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.'