Treasure

by W. A. Hoffman

  “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’tNeed LightTaFuck,” 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. “CrawledOutThe WindowsWhenAll ThoughtWeFucked An’SwamOver. LitASlowFuse.”

  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.”

  “Nay, nay,” Morgan said smoothly. “It was not so foolish. I am – as our good Will said – distraught, and I mistook his words. He was giving good counsel, as he ever does.”

  I was sure those who knew us best were not convinced in the least, but the rest of the men seemed mollified.

  “That’s our Will, always speaking his mind,” Striker said with passably feigned amusement, and clapped my shoulder as he walked past me. “I was damn pleased to hear you three survived. How are the rest of the ships?”

  Pete was now beside me, and I snagged his shoulder and pulled his ear to me to whisper. “He has made his accusation and I met it. The others do not back him.”

  “GoodFurThem,” he muttered darkly.

  I let him go and met my matelot’s gaze again. “I am fine. Let us walk,” I said quietly, and began to lead him back to the Queen.

  He slipped an arm around my shoulders and fell into step with me. “Do not walk off without telling me,” he admonished through clenched teeth.

  “I know, I know,” I sighed. “However, it would have gone worse than it did if you had been present. There would be blood on that sand.”

  “What did he say?”

  I sighed again, and repeated all. “My quick tongue has ever been my blessing and my curse,” I finished.

  We were nearly back at the place where men were arranging lines to haul the Queen up onto the beach. He appeared thoughtful, and he did not stop or try and steer us away from the others. Instead, he returned to where he had been working when I left him, then stopped and turned to me to whisper in French with a small smile, “I find your quick tongue a blessing.”

  I kissed him, and he savored it with a small sound of pleasure.

  “I am sorry to cause you worry,” I whispered when we parted. “I thought it best I met with him alone to see what he would say. And I am glad I did.”

  He met my gaze with concern and admonishment. “So am I. But now, you will stay away from him? Even if you are his better in all ways a thousand times over?”

  I grinned. “Oui, Papa, I will not play with the wolves, or poke them with sticks.”

  He rolled his eyes and turned back to assisting with the cable.

  I slapped his arse, and returned to standing where I had before, watching others work. I did not feel so very useless now, though. I mused on the encounter, and smiled to myself. I was not as impotent as I had been feeling of late. I looked at the place where the Oxford had been, and wondered at the Providence of the Gods.

  Seventy-Eight

  Wherein We Suffer a Loss

  I watched Morgan’s boats push off from the beach a short time later. Ash and some of the others who had run to my aid were quick to return, but Striker, Pete, and Cudro were deep in discussion and made slow work of their walk. Gaston and I went to meet them. They ceased speaking as we approached, and Striker regarded me with a gaze hung between anger and curiosity.

  “What was said?” he demanded.

  I told him. Cudro whistled with quiet amazement as I finished, and Pete nodded from behind his matelot’s back, but Striker looked away to study the waves and chew on his lip.

  “And what was said to you?” I asked.

  When Striker would not answer, and Pete did not seem inclined to, either – as he was staring upon his matelot with troubled eyes – Cudro spoke. “He is displeased we are careening and hunting. He would have the lot of us sail as soon as possible. He has instructed Bradley to remain here only long enough to repair those vessels in need of it, and for himself to return from Port Royal. Then we are to sail east to Savona. That is a thing they decided last night. Once there, they planned to regroup and sail south and plunder the coast of Caracas. Now…” He shrugged. “He will sail with Norman on the Lilly to Port Royal, with the French prize.”

  “So the Cour Volant is a prize now?” I asked.

  Cudro sighed. “My words, not his. It might as well be. He’s still claiming they committed piracy. He swears the French had a Spanish letter of marque – which is a foolish thing, as to my knowledge the Spanish do not issue letters of marque. But when we asked of it, the document they described sounds to be a certificate of trade from a Spanish governor. We have one.” He shrugged again.

  “Burn it,” Striker said. He turned to me. “You’re correct. He doesn’t trust me.”

  “I am sorry,” I said.

  “We told them we were thinking it might have been the French trying to escape – and Morgan liked that well enough – but then he reveals that he intends to try their captain for piracy and I feel…” Striker turned away again and cursed.

  “Aye,” Cudro said sadly. “It seems we are helping to dig that poor French captain’s grave, when all we’re trying to do is save our own hides. But none of the French want to sail with Morgan – not after the damn duel with Burroughs last year – and now this. Now the French will likely avoid Port Royal, and that should anger Modyford when the merchants complain of the lack of French booty. But Morgan cares not; he’s angry the French will not support him in lining his own pockets, so it seems he’ll take their ships how he can. They’re all a bunch of hogs rooting after gold.”

  “Aye, they might well all be hogs and not wolves,” I sighed.

  “It is a good thing he will not cross you,” Striker said with a bitter tone that brought my gaze quickly to him, only to find him walking on toward our working men.

  “What the Devil do you mean by that?” I asked.

  Striker stopped and turned to me. His mien was guilty. “I did not…” He sighed and at last met my gaze. “I’m neither a threat nor a boon to the man. I’m a kicked dog.”

  “My good friend, I know not what to say,” I said softly. “Do you wish for his regard?”

  “Nay,” Striker said with exasperation which seemed to be as much directed at the Heavens as at me. “I wish for things I can’t have.” He turned away again and started walking.

  I let him go, and turned back to Pete, Cudro, and Gaston. I met the Golden One’s blue eyes: once more he appeared age-old and weary. He did not speak, but his shrug was eloquent enough, as he too, walked by me.

  “Have I done poorly?” I asked Gaston and Cudro.

  Our Dutchman scratched his massive head. “That’s hard to say. We’ll only know in the fullness of time.” Then he, too, left us.

  I met loving green eyes and felt my doubts ease.

  “You may well have saved his life and command,” Gaston said.

  I frowned. “Morgan’s or Striker’s?”

  He grinned. “Both.”

  I sighed and followed him back to the cables coiled upon the beach.

  Morgan sailed to Port Royal on the Lilly the next morning. I had been sitting on guard for hours, as it had been my turn, and I watched the sloop raise sail and race out and around the reef with the dawn breeze: golden light making her seem as if she were gilded with some intangible thing of far more value than wood and canvas. The somewhat less nimble French frigate followed in her wake: a dirge of a darker shadow, despite the fine color to the light. I awarded my poetic whimsy a snort of ironic amusement.

  Gaston looked up sleepily from where he cuddled beside me in the nest we had made in the sand. In addition to taking the watch prior to mine, he had been bent and strained over cables for much of the evening, assisting in bringing the Queen to lie with her crew upon the beach. I had not wished for him to wake as yet, but the beach smelled of roasting beef, and there would soon be too much activity for him to continue to slumber like a babe.

  “They are gone,” I said in French. “Sailed away to wreak havoc elsewhere and apologize for the duplicity of others: seeking go
ld, when it surrounds them and they are but blind to it.”

  He nodded and smiled, and pushed my leg flat so he could place his head upon it and arrange himself with more comfort at my expense.

  Striker stirred from beside Pete, and rose to stretch. He did not meet my curious gaze before wandering up the dune to relieve himself. His sleep, if he had indeed slept, had been fitful in the hours I had watched over us, such that his tossing would have woken any man except his exhausted matelot.

  I reluctantly pushed Gaston off my leg, and scratched his scalp before standing and stretching. My matelot peered up at me speculatively, and I cut my eyes in the direction Striker had gone and mouthed his name. He rolled over and lifted his head enough to see Striker at the top of the dune.

  He sighed. “Tell him to stay down. Men will be clearing their weapons soon.”

  I sighed my understanding and arranged my weapons about my belt as I went to join Striker.

  “You should not stand so tall,” I said with a smile when he turned at my approach.

  Striker frowned. “I will not crawl.”

  “Even when shot at?” I teased.

  He shook his head with a sad smile. “I wish to say, especially not when shot at, but those are the words of a fool. I well know it.”

  “This business with my father will pass…” I hesitated, surprised at my next words: rather like, after spending months watching a foal grow, turning one day and finding it a horse. “When I kill him,” I finished.

  Striker regarded me with concern, and I wondered what he found upon my face. I knew discomfiture roiled about behind it, but I felt I was not truly showing that any more or less than nonchalance.

  I met his gaze. “I think I have known that since this began, possibly longer. I have not wished to speak it, though. It will take care and arrangement, as I do not wish to hang for it, but that is how this will end.”

  “That’s what Pete said,” he sighed.

  I nodded solemnly. “So, as Pete has also said, we must clear pieces until we can position ourselves to deal with them: my father and Shane. And… That will require sacrifices.”