Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (81 page)

“Fuck them,” Striker said, and gestured toward the Oxford with a rum bottle.

We all looked to the huge ship silhouetted against the northern stars: her lines dotted with lanterns, and a barely-discernable, writhing mass of men occupying her decks. Her bow began to expand, as if I viewed her through a bubble in a glass bottle. And then I was flat on my back with Gaston atop me, watching the shrapnel tear past above us and hearing the roar of the explosion and the clatter of debris hitting the Queen’s side. Then there was much yelling by all as to what had occurred, and howling by the men who had been struck.

Gaston’s wide eyes met mine, and I was sure he mirrored my surprise. I turned to find Pete and Striker next to us. They appeared just as dazed. We slowly sat and crawled to the rail to peer cautiously at the place where the Oxford had ridden at anchor. The great ship was gone.

“The drunken fools must have lit the powder cache,” Gaston said.

I was minded of the last time I had seen a ship explode: the King’s Hope, upon which I had sailed to Jamaica. We had destroyed her to hide our rescuing Davey from servitude. The comparison left my thoughts very cold and still; and I wondered a great many things: primarily, was the Oxford’s destruction truly an accident?

We dispatched our boats and canoes to help search for survivors.

They returned with information, nearly all bad. Morgan was alive with only a leg wound. He and the men he had invited to sit beside him at the dining table – Bradley, Norman, and the Cour Volant’s captain, La Vivon – had been blown backwards through the gallery windows into the sea and lived. Several others from the cabin had also survived, but with such wounds that they were not expected to last the day. Beyond them, there were only a handful of survivors from elsewhere on the ship.

Some three hundred men had perished, along with the captured crew of the Cour Volant. The dark waters boiled with sharks at dawn; and upon the waves, other sharks roved about, relieving the floating dead of their rings and other such valuables.

Gaston and Farley – with me offering what assistance I could – had spent the night removing splinters and applying poultices for those who had been struck by debris. Thankfully, none of our men were seriously injured.

Once the sun had fully risen, the Bard inspected our ship, and decided that, though she had thankfully sustained little damage, it would still be best if we careened: a task he had wished to see to at Cow Island, anyway. And, as it was now obvious we would not be sailing immediately for some target, we needed to provision, and surely none would argue it. And so we busied ourselves with putting men ashore to hunt and preparing the Queen for her repairs.

We were relieved to see two of the smaller vessels in the fleet doing the same. But no boats left the Mayflower or Lilly: the only ships, to our knowledge, whose original captains remained alive.

Striker sent a canoe to find which ship Morgan occupied and inform him of our plans. Our man returned with news that those aboard the Mayflower felt she was in need of careening, but that Morgan and Bradley were arguing. It seemed Morgan wished to sail for Port Royal on her.

“That damn fool,” the Bard hissed quietly to our cabal as we stood on the quarterdeck.

“Well,” I sighed. “He should tell Modyford their man of war is missing.” I could not suppress a chuckle, despite the bodies of the dead.

I reasoned those same men and more would have surely died if the ship had been used as Morgan wanted: to sail against a major Spanish port.

At least this way they died drunk and happy.

“Even if he doesn’t sail to Port Royal, it’ll be weeks before we rove,”

Striker said.

“And when we do, it will not be against some damn target we have no hope of taking,” I said.

“Amen to that,” Cudro said, and turned back to organizing our men going ashore.

“When we do decide,” Striker said thoughtfully, “there won’t be as many of us making the decision. Even if the other ships all stay, their captains will be newly elected and probably not as foolish as Morgan’s usual men.”

“We can only hope,” I said.

“I’ve been thinking. This changes things,” Striker said, and looked to Pete. “About the plan. Morgan will not be so willing to risk me now; I’m one of the few seasoned captains he has left. So even if he is in league with the Damn Governor and the Devil Earl, I should still be safe from him placing me in harm’s way, even if I remain captain.”

I could see the hope in Striker’s eyes, and I knew well Pete saw it, too.

“Aye,” Pete grunted with evident reluctance. “So It Seems.”

“Unless Morgan blames you,” I said lightly. “In which case, all Hell will break loose upon this bay, and we will not need to worry who seeks the bounty.”

“What?” Striker crowed.

The eyes were upon me now: even Cudro returned, drawn by the volume of Striker’s query. I smiled at the men with whom I did not wish to share this discussion, and retreated to the stern rail; our cabal followed.

When all were close, I asked quietly. “How likely is it that seasoned men – albeit, many of them Navy men not often allowed to indulge in debauch – would make the mistake of sparking the powder cache?”

There were frowns all about, and my matelot and Cudro swore.

Pete’s eyes narrowed with understanding, and he nodded and awarded me a look of praise.

“I’ve been wondering that, myself,” the Bard said quietly. “All our men were drunk last night, and I would be damned if you could have found one of them that didn’t know to keep their pipes away from the powder.”

“Aye,” I said. “Now, in all fairness, it could be that a mistake was made by one of the Brethren aboard that ship – a man or men not familiar with where the powder cache might have been. And they were firing salvos.”

“That’s unlikely, though,” Cudro said. “But it could have happened: drunken men fetching powder with a lamp on a ship they did not know.

But I can’t see where the crew of the Oxford would have allowed any of ours near their precious guns.”

“Aye, aye,” I said. “Or perhaps it was some lust-struck pair struggling to light a lantern below decks and beyond prying eyes during the party?”

“Don’t Need Light Ta Fuck,” Pete said.

I chuckled. “Aye. Let us merely say that it could have been an accident, but it seems unlikely. So, if it was not an accident… Who did it?”

“I did not,” Ash said solemnly, earning him several bemused stares.

“I did not, either,” I said with a grin. “I think none here would have killed so many to solve our problems – not and leave Morgan alive. I truly feel it to be a matter of providence; but it is possible it was the hand of another. My fear is: that someone will think it our hand.”

“We weren’t there!” Striker protested.

“Aye,” I said.

Realization came to his eyes.

“Coulda’ DoneIt,” Pete said. “Crawled Out TheWindows When All Thought We Fucked An’SwamOver. LitA Slow Fuse.”

Striker swore vehemently. “But we did not. And why would anyone think we would? Unless…” He glanced over his shoulder at the men, and quickly turned back to us and cursed.

I shrugged. “Someone has shared what they might have overheard of our honest opinion of Morgan, and our possible targets, and…”

“It could have been the French,” Gaston said.

“They were locked below,” Striker said.

Gaston shrugged. “Perhaps they were attempting escape, and sought a distraction, and it went awry. Or perhaps they did it in anger and cared not because they thought they would be hung. I have considered blowing a powder cache in a ship I was on twice. Both times I was bound below decks and mad, and cared not for the fate of those aboard.”

Though his words brought to mind unpleasant images of him in that state, I nodded. “Well, perhaps we should spread that rumor upon the fields, once our men begin to mingle with the others and we can appear to have heard it ourselves.”

“Morgan will not blame us,” Striker said doggedly. “Why would he?

He needs every ship and man he can get.”

I met his gaze calmly. “What if he considers you a threat?”

Striker shook his head and looked away. “I’d find it flattery. I can’t see where he’d want the bounty. And if he were to try and take me, or Pete, or any of us…”

I smiled. “If he were to attempt such a thing, he will not be roving this year, or any other if I have my way. Nay, there will be bloodshed if he is a fool about it. But if he makes insinuations and spreads rumors, he could turn your men against you as well as the rest.”

“Damn you, Will,” Striker sighed with evident melancholy. He walked away.

Pete watched him leave with sorrowful eyes, but when he glanced at me I saw gratitude.

“I hope you’re wrong,” Cudro said before following Striker. “But we should spread the rumor about the French, anyway.”

I was soon left alone with Gaston. He watched me with earnest eyes.

“What?” I queried.

“I was musing that you do not see yourself as others do. If your Horse could ever gaze upon you, it would fear nothing.”

I snorted. “Intrigue is a thing I have been forced to learn. It is not a thing I take pride in. And the Gods know my father and others have played me for a fool for years.”

He smiled. “And I rarely take pride in my ability to kill; but they are things that need to be done, and it is good we do them well when needed. And your father would not have snuck so very close if you had not become accustomed to sleeping without a pistol.”

I knew he was correct, but I could not feel it in my heart. I could not rouse the ire to berate myself, either, which I supposed was a good thing.

We followed the others ashore, and I stood about and did little as the others prepared to beach the Queen. My shoulder ached considerably less, but I still only possessed one arm for the purposes of labor.

We were thus engaged when several boats arrived with Morgan, Bradley, and Norman from the Lilly. This party stood about some distance down the beach from where we worked, seemingly in no hurry to join us. I looked to Striker and saw that he had not seen them. I made a decision: this was a thing I was best suited to do. I might have lost my ability to see snakes in the bushes these past years, but Gaston was correct: I had not lost my ability to handle them. I walked down the beach.

“Is she badly damaged?” Bradley called as I came close enough to hear him above the surf.

“Not that we have seen,” I said cheerfully. “But you know the Bard; he is a cautious man, and we planned to careen here, anyway.”

He was moving stiffly, and his cheek was marred by a large bruise.

Norman appeared to have fared a bit better – at least physically. He seemed to move with ease, but he looked exhausted, and I thought it likely he would need to sleep for days before the furrows in his brow smoothed. Morgan was not looking toward me. His leg was bandaged and splinted, and he was using a crutch.

The men with whom they had arrived were standing well back with the boats, and I wondered if I had interrupted a private conversation.

“We were relieved to hear that at least you three survived,” I said.

Morgan whirled to award me an angry glare. “Where was Striker?”

I saw warning in Bradley’s eyes. I met Morgan’s gaze levelly, with resignation. “He went to attend your meeting, but upon learning it was merely a party – a party at which his matelot and quartermaster were not welcome – he returned to the Queen. Would you have had him die with the others?”

Morgan looked away, momentarily shamefaced. “Of course not.” He rallied his indignation quickly, though. “I have just wondered how it is he managed to avoid…”

“Morgan!” Norman hissed.

“Apparently God smiled upon him last night for loving his matelot more than his ambition,” I said casually. “Ask any aboard the Queen, they returned and spent a goodly hour fucking before joining the crew in dancing – before the Oxford exploded.”

Bradley cursed; Norman shook his head with a small smile; and Morgan gazed upon me with incredulity.

“His fortune might well rival yours,” I added. “To survive such a blast when so many died. Though I am confused as to why God chooses to smile upon you.”

I knew even as the words tumbled from my lips that I should not have said them, but it had been far too tempting.

Morgan moved with a speed that belied his injury, and his face was inches from mine before my hand finished closing about the pistol in my sling. I did nothing else, though, as Norman and Bradley were upon us, with weapons drawn in probable need of their friend’s defense.

“You shut your mouth!” Morgan hissed. “I need hear nothing from you now! You are a common man! By your own hand! You are nothing!”

I was surprised, but not so that I lost my balance or reason. “Like you, I have ever only been what I have made of myself, you damn fool: nothing more, nothing less. I have spent most of my manhood without my father’s name. I have angered men far greater than you and lived by the grace of nothing more than my wits and friendships.”

“Ah, bloody… Here they come,” Norman muttered.

I kept my gaze locked with Morgan’s. “Decide now,” I whispered.

“Before we have an audience. Am I a threat to you? I have ended many a man’s ambitions in anger – with no gain and only detriment to myself.

I do not want your position. I do not want you as an enemy. I already have enemies and battles to fight. I do not need another. But if you make me your enemy – or any I call friend your enemy – I will fight you with all I have. So decide.”

His brow and eyes tightened as he considered me; and then he stepped back with a sigh. “We are not enemies,” he said quietly, with a slight tilt of his head.

“I feel no need to call you friend, either,” I said with a thin smile.

He nodded. “Then we have an understanding.”

“I hope so.”

There were men all around us now, and Norman and Bradley appeared quite concerned.

I heard “Will?” from three mouths, and I smiled broadly as I turned to face my matelot’s hard green eyes. Pete and Striker were beside him.

“All is well,” I said with mild admonishment for the benefit of the men behind them. “Morgan is merely distraught in the wake of our loss, and I said a foolish thing he took poorly.”