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.
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 seeme
d 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.
“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.
Pirate Latitudes Page 11