One of her topsail spars hung cracked and dangling. Some of her rigging was ragged, and her bowline was chipped and splintered. But these were minor details: Bosquet’s warship was safe, riding smoothly in the sunlit waters offshore. Hunter felt enormous fatigue and enormous depression. He watched the ship some moments longer, noticing her motion.
“God’s blood,” he said softly.
Enders, by his side, had noticed it, too. “Longish chop,” he said.
“The wind is fair,” Hunter said.
“Aye. For another day or so.”
Hunter stared at the long, slow sea swell that rocked the Spanish warship back and forth at anchor. He swore. “Where is it from?”
“I’d guess,” Enders said, “that it’s straight up from the south, this time of year.”
In the late summer months, they all knew to expect hurricanes. And as consummate sailors, they were able to predict the arrival of these frightful storms as much as two days in advance. The early warnings were always found in the ocean surface: the waves, pressed forward by storm winds of a hundred miles an hour, were altered in places far distant.
Hunter looked at the still-cloudless sky. “How much time, do you reckon?”
Enders shook his head. “It will be tomorrow night at the latest.”
“Damn!” Hunter said. He turned and looked back at the galleon in Monkey Bay. She rode easily at anchor. The tide was in, and it was abnormally high. “Damn!” he said again, and returned to his ship.
He was in a foul mood, pacing the decks of his ship under the hot midday sun, pacing like a man trapped in a dungeon cell. He was not inclined to polite conversation, and it was unfortunate that Lady Sarah Almont chose this moment to speak with him. She requested a longboat and crew to take her ashore.
“To what end?” he said curtly. In the back of his mind, he wondered that she had made no mention whether he had visited her cabin the night previous.
“What end? Why to gather fruits and vegetables for my diet. You have nothing adequate on board.”
“Your request is quite impossible,” he said, and turned away from her.
“Captain,” she said, stamping her foot, “I shall have you know that this is no mean matter to me. I am a vegetarian, and eat no meat.”
He turned back. “Madam,” he said, “I care not a whit for your eccentric fancies, and have neither the time nor the patience to oblige them.”
“Eccentric fancies?” she said, coloring. “I shall have you know that the greatest minds of history were vegetarian, from Ptolemy to Leonardo da Vinci, and I shall have you know further, sir, that you are a common drip-knuckle and a boor.”
Hunter exploded in an anger matching hers. “Madam,” he said, pointing to the ocean, “are you aware in your monumental ignorance that the sea has changed?”
She was silent, perplexed, unable to connect the slight chop offshore to Hunter’s obvious concern over it. “It seems trivial enough for so large a ship as yours.”
“It is. For the moment.”
“And the sky is clear.”
“For the moment.”
“I am no sailor, Captain,” she said.
“Madam,” Hunter said, “the swells are running long and deep. They can mean only one thing. In less than two days’ time, we shall be in the midst of a hurricane. Can you understand that?”
“A hurricane is a fierce storm,” she said, as if reciting a lesson.
“A fierce storm,” he said. “If we are still in this damnable harbor when the hurricane strikes, we shall be smashed to nothing. Can you understand that?”
Very angry, he looked at her, and saw the truth — that she did not understand. Her face was innocent. She had never witnessed a hurricane, and so she could only imagine that it was somehow greater than other storms at sea.
Hunter knew that a hurricane bore the same relation to a fierce storm that a wild wolf bore to a lapdog.
Before she could reply to his outburst, he turned away, leaning on a pastpin. He knew he was being too harsh; his own concerns were rightly not hers, and he had every reason to indulge her. She had been up all night treating the burned seamen, an act of great eccentricity for a well-born woman. He turned back to face her.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “Inquire of Enders, and he will make arrangements for you to go ashore, so that you can carry on the noble tradition of Ptolemy and Leonardo.”
He stopped.
“Captain?”
He stared into space.
“Captain, are you well?”
Abruptly, he walked away from her. “Don Diego!” he shouted. “Find me Don Diego!”
. . .
DON DIEGO ARRIVED in Hunter’s cabin to discover the captain drawing furiously on slips of paper. His desk was littered with sketches.
“I do not know if this will succeed,” Hunter said. “I have only heard of it. The Florentine, Leonardo, proposed it, but he was not heeded.”
“Soldiers do not attend an artist,” Don Diego said.
Hunter glowered at him. “Wisely or not,” he said.
Don Diego looked at the diagrams. Each showed a ship’s hull, drawn in profile from above, with lines running out from the sides of the hull. Hunter drew another.
“The idea is simple,” he said. “On an ordinary ship, each cannon has its own gun captain, who is responsible for the firing of that single gun.”
“Yes . . .”
“After the gun is loaded and run out, the gun captain crouches behind the barrel and sights the target. He orders his men with handspikes and side tackles to aim the gun as he thinks best. Then he orders his men to slide the wedge to set the elevation — again as his eye thinks best. Then he fires. This is the procedure for each individual gun.”
“Yes . . .” the Jew said. Don Diego had never actually seen a large cannon fired, but he was familiar with the general method of operation. Each gun was separately aimed, and a good gun captain, a man who could accurately judge the right angle and elevation of his cannon, was highly regarded. And rare.
“Now then,” Hunter said, “the usual method is parallel fire.” He drew parallel lines out from the sides of the ship on the paper. “Each gun fires and each captain prays that his shot will find its mark. But in truth, many guns will miss until the two ships are so close that almost any angle or elevation will hit the target. Let us say, when the ships are within five hundred yards. Yes?”
Don Diego nodded slowly.
“Now the Florentine made this proposal,” Hunter said, sketching a new ship. “He said, do not trust the gun captains to aim each volley. Instead, aim all the guns in advance of the battle. Look now what you achieve.”
He drew from the hull converging lines of fire, which came together at a single point in the water.
“You see? You concentrate the fire at one place. All your balls strike the target at the same point, causing great destruction.”
“Yes,” Don Diego said, “or all your balls miss the target and fall into the sea at the same point. Or all your balls strike the bowsprit or some other unimportant portion of the ship. I confess I do not see the value of your plan.”
“The value,” Hunter said, tapping the diagram, “lies in the way these guns are fired. Think: if they are pre-aimed, I can fire a volley with only one man to a gun — perhaps even one man for two guns. And if my target is within range, I know I will score a hit with each gun.”
The Jew, aware of Hunter’s short crew, clapped his hands together. “Of course,” he said. Then he frowned. “But what happens after the first volley?”
“The guns will run back from the recoil. I then collect all the men into a single gun crew, which moves from gun to gun, loading each and running it out again, to the predetermined marks. This can be done relatively quickly. If the men are trained, I could fire a second volley within ten minutes.”