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Pirate Latitudes
Michael Crichton
The new thriller from Michael Crichton, one of the most famous authors in the world, the most exciting, anticipated publication of Christmas 2009.Jamaica, in 1665 a lone outpost of British power amid Spanish waters in the sunbaked Caribbean. Its capital, Port Royal, a cuthroat town of taverns, grog shops and bawdy houses – the last place imaginable from which to launch an unthinkable attack on a nearby Spanish stronghold. Yet that is exactly what renowned privateer Captain Charles Hunter plans to do, with the connivance of Charles II's ruling governor, Sir James Almont.The target is Matanceros, guarded by the bloodthirsty Cazalla, and considered impregnable with its gun emplacements and sheer cliffs. Hunter's crew of buccaneers must battle not only the Spanish fleet but other deadly perils – raging hurricanes, cannibal tribes, even sea monsters. But if his ragtag crew succeeds, they will make not only history … but a fortune in gold.
Pirate
Latitudes
Michael
Crichton
Copyright (#ulink_8eecb8f8-2700-59a4-a721-3126d2cdb198)
This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009
Copyright © Michael Crichton 2009
Endpaper map © Andrew Ashton
Cover photographys © Amulf Husmo/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (sea)
Ed Simpson/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (sky); Nobuaki Suminda/Sebun Photo/Getty Images (http://www.gettyimages.co.uk) (island)
Michael Crichton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007346103
Source ISBN: 9780007329083
Version: 2017-05-08
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u122046ef-5324-5232-9463-b8f6f45427f6)
Title Page (#u705d3b60-ead0-5897-8ab3-94d4a9a4ee4c)
Copyright (#uf8d91308-58c1-5ff0-9a05-30c32b2eaff4)
Part I PORT ROYAL (#udff89fc9-abc3-5e6e-9187-7735da2f7a08)
CHAPTER 1 (#u753f6b9e-1c07-5d8a-9889-416df39217ca)
CHAPTER 2 (#u20243dd4-ac5c-52c8-93c6-ce89e309f6fa)
CHAPTER 3 (#u3c246d85-a939-5e26-8469-b768f6a6f999)
CHAPTER 4 (#u50499c81-69ac-59a3-a00c-ad9eff092f2f)
CHAPTER 5 (#u14ac4f8a-a6f1-5efb-bea7-c2b23c2407f6)
CHAPTER 6 (#udee3a21f-b8ab-5832-b9c8-5c7d1e2076a6)
CHAPTER 7 (#u9ffd89fa-c9a9-503c-98fa-8311aec647e6)
CHAPTER 8 (#u4501676c-a231-5536-9176-bc2b4dfcfe03)
CHAPTER 9 (#u8e76813e-0c47-52b1-aec2-8be88ba139d3)
CHAPTER 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part II THE BLACK SHIP (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part III MATANCEROS (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part IV MONKEY BAY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part V THE MOUTH OF THE DRAGON (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part VI PORT ROYAL (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
READ ON FOR AN EXTRACT FROM THE GRIPPING NEW NOVEL FROM MICHAEL CRICHTON (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#litres_trial_promo)
ALSO BY MICHAEL CRICHTON (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Part I PORT ROYAL (#ulink_eb2e0255-ec7b-54e1-ba4c-d6e3610d58e3)
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_589ac487-2fba-59f5-be10-60ab53a34170)
SIR JAMES ALMONT, appointed by His Majesty Charles II Governor of Jamaica, was habitually an early riser. This was in part the tendency of an aging widower, in part a consequence of restless sleep from pains of the gout, and in part an accommodation to the climate of the Jamaica Colony, which turned hot and humid soon after sunrise.
On the morning of September 7, 1665, he followed his usual routine, arising in his chambers on the third floor of the Governor’s Mansion and going directly to the window to survey the weather and the coming day. The Governor’s Mansion was an impressive brick structure with a red-tile roof. It was also the only three-story building in Port Royal, and his view of the town was excellent. In the streets below he could see the lamplighters making their rounds, extinguishing streetlights from the night before. On Ridge Street, the morning patrol of garrison soldiers was collecting drunks and dead bodies, which had fallen in the mud. Directly beneath his window, the first of the flat, horse-drawn carts of water-carriers rumbled by, bringing casks of fresh water from Rio Cobra some miles away. Otherwise, Port Royal was quiet, enjoying the brief moment between the time the last of the evening’s drunken revelers collapsed in a stupor, and the start of the morning’s commercial bustle around the docks.
Looking away from the cramped, narrow streets of the town to the harbor, he saw the rocking thicket of masts, the hundreds of ships of all sizes moored in the harbor and drawn up to the docks. In the sea beyond, he saw an English merchant brig anchored past the cay, near Rackham’s reef offshore. Undoubtedly, the ship had arrived during the night, and the captain had prudently chosen to await daylight to make the harbor of Port Royal. Even as he watched, the topsails of the merchant ship were unreefed in the growing light of dawn, and two longboats put out from the shore near Fort Charles to help tow the merchantman in.
Governor Almont, known locally as “James the Tenth,” because of his insistence on diverting a tenth share of privateering expeditions to his own personal coffers, turned away from the window and hobbled on his painful left leg across the room to make his toilet. Immediately, the merchant vessel was forgotten, for on this particular morning Sir James had the disagreeable duty of attending a hanging.
The previous week, soldiers had captured a French rascal named LeClerc, convicted of making a piratical raid on the settlement of Ocho Rios, on the north coast of the island.
On the testimony of a few townspeople who had survived the attack, LeClerc had been sentenced to be hanged in the public gallows on High Street. Governor Almont had no particular interest in either the Frenchman or his disposition, but he was required to attend the execution in his official capacity. That implied a tedious, formal morning.
Richards, the governor’s manservant, entered the room. “Good morning, Your Excellency. Here is your claret.” He handed the glass to the governor, who immediately drank it down in a gulp. Richards set out the articles of toilet: a fresh basin of rosewater, another of crushed myrtle berries, and a third small bowl of tooth powder with the tooth-cloth alongside. Governor Almont began his ministrations to the accompanying hiss of the perfumed bellows Richards used to air the room each morning.
“Warm day for a hanging,” Richards commented, and Sir James grunted his agreement. He doused his thinning hair with the myrtle berry paste. Governor Almont was fifty-one years old, and he had been growing bald for a decade. He was not an especially vain man—and, in any case, he normally wore hats—so that baldness was not so fearsome as it might be. Nonetheless, he used preparations to cure his loss of hair. For several years now he had favored myrtle berries, a traditional remedy prescribed by Pliny. He also employed a paste of olive oil, ashes, and ground earthworms to prevent his hair from turning white. But this mixture stank so badly that he used it less frequently than he knew he should.
Governor Almont rinsed his hair in the rosewater, dried it with a towel, and examined his countenance in the mirror.
One of the privileges of his position as the highest official of the Jamaica Colony was that he possessed the best mirror on the island. It was nearly a foot square and of excellent quality, without ripples or flaws. It had arrived from London the year before, consigned to a merchant in the town, and Almont had confiscated it on some pretext or other. He was not above such things, and indeed felt that this high-handed behavior actually increased his respect in the community. As the former governor, Sir William Lytton, had warned him in London, Jamaica was “not a region burdened by moral excesses.” Sir James had often recalled the phrase in later years—the understatement was so felicitously put. Sir James himself lacked graceful speech; he was blunt to a fault and distinctly choleric in temperament, a fact he ascribed to his gout.
Staring at himself in the mirror now, he noted that he must see Enders, the barber, to trim his beard. Sir James was not a handsome man, and he wore a full beard to compensate for his “weasel-beaked” face.
He grunted at his reflection, and turned his attention to his teeth, dipping a wetted finger into the paste of powdered rabbit’s head, pomegranate peel, and peach blossom. He rubbed his teeth briskly with his finger, humming a little to himself.
At the window, Richards looked out at the arriving ship. “They say the merchantman’s the Godspeed, sir.”
“Oh yes?” Sir James rinsed his mouth with a bit of rosewater, spat it out, and dried his teeth with a tooth-cloth. It was an elegant tooth-cloth from Holland, red silk with an edging of lace. He had four such cloths, another minor delicacy of his position within the Colony. But one had already been ruined by a mindless servant girl who cleaned it in the native manner by pounding with rocks, destroying the delicate fabric. Servants were difficult here. Sir William had mentioned that as well.
Richards was an exception. Richards was a manservant to treasure, a Scotsman but a clean one, faithful and reasonably reliable. He could also be counted on to report the gossip and doings of the town, which might otherwise never reach the governor’s ears.
“The Godspeed, you say?”
“Aye, sir,” Richards said, laying out Sir James’s wardrobe for the day on the bed.
“Is my new secretary on board?” According to the previous month’s dispatches, the Godspeed was to carry his new secretary, one Robert Hacklett. Sir James had never heard of the man, and looked forward to meeting him. He had been without a secretary for eight months, since Lewis died of dysentery.
“I believe he is, sir,” Richard said.
Sir James applied his makeup. First he daubed on cerise—white lead and vinegar—to produce a fashionable pallor on the face and neck. Then, on his cheeks and lips, he applied fucus, a red dye of seaweed and ochre.
“Will you be wishing to postpone the hanging?” Richards asked, bringing the governor his medicinal oil.
“No, I think not,” Almont said, wincing as he downed a spoonful. This was oil of a red-haired dog, concocted by a Milaner in London and known to be efficacious for the gout. Sir James took it faithfully each morning.
