“She would break a snake’s back,” he muttered, as El Trinidad twisted and turned toward Monkey Bay.
“Less four!” shouted the lineman.
Hunter, in the bow, flanked on either side by the men with their plumb lines, watched the glaring water ahead. He could see nothing at all forward; looking to the side, he saw coral formations fearsomely close to the surface, but somehow, El Trinidad was missing them.
“Trois et demi!”
He gritted his teeth. Twenty feet of water. They could not take much less. As he had the thought, the ship struck another coral formation, but this time there was only a single sharp impact, then nothing. The ship had snapped the coral head, then continued on.
“Three and one!”
They had lost another foot. The ship plowed forward into the sparkling sea.
“Merde!” yelled the second linesman, and started running aft. Hunter knew what had happened; his line had become snarled in coral, and caught; he was trying to free it.
“Full three!”
Hunter frowned — they should be aground now, according to what his Spanish prisoners had told him. They had sworn El Trinidad drew three fathoms of water. Obviously, they were wrong: the ship still sailed smoothly toward the island. He silently damned Spanish seamanship.
Yet he knew the three-fathom draft could not be far wrong; a ship this size must draw very nearly that.
“Full three!”
They were still moving. And then, with frightening suddenness, he saw the gap in the reef, a desperately narrow passage between coral awash on both sides. El Trinidad was right in the center of the passage, and a damned fortunate thing, too, for there was no more than five yards to spare on either side as they passed through.
He looked astern to Enders, who saw the coral on both sides of him. Enders was crossing himself.
“Full five!” shouted the linesman hoarsely, and the crew gave a jubilant cheer. They were inside the reef, in deeper water, and moving north now, to the protected cove between the island shore and the curving finger of hilly land, which encircled the seaward side of the bay.
Hunter could now see the full extent of Monkey Bay. He could tell at a glance that it was not an ideal berth for his ships. The water was deep at the mouth of the bay, but it turned rapidly shallow in more protected areas. He would have to anchor the galleon in water that was exposed to the ocean, and, for several reasons, he was unhappy with that prospect.
Looking back, he saw the Cassandra make the passage safely, following Hunter’s ship so closely he could see the worried expression on the linesman’s face in Cassandra’s bow. And behind the Cassandra was the Spanish warship, no more than two miles distant.
But the sun was falling. The warship would not be able to enter Monkey Bay before nightfall. And if Bosquet chose to enter at dawn, then Hunter would be ready for him.
“Drop anchor!” Enders shouted. “Make fast!”
El Trinidad shuddered to a stop in the twilight. Cassandra glided past her, moving deeper into the bay; the smaller ship with her lesser draft could take the shoal water farther in. A moment later, Sanson’s anchor splashed into the water and both ships were secured.
They were safe, at least for a time.
Chapter 28
AFTER THE TENSION of the reef passage, the crews of both ships were jubilant, shouting and laughing, calling congratulations and mock insults to each other through the twilight. Hunter did not join in the general celebration. He stood on the aft castle of his galleon and watched the warship continue toward them, despite the rapidly growing darkness.
The Spanish man-of-war was now within a half-mile of the bay; she was just outside the reef entrance. Bosquet had great daring, he thought, to come so close in near darkness. He was also taking a considerable and unnecessary risk.
Enders, also watching, asked the unspoken question: “Why?”
Hunter shook his head. He saw the warship drop her anchor line; he saw the splash as it hit the water.
The enemy vessel was so close he could hear the shouted commands in Spanish drifting to him across the water. There was a lot of activity in the stern of the ship; a second anchor was thrown out.
“Makes no sense,” Enders said. “He’s got miles of deep water to ride out the night, but he puts himself in four fathoms.”
Hunter watched. Another stern anchor was thrown over the side, and many hands tugged at the line. The stern of the warship swung around toward the shore.
“Damn me,” Enders said. “You don’t suppose . . .”
“I do,” Hunter said. “She’s lining up a broadside. Hoist anchor.”
“Hoist anchor!” Enders shouted to his surprised crew. “Ready on the foresprit, there! Lively with the lines!” He turned back to Hunter. “We’ll run aground for sure.”
“We have no choice,” Hunter said.
Bosquet’s intent was clear enough. He had anchored in the mouth of the bay, just beyond the reef, but within range of his broadside cannon. He intended to stay there and pound the galleon through the night. Unless Hunter moved out of range, risking the shallow water, his ships would be demolished by morning.
And indeed, they could see the gunports springing open on the Spanish warship, and the muzzles of the cannon as they were fired, the balls smashing through El Trinidad’s rigging, and splashing in the water around them.
“Get her moving, Mr. Enders,” Hunter barked.
As if in answer, a second broadside blasted from the Spanish warship. This one was more on target. Several balls struck El Trinidad, splintering wood, tearing lines.
“Damn me,” Enders said, with as much pain in his voice as if he had himself been injured.
But Hunter’s ship was moving now, and she inched out of range so that the next broadside fell harmlessly into the water in a straight line of splashes. That straightness was itself impressive.
“She’s well manned,” Enders said.
“There are times,” Hunter said, “when you are too appreciative of good seamanship.”
By now it was quite dark; the fourth broadside came as a pattern of hot red flashes from the black profile of the warship. They heard, but could barely see, the splashes of shot in the water astern.
And then the low offshore hilly curve obliterated the view of the enemy vessel.
“Drop anchor,” Enders shouted, but it was too late. At that very moment with a soft, crunching sound, El Trinidad ran aground on the sandy bottom of Monkey Bay.
. . .
THAT NIGHT, SITTING alone in his cabin, Hunter took stock of his situation. The fact that he was grounded did not bother him in the least; the ship had struck sand at low tide, and he could easily get her afloat in a few hours.
For the moment, the two ships were safe. The harbor was not ideal, but it was serviceable enough; he had fresh water and provisions to last more than two weeks without subjecting his crew to any hardship. If they could find food and water ashore — and they probably could — then he could remain in Monkey Bay for months.
At least he could remain until a storm came up. A storm could be disastrous. Monkey Bay was on the windward side of an ocean island and its waters were shallow. A heavy storm would crush his ships to splinters in a matter of hours. And this was the season for hurricanes; he could not expect too many days to pass without experiencing one, and he could not remain in Monkey Bay when it struck.