“Let me see.” Hunter took the glass eagerly. But to his eyes, there was only a white irregular shape seated in the stern next to Cazalla, who stood and faced the fortress. Hunter could discern no details. He returned the glass to Lazue. “Describe her.”
“White dress and parasol - or some large hat or covering on her head. Dark face. Could be a Negro.”
“His mistress?”
Lazue shook her head. The longboat was now tying up by the fort. “She’s getting off. She’s struggling-”
“Perhaps she’s not got balance.”
“No,” Lazue said firmly. “She is struggling. Three men are holding her. Forcing her to enter the fortress.”
“You say she’s dark?” Hunter asked again. That was perplexing. Cazalla might have taken a woman captive, but any woman worth ransoming would certainly be very fair.
“Dark, yes,” Lazue said. “But I cannot really see further.”
“We will wait,” Hunter said.
Puzzled, they continued down the slope.
…
THREE HOURS LATER, in the hottest part of the afternoon, they paused in a cluster of prickly acara bushes to drink a ration of water. Lazue noticed that the longboat was putting out from the fortress, this time carrying a man she described as “stern, very slender, very proper and erect.”
“Bosquet,” Hunter said. Bosquet was Cazalla’s second in command, a renegade Frenchman, known as a cool and implacable leader. “Is Cazalla with him?”
“No,” Lazue said.
The longboat tied up alongside the warship, and Bosquet boarded. Moments later, the ship’s crew began to hoist the longboat. That could mean only one thing.
“They’re setting off,” Sanson said. “Your luck holds, my friend.”
“Not quite yet,” Hunter said. “Let us see if she will be making for Ramonas,” where the Cassandra and her crew were hidden. The Cassandra was in water too shallow for the warship to attack her, but Bosquet could blockade the pirate sloop in the cove - and without the Cassandra, there was no point in attacking Matanceros. They needed the men of the Cassandra to sail the treasure galleon out of the harbor.
The warship left the harbor on a southerly reach, but that was necessary to make deep water. Outside the channel, it continued south.
“Damn,” Sanson said.
“No, she’s just making speed,” Hunter said. “Wait.”
As he spoke, the warship came into the wind, and took a starboard tack to the north. Hunter shook his head in relief.
“I can feel the gold between my fingers now,” Sanson said.
After an hour, the black ship was gone from view.
By nightfall, they were no more than a quarter of a mile from the Spanish encampment. The ground cover was more dense here; they selected a heavy clump of Mayaguana trees in which to spend the night. They lit no fire, and ate only a few raw plants before lying down on the damp earth. They were all tired, but excited by the fact that from their position, they could faintly hear the chatter of Spanish voices, and the drifting smells from Spanish cookfires. As they lay beneath the stars, those sounds and aromas reminded them that the coming battle was very close at hand.
Chapter 22
HUNTER AWOKE WITH the instant conviction that something was wrong. He heard Spanish voices, but this time they were close - much too close. And he could hear footsteps, and the rustle of foliage. He sat up, wincing as the pains shot through him; if anything, his body ached more fiercely than it had the day before.
He glanced around at his little group. Sanson was already on his feet, peering through palm fronds in the direction of the Spanish voices. The Moor was quietly rising, his body tense, his movements finely controlled. Don Diego was sitting up on one elbow, eyes wide.
Only Lazue still lay on her back. And she was lying absolutely motionless. Hunter jerked his thumb at her to get up. She shook her head slightly, and mouthed “No.” She was not moving at all. Her face was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. He started to move toward her.
“Careful!” she whispered, her voice tense. He stopped, and looked at her. Lazue was lying on her back, with her legs slightly apart. Her limbs were oddly rigid. He then saw the red, black, and yellow-striped tail disappear up the leg of her trousers.
It was a coral snake, attracted by the warmth of her body. He looked back at her face. It was taut, as if she were withstanding some extraordinary pain.
Behind him, Hunter heard the Spanish voices growing still louder. He could hear several men clumping and thrashing through the underbrush. He gestured to Lazue to wait, and went over to Sanson.
“Six of them,” Sanson whispered.
Hunter saw a party of six Spanish soldiers, carrying bedding and food, armed with muskets, moving up the hillside toward them. The soldiers were all young, and apparently regarded this excursion as a lark; they laughed and joked with each other.
“It’s not a patrol,” Sanson whispered.
“Let them go,” Hunter said.
Sanson looked at him sharply. Hunter pointed back to Lazue, still lying rigidly on the ground. Sanson immediately understood. They waited as the Spanish soldiers passed by, and moved on up the hillside. Then they returned to Lazue.
“Where is it now?” Hunter said.
“Knee,” she said softly.
“Moving up?”
“Yes.”
Don Diego spoke next. “Tall trees,” he said, looking around. “We must find tall trees. There!” He tapped the Moor. “Come with me.”
The two men set off into the brush, in the direction of a clump of Mayaguana trees some yards away. Hunter looked at Lazue, and then up at the Spanish soldiers. The soldiers were clearly visible, a hundred yards farther up the hillside. If any of the soldiers chose to look back, they would see the group immediately.
“It is too late in the season for mating,” Sanson said. He frowned at Lazue. “But we may be lucky and find a chick.” He turned to look at the Moor, who was scrambling up one of the trees, while Diego remained on the ground below.
“Where is it now?” Hunter said.
“Past the knee.”
“Try to relax.”
She rolled her eyes. “Damn you and your expedition,” she said. “Damn all of you.”
Hunter looked at the trouser leg. He could just see the slight movement in the fabric the snake made as it crawled upward.
“Mother of God,” Lazue said. She closed her eyes.
Sanson whispered to Hunter, “If they find no chick, we may have to stand her and shake her.”
“The snake will bite.”
They both knew the consequences of that.
The privateers were hard and tough; they regarded the poisonous bite of a scorpion, a black widow, or a water moccasin as no more than an inconvenience. Indeed, it was high good fun for a man to drop a scorpion into a comrade’s boot. But two venomous creatures commanded the respect and dread of everyone. The fer-de-lance was no laughing matter - and the little coral snake was the worst of all. No one ever survived its timid bite. Hunter could imagine Lazue’s terror as she waited for the tiny pinch on her leg that would signal the fatal bite. They all knew
