Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  The English were surprised: the French were enraged. We were told that any man who did not submit to this indignity would be clapped in irons. There were soon over twelve hundred naked men standing about searching one another’s satchels and bags. Gaston and I complied, of course, and all the while we thanked the Gods we had left our gold—and more importantly, Chris—with Pete. Sadly, when it came our turn to be searched, we actually had to argue with Morgan’s men about our matching rings. They finally understood that we had not obtained them in Panama, as no Spaniard would have rings with two odd English words inscribed upon them.

  Once this charade was complete, we were finally allowed to board the larger craft and return to the mouth of the river and our ships. The treasure had still not been shared out, though; as that needed to be done after an accounting had been made of the survivors. The ships would not sail until the booty was shared. Gaston and I obviously did not care about receiving our share, but we were concerned that if we tried to slip away to the Josephine too far in advance of the ships sailing, Morgan would have ample time and opportunity to harass and search the vessels to find us.

  We were also deeply worried that Morgan had not approached us at any time during the return journey. We had fully expected him to ask us how we intended to leave the Isthmus of Panama, and then make supposedly friendly offers for us to sail with him to Jamaica. But nay, he had abandoned all pretenses since that day in the church. We were also under constant watch.

  Being unsure of what would occur in the days ahead, we said our farewells to Cudro and Ash before we arrived at the river mouth. It was difficult and disheartening to pretend to be casual about the matter when we all knew we might not see one another again for months, if not forever. But pretend we did, so that Morgan’s spies would have nothing undue to report to him. We were very careful about giving them our great bundle of letters.

  As our vessel neared the wharf, we gathered our things and made ready to disembark and thread our way through the crowd of men unloading the canoes into the storehouse, and then make our way up the path to the fortress to find our friends and attempt to hide for a time. Once in the castle, we were hoping to find either a gate in the palisade, or that Pierrot had not repaired the hole the buccaneers had used to enter. If we could slip out at night through the fort’s rear defenses, we thought we could easily lose our watchers in the dense forest beyond the fort’s apron, and thus make our way undetected down to the shore where we could swim to the Josephine or whatever other ship Pete and Pierrot might suggest.

  We had no more stepped off the boat than we were hailed by Captain Norman, Morgan’s close friend and the master of the sloop, Lilly. There was a great deal of activity between us and him, but looking over and around the men carrying treasure across the wharf, I was able to see he was not alone: he had several strong and healthy men with eager eyes beside him. They were all looking at us.

  “Run,” I said.

  “Oui,” Gaston said as we dropped the medicine chest and forced our way around milling men to the winding path leading up to the fort.

  We ran. Norman gave chase. Gaston and I were in far better physical condition than Norman’s men: we had not spent a month in Panama drinking and eating to excess. Still, we knew we could not lose them by simply achieving the castle first; and all they had to do was make some charge against us and the whole army would be upon our heads. Thankfully, as of yet, Norman had not been howling for anyone to stop us.

  The buccaneers in San Lorenzo were busy eating—every gaunt and tired-looking one of them. We ran around throngs of them huddled around cook fires and made our way to the palisade of the southern wall. There was a gate, and thank the Gods, it was open. We almost ran down a man entering with fire wood as we darted out onto the apron and toward the woods. I still did not hear Norman sounding an alarm. I supposed we were very lucky Morgan wished to keep our abduction discreet. I did not think he would have any trouble turning the fleet against us on any mockery of a charge; but apparently, he did.

  My every breath was a whispered prayer for our continued good fortune as we hit the woods. Like every tropical forest, the damn thing was thick with trees, bushes, and vines; to the extent that I often thought one could cut down a tree and not have it fall because it was so entwined with its neighbors. We ran down swaths of damage cut during the battle six weeks ago. Between the buccaneers and the cannonballs, the woods were honeycombed for a hundred yards. Unfortunately, it was a maze, and we were not sure where the buccaneers had cut a path into the area when they arrived. We could hear men behind us as we ran along the wall of wood seeking a path that we did not have to hack with cutlasses. Gaston finally darted right and towed me with him into a narrow natural pathway.

  If it had been night as we had planned, it would have been very easy for us to disappear and let the men run right past us; but in the day, despite the dappled shadows we raced through, our pursuers could clearly see us and where we went.

  I glanced back and saw a man entering the pathway. He was yelling he had found us and for his friends to follow. I pulled a pistol and only paused long enough to fire with a steady hand. Then I was running again. I did not hear him behind us. I did hear the shot that roared past my head, though.

  And Norman yelling at the man who fired it. “Nay, you damn fools! They cannot be killed! No pieces!”

  They cursed and complained and tore through the brush behind us.

  The path we were on ended at the top of a cliff—a steep cliff: the fall would surely break bones. We cursed in surprise and clung to branches to keep from falling. Gaston dove back into the bush and sidled sideways between two trees. His musket caught on the branches and he tore it off his shoulders and dropped it along with his bag. I discarded all I carried save the weapons at my belt. We clambered through the brush until we found a hollow. There we hunkered down to catch our breath and listen.

  We heard our pursuers find our muskets and bags. Then we heard them beginning to scuttle through the forest toward us.

  Gaston pressed me down and threw leaves and mud over me. He crouched next to me and I covered him with greenery as much as I could. We pulled knives and waited.

  Two men rushed through the hollow and out the other side. The third came out of the forest at a different place and tripped over us. Sadly, he cursed loudly before Gaston could get a hand over his mouth and I could put a blade in his ribs.

  “Barret?” the fourth man called as he dove into the hollow. “Here!” he roared as he spied us. It was his last word, but it did not matter.

  The first two men were returning, and we could hear several more approaching from behind.

  “Cover me!” Gaston hissed. He began to squirm through the underbrush at the back of the hollow.

  I had barely started reloading my first pistol when one of the first two men to pass us re-emerged into the hollow. I shot him with my second pistol. The forest to my right erupted with curses, some distant and some all too close. The second man emerged and I dove at him with a knife. He blocked me with a cudgel and we were locked together. He was far larger than I, and possessed of the inexorable brutish strength I can only counter with speed or guile. I kneed him in the groin, and flipped him over and got a blade in his back when he doubled.

  “Will, come!” Gaston called from the brush.

  Three men burst from the forest.

  “Too late!” I cried. “Run!”

  I fought, but the quarters were too tight. I stabbed one with the dirk in my left hand and managed to slice another with my knife. Then the one behind struck my leg with a club and I began to go down. The man I had slashed was swinging a cudgel at my head. Then he was gone, bowled over to my relief and dismay by Gaston. I turned on the third man. He went down with two blades in him. Then another man arrived. As we turned to him, Norman dove from the woods and hit me with a club in the shoulder. My right arm went numb and I dropped my blade. Then there was a blow to my knee from a man I did not see. I saw three men atop Gaston, beating hi
m down. Then stars exploded in my eyes and all was dark.

  I woke to Gaston growling. There was slowly wavering lantern light and the low rumble of men’s voices. I was in the hold of a ship. My matelot crouched above me. There were chains on my wrists. I scrambled to sit, my vision swam and my head threatened to explode. Gaston—deeply in the grips of his Horse—helped me rise. I entwined my fingers with his and squeezed, and he returned my grip with ferocious need.

  “Oh looky there, the other one’s awake now,” a man said.

  I looked toward the light and saw a group of buccaneers sitting around an improvised table playing cards.

  “Wonder if he’ll be as much fun as the other,” another man said.

  “Mayhap he can shut his man up,” the first one responded.

  “Shut it,” another man said. “Ya heard the Captin. No talkin’ to ’em, no baitin’ ’em.”

  “I’m not doin’ neither,” the first man said. “I’m complainin’ of them, not to them.”

  “Aye, they killed Hen and Johnny, and Boca and Barret, and the surgeon says Parrot and Gratch won’t live,” another said.

  “I am sorry,” I interjected. “Our capture is a death sentence; you would have done the same if it were you.”

  They frowned and did not meet my gaze except for the man who had told the others not to talk to us. He stood and came around the hatch steps. Gaston tensed, and I gripped his hands tightly and hushed him. As the man approached, I recognized the man as the Lilly’s quartermaster, but I could not think of his name.

  “The Captin say there be rules. Ya don’t be talkin’ to us, and we don’t talk ta you.”

  I nodded.

  “Ya break the rules—an’ that not be the only one—an’ ya get chained on opposite sides o’ the hold. Ya understand?”

  “May I ask what the other rules are?” I asked.

  “Captin’ll talk ta ya later. They just mainly be that ya not cause trouble or try ta escape.”

  I nodded. “May we have some water?”

  He nodded and walked down the hold to scoop water from a barrel. He returned with two buckets: one was empty and the other had the water and a ladle.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded curtly and returned to his card game.

  I looked to Gaston and found him glaring at the men again. “Hush, my love,” I whispered in French. “You will only tire yourself. Please, let us have some water.”

  His breathing was fast and shallow, and I understood, I truly did. I knew if I did not concentrate on controlling myself, I would succumb to the maelstrom and my Horse’s need to scream and tear at the chains.

  “I will hold you,” I assured my man, “and the Gods will hold me. If They love us at all, which is a thing I do not feel considering our circumstances.”

  I scooted the water bucket closer and sipped from the ladle. My body told me the liquid was sorely needed. I wondered how long I had been unconscious. It was dark above the hatch. The hold was empty save for men: they had not loaded any treasure yet. It could have been the night of the day we were captured. It could have been the next, but I did not feel that to be so.

  I offered Gaston the ladle and he drank readily enough to prove he had not lost himself beyond good sense.

  I examined our bonds. We were chained hand and foot, with a little less than two feet between our wrists, and a little over two between our ankles. There was another three feet of chain running between my left bracelet and his right, and the same at our ankles. Those chains were connected to a large chain that ran to a hefty bolt planted deep into a substantial beam. Left alone, we could probably worry it from the wood given enough time. I felt that would not fall within Norman’s rules, however. It was also likely we would not be allowed the privacy to conduct such an endeavor, either.

  “Could you sit and hold me?” I asked Gaston. He was still crouching.

  He planted his arse on the floor and his back to the hull and regarded the chains with dismay. I slipped under his arms and between his legs. He sighed and wrapped his arms about me. His face found my neck and he nuzzled there, his breathing slowing.

  I breathed easier as well. I tried to tell myself it would be better now: we had lost, and need no longer worry about when the attack would come or how we would avoid it. Now we were trapped and need only worry about escaping. This thinking did not calm my Horse. I was not surprised.

  I told myself the men holding us were not my father’s, and even if they did eventually turn us over to my father, they would not behave as Collins or Thorp had. We were prisoners to be ransomed, not men to be reformed or broken. Of course, I could not know that of a certainty just yet, but I felt it to be true. These men knew us, as angry as they might be at the loss of their fellows: we had raided together and they were buccaneers. They would not condemn our being matelots—or sodomy, for that matter. Whatever happened if and when we were delivered to my father was another matter. For now, we would probably not be abused.

  This did reassure my Horse. I quietly shared my thoughts with Gaston, and was rewarded by the tension leaving his hands and shoulders.

  “We will escape,” he breathed in my ear.

  “Oui, my love,” I assured him. I did not think it would be until we reached England, though. I saw no reason to trouble him over that at the moment.

  Then hope flared. We were still anchored off the River Chagre and not at sea: our friends might be able to rescue us. For that matter, they might be able to affect a rescue at sea as Gaston, Striker, and Pete had done. Perhaps they had seen us run through the castle, or our unconscious bodies being hauled to this ship. Then the ramifications of such a rescue quickly brought me to snuff that hope. These were buccaneers and not hired sailors. Someone would die in the attempt. If our friends were wise, they would not make it. If it failed, we would all be in chains. And the ironic truth was likely that they viewed our disappearance as a sign we had escaped.

  I did not share any of those thoughts with Gaston, either.

  Somewhat later, the men playing cards finished their game and retired to hammocks strung about the hold. The quartermaster turned the lamp low, and—after one last meaningful glare at us—ascended the hatch steps.

  Gaston immediately began to fight with his manacles. He pressed his thumb very flat and tested them against his already-abraded flesh. It was obvious he could not slip them, even if he were willing to lose skin to do it. He began to press in an alarming way on his thumb, and I realized he would attempt to break it.

  “Stop!” I hissed quietly, and pushed my fingers under and around his to prevent him harming himself. “Even if you succeed, what will you do about your ankles, break your heel away?”

  He growled and jerked at the chains with a show of frustration. Then his face was pressed into my neck and shoulder and he was breathing heavily again.

  I reached back and rubbed his head. “My love, say you did get free by maiming yourself, what then? You would not be able to walk or grip a weapon.”

  “I could still kill them,” he growled.

  “Oui, oui, but then what? Where do we swim that they will not find us?”

  “It is not hopeless,” he snarled.

  “Non, non, my love, non: it is not. It is just that we must think carefully.”

  “If I think, I will be lost to despair,” he whispered with a voice far too tremulous for his Horse.

  His words struck a resonating chord in my heart, and I could no longer hold the fear and despair at bay, either. I clapped my hands to my mouth to hold in the wracking sob that threatened to wake every man in the hold and show them how very much they had ruined us. Gaston’s hands closed over mine, and we held in the horrible sounds I wished to produce. I twisted in his grasp with the exertion, until finally the wailing died unborn and there were only the tears.

  We held one another and cried in silence.

  I woke to Gaston wrapping torn strips of our clothing about my wrists beneath the bracelets. He appeared calm and very much hi
mself, and smiled at me. I caressed his face, and he kissed my palm, but he motioned with his eyes as well.

  I looked over and saw one of Norman’s men sitting by the hatch watching us. He was worrying a piece of wood in his hands with a knife, but he was definitely there to watch and not whittle.

  I sighed and gingerly knelt, becoming aware of how much I had been abused in the moments of our capture. My head still ached, and my left knee was quite sore along with my right shoulder and a number of my ribs. I raised my tunic and saw ugly bruises.

  “You will live,” Gaston said pleasantly in French.

  “That is a mixed blessing,” I sighed and crawled over to use our waste bucket.

  Gaston had placed it as far away as he could reach while I slept. He had also used it, and our mingled urine was pungent in the humid enclosed space. I supposed we would quickly become accustomed to it.

  He had placed the water as far away in the other direction as he could manage—which was to say, within my arm’s reach. My stomach grumbled and clenched when the water hit. Sunlight streamed through the hatch, and I guessed it to be midday. I wondered when last we had eaten, and stupidly glanced about for our bags.

  “Have you asked for food?” I asked. Gaston shook his head and shrugged. I looked to our gaoler. “Food, please?”

  The man snorted and shrugged and poked his head up through the hatch to say, “They be hungry.”

  There was laughter on deck, and a man said, “Tell those bastards they’ll eat when we do.”

  Our gaoler dropped back to the hold and regarded us.

  “We heard,” I said.

  He shrugged and returned to his seat and wood.

  I returned to French. “Well, with any luck, they will load their share of the provisions and treasure soon.”

  “Oui,” Gaston sighed and started carefully tearing a thin strip of canvas from the edge of his tunic. I assisted him until we had two strips of cloth with which to bandage his wrists beneath the iron.