Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (18 page)

I started to tell him I was quite recovered from the wound I had suffered in August, but then I noted he was eyeing my neck with a grimace, his fingers hovering above the place where Gaston’s mark would have been on his own flesh.

“Nay, he bit me,” I sighed.

My matelot’s eyes widened with embarrassment but he stayed silent.

“Oh,” Fletcher said, and flushed. Then disapproval shuttered his face and he took a step back. Apparently he had not warmed to the ideas of sodomy or matelotage these last months, any more than he had warmed to the local food.

He remained distant until he led us to the mill, and then his pride got the best of him. He had designed the water wheel and was understandably proud. I was impressed. After having done a little of my own building, I was in awe that trees could be felled and shaped so precisely as to fit with forged iron to make a building and the workings inside. It looked to be a thing that would stand for decades and harness the river to grind tons of cane.

There would be another mill next to it, and then a boiling house, curing shed, and rum distillery. Someday, there would be a proper plantation house; and Fletcher showed us the site they had chosen for it, on the hill overlooking the river.

I conceded it would be very nice, and wondered when we would build it. Part of Theodore’s instructions included its construction, though Theodore had also procured a site in town just down the street from his. If we were to have a wife, she must be housed somewhere. I decided it would probably be best to ask her where she wished to be, since it would be her house, whoever she was. We would not dwell in it for most of the year, if I had my way. Then it occurred to me that Gaston might wish to cuddle with these heretofore-unforeseen children, much as he did with the puppies. The thought of seeing him so was pleasant, but it would necessitate living with them, and I did not think that would be pleasant at all. I had never been about an infant that it was not wailing.

On our return to the cookhouse and barracks, we passed the graveyard. I was mortified to see how many crosses sprouted there, and that I knew every name and some well. Patterson and the Jenkins brothers had passed. I counted: of the forty-one men with whom I arrived on Jamaica, twenty-three were dead within a year. And this did not count Tom, Harry, and Dickey, of which Harry had died within a month of our arrival. Men die all the time, true, but not at this appalling rate in all of Christendom; not unless there is war or pestilence. I supposed it could be said that both were constants in the West Indies.

The crew of the North Wind had been cut down by half as well, but none of them had died by disease. And if nothing else, that alone would have made me thankful I had taken to the seas, despite the shipwreck. At least I had not been trapped here, near swamp vapors, eating rancid food.

I decided we would build a house for the wife in town.

As we came into the compound again, my gaze was drawn to the stockade.

“Have any of the Negroes died?” I asked Fletcher.

“Oh aye, my Lord. Ten of the fifty Mister Theodore purchased in September.”

“Why are they not buried in the graveyard?”

Fletcher was appalled. “They are not Christian, my Lord. We gave them over to their fellows and the savages let the bodies rot. Now we burn them.”

“As they are not Christian, perhaps it is their custom.”

“Only the Devil knows, my Lord,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “According to the ship’s captain, they come from five different tribes. Which is as we wanted, since that way they can’t all speak to one another to plot an escape or mutiny.”

I sighed. “Perhaps the ones who died first came from a group with customs the others were unfamiliar with. Perhaps they were not sure of your intent in giving them the body.”

“My Lord, why would you be willing to excuse them?” he asked with sincere curiosity. “You are kind to the extreme. They are ignorant savages. They are not men.”

“Then perhaps you should endeavor to instruct them. Fletcher, in the Italian cities I met a number of black Moors, and even a Nubian, who had skin every bit as dark as these Negroes, and they dressed, spoke, did business, and worshipped money and Christ much like any other man I have ever met.”

He flinched at this. “My Lord, I pray for you,” Fletcher said solemnly.

“You seem determined to commit heresy and blasphemy at every turn.”

“Fletcher, should it not be heresy, if not blasphemy, to assume one knows the will of God at every turn? If God has issue with me, then that is between the two of us and not you. And does not God wish all of his good men to spread the word of His teachings? The Jesuits make quite the industry of it.”

“So you would have us minister to them?” he asked with a faint mien of guilt.

Beside me, Gaston was suppressing a smile, and I realized the direction I had stumbled in my rancor. I did not want Fletcher foisting his brand of religion upon a bunch of hapless men. I also saw that he had been considering it.

Fletcher was frowning at the stockade. “Do you truly feel they can learn the teachings of our Lord?”

“I think all men are capable of it,” I said carefully.

“Donoughy will not like it. If they become proper men then…”

“They will have to be treated as such,” I finished for him as I saw where it led. I decided that Christianity would not be in the slaves’ worst interests; on the contrary. “Fletcher, you are a man of God in your fashion, do you feel that you can attempt to instruct them?”

“They would have to learn the King’s English first,” he said as if the task were daunting.

I struggled to suppress my amusement. I was truly Satan’s snake in the garden of ignorance.

“Aye, they will,” I said with assurance. “Do you feel you can instruct them? I will tell Donoughy it is required. If he gainsays me, I shall dismiss him. And you will all learn to eat decent food, even if it kills you.

God chose to put edible food on this island. How dare the lot of you turn your noses up at His bounty?”

He gave a low groan and awarded me with the chiding eye of a man bested in sparring by devious footwork he should have seen coming.

I smiled kindly. “It is all a matter of interpretation, Fletcher.”

“So you say, my Lord,” he said with a thoughtful frown. “You surely choose to see it like no other.”

We returned to the main buildings. Their original cook had died of the flux, and they now had a man named Curly, who was bald. He plied us with rum, and I availed myself of it. Gaston did not drink. Instead, he borrowed a pot in which to boil water and picked through their store of victuals to see if there was any he would allow us to eat. I understood his quest had failed when he handed me a strip of boucan from his belt pouch. I ate it without complaint.

The men began to arrive, and they were delighted to see us.

Grisholm, our carpenter, still lived, as did Humboldt, the widower who had become a bondsman rather than marry. They were nearly as thin as Fletcher. Donoughy was the only one who appeared to be none the worse for ten months at Ithaca. But then, he had seasoned to the West Indies years ago. He did not appear pleased to see us; and as I knew he would wish to hear what I had to say even less, I took delight in his discomfiture and gave him hearty greeting.

I went to peruse the Negroes before they were locked away for the night. They were a sorry lot. Though not yet as thin as the bondsmen, none appeared healthy. I was damn glad I was fortified with rum before I had to meet any of their eyes. Not that many would look me in the eye.

The few that did were whip-scarred, and I found shameful irony in that.

As they were led away, I turned on Donoughy. I did not dance about the matter, choosing a clean thrust instead. “I wish for the Negroes to be instructed in English and the ways of Godliness, and I want that garden plot planted and men eating what it produces.”

I could see the “nay” hovering about his lips and eyes, but he was too clever to let it settle.

“My Lord,” he started carefully. “You can’t teach them…”

“Why,” I asked, “because they cannot learn, or because they will then be able to understand all that is said and speak amongst themselves?”

“Both,” he said.

“Did we not once have a discussion as to well-used men…?” I asked.

“These are not Christian men,” he said firmly. “You cannot expect them to ever behave like good men. They are savages.”

I smirked. “And I believe the Greeks thought the same of the Romans… But that is what truly scares you.”

He did not know enough of history to understand my reference. He regarded me with mute anger.

I sobered. “They are men, much like any other. They differ from us in the color of their skin and the way of their customs, just as the yellow men from across the sea, and they have huge cities. We know nothing of where these men come from, of what they know, or what they can learn, because we cannot talk to them to discover it. And there are Negroes all over Port Royal who can speak English.”

He chose a different tack and his brow smoothed a little as he tried it. “My Lord, we cannot spare them. Teaching takes time.”

“They are not doing anything right now, are they? They can learn English by torchlight.”

He sighed. “And who will teach them?”

“Fletcher,” I said.

He did not speak it, but his shoulders told me of his capitulation.

“Now about the other,” I said cheerily. “What are your arguments there? Surely you have eaten food grown on this island.”

“Aye,” he said tightly. “But we cannot…”

I fanned my ire a little. “Afford it or spend the time growing it, aye, aye, aye! Well, let me lend another perspective to that. Those bondsmen cost my father, what, thirty pounds apiece, at least? And how much for the Negroes, and how many are dead and gone and that money lost?”

“It wasn’t bad food that killed them!” he said vehemently. “Men die just coming here… my Lord.”

I kept pressing. “I know of the diseases here, Donoughy. However, I was told in England that many of my bondsmen would die in the crossing, but I insisted they be well rationed, and behold, only three died on the voyage, and they were already sickly. And I have seen men die of the flux here because they were treated poorly when there was a better remedy. I question English wisdom concerning how one must live in the tropics, or anywhere beyond England for that matter. I swear, if the lot of you were foxes innocent of the ways of men, you would starve if placed in a barnyard because the chickens would not look like quail, and you would freeze in the rain because the underside of a coop did not appear exactly like a fallen log.”

He had crossed his burly arms, but his face was thoughtful. “You will take responsibility for all of this?”

“Donoughy, my father will blame me no matter what happens. And so you know, he has little love for this endeavor. It was an interesting diversion, perhaps, but I truly feel he expects no return on his investment now. He merely wishes this place to be a… point of leverage as regards my behavior.”

“What, my Lord?” he asked.

“He has offered it to me if I do his bidding on another matter.”

He regarded me speculatively. “Will you do his bidding?”

I scratched my neck and sighed. “It appears I may yet. The ways of it are a mystery at the moment, but my feet seem to be set upon that path.”

This seemed to change his demeanor considerably. “All right then, my Lord, we will grow food and teach the Negroes English.”

I cursed my stupidity for not starting with that aspect of the argument.

Gaston had been standing nearby, listening. As we returned to the others, he slipped to my side. “It only provides leverage if you allow it,”

he whispered in French.

“It only provides leverage here if I allow them to think it will,” I replied in kind, and then I stopped and met his gaze. “You are the only person who has a lever long enough to move me on anything.”

He nodded solemnly.

The evening meal was served, and we all sat about and talked. Since they had honored guests, several bottles of rum were opened. I found them often in my hands.

Gaston did well. He kept me between him and all others and spoke little. I spoke a great deal, all of it meaningless, as I have learned to do in such situations. In time, it was much as it had been when we sailed here together. They all asked what we had been about and were disappointed to learn we had done little these past months but hunt and read, and that we had not suffered another shipwreck or the like. I did tell them of coming upon the galleon in the fog, and they enjoyed the tale immensely.

At last we were able to retire. We walked into the night and away from the light and smoke of the fire. I was pleased Gaston had possessed the presence of mind to slather us with hogs’ fat to prevent our being eaten alive by the ever-present cloud of insects. I would not have thought of it. I was now quite pleasantly drunk.

Many of the men graciously offered the use of their huts, and we declined as gently as we could manage and retreated to the mule shed where our mounts were. At first, the smell of horses was reassuring, and then old memories intruded and I regarded the pile of hay on which Gaston dropped our bags with dismay.

“We should sling a hammock,” I slurred.

He shook his head slowly. “Non, this will be fine,” he assured me as one would a child, or properly in my case, a drunk.

“I cannot share hay with you,” I said sadly. “Not even you, who I surely love more than life itself.”

He sprawled on his back on the mound and regarded me curiously.

“The first time with Shane was in a barn in hay and… we trysted often in the stable, and I…before it was bad. Still it evokes the evil. The smell and sound of it. I…”

He stood and embraced me. “I wish I could obliterate all trace of him,” he whispered in my ear. “I wish I could reach into your heart and cut away every memory.”

The room swam, and I clung to him. “I wish you could, too.”

“Where do you wish to sleep?” he asked in a gentler tone.

“In your arms, but not in straw.”

He led me outside and leaned me on the wall. When he returned with our things, including the water he had boiled, he burdened me with the bags and my weapons, and took my hand and we walked away into the moonlit forest. Despite the celestial light, I could see nothing beneath my feet. I let him take me where he would. At last we stopped at the site of the proposed house, on the hill over looking the river. I was intoxicated enough to feel unease that we must have passed so close to the graveyard, and just sober enough to know my fears were absurd, all of them. He pulled me down into his lap, and gave me a bottle of water.