Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  Then she gasped and sighed and my prick raised his sated head with curiosity.

  “Oh Lady Venus,” I intoned, “please allow us to remember who are matelots are so that there is no need for anyone to be stabbed in the dark.”

  There was laughter all around, but the night was indeed soon filled with sighs and grunts as partners touched one another; and the heat rose as we were roused by those sounds and the curious and furtive pressings of a limb here and a back there as our comrades engaged in things carnal. In the end, I was sure Gaston was quite warm, and all seemed right with the world. I took time to thank the Gods for Their largesse in giving us mountains to climb in order to reveal vistas we needed to see: in order to know where our lives might lead.

  Once Hundred and Six

  Wherein We Accept New Titles

  I woke to Gaston coughing, and followed him from the boat out into the grey, predawn light. He was hot to the touch: not overly so, but warmer than he should have been.

  “No more playing in the rain,” I chided when he finished hacking up a wad of green mucus.

  He laughed until it brought him to cough again. Then he sighed at my worried gaze. “Perhaps you should beat me,” he said quietly.

  “Only if it will help you cough more putrescence from your lungs.”

  He smiled grimly. “I will not die from this.”

  I knew he wished to reassure me, but I felt he was telling the Gods. I looked heavenward. “Dear Gods, please speed his recovery.”

  He regarded me with solemn love until he shivered, and then worry rippled across his features only to be replaced by the grim smile again.

  “We need to keep you warm,” I said.

  “Oui. I keep thinking how much I would like to wrap myself in our blanket, but I see it hanging there on the boat, still damp.”

  I went to embrace him, and he flinched at the touch of my clammy skin. He held me tightly, though.

  “Since we are not in a hurry,” I said, “and none of us enjoy being at sea in the rain in that little craft, let us talk to the others about coming ashore everyday if it looks like it will storm.”

  He sighed. “On one hand, I agree: we are not in a hurry; but on the other hand, I wish to reach Île de la Vache as soon as possible. I keep thinking it will be safe there and I can rest; but I suppose that is an illusion. We know not what we will face there.”

  I held him tighter. “I wish we could find a safe place to rest here, on this island, but I do not feel that is possible.”

  There was movement from the boat, and we turned to see Chris crawling out into the dim light. He was naked save for the bandages around his breasts, and they had obviously been dislodged. He saw us and flushed crimson.

  “We are all wet and naked,” I assured him kindly. “There is no shame.”

  He shook his head and sighed before approaching with his wet clothes bundled before his chest so that they hung down and hid his crotch. His gaze flicked down the length of our chaste embrace and quickly away again.

  “I am a wanton trollop,” he muttered.

  I chuckled. “Non. You would have been a wanton trollop if you had spread your thighs and invited us all to dip our wicks. Last night we were all just men finding their pleasure in the company of other men.”

  “I did not do that even for Pete,” he snapped. Then he sighed and studied the sand and then the horizon with a troubled frown. “And what are we this morning?”

  “Men trying to stay warm before the sun rises,” I said with amusement. “Gaston is still feverish.”

  “Oh.” Chris regarded my matelot with alarm.

  “We would don our clothes, but they are wet and will merely make things worse. You might wish to dress and rouse the others so that we can sail.”

  “I need to rebind my breasts,” he sighed. “I was hoping you could assist me.”

  “Ask your matelot.”

  He met my gaze levelly and sighed with annoyance. “He will not be of any use in hiding them away again.”

  I chuckled. “Well, as it is not likely we will encounter any we must hide you from for weeks yet, you might as well leave them out.”

  He snorted and muttered, “You do not walk about with your cock bouncing with every step you take,” before retreating into the brush.

  “My cock does not bounce quite so much as your bosom, I think,” I called after him.

  Gaston was chuckling very quietly into my shoulder. “Days go by when I do not consider him to be anything other than what we wish to present him as,” he whispered, “and then, there will be a moment when I regard him and think, but wait, that is my… cousin.”

  I looked between us and found him as flaccid as I.

  He snorted disparagingly. “Recalling he is my cousin is not enough to make me rise,” he teased.

  “What about his naked breasts bobbing with every step, or Pete fondling them?”

  He frowned with thought. “Now that…” He grinned and pressed a kiss to my lips.

  “Me too,” I whispered.

  We laughed.

  We roused the others and sent Pete to assist his matelot; which, while amusing in concept, proved to slow our departure considerably when they did not return from the brush for some time. We used the delay to build a small fire and heat some of the remaining goat so that Gaston received warm food. We also discussed our daily regimen in light of the storms, and Cudro heartily agreed to coming ashore every afternoon.

  Chris’ breasts were safely hidden when at last he and Pete emerged. The Golden One awarded us a fox’s grin when we complained of the delay.

  “It should not happen again,” Chris explained as we pushed the boat into the surf. “We came upon a new way to wrap them so that they need not be unwrapped in order to…” He looked to Cudro and Ash who were regarding him with consternation and flushed furiously. “Never mind.”

  We set sail to Pete’s gleeful cackling.

  While waiting, we had also discussed our course. As we had food and water, and thought we could make good time with the morning winds, Cudro aimed us across the bay toward the other peninsula to the southeast. We prayed we were past the Spanish, and hoped our destination would show us a less jagged coastline to the south.

  We laid our clothes out to dry, exercised, and talked of nothing of import—or carnal—and Chris calmed even though most of us were lounging about naked. Gaston sprawled in the bow and drank up the sun. As he baked, his cough abated and his fever cooled. Finally warm enough, he wrapped himself in our mostly-dry blanket and came to join the rest of us toward the stern.

  I had noticed Chris watching my matelot during the morning; now, he possessed a serious mien and scooted closer when Gaston sat next to me.

  “I have a question,” Chris told my man.

  Gaston shrugged.

  “How did you come by those scars?” Chris asked; only to quickly add. “I do not mean to intrude, but seeing them again today, I was reminded of things I heard at your father’s house. If you do not wish to discuss it, I understand. Pete says he will not tell me. I do not know how many people here know. I…”

  “I will tell you,” Gaston said simply, surprising me and everyone else.

  I could not even recall who knew what; though I doubted Pete truly knew everything, or that Cudro and Ash knew much of anything.

  Gaston told Chris about the night of his sister’s death, only omitting the act of incest—a thing we had somehow decided would never be mentioned to others, though I could not recall making any pact about the matter.

  “What did you hear at my father’s?” Gaston asked when he finished.

  Chris was very serious, and huddled in on himself with his arms about his knees. “No details, but the servants all whispered about the madness.” She grimaced. “They saw… the girl’s red hair and… Well, I had to do much to entice my chambermaid to tell me the truth of what was being said. They assumed the girl would be mad because she had red hair and green eyes. But they—in the manner of the uneducated and ov
erly-pious—do not understand madness as an ailment: they perceive it as a thing of evil. Even before she was born I kept finding crosses in my things, and little charms and other tokens. The superstitious fools believe your mother was possessed, and you… and your sister; and that your father is cursed because he married your mother.”

  He looked to Gaston. “They do say you killed your sister; and that your father sent you away for it; but they mentioned nothing of the flogging or… They all seem to feel sorry for him. They adore him, but they feel he is cursed. They say that is why your half-brothers died.”

  Gaston had remained quite stoic throughout his recounting and Chris’ words. He sighed and shrugged. “It is no wonder the Church has made such claims, then.”

  Chris shook his head. “It is odd. The local priest made no intimation of anything of that nature. He spoke of your poor mother’s madness, and even disparaged the servants’ superstitions. I think, based upon what I heard from my uncle, that the problems with the Church are all political. Not that it matters now.” He met Gaston’s gaze and nodded tightly. “Thank you for telling me.”

  Gaston sighed and nodded. “My father is a good man. Please do not ever think poorly of him for what he did to me. He… is a creature of strong emotions, as I am. And he… puts love before all else.”

  Chris buried his face in his hands. “I did not understand. I just did not understand.”

  I did not know if his words were explanation or apology; and if either, for what.

  Awkward silence descended upon us. There was no weeping—from anyone—just a vast sense of tragedy. I took my man’s hand and he squeezed it tightly. Pete rubbed his new matelot’s shoulders. Cudro and Ash appeared thoughtful and withdrawn.

  We sailed on. There was a Spanish presence at the end of the eastern peninsula. They apparently maintained a lighthouse there. Thankfully, it was easy enough for us to see at a good distance, and we were able to go ashore for the afternoon storm and then round the point in the night: with the Spanish light to help us navigate.

  South of the point, the land thankfully turned south and west. We took to sailing even closer to the shore than we had been, in order to be able to put our craft on the beach and hide it should we see sign of a Spanish vessel. It rained every afternoon, and we spent every afternoon and evening ashore. Thankfully, the moon was with us, and we were able to set sail every night once the sky cleared—and thus cover a little more distance than we would have been able to if we had only sailed in the mornings when it was bright and clear; but the moon would not last.

  I did not feel that any of us were unduly worried about going slower, though. Gaston was on the mend again. Everyone was sated carnally and thus spirits were good. All seemed right with the world, and it was only the end of July. We thought the buccaneers would gather on Cow Island throughout the fall, and not sail until after the storm season; and if they were not there, so be it: we would find another way to England. Our only concern was victuals, but even that was being seen to by fishing as we sailed in shallow water.

  Two days after rounding the eastern point, the damn land turned due west. We sailed along the rocky shore for an hour or so with the sun overhead and clouds chasing in from the east. As far as we could see ahead of us, a mountain rose to starboard and open sea spread to the south.

  I asked, “So, was that the south-easternmost point of the island? Do we now need to worry about sailing at sea to avoid the Spanish heart of this annoying lump of land?”

  Cudro, who had been very quiet after our turn west, snorted disparagingly. “Nay, it cannot be. The southeastern point is low and rolling, with heavy forests and plantations. And there is an island off the shore—a large one—the size of Tortuga—that we should have been able to see by now. We should be deciding whether to risk sailing between it and Hispaniola, or sailing around it.”

  “Well,” I said, “I do not know whether I should hate this place or love it.”

  “Why is that?” Chris asked with a heavy sigh. “I surely hate it.”

  “Do you?” I teased. “Think, if we had been able to quickly sail to Cow Island, would you have resolved things with Pete as you have?”

  Pete snorted. “Naw.”

  “And… Well, Gaston and I do not know what we will face in England, so perhaps this time together is a blessing.”

  My matelot stiffened and frowned, and I regretted my choice of words.

  “I do not mean to imply that we shall die,” I said quickly. “I only meant that perhaps this has been a pleasant respite between storms in our lives.”

  Gaston sighed. “Then the longer the Gods offer us respite here, the worse we should expect England to be?” he asked with a modicum of humor.

  I smiled grimly. “Well, I was merely trying to find some good in our odyssey.”

  “Nay,” Chris said. “It is likely we have angered some God.”

  “Aye, we should consult an augury,” I said.

  “It is a shame you are not blessed with prophetic dreams,” Gaston teased.

  “Aye, some holy man I am,” I sighed.

  “LearnTaRead FishEntrails,” Pete said with a grin.

  That evening, the storm was brief and more thunder than rain. We slept beneath the hull of our overturned craft anyway. I dreamed of the skirl of pipes; and when I woke, I was haunted by them: little snatches of melodic sound floating on the breeze. I crawled into the open air and stood straining to hear more. The sound echoed off the mountain, and I felt called to pursue it; but the forest was dark and forbidding, and I knew not if I wished to come upon playful satyrs entertaining mermaids in some cove.

  “YaHearThat?” Pete asked from the shadows, and I nearly jumped from my skin.

  “Aye,” I hissed. “Pipes?” I regarded him with a heady mix of hope and skepticism.

  “Aye,” he said. “AndAFiddle.”

  I had been mired in thoughts of a fantastical nature, and not imagined a fiddle, but I supposed some of the notes I had heard could have been produced by one.

  “You think it real?” I asked.

  He regarded me as if I were daft. “ItSoundsLike Ship’sMusic.”

  We roused the others without further discussion. With the sound of us breathing, grumbling, and huffing to turn our craft upright, none of us could hear the lonesome notes, but thankfully, our companions did not argue. We eased our craft onto the moonlit waves and began to glide west with all eyes peering into the darkness.

  The wind was coming in fitful gusts from the east, but there was the occasional riff of breeze from the land. We had been on the water for less than half an hour when I heard the notes again. I was not the only one: six heads turned toward the sound.

  We continued to sail west, since that was easiest, but we could not be sure if we were sailing toward the music or away from it, as it still seemed to echo off the mountain.

  “Whoever it is, they’re on shore,” Cudro said. “And that’s an old French piece.”

  “It could still be Spaniards,” Gaston said quietly.

  “Aye, aye,” Cudro agreed. “But I’ve a hunch it’s not.”

  Thankfully as we sailed west, the music became louder and we heard longer sections. There was definitely a fiddle and a pipe—and singing; though we could not make out the words and thus the language. And then we saw the glimmer of fire upon the shore. It was there for a moment, and then it was gone. Then there was only surf crashing on rocks as we neared an outcropping. We sailed around it, and were delighted to see the wink of fire and hear the call of music once we were to the lee of it. We quickly struck our sail so that it did not give away our position by reflecting the moonlight. Then we rowed into the cove far enough to not be battered by the surf.

  There were indeed men upon the beach; and they were playing and dancing in the firelight; and they were singing English songs. They were at the back of a nice cove. There was no vessel upon the water, but there was a dark hulk on the wide beach near the fire.

  “They’re careening,” Cudro said
.

  “On this side of Hispaniola?” Gaston asked with incredulity. “That is not very safe.”

  “There’s rocks all about. The Spanish couldn’t get a big craft in here,” Cudro said. “And they wouldn’t be sailing at night. Maybe they needed repairs. I don’t know.”

  I could hear hope in his voice. I knew there would be concern and fear in mine.

  “So, what do we do?” Chris asked.

  We looked to one another in the moonlight.

  “I say we hail them and find out who they are,” Cudro said. “If they aren’t friendly, we can sail out before they can even see us. They can’t see us in the dark, and their ship is beached. And even if they try to chase us in canoes, we can fire on them.”

  “WeGotDry PowderAgin,” Pete muttered and began loading his musket.

  Gaston was loading our pistols.

  I sighed. “I feel a great lack of trust.”

  “ThereDon’tSeem TaBeAlotOfThem,” Pete said with a guarded tone. Then I could hear him smile. “WeBeMoreDangerous.”

  “We might as well discover who they are and why they are here,” Gaston said with a hopeful tone. “At the very least, they might allow us to look at their charts.”

  “Aye,” Cudro said firmly.

  “All right, then,” I said.

  Cudro waited until the current tune ended and then he called out, “Ahoy there!” with his magnificent booming voice.

  There was a great deal of scrambling and surprised yelling on the beach as they dove away from their fire and found their weapons.

  “We are Brethren of the Coast,” Cudro boomed. “Who are you?”

  “The same,” a man yelled in English. “I be Captain Donovan of the Fortune. Who the Devil do you be?”

  “Captain Cudro.” Our Dutchman said with a laugh. “I am without a ship at the moment.”

  “Cudro? Did ya na’ sail with Striker? What the Devil are ya doin’ out in the water?” Captain Donovan yelled with amusement. “Ya alone?”

  “Aye, I sailed with Striker—owned the Virgin Queen with him. And nay, I am not alone. We are sailing to Cow Island.” Cudro turned and whispered to me, “What do we say about the French? They will ask how we came to be here.”