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.
Violent streaks of pain shot through every part of his body. With a gasp, he fell back again.
“Slowly, my friend,” a voice said. Sanson came around from behind him. “Very slowly.” He bent over and helped Hunter sit upright.
The first thing Hunter saw were his clothes. His trousers were shredded almost beyond recognition; through the holes, he could see that his skin was in similar condition. His arms and chest were the same. He looked at his body as if he were examining a foreign, unfamiliar object.
“Your face is not so pretty, either,” Sanson said, and laughed. “Do you think you can eat?”
Hunter started to speak. His face was stiff; it was as if he was wearing a mask. He touched his cheek, and felt a thick crust of blood. He shook his head. “No food? Then water.” Sanson produced a cask, and helped Hunter take a drink. He was relieved to find it did not hurt to swallow, but his mouth was numb where the cask touched his lips. “Not too much,” Sanson said. “Not too much.”
The others came over.
The Jew was grinning broadly. “You should see the view.”
Hunter felt a jolt of elation. He wanted to see the view. He raised one painful arm to Sanson, who helped him stand. The first moment on his feet was excruciating. He felt light-headed and electric jolts of pain shot through his legs and back. Then it was better. Leaning on Sanson, he took a step, wincing. He thought suddenly of Governor Almont. He thought of the evening spent bargaining with Almont for this raid on Matanceros. He had been so confident then, so relaxed, so much the intrepid adventurer. He started to smile ruefully at the memory. The smile hurt.
Then he saw the view, and immediately he forgot Almont, and his pains, and his aching body.
They were standing at the mouth of a small cave, high on the eastern rim of Mt. Leres. Curving down below them were the green slopes of the volcano, going down more than a thousand feet into dense tropical rain forest. At the very bottom was a wide river, opening out into the harbor and the fortress of Punta Matanceros. Sunlight sparkled off the still waters of the harbor, glittering brilliantly around the treasure galleon moored there just inside the protection of the fortress. It was all laid out before him, and Hunter thought it was the most beautiful sight in the world.
Chapter 21
SANSON GAVE HUNTER another drink of water from the cask, and then Don Diego said, “There is something else you should see, Captain.”
The little party climbed up the sloping hill toward the edge of the cliff they had scaled the night before. They moved slowly, in deference to Hunter, who felt pain in every step. And as he looked up at the clear, cloudless blue sky, he felt pain of a different sort. He knew he had made a serious and nearly fatal mistake to force the climb during the storm. They should have waited and made the ascent the next morning. He had been foolish and overeager, and he berated himself for the error.
As they approached the lip of the cliff, Don Diego squatted down and looked over cautiously to the west. The others did the same, Sanson helping Hunter. Hunter did not understand why they were being so careful — until he looked over the sheer precipice, to the jungle foliage, to the bay beyond.
In the bay was Cazalla’s warship.
“Damn me,” he whispered softly.
Sanson, crouched alongside him, nodded. “Luck is with us, my friend. The ship arrived in the bay at dawn. It has been there ever since.” As Hunter watched, he could see a longboat ferrying soldiers to the shore. Along the beach, there were dozens of red-coated Spanish troops searching the shoreline. Cazalla, dressed in a yellow tunic, was clearly visible, gesticulating wildly as he gave orders.
“They are searching the beach,” Sanson said. “They have guessed our plan.”
“But the storm . . .” Hunter said.
“Yes, the storm will have washed away any trace of our presence there.”
Hunter thought of the canvas sling that had fallen from his feet. It would be lying now at the base of the cliff. But the soldiers would probably never find it. To reach the cliff was a full daylong hard journey through the undergrowth. They would not make that journey without evidence a party had landed on the shore.
As Hunter watched, a second longboat loaded with soldiers put out from the warship.
“He has been landing men all morning,” Don Diego said. “There must be a hundred on the beach now.”
“Then he intends to leave men,” Hunter said.
Don Diego nodded.
“All the better for us,” Hunter said. Any troops left on the western side of the island would be unable to fight in Matanceros. “Let us hope he leaves a thousand.”
. . .
BACK IN THE mouth of the cave, Don Diego made a gruel for Hunter to drink while Sanson put out their little fire, and Lazue held the spyglass to her eyes. She described the scene to Hunter, who was sitting alongside her. Hunter himself could see only the basic outlines of the structures by the water below. He relied upon the keenness of Lazue’s vision to guide him.
“Tell me first,” he said, “about the guns. The guns in the fortress.”
Lazue’s lips worked silently as she peered through the glass. “Twelve,” she said finally. “Two batteries of three each face east, toward the open ocean. Six in a single battery fire across the harbor entrance.”