Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (79 page)

“Thank you,” Gaston said. He had not spoken since we came to sit on the dune, and his voice was almost lost to the wind.

The musketeers shrugged. Liam said, “I think that if you ’r anyone else was practicin’ witchcraft, ya would ’ave used it to keep the damn boat afloat in that storm. I mean, iffn a man is to be consortin’ with demons, he should at least get rich fer it.”

Otter nudged his matelot and whispered something to him.

“Aye, aye,” Liam said. “I be forgettin’ to say the important things.

Cudro is spreadin’ the rumors ’bout Michaels. Hastings is the one sayin’

things ’bout Gaston.”

“Hastings, truly? So Michaels did not start it?” I asked.

“Nay, he started it. Na’ the spreadin’ o’ it, but he were the match,”

Liam said. “Last night ’e be complainin’ ’bout sailin’ with Gaston, on account o’ what ’appened on the galleon. Said he didna’ like ’im bein’

surgeon, neither. And then Hastings were curious ’bout it, an’ got ’im talkin’, an’ Michaels said all manner o’ strange things.”

“So it is politics feeding the mindless fear and the need to blame,” I mused aloud.

I wished someone had seen fit to inform us of all of this last night, but I supposed I should be grateful I discovered it when I did. I surmised it would have built for a few days yet, if I had not apprised Striker and Cudro of it, and they had not set out to quell it. Now it was not a distant bank of clouds harboring rumbles of malcontent, but a storm we had sailed into.

Davey and Julio joined us. I fully expected some manner of irritating remark to fall from Davey’s mouth. Instead he surprised me by saying,

“I told men I were there and saw what happened, and it were not witchcraft, just madness; but they would na’ listen to me. They said I have been hexed.” He sat dejectedly.

“Thank you,” I muttered and looked down to the camp with mounting horror. The winds were howling indeed. I could see little clusters of men whispering amongst themselves. Some glanced our way, and some glanced over to where Michaels was crouched near the cookfire with a few other men. Striker and Cudro were talking to different groups. I could not see Hastings, but guessed he was beyond the light of the fire, as we were, watching.

The Bard, Belfry, Tom and Dickey stood and walked up the dune to join us. Thankfully they brought another bottle.

“The French and Dutch will not eat anything Michaels cooks,” the Bard said. “If the ship were afloat, I would say we take her and let them on one by one at musket point, if they swear to never mention this whole sorry affair again, but we do not have that option.”

“Thank you all,” Gaston said. He roused himself enough to turn and face them. “As many of you know, I am quite mad. I have little control over it. I do strange things under its influence and I can be a menace to those around me. But I do not consort with demons, and I am not possessed.”

“Ya need na’ say such things,” Liam chided gently. “If we thought ya’ did, we would na’ be sittin’ ’ere.” This brought a chuckle all around.

“As for the rest, I figure that’s y’ur matelot’s problem.” This brought laughter. “And besides, you should na’ be tellin’ us anyways, as it’s those buggers ya need ta explain it to.”

“You are correct,” Gaston said, and I sensed a change in his demeanor. He stood, and I was not happy at it, as I guessed his purpose. We all followed him down the hill to the fire.

Men parted to make way for our group, and Gaston went to stand next to the small blaze. I joined him, but the others held back and waited. All eyes turned to us and silence fell amongst the crew.

“I am mad. I am not a witch,” Gaston said as loudly as he could manage. The men who had heard him responded to the requests of those farther away, and his words were born out from the fire like ripples in a pond.

“You need speak loud,” a voice called from the far dune. I guessed it to be Hastings, but I was not sure.

“He cannot,” I said loudly. “Perhaps you should come down.”

All eyes shifted to the location of the faceless voice, until a man emerged from the distant shadows. It was Hastings. A man near him repeated Gaston’s words. Hastings did not comment.

“How do we know ya ain’t possessed?” a voice called out from the other side of the fire.

Gaston sighed heavily. He handed me his musket and then his baldric and belt. He would not meet my gaze, and I accepted them silently. Then he did as I feared he would and doffed his tunic. There was a collective gasp all around us. I winced for him, but he was stoic to the extreme. Then he dropped his breeches. He did not close his eyes as he had with me that day on the beach; but he did gaze into the fire so that he could not see them in the dark around it.

I turned my gaze to those I could see, and witnessed some gazing with slack-jawed amazement, while others averted their eyes with guilt or sympathy.

“I have not been wholly in my right mind since this occurred,”

Gaston said. Once again the words were passed and most men found the sand beneath them quite interesting. Gaston pulled his breeches up, and picked up his tunic but did not don it. “I do strange things I cannot always explain, and I am prone to violence and anger that I cannot control. I understand if many of you do not wish for me to be surgeon. I will treat any who ask, yet I will resign the position and offer no claim to the money due it.” With that, he turned away from the fire and walked back up the dune to our things. I followed him.

He pulled his tunic on and sat in the sand to hug his knees with his back to the camp. I put his weapons down and doffed mine, and then I sat to embrace him from the side.

“That was a lie,” he said with quavering voice. “This did not drive me mad. I was mad before. I am sure that is what led to it. I did something unforgivable. I reminded him of my mother yet again.”

“You once said both your parents were mad or deranged in some fashion,” I whispered.

He nodded. “I have my father’s temperament, his propensity for rage and violence and my mother’s… He kept her locked in the North tower, because she was never in her right mind. When I was older, they told me they feared she would walk off the parapets on the whimsy that she could fly. She would become lost to herself, staring at the sparkles of light from the windows. She sometimes forgot her name or thought she was a person from a story. They whispered of witchcraft even after she died. I do not know if all of that is true. I never met her. We saw her at Christmas and Easter, because her ladies would dress her well and bring her to mass; but we were not allowed to talk to her, and she expressed no interest in us. She died when we were seven. She died in childbirth. One baby had been stillborn, and the other had died inside her. The strain and misery of it all killed her. In all the chaos that followed, we were able to sneak into the room. They had wrapped her head and dressed her in a blue gown, and the baby she had borne was swaddled all in white beside her. She reminded me of the painting of the Madonna and Child that hung in the house chapel. She was lying on her back, and it took a great deal of effort, but we pushed her up until she was sitting and placed the baby in her arms, so that she looked like the painting. Then they found us. Father was furious. I was sent away to school the day after the funeral.”

I clutched him tighter and wiped the tears I shed for him on his kerchief. His tale explained much, but it also opened the door to vast mysteries.

“You said we?” I queried.

“Oui, Gabriella, my twin sister.”

“And she is dead also,” I breathed. I knew she was the one he had spoken of before.

“Oui, she was always sickly. Always sickly. I was always hale. The nurses used to say I had gotten all the good health that was to be split between us. I always thought I had robbed her somehow, that it was my fault she was ill.”

“You know…?”

“Oui, I know,” he sighed. “But Will, we know many things and still we cannot protect ourselves from the pain. You know that.”

“Non, we cannot. Yet you know I would do anything to rob you of yours.”

“Oui, and I love you for it. No one has cared for me as you do since my sister.”

I heard people approaching, and looked around to see our friends.

They were hesitant, and I waved them over.

“We have company. What do you wish to do?”

“I wish to drink until the world is a very distant place and I cannot remember their eyes upon me.”

The Bard was closest, and I looked up at him. “We need a great deal more rum.”

He nodded and looked behind him, and one of the others hurried back down the hill.

“Is all well?” I asked.

He sat between us and the fire, so that Gaston’s back was to him still, and thus afforded my matelot what was left of his privacy. He nodded at my question. “There has been some discussion, and I believe Gaston is still surgeon, but we’re not sure if Michaels will remain cook.”

“I wish I could say I bear the man no ill will, yet I do,” I said. “Even if Hastings was the real bastard.”

The others sat and clustered near the Bard, so that Gaston did not have to look at them, either. All were there who had been with us earlier, with the exception of Pete, who had stayed below with Striker.

I was sure those two would be slow in joining us, as they must insure that all had been resolved and calmed before giving the matter or the men their backs.

With everyone seated thus, I was confronted with a wall of shadowed faces, as the fire was distantly behind them and there was not enough moon to show a man’s countenance clearly. I was not comfortable with this, but there was little I could do. Tom arrived with several bottles, and I handed one to Gaston. He had apparently composed himself well enough to deal with the others in a meager fashion, and he turned in my arms so that his back was to my chest. I kept my arms and legs protectively around him. He took a long pull on the bottle.

“That was a brave thing,” the Bard said.

Gaston snorted. “Thank you, but I would rather not speak of it.”

“Of course,” the Bard said, and no one spoke of it again that night.

Gaston drank himself into a retching stupor, and I cared for him as best I could. Thankfully he was not a talkative or angry drunk, and therefore he was not as taxing as I had feared. When he vomited on Striker and me, he was sincerely apologetic. I followed him about, as he seemed to want to go swimming and had to be convinced otherwise; and I eventually got him to lie still on the beach with me and sleep. Once he finally allowed himself to succumb to it, he slept like the dead.

I could not find the peace of mind to slumber for a good while. I lay with him in my arms and regarded the stars, and wondered how he had survived. Once again, I thought my own hardships trivial in comparison.

Then I thought of all he had said over the last few months, and knew I held many pieces of the puzzle of his past. I turned them this way and that, and felt myself on the edge of a great precipice from which I could leap to a number of conclusions. From the vantage point of ignorance, I did not like the look of any of them and chose not to jump, as I was sure any place I landed would bring no more serenity than I currently possessed.

Dawn was heralded by muskets and pistols being discharged. At first I thought nothing of it, as it was a usual thing to clear the weapons and reload them; and then I remembered the events of the night before, and I was quickly out from under my matelot and on my knees, pistol in hand. No one was approaching us, and Liam and Otter sat upon the nearby dune chuckling, at my rude awakening.

Gaston had not moved; and I doubted he would for several hours, as he was quite limp and dead to the world. I laid the pistol on his belly, and waded into the surf to wipe the sleep from my eyes and invigorate myself into productive thought. There was a ship to careen, and I supposed I should help with it, lest someone else think I was a pampered son of nobility. I would first need to find shade for Gaston in a place where I could keep an eye on him. I spied the longboat nearby.

It was propped upside-down on barrels, to provide shade for some of the stores we removed from the ship. After a great deal of effort and sleepy French curses, I managed to get Gaston and our gear partially beneath it and out of the sun.

He was awake enough now to clutch at me.

“Let go and let me find some water,” I urged.

“Michaels. Remedy,” he mumbled.

I frowned, as I guessed he did not recall last night’s events, which was probably for the best for the time being.

“I will find him.” I patted his hand and pulled free, and went in search of Michaels and water. I found water, but did not see the man about the camp. I was finally forced to inquire; and, after I had received several strange looks for even asking, our gunner, De Morte, said he had seen Michaels walking down the beach last night.

I trudged in the indicated direction, until I saw someone in the dunes who looked to have Michael’s legs. I approached cautiously, calling out his name, so as not to startle him and end up with lead in my teeth. Michaels did not rouse, and from the angle of his legs and feet I guessed him to be in as much of a torpor as my matelot. Then I smelled blood. I sprinted the last few steps until I was even with him. I knew he was dead without stepping closer, as the back of his throat was missing. He lay collapsed with the pistol loose in his right hand.

Guilt and sorrow closed over me, and for a time I did nothing but stand and stare. I had not wished this. I did wish I had not said what I did to Cudro and the others. The matter could have been resolved without this casualty. Here was a truly senseless death indeed.

Ever so slowly, reasoning returned and I knew there were things that must be done. I squatted and touched his foot. There was still warmth to it, and I surmised he had fired while the others were discharging their weapons so as to not attract attention. I stood and whistled loudly and looked up the beach. I caught the attention of Cudro, of all people, and I waved him over. He limped resolutely through the sand, with curiosity on his thick features. Then he saw the feet and frowned.

When he was even with me and saw the body, he cursed softly in Dutch and said, “Ate his own lead, who would have thought?”