“A dead man! Lord preserve us!” cried Bob Plum, backing up against the Reverend.
“This is sorcery,” the Reverend said, with his hands beginning to shake.
“It’s a big fat fellow who ain’t been washed in a month, more than likely,” said John. “And he ain’t no dead man.” He told them a little of the truth, and they were no less appalled.
“Prince Maurice!” cried Dick Pettibone. “Why, he was a lovely gentleman! Oh, to see him come to
this
!” He stepped close and shouted up at the prince. “Your Highness! Your Highness, do you apprehend me?”
The prince only stared. Whether there was some memory behind that egg-smooth countenance, of riding with his cavaliers at Lyme or piratical raids out of Kinsale, who can say? Morgan seemed to be wondering the same thing, as he approached and looked him up and down.
“Jesus,” he said at last. “We’ll fetch him along with us; but we are doing his brother no kindness, to bring him home so. Can he walk?”
John said he could, and pushed him a little; the prince started forward obediently, and likely would have kept going until he was in the river, had John not run ahead and stopped him. Morgan shook his head. “Jesus,” he repeated. “Very well; form up! We march on.”
The prince came with the Brethren, and only wanted for a bit of guiding now and then to keep him on the path. They camped that night at another abandoned village, where Morgan gave order that someone should wash the prince, as the smell was starting to offend even Brethren who’d gone a week without a bath or a change of clothes. Dick Pettibone volunteered, as did Bob Plum, once he’d been told that Maurice had been a good Protestant prince and none of your scurvy Papist gentry.
He proved a good beast of burden too. They found they could strap a pack to him and he’d bear it along without the least complaint. So they loaded him with powder and shot and he marched along of them. Blackstone started to object to this and then shrugged; for it really took more imagination than a man’s generally given to see that fat, staring thing as a royal cousin.
That night they found another village, but lately deserted, and camped there. Next day they came to another, about noon, and here had great luck: for Jacques found a cache of foodstuffs, sacks of wheat and plantains, hidden in a little cave. Morgan had the whole mess cooked into a sort of porridge and served out equally to all parties, even those like Hendrik Smeeks, who had been seen picking his teeth as they left Torna Caballos. Dick Pettibone took it on himself to feed the prince with a spoon, like a baby, and the poor creature opened his mouth obediently and swallowed too, but gave no sign that he understood anything.
They marched on, more easily, for the country was more open and there were little deserted farmsteads now and again. One of these made a good campsite that evening, with plenty of dry firewood stored in an outbuilding. The Brethren sprawled at their ease around fires and there was plenty of big talk and praises for Morgan, now that they’d had a few scraps of luck; for everyone assumed the worst was behind them.
The first sign they were in the wrong on the point came when they’d been marching an hour or two next day. The land began to rise, and the going became harder. Around midday they came on another little farm and discovered the barn loaded with ears of dry maize. Most of the men wanted to stop right there and grind it into meal for cakes, and it was only by drawing his sword that Morgan kept them from doing so. He gave them hot words, and there were surly looks and mutters. The maize was portioned out equally to every man, and awkward it was to carry too. There were some who fell to chewing at it whiles on the march, and not a few rash fellows broke teeth doing that.
John was marching along beside the prince, who was moving a little slower as so many had sort of casually draped their bundles of maize over him on the march, when he heard the cry:
“Los indios! Emboscada!”
John drew his cutlass and ran forward, but it wasn’t to be an engagement for blades; he caught a glimpse of lithe brown bodies retreating through the trees, and a man next to him dropped with an arrow in the eye, screaming no end. Still the Brethren raced on, shedding ears of maize as they came over the ground, and were only stopped by a bend in the river. Here they saw the last of a troop of about a hundred Indians scrambling ashore on the opposite bank.
John drew his pistol and fired. Some fellows even plunged into the river, assuming that since the Indians had crossed easy, it must be shallow here. But maybe the Indians had picked up the trick of walking on water; Morgan’s men sank over their heads, and came up gasping and clawing at the mangrove roots.
The Indians jeered and shot at them from the other bank, calling names in Spanish. John bent to pull one fellow ashore, and just as he came level with John’s face he gave a shivering cry and died, pierced through with an arrow. John dropped him and pulled back; as he did, he heard a shot ring out on the
other side
and saw an Indian drop where he stood, with the red blood starting down over his bare breast. Another shot rang out, another one fell, and the Indians took to their heels, vanishing through the woods.
And someone ran after them.
John gaped to see a pale figure darting off between the branches. He had only one clear sight of her, but it was certainly the girl, carrying a musket soldier-fashion as she ran. He stood, dumb, staring after her. When he turned away he saw Morgan staring too, as though doubting his senses, and knew he’d seen her as well.
“That was
her
,” said John.
“She can shoot,” said Morgan. And then he swore, not loud but a lot, some in Welsh.
That night the Brethren camped by the river. What weathercocks men are, John soon learned: for all the high spirits and bold talk of the day before were gone entirely, now that the enemy had drawn a little blood. Smeeks, who was getting to be a right sea-lawyer, sat muttering with his friends and casting black looks at Morgan.
Some said as how they’d best to turn back, now that the Indians had found them. If they didn’t, the Indians would pick them off one by one. Other folk were plain hopeless and reckoned it was better to lie down and die right there, rather than fight their way back through the jungle.
Morgan must have heard it all, sitting upright by his fire. It was a strange thing, but John, looking across at him, felt pity for the man, alone there with his thoughts.
John began to talk loud about how the Indians attacking only meant that Panama was near to hand; that folk only fought when they had something to lose. He went on to take wagers as to whether they’d sight the church towers of Panama next day, or the day after, and whether it would be gold or silver or jewels they should lay their hands to first. He allowed as how it was a shame they’d lost a few men, but no one ever made buttered eggs without breaking the shells first.
Some men told him to go to hell, but some took heart and said he was right; weeping and wailing was bootless now, and they may as well laugh and hope for the best, by God.
And so they argued back and forth. And all the while the prince sat a little distance away on the bare earth, looking out of his empty eyes, like an image of Fortune’s Wheel:
I was once among the great. Regard me now…
Next morning they saw to their firearms before setting out, for it was plain there’d be fighting soon. Morgan had the canoes brought up to ferry the men across, and on they went, and not long after they saw a great pall of smoke hanging over the jungle ahead.
“What should this be?” Morgan muttered to himself. John clapped Bob Plum on the shoulder and said: “Cooking fires! They’re boiling up our dinner, messmates!” Whereat the men all raised a great cheer and picked up the pace, jogging along with their muskets in their hands. They came to the palisade and stormed over it, whooping and firing, but no one fired back; and now they saw it was another deserted place, so recently left that the houses were still in flames, and abandoned cats and dogs ran here and there.
“Roof rabbits!” cried Jago, and raising his musket drew a bead on someone’s Tibby and blew its brains out. Others fell to following his example, and presently there were little groups of men clustered here and there, cooking succulent bits of house pet over house coals. You’d have thought it was Christmas, they laughed and chattered so.
“Admiral sir!” Dick Pettibone came waddling up, sweating and panting. “Here’s the king’s stables, that aren’t burned; and the lads have found, must be a dozen jars of wine of Peru.”
“Oh Christ,” said Morgan, not as though in thanks, and he strode over to the stables and John followed him close. There were the great clay jars lined up along the stable wall, with a bread-bag hanging in the rafters above them. Two fellows had already hauled out one jar and broached it, and as John watched they gulped down near a quart each of the dark, sticky stuff, scooping it up in their dirty hands. Morgan looked on them with despair in his eyes; for nothing breaks discipline on a march like strong drink, and here was enough to make his whole force stupid.
But Fortune did Morgan another good turn; for the two drinkers turned, first one and then the other, a queer shade of pea-green, and proceeded to puke their guts up. No surprise, guzzling down that much sweet wine on an empty belly. Morgan turned and shouted, “Treachery! It’s poisoned, you stupid bastards!”
As the two groveled and moaned, and the others stood looking on in dismay, Morgan went to the other jars and smashed them, each one, with the hilt of his cutlass, and threw them over. There were some snarls, and one man ran forward to try to stop him. Morgan caught him by the front of his shirt and held him out at arm’s length.
“You’d drink, would you? The whole town in flames about our ears, and the cattle driven away, and this one place left standing, with a drink for the thirsty privateers when they arrive? Fool! It’s a snare!”
Such was the light in his eyes as he spoke, that the man stood down abashed, and so did all the rest who had come up to see; and by then the wine had all spilled out and soaked into the ground. So mutiny was avoided, and whether the wine had been really poisoned or whether no Spaniard had dared to set fire to royal property, who knows? It served Morgan’s turn. It taught John a lesson in quick thinking too.
Now, it happened that this was the place where the Chagres turned north, and Panama lay to the south; so being as it was all hard marching overland after this, and them having taken themselves possession of the palisadoed town, Morgan let them rest up here that day and through the night. Come morning they left the river.
John marched among his messmates in the advance party, peering up at the mountains that rose to either side. Their way lay through the bottom of a gorge that narrowed. Soon there was room for no more than four or five to march abreast. Ahead it narrowed still further, for they could see the mouth of an arch through which they must go single file, a tunnel cut out of the rock. Jacques muttered something uneasily.
“He says, this is where they will make their
embuscade
,” said Jago. Jacques said more, very earnestly and in a tone of entreaty, to Jago. Jago laughed and said something back, seeming to make mock of whatever Jacques had asked him.
“Gentlemen! Say to one, say to all,” said Blackstone. “Has he noticed something else about which we ought to hear?”
“No,” said Jago. “Only, he is afraid for me. Wish me to walk a little under the cover of the trees.”
Which some men sneered at, and made kissing noises; and so the sound was obscured when it came.
The clouds of locusts coming down on Egypt might have made such a noise, whirring and clattering. John never heard anything like it before or after. He looked up to see what it might be.
There must have been four thousand arrows dropping toward them out of the sky, coming nearly straight down, and no sign of the bowmen who’d loosed them. John never remembered afterward how he’d got under cover, but there he found himself amongst the trees, with other men crowded around him, shaking and swearing. Arrows were still falling, out on the trail, like so many jackstraws. There were four men lying dead that John could see and Bob Plum dragging himself toward the trees, with an arrow sticking up under his chin. Out in the middle of the road the prince marched on, unconcerned, though an arrow had hit him in the shoulder.
Dick Pettibone screamed, and he and the Reverend ran out to pull Bob to safety, heedless of the arrows still falling.
“Hold your positions!” shouted Morgan, for some men had begun to run back the way they’d come.
The Reverend was moaning and wringing his hands. Dick took hold of Bob’s collar and hauled.
“Over there—” he said, panting. “We need privacy, Elias!”
“What are you playing at?” said John, for it was plain Bob oughtn’t to be shifted much. “Get the bleeding arrow out first.”
He drew his knife and sliced open the front of Bob’s shirt. “No!” cried Dick, but too late; for John saw that Bob was already bandaged tight around the chest, and the arrow had stabbed down between this bandage and his skin, cutting only a shallow trench where it had passed.
“No, no, no—” said Bob, fending him off.
“Oh, don’t be such a coward,” said John.
You may think John a capital bull-calf, and you’d be right; for even now he only wondered,
When did Bob get wounded before?
And he cut the bandage to free the arrow, and the bandage fell away and there was the arrow lying between—
“Bob’s a woman!” said John, astonished. He sat back on his heels, as Bob clutched the edges of her shirt and pulled them together.
“You have looked upon my wife,” said the Reverend, and in a trice his big hands were about John’s throat and his red eyes were peering down into John’s own, and John felt his windpipe squeak shut before he could say anything in apology. Blackstone came running with cutlass drawn, and so did Jago and Jacques.
“Elias! Stop!” said Dick, and began to sing the song about the little white lamb. Bob, where she lay, chimed in feebly. The Reverend joined in at last, easing up his grip enough for John to pull free. He fell back, gulping for breath.