Pirate Latitudes

“Your visage and manner are much known in the English colonies.”

Cazalla chewed a bit of lime with his leaves. He smiled, then chuckled. “No doubt,” he said. “No doubt.”

He abruptly wheeled around in his chair and slapped the table. “Enough: we have business to discuss. What is the name of your vessel?”

“ Cassandra,” Hunter said.

“And who is her owner?”

“I am myself owner and captain.”

“And whence put you to sea?”

“ Port Royal.”

“And for what reason did you make a sea voyage?”

Hunter paused here. If he could have conjured up a plausible reason, he would have immediately said it. But it was not easy to explain the presence of his ship in these waters. Finally, he said, “We were advised a slaver from Guinea would be found in these waters.”

Cazalla made a clucking sound, and shook his head. “Englishman, Englishman.”

Hunter made his best show of reluctance. Then he said, “We were making for Augustine.” That was the most settled town in the Spanish colony of Florida. It had no particular riches, but it was at least conceivable that English privateers would attack it.

“You chose an odd course. And a slow one.” Cazalla drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Why did you not sail west around Cuba, into the Bahama Passage?”

Hunter shrugged. “We had reason to believe there were Spanish warships in the passage.”

“And not here?”

“The risk was better here.”

Cazalla considered this for a long moment. He chewed noisily, and sipped his wine. “There is nothing in Augustine but swamps and snakes,” he said. “And no reason to risk the Windward Passage. And in this vicinity…” He shrugged. “No settlement which is not strongly defended, too strongly for your little boat and your puny crew.” He frowned. “Englishman, why are you here? ”

“I have spoken the truth,” Hunter said. “We were making for Augustine.”

“This truth does not satisfy me,” Cazalla said.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and a seaman stuck his head into the cabin. He spoke rapidly in Spanish. Hunter knew no Spanish, but he had a little command of French, and with this knowledge he was able to deduce that the seaman was telling Cazalla the sloop was manned with its prize crew and ready to sail. Cazalla nodded and stood.

“We sail now,” he said. “You come with me to the deck. Perhaps there are others in your crew who do not share your reluctance to speak.”

Chapter 16

THE PRIVATEERS HAD been formed up in two ragged lines, their hands bound. Cazalla paced up and down in front of the men. He held a knife in one hand, and slapped the flat of the blade against the palm of his other hand. For a moment, there was complete silence except for the rhythmic slap of steel on his fingers.

Hunter looked away, to the rigging of the warship. She was making an easterly course - probably heading for the protection of Hawk’s Nest anchorage, south of Turk Isle. He could see, in the twilight, the Cassandra following on the same course a short distance behind the larger ship.

Cazalla interrupted his thoughts.

“Your captain,” he said loudly, “will not tell me your destination. He says it is Augustine,” he said, with heavy sarcasm. “Augustine: a child could lie more convincingly. But I tell you: I will know your purpose. Which man of you will step forward and say?”

Cazalla looked at the two lines of men. The men stared back at him with blank faces.

“Must I encourage you? Eh?” Cazalla stepped close to one seaman. “You. Will you speak?”

The seaman did not move, did not speak, did not even blink. After a moment, Cazalla resumed his pacing.

“Your silence means nothing,” he said. “You are all heretics and brigands, and you will swing at the end of a rope in good time. Until that day, a man can either live comfortably, or not. Any man who speaks shall live at his ease until the appointed day, and for that he has my solemn word.”

Still no one moved. Cazalla stopped pacing. “You are fools. You mistake my determination.”

He was standing now in front of Trencher, clearly the youngest member of the privateer crew. Trencher trembled, but he held his head high.

“You, lad,” Cazalla said, his voice softening. You do not belong in this rough company. Speak up, and tell me the purpose of your voyage.”

Trencher opened his mouth, then closed it again. His lip trembled.

“Speak,” Cazalla said softly. “Speak, speak…”

But the moment had passed. Trencher’s lips were firm and tight together.

Cazalla watched him for a moment, and then with a single, swift gesture slit his throat with the knife in his hand. It happened so quickly Hunter hardly saw it. Blood poured in a broad red sheet down the boy’s shirt. His eyes were wide with horror and he shook his head slowly in a kind of disbelief. Trencher sank to his knees and remained there a moment, head bowed, watching his own blood drip onto the wood decking, and onto the toes of Cazalla’s boots. The Spaniard stepped back with a curse.