LITMIR.BIZ

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the east, to the ocean. This point”—he tapped the lefthand side of the U—“is Punta Matanceros. That is where Cazalla has built the fortress. It is low land here. The fortress is no more than fifty paces above the level of the water.”

      Hunter nodded, and waited while Whisper gurgled a sip of killdevil.

      “The fortress is eight-sided. The walls are stone, thirty feet high. Inside there is a Spanish militia garrison.”

      “Of what strength?”

      “Some say two hundred. Some say three hundred. I have even heard four hundred but do not believe it.”

      Hunter nodded. He should count on three hundred troops. “And the guns?”

      “On two sides of the fortress only,” Whisper rasped. “One battery to the ocean, due east. One battery across the mouth of the harbor, due south.”

      “What guns are they?”

      Whisper gave his chilling laugh. “Most interesting, Captain Hunter. They are culebrinas, twenty-four-pounders, cast bronze.”

      “How many?”

      “Ten, perhaps twelve.”

      It was interesting, Hunter thought. The culebrinas—what the English called culverins—were not the most powerful class of armament, and were no longer favored for shipboard use. Instead, the stubby cannon had become standard on warships of every nationality.

      The culverin was an older gun. Culverins weighed more than two tons, with barrels as long as fifteen feet. Such long barrels made them deadly accurate at long range. They could fire heavy shot, and were quick to load. In the hands of trained gun crews, culverins could be fired as often as once a minute.

      “So it is well made,” Hunter nodded. “Who is the gunnery master?”

      “Bosquet.”

      “I have heard of him,” Hunter said. “He is the man who sank the Renown?”

      “The same,” Whisper hissed.

      So the gun crews would be well drilled. Hunter frowned.

      “Whisper,” he said, “do you know if the culverins are fix-mounted?”

      Whisper rocked back and forth for a long moment. “You are insane, Captain Hunter.”

      “How so?”

      “You are planning a landward attack.”

      Hunter nodded.

      “It will never succeed,” Whisper said. He tapped the map on his knees. “Edmunds thought of it, but when he saw the island, he gave up the attempt. Look here, if you beach on the west”—he pointed to the curve of the U—“there is a small harbor which you can use. But to cross to the main harbor of Matanceros by land, you must scale the Leres ridge, to get to the other side.”

      Hunter made an impatient gesture. “Is it difficult to scale the ridge?”

      “It is impossible,” Whisper said. “The ordinary man cannot do it. Starting here, from the western cove, the land gently slopes up for five hundred feet or more. But it is a hot, dense jungle, with many swamps. There is no fresh water. There will be patrols. If the patrols do not find you and you do not die of fevers, you emerge at the base of the ridge. The western face of Leres ridge is vertical rock for three hundred feet. A bird cannot perch there. The wind is incessant with the force of a gale.”

      “If I did scale it,” Hunter said. “What then?”

      “The eastern slope is gentle, and presents no difficulty,” Whisper said. “But you will never reach the eastern face, I promise you.”

      “If I did,” Hunter said, “what of the Matanceros batteries?”

      Whisper gave a little shrug. “They face the water, Captain Hunter. Cazalla is no fool. He knows he cannot be attacked from the land.”

      “There is always a way.”

      Whisper rocked in his chair, in silence, for a long time. “Not always,” he said finally. “Not always.”

      DON DIEGO DE RAMANO, known also as Black Eye or simply as the Jew, sat hunched over his workbench in the shop on Farrow Street. He blinked nearsightedly at the pearl, which he held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. They were the only remaining fingers on that hand. “It is of excellent quality,” he said. He handed the pearl back to Hunter. “I advise you to keep it.”

      Black Eye blinked rapidly. His eyes were weak, and pink, like a rabbit’s. Tears ran almost continuously from them; from time to time, he brushed them away. His right eye had a large black spot near the pupil—hence his name. “You did not need me to tell you this, Hunter.”

      “No, Don Diego.”

      The Jew nodded, and got up from his bench. He crossed his narrow shop and closed the door to the street. Then he closed the shutters to the window, and turned back to Hunter. “Well?”

      “How is your health, Don Diego?”

      “My health, my health,” Don Diego said, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his loose robe. He was sensitive about his injured left hand. “My health is indifferent as always. You did not need me to tell you this, either.”

      “Is the shop successful?” Hunter asked, looking around the room. On rude tables, gold jewelry was displayed. The Jew had been selling from this shop for nearly two years now.

      Don Diego sat down. He looked at Hunter, and stroked his beard, and wiped away his tears. “Hunter,” he said, “you are vexing. Speak your mind.”

      “I was wondering,” Hunter said, “if you still worked in powder.”

      “Powder? Powder?” The Jew stared across the room, frowning as if he did not know the meaning of the word. “No,” he said. “I do not work in powder. Not after this”—he pointed to his blackened eye—“and after this.” He raised his fingerless left hand. “No longer do I work in powder.”

      “Can your will be changed?”

      “Never.”

      “Never is a long time.”

      “Never is what I mean, Hunter.”

      “Not even to attack Cazalla?”

      The Jew grunted. “Cazalla,” he said heavily. “Cazalla is in Matanceros and cannot be attacked.”

      “I am going to attack him,” Hunter said quietly.

      “So did Captain Edmunds, this year past.” Don Diego grimaced at the memory. He had been a partial backer of that expedition. His investment—fifty pounds—had been lost. “Matanceros is invulnerable, Hunter. Do not let vanity obscure your sense. The fortress cannot be overcome.” He wiped the tears from his cheek. “Besides, there is nothing there.”

      “Nothing in the fortress,” Hunter said. “But in the harbor?”

      “The harbor? The harbor?” Black Eye stared into space again. “What is in the harbor? Ah. It must be the treasure naos lost in the August storm, yes?”

      “One of them.”

      “How do you know this?”

      “I know.”

      “One nao?” The Jew blinked even more rapidly. He scratched his nose with the forefinger of his injured left hand—a sure sign he was lost in thought. “It is probably filled with tobacco and cinnamon,” he said gloomily.

      “It is probably filled with gold and pearls,” Hunter said. “Otherwise it would have made straight for Spain, and risked capture. It went to Matanceros only because the treasure is so great it dared not risk a seizure.”

      “Perhaps, perhaps…”

      Hunter

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