A Sacrifice of Pawns, page 31
“You’ll do, my lad,” MacKim said, an instant before Dickert’s rifle banged and the Cuban crumpled to the deck.
The firing from the boom intensified, proving that Kennedy’s men were also facing opposition.
“Sergeant MacKim!” Suzanne’s shriek came simultaneously with the thud of Butler’s musket.
“What the devil?” MacKim looked around to see Butler running towards them, with his musket in one hand and Suzanne in the other.
“The militia!” Butler shouted, then stiffened and crumpled to the ground, blood spreading across his chest. Rather than continue to run, Suzanne lifted Butler’s musket and swung it at the horde of men who emerged from the trees.
“MacRae!” MacKim made a hasty decision, “Dickert! Ignore the ships! Help Suzanne!”
The plan had come unravelled as Roberval and the militia countered every move. In this game of chess, Roberval had checked Kennedy’s triple attacks.
There were too many Cuban militiamen. They advanced from all sides, surrounding MacKim and his men. MacKim saw grinning black faces and triumphant white faces, men with machetes and men with muskets. The leader was a gorgeously dressed individual with a scarlet sash who could have stepped off the deck of a seventeenth-century galleon.
A swarthy man grabbed MacKim’s rifle, while another cracked the butt of his musket on Dickert’s head, knocking him to the ground. MacRae struggled, drawing his bayonet and lunging at a machete-waving black man, only for another Cuban to trip him and grab his arm.
Within a minute of Suzanne’s warning, the Cubans had overcome the Rangers’ resistance.
The fighting on Dolphin was also over, with the numbers of privateers and Cubans having prevailed. Only the musketry from the boom continued.
“It all depends on Captain Kennedy now,” MacRae said, hauling himself upright and glaring his hatred at the Cubans.
MacKim realised that the short tropical night was passing. As always in battle, time moved quickly, with incidents packed together, so what seemed like minutes were hours. The clock continued to tick, and dawn was not far away.
When the last shooting died down, a cheer rose from the direction of the boom.
“Who’s cheering?” MacRae asked. “Who’s won?”
The Rangers listened in sick dismay when somebody began to sing in Spanish.
“They’ve defeated us!” Dickert sounded amazed, holding his injured head.
MacKim placed a protective arm around Suzanne, who stared around her in evident terror. “Keep together,” MacKim said. “We’re Kennedy’s Rangers.” He glanced at Butler, who lay still, with a hundred questing flies already feasting on the congealed blood on his chest.
Sleep easy, Butler. Rangers, first and always.
The Cuban militia pushed and shoved the Rangers and Suzanne to the water’s edge, where the privateers had sent across their boats.
“Do as they say, boys.” MacKim was suddenly infinitely weary. “There’s no sense in getting killed.”
Maxwell and his men sat in a disconsolate huddle on the deck of Dolphin, surrounded by jeering privateers and militia. Three of the victorious privateers threw the dead and wounded Dolphins into the water.
“Murdering bastards!” MacRae watched in horror.
“Heads up, boys!” Maxwell shouted. “We’re not beat yet!”
Roberval strutted across from the deck of Douce Vengeance and slapped Maxwell backhanded across the face.
“Maybe Captain Kennedy will save us.” Dickert hoped as the militia shoved them into the boats.
“There he is now,” MacRae said, as a triumphant company of privateers and Cubans herded Kennedy and the remains of his men onto Douce Vengeance. “That bastard French pirate knew everything we were going to do.”
“Somebody must have told Roberval our plan,” Dickert said. “That black man, Benjamin, must have run to their camp. That’s why he deserted.”
“Benjamin wouldn’t do that,” MacKim said. “Maybe Roberval only guessed what we would do.”
The privateers rowed them across the inlet, now smeared with blood. A crocodile arrowed from the river, grabbed a body, and disappeared beneath the surface. Not only Suzanne recoiled in horror from the sight.
The militia herded them onto Dolphin’s deck to join the Kennedy and Maxwell. The Rangers and seamen glared at their captors in cold hatred.
“Sorry, boys,” Kennedy said. “I guess I wasn’t as smart as I thought.”
“We were betrayed,” Dickert insisted. “That bastard Benjamin must have told the Frenchies what we planned.”
“No,” Kennedy said, shaking his head. His left arm hung loosely at his side, with a trail of blood dripping onto the ground. “Nobody betrayed us; we were outnumbered. I lost two Rangers at the boom.”
“I lost eight men, including Lieutenant Holmes,” Maxwell said.
“The militia killed Butler,” MacKim added to the gloom.
They succumbed into silence as Roberval conversed with the militiaman in the scarlet sash.
“Flamboyant fellow, isn’t he?” Maxwell tried to lighten the situation.
MacKim nodded. He saw Suzanne edge towards Williams, who had congealed blood on his face and right arm.
The privateers were jeering, pushing at the prisoners as the militia flourished their machetes. They spoke together in an astonishing mixture of French, Spanish, and a patois that MacKim recognised as native to the Caribbean.
“Dickert!” MacKim hissed. “You’re the best swimmer here. Jump for it!” He nodded to the water. “While the Frenchies aren’t looking. Get to Havana, man!”
“The crocodiles.” Dickert stared over the rail at the water. It was a hundred and fifty yards to the other side.
“They’re feasting on the dead! They won’t want you! Move!”
Dickert glanced at the water, swore softly, and slid over the rail without another word. The splash alerted the privateers, who began to shout and point. When two of them aimed their muskets, MacKim and Oxford barged into them, knocking them sideways. A militiaman retaliated, throwing Oxford to the ground and kicking him viciously.
“Swim, Dickie!” MacRae yelled and added. “Crocodile!”
The creature was over eight feet long as it powered from the river mouth directly towards Dickert.
“Dear God!” MacKim staggered to the rail as every eye focussed on the race between Dickert and the reptile. However fast Dickert could swim, the crocodile was faster and much more agile in the water. The privateers and British were watching in silence, the Cubans with excited yells. Only MacRae had the presence of mind to smash his elbow into the face of the Cuban who held his rifle.
“Swim, Dickert! For the love of God, swim!” MacKim roared as MacRae levelled the rifle.
MacRae fired, with the crack of the shot loud in the inlet and the bullet hitting the crocodile full in the eye. The creature jerked in the water and slowed, which gave Dickert time to scramble onto land and run into the trees.
With their entertainment spoiled, the privateers grabbed MacRae’s rifle and kicked him to the deck, with others renewing their attack on MacKim.
MacKim curled into a foetal ball, with his arms raised over his face. After a few moments, the attack eased, and somebody grabbed hold of MacKim’s hair and hauled him upright.
Captain Roberval shook his head. “We’ve met before, sergeant,” he said.
“You’re a murdering hound.” Aware that his life was likely to be short, MacKim decided there was no point in politeness. “A lying, deceiving, murdering bastard. Hell mend you, as it will.”
Roberval stepped back, with his smile fading.
“You first, sergeant,” he said. “For at noon, we will swim you to death. Unless the crocodiles get you first.” Roberval lifted a hand. “Tie the sergeant to the mast, and let the flies feast.”
31
MacKim sagged in his bonds. He did not know what time it was or how much longer he had to live. Since the rising of the sun, the morning had been an eternity of torment. MacKim was bound in the heat with no shade as the flies and mosquitoes whined around him, feasting on his blood. His head ached as if it would split, and the cords bit into his body. He remembered the death of Bearsden, swimming until his strength gave up, then drowning as the privateers stabbed at him. It was not a pleasant method of death.
Every so often, one of Douce Vengeance’s crew, or a Cuban militiaman, would pass MacKim with a taunt, a curse, or a blow, and he could do nothing but endure and hope that Dickert, at least, reached safety. MacKim had no illusions of surviving the day or that Captain Roberval would show mercy to the Rangers. After all that they had achieved in North America, Kennedy’s Rangers would end here, murdered by a maniacal pirate in an obscure inlet in Cuba.
“Do you want water, Ranger?” Roberval stood a yard away, drinking from a silver goblet. He smiled. “Soon, you will have all the water you can drink.”
Get to Havana, Dickert. If anybody can escape, you can. Tell the world about Kennedy’s Rangers’ successes. Don’t let our story die untold.
As the sun beat on him, MacKim remembered the tales of his childhood, the ancient heroes such as Ossian and more modern stories such as Coll Ciotach Mac Domhnaill of Colonsay, Coll the left-handed, and Rob Roy MacGregor.
I’ll be joining the old heroes in Tir-nan-Og soon. Wait for me, lads, and make way for another Highland warrior.
“Here, Roberval!” MacKim forced himself to stand upright. “Where are you going next? The Royal Navy will hunt you down for the murdering pirate you are!”
Roberval smiled and poured the contents of his goblet onto the deck. “Maybe so, Ranger, but you’ll be dead long before then.”
No. No, I won’t die easy or give sport to Roberval and his men. MacKim raised his head. I am wee Hughie MacKim of Fraser’s Highlanders, Sergeant MacKim of Kennedy’s Rangers; I won’t die easily in some unknown cove in Cuba. Remember me, Claudette!
“78th! Come to me, 78th! The French are before us!” As the heat pounded on him, MacKim became delirious, imagining himself back on the Plains of Abraham, with Pikestaff Wolfe in command and Montcalm’s French army marching towards him. The dawn sun glittered on the splendid white uniforms as the silk colours rustled overhead and the French regiments advanced in columns. MacKim could hear the skirl of the great Highland bagpipes and the rattle of drums encouraging the men forward.
That’s the past, MacKim told himself. I must concentrate on today. When they throw me in the water, I will grab at the first man to thrust a boarding pike at me. I’ll hold the pike and pull him in with me. I’ll die, but I’ll die like a Highland warrior. I’ll take the warrior’s path home.
MacKim shook his head, trying to clear his mind from the memory of the pipes and drums. He thought of his brother, wounded and left on Culloden Moor, and of Private Chisholm of Fraser’s Highlanders, a veteran of Fontenoy who was so severely scarred, he could not return to civilian life. The pipes were still wailing, calling MacKim back home.
I can still hear them. Maybe I’m already dead. Perhaps I have entered the place of heroes. He opened his mouth, feeling his parched lips crack and tear.
“78th! Come on, Fraser’s Highlanders!”
MacKim looked around him. He was not in the place of heroes. He was still tied to the mainmast of Dolphin with the Caribbean sun roasting his head and the sea lapping around the hull. Yet, he could hear the pipes, high above all the other sounds. Unmistakable, soul-stirring, bringing memories of cool rain on the heather moors.
There are no pipes in Cuba.
The drumming increased in volume. MacKim straightened up, feeling the ropes scraping the flesh from his wrists, ankles, and waist.
“I hear you!” MacKim shouted, with the words coming as a croak from his tortured throat. “I’m coming, lads!”
The sound increased, a lone piper and the rhythm of three drums beating the assembly, and then the advance. MacKim heard an officer’s voice, shouting in Gaelic, and then an undoubted New England accent calling for the Rangers.
“Come on, Kennedy’s Rangers! First and always!”
Was that Butler? But he’s dead! Where am I? Heaven? Hell? Or somewhere in between?
After the rattle of drums and droning pipes, MacKim nearly expected to hear the rolling volleys of British infantry firing by sections. He struggled against his bonds, knowing it was futile, but determined to fight until he died.
“78th!” he croaked. “At them with the bayonet, Fraser’s! Draw your claymores, you dogs of war. Sons of the hounds, come here to get flesh!”
MacKim looked down and saw his green uniform. “Kennedy’s Rangers! Rally to me, Rangers!”
Nobody rallied. He was tied to the mast with the sounds of battle only in his head. The glory was all in the past, while the future promised only humiliation and lingering death. So why was there a kilted warrior emerging from the forest at the side of the inlet? And who were those scarlet-coated soldiers thrusting triangular bayonets into cringing Cuban militia?
The pipes were real. Nobody could imitate the sound of the Highland bagpipes or the high Gaelic slogans as kilted men burst onto Dolphin’s deck, bayonetting all who stood in their path. MacKim grinned through cracked lips as Colonials and moustached Germans of the 60th Royal Americans swarmed onto Douce Vengeance, brushing the privateers aside. He saw Roberval draw his sword and try to rally his men, only for the green-clad man to drop to one knee and shoot him clean through the cross in his forehead.
“That’s done for you,” the man said in Dickert’s voice.
“I’m dreaming,” MacKim said as Benjamin ran to his side, sawing at the ropes with a sharp knife.
“It’s no dream.” Dickert caught MacKim as he collapsed. “This fellow has a tale to tell.”
They sat under the trees with both ships sheltering from the gusting remnants of the third storm to hammer Cuba. Officers from the 60th Royal Americans and the Black Watch, the 42nd Highlanders, sat on makeshift chairs on Dolphin’s quarterdeck, with MacKim joining Kennedy and Maxwell. Midshipman Crabb, temporarily promoted to acting lieutenant, stood against the taffrail, eagerly listening to the conversation of his elders and betters.
“You’ve had quite the adventure,” Captain Jacobs of the Royal Americans said.
“I’m still not sure what happened,” MacKim admitted. “How did you know where we were?” His head continued to pound from the effects of the sun.
“That black fellow, Benjamin, alerted us,” Ogilvy of the 42nd said, sipping at a glass of brandy they had liberated from Douce Vengeance’s stores. “We were heading in quite the wrong direction when he came running out of nowhere, yelling like a fiend. Our picket would have shot him until he said he was one of Kennedy’s Rangers.”
“One up to Benjamin,” Kennedy said. “We thought he had deserted.”
“Quite the reverse,” Ogilvy said. “He told us where you were and insisted we help you.”
MacKim nodded. “That’s twice Benjamin’s saved my life.”
Ogilvy frowned at the interruption. “When he saw we were only thirty strong, he ran off to find the 60th.” He finished his brandy with a final swallow. “Good man, that. He’d be an asset in any regiment. I can’t persuade you to transfer him to the Forty-Twa, could I?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Kennedy said. “Benjamin is a free man.”
Maxwell nodded. “He might not remain free for long, with the demand for labour in the islands. I have picked up a couple of volunteers from Cuba and Barbados, prime seamen, but they know that every time they go ashore, they’re in danger of being taken as slaves.”
MacKim listened without commenting.
“Well, your man Benjamin ran along the coast until he found the Royal Americans and told them his story,” Ogilvy said.
Captain Jacobs took up the story. “When he came to us, we thought he was a Spanish spy, and my men were going to shoot him out of hand. Luckily, he mentioned Kennedy’s Rangers, and we knew the name.”
“He’s a brave man,” Kennedy said. “I’m glad you came to rescue us.”
“So am I,” Maxwell said, nodding. “So am I.”
That night MacKim approached Benjamin, who sat talking to one of Maxwell’s volunteer black seamen.
“You saved our lives.” MacKim shook Benjamin by the hand. “And now, you lads are worried about being taken back into slavery?”
“Yes,” Benjamin answered for all three.
“We’re on the south shore of Cuba,” MacKim said. “Two of you are seamen, and Jamaica is about a hundred miles away to the south.”
MacKim saw no interest in the seamen’s faces.
“Jamaica is a British colony, and the British treat their slaves worse than the French or Spanish,” Benjamin explained.
MacKim understood the men’s reluctance. “Don’t forget the Maroons on Jamaica, free black men and women who owe allegiance to nobody.” He felt, rather than saw, their interest quicken.
Benjamin glanced at his companions before replying. “It’s a long way to swim, sergeant.”
“Douce Vengeance has two seaworthy boats quite capable of making the passage,” MacKim said. “And the Rangers are on picket duty tonight. I’m the duty sergeant.”
Benjamin gave a long, slow smile.
“I am sure a trio of likely lads such as you could manage to ensure one of the boats has sufficient food and water to last the journey. Captain Roberval has armed each boat with a swivel, plus muskets with powder and shot on board.” MacKim stood up. “I believe that one of the boats is fastened to the taffrail of Douce Vengeance.”
I am helping two Royal Navy seamen desert in time of war and sending reinforcements to the Maroons, who could soon be fighting against King George. MacKim smiled. What would Claudette say? He thought for a moment. She would say that basic Christian decency is more important than kings, countries, or colonies, and she’d be right.
Benjamin looked sideways at MacKim without saying anything.
“I’ll leave you to think about it,” MacKim said, and ambled across the deck.
