Bosquet would know this. If he were a patient man, he could simply blockade the bay, riding in deep water, and wait for the foul weather, which would force the galleon to leave the harbor and be exposed to his attack.
Yet Bosquet did not seem to be a patient man. Quite the opposite: he gave every indication of resource and daring, a man who preferred to take the offensive when he could. And there were good reasons for him to attack before bad weather.
In any naval engagement, foul weather was an equalizer, desired by the weaker force, avoided by the stronger. A storm plagued both ships, but it reduced the effectiveness of the superior ship disproportionately. Bosquet must know that Hunter’s ships were short-handed and lightly armed.
Sitting alone in his cabin, Hunter put himself into the mind of a man he had never met, and tried to guess his thoughts. Bosquet would surely attack in the morning, he decided.
That attack would either come from land, or sea, or both. It depended upon how many Spanish soldiers Bosquet had aboard, and how well they trusted their commander. Hunter remembered the soldiers who had guarded him in the hold of the warship; they were young men, not experienced, poorly disciplined.
They could not be relied upon.
No, he decided, Bosquet would first attack from his ship. He would try to enter Monkey Bay, until he was within view of the galleon. He probably suspected that the privateers were in shoal water, which would make maneuvering difficult.
Right now, they were showing the enemy their stern, the most vulnerable part of the ship. Bosquet could sail just inside the mouth of the cove, and fire broadsides until he sank both ships. And he could do that with impunity, because the treasure on the galleon would then lie in shallow water, where it could be salvaged from the sand by native divers.
Hunter called for Enders, and ordered that the Spanish prisoners be locked away safely. Then he ordered that every able-bodied privateer be armed with muskets, and put ashore without delay.
. . .
DAWN CAME GENTLY to Monkey Bay. There was only a slight wind; the sky was laced with wispy clouds that caught the pink glow of first light. Aboard the Spanish warship, the crews began their morning’s work in lazy and desultory fashion. The sun was well above the horizon before orders were shouted to let out the sails and raise anchor.
At that moment, from all along the shore, on both sides of the passage to the bay, the concealed privateers opened with withering gunfire. It must have astounded the Spanish crews. In the first few moments, all the men winching the main anchor were killed; all the men hoisting the aft anchor were killed or wounded; the officers visible on the decks were shot; and the men in the rigging were picked off with astonishing accuracy, and fell screaming to the deck.
Then, just as abruptly, the firing ceased. Except for an acrid gray haze of powder hanging in the air on the shore, there was no sign of movement, no rustling of foliage, nothing.
Hunter, positioned at the seaward tip of the hilly finger of land, watched the warship through his glass with satisfaction. He heard the confused shouts, and watched the half-unreefed sails snap and flutter in the breeze. Several minutes passed before new crews began to climb the rigging, and work the winches on deck. They began timidly at first, but when there was no further firing from the shore, grew bolder.
Hunter waited.
He had a distinct advantage, he knew. In an era when neither muskets nor musketeers were notably accurate, the privateers were, to a man, superb marksmen. His men could pick off sailors on the deck of a ship while giving chase in the rolling pitch of an open boat. To fire from the shore was child’s play to his men.
It was not even good sport.
Hunter waited until he saw the anchor line beginning to move and then he gave the signal to fire again. Another round poured onto the warship, with the same devastating effect. Then, another silence.
Bosquet must surely realize by now that to enter the coral passage — coming closer to shore — would be extremely costly. He could probably make the passage and enter the bay, but dozens, perhaps hundreds of his men would be killed. Far more serious was the risk that key men aloft, or even the helmsman himself, might be shot, leaving the ship rudderless in dangerous waters.
Hunter waited. He heard shouted commands, then more silence. And then he saw the main anchor line plop into the water. They had cut the anchor. A moment later, the stern lines were also cut, and the ship drifted slowly away from the reef.
Once out of musket range, men again appeared on deck and in the rigging. The sails were let out. Hunter waited to see if she turned and made for the shore. The warship did not turn. Instead, she moved north perhaps a hundred yards, and another anchor was dropped in the new position. The sails were taken up; the ship rode gently at anchor, directly off the hills protecting the bay.
“Well,” Enders said. “That’s it, then. The Don can’t get in, and we can’t get out.”
By midday, Monkey Bay was burning hot and airless. Hunter, pacing the heated decks of his galleon, feeling the sticky ooze of softened pitch beneath his feet, was aware of the irony of his predicament. He had conducted the most daring privateering raid in a century, with complete success — only to become trapped in a stifling, unhealthy cove by a single Donnish ship of the line.
It was a difficult moment for him, and even more difficult for his crew. The privateers looked to their captain for guidance and fresh plans, and it was all too obvious that Hunter had none. Someone broke into the rum, and the crew fell to brawling; one argument evolved into a duel. Enders stopped it at the last minute. Hunter passed the word that any man who killed another would himself be killed by Hunter. The captain wanted his crew intact, and personal disagreements could await landfall in Port Royal.
“Don’t know if they’ll stand for it,” Enders said, gloomy as ever.
“They will,” Hunter said.
He was standing on deck in the shadow of the mainmast with Lady Sarah when another pistol shot rang out somewhere belowdecks.
“What’s that?” Lady Sarah said, alarmed.
“Hell,” Hunter said.
A few moments later, a struggling seaman was brought above, in the grip of the enormous Bassa. Enders trailed disconsolately behind.
Hunter looked at the seaman. He was a grizzled man of twenty-five, named Lockwood. Hunter knew him slightly.
“Winged Perkins in the ear with this,” Enders said, handing Hunter a pistol.
The crew was slowly filtering onto the main deck, surly and grim in the hot sun. Hunter took his own pistol from his belt, and checked the prime.
“What are you going to do?” said Lady Sarah, watching.
“This is none of your concern,” Hunter said.
“But—”
“Look away,” Hunter said. He raised his pistol.
Bassa, the Moor, released the seaman. The man stood there, head bowed, drunk.
“He crossed me,” the seaman said.
Hunter shot him in the head. His brains spattered over the gunwale.
“Oh God!” said Lady Sarah Almont.
“Throw him overboard,” Hunter said. Bassa picked up the body and dragged it, feet scraping loudly in the midday silence on the deck. A moment later, there was a splash; the body was gone.
Hunter looked at his crew. “Do you want to vote a new captain?” he said loudly.
The crew grumbled, and turned away. No one spoke.
Soon after, the decks were cleared again. The men had gone below, to escape the direct heat of the sun.
Hunter looked at Lady Sarah. She said nothing, but her glance was accusing.
“These are hard men,” Hunter said, “and they live by rules we have all accepted.”