Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  The cloud emanated from him. He was bleeding.

  His face was full of shock and surprise. I got a grip on his neck and pulled him to me and kicked desperately for the surface. He convulsed and an explosion of bubbles came from his mouth. I was gripped by the knowledge it was his last breath. I could not let him breathe sea water: I could not allow that to be the last thing he tasted. I kissed him, exhaling into his mouth in the process. He clung to me as we rose and I at last felt the air hit my forehead again. Our lips parted and we gasped as one.

  He continued to cling to me, threatening to pull me under. Part of my addled brain said that was where we surely needed to be, but another told me it was death. I spun about, looking for the sloop.

  She was there, anchored still by the once-again taut rope. Her deck was bedlam. The soldiers were firing toward the land now, and crumpling as those on land found their marks. However the men in her bow were beyond the range of Cudro’s muskets. The sloop’s sails were full, and she was twisted and heeling, pinioned between the wind and current and her anchor. Pete must have been successful in ruining her rudder, as her master obviously could not control her and there was too much confusion on her aft deck—which was in range of the shore – for anyone to strike her canvas.

  No one was looking toward us. Unfortunately, the current was pushing us toward her.

  “Hang on,” I told Gaston.

  He wrapped his arms about my shoulders and let me pull us to the anchor rope. I drew my best knife and attacked the sodden cable like a man possessed. It felt as if I was slicing through bone, but strand by stand it began to part.

  “Will!” Gaston gasped in warning.

  Though the gunfire had been continuous, I heard the change in the retorts, and knew without looking that the attention of their surviving marksman had returned to us. Using the remaining rope as leverage, I pushed us under and twisted to wrap my legs around the cable and hold us there as I finished slicing. Finally the last strand parted with a loud pop and we were sinking. I grabbed the limp cable still attached to the anchor with one hand and thrashed to the surface with Gaston’s help.

  The sloop was now wheeling completely away—into the path of the approaching merchantman who was trying to steer out and around her. My grip on what remained of the anchor cable was holding us still, and keeping us from joining the soon-to-collide vessels. The men who had been firing at us were now trying to reposition themselves to keep us in range; running down the deck and afoul of the sheets as the sloop’s crew attempted to get their vessel under control.

  I looked about. The Magdalene was still a golden wonder, but she was well out in the channel now. Even if the sloop had a rudder, she would never catch her. Several people stood at the Magdalene’s stern, peering our way. I could not tell who they were.

  On shore, Pete was waving frantically at us from the cover of the brush. I could see his worried face quite clearly.

  “Where are you hit?” I asked Gaston.

  “My back,” he gasped with pain.

  I twisted and snaked my free arm around him to feel up his spine. I found the wound high on his right shoulder, in the triangle of muscle near his neck.

  “It is way up here,” I told him.

  He shook his head helplessly. “That is good. It feels like it is everywhere.”

  “Hold on,” I told him needlessly, and began to swim for shore.

  It seemed to take forever, and I was quite relieved when Pete joined me to help. At last we had Gaston ashore and all I wished to do was lie in the dusky light and breathe in peace, but it was not to be.

  “’OwBadIs’E?” Pete asked.

  I rolled over and regarded Gaston’s back. The wound was in the muscle as I had first surmised. I probed it gently, and—in addition to proving he was still quite conscious—found I could easily feel the ball with my fingertip.

  “I can feel it,” I told his tightly closed eyes.

  “Can you grasp it?” he gasped.

  “Truly?” I asked.

  “Get it out!” he hissed.

  “NotIf’E’llYell,” Pete hissed. “ThereBeMen Searchin’FurUs.”

  Gaston squirmed about until he could bite a root. I knew mincing about would just cause him more pain, and so I probed the wound with abandon while he strained and groaned until I could get my fingers about the slick and slightly misshapen ball and pull it free. Then I leaned on the wound, pinning him to the ground and hoping that I could do some small thing to staunch the renewed flow of blood.

  Beyond our pained and desperate panting, I could hear stealthy men to our left, and loud and clumsy men farther away to our right—presumably at the cove’s dock. I could just make out the flicker of their torches through the brush and thick trees.

  A great dark shape emerged from the undergrowth, and Pete almost attacked Cudro before he recognized him in the dim light.

  “That group hasn’t talked to the ones on the sloop yet,” Cudro whispered. “They don’t know we’re here, but we need to move. What’s wrong with Gaston?”

  “He took a ball in the shoulder,” I breathed.

  “God preserve us: can he move?” Cudro hissed.

  “I can move,” Gaston gasped.

  “Where?” Pete asked.

  “I want to work our way to the plantations to the east,” Cudro said, “but that will either take us across the path of the men over there, or we’ll have to go through the water.”

  I swore quietly.

  “NoMoreSwimmin’,” Pete said in a tired echo of my thoughts.

  “Wading?” Cudro asked.

  I looked in the direction he pointed, across the darkening cove. “It has to be deeper than that.”

  He shook his head. “They won’t stay on the dock. Look, they’re already moving out. I’ll scout to see if they left anyone on watch, then we should be able to work our way around and then down the coast.”

  I thought that sounded reasonable, as long as there was no more swimming.

  Then Ash and—to my annoyance and surprise—Chris emerged from the brush to the accompaniment of Pete’s quiet swearing. I was beginning to think he was reading my mind, or we were at least thinking the same thoughts simultaneously.

  “Did everyone else get aboard?” I growled.

  She flinched. “Aye. I hid in the brush.”

  “You damned fool!” I hissed.

  “I was not going to get on that ship without the two of you. When I saw you were not coming, I realized I made the right decisions,” she growled back.

  “Later,” Cudro snapped.

  “Aye, later,” I snapped at Chris. “Now, where is Gaston’s bag?”

  A heavily-laden Ash unburdened himself enough to hand me our gear. With reluctance and pain, Gaston sat. I managed to wrap a tight bandage about the wound. I knew we should do more for it, but it was now quite dark and I did not feel we should light a torch or candle.

  “Will this do for now?” I asked him when I finished.

  In answer, he leaned to me and kissed my cheek.

  “Can he move?” Cudro asked quietly.

  Gaston nodded.

  “Laudanum?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Water?”

  Ash handed us a skin; and while Gaston sipped, I drank heavily. Then we chewed a little boucan. My stomach roiled at the unexpected sustenance and I realized I could not remember when last I ate. I gobbled what dry fruit we had to give it more.

  “We’ll need food,” Cudro noted as he chewed a hunk of boucan.

  “Wine,” Chris said dully.

  Pete chuckled. “Rum.”

  “Well, we’ll not find it here. Ready?” Cudro asked.

  Gaston nodded. I had dressed us both in breeches, now I shouldered our bags, put two pistols in my belt, and got Gaston’s arm around my shoulder. I left the muskets and all else to the others. We began to make our slow way along the coast with Cudro and Pete scouting ahead and Ash bringing up the rear. Chris walked in front of me, pointing to this or that slippery place
, and pushing or hacking aside brush when necessary. I lost track of the hours and the distance as I concentrated on keeping Gaston upright and placing one foot in front of the other. As for my matelot, he remained conscious through most of it, and always apologized when I ended up supporting him completely.

  I knew I should worry, but it was a distant thing I did not feel I could indulge in until we could lie still and eat and drink.

  When the dawn came, we were miraculously on a boat and crossing the channel toward the Haiti. I could not recall how the small vessel was found or supplied with provisions: I only knew I had been told to climb aboard. As we bobbed along, someone possessed the presence of mind to offer us food and water before the rum. I had actually been quite intent upon the rum when I smelled it. We ate a little and slept.

  I woke hot and thirsty. The sun was high in the sky and beating down upon me, and Gaston was a pot of coals at my side. I looked about and found the boat swaying with the gentle swells at the edge of a heavily-forested cove. The sail was down and our craft was tied to the roots of a tree. Ash nodded at me sleepily. Cudro and Pete were snoring in the stern. Chris slept curled in a ball near my feet. Gaston and I were nestled together in the bow.

  I found the water and then began trying to free our bags from beneath Gaston in order to retrieve our tunics, to protect us from the sun. Then I felt the clammy fire of his skin. I became quite cold. He was burning with a fever.

  I began to curse and cry quietly as I tried to wake him. He at last regarded me with peaceful, sleepy eyes. “You are ill,” I hissed.

  He smiled, nodded, and closed his eyes again.

  “Non, non, non, non,” I muttered and slapped him again. “You are fevered,” I said firmly when his lazy gaze met mine again. “I am sure it is the wound. What should I do? Is there a poultice…”

  His eyes closed again.

  The snoring had stopped.

  I ignored the rest of them and pulled the bags from beneath my matelot with little worry of waking him. Then I pulled him up and removed my hasty bandage of the night before. The wound was indeed inflamed and pussy, but not such that it stank or seemed bad enough for him to fever so. I had seen him apply poultices to wounds dozens of times. I was sure he had once told me what they contained. I could not remember any of it now.

  I turned to my compatriots and asked, “Is there any rum left?” I regretted it when I saw the looks of pity and worry on their faces.

  Cudro rummaged around and handed me a mostly full bottle. I pushed the wound open and poured a liberal amount into the hole. This succeeded in rousing my matelot enough for him to groan and grip the gunwale. I put the bottle aside and pulled his face up so that I could see his eyes.

  “That hurt,” he breathed.

  “Good,” I said grimly. “What else can I do? It is not awful. It is reddened, oui; and there is pus, but it is clear and not putrid.”

  “How deep?” he asked.

  I described it by demonstrating with my fingers.

  He nodded. “There is little for it other than allowing it to drain.”

  “You are fevered,” I said.

  He smiled. “I wondered why it was so hot.”

  I grasped his face between my hands. “I will not lose you to this. What can I do?”

  “My head and chest feel they are stuffed with wool,” he said distantly with a thoughtful frown. “I do not know, my love. Pray it breaks. Keep me cooler or warmer as I require. Do we have water?”

  A bottle was thrust into my sight. I held it for Gaston and he drank in shallow sips. I fought tears as I loosely bandaged the wound with clean cloth. He chose to lie on his side with his wounded shoulder up. I propped our bags about him to provide as much comfort as I could. His eyes had closed, and I thought he had drifted away again, but his hand reached about until it found mine. I squeezed his fingers lightly, and he squeezed back.

  “It’s likely he just needs more sleep,” Cudro said with gruff sympathy. “Yesterday was… long and hard.”

  “Aye,” I said. “Very. And how will today be? Where are we?”

  “Off the Haiti—heading east,” he said. “We decided to tie up this morning rather than try and decide where to go. Where do we want to go?”

  “CowIsland,” Pete said. “ButWeNeed BeRidO’’Er.”

  Chris glared at him. “Why can I not go to this Cow Island?”

  “NoWimen.”

  “I am not going as a woman,” she said.

  Pete rolled his eyes.

  “We could head north to the Carolina colony,” Cudro said.

  “Nay,” Pete said. “Can’tTrust’Em. WeCanGoTa CowIslandAn’Find TheFrench. OrSomeOther ShipWeCanHire.”

  I wondered when he had concocted that plan. It sounded reasonable, and there was a good chance the French would arrive there if Morgan was collecting men to raid again this winter.

  “Is Morgan raiding this year?” I asked. “Did he raid last year?”

  “AyeAn’Nay,” Pete said. “FromWhatWe’Eard InTheTaverns. An’EvenIf’EAin’t, ThereAlwaysBeShipsThere.”

  “I don’t trust Morgan even if the French are there,” Cudro said. “This little boat might make the Carolinas. Of course, we’ll have to stay very close to shore and sneak past the Spanish port at Saint Augustine.”

  I did not care. I wanted them to sail wherever until Gaston healed or…

  But my decision was apparently required as they were evenly divided. Pete appeared obdurate. Cudro looked as if he would become equally stubborn very soon. Chris would wish to go to Cow Island and not a colony where we might be rid of her. Ash would likely side with his matelot.

  I was not sure where to go. My only concern was Gaston. Which direction would be best for him in his current state? There might be physicians in the colonies; and they might be fools. My father could have men watching for us there. Yet, Morgan would surely not be happy to see us unless the French arrived. And we could not know if we could trust the buccaneers. There might be a price upon our heads. And if there were French buccaneers, it was possible that would make things worse. And we were only six, and… Gaston was in no shape to even be counted.

  Gaston might die.

  “Will?” Cudro queried.

  My questions poured forth in a shaky and desperate string. “How long to sail to either? What provisions do we have? Which course is more dangerous? Where might they look for us?”

  Gaston’s hand tightened on mine. I pulled my gaze from the pitying faces of my friends and looked down at him.

  “Île de la Vache,” he whispered with a grim smile.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I would rather be sick there. I know there.”

  He did not say it; and I truly could not say I saw it in his eyes; but I surely heard it in my heart: he would rather be buried there.

  “Cow Island,” I said loudly to the sea. “Please.”

  All were silent for a time. I kept my eyes on the distant waves.

  “SettledThen,” Pete said at last. “WeCanDrop ’ErOnTortuga.”

  “Nay,” Cudro said with authority, and I looked to him with surprise. “I’ll not risk sailing this little thing past Cayonne—or even the damn north side of the island—or through the channel near Petit-Goave beyond it. The girl goes with us. We’ll go east and south around Hispaniola. These days we’ll have less to fear from the Spanish than the French.” He looked to me and added gently. “It will take about the same amount of time either way.”

  I nodded.

  “ThenWhatAbout’Er?” Pete asked with stubborn grumpiness.

  “She better be a boy when we get there,” Cudro rumbled.

  Now that we would sail somewhere, I cared not for that detail or any other. I lie beside Gaston and kissed his heated cheek.

  “They are safe, oui?” he breathed.

  “Oui,” I assured him and wondered if they were. I supposed it would be a long time before we would know.

  “Today is your birthday,” he said. “I had a surprise for you.�
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  I stared at him with wonder. It was the fifteenth. “I will be happy with you living.”

  He chuckled, and his eyes opened to find mine. “Now you know how I always feel—when you are ailing and wounded.”

  I gave a heavy sigh and thought on all the times he must have prayed as I was now. “I suppose you will have to recover and ail or be wounded several more times before I can truly understand how you must feel when I am so.”

  He smiled. “I have survived worse, Will.”

  “But you could still die,” I breathed.

  He nodded solemnly.

  My heart ached and any stupid platitude I might utter seemed stuck in my throat. Aye, I did not know how I would live without him. Aye, I knew he would always love me, and I him, no matter what occurred.

  I coughed and asked, “So what was my gift?”

  He grinned. “You brought my medical bag. There should be a small pouch in it: black velvet.”

  With mounting curiosity, I sat and rummaged through his medical bag until I found the little sack. It was velvet, and it produced two gold rings. They were both engraved with ‘endure’ and ‘conquer’. I slipped one on his ring finger and the other on mine with trembling hands, and then I buried my face in his chest, cried, and whispered, “Please, dear Gods, please.”

  One Hundred and Two

  Wherein We Wrestle With Sex

  He fevered for over a week. On the second day we understood it was not due to the wound alone when he began to cough phlegm. Some nights he became so chilled it took Pete and I pressed about him and a stick in his mouth to keep him from chattering his tongue to ribbons. On other days I kept him covered in freshly doused cloth to keep him cool. By the second week the fever abated, but he still coughed a great deal and found himself short of breath when we went ashore. I did everything I could for him and thanked the Gods for every day he lived.

  We were making slow work of rounding Hispaniola, and not merely because of Gaston. We saw no reason to hurry, and we wished to avoid anyone who might inhabit or sail about the eastern end of the island. And, though they had apparently stolen some victuals from the plantation where they acquired the boat, we were not well provisioned for sailing the month that Cudro said taking this route would probably require in such a small craft. We slipped ashore for water and fruit as we saw opportunities for such, and began to watch the shore keenly for cattle or hogs. As we were in wholly Spanish territory now, we might as well have been roving even though we had no interest in taking anything by force.