The fighting sounds retreated, becoming muffled, more distant. Andrew gave in to his curiosity and went back to the hold, ignoring the men’s pleas to stay. He crept up the stairs to crouch were he’d been before, his heart gripped by cold fingers.
There was no one moving on their deck, not a man was upright. There were no more volleying shots, only the clang of metal and savage cries of intense fighting but all from across the plank on the other ship. He could hear moaning, close by, but their maker was out of his range of vision. Quickly, he crawled forward, coming about to hide behind a half-opened crate. He could now see the source of the moaning, the man was only a few feet from him.
“I can hear you. Hold fast, we’ll get you below as soon as we can,” he said, hoping his words would comfort.
“Aye, you’d better,” was quipped in a pained, familiar voice.
“Fleming!” Andrew rushed to him, as much as he could on hands and knees. The man was on his back, bloodied on the right side, but lucid enough to smile at him.
“It looks worse than it is, I promise.”
Andrew was pale and shaking, but determined to help. “Was it a bullet or a sword?”
“A goddamn spear! Can you imagine? He stuck me from a yardarm away! He was gutted himself just after, fucking bastard,” Fleming said. “Do you see the captain?” he asked, grabbing Andrew’s arm.
“No, I don’t see anyone. They’ve all gone across.”
“Then you leave me here and go back down! You’re unarmed and untrained and there’s no one to help if anyone comes back across to escape. They’ll slit you from groin to gullet!” Fleming ordered, his fingers tightening, shaking Andrew to be sure he understood.
“You can’t stay here alone! You’re as unprotected as I am!” Andrew was alarmed by the prospect of boarders, but unwilling to leave the man alone.
“I can play dead, or at least unconscious. You’re not safe here! Get back below!”
The bleeding was not slowing. “You need help, Fleming. I’ll go below, but only to fetch bandages. I will be back!” He heard the man cursing as he crawled his way back to the hold.
Oh his way, his hand struck a knife, and Fleming’s words were still fresh in his mind. He picked it up, not stopping to study it or place it in his belt. He made it safely to the hold, then down to the kitchen. “I found Fleming, he’s hurt. There’s no one else about, they’re all on the other ship! Hurry…” He stopped, his mind finally recognizing their stricken faces. Before he could turn around, he was taken from behind by the throat and the sharp point of a dagger pressed just below his eye.
“How’s this for a surprise?”
Andrew froze. It was Acklie. “What are you doing here?”
“Just introducing myself, pretty. Drop it.”
Andrew released the dagger he still clutched. He saw the men start to rally, but Acklie pressed the knife harder into his flesh. They stopped moving when Andrew gasped and stiffened.
“You all would be better off puttin’ out the fire,” Acklie sneered.
“What fire?” one of them asked.
As if bidden, there was an explosion behind him, and flames leapt into view. He pulled Andrew to the side as they ran past. “First lesson of ships and sailing, pretty one, is that fire kills everyone. They’ll be busy for a bit, and a bit is all I need.” He shoved Andrew down over the table.
Andrew pushed back up, twisting to send his elbow into the man’s ribs as hard as he could. He managed to slip sideways but tripped over one of the baskets and fell into the hull. Acklie was on him then and Andrew struck out, desperate, catching the man in the groin. He had nearly made it out of reach but he was caught by the ankle and dragged back. “You little fuck! You think to bring me low?”
Acklie hit him in the back, knocking the air from his lungs. Then he struck lower, a vicious blow that nearly caused Andrew’s bladder to let loose. Andrew was unable to move, stunned and hurting. He felt Acklie’s hands on him, ripping at his belt, tearing at his pants. Andrew made it to his knees, but Acklie pushed him down again. “No!” he cried.
The man straddled his thighs and pried open Andrew’s cheeks. “That’s a good boy. Let me see this treasure.” He spit there to wet him. “The Red King doesn’t like to kill his prisoners, s’what I hear. I’ll pay my ransom and be on my way, shortly, but I think I’m owed a taste of this.”
Acklie put his hand on Andrew’s back and pressed down with all of his weight. Andrew grunted, unable to move or catch his breath. Acklie’s fingers made their entry and the man chuckled at Andrew’s distressed cry, his kicking and bucking. He felt something beneath him, bruising his chest; the hilt of the dagger. He’d fallen on top of it when Acklie tripped him. He was unable to get to it, unable to use it, but he knew it was there and it gave him hope.
“I’ll kill you!” he screamed when the man withdrew to open his breeches.
Acklie just laughed. “I’m sure you will.”
Andrew felt the man’s erection, hot and heavy, on the curve of his ass and closed his eyes. “Rory!” he screamed.
There was a loud crash and a burning barrel rolled into the room. Acklie was fast; he grabbed Andrew by the hair and pulled him up to cover his chest. He turned the both of them, keeping Andrew in front of him, as Ruaidhri appeared. He wore only boots and breeches and he was streaked with blood and soot. He did not speak, did not have to, the lines of his body evinced threat and danger.
“Your Highness! You happen upon us as I am about to sample the hospitality of your subjects. Might you decree that he open his pretty ass for me?” Acklie taunted with his knife back at Andrew’s throat.
Rory still said nothing, but the clenching of his jaw was plainly visible.
Acklie laughed. “You hesitate? Because of this one?” He gave Andrew’s hair a violent yank. “Is he worth the trouble?”
“You will remove your hands from him. Now.”
“By your command!” Acklie tossed Andrew away, pulling a pistol from the back of his belt.
Andrew turned to see the readied flintlock, Acklie’s finger on the trigger twitch, and struck out with one foot. He only delivered a glancing blow, but it was enough to knock the shot wide and away from Rory. Acklie was furious and swung at Andrew with the spent pistol, catching him in the side. It was not enough to stop what had already been put in motion.
When he’d been picked up by his hair, Andrew’s hand had brushed the dagger. As the pistol arched towards him, he plunged the knife into the man’s throat. They froze, staring at each other while blood jetted from the wound to cover them both. He still gripped the hilt even as it protruded from Acklie’s neck. He screamed into Acklie’s pallid face, a wordless, defiant cry, and pulled the knife out. Andrew watched him collapse, and then watched him die.
There was a sound, a presence beside him. He turned quickly; knife before him, and found Rory kneeling there. Andrew looked at Acklie, then back to him. He dropped the knife into the captain’s open hand and slowly got to his feet. Rory rose with him. “Are you hurt?”
Andrew looked down at himself; pants gone, shirt drenched in blood. “No, he didn’t get the chance. Are you hurt?” he asked, peering into Rory’s face, carefully searching for signs of injury.
“You killed him,” Rory said.
“He laughed at me and threatened you.”
Dropping the dagger, Rory took his face into his hands. “You killed him to save me.” The look in his eyes caused Andrew’s heart to surge and rattle against his ribs.
Andrew’s brows rose. “He laughed at me first.”
Rory laughed. “You are the damnedest thing.” He kissed Andrew then, gently, careful of his still bruised lips. When Andrew put one hand behind his head and pulled him closer, pressing their mouths together more fully, he moaned. “But your face…”
Andrew’s other hand slipped up his back. “My face is fine…please….”
They locked in another kiss, hands on each other’s form with no care for blood or ash or anything but the feel
of skin. Rory bent to take his neck, his fingers digging in beneath Andrew’s shirt, “What are you doing?”
“I’m accepting your offer.”
Rory kissed him harder, groaning loud and long into his mouth, but then withdrew.
“You chose a strange time.”
“You could have died,” Andrew insisted, his fingers now tangling into the long strands of red hair.
“Aye, so could have you,” Rory said, his brow furrowed and eyes troubled.
It was a moment frozen in time for Andrew. The surprise he felt was matched in Rory’s eyes, and beneath that was warmth and need that seemed to blot out the commotion around them. Men were streaming into the hold, exclaiming at the mess of burnt crates and barrels. Several were injured, but all moved on their own power except Fleming. Malik carried him into the kitchen and laid him on the table.
“It’s not…that bad,” he said, sounding pained and exasperated at the same time.
Andrew and Rory released their hold on each other. Andrew quickly retrieved his breeches and dressed himself while Rory examined his friend. Fleming grabbed his hand. “I’ll be fine. Cook’ll stitch me up, good as new,” he said, and though his manner was glib, his face was sickly gray and sheened with sweat.
Rory nodded to Andrew, who was reluctantly relieved with his agreement. He waited while Cook prepared his tools; a bottle of rum, needle, thread, and a candle. The candle was lit, the needle was heated, and Fleming took a long draw of the rum. Then the rum was splashed liberally over the gash and the two sides were pinched together. Fleming grunted, teeth clenched, and reached for the bottle again. “I’d like some more of that, if you please.”
Eyeing the men crowding the little room, Rory tersely commanded, “Is there not work to be done? Algiers awaits us and if we sink along the way then I will drown each of you myself before Hell takes me!”
Malik’s roar was heard over the clamor of their exit. “Aye, Captain!”
There were eight wounded, besides Fleming. Andrew took to their care immediately, doing the best he could with simple cloth bandages and a second bottle of rum. He returned to the table where Fleming was still bearing the needle’s pain.
“There’s nothing but rum? There’s no drawing salve or poultice powder?” he asked.
When Fleming saw him, he eyed the bloody shirt with alarm. “Holy Hell and fuck! What happened to you?”
Andrew did not answer immediately. He looked at Rory, who nodded, but didn’t speak. “When I left you there was a man in the hold, he set the fire.” He felt a little ill. His stomach was rolling and sweat was starting to glisten on his face. “I, ah, he attacked me and…”
Fleming nodded in understanding. “I take it Rory got to you in time or else you’d be stuck and bleeding, too.”
Rory shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”
Fleming looked back to Andrew and when the truth penetrated his pain addled mind his eyes widened. “Forgive my assumption, Andrew. Well done.”
“Was it?” Andrew questioned, feeling sicker by the minute. He wiped his face, pressed his hand to his mouth, refusing to surrender to his horror with what he’d done or the grim circumstance before them now.
His own concern ebbed, as did the nausea, when Fleming jumped and yelled.
“Fucking Christ, Cook! Can’t you finish up? How much longer?”
“It’s too deep, Fleming. I can’t get the needle into the wound to get it closed,” Cook apologized, looking to the captain with helpless, red rimmed eyes.
“Wrap it, then, and stop poking about in my guts. I think I’ve had enough today,” the injured man said, but his words lacked much heat. He was growing paler, his lips turning a foreboding shade of bluish-gray. “Damnation…you might be right this time,” he quipped with a small smile at his captain, and then he passed out.
Rory pulled his hand from his friend’s and replaced it with Andrew’s. “Stay with him. Keep him alive.”
“What are you going to do?” Andrew asked.
“We’re bringing out the oars. The ship’s repairs can wait, his cannot.” Rory ran from the room.
While Cook packed the gash with as much fresh linen as they had, Andrew returned to the other wounded men. “When we make land I will get supplies for a salve that will help the healing. You will be fine, we just need to watch for infections,” he told them as he carefully rechecked their dressing. “How many more are there?”
“More what?” one of them asked.
“Wounded.”
“This is all of us.”
Andrew was shocked. “What of the other ship? Surely there are more men that need tending.”
The man’s face was hard. “There were none left.”
“What?”
“There was no quarter given.”
“No quarter given?” Andrew asked in a horrified whisper.
“They’d killed their cargo, every captive, to the last of them. The crew was ordered to as a warning to leave Jans de Worrt’s ships alone and the captain, he responded in kind. The ship is burning now. A more deserving fate would have been to let it rot in the sun.”
“How could they do that? How could Rory do that?” He felt sick again, sick and lost and tired.
“Andrew.”
Andrew went immediately back to Fleming. “Yes. Yes, I’m here,” he answered, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“This is an ugly world you find yourself in.” Regarding him with sad eyes, Fleming covered Andrew’s hand with his own. “Men are foul things and act accordingly. If I were you, I would find a little church to return to and live out your days in peace.”
“I don’t want that life anymore, Fleming,” Andrew said, softly, taking the man’s fingers.
Fleming smiled. “You want to follow Rory. Aye, it shows in your face. It’s all right, Andrew. He inspires loyalty, makes you want to follow him, makes you believe.”
“That’s not…”Andrew began, but was cut short by Fleming’s very soft laughter.
“It may not be exactly what you feel at this moment, but I see it. When you know where he came from, what he’s been through, you’ll see him for his true self.” His voice wavered and Andrew saw tears in the man’s eyes.
“Fleming?” The hold on Andrew’s hand was weakening. He clenched his fingers a little tighter.
“He’s broken, Andrew, but not destroyed. You’ll have to take care of him and you’ll need to be strong to do it. You have to keep his pieces together, or Maarten will scatter them to the four corners. He’s already tried, you see. He’s the one who broke him.”
The words rang in Andrew’s head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course not, not yet. It took me time, too, and I never really managed to hold him.”
Andrew understood, then. “You…you and he…”
“It was only for a short while, but I couldn’t give him what he needed. I didn’t know what he needed. I stayed with him because he was always more than my lover, he was my friend. He was my brother and my savior. I love him with my whole being.”
“Oh, Fleming, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, starting to weep.
“I let that go a long time hence. It’s all right, boy. It was quite to my liking to see him fretting over you.” He smiled again, even managed a small chuckle, though his strength was ever waning.
“We’re going to Algiers, Fleming. The doctor, the one who saved Malik, he will save you, too,” Andrew told him, clutching Fleming’s hand close to him now.
“I’m not going to last that long, I’ve bled too much. I suppose you should have stayed with me after all.”
“I’m….sorry…” Andrew was crying.
“I’m not,” and Fleming winked. Then he was silent.
Andrew stayed next to him until his hand no longer held its own warmth.
Chapter Eight
Slow steps took Andrew from the kitchen. The damage to the hold was only glancing, turning the interior black but leaving it structurally sound. There was a bit
missing from the stairs at the mouth of the hold, but it held his weight with no complaints and the plank would be replaced quickly, he knew. On deck the immediate damage had been corrected; rigging was laced and retied, wood shards and rope strands, shattered crates and barrels were all cleared away. He could see black smoke in the distance, a funeral pyre to the weather gods.
There were men at the jibs, men at the oars, pushing harder than even during the storm. The strokes were powerful, unified in goal to save one of their own. As they rowed, they called together, keeping pace with almost unnatural skill. Andrew saw Rory at their front. He could see the captain’s back and shoulders straining with his efforts. Cook had said he should be the one to tell him, implied that it would be best. The other men had agreed with him but Andrew was doubtful. He could see no good in this, none at all.
He moved up the center of the deck, careful not to disturb the cadence of the men’s work. It was Malik who saw him first, catching Andrew’s pale form out of the corner of his eye. He looked up but then quickly away, losing his rhythm for one beat. His bench partner, Jack, was surprised by this lapse and cast a glance of irritation. He met Andrew’s eyes and closed his. Andrew recognized the prayer that passed his lips.
Andrew didn’t want to do this. Even with what he had been through and what he still faced, he dreaded this moment. He felt sick. He felt like crying. He felt sharp pains in his heart as he stepped in front of Rory’s bench. Rory did not look at him. Andrew tried to speak, to say his name, but his throat was too tight. He swallowed and tried again but still nothing. He would have to release his hold on his tears to allow his voice the necessary freedom. It took another moment of struggling before Andrew gave up. He hiccoughed a little, letting them loose, and then he could speak. “Rory,” he choked.
By now the other men were aware of him, and his mission. They were all still pulling the sweeps, still wrenching through the water in unison to match their captain. A few were praying, others cried openly and yet they continued to row. Rory finally met Andrew’s wretched stare but his own stayed impassive. “Why are you not with him? If you have something to say, say it and go back below,” he ordered, fiercely.
The Red King Page 6