Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (44 page)

We found Pete, Cudro, Julio, Davey, Liam, and Otter with the new men. Our friends were pleased to see us. As was his wont, Pete embraced us so that our ribs creaked. To my amusement, Cudro did likewise.

Liam appeared ready to do the same, but after seeing me grunt in Cudro’s arms, he stopped and grinned. “Ya be worn out now. I’ll leave ya be. Na’ that I could be ’armin’ ya much.”

I embraced him anyway.

I looked over the assembled men. They were standing about in loose clumps, among which Pete and Julio had been circulating. Whatever training they had been about had stopped at our appearance, as the trainees seemed disinclined to continue when our friends came to greet us. They all looked much as the bondsmen had on the King’s Hope: a mix of boys and men, some browned by the sun, some pale, some in buccaneer garb or canvas, others still in wool. There were twenty-six of them.

I spoke to Cudro quietly. “I believe you mentioned twenty-nine in need of training when we sailed here.”

He grunted. “Not seasoned. One died, one’s sick. And the third found a matelot.” He shrugged at this last.

“Oh, well, good for him. So what do we have here? Striker said some feel they know a thing or two.”

Cudro snorted and then chuckled. “Aye, we’ll give you two that lot.

They fancy themselves to be gentle-born.”

He gestured without actually pointing, and I let my gaze drift to the men in question. They stood somewhat apart from the others. There were five of them, and they appeared rather better dressed than the rest of the lot, and young. All were armed. They minded me of Tom, Dickey and Harry when first I saw them; though, none of these boys radiated Harry’s good-natured innocence, or Dickey’s effeminacy. In the way a few of them stood and spoke to one another, I saw Tom’s arrogance, though.

“Non,” I told Cudro. “They must learn they are no different than the others. Sending them off with us will just reinforce their assumption of superiority.”

“Ah,” he said, and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I had not viewed it so, but I see your point. I was just thinking to afflict you with the troublemakers.”

“They be right full o’ themselves,” Liam added quietly. “But ya be right. Some ’ave heard ya be a Lord.”

I swore.

Liam shrugged. “Na’ from me. An’,” he stepped closer and lowered his voice, “they been curious ’bout yur matelot, an’ not in a nice way.”

“All the more reason to keep them from us, then,” I sighed.

Gaston shrugged.

“What were you all about before we arrived?” I asked.

“Fightin’In The Mornin’. Muskets After Noon,” Pete said around a piece of fruit.

I looked to the sky. “Is it not noon?”

“Fightin’Not…” Pete trailed off in an indecipherable grumble, and gestured angrily with the fruit.

“The fighting instruction is not going well,” Julio said.

“Some are military men, and some are tavern fighters,” Cudro sighed. “But most have never killed a man. And we can’t give them weapons to practice with; they would kill each other by accident. So we’re trying to teach them to fight each other with their fists. Gaston could show them a thing or two, but… well, he may not be the best teacher for them. And they don’t think they need to learn to fight. They think they just need to learn to shoot a musket. The army ones know nothing else. We tell them that in taking a ship or a town, they’ll be fighting hand to hand, but it means nothing to them. Or they think they know how well enough. So they play at this and learn nothing.”

I thought of Striker’s words on men in battle. “They are not desperate.” And then I thought of all the boys I had seen in practice yards. “They have no need at the moment. There is no danger, and they do not wish to hurt their opponents.”

“Aye,” Cudro rumbled. “So we have been having them wrestle one another. We thought they might at least be competitive. And some are, and they possess a talent for it; but then there are those who aren’t, and they just let the other man run them down.”

Gaston nudged me, and I looked around and found we had been approached by the group of supposed gentlemen. When my eye fell upon them, a sallow youth with a beak for a nose stepped forward from their number and removed his feathered hat with a flourish.

“Excuse me, good sir,” he addressed me. “I have heard it said that you are a Lord.”

“People say the damndest things,” I drawled loudly enough to be heard by the others. “I have heard that Pete here is a Greek God of old.

And there are some who claim that my matelot is sane.”

Gaston laughed and Pete spit his fruit.

Liam regarded Gaston with surprise. “Do tell?”

“Aye,” I added. “And I have even heard some say that Liam here is a man of quiet discretion.”

“Ya been listenin’ ta fools,” Liam grinned, but there was something in his eyes that made me regret my jest.

I decided I should speak with him later.

I turned back to the sallow and beaked young man. He was smiling with feigned good nature.

“So you say it is not true?” he asked.

“I can do little about the circumstances of my birth,” I said with a shrug, “but here I am no different than any other. I am one of the Brethren of the Coast, as presumably you have also chosen to become.”

“I am here to kill Spaniards for gold, sir,” the youth said proudly.

All that we had discussed while sailing here was encompassed in those words. He felt no kinship to the men around him. If all of the newcomers thought as he did, the Brethren would cease to exist inside a few years.

“Nay, you are here,” I pointed at the sand between us, “to learn how to kill Spaniards as a member of the Brethren of the Coast; because the Brethren are the ones who will sail against the Main this spring. And unless our quartermaster feels you are competent, you will not sail on the Virgin Queen with us.”

His smile did not desert him. “I am well-versed in combat, sir, I assure you. I do not see where any here, except perhaps another gentleman, might be able to judge my competence with a blade.”

I drew my rapier. He stepped back in surprise. I grinned and tossed my weapon hilt-first to Pete. The Golden One caught it and grinned around another bite of fruit.

Pete stepped forward, only to pause and consider the juicy object of his repast. He glared at the youth. “Ya Get Sand On It Ya Die.”

The sallow youth looked at me questioningly. “What did he say?”

“Oh, you probably will not die.” I shrugged.

The trainees and our cabal formed a loose circle around the combatants. Pete dropped into en garde, holding his fruit high in his left hand. The sallow youth drew his blade with annoyance.

Pete removed the boy’s feathered hat on the first rush, slashed his brocade jerkin on the second, and marked him on his cheek on the third. Sadly, the boy seemed to possess good form; he simply was no match for the Golden One in speed or aggression.

The youth threw his weapon down and backed away. “You are… an excellent combatant, sir,” he stammered.

“Thank Ya.” Pete shrugged and took the last bite of his fruit. He tossed the pit away and then my blade back to me. “Now We See Iffn’Ya Ca nFight. ’Cause Ya Na’ Be Duelin’Spaniards.”

At which point Pete chased the lad down and trounced him soundly, so that many winced in sympathy. The boy had no knack or training for pugilism, apparently. Not that it would have mattered a great deal: Pete had longer and stronger arms, and a determination to achieve his goal that few could match. He left the youth bloodied, and Gaston was moved to go and set the lad’s beak straight.

“He Canna’ Fight Good Enough Ta Take AShip,” Pete roared at the rest of them. “Ya Need Learnin’.”

The rest of the trainees appeared somewhat cowed. The sallow youth’s friends appeared to want to slink away into the forest. I did not blame them.

“Perhaps I should let Pete trounce the lot of them,” Cudro said.

“That might make them want to fight.”

“It might make them wish to desert,” I said. “And I feel, though I know not how it will be achieved, that we must endeavor to bring them together as a fighting force, rather than pit them against one another.”

He gave an agreeable grunt and a nod.

“Perhaps we should move on to musket practice,” I said.

“Aye,” Liam sighed.

I went to join my matelot and the youth. The poor boy was as battered as I had been after the tavern. I grimaced in sympathy. Much of the wind was out of his sails, as he was allowing Gaston to tend him readily enough.

“How are you called?” I asked.

He regarded me and considered his words. Perhaps there was hope for him.

“Ash,” he finally muttered.

“Among the Brethren, one does not often inquire of another’s origins: it is considered rude. So if you do not wish to answer, tell me so. But I am driven to inquire how you came to be here. And your age.”

“May I ask the same of you?” he asked with a trace of challenge.

I shrugged acquiescence.

“I have eighteen years,” Ash said. “My father is a planter on Barbados. We came to that island when I was ten years of age. I am the third son. I am to go to England and study the law. It is not a thing I wish to do.”

I smiled. “Well, perhaps you are far more sensible than I first thought. It takes a certain type of man to apply himself to law, and in general I find that type of man disagreeable; though, I thankfully have been surprised to find one who did not meet my expectations of a barrister in the least. But he is only one man among many of that profession. The rest I have met I would gladly run through.”

“As for me,” I continued, “I am twenty-seven years old. I first left my father’s home at sixteen; I then traveled most of Christendom. When I returned to my father’s house, he knew not what to make of me, and sent me here to establish a plantation in order to be rid of me for a time.”

“Are you as good as they say?” he asked.

“Well, that would depend upon the endeavor in question.” I grinned.

Gaston chuckled.

Ash’s gaze darted between us, and he appeared uncomfortable.

“Dueling,” he said quickly.

“Ah, well, that would depend on how good they say I am, but I will own that I am very well-versed indeed.”

I wished to spar with you,” he said sadly. “And make your acquaintance on the voyage here, but…” His gaze went to Gaston and he colored a little with embarrassment.

Gaston ignored him.

“But I was otherwise engaged caring for my matelot. I understand,”

I said. “Well, I might be able to defeat Pete. I trained him, but he is a genius at all forms of combat, and he possesses an uncanny talent for blades. You should not feel unduly inadequate. Pete could truly take any man I have ever fought.”

“I did not think that he could be so talented at such a pursuit,” Ash said with a frown.

“Why, because he is not a gentleman by birth?” I chided.

“Nay, because he is the captain’s paramour; and in my experience, men of that nature never handle blades well.”

Gaston and I exchanged a look and a grin which quickly devolved to laughter.

I finally addressed the boy’s confusion. “Ash, you must never use that term here to describe… Let us say, your interpretation of it in this instance is inaccurate to say the least, from several angles. And to clarify, exactly what type of man are we discussing?”

“Sodomites,” he said solemnly. “The buccaneers seem rife with them, and they are odd in my experience.”

He had indeed led quite the sheltered life. “Did you spend your youth with other planters’ sons practicing with swords and pistols and chasing the eligible young ladies? And did you avoid spending time with your father’s servants and bondsmen? “

“Aye,” he said, as if he wondered what else he could have possibly done.

I settled more comfortably into the sand and explained what a matelot was and why buccaneers had them. I finished with, “So you see, Pete is not a paramour, in that he is not something as trivial as a lover, he is Striker’s partner.”

Ash’s eyes were very wide. “So all here are…? Nay,… all here practice sodomy, whether they favor men or not?”

“They are not forced to, but aye, that is generally the way of it.”

“Will I be expected to…?” he asked with grave concern.

“Nay,” I sighed with a reassuring smile, “but if you are to do well amongst the Brethren, it would behoove you to acquire a matelot, at least for the security of having a man to watch your back in battle, or even in taverns.”

“Many live without one,” Gaston said quietly. “But it is a hard and lonely life.”

Something stirred in my thoughts in the wake of my pronouncement and his. I needed to mull on it, and speak with Liam, and I supposed the Bard and Dickey, as we had not seen them since the duel. But first, I thought we should assist in the training. So we left young Ash to contemplating his future and went to make ourselves useful.

When the sun began to drift to the horizon, all twenty-five men left standing had sore shoulders, my ears rang from the constant din of gunfire, and I had an idea concerning how to train them better. I had added Striker and Cudro to the list of men I needed to speak with. At least all I needed to converse with would presumably be at our cabal’s camp that night.

As we all walked down the beach, I slipped my hand in Gaston’s, and maneuvered us a little away.

“Buccaneers do things in pairs,” I said. “They are all hitched to carts in teams. Though I feel few have a cart as magnificent as ours. We are much like the vast cavalry of an ancient army: teams drawing chariots.

Teams of wolves, goats, dogs, sheep, sometimes mismatched, but in pairs. That is how we move through life and fight.”

He studied me with amusement and curiosity in the golden light of the sunset. It burnished the stubble on his jaw a brilliant red and sparkled on his left earring. I pushed off his kerchief to see his hair in that light. Standing every which way, as it was so wont to do, it looked like flames burning all about his head.

I answered the question dancing in his emerald eyes. “Your hair is very red in this light, like flames.”

He pushed my kerchief off, his hand lingering over the stubble of my hair. “A golden halo again,” he murmured.