Pirate Latitudes

Chapter 19

CAZALLA DRANK WINE and brooded on the face of the dying Lord, thinking of the suffering, the agony of the body. From his earliest youth, Cazalla had seen images of that agony, the torment of the flesh, the sagging muscles and the hollow eyes, the blood that poured from the wound in the side, the blood that dripped from the spikes in the hands and feet.

This painting, in his cabin, had come as a gift from Philip himself. It was the work of His Majesty’s favorite court painter, a man named Velázquez, now deceased. To be given the painting was a mark of considerable esteem, and Cazalla had been overpowered to receive it; he never traveled unless it was at his side. It was his most treasured possession.

This man Velázquez had not put a halo around the Lord’s visage. And the coloring of the body was deathly gray-white. It was altogether realistic, but Cazalla often wished for a halo. He was surprised that a king so pious as Philip had not insisted that a halo be added. Perhaps Philip disliked the painting; perhaps that was why he had sent it to one of his military captains in New Spain.

In black moments, another thought occurred to Cazalla. He was only too aware of the gap that separated the niceties of life in Philip’s Court from the hard life of the men who sent him the gold and silver from the colonies to support such luxuries. One day he would rejoin the Court, a rich man in his latter years. Sometimes, he thought that the courtiers would laugh at him. Sometimes, in his dreams, he killed them all in bloody, angry duels.

Cazalla’s reverie was interrupted by the sway of the ship. The tide must be out, he thought; that meant dawn was not far off; soon they would be under way for the day. It would be time to kill another English pirate. Cazalla intended to kill them, one by one, until someone told him the truth he wanted to know.

The ship continued to move, but there was something wrong with the motion. Cazalla sensed it instinctively; the ship was not swinging around its forward anchor line; it was moving laterally; something was very wrong. And then, at that moment, he heard a soft crunch and the ship shuddered and was still.

With a curse, Cazalla sprinted onto the main deck. There he found himself staring into the fronds of a palm tree, just inches from his face. Several palm trees, all lining the shore of the island. His ship was beached. He screamed in fury. The panicked crew scrambled around him.

The first mate, trembling, ran over. “Captain, they cut the anchor line.”

“They?” Cazalla shouted. When he was angry, his voice became high and thin, the voice of a woman. He ran to the opposite railing and saw the Cassandra, heeled over in a fair breeze, making for the open sea. “They?”

“The pirates have escaped,” said the mate, pale.

“Escaped! How could they have escaped?”

“I don’t know, my Captain. The guards are all dead.”

Cazalla struck the man full in the face, sending him sprawling across the deck. He was so furious he could hardly think. He stared across the water at the departing sloop. “How could they escape?” he repeated. “God in damnation, how could they escape?”

The captain of the infantry came over. “Sir, we are hard-beached. Shall I land some men and try to push off?”

“The tide is running,” Cazalla said.

“Yes, my Captain.”

“Well, fool, we cannot get afloat until the tide is in once more.” Cazalla cursed loudly. That would be twelve glasses. Six hours before they could begin to free the massive ship. And even then, if the boat was hard-beached, they might not get free. It was the season of the waning moon; each tide was less full than the last. Unless they got free in the next tide — or the one after — they would be beached for three weeks or more.

“Fools!” he shrieked.

In the distance, the Cassandra came smartly around on a southerly tack and disappeared from view. A southerly tack?

“They are going to Matanceros,” Cazalla said. And he shook with uncontrollable rage.

. . .

HUNTER SAT IN the stern of the Cassandra and plotted his course. He was surprised to find that he no longer felt any fatigue at all, though he had not slept for two days. Around him, his crew lay sprawled in attitudes of collapse; nearly all were deeply asleep.

“They are good men,” Sanson said, looking at them.

“Indeed,” Hunter said.

“Did any one of them talk?”

“One did.”

“And Cazalla believed him?”

“Not at that moment,” Hunter said, “but he may change his view later.”

“We have at least six hours on them,” Sanson said.

“Eighteen, if we are lucky.”

Hunter nodded. Matanceros was two days sail into the wind; with such a start, they might beat the warship to the fortress.

“We will sail through all the nights,” Hunter said.

Sanson nodded.

“Harden that jib sheet,” Enders barked. “Lively there.”

The sail tautened, and with a fresh breeze from the east, the Cassandra cut through the water into the dawn light.