“May I get up?” the girl asked, giggling.
He turned back to face her. “Yes, get up,” he said.
She stood and straightened her clothes. “Do I please you?”
“For an English pig,” he said harshly.
Without another word, she began to undress.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Captain Hunter said I should remove my clothes.”
“Well, I am telling you to leave them as they are,” Sanson growled. “From now on, you will do as I tell you.” He scanned the horizon in all directions. There was nothing except the departing longboat.
It must be a trick, he thought. It must be.
He turned and looked again at the girl. She licked her lips, a fetching creature. Where could he take her? Where would he be safe? He realized then that if they went up to the aft castle, he would be able to look in all directions, and still enjoy this English whore.
“I shall have the better of Captain Hunter,” he said, “and of you as well.”
And he marched her up to the aft castle. A few minutes later, he had another surprise — this demure little creature was a screaming, passionate hellion, who yelled and gasped and clawed, much to Sanson’s happy satisfaction.
“You are so big!” she gasped. “I did not know Frenchmen were so big!”
Her fingers raked his back, painfully. He was happy.
He would have been less happy to know that her screams of ecstasy — for which she was amply paid — were a signal to Hunter, who was hanging just above the waterline, holding on to the rope ladder, and watching the pale shapes of the sharks slip through the water all around him.
Hunter had hung there since the longboat cast off. In the bow of the longboat was a scarecrow dummy, previously concealed under a tarp and erected while Hunter had been aboard the ship.
It had all worked exactly as Hunter planned. Sanson dared not look down too carefully into the longboat, and as soon as it pushed off, he had been obliged to spend some moments searching the girl. By the time he got around to looking at the departing boat, it was far enough away that the dummy was convincing. At that time, had he looked directly down, he would have seen Hunter dangling there. But there was no reason to look directly down — and, in any case, the girl had been instructed to distract him as soon as possible.
Hunter had waited, hanging on the ropes, for many minutes before he heard her shouts of passion. They were coming from the aft castle, as he had expected. Gently, he climbed to the gunports, and slipped onto El Trinidad belowdecks.
Hunter was not armed, and his first task was to find weapons. He moved forward to the armory, and found a short dagger and a brace of pistols, which he loaded and carefully wadded. Then he picked up a crossbow, bending his back to the metal, and cocking it. Only then did he move up the gangway to the main deck. There he paused.
Looking aft, he saw Sanson standing with the girl. She was arranging her clothing; Sanson was scanning the horizon. He had spent only a few minutes in lusty action, but it had been a fatal few minutes. He watched Sanson climb down to the waist of the galleon, and pace the decks. He looked over one side, then the other side.
And then he stopped.
He looked again.
Hunter knew what he was seeing. He was seeing the wet marks on the hull that Hunter’s clothing had left in an erratic pattern moving up the side of the ship to the gunports.
Sanson spun. “You bitch!” he shouted, and fired his crossbow at the girl still on the castle. In the heat of the moment, he missed her; she shrieked and ran below. Sanson started after her, then seemed to think better of it. He paused, and reloaded the crossbow. Then he waited, listening.
There was the sound of the girl’s running feet, and then a bulkhead door slammed. Hunter guessed she had locked herself into one of the aft cabins. She would be safe enough for the moment.
Sanson moved to the center of the deck, and stood by the mainmast.
“Hunter,” he called. “Hunter, I know you are here.” And then he laughed.
For now, the advantage was his. He stood by the mast, knowing that he was out of range of any pistol, from any direction, and he waited. He circled the mast cautiously, his head turning in slow, even motions. He was perfectly alert, perfectly aware. He was prepared for any tactic.
Hunter was illogical: he fired both his pistols. One shot splintered the mainmast, and the other struck Sanson in the shoulder. The Frenchman grunted, but he hardly seemed to notice the injury. He spun and fired the crossbow, and the arrow streaked past Hunter, burying itself in the wood of the companionway.
Hunter scrambled down the steps, hearing Sanson running after him. He had a glimpse of Sanson, both pistols out, charging forward.
Hunter stepped behind the companionway ladder, and held his breath. He saw Sanson running down, directly over his head, hastening down the ladder.
Sanson reached the gun deck, his back to Hunter, and then Hunter said in a cold voice, “Stand there.”
Sanson did not stand. He spun, and discharged both pistols.
The balls whistled over Hunter’s head as he crouched near the ground. Now he stood, holding the crossbow ready.
“Things are not always as they seem,” he said.
Sanson grinned, raising his arms. “Hunter, my friend. I am without defense.”
“Go up,” Hunter said, his voice flat.
Sanson began to climb the steps, still holding his hands out. Hunter saw that he had a dagger at his belt. His left hand began to drop toward it.
“Don’t.”
The left hand froze.
“Up.”
Sanson went up, with Hunter following him.
“I will still have you, my friend,” Sanson said.
“You will have only a shaft up your bum hole,” Hunter promised.
Both men came onto the main deck. Sanson backed toward the mast.
“We must talk. We must be reasonable.”
“Why?” Hunter said.
“Because I have hidden half the treasure. Look here,” Sanson said, fingering a gold coin about his neck. “Here I have marked where the treasure is located. The treasure from the Cassandra. Does that not interest you?”
“It does.”
“Well then. We have reason to negotiate.”
“You tried to kill me,” Hunter said, holding the crossbow steady.
“Would you not try the same, in my place?”
“No.”
“Of course you would,” Sanson said. “It is sheer impudence to deny it.”
“Perhaps I would,” Hunter said.
“There is no love lost between us.”
“I would not have crossed you.”
“You would, if you could.”
“No,” Hunter said, “I have something like honor—”
At that moment, from behind him, a female voice squealed, “Oh, Charles, you got him—”
Hunter turned fractionally, to look at Anne Sharpe, and in that moment, Sanson lunged.
Hunter fired automatically. With a whish! the crossbow arrow was released. It shot across the deck, catching Sanson in the chest, lifting him off his feet and pinning him to the mainmast, where he swung his arms and twitched.
“You have done me wrong,” Sanson said, with blood dripping from his lips.
Hunter said, “I was fair.”
Then Sanson died, his head slumping on his chest. Hunter plucked out the crossbow arrow, and the body fell to the ground. Then he pulled the gold coin with the treasure map etched in its surface from around Sanson’s neck. While Anne Sharpe watched, with her hand covering her mouth, Hunter dragged the body to the side of the ship, and pushed it overboard.
It floated on the water.
The shar
ks circled it warily. Then one came forward, tugged at the flesh, tore away a piece. Then another, and another; the water churned and foamed blood. It lasted only a few minutes, and then the color dissipated, and the surface was still, and Hunter looked away.
Epilogue
ACCORDING TO HIS own memoirs, Life Among the Privateers of the Caribbean Sea, Charles Hunter searched for Sanson’s treasure during all of the year 1666, but never found it. The gold coin did not have a map scratched on its surface; instead, there was a funny series of triangles and numbers, which Hunter was never able to decipher.
Sir James Almont returned to England with his niece, Lady Sarah Almont. Both perished in London’s Great Fire of 1666.
Mrs. Robert Hacklett remained in Port Royal until 1686, when she died of syphilis. Her son, Edgar, became a merchant of substance in the Carolina Colony. In turn, his son, James Charles Hacklett Hunter, was governor of the Carolina Colony in 1777, when he urged that the colony side with the northern insurgents against the English army under the command of General Howe in Boston.
Mistress Anne Sharpe returned to England in 1671 as an actress; by that time, women’s parts were no longer played by boys, as they had been earlier in the century. Mistress Sharpe became the second most famous woman from the Indies in all Europe (the most famous, of course, being Madame de Maintenon, mistress of Louis XIV, who had been born on Guadeloupe). Anne Sharpe died in 1704, after a life of what she herself described as “delicious notoriety.”
Enders, the sea artist and barber-surgeon, joined Mandeville’s expedition on Campeche in 1668 and perished in a storm.
The Moor, Bassa, died in 1669 in Henry Morgan’s attack on Panama. He was run down by a bull, one of the many animals Spaniards released in an attempt to protect the city.
Don Diego, the Jew, lived on in Port Royal until 1692, when, at an advanced age, he died in the earthquake that destroyed the “wicked city” forever.
Lazue was captured and hanged as a pirate in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1704. She was said to have been a lover of Blackbeard’s.
Charles Hunter, weakened by malaria during his searches for Sanson’s treasure, returned to England in 1669. By that time, the raid on Matanceros had become a political embarrassment, and he was never received by Charles II, nor accorded any honor. He died of pneumonia in 1670 in a cottage in Tunbridge Wells, leaving a modest estate and a notebook, which was stored at Trinity College, Cambridge. His notebook still exists, as does his grave, in the cemetery of the Church of St. Anthony in Tunbridge Wells. The stone is nearly worn smooth, yet it can still be read:
HERE LYES
CHAS. HUNTER, CAPT.
1627–1670
Honest Adventurer and Seaman
Beloved of His Countrymen
In the New World
VINCIT
About the Author
MICHAEL CRICHTON’S novels include Next, State of Fear, Prey, Timeline, Jurassic Park, and The Andromeda Strain. He is also known as a filmmaker and the creator of ER. One of the most popular writers in the world, he has sold over 150 million books, which have been translated into thirty-six languages; thirteen have been made into films. He remains the only writer to have had the number one book, movie, and TV show at the same time. Pirate Latitudes was discovered as a complete manuscript in his files after his death in 2008.
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OTHER BOOKS BY MICHAEL CRICHTON
FICTION
The Andromeda Strain
The Terminal Man
The Great Train Robbery
Eaters of the Dead
Congo
Sphere
Jurassic Park
Rising Sun
Disclosure
The Lost World
Airframe
Timeline
Prey
State of Fear
Next
NONFICTION
Five Patients
Jasper Johns
Electronic Life
Travels
Credits
Cover design and illustration by Will Staehle.
Interior text design by Lucy Albanese.
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PIRATE LATITUDES. Copyright © 2009 by Michael Crichton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Epub edition © November 2009 ISBN: 978-0-06-193874-0
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
is available upon request.
978-0-06-192937-3
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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