His words made my heart ache, as I heard strange, twisted echoes of my thoughts in them.
“Is love enough?” I asked, and heard Gaston’s breath catch. “I would have… I have gambled all that I am upon it… Because I have spent my entire life waiting for it. I have harbored no other goal or dream. But truly, can we define ourselves by love alone? Gaston is a physician by calling, and I cannot deny him that. And I know you do not seek to deny Striker, and…”
Pete was staring at me, and I thought I had likely angered him, but I did not see rage in his eyes, but curiosity.
“YaPutYurMatelot AboveAllElse?” he challenged.
“Have I not proven it?” I asked.
“YaDidNa’Want YurTitle.”
He was, of course, correct. I soothed my ire at his challenge, and seriously considered his question and found at every turn that I discovered nothing my heart had not initially said.
I sighed. “I occasionally feel driven to philanthropy, and I am ever called to… minister to those in need of counsel, for good or ill, but I have often walked away from those pursuits these last years – for him. I do not even put my life above his. And yet, I know that is perhaps not as it should be. I feel at times that my devotion is madness, a benign one to be sure, but still, not as maybe the Gods intended.”
I looked to Gaston, and found him smiling indulgently.
“I love you,” he breathed in French. “And you are mad.” This last seemed to pain him, and he looked away, startled.
I wished to speak to him of it, and felt annoyance at Pete’s continued presence, and I grinned.
“At every turn,” I said to Pete as I returned my gaze to him. “I am not as other men in that regard. Do you place Striker above all else?”
Pete smiled and scratched his blond stubble as he returned his gaze to the stars. “Nay.”
“So what would you not do for him?” I asked with curiosity. Pete had already given up much of what I felt he might have valued – namely buccaneer tradition and roving like wild men as they had for ten years – in order to stay with his man. I could not see him leaving Striker, even if his matelot were to become an honest merchant and sit about Port Royal for years at a time. “My nephew? Sarah?”
He winced. “Naw, Na’Thinkin’O’Them. Should.”
“I do not place little Jamaica above Gaston, either,” I said.
“TheyNa’BeOurs,” Pete sighed. Then the golden shoulders shrugged. “StrikerBeMine. ’EBeAllIEver LayClaimTo. So. Won’tStayWith ’ImIffnI Can’tFuck’Im, OrIffn’Imust BeLyin’’BoutIt. OrIffn’’ENa’HoldTaMeBein’ ’IsMatelotInOtherWays. INa’Be’IsFriend. IWillNa’’AveAnyDamnBastard Thinkin’IBeAnother Man’sSlaveOrServant, Na’Even’Is, ’SpeciallyNa’’Is.”
He sighed and the shoulders slumped. “ThereWereOtherThings. LastYear. AforeSarah. ThingsIThoughtMore ImportantThanLivin’. PridefulThings. ButILoved’ImMore ThanThem.”
I heard his sad words, but my mind had become caught upon his current line of last defense.
“I have ever measured love by a man’s ability to overcome the purported wrongness of fucking me. I do not view it in quite the same manner, now; but I feel that is a very good distinction to be made. If we are not loved enough to held to in all ways, then it is not truly love: if they are not proud of us, it is not love.”
Pete nodded and continued watching the dark water.
Gaston was quiet with his head pressed to the railing. I squeezed his fingers and he returned the gesture and added a small sad smile.
“If ever I am not proud of you, shoot me,” he whispered in French.
I nodded solemnly.
“What’d’ESay?” Pete asked.
I turned to him and found him frowning. I repeated Gaston’s words.
Pete nodded and looked away with a sheepish grimace. “Shoulda’ Guessed.” Then he turned back to fix Gaston with a challenging stare. “WhatDoYa’ PlaceAbove’Im?”
My matelot flinched, but he met Pete’s gaze steadily, even as his fingers nearly ground my bones to dust. “You are correct: I am more like Striker than either of you. I want things… now… that I never dreamed of before I had Will. He has made it all possible, and I feel ashamed that I should want anything other than him.”
“Do not, my love,” I said in English. “I feel it makes you a far saner man than I.”
“That hardly seems possible,” Gaston said with a wry smile, and let up on my fingers.
“SoYa’Sayin’IBeMad?” Pete asked with a trace of amusement.
“Perhaps,” I said with a grin. “Or I am saying we have very small lives. Perhaps we should develop other goals.”
Pete was no longer amused, and he shook his head with consternation. “Iffn’TwoMen Both’AveGoals, TheyNa’ StayTogether.”
I nodded. “Perhaps that is the madness of love ever bemoaned by poets and playwrights.”
The Golden One sighed. “’ECanKeep’Is DamnGoals. StillDon’Know ’Ow’E’llReach ’EmThough.”
“Let us see what the morrow brings,” I said tiredly, and then realized I was wrong. “Nay, let us make goals, and then see how the morrow shapes what course we must take to achieve them.”
Pete smirked. “I’llLikelyBeShootin’’ImTaKeep’ImAlive. EvenIfItMakes ’ImMiserable.” He snorted. “BeBestFurSarah An’TheBabe.” He stood, and leaned down to brush a kiss on my forehead and then another upon Gaston’s. I was minded of Agnes, and wondered why they felt compelled to ever do that. Then he left us, and we heard the cabin door open and close a moment later.
“I see why your Horse is distraught now, about losing me,” Gaston whispered in French.
“I do not,” I said with a smile. “I see why it is a foolish animal.”
His green eyes were in shadow, and nearly as dark as the ocean beneath us. “I am ashamed,” he breathed, “that I am relieved that I am all you value.”
I considered that, and at last smiled. “I am relieved that you are ashamed.”
He frowned briefly, and smiled.
“Let us not question our love,” I said softly. “As we already know it to be mad, and a thing of our Horses, and thus of a truth we cannot question even at their wildest.”
He kissed me with great truth, and I snuggled into his arms and wondered how this new year we teetered on the eve of would unfold. There were surely choices to be made; but I felt they were all to be made by others, as I had already made mine.
The remainder of the night passed without incident; and we slept through much of the day, thus apparently sparing ourselves from the tension growing upon the Queen. When at last we emerged onto the deck in the late afternoon, we found our companions fretful: the deck was awash with grumbles, and very few were speaking to one another upon the quarterdeck.
Cudro awarded us a shrug, and glanced at Striker as we joined our friends. “We were discussing what we wish of the meeting tonight.”
Striker’s back was to us, and his gaze was fixed upon the western horizon. Pete was glowering at him. The Bard was sullenly studying the other ships. Dickey was eyeing his matelot with concern. Ash was regarding his own man in the same manner: his hands fidgeting as he stood at Cudro’s side. I wondered how we had not been woken by whatever argument must have occurred. It was no wonder the men were grumbling.
“What we wish for; or what we will ask for?” I asked cheerfully.
Striker turned from the rail and came to me to hiss bitterly, “We can’t ask for what we wish. All here want a different thing. What do you wish for?”
I met his dark eyes and felt I understood his anger. He was torn between his need to do well by his men and friends and his personal desires.
“I wish to live,” I said solemnly. “I wish for us to do whatever will best further our survival. We have agreed that roving is a good course in order to discover our enemies and keep them from our home; but I do not wish to sail against a target that will be the end of us. In order to do anything, though, we will need to provision; and if we do not get these
men off this ship soon, they might well be at one another’s throats, or ours – with or without the enticement of a bounty.”
Striker released a prolonged sigh and looked away before giving a guilty nod. “Aye.”
I glanced about. Cudro was fighting a smile and studying the rigging. The Bard gave a sullen nod, and Dickey appeared relieved.
Pete met my gaze with a rueful smile. “YaBestBeCareful. OrYaBe Evokin’’Ere. OrWhatever ThatWordBe.”
This earned him a frown from his matelot, and Gaston’s amusement.
Striker at last determined we would not explain; and I was relieved to see him shrug the matter away and don his usual mantle of nonchalant leadership.
“If nothing else, the matter of provisioning must be decided,” he said.
“Aye,” Cudro said. “I still think that, unless we sail for a target on the morrow, we should put our men ashore to hunt even if none of the others do.”
Striker nodded.
“Even if we don’t sail with the others,” the Bard added. “We will need to provision.”
Striker sighed and nodded. Pete appeared glum, though.
“I’m going to dress,” Striker said.
This prompted a groan from Pete, but he followed his matelot to the cabin.
As there was little else to be said in front of the men – who, I was sure, had heard far too much already – we stood about and waited. At last Cudro, Ash, Pete, and Striker – all wearing boots, hats, and shirts – were in the ship’s boat and rowing toward the Oxford in the golden light of the setting sun. The warship’s decks were full of men, and music floated to us on the breeze. Some of our men asked if they could join the party there, and the Bard said we should have our own and told the men to dip into the one barrel of rum we had. There were soon more smiles than frowns aboard the Queen, and our musicians were testing their instruments.
Then our boat returned: full of the same men who had set out on her.
A furious Striker met us on the quarterdeck, followed by a somewhat amused Pete and a resigned Cudro.
I asked the obvious. “What occurred?”
“The meeting in the main cabin is for captains only!” Striker spat. “No quartermasters! No matelots! And it’s not because the damn room is too small!”
His words spread throughout our decks, and one of our men closest to us handed him a tankard of rum. Striker took a good swig.
I thought of the rum and wine being consumed aboard the Oxford. “Is it a meeting, or a party?” I asked.
“Party, where Morgan gets to tell drunken men what he wishes,” Cudro said.
“Aye!” Striker growled as he disappeared into our cabin.
I looked to Pete.
He smiled. “’EDidNaGo WithoutMe,” he whispered as he passed us to follow his matelot.
I smiled, and turned back to find Cudro and the Bard eyeing Gaston and me. “Well, gentlemen, now what shall we do?”
The Bard cursed quietly.
Cudro shrugged. “Put men ashore in the morning, and wait and see what the damn fools decided. Then we can argue as to whether we follow their course or not.”
His words had not been spoken for our ears alone, and they were picked up and carried throughout the ship. The men relaxed and soon our party was once again underway, with music, dancing, rum, and surprising good cheer.
After darkness descended upon the bay, the Oxford began to fire celebratory salvos from her cannon across the water. Some of our men considered doing the same, but the Bard and Cudro ordered no one to waste our powder. So we listened to the big guns roar on occasion without answering them.
Striker and Pete rejoined us sometime later. They were smiling and stripped down to their breeches, and there was fine teasing from all close to us as to their activity of the last hour. Much to the pleasure of the men, they took to the deck and danced a jig together, as they had the first night I spent upon the North Wind. When the applause subsided, they came to the quarterdeck, sweating and eyes shining.
“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-discernible, 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. “SoItSeems.”
“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.”
Treasure Page 64
