Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (71 page)

I regretted my goading.

“Dickey,” I said quietly, “you do not have to….”

“Nay,” he said with a defiant jut of his chin. “I do. And you are correct, what will I do whilst everyone is gone? And we do have many months to account for, and no money to idle them away with. It is best I do something.” He looked about and gestured flamboyantly. “I suppose we shall be sleeping on deck beneath the stars.”

This brought chuckling from those still standing about.

“Aye,” the Bard said. “There are few aboard now, and a great deal of space to choose from.”

“Gah,” I said, realizing we needed to stake out a space, as Pete and Striker would be taking the Captain’s cabin. Then I realized that, like the King’s Hope, this Mayflower had two small cabins on either side of the steerage.

“I would assume the main cabins will be reserved for… officers…

once elected,” Belfry said hesitantly before I could say anything.

“Aye,” Striker said. “The captain, quartermaster, master of sail, surgeon, gunner, since we’ll need one, and anyone they favor to share with.”

“I have that one,” the Bard said and hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the starboard cabin. “Usually I share the quarterdeck with my helmsmen and the surgeon. Cleghorn has said he will not sail on this voyage, and two of my usual men are dead; so I have offered to share with Tom, and I’m sure we can fit two more in.” He looked pointedly at Belfry and Dickey.

“We would be much obliged,” Belfry said.

“As I am not a helmsmen or a surgeon or what have you,” Dickey said, and looked oddly at Belfry; and I understood his consternation.

They were business partners and not matelots, and I surmised he did not want anyone to become confused on the issue. “I should perhaps find other accommodations.”

I was about to intercede when Pete told me,

“You Two Can Share With Us.”

“That would be…” I looked to Gaston and found him frowning at the Bard. So was Striker.

“Hold,” Striker said. “Cleghorn will not be sailing?”

“He says he has no heart for it for the time being,” the Bard said.

Striker looked to Gaston without word or even expression. My matelot seemed to withdraw in on himself and he was studying his hands. He said something only Striker could hear, and Striker nodded. I quickly joined them on the quarterdeck.

“I will do it,” Gaston whispered, when I was in range to hear him.

I was not sure if I should show my pleasure over this or not.

“I am pleased,” I said with some restraint.

He regarded me, and the hard lines of resignation about his countenance melted to curiosity. “Why?”

“It takes far more to build than to destroy.”

“Healing is repairing, not building.”

I shrugged. “I think it is good for you.”

“As do I.” He looked back to his hands and frowned at them, as if he did not understand what fascination they held.

I patted his shoulder and addressed Striker, who was watching us with guarded concern. “Pete has offered to share your cabin.”

Striker thought on it for a moment, and nodded. “I am in agreement with that, if we get a cabin.”

“If you do not get a cabin, we will not sail.”

He frowned and nodded. “Nay, we will not.” He regarded the ship before us. “I want this, Will. If I do not win the election, I will buy my own ship. I find I no longer have an interest in sailing under another just to sail.”

I smiled at him. “Good.”

I noticed the Bard looking up at us from where he still sat on the steps. He was the only other who could have heard our exchange. He was smiling, and not sardonically or in any mocking fashion. Striker looked at him.

“I’ll sail with you,” the Bard said.

“I am honored,” Striker replied.

“As well you should be.” the Bard grinned. “Now, you have seen her.

What think you? We heard the cursing.”

They quickly listed repairs the ship should have, and her numerous apparent problems that could not be fixed but must be endured. As I understood one word in three, I threw my arm around Gaston, and watched Pete and Liam explain the finer points of buccaneer dress to an enthusiastic but confused Belfrey and an appalled Dickey. As Gaston was not chuckling at the particularly amusing statements, I squeezed his shoulders and inquired in French, “Are you well?”

He shook himself from his reverie. “Oui. I am sorry. I… Last night.”

I looked at him sharply. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Non. I enjoyed it. It is just that it resurrected some fragment of memory from…

I dreamt. I cannot remember it clearly.”

I thought of a number of relatively stupid things I could say, and settled for kissing his temple. He turned his head to regard me for a moment, and seemed on the verge of speech. He finally smiled, and taking my hand, led me on our own leisurely inspection of the Mayflower.

The ship was old and smelled a great deal of fish below deck.

Thankfully this was not true of the master cabin, which had a set of leaded windows. Oft opened as they were now, I garnered they did much to air the room and keep it fresher than the hold. The cabin was as wide as the stern, a good fourteen feet and as deep as eight at some points.

It appeared to have the same accoutrements all master cabins had.

There was a desk along one wall, and along the other a bunk, and ample storage space and anchorage for hammocks.

Gaston closed the door and herded me toward the bunk, until my knees buckled and I sat upon it. Bemused, I chuckled as he pushed me all the way back and sat astride my hips. He appeared very serious, earnest really, and his mouth wiped the grin from my face as his hands slipped beneath my tunic to trace along my ribs and find my nipples. I clutched at his shoulders and groaned. I liked this aggressive stance he was taking, and he was not blind in leading me anywhere.

Then he stopped and sat back to doff his baldric and belt. Panting, I watched with anticipation. He dropped his weapons on the far end of the bed, and then flopped down so he was on his back beside me. He had not been grinning or even looking upon me at that moment. My cock, which had just begun to spring to life, was horribly confused at the sudden lack of heat and pressure. I was torn between concern and bemusement. I twisted onto my elbow to regard him. He was staring at the ceiling with deep concentration.

“Excuse me,” I said teasingly, “but what the Devil was that?”

“An experiment,” he whispered, eyes still on the ceiling and a frown across his brow. “I was trying to discover more of the memory. Being astride you in that fashion, doing as I did, was part of it somehow; and I have discovered I am uncomfortable with that.”

“So you are not prone to continue that which you started?”

He shook his head, and his eyes met mine. He frowned, this time at me and not the mental will-o-wisp he had been pursuing.

“I aroused you, non?”

“Oui. You gave great promise of entertainment for a minute there.

And while I appreciate…”

He grinned and snaked an arm behind my head to pull my mouth to his. I kissed him as deeply as he had me a moment before, and he responded graciously but without passion. I relieved myself of my pistol and rolled onto my elbows atop him, with one leg between his own. His hands found my chest, and I thought he would push me off; instead they slipped below my tunic again to play and tease. A moment later, I was earnestly humping the hollow of his hip. He urged me on in his fashion, and did not even offer complaint when I pushed my leg well up between and under his so that his left leg was curled over my hip. It was the closest to a true sexual position I had found myself in for close to a year, and I rode against him quite contentedly while plundering his mouth until I came.

Spent, I rolled off and scooped what I could of the effluence out of my breeches to wipe it on the blanket. I made note to wash all of my clothing before we sailed.

He lay still beside me, quiescent, unmoved and unmoving, and I felt as I had many times with very jaded or bored partners, men or women who did not experience passion with me and simply let me vent my lust upon their person. I felt almost as if I should pay him. It was a foul thought. It was not his fault he did not respond. I was very thankful he did allow me to vent my lust upon him. Still, I was uncomfortable and mired in guilt of some variety. It was as if my lust was a monster we were both victim to. In which case, I argued, he should not do so much to rouse the beast from slumber.

He sat without looking at me. I pushed myself upright beside him and whispered, “I am sorry.”

He regarded me quizzically. “For what?”

“I feel like a beast that must be sated.”

He grinned. “You are.”

I recoiled a little, though I knew he was in jest.

“Will, if I took offense, you would be the first to know.”

“I know. It is my matter, not yours. It is with… I assume… rejection.”

His eyes widened slightly, and he jumped atop me and pushed me back onto the bed to kiss me. When he pulled away, he whispered, “I am sorry. I should reassure you, oui?”

“Now I feel like a child.”

“Will, you always feel like something.”

“I would prefer a man, but….” I smiled and sighed. “My mind just keeps running down paths it has long traveled. Every time I tell myself I am different, you are different, the world is different, I find myself addicted to my habits.”

“Whereas I find myself trapped attempting to explore paths I have traveled before and cannot remember.”

“I have not wanted to say anything foolish, such as it will come or give yourself time, but perhaps I should. Can you tell me of it at all?”

He shrugged. “It involved the last time I felt passion.”

The door slammed open, and Gaston rolled off me and we reached for weapons. We had them in hand by the time we recognized Pete and Striker.

“Here you are,” Striker said and came to jump upon the bunk and sprawl beside me on an elbow.

I looked to Gaston apologetically, and he smiled with resignation. We would talk later. Pete knelt with his elbows across my knees. Gaston set his pistol down, and pulled himself up to lean on the wall at my side. I was hemmed in yet, oddly, not concerned. I took Gaston’s hand and he squeezed back.

“What do you want?” I asked Striker, though I was regarding Pete.

The Golden One had laid his head upon his arms, so that when I looked down the length of my body I saw chest, stomach, groin and Pete’s head. It was disconcerting and more threatening than erotic, as he was grinning with a great degree of feral zeal.

“All right,” Striker said, “This is the lie of things. It is late June. The Galleons sail in August on no particular date. Sometimes they sail as late as September, but it was once reported that they sailed as early as late July. I need to check the taverns and see what talk I can hear of sightings or prizes taken along the Main. Right about now, they should be finishing up the fair in Porto Bello; and then the fleet will sail back to Cartagena, and then north to Havana to provision before following the usual route back to Spain.”

“So we have approximately four to eight weeks in which to catch them, somewhere,” I said. “And I assume it would be best if we were in those waters inside of four weeks.”

“I would do better than that,” Striker said. “There are occasionally lone ships that sail due north from the colonies along the south of the sea. And not book smugglers, either. They meet up with the Galleons at Havana. If we were able to sail very soon, we could follow their path and wait near the Cabo San Antonio, to the south of where we were wrecked.

All ships coming from the south have to slip around it and into the Yucatan Channel. We could hunt lone ships, or if that fails, follow the fleet.” He grew a little somber. “I will not risk us against a ship of the line again. I want lesser but surer prey.”

I nodded. “As I asked before, what would you have of us?”

“This ship needs to be careened and have some repairs.”

“Yes, the Bard was quite clear on that.”

“That will take a week or so, even if we sail tomorrow, which puts us in July before we can hunt – which would be acceptable if we did not have the issue of provisions.”

“Ah, you wish to provision before we sail in order to save time, and you do not wish to do it on credit.”

Striker nodded. “I can provide the capital for repairs and the like, but it would take most of what I have to provision us as well. And, if we do not leave here owing anyone, then we can sell in Tortuga if we wish, and not give the crown a cent.”

Gaston made a thoughtful sound and a nod. “They will not care overly much if we sail with their marque or not, as the island is now run by a company and not a government; though D’Ogeron does much to not make it appear so.”

I remembered some of what he had told me concerning Tortuga’s history, which had been strange and rocky to say the least. The island had changed hands amongst the Spanish, French, and English many times. It was now under the governance of the French West India Company, and due to the leadership of D’Oregon was considered to be the true buccaneer stronghold by many: it was a safe haven where their arrival with a prize would not put them in harm’s way due to the whims of English foreign policy. Open warfare between the French and English did cause considerable problems for the English buccaneers in using that port, though. Thankfully that business was behind us for the time being.

“So if we embark upon this course, we will recoup our outlay from the booty prior to sharing it amongst the men,” I said.

“Aye, we will provide receipts. So, mates, I must ask a delicate question: do you have the means to provision us?”

I looked to Gaston; it was his money. He nodded.

Striker sighed with relief.

“We have already procured as many muskets as were available,” I said. I produced the receipt for that from my belt pouch.

His eyes went wide at the sum. “The men you award these to will owe you out of their shares.”

“Should we not first assemble a crew and make sure it is agreeable to all, before we expend the money and discover problems?” I asked.