Pirate Latitudes by Michael Crichton
He felt a sharp pain of despair.
“Englishman, come here!”
Hunter looked around and saw Cazalla, standing near the mainmast, in the center of a ring of torches. At his feet, the seaman previously taken from the room lay spread-eagled on his back, firmly lashed to the deck. A number of Spanish soldiers stood about, and all were grinning broadly.
Cazalla himself seemed highly excited; he was breathing rapidly and shallowly. Hunter noticed that he was chewing more coca leaf.
“Englishman, Englishman,” he said, speaking rapidly. “You are just in time to witness our little sport. Do you know we searched your ship? No? Well, we did, and we found many interesting things.”
Oh God, Hunter thought. No . . .
“You have much rope, Englishman, and you have funny iron hooks that fold up, and you have other strange things of canvas which we do not understand. But most of all, Englishman, we do not understand this.”
Hunter’s heart pounded: if they had found the grenadoes, then it would all be finished.
But Cazalla held out a case with four rats. The rats scampered back and forth and squeaked nervously.
“Can you imagine, Englishman, how amazed we were to find that you bring rats on your ship? We say to ourselves, why is this? Why does the Englishman carry rats to Augustine? Augustine has rats of its own, Florida rats, very good ones. Yes? So I wonder, how do I explain this?”
Hunter watched as a soldier did something to the face of the seaman lashed to the deck. At first he could not see what was being done; the man’s face was being rubbed or stroked. Then Hunter realized: they were smearing cheese on his face.
“So,” Cazalla said, waving the cage in the air, “then I see that you are not kind to your friends, the rats. They are hungry, Englishman. They want food. You see how excited they are? They smell food. That is why they are excited. I think we should feed them, yes?”
Cazalla set the cage down within inches of the seaman’s face. The rats flung themselves at the bars, trying to get to the cheese.
“Do you see what I mean, Englishman? Your rats are very hungry. Do you not think we should feed them?”
Hunter stared at the rats, and at the frightened eyes of the immobile seaman.
“I am wondering if your friend here will talk,” Cazalla said.
The seaman could not take his eyes off the rats.
“Or perhaps, Englishman, you will talk for him?”
“No,” Hunter said wearily.
Cazalla bent over the seaman and tapped him on the chest. “And you, will you talk?” With his other hand, Cazalla touched the latch to the cage door.
The seaman focused on the latch, watching as Cazalla raised the bar slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time. Finally, the latch was released; Cazalla held the door closed with a single finger.
“Your last chance, my friend . . .”
“Non!” the seaman shrieked. “Je parle! Je parle!”
“Good,” Cazalla said, switching smoothly to French.
“Matanceros,” the seaman said.
Cazalla turned livid with rage. “Matanceros! You idiot, you expect me to believe that? To attack Matanceros!” And, abruptly, he released the door to the cage.
The seaman shrieked hideously as the rats leapt to his face. He shook his head, the four furry bodies clinging to the flesh of his cheeks and scalp and chin. The rats chattered and squeaked; one was flung off but instantly scrambled back across the man’s heaving chest and bit into the neck. The seaman screamed over and over in terror, a monotonous, repeated sound. Finally, the man collapsed from shock, and lay unmoving while the rats, chattering, continued to feed on his face.
Cazalla stood. “Why do you all think me so stupid?” he said. “Englishman, I swear. I will have the truth of your voyage.”
He turned to the guards. “Take him below.”
Hunter was hustled off the deck. As he was pushed down the narrow stairway, he had a brief glimpse over the rail of the Cassandra, lying at anchor some yards away from the warship.
Chapter 18
THE SLOOP CASSANDRA was essentially an open boat, with a single main deck exposed to the elements, and small storage lockers located fore and aft. These had been searched by the soldiers and the prize crew, when the ship was taken during the afternoon. The crew had found all the provisions and special fittings that Cazalla considered so perplexing.
Soldiers swarming over the boat had searched it with great thoroughness. They had even peeked through the fore and aft hatches, which opened down into the keelson; with lanterns, they saw bilge water rising almost to the decking itself, and they made sarcastic comments about the laziness of the pirates in emptying the bilge.
When the Cassandra made for the protected cove, and hove to in the shadow of the warship, its prize crew of ten spent several hours drinking and laughing by torchlight. When they finally slept in the early hours of the morning, lying on the deck on blankets in the warm night air, their sleep was heavy with rum. Although they had been ordered to post a watch, they did not bother to do so; the nearby warship offered protection enough.
Thus, no member of the crew, lying on the deck, was aware of a soft gurgle from the bilge compartment and no one saw a man with a reed in his mouth rise out of the oily, stinking water.
Sanson, shivering with cold, had lain for hours with his head alongside the oilskin sac, which contained the precious grenadoes. Neither he nor the sac had been noticed. Now, he was just able to lift his chin above the level of the bilge water before he struck the top of his head on the decking. He was surrounded by darkness, with no sense of orientation. Using his hands and feet, he pressed his back down against the hull, feeling its curved shape. He decided he was on the port side of the ship, and moved slowly, quietly, toward the centerline. Then, with exquisite slowness, he eased himself aft, until his head softly bumped the rectangular indentation of the aft hatch. Looking up, he saw slats of lights from the grating of the hatch. Stars above. No sounds, except a snoring seaman.
He took a breath, and raised his head. The hatch moved up a few inches. He could see the deck. He was staring directly into the face of a sleeping seaman, not more than a foot away. The man snored loudly.
Sanson lowered the hatch again, and moved forward through the bilge compartment. It took him nearly a quarter of an hour, lying on his back, pushing along with his hands, to traverse the fifty feet between the aft and fore hatches of the Cassandra. He raised the new hatch cover, and looked around again. There was no sleeping seaman within ten feet.
Gently, slowly, Sanson removed the hatch cover, and set it on the deck. He lifted himself out of the water, and stood breathing the fresh night air. His drenched body was chilled by the breeze, but he paid no attention. All of his mind was focused on the sleeping prize crew on deck.
Sanson counted ten men. That would be about right, he thought. In a pinch, three men could sail the Cassandra; five could handle her comfortably; ten men would be more than ample.
He surveyed the positions of the men on the deck, trying to decide in which order to kill them. It was easy to kill a man quietly, but to kill one in absolute silence was not so simple. Of the ten men, the first four or five were most crucial, for if any of them made a noise, they would raise a general alarm.
Sanson removed the thin cord that served as his belt. He twisted the rope in his hands and tugged it taut between his fists. Satisfied with its strength, he picked up a belaying pin of carved hardwood, and moved forward.
The first soldier was not snoring. Sanson raised the man to sitting position and he grumbled sleepily at the interruption for a moment before Sanson brought the pin crashing down on his head. The blow was fierce, but made only a dull thud as it contacted the scalp. Sanson eased the seaman back to the deck.
In the darkness, he ran his hands over the skull. There w
Sanson moved to the next man, crossing like a shadow over the deck. He repeated the process. It took him no more than ten minutes to kill every man on the ship. He left them lying in positions of sleep on the deck.
The last man to die was the sentry, slumped aft in a drunken stupor over the tiller. Sanson cut the man’s throat and pushed him over the side. He fell into the water with a soft splash, but it was noticed by a guard on the warship deck. The guard leaned over and looked at the sloop.
“Questa sta bene?” he called.
Sanson, taking up the sentry’s position aft, waved to the guard. Although he was dripping wet and wearing no uniform, he knew it was too dark for the warship’s guard to see.
“Sta bene,” he said sleepily.
“Bassera,” the guard said, and turned away.
Sanson waited a moment, then turned his attention to the warship. It was some hundred yards away — far enough off that if the big ship turned at anchor with a change of wind or tides, she would not strike the Cassandra. Sanson was pleased to see that the Spaniards had neglected to batten down the gunports, which were still open. If he entered through an open port on the lower gun deck, he would be able to avoid sentries on the main deck.
He slipped over the side and swam quickly across to the warship, thinking briefly that he hoped the Spanish had not dumped garbage in the cove during the night. Garbage would draw sharks, and the shark was one of the few creatures in the world Sanson feared. But he made the crossing uneventfully, and soon found himself bobbing in the water alongside the hull of the warship.
The lowest gunports were twelve feet above him. He heard the joking of the sentries on the main deck. A rope ladder was still over the side, but he dared not use it. Once he put his weight to it, it would creak and move, and the sentries on deck might hear that.
Instead, he slipped forward, to the anchor line, and climbed that to the runners moving back from the bowsprit. These runners protruded only four inches from the hull surface, but Sanson managed to get a footing, and maneuver back to the foresail rigging. From there, it was easy to hang and look into one of the forward gunports.
Listening intently, he soon heard the steady, measured pacing of the watch. By the footsteps, it sounded like a single sentry, circling the perimeter of the deck endlessly. Sanson waited until the watch passed him, and then eased in through the porthole, and dropped down in the shadow of a cannon, gasping with exertion and excitement. Even for Sanson, to be alone in the midst of four hundred of the enemy — half of them swinging gently in their hammocks before him — was an exhilarating sensation. He waited, and planned his next move.
. . .
HUNTER WAITED IN the fetid hold of the ship, standing crouched in the narrow space. He was desperately exhausted. If Sanson did not arrive soon, his men would be too fatigued to make an escape. The guards, now yawning and playing cards again, showed a total indifference to the prisoners, which was tempting and infuriating. If only he could get his men free while the ship still slept around him, then there might be a chance. But when the guard changed — as it might at any time — or when the ship’s crew arose at dawn, then there would be no opportunity.
He felt a moment of crushing defeat as a Spanish soldier entered the room.
The watch was changing, and all was lost. A moment later, he realized he was wrong: this was just a single man, not an officer, and the guards who greeted him did so in desultory fashion. The new man assumed an air of considerable strutting self-importance, and went around the room checking the bonds of the privateers. Hunter felt the tug of fingers feeling the ropes on his own hands — and then something cool — the blade of a knife — and his ropes were cut.
Behind him, the man whispered softly: “This will cost you two more shares.”
It was Sanson.
“Swear it,” Sanson hissed.
Hunter nodded, feeling anger and elation at the same moment. But he said nothing; he just watched as Sanson moved around the room and then stopped at the door to block it.
Sanson faced the seamen and said, in English, very quietly, “Do it softly, softly.”
The Spanish guards looked up in stunned surprise as the privateers leapt at them. They were overpowered three to one. It took only a moment. Immediately, the seamen began to strip off the uniforms and to dress in them. Sanson moved over to Hunter.
“I did not hear you swear it.”
Hunter nodded, rubbing his wrists. “I swear. Two shares to you.”
“Good,” Sanson said. He opened the door, put his finger to his lips, and led the seamen out of the hold.
Chapter 19
CAZALLA 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 d
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.”