Enders, at the helm, watched the mountains of water all around him, and muttered every prayer he had ever learned as a boy, while he simultaneously clutched the shark’s tooth around his neck and wished he could raise more canvas. El Trinidad was struggling with three sails at the moment, and it was unlucky to sail with three.
Belowdecks, the Moor took his dagger and cut his own finger, then drew a triangle on the deck with his blood. He placed a feather in the center of the triangle, and held it there while he whispered an incantation to himself.
Forward, Lazue threw a casket of salt pork over the side, and held three fingers into the air. Hers was the most ancient superstition of all, though she knew only the old seaman’s tale that food over the side and three fingers in the air might save a foundering ship. In fact, the three fingers represented the trident of Neptune, and the food was a sacrifice to the god of the oceans.
Hunter himself professed to despise such superstition, yet he went to his cabin, locked the door, got down on his knees, and prayed. All around him, the furniture of the cabin crashed back and forth from one wall to another, as the ship rocked crazily on the seas.
Outside, the storm screamed with demonic fury, and the ship beneath him creaked and groaned in long, agonizing moans. At first, he did not notice any other sound, and then he heard a woman’s scream. And then another.
He left his cabin and found five sailors dragging Lady Sarah Almont forward, to the companionway ladder. She was screaming and wrestling in their grip.
“Hold there,” Hunter shouted, and went up to them. Waves crashed over them, smashing against the deck.
The men would not look him in the eye.
“What goes here?” Hunter demanded.
None of the men spoke. It was Lady Sarah who finally shrieked: “They’re going to throw me in the ocean!”
The leader of the men seemed to be Edwards, a rough seaman, veteran of dozens of privateering campaigns.
“She’s a witch,” he said, looking at Hunter defiantly. “That’s what it is, Captain. We’ll never last this storm if she’s on board.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hunter said.
“Mark me,” Edwards said. “We’ll not last with her on board. Mark me, she’s a witch as ever I saw.”
“How do you know this?”
“I knew it first I seen her,” Edwards said.
“By what proofs?” Hunter persisted.
“The man is mad,” Lady Sarah said. “Stark mad.”
“What proofs?” Hunter demanded, shouting over the wind.
Edwards hesitated. Finally, he released the girl, and turned away. “No use talking of it,” he said. “You mark me, though. Mark me.”
He walked away. One by one, the other men backed off. Hunter was alone with Lady Sarah.
“Go to your cabin,” Hunter said, “and bolt the door, and stay there. On no account come out, and do not open the door for any reason.”
Her eyes were wide with fright. She nodded, and went to her room. Hunter waited until he saw the door to her cabin close, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he went on deck, into the full blast of the storm.
Belowdecks, the storm seemed fearsome, but on the main deck it exceeded all preparation. The wind tore at him like an invisible brute, a thousand strong hands pulling at his arms and legs, wrenching him away from any handhold or support. The rain struck him with such force that at first he cried aloud. He could hardly see in the first few seconds. He made out Enders at the tiller, lashed firmly into his position.
Hunter went over to him, holding to a guideline strung along the deck, finally reaching the shelter of the aft castle. He took an extra line and looped it around himself, leaned closer to Enders, and shouted, “How fare you?”
“No better, no worse,” Enders shouted back. “We hold, and we’ll hold some while longer, but it’s hours. I can feel her start to break.”
“How many hours?”
Enders reply was lost in the mountain of water that surged over them and smashed down on the deck.
It was, Hunter thought, as good an answer as any. No ship could take such a pounding for long, especially not a crippled ship.
. . .
BACK IN HER CABIN, Lady Sarah Almont surveyed the destruction caused by the storm, and the seamen who had burst in upon her as she had been making her preparations. Carefully, as the boat rocked, she righted her candles on the deck, and lit them one after another, until there were five red candles glowing. Then she scratched a pentagram on the deck, and stepped inside it.
She was very afraid. When the Frenchwoman, Madame de Rochambeau had shown her the latest in the fads of the Court of Louis XIV, she had been amused, even scoffed a little. But they said in France that women killed their newborn babies in order to secure eternal youth. If that was so, perhaps a little spell might preserve her life . . .
What was the harm? She closed her eyes, hearing the storm howl around her. “Greedigut,” she whispered, feeling the words on her lips. She caressed herself, kneeling on the deck inside the scratched pentagram. “Greedigut. Greedigut, come to me.”
The deck pitched crazily, the candles slid one way, then the next. She had to pause to catch them in their slide. It was all very distracting. How difficult to be a witch! Madame de Rochambeau had told her nothing of spells aboard ship. Perhaps they did not work. Perhaps it was all a lot of French foolishness.
“Greedigut . . .” she moaned. She caressed herself.
And then, she fancied she heard the storm abating.
Or was it just her imagination?
“Greedigut, come to me, have me, dwell in me . . .”
She imagined claws, she felt the wind whipping at her nightdress, she sensed a presence . . .
And the wind died.
Part V
The Mouth of
the Dragon
Chapter 32
HUNTER AWOKE FROM a restless sleep with an odd sense that something was wrong. He sat up in bed, and realized that everything was quieter: the motion of the ship was less frantic, and the wind had died to a whisper.
He hurried onto the deck, where a light rain was falling. He saw that the seas were calmer, and visibility had increased. Enders, still at the tiller, looked half-dead but he was grinning.
“We weathered her, Captain,” he said. “Not much left to her, but we’ve come through.”
Enders pointed to starboard. There was land — the low, gray profile of an island.
“What is it?” Hunter said.
“Dunno,” Enders said. “But we’ll just make it.”
Their ship had been blown for two days and nights, and they had no idea of their position. They approached the little island, which was low, and scrubby, and uninviting. Even from a distance they could see the cactus plants thick along the shore.
“I reckon we’re down the Windward Chain,” Enders said, squinting judiciously. “Probably near the Boca del Dragon, and there’s no respite in those waters.” He sighed. “Wish we could see the sun, for a sighting.”
The Boca del Dragon — the Dragon’s Mouth — was the stretch of water between the Windward Caribbean islands and the coast of South America. It was a famous and feared stretch of water, though at the moment it seemed placid enough.