Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (90 page)

We at last dropped anchor near the other ships, in the bay that lay in the lee of the largest island. Pete handed us his things, and dove overboard to swim for shore and his matelot, rather than wait about for a seat on a boat. Thus, by the time we reached our cabal, they were already informed we were well and returned, and were celebrating Striker and Pete’s reunion. Our wolves had, of course, withdrawn from the others to celebrate this in a more carnal fashion. And as they had so long denied one another, I thought it likely we would not see them for days.

So I was somewhat surprised when mere hours later Striker emerged from the bushes to give us greeting. He dropped into the sand at our side, and Pete collapsed next to him, clinging to him as if he would never release him again. Striker seemed pleased with this as he leaned back into his matelot’s lap.

He looked about before speaking, but Gaston and I were relatively alone at the small fire where we were roasting beef.

“I am to be a father!” he exclaimed.

We chuckled.

“Aye,” I said with a smile. “Your seed has proven potent.”

“Aye,” he grinned. “There will be a new Striker come this fall.”

“Ah, so we will not even be able to escape the year without another version of you running about,” I teased.

“Or of Sarah,” he sighed contentedly.

“Would you be disappointed if it were a girl?” I asked.

“Not as much as you,” he said. “Pete says your wife has been up to no good.”

“Nay, and my uncle is a fool, and we are all men of means, apparently,” I sighed.

“All is as it normally is in Port Royal.” He grinned, then sobered. “I wish someone was there to guard Sarah.”

“Should we have stayed?” I asked, curious as to his mood. His eyes were heavy with satisfaction and it was difficult to gauge him.

“Nay, nay,” he sighed. Then he shrugged. “Well, maybe someone should have, but thankfully your cousin seems safely maimed.”

I nodded at that, though in my heart I knew it false. But my gainsaying him, in arguing that my Damn Cousin was a man capable of hiring evil men to do his bidding if he himself could not lift the blade, as was my father, was not a thing either of us wished to hear; and thus it was best left unspoken. I consoled my guilt by telling myself that my Damn Cousin was, moreover, the type of man who would wish to see pain inflicted upon those he despised with his own eyes. If he were to come at all, he would not come for her until he could well do it himself.

“What has occurred in our absence here?” I asked. “Liam said you might know of a target, as you have regularly been with Morgan and the other captains. And I have heard the Fortune caught up with us.”

“Aye, and we needed the men, but she brought more than that with her,” he sighed. “Do you know anything of Providence Island?”

“Some,” Gaston said, “But Will knows none of it.”

Striker nodded. “Providence sits off the Terra Firma coast, off a place the Spanish call Honduras. The Spaniards call the island Saint Catalina. It’s a likely place to raid from, and Mansfield wished to colonize it. We English had been there before, but the Spanish drove us off. So Mansfield took the island again in ’66, and left men there to hold it while he returned to Jamaica to beg for more. The governorship was in turmoil, and the Crown wanted none of angering the Spanish that close to their shores. So the colonists were months in coming. By the time they arrived at the island, the Spanish had already taken it back; and they tricked the newcomers so that they were captured too, men and women both. Morgan was under Mansfield’s tutelage at the time, and he took it near as hard as the other did. So he’s vowed to get that damn island back someday.”

“So we are going to take this island?” I asked.

“Nay, if it were that simple we’d be kings,” he said and shrugged.

“The Fortune was collecting dyewood this spring, and they found a man along the Mosquito Coast running from the Spaniards in a small canoe. His name is Cork, and he was one of the men Mansfield left on Providence Island. He says the colonists were sent off to the Inquisition on Cuba, but the Spanish kept the Brethren they captured as slaves at Porto Bello. Cork and a few men found a chance to escape, and they took it; but his matelot is still there, and he’s vowed to return for him and the few others left alive. Morgan is quite taken with his tale, as are all who’ve heard it.”

“Are you?” I asked.

Striker nodded solemnly. “And Morgan has an excellent plan.”

“For Porto Bello?” I scoffed. It sounded like Morgan’s foolishness about taking Havana.

“Did not Drake die in the attempt?” I added.

Gaston snorted. “As I have heard it, Drake grew ill and died while sailing about beyond the range of Porto Bello’s cannon trying to decide how to attempt it. And they have had a hundred years since to improve their fortifications. It is a city of death filled with disease. The Spaniards do not even stay in it, except when they bring the treasure across from Panama for the fleet.”

I pictured what I could remember of a map and tried to place it all.

Porto Bello was nearly due north of Panama, with only a thirty-league strip of land between them. Thus Porto Bello served as Panama’s port on the Northern Sea. No one sailed east around the bottom of Terra Firma: thus the Spanish would rather take the treasures from the west coast overland by mule than sail all the way round the world to bring it home.

Once in Porto Bello, the treasure was picked up by the fleet known as the Galleons at a fair.

“The Porto Bello Fair should be about now, should it not?” I asked.

“Or is it in June?”

“June,” Striker said. “We don’t intend to arrive during it, and we have preparations to make.”

“So we will take it right after?” I asked.

“Aye, when much of the money is still there,” he said. “We can’t take on that fleet and the forts, nor the extra people in the damned place during the fair, even if the silver is piled in the streets as they say. We can take it after the fleet departs, though.”

“With maybe five hundred men and seven small ships?” I asked.

The Fortune was nearly the size of the Virgin Queen, and had brought a number of men; but it was not enough to offset the loss of the French.

“Why the Devil not just stalk the Galleons?” I added.

He shrugged eloquently. “One could say that’s not our charter.”

I sighed with disappointment and frustration. “Well, politics has never been logical from the perspective of any save the ones who will most benefit from it.”

Striker shrugged again. “I think the plan will succeed. We’ll not sail into her harbor. Cork knows the place well. He’ll lead us in by land.”

It was my turn to shrug. “Ah, as Morgan wished to do for Havana.

But will this Cork lead us in for his own ends as Hadsell did at Puerto del Principe?”

He sighed. “All know of this place and its wealth, so we’re assured of something. And drunk or sober, Cork says the same of what he’s seen.

True, he wants his revenge, but he also wants to rescue his matelot.”

“I would talk a fleet of fools into such a thing if it were to rescue mine,” I said. “I well understand that, and will blame him not, even if this comes to as little as the other. I merely do not wish for us to die in the attempt if it is truly ill-considered.”

“I don’t think that’ll happen,” Striker grinned. “Come, let’s find our fellows and a bottle, and I’ll tell you of it. I have celebrating to do.”

We found out cabal and gathered about another fire with a bottle of rum. Striker announced his impending progeny and all cheered him, with little evidence of the misgivings they had shown his marriage. I was not surprised. A woman was a thing that challenged our way of life, but a man sowing his seed was ever applauded.

Once the congratulations had died down, Striker settled in to explain Morgan’s and Cork’s plan. It was indeed simple and sounded reasonable, until one recalled our number.

We would sail to a point a hundred and fifty miles or so west of Porto Bello; there we would leave skeleton crews upon the ships, and the rest of us would disembark and pack ourselves onto canoes. So as not to be seen, we would paddle the low canoes down the coast at night, and hide them and us in the forest by day. Once we were very close, we would abandon the canoes and slip into Porto Bello by means of a path in the forest. At a specified number of days, our ships would sail down to meet us, and only enter the harbor if they were sure we indeed had the place.

Cork had assured Morgan that the port would hold fewer than a thousand when we arrived, including women and children, and possibly fewer yet. The fortresses, of which there were three, were somewhat sparsely garrisoned, by conscripts who were often sickly. The Spanish did not expect these men to defend the town as an army. They did not think it would ever be necessary. They relied heavily on their cannon to keep any from the harbor, and only placed a few bored sentries on the landward side.

“Where will we get the canoes?” Cudro asked. The question had been on my mind as well.

“Along the coast,” Otter said. “We can take them from the Indians.”

The talk continued, and I looked to Gaston. He was frowning at the stars. I nudged him, and he shook his head.

“Will, the place is truly renowned for illness. You worry over things like a stray shot taking one of us in battle. I worry about us contracting some incurable ailment that will stay with us all of our days or kill us in the first wave of fever.”

“Well, we will surely not drink the water,” I said lightly, though his words concerned me greatly.

“Or eat the food, or spend time about the Spaniards,” he added seriously. “And it sits on a morass, so the air is purported to be thick with insects. They do not call the land to the north of there the mosquito coast without reason.”

“We could stay with the ships if you are so concerned,” I said. “I will do…”

He shook his head and reminded me, “Drake died without entering the harbor.”

“Then let us hope the Gods favor us more than They did Drake in this endeavor,” I sighed.

He snorted. “That is not likely. The Gods loved Drake.”

A figure approached the far side of the fire; and Striker rose to greet the man, and usher him into the circle and introduce him. It was Cork.

If I had not been told he was an Englishman, I would have thought him an Indian in the firelight. His skin was dark, and as he neared to shake my hand I saw he was leathery, as if he had spent the last two years in the sun. And he was so thin as to be only skin and bones in places. His pale blue eyes were as strong and warm as his grip, though.

Cork settled in to sit between Pete and myself.

“This be your matelot?” Cork asked Striker.

“Aye,” Striker said proudly. “This is Pete. And he’s brought me wonderful news from our wife. We’ll have a babe in the fall.”

“Damn,” Cork said. “Let’s drink to that.”

And we did, replete with another round of toasting.

When it settled somewhat, Cork turned my way and said, “So, you’re the lord Morgan speaks of.”

“Oh bloody Hell,” I sighed.

Our friends chuckled.

I looked to Cork with amusement. “And what does he say, might I ask?”

Cork’s gaze flicked to Gaston, between whose legs I sat. “That you’ve taken well to the buccaneer life.”

“Ah, and that my matelot is mad,” I said with a grin.

Gaston snorted.

The man shrugged diffidently. “Aye, that too.”

“I wonder if I should feel honored to have crossed his mind,” I said.

I looked around the man to catch Striker’s eye.

“More than you know,” Striker sighed.

“Why? What is it about me?” I looked about the fire and found all eyes upon me.

“He finds you a puzzle,” Striker said.

“I am never what men such as he expect, I suppose,” I sighed. “Since my birth I have been called strange by all whose paths I cross. Yet I do not understand the how and the why of it.”

I regarded Cork. “You, who do not know me and have only heard of me, do you find me odd?”

“Aye,” he said sincerely after considerable deliberation.

“Can you name this oddness?” I asked.

A knowing smile slowly creased his face. “You’re a fool.”

Laughter erupted, not the least of which issued from me, as I thought him jesting. Gaston did not, and his arms were tight around me. “I often am,” I chortled. “Or at least I play one to great success.

And my actions are oft misunderstood and are surely ascribed to foolishness.”

Cork shook his head. “I don’t mean you’re stupid. I mean you’re too stupid to know better. The world doesn’t scare you as it should.”

This quieted us, and his words were echoed about the fire for those who had not heard them.

His eyes were both shadowed and reflecting the flames. I could not see his purpose. There was no sneer about his lips, though.

“I fear,” I said quietly.

He smiled sincerely. “You only feel fear of things that others would flee in terror from.”

Once again his gaze slipped past me to Gaston for the briefest moment. I knew Gaston saw it as well, because his arms tightened about me anew.

“And how is it you surmise all of this?” I asked with genuine curiosity.

“Striker can attest to it; they speak of you a great deal,” he said.

“Always talking about how you should know better and you have this or that damn fool notion. It minded me of my brother. He’s a fool, too.”

“And what became of him?” I asked.

Cork grinned. “He married the Lord’s daughter and lives in a fine house. All because he didn’t know he couldn’t.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly, and we smiled at one another.

Gaston relaxed, once he too realized I had been complimented and not insulted.

I leaned forward and mock-glared at Striker. “And what have you said during all these defamations of my character?”

Cork chuckled. “He defends you, and they call him a fool for doing it.” Striker awarded me a mock-wounded look, and I crawled over to embrace him and apologize. Pete decided he would not be left out and dove atop us. Gaston was soon digging me out, and there was much laughter all about the fire.