Pirate Latitudes. Michael Crichton
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of Port Royal, debts were paid fully and promptly. There was no more damaging reputation a man could have than one who failed to pay his debts, or to divide spoils equally. On a privateering raid, any man who tried to conceal a part of the general booty was always put to death. Hunter himself had shot more than one thieving seaman through the heart and kicked the corpse overboard without a second thought.
“You cheated me at cards,” Levasseur said.
“You were too drunk to know the difference.”
“You cheated me. You took fifty pounds. I want it back.”
Hunter looked around the room. There were no witnesses, which was unfortunate. He did not want to kill Levasseur without witnesses. He had too many enemies. “How did I cheat you at cards?” he asked. As he spoke, he moved slightly closer to Levasseur.
“How? Who cares a damn for how? God’s blood, you cheated me.” Levasseur raised the tankard to his lips.
Hunter chose that moment to lunge. He pushed his palm flat against the upturned tankard, ramming it back against Levasseur’s face, which thudded against the back wall. Levasseur gurgled and collapsed, blood dripping from his mouth. Hunter grabbed the tankard and crashed it down on Levasseur’s skull. The Frenchman lay unconscious.
Hunter shook his hand free of the wine on his fingers, turned, and walked out of Mrs. Denby’s Inn. He stepped ankle-deep into the mud of the street, but paid no attention. He was thinking of Levasseur’s drunkenness. It was sloppy of him to be so drunk while waiting for someone.
It was time for another raid, Hunter thought. They were all getting soft. He himself had spent one night too many in his cups, or with the women of the port. They should go to sea again.
Hunter walked through the mud, smiling and waving to the whores who yelled to him from high windows, and made his way to the Governor’s Mansion.
“ALL HAVE REMARKED upon the comet, seen over London on the eve of the plague,” said Captain Morton, sipping his wine. “There was a comet before the plague of ’56, as well.”
“So there was,” Almont said. “And what of that? There was a comet in ’59, and no plague that I recall.”
“An outbreak of the pox in Ireland,” said Mr. Hacklett, “in that very year.”
“There is always an outbreak of the pox in Ireland,” Almont said. “In every year.”
Hunter said nothing. Indeed, he had said little during the dinner, which he found as dreary as any he had ever attended at the Governor’s Mansion. For a time, he had been intrigued by the new faces—Morton, the captain of the Godspeed, and Hacklett, the new secretary, a silly pinch-faced prig of a man. And Mrs. Hacklett, who looked to have French blood in her slender darkness, and a certain lascivious animal quality.
For Hunter, the most interesting moment in the evening had been the arrival of a new serving girl, a delicious pale blond child who came and went from time to time. He kept trying to catch her eye. Hacklett noticed, and gave Hunter a disapproving stare. It was not the first disapproving stare he had given Hunter that evening.
When the girl came round to refill the glasses, Hacklett said, “Does your taste run to servants, Mr. Hunter?”
“When they are pretty,” Hunter said casually. “And how does your taste run?”
“The mutton is excellent,” Hacklett said, coloring deeply, staring at his plate.
With a grunt, Almont turned the conversation to the Atlantic passage his guests had just made. There was a description of a tropical storm, told in exciting and overwrought detail by Morton, who acted as if he were the first person in human history to face a little white water. Hacklett added a few frightening touches, and Mrs. Hacklett allowed that she had been quite ill.
Hunter grew increasingly bored. He drained his wineglass.
“Well then,” Morton continued, “after two days of this most dreadful storm, the third day dawned perfectly clear, a magnificent morning. One could see for miles and the wind was fair from the north. But we did not know our position, having been blown for forty-eight hours. We sighted land to port, and made for it.”
A mistake, Hunter thought. Obviously Morton was grossly inexperienced. In the Spanish waters, an English vessel never made for land without knowing exactly whose land it was. The odds were, the Don held it.
“We came round the island, and to our astonishment we saw a warship anchored in the harbor. Small island, but there it was, a Spanish warship and no doubt of it. We felt certain it would give chase.”
“And what happened?” Hunter asked, not very interested.
“It remained in the harbor,” Morton said, and laughed. “I should like to have a more exciting conclusion to the tale, but the truth is it did not come after us. The warship remained in the harbor.”
“The Don saw you, of course?” Hunter said, growing more interested.
“Well, they must have done. We were under full canvas.”
“How close by were you?”
“No more than two or three miles offshore. The island wasn’t on our charts, you know. I suppose it was too small to be charted. It had a single harbor, with a fortress to one side. I must say we all felt we had a narrow escape.”
Hunter turned slowly to look at Almont. Almont was staring at him, with a slight smile.
“Does the episode amuse you, Captain Hunter?”
Hunter turned back to Morton. “You say there was a fortress by the harbor?”
“Indeed, a rather imposing fortress, it seemed.”
“On the north or south shore of the harbor?”
“Let me recollect—north shore. Why?”
“How long ago did you see this ship?” Hunter asked.
“Three or four days past. Make it three days. As soon as we had our bearings, we ran straight for Port Royal.”
Hunter drummed his fingers on the table. He frowned at his empty wineglass. There was a short silence.
Almont cleared his throat. “Captain Hunter, you seem preoccupied by this story.”
“Intrigued,” Hunter said. “I am sure the governor is equally intrigued.”
“I believe,” Almont said, “that it is fair to say the interests of the Crown have been aroused.”
Hacklett sat stiffly in his chair. “Sir James,” he said, “would you edify the rest of us as to the import of all this?”
“Just a moment,” Almont said, with an impatient wave of the hand. He was looking fixedly at Hunter. “What terms do you make?”
“Equal division, first,” Hunter said.
“My dear Hunter, equal division is most unattractive to the Crown.”
“My dear Governor, anything less would make the expedition most unattractive to the seamen.”
Almont smiled. “You recognize, of course, that the prize is enormous.”
“Indeed. I also recognize that the island is impregnable. You sent Edmunds with three hundred men against it last year. Only one returned.”
“You yourself have expressed the opinion that Edmunds was not a resourceful man.”
“But Cazalla is certainly resourceful.”
“Indeed. And yet it seems to me that Cazalla is a man you should like to meet.”
“Not unless there was an equal division.”
“But,” Sir James said, smiling in an easy way, “if you expect the Crown to outfit the expedition, that cost must be returned before any division. Fair?”