Pirate Latitudes

AFTER THE TENSION of the reef passage, the crews of both ships were jubilant, shouting and laughing, calling congratulations and mock insults to each other through the twilight. Hunter did not join in the general celebration. He stood on the aft castle of his galleon and watched the warship continue toward them, despite the rapidly growing darkness.

The Spanish man-of-war was now within a half-mile of the bay; she was just outside the reef entrance. Bosquet had great daring, he thought, to come so close in near darkness. He was also taking a considerable and unnecessary risk.

Enders, also watching, asked the unspoken question: “Why?”

Hunter shook his head. He saw the warship drop her anchor line; he saw the splash as it hit the water.

The enemy vessel was so close he could hear the shouted commands in Spanish drifting to him across the water. There was a lot of activity in the stern of the ship; a second anchor was thrown out.

“Makes no sense,” Enders said. “He’s got miles of deep water to ride out the night, but he puts himself in four fathoms.”

Hunter watched. Another stern anchor was thrown over the side, and many hands tugged at the line. The stern of the warship swung around toward the shore.

“Damn me,” Enders said. “You don’t suppose…”

“I do,” Hunter said. “She’s lining up a broadside. Hoist anchor.”

“Hoist anchor!” Enders shouted to his surprised crew. “Ready on the foresprit, there! Lively with the lines!” He turned back to Hunter. “We’ll run aground for sure.”

“We have no choice,” Hunter said.

Bosquet’s intent was clear enough. He had anchored in the mouth of the bay, just beyond the reef, but within range of his broadside cannon. He intended to stay there and pound the galleon through the night. Unless Hunter moved out of range, risking the shallow water, his ships would be demolished by morning.

And indeed, they could see the gunports springing open on the Spanish warship, and the muzzles of the cannon as they were fired, the balls smashing through El Trinidad ’s rigging, and splashing in the water around them.

“Get her moving, Mr. Enders,” Hunter barked.

As if in answer, a second broadside blasted from the Spanish warship. This one was more on target. Several balls struck El Trinidad, splintering wood, tearing lines.

“Damn me,” Enders said, with as much pain in his voice as if he had himself been injured.

But Hunter’s ship was moving now, and she inched out of range so that the next broadside fell harmlessly into the water in a straight line of splashes. That straightness was itself impressive.

“She’s well manned,” Enders said.

“There are times,” Hunter said, “when you are too appreciative of good seamanship.”

By now it was quite dark; the fourth broadside came as a pattern of hot red flashes from the black profile of the warship. They heard, but could barely see, the splashes of shot in the water astern.

And then the low offshore hilly curve obliterated the view of the enemy vessel.

“Drop anchor,” Enders shouted, but it was too late. At that very moment with a soft, crunching sound, El Trinidad ran aground on the sandy bottom of Monkey Bay.

…

THAT NIGHT, SITTING alone in his cabin, Hunter took stock of his situation. The fact that he was grounded did not bother him in the least; the ship had struck sand at low tide, and he could easily get her afloat in a few hours.

For the moment, the two ships were safe. The harbor was not ideal, but it was serviceable enough; he had fresh water and provisions to last more than two weeks without subjecting his crew to any hardship. If they could find food and water ashore - and they probably could - then he could remain in Monkey Bay for months.

At least he could remain until a storm came up. A storm could be disastrous. Monkey Bay was on the windward side of an ocean island and its waters were shallow. A heavy storm would crush his ships to splinters in a matter of hours. And this was the season for hurricanes; he could not expect too many days to pass without experiencing one, and he could not remain in Monkey Bay when it struck.

Bosquet would know this. If he were a patient man, he could simply blockade the bay, riding in deep water, and wait for the foul weather, which would force the galleon to leave the harbor and be exposed to his attack.

Yet Bosquet did not seem to be a patient man. Quite the opposite: he gave every indication of resource and daring, a man who preferred to take the offensive when he could. And there were good reasons for him to attack before bad weather.

In any naval engagement, foul weather was an equalizer, desired by the weaker force, avoided by the stronger. A storm plagued both ships, but it reduced the effectiveness of the superior ship disproportionately. Bosquet must know that Hunter’s ships were short-handed and lightly armed.

Sitting alone in his cabin, Hunter put himself into the mind of a man he had never met, and tried to guess his thoughts. Bosquet would surely attack in the morning, he decided.