Buccaneer

perhaps Sharpe's double-dealing will be exposed. But for the moment our general holds the advantage. However unwilling we may be, he has bound us to him, just as Dan says, and we must wait until matters right themselves.'

_TWELVE

Hector watched Bartholomew Sharpe throw himself a double four. Passage was a brutally simple game of dice but well suited to the gamblers aboard Trinity. They wanted to wager their loot with the least effort and the quickest results. The rules were straightforward: three dice and two players. The first player to get a double using only two of the dice, then threw the third. If the total on all three dice was more than ten, that man won. Ten or under and he lost.

The captain threw again, a five, and reached out to sweep up the coins wagered by his opponent. As he transferred his winnings into a purse, he became aware of Hector standing behind him. 'What do you want?' Sharpe asked brusquely, turning to glare at the young man. Hector detected a moment of unease in his captain's eyes and the briefest flicker of dislike. It was enough to make him wonder if his new captain might become just as much a threat as Captain Coxon, as dangerous but more subtle.

'A word in private, please.'

Sharpe treated his gambling victim to a shrug of false sympathy. 'That's enough for today. I've won back all the money I lent you, and you'll need more plunder before we play again.'

He deliberately left his dice on the capstan head. It was not something he would have risked with more sophisticated gamblers in London or professional players though the three dice were masterpieces of the counterfeiter's art. Two were paired delicately so they tended to come up with doubles. The other, of course, was adjusted so it gave a high number. It was that last dice which had a very slight discolouration of one of the pips, just enough for Captain Sharpe to recognise. Naturally he always took care that he lost several throws before he began to use the three dice in the correct sequence, and now after two months of gambling he judged that he personally held fully ten per cent of all the plunder taken on the cruise.

'Well, what is it?' he asked gruffly as he and Hector moved out of earshot of the gamblers.

'There's a risk of a prisoner uprising,' Hector told him.

'Why so?'

'Because we don't have enough men to supervise the prisoners properly.'

The captain looked hard at Hector. 'Anything else?'

'Yes. It's not just the numbers of prisoners. We've been keeping back those who are wealthy or were officers on the ships we captured.'

'Of course. They were the only ones worth holding.'

'They are the ones most likely to organise an uprising.'

Sharpe made no reply, but looked out across the sea. The sinking sun had coloured the underbellies of the clouds a deep and angry red. It was as though a great fire had been lit beyond the horizon. It reminded Bartholomew Sharpe of the unsatisfactory outcome to the raid on the mainland a fortnight earlier. The Spaniards had already retreated into the hills, taking their valuables with them. He had threatened to burn down their houses and farms unless protection money was paid, but the Spaniards were astute. They dragged out the negotiations until they had gathered enough soldiers to chase the buccaneers back to the beach. In their frustration the raiders torched the farms anyhow.

A few days later forty members of his crew, dissatisfied with the poor progress of the venture, had left Trinity. They had sailed away on a captured bark, heading north on the return journey to the Caribbean. Barely a hundred members of the original expedition remained, and that was not enough to deter a revolt among the prisoners.

'What do you propose we do?' he asked Hector.

'Set the prisoners free.'

Sharpe gave Hector a calculating glance. Here was an opportunity to gain the young man's trust. The captain was aware that he and his friends were suspicious and resentful of him. But the trick with the loaded pistol had been a necessity. It had impressed the crew and cowed the Spaniards.

'Are you suggesting this because you are friendly with Captain Peralta?'

'No. I think it would be a prudent action.'

Sharpe thought for a moment. 'Very well. Next time we come to land, you will see that I can be generous, even with my enemies.' In fact he had already decided several days earlier to rid himself of the captives. No one seemed willing to pay a ransom for them, and they had become so many useless mouths to feed.

'Rocks! Rocks! Dead Ahead!' the lookout suddenly bellowed. Sharpe looked up in surprise. The note of alarm in the man's voice indicated that he had been dozing at his post and suddenly seen the danger. 'Reefs! Breaking water! No more than a quarter mile away.'

'Ringrose!' Sharpe shouted. 'What do you make of it?'

'Impossible! We're thirty miles off the coast,' exclaimed Ringrose who had taken a sun sight earlier in the day. He jumped up on the rail and shaded his eyes as he peered forward. 'I wish to God we had a decent chart. This groping about in the unknown is madness. One night we'll run ourselves full tilt onto a reef in the dark and never know what happened.'

'Rocks to starboard as well!' The lookout's voice was shrill with panic. This time his shout caused a surge of activity aboard Trinity. There was the noise of running feet as men appeared on the deck and rushed into the bows and gazed forward trying to identify the danger. 'Bear away to port,' Sharpe called out to the helmsman, 'and reduce sail.' The order was unnecessary. Men were already easing out the main sheets and bracing round the yards. Others were standing by the reefing tackles.

'White water to port!' roared a sailor. He was pointing, open-mouthed with alarm. There was a foaming patch on the surface of the sea no more than a hundred paces beside Trinity. The galleon had sailed herself into a trap. There were reefs on each side and ahead, and little room to manoeuvre. 'Bring her head to wind!' snapped Sharpe to the steersman.

'Lucky she's so nimble,' said Ringrose beside Hector as Trinity s bow turned into the wind, the sails came aback against the mast in an untidy tangle of ropes and sails, and the galleon came to a halt, gathered sternway and began to fall off on the opposite tack.

'Merde! Look there behind us! We sailed right over those rocks and never saw them.' Jacques had arrived on the quarterdeck and was gazing back towards the expanse of sea which the galleon had just negotiated. That too was boiling up in a white froth.

Beside him, Dan began to chuckle. Jacques looked at him in astonishment. 'What's so funny? We're boxed in by rocks!'

Dan shook his head. He was smiling. 'Not rocks . . . fish!'

Jacques scowled at him and then turned back to stare again at the sea. One of the foaming reefs had disappeared, abruptly sunk beneath the waves. But another had taken its place, fifty paces from the spot. There too the water was boiling upward.

'What do you mean . . . fish?'

Dan held up his hand, finger and thumb no more than three inches apart. 'Fish, small fish. More than you can count.'

Hector was concentrating on a nearby white patch. It was definitely on the move and coming closer to the ship. A moment later he saw that it was formed of myriads of tiny fish, millions upon millions of them, weaving and flashing and churning in a dense mass which occasionally broke the surface of the sea in a white spuming flurry. 'Anchovies!' cried Jacques.

There was relieved laughter from all around Trinity as the crew realised their error. 'Resume course!' ordered Sharpe. He, as much as anyone else, had been misled, but he had noted how the crew had taken matters into their hands in the imagined crisis. They had not consulted him, nor waited for orders. It was time that he found something to distract them.

He sent for the gentleman prisoner, Tomas de Argandona. The Spaniard was much less self-assured now that he had witnessed the shooting of the priest, and Sharpe was waiting in his cabin with a pistol lying on his desk. One glance and Argandona told Sharpe what he wanted to know: the nearest town on the mainland was La Serena and wealthy enough to have five churches and two convents. It lay two miles inland and had neither a garrison nor a defensive wall. A watchtower overlooked the closest anchorage but there was an unguarded landing beach some distance away. Small boats could put men ashore there and it was no more than a three-hour march to reach the town.

The general council held on the open deck the following morning went just as smoothly. The men voted overwhelmingly in favour of a raid.

'I propose John Watling to lead the attack,' Sharpe announced after Gifford, the quartermaster, had counted the show of hands. 'He lands with fifty men and takes the town by surprise. I then bring Trinity into the main anchorage and we ferry the plunder aboard.'

Looking on, Hector knew that Sharpe was being as wily as ever. Hector had seen little of Watling since the day they had been in the same canoe during the attack on Panama, but he knew Watling was popular with the men. He had sailed with

Morgan and they would follow him without question. He was one of those rigid, grim, old-fashioned Puritans who detested Catholics and observed the Sabbath scrupulously. Also, as Hector had noted, Sharpe had never been able to cheat Watling at dice, because he never gambled.

'Looks as though we were expected,' Dan said under his breath. He, Jezreel and Hector had come ashore with Watling's raiders as soon as there was enough daylight to approach the landing beach safely. Now they were trudging along the dusty coastal track that would lead them to La Serena. Jacques had been left behind with a dozen men to guard the boats.

Hector followed the Miskito's glance. From a spur of high ground overlooking the track a horseman was watching them. He made no attempt to conceal himself.

'There goes our chance of surprise,' Jezreel commented.

Hector scanned the countryside. The day was promising to be overcast and very humid, and the raiders were advancing across rolling scrubland. Occasionally the path dipped into small gullies washed out by rainstorms. It was ideal terrain for an ambush, and there was a faint whiff of smoke in the air. He wondered if the Spaniards who farmed the area were burning their crops to prevent them falling into the hands of the raiders.

Suddenly there were shouts from the head of the column, and someone came running back, urging everyone to close up and look to their weapons. Hector brought his musket off his shoulder, checked that it was loaded and primed and that the ball had not been dislodged from the barrel, then placed the hammer at half-cock. Holding the gun in both hands he walked cautiously forward, Hector and Dan at his side.

The track had been no more than the width of a cart but now it broadened out as it entered a clearing in the scrub. The bushes had been cut back for a distance of some fifty paces, and at the edge of the clearing were several clumps of low trees.

'Lancers over there, hiding in the woods!' warned someone. 'How many?' called a buccaneer.

'Don't know. At least a couple of dozen. Form up in a square and look lively.'

At that moment came the sound of muskets, no more than a dozen shots. There were puffs of smoke from the bushes farthest from the column and Hector heard bullets flying overhead. But the shots went wide and no one was hurt. He dropped on one knee and aimed his gun towards a bush where he could see the haze of musket smoke still hanging above the leaves. He could not make out the man who had fired, and waited for him to show himself. Away to his right he heard several shots as the buccaneers saw their targets.

Hector's arm was beginning to ache as he tried to keep his gun trained on the suspect bush. The muzzle was wavering, but he was reluctant to waste a shot. It would take a long time to reload, and in that interval the cavalry might show themselves.

Seconds later, the Spanish cavalry burst from the thickets. They crashed out in a wild charge and rode straight for the formation of buccaneers. There must have been about sixty or seventy of the riders mounted on small, light-boned horses. A few riders held pistols which they discharged as they came careering forward, and Hector glimpsed one man brandishing a blunderbuss. But the majority were armed only with twelve-foot lances. Whooping and cheering they galloped forward in a confused mass, hoping to skewer their enemy. Hector swung the muzzle of his gun to aim into the charging body of riders. None of the Spaniards wore uniform or armour. These were not professional troopers, but farmers and cattlemen seeking to protect their property.

He selected his target — a stout, red-faced cavalier astride a dun horse with a white blaze — and pulled the trigger. In the confusion and through the gun smoke he could not see whether his shot went home.

He rose to his feet, placed the butt of his musket on the ground, and plucked a new powder charge from the cartouche box on his belt. Beside him Jezreel was doing the same. Vaguely Hector sensed that the Spaniards' attack had come to nothing. A scatter of horsemen was galloping back towards the shelter of the woods. One or two bodies had been left lying on the ground, and a riderless horse came tearing past, reins hanging loose, the bucket-shaped saddle empty. Hector charged and primed his gun, selected a musket ball from the bag hanging from his waist and dropped it down the barrel. He was about to tamp the bullet home with his ramrod when, beside him, Jezreel said, 'No time for that!' Hector watched his companion lift his musket a few inches off the ground and slam the butt down sharply so the bullet came up hard against the wadding. 'Saves a few seconds,' grinned Jezreel, as he dropped back on one knee and brought the weapon to his shoulder. 'Now let them come at us again.'

But the skirmish was over. The Spaniards had withdrawn. They had lost four men, while not one of Watling's group had been wounded. 'Honour satisfied, I think,' said Jezreel. 'I feel sorry for them. One of their lancers was carrying nothing more than a sharpened cattle prod.'

The column moved forward, more cautiously now, and two miles farther on arrived at the outskirts of La Serena. It was the first Spanish colonial town that Hector had ever entered, and he was struck by the mathematical precision of the place. Compared to the haphazard jumble of Port Royal with its narrow lanes and dogleg streets, La Serena was a model of careful planning. Broad straight avenues were laid out in an exact grid, every intersection was a precise right angle, each house stood at the same distance from its neighbour, and their frontages matched as if in mirrors. Even the town fountain was located at the geometrical centre of the market square. The two-storey houses were of pale yellow sandstone and most of them had carved wooden balconies, studded double doors and heavy shutters. Occasionally there was a glimpse of a garden or small orchard behind a boundary wall, or the ornate bell tower of a church rising above the red-tiled roofs. Everything was solid, neat and substantial. But what made La Serena seem to be an architect's concept rather than a living township was that the town was empty. There was not a single living creature in its streets.

At first Watling's force hesitated at each crossroads, making sure that a street was safe before they ventured across it, and they kept a watch on the balconies and roofs expecting the sudden appearance of an enemy. But there was no movement, no response, no sound. La Serena was totally abandoned by its people, and gradually the buccaneers became more confident. They divided into small groups and dispersed throughout the town, looking for valuables to carry away.

'Why didn't they lock up behind them when they left?' asked Hector wonderingly as he pushed open the heavy front door of the third house he and Jezreel had decided to investigate.

'Probably thought we would do less damage if we could just walk in,' guessed his friend. He had a trickle of juice running down his chin from a half-eaten peach he had plucked in the garden of the house next door.

'They must have had plenty of warning,' said Hector. 'They've removed everything that could be carried away easily.'

It was the same in every house they entered: a central hallway off which were large, high-ceilinged rooms with thick, whitewashed walls and deeply recessed windows. The floors were invariably of tile, and the furniture dark and heavy, too cumbersome to be moved easily. Halfway down this hallway stood a massive cupboard made from some dark tropical wood. Hector swung open the double doors. As he had expected, the shelves were bare. He wandered into the kitchen at the back of the house. He found a large stove against one wall, a place to wash the dishes, a huge earthenware jar used for keeping water cool, more empty cupboards, a tub for laundry. But there were no pots and pans, no dishes. The place had been stripped bare.

They crossed the entry hall and tried a door on the other side. This time it was locked. 'At last, somewhere we are not meant to be,' said Jezreel. Putting his shoulder to a panel, he barged it open, and went inside with Hector at his heels.

'Now we know what the owners looked like,' commented the big man.

They were standing in a large reception room which the owners of the house had failed to strip entirely. They had left behind a large table, several heavily carved chairs with uncomfortable velvet seats, a massive dresser that must have been fully nine feet wide, and a row of family portraits hanging along one wall. Hector presumed that the paintings in their ornate gilded frames were too big to be carried away.

He walked along the line of pictures. Dignitaries, dressed in old-fashioned doublets and hose, stood or sat gazing solemnly out at him, their serious expressions set off by wide lace collars. The men were uniformly sombre in their dress, and all wore narrow pointed beards except one man who was clean-shaven and had a priest's cape and skull cap. The women were posed even more stiffly and looked self-conscious. They held themselves carefully so as not to disturb the folds of their formal gowns whose fabrics were very costly, silks, brocade and lace. All the women wore jewellery, and Hector wondered how many of the pearl necklaces, diamond pendants and gemstone bracelets were now safely in the hills or buried in secret hiding places.

He reached the end of the row of pictures and came to a dead stop. He was gazing into the grey eyes of a young woman. Only her face and shoulders were shown in the portrait, and she was regarding him with a slightly mischievous expression, her lips parted in the hint of a smile. Compared to the other portraits the young woman's complexion was pale. Her chestnut hair had been carefully arranged in ringlets to show off the delicate sweep of her neck and the creamy skin, and she wore a simple gold locket on blue silk ribbon. Her bare shoulders were covered with a light soft scarf.

Hector felt a rush of dizziness. For an instant he thought he was seeing a portrait of Susanna Lynch. Then the moment passed. It was ridiculous to think of finding Susanna's picture in the home of a prosperous Spaniard living in Peru.

For several minutes he just stood without moving, trying to puzzle out why he had mistaken the portrait. Perhaps it was the smile which had reminded him of Susanna. He looked more closely. Or maybe it was the locket that the young woman in the picture was wearing. He was almost sure that Susanna had a locket just like it. He searched the details of the picture, lingering over them as he sought to identify the likeness between this young woman and Susanna. The more he tried, the less certain he became. He believed he could recall exactly how Susanna walked, the way she held her body, the whiteness of her arms, the slope of her shoulders. But when he tried to visualise the precise details of her face, the picture in front of him kept intruding. He became muddled and anxious. The beauty of the girl in the picture began to overlap and merge with his memory of Susanna. He felt uncomfortable, as if he was somehow betraying her.

His reverie was interrupted by a shout from outside. Someone in the street was calling his name. He was wanted in the plaza mayor.

Leaving Jezreel to continue searching, he found Watling and several buccaneers on the steps of the town hall. To judge by the small pile of silver plate and a few candlesticks on the ground before him, the ransack of La Serena was going very badly. Watling was glowering at a trio of Spaniards.

'They rode into town under a white flag,' Watling said. 'Find out who they are and what they want.'

Quickly Hector established that the Spaniards were an embassy from the citizens and wished to discuss terms.

'Tell them that we want a hundred thousand pesos in coin, or we burn the town to the ground,' growled Watling. He was wearing a greasy and threadbare military coat that must have done service in Cromwell's time.

The leader of the Spanish delegation flinched at the mention of so much money. The man was in his late fifties and had a long, narrow face with bushy eyebrows over deep-set brown eyes. Hector wondered if he was related to the family in the portraits, and the young girl.

'It is a huge sum. More than we can afford,' the man said, exchanging glances with his companions.

'A hundred thousand pesos,' repeated Watling brutally.

The Spaniard spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. 'It will take days to raise so much money.'

'You have until tomorrow noon. The money is to be delivered here by midday. Until then my men will stay in possession of your town,' retorted Watling.

'Very well,' answered the Spaniard. 'My companions and I will do what we can.' The delegation remounted and slowly rode their horses away.

Watching them leave, one of the buccaneers beside Watling asked, 'Do you think they will keep their word?'

'I doubt it,' answered Watling bluntly, 'but we need time to search the town thoroughly. I want those churches ransacked down to the gilded statue and side altar, and don't forget to pull up the paving stones. It's under them that the priests usually bury their treasures. Tonight we post double sentries in case the Spaniards try to retake the town in the dark.'

Forty-eight hours later Hector was wondering if he and Dan would be accused of cowardice or desertion. They had slipped quietly out of La Serena without informing Watling and made their way back to the landing beach. There, with Jacques's help, they had persuaded the boat guards to let them use a small canoe to get back aboard Trinity. As had been planned, their ship was now moored a few miles down the coast in La Serena's anchorage and waiting to pick up the raiders and their booty.

'Where's Watling?' Sharpe called out to them as the canoe came alongside.

'Still in La Serena,' Hector answered.

'What about plunder?' enquired the captain. He had seen that the canoe was empty.

'Not much, at least by the time we left,' said Hector as he and Dan clambered up the swell of the galleon's tumblehome and onto her main deck.

'But surely Watling and his men took the town?'

'Yes, and with little resistance. The citizens agreed to a ransom of one hundred thousand pesos if our men would leave.'

'Then what are they waiting for?' Sharpe asked.

'Neither side kept the bargain. That same night the quartermaster led out a raiding party of forty men, hoping to catch the Spaniards by surprise and rob them. The following day the citizens of La Serena opened the sluice gates of the town reservoir. We woke to find the streets a foot deep in water.'

Sharpe frowned. 'I suppose they thought it would make it much more difficult to set fire to the town.'

'Watling flew into a rage. When I left, the men were in the churches, scraping off any gold or silver leaf, smashing windows, overturning statues.'

'You should be there with them.'

'It was more important to come to warn you that a trap is closing about them. I tried to tell Watling, but he was too angry to listen.'

'What sort of a trap?'

'Dan went out to scout. He counted at least four hundred militiamen moving into position on either side of the road leading here. They'll wait for our men to come to the anchorage loaded with the plunder. Then they'll cut them to pieces.'

Captain Sharpe stared thoughtfully towards the shore. There was no sign of life. He could make out the flagpole on the tall stone watchtower the Spaniards had built to survey the anchorage. If the tower was manned its occupants would long ago have hoisted signals to alert their forces farther inland. But the flag staff was bare. Nor was there any movement among the cluster of warehouses, or on the broad gravel-and-sand road which led up from the shingle beach and inland towards the town. But anything could be happening out of sight behind the swell of the ground. That is where the Spanish troops could be massing. He took Hector by the arm. 'Let me show you something.' He led the young man to the stern of the ship. 'Look over the rail,' he said. 'What do you see?'

Hector stared down towards the galleon's rudder. There were black scorch marks on the timber and the rudder's fastenings, traces of a fire.

'Someone tried to burn away our steering,' he said.

'If they had succeeded, this ship would have been crippled. Luckily we spotted the fire before it had spread and managed to put it out. Someone came quietly out from shore in the darkness, stuffed pitch and rags between the rudder and the stern, and set it alight.'

Hector thought back to how Dan had disabled the Spanish patrol ship off the Campeachy coast.

'It was a brave thing to do.'

'We found the float the arsonist must have used, an inflated horse hide lying on the beach.'

Sharpe wheeled to face Hector and said fiercely, 'Make no mistake about it. The Spaniards are willing to fight for what is theirs, and fight hard. I want you to return to La Serena. If Watling won't listen to you, persuade the others. Tell them to abandon the place and get back here as fast as possible.'

Hector shook his head. 'Half the men are drunk. They won't leave the town until they've looted it to their satisfaction, probably by mid afternoon. Then they'll stumble back in no fit condition to fight their way through.'

Sharpe regarded the young man with interest. There was something about his quiet manner which suggested that he had a plan in mind.

'Now is the time to use our prisoners,' said Hector. 'Put them ashore where they will be visible to the Spanish, but keep them under guard. I will go to the Spaniards and tell them that we will release the prisoners unharmed if they allow our men to return safely to the ship.'

Sharpe gave Hector a long, calculating look. 'You're learning this trade,' he said softly. 'One day you could be elected general yourself.'

'I've no wish for that,' said Hector. 'Just let me talk to Captain Peralta and his comrades.'

Sharpe gave a grunt. 'This scheme is your responsibility. If something goes wrong, and I have to leave you on shore, I will do so.'

Hector was about to answer that he expected nothing less, but instead began arrangements with Jacques and the crew of the canoe to ferry Peralta and the prisoners ashore.

'Sharpe is not to be trusted,' was Peralta's immediate response when he and Hector had landed on the beach and the young man told him what was intended. 'The moment your captain sees that his men are safe, he'll decide to take his prisoners back on board and sail away.'

'That is why you — not I — will be the one who goes to find the commander of the Spanish forces and arrange the safe conduct.'

Peralta pursed his lips and looked doubtful. 'Are you telling me that you will stay with the prisoners and personally see that they are released unharmed?'

'Yes.'

'All right then. I am known in these parts and my word will carry weight.' The Spaniard's voice grew very serious. 'But if the sack of La Serena has been barbarous, then I cannot guarantee to hold back its citizens from seeking revenge. My countrymen think of your people as bloodthirsty vermin to be exterminated.'

'I intend to place half a dozen of the prisoners on the top of the watchtower. They'll be standing on the parapet, with a rope around each man's neck. Tell whoever is in charge of the ambush that if there is any treachery, the captives will be hanged in public view.'

Peralta raised his eyebrows. 'You are beginning to think like a pirate.'

'Captain Sharpe said something very similar to me earlier today.'

The Spaniard gave a slow, reluctant nod. 'Let us both hope that your plan works. If there is falsehood on either side, each of us will live in shame for the rest of our lives.' He turned on his heel and began to walk up towards the road leading inland.

The watchtower was some forty feet high and a series of ladders led to its flat roof, passing through small square openings in the building's three floors. With Jacques's help, Hector bound the hands of six of the prisoners, placed nooses around their necks, and ordered them to climb the ladders. They made awkward progress, fumbling their way up the rungs, hampered by their bonds. Hector followed and when he reached the top of the first ladder, he pulled it up after him, and laid it on the floor. The remaining prisoners would be locked into the ground floor of the tower. He did not want them climbing up and interfering. Arriving on the flat roof of the tower, Hector fastened the free ends of the nooses to the base of the flagpole. 'Up on the parapet and face inland,' he told his prisoners. Then he sat down to wait.

Hector waited for half a day. Peralta was nowhere to be seen and there was nothing to do but be patient. The wind gradually eased until it was no more than the slightest whisper of a breeze, and from a cloudless sky the sun beat down on the flat roof of the tower. There was no shade, either for Hector or his prisoners, and after a while he allowed them to be seated. They took it in turns one man at a time to stand on the parapet with a rope around his neck. Hector thought the threat was sufficient.

Twice Jacques sent up one of his captives with a flask of water. No one spoke as the drink was handed round, and then the waiting continued. The parched countryside lay silent and still. There was no sign of any activity apart from a bird of prey riding the air currents and circling over the bush. The only sound was the low incessant rumble of the surf on the beach. Half a mile away Trinity rode at anchor on a sparkling sea.

Finally, far into the afternoon, there was movement along the road, tiny figures in the distance, putting up a small cloud of dust. Slowly they came nearer and resolved themselves in an untidy straggle of men. They were Watling's company. Someone had found half a dozen mules and these were laden high with untidy loads of boxes and sacks. But most of the men were their own porters. They were trudging along, hung about with bundles, satchels and bags. One or two had rigged up wicker baskets on their backs to serve as panniers, while a group of four men were pushing a handcart piled with various items they must have looted. Oddest of all was a man with a wheelbarrow. He was wheeling along a companion, who must have been so drunk that he was incapable of walking. At the rear was the unmistakable figure of Jezreel. He and half a dozen other men had muskets on their shoulders and formed a semblance of a rearguard.

Anxiously Hector checked the countryside. Still there was no hint of movement among the scrubland and trees on each side of the road. He could see nothing but tangles of grey-brown bushes, stunted trees, and the open patches where wild grass and reeds grew waist high. Then, suddenly, he saw a glint of light reflected from metal. He concentrated his gaze on the spot, and gradually he was able to make out the figures of soldiers, half a company at least, crouching motionless in one of the washed-out gullies which bordered the road. They were visible from his vantage point high on the tower, but from the road they would have been hidden. Concealed in the broken ground must be the remainder of the Spanish force.

'On your feet! All of you!' he snapped at his prisoners. 'Move to the parapet and show yourselves!'

The Spaniards shuffled forward and stood in line. Several were trembling with fear. One man had wet himself and the flies were settling on the damp patch on his breeches. Another cast a nervous glance behind him, and Hector snarled at him to face the front. He felt demeaned by the whole charade. Hector knew that he lacked the nerve to push any man to his death dangling at the end of a rope, but the barbarity had to continue. Without it, Jezreel and the other raiders would have no chance of reaching the beach alive.

He looked away to his left, along the coast, and to his relief saw two canoes and a ship's launch sailing parallel to the shore, coming closer. They were Trinity s remaining boats. Now it would be possible to evacuate the entire raiding party at one time.

His attention returned to the road. Watling's company were closer now, still straggling along in disorder. To his dismay he saw there were several women in the party. If the buccaneers had kidnapped La Serena's women, then he doubted that the Spaniards would hold back their ambush even at the risk of the public hanging of the prisoners on the parapet. A second glance revealed his mistake. He was seeing not La Serena's womenfolk, but buccaneers who must have found women's clothes in the town, and stolen them. Now they were wearing them as the easiest way to carry them. They made a strange sight, their skirts and shawls worn over smocks and breeches. One man had a mantilla draped over the top of his head to keep off the sun.

Watling's rabble slowly advanced. Occasionally a man would halt and double over, vomiting in the road. Others stumbled and tripped. One fell flat on his face in the dust before he was pulled back to his feet by a comrade. Soon the gaggle of drunken looters were level with the gully where the Spaniards waited in ambush, and for one alarming moment Hector saw a buccaneer break away from the group and run to the side of the road. If he stumbled into the ambush, a massacre would follow. The man was clawing at his breeches as he ran, and he must have been caught short, for before he reached the roadside, he suddenly squatted and defecated in the dust. Gorged on too much fresh fruit from the gardens of La Serena, Hector thought grimly, as the man pulled up his breeches and broke into a weaving run to rejoin the column.

'Canoes ready on the beach,' Jacques called up from the foot of the tower. At last some of Watling's men had noticed the row of figures standing on the parapet. Faces turned up as the returning buccaneers began to wonder what was happening. Others were pointing, and Jezreel and the rearguard could be seen bringing their muskets to the ready. Hector stepped forward, hoping that he would be recognised, and waved at them, urging them to hurry down the final slope to the waiting canoes.

'Don't move!' Hector snapped at his hostages. 'We stay here until everyone is safe back to the ship.'

One of the Spaniards shifted on his feet and asked mockingly, 'And what about you, how will you leave?'

Hector did not answer. Watling's party were sliding and stumbling down the slope towards the beach. He could hear the crunch and clatter of the shingle beneath their feet and, amazingly, a snatch of drunken song. Some of the buccaneers still did not understand the danger they were in. From his vantage point Hector saw Jacques emerge from the base of the tower below him and run forward and speak urgently to Jezreel. Watling was beside him. A sense of urgency finally spread through the entire group. Some of them turned to face inland, reaching for their muskets.

Hector looked towards the ridge at the top of the beach. Now it was lined with dozens of Spanish soldiers. More and more armed men were appearing out of ravines and dips in the ground, or pushing out from the bushes. There must have been at least four companies of soldiers, and they were well disciplined and trained for they took up their positions in orderly formation, looking down on the buccaneers as they splashed out into the shallows and began loading their booty into the canoes. If anything went wrong now, the beach would become a killing ground.

A sudden flurry of movement, and Hector saw Jezreel reach out and wrest a gun away from a drunken buccaneer. He must have been preparing to fire a shot in bravado.

The loaded canoes began leaving the beach, heading towards Trinity. Only the smallest one was left, and Jezreel was standing up to his knees in the water holding the bow steady, waiting for him.

From below, a group of men came into view. They were the Spaniards whom Jacques had been holding captive. They were running towards the militiamen at the top of the slope. As they ran they were gesticulating and shouting out that they were Spanish, calling on the soldiers not to shoot. Now the only remaining prisoners were the half dozen men with Hector on the roof of the tower.

He went over the row of hostages, and raised the nooses from their necks. He crossed to the ladder which led down from the roof and began to climb down the rungs. As his head came level with the flat roof, he took out his knife and cut the cords which bound the ladder in place. Reaching the foot of the ladder, he pulled it clear. It would take several minutes for the prisoners to free themselves and still they would be trapped in the tower.

Continuing down the ladders, Hector removed each one as he descended. Reaching the ground, he walked out of the door and onto the beach. He was alone. To his right Jezreel waited with the canoe. To his left, no more than fifty paces away, stood the line of Spanish soldiers. They had advanced down the slope in open formation, muskets ready. Hector remembered how he had gone forward under the white flag of truce to the palisade of Santa Maria. But this time he had no white flag, only his faith in Peralta.

Someone stepped out from the Spanish line. It was Peralta himself. He came down the slope of beach, unarmed, his face sad.

'Your people have gutted La Serena,' he said. 'But I am grateful to you for making sure that my colleagues and I were released unharmed.' Behind him, Hector heard Jacques shouting that Trinity was weighing anchor and they must leave now if they were to reach the ship in time. Peralta stared into his eyes and his gaze was Unflinching.

'You may tell your captain that the next time he tries to raid us, he and his men will not be so lucky. Now go.'

Hector did not know how to answer. For a moment he stood where he was, conscious of the hostility of the Spanish soldiers fingering their guns and Peralta's flinty tone. Then he turned, walked down the beach and climbed into the waiting canoe.

_THIRTEEN

Hector had grown accustomed to the constant moaning and braying, barking and hissing, bubbling and trumpeting. The clamour had been in the background from the day Trinity arrived at the island exactly two weeks after the withdrawal from La Serena. The hubbub came from hundreds upon hundreds of large furry seals which lounged and fought and squabbled on the rocks. There were so many of the creatures and they were so sure of their possession that when the sailors first landed, the men had to force their way through the ranks of fishy-smelling beasts, clubbing them aside. The largest of the bull seals, gross lords and terrors of their harems, had resented the intrusion. They rushed furiously at the strangers, silver manes swollen, long yellow fangs bared, grunting and roaring hoarsely until the seamen fired pistols down their angry pink throats. The dark, almost black seal meat had been welcome at first, but the men soon tired of the taste. Now, if a seal was killed, the carcass was left to rot.

Sharpe had brought Trinity to Juan Fernandez at the crew's angry insistence. After the disappointment of La Serena the men had voted to spend Christmas there, far from the constant threat of vengeful Spanish cruisers. Hector wondered how sailors had known about the remote, mountainous island. Juan Fernandez lay 400 miles from the South American coast, and the South Sea was an uncharted mystery to all but the Spaniards. Yet there were men aboard Trinity who were aware that this bleak, unfrequented place offered a refuge. He supposed that somehow in the taverns of European ports and Caribbean harbours where sailors gathered, men talked of the island and how they had been able to recruit their strength there, repair their vessels, and relax.

When Trinity arrived on a grey, windswept day in early December the island was uninhabited. But it was obvious that people had visited Juan Fernandez because someone had stocked the place with goats. The animals had thrived and wild herds of them roamed the broken scrub-covered uplands. Their flesh was much to be preferred to seal meat, so Dan and the other remaining striker, another Miskito named Will, went off daily with their muskets and came back with goat carcasses draped over their shoulders. However, it was Jacques who had provided the most certain proof that other sailors had used the island as a resting place. Shortly after landing, he had come hurrying back, beaming with pleasure and brandishing a handful of various leaves and plants. 'Herbs and vegetables!' he crowed. 'Someone planted a garden here and left it behind to grow! Look! Turnips, salads, green stuff!'

The crew of Trinity had quickly made themselves comfortable. They draped spare sails over the branches of trees to make tents, set up frames on which they barbecued goat meat and fish, filled their water jars at the stream which emptied across a beach of small boulders and into the bay. On Christmas Day itself Jacques had cooked the entire company a great dish of lobsters, broiling them over the fire. He insisted on calling them langoustes, and they crawled in the shallows of the bay in such numbers that one had only to wade out into the chilly water and gather them by hand, dozens at a time. For their vegetable the company had eaten finely sliced strips of tree cabbage cut from the tender head of sprouting palms.

Yet the atmosphere continued to be very sour and unhappy. The crew grumbled about the lack of plunder. The sack of La Serena had yielded barely 500 pounds' weight of silver to be divided between nearly 140 men. They felt this was a paltry sum for all the risks they had taken, and it made matters worse that many of the malcontents had gambled away their booty in the long, dull sea days that followed. By the time they reached Juan Fernandez, a majority of the dice and card players were virtually penniless, and they muttered darkly that they had been swindled. When they did so, they looked towards Captain Sharpe. Unable to prove it, they were sure that he had somehow gulled them.

To leave behind the bickering and the acrimony of the camp, Hector had got into the habit of going for a long walk each day. From the pleasant glen where the sailors had set up their shelters, a narrow goat track climbed steeply inland, leaving behind the groves of sandalwood and stands of pimento trees and passing up through dense thickets of brush. The path doubled back and forth, and after the long weeks spent on board ship he found that his legs were quickly tired by the demands of the steep ascent. Now his leg muscles were aching, and it would take him another hour of hard climbing to reach the crest of the narrow ridge where he liked to spend a few moments looking out over the ocean, quietly contemplating. This morning he needed to hurry because there was to be a general council of the expedition at noon, and he wanted to be back in time to attend. The men were to vote whether Bartholomew Sharpe was to continue as their general and — equally important — what was to happen when Trinity left the island.

Hector took deep breaths as he scrambled upward. In places the bushes grew so close together that he had to force his way through, the branches snagging at his clothes. Occasionally he caught the distinctive acrid smell of goat hanging in the air, and once he startled a small herd, three billies and as many she-goats, which ran up the path ahead of him with their odd mincing stride, before plunging aside into the thickets and disappearing. As he ascended, the sounds of the seal colonies grew fainter and fainter from below, and whenever he stopped to turn and look down into the bay, Trinity looked increasingly small and insignificant until finally a turn in the path meant that he could no longer see the ship at all. From now on he might as well have been alone in the entire world. To his left rose a mist-shrouded mountain, a gloomy square mass with the shape of a gigantic anvil. On his right the island was a densely forested jumble of ravines and cliffs and spurs and ridges which were impenetrable to anyone except an expert hunter.

Eventually he reached his destination, the narrow saddle of the ridge joining the anvil mountain to the wilderness, and sat down to rest. The crest of the ridge was no more than a yard or two in breadth and the view to either side was magnificent. Ahead of him the ground dropped away in sheer scree and he was looking out over a wave-flecked ocean which spread out to a horizon of cobalt blue. When he turned in the opposite direction, he was facing into the sun and the surface of the sea became an enormous glittering silver sheet across which drifted dark shadows cast by the clouds. Everything seemed far, far away, and the high ridge was exposed to a wind which rushed past, swirling over the crest of land.

He sat in the lee of a great flat rock, clasped his arms around his knees, and gazed out to sea, trying to think of nothing, losing himself in the vastness of the great panorama before him.

He must have been sitting silently for five or ten minutes when he became aware of an occasional small black speck which sped past him, flitting through the air. To begin with, he thought the specks were a trick of his vision, and he blinked, then rubbed his eyes. But the phenomenon continued, momentary glimpses of some tiny flying object which came up from the scree slope behind him, moving so fast that it was impossible to identify, then vanished ahead, dipping down the slope in front of him. He concentrated his gaze on a clump of bushes a few paces below where he sat. That's where the flying specks seemed to disappear. Cautiously he eased himself off the ridge and, still seated, slid down towards the bush. There was a slight brushing sensation on his cheek as another of the little specks flew past, so close that he distinctly felt the wind of its passage. It vanished so quickly that he still could not identify what it was. He suspected it was some sort of flying insect, perhaps a grasshopper or a locust. He came to within an arm's length of the bush, and waited motionless. Sure enough, there was a quick darting movement as another of the flying specks came up from behind him, slowed in mid-air for an instant, then plunged in among the branches. Now he knew what it was: a tiny bird, no bigger than his thumb.

Another few moments passed, and then one of the diminutive creatures rose from within the bush. It ascended vertically and began to hover in the air, its wings moving in a blur. The bird was no more substantial than a large bumblebee and astonishingly beautiful. The feathers were green, white and brilliant blue. A moment later it was joined by a companion rising from the foliage. This time the plumage was a glossy dark maroon, the colour of drying blood, which glowed in the sunshine. A few heartbeats later and the two tiny creatures began to dance together in the air, circling and dipping, hovering to face one another for a few moments, then suddenly diving and turning and making short arcs and loops until they came together again and stayed hovering. Spellbound, Hector watched. He was sure that the two birds were male and female and they were performing a mating dance.

With a sudden pang of memory he recalled the last time he had seen a hummingbird. It had been just over a year ago with Susanna when they were travelling towards Port Royal and she had said he possessed the soul of an artist because he had compared the whirring sound made by the wings to the noise of a miniature spinning wheel. Now he listened carefully to the two birds dancing in the air before him. But he could hear nothing above the sound of the wind sighing over the ridge. An image of Susanna came to mind with painful clarity. He saw her dressed in a long, resplendent gown and attending a grand occasion in London where she had been taken by her father. She was dancing with her partner before a crowd of onlookers, all of them wealthy and sophisticated and of her own social standing. With an effort Hector tried to push the apparition out of his mind. He told himself that he was seated on a mountainside on the far side of the world, and this image of Susanna was entirely make-believe. He scarcely knew her. It did not matter what happened in the next months or years, whether he stayed with Trinity and her crew, whether he returned with riches or in poverty. Susanna was always going to be unattainable. His encounter with her would never be more than a chance meeting, however much it had affected him. He should learn from his moment of confusion when he had stood before the portrait of a young lady in La Serena and found himself uncertain of what exactly reminded him of Susanna. As more time passed, he would remember less and less of the true Susanna and what had happened during those few hours he had spent in her company. Instead he would substitute fantasy until everything about Susanna was make-believe. It was an irreversible process and his best course was to free himself of false hope. It was time he acknowledged that he was keeping alive an illusion that had no place in the true circumstances of his own life.

He shivered. A cloud had passed across the sun and the wind brought a momentary chill in the shadow. Robbed of sunlight, the plumage of the two dancing hummingbirds abruptly lost its irridescence and, as if sensing the change in his mood, they darted back into the foliage. Hector got to his feet and began to descend the path back to camp.

He arrived to find the general council already in session. The entire crew of Trinity was gathered in the glade where they had set up their tents. Watling was standing on a makeshift platform of water barrels and planks and haranguing them in his gruff soldierly voice.

'What's going on?' Hector asked quietly as he joined Jezreel and Jacques at the back of the crowd.

'Watling has just been elected our new general by a majority of twenty votes. They've turned Sharpe out and chosen Watling to replace him,' answered the big man. Hector peered over the shoulders of the men. Bartholomew Sharpe was in the front rank of the assembly, over to one side. He appeared relaxed and unconcerned, his head tilted back as he listened to Watling's announcements, his soft round face inscrutable. Hector remembered how he had thought when he had first laid eyes on Sharpe that his fleshy lips reminded him of a fish, a carp, and there was still that same faint air of guile. Seemingly, Sharpe was unaffected by his abrupt dismissal from overall command but Hector wondered what was going on behind that bland exterior.

'We return to the ways of our gallant Captain Sawkins before his death,' Watling was saying loudly. 'Courage and comradeship will be our watchwords!'

There was a murmur of approval from one section of his audience. Among them Hector recognised several of the more brutish members of the crew.

'There will be no more blasphemy!' grated Watling. 'From now on we observe the Sabbath, and unnatural vice will be punished!' His tone had turned harsh and he was staring directly at someone in the crowd. Hector craned his neck to see who it was. Watling had singled out Edmund Cook, the fastidiously dressed leader of one of the companies that set out from Golden Island. Hector had heard a rumour that Cook had been found in bed one day with another man, but had dismissed the tale as mere gossip.

Watling was speaking again, barking out his words.

'Gambling is forbidden. Anyone who plays at cards or dice will have his share of plunder reduced . . .' Watling stopped abruptly, and suddenly his arm shot out as he pointed at Sharpe. 'Hand your dice to the quartermaster,' he ordered.

Hector watched Bartholomew Sharpe reach into his pocket and produce his dice. They were taken from him by Duill, one of the men who had tossed the shot priest overboard while he was still alive.

'What's happened to Samuel Gifford? I thought he was our quartermaster,' Hector asked Jezreel.

'Watling insisted on having a second quartermaster appointed. John Duill is one of his cronies.'

Duill had handed the dice on to Watling who held them up over his head for all to see and called out, 'These are not fit to be aboard a ship.' Then he drew back his arm and flung them far into the bushes. From several onlookers came catcalls and scornful whistles, clearly directed at Sharpe. The demoted captain still showed no emotion.

'Where would you lead us?' yelled someone from the crowd.

Watling paused before answering. His eyes swept across his audience. He looked very sure of himself. When he did finally speak, his voice rang out as though he was a drill sergeant.

'I propose we attack Arica.'

There was a moment's lull, then an excited noisy chatter broke out in the crowd. Hector heard one scarred buccaneer give a subdued snort of approval.

'What's so special about Arica?' he whispered to Jezreel.

'Arica is where the treasure from the Potosi silver mines is brought to be loaded on the galleons for shipment. It's said that bars of bullion are left stacked on the quays.'

'Surely a place like that would be powerfully defended,' said Hector.

Someone in the crowd must have thought the same, for he called out to Watling, 'How can we take such a stronghold?'

'If we attack boldly, we can overrun the town in less than an hour. We'll use grenades in the assault.'

Hector caught sight of Ringrose in the crowd. He was standing beside Dampier, and both men looked unconvinced by Watling's confident assertion. Duill, the new second quartermaster, was already calling for a show of hands to vote on his commander's proposal.

The vote was two-thirds in favour of an assault on Arica, and Watling's supporters cheered loudly, slapping one another on the back and promising their comrades that soon they would all be rich beyond their dreams. The council over, Samuel Gifford was calling for volunteers to help prepare the grenades to be used in the assault.

'Why don't we join the grenade makers,' suggested Jacques. 'I'm growing bored on this island, and it will give us something to do.'

As the three of them walked over to where Gifford was assembling his work crew, Hector found himself agreeing with Jacques. Life on Juan Fernandez had grown wearisome and dull. Five weeks spent on the island was enough. He had no wish to go raiding the Spaniards but he was looking forward to getting to sea again. He wondered if the reason for his restlessness was wanderlust or had more to do with his decision to leave aside his dream about Susanna.

'I need someone to cut up musket bullets in half,' said Gifford. His glance fell on Jezreel. 'That's a job for you.'

He sent Hector to search Trinity's stores for lengths of condemned rope while Jacques was to bring back a large iron cooking pot and a quantity of the pitch normally used to treat the vessel's hull.

When the materials arrived, the quartermaster set Jacques to melting the pitch over a fire while the others unpicked the rope into long strands of cord.

'Now follow closely what I do,' Gifford said as he took a length of the unravelled cord and began to wind it around his fist. 'Make a ball of the twine but do it carefully, from the outside in and leaving the coils loose so they run out freely.'

When he had the ball of twine completed, he showed the loose end of the string which emerged from the centre like the stalk on a large apple.

'Now for the coating,' he announced. He took a sharp straight stick and carefully pushed it through the completed ball. Going across to Jacques's iron pot he dipped the ball into the melted pitch and held it up in the air for the pitch to harden. Then he repeated the process. 'Two or three coatings should be right. Enough to hold a shape.'

He beckoned to Jezreel. 'Hand me some of those half musket balls,' and he began to stick the lead bullets into the soft tar.

'Now comes the tricky part,' Gifford said. Carefully he removed the stick, then felt for the free end of the string. Gently he began to tease the string out of the globe. It reminded Hector of the day that Surgeon Smeeton had showed him how to extract the Fiery Serpent from an invalid's leg.

When all the string had been pulled from the ball of pitch, leaving it hollow, the quartermaster turned it over in his hand.

'I want at least twenty of these,' he said. 'Later we fill them with gunpowder and fit a fuse. When we get to Arica . . .' He hefted the empty grenade in his hand and pretended to lob it towards the enemy, 'Pouf! It'll clear our way to the bullion.'

Watling's promotion had brought a sense of energy to the expedition. In the two days it took for Hector and his companions to prepare the grenades, the buccaneers shifted all Trinity?, equipment back onto the vessel, set up her rigging, filled her water casks, replenished the firewood for the cook's galley, struck camp and moved themselves back aboard. All that remained was to take on fresh food. Jacques went ashore on a mission to gather a supply of herbs and greens, and the ship's launch was despatched in the opposite direction with half a dozen armed men. They were to wait at the foot of the cliffs while Dan and Will, the other remaining striker, went inland and drove a herd of wild goats towards them. After shooting as many goats as possible for Trinity's larder, the launch's crew was to collect Dan and Will and return to the ship.

'We'll have to fight our way into Arica so I might as well give you a few tips on hand-to-hand combat while we are waiting for Dan to get back,' Jezreel said to Hector. He handed him a cutlass and stood back, raising his short sword. 'Now strike at me!'

The two of them sparred, Jezreel easily deflecting Hector's blows before making his counterstrokes which usually slipped past his opponent's defence. Occasionally Jezreel stopped and adjusted the position of Hector's sword arm. 'It's all in the wrist action,' Jezreel explained. 'Keep your guard up high, flex the wrist as you parry, then strike back. It must all be one swift movement. Like this.' He knocked aside Hector's weapon and tapped him on the shoulder with the flat of his own blade.

'I don't have your height advantage,' Hector complained.

'Just stick to the basics and stay light on your feet,' the ex-prizefighter advised. 'In battle there's no time for fancy sword play, and you can expect your opponent to fight dirty like so!'

This time he distracted Hector by aiming a high blow at his head, and at the same time moved close enough to pretend to knee him in the groin. 'And always remember that in a close scuffle, the hilt of your sword is more effective than the edge. More men have been clubbed down in a brawl than were ever run through or cut.'

Hector lowered his cutlass to rest his arm. Just then there was the sound of a musket shot, closely followed by two more in quick succession. They came from Trinity s launch which had gone to meet Dan and Will and shoot wild goats. The crew were rowing frantically back to the ship. Clearly something had gone wrong.

'Loose the topsail to show we've heard their signal!' Watling bellowed. Half a dozen men ran to obey his command, and

Hector found himself with the rest of the crew, waiting anxiously at the rail for the launch to come within shouting distance.

'I can see Dan in the boat, but not Will,' muttered Jezreel.

Just then Watling stepped up beside him, cupping his hands around his mouth and using his drill sergeant's voice to call out. 'What's the trouble?'

'Spaniards! Three ships hull-down to the east,' came back a shout. 'They're heading this way.'

'Shit!' Watling swore and turned on his heel, looking out to sea. 'We can't see anything from here. The headland blocks our view.'

He hurried back to the rail and bellowed again at the approaching launch. 'What sort of vessels?'

'They have the look of men of war, but it's difficult to be sure.'

Watling glanced up at the sky, gauging the direction and strength of the wind. 'Quartermasters! Call all hands and prepare to raise anchor. We have to get out of this bay. It's a trap if the Spaniards find us here.' He caught a seaman by the shoulder and barked, 'You! Get two of your fellows and bring up all the weapons we have. I want them loaded and ready on deck in case we have to fight our way clear.'

There was a rush of activity as men began to bring the galleon back to life after weeks of idleness. They cleared away the deck clutter, braced round the yards ready to catch the wind, and hoisted a foresail and the mizzen so that Trinity hung on her anchor, ready to break free and sail out of the bay at a moment's notice. Quartermaster Gifford himself took the helm and stood waiting.

Watling was back at the rail, bawling at the men in the launch. 'Get a move on! Tie the launch off the stern and lend a hand.'

'What about the men still on shore? We cannot abandon them!' Hector blurted.

Watling swung round, face hard set, his eyes furious. 'They shift for themselves,' he snapped.

'But Jacques is not back yet, and Will was with Dan. He must still be on the island.'

An angry scowl spread across Watling's face. He was about to lose his temper.

'Do you question my orders?'

'Look over there,' said Hector, pointing towards the beach. 'You can see Jacques now. He's standing there, waiting to be picked up by a boat.'

'Let him swim,' snarled Watling. He turned back and shouted at the men to get to the capstan and begin retrieving the anchor.

Hector was about to say that Jacques did not know how to swim when Jezreel, short sword in hand, strode across the deck and stood beside the capstan.

'The first person who slots in a capstan bar loses his fingers,' he announced. Then he casually whipped his sword through the air, the blade making a figure of eight and a low swishing sound as he turned his wrist.

The approaching sailors stopped short. They looked warily at the ex-prizefighter.

'The anchor stays down until Jacques is safely aboard,' Jezreel warned them.

'We'll see about that,' growled one of the sailors. It was Duill, the second quartermaster. He made his way to the quarterdeck. 'General, may I have the loan of one of your pistols so I can put a bullet in that bugger's guts.'

Hector forestalled him. Stepping across to where the ship's armament was being made ready, he picked up a loaded blunderbuss, and pointed it at Duill's stomach. 'This time it's your corpse that will have to go over the side,' he said grimly.

Everyone stood still, waiting to see what would happen. Watling looked as if he was about to spring at Hector. Duill was eyeing the gap between himself and the muzzle of the gun.

Into this tense lull came a languid voice. 'No need for so much fuss. I'll take the launch, if someone will care to accompany me, and collect our French friend. '

It was Bartholomew Sharpe. He sauntered across the deck casually.

'What about Will the Miskito,' Hector asked, his voice harsh with strain.

'I'm sure he'll be able to look after himself,' said Sharpe soothingly. 'He's got a gun and ammunition, and will make himself comfortable until we can get back to collect him or another ship comes along.' He attempted a lighter touch. 'Your friend Jacques is another matter. What would we do without his pimento sauce?'

'Then get on with it,' snapped Watling. Hector could see that the new captain was keen to re-establish his authority and show that he, not Sharpe, was in command. 'The launch picks up the Frenchman, and we waste no more time getting ready for action.'

Twenty minutes later, a relieved Jacques was scrambling aboard clutching a sack of salad leaves, and Trinity's anchor was emerging dripping from the sea as the ship began to gather way.

'Don't fret about Will. A Miskito will be able to look after himself on the island,' Dan quietly reassured Hector. 'There's more to worry about close at hand.'

He nodded towards the foredeck where a sullen-looking Duill was standing by to oversee the catting of the anchor. 'The crew don't like what happened. They think we were prepared to sacrifice them in favour of our friends. From now we'll have to watch our backs.'

_FOURTEEN

'Each grenadier will receive a bonus of ten pieces of eight,' declared Watling from the rail of the quarterdeck, his gaze sweeping across the assembled crew. It was a fortnight since Trinity had run from Juan Fernandez, easily slipping past the Spanish squadron. Now she lay hove-to off the mainland coast and in sight of the long, dark line of hills which loomed behind Arica.

'If he still has both his hands to count the money,' mocked a voice at the back of the crowd.

Watling ignored the gibe. 'The success of our assault may depend on our grenadiers. Who will volunteer?'

His plea was met with silence. The men were nervous about touching the home-made bombs now they had been filled with gunpowder and fitted with their stubby fuses.

'If you handle grenades properly, they are safe,' Watling insisted. 'I myself will show how it's done.'

'How about giving them out to the bastards who made them,' suggested the same anonymous voice. 'If they get it wrong, they'll know who's to blame.'

The sally caused a ripple of laughter, and Duill was smirking as he stepped forward and beckoned to Hector and his friends. 'You heard what the general said. He'll tell you what to do.'

Hector watched as Watling picked up one of the grenades from a wooden box at his feet. The young man had to admit that Watling, though bull-headed and short-tempered, was prepared to lead by example.

'Each grenadier will carry three of these in a pouch on his right side, and a length of slow match wrapped around his left wrist. When the time comes, he turns his left shoulder towards the enemy, takes up a grenade in his right hand like so, blows on the slow match to make it glow, and brings the lighted match to the fuse.'

Watling mimed the action.

'He then steps forward with his left foot and bends his right knee so he is in a crouching position. After checking that the fuse is burning steadily, he stands up and hurls the grenade, keeping his right arm straight.'

'Let's hope that none of those buggers is left-handed,' shouted the wag, and Watling had to wait until the ensuing guffaws had subsided.

'I propose that Trinity stays out of sight over the horizon so as not to alert the defenders to our presence, and under cover of darkness our boats land our force some five leagues to the south of the town. We spend our first day ashore in hiding. At nightfall we leave behind our boats under guard and advance across country to a point close to Arica from which we can launch a dawn assault. We capture the town before the citizens are awake.'

'How many men in the attack?' Jezreel asked.

'Everyone who is fit enough. It must be a forced march if we are to take the town by surprise. Then, as soon as we have seized Arica, we signal to our boats. They come to pick us up and we begin loading our plunder.'

'What happens if the raid runs into trouble? How do we get back to the ship safely?'

'There will be two different signals: a single fire with white smoke tells our boat crews to come halfway to meet us and evacuate the force; two white smokes is the sign that we have captured the town and they enter into harbour to collect us and our plunder.'

Watling gestured towards the distant hills. 'You have all heard the rumour of a mountain which is made of solid silver, and how the Spaniards of Peru keep the native people in chains, toiling away like ants to dig out the bullion. In the next forty eight hours, we will relieve them of their riches.'

'I feel like a worker ant myself,' said Jacques at noon the next day. He was burdened down with a musket and cartridge box, a pistol and a cutlass as well as a satchel containing three grenades. He was gasping from the heat. 'This place is a furnace.'

Jezreel had persuaded his friends that they should take on the role of grenadiers. The ex-prizefighter had argued that by volunteering for such dangerous work they might improve their standing with the rest of Trinity's crew. Until there was a chance of breaking away on their own, it was safer if the four of them showed willing to cooperate with their shipmates.

Watling's column had spent an uncomfortable night on the rocky foreshore, shivering in a cold clammy mist that had oozed in from the sea. At daybreak they had set out across country, leaving a handful of men under Basil Ringrose to guard the boats and wait for the signal fires. Within half an hour the sun had sucked up the mist and the day had turned blisteringly hot. The men, ninety-two of them, had marched for hours and had not seen a single house or field or sign of human occupation. The landscape was utterly barren, a sun-blasted expanse of scoured rock and sand with an occasional steep-sided ravine. The only vegetation was a few spiny plants or stunted bushes with dry, brittle branches, and they had not found a single stream or pond where they could refill their water canteens.

Jacques gave a yelp of pain, took a half stride, and sat down, clutching at his foot. He had stepped on one of the needle-like spines of a desert plant and it had pierced right through the thick leather sole of his boot. 'Surely Arica can't be much farther now,' he said through dry, cracked lips as he began to remove his boot.

'Beyond that next rise of ground, perhaps,' Hector answered. In the distance the low hills shimmered in the heat.

"Why would anyone want to live in such a desperate place,' muttered Jacques as he searched for the broken end of the offending spine.

'To be near the source of so much silver,' said Hector. The weight of his three grenades was pressing uncomfortably on his right hip and he eased the satchel strap across his chest. He had decided against carrying a musket, but wore the cutlass that Jezreel had provided him with.

'I would rather be marooned on a desert island than live in such a hellish place,' Jacques grumbled.

A slight movement on the gravel caught Hector's attention. A scorpion was edging away in the shade of a low shrub whose small white flowers were the only colour in the landscape of drab grey and brown.

'Here comes Dan now,' said Jacques, grimacing as he plucked out the broken spine. 'I wonder what he's found.'

The Miskito had gone forward to scout, leaving his satchel of grenades with Jezreel. Now Dan was returning, musket balanced on his shoulder and loping along as if the blazing heat was nothing. As usual, it was difficult to read anything into his expression.

'Arica's a mile beyond that ridge, and the town is expecting us,' he announced.

Watling came striding up. 'What do you mean, expecting us?' he demanded.

'The Spaniards have built a barricade of timber and earth across the main approach leading into the town. It's manned by soldiers, a lot of them. There's also a fort over to one side, and that seems to have a large garrison on the alert.'

'How many defenders?'

'It's impossible to say. But several hundred.'

Watling took off his broad-brimmed hat, wiped his brow with a large orange handkerchief, and beckoned to Duill, his second in command. 'The Miskito says that Arica is expecting an attack. The place may have been reinforced.'

Duill showed his teeth in a wolfish smile. 'That only goes to prove they have something worth defending.'

Watling brushed the fine desert dust off his sleeve. He turned to Dan. 'Do you think that we've been seen?' he asked.

'Certainly,' the Miskito replied. 'Three horsemen over on our right flank. They have been shadowing us for the past two hours. They know our strength, and purpose.'

'Then that decides it,' said Watling firmly. 'There's no going back. If we are seen in retreat, Arica's garrison will come out in pursuit and things will go badly for us. We stick to the original plan. When we reach the high ground ahead of us, we camp for the night. In the morning we advance on the town and rush the barricade.'

Hector was surprised that Arica was such an ordinary, rundown place. He lay on the ridge above the town as the sky began to lighten and the streets of Arica emerged from the shadows. They had been laid out in the grid pattern familiar from La Serena. But he saw nothing to match La Serena's fine stone buildings. Arica's houses were unpainted single-storey dwellings made of what looked like humble mud brick. The single church tower was modest in size, and the perimeter wall of the fort that Dan had mentioned was no higher than the flat roofs of the nearby houses which surrounded it. From his vantage point Hector could see down into the parade ground where soldiers were emerging from their barracks and assembling for dawn muster. What held his attention was the makeshift outwork of rubble and earth which blocked the main approach to the town. It was at least fifty paces in length and built to a height so that a defender could rest his musket on it and take steady aim. There were sentinels posted at regular intervals and an officer was walking behind the line, checking that his lookouts were alert. Hector could see no sign of artillery, and for this he breathed a sigh of relief. To attack into the mouths of cannon would have been suicidal.

'On your feet! First rank make ready!' It was Watling, his army training evident. This was to be a disciplined assault, unlike previous campaigns against towns which had often been little more than an unruly rush against the defence. This time the buccaneers were to advance in three waves. The first and second were to alternate, one moving forward as the other gave covering fire, leapfrogging forward until they were close enough to reach the breastwork in a concerted charge. The four grenadiers and a dozen of the older, less active men were being held back in reserve. Under Bartholomew Sharpe they would stay fifty yards in the rear of the attack, ready to be called on wherever the need arose.

'Advance!' Watling was moving forward. Behind him the first wave of buccaneers began to make their way down the slope at a fast walk. Each man had an orange ribbon tied to his left shoulder to identify him in the coming engagement. Hector tried to judge the distance they would have to cover. It was perhaps half a mile. Several outhouses and barns would provide some cover, and there was an occasional fold in the ground where a man could crouch down in safety and reload his musket. Below him the officer in charge of the barricade had already turned towards the town and was gesticulating urgently. He must have seen the movement on the hill. Moments later a squad of armed men came running out from the town and took up their positions at the outwork. Counting them, Hector calculated that there must be at least forty musketeers facing the buccaneer attack. Allowing for the fact that a great many more Spanish soldiers were being held in reserve in the fort, Watling's force was heavily outnumbered. If the buccaneers were to take Arica, they would have to rely on their superior musketry and the professional ferocity of their assault.

The second wave had left its position and was also advancing down the slope. The men spread out in a skirmishing line, wide gaps between them to reduce the target. A scatter of shots came from the barricade, but the range was too great and the firing quickly died away. Hector supposed that a Spanish officer had restrained his men.

'I suppose we should get moving too!' said Sharpe in a relaxed voice. He got casually to his feet as though about to go for a stroll in the country and puffed on a clay pipe. He took the pipe stem from his mouth, blew out a thin plume of smoke, and watched the smoke hang in the air before slowly dissipating. 'Perfect day for a grenadier,' he observed. 'No chance of the match blowing out in the wind.' He glanced up at the cloudless sky and gave a sardonic smile, 'And of course no likelihood of a rain shower to extinguish it.'

Hector held out the length of match cord that had been issued to him. Sharpe sucked vigorously on the pipe, then thrust the end of the cord into the glowing tobacco. 'You've got enough match there for about five hours. Let's hope the battle is over by that time,' he said as he handed it back. Hector blew gently on the glowing end of the cord, wound the extra length around his wrist, then held the burning end between his fingers. He waited for Sharpe to light the match held out by his companions, and they began to make their way cautiously down the hill towards Arica.

The front rank of buccaneers were now within range of the barricade. One by one they paused, took aim and fired towards the defenders behind their earthwork. Hector thought he saw splinters and spurts of dust fly up. There was a scatter of answering musketry from the Spanish defenders, but they were outranged by the buccaneers' better weapons and their response did no damage. The second wave of attackers was passing through the front line of skirmishers, and had taken up their positions. There was no cheering. The only sounds were the flat detonations of their flintlocks, and the shouted insults and defiance from the Spaniards.

Moments later Hector saw the first of the buccaneers fall. The man was on his feet, taking aim, and the next instant he spun round and dropped to the ground. There was a whoop of triumph from the barricade.

Watling shouted an order and waved his orange handkerchief. His signal was followed by a ragged volley and all of a sudden the buccaneers were running forward in a concerted rush. Now they were shouting and hallooing, muskets and cutlasses in hand. A crackle of musketry from the barricade, and this time Hector saw at least three of the assailants knocked down before the first of them reached the earthwork and began to scramble over. There was a glimpse of a single buccaneer -he was almost sure it was Duill - balancing on top of the barricade and swinging his musket by the barrel, using it as a club to strike downward. A dozen of his men had gone wide, intending to get around the end of the barricade, even as their comrades swarmed over the obstacle. For several minutes the outcome of the pitched battle was in the balance. Men were shouting and yelling, hacking and stabbing. There was the clash of metal in the dust and smoke, cries of pain, and several times Hector heard the lighter crack of pistol shots.

The furore began to ease, and Watling was climbing up back on the barricade and beckoning urgently to the reserve. 'Close up, close up,' he was yelling. 'Hold our ground.'

He jumped back down out of sight as Hector and his comrades ran the last few paces to the barricade and clambered over. On the far side was a scene of devastation. Corpses lying in the dust, the ground was torn and tramped and stained with blood. A buccaneer with a terrible gash on the side of his face was stumbling around in a daze, and at least thirty or forty Spaniards were standing or sitting on the ground in a state of shock, their faces black with powder smoke and several of them wounded. 'Guard the prisoners while we move forward,' Watling bawled. There was the sound of more musket fire. From within the town the defenders of Arica were sniping at the attackers.

'Put your hands behind your heads!' Hector screamed in Spanish at the prisoners. They looked at him in disbelief. Hector realised that, without a firearm, he must have looked a harmless figure, with only a cutlass at his waist and the slow match coiled around his wrist. 'Do as he says,' growled Jezreel. He spoke in English but his giant size and fierce scowl made it clear what he wanted. The prisoners hurriedly obeyed.

From within the gateway came the sound of more gunfire, a lot of it. Watling's advance guard was encountering furious resistance. A man came scurrying out from the town, bent low to dodge stray bullets. 'There are more barricades inside,' he gasped. 'The Spaniards have built them at every street corner. Watling says we need grenades to clear them.'

'I'll go,' said Jezreel. He unfastened the flap to his satchel and hurried off behind the messenger. Hector turned back to face the prisoners. 'No one move!' he ordered. Looking around, he saw a musket lying on the ground where it had been dropped by one of the defenders. He picked it up and took a quick glance at the lock. It appeared to be primed and loaded. He pointed it at the captives.

Minutes passed and there was a muffled explosion from inside the town, not far away. Hector presumed the grenade had done its work, for there was a lull in the sounds of fighting. Then almost at once the crackle of musket fire resumed.

'We need reinforcements! Come on ahead!' Duill had appeared in the entrance to the town. He was dishevelled and streaked with grime. There was a look of urgency in his movements.

'On whose orders?' Sharpe snapped.

'The general! Watling orders the rearguard to enter the town!'

'And what about the prisoners?'

Duill swore at him and for a moment Hector thought that the second quartermaster would strike Sharpe in the face. 'Leave a couple of men in charge of them,' he snarled. 'There's no time to argue.'

Sharpe turned to Hector. 'You and Jacques stay to guard the prisoners,' he ordered. 'Dan, leave your grenades here and go back up the hill. Your task is to keep a lookout for any extra Spanish troop reinforcements arriving. Let us know if you see anything that poses a risk. The rest of you follow me.' At an unhurried walk he set off towards the sound of the musketry.

A groan came from Hector's right. It was the buccaneer with the wounded face. He had slumped against the barricade and, with his forearm, was trying to staunch the flow of blood from his ravaged face. Hector set down his musket and hurried across to him. 'Here, let me bandage that,' he said and reached for his satchel before he realised that it did not contain medicines and bandages, but grenades. The corpse of a Spanish soldier was lying on the ground nearby. The dead man had worn a cotton scarf around his throat. Hector reached down and removed the neck cloth, then began to knot the bandage around the wounded man's head. Behind him, he heard Jacques let out a curse. Hector spun round in time to see at least twenty of the Spanish prisoners running away. 'Halt!' he shouted. 'Halt or I fire.' But he knew it was a bluff. There was no way that he and Jacques could restrain them.

'Not much point in hanging about here,' said Jacques. 'We should see if we can help Jezreel and the others.'

The two of them cautiously made their way into the town.

At the first crossroads they came upon the wreckage of another barricade. It had been made of upturned carts, planks and old furniture. There was a gap where Watling's men must have forced their way through. On the far side lay more dead men, both Spanish and buccaneer. A second crossroads and another barricade, and this time the buccaneers were using it as a breastwork themselves, taking shelter behind it, then standing up and taking shots at the enemy.

Hector spotted Jezreel. He was aiming his flintlock towards a nearby roof top, and a second later he pulled the trigger. A Spanish arquebusier ducked back out of sight. 'Missed him,' grunted Jezreel. He extracted the ramrod from under the barrel, spat on a rag to moisten it and began to clean out the gun. 'We can't keep up this rate of fire. Our weapons are getting fouled.'

Watling was in a doorway, conferring with Duill. The two men beckoned to Sharpe and spoke with him for a few moments before Sharpe came running back, tapped Hector on the shoulder, and shouted to him, 'Collect together the rearguard, and as many men as you can. We must take the fort. Until we secure our flank, we are exposed. The others will deal with the town itself.'

Hector passed the word to Jacques and soon they and some thirty men, including Jezreel, were fighting their way down a narrow street. Ahead of them, Spanish militiamen could be seen falling back, retreating to the safety of the fort. As the last of them passed through the wooden gate, it was heaved shut, and a fusillade from loopholes in the wall forced the attackers to take cover.

Bartholomew Sharpe ducked back into an alleyway and leaned against a mud wall, catching his breath. 'Time for another of our famous grenades,' he said. Hector realised that to this moment he had not fired a single shot but had been swept along in the general confusion. He looked down at his left wrist, and was surprised to see red burn marks on his skin where the lit end of the match had scorched him. In the chaos of battle he had never noticed the pain. He opened the flap of his satchel and took out a grenade. The little bomb looked very ill-made. The covering of hardened pitch had softened in the heat and lost its shape. Several of the half musket bullets had fallen loose. The fuse, a short length of slow match an inch long, was pressed over to one side and stuck into the pitch like the bent wick of a candle. Carefully he prised the fuse straight.

'Try to throw it over the gate! And good luck!' muttered Sharpe as he backed away. Hector brought the glowing end of the slow match across to the fuse and touched the two ends together. He saw the grenade's fuse begin to burn and, forcing himself to stay calm, started to count to ten very slowly. He stepped out from cover and as Watling had instructed, tossed the grenade, keeping his arm straight. The bomb flew through the air and, to his chagrin, thudded against the wall of the fort at least a foot beneath the top, dropped down, and lay on the road.

'Beware bomb!' he shouted and leaped back into shelter, pressing himself into a doorway. Several moments passed and nothing happened. Cautiously he peered out, and saw the grenade lying in the dust. He could not see any smoke rising from it. The device had failed to work. He fumbled in his satchel for a second grenade.

'Don't be in a hurry. Let's use our heads about this,' said Sharpe, who had reappeared beside him. 'You and Jacques follow me.'

He pushed open the door to the house and led the two of them inside. A buccaneer was already in the room, kneeling by the window and aiming his musket towards the fort. Sharpe looked up. The ceiling was made of narrow poles laid horizontally, above them a layer of palm fronds.

'There must be a way onto the roof,' Sharpe said. He crossed the room and pulled open the back door. 'Just as I thought, there's a ladder.' He began to climb its rungs with Hector and Jacques at his heels.

Emerging on the flat roof Hector found that he was level with the top of the wall of the fort just across the street. The roof itself was made of clay and tamped earth. Sharpe gripped his arm, holding him back. 'We don't want to be seen before we are ready, and we've got to get this right,' he said quietly.

Jacques had scrambled up beside them and was already selecting a grenade from his satchel.

'Compare your fuses, and make sure that both are the same length,' Sharpe advised. 'I'll light both the fuses so that the two of you can concentrate on the throw. When I give the word, step across the roof, it's no more than five paces, and hurl the bombs. Don't worry about hitting a precise target, just make sure they fall inside the fort. As soon as you've thrown your grenades, get back here and crouch down.'

Hector unwound the slow match from his wrist, gave it to Sharpe, and then picked out the better of his two remaining grenades. 'Are you ready?' Sharpe asked. Both men nodded, and their commander pressed the slow match to the fuses. They began to burn, the dull red glow steadily eating its way towards the gunpowder. But Sharpe appeared to ignore them. He was gazing out across the roof tops. As the seconds dragged past, Hector found himself sweating with apprehension. He could smell the acrid stench of the burning match.

Finally, and very softly, Sharpe said, 'Now!' With Jacques by his side, Hector started out across the flat roof. For one heart-stopping moment he felt the surface crumble beneath his weight, and thought he would fall through with the lit grenade still in his grasp. Then he was at the edge of the roof, overlooking the street. The top of the fort wall was no more than thirty feet away. Hector swung back his arm and threw the little bomb. It went in an arc over the fort wall, cleared it easily, and dropped out of sight. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jacques's grenade follow.

There was a musket shot and Hector felt a tug at his sleeve. A defender must have seen them and opened fire. Bending double, the two men scurried back to where Sharpe was waiting. 'Now we wait,' he said.

For what seemed like an age nothing happened. Then abruptly there was the sound of a detonation, followed by shouts of fear, then silence.

They waited another minute, but there was no further explosion. 'One bomb seems to have been enough,' said Sharpe. He cocked his head to one side, listening. 'We've given them something to think about.'

There was an anxious shout from below. Someone was calling 'Captain Sharpe! Captain Sharpe!' and a worried-looking buccaneer appeared at the rear of the building. He had a bloody rag wrapped around one hand.

'Who are you calling "Captain"? I'm just one of the company now!' exclaimed Sharpe, looking down.

'The general's dead!' cried out the newcomer. 'He was shot at the barricades. We need someone to lead us.'

'Really?' said Sharpe. 'I thought quartermaster Duill was second in command. Let him take over.'

'Duill has disappeared,' answered the man. 'No one can find him, and we're in a bad way in the town.' He was begging now. 'Captain, come back down to assist us.'

Sharpe descended the final rungs slowly and deliberately. 'Do all the men want me back in charge?'

'Yes, yes. The situation is very bad.'

Sharpe turned towards Hector and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his pale blue eyes. 'Hector, tell the men to abandon the attack on the fort and fall back.'

'We are too few,' the exhausted-looking buccaneer was saying. 'Every time we overrun one of their barricades and move forward, the Spaniards come in behind us and reoccupy the position they just lost. We can't spare anyone to look after all our prisoners. Many of them make their escape and rejoin the fight.'

They had reached the main square, and the extent of the raiders' difficulties was all too evident. The main force had fought its way into the heart of the town but the Spaniards had sealed off all the streets leading from the far side of the central square with piles of stone and rubble. They had placed sharpshooters where they could fire on anyone who tried to advance any further, and several buccaneers had been shot down as they tried to cross the open ground. Their bodies lay where they had fallen. Some two dozen of their comrades were now taking shelter in side alleys or crouching in doorways. Occasionally they fired towards the Spanish positions. A group of about twenty Spanish prisoners, clearly terrified, were lying face down on the ground watched over by a couple of wounded buccaneers. It was obvious that the attack had come to a standstill.

'Our wounded are in that church over there,' said their guide, pointing. 'Our surgeons are with them. They broke into an apothecary shop and took some medical supplies. But the longer we stay here, the bolder the Spaniards are becoming. They're moving up closer. It's becoming dangerous even to venture out into the open.'

He ducked as a musket ball struck the wall above his head. Somewhere in the distance a trumpet sounded.

Sharpe took stock of the situation. 'The Spaniards are bringing up reinforcements, and we can expect a sortie from the garrison in the fort when they are in position. Then we'll be caught in a pincer movement, and crushed. We've no choice but to make an orderly retreat while we are still able to do so.'

'What about our wounded in the church? We can't leave them!' said Hector.

Sharpe treated him to a sour smile. 'You're always worried about leaving someone behind, aren't you? As you are so concerned, I suggest you dash off and check on the situation in the church. See if any of the men can be evacuated. Then report back to me. Hurry!'

Hector swallowed hard. His throat was dry and he had a raging thirst. It occurred to him that no one had drunk anything that day. Nor had they eaten. 'Jezreel and Jacques, give me some covering fire!'

He removed his grenade satchel and laid it on the ground. He would have to cross thirty yards of open ground before he reached the portico of the church, and he could be halfway there before the Spanish musketeers realised what he was doing. He took a deep breath and burst out from cover.

As he sprinted across the plaza's flagstones, he expected a musket ball to strike him at any moment. But there was not a single shot and he crashed full tilt into the great wooden door. The heavy black iron handle was in his hand. He tugged the door open and threw himself inside.

After the blinding sunshine of the plaza, the interior of the church was so dark that he had to pause and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. In front of him the nave was a nightmare scene. All the church furniture — benches, carved wooden screens, a confessional, even the lectern — had either been roughly pushed to one side or overturned and smashed. At the far end the altar stood bare, stripped of its cross. Wall hangings had been torn down and were now spread out on the floor to serve as bedding on which lay wounded men. The place smelled of vomit and excrement. From outside still came the crack of musket shots but here in the half-darkness the sounds were moans, coughs and an occasional whimper of pain. Somewhere a man was cursing, softly and steadily, as if to distract himself from his suffering.

Hector looked around, trying to locate the surgeons. Someone was wearing a loose white cloak trimmed with gold and sitting on the step in front of the altar. He seemed to be unhurt. Hector went forward to speak with him. 'Are there any walking wounded?' he asked even as he realised that the seated figure was wrapped in the altar cloth. The man looked up. He was glassy-eyed and his breath stank of alcohol. 'Go look for yourself,' he mumbled. Appalled, Hector seized him by the shoulder and shook him. 'Where are the surgeons!' he shouted. Under his grip, Hector felt the limp and sagging movements of someone who was completely drunk. The man's head flopped back and forward loosely. 'The surgeons! Where are the surgeons?' Hector repeated angrily. The man hiccuped. 'Over there, waiting for a sermon,' he replied. He gave a tipsy laugh and waved vaguely towards the pulpit steps.

Lolling there was another man. He had a bottle in his hand and was clearly as intoxicated as his colleague. Hector recognised one of the surgeons who had worked alongside Smeeton and stayed on with the expedition. He was waving the bottle at Hector. 'Come and join us, young man!' he called out, slurring his words. 'Come and enjoy the finest fruits of the apothecary's skill. The medicine to cure every ailment.' He raised the bottle to his mouth, drained the last of its contents, and tossed it on the floor where it broke with a loud crash. 'That fool Watling is all piss and wind. A hotbrain who led us all into a death trap.' He wiped drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. 'We are the only ones who will get out of this alive,' he announced solemnly. 'We, the honoured gentlemen of the medical profession, are always welcome guests. The Spaniards will look after us. They need our skills. You were Smeeton's assistant, weren't you? So why don't you join us?' His knees gave way, and he sat back heavily on the pulpit steps.

Hector felt nausea rising within him, and a sense of betrayal. 'Won't you at least help the wounded get out of here?' he asked.

'Let them take their chances. Why should we risk our lives?' the surgeon retorted.

Hector made his way among the rows of wounded men.

The injuries inflicted by musket bullets were brutal. Several of the men on the floor appeared to be dead already, others were delirious or lying with their eyes closed.

Sick to his stomach, Hector found his way back to the door of the church. There was nothing he could do to help the wounded, and the longer he delayed, the more dangerous and difficult it would be for Sharpe to extricate the remainder of the buccaneers.

He eased the church door open and peered out through a narrow crack. Little seemed to have changed. His comrades were still pinned down, facing across the barricade, occasionally firing at the Spaniards on the far side of the plaza.

He darted out from the portico and set off at a dead run for the barricade. This time he jinked from side to side to distract the aim of the Spanish marksmen, and once again his luck held. He heard several musket shots, the smack of something which must have been a bullet striking the ground ahead of him. Then he was vaulting onto the barricade, and Jezreel was standing up to grasp him by the arm and drag him into cover.

'There's nothing to be done about the wounded. And the surgeons are too drunk to join us,' Hector blurted.

'Then we delay no longer!' said Sharpe briskly. 'Get the prisoners on their feet and bring them forward to the barricade. We fall back by the same route by which we entered the town. You, you and you . . .' He selected a dozen men. 'Stay here at the barricade. Each of you get behind one of the Spanish prisoners and use him as a shield. Put a gun muzzle to his spine, if necessary. As soon as the rest of us get back to the next barricade, we will give you covering fire. Then it's your turn to retreat, keeping the Spaniard between you and the enemy.'

There was a scramble to abandon the forward position. It was now well past noon, and the day was at its hottest.

As they retreated to the second abandoned barricade, Hector noticed a corpse with an orange handkerchief clenched in its fist. John Watling had been hit in the throat by a Spanish bullet and his shirt front was drenched with his blood. Duill, his second in command, was nowhere to be seen, and Hector presumed that the quartermaster had either also been killed or had fallen into the hands of the Spanish. Sharpe, who seemed to relish his renewed command, set the men to searching the corpses for spare cartridge pouches and bullet bags.

There was no respite from the Spanish counter-attack. As the buccaneers fell back street by street, their opponents kept pressing on, shooting down from the roof tops or suddenly appearing from lanes and passageways to fire and then slip away. The citizens of Arica knew the layout of their town and used that knowledge to their advantage. They paid no heed to their countrymen being used as human shields, and kept up their fire, killing or injuring several of their own people. If Sharpe had not been on hand to steady the buccaneers, their retreat could have become a panic-stricken flight.

Eventually the raiders were at the place where they had started - the barricade where they had first attacked the town in the light of dawn. Here Sharpe took a brief head count. Nearly one-third of the raiding force, some twenty-eight men, were missing. They were either dead or had been captured. Among those who now crouched exhausted in the shelter of the earthwork, eighteen had serious wounds. Everyone was dispirited, drooping with thirst and hunger.

'We'll be shot down like rabbits as we ascend the slope,' said Jacques despondently. 'The moment the Spaniards re-occupy this earthwork, it'll be like target practice for them.'

'Has anyone still got any grenades left?' Jezreel asked. Hector shook his head. He had left his satchel behind after his run to the church.

'I'm afraid I got rid of mine when we began the retreat,' said Jacques.

'What about Dan's grenades? They should be here somewhere,' suggested Hector. He remembered that the Miskito had left his satchel by the breastwork when he went up the hill to act as lookout. After a few moments of searching Hector spotted the bag tucked away in a corner.

He handed the satchel to Jezreel who brought out three grenades, then called out to Sharpe, 'Captain! Get going with the others. My friends and I will cover your retreat.'

Sharpe looked at the grenades and frowned. 'They're unreliable.'

'No matter. They will do the job.'

Sharpe did not need to be asked a second time. 'Come on!' he shouted to his men. 'Turn loose any prisoners. Back up the hill!' He turned to Jezreel. 'Is there nothing we can do?'

'Half a dozen men. Good shots. Place them half way up the slope where they have the range of the Spaniards. That might help.'

The buccaneers began their flight, stumbling wearily up the hill, some using their muskets as crutches, others helped along by comrades.

Jezreel started work on the grenades. He adjusted their fuses until he was satisfied, then buried them in the barricade a few paces apart. Looking over his shoulder to check that Sharpe and the main body of buccaneers were well on their way up the hill, he lit the three fuses and then shouted at his friends to turn and run.

The three friends scrambled back across the rough ground. Behind them came a flurry of shots, and Jacques stumbled and fell. Hector ran across to him while Jacques was struggling to stand up. He seemed dazed and blood was gushing from his head. He clapped a hand to his ear and brought it away. 'The bullet clipped my ear!' he exclaimed with a relieved grin. 'It's nothing.' There was an explosion from the barricade. The first of the grenades had detonated, throwing up a spurt of smoke and dirt. Several Spanish militiamen who had ventured into the gateway, dived back into shelter.

'Two more to go,' said Jezreel with a satisfied grunt.

Holding out a hand, he helped Jacques to stand upright, then put an arm around him and began to assist him up the hill. 'When I was in the fight game, there was a troupe of actors who used our ring as a stage between-times. When they needed to bring on or take off an actor, they had a hidden assistant who set off an explosion with lots of smoke and noise. It worked every time.'

_FIFTEEN

'It was a shambles!' Basil Ringrose was still fuming, his anger fuelled by the fact that he and his comrades had also very nearly fallen victim to the Spaniards. 'Two white smokes! I nearly took the boats right into Arica harbour. We would have been blown out of the water.'

He glared angrily at Sharpe who was standing by the lee

rail.

Hector watched the two men bicker. It was two months since the defeat at Arica, yet the panicked desperation of the withdrawal still provoked recriminations. He, Jacques and Jezreel had reached the ridge behind the town to find Sharpe and the others uprooting dry weeds and brushwood to make a signal fire. 'One white smoke,' someone was saying. 'Let's hope that the boat crews are quick about it. We have to get out of here before the Spaniards catch up with us.' The words were scarcely spoken when Dan, who had rejoined them, had said quietly, 'That's not our worry now.' He was looking back towards Arica. From the town were rising two thick columns of white smoke, reaching into the sky on that windless, scorching day and hanging there in false welcome. Dan had gone running to the shore to intercept Ringrose and the small boats before they were lured into the Spanish trap. Sharpe and the rest of the survivors had hobbled and limped behind him, half-dead of thirst and utterly spent. Troops of Spanish horsemen had harassed them all the way, then rolled rocks down the cliffs at them as they scrambled into the boats.

Back aboard Trinity, the men had divided into two camps, bitterly opposed: those who blamed Watling for the debacle and those who still detested Sharpe enough to resent serving under him again. After weeks of squabbling, a council had been held to decide the expedition's future. There was to be a simple vote: the majority would get to keep Trinity while the minority would receive the ship's launch and the canoes to do with them what they wanted. At the show of hands, seventy had chosen to keep on Sharpe as leader and forty-eight had been against. The losers had taken their share of the accumulated plunder and set out on the hazardous return voyage to Golden Island, intending to make the final leg of their journey back over the isthmus of Panama. Hector was sorry that William Dampier had gone with them, though he himself was in no hurry to return to the Caribbean now that he had given up his hopes of finding Susanna again. The longer he stayed away, the less likely he was to run across Captain Coxon. Hector had no doubt that Coxon remained a dangerous foe and would have his revenge if he ever had the chance.

Ringrose was speaking once more, a frown replacing his normally cheerful expression. 'I say that it was Duill who betrayed our signals to the Spanish. They must have taken him prisoner and tortured him.'

Sharpe shrugged. 'There's no way of knowing. What happened at Arica is in the past. Under my command we'll make no more shore landings against well-defended targets. We stick to what we do best - taking prizes at sea, and we cruise wherever there's the best chance to do so.'

Hector found himself wondering if he and his three friends had been wise to vote for Sharpe. Life aboard Trinity had quickly reverted to its former easy-going ways. Dice and cards had reappeared, shipboard discipline had grown slack, the men were irritable and slovenly. Only their care for their ship and their weapons was irreproachable. The men's clothing was falling into rags and they were often short of food, but they kept the tools of their trade — their muskets and blunderbusses — clean and smeared with seal fat against the salt air. Their cutlasses, swords and daggers were regularly sharpened and oiled. Their diligence for the ship was no less impressive. They experimented endlessly with improvements to their galleon's performance by adjusting the rake of the masts or the angle of the spars, and crewmen spent hour after hour seated on deck with needles and thread, working to shape new sails under the direction of the ship's sailmaker, or using marlin spikes and fids to mend and splice and tune the rigging.

Hector felt the deck tilt slightly beneath his bare feet. The warm breeze was strengthening. Beneath an overcast sky Trinity was running on a course parallel to the Peruvian coast, which was no more than a faint line on the horizon. As her captain had implied, her hunting ground was the broad strip of sea along which the coasting vessels travelled back and forth between the Peruvian ports. Here, only a week ago, the buccaneers had already taken one ship with 37,000 pieces of eight in chests and bags. Equally encouraging they had captured a government advice boat on its way to Panama with despatches. Hector had translated the official letters and it appeared that the Spanish authorities believed that all the buccaneers had left the South Sea. It meant that the coastal shipping might again be venturing out from their well-defended ports.

He sauntered forward to the bows where Jacques was taking his turn as lookout.

'Has the chase made any move to get away from us?' he asked. Since first light Trinity had been tracking a distant sail, and the gap between the two vessels had narrowed to less than a mile. The Spaniard had proved to be a merchant vessel of medium size and, judging from her smart paintwork, a ship that was making money for her owners.

'She's still plodding along. I doubt she suspects anything yet,' replied the Frenchman. He gave one of his sardonic grins. 'Bartholomew Sharpe is a past master in fakery. If we set too much canvas, they would be suspicious.'

Hector glanced up at the spars. Trinity was proceeding under plain sail as if she was an ordinary merchant ship going about her business, not a predator closing in on her victim.

'How long before they realise their mistake?'

'Perhaps another hour. Trinity has the lines of a locally built ship. That must reassure them more than our Spanish colours.'

'You're beginning to sound like a right sailor.'

'I've grown to appreciate this roving life,' Jacques answered, rubbing his cheek where his ex-galerien brand was now barely visible beneath his deep tan. 'It's better than scrabbling for an existence in the Paris stews.'

'Then it's lucky that our dice fell that way.'

Before the vote in the general council, the four friends had been undecided whether or not to support Bartholomew Sharpe. Jacques had suggested that they leave it to chance by throwing dice. If the number was high, they would vote in Sharpe's favour, a low number and they would side with Dampier and the other malcontents. The dice had shown a six and a four.

'That wasn't luck, as Jezreel and Dan already know,' Jacques confessed.

'What are you trying to say?'

'I didn't waste my time when I was nearly left behind on shore on Juan Fernandez. Do you remember those two dice that Watling flung into the bushes, the ones he took from Sharpe?'

'Were they the dice you used?'

'Yes, I searched for them because I thought they might come in handy one day. I knew they were loaded.'

'I don't remember you gambling against Sharpe.'

Jacques treated Hector to a look which told him that in many ways he was still very naive. 'I didn't. But I watched the pattern of his play. Did you ever wonder why the game the crew is so fond of is called Passage?'

'I think you're going to tell me.'

Jacques allowed himself a crafty smile. 'That's how the English pronounce - passe dix - "more than ten", its French name. The game was invented in France and there's little that I don't know about how to cheat at it.'

'So our captain is not the only one who knows all about fakery and deception,' Hector rejoined.

A movement aboard the Spanish vessel caught his eye. The crew were reducing sail in response to the strengthening of the wind. From the quarterdeck behind him came a low command. Sharpe was issuing orders.

'Do as they do, but take your time about it! The slower you are, the more ground we will gain,' he called.

No more than a dozen of Trinity's crew went to obey him. The rest of the buccaneers were hidden, either crouching behind the bulwarks or waiting below deck. A glimpse of so many men would instantly warn their prey that Trinity was not an innocent merchant vessel.

'Lynch! Come back here to the quarterdeck,' called Sharpe. 'I'll want you to address the Spaniards when we are within speaking distance.

Hector made his way back to the helm but his assistance was not needed. Half an hour later when the gap between the two ships was less than three hundred paces, the Spanish ship suddenly veered aside, there was the sound of a cannon shot, and a neat round hole was punched in Trinity's forecourse.

'All hands now!' shouted Sharpe. There was a surge of activity as the full complement of sail handlers sprang into action. Extra sails blossomed along the yards and Trinity accelerated forward, showing her true pace. Within moments she was ranging up to windward, rapidly overhauling her prey. Her best marksmen took their positions, some in the rigging, the others along the rail, and they moved unhurriedly, confident in their skill. By contrast there was a panicked flurry of action on the deck of the Spanish vessel. Men were hastily clearing away loose deck clutter and erecting makeshift firing positions. It was evident that Trinity's victim was utterly unused to violent confrontation.

Another bang from the chase's cannon, and again the shot was wasted. It threw up a spout of water as it plunged into the sea well short of its mark. The wind had raised a short rolling sea, making it difficult for the Spanish gun crew to aim their weapon accurately.

'Seems they have only a single cannon aboard,' commented Sharpe calmly, 'and their gunners need some practice.'

Trinity's musketeers had not yet fired a single shot, but were waiting patiently for their target to come within easy range. Samuel Gifford, the quartermaster, had warned them that they were not to waste ammunition. The ship's supply of lead for making bullets had been badly depleted by the raid on Arica.

There was a ragged scatter of firing from the Spanish ship, and a spent musket ball struck Trinity's mainsail, dropped onto the deck, and rolled towards the scuppers. Jezreel reached down and picked it up. The bullet was still warm. 'Here, Jacques, you might return the compliment,' he said, tossing the bullet to his friend.

Bartholomew Sharpe was watching the gap between the two ships carefully, gauging the distance and the speed of the two vessels. 'Hold her just there,' he told the helmsman when Trinity was level with the Spanish ship, a hundred yards away and upwind, close enough for the buccaneers to pick their individual targets. The figure of the Spanish captain was clearly visible. He was darting back and forth among his men, obviously encouraging them to stand firm. 'You would have thought they would see sense and surrender,' Sharpe muttered to himself. Hector remembered how Sharpe had tricked Jezreel into shooting an innocent priest, and was surprised by the captain's reluctance to press home the attack. The captain, it seemed, was capable of compassion as well as savagery.

The Spanish had once again reloaded their single cannon and this time the shot struck Trinity amidships. Hector felt the hull quiver, but a moment later the carpenter came up on deck to report that no damage had been done. The cannonball had been too light to penetrate the heavy planking.

'Open fire! Clear their decks!' ordered Sharpe after a pause, and the musketry began. Almost immediately the figures on the deck of the Spanish ship began to fall. Their captain was among the first to be hit. He was making his way towards the entrance to his cabin at the break of the poop deck when a musket ball struck him for he suddenly pitched sideways and lay still. Seeing their commander go down, the two steersmen abandoned the helm and ducked into cover. The Spanish vessel, no longer under control, slowly began to turn up into the wind and lose speed.

'Close to fifty paces,' Sharpe told his steersman, and Trinity moved into even easier range for her musketeers. Trinity possessed the advantage in height, and her marksmen were shooting downwards on their targets now. In a short time not a single Spanish seaman was visible. They had all fled below hatches, leaving only their dead and badly wounded on the deck. Their vessel slowed to a halt, the wind spilling from her sails, the canvas flapping uselessly.

'Call on them to surrender,' Sharpe ordered Hector, handing him a speaking trumpet. 'Say we will do them no harm.'