Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (71 page)

“How are we?” I breathed in French, and nodded politely at the men playing cards on our table.

“Apparently incapable of being left alone,” he whispered with bitter amusement.

I frowned. We had not spoken of the Horse or his madness in days.

Since we departed Port Royal, he had seemed quite well.

“What has brought this on?” I asked.

He shook his head and assured me, “I have the reins; but we are to ride into battle, and the Horse is prancing in anticipation.”

“Ah. Before, when we prepared to take a ship…”

He spoke before I finished. “I wore the mask and kept a very tight grip on the reins, until I could at last loose the Horse upon the Spanish.”

I remembered his hacking men on the flute to death for having a whip, and his descent into madness in the aftermath of taking the galleon. We had so often spoken lightly of his need to unleash the Horse’s darker urges upon enemies rather than allies that I still considered it more figurative than literal, despite his revelatory statements on the way to Cow Island. He needed to run wild again: another storm approached.

“What do you need of me?” I asked.

“I am sorry, Will, I will slip on all the blood and you will have to hold the cart.”

“So you will become a demon of violence and then a child in the aftermath, and possibly arrange bodies?” I asked lightly.

He regarded me with surprise, and then a smile slowly crept across his mouth.

“Oui,” he said with only half of his prior somberness. “Keep me aimed at the enemy; protect me when I am not myself; and do not allow me to offend our dead.”

“I think I will manage,” I whispered.

“You will always love me,” he said. It was not a question, but more a statement of quiet revelation.

I kissed him lightly. “Oui, because I exercise very poor judgment.”

His lips twitched. “As long as that is acknowledged.”

“I own it willingly.” I kept my face as serious as I could manage.

He smiled for both of us. “Never let it be said that you are not an honest man.”

I cupped his face in my hands and ran my thumbs over his brows and then his closed eyes.

“And before we go to war, I should not leave you alone,” I said.

“Oui.” He sighed. “Where are we going?”

“If the men agree, we will attack a town named Puerto del Principe.”

He frowned. “I have not heard of it.”

“It is inland. Apparently ten leagues or so. Over hills.”

“Why is it called Puerto if it is…?” he began.

I put fingers to his lips. “It is a mystery, or perhaps a misnomer.”

I relayed all that had occurred, and he shrugged when I finished.

“We are fortunate we spent the last months walking about in the brush,” he said.

“We are indeed,” I sighed. “I do not know how Morgan’s other recruits will fare.”

In the morning, the group articles passed without revision or question upon our vessel. The choice of target was not as well-received, but many were bored and viewed it as a likely place to start our raiding.

Striker made no mention of the need to question Spaniards as to their intentions. Our men were hungry for gold, not food or some damn fool agenda.

As we were anchored near the French ships, we were witness to a great deal of discussion, though we could hear little of it: other than the fact that the Ouis did not seem to greatly outnumber the Nons. Further away, we heard the English ships erupt in Ayes. Hunger will do that to men.

Assuming we would sail, the Bard began to make ready. Striker sent Gaston and me in a canoe to the Josephine to inquire of their plans.

They were readying to sail as we approached. We found Pierrot on their quarterdeck studying a chart with his quartermaster, Rizzo; the Josephine’s master of sail, Petit Dominic; and Savant, Chat Noir, and Peppo, the master of sail from the Belle Mer. They seemed pleased to see us, and as the French were prone to do, heartily embraced us in turn.

My matelot bore it well, though he did little to engender their goodwill beyond that: once the greetings were complete, he proceeded to stand stiffly at my side, with arms crossed and eyes on the horizon. None seemed bothered by this: they simply ignored him. I was amused that if we had done nothing else this year, we had at least befriended the French.

“I have been sent by Striker to ascertain whether you will be joining us,” I said to all.

“You will be sailing, non?” Pierrot asked with a shrug.

“Oui,” I said, “but many of ours feel it is merely the first course to a grander meal over the summer.”

“We will join you in this repast,” he grinned, “but my friend, let us hope Morgan serves up a dish full of flavor, lest we be forced to lead our men to dine at another table.”

Savant chuckled at this.

“I can well understand,” I said, “though the lack of your company would make our next hosts less likely to serve up their best.”

They laughed, and Pierrot shrugged eloquently. “That is life, my friend. We will see what this table offers and hope we are well satisfied.”

“Well,” I shrugged. “I feel any meal will be enlivened by your company; I am sure at the least we will enjoy an amusing repast.”

Petit Dominic was an affable fellow, but possessed of a keenly literal mind. “We are not truly going there for food, non? You said that was merely a ploy of Morgan’s making.”

“For the love of God,” Rizzo said. “You imbecile! They jest!”

Gaston and I left them trying to explain to the man. The Virgin Queen weighed anchor as soon as we were aboard.

Striker glanced at the Josephine and Belle Mer as we joined him on the quarterdeck.

“They sail,” I assured him, “but this prize had best be worthwhile, or Pierrot’s men will not wish to remain in our company.”

“That’s to be expected,” Striker sighed. “At least we’ll have their number for this. As we don’t know exactly what this’ll entail as yet.

When we got enough rum in him, Hadsell admitted he hasn’t been there in years. And Morgan wants us to sail first, as the Bard is the most experienced master of sail we have. I wish we had another to lead us once we were ashore.”

The Bard swore vehemently. “I’ve never been here before,” he spat.

“The damn man knows nothing of sailing. We need a pilot for these waters. There are bars and cays everywhere, and we’re going to have to sound our way in.”

Striker sighed sympathetically, and with another curse, the Bard turned away to harangue the men at the bow who would be watching our progress.

“I thought this Hadsell had been a slave there,” I said quietly in the Bard’s wake. “Though I suppose that need not be recently.”

“You missed some of the discussion last night when you wandered off,” Striker said. “Hadsell admitted he had only been to this place once.

It was for a fortnight, and he did see much of the town, but it was more than five years ago. There was no fortress there, or any other defense works. Since it is inland, they do not expect attack and so probably haven’t built a fortress, either. But Hadsell never approached the place from the South as we will. He’s only seen the road on a map far better than this one.” He gestured at the parchment in front of him, which showed a goodly amount of detail about the coast of the island but only vague representations of the interior.

“Do we have no one else who has been there?” I looked about at the other ships beginning to weigh anchor in our wake. “I know it is unlikely.”

“Morgan inquired,” Striker sighed. “One of the ships captured a Spaniard some time ago. They kept him for a slave. According to that captain, the man speaks no English, knows nothing of sailing, and will probably be of little use to us, though he was taken from around here about a year ago.”

“Is he daft?” I asked.

“Who, the Spaniard or the captain?” Striker asked with a grin.

“Either.”

Striker chuckled. “I would think both. Morgan plans to interrogate the man properly with a good translator, once we are ashore tomorrow.”

I hoped that did not include me.

“How many men do we have who speak Castilian?” I asked.

“Julio and you. I don’t know about the other ships. I would imagine some. Morgan made mention of you, though,” Striker said.

“Lovely,” I sighed.

“I cannot believe you have no stomach for interrogation.” Cudro said with a frown.

“That is not the facet of the matter that gives me pause.”

“What then?” Striker asked.

I flicked my gaze to Gaston. Striker and Cudro sighed with knowing nods. My matelot tensed.

“I have no issue with it, either,” Gaston said quietly to me in French.

“I will accompany you.”

I put my arm about his shoulder. “And if they wish to flog the man into talking?” I whispered, so that Cudro would have to strain to hear.

“Then we will end up marooned on Cuba, if not dead,” Gaston sighed, but his lip twitched with some small amusement and I took heart in that.

I hugged his shoulder tighter and said briskly, “Do not trouble yourself. If it comes to that, I will simply take charge of the matter and suggest a more creative inducement.”

Cudro had heard that, and he rumbled with quiet amusement.

Striker, though he had not understood the language, had understood enough to regard us thoughtfully. He exchanged a look with Cudro. They shrugged.

“Gaston,” Striker said carefully, “do you wish to go on this raid? You two could remain here and…”

“Non,” Gaston said with quick assurance. “As always, when I am thus, it is best to point me toward the enemy.”

“I hoped as much,” Striker said with wry amusement. “But, if…”

“With Will at my side, I will cause no trouble for you as Captain,”

Gaston said firmly.

“That was not my concern,” Striker said, but I could see he was lying.

“All will be well,” I said lightly and smiled. “As he says, I will see to him so he does damage to the Spanish and no one else.”

Everyone made much of being amused; Gaston even put on a good show. But I could see doubt in our friends’ eyes. Sadly, I felt it in my heart.

The winds were not in our favor, and as the Bard had said, with an abundance of small cays and sand bars to contend with, we made slow work of the twelve leagues we had to sail into the gulf. We did not reach our destination until the sun was sinking low in the West on the second day. Thankfully, there were no Spanish craft about. The Bard chose a likely anchorage. Soon our fleet was spread out amongst the cays, and not as close to shore as I was sure Morgan would have liked for an early landing. It was not to be helped in the waning light, though. At least no one ashore would be wise of our intentions. Even if they saw us before night closed, they would assuredly think we were bound elsewhere, as there was no town in sight.

All took short watches that night so that every man would be rested in the morning. When it was our turn on the quarterdeck, Gaston and I stood at the aft rail with Pete and studied the dark around us. None of the ships had lanterns lit, as they would have made us quite visible from shore. The Moon drifted behind intermittent clouds. The night was full of the furtive sounds of men whispering in small clusters, the ship creaking as she tested her anchor in the current, and the occasional gust of breeze tugging at the rigging just briskly enough to make it sigh.

I rubbed Gaston’s back. He was tense and withdrawn, as he had been since my return from the meeting on the cay. When we had rested he had not wished to make love. We had simply slept and I had hoped he would find it restorative. Yet he had always woken sullen, and I had woken anxious. I wished to speak to him alone in these last hours before we landed, but Pete did not seem prone to leave us.

“What will you do in this coming action with no matelot?” I finally asked the Golden One.

He gave a grumbling sigh in answer and said nothing else.

“I suppose we will keep an eye on Striker,” I said, “as he will likely be quite involved with the necessities of command. I would offer that we keep an eye on you, as you have no matelot, but I feel you are more likely to be able to care for yourself. But do let us know.”

He snorted. “Don’tWorry Yurself.”

Then he left us alone.

“Was it your intent to drive him off?” Gaston asked in his wake.

“Perhaps,” I said with a grin and a shrug. “It is my intent to keep my word to my sister on the matter of Striker’s safety.”

“Pete will see to him,” he said.

“Has he said as much?”

“He has not found another,” Gaston said solemnly.

I grinned at the night and embraced Gaston, resting my chin on his shoulder. To my relief, he shifted comfortably against me and caressed my arm.

“How is the storm progressing?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I should explain. This is my doing, in part. I am calling it. It is as if I draw anger from a well deep inside me. If I am to fight, I must… fuel it. And so I find the anger I keep hidden and it burns like oil, and in finding it I begin to remember the events that put it there, that first sparked it into life: not clearly, but as little glimpses of horrible things and…”

“That anger is always there.” I said.

He turned in my arms and met my gaze with a nod.

“And what happens if you do not release it?” I asked. “You always say that you must release it. I am merely curious.”

“I will need to spend a great deal of time alone in the woods raving at your Gods,” he said.

“Ah, that places a number of things in perspective.”

And it did. I saw pieces of thoughts fall into place in such a way they formed a pattern.

“The anger is not part of your madness, any more than the scars are,” I said, “but the madness has prompted others to give you the scars and the anger.”

He frowned and nodded. “Oui.”

“Do you feel we could ever draw that anger from you, like draining a boil or wound, perhaps?”

His head cocked as he considered my words. “If we accept the metaphor of a wound, then oui, it must be drawn out before it can heal.

But I do not know if that is correct. And I do not know how… other than battle.”

“But all the battles you have fought here have not…”