Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (70 page)

“Why is it of import?” I asked.

“It may well be my birthday,” Gaston said at last. “I was born the fifth of March, Gregorian,” he emphasized. “If it is that day, I am twenty-eight years of age. You will likewise be twenty-eight years in June, will you not?”

I was surprised and pleased he had remembered. I surely had not remembered when he was born. I silently cursed my stupidity; I should have brought some small gift to surprise him.

“Oui,” I said. “Do you find great significance in the day? I have never… I have chosen to remark upon it if it occurred to me, and on occasion I have been given fêtes by those I knew, but some years it has gone wholly unnoted.”

“I have never had a fête,” he said wistfully.

“Then I am truly sorry I am such a fool that I did not remember the day of it, so that I could prepare something.”

He shook his head. “This is enough. Last year, I received a fine present shortly after my birthday: you. And for your birthday, we arrived safely home after the wreck of the galleon.”

“Ah, that I do remember. And oui, I have been here for a year now, have I not? I mused upon that as we sailed, that shortly it would be a year since my coming: a year since I met you.”

He smiled. “I hope the next is as fine as this last.”

“Oui, it has been the best of my life,” I said.

“Oui, and mine.” He frowned and then smiled widely. “You need never give me another gift.”

“Nor you,” I said solemnly.

“Non,” he said quickly. “I am no gift. Non, let us implore the Gods that your birthday gift should be as it was last year, and delivered whenever the need for it arises.”

I laughed.

Another week passed before we were able to locate the rest of our fleet. The ships without provisions had taken to enslaving the local Indian fishermen into fishing and hunting turtles for them. Our crew and the French ate beef and watched. Toward the end of March, the last expected vessel finally located us: a small sloop with only fifty men, yet Morgan had chosen to wait for them. It was a good thing the natives had an abundant supply of turtles and fish.

The Mayflower was brought to anchor near a cay with a large sandy beach, and soon a boat was dispatched around to the other vessels with an invitation for the captains and officers to join Morgan ashore for a private party. Striker decided I should accompany Cudro, the Bard, and himself. Gaston was relieved not to have to attend.

Pete expressed great glee that he was no longer matelot to the captain. Those of the crew that heard him seemed amused at this. I knew not whether to blame their lack of concern to Striker’s stubborn refusal to admit or act as if it were true, or Liam’s constant gossiping that they would soon be mended, or the more experienced men’s wisdom that to sunder such a pair would not be as easy as Pete made it out to be. For whatever reason, the supposed breach between Striker and Pete had not caused nearly the consternation all had thought it would.

Cudro, Striker, the Bard, and I rowed ashore that evening. There were twenty-five men in attendance: the captains of the seven vessels, their quartermasters, some of their masters of sail, Morgan, and a few others such as myself. Bradley was unsure whether he was pleased to see us. Hastings watched us with the guarded mien of sardonic amusement he habitually wore. Morgan greeted us warmly. I was amused to note that he was wearing considerably less than he did in Port Royal, though he was still not shorn, hatless, or bootless.

Once the greetings had been made, Morgan took a place close to the fire. “Gentlemen, it does my heart good to see so many familiar faces here tonight. And to those of you I do not know, I welcome you with open arms. Thank you. Thank you one and all for joining us on this grand mission. Gentlemen, we have been commissioned by the Governor of Jamaica to protect the interests of England and our King.”

I glanced at Striker and he rolled his eyes.

“We are here on Spanish shores,” Morgan continued, “to obtain vital information as to any nefarious scheme Spain may possess against our fair island. And we are here to strike terror into the Spanish heart and tell them that the Brethren will always be a force to be reckoned with.”

“We be here to take their gold,” someone said from across the fire.

This brought cheers.

Morgan turned to point at the man with a grin. “Aye! And we are here to take their gold!”

Pierrot snorted as the laughter died down. “Morgan, you are causing me great worry. Have you spent so much time with men of politics that you forgot the Brethren sail for a higher power than a King?”

This engendered laughter.

“Never.” Morgan shrugged unabashedly. “However, one goal does suit the other, and if we say we are here in Jamaica’s interests, it allows some heads to lie upon their pillows untroubled. And if they have pleasant dreams they will not nose about in things they should not concern themselves with.”

“What things?” someone asked.

Morgan pointed at the captains in turn. “All of you were issued letters of marque allowing for actions against the Spanish at sea, at England’s behest, in exchange for the Crown’s share. Which is bigger than any man who does not board a vessel has a right to, even a King.”

There was general applause.

“However, it says nothing of actions against the Spanish on land,”

he added.

The men chuckled.

“It neither forbids nor condones, and of the utmost importance, it does not stipulate a share for the Crown if these things are to take place. Yet, yet,” he waved off the applause, “we are not at war with the Spanish, according to our King. Therefore, it must be justified in some fashion.”

“So we are here to divine Spanish intentions towards Jamaica,”

Bradley said.

Morgan raised his hands heavenward and gave another shrug. “And find food, since we have been so unfortunate as to reach these cays without any.”

This brought more laughter.

“So, without further ado, let us determine how we will divide the…

food,” he grinned, “and anything else of value that may fall into our hands whilst we are questioning the Spanish as to their intentions.”

A great deal of discussion ensued. I learned that since first officers were not de rigueur for buccaneer vessels, I was to be considered a bo’sun. That entitled me to one extra share, whereas Cudro, being quartermaster, and the Bard, being the master of sail, both received two extra shares. I did not complain, as I felt they truly did more than I. Captains were to receive eight shares for their vessels and leadership.

This was unsavory to Striker, Cudro, and me, as our ship had six owners. However, since all save Pete and Gaston held other posts that were to be compensated above and beyond one share per man, we decided we would distribute the proceeds in our own manner once they had been allotted to us.

Then the amounts were decided for events of calamity and fortune, with the customary compensations for loss of limb or eye, and boons to be awarded for acts of valor or heroism. Once this was completed, it was copied down for each captain, so they could return to their ships and put the matter to a vote. If the crews did not accept it, then we would be back to discussing it again on the morrow.

Once this was completed, Morgan handed a bottle to Bradley and returned to the fire. “Now, gentlemen, let us discuss our target.”

I was cynical of the wisdom of this. We had been passing several bottles during the prior heated discussion, and I could not see how a band of drunken men were the best arbiters of the fate of all the rest.

Though I supposed this is how all military matters are initiated; with the lineage and rank of those doing the drinking being the only thing separating a war from a battle. And I consoled myself that, in this instance, the men would have a vote on it when all were sober in the morn. I hoped that would effectively veto any lunacy concocted by men with heads full of rum whose debts could not possibly be paid without a juicy plum of a prize.

A map of Cuba was produced and put on the barrel which one of the surgeons had used as a desk for copying the articles. Several men took torches from the fire and held them overhead as we all gathered about to peruse the battered paper. I quickly concluded I could see nothing over other shoulders, and withdrew to allow others the added room. I recalled what I could remember of the island from the maps I had seen as the towns were discussed.

Several ports were mentioned and all dismissed as not being worthy of our time. Someone suggested Saint Jago, which I knew had been the target of Penn and Venable’s doomed attack on Cuba before they decided to capture Jamaica as a consolation prize. This was, of course, known by far more men than me, and many said as much.

Morgan scoffed. “They were fools. We could take it. But gentlemen, I have a far fatter prize in mind. Havana.”

The muttering that had swirled at his mention of being able to take Saint Jago was silenced by his last word. I peered over shoulders to see what I could in the faces illuminated by the torches. All eyes were on him. They thought him mad. I was greatly relieved.

“It would take the guns of the whole damn navy to sail into that port. Have you seen the fortress there, Morgan?” one of the captains said quietly.

“Of course I’ve seen Havana’s fortress, and her harbor,” Morgan said with a calculated degree of annoyance.

I was curious to see how he would mount his attack upon our reason. From what Striker had said, this was a plan he had wished to present for months.

“I am not a fool, nor foolhardy,” Morgan said. “You do not sail into the harbor to take Havana, you anchor up the coast and march on her overland from behind, where the Spanish will least expect it.”

It was an interesting military tactic – or it would be, if we possessed more men. We had perhaps seven hundred; I thought it likely the garrison of this fortress the other man mentioned was twice that. And that would be just one garrison in one fort.

I maneuvered to see specific faces. Striker was scratching his head.

Bradley was regarding Morgan as a man looks upon a beloved drunken uncle who must be prevented from wandering into the street where he might be struck by a carriage. The Bard was appalled. Cudro had withdrawn from the cluster to stand near me and gaze at the stars, with the mien of a man who is not sure whether he has been annoyed into the arms of amusement yet.

I sighed and spoke up. “That might be a very clever tactic indeed, if we were five times our current number.”

Morgan glared in the direction of my voice, but I knew he was blinded by the torchlight and could not see me. As a dissident voice from the shadows often does, my words had their desired effect; and everyone began to speak freely of the madness of his plan.

Our leader was no fool. He retreated gracefully.

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he sighed. “I merely thought of the amount of booty in such a prize and how we could all live out our lives as wealthy men after such a venture.”

“Not in Port Royal,” someone said and all laughed.

When it died down, a voice I did not recognize said quietly, “If we are considering a march inland, I know of a town that has never been sacked. And it be rich too, with cattle and hides.”

“Tell of it, Hadsell,” Morgan said.

“Puerto del Principe. It’s here,” Hadsell said.

“Not far, due north of where we are now,” someone said. “How is it you know of it?”

“I was a slave there,” Hadsell spat.

“Puerto?” Pierrot asked. “Why is it Puerto if it is inland?”

“The Devil if I know,” Hadsell said.

Morgan withdrew from the cluster about the map to pace. “Aye, no one has raided an inland town on Cuba before. We can catch them by surprise.” He stopped and faced everyone again. “I like it. Let us put it to a vote in the morning and sail to…” He returned to the map and pointed. “To this end of the Gulf of Ana Maria. As close as we can get.

We will lay at anchor overnight and march by first light.”

“If this map is correct, it’s at least ten leagues, maybe more,”

Bradley said.

“And there be hills and forest too, I’m sorry to say,” Hadsell added.

Morgan shrugged. “What’s ten leagues to an army of hungry buccaneers?”

I could think of several choice rejoinders, but I kept my mouth firmly closed as they all chuckled and jostled and made plans.

A hogshead of wine was opened as the discussion dissolved into tale-telling of prior conquests. I wished to return to the ship; but Striker was deeply embroiled, and even Cudro and the Bard had been drawn into it again. I supposed I could leave them and find some boat to row back to our ship; but at this late hour and level of rum, I was not sure which of the hulking shadows at anchor the Queen was. I did not wish to make a fool of myself, rowing about in the dark looking for my own vessel like a lost duckling.

I sat and sipped rum and tried to envision what it would be like to storm a town. I had been party to attacking a manor house once. It had been a somewhat comical affair, as we had not been attempting to capture the structure, merely to rout a bevy of individuals hiding inside.

True, we had climbed a wall to slip in; but once there, my compatriots and I had barged about, kicking in doors and apologizing profusely to the rooms’ occupants. I gathered a town would be much like taking a ship, only much much larger: not only in geography, but in levels of complication. In the end, though, it would surely involve kicking in doors and shooting the occupants.

The Moon above beckoned my eye, and the rum swirled my thoughts. I wondered if the Gods lived there, and if sailing there would be akin to storming Heaven. Surely the Gods would put up one Devil of a fight; but then They always do when man attempts to wrest pleasure or riches from life.

At last we were able to leave the meeting. Being the soberest, I did most of the rowing on our way to the Queen. Gaston helped me aboard, though our fine companions needed far more assistance than I in getting their legs over the gunwale. My matelot seemed to care not, as he pulled me into the cabin, and pushing me into the corner, embraced me in a manner that spoke of desperation and unease.