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Matanceros commands the entrance to the harbor. You cannot escape with the treasure ship without first capturing the fortress.”
    “Indeed.”
    “Well then?”
    “I propose a small raid from the landward side of the fortress.”
    “Against a full garrison? At least three hundred troops? You cannot succeed.”
    “On the contrary,” Hunter said. “Unless we succeed, Cazalla will turn his guns on the treasure galleon, and sink it at anchor in the harbor.”
    “I hadn’t thought of that,” Almont said. He sipped his brandy. “Tell me more of your plan.”

Chapter 7
    L ATER, AS HE was leaving the Governor’s Mansion, Mrs. Hacklett appeared in the hall, and came over to him. “Captain Hunter.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Hacklett.”
    “I want to apologize for the inexcusable conduct of my husband.”
    “No apology is necessary.”
    “On the contrary, Captain. I think it entirely necessary. He behaved like a boor and an oaf.”
    “Madam, your husband apologized as a gentleman on his own behalf, and the matter is concluded.” He nodded to her. “Good evening.”
    “Captain Hunter.”
    He stopped at the door and turned. “Yes, Madam?”
    “You are a most attractive man, Captain.”
    “Madam, you are very gracious. I look forward to our next meeting.”
    “I as well, Captain.”
    Hunter walked away thinking that Mr. Hacklett had best look to his wife. Hunter had seen it happen before — a well-bred woman, reared in a rural gentry setting in England, who found some excitement in the Court — as no doubt Mrs. Hacklett had — if her husband looked away — as no doubt Mr. Hacklett had. Nevertheless, on finding herself in the Indies, far from home, far from the restraints of class and custom . . . Hunter had seen it before.
    He walked down the cobbled street away from the mansion. He passed the cookhouse, still brightly lit, the servants working inside. All houses in Port Royal had separate cookhouses, a necessity in the hot climate. Through the open windows, he saw the figure of the blond girl who had served dinner. He waved to her.
    She waved back and turned away to her work.
    .   .   .
    THEY WERE BAITING a bear outside Mrs. Denby’s Inn. Hunter watched the children pelt the helpless animal with rocks; they laughed and giggled and shouted as the bear growled and tugged at its stout chain. A couple of whores beat the bear with sticks. Hunter walked past, and entered the inn.
    Trencher was there, sitting in a corner, drinking with his one good arm. Hunter called to him, and drew him aside.
    “What is it, Captain?” Trencher asked eagerly.
    “I want you to find some mates for me.”
    “Say who they shall be, Captain.”
    “Lazue, Mr. Enders, Sanson. And the Moor.”
    Trencher smiled. “You want them here?”
    “No. Find where they are, and I’ll seek them out. Now, where is Whisper?”
    “In the Blue Goat,” Trencher said. “The back room.”
    “And Black Eye is in Farrow Street?”
    “I think so. You want the Jew, too, do you?”
    “I am trusting your tongue,” Hunter said. “Keep it still now.”
    “Will you take me with you, Captain?”
    “If you do as you are told.”
    “I swear by God’s wounds, Captain.”
    “Then look sharp,” Hunter said, and left the inn, returning to the muddy street. The night air was warm and still, as it had been during the day. He heard the soft strumming of a guitar, and, somewhere, drunken laughter, and a single gunshot. He set off down Ridge Street for the Blue Goat.
    The town of Port Royal was divided into rough sections, oriented around the port itself. Nearest the dockside were located the taverns and brothels and gaming houses. Farther back, away from the brawling activity of the waterfront, the streets were quieter. Here the grocers and bakers, the furniture workers and ships’ chandlers, the blacksmiths and goldsmiths could be found. Still farther back, on the south side of the bay, were the handful of respectable inns and private homes. The Blue Goat