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.And now, by this natural leap-frogging process, their places in the van had been taken by another three canoes, and they could allow themselves to relax.Until Cruces.For Morgan had indeed told them about this town, an important resting place on the gold road from Panama to Nombre de Dios, situated on the shore of the lake.The Spaniards would certainly fight for Cruces, and the town was fortified.There would the mettle of these men be tested.As if it had not been tested many times before.Perhaps it was his own mettle he questioned.But had he not led the assault on the Spanish brig? He had known no fear then.Only an anxious anger.So now was a strange time to start doubting himself.Or perhaps he did not doubt himself, but only the horrors that would come afterwards.For now he had two memories to haunt his midnight hours; the priest had joined Grandmama.'The lake,' someone shouted from the canoe in front of him.The word had been passed down the command.'The lake,' one of his own crew shouted.He turned, and cupped his hands to call the glad news.'The lake,' he bellowed at those behind him, and listened to the word rippling down the column like a feu de joie.But was it a lake? Or had they in some fantastic fashion managed to cross the isthmus in four days? For the banks of the river were widening, and even disappearing from sight; he could see no land ahead, only the swarm of canoes, spreading out like a cavalry charge as they reached the open water, after the constant effort of pulling against the current over the previous days.Now they entered a world of light and air, compared with the oppression of the huge trees.Flocks of wild duck rose from the reeds on either hand, and scattered towards the sky, eagerly watched by the men, who were already weary of a diet of rotting beef.Reeds were everywhere, emerging in patches above the surface and then disappearing again.Now indeed they needed the Indian guides, or they might row round and round in circles for the rest of their lives.But the Admiral's canoe, painted a bright red so that there could be no mistakes in identification, rowed steadily forward, bearing just west of south, until even the reed-beds and the flanking forest had disappeared, and they followed an open expanse.And now he could see land again.The morning sun reflected from the walls.Cruces.Filled with armed Spaniards determined to halt this expedition here and now.How would Morgan command the assault? Would he merely point his sword at those battlements, and leave it to the desperate valour of his buccaneers? Kit rather suspected that would be the case, and felt relieved that there were close on fifty canoes between his own and the front.He would not have to be a forlorn hope on this occasion.Morgan's boat headed straight for the beach beneath the walls; the roofs of the town, dominated by the church, were now clearly in view.But the Spaniards were wasting no powder.The loopholes remained silent, staring at the canoes.'Give way,' Kit shouted.'Make haste.Paddle you devils.Paddle.'For the exhilaration of battle was once again seizing hold of him, and he no longer wanted to lag behind.He wished to be up there with the leaders, with the Admiral and with the van.But each of the hundred and forty canoes had increased its speed, and the whole little armada surged at the walls.Yet still there was no fire, and now he saw that the main gate was open, swinging to and fro on its hinges.'By Christ,' he whispered.Morgan had seen it too.The lead canoes were already beached, and the buccaneers were pouring ashore and up the beach, their bandannas forming a brightly coloured pattern of bouncing balls, and led by the Admiral himself; Morgan had retained his broad-brimmed black hat, although like them he had shaved his head.'Hurry,' Kit begged his men.'Hurry, you bastards.'The bottom grated and they dropped their paddles.Kit was already over the side, splashing through knee-deep water as he gained the beach, to join the mob which flooded through the open gates, to debouch into the single street of the town, to stop, and stare at the empty houses, the open doors.To listen to the silence which gradually overcame even the cries of the invaders.They huddled, insensibly, and looked towards the church.Morgan had entered there, and now he stood on the steps and faced them.'They've gone,' he shouted.'Run like the curs they are.They'll not have left much behind them, lads, but what they have we must find.Or we'll go hungry for the next couple of days, eh? Scatter now, and discover what you may.Kill me every Spaniard you find.We'll have no quarter.Remember that.And find food, lads.But reassemble on the note of the bugle.Forget that, and you are dead men.'The buccaneers gave a tremendous whoop, and tore at the houses on either side.Empty, stripped of anything valuable.And yet containing enough for destruction.Beds and articles of furniture were slashed and cut and pounded into rubble; doors were torn from their hinges, windows poked out.Cellars were tumbled.But no article of food was found, much less any of gold.Tempers began to run high, curses and oaths mingled with the sweat and the clash of arms to disturb the still air.Until a roar of joy sent them back to the street, and milling into the square.Bart's men had forced the great doors to the church cellars.Here too there were no men.But here there were casks of wine, row upon row of them.'They'll be fit for naught for days,' Kit muttered.He stood close by the Admiral.'Aye,' Morgan said.'But there's none of us here will restrain them from that liquor.'They were already stoving in the casks, holding out mugs and even hands for a first taste of the flowing red liquid.And now the first cup was filled, and the man who had thrust the first bung raised it high.'Here's to ye, Admiral Morgan,' he bellowed, and gulped at the wine, allowing it to flow out of his mouth and down his cheeks, cascade over his shoulders
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