Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (52 page)

“Not even then.”

It was awkward. We were so very close, yet so very far apart.

“Then you will not be disappointed when I do this,” I said and kissed him firmly on the lips.

He smiled. “Non.”

I wanted very much to do it again, as like sunsets, it was a thing to be savored before one giving one’s life into the hands of the Fates. He led me to the rail before I could.

Striker had joined Bradley in going amongst the men, and ordering them into squads of between six and eight with one man as leader.

All of these groups were composed of several boarders and a couple of musketeers to cover them. After an initial area had been secured, we would start bringing the musketeers aboard. The only ones who would hold back and not board were the few men the Bard needed. Even Michaels and Cleghorn were assigned to squads. Bradley, Cudro and Siegfried all led boarding parties.

By this time, we were running close to the wind at the galleon’s stern. It was almost amusing. We were near enough for me to read her name, the Santa Lucia, before even one of her gun ports opened.

A second followed shortly; but in all, it appeared that either they were lying in wait or they truly were not expecting us. The galleon tried to turn to give her guns better angle, but the Bard and the North Wind were too swift for her. Our master of sail kept us on a line with the starboard point of her stern, so that no matter which way she turned, we were still at a bad angle for her guns. Not that it seemed to matter in the end: as by the time she finally fired, we were already furling our sheets to slow down. She did not get a second set of shots off, as we were under her by then.

Our musketeers were in range by this time; and after the first volley, every Spaniard who had run to the poop rail to see us was dead or dying. We did not see any man exposed on the rear of the vessel after that. A moment later, we were under the huge, ornate tower of her stern; and I was eyeing angels carved above us, complete with wings and pipes.

We came in so fast that the men in the port bow had to use grapples on the galleon to bring us to a lurching stop. Ropes snapped taut as metal tore through carven cupids. Then another set of men threw more grapples ahead. The musketeers protected these, even as the North Wind shuddered and skewed to larboard under the Santa Lucia’s stern. This was planned, as it allowed the men who would wedge her rudder to work. We grappled her stern again from amidship and allowed our sloop to be dragged along at an angle by the galleon, which had to be ten times our weight. Thankfully this was only a temporary measure, as the North Wind was complaining loudly with creaks and moans.

While the rudder was wedged, we six threw another set of grapples aloft: three ropes, two men apiece. My hands were sweaty as I grasped the knotted rope and followed Gaston up the escarpment of the heavenly host. My blood pounded in my ears; and calm descended over me, as it always did when my life was in danger.

Below us, they released the poor sloop from her unnatural bonds, and she straightened at the galleon’s starboard flank. She was no longer below us. We clung for our lives over the sea. Soon, I hoped, I would hear grenadoes erupting somewhere ahead.

The Spanish gunners had dropped the gun ports when they knew we would board and there was nothing left that their cannon could do. The first men of our squad to reach them wedged them closed.

Steady volleys from Liam, Otter, and Bradley’s squad on the North Wind’s quarterdeck kept the defenders from dislodging our grapples or throwing things on us from above. However, the gallery and captain’s cabin windows were our own concern.

Gaston threw himself sideways and pressed into the woodwork, as a shot narrowly missed his head. Being immediately below him, I could see his attacker. Holding on with one hand, I fired and caught the man in the shoulder. Gaston fired left-handed a second later, and wounded another man I could not see but could only hear as he howled in pain. As the window was open, Gaston motioned me up. I flung the empty pistol into the opening above and climbed until I was next to him. I could now peer into the room, and I narrowly missed getting shot myself.

“Can you hold there and fire?” Gaston asked.

I took his meaning and nodded resolutely. I grasped the window frame with one hand and a pistol with the other and shifted my weight to my feet, which were braced precariously on angel heads. Once in position, I popped up and fired at the first thing I saw: a man who was preparing to fire toward the port side, where Pete was hanging in a position similar to Gaston. I hit. I threw that piece into the room and pulled my third pistol from my belt.

Gaston and Pete waited no longer, and scrambled through their respective windows. I popped up again as they rolled across the floor.

I shot another man in the doorway. Striker was right behind Pete, and I clambered in after Gaston. A whole herd of Spaniards tried to enter the room while I was getting off the floor, and Gaston and Pete emptied every pistol they had. I threw Gaston my last loaded one, and started frantically reloading the ones strewn about the floor. Davey and Julio joined us a minute later, and the room was cleared. We did not have time to be amazed that we had a foothold on the galleon. To my relief, I heard the explosions of grenadoes and a great deal of screaming.

Reloaded, and each with a cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other, we began to work our way forward. We shot anyone with a firearm, hacked anyone with a blade, and bludgeoned anyone unarmed, until we reached the door to the main deck. We had passed under the quarterdeck and the captain’s cabin, and those would have to be dealt with next; but so far we had cleaned out the officers’ and wealthy passengers’ cabins and anyone pouring into the companionway from the gun deck below. As of yet, we were not sure if any other buccaneers were aboard. Needless to say, we viewed the door to the deck with a good deal of trepidation; but the steady explosions and the screaming were reassuring.

Pete threw the door open; and to our relief, we were not facing a mortar with grapeshot. Instead, we looked into one of Dante’s rings of Hell. Parts of the deck were missing; and howling people, soldiers and civilians alike, ran to and fro, tripping one another and stumbling upon those on the ground. As we watched, another grenadoe landed and exploded, blowing more wood and bodies about. There was a pile of dead and wounded by the starboard rail, due presumably to our musketeers below. An officer stood amidst it all, shouting at whoever would listen.

“Watch above,” Striker ordered and dove out onto the deck, rolling as he did to cover the quarterdeck above us. He had a target and fired almost immediately, as two rounds of shot narrowly missed him. The rest of us poured out and turned to fire, catching several of the ship’s officers as they reached for their next weapons. A short fight ensued with the commanders; and when it was done, we had the quarterdeck and captain’s cabin, and Striker was signaling the North Wind to send more men up.

Within the next five minutes, the Spaniards realized the grenadoes had stopped, and they became a bit more organized. Within ten minutes, we had lost three men and had six more wounded. Shortly after, the decks were awash with blood, and we had at least two hundred prisoners herded together on their knees in the waist of the ship. Down below, they unwedged the rudder; and Striker and the Bard steered the two ships in tandem out of the line and away from any pursuers.

We had captured a galleon.

At some point, I had beheaded a man with a cutlass; and in the immediate aftermath, I kept hearing his head hit the planks. I knew it would pass. Many years ago, I caught my sword on a brass jacket button as I ran a man through. The grating steel had sounded as if his very flesh had screamed. That sound had stayed with me for a while, but now I could not remember it exactly. The wet thumping sound would pass, too.

The main deck was a ruin; and as I watched, two men fell through a hole. Cleghorn and Michaels had commandeered the poop deck above us to care for our wounded. A pair of our men were checking the Spanish dead for valuables and then heaving them overboard. One of the Bard’s men was at the whip staff. All seemed to be falling into some sort of order; and as we had done much, I did not feel the need to do more at the moment.

Gaston was sitting next to me on the quarterdeck, clenching and unclenching his right hand. I frowned at this, until I remembered about the numbness that sometimes afflicted it. I pulled the hand into my lap and massaged it.

The wounded captain lay a few feet away, watching us. He was at the center of a spreading pool of blood, and I could see his vital organs through a long rent in his side. I vaguely remembered being responsible for it when we rushed the quarterdeck.

His mouth worked in silence a few times; and then he gasped, “You English dogs are all insane,” in Castilian.

“I am not English,” Gaston replied in Castilian.

The dying man turned his eyes skyward and prayed, “I am sorry, God. I have only endeavored to serve you. Why have you turned from me? Please forgive me for my sins.” It was very personal, and did not have the sound or pattern of traditional Catholic prayers.

As he whispered his life away, another of the Spanish wounded, a junior officer, rolled over and crawled toward him. This man was also in his last breaths, but he reached his captain and attempted to cradle him in his arms. The captain died. The young man looked at us with haunted eyes. All seemed quiet and still in our little corner of chaos.

“You never attack the galleons,” the junior officer said, as if it would somehow refute the obvious. “He was a great man.”

“For what?” I was compelled to ask. “For letting his ship get taken and his men slaughtered by a pack of English dogs?”

The young man recoiled in horror. “He was a man of honor. He was very religious, he had a wife and family, he had been a captain for many years.”

“And this makes him a great man?” I asked.

A shot rang out, and the boy crumpled across the body of what I supposed was his mentor. I looked at the pistol in Gaston’s hand.

“Let him die with his illusions,” Gaston said softly.

I shrugged. “It has been said I would argue with the devil.”

“Will, you would argue with God,” he whispered.

There was no trace of humor about him, and I studied his profile in silence. He was very distant from me. Rigging popped overhead in the ever-stiffening wind, and he flinched. He gently drew his hand away, and pulled his knees up to wrap his arms around them. He was still staring at the two dead men in front of us. I was not sure whether I should leave him in peace, as I was not sure he was feeling peace. I was also not sure what I could do or say.

Davey joined us. He appeared exhausted and shaken. I looked around, and did not immediately see Julio.

“What is wrong?” I asked. “Where is Julio?”

He pointed aimlessly toward the ship’s waist. “He’s helping with the prisoners.”

“Ah, and you? How are you feeling? You did very well.”

“I suppose. I’ve been in battles before, in the Navy. And then the other ship. But it was nothing like this. I realized Julio needed me, and I could not deny him, or Pete, or all of you.”

It reminded me of something Plato said. I did not remember the exact words, so I delivered my own thoughts on the matter as best I could. “If we fight alongside men we love, we do not fight for our lives or gold or glory or kings, but for each other. Death is less painful than watching a loved one die; and no fear is as great as being alone after the battle. And no man would appear as a coward in his lover’s eyes.”

“Is that why you fight so well?” Davey asked.

It was a compliment, and it surprised me. “In general or today?”

He shrugged.

“For most of my life, when I have entered into battle, it has been for lesser reasons, the most prevalent of which would be preserving my own life. Today,” I glanced at Gaston, who was still very removed from us, and I thought of my actions and motivations and my pretty words of a minute ago. “I truly did fight for the men around me.”

“So not for the gold?”

“Davey, if this ship is carrying barrels of rat dung I would still have fought as I did, for the challenge and because the men I care about wanted to come here. I truly do not do much for money.”

“So you won’t be needing a hundred extra then?” Bradley asked. He and Striker joined us on the quarterdeck.

“I would not say that. What would I be entitled to an extra share for?”“Courage in boarding the ship. I intend to present it to vote when we share the booty. All six of you deserve a reward. Without you, we wouldn’t be standing here now. You did fine. Both of you.” He frowned at Gaston, who was still looking at the dead.

“He is a little withdrawn at the moment,” I said quickly with a shrug.

I did not wish Bradley angered at us, as his countenance in regards to me at the moment was once again as open and inviting as the day I met him. And, apparently, all I had to do to return to his good graces was prove I was a fool. “We thank you for your praise. So gentlemen, what will be sharing out?”

“Well, she’s laden with cargo from the Orient. A great deal of silk, spices, and ivory,” Striker said with an amicable shrug. “The whole lower deck is filled, along with the hold. She only has half her cannon, and we found barrels of spice in the magazine.”

“Ah, so she is not full of gold then,” I sighed.

Bradley and Striker looked at each other and shrugged.

“She’s not full of gold, Will,” Bradley said with a grin, “because if she was she’d sink.” They started laughing.

“Gold’s heavy,” Striker added and tossed me a coin.

I caught the doubloon and smiled at their jest. “How much?”

“Two whole chests of it,” Striker said. “The only organized buggers on the whole ship were guarding it. Cudro lost a man taking the hold.”

Cudro and a couple others were standing behind them, looking pleased with themselves.

“All doubloons or pieces of eight?” I asked.

“Doubloons,” Bradley and Striker said in unison.

“I think maybe a hundred or more coin per share, doubloons,”