I lay there for a long time, alternately cursing and wondering at the Gods’ fine sense of irony.
Seventy-Nine
Wherein We Face Dreams and Fears
I woke to golden light from a nightmare involving Gaston’s bone saw, and surmised by how un-rested I felt that it was evening and not the following morning. My stomach roiled with hunger at the tantalizing smells of beef and pineapple, and I wondered if we had water about or if I must fetch some. Gaston slept like a babe in my arms, and I did not wish to disturb him by moving, but my cock was quite insistent that it be drained in a manner that did not require his love or person. I climbed carefully down from the upper hammock – so as not to wake him, and because I was unfamiliar with the hand and toe holds – and relieved myself through the open window; my stream arcing and glittering in salute to the setting sun.
Reluctant to emerge from the cave of pleasant and plebian thoughts of the body, I looked down at Striker and found myself dumped unceremoniously into the light. He was awake. Pete snored quietly beside him, but Striker lay still with his eyes open, gazing up at me. I dropped to kneel at his side, and quickly moved to lean over him, as he seemed desperate to follow me with his gaze, but he appeared to only wish to move his eyes. His apparent fear of movement minded me of floating upon the water: how, when unfamiliar with it, I ever felt the need to remain motionless lest I get dunked beneath the waves. Remembering the rolling, constant pain of my shoulder wound, I thought it likely he was afraid of being pulled beneath waves of a different sort.
“How are you?” I asked, once my head was directly over his so he only need look up.
“Hurts… everywhere,” he whispered, as if it were a curious thing and not a matter requiring immediate attention.
Despite corroborating my thoughts on his reason for stillness, he did not look as a man in pain often does. His eyes were wide open and not drooping, and his color was good. Still, I quickly prepared a small draught of laudanum for him, and gingerly raised his head to dribble it past his lips.
“I thought I was dead,” he whispered slowly when I returned to gazing down at him. “I saw them fire. There were so many. It seemed they were all coming for me. Like demons sent from Hell. I thought, this is it: this is how you will die, you damn fool. And then when I woke, I thought we were imprisoned.”
I smiled and caressed his cheek. “Nay, only upon our own ship. It is not your day to die.”
He awarded me a weak smile. “Thank God for that. And Gaston. How am I?”
I sighed, and tried to keep the grimace from my face. I lightly touched the bandage of each wound as I spoke of it. “You have a wound, here, like the one I had from Christine; and a broken rib and bruised organ here; and a grazed hip; and…” I sighed again, and gently raised his maimed arm so that he could see the stump.
He gazed for a time with curiosity and little comprehension at the lump of bandage around and beneath his right elbow, and then his eyes finally widened in understanding.
“Oh,” he said, and turned his gaze to the ceiling before, giving a choked huff of amusement. “I always knew I’d lose something in the end. But the right. Damn.”
I lowered his arm and he did not try to move it.
He tried to look to Pete without turning his head. “How is he?”
“Nearly overwhelmed with grief and guilt,” I said.
“Poor bugger,” Striker breathed as tears filled his eyes. “It wasn’t his fault. He tried. I should’ve…”
I moved so that he could only meet my gaze, and admonished, “Do not you start.”
He risked a little nod, but his words were defiant. “My pride brought me to this.”
I snorted. “Damn it, Striker. What are we without pride? We are merely sheep to be shorn by any with shears. If you lose yourself to this, then your pride will have brought you to a pitiful end. It has happened by fate or providence, and now you must go on for yourself and for those you love and who love you.”
I knew my words to be strong; but I felt that, as of yet, he floated in a curious state of grace above the pain and true dismay and grief; and thus he might actually hear me now, and be able to recall all I said later, when it would do some good.
I could see the drug tugging at his eyes, beginning to pull him away but not yet under. He nodded without fear for the pain. I roused Pete, who blinked once in confusion and then rolled quickly to his knees to shoulder me aside and peer down at his matelot.
I retreated back to our new hammock, and found a pair of serene green eyes waiting for me. I pulled him to me, and he returned my embrace with equal fervor. We held one another for a time, and I tried not to listen to the quiet whispers from below.
“How are we?” I at last felt compelled to whisper: I could not see his face.
“Better than before,” he breathed in my ear.
“We have not slept long.” I shrugged awkwardly. “Unless this is the next day.”
“I think not,” he sighed. “I kept envisioning it was you. I could not drive the image away.”
“I understand.”
“If that ever needs to be done… I do not think I will be able to. Anything else, I feel I could do for you, but that…”
“Hush,” I said, as my mind’s eye attempted to show me the image his words invoked. I kept my gaze steadfastly on the small pot of salve wedged in between the beams beyond his shoulder. We would need to replace it with our own.
“I do not even wish to think of it.”
I felt him nod.
The cabin door opened, and I heard steps and then a surprised, “Ah, you’re awake,” from Cudro.
“Somewhat,” Striker said, almost too quietly for me to hear.
Gaston and I released one another, and I turned and found I could not see below without climbing to the edge. The previous occupants had covered our new hammock with a thin blanket for privacy: a thing I had noticed before, but now appreciated fully.
Cudro was kneeling beside the mattress. “I’ve been to see Morgan and the others. They wished to see you, but I told them to wait until tomorrow.”
“Good,” Pete said. His eyes were thick and swollen, but he appeared calm.
“The men would see you, too,” Cudro said. “They worry. But you don’t look ready to see them.”
“Nay,” Striker said with a weak smile. “Tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” Gaston intoned, and climbed over me and down. “He will not leave this cabin. If he feels well enough, they can come in small numbers and give their regards.”
“Aye, that was what I was thinking,” Cudro agreed quickly.
“Election,” Striker said as Gaston nudged Pete away and began to examine the bandages.
“No hurry,” Cudro chided. “And they should hear it from you, after they see you’ll live.”
“Between you and me, then,” Striker said with a wry smile. “You’re captain.”
Cudro chuckled. “Aye, sir.”
“How many did we lose?” Striker asked.
“Just one,” Cudro said, and told him of all he had missed.
“It is a damn shame about the man lost,” Striker said with drug-borne amusement, “and all the wounded, but at least we brought home meat. With that, my command will surely be judged successful and worthy.”
Even though we had not the drug to buoy us, we laughed with him in genuine pleasure that he could jest.
“Morgan has decided that we all sail for Savona the day after tomorrow,” Cudro said when our humor abated. “Tomorrow, he will lead a party of men ashore to teach the Spaniards a lesson.”
This set us laughing again. But I thought of the numbers I had seen, and then the numbers of their wounded.
“They already learned their lesson,” I spat.
Cudro chuckled. “Aye, but you know Morgan.”
“Sadly,” I sighed.
Cudro stood. “I’ll send word that you’re speaking, and might be up to meeting with them tomorrow.” Then he eyed the rest of us. “There’s roast beef
if you’re hungry. It’s not horse, I swear.”
He left us chuckling; and I climbed down, and after confirming that all save Striker were as famished as I, went to collect food and water.
Cudro was busy telling the men he had spoken with Striker, and that the man would probably feel ready to see them once we were at sea tomorrow. This seemed to cheer them.
A concerned Farley crossed my path as I returned to the cabin with a pineapple, a water bottle, and several hunks of beef. As I had already stuffed meat in my mouth, I motioned for him to follow, and he happily joined us in the cabin, where Gaston told him of Striker’s wounds.
“Have you heard anything about the others?” Gaston asked.
“Aye,” Striker added weakly.
Farley sighed. “One of the men died – the one with the abdominal wound. The others were apparently treatable within the knowledge of medicine their surgeons possessed.”
I chuckled quietly around a mouthful of beef. He was beginning to sound like my matelot.
“In all fairness, though,” Farley continued. “From what I heard of the abdominal wound, his bowels were perforated.”
Gaston sighed and nodded. “We could not have saved him, then.”
“No others on the Queen?” Striker asked with a frown of difficult thought.
“Only Alonso,” I said. “And how is he?”
“Still unconscious,” Farley sighed.
“Head wound,” Gaston told Striker.
“Damn,” Striker said. “I am thankful I still have my wits about me.” He frowned again, and smiled brightly. “At least, I think I do.”
“You are drugged,” Gaston reminded him. “So that you might sleep.”
At that admonishment, we withdrew and left Striker with his matelot and the laudanum.
Striker did indeed sleep through the night, despite Cudro’s suggesting the musicians play, and thus the entire ship’s company making merry on deck even though there was not a drop of rum to be had. Gaston and I remained on watch throughout the night: sitting and talking quietly of stars with some of the sailors after all had calmed and the deck reverberated with snores and not the pounding of dancing feet. As the first light glowed along the horizon, we woke the Bard and Cudro, and I moved our things to our new nest while Gaston saw to his patient – who was awake and in need of another dose. Then we snuggled together and slept. I did not dream of bone saws, and Gaston did not sleep like one dead.
We woke in the afternoon to a knock upon the door, and then Cudro ushered Morgan and Bradley into the little room.
I rolled and peered over the edge in time to come face to face with Morgan, who was stooping only slightly and eyeing the room with disdain.
“How many men sleep here?” he asked.
“All the ship’s owners,” I said coldly.
“Oh,” he sniffed. “You should get a bigger ship.”
I did not say the obvious, or anything else that came to my tongue, such as my wry concern that, if we did, we could not dare allow him to host parties upon it.
Pete had propped a bag behind Striker so he might view his guests. Bradley had already knelt beside the mattress; and Morgan lowered himself to the edge of Cudro’s hammock to join in their conversation. I cursed that, as now I could only see the top of his hat.
“You could still command,” Bradley was saying.
“Not for a time,” Striker said. “Maybe next year. I am either in pain or drugged beyond it. Cudro will be captain while we rove, now.”
“Good,” Morgan said. “He’s another owner of this vessel?”
“Aye,” Striker said.
I bit my tongue, and I could see Pete doing the same.
“Perhaps next year you should get two ships, if there are two of you who can captain,” Morgan said pleasantly. “Why deny Jamaica and the fleet both of your expertise?”
Striker smiled. “Aye. We will see to that. Worked well this year, though.”
Morgan did not respond to that. Instead he said, “We gave the Spanish a scare today, to teach them that they best not trifle with us. They are keen to take on a small band, but when I landed over two hundred men, they fled.”
“Did Cudro not speak of it?” Striker asked. “There were hundreds of them, with some in uniform. They must have come from all the villages along this coast.”
“He said as much,” Morgan said dismissively. “Not enough to take on a real army, though. Not enough to take on you and fifty buccaneers!” he guffawed.
“I was on the ground in a pool of my own blood before we started fighting,” Striker said wryly.
“I’m glad we didn’t go today to avenge your death,” Bradley said.
“Thank you,” Striker said. He grinned. “So am I. Just wish I didn’t have to pay with my good right arm for the pleasure. But it’s better than dying. And I’ve got Pete, so it’s not like I need both hands anyway.”
Pete smiled at his man, and it was as if I could see his heart swell.
Bradley’s brow furrow as he gazed upon them, and then he dropped his face to study the floor. “Aye,” he said softly. “You’re a lucky man.”
“So you will hold elections?” Morgan asked brusquely.
I saw Striker start to shrug and think better of it and grimace. “Aye, soon. The men wish to give their respects first, and I will tell them it’s my decision.”
“But when we arrive at Savona, he will be captain?” Morgan prompted.
“Aye,” Striker said.
“Good then, I will relay orders to him and let you heal,” Morgan said and stood. “Don’t die, Striker, we have need of you yet.”
“I’ll remember that,” Striker said with a wry smile.
Bradley hesitated in following Morgan from the cabin. “Get well. You have two surgeons, but do you need…”
“Oh, shut up,” Striker said with an amiable smile. “You know I have the best on Jamaica.”
“When he’s sane,” Bradley muttered.
“I’ve seen him at his best when he’s mad,” Striker said. “Now fuck off and sail.”
Bradley left with a chuckle.
Pete leaned over Striker and kissed him, and I turned away and found my matelot smiling.
“I am loved,” Gaston breathed.
“Truly,” I said.
He covered my mouth with his, and soon we were engaged in an activity we had not partaken of in days.
Later that evening – after Gaston had tended Striker’s bandages and pronounced him fit enough for it – the men began to enter the cabin in pairs and speak of how loved Striker was, and he in turn told them to place their trust in Cudro, and all seemed pleased with this. We had the election the next day, and Cudro was ratified as captain. A good man named Boller was elected Quartermaster.
The next morning, our small fleet of eight ships and five hundred or so men sailed for Savona. When we arrived there two days later, Morgan organized a sortie of one hundred and fifty men under Bradley’s command to raid the coast near San Domingo; but they returned empty-handed to report that the Spaniards were well prepared for them. Bradley later told Striker he had informed Morgan that unless we truly intended to raid here, it was not worth the pitched battle that would ensue to gain a few bags of flour and a handful of cattle. Morgan had not been pleased.
Thus, our admiral held a meeting of his eight captains. Cudro seemed pleased when he returned. He slipped into the cabin to tell Striker of the decision before putting it to a vote before the men.
“Maracaibo,” Cudro said.
I frowned, but Striker and the others nodded.
“One of our new captains was on a French ship with L’Olonnais,” Cudro continued. “He says he can get us past the reefs at the lake mouth. No one has raided there since the French two years ago. They should be ripe and we will not have to go against a fort.”
“Is this pilot supposedly as well-informed as the good man who told us Puerte Principe was wealthy?” I asked.
There was laughter, but we cursed as well.
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“And is he a pilot?” the Bard asked.
Cudro sighed and smiled. “I know not on either question. We can only pray, as he’s what we’ve got and Morgan likes the idea. L’Olonnais did well there with few men. And it’s closer than trying for the Main. If all vote for it, we’ll sail south to Ruba near Curaçao, and see if we can trade with the natives for food to tide us over – since it’s a Dutch colony, now. Then we’ll sail southwest into the bay and the lake mouth.”
“We are sailing into a lake?” I asked.
“A lake bigger than the isle of Jamaica,” the Bard said.
That would be large, but it did not mollify my concern, in light of how the Spanish had become so organized against us here on Hispaniola. “Could they not trap us in it?”
“There’s no fortress at the entrance, and we shouldn’t be there long enough for them to send overland for aid from Cartagena,” Cudro said with a shrug.
Gaston was frowning, though. “It is purported to be another Spanish cesspool of disease.”
“Do the damn Spanish keep their gold anywhere else?” the Bard asked with a grin.
“Apparently not,” I sighed.
Gaston shook his head with disgust.
Cudro went to present the choice of target to the men and call for a vote; all save Striker went with him to cast theirs.
“I see no reason to vote against it, as there is apparently no alternative being offered,” I said quietly to Gaston in French, as we stood on the quarterdeck and listened to Cudro explain the plan.
“Non,” he sighed. “We go there and see if the pawns come out to play, and then we sail home. I am just afraid we will be throwing bodies over the side the whole way home, as we did from Porto Bello. We will have to search for quinine once the town is taken. We will not drink any water that has not been boiled, or eat food that has not been cooked. We should try and stay away from the water and swamps, but I know not how. This ship will be in the water, and as it is in a lake, it will be sluggish and free of salt…” He was muttering to himself now.
Treasure Page 68