Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (29 page)

She was deep in thought. “Where should I touch myself?”

I was going to pain myself by trying not to laugh. “Everywhere, but you will find some areas are more sensitive than others, such as your bosom, or between your legs.”

For the first time in our conversation, she flushed.

I wondered what she would look like with little charcoal smears all about her privates and breasts. Then I wondered what Gaston would look like with the same. Perhaps we should play with the paint he used about his eyes. But, I had discovered by accident that it did not taste very good. A strange thought came to me. What if I coated him in chocolate?

The pain of laughter took the breath from my breast, but did not succeed in sobering me.

“Please get me some water,” I gasped when I could. “I feel a coughing spell coming on.”

She hurried to comply, and awkwardly helped me drink it. Then I sent her to inquire if there was any more broth or bread.

When Gaston returned a short time later, I enthusiastically told him,

“I want to coat you in chocolate and lick it off. Everywhere, including your member.”

He was appalled. “Will, I do not know whether I should give you more laudanum or not.”

“Please.”

He shook his head and regarded me skeptically. Then he glanced toward my crotch.

I grinned. “Ah hah, see, you think it an interesting idea too.”

“Have you done such a thing?” he asked with jealous curiosity.

“Never. I have considered it only once, and then with you.”

He shook his head. “You are a fool. It reeks and it is unclean.”

“It reeks because it is not clean. Perhaps if we bathed them rigorously.”

“And why chocolate?” he asked.

“It tastes good.”

He fought smiling. I renewed my pain with more mirth.

“Would you like to know what we have learned?” he asked as he prepared the laudanum.

“Oui, oui.”

He sat beside me on the bed and helped me with the draught as he explained. “Martin Gershing, a planter’s son, booked passage on the ship that sailed yesterday. Gershing has five boys. They travel to England every year for school. One of them was ill last year and remained here this autumn. The agent did not question the boy being sent to England now that he was healthy. And as it is the cane harvest, the man was also not concerned that none were there to see the boy leave.”

I smiled. “I would suppose that Martin Gershing is still on his father’s plantation, and they are well-acquainted with the Vines.”

“They are neighbors,” Gaston said with a grin.

“Well,” I sighed. “We may assume she is somewhat safe. Has her father been told?”

“Theodore is there now,” he said with a look that conveyed his relief he was not the one bearing those tidings.

“There is one that will nearly miss her as much as her father,” I said.

Gaston regarded me sharply.

I grinned. “Agnes.” I told him of my conversation with her.

He shook his head. “The Brisket’s Horse bolted.”

“Oui, though, judging by the sound management of her escape, she may have been planning this for a time.”

“Oui,” he sighed. “We will never know. I doubt we will ever see her again.” He shrugged. “As for sailing, though, I encountered Striker today. He wished to know if you could sail two days hence.”

“So soon?”

He nodded. “I will purchase bedding for our table.”

“Ah, good, and a large piece of canvas to cover it so we may have privacy,” I added.

“Good.” He smiled.

“So will I be ready to sail? I cannot see why I cannot lie around on a ship.”

“It will depend,” he said seriously.

“On what?” I asked.

“On whether I have bound you to bed and coated you with chocolate or not.”

I marveled at his lack of expression.

“You tease me,” I gasped.

He finally grinned.

“You mock me,” I added.

He kissed me gently. “I love you. Now drink this, and go to sleep.”

The next day, Gaston went about purchasing the few things we would need to rove, and insuring that Agnes had all she needed to live in our absence. He established a house account with Theodore, and instructed him to order whatever art supplies she might request.

I was tasked with writing my father and all others I had received letters from – with the exception of Alonso, of course. I made short work of writing Rucker and Sarah, as it would be more important for me to respond in detail to the letters they would send after receiving my longer missive from September. I thought it likely their replies to those other letters would arrive in January. In Sarah’s letter, I did express my concern over Shane’s anger, and warned her to be careful. I considered asking her if she was unhappy as a woman, but I quickly realized that posing the question was more of an undertaking than I had time or spirit for.

As for my father, I told him I understood his desire that I marry and produce an heir, and that I would be happy to consider any prospect he might send. The words, once written, did not sit well with me, but I knew not what else I could say if we were to continue the ruse of compliance.

So to amuse myself, I wrote another letter to him in which I spoke my mind on the matter. I immediately burned it, but I felt the better for committing the words to paper and thus releasing them from where they smoldered in my heart.

Gaston returned that evening with Striker, Pete, and to my pleasant surprise, Pierrot. The last I had seen the French captain had been in Doucette’s torture chamber. I could vividly recall him pinning Doucette to the wall by his throat. Today, the man seemed as jovial as he had when first I met him. His expressive face contorted into a comical grimace at the sight of me.

“My friend, you look horrible,” he said in French.

I grinned. “You look well.”

“I feel well,” he nodded in agreement with a thoughtful mien, as if it were a matter of great reflection.

Gaston helped me sit, and then joined me on the bed. The others sat every which way in chairs. Pete hugged the back of his; Striker sprawled, with his leg crossed and his buttocks and shoulders only barely connected with the wood beneath him; Pierrot sat on his sideways, so that he could rest his left arm on the back. They all looked far more comfortable than I felt. And despite the casualness of their seats, I felt we were up before a tribunal. Gaston appeared very somber, and had barely spoken to me in greeting. I took his hand. He squeezed mine in return.

“I feel this is not exactly a social visit,” I said in English.

Pete sighed. Striker nodded reluctantly. Pierrot shrugged.

The Frenchman smiled when he spoke, and though his English was rough, it was understandable. “I hear you have taken good care of him.”

“I have done my best,” I said. “I hear there is a great deal of gossip about us among the French, about what occurred with Doucette.”

“Oui, oui,” Pierrot sighed. “It is sad. I am to blame, as much as anyone.”

“For?” I asked.

“The damn man’s wounds.” He shrugged.

Gaston spoke quickly in French. “Doucette never recovered. He is an imbecile now.”

Pierrot nodded sadly. “I hit him,” he nodded and shrugged again,

“many times.”

“Damn,” I sighed. That robbed us of all hope of a meaningful revenge.

“So Île de la Tortue lost its beloved physician, and the Brethren are angry,” I said. “And we are blamed. I mean no offense, but how is it that you are not?”

Pierrot sighed heavily. “My… part was not a thing I told in the taverns. I am sorry for that. But even those who stood there with us ask why. And I could not answer them. I could not say why Doucette did as he did. I could not say why Gaston hates whips. All I could say is that Gaston is mad. They understand that he is mad. Many hate him anyway. They feel he is like a wild dog that should be shot before he bites. It was best to let it lie. And even those who saw events that day can no longer see truth from fancy. I tell people what happened and they do not believe me. They say I lie to protect Gaston. And then we come here. And I hear Savant’s men talking of Gaston. They wish to seek him here, to make him pay for Doucette. And then the matter of the other morning.” He gave another eloquent shrug.

“Oh bloody Hell,” I said. “I am thankful we have not been in town long. So what should be done? Apparently we should not sail.”

Striker shook his head. “It is not just this time, Will. You will not be welcome the next time, either. In time, you may not be welcome on Jamaica.”

So we could not hide from it. “So we must combat this.”

And then I knew I had fought battles like it dozens of times before.

I had been paid to do so. I simply needed to view the matter from the proper perspective. I pushed the pain away and with relief realized I might have slept long enough, as the pain did indeed recede enough for me to think clearly.

“It will not be like it was when we careened,” Striker was saying.

“Nay, it will not,” I said confidently. “This does not involve superstition. This is a war that can be won, but there will be casualties.”

They were all regarding me quizzically, even Gaston.

“Gentlemen, I once did this to earn my keep.” I spoke slowly, thinking over each sentence before I uttered it. “This is no different from any noble court. Public opinion, the mob, as it were, will rule the day.

One must sway them. In many situations, such as ours, it cannot be done with truth. The truth is meaningless. There is now one story being spread that is partial truth and partial lie. We must circulate another one, in such a way that all question the first. It is much as Cudro did when Gaston was accused of witchcraft, by telling all that Michaels might have been a witch. You saw how quickly that divided them.

And then, Gaston gave them a moment of pageantry that corrected the matter, in that he gave them a truth they could see. The lie was based upon a thing intangible, witchcraft, which cannot be proven or disproved. Gaston gave them his madness and a partial reason for it, which he showed them and thus stirred their hearts. People will believe a thing seen over a thing heard.”

I had been speaking in English, and Pierrot looked greatly confused, as his English was not sufficient despite the pedestrian speed of my delivery. Gaston was frowning, but he translated my words to French, which only left Pierrot looking as confused as Pete and Striker.

“What the Hell are you talking about?” Striker finally said.

I sighed and continued. “I was not playing a proper game of chess when Gaston was accused of witchcraft, and I was unsure of the board, as it were, and the pieces. And, he was accused of a thing that there is no way to prove or disprove. Thus we were able to defeat it with truth.

This matter we now face is different. We must defeat it with a lie.

“In this matter, we have the following facts from the public perspective: Doucette is much beloved, Gaston is mad, Gaston arrived on Tortuga, and something happened involving Doucette and Gaston that left Doucette maimed. We all know the truth. The lie has been allowed to spread because we did not wish to share the truth, as it was inconvenient and compromising, and that is often the way of it. But it is no matter. What we must do is cobble together another half-truth and spread that amongst them, so that doubt is sown. And then, we must have a scapegoat, much as poor Michaels ended up being. Truly, I have orchestrated the like before.”

“We blame someone else for what happened to Doucette?” Pierrot asked when Gaston finished translating for him.

“Nay, non,” I said quickly. “Someone must be blamed for spreading the lie.”

“Which lie?” Striker asked with a little annoyance. “You said we would have one too.”

I sighed again. Though I knew what must be done, I thought it likely explaining it would make my head ache anew.

“The first lie,” I said patiently, “the one we wish to defeat. Someone must be its champion.”

“Do you think someone will volunteer?” Striker asked with amusement.

I shrugged stiffly. “Sometimes they do, or they are obvious. And sometimes they must be chosen. Either way, they will become the font of it, and we will challenge it, and to resolve the matter I will duel with them. The winner is the champion of truth, by right of the Gods, or God.

That is the purpose behind duels. But first, we must choose our lie and let it muddy the waters.”

“You are saying you will kill someone, or die trying, to lay this to rest?” Striker asked.

I frowned at him. “They are threatening my matelot’s life, and our existence here. You are damn right I will kill someone.”

“Non,” Gaston said. “I will kill him.”

I did not like the sound of that. His gaze was quite stern, though. I wished to protest that I knew far more of the matter of dueling than he did, but it was his battle by all rights, and I knew him to be competent. I shrugged painfully.

Meanwhile, the others were chuckling.

“If it’s to be done soon, I feel that’s more likely,” Striker said with amusement. “Tell us what to do before we get to dueling, Will.”

Pierrot smiled. “I will help select a scapegoat.”

“Actually, I do not feel that is necessary,” I said sadly. “I feel in this instance we might have a volunteer.”

“Hastings is not involved, yet.” Striker said.

“Nay, though I fear we will still be forced to deal with him in time,” I sighed. “Nay, our scapegoat is Tom Eaton.”

“Who?” Pierrot asked.

Striker and Pete grinned appreciatively. Gaston regarded me with surprise.

“He is the young man who was with us at Doucette’s,” I said. “All who sailed with us know that he betrayed Gaston and me, in that he took Doucette’s side against us. Striker did not let him return with us.

In effect, he was marooned on Île de la Tortue, and therefore has reason to dislike us. Even though he has sailed here on the Belle Mer, the French cannot really know him. He despised the concept of matelotage, and he spoke no French, and he is a very handsome lad. And he is damn arrogant. And we have already assumed him to be the progenitor of the tales.”

I sighed and added, “I intended to either duel with him or beat him soundly over the matter, anyway. So, for all intents, he is already a dead man.”