Pirate Latitudes

Chapter 28

AFTER THE TENSION of the reef passage, the crews of both ships were jubilant, shouting and laughing, calling congratulations and mock insults to each other through the twilight. Hunter did not join in the general celebration. He stood on the aft castle of his galleon and watched the warship continue toward them, despite the rapidly growing darkness.

The Spanish man-of-war was now within a half-mile of the bay; she was just outside the reef entrance. Bosquet had great daring, he thought, to come so close in near darkness. He was also taking a considerable and unnecessary risk.

Enders, also watching, asked the unspoken question: “Why?”

Hunter shook his head. He saw the warship drop her anchor line; he saw the splash as it hit the water.

The enemy vessel was so close he could hear the shouted commands in Spanish drifting to him across the water. There was a lot of activity in the stern of the ship; a second anchor was thrown out.

“Makes no sense,” Enders said. “He’s got miles of deep water to ride out the night, but he puts himself in four fathoms.”

Hunter watched. Another stern anchor was thrown over the side, and many hands tugged at the line. The stern of the warship swung around toward the shore.

“Damn me,” Enders said. “You don’t suppose . . .”

“I do,” Hunter said. “She’s lining up a broadside. Hoist anchor.”

“Hoist anchor!” Enders shouted to his surprised crew. “Ready on the foresprit, there! Lively with the lines!” He turned back to Hunter. “We’ll run aground for sure.”

“We have no choice,” Hunter said.

Bosquet’s intent was clear enough. He had anchored in the mouth of the bay, just beyond the reef, but within range of his broadside cannon. He intended to stay there and pound the galleon through the night. Unless Hunter moved out of range, risking the shallow water, his ships would be demolished by morning.

And indeed, they could see the gunports springing open on the Spanish warship, and the muzzles of the cannon as they were fired, the balls smashing through El Trinidad’s rigging, and splashing in the water around them.

“Get her moving, Mr. Enders,” Hunter barked.

As if in answer, a second broadside blasted from the Spanish warship. This one was more on target. Several balls struck El Trinidad, splintering wood, tearing lines.

“Damn me,” Enders said, with as much pain in his voice as if he had himself been injured.

But Hunter’s ship was moving now, and she inched out of range so that the next broadside fell harmlessly into the water in a straight line of splashes. That straightness was itself impressive.

“She’s well manned,” Enders said.

“There are times,” Hunter said, “when you are too appreciative of good seamanship.”

By now it was quite dark; the fourth broadside came as a pattern of hot red flashes from the black profile of the warship. They heard, but could barely see, the splashes of shot in the water astern.

And then the low offshore hilly curve obliterated the view of the enemy vessel.

“Drop anchor,” Enders shouted, but it was too late. At that very moment with a soft, crunching sound, El Trinidad ran aground on the sandy bottom of Monkey Bay.

. . .

THAT NIGHT, SITTING alone in his cabin, Hunter took stock of his situation. The fact that he was grounded did not bother him in the least; the ship had struck sand at low tide, and he could easily get her afloat in a few hours.

For the moment, the two ships were safe. The harbor was not ideal, but it was serviceable enough; he had fresh water and provisions to last more than two weeks without subjecting his crew to any hardship. If they could find food and water ashore — and they probably could — then he could remain in Monkey Bay for months.

At least he could remain until a storm came up. A storm could be disastrous. Monkey Bay was on the windward side of an ocean island and its waters were shallow. A heavy storm would crush his ships to splinters in a matter of hours. And this was the season for hurricanes; he could not expect too many days to pass without experiencing one, and he could not remain in Monkey Bay when it struck.

Bosquet would know this. If he were a patient man, he could simply blockade the bay, riding in deep water, and wait for the foul weather, which would force the galleon to leave the harbor and be exposed to his attack.

Yet Bosquet did not seem to be a patient man. Quite the opposite: he gave every indication of resource and daring, a man who preferred to take the offensive when he could. And there were good reasons for him to attack before bad weather.

In any naval engagement, foul weather was an equalizer, desired by the weaker force, avoided by the stronger. A storm plagued both ships, but it reduced the effectiveness of the superior ship disproportionately. Bosquet must know that Hunter’s ships were short-handed and lightly armed.

Sitting alone in his cabin, Hunter put himself into the mind of a man he had never met, and tried to guess his thoughts. Bosquet would surely attack in the morning, he decided.

That attack would either come from land, or sea, or both. It depended upon how many Spanish soldiers Bosquet had aboard, and how well they trusted their commander. Hunter remembered the soldiers who had guarded him in the hold of the warship; they were young men, not experienced, poorly disciplined.

They could not be relied upon.

No, he decided, Bosquet would first attack from his ship. He would try to enter Monkey Bay, until he was within view of the galleon. He probably suspected that the privateers were in shoal water, which would make maneuvering difficult.

Right now, they were showing the enemy their stern, the most vulnerable part of the ship. Bosquet could sail just inside the mouth of the cove, and fire broadsides until he sank both ships. And he could do that with impunity, because the treasure on the galleon would then lie in shallow water, where it could be salvaged from the sand by native divers.

Hunter called for Enders, and ordered that the Spanish prisoners be locked away safely. Then he ordered that every able-bodied privateer be armed with muskets, and put ashore without delay.

. . .

DAWN CAME GENTLY to Monkey Bay. There was only a slight wind; the sky was laced with wispy clouds that caught the pink glow of first light. Aboard the Spanish warship, the crews began their morning’s work in lazy and desultory fashion. The sun was well above the horizon before orders were shouted to let out the sails and raise anchor.

At that moment, from all along the shore, on both sides of the passage to the bay, the concealed privateers opened with withering gunfire. It must have astounded the Spanish crews. In the first few moments, all the men winching the main anchor were killed; all the men hoisting the aft anchor were killed or wounded; the officers visible on the decks were shot; and the men in the rigging were picked off with astonishing accuracy, and fell screaming to the deck.

Then, just as abruptly, the firing ceased. Except for an acrid gray haze of powder hanging in the air on the shore, there was no sign of movement, no rustling of foliage, nothing.

Hunter, positioned at the seaward tip of the hilly finger of land, watched the warship through his glass with satisfaction. He heard the confused shouts, and watched the half-unreefed sails snap and flutter in the breeze. Several minutes passed before new crews began to climb the rigging, and work the winches on deck. They began timidly at first, but when there was no further firing from the shore, grew bolder.

Hunter waited.

He had a distinct advantage, he knew. In an era when neither muskets nor musketeers were notably accurate, the privateers were, to a man, superb marksmen. His men could pick off sailors on the deck of a ship while giving chase in the rolling pitch of an open boat. To fire from the shore was child’s play to his men.

It was not even good sport.

Hunter waited until he saw the anchor line beginning to move and then he gave the signal to fire again. Another round poured onto the warship, with the same devastating effect. Then, another silence.

Bosquet must surely realize by now that to enter the coral passage — coming closer to shore — would be extremely costly. He could probably make the passage and enter the bay, but dozens, perhaps hundreds of his men would be killed. Far more serious was the risk that key men aloft, or even the helmsman himself, might be shot, leaving the ship rudderless in dangerous waters.

Hunter waited. He heard shouted commands, then more silence. And then he saw the main anchor line plop into the water. They had cut the anchor. A moment later, the stern lines were also cut, and the ship drifted slowly away from the reef.

Once out of musket range, men again appeared on deck and in the rigging. The sails were let out. Hunter waited to see if she turned and made for the shore. The warship did not turn. Instead, she moved north perhaps a hundred yards, and another anchor was dropped in the new position. The sails were taken up; the ship rode gently at anchor, directly off the hills protecting the bay.

“Well,” Enders said. “That’s it, then. The Don can’t get in, and we can’t get out.”

By midday, Monkey Bay was burning hot and airless. Hunter, pacing the heated decks of his galleon, feeling the sticky ooze of softened pitch beneath his feet, was aware of the irony of his predicament. He had conducted the most daring privateering raid in a century, with complete success — only to become trapped in a stifling, unhealthy cove by a single Donnish ship of the line.

It was a difficult moment for him, and even more difficult for his crew. The privateers looked to their captain for guidance and fresh plans, and it was all too obvious that Hunter had none. Someone broke into the rum, and the crew fell to brawling; one argument evolved into a duel. Enders stopped it at the last minute. Hunter passed the word that any man who killed another would himself be killed by Hunter. The captain wanted his crew intact, and personal disagreements could await landfall in Port Royal.

“Don’t know if they’ll stand for it,” Enders said, gloomy as ever.

“They will,” Hunter said.

He was standing on deck in the shadow of the mainmast with Lady Sarah when another pistol shot rang out somewhere belowdecks.

“What’s that?” Lady Sarah said, alarmed.

“Hell,” Hunter said.

A few moments later, a struggling seaman was brought above, in the grip of the enormous Bassa. Enders trailed disconsolately behind.

Hunter looked at the seaman. He was a grizzled man of twenty-five, named Lockwood. Hunter knew him slightly.

“Winged Perkins in the ear with this,” Enders said, handing Hunter a pistol.

The crew was slowly filtering onto the main deck, surly and grim in the hot sun. Hunter took his own pistol from his belt, and checked the prime.

“What are you going to do?” said Lady Sarah, watching.

“This is none of your concern,” Hunter said.

“But—”

“Look away,” Hunter said. He raised his pistol.

Bassa, the Moor, released the seaman. The man stood there, head bowed, drunk.

“He crossed me,” the seaman said.

Hunter shot him in the head. His brains spattered over the gunwale.

“Oh God!” said Lady Sarah Almont.

“Throw him overboard,” Hunter said. Bassa picked up the body and dragged it, feet scraping loudly in the midday silence on the deck. A moment later, there was a splash; the body was gone.

Hunter looked at his crew. “Do you want to vote a new captain?” he said loudly.

The crew grumbled, and turned away. No one spoke.

Soon after, the decks were cleared again. The men had gone below, to escape the direct heat of the sun.

Hunter looked at Lady Sarah. She said nothing, but her glance was accusing.

“These are hard men,” Hunter said, “and they live by rules we have all accepted.”

She said nothing, but turned on her heel and walked away.

Hunter looked at Enders. Enders shrugged.

Later in the afternoon, Hunter was informed by his lookouts that there was new activity aboard the warship; all the longboats had been lowered on the ocean side, out of view of the land. They were apparently tied up to the ship, for none had appeared. Considerable smoke was issuing from the deck of the warship. Some kind of fire was burning, but its purpose was unclear. This situation continued until nightfall.

Nightfall was a blessing. In the cool evening air, Hunter paced the decks of El Trinidad, staring at the long rows of his cannon. He walked from one to the next, pausing to touch them, running his fingers over the bronze, which still held the warmth of the day. He examined the equipment neatly stowed by each: the rammer, the bags of powder, the shot clusters, the quill touch-pins, and the slow fuses in the notched water buckets.

It was all ready to use — all this firepower, all this armament. He had everything he needed except the men to fire them. And without the men, the cannon might as well not be there at all.

“You are lost in thought.”

He turned, startled. Lady Sarah was there, in a white shift. It looked like an undergarment in the darkness.

“You should not dress like that, with the men about.”

“It was too hot to sleep,” she said. “Besides, I was restless. What I witnessed today . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“It disturbed you?”

“I have not seen such savagery, even in a monarch. Charles himself is not so ruthless, so arbitrary.”

“Charles has his mind on other things. His pleasures.”

“You deliberately miss my meaning.” Even in the darkness, her eyes glowed with something like anger.

“Madam,” Hunter said. “In this society—”

“Society? You call this” — she gestured with a sweeping hand to the ship, and the men sleeping on the deck — “you call this society?”

“Of course. For wherever men gather, there are rules of conduct. These men have different rules from the Court of Charles, or of Louis, or even of Massachusetts Colony, where I was born. And yet there are rules to be upheld, and penalties to pay for breaking them.”

“You are a philosopher.” Her voice in the darkness was sarcastic.

“I speak what I know. In the Court of Charles, what would befall you if you failed to bow before the monarch?”

She snorted, seeing the direction of his argument.

“It is the same here,” Hunter said. “These men are fierce and violent. If I am to rule them, they must obey me. If they are to obey me, they must respect me. If they are to respect me, they must recognize my authority, which is absolute.”

“You speak like a king.”

“A captain is king, over his crew.”

She moved closer to him. “And do you take your pleasure, as a king does?”

He had only a moment to reflect before she threw her arms around him, and kissed him on the mouth, hard. He returned her embrace. When they broke, she said, “I am so frightened. Everything is strange here.”

“Madam,” he said, “I am obliged to return you safely to your uncle and my friend, Governor Sir James Almont.”

“There is no need to be pompous. Are you a Puritan?”

“Only by birth,” he said, and kissed her again.

“Perhaps I will see you later,” she said.

“Perhaps.”

She went below, with a final glance at him in the darkness. Hunter leaned on one of the cannon, and watched her go.

“Spicy one, isn’t she.”

He turned. It was Enders. He grinned.

“Get a well-born one across the line, and they start to itch, eh?”

“So it appears,” Hunter said.

Enders looked down the row of cannon, and slapped one with his hand. It rang dully. “Maddening, isn’t it,” he said. “All these guns, and we can’t use ’em for lack of men.”

“You’d best get sleep,” Hunter said shortly, and walked off.

But it was true, what Enders had said. As he continued pacing the decks, the woman was forgotten, and his thoughts returned to the cannon. Some restless part of his brain churned over the problem, again and again, looking for a solution. Somehow he was convinced there was a way to use these guns. Something he had forgotten, something he knew long ago.

The woman obviously thought he was a barbarian — or, worse, a Puritan. He smiled in the darkness at the thought. In fact, Hunter was an educated man. He had been taught all the main categories of knowledge, as they had been defined since medieval days. He knew classical history, Latin and Greek, natural philosophy, religion, and music. At the time, none of it had interested him.

Even as a young man, he was far more concerned with practical, empirical knowledge than he was in the opinions of some long-dead thinker. Every schoolboy knew that the world was much larger than Aristotle had ever dreamt. Hunter himself had been born on land that the Greeks did not know existed.

Yet now, certain elements of his formal training tugged at his mind. He kept thinking of Greece — something about Greece, or the Greeks — but he did not know what, or why.

Then he thought of the oil painting in Cazalla’s cabin, aboard the Spanish warship. Hunter had hardly noticed it at the time. Nor did he remember it clearly now. But there was something about a painting aboard a warship that intrigued him. In some way, it was important.

What did it matter? He knew nothing of painting; he regarded it as a very minor talent, suitable only for decoration, and of interest only to those vain and wealthy noblemen who would pay to have their portraits done, with flattering improvements. The painters themselves were, he knew, trivial souls who wandered like gypsies from one country to another in search of some patron who would support their efforts. They were homeless, rootless, frivolous men who lacked the solid attachment of strong feeling for the nation of their birth. Hunter, despite the fact that his parents had fled England for Massachusetts, considered himself wholly English and passionately Protestant. He was at war with a Spanish and Catholic enemy and did not comprehend anyone who was not equally patriotic. To care only for painting: that was a pale allegiance indeed.

And yet the painters wandered. There were Frenchmen in London, Greeks in Spain, and Italians everywhere. Even in times of war, the painters came and went freely, especially the Italians. There were so many Italians.

Why did he care?

He walked along the dark ship, passing from cannon to cannon. He touched one. Stamped on its postern was a motto:

SEMPER VINCIT

The words mocked him. Not always, he thought. Not without men to load and aim and fire. He touched the lettering, running his fingers over the grooves, feeling the fine, smooth curve of the S, the clean lines of the E.

SEMPER VINCIT

There was strength in the crispness of Latin, two tight words, military and hard. The Italians had lost all that; Italians were soft and flowery, and their tongue had changed to reflect the softness. It had been a long time since Caesar had bluntly said: Veni, vidi, vici.

VINCIT

That one word seemed to suggest something. He looked at the clean lines of the letters, and then in his mind he saw more lines, lines and angles, and he was back to the Greeks, to his Euclidean geometry, which had been so agonizing to him as a boy. He had never been able to understand why it mattered that two angles were equal to another, or that two lines intersected at one point or another. What difference did it make?

VINCIT

He remembered Cazalla’s painting, a work of art on a warship, out of place, serving no purpose. That was the trouble with art, it was not practical. Art conquered nothing.

VINCIT

It conquers. Hunter smiled at the irony of the motto, stamped into a cannon that would conquer nothing. This weapon was as worthless to him as Cazalla’s painting. It was as worthless to him as Euclid’s postulates. He rubbed his tired eyes.

All this thinking mattered not at all. He was traveling in circles with no sense, no purpose, no destination, only the persistent itch of a frustrated man who was trapped and sought an exit in vain.

And then, he heard the cry that seamen fear more than any other: “Fire!”