Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (27 page)

Gaston’s fingers were on my forehead and then the side of my neck.

“You are not fevered.”

“Thank the Gods. I am rarely ill, truly.”

I heard Striker swear quietly.

I tried to sit up. Gaston pulled the oar out of my hands and bade me sit still with a gentle touch. The wolves commenced rowing again.

“Do you need…?” Gaston began to ask.

“Non,” I said quickly. I did not even wish to imagine them balancing the boat while I hung my arse off the side.

“Drink,” he whispered and handed me his water skin.

I drained it.

Gaston was still concerned.

“When did it begin?” he asked in French.

“Today.”

“Have you been feverish?”

I wished to say no. “I have found it intolerably hot all day, and yesterday, and blamed it upon the tropical climate.”

He nodded soberly. “You are worse than I assumed. I am sorry. It need not kill you, though. I will care for you.”

I returned his nod in kind. “Thank you.”

Not only did I believe he would, I believed he could. As chilling as the idea was that I was truly ill, I was greatly warmed by the knowledge that he wished to care for me.

The few men aboard the North Wind greeted us as we rowed up.

They had all been distracted from their drinking by the explosion, but none had stirred themselves to leave the ship and go in search of information. This was probably in the best interests of all concerned, because the men were drunk. Striker informed them Pete and he had gone ashore in search of cheesecake, but the bakery was closed. Very few of them remembered that Gaston and I had even been on board before, fewer still would probably realize Davey had not been there with us. As possibly none of them would remember much of the night at all, it mattered little. However, Pete and Striker went amongst them to tell what they had supposedly heard in the streets about the explosion.

Thus the way was safe for Gaston and me to get Davey, and the one thing that would surely sober a bunch of drunken pirates, the cash box, into the aft cabin.

I closed the door behind us, and leaned on it with a sigh of relief

– which immediately turned to a quiet growl of annoyance. The room was dark, the leaded windows along the stern doing little to illuminate anything at night. I could only guess at the location of a lantern. Gaston was far more knowledgeable about the logical places to keep lanterns in a ship’s cabin, or he had spied one before the door closed, because he lit one a moment later. I sighed with relief again.

The room was very small and the ceiling low. It was furnished with a bunk along one wall and a table with two chairs on the other. Davey gingerly lowered himself into a chair. I crossed slowly to the other and sat, as my legs felt quite weak. Gaston considered the cash box he had placed on the table.

“Did you have to kill anyone?” I asked.

“We did not have to,” he said distractedly, as he pried the hinges loose on the back of the box, effectively opening it without touching the lock.

I chuckled. “Did you anyway?”

His lip quirked. “We encountered two men who were observant and therefore not destined for a long life under the circumstances. And you?”

“The bo’sun.”

Davey had been frowning at both of us. “You killed the bo’sun?”

“Nay, Pete did.” I said.

“Good,” Davey said with a slow nod.

I considered him in the lamp light. He looked far worse than he had in the dark, which was of course to be expected. He was filthy and haggard and he had been soundly beaten. Both eyes were bruised and swollen, his lip was split, and there was a gash on his cheek and another along his jaw. I imagined his clothing hid worse.

“If I had seen the extent of your injuries before he died, I would have saved him for a slower death.”

He smiled weakly. “That woulda been good.”

“I daresay you will need a surgeon.”

Gaston shrugged. “Non. He will live. None of his wounds look so bad as to require stitching. I am sure he can rest below.” He began to stack coins in countable piles.

I supposed he was correct. I had oft been far better off when wounded to not have some physician attempting to readjust my humors through bleeding or some strange concoction. I had just assumed the wounds were of a sufficient nature to require a surgeon’s attention; but now that I looked at Davey anew, I saw Gaston to be correct. Davey was not bleeding. The more I thought on it, the more I realized that the bo’sun had inflicted his damage for pain and show. He would not have wanted to injure Davey so that he could not work on the return voyage.

Davey’s eyes got big as he considered the money. “I’m fine, sir.”

Gaston paused to frown at him.

“What are the rules amongst the buccaneers for addressing a superior?” I asked.

“I am not his superior,” Gaston said. “And there are no rules. Men are usually respectful of a captain, once we are at sea and he has been elected, or if it is his ship.”

The mention of an election was intriguing, but in thinking of that question I remembered an earlier one. “What coast are the Brethren the brethren of?”

Gaston frowned at me and then smiled. “The Haiti of Hispaniola. The high country and northwest coast along the passage.”

The wolves crammed themselves into the cabin with us. They stood in awe for a moment at the amount of coin on the table. I regarded it.

There had been far more in the box than I had guessed. There was gold amongst the silver.

“Damn…” Striker said appreciatively. “This is a fine end to a night’s amusement.”

Pete fingered a coin. In the harsh lamplight I noticed a T branded in his palm. He was a convicted thief. He grinned with predatory splendor, the lamp-lit gold reflecting in his eyes. He tossed the coin onto the table and turned to haul me off the chair and to my feet in a great embrace.

“ILike Ya. I Like Ya Lots.” He dropped me and descended on Davey, who had the good sense to look panicked as he saw me trying to catch my breath. Pete stopped short of him and squatted to eye the wounds.

“Like Ya More Than Him. Won’tTouch Ya Though. Ya Need Rum.” He handed Davey a bottle. Davey winced at the first taste but quickly took a second swig.

Striker was making rapid calculations based on Gaston’s piles.

“There’s more than a hundred.”

“Pieces Of Eight?” Pete asked. “Good.”

“Half the coin is pieces, but I meant pounds,” Striker said.

“Damn,” Pete said thoughtfully.

“That would be around four hundred pieces of eight,” I said. “With five shares, that is eighty pieces each, or twenty pounds.”

Davey had very big eyes, and he took another drink.

“I have never seen that much money,” he muttered.

I supposed he had not. I wondered why the captain had carried so much; and then I realized it was probably a good part of the amount he would have used to procure cargo here in Port Royal, though I assumed some of those transactions would be conducted with letters of credit.

Striker helped Gaston divide the different currencies into five equal piles: first pieces of eight, then shillings, then odd currencies. Since not all of the coinage was evenly divisible by five, they decided on their own exchange rates and evened out the piles in terms of value.

I was impressed; I did not believe I could have done a swifter or more competent job of it.

As there was actually a little over a hundred, we each chose a pile that roughly equaled twenty-three pounds. I was pleased. I had little left of what my father had given me, and any additional money was welcome indeed.

Striker dug around in a chest on the wall and produced bags for us to scoop our booty into. I noticed with some amusement that Striker scooped almost all of Pete’s share in with his own. He handed Pete ten or so small coins, and Pete seemed content with this.

Striker eyed Davey. “You will have to stay on board, and below deck, until we sail. We’ll see to buying your weapons and the like on the morrow. You can reimburse us.”

“Whatever ya think best.” Davey nodded soberly. “So I will truly sail with you?”

“Aye.”

“When?”

“Day after tomorrow.” Striker grinned. “We’re after the Flota, and if we don’t catch one of them, then the Galleons a month or so later. We should be at sea three or four months.”

“No matter to me. I haven’t been on land in two years,” Davey said.

“Ya Wanna Walk On Shore?” Pete asked.

Davey chuckled. “Aye, I would at that. Just for a time.” He stood slowly. His eyes met mine. “Thank you. I haven’t said that yet. I’m sorry, but thank you. Not that you didn’t get something out of it all, but…”

I sighed and shrugged cordially. I had been prepared to say something properly polite and emotional, but after his last bit of cynicism, I decided I did not want to tell him he was always welcome.

First he had not believed I would show, and now he thought I had the ulterior motive of the money. It was disheartening, and protestation would gain me nothing. I hoped the others did not feel as he did.

Gaston glared at Davey, who avoided his gaze. My spirits were raised. At least one man in the cabin understood I had not done it for the money. And he had not, either. He had joined me merely because I asked. He had sought me out this night. He had chosen to make my acquaintance the day before. He was as much a wolf as I. He had said he would care for me in my ailment. And now he had the greenest eyes gazing at me from that black mask. The idiotic schoolboy thoughts I had harbored began to frolic once again in my head.

He looked away with embarrassment. My heart cramped near as hard as my bowels. There was an ugly sound somewhere deep in my mind, and I was sure it was the ghost of Shane’s scornful laughter.

Pete led Davey out, and Striker rummaged in the same chest in which he had found the bags and produced a bottle of good Madeira.

I wondered whose cabin we were in. Striker seemed very free with its contents. He lounged on the bunk and took a pull. Gaston took the chair Davey had vacated.

“You sail the day after tomorrow?” Gaston asked.

Striker nodded. “We’ll crew up… today really. Sail tomorrow. Articles the morning after, once we’re out of the Hole.”

I sighed, though Bradley had told me much the same about the nearness of their sailing. It was very soon.

Striker drew my attention sharply to him, especially after I realized he wasn’t speaking to me. “Are you thinking of joining us? I thought you sailed with Pierrot on the Josephine.”

I realized the French captain I had met in the Three Tunns was Gaston’s captain.

“I do,” Gaston said. “But he is not sure when he will sail, and I grow weary of doing nothing. Would I be welcome?”

My heart soared and pounded and I found it hard to keep a grin from my face. Perhaps it was as he dissembled; but I found that hard to believe in light of his other actions concerning my person. He did not want to lose contact with me.

Striker studied him. “You’re mad. Bradley saw the incident at Granada.”

At first this statement confused me. Then Gaston looked away sharply to glare at the windows. I realized Striker was actually saying Gaston was insane, not that Gaston was mad for wishing to sail with them. Once again my heart was gripped by cramps similar to my bowels. My new friend was not denying it.

“I suffer from bouts of… anger,” Gaston said.

“Aye, you become a dangerous raving lunatic,” Striker said. “But as I see it, no crew you’ve sailed with so far has marooned you or thrown you overboard, so you must be worth the trouble. And from what I saw of how you fight, I judge you to be worth the trouble. Besides, someone should come with us to look after Lord Will here.”

For the briefest of moments, I seriously considered shooting him. I could tell Gaston was thinking the same thing. Then he glanced in my direction, only to look away quickly with embarrassment. Striker noticed this, and he smirked at me.

“You are a brave man,” I told him.

Striker chuckled. “I prefer to think of myself as foolhardy rather than courageous.”

“You should be careful; you do not have Pete here to back you,”

Gaston rumbled.

“Ouch,” Striker hissed with only partially feigned injury. Then he sobered and shrugged. “’Tis true though. I should keep a firmer hold on my tongue. You’re damn fast and Will there would no doubt back you.

But if Pete were here I would kick your arses.” He grinned.

I had to chuckle. “At least you know where your strengths lie.”

“Aye, I lie with him.”

To see a man such as Striker say such a thing so openly was a wonder to me. There were things I wished to ask, but years of habit held my tongue.

Gaston stood and left the room. Striker appeared alarmed. I gave him a helpless shrug and followed Gaston.

Dawn had been creeping up on us, and I emerged into a world of muted light. Except for the call of gulls, all was muffled by the predawn grey. There were more men aboard than there were before; and they were spread out all over the deck, both singly and in pairs. Their sounds too were muted, as if they took a cue from the light in their lack of definition.

I found Gaston gathering his musket from the place where Pete had stowed it for him. He did not meet my gaze. I wished to know what the matter was, but I dared not ask with so many strangers eyeing us curiously. Instead I followed him about like a loyal dog, as he went to the rail and looked over the side for something, presumably a boat. Pete and Davey had not returned with the one we used earlier, but I was sure all of the men arriving recently must have come out on something.

Striker caught up with us.

“Will we see you then?” he asked me, as Gaston would not look at him.“I do not know. We,” and I put a touch of emphasis on the word,

“must discuss it. Will you see to Davey’s equipping?”

“Aye. You would be welcome. Both of you. I did not mean to rile you.”

Gaston nodded, still without regarding him. Striker clapped my shoulder. “I hope to see you both. Knowing you has already proven entertaining and lucrative.”

“Thank you for your assistance, and I have been honored to make your acquaintance.”