Treasure

by W. A. Hoffman

  Gaston ran to the door and collapsed to his knees with a hoarse cry.

  I pulled the girl to Dudley by her wrist and crammed her hand into his, and then pushed him back the way I had come. Then I was in the doorway with Gaston.

  They were indeed all dead. The boy, Miguel, had been shot in the doorway, his body left to lie where it fell. The mother had likewise been simply shot: her heavy body was crumpled in the corner. But Consuelo and Miguel’s three sisters had been bound and raped before being repeatedly stabbed. Their bodies were lined up along the mattresses at the wall.

  “Why would any o’ ours do this?” Cramer asked. “What were they thinkin’?”

  “To make us angry,” I said.

  I knelt beside Gaston and pulled his gaze from the carnage. His eyes were so vastly sad that they tore at my heart, but I saw no madness in them.

  “Either the boy was simply followed, and it has nothing to do with us, and some of our company is capable of doing this for a night’s amusement, or… Someone has done this to make us mad with anger so we will trip and fall,” I said.

  “I am not mad,” Gaston said with an understanding nod. “I am… It beckons. I feel the urge to… set them to rest. But I will not.”

  I nodded with relief. I did not wish for him to rearrange these bodies to honor them, any more than I wished for him to go on a rampage to avenge them.

  He pulled himself up and led me to little Consuelo, who was pleading with Dudley to tell her what was wrong even though he spoke no Castilian.

  “I must know.” Gaston looked to me. “Ask her if she can describe the man she saw in the trees.”

  I translated his question, and she nodded distractedly and asked, “Where is my mother?”

  “She is gone,” I said simply. “She is not here.”

  She regarded me as if she knew I lied, and glanced at the other men around us for confirmation of her belief.

  “I told her her mother is gone, that she is no longer here,” I told them in English. There were nods all around.

  I turned back to her. “Now, we are going back to town and to the church, where the nuns will help you find your mother. But first, we need to know about the man you saw.”

  She described a man that could have been nearly any of us: a white face, a dark kerchief, big pale eyes, and a canvas tunic.

  “If you saw him, would you recognize him?” I asked.

  She nodded solemnly. I took her hand and started walking back the way we had come. The others followed. I supposed we should bury the dead, or perhaps burn the remains of the structure around them, but I felt a small glimmer of hope that perhaps those bodies would anger others into punishing the guilty party appropriately. Merely saying someone had raped and murdered three girls and shot two others was a trivial thing when they were torturing men in the town square; but showing what someone did here – that it was not for money, but rather for sport – might incite them in the name of human decency.

  Then I wondered who had done it. She had not described Hastings, at least not unless he had removed his eye patch altogether. And then I wondered how someone had done it so quickly. I supposed I did not know how long we slept, after last seeing her brother and returning to the hospital. It might have taken the girl hours to find our house; or perhaps she waited until dawn before approaching it. Still, whoever had done this thing had done it quickly, or there had been several of them. But why bind them and shoot the mother and boy, if there had been several men about to manage prisoners? Nay, it had been one man, and he had worked with great speed to insure all had been raped and killed and he had departed, prior to our arrival. I tried to wonder at that, to consider other options; but unless the perpetrator knew the girl was going to us, there was no reason for him to hurry at all. Thus my first conclusion seemed correct: this had been done to anger us and us alone. He must have watched the boy send his sister to us. He must have seen the boy come and go from the physician’s house. I felt very cold.

  I shared my suppositions with the others. All agreed with my assessment. Gaston came and took my hand. I was pleased he appeared so calm when he met my gaze, as I was unsure of my footing. I felt someone had thrown blood before us to make the road slick.

  And so we arrived in Maracaibo, me with a small dark-haired girl clutching one hand, my matelot clutching the other, and three sad men in our wake. I instructed Consuelo to look upon the men we passed as we entered the square, but then I realized that whoever had done it was likely asleep now: as it was now only mid-morning and they had not slept during the night.

  And then she stopped and pointed at a man emerging from the courthouse. With her hair disheveled in a black cloud about her shoulders, her small face in an expression of sternness beyond her years, and her finger extended like an arrow, she looked like an angel of judgment as depicted in the windows of a cathedral.

  I stopped with her and stared at the accused. I did not know him. He was a large and very pale man with slightly stooped shoulders and a moon of a face. He was standing next to Morgan, Bradley, and Norman. I began to lead her toward them, but she held back, suddenly afraid.

  Gaston and the others had seen who she accused. My matelot was in motion before I could even shout. He reached the man, and in a flurry of movement, pounded him into the wall and down to the ground, all the while shouting curses in French. Then he was borne under by a mob of men attempting to restrain him. I howled and tried to reach him, but I too was restrained. Thankfully Morgan began some yelling of his own, and Gaston and I were carried inside the courthouse.

  My matelot had ceased to struggle, and now stood stiff and livid with rage in the hands of those holding him. I met his gaze and found him angry, but not mad.

  The moon-faced man, now very bloody, was howling that Gaston was a madman.

  Morgan was casting about frantically.

  “That bastard murdered the little girl’s family,” I roared. “Her mother and little brother were shot in cold blood, and her sisters were raped and stabbed more times than was necessary to kill them.”

  “I never!” the man yelled with horror.

  Morgan yelled at the men holding me. “Release him!” Then he roared the same to those holding Gaston. Then his eyes were boring into mine. “What the Devil is going on? That man!” He pointed at the accused. “Came here this morning and accused you and your matelot of allowing Spaniards to escape and possibly even offering them succor.”

  It was not a good thing to be charged with, and it was also true. I lied. “We found the boy in the physician’s house seeking medicine. We gave him some in the hope we could gain his trust and thus learn where his family was hidden and gain their gold for the common treasure. Sometimes sugar accomplishes more than torture,” I growled.

  “You let him go!” the accused countered. “You did not follow him.”

  “How would you know unless you were spying upon us?” I roared back.

  He shut his mouth at that, and took a step back. “I were just about… And I thought it funny there were a lamp lit in that house.”

  I was not convinced, and I could see Morgan did not appear to be, either.

  “What did he tell you earlier?” I asked Morgan.

  He made a disgruntled sound and said, “We did not ask. We thought we would address the particulars once we had a chance to gather all the parties.”

  “He followed the boy we gave the medicine to,” I said. “The boy’s sister saw him. The boy realized they had been found, and he thought for them to surrender to us, as we had been kind, and not to another; and so he sent his sister to lead us to them. When we arrived, we found the family dead: raped and murdered.”

  Hard eyes were upon the accused man now.

  “I did not,” he said with quite convincing fear. “I saw where he went. I did not know how many might be hidin’ in there, so I ran back and told… I told… I didn’t hurt no one.” Then his fear made him wily. “How do we know your mad matelot not done it? He just attacked me. Everyone know he be m
ad. And what you say is what a madman would do. I’m an honest man.” That part was not convincing.

  Gaston growled, but he did not move. He stood with his arms tightly crossed and murder upon his face, but the hard glitter of his Horse at His worst was still absent from his eyes.

  “There are a number of matters to be considered here,” Morgan said.

  “Only two,” Bradley said with a glare at me. I noted with a chill along my spine that he had been standing next to Hastings. I had seen him conversing quietly with someone, but in the confusion I had not realized the other man to be his one-eyed quartermaster.

  “There is nothing in the articles to address the killing of Spaniards,” Bradley said. “Be they man, woman, or child. And though you discourage rape,” he said to Morgan, “the dead cannot say as to whether or not it was willing.”

  “You bastard!” I spat.

  Morgan waved me to silence.

  “So according to the articles we all have agreed to, there are only two charges we need consider here,” Bradley continued, as if he were the voice of reason in the name of necessity. “One, the hoarding of gold or valuables by any member of the Brethren. If you sought to gather this family’s gold for your own use, it is punishable by the loss of ears and nose. And two, striking another buccaneer outside of a duel. That is punishable by flogging.”

  He said the last with regret, which was the only thing that stopped me from closing the distance between us and putting a dagger in his ribs.

  “Not if he’s mad, and all know the Ghoul to be mad,” Morgan said tiredly.

  “He does not look mad,” Bradley said.

  “He suffered a bout when he struck him and he has now recovered,” I growled.

  “Nay,” Bradley said, and this time he sounded vindictive. “I have seen him suffer bouts. He is raving for days with no knowledge of who or where he is.”

  “He does look sane,” Morgan said quietly, and then spoke louder for the men crowded in the doorway and along the walls. “I will ignore the charge of hoarding, as I question their accuser and his motivations. But I can’t have my men striking one another, no matter the cause. There must be some discipline. Unless of course one of them is mad or drunk, or has some other excuse for losing the reason God grants all men.”

  I turned on my matelot. “Gaston, control yourself,” I hissed with great urgency, and then I had my hands on his shoulders, my eyes boring into his. He appeared panicked, and then oddly bemused, as if he would laugh. I knew he realized what he must do, but I quickly saw he did not know how to simply become mad.

  I pulled him close and whispered in his ear in French. “Think of those dead girls and how that damn man will never be punished. Think of your sister and mother suffering the same fate. Or Agnes, or Jamaica. Think of them tying you to a post and flogging you as your father did. Think of me having to watch them hurt you.”

  He let out a low groan and I was flung aside as he tore into the men around us. Thankfully, they had removed his weapons when first bearing him down. Still, I saw three men drop before over a dozen piled atop him.

  I turned to Morgan, who had backed away, and spoke like one greatly concerned. “He is quite mad. He was just having a moment of calm, like an animal in a trap.”

  Morgan fought a smile and nodded curtly. “Then I see nothing here that must be punished within the articles. But your man is a danger to those around him, and I want him locked away until he calms. Put him on the Queen. In chains if you cannot control him.”

  “Aye, sir,” I said.

  I glanced at Bradley as I turned to the door. He was furious. Beyond him, Hastings was amused.

  Some of the men present were from the Queen. They proffered rope quite helpfully. I prepared to have to make a great show of binding Gaston, but when I finally shouldered my way through the men who had hauled him outside, I found he was truly so enraged he did need to be restrained. Upon meeting my eyes, he calmed enough to allow me to bind him, though.

  We were nearly to the wharf when Ash caught up to us. He was panting and frantic. “The house was attacked. Farley has been shot. Pete is hurt and unconscious.”

  “Striker?” I asked.

  “He’s fine,” Ash assured us.

  I pulled a knife and cut Gaston’s bonds, and we ran for the house with a dozen men. I once again found myself blaming the Gods for madness in all its forms.

  Eighty-One

  Wherein We Are Ensnared

  We found the house full of men from the Queen, including Alonso, Cramer, and Dudley, and the little girl, Consuelo. Farley was lying on the table speaking frantically with Cudro, who was attempting to staunch a wound in the physician’s leg. Pete was lying on the floor with his head on his matelot’s lap. Striker had a pistol resting on Pete’s chest, a whole cache of loaded pieces arrayed before him on the floor, all within easy reach, and another tucked butt-first beneath his right arm, which he was reloading – quite deftly – with his left hand. I surmised he had been doing something other than merely lying about these last weeks: mainly, practicing doing necessary things left-handed.

  Gaston went to Pete, and I went to the table to assist Cudro. It took some coaxing, but I was able to get Farley to lie down. Then I answered his panicked question: whether the blood was seeping or spurting from the wound. It was not spurting, but it was flowing well. I used his belt to constrict his leg above the wound, and turned to check on Gaston. He was examining a large, swollen gash on the back of Pete’s skull.

  I caught Striker’s gaze. “What happened?”

  “One of them must have caught Pete unawares and clubbed him good,” he said with worry as he looked down at his matelot. Then his words were angry. “Then they stood about and argued on whether or not they needed to kill him, too; because one of them knew he would hunt them down like dogs if they let him live. Farley surprised them as I was getting out of bed, and they shot him and he fell back down the stairs. Then I shot them. There were two. I thank God I went to the door with four pistols, because I shot both of them twice once I saw Pete lying there.”

  He regarded me with accusation. “Where the Devil were you two?”

  “That is a long story,” I sighed. “The short of it is that Hastings has attempted to frame us and Gaston is supposed to be in chains on the Queen at this moment.”

  Striker swore. “Let us go there, and not because of that. I want a deck beneath me.”

  Gaston was looking at him. “His wound should be sewn, but he should wake.”

  “Remembering things?” Striker whispered, and chewed his lip.

  My matelot nodded tightly. “Aye, it is swelling on the outside. It should not hurt his brain.”

  Then he stood to examine Farley’s wound. The physician was still distraught, but he did not try to look as Gaston probed his leg. He winced and gritted his teeth and studied the ceiling. The wound was on the outside of the leg, up high, and I could see where the ball had passed through.

  “Let us move to the ship,” Gaston said. “This can be bandaged there as well.”

  After some discussion, we got Pete and Farley on two of the narrow cots, and six men carried each of them. Cudro, Alonso, and I swept through the house gathering things and instructing others as to what should be brought, such as the supplies of quinine and laudanum. I realized someone might threaten to cut off my nose for that; but I did not care, and felt we could mount a better battle over the matter from the Queen’s decks.

  When I went upstairs, I stumbled over the bodies of Striker’s would-be assassins in the hall. I rolled them over and did not recognize either of them. I supposed one of us should go and tell Morgan. I thought perhaps it should be Cudro. I was not concerned about facing Morgan; but as I felt now, I thought it was best I avoid Bradley, as I would likely get myself flogged, or worse.

  As we were readying to leave, Alonso called my name and pointed at the girl standing in the corner. There was nothing I could do for her that would not be better done by her own people, and I did not think
ours could hurt her worse than they already had.

  “Have we captured any nuns?” I asked Cudro as he hurried past.

  He stopped and regarded me stupidly for a several moments. “Aye, and priests. You have need of one?”

  I shook my head, and instructed Dudley and Cramer to take the girl to the church.

  As we followed the wounded and supplies to the wharf, I told Cudro he should speak with Morgan.

  He nodded. “Aye, as soon as I hear the whole of the story. We are getting our people safe first. From everyone.”

  He was surprised when I turned and embraced him.

  The Bard was, of course, quite surprised to see us rowing out to him in an assortment of boats and canoes. Once we were aboard, Cudro sent most of our men back to shore with the extra boats. Then I sat on the quarterdeck steps and gulped wine, and told the tale of our night’s and morning’s adventures to everyone, while Gaston tended to Farley’s and Pete’s wounds.

  “Who was it that accused you? The one the girl saw?” Cudro asked.

  “I do not know his name,” I said.

  “He be Headley,” one of our men who had been in the courtroom supplied. “Sails on the Fortune. And we seen him stalkin’ about your house afore.”

  The wine dulled my need to ask them why they had failed to mention that before. Instead, I asked, “What of the assassins?”

  Most had not seen the bodies and so could not identify them.

  “We will find out,” Cudro said.

  “How did they take Pete?” the Bard asked.

  “They hid and hit him on the back of the head,” Gaston said with surety.

  “Sometimes he does get hit,” Striker said with loving amusement. “He’s not invincible.”

  People guffawed and protested that.

  Gaston finished bandaging Pete’s head and came to join us. He had finished with Farley a while earlier; and the physician was resting comfortably in a haze of laudanum.

  “And you don’t think this Headley killed the girl’s family?” the Bard asked.