Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (86 page)

“You could still command,” Bradley was saying.

“Not for a time,” Striker said. “Maybe next year. I am either in pain or drugged beyond it. Cudro will be captain while we rove, now.”

“Good,” Morgan said. “He’s another owner of this vessel?”

“Aye,” Striker said.

I bit my tongue, and I could see Pete doing the same.

“Perhaps next year you should get two ships, if there are two of you who can captain,” Morgan said pleasantly. “Why deny Jamaica and the fleet both of your expertise?”

Striker smiled. “Aye. We will see to that. Worked well this year, though.”

Morgan did not respond to that. Instead he said, “We gave the Spanish a scare today, to teach them that they best not trifle with us.

They are keen to take on a small band, but when I landed over two hundred men, they fled.”

“Did Cudro not speak of it?” Striker asked. “There were hundreds of them, with some in uniform. They must have come from all the villages along this coast.”

“He said as much,” Morgan said dismissively. “Not enough to take on a real army, though. Not enough to take on you and fifty buccaneers!” he guffawed.

“I was on the ground in a pool of my own blood before we started fighting,” Striker said wryly.

“I’m glad we didn’t go today to avenge your death,” Bradley said.

“Thank you,” Striker said. He grinned. “So am I. Just wish I didn’t have to pay with my good right arm for the pleasure. But it’s better than dying. And I’ve got Pete, so it’s not like I need both hands anyway.”

Pete smiled at his man, and it was as if I could see his heart swell.

Bradley’s brow furrow as he gazed upon them, and then he dropped his face to study the floor. “Aye,” he said softly. “You’re a lucky man.”

“So you will hold elections?” Morgan asked brusquely.

I saw Striker start to shrug and think better of it and grimace. “Aye, soon. The men wish to give their respects first, and I will tell them it’s my decision.”

“But when we arrive at Savona, he will be captain?” Morgan prompted.

“Aye,” Striker said.

“Good then, I will relay orders to him and let you heal,” Morgan said and stood. “Don’t die, Striker, we have need of you yet.”

“I’ll remember that,” Striker said with a wry smile.

Bradley hesitated in following Morgan from the cabin. “Get well. You have two surgeons, but do you need…”

“Oh, shut up,” Striker said with an amiable smile. “You know I have the best on Jamaica.”

“When he’s sane,” Bradley muttered.

“I’ve seen him at his best when he’s mad,” Striker said. “Now fuck off and sail.”

Bradley left with a chuckle.

Pete leaned over Striker and kissed him, and I turned away and found my matelot smiling.

“I am loved,” Gaston breathed.

“Truly,” I said.

He covered my mouth with his, and soon we were engaged in an activity we had not partaken of in days.

Later that evening – after Gaston had tended Striker’s bandages and pronounced him fit enough for it – the men began to enter the cabin in pairs and speak of how loved Striker was, and he in turn told them to place their trust in Cudro, and all seemed pleased with this. We had the election the next day, and Cudro was ratified as captain. A good man named Boller was elected Quartermaster.

The next morning, our small fleet of eight ships and five hundred or so men sailed for Savona. When we arrived there two days later, Morgan organized a sortie of one hundred and fifty men under Bradley’s command to raid the coast near San Domingo; but they returned empty-handed to report that the Spaniards were well prepared for them.

Bradley later told Striker he had informed Morgan that unless we truly intended to raid here, it was not worth the pitched battle that would ensue to gain a few bags of flour and a handful of cattle. Morgan had not been pleased.

Thus, our admiral held a meeting of his eight captains. Cudro seemed pleased when he returned. He slipped into the cabin to tell Striker of the decision before putting it to a vote before the men.

“Maracaibo,” Cudro said.

I frowned, but Striker and the others nodded.

“One of our new captains was on a French ship with L’Olonnais,”

Cudro continued. “He says he can get us past the reefs at the lake mouth. No one has raided there since the French two years ago. They should be ripe and we will not have to go against a fort.”

“Is this pilot supposedly as well-informed as the good man who told us Puerte Principe was wealthy?” I asked.

There was laughter, but we cursed as well.

“And is he a pilot?” the Bard asked.

Cudro sighed and smiled. “I know not on either question. We can only pray, as he’s what we’ve got and Morgan likes the idea. L’Olonnais did well there with few men. And it’s closer than trying for the Main. If all vote for it, we’ll sail south to Ruba near Curaçao, and see if we can trade with the natives for food to tide us over – since it’s a Dutch colony, now.

Then we’ll sail southwest into the bay and the lake mouth.”

“We are sailing into a lake?” I asked.

“A lake bigger than the isle of Jamaica,” the Bard said.

That would be large, but it did not mollify my concern, in light of how the Spanish had become so organized against us here on Hispaniola.

“Could they not trap us in it?”

“There’s no fortress at the entrance, and we shouldn’t be there long enough for them to send overland for aid from Cartagena,” Cudro said with a shrug.

Gaston was frowning, though. “It is purported to be another Spanish cesspool of disease.”

“Do the damn Spanish keep their gold anywhere else?” the Bard asked with a grin.

“Apparently not,” I sighed.

Gaston shook his head with disgust.

Cudro went to present the choice of target to the men and call for a vote; all save Striker went with him to cast theirs.

“I see no reason to vote against it, as there is apparently no alternative being offered,” I said quietly to Gaston in French, as we stood on the quarterdeck and listened to Cudro explain the plan.

“Non,” he sighed. “We go there and see if the pawns come out to play, and then we sail home. I am just afraid we will be throwing bodies over the side the whole way home, as we did from Porto Bello. We will have to search for quinine once the town is taken. We will not drink any water that has not been boiled, or eat food that has not been cooked.

We should try and stay away from the water and swamps, but I know not how. This ship will be in the water, and as it is in a lake, it will be sluggish and free of salt…” He was muttering to himself now.

We called out “aye” at the vote and Gaston immediately besieged Farley, who had moved his charge to the now mostly empty hold.

I stood by them, and gazed down at Alonso, who still slept like one dead. I counted the days: it had now been seven since that fateful morning.

I knelt beside my former lover and took up his hand curiously. I squeezed a finger; he did not move. He looked very handsome in repose. I recalled watching him sleep on occasion. He looked older now; there were lines about his eyes and mouth that had not been there for me to trace with a careful finger, in those foolish days when I thought I loved him above all others.

My breath caught. I had loved him, though. At that time, I had loved him above all others. I should not allow what I felt then to be dimmed because it paled in comparison to the love I knew now: it had shone very brightly then.

In an act of whimsy, I leaned close to him and whispered in Castilian,

“Alonso, it is… Uly. You need to wake now, or else you will waste away, and none of the young men or ladies will find you handsome anymore.

And you will not be able to raise a sword or fire a piece to defend yourself. And you will die unshriven among uncouth barbarians. So wake, and regain your strength. Stop dreaming of earthly and heavenly delights. You have always wished to have them here and not in the hereafter, anyway. And… you will be missed. I would not see you die this way. I do not wish to see you die at all. I did love you once.”

Feeling the fool, and alarmed Gaston would take umbrage even now, I sat back and looked around. My matelot was thankfully deeply worried about the lives of other men at the moment.

Alonso stirred a little: a small fitful gesture. I had not watched him sleep for any length of time since he succumbed after the wound, so I could not know if it was a thing he often did or not. But perhaps he liked being spoken to in Castilian. So I continued talking: not so intimately now, but reminding him of adventures we had had as if we were conversing over tankards of Madeira.

Some time later, I glanced around at the end of a tale and found Farley and Gaston regarding me with curiosity. I shrugged.

“I thought speaking to him in Castilian might… wake him.

Sometimes, when Gaston is… not well, he forgets he knows English, and French is all he will hear.”

“Oui, aye,” Gaston said with a thoughtful frown.

“I have heard of wives waking a husband or a child afflicted as he is by speaking to them,” Farley said. “I have been speaking to him, but, in English. I had forgotten it was not his native tongue. How foolish of me.”

Alonso stirred fitfully again.

“Does he do that often?” I asked.

“Nay,” Farley said with surprise. “He does not move.”

“Well, maybe he hears me, then,” I said.

“Perhaps you should come and speak to him…” Farley stopped as he saw the look that passed between Gaston and me.

I surmised I appeared questioning, and I saw resignation in my matelot’s eyes.

Gaston smiled. “Aye, he should come and speak to him.”

“Will that present a difficulty?” Farley asked curiously.

“You have heard we were lovers, have you not?” I asked, and indicated Alonso.

“Oh,” Farley said and shook his head. “I am quite the fool. Aye, I have heard that.”

“Alonso harbors foolish hopes that we will be reunited,” I said.

“And I am prone to stupid jealousy,” Gaston said, while showing me with his gaze how very stupid he found his old fears.

Farley smiled and looked from one to the other of us.

“Whatever for?” His tone was teasing, but tinged with trepidation.

I could not recall our ever speaking to him of anything of a personal nature, other than Gaston’s madness to a small extent.

“Because Will is my life, and I fear losing him,” Gaston said simply.

Farley colored a little and nodded. “Of course. It is just… well, I cannot see where either of you would give the other cause. You seem very… close.”

“It has been my experience that jealousy seldom needs cause,” I said lightly.

Gaston smirked at me. “No part of me will be jealous.”

I grinned. “I will hold all parts of you to that,” I teased in return.

Farley was frowning now with perplexity.

I waved him off. “Thank you for caring for Alonso as you have.”

“Someone must,” Farley said with a shrug. “And I have few other patients, and… I enjoy his company.” He seemed uncomfortable at that admission. “It pains me to see him as he is now.”

“Do not worry; we will not think you entertain thoughts other than the platonic for him simply because you are amongst buccaneers.”

He flushed and shook his head. “People here leap at conjecture…”

I laughed. “Tell me of it.” I clapped his shoulder and led Gaston away to the quarterdeck.

“I will never again be jealous of Alonso,” he said when we were relatively alone at the rail.

“I know. I feel I might be more uncomfortable with aiding in his recovery than you are, but… it pains me to see him in that state, and… I did love him once.”

Gaston frowned at that, but then he nodded with a rueful smile and cast his eyes skyward. “I will not be jealous.”

“Keep telling Them that,” I teased.

He laughed, and pulled me to him for a lovely kiss that warmed my heart and cock. We settled in and watched the stars twinkle as we shared stories with the men on watch.

Our small fleet sailed south with the dawn. It would take several days to reach the little Dutch-claimed isle known as Ruba. Gaston and I settled into our routine of keeping the night watch, participating in the clearing of weapons and cleaning of the ship in the early morning, sleeping until the afternoon, rising and engaging in calisthenics or sparring, and then enjoying the tales and music of the evening hours with our friends. I added speaking with Alonso to my daily duties; and, of course, Gaston tended Striker. And thus two days passed.

On the third night, Farley hurried on to the quarterdeck, seeking me.

He did not tell us what was about: he merely led Gaston and me to the hold, where we found Alonso blinking slowly at the dim lantern light.

“He called out for you,” Farley said.

I knelt beside Alonso and spoke Castilian. “Alonso, how are you? Do you know where you are?”

His gaze found me and brightened. “Uly,” he sighed. “I found you. I kept hearing you… in this dream. But whenever I turned, you were not there. So I was chasing you through this great house… It was not my father’s, or Teresina’ s or… It had parts of every house I have ever been in: all connected together as if someone kept building and building for acres and…” He shook his head irritably. “It is not important. I found you now.”

“Si, you have returned to us,” I said.

“Where have I been?”

“Lost in that dream, perhaps – for the last nine days.”

He was quite stricken at this information. “That must be why I feel so weak.”

“Si, are you hungry? Thirsty?” I asked.

He nodded quickly, and Farley handed me a water bottle and went to fetch food. I helped Alonso raise his head so he could drink. He regarded me above the mouth of the bottle like a trusting babe. I found it disturbing.

After he had drunk a goodly amount, I set the bottle aside

“Do you remember what occurred?” I asked. .

He frowned slightly with thought, and peered about, though there was little to be seen beyond the small sphere of lantern light in which we sat. Even Gaston was a shadow among shadows leaning against the hull, out of Alonso’s sight. He nodded encouragement to me, and watched Alonso with a physician’s curiosity.