“Aye.”
“Go to Hell,” he said flatly.
I chuckled. “I probably will, and I can only wish it will be for telling people things they do not wish to hear. There is probably a very pleasant room in Hell for those who commit that sin. I am sure the Devil loves us.”
“Nay,” Striker said with a thin but sincere smile. “He hates those like you. You tell truths, and the Devil hates the truth. He is a thing of lies.”
“I can see that argument,” I said. “But I was rather thinking He might adore us because we are ever causing trouble.” I climbed to my hammock.
“I want to drown, Will,” Striker said.
I peered over the edge at him. “Is it too hard to swim?”
He frowned and at last shook his head. “Not too hard, just hard.”
“Do you have someplace you wish to go – some distant shore?”
“Aye,” he said. “And I’m afraid I’ll never reach it.”
“Then float for a time until your strength returns.”
“The drug helps with the floating,” he said doggedly.
I snorted. “I will speak with Gaston.”
“And say what?”
“I was going to tell him you did not need it anymore for your body’s wounds.”
Striker swore.
“Now I will suggest he wean you off it slowly,” I said smugly.
“You bastard…” He sighed and smiled. “Thank you.”
“And I will not tell Pete,” I added.
He awarded me his middle finger in an age-old salute – though he could not extend the hand in the sling to give it great emphasis.
I chuckled, and rolled over to await Gaston. I was of a mind to tryst before sleeping. I realized he had been gone for some time, and I hoped Farley had not requested he come and speak to Alonso or some other damn fool thing.
I had just decided to go and fetch him when the door opened, and he entered with Pete and a strange look upon his face. Gaston quickly climbed to me.
“Hey,” Striker said, “What about...”
“Wait,” Gaston said. “I must speak to Will.” Then he was atop me, smothering laughter in my shoulder.
“What?” I prompted, and poked him in the ribs.
He only swore quietly, implored the Gods for strength, and laughed harder. “I should not laugh. I should not laugh,” he hissed at last.
I pushed his head away from my neck so that I could bring his mouth to mine. He responded readily to the kiss, returning it hungrily, and then he broke it off to laugh again.
“You must tell me,” I said with amusement.
“Oh Gods,” he sighed. He bit his lip and tried to speak, only to lose himself to mirth once again, and then he pressed his lips to my ear and blurted, “He enjoys spanking women.”
“What? Farley?”
Gaston nodded frantically. “It began with serving girls, and then at the university he hired whores, and now he is somewhat…” More laughter. “Frustrated, as his wife finds no pleasure in it.” More laughter. “He was curious about how I got you to be agreeable to being pinned as I did last night.” This sobered him a little.
I frowned, trying to imagine what little the man could have seen. “That was tame for our… Horse play…” And then I wondered what Alonso had truly seen, and I felt a chill.
“Oui,” Gaston said, and met my gaze seriously. “I did not speak of all we do, but Farley sensed your… submissiveness, and it fascinated and aroused him.” At this, he frowned and sighed. “I told him it was merely you, the way you are; and that my wanting to… control you when you are thus is simply the way I am; and his wishing to do the same with women is the way he is; and that he should seek a mistress who desires such treatment. He despairs of finding one.” This brought another smirk.
“So he is not aroused by punishing another, or…” I asked.
“Non, non, they must be willing.” He was quite sober now. “He wants that feeling of mastery that only comes when another submits.”
I sighed. “I have encountered a number of women who enjoyed that kind of play. I am sure he will find someone, though perhaps not easily on Jamaica.”
Teresina had spanked her newer girls when they misbehaved. She occasionally asked Alonso or me to do the honor, as it added to the girl’s humiliation and embarrassment. I had always refused, but Alonso had taken relish in it.
“What?” Gaston asked.
I shook my head. “If Farley saw all that in our trysting last night, I am wondering what Alonso saw.”
He frowned at that, and then sighed and gave me a feral smile. “That you are mine.”
“Always,” I whispered.
He ran his hand down my body to my member, and toyed with it so that it rose to meet him happily. I closed my eyes and tried to push all other thoughts away, but I was haunted by the image of Alonso leering triumphantly at me, as he used to whenever I agreed to bed him after his patient seductions.
A throat was cleared below us. “You’re not talking anymore,” Striker said, and Pete chuckled.
Gaston swore and released me. I pulled him to my mouth and quickly whispered of my talk with Striker. He at last rolled onto his back and sighed with a slow nod. Then he climbed out of our hammock.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, which was just over a foot away. Wanting Alonso to see what I gave Gaston and not him was one thing, but I did not wish to think he fantasized about me, especially if those fantasies might ever involve my behaving with him as I did with Gaston. It took the life from my member.
When Gaston returned a few minutes later, I pulled him into my embrace and implored, “Make it all go away.”
To my relief, he did.
I avoided Alonso and Farley for the rest of our voyage.
The little island of Ruba was filled with pleasant natives, Dutchmen we avoided, and Spanish horses. After convincing their owner we would not eat them – a problem he had apparently suffered in the past with damn-fool, starving pirates – Gaston and I were able to rent two animals and engage in a little riding, in which we found great pleasure. But sadly, our time there was all too short, and we were soon underway: to the nearby bay that led to Maracaibo Lake.
The mouth of the lake is rather like the waist of an hourglass: quite narrow in comparison to the bodies of water on either side of it, and filled with rivulets of sand in the form of long bars. As it would be very easy to see any ship making passage of it from either shore, and the Frenchman who had purportedly been here with L’Olonnais swore to Morgan he could find the correct channel even by moonlight – a thing the Bard swore about long and hard – it was decided we would enter the lake at night, so as to come upon the town of Maracaibo by surprise. Thus we anchored far from shore until the sun set, and then made our way into the channel.
When at last the order was given to weigh anchor, the Bard made slow work of it, and maneuvered us so that we could be last in the line of ships to attempt this “damn fool’s errand of a disaster” as he dubbed it. Thus, though we could not have told shallow water from deep in the fickle moonlight, we clearly saw two of the smaller sloops stray a little off the Lilly’s course and run aground. Then the Mayflower dropped anchor, and boats were exchanged between her and the Lilly. We were not at all surprised when a boat was sent to us with word that the fleet would anchor where it was and proceed at dawn’s light. Thankfully the messenger was an experienced seaman, and laughed as hard at delivering this lovely news as the Bard did upon hearing it; so we did not think he would go and report our insolence to Morgan: we only hoped the damn fool would not hear our laughter carrying across the water.
Striker complained at being locked away from all the fun; and Pete helped him to the quarterdeck so he might sit with us. To avoid being seen from shore, we did not light our lanterns. Our men slept or sat about and talked quietly, over bottles of wine we had acquired on Ruba. The stars twinkled, the moon glowed: both making pretty patterns of the waves washing across the distant sand bars, and pi
cking out details of the other ships, as if their masts or spars were touched with silver now and again.
I was gazing upon this peaceful tableau and listening to Striker tell of watching another captain ground on a sand bar off Campeche, when I noted something odd about the stars along the horizon of the high bank to one side of the passage. They were yellow, and large, and they moved upon occasion – and not in the manner of stars, even falling ones. These odd lights were well above the water, and I might well have thought them torches or lanterns, if the Spanish had a town here.
I nudged Gaston and pointed. He stiffened at the sight of them, and we sat like transfixed cats until Cudro asked, “What the Devil are you two looking at?” Gaston and I pointed as one, and then all our cabal sat and watched.
“It’s a fortress,” Striker said with drugged amusement.
“Nay,” Cudro breathed. “They have no fort here. I’ve spoken with Frenchmen who were here. There’s no fort.” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.
“There was no fort,” the Bard said. “But the damn bastards have had two bloody years to build one.”
I could indeed see the hard straight lines of an edifice of man in the glimmer of moonlight now.
Cudro swore quietly and went forward to rouse men to take a canoe and go and alert the vessels closer to the purportedly non-existent fortress.
“We’ll have to take it,” Striker said with a tired sigh. “All that can, should rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.”
I decided I truly despised long days of the type of which he spoke.
“If they send men ashore to take it – from this ship – I should go,” Gaston whispered to me in French.
I sighed and kissed his cheek. “Then let us rest.”
Very few hours later, we began to put men ashore in the predawn light. The Spanish, of course, saw our vessels at about the same time we began to land men; and then the fort that was not supposed to exist began to attempt to bombard our ships. They apparently were well-stocked with large cannon and powder, but the Gods had smiled upon us in the night, and even the ships that had run aground were not within range of their guns. The fortress was intelligently situated such that no vessel would get past them and into the lake, though. One can never fault the Spanish on their ability to place and build fortresses.
It was midday before most of our men were ashore. As they knew we would attack by land, the Spanish had burned buildings about the apron of the fortress in order to provide a clear field of fire. Anticipating a long and bloody fight, Morgan held back until all the men who could be spared were ashore.
Gaston and I crossed on the last boat from the Queen. When we arrived, the sun was slanting west, and most of the buccaneer cohort had already advanced from our landing place to the fort. We followed until we found a good shady place, and there we sat with the other surgeons, awaiting the sounds of musket fire and grenades; the cannon bombardment of the sand bars had ceased a short time before. There was no sound of battle, though; and an hour or so later, a man ran back to tell us we had taken the fort without a shot being fired. The Spanish had abandoned it, but as a trap. They had left a slow match burning toward the powder cache; and it had been by sheer luck that a man in our vanguard had seen it, and pulled it away before the entire building exploded and rained down upon most of our men who had just triumphantly entered.
With relief in our hearts and upon our breath, we returned to the boat and the Queen, leaving others to tear down the defense walls, burn the gun carriages, throw the spiked cannon down into the sand to be buried, and take all the powder back to the ships. I thought it likely we would not have everyone back aboard until midnight. In the meantime, Gaston and I happily told Striker, the Bard, and all the rest what we had heard. We decided that Morgan’s luck would most probably become the most famous thing about him.
As the town of Maracaibo now surely knew wild dogs were at their door, Morgan told all he wished to sail at dawn; and so we did. We did not attempt to liberate the two grounded vessels: we left a few aboard them, and took the rest of their men on the other ships and hurried to the town. We sailed in close to their wharfs, praying that they had no cannon here, and hoping to cover landing our men with our own guns if need be. All the panic and precaution proved unnecessary, though: our men found the place quite empty, thankfully without any traps.
I supposed I should thank the Gods for small favors, as now we would have weeks of sitting about, waiting for our enemies to show themselves while the buccaneers chased through the countryside seeking Spaniards to rob.
Eighty
Wherein We Confront Old Enemies
Within a day, all our company save those needed to man the ships had come ashore and taken houses around the grand square and surrounding streets. The church had been appropriated as a guardhouse, and sentries and patrols were arranged about the town. A hundred men were sent into the countryside to find Spaniards, and they returned the next evening with fifty mules laden with food, household items of value, weapons, and thirty prisoners: men, women and children. And so another hundred men were sent out the next day in a different direction, while the first male prisoners were questioned in the usual manner as to where they had hidden their valuables. If the torture was successful, a party of men was sent to retrieve the treasure, and so on.
It was likely this would continue for weeks, and we were initially reluctant to leave the ships; but Gaston and Cudro decided they could not very well haul our wounded to the ships, and thus a hospital had to be established in town. And so on the third day, we took a fine house just off the square, and began to fill the large lower rooms with cots and mattresses and the upper rooms with us, including Striker: he had not wished to be left behind, and Pete had thought it best that all those in danger be together. Unfortunately, there were not so many rooms that Gaston and I could have one to ourselves, so we shared with Pete and Striker.
Also unfortunately, the house had beds and not hammocks, but I was relieved to find them festooned with netting or lace to hold the insects at bay: the air teemed with biting things as soon as the sun began to sink, and I did not relish spending every day and night slathered in hog’s fat. But though we would not be harassed by stings in bed, I did not think I would sleep well in the heat – especially not with the four of us sharing the bed, even though it was quite large. The lake sat in a bowl of distant, high mountains that were apparently too far away to send down a breeze to the shore at dusk or dawn. The air was heavy and fetid, and seemed thicker and hotter at night. It smelled much like Porto Bello had: full of rotting vegetation.
To add to my annoyance and unease, Alonso had moved to the house with us. I had thought it best he remain on the ship, where no one would mistake him for one of his former countrymen; but apparently he insisted on coming ashore. He moved well now; any trace of his being bedridden for a week had vanished. But according to Farley, Alonso’s memory was still addled, and there was worry he might be having other difficulties of the mind as well – though Farley did not explain these to Gaston when the matter was discussed. Our fellow physician merely said he thought Alonso should be close at hand, where he might be observed.
As there was little else to do now, and much we thought we would be doing in the future, Gaston, Farley, and I left Pete with Striker, and Alonso to do what he would, and wandered out to search for treasures that men seeking things that sparkled would miss. We had found a small bottle of quinine in our house, and hoped to find more in the other wealthy homes. Thus we started with the house to our left and worked our way down the street, taking any medicinal substance we found. The buccaneers who were billeting in the dwellings questioned our taking things from them; but when we explained it was for the hospital, they quieted. Our intention was to make our way into the main square and find the apothecary, but we did not reach it on the first day, and returned home with arms and bags well-laden as the insects began to swarm.
We retired to the dining room to sort our finds, and found
Alonso sitting at the head of the table with a bottle and goblet, his long legs propped on a chair: looking every bit the lord’s son he was, despite his rough tunic and breeches. He smiled at Farley, quickly passed his gaze over Gaston, and allowed it to linger on me.
I met his eyes levelly, and refused to look away even when he did not and the knowing smile he gave me churned my belly.
“You should make yourself useful, and assist us tomorrow,” Farley was saying. “When we locate the apothecary, there will undoubtedly be much to carry.”
“Oh, Alonso does not work,” I said. “It is against his nature.”
Alonso glanced away with irritation. “I apply myself dutifully to matters of import.”
“To obtain things you want and serve your interests,” I said.
“I would think surviving a tropical fever would be in his interest,” Farley said pleasantly.
Alonso had returned his gaze to me. He smirked and spoke Castilian. “Si, Will… I work very hard to take what I wish. I receive what I want in life as a result. God rewards those who take initiative.”
I heard a personal insinuation in his words, and was not sure if it was my fancy or what he meant. I did not wish to consider his meaning either way, or converse with him at all; but his sentiment and arrogance reminded me of another conversation I had with him earlier this season.
“So,” I asked in English, “tell me Alonso, did your God have you shot in the head by one of your former countrymen so you would not be forced to murder or torture your former countrymen – or did you arrange it yourself, in order to serve your needs of having a clear conscience in this endeavor?”
“Will?” Farley said with surprise.
Gaston snorted with amusement.
Anger flared in Alonso’s deep brown eyes, and for a moment I saw his Horse again; and then he appeared hurt – quite convincingly.
I spoke Castilian. “Gods, you are such a liar; and to think I once admired you for it. It shames me.” I turned away and went in search of food in the cookhouse.
Treasure Page 70
