His given name, Bassa, was a port on the Guinea coast, where slavers sometimes stopped, but all agreed that the Moor could not have come from that land, since the natives were sickly and much paler in color.
The fact that the Moor was mute and had to communicate with gestures increased the physical impression that he made. On occasion, newly arrived visitors to the port assumed that Bassa was stupid as well as mute, and as Hunter watched the card game in progress, he suspected that this was happening again. He took a tankard of wine to a side table and sat back to enjoy the spectacle.
The Dutchmen were dandies, elegantly dressed in fine hose and embroidered silk tunics. They were drinking heavily. The Moor did not drink at all; indeed, he never drank. There was a story that he could not tolerate liquor, and that once he had gotten drunk and killed five men with his bare hands before he came to his senses. Whether this was true or not, it was certainly true that the Moor had murdered the plantation owner who had cut out his tongue, then murdered his wife and half the household before making his escape to the pirate ports on the western side of Hispañola, and from there, to Port Royal.
Hunter watched the Dutchmen as they bet. They were gambling recklessly, joking and laughing in high spirits. The Moor sat impassively, with a stack of gold coins in front of him. Gleek was a swift game that did not warrant casual betting, and indeed, as Hunter watched, the Moor drew three cards alike, showed them, and scooped up the Dutchmen’s money.
They stared in silence a moment, and then both shouted “Cheat!” in several languages. The Moor shook his enormous head calmly, and pocketed the money.
The Dutchmen insisted that they play another hand, but in a gesture, the Moor indicated that they had no money left to bet.
At this, the Dutchmen became quarrelsome, shouting and pointing to the Moor. Bassa remained impassive, but a serving boy came over, and he handed the boy a single gold doubloon.
The Dutchmen apparently did not understand that the Moor was paying, in advance, for any damage that he might cause the gaming house. The serving boy took the coin and fled to a safe distance.
The Dutchmen were now standing, and shouting curses at the Moor, who remained seated at the table. His face was bland, but his eyes flicked back and forth from one man to the other. The Dutchmen became more quarrelsome, holding out their hands and demanding the return of their money.
The Moor shook his head.
Then one of the Dutchmen pulled a dagger from his belt, and brandished it in front of the Moor, just inches from his nose. Still the Moor remained impassive. He sat very still, with both hands folded in front of him on the table.
The other Dutchman started to tug a pistol out of his belt, and with that, the Moor sprang into action. His large black hand flicked out, gripped the dagger in the Dutchman’s hand, and swung the blade down, burying it three inches deep in the tabletop. Then he struck the second Dutchman in the stomach; the man dropped his pistol and bent over, coughing. The Moor kicked him in the face and sent him sprawling across the room. He then turned back to the first Dutchman, whose eyes were wide with terror. The Moor picked him up bodily, held him high over his head, walked to the door, and flung the man through the air, out into the street, where he landed spread-eagled on his face in the mud.
The Moor returned to the room, plucked the knife out of the table, slipped it into his own belt, and crossed the room to sit next to Hunter. Only then did he allow himself a smile.
“New men,” Hunter said.
The Moor nodded, grinning. Then he frowned and pointed to Hunter. His face was questioning.
“I came to see you.”
The Moor shrugged.
“We sail in two days.”
The Moor pursed his lips, mouthing a single word: Ou?
“Matanceros,” Hunter said. The Moor looked disgusted.
“You’re not interested?”
The Moor smirked, and drew a forefinger across his throat.
“I tell you, it can be done,” Hunter said. “Are you afraid of heights?”
The Moor made a hand-over-hand gesture, and shook his head.
“I don’t mean a ship’s rigging,” Hunter said. “I mean a cliff. A high cliff - three or four hundred feet.”
The Moor scratched his forehead. He looked at the ceiling, apparently imagining the height of the cliff. Finally, he nodded.
“You can do it?”
He nodded again.
“Even in a high wind? Good. Then you’ll go with us.”
Hunter started to get up, but the Moor pushed him back into his chair. The Moor jangled the coins in his pocket, and pointed a questioning finger at Hunter.
“Don’t worry,” Hunter said. “It’s worth it.”
The Moor smiled. Hunter left.
…
HE FOUND SANSON in a second-floor room of the Queen’s Arms. Hunter knocked on the door and waited. He heard a giggle and a sigh, then knocked again.
A surprisingly high voice called, “Damn you to hell and be gone.”
Hunter hesitated, and knocked again.
“God’s blood, who is it now?” came the voice from inside.
“Hunter.”
“Damn me. Come in, Hunter.”
Hunter opened the door, letting it swing wide, but he did not enter; a moment later, the chamber pot and its contents came flying through the open door.
Hunter heard a soft chuckle from inside the room. “Cautious as ever, Hunter. You will outlive us all. Enter.”
Hunter entered the room. By the light of a single candle, he saw Sanson sitting up in bed, next to a blond girl. “You have interrupted us, my son,” Sanson said. “Let us pray that you have good reason.”
“I do,” Hunter said.
There was a moment of awkward silence, as the two men stared at each other. Sanson scratched his heavy black beard. “Am I to guess the reason for your coming?”
“No,” Hunter said, glancing at the girl.
“Ah,” Sanson said. He turned to the girl. “My delicate peach…” He kissed the tips of her fingers and pointed with his hand across the room.
The girl immediately scrambled naked out of bed, hastily grabbed up her clothes, and bolted from the room.
“Such a delightful creature,” Sanson said.
Hunter closed the door.
“She is French, you know,” Sanson said. “French women make the best lovers, don’t you agree?”
“They certainly make the best whores.”
Sanson laughed. He was a large, heavy man who gave the impression of brooding darkness - dark hair, dark eyebrows that met over the nose, dark beard, dark skin. But his voice was surprisingly high, especially when he laughed. “Can I not entice you to agree that French women are superior to English women?”
“Only in the prevalence of disease.”
Sanson laughed heartily. “Hunter, your sense of humor is most unusual. Will you take a glass of wine with me?”
“With pleasure.”
Sanson poured from the bottle on his bedside table. Hunter took the glass and raised it in a toast. “Your health.”
“And yours,” Sanson said, and they drank. Neither man took his eyes off the other.
For his part, Hunter plainly did not trust Sanson. He did not, in fact, wish to take Sanson on the expedition, but the Frenchman was necessary to the success of the undertaking. For Sanson, despite his pride, his vanity, and
