“Non,” he assured me. “I am flattered. And as for I not desiring you… Will, I do not know. As I have said, I am not motivated by desire, though apparently I did desire you last night in some fashion. Or rather my horse did.” He frowned. “I sometimes wonder if our beings are like Plato’s cave. Am I the true thing in the sun, and the face I show the world while mad merely the shadow on the wall?”
The idea was intriguing and I puzzled on it. “Perhaps we all are. If it is the case, I would very much like to slip my bonds and turn about in my chair, so that I could see you in the light.”
“I do not think I am a pretty thing in the light.”
“I do not feel that I am either. If I envision my soul, it is a misshapen thing.”
“I want to see it. I do not believe that an ugly thing could cast so fine a shadow.”
My eyes were moist and my heart somewhere in my throat. “You are making me ache again.”
“Do you wish to kill something?” he grinned.
“Non, the other one.”
Later, after a pleasant morning thinking on his words, I told him, “You know, you cannot fall from that horse of yours.”
“And why is that?”
“You are a centaur. It is part of you.”
He smiled. “I will attempt to remember that the next time it bolts.”
“And perhaps,” I added. “We can endeavor to convince your horse body to stay with mine, and instead of there being reins to be passed about or dropped, we could simply hold hands and thus relieve your skittishness.”
He took my hand, and his face softened as he watched the waves with a hopeful smile. In his demeanor, I recognized a little of the child that had crawled into my arms this morning. I decided the shadows he cast when he was mad were just different facets of him, shown in a very harsh light.
Two days later, we sighted prey. She was a flute, a three-masted Dutch cargo vessel. This one was flying a Spanish flag, sitting heavy in the water, and sailing for Cuba as fast as she could manage in a reaching wind, which is to say she was beating a course that crossed our own. When she spotted us, she turned and ran downwind. The Bard seemed to think this was amusing. As I saw how quickly we gained on her, I understood his reasoning.
After a month of boredom, the excitement was intoxicating. The buccaneers ringed the deck, whooping and shouting imprecations, knowing their howling was carried with the wind to the fleeing vessel. They were a pack of wolves, or rather a single entity, a shark, closing in for the kill.
I stood well out of the way in our alcove, and watched it all with wonder. I had girded myself for battle in both spirit and the flesh dozens of times, but never with so many others. I found Gaston regarding me with amusement.
“We will be some of the first on board.” With his broken voice, he had to strain to be heard over the mob.
I nodded. After years of working with Alonso, I fully expected my matelot to proceed to reiterate everything he had ever told me about boarding. Gaston said nothing. He was an island of silent repose in the sea of battle-lust about us, readying weapons. I embraced him. He returned it without comment.
Striker and Pete joined us, and we made room for them to prepare themselves.
As boarders, we would not carry muskets, so we left them wrapped along the wall. We would, however, need every other weapon we had. I loaded all four of my pistols and festooned them about my baldric and belt, along with a cutlass, rapier and four dirks. I offered Pete my extra rapier, but he said he would have to think too much about it, and it was best to go with what he knew. In addition to pistols and cutlasses, he carried axes. I pitied the Spaniard who faced him.
Once I was prepared, I checked the position of our quarry. She was much closer than before, but there was still a little time. Some of the howling had died down as Bradley moved about organizing everyone. Striker paused before going to join him, and addressed me.
“Do not kill anyone with earrings,” he said as if it were some profundity.
“UnlessTheyBeASpaniard,” Pete added. “OrAManYaHate.”
“As always in battle, it is good to be loved, if not by the Gods, then by your fellow man,” I said. They laughed and left us alone for a moment.
Gaston was reapplying his mask. He studied my face, and then offered a gob of paint. I grinned and let him apply it. The substance felt odd around my eyes, but he seemed pleased with the result.
We joined the other boarders crouching amidship behind the mast. Pete and Striker were cats ready to pounce. They exuded fire and danger, and the looks between them were full of challenge, as if this were some game that could be won. Then they kissed as if it were their last.
I glanced at Gaston and saw that he had been watching them too. He took my hand and squeezed. I kissed his cheek. To my amazement, he grabbed my head and kissed my lips. The moment was shattered by gunfire.
As we had closed in from behind, the flute had tried to turn and bring her few cannon to bear. Liam and the musketeers were now shooting the Spanish gunners, while the Bard masterfully got us behind her again. All the while we were dropping sail so we did not ram her.
In the final yards, the musketeers volleyed back while we boarders, twenty of us in all, worked our way up the middle of the sloop to the bow. Men well-used to the task grappled us to the flute’s stern, while the muskets kept the Spaniards at bay. Our carpenter and another man drove a wedge behind the flute’s rudder. She was now helpless in the water, with the North Wind a giant leech on her arse.
To my left, Cudro led his men up a rope to the stern castle. Gaston and I followed Striker and Pete up an axe ladder they had laid into the flute’s flank. I was initially concerned about this method of boarding, but the battle lust was upon me; and when it was time, I cared not that I was clambering up the back of axe heads with a knife in my teeth and a pistol in each hand.
As we were the first aboard, the field was still clear, and the enemy was obligingly over there as opposed to being over here. I heard a shot whiz by my head, as I fired both pistols and saw the shots strike true. I dropped the guns and pulled my second set.
Cudro’s men were attacking the quarterdeck from above, while we attacked below. Some of the Spaniards ran for the bow. Gaston gave chase, staying well wide of the oil and broken glass the flute’s crew had spread about. I began to follow; but then Pete crashed into me, sending us both sprawling over one of the cannon. I saw what he had been diving away from: an officer with a rapier. Pete now knew very well not to fence with a cutlass.
There were too many earrings around to get a clean shot. I tossed Pete my pistols, even as I glanced about for Gaston. My matelot was way up the ship. I yelled at Pete to help him, but Pete had rolled away and was gone. Julio and Davey heard me, and I was relieved to see them sprinting to follow Gaston as I drew my sword and stood.
The officer regarded me with a desperate arrogance that is unique to wolves. He would die: he knew it. His only goal was to take as many of us with him as he could. I did not expect the exchange to last long. I was correct. He rushed me with a lack of caution. As I had much to lose, I retreated before him, only too late feeling the pain in my feet and understanding what it meant. He grinned as I slid on glass and oil. Unfortunately for him, pain does not deter my ability to fight. It merely makes me angry.
I pressed the attack and dove past his defenses, which were competent but not gifted. I ran him through and pulled my blade free. I was looking about for another target before he slumped. There were none; the damn ship had not been military, and had not carried much beyond her sailors.
I spied Bradley, and he crossed to me to snap, “Get your loose cannon!”
I regarded him with incomprehension, until he pointed toward the forecastle. I turned. Gaston was hacking away at something. Despite the pain in my feet, I ran.
When I reached him, his eyes were filled with the glittering danger they had held when he pulled the knife on me. He was breathing heavily. There were dead bodies at his feet. I did not know wha
t to say.
“He’s mad!” Davey howled. He was hanging from the rigging, presumably in order to stay as far from Gaston as possible. Julio stood nearby, a look of horror on his handsome face.
“He just hacked them up,” Davey continued. “There were three of them. One of the heads went overboard.”
“You are not helping,” I told him. Gaston was not looking at us. “Gaston!”
He regarded me with annoyance.
“What happened?” I asked.
“He had a whip,” he snarled.
I looked at the pile of bodies. There was indeed a severed arm with a cat in its hand. I thought of the force necessary to sever limbs even with a cutlass, not to mention heads.
“You are bleeding,” Gaston said.
I looked back to him. He was no longer angry. He appeared concerned. I looked down at my feet. The world spun. I truly have no stomach for the sight of my own blood. There was a good amount of it.
A minute later, I found myself sitting with Gaston’s back pressed to my chest, and my right leg curled up and around him so that my foot was in his lap.
“This will hurt,” he said. “Bite something.”
I decided he would not appreciate my teeth in his neck, so I bit his baldric where it passed over his shoulder. He pulled a sliver of glass free. It hurt so that my bowels clenched and I left teeth marks in the leather. It did not stop there. Shortly I was not sure which was worse: his probing about to find more glass, or the pain that occurred when he located a piece.
Pete arrived in the midst of this and returned all of my pistols to me, and the ones Gaston had dropped to him. He watched for a time.
“ToldYaBoutTheGlass, Didn’tHe?”
“Aye,” I hissed.
Gaston glared at him. He had indeed lectured me about the trick of spreading glass on a deck, and a number of other things the Spanish did to try and keep us at bay.
Pete looked about and spied Gaston’s earlier handiwork. “Argh. IWill NotDigInThatMessForGold. AMan’sInnards. TheyBurn.”
“We will see to it,” I hissed.
“Nay. WhenYaCanMove, CaptinNeedsYa.” He jerked his thumb down the ship. Things were calm. There were several prisoners tied to the main mast. Cleghorn was treating other injured buccaneers.
“For what?” I asked.
“Interogatin. YaSpeakSpaniard.”
“So do I,” Julio said from nearby.
I sighed and nodded happily. I do not mind torturing men on occasion, when it is warranted; but, perversely, not while I am in pain.
Julio and Davey followed Pete to the prisoners.
Gaston had continued probing. He stopped. “I think I have it all. Some of the wounds will need stitching.”
I swore vehemently. All was quiet for a moment, and I listened to a man protesting in Castilian that there was nothing of value on the ship to us other than what was in the hold. I wondered what she was carrying. I was staring at the pile of dead bodies.
“What occurred?” I asked.
Gaston sighed. “I cornered those three. They were without pistols. I looked back for you and saw you engaging with a sword.” He smiled ruefully.
“Imagine my surprise,” I chuckled. “I was trying to follow you when Pete ran into me.”
His fingers found my lips again. “You do not need to explain. It is battle. Situations occur that we cannot foresee.”
“Still, I will endeavor to stay closer to you next time.” I gestured to the pile of bodies.
“I had thought I was doing well,” he said somberly.
“You seemed calm before,” I said.
“Non, non, not with my madness, with… you. I have rarely cared these past years if the men about me lived or died. And now I have you to worry about. I told myself that I would not be a fool and hang on you, worried that you might be harmed. Yet you engage in battle and I watch like a daft cow, all the while telling myself that you are competent. That if I have chosen to feel this way for another, at least I have chosen a man who is competent.”
I tightened my embrace around his chest and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, though I feel I do not deserve such praise. After all, I was pushed into glass like a boy with a toy sword.” I chuckled. “Because I did not feel as brave, or foolhardy, as I usually do. I feared injury and death, as I feel I have much to lose. I wanted to get to you as quickly as possible, because I feared losing you.”
He smiled. “Then we are both fools and we should quit this profession.”
“Perhaps we should.” I found myself gazing at the bodies again. “So you were watching me and…”
“Then the fool hits me with a whip and I killed him… and his companions.”
“We would have killed them anyway.” As if to punctuate my words, one of the prisoners wailed with pain.
“Oui,” he sighed.
“Do you think they have any valuables on them?”
“I sincerely doubt it. I will check.” He pulled his cutlass and first pushed the arm with the whip overboard. Then he probed through pockets and pronounced them poor. He tossed the rest overboard for the sharks. He helped me work my way down-ship, and we joined the others.
The one man was still wailing, “We have nothing of value to you.”
I sat on a cannon next to Pete. “What is the ship carrying?”
“DyewoodAn’Hides.”
Bradley and Striker seemed intent on questioning the prisoners. Matches had been lit between the protesting man’s toes. As my feet ached, I could not watch.
“Is that odd?” I asked. “The cargo?”
Gaston shook his head. “For a ship in the Flota. This one was crossing to Cuba early, alone. True, it could have come up from Campeche with this cargo, but she is very far north.”
I regarded the crying prisoner curiously.
“There is nothing of value to you,” he whined yet again.
“To us,” I said loudly in Castilian. “What is there of value on this ship to others?”
The man’s eyes shot wide with surprise, and he became very still. Julio translated what I said very quietly for Striker, who turned to give me a triumphant smile.
“What?” Pete asked. I explained. Pete grinned. “ThoughtTheyWas Wastin’Time. ThoughtThereWasNothin’Here.” Pete crossed to the prisoner, and braced his arms on either side of the man. I could not see Pete’s eyes or hear what he whispered, but whatever the man saw or heard caused him to lose control of his bladder. Amusingly, this put out the matches that had been burning his toes.
“Books,” the man stuttered. “In the barrels.”
Gaston and I exchanged a look. He understood enough Castilian to understand, and he hurried below to look. I wished to follow, but decided against it. He and two other men returned a few minutes later with armfuls of books. I snatched one from him and paged through it. It was some sort of religious treatise. Gaston was paging through another. He grinned and we exchanged books. This one was a romantic adventure and quite racy. Another in the pile was like it, only with etchings of a clearly salacious nature. I took up the religious one again, and read a paragraph; it seemed to be speaking out against something.
Everyone was watching us. I smiled.
“I believe they are smuggling books of a salacious nature and possible some heretical material as well.” I was greeted with confused stares. “They are dirty books in Castilian,” I said and passed about a particularly naughty drawing.
Our men were amused, but not pleased at all. The prisoner confirmed my theory, though. They were indeed carrying books printed in Terra Firma to Cuba, where they would be smuggled back to Spain. Other than amusement value for those of us who could read Castilian, they were worthless. To someone with access to Spanish markets, they were probably worth a fortune.
Mystery solved, I took up samples of each book, and with Gaston’s help, made it back to the North Wind. I gave a naughty book to the Bard. He was amused. He also had an appreciation of the ironic value of the cargo.
Gaston handed me a
bottle of wine from the Spanish ship and went to rummage through his bag. I took several pulls and found it quite admirable. He snatched it back from me. “Do not drink it all. I need it for your feet.”
I sighed. And again when I saw him unwrap a small surgeon’s kit.
“Lie on your belly,” he said.
I did not wish to do that. The thought of lying on my belly with my back exposed while someone caused me pain made my heart race. He must have read it in my eyes, as his face softened and he said gently, “It is the best position for me to get access to the bottom of your feet. Where would you feel safe in that position?”
“Nowhere.” I held up a hand to ward off discussion. I looked about and crawled onto the quarterdeck, and situated myself above our alcove facing the rails so I could see what was going on. He let me have another pull on the bottle. Then he gave me a leather wrapped stick to bite. I needed it.
While he worked, I tried to concentrate on what little I could hear of the roaring argument above us regarding the prize. There seemed to be some disagreement over what to do with the vessel. I finally turned to Gaston when he finished with my right foot, and spit the stick out.
“What is that about?”
He shrugged. “With a normal prize, the quartermaster sails her, along with part of the crew; and she will be used in concert with the first ship to take any additional prizes, and then sailed into port to be handed over to the English admiralty court. Then she will be auctioned off and the proceeds split with the Crown. But this one is not worth sailing in pursuit of anything; she will just slow us down. And she is not much of a prize. Her cargo, the dyewood and hides, are worth money….”
“But at a relatively low yield per ton,” I said.
He nodded. “So I would guess that Striker does not want to sail her back to port. He would rather stay aboard to take bigger prizes. I would also guess Cudro is thinking the same.”
“Ah, do the men who sail a prize into port forfeit anything captured after?”
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