Pirate Latitudes

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.

“We’ve no luck today,” Enders said.

They could now see the mainsails of the pursuing craft, pink in the sunset and billowing full in the freshened breeze.

Les Caiques were still far away, a safe haven maddeningly distant, beyond their reach.

“Shall we turn and run, Captain?” Enders asked.

Hunter shook his head. The Cassandra might do better in a run before the wind, but that could only be postponing the inevitable. Unable to do anything, Hunter clenched his fists with impotent rage and watched the sails of the pursuing ship grow larger. They could see the edge of the hull now.

“She’s a ship of the line, all right,” Enders said. “I can’t make out the bow.”

The shape of the bow was the most likely way to tell nationality. Spanish warships tended to have a blunter bowline than English or Dutch ships.

Sanson came back to the tiller. “Are you going to fight?” he said.

In answer, Hunter just pointed to the ship. The hull was now clear of the horizon. She was more than a hundred and thirty feet at the waterline, and she had two gun decks. The gunports were opened, the blunt snouts of the cannon protruding. Hunter did not bother to count them; there were at least twenty, perhaps thirty, on the starboard side that he could see.

“She’s Donnish to my eye,” Sanson said.

“So she is,” Hunter agreed.

“Will you fight?”

“Fight that?” Hunter said. Even as he spoke, the warship came around and fired an opening volley at the Cassandra. The guns were still too far away; the shot splashed harmlessly off the port side, but the warning was clear. Another thousand yards and the warship would be within range.

Hunter sighed. “Come into the wind,” he said softly.

“Beg pardon, Captain,” Enders said.

“I said, come into the wind and release all halyards.”

“Aye, Captain,” Enders said.