Eighty-One

Wherein We Are Ensnared

 

We found the house full of men from the Queen, including Alonso, Cramer, and Dudley, and the little girl, Consuelo. Farley was lying on the table speaking frantically with Cudro, who was attempting to staunch a wound in the physician’s leg. Pete was lying on the floor with his head on his matelot’s lap. Striker had a pistol resting on Pete’s chest, a whole cache of loaded pieces arrayed before him on the floor, all within easy reach, and another tucked butt-first beneath his right arm, which he was reloading – quite deftly – with his left hand. I surmised he had been doing something other than merely lying about these last weeks: mainly, practicing doing necessary things left-handed.

Gaston went to Pete, and I went to the table to assist Cudro. It took some coaxing, but I was able to get Farley to lie down. Then I answered his panicked question: whether the blood was seeping or spurting from the wound. It was not spurting, but it was flowing well. I used his belt to constrict his leg above the wound, and turned to check on Gaston. He was examining a large, swollen gash on the back of Pete’s skull.

I caught Striker’s gaze. “What happened?”

“One of them must have caught Pete unawares and clubbed him good,” he said with worry as he looked down at his matelot. Then his words were angry. “Then they stood about and argued on whether or not they needed to kill him, too; because one of them knew he would hunt them down like dogs if they let him live. Farley surprised them as I was getting out of bed, and they shot him and he fell back down the stairs. Then I shot them. There were two. I thank God I went to the door with four pistols, because I shot both of them twice once I saw Pete lying there.”

He regarded me with accusation. “Where the Devil were you two?”

“That is a long story,” I sighed. “The short of it is that Hastings has attempted to frame us and Gaston is supposed to be in chains on the Queen at this moment.”

Striker swore. “Let us go there, and not because of that. I want a deck beneath me.”

Gaston was looking at him. “His wound should be sewn, but he should wake.”

“Remembering things?” Striker whispered, and chewed his lip.

My matelot nodded tightly. “Aye, it is swelling on the outside. It should not hurt his brain.”

Then he stood to examine Farley’s wound. The physician was still distraught, but he did not try to look as Gaston probed his leg. He winced and gritted his teeth and studied the ceiling. The wound was on the outside of the leg, up high, and I could see where the ball had passed through.

“Let us move to the ship,” Gaston said. “This can be bandaged there as well.”

After some discussion, we got Pete and Farley on two of the narrow cots, and six men carried each of them. Cudro, Alonso, and I swept through the house gathering things and instructing others as to what should be brought, such as the supplies of quinine and laudanum. I realized someone might threaten to cut off my nose for that; but I did not care, and felt we could mount a better battle over the matter from the Queen’s decks.

When I went upstairs, I stumbled over the bodies of Striker’s would-be assassins in the hall. I rolled them over and did not recognize either of them. I supposed one of us should go and tell Morgan. I thought perhaps it should be Cudro. I was not concerned about facing Morgan; but as I felt now, I thought it was best I avoid Bradley, as I would likely get myself flogged, or worse.

As we were readying to leave, Alonso called my name and pointed at the girl standing in the corner. There was nothing I could do for her that would not be better done by her own people, and I did not think ours could hurt her worse than they already had.

“Have we captured any nuns?” I asked Cudro as he hurried past.

He stopped and regarded me stupidly for a several moments. “Aye, and priests. You have need of one?”

I shook my head, and instructed Dudley and Cramer to take the girl to the church.

As we followed the wounded and supplies to the wharf, I told Cudro he should speak with Morgan.

He nodded. “Aye, as soon as I hear the whole of the story. We are getting our people safe first. From everyone.”

He was surprised when I turned and embraced him.

The Bard was, of course, quite surprised to see us rowing out to him in an assortment of boats and canoes. Once we were aboard, Cudro sent most of our men back to shore with the extra boats. Then I sat on the quarterdeck steps and gulped wine, and told the tale of our night’s and morning’s adventures to everyone, while Gaston tended to Farley’s and Pete’s wounds.

“Who was it that accused you? The one the girl saw?” Cudro asked.

“I do not know his name,” I said.

“He be Headley,” one of our men who had been in the courtroom supplied. “Sails on the Fortune. And we seen him stalkin’ about your house afore.”

The wine dulled my need to ask them why they had failed to mention that before. Instead, I asked, “What of the assassins?”

Most had not seen the bodies and so could not identify them.

“We will find out,” Cudro said.

“How did they take Pete?” the Bard asked.

“They hid and hit him on the back of the head,” Gaston said with surety.

“Sometimes he does get hit,” Striker said with loving amusement. “He’s not invincible.”

People guffawed and protested that.

Gaston finished bandaging Pete’s head and came to join us. He had finished with Farley a while earlier; and the physician was resting comfortably in a haze of laudanum.

“And you don’t think this Headley killed the girl’s family?” the Bard asked.

“I think Hastings did,” I said. “I think he was following us as well, and he followed Headley, and when Headley returned, he raped and murdered them and left them for us to find.”

“Why?” the Bard asked.

“Because he could. Because he enjoys killing,” I said. “Because he wished to anger us.”

“Nay, why do you feel it was Hastings?” he protested. “I know he might have killed Michaels, but we don’t even know that as a thing we could present in court. And now this. You are supposing a great deal.”

“I just know,” I said, knowing the wine made me sound stupid and stubborn. “He did it to anger us.”

“So Cudro will tell Morgan I killed two assassins,” Striker said. “And Gaston is mad and must remain aboard.” He chuckled.

“If Will says I am,” my matelot said with a small smile.

“I wish I could have seen that,” Striker laughed.

“Aye,” Gaston said wryly. “I have spent most of my life trying to control my madness, not lose myself to it.”

Recalling those moments and what I said to him, I was overcome with the feeling that the wine would no longer hold the shakes at bay if I remained among them. Without any word of parting – as I did not trust myself to say a sensible thing – I retreated to our cabin and crawled into our nest. Gaston was on my heels, and his arms closed around me comfortingly as we lay nose to nose. I saw my fear and lingering anger mirrored in his eyes.

His right eye was swollen and dark where he had received a blow when they brought him down. I knew his body was covered in bruises and abrasions from his mistreatment. I touched the bruises I could see and cried.

He held me and spoke softly. “I was angry and scared that we were charged with hoarding; and I knew I would kill them or die trying before I would allow them to maim you. Not that I would not love you without a nose, but I cannot see you hurt. And I knew you would find some way to protect me, to take all the blame.

“I would have let them flog me, though. It would have been a cat, and nothing like what my father used. It probably wouldn’t even draw blood over my scars. And I thought it should be the price I paid. I broke the law by striking him; I was not lost to madness when I did it. My Horse and I charged and ran him down as one. If I am to be sane, then I must accept the consequences of sanity, even if it would drive me mad.”

He snorted with amusement. “But then, you were so magnificent in defending us, as you always are, and you asked… And you were correct: I could not bear the thought of you being forced to watch, because it would hurt you. All the rest I could hold the reins against, but not that.”

I wiped my eyes. “I hate them all for threatening us with such… Here we are amongst such lawless men, and yet they have laws, and… Damn it! I have never crossed another lawless man. I would not. We kill one another. You do not do such a thing unless you plan to kill them first. That is a thing I understand. Men accusing other killers of things that have punishments less than death, as if we were some damn township is… wrong, in my thinking.”

He smiled. “There must be some rule among thieves.”

“I do not like living within the rules of civilized men, because they have never protected me – or anyone, but the wolves from justice. They are never civilized. It is another word for ordered thievery. These thieves are no different from any other. If a man does not pay his taxes in Christendom, he is publicly tortured in punishment. Here, as there, the pain stops when the silver crosses the palm.

“I am an outlaw in heart as well as fact. The only reason I do not kill all who cross me is because there are more of them who might take reprisal against me, or you, or… I felt helpless today, and I wanted justice for those poor people, and it was not going to come because they were worthless to the men judging us. And instead, we are threatened!

“I so want to kill them!” I hissed. “It is madness! It is all madness! I come again and again to the knowledge that we are sane, and all the world is mad.”

He was smiling at me with great love. I took a long breath and tried to calm my racing thoughts.

He chuckled and rolled on his back to regard the ceiling with a happy smile. “I have the most precious treasure in the world, the thing all men wish for but do not understand, the secret to all that is holy and good; and I am hoarding it from my Brethren. I will share it with no one except those I love most.”

“The light of truth and sanity beyond the cave?” I asked; pleased to see him so happy despite all that had occurred. It was truly a balm to my anger and frustration.

“Non.” He turned back to me, his eyes full of love and challenge. “You.”

A refutation rose to my lips; but his challenge was to hold it back: to suppress it; nay, to deny it in its entirety. And the jests. And the reasoning. The challenge was to stand there unflinching and raise no defense in the face of the staggering power of his adoration: to submit fully and completely to my fate, and allow it to wash over me and pull me under and have the faith that I would yet be able to breathe. It was very hard to do, and yet I did it for him.

His smile widened, and his lips covered mine, and I could not breathe between his mouth and the swelling of love in my chest; but my soul drank him in, in great lungfuls of delight.

The rest of the day passed in a fog of pleasure and contentment. I could not save the world, but I could please him in the attempt; and for these hours, I could please him more with my body and abiding love.

That night, we woke to the sound of Pete cursing, and peered down from our hammock to find Striker helping his matelot into the cabin and onto their mattress. Gaston climbed down and spoke to the Golden One at length, assessing whether or not he was damaged beyond the obvious. It quickly became apparent that the only thing broken beneath Pete’s great thick skull was his sense of humor. He knew who and where he was, and remembered with great clarity how he had been attacked. He had heard something upstairs and gone to see if it were Striker, who he had thought was napping. Upon rounding the corner in the upper hallway, he had been struck from behind by someone who must have been hiding in one of the other rooms. He cursed his stupidity vehemently, and then cursed us roundly for abandoning them. And so I climbed down and told him of our morning. This did little to mollify him. Apparently we were all fools who had nearly thrown ourselves at our enemy’s feet. Gaston at last dosed him with a small amount of laudanum, and we – including Striker – retreated from his wrath in hopes he would rest.

“He was happy for a moment to find me alive,” Striker muttered once we were on deck.

“He is in great pain from that wound,” Gaston assured him.

“And scared I might have died. I know,” Striker sighed and smiled. “But he’ll heal?”

Gaston nodded.

Striker appeared much relieved. “I thought it a good sign when he started cursing. He seemed to know exactly who he wanted to curse.”

Chuckling, we went and joined the few men aboard: near the cook fire, where they all lounged about in the smoke to thwart the damn insects. They had a bottle, and we passed it and talked until Cudro and Ash arrived from shore. They told us Morgan had gathered all the men in town and announced he would not tolerate any of our company seeking a bounty on another. He would hang any man who even planned such a thing. We thought this good, if the attempts we had seen had been all the pawns – but bad, if the best had not attempted to strike, as now they would wait until we returned to Port Royal.

I, of course, thought Hastings was already in play; the others, save my matelot, were not so sure. Though I knew it was foolhardy to wish for the man to make an attempt on our lives, I wished for him to do so: to vindicate my hatred of him, and more importantly, to give me an opportunity to kill him.

A week passed. We fished, sparred, drank, cared for Farley, treated one of our men who was stabbed while on a sortie, and trysted a great deal. Pete recovered his good spirits and apologized for cursing us as he had. We fashioned crutches for Farley so he might hobble about. It was peaceful, and seemingly far removed from the activities in the town. Our only complaint was that the water smelled and appeared too foul for swimming. And the damn insects were certainly worse upon the water than they were on shore. On the second morning, I fetched all the netting from the house, and we tacked it to the inside of the cabin windows and draped it before the door.

My only other complaint was Alonso. As there were only a dozen of us aboard, it was difficult to ignore him when we sat about and talked. He seemed more cheerful, and was pleasant to Gaston and me; but I saw shadows in his eyes, and wondered what he was about.

Our idyllic days were short-lived, though. Just over a fortnight after our arrival at Maracaibo, Cudro sent a man to the ship to tell us that men were beginning to fever. Much discussion occurred as to which of our physicians should investigate. Farley was doing tolerably well hobbling about the ship on his crutches; but his leg still pained him, and clambering down to a boat, up the wharf, and then walking about town for hours would be onerous for him. So Gaston elected to go: with me, of course, and several trusted men.

Only one of the men yet reported ill was from the Queen, and Cudro had ordered him brought to the house we had used. Gaston examined him and concluded it was the malaria. He administered quinine and left the man with his matelot, and we went in search of the others who ailed and the surgeons charged with their care. We found two other fevering men: both had the malaria. Gaston dispensed some of the quinine to the surgeons and instructed them in its use. Most of the medical men sailing with us were good for little more than extracting bullets, setting bones, sewing gashes, and removing limbs. They knew nothing of medicine; but many of them had been with us at Porto Bello, and they knew well the epidemic we faced if men sickened here as they had there.

Then we went to Morgan. He seemed pleased to see us, and rose in greeting from the table he shared with several of the captains, including Norman, Bradley, and pleasantly, Cudro. Bradley would not look at us. Cudro saw the expressions upon our faces and nodded gravely.

“Men have begun to ail with the malaria,” I said once we were seated with them.

There was swearing all about.

“Are you sure?” Bradley asked.

“That it is the malaria, or that they ail?” I retorted.

He looked away.

“What if we move on?” Morgan asked. “If it is beginning to afflict us now, what if we move on? We have been speaking of going south to the head of the lake; there is a town there named Gibraltar that the French also visited.”

“Is it on a swamp too?” Gaston asked.

“Presumably,” Morgan sighed. “But perhaps being different air…”

Gaston shook his head. “We do not know how it is caused. We only know, as the Spanish do, that being near a swamp for several weeks can bring it on; and the Indian medicine, quinine, will treat it. But we have a limited supply of quinine. More than we had in Porto Bello, but still not enough to treat more than a few dozen men.”

“This Gibraltar might have more,” I said. “And since we found it for sale at the apothecary’s and the physician’s, it is likely the wealthier citizens here had it on their plantations. Men who know what to look for should be dispatched, or all the medicines should be collected and be brought here and sorted.” It was a thing we had discussed but not wished to suggest to Morgan until we were sure men would be afflicted with the disease.

Morgan was nodding. “Let us do that. Send a few men to all the plantations we’ve already visited, and have them look for medicines.” He looked to me. “And you two should search through the things already collected from the houses. And you told me you already searched the town before…”

I nodded. “I do not want us wandering about the streets without escort – even with your edict – but we can continue searching here.”

“Should we separate the ailing men?” Norman asked. “We didn’t at Porto Bello, but damn near half our men were ill.”

“It is not thought to be contagious like the plague,” Gaston said. “And even with that, men do not always fall ill after being around the dying.”

Norman looked to Morgan. “And moving on didn’t help at Porto Bello. Most of my men began to ail after we sailed.”

“Aye, aye,” Morgan sighed. “Still, I think we are nearly done here. And Gibraltar might have more medicine. And gold.” He shrugged. “Let us spend the remainder of this week collecting our men and medicines and any other booty, and move on to Gibraltar.”

Everyone who had a say in the matter nodded. I felt I did not, so I said and did nothing.

Gaston was quiet as we returned to the ship.

“We stand a better chance of saving men here than we did last year,” I said to cheer him.

He frowned. “Oui, because we are perceived as being more respectable: your jaw is not broken, and I am not wounded, and…” He sighed and regarded me with a tinge of guilt.

I grinned. “Oui, medical advice dispensed by madmen is deemed suspect.”

He smiled sadly. “I do not wish to spend my life wearing a coat and collar in order to save lives. It is not fair.”

I sighed and put an arm around his shoulder. “We will discover some path through that thicket.”

“Oui,” he said and adjusted his step to match mine.

The week passed with our picking through the booty collected from the Spanish, amidst which we found two bottles of quinine, and searching the remaining houses, which yielded another. In that time, two dozen more men fell ill. Thankfully, the ones being treated with quinine were already improving.

I often saw Hastings, and even the bastard, Headley, peering at us during these excursions, along with others. I ignored all but Hastings, as I always found him smiling at me when our gazes happened to meet. I knew we would fight; I just did not know how or when.

Finally we withdrew to the ships and sailed south a good thirty leagues to Gibraltar. The Spanish there had been alerted to our arrival; and we entered an empty town just as we had at Maracaibo. Once again, Morgan had our men claim and occupy the central square. And once again, our cabal was reluctant to go ashore and leave the relative comfort and safety of the Queen; but we did anyway, taking another house with large lower rooms to use as a hospital. This time Gaston and I managed to obtain a private bedroom, much to our delight.

Sadly, for many reasons, we were not given time to enjoy it. The number of fevering men had risen to over three dozen, and the ships were now sending them all to us. Once the ailing men were situated, Gaston and I set out with an escort from the Queen to locate the apothecary and any physicians’ homes. This search yielded a goodly amount of quinine, most of it from the church. In the good Fathers’ defense, they had apparently been dispensing it regularly in the infirmary they maintained for the poor, and not hoarding it for their own use.

Our search also yielded valuables other than medicines, and we were sure to make great show of delivering them to the pile of booty in the town square.

Once the primary targets were stripped of medicines and supplies, Gaston was needed at the hospital; and I decided to go in search of more useful items in the individual homes, with Dudley, Cramer, and to my annoyance, Alonso, as my assistants and bodyguards. Though he had acted very helpful and cheerful of late, it was obvious Alonso had no interest in, or talent for, tending feverish men. Caretaking was simply not within the purview of skills he possessed or ever intended to lay claim to. He was good at searching houses, though; and I doubted he would let anyone kill me.

By the third day of searching, not having seen any Spanish or others who might mean us harm lurking about, we decided to speed the process by separating into two teams. Of course, since Cramer and Dudley were matelots, that meant I was stuck with Alonso.

“Alone at last,” he murmured in Castilian as we finished wandering through a house, looking for hiding Spaniards.

I snorted. “Take the upstairs; I will do the cook house and stores.”

“We should talk,” he said, and remained at the foot of the stairs. “I have been waiting to speak with you.”

I swore and turned to growl, “Alonso…” I was going to say that we had nothing to say to one another; but perhaps he wished to apologize for being an arse or stubborn. That I would hear.

“Speak,” I said with less rancor. “Say what you feel you need to say, and let us be done with it.”

He studied me. I could not read him in the dim light of the room: my eyes were still adjusting from the harsh noontime light beyond the door. He was a mass of shadows.

“No,” he said softly and sadly. “You are correct; there is nothing to be gained by words now.” He turned away and walked up the stairs.

I sighed and went in search of the house’s storeroom. I had just liberated a promising-looking chest from amongst a phalanx of jars when I was struck on the head from behind. The chest went flying, and I was thrown down upon sacks of grain, my vision reeling and my ears ringing.

There was a weight upon my back, and my arm was seized and twisted behind me before I could gather my thoughts and muscles to move. And then when I knew I must move at all costs, the ungainly and yielding bags beneath me prevented me getting my knees under me or twisting about. The grip on my arm tightened.

“Stop struggling, Uly,” Alonso whispered in my ear. “You know you want this. I have seen what you want. I was a fool to be so gentle. You want to be taken. You have been waiting for me to take you back, have you not?”

Icy claws clutched my heart so that it stopped painfully for a moment, only to thud and thunder again such that I could hear nothing but the pounding of it in my ears. The words you know you want this twisted and tumbled through my mind, as if they fell down a deep and empty well, never to strike bottom and splash rage to the surface as they once had. I felt nothing, not even fear.

I did not feel helpless, either. Nor did the idea of what he wished to do as he fumbled with my breeches cause me lust as I had once feared. My Horse had no interest in submitting to him. Nor did my reeling vision and pinioned arm remind me of Shane, though I was now actually in the position in which he had often put me. I stood beyond all that.

Alonso was correct; I was correct. We were now so very far beyond what words could accomplish.

I twisted up and away, hard, and felt something snap in my arm. The pain cut through my aching and muzzy thoughts. I had a pistol in my left hand before I finished standing. I had thrown him off; but not far, as we had been next to the shelving. He knocked the gun away, grabbing my wrist and attempting to pound my arm to make me drop it. I did, and tried to kick him, but my breeches were about my knees and hindered anything I could do with my legs. I could move my right arm, but trying to make a fist made my vision reel and my stomach clench.

I dove away, backing farther into the narrow room, and kicked my breeches free. He was diving at me: his eyes were black and full of his Horse, and I felt a poor peasant before an armored knight on a destrier born in the bowels of Hades.

I hit him with a jar of fruit. It cracked open and covered the side of his head in sticky yellow. When that staggered him, I began to empty the shelves upon his head. He retreated, covering his head with his arms. I pulled my rapier and followed, tripping on bags of grain, broken glass, and candied fruit.

We emerged into the house’s rear entryway, and he retreated further still into the dining hall, where there was room to maneuver beside a great table. He had his rapier and a dagger drawn. I knew I could clutch nothing with my right. I would have to block with the arm itself and see if I could take the dagger from him. I was already slipping on my blood and praising the Gods I could not feel the pain in my feet yet. One more wound would not kill me, but not receiving it might.

He closed, his eyes speculative: testing.

I parried confidently. I was better than he. I always had been.

He came again; this time the dagger was a flash to my right. I swung my bad arm, and felt the blade cut deep, but I did not manage to disarm him. He danced back, surprised at my attempt.

“Uly,” he whispered with equal parts admonishment and wonder.

I smiled and feinted; he parried and found a chair kicked before him. I leapt atop the table and kicked the fruit bowl at him. As he dodged, I charged. He barely turned my blade in time, his right coming up in defense. He broke away and dove back.

And then there was another figure in the room, between us: a dark kerchief and ecru tunic. And then Alonso was falling back with a dagger in his chest. My former lover looked up at me with horror and surprise. I tore my gaze from him and found Hastings grinning up at me.

We stood still in a timeless moment. The lack of movement of battle was enough to allow my pain to catch me. I gasped and put all my strength into holding my shaking blade steady between me and Hastings, as my vision wavered and my stomach clenched.

Hastings smiled and stepped away, his hands wide. His words were quiet, barely audible over the pounding in my ears. “Thank you. I could not have arranged it better if I tried.” He gave a moue. “And I did try.” He grinned again. Then he was gone.

I sank to the table, even that slow motion unsteady and graceless, but I did not collapse. I was proud of that. I glanced toward Alonso. He was dead. I leaned to the edge of the table and retched.

Dudley and Cramer found me there, sometime later. They had probably been speaking, but until one of them waved a hand before my eyes, I did not see them.

“Help,” I breathed.

“What ’appened?” Dudley asked. He appeared very worried.

“Alonso attacked me,” I whispered.

“Why?”

“He sought to make me love him again.”

“Ohhhh…” Cramer breathed. “Daft bastard.”

“Where are your breeches?” Dudley asked.

I looked down and saw I was naked save my tunic. I pointed toward the storeroom.

“Gaston,” I said. “Please find him.”

“Aye, aye,” Cramer said. “‘We’ll take ya to ’im. But ya got glass in yur feet.”

Dudley returned with my breeches and said, “I’ll go fetch yur matelot.”

They talked quietly for a moment about the wisdom of separating. I tried not to listen, as I did not wish to become frustrated if one of them would not do as I wished. Instead, I looked at my aching right foot and regretted it.

Thankfully, Dudley did go, and with one eye upon the door Cramer set about giving me water, assisting me with donning my breeches, pulling glass from my feet, and binding my wounds.

We were almost ready for me to attempt to stand when we heard the clatter of men entering. I looked up hopefully, expecting to see worried green eyes, and found Norman instead.

He looked at me with concern; then at Alonso; and then at the evidence of our battle. He came to me. “You are to come with us.”

I nodded. I thought we would surely encounter Gaston on our way to the hospital, so I need not worry about anything other than walking on my hastily bound feet and not moving my arm, for which we had not yet fashioned a sling. As I did not feel I could bend it without fainting, I had not been in a hurry about the sling.

But Norman and his men led me to the town square; and when I protested, they closed in around me, which prompted Cramer to call them all fools.

“You killed a man,” Norman said.

“Nay,” I said. “Hastings did.”

He regarded me as if I were mad. I began to feel very ill, and it was not from the pain.

We went to the courthouse; and as I had dreaded, Hastings was speaking with Morgan. They turned to me as I entered, and I could see Hastings fight a grin; but Morgan appeared appalled at my condition, and he regarded Hastings speculatively.

“I told you they fought,” Hastings said with a shrug.

I shook my head and approached Morgan.

“What did he say happened?” I asked. My words seemed quiet even to me, but I felt too weak to make an attempt of projection. It was hard enough just to speak.

Morgan regarded me with concern. “Nay, what do you say happened?”

“Alonso attacked me. He… We were lovers long ago, in Florence. We came upon him in Porto Bello, and he came to sail on the Virgin Queen because… he held hope of gaining my love again. And… He decided he would take me back by force this day. He… attacked me. We fought. And then Hastings appeared and stabbed him.”

It sounded insane, and I saw that judgment in Morgan’s eyes. I nearly thought I should ask if it would be better if I said I had stabbed Alonso. It would be more believable.

“What has he said?” I asked again.

Morgan shrugged. “He says that he heard sounds of a fight, and came in and saw you fighting Alonso, and that you stabbed your lover.”

“He was not my lover,” I said. “Not… now.”

Morgan leaned his head to the side and grimaced a little. “He says he has seen the two of you trysting.”

I did not look at Hastings. I did not wish to see him grinning. I wondered what he thought to gain by this. Why claim Alonso and I were lovers? Was there some law against that in the articles I had forgotten? He was already claiming I killed a man. It was my word against his as to who attacked who.

“Why?” I asked Morgan.

He frowned at me. “Why what?”

“Why would he say that?”

His frown deepened. “Will, are you well?”

“Nay, my arm is broken and cut, my feet are bleeding, and I have been struck in the head.”

Morgan nodded. “Sit down.”

“Aye,” I said. He had been swaying for a while now, and I realized it had actually been me. “I need to see Gaston.”

“Of course,” Morgan said as he led me to a chair.

I sat. “I did not kill Alonso. I was going to, but I did not.”

“Well, imagine that, he is as mad as his matelot,” Hastings said.

I turned to him. “What do you want?”

He looked away quickly. “Justice.”

“That is shite,” I said. I turned back to Morgan. “What is this about? Am I on trial?”

Morgan shook his head and spoke as if he were addressing an imbecile. “He has accused you of murdering a man. You have accused him of murdering the same man. It is your word against his. Matters of this nature are settled by duel. But you cannot duel.”

Hastings snorted. “It’s ironic. He’s been trying to goad me into dueling him for weeks. But now he can’t. How convenient. Perhaps your matelot will stand for you. That’s if he believes your story and not mine.”

I sucked breath into my lungs as the fog parted and I saw where he sailed.

“Are you daft?” I asked. “That is what this is about? You think you will win?”

Hastings smiled slyly at me before donning a mask of self-righteousness. “I will defend my honor. I am tired of you and your matelot making groundless accusations against me.”

“I am tired of you breathing,” I said.

There was a commotion outside, and Gaston entered with Pete, Striker, and Cudro. My matelot saw me and ran to my side. His eyes were frantic with worry. His hands began to explore my injuries.

I laid fingers on his lips and pulled his eyes to mine. “I will live. Hastings wishes to duel you,” I whispered in French. “He thinks he will win. He is very devious. He is making accusations designed to anger you.”

“Did he do this to you?” Gaston hissed, the Horse filling his eyes.

I frowned. “Non. Alonso. And he is dead. Be wary. Hastings thinks he will win,” I cautioned again.

The Horse melded with the man, and I saw cunning and power such as I had rarely seen in my man’s eyes. I smiled.

He grinned. “He wishes to die,” he breathed.

“Kill him,” I breathed. “I want to go home.”

Gaston stood. All this while, Morgan had been explaining the conflicting charges and the need for a duel.

When he finished, Hastings asked Gaston, “So will you stand for your matelot?” He spat the word. “Even though he has been fucking some Spaniard behind your back?”

Gaston snorted. “I would defend my matelot’s honor even if you claimed he had been fucking you behind my back. Name your terms.”

Hastings’ eye narrowed ever so slightly at that. He looked to Morgan. “I only ask to choose the weapon. I know this man’s reputation. I feel choice of weapon is the only advantage I can gain.”

Gaston shrugged. “Name it.”

Hastings, despite his smooth mask, could not contain his smile of triumph. “Whips.”

There was a hush and then murmuring about the room.

Gaston laughed unpleasantly. “That is your secret weapon? Good. Here. Now. To the death.”

“With whips?” Morgan questioned. “To the death with whips?”

“It will be long and painful,” Gaston growled.

Morgan backed away with narrowed eyes. “In the square, then.” He led everyone outside.

Hastings frowned over his shoulder at Gaston as he went. I saw concern in his black eye, and it gladdened my heart. Then he slid his eye patch from one eye to the other as he stepped into the light. I feared some other trick.

“Be careful,” I whispered to Gaston.

He leaned down and kissed me lightly, and I saw great regard in his beast-filled eyes. Then he stood and looked to Pete and Cudro.

“See to Will,” he ordered, and walked out the door.

They did not bristle at his command. Instead they moved to help me stand.

“Will, what the Devil happened to you?” Striker asked. “Morgan said…”

I waved his words away. “Not now. Later… When I am drunk or drugged… or both,” I gasped as I tried to put weight on my right foot to take a step.

Pete picked me up and carried me outside.

The men had cleared a large circle between the courthouse steps and the central fountain. Pete set me on the lowest step and ordered men aside until I could see.

Gaston and Hastings stood in the circle. Someone had already found them whips: great bull whips some fifteen feet in length. There was a murmur of incredulity all about the square as Gaston grasped his and inspected the length of it quickly before snaking it back to test its weight and suppleness with a sinuous roll of his arm and shoulder. I smiled: he had been wise to not tell anyone he had conquered his fear of whips. It would be Hastings’ death.

Once both men were armed, Morgan verified that they knew the terms. This fight was to the death, with whips to be used as the only weapon.

When the order to begin was given, Hastings hesitated; Gaston waited. Then the eye-patched man moved. He was fast and strong, and the braid roared through the air at Gaston. My matelot did not flinch. He raised his left arm and took the blow so that the end of the whip wrapped around and around his forearm, drawing blood and raising a welt as it went. Then Hastings stood holding the end of a tether. Gaston deftly looped his whip so it was shorter, and snapped his opponent, so the tip wrapped around Hastings’ back, shredding cloth as it went and biting deep to draw blood on the man’s right breast. Gaston did it again and again, each blow sounding like a pistol crack, until Hastings released his hold on his whip with a curse and staggered away with blood lining and dotting his tunic. Gaston grinned and stirred the air with his left arm, until he had coiled Hastings’ whip around it like a sheath and held the haft in his hand. Then he lazily slithered his whip back and forth across the cobblestones: striking like lightning on occasion, leaving welts on Hastings’ legs and driving him back.

As the damn man passed me, I could see the fear and frustration in his eye. Gaston was death incarnate: cold and cruel.

Hastings decided he could take no more. He charged. Gaston threw up his leather-wrapped arm to ward off the blow, and men yelled “Knife!” all along that side of the circle. Gaston feinted and kicked his opponent’s legs from under him: pouncing before Hastings finished falling, so that his weight drove the air from Hastings’ lungs as they landed. Gaston pinned the knife-wielding hand with his knee, and coiled his own whip about his right hand and proceeded methodically, and with great force – such that it twisted his entire body with each blow – to strike Hastings in the face until there was no more face to strike and Gaston’s hand dripped blood and flesh.

The crowd had at first cheered; but as the beating continued and the body grew still, they quieted, so that when Gaston stood and spat on the faceless corpse, the square was so silent I heard his spittle land.

I hoped the Gods were pleased with this day’s amusement: though I was pleased with the outcome, I was not pleased with the cost.

 

 

Eighty-Two

Wherein We Must Escape

 

My matelot divested himself of the whips, picked me up, and carried me from the square to the hospital and then up the stairs to the bedroom we had claimed. He set me on the bed and knelt before me to press his forehead to my breastbone. Our friends crowded the doorway so it was filled with curious, worried, and expectant faces.

I did not wish to speak to them. I wished to curl with my matelot in the bed on which I sat and pretend the last hour had not occurred. But that would require laudanum, which I did not have at hand; and I did not wish to sully the bed with my filthy fruit- and blood-covered feet; and I knew I required stitches, and Gaston bandages; and I knew fetching those things was beyond my capability – or, seemingly, Gaston’s. Thus, I must exchange the coin of human kindness and speak.

“There is nothing to be done now,” I assured them quietly. “All those who need to be dead, are dead. Well… all those here. There are others elsewhere who must die, but we need not worry about them now. Now, we need a basin and bandages, and Gaston’s medicine chest. Please.”

Most of them seemed disinclined to move, their curiosity and concern instilling them with stubbornness.

But Pete nodded sagely. “We’llFetchThat.” Then he bellowed such that Gaston twitched and clutched at the bed linen. “ClearOut! AllO’Ya! YouToo,” he added quietly, and hooked an arm around Striker to drag him into the hall.

Cudro chuckled as he closed the door. It sounded as if annoyed cattle were being herded down the stairs, but we were at last alone and safe.

Gaston breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and the tension drained from his shoulders. He sat back, and without looking up to meet my gaze, began to consider my wounds. He touched my bandaged feet. “What?”

“Glass. Jars of candied fruit. I was throwing them. Then I had to run through the room. Cramer removed the glass we could find.”

His fingers were on my arm, and he frowned at the crude splint. “How is it broken?”

“I know not. I cannot close my hand without pain, or bend my elbow. He had my arm twisted behind me and I… knew it would break, but I had to move.”

He had found the bloody part of the bandaging on my forearm.

“He had a dagger,” I continued. “I had to block with it, since the arm was damn useless for anything else.”

He was running his fingers lightly over the rest of me.

“Nothing else except my head, I think.” I said. “He hit me from behind when he attacked.”

His fingers gingerly probed the swelling on the back of my skull. I winced, and he met my gaze, letting his Horse and even the physician fall away to reveal only him: and he was very worried.

“It was so like what Shane used to do,” I said.

Gaston closed his eyes in pain.

“Non, non, listen,” I breathed. “It did not end like it did with Shane.”

He looked at me through tears and sighed with relief. “I do not want you ever hurt in that way again. Thinking about it is enough to drive me to madness. I have been holding it very far from my thoughts.”

I smiled. “You need not fear. I will not be hurt in that way again. I will die first. I learned that today. It was one thing for me to overcome my fear and fight you as I did last year. But that was madness and… I did not lose myself to madness this time.”

He smiled. “Neither did I.”

“I know. I am so very proud.”

There was a polite knock on the door; and at my word, Cudro entered with Pete. They had brought all I asked for – and a bottle of rum. They left with smiles that said they needed no thanks.

Gaston pulled the medicine chest to the bed, gave us each a small dose of laudanum, and began to clean, sew, and bind our wounds.

“Tell me what happened,” he said as he unwrapped my arm and examined it.

I did not feel I could begin any tale when I felt pain was so very imminent. “Non, set it as you must, first. The thought of moving it makes me wish to retch.”

He handed me a stick to bite upon while he manipulated my poor arm to determine exactly where it was injured.

“It will need to be wrapped and put in a sling,” he said at last. “It is broken at the joints, not the long bones. But first I need to stitch this gash.”

That, I felt I could talk through, but only because the drug was making my eyes heavy and the pain distant. So he began to work; and – after he had soaked the wound in rum, which stung such that I had to bite the stick a bit more – I told him of being alone with Alonso, and his cryptic words, and how I had gone to the storeroom.

“It was truly like Shane would do. He would catch me unawares, and hit me to stun me and knock me to my knees, and then he would pin me. Alonso even said the hated words. But… I felt nothing: no fear, no…” I sighed. “I think I have been afraid that I would succumb to the fear, or my Horse’s lust, if I were put in that position again. I have worried that my Horse did not care who brought me to my knees. But it does care. My love of being taken is only for you. All I felt with Alonso was astonishment, and then the need to kill him – and even that was not a thing born of red-hot rage and madness. I knew I would die before I would let him, and therefore it was a duel to the death. And so we fought. Me with one arm, and my head aching, and no breeches, and my feet bleeding, and… Still, I knew I must win. And then Hastings was there, and he stabbed Alonso and made some comment about arranging things and ran off…”

I sighed. “Hastings must have been following me. He realized he could get to you through me. He told Morgan that Alonso and I had been trysting; and I wondered why, and then I realized he wished to anger you, just as he had wished to anger us with the death of that family. He was goading us, but he did not want to duel me. There was no bounty on my head. He did not think he knew my weaknesses so that he could win. I doubt he even wanted the money. Perhaps he saw it as a challenge.”

Gaston shook his head thoughtfully as he bandaged my now-stitched arm. “He surrendered to his fear when I got him down,” he said. “I have seen the eyes of many men fighting me for their lives. I was not a man to him in that moment before I began to strike him. I was the Devil.”

He sighed. “I wish I could have beaten Alonso’s face in, too.”

“Oui,” I said with sincere wistfulness. “That is my only regret over his death: that I did not strike the killing blow. I feel cheated.”

“Let your arm rest at your side until we are done,” he said as he began to unwrap my feet. “You were cheated.” His face tightened with anger. “I want to kill anyone that thinks you will submit to them merely because you submit to me. It is an honor you give me. It is not a thing that any man can take.”

“Non,” I soothed. “It must be earned, and you alone have earned it.” But that was not true. Shane had earned it once. But that was a shame I did not wish to contemplate at the moment. Someday, that too, would be resolved.

“I do not want others to know that we play as we do,” Gaston said as he bathed my feet.

I nodded solemnly. I realized I did not want them to know, either. “Non, it will remain a private thing. I would say I feel no shame in it, and I do not, but… non, others do not see it as we do.”

He leaned forward and kissed my knee and looked up at me with loving eyes. “You should lie on your belly for me to stitch these wounds and examine your head.”

I smiled, remembering the first time he had needed to stitch my feet, and my unease at lying on my belly and giving him my back. “I do not find alarm at that. I have traveled far.”

He rose up on his knees until he could kiss my lips gently, and then he pressed his temple to mine. “We have traveled far. Do we still have far to go? Or is there a meadow that we will reach someday and the road need go no further? And we can frolic about the cart for the rest of our days.”

I heard the hope and worry in his words. “I hope so,” I breathed. “But I feel we have a ways farther yet to go.”

He nodded, and sat back on his heels to regard me with sad amusement. “First we must go home. You are wounded, so we should be able to do that now.”

I chuckled. “Is that what is required for us to end these damn voyages? If I had known that, I would stabbed myself weeks ago.”

But as I lay on my belly and he worked on my feet, I thought of all the things waiting for us on Jamaica, and how very steep the road seemed there; and I wondered why we wished to return.

Later, after he finished examining the lump on my head, he bathed my naked body with a cloth. I drifted on the drug and luxuriated in the slow strokes.

“I want you,” I whispered when he stopped.

He gave a quiet snort of amusement, and I turned my head and found him administering unguents to the whip marks on his forearm. None were so deep as to require stitching, and I thought it likely he would only have thin white lines for scars for a year or so. When he finished bandaging the cuts, he lay beside me.

“I took too much,” he whispered. “I cannot rise even for you.”

“Perhaps tomorrow, then,” I said with amusement.

“Definitely tomorrow,” he sighed happily and closed his eyes.

I woke to sunlight streaming through the shutters, and pain. As the window faced east, I thought it likely dawn. Gaston still slept beside me. I nudged him, and he woke with sleepy blinks. He dosed me to ease the pain of my body – no other part of me suffered – and we relieved our bladders and he dressed slowly to face the day. I knew I could not walk without pain for several days, and crutches were not an option with my arm as it was. So I resigned myself to being forced to lie about and do nothing. He went to fetch us food and water.

He returned with Striker, Pete, Cudro, Ash, and Farley, and I wondered if they had done anything but wait about at the foot of the stairs all damn night. So I ate bacon and drank coconut milk and told my tale, while they sat about the bed or in the room’s two chairs and listened.

“Bloody Hell,” Striker said as I finished. “We should have shot him in Porto Bello.”

I snorted. “Nay, I should have slit his throat as he lay sleeping in Florence. But it is either the curse or blessing of man that we cannot see the future.”

“I am sorry,” Farley said, with guilt suffusing his face.

“For what?” I asked.

“I feel…” Farley sighed and considered his words while chewing his lip. “He became moody after he recovered from his head wound. I knew not whether it was because of the wound; or that… Well, he spoke of you a great deal. He spoke often of how you lived together in Florence. He seemed quite convinced you would return to him, or… could be made to return to him.” He sighed and grimaced. “I knew he was not entirely as he had been before, thus my feeling a need to keep an eye on him; but I said nothing of all that because… As I said, I was unsure of the cause. His memory returned, and in all other ways he seemed free of any permanent damage from the wound; and so… I thought he might have been merely in love with you, and your assisting him in recovering gave him false hope.

“He never said he would do as he did, though,” Farley added quickly. “Though… there was some discussion regarding people having preferences for…”

“It is not your fault,” I said quickly. “Perhaps he was mad as a result of the wound, but… I think it was because he thought he loved me. To him, I … was… the epitome of another time in his life, when he felt he was happier.”

Gaston was regarding me with a knowing look.

I sighed and awarded him a sad smile, even as I spoke to Farley. “He loved me still, despite my not wishing it; and he was quite intent upon winning me back: I knew that. The injury must have impaired his reason as to what method might be effective in obtaining that end.”

Farley nodded thoughtfully. “It is a sad thing. I would hope he would not have done as he did if his reason had not been so impaired. I still wish I had realized the extent of it. As I said, I felt something was wrong, but…” He sighed and shrugged.

“I do not blame you in the slightest,” I assured him.

He nodded with relief.

“So was Hastings the last of the pawns?” Cudro asked in the silence that followed.

Pete shrugged. “NoWayTaKnow. ButOneSetFailed WithTryin’TaShootUs. An’AnotherFailedAtDuelin’. An’Morgan’sGoneAnMade ARuleAboutIt. AnyLeft, TheyWon’tShowNow LestTheyBeStupid. An’TheStupidOnes WouldNa’ O’WaitedThisLong.”

“So we can return home and face them there,” I said.

He nodded with a grimace. “Aye. BestWeCanDo.” Then he frowned. “ItBeBestThat BastardHastingsDied’Ere IfYaBeRight’Bout’ImBein’ TheOneWhoKilledThemWomen.”

“Aye,” I said, not wishing to think of the likes of Hastings being anywhere near our women. But that only made me worry about who might be near them while we were away. I could see my thought echoed in other eyes about the bed.

I sighed. “How much longer will we remain here?”

“Too long,” Cudro rumbled with a tired sigh.

They left us, and Gaston began to gather his things to go and look in on the wounded.

“I do not blame the head wound,” I said sadly.

He awarded me a grim smile. “Perhaps you should. Perhaps it unseated him upon his Horse enough that he no longer controlled the animal.”

I could see that, and I sighed, “I do not wish to feel sorry for him.”

Gaston came to kneel before me on the bed. His mien was curious and teasing. “Why should you? It was his Horse. It was still him: unless he was truly mad. But even you will admit – once forced to – that he always loved you, and that it was ever a thing of his Horse and his Man in concert.”

I agreed with him, but his taking that side of the argument amused me. I chided, “Are you not the one ever concerned with your Horse’s horrible thoughts?”

He frowned and cocked his head before grinning. “True, but… Pete and you are correct: it is what a man does, not what he thinks. As you have often made mention, I never acted on those horrible thoughts. We allow our Horses to play together.”

I smiled. “Oui.” And mine had proven with Alonso that it did not wish to run for the sake of running, or down paths alone without me. And I knew Gaston’s loved me. We rode in harmony with our beasts, and were better men for it.

Gaston sighed and awarded me a bemused smile.

“So, oui, I should not berate myself.”

He kissed my nose. “And you need not feel sorry for him.”

I shook my head. “Non, I should. He… never listened to his Horse, or truth: of his heart or any other. He was always enamored of the shadows on the wall – the world of men and lies – and he lost me because of it, and… His Horse regretted that; and perhaps made more of it than it would have, if he had simply let it have its head when we were together. He was a fool.”

“Pity him, then,” Gaston said. “But do not grieve.”

I shook my head. “Non, never that.” I gazed upon him and was filled with wonder at how very far we had come these last years.

He cocked his head again, in apparent curiosity at my expression; and then quickly seized upon this new angle to kiss me deeply.

“I love you,” I breathed when we parted.

“I know,” he sighed happily.

With that, I pushed him away. “Go tend your patients.”

He sighed and nuzzled me for a moment, our breath mingling, and then he climbed from the bed and finished gathering his things. He paused at the door and turned back to me, his face suffused with great regard. “Thank you.”

I did not ask him what for, I merely nodded and said, “You are always welcome.”

We remained in Gibraltar for over a month. The time passed pleasantly enough for me. My feet healed such that the stitches could be removed and I could walk upon them. My arm began to ache less, but Gaston warned me it would be another month before he would allow me to do much of anything with it. I began to teach Striker left-handed swordplay. Gaston and I trysted often, with great pleasure.

For others, the time passed in misery. We lost two-score men to the malaria; though, we did manage to save over a hundred lives before we ran out of quinine. I thanked the Gods daily that we were not afflicted, and Gaston wondered endlessly why we were not.

Those not ailing were sent out in large sorties for a week at a time; always returning with more men ill, more slaves, mules laden with treasure, and hundreds of prisoners. At the hospital, the days and nights were filled with moaning from the feverish and wounded, and distant screams from tortured men and women. Morgan himself led a foray in hopes of capturing the governor; but heavy rains and swollen rivers caused havoc with that and many of the other attempts to gain booty. One group was somewhat successful in capturing barges loaded with goods from Maracaibo, though.

Finally, in the last week of April, we loaded several Spanish barges with valuables, slaves and hostages – as Morgan planned to ransom them and the town – and sailed north to Maracaibo. We had left a small number of men there to hold the town; and we were happy to find them still alive and the place not overrun with vengeful Spaniards. However, we soon learned we would have preferred that to what actually awaited us.

There were three galleons in the passage to the sea, and the Spanish had rebuilt and manned the fortress they abandoned when we arrived. The smallest of their warships had more guns than our largest vessel, and the largest of them had more cannon than our entire fleet. They fired on the sloop we sent to investigate them; but they stayed stubbornly in the channel and were not so foolish as to come and chase us about so that we might have a slim chance of sailing past them. Of course, even if they had followed the ships we sent, the guns of the fort would have destroyed us as we tried to escape the lake.

We had given them nearly two months to summon aid of this nature and repair the fort: I knew not what else we should have expected. Yet, to a man – myself included – we could not have been more discouraged and frightened than if we had woken from a nightmare to a pistol in our faces.

When we learned of it, Gaston pulled me aside and said. “If we must, we will abandon the ship and go overland.”

“All of us?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Just our friends. It will be hard enough with only a few mouths to feed.”

“Oui,” I agreed. “I cannot see dying here.”

Morgan sent for me as soon as the investigating sloop returned. I was not surprised.

“What do you want to tell them?” I asked Morgan, as I joined him and the captains and quartermasters in the Maracaibo courthouse.

He led me to the office chamber in the back of the building where we had first spoken privately, and offered me a chair at the desk. There was a sheaf of paper, quill, and ink awaiting me.

“We are ransoming the town,” he said as I sat.

I regarded him with something between curiosity and incredulity.

“I wish to keep them engaged in discussion until we decide what we will do,” he sighed.

“That is probably best,” I said sincerely, and then we discussed the amount of his demand. I wrote the missive, and he took it to someone to find a Spanish messenger for it. I doubted we would have a response for days.

Morgan returned to the office after dispatching the note, and handed me a bottle before I could leave.

I took a pull of rum. “Do you have a stratagem in mind, might I ask?”

“Not yet,” he sighed. “Do you have any ideas?”

I shrugged. “I will ask Pete.”

“Pete? Striker’s Pete?” he asked.

“Aye. He is a genius at all things martial, and the best chess player I have ever seen.”

“Truly? I thought him somewhat an imbecile.” He shrugged. “The way he speaks.”

I snorted. “It is a good thing he is not your enemy.”

He snorted with amusement and then sighed distractedly. “I have been well educated, but not in things classical. You have. What would the great generals of antiquity have done? Alexander the Great? Achilles?”

“Achilles was a character in an epic poem. Alexander was a real man, though; but I do not think he fought naval battles. The Caesars, though… I will think on it, and see what Gaston and I can recall.”

“Ah, aye, your matelot is a lord’s son, too.” He regarded the bottle he held speculatively, and I knew his expression had little to do with its contents. “And he is not at war with his father,” he said absently.

“Nay, he is not,” I said with curiosity.

He met my gaze and smiled slyly. “Let us see if we can survive this debacle, and then we should speak.”

“I shall be very happy to keep that appointment,” I said as I stood.

“You think I have something to say that you wish to hear?” he asked.

“Nay, it will require we both survive.”

He laughed and waved me out the door.

Cudro and Ash joined me in returning to the Queen. More than half our men were ashore, enjoying Spanish wine as if it might be their last night alive – which it very well could be.

Once our cabal was gathered on the quarterdeck, I told them of Morgan’s ransom demand and his request for any and all ideas or stratagems, including those gleaned from the antics of ancient generals.

“How’s that going to help?” the Bard asked. “They didn’t have cannon. Or sails.”

He was possibly the most melancholy of us all. He was always the one to stay with the ship; and despite whatever might happen ashore, the ships were always able to escape. Being trapped and truly in danger was new to him.

“Nay,” I said. “They had sails; they just used them very little. The principal means of moving the vessels about was rowing. They carried huge numbers of slaves, who rowed their ships, called galleys, about. At least the Romans and Egyptians did, during the time of Julius Caesar and the like. Before that, your fighting men would actually row the ships about; much like the Vikings. That is what is described in the Iliad and the Odyssey.”

“So how did they attack one another?” Cudro asked. “Chase alongside and board?”

“Aye, that, and they rammed one another. The Romans had their ships fitted with great bronze prows so they could split another ship in two. And you had archers. And they often used flame arrows; or flaming ballista bolts; or even pots of burning oil or pitch flung with catapults mounted in the front or back of a ship.”

“Fire ships,” Gaston said.

“Aye, aye,” I said. “And they would on occasion use a smaller vessel designed to burn, and sail it or set it adrift into the enemy vessels if they were in a tight formation.”

Pete laughed, and I met his eyes, and we smiled as I came to understand what had been said of import. I looked about; the others were lost in thought, but Gaston was smiling, too.

“What?” Striker asked as he caught sight of our expressions.

“AFireShipLike WillWereSayin’. TheyBeAllTightInT hatChannel. OneGoesBurnin’ TheRest’ll’AveTaScatter. An’Iffn’TheOneBlows LikeThe OxfordDid It’llMakeARightMessO’ ThatChannelAnAnyShipCloseTo’Er.”

The Bard was shaking his head. “Then how the Devil do we leave?”

Cudro was rumbling with amusement. “If they’re fighting fires and sailing amuck with their sheets aflame, they won’t be manning their cannon very well. We can sail in close with the sloops and board them. Then we can take on the fortress by land or by sea.”

I grinned and exchanged a look of happiness with Gaston. I felt much better about our chances of survival now.

The next day, we told no one else, but we went about considering the small Spanish cargo ships at Maracaibo, assessing how much burning material could be packed onto one, and how it could be disguised to get it close enough to the Spanish without them realizing what it was.

The day after, a missive returned from the Spanish. I read it to Morgan privately in the office of the courthouse. We were dealing with one Don Alonzo del Campo y Espinosa, general aboard the galleon Magdalena. He was, of course, appalled at our audacity. He was angry with the cowards who had abandoned the fort and let us into the lake in the first place. And if we did not agree to his terms, he would keep us blockaded in the lake and send for smaller ships from Cartegena with which to ferry his marines ashore and hunt us down and kill us all. His terms were that we surrender graciously all treasure we had taken, including slaves and any other hostages or prisoners. In return for our abandoning our ill-gotten gains, he would allow us to leave the lake unmolested. I found that incredible, as did Morgan.

“We have a stratagem,” I told Morgan after he stopped cursing the general’s ancestry. I told him of the fire ship. To say he was delighted would be an understatement.

He called for all our men to assemble in the town square; and once they were there, he had me read the letter in English, and again in French for those few among us from Tortuga. Then he gave a stirring performance, asking if they would rather fight for their treasure or surrender it and have nothing to show for their hardship these past months. The decision was unanimous in favor of fighting. I would have hated him, had I not known he now had an alternative. As it was, I still thought him quite disingenuous, in the manner of leaders everywhere.

Then he had me tell them of the fire ship and explain how she should be outfitted and how she would function. There were cheers all around.

Within the hour, men led by Cudro and Pete were gathering the materials we would need and starting work on altering the commandeered Spanish vessel. Meanwhile, Morgan and I were writing another letter to the general as a distraction. Morgan offered to forego ransoming any prisoners or towns, and to surrendering half the slaves, in exchange for our free passage with the remaining treasure.

Of course, in a day and a half we received a response. The good general refused to accept our proposals, and if we did not surrender according to his original conditions within two days, he would destroy us by all means at his disposal. Thankfully, the fire ship was almost finished.

The small commandeered Spanish ship had been gutted, so she would burn and explode more quickly. Her hull had been packed with pitch and tar; and barrels of gunpowder – stolen from the Spanish fortress when we arrived – had been placed below what was left of her decking. Hollow logs were positioned along her sides to look like cannon; other logs were propped about with caps on their tops to look like men at a distance. She would be sailed by twelve men, who were to get her as near as possible to whichever of the warships they could manage; grapple said ship; light the fuses, and dive overboard and swim away.

Pete stood proudly before her as Morgan and the captains came to inspect her. “I’llCommand’Er,” Pete announced.

“What?” Striker roared.

“ICanSail’Er,” Pete countered. He gestured at the captains, who were regarding the flimsy little firetrap with trepidation and slowly inching back as if someone might suggest they do it. “NoOneElseWantsTa. An’I ’Ave Na’Done OneFun ThingThisRaid. I’Aven’tEven ShotAMan. I’mGoin’ TaBe ARomanForADay!”

Striker swore and yelled, “She’s not going to be sailed! We’ll have to tow her there, if she doesn’t sink before we can even get to the mouth of the lake, and then she’ll only reach her target with luck, the current, and some rowing. The wind in her canvas will have little to do with any of it.

“And that’s if the Spanish don’t blow her out of the water before she gets close,” he continued, “or their musketeers don’t shoot every man on board before they can be grappled.”

He regarded his resolute matelot; their gazes locked. Then Striker grinned, though his utterance was defiant. “I’m going with you!”

“You can’t swim with one arm,” Cudro said.

“Aye I can!” Striker snapped, and began shedding weapons as he walked toward the end of the wharf.

Gaston stepped in front of him. “Non. People piss in this water.”

Striker eyed the water with concern and gave a nod of acknowledgment. “All right, we’ll row farther out and I’ll prove I can swim. It doesn’t take two arms.”

“I’ll accept that you can swim,” Morgan said. “You can always clutch a barrel or something and have your matelot pull you along if it came to it. So, you wish to command this fire ship?”

Striker had walked back to us. “Nay. Pete does. I’m going as crew.”

Morgan nodded affably and turned to Pete. “Congratulations, then, Pete. You do us all a fine service. We’ll surely not survive this endeavor with our treasure intact without this vessel. Can you find other volunteers?”

“Aye,” Pete said with assurance, and turned to bellow at the men who had been working with him to ready the craft. “NeedTenWhoCan Swim!”

A few hands raised, some with alacrity; but many of the men appeared uncomfortable.

“I can’t swim,” one man said pathetically.

Beside me, Gaston raised his hand.

“You can’t go,” Cudro said. “You’re our best physician.”

“I am also one of our best swimmers and fighters; and if this does not work, you will not need my other skills,” Gaston said calmly.

I raised my hand.

My matelot grimaced as he glanced at my recently broken arm, but he nodded.

Pete’s smile was a lantern of happiness shining upon all about him. “ThisIsGonnaBeFun!”

“Aye, it is,” Morgan said sincerely, the light of adventure blazing in his eyes. “I wish I was going with you. As it is, we’ll have to take some of them if all goes well. I’m leading the first boarding party.”

The men cheered and pounded Pete heartily on the back. All now appeared to be brave and dangerous warriors, and not men tired of slogging about in swamps robbing people and dying of fevers, or madmen now expected to fight an enemy that vastly out-numbered and -gunned them.

Morgan had everyone gather in the town square again so he could explain our plan of attack. Then he had all swear an oath to stand by their fellow buccaneers until the last man.

Not knowing what would occur, we loaded the treasure, slaves and most prominent prisoners upon our ships and the barges, and sailed for the mouth of the lake on April twenty-ninth. We towed the fire ship for most of the distance, and we arrived late in the evening and anchored well out of the great ships’ cannon range. I was thankful those of us who would crew her were not to remain on the fire ship for the night. She stank, and I was afraid she would somehow catch an errant spark.

There the galleons sat, the Brethren watching them, and them watching us, until dawn. I watched nothing but the light in my matelot’s eyes as we stormed Heaven. I heard nothing but Pete and Striker doing the same. In the hour before dawn, we woke and prepared to slip down to the fire ship. Pete hesitated at the cabin door and turned around. He shed his weapons and clothing, taking up only a cutlass before preparing to leave again.

“What the devil are you doing?” Striker asked.

“Won’tBe TimeFerTheRest. An’ClothesCatch FlameFasterThanSkin.”

“I’m partnered with a madman,” Striker said as he shed his baldric and belt.

“Are not we all?” I asked, as Gaston and I shed our weapons and clothing while giggling like boys.

With a grin, Striker dropped his breeches as well; and we marched onto deck naked, to the amusement of the crew. The men who would go with us did the same; and thus twelve naked men scampered down the ropes with nothing but cutlasses – and matches carefully held in clay pots.

All ships, both Spanish and English, raised anchor at the first golden light along the horizon, and then everything was in motion.

Our little fire ship could sail to some degree, and though Pete commanded her, Striker was our master of sail; and it was a damn good thing he was with us, because it took all his knowledge of wind and current to keep us aimed at our target: the largest of the galleons, a ship of forty guns. She was every bit as big as the warship we had taken that summer two years ago. And, like that day as the North Wind closed on her stern and we prepared to board, I kept expecting the gun ports to open and the deadly mouths of cannon to emerge. That day they had not, but this day they finally did; but by then we were so close and moving so fast they missed. The balls roared by overhead and geysered water in our wake.

We stayed low and tried to keep ourselves from being easy targets for their musketeers. But I could hear men arguing on deck about whether or not they should fire down upon us, if we were indeed a fire ship. The sensible officer won, and they began to send men down the ropes even as we attached our grapples. Gaston and another man were already lighting fuses, and we began to leap into the water like giant naked rats.

I did not see the explosion. My matelot had jumped atop me and dragged us far beneath the surface. My body was buffeted and my ears rang; and the murky water was suddenly illuminated with red light; and we swam deep and far until I was sure my lungs would burst. I was dizzy by the time we reached the surface.

Two of our men had become unconscious and been towed by their fellows; and Pete had an arm about Striker; but we were all alive as we turned to regard our handiwork. It was an amazing sight. The galleon’s sails were all aflame, and fire raced along her hull in the lines of pitch, and smoke was beginning to pour from her gun ports. The Spanish could not save her, or even themselves. Screaming men dove into the water with their clothes afire. Others raced about the deck, setting even more things on fire when they fell.

We were still very close; but thankfully the great ship was being carried away from us by the current. However, that meant we were swimming against that current. Proud of ourselves, but knowing we were still in danger, we looked about; and spotting the Queen, we began to swim for her. She made the task considerably easier by sailing to meet us.

Once we were safely aboard, we were able to see the rest of our handiwork. The second ship had turned as rapidly as she could to avoid her flaming sister and reach the safety of the fort. She had promptly run aground on one of the sand bars. Before any of our ships could reach her, the crew had thrown themselves into boats, or ran and swam across the shallow bars to the safety of the fort: burning their own ship in their wake to keep us from taking her.

The third ship – the smallest of the three, with only twenty-four guns – had veered in the other direction. Norman and Morgan had gone after her on the Lilly, and even now we could see fighting on her deck. Another of our sloops was joining that fray.

Cudro decided we should try to pick up survivors from the burning vessels, but we soon found none of them wished to be rescued. They chose to swim to deeper water and drown rather than fall into our hands. We finally abandoned our efforts, and turned around to join the rest of the fleet and the captured galleon.

All were in high spirits. We had been amazingly successful for only three hours of battle. Now we had to take the fortress.

Morgan ordered most of our men ashore, and they attacked with vigor that soon turned to frustration. We had only muskets and grenadoes; the Spanish had cannon and walls too thick for our ships’ artillery to penetrate--if we had been willing to bring our vessels within range of their larger guns. And we could not bring the captured warship into position, because of her burning sister still in the channel. So our musketeers killed any Spaniard they could see upon the walls; but our attempts to storm those walls lost us over thirty men and gained us as many more wounded, as the Spanish met our every attack with firepots and grenadoes.

At dusk, we retreated to our ships and sat waiting. The great ship was now breaking up and sinking in the channel. Our ships noticed Spaniards trying to swim to her, though we did not know why; and we turned them back.

I saw none of this: I stayed at Gaston’s side, helping with the wounded, until Morgan summoned me. I considered telling him to wait, but then thought better of it: I would be serving the common good in writing whatever message he most probably wished to send to the fortress.

When I reached the captured galleon, I was led to Morgan in the captain’s cabin, a great and fine room filled with carved teak and linen. Morgan offered me a goblet of wine. There was another man at the table, in soot-smudged Spanish clothing. He looked fearful, but nodded politely in greeting. I accepted the glass and took a chair.

“I believe this man wishes to be cooperative,” Morgan said. “I think his name is Juan.”

“Are you known as Juan?” I asked in Castilian.

The man sighed with relief. “Si, si, señor; please do not hurt me, I am a foreigner. I am only with the Spanish as a pilot.” He spoke with a Portugese accent.

I explained this to Morgan, who nodded at the man encouragingly. We plied him with wine, and Juan began to speak a great deal. He told us of the small fleet that had been sent here in response to our taking Porto Bello last year, and how the various ships had gotten separated and these three had been sent to this lake under Espinosa’s command. It was apparent that, in a rather disorganized fashion, they had been waiting for us, but only arrived where we were by happenstance.

Upon their arrival, Espinosa had fired a cannon, to call for a pilot familiar with the entrance to the lake – and been greeted by men from the abandoned fort who told him we were here. The good general had admonished these men for cowardice in abandoning their posts; then he had gathered them and set them to rebuilding the fort. He had promised all his men whatever plunder they could take from us – which I found odd, in that it would be plunder we had just taken from his own people – and made them all swear an oath, in a ceremony as part of the Mass, to accept and give no quarter to the English.

Don Espinosa had been informed two days ago by an escaped slave that we were building a fire ship. The great general had scoffed at this notion; saying we English were too stupid to know what a fire ship was, much less equip one.

After we shared a good laugh over that bit of information, Juan imparted a thing that truly made our hearts glad. The large ship that had burned in the channel had been carrying a great deal of plate and forty thousand pieces of eight.

Morgan embraced the man and told him he was welcome to join our company, and would be given a full share as if he had always sailed with us. Juan was no fool: he accepted this offer quite gratefully.

The next morning, we left the Mayflower to guard the passage and retrieve what silver and gold she could from the remains of the sunken ship. The rest of us sailed back to Maracaibo. Once there, I composed yet another message to the good general telling him we were ransoming the town for thirty thousand pieces of eight and five hundred cattle. The response was much faster than the previous, and did not come from Don Espinosa. The Spanish who actually lived in this region eventually agreed to twenty thousand pieces of eight and five hundred cattle, in exchange for our releasing the prisoners and not burning the town. Espinosa had not been party to this agreement.

The next day, the Spanish arrived with the ransom and cattle, and our men worked feverishly to slaughter and salt the beef. Then we boarded our ships again and headed for the lake mouth with the prisoners. The Spanish who had delivered the ransom were quite incensed with that development; but Morgan was determined to keep the prisoners until we were clear of the fortress. The Spanish protested that they had no control of the fortress: Don Espinosa did, and he would not let us pass. So Morgan sent several of the prisoners to speak with the general, urging them to do all in their power to convince him to let us pass lest he begin to hang their fellows from the yardarms. The general sent them back chastised for being cowards and letting us get into the lake in the first place.

We were now faced with a dilemma. With the ransom, we had a great deal more treasure than we originally gathered. And the Mayflower had managed to raise fifteen thousand pieces of eight from the sunken ship, in addition to a number of lumps of melted silver and plate, some as large as thirty pounds. We also had a captured galleon. But we still could not leave the damn lake.

Morgan held a meeting of the captains and other people he deemed worthy of attending, which now thankfully included Striker, Pete, Gaston, and me. Though Morgan did have a new and cunning stratagem – much to the relief of many – it was decided it would still involve a great deal of risk, and we had best share the treasure out now, in case any of our ships were sunk in the attempt or lost on their ways to some other rendezvous.

When the meeting concluded, Morgan invited Gaston and me to stay.

“I think we shall survive,” Morgan said, as he poured himself another goblet of wine and put his feet on the massive teak table that graced the captured galleon’s main cabin.

“Ah,” I said. “So you have a thing to tell me.”

He nodded and motioned for us to sit. We did, and I poured wine for both of us. Gaston and Morgan studied one another across their goblets. This would be the first time since my new relationship with Morgan that Gaston was present.

Morgan’s gaze shifted back to me. “I might be of some assistance.”

“In what manner?” I asked.

“Modyford,” he said with a grim smile. “I am on occasion privy to his business, though… He holds his cards like any sensible man. And, on occasion he accepts my counsel, because… there are things he wishes of me.”

I was relieved he did not embellish his friendship with Modyford. It made what he said far more believable.

“What are you offering?” I asked with a wry smile. “And perhaps of more import, what do you wish to gain?”

He cocked his head with a subtle moue. “I want Panama. I need the French.”

Gaston snorted.

I smiled. “After the fiasco with the Cour Volant this year, and the matter with Burroughs and that damn duel, and Puerte Principe being nearly worthless last year, surely you jest.”

Morgan shrugged. “But they have now heard how Porto Bello made all who continued on with me rich last year, and… The Cour Volant was not my fault.”

“Saying all that is true, why do you think we could produce them?” I asked.

“Pierrot and Savant like you,” he said. “And you stand a better chance than anyone. You have the Devil’s silver tongue.”

“Aye, perhaps, but you realize that my way of convincing them will be to tell them you are a greedy and ambitious bastard, and the only reason they should go is that they can share in it.”

Morgan smirked. “That is precisely why I should send you. Your honesty will win them over.”

I glanced at my matelot, and found him smiling to himself and studying his wine goblet.

I shrugged. “All right; say we agree to do this thing. What can you truly offer us?”

He smiled. “As you have already guessed, Modyford is in the employ of your father. I don’t know how long he has been corresponding with your father; possibly since before your arrival. But he expects to reap great benefit from the arrangement, when he eventually leaves Jamaica and returns to England.”

I sighed. “And you?”

Morgan snorted, and spoke nonchalantly, without malice. “I am no one’s man, though I allow Modyford to believe whatever is convenient for me. I have never corresponded with your father. However, his agent, Washington, came to visit me when we returned from Porto Bello. He bore a note of introduction from Modyford instructing me to be forthcoming with the man. He asked me a great many questions about how buccaneers live. He was especially interested in the practice of matelotage. And then he asked me a number of questions about you. He wanted to know if I had reason to believe that you engaged in sodomy – and whether I would be willing to testify to that in court.”

Lead formed in my belly, and I felt Gaston tense beside me. “And you told him?” I asked.

“That I did not know you that well,” he chuckled, but quickly sobered. “And then I went and argued with Modyford. Obviously matelotage is the Way of the Coast. Good Lord, it keeps men from fighting over one another and the few whores we have. It’s not a thing I wish to engage in, or have need of, but I care not what my men do. And, if that damn fool Modyford begins to charge and convict men of it, I know damn well the buccaneers will all go to Tortuga. I convinced him of that – that he could not even go after you at your father’s behest, because it would cause rioting in the streets. Lynch and the other proper gentlemen on the council tend to forget that the buccaneers make up most of the militia. Damn fools.”

I was stunned, and I downed my glass and filled another.

“This was months ago?” I asked.

He nodded sadly.

“We have been blind and stupid,” I said, and drank more.

Morgan shrugged. “Nay. You’re like a prize bull: it’s often discussed if you should be shown at the fair, bred, or slaughtered – but not in front of you. Your man Theodore has been carefully handled lest he become aware of what was about.”

“So I can trust no one of any consequence on Jamaica?” I asked.

“Will,” he said with a trace of amusement, “I would not trust men of little consequence on Jamaica, if I were you. Even your own family.”

“My uncle?”

He nodded. “He was at the governor’s – in the next room – when you arrived with that declaration you wanted signed. He’s a curious fellow. He seemed quite heartbroken that you’re such a fool as to do such a thing, but then he worries at what your father will do to you in the end. Modyford will not bring charges against you here, yet. But he has talked of doing other things to force you to comply with your father’s wishes – which I am confused by.”

“I think my father likes to keep us all confused,” I said. “He lies to everyone to suit his purposes. What other things? I have no idea what he wants of me; I only know I want nothing of him.”

“I actually understand that,” Morgan said, as if he found that confusing, too. He shrugged. “Well, there was that business with Vines’ daughter. He gathered a great deal of evidence concerning your wife, in order to be able to discredit any child she might bear. And he has occasionally stirred up trouble with some of the other merchants about there being a business in town managed by a woman. And despite that magnificent emerald Striker gave him, he might very well move to seize your ship. He threatened it once, when I made some comment about whether or not Striker would sail with us. The only thing that I believe has stayed his hand before we sailed, and even after, is the revelation that your man here’s father is a marquis. He’s unsure of what to do concerning that, and is awaiting instruction from your father.”

I buried my head in my hands. I would have demanded to know why he hadn’t bothered to tell us any of this before, but that would have been foolishness: we had been on the precipice of truly being enemies before, and he had not cared if Striker and I were destroyed.

Gaston rubbed my shoulder. “What would you advise?” he asked Morgan.

“Honestly,” Morgan said with a lengthy sigh. “Leave Jamaica. All of you: your sister; Theodore; everyone. Go to Tortuga.” He shrugged. “And while you’re there, get the French to sail with me against Panama.”

I chuckled mirthlessly.

“I give you my word we will do what we can,” Gaston said. “And now, if you will excuse us, we have much to discuss.”

Morgan nodded solemnly.

Gaston and I were silent as we climbed down to a canoe and rowed toward the Queen; but then he stopped in the darkness between the vessels, and said, “We should not tell anyone yet. Not until we truly escape this place.”

“Oui,” I said with little emotion, as I felt nothing but cold. “As I do not wish to know any of it, I do not see where they should be troubled with it, when we have more immediate matters of concern.”

And then the rage hit, tearing from me a wordless cry of pain and rage; and I doubled over in the canoe afraid the power of what I now felt would tear me in two.

Gaston pushed off my kerchief and rubbed my scalp. He could not hold me, as the canoe was too narrow to allow him to turn. So I moved so I could cling to his back.

We sat in the darkness, with him only rowing to keep us from flowing out of the lake with the current. We could have escaped, just us: the fortress never would have seen the small dark dot that we were. But then what would we do? Where would we go?

We had to take our chances with our friends. They had cast their lot with ours, and now we owed them. We must all escape together.

I finally calmed enough for us to row to the Queen.

“Composing more nasty notes to that bastard general?” Striker asked as we joined our cabal on the quarterdeck.

“Aye,” I said. “There are things he needs to hear.”

They were peering at us – or rather me – and I knew I was not so composed as I wished to seem.

“Don’t fret,” Striker said and handed me a bottle, of which he had already consumed quite a bit. “Morgan’s plan’ll work.”

I choked on the wine. “It had best.”

Gaston wrapped his arms around me, and we sat in silence. I tried to tell myself that, truly, most of our friends and family would find life little different if our home was Cayonne and not Port Royal. They would simply have to learn French.

But I would miss our little home at Negril.

And Gaston’s name had not yet been cleared.

The next morning, the treasure – some two hundred and fifty thousand pieces of eight in ready money, and more in jewels and other valuables – was divided amongst our vessels, based upon how many men and other shares each ship had. Then we set about sharing it out on each ship. This took the better part of a day. Barring extra shares for various posts, each man came away with some one hundred and fifty pounds.

The next day, we put Morgan’s ingenious plan for escaping the lake into effect. We began to dispatch our boats and canoes to shore filled with men, and appeared to land them out of sight of the fort; but we did not leave any men ashore. The men not rowing a boat lay flat in its bottom, as each craft returned to its vessel and pretended to load more men on the side of the ship opposite the fort. Meanwhile, more and more men hid in the holds on our ships, until the decks appeared empty. In this way we attempted to convince the general we were sending all our men ashore to attack him at night by land. It seemed to be working: we could see them repositioning many of their cannon to bear inland.

When night came, there was a full moon, and our fleet weighed anchor; and, leaving our sails furled, we drifted with the outgoing tide into the channel, until we were even with the fort. Then we raised sail and shot through the passage under the fort’s guns, with the seaward wind at our backs. The Spanish did fire upon us, and several of our vessels were struck, but to no great damage; and we were soon all safely at sea.

Once beyond their guns, Morgan released the prisoners, and fired a salvo in salute from the captured warship. I imagined I could hear Don Espinosa grinding his teeth. I began to think of how I wanted to hear my father grind his; but, of course, all our pending misfortune on Jamaica was the result of my already having angered my sire such that he ground his teeth. I would just never get to hear it.

All the imprecations Espinosa surely heaped upon us were repaid by the Gods with a brutal storm that blew in from the northeast on our second day sailing home. It was in every way equal to the tempest that had destroyed the galleon and the North Wind two years before.

We furled our sails, tied off the rudder, lashed ourselves down, and prayed. Men filled the hold and cabin, but Gaston was afraid of being below deck, in case the ship was swamped or rolled. So we tied ourselves, some weapons, and a bag of food, water, medicine, and ammunition to the forward quarterdeck rail.

As the first hours wore on, I began to lose myself: the winds howled inside my mind as well as out. Everything I had ever done had been punished. The Gods hated me. God hated me. My father hated me. All because I could not be what They wished.

And then somewhere amidst it all, I felt my matelot fumbling with my breeches and a familiar pressure behind me. I turned my head and felt his cold lips upon my cheek. Even if he had tried to scream in my ear with his broken voice, I could not have heard him in the tempest; but I felt him, and he was soon warm inside me, and thus I was soon warm.

The winds did not howl in Heaven, and in the aftermath of that glow, it was easy to order my thoughts. The Gods did love us.

And to prove it to me and further earn my trust, the storm at last abated. It was not an immediate thing; nay, it took three days, but at last we sailed on calm seas. No one had died. The hull was leaking, but not so it could not be repaired.

I felt the sun shining in the aftermath as the beneficence of the Gods given earthly form; and I considered what we all must do next with faith and surety.