Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (45 page)

“As always, I wish I had some talent for painting,” I sighed. “Or that there was some method of capturing an image in time. Memory is such an imperfect thing.”

He was frowning. “I have envisioned our cart as this large cumbersome conveyance, suitable for hauling lumber or hay. You see it as a chariot?”

“Not until now. You first said cart, and I thought of a thing one would haul goods in as well. I did not envision a carriage or anything of the like. But perhaps chariot is…”

“It is a more pleasing image.” He smiled happily. He moved closer, his fingers playing over the wall of my belly and his breath tickling my ear and neck. “It is a sleek thing, with great wheels, and it is adorned with wings of gold and set with gems. And yet it is sturdy. It can weather any battle.”

I was no longer thinking of chariots, or how they had been mentioned in the first place. I let him maneuver me into the edge of the woods.

Our lovemaking was not languorous, but it was as sweet as it was fast. Any cuddling we might have done in the aftermath was rendered impossible by the stinging of insects, and we were quickly driven back into the ocean breezes of the beach. We hurried toward the camp, threading our way among clumps of men. I was relieved to find all our friends around a single fire, including the Bard and Dickey: they leapt to their feet at our arrival, and we were soon embraced in welcome.

The four of us walked a short way from the others to speak. The Bard whispered a hearty thank you in my ear before giving Gaston an inquisitive glance. Though he initially appeared pleased to greet us, Dickey seemed increasingly uncomfortable in our presence. However, he was not looking askance at my matelot, but at me.

“I am sorry I was unable to congratulate you properly,” I told him.

“I am likewise sorry I was unable to thank you properly,” he replied with a slight frown.

I took his shoulders gently, and he met my gaze. His eyes searched mine, and I knew what he sought: absolution.

“You are troubled?” I asked kindly.

He nodded with relief. “I am on occasion overcome with guilt.”

“I do not know if I can relieve you of it.”

“I do not know if you should,” he sighed.

“Good,” I said.

His frown deepened. “Is it always so?”

“Nay, but I feel it should be,” I sighed. “You have taken the life of a man you once called friend; whether he truly was or not is of no consequence in the aftermath. What kind of man would you be, if you felt nothing over such a thing? A heartless man may kill without remorse, but he would never kill a former friend, because a heartless man would never make one.”

“It is said that the deeper we love, the deeper we hate,” Dickey said.

“But Will, I did not hate him, even when… I beheld him bleeding in the sand. I did as you advised prior to that, and did not think of him as Tom at all. I let no happy memory stay my hand. And yet, after… all I could remember was the good…”

I shook my head sadly. I knew well how he felt. Just as I knew only time would heal it. Still, there were some things I could say.

“I do not give argument to pardon what you feel,” I said, “but… did Tom not kill the good between you first?”

“Aye,” he sighed. “Or perhaps it was never there. But nay, that would be a lie. There was much good between us once, when we were young. We merely grew into very different men than those boys we once were.”

His words mirrored my own oft-harbored thoughts about Shane, and I was struck silent.

Dickey was nodding his head emphatically. “I am glad I won, though. There is no doubt in my mind about that. I do not regret winning, only his losing, or rather it being him I fought at all. Rest assured, that if another such matter rises, I will attempt to handle it with the same faith and adherence to your teaching.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” I said solemnly. “I would hope that this incident would not so rattle you as to put another’s life before your own.”

“Amen,” the Bard said quietly.

“Nay, nay,” Dickey said with a small smile. “And even if I were to do so, I would still place Francis’ life above theirs. I will always intend to prevail in combat of any type.”

I smiled. “Good man. I am proud of you.”

They returned to the fire, and I paused before following them into the warm circle of light. I still thought of Dickey’s words. “We merely grew into very different men than those boys we once were. ” But ascribing all of my troubles with Shane to that would be as much of a lie as saying there was never any good between us. I do not think we changed much between youth and man. He was always as he became: ill-tempered, angry, prone to abuse another to lighten his mood; I had merely been blind to it in childhood, or if not blind, then innocent of any ill consequence his poor behavior and spirit would ever spawn.

“Do you ever think of the good you once experienced with the Damn Cousin?” Gaston asked curiously in French.

I turned to him. He was a darker patch of night at my side.

“You know me well.” I smiled sadly. “I think of the good even now, on occasion, while he yet lives; but it is the rare glimmer of coin in a fouled fountain. It surprises me, and I think that it must be a trick of the light, or rather memory. I am often prone to seeing that which I desire, even when it does not exist.”

I shrugged and began walking to join the others: Striker was beckoning with a bottle, and I very much wanted a good pull on it.

Gaston’s hand clasped my shoulder.

“With me?” he asked.

I turned back to him swiftly. “Non. There is much good, more than I ever could have envisioned.”

His eyes searched mine, and as with Dickey, I knew precisely what he sought: truth.

“When there is bad,” I said, “I see it for what it is. But I choose to focus on the good.”

He frowned thoughtfully, and then kissed my cheek sweetly and took my hand to lead me into the light.

Gaston eschewed the bottle, but I happily took a good swig. We settled into the sand, with Gaston wrapped about my back. I smiled contentedly and remembered what I wished to tell them. I looked at the pairs of men arrayed around the blaze, with Cudro the sad, lone exception, and I grinned.

“Buccaneers fight in pairs,” I pronounced. They all regarded me much as young Ash had when I questioned the way in which he whiled away his youth.

“When they’re able,” Cudro grumbled.

“Aye,” I said, “and I wish you could remedy that for yourself, my friend. But I do not say this to rub salt in a wound. The new men, we must teach them to fight in pairs.”

“They will na’ pair up,” Liam snorted.

“We must show them the value of it,” I said.

“I’m not fucking in front of them,” Striker said with a grin.

I chuckled at the thought of poor Ash turning pale at the sight. “Not that value, though I am sure they would do well by instruction on that as well. Nay, the value of a matelot in combat. And, we must teach them to work with one another in a larger group as well. We must provide them a common enemy.”

“The Spanish?” Striker asked sarcastically.

I laughed. “Before that. Us. I propose a child’s game. Did you ever play king of the hill as a child?”

“It was more captain of the quarterdeck,” Striker said, “but I understand the game.”

“Will you join us tomorrow?” I asked him.

He grinned. “And do what?”

“I propose that Pete and you, Julio and Davey, and Gaston and I, hold a hill while they attempt to take it.”

“All of ’em?” Liam squawked.

“Aye.”

“There be no fairness in that at’all,” he said.

“Well then, Otter and you may join us,” I said.

“That will na’ help the balance o’ it,” he said with even more incredulity.

I laughed. “Join them?”

He swore and grinned. “Sad as I be ta say it, that will na’ do much for the matter, either.”

Most were laughing, but Julio was thoughtful.

“They are not all poor in skill or talent,” he said.

“I would hope not,” I said, “lest we be in quite the pickle when we face Spaniards. Nay, the question is, will the ones with skill or talent band with others of their like?”

Julio shook his head. “They will act alone.”

“Then we will win.” I said.

“We’llWin!” Pete roared. “Even If The Lot Of’Em Be Matelots.”

“Quiet,” Striker snapped. “I would not have an audience in the morning.”

“Why? Ya Think We Lose?” Pete chided.

“Nay!” Striker snapped. “I think it will cow the lot of them to have a beach full of men laughing at them when they lose.”

This mollified Pete.

The bottle was passed around again, and they told us of what little we had missed in two days. As night waxed about us, Gaston and I slipped away into the shadows, warm sand, and steady rumble of waves.

This time, our tryst was slow and thorough. Gaston brought me to begging with teasing prods of his member, and I brought him to groans I was sure would be heard above the surf. I was pleased in this, as I wanted the Gods to hear him.

The morning light was harsh, and I swore at the rum on my breath.

Gaston greeted the dawn with the enthusiasm of a sober man, and I received my first taste of him pounding away at me while my blood pounded away behind my eyes. I found that, though it was not as pleasant as I might have wanted, it was not without its pleasures, despite my aching head. He felt good inside me, and it was wonderful to know I was desired so. Yet, I vowed not to drink that eve, and wondered how Striker could drink night after night, as he often did when ashore.

We joined the others, and as I had suspected, any enthusiasm Striker might have been said to muster in the night for the morning’s agenda was not in evidence now. Most of our cabal was like-minded.

As I wanted nothing more than water and a place to sleep in the shade, I concurred with all of them. Gaston alone was in fine spirits; but he would not have been sufficient to move us to our task had not Pete decided that beating on a few fools might lessen the aching in his own skull. I pitied the fools.

As we walked to the training area we spied his prior victim, Ash, sitting well up the beach watching the other men. Gaston went to check on him and pronounced him unfit to participate this day. The boy seemed quite relieved.

“Gather round,” Striker called to the others.

The twenty-five men who would participate in the exercise complied with curiosity and a seeming eagerness to please him. I was bothered by this, in that I heard one remark to his compatriots, “Come now, the captain is calling,” and another say, “Now we’ll get some trainin’ iffn the Captain is overseein’ it.” I felt as if Striker had been robbed of the admirable aspects of his person, the things that made him a man worth rallying about, because they perceived him as a figurehead, a title, and not a man. But perhaps I was merely indulging in fantasy yet again, spying the worst in things benign, as I am so wont to do with men I dislike. And then I found it very sad that I had already decided to dislike these men.

The thought echoed words from the night before, and I pondered how much of my life I have spent seeing phantoms of my own heart in situations devoid of any meaning save what I ascribed to them, whether it be love from those I was enamored with, or hate from those I found displeasure in. In some ways, I truly might have been as mad as my matelot; I was ever at the mercy of my errant thoughts: they galloped to and fro, and shied like colts at every rustle in a hedge.

Striker was explaining the morning’s training.

“No weapons, sir?” one man asked diffidently.

“No weapons save our fists and feet,” Striker assured him, and then doffed his baldric and belt.

The men chuckled amongst themselves.

“Will there be a flag, or some such thing we must capture?” one of Ash’s purportedly gentle-born young companions asked.

Striker looked to me.

I sighed. I supposed that was a question of merit. I had rarely had opportunity to play the game, as it was a common thing and not one I was welcomed to in my childhood; and later, the noble sons I spent time with in my adolescence engaged in other forms of competition. But I remembered watching the game. The object had always been that one boy stay atop the hill or hay; and if he was dislodged, he tried to claw his way back into position again. This morning there would be eight of us. They could likely dislodge several. In the childhood version, the object had been to prove who was the most tenacious, wily, or strong.

Today, we were here to teach them to fight in units, or as a unit. Thus, the prize could not be a thing one could win alone, nor could it be won by disposing of only one opponent. And, the landscape around us was devoid of anything that could be considered a true hill.

“You must dislodge all eight of us from a circle in the sand, and replace us with eight of your own,” I said. “And there must be some limit to the duration, but I leave that to Cudro to call.”

Striker and Cudro nodded.

“It starts and stops at Cudro’s command,” Striker said.

Several men shrugged, and the rest seemed to think even less of the task. Liam and Otter appeared resigned. Pete was grinning like a fiend. Gaston stretched languidly like a cat, his smile surely as feral. I pondered pity yet again.

We shed our weapons and walked out onto the firmer wet sand.

The eight of us – Davey, Julio, Liam, Otter, Striker, Pete, Gaston and I – formed a loose ring. I chuckled as I saw how we positioned ourselves without word or signal to one another. Liam and Otter were our weakest pair, so Pete and Gaston, our best pugilists, put the musketeers between them. Striker and I took our places next to our matelots, and Davey and Julio stood between us. Cudro instructed the men to dig a trench in a large and rough circle around us.

As they dug, Gaston looked to me.

I grinned and whispered, “I will let no one behind you.”

He snorted, as if I said an obvious thing. “And watch to see where we are needed. I sometimes become distracted in battle.”

“You must not kill them,” I teased.

He hummed and studied the horizon quite seriously, as if my admonition were a sobering impediment to his plan.