Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  “ThankYa. ThatMeansALot.”

  “Striker will become old and flabby someday,” I teased: the brandy and the aftermath of my rage getting the best of me.

  “YaShutYerHole,” Pete snapped with a grin. “INaBeAFool, WhenEverything ICanLayMy ’AndsOnBe AsSquishyAsAMango, ItBe Time TaMoveOn.”

  “But, wait,” I said with a laugh. “What if you are as squishy as a mango?”

  He laughed. “ThenIBeDead.”

  I thought that likely, so I argued no more. Pete soon embraced us in parting and we sat alone.

  “Do you still yearn for the squish of mangoes—from time to time?” I asked.

  Gaston smiled. “Non, and someday you will be fat and old and I will know everyday what it feels like.”

  I dove atop him and we tumbled in the sand and almost upset our tent. He was getting stronger, but I easily pinned him—an inconceivable thing when we met. He strained to nip me as I delivered teasing kisses to his nose.

  “We should take advantage of these woods and run a little if we are soon to be trapped on another small boat,” I growled.

  Gaston sighed and the play left him. “We should have brought our other boat.”

  Disappointed, I released his wrists. He bucked his hips and easily flipped me beneath him. I laughed as he pinned me.

  “Oui,” he said huskily.

  And so we did.

  In the morning, we found Cudro and informed him of how things stood. He agreed with taking Pierrot’s boat, and we sent him to arrange it: no one had made mention of the French hating him.

  Pete and Chris came ashore that evening, and we sat about with Cudro and Ash and discussed what had been arranged with Pierrot and what we would need to gather for provisions. We decided to pay Pierrot twenty-five pounds for the boat, and Donovan fifty pounds for being willing to aid us at all.

  As we talked, we were pleased to have Pierrot join us. He made no mention of Chris—he did not even look askance at him—even though I had told him of our ruse.

  “Morgan is making threats,” Pierrot announced quietly. “He is claiming that any man who leaves here to do other than follow him into battle is a deserter; and he has said he will not condone anyone aiding a deserter. He vows to claim ships and ruin lives.”

  I swore vehemently.

  “Well it is good Donovan could not help us,” Ash said.

  “Aye, but it appears he must sail, which is a thing he did not wish to do,” I said.

  “He will not go ashore to raid,” Cudro said. “He has too few men on the Fortune. He could claim them all as a skeleton crew. Morgan will have them ferry men to the raid and little else.”

  “Well there is hope for him, then,” I said. “As for us, I suppose we will bid you adieu quite soon, my friend,” I told Pierrot.

  He chuckled. “Someday yet we may sail together. I would like that. Until then, I will sleep better knowing you watch over him.” He looked to Gaston.

  “Always,” I said solemnly. “And I thank you for watching over him once upon a time; else I would never have met him.”

  Pierrot laughed. “Oui: they would have thrown him overboard—or left him for the Spanish… Oui, you have quite improved him. He appears sane.”

  “I am sane,” Gaston said with a small smile. “As sane as I ever will be.”

  “Then I bid you adieu until we meet again,” Pierrot said and stood.

  We said our farewells and Gaston stood to walk with the French captain to the edge of our fire light and out of our hearing. They stood and talked for a time. They embraced. And then they kissed—and not a friendly peck upon the cheek.

  Chris’ gasp voiced my surprise. Cudro’s jaw fell agape; Ash frowned; and Pete raised an eyebrow.

  I stood and wandered toward the pair, who had stopped kissing and parted to stand speaking quietly again. My proximity was greeted by Pierrot’s boisterous laughter, and then he darted to me to kiss me heartily on the lips and whisper, “You are a lucky man, never forget that.” Then he was gone: just another silhouette weaving between the fires.

  “I thought I owed him that at least,” Gaston said quietly.

  “I am not jealous, merely surprised,” I said quickly. “And I no longer wished to sit with the others while they gaped in confusion. I know how he felt for you and you for him. I feel I am lucky you did not succumb to his charms.”

  “It seems a lifetime ago,” Gaston said thoughtfully. “He has always been older, and I was very young then. I would have been his boy. And perhaps I knew he could not help me with my madness.”

  “Perhaps he could have.”

  My man shook his head. “He is not mad. His Horse is a tame and placid thing. He would never be able to keep pace with mine.”

  My heart ached and I kissed him. However, I did ask, “How did he kiss?” when I released him.

  “Like a wet sloppy dog,” Gaston said with amusement.

  We joined the others. Gaston ignored their curious looks. I glared them down.

  “Well, we’ll be retiring then,” Cudro said when it was obvious we would not explain.

  With a chuckle from all, we bid them goodnight and they wandered down the beach—and then into the forest. We laughed.

  “I’mAfraid TaLeave,” Pete said. “GastonMight BidMeFarewell.”

  Gaston rolled his eyes, and then he wore his Horse’s grin and he was pouncing upon Pete. They wrestled about quite fiercely, and Chris backed away with his face taut with concern. I wondered at it until I saw Gaston’s Horse was much about him.

  I touched Chris’ arm and he flinched. “They are playing,” I said gently.

  “I know,” he said tightly in a less-than-manly voice.

  Pete pinned Gaston, and proceeded to kiss him. I noted that Gaston did not fight him. I did not think Pete kissed like a sloppy dog. I did not think my matelot felt like a mango.

  “Can you stop them?” Chris asked.

  I snorted with deprecation and amusement at our concern.

  Pete released Gaston and began to stand with a laugh upon his lips. Gaston’s arm came up like a snapping rope and cracked Pete’s jaw. The Golden One fell back and shook his head to clear it. He started laughing again, and Gaston joined him.

  Gaston stood and Pete crouched.

  “Non, non,” my man said and held up a hand. “Truly, I can only play so long. My strength has not returned.”

  “CouldaFooledMe,” Pete said with amusement and rubbed his jaw.

  Chris was still tense beside me.

  “Does it bother you he wished to play so; or did it bother you it was Gaston – and he was… feral?” I asked him quietly.

  “Both,” Chris said. “I cannot play with him, not like that. I feel I will always lack something for him.”

  “Sadly, oui: a cock,” I said gently.

  He sighed. “Oui. I do not know if he will stay with me when this is done.”

  I did not wish to meddle, but I felt compelled. “He wishes to try.”

  “He told you that?” Chris asked with a speculative gaze.

  “Oui.”

  He sighed and smiled. “We shall see then—when this is over.”

  I sighed. That seemed to be the gist of the phrase upon all our lips: ‘when this is over’: ‘when this is done’: ‘when we finish’.

  Pete and Chris at last departed and I looked to Gaston with an unexpected melancholy nipping at my heels. “Well, how did he kiss?”

  “Not like a mango,” my man said mischievously.

  “Must I hold you down?” I asked.

  He pounced upon me and I let him take what he would.

  Two days later, the six of us ate at our fire once again. When it came time to retire, we slipped away in pairs into the forest and retrieved our bags and weapons. We left the tent and our fire behind and crossed the island by moonlight until we came to the northern shore. Two of Pierrot’s men had purportedly sailed the promised boat out on the pretense of fishing, and not returned with it. They had cached it in Donovan’s cove. All we
had to do was locate it by sunrise. I was quite surprised when we did.

  We lit two torches and Cudro went to prepare the boat while we stole into the cave to take supplies we had purchased from Donovan. The Dutchman’s hoarse cry stopped us and we hurried to his side.

  We all saw what his torch revealed. Someone had stove the small boat’s hull in with an axe.

  Chris took a deep breath to say something, but Pete stopped him.

  “Quiet,” he hissed. “TheyBeWatchin’.”

  We stood staring at the wreck. Gaston took my hand.

  “Now what?” Cudro asked quietly.

  “We will rove as the Gods so obviously direct,” I said. The melancholy flirting with me for the past few days descended with great force. I felt my will knocked flat before it. I clutched at Gaston to remain on my feet.

  He slipped an arm under mine and across my shoulders. “Let us return, and act as if nothing occurred.”

  “Aye,” I agreed.

  “He won’t let us—or rather, he won’t let you—sail with Donovan,” Cudro said as we started back.

  “Nay, too much chance of our sailing away in the night—even with other buccaneers aboard,” Gaston said. “If he gave us that opportunity, I would buy as many men as I must, and kill the rest.”

  “Ash and I can sail on any vessel here,” Cudro said.

  “Pete says he thinks I am a pawn and possible hostage,” Chris said.

  “YaAre,” Pete agreed. “Still, AsLongAsYou AnMeAreOnA Different BoatThanWill An’Gaston, WeCanDoSomethin’ IfTheNeedArises. IfWeAll BeTagether, WeBeEasy TaControlAn’Kill.”

  “Pierrot cannot take us,” Gaston said, “but he can take any of you. And he knows of Chris.”

  “What?” Chris snapped.

  “’ECanBeTrusted,” Pete assured him. “Listen, WhenWeReach TheTarget, WeAllNeedTa GoAshore. IfWeNeedTa EscapeAsWeReturn, WeNeedTaBeTagetherThen. NoHostagesFer’Im.”

  “There’ll be a march across land and back for Panama,” Cudro said. “How men arrive at the ships and leave will depend on when and how Morgan shares out the treasure.”

  “MaybeWeCanSlip AwayAtTheStart An’Get TaDonovanAn’Sail. The OtherShips Won’t’AveOrders TaChaseUs, An’TheirCaptins’ll BeAshore WithMorgan.”

  “Aye,” Gaston said. “Either then or as we return. There will be nowhere to run on Spanish land. We will have to escape on one of our ships.”

  I listened to them and told myself there was hope in their words, but my heart would not listen and my Horse was scared. For the first time in a long time, I felt betrayed by the Gods.

  One Hundred and Nine

  Wherein We Find Ourselves at Peace in War

  My despondency continued for days. Thankfully, I was not needed during that time. Morgan did not visit our camp to gloat. I do not know what I would have done if he had: possibly turned my back on him and stared into the distance: possibly torn his throat out. Pierrot did visit, and he too vowed not to give the bastard the satisfaction of showing that anything had occurred. We mourned the little boat and all our broken dreams over a bottle.

  Several days into my melancholy, Gaston took the brandy from my hand and poured it into the sand. There had not been much left in that particular bottle, but the gesture was not lost on me. He then shaved me and trimmed my hair.

  “I feel the Gods have betrayed us,” I said quietly after he finished my throat.

  “Is this a crisis of faith?” he asked. “Do you still believe in the Gods?”

  “Oui.”

  “Perhaps this is a test.”

  “Why do people always say that when the Divine does some inexplicable thing?”

  He smiled. “Perhaps They are merely busy elsewhere and unable to hear your pleas.”

  “Then They are not all-knowing or all-powerful.”

  “Perhaps They care not what you do.”

  “That is my fear.”

  “You would rather suffer from malicious intent than benign neglect?”

  “I would rather not suffer; but oui, it appears I am afflicted with hubris.”

  “Perhaps it is always a test when the Gods ignore us. Perhaps They wish to see who can do well enough on their own, and thus measure Their creations and the end result of Their past meddling.”

  “So you are implying Their faith in me is inversely proportionate to how much They ignore me?” I asked with amusement.

  “Oui.”

  “Then, oui, I feel most loved by the Gods. Thank you.”

  To prove his point—or simply to do what was to be done next—he prodded me to remove my clothes and then left me naked before our tent as he waded into the surf to wash them. I was moved by his commitment to the moment enough to stand and follow him.

  “What would you have of me?” I asked.

  “Find your feet. I feel weak,” he said softly even though his choice of words denoted harder things.

  I put an arm about his shoulder and kissed his temple. “You are loved.”

  “I am afraid,” he sighed.

  “Then hide for a time.”

  He shook his head. “My Horse wishes to rage. It is odd. I have little faith in the other men on this beach. I do not trust them to leave me be and not steal from me or harm me in some other way if I retreated within and frolicked. Yet, I have no doubt that if I were to succumb to my Horse’s desire to rage, and I went and attacked Morgan or some such thing, all would say it was my madness and simply beat me down and truss me up and let me live. It is as if I am safer around them when I am mad. They will forgive my actions. But I feel if we simply brood, and express our hatred of Morgan—as rational men should—we will endanger ourselves at their hand.”

  I understood. “We are far more dangerous to them as men. Animals can be controlled.”

  He nodded and handed me my sodden clothes. “These should be rinsed. And we will need more water—from the spring: the pond is still brackish.” He paused on his return to the tent. “That makes my Horse feel powerless. And if He is powerless, I know not what I have to fight with.”

  The bright sunlight reflecting off the water pierced my brandy-soaked eyes and caused me too much pain to think directly on his words. I stumbled back to our camp and rinsed my clothes. Then I donned them and my weapons and took up our water skins to go to the spring. “I will have an answer when I return,” I promised.

  “You will?” he asked with warmth and amusement.

  “I am sobering. The run will do me good.”

  He smiled, and I ran to the spring and back. I tried to think as my feet pounded along. What did we have to fight with if not our Horses—or our Wolves: who also seemed inappropriate weapons for the battle at hand? What else did we possess: our love, our faith? Those were not weapons or warriors.

  When I returned I found him sitting in the shade watching the horizon with tears in his eyes. “We do not fight,” I said.

  He regarded me with curiosity and bemusement. “Which war?”

  “All of them,” I said with confidence. “Perhaps this is a test. Perhaps I am acting like one of the children. I am fixated upon a thing I feel I must have. If I but have that biscuit, all will be well in the world; and the Gods, in Their infinite wisdom, are saying, ‘Non, you must not eat that’; and every time I reach for it, They herd me elsewhere. The more I reach, the more They will steer me away—until They finally tire of the endeavor and swat my arse.”

  “What is the biscuit?”

  “Resolution with my father, perhaps? Maybe it is a thing I should not seek. Maybe the correct path is living a good life. Maybe we should have boarded the Magdalene with the others and sailed to a Dutch colony. I know that is not how things might have been allowed to play out by the Gods, but maybe that should have been my aim.”

  He shook his head with wonder. “So what would you have us do now? Allow Morgan to have his way?”

  “Non, and aye. We will seek any opportunity we can to escape this, but in the meantime, we have our love, and we must have faith. If we allow Morgan
to make us miserable, then he wins, and my father wins.”

  He nodded. “You feel your decision to pursue your father was wrong.”

  “Oui, I chose the wrong path. I am sorry.”

  He shook his head. “But… What of matters with my father? Being driven from French soil is what caused you to choose that path.”

  “That was not our war, and we made the best decisions we could—for the children, and for us. But we could have gone elsewhere rather than turn and fight.”

  He smiled. “And when you brought Dutch wrath down upon us?” It was more teasing than a sincere question.

  “We would take the road that leads ever upward.”

  He chuckled. “So now what would you have us do, oh wise and holy man?”

  “Kill no one.”

  He caught his breath and held it for a time. “That will surely be a Herculean task,” he at last sobbed. Then the floodgates opened and I sat and held him while he cried.

  From that day on we resolved to live in peace and be at peace. We, of course, continued to wear weapons and practice with them; because being at peace did not mean turning the other cheek, per se: we would defend ourselves. And I did not find it within me to make an overture of friendship to Morgan; yet, I did allow that such a thing might occur—or at the least, I would not snarl at him when next we spoke. Essentially, we chose to not seek to kill anyone, and to stop gnashing our teeth with impotent anger at all we could not change. We began to enjoy our days again.

  Cudro thought us mad; Ash thought us fools; and Pete thought us wise. Chris seemed uncertain, but then he admitted he had made much the same decision that night when he sat alone upon Gaston’s Gift in the storm.

  The remainder of the fleet returned as November ebbed. Modyford sent three ships and hundreds of men from Port Royal. They had been raiding and brought their booty there. The Governor had apparently scolded them for making war on the Spanish—and then sent them off to join Morgan. Collier and Bradley also returned from their raiding with our largest ships intact, provisions, and twenty pounds per man for those who had sailed with them. The beach was alive with men chomping at the bit and pawing the sand for blood and treasure. Gaston and I were forced to move further up the coast to retain any semblance of privacy.