Pirate Latitudes

Chapter 27

EL TRINIDAD MADE for the cove of Monkey Bay.

Aboard the Cassandra, Sanson watched the larger ship maneuver. “Blood of Louis, they’re making for land,” he said. “Into the sun!”

“It is madness,” moaned the man at the helm.

“Now hear me,” Sanson said, spinning on him. “Come about, and fall into the wake of that Donnish hog, and follow it exactly. I mean none else: exactly. Our bows must cut their form, or I will cut your throat.”

“How can they do it, into the sun?” moaned the helmsman.

“They have Lazue’s eyes,” Sanson said. “It may be enough.”

. . .

LAZUE WAS CAREFUL where she looked. She was also careful what she did with her arms, for the most casual gesture would cause a course change. At this moment, she stared westward, holding her left hand flat under her nose, blocking the reflection of the sun off the water just ahead of the bow. She looked only to the land — the sloping green contours of Cat Island, at this moment a flat outline, without depth.

She knew that somewhere ahead, when they were closer, the island contour would begin to separate, to show definition, and she would see the entrance to Monkey Bay. Until that moment, her job was to hold the fastest course bearing on the point where she expected to find the entrance.

Her elevation helped her; from this vantage point atop the mainmast, she was able to see the color of the water many miles ahead, an intricate pattern of blues and greens of different intensities. In her mind, these registered as depths; she could read them as if they were a chart marked with soundings.

This was no mean skill. The ordinary seaman, knowing the clarity of Caribbean water, naturally assumed that deep blue meant deep water, and green, still deeper. Lazue knew better: if the bottom was sandy, the water might be light blue, though the depth was fifty feet. Or a deep green color could mean a sea grass bottom just ten feet deep. And the shifting sun over the course of the day played odd tricks: in early morning or late afternoon all the colors were richer and darker; one had to compensate.

But for the moment, she had no concern for depth. She scanned the colors at the shoreline, looking for some clue to the entrance to Monkey Bay. She remembered that Monkey Bay was the outflow of a small river of fresh water, as was the case with most usable coves. There were many other Caribbean coves that were not safe for large ships, because there was no gap in the offshore coral reef. To have a gap, one needed a fresh-water outflow, for where there was fresh water, coral did not grow.

Lazue, scanning the water near the shoreline, knew that the gap might not be near the stream itself. Depending on the currents that carried the freshwater out to sea, the actual break in the reef might be a quarter-mile north or south. Wherever it was, currents often produced a brownish turbidity in the water, and a change in the surface appearance.

She scanned carefully, and finally she saw it, south of the ship’s present course. She signaled corrections to Enders on the deck below. As El Trinidad came closer, she was glad that the sea artist had no idea what he was facing; he would faint if he knew how narrow the gap in the reef really was. There were coral heads awash on both sides, and between them the open space was no more than a dozen yards.

Satisfied with the new course, Lazue closed her eyes for several minutes. She was aware of the pink color of sunlight on her eyelids; she was not aware of the motion of the ship, or the wind in the sails, or the smells of the ocean. She was focused entirely on her eyes as she rested them. Nothing mattered but her eyes. She breathed deeply and slowly, preparing herself for the coming exertion, gathering her energy, sharpening her concentration.

She knew how it would happen; she knew the inevitable progression — an easy beginning and then the first ache in her eyes, the increasing pain, then tears, stinging, burning. At the end of the hour, she knew she would be wholly exhausted, her entire body limp. She would need sleep as if she had been awake for a week, and would probably collapse as soon as she climbed down to the deck.

It was for this coming, massive exertion that she prepared herself now; breathing in long, slow breaths, with her eyes closed.

. . .

FOR ENDERS, AT the helm, his concentration was very different. His eyes were open, but he had little interest in what he saw. Enders felt the tiller in his hands; the pressure it exerted on his palms; the cant of the deck beneath his feet; the rumble of the water slipping by the hull; the wind on his cheeks; the vibration of the rigging; the whole complex of forces and stresses that made up the trim of the ship. Indeed, in his absolute concentration, Enders became part of the ship, joined to it as if physically connected; he was the brain to its body, and he knew its condition to the minutest detail.

He knew its speed to a fraction of a knot; he sensed when any sail was wrongly trimmed; he knew when any cargo shifted in the hold, and he knew where; he felt how much water was in the bilge; he knew when the ship was sailing easy, when she was on her best line; he knew when she was past it, and how long she could hold past it, and how far he could push her.

All this he could have told you with his eyes closed. He could not have said how he knew it, only that he did. Now, working with Lazue, he was worried, precisely because he had to give over part of his control to someone else. Lazue’s hand signals meant nothing to him that he could sense directly; yet he followed her directions blindly, knowing that he must trust her. But he was nervous about it; he sweated at the tiller, feeling the wind more strongly on his damp cheeks, and he made more corrections as Lazue stretched out her arms.

She was taking the ship southward. She must have spotted the break in the reef, he thought, and was now making for it. Soon they would pass through the gap. The very idea made him sweat more.

. . .

HUNTER’S MIND WAS wholly occupied with other concerns. He raced back and forth, from bow to stern, ignoring both Lazue and Enders. The Spanish warship was closing with each passing minute; the upper edge of the mainsail was now clear of the horizon. She still carried full sail, while El Trinidad, now only a mile off the island, had dropped much of her canvas.

Meanwhile, the Cassandra had fallen behind the larger ship, dropping back to port to let Hunter’s vessel show them the course to harbor. The maneuver was necessary, but Hunter’s canvas was eating Cassandra’s wind, and the little ship was not making good speed. Indeed, she would not until she was completely astern of El Trinidad. At that point, she would be very vulnerable to the Spanish warship unless she stayed close to Hunter.

The trouble would come when making the bay itself. The two ships would have to pass through in close succession; if El Trinidad did not make passage smoothly, the Cassandra might ram her, injuring both ships. If it happened in the passage itself, it could be a nightmare, both ships sinking on the rocks of the reef. He was sure Sanson was aware of the danger; he was equally sure that Sanson would know that he dared not drop too far back.

It was going to be a very tricky maneuver. He ran forward, and stared through the shimmering glare of the sunlit water at Monkey Bay. He could see now the curving finger of hilly land, extending out from the island and forming the protected hook of the bay.

The actual gap in the reef was invisible to him; it lay somewhere in the sheet of glaring, sparkling water directly ahead.

He looked up the mainmast to Lazue and saw her make a signal to Enders — she swung her fist upward to strike the flat palm of her hand.

Enders immediately barked orders to lower more sail. Hunter knew that could only mean one thing: they were very close to the reef passage. He squinted forward into the glare, but still could see nothing.

“Linemen! Starboard and larboard!” shouted Enders, and soon after, two men at either side of the bow began to alternate shouted soundings. The first unnerved Hunter. “Full five!”

Five fathoms — thirty feet — was already shallow water. El Trinidad drew three fathoms, so there was not much to spare. In shoal waters, coral undersea outcroppings could easily rise a dozen feet from the bottom in irregular patterns. And the sharp coral would tear the wooden hull like paper.

“Cinq et demi” came the next cry. That was better. Hunter waited.

“Full six and more!”

He breathed a little easier. They must have passed the outer reef — most islands had two, a shallow inner reef and a deeper one offshore. They would have a short space of safe water now, before they reached the dangerous inside reef.

“Moins six!” came the cry.

It was already growing more shallow. Hunter turned again to look at Lazue, high on the mainmast. Her body was leaning forward, relaxed, almost indifferent. He could not see her expression.

. . .

LAZUE’S BODY WAS indeed relaxed; it was so limp she was in danger of falling from her high post. Her arms gripped the top railing lightly as she leaned forward; her shoulders were slumped; every muscle sagged.

But her face was tight and pinched, her mouth pulled back into a fixed grimace, her teeth clamped together as she squinted into the glare. She held her eyes nearly shut and she had been doing this for so long that her lids fluttered with tension. This might have been distracting, but Lazue was not even aware of it for she had long ago slipped into a kind of trance state.

Her world consisted of two black shapes — the island ahead and the bow of the ship just beneath her. Separating them was a flat expanse of shimmering, excruciatingly bright sunlit water, which fluttered and sparkled in a hypnotic pattern. She could see almost no detail in that surface.

Occasionally, she had a glimpse of coral outcroppings awash. They appeared as brief black spots in the blinding white glare.

At other times, during lulls in the gusting wind, she had a momentary image of eddies and currents, which swirled the uniform pattern of sparkles.

Otherwise, the water was opaque, blinding silver. She guided the ship through this shimmering surface entirely by memory, for she had marked, in her mind, the position of shallow water, coral heads, and sand bars more than half an hour ago, when the ship was farther offshore and the water ahead was clear. She had made a detailed mental image using landmarks on the shore and in the water itself.

Now, by looking directly down at the water passing amidships — which was transparent — she could gauge El Trinidad’s position relative to her mental image. Far below, she saw a round head of brain coral, resembling a gargantuan clump of cauliflower, pass on the port side. She knew that meant they would have to bear north; she extended her right arm, and watched as the black silhouette of the bow nosed around, and waited until they were in line with a dead palm tree on the shore. Then she dropped her hand; Enders held the new course.

She squinted ahead. She saw the coral awash, marking the sides of the channel. They were bearing directly for the gap. From memory, she knew that before reaching the gap, they had to veer to starboard slightly to miss another coral head. She extended her right hand. Enders corrected.

She looked straight down. The second coral head went past, dangerously close to the hull; the ship shivered as it scraped the outcropping, but then they were clear.

She held out her left arm, and Enders changed course again. She lined herself on the dead palm again, and waited.

Enders had been electrified by the sound of the coral head on the hull; his nerves, straining to hear exactly that dreaded sound, were raw; he jumped at the tiller, but as the crunching continued, a vibration moving aft, he realized that they were going to kiss the coral, and he breathed a deep sigh.

In the stern, he felt the vibration approaching him down the length of the ship. At the last moment, he released the tiller, knowing that the rudder was the most vulnerable part of the ship below water. A grazing collision that merely scraped the hull of barnacles could snap a hard-turned rudder, so he released tension. Then he took the tiller in his hand again, and followed Lazue’s instructions.

“She would break a snake’s back,” he muttered, as El Trinidad twisted and turned toward Monkey Bay.

“Less four!” shouted the lineman.

Hunter, in the bow, flanked on either side by the men with their plumb lines, watched the glaring water ahead. He could see nothing at all forward; looking to the side, he saw coral formations fearsomely close to the surface, but somehow, El Trinidad was missing them.

“Trois et demi!”

He gritted his teeth. Twenty feet of water. They could not take much less. As he had the thought, the ship struck another coral formation, but this time there was only a single sharp impact, then nothing. The ship had snapped the coral head, then continued on.

“Three and one!”

They had lost another foot. The ship plowed forward into the sparkling sea.

“Merde!” yelled the second linesman, and started running aft. Hunter knew what had happened; his line had become snarled in coral, and caught; he was trying to free it.

“Full three!”

Hunter frowned — they should be aground now, according to what his Spanish prisoners had told him. They had sworn El Trinidad drew three fathoms of water. Obviously, they were wrong: the ship still sailed smoothly toward the island. He silently damned Spanish seamanship.

Yet he knew the three-fathom draft could not be far wrong; a ship this size must draw very nearly that.

“Full three!”

They were still moving. And then, with frightening suddenness, he saw the gap in the reef, a desperately narrow passage between coral awash on both sides. El Trinidad was right in the center of the passage, and a damned fortunate thing, too, for there was no more than five yards to spare on either side as they passed through.

He looked astern to Enders, who saw the coral on both sides of him. Enders was crossing himself.

“Full five!” shouted the linesman hoarsely, and the crew gave a jubilant cheer. They were inside the reef, in deeper water, and moving north now, to the protected cove between the island shore and the curving finger of hilly land, which encircled the seaward side of the bay.

Hunter could now see the full extent of Monkey Bay. He could tell at a glance that it was not an ideal berth for his ships. The water was deep at the mouth of the bay, but it turned rapidly shallow in more protected areas. He would have to anchor the galleon in water that was exposed to the ocean, and, for several reasons, he was unhappy with that prospect.

Looking back, he saw the Cassandra make the passage safely, following Hunter’s ship so closely he could see the worried expression on the linesman’s face in Cassandra’s bow. And behind the Cassandra was the Spanish warship, no more than two miles distant.

But the sun was falling. The warship would not be able to enter Monkey Bay before nightfall. And if Bosquet chose to enter at dawn, then Hunter would be ready for him.

“Drop anchor!” Enders shouted. “Make fast!”

El Trinidad shuddered to a stop in the twilight. Cassandra glided past her, moving deeper into the bay; the smaller ship with her lesser draft could take the shoal water farther in. A moment later, Sanson’s anchor splashed into the water and both ships were secured.

They were safe, at least for a time.