Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (55 page)

Striker chuckled. “I could view it thus, but it would only be a temporary bandage of a deep wound requiring stitching.”

“Most justifications are.” I shrugged.

“Soldiers care not for all of that,” he said. “A soldier only wants the gold so he has enough power over his own life to avoid fighting for others. The nobles can fight for God and king. They rarely have to die for it.” He paused and recited from memory, “All men want gold, men with gold want power, and the powerful want everything.”

“Who said that?”

“My uncle, the pirate I learned everything from,” he said ruefully.

I smiled. “He sounds like a wise man.”

“He’s dead and gone, before I left England. He died of the ague. If we had still had him as captain, we would not have been captured; but his first officer who replaced him was a foolhardy numbskull, and I was young and stupid and cheering him on. We were rash and we paid for it.

Didn’t get any gold out of that, either, and very few of us lived to tell the tale.”

“So you view those as wasted lives as well?”

“Aye.”

“Tell me, do you only think about our men, or do you count the dead Spanish as well?”

He frowned and regarded me with puzzlement. “Do you count the Spaniards?”

“Sometimes I think I do. The men aboard that ship did not set Spanish policy or benefit all that much from Spanish gold. They were just sheep torn asunder in a war between wolves. As all sheep are, I guess. Sometimes I can ignore such things, and at others it does not sit well with me. I realize I am engaging in foolish notions for a pirate.” I also realized I had not explained my sheep metaphor to him and probably appeared quite the fool. To my surprise, he grasped my meaning immediately.

“Aye. You cannot feel sorrow over sheep, Will. They’re sheep. We wolves have to eat.”

“Do you see the world in terms of predators and their natural prey?”

I asked.

“Aye, the strong and the weak.”

“Was your uncle a wolf?”

Striker chuckled. “Will, I come from a long line of wolves. We’ve always roved the seas.”

The thought of dynasties of self-made wolves intrigued me. I needed to discuss this with Gaston; and then I remembered we were not talking. I lost all interest in the topic, as it seemed so incredibly foolish and trivial in relation to the issues of my life.

“What really makes me angry,” Striker was saying, “is that I don’t even know where we went down. If I did, we could try and salvage her.

And you’re correct about gold granting power. Every time I sail a prize into port I think…” He trailed off.

“That you wish to have the command all the time?” I hazarded.

He nodded. “Aye, and then something like this happens. It is as if God is smiting me for my delusions of grandeur.”

I laughed. “Ah, Striker, if we are at war with the Gods, we may never get home.”

Melancholy gripped me. I only knew one man who would readily understand my jest. I felt a sense of loss that far outweighed my fear that he would snarl vicious obscenities at me again. It was quite obvious, even to someone as blinded as I often am by my own desires, that we could not be together in the way I had hoped. Yet I still wanted him as a friend.

My change of mood must have been quite evident, as Striker was regarding me with curiosity. And then he confused me with his question.

“Where is home, Will?” It did not seem to be rhetoric. I realized it was quite profound.

“I do not know,” I said. “When I traveled before, I always thought home was England: specifically my father’s estate and the house I was raised in. But that place never engendered any of the feelings philosophers and poets assign with the name. Neither has any other place I have slept.”

Striker was chuckling ruefully. “My home is with Pete. He’s correct, I’m such an arse.”

“Home is where the matelot is, eh?” I smiled. I thought of the last two months with Gaston, and my smile widened. “Well, if we are at war with our matelots, we shall never get home.”

He laughed. “’Tis true, ’tis true.”

“Do you think there might be shellfish or such in this water? Or do we have a means of catching fish?”

“Aye,” he said and stood. “I have hooks and line. We can try.” He regarded the distant waves for a moment. “My stomach tells me it cares not for gold or power or ships, or even matelots unless they bring food.”

“Mine speaks thusly all the time.”

An hour later, we had caught one fish and had high hopes of catching more; we had powder drying upon a stone; and we still had not seen our matelots. We were concerned, but not overly so. We were even more concerned when we saw a number of men coming down the beach toward us. We doused the fire and hid as best we could with our muskets: even though we had not the means to fire them, we could at least use them to bluff if the opportunity presented itself. As they continued to approach, we counted nine in all. Then we began to notice other details, and our anxiety transmuted to curiosity; and then hope and finally joy, as we ran out to greet our own men.

“What’s this with muskets?” Cudro roared with amusement as he clasped hands with Striker. “You’re all wet.”

“You have dry powder?” Striker challenged back.

“Nay, I was going to club someone with it.” He brandished one of the few muskets they had.

Davey swept me off my feet in a great embrace and seemed overjoyed to see me.

“Where’s Pete?” he asked.

I met Julio’s gaze over Davey’s shoulder and rolled my eyes. Julio seemed more amused than upset, and shrugged it off with good nature.

“He went with Gaston for water. Do you have any? And what of Liam and Otter?”

He frowned at me. “Nay, no victuals either. Otter and Liam were on the North Wind.”

I was somewhat relieved, though they could still be dead.

“We landed not long before you, and saw you coming in – and decided to come here,” Julio said.

Striker clasped hands with each man, and then he grew somber.

“How many were on your boat?”

“Thirteen,” Cudro sighed. “We lost two to sharks and two just slipped away. Never saw the other boat.”

“Was that the damaged one?” I asked.

Cudro shook his head. “Nay, we had the damaged one. Leaked so bad we started to go down, so we flipped her over and hung from the sides. That’s how we lost the men.”

Striker shook his head sadly, and then gave a shrug. “Well, as you saw, we were thankful the mast floated.”

This engendered some chuckles; and then we rekindled the fire and set more men to fishing, and we all got about the business of determining what we had. They had a few weapons among them and little else. We had six muskets and twelve pistols. Due to the way we all carried our blades, every man had those. As for other gear, none of the men from the longboat had a thing, unless he had kept it in a belt pouch.

We were all dining on fish by the time Gaston and Pete returned.

They were both relieved at the sight of our mates and dismayed that they had not brought enough water. I was curious as to where they had obtained the bottles they did bring water in. I was not the only one.

“Where the Hell did you get that?” Striker asked as Pete produced a pie from a bag.

“We Found A House.”

I offered Gaston half of my fish, and he sat next to me with a sigh.

He handed me a bottle of water, and I took a long drink before passing it on. “And here I thought you would be exercising some woodsman skill learned upon the Haiti to locate a spring. I could have spotted a house,”

I teased.

He smiled grimly, but he still would not look upon me as he spoke.

“It was both a blessing and a detriment. We need to move on before the occupants are noticed missing.”

“Ah, anything else of value?”

“We have some idea of where we are. Perhaps you can make more of it.” He handed me a sheaf of papers. They were old, and included a grant for land that mentioned a township and a crude map.

“Does the name Cabanas mean anything to anyone?” I perused the map and cursed. “We are damn close to Havana.”

“That may be to our favor,” Striker said, after he, too, cursed. “More people, but that means more ports.”

“We should move tonight,” Gaston said.

“No one has slept since before we took the galleon,” Striker said.

“But I agree. Let’s set watches, and everyone should sleep a little now.”

I did not argue that Gaston had spent last night unconscious and I had been in a drunken stupor and in some ways we were more rested than the others. Of course I did not need to explain this to my matelot.

“We will take first watch,” Gaston volunteered.

There were no objections, and we slipped up the hill and found a fine vantage point. There are two options for covering all possible angles of observation: one involves sitting back to back and the second facing one another while looking over the other’s shoulder. He chose to turn his back to me. We sat in silence for a while.

I had not wanted to speak to him thus. I wrestled with my options, and after much deliberation decided on a course of action.

“I am sorry,” I said.

The silence stretched for a while longer, and I felt anger begin to kindle deep inside me. What else did he expect me to say or do?

He finally spoke. “I woke in the dark in an oddly moving ship. I did not know where I was, my jaw hurt, someone was next to me, sleeping, reeking of wine. I hoped it was you. It was apparent from the motion and sound that the ship was sinking. I was bound and it took me a good while to get a knife off your belt and cut the rope. Then I lit a lantern.

There you were, without a care in the world. I seriously considered slipping the knife in your ribs.”

Guilt blossomed and fought with anger for my attention, each claiming to provide me with greater emotional satisfaction.

“Why did you not? It would not have been the first time you considered it that day.”

He was quiet a while before answering. “I do not have many friends, much less... You were the only one who would have stayed with me, drunk or sober. I realized I was only angry because you could have gotten us both killed. Why were you drinking during a storm?”

“It was not storming when I started drinking,” I said sadly. “I am sorry. I will not do it again.”

“It was because of the knife, was it not?”

“Non. I drank because you tore away an old scab I thought a scar, and opened a wound. I drank to staunch it, because I knew not what else to do.”

“How?” There was no anger left in his voice, and from the change of the sound I knew he had turned to regard me.

I trusted in my resolve. This would be best for both of us. “Your words. I had heard them before. It was what you said, and the hate in your eyes when you said it. I know not whether you speak the truths of your heart or your fears when you are mad. It does not matter, either way. I heard, and I will trouble you no more in that regard. In all honesty I cannot covet you now, with that image and those words in my mind. It will pass, and that wound will heal over again. But I feel that…. Well, I feel I received the wound the first time because I desired something I could not have. And here I am again, doing the same thing and getting wounded the same way. I should learn by now. So I will trouble you no more. I would that we remain friends.”

He took a long ragged breath that echoed my own. “What did I say, Will?”

I cursed silently. How could he have said something to hurt me so badly and not even remember it? How was that fair? It made me feel childish for being upset at all.

“I do not wish to repeat it.”

“I cannot know what you are speaking of, if you do not.” He sounded angry again, or possibly more frustrated than angry.

I watched the horizon. The sun was setting, and it was quite lovely.

If I just watched the colors and let the words come out, I did not have to think about their meaning. “You said that the only reason I wanted you as a friend is so I could fuck you. And that I was just a damn sodomite who only wanted to fuck and that I could not go a single night without begging for it.” I sighed. “There, now, I have said it. I do not ever wish to speak of it again.”

I stood and moved farther away.

He said something and I could not hear it.

“What?” I asked, and looked back at him. It was a mistake. He was crying. I may as well have turned to a pillar of salt, as I felt my resolve crumble and begin to blow away on the wind. I fought it with all my might. It would just be worse the next time.

“Fears,” he said. “You asked if I spoke my truths or my fears.”

“Gaston, you see how it cannot matter, do you not? And I forgive you, I truly do, but I cannot forget.”

“I am sorry. So I have managed to drive even you away.”

“Non! I am not leaving. I still desire your company and conversation.

But I cannot… want you anymore. And we cannot… touch or… We just cannot. I cannot. It hurts too much, and in that I am weak.”

“When next I am mad and scared I will say something else.”

“I would say that there is nothing else you could have said to wound me more deeply, but I am sure that you could find something.”

He stood. “Do you think I did that with malice?”

“When you said it, oui. I do not think you planned such a thing in advance, non. I did not mean to imply…”

We were looking at each other, and I wanted to hold him. I was such a fool.

“No more, I beg of you,” I sighed. “Let this go. I care for you very deeply, and I wish to remain friends, and I will not abandon you. But I am a damned fool if I let you hurt me again, because then I hurt both of us. I am not asking for much to change, and it is not something you wanted to begin with. You do not favor men.”

“I liked the touching. I was growing accustomed to it.” He was in earnest, and I wanted to howl with frustration.

I kept my voice level. “Non. I cannot do that anymore. I am sinning if I do.”

He frowned.

“Against myself,” I said. “I once swore I would never subject myself to being… loved within the confines of another’s rules and terms. If I am going to love you in that way, I cannot constantly exist in the fear of condemnation on your part. And I do not believe you can guarantee that will not happen. I know you are as lonely as I. And I have great difficulty separating the desires of my heart from the desires of my loins. I fall in love with any man I am attracted to, and I am attracted to any man I love. If you desired me, then it would be different. But you do not desire me. I am merely here. I am your friend and I am available in that regard.