Pirate Latitudes

This method of firing was reliable enough, so long as the touch-hole remained small. But after repeated firings, the burning fuse and the exploding powder corroded the touch-hole, widening it until it acted as an escape valve for the expanding gases. Once that happened, the range of the cannon was severely reduced; ultimately, the ball would not fire at all. And the cannon was very dangerous for its crews to operate.

Faced with this inevitable deterioration, cannon-makers fitted the breech with a replaceable metal plug, wider at one end than the other, with a touch-hole bored in the center. The plug was fitted from inside the cannon, so that the expanding gases of the gunpowder would tend to ram the plug home more snugly with each firing. Whenever the touch-hole became too large, the metal plug was simply removed and a new one fitted.

But sometimes the whole plug was blown out in a piece, leaving a very large hole at the breech of the cannon. That was true breeching, and it rendered the gun wholly useless until a new plug could be fitted. That process took many hours.

“Believe me,” Don Diego said, “when we are finished with those guns, they will be useful for nothing but ballast in a merchant’s hold.”

Hunter turned back to Lazue. “What can you see inside the fortress itself?”

“Tents. Many tents.”

“That will be the garrison,” Hunter said. During most of the year, the weather in the New World was so fair that troops did not require more permanent protection, and this was particularly true for an island as rainless as Leres. Although now Hunter could imagine the consternation of the troops, who had slept in mud from the storm of the previous night.

“What about the powder magazine?”

“There is a wood building north, inside the walls. That may be it.”

“Good,” Hunter said. He did not want to spend time searching for the magazine once they entered the fortress. “Are there defenses outside the walls?”

Lazue scanned the ground below. “I see nothing.”

“Good. Now what of the ship?”

“A skeleton crew,” she said. “I see five or six men on the longboats tied to the shore, by the town.”

Hunter had noticed the town. It was a surprise - a series of rough wood buildings along the shore, some distance from the fort. Obviously, they had been erected to house the galleon’s crew on land, proof that the crew intended to stay at Matanceros for a period of time, perhaps until next year’s sailing of the treasure fleet.

“Troops in the town?”

“I see a few red jackets.”

“Guards at the longboats?”

“None.”

“They are making things easy for us,” Hunter said.

“So far,” Sanson said.

The party collected their gear, obliterating any traces of their time in the cave. They started the long hike down the sloping hill to Matanceros.

On their descent, they faced the opposite problem from their trek two days before. High on the eastern slope of Mt. Leres, there was little foliage and little protection. They were obliged to slip from one dense clump of thorny vegetation to the next, and their progress was slow.

At noon, they had a surprise. Cazalla’s black warship appeared in the mouth of the harbor, and, reefing her sails, came to anchor near the fort. A longboat was put out; Lazue, with the glass, said that Cazalla was in the stern.

“This ruins everything,” Hunter said, looking at the position of the warship. It was parallel to the shore, so that a full broadside of its cannon would rake the channel.

“What if she stays there?” Sanson said.

Hunter was wondering exactly that, and he could think of only one answer. “We’ll fire her,” he said. “If she stays at anchor, we’ll have to fire her.”

“Light a longboat from shore, and set it adrift?”

Hunter nodded.

“A slim chance,” Sanson said.

Then Lazue, still watching through the glass, said, “There’s a woman.”

“What?” Hunter said.

“In the longboat. There’s a woman with Cazalla.”

“Let me see.” Hunter took the glass eagerly. But to his eyes, there was only a white irregular shape seated in the stern next to Cazalla, who stood and faced the fortress. Hunter could discern no details. He returned the glass to Lazue. “Describe her.”

“White dress and parasol - or some large hat or covering on her head. Dark face. Could be a Negro.”

“His mistress?”

Lazue shook her head. The longboat was now tying up by the fort. “She’s getting off. She’s struggling-”

“Perhaps she’s not got balance.”

“No,” Lazue said firmly. “She is struggling. Three men are holding her. Forcing her to enter the fortress.”

“You say she’s dark?” Hunter asked again. That was perplexing. Cazalla might have taken a woman captive, but any woman worth ransoming would certainly be very fair.

“Dark, yes,” Lazue said. “But I cannot really see further.”

“We will wait,” Hunter said.

Puzzled, they continued down the slope.

…