Talking was not permitted, nor was sleep, and any man who tried either was treated to a rough kick from a soldier’s boot. The men were not allowed to move, and if they had to relieve themselves, they did so where they sat. With sixty men and twenty guards, the narrow airless space soon became suffocating, hot, and fetid. Even the guards were soaked in sweat.
There was no indicator of the passage of time. The only sounds were the heavy thumping movements of the livestock on the deck above, and the endless, monotonous hiss of water as the warship sailed forward. Hunter sat in the corner, trying to concentrate on the sound of the water, waiting for it to cease. He tried to ignore the true desperateness of his condition — he and his crew were buried deep in the bowels of a mighty warship, surrounded by hundreds of enemy soldiers, utterly at their mercy. Unless Cazalla anchored for the night, they were all doomed. Hunter’s sole chance depended on the warship halting overnight.
Time passed: he waited.
Eventually, he was aware of a change in the gurgle of the water, and a shift in the creaking of the rigging. He sat up, listening carefully. There was no doubt of it — the ship was slowing.
The soldiers, huddled together and speaking quietly, noticed it too, and commented among themselves. A moment later, the sound of the water ceased entirely, and Hunter heard the rattle of the anchor chain being let out. The anchor splashed loudly; somewhere in his mind, Hunter made a note that he was near the bow of the ship. Otherwise the sound would not be so distinct.
More time passed. The warship rocked gently at anchor. They must be in some protected cove, for the water to be so calm. Yet the ship had a deep draft, and Cazalla would not bring his ship into any harbor at night unless he knew it well.
He wondered where they were, and hoped it was in a cove near Turk Isle. There were several leeward coves deep enough for a ship this size.
The rocking of the warship at anchor was restful. More than once he felt himself dozing off. The soldiers kept busy kicking the seamen, keeping them awake. The gloomy semidarkness of the low deck was frequently punctuated by the grunts and groans of the crew as they were kicked.
Hunter wondered about his plan. What was happening?
After a further passage of time, a Spanish soldier came down and barked, “Every man to stand! Orders of Cazalla! All stand to feet!” Encouraged by the boots of the soldiers, the seamen stood, one by one, bent over in the narrow deck. It was an aching, agonizingly uncomfortable posture.
More time passed. The guard was changed. The new soldiers entered holding their noses and making jokes about the smell. Hunter looked at them oddly; he had long since ceased to be aware of any odor.
The new guards were younger and more casual about their duties. Apparently, the Spaniards were convinced the pirates could give them no trouble. The new guards quickly turned to playing cards. Hunter looked away, and watched drops of his own sweat fall to the floor. He thought of poor Trencher, but he could not work up anger, or indignation, or even fear. He was numb.
A new soldier arrived. He was some sort of officer and apparently he was displeased with the relaxed attitude of the young men. He barked out sharp orders and the men hastily put aside their cards.
The new officer went around the room, examining the faces of the privateers. Finally, he plucked one fellow out of the group, and led him away. The man collapsed on rubbery legs when ordered to walk; the soldiers picked him up and dragged him out.
The door closed. The guards made a brief display of attentiveness, and then relaxed again. But they did not play cards. After a while, two of them decided to engage in a contest to see who could urinate the farthest. The target was a seaman in the corner. This game was considered fine sport by the guards, who laughed and pretended to bet enormous sums of money on the outcome.
Hunter was only dimly aware of these events. He was very tired; his legs burned with fatigue and his back ached. He began to wonder why he had refused to tell Cazalla the purpose of the voyage. It seemed a meaningless gesture.
At that moment, Hunter’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another officer, who barked: “Captain Hunter!” And Hunter was led away, out of the room.
As he was pushed and prodded through the decks of sleeping seamen, rocking in their hammocks, he distinctly heard, from somewhere in the ship, an odd and plaintive sound.
It was the sound of a woman crying.
Chapter 17
HUNTER HAD NO opportunity to reflect on the meaning of that strange sound, for he was pushed hastily onto the main deck. There, beneath the stars and the reefed sails, he noticed that the moon was low — which meant that dawn could not be more than a few hours away.
He felt a sharp pain of despair.
“Englishman, come here!”
Hunter looked around and saw Cazalla, standing near the mainmast, in the center of a ring of torches. At his feet, the seaman previously taken from the room lay spread-eagled on his back, firmly lashed to the deck. A number of Spanish soldiers stood about, and all were grinning broadly.
Cazalla himself seemed highly excited; he was breathing rapidly and shallowly. Hunter noticed that he was chewing more coca leaf.
“Englishman, Englishman,” he said, speaking rapidly. “You are just in time to witness our little sport. Do you know we searched your ship? No? Well, we did, and we found many interesting things.”
Oh God, Hunter thought. No . . .
“You have much rope, Englishman, and you have funny iron hooks that fold up, and you have other strange things of canvas which we do not understand. But most of all, Englishman, we do not understand this.”
Hunter’s heart pounded: if they had found the grenadoes, then it would all be finished.
But Cazalla held out a case with four rats. The rats scampered back and forth and squeaked nervously.
“Can you imagine, Englishman, how amazed we were to find that you bring rats on your ship? We say to ourselves, why is this? Why does the Englishman carry rats to Augustine? Augustine has rats of its own, Florida rats, very good ones. Yes? So I wonder, how do I explain this?”
Hunter watched as a soldier did something to the face of the seaman lashed to the deck. At first he could not see what was being done; the man’s face was being rubbed or stroked. Then Hunter realized: they were smearing cheese on his face.
“So,” Cazalla said, waving the cage in the air, “then I see that you are not kind to your friends, the rats. They are hungry, Englishman. They want food. You see how excited they are? They smell food. That is why they are excited. I think we should feed them, yes?”
Cazalla set the cage down within inches of the seaman’s face. The rats flung themselves at the bars, trying to get to the cheese.
“Do you see what I mean, Englishman? Your rats are very hungry. Do you not think we should feed them?”
Hunter stared at the rats, and at the frightened eyes of the immobile seaman.
“I am wondering if your friend here will talk,” Cazalla said.
The seaman could not take his eyes off the rats.
“Or perhaps, Englishman, you will talk for him?”
“No,” Hunter said wearily.
Cazalla bent over the seaman and tapped him on the chest. “And you, will you talk?” With his other hand, Cazalla touched the latch to the cage door.
The seaman focused on the latch, watching as Cazalla raised the bar slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time. Finally, the latch was released; Cazalla held the door closed with a single finger.
“Your last chance, my friend . . .”
“Non!” the seaman shrieked. “Je parle! Je parle!”