Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (44 page)

“Non. She is not the Josephine,” he said. “She is larger.”

“I was hoping we might have been lucky,” I shrugged.

He frowned at me. “Why would that have been lucky? Pierrot sails under commissions from both countries; he could take us as a prize.”

I was surprised at this. “Oui, but would he?”

“If he thought we were worth something; but he knows how long we have been out of port and that we could not have taken a prize yet ourselves.”

“If it were Pierrot, and he had thought we had worth, what would occur if we were to fight?”

“Are you asking where my loyalties lie?”

“Non.” And I was not, as that had not occurred to me. “I am asking if he would… What is the result when buccaneer ships are at odds and Raised By Wolves - Brethren

fight on the sea? Do we surrender gracefully and they take the money, as in a highway robbery, and we all go our separate ways? Or is every man put to the sword? Or are we ransomed, though I know not to whom?”

“Oh,” he said as if he had not considered that a question. “It depends on a number of matters, such as whether the crews know one another. If they are unknown, we fight and any left alive are sometimes given a choice to join the winning crew and sometimes killed. But first we would fight as if our lives depended on it. If they are known, it may occur as you described, with a surrender of the booty in exchange for the lives of those remaining after the fight.”

This brought a whole host of questions to the fore in my mind.

Yet again I was confronted with a good many things concerning the business of piracy that I had not given sufficient thought. I chuckled sheepishly.

“This has all been fairly, I guess you could say, academic. What happens if we are captured?”

He regarded me as if I were a fool.

I winced and sighed. “Before you consign my intellect to the midden heap of contempt, please hear me out. I plan well, in the short term, and I have been deemed to be quite excellent at tactics and even strategies in order to meet specific goals, but I do not exercise the same forethought in regards to the major events of my life or…” I sighed again. “I choose to overlook them. I knew this life would have its share of dangers, and I could even name them if asked. Yet… I just do not think they will ever befall me, and so I worry little about them, until confronted in some fashion.”

“I do not have a midden heap of contempt,” he said distractedly, as if he were giving great thought to the matter. “It is more of a mountain.”

“Oui, and I am perched atop it, I understand.”

“You are nowhere near it. You are still a fool, but not for this, though you are foolish. Coming to the West Indies at all was your first mistake.”

“And pairing with you probably my second.”

He grinned. “That was incredibly stupid.”

“Oui, I see,” I laughed. “So in answer to my foolish question.”

“The only ones who might capture us are the Spanish, and we are pirates, dogs, and heretics to them and not due the respect of even the lowest soldier. They will either enslave us and send us to their plantations or mines, or they will torture us, or they will kill us, and they may do all three.”

“Though they probably would not kill us first if that were to occur,”

I noted.

He snorted. “What did you think would happen?”

“I did not, really. I suppose I thought perhaps we would be ransomed or kept as prisoners of war or some such thing. I guess I am thinking like a wolf. The few times I have been in truly dire straits in my travels, there has always the notion that any man could be bought and I could always write my father. And yes, I realize how incredibly childish that sounds.”

He shrugged. “You thought like a wolf. Your life had meaning and value, as opposed to the common sheep.”

“Oui.”

“You are a sheep here, Will.”

“Non, non, I am a centaur; the Spaniards will just think I look like a sheep.”

He smirked. “They will see you and hear nothing but baa.”

“Non, though I be a barbarian, my Castilian is quite proficient.”

“Truly, why? Where did you study it?”

“I have known a number of Spaniards, in Florence and elsewhere.”

He grimaced. “I have heard the bastards are crawling all over that peninsula. I have a talent for languages, and as theirs bears a great similarity to French, I have an understanding of it. But I do not like conversing with them.” There was vehemence in his words, and I was surprised.

“I have found them much like any other people.”

He frowned. “I suppose that may be true. But Will, the Spaniards are civilization in the New World, and I hate them for it. I have been thankfully insulated from civilization during my life here. In thinking on it, I am sure they are as any other nation in many regards. But here, across the Line, they are somewhat different. They plunder and murder in the name of God and profit, and send all of it home to Spain.

Their people here are indolent bastards, who abuse who they can. Did you know that almost all of the Indians are dead? I feel that if any of the Carribe survive, they are in hiding; and I have only heard of a few Arawak left alive on Hispaniola.”

“Oui, Rucker and some of his associates are well informed on that subject. It is supposedly a matter of outrage in England. Though I feel they would like the Indians no better, and it is merely another reason to berate Spain.”

He nodded. “As always, civilization serves its own ends. As do wolves. However, I feel your English brethren would not treat them as the Spanish do.” He shook his head. “The Spaniards enslave the Indians, and then sleep with their women and create more slaves.

They do the same with the Negroes. How can a man bear fruit with one woman and call it an heir, and with another and call it a slave? If the offspring is less than human, what pride did the man possess to spill his seed in the dam in the first place? They may as well lie with their livestock.”

“You do not feel we are much the same?” I asked.

He glared at me briefly and shrugged. “You have not seen it as I have. Each nation is different in regards to such matters. The English only sleep with English women, or at least white women. A Frenchman will marry an Indian woman and claim the children as his. I am sure the English bemoan the lack of Indians, because there were none left to enslave and they were forced to resort to bondsmen. Therefore they claim the moral high ground, as they did not murder the Indians.

Instead, they enslave their own. A French contract of indenture is usually three years. With the English it is seven, or more. The Spanish do not have bondsmen; all are slaves, so there is no hope to escape their yoke. However, they usually do not enslave their own countrymen.”

I was beginning to feel amusement at his respect for his former countrymen without ever using the word “we” or claiming them as his own. “I did not realize you were so patriotic.”

He snorted derisively. “I am not.”

I smiled. “I happen to agree with you, though. The French make piss- poor wolves. No talent for empire building since Charlemagne,” I teased.

He finally chuckled. “William the Conqueror.”

“Ow!” I laughed. “True, true, and the Normans stayed to mingle and marry. You know all the nobility is of the same pack these days, anyhow; you should know that more than anyone, considering your educational experiences.”

“As should you, after working your way through every court in Christendom.”

“Not every court. Oui, there are differences, though; you are correct.

I did favor France. If I had not encountered a bit of trouble there, I might have stayed longer.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I sighed. “There was a death due to a duel I was involved in and…

Actually, that is the primary cause for my leaving many places I have lived. I once fancied that I am always only one step ahead of the reaper.”

“Is that due to your lack of forethought?”

“More to my upbringing, really. Being raised a wolf, I have always thought I had the right to take whatever I wanted, as long as I had the power to do so. But I was a wolf alone, and thus it was easy for them to ally against me after I had taken down one of their number.”

He studied the sea. “You have never been religious? Have you ever believed in sin?”

I looked where he did: our pursuer was far behind us now, and it was obvious that unless there was divine intervention on her behalf, she would not catch us.

“Non, I have not.”

“Feared damnation?”

“Always, as I was constantly threatened with it. Then I grew older and realized that if there was a God, the people making the threats had no right speaking for Him.”

“Perhaps I am not speaking of God.”

I regarded him with curiosity, and found I would have to speak: he was not looking at me, but still out to sea. “How so?”

“Do you think it is possible to sin against nature, or man, or perhaps even yourself?”

I gave the matter thought. “Sinning against nature, man, or self would denote a morality to be transgressed against as a thing inherent in those concepts. I see morality as an inviolable basis for right and wrong, and I do not feel that such a thing is inherent in nature, man, or self, or invested in any thing for that matter. So, non. I think it is possible to do wrong. I do not think it is possible to sin. I truly do not believe in sin in that context.”

“How do you know you have done wrong?”

“I feel guilt.”

“How do you prevent yourself from doing wrong?”

“I am not always successful, though many of my wrongs have been inadvertent. I do have a good knowledge of what will cause me guilt.”

“So your basis for morality lies within you?” He did not seem incredulous or judgmental, merely curious.

“Oui. And you?”

“I think that if you do something you know is wrong you are sinning against yourself; and if it would be wrong in the eyes of your fellow men, then against man; and if it be wrong in the name of all that is natural, then against nature.”

He was somber to the degree of profundity. I felt shallow sitting next to him. This was something that touched me lightly, and I often thought little of it; and here it seemed to touch him to the core of his being.

“What would you place at the apex of the hierarchy of sin in that regard?” I asked carefully.

Gaston studied the sea for a long moment; and there was change in him, a thing deep inside that I could only bear witness to in the small changes wrought upon his physical mien. His posture straightened and his eyes sparkled, and there was now the hint of a smile on his lips.

It was as if he had gone so deep he had come out the other side. Or perhaps he had rebounded off some impenetrable wall in his psyche and I was witnessing his return.

“Willful fornication with swine,” he said with jesting earnestness.

I laughed at the unexpectedness of it; and then I understood his game and joined it happily, as I did not want to dwell upon the subject either.

“Hold, pray hold, I am endeavoring to envision unwillfull fornication with swine. They are large, ungainly creatures and quite willful in their own right. Sheep are fairly tractable, and one might mount a half-hearted attempt at copulation on a sheep and be relatively assured of success. A swine, however; that would require a particular brand of willfulness. As I have recently learned, forcing a stubborn swine to do a thing it wishes to do may tax a man, and forcing upon it a thing it will surely take umbrage with could endanger life, and in the example of copulation, the most favored of limbs.”

He laughed with me, and the darkness that had taken hold of him was dispelled.

We sailed on, and it was soon the middle of April. Bradley had it on good authority that the Spanish Terra Firma fleet known as the Flota had wintered in Veracruz. It was also known that if the Flota stayed through the year, then she made ready to return in April or so, reaching Havana to acquire more cargo in May and then sailing for Spain in June. From Havana, the Spanish treasure fleets always followed the same route home; and this involved sailing up through the Straits of Florida, until they could catch the westerly winds and cross the ocean.

Since we were early for their arrival at Cuba, Bradley wished to sail south around that island and into the Gulf of Mexico to catch the fleet on its way to Havana. If this failed, we would hover near the port herself, wait until they departed, and chase them north.

Thus we cruised ever westward, until we had passed north of Jamaica. We hugged the southern shore of Cuba, keeping her a thin smudge of grey upon the horizon. Thankfully it was not as boring as crossing the ocean had been, though men in prison are afforded more space – and, I even fancied, more variety in their daily life – than the threescore men crowded together on the North Wind. With every meal, my certainty increased that I would soon grow exceedingly tired of salted pork and fruit washed down with lemon water.

We followed the daily routine. Every morning we woke and saw to our weapons. Then we swabbed the decks and any available woodwork.

Then we practiced, trained, or in Gaston’s case, engaged in calisthenic exercise. I joined him in this as soon as my strength returned. Then we would while away the rest of the day, sitting about and talking or playing cards. In the evenings, when the sun no longer burned down on us so brightly, the musicians played and there was dancing and general revelry, though with a distinct absence of alcohol. Even if all of us being intoxicated had been advisable, the North Wind did not have a hold large enough to carry the amount of alcohol necessary to keep us drunk.

There was a pleasing monotony to this life, and I found it reassuring and not confining in its simplicity only because of Gaston. Without him, it would have bored me to stupefaction, and I do not know what I would have done. I was at a loss as to what he had done prior to my arrival, as he seemed driven to converse for hours at a time. Perhaps I was seeing the end result of not having anyone to speak with for many years. I was pleased to be the recipient of so many pent-up words, and I enjoyed having such an avid listener.

He shared my vast fascination with art, and took to questioning me in great detail about what I had been fortunate enough to see in my travels. Thus I talked myself hoarse many an afternoon describing the contents of the collections I had seen. We once spent half a day discussing a painting we both had the opportunity to view, in order to clarify nomenclature and form a common frame of reference. He was not satisfied with mere words in these discussions. If it was a painting, he wanted to know the colors: not by their names, but as hues we could see around us, so that he could vividly picture the piece in his mind.