Buccaneer by Tim Severin Page A

others?’ he shouted above the clamour of the wind.
    ‘They’ll do the same as us, if they can find a refuge high enough,’ Jezreel called back. ‘But it’s the end of my stay here.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ shouted Hector.
    ‘Nothing will remain after this flood,’ answered the big man. ‘All our stock of logwood is being washed away. Some may stay in place, but the rest will shift and be buried in the mud. It will take weeks to salvage it, and even then it will be almost impossible to bring it to the landing place. A North rarely lasts more than a day or two, but it will be weeks before the flood waters recede far enough for us to begin any recovery. Besides, all our food stores will have been destroyed, and the gunpowder soaked and ruined.’
    Glumly Hector looked down at the swirling water. His mind was on Gutteridge and his sloop. Unless the captain had found a truly secure anchorage there was little chance that his vessel would survive.
    That evening they ate a meal of cold meat washed down with gulps of water. From time to time they shifted position by a few inches, cautiously easing the discomfort of their perch because the gale still raged. Occasionally a bird flashed past them, swept helplessly downwind.
    The gale began to slacken about the time the stars came out and, looking north, Hector saw that the long black cloud had gone. ‘That means the North is finished,’ Jezreel told him.
    They dozed fitfully and at sunrise looked out on a scene of devastation. The flood water extended as far as the eye could see. Here and there the tops of small trees were still visible, but their branches had been stripped of foliage. The only movement was the small, reluctant swirls and eddies in the brown flood which told that the water had reached its peak and was slowly beginning to recede.
    ‘It’ll be some hours yet before we can descend,’ Jezreel warned. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, and there was a companionable silence between them.
    ‘Tell me,’ said Hector, ‘how did you finish up here of all places?’
    Jezreel waited several moments before answering. ‘Those scars on my face are the mark of my former profession. Did you ever hear of Nat Hall, the “Sussex Gladiator”?’
    When Hector did not reply, he continued. ‘You might have done if you had lived in London and visited Clare Market or Hockley in the Hole. It was there I fought trials of skill, gave exhibitions, taught classes too. The singlestick was my favourite, though I was handy enough with the backsword.’
    ‘I’ve seen prize fights at home,’ said Hector. ‘But that was with fists, between farmers at the country fairs.’
    ‘You are talking about trials of manhood,’ the big man corrected him. He stretched out his hands to show the callused knuckles. ‘That’s what fistics leave you with, and maybe a flattened nose and mis-shapen ears. Trials of skill are different. They’re done with weapons. My nose was shaped by a blow from a singlestick, and the same caused my scars. Had I received a slash from a backsword that would have left no ear at all.’
    ‘It must take courage to follow such a dangerous profession,’ commented Hector.
    Jezreel shook his head. ‘I drifted into it. I was always very big for my age, and strong too. By the time I was fourteen, I was taking wagers on feats of strength – breaking thick ropes, pulling saplings up by their roots, lifting heavy stones, that sort of thing. Eventually I found my way to London where a showman promised me that I would be the new English Samson in his theatre. But I was never quite good enough, and he was a cheat.’
    Jezreel leaned over from his branch and spat down into the flood water. He waited for a moment, watching the blob of spittle float on the surface. Slowly it drifted seawards. ‘On the ebb,’ he commented as he settled back against the tree trunk, and continued with his tale. ‘I was always quick, as much as I was strong. Have you ever seen hot