Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (92 page)

It was not a good thing to be charged with, and it was also true. I lied. “We found the boy in the physician’s house seeking medicine. We gave him some in the hope we could gain his trust and thus learn where his family was hidden and gain their gold for the common treasure.

Sometimes sugar accomplishes more than torture,” I growled.

“You let him go!” the accused countered. “You did not follow him.”

“How would you know unless you were spying upon us?” I roared back.

He shut his mouth at that, and took a step back. “I were just about…

And I thought it funny there were a lamp lit in that house.”

I was not convinced, and I could see Morgan did not appear to be, either.

“What did he tell you earlier?” I asked Morgan.

He made a disgruntled sound and said, “We did not ask. We thought we would address the particulars once we had a chance to gather all the parties.”

“He followed the boy we gave the medicine to,” I said. “The boy’s sister saw him. The boy realized they had been found, and he thought for them to surrender to us, as we had been kind, and not to another; and so he sent his sister to lead us to them. When we arrived, we found the family dead: raped and murdered.”

Hard eyes were upon the accused man now.

“I did not,” he said with quite convincing fear. “I saw where he went. I did not know how many might be hidin’ in there, so I ran back and told… I told… I didn’t hurt no one.” Then his fear made him wily.

“How do we know your mad matelot not done it? He just attacked me.

Everyone know he be mad. And what you say is what a madman would do. I’m an honest man.” That part was not convincing.

Gaston growled, but he did not move. He stood with his arms tightly crossed and murder upon his face, but the hard glitter of his Horse at His worst was still absent from his eyes.

“There are a number of matters to be considered here,” Morgan said.

“Only two,” Bradley said with a glare at me. I noted with a chill along my spine that he had been standing next to Hastings. I had seen him conversing quietly with someone, but in the confusion I had not realized the other man to be his one-eyed quartermaster.

“There is nothing in the articles to address the killing of Spaniards,”

Bradley said. “Be they man, woman, or child. And though you discourage rape,” he said to Morgan, “the dead cannot say as to whether or not it was willing.”

“You bastard!” I spat.

Morgan waved me to silence.

“So according to the articles we all have agreed to, there are only two charges we need consider here,” Bradley continued, as if he were the voice of reason in the name of necessity. “One, the hoarding of gold or valuables by any member of the Brethren. If you sought to gather this family’s gold for your own use, it is punishable by the loss of ears and nose. And two, striking another buccaneer outside of a duel. That is punishable by flogging.”

He said the last with regret, which was the only thing that stopped me from closing the distance between us and putting a dagger in his ribs.“Not if he’s mad, and all know the Ghoul to be mad,” Morgan said tiredly.

“He does not look mad,” Bradley said.

“He suffered a bout when he struck him and he has now recovered,”

I growled.

“Nay,” Bradley said, and this time he sounded vindictive. “I have seen him suffer bouts. He is raving for days with no knowledge of who or where he is.”

“He does look sane,” Morgan said quietly, and then spoke louder for the men crowded in the doorway and along the walls. “I will ignore the charge of hoarding, as I question their accuser and his motivations. But I can’t have my men striking one another, no matter the cause. There must be some discipline. Unless of course one of them is mad or drunk, or has some other excuse for losing the reason God grants all men.”

I turned on my matelot. “Gaston, control yourself,” I hissed with great urgency, and then I had my hands on his shoulders, my eyes boring into his. He appeared panicked, and then oddly bemused, as if he would laugh. I knew he realized what he must do, but I quickly saw he did not know how to simply become mad.

I pulled him close and whispered in his ear in French. “Think of those dead girls and how that damn man will never be punished. Think of your sister and mother suffering the same fate. Or Agnes, or Jamaica.

Think of them tying you to a post and flogging you as your father did.

Think of me having to watch them hurt you.”

He let out a low groan and I was flung aside as he tore into the men around us. Thankfully, they had removed his weapons when first bearing him down. Still, I saw three men drop before over a dozen piled atop him.

I turned to Morgan, who had backed away, and spoke like one greatly concerned. “He is quite mad. He was just having a moment of calm, like an animal in a trap.”

Morgan fought a smile and nodded curtly. “Then I see nothing here that must be punished within the articles. But your man is a danger to those around him, and I want him locked away until he calms. Put him on the Queen. In chains if you cannot control him.”

“Aye, sir,” I said.

I glanced at Bradley as I turned to the door. He was furious. Beyond him, Hastings was amused.

Some of the men present were from the Queen. They proffered rope quite helpfully. I prepared to have to make a great show of binding Gaston, but when I finally shouldered my way through the men who had hauled him outside, I found he was truly so enraged he did need to be restrained. Upon meeting my eyes, he calmed enough to allow me to bind him, though.

We were nearly to the wharf when Ash caught up to us. He was panting and frantic. “The house was attacked. Farley has been shot. Pete is hurt and unconscious.”

“Striker?” I asked.

“He’s fine,” Ash assured us.

I pulled a knife and cut Gaston’s bonds, and we ran for the house with a dozen men. I once again found myself blaming the Gods for madness in all its forms.

Eighty-One

We found the house full of men from the Queen, including Alonso, Cramer, and Dudley, and the little girl, Consuelo. Farley was lying on the table speaking frantically with Cudro, who was attempting to staunch a wound in the physician’s leg. Pete was lying on the floor with his head on his matelot’s lap. Striker had a pistol resting on Pete’s chest, a whole cache of loaded pieces arrayed before him on the floor, all within easy reach, and another tucked butt-first beneath his right arm, which he was reloading – quite deftly – with his left hand. I surmised he had been doing something other than merely lying about these last weeks: mainly, practicing doing necessary things left-handed.

Gaston went to Pete, and I went to the table to assist Cudro. It took some coaxing, but I was able to get Farley to lie down. Then I answered his panicked question: whether the blood was seeping or spurting from the wound. It was not spurting, but it was flowing well. I used his belt to constrict his leg above the wound, and turned to check on Gaston. He was examining a large, swollen gash on the back of Pete’s skull.

I caught Striker’s gaze. “What happened?”

“One of them must have caught Pete unawares and clubbed him good,” he said with worry as he looked down at his matelot. Then his words were angry. “Then they stood about and argued on whether or not they needed to kill him, too; because one of them knew he would hunt them down like dogs if they let him live. Farley surprised them as I was getting out of bed, and they shot him and he fell back down the stairs.

Then I shot them. There were two. I thank God I went to the door with four pistols, because I shot both of them twice once I saw Pete lying there.”

He regarded me with accusation. “Where the Devil were you two?”

“That is a long story,” I sighed. “The short of it is that Hastings has attempted to frame us and Gaston is supposed to be in chains on the Queen at this moment.”

Striker swore. “Let us go there, and not because of that. I want a deck beneath me.”

Gaston was looking at him. “His wound should be sewn, but he should wake.”

“Remembering things?” Striker whispered, and chewed his lip.

My matelot nodded tightly. “Aye, it is swelling on the outside. It should not hurt his brain.”

Then he stood to examine Farley’s wound. The physician was still distraught, but he did not try to look as Gaston probed his leg. He winced and gritted his teeth and studied the ceiling. The wound was on the outside of the leg, up high, and I could see where the ball had passed through.

“Let us move to the ship,” Gaston said. “This can be bandaged there as well.”

After some discussion, we got Pete and Farley on two of the narrow cots, and six men carried each of them. Cudro, Alonso, and I swept through the house gathering things and instructing others as to what should be brought,such as the supplies of quinine and laudanum. I realized someone might threaten to cut off my nose for that; but I did not care, and felt we could mount a better battle over the matter from the Queen’s decks.

When I went upstairs, I stumbled over the bodies of Striker’s would-be assassins in the hall. I rolled them over and did not recognize either of them. I supposed one of us should go and tell Morgan. I thought perhaps it should be Cudro. I was not concerned about facing Morgan; but as I felt now, I thought it was best I avoid Bradley, as I would likely get myself flogged, or worse.

As we were readying to leave, Alonso called my name and pointed at the girl standing in the corner. There was nothing I could do for her that would not be better done by her own people, and I did not think ours could hurt her worse than they already had.

“Have we captured any nuns?” I asked Cudro as he hurried past.

He stopped and regarded me stupidly for a several moments. “Aye, and priests. You have need of one?”

I shook my head, and instructed Dudley and Cramer to take the girl to the church.

As we followed the wounded and supplies to the wharf, I told Cudro he should speak with Morgan.

He nodded. “Aye, as soon as I hear the whole of the story. We are getting our people safe first. From everyone.”

He was surprised when I turned and embraced him.

The Bard was, of course, quite surprised to see us rowing out to him in an assortment of boats and canoes. Once we were aboard, Cudro sent most of our men back to shore with the extra boats. Then I sat on the quarterdeck steps and gulped wine, and told the tale of our night’s and morning’s adventures to everyone, while Gaston tended to Farley’s and Pete’s wounds.

“Who was it that accused you? The one the girl saw?” Cudro asked.

“I do not know his name,” I said.

“He be Headley,” one of our men who had been in the courtroom supplied. “Sails on the Fortune. And we seen him stalkin’ about your house afore.”

The wine dulled my need to ask them why they had failed to mention that before. Instead, I asked, “What of the assassins?”

Most had not seen the bodies and so could not identify them.

“We will find out,” Cudro said.

“How did they take Pete?” the Bard asked.

“They hid and hit him on the back of the head,” Gaston said with surety.

“Sometimes he does get hit,” Striker said with loving amusement.

“He’s not invincible.”

People guffawed and protested that.

Gaston finished bandaging Pete’s head and came to join us. He had finished with Farley a while earlier, and the physician was resting comfortably in a haze of laudanum.

“And you don’t think this Headley killed the girl’s family?” the Bard asked.

“I think Hastings did,” I said. “I think he was following us as well, and he followed Headley, and when Headley returned, he raped and murdered them and left them for us to find.”

“Why?” the Bard asked.

“Because he could. Because he enjoys killing,” I said. “Because he wished to anger us.”

“Nay, why do you feel it was Hastings?” he protested. “I know he might have killed Michaels, but we don’t even know that as a thing we could present in court. And now this. You are supposing a great deal.”

“I just know,” I said, knowing the wine made me sound stupid and stubborn. “He did it to anger us.”

“So Cudro will tell Morgan I killed two assassins,” Striker said. “And Gaston is mad and must remain aboard.” He chuckled.

“If Will says I am,” my matelot said with a small smile.

“I wish I could have seen that,” Striker laughed.

“Aye,” Gaston said wryly. “I have spent most of my life trying to control my madness, not lose myself to it.”

Recalling those moments and what I said to him, I was overcome with the feeling that the wine would no longer hold the shakes at bay if I remained among them. Without any word of parting – as I did not trust myself to say a sensible thing – I retreated to our cabin and crawled into our nest. Gaston was on my heels, and his arms closed around me comfortingly as we lay nose to nose. I saw my fear and lingering anger mirrored in his eyes.

His right eye was swollen and dark where he had received a blow when they brought him down. I knew his body was covered in bruises and abrasions from his mistreatment. I touched the bruises I could see and cried.

He held me and spoke softly. “I was angry and scared that we were charged with hoarding; and I knew I would kill them or die trying before I would allow them to maim you. Not that I would not love you without a nose, but I cannot see you hurt. And I knew you would find some way to protect me, to take all the blame.

“I would have let them flog me, though. It would have been a cat, and nothing like what my father used. It probably wouldn’t even draw blood over my scars. And I thought it should be the price I paid. I broke the law by striking him; I was not lost to madness when I did it. My Horse and I charged and ran him down as one. If I am to be sane, then I must accept the consequences of sanity, even if it would drive me mad.”

He snorted with amusement. “But then, you were so magnificent in defending us, as you always are, and you asked… And you were correct: I could not bear the thought of you being forced to watch, because it would hurt you. All the rest I could hold the reins against, but not that.”