Pirate Latitudes

Before Hunter could reply, the captain turned. Hunter found himself staring into glowering eyes set in a heavy face with a strong nose and jet-black beard. Without his wishing, the word sprang from his lips:

“Cazalla!”

The Spaniard laughed heartily. “Did you expect King Charles?”

Hunter was speechless. He was vaguely aware that his lips worked, but no sound came out. At the same time, a thousand questions sprang to mind. Why was Cazalla here, and not in Matanceros? Did that mean the galleon was gone? Or had he left the fortress in command of some capable lieutenant?

Or perhaps he was ordered away by a higher authority - this warship might be bound for Havana.

Even as these questions flooded his mind, he was overcome by a cold fear. It was all he could do to keep his body from shaking as he stood and looked at Cazalla.

“Englishman,” Cazalla said, “your discomfort flatters me. I am embarrassed I do not know your name in turn. Sit down, be at ease.”

Hunter did not move. The soldier roughly shoved him into a chair facing Cazalla.

“Much better,” Cazalla said. “Will you take your claret now?” He passed Hunter the glass.

With the strongest effort of will, Hunter kept his hand from trembling as he took the proffered glass. But he did not drink; he set it immediately on the table. Cazalla smiled.

“Your health, Englishman,” he said, and drank. “I must drink to your health while it is still possible to do so. You are not joining me? No? Come now, Englishman. Even His Excellency the Commander of the Havana Garrison does not have claret so fine as this. It is French, called Haut-Brion. Drink.” He paused. “Drink.”

Hunter took the glass, and drank a little. He felt mesmerized, almost in a trance. But the taste of the claret broke the spell of the moment; the ordinary gesture of lifting the glass to his lips and swallowing brought him back to himself. His shock passed away, and he began to notice a thousand tiny details. He heard the breathing of the soldier behind him; probably two paces behind, he thought. He saw the irregularity of Cazalla’s beard and guessed the man had been some days at sea. He smelled the garlic on Cazalla’s breath as he leaned forward and said, “Now, Englishman. Tell me: what is your name?”

“Charles Hunter,” he said, in a voice that was stronger and more confident than he had dared hope.

“Yes? Then I have heard of you. You are the same Hunter who took the Conception one season ago?”

“I am,” Hunter said.

“The same Hunter who led the raid on Monte Cristo in Hispañola and held the plantation owner Ramona for ransom?”

“I am.”

“He is a pig, Ramona, do you not think?” Cazalla laughed. “And you are also the same Hunter who captured the slave ship of de Ruyters while it was at anchor in Guadeloupe, and made off with all his cargoes?”

“I am.”

“Then I am most pleased to be acquainted with you, Englishman. Do you know your value? No? Well, it has gone up each passing year, and perhaps it has been raised again. When last I heard, King Philip offered two hundred gold doubloons for you, and eight hundred more for your crew to any who effected a capture. Perhaps it is more now. The decrees change, so many details. Formerly we sent pirates back to Seville, where the Inquisition could encourage you to repent your sins and your heresy in the same breath. But that is so tedious. Now we send only the heads, and reserve our cargo space for more profitable wares.”

Hunter said nothing.

“Perhaps you are thinking,” Cazalla continued, “that two hundred doubloons is too modest a sum. As you may imagine, at this very moment I agree with you. But you enjoy the distinction of knowing that you are the most valued pirate in all these waters. Does that please you?”

“I take it,” Hunter said, “in the spirit it was intended.”

Cazalla smiled. “I can see that you are born a gentleman,” he said. “And I wish to assure you that you shall be hanged with all the dignity of a gentleman. You have my word on that.”

Hunter gave a small bow from his chair. He watched as Cazalla reached across his desk for a small glass bowl with a fitted lid. Inside the bowl were broad green leaves. Cazalla removed one of these leaves and chewed it thoughtfully.

“You look puzzled, Englishman. This practice is unfamiliar to you? The Indians of New Spain called this leaf coca. It grows in the high country. To chew it brings energy, and strength. For women it provokes great ardor,” he added, chuckling. “You wish to taste for yourself? No? You are reluctant to accept my hospitality, Englishman.”

He chewed a moment in silence, staring at Hunter. Finally, he said, “Have we not met before?”

“No.”

“Your face is strangely familiar. Perhaps in the past, when you were younger?”

Hunter felt his heart pound. “I do not think so.”

“No doubt you are right,” Cazalla said. He stared thoughtfully at the painting on the far wall. “All Englishmen look alike to me. I cannot tell one from the next.” He looked back at Hunter. “And yet you recognized me. How can that be?”