Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (56 page)

But Gaston, you will end up hating me such that you do not have to be mad to say it, if we continue down this path. So let us redefine our friendship and partnership. We are not going to become Pete and Striker or any other pair of matelots who lie together. We do not have to.”

“You can go without?” he asked. He was not mocking.

“I may take myself in hand a great deal, but other than that, oui. I am resigned to it.”

He studied me for a moment, and abruptly turned back to his side of the watch. With a start I remembered we were up there for a reason that had nothing to do with my personal concerns. I swept my hemisphere and hoped the Spanish Armada had not sailed up to the beach. They had not; and I was left with my own thoughts. I vowed to be content with this solution. Wanting to stick my cock where it did not belong had damn near been my undoing more times than I could count.

“Have you been shipwrecked before?” I asked, to distract myself and to determine whether he was speaking to me or not.

“Non.”

“Have you heard of people surviving such things?”

“We will steal a boat and be home inside of a month, you will see,”

he sighed.

I thought of Striker’s definition of home, and smiled ruefully.

“I am home,” I whispered. Such as it was, it was no more comfortable than any other home I had lived in, but no worse, really, either.

When it was fully dark, we slipped down the hill and found the others ready to move. Gaston presented me with a whole new cause for concern.

“Has Cudro asked for an election?” he whispered as we joined them.

“Non,” I sighed as the implications became clear to me. “Do you think he will try to supplant Striker in the middle of this endeavor?”

“If things do not go well, oui.”

We were thirteen in number: a fact that several men had bemoaned for its lack of luck. If Cudro and Striker did not vote, that made eleven. I knew where five of the votes would go, or at least I felt I did. I could not be sure of the other six; but a few of them seemed to like Striker a great deal.“He may not feel he has the numbers,” I whispered.

“Ah,” Gaston agreed. “I had not counted. He will when he feels he has a chance.”

“I suppose now would be an inopportune time to kill him.”

“Oui, we may need him. For example, if we are pursued by Spaniards, we can always slice him so that he runs slower than the rest of us and thereby delay them.”

I glanced at him and smiled, which he returned. It appeared that not all things would suffer between us. I was greatly relieved.

We made our way along the beach by moonlight: heading west toward a port, if the map for the land grant had been correct. We had a small amount of dry powder, but there was no guarantee it would work until we fired it, and we did not want to risk the noise. We walked in the surf so it would cover our tracks. I was thankful for this, the walking on the beach, as my feet were still tender from the wounds; and despite not wearing shoes for close to four months, the soles of my feet were still not as tough as the other men’s. I would not be able to walk overland amongst brush and brambles and the like.

We covered a considerable distance at a good pace that night, and stopped in the early hours of the morning when we lost the moon. We slept in shifts between matelots, so that around half of us were awake at any given time. Those of us awake on the first watch cast lines into the surf at dawn and caught a number of fine fish, which we cooked quickly before the smoke of a fire could betray our presence in the daylight.

I was to sleep through the next watch while Gaston went scouting with Julio and Pete. Due to our lack of faith in some of our companions, namely Cudro, Gaston and I were not fond of the three of them leaving together while the three of us, Striker, Davey and myself stayed in camp. But there was little to be done for it, as we needed to sleep and they were well suited to forming a scouting party. So I slept near Striker with one eye open, as the saying goes, and did not rest well for it.

They returned to report that we were within a league of a small harbor and there were two flyboats docked there. I had to ask what a flyboat was, and Gaston simply explained it was the size we wished, a single-masted small sailing craft that could hold thirteen men, though it would be crowded. After asking a dozen questions, and the scouts rendering a rough approximation of the harbor in the sand, Striker said he wished to sneak in after dark and take whichever one of the flyboats was more readily available or better suited to our needs in respect to cargo and general seaworthiness.

Cudro did not appear to be fond of this plan. “Let’s raid the place.

There’s not that many buildings, but it’s likely they have something.

Then we can take both boats.”

I leaned close to Gaston and whispered. “Now may be an opportune time to kill him. How shall we go about it?”

“Leave it to me,” Gaston whispered and quietly doffed his baldric and belt. “I am sure he will provide an opening.”

“We did not look for militia,” Julio protested.

Cudro waved him off and stood to take center stage. “What are we to do, return to Port Royal with our tails between out legs, no gold, and all of us crowded in a little flyboat? We don’t even have enough muskets to go around; and once we return, those of us without won’t have the money to buy one. I say we equip ourselves here and return home with something in our pockets.”

Striker sighed. “You want Spanish muskets? I think we should try to get home alive. This will be easy, as long as we’re cautious. We can address the weapons issue later. Currently we don’t have good powder for the weapons we have.”

“All the more reason,” Cudro said doggedly. “Unless you’re… well I can understand you being shaken after the ship went down. We all can.

That was a big loss. But you cannot let that affect your judgment.”

Gaston smirked and stood. “You have no business calling Striker a coward. You are the coward.”

I thought he had countered a bit prematurely, but there was no issue here of disguising what was about to happen, so it did not matter.

“I did not call him a coward,” Cudro rumbled.

I looked around at the others. They were transfixed and listening intently to hear Gaston’s hoarse voice over the surf, except for Striker who eyed me curiously. I mouthed, “We are helping.” He smirked.

“You spoke as to imply it,” Gaston said. “I will not mince words. You are a coward. You refuse to fight me unless I am bound.”

This got a confused reaction from the crowd and Cudro blanched.

“You liar.”

“While sailing with Nantes, we boarded a ship and you conspired to bring on my madness; and then when I attacked you and was brought down, you waited until I was bound hand and foot before requesting your right to revenge. And you have avoided dueling with me since, out of fear. You are a coward.”

All eyes shifted to Cudro. He was pale despite his tanned skin and beard. “That’s a lie.”

“Prove it,” Gaston whispered. “No weapons. Here. Now.”

This brought raised eyebrows and even made me catch my breath, though more with amusement than concern, as the disparity in size between the two men lent an absurdity to the potential of a match between them. Cudro had to be twice Gaston’s weight, and stood head and shoulders above him. What was telling was that Cudro was scared. I wondered if Gaston was carrying a compass concealed upon his person, or perhaps a quill. Yet even without an improvised weapon of opportunity, I had faith in my matelot. If he thought he could beat Cudro, I was sure he could.

Cudro was fighting a desperate battle to maintain his composure.

“No weapons. I accept that. First blood? Or do you intend to kill me with your fists?”

“Until you beg for quarter,” Gaston said coldly.

Anger began to replace fear in the big Dutchman, and he rumbled, “I won’t beg you for anything, boy.”

The other men had already pulled back to create a rough ring, and Gaston was circling Cudro with a malicious smirk. The big man dropped into a traditional pugilist’s stance. Gaston charged him, went low under Cudro’s fists and rammed his knee into the other man’s groin, then rolled away from him. The rest of us erupted into laughter and sympathetic groans as Cudro toppled while swearing in falsetto. Truly enraged now, the big man did not stay down, but heaved himself to his knees to snarl insults in Dutch.

Gaston waited.

“Do you wish to continue?” he asked during a lull in the laughter.

Still wincing, Cudro lumbered to his feet. This time he turned a hip toward his opponent and kept a hand below his waist protectively.

Gaston rushed him again, and Cudro dropped low and remained defensive. Gaston feinted to his midsection and then punched him in the nose. We all heard the crack. Cudro did not topple, and he came hard and fast at Gaston, who leapt up and somehow climbed around so that he had an arm around Cudro’s throat and the fingers of his free hand at Cudro’s eye. The Dutchman roared and fought the hand away while throwing himself to the ground to dislodge Gaston, who rolled clear only to dive back upon the big man and land several rapid jabs to his face. Then Gaston was away again, leaving Cudro rolling about and cursing in the sand.

The audience now had wide eyes and Pete muttered, “Fuck.” I guessed his underlying thought. We were lucky Gaston had not had a chance to have a go at either one of us when he was mad. He was going to be very difficult to survive, if he ever did.

“Again?” Gaston asked as Cudro pulled himself up. The big man was spitting blood, and his eyes would shortly be swollen closed.

“Go to the Devil,” the big man said.

“The next time you go down, I will not withdraw,” Gaston said calmly. “We will see how much you enjoy pissing blood.”

I winced at this, and remembered the real reason behind this exchange. I wondered how much damage Cudro had been allowed to do to Gaston. It made my stomach clench even as the anger gripped me. I wanted Gaston to beat him to death.

Cudro was now pride and anger and little sense. He waved Gaston in. My matelot charged and rolled, slamming his weight into the side of Cudro’s leg so that it buckled and the big man roared. Gaston was up and kicking him when he went down. Cudro tried to defend himself by rolling into a ball, but it was to little avail. I twice heard the crack of ribs. When Gaston had done as much damage as he wanted, he withdrew and regarded his downed opponent.

“You still have not asked for quarter.”

“Quarter,” Cudro gasped.

Gaston walked away, and two men rushed to help Cudro.

“Do you feel you have obtained satisfaction?” I asked Gaston curiously in French as he despondently donned his weapons.

He shrugged. “I never do. Hurting him doesn’t make my memory of the pain go away.”

I was intrigued by this. “Is that why you did not seek him out before?”

He nodded. “It served purpose here. He might have won the vote and led us all to our doom.” He regarded me seriously. “There are bodies on the gallows in town. We could see little detail from where we lay, but there were nine.” At my look of consternation he continued. “The other longboat had nine or so men.”

Understanding dawned. “They would have had fewer weapons and no powder. Have you told Striker?”

He shook his head. “Pete did not think he would take it well. And I wished to see what attitudes prevailed before…” He sighed. “Revenge is pointless if it gets you killed.”

Striker was approaching, and we regarded him expectantly.

“Thank you,” he said. “Though you should have killed him, as he cannot walk now.”

“It will keep the ones who want trouble busy carrying him.” I shrugged.

“Should he see a surgeon?” Striker asked. “Not that I care, but…”

“Nay,” Gaston shrugged. “He will recover if he does not move about much. Once we get him on the boat, he can sit like a barrel of lard until we reach Port Royal.”

Striker was looking out to sea. “Perhaps he was correct.”

Gaston stiffened slightly; and Pete, standing behind Striker, slumped.

“In what regard?” I asked.

“Perhaps we should not go home empty-handed. Perhaps I am being a bit cautious.”

I scowled. “What did you tell me yesterday about getting captured and how if your uncle had been alive…?”

“Aye. Aye.” Striker smiled. “Be my conscience, will you?”

“If necessary. I want to return to port, alive.”

“We will not haul your carcass back.” Striker grinned. “So if you wish to see Port Royal again, you will be alive when doing it. There is no need to stipulate such a thing.”

We stayed quiet and rested as we could until dusk, at which time we made our way along the shore to the port. It was a small horseshoe of beach with a single wharf. The flyboats were the largest craft in residence. The gallows were across the small bay from where we lay in the sand. They were clearly visible from sea or land, as the Spanish, like the English and every other nation, adore trying to scare pirates and smugglers with gruesome examples of the local justice.

Striker, of course, studied the entirety of the area. Those of us who knew of their contents could clearly see when he came across the gallows, as his body grew taut.

Pete sighed, “It Be Them.”

Gaston was studying the gallows as well. “They died fighting.

Judging by the wounds, some of those bodies were hung after they were dead.”

“Were they there this morning?” Striker asked from what seemed a great distance.

“Aye,” Pete sighed.

“We were up there.” Gaston pointed along the hill to the South. “And from the angle and distance, it was difficult to discern.”

“But you suspected,” Striker said.

“Aye,” Pete sighed. “IWanted Ya Ta Sleep. Nothin We Can Do.

Let’sGet A Boat.”

“I will not slink out of here,” Striker said with conviction.

I thought it ill-advised to mention that we had killed or been responsible for the deaths of a good five hundred Spaniards within the last two days;, yet I felt compelled to say something, and quoted Gaston.

“Revenge is of little value if you are dead. We do not know how they were taken. It is entirely possible that this small town is overrun with competent Spaniards.”