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.
Sometime 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.
“Where are we, Uly?” Alonso asked.
“In the hold of the Queen: Farley has been nursing you here.”
His frown deepened. “What Queen? Are we on a ship? Everything moves as if…”
I shifted my seat to a more comfortab
le position and tried to keep the alarm from my face. “What is the last thing you remember?” I asked calmly.
He shook his head slowly, his gaze on nothing as he looked inward. “I remember a great many things: people, places, events… But there is no order to them.” He smiled sadly and met my gaze. “I cannot tell you what came last. Have I been ill?”
“Wounded,” I said levelly. “A musket ball grazed your skull. Sometimes injuries to the head take strange courses.”
Farley had returned with a plate of stew. He was regarding me curiously, as he did not speak Castilian.
“Do you know Farley, here?” I asked pleasantly as I motioned for Farley to sit with us.
Alonso studied him, and nodded with a smile of recognition and relief. “Si, I know him.”
I turned to Farley and quickly explained all Alonso had said. He appeared quite concerned and glanced to Gaston, who shrugged and motioned for me to continue.
So Alonso recognized Farley, who he had met but recently. “Do you remember Cudro?” I asked.
He thought on it. “A big Dutchman? Wonderful voice?”
“Si, si,” I said happily. “You seem to know people. Now, where… Where do you live?”
“I suppose here on this ship,” he said speculatively, and then he sighed with relief. “Si, I remember: the Virgin Queen. I can envision her quite clearly.”
“Good, good,” I said. “Now, who are you? Not your name, but… how do you make your way in the world?”
He met my gaze with concern, and gave a glance to Farley. “I am a Lord’s son, and I have done a great many things for money…” He sighed and looked away to consider the floor with growing agitation. “I know this ship is not business of my family’s, or by her name, the King’s either, and that it is a thing of the New World… somehow. I do not know why I know that, though. I do not know how I came to be upon her.” His gaze returned to me. “I remember meeting you quite clearly, and all manner of things concerning you, and… Uly… No, you do not wish to be called that. We have moved on and changed names.” He glanced at Farley with trepidation again.
“You can speak of anything you remember here,” I said.
“U… Will, that is it, Will. I do not know if I can explain. I see things, I recall them, and those memories lead to a dozen others, but there is no order. I can make sense of them only by thinking of what they must mean. There was a woman…” He shrugged. “There have been many women. But one I married. I can recall the ceremony in the church. But… Was that before or after I met you?”
“After, but before we met again,” I said carefully. I turned to Farley, and behind him in the shadows, Gaston, and told them in English this latest exchange.
Farley regarded Alonso with wonder. “This is quite the case for study. I have heard of nothing like it.”
I glanced at Alonso and asked in Castilian, “Can you understand English?”
“With difficulty,” he said in his own tongue.
I looked to Gaston. “Should I tell him?”
Alonso tried to turn and see who I spoke to. Gaston moved into the light with a sigh as he considered my question.
“Oh, I know him,” Alonso said darkly in Castilian, and I was minded of Gaston’s and my discussion of Alonso’s Horse. I could see the animal very clearly in his eyes at this moment.
And Gaston’s Horse rose to meet it. He stood at the edge of the light with his eyes hard and full of warning.
“Who is he, then?” I asked Alonso briskly, startling him somewhat.
“He is your lover,” Alonso said sullenly.
“Well, you remember that,” I said sharply. “Do you remember that I left you?”
“Si,” he said, and looked away with guilt. “I do not know when or how. I just hoped…” He looked at me plaintively. “So, you have not returned to me.”
“No,” I said without rancor.
“Then… it was just the dream.” He frowned, and asked with a tinge of vehemence, “Then why did you call me back?”
“Out of respect for what we once had,” I sighed. “I did not wish to see you die in so ignoble a fashion. A man such as you should be shot.” I shook my head at my choice of words and softened my tone. “You should die tragically or heroically, not wasting away with someone wiping your arse.”
I left them. I did not want to see that pleading and hurt look upon his face a moment longer. Gaston followed me, and his arms closed around me from behind when I reached the relative privacy of the quarterdeck rail. I took deep breaths of the night air and tried to calm my suddenly furious Horse.
“I should have smothered him,” I hissed at the night in French. “He does not own me because I once loved him. I do not owe him anything because I once loved him. I do not owe him anything because he is wounded or mad or… anything. I will not feel sorry for him!”
My matelot’s arms were tight around me, like iron bands holding the slats of a barrel together. I could not breathe for how close he held me, and then I felt his teeth at my neck and I could not breathe for another reason.
My Horse pricked His ears and lashed His tail and craned His neck back to regard His dark companion: yes, He was hard against Us; grinding against Our arse slowly while His hands slid down Our arms to pin Ours to the rail. We would run. I felt the wind in Our teeth.
I sighed and lolled my head away to give Gaston better access to my neck. He bit and nibbled while he moved one of his hands to reach into his belt pouch. I used my free hand to unknot the cord for my breeches enough to push them over my hips. My naked manhood was trapped between my belly and the wood of the rail – wood worn smooth by hundreds of hands, so that it now seemed invitingly warm. We were within the light of the lantern kept near the whipstaff. I did not care. It was obvious he did not either when his slick hand eased between my arse cheeks. And then he was within me, and I was full of him, and he held me against the rail and ground into me with agonizing slowness such that I moaned and struggled feebly as each stroke rode his member over that little lump that plucked at every fiber of my being as if I were a harp. The rise and fall of the ship in the waves, the twinkling of the stars, the murmur and snores of men all about us, wove into a symphony until at last I could hold the crescendo at bay no longer, and with a hoarse cry I emptied my member and it spewed up and out to cover our entwined hands atop the rail. Gaston followed a moment later: thrusting hard and squeezing the air from my lungs and the last drops from my trapped cock.
“You are mine,” he breathed throatily in my ear, and I chuckled because it tickled and it was so very true and I adored it.
Gaston rumbled amusement with me, and released my hands to make great show of wiping my jism upon my tunic – this action also tickled, and got me laughing with little breathless huffs. I struggled to pull my breeches up, and felt him doing the same, and then he stilled abruptly. Alarmed, I turned, and seeing nothing to our left except men playing cards, looked right, and found Alonso and Farley standing on the steps. Farley turned away abruptly with flame-cheeked embarrassment; but Alonso’s eyes were black in the dim light, and his face smooth and unreadable. Then he too turned away and retreated to the hold; walking unsteadily, but with a stiff back and proud shoulders.
My matelot’s head dropped onto my shoulder, and he sighed heavily.
“Good,” I said, feeling triumphant. “Now he has seen what I offer you.”
“But with his new impairment, will he remember you never offered it to him?” Gaston asked, sounding the reasonable physician once again.
“He had best,” I said coldly, surprised at how deep my anger ran.
Gaston sat, and pulled me down beside him. We spoke no more of Alonso, and as I knew I would not stop thinking of it, I asked the men next to us if we could join their card game; and thus we whiled away the remainder of the night.
In the morning, Farley came to find us. At first he seemed reluctant to look at either of us, and me in particular – and he flushed a great deal. As he seemed he might be more comfortabl
e with Gaston, I excused myself and went to the cabin.
I found Striker sitting with his back to the wall, crying. He quickly wiped his tears on his shoulder, as his remaining hand was in a sling. I looked about; we were alone: Pete was out seeing to their weapons.
I closed the door behind me and asked quietly, “Should I leave? Or do you desire company?”
He sighed. “Stay, though it has been nice to have a moment alone, but… I don’t seem prone to put it to good use.” He frowned. “Where is Gaston? I think it’s time for another dose of the drug.”
I let my lip quirk at that, and sat beside him. “To ease the pain of the body, or of the heart?”
“Both, damn it,” he said irritably.
“It makes everything so very pleasant, does it not?”
“Aye,” he said with a slow nod. “Much better than rum.”
“You cannot float upon it for the rest of your life,” I said affably.
He glared at me.
“It is far more precious than rum, and harder to obtain,” I said. “And Gaston would not allow it even if it ran from springs on every island. He knows well its siren call, and he is quite stubborn about allowing only those in dire pain to hear it.”
“I don’t want to drown my sorrows in it,” Striker said. “I just want the pain to stop.”
I thought for a time, and he glared at me and began to appear smug. I nearly had the ranks of my argument formed when he spoke.
“You have no good reason other than it being evil or some such rubbish,” he said.
“Well, Gaston says it will steal your very soul, and letting it go once you are quite inured to it can hurt worse than the pain you took it to avoid. But nay, beyond that, some things should hurt. Some things should be mourned. Limbs should be mourned, just like the passing of a fine friend or loved one. Hiding from the pain in a bottle of anything is dishonoring the person – or thing – lost. We should weep. We should let the grief pour from us and then… Well, then it is like a wound: once it is bled out and the pus drained, we should let it heal.”
Striker dejectedly studied his lap. “You finished?”
Treasure Page 69
