Pirate Latitudes

DIEGO WAS OUTSIDE the fortress, running for the water. He did not stop when the magazine exploded with a frightful roar; he did not wonder if Hunter was still inside; he did not think anything. He ran with screaming, painful lungs for the water.

Hunter was trapped in the fortress. The Spanish patrols from outside were pouring in through the west gate; he could not escape that way. He did not see Cazalla anywhere, but he ran east from the magazine toward a low stone building, intending to climb onto the roof, and from there, jump over the wall.

When he got to the building, four soldiers engaged him; they backed him with swords to the door of the building and he locked himself in. The door was heavy timber; they pounded on it to no avail.

He turned to look around the room. This was Cazalla’s quarters, richly furnished. A dark-haired girl was in the bed. She looked at him in terror, holding the sheets to her chin, as Hunter dashed through the room to the rear windows. He was halfway out the window when he heard her say, in English, “Who are you?”

Hunter paused, astonished. Her accent was crisp and aristocratic. “Who the hell are you?”

“I am Lady Sarah Almont, late of London,” she said. “I am being held prisoner here.”

Hunter’s mouth fell open.

“Well, get on your clothing, madam,” he said.

At that moment, another glass window shattered, and Cazalla landed on the floor of the room, his sword in his hand. He was gray and blackened from the powder explosion. The girl screamed.

“Dress, madam,” Hunter said, as his blade engaged Cazalla’s. He saw her hastily pulling on an elaborate white dress.

Cazalla panted as he fought. He had the desperation of fury and something else, perhaps fear.

“Englishman,” he said, starting another taunt. Then Hunter flung his sword across the room. The blade pierced Cazalla in the throat. He coughed and sat backward, into the chair by his heavy ornate desk. He leaned forward, pulling at the blade, and in his posture, he seemed to be examining charts on the desk. Blood dripped onto the charts. Cazalla made a gurgling sound. Then he collapsed.

“Come on,” the woman said.

Hunter led her through the window, out of the room. He did not look back at Cazalla’s body.

He stood with the woman on the north face of the parapet. The ground was thirty feet below, hard earth with a few scrubby plants. Lady Sarah clutched him.

“It’s too far,” she said.

“There’s no choice,” he said, and pushed her. With a shriek, she fell. He looked back, and saw the Cassandra pull into the channel, under the main battery of the fortress. The gun crews were ready to fire. Hunter jumped to the ground. The girl was still lying there, holding her ankle.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not badly, I think.”

He got her to her feet, and drew her arm over his shoulder. Supporting her, they ran toward the water. They heard the first guns open fire on the Cassandra.

The guns of Matanceros were fired serially, one second apart. Each one breeched one second apart, spitting hot powder and fragments of bronze into the air, sending the crews diving for cover. One by one, the big guns rocked back to their recoil position, and were still.

The crews slowly got to their feet, and approached the guns in astonishment. They examined the blown touch-holes and chattered excitedly among themselves.

And then, one by one, the charges under the carriages blew, sending splinters of wood flying, dropping the guns to the ground. The last of the cannon went rolling along the parapet, with terrified soldiers racing out of its path.

Less than five hundred yards offshore, the Cassandra sailed untouched into the harbor.

Don Diego was treading water, shouting at the top of his lungs as the Cassandra bore down on him. For a horrified moment he thought no one would see or hear him, and then the bow of the sloop veered to port, and strong hands reached over the side and hauled him, dripping, onto the deck. A flask of kill-devil was thrust into his hands; his back was pounded and there was laughter.

Diego looked around the boat. “Where is Hunter?” he said.

In the early-dawn light, Hunter was running with the girl to the shore at the eastern point of Matanceros. He was now just beneath the fort’s walls; directly above him were the barrels of some of the guns, now lying at odd and irregular angles.

They paused by the water to catch their breath.

“Can you swim?” Hunter asked.

The girl shook her head.

“Not at all?”

“No, I swear.”

He looked at the Cassandra ’s stern, as she moved up the channel to the galleon.

“Come on,” he said. They ran toward the harbor.

Enders, the sea artist, delicately maneuvered the Cassandra alongside the galleon. Immediately, most of the crew jumped to the larger boat. Enders himself went aboard the galleon, where he saw Lazue and the Moor at the railing. Sanson was at the tiller.

“My pleasure, sir,” Sanson said with a bow, handing the helm to Enders.