Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (81 page)

– and therefore was scrupulous in maintaining his distance from Belfry and any other man, even Tom.

In thinking of them thus, I realized a thing that gave me much amusement. It would serve both their ends – well, not Dickey’s so much – but more the ship’s in general, if Tom and Dickey were viewed as matelots. I wondered if such a thing could be arranged. Dickey was sensible enough, and I was sure he could be made to see the danger Tom was causing. And he did care for his friend. Tom, on the other hand, was as annoying as Davey to me, in that he felt he knew all and damn anyone who strayed from the course of what he did know.

As added inducement, they had both been eyeing Gaston and me with longing, and I knew the need for companionship had come upon them this last month. Of course, they would probably choose not to allow themselves the comfort of having someone to touch and they might not have the wherewithal to overcome their objections. I knew all too well that what Gaston and I appeared to now have with such ease had been hard-won.

Tom was leaning on the railing and watching the wake, and the Bard and I were regarding one another under the bridge of Tom’s body. This seemed to amuse the Bard, and he eyed the younger man’s hard belly and narrow hips with subtle longing. I caught his eye and gave him a bemused shake of my head. The Bard shrugged and sighed and looked away. He knew what Tom was, just as I did; and we had discussed the matter on several occasions.

Beyond him, Dickey was slumped in the corner, watching either our wake or what could be seen of the receding whales. His expression was poignant and contemplative. Just as I regretted inviting Tom, I was even more rueful about pressing Dickey into this voyage. Most times he did not seem mired in despondency, and was generally cheerful; but I was coming to realize that it was often an excellent façade he had learned to show the world, and he was truly a melancholy individual.

Belfry sat a little farther over against the starboard rail, and smoked his pipe with his knees pulled to his chest. He had taken to the ship and the buccaneer way far better than I thought he would, though he still possessed a number of underlying notions concerning the separation of crew and officers and the like. These views were not disabused on this voyage, as due to a number of circumstances there were two distinct groups of men aboard: the men, who had little to do but wait and amuse themselves, and those involved in sailing the ship and their cronies, who happened to include all of us sitting upon the quarterdeck now.

Whenever the subject of sex reared itself by example or mention, Belfry still became either flustered or withdrawn and oft mentioned his bride. The Bard had quickly noted to me that Belfry could not know if she was to show in the winter. Belfry had sent her a letter to ask her to come, but he could not have received a reply as of yet, as she had probably only received his missive when we sailed on this voyage.

I wondered what he would do if she did not agree to sail to Jamaica.

He did not love her with passion or abandon. She was simply a fine thing he had acquired, and he spoke at length of her sensibilities and breeding, as if she were a hunter he had purchased.

It all reminded me of my conversation with Striker on the night before we sailed. If I had not myself witnessed many a man smitten to the depths of stupidity by love of a woman, I would wonder if such a thing existed between men and women at all. The whole prospect of marriage seemed so mired in tradition, family, children, and propriety that it was difficult to remember that it occasionally occurred for love; though in my experience it was more often broken for love or lust than joined in for the same. Perhaps sheep had a better go of that sort of thing, as they had less property and political entanglement to complicate it all.

Gaston was asleep. I regarded the head in my lap and smiled. Love was a far more precious thing when it was not expected.

I studied the sails, which were rather like strange square clouds rippling and glowing in the moonlight. The wind had died down a little, and dropped in temperature enough so that I was torn as to whether to sleep on deck or not. If it picked back up, it would be just cool enough that a thin blanket, which we did not possess, would have been nice for sleeping this high up on the quarterdeck. If the wind died completely it would be quite pleasant, but we would not be sailing toward our goal. I supposed I should always put the ship first.

The Bard was watching Tom intently, and it had nothing to do with lust. This was the stare of a master expecting his apprentice to notice a thing. Tom was lost in his own reverie and oblivious. Dickey was eyeing Tom as well, his face also filled with annoyance, as he had seen what I had: the lower sails were luffing a bit. The man at the whipstaff stuck his head up to check on us, looking for orders.

With a sigh of annoyance, the Bard told the man to do as he thought best to stay with what wind there was. Then he ignored Tom, who finally turned to take a notice of things. Instead, the Bard addressed me.

“There will be fog at dawn.”

This had occurred several times, and I was always thankful we were in open ocean when it did. Sailing through fog caused me a great deal of consternation, especially the one time it had been thick enough I could not see the bow from the stern. Of course, it always burned off quickly once the sun rose; but still, it was more dangerous than sailing on a moonless night.

I did not relish waking in its shroud, but I also did not wish to expend the effort to go and check the door to the cabin to see if we could enter yet. Gaston’s slumber seemed to be exerting a pull upon me, and I decided to join him. I moved to lie beside him, and curled about his back. I soon drifted to sleep, even over the sound of the Bard chiding Tom about never mastering sailing if he was not constantly aware of the wind.

I woke to a muffled grey morning. There was just enough light to make out the Bard kneeling next to us, tapping insistently on my shoulder. His eyes were searching the fog bank.

“What?” I whispered.

He waved me to silence. Gaston and I sat up and peered about with him.

I could not see the bow in the fog. I could hear men snoring and the omnipresent rushing of water past our hull and the creaks of a ship at sea. The fog echoed the sounds back upon us, so that it sounded as if there were ships all around.

I could not fathom what the Bard was in a tizzy about, but I knew what concerned my person; and I stood and relieved myself over the rail.

Gaston did likewise, and we continued to listen and look around us. The wind was very low and barely moved our sails. We were drifting through the fog more than sailing. I reckoned that would all change soon, as it was becoming lighter every second.

A sharp voice cried out the number of bells, in Spanish, somewhere off our port stern. The bells being rung cut through the fog as well as the voice had, and I glanced frantically about. Every man on our quarterdeck was now awake and staring in wonder toward the sound.

The Bard hissed and motioned the men who could see him to silence. Men scurried forward to carry the order.

“Striker,” the Bard hissed at me.

Gaston caught me before I could run. “Muskets. Your pants.”

I swore silently and fastened my breeches, as I ran down the stairs and around to the cabins. I stopped at Cudro’s door on the way. I threw it open and nudged his hamock until I received a sleepy grunt and a bleary glare. I whispered, “There is a fog. We are atop a Spaniard.” His eyes shot wide as my words sank home.

I took the last step to the aft cabin and dove into it. Striker and Pete were curled naked together in their hammock. We had torn the bunk out weeks ago to make more room. I was tempted to upend them, but that would not have kept them quiet. I grabbed Striker’s shoulder and whispered in his ear the same words I had given Cudro. He frowned at me, and I left him and opened the windows to peer out. Pete climbed out, and joined me. There was a huge dark shadow out in the grey.

We swore quietly in unison and dove for the muskets. Striker was already out the door at a run. Pete and I retrieved all of the weapons in the cabin. He donned his weapons and I mine, and then we picked up our matelots’. Belfry dove into the room.

“Striker needs his pants,” he hissed. This set Pete to quiet laughter.

We found Striker on the quarterdeck, whispering orders that were passed along as quietly as possible. He was still naked, and looked far more relieved to see his weapons than his breeches.

In short order, every musket we had was along the rails and hanging in the rigging. The Spaniard’s bulk was visible to all now, and I wondered that she had not seen us yet. She was huge; and I felt fear at her presence, much as I did at the whales, though of course she was far larger. She seemed to be hanging steadily off our port stern at a distance of maybe fourscore feet. Our positions had changed very little relative to one another since we heard her bells. She did seem to be coming alongside slowly, though, and had most probably been creeping up on us all night once the wind died. In another hour or so, she would have passed us completely in the fog, and we would have been none the wiser. But now the sun was rising, and with it the wind, and between the two, the fog hiding us from one another would be gone.

The Bard, Cudro and Striker huddled with their heads together on the quarterdeck. Pete stood with Gaston and me on the rail, with our muskets on the ship. We could not see movement on her yet, and she was beginning to pick up a little speed. The Bard had our sails trimmed so that we were, too; and so we quickly matched her, so that she stayed just a little behind us. If we fell back beside her and she saw us, we were dead, as she would be able to broadside us. That would, of course, be if her cannon were loaded and run out before we could get clear of her. Striker joined us.

“We’re going to take her,” he whispered, and went on to explain the plan of attack. Gaston and I had a specific function to perform. Then he was gone to spread the word.

Those of us who would board passed our loaded muskets off to men who would shoot as they could. Gaston signaled Belfry, and told him to collect all the wounded in one place as he was able.

“You should stay,” I told Gaston. “You are our only surgeon.”

Gaston shook his head. “If I stay, then you stay; and that would be foolish, as we will need every man we have to take this monster; and as you heard our captain, there is a thing which we can do easily. If we do not take her, the men will not need a surgeon, as they will need a priest.”

I could see the logic behind it; and I nodded and kissed him on the lips. He grabbed my head and pulled my mouth to his for a true kiss that left me warm.

“Be careful,” he admonished once we parted.

Bemused, I nodded again.

“I should return to England then,” I teased.

“See that you do. You would do well to leave now.”

“I still cannot swim.”

The Bard was at the whipstaff, and the Mayflower slid toward the behemoth until Cudro, Pete, and several others were in range for grapples. The first and last thing the Spanish sailors in the forecastle heard was the whine of the hooks being spun for throwing. Gaston and Julio killed both sailors with thrown knives. The hooks went over the galleon’s gunwale at the same time, and we began to swarm up them before the Mayflower was even made fast.

For those of us first on board, the galleon seemed a crewless ghost ship. There was still so much fog we could not see the length of her.

I gasped at the sight of the deck, as this vessel was every bit as large as the one we took before. Striker led eight of us in a run for the quarterdeck and the captain’s cabin, even as someone sounded the alarm and bellowed in Spanish for all hands on deck. Cudro was to lead another group of men to block the hatches leading up from below.

Gaston and I found the captain asleep, without his pants. My matelot, a scary sight for any well-bred Spaniard who had just been roused from slumber by an alarm, clapped his hand over the man’s mouth and put a pistol to his privates. Once we had his somewhat calm attention, I explained in my best Castilian that we were there to rob him, and if all cooperated we would leave them alive and well.

He gathered his wits about him, and when Gaston removed his hand he asked smugly, “That is all fine and well, but what do you English dogs intend to do with the four galleons sailing right behind us? Are there a fleet of you?”

I had no ready answer for that, as obviously it had not been considered. The Captain seemed amused at my momentary consternation; and I smiled at him and said the first thing that came to mind.

“We will have to see if they can sink one of their own ships, because we have a galleon now.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he kept his composure. We prepared to lead him out and he sputtered, “At least allow me to dress.”

In his nightshirt he was wearing at least as much cloth as either of us. We looked at one another, and Gaston shook his head. “Non.”

Once up top, the Spanish captain looked about him in wonder at the fog; and then he looked aft, where obviously no ships could be seen in the mist. He went as white as his shirt. I told Striker what the man had said, and he had me ask the captain a series of questions concerning this ship’s armaments, the number of men aboard, the names of the other ships following, and where the rest of the Galleon fleet was, as it was a great deal larger than five ships. The captain raised his chin proudly and refused to answer.

Pete swept the man’s feet out from under him and pinned him down, and Striker smashed one of the Captain’s fingers with the brass pommel of a pistol. I watched the other officers. One younger man sputtered with fear.

“Same questions,” I said pleasantly.

He glanced about him, and recoiled from the admonishing looks from his peers.

I slashed the one with the sternest expression above the knee with my rapier. The scared one started talking.

We were aboard the Madonna Hermosa and she mounted thirty-eight cannon and was manned by two hundred and thirty-four men.

She was due to pick up an additional complement of marines in Havana. She was being immediately followed by four other galleons, but they had let themselves separate in the fog to avoid accidents. So it was possible they were not as near as the captain had believed. The rest of ships of the Galleons were behind them. The most important thing from our perspective was that the Madonna was carrying the interesting combination of cocoa, silver, and emeralds. There had been no hesitation in his recitation of this to indicate he was holding much of anything back. I conferred with Gaston and Striker, and we all agreed that he appeared to be forthright with us.