Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  Donovan wandered up. “Ya two want the rest?” he proffered a mostly empty bottle.

  “Nay, we will keep watch. Is there water?” I asked.

  “Ask Stinky, he an’ Rainy Day Bill be on watch,” he said and touched his hat in salute before stumbling off to find a place to sleep near the hull of his ship.

  With a shrug to my matelot, I went and found Stinky.

  “How is it you have never run afoul of the Spanish while in this condition?” I asked with a smile.

  He laughed and finished loading a musket. “Donovan has a sense about such things, and he seldom lets us at the rum. And Spaniards don’t sail at night, not along this coast.”

  “I am reassured, then. Donovan said to ask you about water; and to tell you Gaston and I will also be on watch.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “We two will be watchin’ the sea; whilst you and your man would do a good turn by watchin’ the forest iffn’ ya don’t mind. I don’ think we’ll be able to rouse anyone ta relieve us.”

  I agreed, and he led me to their provisions and told me to take what I needed. I filled the water skin. Then I tripped over a crate of surprisingly-firm and shiny apples. I selected two.

  Gaston was as surprised as I was with their condition. “It pays to trade with the Spanish.”

  We made sure the fire was banked and burning low, and then we took up our weapons and turned our backs on the camp to wander out into the darkness. Soon our eyes became accustomed to the dim moonlight and the night seemed filled with the roar of surf and snoring behind us, and the calls of night birds in the trees ahead. Gaston led us up onto an outcropping of rock that overlooked the camp, and we sat with our backs to one another.

  “Perhaps we should take turns sleeping,” I whispered in French. “We will have to assist in the moving of that behemoth tomorrow—if it is done on the morrow.” I chuckled. “I have my doubts about our sailing in the morning.”

  “I have never been drunk enough to dance,” Gaston said wistfully.

  “Do you wish to remedy that?”

  “Not if it leads to me lying helpless on a beach on a Spanish island,” he said. Then he shrugged. “That is the root of it: I have never felt that safe, or been that trusting—except with you.”

  “Aye, I recall seeing you drunk enough to vomit on Striker.”

  “I do not remember that,” he said.

  “Probably for the best.”

  He was silent for a short time, and then he asked, “Why were you angry with Chris?”

  I had to think to recall when I had been angry with Chris—tonight. “Perhaps you should drink more,” I teased.

  He waited, and I knew I would not escape. I sighed and thought on it.

  “Because he said what I felt and knew I cannot say,” I said at last.

  “You wish to forgive your father?” Gaston asked with incredulity.

  “Non,” I said quickly, only to realize that was not correct. “I meant I do not wish to go to England, either; not on this pretense or any other. I wish to sail along tropical coasts with you at my side forever, perhaps. But… Now that you ask that, perhaps that is true, too. If my father would only offer me some reason, and attempt to make amends as your father did, then perhaps… Truly, I have never wished to hate him. I have always been confused as to why he hates me.

  “But I cannot conceive of that occurring, and so I will do as must be done. It is not revenge as I feel Chris thinks it is, though. That is a thing he does not understand.”

  Another thought occurred to me. “I used to hate myself for forgiving Shane.”

  Gaston turned and kissed my shoulder. “My Horse still wishes to usher you through the Gates of Heaven in their presence, and show them how much you can be loved; but it is a fantasy. They would never understand. They would only see carnal lust.”

  “I think that is why I pity them,” I said.

  “I pity them as I always have: for losing the opportunity to know and love you.”

  An old fantasy of holding a pistol to Shane’s head and hearing him beg for forgiveness flowed through my thoughts, but it seemed a sorry thing now: the overly-indulgent imaginings of an angry youth. I imagined we would see one another, he would regard me with surprise, and I would shoot him in the eye; and, as he slumped to the ground, I would feel a sense of loss.

  “We will see what England brings,” I sighed.

  “In the spring,” my man teased.

  I gave a disparaging snort.

  In the morning, the men of the Fortune were slow to rise as expected. Gaston and I—who had taken turns napping—were the spriest of the lot. Cudro and Chris looked as if they wished to die and might do so at any moment. We plied them with water and sat them in the shade. Pete did not even choose to tease them, though he did spend a little time speaking with Chris.

  The sun was well up when Donovan managed to harangue his crew into setting up the winches. We were all expected to take a turn. I was concerned about Gaston attempting such exertion, but he was concerned that he would be perceived as a laggard if he did not try. He did quite well for a few minutes, but then my worry was proven correct when he began to cough and had to step away and catch his breath. As the line was taut, and I was on the same turn, I could not abandon my post to go to him; all I could do was increase my efforts to compensate for his lack.

  Donovan dove onto Gaston’s bar. “Is he well?” he asked of me as we pushed.

  “Nay, he was shot and nearly drowned in our escape from Tortuga,” I said.

  “Then he should sit!” Donovan said.

  I chuckled between breathes. “He did not wish for you to think poorly of him.”

  Donovan swore.

  My matelot was soon able to prove his worth, however, when the Colonel received a nasty gash on his arm when a line snapped. Gaston gleefully made much of stitching the ragged wound closed, and Rodent—who as carpenter had been acting as their surgeon—was greatly relieved there was someone to deal with bloody messes, as he apparently despised that part of his duties and professed to know little of it.

  My only other concern during the day was Chris. He took a turn at the windlass and performed better than I expected, though it was obvious Pete was doing much of the work for both of them. When they finished, Pete had to help Chris into the shade.

  My heart clenched when Donovan remarked, “Pete’s Cub be a dainty thing, ain’t he? He be built like a girl.”

  Thankfully, I had oft considered what I would say when presented with such inevitable observations. “Aye, he is small, and weak, and it gives us concern. We did not think he would fare well at all here, but he refused to return home. Damn fool youth. He has spent his days riding horses and tavern wenches, and now he thinks he is old and brave enough to see the world.”

  Donovan chuckled. “We were all right fools at that age, weren’t we?”

  I laughed. “I know I was. I left my father’s house and traveled Christendom when I was no older than he is. I was a bit taller, though.”

  “Aye,” Donovan said with a shrug. “Short men be stubborn bastards, though.”

  I saw no doubt in our captain’s mien, and I judged that hurdle apparently cleared. Once again, I was amazed at the blindness of men.

  I was also amazed that we managed to get the Fortune back into the water before the afternoon storm rolled in. By the time it began to rain, we had proven the Fortune was once again seaworthy—or at least that she could float and the repaired section of her hull did not sprout leaks. As no one wished to load the two cannon and mound of trade goods during the rain, we sat about under their improvised shelters or on the ship, and ate apples and shared a few bottles of wine, while the sky thundered and dripped.

  Our new vessel was indeed an ugly thing. She was a round-keeled tub of a brigantine and looked to be of Spanish design: not only was she less than graceful to the eye, she looked as if she would rather bob about on the water than cut through it in the manner of a vessel that wishes to actually go someplace. And with
her lack of keel, I thought it likely that under good sail she went sideways as much forward. Still, at two-score feet long and over ten feet wide, her whale-like belly could hold a great deal of cargo.

  She was quite suitable for Donovan’s smuggling and trading ventures—as long as she need not flee anything: a thing I could not believe she did not have to do on occasion. I thought Donovan fortunate indeed, or perhaps he knew something of the Spanish we did not. He surely was capable of trading with them without being hanged.

  There was no revelry that night; instead, paired men availed themselves of one last chance at privacy before we returned to living aboard a ship. Gaston and I were no exception.

  As we lay entwined in the afterglow, I tried to console myself concerning a lengthy stay on Cow Island. Gaston and I had enjoyed many firsts there, and delightful days and nights on lovely beaches. Then I realized a troubling thing.

  “I do not feel we shall be able to slip away for weeks at a time as we have in the past,” I said. “Not unless we take Chris and Pete with us.” I told him of my conversation with Donovan, and finished with, “I think we will need to help keep the ruse alive and watch for possible dangers.”

  He sighed. “Then we shall take them. I was just thinking of that lovely cove we lived on the first year. Do you remember that night when I impaled myself upon you?”

  I laughed. “My cock remembers it well: you tightened about me like a noose.”

  We chuckled and cuddled together until my cock and aching body decided they were willing to do all the work once again.

  Our labor the next day started early, and thus by the time it rained, we had actually set sail. With her hold filled, the Fortune rode low and heavy in the water. She still towered above, and felt huge and palatial in comparison to, our forlorn, stolen dinghy—which we left beached in the cove.

  With only eighteen of us aboard, there was more than enough deck space for all. However, we six newcomers were low in the pecking order, and thus we were not given the pick of the planks. We were happy to take the bow, though; as most of the rest of the crew was amidship or further astern, it allowed us some privacy for Chris.

  Unfortunately, it did not afford four of us any privacy from Chris—or Pete. We soon discovered how intent the Golden One was about gentling his cub down. Gaston and I often ended up at one another after listening to Pete and Chris rolling and groaning about in the shadows. Cudro and Ash often chose these times to go aft and socialize with the rest of the crew.

  In truth, we all spent a great deal of time with the rest of the crew, even Chris—while ever at Pete’s side—to insure that there were no missed grumblings or gossip about our French youth. There were none, even when Chris menstruated halfway through our voyage; a thing we had long worried about. Between the general stench of men, our being at the bow and thus our smell rarely being blown toward the rest of them, and the regular presence of gutted fish amid ship where the cook fire was, no one noticed the smell of his blood. It reeked to me, and I could not conceive of how they could not know, but they did not. For four days he changed his bandages as he must, rinsed them in a pail of seawater, and emptied it over the side every night; and none seemed the wiser. I supposed much of their obliviousness could be credited to their lack of knowledge of women. Truly, none of Donovan’s crew had ever been married or spent time around a woman since leaving their mothers’ knees.

  We sailed for three weeks without event other than the occasional pause in our voyage made necessary by a strong storm. We reached Cow Island in the last week of August.

  There were eighteen vessels in the bay on the lee of the island; none of them appeared to be Pierrot’s Josephine. Donovan and Cudro named most of them before we had even rounded the reefs. The largest was Morgan’s flag ship, the Satisfaction—the poorly-captured French frigate that had once been called the Cour Volant. Bradley’s Mayflower, on which we had sailed under Striker’s command one year, and Norman’s sloop, the Lilly, were also present.

  Donovan chose to anchor well away from the other vessels. He would not announce that his ship had rum, wine, apples, and grain for sale. If he did, or if Morgan learned he had a hold full of victuals, the provisions would be requisitioned for the good of the fleet and the defense of Jamaica. Instead, the Fortune’s crew had a cunning plan—one they had used before—of trading discreet amounts with other vessels over the course of the fall. Foremost, this meant they allowed no one else on their ship, and told no one of what she actually contained.

  Knowing this, our cabal of six had discussed what our plan should be in accordance with what we found on Cow Island. Now that we saw there were no French—as of yet—I looked to my friends and received grudging nods all around. I sighed: I had really hoped we could go ashore and escape for a time.

  I approached Donovan after we were well anchored and he was preparing to go ashore. “Since no one else will be able to claim the prize for bringing me here,” I began. He grinned. “And since the French have not arrived, yet; we were wondering if you and your men would mind if we stayed aboard—with none the wiser—until either the French arrive, or we have great reason to believe they will not. If they arrive, we will wish to speak to them first; but in either situation, we will wish for you and your crew to receive Morgan’s offered reward—just not yet.”

  He nodded. “I think that a fine plan. Let me discuss it with my men, though—lest someone become confused and bollix the matter.”

  As expected, the good crew of the Fortune—who obviously felt more loyalty to one another than to the Brethren fleet—was quite happy to consider us as part of their cache. Thus we sat our arses back on the planks and forlornly watched canoes and boats row from the ship to the shore and back again. I thought it better we were prisoners here, by our own choice, than Morgan’s guests for whatever reason he might have for truly wanting me here.

  Donovan was a feast of interesting news when he returned. We all gathered around to hear that the fleet had only arrived a few days ago. Morgan had sailed from Port Royal on the Fourteenth under a commission from the council of Jamaica to make war against the Spanish. Apparently two Spanish ships had harassed the coast of Jamaica in June, pillaging and burning a few small plantations. The Spanish commander had nailed a declaration of war to a tree—along with several buccaneers. Morgan and Modyford finally had their war.

  Needless to say, I was not pleased.

  A few more ships arrived over the following days—none of them French. Toward the end of the first week of September, Morgan sent Captain Collier of the Satisfaction—the same Navy bastard who had commanded the ill-fated Oxford and survived its demise with Morgan—off to raid for provisions with half the ships present and about four hundred men. Morgan let Collier take the Satisfaction while he moved his flag to the Lilly. Bradley and the Mayflower went with Collier.

  We continued to sit. Though in the first days we had pined for the shore, by the second week we realized that being the skeleton crew of ship in the bay afforded us far more privacy, fewer concerns, and a lack of sand in our linens and hogs’ fat—a matter of infinite annoyance when one trysts on beaches. When we wanted grit, we paddled a canoe out to the sand bars of the reef for entertainment. From there we taught Chris and several members of the Fortune’s crew to swim. And out of boredom and a sense of duty, we swabbed the decks and assisted with mending rope and sails. By the end of September, time had fallen away and we drifted in the hands of the Gods, waiting to see what They would deliver next.

  The night of the Fifth of October, I woke from a fitful slumber to find Donovan pacing the deck. In the dim light of the one lantern, I could see Harry the Quartermaster watching his friend and captain. Donovan went below and I could hear his boots as he walked the length of the hold.

  I went to join Harry. “What is amiss?”

  “You too?” he asked. “It be Donovan’s gut.”

  “Indigestion?” I asked. “I believe my matelot has…”

  “Nay, nay. It be a feelin’ in ’is g
ut. ’E says God an’ the angels speak to ’im through it. An’ it be no jest. ’E can hear storms on the wind an’ Spanish on the waves.”

  “I have wondered at your good fortune in dealing with the latter,” I said.

  He nodded. “Donovan can smell a bad one. ’E feels it if they be lyin’ an’ na’ the trustworthy kind. An’ there be times ’e’s seen reefs that were na’ on the charts. We only took damage this last time on account o’ us bein’ stuck between a storm an’ a Spanish ship. We could na’ go where we wished ta avoid it. Better the rocks than the noose, I always say.”

  “I agree. So he feels something this night. Has he said what?”

  “’E doesna’ know yet. That’s why he be pacin’.”

  “Were you here the night the Oxford blew?” I asked.

  Harry laughed. “Aye, an we weren’t on ’er.”

  “Neither were we.”

  “Someone feel it?” he asked.

  “Nay, it is more that we were angry about the treatment of the Cour Volant – and Striker did not wish to attend the captain’s party without his matelot.”

  “Ah,” Harry said. “So it be because you be true members o’ the Brethren.”

  “Aye. The Way of the Coast served us well that night.”

  Donovan had re-emerged on deck. He noticed us and came to sit. “I dreamt o’ a storm,” he said with a worried tone.

  We looked at the clear sky and bright stars overhead.

  “They can roll in quickly,” I offered.

  “Aye, aye,” Donovan said. “An’ I got that poppin’ in me ears. It either be a storm, or somethin’ else bad comin’ our way. Maybe an earthquake. Maybe the Spanish will attack. It’s na’ like they don’ know o’ this place. An’ ’ere we be, all bottled inta this bay, without our big ships an’ guns.” He shrugged irritably. “Or maybe Morgan’s threatenin’ ta do some dastardly thing.”