The Corsaire's Mistress

A Chapter by Sean

First chapter

The Corsaire’s Mistress

Chapter One

In 1492 Christopher Columbus sailed off the edge of the known world. Five weeks later he and his starving crew staggered through the surf onto a white coral beach. They planted a fluttering red and gold royal standard in the sand. Columbus claimed the land " which he assumed to be part of China " on behalf of the king and queen of Spain.

Explorers who came later discovered that the land was not China after all, but part of a vast and mysterious new continent. Cruel and warlike adventurers with little to their name but a sharp Toledo steel sword and a horse followed the early explorers. In small wooden sailing ships they risked the dangerous ocean crossing and landed in the new world with their horses, swords and armour. Spain’s ruthless conquistadors ransacked and plundered empires that overflowed with more gold and silver than anyone had imagined existed. They sent the vast treasures back to Spain. The new world’s riches elevated Spain from a third-rate power into the mightiest nation on earth. She spent much of her new wealth on fleets of warships and armies of soldiers. Her firepower dominated the oceans and her armies swept across Europe. Inside a single generation the Catholic monarch of Spain gained a stranglehold over the western world. Spain’s borders were extended far beyond the Iberian Peninsula to the windswept coast of the North Sea. Spains enemies had no access to the flow of treasure from the New World and they could not match Spain’s military power. The flow of gold and silver from America made Spain powerful and that flow seemed to be unstoppable. It gushed like a river of precious metal, shining bars of silver and gold, glistening doubloons of gold and sparkling silver pieces of eight. The river was born as a trickle from secret mines high in the snow-covered Andes, where thousands of native slaves laboured and died in the darkness of the underground caverns as they prised the yellow and white metal ore from solid rock. The metal was smelted and minted, stamped and recorded by Spanish officials before being taken on the backs on llamas down from the snow-swept mountains, across wind-lashed desert plains to seaports on the dusty coast of the newly-conquered land they called Peru. Heavy-laden galleons flying the red and gold flags of Spain wallowed along the mist-shrouded coast, hauling the precious cargo northwards with the prevailing winds around the thousand-mile curve of the continent’s shoulder. They sailed until they reached the legendary Pearl Islands, where it was said a man only had to reach his hand into the sea to find glistening jewels. From there it was less than a day’s sail to the steaming tropical city of Panama. Here the new continent was at its narrowest and only 12 Spanish leagues separated the Pacific Ocean from the Atlantic. The ships dropped their anchors off Galleon Island and at high tide flat-bottomed barges floated the treasure over coral reefs to the wharfs of Panama City. Royal officials from the Contaduria counted and recorded each bar and coin. Black slaves who had been dragged in chains from Africa then loaded the treasure into mule packs for the short land journey across the isthmus. Each mule carried 300 pounds in weight " packs containing three gold or silver 50 pound bars balanced on each side, or the equivalent weight in bags of coin, held together by a wood and leather frame. The mules were organised into long trains each of 50 animals. Escorted by armed troops, the mule trains were driven along a mountain trail that led northwards to the Caribbean. This was the Camino Real " the Royal Road, so named because the road was the personal property of the King of Spain. Most of the king’s road was little more than a muddy track cut through dense mountainous jungle. The trail edged along the side of rugged crags, crossed torrential rivers and circled around crocodile-infested swamps. The mules plodded, slid and stumbled along the route, goaded by naked African drivers who encouraged the animals with cruel whips. After a week of toil they emerged from the jungle at a ramshackle collection of buildings set at the mouth of a green river that emptied into a half-moon Caribbean bay. The settlement was Nombre de Dios. The muleteers whipped the animals’ thin backs and organised them into a long line in front of the stone-built treasure house. Under the watchful eye of the royal guard the heavy packs were unloaded and the treasure was once again counted and recorded, this time by the zealous officials of Nombre de Dios. Then it was stored in another royal treasure-house to await loading onto the galleons of the fleet. The fleet carried the treasure to sea once again, running the gauntlet of hidden reefs, squalls and sudden deadly hurricanes as they wallowed north-eastwards across the Atlantic to Seville.

The Spanish guarded their sparkling river of treasure jealously and no enemy had succeeded in attacking it. But a tough young band of adventurers was determined to try. To the Spanish they were known by the derogatory term Corsair. To the English they were Privateers, and the bravest of them were led by a stocky thirty year old Devon sea captain called Francis Drake, and he had christened the small muddy settlement of Nombre de Dios the ‘Treasure House of the World’.

April 1573

Guillaume le Testu had greased his sword with fat from the belly of a wild boar that the Cimaroons had slaughtered the night before. There was no tell-tale rasp when he drew it from its worn leather scabbard. The blade was expensive Damascus steel and during spare hours on the long sea-voyage from Cherbourg he had honed and polished it to a razor’s edge. The yard long wicked blade glittered in the gloom of the jungle trees. He slowly raised the blade so that its tip gently brushed the Cimaroon’s back. “Would you dare betray me?” he whispered. His voice was hoarse and dangerous. The Frenchman’s skin was burned black from the sun. Ragged sailcloth clothes hung loosely on a wiry, thin frame. His long black hair was tarred and tied with a dirty ribbon into a pigtail. Gold rings gleamed in his earlobes. His bearded face was a mass of scar tissue from old wounds and his eyes were black and small and squinted from long years in the tropical sun. He breathed deeply, sucking in air that was so humid it seemed almost liquid. It was heavy with the sweet scent of decay that rose from the rotting jungle vegetation. Through narrowed eyes he stared hard at the Cimaroon, anticipating the black man’s reaction to his challenge. The sword tip hovered between the Cimaroon’s shoulder blades. He waited for the Cimaroon to move, to make some aggressive gesture that would give him an excuse to push the blade into the man’s back. He knew it would pierce his ribcage as easily as it would cut through a silk handkerchief. The Cimaroon stood rock-still. When the reaction did not come the Frenchman jerked his wrist and the tip of the blade flicked upwards with a hiss. Still the Cimaroon made no move. Then after a pause he turned and his dark eyes met the Frenchman’s gaze. The Frenchman saw no fear. He was disappointed and spat onto the ground. The Cimaroon was tall and well-muscled. His head was shaven and criss-crossed with ceremonial scars. His skin was decorated with tattoos and around his neck hung a string of jaguar teeth. He was naked except for a cloth belt and the short hunting bow that he carried on his back.

Somewhere in the thick tangle of forest an animal screamed and the sound was like that of a man stretched on the rack. Le Testu’s eyes flickered at the sound and the Cimaroon darted like a coiled viper. With his forearm he pushed the sword blade wide and then lunged upwards with an iron-tipped arrow that had suddenly appeared in his hand. The Frenchman jerked back but felt a sting as the skin split where the arrowhead brushed it. The Cimaroon leapt onto him and the men wrestled chest to chest. Blood ran into Le Testu’s eyes. He smashed the weighted hilt of his sword into the Cimaroon’s back. The long blade was useless at such close quarters and keeping a grip on the sword made it difficult to use his hands. He tried to smash the hilt into the Cimaroon’s skull but the black man held him fast. They scrabbled on the muddy ground and the Cimaroon’s calloused bare feet gripped better than the Frenchman’s worn leather sea-boots and with a grunt the Cimaroon thrust the Le Testu back. The Frenchman fell onto into the undergrowth and dropped his sword. The Cimaroon kicked the blade out of reach and leapt onto the Frenchman’s chest. He held the iron-tipped arrow high and let out a scream of defiance but instead of plunging the arrow into the fallen man’s throat he slowly wiped it in the Frenchman’s hair and rolled to his feet. Le Testu pulled himself up, breathing in gasps. He clung to a tree for support. Then he smiled and the sea-knife gleamed in his hand. He lunged, feinted and slashed at the black man. He held the blade low and slashed right and left at the Cimaroon’s guts, aiming to disembowel. The black man edged backwards. He was wary of the blade. He jabbed with his arrow but Le Testu met the blow with his knife and sent the iron arrowhead flying into the trees. The Frenchman grinned. He was murderous with a knife at close range and now he could see that the black man was unarmed. With a snarl he feinted towards the Cimaroon’s belly, then deftly reversed his grip on the knife and aimed a killing upwards slash at the black man’s unprotected throat. When he should have felt the grating resistance of the knife sliding over neck vertebrae and the hot spurt of arterial blood on his hand he felt himself wrapped in powerful arms and hoisted off his feet.

“Stop that nonsense there! Will, put the damned Frenchman down!” A savage English voice boomed through the forest and a short stocky seaman emerged from the trees, his bearded face glowering with anger. He wore faded seamans’ rags like the rest of the band that emerged on his heels from the trees but on his head was a feathered cap that identified him as a ship’s Captain. He was covered from head to toe in mud and sweat but there was no mistaking the fire in his blue eyes and the authority in his voice.

“Aye, Captain,” said Will Penver, the stocky boatswain of the Pasha, the Devon-built ship in which they had cruised the coast of the Spanish Main for these long months. He reluctantly lowered Le Testu to the ground. “French dog,” he muttered under his breath so the Captain wouldn’t hear, but the Frenchman would. “Don’t seem right, proper Englishmen allying ourselves with you French scum. Should have let you starve when we had the chance. Now sheathe that blade, my love, or I’ll slit your gizzard with it”. Will was built like a beer barrel in a Plymouth alehouse and his muscled arms were the size of hams. His young face was sunburned and bearded. He looked like he could easily have pulled Le Testu apart limb from limb but he just winked and grinned at the Frenchman.

Le Testu gave him an evil look but said nothing. He picked up his sword from where it had fallen and wiped it on his sleeve. “Merde,” he swore " but sheathed his weapons.

The English Captain turned to the black man and bowed deeply, “My apologies, Bayano my friend,” he said, “Our new companions sometimes have difficulty distinguishing allies from enemies.” Bayano the Cimaroon said nothing and licked the blood from his hands. His black eyes stared without expression at the Frenchman.

Le Testu scowled, “Can you find the path back from this pit of hell, mon capitaine?” he asked. He wiped a trickle of blood and sweat from his face and gestured at the jungle that surrounded them. It circled them like an impenetrable green curtain. Monstruosuly large trees blocked out the sun and it was impossible to tell north from south or east from west. They had been walking for hours, but had no idea how far they had come for the path constantly twisted and doubled back on itself as it climbed in and out of gorge after tree-choked gorge and crossed and re-crossed river after river. Whether it was the same river, or a series of different rivers was impossible to know. They all looked the same " fast flowing shallow water tumbling over rocks and small waterfalls. “I am no mean navigator but here I am lost. These savages can leave us to starve in this god-dammed wilderness, or lead us to be trapped by their damned Spaniard masters”.

The Cimaroon understood some French because roving bands of corsairs from that nation had roamed on his land these last five years and more. He despised them because they were cruel to his people and he hated them almost as much as he hated the Spaniards. Now he sucked his teeth and spat in anger but still said nothing. The only white man he trusted was Drake of the tribe called Englishmen because Drake treated him like a man and a chief of equal status. In the deep forest the unseen animal screamed again and a flock of parrots clattered noisily though the jungle canopy high overhead. The Captain had adventured with Bayano and his tribe for long months across the width of the rugged jungle-covered isthmus in pursuit of Spanish gold and the two men trusted each other like brothers.

Drake shook his head at the Frenchman, “No need for any of that nonsense. If the blacks had wished us harm, they have had many opportunities before now. My company has travelled many leagues in this land with Bayano and his fellows and have found them to be honourable. You need have no fear of our native allies, mon brave. Rather fear the Spaniard dons, for they will certainly remove your guts if they should have the opportunity, and shorten you by the length of your head.” He chuckled, his temper cooling as quickly as it had risen. “Now, everyone, back to your places and keep the noise down unless you want to die with a Spanish rope around your neck, or worse, in one of their damned Inquisition fires.”

Le Testu strode angrily through the mud to where his own men, a band of tough Cherbourg corsairs, gathered in a small clearing made by a fallen tree. Will Pensver grinned after him, made an obscene gesture with his hand, and then trotted to his place amongst the rest of Drake’s crewmen. He was one of the only fifteen Englishmen left alive on the fever coast, that together with a few others they had left aboard their ships were the only survivors of the year-long voyage to the Spanish Main. Of those who had set out from Plymouth more than half were now dead and their corpses lay buried under the sand on the small coral Sabella islands that shimmered in the heat like jewels in the blue-green tropic sea.

The Captain spoke quietly to Will. “Keep an eye on the Frenchies, but for God’s sake remember that we are allies in this adventure. We depend on them, and they on us. Testu and his men owe us their lives for we gave them food and water when their ship had none, but as soon as we end this venture I will be glad to see them depart.”

Bayano squatted on his haunches and wiped a bead of sweat fom his face.

“We are close to the Spanish Road,” he said. He pointed through the trees towards and area of high ground. “That way, beyond the hill, is the trail the Spanish mule trains use to move their treasure.”

The column of English and French raiders picked up their weapons and bags of food and made their way forward. They crossed a shallow stream at the bottom of a gorge and began to climb the slope in front of them. It was steep and muddy and they grasped at trees to pull themselves up, carefully avoiding those whose trunks were covered in spikes and thorns. The top of the hill revealed itself to be a long ridge. Bayano touched Drake on the shoulder and put his finger to his lips. He pointed to the valley ahead and nodded.

had approached so close to the king’s road that the Captain swore they would hear the mule trains soon. He directed the men to move silently towards the ambush site. They formed a line in the tangled undergrowth just below a shallow ridge. Behind them the jungle was a dense green curtain, alive with biting insects, shrieking birds and mysterious unseen beasts. In front of them a steep grassy slope led down to a river that had carved out a deep valley. Its waters flowed cool and green and its course meandered over a wide pebble bed. It had not rained for weeks and the river was shallow. Sweat ran down the men’s faces and the morning sun burned their skin as it rose in the cloudless sky.

“I could kill for a mouthful of that water,” said Tom Bowyer. The men’s throats were dry and the river’s cool clear water was inviting.

But the Captain’s command was fierce. “Everyone stay in their places and lie flat! And silence! No man is to stir until I give the word, or by God I will spill that man’s guts!”

Will Pensver was glad of the rest. He and his companions were bone tired. It had been a long march through the jungle from the wave-lashed cove where they had left the boats and where, God willing, they would find them again. They prayed that the cove would remain undiscovered by the patrolling Spanish boats of the Guarda Costa. Their boats had landed at midnight, using the rolling ocean swells that were driven by strong northerly winds to help push them towards the shore. The full moon that flashed out and then just as quickly disappeared behind scudding clouds had briefly illuminated deadly sharp coral heads and raging surf. They had a blue-water seaman’s terror of a rocky shore and their screams were drowned by the crash of foaming breakers. Just when it seemed they would be dashed on the rocks a blink of moonlight showed them the narrow passage through the reef. The Captain hauled on the tiller and they hung on as a breaking wave picked them up, hurled them forward through the gap and spat them out on the other side. Once inside the reef they had found themselves on a calm lagoon and the boats sliced easily through the night-dark water until they crunched into coral sand. The raiding party had splashed ashore through knee-deep water with their weapons and sacks of food and then shoved the boats back out to sea. “Good luck, lads,” called one of the rowers as he heaved at an oar, “See you in four days! But we’ll only pick you up if you can pay for your passage in Spanish gold!” The French rowers called ‘au revoir’ to their men. The oar strokes created small explosions of silvery green phosphorescence in the still water of the lagoon. Then the boats were swallowed by the darkness and the small party of raiders was alone on the enemy’s coast. The small band of lightly armed English and Frenchmen made ready to take on the empire of Spain. They silently prayed for their mates who had to brave the reef again, this time pulling against the surf, and then row hard against the wind to the headland beyond which the Pacha lay hidden at anchor. They prayed especially that the boats would return for them and that they would not be abandoned on this hostile coast - for that would mean certain death. The Spaniards would delight in finding stranded enemies to torture upon the rack and later burn at the stake as Protestant heretics.

The French corsairs, a tough and grizzled bunch led by an evil-looking captain, shook hands with the Englishmen. “We teach you how to find Spanish gold,” one grinned, showing rotten teeth, “You learn from us!”

“Right you are, c**k,” said Will Pensver. “Now f**k off out of it afore you get my fist in your ugly French face.”

Bayano and his company of Cimaroons emerged from the forest. They greeted the Englishmen like brothers but stared warily at the French. The Cimaroons were black slaves brought from Africa who had managed to escape from their hated Spanish masters and who now lived wild and free in the remotest parts of the jungle. They roamed from their secret villages to attack the Spaniards whenever they could find them, enacting bloody revenge for their kidnapping and enslavement. They had allied themselves with the Captain and his men over a year before, when Drake had first arrived on the shore of Golden Castile, as the Spaniards called Panama. They had seen with their own eyes how the English fought the Spaniards to the death and how they did not treat the black men like animals. However friendly they were with the English, they did not extend the same warmth to the Frenchmen. “We are not allied with that nation,” Bayano took Drake aside and advised him quietly, “We do not trust them and they are as cruel to us as to the Spanish.”

“I understand, but know that we are all allies in this venture,” the Captain had replied, “because unfortunately our own numbers are now too few to carry away all that we seek.”

“You desire to carry away the metals of the Spaniards?”

“Yes we do, my friend, and with your help, as much as we can carry!”

“I still do not understand why you value these metals. Gold and silver are soft and have no value. They cannot be made into sharp blades. No good for hunting. No good for killing. They serve only for pretty decoration. They are the metals of girls and women! A man’s metal is iron. Black iron! With iron a man can make sharp blades and arrow-heads! A man must risk death to capture iron, but I do not understand why he would travel far from his home and risk death to capture soft women’s metal.”

Drake laughed and slapped Bayano on the back. “It is a fair question, a fair question indeed my friend! You shall have much black iron. You can have all that we capture from the Spanish, and also our own iron when we leave. We will be fine content with the soft womanly metals for in my land they make a man powerful!”

Bayano grinned and danced. “We will hunt and kill Spaniards with iron. My warriors will rejoice. You shall have much soft metal for their stinking caravans cross my land daily and they are heavy laden with womanly packs for you.”

That night they had discussed their plan to ambush a Spanish mule train. They roasted a wild boar that the Cimaroons speared in the forest and drank sweet water fresh from a jungle river. Then in the hour before dawn they picked up their weapons and packs and left the coast to begin the long march into the interior where they would set the ambush. The Cimaroon guides led the way. A vanguard of natives went ahead to break a rough trail through the solid wall of tangled vegetation. The European raiders and their black companions followed. The jungle floor was deep red mud that sucked at their feet. They slid into deep gorges, waded fast-flowing rivers and clambered up steep, muddy slopes. Everywhere was covered in a wild thorny tangle of vegetation that caught their feet, ripped their clothes and skin and scratched at their faces. Huge towering trees blocked out the light so they walked in semi-darkness, even when the sun was at its zenith.

Will Pensver slashed through the undergrowth, using his steel cutlass to hack at the tangled vines and creepers that grabbed his ankles and trapped his body. His limbs were streaked with blood and his exposed skin was a swollen mess of insect bites and stings. As he stepped over a fallen log a Cimaroon roughly pushed him aside. “What in God’s name?” he swore and shook a huge fist at the black man. The Cimaroon motioned him to be still and pointed at the ground with the tip of his spear. The viper was curled in the roots of the fallen tree and its brown and yellow chequered scales blended so perfectly with the colours of the jungle floor that it was practically invisible. Its ugly head was the size and shape of an iron lance-head and it was coiled and poised to strike. Its tongue flickered and its tail made an urgent clicking sound. The Cimaroon motioned Will to get out of the way and then he slowly brought his spear up, his eyes fixed on the snake. Then he let out a quick high-pitched scream and smashed the spear into the snake. It instantly struck and splattered the blade with bright yellow drops of venom from huge curved fangs. But the spear had broken the snake’s back and it thrashed about wildly. The Cimaroon smashed at it again and again until it was finally motionless, then when he was sure it was dead he heaved it into the undergrowth. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” swore Will. He had seen snakes in his native Devon but this creature was fifty times their size. He made a cut-throat gesture. “From now on I stay close to you, my friend,” he muttered. The Cimaroon grinned and they plunged onwards through the jungle.

Captain Drake’s raiders were hand-picked, young and tough, but they were sailors, not landsmen. They had a professional seaman’s powerful arms and shoulders from years of hauling on the hempen ropes and heavy canvas sailcloth that powered their ships. In the last few months they had raided with small boats up and down the Spanish Main, so they had done more than their fair share of rowing too, their small pinnaces entering the shallows where their frigate with her deep keel could not. Many a time they had escaped Spanish pursuit by pulling hard to the coast, scraping their boats over the jagged teeth of reefs where the Spaniards had no stomach to follow. They did not lack strength in their stomachs and shoulders. But the Cimaroons set a ferocious pace along the difficult trail and the mariners’ legs were not used to the exercise. They ached with the speed and rigour of the march. The Cimaroons moved effortlessly through the forest as the Europeans stumbled behind them. As night fell Bayano had pointed to the ground and said simply, “Here is the place. The Spanish road is now very close.” They were at the top of a steep hill and the raiders fell to the ground in exhaustion. Later, after they had rested, Captain Drake, Bayano and the French captain Le Testu went forward in the moonlight to select the ambush position. They crept slowly through the trees, taking care to make no noise.

“There is the Spanish road,” said Bayano pointing ahead with his bow.

“I see only a river,” replied Drake

“The road is the river!” said Bayano. “The Spaniards drive their mules along its bed.” Drake suddenly understood. The silver ribbon of water that he saw shimmering in the moonlight flowed from the southern mountains. In the dry months it was only a few inches deep in most places and its firm gravel bed acted like a wide avenue through the forest. It was much easier to travel along the river bed than to cut across the land. The river itself was the Spanish Royal Road! Drake laughed in delight and slapped Bayano on the back. The night jungle was alive with sound. Insects whined and somewhere in the darkness a prowling jaguar grunted. Bayano told the captain that the mule trains with gold and silver emerged from the south from the direction of the city of Panama. They followed this river through the forest to the settlement of Nombre de Dios that lay on the coast, two hours downstream. The captain studied the ground carefully. The Cimaroons had chosen a good place to attack. It was a straight section of the river, with high ground from which they would be able to see an entire mule train and so be able to control its head and tail. There was a steep bank on the far side that would prevent escape in that direction and there was a ridge where his men could lie hidden as the Spaniards entered the trap. Here they would have a good line of sight along the road, but they could remain unseen and unheard until they sprang the ambush. He calculated that by the time the Dons reached this point they would be exhausted by the long trek from Panama City, on the far-off Pacific side of the isthmus, four days march away. He was relying on the Spaniards’ guard being lowered as they their thoughts turned to the wine and w****s of Nombre de Dios.

“Who goes there?” came as a soft challenge as they re-climbed the jungle-covered hillside to where their men slept on the ground.

“Englishmen!” called Drake, and then he said to the young sentry, “John lad, get some rest. I will stand your watch for you will need all your strength to carry gold on the morrow!”

“Aye, captain,” John Oxenham replied gratefully and trotted off to find a dry place to rest. The small band of Englishmen and Frenchmen slept fitfully on their hilltop. Their exhaustion and the velvet heat of the night clothed them better than the finest woollen blankets.

“Do you hear that?” said Drake suddenly. There was a faint but distinct metallic tapping sound in the distance. He frowned. Was the enemy approaching by night?

“It is the Spaniards in Nombre de Dios,” said Bayano. “They mend their ships by moonlight, when it is cooler.”

“They might well do so, for tomorrow will certainly be a hot day for them!” laughed Drake with relief. Shipwrights were not likely to attack them. “Hear that boys?” he whispered to the men who were still awake, “That’s Nombre de Dios, the nest of damned Spanish vipers, and it’s full of gold and silver!”

In the hour before the sun rose from behind the eastern mountains the band of adventurers arose and prepared. They forced down a quick breakfast of ship’s biscuit and some cold pork saved from the day before. Arquebusiers cleaned mud from their weapons and checked that the slow-match was firmly clasped in jaws of the swan-necks. Drake checked and double-checked their preparations and gave words of encouragement, “Lads,” he said, “When we return to England we will feast on peacock pie and pudding and drink the finest wines in Christendom - because we will be rich, every man jack of us!” He turned to see Bayano making his way through the trees towards them. The black man’s face shone with sweat and he spoke urgently to Drake. The captain listened and then turned to his men. “Lads, the hour is now upon us. The Cimaroon scouts have kept watch on a Spanish treasure train that will be with us in but a short time.” His men looked at him with sun-blackened faces and eyes shining with excitement. “We are far outnumbered and we are far from home. We are in the land of our enemies and we must succeed today, or we must perish. Know that if the Dons do not kill you in battle, they will burn you alive in the fires of their damned Inquisition. But know also that the thoughts of our own friends and countrymen are with us - all Devon prays for our safe return. So let us pray to God for our Queen Elizabeth and for England. This day shall our names and our fortunes be made! Now go, in silence, to your places!”

The men snaked down the hillside towards the river. How many of his lads would survive the day, Drake wondered as he watched them take up their positions. His band of adventurers was now so few, and the numbers of Spaniards who prowled the coast was so many that he feared for their survival. He knew he was taking an outrageous risk and the odds weighed heavily against them in the balance. If they succeeded in relieving the Spaniards of their gold their troubles would have just begun for they would have to haul it on their backs over the self-same jungle trail without the help of mules. Then they must hope against hope that the boats had returned to the rendezvous and could carry them off the beach. The breath of the Spanish soldiers would be warm on their heels and if the boats had not returned they would be trapped at the water’s edge like rats, to be slaughtered and burned! He thrust the thought firmly from his mind. We are Englishmen! There should be nothing to concern them for they would succeed and become rich, or they would die in the trying!

Will Pensver gestured towards where the band of French corsairs had gathered, a little downstream. Le Testu was at their head and his long sword glittered in his hand. “Mark the frog, boys,” he whispered. “He is the sort to cut and run - and when he does, I will be waiting!” Pensver lay with the main body of Englishmen who would spring the ambush and seize the mules. Drake had sent a few men to his left, upstream, to give warning of the Spaniard’s approach and to prevent any of them from escaping back the way they came. Le Testu, his pride still smarting from his humiliation at the hands of Bayano, was to lead his French contingent downstream. His task was to block the road and prevent the Spaniards from reaching Nombre de Dios to raise the alarm.

Suddenly Will heard rustling in the brush and Ellis Hixom, a youngster of fifteen years who was on his first voyage to the Main, emerged from of the jungle leading a pair of grinning Cimaroons. His deeply tanned face and thin bare chest dripped with sweat and blood where he had been slashed by thorns. A wide-bladed falchion hung from a shoulder-belt and a dagger that seemed far too big for him was stuck into a sash tied around his skinny waist.

“We can hear bells! The Dons approach!” His eyes were wide with excitement.

“The captain is over there, lad,” whispered Will. “And keep your voice down!” He directed the boy to where Drake knelt in the undergrowth conferring with Bayano and Le Testu.

Drake listened to the lad for a few moments and then strode along the line of raiders. “Right, lads, they approach” he called softly. “Ready yourselves!” His stocky frame quivered in anticipation and his blue eyes blazed. At his command the fifteen young Englishmen drew their weapons. Ellis Hixom pulled the falchion from his belt and his face shone with excited savagery. The salt-blackened blade had a sparking bright edge from the whet-stone. He swished the sword a few times in the air then caught Drake’s stern eye and became still. The man next to Will suddenly cursed softly under his breath. He dragged himself backwards off the ridge and stumbled into the trees. In the cover of the undergrowth he dropped his cutlass into the mud and untied his pantaloons. His bowels voided noisily. After a few minutes he grinned at Will as he retook his position. “That’s better,” he said, “nothing like a s**t to steady the nerves.”

“Should have saved that stink for the Dons,” chuckled Will.

Drake turned to Le Testu. “Get back to your people and tell them to prepare,” he said. “God willing, on this day will all our fortunes be made!” The swarthy Frenchman nodded grimly and trotted to where his crew of Cherbourg corsairs waited further downstream.

Bayano chuckled. “My warriors are also ready, Captain. They are thirsty for Spanish blood!” The Cimaroons were spread out in the bush alongside the Europeans. They had painted their faces with white and red clay and they looked like devil fiends from hell. They made a wasp-like humming sound deep in their throats and they grasped their iron-tipped spears and heavy wooden clubs tightly. Drake shuddered in spite of himself. He had no doubt what the fate would be of any Spaniard caught by these fearsome warriors.

Now the Captain could hear the clanging bells himself. A Spanish treasure train, by God! His heart thumped in his chest and his breath quickened. This time he would not have the bread taken from his mouth! He had waited long bitter months for this opportunity. He glanced down the line at his men and was satisfied with what he saw. They were small in numbers, but they were tough and disciplined. Disease had savaged his crew mercilessly but the survivors made up for their pitiful numbers in spirit and raw courage. They were all toughened West Country men like him, bred to a hard life at sea. Their skins were blackened by long months in the tropics, there was no fat on their bodies and none was aged over thirty. Their long hair was tucked into seamen’s’ caps and they were all bare-chested. Some of them had strung bows and these archers now knelt and waited for the word of command. There were rows of yard-long bodkin-tipped arrows in the ground and each archer had an arrow nocked on his bowstring. He made a signal to Will and watched with satisfaction as it was passed down the line. The rest of the men readied their weapons. Most brandished cutlasses or falchions with short, brutal, razor-honed blades. Like English swords for centuries past, their blades were designed to cleave through their enemies, inflicting gaping wounds that severed bones and limbs and killed by blood-loss and shock, a more brutal form of execution that that inflicted by the long Spanish rapiers that were designed to kill by piercing vital organs. A few raiders carried matchlocks and now they crouched over the unwieldy weapons, fussing over their mechanisms and fanning away the tell-tale wisps of smoke from the lit slow-match. His knew that his men had worked hard to keep their powder dry. He didn’t expect the guns to do much damage but hoped that their noise would frighten the Dons, and especially their horses, and make easier work for the chopping blades.

The clinking bells grew louder and now he could hear the mules splashing through the shallow water and the whip-cracks and weary curses of the men who drove them. They were very close, maybe half a cable away, just around an upstream bend in the river. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wiped the sweat from the palm of his sword hand. He smelled the burning slow-match and wondered if the Spaniards had managed to keep their own powder dry. They had had to contend with numerous river crossings and the torrential rains of the isthmus. He would wager that most of the Spanish powder was wet and useless by now. He hoped so anyway. If the Dons followed their usual method the train would be heavily guarded with soldiers in the vanguard, then the mules, then more soldiers at the rear. He hoped they would be as tired as his own men. They should be. Their road led over mountains and through deep swamps and jungles, a narrow rough-hewn trail wide enough for a single mule. Drake knew some parts of the trail well as he had travelled much of it the year before. This was the legendary trail over which all the Spanish gold and silver taken from Peru had to be carried before it could be loaded onto the fleet of galleons that waited at Nombre de Dios. Would the Spaniards have many horses? The bitter memory of a failed ambush a few months before gnawed at him. That attempt on a mule train had ended in disaster as a Spanish horseman had raced away to give the warning. He would be God-damned if he would let it happen again. He had given strict orders that any horses were to be killed instantly, before any could escape.

He raised his head and peered cautiously through the long grass. There! He could just see the tops of the Spanish escort’s helmets - red and yellow feathers fluttering. A priest riding a white mud-spattered horse splashed along the river ahead of the rest. He wore a feathered cap over his black robes and he kicked his horse as it waded through a deep green pool. The sight of the Dons made Drake’s blood run hot. He hated the Spaniards with a passion that few understood. He felt the blood surge and boil in his veins. He urgently signalled to his men. The horse! See it! Feather it with arrows! Kill it!

Fingers were flexed up and down the line as the archers began to increase the pressure on their bowstrings. The mule train writhed like a slow fat serpent as it splashed along the riverbed. Each mule was roped to the one ahead and to the one behind with very little room in between the animals. Naked black muleteers trudged alongside them, wearily sploshing through the knee-deep water. They cracked vicious whips into the mules’ flesh and cursed the slower animals who were necessarily setting the pace for the rest. Groups of soldiers trudged alongside the animals. Most carried matchlocks on their shoulders but some were armed with long pikes. All were protected by steel breastplates and helmets.

As Drake had expected and hoped, the mules looked heavily laden and tired. They were very slow. He saw the packs on the mules’ backs. Each animal carried two large wooden boxes; one slung each side of a rudimentary harness and tied to the mules with hemp ropes and leather straps. He softly clicked his finger. Will looked around and nodded. Drake nodded towards the horseman again and put his finger to his lips. Silence him! Will nodded and turned to the man to his right and passed the message on. Fifteen pairs of English eyes followed the priest on the white horse. The Captain watched as the mule train slowly passed along the riverbed, entering the trap. His mind raced with possibilities. The mules were no more than fifty yards away, and Spanish eyes flickered nervously towards the jungle, but the long grass on the ridge hid the raiders well. One of his men let out a stifled cough and Drake’s eyes fizzed in anger. He looked to see who the culprit was but his men were all silent as statues, their gazes fixed firmly on the enemy soldiers who trudged along the banks of the river with matchlocks resting on their shoulders and swords in their belts.

He mentally divided the train into three parts and quickly counted the mules in a single third. Then he multiplied the total by three. One hundred and fifty mules! By God, the train was enormous! This was not just a king’s ransom; it was riches and titles, estates and a lifetime of wealth and luxury! But then, how much could his fifteen men carry away? A small fraction of the total! But enough, it would be enough.

There was a sudden shrill whistle from his left. It might have been the cry of some tropical bird, but Drake knew it was a signal that the last Spaniard had passed the upstream group and that the whole train was now in the jaws of the ambush. He nodded to the young archer who crouched in the mud next to him. “Strike now!” he whispered urgently. Young Tom Bowyer broke cover and stood up tall. There was an urgent shout from someone in the river, whether a soldier or a muleteer he couldn’t tell. Tom thrust his bare feet firmly into the soft ground to steady himself and drew back the bowstring with a powerful right arm. He pulled until the arrow reached his ear. He held the draw for a second or two, made sure of his aim, then loosed. The bow twanged and the arrow with its wicked iron tip leapt away with a hiss. Drake saw the white feathered arrow arc towards its target. It slapped deep into the belly of the horse. In an instant the other archers were up and shooting their arrows. The Dons were slow to react, but then they scattered along the riverbed in a panic as the missiles tore into them. White feathers and blossoming rose-buds of blood dotted the horse’s flank and it reared and then fell sideways. Its dark-robed rider spilled into the river.

Captain Drake leapt up and let out a mighty bellow, “Here is all the gold in the world and it is ours for the taking! Get up and at them, boys!” The Englishmen rose up cheering and began to run. The French corsairs ripped the air with wild screams as they too charged. Matchlocks discharged with loud thunder-cracks and clouds of black smoke. Cutlass blades flashed in the sun and the air hummed with deadly arrows. The raiders charged down the hillside into the river and flung themselves at the Spaniards like mad dogs. The soldiers flinched and staggered at the onslaught. They had scattered at the first sign of alarm and now they looked around for orders as the raiders flew down the hillside towards them. They un-shouldered their weapons and tried to raise them. One or two managed to fire their weapons but they were too late to stop the charge and then they were collapsing under the onslaught. Captain Drake heard a gun fire then another, but whether friend or foe he could not tell. He saw a muleteer hacked down by English blades. “Let the blacks be!” he yelled angrily. At his side ran Bayano, leading his band of Cimaroons. They fell upon the Spanish with savage joy and their heavy wooden clubs and iron blades crunched and sliced into bone and flesh. They stove in the skulls of the Spaniards and their faces and chests were soon spattered with blood and yellow brain matter. They screamed fiercely in the language of their far-away African homelands. One or two Spaniards fought back with their long pikes, jabbing at their attackers, but they were quickly hacked to pieces and their blood made the river flow red. The rest of the Spaniards threw down their weapons and ran for the protection of the jungle on the opposite bank. They scrambled up the steep slope away from the river.

Away to Drake’s right where the Le Testu and his men were engaging the head of the mule train he heard a ragged volley of matchlock discharges and the wild French battle-cries of the Cherbourg corsairs. The rearmost muleteer frantically whipped his beast, urging it back along the track the way it had come and away from the ambush, but the Captain had seen the move and sent Will after him. The muleteer slashed at him with a sword he had picked up from the ground, but then shrieked as Will’s heavy cutlass sliced through his elbow. He sank to the ground and hugged his limb, blood spilling into the river from the severed arm. The lower part of the arm rolled over in the current and drifted away. Will looked around for more Spaniards to kill but they had fled into the deep jungle beyond the track and he saw that the fight was over. Some of the Englishmen started after them in pursuit but Drake called them back. “Hie! Hie, let the dogs run back to Panama, for there’s more profitable work to be done here!”

A French corsair came splashing up from downstream. His face and matted long hair were covered in blood and his eyes shone wildly. “My Capitaine is sore hurt,” he gasped. “He took a Spanish ball in the guts. And I am regret that a few Spaniards got away down the river. We chased the dogs but…” his voice tailed off.

Drake nodded grimly. Damn the French! If they had let any Spaniards escape downstream they would reach Nombre de Dios to raise the alarm and return with a whole garrison! “We do not have much time, lads,” he called. “The Spanish army will be upon us very soon.” He calculated the distance to the settlement, the time it would take for the feeling Spaniards to raise the alarm and rouse the soldiers. He reckoned that the enemy would arrive within two hours, three at the most. They would pour up the Royal Road like maddened hornets from a nest that has been solidly kicked. And they would be fresh! The raiders understood the danger. They fell upon the mule packs and prised open the wooden boxes with their cutlasses and sea-knives. The Captain splashed through the water towards the nearest mule, the one that had tried to flee back upstream. Will was already levering the chest apart with his still-bloody blade. The iron hinges suddenly gave and the chest fell open. Inside was a layer of dried grass padding. They ripped it away and then they saw the rich egg-yolk gleam of gold.

“Gold, lads, its gold!” bellowed the Captain. “Our fortunes are made!” The Englishmen worked feverishly. They used their blades to hack open case after case, spilling the gold and silver contents onto the river bank and sometimes into the river itself, breaking some of their blades in their eagerness. Hundreds of silver bars gleamed where they fell. They piled gold bars into heaps. The men laughed as they pulled jewelled necklaces, emerald-encrusted golden bracelets and leather bags of golden doubloons and silver pieces-of-eight from the chests. Drake ran up and down the line, congratulating his men and slapping them on the back. He urged them to make haste, to be quick. He knew their work was only just begun and the hardest part lay ahead. By God’s great good fortune they had captured more treasure than they could possibly carry away. But the route back to the boats was rugged and hard, and on the return journey they could expect to be pursued. Even if they discarded their weapons and food, he knew they could not take more than two bars of gold each. Even that would weigh a hundred pounds a man. He gave the command to bury as much treasure as they could. “Two bars of gold per man! Two bars only! Bury the rest. And make haste, for there is very little time!”

The raiders dragged treasure up from the trail and into the jungle. They dug as fast as they could, clawing at the ground with their swords, daggers, sticks and branches. They pushed gold and silver into crab holes, shoved silver bars under fallen trees and tried to disguise the places with dirt and stones. Then they smoothed the signs of digging by dragging bushes along the ground. Drake supervised them, barking orders, hurrying them along.

“Mon Capitaine” another Frenchman splashed up to where Drake directed the burying of the treasure. “I beg you to accompany me, Sire, if you please.” Drake nodded. The Frenchman led him cable’s length down the river to where the French corsairs had stopped the head of the mule train. They stepped over the bodies of slaughtered Spanish soldiers and dismembered black muleteers that lay in the mud, cut down by the French blades. “What’s this?” he demanded. The blacks had been mutilated, their ears sliced off and their guts pulled out of their belly cavities. The Frenchman just shrugged, his face expressionless. At the head of the wrecked mule train he found the French captain Le Testu propped up against a tree. The tough old Cherbourg corsair grimaced.

“Success, my English friend, it appears that we have become rich, even if in my case the condition may be temporary,” Le Testu clasped Drake’s outstretched hand. “Unfortunately I stopped a Spanish ball. You will forgive me if I rest here awhile” An ugly purple hole in his belly the size of a fist oozed dark blood. The Frenchman suddenly grinned. “Go and see what we have taken”. He pointed towards a heap of dead Spaniards clustered around the mules which had been at the head of the column. The animals lay on the riverbank, tied together, swollen bellies rising and falling as they gasped for their last breaths, their legs jerking at the sky. The bodies of half a dozen dead Spaniards lay crumpled around them where they had been hacked down. “I don’t know yet what is in that chest, but the Dons - curse them - fought and died like devils to protect it”. He smiled again, his teeth startlingly white against his sun-darkened face. “Normally we expect them to flee more readily.”

“Courage, mon brave,” Drake touched the French captain on the shoulder and rose to his feet. “Do not be concerned - we will carry you back to the boats.” He quietly gave orders to some of the English lads who had accompanied him, and then he strode through a pool of deep water towards the cluster of dying animals. The large chest that the mules had carried was different from the other loads " larger and more sturdily bound. It lay on its side on a gravel bank on the riverbed and pink-stained water swirled around it. Its lock had already been forced and two French corsairs stood guard over it as if they were unsure of what to do. It was a strongly made wooden box the size of a man, shaped like a small coffin. It had been slung between the mules on a kind of wagon. Pinned down by the chest and submerged in the shallow water lay the body of the Spanish priest who had ridden at the head on the column on horseback. His black robes waved in the current and dark globs of blood from his slashed throat curled out into the water and curled slowly downstream. Drake pushed the knot of Frenchmen aside and levered open the heavy wooden lid with the point of his dagger. He pulled away a bundle of cloth that had been packed tight to protect the contents. Then he saw what lay inside the chest. He gasped and sank to his knees on the stony riverbed and felt the sting of cold water washing his wounds. Although he hated Catholicism with a furious passion he was still deeply moved by what lay inside the chest that the priest had died trying to protect. “We cannot take this,” he whispered. “We will not be able to carry it over the hills”. He called for help and his men tied up the box using some of the mule’s harness and then half a dozen men dragged it from the river bank and carried it deeper into the jungle. They found a hiding place, a narrow ravine where a huge tree grew over a massive boulder by the side of a small stream. There they dug as deep as they could with their swords amongst the roots of the tree, and tipped the box into the opening. The covered the place with rocks and foliage.

A Frenchman came running up along the river from the direction of Nombre de Dios. “The Spanish are returning!” he screamed and waved a sword in the air. A lead ball splintered into a low branch near Drake’s head. He heard the sound of a trumpet and more lead balls whistled overhead.

“Are you ready, boys?” he called. “Now we will see who can run the faster - an Englishman with gold on his back or a fat lazy Spaniard!” He winked at Le Testu and grinned. His men cheered. They hoisted their canvas packs, now heavy with gold, onto their shoulders and staggered away from the river bank, jogging into the cover of dense jungle. The Frenchmen picked up their captain in a rough litter of cut branches held together with mule harnesses. The raiders grunted with the weight of the gold as they floundered up the steep slope and retraced their path through the forest. They slipped and stumbled along the muddy trail through the trees, lead balls splitting the branches around them. Then the night began to fall and the heavens opened in sheets of solid tropical rain that wiped away most of the traces of their passage. Then the shadow of the last raiding corsair disappeared into the gathering gloom and faded into the cover of the trees.