All is war and pillage, surprise and counter-manœuvre. On Hispaniola, over against the two islands Granive and Foul Beard in the Bay of Jaguana, “the Spaniards have made three or four ways through the Krenckle woods against time of war, that they may convey their merchandise thro’ the same woods without being discovered.” “In a little bay near Cape Tiburon the English used to lie, waiting for the Saint Domingo fleet, and the reason why they laid there was, because there was refreshment to be had from the shore.” And at Veragua, where is “good fresh water, and almost anything you want,” we hear of Drake again: “It is said that on this island Sir Francis Drake fell ill and died, and was there buried.” But here the “Pilot” trips, for Drake, sick with rage and disappointment, died when the fleet lay off Porto Bello, and was buried from his ship. There are treacherous keys among the islands where many a great ship has laid her bones; the Coffin Key, dreaded of sailors, where after sundown walk the ghosts of murdered men; and quiet little bays for “cruizing ships to anchor, when they want to heel or boot top, or to refit any of their rigging.” Saona is “a fruitful island abounding in cassava ... so that it hath oftentimes been to the Spaniards as a granary whereby they have been sustained.” And practical directions for the navigator run with the allusion to old report: at Illuthera you may look out for two white cliffs “called the Alabasters”; “along shore you will see a hill resembling a Dutchman’s thumb cap”; and one Captain Street tells of the “Colloradoes” pricking out “where we saw to the eastward of us three hommocks on Cuba,” with “flocks of pelican sitting on the red white sand.” “Take this one more observation of the Colloradoes,” says Captain Street, “when you think you are near them, keep then your lead going, for there is good gradual shoaling on them, at first coming on them, excellent sticking oazy ground and then sand.” Down the slope of Campeachy Bay the whole coast is fever-stricken and bare of all comfort; nor is there brook or fresh water, unless you dig deep in the sand, save one spring about two hundred yards from the shore, where “you may see a small dirty path that leads to it through the mangroves.” Forests rise from the marshes, rivers skulk behind great sandbars; the place smells of pirates, and their light-draft brigs thread the innumerable salt lagoons, that Laguna of the Tides, perhaps, where “small vessels, as barks, periagoes, or canoes may sail.”