Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (84 page)

He nodded.

“Is there any amongst us who knows more of gems than I?”

“I will ask about,” he said, and went to do so.

While he was at that, a sailor in the rigging shouted a sighting.

Striker was soon on the quarterdeck again. I could barely see a speck on the horizon.

“She’s alone,” he said, “or appears to be, unless she’s traveling with another vessel well to windward. And she’s northbound and reaching. I can’t make her colors. Let us get a bit closer.”

We were close-hauled to starboard again, and the mystery ship was off our starboard bow. I could not turn into the wind to bring us closer, and a tack would take us the other way. I supposed I could turn to parallel her course so that we were also reaching northbound, but I was hesitant.

“Let us wake the Bard,” I suggested.

Striker regarded me quizzically, and then apparently realized I was not normally at the helm.

“What a good idea.” He bounded down the stairs to knock on the Bard’s cabin door.

The Bard took one look at the situation through sleep-bleary eyes, and told me to turn and parallel her course. Then he started yelling for a new trim of the sails. Once this was accomplished and we were running sideways to the wind to match the other ship’s speed, he began to angle us slowly toward her by degrees. It would be a while before we closed, but we would reach her by evening, unless she ran from us. The only way she could gain speed to do so would be to turn with the wind, and that would just bring her closer. The Bard said a good man at the helm could escape us, though.

The other ship was a two-masted brigantine with a square-rigged foremast and a fore-and-aft-rigged main. She was low and fast-looking, with the longer lines of the North Wind or the Josephine, with no forecastle to speak of and a low aft-castle, probably comprising only a quarterdeck above cabins set partially below the main deck. The Bard said she had a shallow draft; but she seemed to be holding course quite steadily – without listing to leeward, even with a strong wind on her beam – and from that, he surmised she probably had a goodly keel, much as the North Wind had possessed. Striker estimated her at one hundred and fifty tons. This was meaningless to me until Striker said the Mayflower was a two hundred ton vessel and the North Wind had been around a hundred tons.

By the time we were close enough to see her flying English colors, all of our men were on deck and watching. There was a little disappointment in this, as a lone ship would have been easy prey.

However, her being one of ours was cause for celebration as well. No one recognized her as sailing from Port Royal, though, and none of the French who knew ships, which Gaston did not, knew her from Tortuga.

We came on to her anyway, to hail and give greeting, and at least find out who she was. To insure there was no confusion, Striker ordered the Union Jack added to our plain Jolie Rouge on the mastheads.

Soon we noted that she was not slowing to meet us, and she had a number of men aloft. The Bard said she would run and prepared accordingly. The rest of us speculated as to why she would do such a thing, and threw the rusty cannon overboard to lighten us for the chase.

The Bard was ready; and when the brig turned slightly toward us to run on a broad reach, he did the unthinkable and tacked back to starboard, so that we were running toward her distant wake. The brig’s captain saw his chance, or so he thought, and he turned full toward our old course to run with the wind. The Bard laughed and brought us around to starboard to do the same, so that for a while we had our stern to her. Then we were running with her and a bit ahead, and closing the angle nicely.

“I would suggest relieving ourselves of any other cannon we are not particularly fond of, whether they be rusty or not,” the Bard called to Striker.

Our captain shrugged. “That will leave us well down.”

“This will not be a battle of cannon,” the Bard scoffed.

The men began to heave the remainder of our cannon overboard. I laughed and commented to Gaston, “I hope the brig is watching, so that she can witness how friendly we are, to throw our cannon over just to greet her.”

He found this amusing.

The brig did not take our reduction in armaments as a sign of peace, and ran scared yet again. She turned away from us on a broad reach, so that she still had the wind; and she widened the distance between us.

Once again the Bard was amused and ready. We took the wind on the beam and cut across her wake, so that now we were fully windward of her, even though the distance between the ships was growing. We even overshot her by a bit. Then our Master of Sail turned us to run with the wind down upon her. The brig could lay about all she wanted and not escape us. All she could hope to do was outrun us. Apparently she had the ability to do so, as she proved to be faster than the Mayflower. Then we realized all we could hope to do was not lose her, until something changed to allow us to get within range of our muskets at least.

Striker took a reading off the afternoon sun, and those of us on the quarterdeck looked at the chart. We were on a latitude with the Caymans, and heading due west into them and a setting sun. Striker and the Bard conferred. We could not blunder through a small chain of islands at full sail in the dark. Neither could the brig. She would either slow and fight, or she would change course to swing north around them. If she continued to run, and we lost her in the dark, we could presumably find her in the morning – unless she did something truly drastic in the night, such as drop anchor and let us sail by. The Bard did not think her master that clever, as he had been quite predictable so far.

“In the name of contrariness,” I said, “we could let her go and sail on with what we have, a bird in hand and all.”

Several sets of eyes glared at me.

“There is a principle at stake here,” Striker stated, quite emphatically.

“I want that ship,” The Bard said with equal conviction. “The bastard at her helm cannot sail her, and she deserves better.”

“And she could be transporting manure,” I said with amusement.

They shrugged in unison.

I saw no reason to argue. We were not terribly low on provisions, and we did want another ship. The men were incredibly enthusiastic about the chase, as the taking of the galleon had been a bit anticlimactic for them. I was weary, and found my matelot on the quarterdeck, and we napped in companionable silence.

Gaston gently shook me awake at dusk. I looked about and saw the brig between us and the setting sun.

“She decided to fight,” Gaston said. “She is flying Spanish colors now.”

“Truly?”

In my limited understanding of naval engagements, once two ships decide to fight, they endeavor to outmaneuver one another in order to best bring their primary armament, their cannon, to bear. Being buccaneers, and no longer having cannon, this would not be a concern.

We had a good seventy musket, and they could be aimed in any direction with great alacrity. The Bard only needed to maneuver to keep us away from the brig’s guns for a single run at her. And we were still to windward.

The brig’s captain was apparently convinced we would run alongside her for a broadside. Of course, like a true buccaneer, the Bard set us directly to the brig’s stern. I readied weapons; but Gaston and I were as far from the impending action as we could be, and Cudro had an abundance of men champing at the bit to board.

“There will be wounded, and I will need your help,” Gaston said.

I looked to the weapon-wielding mob at the bow wistfully. I had not realized being the matelot of a surgeon might entail being a surgeon’s assistant. I was not afraid of rent flesh, as long as it was not my own; it was the oft-screaming men who bore it that would disturb me.

Our forecastle was well over the brigantine’s quarterdeck, and our men cleared most of the resistance with musket fire well in advance of boarding. Then they jumped down to swarm over the hapless prey.

The brig had not been manned with marines, and she had maybe thirty men. She was ours within minutes. Very few of the Spaniards lived, and we did not lose a man though we had four wounded, only one of which was critical.

Two of the wounded had glass in their feet, a thing I sympathized with greatly. The other man had a cutlass slash to his arm. As even more proof that we were very much in the eye of the Fates of late, the worst wound had been delivered to Dickey, who had insisted on boarding. Pete carried him back to us. We were already tending the arm gash. Gaston took one look at the hole in Dickey’s chest, and told me to bind the arm wound tightly until he could return to it. We got the other men up along the rail, and someone found a bottle of rum for them on the brig. They drank and chatted through pain-gritted teeth. We labored to save Dickey’s life.

The shot had entered Dickey’s chest and lodged in his ribs. Dickey was thankfully unconscious when Pete arrived with him. Gaston dug the lead ball out easily enough by bending two of the back ribs, but then he grew concerned about the lung. Blood frothed every time Dickey breathed, and it trickled out of him in a steady stream between those breaths. Gaston broke two of Dickey’s front ribs, and I held them aside while my matelot explored the wound from the new angle. He pronounced the lung grazed and probably bruised. There was little to be done, but it might not be fatal. Gaston pushed the ribs back into place and sewed the holes closed.

We covered him with a blanket, and left Tom to hold his hand, pray, and watch his breathing for any sign of change. Gaston took the rum bottle from the other three wounded men and finished it off, much to their chagrin. Then we patched them up. They had all witnessed the work on Dickey, and they were respectful and cooperative patients, other than complaining about the rum.

When we finished, Gaston checked on Dickey, and I sat on the steps to the quarterdeck. Striker saw me there, and strode up with a wide grin that quickly disappeared when he saw our wounded friend.

“How is he?”

I shrugged. “He is not bleeding as he was before. Whether he will live is anyone’s wager.”

“Cudro said he made a good account of himself, until a man hiding down a hatch shot him.”

“That is usually the way of such things. Wounds are rarely well-received or expected. How is the brig?”

“She’s a beauty. Not a Barbados sloop, but a fine craft nonetheless.

The Bard is quite pleased.”

“And was she loaded with manure?”

“Nay, wool, cotton, and leather. And salted mutton.” Striker shook his head and grimaced.

“Who the Devil has sheep in the tropics?”

Their records list several Terra Firma ports. She was heading to Havana to sell her goods on an unofficial basis.”

“So more Spanish smugglers?”

“Aye.”

“So now what, Captain? I know you want the ship, but is she not a prize now owned by all?”

“Now there will be a truly inspired division of the booty.” Striker grinned. “I will need you and your matelot’s assistance in the matter.”

I was not alarmed, as I was curious and thought the Gods seemed to be smiling upon us.

VI I: Tortuga - August, 1667

Wherein We Venture to Tortuga

The brigantine was named Maria. Cudro, as was his duty as quartermaster, took command of her to sail to Tortuga. The Bard sent his best man to pilot her; and he would have sent Tom as well, but the young man refused to leave Dickey’s side. The rest of the buccaneers were left to decide for themselves upon which ship they chose to sail to Tortuga. As Gaston needed to stay with Dickey, we would remain on the Mayflower. Unfortunately, this left us in a bit of a predicament, as the five people with the most interest in the brig, namely Striker, Pete, the Bard, Gaston and myself, were not on her. Cudro and his men, and Hastings and his cronies, were.

I stood on the quarterdeck and watched men transfer their gear with alarm. I noted my concerns to the Bard.

“Perhaps we should send Julio, Davey, Liam and Otter to protect our interests,” I said. “But in the possible event of Cudro or Hastings deciding to strike out on their own, I would not wish to lose good friends.”

“You truly trust Cudro so little?” The Bard asked.

“Aye, nay, I do not know. Hastings I do not trust. Cudro, I simply dislike.”

“Why?”

“He once used my matelot poorly; but they have since reached a state of truce, and Cudro vows he had reason for his ire.”

Striker joined us and I relayed my concerns to him. He regarded me as if I were daft.

“We will see them on Tortuga. The booty stays aboard this ship.”

I had not thought of that. In all the excitement of getting a new ship, I had forgotten the silver and emeralds. Then I recalled he had mentioned a plan of some sort.

“What is this plan you have?”

“We will go below and discuss it once they are sailing safely alongside,” Striker said.

“On a leash of greed, or at the very least, need,” I said.

We moved Dickey into the steerage cabin Cudro had occupied and placed him on the floor. Dickey lying flat upon a surface was in better keeping with his health and breathing, and certainly less painful with his mangled ribs, than bending him up in a hammock. Tom moved in with him.

Soon both vessels were on our original course, beating our way up to pass north of Jamaica and into the Windward Passage. Gaston and I retired to the aft cabin with bowls of mutton stew. Pete and Striker were already there. After leaving Belfry at the helm, the Bard joined us.

“Are we all in agreement as to wanting that brig?” Striker asked.

“I am curious,” I said. “What is the usual course of events upon capturing a prize? I know the Admiralty Court if we sail back to Port Royal. But what does that entail?”

The four of them frowned at me, and Striker shook his head. “Lord, Will, I keep thinking you have been amongst us far longer.”

“As do I, as I feel I have been upon the sea forever, yet it has only been a mere four interminable months.” I grinned.

“And not all of that has been at sea,” the Bard said. “We should not even count you a sailor.”