Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (36 page)

“We’ll have to, not enough barrels anyway,” Otter said.

Cudro sneered and addressed Gaston in French. He kept his tone jocular, as if he were discussing the weather. “Will your new friend be helping? I see you finally became lonely enough. Now we can finally see what it is you want in a man, though I can’t imagine one such as that wanting the likes of you. Or has he seen you yet?”

Gaston was very still, and I could feel the tension through his spine.

I kept all expression off my face save mild curiosity, as if I did not speak French. This is what Cudro was obviously assuming. The Scotsman and his matelot apparently did not speak the language: after some mild curiosity of their own, they turned to examining barrels. It could also be assumed that no one else in the hold spoke the language, either.

“Probably a good idea to move fast,” Cudro continued. “I hear he’s sickly and new here. Cleghorn thinks he won’t survive seasoning. But to jump a man who doesn’t know a thing about you seems unfair.”

As usual, I reached a point where I could no longer hold my tongue.

“I feel I know him well enough,” I said in French. I pushed myself up and moved so that I was kneeling on the other side of Gaston, where I would not hinder his blade if he should need to draw it. I let my arm drape across his shoulders, with the pistol dangling negligently beside him. “And I am not on my deathbed. I truly feel I should take issue with Cleghorn concerning that.”

Cudro sucked wind like a wounded boar, and his face froze in surprise. Gaston grinned. It was not a nice grin.

“I am sure there will be enough time for other matters once we careen,” Gaston said.

“I don’t wish to fight you,” Cudro said in English. This and the overall change in mood had the Scotsman’s and his matelot’s attention, along with that of the other men in the hold. Their quiet conversation ceased.

I sat still and wondered if Gaston would force the issue. As of yet, this was his quarrel and not mine.

“Then you can apologize,” Gaston said in English.

“What’d he say?” Liam asked.

That, I felt I could and should address. “He said he thought it was unfair that Gaston should take advantage of me when I am sickly and possibly dying by entering into a relationship with me when, according to this gentleman, my matelot has much to hide. He also wondered why someone like myself, whatever that may imply, would possibly want Gaston, and …” I looked at Gaston innocently, “did I miss anything?”

“Nay, not of what he should apologize for this day. The past is another matter, though; and we will settle that someday, but not on account of this. Unless you find that unacceptable?” Gaston asked me.

“I will be satisfied in this matter if you are satisfied.” I grinned.

Cudro looked to Liam and Otter for support, and found cold eyes and frowns. The big man underwent an apparent reconsideration of his current place in the world and in the eyes of his peers.

He addressed us with a mien that approached humility but did not quite attain it. “I apologize for any insult you may have perceived from my comments.” His words, too, approached an apology but did not quite attain it, either. Just as his original slurs had been very close to insults, but not enough to make most men pull a piece on him. The big Dutchman was very clever, and I was impressed in spite of my dislike for him.

Gaston continued to stare at him. For my part, I sighed with less-than-subtle impatience.

“What more would you have me say?” Cudro asked.

Gaston did not blink.

“May I?” I asked.

Gaston nodded.

“I would have you apologize for the intent behind your words, as that is what I perceived as insulting.”

Gaston nodded again.

Cudro’s lip quirked for a moment. “I meant you no…”

We cut him off with shakes of our heads.

His lip twitched again. “I am sorry I insulted you.”

I grimaced and held up my left hand with the thumb and forefinger held close together but not touching. This time I heard his quiet curse.

“I apologize for attempting to insult you.”

“Aye, I am sure you regret it now,” I said, and Gaston smirked. “I believe I can speak for both of us in saying that we accept your apology, but we have no intention of forgiving you.” Gaston nodded agreeably.

The big Dutchman snorted and left the hold. Liam and his matelot turned to us after watching him depart.

“You should probably kill him,” Otter said quietly.

“I intend to,” Gaston said.

“So, then, I should tell the captain you two’ll be in on the boucan making?” Liam asked as if the whole other conversation had not occurred.

“Aye,” Gaston said. They began to leave.

“Should we be taking this?” Liam indicated the lantern.

“Aye,” Gaston said.

They departed, and we were plunged into semi-darkness. There was only the flicker of the lone lantern at the stern of the hold. The other conversation resumed, somewhere in the shadows. I could not make out the words.

I realized I still had an arm across Gaston’s shoulders and we were very close. I was almost pressed against his side. I removed my arm.

“Non,” he whispered.

I replaced my arm. He sighed. We sat that way in silence for a time.

I did nothing to dispel it, as it was nice to touch him and, as I had come to find earlier, I needed to touch someone.

“Cudro was enamored with me when first we met,” he whispered.

“I rejected him repeatedly, until his affection turned to something else.

Since then, he has always been cleverly insulting and…” He took a long breath, and was slow to start talking again. “He knows some of my weaknesses, and he, with intent and malice, once endeavored to set me upon one of my bouts. He succeeded. I tried to kill him, and was stopped by other crewmembers. At which point they allowed him to beat me soundly. I left that ship at the next port. I would have had no recourse there, except to take them all on. I began sailing with Pierrot after that.”

I was furious. “Now I want to kill him.”

He snorted with wry amusement. “He is mine.”

“You have far more discipline and restraint than I.”

“Do I?”

“Truly.” I was being honest, except for one notable exception in my history. I squeezed his shoulder, and he moved into me a little. We sat like that for a while longer; and I was torn between contentment and smoldering anger over what had been done to him.

“Gaston? Will? Ya Down’ Ere?” a familiar voice asked from the hatch.

“Aye,” we said in unison.

There was a pause. “Should I Go?”

I wanted to say “aye” but Gaston had already slipped away from me to stand.

“Nay, we are coming,” he said. I felt a tap on my forehead and I reached up to find his hand. He pulled me to my feet, and we joined Pete at the hatch.

“Captain Wants Talk Boucan.”

I followed and listened to an hour of discussion about when hogs could be slaughtered in relation to creating boucan and salting. I would not have thought the matter of victuals to be so damned complex, but then I remembered every officer I ever met speaking of an army moving on its stomach.

Knowing someone would tell me what to do when it was necessary for me to do something, I curled up in the corner of our alcove and tried to doze again. Instead I found myself watching the stars and the sail against them. There were millions of them, and I found my eye drawn to constellations I had learned over the years; and then I was naming the stars I knew. Sometime later the conversation stopped, and Gaston eclipsed the stars until he came to lie beside me. I pointed to the last three stars I could name, and he named them. And so we lay there looking at the heavens and recounting the myths behind the constellations as we had heard them, until I was finally tired enough to sleep again.

I rolled onto my side with my back against the wall, my head at the gunwale and a pistol and my rapier in reach. He followed my lead and even scooted closer to me, so that we were almost touching. And so I lay there feeling very cozy and safe from harm. I slept deeply.

The next morning, we continued to beat upwind toward Hispaniola.

As the prevailing winds in the West Indies are the trades running east to west, any ship attempting to sail east must fight them. The North Wind was a fore-and-aft-rigged sloop, so she could make far better work of beating upwind than the King’s Hope or another square-rigged vessel would have been able to. Still, it was estimated it would take a good sevenday to reach the place the swine farm supposedly resided. I hoped the hog farm would actually be where it was said to be, lest the crew eat the poor bastard who suggested it.

As we did not wish to share it, Gaston and I ate sparingly and secretively of the boucan he had cleverly insisted we bring. Our alcove-mates were not sitting about with growling bellies either, so I assumed they had their own cache of victuals. I had depleted our bottles of clean water, though. There was an adequate supply aboard, as the captain had seen fit to lay on several casks in Port Royal. However, it was not boiled, and we doubted we would be able to talk the cook into performing this service. I was forced to drink it as it was.

That morning, everyone aboard began a routine that was familiar to them. Gaston explained what we were about, and I joined in. We all saw to our weapons. The damn humid air was hell on powder, and there was no good way to keep it fully dry. Additionally, the salt spray was hard on the wood and metal parts; and they had be kept clean and oiled. So firearms were checked for fouling and cleaned every day. Shots rang out as men discharged and reloaded their pistols. We did not keep the muskets loaded, so we did not to have to waste the shot and powder the constant discharging and cleaning would require to maintain their readiness. Our pistols were another matter, though. I was amused to note that most kept one loaded and with them at all times. Since I doubted the sharks would jump on deck and molest us, I knew there was a small lack of trust among us all. Or perhaps it was habit, and we were truly showing a great deal of trust to our fellow Brethren by only carrying one loaded weapon apiece.

Cutlasses and knives were cleaned and sharpened next. Then those of us near cannon gave them a cursory inspection, to insure their carriages had not become blocked and they were in overall readiness.

Meanwhile, the men who knew rigging and all manner of seaworthy things inspected the craft. Then buckets of seawater were brought up, and we swabbed our areas to keep the wood moist and clean before the heat of the noonday sun took hold.

In the midst of this, I learned another thing of note. The buccaneers did not keep the hideous four-hour watches other ships maintained.

Gaston explained that with so many men, those who wished to work beyond their daily chores could, and those that wished to do nothing could do that as well, as there was not enough work to go around to keep all of us busy. As for command of the ship, it rotated among Bradley, the Bard, and Striker, based upon whichever of them was the least tired. I was amused to hear that the master of sail was generally in command of a buccaneer vessel, unless he was asleep or there was battle.

Even after most of the cleaning and the like had been accomplished, I continued to hear steady firing. I stood to look across the quarterdeck, and spied Davey and Pete at the stern rail firing their muskets.

“Are you any good?” Gaston asked, and I regarded him sharply. He was grinning as he handed me my musket.

I chuckled. “I believe I am proficient.”

“Merely proficient,” he teased.

“Would you prefer I give myself airs?” I asked as I followed him to join Pete and Davey.

“Non, if the need arises I will brag for you. It would be best if I had reason to brag, though.”

I laughed. “Afraid I will embarrass you?”

His smile was challenging. We began to load our muskets. I had not fired this new piece, and I deferred to Gaston as to the correct amount of powder.

“I have little doubt as to my ability to hit a target,” I said. “But I have been told my speed at reloading is somewhat deficient. Of course this remark was made by a barrister, and therefore I know not how much weight to award it. I also have not tried reloading with a cartouche.”

He was patient in his instruction, and I managed to roll my own package of shot, powder and paper, and then get it properly into the musket. I would need a great deal of practice. This bothered me little, as I had always found improving my prowess with weapons to be both an enjoyable and very necessary pastime.

Davey was firing at a small wine cask tied to the stern. It had been let out to a distance of a score of feet or so. I did not think it would pose much of a challenge, even as it bounced about in our wake. It was proving a difficult target for Davey, though; and I wondered at this until, feeling the fool, I remembered he had never fired a weapon before.

I did not envy Pete the job of teaching Davey, until I saw that instructing the sailor about something as simple as firearms was far easier than trying to impart to him knowledge of anything conceptual.

And Pete was the perfect teacher, as he did not offer instruction on any irrelevant matter that was not required to the task at hand. Under his tutelage, Davey managed to hit the target three times out of twelve. But after those successes, it was obvious there would be no more in this practice session: he was not accustomed to the recoil and had become sore. Also, a small crowd had gathered, which was making him quite nervous.

I was not pleased with the onlookers, either, as they included Bradley, Siegfried, Liam, Ottter, the Bard, Cleghorn, Striker, and of course Pete, Davey, and my matelot. I decided to ignore all but Gaston.

“You can let the cask out a little,” I said.

“Let’s see if you can hit it first,” Bradley said.

“Are you doubting me, sir?”

“Aye.” He grinned.

I snapped my piece to my shoulder, aimed, prayed there were no unknown deficiencies in my musket, and fired. The Fates smiled upon me; and by sheer luck, my shot snapped the twine at the knot and the little cask began to fall behind. I could not have duplicated the hit if I had fired a hundred times.