“The sun is setting to the west. In another hour, it will gleam off the water with a brightness to cause pain to the eye. And we cannot see the obstructions beneath, as we make for that bay. In these waters, a ship cannot sail into the sun unless you risk tearing out the bottom on coral.”
“But Lazue has entered the port before.”
“Aye, but it is a windward port. Windward ports are exposed to the storms and strong currents of the open ocean, and they change. A sand bar can shift in days, weeks. Monkey Bay may not be as Lazue remembers it.”
“Oh.” She was silent a moment. “Then why make for port? You have not stopped these three nights past. Sail on into the night, and lose the ship in darkness.” She felt very pleased with this solution.
“There is a moon,” Hunter said gloomily. “Third quarter, it will not be up until midnight. But it will be enough for the ship to follow us — we will have only four hours of true darkness. We cannot lose her in so short a time.”
“Then what will you do?”
Hunter picked up the glass and scanned the horizon. The pursuing ship was slowly gaining on them.
“I will make for Monkey Bay. Into the sun.”
“Ready about!” Enders shouted, and the ship came around into the wind, slowly, cumbersomely changing course. It took a full quarter of an hour before they were cutting through the water again, and during that interval, the sails of the pursuing craft had grown much larger.
As Hunter peered through the glass, he felt something about those sails was depressingly familiar. “You don’t suppose . . .”
“What, sir?”
“Lazue!” Hunter shouted, and pointed to the horizon.
Up above, Lazue put the glass to her eye.
“What do you make it to be?”
She shouted down: “Our old friend!”
Enders groaned. “Cazalla’s warship? The black ship?”
“None other.”
“Who commands her now?” Enders said.
“Bosquet, the Frenchy,” Hunter said, recalling the slim, composed man he had seen board the ship at Matanceros.
“I know of him,” Enders said. “Steady and competent seaman, he knows his trade.” He sighed. “Too bad it’s not a Don at the helm, we might have better luck.” The Spaniards were notoriously bad seamen.
“How long to landfall now?”
“A full hour,” Enders said, “could be more. If the passage is tight, we’ve got to get in some of this canvas.”
That would cut their speed even more, but it could not be helped. If they were to have control over the ship in confined waters, they would have to shorten sail.
Hunter looked back at the pursuing warship. She was changing course, her sails tilting as she wore to leeward. She lost ground a moment, but soon was moving ahead at full speed.
“It will be a very near thing,” he said.
“Aye,” Enders said.
Lazue up in the rigging stretched her left arm. Enders changed course, watching until she dropped her arm. Then he held steady. A short time later, her right arm was held out, half-bent.
Enders again corrected course, turning slightly to starboard.
Part IV
Monkey Bay
Chapter 27
EL TRINIDAD MADE for the cove of Monkey Bay.
Aboard the Cassandra, Sanson watched the larger ship maneuver. “Blood of Louis, they’re making for land,” he said. “Into the sun!”
“It is madness,” moaned the man at the helm.
“Now hear me,” Sanson said, spinning on him. “Come about, and fall into the wake of that Donnish hog, and follow it exactly. I mean none else: exactly. Our bows must cut their form, or I will cut your throat.”
“How can they do it, into the sun?” moaned the helmsman.
“They have Lazue’s eyes,” Sanson said. “It may be enough.”
. . .
LAZUE WAS CAREFUL where she looked. She was also careful what she did with her arms, for the most casual gesture would cause a course change. At this moment, she stared westward, holding her left hand flat under her nose, blocking the reflection of the sun off the water just ahead of the bow. She looked only to the land — the sloping green contours of Cat Island, at this moment a flat outline, without depth.
She knew that somewhere ahead, when they were closer, the island contour would begin to separate, to show definition, and she would see the entrance to Monkey Bay. Until that moment, her job was to hold the fastest course bearing on the point where she expected to find the entrance.
Her elevation helped her; from this vantage point atop the mainmast, she was able to see the color of the water many miles ahead, an intricate pattern of blues and greens of different intensities. In her mind, these registered as depths; she could read them as if they were a chart marked with soundings.
This was no mean skill. The ordinary seaman, knowing the clarity of Caribbean water, naturally assumed that deep blue meant deep water, and green, still deeper. Lazue knew better: if the bottom was sandy, the water might be light blue, though the depth was fifty feet. Or a deep green color could mean a sea grass bottom just ten feet deep. And the shifting sun over the course of the day played odd tricks: in early morning or late afternoon all the colors were richer and darker; one had to compensate.
But for the moment, she had no concern for depth. She scanned the colors at the shoreline, looking for some clue to the entrance to Monkey Bay. She remembered that Monkey Bay was the outflow of a small river of fresh water, as was the case with most usable coves. There were many other Caribbean coves that were not safe for large ships, because there was no gap in the offshore coral reef. To have a gap, one needed a fresh-water outflow, for where there was fresh water, coral did not grow.
Lazue, scanning the water near the shoreline, knew that the gap might not be near the stream itself. Depending on the currents that carried the freshwater out to sea, the actual break in the reef might be a quarter-mile north or south. Wherever it was, currents often produced a brownish turbidity in the water, and a change in the surface appearance.
She scanned carefully, and finally she saw it, south of the ship’s present course. She signaled corrections to Enders on the deck below. As El Trinidad came closer, she was glad that the sea artist had no idea what he was facing; he would faint if he knew how narrow the gap in the reef really was. There were coral heads awash on both sides, and between them the open space was no more than a dozen yards.
Satisfied with the new course, Lazue closed her eyes for several minutes. She was aware of the pink color of sunlight on her eyelids; she was not aware of the motion of the ship, or the wind in the sails, or the smells of the ocean. She was focused entirely on her eyes as she rested them. Nothing mattered but her eyes. She breathed deeply and slowly, preparing herself for the coming exertion, gathering her energy, sharpening her concentration.
She knew how it would happen; she knew the inevitable progression — an easy beginning and then the first ache in her eyes, the increasing pain, then tears, stinging, burning. At the end of the hour, she knew she would be wholly exhausted, her entire body limp. She would need sleep as if she had been awake for a week, and would probably collapse as soon as she climbed down to the deck.
It was for this coming, massive exertion that she prepared herself now; breathing in long, slow breaths, with her eyes closed.
. . .
FOR ENDERS, AT the helm, his concentration was very different. His eyes were open, but he had little interest in what he saw. Enders felt the tiller in his hands; the pressure it exerted on his palms; the cant of the deck beneath his feet; the rumble of the water slipping by the hull; the wind on his cheeks; the vibration of the rigging; the whole complex of forces and stresses that made up the trim of the ship. Indeed, in his absolute concentration, Enders became part of the ship, joined to it as if physically connected; he was the brain to its body, and he knew its condition to the minutest detail.