Pirate Latitudes
Pirate Latitudes
Michael Crichton
The new thriller from Michael Crichton, one of the most famous authors in the world, the most exciting, anticipated publication of Christmas 2009.Jamaica, in 1665 a lone outpost of British power amid Spanish waters in the sunbaked Caribbean. Its capital, Port Royal, a cuthroat town of taverns, grog shops and bawdy houses – the last place imaginable from which to launch an unthinkable attack on a nearby Spanish stronghold. Yet that is exactly what renowned privateer Captain Charles Hunter plans to do, with the connivance of Charles II's ruling governor, Sir James Almont.The target is Matanceros, guarded by the bloodthirsty Cazalla, and considered impregnable with its gun emplacements and sheer cliffs. Hunter's crew of buccaneers must battle not only the Spanish fleet but other deadly perils – raging hurricanes, cannibal tribes, even sea monsters. But if his ragtag crew succeeds, they will make not only history … but a fortune in gold.
Pirate
Latitudes
Michael
Crichton
Copyright (#ulink_8eecb8f8-2700-59a4-a721-3126d2cdb198)
This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009
Copyright © Michael Crichton 2009
Endpaper map © Andrew Ashton
Cover photographys © Amulf Husmo/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (sea)
Ed Simpson/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (sky); Nobuaki Suminda/Sebun Photo/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (island)
Michael Crichton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007346103
Source ISBN: 9780007329083
Version: 2017-05-08
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u122046ef-5324-5232-9463-b8f6f45427f6)
Title Page (#u705d3b60-ead0-5897-8ab3-94d4a9a4ee4c)
Copyright (#uf8d91308-58c1-5ff0-9a05-30c32b2eaff4)
Part I PORT ROYAL (#udff89fc9-abc3-5e6e-9187-7735da2f7a08)
CHAPTER 1 (#u753f6b9e-1c07-5d8a-9889-416df39217ca)
CHAPTER 2 (#u20243dd4-ac5c-52c8-93c6-ce89e309f6fa)
CHAPTER 3 (#u3c246d85-a939-5e26-8469-b768f6a6f999)
CHAPTER 4 (#u50499c81-69ac-59a3-a00c-ad9eff092f2f)
CHAPTER 5 (#u14ac4f8a-a6f1-5efb-bea7-c2b23c2407f6)
CHAPTER 6 (#udee3a21f-b8ab-5832-b9c8-5c7d1e2076a6)
CHAPTER 7 (#u9ffd89fa-c9a9-503c-98fa-8311aec647e6)
CHAPTER 8 (#u4501676c-a231-5536-9176-bc2b4dfcfe03)
CHAPTER 9 (#u8e76813e-0c47-52b1-aec2-8be88ba139d3)
CHAPTER 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part II THE BLACK SHIP (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part III MATANCEROS (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part IV MONKEY BAY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part V THE MOUTH OF THE DRAGON (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part VI PORT ROYAL (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
READ ON FOR AN EXTRACT FROM THE GRIPPING NEW NOVEL FROM MICHAEL CRICHTON (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#litres_trial_promo)
ALSO BY MICHAEL CRICHTON (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Part I PORT ROYAL (#ulink_eb2e0255-ec7b-54e1-ba4c-d6e3610d58e3)
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_589ac487-2fba-59f5-be10-60ab53a34170)
SIR JAMES ALMONT, appointed by His Majesty Charles II Governor of Jamaica, was habitually an early riser. This was in part the tendency of an aging widower, in part a consequence of restless sleep from pains of the gout, and in part an accommodation to the climate of the Jamaica Colony, which turned hot and humid soon after sunrise.
On the morning of September 7, 1665, he followed his usual routine, arising in his chambers on the third floor of the Governor’s Mansion and going directly to the window to survey the weather and the coming day. The Governor’s Mansion was an impressive brick structure with a red-tile roof. It was also the only three-story building in Port Royal, and his view of the town was excellent. In the streets below he could see the lamplighters making their rounds, extinguishing streetlights from the night before. On Ridge Street, the morning patrol of garrison soldiers was collecting drunks and dead bodies, which had fallen in the mud. Directly beneath his window, the first of the flat, horse-drawn carts of water-carriers rumbled by, bringing casks of fresh water from Rio Cobra some miles away. Otherwise, Port Royal was quiet, enjoying the brief moment between the time the last of the evening’s drunken revelers collapsed in a stupor, and the start of the morning’s commercial bustle around the docks.
Looking away from the cramped, narrow streets of the town to the harbor, he saw the rocking thicket of masts, the hundreds of ships of all sizes moored in the harbor and drawn up to the docks. In the sea beyond, he saw an English merchant brig anchored past the cay, near Rackham’s reef offshore. Undoubtedly, the ship had arrived during the night, and the captain had prudently chosen to await daylight to make the harbor of Port Royal. Even as he watched, the topsails of the merchant ship were unreefed in the growing light of dawn, and two longboats put out from the shore near Fort Charles to help tow the merchantman in.
Governor Almont, known locally as “James the Tenth,” because of his insistence on diverting a tenth share of privateering expeditions to his own personal coffers, turned away from the window and hobbled on his painful left leg across the room to make his toilet. Immediately, the merchant vessel was forgotten, for on this particular morning Sir James had the disagreeable duty of attending a hanging.
The previous week, soldiers had captured a French rascal named LeClerc, convicted of making a piratical raid on the settlement of Ocho Rios, on the north coast of the island.
On the testimony of a few townspeople who had survived the attack, LeClerc had been sentenced to be hanged in the public gallows on High Street. Governor Almont had no particular interest in either the Frenchman or his disposition, but he was required to attend the execution in his official capacity. That implied a tedious, formal morning.
Richards, the governor’s manservant, entered the room. “Good morning, Your Excellency. Here is your claret.” He handed the glass to the governor, who immediately drank it down in a gulp. Richards set out the articles of toilet: a fresh basin of rosewater, another of crushed myrtle berries, and a third small bowl of tooth powder with the tooth-cloth alongside. Governor Almont began his ministrations to the accompanying hiss of the perfumed bellows Richards used to air the room each morning.
“Warm day for a hanging,” Richards commented, and Sir James grunted his agreement. He doused his thinning hair with the myrtle berry paste. Governor Almont was fifty-one years old, and he had been growing bald for a decade. He was not an especially vain man—and, in any case, he normally wore hats—so that baldness was not so fearsome as it might be. Nonetheless, he used preparations to cure his loss of hair. For several years now he had favored myrtle berries, a traditional remedy prescribed by Pliny. He also employed a paste of olive oil, ashes, and ground earthworms to prevent his hair from turning white. But this mixture stank so badly that he used it less frequently than he knew he should.
Governor Almont rinsed his hair in the rosewater, dried it with a towel, and examined his countenance in the mirror.
One of the privileges of his position as the highest official of the Jamaica Colony was that he possessed the best mirror on the island. It was nearly a foot square and of excellent quality, without ripples or flaws. It had arrived from London the year before, consigned to a merchant in the town, and Almont had confiscated it on some pretext or other. He was not above such things, and indeed felt that this high-handed behavior actually increased his respect in the community. As the former governor, Sir William Lytton, had warned him in London, Jamaica was “not a region burdened by moral excesses.” Sir James had often recalled the phrase in later years—the understatement was so felicitously put. Sir James himself lacked graceful speech; he was blunt to a fault and distinctly choleric in temperament, a fact he ascribed to his gout.
Staring at himself in the mirror now, he noted that he must see Enders, the barber, to trim his beard. Sir James was not a handsome man, and he wore a full beard to compensate for his “weasel-beaked” face.
He grunted at his reflection, and turned his attention to his teeth, dipping a wetted finger into the paste of powdered rabbit’s head, pomegranate peel, and peach blossom. He rubbed his teeth briskly with his finger, humming a little to himself.
At the window, Richards looked out at the arriving ship. “They say the merchantman’s the Godspeed, sir.”
“Oh yes?” Sir James rinsed his mouth with a bit of rosewater, spat it out, and dried his teeth with a tooth-cloth. It was an elegant tooth-cloth from Holland, red silk with an edging of lace. He had four such cloths, another minor delicacy of his position within the Colony. But one had already been ruined by a mindless servant girl who cleaned it in the native manner by pounding with rocks, destroying the delicate fabric. Servants were difficult here. Sir William had mentioned that as well.
Richards was an exception. Richards was a manservant to treasure, a Scotsman but a clean one, faithful and reasonably reliable. He could also be counted on to report the gossip and doings of the town, which might otherwise never reach the governor’s ears.
“The Godspeed, you say?”
“Aye, sir,” Richards said, laying out Sir James’s wardrobe for the day on the bed.
“Is my new secretary on board?” According to the previous month’s dispatches, the Godspeed was to carry his new secretary, one Robert Hacklett. Sir James had never heard of the man, and looked forward to meeting him. He had been without a secretary for eight months, since Lewis died of dysentery.
“I believe he is, sir,” Richard said.
Sir James applied his makeup. First he daubed on cerise—white lead and vinegar—to produce a fashionable pallor on the face and neck. Then, on his cheeks and lips, he applied fucus, a red dye of seaweed and ochre.
“Will you be wishing to postpone the hanging?” Richards asked, bringing the governor his medicinal oil.
“No, I think not,” Almont said, wincing as he downed a spoonful. This was oil of a red-haired dog, concocted by a Milaner in London and known to be efficacious for the gout. Sir James took it faithfully each morning.
He then dressed for the day. Richards had correctly set out the governor’s best formal garments. First, Sir James put on a fine white silk tunic, then pale blue hose. Next, his green velvet doublet, stiffly quilted and miserably hot, but necessary for a day of official duties. His best feathered hat completed the attire.
All this had taken the better part of an hour. Through the open windows, Sir James could hear the early-morning bustle and shouts from the awakening town below.
He stepped back a pace to allow Richards to survey him. Richards adjusted the ruffle at the neck, and nodded his satisfaction. “Commander Scott is waiting with your carriage, Your Excellency,” Richards said.
“Very good,” Sir James said, and then, moving slowly, feeling the twinge of pain in his left toe with each step, and already beginning to perspire in his heavy ornate doublet, the cosmetics running down the side of his face and ears, the Governor of Jamaica descended the stairs of the mansion to his coach.
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_b222ba96-859e-59ba-86e6-d7fa7943da47)
FOR A MAN with the gout, even a brief journey by coach over cobbled streets is agonizing. For this reason, if no other, Sir James loathed the ritual of attending each hanging. Another reason he disliked these forays was that they required him to enter the heart of his dominion, and he much preferred the lofty view from his window.
Port Royal, in 1665, was a boomtown. In the decade since Cromwell’s expedition had captured the island of Jamaica from the Spanish, Port Royal had grown from a miserable, deserted, disease-ridden spit of sand into a miserable, overcrowded, cutthroat-infested town of eight thousand.
Undeniably, Port Royal was a wealthy town—some said it was the richest in the world—but that did not make it pleasant. Only a few roads had been paved in cobblestones, brought from England as ships’ ballast. Most streets were narrow mud ruts, reeking of garbage and horse dung, buzzing with flies and mosquitoes. The closely packed buildings were wood or brick, rude in construction and crude in purpose: an endless succession of taverns, grog shops, gaming places, and bawdy houses. These establishments served the thousand seamen and other visitors who might be ashore at any time. There were also a handful of legitimate merchants’ shops, and a church at the north end of town, which was, as Sir William Lytton had so nicely phrased it, “seldom frequented.”
Of course, Sir James and his household attended services each Sunday, along with the few pious members of the community. But as often as not, the sermon was interrupted by the arrival of a drunken seaman, who disrupted proceedings with blasphemous shouts and oaths and on one occasion with gunshots. Sir James had caused the man to be clapped in jail for a fortnight after that incident, but he had to be cautious about dispensing punishment. The authority of the Governor of Jamaica was—again in the words of Sir William—“as thin as a parchment fragment, and as fragile.”
Sir James had spent an evening with Sir William, after the king had given him his appointment. Sir William had explained the workings of the Colony to the new governor. Sir James had listened and had thought he understood, but one never really understood life in the New World until confronted with the actual rude experience.
Now, riding in his coach through the stinking streets of Port Royal, nodding from his window as the commoners bowed, Sir James marveled at how much he had come to accept as wholly natural and ordinary. He accepted the heat and the flies and the malevolent odors; he accepted the thieving and the corrupt commerce; he accepted the drunken gross manners of the privateers. He had made a thousand minor adjustments, including the ability to sleep through the raucous shouting and gunshots, which continued uninterrupted through every night in the port.
But there were still irritants to plague him, and one of the most grating was seated across from him in the coach. Commander Scott, head of the garrison of Fort Charles and self-appointed guardian of courtly good manners, brushed an invisible speck of dust from his uniform and said, “I trust Your Excellency enjoyed an excellent evening, and is even now in good spirits for the morning’s exercises.”
“I slept well enough,” Sir James said abruptly. For the hundredth time, he thought to himself how much more hazardous life was in Jamaica when the commander of the garrison was a dandy and a fool, instead of a serious military man.
“I am given to understand,” Commander Scott said, touching a perfumed lace handkerchief to his nose and inhaling lightly, “that the prisoner LeClerc is in complete readiness and that all has been prepared for the execution.”
“Very good,” Sir James said, frowning at Commander Scott.
“It has also come to my attention that the merchantman Godspeed is arriving at anchor even as we speak, and that among her passengers is Mr. Hacklett, here to serve as your new secretary.”
“Let us pray he is not a fool like the last one,” Sir James said.
“Indeed. Quite so,” Commander Scott said, and then mercifully lapsed into silence. The coach pulled into the High Street Square where a large crowd had gathered to witness the hanging. As Sir James and Commander Scott alighted from the coach, there were scattered cheers.
Sir James nodded briefly; the commander gave a low bow.
“I perceive an excellent gathering,” the commander said. “I am always heartened by the presence of so many children and young boys. This will make a proper lesson for them, do you not agree?”
“Umm,” Sir James said. He made his way to the front of the crowd, and stood in the shadow of the gallows. The High Street gallows were permanent, they were so frequently needed: a low braced crossbeam with a stout noose that hung seven feet above the ground.
“Where is the prisoner?” Sir James said irritably.
The prisoner was nowhere to be seen. The governor waited with visible impatience, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. Then they heard the low roll of drums that presaged the arrival of the cart. Moments later, there were shouts and laughter from the crowd, which parted as the cart came into view.
The prisoner LeClerc was standing erect, his hands bound behind his back. He wore a gray cloth tunic, spattered with garbage thrown by the jeering crowd. Yet he continued to hold his chin high.
Commander Scott leaned over. “He does make a good impression, Your Excellency.”
Sir James grunted.
“I do so think well of a man who dies with finesse.”
Sir James said nothing. The cart rolled up to the gallows, and turned so that the prisoner faced the crowd. The executioner, Henry Edmonds, walked over to the governor and bowed deeply. “A good morning to Your Excellency, and to you, Commander Scott. I have the honor to present the prisoner, the Frenchman LeClerc, lately condemned by the Audencia—”
“Get on with it, Henry,” Sir James said.
“By all means, Your Excellency.” Looking wounded, the executioner bowed again, and then returned to the cart. He stepped up alongside the prisoner, and slipped the noose around LeClerc’s neck. Then he walked to the front of the cart and stood next to the mule. There was a moment of silence, which stretched rather too long.
Finally, the executioner spun on his heel and barked, “Teddy, damn you, look sharp!”
Immediately, a young boy—the executioner’s son—began to beat out a rapid drum roll. The executioner turned back to face the crowd. He raised his switch high in the air, then struck the mule a single blow; the cart rattled away, and the prisoner was left kicking and swinging in the air.
Sir James watched the man struggle. He listened to the hissing rasp of LeClerc’s choking, and saw his face turn purple. The Frenchman began to kick rather violently, swinging back and forth just a foot or two from the muddy ground. His eyes seemed to bulge from his head. His tongue protruded. His body began to shiver, twisting in convulsions on the end of the rope.
“All right,” Sir James said finally, and nodded to the crowd. Immediately, one or two stout fellows rushed forward, friends of the condemned man. They grabbed at his kicking feet and hauled on them, trying to break his neck with merciful quickness. But they were clumsy at their work, and the pirate was strong, dragging the other men through the mud with his vigorous kicking. The death throes continued for some seconds and then finally, abruptly, the body went limp.
The men stepped away. Urine trickled down LeClerc’s pants legs onto the mud. The body twisted slackly back and forth on the end of the rope.
“Well executed, indeed,” Commander Scott said, with a broad grin. He tossed a gold coin to the executioner.
Sir James turned and climbed back into the coach, thinking to himself that he was exceedingly hungry. To sharpen his appetite further, as well as to drive out the foul smells of the town, he permitted himself a pinch of snuff.
IT WAS COMMANDER SCOTT’S suggestion that they stop by the port, to see if the new secretary had yet disembarked. The coach pulled up to the docks, as near to the wharf as possible; the driver knew that the governor preferred to walk no more than necessary. The coachman opened the door and Sir James stepped out, wincing, into the fetid morning air.
He found himself facing a young man in his early thirties, who, like the governor, was sweating in a heavy doublet. The young man bowed and said, “Your Excellency.”
“Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Almont asked, with a slight bow. He could no longer bow deeply because of the pain in his leg, and in any case he disliked this pomp and formality.
“Charles Morton, sir, captain of the merchantman Godspeed, late of Bristol.” He presented his papers.
Almont did not even glance at them. “What cargoes do you carry?”
“West Country broadcloths, Your Excellency, and glass from Stourbridge, and iron goods. Your Excellency holds the manifest in his hands.”
“Have you passengers?” He opened the manifest and realized he had forgotten his spectacles; the listing was a black blur. He examined the manifest with brief impatience, and closed it again.
“I carry Mr. Robert Hacklett, the new secretary to Your Excellency, and his wife,” Morton said. “I carry eight freeborn commoners as merchants to the Colony. And I carry thirty-seven felon women sent by Lord Ambritton of London to be wives for the colonists.”
“So good of Lord Ambritton,” Almont said dryly. From time to time, an official in one of the larger cities of England would arrange for convict women to be sent to Jamaica, a simple ruse to avoid the expense of jailing them at home. Sir James had no illusions about what this latest group of women would be like. “And where is Mr. Hacklett?”
“On board, gathering his belongings with Mrs. Hacklett, Your Excellency.” Captain Morton shifted his feet. “Mrs. Hacklett had a most uncomfortable passage, Your Excellency.”
“I have no doubt,” Almont said. He was irritated that his new secretary was not on the dock to meet him. “Does Mr. Hacklett carry messages for me?”
“I believe he may, sir,” Morton said.
“Be so good as to ask him to join me at Government House at his earliest convenience.”
“I will, Your Excellency.”
“You may await the arrival of the purser and Mr. Gower, the customs inspector, who will verify your manifest and supervise the unloading of your cargoes. Have you many deaths to report?”
“Only two, Your Excellency, both ordinary seamen. One lost overboard and one dead of dropsy. Had it been otherwise, I would not have come to port.”
Almont hesitated. “How do you mean, not have come to port?”
“I mean, had anyone died of the plague, Your Excellency.”
Almont frowned in the morning heat. “The plague?”
“Your Excellency knows of the plague which has lately infected London and certain of the outlying towns of the land?”
“I know nothing at all,” Almont said. “There is plague in London?”
“Indeed, sir, for some months now it has been spreading with great confusion and loss of life. They say it was brought from Amsterdam.”
Almont sighed. That explained why there had been no ships from England in recent weeks, and no messages from the Court. He remembered the London plague of ten years earlier, and hoped that his sister and niece had had the presence of mind to go to the country house. But he was not unduly disturbed. Governor Almont accepted calamity with equanimity. He himself lived daily in the shadow of dysentery and shaking fever, which carried off several citizens of Port Royal each week.
“I will hear more of this news,” he said. “Please join me at dinner this evening.”
“With great pleasure,” Morton said, bowing once more. “Your Excellency honors me.”
“Save that opinion until you see the table this poor colony provides,” Almont said. “One last thing, Captain,” he said. “I am in need of female servants for the mansion. The last group of blacks, being sickly, have died. I would be most grateful if you would contrive for the convict women to be sent to the mansion as soon as possible. I shall handle their dispersal.”
“Your Excellency.”
Almont gave a final, brief nod, and climbed painfully back into his coach. With a sigh of relief, he sank back in the seat and rode to the mansion. “A dismal malodorous day,” Commander Scott commented, and indeed, for a long time afterward, the ghastly smells of the town lingered in the governor’s nostrils and did not dissipate until he took another pinch of snuff.
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_a07e425a-cada-5ad8-8e36-6155be179f5a)
DRESSED IN LIGHTER clothing, Governor Almont breakfasted alone in the dining hall of the mansion. As was his custom, he ate a light meal of poached fish and a little wine, followed by another of the minor pleasures of his posting, a cup of rich, dark coffee. During his tenure as governor, he had become increasingly fond of coffee, and he delighted in the fact that he had virtually unlimited quantities of this delicacy, so scarce at home.
While he was finishing his coffee, his aide, John Cruikshank, entered. John was a Puritan, forced to leave Cambridge in some haste when Charles II was restored to the throne. He was a sallow-faced, serious, tedious man, but dutiful enough.
“The convict women are here, Your Excellency.”
Almont grimaced at the thought. He wiped his lips. “Send them along. Are they clean, John?”
“Reasonably clean, sir.”
“Then send them along.”
The women entered the dining room noisily. They chattered and stared and pointed to this article and that. An unruly lot, dressed in identical gray fustian, and barefooted. His aide lined them along one wall and Almont pushed away from the table.
The women fell silent as he walked past them. In fact, the only sound in the room was the scraping of the governor’s painful left foot over the floor, as he walked down the line, looking at each.
They were as ugly, tangled, and scurrilous a collection as he’d ever seen. He paused before one woman, who was taller than he, a nasty creature with a pocked face and missing teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotte Bixby, my lord.” She attempted a clumsy sort of curtsey.
“And your crime?”
“Faith, my lord, I did no crime, it was all a falsehood that they put to me and—”
“Murder of her husband, John Bixby,” his aide intoned, reading from a list.
The woman fell silent. Almont moved on. Each new face was uglier than the last. He stopped at a woman with tangled black hair and a yellow scar running down the side of her neck. Her expression was sullen.
“Your name?”
“Laura Peale.”
“What is your crime?”
“They said I stole a gentleman’s purse.”
“Suffocation of her children ages four and seven,” John intoned in a monotonous voice, never raising his eyes from the list.
Almont scowled at the woman. These females would be quite at home in Port Royal; they were as tough and hard as the hardest privateer. But wives? They would not be wives. He continued down the line of faces, and then stopped before one unusually young.
The girl could hardly have been more than fourteen or fifteen, with fair hair and a naturally pale complexion. Her eyes were blue and clear, with a certain odd, innocent amiability. She seemed entirely out of place in this churlish group. His voice was soft as he spoke to her. “And your name, child?”
“Anne Sharpe, my lord.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Her eyes fell demurely.
“What is your crime?”
“Theft, my lord.”
Almont glanced at John; the aide nodded. “Theft of a gentleman’s lodging, Gardiner’s Lane, London.”
“I see,” Almont said, turning back to the girl. But he could not bring himself to be severe with her. She remained with eyes downcast. “I have need of a womanservant in my household, Mistress Sharpe. I shall employ you here.”
“Your Excellency,” John interrupted, leaning toward Almont. “A word, if you please.”
They stepped a short distance back from the women. The aide appeared agitated. He pointed to the list. “Your Excellency,” he whispered, “it says here that she was accused of witchcraft at her trial.”
Almont chuckled good-naturedly. “No doubt, no doubt.” Pretty young women were often accused of witchcraft.
“Your Excellency,” John said, full of tremulous Puritan spirit, “it says here that she bears the stigmata of the devil.”
Almont looked at the demure, blond young woman. He was not inclined to believe she was a witch. Sir James knew a thing or two about witchcraft. Witches had eyes of strange color. Witches were surrounded by cold draughts. Their flesh was cold as that of a reptile, and they had an extra tit.
This woman, he was certain, was no witch. “See that she is dressed and bathed,” he said.
“Your Excellency, may I remind you, the stigmata—”
“I shall search for the stigmata myself later.”
John bowed. “As you wish, Your Excellency.”
For the first time, Anne Sharpe looked up from the floor to face Governor Almont, and she smiled the slightest of smiles.
CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_5b1102db-ec2e-5f15-b40a-2f778e04965d)
SPEAKING WITH ALL due respect, Sir James, I must confess that nothing could have prepared me for the shock of my arrival in this port.” Mr. Robert Hacklett, thin, young, and nervous, paced up and down the room as he spoke. His wife, a slender, dark, foreign-looking young woman, sat rigidly in a chair and stared at Almont.
Sir James sat behind his desk, his bad foot propped on a pillow and throbbing badly. Sir James was trying to be patient.
“In the capital of His Majesty’s Colony of Jamaica in the New World,” Hacklett continued, “I naturally anticipated some semblance of Christian order and lawful conduct. At the very least, some evidence of constraint upon the vagabonds and ill-mannered louts who act as they please everywhere and openly. Why, as we traveled in open coach through the streets of Port Royal—if they may be called streets—one vulgar fellow hurled drunken imprecations at my wife, upsetting her greatly.”
“Indeed,” Almont said, with a sigh.
Emily Hacklett nodded silently. In her own way she was a pretty woman, with the sort of looks that appealed to King Charles. Sir James could guess how Mr. Hacklett had become such a favorite of the Court that he would be given the potentially lucrative posting of Secretary to the Governor of Jamaica. No doubt Emily Hacklett had felt the press of the royal abdomen upon her more than once.
Sir James sighed.
“And further,” Hacklett continued, “we were everywhere treated to the spectacle of bawdy women half-naked in the streets and shouting from windows, men drunk and vomiting in the streets, robbers and pirates brawling and disorderly at every turn, and—”
“Pirates?” Almont said sharply.
“Indeed, pirates is what I should naturally call those cutthroat seamen.”
“There are no pirates in Port Royal,” Almont said. His voice was hard. He glared at his new secretary, and cursed the passions of the Merry Monarch that had provided him with this priggish fool for an assistant. Hacklett would obviously be no help to him at all. “There are no pirates in this Colony,” Almont said again. “And should you find evidence that any man here is a pirate, he will be duly tried and hanged. That is the law of the crown and it is stringently enforced.”
Hacklett looked incredulous. “Sir James,” he said, “you quibble over a minor question of speech when the truth of the matter is to be seen in every street and dwelling of the town.”
“The truth of the matter is to be seen at the gallows of High Street,” Almont said, “where even now a pirate may be found hanging in the breeze. Had you disembarked earlier, you might have seen it for yourself.” He sighed again. “Sit down,” he said, “and keep silent before you confirm yourself in my judgment as an even greater idiot than you already appear to be.”
Mr. Hacklett paled. He was obviously unaccustomed to such plain address. He sat quickly in a chair next to his wife. She touched his hand reassuringly: a heartfelt gesture from one of the king’s many mistresses.
Sir James Almont stood, grimacing as pain shot up from his foot. He leaned across his desk. “Mr. Hacklett,” he said, “I am charged by the crown with expanding the Colony of Jamaica and maintaining its welfare. Let me explain to you certain pertinent facts relating to the discharge of that duty. First, we are a small and weak outpost of England in the midst of Spanish territories. I am aware,” he said heavily, “that it is the fashion of the Court to pretend that His Majesty has a strong footing in the New World. But the truth is rather different. Three tiny colonies—St. Kitts, Barbados, and Jamaica—comprise the entire dominion of the Crown. All the rest is Philip’s. This is still the Spanish Main. There are no English warships in these waters. There are no English garrisons on any lands. There are a dozen Spanish first-rate ships of the line and several thousand Spanish troops garrisoned in more than fifteen major settlements. King Charles in his wisdom wishes to retain his colonies but he does not wish to pay the expense of defending them against invasion.”
Hacklett stared, still pale.
“I am charged with protecting this Colony. How am I to do that? Clearly, I must acquire fighting men. The adventurers and privateers are the only source available to me, and I am careful to provide them a welcome home here. You may find these elements distasteful but Jamaica would be naked and vulnerable without them.”
“Sir James—”
“Be quiet,” Almont said. “Now, I have a second duty, which is to expand the Jamaica Colony. It is fashionable in the Court to propose that we instigate farming and agricultural pursuits here. Yet no farmers have been sent in two years. The land is brackish and infertile. The natives are hostile. How then do I expand the Colony, increasing its numbers and wealth? With commerce. The gold and the goods for a thriving commerce are afforded us by privateering raids upon Spanish shipping and settlements. Ultimately this enriches the coffers of the king, a fact which does not entirely displease His Majesty, according to my best information.”
“Sir James—”
“And finally,” Almont said, “finally, I have an unspoken duty, which is to deprive the Court of Philip IV of as much wealth as I am able to manage. This, too, is viewed by His Majesty—privately, privately—as a worthy objective. Particularly since so much of the gold which fails to reach Cádiz turns up in London. Therefore privateering is openly encouraged. But not piracy, Mr. Hacklett. And that is no mere quibble.”
“But Sir James—”
“The hard facts of the Colony admit no debate,” Almont said, resuming his seat behind the desk, and propping his foot on the pillow once more. “You may reflect at your leisure on what I have told you, understanding—as I am certain you will understand—that I speak with the wisdom of experience on these matters. Be so kind as to join me at dinner this evening with Captain Morton. In the meanwhile I am sure you have much to do in settling into your quarters here.”
The interview was clearly at an end. Hacklett and his wife stood. Hacklett bowed slightly, stiffly. “Sir James.”
“Mr. Hacklett. Mrs. Hacklett.”
THE TWO DEPARTED. The aide closed the door behind them. Almont rubbed his eyes. “God in Heaven,” he said, shaking his head.
“Do you wish to rest now, Your Excellency?” John asked.
“Yes,” Almont said. “I wish to rest.” He got up from behind his desk and walked down the corridor to his chambers. As he passed one room, he heard the sound of water splashing in a metal tub, and a feminine giggle. He glanced at John.
“They are bathing the womanservant,” John said.
Almont grunted.
“You wish to examine her later?”
“Yes, later,” Almont said. He looked at John and felt a moment of amusement. John was evidently still frightened by the witchcraft accusation. The fears of the common people, he thought, were so strong and so foolish.
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_3293b749-6318-5b49-8013-5f86e0be9e6f)
ANNE SHARPE RELAXED in the warm water of the bathtub, and listened to the prattle of the enormous black woman who bustled around the room. Anne could hardly understand a word the woman was saying, although she seemed to be speaking English; her lilting rhythms and odd pronunciations were utterly strange. The black woman was saying something about what a kind man Governor Almont was. Anne Sharpe had no concern about Governor Almont’s kindness. She had learned at an early age how to deal with men.
She closed her eyes, and the singsong speech of the black woman was replaced in her mind by the tolling of church bells. She had come to hate that monotonous, ceaseless sound, in London.
Anne was the youngest of three children, the daughter of a retired seaman turned sailmaker in Wapping. When the plague broke out near Christmastime, her two older brothers had taken work as watchmen. Their jobs were to stand at the doors of infected houses and see that the inhabitants inside did not leave the residence for any reason. Anne herself worked as a sick-nurse for several wealthy families.
With the passing weeks, the horrors she had seen became merged in her memory. The church bells rang day and night. The cemeteries everywhere became overfilled; soon there were no more individual graves, but the bodies were dumped by the score into deep trenches, and hastily covered over with white lime powder and earth. The deadcarts, piled high with bodies, were hauled through the streets; the sextons paused before each dwelling to call out, “Bring out your dead.” The smell of corrupted air was everywhere.
So was the fear. She remembered seeing a man fall dead in the street, his fat purse by his side, clinking with money. Crowds passed by the corpse, but none would dare to pick up the purse. Later the body was carted away, but still the purse remained, untouched.
At all the markets, the grocers and butchers kept bowls of vinegar by their wares. Shoppers dropped coins into the vinegar; no coin was ever passed hand to hand. Everyone made an effort to pay with exact change.
Amulets, trinkets, potions, and spells were in brisk demand. Anne herself bought a locket that contained some foul-smelling herb, but which was said to ward off the plague. She wore it always.
And still the deaths continued. Her eldest brother came down with the plague. One day she saw him in the street; his neck was swollen with large lumps and his gums were bleeding. She never saw him again.
Her other brother suffered a common fate for watchmen. While guarding a house one night, the inhabitants locked inside became crazed by the dementia of the disease. They broke out and killed her brother with a pistol-ball in the course of their escape. She only heard of this; she never saw him.
Finally, Anne, too, was locked in a house belonging to the family of a Mr. Sewell. She was serving as nurse to the elderly Mrs. Sewell—mother of the owner of the house—when Mr. Sewell came down with the swellings. The house was quarantined. Anne tended to the sick as best she could. One after another, the family died. The bodies were given over to the dead-carts. At last, she was alone in the house, and, by some miracle, still in good health.
It was then that she stole some articles of gold and the few coins she could find, and made her escape from the second-story window, slipping out over the rooftops of London at night. A constable caught her the next morning, demanding to know where a young girl had found so much gold. He took the gold, and clapped her in Bridewell prison.
There she languished for some weeks, until Lord Ambritton, a public-spirited gentleman, made a tour of the prison and caught sight of her. Anne had long since learned that gentlemen found her aspect agreeable. Lord Ambritton was no exception. He caused her to be put in his coach, and after some dalliance of the sort he liked, promised her she would be sent to the New World.
Soon enough she was in Plymouth, and then aboard the Godspeed. During the journey, Captain Morton, being a young and vigorous man, had taken a fancy to her, and because in the privacy of his cabin he gave her fresh meats and other delicacies, she was well pleased to make his acquaintance, which she did almost every night.
Now she was here, in this new place, where everything was strange and unfamiliar. But she had no fear, for she was certain that the governor liked her, as the other gentlemen had liked her and taken care of her.
Her bath finished, she was dressed in a dyed woolen dress and a cotton blouse. It was the finest clothing she had worn in more than three months, and it gave her a moment of pleasure to feel the fabric against her skin. The black woman opened the door and motioned for her to follow.
“Where are we going?”
“To the governor.”
She was led down a large, wide hallway. The floors were wooden but uneven. She found it strange that a man so important as the governor should live in such a rough house. Many ordinary gentlemen in London had houses more finely built than this.
The black woman knocked on a door, and a leering Scotsman opened it. Anne saw a bedchamber inside; the governor in a nightshirt was standing by the bed, yawning. The Scotsman nodded for her to enter the room.
“Ah,” the governor said. “Mistress Sharpe. I must say, your appearance is considerably improved by your ablutions.”
She did not understand exactly what he was talking about, but if he was pleased then so was she. She curtseyed as she had been taught by her mother.
“Richards, you may leave us.”
The Scotsman nodded, and closed the door. She was alone with the governor. She watched his eyes.
“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” he said in a kindly voice. “There is nothing to fear. Come over here by the window, Anne, where the light is good.”
She did as she was told.
He stared at her in silence for some moments. Finally, he said, “You know at your trial you were accused of witchcraft.”
“Yes, sir. But it is not true, sir.”
“I’m quite sure it is not, Anne. But it was said that you bear the stigmata of a pact with the devil.”
“I swear, sir,” she said, feeling agitation for the first time. “I have nothing to do with the devil, sir.”
“I believe you, Anne,” he said, smiling at her. “But it is my duty to verify the absence of stigmata.”
“I swear to you, sir.”
“I believe you,” he said. “But you must take off your clothes.”
“Now, sir?”
“Yes, now.”
She looked around the room a little doubtfully.
“You can put your clothes on the bed, Anne.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched her as she undressed. She noticed what happened to his eyes. She was no longer afraid. The air was warm; she was comfortable without her clothing.
“You are a beautiful child, Anne.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She stood, naked, and he moved closer to her. He paused to put his spectacles on, and then he looked at her shoulders.
“Turn around slowly.”
She turned for him. He peered at her flesh. “Raise your arms over your head.”
She raised her arms. He peered at each armpit.
“The stigmata is normally under the arms or on the breast,” he said. “Or on the pudenda.” He smiled at her. “You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?”
She shook her head.
“Lie on the bed, Anne.”
She lay on the bed.
“We will now complete the examination,” he said seriously, and then his fingers were in her hair, and he was peering at her skin with his nose just a few inches from her quim, and even though she feared insulting him she found it funny—it tickled—and she began to laugh.
He stared angrily at her for a moment, and then he laughed, too, and then he began throwing off his nightshirt. He took her with his spectacles still on his face; she felt the wire frames pressing against her ear. She allowed him to have his way with her. It did not last long, and afterward, he seemed pleased, and so she was also pleased.
AS THEY LAY together in the bed, he asked her about her life, and her experiences in London, and the voyage to Jamaica. She described for him how most of the women amused themselves with each other, or with members of the crew, but she said that she did not—which wasn’t exactly true, but she had only been with Captain Morton, so it was very nearly true. And then she told about the storm that had happened, just as they sighted land in the Indies. And how the storm had buffeted them for two days.
She could tell that Governor Almont was not paying much attention to her story. His eyes had that funny look in them again. She continued to talk, anyway. She told about how the day after the storm had been clear, and they had sighted land with a harbor and a fortress, and a large Spanish ship in the harbor. And how Captain Morton was very worried about being attacked by the Spanish warship, which had certainly seen the merchantman. But the Spanish ship never came out of the harbor.
“What?” Governor Almont said, almost shrieking. He leapt out of bed.
“What’s wrong?”
“A Spanish warship saw you and didn’t attack?”
“No, sir,” she said. “We were much relieved, sir.”
“Relieved?” Almont cried. He could not believe his ears. “You were relieved? God in Heaven: how long ago did this happen?”
She shrugged. “Three or four days past.”
“And it was a harbor with a fortress, you say?”
“Yes.”
“On which side was the fortress?”
She was confused. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Well,” Almont said, throwing on his clothes in haste, “as you looked at the island and the harbor, was this fortress to the right of the harbor, or the left?”
“To this side,” she said, pointing with her right arm.
“And the island had a tall peak? A very green island, very small?”
“Yes, that’s the very one, sir.”
“God’s blood,” Almont said. “Richards! Richards! Get Hunter!”
And the governor dashed from the room, leaving her lying there, naked on the bed. Certain that she had displeased him, Anne began to cry.
CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_28fec85a-0fe2-5640-bd08-4f95cd8f2ee0)
THERE WAS A knock at the door. Hunter rolled over in the bed; he saw the open window, and sunlight pouring through. “Go away,” he muttered. Alongside him, the girl shifted her position restlessly but did not awake.
The knock came again.
“Go away, damn your eyes.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Denby poked her head around. “Begging your pardon, Captain Hunter, but there’s a messenger here from the Governor’s Mansion. The governor requests your presence at dinner, Captain Hunter. What shall I say?”
Hunter rubbed his eyes. He blinked sleepily in the daylight. “What is the hour?”
“Five o’clock, Captain.”
“Tell the governor I will be there.”
“Yes, Captain Hunter. And Captain?”
“What is it?”
“That Frenchman with the scar is downstairs looking for you.”
Hunter grunted. “All right, Mrs. Denby.”
The door closed. Hunter got out of bed. The girl still slept, snoring loudly. He looked around his room, which was small and cramped—a bed, a sea chest with his belongings in one corner, a chamber pot under the bed, a basin of water nearby. He coughed, started to dress, and paused to urinate out of the window onto the street below. A shouted curse drifted up to him. Hunter smiled, and continued to dress, selecting his only good doublet from the sea chest, and his remaining pair of hose that had only a few snags. He finished by putting on his gold belt with the short dagger, and then, as a kind of afterthought, took one pistol, primed it, rammed home the ball with the wadding to hold it in the barrel, and slipped it under his belt.
This was Captain Charles Hunter’s normal toilet, performed each evening when he arose at sunset. It took only a few minutes, for Hunter was not a fastidious man. Nor, he reflected, was he much of a Puritan; he looked again at the girl in the bed, then closed the door behind her and went down the narrow creaking wood stairs to the main room of Mrs. Denby’s Inn.
The main room was a broad, low-ceilinged space with a dirt floor and several heavy wooden tables in long rows. Hunter paused. As Mrs. Denby had said, Levasseur was there, sitting in a corner, hunched over a tankard of grog.
Hunter crossed to the door.
“Hunter!” Levasseur croaked, in a thick drunken voice.
Hunter turned, showing apparent surprise. “Why, Levasseur. I didn’t see you.”
“Hunter, you son of an English mongrel bitch.”
“Levasseur,” he replied, stepping out of the light, “you son of a French farmer and his favorite sheep, what brings you here?”
Levasseur stood behind the table. He had picked a dark spot; Hunter could not see him well. But the two men were separated by a distance of perhaps thirty feet—too far for a pistol shot.
“Hunter, I want my money.”
“I owe you no money,” Hunter said. And, in truth, he did not. Among the privateers of Port Royal, debts were paid fully and promptly. There was no more damaging reputation a man could have than one who failed to pay his debts, or to divide spoils equally. On a privateering raid, any man who tried to conceal a part of the general booty was always put to death. Hunter himself had shot more than one thieving seaman through the heart and kicked the corpse overboard without a second thought.
“You cheated me at cards,” Levasseur said.
“You were too drunk to know the difference.”
“You cheated me. You took fifty pounds. I want it back.”
Hunter looked around the room. There were no witnesses, which was unfortunate. He did not want to kill Levasseur without witnesses. He had too many enemies. “How did I cheat you at cards?” he asked. As he spoke, he moved slightly closer to Levasseur.
“How? Who cares a damn for how? God’s blood, you cheated me.” Levasseur raised the tankard to his lips.
Hunter chose that moment to lunge. He pushed his palm flat against the upturned tankard, ramming it back against Levasseur’s face, which thudded against the back wall. Levasseur gurgled and collapsed, blood dripping from his mouth. Hunter grabbed the tankard and crashed it down on Levasseur’s skull. The Frenchman lay unconscious.
Hunter shook his hand free of the wine on his fingers, turned, and walked out of Mrs. Denby’s Inn. He stepped ankle-deep into the mud of the street, but paid no attention. He was thinking of Levasseur’s drunkenness. It was sloppy of him to be so drunk while waiting for someone.
It was time for another raid, Hunter thought. They were all getting soft. He himself had spent one night too many in his cups, or with the women of the port. They should go to sea again.
Hunter walked through the mud, smiling and waving to the whores who yelled to him from high windows, and made his way to the Governor’s Mansion.
“ALL HAVE REMARKED upon the comet, seen over London on the eve of the plague,” said Captain Morton, sipping his wine. “There was a comet before the plague of ’56, as well.”
“So there was,” Almont said. “And what of that? There was a comet in ’59, and no plague that I recall.”
“An outbreak of the pox in Ireland,” said Mr. Hacklett, “in that very year.”
“There is always an outbreak of the pox in Ireland,” Almont said. “In every year.”
Hunter said nothing. Indeed, he had said little during the dinner, which he found as dreary as any he had ever attended at the Governor’s Mansion. For a time, he had been intrigued by the new faces—Morton, the captain of the Godspeed, and Hacklett, the new secretary, a silly pinch-faced prig of a man. And Mrs. Hacklett, who looked to have French blood in her slender darkness, and a certain lascivious animal quality.
For Hunter, the most interesting moment in the evening had been the arrival of a new serving girl, a delicious pale blond child who came and went from time to time. He kept trying to catch her eye. Hacklett noticed, and gave Hunter a disapproving stare. It was not the first disapproving stare he had given Hunter that evening.
When the girl came round to refill the glasses, Hacklett said, “Does your taste run to servants, Mr. Hunter?”
“When they are pretty,” Hunter said casually. “And how does your taste run?”
“The mutton is excellent,” Hacklett said, coloring deeply, staring at his plate.
With a grunt, Almont turned the conversation to the Atlantic passage his guests had just made. There was a description of a tropical storm, told in exciting and overwrought detail by Morton, who acted as if he were the first person in human history to face a little white water. Hacklett added a few frightening touches, and Mrs. Hacklett allowed that she had been quite ill.
Hunter grew increasingly bored. He drained his wineglass.
“Well then,” Morton continued, “after two days of this most dreadful storm, the third day dawned perfectly clear, a magnificent morning. One could see for miles and the wind was fair from the north. But we did not know our position, having been blown for forty-eight hours. We sighted land to port, and made for it.”
A mistake, Hunter thought. Obviously Morton was grossly inexperienced. In the Spanish waters, an English vessel never made for land without knowing exactly whose land it was. The odds were, the Don held it.
“We came round the island, and to our astonishment we saw a warship anchored in the harbor. Small island, but there it was, a Spanish warship and no doubt of it. We felt certain it would give chase.”
“And what happened?” Hunter asked, not very interested.
“It remained in the harbor,” Morton said, and laughed. “I should like to have a more exciting conclusion to the tale, but the truth is it did not come after us. The warship remained in the harbor.”
“The Don saw you, of course?” Hunter said, growing more interested.
“Well, they must have done. We were under full canvas.”
“How close by were you?”
“No more than two or three miles offshore. The island wasn’t on our charts, you know. I suppose it was too small to be charted. It had a single harbor, with a fortress to one side. I must say we all felt we had a narrow escape.”
Hunter turned slowly to look at Almont. Almont was staring at him, with a slight smile.
“Does the episode amuse you, Captain Hunter?”
Hunter turned back to Morton. “You say there was a fortress by the harbor?”
“Indeed, a rather imposing fortress, it seemed.”
“On the north or south shore of the harbor?”
“Let me recollect—north shore. Why?”
“How long ago did you see this ship?” Hunter asked.
“Three or four days past. Make it three days. As soon as we had our bearings, we ran straight for Port Royal.”
Hunter drummed his fingers on the table. He frowned at his empty wineglass. There was a short silence.
Almont cleared his throat. “Captain Hunter, you seem preoccupied by this story.”
“Intrigued,” Hunter said. “I am sure the governor is equally intrigued.”
“I believe,” Almont said, “that it is fair to say the interests of the Crown have been aroused.”
Hacklett sat stiffly in his chair. “Sir James,” he said, “would you edify the rest of us as to the import of all this?”
“Just a moment,” Almont said, with an impatient wave of the hand. He was looking fixedly at Hunter. “What terms do you make?”
“Equal division, first,” Hunter said.
“My dear Hunter, equal division is most unattractive to the Crown.”
“My dear Governor, anything less would make the expedition most unattractive to the seamen.”
Almont smiled. “You recognize, of course, that the prize is enormous.”
“Indeed. I also recognize that the island is impregnable. You sent Edmunds with three hundred men against it last year. Only one returned.”
“You yourself have expressed the opinion that Edmunds was not a resourceful man.”
“But Cazalla is certainly resourceful.”
“Indeed. And yet it seems to me that Cazalla is a man you should like to meet.”
“Not unless there was an equal division.”
“But,” Sir James said, smiling in an easy way, “if you expect the Crown to outfit the expedition, that cost must be returned before any division. Fair?”
“Here, now,” Hacklett said. “Sir James, are you bargaining with this man?”
“Not at all. I am coming to a gentleman’s agreement with him.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the purpose of arranging a privateering expedition on the Spanish outpost at Matanceros.”
“Matanceros?” Morton said.
“That is the name of the island you passed, Captain Morton. Punta Matanceros. The Don built a fortress there two years ago, under the command of an unsavory gentleman named Cazalla. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. No? Well, he has a considerable reputation in the Indies. He is said to find the screams of his dying victims restful and relaxing.” Almont looked at the faces of his dinner guests. Mrs. Hacklett was quite pale. “Cazalla commands the fortress of Matanceros, built for the sole purpose of being the farthest eastward outpost of Spanish dominion along the homeward route of the Treasure Fleet.”
There was a long silence. The guests looked uneasy.
“I see you do not comprehend the economics of this region,” Almont said. “Each year, Philip sends a fleet of treasure galleons here from Cádiz. They cross to the Spanish Main, sighting first land to the south, off the coast of New Spain. There the fleet disperses, traveling to various ports—Cartagena, Vera Cruz, Portobello—to collect treasure. The fleet regroups in Havana, then travels east back to Spain. The purpose of traveling together is protection against privateering raids. Am I clear?”
They all nodded.
“Now,” Almont continued, “the Armada sails in late summer, which is the onset of the hurricane season. From time to time, it has happened that ships have been separated from the convoy early in the voyage. The Don wanted a strong harbor to protect such ships. They built Matanceros for this reason alone.”
“Surely that is not sufficient reason,” Hacklett said. “I cannot imagine…”
“It is ample reason,” Almont said abruptly. “Now then. As luck would have it, two treasure naos were lost in a storm some weeks ago. We know because they were sighted by a privateer vessel, which attacked them unsuccessfully. They were last seen beating southward, making for Matanceros. One was badly damaged. What you, Captain Morton, called a Spanish warship was obviously one of these treasure galleons. If it had been a genuine warship, it would surely have given chase at a two-mile range, and captured you, and even now you would be screaming your lungs out for Cazalla’s amusement. The ship did not give chase because it dared not leave the protection of the harbor.”
“How long will it stay there?” Morton asked.
“It may leave at any time. Or it may wait until the next fleet departs, next year. Or it may wait for a Spanish warship to arrive and escort it home.”
“Can it be captured?” Morton asked.
“One would like to think so. In aggregate, the treasure ship probably contains a fortune worth five hundred thousand pounds.”
There was a stunned silence around the table.
“I felt,” Almont said with amusement, “that this information would interest Captain Hunter.”
“You mean this man is a common privateer?” demanded Hacklett.
“Not common in the least,” Almont said, chuckling. “Captain Hunter?”
“Not common, I would say.”
“But this levity is outrageous!”
“You forget your manners,” Almont said. “Captain Hunter is the second son of Major Edward Hunter, of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. He was, in fact, born in the New World and educated at that institution, what is it called—”
“Harvard,” Hunter said.
“Umm, yes, Harvard. Captain Hunter has been among us for four years, and as a privateer, he has some standing in our community. Is that a fair summation, Captain Hunter?”
“Only fair,” Hunter said, grinning.
“The man is a rogue,” Hacklett said, but his wife was looking at Hunter with new interest. “A common rogue.”
“You should mind your tongue,” Almont said calmly. “Dueling is illegal on this island, yet it happens with monotonous regularity. I regret there is little I can do to stop the practice.”
“I’ve heard of this man,” Hacklett said, still more agitated. “He is not the son of Major Edward Hunter at all, at least not the legitimate son.”
Hunter scratched his beard. “Is that so?”
“I have heard it,” Hacklett said. “Further, I have heard he is a murderer, scoundrel, whoremonger, and pirate.”
At the word “pirate,” Hunter’s arm flicked out across the table with extraordinary speed. It fastened in Hacklett’s hair and plunged his face into his half-eaten mutton. Hunter held him there for a long moment.
“Dear me,” Almont said. “I warned him about that earlier. You see, Mr. Hacklett, privateering is an honorable occupation. Pirates, on the other hand, are outlaws. Do you seriously suggest that Captain Hunter is an outlaw?”
Hacklett made a muffled sound, his face in his food.
“I didn’t hear you, Mr. Hacklett,” Almont said.
“I said, ‘No,’” Hacklett said.
“Then don’t you think it appropriate as a gentleman to apologize to Captain Hunter?”
“I apologize, Captain Hunter. I meant you no disrespect.”
Hunter released the man’s head. Hacklett sat back, and wiped the gravy from his face with his napkin.
“There now,” Almont said. “A moment of unpleasantness has been averted. Shall we take dessert?”
Hunter looked around the table. Hacklett was still wiping his face. Morton was staring at him with open astonishment. And Mrs. Hacklett was looking at Hunter and when she caught his eye, she licked her lip.
AFTER DINNER, HUNTER and Almont sat alone in the library of the mansion, drinking brandy. Hunter commiserated with the governor over the appointment of the new secretary.
“He makes my life no simpler,” Almont agreed, “and I fear it may be the same for you.”
“You think he’ll send unfavorable dispatches to London?”
“I think he may try.”
“The king must surely know what transpires in his Colony.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Almont said, with an airy gesture. “One thing is certain; the continued support of privateers will be assured if it repays the king handsomely.”
“No less than an equal division,” Hunter said quickly. “I tell you, it cannot be otherwise.”
“But if the Crown outfits your ships, arms your seamen…”
“No,” Hunter said. “That will not be necessary.”
“Not necessary? My dear Hunter, you know Matanceros. A full Spanish garrison is stationed there.”
Hunter shook his head. “A frontal assault will never succeed. We know that from the Edmunds expedition.”
“But what alternative is there? The fortress at Matanceros commands the entrance to the harbor. You cannot escape with the treasure ship without first capturing the fortress.”
“Indeed.”
“Well then?”
“I propose a small raid from the landward side of the fortress.”
“Against a full garrison? At least three hundred troops? You cannot succeed.”
“On the contrary,” Hunter said. “Unless we succeed, Cazalla will turn his guns on the treasure galleon, and sink it at anchor in the harbor.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Almont said. He sipped his brandy. “Tell me more of your plan.”
CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_ad7fa5f0-6eef-5df9-b0c8-08c2681c0a10)
LATER, AS HE was leaving the Governor’s Mansion, Mrs. Hacklett appeared in the hall, and came over to him. “Captain Hunter.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hacklett.”
“I want to apologize for the inexcusable conduct of my husband.”
“No apology is necessary.”
“On the contrary, Captain. I think it entirely necessary. He behaved like a boor and an oaf.”
“Madam, your husband apologized as a gentleman on his own behalf, and the matter is concluded.” He nodded to her. “Good evening.”
“Captain Hunter.”
He stopped at the door and turned. “Yes, Madam?”
“You are a most attractive man, Captain.”
“Madam, you are very gracious. I look forward to our next meeting.”
“I as well, Captain.”
Hunter walked away thinking that Mr. Hacklett had best look to his wife. Hunter had seen it happen before—a well-bred woman, reared in a rural gentry setting in England, who found some excitement in the Court—as no doubt Mrs. Hacklett had—if her husband looked away—as no doubt Mr. Hacklett had. Nevertheless, on finding herself in the Indies, far from home, far from the restraints of class and custom…Hunter had seen it before.
He walked down the cobbled street away from the mansion. He passed the cookhouse, still brightly lit, the servants working inside. All houses in Port Royal had separate cookhouses, a necessity in the hot climate. Through the open windows, he saw the figure of the blond girl who had served dinner. He waved to her.
She waved back and turned away to her work.
THEY WERE BAITING a bear outside Mrs. Denby’s Inn. Hunter watched the children pelt the helpless animal with rocks; they laughed and giggled and shouted as the bear growled and tugged at its stout chain. A couple of whores beat the bear with sticks. Hunter walked past, and entered the inn.
Trencher was there, sitting in a corner, drinking with his one good arm. Hunter called to him, and drew him aside.
“What is it, Captain?” Trencher asked eagerly.
“I want you to find some mates for me.”
“Say who they shall be, Captain.”
“Lazue, Mr. Enders, Sanson. And the Moor.”
Trencher smiled. “You want them here?”
“No. Find where they are, and I’ll seek them out. Now, where is Whisper?”
“In the Blue Goat,” Trencher said. “The back room.”
“And Black Eye is in Farrow Street?”
“I think so. You want the Jew, too, do you?”
“I am trusting your tongue,” Hunter said. “Keep it still now.”
“Will you take me with you, Captain?”
“If you do as you are told.”
“I swear by God’s wounds, Captain.”
“Then look sharp,” Hunter said, and left the inn, returning to the muddy street. The night air was warm and still, as it had been during the day. He heard the soft strumming of a guitar, and, somewhere, drunken laughter, and a single gunshot. He set off down Ridge Street for the Blue Goat.
The town of Port Royal was divided into rough sections, oriented around the port itself. Nearest the dockside were located the taverns and brothels and gaming houses. Farther back, away from the brawling activity of the waterfront, the streets were quieter. Here the grocers and backers, the furniture workers and ships’ chandlers, the blacksmiths and goldsmiths could be found. Still farther back, on the south side of the bay, were the handful of respectable inns and private homes. The Blue Goat was a respectable inn.
Hunter entered, nodding to the gentlemen drinking at the tables. He recognized the best landsman’s doctor, Mr. Perkins; one of the councilmen, Mr. Pickering; the bailiff of the Bridewell gaol; and several other respectable gentlemen.
Ordinarily, a common privateering seaman would not be welcome in the Blue Goat, but Hunter was accepted with good grace. This was a simple recognition of the way the commerce of the Port depended upon a steady stream of successful privateering raids. Hunter was a skilled and daring captain, and thus an important member of the community. In the previous year, his three forays had returned more than two hundred thousand pistoles and doubloons to Port Royal. Much of this money found its way to the pockets of these gentlemen, and they greeted him accordingly.
Mistress Wickham, who managed the Blue Goat, was less warm. A widow, she had some years before taken up with Whisper, and she knew, when Hunter arrived, that he had come to see him. She jerked her thumb toward a back room. “In there, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mistress Wickham.”
He crossed directly to the back room, knocked, and opened the door without hearing any answering greeting; he knew there would be none. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle. Hunter blinked to adjust to the light. He heard a rhythmic creaking. Finally, he was able to see Whisper, sitting in a corner, in a rocking chair. Whisper held a primed pistol, aimed at Hunter’s belly.
“A good evening, Whisper.”
The reply was low, a rasping hiss. “A good evening, Captain Hunter. You are alone?”
“I am.”
“Then come in” came the hissing reply. “A touch of kill-devil?” Whisper pointed to a barrel beside him, which served as a table. There were glasses and a small crock of rum.
“With thanks, Whisper.”
Hunter watched as Whisper poured two glasses of dark brown liquid. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see his companion better.
Whisper—no one knew his real name—was a large, heavyset man with oversized, pale hands. He had once been a successful privateering captain in his own right. Then he had gone on the Matanceros raid with Edmunds. Whisper was the sole survivor, after Cazalla had captured him, cut his throat, and left him for dead. Somehow Whisper lived, but not without the loss of his voice. This and the large, white arcing scar beneath his chin were obvious proofs of his past.
Since his return to Port Royal, Whisper had hidden in this back room, a strong, vigorous man but one without courage—the steel gone out of him. He was frightened; he was never without a weapon in his hands and another at his side. Now, as he rocked in his chair, Hunter saw the gleam of a cutlass on the floor within easy reach.
“What brings you, Captain? Matanceros?”
Hunter must have looked startled. Whisper broke into laughter. Whisper’s laughter was a horrifying sound, a high-pitched wheezing sizzle, like a steam kettle. He threw his head back to laugh, revealing the white scar plainly.
“I startle you, Captain? You are surprised I know?”
“Whisper,” Hunter said. “Do others know?”
“Some,” Whisper hissed. “Or they suspect. But they do not understand. I heard the story of Morton’s voyage.”
“Ah.”
“You are going, Captain?”
“Tell me about Matanceros, Whisper.”
“You wish a map?”
“Yes.”
“Fifteen shillings?”
“Done,” Hunter said. He knew he would pay Whisper twenty, to ensure his friendship and his silence to any later visitors. And for his part, Whisper would know the obligation conferred by the extra five shillings. And he would know that Hunter would kill him if he spoke to anyone else about Matanceros.
Whisper produced a scrap of oilcloth and a bit of charcoal. Placing the oilcloth on his knee, he sketched rapidly.
“The island of Matanceros, it means slaughter in the Donnish tongue,” he whispered. “It has the shape of a U, so. The mouth of the harbor faces to the east, to the ocean. This point”—he tapped the lefthand side of the U—“is Punta Matanceros. That is where Cazalla has built the fortress. It is low land here. The fortress is no more than fifty paces above the level of the water.”
Hunter nodded, and waited while Whisper gurgled a sip of killdevil.
“The fortress is eight-sided. The walls are stone, thirty feet high. Inside there is a Spanish militia garrison.”
“Of what strength?”
“Some say two hundred. Some say three hundred. I have even heard four hundred but do not believe it.”
Hunter nodded. He should count on three hundred troops. “And the guns?”
“On two sides of the fortress only,” Whisper rasped. “One battery to the ocean, due east. One battery across the mouth of the harbor, due south.”
“What guns are they?”
Whisper gave his chilling laugh. “Most interesting, Captain Hunter. They are culebrinas, twenty-four-pounders, cast bronze.”
“How many?”
“Ten, perhaps twelve.”
It was interesting, Hunter thought. The culebrinas—what the English called culverins—were not the most powerful class of armament, and were no longer favored for shipboard use. Instead, the stubby cannon had become standard on warships of every nationality.
The culverin was an older gun. Culverins weighed more than two tons, with barrels as long as fifteen feet. Such long barrels made them deadly accurate at long range. They could fire heavy shot, and were quick to load. In the hands of trained gun crews, culverins could be fired as often as once a minute.
“So it is well made,” Hunter nodded. “Who is the gunnery master?”
“Bosquet.”
“I have heard of him,” Hunter said. “He is the man who sank the Renown?”
“The same,” Whisper hissed.
So the gun crews would be well drilled. Hunter frowned.
“Whisper,” he said, “do you know if the culverins are fix-mounted?”
Whisper rocked back and forth for a long moment. “You are insane, Captain Hunter.”
“How so?”
“You are planning a landward attack.”
Hunter nodded.
“It will never succeed,” Whisper said. He tapped the map on his knees. “Edmunds thought of it, but when he saw the island, he gave up the attempt. Look here, if you beach on the west”—he pointed to the curve of the U—“there is a small harbor which you can use. But to cross to the main harbor of Matanceros by land, you must scale the Leres ridge, to get to the other side.”
Hunter made an impatient gesture. “Is it difficult to scale the ridge?”
“It is impossible,” Whisper said. “The ordinary man cannot do it. Starting here, from the western cove, the land gently slopes up for five hundred feet or more. But it is a hot, dense jungle, with many swamps. There is no fresh water. There will be patrols. If the patrols do not find you and you do not die of fevers, you emerge at the base of the ridge. The western face of Leres ridge is vertical rock for three hundred feet. A bird cannot perch there. The wind is incessant with the force of a gale.”
“If I did scale it,” Hunter said. “What then?”
“The eastern slope is gentle, and presents no difficulty,” Whisper said. “But you will never reach the eastern face, I promise you.”
“If I did,” Hunter said, “what of the Matanceros batteries?”
Whisper gave a little shrug. “They face the water, Captain Hunter. Cazalla is no fool. He knows he cannot be attacked from the land.”
“There is always a way.”
Whisper rocked in his chair, in silence, for a long time. “Not always,” he said finally. “Not always.”
DON DIEGO DE RAMANO, known also as Black Eye or simply as the Jew, sat hunched over his workbench in the shop on Farrow Street. He blinked nearsightedly at the pearl, which he held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. They were the only remaining fingers on that hand. “It is of excellent quality,” he said. He handed the pearl back to Hunter. “I advise you to keep it.”
Black Eye blinked rapidly. His eyes were weak, and pink, like a rabbit’s. Tears ran almost continuously from them; from time to time, he brushed them away. His right eye had a large black spot near the pupil—hence his name. “You did not need me to tell you this, Hunter.”
“No, Don Diego.”
The Jew nodded, and got up from his bench. He crossed his narrow shop and closed the door to the street. Then he closed the shutters to the window, and turned back to Hunter. “Well?”
“How is your health, Don Diego?”
“My health, my health,” Don Diego said, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his loose robe. He was sensitive about his injured left hand. “My health is indifferent as always. You did not need me to tell you this, either.”
“Is the shop successful?” Hunter asked, looking around the room. On rude tables, gold jewelry was displayed. The Jew had been selling from this shop for nearly two years now.
Don Diego sat down. He looked at Hunter, and stroked his beard, and wiped away his tears. “Hunter,” he said, “you are vexing. Speak your mind.”
“I was wondering,” Hunter said, “if you still worked in powder.”
“Powder? Powder?” The Jew stared across the room, frowning as if he did not know the meaning of the word. “No,” he said. “I do not work in powder. Not after this”—he pointed to his blackened eye—“and after this.” He raised his fingerless left hand. “No longer do I work in powder.”
“Can your will be changed?”
“Never.”
“Never is a long time.”
“Never is what I mean, Hunter.”
“Not even to attack Cazalla?”
The Jew grunted. “Cazalla,” he said heavily. “Cazalla is in Matanceros and cannot be attacked.”
“I am going to attack him,” Hunter said quietly.
“So did Captain Edmunds, this year past.” Don Diego grimaced at the memory. He had been a partial backer of that expedition. His investment—fifty pounds—had been lost. “Matanceros is invulnerable, Hunter. Do not let vanity obscure your sense. The fortress cannot be overcome.” He wiped the tears from his cheek. “Besides, there is nothing there.”
“Nothing in the fortress,” Hunter said. “But in the harbor?”
“The harbor? The harbor?” Black Eye stared into space again. “What is in the harbor? Ah. It must be the treasure naos lost in the August storm, yes?”
“One of them.”
“How do you know this?”
“I know.”
“One nao?” The Jew blinked even more rapidly. He scratched his nose with the forefinger of his injured left hand—a sure sign he was lost in thought. “It is probably filled with tobacco and cinnamon,” he said gloomily.
“It is probably filled with gold and pearls,” Hunter said. “Otherwise it would have made straight for Spain, and risked capture. It went to Matanceros only because the treasure is so great it dared not risk a seizure.”
“Perhaps, perhaps…”
Hunter watched the Jew carefully. The Jew was a great actor.
“Suppose you are right,” he said finally. “It is of no interest to me. A nao in Matanceros harbor is as safe as if it were moored in Cádiz itself. It is protected by the fortress and the fortress cannot be taken.”
“True,” Hunter said. “But the gun batteries which guard the harbor can be destroyed—if your health is good, and if you will work in powder once again.”
“You flatter me.”
“Most assuredly I do not.”
“What has my health to do with this?”
“My plan,” Hunter said, “is not without its rigors.”
Don Diego frowned. “You are saying I must come with you?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
“I thought you wanted money. You want me to come?”
“It is essential, Don Diego.”
The Jew stood up abruptly. “To attack Cazalla,” he said, suddenly excited. He began to pace back and forth.
“I have dreamt of his death each night for ten years, Hunter. I have dreamed…” He stopped pacing, and looked at Hunter. “You also have your reasons.”
“I do.” Hunter nodded.
“But can it be done? Truly?”
“Truly, Don Diego.”
“Then I wish to hear the plan,” the Jew said, very excited. “And I wish to know what powder you need.”
“I need an invention,” Hunter said. “You must fabricate something which does not exist.”
The Jew wiped tears from his eyes. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me.”
MR. ENDERS, THE barber-surgeon and sea artist, delicately applied the leech to his patient’s neck. The man, leaning back in the chair, his face covered with a towel, groaned as the sluglike creature touched his flesh. Immediately, the leech began to swell with blood.
Mr. Enders hummed quietly to himself. “There now,” he said. “A few moments and you will feel much better. Mark me, you will breathe easier, and show the ladies a thing or two, as well.” He patted the cheek that was under the towel. “I shall just step outside for a breath of air, and return in a moment.”
With that, Mr. Enders left the shop, for he had seen Hunter beckoning to him outside. Mr. Enders was a short man with quick, delicate movements; he seemed to dance rather than walk. He did a modest business in the Port, because many of his patients survived his ministrations, unlike those of other surgeons. But his greatest skill, and his true love, was piloting a vessel under sail. Enders, a genuine sea artist, was that rare creature, a perfect helmsman, a man who seemed to find communion between himself and the ship he guided.
“Are you needing a shave, Captain?” he asked Hunter.
“A crew.”
“Then you have found your surgeon,” Enders said. “And what’s the nature of the voyage?”
“Logwood cutting,” Hunter said, and grinned.
“I am always pleased to cut logwood,” Enders said. “And whose logwood might it be?”
“Cazalla’s.”
Immediately, Enders dropped his bantering mood. “Cazalla? You are going to Matanceros?”
“Softly,” Hunter said, glancing around the street.
“Captain, Captain, suicide is an offense against God.”
“You know that I need you,” Hunter said.
“But life is sweet, Captain.”
“So is gold,” Hunter said.
Enders was silent, frowning. He knew, as the Jew knew, as everyone knew in Port Royal, that there was no gold in the fortress of Matanceros. “Perhaps you will explain?”
“It is better that I do not.”
“When do you sail?”
“In two days’ time.”
“And we will hear the reasons in Bull Bay?”
“You have my word.”
Enders silently extended his hand, and Hunter shook it. There was a writhing and grunting from the patient in the shop. “Oh dear, the poor fellow,” Enders said, and ran back into the room. The leech was fat with blood, and dripping red drops onto the wooden floor. Enders lifted the leech away and the patient screamed. “Now, now, do be calm, Your Excellency.”
“You are nothing but a damned pirate and rascal,” said Sir James Almont, whipping the cloth off his face and daubing his bitten neck with it.
LAZUE WAS IN a bawdy house on Lime Road, surrounded by giggling women. Lazue was French; the name was a bastardization of Les Yeux, for this sailor’s eyes were large, and bright, and legendary. Lazue could see better than anyone in the dark of night; many times, Hunter had gotten his ships through reefs and shoal water with the help of Lazue on the forecastle. It was also true that this slender, catlike person was an extraordinary marksman.
“Hunter,” Lazue growled, with an arm around a buxom girl. “Hunter, join us.” The girls giggled and played with their hair.
“A word in private, Lazue.”
“You are so tedious,” Lazue said, and kissed each of the girls in turn. “I shall return, my sweets,” Lazue said, and crossed with Hunter to a far corner. A girl brought them a crock of kill-devil, and each a glass.
Hunter looked at Lazue’s shoulder-length tangled hair and beardless face. “Are you drunk, Lazue?”
“Not too drunk, Captain,” Lazue said, with a raucous laugh. “Speak your mind.”
“I am making a voyage in two days.”
“Yes?” Lazue seemed to become suddenly sober. The large, watchful eyes focused intently on Hunter. “A voyage to what end?”
“Matanceros.”
Lazue laughed, a deep, rumbling growl of a laugh. It was an odd sound to come from so slight a body.
“Matanceros means slaughter, and it is well-named, from all that I hear.”
“Nonetheless,” Hunter said.
“Your reasons must be good.”
“They are.”
Lazue nodded, not expecting to hear more. A clever captain did not reveal much about a raid until the crew was under way.
“Are the reasons as good as the dangers are great?”
“They are.”
Lazue searched Hunter’s face. “You want a woman on this voyage?”
“That is why I am here.”
Lazue laughed again. She scratched her small breasts absently. Though she dressed and acted and fought like a man, Lazue was a woman. Her story was known to few, but Hunter was one.
Lazue was the daughter of a Brittany seaman’s wife. Her husband was at sea when the wife found she was pregnant and subsequently delivered a son. However, the husband never returned—indeed, he was never heard from again—and after some months, the woman found herself pregnant a second time. Fearing scandal, she moved to another village in the province, where she delivered a daughter, Lazue.
A year passed and the son died. Meanwhile, the mother ran out of funds, and found it necessary to return to her native village to live with her parents. To avoid dishonor, she dressed her daughter as her son and the deception was so complete that no one in the village, including the child’s grandparents, ever suspected the truth. Lazue grew up as a boy, and at thirteen was made a coachman for a local nobleman; later she joined the French army, and lived for several years among troops without ever being discovered. Finally—at least as she told the story—she fell in love with a handsome young cavalry officer and revealed her secret to him. They had a passionate affair but he never married her, and when it ended, she chose to come to the West Indies, where she again resumed her masculine role.
In a town like Port Royal, such a secret could not be kept long, and indeed everyone knew that Lazue was a woman. In any case, during privateering raids, she was in the habit of baring her breasts in order to confuse and terrify the enemy. But in the port, she was customarily treated like a man, and no one made any great cause over it.
Now, Lazue laughed. “You are mad, Hunter, to attack Matanceros.”
“Will you come?”
She laughed again. “Only because I have nothing better to do.” And she went back to the giggling whores at the far table.
HUNTER FOUND THE Moor, in the early-morning hours, playing a hand of gleek with two Dutch corsairs at a gaming house called The Yellow Scamp.
The Moor, also called Bassa, was a huge man with a giant head, flat slabs of muscle on his shoulders and chest, heavy arms, and thick hands, which curled around the playing cards and made them seem tiny. He was called the Moor for reasons long since forgotten; and even if he were inclined to tell of his origins, he could not do so, for his tongue had been cut out by a Spanish plantation-owner on Hispanola. It was generally agreed that the Moor was not Moorish at all but had come from the region of Africa called Nubia, a desert land along the Nile, populated by enormous black men.
His given name, Bassa, was a port on the Guinea coast, where slavers sometimes stopped, but all agreed that the Moor could not have come from that land, since the natives were sickly and much paler in color.
The fact that the Moor was mute and had to communicate with gestures increased the physical impression that he made. On occasion, newly arrived visitors to the Port assumed that Bassa was stupid as well as mute, and as Hunter watched the card game in progress, he suspected that this was happening again. He took a tankard of wine to a side table and sat back to enjoy the spectacle.
The Dutchmen were dandies, elegantly dressed in fine hose and embroidered silk tunics. They were drinking heavily. The Moor did not drink at all; indeed, he never drank. There was a story that he could not tolerate liquor, and that once he had gotten drunk and killed five men with his bare hands before he came to his senses. Whether this was true or not, it was certainly true that the Moor had murdered the plantation owner who had cut out his tongue, then murdered his wife and half the household before making his escape to the pirate ports on the western side of Hispanola, and from there, to Port Royal.
Hunter watched the Dutchmen as they bet. They were gambling recklessly, joking and laughing in high spirits. The Moor sat impassively, with a stack of gold coins in front of him. Gleek was a swift game that did not warrant casual betting, and indeed, as Hunter watched, the Moor drew three cards alike, showed them, and scooped up the Dutchmen’s money.
They stared in silence a moment, and then both shouted “Cheat!” in several languages. The Moor shook his enormous head calmly, and pocketed the money.
The Dutchmen insisted that they play another hand, but in a gesture, the Moor indicated that they had no money left to bet.
At this, the Dutchmen became quarrelsome, shouting and pointing to the Moor. Bassa remained impassive, but a serving boy came over, and he handed the boy a single gold doubloon.
The Dutchmen apparently did not understand that the Moor was paying, in advance, for any damage that he might cause the gaming house. The serving boy took the coin and fled to a safe distance.
The Dutchmen were now standing, and shouting curses at the Moor, who remained seated at the table. His face was bland, but his eyes flicked back and forth from one man to the other. The Dutchmen became more quarrelsome, holding out their hands and demanding the return of their money.
The Moor shook his head.
Then one of the Dutchmen pulled a dagger from his belt, and brandished it in front of the Moor, just inches from his nose. Still the Moor remained impassive. He sat very still, with both hands folded in front of him on the table.
The other Dutchman started to tug a pistol out of his belt, and with that, the Moor sprang into action. His large black hand flicked out, gripped the dagger in the Dutchman’s hand, and swung the blade down, burying it three inches deep in the tabletop. Then he struck the second Dutchman in the stomach; the man dropped his pistol and bent over, coughing. The Moor kicked him in the face and sent him sprawling across the room. He then turned back to the first Dutchman, whose eyes were wide with terror. The Moor picked him up bodily, held him high over his head, walked to the door, and flung the man through the air, out into the street, where he landed spreadeagled on his face in the mud.
The Moor returned to the room, plucked the knife out of the table, slipped it into his own belt, and crossed the room to sit next to Hunter. Only then did he allow himself a smile.
“New men,” Hunter said.
The Moor nodded, grinning. Then he frowned and pointed to Hunter. His face was questioning.
“I came to see you.”
The Moor shrugged.
“We sail in two days.”
The Moor pursed his lips, mouthing a single word: Ou?
“Matanceros,” Hunter said. The Moor looked disgusted.
“You’re not interested?”
The Moor smirked, and drew a forefinger across his throat.
“I tell you, it can be done,” Hunter said. “Are you afraid of heights?”
The Moor made a hand-over-hand gesture, and shook his head.
“I don’t mean a ship’s rigging,” Hunter said. “I mean a cliff. A high cliff—three or four hundred feet.”
The Moor scratched his forehead. He looked at the ceiling, apparently imagining the height of the cliff. Finally, he nodded.
“You can do it?”
He nodded again.
“Even in a high wind? Good. Then you’ll go with us.”
Hunter started to get up, but the Moor pushed him back into his chair. The Moor jangled the coins in his pocket, and pointed a questioning finger at Hunter.
“Don’t worry,” Hunter said. “It’s worth it.”
The Moor smiled. Hunter left.
HE FOUND SANSON in a second-floor room of the Queen’s Arms. Hunter knocked on the door and waited. He heard a giggle and a sigh, then knocked again.
A surprisingly high voice called, “Damn you to hell and be gone.”
Hunter hesitated, and knocked again.
“God’s blood, who is it now?” came the voice from inside.
“Hunter.”
“Damn me. Come in, Hunter.”
Hunter opened the door, letting it swing wide, but he did not enter; a moment later, the chamber pot and its contents came flying through the open door.
Hunter heard a soft chuckle from inside the room. “Cautious as ever, Hunter. You will outlive us all. Enter.”
Hunter entered the room. By the light of a single candle, he saw Sanson sitting up in bed, next to a blond girl. “You have interrupted us, my son,” Sanson said. “Let us pray that you have good reason.”
“I do,” Hunter said.
There was a moment of awkward silence, as the two men stared at each other. Sanson scratched his heavy black beard. “Am I to guess the reason for your coming?”
“No,” Hunter said, glancing at the girl.
“Ah,” Sanson said. He turned to the girl. “My delicate peach…” He kissed the tips of her fingers and pointed with his hand across the room.
The girl immediately scrambled naked out of bed, hastily grabbed up her clothes, and bolted from the room.
“Such a delightful creature,” Sanson said.
Hunter closed the door.
“She is French, you know,” Sanson said. “French women make the best lovers, don’t you agree?”
“They certainly make the best whores.”
Sanson laughed. He was a large, heavy man who gave the impression of brooding darkness—dark hair, dark eyebrows that met over the nose, dark beard, dark skin. But his voice was surprisingly high, especially when he laughed. “Can I not entice you to agree that French women are superior to English women?”
“Only in the prevalence of disease.”
Sanson laughed heartily. “Hunter, your sense of humor is most unusual. Will you take a glass of wine with me?”
“With pleasure.”
Sanson poured from the bottle on his bedside table. Hunter took the glass and raised it in a toast. “Your health.”
“And yours,” Sanson said, and they drank. Neither man took his eyes off the other.
For his part, Hunter plainly did not trust Sanson. He did not, in fact, wish to take Sanson on the expedition, but the Frenchman was necessary to the success of the undertaking. For Sanson, despite his pride, his vanity, and his boasting, was the most ruthless killer in all the Caribbean. He came, in fact, from a family of French executioners.
Indeed, his very name—Sanson, meaning “without sound”—was an ironic comment on the stealthy way that he worked. He was known and feared everywhere. It was said that his father, Charles Sanson, was the king’s executioner in Dieppe. It was rumored that Sanson himself had been a priest in Liege for a short time, until his indiscretions with the nuns of a nearby convent made it advantageous for him to leave the country.
But Port Royal was not a town where much attention was paid to past histories. Here, Sanson was known for his skill with the saber, the pistol, and his favorite weapon, the crossbow.
Sanson laughed again. “Well, my son. Tell me what troubles you.”
“I am leaving in two days’ time. For Matanceros.”
Sanson did not laugh. “You want me to go with you to Matanceros?”
“Yes.”
Sanson poured more wine. “I do not want to go there,” he said. “No sane man wants to go to Matanceros. Why do you want to go to Matanceros?”
Hunter said nothing.
Sanson frowned at his feet at the bottom of the bed. He wiggled his toes, still frowning. “It must be the galleons,” he said finally. “The galleons lost in the storm have made Matanceros. Is that it?”
Hunter shrugged.
“Cautious, cautious,” Sanson said. “Well then, what terms do you make for this madman’s expedition?”
“I will give you four shares.”
“Four shares? You are a stingy man, Captain Hunter. My pride is injured, you think me worth only four shares—”
“Five shares,” Hunter said, with the air of a man giving in.
“Five? Let us say eight, and be done with it.”
“Let us say five, and be done with it.”
“Hunter. The hour is late and I am not patient. Shall we say seven?”
“Six.”
“God’s blood, you are stingy.”
“Six,” Hunter repeated.
“Seven. Have another glass of wine.”
Hunter looked at him and decided that the argument was not important. Sanson would be easier to control if he felt he had bargained well; he would be difficult and without humor if he believed he had been unjustly treated.
“Seven, then,” Hunter said.
“My friend, you have great reason.” Sanson extended his hand. “Now tell me the manner of your attack.”
Sanson listened to the plan without saying a word, and finally, when Hunter was finished, he slapped his thigh. “It is true what they say,” he said, “about Spanish sloth, French elegance—and English craft.”
“I think it will work,” Hunter said.
“I do not doubt it for a heartbeat,” Sanson said.
When Hunter left the small room, dawn was breaking over the streets of Port Royal.
CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_4df06661-1442-50a1-938a-0a4693ee43f9)
IT WAS, OF COURSE, impossible to keep the expedition secret. Too many seamen were eager for a berth on any privateering expedition, and too many merchants and farmers were needed to fit out Hunter’s sloop Cassandra. By early morning, all of Port Royal was talking of Hunter’s coming foray.
It was said that Hunter was attacking Campeche. It was said that he would sack Maricaibo. It was even said that he dared to attack Panama, as Drake had done some seventy years before. But such a long sea voyage implied heavy provisioning, and Hunter was laying in so few supplies that most gossips believed the target of the raid was Havana itself. Havana had never been attacked by privateers; the very idea struck most people as mad.
Other puzzling information came to light. Black Eye, the Jew, was buying rats from children and scamps around the docks. Why the Jew should want rats was a question beyond the imagining of any seaman. It was also known that Black Eye had purchased the entrails of a pig—which might be used for divination, but surely not by a Jew.
Meanwhile, the Jew’s gold shop was locked and boarded.
The Jew was off somewhere in the hills of the mainland. He had gone off before dawn, with a quantity of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal.
The provisioning of the Cassandra was equally strange. Only a limited supply of salt pork was ordered, but a large quantity of water was required—including several small casks, which the barrel-maker, Mr. Longley, had been asked to fabricate specially. The hemp shop of Mr. Whitstall had received an order for more than a thousand feet of stout rope—rope too stout for use in a sloop’s rigging. The sailmaker, Mr. Nedley, had been told to sew several large canvas bags with grommet fasteners at the top. And Carver, the blacksmith, was forging grappling hooks of peculiar design—the prongs were hinged, so the hooks could be folded small and flat.
There was also an omen: during the morning, fishermen caught a giant hammerhead shark, and hauled it onto the docks near Chocolata Hole, where the turtle crawls were located. The shark was more than twelve feet long, and with its broad snout, with eyes placed at each flattened protuberance, it was remarkably ugly. Fishermen and passersby discharged their pistols into the animal, with no discernible effect. The shark flopped and writhed on the dockside planking until well into midday.
Then the shark was slit open at the underbelly, and the slimy coils of intestine spilled forth. A glint of metal was perceived and when the innards were cut open, the metal was seen to be the full suit of armor of a Spanish soldier—breastplate, ridged helmet, knee guards. From this it was deduced that the flathead shark had consumed the unfortunate soldier whole, digesting the flesh but retaining the armor, which the shark was unable to pass. This was variously taken as an omen of an impending Spanish attack on Port Royal, or as proof that Hunter was himself going to attack the Spanish.
SIR JAMES ALMONT had no time for omens. That morning, he was engaged in questioning a French rascal named L’Olonnais, who had arrived in port that morning with a Spanish brig as his prize. L’Olonnais had no letters of marque, and in any case, England and Spain were nominally at peace. Worse than that was the fact that the brig contained, at the time it arrived in port, nothing of particular value. Some hides and tobacco were all that were to be found in its hold.
Although renowned as a corsair, L’Olonnais was a stupid, brutal man. It did not take much intelligence, of course, to be a privateer. One had only to wait in the proper latitudes until a likely vessel happened along, and then attack it. Standing with his hat in his hands in the governor’s office, L’Olonnais now recited his unlikely tale with childish innocence. He had happened upon the prize vessel, he said, and found it deserted. There were no passengers aboard, and the ship was drifting aimlessly.
“Faith, some plague or calamity must have fallen it,” L’Olonnais said. “But ’twas a goodly ship, sire, and I felt a service to the Crown to bring it back to port, sire.”
“You found no passengers at all?”
“Not a living thing.”
“No dead aboard the ship?”
“Nay, sire.”
“And no clue as to its misfortune?”
“Nary a one, sire.”
“And the cargo—”
“As your own inspectors found it, sire. We’d not touch it, sire. You know that.”
Sir James wondered how many innocent people L’Olonnais had murdered to clear the decks of that merchantman. And he wondered where the pirate had landed to hide the valuables of the cargo. There were a thousand islands and small brackish cays throughout the Carib sea could serve his purposes.
Sir James rapped his fingers on his desk. The man was obviously lying but he needed proof. Even in the rough environment of Port Royal, English law prevailed.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I shall formally state to you that the Crown is much displeased with this capture. The king therefore shall take a fifth—”
“A fifth!” Normally the king took a tenth, or even a fifteenth.
“Indeed,” Sir James said evenly. “His Majesty shall have a fifth, and I shall formally state to you further that if any evidence reaches my ears of dastardly conduct on your part, you shall be brought to trial and hanged as a pirate and murderer.”
“Sire, I swear to you that—”
“Enough,” Sir James said, raising his hand. “You are free to go for the moment, but bear my words in mind.”
L’Olonnais bowed elaborately and backed out of the room. Almont rang for his aide.
“John,” he said, “find some of the seamen of L’Olonnais and see that their tongues are well oiled with wine. I want to know how he came to take that vessel and I want substantial proofs against him.”
“Very good, Your Excellency.”
“And John: set aside the tenth for the king, and a tenth for the governor.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“That will be all.”
John bowed. “Your Excellency, Captain Hunter is here for his papers.”
“Then show him in.”
Hunter strode in a moment later. Almont stood and shook his hand.
“You seem in good spirits, Captain.”
“I am, Sir James.”
“The preparations go well?”
“They do, Sir James.”
“At what cost?”
“Five hundred doubloons, Sir James.”
Almont had anticipated the sum. He produced a sack of coin from his desk. “This will suffice.”
Hunter bowed as he took the money.
“Now then,” Sir James said. “I have caused to be drawn up the paper of marque for the cutting of logwood at any location you deem proper and fitting.” He handed the letter to Hunter.
In 1665, logwood cutting was considered legitimate commerce by the English, though the Spanish claimed a monopoly on that trade. The wood of the logwood, Hematoxylin campaechium, was used in making red dye as well as certain medicines. It was a substance as valuable as tobacco.
“I must advise you,” Sir James said slowly, “that we cannot countenance any attack upon any Spanish settlement, in the absence of provocation.”
“I understand,” Hunter said.
“Do you suppose there shall be any provocation?”
“I doubt it, Sir James.”
“Then of course your attack on Matanceros will be piratical.”
“Sir James, our poor sloop Cassandra, lightly armed and by the proofs of your papers engaged in commerce, may suffer to be fired upon by the Matanceros guns. In that instance, are we not forced to retaliate? An unwarranted shelling of an innocent vessel cannot be countenanced.”
“Indeed not,” Sir James said. “I am sure I can trust you to act as a soldier and a gentleman.”
“I will not betray your confidence.”
Hunter turned to go. “One last thing,” Sir James said. “Cazalla is a favorite of Philip. Cazalla’s daughter is married to Philip’s vice chancellor. Any message from Cazalla describing the events at Matanceros differently from your account would be most embarrassing to His Majesty King Charles.”
“I doubt,” Hunter said, “that there will be dispatches from Cazalla.”
“It is important that there not be.”
“Dispatches are not received from the depths of the sea.”
“Indeed not,” Sir James said. The two men shook hands.
As Hunter was leaving the Governor’s Mansion, a black womanservant handed him a letter, then wordlessly turned and walked away. Hunter descended the steps of the mansion, reading the letter, which was drafted in a feminine hand.
My dear Captain—
I am lately informed that a beautiful fresh spring can be found on the main portion of the Famaican island, at the place called grawford’s Valley. To acquaint myself with the delights of my new residence, I shall make an excursion to this spot in the latter part of the day, and I hope that it is as exquisite as I am led to believe.
Fondly, I am,Emily Hacklett
Hunter slipped the letter into his pocket. He would not, under ordinary circumstances, pay heed to the invitation implicit in Mrs. Hacklett’s words. There was much to do in this last day before the Cassandra set sail. But he was required to go to the inland anyway, to see Black Eye. If there was time…He shrugged, and went to the stables to get his horse.
CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_a6d9ea4d-f359-56d3-8ae7-b1a328f4e6d5)
THE JEW WAS ensconced in Sutter’s Bay, to the east of the Port. Even from a distance, Hunter could determine his location by the acrid smoke rising above the green trees, and the occasional report of explosive charges.
He rode into a small clearing and found the Jew in the midst of a bizarre scene: dead animals of all sorts lay everywhere, stinking in the hot midday sun. Three wooden casks, containing saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur, stood to one side. Fragments of broken glass lay glinting in the tall grass. The Jew himself was working feverishly, his clothing and face smeared with blood and the dust of exploded powder.
Hunter dismounted and looked around him. “What in God’s name have you been doing?”
“What you asked,” Black Eye said. He smiled. “You will not be disappointed. Here, I will show you. First, you gave me the task of a long and slow-burning fuse. Yes?”
Hunter nodded.
“The usual fuses are of no use,” the Jew said judiciously. “One could employ a powder trail, but it burns with great swiftness. Or contrariwise, one could employ a slow match.” A slow match was a piece of cord or twine soaked in saltpeter. “But that is very slow indeed, and the flame is often too weak to ignite the final materials. You take my meaning?”
“I do.”
“Well then. An intermediate flame and speed of burning is provided by increasing the proportion of sulfur in the powder. But such a mixture is notorious for its unreliability. One does not wish the flame to sputter and die.”
“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.
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Michael Crichton
The new thriller from Michael Crichton, one of the most famous authors in the world, the most exciting, anticipated publication of Christmas 2009.Jamaica, in 1665 a lone outpost of British power amid Spanish waters in the sunbaked Caribbean. Its capital, Port Royal, a cuthroat town of taverns, grog shops and bawdy houses – the last place imaginable from which to launch an unthinkable attack on a nearby Spanish stronghold. Yet that is exactly what renowned privateer Captain Charles Hunter plans to do, with the connivance of Charles II's ruling governor, Sir James Almont.The target is Matanceros, guarded by the bloodthirsty Cazalla, and considered impregnable with its gun emplacements and sheer cliffs. Hunter's crew of buccaneers must battle not only the Spanish fleet but other deadly perils – raging hurricanes, cannibal tribes, even sea monsters. But if his ragtag crew succeeds, they will make not only history … but a fortune in gold.
Pirate
Latitudes
Michael
Crichton
Copyright (#ulink_8eecb8f8-2700-59a4-a721-3126d2cdb198)
This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009
Copyright © Michael Crichton 2009
Endpaper map © Andrew Ashton
Cover photographys © Amulf Husmo/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (sea)
Ed Simpson/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (sky); Nobuaki Suminda/Sebun Photo/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (island)
Michael Crichton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007346103
Source ISBN: 9780007329083
Version: 2017-05-08
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u122046ef-5324-5232-9463-b8f6f45427f6)
Title Page (#u705d3b60-ead0-5897-8ab3-94d4a9a4ee4c)
Copyright (#uf8d91308-58c1-5ff0-9a05-30c32b2eaff4)
Part I PORT ROYAL (#udff89fc9-abc3-5e6e-9187-7735da2f7a08)
CHAPTER 1 (#u753f6b9e-1c07-5d8a-9889-416df39217ca)
CHAPTER 2 (#u20243dd4-ac5c-52c8-93c6-ce89e309f6fa)
CHAPTER 3 (#u3c246d85-a939-5e26-8469-b768f6a6f999)
CHAPTER 4 (#u50499c81-69ac-59a3-a00c-ad9eff092f2f)
CHAPTER 5 (#u14ac4f8a-a6f1-5efb-bea7-c2b23c2407f6)
CHAPTER 6 (#udee3a21f-b8ab-5832-b9c8-5c7d1e2076a6)
CHAPTER 7 (#u9ffd89fa-c9a9-503c-98fa-8311aec647e6)
CHAPTER 8 (#u4501676c-a231-5536-9176-bc2b4dfcfe03)
CHAPTER 9 (#u8e76813e-0c47-52b1-aec2-8be88ba139d3)
CHAPTER 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part II THE BLACK SHIP (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part III MATANCEROS (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part IV MONKEY BAY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part V THE MOUTH OF THE DRAGON (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part VI PORT ROYAL (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
READ ON FOR AN EXTRACT FROM THE GRIPPING NEW NOVEL FROM MICHAEL CRICHTON (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#litres_trial_promo)
ALSO BY MICHAEL CRICHTON (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Part I PORT ROYAL (#ulink_eb2e0255-ec7b-54e1-ba4c-d6e3610d58e3)
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_589ac487-2fba-59f5-be10-60ab53a34170)
SIR JAMES ALMONT, appointed by His Majesty Charles II Governor of Jamaica, was habitually an early riser. This was in part the tendency of an aging widower, in part a consequence of restless sleep from pains of the gout, and in part an accommodation to the climate of the Jamaica Colony, which turned hot and humid soon after sunrise.
On the morning of September 7, 1665, he followed his usual routine, arising in his chambers on the third floor of the Governor’s Mansion and going directly to the window to survey the weather and the coming day. The Governor’s Mansion was an impressive brick structure with a red-tile roof. It was also the only three-story building in Port Royal, and his view of the town was excellent. In the streets below he could see the lamplighters making their rounds, extinguishing streetlights from the night before. On Ridge Street, the morning patrol of garrison soldiers was collecting drunks and dead bodies, which had fallen in the mud. Directly beneath his window, the first of the flat, horse-drawn carts of water-carriers rumbled by, bringing casks of fresh water from Rio Cobra some miles away. Otherwise, Port Royal was quiet, enjoying the brief moment between the time the last of the evening’s drunken revelers collapsed in a stupor, and the start of the morning’s commercial bustle around the docks.
Looking away from the cramped, narrow streets of the town to the harbor, he saw the rocking thicket of masts, the hundreds of ships of all sizes moored in the harbor and drawn up to the docks. In the sea beyond, he saw an English merchant brig anchored past the cay, near Rackham’s reef offshore. Undoubtedly, the ship had arrived during the night, and the captain had prudently chosen to await daylight to make the harbor of Port Royal. Even as he watched, the topsails of the merchant ship were unreefed in the growing light of dawn, and two longboats put out from the shore near Fort Charles to help tow the merchantman in.
Governor Almont, known locally as “James the Tenth,” because of his insistence on diverting a tenth share of privateering expeditions to his own personal coffers, turned away from the window and hobbled on his painful left leg across the room to make his toilet. Immediately, the merchant vessel was forgotten, for on this particular morning Sir James had the disagreeable duty of attending a hanging.
The previous week, soldiers had captured a French rascal named LeClerc, convicted of making a piratical raid on the settlement of Ocho Rios, on the north coast of the island.
On the testimony of a few townspeople who had survived the attack, LeClerc had been sentenced to be hanged in the public gallows on High Street. Governor Almont had no particular interest in either the Frenchman or his disposition, but he was required to attend the execution in his official capacity. That implied a tedious, formal morning.
Richards, the governor’s manservant, entered the room. “Good morning, Your Excellency. Here is your claret.” He handed the glass to the governor, who immediately drank it down in a gulp. Richards set out the articles of toilet: a fresh basin of rosewater, another of crushed myrtle berries, and a third small bowl of tooth powder with the tooth-cloth alongside. Governor Almont began his ministrations to the accompanying hiss of the perfumed bellows Richards used to air the room each morning.
“Warm day for a hanging,” Richards commented, and Sir James grunted his agreement. He doused his thinning hair with the myrtle berry paste. Governor Almont was fifty-one years old, and he had been growing bald for a decade. He was not an especially vain man—and, in any case, he normally wore hats—so that baldness was not so fearsome as it might be. Nonetheless, he used preparations to cure his loss of hair. For several years now he had favored myrtle berries, a traditional remedy prescribed by Pliny. He also employed a paste of olive oil, ashes, and ground earthworms to prevent his hair from turning white. But this mixture stank so badly that he used it less frequently than he knew he should.
Governor Almont rinsed his hair in the rosewater, dried it with a towel, and examined his countenance in the mirror.
One of the privileges of his position as the highest official of the Jamaica Colony was that he possessed the best mirror on the island. It was nearly a foot square and of excellent quality, without ripples or flaws. It had arrived from London the year before, consigned to a merchant in the town, and Almont had confiscated it on some pretext or other. He was not above such things, and indeed felt that this high-handed behavior actually increased his respect in the community. As the former governor, Sir William Lytton, had warned him in London, Jamaica was “not a region burdened by moral excesses.” Sir James had often recalled the phrase in later years—the understatement was so felicitously put. Sir James himself lacked graceful speech; he was blunt to a fault and distinctly choleric in temperament, a fact he ascribed to his gout.
Staring at himself in the mirror now, he noted that he must see Enders, the barber, to trim his beard. Sir James was not a handsome man, and he wore a full beard to compensate for his “weasel-beaked” face.
He grunted at his reflection, and turned his attention to his teeth, dipping a wetted finger into the paste of powdered rabbit’s head, pomegranate peel, and peach blossom. He rubbed his teeth briskly with his finger, humming a little to himself.
At the window, Richards looked out at the arriving ship. “They say the merchantman’s the Godspeed, sir.”
“Oh yes?” Sir James rinsed his mouth with a bit of rosewater, spat it out, and dried his teeth with a tooth-cloth. It was an elegant tooth-cloth from Holland, red silk with an edging of lace. He had four such cloths, another minor delicacy of his position within the Colony. But one had already been ruined by a mindless servant girl who cleaned it in the native manner by pounding with rocks, destroying the delicate fabric. Servants were difficult here. Sir William had mentioned that as well.
Richards was an exception. Richards was a manservant to treasure, a Scotsman but a clean one, faithful and reasonably reliable. He could also be counted on to report the gossip and doings of the town, which might otherwise never reach the governor’s ears.
“The Godspeed, you say?”
“Aye, sir,” Richards said, laying out Sir James’s wardrobe for the day on the bed.
“Is my new secretary on board?” According to the previous month’s dispatches, the Godspeed was to carry his new secretary, one Robert Hacklett. Sir James had never heard of the man, and looked forward to meeting him. He had been without a secretary for eight months, since Lewis died of dysentery.
“I believe he is, sir,” Richard said.
Sir James applied his makeup. First he daubed on cerise—white lead and vinegar—to produce a fashionable pallor on the face and neck. Then, on his cheeks and lips, he applied fucus, a red dye of seaweed and ochre.
“Will you be wishing to postpone the hanging?” Richards asked, bringing the governor his medicinal oil.
“No, I think not,” Almont said, wincing as he downed a spoonful. This was oil of a red-haired dog, concocted by a Milaner in London and known to be efficacious for the gout. Sir James took it faithfully each morning.
He then dressed for the day. Richards had correctly set out the governor’s best formal garments. First, Sir James put on a fine white silk tunic, then pale blue hose. Next, his green velvet doublet, stiffly quilted and miserably hot, but necessary for a day of official duties. His best feathered hat completed the attire.
All this had taken the better part of an hour. Through the open windows, Sir James could hear the early-morning bustle and shouts from the awakening town below.
He stepped back a pace to allow Richards to survey him. Richards adjusted the ruffle at the neck, and nodded his satisfaction. “Commander Scott is waiting with your carriage, Your Excellency,” Richards said.
“Very good,” Sir James said, and then, moving slowly, feeling the twinge of pain in his left toe with each step, and already beginning to perspire in his heavy ornate doublet, the cosmetics running down the side of his face and ears, the Governor of Jamaica descended the stairs of the mansion to his coach.
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_b222ba96-859e-59ba-86e6-d7fa7943da47)
FOR A MAN with the gout, even a brief journey by coach over cobbled streets is agonizing. For this reason, if no other, Sir James loathed the ritual of attending each hanging. Another reason he disliked these forays was that they required him to enter the heart of his dominion, and he much preferred the lofty view from his window.
Port Royal, in 1665, was a boomtown. In the decade since Cromwell’s expedition had captured the island of Jamaica from the Spanish, Port Royal had grown from a miserable, deserted, disease-ridden spit of sand into a miserable, overcrowded, cutthroat-infested town of eight thousand.
Undeniably, Port Royal was a wealthy town—some said it was the richest in the world—but that did not make it pleasant. Only a few roads had been paved in cobblestones, brought from England as ships’ ballast. Most streets were narrow mud ruts, reeking of garbage and horse dung, buzzing with flies and mosquitoes. The closely packed buildings were wood or brick, rude in construction and crude in purpose: an endless succession of taverns, grog shops, gaming places, and bawdy houses. These establishments served the thousand seamen and other visitors who might be ashore at any time. There were also a handful of legitimate merchants’ shops, and a church at the north end of town, which was, as Sir William Lytton had so nicely phrased it, “seldom frequented.”
Of course, Sir James and his household attended services each Sunday, along with the few pious members of the community. But as often as not, the sermon was interrupted by the arrival of a drunken seaman, who disrupted proceedings with blasphemous shouts and oaths and on one occasion with gunshots. Sir James had caused the man to be clapped in jail for a fortnight after that incident, but he had to be cautious about dispensing punishment. The authority of the Governor of Jamaica was—again in the words of Sir William—“as thin as a parchment fragment, and as fragile.”
Sir James had spent an evening with Sir William, after the king had given him his appointment. Sir William had explained the workings of the Colony to the new governor. Sir James had listened and had thought he understood, but one never really understood life in the New World until confronted with the actual rude experience.
Now, riding in his coach through the stinking streets of Port Royal, nodding from his window as the commoners bowed, Sir James marveled at how much he had come to accept as wholly natural and ordinary. He accepted the heat and the flies and the malevolent odors; he accepted the thieving and the corrupt commerce; he accepted the drunken gross manners of the privateers. He had made a thousand minor adjustments, including the ability to sleep through the raucous shouting and gunshots, which continued uninterrupted through every night in the port.
But there were still irritants to plague him, and one of the most grating was seated across from him in the coach. Commander Scott, head of the garrison of Fort Charles and self-appointed guardian of courtly good manners, brushed an invisible speck of dust from his uniform and said, “I trust Your Excellency enjoyed an excellent evening, and is even now in good spirits for the morning’s exercises.”
“I slept well enough,” Sir James said abruptly. For the hundredth time, he thought to himself how much more hazardous life was in Jamaica when the commander of the garrison was a dandy and a fool, instead of a serious military man.
“I am given to understand,” Commander Scott said, touching a perfumed lace handkerchief to his nose and inhaling lightly, “that the prisoner LeClerc is in complete readiness and that all has been prepared for the execution.”
“Very good,” Sir James said, frowning at Commander Scott.
“It has also come to my attention that the merchantman Godspeed is arriving at anchor even as we speak, and that among her passengers is Mr. Hacklett, here to serve as your new secretary.”
“Let us pray he is not a fool like the last one,” Sir James said.
“Indeed. Quite so,” Commander Scott said, and then mercifully lapsed into silence. The coach pulled into the High Street Square where a large crowd had gathered to witness the hanging. As Sir James and Commander Scott alighted from the coach, there were scattered cheers.
Sir James nodded briefly; the commander gave a low bow.
“I perceive an excellent gathering,” the commander said. “I am always heartened by the presence of so many children and young boys. This will make a proper lesson for them, do you not agree?”
“Umm,” Sir James said. He made his way to the front of the crowd, and stood in the shadow of the gallows. The High Street gallows were permanent, they were so frequently needed: a low braced crossbeam with a stout noose that hung seven feet above the ground.
“Where is the prisoner?” Sir James said irritably.
The prisoner was nowhere to be seen. The governor waited with visible impatience, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. Then they heard the low roll of drums that presaged the arrival of the cart. Moments later, there were shouts and laughter from the crowd, which parted as the cart came into view.
The prisoner LeClerc was standing erect, his hands bound behind his back. He wore a gray cloth tunic, spattered with garbage thrown by the jeering crowd. Yet he continued to hold his chin high.
Commander Scott leaned over. “He does make a good impression, Your Excellency.”
Sir James grunted.
“I do so think well of a man who dies with finesse.”
Sir James said nothing. The cart rolled up to the gallows, and turned so that the prisoner faced the crowd. The executioner, Henry Edmonds, walked over to the governor and bowed deeply. “A good morning to Your Excellency, and to you, Commander Scott. I have the honor to present the prisoner, the Frenchman LeClerc, lately condemned by the Audencia—”
“Get on with it, Henry,” Sir James said.
“By all means, Your Excellency.” Looking wounded, the executioner bowed again, and then returned to the cart. He stepped up alongside the prisoner, and slipped the noose around LeClerc’s neck. Then he walked to the front of the cart and stood next to the mule. There was a moment of silence, which stretched rather too long.
Finally, the executioner spun on his heel and barked, “Teddy, damn you, look sharp!”
Immediately, a young boy—the executioner’s son—began to beat out a rapid drum roll. The executioner turned back to face the crowd. He raised his switch high in the air, then struck the mule a single blow; the cart rattled away, and the prisoner was left kicking and swinging in the air.
Sir James watched the man struggle. He listened to the hissing rasp of LeClerc’s choking, and saw his face turn purple. The Frenchman began to kick rather violently, swinging back and forth just a foot or two from the muddy ground. His eyes seemed to bulge from his head. His tongue protruded. His body began to shiver, twisting in convulsions on the end of the rope.
“All right,” Sir James said finally, and nodded to the crowd. Immediately, one or two stout fellows rushed forward, friends of the condemned man. They grabbed at his kicking feet and hauled on them, trying to break his neck with merciful quickness. But they were clumsy at their work, and the pirate was strong, dragging the other men through the mud with his vigorous kicking. The death throes continued for some seconds and then finally, abruptly, the body went limp.
The men stepped away. Urine trickled down LeClerc’s pants legs onto the mud. The body twisted slackly back and forth on the end of the rope.
“Well executed, indeed,” Commander Scott said, with a broad grin. He tossed a gold coin to the executioner.
Sir James turned and climbed back into the coach, thinking to himself that he was exceedingly hungry. To sharpen his appetite further, as well as to drive out the foul smells of the town, he permitted himself a pinch of snuff.
IT WAS COMMANDER SCOTT’S suggestion that they stop by the port, to see if the new secretary had yet disembarked. The coach pulled up to the docks, as near to the wharf as possible; the driver knew that the governor preferred to walk no more than necessary. The coachman opened the door and Sir James stepped out, wincing, into the fetid morning air.
He found himself facing a young man in his early thirties, who, like the governor, was sweating in a heavy doublet. The young man bowed and said, “Your Excellency.”
“Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Almont asked, with a slight bow. He could no longer bow deeply because of the pain in his leg, and in any case he disliked this pomp and formality.
“Charles Morton, sir, captain of the merchantman Godspeed, late of Bristol.” He presented his papers.
Almont did not even glance at them. “What cargoes do you carry?”
“West Country broadcloths, Your Excellency, and glass from Stourbridge, and iron goods. Your Excellency holds the manifest in his hands.”
“Have you passengers?” He opened the manifest and realized he had forgotten his spectacles; the listing was a black blur. He examined the manifest with brief impatience, and closed it again.
“I carry Mr. Robert Hacklett, the new secretary to Your Excellency, and his wife,” Morton said. “I carry eight freeborn commoners as merchants to the Colony. And I carry thirty-seven felon women sent by Lord Ambritton of London to be wives for the colonists.”
“So good of Lord Ambritton,” Almont said dryly. From time to time, an official in one of the larger cities of England would arrange for convict women to be sent to Jamaica, a simple ruse to avoid the expense of jailing them at home. Sir James had no illusions about what this latest group of women would be like. “And where is Mr. Hacklett?”
“On board, gathering his belongings with Mrs. Hacklett, Your Excellency.” Captain Morton shifted his feet. “Mrs. Hacklett had a most uncomfortable passage, Your Excellency.”
“I have no doubt,” Almont said. He was irritated that his new secretary was not on the dock to meet him. “Does Mr. Hacklett carry messages for me?”
“I believe he may, sir,” Morton said.
“Be so good as to ask him to join me at Government House at his earliest convenience.”
“I will, Your Excellency.”
“You may await the arrival of the purser and Mr. Gower, the customs inspector, who will verify your manifest and supervise the unloading of your cargoes. Have you many deaths to report?”
“Only two, Your Excellency, both ordinary seamen. One lost overboard and one dead of dropsy. Had it been otherwise, I would not have come to port.”
Almont hesitated. “How do you mean, not have come to port?”
“I mean, had anyone died of the plague, Your Excellency.”
Almont frowned in the morning heat. “The plague?”
“Your Excellency knows of the plague which has lately infected London and certain of the outlying towns of the land?”
“I know nothing at all,” Almont said. “There is plague in London?”
“Indeed, sir, for some months now it has been spreading with great confusion and loss of life. They say it was brought from Amsterdam.”
Almont sighed. That explained why there had been no ships from England in recent weeks, and no messages from the Court. He remembered the London plague of ten years earlier, and hoped that his sister and niece had had the presence of mind to go to the country house. But he was not unduly disturbed. Governor Almont accepted calamity with equanimity. He himself lived daily in the shadow of dysentery and shaking fever, which carried off several citizens of Port Royal each week.
“I will hear more of this news,” he said. “Please join me at dinner this evening.”
“With great pleasure,” Morton said, bowing once more. “Your Excellency honors me.”
“Save that opinion until you see the table this poor colony provides,” Almont said. “One last thing, Captain,” he said. “I am in need of female servants for the mansion. The last group of blacks, being sickly, have died. I would be most grateful if you would contrive for the convict women to be sent to the mansion as soon as possible. I shall handle their dispersal.”
“Your Excellency.”
Almont gave a final, brief nod, and climbed painfully back into his coach. With a sigh of relief, he sank back in the seat and rode to the mansion. “A dismal malodorous day,” Commander Scott commented, and indeed, for a long time afterward, the ghastly smells of the town lingered in the governor’s nostrils and did not dissipate until he took another pinch of snuff.
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_a07e425a-cada-5ad8-8e36-6155be179f5a)
DRESSED IN LIGHTER clothing, Governor Almont breakfasted alone in the dining hall of the mansion. As was his custom, he ate a light meal of poached fish and a little wine, followed by another of the minor pleasures of his posting, a cup of rich, dark coffee. During his tenure as governor, he had become increasingly fond of coffee, and he delighted in the fact that he had virtually unlimited quantities of this delicacy, so scarce at home.
While he was finishing his coffee, his aide, John Cruikshank, entered. John was a Puritan, forced to leave Cambridge in some haste when Charles II was restored to the throne. He was a sallow-faced, serious, tedious man, but dutiful enough.
“The convict women are here, Your Excellency.”
Almont grimaced at the thought. He wiped his lips. “Send them along. Are they clean, John?”
“Reasonably clean, sir.”
“Then send them along.”
The women entered the dining room noisily. They chattered and stared and pointed to this article and that. An unruly lot, dressed in identical gray fustian, and barefooted. His aide lined them along one wall and Almont pushed away from the table.
The women fell silent as he walked past them. In fact, the only sound in the room was the scraping of the governor’s painful left foot over the floor, as he walked down the line, looking at each.
They were as ugly, tangled, and scurrilous a collection as he’d ever seen. He paused before one woman, who was taller than he, a nasty creature with a pocked face and missing teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotte Bixby, my lord.” She attempted a clumsy sort of curtsey.
“And your crime?”
“Faith, my lord, I did no crime, it was all a falsehood that they put to me and—”
“Murder of her husband, John Bixby,” his aide intoned, reading from a list.
The woman fell silent. Almont moved on. Each new face was uglier than the last. He stopped at a woman with tangled black hair and a yellow scar running down the side of her neck. Her expression was sullen.
“Your name?”
“Laura Peale.”
“What is your crime?”
“They said I stole a gentleman’s purse.”
“Suffocation of her children ages four and seven,” John intoned in a monotonous voice, never raising his eyes from the list.
Almont scowled at the woman. These females would be quite at home in Port Royal; they were as tough and hard as the hardest privateer. But wives? They would not be wives. He continued down the line of faces, and then stopped before one unusually young.
The girl could hardly have been more than fourteen or fifteen, with fair hair and a naturally pale complexion. Her eyes were blue and clear, with a certain odd, innocent amiability. She seemed entirely out of place in this churlish group. His voice was soft as he spoke to her. “And your name, child?”
“Anne Sharpe, my lord.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Her eyes fell demurely.
“What is your crime?”
“Theft, my lord.”
Almont glanced at John; the aide nodded. “Theft of a gentleman’s lodging, Gardiner’s Lane, London.”
“I see,” Almont said, turning back to the girl. But he could not bring himself to be severe with her. She remained with eyes downcast. “I have need of a womanservant in my household, Mistress Sharpe. I shall employ you here.”
“Your Excellency,” John interrupted, leaning toward Almont. “A word, if you please.”
They stepped a short distance back from the women. The aide appeared agitated. He pointed to the list. “Your Excellency,” he whispered, “it says here that she was accused of witchcraft at her trial.”
Almont chuckled good-naturedly. “No doubt, no doubt.” Pretty young women were often accused of witchcraft.
“Your Excellency,” John said, full of tremulous Puritan spirit, “it says here that she bears the stigmata of the devil.”
Almont looked at the demure, blond young woman. He was not inclined to believe she was a witch. Sir James knew a thing or two about witchcraft. Witches had eyes of strange color. Witches were surrounded by cold draughts. Their flesh was cold as that of a reptile, and they had an extra tit.
This woman, he was certain, was no witch. “See that she is dressed and bathed,” he said.
“Your Excellency, may I remind you, the stigmata—”
“I shall search for the stigmata myself later.”
John bowed. “As you wish, Your Excellency.”
For the first time, Anne Sharpe looked up from the floor to face Governor Almont, and she smiled the slightest of smiles.
CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_5b1102db-ec2e-5f15-b40a-2f778e04965d)
SPEAKING WITH ALL due respect, Sir James, I must confess that nothing could have prepared me for the shock of my arrival in this port.” Mr. Robert Hacklett, thin, young, and nervous, paced up and down the room as he spoke. His wife, a slender, dark, foreign-looking young woman, sat rigidly in a chair and stared at Almont.
Sir James sat behind his desk, his bad foot propped on a pillow and throbbing badly. Sir James was trying to be patient.
“In the capital of His Majesty’s Colony of Jamaica in the New World,” Hacklett continued, “I naturally anticipated some semblance of Christian order and lawful conduct. At the very least, some evidence of constraint upon the vagabonds and ill-mannered louts who act as they please everywhere and openly. Why, as we traveled in open coach through the streets of Port Royal—if they may be called streets—one vulgar fellow hurled drunken imprecations at my wife, upsetting her greatly.”
“Indeed,” Almont said, with a sigh.
Emily Hacklett nodded silently. In her own way she was a pretty woman, with the sort of looks that appealed to King Charles. Sir James could guess how Mr. Hacklett had become such a favorite of the Court that he would be given the potentially lucrative posting of Secretary to the Governor of Jamaica. No doubt Emily Hacklett had felt the press of the royal abdomen upon her more than once.
Sir James sighed.
“And further,” Hacklett continued, “we were everywhere treated to the spectacle of bawdy women half-naked in the streets and shouting from windows, men drunk and vomiting in the streets, robbers and pirates brawling and disorderly at every turn, and—”
“Pirates?” Almont said sharply.
“Indeed, pirates is what I should naturally call those cutthroat seamen.”
“There are no pirates in Port Royal,” Almont said. His voice was hard. He glared at his new secretary, and cursed the passions of the Merry Monarch that had provided him with this priggish fool for an assistant. Hacklett would obviously be no help to him at all. “There are no pirates in this Colony,” Almont said again. “And should you find evidence that any man here is a pirate, he will be duly tried and hanged. That is the law of the crown and it is stringently enforced.”
Hacklett looked incredulous. “Sir James,” he said, “you quibble over a minor question of speech when the truth of the matter is to be seen in every street and dwelling of the town.”
“The truth of the matter is to be seen at the gallows of High Street,” Almont said, “where even now a pirate may be found hanging in the breeze. Had you disembarked earlier, you might have seen it for yourself.” He sighed again. “Sit down,” he said, “and keep silent before you confirm yourself in my judgment as an even greater idiot than you already appear to be.”
Mr. Hacklett paled. He was obviously unaccustomed to such plain address. He sat quickly in a chair next to his wife. She touched his hand reassuringly: a heartfelt gesture from one of the king’s many mistresses.
Sir James Almont stood, grimacing as pain shot up from his foot. He leaned across his desk. “Mr. Hacklett,” he said, “I am charged by the crown with expanding the Colony of Jamaica and maintaining its welfare. Let me explain to you certain pertinent facts relating to the discharge of that duty. First, we are a small and weak outpost of England in the midst of Spanish territories. I am aware,” he said heavily, “that it is the fashion of the Court to pretend that His Majesty has a strong footing in the New World. But the truth is rather different. Three tiny colonies—St. Kitts, Barbados, and Jamaica—comprise the entire dominion of the Crown. All the rest is Philip’s. This is still the Spanish Main. There are no English warships in these waters. There are no English garrisons on any lands. There are a dozen Spanish first-rate ships of the line and several thousand Spanish troops garrisoned in more than fifteen major settlements. King Charles in his wisdom wishes to retain his colonies but he does not wish to pay the expense of defending them against invasion.”
Hacklett stared, still pale.
“I am charged with protecting this Colony. How am I to do that? Clearly, I must acquire fighting men. The adventurers and privateers are the only source available to me, and I am careful to provide them a welcome home here. You may find these elements distasteful but Jamaica would be naked and vulnerable without them.”
“Sir James—”
“Be quiet,” Almont said. “Now, I have a second duty, which is to expand the Jamaica Colony. It is fashionable in the Court to propose that we instigate farming and agricultural pursuits here. Yet no farmers have been sent in two years. The land is brackish and infertile. The natives are hostile. How then do I expand the Colony, increasing its numbers and wealth? With commerce. The gold and the goods for a thriving commerce are afforded us by privateering raids upon Spanish shipping and settlements. Ultimately this enriches the coffers of the king, a fact which does not entirely displease His Majesty, according to my best information.”
“Sir James—”
“And finally,” Almont said, “finally, I have an unspoken duty, which is to deprive the Court of Philip IV of as much wealth as I am able to manage. This, too, is viewed by His Majesty—privately, privately—as a worthy objective. Particularly since so much of the gold which fails to reach Cádiz turns up in London. Therefore privateering is openly encouraged. But not piracy, Mr. Hacklett. And that is no mere quibble.”
“But Sir James—”
“The hard facts of the Colony admit no debate,” Almont said, resuming his seat behind the desk, and propping his foot on the pillow once more. “You may reflect at your leisure on what I have told you, understanding—as I am certain you will understand—that I speak with the wisdom of experience on these matters. Be so kind as to join me at dinner this evening with Captain Morton. In the meanwhile I am sure you have much to do in settling into your quarters here.”
The interview was clearly at an end. Hacklett and his wife stood. Hacklett bowed slightly, stiffly. “Sir James.”
“Mr. Hacklett. Mrs. Hacklett.”
THE TWO DEPARTED. The aide closed the door behind them. Almont rubbed his eyes. “God in Heaven,” he said, shaking his head.
“Do you wish to rest now, Your Excellency?” John asked.
“Yes,” Almont said. “I wish to rest.” He got up from behind his desk and walked down the corridor to his chambers. As he passed one room, he heard the sound of water splashing in a metal tub, and a feminine giggle. He glanced at John.
“They are bathing the womanservant,” John said.
Almont grunted.
“You wish to examine her later?”
“Yes, later,” Almont said. He looked at John and felt a moment of amusement. John was evidently still frightened by the witchcraft accusation. The fears of the common people, he thought, were so strong and so foolish.
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_3293b749-6318-5b49-8013-5f86e0be9e6f)
ANNE SHARPE RELAXED in the warm water of the bathtub, and listened to the prattle of the enormous black woman who bustled around the room. Anne could hardly understand a word the woman was saying, although she seemed to be speaking English; her lilting rhythms and odd pronunciations were utterly strange. The black woman was saying something about what a kind man Governor Almont was. Anne Sharpe had no concern about Governor Almont’s kindness. She had learned at an early age how to deal with men.
She closed her eyes, and the singsong speech of the black woman was replaced in her mind by the tolling of church bells. She had come to hate that monotonous, ceaseless sound, in London.
Anne was the youngest of three children, the daughter of a retired seaman turned sailmaker in Wapping. When the plague broke out near Christmastime, her two older brothers had taken work as watchmen. Their jobs were to stand at the doors of infected houses and see that the inhabitants inside did not leave the residence for any reason. Anne herself worked as a sick-nurse for several wealthy families.
With the passing weeks, the horrors she had seen became merged in her memory. The church bells rang day and night. The cemeteries everywhere became overfilled; soon there were no more individual graves, but the bodies were dumped by the score into deep trenches, and hastily covered over with white lime powder and earth. The deadcarts, piled high with bodies, were hauled through the streets; the sextons paused before each dwelling to call out, “Bring out your dead.” The smell of corrupted air was everywhere.
So was the fear. She remembered seeing a man fall dead in the street, his fat purse by his side, clinking with money. Crowds passed by the corpse, but none would dare to pick up the purse. Later the body was carted away, but still the purse remained, untouched.
At all the markets, the grocers and butchers kept bowls of vinegar by their wares. Shoppers dropped coins into the vinegar; no coin was ever passed hand to hand. Everyone made an effort to pay with exact change.
Amulets, trinkets, potions, and spells were in brisk demand. Anne herself bought a locket that contained some foul-smelling herb, but which was said to ward off the plague. She wore it always.
And still the deaths continued. Her eldest brother came down with the plague. One day she saw him in the street; his neck was swollen with large lumps and his gums were bleeding. She never saw him again.
Her other brother suffered a common fate for watchmen. While guarding a house one night, the inhabitants locked inside became crazed by the dementia of the disease. They broke out and killed her brother with a pistol-ball in the course of their escape. She only heard of this; she never saw him.
Finally, Anne, too, was locked in a house belonging to the family of a Mr. Sewell. She was serving as nurse to the elderly Mrs. Sewell—mother of the owner of the house—when Mr. Sewell came down with the swellings. The house was quarantined. Anne tended to the sick as best she could. One after another, the family died. The bodies were given over to the dead-carts. At last, she was alone in the house, and, by some miracle, still in good health.
It was then that she stole some articles of gold and the few coins she could find, and made her escape from the second-story window, slipping out over the rooftops of London at night. A constable caught her the next morning, demanding to know where a young girl had found so much gold. He took the gold, and clapped her in Bridewell prison.
There she languished for some weeks, until Lord Ambritton, a public-spirited gentleman, made a tour of the prison and caught sight of her. Anne had long since learned that gentlemen found her aspect agreeable. Lord Ambritton was no exception. He caused her to be put in his coach, and after some dalliance of the sort he liked, promised her she would be sent to the New World.
Soon enough she was in Plymouth, and then aboard the Godspeed. During the journey, Captain Morton, being a young and vigorous man, had taken a fancy to her, and because in the privacy of his cabin he gave her fresh meats and other delicacies, she was well pleased to make his acquaintance, which she did almost every night.
Now she was here, in this new place, where everything was strange and unfamiliar. But she had no fear, for she was certain that the governor liked her, as the other gentlemen had liked her and taken care of her.
Her bath finished, she was dressed in a dyed woolen dress and a cotton blouse. It was the finest clothing she had worn in more than three months, and it gave her a moment of pleasure to feel the fabric against her skin. The black woman opened the door and motioned for her to follow.
“Where are we going?”
“To the governor.”
She was led down a large, wide hallway. The floors were wooden but uneven. She found it strange that a man so important as the governor should live in such a rough house. Many ordinary gentlemen in London had houses more finely built than this.
The black woman knocked on a door, and a leering Scotsman opened it. Anne saw a bedchamber inside; the governor in a nightshirt was standing by the bed, yawning. The Scotsman nodded for her to enter the room.
“Ah,” the governor said. “Mistress Sharpe. I must say, your appearance is considerably improved by your ablutions.”
She did not understand exactly what he was talking about, but if he was pleased then so was she. She curtseyed as she had been taught by her mother.
“Richards, you may leave us.”
The Scotsman nodded, and closed the door. She was alone with the governor. She watched his eyes.
“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” he said in a kindly voice. “There is nothing to fear. Come over here by the window, Anne, where the light is good.”
She did as she was told.
He stared at her in silence for some moments. Finally, he said, “You know at your trial you were accused of witchcraft.”
“Yes, sir. But it is not true, sir.”
“I’m quite sure it is not, Anne. But it was said that you bear the stigmata of a pact with the devil.”
“I swear, sir,” she said, feeling agitation for the first time. “I have nothing to do with the devil, sir.”
“I believe you, Anne,” he said, smiling at her. “But it is my duty to verify the absence of stigmata.”
“I swear to you, sir.”
“I believe you,” he said. “But you must take off your clothes.”
“Now, sir?”
“Yes, now.”
She looked around the room a little doubtfully.
“You can put your clothes on the bed, Anne.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched her as she undressed. She noticed what happened to his eyes. She was no longer afraid. The air was warm; she was comfortable without her clothing.
“You are a beautiful child, Anne.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She stood, naked, and he moved closer to her. He paused to put his spectacles on, and then he looked at her shoulders.
“Turn around slowly.”
She turned for him. He peered at her flesh. “Raise your arms over your head.”
She raised her arms. He peered at each armpit.
“The stigmata is normally under the arms or on the breast,” he said. “Or on the pudenda.” He smiled at her. “You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?”
She shook her head.
“Lie on the bed, Anne.”
She lay on the bed.
“We will now complete the examination,” he said seriously, and then his fingers were in her hair, and he was peering at her skin with his nose just a few inches from her quim, and even though she feared insulting him she found it funny—it tickled—and she began to laugh.
He stared angrily at her for a moment, and then he laughed, too, and then he began throwing off his nightshirt. He took her with his spectacles still on his face; she felt the wire frames pressing against her ear. She allowed him to have his way with her. It did not last long, and afterward, he seemed pleased, and so she was also pleased.
AS THEY LAY together in the bed, he asked her about her life, and her experiences in London, and the voyage to Jamaica. She described for him how most of the women amused themselves with each other, or with members of the crew, but she said that she did not—which wasn’t exactly true, but she had only been with Captain Morton, so it was very nearly true. And then she told about the storm that had happened, just as they sighted land in the Indies. And how the storm had buffeted them for two days.
She could tell that Governor Almont was not paying much attention to her story. His eyes had that funny look in them again. She continued to talk, anyway. She told about how the day after the storm had been clear, and they had sighted land with a harbor and a fortress, and a large Spanish ship in the harbor. And how Captain Morton was very worried about being attacked by the Spanish warship, which had certainly seen the merchantman. But the Spanish ship never came out of the harbor.
“What?” Governor Almont said, almost shrieking. He leapt out of bed.
“What’s wrong?”
“A Spanish warship saw you and didn’t attack?”
“No, sir,” she said. “We were much relieved, sir.”
“Relieved?” Almont cried. He could not believe his ears. “You were relieved? God in Heaven: how long ago did this happen?”
She shrugged. “Three or four days past.”
“And it was a harbor with a fortress, you say?”
“Yes.”
“On which side was the fortress?”
She was confused. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Well,” Almont said, throwing on his clothes in haste, “as you looked at the island and the harbor, was this fortress to the right of the harbor, or the left?”
“To this side,” she said, pointing with her right arm.
“And the island had a tall peak? A very green island, very small?”
“Yes, that’s the very one, sir.”
“God’s blood,” Almont said. “Richards! Richards! Get Hunter!”
And the governor dashed from the room, leaving her lying there, naked on the bed. Certain that she had displeased him, Anne began to cry.
CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_28fec85a-0fe2-5640-bd08-4f95cd8f2ee0)
THERE WAS A knock at the door. Hunter rolled over in the bed; he saw the open window, and sunlight pouring through. “Go away,” he muttered. Alongside him, the girl shifted her position restlessly but did not awake.
The knock came again.
“Go away, damn your eyes.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Denby poked her head around. “Begging your pardon, Captain Hunter, but there’s a messenger here from the Governor’s Mansion. The governor requests your presence at dinner, Captain Hunter. What shall I say?”
Hunter rubbed his eyes. He blinked sleepily in the daylight. “What is the hour?”
“Five o’clock, Captain.”
“Tell the governor I will be there.”
“Yes, Captain Hunter. And Captain?”
“What is it?”
“That Frenchman with the scar is downstairs looking for you.”
Hunter grunted. “All right, Mrs. Denby.”
The door closed. Hunter got out of bed. The girl still slept, snoring loudly. He looked around his room, which was small and cramped—a bed, a sea chest with his belongings in one corner, a chamber pot under the bed, a basin of water nearby. He coughed, started to dress, and paused to urinate out of the window onto the street below. A shouted curse drifted up to him. Hunter smiled, and continued to dress, selecting his only good doublet from the sea chest, and his remaining pair of hose that had only a few snags. He finished by putting on his gold belt with the short dagger, and then, as a kind of afterthought, took one pistol, primed it, rammed home the ball with the wadding to hold it in the barrel, and slipped it under his belt.
This was Captain Charles Hunter’s normal toilet, performed each evening when he arose at sunset. It took only a few minutes, for Hunter was not a fastidious man. Nor, he reflected, was he much of a Puritan; he looked again at the girl in the bed, then closed the door behind her and went down the narrow creaking wood stairs to the main room of Mrs. Denby’s Inn.
The main room was a broad, low-ceilinged space with a dirt floor and several heavy wooden tables in long rows. Hunter paused. As Mrs. Denby had said, Levasseur was there, sitting in a corner, hunched over a tankard of grog.
Hunter crossed to the door.
“Hunter!” Levasseur croaked, in a thick drunken voice.
Hunter turned, showing apparent surprise. “Why, Levasseur. I didn’t see you.”
“Hunter, you son of an English mongrel bitch.”
“Levasseur,” he replied, stepping out of the light, “you son of a French farmer and his favorite sheep, what brings you here?”
Levasseur stood behind the table. He had picked a dark spot; Hunter could not see him well. But the two men were separated by a distance of perhaps thirty feet—too far for a pistol shot.
“Hunter, I want my money.”
“I owe you no money,” Hunter said. And, in truth, he did not. Among the privateers of Port Royal, debts were paid fully and promptly. There was no more damaging reputation a man could have than one who failed to pay his debts, or to divide spoils equally. On a privateering raid, any man who tried to conceal a part of the general booty was always put to death. Hunter himself had shot more than one thieving seaman through the heart and kicked the corpse overboard without a second thought.
“You cheated me at cards,” Levasseur said.
“You were too drunk to know the difference.”
“You cheated me. You took fifty pounds. I want it back.”
Hunter looked around the room. There were no witnesses, which was unfortunate. He did not want to kill Levasseur without witnesses. He had too many enemies. “How did I cheat you at cards?” he asked. As he spoke, he moved slightly closer to Levasseur.
“How? Who cares a damn for how? God’s blood, you cheated me.” Levasseur raised the tankard to his lips.
Hunter chose that moment to lunge. He pushed his palm flat against the upturned tankard, ramming it back against Levasseur’s face, which thudded against the back wall. Levasseur gurgled and collapsed, blood dripping from his mouth. Hunter grabbed the tankard and crashed it down on Levasseur’s skull. The Frenchman lay unconscious.
Hunter shook his hand free of the wine on his fingers, turned, and walked out of Mrs. Denby’s Inn. He stepped ankle-deep into the mud of the street, but paid no attention. He was thinking of Levasseur’s drunkenness. It was sloppy of him to be so drunk while waiting for someone.
It was time for another raid, Hunter thought. They were all getting soft. He himself had spent one night too many in his cups, or with the women of the port. They should go to sea again.
Hunter walked through the mud, smiling and waving to the whores who yelled to him from high windows, and made his way to the Governor’s Mansion.
“ALL HAVE REMARKED upon the comet, seen over London on the eve of the plague,” said Captain Morton, sipping his wine. “There was a comet before the plague of ’56, as well.”
“So there was,” Almont said. “And what of that? There was a comet in ’59, and no plague that I recall.”
“An outbreak of the pox in Ireland,” said Mr. Hacklett, “in that very year.”
“There is always an outbreak of the pox in Ireland,” Almont said. “In every year.”
Hunter said nothing. Indeed, he had said little during the dinner, which he found as dreary as any he had ever attended at the Governor’s Mansion. For a time, he had been intrigued by the new faces—Morton, the captain of the Godspeed, and Hacklett, the new secretary, a silly pinch-faced prig of a man. And Mrs. Hacklett, who looked to have French blood in her slender darkness, and a certain lascivious animal quality.
For Hunter, the most interesting moment in the evening had been the arrival of a new serving girl, a delicious pale blond child who came and went from time to time. He kept trying to catch her eye. Hacklett noticed, and gave Hunter a disapproving stare. It was not the first disapproving stare he had given Hunter that evening.
When the girl came round to refill the glasses, Hacklett said, “Does your taste run to servants, Mr. Hunter?”
“When they are pretty,” Hunter said casually. “And how does your taste run?”
“The mutton is excellent,” Hacklett said, coloring deeply, staring at his plate.
With a grunt, Almont turned the conversation to the Atlantic passage his guests had just made. There was a description of a tropical storm, told in exciting and overwrought detail by Morton, who acted as if he were the first person in human history to face a little white water. Hacklett added a few frightening touches, and Mrs. Hacklett allowed that she had been quite ill.
Hunter grew increasingly bored. He drained his wineglass.
“Well then,” Morton continued, “after two days of this most dreadful storm, the third day dawned perfectly clear, a magnificent morning. One could see for miles and the wind was fair from the north. But we did not know our position, having been blown for forty-eight hours. We sighted land to port, and made for it.”
A mistake, Hunter thought. Obviously Morton was grossly inexperienced. In the Spanish waters, an English vessel never made for land without knowing exactly whose land it was. The odds were, the Don held it.
“We came round the island, and to our astonishment we saw a warship anchored in the harbor. Small island, but there it was, a Spanish warship and no doubt of it. We felt certain it would give chase.”
“And what happened?” Hunter asked, not very interested.
“It remained in the harbor,” Morton said, and laughed. “I should like to have a more exciting conclusion to the tale, but the truth is it did not come after us. The warship remained in the harbor.”
“The Don saw you, of course?” Hunter said, growing more interested.
“Well, they must have done. We were under full canvas.”
“How close by were you?”
“No more than two or three miles offshore. The island wasn’t on our charts, you know. I suppose it was too small to be charted. It had a single harbor, with a fortress to one side. I must say we all felt we had a narrow escape.”
Hunter turned slowly to look at Almont. Almont was staring at him, with a slight smile.
“Does the episode amuse you, Captain Hunter?”
Hunter turned back to Morton. “You say there was a fortress by the harbor?”
“Indeed, a rather imposing fortress, it seemed.”
“On the north or south shore of the harbor?”
“Let me recollect—north shore. Why?”
“How long ago did you see this ship?” Hunter asked.
“Three or four days past. Make it three days. As soon as we had our bearings, we ran straight for Port Royal.”
Hunter drummed his fingers on the table. He frowned at his empty wineglass. There was a short silence.
Almont cleared his throat. “Captain Hunter, you seem preoccupied by this story.”
“Intrigued,” Hunter said. “I am sure the governor is equally intrigued.”
“I believe,” Almont said, “that it is fair to say the interests of the Crown have been aroused.”
Hacklett sat stiffly in his chair. “Sir James,” he said, “would you edify the rest of us as to the import of all this?”
“Just a moment,” Almont said, with an impatient wave of the hand. He was looking fixedly at Hunter. “What terms do you make?”
“Equal division, first,” Hunter said.
“My dear Hunter, equal division is most unattractive to the Crown.”
“My dear Governor, anything less would make the expedition most unattractive to the seamen.”
Almont smiled. “You recognize, of course, that the prize is enormous.”
“Indeed. I also recognize that the island is impregnable. You sent Edmunds with three hundred men against it last year. Only one returned.”
“You yourself have expressed the opinion that Edmunds was not a resourceful man.”
“But Cazalla is certainly resourceful.”
“Indeed. And yet it seems to me that Cazalla is a man you should like to meet.”
“Not unless there was an equal division.”
“But,” Sir James said, smiling in an easy way, “if you expect the Crown to outfit the expedition, that cost must be returned before any division. Fair?”
“Here, now,” Hacklett said. “Sir James, are you bargaining with this man?”
“Not at all. I am coming to a gentleman’s agreement with him.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the purpose of arranging a privateering expedition on the Spanish outpost at Matanceros.”
“Matanceros?” Morton said.
“That is the name of the island you passed, Captain Morton. Punta Matanceros. The Don built a fortress there two years ago, under the command of an unsavory gentleman named Cazalla. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. No? Well, he has a considerable reputation in the Indies. He is said to find the screams of his dying victims restful and relaxing.” Almont looked at the faces of his dinner guests. Mrs. Hacklett was quite pale. “Cazalla commands the fortress of Matanceros, built for the sole purpose of being the farthest eastward outpost of Spanish dominion along the homeward route of the Treasure Fleet.”
There was a long silence. The guests looked uneasy.
“I see you do not comprehend the economics of this region,” Almont said. “Each year, Philip sends a fleet of treasure galleons here from Cádiz. They cross to the Spanish Main, sighting first land to the south, off the coast of New Spain. There the fleet disperses, traveling to various ports—Cartagena, Vera Cruz, Portobello—to collect treasure. The fleet regroups in Havana, then travels east back to Spain. The purpose of traveling together is protection against privateering raids. Am I clear?”
They all nodded.
“Now,” Almont continued, “the Armada sails in late summer, which is the onset of the hurricane season. From time to time, it has happened that ships have been separated from the convoy early in the voyage. The Don wanted a strong harbor to protect such ships. They built Matanceros for this reason alone.”
“Surely that is not sufficient reason,” Hacklett said. “I cannot imagine…”
“It is ample reason,” Almont said abruptly. “Now then. As luck would have it, two treasure naos were lost in a storm some weeks ago. We know because they were sighted by a privateer vessel, which attacked them unsuccessfully. They were last seen beating southward, making for Matanceros. One was badly damaged. What you, Captain Morton, called a Spanish warship was obviously one of these treasure galleons. If it had been a genuine warship, it would surely have given chase at a two-mile range, and captured you, and even now you would be screaming your lungs out for Cazalla’s amusement. The ship did not give chase because it dared not leave the protection of the harbor.”
“How long will it stay there?” Morton asked.
“It may leave at any time. Or it may wait until the next fleet departs, next year. Or it may wait for a Spanish warship to arrive and escort it home.”
“Can it be captured?” Morton asked.
“One would like to think so. In aggregate, the treasure ship probably contains a fortune worth five hundred thousand pounds.”
There was a stunned silence around the table.
“I felt,” Almont said with amusement, “that this information would interest Captain Hunter.”
“You mean this man is a common privateer?” demanded Hacklett.
“Not common in the least,” Almont said, chuckling. “Captain Hunter?”
“Not common, I would say.”
“But this levity is outrageous!”
“You forget your manners,” Almont said. “Captain Hunter is the second son of Major Edward Hunter, of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. He was, in fact, born in the New World and educated at that institution, what is it called—”
“Harvard,” Hunter said.
“Umm, yes, Harvard. Captain Hunter has been among us for four years, and as a privateer, he has some standing in our community. Is that a fair summation, Captain Hunter?”
“Only fair,” Hunter said, grinning.
“The man is a rogue,” Hacklett said, but his wife was looking at Hunter with new interest. “A common rogue.”
“You should mind your tongue,” Almont said calmly. “Dueling is illegal on this island, yet it happens with monotonous regularity. I regret there is little I can do to stop the practice.”
“I’ve heard of this man,” Hacklett said, still more agitated. “He is not the son of Major Edward Hunter at all, at least not the legitimate son.”
Hunter scratched his beard. “Is that so?”
“I have heard it,” Hacklett said. “Further, I have heard he is a murderer, scoundrel, whoremonger, and pirate.”
At the word “pirate,” Hunter’s arm flicked out across the table with extraordinary speed. It fastened in Hacklett’s hair and plunged his face into his half-eaten mutton. Hunter held him there for a long moment.
“Dear me,” Almont said. “I warned him about that earlier. You see, Mr. Hacklett, privateering is an honorable occupation. Pirates, on the other hand, are outlaws. Do you seriously suggest that Captain Hunter is an outlaw?”
Hacklett made a muffled sound, his face in his food.
“I didn’t hear you, Mr. Hacklett,” Almont said.
“I said, ‘No,’” Hacklett said.
“Then don’t you think it appropriate as a gentleman to apologize to Captain Hunter?”
“I apologize, Captain Hunter. I meant you no disrespect.”
Hunter released the man’s head. Hacklett sat back, and wiped the gravy from his face with his napkin.
“There now,” Almont said. “A moment of unpleasantness has been averted. Shall we take dessert?”
Hunter looked around the table. Hacklett was still wiping his face. Morton was staring at him with open astonishment. And Mrs. Hacklett was looking at Hunter and when she caught his eye, she licked her lip.
AFTER DINNER, HUNTER and Almont sat alone in the library of the mansion, drinking brandy. Hunter commiserated with the governor over the appointment of the new secretary.
“He makes my life no simpler,” Almont agreed, “and I fear it may be the same for you.”
“You think he’ll send unfavorable dispatches to London?”
“I think he may try.”
“The king must surely know what transpires in his Colony.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Almont said, with an airy gesture. “One thing is certain; the continued support of privateers will be assured if it repays the king handsomely.”
“No less than an equal division,” Hunter said quickly. “I tell you, it cannot be otherwise.”
“But if the Crown outfits your ships, arms your seamen…”
“No,” Hunter said. “That will not be necessary.”
“Not necessary? My dear Hunter, you know Matanceros. A full Spanish garrison is stationed there.”
Hunter shook his head. “A frontal assault will never succeed. We know that from the Edmunds expedition.”
“But what alternative is there? The fortress at Matanceros commands the entrance to the harbor. You cannot escape with the treasure ship without first capturing the fortress.”
“Indeed.”
“Well then?”
“I propose a small raid from the landward side of the fortress.”
“Against a full garrison? At least three hundred troops? You cannot succeed.”
“On the contrary,” Hunter said. “Unless we succeed, Cazalla will turn his guns on the treasure galleon, and sink it at anchor in the harbor.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Almont said. He sipped his brandy. “Tell me more of your plan.”
CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_ad7fa5f0-6eef-5df9-b0c8-08c2681c0a10)
LATER, AS HE was leaving the Governor’s Mansion, Mrs. Hacklett appeared in the hall, and came over to him. “Captain Hunter.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hacklett.”
“I want to apologize for the inexcusable conduct of my husband.”
“No apology is necessary.”
“On the contrary, Captain. I think it entirely necessary. He behaved like a boor and an oaf.”
“Madam, your husband apologized as a gentleman on his own behalf, and the matter is concluded.” He nodded to her. “Good evening.”
“Captain Hunter.”
He stopped at the door and turned. “Yes, Madam?”
“You are a most attractive man, Captain.”
“Madam, you are very gracious. I look forward to our next meeting.”
“I as well, Captain.”
Hunter walked away thinking that Mr. Hacklett had best look to his wife. Hunter had seen it happen before—a well-bred woman, reared in a rural gentry setting in England, who found some excitement in the Court—as no doubt Mrs. Hacklett had—if her husband looked away—as no doubt Mr. Hacklett had. Nevertheless, on finding herself in the Indies, far from home, far from the restraints of class and custom…Hunter had seen it before.
He walked down the cobbled street away from the mansion. He passed the cookhouse, still brightly lit, the servants working inside. All houses in Port Royal had separate cookhouses, a necessity in the hot climate. Through the open windows, he saw the figure of the blond girl who had served dinner. He waved to her.
She waved back and turned away to her work.
THEY WERE BAITING a bear outside Mrs. Denby’s Inn. Hunter watched the children pelt the helpless animal with rocks; they laughed and giggled and shouted as the bear growled and tugged at its stout chain. A couple of whores beat the bear with sticks. Hunter walked past, and entered the inn.
Trencher was there, sitting in a corner, drinking with his one good arm. Hunter called to him, and drew him aside.
“What is it, Captain?” Trencher asked eagerly.
“I want you to find some mates for me.”
“Say who they shall be, Captain.”
“Lazue, Mr. Enders, Sanson. And the Moor.”
Trencher smiled. “You want them here?”
“No. Find where they are, and I’ll seek them out. Now, where is Whisper?”
“In the Blue Goat,” Trencher said. “The back room.”
“And Black Eye is in Farrow Street?”
“I think so. You want the Jew, too, do you?”
“I am trusting your tongue,” Hunter said. “Keep it still now.”
“Will you take me with you, Captain?”
“If you do as you are told.”
“I swear by God’s wounds, Captain.”
“Then look sharp,” Hunter said, and left the inn, returning to the muddy street. The night air was warm and still, as it had been during the day. He heard the soft strumming of a guitar, and, somewhere, drunken laughter, and a single gunshot. He set off down Ridge Street for the Blue Goat.
The town of Port Royal was divided into rough sections, oriented around the port itself. Nearest the dockside were located the taverns and brothels and gaming houses. Farther back, away from the brawling activity of the waterfront, the streets were quieter. Here the grocers and backers, the furniture workers and ships’ chandlers, the blacksmiths and goldsmiths could be found. Still farther back, on the south side of the bay, were the handful of respectable inns and private homes. The Blue Goat was a respectable inn.
Hunter entered, nodding to the gentlemen drinking at the tables. He recognized the best landsman’s doctor, Mr. Perkins; one of the councilmen, Mr. Pickering; the bailiff of the Bridewell gaol; and several other respectable gentlemen.
Ordinarily, a common privateering seaman would not be welcome in the Blue Goat, but Hunter was accepted with good grace. This was a simple recognition of the way the commerce of the Port depended upon a steady stream of successful privateering raids. Hunter was a skilled and daring captain, and thus an important member of the community. In the previous year, his three forays had returned more than two hundred thousand pistoles and doubloons to Port Royal. Much of this money found its way to the pockets of these gentlemen, and they greeted him accordingly.
Mistress Wickham, who managed the Blue Goat, was less warm. A widow, she had some years before taken up with Whisper, and she knew, when Hunter arrived, that he had come to see him. She jerked her thumb toward a back room. “In there, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mistress Wickham.”
He crossed directly to the back room, knocked, and opened the door without hearing any answering greeting; he knew there would be none. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle. Hunter blinked to adjust to the light. He heard a rhythmic creaking. Finally, he was able to see Whisper, sitting in a corner, in a rocking chair. Whisper held a primed pistol, aimed at Hunter’s belly.
“A good evening, Whisper.”
The reply was low, a rasping hiss. “A good evening, Captain Hunter. You are alone?”
“I am.”
“Then come in” came the hissing reply. “A touch of kill-devil?” Whisper pointed to a barrel beside him, which served as a table. There were glasses and a small crock of rum.
“With thanks, Whisper.”
Hunter watched as Whisper poured two glasses of dark brown liquid. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see his companion better.
Whisper—no one knew his real name—was a large, heavyset man with oversized, pale hands. He had once been a successful privateering captain in his own right. Then he had gone on the Matanceros raid with Edmunds. Whisper was the sole survivor, after Cazalla had captured him, cut his throat, and left him for dead. Somehow Whisper lived, but not without the loss of his voice. This and the large, white arcing scar beneath his chin were obvious proofs of his past.
Since his return to Port Royal, Whisper had hidden in this back room, a strong, vigorous man but one without courage—the steel gone out of him. He was frightened; he was never without a weapon in his hands and another at his side. Now, as he rocked in his chair, Hunter saw the gleam of a cutlass on the floor within easy reach.
“What brings you, Captain? Matanceros?”
Hunter must have looked startled. Whisper broke into laughter. Whisper’s laughter was a horrifying sound, a high-pitched wheezing sizzle, like a steam kettle. He threw his head back to laugh, revealing the white scar plainly.
“I startle you, Captain? You are surprised I know?”
“Whisper,” Hunter said. “Do others know?”
“Some,” Whisper hissed. “Or they suspect. But they do not understand. I heard the story of Morton’s voyage.”
“Ah.”
“You are going, Captain?”
“Tell me about Matanceros, Whisper.”
“You wish a map?”
“Yes.”
“Fifteen shillings?”
“Done,” Hunter said. He knew he would pay Whisper twenty, to ensure his friendship and his silence to any later visitors. And for his part, Whisper would know the obligation conferred by the extra five shillings. And he would know that Hunter would kill him if he spoke to anyone else about Matanceros.
Whisper produced a scrap of oilcloth and a bit of charcoal. Placing the oilcloth on his knee, he sketched rapidly.
“The island of Matanceros, it means slaughter in the Donnish tongue,” he whispered. “It has the shape of a U, so. The mouth of the harbor faces to the east, to the ocean. This point”—he tapped the lefthand side of the U—“is Punta Matanceros. That is where Cazalla has built the fortress. It is low land here. The fortress is no more than fifty paces above the level of the water.”
Hunter nodded, and waited while Whisper gurgled a sip of killdevil.
“The fortress is eight-sided. The walls are stone, thirty feet high. Inside there is a Spanish militia garrison.”
“Of what strength?”
“Some say two hundred. Some say three hundred. I have even heard four hundred but do not believe it.”
Hunter nodded. He should count on three hundred troops. “And the guns?”
“On two sides of the fortress only,” Whisper rasped. “One battery to the ocean, due east. One battery across the mouth of the harbor, due south.”
“What guns are they?”
Whisper gave his chilling laugh. “Most interesting, Captain Hunter. They are culebrinas, twenty-four-pounders, cast bronze.”
“How many?”
“Ten, perhaps twelve.”
It was interesting, Hunter thought. The culebrinas—what the English called culverins—were not the most powerful class of armament, and were no longer favored for shipboard use. Instead, the stubby cannon had become standard on warships of every nationality.
The culverin was an older gun. Culverins weighed more than two tons, with barrels as long as fifteen feet. Such long barrels made them deadly accurate at long range. They could fire heavy shot, and were quick to load. In the hands of trained gun crews, culverins could be fired as often as once a minute.
“So it is well made,” Hunter nodded. “Who is the gunnery master?”
“Bosquet.”
“I have heard of him,” Hunter said. “He is the man who sank the Renown?”
“The same,” Whisper hissed.
So the gun crews would be well drilled. Hunter frowned.
“Whisper,” he said, “do you know if the culverins are fix-mounted?”
Whisper rocked back and forth for a long moment. “You are insane, Captain Hunter.”
“How so?”
“You are planning a landward attack.”
Hunter nodded.
“It will never succeed,” Whisper said. He tapped the map on his knees. “Edmunds thought of it, but when he saw the island, he gave up the attempt. Look here, if you beach on the west”—he pointed to the curve of the U—“there is a small harbor which you can use. But to cross to the main harbor of Matanceros by land, you must scale the Leres ridge, to get to the other side.”
Hunter made an impatient gesture. “Is it difficult to scale the ridge?”
“It is impossible,” Whisper said. “The ordinary man cannot do it. Starting here, from the western cove, the land gently slopes up for five hundred feet or more. But it is a hot, dense jungle, with many swamps. There is no fresh water. There will be patrols. If the patrols do not find you and you do not die of fevers, you emerge at the base of the ridge. The western face of Leres ridge is vertical rock for three hundred feet. A bird cannot perch there. The wind is incessant with the force of a gale.”
“If I did scale it,” Hunter said. “What then?”
“The eastern slope is gentle, and presents no difficulty,” Whisper said. “But you will never reach the eastern face, I promise you.”
“If I did,” Hunter said, “what of the Matanceros batteries?”
Whisper gave a little shrug. “They face the water, Captain Hunter. Cazalla is no fool. He knows he cannot be attacked from the land.”
“There is always a way.”
Whisper rocked in his chair, in silence, for a long time. “Not always,” he said finally. “Not always.”
DON DIEGO DE RAMANO, known also as Black Eye or simply as the Jew, sat hunched over his workbench in the shop on Farrow Street. He blinked nearsightedly at the pearl, which he held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. They were the only remaining fingers on that hand. “It is of excellent quality,” he said. He handed the pearl back to Hunter. “I advise you to keep it.”
Black Eye blinked rapidly. His eyes were weak, and pink, like a rabbit’s. Tears ran almost continuously from them; from time to time, he brushed them away. His right eye had a large black spot near the pupil—hence his name. “You did not need me to tell you this, Hunter.”
“No, Don Diego.”
The Jew nodded, and got up from his bench. He crossed his narrow shop and closed the door to the street. Then he closed the shutters to the window, and turned back to Hunter. “Well?”
“How is your health, Don Diego?”
“My health, my health,” Don Diego said, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his loose robe. He was sensitive about his injured left hand. “My health is indifferent as always. You did not need me to tell you this, either.”
“Is the shop successful?” Hunter asked, looking around the room. On rude tables, gold jewelry was displayed. The Jew had been selling from this shop for nearly two years now.
Don Diego sat down. He looked at Hunter, and stroked his beard, and wiped away his tears. “Hunter,” he said, “you are vexing. Speak your mind.”
“I was wondering,” Hunter said, “if you still worked in powder.”
“Powder? Powder?” The Jew stared across the room, frowning as if he did not know the meaning of the word. “No,” he said. “I do not work in powder. Not after this”—he pointed to his blackened eye—“and after this.” He raised his fingerless left hand. “No longer do I work in powder.”
“Can your will be changed?”
“Never.”
“Never is a long time.”
“Never is what I mean, Hunter.”
“Not even to attack Cazalla?”
The Jew grunted. “Cazalla,” he said heavily. “Cazalla is in Matanceros and cannot be attacked.”
“I am going to attack him,” Hunter said quietly.
“So did Captain Edmunds, this year past.” Don Diego grimaced at the memory. He had been a partial backer of that expedition. His investment—fifty pounds—had been lost. “Matanceros is invulnerable, Hunter. Do not let vanity obscure your sense. The fortress cannot be overcome.” He wiped the tears from his cheek. “Besides, there is nothing there.”
“Nothing in the fortress,” Hunter said. “But in the harbor?”
“The harbor? The harbor?” Black Eye stared into space again. “What is in the harbor? Ah. It must be the treasure naos lost in the August storm, yes?”
“One of them.”
“How do you know this?”
“I know.”
“One nao?” The Jew blinked even more rapidly. He scratched his nose with the forefinger of his injured left hand—a sure sign he was lost in thought. “It is probably filled with tobacco and cinnamon,” he said gloomily.
“It is probably filled with gold and pearls,” Hunter said. “Otherwise it would have made straight for Spain, and risked capture. It went to Matanceros only because the treasure is so great it dared not risk a seizure.”
“Perhaps, perhaps…”
Hunter watched the Jew carefully. The Jew was a great actor.
“Suppose you are right,” he said finally. “It is of no interest to me. A nao in Matanceros harbor is as safe as if it were moored in Cádiz itself. It is protected by the fortress and the fortress cannot be taken.”
“True,” Hunter said. “But the gun batteries which guard the harbor can be destroyed—if your health is good, and if you will work in powder once again.”
“You flatter me.”
“Most assuredly I do not.”
“What has my health to do with this?”
“My plan,” Hunter said, “is not without its rigors.”
Don Diego frowned. “You are saying I must come with you?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
“I thought you wanted money. You want me to come?”
“It is essential, Don Diego.”
The Jew stood up abruptly. “To attack Cazalla,” he said, suddenly excited. He began to pace back and forth.
“I have dreamt of his death each night for ten years, Hunter. I have dreamed…” He stopped pacing, and looked at Hunter. “You also have your reasons.”
“I do.” Hunter nodded.
“But can it be done? Truly?”
“Truly, Don Diego.”
“Then I wish to hear the plan,” the Jew said, very excited. “And I wish to know what powder you need.”
“I need an invention,” Hunter said. “You must fabricate something which does not exist.”
The Jew wiped tears from his eyes. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me.”
MR. ENDERS, THE barber-surgeon and sea artist, delicately applied the leech to his patient’s neck. The man, leaning back in the chair, his face covered with a towel, groaned as the sluglike creature touched his flesh. Immediately, the leech began to swell with blood.
Mr. Enders hummed quietly to himself. “There now,” he said. “A few moments and you will feel much better. Mark me, you will breathe easier, and show the ladies a thing or two, as well.” He patted the cheek that was under the towel. “I shall just step outside for a breath of air, and return in a moment.”
With that, Mr. Enders left the shop, for he had seen Hunter beckoning to him outside. Mr. Enders was a short man with quick, delicate movements; he seemed to dance rather than walk. He did a modest business in the Port, because many of his patients survived his ministrations, unlike those of other surgeons. But his greatest skill, and his true love, was piloting a vessel under sail. Enders, a genuine sea artist, was that rare creature, a perfect helmsman, a man who seemed to find communion between himself and the ship he guided.
“Are you needing a shave, Captain?” he asked Hunter.
“A crew.”
“Then you have found your surgeon,” Enders said. “And what’s the nature of the voyage?”
“Logwood cutting,” Hunter said, and grinned.
“I am always pleased to cut logwood,” Enders said. “And whose logwood might it be?”
“Cazalla’s.”
Immediately, Enders dropped his bantering mood. “Cazalla? You are going to Matanceros?”
“Softly,” Hunter said, glancing around the street.
“Captain, Captain, suicide is an offense against God.”
“You know that I need you,” Hunter said.
“But life is sweet, Captain.”
“So is gold,” Hunter said.
Enders was silent, frowning. He knew, as the Jew knew, as everyone knew in Port Royal, that there was no gold in the fortress of Matanceros. “Perhaps you will explain?”
“It is better that I do not.”
“When do you sail?”
“In two days’ time.”
“And we will hear the reasons in Bull Bay?”
“You have my word.”
Enders silently extended his hand, and Hunter shook it. There was a writhing and grunting from the patient in the shop. “Oh dear, the poor fellow,” Enders said, and ran back into the room. The leech was fat with blood, and dripping red drops onto the wooden floor. Enders lifted the leech away and the patient screamed. “Now, now, do be calm, Your Excellency.”
“You are nothing but a damned pirate and rascal,” said Sir James Almont, whipping the cloth off his face and daubing his bitten neck with it.
LAZUE WAS IN a bawdy house on Lime Road, surrounded by giggling women. Lazue was French; the name was a bastardization of Les Yeux, for this sailor’s eyes were large, and bright, and legendary. Lazue could see better than anyone in the dark of night; many times, Hunter had gotten his ships through reefs and shoal water with the help of Lazue on the forecastle. It was also true that this slender, catlike person was an extraordinary marksman.
“Hunter,” Lazue growled, with an arm around a buxom girl. “Hunter, join us.” The girls giggled and played with their hair.
“A word in private, Lazue.”
“You are so tedious,” Lazue said, and kissed each of the girls in turn. “I shall return, my sweets,” Lazue said, and crossed with Hunter to a far corner. A girl brought them a crock of kill-devil, and each a glass.
Hunter looked at Lazue’s shoulder-length tangled hair and beardless face. “Are you drunk, Lazue?”
“Not too drunk, Captain,” Lazue said, with a raucous laugh. “Speak your mind.”
“I am making a voyage in two days.”
“Yes?” Lazue seemed to become suddenly sober. The large, watchful eyes focused intently on Hunter. “A voyage to what end?”
“Matanceros.”
Lazue laughed, a deep, rumbling growl of a laugh. It was an odd sound to come from so slight a body.
“Matanceros means slaughter, and it is well-named, from all that I hear.”
“Nonetheless,” Hunter said.
“Your reasons must be good.”
“They are.”
Lazue nodded, not expecting to hear more. A clever captain did not reveal much about a raid until the crew was under way.
“Are the reasons as good as the dangers are great?”
“They are.”
Lazue searched Hunter’s face. “You want a woman on this voyage?”
“That is why I am here.”
Lazue laughed again. She scratched her small breasts absently. Though she dressed and acted and fought like a man, Lazue was a woman. Her story was known to few, but Hunter was one.
Lazue was the daughter of a Brittany seaman’s wife. Her husband was at sea when the wife found she was pregnant and subsequently delivered a son. However, the husband never returned—indeed, he was never heard from again—and after some months, the woman found herself pregnant a second time. Fearing scandal, she moved to another village in the province, where she delivered a daughter, Lazue.
A year passed and the son died. Meanwhile, the mother ran out of funds, and found it necessary to return to her native village to live with her parents. To avoid dishonor, she dressed her daughter as her son and the deception was so complete that no one in the village, including the child’s grandparents, ever suspected the truth. Lazue grew up as a boy, and at thirteen was made a coachman for a local nobleman; later she joined the French army, and lived for several years among troops without ever being discovered. Finally—at least as she told the story—she fell in love with a handsome young cavalry officer and revealed her secret to him. They had a passionate affair but he never married her, and when it ended, she chose to come to the West Indies, where she again resumed her masculine role.
In a town like Port Royal, such a secret could not be kept long, and indeed everyone knew that Lazue was a woman. In any case, during privateering raids, she was in the habit of baring her breasts in order to confuse and terrify the enemy. But in the port, she was customarily treated like a man, and no one made any great cause over it.
Now, Lazue laughed. “You are mad, Hunter, to attack Matanceros.”
“Will you come?”
She laughed again. “Only because I have nothing better to do.” And she went back to the giggling whores at the far table.
HUNTER FOUND THE Moor, in the early-morning hours, playing a hand of gleek with two Dutch corsairs at a gaming house called The Yellow Scamp.
The Moor, also called Bassa, was a huge man with a giant head, flat slabs of muscle on his shoulders and chest, heavy arms, and thick hands, which curled around the playing cards and made them seem tiny. He was called the Moor for reasons long since forgotten; and even if he were inclined to tell of his origins, he could not do so, for his tongue had been cut out by a Spanish plantation-owner on Hispanola. It was generally agreed that the Moor was not Moorish at all but had come from the region of Africa called Nubia, a desert land along the Nile, populated by enormous black men.
His given name, Bassa, was a port on the Guinea coast, where slavers sometimes stopped, but all agreed that the Moor could not have come from that land, since the natives were sickly and much paler in color.
The fact that the Moor was mute and had to communicate with gestures increased the physical impression that he made. On occasion, newly arrived visitors to the Port assumed that Bassa was stupid as well as mute, and as Hunter watched the card game in progress, he suspected that this was happening again. He took a tankard of wine to a side table and sat back to enjoy the spectacle.
The Dutchmen were dandies, elegantly dressed in fine hose and embroidered silk tunics. They were drinking heavily. The Moor did not drink at all; indeed, he never drank. There was a story that he could not tolerate liquor, and that once he had gotten drunk and killed five men with his bare hands before he came to his senses. Whether this was true or not, it was certainly true that the Moor had murdered the plantation owner who had cut out his tongue, then murdered his wife and half the household before making his escape to the pirate ports on the western side of Hispanola, and from there, to Port Royal.
Hunter watched the Dutchmen as they bet. They were gambling recklessly, joking and laughing in high spirits. The Moor sat impassively, with a stack of gold coins in front of him. Gleek was a swift game that did not warrant casual betting, and indeed, as Hunter watched, the Moor drew three cards alike, showed them, and scooped up the Dutchmen’s money.
They stared in silence a moment, and then both shouted “Cheat!” in several languages. The Moor shook his enormous head calmly, and pocketed the money.
The Dutchmen insisted that they play another hand, but in a gesture, the Moor indicated that they had no money left to bet.
At this, the Dutchmen became quarrelsome, shouting and pointing to the Moor. Bassa remained impassive, but a serving boy came over, and he handed the boy a single gold doubloon.
The Dutchmen apparently did not understand that the Moor was paying, in advance, for any damage that he might cause the gaming house. The serving boy took the coin and fled to a safe distance.
The Dutchmen were now standing, and shouting curses at the Moor, who remained seated at the table. His face was bland, but his eyes flicked back and forth from one man to the other. The Dutchmen became more quarrelsome, holding out their hands and demanding the return of their money.
The Moor shook his head.
Then one of the Dutchmen pulled a dagger from his belt, and brandished it in front of the Moor, just inches from his nose. Still the Moor remained impassive. He sat very still, with both hands folded in front of him on the table.
The other Dutchman started to tug a pistol out of his belt, and with that, the Moor sprang into action. His large black hand flicked out, gripped the dagger in the Dutchman’s hand, and swung the blade down, burying it three inches deep in the tabletop. Then he struck the second Dutchman in the stomach; the man dropped his pistol and bent over, coughing. The Moor kicked him in the face and sent him sprawling across the room. He then turned back to the first Dutchman, whose eyes were wide with terror. The Moor picked him up bodily, held him high over his head, walked to the door, and flung the man through the air, out into the street, where he landed spreadeagled on his face in the mud.
The Moor returned to the room, plucked the knife out of the table, slipped it into his own belt, and crossed the room to sit next to Hunter. Only then did he allow himself a smile.
“New men,” Hunter said.
The Moor nodded, grinning. Then he frowned and pointed to Hunter. His face was questioning.
“I came to see you.”
The Moor shrugged.
“We sail in two days.”
The Moor pursed his lips, mouthing a single word: Ou?
“Matanceros,” Hunter said. The Moor looked disgusted.
“You’re not interested?”
The Moor smirked, and drew a forefinger across his throat.
“I tell you, it can be done,” Hunter said. “Are you afraid of heights?”
The Moor made a hand-over-hand gesture, and shook his head.
“I don’t mean a ship’s rigging,” Hunter said. “I mean a cliff. A high cliff—three or four hundred feet.”
The Moor scratched his forehead. He looked at the ceiling, apparently imagining the height of the cliff. Finally, he nodded.
“You can do it?”
He nodded again.
“Even in a high wind? Good. Then you’ll go with us.”
Hunter started to get up, but the Moor pushed him back into his chair. The Moor jangled the coins in his pocket, and pointed a questioning finger at Hunter.
“Don’t worry,” Hunter said. “It’s worth it.”
The Moor smiled. Hunter left.
HE FOUND SANSON in a second-floor room of the Queen’s Arms. Hunter knocked on the door and waited. He heard a giggle and a sigh, then knocked again.
A surprisingly high voice called, “Damn you to hell and be gone.”
Hunter hesitated, and knocked again.
“God’s blood, who is it now?” came the voice from inside.
“Hunter.”
“Damn me. Come in, Hunter.”
Hunter opened the door, letting it swing wide, but he did not enter; a moment later, the chamber pot and its contents came flying through the open door.
Hunter heard a soft chuckle from inside the room. “Cautious as ever, Hunter. You will outlive us all. Enter.”
Hunter entered the room. By the light of a single candle, he saw Sanson sitting up in bed, next to a blond girl. “You have interrupted us, my son,” Sanson said. “Let us pray that you have good reason.”
“I do,” Hunter said.
There was a moment of awkward silence, as the two men stared at each other. Sanson scratched his heavy black beard. “Am I to guess the reason for your coming?”
“No,” Hunter said, glancing at the girl.
“Ah,” Sanson said. He turned to the girl. “My delicate peach…” He kissed the tips of her fingers and pointed with his hand across the room.
The girl immediately scrambled naked out of bed, hastily grabbed up her clothes, and bolted from the room.
“Such a delightful creature,” Sanson said.
Hunter closed the door.
“She is French, you know,” Sanson said. “French women make the best lovers, don’t you agree?”
“They certainly make the best whores.”
Sanson laughed. He was a large, heavy man who gave the impression of brooding darkness—dark hair, dark eyebrows that met over the nose, dark beard, dark skin. But his voice was surprisingly high, especially when he laughed. “Can I not entice you to agree that French women are superior to English women?”
“Only in the prevalence of disease.”
Sanson laughed heartily. “Hunter, your sense of humor is most unusual. Will you take a glass of wine with me?”
“With pleasure.”
Sanson poured from the bottle on his bedside table. Hunter took the glass and raised it in a toast. “Your health.”
“And yours,” Sanson said, and they drank. Neither man took his eyes off the other.
For his part, Hunter plainly did not trust Sanson. He did not, in fact, wish to take Sanson on the expedition, but the Frenchman was necessary to the success of the undertaking. For Sanson, despite his pride, his vanity, and his boasting, was the most ruthless killer in all the Caribbean. He came, in fact, from a family of French executioners.
Indeed, his very name—Sanson, meaning “without sound”—was an ironic comment on the stealthy way that he worked. He was known and feared everywhere. It was said that his father, Charles Sanson, was the king’s executioner in Dieppe. It was rumored that Sanson himself had been a priest in Liege for a short time, until his indiscretions with the nuns of a nearby convent made it advantageous for him to leave the country.
But Port Royal was not a town where much attention was paid to past histories. Here, Sanson was known for his skill with the saber, the pistol, and his favorite weapon, the crossbow.
Sanson laughed again. “Well, my son. Tell me what troubles you.”
“I am leaving in two days’ time. For Matanceros.”
Sanson did not laugh. “You want me to go with you to Matanceros?”
“Yes.”
Sanson poured more wine. “I do not want to go there,” he said. “No sane man wants to go to Matanceros. Why do you want to go to Matanceros?”
Hunter said nothing.
Sanson frowned at his feet at the bottom of the bed. He wiggled his toes, still frowning. “It must be the galleons,” he said finally. “The galleons lost in the storm have made Matanceros. Is that it?”
Hunter shrugged.
“Cautious, cautious,” Sanson said. “Well then, what terms do you make for this madman’s expedition?”
“I will give you four shares.”
“Four shares? You are a stingy man, Captain Hunter. My pride is injured, you think me worth only four shares—”
“Five shares,” Hunter said, with the air of a man giving in.
“Five? Let us say eight, and be done with it.”
“Let us say five, and be done with it.”
“Hunter. The hour is late and I am not patient. Shall we say seven?”
“Six.”
“God’s blood, you are stingy.”
“Six,” Hunter repeated.
“Seven. Have another glass of wine.”
Hunter looked at him and decided that the argument was not important. Sanson would be easier to control if he felt he had bargained well; he would be difficult and without humor if he believed he had been unjustly treated.
“Seven, then,” Hunter said.
“My friend, you have great reason.” Sanson extended his hand. “Now tell me the manner of your attack.”
Sanson listened to the plan without saying a word, and finally, when Hunter was finished, he slapped his thigh. “It is true what they say,” he said, “about Spanish sloth, French elegance—and English craft.”
“I think it will work,” Hunter said.
“I do not doubt it for a heartbeat,” Sanson said.
When Hunter left the small room, dawn was breaking over the streets of Port Royal.
CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_4df06661-1442-50a1-938a-0a4693ee43f9)
IT WAS, OF COURSE, impossible to keep the expedition secret. Too many seamen were eager for a berth on any privateering expedition, and too many merchants and farmers were needed to fit out Hunter’s sloop Cassandra. By early morning, all of Port Royal was talking of Hunter’s coming foray.
It was said that Hunter was attacking Campeche. It was said that he would sack Maricaibo. It was even said that he dared to attack Panama, as Drake had done some seventy years before. But such a long sea voyage implied heavy provisioning, and Hunter was laying in so few supplies that most gossips believed the target of the raid was Havana itself. Havana had never been attacked by privateers; the very idea struck most people as mad.
Other puzzling information came to light. Black Eye, the Jew, was buying rats from children and scamps around the docks. Why the Jew should want rats was a question beyond the imagining of any seaman. It was also known that Black Eye had purchased the entrails of a pig—which might be used for divination, but surely not by a Jew.
Meanwhile, the Jew’s gold shop was locked and boarded.
The Jew was off somewhere in the hills of the mainland. He had gone off before dawn, with a quantity of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal.
The provisioning of the Cassandra was equally strange. Only a limited supply of salt pork was ordered, but a large quantity of water was required—including several small casks, which the barrel-maker, Mr. Longley, had been asked to fabricate specially. The hemp shop of Mr. Whitstall had received an order for more than a thousand feet of stout rope—rope too stout for use in a sloop’s rigging. The sailmaker, Mr. Nedley, had been told to sew several large canvas bags with grommet fasteners at the top. And Carver, the blacksmith, was forging grappling hooks of peculiar design—the prongs were hinged, so the hooks could be folded small and flat.
There was also an omen: during the morning, fishermen caught a giant hammerhead shark, and hauled it onto the docks near Chocolata Hole, where the turtle crawls were located. The shark was more than twelve feet long, and with its broad snout, with eyes placed at each flattened protuberance, it was remarkably ugly. Fishermen and passersby discharged their pistols into the animal, with no discernible effect. The shark flopped and writhed on the dockside planking until well into midday.
Then the shark was slit open at the underbelly, and the slimy coils of intestine spilled forth. A glint of metal was perceived and when the innards were cut open, the metal was seen to be the full suit of armor of a Spanish soldier—breastplate, ridged helmet, knee guards. From this it was deduced that the flathead shark had consumed the unfortunate soldier whole, digesting the flesh but retaining the armor, which the shark was unable to pass. This was variously taken as an omen of an impending Spanish attack on Port Royal, or as proof that Hunter was himself going to attack the Spanish.
SIR JAMES ALMONT had no time for omens. That morning, he was engaged in questioning a French rascal named L’Olonnais, who had arrived in port that morning with a Spanish brig as his prize. L’Olonnais had no letters of marque, and in any case, England and Spain were nominally at peace. Worse than that was the fact that the brig contained, at the time it arrived in port, nothing of particular value. Some hides and tobacco were all that were to be found in its hold.
Although renowned as a corsair, L’Olonnais was a stupid, brutal man. It did not take much intelligence, of course, to be a privateer. One had only to wait in the proper latitudes until a likely vessel happened along, and then attack it. Standing with his hat in his hands in the governor’s office, L’Olonnais now recited his unlikely tale with childish innocence. He had happened upon the prize vessel, he said, and found it deserted. There were no passengers aboard, and the ship was drifting aimlessly.
“Faith, some plague or calamity must have fallen it,” L’Olonnais said. “But ’twas a goodly ship, sire, and I felt a service to the Crown to bring it back to port, sire.”
“You found no passengers at all?”
“Not a living thing.”
“No dead aboard the ship?”
“Nay, sire.”
“And no clue as to its misfortune?”
“Nary a one, sire.”
“And the cargo—”
“As your own inspectors found it, sire. We’d not touch it, sire. You know that.”
Sir James wondered how many innocent people L’Olonnais had murdered to clear the decks of that merchantman. And he wondered where the pirate had landed to hide the valuables of the cargo. There were a thousand islands and small brackish cays throughout the Carib sea could serve his purposes.
Sir James rapped his fingers on his desk. The man was obviously lying but he needed proof. Even in the rough environment of Port Royal, English law prevailed.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I shall formally state to you that the Crown is much displeased with this capture. The king therefore shall take a fifth—”
“A fifth!” Normally the king took a tenth, or even a fifteenth.
“Indeed,” Sir James said evenly. “His Majesty shall have a fifth, and I shall formally state to you further that if any evidence reaches my ears of dastardly conduct on your part, you shall be brought to trial and hanged as a pirate and murderer.”
“Sire, I swear to you that—”
“Enough,” Sir James said, raising his hand. “You are free to go for the moment, but bear my words in mind.”
L’Olonnais bowed elaborately and backed out of the room. Almont rang for his aide.
“John,” he said, “find some of the seamen of L’Olonnais and see that their tongues are well oiled with wine. I want to know how he came to take that vessel and I want substantial proofs against him.”
“Very good, Your Excellency.”
“And John: set aside the tenth for the king, and a tenth for the governor.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“That will be all.”
John bowed. “Your Excellency, Captain Hunter is here for his papers.”
“Then show him in.”
Hunter strode in a moment later. Almont stood and shook his hand.
“You seem in good spirits, Captain.”
“I am, Sir James.”
“The preparations go well?”
“They do, Sir James.”
“At what cost?”
“Five hundred doubloons, Sir James.”
Almont had anticipated the sum. He produced a sack of coin from his desk. “This will suffice.”
Hunter bowed as he took the money.
“Now then,” Sir James said. “I have caused to be drawn up the paper of marque for the cutting of logwood at any location you deem proper and fitting.” He handed the letter to Hunter.
In 1665, logwood cutting was considered legitimate commerce by the English, though the Spanish claimed a monopoly on that trade. The wood of the logwood, Hematoxylin campaechium, was used in making red dye as well as certain medicines. It was a substance as valuable as tobacco.
“I must advise you,” Sir James said slowly, “that we cannot countenance any attack upon any Spanish settlement, in the absence of provocation.”
“I understand,” Hunter said.
“Do you suppose there shall be any provocation?”
“I doubt it, Sir James.”
“Then of course your attack on Matanceros will be piratical.”
“Sir James, our poor sloop Cassandra, lightly armed and by the proofs of your papers engaged in commerce, may suffer to be fired upon by the Matanceros guns. In that instance, are we not forced to retaliate? An unwarranted shelling of an innocent vessel cannot be countenanced.”
“Indeed not,” Sir James said. “I am sure I can trust you to act as a soldier and a gentleman.”
“I will not betray your confidence.”
Hunter turned to go. “One last thing,” Sir James said. “Cazalla is a favorite of Philip. Cazalla’s daughter is married to Philip’s vice chancellor. Any message from Cazalla describing the events at Matanceros differently from your account would be most embarrassing to His Majesty King Charles.”
“I doubt,” Hunter said, “that there will be dispatches from Cazalla.”
“It is important that there not be.”
“Dispatches are not received from the depths of the sea.”
“Indeed not,” Sir James said. The two men shook hands.
As Hunter was leaving the Governor’s Mansion, a black womanservant handed him a letter, then wordlessly turned and walked away. Hunter descended the steps of the mansion, reading the letter, which was drafted in a feminine hand.
My dear Captain—
I am lately informed that a beautiful fresh spring can be found on the main portion of the Famaican island, at the place called grawford’s Valley. To acquaint myself with the delights of my new residence, I shall make an excursion to this spot in the latter part of the day, and I hope that it is as exquisite as I am led to believe.
Fondly, I am,Emily Hacklett
Hunter slipped the letter into his pocket. He would not, under ordinary circumstances, pay heed to the invitation implicit in Mrs. Hacklett’s words. There was much to do in this last day before the Cassandra set sail. But he was required to go to the inland anyway, to see Black Eye. If there was time…He shrugged, and went to the stables to get his horse.
CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_a6d9ea4d-f359-56d3-8ae7-b1a328f4e6d5)
THE JEW WAS ensconced in Sutter’s Bay, to the east of the Port. Even from a distance, Hunter could determine his location by the acrid smoke rising above the green trees, and the occasional report of explosive charges.
He rode into a small clearing and found the Jew in the midst of a bizarre scene: dead animals of all sorts lay everywhere, stinking in the hot midday sun. Three wooden casks, containing saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur, stood to one side. Fragments of broken glass lay glinting in the tall grass. The Jew himself was working feverishly, his clothing and face smeared with blood and the dust of exploded powder.
Hunter dismounted and looked around him. “What in God’s name have you been doing?”
“What you asked,” Black Eye said. He smiled. “You will not be disappointed. Here, I will show you. First, you gave me the task of a long and slow-burning fuse. Yes?”
Hunter nodded.
“The usual fuses are of no use,” the Jew said judiciously. “One could employ a powder trail, but it burns with great swiftness. Or contrariwise, one could employ a slow match.” A slow match was a piece of cord or twine soaked in saltpeter. “But that is very slow indeed, and the flame is often too weak to ignite the final materials. You take my meaning?”
“I do.”
“Well then. An intermediate flame and speed of burning is provided by increasing the proportion of sulfur in the powder. But such a mixture is notorious for its unreliability. One does not wish the flame to sputter and die.”
“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.
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Michael Crichton
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The new thriller from Michael Crichton, one of the most famous authors in the world, the most exciting, anticipated publication of Christmas 2009.Jamaica, in 1665 a lone outpost of British power amid Spanish waters in the sunbaked Caribbean. Its capital, Port Royal, a cuthroat town of taverns, grog shops and bawdy houses – the last place imaginable from which to launch an unthinkable attack on a nearby Spanish stronghold. Yet that is exactly what renowned privateer Captain Charles Hunter plans to do, with the connivance of Charles II′s ruling governor, Sir James Almont.The target is Matanceros, guarded by the bloodthirsty Cazalla, and considered impregnable with its gun emplacements and sheer cliffs. Hunter′s crew of buccaneers must battle not only the Spanish fleet but other deadly perils – raging hurricanes, cannibal tribes, even sea monsters. But if his ragtag crew succeeds, they will make not only history … but a fortune in gold.