Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (47 page)

“Ends Up Dead. You Saw The Duel.”

“Aye, but it is my understanding that the man who initiated that duel won, and he is not dead.”

“He will be, if he courts anyone who may possibly be attached,”

Striker said. “He has a reputation now, and no one trusts him.”

“And I suppose the threat of dueling keeps men from straying from their matelots.” I smiled. “That has never worked amongst men and women, as I can attest to many times over.”

“Do they live on ships?” Striker asked.

I could see that reasoning also. “Nay, but they do live in small social circles, or towns on occasion. Yet, unlike upon a ship, they have the possibility of clandestine trysts. Here, there is no place to hide.

And there are other major differences, I suppose. Women do not carry firearms or duel; and once betrayed, their greatest weapon is to sleep with another. And since all the men are engaged in the activity of cuckolding one another in some fashion, they all share the guilt; and when dueling does occur, it does not always lead to death. Infidelity is expected and accepted. Here, it is not. I assume a betrayed matelot kills his partner.”

There was a round of chuckles.

“You assume correctly,” Striker said. “Though it’s not always the way of it. Sometimes they simply dissolve the partnership, but usually blood boils and someone dies. And any man caught trying to seduce a matelot is usually dealt with by one of the pair or shunned by his shipmates.”

I knew many a priest and vicar who would have been quite pleased with the buccaneers, at least in theory. If you wished to have carnal relations you must marry.

I was very glad Davey was hearing all of this. I spared him a glance; he appeared thoughtful, studying the planks beneath him.

“Ach. Striker Ever Did.” Pete growled. “I’dKill The Bastard. Kill Striker.

Then Kill Meself. Cause I Could Not Live Without Him.” He became somber.

“He Ever Dies, I’mADead Man.” He glanced at his matelot.

Striker smiled and leaned down to whisper in Pete’s ear. They chuckled.

That definitely drove the final nails in the coffin of Davey’s infatuation, or so I hoped.

“Sexton,” Liam said and we all looked at him curiously. He regarded us with confusion as to why we did not know what he was speaking of.

“Sexton, ta be Davey’s mate. He be good. His matelot be dead.”

“Aye,” Striker said, “But he’s a musketeer, not a boarder.”

“Ahh, forgot, sorry,” Liam said. “The Ram? I’ve heard ’e’s good, an’

I’ve na’ seen ’em about with another.”

“He’s with Cudro,” Striker said. This evinced several stares and a bit of tension from my matelot, who had just relaxed. “Not as matelot. He’s one of Cudro’s men.” Striker sighed and dropped his voice. “Bradley wants to go for two prizes if the pickings are easy. If this be the case, then we’ll hold a vote for a second quartermaster, and it will probably go to Cudro. He’ll need his own boarders, because even if I take half as many as I will board with to sail the prize, he’ll still need at least twenty.

So, Cudro’s men are out. The Bard’s men are out. The musketeers are out. Who does that leave?”

“Hastings Harris Green Maroon.”

“Harris is out,” Striker sighed.

“Not Green. Been Whoring. Cries When He Pisses.”

“So that leaves Julio the Maroon or Hastings,” Striker said. “I would advise against Hastings. I do not think he likes men at all, and he may be one of Cudro’s friends by now.”

“Don’t like him anyway,” Davey said coldly.

“Julio the maroon then,” Striker said.

“What is a maroon?” I whispered to my matelot.

“Half Indian,” Gaston whispered back.

“The one talking to the cook,” Striker said quietly.

“Aye, I like ’im,” Liam said. Otter nodded.

“He’s an able seaman too,” the Bard added, “but not one of my regular boys.”

Davey was looking to Pete, who was nodding. “Like ’Im A Lot.

Handsome Devil Too.”

Davey turned to regard what I had already been eyeing: Julio the Maroon was a fine specimen of manhood, and I had caught myself staring a few times when I noticed him about the ship. I had wondered before about the exotic quality of his face, the reddish-brown of his skin, and the lack of hair on his strong jaw and massive chest. Now I understood.

“He’s free?” Davey looked back at us with wonder.

The wolves nodded.

“As far as we know,” Striker said.

Davey smiled and abruptly sobered. “Would he take me?”

“In truth, many men won’t take him because he’s Indian,” Striker said.

“If they are that damn blind, what right do they have being buccaneers?” I asked.

This brought a round of laughs and a quiet “Hey,” in my ear. I craned my head back to regard my matelot, who was glaring at me.

I teased in French, “What are you concerned about? He probably does not read Plato and I doubt he fences, though perhaps he can be taught.”

I thought he was going to bite me. I grinned.

Striker walked up-ship and spoke to the man, and Davey stood and looked nervous and awkward. Julio the Maroon seemed to be doing a fair amount of nodding; and he walked back with Striker, who seemed positively gleeful about introducing them.

I pulled Gaston’s arm tighter about me, relieved I did not have to worry about such matters.

“Are you overcome at his presence?” Gaston whispered in French.

I chuckled. “Non, I was merely thinking how pleased I am that we decided things on a street, and my future was not dictated by a council, though the chorus did decide some of our fate.”

He rumbled with quiet amusement.

Now that Davey was a member of a pair, though they did not initially call themselves matelots, he and his partner were included in our little cabal for cards, discussion, and general companionship. Previously, this group had only been composed of six: Liam and Otter and the residents of our alcove. Julio also joined us in fencing practice, and had quite a knack for it. Additionally he proved to be sensible, soft spoken, and to my amazement, not only fluent in Castilian, but literate as well.

Shortly thereafter, rearrangements of sleeping space were made; and Davey and Julio moved into Liam and Otter’s alcove across from ours, and began to refer to themselves as matelots. They were committing sodomy within the week, with a degree of amorousness that I think surprised Davey, as he was used to a far less intimate form of buggery.

Julio liked to kiss.

Now, if only my own love life were so simple. I knew the Gods were taunting me.

Wherein We Learn to Interpret Signs

The following week passed quickly, as we sailed through the strait of Campeche and into the gulf of Terra Firma. We went ashore into the thick forest, and replenished our water and managed to procure some fresh meat and fruit. I was happy to eat anything that did not taste of salt. We had worked our way through the salted meat first, since it would not last as long as the boucan. I was now very tired of pork.

The only other ship we saw was a sloop of woodcutters bound for on Campeche. Since it was one of ours, we did not give chase; though some wanted to, simply because it would be an amusement. We began to criss-cross the sea leading to Havana. I was assured we would be at this for weeks.

I recalled my earlier idea of teaching, and out of politeness asked Bradley if he felt this would present a problem. He was actually very enthusiastic about the matter, and offered whatever support he could give. So I set about determining if anyone would wish to partake of lessons. Of those I knew, Bradley, Siegfried, Cleghorn, the Bard, and Striker were literate. Possibly not well-educated on any matter that was less than useful in relation to their occupation, but they could read and write charts, bills of lading, and the like. All of the Dutch, including Cudro and Otter, were literate in Dutch, but not English. Cudro wanted nothing to do with me, but Otter and some of the others wished to learn English. Hastings, who had been an English Navy officer, was a man of letters and apparently possessed of an excellent education. He thought I was on a fool’s errand, as most of the men on board were surely too stupid to teach. I noticed that he gave this opinion very quietly. I awarded him a withering smile and told him we would see. The rest of our number, who were primarily English, could not read. I found with interest that this included Pete. I did not understand why he could not when his matelot could.

I approached Striker cautiously on the matter when Pete was away.

“I assume you have tried to teach him to read.”

Striker sighed. “Many times. It always ends with us yelling at one another. I do not understand it. He… I do not know if I can explain it, either.” He chewed on his lip, and came to a decision.

When Pete returned to the alcove, Striker whispered in his ear. Pete looked glum, but he nodded.

Striker looked to me. “All right, then. Observe.”

Gaston and I watched as Striker wrote “Striker and Pete” on the deck with charcoal. He handed the charcoal to Pete and said, “Now copy it.” Pete wrote, “Stirkre and Pete.” Additionally, three of the letters were reversed. He tapped on his own name and said, “See I Know That One. P

E T E.” He had rendered the “P” backwards. He frowned and shook his head with a groan. “Damn It! They Be Movin Again.” He attempted to copy the names yet again, and different letters were displayed out of order; and some of the letters which had been backwards were now in the proper direction. He finally gave an exasperated sigh.

“Striker Says They Don’tChange. I Don’tKnow How Any Man Does It.”

Striker looked to me and shrugged with a heavy sigh. “I could not teach him.”

Gaston seemed very agitated by it all, as if the sun had risen in the west and he wished to know why. He wiped the deck down and drew an

“E” and asked Pete to reproduce it ten times. A third of Pete’s renditions were backwards. The astounding thing was that Pete understood something was going wrong.

“I’mStupid!” Pete snapped and threw the charcoal overboard.

“Nay, you’re not!” Striker snarled back.

“I do not think you are stupid,” I added.

“It is a disorder of the mind,” Gaston said calmly. “There is nothing wrong with your vision, and I have seen nothing to indicate your intelligence is in any way retarded. There is simply some disorder that prevents you from seeing things as others do, much like some men not being able to perceive color.”

Pete was initially displeased with this verdict; and then he appeared to think it over, and decide he could accept it. He looked from one to the other of us.

“Can Ya Teach Me?”

I was not about to tell him no. “It will be a challenge. For all involved. And you must be patient with yourself, and not fling the charcoal overboard, as there is little enough of that.”

Pete winced and ran to get more from the cookfire. Striker was giving us a warning look.

“I will endeavor to try,” I assured him.

“You truly understand that he is not an idiot?” Striker asked.

“He is far too perceptive to be an idiot. And he learns other things very quickly.”

Striker sighed, and some of the tension left him. “I just can’t have others thinking…”

“Nay, of course not,” I said. “This will be our secret. I will endeavor to teach him separate from the others.”

This relieved Striker even more. Pete returned and handed me another chunk of charcoal and each of us a banana. My mind was churning quite furiously.

I asked, “Do you know your letters?” and wrote the alphabet.

“Aye. Striker Taught Me.” Pete named them one by one.

This was a relief, and made what I planned next far easier. I wrote, “I like bananas,” and asked, “What does that say?”

Pete regarded me as if I was stupid. “ICan’tRead.”

I pointed at the “I”.

“I.”

I kept pointing, one letter at a time.

“L, I, K, E,” he said.

“What sounds do they make?”

He glared at me, and then he glowered at the letters. Then the tension left his face, and the calm of awe and understanding replaced it.

“Like,” he whispered.

I grinned, “Aye.”

“Bananas” was a bit more difficult, but he had the idea now. Within an hour or so, I had proved to all of us that Pete could indeed be taught to read. Striker had laid excellent groundwork. Pete could recognize the letters, whether his mind saw them as forward or backward. As long as he read them one at a time and then strung the sounds together in his head like the notes of a melody, he could puzzle out simple sentences.

That in itself proved his intelligence, in that he had to expend far more intellectual effort than an average man in order to achieve the same result. He was pleased when I explained it to him in that way. I did not think he would ever read quickly, as he could not recognize whole words. But he could look at something written and make sense of it after a time in this fashion.

And so I went about offering daily lessons to a good twenty men in the afternoons and worked with Pete alone in the evenings. Another week passed.

I was at ease with my life. I was in the best health I could remember, amongst the best friends I could recall having. And there was always Gaston. With the exception of one aspect of our relationship, he was a constant font of contentment and satisfaction. I endeavored to not allow my needs to sully my state of mind. I assured myself that things were progressing, handsomely, when one considered the many factors involved.

Now that he was more receptive to my touch, and willing to initiate contact with my person, my only frustration with my matelot came at night, as I had feared. In truth I should not say my only frustration, as I was occasionally at full sail with nowhere to go in the middle of the day.

But it was at night, when the darkness provided the illusion of privacy among so many men, and we lay side by side, that I felt it most acutely.

It was more difficult when we could hear Pete and Striker in their amorous glory, and worse yet when we had to fend off their rolling about in the throes of passion.

Since the Cayman island, Gaston had not seemed prone to discuss the subject of our intimacy. When I was sure he was asleep, I would ease myself and feel guilty for it afterwards: a thing I put much thought in after our discussion of sin. I had initially wondered why I felt guilt, if I was so sure masturbation was not a sin. Then I realized I felt guilt because I was sinning against myself: I was not ashamed of what I was doing, but I was allowing myself to think I should be. It troubled me. I was doing something wrong to no other person than myself. This would not be the first time.