in Spanish; there was an answering grunt, and they opened the door, and pushed Hunter in. One of the guards went inside as well, and closed the door.
The captain’s cabin was remarkably large, and ornately fitted. There was evidence of space and luxury everywhere. There was a dining table with a fine linen cloth, and gold plates set out for the evening meal by candlelight. There was a comfortable bed with a brocade bedcover laced in gold. A richly colored oil painting depicting Christ on the cross hung in a corner, above a cannon with an open porthole. In another corner, a lantern cast a warm golden light over the room.
There was another table at the rear of the cabin; maps covered it. Behind that table, in a plush red velvet chair, sat the captain himself.
His back was turned to Hunter as he poured wine from a cut-crystal decanter. Hunter could see only that the man was very large; his back was broad as a bull’s.
“Well now,” the captain said, in very good English, “can I persuade you to join me in a glass of this excellent claret?”
Before Hunter could reply, the captain turned. Hunter found himself staring into glowering eyes set in a heavy face with a strong nose and jet-black beard. Without his wishing, the word sprang from his lips:
“Cazalla!”
The Spaniard laughed heartily. “Did you expect King Charles?”
Hunter was speechless. He was vaguely aware that his lips worked, but no sound came out. At the same time, a thousand questions sprang to mind. Why was Cazalla here, and not in Matanceros? Did that mean the galleon was gone? Or had he left the fortress in command of some capable lieutenant?
Or perhaps he was ordered away by a higher authority — this warship might be bound for Havana.
Even as these questions flooded his mind, he was overcome by a cold fear. It was all he could do to keep his body from shaking as he stood and looked at Cazalla.
“Englishman,” Cazalla said, “your discomfort flatters me. I am embarrassed I do not know your name in turn. Sit down, be at ease.”
Hunter did not move. The soldier roughly shoved him into a chair facing Cazalla.
“Much better,” Cazalla said. “Will you take your claret now?” He passed Hunter the glass.
With the strongest effort of will, Hunter kept his hand from trembling as he took the proffered glass. But he did not drink; he set it immediately on the table. Cazalla smiled.
“Your health, Englishman,” he said, and drank. “I must drink to your health while it is still possible to do so. You are not joining me? No? Come now, Englishman. Even His Excellency the Commander of the Havana Garrison does not have claret so fine as this. It is French, called Haut-Brion. Drink.” He paused. “Drink.”
Hunter took the glass, and drank a little. He felt mesmerized, almost in a trance. But the taste of the claret broke the spell of the moment; the ordinary gesture of lifting the glass to his lips and swallowing brought him back to himself. His shock passed away, and he began to notice a thousand tiny details. He heard the breathing of the soldier behind him; probably two paces behind, he thought. He saw the irregularity of Cazalla’s beard and guessed the man had been some days at sea. He smelled the garlic on Cazalla’s breath as he leaned forward and said, “Now, Englishman. Tell me: what is your name?”
“Charles Hunter,” he said, in a voice that was stronger and more confident than he had dared hope.
“Yes? Then I have heard of you. You are the same Hunter who took the Conception one season ago?”
“I am,” Hunter said.
“The same Hunter who led the raid on Monte Cristo in Hispañola and held the plantation owner Ramona for ransom?”
“I am.”
“He is a pig, Ramona, do you not think?” Cazalla laughed. “And you are also the same Hunter who captured the slave ship of de Ruyters while it was at anchor in Guadeloupe, and made off with all his cargoes?”
“I am.”
“Then I am most pleased to be acquainted
The captain’s cabin was remarkably large, and ornately fitted. There was evidence of space and luxury everywhere. There was a dining table with a fine linen cloth, and gold plates set out for the evening meal by candlelight. There was a comfortable bed with a brocade bedcover laced in gold. A richly colored oil painting depicting Christ on the cross hung in a corner, above a cannon with an open porthole. In another corner, a lantern cast a warm golden light over the room.
There was another table at the rear of the cabin; maps covered it. Behind that table, in a plush red velvet chair, sat the captain himself.
His back was turned to Hunter as he poured wine from a cut-crystal decanter. Hunter could see only that the man was very large; his back was broad as a bull’s.
“Well now,” the captain said, in very good English, “can I persuade you to join me in a glass of this excellent claret?”
Before Hunter could reply, the captain turned. Hunter found himself staring into glowering eyes set in a heavy face with a strong nose and jet-black beard. Without his wishing, the word sprang from his lips:
“Cazalla!”
The Spaniard laughed heartily. “Did you expect King Charles?”
Hunter was speechless. He was vaguely aware that his lips worked, but no sound came out. At the same time, a thousand questions sprang to mind. Why was Cazalla here, and not in Matanceros? Did that mean the galleon was gone? Or had he left the fortress in command of some capable lieutenant?
Or perhaps he was ordered away by a higher authority — this warship might be bound for Havana.
Even as these questions flooded his mind, he was overcome by a cold fear. It was all he could do to keep his body from shaking as he stood and looked at Cazalla.
“Englishman,” Cazalla said, “your discomfort flatters me. I am embarrassed I do not know your name in turn. Sit down, be at ease.”
Hunter did not move. The soldier roughly shoved him into a chair facing Cazalla.
“Much better,” Cazalla said. “Will you take your claret now?” He passed Hunter the glass.
With the strongest effort of will, Hunter kept his hand from trembling as he took the proffered glass. But he did not drink; he set it immediately on the table. Cazalla smiled.
“Your health, Englishman,” he said, and drank. “I must drink to your health while it is still possible to do so. You are not joining me? No? Come now, Englishman. Even His Excellency the Commander of the Havana Garrison does not have claret so fine as this. It is French, called Haut-Brion. Drink.” He paused. “Drink.”
Hunter took the glass, and drank a little. He felt mesmerized, almost in a trance. But the taste of the claret broke the spell of the moment; the ordinary gesture of lifting the glass to his lips and swallowing brought him back to himself. His shock passed away, and he began to notice a thousand tiny details. He heard the breathing of the soldier behind him; probably two paces behind, he thought. He saw the irregularity of Cazalla’s beard and guessed the man had been some days at sea. He smelled the garlic on Cazalla’s breath as he leaned forward and said, “Now, Englishman. Tell me: what is your name?”
“Charles Hunter,” he said, in a voice that was stronger and more confident than he had dared hope.
“Yes? Then I have heard of you. You are the same Hunter who took the Conception one season ago?”
“I am,” Hunter said.
“The same Hunter who led the raid on Monte Cristo in Hispañola and held the plantation owner Ramona for ransom?”
“I am.”
“He is a pig, Ramona, do you not think?” Cazalla laughed. “And you are also the same Hunter who captured the slave ship of de Ruyters while it was at anchor in Guadeloupe, and made off with all his cargoes?”
“I am.”
“Then I am most pleased to be acquainted
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