“I know all that,” Striker said. “I know. But I can’t. I can’t just step down. Not because I don’t wish to save my own arse. Not because I want to make things harder. But I can’t see doing it after…” He waved his arm at the bay where the Oxford had been. “Not without…” He swore. “Well, it’s not as if the bastard trusts me now, anyway. Or likely I will have much sway with these men when all is done. We’ll likely have to leave Jamaica, for Christ’s sake.”
I could not see where he could manage surrendering his position without damaging his reputation, either, even if the Oxford had not exploded. “But you see how he will risk you; even if another does not attempt to collect the bounty? Even if you are not a threat, per se, you are surely a thorn in his side that he wishes to pluck.”
“Aye,” he said sadly. “I see it now.”
“Then will you allow us to arrange some accident that will not maim you?”
He grimaced. “Can’t I pretend to ail?”
“Enough so that you cannot be captain?”
His gaze met mine and his eyes implored. “Not yet. Not until…”
I nodded quickly. “It is necessary. I understand.”
“Aye,” he said and looked away quickly. “Speak to Pete, would you? He acts as if all I do is argue. He’s angry with me about something.”
“You really need to learn to speak to one another,” I sighed.
“What has he said?”
I shook my head, but then I relented in the name of the knowledge that they would likely come to blows again before they did speak as they should.
“He loves you above all else – provided you always hold him before others as matelot, and not expect him to become… an old friend.”
“Never,” Striker said quickly, and frowned toward the place where Pete was still snoring.
“And he despairs that you will ever be happy,” I added. “He feels you always seek things you do not have; when he feels, perhaps, that you should be content with the treasures you now hold.”
Striker’s eyes held on my face, but when I said no more, he turned with a sigh and walked several steps down the dune to sit – with his head safely below the crest. “I’ll think on it.”
I patted his head as I passed, and returned to my matelot.
Gaston sat and stretched as I approached, his gaze curious. “You win every battle here. This must be a fortuitous isle for you.”
“It inspired you to fuck me,” I said with amusement as I recalled our last visit here. Then the things that I needed to say drove my humor way.
“What?” he asked with concern as I came to sit beside him.
“I must kill my father,” I whispered.
He nodded solemnly.
I gave a grim smile. “It seems all have known this except me. And that would be a lie: I have known it; I merely did not wish to gaze upon it; speak of it; imagine it.”
“Is it truly so unsettling?” he asked with sincere curiosity.
“I wanted to kill your father, and now…” I waved vaguely at our recent weeks.
“Oui,” he sighed. “But yours is…” He stopped, frowning in thought.
“Mine is simply a different animal, and we should not compare the two. Yet… I suppose in my heart of hearts I have ever harbored hopes as you did. That one day I would be embraced.” I gave a rueful smile. “Killing him will end any hope of reconciliation.”
He smiled at my humor, but his words were serious. “And must be carefully done. You spoke of as much with my father. He cannot shelter us, if it were to become known that we did such a thing.”
I did not miss his inclusion of himself in my eventual act of patricide. I did not argue with him. I could not: our lives were one. He could no more avoid the consequences of anything I did than I could hold my right hand accountable but not my left.
Instead, I recalled what had been said to his father. I concluded that, when we first learned of my father’s plotting, in my pain at the horror that had befallen us and the battles we must face, I had known I would kill my sire. It was simply a matter of when and how. And yet, despite my knowing, I had harbored a feeble hope of reconciliation. I remembered how bitterly I had argued with it.
Now, sitting on this calm beach in the dawn light, killing my damn father seemed a far more serious thing than it had in the winds of the storm I had been fighting those weeks in Port Royal. I had guessed this to be the outcome long ago. My Horse had possibly even known it when I fled my father’s house at sixteen. It had surely known he plotted against me then, though I had tried to hold the blind trust of a child close in my heart: telling myself over and over that if my father only knew what Shane had done, if I had only possessed the courage to overcome the shame and tell him, he would have put an end to my misery. But when I at last returned to England, he had made that treasured belief a travesty by admitting he knew all along. And then I had let him send me here.
“I do not hate him,” I said. “I just want him gone, like a mad dog that threatens my stock and my person.”
Gaston nodded. “Let us deal with his pawns and pieces, and then we will see what ours have managed, and then we will plan.”
Melancholy and sorrow lapped at my thoughts, washing away the childhood dreams, smoothing all the little tracks and scuffs of memory for and against my bastard father, until there was nothing but a smooth, hard-packed expanse of inevitability.
Morgan returned in just over a fortnight. The Lilly slipped alone around the reef to join us. By then, my shoulder had healed such that I could exercise it in moderation; and we had careened every vessel in the bay. Our efforts at provisioning had not met with as much success, though: all the men chose to eat well every day, but many of the new captains did not ask their crews to hunt or cut firewood for the making of boucan as they should. Thus, the Queen and one other ship full of seasoned Brethren – and not Morgan’s new mercenaries – were the only ones with holds full of salted beef and boucan after two weeks. The Queen had lost some men over our insisting they work, but gained some from other vessels, where little thought and much faith was being exercised concerning the fleet’s future. During all this, we had been quite vigilant, but if any plotted against Striker or Gaston, we did not learn of it.
Morgan seemed disinclined to host any manner of fête involving his captains in honor of his return: ashore or upon the Mayflower – which he lived aboard for only the three days it took to careen Norman’s Lilly, before returning to the Lilly and naming her his flagship. From this, we inferred Bradley was no longer one of our admiral’s favorite people; though Bradley did not speak directly of that when he told Striker what he had learned from Morgan regarding the ill-fated French ship and her captain.
Morgan had not brought the Cour Volant back to the fleet, but she had not been given back to her captain, either. The admiralty court had been assembled within a day, and passed a verdict of piracy against the poor Frenchman. The Cour Volant had been seized and her captain thrown into the gaol to await hanging; but then Modyford granted the man reprieve, and then insulted Morgan by requisitioning the French ship for use in the colony’s defense in the Oxford’s absence.
So despite our admiral’s maneuverings and complicity with English law in order to obtain the French vessel – further scuttling any hope of the French Brethren ever sailing with him again after the debacle at Puerte Principe – he had failed. And he no longer had an English man of war, or even apparently the governor’s favor at the moment. I did not wonder why he did not wish to make merry.
Nor did he wish to sit about the bay at Cow Island, where he would be reminded of the Oxford’s demise. Nor did he wish to make men work, and thus run the risk of anyone else not liking him. Thus, he decided we should sail for the island of Savona on the southeast corner of Hispaniola as soon as possible. When it became apparent that not all our twelve ships were ready to do such a thing, he chose the Bay of Ocoa – to the east along the southern shore of Hispaniola – as a rendezvous point, saying that from there
we could provision at the inconvenience of the Spanish until all were assembled to sail on to Savona.
From Savona, Bradley told us, Morgan would probably still wish to sail south and plunder the coast of Caracas; but we would not go so far west as our admiral had planned when sitting behind the Oxford’s guns. From this, we learned our damn leader had indeed entertained the notion of attacking Cartagena. I thanked the Gods for the destruction of the Oxford: I only wished They had not taken so many lives to do it.
And so in the third week of January 1669, we left Cow Island. The voyage to the Bay of Ocoa should have taken less than a week, but we ran into stiff headwinds at the southern cape of Hispaniola, and they did not abate for three weeks. The fleet became separated, as some of our number chose to turn back for a time, others sailed farther south, and all kept their distance from one another in order to maneuver as we made our attempts to round the cape.
Thankfully, aboard the Queen, men were angry at the wind and sea and not one another. Striker and Pete had even reached some accord before we sailed, such that they appeared as comfortable with one another as Gaston and I: and we were very well, indeed. Our men, who filled our deck as usual, stayed clear of our sailors as best they could; and our cabal stayed clear of the Bard as he waged war against the elements. And we were all quite pleased we had a hold full of meat. We surmised some of the other ships would never make the rendezvous, choosing instead to plunder what they could to the lee of the cape in order to fill their bellies.
We judged it to be the ides of February when at last we sailed into the Bay of Ocoa. There were three ships to greet us: the Lilly and two other wind-nimble sloops. Striker went to speak with Morgan as soon as we dropped anchor. He was grim when he returned.
“They just arrived,” he said upon joining our cabal on the quarterdeck. “And it is as we thought: the lot of them are starving. Morgan wanted an accounting of all we had: I told them we could share some of our salted kegs until other food could be found, but I would not surrender it all. He likes me even less now.”
“He cannot demand our food,” Cudro spat.
“Nay, because we can just sail off,” the Bard said.
“Aye,” Striker said grimly. “But that is the only reason he did not ask. He kept speaking as if we were all Jamaica’s navy, and all belonged to all.”
The men who overheard this were grumbling.
Striker turned to address them. “Worry not! I will not surrender what we worked hard for. I do wish to give them a little to fill their bellies so they can find their own.”
This seemed to suit the men, and though some thought the bastards deserved it, others were willing to share.
“Morgan wishes to send sorties ashore, starting tomorrow,” Striker told us. “With levies of men from every ship that arrives. He says our men are needed because they are fed and fit.”
There was quiet swearing all about.
“All right,” Cudro sighed after he finished cursing Morgan’s ancestry in Dutch. “I’ll discover who wishes to volunteer and go with them.” He left us, and began asking about for men who wished to go ashore.
“How long before we sail?” the Bard asked.
It had often been a topic of discussion. We had decided to wait and see what we found here, and what developed of that. We had even discussed sailing on our own against the fleets. The men were poor, though; and Morgan had managed to bring them all a good deal of silver last year. Thus we were resolved to wait and see, but not if it became apparent we could do better on our own.
“A week,” Striker said.
“Did Morgan say how long he intends to wait?” I asked.
Striker snorted. “The only ship he is truly waiting on is the Mayflower. If we’re here more than four or five days, he might wait longer for her. I doubt he’ll wait more than a few days beyond her arrival, though. He is determined to sail to Savona, and then south by the end of the month, with however many men we have then.”
“Is there money to be made preying off little villages?” I asked with annoyance.
“Aye, if they don’t know we’re coming,” Striker said. “And it’s divided between few men. Of course, that’s all we’ll likely have.”
Two more ships arrived the next day, and the shore party returned with some pork. This continued for three more days: ships and meat trickling in. On the fourth day, the Mayflower arrived, much to the relief of all: she was our largest vessel and carried over a hundred men.
Her arrival depleted the Queen’s stores still further, though. The hunting had not been going well, either. The Spanish had now had ample time to tell one another of our predations; and thus everywhere our men landed, the livestock had been driven inland. Morgan called for a meeting on the Lilly, and we wished Striker and Cudro good fortune at it. They, of course, returned with vexing news.
Striker led our cabal to the cabin and closed the door. “I am to lead a larger party ashore tomorrow, to plunder what we can if we can’t find stock.”
Pete snorted derisively at this news, and turned from his matelot’s plaintive stare.
“Should I ask why you were granted this dubious honor?” I asked.
Striker sighed and pulled his gaze from his matelot to meet mine with resignation. His tone was laden with sarcasm. “Norman is old, Bradley has just arrived, and, according to Morgan, I have a propensity for making sure men are fed.” He shook his head. “Aye, it is as we feared. He is willing to risk me more than any other. But… He’s also correct. And, if there was no price upon my head, and…” He sighed. “There was a time when I would have considered it a vote in my favor. But now, here we are, and… I haven’t stepped down. And it’s my own damn fault. I know that.”
Pete sighed heavily and turned around to face his man again. “It’ll Work. You’llStep DownTomorrow.”
“Why?” Striker asked. “Even if I just refuse, I should have some reason.” He did not sound as if he argued for the sake of it.
“’Cause…” Pete stopped and looked away again: his face troubled.
“I know not what excuse Pete might wish you to concoct,” I said quickly. “But I think it would be a likely time, and perhaps our best, to arrange a hunting accident.”
Pete winced; and I could see from where I stood that Striker had not been blind to it, but he turned to me with a grim smile.
“Aye,” Striker said. “I’ve been shot before. Never to save my life, but I’m sure I’ll live through it.”
“ICan’t” Pete said thickly. He would not meet my gaze or anyone else’s, and all eyes were upon him.
“There is no need for you to be so burdened,” I said lightly. “I will shoot him.”
Striker pulled his gaze from his matelot again and grinned at me. “Thanks. You’re a true friend.”
I grinned in return. “Aye, you best remember it. You will owe me dearly for this.”
At that, I turned to the door and motioned for the others to precede me. I was thankful when they did. I did not look back as I closed the door behind me, leaving Striker and Pete alone. We retreated as a group to the quarterdeck, but no one seemed inclined to speak. Gaston wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to kiss my cheek.
When at last Striker and Pete emerged, they appeared none the worse for whatever had passed between them. Actually, they looked quite jubilant, and clung to one another in a way they seldom did. Striker addressed the men, explaining that he would be commanding tomorrow’s sortie. Fully half our number volunteered to accompany him. Most claimed boredom, but I saw another reason in some eyes, and I wondered at the nature of it: did they wish to protect him, or engage in that thing we most wished to avoid, namely his death? I said nothing, and trusted in Cudro’s knowledge of them to choose who best served our purposes. Gaston and I retired to the cabin, where my matelot proceeded to pack his medical bag with everything he might need to perform surgery.
“Where do you feel I should shoot him?” I whispered. “I was rather thinking a limb.”
“It must incapacitate him,” Gaston said grimly.
“Oui, I suppose it must, otherwise why would he relinquish command?” I sighed.
“Avoid his belly.”
“Oui. Would a wound such as my most recent suffice?”
“Oui,” he sighed, and turned to look at me. “Right side as yours was. I will proclaim it is worse than it will be. And…” He stopped and frowned as he studied my shoulder. “You should use a musket to make it plausible.”
I sighed. I had not fired my musket but twice since my wound; both times had told me how tender the area still was. “I will manage. What of Farley?”
“We will find if he is truly our friend,” Gaston said with resignation.
“Should we tell him anything at all?” I asked. Our good young physician ever seemed the serious type, but we had truly not brought him into our confidence on any matter save Gaston being elected surgeon. He had taken to that well enough, though.
“Perhaps we should tell him. What do you think?” Gaston asked.
“I think you are correct. Now is a good time to learn where his loyalties lie.”
Gaston took a deep breath and a small smile graced his lips when next he met my gaze. “I am pleased I am having this discussion with you and not Pete.”
I was too. I had not planned to offer as I did, but it was probably best things had occurred as they did. I would have a calmer heart, and it was not as if we could have let them go ashore without us, anyway.
I only wondered what opportunities would present themselves on the morrow. I doubted any would find my claiming I had discharged my piece by accident credible. The most likely scenario for success involved some exchange of gunfire with the Spanish. I hoped there would be Spaniards tomorrow, and not just cattle. Perhaps we would need to raid some village, and in that exercise Pete, Striker, Gaston and I could become somewhat separated from the others.
I told Gaston my thoughts on the matter, but spared Pete and Striker. That night, I dreamt of shooting everyone I knew, and having them shoot me, and all rose from where they fell and laughed at one another. I woke feeling restless in temper and spirit. My Horse was quite calm, though: this was a thing that needed to be done – with love – and I was well-suited to do it.
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