damnation, how could they escape?”
The captain of the infantry came over. “Sir, we are hard-beached. Shall I land some men and try to push off?”
“The tide is running,” Cazalla said.
“Yes, my Captain.”
“Well, fool, we cannot get afloat until the tide is in once more.” Cazalla cursed loudly. That would be twelve glasses. Six hours before they could begin to free the massive ship. And even then, if the boat was hard-beached, they might not get free. It was the season of the waning moon; each tide was less full than the last. Unless they got free in the next tide - or the one after - they would be beached for three weeks or more.
“Fools!” he shrieked.
In the distance, the Cassandra came smartly around on a southerly tack and disappeared from view. A southerly tack?
“They are going to Matanceros,” Cazalla said. And he shook with uncontrollable rage.
…
HUNTER SAT IN the stern of the Cassandra and plotted his course. He was surprised to find that he no longer felt any fatigue at all, though he had not slept for two days. Around him, his crew lay sprawled in attitudes of collapse; nearly all were deeply asleep.
“They are good men,” Sanson said, looking at them.
“Indeed,” Hunter said.
“Did any one of them talk?”
“One did.”
“And Cazalla believed him?”
“Not at that moment,” Hunter said, “but he may change his view later.”
“We have at least six hours on them,” Sanson said.
“Eighteen, if we are lucky.”
Hunter nodded. Matanceros was two days sail into the wind; with such a start, they might beat the warship to the fortress.
“We will sail through all the nights,” Hunter said.
Sanson nodded.
“Harden that jib sheet,” Enders barked. “Lively there.”
The sail tautened, and with a fresh breeze from the east, the Cassandra cut through the water into the dawn light.
Part III
Matanceros
Chapter 20
IN THE AFTERNOON, the sky was streaked with patchy clouds that turned dark and gray as the sun faded. The air was damp and forbidding. It was then that Lazue spotted the first of the timbers.
Sailing on, the Cassandra moved among dozens of broken pieces of wood and ship’s wreckage. The crew threw out lines and brought some of it aboard.
“Looks English,” Sanson said, when a piece of the high transom, painted red and blue, was hauled onto the deck.
Hunter nodded. A good-sized ship had been sunk. “Not long ago,” he said. He scanned the horizon for any sign of survivors, but there was none. “Our Donnish friends have been hunting.”
Pieces of wood thumped against the hull of the ship for another fifteen minutes. The crew was uneasy; sailors did not like to see the evidence of such destruction. Another cross-brace was brought aboard, and from it, Enders guessed the ship had been a merchantman, probably a brig or frigate, one hundred fifty feet or so.
They never found any sign of the crew.
The air turned increasingly sullen as night fell, and a sea squall blew up. In the darkness, hot rain hammered the wooden decks of the Cassandra. The men were soaked and miserable through the night. Yet the dawn was fair and clear, and when it broke, they saw their destination dead ahead on the horizon.
From a distance, the western face of the island of Matanceros is singularly uninviting. Its volcanic contours are sharp and jagged, and except for low vegetation along the shore, the island appears dry and brown and barren, with patches of exposed bare reddish-gray rock. Little rain fell on the island, and because it was so far eastward in the Caribbean, the winds off the Atlantic whipped around its single peak ceaselessly.
The crew of the Cassandra watched Matanceros approach without any trace of enthusiasm. Enders, at the helm, frowned. “It’s September,” he said. “She’s as green and welcoming as ever she gets.”
“Aye,” Hunter said. “It’s no haven. But there’s a forest on the eastern shore, and plenty of water.”
“And plenty of Popish muskets,” Enders said.
“And plenty of Popish gold,” Hunter said. “How long do you make landfall?”
“Fair wind. Midday at latest, I’d warrant.”
“Bear for the cove,” Hunter said, pointing. Already they could see the only indentation on the western coast, a narrow inlet called Blind Man’s Cove.
Hunter went off to collect the supplies that his small landing party would carry with them. He found Don Diego, the Jew, already setting out the equipment on the deck. The Jew fixed Hunter with a weak eye. “Considerate of the Dons,” he said. “They looked, but didn’t take anything.”
“Except the rats.”
“We can make do with anything small, Hunter. Possum, any small creature.”
“We’ll have to,” Hunter said.
Sanson was standing in the bow, looking forward at the peak of Mt. Leres. From a distance, it appeared absolutely sheer, a curving semicircle of naked red rock.
“There’s no way around it?” Sanson asked.
Hunter responded, “The only passages around will be guarded. We must go over the top.”
Sanson gave a slight smile; Hunter went aft again to Enders. He gave orders that once his party had been beached, the Cassandra was to sail south to the next island, Ramonas. A small cove with fresh water could be found there, and the sloop would be safe from attack.
“You know the place?”
“Aye,” Enders said. “I know it. Holed up a week in that cove some years back under Captain Lewisham with his one eye. She’s fair enough. How long do we wait there?”
“Four days. On the afternoon of the fourth day, move out of the cove and anchor in deep water. Sail at midnight, and bring yourself to Matanceros just before dawn on the fifth day.”
“And then?”
“Sail right up into the harbor at dawn, and board the men onto the galleon.”
“Passing the guns of the fort?”
“They’ll not trouble you on the fifth morning.”
“I’m not a praying man,” Enders said. “But I’m hoping.”
Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s nothing to fear.”
Enders looked toward the island and did not smile.
…
BY NOON, IN the still midday heat, Hunter, Sanson, Lazue, the Moor, and Don Diego stood on the narrow strip of white sand beach and watched the Cassandra depart. At their feet was more than a hundred and twenty pounds of equipment - rope, grappling hooks, canvas slings, muskets, water caskets.
