“Your captain,” he said loudly, “will not tell me your destination. He says it is Augustine,” he said, with heavy sarcasm. “Augustine: a child could lie more convincingly. But I tell you: I will know your purpose. Which man of you will step forward and say?”
Cazalla looked at the two lines of men. The men stared back at him with blank faces.
“Must I encourage you? Eh?” Cazalla stepped close to one seaman. “You. Will you speak?”
The seaman did not move, did not speak, did not even blink. After a moment, Cazalla resumed his pacing.
“Your silence means nothing,” he said. “You are all heretics and brigands, and you will swing at the end of a rope in good time. Until that day, a man can either live comfortably, or not. Any man who speaks shall live at his ease until the appointed day, and for that he has my solemn word.”
Still no one moved. Cazalla stopped pacing. “You are fools. You mistake my determination.”
He was standing now in front of Trencher, clearly the youngest member of the privateer crew. Trencher trembled, but he held his head high.
“You, lad,” Cazalla said, his voice softening. You do not belong in this rough company. Speak up, and tell me the purpose of your voyage.”
Trencher opened his mouth, then closed it again. His lip trembled.
“Speak,” Cazalla said softly. “Speak, speak…”
But the moment had passed. Trencher’s lips were firm and tight together.
Cazalla watched him for a moment, and then with a single, swift gesture slit his throat with the knife in his hand. It happened so quickly Hunter hardly saw it. Blood poured in a broad red sheet down the boy’s shirt. His eyes were wide with horror and he shook his head slowly in a kind of disbelief. Trencher sank to his knees and remained there a moment, head bowed, watching his own blood drip onto the wood decking, and onto the toes of Cazalla’s boots. The Spaniard stepped back with a curse.
Trencher remained kneeling for what seemed an eternity. Then he looked up, and gazed for an agonizing moment into Hunter’s eyes. His look was pleading, and confused, and afraid. And then his eyes rolled upward and his body pitched flat onto the deck, and he gave a violent shiver.
All the seamen were watching Trencher die, and yet no man moved. His body convulsed, his shoes making a scrabbling sound on the wood of the deck. Blood ran in a large pool around his face. And then finally he was still.
Cazalla had watched the death throes with utter absorption. Now he stepped forward, placed his foot on the dead boy’s neck, and stamped hard. There was the crunch of breaking bones.
He looked at the two lines of seamen. “I shall know the truth,” he said. “I swear to you, I shall know it.” He spun to his first mate. “Take them below and lock them,” he said. He nodded to Hunter. “Take him with them.”
And he strode off to the aft castle. Hunter was bound and taken below with the others.
The Spanish warship had five decks. The upper two decks were gun decks; some of the crew slept here, in hammocks stretched between the cannon. Next were quarters for the soldiers. The fourth deck was given over to storage of shot, food, block and tackle, fittings, provisions, and livestock. The fifth and lowest deck was hardly a deck at all: it was barely four feet from the floor to the heavy-beamed ceiling, and because this deck was below the waterline, there was no ventilation. The heavy air stank of feces and bilge.
The Cassandra ’s crew was taken here. The men were made to sit on the rough floors, a little apart from each other. Twenty soldiers were stationed as guards in corners of the room, and from time to time one would walk around with a lantern, examining each man’s bonds to be certain they were not loosened.
Talking was not permitted, nor was sleep, and any man who tried either was treated to a rough kick from a soldier’s boot. The men were not allowed to move, and if they had to relieve themselves, they did so where they sat. With sixty men and twenty guards, the narrow airless space soon became suffocating, hot, and fetid. Even the guards were soaked in sweat.
There was no indicator of the passage of time. The only sounds were the heavy thumping movements of the livestock on the deck above, and the endless, monotonous hiss of water as the warship sailed forward. Hunter sat in the corner, trying to concentrate on the sound of the water, waiting for it to cease. He tried to ignore the true desperateness of his condition - he and his crew were buried deep in the bowels of a mighty warship, surrounded by hundreds of enemy soldiers, utterly at their mercy. Unless Cazalla anchored for the night, they were all doomed. Hunter’s sole chance depended on the warship halting overnight.
Time passed: he waited.
Eventually, he was aware of a change in the gurgle of the water, and a shift in the creaking of the rigging. He sat up, listening carefully. There was no doubt of it - the ship was slowing.
The soldiers, huddled together and speaking quietly, noticed it too, and commented among themselves. A moment later, the sound of the water ceased entirely, and Hunter heard the rattle of the anchor chain being let out. The anchor splashed loudly; somewhere in his mind, Hunter made a note that he was near the bow of the ship. Otherwise the sound would not be so distinct.
More time passed. The warship rocked gently at anchor. They must be in some protected cove, for the water to be so calm. Yet the ship had a deep draft, and Cazalla would not bring his ship into any harbor at night unless he knew it well.
He wondered where they were, and hoped it was in a cove near Turk Isle. There were several leeward coves deep enough for a ship this size.
The rocking of the warship at anchor was restful. More than once he felt himself dozing off. The soldiers kept busy kicking the seamen, keeping them awake. The gloomy semidarkness of the low deck was frequently punctuated by the grunts and groans of the crew as they were kicked.
Hunter wondered about his plan. What was happening?
After a further passage of time, a Spanish soldier came down and barked, “Every man to stand! Orders of Cazalla! All stand to feet!” Encouraged by the boots of the soldiers, the seamen stood, one by one, bent over in the narrow deck. It was an aching, agonizingly uncomfortable posture.
More time passed. The guard was changed. The new soldiers entered holding their noses and making jokes about the smell. Hunter looked at them oddly; he had long since ceased to be aware of any odor.
The new guards were younger and more casual about their duties. Apparently, the Spaniards were convinced the pirates could give them no trouble. The new guards quickly turned to playing cards. Hunter looked away, and watched drops of his own sweat fall to the floor. He thought of poor Trencher, but he could not work up anger, or indignation, or even fear. He was numb.
A new soldier arrived. He was some sort of officer and apparently he was displeased with the relaxed attitude of the young men. He barked out sharp orders and the men hastily put aside their cards.
The new officer went around the room, examining the faces of the privateers. Finally, he plucked one fellow out of the group, and led him away. The man collapsed on rubbery legs when ordered to walk; the soldiers picked him up and dragged him out.
The door closed. The guards made a brief display of attentiveness, and then relaxed again. But they did not play cards. After a while, two of them decided to engage in a contest to see who could urinate the farthest. The target was a seaman in the corner. This game was considered fine sport by the guards, who laughed and pretended to bet enormous sums of money on the outcome.
Hunter was only dimly aware of these events. He was very tired; his legs burned with fatigue and his back ached. He began to wonder why he had refused to tell Cazalla the purpose of the voyage. It seemed a meaningless gesture.
At that moment, Hunter’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another officer, who barked: “Captain Hunter!” And Hunter was led away, out of the room.
As he was pushed and prodded through the decks of sleeping seamen, rocking in their hammocks, he distinctly heard, from somewhere in the ship, an odd and plaintive sound.
It was the sound of a woman crying.
Chapter 17
