Pirate Latitudes

A new soldier arrived. He was some sort of officer and apparently he was displeased with the relaxed attitude of the young men. He barked out sharp orders and the men hastily put aside their cards.

The new officer went around the room, examining the faces of the privateers. Finally, he plucked one fellow out of the group, and led him away. The man collapsed on rubbery legs when ordered to walk; the soldiers picked him up and dragged him out.

The door closed. The guards made a brief display of attentiveness, and then relaxed again. But they did not play cards. After a while, two of them decided to engage in a contest to see who could urinate the farthest. The target was a seaman in the corner. This game was considered fine sport by the guards, who laughed and pretended to bet enormous sums of money on the outcome.

Hunter was only dimly aware of these events. He was very tired; his legs burned with fatigue and his back ached. He began to wonder why he had refused to tell Cazalla the purpose of the voyage. It seemed a meaningless gesture.

At that moment, Hunter’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another officer, who barked: “Captain Hunter!” And Hunter was led away, out of the room.

As he was pushed and prodded through the decks of sleeping seamen, rocking in their hammocks, he distinctly heard, from somewhere in the ship, an odd and plaintive sound.

It was the sound of a woman crying.

Chapter 17

HUNTER HAD NO opportunity to reflect on the meaning of that strange sound, for he was pushed hastily onto the main deck. There, beneath the stars and the reefed sails, he noticed that the moon was low - which meant that dawn could not be more than a few hours away.

He felt a sharp pain of despair.

“Englishman, come here!”

Hunter looked around and saw Cazalla, standing near the mainmast, in the center of a ring of torches. At his feet, the seaman previously taken from the room lay spread-eagled on his back, firmly lashed to the deck. A number of Spanish soldiers stood about, and all were grinning broadly.

Cazalla himself seemed highly excited; he was breathing rapidly and shallowly. Hunter noticed that he was chewing more coca leaf.

“Englishman, Englishman,” he said, speaking rapidly. “You are just in time to witness our little sport. Do you know we searched your ship? No? Well, we did, and we found many interesting things.”

Oh God, Hunter thought. No…

“You have much rope, Englishman, and you have funny iron hooks that fold up, and you have other strange things of canvas which we do not understand. But most of all, Englishman, we do not understand this.”

Hunter’s heart pounded: if they had found the grenadoe s, then it would all be finished.

But Cazalla held out a case with four rats. The rats scampered back and forth and squeaked nervously.

“Can you imagine, Englishman, how amazed we were to find that you bring rats on your ship? We say to ourselves, why is this? Why does the Englishman carry rats to Augustine? Augustine has rats of its own, Florida rats, very good ones. Yes? So I wonder, how do I explain this?”

Hunter watched as a soldier did something to the face of the seaman lashed to the deck. At first he could not see what was being done; the man’s face was being rubbed or stroked. Then Hunter realized: they were smearing cheese on his face.

“So,” Cazalla said, waving the cage in the air, “then I see that you are not kind to your friends, the rats. They are hungry, Englishman. They want food. You see how excited they are? They smell food. That is why they are excited. I think we should feed them, yes?”

Cazalla set the cage down within inches of the seaman’s face. The rats flung themselves at the bars, trying to get to the cheese.

“Do you see what I mean, Englishman? Your rats are very hungry. Do you not think we should feed them?”

Hunter stared at the rats, and at the frightened eyes of the immobile seaman.

“I am wondering if your friend here will talk,” Cazalla said.

The seaman could not take his eyes off the rats.

“Or perhaps, Englishman, you will talk for him?”

“No,” Hunter said wearily.

Cazalla bent over the seaman and tapped him on the chest. “And you, will you talk?” With his other hand, Cazalla touched the latch to the cage door.

The seaman focused on the latch, watching as Cazalla raised the bar slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time. Finally, the latch was released; Cazalla held the door closed with a single finger.

“Your last chance, my friend…”

“Non!” the seaman shrieked. “Je parle! Je parle!”

“Good,” Cazalla said, switching smoothly to French.

“Matanceros,” the seaman said.

Cazalla turned livid with rage. “Matanceros! You idiot, you expect me to believe that? To attack Matanceros!” And, abruptly, he released the door to the cage.