Admiral (40 page)

“He’s not going to make it,” Saxby exclaimed suddenly, uttering the first words Ned had heard him speak for an hour or two.

A couple of minutes later the leading Spanish ship, which had been sagging across the anchorage to the northern side, unable to sail close enough to the wind to fetch the inshore end, suddenly swung round to starboard as she tacked, her flapping sails making her look like an impatient dowager bothered by a beggar. Her next astern, trying to follow in her wake but a good fifty yards more to leeward, tacked almost immediately and Ned could nearly hear her captain’s sigh of relief.

“That one nearly hit the reef,” Saxby growled. “Daren’t tack before the leader even if it means going aground.”

“Look at those jibs flogging,” Diana said contemptuously. “We tacked faster than that, didn’t we Aurelia?”

The French girl laughed but admitted: “Not at first!”

The leading Spanish ship’s tack meant she was now heading for the
Griffin
, the buccaneer ship anchored nearest to San Gerónimo, while the second Spanish ship, now sailing towards the
Peleus
, made Thomas grunt: “I hope he’s not as clumsy with his next tack!”

Now the third Spanish ship tacked, followed by the fourth and then the fifth.

Ned again trained the perspective glass on the leading ship.

“D’you see anything special, Ned?” Thomas asked.

“No, just three or four men in gaudy uniforms standing aft, big plumes in their hats. Must be soldiers… The leading ship has six guns a side, as you can see, but they’re not run out and don’t have crews standing by them… Looks as though they’ll tack over to the north shore again and then back, rounding up in front of the jetty. They’re preparing to anchor…”

“Sounds too good to be true,” Thomas muttered as Ned handed him the glass.

Thomas looked from ship to ship and then lowered the perspective. “Our men in Jensen’s boats must be almost barbecued by now!”

Most of the boats at the jetty had armed buccaneers crouching in the bottom, out of sight from the Spanish ships. But to keep themselves below the gunwales they had to crawl beneath thwarts or hide under oars which were stowed on one side to make a shelter, both from Spanish eyes and the sun. The Spanish were not likely to notice that the weight caused several of the boats to list slightly because they were secured to the jetty at random, the bow of one butting the stern of another, canoe next to a long boat, like a dozen dung beetles nestling beside a choice piece of carrion.

“If the Spanish ships are bringing back the Portobelo garrison from its Jamaica expedition,” Thomas commented, “the soldiers must be below: there’s no sign of ’em on deck.”

“Wouldn’t be, would there?” Saxby murmured. “Get in the way of the sailors while they’re short tacking.” He was obviously speaking from past experience, from a time he served in the King’s ships.

“No, s’pose not,” Thomas said. “Never been to sea with a few score landsmen. Batten the beggars below – yes, it makes sense, but I don’t envy them in this heat. Means the Dons aren’t suspicious, though!”

The leading Spanish ship was tacking again and Thomas stared with the perspective. “Ah,” he said appreciatively, “everyone’s waving to each other. The returning garrison must be impressed with the lads they left behind, capturing all these ships! Secco – goodness me, the hat with plumes that he took! He’s standing aft in the
Peleus
and just swept it off in a salute to someone in that leading Spanish ship. Cunning fellow, he did it in such a way that his face was hidden!”

The remaining four ships were still on the other tack and now the second followed the leader.

“Lubberly scoundrel,” Thomas grumbled. “I quite thought he was going to ram the
Peleus
, or get into stays and drift aboard her.”

Ned sensed rather than saw that Aurelia, Diana and Saxby were watching him out of the corner of their eyes waiting for the signal. Well, they’re going to have to wait: although the anchorage was narrower at this end of the harbour, the wind was lighter, partly shut out by the mountains and high hills. From the top of Triana the ships looked like five fat fish porters wheeling their barrows up a narrow lane: there was no grace in the curve of the sails and the vessels’ sheer lines could not be seen: looking down on the decks from this height, the hulls resembled boxes, vaguely rounded at one end, and the masts seemed to be vertical poles from which laundry was hung out to dry.

No guns loaded and run out… “That Spanish commander has put down San Gerónimo as an accident in the magazine,” Ned said to no one in particular.

“And he’s getting ready to congratulate the young captain he left behind – the one whose hat Secco fancied.”

Aurelia said: “I wonder if they captured Jamaica.”

“If they have, we must look for another base,” Diana commented. “That would be a pity. I was beginning to like Jamaica. Baiting General Heffer gave Ned and Thomas something to do.”

“Not Tortuga though,” Aurelia said. “That place depresses me, I don’t know why. ‘Opresses’, I mean: I feel it is evil. Like Marigot Bay in St Lucia and Cumberland Bay in St Vincent; it has an aura of wickedness.
Triste,
too.”

Ned sighed. “Can you two old ladies save your gossip for another time?”

“We’re not gossiping,” Aurelia said, speaking louder than normal because she was angry with herself for rambling on thoughtlessly while Ned was trying to concentrate.

The leading Spanish ship tacking back from the north shore would pass close across the end of the jetty. Or, Ned corrected himself, she would if she did not round up and anchor. Would the second ship anchor abreast of her or astern? The question was important, because almost certainly the rest of the ships would follow, and he pictured the imaginary box into which the falcons would fire.

The perspective, at this close range, showed up the group of men standing on the leading ship’s afterdeck. He recognized three uniforms as army and two as navy. A group of seamen on the fo’c’sle were waiting for the order to anchor; another group were at the halyards, while more stood ready to furl the sails the moment they were lowered.

The men in armour on board the
Peleus
and
Griffin
waved cheerfully at the passing ships, and Ned was sure he heard some shouted Spanish. Trust Secco, who seemed to be taking a devilish delight in tricking his own countrymen.

A man without a country… Ned remembered that he and Thomas had been two such men until very recently, until Cromwell’s death and the Restoration. But what about Secco? What had to happen in Spain to reconcile him? Perhaps his quarrel was with those who enforced the law, rather than those that enacted it. Ned suspected, though, that Secco’s quarrel was with the church – which, in Spain, meant the king. His Most Catholic Majesty, Carlos the Second, had his descriptive title for a reason.

The headsails were flapping, the ship’s bow was heading for the jetty, and she was slowing down as though grounding on soft mud. A splash and the anchor cable snaked out as the ship slowly gathered sternway and the cable straightened its curve. Nicely anchored, a stationary target like a tethered wild boar.

By now the second ship was luffing up on its leader’s beam and a couple of minutes later her anchor plunged into the water. She was followed by the third, but the fourth and fifth, deciding that there was not room for them, came in and anchored astern of the first and second vessels.

Thomas nodded as the fifth anchor splashed into the water and glanced over at Ned. “That was what you predicted, wasn’t it?”

“Guessed, not predicted.
Hoped
, to be honest.”

Ned turned round and looked across the courtyard of Triana to the battlements on the southern side, where three cannon faced out across the swamp. There was only one buccaneer at each gun, and when they saw Ned looking across at them they waved their linstocks, reassuring him that they were ready.

How often, Ned wondered, could one see a cannon with only one man standing by it? Still, the three guns had earlier been loaded and run out, and those men had then gone off to help with the falcons, leaving only the trio behind. There was no aiming to be done; the Dons would never see the spurt of smoke when they fired because they were aimed over the swamp, nor would they be hit by a roundshot because the guns were loaded only with a powder charge. The Dons would only hear them firing – and for many of them it might be the last thing they did hear, because it was to be the signal for the falcons to fire.

Even now, Ned knew, the falcons were aimed, three at each of the first four ships and two at the fifth one. Each gun captain would be holding his linstock, occasionally blowing on the slow-match to ensure it was burning well, and waiting for the guns of Triana. As the ships swung slightly with a wind change, or because they settled back on their anchor cables, the aim of the falcons would be changed; just a degree or two one way or another would be enough.

Ned took one more look at the ships with the perspective. Each was anchored but sails were being furled. The army officers were walking away from the afterdecks as though there was nothing else happening that interested them. Surely the soldiers would be allowed up on deck soon?

Silver measured by the hundredweight, a year’s income for Spain… The timing of this next move, Ned reflected, decides whether it goes into the pockets of His Most Catholic Majesty or the buccaneers.

The next move was
now
. He turned round, held up his right arm to point across at the three guns, and saw the men reach out with the linstocks. The sudden movement made his left arm feel as though it had been run through with a sword, and as his head swam from the pain there was a deep cough as the first cannon fired, the blam echoing back and forth among the hills and mountains, rising in pitch; the second crashed out and then the third, one echo overtaking another, bouncing among the mountains and valleys like invisible roundshot.

In the circle of the perspective glass he saw everyone on the leader’s ship, officers and seamen, freeze and look up towards Triana, but seeing nothing and bewildered by the noise now echoing in from different directions, they were now staring at each other – and, he realized, the first of the soldiers had been allowed on deck and were running up the hatchways in alarm, betraying the landsman’s fear of being trapped below in a ship.

He swept the perspective round the shore just in time to see the flash and puff of smoke as one after another the falcons gave their sharp bark, several of them shaking the bushes and knocking over the huts that concealed them as they rolled back in recoil. The buccaneers leapt out of hiding with spongers, rammers, powder and more bags of langrage.

He saw puffs of what seemed to be dust sweeping the decks of the ships and did not realize it was the langrage until he saw Spaniards falling, ropes parting and showers of sparks showing where metal ricocheted off metal.

There was a sudden silence as the last falcon fired but he could see the buccaneers were not rushing: each man moved decisively, never walking a step more than needed.

“Good shooting,” Saxby said. “If they can hit with the first round, they should do better now…”

Ned watched the buccaneers sponging out the guns, loading powder, wad, bag of langrage and another wad, and aiming the gun again as the second captain carefully poured priming powder from a flask into the vent.

Then from one gun after another all the men jumped back out of the way and the gun captains, like magicians delicately waving wands, reached out with the linstocks and dabbed the spluttering slow-match on to the little pool of gunpowder piled over the vent. There was a sudden tiny spurt of flame from the vent as the burning match ignited the powder and a moment later each gun coughed a great spurt of yellow and black oily smoke and once again leapt back in recoil.

Ned saw a large group of soldiers standing beside a hatchway on the leader’s ship fall as though the deck had collapsed beneath them, and he moved the perspective to the second ship just in time to see the langrage cutting down more soldiers as though an invisible scythe was at work. Yet more men were still coming up the hatchways, pushing aside the bodies in their panic-stricken rush to get out in the daylight.

By now the guns were again being sponged out with wet mops to extinguish any burning residue, then loaded again. After the third round of langrage had been fired they switched to solid shot, and after firing three of them the gun captains stood at the rear of each falcon and looked up towards Ned: they had carried out their orders: three of langrage, three of roundshot and stop.

Ned now watched Jensen’s boats at the end of the jetty. Suddenly they were full of movement, seeming from this height and distance to be the brown seedpods of some exotic plant and crawling with maggots. Two or three at at a time, they jerked away from the jetty, sprouting oars or paddles like pond insects unfolding legs, and were rapidly rowed or paddled towards the five Spanish ships.

“Like water beetles,” Thomas commented. “And they’re keeping well spread out, too. Ah, look the Dons have woken up!”

Ned trained the perspective on the commander’s ships and could see soldiers still rushing up from below, but these ran to the ship’s side, clutching a musket in one arm and dragging a wooden rest with the other.

They lined up along the bulwark and Ned watched them go through the ritual of loading. Resting the musket on its butt, muzzle uppermost, each man took one of the wooden “Apostles” hanging from the bandolier across his chest, removed the cap, and poured the powder down the barrel. Then he took a wad from a pocket, pushed it into the muzzle and with the rammer drove it down, then took a shot from the bag also slung from the bandolier, wrapped it in a piece of cloth, and rammed that home.

More than two minutes had passed and none of the muskets was ready to fire, but Jensen’s boats and canoes were approaching fast, surging forward under oars or paddles, each making a bow wave like a chevron in the water.

Ned saw Spanish officers in beplumed hats gesturing at the musketeers, obviously trying to hurry them (nothing, he noted with satisfaction, slowed men down more than having an hysterical officer shouting at them).