Pirate Latitudes: A Novel by Michael Crichton Read Free Book Online

was a respectable inn.
    Hunter entered, nodding to the gentlemen drinking at the tables. He recognized the best landsman’s doctor, Mr. Perkins; one of the councilmen, Mr. Pickering; the bailiff of the Bridewell jail; and several other respectable gentlemen.
    Ordinarily, a common privateering seaman would not be welcome in the Blue Goat, but Hunter was accepted with good grace. This was a simple recognition of the way the commerce of the port depended upon a steady stream of successful privateering raids. Hunter was a skilled and daring captain, and thus an important member of the community. In the previous year, his three forays had returned more than two hundred thousand pistoles and doubloons to Port Royal. Much of this money found its way to the pockets of these gentlemen, and they greeted him accordingly.
    Mistress Wickham, who managed the Blue Goat, was less warm. A widow, she had some years before taken up with Whisper, and she knew, when Hunter arrived, that he had come to see him. She jerked her thumb toward a back room. “In there, Captain.”
    “Thank you, Mistress Wickham.”
    He crossed directly to the back room, knocked, and opened the door without hearing any answering greeting; he knew there would be none. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle. Hunter blinked to adjust to the light. He heard a rhythmic creaking. Finally, he was able to see Whisper, sitting in a corner, in a rocking chair. Whisper held a primed pistol, aimed at Hunter’s belly.
    “A good evening, Whisper.”
    The reply was low, a rasping hiss. “A good evening, Captain Hunter. You are alone?”
    “I am.”
    “Then come in” came the hissing reply. “A touch of kill-devil?” Whisper pointed to a barrel beside him, which served as a table. There were glasses and a small crock of rum.
    “With thanks, Whisper.”
    Hunter watched as Whisper poured two glasses of dark brown liquid. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see his companion better.
    Whisper — no one knew his real name — was a large, heavyset man with oversized, pale hands. He had once been a successful privateering captain in his own right. Then he had gone on the Matanceros raid with Edmunds. Whisper was the sole survivor, after Cazalla had captured him, cut his throat, and left him for dead. Somehow Whisper lived, but not without the loss of his voice. This and the large, white arcing scar beneath his chin were obvious proofs of his past.
    Since his return to Port Royal, Whisper had hidden in this back room, a strong, vigorous man but one without courage — the steel gone out of him. He was frightened; he was never without a weapon in his hands and another at his side. Now, as he rocked in his chair, Hunter saw the gleam of a cutlass on the floor within easy reach.
    “What brings you, Captain? Matanceros?”
    Hunter must have looked startled. Whisper broke into laughter. Whisper’s laughter was a horrifying sound, a high-pitched wheezing sizzle, like a steam kettle. He threw his head back to laugh, revealing the white scar plainly.
    “I startle you, Captain? You are surprised I know?”
    “Whisper,” Hunter said. “Do others know?”
    “Some,” Whisper hissed. “Or they suspect. But they do not understand. I heard the story of Morton’s voyage.”
    “Ah.”
    “You are going, Captain?”
    “Tell me about Matanceros, Whisper.”
    “You wish a map?”
    “Yes.”
    “Fifteen shillings?”
    “Done,” Hunter said. He knew he would pay Whisper twenty, to ensure his friendship and his silence to any later visitors. And for his part, Whisper would know the obligation conferred by the extra five shillings. And he would know that Hunter would kill him if he spoke to anyone else about Matanceros.
    Whisper produced a scrap of oilcloth and a bit of charcoal. Placing the oilcloth on his knee, he sketched rapidly.
    “The island of Matanceros, it means slaughter in the Donnish tongue,” he whispered. “It has the shape of a U, so. The mouth of the