Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (35 page)

“I must learn to become the centaur,” he said. “Not to be either Horse or man.”

“As must I,” I said. “And then we must learn to pull as a team.”

He smiled. “I feel we are doing well so far. We have not lost the cart yet, but I feel that is because you stand so very strong when I fall.”

“I have faith that someday you will support me in the same fashion.

You are doing so now. You are allowing me to rest and gather my spirit.”

He snorted disparagingly. “Because you have allowed me to roll about in the mud of the road for days now.”

I laughed, as I could picture it quite clearly: me standing there, stolid in the traces, while he frolicked in a meadow next to the road.

He pulled me into his arms, and I let the tension drain from my soul.

All would be well.

That night, he was something of a centaur, in that the Horse was not running amuck, but the Man was not totally in control, either. I felt restored, and was not troubled by whatever he might do. We slipped up to the quarterdeck to join our companions in the moonlight as we had almost every night since sailing.

“We might see Cow Island tomorrow,” the Bard said quietly as we joined them.

“That is lovely to hear,” I said.

“It would be good if the two of you could help us with a task,” Cudro rumbled. “But it can wait until after you’ve run about a bit, as Striker says you’ll be doing.”

“What task?” I asked.

“Teaching men to fight and shoot,” he said with a snort.

“There be too many of ’em,” Liam said. “We be needin’ ta conduct drills, like we’re the damn army.”

“So many of the men have not roved before?” I asked.

“Some of them don’t even have proper weapons,” Cudro added.

“They’re all bondsmen or sailors, not buccaneers.”

“Well, with a few exceptions, did not all buccaneers start in the same fashion?” I asked.

“Aye,” Cudro said. “But a few at a time. And they ran to the Haiti first, and got taken in by men who would train them. A hunting party might have had a new man every month or so. Now, these fools don’t know where the Haiti is. They hear tell that the buccaneers are getting rich in Port Royal, and so they run here.”

“Not all of us went to the Haiti first,” Striker said. “But Cudro is correct. When Pete and I arrived in Port Royal ten years ago, there were more veterans than recruits.”

“An’ when we arrived afore that, afore they ’ad even named Port Royal proper,” Liam said, “those o’ us that wanted to make a good go o’ it went ta the Haiti ta learn ’ow ta hunt and rove proper. Then we came back and taught those that stayed. These new ones ’aven’t even seasoned. A good number o’ ’em are goin’ ta sicken on Cow Island, and then we’ll likely be a pitchin’ bodies o’er the side all the way ta the rendevous with Morgan.”

“There is that.” Striker sighed. “The matter is that there are more new men arriving in the West Indies every week, and many think they’ll join us and become rich. Five years ago, being a buccaneer was a thing only the desperate men wished to escape to. Most men that ran wanted to become free men on a colony and have land. Now they all wish to be pirates. It’ll only get worse.”

“Until the Crown stops granting marques and we do become pirates,” the Bard drawled with a grin.

“Would you want to go on account?” Striker asked him.

“Nay,” the Bard said with a shrug. “If we can’t sail against the Spanish, there’s more money to be made off the merchants in Port Royal by carrying cargo for them. Hell, that may even be true now.”

“Aye, I know,” Striker sighed. “I don’t wish to become a damn planter, but I could see having a small fleet of merchant vessels. In time, there’ll be great money to be made on account, though, taking ships from all those merchantmen.” He grinned.

All their words reminded me of a thing my matelot had said when he first explained why some were buccaneers and others were not. I looked to Gaston, who sat with one leg around my back and another across my lap. He was studying the stars. He felt my gaze, though, and met it with sad amusement.

“The buccaneers are dying out,” I said quietly.

“Aye,” Cudro snapped.

“Another ten years, an’ ya won’t be able ta find a man who can make boucan,” Liam spat. “They na’ be understandin’ the Way o’ the Coast.

Some o’ them ain’t even willin’ to learn. They see no need o’ it.”

“They seem to take to the articles well enough,” Striker said. “But aye, they think like the soldiers, farmers, and bondsmen they were.”

I thought of meeting Ingram in the cabin the other day, and his un-buccaneer awe at my title. He had been with veteran Brethren, though.

“Do you feel they will not learn in time?”

“Too many of them,” Cudro said. “If we could assign each of them to an experienced man then they could be taught. But nay, they flock together and hold themselves separate from those who could teach them. And the Brethren don’t know what to do with so many. It used to be that a new man would arrive and often get taken on as a matelot by someone who had lost his man to misfortune. Or maybe a pair would arrive together and be taken in by a larger party. Now they arrive in groups.”

“And there is no chance for men to bond,” I said. “I see. Let me guess, one of the Ways of the Coast they do not understand is matelotage.”

There were chuckles all around.

“Aye,” Cudro sighed. “They understand buggery well enough, but the idea of pairing with one man is foreign to them.”

“They be thinkin’ that matelots means all the Brethren, and they speak o’ each ot’er as mateys,” Liam scoffed.

“How many?” I asked.

“Thirty-six who have never roved or raided,” Cudro said. “Seven of them are among the Brethren and not of concern, but twenty-nine of them keep to themselves.”

“Morgan is to blame,” Striker said. “He wants an army for raiding, and he has sent men about to all of the colonies and offered the promise of riches to any who will sail with us.”

“Ah, bloody Hell,” I sighed.

“I would not be disparaging the admiral,” the Bard teased. “They think he’s a good man.”

“So we are truly at the twilight of an era perhaps…” I knew why Gaston and I were about this business, but I wondered what motivated the others: habit alone? “Do any of you feel there are truly riches to be had, or do you merely wish not to be planters?”

“I don’t wish to live on land,” the Bard said, “and this has been lucrative. But things change, and I don’t feel the need for adventure as I used to.” He slipped his arm around Dickey, and the young man smiled.

“I know nothing else,” Cudro said thoughtfully.

“I would be a planter,” Julio said. “But I am a maroon.”

“You are receiving a grant of land, are you not?” I asked. “Though, it is not arable…”

“Aye, Mister Theodore said I could even apply for a grant of land to plant, as long as I am never seen. If we do decide to stay on land, Davey will need to conduct our business.”

I swore and Julio shrugged.

“I did na’ mind livin’ ashore these last months,” Davey said with a surprisingly thoughtful frown. “’Cept Julio won’t be wanted an’… I don’t know nuthin’ else either.”

“This be a good life!” Liam said defiantly at no one in particular.

Otter rubbed his back and studied the sea.

“You need not be here,” the Bard teased and poked my arm.

I grinned. “I am here because I do not wish to be a planter, and my matelot wishes to kill people and they had best be Spaniards.”

Gaston laughed and embraced me.

“Those would be my sentiments,” Striker said with a chuckle.

Pete snorted. “Naw. Want Ta Kill Men, Na Spanyards Tho.

Just Best Be Spanyards.”

“What men do wish to kill?” I asked.

“Fat Ones. Fat Merchant Bastards An Nobles. Men Who Kiss Each Other’s Arse, An Then Stab Some Poor Man.”

I smiled. “Ah, you want to kill wolves. I have no fondness for them, either.”

“Actually he wishes to fleece them,” Striker said with a grin. “And if they should get flayed while he’s at it, he won’t cry over it.”

Pete chuckled.

Everyone now seemed to be in the clutches of contemplation. I pondered on wolves and sheep yet again. I no longer viewed the men around me in that manner. They were neither wolves nor sheep. Those classifications belonged to the Old World and those who would emulate it. The Brethren stood beyond it, or at least they had for a time. I made quiet note of this to my matelot in French.

He nuzzled my ear and sighed. “Perhaps we are the dogs the Spanish call us.”

“We have teeth and hunt in packs?”

“Oui,” he said, “and alone in the wild, we are as formidable as any pack of wolves, but around men we can be made to heel and fetch.”

“Oui, sadly, I feel that is an accurate assessment,” I sighed.

“You and I are still centaurs,” he whispered seductively. “We are like no others.”

I turned my head to him, and he kissed me deeply.

“Are there no others?” I teased against his lips when he released me.

“Oui,” he said, “but I do not know them. For me, there is only you.”

“Good God, there they go again,” the Bard drawled.

There were chuckles all around. I sighed into Gaston’s mouth and presented the lot of them with my extended middle finger.

We arrived at Cow Island late in the afternoon of the next day. It is a small island hanging off the southwest coast of Hispaniola, much as Tortuga hangs off the north. It is a good deal larger than Tortuga, though. Its coast presented enough breadth that if I had not been informed it was the island we sought, I would have thought it Hispaniola herself.

We carefully skirted a reef as we approached from the west, the Bard lecturing Dickey all the while about how the reef was not properly marked on any of the charts. This was apparently good, in that it kept all but the experienced of the buccaneer pilots away from the place.

Though our ships in the bay behind the reef could obviously be seen with ease by any vessel passing close to the island from the west, they could not easily be approached, especially not within cannon range, unless the interlopers knew the island well. And if the guests approached from the east, the hillocks on the island would hide our ships, and our sentries upon those hills would see any impending trouble before it saw us.

The bay in which we anchored was good-sized and tucked away around the lee of the island. It bordered on a pleasant sandy beach, with a broad meadow behind it containing a freshwater lake. The island immediately lived up to its name, in that I could see a herd of grazing cattle as we prepared to go ashore. The swine we had stolen last summer had been large and unruly beasts, yet they had still maintained the vestiges of domestication and been accustomed to living in pens. These cattle I now gazed upon were great wild things with huge sweeping horns and a deer’s fear of men. As I watched, the lead cow called to the others, all fat with calf, and led them up the hillside and inland. The bull, a magnificent thing I would not want to face with my ineptitude at reloading, pranced about and snorted – as defensive males of many kinds are wont to do – and finally followed his herd.

We prepared to disembark our restless men. Once all were ashore, decisions would be made as to who would man the sentry posts, command the hunting parties, and orchestrate the making of boucan, and what order the French ships would careen in. Since we had nearly three hundred men among the three vessels, any of these laborious endeavors was assured a quick completion.

Gaston and I were not to be part of any of it for a time, though.

Striker unlocked the manacles and we stowed them in my bag in case we had need of them. We left the key behind. Then, with all of our weapons and our bags, we slipped over the side with the first boat ashore. By the time the French began to land, Gaston was leading me east, away from the sinking sun, as fast as my still-healing body could manage.

He went straight in and then angled us north, until at last he slipped over the steep embankment and down to the water. We traveled beneath the low cliff for a time, until he found a cove to his liking, with a small cave at its back. Apparently the hilly portions of the island’s shore were oft riddled with holes hollowed by the surf and wind, just as Jamaica’s was. Once we stopped, I waded into the lightly-lapping surf to soak my battered feet.

“If we could hunt, we could kill a cow and make you boots,” Gaston said as he joined me.

He had not spoken as we traveled, and now appeared invigorated and happy.

“Do you know some method of tanning leather inside a day?” I asked. “Much less fashioning a boot?”

“Non, hide boots, from the skin of their legs. You strip them off the cow intact, and then stick your foot in them and bind them at top and bottom. They will protect your feet and legs for a time.”

I grimaced. “Do you turn the skin inside out first?”

“Non.” He grinned. “The hide side is tougher. You want it outside.”

“I will take your word on that. And why can we not hunt?”

He shook his head. “We cannot risk the sound of gunfire if we are being sought. It is a shame. Here we are with cattle and we cannot follow tradition and eat marrow to break the fast. Have you had marrow before?”

“Non,” I said.

“It is somewhat like warm butter. Among the Brethren it is prized.”

Fully armed, with musket in one hand, he was standing there watching the retreating water suck the sand around his ankles with boyish intensity, and then hopping to the side to observe the indentations left behind. It was good to see him at such ease. I did not feel I should comment on it, lest it break the spell of happiness.

“So we shall have no fire this night?” I asked.

“Non.” He turned to frown at the slight cave behind us. “We could hide it somewhat, but if we have been followed they would look for it, or run along the edge up above and smell for it. Non, we shall not have one. We are well away from any bog, and the sea breeze should keep the insects away.”

I shrugged. There would not be much of a moon, but I doubted we would need light for what I imagined we would soon be about.

As I had anticipated, he was upon me as soon as we had set our weapons aside and shared some of our water. I was, of course, not opposed to this in the least. We were quickly naked, with me lying on soft dry sand and him astride me. His mouth and fingers were working in deft concert to deprive me of all thought, but I clung steadfastly to a thing I had not been able to ask while we were with so many others these last days. I thrust a hand between us to gently cup his flaccid member. I was not surprised that it was so; however, I wished to know why.