Pirate Latitudes Read online

  The captain’s cabin was remarkably large, and ornately fitted. There was evidence of space and luxury everywhere. There was a dining table with a fine linen cloth, and gold plates set out for the evening meal by candlelight. There was a comfortable bed with a brocade bedcover laced in gold. A richly colored oil painting depicting Christ on the cross hung in a corner, above a cannon with an open porthole. In another corner, a lantern cast a warm golden light over the room.

  There was another table at the rear of the cabin; maps covered it. Behind that table, in a plush red velvet chair, sat the captain himself.

  His back was turned to Hunter as he poured wine from a cut-crystal decanter. Hunter could see only that the man was very large; his back was broad as a bull’s.

  “Well now,” the captain said, in very good English, “can I persuade you to join me in a glass of this excellent claret?”

  Before Hunter could reply, the captain turned. Hunter found himself staring into glowering eyes set in a heavy face with a strong nose and jet-black beard. Without his wishing, the word sprang from his lips:

  “Cazalla!”

  The Spaniard laughed heartily. “Did you expect King Charles?”

  Hunter was speechless. He was vaguely aware that his lips worked, but no sound came out. At the same time, a thousand questions sprang to mind. Why was Cazalla here, and not in Matanceros? Did that mean the galleon was gone? Or had he left the fortress in command of some capable lieutenant?

  Or perhaps he was ordered away by a higher authority — this warship might be bound for Havana.

  Even as these questions flooded his mind, he was overcome by a cold fear. It was all he could do to keep his body from shaking as he stood and looked at Cazalla.

  “Englishman,” Cazalla said, “your discomfort flatters me. I am embarrassed I do not know your name in turn. Sit down, be at ease.”

  Hunter did not move. The soldier roughly shoved him into a chair facing Cazalla.

  “Much better,” Cazalla said. “Will you take your claret now?” He passed Hunter the glass.

  With the strongest effort of will, Hunter kept his hand from trembling as he took the proffered glass. But he did not drink; he set it immediately on the table. Cazalla smiled.

  “Your health, Englishman,” he said, and drank. “I must drink to your health while it is still possible to do so. You are not joining me? No? Come now, Englishman. Even His Excellency the Commander of the Havana Garrison does not have claret so fine as this. It is French, called Haut-Brion. Drink.” He paused. “Drink.”

  Hunter took the glass, and drank a little. He felt mesmerized, almost in a trance. But the taste of the claret broke the spell of the moment; the ordinary gesture of lifting the glass to his lips and swallowing brought him back to himself. His shock passed away, and he began to notice a thousand tiny details. He heard the breathing of the soldier behind him; probably two paces behind, he thought. He saw the irregularity of Cazalla’s beard and guessed the man had been some days at sea. He smelled the garlic on Cazalla’s breath as he leaned forward and said, “Now, Englishman. Tell me: what is your name?”

  “Charles Hunter,” he said, in a voice that was stronger and more confident than he had dared hope.

  “Yes? Then I have heard of you. You are the same Hunter who took the Conception one season ago?”

  “I am,” Hunter said.

  “The same Hunter who led the raid on Monte Cristo in Hispañola and held the plantation owner Ramona for ransom?”

  “I am.”

  “He is a pig, Ramona, do you not think?” Cazalla laughed. “And you are also the same Hunter who captured the slave ship of de Ruyters while it was at anchor in Guadeloupe, and made off with all his cargoes?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I am most pleased to be acquainted with you, Englishman. Do you know your value? No? Well, it has gone up each passing year, and perhaps it has been raised again. When last I heard, King Philip offered two hundred gold doubloons for you, and eight hundred more for your crew to any who effected a capture. Perhaps it is more now. The decrees change, so many details. Formerly we sent pirates back to Seville, where the Inquisition could encourage you to repent your sins and your heresy in the same breath. But that is so tedious. Now we send only the heads, and reserve our cargo space for more profitable wares.”

  Hunter said nothing.

  “Perhaps you are thinking,” Cazalla continued, “that two hundred doubloons is too modest a sum. As you may imagine, at this very moment I agree with you. But you enjoy the distinction of knowing that you are the most valued pirate in all these waters. Does that please you?”

  “I take it,” Hunter said, “in the spirit it was intended.”

  Cazalla smiled. “I can see that you are born a gentleman,” he said. “And I wish to assure you that you shall be hanged with all the dignity of a gentleman. You have my word on that.”

  Hunter gave a small bow from his chair. He watched as Cazalla reached across his desk for a small glass bowl with a fitted lid. Inside the bowl were broad green leaves. Cazalla removed one of these leaves and chewed it thoughtfully.

  “You look puzzled, Englishman. This practice is unfamiliar to you? The Indians of New Spain called this leaf coca. It grows in the high country. To chew it brings energy, and strength. For women it provokes great ardor,” he added, chuckling. “You wish to taste for yourself? No? You are reluctant to accept my hospitality, Englishman.”

  He chewed a moment in silence, staring at Hunter. Finally, he said, “Have we not met before?”

  “No.”

  “Your face is strangely familiar. Perhaps in the past, when you were younger?”

  Hunter felt his heart pound. “I do not think so.”

  “No doubt you are right,” Cazalla said. He stared thoughtfully at the painting on the far wall. “All Englishmen look alike to me. I cannot tell one from the next.” He looked back at Hunter. “And yet you recognized me. How can that be?”

  “Your visage and manner are much known in the English colonies.”

  Cazalla chewed a bit of lime with his leaves. He smiled, then chuckled. “No doubt,” he said. “No doubt.”

  He abruptly wheeled around in his chair and slapped the table. “Enough: we have business to discuss. What is the name of your vessel?”

  “Cassandra,” Hunter said.

  “And who is her owner?”

  “I am myself owner and captain.”

  “And whence put you to sea?”

  “Port Royal.”

  “And for what reason did you make a sea voyage?”

  Hunter paused here. If he could have conjured up a plausible reason, he would have immediately said it. But it was not easy to explain the presence of his ship in these waters. Finally, he said, “We were advised a slaver from Guinea would be found in these waters.”

  Cazalla made a clucking sound, and shook his head. “Englishman, Englishman.”

  Hunter made his best show of reluctance. Then he said, “We were making for Augustine.” That was the most settled town in the Spanish colony of Florida. It had no particular riches, but it was at least conceivable that English privateers would attack it.

  “You chose an odd course. And a slow one.” Cazalla drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Why did you not sail west around Cuba, into the Bahama Passage?”

  Hunter shrugged. “We had reason to believe there were Spanish warships in the passage.”

  “And not here?”

  “The risk was better here.”

  Cazalla considered this for a long moment. He chewed noisily, and sipped his wine. “There is nothing in Augustine but swamps and snakes,” he said. “And no reason to risk the Windward Passage. And in this vicinity . . .” He shrugged. “No settlement which is not strongly defended, too strongly for your little boat and yo
ur puny crew.” He frowned. “Englishman, why are you here?”

  “I have spoken the truth,” Hunter said. “We were making for Augustine.”

  “This truth does not satisfy me,” Cazalla said.

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and a seaman stuck his head into the cabin. He spoke rapidly in Spanish. Hunter knew no Spanish, but he had a little command of French, and with this knowledge he was able to deduce that the seaman was telling Cazalla the sloop was manned with its prize crew and ready to sail. Cazalla nodded and stood.

  “We sail now,” he said. “You come with me to the deck. Perhaps there are others in your crew who do not share your reluctance to speak.”

  Chapter 16

  THE PRIVATEERS HAD been formed up in two ragged lines, their hands bound. Cazalla paced up and down in front of the men. He held a knife in one hand, and slapped the flat of the blade against the palm of his other hand. For a moment, there was complete silence except for the rhythmic slap of steel on his fingers.

  Hunter looked away, to the rigging of the warship. She was making an easterly course — probably heading for the protection of Hawk’s Nest anchorage, south of Turk Isle. He could see, in the twilight, the Cassandra following on the same course a short distance behind the larger ship.

  Cazalla interrupted his thoughts.

  “Your captain,” he said loudly, “will not tell me your destination. He says it is Augustine,” he said, with heavy sarcasm. “Augustine: a child could lie more convincingly. But I tell you: I will know your purpose. Which man of you will step forward and say?”

  Cazalla looked at the two lines of men. The men stared back at him with blank faces.

  “Must I encourage you? Eh?” Cazalla stepped close to one seaman. “You. Will you speak?”

  The seaman did not move, did not speak, did not even blink. After a moment, Cazalla resumed his pacing.

  “Your silence means nothing,” he said. “You are all heretics and brigands, and you will swing at the end of a rope in good time. Until that day, a man can either live comfortably, or not. Any man who speaks shall live at his ease until the appointed day, and for that he has my solemn word.”

  Still no one moved. Cazalla stopped pacing. “You are fools. You mistake my determination.”

  He was standing now in front of Trencher, clearly the youngest member of the privateer crew. Trencher trembled, but he held his head high.

  “You, lad,” Cazalla said, his voice softening. You do not belong in this rough company. Speak up, and tell me the purpose of your voyage.”

  Trencher opened his mouth, then closed it again. His lip trembled.

  “Speak,” Cazalla said softly. “Speak, speak . . .”

  But the moment had passed. Trencher’s lips were firm and tight together.

  Cazalla watched him for a moment, and then with a single, swift gesture slit his throat with the knife in his hand. It happened so quickly Hunter hardly saw it. Blood poured in a broad red sheet down the boy’s shirt. His eyes were wide with horror and he shook his head slowly in a kind of disbelief. Trencher sank to his knees and remained there a moment, head bowed, watching his own blood drip onto the wood decking, and onto the toes of Cazalla’s boots. The Spaniard stepped back with a curse.

  Trencher remained kneeling for what seemed an eternity. Then he looked up, and gazed for an agonizing moment into Hunter’s eyes. His look was pleading, and confused, and afraid. And then his eyes rolled upward and his body pitched flat onto the deck, and he gave a violent shiver.

  All the seamen were watching Trencher die, and yet no man moved. His body convulsed, his shoes making a scrabbling sound on the wood of the deck. Blood ran in a large pool around his face. And then finally he was still.

  Cazalla had watched the death throes with utter absorption. Now he stepped forward, placed his foot on the dead boy’s neck, and stamped hard. There was the crunch of breaking bones.

  He looked at the two lines of seamen. “I shall know the truth,” he said. “I swear to you, I shall know it.” He spun to his first mate. “Take them below and lock them,” he said. He nodded to Hunter. “Take him with them.”

  And he strode off to the aft castle. Hunter was bound and taken below with the others.

  The Spanish warship had five decks. The upper two decks were gun decks; some of the crew slept here, in hammocks stretched between the cannon. Next were quarters for the soldiers. The fourth deck was given over to storage of shot, food, block and tackle, fittings, provisions, and livestock. The fifth and lowest deck was hardly a deck at all: it was barely four feet from the floor to the heavy-beamed ceiling, and because this deck was below the waterline, there was no ventilation. The heavy air stank of feces and bilge.

  The Cassandra’s crew was taken here. The men were made to sit on the rough floors, a little apart from each other. Twenty soldiers were stationed as guards in corners of the room, and from time to time one would walk around with a lantern, examining each man’s bonds to be certain they were not loosened.

  Talking was not permitted, nor was sleep, and any man who tried either was treated to a rough kick from a soldier’s boot. The men were not allowed to move, and if they had to relieve themselves, they did so where they sat. With sixty men and twenty guards, the narrow airless space soon became suffocating, hot, and fetid. Even the guards were soaked in sweat.

  There was no indicator of the passage of time. The only sounds were the heavy thumping movements of the livestock on the deck above, and the endless, monotonous hiss of water as the warship sailed forward. Hunter sat in the corner, trying to concentrate on the sound of the water, waiting for it to cease. He tried to ignore the true desperateness of his condition — he and his crew were buried deep in the bowels of a mighty warship, surrounded by hundreds of enemy soldiers, utterly at their mercy. Unless Cazalla anchored for the night, they were all doomed. Hunter’s sole chance depended on the warship halting overnight.

  Time passed: he waited.

  Eventually, he was aware of a change in the gurgle of the water, and a shift in the creaking of the rigging. He sat up, listening carefully. There was no doubt of it — the ship was slowing.

  The soldiers, huddled together and speaking quietly, noticed it too, and commented among themselves. A moment later, the sound of the water ceased entirely, and Hunter heard the rattle of the anchor chain being let out. The anchor splashed loudly; somewhere in his mind, Hunter made a note that he was near the bow of the ship. Otherwise the sound would not be so distinct.

  More time passed. The warship rocked gently at anchor. They must be in some protected cove, for the water to be so calm. Yet the ship had a deep draft, and Cazalla would not bring his ship into any harbor at night unless he knew it well.

  He wondered where they were, and hoped it was in a cove near Turk Isle. There were several leeward coves deep enough for a ship this size.

  The rocking of the warship at anchor was restful. More than once he felt himself dozing off. The soldiers kept busy kicking the seamen, keeping them awake. The gloomy semidarkness of the low deck was frequently punctuated by the grunts and groans of the crew as they were kicked.

  Hunter wondered about his plan. What was happening?

  After a further passage of time, a Spanish soldier came down and barked, “Every man to stand! Orders of Cazalla! All stand to feet!” Encouraged by the boots of the soldiers, the seamen stood, one by one, bent over in the narrow deck. It was an aching, agonizingly uncomfortable posture.

  More time passed. The guard was changed. The new soldiers entered holding their noses and making jokes about the smell. Hunter looked at them oddly; he had long since ceased to be aware of any odor.

  The new guards were younger and more casual about their duties. Apparently, the Spaniards were convinced the pirates could give them no trouble. The new guards quickly turned to playing cards. Hunter looked
away, and watched drops of his own sweat fall to the floor. He thought of poor Trencher, but he could not work up anger, or indignation, or even fear. He was numb.

  A new soldier arrived. He was some sort of officer and apparently he was displeased with the relaxed attitude of the young men. He barked out sharp orders and the men hastily put aside their cards.

  The new officer went around the room, examining the faces of the privateers. Finally, he plucked one fellow out of the group, and led him away. The man collapsed on rubbery legs when ordered to walk; the soldiers picked him up and dragged him out.

  The door closed. The guards made a brief display of attentiveness, and then relaxed again. But they did not play cards. After a while, two of them decided to engage in a contest to see who could urinate the farthest. The target was a seaman in the corner. This game was considered fine sport by the guards, who laughed and pretended to bet enormous sums of money on the outcome.

  Hunter was only dimly aware of these events. He was very tired; his legs burned with fatigue and his back ached. He began to wonder why he had refused to tell Cazalla the purpose of the voyage. It seemed a meaningless gesture.

  At that moment, Hunter’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another officer, who barked: “Captain Hunter!” And Hunter was led away, out of the room.

  As he was pushed and prodded through the decks of sleeping seamen, rocking in their hammocks, he distinctly heard, from somewhere in the ship, an odd and plaintive sound.

  It was the sound of a woman crying.

  Chapter 17

  HUNTER HAD NO opportunity to reflect on the meaning of that strange sound, for he was pushed hastily onto the main deck. There, beneath the stars and the reefed sails, he noticed that the moon was low — which meant that dawn could not be more than a few hours away.