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“Some say two hundred. Some say three hundred. I have even heard four hundred but do not believe it.”
Hunter nodded. He should count on three hundred troops. “And the guns?”
“On two sides of the fortress only,” Whisper rasped. “One battery to the ocean, due east. One battery across the mouth of the harbor, due south.”
“What guns are they?”
Whisper gave his chilling laugh. “Most interesting, Captain Hunter. They are culebrinas, twenty-four-pounders, cast bronze.”
“How many?”
“Ten, perhaps twelve.”
It was interesting, Hunter thought. The culebrinas—what the English called culverins—were not the most powerful class of armament, and were no longer favored for shipboard use. Instead, the stubby cannon had become standard on warships of every nationality.
The culverin was an older gun. Culverins weighed more than two tons, with barrels as long as fifteen feet. Such long barrels made them deadly accurate at long range. They could fire heavy shot, and were quick to load. In the hands of trained gun crews, culverins could be fired as often as once a minute.
“So it is well made,” Hunter nodded. “Who is the gunnery master?”
“Bosquet.”
“I have heard of him,” Hunter said. “He is the man who sank the Renown?”
“The same,” Whisper hissed.
So the gun crews would be well drilled. Hunter frowned.
“Whisper,” he said, “do you know if the culverins are fix-mounted?”
Whisper rocked back and forth for a long moment. “You are insane, Captain Hunter.”
“How so?”
“You are planning a landward attack.”
Hunter nodded.
“It will never succeed,” Whisper said. He tapped the map on his knees. “Edmunds thought of it, but when he saw the island, he gave up the attempt. Look here, if you beach on the west”—he pointed to the curve of the U—“there is a small harbor which you can use. But to cross to the main harbor of Matanceros by land, you must scale the Leres ridge, to get to the other side.”
Hunter made an impatient gesture. “Is it difficult to scale the ridge?”
“It is impossible,” Whisper said. “The ordinary man cannot do it. Starting here, from the western cove, the land gently slopes up for five hundred feet or more. But it is a hot, dense jungle, with many swamps. There is no fresh water. There will be patrols. If the patrols do not find you and you do not die of fevers, you emerge at the base of the ridge. The western face of Leres ridge is vertical rock for three hundred feet. A bird cannot perch there. The wind is incessant with the force of a gale.”
“If I did scale it,” Hunter said. “What then?”
“The eastern slope is gentle, and presents no difficulty,” Whisper said. “But you will never reach the eastern face, I promise you.”
“If I did,” Hunter said, “what of the Matanceros batteries?”
Whisper gave a little shrug. “They face the water, Captain Hunter. Cazalla is no fool. He knows he cannot be attacked from the land.”
“There is always a way.”
Whisper rocked in his chair, in silence, for a long time. “Not always,” he said finally. “Not always.”
DON DIEGO DE RAMANO, known also as Black Eye or simply as the Jew, sat hunched over his workbench in the shop on Farrow Street. He blinked nearsightedly at the pearl, which he held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. They were the only remaining fingers on that hand. “It is of excellent quality,” he said. He handed the pearl back to Hunter. “I advise you to keep it.”
Black Eye blinked rapidly. His eyes were weak, and pink, like a rabbit’s. Tears ran almost continuously from them; from time to time, he brushed them away. His right eye had a large black spot near the pupil—hence his name. “You did not need me to tell you this, Hunter.”
“No, Don Diego.”
The Jew nodded, and got up from his bench. He crossed his narrow shop and closed the door to the street. Then he closed the shutters to the window, and turned back to Hunter. “Well?”
“How is your health, Don Diego?”
“My health, my health,” Don Diego said, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his loose robe. He was sensitive about his injured left hand. “My health is indifferent as always. You did not need me to tell you this, either.”
“Is the shop successful?” Hunter asked, looking around the room. On rude tables, gold jewelry was displayed. The Jew had been selling from this shop for nearly two years now.
Don Diego sat down. He looked at Hunter, and stroked his beard, and wiped away his tears. “Hunter,” he said, “you are vexing. Speak your mind.”
“I was wondering,” Hunter said, “if you still worked in powder.”
“Powder? Powder?” The Jew stared across the room, frowning as if he did not know the meaning of the word. “No,” he said. “I do not work in powder. Not after this”—he pointed to his blackened eye—“and after this.” He raised his fingerless left hand. “No longer do I work in powder.”
“Can your will be changed?”
“Never.”
“Never is a long time.”
“Never is what I mean, Hunter.”
“Not even to attack Cazalla?”
The Jew grunted. “Cazalla,” he said heavily. “Cazalla is in Matanceros and cannot be attacked.”
“I am going to attack him,” Hunter said quietly.
“So did Captain Edmunds, this year past.” Don Diego grimaced at the memory. He had been a partial backer of that expedition. His investment—fifty pounds—had been lost. “Matanceros is invulnerable, Hunter. Do not let vanity obscure your sense. The fortress cannot be overcome.” He wiped the tears from his cheek. “Besides, there is nothing there.”
“Nothing in the fortress,” Hunter said. “But in the harbor?”
“The harbor? The harbor?” Black Eye stared into space again. “What is in the harbor? Ah. It must be the treasure naos lost in the August storm, yes?”
“One of them.”
“How do you know this?”
“I know.”
“One nao?” The Jew blinked even more rapidly. He scratched his nose with the forefinger of his injured left hand—a sure sign he was lost in thought. “It is probably filled with tobacco and cinnamon,” he said gloomily.
“It is probably filled with gold and pearls,” Hunter said. “Otherwise it would have made straight for Spain, and risked capture. It went to Matanceros only because the treasure is so great it dared not risk a seizure.”
“Perhaps, perhaps…”
Hunter watched the Jew carefully. The Jew was a great actor.
“Suppose you are right,” he said finally. “It is of no interest to me. A nao in Matanceros harbor is as safe as if it were moored in Cádiz itself. It is protected by the fortress and the fortress cannot be taken.”
“True,” Hunter said. “But the gun batteries which guard the harbor can be destroyed—if your health is good, and if you will work in powder once again.”
“You flatter me.”
“Most assuredly I do not.”
“What has my health to do with this?”
“My plan,” Hunter said, “is not without its rigors.”
Don Diego frowned. “You are saying I must come with you?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
“I thought you wanted money. You want me to come?”
“It is essential, Don Diego.”
The Jew stood up abruptly. “To attack Cazalla,” he said, suddenly excited. He began to pace back and forth.
“I have dreamt of his death each night for ten years, Hunter. I have dreamed…” He stopped pacing, and looked at Hunter. “You also have your reasons.”
“I do.” Hunter nodded.
“But can it be done? Truly?”
“Truly, Don Diego.”
“Then I wish to hear the plan,” the Jew said, very excited. “And I wish to know what powder you need.”
“I need an invention,” Hunter said. “You must fabricate something which does not exist.”
The Jew wiped tears from his eyes. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me.”
MR. ENDERS, THE barber-surgeon and sea artist, delicately applied the leech to his patient’s neck. The man, leaning back in the chair, his face covered with a towel, groaned as the sluglike creature touched his flesh. Immediately, the leech began to swell with blood.
Mr. Enders hummed quietly to himself. “There now,” he said. “A few moments and you will feel much better. Mark me, you will breathe easier, and show the ladies a thing or two, as well.” He patted the cheek that was under the towel. “I shall just step outside for a breath of air, and return in a moment.”
With that, Mr. Enders left the shop, for he had seen Hunter beckoning to him outside. Mr. Enders was a short man with quick, delicate movements; he seemed to dance rather than walk. He did a modest business in the Port, because many of his patients survived his ministrations, unlike those of other surgeons. But his greatest skill, and his true love, was piloting a vessel under sail. Enders, a genuine sea artist, was that rare creature, a perfect helmsman, a man who seemed to find communion between himself and the ship he guided.
“Are you needing a shave, Captain?” he asked Hunter.
“A crew.”
“Then you have found your surgeon,” Enders said. “And what’s the nature of the voyage?”
“Logwood cutting,” Hunter said, and grinned.
“I am always pleased to cut logwood,” Enders said. “And whose logwood might it be?”
“Cazalla’s.”
Immediately, Enders dropped his bantering mood. “Cazalla? You are going to Matanceros?”
“Softly,” Hunter said, glancing around the street.
“Captain, Captain, suicide is an offense against God.”
“You know that I need you,” Hunter said.
“But life is sweet, Captain.”
“So is gold,” Hunter said.
Enders was silent, frowning. He knew, as the Jew knew, as everyone knew in Port Royal, that there was no gold in the fortress of Matanceros. “Perhaps you will explain?”
“It is better that I do not.”
“When do you sail?”
“In two days’ time.”
“And we will hear the reasons in Bull Bay?”
“You have my word.”
Enders silently extended his hand, and Hunter shook it. There was a writhing and grunting from the patient in the shop. “Oh dear, the poor fellow,” Enders said, and ran back into the room. The leech was fat with blood, and dripping red drops onto the wooden floor. Enders lifted the leech away and the patient screamed. “Now, now, do be calm, Your Excellency.”
“You are nothing but a damned pirate and rascal,” said Sir James Almont, whipping the cloth off his face and daubing his bitten neck with it.
LAZUE WAS IN a bawdy house on Lime Road, surrounded by giggling women. Lazue was French; the name was a bastardization of Les Yeux, for this sailor’s eyes were large, and bright, and legendary. Lazue could see better than anyone in the dark of night; many times, Hunter had gotten his ships through reefs and shoal water with the help of Lazue on the forecastle. It was also true that this slender, catlike person was an extraordinary marksman.
“Hunter,” Lazue growled, with an arm around a buxom girl. “Hunter, join us.” The girls giggled and played with their hair.
“A word in private, Lazue.”
“You are so tedious,” Lazue said, and kissed each of the girls in turn. “I shall return, my sweets,” Lazue said, and crossed with Hunter to a far corner. A girl brought them a crock of kill-devil, and each a glass.
