Pirate Latitudes

Sanson listened to the plan without saying a word, and finally, when Hunter was finished, he slapped his thigh. “It is true what they say,” he said, “about Spanish sloth, French elegance—and English craft.”

“I think it will work,” Hunter said.

“I do not doubt it for a heartbeat,” Sanson said.

When Hunter left the small room, dawn was breaking over the streets of Port Royal.

CHAPTER 8

IT WAS, OF COURSE, impossible to keep the expedition secret. Too many seamen were eager for a berth on any privateering expedition, and too many merchants and farmers were needed to fit out Hunter’s sloop Cassandra. By early morning, all of Port Royal was talking of Hunter’s coming foray.

It was said that Hunter was attacking Campeche. It was said that he would sack Maricaibo. It was even said that he dared to attack Panama, as Drake had done some seventy years before. But such a long sea voyage implied heavy provisioning, and Hunter was laying in so few supplies that most gossips believed the target of the raid was Havana itself. Havana had never been attacked by privateers; the very idea struck most people as mad.

Other puzzling information came to light. Black Eye, the Jew, was buying rats from children and scamps around the docks. Why the Jew should want rats was a question beyond the imagining of any seaman. It was also known that Black Eye had purchased the entrails of a pig—which might be used for divination, but surely not by a Jew.

Meanwhile, the Jew’s gold shop was locked and boarded.

The Jew was off somewhere in the hills of the mainland. He had gone off before dawn, with a quantity of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal.

The provisioning of the Cassandra was equally strange. Only a limited supply of salt pork was ordered, but a large quantity of water was required—including several small casks, which the barrel-maker, Mr. Longley, had been asked to fabricate specially. The hemp shop of Mr. Whitstall had received an order for more than a thousand feet of stout rope—rope too stout for use in a sloop’s rigging. The sailmaker, Mr. Nedley, had been told to sew several large canvas bags with grommet fasteners at the top. And Carver, the blacksmith, was forging grappling hooks of peculiar design—the prongs were hinged, so the hooks could be folded small and flat.

There was also an omen: during the morning, fishermen caught a giant hammerhead shark, and hauled it onto the docks near Chocolata Hole, where the turtle crawls were located. The shark was more than twelve feet long, and with its broad snout, with eyes placed at each flattened protuberance, it was remarkably ugly. Fishermen and passersby discharged their pistols into the animal, with no discernible effect. The shark flopped and writhed on the dockside planking until well into midday.

Then the shark was slit open at the underbelly, and the slimy coils of intestine spilled forth. A glint of metal was perceived and when the innards were cut open, the metal was seen to be the full suit of armor of a Spanish soldier—breastplate, ridged helmet, knee guards. From this it was deduced that the flathead shark had consumed the unfortunate soldier whole, digesting the flesh but retaining the armor, which the shark was unable to pass. This was variously taken as an omen of an impending Spanish attack on Port Royal, or as proof that Hunter was himself going to attack the Spanish.

SIR JAMES ALMONT had no time for omens. That morning, he was engaged in questioning a French rascal named L’Olonnais, who had arrived in port that morning with a Spanish brig as his prize. L’Olonnais had no letters of marque, and in any case, England and Spain were nominally at peace. Worse than that was the fact that the brig contained, at the time it arrived in port, nothing of particular value. Some hides and tobacco were all that were to be found in its hold.

Although renowned as a corsair, L’Olonnais was a stupid, brutal man. It did not take much intelligence, of course, to be a privateer. One had only to wait in the proper latitudes until a likely vessel happened along, and then attack it. Standing with his hat in his hands in the governor’s office, L’Olonnais now recited his unlikely tale with childish innocence. He had happened upon the prize vessel, he said, and found it deserted. There were no passengers aboard, and the ship was drifting aimlessly.

“Faith, some plague or calamity must have fallen it,” L’Olonnais said. “But ’twas a goodly ship, sire, and I felt a service to the Crown to bring it back to port, sire.”

“You found no passengers at all?”

“Not a living thing.”

“No dead aboard the ship?”

“Nay, sire.”

“And no clue as to its misfortune?”

“Nary a one, sire.”

“And the cargo—”

“As your own inspectors found it, sire. We’d not touch it, sire. You know that.”

Sir James wondered how many innocent people L’Olonnais had murdered to clear the decks of that merchantman. And he wondered where the pirate had landed to hide the valuables of the cargo. There were a thousand islands and small brackish cays throughout the Carib sea could serve his purposes.

Sir James rapped his fingers on his desk. The man was obviously lying but he needed proof. Even in the rough environment of Port Royal, English law prevailed.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I shall formally state to you that the Crown is much displeased with this capture. The king therefore shall take a fifth—”

“A fifth!” Normally the king took a tenth, or even a fifteenth.

“Indeed,” Sir James said evenly. “His Majesty shall have a fifth, and I shall formally state to you further that if any evidence reaches my ears of dastardly conduct on your part, you shall be brought to trial and hanged as a pirate and murderer.”

“Sire, I swear to you that—”

“Enough,” Sir James said, raising his hand. “You are free to go for the moment, but bear my words in mind.”

L’Olonnais bowed elaborately and backed out of the room. Almont rang for his aide.

“John,” he said, “find some of the seamen of L’Olonnais and see that their tongues are well oiled with wine. I want to know how he came to take that vessel and I want substantial proofs against him.”

“Very good, Your Excellency.”

“And John: set aside the tenth for the king, and a tenth for the governor.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“That will be all.”

John bowed. “Your Excellency, Captain Hunter is here for his papers.”

“Then show him in.”

Hunter strode in a moment later. Almont stood and shook his hand.

“You seem in good spirits, Captain.”

“I am, Sir James.”

“The preparations go well?”

“They do, Sir James.”

“At what cost?”

“Five hundred doubloons, Sir James.”

Almont had anticipated the sum. He produced a sack of coin from his desk. “This will suffice.”

Hunter bowed as he took the money.

“Now then,” Sir James said. “I have caused to be drawn up the paper of marque for the cutting of logwood at any location you deem proper and fitting.” He handed the letter to Hunter.

In 1665, logwood cutting was considered legitimate commerce by the English, though the Spanish claimed a monopoly on that trade. The wood of the logwood, Hematoxylin campaechium, was used in making red dye as well as certain medicines. It was a substance as valuable as tobacco.

“I must advise you,” Sir James said slowly, “that we cannot countenance any attack upon any Spanish settlement, in the absence of provocation.”

“I understand,” Hunter said.

“Do you suppose there shall be any provocation?”

“I doubt it, Sir James.”

“Then of course your attack on Matanceros will be piratical.”

“Sir James, our poor sloop Cassandra, lightly armed and by the proofs of your papers engaged in commerce, may suffer to be fired upon by the Matanceros guns. In that instance, are we not forced to retaliate? An unwarranted shelling of an innocent vessel cannot be countenanced.”

“Indeed not,” Sir James said. “I am sure I can trust you to act as a soldier and a gentleman.”

“I will not betray your confidence.”

Hunter turned to go. “One last thing,” Sir James said. “Cazalla is a favorite of Philip. Cazalla’s daughter is married to Philip’s vice chancellor. Any message from Cazalla describing the events at Matanceros differently from your account would be most embarrassing to His Majesty King Charles.”

“I doubt,” Hunter said, “that there will be dispatches from Cazalla.”

“It is important that there not be.”

“Dispatches are not received from the depths of the sea.”

“Indeed not,” Sir James said. The two men shook hands.

As Hunter was leaving the Governor’s Mansion, a black womanservant handed him a letter, then wordlessly turned and walked away. Hunter descended the steps of the mansion, reading the letter, which was drafted in a feminine hand.

My dear Captain—

I am lately informed that a beautiful fresh spring can be found on the main portion of the Famaican island, at the place called grawford’s Valley. To acquaint myself with the delights of my new residence, I shall make an excursion to this spot in the latter part of the day, and I hope that it is as exquisite as I am led to believe.

Fondly, I am,Emily Hacklett

Hunter slipped the letter into his pocket. He would not, under ordinary circumstances, pay heed to the invitation implicit in Mrs. Hacklett’s words. There was much to do in this last day before the Cassandra set sail. But he was required to go to the inland anyway, to see Black Eye. If there was time…He shrugged, and went to the stables to get his horse.

CHAPTER 9

THE JEW WAS ensconced in Sutter’s Bay, to the east of the Port. Even from a distance, Hunter could determine his location by the acrid smoke rising above the green trees, and the occasional report of explosive charges.

He rode into a small clearing and found the Jew in the midst of a bizarre scene: dead animals of all sorts lay everywhere, stinking in the hot midday sun. Three wooden casks, containing saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur, stood to one side. Fragments of broken glass lay glinting in the tall grass. The Jew himself was working feverishly, his clothing and face smeared with blood and the dust of exploded powder.

Hunter dismounted and looked around him. “What in God’s name have you been doing?”

“What you asked,” Black Eye said. He smiled. “You will not be disappointed. Here, I will show you. First, you gave me the task of a long and slow-burning fuse. Yes?”

Hunter nodded.

“The usual fuses are of no use,” the Jew said judiciously. “One could employ a powder trail, but it burns with great swiftness. Or contrariwise, one could employ a slow match.” A slow match was a piece of cord or twine soaked in saltpeter. “But that is very slow indeed, and the flame is often too weak to ignite the final materials. You take my meaning?”

“I do.”

“Well then. An intermediate flame and speed of burning is provided by increasing the proportion of sulfur in the powder. But such a mixture is notorious for its unreliability. One does not wish the flame to sputter and die.”

“No.”

“I tried many soaked strings and wicks and cloths, to no avail. None can be counted on. Therefore I searched for a container to hold the charge. I have found this.” He held up a thin, white, stringy substance. “The entrails of a rat,” he said, smiling happily. “Lightly dried over warm coals, to remove humors and juices yet retaining flexibility. So, now when a quantity of powder is introduced to the intestine, a serviceable fuse results. Let me show you.”

He took one length of intestine, perhaps ten feet long, whitish, with the faint dark appearance of the powder inside. He set it down on the ground and lit one end.

The fuse burned quietly, with little sputtering, and it was slow—consuming no more than an inch or two in the space of a minute.

The Jew smiled broadly. “You see?”

“You have reason to be proud,” Hunter said. “Can you transport this fuse?”

“With safety,” the Jew said. “The only problem is time. If the intestine becomes too dry, it is brittle and may crack. This will happen after a day or so.”

“Then we must carry a quantity of rats with us.”

“I believe as much,” the Jew said. “Now I have a further surprise, something you did not request. Perhaps you cannot find a use for it, though it seems to me a most admirable device.” He paused. “You have heard of the French weapon which is called the grenadoe?”

“No,” Hunter shook his head. “A poisoned fruit?” Grenadoe was the French word for pomegranate, and poisoning was lately very popular in the Court of Louis.

“In a sense,” the Jew said, with a slight smile. “It is so called because of the seeds within the pomegranate fruit. I have heard this device exists, but was dangerous to manufacture. Yet I have done so. The trick is the proportion of saltpeter. Let me show you.”

The Jew held up an empty, small-necked glass bottle. As Hunter watched, the Jew poured in a handful of birdshot and a few fragments of metal. While he worked, the Jew said, “I do not wish you to think ill of me. Do you know of the Complicidad Grande?”

“Only a little.”

“It began with my son,” the Jew said, grimacing as he prepared the grenadoe. “In August of the year 1639, my son had long renounced the faith of a Jew. He lived in Lima, in Peru, in New Spain. His family prospered. He had enemies.

“He was arrested on the eleventh of August”—the Jew poured more shot into the glass—“and charged with being a secret Jew. It was said he would not make a sale on a Saturday, and also that he would not eat bacon for his breakfast. He was branded a Judaiser. He was tortured. His bare feet were locked into red-hot iron shoes and his flesh sizzled. He confessed.” The Jew packed the glass with powder, and sealed it with dripping wax.

“He was imprisoned for six months,” he continued. “In 1640, in January, eleven men were burned at the stake. Seven were alive. One of them was my son. Cazalla was the garrison commander who supervised the execution of the auto. My son’s property was seized. His wife and children…disappeared.”

The Jew glanced briefly at Hunter and wiped away the tears in his eyes. “I do not grieve,” he said. “But perhaps you will understand this.” He raised the grenadoe, and inserted a short fuse.

“You had best take cover behind those bushes,” the Jew said. Hunter hid, and watched as the Jew set the bottle on a rock, lit the fuse, and ran madly to join him. Both men watched the bottle.

“What is to happen?” Hunter said.

“Watch,” the Jew said, smiling for the first time.

A moment later, the bottle exploded. Flying glass and metal blasted out in all directions. Hunter and the Jew ducked to the ground, hearing the fragments tear through the foliage above them.

When Hunter raised his head again, he was pale. “Good God,” he said.

“Not a gentleman’s apparatus,” the Jew said. “It causes little damage to anything more solid than flesh.”

Hunter looked at the Jew curiously.

“The Don has earned such attentions,” the Jew said. “What is your opinion of the grenadoe?”

Hunter paused. His every instinct rebelled against a weapon so inhumane. Yet he was taking sixty men to capture a treasure galleon in an enemy stronghold: sixty men against a fortress with three hundred soldiers and the crew ashore, making another two or three hundred.

“Build me a dozen,” he said. “Box them for the voyage, and tell no one. They shall be our secret.”

The Jew smiled.

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