The Jew’s cases, in fact, were stored in an oilskin sac, and placed belowdecks, out of view of the seamen themselves. It was, as Hunter explained to Don Diego, “our little secret.”
As dawn was breaking, Mr. Enders, still energetic, still bouncing with his lilting walk, came over and said, “Beg pardon, Captain, but there’s a one-legged beggar’s been lingering by the warehouse for the better part of the night.”
Hunter peered at the building, still dark in the early-morning light. The docks were not a profitable place to beg. “You know him?”
“No, Captain.”
Hunter frowned. Under other circumstances, he could send the man to the governor and request that the beggar be clapped in Marshallsea jail for a few weeks. But the hour was late; the governor was still sleeping and would not be pleased at a disturbance. “Bassa.”
The huge form of the Moor materialized at his side.
“You see the beggar with the wooden leg?”
Bassa nodded.
“Kill him.”
Bassa walked away. Hunter turned to Enders, who sighed. “It’s best, I think, Captain.” He repeated the old proverb. “Better a voyage begin in blood than end in blood.”
“I fear we may have plenty of both,” Hunter said, and turned back to his work.
When the Cassandra set sail a half hour later, with Lazue forward to watch for the shoals of Pelican Point in the dim morning light, Hunter looked back once at the docks and the port. The town slept peacefully. The lamplighters were extinguishing the torches at the dock. A few well-wishers were turning away, having said their good-byes.
Then, floating facedown in the water, he saw the body of the one-legged beggar. In the tide, the body rocked back and forth, the wooden leg knocking softly against a piling.
It was, he thought, either a good omen or a bad one. He could not be certain which.
Chapter 13
CONSORTS WITH ALL manner of rogue and villain,’ ” sputtered Sir James. “ ‘Encourages . . . the continuance of dastardly and bloody raids on Spanish lands’ — good God, ‘dastardly and bloody,’ the man is mad — ‘permits use of Port Royal as a common meeting place for these cutthroats and knaves . . . unsuited to high capacity . . . abides all manner of corruption . . .’ Damn the man.”
Sir James Almont, still in his dressing gown, waved the letter in his hand. “Damn the rogue and villain,” he said. “When did he give you this?”
“Yesterday, Your Excellency,” Anne Sharpe said. “I thought you would want it, Your Excellency.”
“Indeed I do,” Almont said, giving her a coin for her trouble. “And if there is more of the same, you shall be further rewarded, Anne.” He thought to himself that she was proving an exceedingly clever child. “Has he made advances?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“As I thought,” Almont said. “Well, we shall devise a way to settle Mr. Hacklett’s games of intrigue, once and finally.”
He walked to the window of his bedchamber and looked out. In the early dawn light, the Cassandra, now rounding the point of Lime Cay, raised her mainsail and headed east, gaining speed.
. . .
THE CASSANDRA, LIKE all privateering vessels, made first for Bull Bay, a little inlet a few miles east of Port Royal. There, Mr. Enders put the ship into irons, and with sails luffing and fluttering in the light breeze, Captain Hunter made his speech.
These formalities were known to everyone aboard. First, Hunter called for a vote on himself as captain of the vessel; a chorus of ayes greeted him. Then he stated the rules of the voyage — no drink, nor fornication, and no looting without his order; a penalty of death for breaking the rules. These were the usual rules, and the aye vote was perfunctory.
Next, he explained the division of the booty. Hunter, as captain, would take thirteen shares. Sanson would have seven — there was some grumbling at this figure — and Mr. Enders would have one and a half shares. Lazue would take one and a quarter. Black Eye would take one and a quarter. The rest would be equally distributed among the crew.
One crewmember stood. “Captain, are you taking us to Matanceros? It is dangerous.”
“Indeed it is,” Hunter said, “but the booty is great. There will be plenty for every man. Any man who sees the danger as over-much will be put ashore here, in this bay, and none the worse in my estimation. But he must go before I tell you the treasure that is there.”
He waited. No one moved or spoke.
“All right,” Hunter said. “Matanceros harbor holds a Donnish treasure nao. We are going to take her.” At this there was an enormous uproar among the crew. It was several minutes before Hunter could get them silent again. And when they looked back at him, he saw the glint in their eyes, fed by visions of gold. “Are you with me?” Hunter shouted. They responded with a shout.
“Then, on to Matanceros.”
Part II
The Black Ship
Chapter 14
SEEN FROM A distance, the Cassandra presented a pretty spectacle. Her sails were taut in the morning breeze; she was heeled over a few degrees, and cut a swift, hissing path through the clear blue water.
On board the ship, however, it was cramped and uncomfortable. Sixty fighting men, grizzled and smelly, jostled for space to sit, game, or sleep in the sun. They relieved themselves over the side, without ceremony, and their captain was often presented with the spectacle of a half-dozen bare buttocks leaning over the leeward gunwale.
No food was parceled out, and no water. None was given for the first day at all, and the crew, expecting this, had eaten and drunk their fill on their last night in the port.
Nor did Hunter anchor that evening. It was customary for the privateers to put into some protected cove, to allow the crew to sleep ashore. But Hunter sailed straight through the first night. He had two reasons for haste. First, he feared spies who might make for Matanceros to warn the garrison there. And second, he did not wish to allow extra time, since the treasure nao might depart the harbor of Matanceros at any time.
At the end of the second day, they were beating northeast, through the dangerous passage between Hispañola and Cuba. His crew knew this region well, for they were within a day’s sail of Tortuga, long a pirate stronghold.
He continued into the third day, and then landed for the night, to rest his weary crew. The following day, he knew, would begin the long ocean run past Inagua, and then to Matanceros itself. There would be no safe landing in the future. Once they crossed Latitude 20, they were in dangerous Spanish waters.
His crew was in good spirits, laughing and joking around the campfires. During the past three days, only one man had been seized by visions of the crawling devils, which sometimes accompanied the absence of rum; that man was now calmer, no longer trembling and shaking.
Satisfied, Hunter stared into the fire before him. Sanson came over, and sat next to him.
“What are your thoughts?”
“None special.”
“Do you brood on Cazalla?”
“No.” Hunter shook his head.
“I know that he killed your brother,” Sanson said.
“He caused him to be killed, yes.”
“And this does not anger you?”
Hunter sighed. “Not anymore.”
Sanson stared at him in the flickering firelight. “What was the manner of his dying?”
“It is not important,” Hunter said evenly.
Sanson sat quietly for some moments. “I have heard,” he said, “that your brother was captured on a merchant ship by Cazalla. I have heard that Cazalla strung him up by his arms, cut off his testicles and stuffed them into his mouth until he choked and died.”
Hunter did not answer for some time. “That is the story,” he said finally.
“And do you believe it?”
“
Yes.”
Sanson scanned his face. “The crafty English. Where is your anger, Hunter?”
“I have it,” Hunter said.
Sanson nodded. He stood. “When you find Cazalla, kill him quickly. Do not let this hatred cloud your brain.”
“My brain is not clouded.”
“No. I see it is not.”
Sanson left. Hunter remained staring into the fire for a long time.
. . .
IN THE MORNING, they entered the dangerous Windward Passage, between Cuba and Hispañola. Winds were unpredictable, and the water was rough, but the Cassandra made excellent time. Sometime during the night they passed the dark promontory of Le Mole — the westward tip of Hispañola — to starboard. And near dawn, the profile of the land split to reveal Tortuga Island, along the north coast.
They continued on.
. . .
THEY WERE IN open water for all of the fifth day, but the weather was good, with only a light chop on the sea. By late afternoon they sighted Inagua Island to port, and soon after, Lazue spotted the crust on the horizon that meant Les Caiques, dead ahead. This was important, for south of Les Caiques was a treacherous shallow bank for several miles.
Hunter gave orders to turn eastward, toward the still-unseen Turk Isles. The weather remained good. The crew sang and dozed in the sun.
The sun was dropping lower in the sky when Lazue electrified the sleepy crew with the shout, “Sail ho!”
Hunter leapt to his feet. He squinted at the horizon, but saw nothing. Enders, the sea artist, had the glass to his eye, scanning in all directions. “Damn me,” he said, and handed the glass to Hunter. “She’s hard abeam, Captain.”
Hunter looked through the spyglass. Through the curving rainbow rings of color, he saw a white rectangle low on the horizon. Even as he watched, the white rectangle took on another corner, becoming two overlapping rectangles.
“How do you make it?” Enders asked.
Hunter shook his head. “You know as well as I.” From this distance, there was no way to determine the nationality of the approaching vessel, but these were undisputed Spanish waters. He glanced around the horizon. Inagua was far behind them; it would be a five-hour sail, and that island offered few protections. To the north, Les Caiques were inviting, but the wind was out of the northeast, and they would have to be too close-hauled to make good speed. To the east, Turk Isle was still not visible — and it was in the direction of the approaching sails.
He had to make a decision; none of the alternatives were inviting. “Change course,” he said finally. “Make for Les Caiques.”
Enders bit his lip and nodded. “Ready about!” he shouted, and the crew jumped to the halyards. The Cassandra came through the wind, and tacked north.
“Come off it,” Hunter said, eyeing the sails. “Make speed.”
“Aye, Captain,” Enders said. The sea artist was frowning unhappily, as indeed he might, for the sails on the horizon were now clearly visible to the naked eye. The other ship was gaining on them; the topgallants had now cleared the horizon, and the foresails were coming into view.
With the glass to his eye, Hunter saw three corners to the topgallants. A three-masted ship almost certainly meant a warship of some nationality.
“Damn!”
As he watched, the three sails merged into one square, then separated once more.
“She’s come about,” Hunter said. “On a long reach now for us.”
Enders’s feet did a little nervous dance while his hand gripped the tiller. “We’ll not outrun her on this tack, Captain.”
“Or any tack,” Hunter said gloomily. “Pray for a calm.”
The other ship was less than five miles away. In a steady wind, it would inexorably gain on the Cassandra. Their only hope now was a drop in the wind; then the Cassandra’s lighter weight would let her pull away.
It sometimes happened that the wind died around sunset, but just as commonly it freshened. Soon enough, Hunter felt the breeze more strongly on his cheeks.
“We’ve no luck today,” Enders said.
They could now see the mainsails of the pursuing craft, pink in the sunset and billowing full in the freshened breeze.
Les Caiques were still far away, a safe haven maddeningly distant, beyond their reach.
“Shall we turn and run, Captain?” Enders asked.
Hunter shook his head. The Cassandra might do better in a run before the wind, but that could only be postponing the inevitable. Unable to do anything, Hunter clenched his fists with impotent rage and watched the sails of the pursuing ship grow larger. They could see the edge of the hull now.
“She’s a ship of the line, all right,” Enders said. “I can’t make out the bow.”
The shape of the bow was the most likely way to tell nationality. Spanish warships tended to have a blunter bowline than English or Dutch ships.
Sanson came back to the tiller. “Are you going to fight?” he said.
In answer, Hunter just pointed to the ship. The hull was now clear of the horizon. She was more than a hundred and thirty feet at the waterline, and she had two gun decks. The gunports were opened, the blunt snouts of the cannon protruding. Hunter did not bother to count them; there were at least twenty, perhaps thirty, on the starboard side that he could see.
“She’s Donnish to my eye,” Sanson said.
“So she is,” Hunter agreed.
“Will you fight?”
“Fight that?” Hunter said. Even as he spoke, the warship came around and fired an opening volley at the Cassandra. The guns were still too far away; the shot splashed harmlessly off the port side, but the warning was clear. Another thousand yards and the warship would be within range.
Hunter sighed. “Come into the wind,” he said softly.
“Beg pardon, Captain,” Enders said.
“I said, come into the wind and release all halyards.”
“Aye, Captain,” Enders said.
Sanson glared at Hunter, and stomped off forward. Hunter paid no attention. He watched as his little sloop nosed into the wind, and the lines were let out. The sails luffed noisily in the breeze; the boat came to a standstill. Hunter’s crew lined the port rail, watching as the warship came closer. The hull of the ship was painted entirely black, with gilt trim, and the arms of Philip — prancing lions — shone on the aft castle. It was Spanish all right.
“We could make a fair show,” Enders said, “when they move in to take us. You’ve only to give us the word, Captain.”
“No,” Hunter said. On a ship of that size, there would be at least two hundred sailors, and as many armed soldiers on deck. Sixty men in an open sloop against four hundred in a larger craft? In the face of the least resistance, the warship would simply move off a distance and fire broadsides at the Cassandra until she sank.
“Better to die with a sword in your hands than a Popish rope around your neck, or the Don’s damned fire curling your toes,” Enders said.
“We will wait,” Hunter said.
“Wait for what?”
Hunter had no answer. He watched as the warship came so close that the shadow of the Cassandra’s mainsail fell across her side. Spanish voices shouted staccato commands in the growing darkness.
He looked at his own ship. Sanson was hurriedly priming pistols, jamming them into his belt. Hunter went over to him.
“I am going to fight,” Sanson said. “You may give yourselves up like timid women, but I will fight.”
Hunter had a sudden idea. “Then do this,” he said, and whispered into Sanson’s ear. A moment later, the Frenchman crept away.
The Spanish shouts continued. Ropes were thrown to the Cassandra. An unbroken line of soldiers with muskets stood high above them on the warship’s main deck, aiming down into the little sloop. The first of t
he Spanish soldiers climbed down to Cassandra. One by one, Hunter and his crew were prodded with muskets and forced to climb the rope ladder to the enemy vessel.
Chapter 15
AFTER THEY HAD spent so many days cramped aboard the Cassandra, the warship seemed enormous. Its main deck was so vast it appeared like a plain, stretched out before them. Hunter’s crew, hustled together by soldiers around the mainmast — the same crew that filled the sloop to overflowing — looked puny and insignificant here. Hunter looked at the faces of his men; they averted their eyes, not returning the gaze; their expressions were angry, frustrated, disappointed.
High above, the enormous sails fluttered in the breeze, making a noise so great that the dark Spanish officer confronting him had to shout to be heard.
“You are captain?” he bellowed.
Hunter nodded.
“What is called?”
“Hunter,” he shouted back.
“English?”
“Yes.”
“You go to this captain,” the man said, and two armed soldiers hustled Hunter below. Apparently, he was to be taken to the captain of the warship. Hunter looked over his shoulder, and had a last glimpse of his forlorn crew around the mast. Already, their hands were being bound behind their backs. The warship’s crew was efficient.
He stumbled down the narrow stairs to the gun deck. He had a brief glimpse of the long line of cannon, their crews standing ready, before he was roughly shoved aft. As he passed the open gunports to aft, he could look down at his little sloop, tied alongside the warship. Spanish soldiers were swarming over it, and the Spanish sailors of the prize crew were examining its fittings and lines, preparing to sail it.
He was not allowed to linger; a musket at his back prodded him along. They came to a door with two heavily armed, evil-looking men standing guard. Hunter noticed that these men wore no uniforms and assumed an air of peculiar superiority; they glanced at him with pitying disdain. One of them knocked on the door and said a few quick words in Spanish; there was an answering grunt, and they opened the door, and pushed Hunter in. One of the guards went inside as well, and closed the door.
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