Brethren

by W. A. Hoffman

  To my amusement, Pete kissed Striker on the cheek. Then he waved for me to follow, and we slipped across the deck to the hatch and dropped into the hold below.

  It seemed quite large, now that it was devoid of cargo. I assumed Davey was somewhere in the darkness around us. I listened. I heard rats and the faint clank of metal from the stern. Pete had heard it as well. I started to move in that direction, but Pete stayed me with a hand upon my arm. In the dim light from above, I saw him take a lantern from its hook just below the hatch. Then we padded aft, even our bare feet sounding loud, despite the muted voices from both castles and the omnipresent water on the hull about us.

  I stopped when my outstretched hand encountered wood, a pole that swayed at my touch. I guessed it to be part of the whipstaff apparatus which steered the ship. Somewhere in this area, the whipstaff above us was connected to the rudder in the water at the very rear of the vessel.

  Pete handed me the lantern, and I lit it. The sudden illumination was blinding in the enclosed space; and it was a moment before I could perceive much of anything. Then the light showed a man chained to the hull beside the steering apparatus. It was Davey, though I almost did not recognize him for the bruises. He was sleeping or unconscious.

  Seeing his battered face, any remaining remorse I might have felt about destroying the ship vanished. If doing this to a man was considered a routine part of one’s livelihood, then perhaps it was a livelihood that deserved a considerable setback. Burning one ship was not going to make any other merchant vessel treat its crew more humanely; but there was the principle of the thing, and in this instance it mattered to me.

  I assessed the chains on Davey. He was manacled, and the chain between his wrists was connected to another that ran to a bolt in a beam of the hull.

  “We will need keys,” I muttered to Pete.

  “Naw ya won’t,” a voice growled from behind me. It was not Pete. It was Cox, the bo’sun.

  I spun low and drew a dirk.

  “Thought you’d come.” He grinned at me and brandished an axe.

  I was somewhat alarmed, as I did not see Pete and wondered where he had gotten off to. Then arms closed around the very surprised bo’sun: one around his throat and the other about his chest, pinioning his axe arm above the elbow. Pete’s head loomed over the man’s shoulder and grinned at me. I stepped in quickly and relieved Cox of his weapon with a twist to his wrist.

  “Did you think I would come alone?” I asked in pleasant whisper. “Not that I would truly need help with the likes of you. Now, where are the keys?”

  He glared at me and I rested my blade across his chest, leaving an ever deepening line of blood as I pressed. He gasped and struggled and finally snarled, “My pocket.”

  I let him fumble in his own pocket with his free hand. He gave me a key ring.

  “YaWantTaKill’Em?” Pete asked.

  “I want him dead.” I shrugged and prepared to thrust with my blade.

  “I’llDoIt,” Pete said and adjusted his grip to the man’s jaw. Then he jerked up and back and there was a popping sound. The bo’sun slumped to the floor.

  “LessBloodTaSlipOnWhenWeBeRunnin’.” He pushed the body out of the way.

  I had to admit he had a point.

  “I have never seen a man killed like that before,” I said. I did not think I possessed the strength, but I vowed to remember it in case the need ever arose.

  Davey had woken. He blinked at the light and recoiled.

  “It is Marsdale,” I hissed.

  He shook his head. “You came?”

  “Aye, and now we must go.”

  “I didna’ think you’d come.”

  “I said I would aid you.”

  “Aye, but…”

  “We do not have the luxury of discussing this now.” I got him out of the chains and pulled him up to his knees.

  Davey regarded Pete curiously and then moved slowly past him, not out of recalcitrance, but out of stiffness and injury. I sorely wished we had possessed the time to kill the bo’sun slowly.

  Once Davey was at the hatch, Pete took the lantern from me and admonished, “WatchNow.” His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “YaGotTa WatchWhileItCatches. ItBeBlueAn’ThereBeLines.”

  I watched. He threw the lantern against the beam Davey had been chained to, so that it broke and sprayed oil all about. Pitch and tar burn faster than wood, and a ship is nothing but the three together. The pitch caught first; and as he said, flame shot along the planks in blue lines. It was beautiful, mesmerizing even, as the wood caught hold and the flames billowed up to flow across the ceiling.

  Pete roughly grabbed me and pushed me ahead of him and up the hatch. He was laughing. I realized I had been too busy watching to realize the danger.

  We found Davey leaning on the gunwale, regarding us with horror as the smoke began to billow up from below. I looked about for Gaston and Striker and did not see them. Pete helped Davey over the side to the boat. I stayed in the shadows and waited until our missing companions came bounding out of the cabins. We all slipped over the side, Striker passing a chest down to Pete before he disembarked. The hull was hot beneath my hands, and the stars and moon were obscured by smoke. The crew was yelling and beginning to run about.

  Then we were off. We rowed north like madmen, away from Port Royal, so as not to run afoul of the doomed ship’s own longboats or be seen by anyone looking across the harbor at the commotion. The burning ship’s bell sounded frantically, and then there was a loud explosion as the powder magazine caught. I truly hoped all of her men were clear. I supposed I would hear tell of the outcome in the morning.

  In the darkness, we worked our way around toward the Passage Fort and then headed south again, so it would appear that we had come from there. Our pace relaxed and we were able to make introductions. Davey seemed a little dazed by the turn of events, and asked several times if my companions were actually buccaneers. This caused the others a great deal of amusement.

  “You’re one of us now, mate,” Striker informed him. He kicked the box, “And you’ll receive your first share of booty once we get back to the North Wind.” We had agreed that Davey would receive a share, since without him the whole enterprise would not have been conceived; and he would need money to equip himself for his new life.

  I could not see the expression on Davey’s countenance after Striker’s words, but his shoulders spoke unreadable volumes. He sat perfectly still. There was no tension in his wide back, and he did not stoop or straighten; he just did not move. I could see the wolves watching him in the moonlight, judging his reaction with a mix of amusement and wariness. I had imagined Davey would be happy with this turn of events; but I surely did not know him well enough to know. He slowly turned to look at me over his shoulder.

  “You robbed the ship?” he asked quietly. “And burned it?”

  “Aye,” I said with a shrug. “Had to cover for your rescue.”

  “It is the way of the coast,” Gaston said in French.

  Davey frowned at him. I translated, though it helped little as Davey did not understand what the coast in question was. Nor did I, other than knowing we were amongst the brethren of one.

  Pete stopped rowing and clapped Davey heartily on the shoulder. “NotOneO’ArShips. You’llGetPastIt.”

  Davey nodded. “We’re not goin’ ta hang?”

  “If we’re found out we might,” Striker said. “Ship’s gone. No witnesses, no bodies if we’re lucky between the fire, the explosion, and the sharks. Just the five of us. Course the Captain and his matelot know of it. But despite their trying to be proper gentlemen, they won’t say anything.” Striker looked at me and frowned. “Anybody else who might know you wanted to get him free?”

  “Two, both beholden to me in some fashion.” I knew Theodore and Fletcher would be dismayed, but I was sure in my heart they would be admirably silent about it all unless they knew the details. “As long as they know not of the money and I say the burning resulted from the heat of the moment, as it
were.”

  Striker grinned and nodded. “Same goes for Bradley. And I’ll trust your judgment on yours. I have a feeling that you’ve been involved in enough endeavors of this nature to be a good judge of a man in that regard.”

  “Aye,” I smiled.

  Davey turned to find me in the moonlight. He was grinning this time. “You robbed and burnt the ship.”

  “Christ’s balls, I think he’s beginning to see which end’s up,” Striker laughed.

  I chuckled and glanced at Gaston. I found him watching me again. This time he did not look away when our eyes met.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  He snorted and looked away with a thoughtful frown. “Non, thank you.”

  Though we witnessed a great deal of commotion along the harbor wharfs, none came toward us. We rowed through the dark. In the aftermath of the excitement, my bowels chose to remind me of their existence. I found myself unable to row as I hunched over the oar in pain.

  “Will?” Gaston hissed. I felt more than heard or saw the others stop rowing.

  “It is nothing. Merely cramps. More of the same involving my bowels,” I whispered back, though it did little to prevent the others from hearing as all was quiet about us.

  Gaston’s fingers were on my forehead and then the side of my neck. “You are not fevered.”

  “Thank the Gods. I am rarely ill, truly.”

  I heard Striker swear quietly.

  I tried to sit up. Gaston pulled the oar out of my hands and bade me sit still with a gentle touch. The wolves commenced rowing again.

  “Do you need…?” Gaston began to ask.

  “Non,” I said quickly. I did not even wish to imagine them balancing the boat while I hung my arse off the side.

  “Drink,” he whispered and handed me his water skin.

  I drained it.

  Gaston was still concerned.

  “When did it begin?” he asked in French.

  “Today.”

  “Have you been feverish?”

  I wished to say no. “I have found it intolerably hot all day, and yesterday, and blamed it upon the tropical climate.”

  He nodded soberly. “You are worse than I assumed. I am sorry. It need not kill you, though. I will care for you.”

  I returned his nod in kind. “Thank you.”

  Not only did I believe he would, I believed he could. As chilling as the idea was that I was truly ill, I was greatly warmed by the knowledge that he wished to care for me.

  The few men aboard the North Wind greeted us as we rowed up. They had all been distracted from their drinking by the explosion, but none had stirred themselves to leave the ship and go in search of information. This was probably in the best interests of all concerned, because the men were drunk. Striker informed them Pete and he had gone ashore in search of cheesecake, but the bakery was closed. Very few of them remembered that Gaston and I had even been on board before, fewer still would probably realize Davey had not been there with us. As possibly none of them would remember much of the night at all, it mattered little. However, Pete and Striker went amongst them to tell what they had supposedly heard in the streets about the explosion. Thus the way was safe for Gaston and me to get Davey, and the one thing that would surely sober a bunch of drunken pirates, the cash box, into the aft cabin.

  I closed the door behind us, and leaned on it with a sigh of relief – which immediately turned to a quiet growl of annoyance. The room was dark, the leaded windows along the stern doing little to illuminate anything at night. I could only guess at the location of a lantern. Gaston was far more knowledgeable about the logical places to keep lanterns in a ship’s cabin, or he had spied one before the door closed, because he lit one a moment later. I sighed with relief again.

  The room was very small and the ceiling low. It was furnished with a bunk along one wall and a table with two chairs on the other. Davey gingerly lowered himself into a chair. I crossed slowly to the other and sat, as my legs felt quite weak. Gaston considered the cash box he had placed on the table.

  “Did you have to kill anyone?” I asked.

  “We did not have to,” he said distractedly, as he pried the hinges loose on the back of the box, effectively opening it without touching the lock.

  I chuckled. “Did you anyway?”

  His lip quirked. “We encountered two men who were observant and therefore not destined for a long life under the circumstances. And you?”

  “The bo’sun.”

  Davey had been frowning at both of us. “You killed the bo’sun?”

  “Nay, Pete did.” I said.

  “Good,” Davey said with a slow nod.

  I considered him in the lamp light. He looked far worse than he had in the dark, which was of course to be expected. He was filthy and haggard and he had been soundly beaten. Both eyes were bruised and swollen, his lip was split, and there was a gash on his cheek and another along his jaw. I imagined his clothing hid worse.

  “If I had seen the extent of your injuries before he died, I would have saved him for a slower death.”

  He smiled weakly. “That woulda been good.”

  “I daresay you will need a surgeon.”

  Gaston shrugged. “Non. He will live. None of his wounds look so bad as to require stitching. I am sure he can rest below.” He began to stack coins in countable piles.

  I supposed he was correct. I had oft been far better off when wounded to not have some physician attempting to readjust my humors through bleeding or some strange concoction. I had just assumed the wounds were of a sufficient nature to require a surgeon’s attention; but now that I looked at Davey anew, I saw Gaston to be correct. Davey was not bleeding. The more I thought on it, the more I realized that the bo’sun had inflicted his damage for pain and show. He would not have wanted to injure Davey so that he could not work on the return voyage.

  Davey’s eyes got big as he considered the money. “I’m fine, sir.”

  Gaston paused to frown at him.

  “What are the rules amongst the buccaneers for addressing a superior?” I asked.

  “I am not his superior,” Gaston said. “And there are no rules. Men are usually respectful of a captain, once we are at sea and he has been elected, or if it is his ship.”

  The mention of an election was intriguing, but in thinking of that question I remembered an earlier one. “What coast are the Brethren the brethren of?”

  Gaston frowned at me and then smiled. “The Haiti of Hispaniola. The high country and northwest coast along the passage.”

  The wolves crammed themselves into the cabin with us. They stood in awe for a moment at the amount of coin on the table. I regarded it. There had been far more in the box than I had guessed. There was gold amongst the silver.

  “Damn…” Striker said appreciatively. “This is a fine end to a night’s amusement.”

  Pete fingered a coin. In the harsh lamplight I noticed a T branded in his palm. He was a convicted thief. He grinned with predatory splendor, the lamp-lit gold reflecting in his eyes. He tossed the coin onto the table and turned to haul me off the chair and to my feet in a great embrace.

  “ILikeYa. ILikeYaLots.” He dropped me and descended on Davey, who had the good sense to look panicked as he saw me trying to catch my breath. Pete stopped short of him and squatted to eye the wounds. “LikeYaMoreThanHim. Won’tTouchYaThough. YaNeedRum.” He handed Davey a bottle. Davey winced at the first taste but quickly took a second swig.

  Striker was making rapid calculations based on Gaston’s piles. “There’s more than a hundred.”

  “PiecesOfEight?” Pete asked. “Good.”

  “Half the coin is pieces, but I meant pounds,” Striker said.

  “Damn,” Pete said thoughtfully.

  “That would be around four hundred pieces of eight,” I said. “With five shares, that is eighty pieces each, or twenty pounds.”

  Davey had very big eyes, and he took another drink.

  “I have never seen that much money,” h
e muttered.

  I supposed he had not. I wondered why the captain had carried so much; and then I realized it was probably a good part of the amount he would have used to procure cargo here in Port Royal, though I assumed some of those transactions would be conducted with letters of credit.

  Striker helped Gaston divide the different currencies into five equal piles: first pieces of eight, then shillings, then odd currencies. Since not all of the coinage was evenly divisible by five, they decided on their own exchange rates and evened out the piles in terms of value. I was impressed; I did not believe I could have done a swifter or more competent job of it.

  As there was actually a little over a hundred, we each chose a pile that roughly equaled twenty-three pounds. I was pleased. I had little left of what my father had given me, and any additional money was welcome indeed.

  Striker dug around in a chest on the wall and produced bags for us to scoop our booty into. I noticed with some amusement that Striker scooped almost all of Pete’s share in with his own. He handed Pete ten or so small coins, and Pete seemed content with this.

  Striker eyed Davey. “You will have to stay on board, and below deck, until we sail. We’ll see to buying your weapons and the like on the morrow. You can reimburse us.”

  “Whatever ya think best.” Davey nodded soberly. “So I will truly sail with you?”

  “Aye.”

  “When?”

  “Day after tomorrow.” Striker grinned. “We’re after the Flota, and if we don’t catch one of them, then the Galleons a month or so later. We should be at sea three or four months.”

  “No matter to me. I haven’t been on land in two years,” Davey said.

  “YaWannaWalkOnShore?” Pete asked.

  Davey chuckled. “Aye, I would at that. Just for a time.” He stood slowly. His eyes met mine. “Thank you. I haven’t said that yet. I’m sorry, but thank you. Not that you didn’t get something out of it all, but…”

  I sighed and shrugged cordially. I had been prepared to say something properly polite and emotional, but after his last bit of cynicism, I decided I did not want to tell him he was always welcome. First he had not believed I would show, and now he thought I had the ulterior motive of the money. It was disheartening, and protestation would gain me nothing. I hoped the others did not feel as he did.