Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (32 page)

“Sorry,” Striker said, and jerked his chin toward where Bradley was standing. “He’s angry about last night.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“That we slipped aboard, and Davey was below, and we were forced to kill anyone who saw us, and we burned her to prevent more deaths.

He thought that imprudent. I told him nothing of the money.”

“Now, that was prudent.”

Striker chuckled. “I did not mention Gaston’s involvement, either.”

“Even more prudent, I fear,” I said. Gaston was not looking at any of us, and I realized I still had an arm across his shoulders. He was not pulling away, but he was tense beside me. “Where can we stow our things? And I would see Davey.”

I was able to nonchalantly take my arm away as we began to walk, and Gaston seemed relieved. The wolves led us to the steps down to the deck. There was a five-foot-wide alcove between the last gun carriage, the gunwale, and the wall of the aft cabin, which rose to the quarterdeck three feet above.

“We Sleep Here,” Pete said.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Striker added. “There’ll be at least sixty men aboard. The hold will fill with victuals, so we all sleep on deck, except for the Captain and Siegfried.”

I looked up the length of the ship at the number of men standing about. At its widest, the deck was maybe sixteen feet. I remembered the decks of the King’s Hope crowded with sleeping men, and I carefully kept my dismay from my face. I had known I would be sleeping on deck, but until now I had not been truly cognizant of what that would mean.

Striker and Pete had laid claim to what could be considered premium deck space, and they were willing to share it.

“Thank you, that will be wonderful,” I said quickly.

We stowed our sacks, muskets, and most of our weapons and gear in the space. Pete and Striker led us below to see Davey. The ship’s surgeon had arrived midday, and apparently plied our sailor with something to help him sleep while he recuperated.

He was in the hold. It proved to be a wide but very low space, with walls defined by the sharply-sloped hull. It was mostly sand and ballast, with a gangway of planks laid the length of it, and casks stacked along the sides. There was an area near the bow that was mostly floored, though, and that was where Davey was sleeping on a pile of bedding.

Davey did indeed appear to be drugged when we reached him, but he seemed happy to see us. He looked a bit better, as he was clean and his wounds bandaged. He regarded me quizzically and raised a tentative hand to briefly touch my left earring.

I grinned. “You think that is something, you should see this.” I doffed my kerchief and showed him my hair.

He chuckled. “So we be buccaneers now?”

“Aye, or some may say freebooters.”

He frowned, but Gaston snorted with amusement.

“You French are strange,” Striker said.

“Have you ever made boucan?” Gaston asked.

“Nay.”

“Then how can you be a boucanier?”

“Because I want to be,” Striker said with a comical tone of righteous indignation.

I laughed and then had to explain the meaning of the term to Davey, who sighed with annoyance that such a thing should be discussed or worried over at all.

“We’rePirates,” Pete said.

“Nay, we’re privateers,” Striker said. “I daresay I’m the only man here who’s actually been a pirate. Though I don’t know about him.” He pointed at Gaston.

My companion rolled his eyes. “I’ve been a boucanier and a fliebustier, which means I’ve been a pirate since we were roving without a marque.”

“So two of us have been pirates,” Striker said.

“I’mAPirate,” Pete huffed.

“You’ve been a thief but never a pirate,” Striker told him, and Pete pouted. “We’ve always sailed under a commission here, so we’ve been privateers.”

“Where were you a pirate?” I asked.

“England. I roved the Isles, the North Sea, and the French coast for five years.”

“How did you come here?” I asked.

“He is answering,” Gaston said quietly in French. “But it is usually considered rude to inquire of a man’s life before he crossed the Line.”

“I do not mean to pry,” I added quickly to Striker in English.

“What’dHe Say?” Pete demanded.

“He said it is considered rude to ask of a man’s history before he came here,” I said.

Striker nodded agreement. “Aye, it is; but I have nothing to hide, at least not from men I steal gold with.”

“Speaking of which, I believe we are all pirates,” I said.

“Right you are,” Striker sighed with a grin. “Last night was piracy.

As for me, our ship was captured, and I was sent to Newgate and offered ten years of slavery in exchange for the noose. I took it, and that’s where I met Pete.”

I remembered what Belfry had said about transporting prisoners as bondsmen. “How long ago?”

“Nine years.”

I blinked with surprise and regarded the two men critically. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven. We’re not sure about Pete but I think he’s of my age.”I added and subtracted years. Striker would have been sailing as a pirate between the ages of thirteen and eighteen before he was sent here. Pete not knowing his own age was baffling to me, but I supposed it could occur if he was left to his own devices at early enough an age.

They had obviously not served their terms of indenture.

“I think we are all of an age or close to it,” I said.

“I be twenty-five,” Davey said.

“Close enough,” I said. Yet though we were all close in age, I marveled at how much of their lives Gaston, Striker, and Pete had spent in this part of the world. As adult men they had known nothing else.

We left Davey to sleep and returned to the party above. I was able to obtain a bottle of Madeira, and Pete and Striker led us around, introducing us to a great number of people who I would not remember on the morrow and who would not remember us. Yet the endeavor left me feeling more comfortable with the assembled crew and my surroundings. Gaston and I ended the night sharing the bottle, while sitting upon the cannon closest to our new sleeping quarters, if the cubby could be called that, while Pete and Striker fucked in it.

In my travels, I had witnessed many acts of buggery that I was not personally involved in. Yet I had never witnessed two men engaged in what the poetic called the art of love. Much less two men who looked as Pete and Striker did. They were kissing and licking and fondling and all manner of things not necessary for the mere act of sodomy. I knew not whether I should avert my vision or stare with open abandon. We were not the only ones with a view, and others were watching, so it seemed somewhat permissible to stare. However, I did not want to watch, as it made me extremely conscious of my own needs – which were not going to be met anytime soon by anything other than my own hand.

And of course there was Gaston, who I would have considered myself in the bowers of Heaven to do the same with. He was very pointedly averting his gaze and attempting to ignore the entire affair, the way one avoids watching another man relieve himself. It was the most damn disconcerting situation I could remember finding myself in, and I knew without doubt that this would be just the first of very many nights featuring the same.

I sought to distract myself, and concentrated not on what the two men were doing but on where. The space was the width of a bed and there would be four men in it. I could not imagine Gaston in such a situation, much less myself.

“Where did you sleep on the Josephine?” I whispered in French.

He smiled obliquely and continued to study the moon. “I found several small spaces where only one would fit, and sometimes I slept in the main cabin during the day.”

“Why did you agree to this?”

He shrugged. “There is nothing for it. Why did you?”

“In truth I did not understand. I knew we would sleep out in the open on a deck but… Gaston, I have never slept in close proximity to anyone.”

“You have had lovers.” He regarded me with curiosity.

“I have not slept with them, except for one, and that was a large bed and on rare occasion.” Alonso and I had shared a bed for something other than sating our carnal appetites only a handful of times in two years. I did not wish to explain why I was not comfortable in close proximity to a man unless I was able to pay attention to him.

He was now regarding me with amusement. “I do not like to be touched.”

I had realized that, yet it was obviously something I had not wanted to hear. “Then how will we make the best of this?”

“I get the wall.”

“That is not very helpful.”

He grinned. “We will endure and conquer.”

Another pair of men began to have sex on the cannon across the way. I watched them for a moment with dismay.

“This will continue for hours,” he said, even more amused at my discomfort. “One pair starts it and then another watches and they decide to start, and then another, until all of the pairs who intend to, have.”

“You are serious?” I asked without much hope that he was not.

“Quite.”

I finished off the bottle and wondered if there was another. I worked my way to the relatively unlit stern and relieved myself, first of urine and then of semen. Pete and Striker were curled together in approximately half the space when I returned, and Gaston was preparing for bed against the wall. With a heavy sigh I crawled in between Pete and him. Despite the belly full of wine and the empty cock, sleep was slow in coming as I felt every twitch of the men about me.

I heard the Gods laughing at the jest they had so deftly played upon me.

Wherein I Gain A Matelot

I woke to the feeling of bodies pressed against me. For a moment I was quite content with this. I felt cozy and warm and pleased with the world. Then I woke further and experienced panic, as my head was pounding with wine, and I was not sure where I was, and I felt pinned by unknown assailants, and this reminded me of things I strove not to remember. I squirmed and struggled until I was sitting with my back to the gunwale. Only then did I possess the presence of mind to remember where I was and identify my bedmates. Pete was responsible for most of my panic, as he had been sprawled partially atop me. Gaston had been curled into a ball against my side. I was thankful for the lantern on the aft deck. Otherwise, it would have been too dark to see, and I do not know what I would have done.

Gaston was awake and regarding me with heavy-lidded annoyance, which quickly changed to concern. He already had a pistol in his hand.

“What is wrong?” He frowned and sat up, taking in our surroundings for signs of a possible threat. I realized I was breathing hard, and probably appeared as panicked as I felt.

“I cannot abide someone being on top of me,” I whispered.

He regarded Pete, who was still sprawled across the space, oblivious to us and my pushing him around to get out from under him.

Striker was awake now too. “Sorry, he does that,” he muttered, but his eyes were narrowed with interest at my state.

“Will is not used to sleeping with others,” Gaston said.

I was embarrassed. I held up a hand to stop their wayward thoughts. “It is no matter. I will become accustomed to it.” I stood and took a good amount of time pissing over the gunwale until I could compose myself. I imagined looks passed between them, but thankfully they said nothing. I felt a fool and had no intention of explaining myself.

They did not know that weight on my back was a thing of great fear that not even Alonso had been able to cure me of. I had resigned myself long ago that Shane was always going to be over my shoulder.

Gaston wordlessly handed me one of our water bottles when I sank down to sit with my back in the corner. I sipped it slowly and massaged my temples, though that never made a headache go away.

“I’ll sleep in between,” Striker said. He poked Pete gently in the ribs a few times until the Golden One’s limbs retracted and he rolled over with a sleepy grumble.

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” I said. I wished the subject could be passed.

Striker grinned. “Nay, on our account. Believe me, if he starts thinking you, or anyone else, is me in his sleep, I’m afraid someone might be forced to stab him in self defense. I would rather avoid that.”

I nodded with an appreciative smile at his reasoning. What he suggested would be very bad indeed. But, oddly, I never thought of pulling a weapon when that fear hit, and I have never truly understood that about myself. I knew that I did not do it all those years ago. But that did not explain why I did not react in that fashion now; or perhaps it did, as the fear had so deeply entrenched itself in my brain as to impede my natural instincts for survival.

I watched as Striker crawled over Pete, and with a little nudging got him against the gun carriage. I felt absurd and lonely as he curled against his partner’s back and returned to sleep.

Gaston moved closer until we were almost touching.

“You can have the wall,” he whispered in French.

“I feel ridiculous,” I whispered back. “Two men having to protect me from the sleeping habits of probably the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”

He smirked and then sobered. “I did not understand what you were trying to convey, and I am sorry.”

“I am not sure I realized what I was trying to convey, as I did not anticipate the severity of my reaction, or… that he rolled around so.”

More was being said than I intended at the moment; but I reasoned that there were things he must be expected to know about me, if we were truly to be friends.

Gaston frowned and sighed. “There are things I react to with no rational thought. You asked yesterday if I knew what brought on my episodes. I do not, in their entirety, other than what I said; but I do know that there are things that I have issue with that abet the process.”

“What are these things, or may I ask?”

“The most serious would be whips. I think neither of us cares to discuss the reasons why such things exist in our minds. Let us say it is enough that we know what to avoid with one another.”

I stifled my curiosity as I realized what he was saying and offering.