Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (94 page)

I had to commend his cleverness. It was surely a plan I wished I had formulated. And so we brought the nuns and priests and told them to carry the ten ladders to the wall. They were understandably incredulous. However, our brandished pistols and blades soon had them on the move, ladders in hand. Those of us to be in the first wave crouched behind them, and we made our slow way to the wall, accompanied by much wailing from our unhappy hostages.

“Do you not believe in Hell?” one nun asked me.

I wondered why religious people always thought this the ultimate threat to bar my behavior. Was the threat of eternal retribution the only thing that kept them stalwart and moral?

“I do not know, and surely if I am to go there it will not be for this alone,” I told her.

She nodded in miserable agreement.

I had not intended that Gaston and I should be party to this initial wave of the assault, but he had dropped the reins completely again and his Horse was very much in favor of it. And Striker and Pete were committed to it, and I felt honor bound to follow them into… well, Hell.

I should have told the nun that. I would probably not reach Hell of my own doing, but by way of being a fool, as I would surely follow some other into it, all the while hoping it would not be permanent.

Except for the sobbing and praying, all was quiet as we made our way out of the streets and across the river to the fortress’ apron. We were now well within their musket and cannon range, and still they did not fire. One of the foremost priests began to beg, not us, but the Spanish upon the wall. I hazarded a look up and saw over a hundred faces gazing down at us in horrified incomprehension.

“Fuego!” was heard from the fort. I cringed, but there were no retorts. “Fuego!” the same commanding voice extolled, followed by curses. Still, no Spanish musketeer pulled the trigger. The commander then said that he would shoot any man who did not fire.

I imagined that every man above us wondered which Hell one went to for shooting a priest, and whether or not disobeying an officer’s order and having him shoot you was suicide. They went to Hell either way.

Some of them decided, for better or worse, and shot began to rain down on us.

It was evident we would quickly run out of nuns and priests, and so we exhorted our ten little groups to hurry. Meanwhile, our own musketeers were taking advantage of the fact that the Spanish must stand to depress their guns enough to hit us. I wished Liam and Otter were our guardian angels as they had so often been.

We reached the wall, and I shamelessly stooped below a nun as we pushed the ladder up. In truth, it was needed in order to help brace the ladder’s leg; and in actuality, it proved inconvenient, as when she was struck by a rock thrown from above, she collapsed upon me. I swung her off my back and propped her against the wall. There was gash on her head, but she still breathed.

Then we were climbing and firing with pistols. I followed Gaston; and beside us, Striker followed Pete. We soon gained the top of the wall.

Once we were there, we lost the support of our own muskets, as those men could not easily fire into the melee. Instead, they ran to join us, now that we could prevent any from firing on them.

It was like taking a very large ship. Thankfully, many of the Spanish were demoralized and surrendered readily. There was only one pocket of fierce resistance across the courtyard. Gaston and I made our way there. Striker and Pete were already in the thick of it.

As we approached, Pete joined in combat with a tall Spaniard, with rapiers. I was surprised at this, as was Striker. Pete waved him off, even as his opponent came in fast and took advantage of Pete’s momentary lapse in concentration to mark his shoulder with a vicious little cut.

Pete parried adroitly, and twisted away before the blade could bite deeper. Then he grinned and closed on the man.

As much of the rest of the battle was over and done, we stood about and watched. The Spaniard was good: very good. His style was graceful, and his skills as honed as the fine blade he carried. There was something quite familiar in the way he moved, and I wondered if he had a teacher in common with someone else I knew. And then their duel shifted enough that I clearly saw his face.

I was dumbfounded, and words failed me for several seconds. Then I closed my jaw only to have it fly open again as the words finally came in a rush. “Pete! Do not kill him! I know him! That is Alonso!”

Alonso had been lunging to take advantage of Pete’s distraction.

Hearing his own name caused him to lapse as well, and Pete quickly turned the tide, driving him back onto a wall and pinning him with a blade at his throat whilst he twisted the rapier from Alonso’s hand. I ran to them and relieved Alonso of the thin blade he kept under his breeches on his left thigh, and then the small pistol secreted at the small of his back under his coat.

He peered at me curiously, and then his eyes widened with surprise.

“Uly?”

“What?” I asked in Castilian. “Can you not recognize me without hair?”

“Ya Know’Em?” Pete asked.

“Aye, aye, from Florence,” I assured Pete.

“This is the Spaniard?” Gaston growled in French at my other elbow, and my balls nearly contracted into my belly.

Gaston’s eyes glittered like emeralds in the sun as they studied Alonso with contempt.

“Oui,” I whispered. “This is Alonso. Alonso, this is my matelot, Gaston. And this other fine fellow is our good friend, Pete.”

“I am sure we are well met,” Alonso said in English, with more composure than I could have mustered with Pete’s blade at my throat and Gaston glaring at me.

But then I knew Gaston and Pete well enough to know how damn dangerous they were. I was not sure how we appeared to Alonso, but he was studying me again with a frown.

“Uly, you look awful. Are you well? What are you doing here with these people?”

Pete chuckled. “He Be Right. Ya Look Like Shit.”

“As do you,” I said with a small degree of dignity.

Smeared in fat, with powder smudges and eye paint and torn, blood-spattered clothing, we were indeed quite the sight.

“And what does matelot mean?” Alonso asked with a glance at Gaston.

“Partner, lover, husband,” I smiled.

Alonso’s eyes went wide, before they flicked to Pete with concern.

“Oh, he has one too,” I added.

“Ohhh,” Alonso said with wonder.

“Will!” Striker called from the corner of the yard. He waved me over.

“Well, I assume I am needed to translate. Watch him,” I told Pete.

“He is quite clever and experienced.”

“Aye,” Pete grinned.

I clasped Gaston across the shoulder and whispered in French in his ear. “Please do not kill him.”

“Why?” he growled. “Do…?”

I interrupted him with a fierce whisper. “I am yours. You have far more of me than he even knew existed. If you respect that, then respect me on this.”

His eyes narrowed, and he finally pulled them from Alonso to regard me. I saw his anger shift into something deeper. His left hand snaked up around my neck and held my head still as he plundered my mouth. My gut twisted, but my cock stirred as well. When he let me go, I kissed the tip of his nose to annoy him, and went to join Striker without looking to see Alonso’s reaction to any of it.

“What the Devil?” Striker asked as I neared. His eyes were still on Pete and Alonso.

“Did I ever mention that I once had a lover in Florence, a Spanish lover?” I asked.

Striker’s eyes widened, and he looked over my shoulder at the others again. “That is him?”

“Aye,” I said with a grin. “I do not know what he is doing here. He was going to Panama, so I suppose it makes sense. Yet… Well, if my matelot does not kill him, I suppose I will find out.”

He grinned in return. “I would not tell anyone else.”

“I do not intend to,” I said seriously.

“Striker! Will!” Morgan called.

Striker shrugged. “We need your skills in Castilian.”

“As always.” I shrugged.

We joined Morgan in facing a dignified Spanish officer. The Spaniard had his back to the wall, but he still brandished a sword.

“Tell the damn fool to surrender,” Morgan said.

I looked about. The fighting was over. We had the fort.

“Sir, please do us the honor of surrendering.” I said.

“Never,” the officer snapped.

“Don Jose, please. It is over. Let us live to fight them again,” another Spaniard said.

“Never,” the officer repeated and glared. “I will not surrender to these dogs.”

I looked to the man who had pleaded with him. “Is there anyone he might listen to? We do not wish to shoot him if it is unnecessary.”

“His wife and child are here,” the man sputtered.

The officer swore vehemently at the man.

I explained to Morgan, and he sent someone to fetch the prisoners we had taken in the center of the fortress. A number of women and children were brought into view. The man who had told of them pointed out the officer’s wife and daughter, a stately woman and a girl of ten or so. They were brought over. The officer refused to look at them.

“Please, Jose,” she implored, “they say they will not…”

“Silence!” he roared. “I will not surrender. I would rather die a valiant soldier than be hanged as a coward.”

I had reloaded my pistols while we waited for the woman to arrive.

Now I aimed at the officer and glanced at Morgan. He shrugged. I looked to the woman, and flicked my eyes at the girl before her. She raised her chin and took a firm grip on her daughter’s shoulders. The girl only had eyes for her father. I did not wish to kill him in front of her; but perhaps it was better she remembered him as an honorable man, as he and the mother intended. I looked the officer in the eye and he rewarded me with a contemptuous glare. I pulled the trigger. The ball struck true, just to the left of his breast bone. He crumpled quickly. I looked to the girl again. Her eyes were huge and her hands were on her mouth. The mother’s eyes were closed. I considered shooting the woman, for forcing the poor child to have that memory for the rest of her life while she cringed from it. Instead, I walked away.

Striker and Cudro had joined Pete, Gaston, and Alonso in watching what occurred. I noted they had bound Alonso’s hands behind him.

He regarded me with narrowed eyes as I approached. I shrugged, and looked to the others. Striker was watching them run the jolie rouge and the English flag up this fort’s pole. Pete was still frowning at the place where the officer had fallen. Cudro was frowning at the sinking sun.

Gaston was watching me with concern.

“Reload,” he prompted.

I did as he said.

“I want to go back to the other fort,” Striker said, “and see to Liam.”

With the exception of Alonso, we all nodded agreement and started walking. Pete shepherded Alonso with us.

“Does he speak English?” Striker asked.

“Aye,” I said. “Well enough.”

“French?” Gaston hissed.

“Some,” I sighed.

I did not wish to fight with Gaston over the matter. I did not wish to deal with Alonso. The girl’s grief-stricken face, and then Liam’s, kept swimming in my vision.

“I am tired of anger and death today,” I whispered in French.

Gaston was quiet beside me. As we cleared the gates and crossed to the town, his arm slipped about my shoulders. I transferred my musket to my other hand and hooked my arm around his waist, and we fell into step together. It felt good.

We followed Striker, Cudro, Pete, and Alonso into the town. We were, in turn, followed by a number of our men from the Virgin Queen. Alonso would attempt to glance back when he was able, but I knew he saw little of us. I studied his back at leisure. He was a little thicker about the middle, and I could not see how he could bear to wear so much clothing in the oppressive heat and humidity. However, his clothes were not as fashionable as we had worn in Florence, being more functional than fancy; though the coat and breeches were of fine cloth and well-tailored.

He still wore his lustrous hair pulled back, as he always had when not formally dressed; and the wavy mass reached deep between his shoulder blades. I could not see how he could stand that, either. I was so used to being shorn all hair appeared hot and heavy to me now.

I remembered how I had found him so very handsome. He was still pleasing to look upon, but I felt distant from the enjoyment of it. This was due not only to the man at my side, but more to changes I sensed in my perception of beauty. I wished to explore that, but I was tired.

I also noted his hands were bound so tightly that they were losing color. When we stopped for the others to procure wine and rum, I disengaged from Gaston with a reassuring kiss on his cheek and went to loosen Alonso’s bonds. He started at my touch, and then gasped as the blood began to reach his fingers again.

“Is this necessary?” he whispered in Castilian, as I finished retying him.

“For now,” I sighed. “I do not wish for anyone to misapprehend the situation; and truly, much has happened in our lives since last we saw one another, si?”

He turned to regard me. “Si, we have much to talk about. Your French lover is jealous?”

I sighed and smiled. “Always.”

“I take it he knows of us,” he said.

“He knows of what we had, si.”

“Does he speak Castilian?” he asked.

“Some,” I sighed.

“Will we have a chance to speak privately?” he asked.

“Si,” I replied quickly, though I doubted my veracity of what I said and the wisdom of what he suggested. And that made me even more tired.

“Good. There is very much I would say to you,” he said earnestly.

His brown eyes held a look I had not often seen while we were together. It contained love and longing. I found it difficult to accept.

“I received your letter,” I said.

This gave him pause, and then he smiled. “It reached you?”

“Si. In December.” At his frown I added, “Of last year. Just a few months ago.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “I was beginning to think its travel had been very fast indeed.” Then he frowned again. “I was very drunk.”

“I could tell,” I smiled. “It was difficult to discern your words toward the end.”