Pirate Latitudes: A Novel by Michael Crichton Page B

with you, Englishman. Do you know your value? No? Well, it has gone up each passing year, and perhaps it has been raised again. When last I heard, King Philip offered two hundred gold doubloons for you, and eight hundred more for your crew to any who effected a capture. Perhaps it is more now. The decrees change, so many details. Formerly we sent pirates back to Seville, where the Inquisition could encourage you to repent your sins and your heresy in the same breath. But that is so tedious. Now we send only the heads, and reserve our cargo space for more profitable wares.”
    Hunter said nothing.
    “Perhaps you are thinking,” Cazalla continued, “that two hundred doubloons is too modest a sum. As you may imagine, at this very moment I agree with you. But you enjoy the distinction of knowing that you are the most valued pirate in all these waters. Does that please you?”
    “I take it,” Hunter said, “in the spirit it was intended.”
    Cazalla smiled. “I can see that you are born a gentleman,” he said. “And I wish to assure you that you shall be hanged with all the dignity of a gentleman. You have my word on that.”
    Hunter gave a small bow from his chair. He watched as Cazalla reached across his desk for a small glass bowl with a fitted lid. Inside the bowl were broad green leaves. Cazalla removed one of these leaves and chewed it thoughtfully.
    “You look puzzled, Englishman. This practice is unfamiliar to you? The Indians of New Spain called this leaf coca. It grows in the high country. To chew it brings energy, and strength. For women it provokes great ardor,” he added, chuckling. “You wish to taste for yourself? No? You are reluctant to accept my hospitality, Englishman.”
    He chewed a moment in silence, staring at Hunter. Finally, he said, “Have we not met before?”
    “No.”
    “Your face is strangely familiar. Perhaps in the past, when you were younger?”
    Hunter felt his heart pound. “I do not think so.”
    “No doubt you are right,” Cazalla said. He stared thoughtfully at the painting on the far wall. “All Englishmen look alike to me. I cannot tell one from the next.” He looked back at Hunter. “And yet you recognized me. How can that be?”
    “Your visage and manner are much known in the English colonies.”
    Cazalla chewed a bit of lime with his leaves. He smiled, then chuckled. “No doubt,” he said. “No doubt.”
    He abruptly wheeled around in his chair and slapped the table. “Enough: we have business to discuss. What is the name of your vessel?”
    “ Cassandra ,” Hunter said.
    “And who is her owner?”
    “I am myself owner and captain.”
    “And whence put you to sea?”
    “Port Royal.”
    “And for what reason did you make a sea voyage?”
    Hunter paused here. If he could have conjured up a plausible reason, he would have immediately said it. But it was not easy to explain the presence of his ship in these waters. Finally, he said, “We were advised a slaver from Guinea would be found in these waters.”
    Cazalla made a clucking sound, and shook his head. “Englishman, Englishman.”
    Hunter made his best show of reluctance. Then he said, “We were making for Augustine.” That was the most settled town in the Spanish colony of Florida. It had no particular riches, but it was at least conceivable that English privateers would attack it.
    “You chose an odd course. And a slow one.” Cazalla drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Why did you not sail west around Cuba, into the Bahama Passage?”
    Hunter shrugged. “We had reason to believe there were Spanish warships in the passage.”
    “And not here?”
    “The risk was better here.”
    Cazalla considered this for a long moment. He chewed noisily, and sipped his wine. “There is nothing in Augustine but swamps and snakes,” he said. “And no reason to risk the Windward Passage. And in this vicinity . . .” He shrugged. “No settlement which is not strongly defended, too strongly for your little