Wherein We Salute Gods and Monsters

 

It was soon the first week of July, and we had cleared the mountain range that ran along the northern side of Hispaniola and begun to sail southeast alongside a great, flat forested area of lavish greenery. There were now signs of Spanish settlement: a tower here, and a swirl of smoke from some unseen fire there. We spent our days further from shore and curious eyes; only slipping in toward land with the dusk; and we slept aboard. We still had sufficient water, but we were far from adequately provisioned, and this new need to sneak about was not going to aid the situation. We began to keep a fishing line in the water day and night.

And if the looming danger of the Spanish was not enough to trouble us, the camaraderie of our little band had become quite strained.

We had renewed our vow to only think of Chris as a man; and he had dutifully tried to learn to act more like a man. With a great deal of ingenuity, we fashioned a wood cup and funnel of sorts that he could hang from his waist and tuck into his linens to give the appearance of a man’s bulge; and—given time and practice—deftly palm and use to direct his urine in the appropriate arc. With obvious reluctance, but thankfully, pleasantly little complaint, he began to practice with this item. He also stopped dashing away as soon as we were ashore to do his other business. We learned his menstruation would soon be upon us as well. We reinforced his under things with oil cloth to prevent leakage, and prepared bandages to be used as rags.

The one thing Chris still fought us on was accepting the inevitability of being a man’s matelot. He used every success at learning some new art of manliness to make his case that the other would not be needed.

Pete agreed with him.

On the other front, Ash was quite the besotted fool. I was sure I would have seen it all along if my matelot had not been at death’s door in our first weeks of this voyage. Ash found great difficulty in keeping his gaze away from the object of his desire; and, ominously, he stopped sleeping in the stern with his matelot, and speaking to him.

Cudro had become silent and sad. It hurt me to look upon him. He pretended joviality, but whenever he thought no one watched, he lapsed into the utter picture of melancholy.

Gaston and I took to curling chastely together every night with our only shared intimacy a pair of resigned sighs.

I wondered how the matter could be resolved, especially since our vessel could not provide the opportunity for private discourse without physical intimacy. I was damned if I was going to lie beside Cudro or Ash and whisper in their ears.

We all seemed to spend our days peering toward shore, seeking some excuse to land and forage—or achieve a little privacy.

“Is the whole eastern side of the island inhabited?” I asked on the fourth day as we eyed the second column of smoke we had seen in as many hours.

Cudro sighed. “I don’t know, Will,” he admitted sheepishly.

I was not the only one who turned to regard him with alarm.

He shrugged eloquently. “I don’t know. The Bard might know; but I’ve never sailed around this side of Hispaniola. I’ve heard this side is curved out a little, unlike the western side where there is a giant bay between two long peninsulas. This side is just supposed to curve out and down. Then there’s a thirty-league-or-so wide passage—with some islands, I think—in between the south-easternmost tip and the island the Spanish call Rich Port.

“Then you get to the southern side: that I’ve sailed along: we all have. You sail past it from Barbados to reach Jamaica. There’s an uneven crescent of shore from that southeastern point to the southernmost point. The thickest Spanish settlement is there. Beyond that southern point is the peninsula that Cow Island sits beneath.”

I had, of course, not really considered how we would attain Cow Island. Now I thought on what he said and what I remembered of the southern side of Hispaniola. I was alarmed at the result of my musing.

“That area past the southern point, is that where we tried to provision last year before we went to Maracaibo?” I asked. “Where Striker lost his arm? Where it took us three damn weeks to sail around that damn southern point?”

Cudro sighed and nodded.

I swore. “This will not take a month of sailing. They will have sailed against the Spanish before we can arrive.”

The Dutchman shook his head and chuckled. “Will, the winds will be with us from the east. It won’t take three weeks to round that point.”

“Well that is good, but how the Devil are we to provision?” I asked. “We are already seeing Spaniards, and if they stretch all the way around the southeast of this island, and are thicker still across the south…”

Cudro’s look of worry told me I need not chide him into realizing the problem.

“We would have faced the same sailing north along the Florida coast,” he said sadly.

I looked to my matelot and Pete. “Have either of you sailed along this coast before?”

Gaston shook his head with a grimace.

Pete snorted. “Nay, I’veNot. ItDon’Matter. YaWorryTooMuch. We’ll JustDo ALittleRaidin’.”

“There are six of us,” I countered.

“ThenWeNa’Be Takin’San’Dominga,” he drawled.

“You stupid bastard,” I spat with little vehemence despite my concern.

He laughed. He was the only one.

That evening we had the fortune of spying a small inlet fed by a brackish stream. We hid the boat and prepared to slog inland to find drinkable water before the sun set.

Gaston whistled a low warning just as Pete, Cudro, and I started out. We hurried back to his side near the boat, and squatted in the brush and peered where he pointed. There was a sloop sailing south: cutting the water where we had a mere half hour before. She flew Spanish colors. She was too far from shore for us to see much else.

“We haven’t seen a port north of here,” Cudro rumbled.

“One to the south?” I asked.

He shrugged.

I sighed, kissed my matelot for luck, and began to slog up the stream—such as it was. The brush on the banks was too thick to cut through and go anywhere before we lost the light. Cudro joined me in wading in the murky water, but Pete decided he did not wish to dirty his boots, or risk walking in the mud without them. Barefoot, he scampered onto the roots of one of the trees. The big tangled things wove all around one another and reached far into the water. They seemed to hold the mud and not the other way around. We watched him nimbly pick his way up the stream well above the water—holding the branches or trunks above his head to steady himself.

I considered the closest roots. “I suppose that appears a faster way to travel.”

“Not for me, but…” Cudro finished with an unintelligible, disgruntled sound as he stepped into a sudden hole and sank to his waist.

I laughed and slogged back the few feet we had come to deposit my muddy boots next to my amused matelot. Cudro did likewise, and we were soon traveling by tree branch as Pete had—far less adroitly, though: he occasionally dropped back to laugh at us.

On one of these brief sessions of abuse, I rolled my eyes and looked away from Pete’s laughing face in time to see a log in the water move—toward me—very fast. “What the De…?” I began to ask.

“Cayman!” Cudro roared.

He hit me between the shoulder blades, propelling me off the roots and into the bracken of the bank. There was a sudden weight on my leg and I heard an ominous snap beside me. I felt no pain, but I was not sure if it was because I was injured or broken.

I twisted and found myself nearly nose to nose with a dragon. Its teeth were embedded in the root I had fallen beside. Its attempts to thrash were stopped by this impromptu bit in its mouth. Its heavy, scaly body was across my left leg. Its clawed feet were scrabbling in the mud as it attempted to pull itself away—thankfully, I had no flesh below them.

Pete and Cudro were atop it, stabbing it with knives like fiends. Sorrowfully, I watched the light die in its beady black eyes. Now that I knew what it was, I was sorry it was dead. I had heard about the Cayman beasts before I had even set foot in the West Indies; and now the first one I saw was dead.

“Will, are you well?” Cudro was roaring and shaking me.

I was staring at the creature’s teeth. There were a great many of them, and the snout they resided in was very long and large.

“You saved my life,” I told Cudro. “Thank the Gods.” And then I did reverently thank the Gods.

Cudro sighed with great relief and wiped the lizard’s blood from his cheek. “You had me worried. I was trying to push you farther away. You went down right under it.” He swore quietly and reverently.

I tried to move and found my leg pinned by the creature’s weight. “I am stuck.”

Still panting from the frantic exertion of their attack, they began the apparently arduous process of freeing me.

“I heard of them getting this big, I’ve never seen one, though,” Cudro growled as they pushed while I squirmed from beneath it. “This is as big as the crocodiles of Egypt are said to get. They say they only get this big when there are pigs and cattle to feed on.”

We looked at one another with new concern, and sat still to listen to the birds around us. If this one was fat from calves and pigs, that meant there were either tame ones in abundance on a plantation, or a great many because there were no men about. We could not know which it was without exploring in the light of day.

Pete sighed a minute later and began to gaze at the brush with less concern and more longing. Then he looked at the slain beast. “YaCanEat’Em, Right?”

Cudro nodded. “The hide’s useful too.”

Pete looked at what little we could see of the darkening sky. “YaGotTimeFerThat?”

“Nay,” Cudro said and shrugged. “Couldn’t cure it anyway. I can butcher the meat, though.”

“I’llGetWater,” Pete said and looked to me. “YaBeWell?”

“Do I appear unwell?” I asked.

Pete grinned. “Na’FurAMan WhoNearlyDoneGot ’IsHeadEat’n. YaStayAn’HelpCudro. YaComeWithMe.”

I blinked with surprise and peered around Cudro’s bulk to see who Pete was speaking to. Chris stood a score of feet behind us on the stream. He was regarding the creature with wide eyes, and the water beneath the roots he perched on with alarm.

“You should have stayed with the boat,” I remarked.

He frowned with determination. “Nay, I have had enough of Ash.” Then guilt washed over his features and he cast a sorrowful look at Cudro before carefully clambering over the creature’s body.

“It’s not your fault,” Cudro said kindly and handed him our water skins.

Chris met his gaze and nodded. “I am still sorry.”

“Thank you,” Cudro said.

Chris carefully began to follow Pete.

Cudro stood and looked back the way he had come. “Well, my stupid boy didn’t follow,” he said with sad amusement.

“I am sorry she is here,” I said as I stood. “For your sake.”

He did not respond, and I let him be and found myself mesmerized once more by the creature. It was a dozen feet long, and as thick around as my body. Its snout was longer than my forearm. I poked at its bark-like skin and examined the eyes atop its head. It did truly appear to be a log. It was no wonder I had not seen it before it moved. And it had been a surprisingly fast log. It had moved with a cat’s speed.

“You are one lucky bastard,” Cudro said reverently.

“Nay, aye, I suppose.” I looked to him. “I am lucky in that I have been blessed by a quick and strong friend. Thank you. I owe you my life, truly.”

He smiled with warmth and no pride, and nodded. “You do.”

We set to butchering the animal. Cudro suggested I keep the teeth as a souvenir, and so I gingerly hacked them free of the mouth.

“Don’t be worried about me and Ash,” he said as we worked. “It’s for the best.”

“Why? You two appeared very happy.”

He awarded me a bemused smile. “We made a good team, oui; but Will, not all men love as you do. It was a matter of convenience for us.”

I could well remember their happiness when they first told me of their pairing. It had been upon the return from the Cuban smuggling expedition. I also recalled their initial courtship during our voyage home from Porto Bello many months before that. I shook my head. “I am not so besotted with my life that I am prone to imagine things that do not exist. You two were in love once.”

“Oui, but it was a passing thing, it always is,” Cudro sighed. “I…” He shook his head and smiled. “If our Chris really was a youth, I would cry myself to sleep every night for the want of him. I favor young men when they’re as lanky as colts and sleek as cats, with a brash new cock emerging from its nest; but I’ve never been intrigued by weak, foppish, or effeminate men. So invariably, I find a young lover, teach him what I know, and then he grows such that he no longer wants to be a boy—mine or anyone’s. That conversation the other day with our new boy echoed many things I knew, and gave me a great deal to think on.”

He met my gaze. “I don’t know how I’ll find a long-term companion, Will. It’s no different now than it was when last we talked on Cow Island that night. Do you remember that?”

“Oui, I do. I recall you were lamenting the paradox of needing a man who could be your equal as a matelot, and yearning for a pretty catamite who could never be seen as your equal. Ash was the compromise.”

Cudro rumbled with amusement. “He’s not a pretty boy.”

“Non, he is not,” I said with a chuckle.

“He has a nice arse, though; and a pretty cock.”

I had seen both; though I had not witnessed the latter in its glory. They were some of Ash’s better assets. I nodded my assent and helped push the beast onto its other side.

“He’s been a good matelot, though,” Cudro said soberly when he was able to start cutting again. “Unless we’re around women. Not Madame Striker or your wives, non; but when we went to the Carolinas to trade, he was very careful to avoid me when flirting with tavern wenches. When I would ask if he would rather settle there, he would profess he still wished to rove and be a sailor if not a buccaneer. That’s why we wished to come with you. He claimed he was quite content with what we had and that he would remain so until he wished to settle down.” He shrugged again. “And I was content with that.”

I understood, though it still saddened me. And I had seen that of which he spoke. I had not understood it for what it was, but I had seen it. Ash had ever been careful to not be affectionate with his partner when women were about. He behaved somewhat differently when they were only around men.

I wondered what else I had been oblivious too. “How is everyone else?” I asked. “Are Dickey and the Bard on the threshold of separation, too? Because you are correct, I do not always see things as they are, perhaps.”

He grinned. “They’re well enough, I suppose. The Bard used to fear the impasse I have reached with Ash, but now I feel he’s come to trust that Dickey doesn’t want anything other than what they have. Julio and Davey, well, Julio could do better, but he’s too damn loyal.”

“Oui,” I sighed. “I pity Julio…”

And I hoped they had not remained on Tortuga. I pushed it aside. There was nothing I could know or do about that matter.

Cudro nodded; then he shook it all away with a great sigh and shrug. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps we should let the boys have what they want. Not that Chris is amenable to having anyone as a matelot, but maybe she…” he paused to swear softly. “He would be well enough with Ash.”

“Non,” I said quickly, and he regarded me with a raised eyebrow. I sighed. “And it is not because she seems angry with him of late. Non, on a practical note, it is because of the reason for her anger: Ash is besotted; and not in the way your average buccaneer is with a new man. He will likely attempt to treat him—her—like a lady, and attempt to protect her to an extent that will not aid the ruse. And, I am angry at Ash for his abuse of you. No matter how things are between you now, he should at least show you respect and courtesy and not be mooning over her every moment.”

The big Dutchman laughed. “I remind myself once again to never anger you.” He clasped my shoulder. “Thank you for being my friend.”

“Non, thank you. I know not what Gaston and I would do without our friends.”

Cudro winked at me. “Earn new ones.” With a smile he handed me the beast’s heart.

We spoke of nothing more of import as we finished removing the larger hunks of meat from the carcass. We were just finishing and the light had nearly departed when Pete and Chris returned laden with water. The four of us made our quick but wary way back to the mouth of the stream and the boat.

“I did not know those creatures grew so large,” Chris whispered as he followed me along the slippery roots. “I have heard tell of ones a score of feet or longer, but I thought that was rum-drenched tale telling.”

“That is why no man should walk alone in the West Indies,” I said with amusement.

“Do not…” he said sharply; only to sigh, and then quickly curse as he slipped on a root. “You can argue with Pete over the matter. He says I am useless and no man would want me as a matelot. He was quite incensed I stood there like a pie-eyed cow and watched them kill the creature.” He sighed again. “And he is correct. I did nothing. I just stood there.”

His honesty evoked some sympathy. “At least you did not piss yourself,” I said. “I might have at your age, before I had ever seen a battle or…” I shrugged. “And I am not attempting to patronize you.”

“Non, I understand. I believe I am a few years older than you were when you left your father’s house; and because of my sex, I have seen nothing: I have done nothing.”

“You have done a thing I have not,” I said with amusement.

“What?”

“Given birth.”

He snorted. “That is a thing of women; and, as you have all made quite clear, useless in these West Indies.”

“True, somewhat; but simply remember this the next time any of us harangues you: Pete could not do it.”

He began to chuckle. “Oui, I would like to see that high and mighty bastard manage that,” he muttered.

I laughed too, until I recalled an aspect of the matter that sobered me handily. I stopped and turned to him before we reached the boat. “Never rub his nose in that,” I said quietly. “It is the one thing he could not give Striker.”

To my surprise, he appeared stricken with the understanding, and he nodded quickly. “I will not say a word.”

I smiled. “Just hold it in your heart.”

He smiled.

Cudro and Pete had been talking as we went as well: they had decided to risk cooking the organs and some of the meat tonight. As Chris and I joined them, they were already busy finding a hollow to build the fire in so that the flames could not be seen from the sea. Not seeing my matelot, I left Ash and Chris to assist them and went to find Gaston.

He was returning along the narrow strip of beach to the north of the inlet, with two fish slung over his shoulder. He peered at me in what was left of the waning light.

“Will, you stink. Did you roll in the mud? Are you covered in leeches?”

I laughed and dutifully splashed out into the water to wash the mud and blood away.

“Is that blood?” he asked after another sniff.

“Oui. We found something else to eat. It was quite determined to eat me, apparently.” I returned to his side and pulled one of the teeth from my belt pouch and laid it in his palm in the darkness.

He was quiet; then there was a sharp intake of breath; then his arms were tight about me.

“I am fine,” I murmured. Then I told him of what occurred. I finished with, “I hope that is not the only one I ever see.”

“I pray to the Gods it is,” he said quite seriously. “I cannot let you go anywhere, alone.”

His words echoed mine to Chris, and I found myself smiling. “We were fools, three men without our matelots; but at least we were fine friends.”

He sighed into my shoulder. “Oui, but I would rather be there if you are to be eaten by some beast; because then I know all will have been done to defend you, and I will not be left blaming another.”

I understood that. “Well, my love, the same goes for you.” I kissed him and he returned it with surprising fervor.

“Are we spending the night here?” he breathed in my ear when he left my now-hungry mouth.

“I think so,” I breathed.

“Good.” He toppled me into the sand and made me forget about cayman and all manner of monsters.

Thus I was quite surprised when he whispered, “I feel weak,” as he held me in the aftermath.

“Truly, you could have fooled me just now,” I said lightly. Still, now that I listened to his heavy breathing against the surf, and the rumbled catch of fluid still in his lungs and throat, I understood. “You will heal,” I assured us both.

“I know,” he said with more doubt than I liked. “But this is not a good voyage for me to be weak. We are so few… And not all is well with the others. Pete is Pete, and Cudro is Cudro, but Chris is a… boy, and Ash is only a shade better.”

“I was able to speak to Cudro,” I said. I told him what the Dutchman said concerning Ash. “How are we?”

Gaston snorted into my neck, but then he pulled away a little and I felt him settle his head on his elbow and regard me.

“We are well. I am well,” he said with thoughtful surety. “Not yet in body, non; but if I think on it, in spirit, oui. My Horse is quiet, and though I am anxious about this voyage, I am not anxious about our future beyond it. I suppose that is remarkable. I am pleased they have sailed to the Netherlands and we have escaped—everything—to sail to Île de la Vachon for a time. I suppose I should feel guilt over that, but I do not.”

I smiled though he could not see it. “I feel no guilt, either. I feel well. My only concern—beyond this voyage—is Chris and the havoc he has wrought and might yet wreak. It seems we can never quite empty the cart; and I feel our cart often overturns others’ as we go rolling down the road. It is as if we cannot stop and they are forced to veer off the path in order to avoid us.

“I have spent these last weeks thanking the Gods you are alive and well, and… feeling that others should simply make the best of the situation. But, today, talking to Cudro, I realized how very blind I have been—yet again. I am ever—well, we are ever—the center of our lives; and, despite my recurrent guilt, I feel all must revolve around us. My guilt, compassion, duty, what-have-you, is never enough to lever us from this position of primacy in the solar system of our existence.”

“Did you feel thus before trouble came to us in Cayonne?” he asked.

I tried to recall my thoughts throughout the spring. I shook my head. I understood what he meant. “I do not feel thus when we frolic, non: I did not feel thus this spring in Cayonne; I did not feel thus last fall on the Haiti; I do not feel thus when we rove…”

He nodded sagely. “You do not feel thus when the road is level.”

“Non, I do not.” I rolled to face him and propped my head on my arm.

He rubbed my free arm. “You are correct. We shoulder them aside and make them change their course when we are pulling uphill, because if we stop and pay heed to them we will perhaps not be able to get rolling again.”

I envisioned us as centaurs, pulling hard up a hill with a cart full of Agnes, Yvette, Chris, Gaston’s father, and the babies—and oddly, the Gods. Our wagon was sturdy and held them well; but with our heads and shoulders down to pull, we were not seeing the smaller carts careening off the road ahead of us. Cudro and Ash scrambled to move their rickety vehicle from our path. Theodore and Rachel rolled off one side of the road while little Elizabeth and the shades of her brothers cried. Striker, Pete and Sarah had been trying to pull one cart, and I could see that arrangement was unstable: thus I did not view Pete becoming separated from them and remaining on the road with dismay.

I told Gaston of this image.

“I do not see it that way,” he said with bemusement. “Or rather, I see the Gods plucking them up as we drive them from the road and tossing them into our cart. We have disrupted their lives; therefore we are responsible for them.”

I could envision that too. “Oui, that we are, but…” I could now see us as two centaurs pulling a huge, over-laden dray up a hill. “So, all must revolve around us because we are the only ones pulling?” I asked with alarm.

I heard Gaston shake his head. “Non. They are… pulling yet. Non, my allegory was incorrect. We push them aside and the Gods toss them behind us and then our friends choose to follow us, because we are the ones making a path.”

I could see that, too: our wagon moving ever-upward with a train of smaller carts behind it.

“But it is our path,” I said. “Why do they follow us? I guess that has long been my question.”

“We have purpose, Will. We are going somewhere,” my matelot said thoughtfully.

It was true. We were a thing the Gods placed in their lives. But yet…

“Why do I still feel guilt?” I asked.

“You wish to perceive others as being like you,” Gaston said with amusement.

I chuckled. “That is very similar to a thing Cudro said.”

“He is correct, you wish for everyone to be in love and happy,” Gaston teased.

“Non, just the people I like.”

“Some people want the impossible, my love,” he said seriously.

“I know, and I know Cudro is one of them,” I sighed. “It still saddens me.”

“And we did not choose to bring Chris here,” he added. “His presence here is entirely his doing.”

“True, non, still I feel… responsible: as if the Gods do pluck them up in our wake and throw them onto the road behind us; and, even if they possess a greater inclination to sheepliness—or rather, because they do—it is our duty to choose a path that benefits them—which I suppose we have. By the Gods, I suppose I simply wish to feel guilt.”

“You should not feel guilt. We do not set bait and catch them. We have not pursued anyone we know and made them follow. We have not set our path to chase them down and drive them from the road. We are obstacles the Gods have placed in their lives—just as they are obstacles the Gods have placed in ours.”

It was very true, and my soul acknowledged it heartily. I smiled wanly. “So my supposed guilt is hubris?”

“Just so,” he said.

I was feeling the fool, wondering what knots of madness in my soul led me to follow the same rutted thoughts over and over again. How is it that I can know so many things—in my heart or my head, or both—and yet not be able to follow the logical dictates of them? I supposed this conversation, like all the rest, was another attempt to tease out a piece of those knots. I hoped one day I would be free of them—and the miasma of guilt. I surely did not know how to cut myself free. I was afraid to; as I had been afraid of killing my father. That was a line I must slash; but truly, I had always known that if I began hacking about I could likely lose things I wished to be bound to in the carnage. I knew, I knew, and yet…

“I enjoy castigating myself,” I said at last.

“Oui,” my matelot said, “you like pain.”

My cock perked. I cursed the foibles of my life with my laughter.

We at last reluctantly returned to our friends. Cudro and Ash were sitting silently on opposite sides of the low smoky fire. Gaston deposited his fish near them and joined me in the smoke with his back to the light—a thing he had taught me on the Haiti.

“I cut it down to strips to cook it quicker,” Cudro said. Some of the smaller ones are done. You could take them to Pete and Chris. Pete’s near that damn stream and Chris is watching the sea.” He pointed south along the shore.

Gaston squared his shoulders and nodded resolutely. In the flickering light I could see how tired he appeared. It clutched at my heart. I told myself again it had only been a little over three weeks, but I worried that his illness had been akin to the dread malaria, and he would be afflicted with it for the remainder of his life.

“Sit,” I told him, with a firm hand on his shoulder.

He looked both relieved and annoyed.

I leaned in close and whispered, “You have proven yourself to me this night, you need show no other.”

He snorted and kissed my cheek.

I took a stick with a steamy hunk of meat that Cudro proffered, and gingerly made my way into the darkness near the inlet—a knife clutched in my free hand.

“YaSeeAnyShips?” Pete surprised me by asking from the shadows.

I had not seen or even felt his presence.

I sighed. “Nay, we were otherwise engaged. It is good Chris is watching the sea.”

He snorted and chuckled. “ISent’ImInYourDirection, But’ECameBack Mutterin’’Bout’Ow TheViewWere BetterFromThe OtherSide.”

I sighed again. I was pleased Chris had not come while we spoke, yet… “We must cure him of his squeamishness on that matter.”

“MaybeYaTwo ShouldFuckMore. YouBeTheOnly OnesThatCanNow.”

“Aye,” I chided, “and we are attempting to be respectful of everyone else’s loss.”

Pete made a disparaging noise. “ILikeWatchin’YaFuck.”

I could feel his hungry eyes in the dark. It was unsettling. “Pete, you need a matelot.”

“IGottaMatelot.”

“You need someone you can fuck.”

He sighed and began to eat.

I regretted my words, and struggled to think of something helpful.

“MaybeCowIsland,” he slurred around a mouthful of cayman.

“Aye,” I said. “Though Cudro and Ash are apparently no more, it would be rude and difficult even if one of them were interested.”

“NotMyType, EitherO’’Em. AshIsAWanker WithNoLoveO’Men, An’ CudroWouldna’ Spread’IsCheeksFer AnyManLes’’EWereBeat BloodyAn’ NearDead.”

I chuckled at his assessment. “And since neither would you…”

He snorted and spoke with amusement. “IDidFerStriker. ButNoOther.”

“Chris?” I offered and laughed.

He rumbled with incoherent disparagement and then laughed. “Aye, ICanSeeThat,” he said with great sarcasm. “’EDon’Want Nobody, An’’E’s Never GonnaMake AProperMatelot FerAMan.”

I frowned unseen in the darkness. Since we had made our pact to only refer to Chris in the masculine, Pete was the only one of us who never stumbled on the mention of Chris’ gender.

“Is it because he is a woman?” I asked.

Pete paused in chewing. “YaWant’Im TaBeAWoman OrNot?”

I recalled my musings on the matter. “I still do not know if I want him to succeed in his aim—over the course of his life.”

“WhyNot?”

“I suppose I am still annoyed by his presumption; yet, that is contrary to my sympathies for women in general. I feel it is unfair that they do not share in the rights held by men. I suppose to some degree, it is because it is Chris. I feel that if Yvette or Agnes wished to pursue such a ruse, I would not resent them. But Chris approaches the matter with such arrogance at times. It rankles.”

“SoItBeOn AccountO’YurPast With’Im.”

I sighed. “Aye.”

He was silent for a time and I heard him toss the stick the meat had been on away.

“You still do not like women at all, correct?” I asked. “With the exception of Sarah.”

“ThereBeMany ADayILike’ErLess ThanAllTheOthers. TheyAll… ItBeLikeYaSaid TaChris. TheyAllBeThinkin’ AllCocksBelongTa Them. An’MaybeItBe’Cause TheyGotNone O’TheirOwn, ButForAManWho WantsCocksO’’IsOwn, TheyBeA DangerousEnemy.”

“Aye,” I said somberly. “Tell me truly, have you ever wanted one? Simply looked upon one and felt desire?”

“’AveYou?”

“Aye.”

He sighed and fidgeted. “SometimesICan LookAtSarah, An’Think ’OwSheBeWhen She’sWarmAn’Soft BeneathMe, AnMyCock LikesThe SightO’’Er. ButThatNa’Be WhatYurAskin’, IsIt?”

“Nay. I mean a woman you have not had. A woman you did not want to possess first because… she stole something from you.”

“Aye,” he sighed. “ButTheyAllDid, Will. WhenIBeYoung, TheOlder BoysFucked TheYoungerUntil TheyGotSome ChanceAtAWoman, OrOneO’TheGirls WhoRanWithUs GrewTittiesAnAMuff. ThenTheyFoughtO’er’Em. TheBoysThoughtThey ’Ad TaMakeMore MoneyTaKeepOne. TheyTookStupidRisks. OrTheyGuttedOne Another O’erSomeLittleCunt’s Affection. IWantedNoneO’It. ItWasStupid.

“But… YurQuestion. ThereWere ATimeThen WhenITookTaSpyin’ OnWiminTaSeeWhat TheFussWereAbout. AllTheBoys I’AdWanted WereTryin’TaFuck’Em, MaybeIWereMissin’ Somethin, YaKnow? SoILooked. ThereWasThis OneWhore. SheWereOlder ThanMe. ButAThinBody, LikeABoy’s. SheWould BatheEvery AfternoonAtA Gutter BarrelIn ThisCornerO’AnAlley. AnIWouldSpyOn’Er. SheWould Drop’Er DressAn’WashWithThis LookOn’ErFaceLike… Like She’Ad JustButchered AHogAn’Now SheWasWashin’ TheBloodAway. Dignified. IGuessThatBeTheWord. She’AdDignity. SheDidNa’ Roll ’ErEyesAn’Swing ’ErHipsOrNoneO’That. SheActedLikeALady, An’WhenSheWereAboutMen, ItWereObviousShe Hated’EmAsMuch AsIHatedTheTrollops. MyCock RoseFer’Er AllOnItsOwn.”

I was humbled by his confession; and I understood it. “I feel… If women had not been offered to me as a youth I would not have partaken of them. I understand you being attracted to the dignified ones. I feel the same. I have to think a great deal on the pleasure to come, or about men, in order to rouse my cock with the others. And… Nay, I do not feel it is because the dignified ones hold themselves like men. Nay, it is something else.”

“IThinkIt WasBecause SheDidNa’LikeMen. Nay,” he quickly corrected. “IRoseFor’Er BeforeIUnderstoodThat. Nay, ItBe…LikeTheMoon, OrAThingO’Beauty. AThingO’Nature, Na’Man. SheWasBeautiful’Cause SheWeren’t MadeByAManAn’’AdNuthin’TaDoWithMen. TheOthers, TheyBeAllAboutMen. Lookin’LikeThey ThinkMenWant. Cooin’FerTheMen. ButSheWasJust AsSheWas. LikeTheGodsIntended.”

“I understand; aye, I understand very well.”

He sighed. “ILikedSarahWhen ItWereJustUs. An’WhenSheWere Bein’ABitch, JustBein’’Erself.” He chuckled. “LikedRachelSometimes WhenSheWereLikeThatToo. An’Agnes, ThoughShe WereNe’erABitch. SheJustBeAgnes, AsTheGodsIntended. NoGuile.”

I thought to dispute him on that, but held my tongue. The cunning—my wife—occasionally exhibited was not malicious.

“INa’BeRisin’Fer’Em, ButIDoRespect’Em,” he continued. “That’sWhatMakesMe Angry’BoutThatChris. ’EBeFullO’Guile. Na’LikeAMan.”

“I have seen many a man full of guile,” I said.

“YaKnow WhatIMean,” he huffed.

“Aye, I do. In his defense, however…” I sighed. “Well, despite my annoyance with his arrogance on occasion; and… I was first attracted to her, because of her dignity. I saw she was not like the other ladies, and I felt for her. She seemed to want so much more than a cock in her hand. I think that is why I came to hate her even more than I hated Vivian. Chris knew—knows—better. Yet, as she tells it, I am to blame.”

Pete snorted. “’OwIsThat?”

“She fell in love with me, not because I was a handsome or charming man, but because I was different from the other men of her knowledge. I saw beyond her breasts and smooth skin: I saw her spirit and I admired it. And, I offered her a chance to fulfill her dreams. And then she discovered she was indeed a child of Venus, a feminine creature of love, and she realized I would never sate her desire to be loved as she wished, as a woman; because I do not love women in that way, and my heart was held by Gaston. So her love turned to hate, and she lost herself to the only method of battle she had been taught—feminine guile—and she tried to hurt me—not Gaston. And, of course, he saw what she was about, and that part of him that is mad, yet sees truth, decided to… duel with her, perhaps.”

He sighed and scratched his head. “INeedTa ThinkOnThat. IDone SomeMeanThings WhenIWereYoung. ’CauseO’Love.”

“So did I,” I said sadly. “And I was the recipient of the same.”

Shane filled my mind, and I wondered yet again if he had truly loved me, or…

“Stay’Ere,” Pete said. “IWantMoreFood.”

“So do I,” I said. “I have not eaten yet, and I do not think Chris has, and…”

“I’llSendYurMatelot.” And with that, he was gone.

I fumbled around until I found the log he had been perched upon. I listened to the night. As always after being so engrossed, I hoped Spaniards had not been listening to our conversation. I supposed if they had been, they had become so engrossed they had decided not to fire. Then I worried about cayman creeping closer like marauding wolves in the darkness. They would not care about that which we spoke.

The eyes of the beast that attacked me came to mind: the dull blackness of them, and then even that little light failing as Pete and Cudro’s blades struck home. It minded me of watching Shane’s eyes during one of his attacks. His dark eyes filled with wine and desperation, and then the light dying when he spent himself in me.

Gaston found me with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. Being my matelot, he knew as soon as I croaked a greeting to let him know where I was. He held me for a time, and then I ate the hunk of meat he had brought and told him of my conversation with Pete.

“I remember getting rise at the sight of another boy—and once a monk,” he admitted. “I had been ashamed, but they had been beautiful. Then that night occurred, and then I did not get rise at anything until you; though I suppose I might have been moved to it on occasion if I had not been so wounded. I have seen some men cast in the form of the Gods here, and I suppose I have wished to rise to honor them.”

“I suppose that is it, a salute to beauty, and not necessarily a thing of lust,” I said.

“Now, why were you crying?” he asked kindly with a kiss upon my cheek.

I laughed weakly and told him of my strange comparison of Shane to the cayman.

He was quiet for a time, but then he asked with a thoughtful tone, “How would you feel if Cudro and Pete fell upon Shane with blades?”

I smiled into the darkness and answered easily. “Sad.”

“Because it was not you wielding them?”

“Nay, because… he is just a stupid beast. He just… he wanted me, as I wanted him, and then the world told him no, and… he became mean, like a baited dog or bull. He was too damn stupid to see what he wanted and that it was possible to stand against them. Or, if he did not lack the intelligence, he lacked the courage. He was a vicious log in the stream of my life, and I am one very lucky bastard—in that I was never like him.”

Gaston chuckled with me. Then he sobered. “Non, you are one lucky centaur, with a very big heart.”

“And a holy man, do not forget that I am a holy man.”

We held one another and laughed. Then it turned to sloppy kisses; and I prayed to the Gods there were truly no Spaniards about as I pulled him to me—especially when I was further distracted by his making me do all the work.

 

 

One Hundred and Four

Wherein We Experience Change

 

We saw another boat shortly after we set sail in the morning. Cudro steered us to deeper water, and we watched the little vessel—no larger than our craft—sail north past the inlet we had vacated. With a worried face, Cudro adjusted the sail yet again, and took us even further out to sea.

“If there is a port to the south, how will we know we have sailed past it?” I asked.

He sighed and shrugged his massive shoulders. “When we run out of cayman meat and water.”

I grunted my reluctant understanding. He was absolutely correct: we had little choice.

Gaston and I decided we did have a choice about sating our carnal appetites upon our tiny vessel, though: our compatriots and their woes be damned, we would enjoy ourselves. On our first night far from shore, my matelot engaged in a slow and thorough plunder of my arse; and then we ignored the glares we received in the morning.

On the second night, Gaston woke me after his turn at the helm, and told me he had just washed his cock. With a quiet laugh, I obliged his request, and soon had his member in my mouth while he lay far up in the bow and gripped the boards behind his head. I took my time, kneading his arse cheeks, toying with his nether hole, and finding great amusement and satisfaction in the groans he attempted to stifle. At last he could bear no more, and he pushed my kerchief away and caressed my scalp as he always did just before he found his pleasure. Then it overtook him, and he held my head firmly on his cock as he pumped his hips with one last groan. I prepared a little joke about how he must have washed within as well, because he surely tasted as salty on the inside as he did on the outside; but as I left his member, I felt his body stiffen. With alarm, I looked up at him and found him looking over me. I turned and found four sets of bright and staring eyes under the—newly risen moon. Then Pete’s eyes closed and he gave a great, satisfied grunt and slumped against the gunwale. Only then did I see he had a hand in his breeches. Cudro followed mere moments later—with a hearty chuckle.

“You are animals,” Chris said quietly with a mix of disgust and wonder. “Every one of you.”

“I don’t have a hand in my breeches,” Ash hissed from the tiller.

“You best not: you’re steering,” Cudro said with amusement before patting his bag into shape and settling down to sleep.

“And that—what they did—what Will did—was disgusting,” Ash added.

“You wouldn’t say that if you ever tried it,” Cudro said.

“As if anyone would do me such a favor,” Ash growled.

Cudro sighed. “You’re correct. I’ve never done that for… any man.” He sat up and looked to me. “I mean no offense to those that do,” he said to me.

I sighed. “I take no offense. It is truly quite enjoyable. You should try it.”

“The next time I have someone to try it on, I will,” Cudro said with a snort and a glare at his former matelot.

Ash grumbled something under his breath.

“StrikerBeStubborn OnTheMatter,” Pete said. “WeSeen YaTwoAtIt Afore, An’’ERefusedTaTryIt.”

I could well imagine how that had gone. “Did you ever attempt to put his cock in your mouth?” I asked wryly.

Pete snorted disparagingly and grinned. “YaSayItYurself, IBeMore StubbornThan TheGods.”

I laughed.

“You are all disgusting and pathetically selfish,” Chris said.

“I am not,” I said.

“I do it for Will,” Gaston said.

“Aye, he does it for me,” I added.

“Fine, then most of you are pathetically selfish,” Chris said.

“WouldYaDo ThatForAMan?” Pete asked.

“As opposed to a woman?” Chris asked archly. “Nay, neither, and never!”

“I have done that for women,” I said with amusement.

“You sir, are a whore,” Chris said with a surprisingly teasing tone.

I laughed again. “Never for money, my dear lad: I am merely wanton.”

Gaston and Cudro were laughing.

“SoWhatDo YaDoOn AWoman? LickTheLittle NubbyThing?” Pete asked quite seriously.

“Aye, precisely,” I said. “In truth I have only done it twice, and in both cases it was as a matter of arousal and initial titillation for the lady. I did not proceed until she found her pleasure. They came on my cock and not my tongue as it were.” And I did not mention that I had been quite pleased to tarry only briefly in those furry forests, as both women had not bathed as my matelot did, and thus were quite rank.

“Have you had other men put their mouths on you—aside from your matelot?” Cudro asked.

“Nay, and nay for women as well. I was always afraid of their teeth.”

This elicited great guffaws from Cudro and Pete.

Ash was staring at the star he was steering by with great determination and little expression on his beaked face.

Chris’ fine features were knotted and furled with a mix of bemusement and horror.

“What have I said that would so disturb a young gentleman who surely lost his virginity to the chambermaid?” I teased.

Chris looked away to shake his head tightly and hug his knees.

“HowDoesItTaste?” Pete asked.

“Which, cock or pussy?” I asked, with even more amusement at his serious tone.

“Jism,” he said.

“Arghhh!” Chris howled at the sky and drubbed his heels on the deck before shuddering quite comically. “I am going to retch.”

“Salty,” I said, and watched Chris throw himself down on the deck and writhe as if in pain.

As amusing as his antics were, they were not in keeping with the proper reaction of a young gentleman to such information. I nudged him with my foot. “And how do you find your pleasure, good sir?”

He quickly sat and glared at me. “What would you have me say? I take myself in hand like any young man should?”

“Do you?” I teased.

Even in the dim moonlight I could see him flush.

“So you truly would have me pretend to find lust and seek to satisfy it?” he asked.

I sighed. “It is a thing men do.”

“It will be noted if you do not,” Gaston sighed. “Before Will… I was wounded in my heart such that I did not feel… desire. And it was ever noted by my shipmates. They accused me of being a eunuch, or being impotent, and of being womanly; and then many of them became angry because they realized I did not favor men, and then they thought I sat in judgment of them. There were voyages where I sometimes pretended to take myself in hand in order to keep them quiet.”

“Aye,” Cudro rumbled. “Many thought you were arrogant. You wouldn’t take up with a matelot, and you wouldn’t watch other men or pleasure yourself. It was noted, as you say.”

“So this is truly a thing I must learn?” Chris asked. “Damn you all,” he added with little rancor. “I do not know… What should I do: stroke this bulge we have fashioned and grunt?”

“Well, aye,” I said. “There is… well, not much more to it than that, but there is technique and nuance to… pretending correctly. Some men act as if they are performing for the stage, others are quite quick and tidy. You will need to establish your… form. As you saw tonight, though they both stroke and grunt, Cudro and Pete vary in their facial expressions, the speed of their stroking, the angle of their arms, and so on.”

My words apparently breeched Ash’s stony silence: he cursed and chuckled, adding to Pete and Cudro’s loud and unruly shows of mirth.

“I do not watch any of you do that,” Chris said with frustration.

“NextTimeIFeel TheNeed, I’llLet YaKnowAn’Ya CanWatch An’Learn,” Pete said.

“Oh thank you,” Chris said levelly. “I am sure that will be instructive.”

“Well,” I teased, “In the name of your learning the finer variations, I say we all take ourselves in hand in the morning light and give you several examples.”

Chris sighed heavily. “Wonderful, now I have something to look forward to on the morrow.” He plumped his bag and lay down with his slim shoulders forming a determined wall between himself and the rest of the boat.

We all—save Ash—laughed silently in some belated, token act of respect for Chris’ discomfiture.

I turned to Gaston and was rewarded with his hand upon my member. I laughed harder, but with even less sound, as he propelled me to the Gates and beyond.

I woke to cursing. The sun was just breaking the horizon. It took me several moments to determine the cause for the excitement; then I too was cursing with surprise and wonderment. There was a mountain in our path—or rather, a high rocky range of mountains.

Cudro was questioning everyone who had taken a turn at the tiller last night. All swore they had stayed on course.

I stared at the sun. If I faced the bow—and thus the unexpected mountain—the sun was very clearly off my left hand. “Cudro, is there any reason the sun would be rising someplace other than in the east?”

“Nay,” he snapped with frustrated gruffness. “Those mountains are to the south. Aye, very south. The land must jut out before it goes around the southeastern tip.”

He pointed to the west. There was land there, too. “The coastline must be more uneven than we thought. It’s not describing a gentle arc, but a strong curve to the southeast, and then this mountain range jutting due east. I can only hope it curves back to the south on the other side.”

“There should be waterfalls and streams coming down it,” Gaston said.

“Aye,” Cudro agreed, “water won’t be a problem going ‘round it, but food…” He sighed. “It might be best if we hunted over there where the land is still flat.”

Gaston and Pete were nodding. I sighed and shrugged.

Cudro set our course toward the flatter shore, and we sailed along it until we spotted a grove of fruit trees. We all agreed we could at least gather fruit if nothing else presented itself. We found a small cove bounded to the east by a low rocky outcropping, and beached our craft. Pete wished to hunt, and he suggested Chris accompany him. Chris agreed, and then Ash decided to join them. Gaston offered to stay with our vessel and fish. Cudro and I were left with gathering fruit.

Sometime into this endeavor, Cudro turned to me with an odd, phallic-shaped fruit. “We should have done as you suggested this morning,” he said with a grin.

“Please yourself,” I said with equal cheer.

“Non,” he grumbled. “The moment is passed. It would have put me in a better mood this morn, though.” The tight worry creased his features again.

I shrugged. “Cudro, we sail until we get there.”

He shook his blocky head. “I know damn well this island is not a great mystery, and we shall not fall off the world or any such thing. It has a certain size, and we shall sail around it. But I worry it will take so long that the fleet will have sailed by the time we reach our destination. When I told you all how long it would take, I was thinking of a larger and faster vessel.”

“If they have sailed, then we shall sail on,” I said. “Oui, it would be best if we could find a French ship, but that is not our only option.”

“I suppose I would not care how long we sailed, either, if I had a matelot,” Cudro said with a touch of venom, only to quickly shake his head and throw his hand up. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. My problem is not yours.

“Non, truly,” he added, “it was good to see someone enjoying themselves.”

I had wished to snap that I had not suggested they accompany us, or that we took this route, but I relinquished my anger in the face of his contrition.

“It is not without a care,” I said. “We are all on edge. There is little to be done for it. Perhaps we should all take ourselves in hand as often as possible.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what I would think on at the moment to spur me on. If I think of past lovers, it angers me. And I cannot even contemplate future ones.”

I chuckled. “A man is truly morose when his cock is so mired in thought it cannot rise,” I said lightly even though I well knew how true and poignant my words were, and what sorrow such shallow sentiment could mask.

“I know, I know,” he groaned. “You see my plight.”

“Well then, think of arses you might never plunder. Pete’s for example.”

“Or yours,” he said with a guilty grimace and then a smile. “That enticing arse wiggling you were doing in my direction while pleasuring your man last night was what brought me to stand.”

I nearly blanched at the thought of him eying me so, but then I laughed anew. “Then if this will aid you, my friend.” I dropped my breeches and wiggled my arse in his surprised direction before waddling off to another tree accompanied by his laughter.

He slipped away for a time. I tried not to think of him handling himself while fantasizing about my body beneath him. The image made me shudder: somewhat due to memories of Shane and Thorp, but more in that he was simply not the type of man I sought.

I distracted myself by contemplating why we were all so tense on this voyage. We had surely sailed for much longer in even tighter quarters. Yet on those journeys, there had been far more men about; and like strong spice in a stew, the rankling taste of little privacy and intimate concerns had been softened and leavened more evenly amongst many pieces of meat.

When he returned—gruff and sheepish—we decided we had done enough gathering and returned to the boat. I left Cudro to stow our bounty and went to join my matelot.

He was casting as I approached, and I watched him whirl the weight, hook, and bobber over his head until it whined like a bee, and then release it so that it flew in a graceful arc out above the waves to plop into the darker trough of water between two sandbars. Then he squatted next to the fish he had already caught and regarded me with welcome and curiosity as I came to stand beside him.

“Were you successful?” he asked.

“Well, as we did not have to lure and hook our quarry, oui, we proved to be quite capable at the task.”

He chuckled. “I only asked because you appear pensive.”

“Ah,” I said and regarded the annoying mountains to the east. From where I stood, blue-green waters rolled away to the north, and green, black land rolled away to the east and south, and the mountain rose like a wall in our path. “Cudro is worried.”

I told him of my conversation with the Dutchman, and even of my butt wiggling and contemplations of our being too small a stew to properly distribute the more pungent spices of life.

“Do not wiggle your arse in front of Pete,” my matelot said quite seriously when I finished.

I chuckled, only to sober as I recalled Pete’s hunger from the other night and quickly perceived how that scenario could go from comical to tragic.

“Is that what men getting on well together requires: a steady diet of fornication?” I asked.

“Or them being resigned to none at all,” he said and shrugged. “But buccaneers are not monks.”

“Were the monks so truly happy?” I asked. “I have ever seen priests squabbling amongst one another.”

Gaston grimaced. “Well, there was the problem of the sheep… and the donkey.”

I grimaced and laughed. “Oui, oui, it is unnatural for men to go without.”

“Well, it becomes unnatural if they do,” he said.

“Like here, where men who do not favor men cleave to one another from necessity,” I sighed. “But the more of that, the fewer troubled farm animals.”

He turned to frown at me. “So you perceive it as natural if men favor one another, but unnatural if they do not?” There was teasing in his tone, but it was well embedded in sincere curiosity.

I grinned. “Oui. It is not unnatural for a man to love another; but even I feel it can be unnatural for a man who does not love men to love one merely from necessity.”

“So you are saying I have long viewed you as a donkey?” Now he was truly teasing.

I sighed, wondering at my thoughts. His words were scratching at old wounds, but they had long since scarred over and I felt no pain or blood. “I suppose that follows. I once felt that, did I not? And that any who loved me when it was not natural for them, loved me all the more because they were doing an unnatural thing for my benefit.”

“You are not a donkey, my love,” he said with a smile. “You are the natural recipient of my natural needs and affections.”

I laughed and embraced him. He kissed me until he abruptly stopped to manage the fishing line that was jerking in his hand. He hauled the catch in and I waded into the surf to grab a sleek silver fish as long as my forearm. I clubbed it soundly and tossed it atop the other three he had caught.

“We should pair Ash with Chris if they will agree to it,” Gaston said thoughtfully when I sat beside him once again.

I sighed. “Oui, that would be the natural pairing, but it still angers me.”

He smiled. “We are unnatural creatures, Will. Natural creatures do not think so very much, and hold grudges and opinions and do all manner of unnatural things. They are as they are: as the Gods intended.”

“Are we not as the Gods intended?” I asked with a mix of amusement and curiosity at the turns of my thoughts. Was that not the question of humanity: the question of Christianity even? Were we as God or the Gods intended, or was the whole battle for goodness not waged for or against us behaving in the manner God intended? “I suppose that has ever been my disagreement with Christianity: the whole business of why did God make us as we are if He does not wish us to behave as we are so prone by our natures to do—specifically with the matter of sexual congress.”

Gaston chuckled. “I was pondering that very thing. Finding pleasure in coupling is natural: why do men seem determined to think that God views it as evil?”

“It is the hubris of man,” I said. “Their God, our Gods, nothing divine has anything to do with it at all.”

“Oui,” he said. “So praying will not make our voyage any smoother.”

I laughed. “Non, non, we can pray we are soon graced with a larger stew pot and many more pieces of meat so that those of us with unmet needs can do what comes naturally.”

He sighed. “It will still not solve Ash’s problem. And, truly, Chris is not faced with unnaturalness—he favors men.”

I chuckled as he baited his line with a fat beetle and cast it into the surf again. Then my humor ebbed away as I watched him stand above me with the annoying mountains behind him. My man was beautiful as always, but he was thinner—truly noticeably thinner. Months of living a leisurely life in Cayonne, and then weeks of illness and cramped quarters had robbed him of the dense rippling muscles that had graced his bones since I first knew him. He was still strong and handsome, with nary a pocket or bulge of fat beneath his scarred skin, but he lacked the physique he had once shown.

As I reflected on it, I realized Pete was much the same. He had not begun to grow a paunch such as Striker had been tending toward, but he was not as he had appeared when first I met him.

I studied my arms. I was much as I had ever been as a man, but I was also not at the peak of form I had attained a few years ago when I had routinely joined Gaston in his exercise—or engaged in other labor, or even—dare I say—practice with a blade.

“We should engage in calisthenics,” I said, and immediately winced as I recalled how weak he was. “Not you…”

Gaston nodded thoughtfully. “Oui, everyone else should, rigorous exercise dulls anger and other natural urges.” Then a guilty frown tightened his face. “I think I will merely fuck you.” This brought a weak smile as he turned to me. “As in doing that, I have no need for a substitute of the other.”

“My love, I am content—non, I am elated with that amount of exertion on your part—until you heal. Then we will work hard to keep you from becoming soft and thick as Striker is doing,” I teased. “Being a physician is not laborious.”

He chuckled. “Non, we will have to work hard to keep from becoming fat once we return to a simple life.” He regarded me seriously with the guilty mien once again. “You should spar with Pete: you are correct, you both need it.”

I nodded and sidled closer to him to kiss his cheek. “I will quit lazing about and…” I sighed, now unsure of my initial choice of words. I changed my tack. “I will take care of you as you have always done for me whilst I healed from my misadventures.”

He sighed and kissed me. “I am sorry.”

“For what: getting shot: breathing water while almost drowning? I should smack you for your impudence in the face of fate.”

He snorted. “Smack away, I cannot put up much of a fight.”

Then I could see the fear in his eyes in the harsh afternoon light.

“We are one,” I whispered. “I will pull for now.”

“Will, you may need to pull for a very long time,” he said with fear and shame.

“Gaston,” I chided. “I would rather carry you as an invalid for the rest of my days than lose you. Damn it, we have always spoken of carrying one another in our madness, but the same is true of our bodies. I do not care if you can no longer run five leagues and fight armies: you will always be ten times any other man in my gaze—non, a hundred times. And you do not need to be Achilles to do what you do best: loving me and healing others.”

He sighed and smiled and met my gaze. “I truly have no doubt you will always be here for me; it is just that I have always had to fight—always… And this weakness scares me, Will.”

I thought of all the times I had been wounded and weak; until Gaston, they had always been periods of fear: primarily because I could not always trust those around me and the worst things in my life had come from those I sought to trust. I had been forced to learn to trust my well-being and safety to my man very early in our life together. He had not yet had to learn the same of me.

I kissed him and stood. “Trust me.” I shed my tunic and placed my weapons beside him save a pair of knives.

“You do not appear weak,” he said with a smile.

“Thank you, but I am not at my best, either.”

I pointed to another clump of rocks projecting onto the beach a good league away. He nodded. I kissed him atop his head and dropped down to the sand.

Running was awkward at first as my stiff muscles became accustomed to the process, and then it felt good to run for the pleasure of it. I missed Gaston being at my side, but knowing he was keeping an eye on me made my heart glad as I breezed alongside the dark and tangled forest. I purposely ignored the knowledge that there would be little he could do if a Spaniard stepped from the trees.

Sadly, I discovered how very soft I had become before I reached my destination. I pressed on anyway, determined to at least achieve the rocks before walking for a time. I did it, and panted in the surf before turning and walking back for a good half mile. Then I had my breath again and I was able to run the rest of the distance back.

Gaston was laughing with me when I returned, panting, to his side. “Perhaps we should go ashore every day.”

“Apparently,” I gasped.

Once I had my breath again I embarked on a series of calisthenics, with him chiding me for my poor form when I became lax.

Cudro came to join us as Gaston was holding my feet and counting out sit-ups.

“Are you two at that again?” he asked.

“You should join me,” I gasped.

He patted his belly and grimaced. “I should, but…” he sighed. “I should. But not today.” He pointed at the lowering sun. “They’ve been gone most of the day. There’s daylight left, but…”

I looked to the sinking sun and felt anxious. They had been gone quite a while.

“Oui,” Gaston and I replied in grim agreement.

“I saw where they entered the forest, there should be a trail,” Gaston said.

“I know they could come out anywhere,” Cudro rumbled and scratched his head sheepishly, “But I’d like to follow that trail a ways…”

“Will can go with you,” Gaston said. “I will prepare the boat to sail.”

“They’re probably on their way, and we’re just being foolish,” Cudro said.

“No harm in looking,” I said.

Cudro and I donned our weapons and headed where Gaston indicated. I could not see a trail per se, but I could see the path of easiest passage through the underbrush. Cudro felt this was the path they would take, and so we followed it until we reached a clearing. Then Cudro squatted in the lengthening golden rays and examined the ground until he decided our companions had departed the clearing through another path.

We had gone not a hundred yards further when Cudro called a halt and held his hand up for silence. I soon perceived the eerie lack of bird calls ahead of us that ever seemed to presage the noisy passage of men. Then, I too heard what the birds had: a muted cacophony of sound ahead and to our right. Soon the sounds sorted themselves into bleating, quiet cursing, and the thrash and crack of a person battling the undergrowth with a cutlass. It was not coming from ahead of us on the path.

It was very likely one of our friends, but it could also be someone else entirely. I had realized when we left the clearing that we were indeed on a path created by either man or beast. We had seen no smoke over the trees this day, but there had been a strong breeze from the east.

Cudro and I exchanged a look and I shrugged. He stuck his fingers in his mouth gave a loud whistle. The thrashing stopped, as did the cursing: the bleating continued. Then there was a flurry of violent activity and the bleating stopped with a few pained animal grunts. Oddly, this was followed by a wretched human sob—a woman’s.

“Chris?” I hissed sharply.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord,” I heard him cry. “Who? Will?”

“Oui, we are coming,” I assured him.

We pushed our way through the undergrowth until we found him on what could barely be considered a path in the thick brush. He was surrounded by three dead goats, the bloody cutlass still clutched tightly in his hand. His face was tear- and blood-streaked.

“Where are the others?” I asked urgently.

He gestured helplessly behind him. “They’re following. They’re supposed to be following. I don’t remember the trail being this poor. There were Spaniards. There’s a whole plantation over the hill. We found a herd of goats. And, and…” His features tightened with remembered horror. He forged on past some impasse in his memories. “Pete said to take goats and run back to the boat. I could not remember which path. The goats fought me and they would not be silent.”

I grasped his slim shoulders and shook him lightly until he met my gaze. “Ash and Pete were well when last you saw them?”

A nod.

“They are bringing up the rear?”

A nod.

“Was there an alarm sounded at the plantation?”

He shook his head and a shadow passed through his eyes.

“Were you seen?” I pressed further.

“They are dead,” he said weakly and looked away.

Cudro held up his hand for silence. We listened and heard more unruly goats—from the direction of the path we had left. Cudro and I gathered the rudely slaughtered carcasses at Chris’ feet and led him back to the other path in time to find Ash hurrying down it dragging a brace of goats behind him. He almost shot us. Then to my surprise—and even more to Cudro’s—he embraced his former matelot.

“Pete?” I asked.

Ash nodded tightly. “Guarding the rear. They heard the shot, but we don’t think they’ve found the bodies yet.”

Though, of course, incredibly curious, I held my tongue and took the lead in forging down the path back to the clearing and then the beach. We could sort through events once we were at sea.

Gaston did indeed have the boat ready to sail when we at last emerged from the trees. He regarded our approach with apparent glee and then mounting worry as he saw more and more of our state. He asked the obvious as we deposited bloody goat bodies in the bow. “What happened?”

“We are well. I am well,” Ash assured us. “We came upon a plantation.” He turned back to scan the trees.

I did too, in time to see Pete emerge from the tree line at a run.

“Go!” the Golden One roared.

We did not argue the matter: we threw the two live goats aboard and then ourselves and pushed our craft out into the cove. Pete dove in and splashed and then swam toward us as Gaston and I began to row and Cudro raised the sail. A motley assortment of seven Spaniards roiled out of the brush and onto the beach. Upon seeing our craft, two of them aimed muskets while the rest tried to get within pistol range. Gaston and I were fighting the surf at the entrance to the cove. Pete still had not reached us. To my great relief, two shots rang out from our craft and many of the Spaniards stopped and threw themselves down behind rocks as one of their men fell. I turned to see Ash and Chris reloading. Our newly-minted youth was doing an admirable job of it, despite the tears in his eyes and the shaking of his hands. Soon he was aiming once again. Pete was at the gunwale and Ash snapped off a quick shot before stooping to help him aboard. One of the bolder Spaniards stood and aimed at the broad expanse of Pete’s exposed back. Chris shot the man squarely in the chest—despite the bouncing of our craft. Then we were past the surf and beyond the range of their guns with wind in our sail.

As we all collapsed to pant in the aftermath, the Spaniards ran along the shore, following us. Since a craft the size of ours cannot truly go any faster than a man can run, it was easy enough for them to do. Cudro adjusted the rudder and sail and we began to head northeast and out to sea.

“There’s that port to the north,” Cudro said. “They can send larger craft from it.”

“Will they, for a few goats?” I asked, and then remembered the rest of what I had heard. “How many men did you have to kill?” I asked Pete.

His expression was grim. “NotMen, Boys. Goat’erds.”

“They were little boys,” Chris said quietly with a thin and distant tone that said far more than his expressionless features.

“We stumbled upon the plantation,” Ash said, his voice tight. “We were skirting it when we came across the herd of goats. Then we saw the boys. The older one looked as if he would yell and Pete pounced upon him.”

“’EWereStubborn An’Stupid, SoIKilled’Im,” Pete said with conviction and dared the other two to argue.

Ash looked away and continued. “The younger one… He began to run. And she shot him.” Ash shook his head with a bitter frown. “Then of course it did not matter if they had called out, as the shot alerted everyone who heard it.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Chris asked the deck between his knees.

“WhatYaDid!” Pete said with a glare at Ash. “BetterThey’EarA Shot An’BeConfusedThan ’AveSomeDamnBoy Tell’EmThree BuccaneersBe Stealin’TheGoats. Made’EmTakeTime TaTalkOnIffn’ TheyAllHeardIt, AnThenSend SomeoneTaLook. GaveUsAGood HeadStart. Kept’EmSlow InTheWoods ’CauseTheyNa’Know ’OwManyTheyBeFacin’.”

“She did not know that!” Ash protested. “She did not plan that!”

Chris nodded in sad agreement. She appeared to be a lost and confused child herself: I was having great difficulty thinking of her as male when she wore such an expression and knelt cringing from Ash’s recriminations.

“I only knew I had to stop him,” she said. “I did not think… I…”

“You shot a child in the back!” Ash roared.

Pete stood and roared back. “’EDidGood! ItWereAGoodShot! Little BodyRunnin’ ThroughBrush. ItWeren’tEasy. Proved’ECouldShoot.”

Chris shuddered.

“This is wrong!” Ash growled. “It’s one thing for her to pretend to be a man. It’s another entirely for her to shoot children in the back. Ladies do not shoot children.” He turned a vicious glare on her. “Did it make you feel more like a man? Well men do not shoot children in the back.”

“IStabbedOne InTheGut! WhatDoes ThatMakeMe?” Pete scoffed. “TheyWereTheEnemy. ThoseLittleBastards Woulda’JeeredUs OnThe Gallows. ThrownRocks AtOurBloody BodiesWhile WeFoughtTa Breathe Our Last. WeBeBuccaneers! WeNa’BeNoble GentlemanThat Make Another DoOurKillin’. He,” he pointed at Chris, “BeAGoodMan. ’EDidWhat’E’Ad TaToSave ’IsBrethren. ’ESavedMyLife. MadeAShot CountFromABoatIn Surf. YouWillNa’ BeInsultin’’Im.”

Chris regarded him with wonder and confusion.

Beyond her, my gaze crossed Cudro’s, and we awarded one another bemused shrugs.

Ash retreated within himself and ignored Pete by studying the horizon sullenly.

Pete glowered at him for a time before turning away and squatting before Chris.

She met his gaze and spoke with painful sincerity. “I am a fool. I did not think I would have to kill anyone.” Then she cringed as if Pete would laugh.

Pete smiled, but he did not laugh. “WeAllEndUp Doin’ThingsWe Don’tThink WeWill. ItBeThe WayO’TheGods, AskWill.”

I chuckled ruefully. “Aye, it is the way of the Gods to ask much of us.”

“NowLet’sSkin An’CleanTheGoats,” Pete said gently and moved past us to the bow to examine the carcasses. “SomeoneMade ARightMessO’ Killin’’These… Three.” He held up a leg that was barely attached to a body.

“That was me,” Chris said. “They would not be quiet and…”

Pete shrugged. “WeBeKillin’ ’EmAnyway. ThisJustMakes ’EmHarder TaSkinIsAll. GetThoseOthersUp’Ere.”

Chris meekly stowed his musket and pulled the two living goats to the bow. Gaston and I moved aside to let him pass. We ended up sitting together with our backs to the wind. Cudro was speaking quietly to Ash in the stern. Ash’s expression and the occasional glance he cast at Chris spoke volumes. The damn fool was no longer infatuated with her.

I looked to the pair in the bow.

“Well… the Gods seem to have handled some of our concerns quite nicely; though it seems a shame about the goatherds,” I said.

“You are engaging in hubris again,” Gaston said without mirth. “Who are you to presume their innocence? They might have done much to anger the Gods; and what Pete said of them was true: they are as much our enemy as their fathers.”

“We were robbing them,” I noted.

“And yet the Gods chose to smite them and not us,” he said with sincere bemusement. “We truly cannot question, Will.”

“I suppose so. Or perhaps it as many of the ancients believed, and humanity holds very little interest to the Gods. We do as we will, and They do not judge unless it affects Their goals and ways. We—and we alone—are responsible for our choices—and the burden of those choices.”

“Would you have done the same?” Gaston asked. “As Chris did?”

I envisioned the encounter Ash had described. “It would have depended on the miens of the boys. If they had appeared bewildered and scared and seemed to view me as an inexplicable monster in their midst, I think not. If, however, they appeared cunning, or to possess malice toward me, I think I would have perceived them as an enemy—as much as any man twice their age who would do me harm.”

My matelot nodded thoughtfully. “Oui, I feel the same.”

Pete’s account indicated he had made just such a determination and found the boy he pounced upon to be an enemy. I did not know what Chris saw in the eyes of the one he shot—or even if he had seen the child’s eyes. It did not matter. He had not gone there to harm them. Truly, he had not even arrived on their shore to steal their goats, only to look for food. The entirety of it had been an unfortunate matter of happenstance: with each person present acting according to his nature and perforce accepting the consequence of his actions.

I wondered how I would have behaved: not if I were in Chris’ place, but if I were one of the boys. “There was a time when I would have regarded the sudden appearance of wolves in my life with wonder and curiosity. Perhaps there was a time when I was innocent.”

Gaston met my gaze. “I feel you still are. You award many we encounter the benefit of doubt. Once you determine they are enemies you do as you must to protect yourself or others; but truly, Will, I have not known you to seek to harm unless confronted with malice.”

I was heartened by his words. “I feel the same of you.”

He shook his head. “Non, there is a difference: my Horse often seeks to harm: He enjoys it.”

I wished to disagree, and then I thought on the times we had been the wolves visiting depredation upon hapless Spaniards while raiding. Whereas I ever found myself following along shooting or stabbing those who would attack us rather than cower; Gaston—while under the sway of his Horse—often greeted any he encountered with violence no matter their mien.

“You have always said it is best to turn you upon the enemy at such times,” I said.

He shook his head sadly. “It shames me. Others have made much of our bringing war to the Spanish as retaliation for war the Spanish have delivered on us; or that it is in the name of survival, in that we require provisions—or gold they have too much of and we too little; but Will, I never roved for such excuses. I roved because I was angry with the world and releasing that anger upon men I did not know or have to live with seemed preferable. The men I traveled with would kill me if I did the same to them, but they applauded what I delivered to our purported enemy.”

“Your Horse no longer feels such a need.” I said. It was not a question: I knew it to be true.

“Oui.” He shook his head with wonder and bemusement furrowed his brow. “And He feels as much regret as I. We are as one on the matter. I know we have discussed this—somewhat—when talking of my wish to be a physician—as I was when last we raided—but I had not quite viewed it thusly. It is not merely that I now wish to heal more than harm; it is also that I no longer feel the need to harm.”

I had not viewed the matter with such clarity before, either. “As always, my love, I am very proud of the healing you have done.”

“You should be,” he said with a smile. “You are responsible for it.”

“You know that is not what I meant.”

His smile widened and he met my gaze again. “Oui, I do; but my words are still true: you are responsible.”

“Thank you.”

“It makes me feel better about being weak,” he said thoughtfully. “If I felt the need to do as I have before, my Horse would get me killed in my present state.”

“Non, I am not completely incompetent in battle,” I said with a smile. “Still I am glad neither of us is so moved.”

“Oui,” he said. “Let us pray the Gods do not wish for us to face battle again—not because either of us is weak, but because we do not wish it.”

 

 

One Hundred and Five

Wherein We Sail Toward Changing Lands

 

We sailed through the night with the mountain range a dark shadow to starboard. The morning broke clear with a stiff eastern wind. Cudro tacked back and forth, sailing as close into it as our little sail could manage. As we had food and water, we agreed not to go ashore, and to simply take advantage of the strong breeze and go as far as we could before we were forced to put ashore.

As we would thus be stuck upon our little craft, I resolved to do what I could to follow my new exercise regime. I pushed bags aside and cleared a small space before the mast in which to engage in such calisthenics as I was able. At first Pete teased me, but when I made light of his lax muscles, he became competitive as I expected. We were soon taking turns doing push-ups, sit-ups, and lunges in the small space—and Chris and Ash were harangued into joining us.

By noon, we were giddy and exhausted, and I knew we would regret our enthusiastic excess on the morrow. However, the tension plaguing us these last days was dissipated, and no one seemed prone to argue as the afternoon progressed. The wind fell off, and Cudro angled us a little towards shore. We lay about and talked of pleasant times, mountains and other places we had seen, and sights we wished to see before we died.

As the sun began to sink to the west, Pete took a turn at the tiller. I was woken from drowsing by his cursing. We looked about and spied his concern. There were now mountains to the east, emerging quickly from the haze that had developed after the wind died down.

“What in the name of Christ?” Cudro bellowed.

I had a brief fantastical musing that perhaps we had angered the Gods in some fashion and were now cursed to sail through ever-changing lands and seas until we made amends and they allowed us to return home—or at least somewhere we knew. Perhaps I had embraced the name Ulysses too long in the travels of my youth, and now some fickle and bored deity wished to show me what it was truly like to wander lost. Maybe the goatherds and their goats had been favored in some manner, after all.

We sailed closer to the southern shore; and, just before the sun set, spied the inlet of a stream coming off the mountains. We pushed our craft ashore and built a small fire for the night. Cudro was despondent: he wandered from camp, and Ash followed him. Gaston and I set about roasting the goat meat since we had no more salt to preserve it. Chris and Pete sat nearby and talked quietly: a thing I found quite odd, but decided not to comment on as they were at least getting on well. My matelot and I companionably took turns stoking the fire and sleeping.

As the dawn broke, we found Cudro and Ash had returned, and both looked quite a bit happier with life. Pete and Chris had apparently slept nearby, and near one another. They did not appear as happy as Cudro and his apparently restored matelot, and I would have been both aghast and agog if they had. It did bode well for Pete possibly considering aiding in the ruse of disguising Chris on Cow Island by pretending to be his matelot, though.

We sailed into the deep, early-morning shadow of this new eastern range of mountains. Though sore from yesterday’s exercise, Pete, Chris, and I forced ourselves to engage in another round of calisthenics; though, with considerably less competition and enthusiasm. Pete was even moved to lament how lax he had allowed his physique to become. He readily agreed to spar the next time we went ashore. Then we all discussed whether we should sail through the night or not, only to decide that we should not make such a decision until we saw what fickle things the mountains did in our path throughout the remainder of the day.

We did not see the sun rise above the mountains until late morning. By then, we were trying to convince ourselves the seemingly-unrelieved haze that blended ocean and sky to the northeast was truly the end of this annoying jut of land and not a trick of the clouds masking more of the same. By mid-afternoon we were sure the mountains did end ahead, and we would be able to turn east again—thus greatly increasing our chances of soon being able to head south; as we assuredly must to round the island.

Then Pete snapped, “Ship!” He was standing on the gunwale with his hand on the mast in order to see farther ahead.

Cudro and Gaston joined him in standing, and Ash, Chris, I attempted to sink lower in order to keep our small craft stable. Those standing peered at the point of land marking the end of the mountains ahead. Those sitting peered up at them.

Cudro finally swore and sat with a worried frown.

“There is a ship anchored there,” Gaston said with concern as he, too, sat. “At least a large sloop, but possibly a two-master of some type. She is not moving.”

I stood and peered where they had. If I squinted and turned my head from side to side I could occasionally see what looked to be the darker slice of a hull above the glittering waves in the distant haze. There was the glint of mast from time to time.

“A port?” I asked.

“Nay,” Cudro said. “She’s too far from shore.”

He was adjusting our sail and the tiller and bringing us closer to the beach.

I looked up the line of the land and out until I spied the mysterious vessel again. “We could see her well enough from shore, non?”

Pete and Cudro nodded.

I looked to the sun slowly sinking toward the west. “What do we say the distance to her is?”

“Two leagues, perhaps,” Cudro said.

I looked to Pete. “Well, we wished to run a little, did we not?”

He swore and grumbled under his breath as he donned his baldric and belt.

“Let us get closer,” Cudro said.

We were now close enough to shore that we could not see the vessel anymore. Cudro sailed at least a league farther and then ran us aground on a spit of beach that had a large outcrop of rock between it and the mysterious ship. We pushed our craft ashore and into the brush to hide her from sight.

“Be careful,” Gaston said with great worry as I checked the powder in my pistols and musket.

“Well, I shall not endeavor to be reckless,” I assured him and gave him a kiss that he returned with fervor.

Then I set off with Pete at a jog. It felt good to stretch my cramped muscles again, but I prayed we would not find the need to run back.

We ran along the beach until we reached the outcrop of rock—a small point of land, actually. We climbed it and found we could see the vessel up ahead from about a league’s distance. Judging from the sun and the way the land fell toward the sea to the north, the ship was anchored at the end of the eastern range of mountains. We kept to the forest, though it slowed us greatly, as we made our way closer to the mysterious craft.

Our caution was rewarded when we saw two men sitting atop a rock outcropping ahead. They were smoking pipes and looking up the beach Pete and I had just avoided walking on. We sank deeper into the foliage and made a slow and careful job of achieving the side of the mountain well above and behind the men. From this new vantage point we were able to survey the shallow bay, just beyond which the ship was anchored. She was indeed a sleek but large sloop, and she flew Spanish colors. The pristine beach was marred by three canoes and three sets of footprints. One headed toward the pair of men we had seen, one headed to the middle of the bay, and the third to the outcropping to the east. We sat still and perused the forest and rocks in those directions, until we at last spotted the middle set of men in the golden evening light. They were well above us on a shoulder of mountain, where they could see the bay and the sea beyond.

“They’reWatchin’ FerSomethin’.” Pete said.

“Aye, I see that. And they are not merely keeping watch in order to protect some activity ashore. Unless they plan to pull her ashore and careen her in the morning,” I added. “Or are they smugglers and waiting to meet with someone here?”

“TheyBeLookin’ FerUs.”

I wanted to disagree with him, but my Horse, gut, and even seat of reason were thinking him correct. If the plantation we had stolen the goats from had sent a rider to the port we had passed several days ago, they would have had two choices to track us down: one, they could sail along the shore in the direction we had been going—with us several days ahead of them and possibly perpetually out of reach—even when one considered how fast the sloop would be compared to our little flyboat; or two, they could sail directly across what we had not known was a large bay, and thus wait for us at the point of land we would have to round in order to continue our course around the island.

And, even if Pete and I were engaging in hubris as to our importance in the scheme of these men’s lives, they were still our enemies and squarely in our path.

I swore under my breath. “We will have to sail around them in the night; but damn it, what if the land on the other side of this point takes some unexpected jog? I suppose if we sail far enough to the north, we can…”

“ShutUp,” Pete said with a smile. “YouAn’MeNeedTa ClimbUpThere An’See.” He pointed straight up the wall of stone and jungle behind us.

“To the Devil with you,” I said with a sigh.

He chuckled.

“Not in the dark,” I added.

“Nay, Let’sGoTellTheOthers. KeepHidden. GoAtFirstLight.”

I nodded my grudging agreement and we retraced our steps back through the brush until we were out of sight of their lookouts. We ran the last stretch of beach as the sun set. Gaston had to whistle to us before we passed them.

No one was happy with our news; but truly, we were all happier to have it now when we sat safe in the dark a league from our enemies than having to surmise it while they chased our slow little craft down with cannon.

“Do not go up quickly, and do not come down quickly,” Gaston urged as he massaged my aching muscles. “There is no need. We can stay here for days.”

“But I will miss you,” I teased and did a little massaging of my own upon his crotch.

He slapped my hand away. “You must rest.”

I snorted. “I shall not rest until all parts of me are sufficiently tired.”

With an amused sigh, he redirected his pleasing fingers until every part of me was empty and ready for sleep.

Pete and I set out at first light, laden with a water skin, some roast goat, and our weapons. The way was too steep to go straight up the mountain above our camp, so we worked our way through the forest, climbing ever higher to the north and the point until we were far above the place where the Spanish vessel and her watchers squatted. We knew we had crossed the tip of the range when we were assaulted by the brunt of the wind that blew clouds in from the sea to the east. We were still far below the summit, and so we continued to climb the edge of the peak where there were few trees—going south now. The sun was well to the west when it disappeared into the dense clouds and the rain started. We could not see any distance, and the mud and stone were becoming treacherous—especially as we were staggering with exhaustion. We admitted defeat for the day and retreated to the lee of the mountain shoulder to escape the wind and the worst of the rain.

It had become quite cold. I was sure it was no cooler than a balmy day in London, but to men covered in sweat from exertion and very accustomed to being overly warm in the tropical heat, it had become miserably chilly. We cursed and huddled together under an overhang of rock like a pair of wet cats. We at last curled together for the mutual warmth and slept.

The day dawned bright, clear, and full of birdsong. I disengaged myself from Pete’s clinging limbs and found he had a fine erection in the process. I put some distance between us and stiffly stood to relieve myself on the rocks. He blinked sleepily, seemed confused for a moment as to my identity, and then cursed and rolled onto his back to slip a hand in his breeches and relieve himself in another manner. I ignored him and clambered back up onto the ridge we had been climbing.

Even though we had not achieved the summit, the view was excellent, and I quickly decided we need climb no higher. The storm had blown the haze away, and I could see for leagues in every direction. It was dizzying, and I found myself squatting: as if I feared falling off the mountain, even though there was no precipitous cliff in any direction. If I had fallen over, the most I would have dropped was five feet or so off the rock I sat atop.

The ridge we had climbed was indeed the northernmost edge of a short, mountainous peninsula that ran southwest to northeast. To the south and east, the land dipped in to form a vee before jutting back out to the east in another high and rocky sweep of forested mountain. I could not know what lie beyond that easternmost point. It could be the tip of another peninsula, or simply a place where the land turned south. It could even be a trick of the eye.

I was not here to gauge what could not be known from this vantage, though: I was here to see what could actually be seen. I looked to the west of the peninsula I stood upon and saw I could just perceive where the land turned west. It had taken us most of a day to sail from there to where our boat was now—somewhere below me. Using that distance, I could judge the others somewhat.

When Pete joined me, I pointed to what I had found. “We should be able to sail a large box around them and this bay here to the east. If we use the northern star and sail due west at night for half a night, then turn north and sail until dawn, and then turn east and sail into the sun sets, and then turn south and sail throughout the night, we should be somewhere near that point to the southeast.”

He sniffed and nodded. “IfTheWindHolds TheSame. IfThereBeNo Storms. ItBeNearin’ ThatSeasonNow.”

“Aye,” I sighed. “We will have to trust in Cudro to adjust our course if we encounter fickle winds or weather. We can at least get around the Spaniards and into this bay within a night and a day if it comes to that.”

“YaThinkCudro’s AnyGood?” Pete asked without sarcasm.

I shrugged. I had been worrying along those lines, but I would not surrender to it. “He is not the Bard to be sure, but he has performed as an adequate captain… When he has had charts, and instruments, and a pilot, and…” I sighed.

“ThatBeTrue,” Pete sighed. “The BardWouldBe Cursin’EveryMoment ’Cause’EWouldn’t KnowWhereWeBeEither.”

“Or maybe he is very familiar with this side of Hispaniola and he would find our consternation at the changing shoreline amusing or pitiable.”

Pete grunted, and slid his musket across his shoulders with his hands gripping both ends, so that he appeared rather like Christ on the Cross as he surveyed the sea and mountains around us.

“DoYaThinkChris CouldBeGentledDown?” he asked.

“What?” I had been considering our best course down the mountain and I was as confounded by the change of topic as I was by the actual question.

He sighed as if he had expected my response and yet was still disappointed by it. “IBeenThinkin’ YaAllWereRight. Chris’llNeed AMatelot WhenWeReach CowIsland. ItBeBetterIffn’ ItWereOneO’Us.”

“Aye. So are you planning on aiding the matter by pretending to be his matelot?”

“IBeThinkin’ OnMore ThanPretendin’. I’mTiredO’Goin’Without. ItKeepsUp, YurMatelot’llBeAt MyThroat’CauseI’ll HaveDoneSomethin’ Stupid.”

“With me? To Me? Toward me?” My Horse was glaring at him with concern and annoyance. How dare he assume I would… anything? And how could I stop him if he went mad and attempted it anyway?

He gave a great resigned sigh and looked away as if he could hear my thoughts and they brought him guilt.

That worried me even more. “Pete, I love you like a brother, but I will kill you it that occurs. Gaston is in no condition to fight you. As much as I respect and admire you, I will not submit to any attempts at philandering. I have had enough of that in my life.”

“WellIWouldna’ ForceYa,” he said with a pout.

“Oh for the Gods’… Pete, if not for Gaston, you would only need look at me and I would have my ankles about my ears.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, you great arse.” I slung my musket across my back and began to climb down.

I did not think he would become so deranged as to attack me; but sadly, the fear was there. I was amazed my Horse did not tremble in anticipation of such an event. I supposed much had changed since Thorp and my healing from that. Still, I did not know what I would do or how I would feel if Pete actually came at me with a hard cock and harder hunger in his blue eyes. That image tweaked some string in my soul: it was still not one connected to my cock, though; but rather to my feet and my urge to flee.

Yet, what I had told him was true: if not for Gaston, I would have welcomed him.

We truly needed to get Pete laid. Apparently strenuous exercise and untenable circumstances were not enough to assuage his Horse. Could Chris be convinced to accept him?

“IBeSerious ’BoutChris,” Pete said when we stopped to rest a few hundred feet down the slope.

“Good,” I said with no sarcasm. “I feel you are correct, you need to be laid, often. I, however, do not know how she will respond to the actuality of being a matelot—yours or anyone’s. Her one experience with a man was less than pleasant for her.”

“’ERape’ErTrue, OrWere’EJust RoughOn’Er?”

“As I understand it, she attempted to seduce him and he responded by striking her enough to stun her and forcibly taking what he would.”

Pete sighed. “SoItBeSlowThen.”

I sighed. “Aye. And kind, Pete, very kind.”

“ICanBeGentle,” he said with annoyance. “IWereGood WithSarah.”

I supposed he had been. Still… “It took Gaston a long time to gentle me down, and I wanted him. You will have to court her such that she wants you, and then gentle her down such that she wants your cock.”

He sighed, appeared annoyed, and finally shrugged. “ItBeSomethin’TaDo.”

He started walking again and I followed him into the brush. I was not sure if I should warn Chris. By the time we were halfway down the mountain, I had resolved I would not meddle. By the time we reached the promontory above the bay the Spaniards waited in, I was too damn tired to care what he did with her or how she felt about it.

We found our friends and my loved one as the sun began to sink in the west. I caught a brief second wind at the sight and feel of Gaston. Pete did not, and he collapsed on the beach to sleep as soon as he found a shady hollow. With an act of will, I remained coherent enough to sketch what we had seen in the sand and explain about the large box to circumnavigate the Spaniards and the bay on the other side of the peninsula. Cudro asked me a number of questions, and I answered them as best I could. He seemed worried about the concerns Pete had voiced this morning, mainly storms. I could not help him with that.

Finally, I left them to prepare to depart after the sun set, and I crawled into the temporary shelter Gaston had fashioned and slept for a short while. All too soon, my matelot roused me in the gathering darkness and prodded me into the boat. Thankfully, no one asked me to help push it to sea or expected Pete or me to do much of anything.

Thus I slept as we rounded the Spaniards’ position and only woke with the rising of the sun, to find myself entangled in Gaston’s sleeping arms with a welcome member prodding my backside. I recalled all I must tell my man, but it would have to wait. Ash was at the tiller, and now that it was light he was rousing everyone so that we could check our position such as we were able. I made a prayer to the Gods, stood, and looked about. We were sailing into the sun, and to the southeast I saw a smudge of land across the horizon. I sighed with great relief.

“That should be the point of land with the Spaniards,” I said and pointed.

“Aye,” Cudro boomed happily. “The wind has held steady and your navigation has proved true.” He sobered and sighed. “We’ll see what the afternoon brings.”

“Well, if we can get east of that point by noon, we can always turn south if we see clouds,” I said.

All agreed, Gaston relieved Ash at the tiller, and we all shared a little fruit. Pete and I had no wish to exercise this morn, and Ash refused to do anything but sleep, complaining he had spent the night keeping Cudro company and then took the last watch. He crawled toward the bow and curled up. His matelot joined him and they cuddled companionably. To my surprise, Chris dutifully began exercising without further prompting. Pete, of course, began to harangue him congenially.

I was thankfully left relatively alone with Gaston in the stern. I told him of my conversation with Pete. I saw my man’s Horse come and go in waves of frowns and glaring.

The Golden One was not blind.

“What?” he demanded quietly as he came to join us in the stern. His demeanor was one of worry mixed with an unhealthy dollop of defensiveness.

“Do not ever look at Will again,” Gaston growled so that only the three of us could hear him.

I cringed as Pete’s face hardened at my man’s tone; then the Golden One capitulated and appeared quite the chastened youth. “IBeSorry, Gaston,” he said as quietly as my matelot had spoken. “IJustBeLonely. IWouldNe’er DoThatToYa.”

My Horse heard a thing He did not like and my anger flared. I barely managed to keep my voice low. “Wait. Wait. As if you could. I am not some wanton tart in a tavern.” Both men flinched at my tone: I pressed on. “I do not need my man laying edicts on me, and as for you,” I told Pete, “if you ever seek to lay a hand on me, I will kill you—or die trying. If your mighty cock so rules you, then it had best listen well and know it will only have my dead body.”

Pete crumpled to sit with his back against the gunwale and his face full of pain.

“Will?” Gaston queried.

I turned to find his Horse had fled before my sudden anger. I could see Him standing well back and watching me with wide eyes. I shook my head helplessly and fought tears.

Gaston kissed my cheek and then clapped Pete’s shoulder and said, “Will carries a great wound: he does not like anyone to poke fingers in it.”

Pete sighed and nodded. “IKnow. IWereBein’AFool.” He met my gaze earnestly. “I be sorry,” he said distinctly. “Truly, Will. ItJustBe… IActLikeAnArse. ItBeAThingILearnt WhenIWereYoung. ItKeptMeFrom Gettin’Wounded AsYou’veBeen… An’InOtherWays.” He shrugged. “Now IMissMyMan.”

His words truly finished placating my irrational anger. I smiled weakly. “I forgive you. I cannot imagine how I would behave if I thought I might lose Gaston to… some ambition of his.”

That was a lie: I did know: I had gone slowly mad when I thought I might lose him to Chris and marriage and his title. Pete was going slowly mad. In that light, I felt great empathy for him.

Pete grimaced and nodded sadly. “ItNa’BeMight. ’EBeGone.”

“Oh Pete, I am sorry,” I said. I could hold the tears at bay no longer.

He was as close to tears as I had ever seen him. “Nay, nay,” he said with a sigh. “INeedTa LetItGo. ’E’llMakeSome TalkO’ UsBein’Tagether WhenWeReturn, But… It’llNe’erBe LikeItWere: AforeSarah: Afore’IsArm: AforeMorgan. ThingsChange. WeJustDon’ LikeItNone.”

I glanced forward and found Chris watching Pete with sympathy. I grimaced: I was not sure when we had begun to speak loudly enough for him to hear.

“INe’erThoughtThere’d ComeADay WhenAGirl WouldBe MyOnlyOption,” Pete whispered and sighed.

“As for that,” Gaston whispered. “He is my… cousin.” He shrugged.

Pete frowned and studied him. “DoesThat MeanNay, OrDoesItMean GoSlow?”

Gaston sighed. “Go very slow, please. He is wounded by my hand: I will not let another harm him.”

The Golden One scratched his head and appeared thoughtful. “Aye,” he said at last. “IWillBeKind. IFeelHellBent OnBein’AnArse, ButThatBe ’Ow ItStartedWithStriker, An’Look’Ow ThatTurnedOut.”

“As many poets have noted,” I said, “love is the greatest prize of all, but it is a thing we must expose our underbellies to in order to experience its beauty. It often hurts.”

I expected him to ask what love had to do with it, but instead he asked, “DoYaThinkPoets BeFoolsOr WiseMen?”

I grinned. “It is hard to say, I feel most like to string pretty words together in order to gain another’s bed; or because they have been too long in the bottom of a bottle; but on occasion, one of them stumbles upon and records a great truth that speaks to all men.”

He chuckled in a sad way. I fancied it was the sound a man makes when he realizes he has come to the end of the rope he was using to climb down from a great height, and he realizes he must drop the final distance.

He crawled forward toward Chris. “WhatYa’Doin’ Lazin’About? ’OwMany PushUps YaDo?”

She snorted and crossed her arms while considering him speculatively. Then she leaned forward and asked him some quiet question I could not hear above the wind. And then I saw him quite clearly decide not to be an arse. He leaned forward and answered her with apparent sincerity and a thoughtful mien. She listened, and moved to sit beside him so that they could converse with their heads together and the rest of us deaf to their words.

I looked to my matelot and found him smiling at me. “Change is not always bad,” he said quietly.

“As long as it does not involve losing you,” I replied.

“That would not be change: that would be the end of life.”

“Death is change,” I said sadly.

He smiled and urged me to join him on the stern bench. Once I was there, he wrapped his arm around me. I found great comfort in his solidity in the wind.

The sun was directly overhead, and we were nearly due north of the point the Spaniards occupied when we saw the grey smudge of a storm emerge from the haze of the eastern horizon. It was coming in fast, carried on winds that had begun to push the sea into swells—which we now climbed up and down. We had already turned to the southeast to angle our way a little closer to the shore. Now Cudro turned us to take the wind across our beam and we clung to the windward gunwale, trying to keep our weight on the rising side of the boat as our little craft heeled over and scooped water over her leeward rail. My balls were well up next to my belly, which was considering heaving a great deal. Everyone looked as tense and frightened as I felt. I prayed to Poseidon.

Several hours later, the rain hit. Cudro had straightened our course to the east again, so that we ran into the wind and took the swells head on. We were now much closer to shore, but far too far to swim in the heavy seas if the need should tragically arise. And sadly, we were still quite close to the Spaniards. I considered the irony of our sailing right into their bay after we had sailed all night to avoid them.

We had lashed everything down, and now we took turns bailing. The storm was not a bad one: I had weathered far worse on my voyages, but not on a boat less than a score of feet long.

Interminable hours later, the wind and rain abated. We were still afloat.

I pried the tiller from Cudro’s exhausted hands and sent him forward to derive what warmth he could from his sopping wet matelot. I sat and shivered in the cold in the aftermath of the activity until my matelot wrapped himself about my waist and pulled me off the bench and down into the hull. There at least most of my body could be hidden from the wind and spray if I kept my shoulders hunched and my head low.

I could see nothing. I held the tiller so that it pointed directly at the mast, but in truth I could not tell if I was sailing a straight course until the clouds finally parted. Then I found the North Star—ominously close to our bow—and put it above a notch in the rail beside my left shoulder. I told myself sailing east was best until dawn.

Gaston slept in my arms for a time and at last relieved me so that I could doze draped around him. I woke to his prodding. The horizon was bright directly ahead of us. Our little craft was still intact, though our sail was quite tattered. Cudro and Ash slept together amidship; and to our amusement, Pete slept curled protectively about Chris in the bow. We watched the sun rise without rousing the others. It was a glorious thing to know there would be another day.

Once the sun was too bright to gaze upon, I looked elsewhere. I saw only sea. My balls again retreated to my belly and my stomach roiled. With a great deal of cursing—on his part and mine—I roused Cudro. He turned us south. All eyes were now wide and upon the horizon beyond the bow. All mouths were now assuring one another we could not have sailed so far east that we would miss the island by sailing south. We were all very relieved when at last a grey-green smudge emerged from the haze.

There were mountains ahead of us—and off our starboard side—when the wind rose and the clouds once again gathered on the eastern horizon. We decided we were sailing into the great vee of a bay I had seen from the mountain; and that if we headed to the closest shore we would be well past the Spaniards. So we turned west and only caught the start of the storm before we managed to get ashore. We turned our craft on its side and huddled beneath it.

“We’ll likely be seeing this every afternoon now,” Cudro rumbled in the stuffy gloom.

I could barely hear him over the pounding rain and I yelled in response. “Let us stay close to land as we were before, and only sail when it is clear.”

“It’ll take months to get there if the eastern coast is full of these peninsulas,” He said loudly. “We’ll be sailing in and out of them for the rest of the year. And then we have the coast near Santo Dominga.”

“Aye,” I snapped. “So what would you have us do? Hand ourselves over to the Spanish? Steal a larger craft? Walk across land? Return to Tortuga?”

“I don’t know!” he roared back.

“Then kindly shut your mouth,” I yelled. “We are alive, free, and traveling in the direction we wish to go. That is far more than many men ever achieve in life.”

Pete laughed. “Aye, QuitYurWhinin’.”

Cudro cursed and grumbled in Dutch for a time.

I fancied melancholy fell in the huge drops of rain, like ink dripped down from heaven. I clutched Gaston and he murmured a query.

“Do not let the melancholy claim me,” I hissed in his ear.

His hand went to my crotch, and I expected a poignant but eventually melancholy drift toward Heaven and down again. The rain and wet hair was already minding me yet again of my first tryst with Shane. Instead, Gaston grasped my balls and twisted until I jerked and smothered a groan with my teeth in his baldric.

“Please me,” he growled in my ear.

I took a sharp breath. “Or what?” I hissed back with a grin.

He snorted and tightened his grip threateningly. “Or I will make you sorely regret your lack of appreciation for being alive, free, and sailing in the direction we want—with me.”

I laughed into his shoulder. “Oui, my lord.”

He squirmed about and rolled atop me. I accidentally kicked someone in the process.

“Oh for the love of God, do you two ever stop!” Chris complained.

“Non,” Gaston and I said as one.

Then my man was shedding his wet clothes and tugging at mine. Garnering more chuckles from Pete and curses from Chris, I doffed my tunic and breeches. Then my matelot dragged me from beneath the boat and out into the rain. I did not see he carried his belt until we reached the closest grove of trees. By then I could not have been happier unless he carried a scourge. I howled with delight and the freedom of knowing no one would hear me above the storm.

He proceeded to pinch and kiss and bite me until I was more than ready for the thrashing he gave my buttocks and thighs before plundering my arse with enough abandon to leave him on his knees laughing and gasping breathlessly in the aftermath of his pleasure. I laughed with him, and only reluctantly remained standing, leaning on the tree, where he held me with one feeble hand. Once he had his wind back, I came to understand his intent for keeping me on my feet as he finished me with his mouth. I stopped laughing for a time, but it returned as soon as the light faded.

Then we held one another: the moments filled with sweet kisses and giggles. At last we grew cold and knew we must return to the boat. We made our way there hand in hand, only to stop a score of feet from it when Chris emerged from beneath another tree to step into our path. We were naked, and I flushed from head to cock as I realized what he might have seen. Gaston tucked the belt coiled around his hand behind my back.

Chris was apparently thankfully oblivious to our nakedness, and had seen nothing to make him view us oddly. He had far more on his mind.

“Pete is making advances,” he said.

I cursed silently as I realized the state we must have left Pete in.

“Well,” I said, “is that a bad thing?”

Chris looked from one to the other of us, and seemed to see our nakedness for the first time. He quickly pulled his gaze back to our faces and squared his small jaw. “I am not blind!” He turned and began to walk back to the boat, only to pause and yell over his shoulder, “Or stupid. Or…” He stopped and stomped back to us. “He does not like women and he has a matelot! I will not make the same mistake…”

I stepped in close. “He is not me, and aye, he has thought this through. He knows what he is about.”

Chris fluttered between dismay and wonder. “I can have him?”

I nodded tightly. “If you wish.”

Hope dawned in his bright blue eyes, and then he shook his head with frustration and fear. “Non, I will just get pregnant again!”

“I do not think he has any interest in that hole. I could be wrong, but…”

Chris frowned with confusion and then his mouth dropped open and hung there as if the wind had stolen his words.

I strained to hear what they might have been, and was forced to realize I was regarding dumbfounded silence and not a missing piece of the conversation. This was truly not a conversation to be had while shouting in a storm.

“Explain your concerns to him,” I pleaded.

“Non! Not in there with Cudro and Ash listening… or you two daft bastards! I will not do anything else either. And I will not do that… that… Non, just non!”

Gaston tapped my shoulder, and I looked to him and then to where he pointed. Pete stood outside the boat, his shoulders hunched against the wind and rain. He could not have heard anything we said, but he was watching.

“Then speak with him out here!” I yelled to Chris and pointed.

Chris turned and regarded Pete with fear and consternation. He clutched at me as I began to walk past him. “Non, Will, do not leave me out here!”

“You are a big boy!” I replied.

“Non, I’m not!” he wailed.

“He will be kind,” I assured him with sincere gentleness.

“I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me,” Chris said with desperation.

“You cannot live in fear of the other.”

“He is a man. I cannot be a man if…” He flinched at what he saw in my eyes. “I did not mean it that way! I meant… You said if I am to be a man then I must be manly. I do not wish to be manly with him! Damn it, Will,” he sobbed. “What I want to do with him makes a lie of all my claims to manliness.”

I took his shoulders and shook him lightly. “Then be who you are! Do as you wish! That is the essence of manliness.”

“Truly?” he squawked.

“Truly.”

He at last nodded acquiescence.

I left him and turned to find that my matelot had retreated to stand shivering near Pete. At the sight of Gaston’s hunched shoulders and pinched expression, I was filled with a new concern as I hurried to them.

“Get inside,” I ordered Gaston. He complied with a tight nod. “You might well have won,” I told Pete. “She is scared of pregnancy, though.”

“Don’tWant ThatHole.”

“She is scared of that too.”

“AllMenAre. That’sWhyThey NeedBeGentledDown,” he said with a grin as if I were daft.

I shook my head with amusement and pushed him toward her. “Go and warm her.”

Then I ducked beneath the hull after Gaston.

“What is happening, Will?” Cudro asked in French.

“Pete and Chris are determining if they wish to be matelots,” I said. Gaston’s skin was clammy and his teeth were chattering. “Now please help me with Gaston. He has caught a chill.”

“Well, what the Devil did you…” Ash began to ask and quickly quieted at some grumble from Cudro.

Then the big man was next to us and shedding his wet clothes. Gaston did not protest as I pushed his back to Cudro’s chest. I then pressed my back to Gaston’s chest and pulled his feet and hands over and under my legs as necessary to bring them in reach and chafe them vigorously. My matelot held me and bit the belt he still carried to keep his teeth from knocking together. Cudro rubbed Gaston’s sides and thighs. Meanwhile, Ash hung our few wet and damp blankets along the inside of the gunwale so that they blocked the wind from whistling around the end of the overturned craft and inside the hull to blow upon us. I would have asked him to start a fire, but I knew not what was dry enough to burn within a hundred leagues—perhaps the inside of the trees: of course, by the time we got the insides on the outside, they would be drenched in this rain.

We would have been well enough—it was not truly cold—if we had not been wet and tired; and of course, if Gaston did not still ail. I almost cursed our stupidity, but then I recalled how very much he had enjoyed our play. We would simply have to take more care in the future.

“Now, what is this about Pete and Chris?” Cudro asked when Gaston stopped shivering.

“Pete needs a matelot,” I said.

Ash snorted and sighed.

“You’re saying he truly needs a matelot—in all ways—and not just…” Cudro asked.

“Oui,” I said. “I do not know if it will assist Chris in being manly, but as we have discussed, it will surely serve to hide him better amongst us.”

“Oui,” Cudro said with a chuckle. “No one would believe Pete would bed a woman.”

I shrugged and chuckled. “True, but truth be known, stranger things have happened.”

“Such as?” Cudro asked.

“Well, here we are; and truly, did you ever think you would hold Gaston naked in your arms?”

My matelot, and even Ash, accompanied Cudro in filling our shelter with laughter.

We were entangled in a less compromising—for Gaston—knot of naked bodies when Pete and Chris returned. There was still enough light to see, and they paused with surprise upon slipping past the blankets and under the hull.

“Strip and join us,” I said. “Gaston caught a chill and we are trying to stay warm.”

Pete was already nearly naked, and so it was little for him to do as I asked. Chris took his time, though, and chastely retained his chest wrappings. He joined the huddle with his back to Pete.

“I am glad it is dark,” Ash said. Then he squawked and laughed in response to something Cudro did—at least I assumed it was his matelot.

“This is awkward,” Chris said quietly in the following silence.

“Well, we could engage in some Bacchanalian revel,” I said, “but we have no wine.”

“Have you ever participated in an orgy?” Ash asked with humor.

I felt several bodies around me tense. I chuckled. “Do we really wish to discuss this now?”

“Why the Devil not?” Cudro rumbled with amusement. “A hard prick makes me warm.”

“Yours or another’s?” I teased.

“Oh, God, will this go on all night?” Chris asked with a laugh that was truly good to hear.

Then she gasped and sighed and my prick raised his sated head with curiosity.

“Oh Lady Venus,” I intoned, “please allow us to remember who are matelots are so that there is no need for anyone to be stabbed in the dark.”

There was laughter all around, but the night was indeed soon filled with sighs and grunts as partners touched one another; and the heat rose as we were roused by those sounds and the curious and furtive pressings of a limb here and a back there as our comrades engaged in things carnal. In the end, I was sure Gaston was quite warm, and all seemed right with the world. I took time to thank the Gods for Their largesse in giving us mountains to climb in order to reveal vistas we needed to see: in order to know where our lives might lead.

 

 

Once Hundred and Six

Wherein We Accept New Titles

 

I woke to Gaston coughing, and followed him from the boat out into the grey, predawn light. He was hot to the touch: not overly so, but warmer than he should have been.

“No more playing in the rain,” I chided when he finished hacking up a wad of green mucus.

He laughed until it brought him to cough again. Then he sighed at my worried gaze. “Perhaps you should beat me,” he said quietly.

“Only if it will help you cough more putrescence from your lungs.”

He smiled grimly. “I will not die from this.”

I knew he wished to reassure me, but I felt he was telling the Gods. I looked heavenward. “Dear Gods, please speed his recovery.”

He regarded me with solemn love until he shivered, and then worry rippled across his features only to be replaced by the grim smile again.

“We need to keep you warm,” I said.

“Oui. I keep thinking how much I would like to wrap myself in our blanket, but I see it hanging there on the boat, still damp.”

I went to embrace him, and he flinched at the touch of my clammy skin. He held me tightly, though.

“Since we are not in a hurry,” I said, “and none of us enjoy being at sea in the rain in that little craft, let us talk to the others about coming ashore everyday if it looks like it will storm.”

He sighed. “On one hand, I agree: we are not in a hurry; but on the other hand, I wish to reach Île de la Vache as soon as possible. I keep thinking it will be safe there and I can rest; but I suppose that is an illusion. We know not what we will face there.”

I held him tighter. “I wish we could find a safe place to rest here, on this island, but I do not feel that is possible.”

There was movement from the boat, and we turned to see Chris crawling out into the dim light. He was naked save for the bandages around his breasts, and they had obviously been dislodged. He saw us and flushed crimson.

“We are all wet and naked,” I assured him kindly. “There is no shame.”

He shook his head and sighed before approaching with his wet clothes bundled before his chest so that they hung down and hid his crotch. His gaze flicked down the length of our chaste embrace and quickly away again.

“I am a wanton trollop,” he muttered.

I chuckled. “Non. You would have been a wanton trollop if you had spread your thighs and invited us all to dip our wicks. Last night we were all just men finding their pleasure in the company of other men.”

“I did not do that even for Pete,” he snapped. Then he sighed and studied the sand and then the horizon with a troubled frown. “And what are we this morning?”

“Men trying to stay warm before the sun rises,” I said with amusement. “Gaston is still feverish.”

“Oh.” Chris regarded my matelot with alarm.

“We would don our clothes, but they are wet and will merely make things worse. You might wish to dress and rouse the others so that we can sail.”

“I need to rebind my breasts,” he sighed. “I was hoping you could assist me.”

“Ask your matelot.”

He met my gaze levelly and sighed with annoyance. “He will not be of any use in hiding them away again.”

I chuckled. “Well, as it is not likely we will encounter any we must hide you from for weeks yet, you might as well leave them out.”

He snorted and muttered, “You do not walk about with your cock bouncing with every step you take,” before retreating into the brush.

“My cock does not bounce quite so much as your bosom, I think,” I called after him.

Gaston was chuckling very quietly into my shoulder. “Days go by when I do not consider him to be anything other than what we wish to present him as,” he whispered, “and then, there will be a moment when I regard him and think, but wait, that is my… cousin.”

I looked between us and found him as flaccid as I.

He snorted disparagingly. “Recalling he is my cousin is not enough to make me rise,” he teased.

“What about his naked breasts bobbing with every step, or Pete fondling them?”

He frowned with thought. “Now that…” He grinned and pressed a kiss to my lips.

“Me too,” I whispered.

We laughed.

We roused the others and sent Pete to assist his matelot; which, while amusing in concept, proved to slow our departure considerably when they did not return from the brush for some time. We used the delay to build a small fire and heat some of the remaining goat so that Gaston received warm food. We also discussed our daily regimen in light of the storms, and Cudro heartily agreed to coming ashore every afternoon.

Chris’ breasts were safely hidden when at last he and Pete emerged. The Golden One awarded us a fox’s grin when we complained of the delay.

“It should not happen again,” Chris explained as we pushed the boat into the surf. “We came upon a new way to wrap them so that they need not be unwrapped in order to…” He looked to Cudro and Ash who were regarding him with consternation and flushed furiously. “Never mind.”

We set sail to Pete’s gleeful cackling.

While waiting, we had also discussed our course. As we had food and water, and thought we could make good time with the morning winds, Cudro aimed us across the bay toward the other peninsula to the southeast. We prayed we were past the Spanish, and hoped our destination would show us a less jagged coastline to the south.

We laid our clothes out to dry, exercised, and talked of nothing of import—or carnal—and Chris calmed even though most of us were lounging about naked. Gaston sprawled in the bow and drank up the sun. As he baked, his cough abated and his fever cooled. Finally warm enough, he wrapped himself in our mostly-dry blanket and came to join the rest of us toward the stern.

I had noticed Chris watching my matelot during the morning; now, he possessed a serious mien and scooted closer when Gaston sat next to me.

“I have a question,” Chris told my man.

Gaston shrugged.

“How did you come by those scars?” Chris asked; only to quickly add. “I do not mean to intrude, but seeing them again today, I was reminded of things I heard at your father’s house. If you do not wish to discuss it, I understand. Pete says he will not tell me. I do not know how many people here know. I…”

“I will tell you,” Gaston said simply, surprising me and everyone else.

I could not even recall who knew what; though I doubted Pete truly knew everything, or that Cudro and Ash knew much of anything.

Gaston told Chris about the night of his sister’s death, only omitting the act of incest—a thing we had somehow decided would never be mentioned to others, though I could not recall making any pact about the matter.

“What did you hear at my father’s?” Gaston asked when he finished.

Chris was very serious, and huddled in on himself with his arms about his knees. “No details, but the servants all whispered about the madness.” She grimaced. “They saw… the girl’s red hair and… Well, I had to do much to entice my chambermaid to tell me the truth of what was being said. They assumed the girl would be mad because she had red hair and green eyes. But they—in the manner of the uneducated and overly-pious—do not understand madness as an ailment: they perceive it as a thing of evil. Even before she was born I kept finding crosses in my things, and little charms and other tokens. The superstitious fools believe your mother was possessed, and you… and your sister; and that your father is cursed because he married your mother.”

He looked to Gaston. “They do say you killed your sister; and that your father sent you away for it; but they mentioned nothing of the flogging or… They all seem to feel sorry for him. They adore him, but they feel he is cursed. They say that is why your half-brothers died.”

Gaston had remained quite stoic throughout his recounting and Chris’ words. He sighed and shrugged. “It is no wonder the Church has made such claims, then.”

Chris shook his head. “It is odd. The local priest made no intimation of anything of that nature. He spoke of your poor mother’s madness, and even disparaged the servants’ superstitions. I think, based upon what I heard from my uncle, that the problems with the Church are all political. Not that it matters now.” He met Gaston’s gaze and nodded tightly. “Thank you for telling me.”

Gaston sighed and nodded. “My father is a good man. Please do not ever think poorly of him for what he did to me. He… is a creature of strong emotions, as I am. And he… puts love before all else.”

Chris buried his face in his hands. “I did not understand. I just did not understand.”

I did not know if his words were explanation or apology; and if either, for what.

Awkward silence descended upon us. There was no weeping—from anyone—just a vast sense of tragedy. I took my man’s hand and he squeezed it tightly. Pete rubbed his new matelot’s shoulders. Cudro and Ash appeared thoughtful and withdrawn.

We sailed on. There was a Spanish presence at the end of the eastern peninsula. They apparently maintained a lighthouse there. Thankfully, it was easy enough for us to see at a good distance, and we were able to go ashore for the afternoon storm and then round the point in the night: with the Spanish light to help us navigate.

South of the point, the land thankfully turned south and west. We took to sailing even closer to the shore than we had been, in order to be able to put our craft on the beach and hide it should we see sign of a Spanish vessel. It rained every afternoon, and we spent every afternoon and evening ashore. Thankfully, the moon was with us, and we were able to set sail every night once the sky cleared—and thus cover a little more distance than we would have been able to if we had only sailed in the mornings when it was bright and clear; but the moon would not last.

I did not feel that any of us were unduly worried about going slower, though. Gaston was on the mend again. Everyone was sated carnally and thus spirits were good. All seemed right with the world, and it was only the end of July. We thought the buccaneers would gather on Cow Island throughout the fall, and not sail until after the storm season; and if they were not there, so be it: we would find another way to England. Our only concern was victuals, but even that was being seen to by fishing as we sailed in shallow water.

Two days after rounding the eastern point, the damn land turned due west. We sailed along the rocky shore for an hour or so with the sun overhead and clouds chasing in from the east. As far as we could see ahead of us, a mountain rose to starboard and open sea spread to the south.

I asked, “So, was that the south-easternmost point of the island? Do we now need to worry about sailing at sea to avoid the Spanish heart of this annoying lump of land?”

Cudro, who had been very quiet after our turn west, snorted disparagingly. “Nay, it cannot be. The southeastern point is low and rolling, with heavy forests and plantations. And there is an island off the shore—a large one—the size of Tortuga—that we should have been able to see by now. We should be deciding whether to risk sailing between it and Hispaniola, or sailing around it.”

“Well,” I said, “I do not know whether I should hate this place or love it.”

“Why is that?” Chris asked with a heavy sigh. “I surely hate it.”

“Do you?” I teased. “Think, if we had been able to quickly sail to Cow Island, would you have resolved things with Pete as you have?”

Pete snorted. “Naw.”

“And… Well, Gaston and I do not know what we will face in England, so perhaps this time together is a blessing.”

My matelot stiffened and frowned, and I regretted my choice of words.

“I do not mean to imply that we shall die,” I said quickly. “I only meant that perhaps this has been a pleasant respite between storms in our lives.”

Gaston sighed. “Then the longer the Gods offer us respite here, the worse we should expect England to be?” he asked with a modicum of humor.

I smiled grimly. “Well, I was merely trying to find some good in our odyssey.”

“Nay,” Chris said. “It is likely we have angered some God.”

“Aye, we should consult an augury,” I said.

“It is a shame you are not blessed with prophetic dreams,” Gaston teased.

“Aye, some holy man I am,” I sighed.

“LearnTaRead FishEntrails,” Pete said with a grin.

That evening, the storm was brief and more thunder than rain. We slept beneath the hull of our overturned craft anyway. I dreamed of the skirl of pipes; and when I woke, I was haunted by them: little snatches of melodic sound floating on the breeze. I crawled into the open air and stood straining to hear more. The sound echoed off the mountain, and I felt called to pursue it; but the forest was dark and forbidding, and I knew not if I wished to come upon playful satyrs entertaining mermaids in some cove.

“YaHearThat?” Pete asked from the shadows, and I nearly jumped from my skin.

“Aye,” I hissed. “Pipes?” I regarded him with a heady mix of hope and skepticism.

“Aye,” he said. “AndAFiddle.”

I had been mired in thoughts of a fantastical nature, and not imagined a fiddle, but I supposed some of the notes I had heard could have been produced by one.

“You think it real?” I asked.

He regarded me as if I were daft. “ItSoundsLike Ship’sMusic.”

We roused the others without further discussion. With the sound of us breathing, grumbling, and huffing to turn our craft upright, none of us could hear the lonesome notes, but thankfully, our companions did not argue. We eased our craft onto the moonlit waves and began to glide west with all eyes peering into the darkness.

The wind was coming in fitful gusts from the east, but there was the occasional riff of breeze from the land. We had been on the water for less than half an hour when I heard the notes again. I was not the only one: six heads turned toward the sound.

We continued to sail west, since that was easiest, but we could not be sure if we were sailing toward the music or away from it, as it still seemed to echo off the mountain.

“Whoever it is, they’re on shore,” Cudro said. “And that’s an old French piece.”

“It could still be Spaniards,” Gaston said quietly.

“Aye, aye,” Cudro agreed. “But I’ve a hunch it’s not.”

Thankfully as we sailed west, the music became louder and we heard longer sections. There was definitely a fiddle and a pipe—and singing; though we could not make out the words and thus the language. And then we saw the glimmer of fire upon the shore. It was there for a moment, and then it was gone. Then there was only surf crashing on rocks as we neared an outcropping. We sailed around it, and were delighted to see the wink of fire and hear the call of music once we were to the lee of it. We quickly struck our sail so that it did not give away our position by reflecting the moonlight. Then we rowed into the cove far enough to not be battered by the surf.

There were indeed men upon the beach; and they were playing and dancing in the firelight; and they were singing English songs. They were at the back of a nice cove. There was no vessel upon the water, but there was a dark hulk on the wide beach near the fire.

“They’re careening,” Cudro said.

“On this side of Hispaniola?” Gaston asked with incredulity. “That is not very safe.”

“There’s rocks all about. The Spanish couldn’t get a big craft in here,” Cudro said. “And they wouldn’t be sailing at night. Maybe they needed repairs. I don’t know.”

I could hear hope in his voice. I knew there would be concern and fear in mine.

“So, what do we do?” Chris asked.

We looked to one another in the moonlight.

“I say we hail them and find out who they are,” Cudro said. “If they aren’t friendly, we can sail out before they can even see us. They can’t see us in the dark, and their ship is beached. And even if they try to chase us in canoes, we can fire on them.”

“WeGotDry PowderAgin,” Pete muttered and began loading his musket.

Gaston was loading our pistols.

I sighed. “I feel a great lack of trust.”

“ThereDon’tSeem TaBeAlotOfThem,” Pete said with a guarded tone. Then I could hear him smile. “WeBeMoreDangerous.”

“We might as well discover who they are and why they are here,” Gaston said with a hopeful tone. “At the very least, they might allow us to look at their charts.”

“Aye,” Cudro said firmly.

“All right, then,” I said.

Cudro waited until the current tune ended and then he called out, “Ahoy there!” with his magnificent booming voice.

There was a great deal of scrambling and surprised yelling on the beach as they dove away from their fire and found their weapons.

“We are Brethren of the Coast,” Cudro boomed. “Who are you?”

“The same,” a man yelled in English. “I be Captain Donovan of the Fortune. Who the Devil do you be?”

“Captain Cudro.” Our Dutchman said with a laugh. “I am without a ship at the moment.”

“Cudro? Did ya na’ sail with Striker? What the Devil are ya doin’ out in the water?” Captain Donovan yelled with amusement. “Ya alone?”

“Aye, I sailed with Striker—owned the Virgin Queen with him. And nay, I am not alone. We are sailing to Cow Island.” Cudro turned and whispered to me, “What do we say about the French? They will ask how we came to be here.”

“That is a thing we should have perhaps thought of before we hailed them,” I said with sour amusement.

“So are we,” Captain Donovan called. “We came here first in search of victuals. We’ve been tradin’ with the Spaniards along this coast fer years. Call it a private hen’s nest, iffn’ ya will. Thought we’d gather some food an’ rum an’ sell it on Cow Island while they be waitin’ to sail. But we got in a bad storm an’ took some damage. Been careenin’ here since.”

“Tell them we had a problem with a bit of debt on Tortuga,” I hissed to Cudro, “and we ended up sailing east to avoid trouble.”

“We were planning to sail with the French from Tortuga,” Cudro told the shore, “but we had a bit of trouble there and had to sail a little early—and in the wrong direction.” He gave an embarrassed and disarming chuckle that carried across the water.

“Well met, then,” Donovan said. “Yur welcome to our camp. An iffn’ we got the room, yur welcome ta join us ta Cow Island. Though we would be expectin’ coin if ya need food and rum.”

“Of course,” Cudro called. He looked back to our craft and whispered, “It’s now or never.”

“Aye,” I sighed and took the loaded pistols Gaston handed me.

There were nods all around.

“We’ll accept your hospitality, then,” Cudro called out.

“How many o’ ya are there?” Donovan asked with worry.

I could hear the hissing of men arguing near him.

“Six,” Cudro said.

There was laughter from shore.

“Who ya got with ya? Any that be known?” Donovan asked.

“My matelot, Ash, Pete the Pitiless, Lord Will, Gaston the Ghoul, and his cousin… Chris Sable,” Cudro called out after some hesitation.

There was silence on the shore for a moment, followed by a great deal of hissed conversation.

“Well, they recognized our names,” I said. “And what is this Lord Will business?”

“That’s what people call you,” Ash said. “Behind your back.” I could see the glint of his grinning teeth in the moonlight.

“Lovely,” I sighed with amusement. I vaguely recalled something of that sort, but it had been so long since I need worry about such things, I had put it from my mind quite happily.

“ChrisDon’SpeakEnglish,” Pete said quietly.

Chris regarded him with surprise.

Pete met his gaze. “TrustMe. BetterIfYaDon’t TalkMuchAnyway. YaBeAFrenchNoble.”

“Am I your matelot?” Chris asked with equal parts concern and warning.

“Aye, aye,” Pete assured him, “ButTaCover FerYaNa’Bein’ Like Striker, I’llBeSayin’ SomeThings—InEnglish—ThatYaMay Na’LikeHearin’. NoBlushin’ OrSnortin’ OrArguin’Like YaKnewWhatISaid.”

“All right,” Chris said with an assured nod. “I have played this game before. I used to pretend I could not speak French while visiting my Aunt. That is how I learned a number of things from the servants.”

“Good. ThatBeWhat WeWant’EreToo.”

We rowed the rest of the way to shore and quickly found ourselves surrounded, at a discreet distance, by a dozen men. A lanky, disheveled man with an eye patch and tricorn hat stepped forward and introduced himself as Donovan.

“Ya be Pete all right,” a burly man said to the Golden One. “Where’s yur matelot?”

“With’IsWife,” Pete said.

There were grimaces, groans, and then laughter all around.

Donovan and a bald man whose face was contorted with skepticism eyed Gaston and me.

“Ya truly be Lord Will?” Donovan asked.

“Aye, I am.” I bowed and met their gazes levelly. “Why such concern?”

They looked to one another and seemed to reach some accord.

“Morgan be lookin’ fer ya,” Donovan said.

I was not sure if I was surprised or not. “When did you learn of that?” I asked.

“It be all o’er Port Royal this spring,” Donovan said. “He were askin’ men ta go and fetch you and the Virgin Queen from Tortuga. Said ’e ’eard ya be there from the French. Said ’e did na’ wish ta sail without ya.”

“Did he say why?” I asked. It was nearly a pointless question: Morgan would surely never tell the buccaneer rabble why he wished to do anything. He viewed them as the Roman mob, a force to be controlled and wielded at his discretion.

“He says ya speak Spaniard like a noble, an’ ’e needs ya ta make ’im sound like a noble to the Spaniards,” Donovan said.

That sounded like a thing Morgan would say: and it even sounded like a plausible reason for him to want me with them while raiding—if one knew nothing of how I had departed Jamaica; of my father’s meddling with Governor Modyford; or of Morgan’s wish for me to help control the French.

The bald man next to Donovan was looking away in a dissembling manner.

“Did he offer a reward?” I asked, and was rewarded when the bald man flinched with surprise.

Donovan scratched his head and appeared sheepish. “Twenty-five pieces above a man’s share fer any who brought ya to ’im.”

“Such a sum,” I said with a feigned appreciative whistle.

Beside and behind me, Gaston and my comrades were tense and quiet.

“And from any treasure gained and not his pocket?” I asked.

Donovan and some of his men nodded and grimaced.

It was interesting: if Morgan had truly wished to have me captured, he would have simply placed a price upon my head and promised to pay it from his own purse. But nay, he was offering to allot money from the shared treasure; as if by assuring or acquiring my services, someone was performing a notable service for the entire raiding endeavor. Money above a share was a thing paid for an act of bravery or in recompense for the expertise of a fine surgeon or pilot. And I felt that if Donovan and his crew truly thought Morgan’s request was against my best interests, they would have been attempting to over-power us and truss me up like cargo so that I could not escape. Instead, they were standing about looking a trifle guilty for even considering receiving additional money.

“Well,” I said cheerfully. “I will be happy to assist Morgan with his translation needs while raiding—as I always have; and to fight and serve as a good man in the fleet. And I am flattered he has offered money for my safe arrival; but, we were hoping to sail with an old friend of Gaston’s, Pierrot. And, since we have found ourselves in such odd straits in this strange land—on such a little boat—I am willing to give you what money we have in exchange for our passage to Cow Island. It is not the noble sum I could offer if we were anywhere near our gold,” I sighed and shrugged expansively. “Our fortune is on the Virgin Queen and bound for France as we speak—but it is hard silver; and you can have it in your hand tonight to divide as you choose: if you will agree to take us to Pierrot on Cow Island.”

Donovan and his men appeared quite pleased. I prayed my companions would keep surprise and dismay from their faces. Of course, with this plan, we ran the risk of Donovan’s men attempting to rob us if they thought we carried a great deal of gold; and in truth, we carried more than they could possibly make raiding with Morgan—unless of course he actually managed to take Cartagena or some such unbelievably wealthy Spanish prize. However, I thought we would risk more if they thought they needed to capture us to insure Morgan’s reward.

I glanced to Gaston, and found him calmly pulling a coin purse from our bags. I suppressed a smile. The purse he had selected was his, and carried the money he used when in the market. Our cache of gold to hire Pierrot or another French captain was hidden away in Gaston’s medical bag.

My matelot spilled the purse into his hand with a grimace. I saw a few glints of gold amongst the pieces of eight and other silver coins in the moonlight. I guessed the amount we were offering to be worth over ten pounds. It was not a princely sum, but a damn fine payment for these men to take us to a place they were going anyway. Gaston made subtle show of being reluctant to part with it as he stuffed the coin back in the bag and handed it to me. I tossed the bag to Donovan, and he and the bald man smiled happily.

They gleefully offered us rum and fish stew. Then we sat in a cluster and ate and passed a bottle while they huddled beneath a torch and counted the purse.

“How much money did you give them?” Chris asked quietly—in French.

I told him.

“Do you have more money?” Chris asked—very quietly.

At my nod, he nodded. “I have more money than you gave them.” He frowned. “Will it be needed?”

I grinned. “Their ship is probably worth two hundred or so pounds. When Morgan raided last, each man gained a share amounting to around fifty pounds. So you see, it is quite the sum we have given them for this purpose.”

Cudro was chuckling. “Oui, it will either keep them off our backs or at our throats, depending on how honest they are.”

“Aye,” I sighed. “I thought of that, but I thought this best.”

Pete was frowning at us. Chris translated for him.

“We’llBeSleepin’ InWatchesAnyway,” he said and took a good pull of rum.

“Aye,” Cudro said in English, “and I agree with you, Will. This way they should feel we hired them, and they’re working for us and not Morgan.”

“That is my hope,” I said.

“I am not pleased Morgan is seeking you,” Gaston said.

There were sighs all around.

“Neither am I.” I told them of my reasoning concerning that matter, and ended with, “and apparently he knew well where we were.”

“And he did not send men, nor did your father,” Cudro said.

“Aye, perhaps my father has given up. I do not know.” I shrugged. “At least we now know Morgan is truly gathering the Brethren on Cow Island—and that there are Frenchmen among them. We will have to question Donovan as to the ships anchored there.”

“What if your father has abandoned his attacks against you?” Chris asked. “Could you forgive him, as Gaston did his father?”

It was an astute question, yet it served more to remind me of how many conversations on this subject Chris had not heard—and that I had not told him fully of the abuse I suffered while abducted. Yet, what was that compared to Gaston’s mistreatment by his father over many long years—and the flogging? My father had never actually laid a hand upon me. Perhaps if he had, I might respect him more.

I felt Gaston’s gaze upon me, and I turned to meet it. His regard spoke of his not caring how I answered.

I looked back to Chris and spoke with annoyance. “It would take a bloody miracle. I will admit: strange things can happen; but I do not find it in my heart to forgive him. Whereas, Gaston had forgiven his father before his father came to him to make amends. And,” I continued with less rancor, “my father is a very different kind of man than Gaston’s.”

“And Will never gave his father cause,” Gaston added.

“And why do you ask this now?” I queried.

Chris sighed thoughtfully. “It appears our respite is over. I was contemplating what we were truly about with this voyage.”

Pete had pestered Cudro into translating for him, and he regarded his new matelot with a frown. “ThereJustBeThings ThatNeedBeDone.”

“I came here to kill Gaston for what he did to me,” Chris whispered in French. “I… let it go.”

I noted that he did not say he forgave my matelot.

I stifled much of what I would say on that: we had already discussed that matter; or so I thought. Instead, I asked, “Why should you care if my father lives or dies? Or do you have another reason for questioning the intended goal of this voyage? A voyage, I might add, that you were not invited on.”

“Oui, oui, oui,” he said with annoyance. “All right, then: I do not wish to go to England.”

I snorted at his hubris. “Well, we shall see how you feel on that matter after a week of sailing with these fine men.”

“I do not know if I wish to do that, either,” Chris said sharply. “And oui, I am well aware I have no say in the matter.” He stood and walked to the edge of the forest to stand and stare into the darkness.

“He is nothing but trouble,” I growled in English.

Cudro was finishing translating for Pete, who was glaring at Chris over his shoulder, and then at me, and then at Donovan and his men, and then at the heavens. He finally returned his gaze to me and growled, “IDidna’AskFer’Im.”

“I am not blaming you,” I said.

Pete cursed quietly. “I’dGoAn’YellAt’Im, ButThatWouldMake It Difficult ToTellTheseBastards ’EDon’SpeakEnglish.”

I snorted. “Aye, and I would go and yell at him, but that would make it difficult to tell these bastards he is your matelot.”

“Well, I’m not going to go and yell at him,” Ash said with an amused shrug and another pull on the rum bottle.

“He’s Gaston’s cousin,” Cudro offered while pretending to be very interested in the sharing out of the booty Donovan was doing.

I looked to Gaston and he shrugged. “What needs be said?” he asked with mild amusement. “He is unhappy about where we will be going. What is wrong with that? If any of us were truly happy about sailing into peril we would be mad. I am not mad—at the moment. So why are you two angry with him?”

Pete leaned forward and glowered at Gaston. “ILike’Im. ButI’llBe DamnedIf I’llBeHitched ToACartWith Another DamnIdiot IMustAlways ArgueWith.”

I could not suppress my amusement. “Well then, you are damned; and I suggest you learn French.”

Pete swore and snatched the bottle from Ash. He took a long pull, glared over his shoulder at Chris, started to stand—and stayed with us. He pushed his legs out and leaned his back on the fallen log Gaston and I were using as a seat.

“A weak matelot is not worth anything,” Gaston said.

“YouTwoDon’t ArgueAllTheTime,” Pete grumbled and heaved a resigned sigh toward the heavens.

Gaston and I regarded one another. I could see him considering the question as I was. It was true, we did not argue like Pete and Striker had.

“We talk,” Gaston told Pete.

“Aye,” I said. “We discuss everything and decide on the best course of action. And if one of us does not like it… We put… the cart before our Horses.”

My matelot laughed. “Our Horses like it that way.”

“What does that mean?” Ash asked.

Donovan and his men were joining us with happy smiles and wary eyes.

“I will explain later,” I told Ash.

“Well, let us tell ya who we be,” Donovan said. “I be Captain Donovan. This ’ere be me quartermaster, Harry the Hairless,” he pointed, of course, to the bald man.

He then proceeded to point at each of the remaining ten men and give a name and position on the ship. Thus we learned their cook was a wizened old fellow by the name of Stinky, and their carpenter was a hawk-beaked and tall fellow who went by the name of name of Rodent. The rest were counted as able-bodied seaman and held no title as pertained to their vessel. They all possessed some form of moniker, though, above and beyond their names: thus we met a heavily-scarred man called Cutlass Corky who was famous for taking a particular Spanish ship—Cudro and Pete had actually heard the story; a short and stocky man they called the Colonel who had served in the English Army—and killed an officer, purportedly by accident; and a handsome fellow they called Great Prick, or just Prick for short. This fine gentleman happily dropped his breeches in explanation, and we toasted his enormity and admitted his name was indeed apt. And as Rodent was his matelot, we toasted his good fortune as well.

Once we had finished their introductions, I understood that anyone sailing with Donovan and his men should best enjoy having a moniker. This was apparently not to tell one Harry from another or disguise a man’s Old World identity—the reasons many of the Brethren had pet names—but because Donovan took great delight in them. Their introductions had included anecdotes of why the man in question was named as he was, and how soon after meeting Donovan he had received his new title.

Then it was our turn. Cudro had already told them our names, to the extent it cost us a purse, but now we were expected to introduce ourselves and say some little thing as they had done. After all the social occasions I had introduced myself at over the years, I found myself dreading this turn before the crowd. I could not understand why. I wished to think on it, but there was too much nodding and smiling to be done. So I looked to the others, and found them looking to me.

Chris had thankfully rejoined us, and Cudro and I had made much of translating all that was said so that he could smile politely or laugh at some joke. I had to admit, Chris was quite accomplished at the game. He did not betray his knowledge of English in the slightest, even after he began to sip the rum. Now, however, he appeared quite panicked.

Pete, normally a truly bombastic individual at such occasions—though nowhere near the showman Striker was—appeared deep in the rum and yet still angry about something—Chris, I supposed.

Gaston was relying on me, as he ever did in these situations due to his reticent personality and broken voice.

And Cudro seemed reluctant to take the lead for some baffling reason. And Ash was obviously deferring to his matelot—the Captain Cudro.

I felt like a forest creature surprised by a lantern as I looked about the fire lit circle of glassy eyes and tight grins.

“Come now, we already know who ya be,” Donovan cajoled.

Nay, he did not, my Horse thought with curious stubbornness; and I realized that was my concern: I was not who these men thought, and I did not know if I wished to portray myself with truth or a lie. Nay, I did not wish to lie.

I stood, brandished the bottle, and took a preparatory swig. “Well, Cudro introduced me as Lord Will when we arrived, but that is not a name I have chosen amongst the Brethren. It is a moniker bestowed upon me due to an accident of my birth.”

They laughed at this, and I relaxed into their regard.

“I am no longer a lord,” I continued. “And I truly no longer wish to be associated with the facts of my birth. I prefer to go simply by the name of Will, as that is the name my matelot bestowed upon me. But after hearing your fine names… I find myself wishing for something a little more colorful and representative of my nature. But as I have not had occasion to give it thought, I do not know what that will be as of yet.”

“You don’t get to name yourself,” Donovan said.

“Will the Solicitor,” the Colonel said. “’E talks like one.”

“Ulysses,” Chris said with his best male voice—after Cudro finished translating for him.

I regarded him sharply and spoke French. “Non, I have used that before: never again.”

He shrugged and replied, “I thought it appropriate.”

“Herakles,” Gaston said. “You are no longer Odysseus, you are now Herakles.”

“What’d’EDo?” Pete asked. “NoWait, Ain’t’EAConstellation? ThenThere’sThatOtherOne, Oriun.”

“Herakles—or Hercules as the Romans called him—is the son of Zeus by way of one of Zeus’ many mistresses. This angered Zeus’ wife, Hera, and she tormented Herakles throughout his life, making him perform many great labors to assuage her,” Gaston said.

Donovan and his men had grown quiet, and thus they heard my man well enough, but once he finished, they erupted with a question asked by several mouths. Their captain waved them quiet and asked it succinctly with great amusement. “I’ve heard of this Hercules, but what has your man done to deserve such a title? What great labors has ’e performed? And wasn’t this Hercules renowned for ’is strength?”

“Well, I am not renowned for my strength,” I said.

“Nay, but for your constitution, aye,” Gaston said. “I have never met a harder man to kill.”

“IDon’KnowNothing O’ThisHerakles GreatLabors, ButIKnowWill,” Pete said loudly with a grin that could scare any pack of wolves. “’E GotTwoWomin PregnantWithout Lyin’WithEitherO’’Em, An’’EGoesOff Ta FightWolvesThe WholeWorld BeScaredOv. ’EDon’ShootMen InThe’Ead, Naw, ’EShoots’EmInTheEye. ’EToreTheEyesOutta TheLast ManThat’Ad ’EmChainedAn’Beaten. An’ETookThe MaddestManI E’erMet As’IsMatelot, An’Made’ImSane. CaymanCan’tEvenKill’Im, An’Morgan BeAfraidO’’Im.”

“And that is all God’s honest truth,” Cudro said and toasted me with a bottle.

I laughed, because… well, it was true, and when a man is praised in that way he had best accept it graciously.

The rest of the men were laughing as well, and Donovan called out, “Well Hercules Will it is then, an’ we best be hearin’ these tales as we sail.”

“Well, if I am Hercules, then this is his stalwart companion and teacher, the great physician, Chiron the Centaur.” I pointed at Gaston.

“What be a centaur?” one of the men asked.

“HalfMan HalfHorse,” Pete said.

“That does sound better than Gaston the Ghoul,” Stinky the cook said. “No one wants a surgeon called the ghoul: it just don’t seem right.”

“Um… I heard he weren’t called the Ghoul on account o’ ’im bein’ a surgeon or physician,” Harry the Hairless said.

“Nay,” Gaston said, and they quieted to listen. He smiled at them. “I was called the Ghoul because I arranged the bodies of the dead.”

“Why?” Great Prick asked.

“Because I was mad,” Gaston said. “But now I am sane because of Hercules here.”

There were cheers all around.

Pete stood and pushed me heartily so that I sprawled between Gaston’s legs. “NowSitDown StrongMan. Let’sGetThisFinished.”

“I laughed. “How much have you had?”

“Enuff! IBeDrunk EnuffTaDance, An’IWould’Ear SomeMoreO’These FineMen’s Fiddlin’An’Pipin’. IBePeteThe LionHearted. AnybodyWantTa ArgueWithThat? ’CauseIBeDrunk EnuffTaFightToo.”

No one did, and I was sure there was a Spaniard somewhere along this coast wondering why he heard laughter on the wind.

“This’EreBe MyNewMatelot,” Pete continued when the mirth abated somewhat. He pointed at Chris.

“This will be a test,” I whispered quickly to Chris in French.

“I can see that,” he replied with a worried frown, though he did award Pete a grim smile for our audience. “Does he often get this drunk?”

“Non, he usually allowed Striker to do the lion’s share of their drinking.” I chuckled.

“’Ow did a wee lad like that become a buccaneer?” one of the men was asking.

“How did he become your matelot?” Stinky asked.

Pete grimaced. “Well, ItBeLikeThis. StrikerGotAWife. SheBeAFineWoman. ButTheBed Na’Be BigEnuffFer TheThreeO’Us.”

I frowned up at him, wondering how much of that was truth and how much bluster.

He ignored me. “IWereNa’Lookin’ FerAnotherMatelot, ButThis’Ere BeGaston’sCousin, JustOffThe ShipFromFrance. ’EDon’EvenSpeak ProperEnglish.”

“Neither do you,” Cudro rumbled.

Pete walked over and kicked at him until Cudro was forced to retreat with a hearty laugh.

“EnuffO’That. SoGastonAskedMe Ta’ElpLook After’ImSome, Teach’ImA ThingOrTwo, Teach’ImThe WayO’TheCoast.” Pete’s leer left no mistake as to his meaning. “SoIDid, An’IFoundThat Na’OnlyCanThe LittleBuggerShoot, ’E’sGotManyAFine TalentAMan LikeMeCan Appreciate.”

In the midst of my sincere mirth at his quite convincing tale—truly, everyone present was bent over with tears in their eyes—I hazarded a glance at Chris who sat behind me with Gaston who was dutifully translating all Pete said. I was not sure what was more amusing: my matelot’s diplomatic actual translation of Pete’s innuendos, or Chris’ laughter—which might have been engendered by the same.

Chris awarded Pete a very erect middle finger, and the Golden One’s face broke into a truly happy smile and he pounced upon his matelot. I was very pleased when said matelot tumbled off the log with an almost masculine grunt and did not squeal like a girl. The kiss Pete bestowed upon him, and Chris’ response, gave me pause and my cock rise.

“What is he called?” someone was yelling.

“The Brisket?” Gaston gasped with amusement.

“Non, non,” I said quickly, “I will not be explaining that.”

“We’ve just been calling him Chris,” Cudro supplied.

“’Ow about Pete’s Cub,” Donovan suggested enthusiastically.

“Aye, ILikeThat!” Pete came up for air to shout. “ThisBeMyCub.” He pulled himself to his knees and leaned on the log. “Now, ThatBeCudro An’’IsCub, Ash. WhyYaBeCalledThat?” he asked Cudro. “KeepItShort,” he added.

Cudro stopped laughing and attempted to compose himself. “Well, the first raid I went on, I was told to go and find all the valuables in a plantation house. While other members of the crew were tearing apart jewelry boxes and sideboards, I found a room with paintings—fairly good ones from what I could see—and I thought I had found great treasure. I began to collect it all, only to be attacked by the housekeeper. She was screaming at me about the “cuadro”—the pictures. She tried to stab me and I shot her. Then, of course, I emerged with my treasure and got laughed at by the entire crew. They had no interest in art. My captain teased me for being a true idiot to shoot an old woman over a stack of worthless paintings, and the crew began to tease me by yelling, Cuadro, Cuadro, whenever I came near. It got shortened and stuck.”

“ThatWeren’tShort, ButItWere AFineStory,” Pete said with a loud guffaw.

All agreed that Cudro’s name was very fine indeed, and then all eyes turned to Ash.

He was busy laughing at his matelot, as he had apparently not heard the tale, either. He sobered when he realized it was his turn, but he took the bottle and stood to salute everyone. “I am Ash. It doesn’t mean anything. It is truly my surname. I do not feel I have done anything to warrant a fine buccaneer name—or even a bad one.”

I thought of all I knew of Ash. He was a gentleman. Hs father was a planter. He had come to sail with the Brethren rather than be sent off to England to study the law. I laughed. “He chose to be a buccaneer rather than study the law,” I said. “Make of that what you will.”

“I would say that makes him an honest man,” Donovan said. “Honest Ash.”

Ash bowed and laughed.

“Enuff!” Pete bellowed. “Let’sDance! Lessin’YaAll BeTooTired…”

There was much guffawing at that and their musicians struck up a lively tune. To my further amusement, Pete then dragged Chris into the circle near the fire and taught him to dance a jig.

I abandoned all hope of garnering any information about the ships already at Cow Island—or anything else of import. It was to be a night of revelry; and I prayed only the Gods heard our cavorting.

 

 

One Hundred and Seven

Wherein We Cannot Hide from the Beast of Many Heads

 

Though we had imbibed enough to make us tipsy, Gaston and I chose to refrain from any additional rum after it became apparent our comrades were quite intent on becoming insensibly drunk. The space around the fire became divided: the men who wished to dance went to the south where they could wade—or fall—into the cooling surf as they needed; and those not inclined to such physical exertion moved to the north, and sat around on logs with their backs to the forest. Gaston and I joined the latter, and I was pleased to note we were not the only ones that chose to eschew the rum. If the Spanish arrived, at least a few men would have the presence of mind to run.

Amongst those not inclined to dance were Cudro and Donovan. I was pleased when the lanky captain joined us. Despite my earlier concerns that such matters would have to wait, we were able to ask what he had heard of plans for raiding against the Spanish. He reported that Morgan had sent men to Petit-Goave and Cayonne to invite the French.

“Has he made any announcement as to his target?” I asked.

“Nay,” Donovan said. “But I only know what I do on account of my bein’ friendly with Captain Norman o’ the Lilly. Norman says Morgan wants a truly big prize. ’E be tellin’ ’is friends this be the last. ’E wants ta be famous fer all time fer it.”

“You do understand he does not care how many of us die in the process of him becoming famous?” I asked.

Donovan chuckled. “Is that na’ the way o’ all great men?”

“The ones written about in the histories, aye,” I said with a smile.

“I don’t know if I’ll be sailin’ with ’em,” he said. “Me boys an’ I been talkin’. Some o’ us are gettin’ too old fer makin’ war on the Spaniards. There’s good money ta be made tradin’ with ’em. Most times, it’s easier and less dangerous. An’ the truly great treasure taken from the fleets be a thing of the past.”

“Amen,” Cudro said with a sigh and took another pull on the bottle. “We made more money trading with the Carolina colony this spring than we made raiding Maracaibo last year. And no malaria, and no Spanish blockading harbors, and no torturing people to find their jewelry.”

“Aye, aye,” Donovan said. Then he frowned. “So why ya be goin’ ta Cow Island?”

Cudro looked to me. I suppressed a sigh and glanced to Gaston. He shrugged.

“Gaston and I are pursued by troubles from our former lives,” I said. “There is a matter we must attend to in England, but before we could arrange to go there, we ran afoul of the French.”

“The Brethren?” Donovan asked with a worried brow.

“Nay, the Catholic Church,” I said and watched his expression.

He did not appear to be daunted by the Church. He grimaced comically and took a pull on a bottle. “I hate the damn churches. All o’ ’em.”

“Those are my sentiments,” I said.

“So ya be seekin’ Pierrot?” he asked.

“Aye, to see if he will take us to England,” I said.

He nodded thoughtfully. “That makes a good deal o’ sense then. Morgan won’t like it none.”

“I do not live to please the man,” I said.

Donovan laughed. Then he shrugged. “So ya were runnin’ from the French, an’ that’s why ya be takin’ the long way aroun’ Hispaniola. I were wonderin’.”

“It has proven to be the longer way,” Cudro said. “How far from the southeastern point are we?”

Donovan cleared a little space and used a stick to sketch a rectangle with a deep indentation on one end, and a great protrusion on the other. As if someone had take the middle of the island and pushed it east while leaving the top and bottom of the box in place. Then he drew a small island very close to the end of the upper arm of the great U, and another toward the end of the southern arm.

“That there be Tortuga,” he said and pointed at the upper islet. “An’ that be Cow Island.” He pointed at the lower circle.”

Cudro had had grown very still and he swore quietly.

“Where are we now?” I asked with amusement.

Donovan made a little X on the bottom of a little protrusion of land above the big protrusion. I laughed: we were barely a third of the way around the island. Worse yet, the mountainous peninsula, upon whose southern shore we now sat, was the northern leg of a great deep rectangular bay, that—if we had not heard their piping—we would have sailed into for another several days and been forced to sail out of for the rest of week. And we still had the great hump of land to the east to round.

“Oh God, Will,” Cudro said. “I am so sorry.”

Donovan regarded us curiously.

“We did not steal a chart when we stole the boat,” I said.

Donovan’s craggy face split into a wide grin. “Ya did na’ know the island? An’ ya be sailin’ about it in a dinghy?”

Cudro swore. “That dinghy was the best we could steal. And nay I do not know this side of the island. I have never had occasion to sail here. I have sailed all over the damn West Indies, but not here. And most buccaneer ships I’ve been on have not had charts for this or the Porto Rico to the east, or… anything except the passage from Barbados to Jamaica. Every time I’ve seen this damn island on a map, it’s been shown as round.”

Our new captain was laughing, but he clapped Cudro’s shoulder companionably. “Do na’ curse yourself, man. I’ve never sailed near the Main or Terra Firma. I’d be lost there.”

Cudro accepted this, but I could see that his self-esteem had taken a serious blow. He hugged a bottle and sat on a log and appeared close to tears.

“How long to reach Cow Island on your vessel?” I asked.

“She not be fast, and there be Spaniards to avoid, an’ storms; but if the winds be with us, which they almost always are goin’ west, I say maybe a fortnight and a half,” he said with a shrug.

“And when will your ship be repaired so that we might sail?” I asked.

He smiled widely. “We plan ta float ’er tomorrow. That’s what we be celebratin’ tonight.”

I thanked the Gods for the timing of our arrival. “So, perhaps three weeks to Cow Island, perhaps longer?” I asked. “By the end of August?”

He nodded amiably. “Then we can all stay put ’til the storm season passes.”

I suppressed a sigh. I dearly hoped we could convince Pierrot to sail north and away from the storms during the autumn. The truly great tempests were said to work their way up the Florida and Carolina coast, though; but those were supposed to be quite rare.

The musicians changed their tune, and I saw Chris weaving away from the fire. Pete was still dancing. I excused myself from Donovan and company and went to fetch Chris.

“I think I will be sick,” he said in a less-than-masculine-sounding voice—and English.

“I think you are drunk enough to endanger yourself,” I chided and guided him further from the others.

He promptly appeared alarmed and then sprayed the nearest shrub with vomit.

“I should lie down now,” he said weakly in the aftermath.

“After you drink some water.” I led him to the log Gaston still sat upon, and helped him ease down behind it. Then I went to our boat and retrieved our bags. When I returned, I stowed everything behind the log and handed Chris our water skin. He drained it. I took it back and wondered if they had a water barrel; and if so, where?

Gaston took my hand before I could go in search of it, and pulled me down to sit beside him. He appeared happy and peaceful, but also watchful.

I sat close and kissed his cheek. “How are we?”

He smiled. “I am well. However, I do not think we will see England before spring—if then.”

“Do not say that,” I sighed.

“I will not speak of it, then, but we shall surely live it,” he said with a grin. “And I am well with that in all but one matter.”

“Our loved ones?” I asked.

“Oui,” he sighed. “They will not know what we are about, and they will have long to wait. I was thinking that your babes will be born in the spring. I was wondering how big they will be when we finally see them. And Athena will likely be walking before we ever meet her. Jamaica will be two this December.”

“We will see them next year,” I promised.

He shook his head. “Not if we cannot guarantee their safety.”

“Oui, but…”

He put a finger to my lips. “Oui, this will not kill us; and we will go as slowly as we must so that it does not.”

“I love you,” I whispered to his finger.

Pete staggered over. “WhereBe…?” he stopped when he spied Chris lying in the sand behind the log. “NeedTaTeach ’ImTa’Old’IsRum.”

I was tempted to say that Striker had excelled at that occupation—and look where that had gotten them—but I kept my mouth shut on that facet of the problem and showed another. “When he is drunk, he forgets he does not speak English.”

“ThatBeA ProblemThen,” Pete sighed; but his mien was forgiving as he eased over the log and pulled a blanket from their bags and tenderly tucked it around Chris’ inert form. Then he lay down beside his matelot and stared up at the stars. He arranged his weapons around him. “YaTwoBeSober?”

“We will keep watch,” I assured him.

“Good, TheseBe FineFellas, ButWeKnow ’EmNone.”

I chuckled and looked about. The musicians were wrapping their instruments, and some of the men were finding hollows to sleep in. On another log, Ash was apparently attempting to console Cudro, who was apparently only interested in the bottle of rum in his mouth until our beloved and confused Honest Ash put his hand down his man’s pants. Our big Dutchman then apparently decided there was more to solace than a bottle, and allowed Ash to lead him into the shadows of the woods. I noted a few other pairs had done the same. I considered sticking my hand down my matelot’s breeches and leading him into the woods, but found I had an empty water skin in my lap. We had duties.

Donovan wandered up. “Ya two want the rest?” he proffered a mostly empty bottle.

“Nay, we will keep watch. Is there water?” I asked.

“Ask Stinky, he an’ Rainy Day Bill be on watch,” he said and touched his hat in salute before stumbling off to find a place to sleep near the hull of his ship.

With a shrug to my matelot, I went and found Stinky.

“How is it you have never run afoul of the Spanish while in this condition?” I asked with a smile.

He laughed and finished loading a musket. “Donovan has a sense about such things, and he seldom lets us at the rum. And Spaniards don’t sail at night, not along this coast.”

“I am reassured, then. Donovan said to ask you about water; and to tell you Gaston and I will also be on watch.”

“Good, good,” he said. “We two will be watchin’ the sea; whilst you and your man would do a good turn by watchin’ the forest iffn’ ya don’t mind. I don’ think we’ll be able to rouse anyone ta relieve us.”

I agreed, and he led me to their provisions and told me to take what I needed. I filled the water skin. Then I tripped over a crate of surprisingly-firm and shiny apples. I selected two.

Gaston was as surprised as I was with their condition. “It pays to trade with the Spanish.”

We made sure the fire was banked and burning low, and then we took up our weapons and turned our backs on the camp to wander out into the darkness. Soon our eyes became accustomed to the dim moonlight and the night seemed filled with the roar of surf and snoring behind us, and the calls of night birds in the trees ahead. Gaston led us up onto an outcropping of rock that overlooked the camp, and we sat with our backs to one another.

“Perhaps we should take turns sleeping,” I whispered in French. “We will have to assist in the moving of that behemoth tomorrow—if it is done on the morrow.” I chuckled. “I have my doubts about our sailing in the morning.”

“I have never been drunk enough to dance,” Gaston said wistfully.

“Do you wish to remedy that?”

“Not if it leads to me lying helpless on a beach on a Spanish island,” he said. Then he shrugged. “That is the root of it: I have never felt that safe, or been that trusting—except with you.”

“Aye, I recall seeing you drunk enough to vomit on Striker.”

“I do not remember that,” he said.

“Probably for the best.”

He was silent for a short time, and then he asked, “Why were you angry with Chris?”

I had to think to recall when I had been angry with Chris—tonight. “Perhaps you should drink more,” I teased.

He waited, and I knew I would not escape. I sighed and thought on it.

“Because he said what I felt and knew I cannot say,” I said at last.

“You wish to forgive your father?” Gaston asked with incredulity.

“Non,” I said quickly, only to realize that was not correct. “I meant I do not wish to go to England, either; not on this pretense or any other. I wish to sail along tropical coasts with you at my side forever, perhaps. But… Now that you ask that, perhaps that is true, too. If my father would only offer me some reason, and attempt to make amends as your father did, then perhaps… Truly, I have never wished to hate him. I have always been confused as to why he hates me.

“But I cannot conceive of that occurring, and so I will do as must be done. It is not revenge as I feel Chris thinks it is, though. That is a thing he does not understand.”

Another thought occurred to me. “I used to hate myself for forgiving Shane.”

Gaston turned and kissed my shoulder. “My Horse still wishes to usher you through the Gates of Heaven in their presence, and show them how much you can be loved; but it is a fantasy. They would never understand. They would only see carnal lust.”

“I think that is why I pity them,” I said.

“I pity them as I always have: for losing the opportunity to know and love you.”

An old fantasy of holding a pistol to Shane’s head and hearing him beg for forgiveness flowed through my thoughts, but it seemed a sorry thing now: the overly-indulgent imaginings of an angry youth. I imagined we would see one another, he would regard me with surprise, and I would shoot him in the eye; and, as he slumped to the ground, I would feel a sense of loss.

“We will see what England brings,” I sighed.

“In the spring,” my man teased.

I gave a disparaging snort.

In the morning, the men of the Fortune were slow to rise as expected. Gaston and I—who had taken turns napping—were the spriest of the lot. Cudro and Chris looked as if they wished to die and might do so at any moment. We plied them with water and sat them in the shade. Pete did not even choose to tease them, though he did spend a little time speaking with Chris.

The sun was well up when Donovan managed to harangue his crew into setting up the winches. We were all expected to take a turn. I was concerned about Gaston attempting such exertion, but he was concerned that he would be perceived as a laggard if he did not try. He did quite well for a few minutes, but then my worry was proven correct when he began to cough and had to step away and catch his breath. As the line was taut, and I was on the same turn, I could not abandon my post to go to him; all I could do was increase my efforts to compensate for his lack.

Donovan dove onto Gaston’s bar. “Is he well?” he asked of me as we pushed.

“Nay, he was shot and nearly drowned in our escape from Tortuga,” I said.

“Then he should sit!” Donovan said.

I chuckled between breathes. “He did not wish for you to think poorly of him.”

Donovan swore.

My matelot was soon able to prove his worth, however, when the Colonel received a nasty gash on his arm when a line snapped. Gaston gleefully made much of stitching the ragged wound closed, and Rodent—who as carpenter had been acting as their surgeon—was greatly relieved there was someone to deal with bloody messes, as he apparently despised that part of his duties and professed to know little of it.

My only other concern during the day was Chris. He took a turn at the windlass and performed better than I expected, though it was obvious Pete was doing much of the work for both of them. When they finished, Pete had to help Chris into the shade.

My heart clenched when Donovan remarked, “Pete’s Cub be a dainty thing, ain’t he? He be built like a girl.”

Thankfully, I had oft considered what I would say when presented with such inevitable observations. “Aye, he is small, and weak, and it gives us concern. We did not think he would fare well at all here, but he refused to return home. Damn fool youth. He has spent his days riding horses and tavern wenches, and now he thinks he is old and brave enough to see the world.”

Donovan chuckled. “We were all right fools at that age, weren’t we?”

I laughed. “I know I was. I left my father’s house and traveled Christendom when I was no older than he is. I was a bit taller, though.”

“Aye,” Donovan said with a shrug. “Short men be stubborn bastards, though.”

I saw no doubt in our captain’s mien, and I judged that hurdle apparently cleared. Once again, I was amazed at the blindness of men.

I was also amazed that we managed to get the Fortune back into the water before the afternoon storm rolled in. By the time it began to rain, we had proven the Fortune was once again seaworthy—or at least that she could float and the repaired section of her hull did not sprout leaks. As no one wished to load the two cannon and mound of trade goods during the rain, we sat about under their improvised shelters or on the ship, and ate apples and shared a few bottles of wine, while the sky thundered and dripped.

Our new vessel was indeed an ugly thing. She was a round-keeled tub of a brigantine and looked to be of Spanish design: not only was she less than graceful to the eye, she looked as if she would rather bob about on the water than cut through it in the manner of a vessel that wishes to actually go someplace. And with her lack of keel, I thought it likely that under good sail she went sideways as much forward. Still, at two-score feet long and over ten feet wide, her whale-like belly could hold a great deal of cargo.

She was quite suitable for Donovan’s smuggling and trading ventures—as long as she need not flee anything: a thing I could not believe she did not have to do on occasion. I thought Donovan fortunate indeed, or perhaps he knew something of the Spanish we did not. He surely was capable of trading with them without being hanged.

There was no revelry that night; instead, paired men availed themselves of one last chance at privacy before we returned to living aboard a ship. Gaston and I were no exception.

As we lay entwined in the afterglow, I tried to console myself concerning a lengthy stay on Cow Island. Gaston and I had enjoyed many firsts there, and delightful days and nights on lovely beaches. Then I realized a troubling thing.

“I do not feel we shall be able to slip away for weeks at a time as we have in the past,” I said. “Not unless we take Chris and Pete with us.” I told him of my conversation with Donovan, and finished with, “I think we will need to help keep the ruse alive and watch for possible dangers.”

He sighed. “Then we shall take them. I was just thinking of that lovely cove we lived on the first year. Do you remember that night when I impaled myself upon you?”

I laughed. “My cock remembers it well: you tightened about me like a noose.”

We chuckled and cuddled together until my cock and aching body decided they were willing to do all the work once again.

Our labor the next day started early, and thus by the time it rained, we had actually set sail. With her hold filled, the Fortune rode low and heavy in the water. She still towered above, and felt huge and palatial in comparison to, our forlorn, stolen dinghy—which we left beached in the cove.

With only eighteen of us aboard, there was more than enough deck space for all. However, we six newcomers were low in the pecking order, and thus we were not given the pick of the planks. We were happy to take the bow, though; as most of the rest of the crew was amidship or further astern, it allowed us some privacy for Chris.

Unfortunately, it did not afford four of us any privacy from Chris—or Pete. We soon discovered how intent the Golden One was about gentling his cub down. Gaston and I often ended up at one another after listening to Pete and Chris rolling and groaning about in the shadows. Cudro and Ash often chose these times to go aft and socialize with the rest of the crew.

In truth, we all spent a great deal of time with the rest of the crew, even Chris—while ever at Pete’s side—to insure that there were no missed grumblings or gossip about our French youth. There were none, even when Chris menstruated halfway through our voyage; a thing we had long worried about. Between the general stench of men, our being at the bow and thus our smell rarely being blown toward the rest of them, and the regular presence of gutted fish amid ship where the cook fire was, no one noticed the smell of his blood. It reeked to me, and I could not conceive of how they could not know, but they did not. For four days he changed his bandages as he must, rinsed them in a pail of seawater, and emptied it over the side every night; and none seemed the wiser. I supposed much of their obliviousness could be credited to their lack of knowledge of women. Truly, none of Donovan’s crew had ever been married or spent time around a woman since leaving their mothers’ knees.

We sailed for three weeks without event other than the occasional pause in our voyage made necessary by a strong storm. We reached Cow Island in the last week of August.

There were eighteen vessels in the bay on the lee of the island; none of them appeared to be Pierrot’s Josephine. Donovan and Cudro named most of them before we had even rounded the reefs. The largest was Morgan’s flag ship, the Satisfaction—the poorly-captured French frigate that had once been called the Cour Volant. Bradley’s Mayflower, on which we had sailed under Striker’s command one year, and Norman’s sloop, the Lilly, were also present.

Donovan chose to anchor well away from the other vessels. He would not announce that his ship had rum, wine, apples, and grain for sale. If he did, or if Morgan learned he had a hold full of victuals, the provisions would be requisitioned for the good of the fleet and the defense of Jamaica. Instead, the Fortune’s crew had a cunning plan—one they had used before—of trading discreet amounts with other vessels over the course of the fall. Foremost, this meant they allowed no one else on their ship, and told no one of what she actually contained.

Knowing this, our cabal of six had discussed what our plan should be in accordance with what we found on Cow Island. Now that we saw there were no French—as of yet—I looked to my friends and received grudging nods all around. I sighed: I had really hoped we could go ashore and escape for a time.

I approached Donovan after we were well anchored and he was preparing to go ashore. “Since no one else will be able to claim the prize for bringing me here,” I began. He grinned. “And since the French have not arrived, yet; we were wondering if you and your men would mind if we stayed aboard—with none the wiser—until either the French arrive, or we have great reason to believe they will not. If they arrive, we will wish to speak to them first; but in either situation, we will wish for you and your crew to receive Morgan’s offered reward—just not yet.”

He nodded. “I think that a fine plan. Let me discuss it with my men, though—lest someone become confused and bollix the matter.”

As expected, the good crew of the Fortune—who obviously felt more loyalty to one another than to the Brethren fleet—was quite happy to consider us as part of their cache. Thus we sat our arses back on the planks and forlornly watched canoes and boats row from the ship to the shore and back again. I thought it better we were prisoners here, by our own choice, than Morgan’s guests for whatever reason he might have for truly wanting me here.

Donovan was a feast of interesting news when he returned. We all gathered around to hear that the fleet had only arrived a few days ago. Morgan had sailed from Port Royal on the Fourteenth under a commission from the council of Jamaica to make war against the Spanish. Apparently two Spanish ships had harassed the coast of Jamaica in June, pillaging and burning a few small plantations. The Spanish commander had nailed a declaration of war to a tree—along with several buccaneers. Morgan and Modyford finally had their war.

Needless to say, I was not pleased.

A few more ships arrived over the following days—none of them French. Toward the end of the first week of September, Morgan sent Captain Collier of the Satisfaction—the same Navy bastard who had commanded the ill-fated Oxford and survived its demise with Morgan—off to raid for provisions with half the ships present and about four hundred men. Morgan let Collier take the Satisfaction while he moved his flag to the Lilly. Bradley and the Mayflower went with Collier.

We continued to sit. Though in the first days we had pined for the shore, by the second week we realized that being the skeleton crew of ship in the bay afforded us far more privacy, fewer concerns, and a lack of sand in our linens and hogs’ fat—a matter of infinite annoyance when one trysts on beaches. When we wanted grit, we paddled a canoe out to the sand bars of the reef for entertainment. From there we taught Chris and several members of the Fortune’s crew to swim. And out of boredom and a sense of duty, we swabbed the decks and assisted with mending rope and sails. By the end of September, time had fallen away and we drifted in the hands of the Gods, waiting to see what They would deliver next.

The night of the Fifth of October, I woke from a fitful slumber to find Donovan pacing the deck. In the dim light of the one lantern, I could see Harry the Quartermaster watching his friend and captain. Donovan went below and I could hear his boots as he walked the length of the hold.

I went to join Harry. “What is amiss?”

“You too?” he asked. “It be Donovan’s gut.”

“Indigestion?” I asked. “I believe my matelot has…”

“Nay, nay. It be a feelin’ in ’is gut. ’E says God an’ the angels speak to ’im through it. An’ it be no jest. ’E can hear storms on the wind an’ Spanish on the waves.”

“I have wondered at your good fortune in dealing with the latter,” I said.

He nodded. “Donovan can smell a bad one. ’E feels it if they be lyin’ an’ na’ the trustworthy kind. An’ there be times ’e’s seen reefs that were na’ on the charts. We only took damage this last time on account o’ us bein’ stuck between a storm an’ a Spanish ship. We could na’ go where we wished ta avoid it. Better the rocks than the noose, I always say.”

“I agree. So he feels something this night. Has he said what?”

“’E doesna’ know yet. That’s why he be pacin’.”

“Were you here the night the Oxford blew?” I asked.

Harry laughed. “Aye, an we weren’t on ’er.”

“Neither were we.”

“Someone feel it?” he asked.

“Nay, it is more that we were angry about the treatment of the Cour Volant – and Striker did not wish to attend the captain’s party without his matelot.”

“Ah,” Harry said. “So it be because you be true members o’ the Brethren.”

“Aye. The Way of the Coast served us well that night.”

Donovan had re-emerged on deck. He noticed us and came to sit. “I dreamt o’ a storm,” he said with a worried tone.

We looked at the clear sky and bright stars overhead.

“They can roll in quickly,” I offered.

“Aye, aye,” Donovan said. “An’ I got that poppin’ in me ears. It either be a storm, or somethin’ else bad comin’ our way. Maybe an earthquake. Maybe the Spanish will attack. It’s na’ like they don’ know o’ this place. An’ ’ere we be, all bottled inta this bay, without our big ships an’ guns.” He shrugged irritably. “Or maybe Morgan’s threatenin’ ta do some dastardly thing.”

“Should we sail about a bit?” Harry asked. “We’ve been talkin’ o’ offloadin’ in the cave.”

Donovan nodded. “Aye, let’s sail at first light.” He stood and walked forward a little before returning to us. “I count eighteen. So we all be aboard, ‘les one o’ these lumps na’ be ours.”

Harry chuckled. “They are if they be aboard.”

“What cave?” I asked.

“There be caves along the cliffs,” Harry said. “We got one off a good cove that we sometimes stow cargo in.”

“What will you tell Morgan?” I asked.

“The truth,” Donovan said. “That me gut say there be trouble on the wind. I’ll tell ‘im when we get back. Iffn’ I be right, ’e might na’ be ’ere ta tell. Iffn’ I be wrong…” He shrugged. “Well, let ’im think I be a fool. Won’t harm me none. Might even serve me purposes.”

I grinned. “It is probably best to have the man think you a fool. I distrust him because he does not think I am one.”

“Ah,” Donovan said. “That explains much.”

I returned to my man—who was lying awake wondering at my absence—and told him of Donovan’s gut.

“If we had animals aboard, they could tell us of a storm,” he mumbled sleepily.

I took his proffered hand, but remained sitting. I listened to the night around us. The breeze was pleasant, but fitful; as if it could not decide which way to blow. The Fortune creaked beneath us as she always did. I could hear or feel nothing, per se; yet, I at last came to surmise there was something odd in the night: my Horse felt it.

I prayed to the Gods, each in turn, asking for the brand of protection for which each was renowned. I spent a long time beseeching Poseidon.

In the morning, we sailed as soon as it was light enough to see the rigging. We slipped out of the bay and swung wide around the reef toward the north of the island. The sun was good and risen by the time we reached the cove and cave on the island’s northern shore. We began offloading cargo. At noon, Chris ran down from the precipice where we had sent him to stand watch.

“There’s a storm coming,” he reported—to me—in French.

I relayed the message to Donovan and Cudro and they clambered up the north side of the cove wall to look east. They returned with grim faces.

“We need to finish an’ beach ’er!” Donovan yelled. “It be a big one. We canna’ stay in this cove. We’ll be dashed ta bits. An’ I don’t fancy trustin’ our anchor ta ride ’er out.”

We finished as quickly as possible. We could all see the black swath of clouds crossing the eastern horizon from north to south when we cleared the cove. Donovan chose the closest stretch of sandy beach and ran the Fortune aground. We were feeling the first of the giant storm’s winds as we winched our vessel further toward the trees and made her as fast as we could. Then we took our weapons and possessions and made for higher ground by guttering torchlight. We stopped when we found a thick stand of trees. We forced our way deep into them and loosely lashed ourselves to the trunks.

“Will this truly be necessary?” Chris asked as Pete looped rope about his waist.

“Oui,” I answered.

“You have had to do this before?”

“We weathered a bad storm on Negril from within a stone-walled cottage—half of which was buried in a hill. I thought it was going to be torn down around our ears.”

Pete, who had begun to understand a surprising amount of French, wrapped his arms tightly about his matelot and said, “It’llBeFun.”

I thought of being lashed by ferocious winds and rain and shook my head; until I recalled our voyage back from Maracaibo when we had been forced to ride out such a beast at sea. Gaston had lashed us to the railing and we had fornicated as if it had been our last moments amongst the living.

Gaston settled in behind me as was his wont whenever we sat close together. I turned to him and whispered, “Do you recall the storm after Maracaibo? Perhaps we should exchange places, as I will have to do all the work.”

He frowned, and then he too remembered. His grin said all I need know about his thoughts on the matter as he exchanged places with me.

Soon the wall of the great tempest reached us and the wind tore at the trees and the rain began to pour. It was too dark to see the others; though I knew if I stretched my arm I would encounter Pete and Chris on one side of us, and Cudro and Ash on the other. Sadly, my first concerns were not about amorous activity, but about keeping my matelot warm. Then I decided trysting might indeed be the best way to do that: however, I did not know how we could maintain that activity for the many hours the storm would last. Still it would be a good start.

Thus we slowly worked our way up to storming Heaven—with far less vigor than the tempest storming us. It was warming, and provided some satisfaction and the usual pleasure in the end; but the effort paled in comparison to our death-defying tryst at sea. Perhaps it was because I did not fear death in this instance. Gaston seemed warmer and satisfied, though; and I let the other thoughts drift away as we cuddled together and tried to rest.

Then the storm hit with all the fury of the Gods in the middle of the night. It became hellish. All was darkness. Despite being blunted and deflected by the trees, the wind wanted to drive the raindrops through our skin as if they were bullets. We clung to one another and the tree. Gaston was the only thing that seemed real. I began to feel as if hundreds of hands were slapping and pulling at me. To my terror and dismay, they minded me of Thorp’s torture.

I felt myself slipping away, and I held Gaston even tighter; but the feel of his back firmly against my chest could not protect me. Then he was struggling in my grip. I fought him, deathly afraid he was being pulled from me. With a surge of strength, he fought me off and turned upon me. I was screaming, but I could hear only the wind. Light exploded in my head and the world went black.

When the blackness receded, the wind still howled, and the rain still lashed my arms and cheek, but the rest of me was safely enfolded in Gaston’s limbs. I felt the clamminess of his skin as I clasped his arm—and I felt him stiffen when I moved. I rubbed his skin reassuringly and his tension lessened.

His lips found my ear and he asked, “How are we?”

I could barely hear him. My jaw ached, and little bits of something were beginning to crawl into the light. I shook my head helplessly, and felt even more lost when I knew the gesture was meaningless in our current situation. I turned to find his ear and yell, “I do not know.”

He squeezed me reassuringly and I felt him strain to be heard again over the wind. His first words were lost to it. I heard only a “you”. Then he tried again, “You went mad.”

I recalled what I could and knew he was correct. I found his ear. “I am sorry.”

“You are safe. Oui,” he yelled.

I supposed the “oui” was a question, but the inflection had been lost to the wind. I nodded and hoped he felt the gesture.

We abandoned speaking. I chafed his clammy limbs and he finally moved such that my back was to the tree trunk and he was pressed in front of me with his limbs inside mine for warmth. I thought that perhaps we should seek Pete and Chris, but I knew being touched by faceless hands would possibly bring a return of my madness. At last the winds lessened. We pulled our blanket from our bags and wrapped it around us. We slept.

I woke to birdsong and dappled sunlight. We were covered in leaves and small branches. My jaw hurt and my body ached. I was thirsty and starving. Gaston appeared worse than I felt, and I held him close with worry.

He smiled weakly before opening his eyes. “How are we?” he asked hoarsely.

“Better, much better; but miserable,” I said.

There was snoring all around. A large tree limb had almost fallen atop us. I checked to see that it had not pinned or injured our friends: both pairs seemed well enough, though still asleep.

“What happened?” my man asked.

I told him what I could remember of the sensation and that it had reminded me of Thorp. “I am surprised,” I finished.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Do not be, I was lost to it as well. It was my Horse that struck you.”

I smiled. “Well, I forgive Him.”

He chuckled and kissed me lightly. “I do not feel we have truly stumbled given the circumstances.”

Neither did I: it made me wonder what other dramas might have occurred among the men of the Fortune, or were we truly the only ones who could be driven mad by darkness and a tempest?

“Is it over?” Chris asked from the basket of his still-sleeping matelot’s limbs. “It stopped before, but Pete said it was a trick, and then it started again.”

“There is a hole in the middle of the great storms,” Gaston said hoarsely, and I searched for our lashed-down water bottle. “The winds go around the center. So first you get hit from one direction, and then from the other once the middle passes.”

“When did the center pass?” I asked.

“You were unconscious,” he leaned close to whisper.

I chuckled. “The things I choose to miss…”

He laughed and squeezed me tight.

When we emerged from the trees and found the sun, we discovered it was late afternoon. The storm could be seen to the west, running from horizon to horizon. We counted our blessings and thanked the Divine in whatever form we chose. No one appeared to be injured beyond a few bruises; though one pair of men had been trapped under a fallen tree and it took the rest of us to lift it and free them.

We made our way through the storm-torn forest to the Fortune, and cheered when we found her still upon the sand—though barely. Several of the trees we had anchored her with had been torn free. Donovan, Rodent, and Harry hurried around her, inspecting the damage. Her hull and masts seemed intact, but her fore-mast spar was badly damaged and would have to be replaced. She could sail, though—enough to get us back to the bay.

We sent two men to run up the coast to the cave. The rest of us spent the remaining hours of daylight freeing the ship from the trees and lines. The men returned with happy news that though the cargo was sodden—as the cave had been thoroughly flooded—it was still there and intact. They had brought a few bottles of rum, and so we set about gathering drier pieces of firewood. Thankfully we were successful in getting some wood to burn, and by the time the peaceful darkness of night had fallen, we were able to sit about a warm fire and toast our survival and Donovan’s gut. Gaston and I curled together near the heat and slept like babes.

It took all the next day to get the Fortune afloat, return to the cave, and reload most of the cargo. Donovan chose to leave some of it secreted away, but he knew if we had to sail here every time he wished to trade with another captain, someone would become suspicious and follow us.

We spent the night of the Eighth aboard the ship, anchored in the cove beside the cave. I was happy to sleep on dry wood.

On the Ninth we returned to the bay and found every ship in the fleet aground except two—the Lilly and another sloop—and apparently they had only been returned to water yesterday. A few had been grounded purposefully to save them as we had done to the Fortune, but most had been thrown there by Poseidon. It could have been much worse; they could have been washed in the other direction and dashed on the reef or lost at sea.

As we learned these details and Donovan began to send men ashore to assist in floating other craft, my companions and I were at a loss for what we should do. The need for strong backs and extra hands was great, and apparently many men had been injured; but we did not wish to show ourselves on shore. Any of us would be recognized—save Chris, who could do little work.

The matter was taken from our hands when a boat rowed alongside. “Ahoy! Who is captain here?” Morgan demanded from the boat. We could not see him, as he was below the gunwale of the Fortune, but I recognized his voice quite well.

Donovan frowned and stood from where he had been helping assess what rope we could spare to use on shore.

I grabbed his arm and motioned for quiet. “Morgan,” I whispered.

He frowned and looked to Harry who was standing looking down at the boat.

“Our captain is Donovan, Admiral,” Harry called out.

“Permission to come aboard. I would speak to him,” Morgan said with pomp and bluster.

“Of course, sir,” Harry said.

Donovan looked worry and pointed at me and the hatch to the hold.

I thought frantically, as I had been doing since hearing Morgan. We could hide, but if we were found out—or rather, when Morgan later knew we had been here all along—he would know Donovan lied and dislike him for it. Donovan had been good to us: the least I could do for him was not to bring Morgan’s wrath down upon his endeavors.

I looked to Gaston and he shrugged. I turned back to Donovan and shrugged. Donovan shrugged in return and we smiled at one another. Then he was straightening his hat as Morgan—dressed in heavy leather boots and a fine linen shirt, with a hat shoved tight over his abundant, dark hair—clambered over the gunwale.

“Well, look who it is,” I said cheerily before Morgan could straighten.

He stood and looked to me with surprise. Then recognition lit his mustachioed face and I found myself charged and embraced.

“When? How?” Morgan sputtered as he pounded my back heartily.

“A few weeks ago with this vessel,” I said with a grin.

“Then why have I not heard of it?” he said with mounting ire.

“Because I heard you were offering a reward for my delivery,” I teased. “I have learned not to trust men who will pay coin for my hide.”

He swore vehemently, and his eyes narrowed with speculation as he glanced at Donovan and the others around us. He put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me toward the quarterdeck and spoke quietly. “It is not like that.”

I awarded him a guileless, but unapologetic shrug.

“Truly,” he cajoled. “I have heard nothing. No one else is seeking you save me. And I was merely concerned for you. I wished you at my side this year.”

“For my excellent—yet rusty—Castilian?”

He grinned. “Aye, and your wit.” He looked about. “Who all is here? Your man, Lord Montren? Striker?”

“Gaston, Pete—no Striker—Gaston’s cousin, and Cudro and his man, Ash.”

“So few? My Lord, Will, the last I saw of you, you were being carried off by that bastard Thorp. I was very relieved when I heard your men had rescued you and you were on Tortuga.”

I was torn. I knew him for a conniving bastard, but he seemed quite sincere. And he had not been party to Thorp’s raid upon the house. He was actually the only reason Thorp had not been able to take everyone. Yet, he had been in collusion all along with Modyford concerning my father and their ambitions.

“It is a long story,” I said. “It will take a good bottle of rum.” And I was sure I would not truly tell him much of it.

“Good,” he said with relief at my change in mien. “Let us drink, then. But first, how did you come to be here on this vessel, and...”

I waved him off and turned him back to Donovan. “This is Captain Donovan. He has become a good friend. And as you have offered a reward, and he has had the good fortune of being the one to deliver me here—and aye, there is quite the story there—I would see him rewarded. And not from the booty.”

Morgan sighed and doffed his hat to bow to Donovan, who did likewise. “If Will says you deserve it, then I’ll gladly pay you and your men a bounty—from my funds and not the treasure. But first, tell me how it is that you sailed before the storm?”

Donovan looked quite pleased. “Thank you kindly, Admiral. As to the sailin’, it be me gut. I have a sense ’bout such things. I can smell a storm or a Spaniard. We sailed ’round to the north, an’ beached me ship near high ground, where she might gain some protection from the cliffs.”

“Why the bloody Hell did you not warn the rest of us?” Morgan demanded good-naturedly.

“Oh, come now,” I scoffed. “Would you have believed him?”

Morgan sighed and shrugged. “Nay.”

Donovan laughed. “I take no offense in that.”

“I would believe you now,” Morgan added. He looked about. “So did you take much damage?”

“Just the for’ard spar,” Donovan said.

“Excellent. I am pleased we have another ship afloat.”

“We’ll be doin’ all we can with helpin’ the others,” Donovan said.

“I’m sure you will, as brothers we all are,” Morgan said. He began to look about and spied Gaston. He bowed deeply. “Lord Montren, it is good to see you.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” my matelot said with an appropriate bow.

Cudro and Ash had joined us, with Pete and Chris following them.

Morgan spied Cudro and grinned; though I was sure they hardly knew one another. “It is good to see you,” he told Curdo, gave a cursory glance to Ash, and looked past them to Pete. “Well, Pete, where is your matelot? We could use him and his fine ship—and the Bard, for God’s sake.”

Pete snorted. “StrikerBeWith ’IsWifeAn’ArShip. SomeplaceSafe. ThisBeMeNewMatelot, Chris.”

Morgan glanced at Chris and froze. I saw curiosity and then recognition light his eye. My heart leapt and my stomach roiled. Chris dipped his head in polite greeting, but I could see he had seen what I had, and when he looked away worry was already tightening his fine features.

Morgan looked to me with curiosity and speculation.

“There is much I have to tell you,” I said lightly. “We made a hasty retreat from Cayonne; and Gaston’s cousin, Christien, was dragged along with us unexpectedly. We did not come here to raid.”

His brow furrowed, and I could see him biting back words.

“Let us go and share a bottle,” he said at last.

I supposed there was no escaping it; yet, Gaston and our friends and I needed to discuss much. “Of course, but let us do that tonight. While there is still light, perhaps we common sailors with strong backs should assist with the ships. And, as a physician, I am sure there is much Gaston can do ashore as well.”

“Of course,” Morgan said as if he had not forgotten his fleet lay upon the sand and marsh grass all over the end of the island. “Come to the Lilly at sunset and we will talk.”

“Gaston and I will be pleased to accept your invitation.”

Morgan smiled, doffed his hat in parting to everyone and left the vessel.

We stood about in awkward silence and quiet cursing until he had rowed beyond the range of a keen man’s ear.

“Thank you,” Donovan said at last.

“You are most welcome,” I said. “I would not have him angry with you, and you might as well profit from his largesse—whatever its reason.”

“Do ya trust him?” Harry asked.

“Nay, not completely. He is an ambitious man. He has done well by us before, though; so Gaston and I will meet with him. Now, if you will excuse us, I need to discuss a few things with my companions, and then we will join you on shore.”

Donovan clapped my shoulder. “Take yur time, there be no hurry. Those ships nat be goin’ anyplace.” Then he leaned closer. “Me gut don’t like ’im at all.”

I smiled. “Mine neither.”

The six of us retreated to the bow.

“He recognized me,” Chris hissed in English.

“I saw that,” I said.

Cudro and Ash cursed. Gaston nodded with resignation.

“Aye,” Pete sighed. “NowWhat? ’ELookedAsIf YaBeAGiftFrom The Gods.”

“Aye,” I sighed. “And it cannot be due to my excellent translation skills. I suppose we will not know until tonight, if then. I doubt this is a gift to us from the Gods.”

 

 

One Hundred and Eight