Pirate Latitudes

They knew there must be such a stream here, for the very existence of a cove implied it. Coves were formed in part because there was a break in the outer reefs, and that break meant fresh water pouring out from the land. They walked along the beach, and after an hour located a sparse trickle of water cutting a muddy track through the foliage along the shore. The streambed was so narrow that the plants overgrew it, making a sort of cramped, hot tunnel. The passage was obviously not easy.

“Should we look for a better one?” Sanson said.

The Jew shook his head. “There is little rainfall here. I doubt there is a better one.”

They all seemed to agree, and set out, moving up the creek, away from the sea. Almost immediately, the heat became unbearable, the air hot and rank. It was, as Lazue said, like breathing cloth.

After the first few minutes, they traveled in silence, wasting no energy on talk. The only sound was the thwack of their cutlasses on the foliage, and the chatter of birds and small animals in the canopy of trees above them. Their progress was slow. Toward the end of the day, when they looked over their shoulders, the blue ocean below seemed discouragingly near.

They pressed on, pausing only to capture food. Sanson was a master of the crossbow, and used it to shoot several birds. They were encouraged to notice the droppings of a wild boar near the streambed. Lazue collected plants that were edible.

Nightfall found them halfway up the strip of jungle between the sea and the bare rock of Mt. Leres. Although the air turned cooler, they were trapped beneath the foliage and it remained almost as hot as before. In addition, the mosquitoes were out.

The mosquitoes were a formidable enemy, coming in thick clouds so dense as to be almost palpable, obscuring each man’s vision of those near him. The insects buzzed and whined around them, clinging to every part of their bodies, getting into ears and nose and mouth. They coated themselves liberally with mud and water, but nothing really helped. They dared not light a fire, but ate the caught game raw, and slept the night fitfully, propped up against trees, with the droning buzz of mosquitoes in their ears.

In the morning, they awoke, the caked mud dropping off their stiff bodies, and they looked at each other and laughed. They were all changed, their faces red and swollen and lumpy with mosquito bites. Hunter checked the water; a quarter of their supply was gone, and he announced they would have to consume less. They moved on, hoping to see a wild boar, for they were all hungry. They never sighted one. The monkeys chattering in the overhead canopy of foliage seemed to taunt them. They heard the animals, but Sanson never had a clear shot at one.

Late in the second day, they began to notice the sound of the wind. It was faint at first, a far-off low moan. But as they approached the edge of the jungle, where the trees were thinner and their progress easier, the wind grew louder. Soon they could feel it, and although the breeze was welcome, they looked back at each other with anxiety. They knew the breeze would grow in strength as they approached the cliff face of Mt. Leres.

It was late afternoon when they finally reached the rocky base of the cliff. The wind was now a screaming demon that tugged and whipped their clothing, bruised their faces, shrieked in their ears. They had to shout to be heard.

Hunter looked up at the rock wall before them. It was as sheer as it seemed from a distance, and, if anything, higher than he had thought - four hundred feet of naked rock, lashed by a wind so strong that stone chips and rock fragments fell down on them continually.

He motioned to the Moor, who came over. “Bassa,” Hunter shouted, leaning close to the huge man. “Will the wind be less at night?”

Bassa shrugged, and made a pinching gesture with two fingers: a little better.

“Can you make the climb at night?”

He shook his head: no. Then he made a little pillow with his hands, and leaned his head on it.

“You want to climb in the morning?”

Bassa nodded.

“He’s right,” Sanson said. “We should wait until morning, when we are rested.”

“I don’t know if we can wait,” Hunter said. He was looking to the north. Some miles away, across a placid sea, he saw the broad gray line over the water, and above that, angry black clouds. It was a storm, several miles wide, moving slowly toward them.

“All the more reason,” Sanson shouted to Hunter. “We should let it pass.”

Hunter turned away. From their position at the base of the cliff, they were five hundred feet above sea level. Looking south, he could see Ramonas, some thirty miles away. The Cassandra was not in sight; it had long since found the protection of the cove.