Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (91 page)

“Leave him a note.” I threw my last crust of toast at him and he dodged it with amusement.

We found Dickey awake and Tom feeding him little bits of egg and toast. Dickey still appeared wan and weak, but he seemed to be on the mend. We sat with them for a spell and discussed Tortuga. Dickey soon drifted to sleep under the effects of the laudanum.

To my dismay, Doucette found us there and joined in the conversation at hand. Then as Dickey was asleep and Tom’s attention was starting to wane, he suggested we continue the conversation over his late breaking of the fast; and thus we were drawn back into the house. I listened with interest as Gaston and Doucette discussed local politics and news from France and the like. Doucette was obviously well-informed on these matters.

“How often do you receive news here?” I asked.

Doucette shrugged. “It is the storm season, so we will not see any ships for several months now. I would assume the same is true of you English. When ships are sailing from France, I receive mail on almost all of them. I have a great many correspondents. In the season of the hurricanes, I make the most of my time in replying to the more lengthy discourses and working on my manuscripts and sending them off.”

“So you write for publication?”

He shrugged. “The occasional missive or paper. They are on the back shelf in the library, near the desk, if you wish to peruse them. As most are medical, or deal with local observations on flora and fauna, I do not know if they will interest you.”

“Possibly, if we are here long enough to provide me the time,” I said.

“Or for you to become bored,” he said.

Gaston regarded him sharply, and I wondered if Doucette had meant his words as self-deprecation of his own work or a slight jab at me. It made me realize once again how uneasy I was in his presence, and how little trust I felt for him. Despite the fine conversation, I felt we should be going.

“We were going to inquire of the ship and such,” I reminded Gaston; and he turned a disapproving look upon me, until he paused to consider my intent and understood my meaning. At which point, he appeared apologetic.

“Will is correct,” he told Doucette. “We should be going. So if you will excuse us. Perhaps we can continue the discussion at dinner.”

“I thought we were to discuss your… madness,” Doucette said.

I cursed silently, and Gaston met my eyes with a resigned sigh.

“That discussion may be better reserved for another day,” Gaston told him.Doucette appeared disappointed. “Truly? May I ask why?”

Gaston was slow to answer. “My control ebbs and flows, and at this time I am not possessed of any confidence in my command of my emotions and faculties.”

“Perhaps this is the best time to discuss these things, then,”

Doucette said.

I winced at the irony. I could not refute him. I had reasoned thus the night before, which was of course what had brought us so far.

“I gave a great deal of thought to your words,” Doucette continued.

“Both from last night and from before, and to the words of others on the matter.” He studied Gaston intently, and my matelot ignored him and perused his cup with equal resolve.

“And what conclusions have you reached?” Gaston asked, with resignation tinged with annoyance.

“That I am lacking in empiric evidence. I wish to discuss the matter with you and hear your observations and to conduct some tests.”

“Tests?” I asked.

“Oui,” Doucette smiled. “For example,” he stood and left the room.

“Tell him no and let us leave,” I implored.

Gaston sighed and nodded. “He is as stubborn as you.”

“I am not sure if that is good or bad for either of us, as I do not know your true feelings on the matter,” I said lightly.

“I am inured to it,” Gaston smiled.

“Then I am thankful for that,” I chuckled.

Doucette returned. He was holding a horse whip. At first I merely recognized the object; and then my mind recalled the significance, and my heart skipped a beat. I considered yelling, “Do not look,” or something equally ridiculous, but I have found that always causes the undesired action.

The coiled whip hit the table with a thump, and Gaston’s eyes widened for a moment. I was not sure what his reaction would be, and I sat very still and waited. He pulled his eyes from it and closed them, while clutching at the table and swallowing hard. His breathing sped up, and he paled. I judged that he might become ill and lose his meal.

“Interesting,” Doucette said. “So you do react to the mere sight of one. I would not have thought your reaction would be so pronounced.”

I stood and snatched the whip off the table and flung it to the corner.

“You bastard!” I snarled. “You heartless monster!”

Doucette stepped back with surprise. “I was curious. It has not harmed him.”

“Do you wave knives in front of your wife?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “She has no reaction to knives.”

“So you did?”

“People often react strongly when they have experienced trauma.

When this occurs, they need to be desensitized to the object or situation. The mind is quite capable of conquering and soothing the body’s remembered fears. If Gaston sees enough whips, he will separate the act from the object, and they will have no hold over him.”

“Presumably, but it is not a thing he need do now.” I needed to get Gaston away from him and someplace where he could calm down. I was not sure if going to our room was wise, as it would involve staying in this house.

I turned to regard my matelot, and found him standing with his eyes full of murder and a knife in his hand.

“Damn,” I said. I was on the wrong side of the table.

Doucette was regarding him curiously. “Now do you recall the event when you…?”

He stopped talking when I hit him square in the chest and sent him sprawling into the wall. Then I was around the table and between them.

There was recognition in Gaston’s eyes when they met mine, and I was greatly relieved. I discovered I felt no fear of him in a direct sense. I was deeply afraid of what he would do to Doucette or himself, however.

“What do you wish to do?” I asked, pleased at the calmness of my tone.“I want to kill him.”

“That will solve nothing.”

“He will never trouble me again.”

I was confused. All of the physical symptoms of his madness were there, but he seemed very lucid.

“Put the knife down, please, and we will discuss this.”

“Move,” he snarled. “I will not suffer him anymore. He hurt me. I cannot bear it again.” The last was as much of a wail as his broken voice could manage. I could see him slipping farther from my grasp. I seized upon whatever I could.

“How did he hurt you?”

“You know what he did.”

“That is not your father.”

He peered around me, and the sight of Doucette seemed to give him pause.

“Non. Non. He is the other one,” he growled. “He is worse. That one is a cold-hearted bastard who thinks only of himself and no other. All things with him are matters of intellect. He is incapable of love. He is an automaton of medicine. He thinks he is smart. He thinks he is the master of reasoning. He is a fool. I do not owe him anything. I do not owe him my life.”

“I am a fool?” Doucette roared from beside me. For the second time that morning, my heart was clutched painfully by fear. I whipped my head round to regard him. He was angry and ready to fight. My condemnation of his mental acumen died in my throat, as I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I whirled back and thrust myself between them again, in time to catch Gaston. We rolled to the floor, knocking Doucette ahead of us.

I was not sure if my matelot had turned his frustrations to me, or if he merely wanted me out of his path. He seemed intent on pinning me to the floor and not on reaching Doucette at the moment, though.

Much to my panic he succeeded, getting astride me and applying his formidable strength against my own. Then he abruptly stopped with horror in his eyes.

“Non, non, non,” he sobbed and his hands went to my side. I looked down, and was thankful I was already lying upon the floor. The knife was protruding from my flesh, or rather the hilt was. The length of the blade was obviously inside me. I could feel it now as a dull aching wrongness. He pulled the blade free, and I gasped.

I was thankful I possessed a true grasp of why this particular thing horrified him, beyond the obvious I would have assumed a mere day before.

“I will not die,” I whispered.

He would not look at me.

“Gaston!”

His eyes flicked to mine. The rage was gone, and there was only a scared little boy trying to staunch the flow of blood with his hands.

“It will be all right. You must.... Doucette must do surgery.”

His eyes hardened, and I felt despair welling in my breast.

“Gaston.”

“He will not touch you,” he snarled.

“Then you will have to do it.”

His emotions swung back to fear. “I do not…”

“If you do not, I will die.”

His eyes hardened again: but with resolve this time, and not fear.

He picked me up off the floor and carried me to the hospital rooms to lay me upon a surgical table. The pain radiated through me in ever-increasing waves as he tore my shirt away. Each threatened to swamp my consciousness.

“Gaston,” I clutched at his hand. He squeezed back.

“Leave him. I will…” Doucette said from the doorway.

Gaston snarled in response.

“You are behaving like an animal,” Doucette said. “Get control of yourself.”

I pulled the pistol still at my belt and aimed at Doucette with a shaky hand. “Get out!”

Doucette stepped aside, and several men I did not recognize took his place. They were moving very quickly. I fired, and missed. Then they were upon us. Two held me down, and three more jumped atop Gaston.

I could see little of that, as I had my own battle to contend with, though it was not much of one as I was nearly helpless. They quickly restrained me and Father Mark loomed over me, to gleefully shove a stick in my mouth.

“Take him where we discussed,” I heard Doucette order. “I have to try and save this one.”

I roared around the stick and then the pain hit anew as Doucette probed the wound. Blackness took me. I dearly wished to smite the Gods.

Wherein I Rescue My Matelot

There was pain and I knew I was not dead. As always when waking thusly wounded, I am not sure whether I should rejoice or not, as the pain often seems not worth surviving. This was one of those times. I moaned and hoped someone would relieve my suffering in some fashion.

“Will?”

At first I could not recognize the voice, as it was not the one I wished to hear. Then it came to me: Tom. I opened my eyes and saw ceiling. I turned my head toward the sound, and found Tom sitting nearby at the foot of Dickey’s cot. He appeared concerned. I supposed that was as it should be. I had been stabbed, had I not? There was much I needed to remember. I attempted to move and found I could not. I was bound to the bed. Then all returned to me and the anger burned the pain away.

“Damn it, what the Devil?” I gasped as I tugged at the ropes binding my wrists.

“They said you should not move about,” Tom said. “How…?”

“Where is Gaston?” I asked.

“I am told he is well… considering,” Tom shrugged.

“Considering what?” I snarled. “Where is he? And release me, damn you.”

“Nay. Will, you should not become riled. It cannot be good for you.

Lie still.” He grimaced with disapproval and concern.

I looked to Dickey, where he reclined against bunched pillows at the head of his cot. He looked no less troubled than his friend.

“Dickey, how long have…?”

“You’ve been lying there for two days. I believe you have been drugged for the pain and such, and… Mister Doucette was concerned that you would become agitated upon waking, which you have,” he sighed.

“They rushed us and took Gaston away and…”

“They say he stabbed you,” Tom interjected. “That he went mad and stabbed you.”

“Doucette set it upon him and Gaston wished to kill him. I interceded. It was an accident that I was wounded.”

This seemed to have some effect on Dickey’s thoughts, but little on Tom, as the blond boy frowned. “I will tell them you need more laudanum,” he said and stood.

“I do not! I need to know where my matelot is!”

Tom left the room and I turned to Dickey and hissed, “Has anyone from the ship been here?”

“Nay,” he shook his head. “Well, not that I have seen them. Tom may have spoken to them, but I must tell you Mister Doucette spoke to him at length, and now Tom is quite convinced that what has occurred is in Gaston’s and your best interest.”

“Oh, damn. They must be told. I need to speak to Striker and Pete.

Will you help me?”

“Hush,” he said.

“To the Devil…”

“They are coming,” he hissed quickly.

Through the haze of pain and anger, I realized he was watching someone approach from the direction Tom had departed.

I whirled my head about and saw Doucette. He sat on the cot next to mine and leaned over to examine my bandages.

“You must be calm, Will. Healing does not come to those who are agitated,” he said in French. “You narrowly missed having a perforated bowl. Your pancreas was badly sliced. I believe it will heal in time. But only if you let it.”

“Where is Gaston?” I asked in English.

“I understand your question, but I do not have a command of English.”

“Then answer the damn question,” I snarled in French. “And release me.”“He is well,” he smiled kindly. “I am treating him, just as I am treating you. Until I am sure neither of you will behave in a deranged manner, you are not going anywhere.”

“Was he wounded? Did your damn men hurt him?”

“Non, non,” he shook his head regretfully at my supposed misapprehension of the matter. “I am treating him for his madness, now that I begin to understand its severity. I should have done this years ago, and I feel guilt that I have served him so poorly. But I did not know…” He shrugged helplessly and appeared sincerely contrite.