Pirate Latitudes. Michael Crichton
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7
LATER, AS HE was leaving the Governor’s Mansion, Mrs. Hacklett appeared in the hall, and came over to him. “Captain Hunter.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hacklett.”
“I want to apologize for the inexcusable conduct of my husband.”
“No apology is necessary.”
“On the contrary, Captain. I think it entirely necessary. He behaved like a boor and an oaf.”
“Madam, your husband apologized as a gentleman on his own behalf, and the matter is concluded.” He nodded to her. “Good evening.”
“Captain Hunter.”
He stopped at the door and turned. “Yes, Madam?”
“You are a most attractive man, Captain.”
“Madam, you are very gracious. I look forward to our next meeting.”
“I as well, Captain.”
Hunter walked away thinking that Mr. Hacklett had best look to his wife. Hunter had seen it happen before—a well-bred woman, reared in a rural gentry setting in England, who found some excitement in the Court—as no doubt Mrs. Hacklett had—if her husband looked away—as no doubt Mr. Hacklett had. Nevertheless, on finding herself in the Indies, far from home, far from the restraints of class and custom…Hunter had seen it before.
He walked down the cobbled street away from the mansion. He passed the cookhouse, still brightly lit, the servants working inside. All houses in Port Royal had separate cookhouses, a necessity in the hot climate. Through the open windows, he saw the figure of the blond girl who had served dinner. He waved to her.
She waved back and turned away to her work.
THEY WERE BAITING a bear outside Mrs. Denby’s Inn. Hunter watched the children pelt the helpless animal with rocks; they laughed and giggled and shouted as the bear growled and tugged at its stout chain. A couple of whores beat the bear with sticks. Hunter walked past, and entered the inn.
Trencher was there, sitting in a corner, drinking with his one good arm. Hunter called to him, and drew him aside.
“What is it, Captain?” Trencher asked eagerly.
“I want you to find some mates for me.”
“Say who they shall be, Captain.”
“Lazue, Mr. Enders, Sanson. And the Moor.”
Trencher smiled. “You want them here?”
“No. Find where they are, and I’ll seek them out. Now, where is Whisper?”
“In the Blue Goat,” Trencher said. “The back room.”
“And Black Eye is in Farrow Street?”
“I think so. You want the Jew, too, do you?”
“I am trusting your tongue,” Hunter said. “Keep it still now.”
“Will you take me with you, Captain?”
“If you do as you are told.”
“I swear by God’s wounds, Captain.”
“Then look sharp,” Hunter said, and left the inn, returning to the muddy street. The night air was warm and still, as it had been during the day. He heard the soft strumming of a guitar, and, somewhere, drunken laughter, and a single gunshot. He set off down Ridge Street for the Blue Goat.
The town of Port Royal was divided into rough sections, oriented around the port itself. Nearest the dockside were located the taverns and brothels and gaming houses. Farther back, away from the brawling activity of the waterfront, the streets were quieter. Here the grocers and backers, the furniture workers and ships’ chandlers, the blacksmiths and goldsmiths could be found. Still farther back, on the south side of the bay, were the handful of respectable inns and private homes. The Blue Goat was a respectable inn.
Hunter entered, nodding to the gentlemen drinking at the tables. He recognized the best landsman’s doctor, Mr. Perkins; one of the councilmen, Mr. Pickering; the bailiff of the Bridewell gaol; and several other respectable gentlemen.
Ordinarily, a common privateering seaman would not be welcome in the Blue Goat, but Hunter was accepted with good grace. This was a simple recognition of the way the commerce of the Port depended upon a steady stream of successful privateering raids. Hunter was a skilled and daring captain, and thus an important member of the community. In the previous year, his three forays had returned more than two hundred thousand pistoles and doubloons to Port Royal. Much of this money found its way to the pockets of these gentlemen, and they greeted him accordingly.
Mistress Wickham, who managed the Blue Goat, was less warm. A widow, she had some years before taken up with Whisper, and she knew, when Hunter arrived, that he had come to see him. She jerked her thumb toward a back room. “In there, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mistress Wickham.”
He crossed directly to the back room, knocked, and opened the door without hearing any answering greeting; he knew there would be none. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle. Hunter blinked to adjust to the light. He heard a rhythmic creaking. Finally, he was able to see Whisper, sitting in a corner, in a rocking chair. Whisper held a primed pistol, aimed at Hunter’s belly.
“A good evening, Whisper.”
The reply was low, a rasping hiss. “A good evening, Captain Hunter. You are alone?”
“I am.”
“Then come in” came the hissing reply. “A touch of kill-devil?” Whisper pointed to a barrel beside him, which served as a table. There were glasses and a small crock of rum.
“With thanks, Whisper.”
Hunter watched as Whisper poured two glasses of dark brown liquid. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see his companion better.
Whisper—no one knew his real name—was a large, heavyset man with oversized, pale hands. He had once been a successful privateering captain in his own right. Then he had gone on the Matanceros raid with Edmunds. Whisper was the sole survivor, after Cazalla had captured him, cut his throat, and left him for dead. Somehow Whisper lived, but not without the loss of his voice. This and the large, white arcing scar beneath his chin were obvious proofs of his past.
Since his return to Port Royal, Whisper had hidden in this back room, a strong, vigorous man but one without courage—the steel gone out of him. He was frightened; he was never without a weapon in his hands and another at his side. Now, as he rocked in his chair, Hunter saw the gleam of a cutlass on the floor within easy reach.
“What brings you, Captain? Matanceros?”
Hunter must have looked startled. Whisper broke into laughter. Whisper’s laughter was a horrifying sound, a high-pitched wheezing sizzle, like a steam kettle. He threw his head back to laugh, revealing the white scar plainly.
“I startle you, Captain? You are surprised I know?”
“Whisper,” Hunter said. “Do others know?”
“Some,” Whisper hissed. “Or they suspect. But they do not understand. I heard the story of Morton’s voyage.”
“Ah.”
“You are going, Captain?”
“Tell me about Matanceros, Whisper.”
“You wish a map?”
“Yes.”
“Fifteen shillings?”
“Done,” Hunter said. He knew he would pay Whisper twenty, to ensure his friendship and his silence to any later visitors. And for his part, Whisper would know the obligation conferred by the extra five shillings. And he would know that Hunter would kill him if he spoke to anyone else about Matanceros.
Whisper