“That is a thing we should have perhaps thought of before we hailed them,” I said with sour amusement.
“So are we,” Captain Donovan called. “We came here first in search of victuals. We’ve been tradin’ with the Spaniards along this coast fer years. Call it a private hen’s nest, iffn’ ya will. Thought we’d gather some food an’ rum an’ sell it on Cow Island while they be waitin’ to sail. But we got in a bad storm an’ took some damage. Been careenin’ here since.”
“Tell them we had a problem with a bit of debt on Tortuga,” I hissed to Cudro, “and we ended up sailing east to avoid trouble.”
“We were planning to sail with the French from Tortuga,” Cudro told the shore, “but we had a bit of trouble there and had to sail a little early—and in the wrong direction.” He gave an embarrassed and disarming chuckle that carried across the water.
“Well met, then,” Donovan said. “Yur welcome to our camp. An iffn’ we got the room, yur welcome ta join us ta Cow Island. Though we would be expectin’ coin if ya need food and rum.”
“Of course,” Cudro called. He looked back to our craft and whispered, “It’s now or never.”
“Aye,” I sighed and took the loaded pistols Gaston handed me.
There were nods all around.
“We’ll accept your hospitality, then,” Cudro called out.
“How many o’ ya are there?” Donovan asked with worry.
I could hear the hissing of men arguing near him.
“Six,” Cudro said.
There was laughter from shore.
“Who ya got with ya? Any that be known?” Donovan asked.
“My matelot, Ash, Pete the Pitiless, Lord Will, Gaston the Ghoul, and his cousin… Chris Sable,” Cudro called out after some hesitation.
There was silence on the shore for a moment, followed by a great deal of hissed conversation.
“Well, they recognized our names,” I said. “And what is this Lord Will business?”
“That’s what people call you,” Ash said. “Behind your back.” I could see the glint of his grinning teeth in the moonlight.
“Lovely,” I sighed with amusement. I vaguely recalled something of that sort, but it had been so long since I need worry about such things, I had put it from my mind quite happily.
“ChrisDon’SpeakEnglish,” Pete said quietly.
Chris regarded him with surprise.
Pete met his gaze. “TrustMe. BetterIfYaDon’t TalkMuchAnyway. YaBeAFrenchNoble.”
“Am I your matelot?” Chris asked with equal parts concern and warning.
“Aye, aye,” Pete assured him, “ButTaCover FerYaNa’Bein’ Like Striker, I’llBeSayin’ SomeThings—InEnglish—ThatYaMay Na’LikeHearin’. NoBlushin’ OrSnortin’ OrArguin’Like YaKnewWhatISaid.”
“All right,” Chris said with an assured nod. “I have played this game before. I used to pretend I could not speak French while visiting my Aunt. That is how I learned a number of things from the servants.”
“Good. ThatBeWhat WeWant’EreToo.”
We rowed the rest of the way to shore and quickly found ourselves surrounded, at a discreet distance, by a dozen men. A lanky, disheveled man with an eye patch and tricorn hat stepped forward and introduced himself as Donovan.
“Ya be Pete all right,” a burly man said to the Golden One. “Where’s yur matelot?”
“With’IsWife,” Pete said.
There were grimaces, groans, and then laughter all around.
Donovan and a bald man whose face was contorted with skepticism eyed Gaston and me.
“Ya truly be Lord Will?” Donovan asked.
“Aye, I am.” I bowed and met their gazes levelly. “Why such concern?”
They looked to one another and seemed to reach some accord.
“Morgan be lookin’ fer ya,” Donovan said.
I was not sure if I was surprised or not. “When did you learn of that?” I asked.
“It be all o’er Port Royal this spring,” Donovan said. “He were askin’ men ta go and fetch you and the Virgin Queen from Tortuga. Said ’e ’eard ya be there from the French. Said ’e did na’ wish ta sail without ya.”
“Did he say why?” I asked. It was nearly a pointless question: Morgan would surely never tell the buccaneer rabble why he wished to do anything. He viewed them as the Roman mob, a force to be controlled and wielded at his discretion.
“He says ya speak Spaniard like a noble, an’ ’e needs ya ta make ’im sound like a noble to the Spaniards,” Donovan said.
That sounded like a thing Morgan would say: and it even sounded like a plausible reason for him to want me with them while raiding—if one knew nothing of how I had departed Jamaica; of my father’s meddling with Governor Modyford; or of Morgan’s wish for me to help control the French.
The bald man next to Donovan was looking away in a dissembling manner.
“Did he offer a reward?” I asked, and was rewarded when the bald man flinched with surprise.
Donovan scratched his head and appeared sheepish. “Twenty-five pieces above a man’s share fer any who brought ya to ’im.”
“Such a sum,” I said with a feigned appreciative whistle.
Beside and behind me, Gaston and my comrades were tense and quiet.
“And from any treasure gained and not his pocket?” I asked.
Donovan and some of his men nodded and grimaced.
It was interesting: if Morgan had truly wished to have me captured, he would have simply placed a price upon my head and promised to pay it from his own purse. But nay, he was offering to allot money from the shared treasure; as if by assuring or acquiring my services, someone was performing a notable service for the entire raiding endeavor. Money above a share was a thing paid for an act of bravery or in recompense for the expertise of a fine surgeon or pilot. And I felt that if Donovan and his crew truly thought Morgan’s request was against my best interests, they would have been attempting to over-power us and truss me up like cargo so that I could not escape. Instead, they were standing about looking a trifle guilty for even considering receiving additional money.
“Well,” I said cheerfully. “I will be happy to assist Morgan with his translation needs while raiding—as I always have; and to fight and serve as a good man in the fleet. And I am flattered he has offered money for my safe arrival; but, we were hoping to sail with an old friend of Gaston’s, Pierrot. And, since we have found ourselves in such odd straits in this strange land—on such a little boat—I am willing to give you what money we have in exchange for our passage to Cow Island. It is not the noble sum I could offer if we were anywhere near our gold,” I sighed and shrugged expansively. “Our fortune is on the Virgin Queen and bound for France as we speak—but it is hard silver; and you can have it in your hand tonight to divide as you choose: if you will agree to take us to Pierrot on Cow Island.”
Donovan and his men appeared quite pleased. I prayed my companions would keep surprise and dismay from their faces. Of course, with this plan, we ran the risk of Donovan’s men attempting to rob us if they thought we carried a great deal of gold; and in truth, we carried more than they could possibly make raiding with Morgan—unless of course he actually managed to take Cartagena or some such unbelievably wealthy Spanish prize. However, I thought we would risk more if they thought they needed to capture us to insure Morgan’s reward.
I glanced to Gaston, and found him calmly pulling a coin purse from our bags. I suppressed a smile. The purse he had selected was his, and carried the money he used when in the market. Our cache of gold to hire Pierrot or another French captain was hidden away in Gaston’s medical bag.
My matelot spilled the purse into his hand with a grimace. I saw a few glints of gold amongst the pieces of eight and other silver coins in the moonlight. I guessed the amount we were offering to be worth over ten pounds. It was not a princely sum, but a damn fine payment for these men to take us to a place they were going anyway. Gaston made subtle show of being reluctant to part with it as he
stuffed the coin back in the bag and handed it to me. I tossed the bag to Donovan, and he and the bald man smiled happily.
They gleefully offered us rum and fish stew. Then we sat in a cluster and ate and passed a bottle while they huddled beneath a torch and counted the purse.
“How much money did you give them?” Chris asked quietly—in French.
I told him.
“Do you have more money?” Chris asked—very quietly.
At my nod, he nodded. “I have more money than you gave them.” He frowned. “Will it be needed?”
I grinned. “Their ship is probably worth two hundred or so pounds. When Morgan raided last, each man gained a share amounting to around fifty pounds. So you see, it is quite the sum we have given them for this purpose.”
Cudro was chuckling. “Oui, it will either keep them off our backs or at our throats, depending on how honest they are.”
“Aye,” I sighed. “I thought of that, but I thought this best.”
Pete was frowning at us. Chris translated for him.
“We’llBeSleepin’ InWatchesAnyway,” he said and took a good pull of rum.
“Aye,” Cudro said in English, “and I agree with you, Will. This way they should feel we hired them, and they’re working for us and not Morgan.”
“That is my hope,” I said.
“I am not pleased Morgan is seeking you,” Gaston said.
There were sighs all around.
“Neither am I.” I told them of my reasoning concerning that matter, and ended with, “and apparently he knew well where we were.”
“And he did not send men, nor did your father,” Cudro said.
“Aye, perhaps my father has given up. I do not know.” I shrugged. “At least we now know Morgan is truly gathering the Brethren on Cow Island—and that there are Frenchmen among them. We will have to question Donovan as to the ships anchored there.”
“What if your father has abandoned his attacks against you?” Chris asked. “Could you forgive him, as Gaston did his father?”
It was an astute question, yet it served more to remind me of how many conversations on this subject Chris had not heard—and that I had not told him fully of the abuse I suffered while abducted. Yet, what was that compared to Gaston’s mistreatment by his father over many long years—and the flogging? My father had never actually laid a hand upon me. Perhaps if he had, I might respect him more.
I felt Gaston’s gaze upon me, and I turned to meet it. His regard spoke of his not caring how I answered.
I looked back to Chris and spoke with annoyance. “It would take a bloody miracle. I will admit: strange things can happen; but I do not find it in my heart to forgive him. Whereas, Gaston had forgiven his father before his father came to him to make amends. And,” I continued with less rancor, “my father is a very different kind of man than Gaston’s.”
“And Will never gave his father cause,” Gaston added.
“And why do you ask this now?” I queried.
Chris sighed thoughtfully. “It appears our respite is over. I was contemplating what we were truly about with this voyage.”
Pete had pestered Cudro into translating for him, and he regarded his new matelot with a frown. “ThereJustBeThings ThatNeedBeDone.”
“I came here to kill Gaston for what he did to me,” Chris whispered in French. “I… let it go.”
I noted that he did not say he forgave my matelot.
I stifled much of what I would say on that: we had already discussed that matter; or so I thought. Instead, I asked, “Why should you care if my father lives or dies? Or do you have another reason for questioning the intended goal of this voyage? A voyage, I might add, that you were not invited on.”
“Oui, oui, oui,” he said with annoyance. “All right, then: I do not wish to go to England.”
I snorted at his hubris. “Well, we shall see how you feel on that matter after a week of sailing with these fine men.”
“I do not know if I wish to do that, either,” Chris said sharply. “And oui, I am well aware I have no say in the matter.” He stood and walked to the edge of the forest to stand and stare into the darkness.
“He is nothing but trouble,” I growled in English.
Cudro was finishing translating for Pete, who was glaring at Chris over his shoulder, and then at me, and then at Donovan and his men, and then at the heavens. He finally returned his gaze to me and growled, “IDidna’AskFer’Im.”
“I am not blaming you,” I said.
Pete cursed quietly. “I’dGoAn’YellAt’Im, ButThatWouldMake It Difficult ToTellTheseBastards ’EDon’SpeakEnglish.”
I snorted. “Aye, and I would go and yell at him, but that would make it difficult to tell these bastards he is your matelot.”
“Well, I’m not going to go and yell at him,” Ash said with an amused shrug and another pull on the rum bottle.
“He’s Gaston’s cousin,” Cudro offered while pretending to be very interested in the sharing out of the booty Donovan was doing.
I looked to Gaston and he shrugged. “What needs be said?” he asked with mild amusement. “He is unhappy about where we will be going. What is wrong with that? If any of us were truly happy about sailing into peril we would be mad. I am not mad—at the moment. So why are you two angry with him?”
Pete leaned forward and glowered at Gaston. “ILike’Im. ButI’llBe DamnedIf I’llBeHitched ToACartWith Another DamnIdiot IMustAlways ArgueWith.”
I could not suppress my amusement. “Well then, you are damned; and I suggest you learn French.”
Pete swore and snatched the bottle from Ash. He took a long pull, glared over his shoulder at Chris, started to stand—and stayed with us. He pushed his legs out and leaned his back on the fallen log Gaston and I were using as a seat.
“A weak matelot is not worth anything,” Gaston said.
“YouTwoDon’t ArgueAllTheTime,” Pete grumbled and heaved a resigned sigh toward the heavens.
Gaston and I regarded one another. I could see him considering the question as I was. It was true, we did not argue like Pete and Striker had.
“We talk,” Gaston told Pete.
“Aye,” I said. “We discuss everything and decide on the best course of action. And if one of us does not like it… We put… the cart before our Horses.”
My matelot laughed. “Our Horses like it that way.”
“What does that mean?” Ash asked.
Donovan and his men were joining us with happy smiles and wary eyes.
“I will explain later,” I told Ash.
“Well, let us tell ya who we be,” Donovan said. “I be Captain Donovan. This ’ere be me quartermaster, Harry the Hairless,” he pointed, of course, to the bald man.
He then proceeded to point at each of the remaining ten men and give a name and position on the ship. Thus we learned their cook was a wizened old fellow by the name of Stinky, and their carpenter was a hawk-beaked and tall fellow who went by the name of name of Rodent. The rest were counted as able-bodied seaman and held no title as pertained to their vessel. They all possessed some form of moniker, though, above and beyond their names: thus we met a heavily-scarred man called Cutlass Corky who was famous for taking a particular Spanish ship—Cudro and Pete had actually heard the story; a short and stocky man they called the Colonel who had served in the English Army—and killed an officer, purportedly by accident; and a handsome fellow they called Great Prick, or just Prick for short. This fine gentleman happily dropped his breeches in explanation, and we toasted his enormity and admitted his name was indeed apt. And as Rodent was his matelot, we toasted his good fortune as well.
Once we had finished their introductions, I understood that anyone sailing with Donovan and his men should best enjoy having a moniker. This was apparently not to tell one Harry from another or disguise a man’s Old World identity—the reasons many of the Brethren had pet names—but because Donovan took great delight in them. Their introductions had included anecdotes of why the man in questio
n was named as he was, and how soon after meeting Donovan he had received his new title.
Then it was our turn. Cudro had already told them our names, to the extent it cost us a purse, but now we were expected to introduce ourselves and say some little thing as they had done. After all the social occasions I had introduced myself at over the years, I found myself dreading this turn before the crowd. I could not understand why. I wished to think on it, but there was too much nodding and smiling to be done. So I looked to the others, and found them looking to me.
Chris had thankfully rejoined us, and Cudro and I had made much of translating all that was said so that he could smile politely or laugh at some joke. I had to admit, Chris was quite accomplished at the game. He did not betray his knowledge of English in the slightest, even after he began to sip the rum. Now, however, he appeared quite panicked.
Pete, normally a truly bombastic individual at such occasions—though nowhere near the showman Striker was—appeared deep in the rum and yet still angry about something—Chris, I supposed.
Gaston was relying on me, as he ever did in these situations due to his reticent personality and broken voice.
And Cudro seemed reluctant to take the lead for some baffling reason. And Ash was obviously deferring to his matelot—the Captain Cudro.
I felt like a forest creature surprised by a lantern as I looked about the fire lit circle of glassy eyes and tight grins.
“Come now, we already know who ya be,” Donovan cajoled.
Nay, he did not, my Horse thought with curious stubbornness; and I realized that was my concern: I was not who these men thought, and I did not know if I wished to portray myself with truth or a lie. Nay, I did not wish to lie.
I stood, brandished the bottle, and took a preparatory swig. “Well, Cudro introduced me as Lord Will when we arrived, but that is not a name I have chosen amongst the Brethren. It is a moniker bestowed upon me due to an accident of my birth.”
They laughed at this, and I relaxed into their regard.
“I am no longer a lord,” I continued. “And I truly no longer wish to be associated with the facts of my birth. I prefer to go simply by the name of Will, as that is the name my matelot bestowed upon me. But after hearing your fine names… I find myself wishing for something a little more colorful and representative of my nature. But as I have not had occasion to give it thought, I do not know what that will be as of yet.”
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