by Noah Harris
“Now then,” Frenchie said, “who votes we ship out as soon as possible and check on this gold shipment? All those in favor, say aye!”
The doctor did not need to make a tally. The vast majority of the crew voted in thunderous affirmative. Thomas smiled. This gang of thieves was drawn to the whiff of treasure like a drunkard was drawn to the whiff of alcohol.
Or like he was drawn to the whiff of musk.
Thomas wasn’t sure whether he should continue smiling or not. He reached up and felt the dried cum on his face. It still carried the faint tang of Osier’s scent.
That night, once again, Thomas had trouble sleeping. He did not know if the vote had gone the right way, and he did not know if his desire for more of Osier’s tough treatment was clouding his judgement about the treasure map. He had finally washed himself, but even that did not clear his thoughts.
It was late. Only the night watch remained on deck. Knowing he would get little sleep, he had volunteered for it, trading his shift with another man and gaining a favor in return. The fellow would take over his shift scrubbing barnacles the next time they were becalmed, a task Thomas had always hated.
Thomas’s post was at the prow, and he stood just above the obscene figurehead. He and the wooden man looked out at the town together, where he could see lights shining in the windows. Occasionally the wind shifted and brought the strains of music and revelry to his ears.
Thomas smiled. Osier had been right about that, at least. It would be nice to have this as a safe haven, one where their kind could enjoy equal protection under the law. He found himself wishing “King Bartholomew” well and that his little pirate kingdom could survive the apathy and selfishness of the very people he was trying to unite.
He leaned against the railing and smiled. It was a grand thought, and as ridiculous as the Weasel’s aspirations to royalty were, the man was a visionary.
Thomas looked down at the figurehead, its gold appendage gleaming softly in the night as it reflected the distant light of the new kingdom.
“Perhaps you and I could make a home here, my friend,” he murmured.
A movement in the shadows down by the water caught his eye. It slipped away before he got a good look, but he could have sworn it was the stern of a rowboat next to the hull sliding silently out of sight.
He peered into the darkness and couldn’t spot it again. Then a soft step from behind made him spin around.
Just in time to see the knife lunging for his throat.
Thomas grabbed the attacker’s wrist and pulled, at the same time dodging the keen blade meant to slit his neck open. He slammed the man against the railing. All he saw was a shape swathed in black before the man landed a kick to his knee that made Thomas stagger.
The man spun him around so Thomas had his back to him, then gripped him around the neck with one arm while struggling to free his knife hand from Thomas’s desperate hold.
“Paddy is trying to kill me!” Thomas shouted.
His assailant kicked him in the back of the knee, making Thomas stumble a second time. Thomas turned the fall into a roll and flipped the man over his head.
Thomas whipped out his own knife and got to one knee just as the man regained his feet.
And Thomas saw he was wrong. It wasn’t Paddy. The man looked Spanish.
That was all he got to see before he had to duck to the right to avoid a thrust that would have taken out his eye. He swung his blade at the man’s wrist but the Spaniard was too quick for him and yanked it back. Thomas leapt to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knee, and got into a fighting pose. Out of the corner of his eye he saw more dark figures swarming onto the deck.
“Attack! We’re under attack!” Bill Husk’s voice came from the crow’s nest. He added emphasis to his statement by firing one of his special rifled wheellocks.
Thomas didn’t see if one of the dark figures fell. He knew one almost certainly had, and in any case, he had to deal with the man in front of him, who just at that moment lunged forward to slash at Thomas’s throat.
Thomas danced back out of the way. Shouts and screams sounded from across the deck. He did not have time to see what was going on.
The Spaniard moved forward, taking a series of rapid steps, his blade flashing to the left and right, looking for an opening. Thomas backpedaled, parrying or dodging each swipe.
Then the Spaniard lunged too far, and Thomas was able to jab him in the wrist. The man jerked back, and his moment of hesitation spelled his doom. Thomas leapt forward, hacked at his shoulder, making the Spaniard release his knife. Thomas’s blade was in his throat before the other man’s weapon hit the deck.
Thomas snatched up his cutlass, which had been leaning against the railing.
A group of shadowy figures had finished off the man at the helm. The sentry at the stern was nowhere to be seen. The intruders had circled the fore and aft hatches and were cutting down anyone who tried to come up.
Without thinking, Thomas charged right at the intruders at the fore hatch. It was a fool’s move, but he did not think on it. His only thought was to get in the fight.
So involved were they on the men below that they didn’t spot him until it was almost too late. One shouted, and three whirled around to face him. Thomas cut down the nearest before the Spaniard could raise his guard, sending him tumbling down the hatch and into the welcoming arms of Thomas’s shipmates.
The other two reacted quickly, too quickly for Thomas’s liking. They came in at him from opposite sides, one swinging high and the other low. Thomas leapt back, but they pursued, repeating the tactic.
This time, Thomas dove to the left, parrying the attack in that direction and avoiding the attack from the right. Before he could respond with an attack of his own, the man before him stepped back, and once again, he faced two widely-spaced men.
He moved back, desperate to find some sort of opening, some sort of advantage that would keep this fight from ending the way the rising dread in his heart saw all too clearly.
The Spaniards attacked simultaneously. Desperately, Thomas parried one blow and tried to dodge the other. He twisted his body away from the thrust, hissing with pain as the keen blade made a shallow cut along his side. Even worse, now he was off balance, too awkwardly placed to retreat or defend himself properly. The first man raised his cutlass high.
Thomas saw his fate. He’d stop this blow and not have time to react to the second man. He would be on the deck dying in the next second or two.
He brought up his cutlass and stopped the blow from the first man. The second dove in. Thomas tried to parry, knowing he would be too late.
The crack of a gunshot from above. The Spaniard diving for him stopped short. He looked at Thomas wide-eyed, as if in surprise. A line of blood trickled down his forehead, clearly visible in the pale moonlight.
The man slumped the ground.
Thomas made a vicious sideswipe against his remaining opponent that the Spaniard barely managed to parry. Another blow, and another. The Spaniard retreated, moving fast to get out of reach. Thomas followed, wary of a trap. Then his opponent stumbled over a body, a body of one of Thomas’s own shipmates, perhaps killed by this very man.
The nimble Spaniard stumbled but did not fall. It was enough. Thomas batted the man’s sword aside and gutted him.
By the time he turned to the others, the fight had shifted. A few blasts from some muskets below had taken out several of the Spaniards, and Captain Seawolf leapt onto the deck with a roar.
He had changed. If it were not for the heavy red coat he always wore, Thomas would not have recognized him. His face had taken on the hairy, angular features of a wolf, and instead of a cutlass and pistol he only had long claws for weapons.
Those claws did terrible work. Left and right paw slashed out at the same time, ripping a pair of Spaniards to shreds. As the captain descended on another of the attackers, a huge bearlike figure squeezed out of the hatch.
Osier.
Thomas turned away. He did n
ot want to see what that man could turn into.
Instead he spotted a grapnel and knotted rope against the railing nearby. So that was how they got on board! He was amazed they could have placed it and clambered up so quietly. Thomas sprinted to it just in time to see a Spaniard scrambling down the rope, eager to make his escape from the monsters that had suddenly appeared on deck. Thomas grinned. Most men didn’t even suspect lycanthropes truly existed, let alone get accustomed to sailing with them. Another Spaniard stood in the boat, anxiously gripping an oar and urging his friend to make haste.
Without a thought, Thomas flung his sword at the man climbing down. It hit him in the forehead, opening a great gash, and the man fell like a sack of oats into the water.
Thomas looked around for something to throw at the second man and spied a barrel not two steps away. He grabbed it. It was half full of water, light enough to lift but heavy enough to kill from this height.
Raising it over his head, he ran to the railing, only to get nearly blinded by the flare of a muzzle down below. The shot missed his head by an inch and instead punched a hole in the barrel. Thomas threw it down with all his might, the barrel spinning, a stream of water arcing out of it.
It hit the Spaniard full in the face with a sickening crack. The fellow toppled backwards to join his friend in the water. Trying to blink away the afterimage of the muzzle flare, Thomas peered at the water. Neither of them rose back to the surface.
Thomas turned back to the fight, his heart in his throat. He had no weapon.
It didn’t matter. All the attackers were dead. The captain and Osier howled and beat their chests. Thomas looked away, the musk coming off both of them making him swoon.
Then the scent subsided. When Thomas looked again, they had returned to something approaching human. They stalked through the dead, examining the bodies.
“Spaniards, every one of them,” Captain Seawolf said, giving the corpse at his feet a contemptuous kick. “The Guerrero, it must be.”
“But why?” Hiro asked, cleaning off his Japanese sword with the shirt of one of the men he had killed.
“I suspect they think we have whatever it was the Conqueror was trying to steal. Our lads were the only ones to survive the tavern fight, after all,” the captain replied.
“How would we get anything from the men killed at the Hope and Anchor?” Osier asked. “We were too busy fighting and running.”
“That’s true,” Jeff Archer said, reloading a pistol. “It’s a bloody miracle we got out at all. We had no time to rifle through pockets.”
“No, I suppose not. The Spaniards must have been mistaken,” Captain Seawolf said. He studied them for a moment in silence, then turned to the crew. “This changes nothing. We’ll post a double guard for the rest of the night and deal with the Guerrero on the morrow. We haven’t signed onto this blasted kingdom idea, and we have right to vengeance in any case. We lost four crew members tonight. We’ll sink the Guerrero, and then set sail for the south!”
Thomas went back to his post at the prow of the ship, this time with a musket, and studied the darkness. He did not see any more rowboats out there in the water. Nor was there any reaction from the other ships, some of which were anchored close by. Surely, they must have heard the fight, but they did not offer assistance or even investigate.
Thomas snorted. So much for King Bartholomew’s declaration of unity! He wondered if anything would change if they actually signed onto his scheme. He’d like to think so, but this was the second time in three days he’d been attacked by fellow pirates. It was hard not to feel cynical.
Bill Husk approached him, one of his rifled muskets sloped over his shoulder.
“Once again, your marksmanship has saved me, my friend,” Thomas said. “I thank you.”
“Shipmates must look out for one another.”
“Well, you certainly looked out for me.”
“What about your other shipmates?” the marksman asked.
“What do you mean?”
Bill Husk lowered his voice so no one nearby would hear. “When you were attacked, you cried out, ‘Paddy is trying to kill me!’”
“No, you were mistaken. I cried out, ‘Paddy, they’re trying to kill me.’ I thought he was on deck with us.”
“I do not think so. I heard you quite clearly. Do you have a problem with Paddy?”
“No. No, none at all.”
“He’s Osier’s man, and you’re Osier’s man, in another way.”
Thomas tried to make up something but found himself getting flustered. “It is nothing. There’s no problem between us.”
Bill Husk put a hand on his shoulder. “I have saved your life twice now, and I have done so because you are the most upright man in this crew. I will do it a third time, if need be. I just need to know who to aim at.”
With that he turned on his heel and sauntered away.
Maggie got the gun crews in order and all the cannons loaded and ready for giving the Guerrero a lesson in being good neighbors. The rest of the crew prepared their weapons and snatched some sleep before what was sure to be a tough battle.
Despite their preparations for a fight at the crack of dawn, there was no Spanish ship around to fight. The Guerrero had set sail in the night, and no one had seen where she had gone.
So, the navigator plotted a course of the south, sailing out of Cutlass Cove past the fort on the hill that now flew the flag of the Kingdom of Free Caribe. They spent the first couple of days heading south-southeast, to get well away from the shipping lanes and the shore of South America. There were too many ports along that coast, and they did not want to meet any ships until they reached the mouth of the River Amazon. They did not want to leave any sightings of their vessel to mark their passage.
They saw few ships and kept their distance. Osier kept purposely vague about their destination. He coupled with Thomas almost every night, leaving a crisscrossing of scratches on his shoulders from his claws. During the day, Paddy managed to get on work crews alongside him. The Irishman never repeated his threats, nor did he need to. Thomas got the impression Osier had sent Paddy to keep an eye on him and listen in on his conversations.
Despite this, Thomas could not have any hard feelings towards the werebear. The sex was drugging him. On some level, he knew he was getting hooked to the man’s forceful couplings, besotted by the lycanthrope’s supernatural scent. He spent less time with other crewmembers. Even Radbert saw less of him.
The weather was decent enough for the first week out, but the prevailing currents and winds in this part of the western Atlantic were to the northwest, directly opposite their route. Much of the time they had to tack and their progress was not as fast as they would have liked. Still, the wind kept fair and except for a few rough days of hard rain, they had no trouble. The ship had been fully refitted and well-provisioned. For the first week, the crew even enjoyed a stock of fresh fruit loaded on board at the last minute. After that, it was back to hard tack, salted meat, and rum.
On fair days, Thomas finally got to practice his marksmanship. His accuracy was not promising. For some reason, he could cut and thrust with a cutlass like few other men, but the simple act of aiming a pistol rarely led to the ball hitting the target. Gonzalo and Bill Husk were patient teachers, and they kept him at it.
One day, he was firing at a target painted on an old barrel, cursing as his fifth attempt to put a ball inside a painted circle the size of a man’ head ended in failure once again. He tried to console himself that this time, he had at least hit the barrel. The other sailors gave him a wide birth. He had heard more than one badly-suppressed chuckle.
Grumbling, Thomas poured a bit of powder down the barrel and then used the small ramrod to jam some paper for wadding. Next came the lead ball that never seemed to go where he wanted it to go. Replacing the ramrod in its groove under the barrel, he used his powder horn to pour a little gunpowder in the pan, cocked the lock, aimed, and fired.
There was a puff of smoke and a loud report.
After a moment, the smoke cleared. There were no new holes in the barrel.
“Damn it!”
A low chuckle sounded behind him. Thomas whirled around angrily.
“I’m not in the mood for—oh, sorry, sir.”
Captain Seawolf stood behind him.
“I told you not to call me ‘sir,’” the captain said in good humor, then his brow furrowed. “Nor should you use such a mode of address on your werebear friend.”
Thomas shrugged. “He likes it.”
“I have no doubt that he does, and I’m sure that he gives you something you like. Just don’t forget that he’s not the only lycanthrope on board who can give you pleasure.”
Thomas caught a faint whiff of musk. Their eyes met. Thomas licked his lips, feeling flush, and turned away. He didn’t think Osier would like it if he bedded with the captain, or indeed any other lycanthrope.
“How’s that wound that Spaniard gave you?” the Captain asked. A breeze blew his musk away, and Thomas got a hold of himself.
“Healing into a scar worth bragging about, thanks to Doctor Hartencourt’s ministrations.”
“Good. He tells me Hiro and Seamus are almost recovered, as well. I suspect we’ll need all hands for a fight soon enough.”
“Yes, I need to get better with this thing,” Thomas said, looking at the pistol ruefully.
“Keep at it. A pity you didn’t have time to buy a blunderbuss when we were still in port.”
“How did you know I wanted one?”
“Gonzalo told me. There’s nothing that happens on this ship that I don’t learn about sooner or later.” The captain gave Thomas a significant look. The sailor suspected his captain wanted him to say something, but instead, Thomas started reloading his pistol yet again.
Captain Seawolf pulled out his four-barreled pistol. “Perhaps you need one of these, if you can find one.”
“I’ve never seen the like.”
“There’s a gunsmith in London who makes them, and a pretty penny they cost, too. You can preload each of the four barrels and prime each of the four pans. Makes for much faster shooting. I’d shoot it off to demonstrate, but it takes a while to reload. Still, it’s worth it. Having four shots in a battle can come in handy, as you might imagine.”