Pirate Latitudes

Hunter looked back at the storm. They might wait out the night, and the storm might pass them by. But if it were large enough, and slow enough, and they lost even one day, then their timing would be ruined. And three days hence, the Cassandra would sail into Matanceros carrying fifty men to certain death.

“We climb now,” Hunter said.

He turned to the Moor. The Moor nodded, and went to collect his ropes.

…

IT WAS AN extraordinary sensation, Hunter thought, as he held the rope in his hands and felt the occasional jerk and wiggle as the Moor moved up the cliff face. The rope between Hunter’s fingers was an inch and a half thick, yet high overhead, it thinned to a wispy thread, and the giant bulk of the Moor was a speck he could barely discern in the softening light.

Sanson came over to shout in his ear. “You are insane,” he yelled. “None of us will survive this.”

“Afraid?” Hunter shouted back.

“I fear nothing,” Sanson said, thumping his chest. “But look at the others.”

Hunter looked. Lazue was trembling. Don Diego was very pale.

“They cannot make it,” Sanson shouted. “What will you do without them?”

“They’ll make it,” Hunter said. “They have to.” He looked over at the storm, which was closer. It was now only a mile or two away; they could feel the moisture in the wind. He felt a sudden tug on the rope in his hands, then a second quick jerk.

“He’s done it,” Hunter said. He looked up, but could not see the Moor at all.

A moment later, another rope dropped to the ground.

“Quick,” Hunter said. “The supplies.” They tied the provisions, already loaded into canvas bags, onto the rope, and gave a signaling tug. The bags began their bumpy, bouncing ascent up the cliff face. Once or twice, the force of the wind blew them away from the rock a distance of five or ten feet.

“God’s blood,” Sanson said, seeing it.

Hunter looked at Lazue. Her face was tight. He went over and fitted the canvas sling around her shoulder, and another around her hips.

“Mother of God, Mother of God, Mother of God,” Lazue said, over and over in a monotone.

“Now listen,” Hunter shouted, as the rope came down again. “Hold the long line, and let Bassa pull you up. Keep your face to the rock, and don’t look down.”

“Mother of God, Mother of God…”

“Did you hear me?” Hunter shouted. “Don’t look down!”

She nodded, still muttering. A moment later, she started up the rock, hoisted by the sling. She had a brief period of awkwardness, twisting and clutching for the other line. Then she seemed to get her bearings, and her ascent up the face was uneventful.

The Jew was next. He stared at Hunter with hollow eyes as Hunter gave him the instructions: he did not seem to hear; he was like a man sleepwalking as he stepped into the sling and was hoisted up.

The first drops of rain from the approaching storm began to fall.

“You will go next,” Sanson shouted.

“No,” Hunter said. “I am last.”

By now, it was raining steadily. The winds had increased. When the sling came down the cliff again, the canvas was soaked. Sanson stepped into the sling and jerked the rope, to signal his ascent. As he started up, he shouted to Hunter, “If you die, I will take your shares.” And then he laughed, his laughter trailing off in the wind.

With the approach of the storm, a gray fog clung around the top of the cliff. Sanson was soon lost from view. Hunter waited. A very long time seemed to pass, and then he heard the wet slap of the sling on the ground nearby. He walked over, and fitted himself into it. Wind-blown rain slashed against his face and body as he tugged on the line and started up.

He would remember that climb for the rest of his life. He had no sense of position, for he was wrapped in a dark gray world. All he could see was the rocky face just a few inches away. The wind tore at him, often swinging him wide away from the cliff, then slamming him back against the rock. The ropes, the rock, everything was wet and slippery. He held the guideline in his hands, and tried to keep himself facing the cliff. Often he lost his footing and twisted around, banging his back and shoulders into the rock.

It seemed to take forever. He had no idea whether he had traversed half the distance, or only a fraction of it. Or whether he was nearly there. He strained to hear the voices of the others at the top but all he heard was the maniacal shriek of the wind, and the splatter of the rain.

He felt the vibration of the tow-rope as he was pulled up. It was a steady, rhythmic shudder. He moved up a few feet; then a pause; then up a few feet more. Then another pause; then another brief ascent.

Suddenly, there was a break in the pattern. No more ascent. The rope vibration changed; it was transmitted to his body through the canvas sling. At first he thought it was some trick of the senses, but then he knew what it was - the hemp, after five rough passages over the rock, was frayed and now was slowly, agonizingly stretching.