I looked to the sinking sun and felt anxious. They had been gone quite a while.
“Oui,” Gaston and I replied in grim agreement.
“I saw where they entered the forest, there should be a trail,” Gaston said.
“I know they could come out anywhere,” Cudro rumbled and scratched his head sheepishly, “But I’d like to follow that trail a ways…”
“Will can go with you,” Gaston said. “I will prepare the boat to sail.”
“They’re probably on their way, and we’re just being foolish,” Cudro said.
“No harm in looking,” I said.
Cudro and I donned our weapons and headed where Gaston indicated. I could not see a trail per se, but I could see the path of easiest passage through the underbrush. Cudro felt this was the path they would take, and so we followed it until we reached a clearing. Then Cudro squatted in the lengthening golden rays and examined the ground until he decided our companions had departed the clearing through another path.
We had gone not a hundred yards further when Cudro called a halt and held his hand up for silence. I soon perceived the eerie lack of bird calls ahead of us that ever seemed to presage the noisy passage of men. Then, I too heard what the birds had: a muted cacophony of sound ahead and to our right. Soon the sounds sorted themselves into bleating, quiet cursing, and the thrash and crack of a person battling the undergrowth with a cutlass. It was not coming from ahead of us on the path.
It was very likely one of our friends, but it could also be someone else entirely. I had realized when we left the clearing that we were indeed on a path created by either man or beast. We had seen no smoke over the trees this day, but there had been a strong breeze from the east.
Cudro and I exchanged a look and I shrugged. He stuck his fingers in his mouth gave a loud whistle. The thrashing stopped, as did the cursing: the bleating continued. Then there was a flurry of violent activity and the bleating stopped with a few pained animal grunts. Oddly, this was followed by a wretched human sob—a woman’s.
“Chris?” I hissed sharply.
“Oh Lord, oh Lord,” I heard him cry. “Who? Will?”
“Oui, we are coming,” I assured him.
We pushed our way through the undergrowth until we found him on what could barely be considered a path in the thick brush. He was surrounded by three dead goats, the bloody cutlass still clutched tightly in his hand. His face was tear- and blood-streaked.
“Where are the others?” I asked urgently.
He gestured helplessly behind him. “They’re following. They’re supposed to be following. I don’t remember the trail being this poor. There were Spaniards. There’s a whole plantation over the hill. We found a herd of goats. And, and…” His features tightened with remembered horror. He forged on past some impasse in his memories. “Pete said to take goats and run back to the boat. I could not remember which path. The goats fought me and they would not be silent.”
I grasped his slim shoulders and shook him lightly until he met my gaze. “Ash and Pete were well when last you saw them?”
A nod.
“They are bringing up the rear?”
A nod.
“Was there an alarm sounded at the plantation?”
He shook his head and a shadow passed through his eyes.
“Were you seen?” I pressed further.
“They are dead,” he said weakly and looked away.
Cudro held up his hand for silence. We listened and heard more unruly goats—from the direction of the path we had left. Cudro and I gathered the rudely slaughtered carcasses at Chris’ feet and led him back to the other path in time to find Ash hurrying down it dragging a brace of goats behind him. He almost shot us. Then to my surprise—and even more to Cudro’s—he embraced his former matelot.
“Pete?” I asked.
Ash nodded tightly. “Guarding the rear. They heard the shot, but we don’t think they’ve found the bodies yet.”
Though, of course, incredibly curious, I held my tongue and took the lead in forging down the path back to the clearing and then the beach. We could sort through events once we were at sea.
Gaston did indeed have the boat ready to sail when we at last emerged from the trees. He regarded our approach with apparent glee and then mounting worry as he saw more and more of our state. He asked the obvious as we deposited bloody goat bodies in the bow. “What happened?”
“We are well. I am well,” Ash assured us. “We came upon a plantation.” He turned back to scan the trees.
I did too, in time to see Pete emerge from the tree line at a run.
“Go!” the Golden One roared.
We did not argue the matter: we threw the two live goats aboard and then ourselves and pushed our craft out into the cove. Pete dove in and splashed and then swam toward us as Gaston and I began to row and Cudro raised the sail. A motley assortment of seven Spaniards roiled out of the brush and onto the beach. Upon seeing our craft, two of them aimed muskets while the rest tried to get within pistol range. Gaston and I were fighting the surf at the entrance to the cove. Pete still had not reached us. To my great relief, two shots rang out from our craft and many of the Spaniards stopped and threw themselves down behind rocks as one of their men fell. I turned to see Ash and Chris reloading. Our newly-minted youth was doing an admirable job of it, despite the tears in his eyes and the shaking of his hands. Soon he was aiming once again. Pete was at the gunwale and Ash snapped off a quick shot before stooping to help him aboard. One of the bolder Spaniards stood and aimed at the broad expanse of Pete’s exposed back. Chris shot the man squarely in the chest—despite the bouncing of our craft. Then we were past the surf and beyond the range of their guns with wind in our sail.
As we all collapsed to pant in the aftermath, the Spaniards ran along the shore, following us. Since a craft the size of ours cannot truly go any faster than a man can run, it was easy enough for them to do. Cudro adjusted the rudder and sail and we began to head northeast and out to sea.
“There’s that port to the north,” Cudro said. “They can send larger craft from it.”
“Will they, for a few goats?” I asked, and then remembered the rest of what I had heard. “How many men did you have to kill?” I asked Pete.
His expression was grim. “NotMen, Boys. Goat’erds.”
“They were little boys,” Chris said quietly with a thin and distant tone that said far more than his expressionless features.
“We stumbled upon the plantation,” Ash said, his voice tight. “We were skirting it when we came across the herd of goats. Then we saw the boys. The older one looked as if he would yell and Pete pounced upon him.”
“’EWereStubborn An’Stupid, SoIKilled’Im,” Pete said with conviction and dared the other two to argue.
Ash looked away and continued. “The younger one… He began to run. And she shot him.” Ash shook his head with a bitter frown. “Then of course it did not matter if they had called out, as the shot alerted everyone who heard it.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Chris asked the deck between his knees.
“WhatYaDid!” Pete said with a glare at Ash. “BetterThey’EarA Shot An’BeConfusedThan ’AveSomeDamnBoy Tell’EmThree BuccaneersBe Stealin’TheGoats. Made’EmTakeTime TaTalkOnIffn’ TheyAllHeardIt, AnThenSend SomeoneTaLook. GaveUsAGood HeadStart. Kept’EmSlow InTheWoods ’CauseTheyNa’Know ’OwManyTheyBeFacin’.”
“She did not know that!” Ash protested. “She did not plan that!”
Chris nodded in sad agreement. She appeared to be a lost and confused child herself: I was having great difficulty thinking of her as male when she wore such an expression and knelt cringing from Ash’s recriminations.
“I only knew I had to stop him,” she said. “I did not think… I…”
“You shot a child in the back!” Ash roared.
Pete stood and roared back. “’EDidGood! ItWereAGoodShot! Little BodyRunnin’ ThroughBrush. ItWeren’tEasy. Proved’ECouldShoot.”
Chri
s shuddered.
“This is wrong!” Ash growled. “It’s one thing for her to pretend to be a man. It’s another entirely for her to shoot children in the back. Ladies do not shoot children.” He turned a vicious glare on her. “Did it make you feel more like a man? Well men do not shoot children in the back.”
“IStabbedOne InTheGut! WhatDoes ThatMakeMe?” Pete scoffed. “TheyWereTheEnemy. ThoseLittleBastards Woulda’JeeredUs OnThe Gallows. ThrownRocks AtOurBloody BodiesWhile WeFoughtTa Breathe Our Last. WeBeBuccaneers! WeNa’BeNoble GentlemanThat Make Another DoOurKillin’. He,” he pointed at Chris, “BeAGoodMan. ’EDidWhat’E’Ad TaToSave ’IsBrethren. ’ESavedMyLife. MadeAShot CountFromABoatIn Surf. YouWillNa’ BeInsultin’’Im.”
Chris regarded him with wonder and confusion.
Beyond her, my gaze crossed Cudro’s, and we awarded one another bemused shrugs.
Ash retreated within himself and ignored Pete by studying the horizon sullenly.
Pete glowered at him for a time before turning away and squatting before Chris.
She met his gaze and spoke with painful sincerity. “I am a fool. I did not think I would have to kill anyone.” Then she cringed as if Pete would laugh.
Pete smiled, but he did not laugh. “WeAllEndUp Doin’ThingsWe Don’tThink WeWill. ItBeThe WayO’TheGods, AskWill.”
I chuckled ruefully. “Aye, it is the way of the Gods to ask much of us.”
“NowLet’sSkin An’CleanTheGoats,” Pete said gently and moved past us to the bow to examine the carcasses. “SomeoneMade ARightMessO’ Killin’’These… Three.” He held up a leg that was barely attached to a body.
“That was me,” Chris said. “They would not be quiet and…”
Pete shrugged. “WeBeKillin’ ’EmAnyway. ThisJustMakes ’EmHarder TaSkinIsAll. GetThoseOthersUp’Ere.”
Chris meekly stowed his musket and pulled the two living goats to the bow. Gaston and I moved aside to let him pass. We ended up sitting together with our backs to the wind. Cudro was speaking quietly to Ash in the stern. Ash’s expression and the occasional glance he cast at Chris spoke volumes. The damn fool was no longer infatuated with her.
I looked to the pair in the bow.
“Well… the Gods seem to have handled some of our concerns quite nicely; though it seems a shame about the goatherds,” I said.
“You are engaging in hubris again,” Gaston said without mirth. “Who are you to presume their innocence? They might have done much to anger the Gods; and what Pete said of them was true: they are as much our enemy as their fathers.”
“We were robbing them,” I noted.
“And yet the Gods chose to smite them and not us,” he said with sincere bemusement. “We truly cannot question, Will.”
“I suppose so. Or perhaps it as many of the ancients believed, and humanity holds very little interest to the Gods. We do as we will, and They do not judge unless it affects Their goals and ways. We—and we alone—are responsible for our choices—and the burden of those choices.”
“Would you have done the same?” Gaston asked. “As Chris did?”
I envisioned the encounter Ash had described. “It would have depended on the miens of the boys. If they had appeared bewildered and scared and seemed to view me as an inexplicable monster in their midst, I think not. If, however, they appeared cunning, or to possess malice toward me, I think I would have perceived them as an enemy—as much as any man twice their age who would do me harm.”
My matelot nodded thoughtfully. “Oui, I feel the same.”
Pete’s account indicated he had made just such a determination and found the boy he pounced upon to be an enemy. I did not know what Chris saw in the eyes of the one he shot—or even if he had seen the child’s eyes. It did not matter. He had not gone there to harm them. Truly, he had not even arrived on their shore to steal their goats, only to look for food. The entirety of it had been an unfortunate matter of happenstance: with each person present acting according to his nature and perforce accepting the consequence of his actions.
I wondered how I would have behaved: not if I were in Chris’ place, but if I were one of the boys. “There was a time when I would have regarded the sudden appearance of wolves in my life with wonder and curiosity. Perhaps there was a time when I was innocent.”
Gaston met my gaze. “I feel you still are. You award many we encounter the benefit of doubt. Once you determine they are enemies you do as you must to protect yourself or others; but truly, Will, I have not known you to seek to harm unless confronted with malice.”
I was heartened by his words. “I feel the same of you.”
He shook his head. “Non, there is a difference: my Horse often seeks to harm: He enjoys it.”
I wished to disagree, and then I thought on the times we had been the wolves visiting depredation upon hapless Spaniards while raiding. Whereas I ever found myself following along shooting or stabbing those who would attack us rather than cower; Gaston—while under the sway of his Horse—often greeted any he encountered with violence no matter their mien.
“You have always said it is best to turn you upon the enemy at such times,” I said.
He shook his head sadly. “It shames me. Others have made much of our bringing war to the Spanish as retaliation for war the Spanish have delivered on us; or that it is in the name of survival, in that we require provisions—or gold they have too much of and we too little; but Will, I never roved for such excuses. I roved because I was angry with the world and releasing that anger upon men I did not know or have to live with seemed preferable. The men I traveled with would kill me if I did the same to them, but they applauded what I delivered to our purported enemy.”
“Your Horse no longer feels such a need.” I said. It was not a question: I knew it to be true.
“Oui.” He shook his head with wonder and bemusement furrowed his brow. “And He feels as much regret as I. We are as one on the matter. I know we have discussed this—somewhat—when talking of my wish to be a physician—as I was when last we raided—but I had not quite viewed it thusly. It is not merely that I now wish to heal more than harm; it is also that I no longer feel the need to harm.”
I had not viewed the matter with such clarity before, either. “As always, my love, I am very proud of the healing you have done.”
“You should be,” he said with a smile. “You are responsible for it.”
“You know that is not what I meant.”
His smile widened and he met my gaze again. “Oui, I do; but my words are still true: you are responsible.”
“Thank you.”
“It makes me feel better about being weak,” he said thoughtfully. “If I felt the need to do as I have before, my Horse would get me killed in my present state.”
“Non, I am not completely incompetent in battle,” I said with a smile. “Still I am glad neither of us is so moved.”
“Oui,” he said. “Let us pray the Gods do not wish for us to face battle again—not because either of us is weak, but because we do not wish it.”
One Hundred and Five
Wherein We Sail Toward Changing Lands
We sailed through the night with the mountain range a dark shadow to starboard. The morning broke clear with a stiff eastern wind. Cudro tacked back and forth, sailing as close into it as our little sail could manage. As we had food and water, we agreed not to go ashore, and to simply take advantage of the strong breeze and go as far as we could before we were forced to put ashore.
As we would thus be stuck upon our little craft, I resolved to do what I could to follow my new exercise regime. I pushed bags aside and cleared a small space before the mast in which to engage in such calisthenics as I was able. At first Pete teased me, but when I made light of his lax muscles, he became competitive as I expected. We were soon taking turns doing push-ups, sit-ups, and lunges in the small space—and Chris and Ash were harangued into joining us.
By noon, we were giddy and exhausted, and I knew we would regret our enthusiastic excess
on the morrow. However, the tension plaguing us these last days was dissipated, and no one seemed prone to argue as the afternoon progressed. The wind fell off, and Cudro angled us a little towards shore. We lay about and talked of pleasant times, mountains and other places we had seen, and sights we wished to see before we died.
As the sun began to sink to the west, Pete took a turn at the tiller. I was woken from drowsing by his cursing. We looked about and spied his concern. There were now mountains to the east, emerging quickly from the haze that had developed after the wind died down.
“What in the name of Christ?” Cudro bellowed.
I had a brief fantastical musing that perhaps we had angered the Gods in some fashion and were now cursed to sail through ever-changing lands and seas until we made amends and they allowed us to return home—or at least somewhere we knew. Perhaps I had embraced the name Ulysses too long in the travels of my youth, and now some fickle and bored deity wished to show me what it was truly like to wander lost. Maybe the goatherds and their goats had been favored in some manner, after all.
We sailed closer to the southern shore; and, just before the sun set, spied the inlet of a stream coming off the mountains. We pushed our craft ashore and built a small fire for the night. Cudro was despondent: he wandered from camp, and Ash followed him. Gaston and I set about roasting the goat meat since we had no more salt to preserve it. Chris and Pete sat nearby and talked quietly: a thing I found quite odd, but decided not to comment on as they were at least getting on well. My matelot and I companionably took turns stoking the fire and sleeping.
As the dawn broke, we found Cudro and Ash had returned, and both looked quite a bit happier with life. Pete and Chris had apparently slept nearby, and near one another. They did not appear as happy as Cudro and his apparently restored matelot, and I would have been both aghast and agog if they had. It did bode well for Pete possibly considering aiding in the ruse of disguising Chris on Cow Island by pretending to be his matelot, though.
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