Pirate Latitudes

Chapter 7

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 bakers, 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 jail; 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 left-hand 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 kill-devil.

“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 dreamt . . .” 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 Hispañola. 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 Hispañola, 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 spread-eagled 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 Liège 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.