“This is true,” I mused. I had seen many wolves like him, myself. Men who would prey off the weak or herd them as needed, yet were easily herded by stronger wolves. “Though maybe he is a fox.”
“Non, he is a wolf; it is you and I who are not like the wolves that raised us. I think you err if you measure all wolves against yourself, as you are an exception and not a rule.”
I looked at him sharply. I had never considered that. “Then what are we?”
He was silent for a while. “We are predator and not prey, yet are we within the natural order of things if we are not wolves as we were born and raised to be?” He rubbed the planks between us thoughtfully with his fingers. “Are we perhaps the nut that bears a different fruit than its parent should have created? Are we some mythological creature as a result?”
I had never been so in love with any man or woman as I was with him. I sought to cover it. I was afraid he would look into my eyes and see the truth of my feelings and it would scare him.
“Perhaps we are Gods,” I said lightly.
He snorted and smirked. “Gods create, do they not? Or hold dominion over something.”
“Oui, do we not?” I teased.
Gaston shook his head. “Non, we are not Gods. Perhaps we are centaurs. Half-human warriors with great knowledge, who teach. It accommodates your crusade to educate the sheep and accounts for our martial skills. And in my way I am a healer who lives as a hermit.”
I laughed; as I was suffused with happiness. He had just lifted a tiresome weight from my spirit. “I concur. We can be centaurs. I like that. I like that a great deal. And here I have spent years trying to determine why I was such a poor wolf.”
“You never were a wolf, you were merely raised by them,” he reiterated. “And I have spent years wondering if my separateness from others was another symptom of my madness, and now I find another of my own kind. It brings me great relief.”
The silence was heavy between us. I knew not what to say. I wanted to crawl into his lap; or, better yet, inside him to a place where I might never be lonely again. Even if he would have allowed me in his lap, the other would not have been an option. I told myself quite firmly that therefore I did not need the one, either, as what I really wanted was not a thing of mere physical contact, but a combining of souls that could not be attained within the mortal coil. So I did not need to touch him. Reasoning is a wonderful thing, but poorly-used it leads to lies, as mine was doing at the moment.
“So, where did you live in your travels? Tell me what you have seen,” he said.
I was both delighted and dismayed by the change in topic. It was not as if we did not have tomorrow and the next, and for that matter, several months of time to sort out and address all of the other things that lay between us. I cheerfully began to list the places I had visited.
The next five days of our voyage were similar to the first. In the mornings there was practice with firearms and ship maintenance. In the afternoons Gaston and I talked about whatever struck our fancy, though we avoided anything of a deeply personal nature by mutual accord. In the evenings we sat about and talked with the other men. I slept a great deal and felt very little change in my health, for good or bad.
And so we reached the island of Hispaniola and made our way along the coast to the desired location. It was marked by a small port. The swine farm was approximately three leagues to the east and a league inland, according to the men aboard who had raided it before. As there were more than an adequate number of buccaneers available to take a swine farm, or an entire village if the need arose, and my health was still less than acceptable, it was decided that I should stay behind. I whined piteously over this, until Gaston and Striker both felt my forehead and judged me an idiot. I was ordered to be still or they would have Pete sit on me. And so an hour later, I found myself deserted by almost everyone I knew on the North Wind. Except for Davey, who was left behind because he also was not fully recovered, he knew nothing of hogs, and he lacked a mastery of the necessary fighting skills.
We dropped our men and sailed a good half-mile out to sea: in order to give us room to maneuver and to avoid betraying the exact location of our landing party should we be seen. Then those of us left aboard had nothing to do but wait for the signal that would bring us back to shore. I was bored; and after days of stimulating companionship, I suddenly felt very alone and acutely aware that I was on the other side of the world, on a ship in hostile waters, surrounded by men I did not know well.
Davey was talking to the sailors, the men who were the actual crew of our vessel. These men were counted more as able seaman than musketeers or soldiers – or as Davey had aptly named us, marines. The sailors worked for the Bard, and from what I heard, usually stayed behind when the others were raiding or boarding. There were ten in all, not counting the cook, carpenter, or the master of sail.
Those three men were also still on board, along with two other buccaneers who were in worse shape than I with some illness, and Cleghorn, making us eighteen. As Davey and I had not had much use for one another of late, if we ever truly had, I did not seek him out; and I was left to my own company, which I did not feel in the mood to keep. I had caught Cleghorn smirking at me every time I spewed something at the sharks, and therefore I wanted nothing to do with him. The sick men were in no state to be conversed with, and one was considered close to death. The Bard and the carpenter were playing cards with Cleghorn, and so they were unavailable. That left the surly cook.
At first I was dismayed as I made this assessment; then I realized this might be the only opportunity I would have to talk to the man alone about the matter of clean water. I did not have any great hope on it being a successful venture. Handled badly, the rumors would spread about what a fool I was, if it was not being said already. So I approached the man with a smile and great deal of trepidation.
He greeted me with an annoyed glare. “What da ya want?”
He was a gaunt man with an angular face and a gravelly voice. His eyes were dark and hard and a curious reddish-brown color; so they resembled rusted shot. I realized I lacked the energy to be clever and even the ambition at the moment to attempt to rally him. I decided to hurry my crushing defeat and crawl back to my alcove.
“I need boiled water.”
“For what?”
“I have a theory.”
“A what?”
“A concept, an idea.”
“And ya want ta boil it?”
Davey and some of the sailors were looking our way. I squatted next to the cook at the fire pit and sighed.
“I think boiling makes the water healthier. And I am ill, so I wish to drink healthier water.”
I thought he would surely scoff and laugh; instead he frowned and asked, “Why?”
So I explained about little things living in the water and how they could be seen with a lens that magnified them. I said that it was my understanding that boiling killed those things. Instead of telling me to piss off, he seemed to put serious thought into my words.
When I finished, he nodded soberly. “I don’t know ‘bout glasses an’ little shrimps; but I do know the longer water sits, the more it smells. I trust me nose.” He stood and led me to the one water cask on deck. “This is the oldest water we have.” He opened the cask and sniffed deeply, and then invited me to do the same. “Ya smell that?”
I could smell something. “Aye, but I cannot place it.”
“Like bein’ near a pond,” he said. “It’s still water. Still water is stale water.”
“Aye.” I could imagine that now, and the smell it brought to mind was the same as I smelled in the barrel.
He retrieved a large pan for soups, and filled it with water from the cask. “So let’s boil us some with nothin’ else in it and see if it smells.”
I smiled broadly, and we sat and talked while waiting for the water to boil and then cool enough for us to trust our noses over it. His name was Michaels, and he was from Dorchester. He had been enlisted in the army at f
ourteen and somehow ended up as the cook’s apprentice. He did not especially like preparing food, but he had resigned himself to it being his lot in life, even here in the West Indies. He took pride in his work and said he could cook damn near anything and make it edible.
He asked of me, and with some reticence I told him the truth of my birth and the current circumstances of my life. He was quite amazed, as he had seen a few nobleman and they were all right arses in his opinion. I thanked him for not considering me one.
When the water cooled enough, we smelled it; or rather we did not. We smiled at one another.
“I be damned,” he said with a chuckle. He filled my bottles, and we decided that while boiling the water that smelled was probably prudent, boiling the water that did not smell was possibly unnecessary. And since the boiling was time-consuming, he would use the freshest cask for drinking water and the rest would be boiled when he cooked with it. But he said he would boil water for me as he was able, and I thanked him heartily.
“What ails you?” he asked as he watched me sip water.
“The flux and a touch of seasickness.”
“What be yar remedy? You didn’t take something from the surgeon, did ya?”
I chuckled. “Nay, I did not. I am drinking water.” I explained about flushing out my pipes.
He nodded thoughtfully again. “This’ll help, then.” With that, he dug through his bag and produced several packets of herbs. He selected a pinch here and there from amongst them and steeped them in a mug and sweetened it with cane sugar.
“What will this do?” I asked after I drained the mug. It had not been a tasty concoction, so I had made fast work of getting it down.
“Purge your bowels.” No sooner had he said it than I felt a great roiling in my belly. Seeing the look on my face, he grimaced. “It can work mighty fast. You should drink all a’ that water though. If ya run out I’ll boil more.”
I was too busy running to the side to be angry with the man. As the bouts subsided, Michaels plied me with sweetened mashed apple and a broth made from boucan, and a great deal of water. I ate and even trusted him when he gave me another concoction that he said would not do anything at all. It induced sleep, and that evening found me napping again.
I woke to the sound of hogs. Then my senses were overcome by the smell of them, and presently by the sight of them, as one snuffled up the deck and tried to investigate my foot. A moment later, I was perching atop the cannon. And while the weapon was no taller than the swine, it did afford me a vantage point and lend me some feeling of safety. There were twelve of the damned animals running about on deck, and the Bard was prodding one on the snout with his foot to keep it off the quarterdeck. Two men were trying to get another down into the hold. The other hatch had men spilling out of it with barrels and anything else that had been below.
Pete saw me on my perch and laughed heartily. I made my way across the ship and climbed atop another cannon to view the goings-on. The heavy air was filled with a symphony of squealing and cursing. Apparently it had been decided that first night, when I was watching stars, that we would keep as many pigs alive as we could fill the hold with, until we could find a place to careen and then slaughter them fresh for boucan. We were also to slaughter as many as we had salt and barrels for today. Then a determination would be made as to what to do with any left over. We were able to come fairly close to shore, but not close enough to swim pigs to the ship. So while one group of men slaughtered and salted like fiends, another kept the swine herded together, two groups rowed swine-laden boats back and forth, and another group hoisted them aboard. Pete was hoisting, Striker was not to be seen, and I finally spied Gaston amongst the men doing the butchering.
I could not see any area of this undertaking that seemed to need an extra set of hands, and so I retreated to the quarterdeck and helped the Bard keep it swine-free.
“Is there anything I can do that may or may not be more useful?” I asked, after we had pushed away another confused beast. The usually-sardonic man was looking somewhat wild-eyed.
“I hate fucking pigs,” he stated emphatically.
I could think of two ways his statement could be interpreted, and I chose the less salacious. “You knew they would be on board, did you not?”
“It was mentioned.” He took a deep calming breath. “You want something to do?”
“Aye. I am not feeling particularly useful at the moment, as there is so much industry going on about me; and I feel you can defend yourself from hogs quite adequately without my assistance, such as it is.”
“All of my men are chasing hogs and we’re dead in the water. I want as many eyes on the sea as we can get, so that we have some warning. Go to the bow. I’d send you aloft, but we all saw your performance today, and you’re the last person I want hanging over my head.”
With a rueful chuckle I did as he bade, and spent the rest of the endeavor standing in the bow, sweeping the sea for approaching craft.
By the time all was done, we had an astonishing number of the creatures in the hold, a line of barrels down the middle of the deck, and roast pork for all. It was deep into the night. Thankfully clouds and cool breezes had come in as the evening progressed, and the work had not been done in sweltering heat. We weighed anchor and set sail as the last of the men came aboard. My bloody and exhausted matelot was amongst them, and I watched as he crawled over the gunwale and made his way to our alcove. I imagined he would be confused when he discovered me missing. Or perhaps I was giving myself airs.
I wondered when I would be relieved and considered going to ask, but since we were under way I stayed at my post. We came around and sailed west. The men who slept in the bow had filed in and surrounded me. They were all too tired to speak, and sank to the deck to eat and sleep. There was a heavy sigh, and someone collapsed next to my feet. Almost annoyed, I looked down and was happy to find Gaston. So he had sought me out. It was a trivial thing, but it made me happy.
“The Bard would like you stay here until we anchor,” he said, and handed me a bottle of water and a hunk of the pork he was eating.
I ate happily and hoped it would cause me no trouble. The smell of the meat roasting for hours had left me alternately hungry and nauseated. I drank water and remembered I had to tell him of my meeting Michaels; but after regarding him, I decided it could wait until morning.
“You are quite the sight,” I said. He had managed to soak off some of the blood while wading to the boat; but he was still smeared with black in the lantern light, and I was sure his clothes were caked with it. He glared up at me and stuffed the last bit of food in his mouth. Then he rubbed his eyes with greasy fingers. This only succeeded in smudging the mask all over his face.
I chuckled. “You are making it worse.”
“Watch the sea,” he admonished. He doffed his kerchief, and used it to wipe his face.
I returned to scanning the horizon, not that I felt my eyes were going to save us from doom. Between the clouds that had rolled in and the lack of a moon, it was too dark to truly see anything; and I wondered how the Bard was navigating at all.
“Wait, we are going to anchor? Where?”
“At sea off the coast. Probably soon. We will find a suitable place to careen in the morning.” He had his eyes closed and his head pressed back into the sloping wall at an awkward angle. I let him nap.
I felt several drops of rain. There was a great deal of activity toward the stern. From the bow, I saw men hurriedly passing muskets and powder bags down the ship. After studying the movement at the far end, I came to understand they were filling the cabin with our weapons and powder to keep them dry. I assumed Pete and Striker would see to ours, which were wrapped in oilcloth with theirs in the alcove.
Soon after, we furled the sail and dropped anchor. I could see nothing around us, not even stars, and it had started to rain in earnest. Thankfully it did not seem to herald a storm with thunder, lightning, and high winds. Still, there was sustained cursing and grumbling heard the lengt
h of the ship, as men realized they would shortly be soaked. As the initial wave of complaints ebbed, the Bard shouted orders from the quarterdeck and I was relieved of my watch.
Like two wet dogs, Gaston and I worked our way back down the ship to our alcove, only to find Pete and Striker fucking in it.
Gaston rolled his eyes heavenward. “I would beseech God,” he whispered, “but if He exists He is responsible for all of this….”
“And why would He bother, on our account, to change the course of events He liked well enough to set in motion?” I finished his thought.
“Precisely,” he said.
The lanterns were being extinguished and soon there was nothing but darkness and rain. I was cold.
“To Hell with it,” he sighed. He crawled into the alcove, and with a chuckle I followed.
“You’reWet,” Pete noted between strokes.
“It’s raining,” Striker gasped.
“Truly?” Pete asked and stopped to listen. “SoItIs.”
This set Striker to laughing. “Pay attention to what you’re doing, you numbskull.”
“LikeThis?”
Striker grunted and stopped laughing, and the panting continued for another minute, until they achieved their end in a harmony of groans and quiet swearing.
During this, Gaston and I sat with our backs to the wall and waited. I shivered, and to my dismay found myself horrified rather than aroused. The whole situation was evoking the memory of my first time with Shane once again.
My remembrance was vivid. Cold English rain had pelted us as we rode like madmen to reach an old hay shed, the only shelter in sight. We entered with our mounts, and the place quickly smelled of wet horses and old hay. We were soaked through, and we had not been dressed for the sudden change in weather. It was almost cold enough to see our breath. Laughing around chattering teeth, we doffed our wet garments and dove into the hay to try and warm ourselves. One of us suggested getting closer to share our heat. Cold flesh had found cold flesh, and carnal feelings had emerged as the warmth returned. Hands rubbing to produce heat slowed and explored as goose-bumped skin turned to satin. Like blind baby birds in a nest, we groped each other in that hay. Touching on the other what we wanted the other to touch. Mouth finally found mouth and we squirmed together until the pleasure came and we had to wipe our hands and bellies clean.
Brethren Page 30
