Pirate Latitudes: A Novel (27 page)

“Damn you for a king’s bitch,” he whispered, and took up his rocking again. He was now absorbed in his pain, and seemed to have lost any sense that she was there. She got to her feet, poured a glass of wine for herself, sipped it, and watched.

She was still standing there when Hunter entered the room half an hour later. Hacklett was alive, but wholly ashen, his actions feeble except for an occasional spastic twitch. He lay in an enormous pool of blood.

Hunter took out his pistol and moved toward Hacklett.

“No,”
she said.

He hesitated, then stepped away.

“Thank you for your kindness,” Mrs. Hacklett said.

Chapter 37

O
N OCTOBER 23, 1665, the conviction of Charles Hunter and his crew on a charge of piracy and robbery was summarily overturned by Lewisham, Judge of the Admiralty, meeting in closed session with Sir James Almont, newly restored Governor of the Jamaica Colony.

In the same session, Commander Edwin Scott, Chief Officer of the Garrison of Fort Charles, was convicted of high treason and sentenced to be hanged the following day. A confession in his own handwriting was obtained on the promise of commutation of sentence. Once the letter was written, an unknown officer shot Scott to death in his cell in Fort Charles. The officer was never apprehended.

For Captain Hunter, now the toast of the town, one final problem remained: Andre Sanson. The Frenchman was nowhere to be found, and it was reported that he had fled into the inland hills. Hunter put out the word that he would pay well for any news of Sanson, and by mid-afternoon he had a surprising report.

Hunter had stationed himself publicly in the Black Boar, and soon enough an old bawdy woman came to see him. Hunter knew her; she ran a whoring house, her name was Simmons. She approached him nervously.

“Speak up, woman,” he said, and he called for a glass of kill-devil to ease her fears.

“Well, sir,” she said, drinking the liquor, “a week past, a man of the name of Carter comes to Port Royal, desperate ill.”

“Is this John Carter, a seaman?”

“The same.”

“Speak on,” Hunter said.

“He says he has been picked up by an English packet boat from St. Kitts. They had spotted a fire on a small uninhabited cay, and, pausing to investigate, had found this Carter marooned, and brought him thence.”

“Where is he now?”

“Oh, he has fled, he has. He’s terrified of meeting with Sanson, the Frenchy villain. He’s in the hills now, but he told me his story, right enough.”

Hunter said, “And that is?”

The bawdy woman told the story quickly. Carter was aboard the sloop
Cassandra
, carrying part of the galleon treasure, under Sanson’s command. There had been a fierce hurricane, in which the ship was wrecked on the inner reef of an island, and most of the crew killed. Sanson had gathered the others together, and had salvaged the treasure, which he directed them to bury on the island. Then they had all built a longboat with the flotsam of the wrecked sloop.

And then, Carter had reported, Sanson had killed them all — twelve men — and set sail alone. Carter had been badly wounded, but somehow survived and lived to return home and tell his story. And he said further that he did not know the name of the island, nor the exact location of the treasure, but that Sanson had scratched a map on a coin, which he then hung around his neck.

Hunter listened to the story in silence, thanked the woman, and gave her a coin for her trouble. More than ever, now, he wanted to find Sanson. He sat in the Black Boar and patiently listened to every person with a rumor of the Frenchman’s whereabouts. There were at least a dozen stories. Sanson had gone to Port Morant. Sanson had fled to Inagua. Sanson had gone into hiding in the hills.

When finally the truth came, it was stunning. Enders burst into the tavern:

“Captain, he’s on board the galleon!”

“What?”

“Aye, sir. There were six of us set as guard; he killed two, and sent the rest in the boat to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Either you arrange his pardon, and discard openly your feud with him, or he’ll sink the ship, Captain. Sink her at anchor. He must have your word by nightfall, Captain.”

Hunter swore. He went to the window of the tavern and looked out at the harbor.
El Trinidad
rode lightly at anchor, but she was moored well offshore, in deep water — too deep to salvage any treasure if she were sunk.

“He’s damnably clever,” Enders said.

“Indeed,” Hunter said.

“Will you make your reply?”

“Not now,” Hunter said. He turned away from the window. “Is he alone on the ship?”

“Aye, if that matters.”

Sanson alone was worth a dozen men or more in an open battle.

The treasure galleon was not moored close to any other ships in the harbor; nearly a quarter mile of open water surrounded it on all sides. It stood in splendid, impregnable isolation.

“I must think,” Hunter said, and went to sit again.

.   .   .

A SHIP MOORED
in open, placid water was as safe as a fortress surrounded by a moat. And what Sanson did next made him even safer: he dumped slops and garbage all around the vessel to attract sharks. There were plenty of sharks in the harbor anyway, so that swimming to
El Trinidad
was a form of suicide.

Nor could any boat approach the ship without being easily spotted.

Therefore, the approach must be open and apparently harmless. But an open longboat gave no opportunity for hiding. Hunter scratched his head. He paced the floor of the Black Boar and then, still restless, he went out into the street.

There he saw a water-spouter, a common conjurer of the day, spouting streams of multicolored water from his lips. Conjuring was forbidden in the Massachusetts Colony as tending to promote the work of the devil; for Hunter, it had an odd fascination.

He watched the water-spouter for several moments, as he drank and spewed different kinds of water one after another. Finally, he went up to the man.

“I want to know your secrets.”

“Many a fine woman in the Court of King Charles has said as much, and offered more than you have offered.”

“I offer you,” Hunter said, “your life.” And he pressed a loaded pistol in his face.

“You’ll not bully me,” the conjurer said.

“I fancy, I will.”

And a few moments later, he was back in the conjurer’s tent, hearing the details of his exploits.

“Things are not as they seem,” said the conjurer.

“Show me,” Hunter said.

The conjurer explained that before a performance, he swallowed a pill confected of the gall of a heifer and baked wheat flour. “This cleanses my stomach, you see.”

“I do. Go on.”

“Next, I take a mixture of brazil nuts and water, boiled until it is dark red in color. I swallow this before I work.”

“Go on.”

“Then I wash the glasses with white vinegar.”

“Go on.”

“And some glasses not so washed.”

“Go on.”

Then, the water-spouter explained, he drank water from clean glasses, and regurgitated the contents of his stomach, producing glasses of bright red “claret.” In other glasses, which had a coating of vinegar, the same liquid became “beer,” of a dark brown color.

Drinking and regurgitating more water produced a lighter red color, which was called “sherry.”

“There’s no more trick to it than that,” said the conjurer. “Things are not as they seem, and that’s an end to it.” He sighed. “It’s all in directing attention to the wrong place.”

Hunter thanked the man, and went off to search for Enders.

.   .   .

“
DO YOU KNOW
the woman who enabled our release from Marshallsea?”

“Anne Sharpe is her name.”

“Find her,” Hunter said. “And get for the longboat crew six of the best men you can muster.”

“Why, Captain?”

“We are going to pay a visit to Sanson.”

Chapter 38

A
NDRE SANSON, THE lethal, powerful Frenchman, was not accustomed to the sensation of fear, and he did not feel afraid as he saw the longboat put out from shore. He observed the boat carefully; from a distance, he could see six oarsmen and two people sitting in the bow, but he could not discern who they were.

He expected some ruse. The Englishman Hunter was crafty, and he would use his craft if he could. Sanson knew that he was not clever, as Hunter was. His own talents were more animal, more directly physical. And yet he was confident that there was no trick Hunter could play upon him. It was, very simply, impossible. He was alone on this ship and he would remain alone, safely, until night fell. But he would have his freedom by dusk or he would destroy the ship.

And he knew Hunter would never let the ship be destroyed. He had fought too hard and suffered too much for that treasure. He would do anything to keep it — even to the point of releasing Sanson. The Frenchman was confident.

He peered at the approaching longboat. As it came nearer, he saw that Hunter himself stood in the prow, along with some woman. What could be the meaning of this? His head ached to wonder what Hunter had planned.

Yet, in the end, he contented himself with the reassurance that no trick was possible. Hunter was clever but there was a limit to cleverness. And Hunter must know that even from a distance, he could be picked off as quickly and simply as a man brushes a fly from his sleeve. Sanson could kill him now if he wished. But there was no reason. All he wanted was his freedom, and a pardon. For that, he needed Hunter alive.

The longboat came closer, and Hunter waved cheerfully. “Sanson, you French pig!” he called.

Sanson waved back, grinning. “Hunter, you English pox of a sheep!” he shouted with a joviality that he did not feel at all. His tension was considerable, and increased as he realized how casually Hunter was behaving.

The longboat pulled alongside
El Trinidad
. Sanson leaned over slightly, showing them the crossbow. But he did not want to lean too far, though he was eager for a look inside the boat.

“Why are you here, Hunter?”

“I have brought you a present. May we come aboard?”

“You two only,” Sanson said, and stepped back from the railing. He quickly ran to the opposite side of the ship, to see if another longboat was approaching from another direction. He saw nothing but calm water, and the rippling fins of cruising sharks.

Turning back, he heard the sound of two people clambering up the side of the ship. He aimed his crossbow as a woman appeared. She was young and damnably pretty. She smiled at him, almost shyly, and stepped to one side as Hunter came on deck. Hunter paused, and looked at Sanson, who was twenty paces away, with the crossbow in his hands.

“Not a very hospitable greeting,” Hunter said.

“You must forgive me,” Sanson said. He looked at the girl, then back to Hunter. “Have you arranged to meet my demands?”

“I am doing so, even as we talk. Sir James is drawing up the papers, and they shall be delivered in a few hours.”

“And the meaning of this visit?”

Hunter gave a short laugh. “Sanson,” he said, “you know me for a practical man. You know that you have all the cards. I must agree to anything you say. This time, you have been too clever, even for me.”

“I know,” Sanson said.

“Someday,” Hunter said, his eyes narrowing, “I shall find you and kill you. I promise you that. But for now, you have won.”

“This is a trick,” Sanson said, with the sudden realization that something was very wrong.

“No trick,” Hunter said. “Torture.”

“Torture?”

“Indeed,” Hunter said. “Things are not always as they seem. So that you may spend the afternoon in pleasurable pursuits, I have brought you this woman. Surely we can agree that she is most charming — for an Englishwoman. I will leave her here for you.” Hunter laughed. “If you dare.”

Now Sanson laughed. “Hunter, you are the devil’s own servant. I cannot take this woman without ceasing to keep watch, yes?”

“May her English beauty torment you,” Hunter said, and then, with a short bow, he climbed over the side. Sanson listened to the thud of his feet on the hull of the ship, and then a final thump as Hunter landed in the longboat. He heard Hunter order the boat to put off, and he heard the stroke of the oars.

It was a trick, he thought. Somehow, a trick. He looked at the woman: she must be armed in some fashion.

“Lie down,” he growled harshly.

She seemed confused.

“Lie down!” he said, and stamped the deck.

She lay on the deck, and he moved cautiously over to her, then frisked her through her garments. She had no weapons. Yet he was sure it was a trick.

He went to the railing and looked out at the longboat, now pulling strongly for shore. Hunter sat in the bow, facing land, not looking back. There were six oarsmen. Everyone was accounted for.

“May I get up?” the girl asked, giggling.

He turned back to face her. “Yes, get up,” he said.

She stood and straightened her clothes. “Do I please you?”

“For an English pig,” he said harshly.

Without another word, she began to undress.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Captain Hunter said I should remove my clothes.”

“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.

Sanson began to climb the steps, still holding his hands out. Hunter saw that he had a dagger at his belt. His left hand began to drop toward it.

“Don’t.”

The left hand froze.

“Up.”

Sanson went up, with Hunter following him.

“I will still have you, my friend,” Sanson said.

“You will have only a shaft up your bum hole,” Hunter promised.

Both men came onto the main deck. Sanson backed toward the mast.

“We must talk. We must be reasonable.”

“Why?” Hunter said.

“Because I have hidden half the treasure. Look here,” Sanson said, fingering a gold coin about his neck. “Here I have marked where the treasure is located. The treasure from the
Cassandra
. Does that not interest you?”

“It does.”

“Well then. We have reason to negotiate.”

“You tried to kill me,” Hunter said, holding the crossbow steady.

“Would you not try the same, in my place?”

“No.”

“Of course you would,” Sanson said. “It is sheer impudence to deny it.”

“Perhaps I would,” Hunter said.

“There is no love lost between us.”

“I would not have crossed you.”

“You would, if you could.”

“No,” Hunter said, “I have something like honor—”

At that moment, from behind him, a female voice squealed, “Oh, Charles, you got him—”

Hunter turned fractionally, to look at Anne Sharpe, and in that moment, Sanson lunged.

Hunter fired automatically. With a
whish!
the crossbow arrow was released. It shot across the deck, catching Sanson in the chest, lifting him off his feet and pinning him to the mainmast, where he swung his arms and twitched.

“You have done me wrong,” Sanson said, with blood dripping from his lips.

Hunter said, “I was fair.”

Then Sanson died, his head slumping on his chest. Hunter plucked out the crossbow arrow, and the body fell to the ground. Then he pulled the gold coin with the treasure map etched in its surface from around Sanson’s neck. While Anne Sharpe watched, with her hand covering her mouth, Hunter dragged the body to the side of the ship, and pushed it overboard.

It floated on the water.

The sharks circled it warily. Then one came forward, tugged at the flesh, tore away a piece. Then another, and another; the water churned and foamed blood. It lasted only a few minutes, and then the color dissipated, and the surface was still, and Hunter looked away.