Pirate Latitudes

Chapter 17

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

He felt a sharp pain of despair.

“Englishman, come here!”

Hunter looked around and saw Cazalla, standing near the mainmast, in the center of a ring of torches. At his feet, the seaman previously taken from the room lay spread-eagled on his back, firmly lashed to the deck. A number of Spanish soldiers stood about, and all were grinning broadly.

Cazalla himself seemed highly excited; he was breathing rapidly and shallowly. Hunter noticed that he was chewing more coca leaf.

“Englishman, Englishman,” he said, speaking rapidly. “You are just in time to witness our little sport. Do you know we searched your ship? No? Well, we did, and we found many interesting things.”

Oh God, Hunter thought. No . . .

“You have much rope, Englishman, and you have funny iron hooks that fold up, and you have other strange things of canvas which we do not understand. But most of all, Englishman, we do not understand this.”

Hunter’s heart pounded: if they had found the grenadoes, then it would all be finished.

But Cazalla held out a case with four rats. The rats scampered back and forth and squeaked nervously.

“Can you imagine, Englishman, how amazed we were to find that you bring rats on your ship? We say to ourselves, why is this? Why does the Englishman carry rats to Augustine? Augustine has rats of its own, Florida rats, very good ones. Yes? So I wonder, how do I explain this?”

Hunter watched as a soldier did something to the face of the seaman lashed to the deck. At first he could not see what was being done; the man’s face was being rubbed or stroked. Then Hunter realized: they were smearing cheese on his face.

“So,” Cazalla said, waving the cage in the air, “then I see that you are not kind to your friends, the rats. They are hungry, Englishman. They want food. You see how excited they are? They smell food. That is why they are excited. I think we should feed them, yes?”

Cazalla set the cage down within inches of the seaman’s face. The rats flung themselves at the bars, trying to get to the cheese.

“Do you see what I mean, Englishman? Your rats are very hungry. Do you not think we should feed them?”

Hunter stared at the rats, and at the frightened eyes of the immobile seaman.

“I am wondering if your friend here will talk,” Cazalla said.

The seaman could not take his eyes off the rats.

“Or perhaps, Englishman, you will talk for him?”

“No,” Hunter said wearily.

Cazalla bent over the seaman and tapped him on the chest. “And you, will you talk?” With his other hand, Cazalla touched the latch to the cage door.

The seaman focused on the latch, watching as Cazalla raised the bar slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time. Finally, the latch was released; Cazalla held the door closed with a single finger.

“Your last chance, my friend . . .”

“Non!” the seaman shrieked. “Je parle! Je parle!”

“Good,” Cazalla said, switching smoothly to French.

“Matanceros,” the seaman said.

Cazalla turned livid with rage. “Matanceros! You idiot, you expect me to believe that? To attack Matanceros!” And, abruptly, he released the door to the cage.

The seaman shrieked hideously as the rats leapt to his face. He shook his head, the four furry bodies clinging to the flesh of his cheeks and scalp and chin. The rats chattered and squeaked; one was flung off but instantly scrambled back across the man’s heaving chest and bit into the neck. The seaman screamed over and over in terror, a monotonous, repeated sound. Finally, the man collapsed from shock, and lay unmoving while the rats, chattering, continued to feed on his face.

Cazalla stood. “Why do you all think me so stupid?” he said. “Englishman, I swear. I will have the truth of your voyage.”

He turned to the guards. “Take him below.”

Hunter was hustled off the deck. As he was pushed down the narrow stairway, he had a brief glimpse over the rail of the Cassandra, lying at anchor some yards away from the warship.