When he was finally satisfied with the toting of the plunder from the city, his hungover band dragged themselves to the treasure-laden plain and looked back to see the center of the city being consumed by flames in their wake. The pirates camped on the plain at the jungle edge for the night and by morning there was nothing to be seen of the vision that was Panama but a drifting cloud of smoke dissipating to reveal smoldering ashes. Then, with Morgan shouting commands, they loaded the treasure on their backs and on the backs of mules stolen from the city and started through the jungle for the trip back to the boats.
Thanks to the mules and the food they’d taken, the journey back, while arduous, was not as hellish as the first trek had been. The rafts were waiting where they’d been dragged up on the banks of the River Chagres and the pirates poled them eagerly down river, each man looking forward to a life of ease to be provided by his share of the spoils. They were exhausted when they reached the beach, but nevertheless they summoned up the energy for a cheer at the sight of the fleet of thirty-seven pirate ships lying offshore and awaiting their return. Captain Morgan ordered that all the treasure be loaded on his galleon so that none among the buccaneers might be tempted to filch more than his rightful share. It would be divided up when the fleet reached Port Royal in Jamaica. Since no pirate trusted any other pirate, Morgan’s order was generally applauded among them.
When the loading was completed, Morgan issued generous rations of rum to the sweating men to relieve the ache and fatigue of the journey and the labor. He passed among the men himself, good-humoredly, urging them to drink up, to relax and contemplate the life of luxury awaiting them. His most trusted lieutenants remained on board the galleon, presumably guarding the treasure. His own crew was also aboard. But the rest of the pirates were all on the beach, swilling rum, singing, occasionally picking fights with one another. Captain Morgan had rolled out forty kegs of rum and the pirates tried to match his generosity with their intake.
The journey had fatigued them and the labor of loading the galleon on top of it had been a great weariness pressed down on them. Now the rum finished the job. The revelry was shortlived and one after the other the men fell in their tracks, lying in deep drunken sleep like stones strewn about the dunes. When the last of them was beyond stirring, Captain Morgan strode to his waiting longboat. His most trusted oarsmen were waiting for him there. He didn’t know it, but so was I.
I was there because of a suspicion that was unfolding in my mind. Henry Morgan was not a temperate man. Neither was he a man to do things for no reason. Yet he hadn’t himself touched any of the rum issued to the men. And he’d encouraged them to get drunk despite the fact that it would interfere with their effciency in manning the ships when we set sail on the morrow. Plus one other fact I’d noticed in the darkness: The men in the longboat, who hadn’t been drinking either, had taken off their shirts and wrapped them around the oars. There could be only one reason for this—to muffle the sounds of the boat as it moved through the water. I couldn’t be sure just what form it would take, but there was definitely some chicanery afoot. When a couple of the men at the stern of the boat got out and walked off a few feet to stretch their legs, I crept up to the craft, crawled into it and pulled a tarpaulin over me so that I wouldn’t be seen.
Some time later Morgan climbed into the boat and quietly issued an order. The crewmen pushed the boat into the surf and climbed aboard. A moment later we were gliding silently through the night.
After awhile the boat stopped moving and stayed in one place, rocking gently from side to side. I peeked out of my hiding place. We’d tied onto the anchor chain of one of the ships of Morgan’s fleet. It was not the galleon he commanded.
Silently, two of the men climbed the anchor chain, knives between their teeth. Only one sailor stood watch on board. The rest of the crew and officers, including the captain, were sleeping it off on the beach. Like cats, the two-man boarding party crept up on him and slit his throat, one holding him from the rear, the other running the blade neatly to carve a crimson curve joining his ears. The victim died without a murmur.
Immediately the other crewmen swarmed from the long-boat to the decks of the vessel, Captain Morgan leading them. Under his direction the sails were quietly lowered and slashed to ribbons. The mast was sawed off at its base and lowered by rope, slowly and quietly, into the lapping sea. The waters closed over it just as silently.
Quickly, Morgan and his men reboarded the longboat and made for the next ship. Here the maneuver was repeated. Only instead of bothering with the sails on this vessel, Morgan’s men went down into the hold and took an axe to the keel. Water rushed into the great, gaping hole and as the longboat pulled away the ship was already listing badly to one side.
In its turn, each of the thirty-six vessels Morgan had recruited for the pirate expedition to Panama was rendered unseaworthy. Rudder cables were hacked in two, masts were chopped off their roots, great holes were gauged into keels, sails were shredded to ribbons, some of the captains who’d stayed with their ships were silently murdered, crewmen aboard were killed—and all was done silently and with great dispatch. It was a full night’s work. Dawn had already broken when the longboat returned to Morgan’s treasure-laden flagship and was hauled aboard.
I huddled under the tarpaulin, still undetected. Only when I heard the distant angry rumble and the hearty, loud laughter closer at hand did I take the chance of peeking out again. In the distance, on the beach, the pirates had awakened and seen what Morgan had done. I couldn’t distinguish their individual curses, but the total sound was like thunder swearing vengeance. And above my hiding place, on the quarterdeck, Morgan stood roaring with laughter at his coup and literally thumbing his nose at his former comrades. As the wind took the sails and the ship moved inexorably away from the shores of Panama, Morgan poised like some Olympian god given to overindulgence, one hand on the tiller, the other resting casually on the hilt of his sword in its scabbard, his teeth bared to release gales of triumphant mirth louder than the sea wind, loud enough to reach the men on the shore—the echo of a con man’s victory, the final insult tormenting their ears as they shook their impotent fists and watched their hard-won treasure sail out of their grasp. I pulled the tarp back over my head and wondered what the hell I was going to do now.
A few hours later the problem was taken out of my hands. One of the flagship’s crewmen pulled the tarp aside and discovered me hiding there. A sword playing dominos with my spinal discs, I was ushered up to the quarterdeck where Captain Morgan was laying out the course for his helmsman.
“Stowaway, Cap’n.” The pirate who’d discovered my presence shoved me forward.
“I’ll be blowed!” Of course Morgan recognized me immediately. “It’s the naked swordsman! How the devil did you get on board?”
“I found him hiding in the longboat, Cap’n.”
“Now that’s too bad.” Morgan looked at me and shook his head sadly.
“Friendship, Captain,” I reminded him desperately.
“I can’t afford to have any more friends. My men wouldn’t like it. There’s just enough slices of the pie to go around. No man aboard is ready to shave his share any more than necessary.”
“I don’t want any of the treasure,” I told