Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (76 page)

We took one another’s measure across the small space, and I found I felt him sincere.

“A woman cannot become pregnant through sodomy,” Gaston said, as if musing more to himself than relating information to us.

I had thought that a woman could not gain a child from sodomy, but I had not been sure.

“Nay?” Pete asked.

“Only the vagina leads to the womb,” Gaston said.

“The squishy hole,” I clarified to Pete. “Most call it the cunt, among other things.”

I wondered why Pete had settled on such a term as the squishy hole.

He did not avoid any other manner of vulgarity.

“Is It Squishy?” Pete asked, as if seeing my thoughts.

“Aye,” I sighed.

Pete looked back to Gaston. “So There Be No Get From It.

That Suits Me Even Better.”

Gaston shrugged.

I thought perhaps it would tidy things, as there would never be question of whose child she might carry. Of course, my sister would never forgive me if she was ever to become aware of my part in this and Pete did indeed decide to pursue the matter. I wondered if she would accept such a thing.

Striker had rolled onto his side and his snoring had ceased. Pete turned to watch him over his shoulder.

I watched Pete, and mused that perhaps he loved Striker enough to break his vow, or overcome whatever wound had forced him to make it.

Perhaps Sarah could win his heart. But then I remembered that she did not truly want to. It cast a pall of doom over the entire endeavor.

Pete at last nudged Striker to the wall and lay beside him on the cot.

Gaston and I curled together on the floor. I took comfort in the smell of flour, the lamplight, and my matelot’s embrace. All things would resolve themselves in some fashion.

We woke to Striker cursing and scrambling from the cot. I was damn pleased Gaston and I had not drunk the night before, as we surely would have shot him in the sudden confusion upon waking if we had.

Striker ended up standing by the door, glaring down at Pete, who stretched languidly and awarded his former matelot a sheepish shrug.

“IFergot,” Pete drawled.

“Are we matelots?” Striker asked.

Pete looked away and adjusted his obviously erect cock through his breeches in a distracted manner, as if he were scratching an itch.

Striker swore and left us.

I looked to Pete. “You know, on occasion you are quite the arse.”

Pete snorted and would not meet my gaze, either. He crawled off the cot and donned his weapons, dug in the food bag for two sweet rolls and strips of boucan, and left us.

I looked to my matelot, and he pulled my hand to his piss-hard member with a jaunty grin.

Sometime later, we found Striker and Pete in the town square. The place was strewn with fewer buccaneers than I expected. Someone had roused them to early industry, and I guessed that someone to be Morgan, who stood by the cistern with a scowl and a flagon of wine.

In the light of day, the place seemed smaller than it had last night.

On one side was the church where all the prisoners were held. The rest of the cobbled square was ringed by public buildings and shops, like all towns of Spanish design. The well and cistern sat in the center.

The buccaneers yet remaining in the square were passing bottles and talking. One corner near the church held a small mound of gold, silver and other valuables. I was dismayed at the size of it, as it was very small indeed.

Nearby, an impromptu dungeon of the Inquisition had been assembled. Two captives were strapedoed there. One man was spread-eagled by cord wrapped around his thumbs and big toes in such a manner that he was suspended horizontally from poles a foot and a half above the ground. Another Spaniard was hung by his thumbs from a pole. In both cases, buccaneers circled about, beating their victims, or the cord that bound them, with sticks. Davey was one of the men engaged in this. Julio was interpreting, relaying the coherent parts of the unfortunates’ protestations and lamentations to the others.

I spied no whips. I looked to my matelot.

His gaze had followed mine to the torture, and he shrugged with a resigned sigh. “There are better ways to cause pain of the intensity needed for confession,” he said.

“Perhaps you should enlighten them,” I said. “It may speed things along, and remove us from this poor town, and allow them to return to their lives all the faster.”

Gaston frowned thoughtfully. “Hippocrates. I will harm none with what I know as a physician. I am not Dominic.”

I winced. “I did not mean to imply…”

He shook his head and gave me a reassuring smile. “Non, I had not thought on the matter before. I have not thought of myself as a physician when I have roved before. And I did not participate in the interrogations then for other reasons. So the question and its answer were new to me. I was telling myself as much as you.”

“I am proud of your decision,” I murmured.

“Thank you. And you?” he asked. “I will not judge you on this, as what you said is true. The sooner we get what we want, the sooner we leave.”

One of the tortured prisoners was howling that he had given all his money to his uncle in Saint Jago in repayment of a debt.

I sighed. “I have killed for money. I will kill to protect you, or myself.

I will kill or torture to bring justice where I see the need. Yet, this fills me with disquiet, and is a thing I must examine.”

The other prisoner was telling them that he saw his neighbor stash his gold in a cistern.

I frowned toward his wailing.

Gaston patted my cheek. His eyes were kind, in opposition to his words. “Will, if we had lost that battle on the plain, and the Brethren had withdrawn, these Spaniards would have subjected our wounded to horrors far beyond this, and the townspeople would have stood about and watched.”

“And cheered, most probably,” I sighed. “Though some would say they would be within their rights, as we came here to attack them and they did naught to us. Non, do not misinterpret me. I do not feel these people are innocents. Yet, some amongst them may be lost sheep. Some may deserve mercy in my eyes, and this is all so arbitrary. If I must kill, I prefer to kill a man I know, not a nameless, faceless enemy. I want a catalog of a man’s sins before I run him through. And I…” I thought of Vincente in Florence. “I have killed at the behest of others and for gold far too often. I find it no longer sits well with me.”

“I am of two minds on the matter,” Gaston frowned. “And I do not know if it is due to my madness or not. The Horse surely takes no issue with killing, but it does not wish to kill because of another’s whim.”

Striker approached. Behind him, I saw Morgan eyeing us.

“Morgan wishes to speak with you. He wants you to talk to the ones in the church,” Striker said.

I shrugged, and we walked over to join Morgan, Bradley, and the Lilly’ s captain, Norman.

We were now closer to the prisoners. The man who claimed to know the whereabouts of his neighbor’s gold had been released and was being trussed so that he could lead men to the treasure.

Morgan’s gaze flicked over the Spaniard and then moved to Gaston and me.

“Striker says you wish for me to speak to those inside,” I said.

“Aye, aye,” Morgan shrugged and leaned close to me to drape a companionable arm over my shoulder and speak quietly. He smelled of garlic and wine.

“Tell me, does the maroon’s translation seem adequate?” he asked.

I had not heard Julio referred to as a maroon in so long it took me several moments to discover who he was speaking of. “It has been my experience that Julio’s Castilian is far better than mine, and his English is better than that of most of the men we sail with. I am quite sure he is more than capable for the task at hand. He is literate in both languages, as well.”

“Truly?” Morgan asked.

“Truly,” I said without expression.

“I did not know the Spaniards taught their bastard savages to read,”

he remarked.

I did little to hide my annoyance. “Julio was taught by a Jesuit priest. He is a fine man and I am honored to call him friend.”

Morgan regarded me with a cunning smile. “What would your father say of such sentiments, I wonder?”

“I give you leave to ask him,” I said flatly.

Morgan chortled appreciatively, and dismissed our exchange with a wave. “Well, since he is as he is, I do not think the Spanish will be kindly disposed toward me if I send a former slave in to speak with them.”

“I agree,” I sighed, and awarded him a smile. “So, what do you wish for me to say to them?”

He gestured at the small mound of treasure. “We are not finding what we need, and this method is proving fruitless as well. I wish to ransom the town. I wish to send a delegation in search of the wealth we require.”

Hadsell, the captain who had suggested Puerto del Principe, was standing nearby, overseeing the interrogation.

“It appears Hadsell overestimated their wealth,” I said.

Morgan sighed, “So it would seem. I feel his leading us here had more to do with revenge than greed, though he was correct about the place being rich with cattle and hides. Little ready money, though.”

“Hatred often walks hand in hand with poverty,” I said.

He shrugged. “Aye, but of greed and revenge, one pays; the other doesn’t. We should have gone for Havana.”

I grinned. “You are mad. I will see what can be done.”

I left him smiling, and Gaston and I went to the church. We left our muskets and pistols with the men guarding the door, and cautiously stepped into the darkness beyond. I could feel the eyes upon me long before my own became accustomed to the dimness.

The church was not a grand cathedral, but it was large and had been built to hold the entire town. Now it did, at least what we had found of the survivors. I could not see most of them, though, for the line of men before us. They were eyeing one another speculatively, no doubt wondering who would be interrogated next.

I held my hands wide and addressed them in my best Castilian. “Be at peace for but a moment my good gentlemen. I am here to inquire as to whether a delegation of prominent citizens can be formed to meet with Admiral Morgan and carry a message for him beyond the town.”

A man stepped forward to ask, “What message?” He was incongruously both sharp-featured and portly. I thought I recognized his voice from the day we captured the place.

“Admiral Morgan wishes to ransom the town.” I said.

This set them all grumbling and cursing, though some sounded optimistic. Beyond the wall of men, I began to hear female voices of curiosity and hope.

While they talked, a priest emerged from behind them and approached us. “Please, my son, tell your admiral we require food and the skills of a surgeon. Our wounded are dying without care, and the children are starving.”

“You have not been given food?” I asked.

“No,” the priest said. “We have been given nothing but a cask of water.”

Apparently possessing sufficient Castilian to follow the request, Gaston asked at my elbow, “What became of their physicians?”

I relayed the question.

“Our physician died of an ailment last month. Our surgeon died in the battle,” the priest said. “We have midwives,” he added.

Several of the men behind him scoffed.

Gaston sighed and began to shed his blades. I knew he intended to walk in amongst them, and I could not allow it.

“Hold,” I said gently in French. “Let us do this in a manner that does not risk you, please.”

He stopped and nodded with resignation. I turned back to the prisoners.

“I will convey your needs to the Admiral and we will seek remedy for them. I am sorry… We did not intend to be here so long and…”

“Why have you stayed, then?” the portly sharp-nosed man asked.

“Because we have not found nearly enough treasure to make the journey worthwhile,” I said. “The sooner we do, the sooner we will leave.

Now, I will talk to the Admiral. It would be in your best interests to decide upon a delegation.”

Outside, Morgan had been joined by several more captains and quartermasters. He watched expectantly as we approached.

“They are hungry and in need of a surgeon,” I told him.

“Are they making demands?” Morgan scoffed.

“Why not simply burn the church down around them and be done with it?” I snapped.

“Because that would make it very hard to send any for ransom or locate their gold,” he said, his own ire rising.

“Precisely,” I said.

He sighed.

“Bein’ hungry’ll help them find their tongues an’ gold,” another captain said.

“Aye, and someday I am sure someone will write of this and our exceedingly un-Christian conduct toward women and children,” I said expansively.

“We don’t have no food for them,” another captain said. “We’ve eaten it all. We’ve got hunters out now to bring in cattle for our men.”

“They shall have food once some is located,” Morgan said. “As for a surgeon….”

“I will do it,” Gaston said in English. “I am a physician.”

“We will need a few volunteers in addition to myself to watch over him while he works,” I added.

I looked to Striker, and he nodded.

“I will leave the matter to you, then,” Morgan said. “I will ask of the other surgeons. While you organize the relief of their suffering, what of my delegation?”

“I told them to discuss it and make a decision. I will bring them out.”

I returned to the church with Gaston, Pete, and several of our men, including Bones and Nickel.

We found four men standing ahead of the others. Their number included the portly sharp-nosed man.

He spoke for them. “Ask about; the priests will attest to it. We all have family here in this church and much to lose should we not return.”

I nodded somewhat distractedly, as Gaston was handing me his baldric and belt. “This man is a physician and we will have food for you as soon as some is located. Apparently, we have eaten all that was readily available.”

The delegates and the men near them eyed Gaston with disbelief.

“I do not jest,” I said. “I would suggest you allow him to tend your wounded. And I would strongly suggest that no malicious act occur to his person. If any harm befalls him, or is threatened, the retribution will be swift and bloody and spare none.”