Brethren

by W. A. Hoffman

  “What is this Tropic thing?” Harry asked.

  “Thirty degrees North latitude,” I replied. They all regarded me with blank expressions of confusion, and I sighed.

  “It is the farthest north the sun comes in the summer. The low point is the Tropic of Capricorn.”

  They were still immersed in incomprehension.

  “You know the sun moves, correct?” I asked. “It is high in the sky during the summer, and the days are longer; and then, in winter, it is to the south, and the days are shorter, at least from the perspective of someone in England. Around the Mediterranean they do not get so short… but I digress.”

  This received nods from all of them.

  “All right, then, the sun comes thirty degrees north of the equator at the height of summer.”

  “What’s a degree?” Fletcher asked.

  “A degree of latitude.” I explained latitude and longitude to the best of my ability, and why we could easily reckon latitude, but our lack of accurate ship’s chronometers kept us from reckoning longitude at sea. Fletcher and Harry seemed to grasp the idea, at least in concept; but Davey was not comprehending at all, and growing belligerent.

  “How do we know it?” Davey asked. “These things weren’t here when God made the Earth, were they?”

  “Nay, well, in concept. Men decided on it. We had to have a way to navigate and draw more precise maps.”

  “But how do we know?”

  “Because the math tells us it is correct.”

  “How do we know math works?” he asked.

  At this juncture, I was not sure if he was being contrary or if he really could not grasp the concepts of math and geometry. Either way, my ardor died; and I put aside all thoughts of him. My manhood protested loudly, but my mind was able to staunch its cries with thoughts of how damn embarrassing it would be to engage in intercourse with a man I could not converse rationally with. I have some pride.

  A vast melancholy settled over my soul within the following hours. I sat on deck and looked over the men arrayed around me, and listened to Harry relay my lecture to Dickey and Tom in a somewhat inaccurate manner. At least he had learned something; but I had assumed the three of them to be far better educated, and this knowledge that they lacked knowledge was most disheartening. These were the type of men who traveled to the New World, who I would have at my disposal for conversation and more intimate pursuits in the West Indies.

  I might as well have joined a monastery of morons. There were no universities, studios, libraries, galleries, courts, or gardens frequented by artists, poets, philosophers, courtesans, and learned men or women of any kind; at least, not unless you were Spanish. I would not find myself amongst the company I was used to associating with in the locales I was used to associating in. And while I had known all of this, spending time with Davey, Fletcher, and my cabin mates made the matter so evident as to be impossible to tuck into the back corners of my mind and ignore.

  In truth, this was not much different from most of my life. I long ago became resigned to spending my time in the company of individuals who are not my peers in one fashion or another. Either my former associates had been intelligent but common and uneducated, or noble and educated yet stupid, or intelligent and noble yet disagreeable, or any other combination of traits that always required my making some form of sacrifice or compromise in order to appease my social or sexual desires.

  I was still in such a state of mind when the festivities began for the line crossing. As I was quite depressed, I drank a copious amount of wine and hid in our cabin, leaving those who knew me to think what they would. Our tailwind gave out at dawn, and we floated using the mizzen sail to catch what little breezes we could. We were becalmed thus for three days, and I shared the frustration and melancholy of all aboard, though I had preceded them quite handily into the state.

  Tempers began to flare in the still heat, and several fights broke out amongst the bondsmen. I was forced to mediate, lest the Captain make good on a threat to clap the offending men in irons and throw them below, into the narrow caverns of sweltering heat, shifting crates, and rats.

  As for the crew, I saw Mister Cox, the bo’sun, lay about quite often with his starter, which was a length of knotted rope. He would strike any man he felt was shirking his duties or not moving fast enough for his liking. The sailors seemed to accept this grudgingly, and cringed whenever the man was near, like the good sheep they were.

  I have had the good fortune of never being in a situation, since Shane, in which I have been struck and not able to retaliate. And even though I viewed that situation as being of my own making, and I could do nothing about it in the near future, it would not go unpunished. As a wolf, I have never been able to comprehend the equanimity with which sheep face regular beatings and other humiliations. If I am struck, I demand satisfaction, even if obtaining that satisfaction may result in my death.

  So knowing Davey had that spark of defiance that had attracted me to him in the first place, I was not wholly surprised when, on the third day, he struck the bo’sun. Or so he was charged. I did not witness the event in question, and by the time I heard about the whole affair, they already had him stripped to the waist and bound to the main mast shrouds. And so I stood there and watched with everyone else, as Davey was given ten lashes on his already-scarred back. I was pleased to note he took the whole thing with anger and not submission. The only sound he made was a growled curse when they doused him with salt water afterwards. This, of course, earned him another two lashes, as the Captain disliked profanity.

  In the aftermath, I experienced great consternation. I had not attempted to stop the proceedings, or even questioned the Captain’s judgment. It would have been imprudent and quite arrogant, though I could have as my father’s son. But that kind of thing would have reflected badly upon me, and news would have traveled about Port Royal of the incident. And unlike not wishing to sign pressed men, which would be understood by some, having reservations about a man being flogged for insubordination was not a thing another wolf would understand. Yet, as a result, I felt I had abandoned one of my flock. I was not being a good wolf, in that I was not protecting them. But I was being a good wolf in the eyes of my fellow wolves. What were my father’s name and the damn title going to mean to me in the end? Was it worth my soul?

  When they released Davey, I waited a while for things to die down, and then I went to the cramped space under the forecastle where the sailors slept. The old sailor who was the ship’s carpenter and the closest thing she had to a surgeon was tending Davey’s wounds. I dropped down next to them and waited until he finished. Davey eyed me with smoldering wrath.

  “I would ask what happened, but I suppose it does not matter,” I said.

  He shrugged and regretted it. “I was gonna hit him, but I didn’t.”

  I nodded and waited until the old man left. We were relatively alone, and I leaned closer to whisper, “Do you wish to stay on this ship when we reach Port Royal?”

  He frowned and studied me. “What da ya mean?”

  “I could aid you in getting off this ship and in finding other prospects, if you so desire.”

  “Why would ya?” He regarded me speculatively and I remembered where I had left off four days ago in thinking about him. He had possibly not abandoned thinking about me, and did not know I was no longer interested.

  I chose not to address that particular issue unless he did. “I derive great satisfaction from acting as a benefactor.”

  “That why you’re teachin’ all to read?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You got a plantation. Don’t want field work. Rather stay here.”

  “That is not what I had in mind. You could learn a trade or join the privateers or what have you.”

  “What else you want? ’Cause if it’s that, you won’t have to pay.”

  Well, he had addressed it. “That is not what I want. I considered… that, but I do not feel it is in either of our best interests.”

 
He raised his head and glared at me in challenge. “Why?”

  I swore silently but smiled. “I often engage in casual carnal relations with women; however, I tend to engage in relationships of a longer duration with men.” Though I had buggered and run on numerous occasions, he need not be aware of it. “Until I understand how such things could be perceived, I cannot afford to be seen with a man in the circles I must travel while doing my father’s business. And I do not want either of us to feel beholden to each other in that way.”

  He frowned and I realized, as I had several times before, that in my need to speak formally I had spoken over his head.

  “I do not know how they look upon sodomy in Port Royal, and I do not want to cause trouble for my father.”

  He nodded his understanding. “I’ll feel beholden to ya.”

  “Would it not be worse if we were fucking?”

  He nodded again. “Aye, I can see that.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ll take yar offer.”

  As usual, my first reaction to the acceptance of one of my overtures of philanthropy was a feeling of grace. This was always followed by a feeling of doubt. I thought through the possible courses this act of kindness could follow, and decided I did not care. I would help those I could, how I could, and damn the consequences.

  Thus I truly added Davey to my flock.

  Reduced to fouler and fouler victuals, we ran due west at seventeen degrees North latitude until we saw grey smudges upon the horizon. The Captain claimed it was the English colony of Antigua. I was thankful. I thought we would anchor there and bring fresh water aboard; but nay, the Captain altered our course to the north, and we passed a number of other islands, until he turned us south and we dropped through a passage into the Northern Sea.

  Belfry informed me that we did not stop until Jamaica, because additional victuals and water would cost money, and there was a chance bondsmen would slip over the side when we were in the shallow waters of a bay. Apparently this would be a concern when we reached Port Royal, as well. I had not thought of that, and I eyed my remaining forty-one bondsmen with suspicion – until I realized that none of them could swim. I surely could not. And then I wondered if I would wish to pursue them, if they so greatly wished to escape their contracts that they were willing to brave sharks and drowning to do so.

  I thought that if I were not allowed to disembark soon, I might brave splashing about in a bay. I was tired of being at sea, though I had become very familiar with the motion of the vessel and the daily rhythms of life on a ship. However, I was beginning to experience disturbing dreams of sailing forever with sharks in my wake, never finding land and being alone without a soul to hear my cries.

  Once past the Windward Islands, we were no longer in the ocean, and now sailed the clearer waters of the Northern Sea. It was the first week of March, 1667. We had been at sea over five weeks. Anticipation was winding its way through all our minds, and every man aboard spent time gazing to the north in hopes of sighting land. We settled back into a strictly westward course at seventeen degrees North latitude, which would take us south of Puerto Rico and Hispaniola before we reached Jamaica. All three islands were in an orderly row, and I wondered at that. Were such things truly a plan of God, or was there some more mundane explanation?

  The water we sailed through became so clear I could see things of color in its depths. While relieving myself, and any other time I had occasion to be at the rail, I took amusement in studying the sharks. In this water, one could see the entirety of their bodies and not just their fins. They were sleek and handsome creatures. They resembled the porpoises that occasionally paced us. Everyone delighted in the porpoises, as they were jolly fanciful animals that seemed to make fun of life. The sharks were hated and feared, and no one was pleased they kept us constant company.

  “I am thankful the sharks do not have a penchant for, or possibly the ability to, leap out of the water as the porpoises do,” I observed after my morning trip to the poop deck. Fletcher, Davey, and my cabin mates were around as usual, awaiting breakfast.

  “God must have made them unable to jump in order not to plague seaman more than necessary,” Fletcher said. “It’s bad enough they follow us everywhere.”

  “We keep dumping refuse over the side,” I said, with a vague gesture in reference to my recent activities. “They appear to eat it or at least consider eating it. Though most I have observed have possessed better taste. However, any other matter of waste we produce, they quickly gobble down, rather like pigs or crows. If we stopped dumping things over the side, they would probably desert us.”

  As usual, the religious content of his comment disturbed me. I had spent a good deal of time ruminating on where I would lead my flock. Most wolves are only religious when it suits them. Sheep are usually highly religious, and I thought they could stand to lose some of that. As many have noted, I am not the most religious of men and it is very likely I will burn in Hell.

  “And Fletcher, I find your theory a little farfetched,” I added jovially. “Sharks have been in existence for all of recorded history, and I am fair certain far longer than that, surely before man put to sea in any kind of craft.”

  “God foresaw that we would do such things,” Fletcher replied.

  I studied him and my companions. They seemed to either not understand the overreaching philosophy of what he was saying, or more likely, did not care.

  “But Fletcher,” I protested. “I can put no stock in that, either. I cannot see God the Creator sitting around thinking of things such as not making a shark leap, so that future sailors could dangle their rears over the sides of ships to safely do their business.”

  My lack of faith, or possibly reverence, was apparently being noted by Fletcher. He awarded me a somber frown followed by a grimace of consternation.

  “Lord Marsdale, then what do you suppose God thinks about?”

  He was not asking as a child asks a teacher, but quite the other way around, and I realized he was seeking purchase to lecture me on the subject. On the one hand, I was proud of him for wanting to challenge me, but on the other, I was appalled at the nature of it.

  Four other pairs of eyes were now staring me down, though. I sighed. “I imagine God thinking of things such as….” In truth, I was not sure I had ever thought about God as an entity thinking about anything. Whole weeks of my life passed quite happily with not a single thought of the divine in my head. “As…As, whether or not the granting of freewill was in His best interest. And possibly mathematical equations.”

  “Are you saying that God would doubt his own decisions?” Fletcher asked, somewhat aghast.

  “Aye, we were made in his image, and we doubt; why should He not?” I replied.

  Our companions’ minds were now filled with the vile substance of doubt; I could see it on their faces. Well, if I had done nothing else today, even if I be branded heretic by nightfall, at least I had made my sheep think.

  “God is perfect,” Dickey countered hesitantly.

  “Then where does the doubt come from?” I asked.

  “The Devil,” Tom said as if the answer should be known by all.

  “The Devil, you say?” I teased. I was not sure if I remembered enough of my Sunday lessons to truly engage in the discourse at hand, but it was a discussion of sorts, philosophical even, and it had been ages since I had been granted the opportunity. “Did not God make the Devil?”

  “But not in his own image.” Dickey quickly countered.

  “Then in what image did He make him? Is God not all things? So how could something exist beyond God that God could pattern something from? By the very definition of God’s omnipresence, are not all things in God’s image?”

  There were frowns and grimaces all around.

  “Perhaps discussing this is unwise,” Harry said.

  “In what way, good sir? Do you feel God will hear us from on high and judge us heretics? Did God not give us the ability to question and reason, presumably in his image?”

 
“Respectfully,” Dickey said.

  “If God feels we are being disrespectful, may he command the sharks to leap forth from the sea and bite our hairy arses,” I said.

  Dickey blanched. “Sir, with all due respect, yours is the hairy arse that should be bit, as you began this.”

  Without doffing my breeches, I hung my arse over the gunwale so that it could easily be seen by the one shark doggedly keeping pace with us on that side of the ship. It did not leap forth from the water.

  “God will deal with you later, I am sure,” Dickey said with a great deal of dignity.

  I laughed.

  “Land ho!” the lookout shouted from the crow’s nest. I was almost disappointed, as this summarily dismissed the subject at hand, while we all tried to crowd to the bow or stand on something so that we could see beyond the others. I was truly disappointed when my aching eyes finally beheld another faint smudge on the northwestern horizon.

  I joined Belfry and the captain on the quarterdeck.

  “Hispaniola?” I asked.

  The captain was reckoning our latitude, and nodded shortly. “It would be best if it were, my Lord.”

  “Otherwise we are lost?”

  He snorted.

  As we drew closer over the course of the day, the land continued to meet their expectations in general shape and supposed chart location, and we steered so that we could keep it in sight but stay well clear of it. Hispaniola is a Spanish colony, and though most of the traffic through the Northern Sea usually plied the passages between Hispaniola and Cuba to the northwest, the island did have a number of cities on her southern side. It was, of course, not in our best interests to run afoul of any ship that might be visiting them; though, oddly, it was unlikely any such ship would be Spanish.

  The Captain had assured me, as I had already known, that we had little to fear of running afoul of a Spanish vessel. We were more likely to encounter smugglers, privateers, or pirates in these supposedly Spanish waters. The Spaniards had never recovered from the loss of their armada in 1588. For all the wealth that seemingly poured from the New World to Spain, they did not seem to be reaping the benefits of it to the degree I would imagine: at least not in terms of rebuilding their navy. All of their enemies knew they did not have the number of naval ships necessary to patrol the West Indies. Which was why the English, French, and Dutch now had colonies here. The Spanish could destroy any one of them, to be sure, but not all.