Pirate Latitudes: A Novel (12 page)

Chapter 19

C
AZALLA DRANK WINE and brooded on the face of the dying Lord, thinking of the suffering, the agony of the body. From his earliest youth, Cazalla had seen images of that agony, the torment of the flesh, the sagging muscles and the hollow eyes, the blood that poured from the wound in the side, the blood that dripped from the spikes in the hands and feet.

This painting, in his cabin, had come as a gift from Philip himself. It was the work of His Majesty’s favorite court painter, a man named Velázquez, now deceased. To be given the painting was a mark of considerable esteem, and Cazalla had been overpowered to receive it; he never traveled unless it was at his side. It was his most treasured possession.

This man Velázquez had not put a halo around the Lord’s visage. And the coloring of the body was deathly gray-white. It was altogether realistic, but Cazalla often wished for a halo. He was surprised that a king so pious as Philip had not insisted that a halo be added. Perhaps Philip disliked the painting; perhaps that was why he had sent it to one of his military captains in New Spain.

In black moments, another thought occurred to Cazalla. He was only too aware of the gap that separated the niceties of life in Philip’s Court from the hard life of the men who sent him the gold and silver from the colonies to support such luxuries. One day he would rejoin the Court, a rich man in his latter years. Sometimes, he thought that the courtiers would laugh at him. Sometimes, in his dreams, he killed them all in bloody, angry duels.

Cazalla’s reverie was interrupted by the sway of the ship. The tide must be out, he thought; that meant dawn was not far off; soon they would be under way for the day. It would be time to kill another English pirate. Cazalla intended to kill them, one by one, until someone told him the truth he wanted to know.

The ship continued to move, but there was something wrong with the motion. Cazalla sensed it instinctively; the ship was not swinging around its forward anchor line; it was moving laterally; something was very wrong. And then, at that moment, he heard a soft crunch and the ship shuddered and was still.

With a curse, Cazalla sprinted onto the main deck. There he found himself staring into the fronds of a palm tree, just inches from his face. Several palm trees, all lining the shore of the island. His ship was beached. He screamed in fury. The panicked crew scrambled around him.

The first mate, trembling, ran over. “Captain, they cut the anchor line.”

“They?”
Cazalla shouted. When he was angry, his voice became high and thin, the voice of a woman. He ran to the opposite railing and saw the
Cassandra
, heeled over in a fair breeze, making for the open sea.
“They?”

“The pirates have escaped,” said the mate, pale.

“Escaped! How could they have escaped?”

“I don’t know, my Captain. The guards are all dead.”

Cazalla struck the man full in the face, sending him sprawling across the deck. He was so furious he could hardly think. He stared across the water at the departing sloop. “How could they escape?” he repeated. “God in damnation, how could they escape?”

The captain of the infantry came over. “Sir, we are hard-beached. Shall I land some men and try to push off?”

“The tide is running,” Cazalla said.

“Yes, my Captain.”

“Well, fool, we cannot get afloat until the tide is in once more.” Cazalla cursed loudly. That would be twelve glasses. Six hours before they could begin to free the massive ship. And even then, if the boat was hard-beached, they might not get free. It was the season of the waning moon; each tide was less full than the last. Unless they got free in the next tide — or the one after — they would be beached for three weeks or more.

“Fools!” he shrieked.

In the distance, the
Cassandra
came smartly around on a southerly tack and disappeared from view. A southerly tack?

“They are going to Matanceros,” Cazalla said. And he shook with uncontrollable rage.

.   .   .

HUNTER SAT IN
the stern of the
Cassandra
and plotted his course. He was surprised to find that he no longer felt any fatigue at all, though he had not slept for two days. Around him, his crew lay sprawled in attitudes of collapse; nearly all were deeply asleep.

“They are good men,” Sanson said, looking at them.

“Indeed,” Hunter said.

“Did any one of them talk?”

“One did.”

“And Cazalla believed him?”

“Not at that moment,” Hunter said, “but he may change his view later.”

“We have at least six hours on them,” Sanson said.

“Eighteen, if we are lucky.”

Hunter nodded. Matanceros was two days sail into the wind; with such a start, they might beat the warship to the fortress.

“We will sail through all the nights,” Hunter said.

Sanson nodded.

“Harden that jib sheet,” Enders barked. “Lively there.”

The sail tautened, and with a fresh breeze from the east, the
Cassandra
cut through the water into the dawn light.

Part III

Matanceros

Chapter 20

I
N THE AFTERNOON, the sky was streaked with patchy clouds that turned dark and gray as the sun faded. The air was damp and forbidding. It was then that Lazue spotted the first of the timbers.

Sailing on, the
Cassandra
moved among dozens of broken pieces of wood and ship’s wreckage. The crew threw out lines and brought some of it aboard.

“Looks English,” Sanson said, when a piece of the high transom, painted red and blue, was hauled onto the deck.

Hunter nodded. A good-sized ship had been sunk. “Not long ago,” he said. He scanned the horizon for any sign of survivors, but there was none. “Our Donnish friends have been hunting.”

Pieces of wood thumped against the hull of the ship for another fifteen minutes. The crew was uneasy; sailors did not like to see the evidence of such destruction. Another cross-brace was brought aboard, and from it, Enders guessed the ship had been a merchantman, probably a brig or frigate, one hundred fifty feet or so.

They never found any sign of the crew.

The air turned increasingly sullen as night fell, and a sea squall blew up. In the darkness, hot rain hammered the wooden decks of the
Cassandra
. The men were soaked and miserable through the night. Yet the dawn was fair and clear, and when it broke, they saw their destination dead ahead on the horizon.

From a distance, the western face of the island of Matanceros is singularly uninviting. Its volcanic contours are sharp and jagged, and except for low vegetation along the shore, the island appears dry and brown and barren, with patches of exposed bare reddish-gray rock. Little rain fell on the island, and because it was so far eastward in the Caribbean, the winds off the Atlantic whipped around its single peak ceaselessly.

The crew of the
Cassandra
watched Matanceros approach without any trace of enthusiasm. Enders, at the helm, frowned. “It’s September,” he said. “She’s as green and welcoming as ever she gets.”

“Aye,” Hunter said. “It’s no haven. But there’s a forest on the eastern shore, and plenty of water.”

“And plenty of Popish muskets,” Enders said.

“And plenty of Popish gold,” Hunter said. “How long do you make landfall?”

“Fair wind. Midday at latest, I’d warrant.”

“Bear for the cove,” Hunter said, pointing. Already they could see the only indentation on the western coast, a narrow inlet called Blind Man’s Cove.

Hunter went off to collect the supplies that his small landing party would carry with them. He found Don Diego, the Jew, already setting out the equipment on the deck. The Jew fixed Hunter with a weak eye. “Considerate of the Dons,” he said. “They looked, but didn’t take anything.”

“Except the rats.”

“We can make do with anything small, Hunter. Possum, any small creature.”

“We’ll have to,” Hunter said.

Sanson was standing in the bow, looking forward at the peak of Mt. Leres. From a distance, it appeared absolutely sheer, a curving semicircle of naked red rock.

“There’s no way around it?” Sanson asked.

Hunter responded, “The only passages around will be guarded. We must go over the top.”

Sanson gave a slight smile; Hunter went aft again to Enders. He gave orders that once his party had been beached, the
Cassandra
was to sail south to the next island, Ramonas. A small cove with fresh water could be found there, and the sloop would be safe from attack.

“You know the place?”

“Aye,” Enders said. “I know it. Holed up a week in that cove some years back under Captain Lewisham with his one eye. She’s fair enough. How long do we wait there?”

“Four days. On the afternoon of the fourth day, move out of the cove and anchor in deep water. Sail at midnight, and bring yourself to Matanceros just before dawn on the fifth day.”

“And then?”

“Sail right up into the harbor at dawn, and board the men onto the galleon.”

“Passing the guns of the fort?”

“They’ll not trouble you on the fifth morning.”

“I’m not a praying man,” Enders said. “But I’m hoping.”

Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s nothing to fear.”

Enders looked toward the island and did not smile.

.   .   .

BY NOON, IN
the still midday heat, Hunter, Sanson, Lazue, the Moor, and Don Diego stood on the narrow strip of white sand beach and watched the
Cassandra
depart. At their feet was more than a hundred and twenty pounds of equipment — rope, grappling hooks, canvas slings, muskets, water caskets.

They stood in silence for a moment, breathing in lungfuls of burning air. Then Hunter turned away. “Let’s make off,” he said. They moved away from the water’s edge, toward the shoreline.

Beyond the beach, the shoreline of palm trees and tangled mangroves appeared as impenetrable as a stone wall. They knew from bitter experience that they could not hack their way through this barrier; to attempt it was to make no more than a few hundred yards of progress in the course of a day of feverish physical effort. The usual method of entering the interior of an island was to find a stream, and move up it.

They knew there must be such a stream here, for the very existence of a cove implied it. Coves were formed in part because there was a break in the outer reefs, and that break meant fresh water pouring out from the land. They walked along the beach, and after an hour located a sparse trickle of water cutting a muddy track through the foliage along the shore. The streambed was so narrow that the plants overgrew it, making a sort of cramped, hot tunnel. The passage was obviously not easy.

“Should we look for a better one?” Sanson said.

The Jew shook his head. “There is little rainfall here. I doubt there is a better one.”

They all seemed to agree, and set out, moving up the creek, away from the sea. Almost immediately, the heat became unbearable, the air hot and rank. It was, as Lazue said, like breathing cloth.

After the first few minutes, they traveled in silence, wasting no energy on talk. The only sound was the thwack of their cutlasses on the foliage, and the chatter of birds and small animals in the canopy of trees above them. Their progress was slow. Toward the end of the day, when they looked over their shoulders, the blue ocean below seemed discouragingly near.

They pressed on, pausing only to capture food. Sanson was a master of the crossbow, and used it to shoot several birds. They were encouraged to notice the droppings of a wild boar near the streambed. Lazue collected plants that were edible.

Nightfall found them halfway up the strip of jungle between the sea and the bare rock of Mt. Leres. Although the air turned cooler, they were trapped beneath the foliage and it remained almost as hot as before. In addition, the mosquitoes were out.

The mosquitoes were a formidable enemy, coming in thick clouds so dense as to be almost palpable, obscuring each man’s vision of those near him. The insects buzzed and whined around them, clinging to every part of their bodies, getting into ears and nose and mouth. They coated themselves liberally with mud and water, but nothing really helped. They dared not light a fire, but ate the caught game raw, and slept the night fitfully, propped up against trees, with the droning buzz of mosquitoes in their ears.

In the morning, they awoke, the caked mud dropping off their stiff bodies, and they looked at each other and laughed. They were all changed, their faces red and swollen and lumpy with mosquito bites. Hunter checked the water; a quarter of their supply was gone, and he announced they would have to consume less. They moved on, hoping to see a wild boar, for they were all hungry. They never sighted one. The monkeys chattering in the overhead canopy of foliage seemed to taunt them. They heard the animals, but Sanson never had a clear shot at one.

Late in the second day, they began to notice the sound of the wind. It was faint at first, a far-off low moan. But as they approached the edge of the jungle, where the trees were thinner and their progress easier, the wind grew louder. Soon they could feel it, and although the breeze was welcome, they looked back at each other with anxiety. They knew the breeze would grow in strength as they approached the cliff face of Mt. Leres.

It was late afternoon when they finally reached the rocky base of the cliff. The wind was now a screaming demon that tugged and whipped their clothing, bruised their faces, shrieked in their ears. They had to shout to be heard.

Hunter looked up at the rock wall before them. It was as sheer as it seemed from a distance, and, if anything, higher than he had thought — four hundred feet of naked rock, lashed by a wind so strong that stone chips and rock fragments fell down on them continually.

He motioned to the Moor, who came over. “Bassa,” Hunter shouted, leaning close to the huge man. “Will the wind be less at night?”

Bassa shrugged, and made a pinching gesture with two fingers: a little better.

“Can you make the climb at night?”

He shook his head: no. Then he made a little pillow with his hands, and leaned his head on it.

“You want to climb in the morning?”

Bassa nodded.

“He’s right,” Sanson said. “We should wait until morning, when we are rested.”

“I don’t know if we can wait,” Hunter said. He was looking to the north. Some miles away, across a placid sea, he saw the broad gray line over the water, and above that, angry black clouds. It was a storm, several miles wide, moving slowly toward them.

“All the more reason,” Sanson shouted to Hunter. “We should let it pass.”

Hunter turned away. From their position at the base of the cliff, they were five hundred feet above sea level. Looking south, he could see Ramonas, some thirty miles away. The
Cassandra
was not in sight; it had long since found the protection of the cove.

Hunter looked back at the storm. They might wait out the night, and the storm might pass them by. But if it were large enough, and slow enough, and they lost even one day, then their timing would be ruined. And three days hence, the
Cassandra
would sail into Matanceros carrying fifty men to certain death.

“We climb now,” Hunter said.

He turned to the Moor. The Moor nodded, and went to collect his ropes.

.   .   .

IT WAS AN
extraordinary sensation, Hunter thought, as he held the rope in his hands and felt the occasional jerk and wiggle as the Moor moved up the cliff face. The rope between Hunter’s fingers was an inch and a half thick, yet high overhead, it thinned to a wispy thread, and the giant bulk of the Moor was a speck he could barely discern in the softening light.

Sanson came over to shout in his ear. “You are insane,” he yelled. “None of us will survive this.”

“Afraid?” Hunter shouted back.

“I fear nothing,” Sanson said, thumping his chest. “But look at the others.”

Hunter looked. Lazue was trembling. Don Diego was very pale.

“They cannot make it,” Sanson shouted. “What will you do without them?”

“They’ll make it,” Hunter said. “They have to.” He looked over at the storm, which was closer. It was now only a mile or two away; they could feel the moisture in the wind. He felt a sudden tug on the rope in his hands, then a second quick jerk.

“He’s done it,” Hunter said. He looked up, but could not see the Moor at all.

A moment later, another rope dropped to the ground.

“Quick,” Hunter said. “The supplies.” They tied the provisions, already loaded into canvas bags, onto the rope, and gave a signaling tug. The bags began their bumpy, bouncing ascent up the cliff face. Once or twice, the force of the wind blew them away from the rock a distance of five or ten feet.

“God’s blood,” Sanson said, seeing it.

Hunter looked at Lazue. Her face was tight. He went over and fitted the canvas sling around her shoulder, and another around her hips.

“Mother of God, Mother of God, Mother of God,” Lazue said, over and over in a monotone.

“Now listen,” Hunter shouted, as the rope came down again. “Hold the long line, and let Bassa pull you up. Keep your face to the rock, and don’t look down.”

“Mother of God, Mother of God . . .”

“Did you hear me?” Hunter shouted. “Don’t look down!”

She nodded, still muttering. A moment later, she started up the rock, hoisted by the sling. She had a brief period of awkwardness, twisting and clutching for the other line. Then she seemed to get her bearings, and her ascent up the face was uneventful.

The Jew was next. He stared at Hunter with hollow eyes as Hunter gave him the instructions: he did not seem to hear; he was like a man sleepwalking as he stepped into the sling and was hoisted up.

The first drops of rain from the approaching storm began to fall.

“You will go next,” Sanson shouted.

“No,” Hunter said. “I am last.”

By now, it was raining steadily. The winds had increased. When the sling came down the cliff again, the canvas was soaked. Sanson stepped into the sling and jerked the rope, to signal his ascent. As he started up, he shouted to Hunter, “If you die, I will take your shares.” And then he laughed, his laughter trailing off in the wind.