They stood in silence for a moment, breathing in lungfuls of burning air. Then Hunter turned away. “Let’s make off,” he said. They moved away from the water’s edge, toward the shoreline.
Beyond the beach, the shoreline of palm trees and tangled mangroves appeared as impenetrable as a stone wall. They knew from bitter experience that they could not hack their way through this barrier; to attempt it was to make no more than a few hundred yards of progress in the course of a day of feverish physical effort. The usual method of entering the interior of an island was to find a stream, and move up it.
They knew there must be such a stream here, for the very existence of a cove implied it. Coves were formed in part because there was a break in the outer reefs, and that break meant fresh water pouring out from the land. They walked along the beach, and after an hour located a sparse trickle of water cutting a muddy track through the foliage along the shore. The streambed was so narrow that the plants overgrew it, making a sort of cramped, hot tunnel. The passage was obviously not easy.
“Should we look for a better one?” Sanson said.
The Jew shook his head. “There is little rainfall here. I doubt there is a better one.”
They all seemed to agree, and set out, moving up the creek, away from the sea. Almost immediately, the heat became unbearable, the air hot and rank. It was, as Lazue said, like breathing cloth.
After the first few minutes, they traveled in silence, wasting no energy on talk. The only sound was the thwack of their cutlasses on the foliage, and the chatter of birds and small animals in the canopy of trees above them. Their progress was slow. Toward the end of the day, when they looked over their shoulders, the blue ocean below seemed discouragingly near.
They pressed on, pausing only to capture food. Sanson was a master of the crossbow, and used it to shoot several birds. They were encouraged to notice the droppings of a wild boar near the streambed. Lazue collected plants that were edible.
Nightfall found them halfway up the strip of jungle between the sea and the bare rock of Mt. Leres. Although the air turned cooler, they were trapped beneath the foliage and it remained almost as hot as before. In addition, the mosquitoes were out.
The mosquitoes were a formidable enemy, coming in thick clouds so dense as to be almost palpable, obscuring each man’s vision of those near him. The insects buzzed and whined around them, clinging to every part of their bodies, getting into ears and nose and mouth. They coated themselves liberally with mud and water, but nothing really helped. They dared not light a fire, but ate the caught game raw, and slept the night fitfully, propped up against trees, with the droning buzz of mosquitoes in their ears.
In the morning, they awoke, the caked mud dropping off their stiff bodies, and they looked at each other and laughed. They were all changed, their faces red and swollen and lumpy with mosquito bites. Hunter checked the water; a quarter of their supply was gone, and he announced they would have to consume less. They moved on, hoping to see a wild boar, for they were all hungry. They never sighted one. The monkeys chattering in the overhead canopy of foliage seemed to taunt them. They heard the animals, but Sanson never had a clear shot at one.
Late in the second day, they began to notice the sound of the wind. It was faint at first, a far-off low moan. But as they approached the edge of the jungle, where the trees were thinner and their progress easier, the wind grew louder. Soon they could feel it, and although the breeze was welcome, they looked back at each other with anxiety. They knew the breeze would grow in strength as they approached the cliff face of Mt. Leres.
It was late afternoon when they finally reached the rocky base of the cliff. The wind was now a screaming demon that tugged and whipped their clothing, bruised their faces, shrieked in their ears. They had to shout to be heard.
Hunter looked up at the rock wall before them. It was as sheer as it seemed from a distance, and, if anything, higher than he had thought - four hundred feet of naked rock, lashed by a wind so strong that stone chips and rock fragments fell down on them continually.
He motioned to the Moor, who came over. “Bassa,” Hunter shouted, leaning close to the huge man. “Will the wind be less at night?”
Bassa shrugged, and made a pinching gesture with two fingers: a little better.
“Can you make the climb at night?”
He shook his head: no. Then he made a little pillow with his hands, and leaned his head on it.
“You want to climb in the morning?”
Bassa nodded.
“He’s right,” Sanson said. “We should wait until morning, when we are rested.”
“I don’t know if we can wait,” Hunter said. He was looking to the north. Some miles away, across a placid sea, he saw the broad gray line over the water, and above that, angry black clouds. It was a storm, several miles wide, moving slowly toward them.
“All the more reason,” Sanson shouted to Hunter. “We should let it pass.”
Hunter turned away. From their position at the base of the cliff, they were five hundred feet above sea level. Looking south, he could see Ramonas, some thirty miles away. The Cassandra was not in sight; it had long since found the protection of the cove.
Hunter looked back at the storm. They might wait out the night, and the storm might pass them by. But if it were large enough, and slow enough, and they lost even one day, then their timing would be ruined. And three days hence, the Cassandra would sail into Matanceros carrying fifty men to certain death.
“We climb now,” Hunter said.
He turned to the Moor. The Moor nodded, and went to collect his ropes.
…
IT WAS AN extraordinary sensation, Hunter thought, as he held the rope in his hands and felt the occasional jerk and wiggle as the Moor moved up the cliff face. The rope between Hunter’s fingers was an inch and a half thick, yet high overhead, it thinned to a wispy thread, and the giant bulk of the Moor was a speck he could barely discern in the softening light.
Sanson came over to shout in his ear. “You are insane,” he yelled. “None of us will survive this.”
“Afraid?” Hunter shouted back.
“I fear nothing,” Sanson said, thumping his chest. “But look at the others.”
Hunter looked. Lazue was trembling. Don Diego was very pale.
“They cannot make it,” Sanson shouted. “What will you do without them?”
“They’ll make it,” Hunter said. “They have to.” He looked over at the storm, which was closer. It was now only a mile or two away; they could feel the moisture in the wind. He felt a sudden tug on the rope in his hands, then a second quick jerk.
“He’s done it,” Hunter said. He looked up, but could not see the Moor at all.
A moment later, another rope dropped to the ground.
“Quick,” Hunter said. “The supplies.” They tied the provisions, already loaded into canvas bags, onto the rope, and gave a signaling tug. The bags began their bumpy, bouncing ascent up the cliff face. Once or twice, the force of the wind blew them away from the rock a distance of five or ten feet.
“God’s blood,” Sanson said, seeing it.
Hunter looked at Lazue. Her face was tight. He went over and fitted the canvas sling around her shoulder, and another around her hips.
“Mother of God, Mother of God, Mother of God,” Lazue said, over and over in a monotone.
“Now listen,” Hunter shouted, as the rope came down again. “Hold the long line, and let Bassa pull you up. Keep your face to the rock, and don’t look down.”
“Mother of God, Mother of God…”
“Did you hear me?” Hunter shouted. “Don’t look down!”
She nodded, still muttering. A moment later, she started up the rock, hoisted by the sling. She had a brief period of awkwardness, twisting and clutching for the other line. Then she seemed to get her bearings, and her ascent up the face was uneventful.
The Jew was next. He stared at Hunter with hollow eyes as Hunter gave him the instructions: he did not seem to hear; he was like a man sleepwalking as he stepped into the sling and was hoisted up.
The first drops of rain from the approaching storm began to fall.
“You will go next,” Sanson shouted.
