“No,” Hunter said. “I am last.”
By now, it was raining steadily. The winds had increased. When the sling came down the cliff again, the canvas was soaked. Sanson stepped into the sling and jerked the rope, to signal his ascent. As he started up, he shouted to Hunter, “If you die, I will take your shares.” And then he laughed, his laughter trailing off in the wind.
With the approach of the storm, a gray fog clung around the top of the cliff. Sanson was soon lost from view. Hunter waited. A very long time seemed to pass, and then he heard the wet slap of the sling on the ground nearby. He walked over, and fitted himself into it. Wind-blown rain slashed against his face and body as he tugged on the line and started up.
He would remember that climb for the rest of his life. He had no sense of position, for he was wrapped in a dark gray world. All he could see was the rocky face just a few inches away. The wind tore at him, often swinging him wide away from the cliff, then slamming him back against the rock. The ropes, the rock, everything was wet and slippery. He held the guideline in his hands, and tried to keep himself facing the cliff. Often he lost his footing and twisted around, banging his back and shoulders into the rock.
It seemed to take forever. He had no idea whether he had traversed half the distance, or only a fraction of it. Or whether he was nearly there. He strained to hear the voices of the others at the top but all he heard was the maniacal shriek of the wind, and the splatter of the rain.
He felt the vibration of the tow-rope as he was pulled up. It was a steady, rhythmic shudder. He moved up a few feet; then a pause; then up a few feet more. Then another pause; then another brief ascent.
Suddenly, there was a break in the pattern. No more ascent. The rope vibration changed; it was transmitted to his body through the canvas sling. At first he thought it was some trick of the senses, but then he knew what it was - the hemp, after five rough passages over the rock, was frayed and now was slowly, agonizingly stretching.
In his mind’s eye, he saw it thinning, and at that moment gripped the guide rope tightly. In the same instant the sling rope snapped, and came twisting and snaking down on his head and shoulders, heavy and wet.
His grip on the guide rope loosened, and he fell a few feet - how far, he was not sure. Then he tried to take stock of his situation. He was lying flat on his stomach against the cliff, the wet sling around his legs and hanging from him like a deadweight, straining his already aching arms. He kicked his legs, trying to disentangle himself from the sling, but he could not get free of it. It was awful; with the sling there, he was effectively hobbled. He could not use his feet to get purchase on the rock; he would hang there, he knew, until finally fatigue made him release his grip on the rope and he fell to the bottom. Already his wrists and fingers burned with pain. He felt a slight tug on the guide rope. But they did not pull him up.
He kicked again, desperately, and then a sudden gust of wind swung him out from the cliff. The damned sling was acting as a sail, catching the wind and pulling him away. He watched the rock wall disappear in the fog as he was blown out ten, twenty feet from the cliff.
He kicked again, and suddenly was lighter - the sling had fallen away. His body began to arc back toward the cliff. He braced himself for the impact, and then it came, slamming the breath out of his lungs. He gave an involuntary cry, and hung there, gasping for breath.
And then, with a final great effort, he pulled himself up until his hands, gripping the rope, were pressed to his chest. He locked his feet around the rope a moment, resting his arms. His breath returned. He positioned his feet on the rock surface and went up the rope hand over hand. His feet slipped away; his knees banged against the rock. But he had moved upward a distance.
He did it again.
He did it again.
He did it again.
His mind ceased to function; his body worked automatically, of its own accord. The world around him became silent, no sound of rain, no scream of wind, nothing at all, not even the gasp of his own breath. The world was gray, and he was lost in the grayness.
He was not even aware when strong arms fastened under his shoulders, and he was pulled up and flopped on his belly on the flat surface. He did not hear voices. He saw nothing. Later they told him that even after he had been laid out on the ground, his body continued to crawl forward, hunching and going flat, hunching and going flat, with his bleeding face pressed to the rock, until they forcibly held him still. But for the moment, he knew nothing at all. He did not even know he had survived.
…
HE AWOKE TO the light chatter of birds, opened his eyes, and saw green leaves in sunlight. He lay very still, only his eyes moving. He saw a rock wall. He was in a cave, near the mouth of a cave. He smelled cooking food, an indescribably delicious smell, and he started to sit up.
Violent streaks of pain shot through every part of his body. With a gasp, he fell back again.
“Slowly, my friend,” a voice said. Sanson came around from behind him. “Very slowly.” He bent over and helped Hunter sit upright.
The first thing Hunter saw were his clothes. His trousers were shredded almost beyond recognition; through the holes, he could see that his skin was in similar condition. His arms and chest were the same. He looked at his body as if he were examining a foreign, unfamiliar object.
“Your face is not so pretty, either,” Sanson said, and laughed. “Do you think you can eat?”
Hunter started to speak. His face was stiff; it was as if he was wearing a mask. He touched his cheek, and felt a thick crust of blood. He shook his head. “No food? Then water.” Sanson produced a cask, and helped Hunter take a drink. He was relieved to find it did not hurt to swallow, but his mouth was numb where the cask touched his lips. “Not too much,” Sanson said. “Not too much.”
The others came over.
The Jew was grinning broadly. “You should see the view.”
Hunter felt a jolt of elation. He wanted to see the view. He raised one painful arm to Sanson, who helped him stand. The first moment on his feet was excruciating. He felt light-headed and electric jolts of pain shot through his legs and back. Then it was better. Leaning on Sanson, he took a step, wincing. He thought suddenly of Governor Almont. He thought of the evening spent bargaining with Almont for this raid on Matanceros. He had been so confident then, so relaxed, so much the intrepid adventurer. He started to smile ruefully at the memory. The smile hurt.
Then he saw the view, and immediately he forgot Almont, and his pains, and his aching body.
They were standing at the mouth of a small cave, high on the eastern rim of Mt. Leres. Curving down below them were the green slopes of the volcano, going down more than a thousand feet into dense tropical rain forest. At the very bottom was a wide river, opening out into the harbor and the fortress of Punta Matanceros. Sunlight sparkled off the still waters of the harbor, glittering brilliantly around the treasure galleon moored there just inside the protection of the fortress. It was all laid out before him, and Hunter thought it was the most beautiful sight in the world.
Chapter 21
SANSON GAVE HUNTER another drink of water from the cask, and then Don Diego said, “There is something else you should see, Captain.”
The little party climbed up the sloping hill toward the edge of the cliff they had scaled the night before. They moved slowly, in deference to Hunter, who felt pain in every step. And as he looked up at the clear, cloudless blue sky, he felt pain of a different sort. He knew he had made a serious and nearly fatal mistake to force the climb during the storm. They should have waited and made the ascent the next morning. He had been foolish and overeager, and he berated himself for the error.
As they approached the lip of the cliff, Don Diego squatted down and looked over cautiously to the west. The others did the same, Sanson helping Hunter. Hunter did not understand why they were being so careful - until he looked over the sheer precipice, to the jungle foliage, to the bay beyond.
In the bay was Cazalla’s warship.
