Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (25 page)

Bradley waved me off. “That is your own concern. However, in the name of our concerns, we cannot be directly involved. What my men do is another matter, however.”

“As long as you do not know of it?” I asked. I was somewhat dismayed at his attitude and caution.

“Aye, if asked now, I can say you approached me about helping a sailor jump ship.”

“I see, and if I am ever questioned about such things, I should perhaps say that you told me you could and would not be involved in such endeavors.”

He winced, though I had not tried to sound harsh. “We will… Aye, you should say that, if the need should come to pass to explain such a thing. It would be best for all if it did not. Marsdale, you have to understand, in depredations against the Spaniards I have no scruples; in what amounts to a depredation against the English I am a property owner now, and a member of…” He glanced at Siegfried, who looked uncomfortable. “We can’t be pirates forever, and we have to think about the future. We have concerns. I am somewhat surprised that you do not share them, especially considering your birth.”

Bradley was a tame wolf indeed. The only thing that would stop a wolf from engaging in this endeavor was the possible loss of money or life or the angering of bigger wolves. In his defense, I suppose those reasons could be considered here, but they were not his reason alone.

I could see it in his eyes and hear it in his words. He was not a rule maker, but a rule follower.

I was disappointed, and it sat heavy in my heart. I endeavored to keep it from my countenance.

“My relationship to the station of my birth is my own affair,” I said with an affable smile. “What aid can you give me, if any? And I blame you not. I fully understand.”

He sighed. “Go to my ship and ask for Striker and Pete. Explain yourself; tell them I suggested you speak with them. It will be their decision as to whether or not they wish to take the risk. Knowing them, they’ll do it for a bit of fun and damn the consequences.”

With that, I drained another tankard and departed. I felt tired and light-headed, and it seemed damnably hot again. With some alarm, I was beginning to suppose I was feverish. By my reckoning, I was halfway to the Chocolata Hole when my bowels directed me to the shadows of an alley. I was beginning to feel both furious and determined. If these men of Bradley’s would not help me, I vowed to steal a small boat and row out there myself. Concerns, whatever they may be, English law, and the flux be damned.

I staggered out of the shadows.

“Drink this,” Gaston said with his husky whisper in French, and handed me a wineskin.

I started so badly my heart pounded in my chest and my vision wavered for a moment. I was delighted to see him, but I wondered how long he had been following me; and then I wondered why.

“What is it?”

“Water. Boiled.”

I attempted to ponder his meaning. “I was told just tonight that the local physicians prescribe a lack of liquid for this ailment.”

He blinked at me once and frowned slightly before sighing, “No wonder there are so many deaths.” He shrugged. “I heard my remedy from a physician of the Arabian schools. Think of it thusly, what would you do if you had a vile lump of something lodged in a pipe?”

“Flush it out.” I took the water and began to drink. In between gulps I asked, “What does boiling have to do with anything?”

“Nothing lives in boiled water.”

I stopped drinking and frowned at him. “What?”

“Have you ever looked at water through a lens that magnifies?”

“Non.” I grinned and drank more water to hide my excitement. He was either well educated, possibly better than I, or he possessed a more curious mind than mine, as I had not thought to look at water through a lens or been in the company of anyone who had.

“There are all manner of little things swimming in it,” he said.

“Like very small fish?”

“Non, like very small shrimp or slugs.”

“That is disgusting. So they are not there after it has been boiled?”

“Correct.”

“Did you make this discovery or were you taught it?”

“Monks, and I performed the observation myself.”

“I never got to learn from monks.”

“You are not a Papist, and I only received the blessing of their wisdom after I was expelled from every other proper school in France and Austria.” He smirked.

“Are you a devout Papist?”

“Only by birth. And you; are you a devout heathen?” He crossed his arms, but there was an amused cock to his head.

“Non, nor any other faith.”

We grinned, as we had established another degree of commonality.

And his mention of school had confirmed my guess about his education, and also a suspicion I had been harboring as to the station of his birth.

I believed us to be peers.

“I am off to cause mischief,” I said. “Are you otherwise engaged?”

If I had still believed in God, I would have prayed Gaston was a wolf so that I did not suffer a truly crushing disappointment this night. If Gaston were not a wolf, considering what I surmised of his birth, then my entire theory of wolves and sheep was at risk. Not only would I lose this most excellent possibility of a true friendship of equals, but I would also be in danger of losing my perception of order in the universe.

He shook his head.

“Of what nature?” he asked as we resumed my course.

“At the very least, it will involve the breaking of what surely is a maritime law of some sort; and at the worst, it may involve the taking of property and life.”

“If we are seen,” he said.

I grinned. “Non, prior to that. If that were to happen, the incidence of the first two would grow exponentially.” I quickly explained about Davey and relayed my plan.

He was silent even when we were standing on the beach of the Chocolata Hole and regarding the North Wind anchored beyond. Her deck was well-lit and appeared to be hosting a party. I was alarmed that it might not bode well for the night’s mission. I was also concerned that Gaston had not made comment, considering what I had proposed.

“Are you with me?” I asked carefully.

“Excuse me?” he said, and looked at me curiously. “I am sorry, I was trying to decide if any of them appear sober enough to be of any use to us.”The tension drained from my shoulders, and I smiled. He was a wolf.

I was truly smitten.

We borrowed a small boat from the beach and rowed to the sloop. I was sure we could have slipped on board and caused mischief for all the attention their watch appeared to spare us. That was, until we reached the side, and the head and shoulders of a man were immediately silhouetted above us.

“Who Are Ya?” the voice boomed, with a heavy brogue which had no respect for the separations usually awarded between words and syllables of the King’s English. The question had been an eerie blur of sound that only became understandable words after I concentrated and used my wits.

“Wait I Know Ya,” soon followed.

Gaston smiled.

“Greetings, Pete,” he said in English, without raising his voice above his usual husky whisper. I was surprised he could be heard with all the ruckus occurring on deck behind the listener.

“Aye Ya Be That Mad Frenchie. Ya Be The Ghoul. Gaston.” There was a note of triumph in this, as if Pete were proud of himself for remembering. “Ya Be Good.”

I was somewhat surprised that Gaston did not take offense at being referred to as a mad Frenchie. Of course, perhaps I had mistranslated. I was also curious as to why he was known as The Ghoul.

“Correct,” Gaston said to Pete. “This is my friend… Will. He needs to talk to Striker and you. Bradley sent him.”

I blinked at the shortening of my surname.

“Will?” I whispered.

Gaston shrugged apologetically. “The Brethren prefer names that can easily be shouted in battle, and no man uses his real name across the Line.”

“Ah.” I nodded. I spared it a moment’s more thought, and decided it would do nicely. I had not used a variation of my surname as an alias before.

Then I thought on what else he had said. So the man greeting us was one of the men I sought. And here I had thought I would have to do all of the talking.

“So you know them?”

“Oui.” Gaston nodded. “Our ships sailed with Mansfield. During the raids, I fought beside these men.”

We threw up a line to secure our craft. Gaston whispered to me before we climbed on board, “Striker thinks for both of them most of the time, but Pete is not as stupid as he appears. He is a genius at combat, as long as it does not involve fencing, and that is only because no one has taught him.”

We climbed aboard with that, and I got to see Pete as more than a silhouette. I managed to keep my jaw from falling agape by a sheer act of will. To say that Adonis had blessed the man would have been an unjust understatement. Adonis was personified in this man. Pete was a tanned, golden-haired god, with a long, lean muscular body and a powerfully handsome face graced by azure eyes. And it was all too evident: he was only wearing a loose pair of breeches held up by a rope belt tied low on his hips, so that golden curls could be seen at the base of his rippled stomach. The only things marring his flesh were a number of scars here and there: the type any man engaged in combat will obtain over his life. They were not detracting features. His beard, which I usually detest, was not even a detracting feature, in that it was well trimmed and curling and served to outline his jaw. At the moment, he was rewarding us with a boyish grin so intense in its radiance that I expected to hear the holy host singing on high.

“We Got Rum. Got Cake Too. Want Some?” Pete asked.

“Cake, truly?” I asked.

“Naw. No Flour. Cheesecake.”

“That will do,” I said. Pete ran into the midst of the partying men.

“He is gorgeous,” I whispered.

“Oui, I have never even seen statuary that could equal him.”

“Oui, the great masters would have given anything to have him model.”

Another man was approaching, and he momentarily drove Pete from my mind. This is to say he had an equally strong impact on my consciousness, as driving images of Pete from my mind I would have thought nigh impossible at the moment. It was only because this man looked a great deal as I supposed Shane would look as a man and not a boy, only better. He was as tall as Pete, with an equally muscular build; however, he lacked the perfection of conformation Pete possessed. The same was true of his face, which while handsome, was a little too strong in some areas and not others. His hair was ebony and hung over dark eyes; but he had light golden skin. He did not wear any more clothing than Pete.

He studied us as he approached, the trace of a frown upon his brow.

“Gaston,” he acknowledged politely and they shook hands.

“Striker. This is Will.”

I shook hands with the man. “Bradley suggested I talk with you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Concerning?”

Pete returned with a bottle and a plate of goop, which he proffered.

“Cheesecake.”

The goop did indeed smell like cheesecake, and I ate it readily. It proved to taste like cheesecake, too; and it had been months since I had eaten anything so good.

“That is truly delicious,” I said. Pete appeared pleased and offered me more. We retired farther astern, to the North Wind’s low quarterdeck, and sat to finish the cake and pass the bottle.

“I need assistance rescuing a sailor,” I said. “I have a friend on a merchant ship in the harbor. He would like to become a buccaneer. I have offered to help him. The captain has judged him at risk of fleeing and had him locked below deck.”

“Could we assume this was a close friend?” Striker asked with a knowing grin.

“Nay, we could not. I have developed a pastime of availing myself as a philanthropist or benefactor of sorts. He is spirited and ambitious, and I admired him for that and decided to help.”

Striker appeared to be somewhat incredulous, and he glanced at Gaston for his reaction. Gaston shrugged.

“When?” Striker asked.

“Tonight.”

“You are in this?” Striker asked Gaston, who nodded. “If we are seen?”

“That will not be acceptable,” I said.

“Will the bodies be missed?”

“Aye, most probably. As I will most likely kill the bo’sun even if we are not seen, my thinking is thus. She is empty of cargo. The only other person of her crew I have grown fond of is ashore tonight. I cannot see where the rest of her crew would be harmed by her loss. I harbor no true ill-will toward the captain, yet he does not own her. And the owners benefit from the selling of pressed men, which I find abhorrent.

So I am considering burning her as a diversion.” I was keen to see their reactions. As I had already relayed this to Gaston, I was not concerned about his.

Pete and Striker smiled like wolves, and I was relieved.

“Like Burnin’ Ships,” Pete grinned.

“You realize if we become lost on this path we’ll end at the gallows,”

Striker said. He did not seem to think this was likely. “Is there any money? If we’re going to burn her, we might as well rob her.”

I smiled. “If it is still aboard, the captain has a good forty pounds of my money and possibly more.”

“What did you pay him for?” Striker asked.

“A man’s contract, which I then destroyed.”

“Who the devil are you?” he asked with more suspicion.

I sighed, but met his gaze levelly. “I am the Viscount of Marsdale.

My father is the Earl of Dorshire, and he sent me here to oversee the establishment of a sugar plantation.”

The wolves studied me with unease, and glanced as one to Gaston and back again to me. Striker frowned at whatever he found on Gaston’s face, but by the time I looked to see my new companion’s reaction, his face was schooled, and he appeared to be idly watching the men at the bow. I cursed under my breath. I felt quite comfortable with him, as if we were old and true friends; but in truth I knew less of him than he probably did of me.

“We Not Be Aidin’ Planters,” Pete said and slid the cheesecake beyond my reach.

“Bradley sent you to us?” Striker asked, as if he could not fathom why.My ire flared: not necessarily at them, but at the situation I found myself in. I would not have these men think ill of me because of my damn father.