Pirate Latitudes Read online

  “No.”

  “I tried many soaked strings and wicks and cloths, to no avail. None can be counted on. Therefore I searched for a container to hold the charge. I have found this.” He held up a thin, white, stringy substance. “The entrails of a rat,” he said, smiling happily. “Lightly dried over warm coals, to remove humors and juices yet retaining flexibility. So, now when a quantity of powder is introduced to the intestine, a serviceable fuse results. Let me show you.”

  He took one length of intestine, perhaps ten feet long, whitish, with the faint dark appearance of the powder inside. He set it down on the ground and lit one end.

  The fuse burned quietly, with little sputtering, and it was slow — consuming no more than an inch or two in the space of a minute.

  The Jew smiled broadly. “You see?”

  “You have reason to be proud,” Hunter said. “Can you transport this fuse?”

  “With safety,” the Jew said. “The only problem is time. If the intestine becomes too dry, it is brittle and may crack. This will happen after a day or so.”

  “Then we must carry a quantity of rats with us.”

  “I believe as much,” the Jew said. “Now I have a further surprise, something you did not request. Perhaps you cannot find a use for it, though it seems to me a most admirable device.” He paused. “You have heard of the French weapon which is called the grenadoe?”

  “No,” Hunter shook his head. “A poisoned fruit?” Grenadoe was the French word for pomegranate, and poisoning was lately very popular in the Court of Louis.

  “In a sense,” the Jew said, with a slight smile. “It is so called because of the seeds within the pomegranate fruit. I have heard this device exists, but was dangerous to manufacture. Yet I have done so. The trick is the proportion of saltpeter. Let me show you.”

  The Jew held up an empty, small-necked glass bottle. As Hunter watched, the Jew poured in a handful of birdshot and a few fragments of metal. While he worked, the Jew said, “I do not wish you to think ill of me. Do you know of the Complicidad Grande?”

  “Only a little.”

  “It began with my son,” the Jew said, grimacing as he prepared the grenadoe. “In August of the year 1639, my son had long renounced the faith of a Jew. He lived in Lima, in Peru, in New Spain. His family prospered. He had enemies.

  “He was arrested on the eleventh of August” — the Jew poured more shot into the glass — “and charged with being a secret Jew. It was said he would not make a sale on a Saturday, and also that he would not eat bacon for his breakfast. He was branded a Judaiser. He was tortured. His bare feet were locked into red-hot iron shoes and his flesh sizzled. He confessed.” The Jew packed the glass with powder, and sealed it with dripping wax.

  “He was imprisoned for six months,” he continued. “In 1640, in January, eleven men were burned at the stake. Seven were alive. One of them was my son. Cazalla was the garrison commander who supervised the execution of the auto. My son’s property was seized. His wife and children . . . disappeared.”

  The Jew glanced briefly at Hunter and wiped away the tears in his eyes. “I do not grieve,” he said. “But perhaps you will understand this.” He raised the grenadoe, and inserted a short fuse.

  “You had best take cover behind those bushes,” the Jew said. Hunter hid, and watched as the Jew set the bottle on a rock, lit the fuse, and ran madly to join him. Both men watched the bottle.

  “What is to happen?” Hunter said.

  “Watch,” the Jew said, smiling for the first time.

  A moment later, the bottle exploded. Flying glass and metal blasted out in all directions. Hunter and the Jew ducked to the ground, hearing the fragments tear through the foliage above them.

  When Hunter raised his head again, he was pale. “Good God,” he said.

  “Not a gentleman’s apparatus,” the Jew said. “It causes little damage to anything more solid than flesh.”

  Hunter looked at the Jew curiously.

  “The Don has earned such attentions,” the Jew said. “What is your opinion of the grenadoe?”

  Hunter paused. His every instinct rebelled against a weapon so inhumane. Yet he was taking sixty men to capture a treasure galleon in an enemy stronghold: sixty men against a fortress with three hundred soldiers and the crew ashore, making another two or three hundred.

  “Build me a dozen,” he said. “Box them for the voyage, and tell no one. They shall be our secret.”

  The Jew smiled.

  “You shall have your revenge, Don Diego,” Hunter said. Then he mounted his horse and rode off.

  Chapter 10

  CRAWFORD’S VALLEY WAS a pleasant half-hour ride to the north, through the lush green foliage at the foot of the Blue Mountains. Hunter arrived at a high ridge overlooking the valley, and saw the horses of Mrs. Hacklett and her two slaves, tied alongside the gurgling stream, which ran out from the rocky pool at the east edge of the valley. He also saw a picnic cloth spread, and food laid out.

  He rode down to the horses, and tied up his own. It took only a moment for him to bribe the two black women, pressing a finger to his lips and tossing them a shilling. Giggling to themselves, the two women slipped away. This was not the first time either of them had been bribed to keep silent about a clandestine meeting, and Hunter had no concern they might tell anyone what they had seen.

  Nor did he think they would not soon be peering through the bushes at the two white people, and cackling to themselves. He moved quietly along the rocks by the edge of the pool, at the base of a gentle waterfall. Mrs. Hacklett was splashing about in the waters of the spring. She had not noticed Hunter yet.

  “Sarah,” Mrs. Hacklett said, speaking to the slave she still thought was nearby, “do you know that Captain Hunter, in the port?”

  “Umm-hmmm,” Hunter said, in a high-pitched voice. He sat down next to her clothes.

  “Robert says he is nought but a common rogue and pirate,” she said. “But Robert pays me so little attention. I was the favorite of the king — now there is a merry man and no mistake. But this Captain Hunter, he is so handsome. Does he have the favors of many women in the town, do you know?”

  Hunter did not answer. He watched Mrs. Hacklett splashing.

  “I expect he must do. He has that look in his eye which melts the hardest heart. And he is obviously strong and brave; no woman could fail to notice that. And his fingers and nose are of goodly length, which bodes well for his attentions. Does he have a favorite in the town, Sarah?”

  Hunter did not answer.

  “His Majesty has long fingers, and he is wonderfully well-suited for the bedroom.” She giggled. “I should not be saying this, Sarah.”

  Hunter still said nothing.

  “Sarah?” she said, turning. And she saw Hunter, sitting there grinning at her.

  “Don’t you know it is unhealthy to bathe?” Hunter said.

  She splashed about angrily. “All that has been spoken of you is true,” she complained. “You are a dastardly, uncouth, utterly foul man and truly no gentleman.”

  “Were you expecting a gentleman today?”

  She splashed more. “Certainly I expected more than a common sneak and thief. Leave this spot now, so that I may dress myself.”

  “I find this spot most amiable,” Hunter said.

  “You refuse to leave?”

  She was very angry. In the clear water, Hunter could see that she was rather too thin for his taste, a small-breasted, bony woman with a pinched face. But her anger aroused him.

  “Indeed, I fear I do refuse.”

  “Then sir, I have misjudged you. I thought you would extend common courtesy and ordinary good manners to a woman at a disadvantage.”

  “What is your disadvantage?” Hunter asked.

  “I am plainly naked, sir.”

  �
�So I see.”

  “And this spring is cold.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “You have just perceived this?”

  “Sir, I shall ask you once more to cease this impertinence and allow me a moment’s privacy to dry and clothe myself.”

  In reply, Hunter walked down to the edge of the water, took her hand, and hauled her onto the rock, where she stood dripping and shivering, despite the warmth of the sun. She glared at him.

  “You’ll catch your death of chill,” he said, grinning at her discomfiture.

  “Then let us be equal,” she said, and abruptly pushed him, fully clothed, into the water.

  He landed with a splash, and felt a shock as the icy water touched his body. It made him gasp for breath. He floundered about, while she stood on the rock, laughing at him.

  “Madam,” he said, struggling. “Madam, I beseech you.”

  She continued to laugh.

  “Madam,” he said, “I cannot swim. I pray you to help—” And his head bobbed underwater a moment.

  “A seafaring man who cannot swim?” And she laughed more.

  “Madam . . .” was all he could say as he came to the surface then sank again. A moment later, he struggled up, splashing and kicking with no coordination, and she looked at him with concern. She reached out her hand, and he kicked and sputtered toward her.

  He took her hand and pulled hard, flinging her high over his head. She screamed loudly, and landed flat on her back, with a stinging slap; she shrieked again as she went under. He laughed when she came to the surface. And helped her out onto the warm rock.

  “You are nothing,” she sputtered, “but a bastard, a rogue, a cutthroat vicious rascally whoreson scoundrel.”

  “At your service,” Hunter said, and kissed her.

  She broke away. “And forward.”

  “And forward,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

  “I suppose you intend to rape me like a common street woman.”

  “I doubt,” Hunter said, stripping off his wet clothing, “that it will be necessary.”

  And it was not.

  “In daylight?” she said, in a horrified voice, and those were her last intelligible words.

  Chapter 11

  IN THE MIDDLE of the day, Mr. Robert Hacklett confronted Sir James Almont with disturbing news. “The town is rife with rumor,” he said, “that Captain Hunter, the same man with whom we supped yesterday past, is now organizing a piratical expedition against a Spanish dominion, perhaps even Havana.”

  “You place credence in these tales?” Almont asked calmly.

  “Your Excellency,” Hacklett said, “it is a simple fact that Captain Hunter has caused to have provisions for a sea voyage put aboard his sloop Cassandra.”

  “Probably,” Almont said. “What proof is that of crime?”

  “Your Excellency,” Hacklett said, “with the greatest respect I must inform you that, by rumor, you have countenanced this excursion, and indeed may have made pecuniary gestures of support.”

  “Do you mean I paid for the expedition?” Almont said, a little irritably.

  “In words to that effect, Sir James.”

  Sir James sighed. “Mr. Hacklett,” he said, “when you have resided here a little longer — let us say, perhaps, a week — you will come to know that it is always the rumor that I have countenanced an excursion, and have paid for it.”

  “Then the rumors are groundless?”

  “To this extent: I have given papers to Captain Hunter authorizing him to engage in logwood cutting at any convenient place. That is the extent of my interest in the matter.”

  “And where shall he cut this logwood?”

  “I’ve no notion,” Almont said. “Probably the Mosquito Coast of Honduras. That is the ordinary place.”

  “Your Excellency,” Hacklett persisted, “may I respectfully remind you that in this era of peace between our nation and Spain, the cutting of logwood represents an irritant which might easily be avoided?”

  “You may so remind me,” Almont said, “but I judge you to be incorrect. Many lands in these parts are claimed by Spain and yet they have no habitation — no town, no colonists, no citizenry on these lands. In the absence of such proofs of dominion, I find the cutting of logwood to be unobjectionable.”

  “Your Excellency,” Hacklett said, “can you not agree that what begins as a logwood-cutting expedition, even granting the wisdom of what you say, may easily turn into a piratical venture?”

  “Easily? Not easily, Mr. Hacklett.”

  TO HIS MOST SACRED MAJESTY CHARLES, BY THE GRACE OF GOD, OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND, KING, DEFENDER OF THE FAITH, ETC.

  THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE DEPUTY-GOVERNOR OF HIS MAJESTY’S PLANTATIONS AND LANDS IN JAMAICA, IN THE WEST INDIES.

  Humbly sheweth

  That I, Your Majesty’s most loyal subject, having been charged by Your Majesty with the promulgation of the Court’s feelings and desires on the matter of piratical ventures in the West Indies; and having made known by delivery of epistle and oral pronouncement to Sir James Almont, Governor of the aforementioned land of Jamaica, these same feelings and desires, I must report that little attention is given to the cessation and suppression of piracy in these parts. On the contrary, I must sadly if honestly state that Sir James himself consorts with all manner of rogue and villain; that he encourages by word, deed and coin the continuance of dastardly and bloody raids on Spanish lands; that he permits use of Port Royal as a common meeting place for these cutthroats and knaves, and for the dispersal of their ill-gotten gains; that he shows no remorse for these activities and no evidence of their future cessation; that he is himself a man unsuited to high capacity by virtue of poor health and lax moral outlook; that he abides all manner of corruption and vice in the name of His Majesty. For all these reasons and proofs, I most humbly implore and petition Your Majesty to remove this man from his position, and to choose, in His Majesty’s great wisdom, a more suitable successor who shall not daily make a mockery of the Crown. I most humbly implore Your Majesty’s royal assent to this simple petition, and shall ever pray. In that continuance, I am, your most faithful, loyal and obedient servant,

  Robert Hacklett

  GOD SAVE THE KING

  Hacklett reread the letter once, found it satisfactory, and rang for the servant. Anne Sharpe answered his call.

  “Child,” he said, “I wish you to see that this letter is dispatched on the next boat to England.” And he gave her a coin.

  “My lord,” she said, with a little curtsey.

  “Treat it with care,” Hacklett said, frowning at her.

  She slipped the coin into her blouse. “Does my lord wish anything else?”

  “Eh?” he said, somewhat surprised. The saucy girl was licking her lips, smiling at him. “No,” he said tersely. “Be gone now.”

  She left.

  He sighed.

  Chapter 12

  BY TORCHLIGHT, HUNTER supervised the loading of his ship long into the night.

  Wharfage fees in Port Royal were high; an ordinary merchant vessel could not afford to dock for more than a few hours to load or unload a cargo, but Hunter’s little sloop Cassandra spent fully twelve hours drawn up to the pilings, and Hunter was not charged a penny. On the contrary, Cyrus Pitkin, who owned the dock, expressed delight at offering Hunter the space, and, to further encourage the captain to take up the generous offer, provided him with five free casks of water.

  Hunter was polite in his acceptance. He knew that Pitkin was not being truly magnanimous; he would expect some gift on the Cassandra’s return, and he would get it.

  Similarly, he accepted a barrel of salt pork from Mr. Oates, a farmer on the island. And he accepted a keg of powder from Mr. Renfrew, the gunsmith. It was all done wi
th elaborate courtesy, and a sharp eye to value received and expected.

  In between these courtly exchanges, Hunter questioned each member of his crew, and he had Mr. Enders examine them for disease, to be sure they were sound of body, before they were allowed to board. Hunter also checked all the provisions, opening each barrel of pork and water, sniffing the contents, then plunging his hand to the bottom, to be certain it was filled all the way down. He tasted each cask of water; and he satisfied himself that the stores of hard biscuit were fresh and without weevils.

  On a long ocean voyage, it was not possible for the captain to make such examinations himself. An ocean voyage called for literally tons of food and water for the passengers; and much of the meat was taken on live, squawking and mooing.

  But privateers traveled differently. Their small boats were crammed with men, and provisioning was slight. A privateer did not expect to eat well on a voyage; sometimes, in fact, no food at all was taken on, and the vessel set out with the expectation of obtaining provisions by raiding another ship or a town.

  Nor were the privateers heavily armed. The Cassandra, a sloop of seventy feet, carried four sakers, swivel-mounted guns positioned fore and aft. These were its only armament, and they were hardly suited against even a fifth- or sixth-rate warship. Instead, the privateers relied on speed and maneuverability — and a shallow draft — to elude their more dangerous opponents. They could sail closer to the wind than a larger warship, and they could make for shoal harbors and channels where a bigger ship could not continue pursuit.

  In the Caribbean Sea, where they were hardly ever out of sight of some island with its protective ring of shoal coral reefs, they felt safe enough.

  Hunter worked at the loading of his ship until nearly dawn. From time to time, whenever curious onlookers gathered, he was careful to send them away. Port Royal was thick with spies; Spanish settlements paid well for advance news of an intended raid. And in any case, Hunter did not want people to see the unusual supplies he was laying in — all the rope, the grappling hooks, and the strange bottles the Jew had provided in cases.