Part IV
Monkey Bay
Chapter 27
EL TRINIDAD MADE for the cove of Monkey Bay.
Aboard the Cassandra, Sanson watched the larger ship maneuver. “Blood of Louis, they’re making for land,” he said. “Into the sun!”
“It is madness,” moaned the man at the helm.
“Now hear me,” Sanson said, spinning on him. “Come about, and fall into the wake of that Donnish hog, and follow it exactly. I mean none else: exactly. Our bows must cut their form, or I will cut your throat.”
“How can they do it, into the sun?” moaned the helmsman.
“They have Lazue’s eyes,” Sanson said. “It may be enough.”
…
LAZUE WAS CAREFUL where she looked. She was also careful what she did with her arms, for the most casual gesture would cause a course change. At this moment, she stared westward, holding her left hand flat under her nose, blocking the reflection of the sun off the water just ahead of the bow. She looked only to the land - the sloping green contours of Cat Island, at this moment a flat outline, without depth.
She knew that somewhere ahead, when they were closer, the island contour would begin to separate, to show definition, and she would see the entrance to Monkey Bay. Until that moment, her job was to hold the fastest course bearing on the point where she expected to find the entrance.
Her elevation helped her; from this vantage point atop the mainmast, she was able to see the color of the water many miles ahead, an intricate pattern of blues and greens of different intensities. In her mind, these registered as depths; she could read them as if they were a chart marked with soundings.
This was no mean skill. The ordinary seaman, knowing the clarity of Caribbean water, naturally assumed that deep blue meant deep water, and green, still deeper. Lazue knew better: if the bottom was sandy, the water might be light blue, though the depth was fifty feet. Or a deep green color could mean a sea grass bottom just ten feet deep. And the shifting sun over the course of the day played odd tricks: in early morning or late afternoon all the colors were richer and darker; one had to compensate.
But for the moment, she had no concern for depth. She scanned the colors at the shoreline, looking for some clue to the entrance to Monkey Bay. She remembered that Monkey Bay was the outflow of a small river of fresh water, as was the case with most usable coves. There were many other Caribbean coves that were not safe for large ships, because there was no gap in the offshore coral reef. To have a gap, one needed a fresh-water outflow, for where there was fresh water, coral did not grow.
Lazue, scanning the water near the shoreline, knew that the gap might not be near the stream itself. Depending on the currents that carried the freshwater out to sea, the actual break in the reef might be a quarter- mile north or south. Wherever it was, currents often produced a brownish turbidity in the water, and a change in the surface appearance.
She scanned carefully, and finally she saw it, south of the ship’s present course. She signaled corrections to Enders on the deck below. As El Trinidad came closer, she was glad that the sea artist had no idea what he was facing; he would faint if he knew how narrow the gap in the reef really was. There were coral heads awash on both sides, and between them the open space was no more than a dozen yards.
Satisfied with the new course, Lazue closed her eyes for several minutes. She was aware of the pink color of sunlight on her eyelids; she was not aware of the motion of the ship, or the wind in the sails, or the smells of the ocean. She was focused entirely on her eyes as she rested them. Nothing mattered but her eyes. She breathed deeply and slowly, preparing herself for the coming exertion, gathering her energy, sharpening her concentration.
She knew how it would happen; she knew the inevitable progression - an easy beginning and then the first ache in her eyes, the increasing pain, then tears, stinging, burning. At the end of the hour, she knew she would be wholly exhausted, her entire body limp. She would need sleep as if she had been awake for a week, and would probably collapse as soon as she climbed down to the deck.
It was for this coming, massive exertion that she prepared herself now; breathing in long, slow breaths, with her eyes closed.
…
FOR ENDERS, AT the helm, his concentration was very different. His eyes were open, but he had little interest in what he saw. Enders felt the tiller in his hands; the pressure it exerted on his palms; the cant of the deck beneath his feet; the rumble of the water slipping by the hull; the wind on his cheeks; the vibration of the rigging; the whole complex of forces and stresses that made up the trim of the ship. Indeed, in his absolute concentration, Enders became part of the ship, joined to it as if physically connected; he was the brain to its body, and he knew its condition to the minutest detail.
He knew its speed to a fraction of a knot; he sensed when any sail was wrongly trimmed; he knew when any cargo shifted in the hold, and he knew where; he felt how much water was in the bilge; he knew when the ship was sailing easy, when she was on her best line; he knew when she was past it, and how long she could hold past it, and how far he could push her.
All this he could have told you with his eyes closed. He could not have said how he knew it, only that he did. Now, working with Lazue, he was worried, precisely because he had to give over part of his control to someone else. Lazue’s hand signals meant nothing to him that he could sense directly; yet he followed her directions blindly, knowing that he must trust her. But he was nervous about it; he sweated at the tiller, feeling the wind more strongly on his damp cheeks, and he made more corrections as Lazue stretched out her arms.
She was taking the ship southward. She must have spotted the break in the reef, he thought, and was now making for it. Soon they would pass through the gap. The very idea made him sweat more.
…
HUNTER’S MIND WAS wholly occupied with other concerns. He raced back and forth, from bow to stern, ignoring both Lazue and Enders. The Spanish warship was closing with each passing minute; the upper edge of the mainsail was now clear of the horizon. She still carried full sail, while El Trinidad, now only a mile off the island, had dropped much of her canvas.
Meanwhile, the Cassandra had fallen behind the larger ship, dropping back to port to let Hunter’s vessel show them the course to harbor. The maneuver was necessary, but Hunter’s canvas was eating Cassandra ’s wind, and the little ship was not making good speed. Indeed, she would not until she was completely astern of El Trinidad. At that point, she would be very vulnerable to the Spanish warship unless she stayed close to Hunter.
The trouble would come when making the bay itself. The two ships would have to pass through in close succession; if El Trinidad did not make passage smoothly, the Cassandra might ram her, injuring both ships. If it happened in the passage itself, it could be a nightmare, both ships sinking on the rocks of the reef. He was sure Sanson was aware of the danger; he was equally sure that Sanson would know that he dared not drop too far back.
It was going to be a very tricky maneuver. He ran forward, and stared through the shimmering glare of the sunlit water at Monkey Bay. He could see now the curving finger of hilly land, extending out from the island and forming the protected hook of the bay.
The actual gap in the reef was invisible to him; it lay somewhere in the sheet of glaring, sparkling water directly ahead.
He looked up the mainmast to Lazue and saw her make a signal to Enders - she swung her fist upward to strike the flat palm of her hand.
