had at last been able to try out his pimento sauce. It was something he had wanted to do ever since he first tasted one of the dark brown berries. The flavour had intrigued him, a peppery mix of clove and nutmeg with a hint of cinnamon. He had bought a handful of pimentos in the spice market at Petit Guave and kept them safe and dry in a cartridge box. Now he crushed his hoard and sprinkled the fragments into the cavity of a large fish Dan had gutted for their supper. Adding coconut milk and salt, the ex-galerien had wrapped the fish in leaves and buried it in a pit of charcoal coals to bake for three hours. Finally, he watched as Hector, Dan and Jezreel sampled the result.

'What do you think of the gravy?' he enquired proudly. He had carefully poured off the juices into an empty coconut shell and was dipping each piece of fish into the sauce before handing out the food.

'I would have added some ginger,' said Jezreel, pursing his lips and adopting a solemn expression.

For an instant the Frenchman took the suggestion seriously. Then he realised that the prize fighter was poking fun at him. 'Being English, you'd put in sugar and oats and make a porridge of it,' he retorted.

'That's if I were Scots, not English. You'll have to learn the difference, Jacques.' The big man licked his fingers. 'But this will do for a start. Some day I will have to show you how to make a decent pudding. Only the English know how to make puddings.'

The banter between the former prize fighter and the ex-galerien had begun within moments of their first meeting when the three pirogues had collected Jacques from the beach where Dan had left him. Then they had continued along the coast to a sheltered inlet which, according to Otway, was a favourite careenage for buccaneer ships. 'It's known as Bennett's Cove,' he had explained. 'If we wait here, there's a good chance that a buccaneer vessel will show up, and we can volunteer for her crew.' Hector thought again of the Coxon's Hole on the chart he'd copied for Snead in Port Royal, but said nothing. His previous encounter with buccaneers had left him wary of joining their company. Anyone associated too closely with them might finish up condemned for piracy and dangling on the end of a hangman's rope.

Fortunately the past two weeks had brought a change in the weather, with day after day of blue skies and brilliant sunshine tempered by a sea breeze which kept off the midges and mosquitoes. So the friends were lounging contentedly on the beach while the rest of their party was some distance away, close to the three pirogues drawn up on the strand.

Jezreel finished eating and lay back on the sand, stretching out his massive frame. 'This is the life. Can you imagine what conditions are like back home? March gales most likely, and rain. Can't say I feel like going back there for a while, even if the logwood cutting didn't work out.'

'Only a dolt would think of making his fortune by chopping wood,' Jacques observed. 'Anyone with brains would let others do the work, then relieve them of their profits.'

'You talk like a thief.'

'I only took what others were too stupid to keep safe,' said Jacques smugly. Jezreel looked over at Hector, eyebrows raised. 'He was a pickpocket in Paris,' the young man explained. "Until he got caught and sent to the galleys. That was where we met.'

'Nimble fingers make light work,' announced Jacques lazily. He extended one arm up in the air, and closed his fist. When he opened it, there was a pebble held between forefinger and thumb. Closing his fist, he opened it again, and his hand was empty.

'Saw plenty of tricks like that when I was in the fight game,' grunted Jezreel. 'The booths were full of mountebanks and charlatans. Many pretended they were from foreign lands. You would have done well with that foreign accent of yours.'

'Given an audience, I wouldn't even have needed to speak,' rejoined Jacques.

'No wonder it's called dumb show.'

Jacques shied the pebble at Jezreel who caught it deftly and, in the same movement, threw it back. The stone bounced off the Frenchman's hat, dislodging a small black object which fell to the sand.

'Watch what you're doing! I don't want to smell like a logwood cutter,' said Jacques and was about to tuck the item back into the hatband.

'What have you got there?'

Jacques passed the object across to his new friend who looked at it, puzzled. It was the size and shape of a large black bean, slightly shrivelled.

'Why would you want to wear a dried dog turd in your hat?' Jezreel asked.

'Smell it.'

'You must be joking!' 'No, go on.'

Jezreel held it up to his nose and sniffed. It had a definite musky smell. 'What is it?'

'A cayman's cod. I bought it in the market the same time I got the pimentos you've just been enjoying.' Jacques took back the object. 'It's a gland. Crocodiles and caymans have them in their crotch and armpit, and they give off a pleasant smell. Better than a reeking blood-soaked smock.'

"Well, thank god you didn't put it in the sauce as well.'

Their exchange was brought to an end by a shout from Otway. He was at the back of the beach where the rise of the dunes gave him a vantage point. 'Ship! Standing in,' he called.

Everyone got hurriedly to their feet and gazed out to sea. The sun was behind them so they could easily make out the pale flash of the sails. To Hector's inexperienced eye the vessel looked very much like the Spanish guard ship, for she had two masts and was a similar size. He felt a twinge of fear that the Bay Men had been caught off guard once again. He doubted that they would be able to escape a second time. But Otway was jubilant.

'That's Captain Harris's ship, I'm sure. I served on her once. We're in luck. Peter Harris is as bold a commander as you could wish.'

He was proved right when the newcomer dropped anchor and sent her boats ashore, towing a string of empty barrels. Captain Harris had called at Bennett's Cove to take on fresh water.

'The ship is headed south to Golden Island,' announced Otway who had found former shipmates among the watering party. 'There's to be a gathering of the companies there. But no one seems to know the full details. It's to be decided by a council.'

"Will Captain Harris take on any new men?' asked Hector.

'That's for the ship's crew to decide.' Seeing Hector's look of incomprehension, Otway added, 'Among buccaneers everything is decided by vote. Even the captain is chosen by election.'

'It makes sense, Hector,' said Jacques. 'No one gets any pay. They work for their share of plunder. The larger the crew, the smaller the share-out.'

Otway had an embarrassed look on his face. 'Of course I've said that we all want to join. But the ship is already overcrowded with more than a hundred men aboard, and they are reluctant to add any more.' He was avoiding looking at the others. 'I am known to them already, so the crew is willing to add me to their number, together with my partner over there.' He nodded towards the one-eyed Bay Man who had worked with him at logwood cutting. '. . . and naturally they'll take Dan aboard if he is willing.'

'Why naturally?' asked Hector. He was not sure whether he wanted to join such suspect company but it rankled that they were being so choosy.

'The buccaneers always need strikers,' Dan explained. 'They are not fishermen and they don't have time to go ashore and hunt. They rely on Miskito strikers to get fish and turtle for them, otherwise they would go hungry.' He turned to Otway. 'Tell your friends that I'll not join unless my three friends here come with me.'

Otway went off to consult with the watering party, and returned with the news that if Dan would bring Jacques, Jezreel and Hector out to the ship, they could make their case to the assembled crew.

When the little group came aboard with the last of the full water barrels, they found the crew already gathered in the waist of the ship and looking on with interest. Standing in the front rank was a vigorous-looking clean-shaven man, wearing a cocked hat trimmed with green ribbon. Hector presumed he was Captain Harris, though he took no part in the proceedings. The spokesman for the buccaneer company was a bald seaman with a gravelly voice hoarse from years of shouting.

'That'll be the quartermaster,' muttered Jacques. 'He's as important as the captain. Divides the plunder and looks to the running of the ship. Issues arms and all the rest.'

It was the quartermaster who opened the meeting. Addressing the assembly he announced, 'The Miskito tells me that he will only come with us as a striker if we take on his companions. What do you say?'

'How about the Miskito himself. Is he worth it?' called a voice.

'Judging by the number of turtle shells on the beach, he is,' answered someone who must have been ashore with the watering party.

'That big man looks right for us,' observed another. 'But he could be a clumsy slug with that antique gun of his.'

Jezreel was still carrying his old-fashioned matchlock musket.

The quartermaster turned to Jezreel. 'Your gun might be good enough for hunting cattle, but on this ship we don't use firelocks. By the time you've reloaded and fiddled with the match, your enemy will be on you.'

'Then I would use this,' announced Jezreel sliding the ramrod out from under his musket's barrel. He pointed it at the watching crowd. 'Any of you fellows willing to run at me with your cutlasses? Point or edge, it will not matter.'

The quartermaster beckoned to two crew men who stepped forward and drew their cutlasses. But, aware that their comrades were looking on, their charge was half-hearted. Jezreel merely stepped to one side and dodged them.

'Is that the best you can do?' he asked, goading them.

Now his two attackers were genuinely annoyed. Their resentment showed in the angry slashes they launched at their opponent. One man aimed for the giant's head, the other for his knees. But neither blow landed. The rod in Jezreel's hand darted out, faster than anyone could follow, and both his attackers dropped their weapons, cursing. Each was holding his hand where the ramrod had flicked across their knuckles.

'Stage fighter!' cried someone from the back of the crowd. 'I seen that trick done before.'

'Very likely,' called out Jezreel. 'Would anyone else like to try their luck? I'll face three of you at a time, if you wish.'

There were no takers, and the quartermaster intervened. 'We'll put it to the vote. All who wish to accept this man into our company raise your hands. Any objector speak up.' There was a silent show of hands.

'Who joins with you as your mate?' asked the quartermaster.

'Both my friends,' Jezreel answered placidly, sliding the ramrod back in place.

'Only one companion, that's the custom,' insisted the quartermaster. He was frowning now.

'How about that fellow with a brand on his cheek,' suggested an onlooker. 'He looks as if he can handle trouble.'

'Can either of you read or write?' The unexpected question came from a grey-haired man soberly dressed in a dark suit who was standing next to the captain.

Before Hector could answer, Jacques spoke up. 'Not as well as my friend here. He makes maps and navigates, and speaks Latin and Spanish and talks to me in French.'

'I don't want an interpreter. I require an assistant. Someone who's more adept than just a loblolly boy,' said the grey-haired man. From the way he chose his words it was clear that he was well educated.

'That's settled then,' said the quartermaster. He was anxious to close the meeting. 'We take on the big man and his French friend at full share. The other one, if he shows he's any use, can be signed on as mate to our surgeon. His share can be agreed later.'

As the meeting broke up, the grey-haired surgeon walked over to Hector and, after asking his name, enquired, 'Have you any medical experience?'

'None, I'm afraid.'

'No matter. You will learn as we go along. I am Smeeton, Basil Smeeton, and I had a medical practice in Port Royal before coming along on this adventure. Where did you get your Latin?'

'With the friars in Ireland where I grew up.'

'Good enough to converse in that tongue?'

'I think so.'

'Sometimes when discussing a patient's details,' said Smee-ton meaningfully, 'it is better that the patient himself is kept in the dark.'

'I understand. But you mentioned a loblolly boy.'

'Surgeon's helper. Changes dressings and feeds gruel to the bedridden. I'm expecting more than that from you.'

Surgeon Smeeton's urbane manner was at such odds with the rough company aboard a buccaneer ship that Hector wondered why he was there. As if reading his thoughts, Smeeton went on, 'Where we are going — which, incidentally, is a land called Darien on the Main - I expect we will be meeting peoples and races whose practice of medicine is very different from ours. Much may be learned from them, perhaps in surgery but more likely in the use of plants and herbs. It is a subject which interests me greatly. I hope you'll be able to help me with my enquiries.'

'I will do my best,' Hector promised.

'There should be plenty of time for research as we won't be the only medical team with the expedition. Every crew like ours recruits at least one surgeon to sail with them, sometimes two or three. You might say that they enjoy the best medical services that their plunder - or prize as they prefer to call it -can buy.' He gave a wry smile. 'They even take out insurance against injury.'

'How can that be?' asked Hector. He did not think that Captain Harris's crew looked wealthy enough to afford medical care.

'If a man gets permanently disabled during the cruise, he receives a special bonus at the end when the quartermaster divides up the prize - this much for a lost eye, more for a limb that has to be amputated, or a hand blown off, and so on. The rates are all agreed at the start when the crew sign their mutual agreement. Very enlightened.'

By now Jacques had reappeared, a brand new musket in his hands. He was looking pleased with himself. 'How about this! Latest model flint lock issued by the quartermaster. Gave one to Jezreel as well.' He pulled back the cock and squeezed the trigger. A shower of sparks fell from the striking plate. 'No more fiddling around and keeping slow match dry in the rain.' He turned the gun over to show Hector the gunsmith's mark. 'What's more, it's French-made. Look, magasin/ royal. God only knows how it got here from King Louis's armoury.'

Hector took him aside and said in a low voice. 'Are you sure that you want to join up with this crew?'

'Too late. Jezreel and I have already signed articles. We are promised one full share of any loot after the investors have been repaid. You'll be able to put in for your own share as soon as you've proved your worth. Why, you may even get a surgeon's share and a half, and that's as much as the gunner and the carpenter.'

'What about the Bay Men who are being left behind?'

'Oh, they'll be picked up by other ships passing this way,' Jacques said casually.

'But from what the surgeon just told me, we will be away for some time and I had been hoping to get back to Jamaica.'

'But you only recently left there . . .' began Jacques. He paused and gave Hector a shrewd glance. '. . . any special reason?'

When Hector did not reply, the Frenchman rolled his eyes and said, 'Don't tell me! It's a woman.' Hector felt himself starting to blush. 'Who is she then?' Bourdon asked, smirking. 'Just someone I met.'

'Just met! And you were hardly there any time at all. She must be exceptional.'

'She is.' Hector was increasingly tongue-tied, and fortunately Jacques detected his embarrassment.

'All right then. I won't say any more. But don't be too surprised if she breaks your heart.'

The surgeon wasted no time introducing Hector to his new duties. As soon as the ship had set sail, he led Hector to where a sailor was sitting in a quiet corner of the deck, with a bandage round his leg.

'Did you ever see a Fiery Serpent?' Smeeton asked.

'No, I don't think so.'

'Then I'll show you one.' Addressing the sailor, he said, 'Now, Arthur. Time to take a pull.'

The sailor carefully unwrapped the bandage and Hector saw that it covered a small stick attached to his leg by a thin brown thread.

'Watch carefully, Hector. I want you to do this job in future.' The surgeon took the stick between finger and thumb and rotated it very, very gently, winding in the thread. Looking closely, Hector saw that he was pulling the thread out of the flesh of the leg. 'That's your living Fiery Serpent. Getting it out hurts like the devil,' announced the surgeon. 'Strain gently, just enough to ease it out, an inch or two at a time, morning and evening. Pull too hard, and the creature will snap, and disappear back inside the flesh. Then you get an infection.' Turning to the sailor, he said. 'You may put back the bandage. Tomorrow my assistant will take a turn or two.'

As they walked away, Hector asked, 'What length will the serpent be?'

'Two feet would be normal,' replied the surgeon. 'Of course it is no serpent at all, but a flesh-eating worm. It causes a burning sensation as it is drawn out, hence the name.'

'And how does the victim acquire such a parasite?'

Smeeton shrugged. 'We have no idea. That is the sort of knowledge we may gain from enquiry among the native peoples. Right now you can put your Latin to use by helping me arrange the contents of my medicine chest. I threw it together in a hurry when leaving Port Royal and it is still in disorder.'

He brought Hector to a small cabin under the foredeck. 'As surgeon,' he said, pulling out a leather chest from where it had been wedged in a corner, 'I have the privilege of a cabin to myself, because it can also be rigged as a sick bay. Everyone else, even our captain and the quartermaster, has no right to any special accommodation. At night everyone lies down and sleeps wherever he wishes on the ship, on the plank as they say.'

He undid a strap and threw back the lid of the medicine chest. Inside was a jumble of phials and jars, small wooden containers, packets wrapped in paper and cloth, and objects which looked like dried plants, as well as an array of metal implements which reminded Hector of a carpenter's tool kit.

'Before we sailed, I was provided with one hundred pieces of eight from the common purse to stock it with what I considered might be needed.'

Smeeton reached in and picked out what looked like a pair of tongs with rounded tips. He snapped the jaws together with a clacking sound. 'The speculum ani,' he announced, 'useful for dilating the fleshy lips of a wound when extracting a bullet. In fact it is designed for dilating the arse gut.' He gave Hector an amused glance. 'You might think that a surgeon's work on such a venture as ours would be concerned mostly with the effects of battle, but it is not.'

He waved the speculum in the air to emphasise the point. 'The chief ailments which afflict the sailor are concerned with his digestion — constipation and the flux. For the former we can administer a syrup of cassia pods or licorice juice at one end or, if there is a stoppage, we may dilate the fundament with this implement and extract the offending blockage at the other end. That will provide comfort and remedy.'

Casually he tossed the speculum back into the medicine chest where it fell with a metallic clatter among the other instruments. 'Over the next few days,' he went on, 'I want you to clean and oil all these instruments, sharpen them as needed, and wrap them in well-greased cloth. They must not be allowed to rust.'

Looking into the chest, Hector noted wicked-looking saws and chisels, clamps and drills, pincers and nippers of different shapes and with strangely shaped jaws, even an ebony mallet.

Smeeton pulled a small cloth-bound notebook from his pocket. "This is something else you will need. I want you to write a list of all the plasters, unguents, chemical oils, syrups, electuaries, pastilles and simples that you find, together with their quantities. I will advise you what each is suitable for so that you may make your own directory.'

Hector had got as far as listing that a plaster of sweet clover would, in Smeeton's words, 'dispel windiness', when their ship reached Golden Island. Six other vessels were already waiting at the rendezvous, a small bay facing directly across to the mainland little more than a mile away. The anchorage was ideal for their clandestine purpose. From seaward it was completely hidden behind the island's rocky peak with its cover of thick scrub and stands of ceiba trees, while a narrow fringe of beach provided level ground for a camp. Numbers of men could be seen moving about under the coconut palms, and a row of cooking tents had been set up on the beach.

'This is almost as large an undertaking as when Morgan sacked Panama. The size of that raid is famous among my people,' commented Dan looking out over the assembled shipping.

'Surely the Spaniards will have taken precautions against another attack,' said Hector. Standing on deck beside the Miskito, he had been thinking about Susanna yet again and wondering if any of the buccaneer ships might later be returning to Jamaica. If so, he would try to persuade his friends to go back there with him.

'The thirst for gold is a great lure,' replied the Miskito. He pointed to a canoe which had just entered the bay and was working its way between the anchored ships, heading towards the beach. 'I'd say those fellows may have something to do with what happens.'

'Do you know who they are?' asked Hector. The dozen or so occupants of the canoe were too dark-skinned to be Europeans. One of them was wearing on his head what looked like a metal bowl.

'They are Kuna, the people who live over there in the mountains.' Dan gestured towards the mainland where ranges of forest-clad hills rose in rank after rank, wreathed with grey wisps of low cloud. On Golden Island the weather was as brilliant and sunny as when they had joined the ship. By contrast the mainland gave the impression of being gloomily drenched in drizzle and mist.

'Hector Lynch,' said a voice behind them. Startled, they turned to find Captain Harris had come on deck. 'Your companion, the Frenchman, said that you speak Spanish.'

'That's true. My mother is Spanish.'

'I need you to accompany me ashore. The captains are holding a council with the Indian chiefs. No one among us speaks the Kuna tongue, but the Indians have lived alongside the Spaniards long enough for them to have a knowledge of their language.'

'I will do my best.'

Harris led the way to a rope ladder, and soon Hector was being ferried ashore with his captain. As he passed through the buccaneer flotilla, Hector could see that Harris's vessel was the largest in the company. The next in size was an eight-gun sloop which seemed vaguely familiar, while the smallest was a pinnace so tiny that it carried no cannon at all. Whatever the buccaneers had in mind, Hector concluded, it depended on their strength in numbers of men, not the firepower of their vessels.

He followed Harris up the beach. Standing in a group beside the path were the Indians who had just arrived by canoe. The Kuna were not as tall as the Miskito, the only natives of the Caribbean he had met so far, but they were well set up and sturdy, with dark brownish-yellow skin and straight black hair. Their faces were dominated by strong noses from which deep furrows extended down to the corners of their mouths, giving them a solemn and severe expression. The leader appeared to be the man who wore the metal bowl on his head which proved to be a vintage Spanish helmet made of polished brass. Like most of his fellows, he was stark naked except for a funnel-shaped penis cover of gold fastened by a string around his waist. From his nose dangled a crescent-shaped plate of gold. Yet the Indian who most attracted Hector's attention was the only Kuna who covered his body. He was wrapped in a blanket from his ankles to his neck. All of his visible skin - his arms and feet, and face — was a ghostly unnatural white and disfigured with red blotches and bites. When he turned to look at Hector, his eyes were half closed, the lids fluttered, and specks of blood were seeping from cracked lips.

Harris politely doffed his hat as he walked past the Kuna, and Hector followed him into the little clearing in the coconut grove where the other buccaneer leaders were already assembled. Hector counted seven captains, together with their aides, and they were standing in small groups, talking together. One of the captains, who was facing away, reached up and scratched the back of his neck. All at once, Hector knew why the eight-gun sloop in the bay had seemed familiar. It was the vessel which had intercepted L'Arc-de-Ciel. Even as the realisation dawned, John Coxon turned to greet Peter Harris and his eye fell on Hector. The quick flush of anger which discoloured his features left no doubt that he recognised the young man.

'Captain Harris, it would have been better if you had been with us earlier,' Coxon grated. 'We have been in consultation with the Kuna for these past five days, and are ready to make a decision.'

'I bring the largest company so it was only right that you should wait,' retorted Harris, and Hector detected a simmering rivalry between the two men.

'Let's get down to business,' said another of the captains soothingly. A man of medium height, his round soft face had the down-turned fleshy mouth and protruding lips of a carp. Obviously unwell, he was leaning on a stick and sweating heavily as he looked round the gathering with watery pale blue eyes. Hector thought he detected a whiff of manipulation, of fraudulence.

'That's right, Captain Sharpe. We must not keep our Kuna friends waiting,' agreed Coxon. He crossed to where some benches had been set out under the trees, and beckoned the Kuna to be seated. The pale man in the blanket did not come forward but moved to stand in a patch of deep shade.

As the meeting proceeded, Hector was able to put names to the other buccaneer captains. Two of them, Alleston and Macket, seemed to be lesser figures, for they said little. A third man, Edmund Cook, was a puzzle. For a seagoing man he dressed very fastidiously. He wore a deep, curving lace collar over a loose mauve tunic and had tied a bunch of ribbons to one shoulder. By contrast Captain Sawkins, seated next to him, cared nothing for his appearance. His unshaven cheeks were stubbled and grimy, and he was obviously someone who preferred action to words. He kept glancing impatiently from one speaker to the next, and fiddling with the handle of the dagger in his belt. When Coxon and Harris bickered, as they did constantly, Sawkins tended to side with Harris.

Only two of the Kuna spoke Spanish, and their strong accents were difficult to follow. With each sentence, their gold nose plates bobbed up and down on their upper lips and distorted the words. Occasionally when no one could understand anything, the speaker would lift up the plate with one hand and address his listeners from under it. Hector was able to gather that the Kuna were confirming an offer of guides and porters to the buccaneers if they would launch a raid against a Spanish mining settlement in the interior. It was clear that the Kuna loathed the Spaniards. According to the Indians, the Spanish miners used gangs of slaves to wash gold dust from the rivers, then brought their production to a town called Santa Maria. Every four months the collected gold was taken on to the city of Panama, and the next shipment was due to be sent out soon.

'Let's not waste any more time.' It was Captain Sawkins who spoke. He looked as though he wanted to spring to his feet and rush into action immediately, sword in hand. 'Every day we spend here increases the chance that the gold will slip through our fingers.'

'What about our ships? Who's to guard them while the men are away?' asked Macket cautiously.

'I suggest that you and Captain Alleston stay here with a detachment,' proposed Coxon. 'The final division of the booty will only be made when we return, and your men will receive full shares.'

A fit of coughing made him look towards Captain Sharpe. 'Do you feel well enough to accompany us?' he asked.

'Of course I do. I'll not miss a chance like this,' answered the ill-looking buccaneer.

'Then it's decided,' concluded Coxon. 'We set out for Santa Maria in, say, three days' time. We march in ships' companies but all under one single commander.'

'And who is that commander to be?' asked Harris ironically. Hector suspected that the decision had already been taken before their arrival.

'Captain Coxon would be the most suited to lead us,' explained Sharpe. 'After all, he was with Morgan at Panama. He is the most experienced.'

Coxon was looking smug. He had slipped his hand inside his shirt front and was scratching contentedly. Hector recognised the gesture.

Then Coxon turned to the Kuna and, deliberately ignoring Hector as the interpreter, he spoke in broken Spanish of their decision. The Kuna looked pleased, and rose to return to their canoe.

'I wonder where they get the gold to make those nose plates of theirs?' muttered a sailor standing next to Hector. The voice was familiar and Hector glanced around to find that the speaker was one of Coxon's men, the sailor with the missing fingers. 'Didn't expect to see you here.' said the sailor recognising him in return. 'Just remember who is in command of this expedition,' and he gave an evil smile.

However much Hector disliked and mistrusted Coxon, he had to admit that the buccaneer captain knew his business. Before the meeting closed, Coxon gave strict orders that no vessel was to sail from Golden Island for fear that news of the raid might get out. Then the next day every man on the expedition was issued with lead for bullets and twenty pounds of powder from the common stock. In addition, the camp cooks were put to baking buns of unleavened bread, four to a man, as marching rations.

'If this is all we get to eat, we'll soon be asking Hector for those cassia pods he's got in his knapsack,' said Jacques looking dubiously at the food. 'No wonder they're called doughboys.'

He, Jezreel and Hector were on the landing beach in the early dawn of the third day after the conference. Half the expedition had already disembarked, and Dan had gone ahead to scout.

'Don't look so miserable,' he said to Hector who was feeling dispirited that he could not yet return to Jamaica. 'Imagine coming back to your lady with your pockets full of gold dust.'

'As a surgeon's assistant you are not supposed to be involved in any fighting,' Jezreel added. 'Just make sure that the medicine chest stays with the column. A supply of medicines is the next best thing to a keg of rum to keep up the men's morale.'

Dan was coming towards them, accompanied by one of the Kuna guides. 'Hector, can you translate? This man has something to say but I can't follow his Spanish.'

Hector listened to the guide, then explained. 'Everyone is to stay on the footpath. He says the spirits of the forest must be respected. If they are disturbed or angered, they will cause harm.' He shifted the knapsack on his shoulders. It contained a basic medical kit that Smeeton had picked out for him. The surgeon himself had still not landed, and the main medicine chest lay on the ground, awkward and heavy.

'Here, I'll take that,' said Jezreel, lifting the chest on his shoulder. 'That's Harris's green flag up ahead.'

It was another sign of Coxon's competence, Hector thought to himself. The buccaneer captain had given instructions that after landing every man was to muster to his own captain's flag and follow it as the column moved inland. It should mean that the unruly and ill-disciplined buccaneers kept some sort of order on their march and did not degenerate into a chaotic mob. Captain Sawkins and Captain Cook, Hector now saw, had both chosen to display red banners with yellow stripes, but luckily Cook had distinguished his flag by adding the outline of a hand holding a sword.

Captain Sharpe's troop was beginning to move off behind their red flag hung with green and white ribbons. They had been chosen to lead the march and behind them the column slowly got into motion, more than 300 men slipping and stumbling along the shingle beach until they reached a river mouth. Here the Kuna guides turned inland, leading the men through an abandoned plantain grove and then into the forest itself where the trees formed a canopy overhead, blocking out the sunlight. The ground underfoot was soggy with dead leaves and forest mould, the air heavy and damp. The only sounds were the low voices of the men, an occasional burst of laughter, or someone hawking and spitting. The ground sloped upward, the path twisting to avoid places where the trees grew so close together as to be impassable, their trunks wet and glistening. Occasionally the walkers came to a small stream which they splashed across. Those who were already thirsty in the muggy heat, used their hats to scoop up water and drank.

In the early afternoon they halted. The Kuna had already prepared bivouacs for them, small huts with cane walls and thatched roofs built in another abandoned plantain patch. Several buccaneers preferred to go to sleep outside on the open ground, but the Kuna became agitated. The travellers must stay indoors, they insisted. Anyone who slept on the ground risked being bitten by venomous snakes. Hector wondered if this was merely an excuse to prevent the men from straying, but suddenly there was a shout of alarm, followed by some sort of commotion. He saw a cutlass rising and falling. Smeeton, who had joined the column belatedly, hurried off towards the spot, and Hector followed him, curious to see what all the fuss was about. He found a shaken-looking buccaneer holding up the headless corpse of a snake on the tip of his cutlass. The snake was at least four feet long, mottled brown and green. Smeeton found the severed head, picked it up and cautiously prised open the jaws. The poison fangs were unmistakable. 'A true viper, and with a bite almost certainly mortal. Excellent,' the surgeon enthused. He turned over the diamond-shaped head to inspect a yellow patch on the throat, and asked the buccaneer if he could also keep the dead body. Then he stepped behind Hector and the young man felt the flap of his knapsack open. There came the sensation of the dead snake being slid inside. Hector's skin crawled.

'The first reward of our venture,' announced Smeeton from somewhere behind him. 'Cut up into small morsels, it will make an essential ingredient in our Theraci Londini, vulgarly known as London Treacle.'

'What's that for?' asked Hector, uncomfortably aware of the coils of the dead snake pressing against his back. The dead animal was remarkably heavy.

'A sovereign cure for the plague. Snake fragments steeped in a variety of herbs. Perhaps the Kuna will have their own recipe. Fiery Serpent one day, true viper another.' He gave a satisfied chuckle.

Next morning Smeeton was eager to track down a Kuna doctor and begin asking about native medicines. Leaving the expedition to trudge deeper into the cordillera, he and Hector were taken by one of the Kuna guides to a nearby village. Away from the hubbub and disturbance of the column, Hector could hear the sounds of the forest. There were the chattering and cooing of birds, the sudden clatter of wings and sometimes a glimpse of red and vivid green or bright blue and yellow as the birds flew to a safe distance, occasionally settling again on an overhanging branch like an exotic blossom. Close at hand came a succession of bold hooting sounds. Minutes later, a troop of black monkeys came swarming through the treetops. They were foraging for wild fruit and, to Hector's astonishment, deliberately pelted the travellers with the skins and stones left over from their meal. One self-confident male scampered until he was directly over them and purposefully urinated to show his disdain, the liquid pattering down on the forest floor.

The cane-and-thatch houses of the Kuna village were scattered across a spur of high ground, each house approached through its own plantain grove. The centre of the settlement was a longhouse as massive and lofty as the largest barn that Hector had ever seen. Like the other Kuna buildings, it had no upper floor, and its vast roof was held up on immensely thick wooden pillars. In the half-light of the windowless interior the two visitors were introduced to the village doctor. He and half a dozen village elders were waiting for them, reclining in hammocks suspended between the columns.

The village doctor had a lined, intelligent face with dark hooded eyes, and could have been anything between fifty and seventy years old. Luckily, he also spoke Spanish.

'How much time has your friend got?' he asked Hector when the young man explained that Smeeton was a surgeon and hoping to learn from the Kuna doctors.

'We must rejoin our companions later in the day,' said Hector.

The Kuna looked amused. 'For five years I was an assistant to my father. Next I was sent to study with one of my father's friends. I stayed with him for another twelve years. Only then could I begin to look after my patients.'

'My colleague just wants to learn about what plants can heal, and how to employ them. I can take notes and, if it is permitted, take away a few samples.'

The Kuna made a restraining gesture. 'Then he should talk with an ina duled. He is the one who prepares medicines. I am an igar wisid, a knower of chants. Medicine by itself does not cure. True health is to be found through the spirit world.'

Smeeton looked disappointed when Hector translated, and asked,'Perhaps the knower of chants has some patients at this time that I could see?'

The igar wisid swung down from his hammock. 'Come with me.'

He led his visitors a short distance out of the village to a small hut isolated in a clearing. The building seemed to be on fire, for a haze of smoke was seeping out through the thatch. The Kuna pushed open the low door and ducked inside. Hector stooped to follow him and found himself choking for breath. The interior of the hut was so thick with smoke that his eyes watered and he could scarcely see. A man lay motionless in a hammock strung across the small room. Beneath the hammock stood an array of dolls, dozens of them. Some were no more than six inches high; others three or four times that size. Nearly all were human figures. They were carved from wood, and some appeared to be very ancient for they had lost all shape and were stained black with age. The Kuna doctor crouched down and began rearranging them, crooning to himself. 'Ask what he is doing,' said Smeeton.

'These are nuchunga,' said the knower of chants. 'They represent the hidden spirits which always surround us. They can help restore the patient's soul. The patient is sick because his soul has been attacked. With my song lines I try to summon the assistance of the nuchunga.'

'Let's get out into the fresh air,' coughed the surgeon after some minutes of listening to the Kuna's chanting.

As they made their way back to the village with the igar wisid, Hector asked about the pale-skinned Kuna he had seen at the council meeting on Golden Island. Was he suffering from some sort of sickness?

For several paces, the igar wisid said nothing. When he spoke, he sounded reluctant to talk about the subject.

'He is one of the children of the moon. They are born among us, and never change their colour. Their skins remain white, and their hair stays pale. They are only happy in the darkness. Then they skip and sing. Their eyes can see in the dark, and they shun the light. It is our custom that they only marry among themselves.'

'He had many sores as well as bites from insects. Are you able to help such problems with your chants?' Asking the question, Hector felt a little ashamed. He was thinking not so much of Smeeton's researches, but his own torments from biting insects. He was hoping that the Kuna had something to treat the stings and pain.

'The great Mother and Father created these children of the moon and they will always be as they are. Chants would have no effect on their condition. Poultices made from forest plants offer a little relief to their suffering.'

They arrived back at the Kuna village and, out of courtesy to the village elders, spent some time in the longhouse, answering their questions. The Kuna wanted to know the number of buccaneers, where they were from, and what they intended. Hector had the impression that the Kuna were pleased to see anyone who would harry the Spaniards but suspicious that the foreigners might wish to stay. It was as Smeeton and Hector were leaving the village to rejoin their colleagues that the igar wisid quietly came up to Hector and placed a small packet in his hand. It was a leaf folded over and tied with a length of plant fibre. 'You asked about the poultices prepared for the children of the moon,' he said. 'I have been able to find this for you. It is some of the ointment used in those poultices and has been given to me by one of the children of the moon. I hope you will find it useful.'

'What does it contain?'

The Kuna gave an apologetic shrug. 'I know only that it contains the seed of a certain fruit whose name has no translation. The seed is hard and black, about the size of a child's fist, and the ina duled grinds it into powder which he then mixes into a paste with other herbs. The paste also cures ulcers and other sores of the skin.'

Hector unslung his knapsack and as he was stowing away the packet, Smeeton asked, 'What's that you've got there?'

'Some sort of skin ointment,' Hector explained.

'Let's hope it's effective. It's not much to show for our enquiries.'

But Hector did not reply. He was noticing that what he had thought was a small dark mound of dirt beside the path had uncoiled itself and was slithering off into the undergrowth.

_EIGHT

White splinters of snapped branches, churned-up mud and scrapes where the moss had been knocked off rocks told them when they had rejoined the main trail. Shortly afterwards they met a buccaneer returning back down the path. He was soaked with sweat and in a bad temper. 'Shit-awful country,' he growled, eyeing them morosely. 'I've had enough of clambering through this stinking forest. I'm going back to the boats.'

'How far ahead is the column?' Smeeton asked.

'Over the next crest,' came the surly answer. 'A company of idiots, if you ask me. Some of them are cracking open the rocks and searching for gold. If anything glitters or sparkles they think they've discovered the mother lode.' He gave a derisive snort. 'Fool's gold, more likely.' He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from the browband before heading on towards the sea.

'A very republican rule, as I mentioned,' said Smeeton coolly, 'a buccaneer can abandon a project with the agreement of his fellows, and he will not be treated as a deserter as would be the case if he was a military man. Admittedly, it is unusual to see a single buccaneer turn back. Normally they fall away in groups.'

They reached the buccaneer camp just before dusk and found the expedition in a sour mood. The exhausted men were lying on the ground or seated in small groups around sputtering camp fires. Everything was already damp, and to make matters worse a brief shower of rain was followed by a fine drizzling mist that soaked through their clothes. In the grey evening light Hector tracked down his friends and found Dan skinning the carcasses of several small animals about the size of hares that he had hunted. Jezreel and Jacques were looking on critically.

'How do you propose cooking them?' Jezreel was asking the Frenchman.

'To my way of thinking they have the head of a rabbit, the ears of a rat, and hair like a pig. So I can broil, fry or bake them depending on your choice,' Jacques replied, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He sounded weary.

'Just as long as you don't bring out the flavour of rat,' observed Jezreel. Turning to Hector he said, 'The captain was looking for you earlier.'

The young Irishman was surprised. 'Captain Harris?'

'Yes, he wanted you to attend another council with the other captains and a couple of the Kuna chiefs. But I said that you had gone off with our surgeon.'

'Did the council meet?'

'It was a bad-tempered affair with a lot of shouting. I listened on the fringes. Everyone is grumbling and complaining. It seems that no one expected this journey to be such hard going. Coxon was particularly angry. He feels his leadership is being called into question. He and Harris were at one another's throats. Your name came up. Coxon called you a little whoreson — that was the exact phrase he used — and asked Harris why he had brought you along to the last council meeting. Harris replied that it was none of Coxon's business and he did not trust the interpreter that Coxon had provided.'

'Was anything decided?'

'Sawkins is elected to command the forlorn. He's to choose eighty of our best men to lead the attack when we come into contact with the enemy.'

'Well, at least they got the right man. Sawkins has a reputation as a fire-eater, always ready to lead the charge.'

'Perhaps too much so,' said Jezreel with a slight frown. 'In the ring I learned it's seldom a good idea to rush in. Better to bide your time until you see the right opening. Then strike.'

At that instant there was a shockingly loud explosion very close by. Everyone sprang to their feet and looked in the direction of the noise. A small group of buccaneers had been seated around a camp fire, now one of them was clutching his face and crying out in pain. He seemed unable to get to his feet.

'What in the devil's name was that?' asked Jacques, bewildered. But Hector had grabbed his knapsack of medicines and was already running towards the scene. 'Bring the medicine chest,' he called back over his shoulder, 'and find Smeeton. There are people hurt.'

He arrived at the spot to find the buccaneer was badly burned. His thigh had been torn open by the blast. Hector knelt beside the victim. 'Lie still,' he said. 'A surgeon will be here soon, and we must clean the wound.'

The man was gritting his teeth in pain and staring down at the damaged leg. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid bastard,' he repeated savagely.

Hector gently eased back the shredded clothing. Underneath were patches of charred and blistered skin. 'What happened?'

'It's this rain. Gets into the gunpowder, and makes it useless. Gabriel who has the wits of wooden block was trying to dry out his powder. Spread it on a dish and held it over the fire. Too close, and the whole lot blew up.'

'Hector, I'll take over now.' It was Smeeton. The surgeon had arrived with Jezreel carrying the medicine chest. 'Get someone to fetch a basin of water, and I'd be obliged if you would pass me a pair of small tongs from the chest. Search this man's pack and see if there's anything in it which can be used for bandages.'

For several minutes the surgeon cleaned and probed with his forceps, removing traces of cloth and dead skin. The surface of the thigh was pitted with several irregular wounds, the largest two or three inches across. The skin around them was a dead white or a flaring angry red.

'This is going to take a very long time to heal,' commented Smeeton. With a start Hector realised that the surgeon was speaking to him in Latin.

'Will he lose the leg?' asked Hector, also in Latin. He had a nightmare vision of having to use the saws and clamps he had cleaned and sharpened.

'Only if there is an infection. No bones are broken.'

'What are you two gabbling about!' An angry shout ended their discussion. Coxon was standing over them, his face working with anger. 'God's Bones! Can't you talk in English. What's the matter with this wretch?'

Smeeton rose to his feet, wiping his hands on a cloth. 'He's badly injured in the thigh by an explosion of gunpowder. From now on he'll have to be carried in a litter.'

'I'll not have the column slowed down by invalids,' Coxon snapped. 'If tomorrow morning he cannot get on his feet, we leave him here. He's wasted enough gunpowder as it is.' The buccaneer captain's glance fell on Hector who had remained kneeling beside the injured man. 'You again,' he barked. 'A pity you weren't standing closer to the blast,' and he turned on his heel and strode away across the soggy ground.

'Not much sympathy there,' sighed Smeeton. 'Hector, look in the medicine chest for a jar of basilicon, and add hyperium and aloe if they are readily to hand. You should know where to find them.'

Hector did as he was asked and watched the surgeon spread the salve on the open wounds.

'Best keep your leg covered with a cloth to prevent insects feasting on the sores,' Smeeton told his patient. 'Tomorrow we will decide what is to be done.'

Next morning the injured man could barely hobble, even with a crutch cut for him. So while the column were breakfasting on the last of their doughboys, mildewed and mushy with damp, Smeeton asked Hector to prepare a good quantity of the healing salve. 'We'll leave it with him, and he can attend to his own wound. In a day or so he should be able to begin making his way back to the ships by slow stages. I doubt that he will have the strength to catch up with us.'

That day's march, it turned out, would have been impossible for the invalid. The Kuna guides led the column up the steep side of a mountain. In places the narrow path skirted the edge of ravines and was only wide enough for one man at a time. Here each buccaneer had to hold on to the vegetation to prevent himself slipping over the edge. It was small consolation that the Kuna guides told them that they were now crossing the watershed, and that the next stream they reached flowed towards the South Sea. When they descended the far slope, it was to find that the trail often used the stream bed itself. They had to wade knee-deep in the water, avoiding sink holes and hidden snags.

Eventually, and after another two days of this tortuous progress, the stream grew wide and deep enough for the Kuna to provide a number of small dugout canoes to carry them. But there were only enough boats for half the expedition, and the remainder of the column still had to march along the slippery, overgrown banks. The men who thought themselves lucky to be in the canoes quickly found that their optimism was misplaced. Dozens of fallen trees lay across the stream, and there were so many shallows and rapids that much of each day was spent manhandling the craft over the obstacles. Hector found himself treating numerous sprains and cuts and gashes, and the contents of the medicine chest were rapidly depleted.

Only after a full week of this wearisome marching and canoeing did the Kuna guides finally announce that the buccaneers were close to their target. The town of Santa Maria was less than two miles downriver. That night the tired expedition made camp on a spit of land, and ate cold food for fear that the smoke from their cooking fires would alert the Spanish garrison.

Hector awoke to the sound of a distant musket shot and the staccato beat of a drum. For a moment he lay with his eyes closed. He was aware that he was lying on the ground and that a sharp lump of stone was pressing into his hip but he was hoping to steal a few more moments of sleep. Then he heard the drum again. It was sounding an urgent tattoo. He rolled over and sat up. It was daybreak and he was in a small makeshift shelter made of leafy branches of the sort that the Kuna had taught the buccaneers to construct during their long march over the mountains. Beside him Jacques was still snoring softly, but Jezreel had heard the sounds. The prize fighter was propped up on one elbow and wide awake.

'Last time I heard that noise I was still in the fight game,' observed Jezreel. 'We had a drummer who walked up and down the streets, rattling away and announcing when the next bout would take place. I'd say that this time it means that the good citizens of Santa Maria have learned we are here, and they're getting ready to greet us.'

'Do you know where Dan has got to?' asked Hector. He had not seen the Miskito since the previous evening when Dan had gone off to talk with the other strikers.

'He's probably still with his chums.'

'Get up! On your feet! Time to move!' There were shouts outside, and Hector recognised the hoarse voice of Harris's quartermaster.

He followed Jezreel out of the low doorway to find that the buccaneer camp was stirring. Men were emerging from their shelters, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and looking around for their comrades or heading off into the bushes to relieve themselves.

'Muster to your companies! ' The yelling was insistent.

Captain Sawkins came loping towards them. He was wearing a bright yellow sash that made him look very dashing. 'You and you,' he said briskly, pointing to Jezreel and to Jacques who had just appeared. 'I want both of you in the forlorn. Attend to my flag.' He hurried on, selecting other men for the initial attack.

Left to himself, Hector looked around trying to find Smeeton. A little distance away the surgeon was talking to Harris and the other captains. He went towards them.

'Hector,' said the surgeon catching sight of him. 'Take your knapsack and go forward with Captain Harris and deal with any minor injuries on the battlefield itself. Leave the medicine chest here. I will set up a medical station where the worse injuries can be brought back for treatment. Hurry now.'

Hector found himself following Harris and the other captains through the woodland in the direction of where the drum had sounded. The ground rose steadily and they had to push their way through dense undergrowth, unable to see more than a few yards ahead. Their Kuna guides were nowhere to be seen, and it took nearly half an hour to arrive at a vantage point on a low ridge. From there they had a clear view of their objective, the gold-rich town of Santa Maria they had struggled so hard to reach.

Their first impression came as a shock. They were expecting a substantial colonial town with stone-built ramparts and paved streets, red-tiled roofs and a market square, perhaps even with a fort and cannon to guard its treasures. Instead the scene was of a haphazard scatter of thatched buildings which amounted to little more than an overgrown village built on open land sloping gently down to the river. There was no defensive wall, no gate, not even a watchtower. But for the Spanish flag hanging limp from its pole, the place might even have been mistaken for a large Kuna settlement. In addition the town looked deserted.

'Is that really Santa Maria?' said Harris wonderingly as he stepped back into the fringe of the woodland so as not to be seen from the town.

'Must be. There's a Spaniard scuttling for cover,' observed Captain Sharpe. A figure dressed in an old-fashioned breastplate and helmet had run out from one of the thatched houses and was heading towards a crude stockade built a little way to one side of the settlement.

'That's their only defence,' stated Harris, narrowing his eyes as he gazed down towards the Spanish position. 'The palisade can't be more than twelve feet high, and it's only made of wood posts. That may be enough to defend against a Kuna attack using bows and arrows, but nothing to stop a force of musketeers. The Spanish garrison must be holed up inside, and scared out of their wits.'

'That's no reason for us to be reckless,' said a harsh voice from behind him. Coxon had joined them. He was accompanied by a spear-carrying Kuna. It was the Indian who had been wearing the brass helmet at the original conference on Golden Island, though now he had put aside his shining headgear. "We will wait for our Kuna allies. They are bringing up two hundred of their warriors in support.'

Coxon was making it clear that he was in command of the attack. 'I have given orders for Captain Sawkins to muster the forlorn in the cane brakes by the river.'

'Surely we should attack at once.' Harris spoke sharply, showing his frustration. 'The Spaniards may have sent for reinforcements. We need to take the place before they get here.'

'No! If we play our cards right, we might be able to get the Spaniards to hand over what we want - the gold and valuables — without a fight.'

'And how would you propose doing that?' Harris demanded. His tone was mocking.

'We pretend that we are a far larger force than is the case, and propose to the Spaniards that they withdraw from Santa Maria unharmed, provided they leave behind the treasury and any gold dust recently brought in.'

'What makes you think that they will accept?'

'It's worth a try,' Coxon answered, and a sly expression passed across his face. 'Besides, if we begin a parley, it will distract the Spaniards from launching a sortie and discovering our true strength.'

Harris looked sceptical. 'There's no sign that the Spaniards are going to leave the shelter of that stockade.' As if to support his words, a ragged volley of musket fire came from the Spanish position. Puffs of smoke burst out from the loopholes cut in the stockade. The defenders must have glimpsed Sawkins' assault party forming up in the cane brakes because the shots were aimed towards the river. There was no sign of the Kuna auxiliaries.

'That makes my point for me,' said Coxon caustically. 'If the Spaniards are concerned for their own skins, they will agree to abandon their position. We will offer them full honours. We have nothing to lose.' He glanced at Hector, a calculating gleam in his eye.

'And, Captain Harris, you have provided exactly the right person to carry our message to the Spaniards. This young man, as you have assured me so often, speaks excellent Spanish. He can take our offer to the stockade under a flag of truce, and we will wait here for the answer. Captain Sawkins will await my signal before he launches the first attack.'

When Harris did not reply, Coxon took his silence as assent. Addressing Hector, the buccaneer said, 'Lynch, you are to approach the stockade carrying a flag of truce. There you will ask to speak to the Spanish commander. Inform him that we are in overwhelming strength - tell him, we are over one thousand muskets. He's no way of knowing our true numbers - and, to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, we are willing to allow him and his garrison to withdraw peacefully. Our only condition is that all valuables are left within the town. If he agrees to these terms, his men will be permitted to retain their weapons and leave with full honours, colours flying and drums beating. Do you understand your instructions?'

'Yes,' replied Hector. He was relieved that Coxon seemed no longer to resent his presence, but a little puzzled by his abrupt change of manner. Coxon now appeared to place his trust in him.

'Good. Put down your knapsack, and use your shirt as a white flag. You'll need some sort of staff.' Coxon glanced at the spear that his Kuna companion was carrying. 'That spear will do. Ask for the loan of it.'

In slow careful Spanish Hector explained to the Kuna what was proposed. The man looked baffled. 'But we have to kill the Spaniards,' he said.

'Get on with it,' snapped Coxon. 'We haven't got all day to stand talking.'

Hector repeated his request, and reluctantly the Kuna handed over his lance. The young man tied his shirt to the shaft and was about to step out into the open when Coxon caught him by the elbow. 'Don't go too fast! Walk slowly. Remember we are also giving Captain Sawkins time for his forlorn to take up position.'

Hector stepped from cover and immediately attracted several musket shots from the palisade. But the range, some four hundred yards, was too great for accurate shooting and he did not even know where the shots went.

Anxiously he held the lance higher and waved it from side to side so that the white cloth could be seen clearly. The musketry ceased.

Hector walked slowly forward. A hard knot of fear formed in his stomach and within a few paces the staff was slippery with sweat from his hands. He took deep slow breaths to calm himself, and concentrated on keeping the white flag visible. After about fifty yards he stole a quick glance to his right, hoping to see where Jezreel and Jacques were with Sawkins' assault group. But a fold of ground obscured his view. He hoisted the white flag still higher and decided that he would keep his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the wooden palisade as if this focus would somehow make them respect his flag of truce.

The ground between the palisade and the edge of the woods where he had emerged was rough pasture dotted with low scrubby bushes. He guessed that the original woodland had been cut back by the Spaniards to give a clear field of fire from the stockade, but over the years this precaution had been neglected. The bushes and long grass had been allowed to grow back so that he was obliged to pick his route carefully, making sure to stay within full view of the stockade. From time to time briars and thorns snagged his breeches, and he wondered what would happen if he put his foot into a hole, tripped, and fell. Would the Spanish musketeers think it was a trick, and shoot? There was no doubt that their marksmen were on edge and that they kept their sights trained on him as he moved closer.

An insect landed on his shirtless shoulder, and a second later he felt the burning pain of a bite. He clenched his teeth and restrained himself from slapping away the insect. He needed both hands to hold the white flag high and steady.

Perhaps three or four minutes had passed since he had left Coxon and the other captains, and still there had been no response from the Spanish stockade. No musket fire, no movement. Everything was quiet. He began to breathe a little more easily. He became conscious of the warmth of the morning sun on his skin, a faint smell of something sweet — rotting fruit on the ground under the bushes perhaps — and a black shape circling in the sky high above the stockade, a bird of prey.

Steadily he paced onward.

He had covered perhaps half the distance to the stockade safely when, without warning, there was a sudden fusillade of shots, followed by a fierce, defiant yell. Shocked, he faltered in his stride, scarcely believing that the Spaniards had ignored his flag of truce. But there was no gun smoke billowing from the palisade, and in the same instant he realised that the gunfire had not come from the Spaniards, but from behind him. It was Sawkins and the forlorn who had begun shooting.

Seconds later came the counter-fire from the stockade, an irregular succession of shots as the defenders responded. This time he clearly heard the hum of musket balls whizzing past him. Some of the Spanish marksmen were taking him as their target where he stood exposed on the open ground. A musket ball slashed through a nearby bush, followed by the noise of the cut twigs pattering to the ground. Another musket ball hummed past his head.

Appalled, he threw away the staff and flag and flung himself to the ground, seeking cover. As he lay there, face down to the earth, he heard another volley of musketry from behind him and then a second cheer.

He lay still, not daring to move. For a moment he considered jumping to his feet and running back towards the woods, but dismissed the idea as suicidal. He was certain to be cut down by the Spanish marksmen.

Another cheer, and this time much closer. There was a tearing and crashing, and the thump of running feet. Cautiously he looked up and to his right. Some forty yards away was Sawkins, instantly identifiable in his bright yellow sash. He was bounding forward through the long grass, whooping and shouting and charging straight at the stockade, musket in one hand and cutlass in the other. Close behind him a score of heavily armed buccaneers was running full pelt towards the Spanish defences. As Hector watched, one of the buccaneers dropped to one knee, took aim with his musket and fired at the palisade. A second later he was back on his feet and careering onward, ready to use his musket as a club.

Within a few moments the first of the forlorn had reached the stockade. Someone must have found a chink between the wooden posts because two or three of the attackers were levering away with some sort of crowbar. A second later a small section of the palisade collapsed, leaving a small gap.

Now the buccaneers were tearing at the opening, making it wider. Later arrivals were thrusting their musket barrels through the loopholes and shooting in at the defenders. In the general mayhem there seemed to be little or no resistance from the Spanish garrison.

Shakily Hector started to get up. 'What the devil are you doing here?' said someone with a French accent. It was Jacques, musket in hand. He was clearly shocked at the sight of Hector rising from the ground.

'I was on my way to parley, carrying a white flag, when you attacked,' blurted Hector. He was still appalled by his narrow escape.

'We didn't see you,' said Jacques. 'You could have got yourself gunned down and that for nothing.'

'But I was on my way to offer the garrison safe conduct if they surrendered the town gold.'

'Christ! What imbecile came up with that idea?'

'Captain Coxon sent me.'

'Coxon? But he must have known that Captain Sawkins' idea of a battle is to charge straight at the enemy. That's why Sawkins was given the forlorn.'

'But Coxon had ordered Sawkins to await his signal before launching an attack.'

'Did he?' Jacques looked incredulous. 'That's the first I've heard of it. Sawkins didn't mention it to myself nor Jezreel or any of the others. He brought us up through cane brakes, and as soon as we had a clear sight of the Spanish position, gave the order to fire and charge.'

'Coxon claimed that the parley would also give the forlorn more time to get into position and prevent the Spaniards from learning our strength.'

Jacques grimaced with disgust. 'Now you may have the truth of it. A white flag can be a ruse. But it was crazy of you to volunteer to carry it.'

'I didn't volunteer,' confessed Hector. 'Coxon ordered me to do it, and I thought it was a genuine parley.'

Jacques gave him a searching look. 'Hector, I would say that Captain Coxon very nearly arranged your death.'

By now the fight at the palisade was over, and the Spanish garrison had surrendered. The battle had lasted barely twenty minutes, and the buccaneers had complete mastery of the stockade and the town itself. Hector went forward with Jacques to where the Spanish prisoners were being herded together. They were a sorry-looking lot, men of all ages from teenage lads to greybeards. Some of their weapons were arquebuses so obsolete that they required props on which to support the clumsy barrels.

'No wonder their rate of fire was so dismal,' commented Jacques. 'It must have taken ages to reload. How could anyone ever think that they were capable of defending this place?'

'Perhaps it was not worth defending,' said Hector. He had seen the disappointed expressions on the faces of buccaneers returning from investigating the settlement. They had with them a frightened Spaniard dressed in the clothes of a clerk.

'What a dump!' exclaimed one of the buccaneers. 'Nothing of value. Just miserable houses and wretched people.

'Didn't you find any gold?' asked Jacques hopefully.

The man laughed bitterly. 'There's a town treasury all right. We kicked in the door. But it was empty. This fellow was hiding nearby. He's some sort of a bookkeeper.'

'Perhaps you'll let me question him,' Hector suggested.

'Go ahead. He's in a complete funk. Thinks we'll hand him over to the Kuna.'

The Spaniard was more than eager to answer any question that Hector put to him. The townsfolk of Santa Maria had known for days that the buccaneers were approaching, so the governor had arranged a fleet of boats to evacuate as many of the women and children as possible. The treasury had been emptied out, three hundred weight of gold put aboard a small sloop and sent by river to the capital in Panama. Finally the governor, his deputy, the local dignitaries and the priests had also left. All that remained in Santa Maria were townsfolk who were too poor or insignificant to get away.

'So that's it then,' exclaimed Jacques. 'We've come all this way, done all the marching and wading through rivers and lying on hard ground and eating vile food, only to find that the cupboard is bare.' He gave a snort of disgust.

At this point Captain Sawkins walked up to them. His yellow sash was speckled with flecks of gunpowder, and there was a sword cut in the shoulder of his buff coat. 'What have you managed to find out from this Spaniard?' he asked.

Hector told him about the Spanish withdrawal, and immediately Sawkins was eager to set off in pursuit. 'If we hurry we might catch up with that boat carrying the gold dust. There's a pirogue the Spaniards left behind which we can use.'

He crooked a finger at Hector. 'You come along, and bring that Spaniard with you. He'll be able to identify the boat for us.'

'I am assistant to Surgeon Smeeton. He's waiting for me at the camp,' Hector reminded him. 'I'll need to inform him where I'm going.'

'Then do so, and while you're about it, bring some more medicines with you. We may have some fighting to do.' Sawkins glanced at Jezreel and Jacques. 'You two are still members of the forlorn. You also come with me. Be ready to set off downriver in an hour.'

Hector ran back to where he had left his knapsack, stopping to pick up the abandoned spear and put on his shirt. When he got back to the camp, it was to find the bald quartermaster from Harris's ship seated on a log, his head bowed. Smeeton was standing over him and sewing a flap of skin back onto the quartermaster's scalp.

'Hector, there you are,' said the surgeon as casually as if he was in his consulting rooms in Port Royal. 'A minor head wound, and you see the advantages of hair loss. No need to shave the hair away before deploying needle and thread.'

His stitching finished, the surgeon wrapped a bandage around the wound, and the quartermaster got up and walked away.

'Captain Sawkins has asked me to accompany him downriver, in pursuit of the Spanish treasure,' said Hector.

'Then by all means go,' answered Smeeton. 'There's precious little medical work for you here. We lost just two dead in the entire action, and half a dozen wounded, so there's hardly enough work to go around. The other companies have brought along at least a couple of surgeons apiece. In fact we seem to have so many medical men on this expedition that I'm thinking of returning to the ships, accompanying the walking wounded. Now that we've crossed the isthmus I don't expect to add much to my pharmacopoeia.'

'Is it all right if I take some medicines with me?' Hector asked. 'Captain Sawkins requested I do so.'

Smeeton smiled indulgently. 'But of course. It'll be a chance to use those notes you made while sorting through the medicine chest.'

Hector opened the chest and looked inside. The salves and ointments used up during the march across the isthmus had been replaced by Smeeton's collection of items he thought might possess curative powers - dead snakes, odd-shaped roots, dried leaves, strips of bark, seeds, coloured earth, monkey dung, even the skull of a creature like a dwarf elephant that Dan and other Miskito strikers had found feeding beside the river. The animal's flesh had provided fresh meat for three dozen hungry buccaneers. The surgeon had kept the cranium.

Then his eye fell on the packet that the Kuna medicine man had given him. It was the ointment made for the children of the moon as a poultice for their skin sores. He took the packet from the chest, consulted his notes and found a jar labelled 'Cantharides'. Turning his back so Smeeton could not see what he was doing, the young man carefully untied the leaf wrapper of the Kuna medication. Inside was a blob of pale waxy ointment about the size of his fist. Spreading the leaf on the ground, Hector carefully tipped out several spoonfuls of yellowish-brown powder from Smeeton's medicine jar and, using a twig, stirred the powder into the Kuna salve. Then he wrapped up the packet once again, and returned both it and the jar to the chest.

He finished loading his knapsack with medicines, and said goodbye to Smeeton. As he turned to leave, he said casually, 'Have you had a chance to try out the Kuna skin ointment yet?'

'No,' replied the surgeon. 'It would be interesting to do so.'

'Captain Coxon was asking if you had anything to relieve the rash on his skin. The past few days in the jungle have made the itching much worse.'

'So I noticed,' said Smeeton. 'I shall suggest that he tries the ointment. It can do no harm.'

As he headed off to where Jezreel and Jacques would be waiting, Hector was smiling to himself. It was the quartermaster's bald head which had reminded him of Smeeton's store of cantharides powder. Smeeton had cited it as another example — like snake venom — of a poison that could have beneficial properties. Cantharides powder was made from the powdered wings of a beetle and very popular with the buccaneers as an aphrodisiac. More prosaically, Smeeton had said, the powder applied very sparingly to the skin would encourage hair to grow. However, if used in quantity, it brought on violent itching, caused a burning rash, and raised a mass of painful blisters.

_NINE

A hundred miles away in the city of New Panama, the governor,

his Excellency Don Alonso Mercado de Villacorta, was shocked by the fall of Santa Maria. The news was brought to the city by stunned refugees who described how the Kuna, given the chance, had massacred the Spanish settlers once they had been disarmed by the buccaneers.

'This has all the potential to turn into a disaster,' he said in his characteristically despondent tone to the emergency meeting he had called in his office. 'A gang of pirates is now on the loose in the South Sea. It is exactly what I and others have been warning the authorities about for years. But no one took a scrap of notice. What are we to do?'

He looked round the conference table. His glance swept past the city councillors and church dignitaries, barely paused on the two colonels who commanded his cavalry and infantry, and came to rest on Don Jacinto de Barahona, the officer in charge of the Pacific naval squadron.

Barahona was thinking to himself that the governor was being unduly negative.

'We go on the offensive,' he said firmly. 'Stamp out the threat immediately. If we don't, other pirates will follow the route they have found over the isthmus. We risk being overwhelmed.'

'But we don't know where to find the pirates, nor their number,' objected the governor. He had a habit of tugging at his right ear lobe when he was worried. 'They could be anywhere. The coast is a maze of islands and inlets. Our forces could search for weeks and not discover them. Meanwhile the city would be left without protection.'

'Could we not ask the Indians to keep a look out on our behalf?' The suggestion came from the bishop. He was newly arrived from Old Spain, and had yet to learn that the Indians were not the devout and loyal Christians he had been led to expect.

'The Indians!' exclaimed the cavalry colonel, his mouth turned down in a grimace. 'It was the Indians who showed the pirates their trail over the mountains.'

'There's no need to go searching for the pirates. They will come to us,' said a quiet, firm voice. The speaker was Capitan del Navio, Francisco de Peralta. His swarthy tan and the maze of lines and wrinkles on his face were the legacy of a lifetime sailing the Pacific Ocean. For thirty years Don Francisco had worn a furrow in the sea between Panama and the southern ports of the viceroyalty of Peru. There was hardly a vessel which he had not commanded, navigated or escorted - galleons with cargoes of bullion, tubby ureas loaded with merchandise, fast pataches carrying official correspondence, even a pasaca-ballo, a flat-bottomed horse ferry, out of which he had once disembarked a troop of cavalry to fight the Aurocanos in Chile. Now, as Capitan del Navio, his ship was a barca longa, an armed brigantine, anchored off Panama City.

'The pirates have succeeded in crossing the mountains, but they find themselves in a quandary,' Peralta went on. 'They must have boats if they are to reach and attack Panama. To march overland along the coast is too slow and too hazardous. The only craft available to them will be small dugout canoes made by the Indians, and perhaps a piragua or two. This makes them vulnerable.'

Barahona had grasped the point Peralta was making. 'We must shut down the sea lanes. None of our vessels are to sail from any port. All those currently at sea will be ordered into harbour,' he said.

'But surely we should send out boats to warn our coastal settlements that the pirates are on the prowl,' protested the bishop. He was feeling piqued that his earlier suggestion had been dismissed out of hand.

'No. The pirates might capture our vessels and turn them against us.'

'What naval forces do we have to defend us if the pirates do get this far?' The governor put the question directly to Barahona though he already knew the answer. It was better that the civilians and the Churchmen were made aware just how acute the danger was.

'There are five merchant ships currently at anchor. One of them, La Santissima Trinidad, is a large galleon, but currently she is fitted out as a merchant vessel so has no armament. Then there are the three small warships of the South Sea squadron.' Barahona was careful to describe the colonial navy as an armadilla, a squadron. Its official title might be far grander as an Armada or Fleet, but the merchants of Peru and Panama had been stingy about paying the situados, the special taxes which were meant to fund the colony's defences. So now the royal vessels were few in number, undersize and decrepit. The warships at his disposal were barca longas like Peralta's, a two-masted craft equipped with a dozen cannon.

'Surely that should be sufficient to deal with a handful of pirates in canoes,' sniffed the cavalry colonel.

'Our main problem is not in ships, but in men,' retorted Barahona crisply. As always the land soldiers overlooked the fact that sailors took far longer to train than infantrymen.

'We have enough competent seamen to man just one of the warships. They are mostly Biscayners, so they are prime seamen and excellent at their job. But the other two vessels will be relying on locally raised crews.' Barahona's eyes flicked towards Peralta and the officer seated next to him, Capitan Diego de Carabaxal. The latter was a competent seaman but Barahona was not sure that Carabaxal would have the necessary courage when it came to a fight. 'Both those vessels are short-handed. So I propose stripping the merchant ships of their sailors and redistributing their men to the warships.'

'Is that wise? Without crews they cannot save themselves,' objected one of the councillors. From the note of alarm in the man's voice Peralta suspected that he was part-owner of one of the merchant ships and dismayed at the threat to his investment.

'If any merchant ship is about to fall into the hands of the pirates, it will be scuttled or burned on my orders.' Barahona had the satisfaction of seeing the councillor go pale at the prospect.

'Then it's decided,' announced the governor. 'The armadilla will put itself in a state of readiness to intercept and destroy the pirates while they are still in small boats. The land forces are to concentrate in the city and look to the defences should the pirates succeed in coming ashore.'

The bishop closed the meeting with a prayer for salvation, beseeching the Almighty to thwart the evil designs of the heathen sea robbers, and Francisco de Peralta left the governor's office. He had only a short walk to where his ship's cockboat was waiting. As he crossed the main square of New Panama, he remembered what it had been like the last time the pirates had attacked. Henry Morgan, the great pirate, had marched across die isthmus with 1,200 men. A garrison of four regiments of foot and two squadrons of horse had failed to stop a ragtag force so poorly supplied that the bandits had been obliged to eat their leather satchels during their advance. The entire city, seven thousand households, had panicked. People ran about, frantically hiding their valuables down wells and cisterns or in holes in walls. Then they fled into the countryside, trying to escape before the city was invested.

Peralta had received orders to warp his ship up to the quays. There he had taken on an astonishing variety of refugees and their baggage - nuns and priests, high-born ladies with their children and servants, senior government officials. They had brought the contents of the city treasury, boxes of official deeds and documents, sacks stuffed with church plate, paintings, sacred relics hastily wrapped in altar cloths, chests of privately owned jewellery, gold, pearls, all manner of portable wealth. The value of the cargo rushed aboard his vessel that day had exceeded all that was left behind in the city for the pirates to plunder. In vain he had warned that his vessel was not fit for sea. Its sole defence was seven cannon and a dozen muskets, and her sails had been condemned and taken ashore. No one listened. Everyone begged him to leave port at once and save them and their goods.

What followed had seemed like a miracle. His grossly overloaded vessel had cast off, and his crew had spread a set of topsails, the only canvas they still had on board. It was barely enough to push the vessel through the water. Half-sailing, half drifting on the current, his ship had limped away from the city, and Peralta had spent the next forty-eight hours waiting for the pirates to commandeer local boats, catch up and take their plunder. A score of pirates in a piragua would have been enough. But it never happened. The enemy failed to appear, and for years he had wondered why. Eventually he had learned that the pirates had got drunk. They had wasted so much time on shore, guzzling captured wine, that when they emerged from their stupor Peralta and his precious cargo had drifted away over the horizon.

Don Francisco allowed himself a wry grin at the memory. The ladrones del mar, the sea thieves as he thought of them, were courageous and unpredictable. But they had two weaknesses: a love of strong drink and a tendency to quarrel among themselves. Given enough time, they usually fell into disarray and returned from where they had come.

The Spanish captain reached the little creek where his cockboat was waiting for him. Every member of its crew was a black man because Don Francisco preferred to work with negroes. Most were freed slaves and he found them loyal and less likely to desert in search of better pay in the merchant marine. Now they would have half an hour of steady rowing to bring him to his ship. After Morgan had sacked Panama, the city had been rebuilt in a safer location and the planners of New Panama had been so fearful of an attack from the sea that they had picked an easily defended promontory with shoal water all around it. This meant that the merchant ships and the armadilla were obliged to anchor well away from the shore and had no protection from the city's gun batteries. Don Francisco's earlier moment of cheerfulness subsided into a mood of resignation. Whatever happened in the next few days, he and the two other captains would be on their own. There would be no assistance from the landsmen.

He turned to look back over his shoulder as the cockboat pulled out of the creek. He had a clear view down the coast in the direction from which the pirates would come, and towards the ruins of the city that Morgan had sacked and burned. Most of the buildings had been of fine cedar wood, with beautiful carved balconies. All that had gone up in flames. Only the stone-built structures had survived, and one of them still rose above its neighbours. It was the old cathedral, still in use because its replacement in New Panama had not yet been consecrated. But Morgan's pirates had not got away with everything. Hearing that an attack was imminent, the priests had cleverly camouflaged the cathedral's beautiful altar piece, a soaring masterwork of carved wood smothered in gold leaf. They had painted it black, and the pirates had been duped. They ransacked the cathedral but failed to see the deception. The altar piece remained, and the citizens of New Panama still worshipped before it. As he settled back in his place in the stern of the boat, Don Peralta wondered if he too would be able to use deception to hoodwink the new invaders.

Hector was thankful that he had been selected for Captain Sawkins' vanguard. It put him well out of reach of Coxon. The buccaneer had tried using the Kuna balm spiked with the Spanish Fly, and the last time Hector had seen him, Coxon's face and neck had been disfigured with a great throbbing rash, a seeping expanse like a grotesque birthmark which was giving Coxon agony. Clearly, Hector felt that it was small retribution for what had happened on the ridge before Santa Maria.

'You were set up,' Jezreel had confirmed when Hector told him what had happened during the attack. 'We could not see you and your flag of truce from the cane brakes where the forlorn assembled. Yet you must have been visible to Coxon up on the ridge. He must have enjoyed watching you walk trustingly towards the Spanish guns.'

'And Coxon himself took care to stay out of harm's way,' the big man added. 'He waited until Santa Maria had fallen before he came down from the ridge. Some are saying that our commander lacks courage.'

Now Coxon was somewhere far behind Sawkins and in the early light of dawn the forlorn was advancing on Panama in boats provided by the Kuna — two large piraguas and five small canoes. Jezreel, Dan and Jacques had been assigned to a piragua while Hector had been provided with a musket and ammunition and put with five other men in one of the little dugouts.

Hector put down his paddle and leaned forward to check the lashings that held his musket to the side of the canoe. Dan had advised him to make sure that the knots were tight, the muzzle stoppered, and the lock well wrapped in waxed cloth so that it stayed dry. Also that his cartridge box was fastened somewhere safe, and well sealed with grease, so he didn't lose the gun or wet the ammunition if there was a capsize.

It had been good advice. The canoe had not tipped over but the four days since leaving Santa Maria had brought frequent cloudbursts, heavy and unpredictable, which had drenched his clothes and knapsack and ruined Hector's last remaining store of food. Only his medical notebook had stayed dry. He had put it inside a watertight tube he had made from the hollow stem of a giant cane, sealing the cut end with a soft wooden plug driven in tight.

Hector picked up his paddle and resumed the stroke. Conversation was limited to talking to the man directly in front or behind. Seated just ahead of him was a weatherbeaten buccaneer by the name of John Watling. His scars and gruff manner of speech with its occasional military jargon marked him as a veteran soldier.

'I'm told that Sawkins can't abide oaths and profanity.' Hector said.

'Doesn't like gaming either. Says it's sinful and I agree with him,' Watling replied over his shoulder. 'If he finds a pack of cards or a set of dice, he throws them in the sea. He makes his people observe the Sabbath too.'

'Yet he doesn't hesitate to plunder fellow Christians.'

'Course not. They're Papists, aren't they? He sees them as fair game and it doesn't matter if we don't have a Jamaica commission.'

The mention of Jamaica made Hector think of Susanna yet again.

'I'm hoping to get back to Jamaica soon. Left a girl there,' he said casually though full of pride. It was an exaggeration but it gave him some small throb of satisfaction to pretend that Susanna was in his life.

'Then you better hope that our venture on Panama turns out to be more profitable than Santa Maria. No one's going to be welcome back in Jamaica without a deal of plunder in his purse.'

'That won't make any difference to my girl,' Hector boasted.

'She'll have no say in it,' said Watling curtly. 'We've left a right bad taste behind us in Port Royal. Our captains told the authorities that they were going to cut logwood in Campeachy. Even got government licences to do so. But the moment they cleared the land, they headed for the Main and began this mischief.'

'I can't see how that will affect me when I get back to Port Royal. I joined up later.'

'It'll make no difference,' grunted Watling. He paused his paddling to take up a wooden scoop lying at his feet and bail out a quantity of bilgewater. 'There's meant to be a truce between England and Spain, and I wouldn't be surprised if we've been disowned.'

'Disowned?'

'Put beyond the law.' Watling made it sound very casual. 'If we come back with our pockets full of treasure, it will all be forgotten. Just like Drake back in the time of Queen Bess. The Spaniards still call him the Great Pirate, but the English think he is a national hero and he was knighted by the Queen.' He half-turned to face back at Hector. 'So if you come home in a ship with sails of silk, then you'll be a hero too. If not. . .' — he made a gesture of rope being placed around his neck, and pulled upward — 'We'll be choked off. All of us that are caught . . .'

Watling's blunt prediction filled Hector with foreboding. It was too late to leave the expedition before it reached Panama, even if he was prepared to abandon Dan and his other friends. No longer did he have the excuse that he was only serving as a medical orderly in the campaign. Captain Sawkins had insisted that he carried the musket if he was to travel with the forlorn. The more he thought about his predicament, the more Hector was undecided whether he preferred the attack on Panama to fail so that the expedition would disband, or for the assault to succeed so that he could return to Jamaica and buy himself out of trouble.

There was a long silence, broken only when Watling commented, 'Nice to think it's St George's Day. A good omen!'

But Hector did not answer. He had counted a total of seventy-six men in Sawkins' tiny flotilla. That seemed far too few to assault a major Spanish stronghold. The rest of the buccaneer expedition was lagging far behind, and he doubted that fire-eating Sawkins would wait for them to catch up. Somewhere over to his left were Dan, Jezreel and Jacques in their piragua, but it was too far away to see which one it was. On his right and visible on the low shoreline against the sunrise was the stump of a tower which one of his companions, a man who had marched with Morgan, said was the Cathedral of Old Panama. The vanguard must be getting very close to its target.

'Three sail and bearing directly down for us!' exclaimed Watling as the sun finally dispelled the last of the dawn haze.

Hector craned to one side to look forward over the seaman's shoulder. About two miles distant were three sailing ships. They were heading straight for the buccaneer canoes which were advancing in no sort of formation.

'Warships by the look of them, barca longas,' said Watling, 'and in a hurry to engage us.'

There was a halloo from the nearest canoe about eighty yards away to their right. It was Sawkins himself. Typically his boat had outstripped the rest, and was several lengths in advance of the company. The captain was standing up in his canoe, waving his hat and gesturing that Watling's canoe should turn directly towards the enemy.

'Not much else we can do,' muttered Watling darkly. 'The Spaniards have the advantage of us. The wind is right behind them, and they can pick their prey.' But he appeared remarkably composed as he bent forward and began to unfasten his musket.

Only when he had checked and loaded the weapon did he look up again. By then it was clear to Hector that the leading Spanish vessel was shaping course to pass through the gap between Sawkins' canoe and the one in which he now sat. It would allow the Spanish vessel to use her gun batteries on both sides.

'Any good with a musket?' Watling asked Hector.

'I haven't had much practice recently.'

'Better if you act as my loader then,' suggested the seaman. 'Get your own gun ready, and hand it to me when I've fired mine. Then take my gun and set it up again. If we're quick about it, I should be able to get off at least three shots, maybe more.

While Hector prepared his own musket, Watling sat quietly, his gun held across his lap, until the leading Spanish ship was almost within range.

'Stand by to receive cannon fire,' he said softly.

A moment later there was a loud bang and a billow of smoke from the deck of the Spanish vessel. The air was filled with the whistle of flying metal, and the surface of the sea a good thirty yards ahead of the canoe spouted small jets of foam.

'Scrubby shooting at this range,' said Watling dryly.

Again the bang of a cannon. This time the Spanish ship was firing in the opposite direction, towards Sawkins' canoe. Hector could not see where the shot fell.

'They'll do better next time,' said Watling, and he crouched down in the canoe. Hastily Hector followed his example, kneeling in the bilge and bending as low as possible. Nevertheless he felt very vulnerable. Behind him the other men were also ducking down.

Another shot from a cannon, and the sound of metal hurtling through the air. It was much closer this time. There was a sudden drone as something skimmed off the surface of the sea. The Spaniards must have loaded their guns with small shot. Watling let out a grunt as he shifted position. Now he was half-reclining in the bottom of the canoe, the barrel of his musket resting on the gunnel, and taking aim towards the Spanish ship. Hector felt the canoe rock slightly from side to side as the buccaneers behind him also took up their firing positions. 'Steady!' came a warning voice. It was the man farthest in the bow. 'Let me take the first shot.'

There was the sound of a musket firing, the familiar smell of gunpowder, and a slight tremor down the length of the canoe. Hector raised his head and squinted towards the Spanish ship. He could see men on deck and in the lower rigging and the steersman at the helm. Next to him was a man dressed in a long dark coat with slashes of silver braid. He must be the captain. A group of four Spanish sailors were gathered near the rail and, almost too late, Hector realised that they were a gun crew preparing to fire. He ducked down as their cannon spurted a stab of flame, and something smartly rapped the hull of the canoe. From behind him came an oath.

One of Watling's bare feet was pushing against his shoulder as the sailor braced himself and took aim. The crack of his musket was followed by a snort of satisfaction. Then Wading was passing back his musket and beckoning for Hector to hand him his own gun. Another wriggle as the sailor adjusted his firing position, and fired a second shot. Hector had to half-kneel in order to reload the empty gun. His head and body were now well above the level of the canoe's rim. He prised open the waxed lid of his cartouche box and pulled out a charge of powder in its paper wrapping. Tearing off the end of the cartouche with his teeth, he carefully tipped the powder into the musket barrel. Wrapping a strip of paper around a musket ball to make it a tight fit, he tamped it firmly down the barrel with the ramrod. Then, turning the musket on its side, he checked that the pin hole leading to the chamber was clear before he reached for his powder horn and poured a pinch of gunpowder into the firing pan and closed its cover. He was concentrating so closely on his work that he scarcely noticed the sound of the third cannon shot from the Spanish vessel.

Their aim must have been poor for he was only conscious of Watling urging him to hurry. 'Quick! Their helm is exposed.' Hector passed the reloaded musket forward, and this time Watling sat up on his thwart and faced over the stern of the canoe to take his aim. His musket barrel was beside the young man's face as he pulled the trigger. Hector was half-deafened by the explosion. But Watling was grinning with triumph. 'Two out of three,' he exulted, baring his teeth.

The men behind Hector had also been firing, though how many shots they had got off he could not tell. When he next looked towards the Spanish vessel, the barca longa had passed through the gap between the two canoes and was now downwind. It would take some time for her crew to turn the ship and bring her back into action. For the moment the danger from that direction was over.

A low groan dispelled his sense of relief. The man seated directly behind him in the canoe was holding his shoulder. Blood was staining his shirt. 'Here, let me look at that,' said Hector, and was about to climb back over the thwart with his medical knapsack when he was stopped by a sharp order from Watling. 'Leave that for later,' the sailor snapped. 'Here comes the next one.'

Hector glanced up to see a second Spanish warship steering for the same gap between his own canoe and Sawkins' boat. A broad white, gold and red pennant flying from the warship's masthead indicated that this must be the command vessel in the Spanish squadron.

Watling was speaking to him again, his voice urgent. 'Reload your own musket, and this time use it yourself. We'll not have much support from our captain from now.' A hurried glance towards Sawkins' canoe showed that only three members of its crew were visible in their normal places. Their companions must have been killed or wounded.

There was a nudge in his back. 'Here, take my gun as well!' The buccaneer with the bloody shoulder seated behind him was thrusting forward his musket for Hector to use. 'Aim for the helm, always for the helm,' the man advised, his face screwed up in pain.

This time Hector knew what to expect. Copying Watling's example he lay in the bottom of the canoe and rested the barrel of his gun on the rim of the hull. He drew back the hammer and waited patiently. The oncoming Spanish warship was following exactly the same track as its escort. Again the sounds of cannon, the clouds of black smoke, and this time the sharper reports of muskets as the Spaniards on deck opened fire on the small low-lying canoes.

Hector was no longer conscious of where the bullets went. His world narrowed to a single image — the figure of the man steering the Spanish vessel. He focused along the sights of his musket and carefully swivelled the muzzle to follow his target. He was faintly aware of the motion of the canoe on the slight swell, the hull rolling a few inches, just enough to make the target rise and fall in his aim. The motion was regular enough for him to calculate when the moment was right. He took a long slow breath and held it, waited for the uproll and then gently squeezed the trigger.

He ignored the recoil of the butt against his shoulder as he watched, never taking his eye off the figure of the helmsman. The man spun round and dropped.

'Thought you said you were out of practice! My turn now,' crowed Watling who had observed his shot. Within moments another man had appeared at the helm of the Spanish vessel, a replacement steersman, and he was taking control. Watling hunched over his own weapon and took aim. He fired, and there was a brief moment when it seemed that he had missed his mark. The new helmsman was still upright, unharmed. Then, slowly and inexplicably, the warship began to turn sideways, losing speed.

'Christ, what luck!' exclaimed the wounded buccaneer from behind Hector. The man must have had keen eyesight for he added, 'The main brace is shot through. The mainsail is loose.'

Sure enough, with canvas flapping, the warship was losing all forward motion and veering to one side. The deck guns could no longer be brought to bear on the canoes. The Spanish vessel was crippled.

'There's her commander now!' shouted Watling gleefully. A tall, thin man had climbed up on the rail. He wore a plumed hat and a broad red sash, and there was the glint of gold brocade on the sleeves of his coat. Regardless of his personal safety, he was holding on to the rigging with one hand and with the other frantically waving a white handkerchief over his head. For a moment Hector thought it was a flag of truce and the Spanish officer wanted to parlay or even surrender. But then the young man realised that the Spaniard was not facing the canoes, but looking towards the first barca longa which had led the attack. That vessel was still a quarter of a mile downwind and trying clumsily to work back to return to the fray. The Spanish commander was urgently beckoning to his escort to come to the rescue.

'Too good a chance to miss. Here, give me that spare musket,' gloated Watling. Hector handed him the gun from the wounded sailor, and once again Watling took slow, deliberate aim and fired. The impact of the bullet knocked the Spanish officer backwards off the rail on which he was standing. The white handkerchief fell from his hand and fluttered down into the sea.

'Now we've got 'em!' exulted Watling. 'Come on lads, close the gap.' He picked up his paddle and began to drive the canoe through the water.

The loss of their commander had utterly demoralised the Spanish crew. Dismayed by the accuracy of the buccaneer's musketry, they abandoned their deck cannon, knowing they were dangerously exposed when they stood to load their big guns. Now, instead of standing at the rail or climbing into the rigging to shoot at their attackers, the crew of the warship ducked down and hid out of sight behind the bulwarks, and only occasionally raised their heads to take aim and fire. They had lost the will to fight.

A rousing cheer to his left told Hector that one of the piraguas had at last arrived in support. With sixteen men on board, the piragua rowed straight towards the disabled Spanish warship and, closing to within point blank range, opened up a deadly fusillade of musketry on their victims. One by one the hapless Spanish crewmen were picked off if they showed themselves.

Watling was pointing back towards the first Spanish warship. 'Seems he's seen enough,' he said. That vessel was altering course, withdrawing from the battle and abandoning her consort.

Above the noise of the cheering from the musketeers in the piragua came anxious shouts from the stricken warship. The crew was appealing for quarter. A hand holding a scrap of white cloth appeared above the bulwarks and began to wave the symbol to and fro in surrender. The musket fire from the piragua gradually lessened and finally ceased altogether.

'Sawkins well deserves his victory,' said Hector. He could scarcely believe that a handful of buccaneers had managed to overcome the larger, more powerful vessel so swiftly.

'Our captain's already shifted aboard the other piragua,' Watling told him, nodding towards the south. A quarter of a mile away the second piragua lay alongside the third of the Spanish warships. There was fierce hand-to-hand fighting on deck and, as he watched, Hector saw that the boarding party of buccaneers was being driven back to their own vessel. Only then did he realise that Dan, Jacques and Jezreel must now be fighting alongside Sawkins in his latest suicidal endeavour.

_TEN

Capitan Francisco de Peralta had willingly followed his squadron commander in setting sail to intercept and engage the enemy's motley flotilla as soon as it was sighted. He watched Diego de Carabaxal's barca longa make for the gap between the two canoes farthest to the left of the pirate's ragged line, and had entirely approved of this bold response to the pirate threat. Carabaxal's cannon should make short work of the lightly built canoes and piraguas. But when Capitan Barahona chose to follow in exactly the same track, Don Francisco hesitated. It was a mistake, he thought, for two warships to deal with a pair of canoes while ignoring the rest of the pirate flotilla. So Peralta had decided to seek out his own target: he would engage the largest of their vessels, a piragua that had fallen behind and, under oars, was struggling to keep up.

The Spanish captain looked up at the cloudless sky. He would have welcomed a change in the weather, but there was no sign of it. The breeze was so gentle that it raised barely a ripple on the indigo-blue sea. The calm conditions would suit the pirate musketeers. They would be firing from a more stable platform than if there was a choppy seaway to contend with. Peralta held a profound respect for the enemy musketry. He recalled the shock of Morgan's raid when its victims discovered

that the invaders carried firearms of the very latest model. With their modern guns the pirates had outranged the defenders of Panama, firing two or three shots for every one their opponents had been able to return from their obsolete firelocks and arquebuses. The defenders' superiority in numbers had counted for little.

So now Don Peralta decided to get as close as possible to the piragua and fire into her with light swivel guns loaded with small shot. Once he had decimated her musketeers, he would despatch a boarding party to over-run the survivors.

'Mount our patareros,' he told Estevan Madriga, his negro contremaestre. 'And make sure that the gun crews have all they need. Ammunition and plenty of powder charges close to hand . . . and a tub of water for them to slake their thirst. This could prove to be hot work.'

Peralta had total confidence in his contremaestre. Madriga had served with him for more than fifteen years, and there was a bond of mutual trust between them. The Spanish captain only wished that his crew had done more practice with the swivel guns. The penny pinching of the colonial administration meant that any gun drill had been rare. The contadores, the bookkeepers, condemned it as a waste of expensive gunpowder.

Peralta chewed his lip in frustration. His ship, Santa Catalina, was lagging behind her consorts, easing along at less than walking pace. That too was partly the fault of the bureaucracy. The barca longa's bottom was foul with weeds because the ship had been kept lying at anchor off Panama for more than a month while he waited for permission to take her out of service and careen.

Estevan returned to report that the ship's four patareros had been brought up from the hold. The guns were being checked and loaded and placed on their bronze swivel mounts. With a patarero on each quarter and two in the bows, they gave a field of fire all round the vessel. Unfortunately a shortage of muskets meant that less than half the crew could be issued with firearms. The others would have to make do with pikes and cutlasses. It was all part of the same pattern, thought Don Francisco sourly. He had asked the royal stores for an additional four patareros and, though the guns had been promised, they had never been delivered. Insufficient gunpowder, too few weapons, bad pay - his barca longa was a miniature of the entire viceroyalty of Peru. Brave men were trying to operate a structure that was falling to bits through neglect and parsimony.

He turned to check what was happening with the other vessels in the squadron. Carabaxal had already passed through the pirate line and was manoeuvring his ship to come back upwind. He appeared to have done little damage to the enemy because the two canoes nearest to him were still afloat. Hopefully, Capitan Barahona would be more successful.

A shout from the foredeck brought his attention back to his own plan of attack. A lookout was reporting that the three remaining pirate canoes were altering course. They were converging on his own barca longa. 'Our target remains that big piragua,' Peralta confirmed. 'No one is to open fire until we are in easy range.' He was worried about the patareros. Mounted on the ship's rail the swivel guns looked menacing enough and, if properly handled, were capable of doing great damage. But the patareros had only ever been fired with blank charges to blast out honour salutes for visiting dignitaries or to celebrate the holy days of mother Church. It was typical of the contadores that they had allowed him gunpowder for ceremonials and to flatter grandees, but not for target practice. Outward display came cheaper and pleased the crowds.

Peralta calculated that another ten minutes of Santa Catalina's sluggish advance should bring the enemy within range. He made a tour of his ship, stopping for a brief word of encouragement with as many of his men as possible. He paid special attention to the gunners, two men to a gun. 'I'm counting on you,' he told them quietly. 'Don't believe the old yarn that the foreign pirates are devils from hell. As you can see, they're men, and a scruffy lot at that.'

As Don Francisco returned to his position by the helm, he eyed the gap between his barca longa and the piragua. It was still too far to open fire with any certainty of success. The swivel guns let loose a cruel hail of scatter shot, but their range was limited. The breeze, though very light, was still holding steady from the west.

He came to a decision. 'Contremaestre! We steer to pass to windward of the piragua. I want all four patareros moved to the starboard side.' The guns were light enough to be picked up by their crews and carried across the deck. Alternative mounts were already fixed at several points on the ship's rail. By shifting the swivel guns so that all four of them fired from the starboard rail, he was creating a ready-made broadside.

The last of his gun crews were still heaving their weapon up onto its Y-shaped mount when the first musket shot rang out from the piragua. Don Francisco had expected the pirates to be good marksmen, but the range and accuracy of that first shot startled him. From a distance of 300 paces the musket bullet struck the ship's rail close to the patarero and sent up a shower of splinters. One fragment embedded itself deep in the chest of one of his gunners. The man gave a sudden, surprised cough and fell back on the deck. A comrade immediately took his place, but Peralta noted the looks of fright that passed across the faces of all those who stood nearby.

'Open fire now you have your target,' he called out as if nothing had happened. It was better that the gun crews went into action now, even if the range was long. Gun handling would distract them, and the patareros were simple enough to use. The gunner only had to find his target por el raso de los metales, 'by the line of metals', squinting along the crude sights on the barrel and tell his companion when to apply a lighted match to the touch hole.

There was a loud hollow thud like the sound of a slack drum skin hit hard. It was the characteristic noise of a patarero. Don Francisco watched a pattern of small white splashes flower in the sea well short of the piragua. The barca longa was still out of range.

He took a few slow steps along the deck, turned and walked back, careful to keep in full view of the pirates, and of his men. He wanted his crew to see that this was a time to be calm.

Now the musketeers in the piragua were opening up a steady fusillade. They went about their business coolly. Their shots were irregularly spaced so it was clear that they were taking their time to aim accurately. Don Francisco heard several musket balls whizz overhead. A couple of small holes appeared in the courses, the lower sails. Four more of his men were hit by splinters.

At last Santa Catalina was in range. A forward patarero fired, and this time the splashes of small shot were all around the piragua. He heard distant cries of pain. The three remaining swivel guns belched their loads of scatter shot. Two of them were poorly aimed, and did little damage. But the fourth gun scored a direct hit, and he saw several of the pirates slump forward.

"Well done!' he shouted as the gunners began to reload. The patareros were of a basic design, loaded by the muzzle, not in the breech. To recharge the weapons, it was safer and easier if they were lifted off their mounts and placed on the deck. There the men sponged out the hot barrel, loaded in a charge of gunpowder and a wad, and finally a canvas bag packed with small shot and broken metal fragments. Minutes later the patarero should be back in place on the rail, and the gunner firing again.

Peralta had to admire the pirates' courage. They did not flinch under the bursts of scatter shot but changed their methods. Only a handful of their men in the bow were still shooting, the rest were straining at the oars, rowing the piragua forwards, roaring and chanting their defiance. They were desperate to close and board.

Let them come, Peralta thought. He had enough men to deal with the onslaught.

A cry from behind him made him spin around. His second mate was running towards the far rail. A hand had appeared at deck level. Someone had climbed up the side of the ship away from the battle. The mate stamped hard on the hand and it withdrew.

Peralta drew a pistol from his belt and hurried to join his officer. Looking over the rail he found himself staring straight down into one of the pirate canoes. It had succeeded in sneaking up, unnoticed, to the stern of the barca longa. There were six men in the canoe, and at least one of them was wounded for he was leaking blood. The faces of the others were turned towards him. Don Francisco thrust his pistol over the rail and fired downwards. It was impossible to miss. The pirate in the centre of the canoe fell back, half in and half out of the canoe.

His second mate was waving a cutlass and screaming curses. Peralta realised that the man had no musket. 'Here, take this,' he shouted, pulling a second pistol from his waistband, and handing it to the man. 'Keep them off.'

He turned and ran back across the deck. He was needed there to direct the patareros. To his dismay he found that the piragua was now far closer than he had expected. Only a gap of a few yards separated the two vessels. A moment later they touched sides and a score of the enemy were clambering on his deck, yelling and whooping like fiends.

Peralta drew his sword, a rapier given him when he first received his commission, and the next instant found himself fending off a haggard, ginger-haired man who rushed at him hefting a boarding axe. Don Francisco felt a heavy jolt as the axe struck his rapier blade. Fortunately it was a glancing blow, otherwise the steel would have shattered. The axe head slid as far as the rapier's hilt and turned aside harmlessly. Peralta took his chance to run his assailant through the shoulder with the point. More and more pirates were climbing aboard, and there was chaos across the entire width of the deck. Buccaneers and his black crew men surged together in hand-to-hand combat. There was an occasional pistol shot, but most of the fight was waged with cutlasses and daggers, cudgels, muskets used as clubs, short pikes and fists. One of his own men was swinging a capstan bar, using it to batter and smash at his opponents. Peralta caught a glimpse of a giant buccaneer who was wreaking havoc with a weapon that the Spanish captain had never encountered before. It was a stubby sword scarcely longer than a cutlass and not as broad in the blade. The giant was wielding it with extraordinary agility, slashing and cutting almost too fast to follow, and he was driving back anyone who challenged him. As the captain watched, the giant cut down two of Santa Catalina's crew.

'Come on! We are more than they are!' he yelled, and flung himself into the thick of the fight. He was conscious of someone at his left shoulder. It was Estevan and he was fighting grimly, protecting his captain's vulnerable side. Peralta shouted again, urging on his crew, and he felt a thrill of pride as they responded with a concerted charge. A score of them began to force the boarders back towards their own vessel. 'Well done! Well done!' he screamed, smashing his sword hilt into a sweating pirate face. His crewmen pressed forward. Now they had the initiative. The pirates were in retreat. Don Francisco was panting with effort. His foot skidded and he almost fell. The deck was slippery with blood. But it did not matter. Already the first of the pirates were jumping back into their piragua; their comrades were fighting a rearguard action. In another few moments the deck of his barca longa would be cleared. Now was the time to smash the enemy into oblivion.

Don Francisco grabbed his contremaestre by the shoulder. 'We must get to the forward patarero, Estevan!' he bellowed in the man's ear. 'Load it with the heaviest shot you can find.

Shoot down into that damned piragua, and send her to the bottom.' Estevan had never failed him in all those years they had served together on the royal ships. He always knew exactly what he was doing. Now he and Don Francisco sprinted forward to the bow, hurdling two badly wounded men sprawled on the deck. As Estevan ran, he was calling out to two of his own men to help him with the patarero.

The four of them reached the swivel gun where it sat on its mounting on the rail. Its muzzle was pointing skyward, left at that angle after the last time it had been fired. Peralta watched Estevan grab the breech and swing the weapon level so that two assistants could take their positions. One man stood at each side of the gun and clasped the barrel. At a command from the contremaestre, all three men heaved the patarero off its mount, then gently laid the weapon on deck ready to reload.

Peralta gave a smile of relief. Now the gun crew was behind the ship's rail, out of sight of the pirates in the piragua. Jeers, confused shouting, and the occasional report of a musket told him that his crew were managing to keep the pirates at bay, preventing them from climbing back aboard the barca longa. In another minute or two, the patarero would be reloaded, hoisted back into position, and then he and Estevan would tilt the gun so that it pointed directly down into the piragua. A single shot at such close range would be devastating. It would rip the bottom out of the pirate's craft, and that would be the end of the fight.

Perhaps it was an ember still smouldering inside the bronze barrel of the patarero which caused the disaster. Or maybe metal struck on metal and produced an unlucky spark, or the inexperienced gun crew bungled their work. Whatever the reason, there was a tremendous explosion on the foredeck. A dozen powder charges ignited simultaneously. Sections of planking flew into the air. Two of the gun crew were blown to pieces, and a blast of heat struck Peralta in the face. He threw up his hands to protect himself from the sheet of flame which followed, and felt a searing pain. Deafened by the clap of sound, he was thrown bodily over the ship's rail and into the sea.

Hector and his comrades in their canoe were only fifty paces away when the thunderclap of the explosion occurred. Something terrible had taken place on the barca longa's deck.

'Man in the water!' Hector shouted. He could see the head of someone swimming.

'Let him drown. He's just a Spaniard,' said a voice.

'No! He could be from our boarding party,' Hector insisted, thinking that perhaps it was Jacques or Jezreel who had been in the piragua. He started paddling. Ahead of him, John Watling followed his example. From the Spanish vessel there was no sound at all. Hector supposed that everyone aboard was too shocked and stunned to continue fighting.

When the canoe reached the swimmer, he proved to be an older man with short, nearly white hair. By his dark complexion it was evident that he was a Spaniard. He was supporting the unconscious body of a black man, holding his head above the sea. The negro was horribly wounded. His skin was lacerated and torn, his face a mask of blood.

'Here, grab on and let us help you,' Hector called out in Spanish as he reached down to take hold of the unconscious figure. The swimmer gave a nod of thanks, and the black man was lifted carefully into the canoe. 'You too,' Hector added, holding out his hand. 'Come aboard. You are our prisoner now.'

The stranger clambered into the canoe, and there was something about his manner which indicated that he was an officer.

'My name is Hector Lynch. I'm not a surgeon, but I have a few medicines with me which may help your friend here.'

'I will be grateful for that,' answered the stranger. 'Allow me to introduce myself. I am Capitan Francisco de Peralta, commander of the Santa Catalina that you and your colleagues have assaulted. The wounded man is my quartermaster, Estevan.'

"What do we do now? The black man needs proper medical attention,' Hector asked, addressing his colleagues.

'We could bring Peralta to his ship, and get him to call on the crew to surrender,' suggested Watling. He spoke enough Spanish to have followed Hector's conversation with their prisoner.

Cautiously they began to paddle their canoe towards the barca longa. One or two men could be seen moving about on deck of the stricken Spanish warship. There was a thin flicker of flame along the lower edge of the mainsail which had been set alight in the explosion. Someone was attempting to put out the fire, throwing water from a bucket. There was no sign of anyone from the boarding party from the piragua which was still on the opposite side of the Spanish vessel and out of sight.

The canoe had covered less than half the distance when there was a second explosion, even more thunderous than the first. This time it came from the stern of the Santa Catalina and was so powerful that it snapped the mainmast and sent it crashing over the side, trailing tattered sails and rigging. A black cloud of smoke rose in the air. Soon afterwards came the sounds of wailing and screams of pain.

Peralta went pale. 'God help my crew. They did not deserve that,' he muttered.

When Hector and the others reached the barca longa, they found carnage everywhere — broad streaks of blood on the deck, broken and shattered gear, scorched planking, the smell of burning. Only about a quarter of the crew seemed still alive, and the survivors were either badly wounded or in a state of shock. Peralta was grim-faced, appalled by the destruction.

Hector and Watling helped the capitan hoist the still unconscious black man aboard and lay him on deck, and Hector knelt beside the injured contremaestre, trying to remember how surgeon Smeeton had treated gunpowder burns.

'Any idea who's the senior Spanish survivor?' someone asked. Hector looked up. It was Sawkins. Miraculously the hot-headed buccaneer captain was still alive though there was a bloody bandage round his head, and his buff coat was smudged with gunpowder. He must have boarded from the piragua.

'This is Captain Francisco Peralta. He's the commander,' Hector answered.

'Ask him about those other ships. We need to know how they are manned and armed,' said Sawkins briskly. He was his usual terrier-like self, eager for action and gazing towards the four vessels which could be seen at anchor in the roadstead off Panama. Hector marvelled at the man's unquenchable energy.

The Spanish captain hesitated for a moment before replying. 'You'll find four hundred well-armed men aboard those ships.'

On the deck beside Peralta the black man stirred and opened his eyes. They were filled with pain. It was clear that he was mortally wounded.

'There's no one over there. Everyone already volunteered for this fight,' Estevan wheezed.

Peralta started to contradict him, but Sawkins cut him short. 'I accept the word of a dying man, captain. You have fought well, and there is no disgrace. What we need now is a hospital ship.'

The contremaestre had spoken the truth. There was not a soul on the anchored vessels when the buccaneers reached them, though someone had attempted to scuttle the largest of them, the galleon La Santissima Trinidad. A fire of rags and wood shavings had been deliberately set in her forecastle and several planks punctured with an axe. But the blaze had not yet taken hold and was quickly extinguished, and a carpenter was able to seal the leak. Then the wounded, both buccaneers and their enemies, were laid out on the galleon's broad deck to receive attention.

'I doubt that our Captain Harris will live. He was shot through both legs while trying to climb up onto Peralta's ship,' said Jacques. He was watching Hector stitch up a deep gash in the shoulder of a buccaneer.

'Does that mean our company has to elect a new captain?' asked his friend. He had watched surgeon Smeeton use sewing quill and thread to close a wound and was imitating his technique.

'As soon as our wounded are sufficiently recovered, there'll have to be a council of the entire expedition to decide what to do next,' answered the Frenchman. 'Already some of the men are demanding to return to Golden Island. Others are saying that we haven't gained sufficient plunder yet, and they would prefer to continue with the expedition.'

'How will you vote?'

Jacques spread out his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'It doesn't make much difference to me. On the whole I'd vote to go back, but it will depend on who is elected as our new commander.'

Hector turned his attention to the next patient. It was Capitan Peralta, whose burned hands and forehead needed treatment.

'I'm sorry that so many of your crew were killed. They fought very bravely,' he said to the Spaniard. Fewer than one in four of Santa Catalina's crew had survived the carnage.

'Never in my life have I seen such accurate musketry nor met such audacity,' answered the captain coolly. 'I thank God that the people of Panama are safe behind their walls.'

'So you don't think that the city will fall?'

'Last year the city councillors sent the royal exchequer an invoice for the cost of building their new city rampart. They asked to be reimbursed. The response they got from Spain was a question: had they built the wall of gold or silver?' The veteran Spanish commander gave a mirthless smile. 'I assure you it was made of great stone blocks, each weighing several tons.'

Hector reached for a pot of ointment and began to spread salve on the man's wounds.

'How is it that you speak such good Spanish?' Peralta enquired.

'My mother was from Galicia.'

'And what brought you here with this pack of thieves? You don't seem to be naturally one of their kind.'

'I was trying to avoid one of these thieves, as you call them, and yet I now find myself under his command,' answered Hector. He did not want to go into details.

'Then I advise you to get away from them as quickly as you can. When you or any of your colleagues fall into the hands of the authorities here — which will surely happen — you will be executed as pirates. There will be no mercy.'

'I have every intention of leaving this expedition. And I hope I will be able to persuade my friends to go with me,' Hector assured him.

'The quality of his friends often defines a man, though friendship sometimes brings sorrow in its wake,' said the Spaniard, and it was clear that Peralta was thinking of his contremaestre. Estevan had died of his burns.

'What do you think will happen to you now?' Hector asked.

The Spaniard tilted back his head so that Hector could smear the ointment on the forehead where the fire had burned away the hairline, leaving white patches on the skin.

'I expect your colleagues will demand a ransom for me,' he said. 'But whether the authorities will pay is another matter. After all, I no longer have a ship to command.'

'There will be other ships.'

Peralta gave the young man a shrewd look. 'If you are trying to extract information from me about the strength of the South Sea Fleet, you will not succeed.'

Hector blushed. 'I had not intended to pry. Perhaps your original vessel will be repaired one day.'

The Spanish captain softened his tone. 'It is clear that you are not experienced in the ways of piracy. Your colleagues will not leave a single vessel afloat that they don't need for themselves.'

Seeing that Hector looked puzzled, Peralta continued. 'They fear retribution for their crimes. As soon as your band of thieves moves on, the authorities will commandeer and arm every available vessel and use them to hunt down your gang of sea bandits.'

As if to confirm the Spaniard's prediction, Captain Coxon was heard shouting orders. He was despatching a party of men to the other anchored vessels. They were to return aboard Peralta's fire-damaged barca longa and complete what the explosions had failed to do.

It was another five days before the wounded were well enough to attend a general council of the expedition. It was held on the deck of La Santissima Trinidad, the men massed in the waist of the galleon, their leaders on the quarterdeck. Coxon, Sawkins, Cook and Sharpe were there. Only Harris was missing as he had died of his wounds. Hector, watching from where he stood with his friends beside the rail, could detect a change in Coxon. Now that his rival Harris was gone, the buccaneer captain appeared even more arrogant and self-confident than at Golden Island, and his harsh voice carried clearly over the assembly.

'We have now been three weeks on this Adventure and I have always counselled caution . . .' he began.

'Caution! Some might call it craven,' someone shouted. Coxon coloured with anger. The flush spread unevenly across his face, leaving darker and lighter patches, and Hector was pleased to see that the effect of the spiked ointment had not yet fully worn off.

'At our outset we agreed to take the gold mines at Santa Maria,' Coxon continued.

'And small prize it brought us,' shouted the heckler, but Coxon ignored him this time.

'We have defeated the enemy in open battle, but our position is exposed and difficult. Our supplies are perilously low. We are in unfamiliar territory, and the enemy will regain their strength and may sever our line of retreat.'

'I dislike the man, but he's right,' muttered Jezreel standing beside Hector. 'We are badly overstretched.'

Coxon was speaking again. 'I therefore think it prudent that we return to our ships waiting for us at Golden Island. Once in the Caribbean we can resume our cruising for purchase.'

'What does Captain Sawkins say?' called out a voice. Sawkins' rampaging courage during the battle off Panama had made him immensely popular.

Sawkins stepped up to the low rail which divided the quarterdeck from the waist of the ship and cleared his throat. As usual he spoke bluntly.

'I propose we continue with the Adventure,' he said firmly. 'The walls of Panama are too strong for us, but there are towns all along the coast which do not yet know we are here in the South Sea. If we act boldly, we can take such places by surprise. We might even find their quays heaped with silver bars ready for shipment.'

His words met with a low rumble of enthusiasm from several in his audience though the majority looked towards Coxon again, waiting for his rejoinder.

'A wise man knows when to retreat, taking his spoils with him,' Coxon declared.

'Half a hat full of pesos!' scoffed Sawkins. He was bright-eyed with enthusiasm. 'We can get twenty times as much if we have the courage to stay in the South Sea. I propose that we sail south and plunder as we go until we reach the land's end. There we round the Cape, and sail home, our pockets full.'

Captain Coxon looked openly scornful. 'Anyone who believes that claim is putting his head into a Spanish noose.'

'Do your people always quarrel so openly?' said someone quietly in Spanish at Hector's elbow. It was Captain Peralta who had edged his way into the assembly and was listening to the argument.

'Can you understand what they are saying?' whispered Hector.

'Only a little. But the anger in their voices is evident.'

Hector was about to ask Dan whether he wanted to return to Golden Island when a loud husky voice rang out. It was the bald quartermaster who had served under Captain Harris. 'There's no point in putting this to a vote,' he shouted, and he marched up the companionway to the quarterdeck where he turned to face the crowd. 'Those who want to go back to Golden Island under Captain Coxon's command, make your way to the starboard rail,' he bawled. 'Those who prefer to stay in the South Sea and serve under Captain Sawkins assemble on the port side.'

There was a low murmuring of discussion among the men, and a general movement as the buccaneers began to separate into two groups. Hector noted that the numbers were broadly equal, though perhaps a small majority had elected to travel back with Coxon. He looked enquiringly at Dan. As usual the Miskito had said little and was standing quietly watching what was going on.

'Dan, I'm for going back to the Caribbean. What do you want to do?' Hector said. He had never mentioned Susanna to Dan, and now he was uneasy that he was not telling his friend the true reason for his decision. To his relief, Dan merely shrugged and said, 'I would like to see more of the South Sea.

Few of my people have ever been there. But I will go along with whatever you, Jacques and Jezreel decide.'

There was another shout from the quartermaster. 'Make up your minds and cut the chatter!'

Glancing round, Hector realised that he and his three friends were almost the last people standing in the middle of the deck, still undecided.

'Come on, Jezreel! Come with us!' shouted someone from starboard side where Coxon's volunteers were clustered. During the hand-to-hand fighting on the deck of Peralta's ship, Jezreel’s great height and his obvious fighting skill had made him a favourite with the buccaneers.

'Best take your winnings when you're still on your feet, and not try another bout with a fresh opponent. You'll likely finish up with a broken face as well as an empty purse. That's something else I learned in the fight game,' muttered Jezreel. He strolled across to join the group.

'Hey Frenchy! You too! We need someone to show us how to roast monkey so it tastes like beef.' called another of Coxon's group. Jacques, too, was popular with the men. Jacques grinned broadly and set off, following Jezreel.

Hector was overcome with relief. Without special pleading his friends had chosen the course of action that he had wanted for them. He touched Dan on the arm. 'Come on, Dan. Let's join them.' Then he too started across the deck.

He had not gone more than a couple of paces when Coxon's voice rang out. 'I am not having that wretch in my company!'

Hector glanced up. Coxon was standing at the quarterdeck rail and pointing directly at him, his face working with anger. 'He's not to be trusted!' the buccaneer captain announced. 'He's a Spanish-lover.'

A murmur ran through the crowd of onlookers. Hector realised that many of them must have seen him in quiet conversation with Peralta. Others would have known that he was responsible for saving the Spaniard from the sea.

'He would betray us if it suits him,' Coxon continued. His tone had dropped to a low snarl now. Hector was open-mouthed, taken completely by surprise and so stunned by the accusation that he did not know how to respond. The captain pressed home his advantage.

'Someone among us warned the Spaniards at Santa Maria of our coming. That is why we found so little plunder there.' His words dropped into the awkward silence as the general buzz and chatter ceased. 'I have often wondered who it was, and how the garrison was alerted. It was easy enough for someone to send a warning by the hand of his friend the striker.'

Belatedly Hector remembered that in the last day before the assault on Santa Maria, he had seen little of Dan. The Miskito had been away on a hunting trip to obtain fresh food.

Coxon was icily certain of himself. 'I will not include a traitor in my company. He stays here.'

Hector had a quick glimpse of the vindictive expression on the buccaneer's face as the man began to make his way to join the group who had chosen him as their leader.

'If he stays here, then I do too,' said Jezreel. He stepped out of the crowd and began to make his way back towards Hector. His great height made his departure very obvious.

There was another movement among the men who had voted to follow Coxon. This time it was Jacques. He too was abandoning the group.

Hector remained where he was, numbed by the turn of events as his two friends came back across the deck. 'Looks like we're staying in the South Sea,' announced Jezreel loud enough for all to hear. 'Captain Sawkins was always a better bet than Coxon.'

They moved across to the port side where Sawkins' company was assembled and as they did so, Hector became conscious of more movement behind him. Glancing back over his shoulder he saw that at least a dozen men who had previously decided to follow Coxon, had now changed their minds. They too were switching sides. One by one they were deserting Coxon's group in full view of the man they had chosen to follow only minutes earlier.

Suddenly a hand gripped Hector by the shoulder, and he was swung round. He found himself staring into Coxon's livid face. It was contorted with rage. 'No man crosses me twice,' he snarled. The buccaneer captain was shaking with anger. His hand dropped towards his waistband, and a moment later Coxon had pulled out a pistol and had rammed the barrel hard into the young man's stomach. Hector felt the muzzle quivering with the force of Coxon's anger. 'This is what I should have done when I first laid eyes on you,' Coxon hissed.

Hector tensed, already feeling the bullet in his guts, when an arm seemed to come from nowhere, sweeping down towards the pistol and knocking it aside just as Coxon pulled the trigger. The pistol ball buried itself in the wooden deck, and at the same moment someone kicked the buccaneer captain's feet from under him so that he fell heavily to the deck. Looking up, Hector saw that it was Jezreel who had deflected the pistol's aim while Jacques had tripped the buccaneer. Both men were looking grim.

No one made any move to help Coxon though Dan collected the empty pistol which had been dropped, and handed it to Coxon once he was back on his feet.

Aware that the entire company was watching him, the captain brushed himself down without saying a word. Then he stepped up close to Hector, and said in a voice so low that no one else could hear but thick with menace, 'You would be well advised to leave your bones here in the South Seas, Lynch. Should you ever return to a place where I can reach you, I will make sure that you pay for what you have done today.'

_ELEVEN

Next morning Captain Coxon and his company were gone. They left before sunrise in one of the captured vessels, eighty men in all. 'Bastards, bastards, utter bastards!' announced one of the surgeons who had decided to stay on. He had just discovered that Coxon's company had taken with them most of the expedition medicines. 'How are we expected to do our job when we lack the remedies. They scamper off, tails between their legs, while we're the ones who can expect to see action.' To show his disgust, he spat over the side of the galleon.

She was now to be their flagship, and at 400 tons made an impressive show with a wealth of gilding to show off her high stern in the typical Spanish style. She lacked cannon, but with luck their victims would not even know that she was in foreign hands until she was within musket range. The men had been debating what to call her. La Santissima Trinidad sounded too much like popery. Yet every sailor knew that it was bad luck to change a vessel's name. So at Hector's suggestion they had decided to keep the name but change the language, calling her Trinity, and even the most superstitious of their company had been content.

'I've still got a few medicines stowed in my knapsack,' Hector told the disgruntled surgeon. Basil Ringrose was originally from Kent, and Hector had taken an instant liking to him. Ringrose had a friendly manner which matched his open, freckled face topped by a mass of chestnut curls.

'We must put together a common stock of all the medicines that remain.' Ringrose said. 'It's fortunate that I always carry my surgical instruments with me in their own roll of oil cloth.'

It was Ringrose who had amputated one of Captain Harris's legs, trying unsuccessfully to save his life. But the stump had begun to rot, and with gangrene had come death.

'I'm only a surgeon's assistant,' Hector confessed. 'I came to help Surgeon Smeeton of Captain Harris's company, and he's turned back. But I have been keeping notes of how to prepare various medicines using local ingredients.'

'I saw you writing things down and thought that you were helping Dampier over there,' explained Ringrose. He nodded towards a saturnine, lantern-jawed man who was leaning perilously far out over the side of the anchored galleon and staring down into the sea. The man was dropping small chips of wood into the water and watching them float away. Propped against the bulwark was a bamboo tube similar to the one that Hector carried.

'What's he doing?' Hector asked.

'I have no idea. You had better go and ask him for yourself. Dampier seems to take an interest in nearly everything that we come across.'

Hector approached the stranger, who was now writing down something on a scrap of paper.

The man looked up from his quill. Brown melancholy eyes framed a narrow nose above a long upper lip. He looked too scholarly to be a sea thief.

'Tides,' said the man pensively, even before Hector could pose his question. 'I'm trying to work out the source of the tides. You may have noticed that here in the South Sea the tides run much stronger than those we left behind in the Caribbean.'

'I had remarked on that,' said Hector. Dampier shot him a quizzical glance from the sad-looking eyes.

'Then how do you explain it? Surely if the ocean is all one body of water, the tides should be similar everywhere. Some people claim that the fierce tides in the South Sea are made by water rushing through tunnels under the land, flooding here from the Caribbean. But I do not believe it.'

'Then what do you think is the reason?'

Dampier bent his head to blow gently on the wet ink. 'That I have not yet understood. But I believe it is to do with the wind patterns, the shape of the ocean floor, and phases of the moon of course. What is important at this time is to make observations. Interpretation can come later.'

'I was told that you make observations of everything.'

Dampier had a habit of rubbing his finger along his long upper lip. 'Nearly everything. I'm interested in fish and fowl, people and plants, the weather and the seasons. It is my chief reason for travelling.'

'Surgeon Smeeton, for whom I was an assistant, was of a like mind. Though he was mainly interested in the medical practices of native peoples.'

'Surgeon Smeeton, I hear that he has left the expedition. A pity. I knew him in Jamaica.'

Hector felt a quick surge of interest at the mention of Jamaica. 'Do you know Jamaica well?' he asked.

'I was there for a few months, training to be an overseer on a sugar plantation,' Dampier replied. 'But I disagreed with my employer, and the opportunity to go on the account - as these buccaneers call their adventuring — was too tempting. It was a chance to see new places.'

'When you were in Jamaica did you hear anything of the Lynch family?'

'Difficult not to. He was the governor, and his family possess as much, if not more acreage, than any other landowners on the island.'

'What about the son, Robert Lynch, and his sister Susanna? Did you meet them by any chance?'

'Far too grand for me,' said Dampier shaking his head. 'Though I did encounter young Robert briefly. He wanted information about the best conditions for planting indigo. I told him that he was better to consult an established indigo grower.'

'What about his sister Susanna?'

'I never met her in person though I saw her at a distance. A very pretty creature. Destined for a grand marriage, I would say. One day her parents will be taking her to London to find a suitable match.'

Hector felt a stab of disappointment. It was exactly what the surveyor Snead had said. 'So you don't think she would stay on in Jamaica?'

'There's nothing for her there. Why all the questions? Do you know her?'

'I met her just once,' Hector confessed.

Dampier treated him to a shrewd look. 'Sweet on her, are you? Well, that's as strange and curious as anything I've observed in the South Sea, a humble adventurer pining after a grandee's daughter.' He gave a lugubrious sniff, and began to roll up the piece of paper ready to slide it into the bamboo tube with his other notes. Then a thought must have occurred to him, for he looked up and said, 'If Surgeon Smeeton no longer requires your services, perhaps you would lend me a hand in making my observations.'

'I would be pleased to,' Hector assured him, 'though my chief duty must still be to assist the surgeons.'

'Yes, you were talking with Ringrose. You'll discover that he's got clever hands and is as much interested in navigation as he is in medicine. Enjoys making instruments to read the angle of the sun and devising sighting tables, that sort of thing.'

'I had noticed that all morning he's been making a sketch map of the bay and its islands.'

'A very sensible precaution. We have no charts of this area.

We are utterly ignorant of the ports and anchorages, currents, reefs and islands. Such details are known only to the Spaniards. In case we come back here, Ringrose is making notes so that we know just where to anchor, find water and shelter.'

'I worked for a Turkish sea captain once, assisting him with sea charts. But apart from a single ocean crossing, I lack practical experience of navigation.'

'Stick close to Ringrose and you'll learn a lot, though I expect it will be mostly coastal pilotage rather than deep-sea navigation,' Dampier assured him.

So it turned out. For the next two months Trinity stayed near the coast, a hungry predator looking for scraps of plunder. News of her presence had yet to spread to the Spanish settlements and in the first ten days she loitered off Panama she snapped up several unwary prizes, which sailed straight into her jaws and gave up without a fight. One was an advice ship loaded with pay for the Panama garrison, fifty-one thousand pieces of eight, and - equally welcome - fifty great earthen jars of gunpowder which replenished stocks that had run low. Other hapless victims provided rations - flour, beans, cages of live chickens, sacks of chocolate beans which the buccaneers ground to powder and drank mixed with hot water. The captured vessels were small barks and of little value. Anything useful by way of rigging or sails was taken off, then the boarding party smashed holes in their planking and sank them on the spot.

But the weather was against them. Not a day passed without frequent downpours of heavy rain which soaked the men and their clothing. The sails grew great patches of stinking mildew in the muggy tropical heat, and a miasma of damp hung over the sodden vessel. The run-off dripped through cracks in the deck spoiling everything below. Guns and equipment rusted overnight. Bread and biscuits in the cook's stores went mouldy. In search of fresh supplies of food, Sawkins the fire-eater led a raid ashore. The local inhabitants hastily threw up breastworks at the entrance to their little town, and Sawkins was tugging at one of the wooden posts trying to uproot it when he was killed outright by a Spanish shot. His death only added to the general sense of disappointment that Trinity was wasting too much time. When the wind failed she was gripped by unknown currents which one day brought her close to the shore, and the next night pushed her almost out of sight of land. In June the rainfall eased, but the sky remained overcast and sullen, leaving the men frustrated and discontent. They grumbled and bickered, knowing they needed to progress east and south along the coast before the alarm was raised. Instead the wind, when it did blow, was fitful, and almost always from ahead. Trinity was obliged to tack back and forth. The crew found themselves staring at the same landmarks - a headland, a small island, a rock with a particular profile — from dawn until dusk, and then again at the next sunrise. They did not need a chart to tell them that they were almost standing still.

'What else did your people expect? Did they know nothing of our equatorial weather?' commented Capitan Peralta to Hector. The Spaniard was one of the growing number of prisoners, and the two of them were in the habit of meeting in the bows of the ship where they could not be overheard.

'Are the rains finally over?' Hector asked.

Peralta shrugged. 'There can be heavy downpours at this time of year, even into August. I wonder if your comrades will still want to follow their captain by then?'

Peralta gave Hector a sideways look. The buccaneer council had elected Bartholomew Sharpe as their new general, the grand title they now gave to their overall commander.

Hector hesitated before replying, and Peralta was quick to pick up on the delay. 'There's something a little devious about him, isn't there? Something not quite right.'

Hector felt it would be disloyal to agree, so said nothing. But Peralta had a point. There was an unsettling quality about

Sharpe. It was something that Hector had noted at Golden Island. Even then he had thought that Sharpe was a natural mischief maker. Behind the amiable smile on the fleshy, pouting lips was an evasiveness which made one reluctant to trust him entirely. Now that Sharpe had been made general, Hector was even more apprehensive. He sensed the man was self-serving and devious.

'Don't be surprised if some of your colleagues decide to break away on their own when conditions get more difficult,' Peralta continued. 'Your shipmates are easily swayed and can be pitiless.'

To change the subject Hector showed the Spaniard a new backstaff that Ringrose had fashioned.

Peralta watched him slide the vanes of the backstaff along its wooden shaft.

'It seems a more complicated instrument than usual, more movable parts,' observed the Spaniard.

'Ringrose assures me that it will allow us to calculate our latitude position even where the sun is so high in the sky at noon that a normal backstaff is inaccurate. See here . . .' Hector handed Peralta the instrument so he could inspect the extra vanes. 'They allow readings even when the sun is at ninety degrees overhead.'

'Fortunately I don't depend on such a device for finding my position. I know the coast from here to Lima and beyond,' the Spaniard answered dryly. 'And if I am in doubt I turn to the pages in my derotero, my pilot book, and then I know where I am.' He allowed himself a sardonic smile. 'That's your new commander's real dilemma. He doesn't know where he is or what he's up against, and sooner or later his men will realise it too. They are a wolf pack, ready to show their fangs, and their leader may turn out to be equally ruthless.'

Hector recalled Peralta's warning in the third week of August when Trinity overhauled another small coaster. Unusually, her crew put up a fight. They draped waistcloths along the bulwarks in order to conceal their numbers, and men fired old-fashioned arquebuses at the approaching galleon. The battle lasted only half an hour and the outcome was never in doubt. Trinity was by far the larger vessel and mustered three or four times as many marksmen. Yet two buccaneers were badly wounded by enemy bullets before the bark dropped her topsail in a sign of surrender and her survivors cried for quarter.

'Search and sink her, and be quick about it!' Sharpe shouted angrily as he watched the canoe which served as Trinity's cockboat being lowered into the water. He was in an evil humour. The enemy's fire had cut up Trinity's newly overhauled rigging which would have to be spliced and mended, resulting in further delay, and it was three weeks since they had last taken any plunder.

The canoe made a dozen trips between the two vessels to ferry back the captive crew, who would now be held for ransom or obliged to work as forced labour aboard the galleon. On the final trip the buccaneers were crowing with delight and holding up leather bags and glass bottles. The bark was carrying five thousand pieces of eight as well as a generous stock of wine and spirits. Trinity's quartermaster, Samuel Gifford, lost no time in distributing the loot at the foot of the mainmast, and each man came away carrying his share of the coins in his hat. Every fourth man, drawn by lot, also received a bottle.

'Here you!' said Sharpe beckoning to Hector. 'Find out from the prisoners why they resisted when they had no chance against us.

"Who is your captain?' Hector asked. Only a handful of the captives wore the clothes of working sailors. He guessed they were the bark's sailing crew. The majority — some thirty men — were too well dressed to be mariners and looked more like minor gentry. There was a priest among them, an elderly red-faced friar who was clutching his gown close around him as though he feared some sort of profane contagion.

A small man in a brown doublet and a stained but costly shirt stepped out of the group.

'My name is Tomas de Argandona. I am the mestre de campo from the town of Guayagil over there.' He gestured vaguely towards the horizon.

'I need a list of everyone's names and where they come from,' explained Hector.

'I assure you that will not be necessary,' said the little man, a touch pompously. 'We are aware that you pirates are accustomed to asking ransom for your prisoners, and we have agreed among ourselves not to participate in that sordid practice.'

'What's he talking about?' demanded Sharpe. There was a nasty edge to his voice.

Argandona was speaking again. 'We were looking for you.'

'Looking for us . . . ?' said Hector, startled.

'The entire coast is aware that you are sailing in these waters aboard the Santissima Trinidad which you have stolen. My colleagues and I offered our services to His Excellency the Viceroy of Peru. We intended to seek you out, and then inform his Excellency exactly where you might be found so that he could direct the armadilla to seek and destroy you.'

'But surely you must have known that your vessel was no match for us.'

'We never expected to confront you,' answered Argandona condescendingly. 'Only to observe and report. But once we were challenged, we as gentlemen, ' - and he emphasised the word gentlemen - 'could not decline the battle. Our honour was involved.'

Hector translated this defiant reply to Captain Sharpe who gave a dangerously mirthless laugh. 'Ask the coxcomb if his honour will allow him to tell us exactly what the Viceroy and his armadilla are proposing.'

To Hector's increasing amazement, the mestre de campo's response was utterly frank. 'His Excellency the Viceroy disposes three great warships in the Armada del Sur but, sadly, all of them are unfit for sea at this time. So he has ordered an equal number of merchant ships to be armed with their brass cannon and placed seven hundred and fifty soldiers aboard them. He has also sent extra guns to defend the ports. In our town of Guayagil we have mustered more than eight hundred soldiers to defend our property and constructed two new forts to guard the harbour.'

'He's trying to scare us off,' grated Sharpe when Hector relayed the information to him. 'I don't think so,' said Hector quietly. 'I think he is being truthful. It's a matter of his honour.'

'We'll see about that,' said Sharpe. Looking round, he saw Jezreel standing nearby. Taking a pistol from his sash, Sharpe handed it to the giant. 'Point this at the belly of that sneering priest over there, and make it look threatening,' he ordered. In a lower voice he added, 'It's charged with powder but not ball. I want to scare the pompous little shit.'

Turning back to Hector the buccaneer captain said, 'Now inform the puffed-up runt that I don't believe him, and I'm calling his bluff. If he doesn't change his story I'll send his priest to the hell he deserves.'

The Spaniard was quivering with a combination of fright and indignation. 'Your captain is a savage. I have already told him the truth.'

'Pull the trigger,' snarled Sharpe.

A moment later there was a loud explosion and, to Hector's horror, the friar was thrown backward and fell to the deck. A great stain of blood spread across his gown. Jezreel, standing with the smoking pistol in his hand, looked down at the weapon in disbelief. He was too shocked to speak.

'A genuine mistake’ said Sharpe smoothly. Stepping forward quickly he took back the pistol. 'I thought the weapon was charged but not fully loaded.'

Hector had gone forward to where the priest lay. A dark red rivulet, glinting in the sun, was trickling from under the body and seeping its way to the scuppers. He knelt down and placed his hand on the man's chest. Through the thick brown cloth he could detect a faint heart beat. 'He's still alive!' he called out, looking around frantically for a surgeon. A moment later Ringrose was at his side, his ringers gently probing for the entry wound. 'Gut shot,' he muttered under his breath. 'He'll not live.'

'Get out of my way!' ordered a hoarse voice. Hector was aware of a shadow falling over him. He looked up. It was a crew man by the name of Duill who had always seemed to him to be particularly uncouth and brutish. He had enormously wide shoulders, a short body and a neck that seemed too long to support a small round head. It was as if he had been put together from the body parts of strangers. 'Bugger off¹.' growled Duill. His speech was slightly slurred, and Hector smelled the reek of brandy on his breath. 'This is what we do to Papists.' He leaned down and, pushing Hector aside, took the priest by the shoulders and began to drag the dying man towards the ship's rail.

'Here, give me a hand,' he called out. A second crew man, obviously one of Duill's cronies, ran forward. He stumbled momentarily, and gave a whooping laugh. The two drunks took the priest by the shoulders and feet and began to swing him back and forth between them like a heavy sack. 'One, two and away,' they chanted, and with a drunken cheer heaved the body over the rail and into the sea. Then they toppled against one another and broke into boozy laughter.

'Savages!' murmured Ringrose. He had risen to his feet and had gone pale.

'The priest was still alive,' groaned Hector. He felt that he was going to vomit.

Ringrose gripped his arm. 'Steady, Lynch. Remember where we are. Look at the men.'

The crew of the Trinity were staring at the patch of blood on the deck. Many of them were silent and thoughtful. But at least a score of them were grinning broadly. Suddenly Hector remembered Peralta's warning. They were like a wolf pack gloating over a kill. They had enjoyed the spectacle.

'Of course he knew his pistol was loaded,' said Jacques. It was just after sunset on the evening of the murder, and the four friends were gathered by the lee rail to discuss the atrocity. 'In the toughest Paris gangs the leader would select one of his men at random and order him to slit a throat or break an innocent head. If the man refused or delayed, then he was likely to suffer that same fate himself. That was the gang leader's way to gain respect and impose his authority.' 'But I was tricked,' said Jezreel.

'Sharpe's more cunning. He has shown the crew that he's ruthless, and at the same time made sure that he does not have blood on his own hands.'

'So why did he pick on me?' added Jezreel. His face set hard. 'Why was I the one selected to do the job?'

'Because he wants to bind us to him,' said Dan quietly. The others looked at the Miskito in surprise. It was rare for him to make any comment. Immediately, he had their complete attention. 'Remember when Coxon refused to include Hector in his group returning to Golden Island? We stuck together, Coxon was made to look a fool, and several of the other men came over to our side. Sharpe doesn't want that happening to him when he is in charge.'

Hector was beginning to understand the point that Dan was making. 'So you think Sharpe was making sure we stay on Trinity?

Dan nodded. 'Several men have already approached me to ask if I was satisfied with Sharpe as general. They are plotting to depose him by vote. If that fails, they are planning to leave the expedition.'

'You mean that if we went with them back to the Caribbean, word of the priest's death is sure to get out and Jezreel could finish up on the gallows in Port Royal.'

'Sharpe knows that we stay together as a group, and he needs us,' Dan said, and his unhurried manner of speaking gave his words all the more weight. 'Consider who we are. When it comes to hand-to-hand fighting, no one aboard this vessel is more skilled than Jezreel. The men look up to him. They like him to be on their side when we send out a boarding party. Hector is the best interpreter. Plenty of others can speak some Spanish, but Hector has a knack of getting along well with the Spaniards, men like Peralta. They confide in him.'

'What about Jacques, surely there's nothing special about him?' said Jezreel showing a glimmer of his usual banter.

Dan gave a faint smile. 'Surely you know that on a ship a good cook is more valuable than a good captain.' The smile vanished, to be replaced by a solemn expression. 'As for myself, there are only two Miskito strikers left with the expedition. Without us the company would be even hungrier than they are now. And starving men are discontents.'

That was true enough, thought Hector. Finding enough food to satisfy Trinity's large crew was a constant problem.

'Capitan Peralta said to me as far back as Panama that the expedition would disintegrate,' he said.

'This is worse than when I killed a man in a prize fight,' said Jezreel glumly, looking down at his hands. 'At least that was in a fit of rage. This time I have been made a dupe.'

'The situation is not hopeless,' Hector comforted him. 'Given enough time, the death of the priest will be forgotten or