Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (53 page)

Striker said.

“My God,” I said as I made the calculations. “That would be what, four hundred pounds?”

“There are gems, too,” Bradley added.

“We’re rich,” Davey said.

The men who had overheard were dancing around in circles and cheering. The Bard forced his way through them and joined us.

“What’s everyone so damn happy about?” he snapped.

We all rewarded him with a questioning look, and Bradley tossed him a doubloon and said, “Over four hundred pounds apiece, you cantankerous bastard.”

The Bard’s anger fell away, and he whistled appreciatively as he examined the coin. Then he sighed, and the frown returned. “Well, we’re going to be wealthy dead men, if we’re not careful.”

“The rest of the Flota has sailed on, and the other rovers will be lining up to cheer us, I imagine,” Bradley said. “What are you worried about?”

“Where should I start?” he drawled. “That storm blowing in from the West, which is odd. The wind is restless and changing. The North Wind is seeping due to the strain she took. And this galleon is a piece of shit. The Spanish have no damn business sailing anything, let alone this vessel. She’s badly designed, old, at least fifty years if she’s a day, heavily laden, and I do not know what they were doing over the winter but maintaining this ship they were not. She’s seeping.” He looked at Striker. “I don’t envy you having to sail her anywhere.”

These revelations had sobered Striker and Bradley immensely. “Can we make Jamaica, or should we careen along Campeche?”

The Bard shrugged. “We can’t careen a ship this large. So that is out. I don’t think we’ll see a blow like a hurricane: it’s too early in the year. But even a small storm will not be pleasant. I’m sure the sloop can make it to port. This one, too, if she’s lucky. We will not want to tackle the Strait until after the storm passes, though. I say we head south and get into the Bay of Campeche.”

“Then let us do so,” Bradley said.

“I would suggest one other thing,” the Bard said. “Split the gold between the ships… in case…”

“Let’s move it all,” Striker said. “The sloop has a better chance.”

“Nay, let’s split it,” Bradley said. “My real concern is where we can stop to share out the gold before sailing into port. I don’t fancy the crown taking their share. They can have their ten of the cargo in the hold and the prize herself.”

“Caymans,” Striker suggested.

Bradley agreed to that with a nod.

“What will we do with the prisoners?” Cudro asked.

“I have questions for them,” Bradley said. “Morgan asked that any prisoners be questioned as to what they know of the Spanish intent toward Jamaica. We will put any that are left alive ashore, as the opportunity presents itself. Any that cause trouble can be thrown overboard.”

With that, he and the others left the vicinity. Striker paused before following.

“Is he…?” he asked, and gestured toward Gaston with a nod of this head. I looked: my matelot had not moved. I was not sure if he had blinked. I shrugged helplessly.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Striker said and left us.

I understood his meaning. Gaston flinched when I touched his shoulder, but he did not turn to look at me. As I knew not what to do concerning him, I stood and prowled around the quarterdeck, checking bodies to insure that they were indeed dead and not wounded. Once satisfied in that regard, I leaned on the rail to observe the activity on the main deck.

The corpse detail were still stripping bodies and throwing them overboard. Behind me on the poop deck, one of our men wailed in pain as Cleghorn and Michaels worked on him. I considered asking if the surgeon needed any assistance, but thought better of it. He already had Michaels with him.

Four buccaneers were dead, and I recognized two of the names. We were now at fifty-one, with at least six wounded. We must have killed over a hundred Spaniards and wounded more, and it was unknown whether the rest would survive to return to their homes. Part of me was appalled. It was a small part; and in actuality I felt guilt at this, that it was so small.

I have harbored no regret over many of the men I have killed. I have been involved in numerous conflicts wherein I have colluded with other men to rob or murder for a variety of reasons. I have brought battle to an enemy and I have defended from the same. I cannot say I have always been the one making the decisions or choosing the tactics, yet I have only engaged in these activities with sufficiently small numbers of comrades so that I always exercised some control over my destiny. And I have always maintained the option of walking away if I disagreed with the choices being made. Yet now here I was, involved in an army of sorts under the guise of adventuring. The only thing making the situation palatable was that I did feel I had a say in the matters at hand, and I still felt I could walk away if it suited me.

The corpse detail dropped a body on the way to the rail, and I was reminded of the sound the man’s head had made again. It was always the little things that haunted one. I could see his face clearly, and I did not want to. I felt guilt and sighed. I could not speak for others, but I had sinned here today. I had not transgressed against God, or myself, or nature, but against my fellow man. What right did I have to kill a man who was trying to defend himself from my attack? What justification did I have for that attack? My mind wandered farther: was my largesse toward my fellow man truly an attempt to atone for all my sins? I remembered having these discussions with myself on occasion over the years. It had never resulted in my changing my ways.

I looked about, to shake off the feeling of malaise settling over me; and discovered I had larger and more immediate problems. Gaston had dragged the bodies of the captain and the young officer back to the stairs leading up to the poop deck, and was proceeding to arrange them in some fashion. I joined him as he was finishing his composition.

He had draped the captain across the lap of the officer. There was something familiar in the pose. It took me a minute to recognize it.

“The Pieta?” I asked.

He stopped in the process of getting the officer’s head to loll just so, and turned to look up at me with the wide eyes of a child who has been caught doing something wrong.

“You see?” he whispered desperately.

I recognized this aspect of my matelot now, and I wondered if the horse had bolted or if he had just dropped the reins. My bowels constricted with fear nonetheless.

“Oui. I do not understand, why the officer as the Virgin Mary and the captain as Jesus?”

“He,” Gaston indicated the officer, “offered him up to God; and the other one was the martyr to prophecy.”

I was wondering how I should deal with him, and too occupied to puzzle together what he was seeing metaphorically. I knew I had to keep him calm and talking, and I was afraid that any indication that I did not understand might anger him. However, I could not think of anything intelligent to say. Instead I knelt with him in front of the bodies. It was so very macabre, yet he was filled with wonder. He seemed happy to have me beside him gazing upon them. He took my hand.

“What in the name of God are you doing?” Cleghorn howled from the deck above us. For a moment, I wondered why it was acceptable to strip the bodies of gold and throw them overboard, but it was not acceptable to arrange them like a famous sculpture and stare at them reverently.

Then I saw Gaston pulling a pistol. There was terror in his eyes. I leapt upon him.

“Gaston, look at me. Look at me.” I had him on his back and I sat astride his thighs with our faces close together.

His eyes met mine, and hardened from childlike innocence to danger.

“I am not going away,” he snarled. As of yet he was not fighting me, but I was not sure how long I had.

“Non. You are not going anywhere. You are staying with me. I will not leave you.”

He softened and asked. “You promise?”

“I promise. Now put the pistol away.”

He looked between us at the pistol pointed at my belly and fear suffused his face again.

“I did not mean to.”

“I know. I know. I am not angry with you. Are you angry with me?”

He shook his head and set the pistol beside us. Distantly I heard Cleghorn swearing. I did not need his interference, and I did not want to divert my attention from Gaston. I glanced about and saw the door to the captain’s cabin mere feet away.

“Let us go in the cabin there? It will be quiet, and we can talk.”

“Will, should I get a priest?” Michaels asked. “I think there’s one left alive. Your matelot looks possessed.”

I was stunned for a moment. Here I had thought he was a reasonable fellow. Gaston had seen the look on my face, and his eyes slowly narrowed. I felt as a mouse must while waiting for the cat to finally pounce.

“Nay, nay,” Cleghorn said. “Go get Striker and Pete. Hurry now!”

“Non!” Gaston hissed and I felt every muscle beneath me go taut.

I threw myself flat atop him to whisper in his ear. “Gaston, listen to me. Everything will be fine. I will not leave you. I will not let anyone hurt you. You are just not yourself at the moment. You know that. I know you know that. Please.”

I felt him move, and Cleghorn yelled, “Will, he’s got a knife.” I knew which side; and I shifted to pin his left arm. This was all Gaston needed to throw me off of him and roll to his feet. His eyes were dark with hate and a dangerous thing to behold. He still had the knife in his left and he was focused on me. He did not see Pete, who grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. I dove in and wrested the blade from his hand.

Gaston was snarling at me in French, “You bastard. I know what you want. I know what you all want. You are only friends with me because you want to fuck me.”

I recoiled in shock. If he had suddenly reached into my chest with a great clawed hand and torn my heart out, he could not have hurt me more. He saw it in my eyes and knew himself to have the advantage.

“It’s true, isn’t it? You’re just like the rest, a damn sodomite who just wants to fuck. You cannot go a single night without begging for it.”

I had heard it all before in another language.

I hit him. I hit him so hard his head turned sideways, and Pete was pushed back by the force of it. Gaston slumped in Pete’s arms.

“Get His Feet!”

I did as Pete instructed. Cleghorn had the captain’s cabin door opened. We hauled Gaston inside and dumped him on the bunk. Pete handed me a coil of rope. “You Need Help?”

“I can do it.”

“Get His Weapons Too.”

I nodded. Pete was still standing there. I did not want to look at him. I did not want to see anyone, because that meant that they knew, somehow. It was very important to me that no one had heard what he said. I did not want anyone to know, because they would never forgive him. I remembered that Pete did not speak French. He was safe.

I looked at Pete and nodded again. “I know what to do.”

There was compassion in Pete’s eyes. “It’sHard. He’sMad.

Not Your Fault.”

I was close to weeping. I concentrated. “I know. Thank you. Could you leave us alone?”

“Aye. I’llSee To Your Things On The Sloop. We’reStaying Here.”

I nodded my understanding. “Thank you again for your help.”

He clapped my shoulder in a reassuring fashion, and left. I was alone in a room full of demons. Most were in my head. As much as I wished to stand there and will myself into oblivion, the one on the bed and the world around me took precedence.

I stripped his weapons off, and bound him hand and foot. I was careful to coil the rope so that it didn’t cut into his scarred wrists if he should wake and struggle. I checked his jaw: a bruise was already evident, but my blow had not split his lip or damaged his teeth. At least I had aimed well. My knuckles hurt.

While I was at this, Pete brought in all of our equipment and bags from the sloop, as well as the weapons we had left on the quarterdeck.

He set them by the door. He suggested I search the room if I needed something to do. I thought this a fine idea.

In my mind I stood in an imaginary small room, and in the center was a vast cesspit and Gaston had kicked the lid off. If I concentrated on doing something, I could walk about the edges and not fall in.

Unfortunately, the edges were crumbling; and the less I moved and the more I thought, the closer to swimming in the refuse of my past I became.

In the sea chest at the foot of the bunk, I found four bottles of wine.

I consumed half of one before I finished searching. I found the man’s journal and a small box of coin. I found several books and a Bible. His clothing was unremarkable. I had already seen his weaponry.

There was nothing left to do. I sat at the table and stared out the window. I finished the bottle. I went to the window. We were under way.

I was high above the water. The gallery through which we had entered the ship was below me. I watched the waves and the shark fins. I did not want to see what they fed upon, any more than I wished to hear the screaming that occasionally came from the main deck or know of the man on the captain’s bunk or feel the memories starting to emerge from the pit in my head. I watched the waves and opened the second bottle.

When Striker entered, I was quite drunk. I handed him the coin and the journal, and then hugged the remaining bottles of wine.

“I realize these are part of the booty and I should relinquish them to be shared but… I intend to drink them, so maim me if you must.”

Striker pulled the one I was drinking away from me, and finished it in a long swallow. “You can have the rest. I don’t need anyone else addled. We’re sailing into a storm on a leaky ship.”

“I am sorry we are so much trouble,” I said because it seemed the proper thing to say.

He smiled sadly. “Two years ago, we sailed with Mansfield’s fleet.

Pierrot and another French ship joined us. We raided the Main along the coast near Campeche. We met Gaston then. In Granada, he went mad, and it took three men to put him on the ground, and he cut one of his own crewmates. Pierrot was the only thing that kept the rest of the crew from killing him. They trussed him up and dumped him in a shed. He alternately cursed or pleaded with someone to let him out for two days.