Michael Crichton - Pirate Latitudes

One crewmember stood. “Captain, are you taking us to Matanceros? It is dangerous.”

“Indeed it is,” Hunter said, “but the booty is great. There will be plenty for every man. Any man who sees the danger as over-much will be put ashore here, in this bay, and none the worse in my estimation. But he must go before I tell you the treasure that is there.”

He waited. No one moved or spoke.

“All right,” Hunter said. “Matanceros harbor holds a Donnish treasure nao. We are going to take her.” At this there was an enormous uproar among the crew. It was several minutes before Hunter could get them silent again. And when they looked back at him, he saw the glint in their eyes, fed by visions of gold. “Are you with me?” Hunter shouted. They responded with a shout.

“Then, on to Matanceros.”

SEEN FROM A distance, the Cassandra presented a pretty spectacle. Her sails were taut in the morning breeze; she was heeled over a few degrees, and cut a swift, hissing path through the clear blue water.

On board the ship, however, it was cramped and uncomfortable. Sixty fighting men, grizzled and smelly, jostled for space to sit, game, or sleep in the sun. They relieved themselves over the side, without ceremony, and their captain was often presented with the spectacle of a half-dozen bare buttocks leaning over the leeward gunwale.

No food was parceled out, and no water. None was given for the first day at all, and the crew, expecting this, had eaten and drunk their fill on their last night in the port.

Nor did Hunter anchor that evening. It was customary for the privateers to put into some protected cove, to allow the crew to sleep ashore. But Hunter sailed straight through the first night. He had two reasons for haste. First, he feared spies who might make for Matanceros to warn the garrison there. And second, he did not wish to allow extra time, since the treasure nao might depart the harbor of Matanceros at any time.

At the end of the second day, they were beating northeast, through the dangerous passage between Hispañola and Cuba. His crew knew this region well, for they were within a day’s sail of Tortuga, long a pirate stronghold.

He continued into the third day, and then landed for the night, to rest his weary crew. The following day, he knew, would begin the long ocean run past Inagua, and then to Matanceros itself. There would be no safe landing in the future. Once they crossed Latitude 20, they were in dangerous Spanish waters.

His crew was in good spirits, laughing and joking around the campfires. During the past three days, only one man had been seized by visions of the crawling devils, which sometimes accompanied the absence of rum; that man was now calmer, no longer trembling and shaking.

Satisfied, Hunter stared into the fire before him. Sanson came over, and sat next to him.

“What are your thoughts?”

“None special.”

“Do you brood on Cazalla?”

“No.” Hunter shook his head.

“I know that he killed your brother,” Sanson said.

“He caused him to be killed, yes.”

“And this does not anger you?”

Hunter sighed. “Not anymore.”

Sanson stared at him in the flickering firelight. “What was the manner of his dying?”

“It is not important,” Hunter said evenly.

Sanson sat quietly for some moments. “I have heard,” he said, “that your brother was captured on a merchant ship by Cazalla. I have heard that Cazalla strung him up by his arms, cut off his testicles and stuffed them into his mouth until he choked and died.”

Hunter did not answer for some time. “That is the story,” he said finally.

“And do you believe it?”

“Yes.”

Sanson scanned his face. “The crafty English. Where is your anger, Hunter?”

“I have it,” Hunter said.

Sanson nodded. He stood. “When you find Cazalla, kill him quickly. Do not let this hatred cloud your brain.”

“My brain is not clouded.”

“No. I see it is not.”

Sanson left. Hunter remained staring into the fire for a long time.

…

IN THE MORNING, they entered the dangerous Windward Passage, between Cuba and Hispañola. Winds were unpredictable, and the water was rough, but the Cassandra made excellent time. Sometime during the night they passed the dark promontory of Le Mole - the westward tip of Hispañola - to starboard. And near dawn, the profile of the land split to reveal Tortuga Island, along the north coast.

They continued on.

…

THEY WERE IN open water for all of the fifth day, but the weather was good, with only a light chop on the sea. By late afternoon they sighted Inagua Island to port, and soon after, Lazue spotted the crust on the horizon that meant Les Caiques, dead ahead. This was important, for south of Les Caiques was a treacherous shallow bank for several miles.

Hunter gave orders to turn eastward, toward the still-unseen Turk Isles. The weather remained good. The crew sang and dozed in the sun.

The sun was dropping lower in the sky when Lazue electrified the sleepy crew with the shout, “Sail ho!”

Hunter leapt to his feet. He squinted at the horizon, but saw nothing. Enders, the sea artist, had the glass to his eye, scanning in all directions. “Damn me,” he said, and handed the glass to Hunter. “She’s hard abeam, Captain.”

Hunter looked through the spyglass. Through the curving rainbow rings of color, he saw a white rectangle low on the horizon. Even as he watched, the white rectangle took on another corner, becoming two overlapping rectangles.

“How do you make it?” Enders asked.

Hunter shook his head. “You know as well as I.” From this distance, there was no way to determine the nationality of the approaching vessel, but these were undisputed Spanish waters. He glanced around the horizon. Inagua was far behind them; it would be a five-hour sail, and that island offered few protections. To the north, Les Caiques were inviting, but the wind was out of the northeast, and they would have to be too close-hauled to make good speed. To the east, Turk Isle was still not visible - and it was in the direction of the approaching sails.

He had to make a decision; none of the alternatives were inviting. “Change course,” he said finally. “Make for Les Caiques.”

Enders bit his lip and nodded. “Ready about!” he shouted, and the crew jumped to the halyards. The Cassandra came through the wind, and tacked north.

“Come off it,” Hunter said, eyeing the sails. “Make speed.”

“Aye, Captain,” Enders said. The sea artist was frowning unhappily, as indeed he might, for the sails on the horizon were now clearly visible to the naked eye. The other ship was gaining on them; the topgallants had now cleared the horizon, and the foresails were coming into view.

With the glass to his eye, Hunter saw three corners to the topgallants. A three-masted ship almost certainly meant a warship of some nationality.

“Damn!”

As he watched, the three sails merged into one square, then separated once more.

“She’s come about,” Hunter said. “On a long reach now for us.”

Enders’s feet did a little nervous dance while his hand gripped the tiller. “We’ll not outrun her on this tack, Captain.”

“Or any tack,” Hunter said gloomily. “Pray for a calm.”

The other ship was less than five miles away. In a steady wind, it would inexorably gain on the Cassandra. Their only hope now was a drop in the wind; then the Cassandra ’s lighter weight would let her pull away.

It sometimes happened that the wind died around sunset, but just as commonly it freshened. Soon enough, Hunter felt the breeze more strongly on his cheeks.