HUNTER HAD NO opportunity to reflect on the meaning of that strange sound, for he was pushed hastily onto the main deck. There, beneath the stars and the reefed sails, he noticed that the moon was low - which meant that dawn could not be more than a few hours away.
He felt a sharp pain of despair.
“Englishman, come here!”
Hunter looked around and saw Cazalla, standing near the mainmast, in the center of a ring of torches. At his feet, the seaman previously taken from the room lay spread-eagled on his back, firmly lashed to the deck. A number of Spanish soldiers stood about, and all were grinning broadly.
Cazalla himself seemed highly excited; he was breathing rapidly and shallowly. Hunter noticed that he was chewing more coca leaf.
“Englishman, Englishman,” he said, speaking rapidly. “You are just in time to witness our little sport. Do you know we searched your ship? No? Well, we did, and we found many interesting things.”
Oh God, Hunter thought. No…
“You have much rope, Englishman, and you have funny iron hooks that fold up, and you have other strange things of canvas which we do not understand. But most of all, Englishman, we do not understand this.”
Hunter’s heart pounded: if they had found the grenadoe s, then it would all be finished.
But Cazalla held out a case with four rats. The rats scampered back and forth and squeaked nervously.
“Can you imagine, Englishman, how amazed we were to find that you bring rats on your ship? We say to ourselves, why is this? Why does the Englishman carry rats to Augustine? Augustine has rats of its own, Florida rats, very good ones. Yes? So I wonder, how do I explain this?”
Hunter watched as a soldier did something to the face of the seaman lashed to the deck. At first he could not see what was being done; the man’s face was being rubbed or stroked. Then Hunter realized: they were smearing cheese on his face.
“So,” Cazalla said, waving the cage in the air, “then I see that you are not kind to your friends, the rats. They are hungry, Englishman. They want food. You see how excited they are? They smell food. That is why they are excited. I think we should feed them, yes?”
Cazalla set the cage down within inches of the seaman’s face. The rats flung themselves at the bars, trying to get to the cheese.
“Do you see what I mean, Englishman? Your rats are very hungry. Do you not think we should feed them?”
Hunter stared at the rats, and at the frightened eyes of the immobile seaman.
“I am wondering if your friend here will talk,” Cazalla said.
The seaman could not take his eyes off the rats.
“Or perhaps, Englishman, you will talk for him?”
“No,” Hunter said wearily.
Cazalla bent over the seaman and tapped him on the chest. “And you, will you talk?” With his other hand, Cazalla touched the latch to the cage door.
The seaman focused on the latch, watching as Cazalla raised the bar slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time. Finally, the latch was released; Cazalla held the door closed with a single finger.
“Your last chance, my friend…”
“Non!” the seaman shrieked. “Je parle! Je parle!”
“Good,” Cazalla said, switching smoothly to French.
“Matanceros,” the seaman said.
Cazalla turned livid with rage. “Matanceros! You idiot, you expect me to believe that? To attack Matanceros!” And, abruptly, he released the door to the cage.
The seaman shrieked hideously as the rats leapt to his face. He shook his head, the four furry bodies clinging to the flesh of his cheeks and scalp and chin. The rats chattered and squeaked; one was flung off but instantly scrambled back across the man’s heaving chest and bit into the neck. The seaman screamed over and over in terror, a monotonous, repeated sound. Finally, the man collapsed from shock, and lay unmoving while the rats, chattering, continued to feed on his face.
Cazalla stood. “Why do you all think me so stupid?” he said. “Englishman, I swear. I will have the truth of your voyage.”
He turned to the guards. “Take him below.”
Hunter was hustled off the deck. As he was pushed down the narrow stairway, he had a brief glimpse over the rail of the Cassandra, lying at anchor some yards away from the warship.
Chapter 18
THE SLOOP CASSANDRA was essentially an open boat, with a single main deck exposed to the elements, and small storage lockers located fore and aft. These had been searched by the soldiers and the prize crew, when the ship was taken during the afternoon. The crew had found all the provisions and special fittings that Cazalla considered so perplexing.
Soldiers swarming over the boat had searched it with great thoroughness. They had even peeked through the fore and aft hatches, which opened down into the keelson; with lanterns, they saw bilge water rising almost to the decking itself, and they made sarcastic comments about the laziness of the pirates in emptying the bilge.
When the Cassandra made for the protected cove, and hove to in the shadow of the warship, its prize crew of ten spent several hours drinking and laughing by torchlight. When they finally slept in the early hours of the morning, lying on the deck on blankets in the warm night air, their sleep was heavy with rum. Although they had been ordered to post a watch, they did not bother to do so; the nearby warship offered protection enough.
Thus, no member of the crew, lying on the deck, was aware of a soft gurgle from the bilge compartment and no one saw a man with a reed in his mouth rise out of the oily, stinking water.
Sanson, shivering with cold, had lain for hours with his head alongside the oilskin sac, which contained the precious grenadoes. Neither he nor the sac had been noticed. Now, he was just able to lift his chin above the level of the bilge water before he struck the top of his head on the decking. He was surrounded by darkness, with no sense of orientation. Using his hands and feet, he pressed his back down against the hull, feeling its curved shape. He decided he was on the port side of the ship, and moved slowly, quietly, toward the centerline. Then, with exquisite slowness, he eased himself aft, until his head softly bumped the rectangular indentation of the aft hatch. Looking up, he saw slats of lights from the grating of the hatch. Stars above. No sounds, except a snoring seaman.
He took a breath, and raised his head. The hatch moved up a few inches. He could see the deck. He was staring directly into the face of a sleeping seaman, not more than a foot away. The man snored loudly.
Sanson lowered the hatch again, and moved forward through the bilge compartment. It took him nearly a quarter of an hour, lying on his back, pushing along with his hands, to traverse the fifty feet between the aft and fore hatches of the Cassandra. He raised the new hatch cover, and looked around again. There was no sleeping seaman within ten feet.
Gently, slowly, Sanson removed the hatch cover, and set it on the deck. He lifted himself out of the water, and stood breathing the fresh night air. His drenched body was chilled by the breeze, but he paid no attention. All of his mind was focused on the sleeping prize crew on deck.
Sanson counted ten men. That would be about right, he thought. In a pinch, three men could sail the Cassandra; five could handle her comfortably; ten men would be more than ample.
He surveyed the positions of the men on the deck, trying to decide in which order to kill them. It was easy to kill a man quietly, but to kill one in absolute silence was not so simple. Of the ten men, the first four or five were most crucial, for if any of them made a noise, they would raise a general alarm.
Sanson removed the thin cord that served as his belt. He twisted the rope in his hands and tugged it taut between his fists. Satisfied with its strength, he picked up a belaying pin of carved hardwood, and moved forward.
