Pirate Latitudes

“Well, I am telling you to leave them as they are,” Sanson growled. “From now on, you will do as I tell you.” He scanned the horizon in all directions. There was nothing except the departing longboat.

It must be a trick, he thought. It must be.

He turned and looked again at the girl. She licked her lips, a fetching creature. Where could he take her? Where would he be safe? He realized then that if they went up to the aft castle, he would be able to look in all directions, and still enjoy this English whore.

“I shall have the better of Captain Hunter,” he said, “and of you as well.”

And he marched her up to the aft castle. A few minutes later, he had another surprise - this demure little creature was a screaming, passionate hellion, who yelled and gasped and clawed, much to Sanson’s happy satisfaction.

“You are so big!” she gasped. “I did not know Frenchmen were so big!”

Her fingers raked his back, painfully. He was happy.

He would have been less happy to know that her screams of ecstasy - for which she was amply paid - were a signal to Hunter, who was hanging just above the waterline, holding on to the rope ladder, and watching the pale shapes of the sharks slip through the water all around him.

Hunter had hung there since the longboat cast off. In the bow of the longboat was a scarecrow dummy, previously concealed under a tarp and erected while Hunter had been aboard the ship.

It had all worked exactly as Hunter planned. Sanson dared not look down too carefully into the longboat, and as soon as it pushed off, he had been obliged to spend some moments searching the girl. By the time he got around to looking at the departing boat, it was far enough away that the dummy was convincing. At that time, had he looked directly down, he would have seen Hunter dangling there. But there was no reason to look directly down - and, in any case, the girl had been instructed to distract him as soon as possible.

Hunter had waited, hanging on the ropes, for many minutes before he heard her shouts of passion. They were coming from the aft castle, as he had expected. Gently, he climbed to the gunports, and slipped onto El Trinidad belowdecks.

Hunter was not armed, and his first task was to find weapons. He moved forward to the armory, and found a short dagger and a brace of pistols, which he loaded and carefully wadded. Then he picked up a crossbow, bending his back to the metal, and cocking it. Only then did he move up the gangway to the main deck. There he paused.

Looking aft, he saw Sanson standing with the girl. She was arranging her clothing; Sanson was scanning the horizon. He had spent only a few minutes in lusty action, but it had been a fatal few minutes. He watched Sanson climb down to the waist of the galleon, and pace the decks. He looked over one side, then the other side.

And then he stopped.

He looked again.

Hunter knew what he was seeing. He was seeing the wet marks on the hull that Hunter’s clothing had left in an erratic pattern moving up the side of the ship to the gunports.

Sanson spun. “You bitch!” he shouted, and fired his crossbow at the girl still on the castle. In the heat of the moment, he missed her; she shrieked and ran below. Sanson started after her, then seemed to think better of it. He paused, and reloaded the crossbow. Then he waited, listening.

There was the sound of the girl’s running feet, and then a bulkhead door slammed. Hunter guessed she had locked herself into one of the aft cabins. She would be safe enough for the moment.

Sanson moved to the center of the deck, and stood by the mainmast.

“Hunter,” he called. “Hunter, I know you are here.” And then he laughed.

For now, the advantage was his. He stood by the mast, knowing that he was out of range of any pistol, from any direction, and he waited. He circled the mast cautiously, his head turning in slow, even motions. He was perfectly alert, perfectly aware. He was prepared for any tactic.

Hunter was illogical: he fired both his pistols. One shot splintered the mainmast, and the other struck Sanson in the shoulder. The Frenchman grunted, but he hardly seemed to notice the injury. He spun and fired the crossbow, and the arrow streaked past Hunter, burying itself in the wood of the companionway.

Hunter scrambled down the steps, hearing Sanson running after him. He had a glimpse of Sanson, both pistols out, charging forward.

Hunter stepped behind the companionway ladder, and held his breath. He saw Sanson running down, directly over his head, hastening down the ladder.

Sanson reached the gun deck, his back to Hunter, and then Hunter said in a cold voice, “Stand there.”

Sanson did not stand. He spun, and discharged both pistols.

The balls whistled over Hunter’s head as he crouched near the ground. Now he stood, holding the crossbow ready.

“Things are not always as they seem,” he said.

Sanson grinned, raising his arms. “Hunter, my friend. I am without defense.”

“Go up,” Hunter said, his voice flat.