Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  “You don’t get to name yourself,” Donovan said.

  “Will the Solicitor,” the Colonel said. “’E talks like one.”

  “Ulysses,” Chris said with his best male voice—after Cudro finished translating for him.

  I regarded him sharply and spoke French. “Non, I have used that before: never again.”

  He shrugged and replied, “I thought it appropriate.”

  “Herakles,” Gaston said. “You are no longer Odysseus, you are now Herakles.”

  “What’d’EDo?” Pete asked. “NoWait, Ain’t’EAConstellation? ThenThere’sThatOtherOne, Oriun.”

  “Herakles—or Hercules as the Romans called him—is the son of Zeus by way of one of Zeus’ many mistresses. This angered Zeus’ wife, Hera, and she tormented Herakles throughout his life, making him perform many great labors to assuage her,” Gaston said.

  Donovan and his men had grown quiet, and thus they heard my man well enough, but once he finished, they erupted with a question asked by several mouths. Their captain waved them quiet and asked it succinctly with great amusement. “I’ve heard of this Hercules, but what has your man done to deserve such a title? What great labors has ’e performed? And wasn’t this Hercules renowned for ’is strength?”

  “Well, I am not renowned for my strength,” I said.

  “Nay, but for your constitution, aye,” Gaston said. “I have never met a harder man to kill.”

  “IDon’KnowNothing O’ThisHerakles GreatLabors, ButIKnowWill,” Pete said loudly with a grin that could scare any pack of wolves. “’E GotTwoWomin PregnantWithout Lyin’WithEitherO’’Em, An’’EGoesOff Ta FightWolvesThe WholeWorld BeScaredOv. ’EDon’ShootMen InThe’Ead, Naw, ’EShoots’EmInTheEye. ’EToreTheEyesOutta TheLast ManThat’Ad ’EmChainedAn’Beaten. An’ETookThe MaddestManI E’erMet As’IsMatelot, An’Made’ImSane. CaymanCan’tEvenKill’Im, An’Morgan BeAfraidO’’Im.”

  “And that is all God’s honest truth,” Cudro said and toasted me with a bottle.

  I laughed, because… well, it was true, and when a man is praised in that way he had best accept it graciously.

  The rest of the men were laughing as well, and Donovan called out, “Well Hercules Will it is then, an’ we best be hearin’ these tales as we sail.”

  “Well, if I am Hercules, then this is his stalwart companion and teacher, the great physician, Chiron the Centaur.” I pointed at Gaston.

  “What be a centaur?” one of the men asked.

  “HalfMan HalfHorse,” Pete said.

  “That does sound better than Gaston the Ghoul,” Stinky the cook said. “No one wants a surgeon called the ghoul: it just don’t seem right.”

  “Um… I heard he weren’t called the Ghoul on account o’ ’im bein’ a surgeon or physician,” Harry the Hairless said.

  “Nay,” Gaston said, and they quieted to listen. He smiled at them. “I was called the Ghoul because I arranged the bodies of the dead.”

  “Why?” Great Prick asked.

  “Because I was mad,” Gaston said. “But now I am sane because of Hercules here.”

  There were cheers all around.

  Pete stood and pushed me heartily so that I sprawled between Gaston’s legs. “NowSitDown StrongMan. Let’sGetThisFinished.”

  “I laughed. “How much have you had?”

  “Enuff! IBeDrunk EnuffTaDance, An’IWould’Ear SomeMoreO’These FineMen’s Fiddlin’An’Pipin’. IBePeteThe LionHearted. AnybodyWantTa ArgueWithThat? ’CauseIBeDrunk EnuffTaFightToo.”

  No one did, and I was sure there was a Spaniard somewhere along this coast wondering why he heard laughter on the wind.

  “This’EreBe MyNewMatelot,” Pete continued when the mirth abated somewhat. He pointed at Chris.

  “This will be a test,” I whispered quickly to Chris in French.

  “I can see that,” he replied with a worried frown, though he did award Pete a grim smile for our audience. “Does he often get this drunk?”

  “Non, he usually allowed Striker to do the lion’s share of their drinking.” I chuckled.

  “’Ow did a wee lad like that become a buccaneer?” one of the men was asking.

  “How did he become your matelot?” Stinky asked.

  Pete grimaced. “Well, ItBeLikeThis. StrikerGotAWife. SheBeAFineWoman. ButTheBed Na’Be BigEnuffFer TheThreeO’Us.”

  I frowned up at him, wondering how much of that was truth and how much bluster.

  He ignored me. “IWereNa’Lookin’ FerAnotherMatelot, ButThis’Ere BeGaston’sCousin, JustOffThe ShipFromFrance. ’EDon’EvenSpeak ProperEnglish.”

  “Neither do you,” Cudro rumbled.

  Pete walked over and kicked at him until Cudro was forced to retreat with a hearty laugh.

  “EnuffO’That. SoGastonAskedMe Ta’ElpLook After’ImSome, Teach’ImA ThingOrTwo, Teach’ImThe WayO’TheCoast.” Pete’s leer left no mistake as to his meaning. “SoIDid, An’IFoundThat Na’OnlyCanThe LittleBuggerShoot, ’E’sGotManyAFine TalentAMan LikeMeCan Appreciate.”

  In the midst of my sincere mirth at his quite convincing tale—truly, everyone present was bent over with tears in their eyes—I hazarded a glance at Chris who sat behind me with Gaston who was dutifully translating all Pete said. I was not sure what was more amusing: my matelot’s diplomatic actual translation of Pete’s innuendos, or Chris’ laughter—which might have been engendered by the same.

  Chris awarded Pete a very erect middle finger, and the Golden One’s face broke into a truly happy smile and he pounced upon his matelot. I was very pleased when said matelot tumbled off the log with an almost masculine grunt and did not squeal like a girl. The kiss Pete bestowed upon him, and Chris’ response, gave me pause and my cock rise.

  “What is he called?” someone was yelling.

  “The Brisket?” Gaston gasped with amusement.

  “Non, non,” I said quickly, “I will not be explaining that.”

  “We’ve just been calling him Chris,” Cudro supplied.

  “’Ow about Pete’s Cub,” Donovan suggested enthusiastically.

  “Aye, ILikeThat!” Pete came up for air to shout. “ThisBeMyCub.” He pulled himself to his knees and leaned on the log. “Now, ThatBeCudro An’’IsCub, Ash. WhyYaBeCalledThat?” he asked Cudro. “KeepItShort,” he added.

  Cudro stopped laughing and attempted to compose himself. “Well, the first raid I went on, I was told to go and find all the valuables in a plantation house. While other members of the crew were tearing apart jewelry boxes and sideboards, I found a room with paintings—fairly good ones from what I could see—and I thought I had found great treasure. I began to collect it all, only to be attacked by the housekeeper. She was screaming at me about the “cuadro”—the pictures. She tried to stab me and I shot her. Then, of course, I emerged with my treasure and got laughed at by the entire crew. They had no interest in art. My captain teased me for being a true idiot to shoot an old woman over a stack of worthless paintings, and the crew began to tease me by yelling, Cuadro, Cuadro, whenever I came near. It got shortened and stuck.”

  “ThatWeren’tShort, ButItWere AFineStory,” Pete said with a loud guffaw.

  All agreed that Cudro’s name was very fine indeed, and then all eyes turned to Ash.

  He was busy laughing at his matelot, as he had apparently not heard the tale, either. He sobered when he realized it was his turn, but he took the bottle and stood to salute everyone. “I am Ash. It doesn’t mean anything. It is truly my surname. I do not feel I have done anything to warrant a fine buccaneer name—or even a bad one.”

  I thought of all I knew of Ash. He was a gentleman. Hs father was a planter. He had come to sail with the Brethren rather than be sent off to England to study the law. I laughed. “He chose to be a buccaneer rather than study the law,” I said. “Make of that what you will.”

  “I would say that makes him an honest man,” Donovan said. “Honest Ash.”

  Ash bowed and laughed.

  “Enuff!” Pete bellowed. “Let’sDance! Lessin�
��YaAll BeTooTired…”

  There was much guffawing at that and their musicians struck up a lively tune. To my further amusement, Pete then dragged Chris into the circle near the fire and taught him to dance a jig.

  I abandoned all hope of garnering any information about the ships already at Cow Island—or anything else of import. It was to be a night of revelry; and I prayed only the Gods heard our cavorting.

  One Hundred and Seven

  Wherein We Cannot Hide from the Beast of Many Heads

  Though we had imbibed enough to make us tipsy, Gaston and I chose to refrain from any additional rum after it became apparent our comrades were quite intent on becoming insensibly drunk. The space around the fire became divided: the men who wished to dance went to the south where they could wade—or fall—into the cooling surf as they needed; and those not inclined to such physical exertion moved to the north, and sat around on logs with their backs to the forest. Gaston and I joined the latter, and I was pleased to note we were not the only ones that chose to eschew the rum. If the Spanish arrived, at least a few men would have the presence of mind to run.

  Amongst those not inclined to dance were Cudro and Donovan. I was pleased when the lanky captain joined us. Despite my earlier concerns that such matters would have to wait, we were able to ask what he had heard of plans for raiding against the Spanish. He reported that Morgan had sent men to Petit-Goave and Cayonne to invite the French.

  “Has he made any announcement as to his target?” I asked.

  “Nay,” Donovan said. “But I only know what I do on account of my bein’ friendly with Captain Norman o’ the Lilly. Norman says Morgan wants a truly big prize. ’E be tellin’ ’is friends this be the last. ’E wants ta be famous fer all time fer it.”

  “You do understand he does not care how many of us die in the process of him becoming famous?” I asked.

  Donovan chuckled. “Is that na’ the way o’ all great men?”

  “The ones written about in the histories, aye,” I said with a smile.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be sailin’ with ’em,” he said. “Me boys an’ I been talkin’. Some o’ us are gettin’ too old fer makin’ war on the Spaniards. There’s good money ta be made tradin’ with ’em. Most times, it’s easier and less dangerous. An’ the truly great treasure taken from the fleets be a thing of the past.”

  “Amen,” Cudro said with a sigh and took another pull on the bottle. “We made more money trading with the Carolina colony this spring than we made raiding Maracaibo last year. And no malaria, and no Spanish blockading harbors, and no torturing people to find their jewelry.”

  “Aye, aye,” Donovan said. Then he frowned. “So why ya be goin’ ta Cow Island?”

  Cudro looked to me. I suppressed a sigh and glanced to Gaston. He shrugged.

  “Gaston and I are pursued by troubles from our former lives,” I said. “There is a matter we must attend to in England, but before we could arrange to go there, we ran afoul of the French.”

  “The Brethren?” Donovan asked with a worried brow.

  “Nay, the Catholic Church,” I said and watched his expression.

  He did not appear to be daunted by the Church. He grimaced comically and took a pull on a bottle. “I hate the damn churches. All o’ ’em.”

  “Those are my sentiments,” I said.

  “So ya be seekin’ Pierrot?” he asked.

  “Aye, to see if he will take us to England,” I said.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “That makes a good deal o’ sense then. Morgan won’t like it none.”

  “I do not live to please the man,” I said.

  Donovan laughed. Then he shrugged. “So ya were runnin’ from the French, an’ that’s why ya be takin’ the long way aroun’ Hispaniola. I were wonderin’.”

  “It has proven to be the longer way,” Cudro said. “How far from the southeastern point are we?”

  Donovan cleared a little space and used a stick to sketch a rectangle with a deep indentation on one end, and a great protrusion on the other. As if someone had take the middle of the island and pushed it east while leaving the top and bottom of the box in place. Then he drew a small island very close to the end of the upper arm of the great U, and another toward the end of the southern arm.

  “That there be Tortuga,” he said and pointed at the upper islet. “An’ that be Cow Island.” He pointed at the lower circle.”

  Cudro had had grown very still and he swore quietly.

  “Where are we now?” I asked with amusement.

  Donovan made a little X on the bottom of a little protrusion of land above the big protrusion. I laughed: we were barely a third of the way around the island. Worse yet, the mountainous peninsula, upon whose southern shore we now sat, was the northern leg of a great deep rectangular bay, that—if we had not heard their piping—we would have sailed into for another several days and been forced to sail out of for the rest of week. And we still had the great hump of land to the east to round.

  “Oh God, Will,” Cudro said. “I am so sorry.”

  Donovan regarded us curiously.

  “We did not steal a chart when we stole the boat,” I said.

  Donovan’s craggy face split into a wide grin. “Ya did na’ know the island? An’ ya be sailin’ about it in a dinghy?”

  Cudro swore. “That dinghy was the best we could steal. And nay I do not know this side of the island. I have never had occasion to sail here. I have sailed all over the damn West Indies, but not here. And most buccaneer ships I’ve been on have not had charts for this or the Porto Rico to the east, or… anything except the passage from Barbados to Jamaica. Every time I’ve seen this damn island on a map, it’s been shown as round.”

  Our new captain was laughing, but he clapped Cudro’s shoulder companionably. “Do na’ curse yourself, man. I’ve never sailed near the Main or Terra Firma. I’d be lost there.”

  Cudro accepted this, but I could see that his self-esteem had taken a serious blow. He hugged a bottle and sat on a log and appeared close to tears.

  “How long to reach Cow Island on your vessel?” I asked.

  “She not be fast, and there be Spaniards to avoid, an’ storms; but if the winds be with us, which they almost always are goin’ west, I say maybe a fortnight and a half,” he said with a shrug.

  “And when will your ship be repaired so that we might sail?” I asked.

  He smiled widely. “We plan ta float ’er tomorrow. That’s what we be celebratin’ tonight.”

  I thanked the Gods for the timing of our arrival. “So, perhaps three weeks to Cow Island, perhaps longer?” I asked. “By the end of August?”

  He nodded amiably. “Then we can all stay put ’til the storm season passes.”

  I suppressed a sigh. I dearly hoped we could convince Pierrot to sail north and away from the storms during the autumn. The truly great tempests were said to work their way up the Florida and Carolina coast, though; but those were supposed to be quite rare.

  The musicians changed their tune, and I saw Chris weaving away from the fire. Pete was still dancing. I excused myself from Donovan and company and went to fetch Chris.

  “I think I will be sick,” he said in a less-than-masculine-sounding voice—and English.

  “I think you are drunk enough to endanger yourself,” I chided and guided him further from the others.

  He promptly appeared alarmed and then sprayed the nearest shrub with vomit.

  “I should lie down now,” he said weakly in the aftermath.

  “After you drink some water.” I led him to the log Gaston still sat upon, and helped him ease down behind it. Then I went to our boat and retrieved our bags. When I returned, I stowed everything behind the log and handed Chris our water skin. He drained it. I took it back and wondered if they had a water barrel; and if so, where?

  Gaston took my hand before I could go in search of it, and pulled me down to sit beside him. He appeared happy and peaceful, but also watchful.

  I sat close an
d kissed his cheek. “How are we?”

  He smiled. “I am well. However, I do not think we will see England before spring—if then.”

  “Do not say that,” I sighed.

  “I will not speak of it, then, but we shall surely live it,” he said with a grin. “And I am well with that in all but one matter.”

  “Our loved ones?” I asked.

  “Oui,” he sighed. “They will not know what we are about, and they will have long to wait. I was thinking that your babes will be born in the spring. I was wondering how big they will be when we finally see them. And Athena will likely be walking before we ever meet her. Jamaica will be two this December.”

  “We will see them next year,” I promised.

  He shook his head. “Not if we cannot guarantee their safety.”

  “Oui, but…”

  He put a finger to my lips. “Oui, this will not kill us; and we will go as slowly as we must so that it does not.”

  “I love you,” I whispered to his finger.

  Pete staggered over. “WhereBe…?” he stopped when he spied Chris lying in the sand behind the log. “NeedTaTeach ’ImTa’Old’IsRum.”

  I was tempted to say that Striker had excelled at that occupation—and look where that had gotten them—but I kept my mouth shut on that facet of the problem and showed another. “When he is drunk, he forgets he does not speak English.”

  “ThatBeA ProblemThen,” Pete sighed; but his mien was forgiving as he eased over the log and pulled a blanket from their bags and tenderly tucked it around Chris’ inert form. Then he lay down beside his matelot and stared up at the stars. He arranged his weapons around him. “YaTwoBeSober?”

  “We will keep watch,” I assured him.

  “Good, TheseBe FineFellas, ButWeKnow ’EmNone.”

  I chuckled and looked about. The musicians were wrapping their instruments, and some of the men were finding hollows to sleep in. On another log, Ash was apparently attempting to console Cudro, who was apparently only interested in the bottle of rum in his mouth until our beloved and confused Honest Ash put his hand down his man’s pants. Our big Dutchman then apparently decided there was more to solace than a bottle, and allowed Ash to lead him into the shadows of the woods. I noted a few other pairs had done the same. I considered sticking my hand down my matelot’s breeches and leading him into the woods, but found I had an empty water skin in my lap. We had duties.