The first soldier was not snoring. Sanson raised the man to sitting position and he grumbled sleepily at the interruption for a moment before Sanson brought the pin crashing down on his head. The blow was fierce, but made only a dull thud as it contacted the scalp. Sanson eased the seaman back to the deck.
In the darkness, he ran his hands over the skull. There was a deep indentation; probably the blow had killed him, but he took no chances. He slipped the cord around the man’s throat and squeezed tightly. Simultaneously, he laid his other hand flat on the man’s chest to feel the heartbeat. A minute later, there was no pulsation.
Sanson moved to the next man, crossing like a shadow over the deck. He repeated the process. It took him no more than ten minutes to kill every man on the ship. He left them lying in positions of sleep on the deck.
The last man to die was the sentry, slumped aft in a drunken stupor over the tiller. Sanson cut the man’s throat and pushed him over the side. He fell into the water with a soft splash, but it was noticed by a guard on the warship deck. The guard leaned over and looked at the sloop.
“Questa sta bene?” he called.
Sanson, taking up the sentry’s position aft, waved to the guard. Although he was dripping wet and wearing no uniform, he knew it was too dark for the warship’s guard to see.
“Sta bene,” he said sleepily.
“Bassera,” the guard said, and turned away.
Sanson waited a moment, then turned his attention to the warship. It was some hundred yards away - far enough off that if the big ship turned at anchor with a change of wind or tides, she would not strike the Cassandra. Sanson was pleased to see that the Spaniards had neglected to batten down the gunports, which were still open. If he entered through an open port on the lower gun deck, he would be able to avoid sentries on the main deck.
He slipped over the side and swam quickly across to the warship, thinking briefly that he hoped the Spanish had not dumped garbage in the cove during the night. Garbage would draw sharks, and the shark was one of the few creatures in the world Sanson feared. But he made the crossing uneventfully, and soon found himself bobbing in the water alongside the hull of the warship.
The lowest gunports were twelve feet above him. He heard the joking of the sentries on the main deck. A rope ladder was still over the side, but he dared not use it. Once he put his weight to it, it would creak and move, and the sentries on deck might hear that.
Instead, he slipped forward, to the anchor line, and climbed that to the runners moving back from the bowsprit. These runners protruded only four inches from the hull surface, but Sanson managed to get a footing, and maneuver back to the foresail rigging. From there, it was easy to hang and look into one of the forward gunports.
Listening intently, he soon heard the steady, measured pacing of the watch. By the footsteps, it sounded like a single sentry, circling the perimeter of the deck endlessly. Sanson waited until the watch passed him, and then eased in through the porthole, and dropped down in the shadow of a cannon, gasping with exertion and excitement. Even for Sanson, to be alone in the midst of four hundred of the enemy - half of them swinging gently in their hammocks before him - was an exhilarating sensation. He waited, and planned his next move.
…
HUNTER WAITED IN the fetid hold of the ship, standing crouched in the narrow space. He was desperately exhausted. If Sanson did not arrive soon, his men would be too fatigued to make an escape. The guards, now yawning and playing cards again, showed a total indifference to the prisoners, which was tempting and infuriating. If only he could get his men free while the ship still slept around him, then there might be a chance. But when the guard changed - as it might at any time - or when the ship’s crew arose at dawn, then there would be no opportunity.
He felt a moment of crushing defeat as a Spanish soldier entered the room.
The watch was changing, and all was lost. A moment later, he realized he was wrong: this was just a single man, not an officer, and the guards who greeted him did so in desultory fashion. The new man assumed an air of considerable strutting self-importance, and went around the room checking the bonds of the privateers. Hunter felt the tug of fingers feeling the ropes on his own hands - and then something cool - the blade of a knife - and his ropes were cut.
Behind him, the man whispered softly: “This will cost you two more shares.”
It was Sanson.
“Swear it,” Sanson hissed.
Hunter nodded, feeling anger and elation at the same moment. But he said nothing; he just watched as Sanson moved around the room and then stopped at the door to block it.
Sanson faced the seamen and said, in English, very quietly, “Do it softly, softly.”
The Spanish guards looked up in stunned surprise as the privateers leapt at them. They were overpowered three to one. It took only a moment. Immediately, the seamen began to strip off the uniforms and to dress in them. Sanson moved over to Hunter.
“I did not hear you swear it.”
Hunter nodded, rubbing his wrists. “I swear. Two shares to you.”
“Good,” Sanson said. He opened the door, put his finger to his lips, and led the seamen out of the hold.
Chapter 19
CAZALLA DRANK WINE and brooded on the face of the dying Lord, thinking of the suffering, the agony of the body. From his earliest youth, Cazalla had seen images of that agony, the torment of the flesh, the sagging muscles and the hollow eyes, the blood that poured from the wound in the side, the blood that dripped from the spikes in the hands and feet.
This painting, in his cabin, had come as a gift from Philip himself. It was the work of His Majesty’s favorite court painter, a man named Velázquez, now deceased. To be given the painting was a mark of considerable esteem, and Cazalla had been overpowered to receive it; he never traveled unless it was at his side. It was his most treasured possession.
This man Velázquez had not put a halo around the Lord’s visage. And the coloring of the body was deathly gray-white. It was altogether realistic, but Cazalla often wished for a halo. He was surprised that a king so pious as Philip had not insisted that a halo be added. Perhaps Philip disliked the painting; perhaps that was why he had sent it to one of his military captains in New Spain.
In black moments, another thought occurred to Cazalla. He was only too aware of the gap that separated the niceties of life in Philip’s Court from the hard life of the men who sent him the gold and silver from the colonies to support such luxuries. One day he would rejoin the Court, a rich man in his latter years. Sometimes, he thought that the courtiers would laugh at him. Sometimes, in his dreams, he killed them all in bloody, angry duels.
Cazalla’s reverie was interrupted by the sway of the ship. The tide must be out, he thought; that meant dawn was not far off; soon they would be under way for the day. It would be time to kill another English pirate. Cazalla intended to kill them, one by one, until someone told him the truth he wanted to know.
The ship continued to move, but there was something wrong with the motion. Cazalla sensed it instinctively; the ship was not swinging around its forward anchor line; it was moving laterally; something was very wrong. And then, at that moment, he heard a soft crunch and the ship shuddered and was still.
With a curse, Cazalla sprinted onto the main deck. There he found himself staring into the fronds of a palm tree, just inches from his face. Several palm trees, all lining the shore of the island. His ship was beached. He screamed in fury. The panicked crew scrambled around him.
The first mate, trembling, ran over. “Captain, they cut the anchor line.”
“They?” Cazalla shouted. When he was angry, his voice became high and thin, the voice of a woman. He ran to the opposite railing and saw the Cassandra, heeled over in a fair breeze, making for the open sea. “They?”
“The pirates have escaped,” said the mate, pale.
“Escaped! How could they have escaped?”
“I don’t know, my Captain. The guards are all dead.”
Cazalla struck the man full in the face, sending him sprawling across the deck. He was so furious he could hardly think. He stared across the water at the departing sloop. “How could they escape?” he repeated. “God in
