Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (33 page)

Both of our pasts were haunted with demons we did not wish to share.

“I agree. Though there are a wealth of terrors associated with the reason in question, I do not wish to discuss them; but as I think of identifiable pieces, I will relay them to you.”

“And I shall do the same,” he said solemnly. “I can add two now.

Being restrained in any way, and being trapped in a dark place.”

I was alarmed. “Do you know what Pierrot suggested to me as the best recourse when you should suffer a bout?”

He nodded grimly. “Bind me, and put me someplace until I recover, which was usually the hold.” He sighed. “He and the others before him were truly trying to protect themselves and help me. But their methods made it all the harder to recover from one, as I would always find myself plunged into a night terror there was no waking from. Yet I would rather that than die or recover to find I have done something regrettable to someone of importance to me.”

“There must be a better way.”

“Wait until I have tried to kill you before saying that,” he said with a grim smile. “Now let us see if we can sleep some more.”

“After you say something of that nature?”

He chuckled and lay down next to Striker. I slipped in between him and the wall, and was surprised to find myself drifting back to sleep.

I woke to sound all around me; and this time I knew where I was, even though my head was pounding. Gaston was awake already and sitting with his back to the gunwale, and I almost had my head on his thigh. I sat up slowly, and he handed me the water bottle again. The events of the night worked their way through my mind, and I sighed. He looked at me curiously.

“I do not wish to remember last night,” I said.

He smirked.

Pete and Striker were not in sight. A great many other men were, and many of them seemed to be talking.

“What now?” I asked.

“We are no longer in the Hole. We sailed out with the morning breeze. Now we will probably do articles, elections, and provisioning decisions, as there is no food on board ship yet, except for what any man brought for himself.” He handed me a strip of boucan.

I tested it with curiosity, and found it quite good and full of taste: not what I had expected from a piece of smoked and dried meat that resembled a strip of leather.

I spied Davey and called to him. He squinted around with his bruised eyes until he saw me and smiled. He came to sit next to us with his back to the cabin wall.

“Cleghorn said to get up here for articles,” he said. “Don’t know what that is. You?”

I looked to Gaston, who took his time swallowing and taking a sip of water before responding. “The articles are the rules of the ship for the voyage. It is a contract. Every man has a say in them, though the majority rules, and every man must sign on them showing he agrees.”

“Don’t read,” Davey said. I suppressed a sigh as I remembered that Davey had possessed little talent for learning the few times he attended the lessons I gave Fletcher and the others.

“You do not have to; they will read them aloud,” Gaston said. “Most of these men cannot read.”

“Maybe I should start a school,” I said.

Davey frowned at this, but Gaston shrugged. “There will be plenty of time.” Then he frowned. “Do you crusade for literacy?”

“Aye,” I grinned. “You think me a fool?”

“Not for teaching people to read.”

There was a call for attention from the quarterdeck, and we sat on the gunwale to have a better view. Everyone quieted down and took seats on the cannons, gunwales, and about the deck, until all were looking up at Bradley, who stood at the center of the quarterdeck rail. I noticed with interest that Bradley, and Siegfried beside him, were now dressed no differently from any other man on board. Striker and Pete appeared, and lounged on the rail near Bradley. They were immediately above us. I could have grabbed Striker by the leg if I wanted to.

Bradley said, “Most of you are known to me, but some are not.

This is the North Wind and she is my ship. Therefore, unless I fail in my duties as Captain and the majority decides I am unfit to command, there will be no election for Captain. Is this understood by all?”

I counted sixty-six men while he talked.

A ripple of “ayes” ran the length of the ship, which I joined. I glanced at Gaston. He shrugged.

“We will sail, no prey, no pay,” Bradley continued. “Does everyone understand this?”

We all assented, though Davey looked at me with confusion and I had to quickly explain: “If we do not capture a prize or any booty, none of us receives any money.”

“Now then, as to course,” Bradley said. “Our intent, that is mine and that of the remaining men from the last crew, is to sail in search of the Flota this season; and if we have no luck there, then the Galleons. Is that agreeable to all?”

There was a chorus of guffaws and “ayes”, but one man said, “What about raiding?”

“This ship does not have a commission for raiding, and we are but one. I believe Morgan will be organizing a fleet for raiding this winter,”

Bradley responded.

This brought a round of cheers, and he waited until they quieted. I was not sure if this was in response to the possibility of raiding or the mention of Morgan’s name. I hoped it was the former and not the latter.

Bradley went on, “And I believe I heard a majority on the Spanish treasure fleet. Does anyone else have an objection?” There was no response and he continued. “It has been suggested that we do a little raiding to provision, though.” This brought laughter and cheering, and people suggested locations. “Good. I do not like to provision on credit from the cutthroats of this port, as a ship could be in debt for an entire prize and the men drinking nothing but watered rum and eating mealy beef.” More laughter and cheering. “Though we are out for two hundred pieces of eight for a new sail and rigging and some shot for the cannon, and that will be recompensed from any prize monies.” No one seemed bothered by this. “Now, on to elections and articles. Which first?”

There was a great deal of yelling, but even I could tell the elections were the clear winner.

“All right, then.” Bradley smiled. “I know of no other surgeon on board, so I say Cleghorn. Is this acceptable?” There was a great deal of assent and no dissent. Gaston said nothing, and neither did I; though Davey cheered loudly. I would have liked to hear the man’s remedy for the flux, but with only one surgeon on board, there would be no choosing.

Cleghorn was a thin little man with large eyes and a small chin. He shrugged agreeably and obviously didn’t cherish the attention, which earned him some goodwill on my part.

Bradley moved on. “I know of only one man who can bring this ship in to kiss galleon arse in a reaching wind, so I say the Bard for master of sail. Is this suitable to all?” A unanimous “aye” and even Gaston joined in quietly.

I glanced at Gaston.

“He is famous,” Gaston whispered. “One of the best pilots.”

The Bard was a tall, lean man with an almost gaunt face and a sardonic mien. As Cleghorn had before him, he looked somewhat embarrassed with the attention.

“Why is he called the Bard?” I asked.

“I do not know.” Gaston shrugged.

“Those were the easy ones,” Bradley said, and there was laughter.

“Now it gets hard. Our last carpenter died; who here thinks they are capable?” Several men called out and stated their qualifications, and then were questioned in detail by Bradley and the Bard. This took a while; and though I listened, it did not seem something I could really have an opinion about, as I knew nothing of the subject.

Davey was looking around and studying the rigging overhead. I asked him, “How many men does it take to sail a vessel of this type?”

“She’s a sloop. Six with watches, I would say. I was wonderin’ what the rest of us do. Only need eight or so for the guns ’less you were goin’

to have big crews or fire both sides at once.”

“Board ships, hunt, careen, raid,” Gaston answered.

“So we’re marines then,” Davey said, as if this suddenly made everything make sense. Then his face fell. “I don’t know anything about fighting.”

Gaston and I exchanged a look.

“You will learn that before you learn how to read,” Gaston said. I nodded agreement.

“Pete bought me a musket and lots of shot so I could practice,”

Davey said. “Said he’d teach me.”

“Good,” I said. “I think there are a few things I would have him teach me.” Oddly, this earned me a frown from Gaston.

The captain was calling for a vote again, and we paid attention long enough to give our half-hearted support for the man everyone else seemed to like the most. I felt guilty, as that was not the way one should participate in a democratic process. I vowed to do better with the next, until the captain announced it would be for ship’s cook. Then I despaired, as this was also not a thing I cared greatly about.

“We need one who will be amenable to boiling drinking water,”

Gaston said.

“How the Hell are we to determine that?” I asked.

The whole crew was involved in questioning the three men who stepped forward. Many of them seemed not to like the fellow who had held the position before, and he proved to be quite surly about it. I supposed it was this flaw and not his cooking that caused their dislike.

It was obvious he would not be elected. The second seemed as surly as the first and answered several questions about how he cooked with

“you’ll bloody well learn to like it,” which seemed a damn strange way of trying to get elected for something. Perhaps he did not want the job. The third man was an agreeable, portly chap who had been a tavern keep.

“I think this last fellow looks good,” I commented.

Gaston deigned to move himself from the gunwale long enough to look at the three. I pointed to the tavern keep and he shook his head.

“No one trusts a fat cook when the provisions are low. Either he has not been roving long enough to know what to do, or he has been filching.”

I supposed he had a point, and watched with amazement as the surly second man got the job. Then he immediately made the tavern keep his assistant, and everyone seemed happy.

“All right, on to the last position we need to fill, quartermaster,”

Bradley called. Everyone settled down.

I whispered to Gaston, “What does the quartermaster do?”

“Leads boarding parties, sails prizes to port, settles disputes, metes out punishment.”

“So this would be the first officer in some ways?”

“Oui.” There was a spark of amusement in his green eyes, and I wondered at it.

“I nominate Cudro,” a man said from near the bow. I looked forward to see several hands pointing at a large man with a stern mien, square jaw, and a barrel for a chest. He looked older than Bradley.

Gaston stepped forward to glance around the men on the cannon again, swore in French, and finally said intelligibly, “I hate that bastard.

I wish I had known he was aboard.”

“We nominate Hastings,” another group near the mast cried out.

This man was also a bit older, but he was slim and wiry, with a knowing smile and a patch over his left eye.

“Do we know him?” I asked.

Gaston shook his head. “It matters not, as we know one other.”

I regarded him quizzically and he pointed to the quarterdeck.

“I nominate Striker,” the Bard said. Now I was very interested, as what had seemed merely an egalitarian exercise took on political overtones and personal meaning. Gaston smirked as the new understanding lit my face.

There was a great deal of discussion. It was hushed as the candidates were asked to state their qualifications. Cudro had been a Dutch merchant captain and sailed as quartermaster on a number of French privateers. Hastings had been an English Navy officer and served as quartermaster on an English privateer. I was beginning to despair for Striker, and then he spoke: revealing, to me at least since it was a known fact to most of the men on the ship, that he had been an officer on the pirate vessel in the North Sea when he was seventeen and he had sailed prizes for Myngs, as a captain, and been quartermaster on the North Wind the last five times she sailed.

“I am curious,” Hastings called up to Striker. “Perhaps you would indulge me. With your record, why haven’t you had your own ship?”

“I haven’t found one worth the bloody effort,” Striker said with a grin. This brought a round of laughter from all but the men supporting the other candidates. “Except for this fine ship,” Striker added, “but I haven’t been able to talk Bradley into selling her yet.” That brought more cheers. “Why haven’t you?” Striker asked Hastings when it died down.

Hastings smirked. “I haven’t been sailing as a free man long enough to have the money.” Many of the men nodded in agreement with this, as it apparently seemed a reasonable answer to them.

“And you, Cudro? Why are you not a captain again?” Striker asked.

“Like you, the opportunity has not presented itself,” Cudro boomed in a voice easily heard the length of the ship – and, I guessed, across the cay. He had not been shouting. With that degree of projection, if he possessed good pitch it was a waste that he was not singing opera.

“Because no one will sail with him twice,” Gaston hissed with disgust.

I stepped out and asked. “Why so many ships, Mister Cudro? Are you easily bored, or were you not welcomed back?” This initiated a round of hushed whispers, as the man had named six ships he had sailed on.

“As I said,” Cudro boomed, “I’ve been seeking opportunities.”

“So your only aim is booty and you care not for service to your fellow buccaneers?” I asked.

“I did not say that,” he roared.

“Nay, that is why I asked,” I said, wishing I had a deeper voice.

“I know what Striker is willing to do for a fellow man without offer of recompense.”

The seed had been planted and taken root, and I could see the heads nodding in agreement and hear the occasional snippet of an anecdote mentioning Striker. Cudro was furious, and he sat down. Hastings was watching me with interest. I raised an eyebrow and he waved me off with a grin that said he would not take me on.