Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (54 page)

Pierrot cared for him as best he could, but it as obvious he didn’t trust him either. When it was over, Gaston was sullen and did not speak to anyone for weeks.”

The tears welled anew. I had avoided them so far. I felt guilt.

Somewhere deep inside, a rage began to grow.

“Will, you’ve assumed a commendable burden. You may be the only thing that separates that man from death, and you may even save him somehow. If you had not been with him, we never would have taken him on. He fights like ten men and he’s smart, but many feel he’s not worth the trouble if he can’t be controlled. Bradley does not know what transpired as of yet, but Cleghorn will probably talk.”

“So what are you saying? We should go elsewhere once we reach Port Royal?”

“I’m saying Bradley may request it. I want you to know that I will not. Hell, it’s a bit premature, but with the money from this prize, we may buy our own ship. You would both be welcome there.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He clapped my shoulder as Pete had done, and stood. He paused and stared at Gaston.

“He’s still out. You must have hit him pretty hard. I’ve never had to hit Pete. There have been times I’ve wanted to kill him, but I’ve never had to hit him.”

I looked up at his blurry form, and managed not to laugh hysterically. I did not speak of the pistol in my belly or Shane’s words coming out of his mouth or the hate in his eyes or the knife.

“I hope I will never have to do so again. For now, I will care for him as best I can,” I said. I was not sure who I was telling this to.

Striker left. The remaining floor had crumbled and I was wading about in the offal. The wine had deadened the pain. It all seemed very far away.

I was not alone anymore. Alonso sat where Striker had. He watched with a sad shake of his head as I opened another bottle.

“What will you do? Drink yourself to oblivion?” he asked.

“Si, that is my intent. It calls and I must answer, because it is the only safe place.”

“You have fallen in love with a madman. What are you trying to do?

Make reparation for Joseph? Atone for your sins? Do you intend to bear him as a cross? Or is he a mirror you cannot turn away from?”

“He is my matelot. He was wounded and he still ails from it. I will care for him. I think he loves me more than you did.”

Alonso was gone, and Shane was sneering at me. “Is that why he said those things? You like lies, Will. You like believing that people love you. No one does. No one ever has. You can’t make them by being born their child or by fucking them or giving them money or teaching them to read or by marrying them.” He snorted derisively. “Why lie, Will? You don’t want love, not unless it comes hard and long and sprays you with jism. He said it; you’re a damn sodomite who just wants to fuck. That’s all you live for, and you’ll do anything for that. You’ll let anyone do anything to you for it. You did with me. You begged me for it. No matter what I did, you kept hoping I would change. You kept hoping I would love you. You even prayed. Not that God would ever answer you; you sold your soul to the devil of lust.”

The wine bottle shattered on the wall behind him, and he vanished.

I was in over my head and drowning. I staggered to the bunk and threw myself down next to Gaston. I wept.

I dreamed. The world was rolling and shaking. The furies howled and pounded at the door. Gaston was very angry at me. He kept yelling my name over and over again, yet I could barely hear him. He was standing over me with a knife. I told him I was sorry. I had stayed with him. I would stay with him even if he never loved me, because maybe I could save him and maybe that would make me a better person. He was not listening. I found myself chained to all of my weapons. I was in Hell and I was burdened with them forever, as they were the instruments of my sin. And I was chained to Gaston, as he was the other source of my sin. We staggered through a maelstrom filled with fear. Souls were sucked away into it. Pete and Striker struggled to raise a giant phallus off of a boat. The maelstrom helped them. Many people crawled into the boat. I did not, because I was chained to Gaston and Pete and Striker.

We held onto the giant phallus. The ship disappeared, and there was only the phallus and we four lost souls and the instruments of our sin.

Then all was quiet, and I was on the river Styx. A shroud covered me, and my fingers dangled in the gently lapping water. I could hear rowing.

I woke to more of the same. I had to relieve myself. I thought that odd if I was dead. My head hurt. I also did not imagine there should be so much pain in death; and then I remembered I was going to Hell, so there probably was. Every day in Hell, you most certainly felt as if you had been drinking for days.

I carefully opened my eyes. I was on my side, wrapped around something hard, as if I hugged it. I was close to the water; my fingers and knees trailed in it. It was hot. I was covered by something that, when I slowly focused on it, appeared to be sailcloth. I sat up and held very still until the light stopped stabbing my eyes. When I was able, I looked about. I had to pull the piece of sail off to do so.

I was sitting on what must have been a mast. So were Gaston, Striker and Pete. They were similarly covered with sailcloth, presumably to keep off the sun. We were in open ocean, yet ahead there was land.

They were all rowing with the butts of their muskets. The mast beneath me was festooned with bags holding our belongings and weapons.

I finally understood.

“Bloody Hell, it wasn’t a dream!” I howled.

“Thanks for joining us, Will,” Striker said wryly.

“Now Fuckin’ Row!”

Gaston did not turn to regard me. He kept rowing toward shore.

I was in Hell and the Gods had led me here.

Wherein We Are Shipwrecked

Since my matelot was not speaking and Striker was uncharacteristically quiet, Pete informed me of the events that had transpired. We had set sail southward toward Campeche, shortly after Pete and I deposited Gaston in the Captain’s cabin. Half the gold had been transferred to the North Wind along with Cleghorn and the wounded. Bradley had stayed on board to question the prisoners. That night, as the weather was getting worse and we neared the Campeche peninsula, we anchored; and Bradley returned to the North Wind.

Thirty men had been left to guard the prisoners and sail the galleon, in addition to Pete, Striker, Gaston and myself.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the true storm hit and we lost sight of the sloop. We had to weigh anchor and attempt to ride it out. The thought of the giant galleon as a windblown piece of flotsam in the pitch black of a night storm clenched my gut. I was happy I had been drunk. One glance over my shoulder at Striker’s strained face told me he wished he had been drunk too.

Due to the storm, we were blown out of the Gulf and toward Cuba, until the galleon began to break up and take on water. Then we were on the mast and at the mercy of the waves. Thankfully, the current was somewhat with us, and taking us up and north and closer to shore.

However, the shore in question was Cuba, and we were getting ever closer to Havana. We needed to make land before we were sighted, hopefully well to the west of the city. As the island was heavily occupied, we would be in grave danger from the inhabitants; but we could find victuals and steal a boat to return home. Thus we rowed toward the land spreading across the horizon.

“What about the others?” I asked.

“Don’tKnow. They Got The Longboats. One Was Bust From The Mast.”

I remembered lightning-lit glimpses from what I had thought was a dream, involving Pete and Striker and other men struggling to lift the mast from the longboat. I also remembered people being swept overboard. I did not ask about the prisoners. It could now be assumed that everyone who had left Vera Cruz aboard the Saint Lucia was dead.

The entirety of our situation slowly revealed itself to me as I paddled.

We could not be sure if the North Wind had survived the storm. We might be the only men who sailed from Port Royal to make it home; that was, if we did not get captured by the Spanish or have some other evil befall us.

I was only alive because of Gaston. He had saved my life. I did not know how he had gotten free. I remembered another image: this one of him standing over me with a knife. I knew he had been very angry. I did not know what his humor was now. I was torn between knowing we had much to say to one another and not knowing if I wished to speak to him at all. I decided not to speak of anything while we were on the mast: in part because I wanted to see his face when we discussed it, as I was afraid his gaze would hold the same hatred, and I knew I would picture that expression when he spoke unless my eyes could behold otherwise. I also did not wish to discuss the matter in front of our companions, even in French.

We were very close to Cuba now; and I regarded the rugged coastline with hope, as I did not see any signs of habitation, which meant it was possible no one saw us coming ashore. There would be little we could do to defend ourselves if they did. Gaston had collected all of our weapons and bags and attached them to me. Pete and Striker had done likewise with their gear, though thankfully they had not attached it to me. So we had our muskets and pistols and swords, but we didn’t have an ounce of dry powder among us.

With much relief, we rode the mast through the surf and onto shore. When we disembarked, I discovered there was still a rope about my waist tied to Gaston. It was symbolic for me; and I was loathe to untie it, as I felt the connection very tenuous between us, and I did not wish to do anything to further sever it – any more than I wished to draw him closer. He would not meet my eyes or even gaze upon me, and he regarded the rope around him with some annoyance once he was minded of it. Yet he did not immediately untie it, either.

“Thank you for saving my life,” I said in French as we stood in the surf and watched Pete and Striker haul their gear ashore and into the shade.

“It may not have been a favor. You could have died in your sleep without a whimper.” He pulled the knot free and left me there.

I struggled to shore with the rest of the gear, my head pounding and my heart aching. I dropped the bags next to Gaston and Striker, who were already assessing damage to the muskets. Then I rid myself of the rest of the rope, both from around my waist and what had been used to attach me to the bags. Striker was still sullen and not speaking.

Pete stood a little ways away, and studied the hill above us and the shoreline. I joined him. We looked at each other, and of one accord walked farther down the beach.

“Mine Is Pissed The Ship Sank,” Pete said when we were out of earshot.

I sighed. “Mine is pissed I was drunk, or possibly because I hit him.

In all truth I do not know. He is simply angry.”

Pete snorted derisively. “No Time For It. We Need Water An’ Food.” He stomped back to our matelots and drew on his baldric. “We’llScout.”

I slung my baldric and checked my blades quickly.

“I will go,” Gaston said.

“Nay!” Pete said. “You Two Stay Here An Pout.”

Though I had said nothing, Pete’s words earned both of us livid glares.

Striker came to his feet. “You arse! I’m not pouting! I’m despondent!

You would be, too, if you had any God-damned sense. We’ve lost everything! No ship. No gold. Everyone we know is dead. We’re on Spanish soil. What am I supposed to do, leap about for joy?”

Pete’s glare was level and steady, and a thing to be reckoned with only by the strong of heart. “We Be Alive. You,” he pointed one imperious finger at Striker, “Never Know What’sImportant.” He turned and headed uphill, and I followed.

“An He Says I Have No Sense,” he muttered.

We were halfway up the hill when Gaston caught us.

“Don’tYa Be Leavin’ Him Alone,” Pete growled.

Gaston stood his ground with arms crossed. “Do you know where to look for water?”

Pete thought about that for a moment, and sighed while studying the distant trees. “Nay.”

“Then he can stay with Striker,” Gaston said. He did not regard me as he said this, so I decided to stop watching him.

I looked to Pete, who shrugged. “Aye. Can Ya Keep An Eye On Striker?”

“If he does not leap around too much, I am sure I can manage.”

Pete chuckled, and I went back down the hill. Striker was standing in the surf, staring out to sea. I have never truly commanded anything, which is to say, I have never been responsible for the lives of others in the fashion of an officer or a captain; and therefore I could only understand a little of what he must be experiencing. However, I have witnessed the effects of loss on men who commanded, and the guilt and grief can take a shocking toll upon the weak. I did not think Striker weak.

I joined him. “For what it is worth, I would sail with you again.”

He was still for a long moment, and then he shook; and I was not sure of the emotion giving rise to the tremor, until it burst forth from him in a hearty chuckle. When it passed, he sank to the ground where he had stood, so that the waves washed across his stomach. I dropped beside him.

“Christ, Will,” he sighed. “I know there was nothing I could do. But now, all of those people are dead, and for what? There’s no gold.”

I frowned at him. “Are you saying the gold would have given their deaths meaning?”

“Aye, for me. If a man dies because of a goal, then his death had meaning.”

“Many would think that; but most would think a worthy goal to be something other than gold, like defending God, king, or country, or maybe even family.”

Striker shrugged. “Bradley keeps saying any damage we do against the Spaniards is justified because we’re at war with them; but it’s all about the gold, Will. That’s why we’re at war.”

I smiled as I saw his meaning. “I would say it is all about power, but one grants the other, does it not? Those with power have gold, and those with gold have power. The Spaniards had the gold, so they possessed the power to say all the gold in the New World was theirs. But every time we take a ship, we prove them wrong and deny them their power and their gold.” I thought on it for a moment. “You could view it thusly, that their deaths had meaning because they denied the Spaniards gold.”