Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (98 page)

“What are you offering?” I asked with a wry smile. “And perhaps of more import, what do you wish to gain?”

He cocked his head with a subtle moue. “I want Panama. I need the French.”

Gaston snorted.

I smiled. “After the fiasco with the Cour Volant this year, and the matter with Burroughs and that damn duel, and Puerte Principe being nearly worthless last year, surely you jest.”

Morgan shrugged. “But they have now heard how Porto Bello made all who continued on with me rich last year, and… The Cour Volant was not my fault.”

“Saying all that is true, why do you think we could produce them?” I asked.

“Peirrot and Savant like you,” he said. “And you stand a better chance than anyone. You have the Devil’s silver tongue.”

“Aye, perhaps, but you realize that my way of convincing them will be to tell them you are a greedy and ambitious bastard, and the only reason they should go is that they can share in it.”

Morgan smirked. “That is precisely why I should send you. Your honesty will win them over.”

I glanced at my matelot, and found him smiling to himself and studying his wine goblet.

I shrugged. “All right; say we agree to do this thing. What can you truly offer us?”

He smiled. “As you have already guessed, Modyford is in the employ of your father. I don’t know how long he has been corresponding with your father; possibly since before your arrival. But he expects to reap great benefit from the arrangement, when he eventually leaves Jamaica and returns to England.”

I sighed. “And you?”

Morgan snorted, and spoke nonchalantly, without malice. “I am no one’s man, though I allow Modyford to believe whatever is convenient for me. I have never corresponded with your father. However, his agent, Washington, came to visit me when we returned from Porto Bello.

He bore a note of introduction from Modyford instructing me to be forthcoming with the man. He asked me a great many questions about how buccaneers live. He was especially interested in the practice of matelotage. And then he asked me a number of questions about you. He wanted to know if I had reason to believe that you engaged in sodomy– and whether I would be willing to testify to that in court.”

Lead formed in my belly, and I felt Gaston tense beside me. “And you told him?” I asked.

“That I did not know you that well,” he chuckled, but quickly sobered. “And then I went and argued with Modyford. Obviously matelotage is the Way of the Coast. Good Lord, it keeps men from fighting over one another and the few whores we have. It’s not a thing I wish to engage in, or have need of, but I care not what my men do.

And, if that damn fool Modyford begins to charge and convict men of it, I know damn well the buccaneers will all go to Tortuga. I convinced him of that – that he could not even go after you at your father’s behest, because it would cause rioting in the streets. Lynch and the other proper gentlemen on the council tend to forget that the buccaneers make up most of the militia. Damn fools.”

I was stunned, and I downed my glass and filled another.

“This was months ago?” I asked.

He nodded sadly.

“We have been blind and stupid,” I said, and drank more.

Morgan shrugged. “Nay. You’re like a prize bull: it’s often discussed if you should be shown at the fair, bred, or slaughtered – but not in front of you. Your man Theodore has been carefully handled lest he become aware of what was about.”

“So I can trust no one of any consequence on Jamaica?” I asked.

“Will,” he said with a trace of amusement, “I would not trust men of little consequence on Jamaica, if I were you. Even your own family.”

“My uncle?”

He nodded. “He was at the governor’s – in the next room – when you arrived with that declaration you wanted signed. He’s a curious fellow.

He seemed quite heartbroken that you’re such a fool as to do such a thing, but then he worries at what your father will do to you in the end.

Modyford will not bring charges against you here, yet. But he has talked of doing other things to force you to comply with your father’s wishes– which I am confused by.”

“I think my father likes to keep us all confused,” I said. “He lies to everyone to suit his purposes. What other things? I have no idea what he wants of me; I only know I want nothing of him.”

“I actually understand that,” Morgan said, as if he found that confusing, too. He shrugged. “Well, there was that business with Vines’

daughter. He gathered a great deal of evidence concerning your wife, in order to be able to discredit any child she might bear. And he has occasionally stirred up trouble with some of the other merchants about there being a business in town managed by a woman. And despite that magnificent emerald Striker gave him, he might very well move to seize your ship. He threatened it once, when I made some comment about whether or not Striker would sail with us. The only thing that I believe has stayed his hand before we sailed, and even after, is the revelation that your man here’s father is a marquis. He’s unsure of what to do concerning that, and is awaiting instruction from your father.”

I buried my head in my hands. I would have demanded to know why he hadn’t bothered to tell us any of this before, but that would have been foolishness: we had been on the precipice of truly being enemies before, and he had not cared if Striker and I were destroyed.

Gaston rubbed my shoulder. “What would you advise?” he asked Morgan.

“Honestly,” Morgan said with a lengthy sigh. “Leave Jamaica. All of you: your sister; Theodore; everyone. Go to Tortuga.” He shrugged. “And while you’re there, get the French to sail with me against Panama.”

I chuckled mirthlessly.

“I give you my word we will do what we can,” Gaston said. “And now, if you will excuse us, we have much to discuss.”

Morgan nodded solemnly.

Gaston and I were silent as we climbed down to a canoe and rowed toward the Queen; but then he stopped in the darkness between the vessels, and said, “We should not tell anyone yet. Not until we truly escape this place.”

“Oui,” I said with little emotion, as I felt nothing but cold. “As I do not wish to know any of it, I do not see where they should be troubled with it, when we have more immediate matters of concern.”

And then the rage hit, tearing from me a wordless cry of pain and rage; and I doubled over in the canoe afraid the power of what I now felt would tear me in two.

Gaston pushed off my kerchief and rubbed my scalp. He could not hold me, as the canoe was too narrow to allow him to turn. So I moved so I could cling to his back.

We sat in the darkness, with him only rowing to keep us from flowing out of the lake with the current. We could have escaped, just us: the fortress never would have seen the small dark dot that we were. But then what would we do? Where would we go?

We had to take our chances with our friends. They had cast their lot with ours, and now we owed them. We must all escape together.

I finally calmed enough for us to row to the Queen.

“Composing more nasty notes to that bastard general?” Striker asked as we joined our cabal on the quarterdeck.

“Aye,” I said. “There are things he needs to hear.”

They were peering at us – or rather me – and I knew I was not so composed as I wished to seem.

“Don’t fret,” Striker said and handed me a bottle, of which he had already consumed quite a bit. “Morgan’s plan’ll work.”

I choked on the wine. “It had best.”

Gaston wrapped his arms around me, and we sat in silence. I tried to tell myself that, truly, most of our friends and family would find life little different if our home was Cayonne and not Port Royal. They would simply have to learn French.

But I would miss our little home at Negril.

And Gaston’s name had not yet been cleared.

The next morning, the treasure – some two hundred and fifty thousand pieces of eight in ready money, and more in jewels and other valuables – was divided amongst our vessels, based upon how many men and other shares each ship had. Then we set about sharing it out on each ship. This took the better part of a day. Barring extra shares for various posts, each man came away with some one hundred and fifty pounds.

The next day, we put Morgan’s ingenious plan for escaping the lake into effect. We began to dispatch our boats and canoes to shore filled with men, and appeared to land them out of sight of the fort; but we did not leave any men ashore. The men not rowing a boat lay flat in its bottom, as each craft returned to its vessel and pretended to load more men on the side of the ship opposite the fort. Meanwhile, more and more men hid in the holds on our ships, until the decks appeared empty. In this way we attempted to convince the general we were sending all our men ashore to attack him at night by land. It seemed to be working: we could see them repositioning many of their cannon to bear inland.

When night came, there was a full moon, and our fleet weighed anchor; and, leaving our sails furled, we drifted with the outgoing tide into the channel, until we were even with the fort. Then we raised sail and shot through the passage under the fort’s guns, with the seaward wind at our backs. The Spanish did fire upon us, and several of our vessels were struck, but to no great damage; and we were soon all safely at sea.

Once beyond their guns, Morgan released the prisoners, and fired a salvo in salute from the captured warship. I imagined I could hear Don Espinosa grinding his teeth. I began to think of how I wanted to hear my father grind his; but, of course, all our pending misfortune on Jamaica was the result of my already having angered my sire such that he ground his teeth. I would just never get to hear it.

All the imprecations Espinosa surely heaped upon us were repaid by the Gods with a brutal storm that blew in from the northeast on our second day sailing home. It was in every way equal to the tempest that had destroyed the galleon and the North Wind two years before.

We furled our sails, tied off the rudder, lashed ourselves down, and prayed. Men filled the hold and cabin, but Gaston was afraid of being below deck, in case the ship was swamped or rolled. So we tied ourselves, some weapons, and a bag of food, water, medicine, and ammunition to the forward quarterdeck rail.

As the first hours wore on, I began to lose myself: the winds howled inside my mind as well as out. Everything I had ever done had been punished. The Gods hated me. God hated me. My father hated me. All because I could not be what they wished.

And then somewhere amidst it all, I felt my matelot fumbling with my breeches and a familiar pressure behind me. I turned my head and felt his cold lips upon my cheek. Even if he had tried to scream in my ear with his broken voice, I could not have heard him in the tempest; but I felt him, and he was soon warm inside me, and thus I was soon warm.

The winds did not howl in Heaven, and in the aftermath of that glow, it was easy to order my thoughts. The Gods did love us.

And to prove it to me and further earn my trust, the storm at last abated. It was not an immediate thing; nay, it took three days, but at last we sailed on calm seas. No one had died. The hull was leaking, but not so it could not be repaired.

I felt the sun shining in the aftermath as the beneficence of the Gods given earthly form; and I considered what we all must do next with faith and surety.

After such a storm, and sitting about in lake water for over two months, and not being careened since January, the Virgin Queen’s hull was in sorry shape: she seeped everywhere, and we had to form a bucket line to bail her. The damn storm had blown us back toward the Spanish coast, and the Bard did not wish to risk sailing north across a goodly expanse of the open Northern Sea to reach Hispaniola. We had lost sight of the rest of our fleet; and until we returned to Port Royal, we could not even know who had survived. Thus we returned to Ruba, as it was a relatively safe haven, and found what beach we could to careen. Though we made fast work of it, it was still a week before we were underway again. We guessed we would arrive in Port Royal at the end of May.

Gaston and I held our tongues throughout, and waited until we were only two days from Port Royal before we gathered our cabal in the cabin.

They were quiet after I finished relaying all Morgan had imparted to us.

Gaston and I had discussed it, and we had found it likely that several of our friends might choose to disbelieve or mistrust this new information.

I had questioned it myself in the days since we heard it, but always returned to whence I began: whether or not the specific threats Morgan spoke of were real, the danger surely was.

I saw some incredulity as I spoke to our friends; once I finished, they were thoughtful, but seemingly disinclined to meet my gaze.

“So… would we be welcome in Cayonne?” Dickey asked at last.

“Now that things are well with Gaston’s father, and…” I sighed. He was correct to ask, and that too was a thing of which Gaston and I had oft whispered; though we had befriended Savant somewhat, and Peirrot liked us anyway, there were many others among the French buccaneers who might still harbor ill will over Doucette. And, of course, there was always the matter of Gaston’s legal status looming before us – but perhaps we would receive good news on that front upon reaching Port Royal.

“I do not know,” I sighed at last.

“There’s always Petit Goave,” Cudro said.

“I don’t speak French, either way,” the Bard said.

I sighed. “There is also the option that… Gaston and I, and Sarah, and thus Striker and Pete – essentially anyone my father would wish to harm – remove themselves from the ownership of the company and the ship.”

Cudro shrugged and looked to his matelot. “We should discuss it, but I care not if I sail from a French port or an English one: I’m neither.”

Ash shrugged and smiled at him. “If I cared about being a proper Englishman, I would return to my father on Barbados.”

Cudro grinned. “Apparently it matters not to us. And… I would rather sail from a port your father can’t buy the governor of.”

“Well,” I said with a smile. “It is either that, or cease your association with me.”