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Pirate Latitudes: A Novel

Name: Pirate Latitudes: A Novel
Brand: HarperCollins
Price: 9.99 USD
Availability: InStock
Rating: 3.5 (148 reviews)
ISBN: 9780061938740

Por Michael Crichton

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Clasificaciones:

Calificación: 3.5 de 5 estrellas3.5/5 (148 calificaciones)

Longitud: 355 página5 horas

Editorial:: HarperCollins
Publicado:: Nov 24, 2009
ISBN:: 9780061938740
Formato:: Libro

Descripción

“Crichton’s ultimate adventure.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“Pirates Latitudes has the loot: Gore, sex, action….A lusty, rollicking 17th century adventure.”
—USA Today

“Riveting….Great entertainment….The pages and minutes fly by.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer

#1 New York Times bestselling author, the incomparable Michael Crichton (“One of the great storytellers of our age” —Newsday) takes to the high Caribbean seas for an irresistible adventure of swashbuckling pirates, lost treasure, sword fights, duplicity, and hair-breadth escapes in the New World.

Acciones del libro

Comenzar a leer

Información sobre el libro

Pirate Latitudes: A Novel

Por Michael Crichton

Clasificaciones:

Calificación: 3.5 de 5 estrellas3.5/5 (148 calificaciones)

Longitud: 355 página5 horas

Descripción

“Crichton’s ultimate adventure.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“Pirates Latitudes has the loot: Gore, sex, action….A lusty, rollicking 17th century adventure.”
—USA Today

“Riveting….Great entertainment….The pages and minutes fly by.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer

Editorial:: HarperCollins
Publicado:: Nov 24, 2009
ISBN:: 9780061938740
Formato:: Libro

Acerca del autor

Michael Crichton

Michael Crichton (1942–2008) was one of the most successful novelists of his generation, admired for his meticulous scientific research and fast-paced narrative. He graduated summa cum laude and earned his MD from Harvard Medical School in 1969. His first novel, Odds On (1966), was written under the pseudonym John Lange and was followed by seven more Lange novels. He also wrote as Michael Douglas and Jeffery Hudson. His novel A Case of Need won the Edgar Award in 1969. Popular throughout the world, he has sold more than 200 million books. His novels have been translated into thirty-eight languages, and thirteen have been made into films.

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Pirate Latitudes - Michael Crichton

Part I

Port Royal

Chapter 1

SIR JAMES ALMONT, appointed by His Majesty Charles II Governor of Jamaica, was habitually an early riser. This was in part the tendency of an aging widower, in part a consequence of restless sleep from pains of the gout, and in part an accommodation to the climate of the Jamaica Colony, which turned hot and humid soon after sunrise.

On the morning of September 7, 1665, he followed his usual routine, arising in his chambers on the third floor of the Governor’s Mansion and going directly to the window to survey the weather and the coming day. The Governor’s Mansion was an impressive brick structure with a red-tile roof. It was also the only three-story building in Port Royal, and his view of the town was excellent. In the streets below he could see the lamplighters making their rounds, extinguishing streetlights from the night before. On Ridge Street, the morning patrol of garrison soldiers was collecting drunks and dead bodies, which had fallen in the mud. Directly beneath his window, the first of the flat, horse-drawn carts of water carriers rumbled by, bringing casks of fresh water from Rio Cobra some miles away. Otherwise, Port Royal was quiet, enjoying the brief moment between the time the last of the evening’s drunken revelers collapsed in a stupor, and the start of the morning’s commercial bustle around the docks.

Looking away from the cramped, narrow streets of the town to the harbor, he saw the rocking thicket of masts, the hundreds of ships of all sizes moored in the harbor and drawn up to the docks. In the sea beyond, he saw an English merchant brig anchored past the cay, near Rackham’s reef offshore. Undoubtedly, the ship had arrived during the night, and the captain had prudently chosen to await daylight to make the harbor of Port Royal. Even as he watched, the topsails of the merchant ship were unreefed in the growing light of dawn, and two longboats put out from the shore near Fort Charles to help tow the merchantman in.

Governor Almont, known locally as James the Tenth, because of his insistence on diverting a tenth share of privateering expeditions to his own personal coffers, turned away from the window and hobbled on his painful left leg across the room to make his toilet. Immediately, the merchant vessel was forgotten, for on this particular morning Sir James had the disagreeable duty of attending a hanging.

The previous week, soldiers had captured a French rascal named LeClerc, convicted of making a piratical raid on the settlement of Ocho Rios, on the north coast of the island.

On the testimony of a few townspeople who had survived the attack, LeClerc had been sentenced to be hanged in the public gallows on High Street. Governor Almont had no particular interest in either the Frenchman or his disposition, but he was required to attend the execution in his official capacity. That implied a tedious, formal morning.

Richards, the governor’s manservant, entered the room. Good morning, Your Excellency. Here is your claret. He handed the glass to the governor, who immediately drank it down in a gulp. Richards set out the articles of toilet: a fresh basin of rosewater, another of crushed myrtle berries, and a third small bowl of tooth powder with the tooth-cloth alongside. Governor Almont began his ministrations to the accompanying hiss of the perfumed bellows Richards used to air the room each morning.

Warm day for a hanging, Richards commented, and Sir James grunted his agreement. He doused his thinning hair with the myrtle berry paste. Governor Almont was fifty-one years old, and he had been growing bald for a decade. He was not an especially vain man — and, in any case, he normally wore hats — so that baldness was not so fearsome as it might be. Nonetheless, he used preparations to cure his loss of hair. For several years now he had favored myrtle berries, a traditional remedy prescribed by Pliny. He also employed a paste of olive oil, ashes, and ground earthworms to prevent his hair from turning white. But this mixture stank so badly that he used it less frequently than he knew he should.

Governor Almont rinsed his hair in the rosewater, dried it with a towel, and examined his countenance in the mirror.

One of the privileges of his position as the highest official of the Jamaica Colony was that he possessed the best mirror on the island. It was nearly a foot square and of excellent quality, without ripples or flaws. It had arrived from London the year before, consigned to a merchant in the town, and Almont had confiscated it on some pretext or other. He was not above such things, and indeed felt that this high-handed behavior actually increased his respect in the community. As the former governor, Sir William Lytton, had warned him in London, Jamaica was not a region burdened by moral excesses. Sir James had often recalled the phrase in later years — the understatement was so felicitously put. Sir James himself lacked graceful speech; he was blunt to a fault and distinctly choleric in temperament, a fact he ascribed to his gout.

Staring at himself in the mirror now, he noted that he must see Enders, the barber, to trim his beard. Sir James was not a handsome man, and he wore a full beard to compensate for his weasel-beaked face.

He grunted at his reflection, and turned his attention to his teeth, dipping a wetted finger into the paste of powdered rabbit’s head, pomegranate peel, and peach blossom. He rubbed his teeth briskly with his finger, humming a little to himself.

At the window, Richards looked out at the arriving ship. "They say the merchantman’s the Godspeed, sir."

Oh yes? Sir James rinsed his mouth with a bit of rosewater, spat it out, and dried his teeth with a tooth-cloth. It was an elegant tooth-cloth from Holland, red silk with an edging of lace. He had four such cloths, another minor delicacy of his position within the Colony. But one had already been ruined by a mindless servant girl who cleaned it in the native manner by pounding with rocks, destroying the delicate fabric. Servants were difficult here. Sir William had mentioned that as well.

Richards was an exception. Richards was a manservant to treasure, a Scotsman but a clean one, faithful and reasonably reliable. He could also be counted on to report the gossip and doings of the town, which might otherwise never reach the governor’s ears.

"The Godspeed, you say?"

Aye, sir, Richards said, laying out Sir James’s wardrobe for the day on the bed.

Is my new secretary on board? According to the previous month’s dispatches, the Godspeed was to carry his new secretary, one Robert Hacklett. Sir James had never heard of the man, and looked forward to meeting him. He had been without a secretary for eight months, since Lewis died of dysentery.

I believe he is, sir, Richards said.

Sir James applied his makeup. First he daubed on cerise — white lead and vinegar — to produce a fashionable pallor on the face and neck. Then, on his cheeks and lips, he applied fucus, a red dye of seaweed and ochre.

Will you be wishing to postpone the hanging? Richards asked, bringing the governor his medicinal oil.

No, I think not, Almont said, wincing as he downed a spoonful. This was oil of a red-haired dog, concocted by a Milaner in London and known to be efficacious for the gout. Sir James took it faithfully each morning.

He then dressed for the day. Richards had correctly set out the governor’s best formal garments. First, Sir James put on a fine white silk tunic, then pale blue hose. Next, his green velvet doublet, stiffly quilted and miserably hot, but necessary for a day of official duties. His best feathered hat completed the attire.

All this had taken the better part of an hour. Through the open windows, Sir James could hear the early-morning bustle and shouts from the awakening town below.

He stepped back a pace to allow Richards to survey him. Richards adjusted the ruffle at the neck, and nodded his satisfaction. Commander Scott is waiting with your carriage, Your Excellency, Richards said.

Very good, Sir James said, and then, moving slowly, feeling the twinge of pain in his left toe with each step, and already beginning to perspire in his heavy ornate doublet, the cosmetics running down the side of his face and ears, the Governor of Jamaica descended the stairs of the mansion to his coach.

Chapter 2

FOR A MAN with the gout, even a brief journey by coach over cobbled streets is agonizing. For this reason, if no other, Sir James loathed the ritual of attending each hanging. Another reason he disliked these forays was that they required him to enter the heart of his dominion, and he much preferred the lofty view from his window.

Port Royal, in 1665, was a boomtown. In the decade since Cromwell’s expedition had captured the island of Jamaica from the Spanish, Port Royal had grown from a miserable, deserted, disease-ridden spit of sand into a miserable, overcrowded, cutthroat-infested town of eight thousand.

Undeniably, Port Royal was a wealthy town — some said it was the richest in the world — but that did not make it pleasant. Only a few roads had been paved in cobblestones, brought from England as ships’ ballast. Most streets were narrow mud ruts, reeking of garbage and horse dung, buzzing with flies and mosquitoes. The closely packed buildings were wood or brick, rude in construction and crude in purpose: an endless succession of taverns, grog shops, gaming places, and bawdy houses. These establishments served the thousand seamen and other visitors who might be ashore at any time. There were also a handful of legitimate merchants’ shops, and a church at the north end of town, which was, as Sir William Lytton had so nicely phrased it, seldom frequented.

Of course, Sir James and his household attended services each Sunday, along with the few pious members of the community. But as often as not, the sermon was interrupted by the arrival of a drunken seaman, who disrupted proceedings with blasphemous shouts and oaths and on one occasion with gunshots. Sir James had caused the man to be clapped in jail for a fortnight after that incident, but he had to be cautious about dispensing punishment. The authority of the Governor of Jamaica was — again in the words of Sir William — as thin as a parchment fragment, and as fragile.

Sir James had spent an evening with Sir William, after the king had given him his appointment. Sir William had explained the workings of the Colony to the new governor. Sir James had listened and had thought he understood, but one never really understood life in the New World until confronted with the actual rude experience.

Now, riding in his coach through the stinking streets of Port Royal, nodding from his window as the commoners bowed, Sir James marveled at how much he had come to accept as wholly natural and ordinary. He accepted the heat and the flies and the malevolent odors; he accepted the thieving and the corrupt commerce; he accepted the drunken gross manners of the privateers. He had made a thousand minor adjustments, including the ability to sleep through the raucous shouting and gunshots, which continued uninterrupted through every night in the port.

But there were still irritants to plague him, and one of the most grating was seated across from him in the coach. Commander Scott, head of the garrison of Fort Charles and self-appointed guardian of courtly good manners, brushed an invisible speck of dust from his uniform and said, I trust Your Excellency enjoyed an excellent evening, and is even now in good spirits for the morning’s exercises.

I slept well enough, Sir James said abruptly. For the hundredth time, he thought to himself how much more hazardous life was in Jamaica when the commander of the garrison was a dandy and a fool, instead of a serious military man.

I am given to understand, Commander Scott said, touching a perfumed lace handkerchief to his nose and inhaling lightly, that the prisoner LeClerc is in complete readiness and that all has been prepared for the execution.

Very good, Sir James said, frowning at Commander Scott.

"It has also come to my attention that the merchantman Godspeed is arriving at anchor even as we speak, and that among her passengers is Mr. Hacklett, here to serve as your new secretary."

Let us pray he is not a fool like the last one, Sir James said.

Indeed. Quite so, Commander Scott said, and then mercifully lapsed into silence. The coach pulled into the High Street Square where a large crowd had gathered to witness the hanging. As Sir James and Commander Scott alighted from the coach, there were scattered cheers.

Sir James nodded briefly; the commander gave a low bow.

I perceive an excellent gathering, the commander said. I am always heartened by the presence of so many children and young boys. This will make a proper lesson for them, do you not agree?

Umm, Sir James said. He made his way to the front of the crowd, and stood in the shadow of the gallows. The High Street gallows were permanent, they were so frequently needed: a low braced crossbeam with a stout noose that hung seven feet above the ground.

Where is the prisoner? Sir James said irritably.

The prisoner was nowhere to be seen. The governor waited with visible impatience, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. Then they heard the low roll of drums that presaged the arrival of the cart. Moments later, there were shouts and laughter from the crowd, which parted as the cart came into view.

The prisoner LeClerc was standing erect, his hands bound behind his back. He wore a gray cloth tunic, spattered with garbage thrown by the jeering crowd. Yet he continued to hold his chin high.

Commander Scott leaned over. He does make a good impression, Your Excellency.

Sir James grunted.

"I do so think well of a man who dies with finesse."

Sir James said nothing. The cart rolled up to the gallows, and turned so that the prisoner faced the crowd. The executioner, Henry Edmonds, walked over to the governor and bowed deeply. A good morning to Your Excellency, and to you, Commander Scott. I have the honor to present the prisoner, the Frenchman LeClerc, lately condemned by the Audencia—

Get on with it, Henry, Sir James said.

By all means, Your Excellency. Looking wounded, the executioner bowed again, and then returned to the cart. He stepped up alongside the prisoner, and slipped the noose around LeClerc’s neck. Then he walked to the front of the cart and stood next to the mule. There was a moment of silence, which stretched rather too long.

Finally, the executioner spun on his heel and barked, Teddy, damn you, look sharp!

Immediately, a young boy — the executioner’s son — began to beat out a rapid drum roll. The executioner turned back to face the crowd. He raised his switch high in the air, then struck the mule a single blow; the cart rattled away, and the prisoner was left kicking and swinging in the air.

Sir James watched the man struggle. He listened to the hissing rasp of LeClerc’s choking, and saw his face turn purple. The Frenchman began to kick rather violently, swinging back and forth just a foot or two from the muddy ground. His eyes seemed to bulge from his head. His tongue protruded. His body began to shiver, twisting in convulsions on the end of the rope.

All right, Sir James said finally, and nodded to the crowd. Immediately, one or two stout fellows rushed forward, friends of the condemned man. They grabbed at his kicking feet and hauled on them, trying to break his neck with merciful quickness. But they were clumsy at their work, and the pirate was strong, dragging the other men through the mud with his vigorous kicking. The death throes continued for some seconds and then finally, abruptly, the body went limp.

The men stepped away. Urine trickled down LeClerc’s pants’ legs onto the mud. The body twisted slackly back and forth on the end of the rope.

Well executed, indeed, Commander Scott said, with a broad grin. He tossed a gold coin to the executioner.

Sir James turned and climbed back into the coach, thinking to himself that he was exceedingly hungry. To sharpen his appetite further, as well as to drive out the foul smells of the town, he permitted himself a pinch of snuff.

. . .

IT WAS COMMANDER SCOTT’S suggestion that they stop by the port, to see if the new secretary had yet disembarked. The coach pulled up to the docks, as near to the wharf as possible; the driver knew that the governor preferred to walk no more than necessary. The coachman opened the door and Sir James stepped out, wincing, into the fetid morning air.

He found himself facing a young man in his early thirties, who, like the governor, was sweating in a heavy doublet. The young man bowed and said, Your Excellency.

Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing? Almont asked, with a slight bow. He could no longer bow deeply because of the pain in his leg, and in any case he disliked this pomp and formality.

"Charles Morton, sir, captain of the merchantman Godspeed, late of Bristol." He presented his papers.

Almont did not even glance at them. What cargoes do you carry?

West Country broadcloths, Your Excellency, and glass from Stourbridge, and iron goods. Your Excellency holds the manifest in his hands.

Have you passengers? He opened the manifest and realized he had forgotten his spectacles; the listing was a black blur. He examined the manifest with brief impatience, and closed it again.

I carry Mr. Robert Hacklett, the new secretary to Your Excellency, and his wife, Morton said. I carry eight freeborn commoners as merchants to the Colony. And I carry thirty-seven felon women sent by Lord Ambritton of London to be wives for the colonists.

So good of Lord Ambritton, Almont said dryly. From time to time, an official in one of the larger cities of England would arrange for convict women to be sent to Jamaica, a simple ruse to avoid the expense of jailing them at home. Sir James had no illusions about what this latest group of women would be like. And where is Mr. Hacklett?

On board, gathering his belongings with Mrs. Hacklett, Your Excellency. Captain Morton shifted his feet. Mrs. Hacklett had a most uncomfortable passage, Your Excellency.

I have no doubt, Almont said. He was irritated that his new secretary was not on the dock to meet him. Does Mr. Hacklett carry messages for me?

I believe he may, sir, Morton said.

Be so good as to ask him to join me at Government House at his earliest convenience.

I will, Your Excellency.

You may await the arrival of the purser and Mr. Gower, the customs inspector, who will verify your manifest and supervise the unloading of your cargoes. Have you many deaths to report?

Only two, Your Excellency, both ordinary seamen. One lost overboard and one dead of dropsy. Had it been otherwise, I would not have come to port.

Almont hesitated. How do you mean, not have come to port?

I mean, had anyone died of the plague, Your Excellency.

Almont frowned in the morning heat. The plague?

Your Excellency knows of the plague which has lately infected London and certain of the outlying towns of the land?

I know nothing at all, Almont said. There is plague in London?

Indeed, sir, for some months now it has been spreading with great confusion and loss of life. They say it was brought from Amsterdam.

Almont sighed. That explained why there had been no ships from England in recent weeks, and no messages from the Court. He remembered the London plague of ten years earlier, and hoped that his sister and niece had had the presence of mind to go to the country house. But he was not unduly disturbed. Governor Almont accepted calamity with equanimity. He himself lived daily in the shadow of dysentery and shaking fever, which carried off several citizens of Port Royal each week.

I will hear more of this news, he said. Please join me at dinner this evening.

With great pleasure, Morton said, bowing once more. Your Excellency honors me.

Save that opinion until you see the table this poor colony provides, Almont said. One last thing, Captain, he said. I am in need of female servants for the mansion. The last group of blacks, being sickly, have died. I would be most grateful if you would contrive for the convict women to be sent to the mansion as soon as possible. I shall handle their dispersal.

Your Excellency.

Almont gave a final, brief nod, and climbed painfully back into his coach. With a sigh of relief, he sank back in the seat and rode to the mansion. A dismal malodorous day, Commander Scott commented, and indeed, for a long time afterward, the ghastly smells of the town lingered in the governor’s nostrils and did not dissipate until he took another pinch of snuff.

Chapter 3

DRESSED IN LIGHTER clothing, Governor Almont breakfasted alone in the dining hall of the mansion. As was his custom, he ate a light meal of poached fish and a little wine, followed by another of the minor pleasures of his posting, a cup of rich, dark coffee. During his tenure as governor, he had become increasingly fond of coffee, and he delighted in the fact that he had virtually unlimited quantities of this delicacy, so scarce at home.

While he was finishing his coffee, his aide, John Cruikshank, entered. John was a Puritan, forced to leave Cambridge in some haste when Charles II was restored to the throne. He was a sallow-faced, serious, tedious man, but dutiful enough.

The convict women are here, Your Excellency.

Almont grimaced at the thought. He wiped his lips. Send them along. Are they clean, John?

Reasonably clean, sir.

Then send them along.

The women entered the dining room noisily. They chattered and stared and pointed to this article and that. An unruly lot, dressed in identical gray fustian, and barefooted. His aide lined them along one wall and Almont pushed away from the table.

The women fell silent as he walked past them. In fact, the only sound in the room was the scraping of the governor’s painful left foot over the floor, as he walked down the line, looking at each.

They were as ugly, tangled, and scurrilous a collection as he’d ever seen. He paused before one woman, who was taller than he, a nasty creature with a pocked face and missing teeth. What’s your name?

Charlotte Bixby, my lord. She attempted a clumsy sort of curtsey.

And your crime?

Faith, my lord, I did no crime, it was all a falsehood that they put to me and—

Murder of her husband, John Bixby, his aide intoned, reading from a list.

The woman fell silent. Almont moved on. Each new face was uglier than the last. He stopped at a woman with tangled black hair and a yellow scar running down the side of her neck. Her expression was sullen.

Your name?

Laura Peale.

What is your crime?

They said I stole a gentleman’s purse.

Suffocation of her children ages four and seven, John intoned in a monotonous voice, never raising his eyes from the list.

Almont scowled at the woman. These females would be quite at home in Port Royal; they were as tough and hard as the hardest privateer. But wives? They would not be wives. He continued down the line of faces, and then stopped before one unusually young.

The girl could hardly have been more than fourteen or fifteen, with fair hair and a naturally pale complexion. Her eyes were blue and clear, with a certain odd, innocent amiability. She seemed entirely out of place in this churlish group. His voice was soft as he spoke to her. And your name, child?

Anne Sharpe, my lord. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Her eyes fell demurely.

What is your crime?

Theft, my lord.

Almont glanced

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Reseñas

Not his best book, but still a good read. Seemed to be a lot of historical facts that were interesting.

Rating: 3

I really liked this but the part where they are fighting the kraken was just really stupid and should have been cut.Other than that if you want a quick read where you will be entertained and you won't have to engage your brain then this is the ideal book.

Rating: 4

Ending was a little hasty and unfinished-seeming but I enjoyed the rest of it very much; it read more like a Clive Cussler novel than a Michael Crichton one, but I've always enjoyed the former so that was okay by me. Would have easily been for stars if the ending hadn't been so abrupt.

Rating: 4

This was the first Michael Crichton novel I've ever read and I was really surprised in some ways with how much I enjoyed it. It had a bit of a feel of 'Pirates of the Caribbean' in a way. I love the swashbuckling and the overall adventure of the story.

Rating: 4

Decent story about privateers and sea battles, based in Jamaica but moving around a little. Makes me want to read about Henry Morgan sacking Panama.Definitely a beach read

Rating: 4

I don't generally expect Michael Crichton's books to remind me of Horatio Hornblower's adventures, but this book is very much in that vein, only without all the sappy pseudo-romance that Hornblower books are riddled with after a while. The ending felt a bit rushed, but considering that this book was found in his files after his death and published posthumously, perhaps this is simply the unpolished version of a resolution that might under better circumstances have been more fully fleshed out.

Rating: 5

I'm reading this because pirates, but I will note that it still doesn't come near the shores of the POTC movies. The verdict is still out on the POTC novel though; that's next in line to read.

Rating: 3

I must say first that no, this wasn't the best pirate story I've ever read but it was definitely a great one.
Being a pirate storyteller myself, I appreciated this book on a whole different level than let's say, the more contemporary or classic books I've read. The reason is; I read pirate novels not only for entertainment but for research.
I was excited that so much of this story takes place in Port Royal, Jamaica because I recently spent quite a few hours researching that area of the world during the Golden Age of Piracy and found his descriptions really brought the place to life for me.
I read this book while my last novel was being edited and my head swirled with ideas and imagery that I felt my own story was lacking. The end result? Several rewrites on my own novel. :)
I suppose my hope is to someday reach the level of success this gentleman did. Even if writing on a topic that is near and dear to my heart was not his forte, I could tell he was having a lot of fun with it and I wanted to climb into the story and enjoy it with him!

Rating: 5

A fast paced, swashbuckling adventure set in the 17th Century Caribbean. A real page turner.

Rating: 4

Really fun read. Crichton can tell a story. It's fun to read a period piece by an author that researched the period. Bad guys and high adventure. What's not to love.

Rating: 4

Another fun book by Crichton with adventure, betrayal, unexpected turns, exotic locations, and...a fabled monster.However, it seems to me this may be a book that was draft form, which Crichton himself may not have finished before his death. It reads as if someone sort of fleshed it out, trying to keep as best he could in step with Crichton's style. If so, the anonymous co-writer doesn't succeed to well, in my opinion, for two reasons: (a) it's not as sharp and fast-paced as past books by Crichton, and (b) there's some sexual innuendo (nothing too explicit) that, unless I'm mistaken, is not Crichton's style.Nevertheless, worth the read for sure!

Rating: 4

This book was a gift. This story is a favorite of mine and I've bought other copies for my friends. I fully recommend this book. I went through a period where I hadn't read a book for months and this book brought me back to one of my favorite places. That place where only a good book and a cup of tea can take you. I fell in love with the story and the characters. It helps when you've been to the Caribbean and seas interest you. I also am a fan of pirates. It's a fun must read. Mr. Chrichton describes his characters flawlessly.

Rating: 5

This book was a book club pick and seemed a bit rushed or unfinished. It seems Mr. Crichton had been working on this thing since the 70's and never got around to publishing it. That's probably because he never really put the finishing touches on it. It lacks any real surprises or twists. It's entertaining in a sort of swashbuckling adventure novel sort of way. Crichton was clearly a fan of historical naval trivia. He inserts a great deal of it throughout the book and I found it enjoyable. But some of the chapters felt like synopses that he never gotten around to finishing. Its a bit sad to read really. The family probably should have left this one alone and just treasured it as a family keepsake.

Rating: 2

I expected SciFi and got none of that....just a pirate historical fiction story.. There is a plot and some memorable characters, The plot proved that Crighton did his research well--read that in the publisher's review. He developed compelling characters involved in interesting situations, One cannot finish a review of a pirate story without using the word "swashbuckling", so here it is.

Rating: 3

THere is a plot and some memorable characters, but too much of the book reads like the manuscript it was and not a finished work. Several major scenes seem to be missing, and major plot points are introduced unexpectedly only to disappear again forever. Worth a read for Pirate fans and Crichton enthusiasts but all in all a poor novel that tarnishes his reputation in print as much as it would have tantalizingly enhanced it were it still a lost book.

Rating: 3

well worth the time!

Rating: 5

I admit to feeling trepidation when I read the jacket and discovered the manuscript for this book was discovered in Michael Crichton's files after his death. Sometimes an author puts away a book for good reason and does not want it published.

Turns out, this was a quick and entertaining read, though it had a "Pirates of the Caribbean" feel to it and I found myself thinking how odd it was that I was familiar with so many of the islands mentioned in the book, from playing Sid Meyer's Pirates video game.

Crichton writes swashbuckle with the best of them. We have a roguish hero, a damsel in distress, and evil villain, a crew both treacherous and true, a lady pirate who bares her breasts to stun her enemies just before she cuts their throats, and even a sea monster.

Recommended for those who enjoy light, adventure fiction that is well-written.

Rating: 4

Great story very pirate authentic this would be a fantastic film

Rating: 5

This is an unusual book for Michael Crichton in that it is not science fiction. The story is action packed and amusing but is too adventurous to be credible. I am unclear on the motivation to write such a frivolous story but I still liked the story.

Rating: 3

I had a hard time putting this down. Action packed. Exactly what you would expect from pirates.

Rating: 4

Not by any means Crichton's best, but I believe this was the one found in a drawer after his death. Entertaining in a very light way. Protagonist sort of a Mary Sue. :-)

Rating: 3

Fabulous writing. The story felt so "true life" like you just can't make this stuff up - yet Crichton did. Amazing.

Rating: 4

My love for rollicking adventure stories continued with my read of Crichton's Pirate Latitudes. Building upon an actual event and grounded in a rather accurate portrayal of 17th century Jamaica, it is easy to see why a number of readers may compare this story with the movie The Pirates of the Caribbean. I admit I did, more so for the mere fact that both are adventures with boats, treasure, damsels in distress and a crew of potential disreputable individuals than for any noticeable direct comparisons. The characters are lively, with some wonderful banter and I will admit that I always seem to have a soft spot for ship captains who like to play things fast and loose while still abiding by a personal moral code of ethics, be they pirates or privateers. Part of the story dragged a little bit, and yes, I did catch myself rolling my eyes when the kraken makes its appearance but overall, this was a decent read and is what it is - an adventure story, pure and simple.

Rating: 4

Here's what I think happened: Michael Crichton thought it would be fun to write about pirates. So he did a lot of research and wrote the book around that. Indeed, probably the biggest positive of this book is that it's researched very well. In the end, he must've realized the story didn't hold up, so maybe he tucked it away to work on later. In a nutshell, it felt very realistic (except for the kraken parts) but was very slow story-wise. But I'm still glad I read it.

Rating: 3

This was enjoyable fast-paced reading. Charles Hunter, a pirate, who is based at the colony of Jamaica is planning and undertaking a theft from the Spanish crown in the Caribbean. Therefore he is looking for the most skilled men who are coming along with him. He is making an unorthodox approach to get to his target.The story is written very gripping and I could laugh out loud at the different incidents which have taken place during this endeavour.

Rating: 4

2 1/2 stars for this one; my least favorite of Michael Crichton's so far. Impeccably researched as usual, but I just don't think historical fiction suits his style as well as the science fiction does.

Rating: 2

Pirate Latitudes by Michael Crichton

★★ ½

When you think of a swashbuckling adventure with pirate and treasure, do you think of the author Michael Crichton? I sure don’t. After Crichton passed away in 2009, Pirate Latitudes was found on his PC, was deemed “complete” and published. I have always been a huge fan of the author’s work and I could be wrong but I feel that this was a side project that he was having fun with that he never planned for the public to see. Some say he had been playing around with it since the 1970s. This was an ok book but not up to standards for what you would expect of a Crichton book. I had a much easier time if I pulled it away from the association of what you would expect out of this author normally.

For the most part this just felt like an unfinished book. It was fairly predictable. The normals of what could go wrong did and it all seemed fairly rushed. Details were lacking, especially in the characters. It seemed as if elements were added but not always explain fully. There was potential here but it seems like nothing more than an outline. If you are looking for classic Crichton, you won’t find it here. Disconnect yourself from that idea and it may be worth the read but even then, it’s not the most impressive work of adventure and action out there.

Rating: 2

Set in Jamaica in 1665, Pirate Latitudes give an insight into another era far away from many of the contemporary adventure stories in my shelf. Although a broad description of the plot would be similar to many contemporary novels – good guys versus bad guys combined with a twist and several beautiful women.

How much is based on fact and how much is total fiction I don't care as it was enjoyable enough to keep me reading way past lights out. It is the type of book that I describe as a ‘page turner’.

This manuscript was, apparently, discovered after Michael Crichton died and I am thankful HarperCollins decided to publish.

Rating: 3

A different genre for Michael. Typically known for his technothrillers, Pirate Latitudes is a historical fiction novel. It's alright, but not what I look to Michael Crichton for. Unfortunately, there will be no more exciting science at its worst novels from him. He will be missed.

Rating: 3

A good book, but not a great book, because of course, Crichton didn't get a chance to finish it. There are parts that are very well developed, but then there are more parts that read like they didn't get past the first or second draft. However, I also felt like this provided interesting insights into the author's writing process.

Rating: 3

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Pirate Latitudes: A Novel

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