Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (17 page)

The water we sailed through became so clear I could see things of color in its depths. While relieving myself, and any other time I had occasion to be at the rail, I took amusement in studying the sharks.

In this water, one could see the entirety of their bodies and not just their fins. They were sleek and handsome creatures. They resembled the porpoises that occasionally paced us. Everyone delighted in the porpoises, as they were jolly fanciful animals that seemed to make fun of life. The sharks were hated and feared, and no one was pleased they kept us constant company.

“I am thankful the sharks do not have a penchant for, or possibly the ability to, leap out of the water as the porpoises do,” I observed after my morning trip to the poop deck. Fletcher, Davey, and my cabin mates were around as usual, awaiting breakfast.

“God must have made them unable to jump in order not to plague seaman more than necessary,” Fletcher said. “It’s bad enough they follow us everywhere.”

“We keep dumping refuse over the side,” I said, with a vague gesture in reference to my recent activities. “They appear to eat it or at least consider eating it. Though most I have observed have possessed better taste. However, any other matter of waste we produce, they quickly gobble down, rather like pigs or crows. If we stopped dumping things over the side, they would probably desert us.”

As usual, the religious content of his comment disturbed me. I had spent a good deal of time ruminating on where I would lead my flock.

Most wolves are only religious when it suits them. Sheep are usually highly religious, and I thought they could stand to lose some of that. As many have noted, I am not the most religious of men and it is very likely I will burn in Hell.

“And Fletcher, I find your theory a little farfetched,” I added jovially.

“Sharks have been in existence for all of recorded history, and I am fair certain far longer than that, surely before man put to sea in any kind of craft.”

“God foresaw that we would do such things,” Fletcher replied.

I studied him and my companions. They seemed to either not understand the overreaching philosophy of what he was saying, or more likely, did not care.

“But Fletcher,” I protested. “I can put no stock in that, either. I cannot see God the Creator sitting around thinking of things such as not making a shark leap, so that future sailors could dangle their rears over the sides of ships to safely do their business.”

My lack of faith, or possibly reverence, was apparently being noted by Fletcher. He awarded me a somber frown followed by a grimace of consternation.

“Lord Marsdale, then what do you suppose God thinks about?”

He was not asking as a child asks a teacher, but quite the other way around, and I realized he was seeking purchase to lecture me on the subject. On the one hand, I was proud of him for wanting to challenge me, but on the other, I was appalled at the nature of it.

Four other pairs of eyes were now staring me down, though. I sighed. “I imagine God thinking of things such as….” In truth, I was not sure I had ever thought about God as an entity thinking about anything.

Whole weeks of my life passed quite happily with not a single thought of the divine in my head. “As…As, whether or not the granting of freewill was in His best interest. And possibly mathematical equations.”

“Are you saying that God would doubt his own decisions?” Fletcher asked, somewhat aghast.

“Aye, we were made in his image, and we doubt; why should He not?” I replied.

Our companions’ minds were now filled with the vile substance of doubt; I could see it on their faces. Well, if I had done nothing else today, even if I be branded heretic by nightfall, at least I had made my sheep think.

“God is perfect,” Dickey countered hesitantly.

“Then where does the doubt come from?” I asked.

“The Devil,” Tom said as if the answer should be known by all.

“The Devil, you say?” I teased. I was not sure if I remembered enough of my Sunday lessons to truly engage in the discourse at hand, but it was a discussion of sorts, philosophical even, and it had been ages since I had been granted the opportunity. “Did not God make the Devil?”

“But not in his own image.” Dickey quickly countered.

“Then in what image did He make him? Is God not all things?

So how could something exist beyond God that God could pattern something from? By the very definition of God’s omnipresence, are not all things in God’s image?”

There were frowns and grimaces all around.

“Perhaps discussing this is unwise,” Harry said.

“In what way, good sir? Do you feel God will hear us from on high and judge us heretics? Did God not give us the ability to question and reason, presumably in his image?”

“Respectfully,” Dickey said.

“If God feels we are being disrespectful, may he command the sharks to leap forth from the sea and bite our hairy arses,” I said.

Dickey blanched. “Sir, with all due respect, yours is the hairy arse that should be bit, as you began this.”

Without doffing my breeches, I hung my arse over the gunwale so that it could easily be seen by the one shark doggedly keeping pace with us on that side of the ship. It did not leap forth from the water.

“God will deal with you later, I am sure,” Dickey said with a great deal of dignity.

I laughed.

“Land ho!” the lookout shouted from the crow’s nest. I was almost disappointed, as this summarily dismissed the subject at hand, while we all tried to crowd to the bow or stand on something so that we could see beyond the others. I was truly disappointed when my aching eyes finally beheld another faint smudge on the northwestern horizon.

I joined Belfry and the captain on the quarterdeck.

“Hispaniola?” I asked.

The captain was reckoning our latitude, and nodded shortly. “It would be best if it were, my Lord.”

“Otherwise we are lost?”

He snorted.

As we drew closer over the course of the day, the land continued to meet their expectations in general shape and supposed chart location, and we steered so that we could keep it in sight but stay well clear of it.

Hispaniola is a Spanish colony, and though most of the traffic through the Northern Sea usually plied the passages between Hispaniola and Cuba to the northwest, the island did have a number of cities on her southern side. It was, of course, not in our best interests to run afoul of any ship that might be visiting them; though, oddly, it was unlikely any such ship would be Spanish.

The Captain had assured me, as I had already known, that we had little to fear of running afoul of a Spanish vessel. We were more likely to encounter smugglers, privateers, or pirates in these supposedly Spanish waters. The Spaniards had never recovered from the loss of their armada in 1588. For all the wealth that seemingly poured from the New World to Spain, they did not seem to be reaping the benefits of it to the degree I would imagine: at least not in terms of rebuilding their navy. All of their enemies knew they did not have the number of naval ships necessary to patrol the West Indies. Which was why the English, French, and Dutch now had colonies here. The Spanish could destroy any one of them, to be sure, but not all.

So we kept watchful eyes on the seas out of fear of the French. They had settlements on the west end of Hispaniola, and a colony on Tortuga, the small islet just off the northern shore. We were still purportedly at war with France, and they issued as many Marques as we did.

So we kept Hispaniola barely in sight for three days, and then the captain angled our course ever so slightly to the northwest and we headed for Jamaica. The next “Land Ho” from the crow’s nest brought much jubilation. With equal parts relief and anticipation, I joined the others in watching the grey smudge become an increasingly taller green isle. I began to realize this was my new home. I recalled all the other times I had ridden into strange and unknown places and the delight I had found in mounting my personal discovery of them. I reassured myself that I had few regrets.

Despite descriptions of its topography and flora, I was surprised to view a place so hilly and lush. I supposed this to be the norm for a land that never experienced winter. It was early March, and yet the temperature was the hottest I could ever recall experiencing. The air was so moist that once one perspired, one did not seem to dry unless one stood still in a heavy breeze. It was only logical that any location so climed would grow greenery like a hothouse. No wonder everyone wanted to plant things of value here.

The climate cannot explain the white sand of the beaches, though, or the azure beauty of the sea. From the deck of the ship, it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever beheld.

Port Royal sits on a cay, at the end of a long peninsula of land that arcs south and west from the island proper, enclosing a large bay. The northern side of this bay is fed by two rivers. They deliver a great deal of silt, making it unsuitable for larger craft. So upon establishing Jamaica as a colony, the English built Port Royal on the cay in order to take advantage of the best anchorage the huge harbor offered. The Spanish, not being the greatest of sailing nations despite the vast number of ships they once commanded, had not favored the site and had built farther inland and at other places along the coast.

The cay, according to my studies, had recently been joined to the peninsula by filling in the shallow brine marsh that separated them.

This afforded the town greater area and allowed a land passage to the mainland, though it was quite roundabout. Most sailed or rowed across the bay to the plantations and Spanish Town, a small town about five miles inland up the Copper River. The Governor had recently moved his house there. According to my father’s associates, it had been decided that the Governor should reside someplace that the buccaneers did not.

From the sea, I could not truly tell where the Palisadoes, as the long peninsula was called, started. It initially looked like any other stretch of shore we had sailed past. Then I saw that it was more sparsely forested, with palms, cacti, and the like; and I remembered that the end of the Palisadoes, and the cay which Port Royal resided on, did not have a water source. All water had to be brought across the bay. It was also my understanding that Port Royal and its environs were often plagued by small earthquakes. I did not find all of this overly alarming. The plantation I was sent to build would be inland and have water.

We saw other ships before we saw any architectural evidence of Port Royal. Then finally we saw demonstration of human habitation.

Belfry joined us at the rail and instructed us on various features. There were scattered small buildings on the Palisadoes, and then an armed wall marking the eastern edge of the town proper, and presumably the original cay. Following that, there were more buildings, mostly houses from the looks of them, and a church: St. Peters and Church of England, according to Belfry. He had taken service there on his prior voyages. He complained that the town was rife with Jews driven from Brazil, all manner of other Protestants, and even some Popish men. And that most of the buccaneers appeared to be Godless, as there was no report of them entering any church. I did not venture to explain that that bit of news sat well with me.

We soon could see a great number of more densely-packed buildings along the northern side of the cay, where the harbor was – including several large structures, which Belfry said were the King’s House and various warehouses. The southern shore we sailed along was inhabited, but not to the extent the northern edge was.

We came to Fort Charles, which had originally been Fort Cromwell, and renamed, of course, after the Restoration. This seemed to be small.

All the structures bearing the name fort that I was familiar with were far larger edifices. Yet I assured myself it was a significant structure considering its locale. And it appeared to be undergoing additional construction.

“The passage up into the harbor is just past the fort,” Belfry said.

“On the right, we will pass the Chocolata Hole, which is a shallow bay where the buccaneer and freebooter vessels anchor. It is well-suited to their sloops and ketches. It doesn’t have a proper wharf, but they moor and row longboats or canoes to the beach if their craft is too large to beach.”

I frowned at this. “Why Chocolata?”

“My Lord?” Belfry asked.

Davey was chuckling and I was sure I already had my answer, yet I felt compelled to press the man. “Why is it named thusly?”

“What, the Hole, sir? I do not know. It’s where the buccaneers and freebooters dock; they named it thus. It is an odd name, now that I think of it, though I haven’t considered it before. They do grow cocoa here, but...”

He noticed my amusement.

“Do you feel it has some other meaning, my Lord?”

“I feel it may have a certain connotation,” I said.

“What is it called again?” Dickey asked.

“The Chocolata Hole,” Belfry supplied with careful enunciation.

Dickey suppressed a small smile and flushed, “Ah, I find myself in agreement with Lord Marsdale.” He started laughing. “Though I dare not say how a young man of my upbringing would have heard of such a thing.”

Tom was chuckling now, but Harry looked as confused as Belfry and Fletcher.

“Would someone please explain?” Belfry asked.

“I believe it may be in reference to sodomy,” I said, which evinced a great guffaw of laughter from Davey and several of the other men standing nearby.

“Oh,” Belfry said, while staring at the place in question as we began to round the point. “Oh my. That’s….” The surprise evident on his face transmuted to indignation. “How crude.”

I ignored him and turned my attention to the craft clustered in and about the crudely but amusingly named location. I judged the Hole to be maybe a hundred yards across, and there were two sleek craft anchored in the center, the Charles and the North Wind. A smaller craft was all the way on the beach, which was bustling with activity.

Another vessel was anchored almost in the passage, and awaiting a change in the wind or tide I would assume. Named the Griffon, she was a frigate and about the same size as our vessel, though she was far sleeker. Her deck held many more men than ours. I studied these men, who I assumed were buccaneers, as we passed at the distance of a hundred feet or so. For the most part they wore canvas breeches and tunics or vests, with brightly colored kerchiefs on their heads; and, oddly, gold sparkling at their ears. They were all armed, pistol and musket as well as swords, and looked like an army of mercenaries.