Kitabı oku: «Pirate Latitudes», sayfa 4

“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 watched the Jew carefully. The Jew was a great actor.

“Suppose you are right,” he said finally. “It is of no interest to me. A nao in Matanceros harbor is as safe as if it were moored in Cádiz itself. It is protected by the fortress and the fortress cannot be taken.”

“True,” Hunter said. “But the gun batteries which guard the harbor can be destroyed—if your health is good, and if you will work in powder once again.”

“You flatter me.”

“Most assuredly I do not.”

“What has my health to do with this?”

“My plan,” Hunter said, “is not without its rigors.”

Don Diego frowned. “You are saying I must come with you?”

“Of course. What did you think?”

“I thought you wanted money. You want me to come?”

“It is essential, Don Diego.”

The Jew stood up abruptly. “To attack Cazalla,” he said, suddenly excited. He began to pace back and forth.

“I have dreamt of his death each night for ten years, Hunter. I have dreamed…” He stopped pacing, and looked at Hunter. “You also have your reasons.”

“I do.” Hunter nodded.

“But can it be done? Truly?”

“Truly, Don Diego.”

“Then I wish to hear the plan,” the Jew said, very excited. “And I wish to know what powder you need.”

“I need an invention,” Hunter said. “You must fabricate something which does not exist.”

The Jew wiped tears from his eyes. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me.”

MR. ENDERS, THE barber-surgeon and sea artist, delicately applied the leech to his patient’s neck. The man, leaning back in the chair, his face covered with a towel, groaned as the sluglike creature touched his flesh. Immediately, the leech began to swell with blood.

Mr. Enders hummed quietly to himself. “There now,” he said. “A few moments and you will feel much better. Mark me, you will breathe easier, and show the ladies a thing or two, as well.” He patted the cheek that was under the towel. “I shall just step outside for a breath of air, and return in a moment.”

With that, Mr. Enders left the shop, for he had seen Hunter beckoning to him outside. Mr. Enders was a short man with quick, delicate movements; he seemed to dance rather than walk. He did a modest business in the Port, because many of his patients survived his ministrations, unlike those of other surgeons. But his greatest skill, and his true love, was piloting a vessel under sail. Enders, a genuine sea artist, was that rare creature, a perfect helmsman, a man who seemed to find communion between himself and the ship he guided.

“Are you needing a shave, Captain?” he asked Hunter.

“A crew.”

“Then you have found your surgeon,” Enders said. “And what’s the nature of the voyage?”

“Logwood cutting,” Hunter said, and grinned.

“I am always pleased to cut logwood,” Enders said. “And whose logwood might it be?”

“Cazalla’s.”

Immediately, Enders dropped his bantering mood. “Cazalla? You are going to Matanceros?”

“Softly,” Hunter said, glancing around the street.

“Captain, Captain, suicide is an offense against God.”

“You know that I need you,” Hunter said.

“But life is sweet, Captain.”

“So is gold,” Hunter said.

Enders was silent, frowning. He knew, as the Jew knew, as everyone knew in Port Royal, that there was no gold in the fortress of Matanceros. “Perhaps you will explain?”

“It is better that I do not.”

“When do you sail?”

“In two days’ time.”

“And we will hear the reasons in Bull Bay?”

“You have my word.”

Enders silently extended his hand, and Hunter shook it. There was a writhing and grunting from the patient in the shop. “Oh dear, the poor fellow,” Enders said, and ran back into the room. The leech was fat with blood, and dripping red drops onto the wooden floor. Enders lifted the leech away and the patient screamed. “Now, now, do be calm, Your Excellency.”

“You are nothing but a damned pirate and rascal,” said Sir James Almont, whipping the cloth off his face and daubing his bitten neck with it.

LAZUE WAS IN a bawdy house on Lime Road, surrounded by giggling women. Lazue was French; the name was a bastardization of Les Yeux, for this sailor’s eyes were large, and bright, and legendary. Lazue could see better than anyone in the dark of night; many times, Hunter had gotten his ships through reefs and shoal water with the help of Lazue on the forecastle. It was also true that this slender, catlike person was an extraordinary marksman.

“Hunter,” Lazue growled, with an arm around a buxom girl. “Hunter, join us.” The girls giggled and played with their hair.

“A word in private, Lazue.”

“You are so tedious,” Lazue said, and kissed each of the girls in turn. “I shall return, my sweets,” Lazue said, and crossed with Hunter to a far corner. A girl brought them a crock of kill-devil, and each a glass.

Hunter looked at Lazue’s shoulder-length tangled hair and beardless face. “Are you drunk, Lazue?”

“Not too drunk, Captain,” Lazue said, with a raucous laugh. “Speak your mind.”

“I am making a voyage in two days.”

“Yes?” Lazue seemed to become suddenly sober. The large, watchful eyes focused intently on Hunter. “A voyage to what end?”

“Matanceros.”

Lazue laughed, a deep, rumbling growl of a laugh. It was an odd sound to come from so slight a body.

“Matanceros means slaughter, and it is well-named, from all that I hear.”

“Nonetheless,” Hunter said.

“Your reasons must be good.”

“They are.”

Lazue nodded, not expecting to hear more. A clever captain did not reveal much about a raid until the crew was under way.

“Are the reasons as good as the dangers are great?”

“They are.”

Lazue searched Hunter’s face. “You want a woman on this voyage?”

“That is why I am here.”

Lazue laughed again. She scratched her small breasts absently. Though she dressed and acted and fought like a man, Lazue was a woman. Her story was known to few, but Hunter was one.

Lazue was the daughter of a Brittany seaman’s wife. Her husband was at sea when the wife found she was pregnant and subsequently delivered a son. However, the husband never returned—indeed, he was never heard from again—and after some months, the woman found herself pregnant a second time. Fearing scandal, she moved to another village in the province, where she delivered a daughter, Lazue.

A year passed and the son died. Meanwhile, the mother ran out of funds, and found it necessary to return to her native village to live with her parents. To avoid dishonor, she dressed her daughter as her son and the deception was so complete that no one in the village, including the child’s grandparents, ever suspected the truth. Lazue grew up as a boy, and at thirteen was made a coachman for a local nobleman; later she joined the French army, and lived for several years among troops without ever being discovered. Finally—at least as she told the story—she fell in love with a handsome young cavalry officer and revealed her secret to him. They had a passionate affair but he never married her, and when it ended, she chose to come to the West Indies, where she again resumed her masculine role.

In a town like Port Royal, such a secret could not be kept long, and indeed everyone knew that Lazue was a woman. In any case, during privateering raids, she was in the habit of baring her breasts in order to confuse and terrify the enemy. But in the port, she was customarily treated like a man, and no one made any great cause over it.

Now, Lazue laughed. “You are mad, Hunter, to attack Matanceros.”

“Will you come?”

She laughed again. “Only because I have nothing better to do.” And she went back to the giggling whores at the far table.

HUNTER FOUND THE Moor, in the early-morning hours, playing a hand of gleek with two Dutch corsairs at a gaming house called The Yellow Scamp.

The Moor, also called Bassa, was a huge man with a giant head, flat slabs of muscle on his shoulders and chest, heavy arms, and thick hands, which curled around the playing cards and made them seem tiny. He was called the Moor for reasons long since forgotten; and even if he were inclined to tell of his origins, he could not do so, for his tongue had been cut out by a Spanish plantation-owner on Hispanola. It was generally agreed that the Moor was not Moorish at all but had come from the region of Africa called Nubia, a desert land along the Nile, populated by enormous black men.

His given name, Bassa, was a port on the Guinea coast, where slavers sometimes stopped, but all agreed that the Moor could not have come from that land, since the natives were sickly and much paler in color.

The fact that the Moor was mute and had to communicate with gestures increased the physical impression that he made. On occasion, newly arrived visitors to the Port assumed that Bassa was stupid as well as mute, and as Hunter watched the card game in progress, he suspected that this was happening again. He took a tankard of wine to a side table and sat back to enjoy the spectacle.

The Dutchmen were dandies, elegantly dressed in fine hose and embroidered silk tunics. They were drinking heavily. The Moor did not drink at all; indeed, he never drank. There was a story that he could not tolerate liquor, and that once he had gotten drunk and killed five men with his bare hands before he came to his senses. Whether this was true or not, it was certainly true that the Moor had murdered the plantation owner who had cut out his tongue, then murdered his wife and half the household before making his escape to the pirate ports on the western side of Hispanola, and from there, to Port Royal.

Hunter watched the Dutchmen as they bet. They were gambling recklessly, joking and laughing in high spirits. The Moor sat impassively, with a stack of gold coins in front of him. Gleek was a swift game that did not warrant casual betting, and indeed, as Hunter watched, the Moor drew three cards alike, showed them, and scooped up the Dutchmen’s money.

They stared in silence a moment, and then both shouted “Cheat!” in several languages. The Moor shook his enormous head calmly, and pocketed the money.

The Dutchmen insisted that they play another hand, but in a gesture, the Moor indicated that they had no money left to bet.

At this, the Dutchmen became quarrelsome, shouting and pointing to the Moor. Bassa remained impassive, but a serving boy came over, and he handed the boy a single gold doubloon.

The Dutchmen apparently did not understand that the Moor was paying, in advance, for any damage that he might cause the gaming house. The serving boy took the coin and fled to a safe distance.

The Dutchmen were now standing, and shouting curses at the Moor, who remained seated at the table. His face was bland, but his eyes flicked back and forth from one man to the other. The Dutchmen became more quarrelsome, holding out their hands and demanding the return of their money.

The Moor shook his head.

Then one of the Dutchmen pulled a dagger from his belt, and brandished it in front of the Moor, just inches from his nose. Still the Moor remained impassive. He sat very still, with both hands folded in front of him on the table.

The other Dutchman started to tug a pistol out of his belt, and with that, the Moor sprang into action. His large black hand flicked out, gripped the dagger in the Dutchman’s hand, and swung the blade down, burying it three inches deep in the tabletop. Then he struck the second Dutchman in the stomach; the man dropped his pistol and bent over, coughing. The Moor kicked him in the face and sent him sprawling across the room. He then turned back to the first Dutchman, whose eyes were wide with terror. The Moor picked him up bodily, held him high over his head, walked to the door, and flung the man through the air, out into the street, where he landed spreadeagled on his face in the mud.

The Moor returned to the room, plucked the knife out of the table, slipped it into his own belt, and crossed the room to sit next to Hunter. Only then did he allow himself a smile.

“New men,” Hunter said.

The Moor nodded, grinning. Then he frowned and pointed to Hunter. His face was questioning.

“I came to see you.”

The Moor shrugged.

“We sail in two days.”

The Moor pursed his lips, mouthing a single word: Ou?

“Matanceros,” Hunter said. The Moor looked disgusted.

“You’re not interested?”

The Moor smirked, and drew a forefinger across his throat.

“I tell you, it can be done,” Hunter said. “Are you afraid of heights?”

The Moor made a hand-over-hand gesture, and shook his head.

“I don’t mean a ship’s rigging,” Hunter said. “I mean a cliff. A high cliff—three or four hundred feet.”

The Moor scratched his forehead. He looked at the ceiling, apparently imagining the height of the cliff. Finally, he nodded.

“You can do it?”

He nodded again.

“Even in a high wind? Good. Then you’ll go with us.”

Hunter started to get up, but the Moor pushed him back into his chair. The Moor jangled the coins in his pocket, and pointed a questioning finger at Hunter.

“Don’t worry,” Hunter said. “It’s worth it.”

The Moor smiled. Hunter left.

HE FOUND SANSON in a second-floor room of the Queen’s Arms. Hunter knocked on the door and waited. He heard a giggle and a sigh, then knocked again.

A surprisingly high voice called, “Damn you to hell and be gone.”

Hunter hesitated, and knocked again.

“God’s blood, who is it now?” came the voice from inside.

“Hunter.”

“Damn me. Come in, Hunter.”

Hunter opened the door, letting it swing wide, but he did not enter; a moment later, the chamber pot and its contents came flying through the open door.

Hunter heard a soft chuckle from inside the room. “Cautious as ever, Hunter. You will outlive us all. Enter.”

Hunter entered the room. By the light of a single candle, he saw Sanson sitting up in bed, next to a blond girl. “You have interrupted us, my son,” Sanson said. “Let us pray that you have good reason.”

“I do,” Hunter said.

There was a moment of awkward silence, as the two men stared at each other. Sanson scratched his heavy black beard. “Am I to guess the reason for your coming?”

“No,” Hunter said, glancing at the girl.

“Ah,” Sanson said. He turned to the girl. “My delicate peach…” He kissed the tips of her fingers and pointed with his hand across the room.

The girl immediately scrambled naked out of bed, hastily grabbed up her clothes, and bolted from the room.

“Such a delightful creature,” Sanson said.

Hunter closed the door.

“She is French, you know,” Sanson said. “French women make the best lovers, don’t you agree?”

“They certainly make the best whores.”

Sanson laughed. He was a large, heavy man who gave the impression of brooding darkness—dark hair, dark eyebrows that met over the nose, dark beard, dark skin. But his voice was surprisingly high, especially when he laughed. “Can I not entice you to agree that French women are superior to English women?”

“Only in the prevalence of disease.”

Sanson laughed heartily. “Hunter, your sense of humor is most unusual. Will you take a glass of wine with me?”

“With pleasure.”

Sanson poured from the bottle on his bedside table. Hunter took the glass and raised it in a toast. “Your health.”

“And yours,” Sanson said, and they drank. Neither man took his eyes off the other.

For his part, Hunter plainly did not trust Sanson. He did not, in fact, wish to take Sanson on the expedition, but the Frenchman was necessary to the success of the undertaking. For Sanson, despite his pride, his vanity, and his boasting, was the most ruthless killer in all the Caribbean. He came, in fact, from a family of French executioners.

Indeed, his very name—Sanson, meaning “without sound”—was an ironic comment on the stealthy way that he worked. He was known and feared everywhere. It was said that his father, Charles Sanson, was the king’s executioner in Dieppe. It was rumored that Sanson himself had been a priest in Liege for a short time, until his indiscretions with the nuns of a nearby convent made it advantageous for him to leave the country.

But Port Royal was not a town where much attention was paid to past histories. Here, Sanson was known for his skill with the saber, the pistol, and his favorite weapon, the crossbow.

Sanson laughed again. “Well, my son. Tell me what troubles you.”

“I am leaving in two days’ time. For Matanceros.”

Sanson did not laugh. “You want me to go with you to Matanceros?”

“Yes.”

Sanson poured more wine. “I do not want to go there,” he said. “No sane man wants to go to Matanceros. Why do you want to go to Matanceros?”

Hunter said nothing.

Sanson frowned at his feet at the bottom of the bed. He wiggled his toes, still frowning. “It must be the galleons,” he said finally. “The galleons lost in the storm have made Matanceros. Is that it?”

Hunter shrugged.

“Cautious, cautious,” Sanson said. “Well then, what terms do you make for this madman’s expedition?”

“I will give you four shares.”

“Four shares? You are a stingy man, Captain Hunter. My pride is injured, you think me worth only four shares—”

“Five shares,” Hunter said, with the air of a man giving in.

“Five? Let us say eight, and be done with it.”

“Let us say five, and be done with it.”

“Hunter. The hour is late and I am not patient. Shall we say seven?”

“Six.”

“God’s blood, you are stingy.”

“Six,” Hunter repeated.

“Seven. Have another glass of wine.”

Hunter looked at him and decided that the argument was not important. Sanson would be easier to control if he felt he had bargained well; he would be difficult and without humor if he believed he had been unjustly treated.

“Seven, then,” Hunter said.

“My friend, you have great reason.” Sanson extended his hand. “Now tell me the manner of your attack.”

Sanson listened to the plan without saying a word, and finally, when Hunter was finished, he slapped his thigh. “It is true what they say,” he said, “about Spanish sloth, French elegance—and English craft.”

“I think it will work,” Hunter said.

“I do not doubt it for a heartbeat,” Sanson said.

When Hunter left the small room, dawn was breaking over the streets of Port Royal.

CHAPTER 8

IT WAS, OF COURSE, impossible to keep the expedition secret. Too many seamen were eager for a berth on any privateering expedition, and too many merchants and farmers were needed to fit out Hunter’s sloop Cassandra. By early morning, all of Port Royal was talking of Hunter’s coming foray.

It was said that Hunter was attacking Campeche. It was said that he would sack Maricaibo. It was even said that he dared to attack Panama, as Drake had done some seventy years before. But such a long sea voyage implied heavy provisioning, and Hunter was laying in so few supplies that most gossips believed the target of the raid was Havana itself. Havana had never been attacked by privateers; the very idea struck most people as mad.

Other puzzling information came to light. Black Eye, the Jew, was buying rats from children and scamps around the docks. Why the Jew should want rats was a question beyond the imagining of any seaman. It was also known that Black Eye had purchased the entrails of a pig—which might be used for divination, but surely not by a Jew.

Meanwhile, the Jew’s gold shop was locked and boarded.

The Jew was off somewhere in the hills of the mainland. He had gone off before dawn, with a quantity of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal.

The provisioning of the Cassandra was equally strange. Only a limited supply of salt pork was ordered, but a large quantity of water was required—including several small casks, which the barrel-maker, Mr. Longley, had been asked to fabricate specially. The hemp shop of Mr. Whitstall had received an order for more than a thousand feet of stout rope—rope too stout for use in a sloop’s rigging. The sailmaker, Mr. Nedley, had been told to sew several large canvas bags with grommet fasteners at the top. And Carver, the blacksmith, was forging grappling hooks of peculiar design—the prongs were hinged, so the hooks could be folded small and flat.

There was also an omen: during the morning, fishermen caught a giant hammerhead shark, and hauled it onto the docks near Chocolata Hole, where the turtle crawls were located. The shark was more than twelve feet long, and with its broad snout, with eyes placed at each flattened protuberance, it was remarkably ugly. Fishermen and passersby discharged their pistols into the animal, with no discernible effect. The shark flopped and writhed on the dockside planking until well into midday.

Then the shark was slit open at the underbelly, and the slimy coils of intestine spilled forth. A glint of metal was perceived and when the innards were cut open, the metal was seen to be the full suit of armor of a Spanish soldier—breastplate, ridged helmet, knee guards. From this it was deduced that the flathead shark had consumed the unfortunate soldier whole, digesting the flesh but retaining the armor, which the shark was unable to pass. This was variously taken as an omen of an impending Spanish attack on Port Royal, or as proof that Hunter was himself going to attack the Spanish.

SIR JAMES ALMONT had no time for omens. That morning, he was engaged in questioning a French rascal named L’Olonnais, who had arrived in port that morning with a Spanish brig as his prize. L’Olonnais had no letters of marque, and in any case, England and Spain were nominally at peace. Worse than that was the fact that the brig contained, at the time it arrived in port, nothing of particular value. Some hides and tobacco were all that were to be found in its hold.

Although renowned as a corsair, L’Olonnais was a stupid, brutal man. It did not take much intelligence, of course, to be a privateer. One had only to wait in the proper latitudes until a likely vessel happened along, and then attack it. Standing with his hat in his hands in the governor’s office, L’Olonnais now recited his unlikely tale with childish innocence. He had happened upon the prize vessel, he said, and found it deserted. There were no passengers aboard, and the ship was drifting aimlessly.

“Faith, some plague or calamity must have fallen it,” L’Olonnais said. “But ’twas a goodly ship, sire, and I felt a service to the Crown to bring it back to port, sire.”

“You found no passengers at all?”

“Not a living thing.”

“No dead aboard the ship?”

“Nay, sire.”

“And no clue as to its misfortune?”

“Nary a one, sire.”

“And the cargo—”

“As your own inspectors found it, sire. We’d not touch it, sire. You know that.”

Sir James wondered how many innocent people L’Olonnais had murdered to clear the decks of that merchantman. And he wondered where the pirate had landed to hide the valuables of the cargo. There were a thousand islands and small brackish cays throughout the Carib sea could serve his purposes.

Sir James rapped his fingers on his desk. The man was obviously lying but he needed proof. Even in the rough environment of Port Royal, English law prevailed.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I shall formally state to you that the Crown is much displeased with this capture. The king therefore shall take a fifth—”

“A fifth!” Normally the king took a tenth, or even a fifteenth.

“Indeed,” Sir James said evenly. “His Majesty shall have a fifth, and I shall formally state to you further that if any evidence reaches my ears of dastardly conduct on your part, you shall be brought to trial and hanged as a pirate and murderer.”

“Sire, I swear to you that—”

“Enough,” Sir James said, raising his hand. “You are free to go for the moment, but bear my words in mind.”

L’Olonnais bowed elaborately and backed out of the room. Almont rang for his aide.

“John,” he said, “find some of the seamen of L’Olonnais and see that their tongues are well oiled with wine. I want to know how he came to take that vessel and I want substantial proofs against him.”

“Very good, Your Excellency.”

“And John: set aside the tenth for the king, and a tenth for the governor.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“That will be all.”

John bowed. “Your Excellency, Captain Hunter is here for his papers.”

“Then show him in.”

Hunter strode in a moment later. Almont stood and shook his hand.

“You seem in good spirits, Captain.”

“I am, Sir James.”

“The preparations go well?”

“They do, Sir James.”

“At what cost?”

“Five hundred doubloons, Sir James.”

Almont had anticipated the sum. He produced a sack of coin from his desk. “This will suffice.”

Hunter bowed as he took the money.

“Now then,” Sir James said. “I have caused to be drawn up the paper of marque for the cutting of logwood at any location you deem proper and fitting.” He handed the letter to Hunter.

In 1665, logwood cutting was considered legitimate commerce by the English, though the Spanish claimed a monopoly on that trade. The wood of the logwood, Hematoxylin campaechium, was used in making red dye as well as certain medicines. It was a substance as valuable as tobacco.

“I must advise you,” Sir James said slowly, “that we cannot countenance any attack upon any Spanish settlement, in the absence of provocation.”

“I understand,” Hunter said.

“Do you suppose there shall be any provocation?”

“I doubt it, Sir James.”

“Then of course your attack on Matanceros will be piratical.”

“Sir James, our poor sloop Cassandra, lightly armed and by the proofs of your papers engaged in commerce, may suffer to be fired upon by the Matanceros guns. In that instance, are we not forced to retaliate? An unwarranted shelling of an innocent vessel cannot be countenanced.”

“Indeed not,” Sir James said. “I am sure I can trust you to act as a soldier and a gentleman.”

“I will not betray your confidence.”

Hunter turned to go. “One last thing,” Sir James said. “Cazalla is a favorite of Philip. Cazalla’s daughter is married to Philip’s vice chancellor. Any message from Cazalla describing the events at Matanceros differently from your account would be most embarrassing to His Majesty King Charles.”

“I doubt,” Hunter said, “that there will be dispatches from Cazalla.”

“It is important that there not be.”

“Dispatches are not received from the depths of the sea.”

“Indeed not,” Sir James said. The two men shook hands.

As Hunter was leaving the Governor’s Mansion, a black womanservant handed him a letter, then wordlessly turned and walked away. Hunter descended the steps of the mansion, reading the letter, which was drafted in a feminine hand.

My dear Captain—

I am lately informed that a beautiful fresh spring can be found on the main portion of the Famaican island, at the place called grawford’s Valley. To acquaint myself with the delights of my new residence, I shall make an excursion to this spot in the latter part of the day, and I hope that it is as exquisite as I am led to believe.

Fondly, I am,Emily Hacklett

Hunter slipped the letter into his pocket. He would not, under ordinary circumstances, pay heed to the invitation implicit in Mrs. Hacklett’s words. There was much to do in this last day before the Cassandra set sail. But he was required to go to the inland anyway, to see Black Eye. If there was time…He shrugged, and went to the stables to get his horse.