With that, I had successfully brushed aside all question in my mind as to the rightness of the act; but Fletcher looked as if he still required convincing. Actually, he looked as if he were on the verge of apoplexy, but I pressed on anyway. “And furthermore, were you not the one who posited that a shark could not leap because God did not make it so? Therefore why may my body experience pleasure in some fashion if it is not meant to?”
Fletcher sighed, and all the fight seemed to leave him. “My Lord, you are correct. You are most probably damned beyond redemption, and sodomy is the least of your sins.”
I regarded Donoughy with expectance and curiosity.
Donoughy shook his head and chided Fletcher, “I would not know about damned beyond all redemption.” Then he regarded me and shrugged. “My Lord, you will do as you will. It is no concern of mine.”
“What of the men here? Is everyone as celibate as monks?” I asked.
Fletcher sighed, and Donoughy said, “Nay.”
I eyed Fletcher. “I would hope there is no condemnation or censure of such activities.”
“Nay, nay, my Lord,” he sighed. “Though I do conduct Bible readings on Sunday mornings.”
I shrugged, as I supposed there was no helping it; and many a man found peace and solace in religion. That was no matter of mine.
Fletcher was regarding me with a guilty countenance. “With all thanks to you, my Lord, I can read the Bible. And Mister Theodore says that once things are in a way in which there will be time for it, a tutor will be provided for the other men, as you have wished.”
I smiled and clapped his shoulder reassuringly. “That is wonderful. How is the plantation progressing?” As I already knew some of Fletcher’s concerns, I watched Donoughy.
They looked to one another, and shrugged amicably.
“Well enough, my Lord,” Donoughy said. “We’re clearing as best we can and truly making good progress. We’ll plant what we have in August, and once that is done, we can start on the other buildings we need and the mill. There was the one man who ran off. We’ve had others that do not wish to work.” His tone had changed, so that I heard the rumble of anger in the last of his words.
“Truly?” I asked. “And how was that remedied?”
“My Lord, unless they are injured or ail so that they can’t work, if they don’t work, they don’t eat. They all agree on that, at least.”
“That seems reasonable.”
Donoughy gave an exasperated sigh. “If they don’t work, my Lord, and we don’t feed them, they’ll just run off to find something to eat. And since nothing’s been done about bringing the other one back, they don’t have a reason to believe they can’t.”
“Nay,” Fletcher said. “Most of the men did not like the fellow who ran off. It was Creek, my Lord,” he added. I seemed to remember Creek as a big taciturn fellow who bemoaned the lack of copious alcohol on the voyage, and was always trying to trade other men food for their daily ration of beer.
“The others did not approve of him running off, my Lord,” Fletcher continued. “And they don’t approve of the Jenkins boy and Jackson complaining about working, either. It was the men who decided that they shouldn’t eat when they refused to work one day.”
“The Jenkins boy needs a good thrashing,” Donoughy said.
“Oh, that will keep him from running,” I said sarcastically. “And his brother, too.”
“It would if we had a stockade, my Lord,” Donoughy replied heatedly.
“Why not just chain them together in the field?” I snapped.
He shook his head. “We need to bring Creek back and make an example of him, my Lord, but Mister Theodore says you won’t stand for it. He won’t hire the men to do it.”
“I do not know,” I said, as I truly did not. I had given little thought to what would occur if one of them ran away. I had not conceived of the example it set for the other men when Donoughy first told me of it. I would rather not force the man to work, but it was true that we could not have them all running off. At the least, I supposed Creek owed my father forty pounds or so for his passage.
Then another aspect of the matter occurred to me.
“However would you find him? This is a large island, with an abundance of unexplored wilderness.”
“Where he might have run to if he had an ounce of sense, my Lord. He’s in Port Royal,” Donoughy scoffed.
“You’ve seen him?” I was incredulous.
“Aye, my Lord. I chased him down the beach, but he slipped into the Palisadoes with some men; and I thought they might be armed, and I was alone. I’ve seen him since, and he just laughed at me.”
I grimaced. This explained a great deal of Donoughy’s frustration. Creek running about Port Royal doing who knew what was a different matter from a man deciding not to work and retreating to the wilderness to make his own way.
“I will retrieve him.”
“He says he’s a buccaneer now, my Lord,” Fletcher said sadly. “I’ve seen him, too. I tried to talk him into returning.”
“Was he armed?” I asked.
Fletcher frowned, shook his head, then shrugged. “Well, with a cane knife, my Lord.”
I sighed. I could not perceive Creek being a threat with a cane knife. Pete with a cane knife would be death incarnate, but not Creek. But Donoughy and Fletcher were not me.
Still, he was no buccaneer with only a cane knife, though they were essentially cutlasses. “He has not the money to equip himself to rove,” I said. “So unless he has a patron, I do not see how he could be a buccaneer. Yet I am new to this land and their ways, and perhaps there is a thing about it I do not understand. I suppose if he paired with someone with money.” I frowned to myself as I thought of my own circumstances. “I will ask Gaston.”
“And if you can get him back, my Lord, then what?” Donoughy asked.
“What would you suggest, flogging him? Stocks? A pillory? Chains? I would rather he pay us the money for his passage. And if he can earn that roving, so be it. But then I suppose we will have no one to work the fields.”
Donoughy’s gaze clearly said that this is what he had been trying to say all along.
I felt as if there were phantom chains around my own ankles, and the fight left me.
“Truly, what is done with a runaway bondsman?” I sighed.
“For a first offense, my Lord, his contract can be extended and he can be kept under watch and chained at night. If he runs again, he can be branded on the face.” I winced. He shrugged his wide shoulders. “You bringing him back will show the others this is a serious matter.”
I nodded. “I will do what I can. I make no promises, though.”
I no longer wished to discuss the provisioning. I supposed that argument could wait for another day. It was with heavy heart I returned to the barracks. Gaston eyed me curiously as I sat beside him, on the edge of the clearing the building occupied. He was apparently done with the men, and they were sitting about eating.
“What?” Gaston asked quietly in French, and glared at Donoughy and Fletcher, who had followed me back to the fire. Fletcher seemed alarmed at this, but Donoughy seemed angry. I thought that if he were going to give himself the airs of so bully a sheep, he should at least arm himself.
“The escaped man,” I whispered back in French. “He sets a poor example for the others.” I quickly explained the circumstances.
Gaston frowned. “Unless he is skilled in some way useful to a ship, he will have to provide his own weapons to rove. But he need not have a musket and several pistols. Some ships will take him with a cutlass and a willingness to fight.”
“And if this has occurred?”
He shook his head. “It has not if he is hiding on the Palisadoes. Buccaneers don’t hide from planters, escaped bondsmen do.”
I saw his reasoning. It was a fine line betwixt the two, though. All Creek need have done was make the proper friends. Had Belfry made sore remark of Davey’s being amongst the Brethren the other morning, I was sure, every man there would
have told a tale of how Belfry was mistaken as to Davey’s identity. And a sensible man would not have gainsaid us. Creek had not been accepted by buccaneers when Fletcher and Donoughy last saw him – well at least not when Donoughy last saw him, but perhaps after. We could not know until we found the man ourselves.
“Will you aid me in finding him?”
“Oui,” Gaston said, as if he were curious why I even posed the question.
“You will help me return him to slavery?”
Gaston nodded with understanding. “If he is not flogged. These men are not abused, Will, and he owes you money.”
“My father.”
He shrugged. “It is the principle of the matter. He agreed to a thing, and if what they say is true, he did not feel compelled to escape to protect himself.”
He had placed the matter into the proper perspective for it to sit well in my heart. He did not protest when I embraced him. His body felt good, and I sighed with contentment. Then I glanced over his shoulder, and saw Fletcher watching us with a frown. I must have tensed, because Gaston released me enough to look at me questioningly. I did not wish to speak of the rest of my conversation with the men, though I was curious as to Gaston’s opinion on such things. I was also afraid of it. His gaze was growing in intensity.
“Fletcher does not approve of matelotage,” I said.
“On what grounds?”
There was apparently no avoiding it now. “He is religious. Sodomy is a sin.”
Gaston became tense at once; and I swore silently and released him. I was surprised he did not move away from me.
“Do you think it a sin?” he whispered.
“Non. And if it is, I have committed far graver. I do not believe it is even a transgression against nature.” I quickly explained my reasoning, as I had to Fletcher.
Gaston grinned, and I was heartened by the sight of it.
“What are your thoughts on the matter?”
He frowned. “I do not feel it is a sin.” He still appeared uneasy, though.
“Other than it being a sin, then, what issue do you have with it?”
“It is not a thing I have wished to do.”
I cringed inwardly and wished to walk away. I remembered his description of it as a thing done by beasts. He was merely stating the truth.
“I know. You do not favor men. I am sorry. I am not thinking as I should.”
He gave me a bemused smile and was about to speak when someone a short distance away made a sound.
“Um, my Lord, sir, we all would like to hear the story, if ya don’t mind,” the younger Jenkins boy said.
“Aye.” I smiled.
“We will talk later,” Gaston whispered. I sighed, and we followed the boy closer to the others.
I was not necessarily in the state of mind to tell tales, and I knew even at my best I could not do the story as much theatric justice as Striker had done; but as I looked over the faces, I felt compelled, and I knew I wanted to tell them. So I leapt into it with all the enthusiasm I could muster. And like most tale-telling, it got easier as I went. At least an hour passed before I finished, and they seemed heartily amused and asked many a question. I must admit I made mention of the death and gore and danger a great deal more than Striker had; and as a result, not a man in my audience professed an interest in going roving, which I was thankful for. Fletcher and Donoughy were regarding me with wide eyes as we finished, and the men stumbled off to their hammocks.
“And you intend to do this again, my Lord?” Fletcher asked.
This set Gaston to chuckling.
“Oh, aye,” I assured Fletcher with a lopsided grin. “I rather enjoyed it.”
“You are a madman, my Lord,” he said.
“And someone once asked me why I didn’t go roving…” Donoughy said.
“It is good to know Davey took well to it,” Fletcher said. “However did you get him off the ship, my Lord?”
I bit my lip. “That is a tale for another time.”
Donoughy supplied us with a pair of hammocks. With so many dead, the shed was longer than needed to house all the men, and there was an empty set of poles next to the place where Donoughy and Fletcher slept. When I returned from relieving myself, I was amused to find that Gaston had strung our hammocks together between four poles so that they formed one wide berth. Fletcher was appalled.
When Gaston went to relieve himself, Donoughy whispered to me, “My Lord, the men that um….” He sighed. “Well, they slip away into the woods for a bit.”
“We are merely going to sleep in it, I assure you.” I considered going to find Gaston so that we could talk, since the opportunity was obviously not going to present itself once everyone was bedded down, even in French. My manhood suggested maybe I could request a repeat of the night before, as well. I told it to be still. Its interest kept me from seeking my matelot, as I did not wish him to think that was all I wanted. I arranged my weapons, and lay on the hammock, and waited for his return.
Shortly he did, and immediately rummaged in his bag. He found his jar of hog’s fat, which he swore by to keep the insects at bay. I could barely stand the feel of it on my skin. As I had already been bitten a number of times, I reached for the jar with resignation. To my surprise, he swatted my hand away. He looked along the shed. I followed his gaze.
As the lamps had not been put out yet, we could see the men preparing for bed. I noticed several men furtively slipping in together from the forest. If I had not seen them arrive together, I never would have guessed they shared any interest in one another. I also noticed some of the men glancing our way quite curiously. I did not feel condemnation, but I did feel as if I were in another place and time.
I remembered one evening at a château in Geneva in specific. The ladies had all retired, and the fire had burned down, and the men had been drinking cognac and smoking. Several of us favored men, and glances were exchanged; and on one pretense or another, a man would slip away and another would follow shortly thereafter, with the rest of us making silent bets as to who was next. There had been an air of romance and intrigue about it all; but in looking back upon it, I quickly decided I never wished to live that way again. I had ended that particular evening buggering a beautiful young man in a stairwell. Once finished, he had scampered off to bed with a whispered good night, and I had stumbled to my room alone and weary of spirit.
Donoughy put out the lanterns, all save one on a central pole, which he turned very low. I heard, but could barely see, Donoughy crawl into his hammock in the dim illumination. Along the shed there were embers here and there, as men smoked pipes. I heard Gaston leave the hammock. I turned to face where he would have been, and could barely see him in the darkness. I felt his hand upon my wrist, and allowed him to pull me off the hammock and out of the shed.
All was shadow except for the sky. The sliver of moon and the brilliant panoply of stars did little to illuminate the treeline or the bulk of the shed nearby. A steady cacophony of insects drowned all other sound. I could feel Gaston in my arms. My manhood was delighted, and began to rise for play.
“We did not have to….”
His lips pressed to mine and stopped my words. I pressed back gently in a soft kiss. He withdrew somewhat, but his breath was still upon my lips as he whispered, “I want to explain something to you, but it has been a long and trying day. If you do not wish…”
I kissed him lightly to still his words, as he had done to me. Then I caressed his cheek with the tip of my nose, delighting in even the feel of his day-old stubble. He was very still, but he did not move away. I covered his mouth with mine again and brushed my lips across his. He did nothing until I licked the corner of his mouth, and then he turned his head.
“I am not ready for that,” he sighed.
I did not protest, choosing instead to return to caressing his cheek. I shifted my hands and rubbed the small of his back in incrementally lengthening strokes. He pressed against me, and I was sure he could feel my arousal.
“You may t
ouch me anywhere,” he whispered.
I gasped ever so quietly, yet he heard it and gave an answering snort of amusement. Then he rubbed his body against me, in a way that confirmed my suspicion about his knowledge of my arousal. My hands found his buttocks and ground him closer. He slipped his arms around my neck, allowing me to run my fingers where I would. I proceeded to, with great delight, as I had dreamed of caressing the entirety of him.
When I reached his chest he gasped, “Not there,” as I brushed his scarred right nipple. “It feels… odd.”
I slid my hand to his left nipple and he held still, and let me fondle it. His breathing caught a little, and he made the happy humming sound.
As I continued to explore and touch, though, I began to realize that he was not breathing shallowly or writhing or moaning as I would if similarly handled. There was a response, but it was dim. Instead of redoubling my efforts, I slid a hand between his waistband and the rippled wall of his stomach and dipped into sacred realms. I found him flaccid. My fingers teased and cajoled and explored for a little while. He twitched against me as if I tickled him on occasion, but his manhood gave no reaction. I withdrew my hand and held him close.
He truly held no interest in me. I endeavored to hold the disappointment at bay.
His voice was tight. “You must understand that it is not you.”
“Non,” I said gently. “It is men in general. Oui. I understand.”
“Non, non.” He swore quietly. “Will, I do not think it would matter if you were a woman. I do not feel...”
Now I understood. I shoved aside my rising guilt at my prior thought, and tried to comprehend what this meant to him.
“When was the last time…?” I feared I knew the answer already.
“That night.”
He did not need to explain what night. Apparently it had scarred more than his voice and skin. My manhood was shriveling in sympathy and fear. Still I asked, hoping for something, “And nothing since?”
“An occasional twitch. I sometimes wake from dreams and there is evidence it performed on its own; and I am relieved as it is not wholly dead, only to my waking mind.” He sighed. “Will, you must understand that your touch feels very good. I just do not react as I know others do. As I see you do. As I know I would have before. I do not want you angry with me.”
Brethren Page 50
