Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (84 page)

Once ashore, the men from the Queen stayed close together, near Striker, as the entire sortie worked its way through the dense forest, toward the meadows that purportedly lay beyond. After a time, we found a small wagon trail and followed it carefully in the direction of the village.

We saw no one and no livestock. I thought it was merely because we were wandering about in the forest and not near any place of habitation; and then we came upon a cleared field with a plow sitting in a recently turned furrow. We felt eyes upon us; but whether it was one frightened farmhand or the entire population of the nearby village armed with pitchforks and aging blunderbusses, we could not know. We retreated to the trees to at least make ourselves less obvious targets, and considered our options. We decided to proceed toward the village, but with even greater caution. Then one of our vanguard reported seeing cattle in a field to the north of the road ahead. As we were there to procure meat before all else, Striker led us toward them.

We did indeed find a score of cattle being driven across a meadow by two cowherds. They did not appear to be in a hurry, or necessarily driving the beasts away from the direction we had come: they were actually doing quite the opposite. Pete, Cudro, and Gaston viewed the open expanse and cattle with suspicion.

“Why are they driving cattle when an alarm has been sounded?”

Cudro asked.

“Maybe there weren’t no alarm. Maybe we just be makin’ too damn much noise,” another man said, eliciting many chuckles.

“Let’s just get the damn cattle and be done with it,” Striker said.

He sent two small parties of men – four apiece – to run along the sides of the meadow and check for ambuscades, while the rest of us used the relatively open ground to reach the cattle quickly.

The cowherds saw us coming and abandoned their charges to run into the forest. We let them go, and our men set to killing the beasts.

Pete roared a minute later; and I turned to look about in time to see one of our scouting parties returning to us at a run, with what seemed a hundred Spaniards on their heels. Looking the other direction showed a similar sight. There was no time for cursing. Those who had not fired on the cattle chose targets among the Spanish, while Striker roared for all to gather up and get their backs to one another.

I had no time to count the Spanish facing us; but it was evident that, if they had all hit their marks upon first firing, they would have killed every buccaneer two or three times over. But they were not well trained– despite the uniforms on some – and thus we were able to form into a circle, and very few of ours were wounded after the first exchange. We began to fire in tight volleys, as pairs of matelots are wont to do. They began to run about in confusion, reload slowly, and make easy targets of themselves. Every time a buccaneer musket fired, a Spaniard dropped.

Every time they fired, it gave one of our men more time to reload or aim.

And soon their trumpet was sounding a retreat, and Cudro’s magnificent voice was calling us toward the closest tree line.

Gaston and I were some of the farthest from that point of retreat; and we pulled back slowly, continuing to fire at any target that presented itself, until at last we were safely in the trees. Only then did Gaston hand me his musket and turn to the closest wounded man. And then Ash was beside him with a pale face. We ran with him to the back of our number, and found Cudro standing above a stricken and tearful Pete and a very bloody Striker. The world spun about me, and I leaned on a tree.

“He’s not dead…” Cudro hissed uncertainly.

“We must get out of here,” I whispered.

“Oui, aye,” Cudro said. “I’ll gather everyone. We’ll need to carry some, but he’s the worst. I saw it. They saw he was in command, and fired on him first.”

I swore long and hard as I knelt beside Gaston who was frantically examining our unconscious friend. He tore away Striker’s tunic, and had Pete and I put pressure on two of four wounds: one in his shoulder similar to mine, but on the left; and one just above the base of his ribs on the right. Striker’s left hip had also been grazed, and his lower right arm was a bloody and broken mess; but Gaston simply tied cloth above the arm wound and ignored the other. I noted that, even before Pete and I leaned on our respective holes, they had not been spurting blood: merely leaking it. And thankfully my matelot did not look as he had after his cursory examination of Otter – who died.

“He can live,” Gaston hissed to Pete.

The Golden One nodded tightly without taking his eyes off Striker’s seemingly-peaceful face.

Gaston sat back and surveyed the circle of distraught men around us and the chaos beyond them. He looked back at Pete. “We will need to carry him. I do not wish to seek the balls or debris, or sew him here.

I will bind the wounds and then we must go.” He looked to me. “Find Cudro, and send any other wounded here.”

I did as he bade, dodging through the score of men closest to us, glancing at the handful of wounded and telling them to get closer to Gaston so he could judge their wound before we moved. I found Cudro among the men not wounded, peering into the field. The Spanish were removing their wounded from the field: dozens of them, more men than we had brought. But they were also involved in some curious activity that had our men quite riled. Apparently one of ours was dead, and in the retreat he had been left where he fell. The Spaniards were circling about the body, stabbing it and yelling imprecations.

“We must go,” I said sadly.

“That can’t go unanswered,” Cudro rumbled.

“All right, but they could cut off our retreat,” I said.

“They aren’t heading that way, but back to town,” he said.

As they had not determined so many were lying in wait for us, I felt doubt at our scouts’ abilities now; but judging the mood of the men, Cudro was right: the insult to our dead could not go unanswered.

I turned back to assessing the wounded; either sending them toward Gaston, or checking to see that someone had bound their wounds. I judged a score of men – a third of our number – had lost blood; but only Striker might be mortally wounded, and only three others were bleeding from chest or belly. The rest were grazed or afflicted with muscle wounds that could easily be bandaged, though some should be sewn. Of our eight men from the Queen: Pete, Gaston, Ash, Maslow, and I were completely unscathed; Alonso had a welt along the crown of his head and appeared quite dizzy; and Cudro had had a ball put a nice clean hole in his massive upper left arm.

When Cudro judged enough Spaniards had left the field, a contingent of our men surged out and shot the men still stabbing the body. They collected it, and returned to us. Then with one man carrying the corpse, Pete carrying Striker, and a handful of men supported by their matelots or friends, the lot of us hurried back toward our boats. I stayed to the rear – as Pete was moving slowly and Gaston with him – and covered our retreat. Maslow helped Alonso, who was at least able to walk, though not in a straight line without assistance. He could not shoot.

I told the Gods They best do a better job of opening the eyes of those now in our vanguard. I feared we would return to the shore and find leering and gibbering Spaniards dancing around our broken boats. I heard shooting ahead, and panic renewed its icy clutch upon my heart, until word was passed back through our ranks: we had stumbled upon Spanish horses and shot them for the needed meat. I decided I was ill-pleased with the Gods, but I kept mention of it safely behind my lips, lest They wreak some further vengeance upon us.

We found our boats safe where we had left them: whether through providence or Spanish incompetence – which may or may not have been due to providence – I could not know. As there was little to be done for the dead man, we hastily buried him there between the roots of a tree, and hoped the Spanish would not be so vile as to disturb him further.

Then we were all upon the water, those who could rowing furiously for our ships.

Pete and I rowed, with Gaston tending Striker at our feet. Poor Striker had actually woken during our run to the beach, and promptly succumbed to darkness again. Gaston had drugged him as soon as we stopped. I watched my matelot probe and clean the shoulder and rib wounds. He did not seem overly concerned about them, though. It was the arm wound that caused him to grimace. The ball that struck the forearm had shattered one of the bones there. Gaston had to extract splinters to probe it further. The blow of the ball and the sharp edges of the bone had reduced the surrounding flesh to the consistency of ground sausage. I had seen him tend similar wounds: in every case, the man’s arm had been removed, as flesh so rendered often could not heal; and if it did, the man would have no control of his fingers and possible eternal pain or numbness.

I wondered what Striker would do without a lower right arm. He surely could still command, but he would ever need someone to fight beside him. Thankfully, he had that.

All was confusion for a time when we arrived at the Queen; but Cudro and the Bard quickly put enough order to it to get Striker, Pete, Gaston and myself into the cabin. We laid Striker on our mattress, and Gaston finished tending the chest wounds. I assisted as I could, and Pete sat in grim silence with tear-filled eyes.

“He should live,” Gaston told him when he had finished there. He wiped his hands and turned so he could look upon Pete’s face. The Golden One would not meet his eyes.

“The shoulder wound was much like Will’s,” Gaston continued.

“And this lower one broke a rib, but did not damage the organ beneath overmuch. The problem is this arm wound.”

Pete nodded. “SayIt.”

“I need to remove it here,” Gaston said quietly, and indicated a place just below Striker’s right elbow.

Pete nodded again and took a long shuddering breath. “DoIt.”

“Will you stay?” Gaston asked.

There was another nod from the golden head. “Best Me Holdin’ Im Iffn ’EWakes.”

“Nay,” Gaston said kindly. “I will not let him wake and feel anything.”

“Good.”

Pete lay on the floor so he could cradle Striker’s head to his chest and not be in Gaston’s way. He did not watch as my matelot removed the ruined flesh and salvaged what skin and muscle he could to make a nicely rounded stump. As Gaston finished this last, I wrapped the severed lower arm and hand in cloth and sat them aside.

“That Na’ Be Goin’ Ta The Sharks,” Pete said calmly. “We Bury It.”

“All right,” I said, and wondered when he would be going ashore within the next few days, much less Striker.

“Salt it,” Gaston said.

Relieved at such an obvious solution, I nodded and slipped from the cabin. I immediately encountered curious eyes and waiting men. “He lives. The wounds are not so very bad, but… He has lost his right arm from here.” I indicated on my arm. This elicited much muttering and discussion; but several men shouted encouragement, and a few waved hooks. The consensus seemed to be that he was a strong man: he would do well enough without. I agreed – for the most part.

I told Cudro of my need for salt, and he said he would bring it.

“And how is your wound?” I asked, and pointed at his bandaged shoulder.

“Good. Farley saw to us,” he said. “Alonso is sleeping. Farley is watching him close. He wishes to confer with Gaston.”

“All right, I will send him out if…”

Cudro nodded tightly. “No hurry. As I said, he’s sleeping.”

But as I turned to return to the cabin, I recalled that sleep for a man who has been hit in the head is not always a good thing. So I told Gaston of it at once, and he nodded reluctantly. I could tell he did not wish to leave the cabin. He kept turning and regarding the door with trepidation.

“Should I fetch Farley?” I asked in French. “Or should we say the Hell with Alonso: that he will receive all his God intends from Farley’s training. Or…”

He put quick fingers on my mouth. “I wish to leave little to any God this day. Stay with Pete. I will manage. Be here.”

“Always,” I whispered.

He kissed me lightly and left us.

I looked to Pete. “Cudro is finding salt and cloth to preserve the…”

Pete nodded tightly. “Take Ar Hammock. ThisBed Be A Bloody Mess.

But It Be His Now. GastonSay It BeBest’E Lie Flat.”

He was not looking at me as he spoke, and I sensed shame and guilt.

“There was nothing you could have done,” I said softly.

He snorted. “Na’ Wished It Upon’Im!”

“He can do all else he wanted with only one arm… And you beside him.”

Pete made an incoherent animal cry of grief and guilt, and new tears slid down his cheeks.

I changed my tack. “He should not have had to pay so high a price, and you will be forever in his debt.”

He took a deep calming breath and nodded tightly. “That Be TheWay O’ It.” He still would not look at me.

I cleaned the soiled bandages, and mopped up what blood I could from the floor. The stains on the bed were permanent: seeped deep into the feathers.

“Move here, so you might lie beside him,” I said, once I had cleared Gaston’s medical tools away. “Has he feared losing a limb?”

“AyeAn’Nay,” Pete grumbled as he moved where I bade, and stretched out beside his man. “’E Always Thought’EWould. ’IsFather Were Missin’Fing ers An PartO’ ALeg. ’IsUncle Lost AEye. ’E Thinks That Be The Way O’ It. ThatRo vin’WhittlesA Man Down.”

He at last met my gaze. “Still Na’ BeRight.”

“Nay,” I agreed sadly. “But perhaps that is the way of it. Violence whittles away at a man. The courts of Christendom are filled with tales of men who were once duelists, but now languish either broken and destitute with some relative, or merely broken but rich in some villa. A man can only be lucky for so long.”

“Don’Wanna’ Lanegwish. ThinkI’d Rather Die.”

“Aye, that is ever what I told myself. But the languishing is for those who have nothing beyond the dueling – or in this instance, the roving.

Let us be men who have more.”

He sighed and smiled sadly. “But As YaSaid. We Be Men Who Only’Ave Another.”

I smiled. “Aye, let us not languish in the arms of what we have, then.”