Hunter felt the breeze more strongly on his cheeks.
“We’ve no luck today,” Enders said.
They could now see the mainsails of the pursuing craft, pink in the sunset and billowing full in the freshened breeze.
Les Caiques were still far away, a safe haven maddeningly distant, beyond their reach.
“Shall we turn and run, Captain?” Enders asked.
Hunter shook his head. The Cassandra might do better in a run before the wind, but that could only be postponing the inevitable. Unable to do anything, Hunter clenched his fists with impotent rage and watched the sails of the pursuing ship grow larger. They could see the edge of the hull now.
“She’s a ship of the line, all right,” Enders said. “I can’t make out the bow.”
The shape of the bow was the most likely way to tell nationality. Spanish warships tended to have a blunter bowline than English or Dutch ships.
Sanson came back to the tiller. “Are you going to fight?” he said.
In answer, Hunter just pointed to the ship. The hull was now clear of the horizon. She was more than a hundred and thirty feet at the waterline, and she had two gun decks. The gunports were opened, the blunt snouts of the cannon protruding. Hunter did not bother to count them; there were at least twenty, perhaps thirty, on the starboard side that he could see.
“She’s Donnish to my eye,” Sanson said.
“So she is,” Hunter agreed.
“Will you fight?”
“Fight that?” Hunter said. Even as he spoke, the warship came around and fired an opening volley at the Cassandra. The guns were still too far away; the shot splashed harmlessly off the port side, but the warning was clear. Another thousand yards and the warship would be within range.
Hunter sighed. “Come into the wind,” he said softly.
“Beg pardon, Captain,” Enders said.
“I said, come into the wind and release all halyards.”
“Aye, Captain,” Enders said.
Sanson glared at Hunter, and stomped off forward. Hunter paid no attention. He watched as his little sloop nosed into the wind, and the lines were let out. The sails luffed noisily in the breeze; the boat came to a standstill. Hunter’s crew lined the port rail, watching as the warship came closer. The hull of the ship was painted entirely black, with gilt trim, and the arms of Philip - prancing lions - shone on the aft castle. It was Spanish all right.
“We could make a fair show,” Enders said, “when they move in to take us. You’ve only to give us the word, Captain.”
“No,” Hunter said. On a ship of that size, there would be at least two hundred sailors, and as many armed soldiers on deck. Sixty men in an open sloop against four hundred in a larger craft? In the face of the least resistance, the warship would simply move off a distance and fire broadsides at the Cassandra until she sank.
“Better to die with a sword in your hands than a Popish rope around your neck, or the Don’s damned fire curling your toes,” Enders said.
“We will wait,” Hunter said.
“Wait for what?”
Hunter had no answer. He watched as the warship came so close that the shadow of the Cassandra ’s mainsail fell across her side. Spanish voices shouted staccato commands in the growing darkness.
He looked at his own ship. Sanson was hurriedly priming pistols, jamming them into his belt. Hunter went over to him.
“I am going to fight,” Sanson said. “You may give yourselves up like timid women, but I will fight.”
Hunter had a sudden idea. “Then do this,” he said, and whispered into Sanson’s ear. A moment later, the Frenchman crept away.
The Spanish shouts continued. Ropes were thrown to the Cassandra. An unbroken line of soldiers with muskets stood high above them on the warship’s main deck, aiming down into the little sloop. The first of the Spanish soldiers climbed down to Cassandra. One by one, Hunter and his crew were prodded with muskets and forced to climb the rope ladder to the enemy vessel.
Chapter 15
AFTER THEY HAD spent so many days cramped aboard the Cassandra, the warship seemed enormous. Its main deck was so vast it appeared like a plain, stretched out before them. Hunter’s crew, hustled together by soldiers around the mainmast - the same crew that filled the sloop to overflowing - looked puny and insignificant here. Hunter looked at the faces of his men; they averted their eyes, not returning the gaze; their expressions were angry, frustrated, disappointed.
High above, the enormous sails fluttered in the breeze, making a noise so great that the dark Spanish officer confronting him had to shout to be heard.
“You are captain?” he bellowed.
Hunter nodded.
“What is called?”
“Hunter,” he shouted back.
“English?”
“Yes.”
“You go to this captain,” the man said, and two armed soldiers hustled Hunter below. Apparently, he was to be taken to the captain of the warship. Hunter looked over his shoulder, and had a last glimpse of his forlorn crew around the mast. Already, their hands were being bound behind their backs. The warship’s crew was efficient.
He stumbled down the narrow stairs to the gun deck. He had a brief glimpse of the long line of cannon, their crews standing ready, before he was roughly shoved aft. As he passed the open gunports to aft, he could look down at his little sloop, tied alongside the warship. Spanish soldiers were swarming over it, and the Spanish sailors of the prize crew were examining its fittings and lines, preparing to sail it.
He was not allowed to linger; a musket at his back prodded him along. They came to a door with two heavily armed, evil-looking men standing guard. Hunter noticed that these men wore no uniforms and assumed an air of peculiar superiority; they glanced at him with pitying disdain. One of them knocked on the door and said a few quick words in Spanish; there was an answering grunt, and they opened the door, and pushed Hunter in. One of the guards went inside as well, and closed the door.
The captain’s cabin was remarkably large, and ornately fitted. There was evidence of space and luxury everywhere. There was a dining table with a fine linen cloth, and gold plates set out for the evening meal by candlelight. There was a comfortable bed with a brocade bedcover laced in gold. A richly colored oil painting depicting Christ on the cross hung in a corner, above a cannon with an open porthole. In another corner, a lantern cast a warm golden light over the room.
There was another table at the rear of the cabin; maps covered it. Behind that table, in a plush red velvet chair, sat the captain himself.
His back was turned to Hunter as he poured wine from a cut-crystal decanter. Hunter could see only that the man was very large; his back was broad as a bull’s.
“Well now,” the captain said, in very good English, “can I persuade you to join me in a glass of this excellent claret?”
Before Hunter could reply, the captain turned. Hunter found himself staring into glowering eyes set in a heavy face with a strong nose and jet-black beard. Without his wishing, the word sprang from his lips:
“Cazalla!”
The Spaniard laughed heartily. “Did you expect King Charles?”
Hunter was speechless. He was vaguely aware that his lips worked, but no sound came out. At the same time, a thousand questions sprang to mind. Why was Cazalla here, and not in Matanceros? Did that mean the galleon was gone? Or had he left the fortress in command of some capable lieutenant?
