Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (37 page)

There was a chorus of “oohs” and much laughter, as I gave them a jaunty grin and began to reload.

“But can you reload fast enough to shoot it now?” Bradley asked.

“Nay,” I said, concentrating on creating a new cartouche instead of simply reloading as I normally would, by pouring powder directly into the barrel from my horn.

“Ifn’ ya don’t mind, then,” Liam said. “Two up, first, knot at top, second, sides.” He pointed at someone as he spoke. Then he brought his musket up. He was in front of me, but I heard a shot from behind me simultaneous with his. I glanced back and saw that Pete had fired, too. I looked at the target and saw they had both hit the knot Liam had called, and the little cask was split asunder. Then Striker and Otter fired, each taking out the corners. Then Liam and Pete fired again, and my jaw dropped with astonishment. How had they possibly reloaded that quickly? I watched in amazement as Otter finished reloading. He and Striker did not fire though, as there was nothing left of the cask above water to shoot at, even though it would have still been in range.

“Damn!” I exclaimed.

There was a good round of chuckles and I caught Davey looking as impressed as I.

“It appears we’ll need more targets,” Bradley said.

Gaston handed me a new cartouche. I noticed that the others had them tucked in pockets or slots on their baldrics, within easy reach.

But that was not the only explanation for their speed. Even with the necessary ingredients readily available, there were still a number of physical steps needed to seat the ball and powder the pan. I watched Liam reload with swift and economical movements; and I understood.

Liam did not move a finger unless it was involved in the process. His whole body was focused on the actions it needed to perform. I was sure he had done it so many times it came as naturally to him as walking. I needed a great deal of practice indeed.

Gaston saw my attempts to imitate what I had seen; and he stopped me and made me slow my movements to check their position. Liam and Pete joined him at this; and they had me fire at nothing and reload several times, so they could watch my hands and arms. They gave pointers and I repeated the sequence, improving my speed each time in my estimation.

Until Pete stepped in close and looked me in the eye. “Do It Wrong An Blow Yar Head Off.”

“I am well aware of that,” I said with a wry grin, wondering at his point.

“That’sYour Problem.” He grinned.

“’E’s right,” Liam said. “You’ve got ta trust yarself. The thing is, in battle, they’re shooting at ya, an’ the real threat is not ya misloadin’ an’

blowin’ yar ’ead off, or blowin’ out the barrel, or maimin’ yarself, or even flashin’ the pan, it’s them shootin’ ya on account a ya didna’ reload fast enough to shoot ’em first.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” I sighed. I could see what he meant. I looked at Gaston.

“You are thinking too much,” he said.

“I am prone to that.”

“I have noticed.”

“Mad Drunk Or Scared,” Pete said.

Gaston and Liam smiled.

“Aye,” Liam said. “Maybe we should ’ave a drinkin’ contest.”

“Bulls,” Pete said.

Liam laughed. “Otter me boy, ya remember Isaiah? Poor bastard.

Got a bull mad at ’im and got charged right after ’e shot. His men weren’t near ’im, an’ we were a way up ’cross the field. So ’e ran, an’

reloaded, an’ kept firin’ o’er ’is shoulder, an’ missin’ ’cause ’e didna’ dare slow down. That were some o’ the fastest reloadin’ we e’er did see, what with it bein’ on the run an’ all. But the bull got ’im anyway, on account

’e weren’t aimin’, an’ the stupid bastard weren’t carryin’ a pistol. In the end, ’e stabbed it ta death with a short knife, but it ’ad broken up both ’is legs. We ’anded ’im a pistol an’ left ’im to make peace with the Almighty.” Liam shrugged. “I guess lookin’ back on it, maybe it weren’t a laughin’ matter. Seein’ ’im runnin’ around afore the bull caught ’im was right amusin’ though.”

“Will’ll get inspired in battle,” Striker said.

“Aye,” Bradley agreed. “In a line for volley fire, him being off a little won’t matter, and in an open battle he’ll find the speed, especially if someone’s life hangs in the balance.”

That was a sobering thought. I had no military experience; and Gaston’s stories made it clear that, in battle, the buccaneers often acted as an ordered unit. I was quite conditioned to fight by myself and for myself. That would no longer be the case.

Thinking on how Pete, Striker, John and Liam had fired in volleys, I realized that beneath the orthodox military organization of a volley line, buccaneers fought in pairs, or rather they fought in pairs of matelots.

Gaston would be depending on me in battle, not to cover him on occasion, but for us to fight in concert as a team. I looked at him.

He shrugged. “I know you will hit when you do fire,” he said quietly in French. “I will plan accordingly.”

“Thank you, but I will practice daily, without bulls… I have not seen you shoot yet,” I added with a teasing grin. He snorted derisively, and his eyes caught on something. He brought his musket up and fired. I turned my head in time to see the gull fall from the sky into the waves.

Then he reloaded with speed and precision. I smiled stupidly at him, as I could think of nothing clever to say. My estimation of him was further polished. I could not have chosen a better man as matelot, had I months or even years to make the decision.

Weapons inspection and practice completed, we returned to our alcove in time for swabbing. It was soon apparent that this duty for our small part of the ship would be left to Gaston and me. Striker was busy with his duties, which involved insuring everyone else performed theirs, and Pete was now busy instructing Davey on some other piece of buccaneer lore. We would also be responsible, in cooperation with the men on the other side of it, for the cannon. Gaston gave me a cursory explanation of the firing of it.

“Maybe I should practice on this as well,” I said when he finished.

“If all goes as it should, you will rarely ever see the cannon fired on this or any other buccaneer vessel. They are too small to do any real damage, and they have little range. In a naval engagement, we will all be firing muskets and not these cumbersome things. It is the Bard’s duty to make sure we are never in range of the bulk of the prey’s guns. We could not withstand even a single well-placed volley from a galleon.”

“Then why do we carry them? They take up space, and then there is the weight to consider – and the powder magazine.”

He shrugged, “As an occasional threat and deterrent to smaller craft and land targets. If we need to run, they will be pitched overboard.

Sometimes they are needed as ballast.”

“We could do without them, and you are merely making excuses.”

He shrugged. “It is the way of the coast.”

“Which, the excuses or the cannon?”

“The cannon. The brethren like their pieces, even if they have little use for them,” he said slyly. I laughed.

After the morning’s exertions, such as they were, I found myself disposed to nap again. I considered going below to escape the sun; but Striker had a blanket. We rigged it over the alcove between the cannon and quarterdeck, so that it blocked the sun nicely while allowing the breeze free passage. And so I slept for a time on deck.

I woke to find Gaston sitting nearby with arms crossed, staring at nothing. The act of sitting up to join him caused a roiling in my stomach and a throbbing in my head. So when he inquired, “How are you feeling?” all I could do was nod curtly and stand to heave bile over the side.

“Close to despondency over the sorry state of my constitution,” I said as I sank down beside him. He handed me a bottle of water and I drank until the hideous taste was diluted, though it still haunted my mouth like a shade of meals remembered. He gave me a small chunk of boucan and I chewed slowly, hoping I would not waste it by heaving it over the side as well.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

“Distract me from my misery. What do you do to pass the time?”

“I am a solitary person by nature, and the events of my life have reinforced that.” He was staring into space again, and I was not sure how to interpret his words.

“So you would rather I did not trouble you?” I ventured.

He started. “Non, non, that is not what I meant. You asked how I pass the time. I sit and think. I do not make friends. There is little I want to say or hear from most men. So I am both content and resigned to having no one to speak with. That does not mean it is something I do not desire. I think. It is simply not a thing I am familiar with.”

“But I could wear on you, seeing as you are not used to the constant chatter which I am so very prone to produce.”

Gaston smiled. “I do not know yet.”

“Please tell me to be quiet if I begin to wear on you.”

“I will do that. In the meantime, I believe you were asking me to distract you.”

“Aye, since I am so fond of conversing it provides a balm for many things.”

“What would you have us converse on?”

“What were you thinking on before I woke?”

He shrugged. “The grain of wood. See how the grain differs between the wood of the gun carriage and that in the deck planking? I was wondering what causes the difference. Obviously they are two different types of wood, and they are from different types of trees. But why are the trees different? And furthermore, why are they always different?

What makes a cedar grow to be a cedar no matter where it is planted?”

“I take it the standard answer of ‘because God made it a cedar’ will not be considered a pertinent or learned response,” I teased. “Why can sharks not leap from the water, or rather, why do they not, or even can they, when they look so like porpoises? What makes one a shark and the other a porpoise?” I related my argument about sharks and sailor arses that I had engaged in with Fletcher, what seemed like ages ago.

“Precisely,” he said. “Though I have considered that as well. I believe in the case of sharks and porpoises that there are physiological differences, such that one is designed to jump and the other is not.

There is profound divergence in the musculature of their tails. A shark waves his tail from side to side, whereas a porpoise waves his up and down.”

I thought on it, and saw he was correct.

“Leave it to a physician,” I teased.

He shrugged. “Was there but one creator with a plan for all things as we are taught? Can that be the only explanation, when we are presented with so much order in the nature of things? Or is there another explanation and we are just too blind to see it?”

I contemplated this. “I believe there is an order to all that is, and that we will discover it someday. Because not all men are sheep, and sometimes the wolves get distracted and do something worthwhile.”

He regarded me curiously. “There you are, mentioning sheep again.”

I chuckled as I remembered that my explanation had been cut short the day before. I quickly laid out my theory of sheep and wolves as I had presented it to Alonso. “I now think there needs to be a third category, as I keep discovering people who exist in between. I was thinking foxes, but that is merely a small wolf; and these people are not truly wolves, even small ones. Or maybe they are. For example, Davey, who is a sheep in so many ways, and yet he has strength about him and resolve in the face of whatever he encounters.”

“He is a goat,” Gaston said.

I grinned. “Oui, a goat would be a belligerent sheep. I see Pete and Striker as self-made wolves.”

He nodded. “Certainly.”

“How would you name Bradley? He is his own master and proud of it, yet he seems so quick to accept society’s mores and ways. At least from what I have witnessed. He is a wolf, but I feel reluctant to award it to him.”

Gaston shrugged. “He seems like many wolves I have seen.”

“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.