Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (93 page)

“I am sorry, but we must ascertain that for ourselves. If you would be so kind as to surrender, there will be no need of bloodshed in order for us to look for gold and other valuables.”

“I am most sorry,” the Spaniard said, “but we cannot.”

“We understand,” I assured him, and turned to the curious eyes on my side of the wall and spoke in English. “If the speaker was any indication, they are not overjoyed at the prospect of fighting us, yet they cannot relinquish the fort without battle.”

Striker nodded. “Pete spied something on the way here. I think we may have a means to breach the walls with little trouble, but it’ll take the four of us.”

“So we are not here merely to scout,” I teased.

I was surprised, as we had brought so few men.

“I didn’t think we’d try and take her when I offered to scout,” Striker grinned. “But if it’s a thing we can do, then let’s do it.”

He turned to Julio, Liam, and the thirty or so men we had and spoke quietly. “Harass them, let them think we’re truly attacking, but don’t do anything foolhardy. We’ll see if we can go in the back. If you hear a great commotion inside, charge them while they’re distracted. Julio’s in command. Liam, make sure they keep their heads down, especially on the seaward side.”

All nodded, and Gaston and I followed Pete and Striker into the thick foliage, away from the fort.

Staying out of sight of the walls, we worked our way back down the road until we could slip down to the water. From where we now stood, we could see the bay side of the fort, where it perched at the end of the horn of land encompassing the harbor. Pete pointed, and after a moment I understood. There was a thin lip of land beneath the fort’s wall above the water, and a small wharf where a ship could be landed.

There was a door in the wall to permit entry for that purpose.

“So how do we get there?” I asked. “Even with Liam and Otter clearing that wall, I doubt we could row a canoe over without being seen.”

“We Swim,” Pete said.

Striker grinned and began to shed his weapons.

I looked to my matelot. He was intently studying the harbor between the fort and us. There was little of the Horse about him now; in truth, he appeared fearful.

“That water is bad,” he said in English.

“We’ll float some and we’ll endeavor not to drink it,” Striker replied.

“Non!” Gaston said and backed away.

I joined Pete and Striker in regarding him in surprise.

“I will not die here of disease,” Gaston said. “Smell it!”

I did; it was rank: we would be swimming in a sewer.

Pete shrugged. “’EBeen Right’Bout Water An’Such.”

Striker swore.

“Can we find a boat?” I asked.

“You said it yourself. They’ll see us,” Striker snapped.

“A wound I can heal,” Gaston said.

Striker frowned. “All right, we will find a boat.”

They gathered the weapons they had shed, and we hurried along the harbor until we found a small, low canoe. It barely cleared the water once we were aboard, and we took on water as the four of us moved about until we were as low in her belly as we could get.

Pete and Gaston rowed, and we made our slow way across to the fort’s apron. All the while, I told the Gods how very good it would be if we were not seen by any within her. Either They listened, or the Spanish had angered Them, because no one fired on us as we drew close, until at last we were able to crawl onto the dock and run to the wall.

Pete had brought a grapple to scale with, but we hoped it would not be required. We checked the door. It was barred. There was constant gunfire and even the boom of cannon from the landward side of the fort. Yet we stood in relative quiet. We all took turns listening at the door, and heard nothing we could ascribe to movement in the room beyond. However, we could not see in through the cracks, either. Pete unsheathed a long knife, and slipped it between the door and the jam, feeling his way up until he found the bar. It proved a simple matter after that, as the bar proved to be light and not secured.

We heard it clatter to the floor above the noise of battle; and for a painful second, we froze. Nothing occurred of it that we could discern, though, and Striker carefully nudged the door open. Not wanting to alert anyone with pistol fire, Gaston and I readied ourselves with a blade in each hand. We dove into the dark room and found cover. We heard nothing within it; and after feeling about, we decided it was a storeroom as we had surmised, and it was quite empty of life save rats. Pete and Striker entered and closed the door behind them. We all snuck to the inner door and opened it a crack. It let out directly into the yard, where there were a number of armed Spaniards. We closed it very quietly.

“Perhaps there is another door,” I whispered, and we spent several long minutes trying to accustom our eyes to the dim light.

Finally deciding we could wait no longer, we split up, and feeling our way carefully among the crates and barrels, Gaston and I found an opening at the south end of the long room. I met Striker in the middle again. They had found another door at the north. One opened into a cook area and the other into the armory. We kept our amusement and glee contained.

Mere moments later, the two men in the armory were dead, and we were in possession of all of the fort’s stored powder. The far door in this room opened into a stable with a few horses. We discussed how best to make use of this wonderful tactical position. As our objective was to demoralize the Spanish and get our men inside, we decided on an overt announcement of our presence, without revealing our true number.

Thus we took a small keg of powder into the stable. The farthest outer door was very close to the gate. We gave the keg a short fuse, lit it, and Pete dove out and hurled it at the gate whilst we covered him. I saw four stunned Spaniards see him, but none moved to do a thing about it. They were still staring like daft cows when I stopped watching them and we ran like madmen back to the armory. The explosion roared a moment later.

We crouched in the shadows inside the armory door and shot any Spaniard we could see, as they ran about like rats from an overturned barrel. We paid special attention in our aim to any man who shouted for order or approached our position. Soon, there were buccaneers inside the walls and we emerged. Then it became much like taking the first galleon, in that we cast about with shot and blade until all who were not us were kneeling or prone.

At the end of it, one of our men approached: nearly too quickly for his own good, as I almost stabbed him.

“Come quickly, someone is hurt,” he told Gaston.

We followed him back out the gate to the edge of the forest. My heart constricted painfully as I saw who was injured.

Liam was holding Otter across his lap. Otter was bleeding profusely from his gut. Blood seeped into the ground in a shadow that widened even as we ran to them.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” Liam sobbed as we reached them. “They canna’

shoot worth a damn. The bastard were tryin’ ta hit me.”

Gaston dropped to his knees beside them and probed the wound.

Then he started speaking in Dutch for Otter’s sake. I did not need a fluent mastery of the language to understand the gist of it. Otter’s bowel and liver were badly perforated. He would die. All Gaston could do was give him laudanum for the pain. Otter, always quiet, even in agony, nodded. Liam was now equally silent. His eyes pleaded, though. Gaston met them and shook his head sadly.

We had secreted our bags back along the harbor where we had found the canoe. I ran to retrieve them, all the while wondering what would come of this. Liam and Otter had been together a good twelve years. Even only knowing them a year as I had, I could not envision Liam without his Dutch shadow, his anchor, his teammate. With dismay, I remembered the first time I ever saw them upon the North Wind. Liam had been arguing about the articles pertaining to matelots inheriting one another’s shares. He would not, here, because no provision had been made for it in the group articles. I cursed the other captains and Morgan, though that was truly the least of the matter.

Pete had caught up with me, and I was thankful for it, as it meant I did not have to try to carry anything but the bag with the laudanum. It left me free to run back.

Wave after wave of memory washed up as I ran. They were dear and trusted companions. We had lost men before, but none I knew so well.

And even before venturing here, I had lost friends, but none so loyal and true. I told myself that Liam was not dead yet, but I knew it mattered little if he did not wish to go on. It would be a thing decided between the two of them in the time the laudanum would buy them to say goodbye.

Striker, Julio, and Davey were with them when we returned. I knew Cudro would regret not being here to say his farewell, too, but little could be done for it. Gaston found the bottle of laudanum and mixed a heavy dose, which Otter drank gratefully. They had stuffed rags in his belly to staunch the bleeding, yet still he had lost so much blood upon the ground that I was surprised there was any left within him.

Gaston mixed a second dose, a much milder one, and proffered it to Liam.

The Scotsman shook his head until Otter asked, “Is it much?”

“Just enough to dull the pain of the heart,” Gaston said.

“I want this pain,” Liam said stubbornly.

“I want to see you smiling before I die,” Otter whispered.

The laudanum was taking affect and the rictus of pain had released his features.

Liam studied his matelot and gave him a sad smile. He took the draught.

Pete had returned. One by one, we clasped Otter’s hand and said our farewells. Then we left them alone.

We found ourselves inside the fort. All of the surviving Spanish had been herded into the barracks and the doors had been blocked. We had two other wounded, but not severely. Gaston was needed to tend them, as we had not brought another surgeon with us.

“Well, we have this damn place,” Striker said sadly.

It was evident on every face that we had been robbed the pleasure of victory. Otter had been well known and loved. And amongst those with matelots, there was the unspoken knowledge that it could have been us.

“Run up our colors,” Striker added, “so that they’ll know in town.”

“We do not have a flag,” Julio said quietly.

“Jolie rouge,” Striker said.

Pete ripped a blood-soaked, formerly white shirt off a dead Spaniard.

We affixed it to the line and ran it up the pole atop the fort. I thought I should tell Belfry someday how very practical the pretty red flag of the Brethren is. Wherever buccaneers go, there is always sure to be blood and rent cloth with which to make one.

Gaston finished bandaging his last patient, and came to join me where I leaned in the shattered gateway. I could not see Liam and Otter in the brush from where we stood, but my eyes were drawn to where I knew them to be.

“I do not know which would be worse,” I whispered, “to have to watch you die, or to not have a chance to say goodbye.”

I turned to regard him and found him overcome by his childish demeanor.

“I would wish to say goodbye,” he said solemnly with large eyes.

I thought of the peace simply talking to him now gave me, even if he was not fully himself, and even though I could not be sure what his demeanor would become in the next minute.

“I feel I would, too,” I whispered.

He embraced me.

Pete and Striker joined us. I saw their gazes dart to the brush.

Striker looked away and sighed. “We must go back. Not all; we’ll leave some here.”

He gazed toward the brush again.

“I am afraid I will hear a pistol,” I said.

“Aye, and I don’t want to listen for it,” he said. “I tell myself we should’ve sent for more men once I decided to take the place. But I know it was an unlucky shot that took him, and it could’ve happened had we been a thousand and they but fifty.”

“Tell yourself to be quiet, then,” I said with a slim smile, which he returned.

He glanced at Gaston, who had his face buried in my shoulder. “Are we well?”

I silently mouthed, “I do not know,” and Striker’s eyes clouded with worry.

“Gaston,” I whispered, “perhaps you should…”

He raised his head and met my eyes. “I will stay with you. I will be ready.”

I nodded, and shrugged at Striker. I assumed arrangements had been made amongst the men already, as Striker took off walking without a word, and the three of us fell in behind. Gaston held my hand for most of the way back to the town. When he suddenly dropped it, I looked over. Gaston the Child was gone, and the Horse was once again in full sway. He was calm, though, and his kiss on my temple was reassuring.

I wanted to talk, but now was not the time. I had not seen him exercise such control before. He was not drifting about the cave today, but choosing where he would stand in order to cast whatever shadow he wished. I could see where this was beneficial, but still my Horse shied with alarm.

Our arrival amongst the Brethren in town was greeted by cheers.

It seemed we were the heroes of the day. All had not been well with the attempts on the other fort in our absence, and our victory across the bay had restored much lost morale. A plan to burn the gates had been decided on, but every time men crossed the apron to deliver fire there, the Spanish showered them with stones, hot oil, and grenadoes. We now had far more wounded: none mortally, but many would be marked or maimed for life.

Morgan had apparently had quite enough. When we found him, he questioned us intently on how we took the other fort. Obviously, that tactic would not work here, though he applauded us heartily for it.

Thankfully, he had another plan in mind, and had already set men to the first piece of it. Our carpenters were building ladders of a height necessary to reach the top of the wall, and a width such that several men could scale at once.

“Who will deliver them?” I asked. I could not see where we would have any more success approaching the walls with the ladders than with grenadoes.

Morgan grinned. “Priests and nuns. They are Papists; I think they will hesitate greatly before firing on their men and women of the cloth.”