Treasure

by W. A. Hoffman

  I did, sinking into the netting with great relief that I could once again lie still for a time. I studied the patterns in the weave of the hammock above me, and told the Gods a great many things I would see before sleep claimed me once more.

  I woke to Pete and Gaston wrestling a small mattress into position. They were attempting to be quiet and cautious, and I surmised sluggishly that they were concerned with waking me. A ludicrous gesture, in that the deck and bulkhead wall reverberated with the sound of men, and I had surely been wakened by the distant roar of it entering the room in a great wave when they opened the door. I touched Gaston’s arm, and he regarded me with surprise and then relief. Pete grinned, and they shoved the unwieldy bag into place with less decorum.

  “How are you?” Gaston asked as he knelt beside me. He appeared strained, and his eyes darted to the door as Pete opened it to leave us.

  “Well enough,” I said. “What shall we do?”

  Gaston took a deep breath and nodded to himself. “What we must.”

  I chuckled, and he helped me to stand, and together we emerged from the cabin into the din and press of the deck. My shoulder soon ached as the laudanum ebbed and we were jostled about. I said nothing of it, and kept my good hand on Gaston as we were greeted by all we knew.

  “So ’ow the devil did that ’appen?” one of the Bard’s sailors asked and pointed at my shoulder.

  Gaston stiffened, and I was thankful the deck was relatively dim and the man could not see me blanch.

  “His damn drunk wife shot him,” Striker said with a laugh from above us on the quarterdeck.

  This brought a round of laughter, and I was clapped on my shoulder so hard I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out, as all made remark of how they had heard my wife was quite the drunkard and she had burned her house.

  “But why’d she shoot ya?” the same sailor asked when some of the noise had died down. “She find out ya ’ave a matelot?”

  “She knew that!” Striker yelled. “She found ’em fucking.”

  This brought even more laughter, as all seemed to take it for the joke it was. I squeezed Gaston’s shoulder before the glare he was aiming at the floor could be directed at anyone – such as Striker. Thankfully, none seemed willing to ask more, and then someone told a tale of having a woman stumble upon his trysting, and we were able to slip to the quarterdeck where we were met by a ruefully shrugging Striker.

  “You have a better tale?” he asked.

  “Nay,” I sighed, as we stepped around him and Gaston shouldered us to the rail. “Yours is far better than the truth; and I am in no condition to lie cleverly,” I whispered as we passed.

  “I thought that, which is why Pete and I decided we best do it for you,” Striker said with a grin and handed Gaston a bottle.

  My matelot had calmed, and he took a small swig – though he held it long enough to convince anyone further from him than I that he drank far more.

  I leaned on the railing and gazed across the canoe- and longboat-crowded water to the shore. It was now truly dusk; and all was awash in beautiful light tinged gold and pink and purple. It hid the ugliness, and made what I could see of Port Royal appear very inviting. I snorted at such falsity.

  Gaston gently tapped my good shoulder, and I turned to find Farley standing with us. He greeted me warmly, and I returned it in kind, as I had come to admire his dedication to his craft when we sailed home from Porto Bello. He was a good man and fine physician, even if he had been trained in foolishness as Gaston said.

  After we had exchanged our initial pleasantries, Farley found my matelot regarding him with consternation and his high pale forehead clenched into a frown. “What is it… my Lord?”

  “Do not. I have no title among the Brethren. But thank you.” He smiled. “I wish to be physician on this voyage, but I do not wish for you to go without. I do not need the money the post pays.”

  Farley frowned anew at that. “I… I am quite pleased you are sailing, and as you are the superior physician, you should, of course…”

  Gaston spoke quickly; and just as quickly stopped. “I am concerned that I will suffer my madness and…”

  “Oh,” Farley nodded. “So… If you should not be able to…”

  “Fulfill my duties, oui, aye,” Gaston said with a nod. “It would be best for all if you are here. But, as I said, I would not have you deprived of the money that a man of your experience should rightly earn.”

  Farley nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, I appreciate the sentiment, truly. I have a wife, now, and… What do you suggest?”

  “So do I,” Gaston said dully with a frown that transmuted to bemusement. He shook his head and met Farley’s gaze again. “I will simply give you the money I would earn as surgeon.”

  “That hardly seems…” Farley began to say, and then he looked to shore and nodded to himself. “I will accept your generous offer. And feel that I am doubly blessed in that I will be paid to learn at your side again.”

  Gaston smiled with relief. “Thank you.”

  I stood there in my drug-induced limbo, unsure whether I felt relieved or dismayed that I did not seem to be needed this eve: Striker was lying for me; my matelot was speaking for himself; what good was I?

  “When was he shot?” Farley was asking.

  My matelot was frowning. I was not sure if it was in regard to Farley’s question, or because I was becoming oddly shorter. The next I knew, they had their arms about me and I was being half-carried, half-dragged back to the cabin and placed upon our new mattress, which smelled pleasantly of lavender. They soon had my tunic off and were examining my wound. Farley’s face held little beyond curiosity, but he did not meet my gaze. Gaston appeared concerned.

  I grabbed my matelot’s arm. “What?”

  “You fever,” he said quietly. “The wound is inflamed. I must drain it.”

  Fear gripped me, despite the drug and – what I now guessed to be the other culprit of my feeling of peace – a fever. From a medical perspective, putrefied wounds killed more men than blades or balls ever did. Prior to seeing Gaston treat wounds, I had viewed the fevered death of a rotting wound as the natural end result of dueling: sometimes it simply took a man days or weeks to die; sometimes he lost a limb. But now that I had seen firsthand the how and why of it as a physician sees it – that the wound becoming inflamed was not always necessary – I realized I did not wish to pass in that manner, and it seemed horribly unfair that I should survive the ball only to be felled by a fever.

  “It is not so bad,” Gaston said quickly in French, his eyes upon my face and his brow creased with a different form of concern.

  I sighed. I supposed it was not. He was not crying or appearing desperate.

  “You need to rest, though,” he said calmly. “I do not want you to move from this bed.”

  “I do not wish to die,” I said, knowing it a stupid thing to say.

  He smiled grimly. “I will not allow it.”

  Gaston gave me another dose of the drug, and I passed into peaceful oblivion as he began cutting the stitches.

  I woke to the lovely feeling of fingers massaging my scalp. My shoulder did not ache so very much. The room reverberated with Pete’s and Cudro’s familiar snoring. Pleasant golden light streamed through the open windows. I lay between my matelot’s legs: my head upon his inner thigh. He was staring off across the cabin, seemingly lost in thought. The deck was slanted up away from me. I could feel the ship roll through waves, and almost envision their direction and that of the wind; but, the knowledge was elusive. And it sparked a deeper concern: we were under sail.

  This knowledge bit sharply, and I started so that the fingers in my hair stopped and emerald eyes gazed down into mine.

  “What day?” I hissed.

  He smiled. “Only the next.”

  My thoughts were now quite clear; and regrettably, so was the pain in my shoulder. We were sailing west to Cow Island, thus the golden light was the sunset.

  “Elections?” I asked.r />
  He nodded. “I am surgeon.”

  The strange mix of dismay and relief that I was not needed returned.

  “That is wonderful,” I said.

  He was frowning at me. I sighed. Could I truly hide nothing from him?

  “You do not need me,” I said. “And I am pleased, but dismayed.”

  His hands closed around my throat, and I saw past the apparent calm of his eyes and into the turmoil of his soul.

  “How am I?” I asked.

  He closed his eyes and sighed, but a true smile played about his lips. “You will live,” he whispered when he met my gaze again.

  “And you are pleased, yet dismayed…” I teased.

  He growled, and gently shoved my head off his leg so he could quickly maneuver himself to lie beside me with his head upon his arm. He leaned down to kiss my lips.

  “The wound is draining nicely,” he said with a grin. “The inflammation is not deep within the muscle. I have been sitting here for hours thanking the Gods that They blessed you with a constitution that makes your other attributes nonexistent in comparison. And this morning, I stood on the deck before the men and thought how I must become surgeon… because of you.” He looked away and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And… Then…” His smile returned as he gazed upon me again. “I thought how I must do it for me. It is my rightful place: my knowledge is tenfold Farley’s.”

  My heart ached to rival my shoulder. “I am very proud.”

  “I need you,” he whispered. “But not to carry me, now. You make me stronger than that.”

  I caressed his cheek with my knuckles, and ran my thumb across his lips, and he lowered his head to claim my mouth.

  I was proud of him. And I felt loved beyond all measure. But… some little thought clawed about in my belly.

  Thankfully, Gaston became distracted by dosing me with a little laudanum, tending to my wound, and locating a pineapple for us to eat.

  As I mouthed the succulent fruit, and the drug began to tug at my thoughts, pulling them deeper, or perhaps farther from the cave, I envisioned my Horse. It stood trembling beside the road. I did not attempt to soothe it, nor did I grip the reins, though I had the peculiar feeling the animal might bolt at any moment. Instead, I held still and listened and looked about. At last I spied the cause of its consternation: Gaston’s Horse pulling the cart down the road without me.

  Gaston was lying beside me again, eyeing me with concern.

  “I am afraid you will leave me now that you do not need me as you did before,” I said softly. “It is not a rational thing. It is my Horse.”

  He had been prepared to protest, but at my last words he nodded solemnly. “What might I do to reassure it?”

  “Do not leave,” I said with mild amusement.

  “How frightened...” he began to ask, and then he looked away and took a quick breath as if realizing where we were. He moved closer, partially covering my left side, so that our noses touched. “We are not well,” he breathed, as if it were a thing the world could not be allowed to hear. “We must not forget that.”

  I envisioned his Horse standing nose to nose with mine, beside the road: the level road of the sea, where we need not fear the cart rolling away or anyone strewing gravel beneath us. I wished to frolic in the field for a time, but we could not. He was chained to the road, and not to me: he was the ship’s surgeon. That annoyed my Horse more than frightened it.

  “You have chained yourself to something other than me and our cart,” I said thoughtfully as I rolled this new concept about in my head, examining the rough edges and not seeing how it could fit anywhere I might wish to place it. I wanted to throw it away.

  “Will…” he began to protest.

  I shook my head and awarded him a reassuring smile. “Non, it is as it should be. It is your profession… And your father. And your future. And as we have discussed, there are things in our lives you should put before me now. It is good: very good. I am merely… It is new.” I remembered not to shrug.

  His brow furrowed, and he lowered his head until our foreheads touched. In the gentle swells of the laudanum, I imagined he was attempting to find another way to share my thoughts. I chuckled. He pulled back and frowned at me.

  “I wish you could see into my mind,” I said.

  The frown fled as he regarded our position, and he smirked. “I wish I could shove my head inside of yours and live there: all of me.”

  I shook my head. “I do not think you should.”

  “Why?” he asked seriously.

  “I do not feel it is a fine place, or that any other should be forced to dwell here.”

  “It is better than my mind,” he said. “And there would not be this wall between us.” He thumped his chest lightly.

  I caressed his arm, feeling the hair upon his skin and the muscle beneath it. “I like these walls. Not that they keep us apart, but that they give us something to climb.” I envisioned climbing atop him; and as my cock stirred despite the laudanum, I chuckled at my wounded body rather than curse it.

  He was shaking his head at me, but a smile played about his lips. “You are drugged.”

  “I am happy and loved,” I sighed.

  He became quite somber again. “You are more important than…”

  I put a finger to his lips. “I know.”

  And I did. Yet, even though I no longer felt the tingling of fear as I had before, I knew the drug was hiding it, just as it was masking the pain of my still-aching shoulder. I needed to heal, and learn to accept this new arrangement of our lives. I was sure Cow Island would give us time to do both, as long as we stayed aboard the ship.

  And so I slept a great deal, and dreamed of frolicking centaurs, whilst we beat our way east up the ever-westward rushing winds of the Northern Sea. Gaston spent most of my forays into consciousness at my side; and we spoke of things that held little import in the world of men, and much interest for playful mythical beings: such as, upon watching Pete sleep for hours, we questioned why cats are indolent creatures – to which we eventually bowed to Pete’s perception of the matter: that cats lie about all day in order to conserve their strength, so that they might perform heroic deeds.

  At that, Gaston called me his lap cat and asked what feats I planned to perform, and rubbed my belly and massaged me quite deliciously. At some point in the happy fog I drifted in, the clouds parted enough for me to see that my matelot wished to be stroked; and so, when next we were alone save for snoring men, I rolled onto my good shoulder and presented him my backside – with a helpful wiggle of it, in case he might mistake my intention.

  He did not move for a time, exhibiting his usual stillness before a protest; and then he was upon me, pushing my breeches down and caressing my buttocks such that I squirmed and sighed. He produced the pot of his favorite salve, and the air became redolent with almonds and musk. My manhood stirred and rose slowly: apparently weighing whether the promised acute, yet ephemeral, pleasure of coupling outweighed the subdued, but constant, bliss of the laudanum. In the end, it made no distinct choice, and merely ached happily for a time as my man filled me and rocked us with the waves until he washed ashore at the Gates of Heaven, while I watched him from a distance and smiled lovingly.

  Though my matelot was concerned that I did not join him in the culmination of the activity, he was greatly relieved that I wished to receive him; and coupling became part of our daily regimen – or rather my part in it, as I was, of course, not joining Gaston is his morning calisthenics.

  And so our voyage to Cow Island passed, until at last the Bard slipped us behind the reef of the western bay in the last week of the year. We anchored with the other vessels of Morgan’s fleet, including the Oxford. I was feeling well enough to venture onto deck; and, as I had not seen her before, I was quite surprised to see the warship towering over the Brethren’s brigs and sloops. With her thirty-four guns on two decks, she was the largest craft I had seen in the West Indies save the galleons. I could well see why she emboldened Morgan
so.

  There was another ship I did not recognize next to her: a frigate, and French by her colors, the Cour Volant. Cudro and Gaston did not recognize her, either. Thus when Bradley rowed over to greet us, Striker’s first questions were of this new vessel.

  “You’ll like it none,” Bradley sighed and pushed his hat aside to scratch his head before casting an annoyed glance toward Gaston and me.

  “Then you best tell me of it before my men scatter,” Striker said.

  This elicited a deep frown from the older captain, but then Bradley shrugged and spoke as if he were angry at the events in question and not Striker. “She’s French and from Tortuga. Her captain’s called La Vivon. Any here know him?” He glanced about, and Cudro frowned in thought and Gaston shrugged.

  “I’ve heard of him; don’t know him, though,” our Dutchman said.

  “Well,” Bradley sighed, “They took an English merchant ship… for victuals.” Bradley cursed with another shrug. “Nothing else, and they left a note payable on account in Cayonne or Port Royal. But Captain Collier.” He gestured with his hat at the Oxford. “Saw it as piracy and he captured the Cour Volant for preying on an English vessel.”

  Striker spat, “God-damned navy bastards! I knew they would be nothing but trouble. What is Morgan doing?”

  Bradley took a deep breath and let it out slowly while meeting Striker’s gaze. “He wants the ship.”

  “Will they join us?” Striker asked.

  Bradley sighed again. “He doesn’t care.”

  Striker swore profusely, and there was much muttering among the men who had heard.

  Bradley stepped close to Striker and spoke so that only those nearest heard. “Think, man, if you do not sail with us now, do not think you will be welcome next season. Come and speak with Morgan, but do it with a civil tongue.”

  Striker stepped back from him and looked about.

  When his troubled gaze met mine, I gave him a helpless gesture with my good hand in lieu of shrugging. “You might as well hear him out.”

  “YaBestNa’ TakeMeThen,” Pete told his matelot with a glare at Bradley. “Take Cudro.”