Wherein We Are Swallowed by the Beast of Many Heads

 

Our cabal discussed our options to little avail.

Cudro was hopeful of another course. “This ship can’t cross the Great Sea and get us to England, but I’m sure Donovan could be hired to take us up to the English colonies.”

Ash was apparently missing the point of the entire endeavor. “Perhaps we should rove. Chris is passing as a man well enough.”

Chris was adamant. “I will not be sent to Jamaica. I would rather die.”

Pete was contemplating treachery. “NoMatterWhat, TheyNa’GetAll O’UsOnOneShip.”

My matelot was thoughtful yet resigned. “We still have time before we have to decide anything. We should probably lie to Morgan and agree to whatever he wants until the French arrive.”

I decided we could truly decide nothing until we heard what Morgan had to say.

Thus we went ashore with most of Donovan’s crew and joined in assisting with the floating of the vessels. While five of us exhausted ourselves hauling on ropes and throwing our shoulders against wood, Gaston offered what aid he could and was happily welcomed by the two other men serving as surgeons. A great many of the buccaneers had broken bones and wrenched limbs during the tempest, and some had nearly drowned. We learned several men had been washed to sea, and a couple more had been crushed. By sunset, five more vessels were cleared of debris and back on the water, and Gaston had performed four amputations.

At last, Gaston and I strapped on our weapons and found a canoe to take us to the Lilly—who was now ominously anchored in the mouth of the bay, where she would be difficult to sail past.

“What will you tell him?” Gaston asked as we paddled to the sloop.

“A careful distillation of the truth, I suppose.”

He chuckled. “Will you call forth your Wolf?”

“I will very likely be forced to. He is ever about when I spar with Morgan.”

Morgan greeted us warmly and ushered us to the cabin. The room was tiny and smelled of wine and rum. There was one berth built into the wall, and I wondered where Captain Norman was forced to sleep whenever his good friend Morgan commandeered his vessel as flagship.

We sat at the table and Morgan pushed aside parchment and quills and set a bottle of fine Madeira before us. “I recall you gentlemen are more brandy sippers than rum guzzlers.”

“You recall correctly,” I said. “So, what have you heard from England?”

His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips thoughtfully as he poured himself a mug. “Modyford received an inquiry from your father. He wished to know if you had returned to Jamaica after the… abduction.”

“When was this?” I asked.

He frowned in thought. “December, I believe. His letter said nothing of why he might still be looking for you, but it alerted Modyford and me to your not being in England.” He laughed.

I chuckled, as it was amusing. “So what did you tell him?”

“Modyford wrote at once and told your father we thought you were with him. Then, of course, we began to make inquiries. We discovered, in a roundabout fashion,” he waved his hand to indicate the manner was not important, “that you were on Tortuga. I was quite pleased to hear it. However did you manage it? The last I saw, you and your people left on three different ships.”

I shrugged. “Savant’s ship met up with the Bard on the Queen, and they exchanged some passengers, and then the Queen came after my sister and me. They caught us off the coast of Florida. The Bard sailed ahead. Though my father’s men had a fast sloop, she was only sailing as fast as the frigate. Then in the night, Gaston, Striker, and Pete took a boat with a couple of men and slipped up on the frigate. They got aboard and rescued us and then Pete used the powder cache to blow a hole in the frigate’s hull at the waterline. She began to sink, but we were able to force our way out into the sea. Then we swam to the boat and escaped while all was in chaos on the two vessels.”

Morgan’s eyes were wide with amazement and fascination. “That is remarkable. I wish I had seen it.”

“I wish I had not,” I said with a smile. “At least not from where I stood.”

Morgan’s good cheer dimmed when he looked to my matelot: who appeared quite grim as he studied his glass. “Was it not a triumph?”

Gaston sighed and looked to me. I smiled and told Morgan, “I had been poorly used; such that it took me months to recover. I still bear scars.”

Our host’s demeanor sobered considerably, and he sat forward and met my gaze. “Why? And your sister?”

“Nay, she was well. She capitulated to my father’s wishes for the voyage readily enough to suit them. I, however, was quite stubborn.”

“What did they wish of you?” he asked.

“That I renounce Gaston and sodomy,” I said with a shrug. “I refused, and my father had given them orders to break me if necessary. They were trying very hard to do so when I was rescued.”

Morgan appeared appalled. He sat back with a heavy sigh and considered his mug and then the far wall.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said at last.

“Well, it is just more unfinished business between my father and me,” I said with nonchalance. “And I will finish it; I am just not sure when.”

I had considered telling him the truth, that we wished to hire the French and go to England, but I thought better of it after his easy mention of Modyford’s correspondence with my father.

“And now you’re on the run from the French?” Morgan asked thoughtfully.

“Not all Frenchmen, we hope,” I said and chuckled. “It seems Gaston’s inheritance became embroiled in political intrigues we knew nothing of, and his father’s enemies enlisted the Holy Roman Church to make their case. It is the Church that seeks Gaston and me.”

“So you came here: to buy time, or to secure passage to England?” he asked.

I smiled. He was not a stupid man. “Both.”

“You fear returning to Jamaica.” He did not ask it as question.

“Should I not?”

He shrugged amicably. “You probably should. I don’t know what coin your father left lying about town. And though I’m privy to much of Modyford’s business, there are things he keeps from me. He knows well enough I sided with you during that debacle.”

“Where do you side now?” I asked.

“With you!” he replied with hurt that I should ask.

“Then will you help me get to England without Modyford writing my father of it?”

He seemed surprised by the request: a thing I found odd. He composed himself quickly though. “Of course. I’ll take you there myself if need be.”

I saw something in his eyes for the briefest of moments: a flicker of mischief perhaps. I could not trust him. For now, I had no choice but to act as if I did.

“Thank you,” I said. “I would rather it were sooner than later. There are people waiting on word of us.”

“Then write them. I will see that it is posted in Port Royal—with Modyford none the wiser. Tell your people you’re safe and you’ll be in England next year.”

I snorted. “After we go roving with you? Come now, Morgan. We cannot possibly do that. You saw Chris.”

“That I did. I never forget the face of a pretty girl.” He chuckled. “Who is bedding her?” he looked from one to the other of us.

“She is my wife,” Gaston said coolly. “The mother of my child. And she will be spoken of with respect. And for now, she is Pete’s matelot.”

“I meant no disrespect,” Morgan said quickly. “And having a good sodomite like Pete pretend to be her matelot is very clever indeed.” He chortled.

I did not have to glance at Gaston to know we agreed that Morgan should not be told the truth on that matter.

“It was a necessity of convenience,” I said.

“Well, we can send her to Jamaica with the letter. She’ll be safe there with her father,” Morgan said.

“Nay,” I said firmly. “Her father is an old, fat fool, deeply under the sway of Modyford and Gaston’s father’s enemies. She will not go to Jamaica. She will be used against us if anyone gets their hands on her.”

It was true, and it was a calculated ploy.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he took the bait. “Then… So she has been masquerading as a boy here? Are any the wiser?”

“None on the Fortune have realized it. I have discovered that most men are blind to the obvious if they consider it the inconceivable.”

He laughed. “Then she can sail with us, and remain with the ships.” He shrugged and spread his hands as if that solved everything.

I sighed. “Morgan, I do not wish to go to war against the Spanish again. I have my own wars to win; for far more money than I will ever earn from Spaniards.”

His eyes narrowed at that, too. “Might you inherit, yet?”

It was a thing he seemed to want: I gave it to him. “Possibly. My attempts to abandon my title have been ignored. My father could well die at any time, and the law of the land would simply grant me his title despite the bad blood between us.”

And, of course, if I killed him, that would occur too. I had truly not given that any thought. If I could murder him and appear innocent, I would be Earl. The idea struck me quite hard, and I was left dazed—and amused at my blindness in not seeing that sooner. I was so intent on not being Earl at his behest; I had forgotten that it could be at my own.

“How do you intend to resolve things with your father?” he asked.

His question pushed me from my sudden epiphany and left me unbalanced. I did not wish to spar any longer: I wished to share my new conceit with Gaston.

“I intend to confront him,” I said, with only enough thought to avoid the truth. I scrambled about and wondered what I should say: what would Morgan wish to hear? What did he truly want?

“How do you feel that will go?” Morgan asked with a sly smile.

“Poorly,” I said quite honestly. “That is why I do not intend to do it publicly.” That was perhaps too close to the truth.

Morgan seemed to like it, though. He smiled. “Is your father an influential man? Modyford feels he is.”

I thought on all I had discussed with Theodore and the others on the matter. “Nay, I think not—not as Modyford might feel. My father is wealthy, but he derives much of that wealth from engaging in activities many lords find unbecoming; and though I am sure he wields power, I doubt it is with the King’s Court. My father was quite comfortable during the Interregnum.” I was not sure precisely how true that was, but I thought it was likely. We did not want Modyford—or Morgan—to continue to think appeasing my father was in their best interests.

“So were Modyford’s people. Mine were not so affected,” Morgan said with a touch of disdain.

Well, that tack was not going where we wished. I decided on a frontal assault for the moment. I leavened my words with incredulity. “So Modyford truly believes appeasing my father will garner him some wealth or power?”

Morgan frowned and his tone was guarded. “He does.”

“Well he is a damn fool. My father despises men like him. He has no interest in the ambitions of common men. He only cares for the nobility.”

Our host frowned anew at that and spoke to his glass. “I have told Modyford much the same. And what are your feelings concerning ambitious common men.”

I grinned. “Morgan, I am a member of the Brethren: I hold all men as my equal if they are willing to use a sword and piece to defend their honor.”

He smiled and seemed to be mulling it over. “Is your father a sickly man?”

“I have not heard of late. I expect to arrive in England and find he is quite ill.”

His smile deepened. “So that is your plan.”

I smiled and adopted a chiding tone. “I have said no such thing.”

Morgan chuckled. “So you will confront him as you must—and live.”

I gave no answer, merely smiled.

“Well, I will offer what aid I can,” he said and leaned back in his seat with satisfaction.

“Before you rove?” I pressed.

He sighed heavily and frowned. “I can’t very well abandon my fleet, and this is the only ship I have available that could reach England. I can’t let her go—now.”

I could see his reasonable argument. I could also see him dissembling behind it. He would not let us leave until it suited him. Once again, we would have to think of other plans whilst we waited on the French—and that was assuming much of their demeanor. We would have to make other arrangements.

“Then we shall all see what the autumn brings,” I said agreeably.

He shrugged the matter aside and refreshed his mug. “So tell me how it is you had to leave Tortuga in such a hurry you had to bring a woman?”

I shrugged and drank of my mug and told him a fine version of our escape. I only omitted Pete sending Striker to be with his wife and Gaston’s illness—and my killing a priest. After that, he told us of the Spanish attack on Jamaica—such as it was.

Eventually we wound down and Gaston and I made to take our leave.

“Stay here,” Morgan suggested.

“Nay, I think we will remain on the Fortune: there is more available deck, and our friends are there.

“Well, for the night. We can rearrange men so that there’ll be room here for all of you.”

“Nay, I think not. Our ruse with Chris is best served there.”

“But…”

“Nay, Morgan. We will remain on the Fortune,” I said flatly, all pretenses abandoned.

He appeared wounded. “Do you not trust me?”

I laid a hand to my breast and feigned my own pricked pride. “Morgan, do you not trust me?”

He sighed and looked away with a smile. “I suppose I must.”

“And the same to you… Old friend.”

He chuckled. “It is true, we have not truly known one another very long, have we?”

I did not say the obvious: in some ways long enough. Nay, I smiled agreeably and bowed in parting.

I was quite relieved when we found our canoe at the side. I would not have been surprised if we had found he had sent it to shore under the assumption we would be staying. Gaston and I soon paddled purposefully—and without unseemly haste—toward the place we thought the Fortune lay.

“Well, we now know what value he places on me,” I said once we were safely away.

“He will not let us leave,” Gaston said. “Willingly.”

“Oui, my thoughts exactly. We must see what Donovan is willing to risk. And wait on the French, perhaps.”

I begin to worry about that avenue of egress as well,” Gaston said. “I thought we would find them earlier in the year. Coming here, their decks will be full of hungry Frenchmen.”

“Aye, aye. I doubt any of the other captains will be willing to defy Morgan. I only think Donovan might because he does not wish to rove again anyway.”

“We can always steal a small boat in the night,” he said hopefully. “Some of those craft on the beach are quite small—and sail our way to the English colonies—or at least into French lands where we can steal a larger craft.”

“It might come to that,” I sighed. “Until then, we must stay off his vessel.”

“Oui. And not let him get his hands on Chris.” His tone held a touch of concern.

I sighed again. “It was my ploy: to set her as bait. If he thinks her a weak pawn, so much the better for us. He does not know she can shoot or swim, much less possibly sail.”

“Oui,” Gaston sighed. There was a pause, and then he asked. “Do you think he might aid us out of the hope you will inherit?”

“I hope so. I would rather he find my wishes valuable and not my father’s.”

“Oui,” my man said emphatically.

I recalled my epiphany and smiled, though he could not see it. “I thought of something. If I kill my father and remain innocent, I will inherit: I will be Earl.”

Ahead of me, Gaston’s shoulders tightened.

“Had you not thought of it, either; or are you surprised your matelot is completely daft?” I teased.

He turned to look at me in the darkness: though in truth, we could see little of one another’s expressions. I could only see the hint of his eyes.

“I did not think of it in that way—either,” he said with a thoughtful tone.

I chuckled and leaned forward to brush a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, my love.”

“But you do not want the title,” he said. “I assumed you would abandon it.”

“What if I did not—and we could go elsewhere—the colonies perhaps—and live as we chose?”

He chuckled and returned to paddling. “That would be very fine indeed.”

We finally found the Fortune in the dim light. We were welcomed aboard with great relief by all.

“You see he’s blockaded the bay,” Cudro said.

“Aye, and he does not wish for us to leave—well, specifically me,” I said. I looked to Donovan. “Do not fret, we will manage something. And I have a question for you.” I took his arm and led him away from the others to the bow, where I whispered, “Would you be willing to risk his wrath and sail us north to the colonies?”

“It would cost me, an’…”

“We would pay you handsomely. I will trust you now to tell you we have enough coin with us.”

He sighed and nodded. “Smart o’ ya ta na’ tell men you na’ know. I take no offense. I would be willin’ ta take your money. I could sail from another port an’ do me business with the Spaniards. There be small ports in the Bahamas, an’ there always be Cayonne.”

“I thank you.”

He shook his head. “We canna’ leave right aways, though. There’s the spar that needs fixin’. An’ we canna’ outsail that sloop ta get aroun’ ’er or outrun ’er—with or without the spar bein’ made right. It’ll take another storm. Or some other matter. Some of the reef be low, an’ I could see slidin’ o’er it if there were storm swell. But it be risky business.”

“All right, let us see what develops. He might move the sloop tomorrow. He might do many things.”

“’E might come an’ take me ship fer some damn fool reason,” Donovan said.

I sighed, as that was a possibility. “Let us hope he does not feel so very desperate.”

“Why would ’e?”

I supposed that was a valid question: Morgan was so arrogant he should not feel the need; but, then I realized Donovan did not understand what Morgan wanted. “Our Admiral feels I will be of value to him—as a hostage perhaps, or as a bargaining chip; or in my own right as his friend.”

“Why do ya think ’e feel ’e needs any o’ that?” Donovan asked.

“He is an ambitious man, and he wants far more than he can steal from the Spanish.”

Donovan nodded. “’E also might need a nobleman ta cover ’is arse. Norman said there be a treaty with the Spaniards now. No more war beyond the Line. Morgan an’ Modyford been writin’ each other o’ it. Morgan’s orders be to na’ attack the Spanish unless ’e ’as reason ta believe they be plannin’ war again against Jamaica.”

I laughed. “Which I am sure he will intuit from every Spanish port we pass. That is just what I expect from those two. Well, that gives me a piece to play with. Thank you.”

Donovan smiled. “Aye, as ya say, we’ll see ’ow it goes.”

He left me, and I was soon surrounded by Gaston and our friends. I imparted all we knew.

“He would keep us here as prisoners?” Chris asked. He appeared quite surprised.

“Na’FerLong,” Pete grumped.

“I think you’re correct about none wishing to anger him save Donovan,” Cudro said. “And he’s correct about it being risky business.”

“So we go roving,” Ash said. “What is your hurry?”

This angered Cudro, and they began to argue and retreated from us.

“Let us pray for a miracle with the French,” I said. “And until then, I suppose we shall attempt to lull him into a false sense of security.”

For the next month, we did that very thing. Donovan and Rodent made very slow work of choosing and fashioning a new spar. They actually had a fine one they were working on below deck; but every one they worked on above deck proved to have some flaw in the wood; and they made much of discarding it and then traipsing about in the forest to find another. Donovan and his men also began to speak of roving when they were ashore: as did the rest of us.

Gaston took to plying his trade from one particular stump near the edge of the forest, and within a fortnight he and I moved our belongings there and set up camp. There we were able to have a modicum of privacy, and we were free to run or swim as we chose. Gaston’s health had thankfully improved to the point where he no longer coughed or fevered. He pronounced himself well, but still weak: and even though he felt great need to regain his strength, he paced himself admirably.

As Gaston and I were now always visible, we began to feel we were watched less; and Morgan even took to gracing our fire on occasion for a shared bottle of wine and talk of piracy and dueling.

Cudro and Ash also came ashore and began to spend their time at the various campfires in the night. Thus we learned that a rumor had begun concerning Donovan withholding goods from the fleet. We combated that by sinking the Fortune’s crates of rum and wine over the side in the night, and marking them with buoys that floated beneath the surface so that only a swimmer might find them. Then Donovan invited a number of captains—including Morgan—to his ship for a fete, and shared out the last of his good brandy. Chris and Pete spent that night ashore, but on all other days they remained with the Fortune.

In the first week of November, the afternoon storms began to abate and the French finally began to arrive. Still not wishing to rile Morgan, we did not paddle out to meet them and ask of news. Instead, we waited at our little camp until, to our great relief and happiness, we saw a particular long-faced Gaul jogging up the beach to meet us. We embraced Pierrot as if he was a long-lost brother, and he returned it in kind.

“How are you?” he asked loudly. Then he took a closer look at Gaston and his brow furrowed. “You do not look well, my friend.”

My matelot laughed. “I assure you, I am the best I have been in months.”

Pierrot appeared quite concerned. He looked to me. “What has happened?”

“Gaston was shot and almost drowned when we escaped Île de la Tortue,” I said. “He caught the ague, and though it has left him, his strength has not yet returned. When I stop and think of how much weight he has lost, I am concerned too. But he is doing much better. We run and swim a little now. How are you?”

“I am well,” Pierrot said with reserve and sat at our fire. “I have a ship full of angry boucaniers. The French governor is a great fat hog who will ruin us all. We go to rove with a bastard who would just as soon rob us as split treasure with us. All is well.” He grinned. “I have heard much of you two.”

I chuckled. “All good?”

He laughed. “Never!”

I handed him a bottle of fine Spanish brandy—compliments of Donovan’s trove.

Pierrot took a good pull and passed it to Gaston.

“So,” Pierrot asked, “how did our fine Doucette die?”

“I pushed him down the stairs,” I said. “I had had enough. He was accusing me of bedding his wife.”

Pierrot sprawled in the sand with loud and unabashed laughter.

“What else have you heard?” I asked.

“You are a heretic, an atheist, and an idolater. You killed a priest. You killed Doucette. Gaston is possessed. Gaston is raving mad. Gaston was never a lord. Gaston has two wives. You were fucking every woman in that house. You are dead. The stories go on.”

“Who have you heard this from?” I asked.

“Everyone in Cayonne,” he said with a shrug.

“And everyone on your ship?”

He nodded emphatically and gave a moue of incredulity—presumably as to the stupidity of his men.

“Well then, let me tell you of it.” And so I did, leaving no details out, including many of those associated with my incarceration. I even told him of worshipping the Gods. Gaston often left the fire to circle behind our little camp and ensure no one listened. Pierrot laughed and cried at my tale, and we finished the bottle. I fetched another and told him of what we faced with Morgan.

He became quite somber. “My friends, I will do anything I can to aid you. I wish you had been able to stay in Cayonne another two weeks. If we had met then, you would be in England now—on your terms. But now, I am sorry; I have a ship full of men who will not wish to sail to England—even if you could pay them all in coin—and I will never sail from Cayonne again if I abandon them here to rove on English vessels.”

“Well, we have been afraid that would be your answer,” I said sadly. “We came here in hopes it would not; but, as we saw men collect here, and after speaking to Morgan… we understand. These men are hungry for violence as much as coin. And all fear the wrath of their peers—and Morgan, who they stupidly revere.”

“Would we be welcome to sail with you?” Gaston asked.

Pierrot cursed quietly and shook his head with great sadness. “My dear friend, I would not dare bring you aboard for fear of your safety. We will have to wage another war of gossip and lies in order to impart any semblance of the truth. And then there is that matter of you actually worshipping Pagan gods…” He laughed. “We will not tell them of that.”

I laughed. “Are so many of them truly good Catholics?”

Behind my good cheer, I silently cursed my stupidity in not accounting for the passage of time and the amount of festering gossip that could occur with sailors. I looked to Gaston and found him resigned.

“Enough of them are: the rest are merely superstitious,” Pierrot said seriously, and then chuckled only to sober again. “Do you have another way off this island?”

“The captain we came here with is willing to help us, but he cannot out-sail Morgan’s sloops,” I said.

“I have a longboat that can be fitted with a sail,” he said. “It should not be much smaller than that dinghy you navigated around Hispaniola with.” He laughed. “You could sail due north, you cannot miss the southwestern peninsula, and then around it to the east and into the great bay. Somewhere in there you could find a bigger boat to steal and then head north to the English colonies—with charts.” He laughed again.

It was a thing we had discussed on occasion with Cudro and Pete this last month. I nodded. “Thank you for that kind offer. We may yet avail you of it, but I fear falling into French hands more than I do the Spaniards at this juncture. They will just kill us. They will not be moved to burn us alive.”

“They will likely torture you first,” Pierrot said with a shrug. “Both of them. Your father too, by the sound of it.”

I sighed and collapsed to lie back on the sand. “I wish there was another option.”

“Sail to a Dutch colony—but that will require a larger craft—and better charts,” Pierrot said affably.

I chuckled. “It will be to no avail. I will somehow bring Dutch wrath down upon us.”

Gaston laughed. “I cannot take you anywhere.” Then he turned to Pierrot. “What about after we raid? Can we escape with you if you have time to seed truth with your men?”

“If it comes to that, we can but try,” Pierrot said. “I will hide you in a barrel if necessary.”

I thought of having to hide throughout a voyage to England… And supposed it would be better than being tortured—by a very small margin.

“Let us discuss the boat with Cudro and Pete,” I said.

He stood and we embraced in parting. We watched him walk away, threading his way through the fires dotting the beach. A figure detached from one circle of camaraderie and hailed Pierrot. I could see a plumed hat clearly in silhouette, and assumed the figure to be Morgan. Pierrot stopped and the two talked. Then our jolly friend’s usual slouch tightened to the stance of a man prepared to fight. I cursed. Finally Pierrot walked away. The figure turned and began to approach us.

“I wonder how easy he would be to kill?” Gaston whispered.

“Easy. The difficult piece will be escaping the island—much like my father.”

Morgan reached us and doffed his hat in greeting. “Well, your French have arrived.”

“Aye,” I said noncommittally. He stooped to reach for the bottle of brandy and I plucked it up and set it in our tent. “You are betting on the wrong horse.”

He squashed the ire that flared in his gaze and pulled an affable grin across his taut features. “Whatever do you mean? From what I hear, if anyone has been betting, it is you, and you have bet on the wrong animal: the French will not take you anywhere.”

“Nay, they will not,” I agreed with surprisingly little rancor—even to me. “So it appears we will be roving this year.”

“Aye, so it appears. Worry not, Will. We will get you to England yet when this is over, and we will all be famous for it.”

“How is that? Do you really feel you will amass the men and ships for Havana or Cartegena?”

“Panama,” he said with a smile. “I promised their president, or governor, or whatever he was.”

“Well, if we can truly manage Panama, it will be a glorious thing. I will be able to say I have seen the great Southern Sea before I die.”

He smiled. “There is room for you now on the Lilly; and if not there, now, there will be room on the Satisfaction once she returns.”

I shrugged. “Aye, if the vaunted pirate-hunter Collier does not put her on a reef. For now, this beach is fine; and as for later, we will see which ships actually return and choose our place then.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry with me,” he said coyly while adjusting the plume on his hat. “I’ve not led your life or made your decisions. I didn’t make you sail here; and I’m sorry no one wishes to bow to your lordly desires and change the course of their lives to sail you elsewhere.”

I snorted disparagingly. “Nay, nay, they will all sail to their deaths with you at the helm: which suits your common ambitions.”

He tensed at my jab and settled his hat back on his head. “You know, once we sail, it would be better if you paid me proper respect as the fleet’s admiral.”

I laughed. “Or what, you will clap me irons and throw me in the hold? I suppose it will allow you to drink to abandon without worrying where I am.”

“Do not tempt me,” he said tightly.

“Or perhaps you will have me flogged. Would that suit you? I have been flogged. It will only make me angry. The last time I was flogged, it was at the behest of a man whose eyes I plucked out. That man was such a fool he thought that when I became the Earl of Dorshire, I would thank him for forcing me to change my ungodly ways. I told him I was his worst enemy if he did not kill me then and there, and I would never thank him, and then I blinded him. He is still blind, and I might still become Earl. And fools still place trust in my father.”

Morgan backed away hastily and wordlessly with fear in his eyes.

“Do not say that was unwise,” I implored my man without looking at him.

“Oui, oh Wolfman.”

I turned and found him grinning. He shrugged. “I married you.”

“Oui, I suppose that makes you a bigger fool than I,” I said warmly.

Another figure approached from the fires. This one I recognized from the set of his naked shoulders and his gait: Pete.

“Where is your matelot?’ I asked when he neared.

“OnShip, WhereItBeSafe,” he added quietly as he dropped to sit with us. “What’dTheySay?”

I told him of both conversations while Gaston again looked for spies. Pete sipped brandy and lay in the sand with a thoughtful mien.

“Aye, Pierrot’sBoat. WorthTheRisk. WeBePrisoners’Ere.”

“We will speak to Cudro in the morning and have him arrange it, and to get copies of charts.”

Pete grinned. “Chris’As’Em. HeBeenCopyin’ Donovan’s. FunnyTaWatch. DonovanYellin’ EnglishWordsTa Make ChrisUnderstand. ChrisJustNoddin’…”

Gaston and I laughed.

“He does play that well. How is he doing?” I asked.

Pete smiled. “’EBeFine. WeBeFine.” The last was a little bit wistful.

“But?” I asked.

“NawBut,” he sighed. “JustNa’AsIt WereWithStriker. IMiss’Im. YetI BeShamed TaAdmit ThisIsBetter InParts.”

“How?” Gaston asked.

“LessArguin’. An’IBeTheMan InAllThings. ’E’Ave’IsOpinions, But’EAin’tTellin’Me WhatTaDoAll TheTime. An’’EWorriesLess. An’ThereBeMore RumFerMe.”

“Have you succeeded in gentling him down yet?” I asked.

Pete laughed. “Aye! An’ItBeNone O’YurConcern. ThoughIWillSayIBeen TemptedByThe SquishyHole. ItJustBeSittin’There, An’SomeNights IStartWonderin’. ButNowWouldBe ABadTimeTaBraveIt. Can’t’Ave’ImWithChild. Na’WithAllThisShite.”

Gaston and I exchanged a look and grinned at one another.

Pete rolled on his side and regarded my matelot. “WouldThatBotherYa? OnceThisAllBeDone.” He shrugged. “Iffn’IWere TaMakeA BabyWithYerCousin.”

“She is not truly my cousin,” Gaston said with a smile.

Pete considered that. “SoICouldMarry’Im?”

“If she will have you,” Gaston said. “We must first insure our daughter is safe with us, but that is the only reason I have pretended she was mine.”

“Have you discussed this with Chris?” I asked.

He sighed. “Nay, NaYet. JustBeen Thinkin’OnIt.”

I dearly hoped Chris would not disappoint him when that moment came. And… “It will not be the same as it is here when we… When things are finished.”

Pete nodded. “IKnow. MaybeThat BeGoodToo. Settlin’DownAn’All. MyCock’llAlways WantAMan. ThereBeADifferent SmellAn’Feel. Chris’ HipsBeFleshy TaGrabAn’TheLike. ILikeMuscle:’ArdFlesh, But… ICanLiveWithThis.”

“You might find you share Liam’s sentiments about returning to men after a year,” I said. “Not to dissuade you,” I added.

“IBeenThinkin’ ThatToo. ITol’’ImIWould Na’QuitStriker. ’ESaid ’EUnderstood.” He shrugged. “’EMightNa KnowWhat’EBe Speakin’O’ Either.”

“You will know in time,” Gaston said wistfully. “I wish you happiness.”

“ThankYa. ThatMeansALot.”

“Striker will become old and flabby someday,” I teased: the brandy and the aftermath of my rage getting the best of me.

“YaShutYerHole,” Pete snapped with a grin. “INaBeAFool, WhenEverything ICanLayMy ’AndsOnBe AsSquishyAsAMango, ItBe Time TaMoveOn.”

“But, wait,” I said with a laugh. “What if you are as squishy as a mango?”

He laughed. “ThenIBeDead.”

I thought that likely, so I argued no more. Pete soon embraced us in parting and we sat alone.

“Do you still yearn for the squish of mangoes—from time to time?” I asked.

Gaston smiled. “Non, and someday you will be fat and old and I will know everyday what it feels like.”

I dove atop him and we tumbled in the sand and almost upset our tent. He was getting stronger, but I easily pinned him—an inconceivable thing when we met. He strained to nip me as I delivered teasing kisses to his nose.

“We should take advantage of these woods and run a little if we are soon to be trapped on another small boat,” I growled.

Gaston sighed and the play left him. “We should have brought our other boat.”

Disappointed, I released his wrists. He bucked his hips and easily flipped me beneath him. I laughed as he pinned me.

“Oui,” he said huskily.

And so we did.

In the morning, we found Cudro and informed him of how things stood. He agreed with taking Pierrot’s boat, and we sent him to arrange it: no one had made mention of the French hating him.

Pete and Chris came ashore that evening, and we sat about with Cudro and Ash and discussed what had been arranged with Pierrot and what we would need to gather for provisions. We decided to pay Pierrot twenty-five pounds for the boat, and Donovan fifty pounds for being willing to aid us at all.

As we talked, we were pleased to have Pierrot join us. He made no mention of Chris—he did not even look askance at him—even though I had told him of our ruse.

“Morgan is making threats,” Pierrot announced quietly. “He is claiming that any man who leaves here to do other than follow him into battle is a deserter; and he has said he will not condone anyone aiding a deserter. He vows to claim ships and ruin lives.”

I swore vehemently.

“Well it is good Donovan could not help us,” Ash said.

“Aye, but it appears he must sail, which is a thing he did not wish to do,” I said.

“He will not go ashore to raid,” Cudro said. “He has too few men on the Fortune. He could claim them all as a skeleton crew. Morgan will have them ferry men to the raid and little else.”

“Well there is hope for him, then,” I said. “As for us, I suppose we will bid you adieu quite soon, my friend,” I told Pierrot.

He chuckled. “Someday yet we may sail together. I would like that. Until then, I will sleep better knowing you watch over him.” He looked to Gaston.

“Always,” I said solemnly. “And I thank you for watching over him once upon a time; else I would never have met him.”

Pierrot laughed. “Oui: they would have thrown him overboard—or left him for the Spanish… Oui, you have quite improved him. He appears sane.”

“I am sane,” Gaston said with a small smile. “As sane as I ever will be.”

“Then I bid you adieu until we meet again,” Pierrot said and stood.

We said our farewells and Gaston stood to walk with the French captain to the edge of our fire light and out of our hearing. They stood and talked for a time. They embraced. And then they kissed—and not a friendly peck upon the cheek.

Chris’ gasp voiced my surprise. Cudro’s jaw fell agape; Ash frowned; and Pete raised an eyebrow.

I stood and wandered toward the pair, who had stopped kissing and parted to stand speaking quietly again. My proximity was greeted by Pierrot’s boisterous laughter, and then he darted to me to kiss me heartily on the lips and whisper, “You are a lucky man, never forget that.” Then he was gone: just another silhouette weaving between the fires.

“I thought I owed him that at least,” Gaston said quietly.

“I am not jealous, merely surprised,” I said quickly. “And I no longer wished to sit with the others while they gaped in confusion. I know how he felt for you and you for him. I feel I am lucky you did not succumb to his charms.”

“It seems a lifetime ago,” Gaston said thoughtfully. “He has always been older, and I was very young then. I would have been his boy. And perhaps I knew he could not help me with my madness.”

“Perhaps he could have.”

My man shook his head. “He is not mad. His Horse is a tame and placid thing. He would never be able to keep pace with mine.”

My heart ached and I kissed him. However, I did ask, “How did he kiss?” when I released him.

“Like a wet sloppy dog,” Gaston said with amusement.

We joined the others. Gaston ignored their curious looks. I glared them down.

“Well, we’ll be retiring then,” Cudro said when it was obvious we would not explain.

With a chuckle from all, we bid them goodnight and they wandered down the beach—and then into the forest. We laughed.

“I’mAfraid TaLeave,” Pete said. “GastonMight BidMeFarewell.”

Gaston rolled his eyes, and then he wore his Horse’s grin and he was pouncing upon Pete. They wrestled about quite fiercely, and Chris backed away with his face taut with concern. I wondered at it until I saw Gaston’s Horse was much about him.

I touched Chris’ arm and he flinched. “They are playing,” I said gently.

“I know,” he said tightly in a less-than-manly voice.

Pete pinned Gaston, and proceeded to kiss him. I noted that Gaston did not fight him. I did not think Pete kissed like a sloppy dog. I did not think my matelot felt like a mango.

“Can you stop them?” Chris asked.

I snorted with deprecation and amusement at our concern.

Pete released Gaston and began to stand with a laugh upon his lips. Gaston’s arm came up like a snapping rope and cracked Pete’s jaw. The Golden One fell back and shook his head to clear it. He started laughing again, and Gaston joined him.

Gaston stood and Pete crouched.

“Non, non,” my man said and held up a hand. “Truly, I can only play so long. My strength has not returned.”

“CouldaFooledMe,” Pete said with amusement and rubbed his jaw.

Chris was still tense beside me.

“Does it bother you he wished to play so; or did it bother you it was Gaston – and he was… feral?” I asked him quietly.

“Both,” Chris said. “I cannot play with him, not like that. I feel I will always lack something for him.”

“Sadly, oui: a cock,” I said gently.

He sighed. “Oui. I do not know if he will stay with me when this is done.”

I did not wish to meddle, but I felt compelled. “He wishes to try.”

“He told you that?” Chris asked with a speculative gaze.

“Oui.”

He sighed and smiled. “We shall see then—when this is over.”

I sighed. That seemed to be the gist of the phrase upon all our lips: ‘when this is over’: ‘when this is done’: ‘when we finish’.

Pete and Chris at last departed and I looked to Gaston with an unexpected melancholy nipping at my heels. “Well, how did he kiss?”

“Not like a mango,” my man said mischievously.

“Must I hold you down?” I asked.

He pounced upon me and I let him take what he would.

Two days later, the six of us ate at our fire once again. When it came time to retire, we slipped away in pairs into the forest and retrieved our bags and weapons. We left the tent and our fire behind and crossed the island by moonlight until we came to the northern shore. Two of Pierrot’s men had purportedly sailed the promised boat out on the pretense of fishing, and not returned with it. They had cached it in Donovan’s cove. All we had to do was locate it by sunrise. I was quite surprised when we did.

We lit two torches and Cudro went to prepare the boat while we stole into the cave to take supplies we had purchased from Donovan. The Dutchman’s hoarse cry stopped us and we hurried to his side.

We all saw what his torch revealed. Someone had stove the small boat’s hull in with an axe.

Chris took a deep breath to say something, but Pete stopped him.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “TheyBeWatchin’.”

We stood staring at the wreck. Gaston took my hand.

“Now what?” Cudro asked quietly.

“We will rove as the Gods so obviously direct,” I said. The melancholy flirting with me for the past few days descended with great force. I felt my will knocked flat before it. I clutched at Gaston to remain on my feet.

He slipped an arm under mine and across my shoulders. “Let us return, and act as if nothing occurred.”

“Aye,” I agreed.

“He won’t let us—or rather, he won’t let you—sail with Donovan,” Cudro said as we started back.

“Nay, too much chance of our sailing away in the night—even with other buccaneers aboard,” Gaston said. “If he gave us that opportunity, I would buy as many men as I must, and kill the rest.”

“Ash and I can sail on any vessel here,” Cudro said.

“Pete says he thinks I am a pawn and possible hostage,” Chris said.

“YaAre,” Pete agreed. “Still, AsLongAsYou AnMeAreOnA Different BoatThanWill An’Gaston, WeCanDoSomethin’ IfTheNeedArises. IfWeAll BeTagether, WeBeEasy TaControlAn’Kill.”

“Pierrot cannot take us,” Gaston said, “but he can take any of you. And he knows of Chris.”

“What?” Chris snapped.

“’ECanBeTrusted,” Pete assured him. “Listen, WhenWeReach TheTarget, WeAllNeedTa GoAshore. IfWeNeedTa EscapeAsWeReturn, WeNeedTaBeTagetherThen. NoHostagesFer’Im.”

“There’ll be a march across land and back for Panama,” Cudro said. “How men arrive at the ships and leave will depend on when and how Morgan shares out the treasure.”

“MaybeWeCanSlip AwayAtTheStart An’Get TaDonovanAn’Sail. The OtherShips Won’t’AveOrders TaChaseUs, An’TheirCaptins’ll BeAshore WithMorgan.”

“Aye,” Gaston said. “Either then or as we return. There will be nowhere to run on Spanish land. We will have to escape on one of our ships.”

I listened to them and told myself there was hope in their words, but my heart would not listen and my Horse was scared. For the first time in a long time, I felt betrayed by the Gods.

 

 

One Hundred and Nine

Wherein We Find Ourselves at Peace in War

 

My despondency continued for days. Thankfully, I was not needed during that time. Morgan did not visit our camp to gloat. I do not know what I would have done if he had: possibly turned my back on him and stared into the distance: possibly torn his throat out. Pierrot did visit, and he too vowed not to give the bastard the satisfaction of showing that anything had occurred. We mourned the little boat and all our broken dreams over a bottle.

Several days into my melancholy, Gaston took the brandy from my hand and poured it into the sand. There had not been much left in that particular bottle, but the gesture was not lost on me. He then shaved me and trimmed my hair.

“I feel the Gods have betrayed us,” I said quietly after he finished my throat.

“Is this a crisis of faith?” he asked. “Do you still believe in the Gods?”

“Oui.”

“Perhaps this is a test.”

“Why do people always say that when the Divine does some inexplicable thing?”

He smiled. “Perhaps They are merely busy elsewhere and unable to hear your pleas.”

“Then They are not all-knowing or all-powerful.”

“Perhaps They care not what you do.”

“That is my fear.”

“You would rather suffer from malicious intent than benign neglect?”

“I would rather not suffer; but oui, it appears I am afflicted with hubris.”

“Perhaps it is always a test when the Gods ignore us. Perhaps They wish to see who can do well enough on their own, and thus measure Their creations and the end result of Their past meddling.”

“So you are implying Their faith in me is inversely proportionate to how much They ignore me?” I asked with amusement.

“Oui.”

“Then, oui, I feel most loved by the Gods. Thank you.”

To prove his point—or simply to do what was to be done next—he prodded me to remove my clothes and then left me naked before our tent as he waded into the surf to wash them. I was moved by his commitment to the moment enough to stand and follow him.

“What would you have of me?” I asked.

“Find your feet. I feel weak,” he said softly even though his choice of words denoted harder things.

I put an arm about his shoulder and kissed his temple. “You are loved.”

“I am afraid,” he sighed.

“Then hide for a time.”

He shook his head. “My Horse wishes to rage. It is odd. I have little faith in the other men on this beach. I do not trust them to leave me be and not steal from me or harm me in some other way if I retreated within and frolicked. Yet, I have no doubt that if I were to succumb to my Horse’s desire to rage, and I went and attacked Morgan or some such thing, all would say it was my madness and simply beat me down and truss me up and let me live. It is as if I am safer around them when I am mad. They will forgive my actions. But I feel if we simply brood, and express our hatred of Morgan—as rational men should—we will endanger ourselves at their hand.”

I understood. “We are far more dangerous to them as men. Animals can be controlled.”

He nodded and handed me my sodden clothes. “These should be rinsed. And we will need more water—from the spring: the pond is still brackish.” He paused on his return to the tent. “That makes my Horse feel powerless. And if He is powerless, I know not what I have to fight with.”

The bright sunlight reflecting off the water pierced my brandy-soaked eyes and caused me too much pain to think directly on his words. I stumbled back to our camp and rinsed my clothes. Then I donned them and my weapons and took up our water skins to go to the spring. “I will have an answer when I return,” I promised.

“You will?” he asked with warmth and amusement.

“I am sobering. The run will do me good.”

He smiled, and I ran to the spring and back. I tried to think as my feet pounded along. What did we have to fight with if not our Horses—or our Wolves: who also seemed inappropriate weapons for the battle at hand? What else did we possess: our love, our faith? Those were not weapons or warriors.

When I returned I found him sitting in the shade watching the horizon with tears in his eyes. “We do not fight,” I said.

He regarded me with curiosity and bemusement. “Which war?”

“All of them,” I said with confidence. “Perhaps this is a test. Perhaps I am acting like one of the children. I am fixated upon a thing I feel I must have. If I but have that biscuit, all will be well in the world; and the Gods, in Their infinite wisdom, are saying, ‘Non, you must not eat that’; and every time I reach for it, They herd me elsewhere. The more I reach, the more They will steer me away—until They finally tire of the endeavor and swat my arse.”

“What is the biscuit?”

“Resolution with my father, perhaps? Maybe it is a thing I should not seek. Maybe the correct path is living a good life. Maybe we should have boarded the Magdalene with the others and sailed to a Dutch colony. I know that is not how things might have been allowed to play out by the Gods, but maybe that should have been my aim.”

He shook his head with wonder. “So what would you have us do now? Allow Morgan to have his way?”

“Non, and aye. We will seek any opportunity we can to escape this, but in the meantime, we have our love, and we must have faith. If we allow Morgan to make us miserable, then he wins, and my father wins.”

He nodded. “You feel your decision to pursue your father was wrong.”

“Oui, I chose the wrong path. I am sorry.”

He shook his head. “But… What of matters with my father? Being driven from French soil is what caused you to choose that path.”

“That was not our war, and we made the best decisions we could—for the children, and for us. But we could have gone elsewhere rather than turn and fight.”

He smiled. “And when you brought Dutch wrath down upon us?” It was more teasing than a sincere question.

“We would take the road that leads ever upward.”

He chuckled. “So now what would you have us do, oh wise and holy man?”

“Kill no one.”

He caught his breath and held it for a time. “That will surely be a Herculean task,” he at last sobbed. Then the floodgates opened and I sat and held him while he cried.

From that day on we resolved to live in peace and be at peace. We, of course, continued to wear weapons and practice with them; because being at peace did not mean turning the other cheek, per se: we would defend ourselves. And I did not find it within me to make an overture of friendship to Morgan; yet, I did allow that such a thing might occur—or at the least, I would not snarl at him when next we spoke. Essentially, we chose to not seek to kill anyone, and to stop gnashing our teeth with impotent anger at all we could not change. We began to enjoy our days again.

Cudro thought us mad; Ash thought us fools; and Pete thought us wise. Chris seemed uncertain, but then he admitted he had made much the same decision that night when he sat alone upon Gaston’s Gift in the storm.

The remainder of the fleet returned as November ebbed. Modyford sent three ships and hundreds of men from Port Royal. They had been raiding and brought their booty there. The Governor had apparently scolded them for making war on the Spanish—and then sent them off to join Morgan. Collier and Bradley also returned from their raiding with our largest ships intact, provisions, and twenty pounds per man for those who had sailed with them. The beach was alive with men chomping at the bit and pawing the sand for blood and treasure. Gaston and I were forced to move further up the coast to retain any semblance of privacy.

Over the fall, we had been dismayed to note that no one was hunting cattle: then we thought that best, as there surely were not enough cattle left upon the island to feed everyone. We slipped into the woods and found the great wild beasts, however. We shot two, and with great industry, rendered them into boucan, two nice suede blankets, and a good supply of crocked fat. We were often approached by men during this process and asked when the roast meat would be ready. We told them to go and shoot their own cattle. A few did, and there were great cattle roasts for a couple nights; but then that seemed to be the end of that. Knowing Morgan’s preference for living off the Spaniards—as that gave him the pretense of starving men to justify his attacks—we secreted away as much meat as we could in our bags, and sent the rest with Donovan and Pierrot.

Gaston and I were approached by Captain Collier on the first day of December. I did not recognize him at first. I had only met him the once at a ball at the Governor’s, and he had been dressed like a good English naval officer. Now he wore the dressy garb favored by Morgan: thigh-high, buff-colored, tooled leather boots that were considered quite stylish in England—where they were actually needed to keep a man’s legs warm; black wool, lace-festooned, pantaloon breeches favored in King Charles’ court; a fine, once-white, linen shirt replete with ruffles; and a heavy tri-cornered hat with plumage over a bright blue kerchief. To this he had added various rings and necklaces stolen from the Spanish. He did not look to be a wealthy man trying to wear a little less for the tropics, but a poor man dressing in discarded or stolen pieces of his master’s clothing.

He doffed his hat and bowed in cordial greeting. “I am sorry, I am at a loss on how to properly address you,” he began.

“Will and Gaston,” I said. “And you are Captain Collier?”

“That I am.” He nodded to himself. “Will and Gaston then, I have come here to invite you to become part of the Satisfaction’s crew. Mister Gaston is considered to be the finest physician we have, and therefore, we feel he should be surgeon of the Admiral’s flagship. You will receive a berth in a cabin, and the usual compensation for a surgeon.”

“Thank you,” Gaston said. “What of Will?”

“It is my understanding he goes where you do,” Collier said with a frown. “And the Admiral is hoping Mister Will, will be willing,” he smiled weakly, “to be a translator for the campaign.”

“Do we get the entire cabin?” I asked.

“Nay, it is shared.”

“Is there enough space to hang a wide hammock in it—near the ceiling perhaps?” I asked.

“I suppose there is,” Collier said.

I looked to Gaston and he shrugged. “Then we accept. Tell the Admiral I will accept the position of translator—his translator—and I will keep him from appearing a fool before the Spanish.”

“He has several,” Collier said quickly.

“Tell him that if he does not trust me, then he must ask himself what he might have done to earn my wrath. And, if he will not trust me, I will not serve him at all. Tell him these are the wages of the choices he has made. And, when I say I will do a thing, I impart that I will do it honestly and diligently. And if—despite the bad blood between us—he does not respect that, then he is besmirching my honor. And if that is the case, he can rot in Hell for all I care.”

Collier smiled grimly. “I think I will tell him he must discuss this matter with you himself.”

“Very good, then,” I said and waved in parting before returning to gutting a fish.

Gaston watched him walk away before turning to me. “You are loved.”

I laughed.

That evening, Cudro and Ash joined us for dinner. We were quietly discussing Morgan’s offer when Pete and Chris paddled in from the Fortune. They appeared quite serious, and so we joined them in the surf and stood about in a circle—the only means we now had of insuring we were not overheard with so many men wandering in and out of the brush.

“’AdAVisit FromBradley,” Pete said.

“He knows,” Chris said above tightly crossed arms. “I could feel his eyes crawling all over me.”

I cursed. “What did he want?”

Pete smiled and shook his head. “’EOfferedMe Quartemaster OnThe Mayflower. SaidWeCould ’AveACabinThatWay.”

“He offered you quartermaster on the second largest ship in the fleet?” Cudro asked. “No offense Pete, but you’ve never had a command.”

“NoneTaken. IWereFlattered FerAMoment, ThenIRealized ItBeAbout ChrisAn’Morgan’s ShiteWithWill. ThenIFeltStupid. IAsked’ImIfIWould ActuallyBe Quartermaster, An’Second InCommand, An’’ESaidNay. There would be AMasterO’Sail FerTheShip, An’ASecondIn CommandFerThe LandForces. ButSinceThe BrethrenNa’Be UsedTa MilitaryTitles, BradleyThoughtThey Should’AveA Quartemaster TaKeep’EmInLine AboardShip. An’SinceIBe WellRespectedAn’All.”

He spat in the surf.

“Well, we have received an offer from Collier to sail on the Satisfaction, with Gaston as surgeon and me as one of the translators,” I said. “It appears they are attempting to divide us up as they see fit.”

“I’llNa’Sail WithBradley,” Pete said. He looked to Cudro. “WereYaPlannin’ OnSailin’ WithPierrot?”

“Nay, Donovan. He needs us, or rather me. Morgan has said he wishes the captains to lead the ground forces, and the masters of sail to mind the ships: as it has always been done amongst the Brethren. But Donovan is both, and he is not happy about the prospect of leading the fifty men Morgan is commanding him to take into battle against the Spanish. So I offered to play Captain for him. Morgan doesn’t seem to care where Ash and I are.”

“Do not take it as a personal affront,” I teased.

“I take it as a blessing,” Ash said.

Cudro laughed. “Aye, I don’t either. I consider us fortunate.”

“So you’ll captain the Fortune,” I said.

“Donovan’s Fortune,” Ash said. “There are five ships here named Fortune.”

“Well, no one has ever found sailors imaginative when it comes to naming ships,” I said. “People, perhaps.”

“I do not consider them imaginative when naming people,” Chris scoffed. “They are like children: ‘Look, he’s bald, so we’ll call him Harry’.”

“True,” Cudro said, “but you’ve never seen them struggle to name a ship. You’d think someone asked them to write an opera for all the teeth-gnashing ship-naming starts. In the end, they go with the simplest thing, or they name it after another ship they saw.”

“You should call Donovan’s ship the Virgin Queen,” Gaston said with a grin.

We laughed.

“Aye,” I said, “Elizabeth should be represented in any raid on Panama. Drake would wish it that way.”

“So you two will sail with Donovan,” I said again. I looked to Pete. “You should sail with Pierrot.”

He was squinting at the sunset. “ThatWereMyThinkin’.” He turned back to Cudro. “WeNeedYa TaMakeArrangements With’Im. Morgan’ll NeverLetUs BoardTheJosephine. SoWe’ll’Ave TaSwimTo’Er. We’llNeedOur WeaponsAn’GearOnFirst. ITol’Bradley I’dThinkOnIt, An’EvenIfIDidNa’ WishTaBeQuatermaster, I’dSailWith’ImAnyway. ThenITol’’ImWe Would BeSpendin’TheDays AforeWeSailed WithYouLot. SinceWeNa’Be Seein’Ya FerAwhileWith UsAllOn DifferentShips.”

“As always, you are far ahead of the rest of us in thinking of things tactical,” I said.

Pete snorted, but then he grinned. “SomeoneNeedsTaBe.”

We turned away from such treacherous topics and made our way back to our fire. I stopped Pete. “You would make an excellent Captain.”

He hooked the back of my head and planted a kiss on my lips. “ThankYa.”

“Do that again,” I said.

He raised a brow. I gave him a coy smile and pulled his mouth to mine. He did not resist, and the kiss was equal plunder and surrender on both our parts. It was much as I had imagined kissing him would be: very good, and it lit a fire in my cock. He pulled away with a curse and wide eyes that quickly narrowed to a mix of respect and wonder. I grinned.

Then Gaston was bowling him into the surf while Pete protested vehemently that he did not start it. I was concerned for a moment, until I realized my matelot was not at all angry. Pete saw the same, and they began to play roughly as was their wont of late.

I waded back to camp.

“What was that?” Chris asked with a touch of pique.

I laughed. “A thing Pete and I have long been curious about. Now that he has you, it is meaningless, and not a threat to any of us.”

He did not believe me. I knew my words true for me; but in truth, I worried that I lied in regards to Pete’s assessment of the matter. Only time would tell.

I was thankful Pete seemed willing to make no mention of the kiss when Gaston and he at last waded to shore with gasping breath. It had been my only worry in partaking of it; but nay, he made no innuendo, nor did I find him regarding me with the hungry lust he had exhibited prior to taking Chris on as matelot.

Gaston, however, teased, “And how did he kiss?” once we were alone.

“With the promise of fine meals best left uneaten,” I said.

He laughed, and kissed me, and did other things until I forgot dining anywhere but at his table.

The next day, December Second, Pete and Chris moved ashore, and Cudro and Ash moved to the new Virgin Queen. Donovan was quite happy with the new name. Cudro was named captain that day, and thus he attended the meeting of the thirty-seven captains that night where they unanimously—of course—ratified Morgan’s choice of targets, Panama.

Morgan came to call the next night—alone, to my surprise. I was also amazed he was not wearing boots or fancy breeches, until he motioned for me to follow and walked out into the surf. I joined him without hesitation.

“I apologize for the boat,” he said by way of greeting, and held up a hand to ward off protest. “I could not let you leave. I am not betting on the wrong horse. I keep underestimating you—and Modyford surely does, but… Nay, I think you would be a fool to face your father. You would do best to wait for old age to take him.”

“Believe it or not, I agree,” I said. “I did not, when I came here, but I have had a change of heart. I have just become very damn tired of people lording it over me, you understand?”

“Quite,” he said with a smile. “That is why I am here and not in my native Wales. Here I am an Admiral.”

“Here I am a free man.”

He nodded thoughtfully at that. “I would be honored to have you and no other translate for me.”

“Then I accept.”

“And if Bradley’s offer to Pete was unacceptable, then they should come to the Satisfaction as well. It would be best for the girl.”

“I doubt that. The fact that you told Bradley, and probably others, makes things difficult indeed. They know, and thus they can think of nothing else. Chris said Bradley’s eyes were all over him, and since Bradley is not known for ogling boys…”

“I see,” Morgan said with another thoughtful nod. “They do not know how to lie well, do they?”

“Nay, they pale in comparison to masters such as us.”

He snorted and cackled at that. “Damn I will enjoy having you with me on this campaign.”

I sighed. “I have begun to think it is as it was meant to be. When it is over, I expect us to part peacefully, though. I—with my people—will sail where I must, and you will return to Jamaica.”

He considered that for a time before nodding with a smile. “I agree. You have my word.” He offered his hand and we shook on it.

“When do we sail, Admiral?” I asked.

“In a few days.”

“Good, then we will remain ashore and make the most of what privacy it still affords us.”

He nodded. “I will not worry, then.”

We parted company and I returned to the fire and three anxious pairs of eyes.

“We have declared a truce,” I said quietly.

“DoYaTrust’Im?” Pete whispered.

“Like I trust the Devil,” I said.

Later I told Gaston all that had been said.

“You were not specific enough in your agreement with him,” he noted.

I chuckled. “I do not expect him to willingly honor it, so I did not care.”

He nodded. “I wonder how large a craft we would have to steal in order to sail it around the cape from one sea to the other. Or across the Southern Sea the way Drake went.”

“We would need Drake’s maps, and the Bard,” I said, though the idea was intriguing. “Nay, I think we stand a better chance of seeing our children in this life if we find some way of escaping Morgan when all are returning to the ships.”

He nodded. “Then let us plan on that.”

The four of us visited Cudro and Ash the next day and agreed that unless an opportunity presented itself before then, we would plan to escape after the raid; and that we would all have a much better sense of things once we were all ashore for the attack on Panama. Cudro confirmed he had made arrangements with Pierrot, and Pete’s and Chris’ bags, muskets, pistols, powder and shot—and our gold—were already aboard the Josephine.

We said our farewells to Cudro and Ash, as we would not see them again before landing to march on Panama. That night, we parted with Pete and Chris—without kissing—and they slipped away into the water to swim to the Josephine. The next day, Gaston and I packed up our things and went to the Satisfaction.

Short of the galleons we had once taken, the Satisfaction was the largest ship I had been aboard. There were indeed several cabins, and not one cabin and two closets as the Mayflower possessed. We were ushered to one on the port side. There were four hammocks hanging within it, and I was minded of the cabin I had lived in on my journey to the West Indies on the King’s Hope. After discussing the matter with the carpenter and master of sail—with whom we would share the room—we unstrung two of the hammocks and placed our large one up high near the ceiling where it could receive the breeze from the room’s one porthole. The carpenter, being a large man, used the three hammocks thus left over to string a reinforced bed near the floor beneath us. The master of sail thus had the other side of the room in which to sling his hammock at a middle height. We placed one of our suede hides on our hammock to give us privacy, arranged our things in the nooks and crannies of the ceiling beams—placing hooks where needed—and settled in.

Later in the day, we were brought the ship’s medicine chest. It was well-stocked by a physician at the beginning of its life and had remained so; as apparently many of the apothecary items had been unused—as well as the finer instruments and tools—by the Satisfaction’s surgeons. Gaston was ecstatic. He spent hours examining and organizing it.

The day before the fleet was to sail, we were summoned to the main cabin, where we found Bradley, Collier, and Norman with Morgan.

“Where are Pete and his matelot?” Morgan asked.

Bradley and Norman smirked. Collier frowned.

Gaston and I looked to Bradley. “Are they not on the Mayflower?” I asked.

Morgan sighed. “Never mind.” Then he sighed again. “Just tell me, are they still with the fleet?”

“Well, Admiral,” I said with a grin, “As there is no way for them to leave the fleet, I would assume so.”

“It is on your head,” Morgan said.

“My head?” I scoffed. “Admiral, Gaston’s cousin is Pete’s matelot. Pete is more than capable of doing what is best for the men in his life. That is why Gaston entrusted his cousin to him.”

Gaston was nodding agreeably: the three captains were frowning: Morgan awarded me a begrudging and knowing nod.

“Well,” Morgan said and took another sip of rum. “So be it, then. Sorry to bother you.”

“It is not a bother,” I said cheerily. “If you should happen to locate them, please let us know. We are curious.”

Gaston and I waited until we were safely behind our cabin door before snickering. Then we made a fervent whispered prayer to the Gods that they were not found.

The fleet set sail on December Twelfth, Sixteen Hundred and Seventy. Morgan bragged to Modyford that he had thirty-six vessels and eighteen hundred men, but in truth, many of the vessels were small coastal boats and not large enough to sail to the Spanish Main—or keep pace with the larger ships. By my count, we were an unprecedented buccaneer force of perhaps over seventeen hundred, spread among twenty-eight ships varying in size from seventy-ton sloops to one-hundred-and-fifty-ton frigates and merchantmen. Our decks were packed, and our holds nearly empty. Every ship carried water and some food, but not nearly enough to feed the men aboard unless we found plunder quickly.

Since the captains had ratified our target and the articles before we sailed, there was little to be done by way of elections on each ship. The men were notified of their officers and the skilled positions, and then they ratified—unanimously—the articles upon which their captains had already agreed. Thus Gaston was confirmed as surgeon and immediately set to work inquiring of the health of his charges before we were fully under sail. He had been treating many of the ones who ailed while on Cow Island, and they were quite happy to see him. He settled in quite happily. I spent my days avoiding Morgan and his requests to join him in drinking. The damn fool did not drink to excess, but he did seem to drink continuously. I doubted he was ever truly drunk—or sober. Gaston said he doubted Morgan would live to old age any more than he would die by lead or steel: rum would be his reaper.

Our first target was Morgan’s oddly-beloved Providence Island. A small, rocky island just over one hundred and forty leagues north and a little west of Porto Bello, it had originally been settled by Protestant Puritans in Sixteen Hundred and Thirty, but the Spanish had taken it Sixteen Hundred and Forty-One. Morgan and Mansfield had then captured the place in Sixteen Hundred and Sixty-Six. Then, due to a lack of interest on the part of Jamaica’s governor, poor planning, and bad luck, the island had been lost to the Spanish, and the few colonists sent there had followed the path of the original Puritans into Spanish slavery and the hands of the Inquisition. We had rescued some of those men when we took Porto Bello almost three years ago. Now Morgan was determined to retake the island and use it as a rallying point before heading south to the mouth of the River Chagre—the path he intended to take to Panama. We needed such a rallying point, because inside two days we had left slower vessels such as Cudro and Donovan’s new Virgin Queen behind.

We sighted Providence Island on December Fourteenth and arrived in force on the Fifteenth. With four frigates and two sloops full of armed buccaneers arriving in their harbor, the Spanish raised a flag indicating they wished to parley before we had finished lowering our sails. Thus I finally had something to do. Morgan, Collier, and I, and an honor guard of four burly men, rowed ashore to meet with the Spanish party. I asked Morgan how he wished to style himself, and he came up with several lavish titles before finally deciding upon one. We met the Spanish in an open area just between the range of their fort’s cannon and our ship’s.

The garrison’s commander made great show of being impressed with Morgan’s title of Admiral of the Buccaneers and Defender of Jamaica. He made it very clear he did not wish to truly battle such a formidable foe, but he could not very well simply hand the castle to us with no shots fired without a loss of honor and dignity he would find too great to bear. Thus, he wished for the Great Admiral Morgan to do him the favor of engaging in a mock battle—in which all shots would be fired in the air—and thus allow him to depart with dignity. He also asked—as they had insufficient boats for the task—if we would be so kind as to sail his three hundred men to the mainland. In exchange for these courtesies, he agreed to leave the castle, its cannon, and more importantly, its stores, intact and ready for our use.

Morgan graciously agreed to these terms. Thus the battle to take Providence Island was waged within our persons, by our fighting ourselves to not laugh in the face of the earnest Spaniard; and then with our men in explaining that they must not shoot the Spaniards on the morrow; and then with the captains in convincing them to haul three hundred Spaniards to the mainland. On the morning of the Sixteenth, the mock battle took place; and the Spanish marched out and we marched in.

We were also fortunate in that four of the Commander’s men—all former bandits from the Main—agreed to stay on as our guides, and claimed to be very familiar with the passage to Panama. By way of proof, they spoke of many details the Spanish maps did not show. All present at this viewing of the maps judged the men to be sincere and greedy and not duplicitous.

The remainder of our fleet trailed in over the next few days. They were all quite happy to see we had a fortress waiting for them. Many of the men ashore attempted to tell their laggard fellows that we had taken the place after much valor and warfare. There was a good deal of laughter over the matter, and everyone was in fine spirits and jested that Panama would be much the same—especially since Morgan was sure we would take them by surprise.

On the morning of the Nineteenth, Bradley sailed with his Mayflower, Pierrot’s Josephine, a small frigate named Fortune, and four hundred men to take the fortress of San Lorenzo at the mouth of the River Chagre in preparation for the fleet’s arrival. Gaston and I had been somewhat surprised when Pierrot agreed to go on this mission. We had spoken with him briefly when he arrived at Providence, but little of import could be said except for his whispered assurance that our friends were well when we embraced in greeting.

Cudro arrived that afternoon. The new Virgin Queen was indeed slow. We were quite pleased to see her arrive, though, and know that they too were safe and well.

Leaving a small garrison of fifty men behind—and one small craft in case they needed to flee the Spanish—we sailed from Providence Island on Christmas. We sighted our ships and the fortress on January Second, Sixteen Hundred and Seventy-One. The easterly winds had favored our smaller fore-and-aft rigged vessels in contrast to the square-rigged frigates; and Morgan had also commanded that all ships stay together even if it meant sailing with less canvas; and so the entire fleet arrived on the same day. There was great cheering when we saw the Brethren Jolie Rouge flying above the castle. Morgan was so delighted he chose to sail into the river’s mouth to achieve the cove containing the fortress’ wharf—so that he could triumphantly walk to the site of our conquest instead of rowing ashore.

The skeleton crews of the three ships had waved in greeting when we arrived. As we neared the river mouth they began to signal frantically. Collier’s master of sail yelled for his men to trim sail and picked his way forward through the deck crowded with buccaneers to reach the bow. He leaned over the rail, cursed loudly, and everyone standing was thrown to their knees as the air was torn asunder by the horrible sound of wood splintering against rock.

Gaston and I looked to one another, forced our way through the panicked and milling men to our cabin, and gathered our things. When we emerged, it was obvious the ship was sinking. Her boats and canoes had been lowered, but they could only hold a tenth of the men aboard—almost none of whom could swim. The Satisfaction was going down in somewhat deep water next to the rocky bar at the mouth of the river. The shore was actually within range of our cannon. It would be an easy swim, if not for the river’s current sweeping into the sea.

We retreated to the quarterdeck, and there I left Gaston while I went to brave the hatch for a floating barrel or crate. I found one, and wrestled it on deck and rolled it to my matelot. We prized the lid off, placed the medicine chest and our powder and pistols inside, and pounded the lid down tight. Then we bundled the rest of our possessions and affixed them to the outside of the hogshead. We next acquired a long length of rope. Once we had that, we stared at one another.

“I am going,” I said.

“Where?” he asked with a smile.

I pointed to the northern shore closest to the ship. “I will dive over and let the current take me a little, and then you will anchor me so that I can swim across it in an arc to the shore.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “I will follow with the barrel once you are anchored there.”

I looked around as he knotted the rope about my shoulder and chest. The water was confusion. Many of the smaller vessels had been attempting to lead, follow, or accompany us into the deceptive river mouth. Five of them had found the rocky escarpment beneath the water and were now sinking much faster than the Satisfaction. There were men thrashing about in the current and being pulled out to sea or sinking before the rescue boats could reach them.

Some of our craft—including, thank the Gods, the new Virgin Queen —had actually steered into the deeper channel to the south—the part of the river that lay within range of the fortress’s guns, which sat high above us on a cliff. Here, as elsewhere, the Spanish had proven they understood much about the defense of waterways. As a country, they might not have excelled at sailing the seas, but they knew damn well how to prevent other people from sailing into their ports. And Cudro might not have known the east coast of Hispaniola, but the man understood Spanish defense works.

The tilting deck of the Satisfaction was barely more orderly than the sea. Morgan had initially chosen to stay with the ship, but he had entrusted his personal items to the men on the first boat. Now men were urging him to board the next rescue boat. Collier was running about commanding men to salvage what they could and not overload the rescue craft. Our boats were still emptying men onto the nearest ships. Another wave of boats had reached us from those same ships, but it was obvious they could not take everyone. The men who realized they would not yet be able to row away were retreating to the quarterdeck.

Gaston tied his end of the rope off on a staunch rail. We kissed briefly. I dove into the water.

The rope was heavy about my shoulders, and I was initially worried that I might not be able to float with it around me. Then the current buoyed me up and out, and I merely needed to tread water to keep my head up until Gaston decided I had gone far enough. The loop around my chest closed like some giant jaw, and I forced thoughts of malicious sea creatures from my head as I began to swim across the current. It proved far easier than swimming against it ever would—that would have been extremely difficult and gained me nothing.

At last I reached the shore. I glanced at the boat—and saw the bow was beneath the waves and much of her waist with it. There were a dozen men standing around Gaston on the quarterdeck. I quickly made my end fast around a scrubby tree trunk and then looped it around my waist and got a good grip on it. To my dismay, Gaston was the not the next person in the water. A man I did not know pulled himself along the arc of rope running between Gaston and me. He was followed by man after man until all those left on the quarterdeck were on the rope. When the first man was ashore and helping me pull the next man in, Gaston untied his end and stepped only a short distance into the water with the barrel. We now had enough men to start hauling the rest in, and Gaston was soon at my side along with our possessions.

Happy men were applauding us for being clever and knowing how to swim; elsewhere desperate men were still being fished from the water; and our sad flagship was finishing her descent beneath the waves with nearly all her provisions and munitions.

I said a silent prayer of thanks to Poseidon.

We walked along the northern shore until we were across from the fort’s cove and wharf. There we waited until the fleet’s boats finished rescuing the men in the water and were available to rescue the men on the wrong side of the river. Two hours after we struck the rocks, Morgan was able to walk up the winding path to the fortress of San Lorenzo; six ships and all they contained save men were lost; and ten men were drowned.

We followed Morgan up the path with Cudro and Ash. We could smell death and charred wood as we neared the top. Our Admiral stood talking quietly with a very grim Pierrot. Then he was casting about until he spied us. He waved for us to hurry to him and we ran the last distance and joined him in following Pierrot inside the fortress.

It was burned: nearly every structure within the walls was fire damaged; and there were piles of dead men everywhere: some ours, and very many theirs. Pierrot led us past this carnage to a standing corner of a building. In the shade there, a man lay on a cot. His face was so drawn with pain and of such grey pallor I had difficulty recognizing him as Bradley. Gaston quickly knelt at his side, glanced down his body, and pulled the bloody blanket aside to reveal two cauterized stumps.

“What happened?” Gaston asked.

“Cannon ball,” Pierrot said. “It tore both his legs off at the same time. A man near him put a torch to him to keep him from bleeding to death.”

“Will he live?” Morgan asked, and knelt beside the bed to pat Bradley’s face with concern. When his old friend did not respond, he turned to Gaston.

My man was examining the stumps. “Will he want to?” he asked quietly. Then he shook his head. “He has lost too much blood. I am surprised he still lives.”

Morgan stood. “How many men?”

“We have one hundred and fifty men dead or wounded,” Pierrot said. “More wounded than dead, thank God. But more will die. They had three hundred and fourteen. They have thirty now.”

“Well, you made a fine accounting of yourselves,” Morgan said.

Pierrot sighed and nodded agreeably. “That we did. We were lucky with the fire. You should know that this fort was not meant for so many. The President of Panama sent several hundred reinforcements—regular infantry and Indians both—just a few days before we arrived. They know we are here and where we are going.”

Morgan swore quietly, and his words were soft as well. “Do not tell anyone of that. It will discourage the men.”

Pierrot snorted. “As you wish.”

I heard no more: Gaston had begun to follow the trail of wounded away from Bradley and around the corner. I hefted the medicine chest and followed him.

As their horrendous battle had been five days ago, almost all of the men who had received mortal wounds were dead. The rest had been tended by the ship’s surgeons. As most of the surviving wounded had burns, there was little to be done for them. Gaston focused his attention on those with musket or arrow wounds.

He had conferred with the surgeons on five when I spied Chris sitting with his back to a wall and his face buried in his hugged knees. Pete lay on the ground beside him with a bloody bandage about his chest. I ran to them.

Startled, Chris looked up. “Oh thank God,” he breathed—in English.

“Naw, ThankTheGods,” Pete drawled and grinned at me.

I knelt to embrace them. I looked for Gaston and found him arriving to kneel on the other side of Pete.

“What?” my matelot asked as he lifted the bandage.

“Arrow,” Pete said and gasped and cursed as Gaston probed the wound.

“It went right through him,” Chris said—thankfully in French. “He broke it off and… Never mind. I tried to remember what Will did for your wound. I poured rum on it and pressed a bandage tightly on both sides. I did not know if I should stitch it, so I did not. He bled, but not a great deal.”

I looked and saw a short slash of a wound between two of Pete’s ribs, far out on the right side of his chest. Gaston had him roll onto his left side and he examined another slit resting between two ribs opposite the one in the front.

“Did it enter from the front?” my man asked.

“Non, the back. We were retreating. We would dash in and out and…” Chris shook his head.

“You are a lucky bastard and you will live,” Gaston pronounced. “It shows no sign of sepsis, and it apparently missed your organs.”

“Tol’Ya,” Pete said to Chris.

His matelot sighed and appeared close to tears.

“What happened here?” I asked.

Chris sighed and looked about. “We arrived in the morning, and Bradley had everyone put ashore. We marched down the coast and climbed up the mountain to attack this damn place from behind.” He shrugged. “Well, it cannot be attacked from the front. It has cliffs on three sides.

“We arrived in the forest behind it in the middle of the afternoon. There was a great wooden palisade, and then a deep trench—two men deep at least—and then another palisade. The Spaniards had the land well-cleared, and they and their Indians could fire on us with cannon, muskets, and arrows before we could get in range of their walls with grenadoes or fire pots.

“We attacked anyway. We would run at them and try to fire and chase them off the walls long enough for our men to get close and attack the palisade itself. I have read about such battles. They are always spoken of by observers or officers—or stupid historians who never even saw a battle. They are not described by the men who wage them,” he said vehemently.

“It was hellish. It was night. Men were screaming. The Spanish were taunting us from the wall and laughing at our wounded—who we could not reach to rescue. I could barely see for the smoke and darkness. And then the cannon balls would come and… Twice men standing near us were there, and then they were simply gone.” He shuddered.

“’EDidGood. Never’AdTaLook Fer’Im. KeptShootin’ An’Reloadin’.”

Chris snorted. “I could do nothing else.” He regarded his hands. “It was as if I did not have a thing to do—a logical task—I would go mad. And I had the musket in my hands, so I kept shooting.”

“We have all been there,” I said kindly. “You did as you should.”

He sighed. “Until Pete got shot. I saw the arrow protruding from his chest, and I screamed.” The remembered horror contorted his face.

“LikeAGirl. NoOne’Eard’Im,” Pete said with a grin.

I laughed. “I doubt it.”

Chris glared at us. “It is not funny. He had an arrow in his chest. I tried to drag him further into the trees, but he was cursing and he stood his ground. He pulled the arrow further out of him and snapped it off and told me to pull the fletched half out of his back. So I did, and while I was at it, this arse reloads his musket and shoves the arrow in the barrel with the paper of his cartouche as wadding. Then he yelled some stupid thing about sending it back and he fired high over the wall. The damn arrow caught fire from the powder and arced over the wall and landed on a thatched roof. It caught fire. Then everyone near us was doing it: firing burning arrows onto their roofs.

“The Spaniards did not see the burning buildings behind them until the fires were raging. Then many of them turned their attention from the walls and we were finally able to get men close enough to burn the outer palisade until it could be pushed down to use as a drawbridge across the trench. Once that happened, I finally got Pete to sit and let me tend his wound.

“We finally took the fort. It has been five days since then, and we have had no food save what we carried, and we have had to haul water up from the river—the Spanish used all they had fighting the fire—and the fire burned all their stores. And there are dead bodies everywhere and the only ones being buried are ours. There were more of theirs. And they’ve been torturing the few Spaniards who lived.”

“So you have not had any food?” I asked.

“Our boucan, nothing more. Thank God you arrived with the rest of the provisions.”

I grimaced. “About that…” I told them of losing the ships.

Chris was aghast, but Pete laughed until he gasped with pain.

“So, our hero is not dead then,” Pierrot appeared above us to say.

We chuckled.

“Non, it will take more than an arrow to fell Pete the Lionhearted,” I said.

“Are you well?” Gaston asked Pierrot.

Our friend smiled and showed Gaston a stitched gash on his leg. “I will live.” He grimaced. “Tell me, my friends, did they not even look for a reef?”

“Non,” I said. “Not until they saw men from the other ships attempting to signal us.”

“How much did we lose?” he asked. “Morgan was vague.” I told him. He whistled with sad appreciation. “He will have to move quickly now. There is no food. And I pray for you all that you will not have to take another fortress like this one.”

“You pray for us?” I asked.

“Morgan has asked that I stay here and hold this castle with the wounded and another two hundred men—including the crews of the ships.”

“Good,” I said. “It will be nice to have someplace to return to.”

“If we do not starve. I have asked Morgan to leave us the provisions we will need. He seems to think you will find enough from the Spanish along the river.” He looked at the ruin around us, and his long expression told what he thought of that idea.

“You will stay here,” I told Pete.

“Oui,” Gaston seconded.

“Oh, oui,” Chris said firmly.

Pete grimaced, and Pierrot chuckled at him as he stood. “You damn fool, listen to those who love you.”

“Oui,” Chris breathed.

Pierrot patted me on the shoulder and went about his duties

Pete looked up at his matelot and nodded with a warm smile. “AllRight, I’llNa’MakeYa DoThisAgin.”

Chris snorted and whispered in English, “That is not why. I don’t want you dead: that is why. I love you.” He flushed.

Pete grinned. “IKnow.”

Chris rolled his eyes.

I was reminded again of the passage by Plato in which he extolled the virtues of an army comprised of lovers. He had believed such an army would be powerful indeed, because no man will fight as hard as when he stands shoulder to shoulder with one he loves.

I clapped Chris’ shoulder. “You will not change him.”

“Non,” he said, encompassing worlds of resignation and bemusement in the one word.

I leaned close and whispered to him, “I am proud of you.”

Chris smiled. “Thank you.”

Knowing them safe, Gaston and I went about tending the rest of the wounded as best we could. That night we collapsed with sad hearts next to our friends. I asked the Gods to love the dead—and the men who made them that way; as though they were fools, perhaps they would be less so with more guidance.

 

 

One Hundred and Ten

Wherein We March to Death and Ruin

 

We stayed at San Lorenzo for six full days. During that time, Morgan sent ships up and down the coast to steal canoes with which to navigate the upper river—and provisions if they could find any. Meanwhile, the sixteen hundred or so men we now had ate much of the food on the ships. They did repair damage and cut wood for the fortress, though; and form a bucket chain to fill her cisterns.

Gaston and I watched men die, or wish they could. There were close to a hundred wounded men, and there was not enough laudanum to dose them all, and it seemed cruel to give even the worst a brief respite from pain if it could not be continued. So we cared for them as best we could, and removed flesh and limbs that would never heal or showed signs of putrefaction.

Pete thankfully continued to improve, enough so that his libido returned. Much to my dismay and amusement, I was roused from slumber one night by their amorous activities—as Gaston and I were lying directly next to them—and saw that their trysting was of such a position it was obvious Pete was in the wrong hole.

I teased him about it the next morning when Chris was fetching their rations and Gaston was busy with patients. “So how is the squishy hole?”

Pete snorted with surprise and amusement. “Squishy. IPreferTheOther. ItHoldsTighter. ButIRealized IMightDie, AndIWanted TaKnowAforeIDied. Didna’GoThereWit’Sarah. ThatWereStriker’s. IDidna’Want MySeedIn’ ErBellyConfusin’Things.”

“What if Chris gets with child?”

He sighed. “One. NoOneWants’ImDead. NoMatterWhat May ’AppenTaUs, Chris’llLive. Two. NoOne’llHarm APregnantWoman—Na’IfSheBeOne O’OurOwn. Three. ’EWillNa’Show AforeWeLeave’Ere. Four.” He grinned. “TheGods’AveBeen KnownTaHateYou An’YurMatelot OnTheMatter, ButNa’Me.”

I had to laugh at his perilous reasoning. “You damn fool, until now you have not given Them the opportunity.”

“An’Five,” he said seriously. ‘Iffn’IDie, There’llBeAnother MeTa CarryOn.”

As I would not want a world without a Pete—and I was not even he—I could well understand the last. I found myself heartened that there were two little versions of Gaston somewhere in the world that would carry on in the event the unthinkable occurred. And two more of me as well, if the Gods were kind and protected them even if They could not aid me.

“I understand,” I said soberly. “I will say nothing else of it.”

“An’,” he added seriously. “WeCouldNa’Stay OnTheShip. I’AveAReputation, An’TheFrench BeWonderin’WhyI TookOnSuchAWeak Lookin’Matelot. TheyMadeFarMore CommentO’It ThanThe EnglishThat Saw’Im.”

“Damn French,” I said.

“Aye,” he said. “SoI’AdTaProve WeCouldFight, That’ECouldFight, An’No OneThought ThisWould BeABattleLikeItWas. ByTheTimeWeKnew, ICouldNa’Send’ImBack. AndAye, IBeGreatlyRelieved ItBeMeWhoBe Wounded. IfItWere’Im, I’dWantTaKillMeself.”

I had wondered why they would take such a risk, and wrongly assumed it was due to Pete’s boredom. I was glad to hear I had underestimated him—and that brought guilt.

“Do you feel he will wish to fight again?” I asked.

Pete shook his head. “Naw. ’EFought. ’EFoughtGood, ButItWereFer MeAn’Because ’EWereThere WithNoPlaceTaRun. ’ETookNoJoyInIt.”

“That is a relief, I suppose; unless you still wish to die on the field of battle or at least not safe in your bed.”

He snorted. “Will, ASafeBed BeSoundin’Good.”

I chuckled. “Come now, you have been wounded before.”

“Na’Lately. I’mNa’ABoy NoMore. IUsedTo’AveNothin’. NowIDo. Don’tWantTaLoseIt.” He sighed and smiled. “Don’WantTa SitAboutAn’ Whine’BoutNa’Losin’ ItLikeStrikerNeither.”

“Aye,” I said with a smile at the last. “When I traveled Christendom, I took risks I would never take now. It did not matter.”

“Aye,” he said. “NowItMatters.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “It MatteredWith StrikerToo, ButIThinkI WereAFoolThese LastYears Aroun’’Im OnAccountO’ ’ImWishin’TaBe SoCautious. IFeltOneO’UsOught TaTake RisksElseWeWould DoNuthin’ ButBecome OldMen. ItScaredMe. Now, WithChris, ItBeDifferent.

“WithStriker, Iffn’IDied, IThoughtItWould Serve’Im Somehow. That’ECouldSit AboutWith’Is WifeAn’Mourn MeAn’IsYouth. ItWereMaudlin AnFoolish. IfILeaveChris, Who’llTake CareO’’Im?”

“Well the Gods know Gaston and I have done a piss-poor job on that account,” I sighed. “But, if something dreadful were to befall you and not us, then we would do all in our power.”

He grinned. “Aye, ButNowYaPoor BastardsAreMore LikelyTaDie ThanIAm ThisYear.” He sobered and frowned. “TrulyWill. Don’BeBrave OnThisShite Campaign.”

I laughed, though I knew him sincere. “I swear I will not. It is not my war, and I have nothing left to prove.”

“Na’YaDon’t,” he said with a smile. “NoneO’UsDo. Na’Anymore.”

I thought that sentiment applied to us all, and not merely those we knew well and loved. I dearly wished that Morgan could be convinced of such a thing. Listening to him talk, this campaign was more about showing the Spanish a thing or two than it was about the plunder; and I saw him as sincere in that regard. He truly wished to be renowned in history.

I truly did not wish to be part of his bid for infamy—in any way. In those days of general confusion and disorder, with ships coming and going at all hours, Gaston and I considered slipping away. We were not sure how we would abscond with our friends, though. Upon discussing the matter with them, they encouraged us to seek our own escape if it came to that. They were all sure they would be well enough to catch up with us or our loved ones in France at a slower pace if necessary.

Gaston and I approached Pierrot when he came to ask of the wounded.

“We do not wish to add to your concerns, but one of us, or Chris, needs to board your ship and retrieve an item Pete stashed there,” I whispered. The item in question was our gold. “We intend to leave some part of it with you,” I assured him.

Pierrot grimaced to hide a snort of amusement. Then he shook his head. “It is not wise. Not now. I am being watched; and Morgan chastised me for taking on Pete and his matelot—and especially for allowing said matelot to enter the battle. He is very keen that small, thin cousins be protected.”

I sighed with disappointment.

“Do not fret,” he continued. “When all is chaos upon your return, then we shall see about spiriting you away. There is a place on my ship where you can be hidden—a secret compartment. If you can swim to my ship in the night, my men can get you aboard and hidden.”

“Thank you,” Gaston said. “That is a relief.”

Pierrot smiled grimly and patted my man’s shoulder. “You must survive to return, though. Be very careful. And do not worry so much about Pete and his man: I will do what I can for them.”

“And they will do what they can to watch your back in return,” I told him.

“I hope so,” he said with a smile.

He left us with hope and a sense of purpose.

Though it was not a thing discussed by many, Morgan waited until after Bradley died on the Seventh to announce we would proceed up river on the Ninth.

On the night of the Eighth, Cudro and Ash broke away from their duties and joined us for a farewell meal with Pete and Chris. We toasted one another’s safety until we should all meet again—wherever and whenever that might be, as it was obvious now that we would probably not leave this coast together on the same vessel.

Pete, Chris, Gaston and I might leave together on the Josephine if all went well, but it would be difficult for Cudro to slip away due to his duties as a captain. Of course, his being a captain gave him some say as to where his ship would sail after this war. He was sure they could get to the Northern colonies; and that even without any booty from Panama, they would have enough to book passage to anywhere in Christendom.

We discussed where our friends might be with the Magdalene, and assured ourselves that should any of us become separated, we all knew where to go to find one another again. That night, Gaston and I walked to the edge of the forest and prayed out loud. Despite this, I did not sleep well.

In the morning, Morgan led us south up the river. We were now approximately thirteen hundred men in nearly a score of stolen canoes and caraques, and a handful of buccaneer boats with shallow hulls—the new Virgin Queen thankfully not among them. I feared for the safety of these vessels on the treacherous river; especially since we were crammed into them in such numbers they rode dangerously low in the water. Of a necessity, with only enough space to carry our men, we had left behind the remaining provisions. This was a boon for Pierrot, but a horrible thing for the rest of our forces. Men were complaining of empty bellies by midday.

Our progress was slow on the unfamiliar water. Our four guides from Providence Island had traversed this river before, but they had not been the pilots of the boats they rode in, and they were not sailors in general. They knew little of navigation or the needs of vessels beyond a canoe.

Gaston and I were thankfully on one of the larger vessels with Morgan; but despite the actual deck to stand upon, we were indeed standing and little else. Men could sit or kneel—if they kept their knees pulled in and did not mind staring at crotches. At least Gaston and I could take turns sitting on the medicine chest; though, every time I felt its sturdy presence under my arse, I could only dread how heavy it would become when we had to carry it.

My matelot and I were also fortunate in that we carried a small horde of boucan. We had no intention of sharing it. We had discussed the matter and made a solemn vow to not give any away no matter how moved we were with compassion for the plight of those around us.

And wisdom also gave us one more modicum of comfort in relation to our brethren: we were slathered in fat to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

Morgan called a halt after approximately six leagues at a place our guides named De los Bracos. Everyone gratefully clambered from the boats and stretched their aching limbs. Then men spread into the surrounding fields and forests to see what the closest plantations might have for victuals. They found nothing except evidence the Spanish had fled before us. That night there was much grumbling around the fires, both from mouths and empty bellies.

The next day, we started early and traveled until we reached a place called Cruz de Juan Gallego. We found no Spaniards and no provisions. We also saw in the waning twilight that the way ahead would quickly become impassable for the larger vessels. The River Chagre was unusually low this year, and the navigable channels were hindered here and there with clumps of debris from some previous year’s flooding. The Spanish apparently did not try to navigate anything other than canoes or shallow-bottomed boats and barges beyond this point, even when the river was high. Our guides assured us the way would be clear to walk on the western bank of the river in only a few leagues. Where we now stood, the forest was so thick it was nearly impenetrable.

That night, Gaston and I chewed on tiny bits of boucan and smoked a pipe to disguise the smell of food. Most of the men were smoking pipes because they had nothing to fill their bellies with but smoke. We visited with Cudro and Ash for a time, and found them doing much the same: hoarding their food and lying about it.

On the third day, Morgan left a hundred or so men with the boats. He stupidly ordered them to remain with the craft and not venture ashore on pain of death. He was afraid they would encounter some Spanish attack if they ventured out seeking food, and be cut off from the boats and lose them. As he and his officers walked away, I saw clearly upon many of the faces of the men so tasked that they were not so foolish as to steadfastly honor his wishes—on pain of death or not—if it meant starving to death.

We then attempted to hack our way alongside the river for an hour. When that proved absurdly difficult, Morgan ordered half our men into the canoes. Then we laboriously worked our way up river—often wading with the canoes on our shoulders—for half the day to a place called Cedro Bueno. There was no food or Spaniards there, either. Six hundred of us milled about, pulled leeches from one another, and destroyed the few available buildings out of anger and boredom as the canoes returned down river to fetch the rest of our forces—save those guarding the boats.

Some of the men were becoming weak with hunger. Morgan and his officers were not, though I saw no evidence of them eating. Gaston and I pretended to be hungry, as did Cudro and Ash.

The fourth day, three-quarters of our men walked along the western river bank. The way was much clearer, as the guides had promised. Those weak with hunger continued in the canoes. The next section of water was easier to traverse as well. To increase our speed, one of our guides took two canoes and some of our stronger men to paddle them and roved ahead to search for ambuscades.

Around midday, our guide on land told us we approached a post called Torna Cavallos. Soon after, the guide on the river yelled from up ahead that he had found a Spanish position. Careless and starving, cheering buccaneers rushed toward the temporary Spanish fortifications. They found nothing: no Spaniards and no food. However, the place looked very recently abandoned. We even found scattered crumbs the birds had not yet eaten from the last of the defenders’ meals.

Frustrated, Morgan and I discussed it with our guides. They flattered us by saying that of course the Spanish would run from such a force. They also said there were likely Indian spies nimbly dancing through the impenetrable forest all around us, warning their masters of our approach hours in advance.

Morgan ordered that every man stay with his brethren. He wanted no parties wandering into the woods to chase animals for food. He was afraid lone men would be captured and tortured to draw others into a trap—as he averred Indians were known to do.

Meanwhile, some of our men had found a cache of leather bags. They were empty, yet arguments broke out over them until the winners happily carried away at least a piece of one. They cut the leather into strips, beat it soundly between rocks to tenderize it, heated it over a fire, and ate it. Gaston doubted they could derive nourishment from it, but all who supped on it claimed it did much to ease their bellies.

Gaston and I pretended a strip of boucan was leather; and pounded it viciously before cutting it into tiny bits and eating it while grimacing.

Morgan ordered us onward, and we marched until nightfall and a place called Torna Munni where we found another recently deserted ambuscade. That night, men began to talk loudly of eating any Spaniard or Indian we caught.

Fully half our men were in canoes due to the weakness of hunger on the fifth day. Gaston looked them over, but there was nothing he could do and it filled him with guilt and sadness. Even if we broke our vow and shared our boucan, we could not begin to give them all a taste, much less feed them.

At noon on the fifth day we came to a place called Barbacoa. Which, of course, sounded quite promising; and which, as we should have expected, was quite devoid of Spaniards and food. There was another ambuscade, but this one did not appear to have been finished or occupied: causing men to jest that by the time we reached Panama, the terrified Spanish would simply throw open the gates and leave the city defenseless. Other men remarked that if that were to occur, the Spanish would also leave the city empty of treasure and food. I thought our enemy was wisely withdrawing all its forces to defend the city, instead of having them spread out across the countryside to be picked away as we advanced.

We sent large parties of men to search the plantations we could see from the river. They proved empty as well. However, one of our groups found a recently hollowed grotto in a hillside. It contained a stash of food including corn, meal, wine, and plantains. Those men were to be commended, because they did not return with this glorious bounty with stuffed mouths and filled bellies—though I was sure they had all eaten something.

Morgan ordered that the food be divided among those most in need. Gaston assessed the men in serious condition and they were fed. In the end, only about three hundred men received enough food to stave off death. The rest went hungry, but with better spirits in that they had found something at all. Since we had lost so much time in that endeavor, Morgan urged us on into the night until we at last chose to stop at yet another abandoned plantation near the river.

I was beginning to be amazed that the Spanish had not even left behind a stray cat. “Truly, what are they doing, bagging the cats and taking them with them?” I asked my matelot as we surreptitiously chewed a little boucan.

“There would be no need,” he said with a grin. “Cats are smarter than hungry stupid men, especially when they have thousands of acres of forest to hide in.”

On the sixth day, we went very slowly. Too many men were weak with hunger for us to maintain any sort of pace. We formed a straggling column, with half our number sitting at any given time. Many men had taken to eating grass or leaves. Some of them became extremely ill from this practice and ended up in the canoes. My matelot took to amusing me by pointing to this or that leaf and reciting its poisonous properties.

At midday, we came upon yet another seemingly empty plantation. This one surprised us with a barn full of maize. There was little order in what occurred with this treasure. Men fell upon it and stuffed it in their mouths, dry; swallowing before they even chewed. Within minutes, the first men complained of cramps and some of them heaved. This slowed the rest from overrunning the men Morgan had now placed to guard the trove. The rumor the grain was poisoned quickly spread through the ranks. Gaston examined the complaining men and the grain and declared the corn fine and their discomfort caused by eating such raw food on such empty stomachs. To my never-ending bemusement, some men still sniffed the grain cautiously when we handed them their ration. For the first time in six days, every man was able to fill his belly. And, if they were careful, they all had some for the morrow as well.

Morgan decided to keep moving as soon as we had eaten a little. Within another hour or so, we came upon an ambuscade manned by approximately a hundred Indians on the eastern side of the river. Our buccaneers went berserk at the sight of possible prey—truly, they still claimed to wish to eat them. Before Morgan could give orders and have them obeyed, many men rushed across the river and attacked. The Indians evaded them quite nimbly and killed several with arrows. Then the bastards cried, “To the plain, you dogs, to the plain,” in broken Spanish from the trees.

We stopped for the day. Our guides said we had likely seen the Indians here because this was where we needed to cross the river. We would now need to travel along the other side until we reached Cruz, a small town that was the last place the Spanish considered navigable for even canoes and small boats when the river was at its proper height. The guides claimed there would be storehouses there, as that was where goods being sent downriver were collected. They also said the plain the Indians spoke of rested between us and Panama, and was—judging from the natives’ taunts—the place where the Spanish were waiting for us.

That night, there was a great deal of discord heard around the fires. Some men wished to return, others swore they would never walk that river again even if promised the riches of Spain at the other end, and some complained of Morgan and his lack of planning. Their Admiral was not blind or deaf: he knew well morale was low, but he knew not what to do about it. He finally cajoled the guides into going amongst the men and speaking of how much easier the way would be now, and how very rich Panama was.

On the morning of the seventh day, since we had now seen some version of the enemy, Morgan commanded that everyone see to their weapons and clean and discharge them so that they might not be fouled and misfire. This was usually a daily ritual in the tropics, but we had been eschewing it for the first days of our march in order to conserve powder and lead. The thick and humid air was filled with fat, slow mosquitoes, the smell of cooking corn, and a cacophony of retorts as over four thousand weapons were discharged in an incoherent rhythm. I hoped somewhere across the river the Spanish heard this, and were afraid enough to run from us so that we did not need to truly battle them.

We crossed the river and marched along the eastern shore. By late morning, we began to see smoke ahead of us. Knowing we were approaching the town of Cruz, men ran ahead in the hopes that we were at last seeing signs of habitation, and that every column of smoke was a cook fire with delicious victuals upon it. The idea drove us all on, until we did reach the town and found our vanguard of men lying about dejected. The retreating Spaniards had set fire to the place. There was, of course, little remaining. Sadly, this time the Spanish had left some small animals about, including stupid cats and trusting dogs, and the men made short work of killing and butchering them.

Then in one of the King’s storehouses, which the villagers had not burned, our men came upon a treasure trove of wine from Peru. There was much rejoicing, and Morgan made no move to stop this unexpected booty’s consumption. Unfortunately, wine on starved stomachs was even worse than dry corn, and nearly every man who drank became ill. We did not go further that day. By nightfall, half our number lay about in misery, as they had drunk enough to make them sick, but not enough to make them drunk. Most thought they were poisoned and dying.

To make matters worse, though Morgan had ordered no one to venture from the village in a party of less than a hundred, one group of men did wander off in search of victuals. They were set upon by waiting Spaniards and Indians in the forest, and one of our men was captured before he could retreat to camp. We spent the night listening to that poor soul’s screams as he was tortured to terrorize and enrage us.

Gaston and I found our friends, and the four of us retreated beyond the light of the fires and put our backs to one of the town’s few remaining stone walls. We stuffed little bits of boucan in our ears and sipped wine until we were drunk.

We did not speak. There was nothing to be said. We were miserable and exhausted, and we were not the ones starving. Gaston and I had not spoken of anything of import in days. We had not wanted anyone to see that we were capable of that degree of intellectual exertion. In truth, we were barely capable of more than the most absurd jests concerning the weight of the medicine chest. I had been telling him for two days that he had loaded every vial with lead, and he had been accusing me of stashing food and kittens in the damn wooden chest. We were not at our best, but we were far from the worst we had ever been.

On the eighth day, we abandoned the canoes. Morgan ordered that one vessel be hidden so that it could be used to send messages downstream when necessary. The rest he sent downriver to the place where we had left the larger boats several days to the north.

Then he called for the assembly of a vanguard of two hundred men to be commanded by Captain Prince. He asked that those feeling most healthy step forward.

I looked to Gaston and whispered. “I do not wish to fight anyone, but some of us must defend those who can now not defend themselves.”

He smiled. “It is probably foolish. We will be ambushed by the Spanish or worse.”

“Yet?”

“We should.”

We stepped forward and offered our services. Morgan was pleased: I could at least communicate well with the guide. Captain Prince spoke no Castilian.

Our vanguard of two hundred marched east into the mountains, making relatively good time. The remaining eleven hundred men followed at a slower pace.

We were attacked by Indians several times in the mountain pass. Time and again they would shower us with arrows from fortifications and defensive positions that would have allowed a well-trained cadre of men to hold an army at bay; yet, each time we approached, the Indians fell back. They only defended one of their ambuscades long enough for us to actually fight them. In that encounter, we killed dozens of them and they killed eight of ours and wounded ten more.

Our guide and Captain Prince commented on the stupidity of the Indians—that they did not know to hold the high ground—or the cunning of the Spanish—that they were having the Indians lure us to them. I thought the ease of our egress through the mountains was actually due to the cunning of the Indians and the stupidity of the Spanish. What nation was so stupid as to send their slaves to defend their land? I doubted the Indians believed they had a reason to wage war on us. They were just pretending to fight us in order to appease their masters.

In the late afternoon, we were through much of the mountainous region, and we stopped in a large field and waited for the rest of our army. In the distance we could see a group of Indians watching us from a hill. Captain Prince sent fifty of our men to try to capture some of them. It was a fool’s errand, and the men returned dejected and even more exhausted.

Morgan and our army arrived near dusk, and it began to rain. It was cold and added to our misery. Men who could barely walk endeavored to run as our force hurried across the field to a collection of huts we had seen in the distance. The buildings did not contain food or Spaniards, but they were sufficiently dry inside that we could stack our weapons and powder within them and thus not be defenseless when the rain stopped. With our muskets safe and somewhat dry, we all huddled in great clusters for warmth, like misplaced coveys of sodden quail spread across the landscape.

“I am glad you no longer ail,” I whispered to my matelot in French as we clung to one another at the edge of the shivering gaggle of the recently wounded.

“Oui, I would be dead if we had not spent so long on Île de la Vache.”

“The Gods do watch over us, I suppose.”

“In Their way.”

Morgan roused everyone—if indeed any of us had slept—early on the morning of the ninth damn day, January Eighteenth. It was overcast, but it was not raining. We were pleased with the cloud cover, as we had one more mountain to climb before we finally achieved the plain of Panama. Throughout the morning’s march, we saw Spaniards watching us from the surrounding mountainsides, but every time we sent men to pursue them, the Spanish disappeared into caves and tunnels that apparently honeycombed some of the mountain.

Around midday, we achieved the highest point in our journey, and looking out across the vista ahead of us, we saw the endless expanse of the Southern Sea. There was much rejoicing. Though we were not yet able to walk in its surf, merely seeing this fabled ocean seemed a great accomplishment. We had crossed the Isthmus of Panama.

Then the Gods smiled upon us some more. As we came down the mountain, we entered a vale full of cattle. At first I did not believe them real, but then I heard the lowing and my heart leapt with joy. Starving, howling buccaneers flowed onto that field, and a barbaric but necessary slaughter began. Soon we were eating nearly raw gobbets of meat that had only been singed by a fire in the name of cooking them. It was delicious. If the Spanish had been able to hear the Heaven-sent delight of the men gorging themselves around those fires, they might have thought we had come for the cattle alone, and were now quite satisfied with this treasure and could return home.

Morgan, of course, was not satisfied, and he did not allow his army to lie about with stuffed bellies for the remainder of the day. He wished to see Panama herself. So we were roused to march. Many men did so with great hunks of still-smoldering beef thrown over their shoulders.

Toward evening, we spied a large troop of Spaniards watching us from one of the hills ahead. They waved weapons and shouted things at us, but they withdrew before we reached them. When we crested the hill the Spanish had occupied, we saw the steeple of a great cathedral and knew we were at last in sight of our goal. The buccaneers cheered, blew trumpets, pounded our few drums, and danced with abandon. Morgan stood there grinning like a fool. Once again I thought an observer would have thought we had already won the war.

We went a little further, until we could see the roofs of the buildings, and there we camped. As soon as we began to spread out and light fires, our lookouts spied a company of fifty Spanish horse riding down on us. There was some alarm, but the riders stopped well beyond our musket range and proceeded to walk back and forth as their leader gauged our number. Then they withdrew, leaving only a handful of men to watch us. Then we saw the large company of some two hundred Spaniards we had seen earlier. They took up a position behind us on the road—once again, well beyond our musket range. Morgan ordered our men to stand down and keep an eye on them, but no one was to attempt to engage the enemy or waste munitions taking useless shots at them.

Within the hour, we heard the boom of cannon in the night from the city, but nothing struck our camp. Our forward men said they heard the balls landing well ahead of us. By this time, our men did not care. Everyone was anxious for the morning and relieved we no longer had to march. The evening air was redolent with the smell of roasting meat and the sounds of good cheer.

Gaston, Cudro, Ash, and I gathered at a fire and listened to the distant boom of the Spanish guns.

“Why are they wasting their munitions in the dark?” Ash asked. “They surely know they cannot reach us. Or are they planning to come closer and attack us in the night?”

“Nay,” Cudro said, “They are attempting to disrupt our sleep so that we will fight poorly in the morning.”

I laughed. “Nay, they have spent over a week waiting on our arrival, and they are now bored beyond tears. They are firing the cannon in celebration that they will at last be able to finish this war and go on with their lives.”

That night, for the first time since the march began, Gaston and I fired a few cannon of our own.

The morning air roiled with the thunder of our men clearing their weapons. Then Morgan decided we would behave like an army instead of an unruly pack of dogs. He had his captains organize us into regiments and established a marching order for the same. Then we headed off down the road with drums beating and trumpets playing. It was both impressive and ludicrous.

As we were attached to the command and not a ship, Gaston and I were spared the necessity of trying to march with our fellows. We slung the medicine chest between us and walked along at a reasonable pace behind Morgan.

Shortly, the guide from our small vanguard hurried back to speak with Morgan. I went forward and translated. The man felt that marching down the road was unwise. He could see many places ahead where the Spanish were occupying fortified positions. He said there was a great field off to the side, though; and if we went through the forest, we could reach it and come at the Spanish positions from there. He sketched the matter on the ground. Morgan heartily agreed, as did his captains.

We veered off the road and quickly became a great pack of wild things once again as we forced our way through the woods. It was irksome and time consuming, but eventually we made it through the dense forest and emerged on the field. It had been a brilliant maneuver. We found the Spanish had abandoned their defensive works, and were now coming to meet us on the plain. We were also not in range of their cannon.

Our army formed up into ranks again, and Morgan organized the four companies thus formed into a diamond pattern. We began to march across the plain toward the city. We crested a little hill and saw the army of Panama spread before us atop the next hill. My heart sank. It seemed they had fielded a great many men in our honor. It was surely double our number, and included cavalry. Doubt rippled through our ranks. This was not the type of fight to which many of our men were accustomed. I recalled my own fears of such a seemingly unwise form of military engagement—to wit, standing about in a straight line and firing at other men doing the same—when we fought on the field outside Puerte Principe. Morgan stood confidently before us, though, and jested with his captains while discussing the terrain. This sight, and the knowledge we could not very well run home now, soon had our men encouraging one another.

Morgan reorganized our forces a little, and established a troop of musketeers to be the vanguard, with the intent that they could surely outshoot the Spanish at a greater distance, and thus make a hole in the enemy ranks for our infantry. Essentially, they would be our cannon.

We then marched on the Spanish: not with great speed, but with confidence. Morgan had us go a little left, to flank the seemingly stalwart position of the Spanish foot and gain the advantage of a hill more in range of the Spanish position. Seeing what we were about, the Spanish commander sent in his horse. They appeared to be four or five hundred in number. They wheeled out and came at us through the low terrain between the hills, and quickly became mired: the lowland was apparently a bog, or at least incredibly sloppy ground. Some horses foundered, and some even fell, and on a whole, the cavalry was slowed considerably. Our musketeers advanced toward them quickly and began to volley fire. They seldom missed.

Meanwhile, the Spanish infantry slowly began to advance on us. Now that they were closer, it could be seen that they were not all Spaniards: there was many a dark face amongst the white. They were also not all armed with muskets. Still, they made a brave attempt to charge us. Morgan ordered our main force of six hundred to march toward this militia and fire at will.

All became the chaos of the battlefield. I stood with my musket in my hands and watched. I did not fire, and beside me, Gaston did not even set his medicine chest down to take up a weapon.

Finally, a man ran back to us carrying his wounded matelot. Gaston pulled back to the crest of the hill and began tending him. As the battle wore on, more men were brought to us.

I thought I should turn and help Gaston, but I seemed unable to move. I stood there, transfixed.

The Spanish held for a time; and the cavalry continued to fight for a time, despite the lowland being bathed in blood. Then there was a shout from our rearguard. I turned to see a huge herd of cattle being driven toward us. If it had been a stampede of the great horned beasts, we would have been in dire straits; as it was, many of the herd were frightened by the gunfire and refused to advance toward it, and others were simply not intent on going where the frantic Indians herding them wished. And then, of course, men in our rearguard shot the lead animals and put a halt to the ironic charade. I wondered if the damn fool Spanish had seen us butcher a herd of their cattle the morning before.

And then I could think of nothing else except our starving men falling upon those hapless cattle and hacking them to pieces. And all I could hear was the screaming of wounded horses in the lowland below.

The Spanish began to run. Those with weapons threw them down and ran toward the sea. Our men pursued and killed them. The battle was no longer before me. The only men approaching were carrying a wounded man or wounded themselves.

I glanced back and saw Gaston elbow deep in blood, surrounded by bleeding men and the rest of our surgeons.

My eyes wandered across the field and came to rest on a great black horse struggling to rise with a wounded flank and a broken leg. I knew he was not my Goliath; but I could not look away or ignore his pained cries. I waded into the field of blood, dead and dying horses, and men, and dove atop the struggling creature’s neck. I slashed his throat with a knife. Tears filled my eyes as the light dimmed in his. And then there was another animal breathing heavily beside him: another horse that could not rise and lay in agony atop his dying rider. I slit both their throats. I saw movement to my right and found a Spaniard fumbling with a broken hand to bring a pistol to bear on me. I shot him. And then it was on to the next horse and the next wounded man.

“Will!”

I recognized Cudro’s voice. I finished the animal I was on and looked for the next.

“Will? We’ve captured a commander. Morgan needs you to translate,” Cudro said.

I heard pained and labored breathing to my right. I looked to Cudro. He swam in my vision. I pawed blood and tears from my eyes and told him, “I am not done here. When I finish here, I will come.”

He appeared as appalled as I must have by the carnage. He studied me silently. I did not have time to attend him. I was sure I heard another wheezing horse. I went to find it.

There were other men on the battlefield now, killing wounded Spaniards and searching bodies for valuables. They ignored the horses. I was glad. I did not want them cruelly killing the horses. They were pigs of men and had no respect for anything other than their pockets.

“My love?” I heard some time later.

I looked to Gaston and found him crying.

“It is awful,” I said. “All these poor horses.” I looked around and saw I was more than halfway across the field. We stood alone in a mire of bloody mud and dead men and animals. There were still more horse bodies ahead that I had not seen to yet. “I am not done.”

He followed as I went to another horse. This one was thankfully dead: I closed his wildly staring eye.

Gaston’s arms closed about me and I held him in return. “I am not done,” I said.

“Then let us check them together,” he said.

“But you need to be mending men,” I said.

“There were not many, and the other surgeons can do without me for now.”

I released him and he followed me to the next body. The poor creature was breathing. His fur was matted with blood and sweat from its struggle to escape another horse that had fallen across his legs. I held little hope for him, but Gaston helped me move the dead animal and the poor horse made one more attempt to stand. To my delight, he succeeded. I spoke quietly to him as he stood exhausted with his head between his legs. He let me touch him and I was able to check his legs. He seemed sound. The soft mud had saved him. The same was not true for one of the animal’s riders: he had drowned in the mud beneath his mount.

“You can now be named Lucky,” I told the horse. I stripped his saddle and bridle from him and led him from the mud. There was a group of horses I had rescued standing near a clump of trees at the edge of the field. Their riders had been shot, but the animals were not wounded. I had cut saddles and other entanglements—including dragging bodies—from them and sent them to stand in the shade. Now I pointed Lucky toward them and patted his rump. He needed no further urging to leave the carnage behind.

I walked back to where he had been trapped and continued checking bodies. It went faster with Gaston helping me.

When we reached the end of the field I stopped and looked around again. The hill with the wounded seemed very far away, and I could not see our army. There seemed to be no Spaniards in sight, either. The sun was sinking over the sea.

I felt purposeless. There had been something I was supposed to do. I remembered. “Cudro was here. He said Morgan needed me.”

“Do not worry about it,” Gaston said. “That is done. This is done. Let us go rest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oui. Come now,” he said gently.

I realized he was looking at me and crying, and not at the death at our feet.

“I am not well,” I said.

He smiled and looked around us with a sigh. “I do not know, my love: you might well be the only sane man here.”

“Have we won?” I looked toward Panama. I could hear musket and cannon fire.

“We will,” he said sadly. He led me up the hill to where the wounded had been. There were now a number of graves. Ten wounded men were sitting about watching us.

“We can go now,” Gaston told them.

They nodded and helped one another to stand. “We could use those horses,” one of the men grumbled.

My ire was pricked. The horses had done enough, and these damn bastards would only eat them.

Gaston said, “Will, help me with this,” before I could open my mouth to speak.

I helped him with the chest, and we followed the wounded men toward Panama.

“How many men died?” I asked in French as we passed the graves.

“Twenty-two that I know of; and we will lose more from wounds,” Gaston said.

“How many wounded?”

“Dozens, but it was not as bad as it could have been. Of course, the fighting in the city might be worse. But the Spanish seemed routed here.”

“How many of them are dead?”

Gaston shrugged. “We estimated around six hundred.”

“There are over a hundred dead horses in that field.”

“How many did you save?” he asked.

“Twelve. I should have shot them too, though. There will be no food here, and our damned brethren will just come and eat them. And I am sure Pomme is dead and some fat bastard ate him. And the only reason no one ate Goliath is because I burned his body!”

“Will?” He sounded calm, and his expression was bemused. “I need your help. I cannot carry you and the medicine chest… and care for the wounded. I would gladly abandon the medicine if I need to carry you—and tell the wounded to go to the devil; but that is not a thing I think you want me to do, is it?”

It was not. I shook my head, feeling like a scolded child.

“I have saved men today. I would have them continue to live, too,” he added. “If I cannot save men, I will go mad… too.” He grinned.

I had to smile. “I am sorry. This would not be a good place for us both to fall.”

He sighed. “We are never going to war again. I do not care who I have to kill to prevent it.”

We reached the edge of the city and a camp of sorts. The badly wounded men who could not walk had been carried here, and new wounded were arriving, though none of the wounds appeared mortal.

Gaston had us set the chest down near this new hospital and then he turned to me with a frown. “Can you stay in one place of your own accord? Or do you feel you might slip away?”

I knew what he asked. I did not want him to have to bind me, but I truly could not guarantee I would not wander off to help some hapless animal. “It is possible I will gather kittens to further weigh down the chest.”

He smiled wryly. “This is why I have been saving the drug. And since we do not know what Cudro told Morgan yet…” His grin widened. “Let us say you took another hit on the head. You have so much blood on you, no one will know if it is yours or not.”

He sat me down next to the chest, dosed me with laudanum, pretended to examine my head, and then bandaged it. “Now do not move,” he said.

He had given me a powerful dose, and I felt its pleasant tug. I nodded and smiled at him. “I will be well now—or at least well enough not to trouble you unduly.”

“If you are well enough, then I am well enough,” he said. “Now lie down and rest.”

I did, and when I next woke I was staring at Morgan. Everything smelled of smoke. I was in a very large church, lying on a pew that had been pushed against the wall. I could see other wounded men lying on other pews all around me. I supposed it was the new hospital. I did not remember being carried here. I felt guilt that someone had been so burdened.

Morgan was watching me peer around. He finally asked, “Do you know where you are?”

“A cathedral. We won.”

He sighed with relief. “Thank God you’re not addled. You seem prone to take blows to the head. You should be careful of that.”

I chuckled. “Thank you for that advice.”

He snorted. “Aye, we won. The city is ours: what’s left of it. The damn Spanish burned it as they fled. They also secreted a great deal of plate and gems from the King’s warehouse—and much of the Church treasure as well. They say they put it on a ship. So now I have to dispatch men to look for it. And more companies of men out to the plantations where the rest of the citizens have fled. We’ll be here as long as Maracaibo.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“I came to see if you were well. I was worried when you did not come to translate.”

“Thank you for your concern. I am not dead. Nor have I escaped.”

My last was said lightly, but he stiffened as if I had given him a good jab. We frowned at one another as an awkward silence deepened.

Morgan abruptly stood. “Do you feel you will be able to assist with the translation?”

“Possibly. What will you need me to translate?”

“Interrogations, I need to know where they have hidden everything.”

“Nay,” I said simply.

He frowned at me anew.

I shrugged. “I will not watch men tortured.”

“What the Devil is wrong with you?” he asked.

“I am tired of seeing things I do not wish to see. Remember, I did not volunteer for this campaign.”

“I am not responsible for you,” he snarled, and then he left.

I wondered what he meant.

I sat slowly, like a man favoring a head wound, and it was not truly an act. Though my head did not ache, I did feel as if I had suffered a grievous wound. And since my head was bandaged, my mind named that as the seat of the harm, and thus my body moved accordingly with no thought toward artifice on my part.

I was wounded: Gaston had bandaged it.

I spied him at a cot across the room, examining a man’s bloody, chest bandages. I sat and waited.

I was safe.

When Gaston finished with that patient, he looked to me as he stood. He frowned when his eyes found me, presumably because I was now sitting and not still asleep as he had left me. I smiled and waved, and his shoulders slumped with relief and he grinned as he came to me.

“How are we?” he asked.

I closed my eyes and looked within at what I already felt was there. I stood in a maelstrom. I sighed and met his gaze. “I am caught in a tempest.”

He nodded his understanding. “We were fortunate; Cudro told Morgan you were wounded.”

“Morgan was here.”

Gaston sighed. “I saw him. I told him not to disturb you.”

“I do not know if he did. He was just sitting here when I woke.”

“What did he say?”

I told him.

My man sighed and smiled. “We will escape,” he whispered.

“Oui, I have no doubt. So the Spanish burned the city? Was that true?”

Gaston nodded. “They set fire to their homes and other buildings, but not the Church’s or King’s property.”

“How kind of them,” I said. I met his gaze again. “How are you?”

He thought for a time before answering. “I am well. Worried about you, tired of seeing needless bloodshed, and anxious about freeing us from Morgan, but I have firmer footing than I thought.”

“I did not expect to fall,” I said.

He shook his head with concern and denial, “Non, my love, I do not…”

“Non, non,” I said quickly. “I am not apologizing, or thinking you would ever require that. Non, I am expressing my surprise. I truly did not see it coming. I suppose my Horse found… everything more taxing than I understood. I have been busy putting one tired foot in front of the other for days now, and hating every minute of it… And, I suppose I should not be surprised.”

He chuckled. “I will probably fall next, so be prepared.”

“Well, as we have discussed before, I will always catch you, even if I am lying prone. I will at least soften your fall. I…”

I stopped, my imagery reminded me too much of the horse we had rescued lying trapped in the mud. I took a deep breath and tried to push such thoughts away.

Gaston was watching me closely.

I grimaced. “I think I should avoid horse metaphors for a few days.”

He embraced me. “I will hold you, and if necessary, the Gods will hold me.”

 

 

One Hundred and Eleven