I nodded my pleasure at that. Then I saw that the effort of trying to pull our bags from beneath the bed pained him greatly. I gently nudged him away and moved to kneel on the floor, pull all of our things out, and deposit them on the mattress.
“You can be our body, and I will be our head and mouth,” Gaston said with a sad smirk.
I grinned as best I could. The idea suited me. I did not wish to think, and though there was much I might wish to say to him, it would most probably involve thought, and there I was at that again.
Gaston explored the room as I emptied one of the pails into the tub. He found a chamber pot, and paper and ink, but seemed to have even more delight at discovering a spoon in a drawer. I understood why this find would outrank the paper, which might allow me to communicate, when he scraped accumulated hogs’ fat and filth from my arm with the side of the spoon.
We quickly stripped and took great care in scraping each other clean, depositing all of the muck in the pot. Only when I had been nearly scraped as raw as my wrists did I squat in the tepid water of the tub and bathe as best I could with a rag and soap. My skin was marred in many places with boils and pustules, and Gaston set about draining them and applying rum and poultices. He then applied salve to my wrists and ankles and bandaged them. Despite the occasional discomfort, it was all very peaceful and calming. It felt good just to have him touch me. It felt good to be cared for.
At last he unwrapped my head and examined my jaw. I considered speaking, as I could have, but it truly hurt such that I was actually afraid it might crack further or some such thing if I did try to speak. He seemed to understand, as he asked nothing of me; though he did appear to be deep in thought and on the verge of speech himself, he did not make a sound as he shaved me, trimmed my hair, and bandaged me again.
Then it was my turn to tend to him. I was curious to unwind his bandage, but he urged me to bathe him everywhere else first; and so I did, taking pleasure in touching him and soothing his hurts as best I could. His wrists were as raw as mine, and he was quite bruised. It appeared he had fought hard, and then I began to consider what and when he had fought, and I began to recall his words with Striker and my mind stumbled badly. I was forced to close my eyes and grip the side of the tub for a time. When I dared open them, I found his green eyes before me.
“I should have asked when I had your jaw unwrapped,” he said.
I shook my head and pointed at the paper.
He gave a relieved sigh. “Shall we finish this first?”
I nodded and continued. I applied poultices to the few boils he had developed beneath all of the damn hogs’ fat, and then at last we turned to his chest. Once it was revealed, I was aghast at the wound. It ran diagonally from the thick muscle of his right shoulder – where it had cut deep, thus making it difficult for him to use his right arm until it healed – down across his chest, to the middle of his ribs. Thankfully, it had not been mortal, as the blade that made it had been stopped by his breastbone. But it was an ugly thing: there were dozens of stitches, and the result once healed would be an even more ragged and puckered scar than those made by the whip, because it cut across them, and scarred skin never heals as unmarred flesh does.
I judged it to be a sword slash. That thought stirred something deep inside, and panic gripped me yet again.
His hand was upon my cheek. “It will heal,” he murmured, and then with sad amusement, “We are even.”
My heart pounded and my breath caught. Unseen hands clawed at me, dragging me toward the light. I put desperate fingers upon his lips.
His eyes held guilt as he gently pulled my hand away. He kissed my fingers and breathed, “I am sorry,” upon them.
I was still in the clutches of fear and struggling to keep my gaze on the wall. The light blazed all around me, seeking to burn out my eyes.
“Will,” Gaston said. “Find the mirror. I wish to examine Farley’s work. It is a good thing I trained him well. Despite my…” He stopped with a sigh. “I feel he used a clean needle: it does not feel putrid, and I have not fevered much.”
I was grateful to concentrate on finding the mirror; I was even able to allow myself to know he had set me upon that as a distraction. It was odd how aware I could be that I was avoiding thought, while at the same time doing so.
I came upon the laudanum as I looked for the mirror. I was dismayed to see how little was left. I wanted some. Actually, I wanted a great deal. But it should be for Gaston, who was obviously in pain.
Gaston took the bottle from me and regarded the amount with a sigh. “We shall both have a small amount so we can sleep. Perhaps we can go and look for more on the morrow. The damn surgeons will not think to use it; probably none here save Farley and I know how to make it, or that it diminishes pain. Since it is a thing of the Orient, and this port sits on the road to Spain from the Orient, it is likely they will have the proper pods; and none of our brethren will think they are of value, and we can abscond with as much as we want.”
I thought that a good plan. Perhaps then I could have as much as I wanted. I knew under its gentle embrace I would not feel tugged toward the cave mouth at all.
“But you cannot drown your sorrows in it,” he said sternly, dispelling that happy thought. “It is madness of a different sort. You care for nothing else while under its influence, but when it is gone, everything is a thousand times more painful.” He sighed. “I would not have survived the flogging without it, but I surely hated Doucette for later taking it away. That led to a bout of madness I have not equaled since.”
There was something in his words that told me he expected me to look into the light… someday, perhaps soon.
I found the paper, ink, and quill, and wrote, I do not wish to look into the light at the cave mouth.
He smiled sadly as he read it. “You know it is there, though?” he asked while studying me.
I nodded.
“Then you are not addled,” he said with relief.
Am I mad? I wrote.
He sighed and tried to shrug and quickly thought better of it. “Oui, after a fashion. But it is a madness you will recover from. When you wish.”
I do not wish to now, I wrote.
He smiled. “Then you shall frolic in the field for as long as you like. I will hold the cart. It is your turn. You have earned it.” This last made him sad, but he looked away and wiped his tears quickly.
I love you, I wrote.
He met my gaze again, with great love in his eyes. “I know, Will. I know it now more than ever. I never lost sight of that. I… You… fell, hard, and I knew I had to hold the cart and that all would be well. I knew the cart was strong and we would survive, even though… Non, I am sorry. There is much I must speak of when you are ready; but you are correct, now is not the time. It is my burden, and I will carry it for now. And Will, it no longer chafes.”
His words had brought the cave to mind again, but it was not so fearsome this time. The light seemed less harsh and not so angry. I was still not ready to turn to face it, but I was no longer terrified that I would have to.
Now that we had said all that need be said, we dosed ourselves with a small amount of laudanum and finished cleaning our clothes. Gaston’s tunic was so rent it would not easily be repaired. Thankfully he had a spare, but he eschewed attempting to don it. We also ate – or rather, Gaston chewed boucan and I satisfied my belly as much as I could by sucking upon slivers of apple and mango that would fit between my teeth and did not require chewing. Gaston promised me broth or soup on the morrow, and I salivated at the very mention of it. This made the fruit easier to swallow.
Then we reluctantly smeared a fine layer of fat upon us, and lay naked in the bed with our clothes left to dry – such as they would in the damn humidity – upon the chair and drawers. The cot was narrow, and as Gaston was comfortable doing little but lying upon his back, and I had to exercise great care with how I supported my head, it was a while before I could discover a position in which to sleep: on my side, with my back
to the wall and the upper part of my head cushioned upon one of our bags.
Gaston quickly dozed, but I lay awake, almost afraid to sleep lest I dream of things I did not wish. I fingered my flaccid member idly, grateful it had not chosen to add to my confusion. I knew I was actually scared that its arousal would bring me back to fighting against the light in the cave: it has always proven to be a revelatory organ for me.
I wondered what the Gods were hiding from me in the light.
Fifty-Two
Wherein Madness Takes Its Toll
I woke several times in the night: a few awakenings were due to the nightmares I had feared, but other waking was due to Gaston prodding me to stop lying across his wounded chest, or my jaw giving protest to some untenable position into which I had attempted to settle. Despite all of that, or perhaps because of it, I was reluctant to rise with the light I saw streaming through the shutters and around the door. So was Gaston, and we lay there for a time in companionable silence, with our hands clasped and my lips worrying his upper arm in what little I could give him of a kiss.
“It will be weeks before I can kiss you properly,” he mourned at long last.
I was appalled at the thought, and raised on my elbow to peer down at him with a grimace showing how disagreeable I found such a wait. He found amusement in this.
Then he sobered abruptly, and his regard became more speculative. “If… you wish to do a thing other than kiss, I am yours in any fashion you might desire.”
I nodded solemnly. Until that moment, I had not thought of the cave since waking; now it loomed. I shied quickly from it, and with a sigh, crawled over him to avail myself of the chamber pot. Once I was through, I helped him rise so he could do likewise. He mentioned the other no more; but he did not meet my gaze as we dressed, and that troubled me almost as much as dealing with the damn cave over the matter.
He decided he would not wear a tunic for a time, and we applied more fat to his shoulders to keep them from burning. We donned our weapons. Just as he would not slip a garment over his head, he also chose not to wear his baldric, but I slipped mine over my shoulder with relish, taking comfort in the weight of my weaponry. We wrapped his right arm in the sling again, to keep it still. Even though he wore his sword belt, I was not sure what he could draw save his knives, but as he could not wield a rapier well in his condition, I guessed it did not matter. He stuffed a loaded pistol into his belt so he could use it with his left hand. And then he took the one he usually used with his right, and stuffed it into the sling above his arm.
As we were not sure if we could continue to claim the room as our own, we packed everything, including the paper and ink. I slung our bags and his baldric across my back and picked up our muskets. We would leave nothing behind. I felt no sorrow in this, as I liked this room little. It seemed a place of bad memories, just as the one we had occupied in Puerto del Principe had seemed a place of madness.
I stopped him in the doorway and kissed him sweetly upon the lips. His eyes were curious. I nuzzled his neck, wishing I could nip him a little. His good left hand was tentative upon my chest, and then it stole up around my neck and he pulled my mouth back to his for a firmer press of our lips. Then he embraced me as best he could, and we held one another for a time.
When at last we emerged into the light, we found the sun well up in the eastern sky. There were men upon the wall, but few in the courtyard where we stood; and Gaston eyed the gate wistfully, before reluctantly deciding we should speak to whoever might be about before we headed into town. I shared his reticence on the matter, as I thought of how Cudro, Nickel, and Liam had stared at me last night. I was not sure what had occurred, but I knew they were sure they knew.
Striker and Pete were amongst those talking, as were most of our cabal – including, to my amazement and consternation, Alonso. I had not been sure whether he was real, or merely another aspect of my dreams.
They all seemed surprised and happy to see us, but Striker stood and made a hurried interception.
He studied me critically, and seemed to view our being armed with annoyance.
“We are well enough,” Gaston assured him doggedly. “Will is… not himself, yet. He will recover. He does not wish to speak of what occurred, or have mention made of it. As I cannot see where most will honor that, we should stay away from the others. We need to find something for Will to eat, and then we need to search the town for laudanum.”
“I would rather have you go to the Queen, now that the ships have arrived,” Striker sighed. “But if you must, you’ll not go into town alone. And you’ll send someone to find me if you run afoul of Morgan.”
Gaston frowned at this. “Why?”
Striker sighed. “He wishes for Will to translate, and has been awaiting news of Will’s recovery from a blow some Spaniard gave him.”
I ignored Striker’s words, and thought of Morgan and what he might want. The idea of translating the cries of tortured men filled me with dread: not the like of the cave, but of a more depressing and mundane variety. It was not a thing I wished to ever do. And obviously, I could not bring his demands to the good citizen hostages this time.
Gaston was shaking his head firmly. “Will cannot.”
“Well, as he can’t talk, I know that,” Striker said with some exasperation. “That is not the problem; I do not want Morgan to see him if he is addled, or mad, or whatever state he is in.”
My matelot sighed. “Neither do I.”
“I’ll send Liam with you,” Striker said.
Gaston regarded Striker as if he were mad. “Did I not just say we do not wish to discuss the matter?”
Striker shook his head and smiled sadly. “Aye, aye, but take pity on him; with his matelot gone, he’s not been himself, and he’s been right worried about the two of you. I’m sure you can ask him to shut up if you explain why.” His look said he did not accept any reason we had yet given him as adequate, but perhaps we could work some miracle with Liam.
I liked Liam, and I knew whatever query he would make and anything he would say would be from a good heart. I tapped Gaston’s shoulder and nodded.
He sighed but nodded to Striker. “All right, we will take him.”
“There is another thing,” Striker said, and worried his lip with his teeth.
“What?” Gaston asked with narrowed eyes.
“The Spaniard, Alonso, there,” Striker said and gestured. “Do either of you wish him dead?”
Gaston’s sigh was prolonged, and he glanced at me with guilty eyes. “Nay. He should not be harmed. I am sure Will would not want him put with the others.”
Striker shook his head. “That’s not a concern. He doesn’t wish to return to Panama, and he has some ideas on smuggling from these parts, and… well, he’ll be sailing with us.”
Gaston swore low and vehemently in French.
“Fine,” he at last said in English. “I suppose that is… as it should be, somehow. The irony is fitting.”
Striker leaned close to whisper to Gaston, but I heard him anyway. “Did you two fight over him?” he asked.
I walked away, my eyes firmly on the cave wall. I saw images dancing upon it, and heard sounds whispered all about. I had talked with Alonso. I had talked with him of many things. He did not wish to return to Panama. His brother had wanted his money, and his wife was from a convent and possibly better off without him. And he could take no lover of merit and thus relieve his heart. And of his heart… well, he still cared greatly for me, though somewhere in the light, a voice whispered that it was a mistaken and misguided thing. I had left him for a reason. I had always left men like him – even those who did not compete with him in stature in any way – for a reason.
Gaston was beside me, his hand in mine. I squeezed it reassuringly and turned to find him regarding me with concern. I could see the words waiting behind his eyes, all jumbled and pressed together, waiting to spew from his mouth if I would but let him. I shook my head and he bit his lip.
A diffident Liam j
oined us a moment later. His gaze was all over me, and I could see the millions of words behind his eyes as well. Gaston released me, and gently towed Liam beyond my hearing.
I studied what I could see of the town as they talked. Someone was roasting beef in the fort, and the smell of it made my stomach clench painfully. I was nearly driven to brave the other men in order to attempt to fetch some, but I knew not how I would eat it.
“Will, are you well?” a voice asked from behind me.
I whirled to find Nickel and Bones standing there watching me. Nickel had spoken. I shrugged and smiled a little.
Nickel seemed unsure of this response. Bones was fine with it, however.
“Striker said we should do a useful thing and join ya in goin’ ta town,” the lanky man said with a shrug. “I thought we were doin’ well enough for the world holdin’ that wall up with our shoulders.”
I smiled sincerely.
Nickel rolled his eyes and smacked Bones’ arm.
Gaston was beside me. He studied the newcomers intently.
Nickel took a step back. “We are to accompany you to town,” he told Gaston with a polite bob of his head.
“Let us all go, then,” Gaston said with a tired sigh and a glare in Striker’s direction.
I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at my belly.
My matelot immediately frowned with concern and asked Liam, “Were you able to feed Will… while he…?”
Liam shook his head.
Gaston cursed and, after motioning for me to remain where I was, headed toward the fire.
In the uncomfortable silence that followed, I glanced at Liam, and found him regarding me with a thoughtful mien. When my gaze met his, he came to embrace me.
“Ya worry none, now,” he said.
I nodded, and wondered what Gaston had told him.
“What happened…?” Nickel began to ask.
“Nothin’ Will wants ta speak ov,” Liam said quickly, and stepped between me and the boy. “Leave ’im be.”
Matelots Page 79
