I was sitting on what must have been a mast. So were Gaston, Striker and Pete. They were similarly covered with sailcloth, presumably to keep off the sun. We were in open ocean, yet ahead there was land. They were all rowing with the butts of their muskets. The mast beneath me was festooned with bags holding our belongings and weapons.
I finally understood.
“Bloody Hell, it wasn’t a dream!” I howled.
“Thanks for joining us, Will,” Striker said wryly.
“NowFuckin’Row!”
Gaston did not turn to regard me. He kept rowing toward shore.
I was in Hell and the Gods had led me here.
Sixteen
Wherein We Are Shipwrecked
Since my matelot was not speaking and Striker was uncharacteristically quiet, Pete informed me of the events that had transpired. We had set sail southward toward Campeche, shortly after Pete and I deposited Gaston in the Captain’s cabin. Half the gold had been transferred to the North Wind along with Cleghorn and the wounded. Bradley had stayed on board to question the prisoners. That night, as the weather was getting worse and we neared the Campeche peninsula, we anchored; and Bradley returned to the North Wind. Thirty men had been left to guard the prisoners and sail the galleon, in addition to Pete, Striker, Gaston and myself.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the true storm hit and we lost sight of the sloop. We had to weigh anchor and attempt to ride it out. The thought of the giant galleon as a windblown piece of flotsam in the pitch black of a night storm clenched my gut. I was happy I had been drunk. One glance over my shoulder at Striker’s strained face told me he wished he had been drunk too.
Due to the storm, we were blown out of the Gulf and toward Cuba, until the galleon began to break up and take on water. Then we were on the mast and at the mercy of the waves. Thankfully, the current was somewhat with us, and taking us up and north and closer to shore. However, the shore in question was Cuba, and we were getting ever closer to Havana. We needed to make land before we were sighted, hopefully well to the west of the city. As the island was heavily occupied, we would be in grave danger from the inhabitants; but we could find victuals and steal a boat to return home. Thus we rowed toward the land spreading across the horizon.
“What about the others?” I asked.
“Don’tKnow. TheyGotTheLongboats. OneWasBustFromTheMast.”
I remembered lightning-lit glimpses from what I had thought was a dream, involving Pete and Striker and other men struggling to lift the mast from the longboat. I also remembered people being swept overboard. I did not ask about the prisoners. It could now be assumed that everyone who had left Vera Cruz aboard the Santa Lucia was dead.
The entirety of our situation slowly revealed itself to me as I paddled. We could not be sure if the North Wind had survived the storm. We might be the only men who sailed from Port Royal to make it home; that was, if we did not get captured by the Spanish or have some other evil befall us.
I was only alive because of Gaston. He had saved my life. I did not know how he had gotten free. I remembered another image: this one of him standing over me with a knife. I knew he had been very angry. I did not know what his humor was now. I was torn between knowing we had much to say to one another and not knowing if I wished to speak to him at all. I decided not to speak of anything while we were on the mast: in part because I wanted to see his face when we discussed it, as I was afraid his gaze would hold the same hatred, and I knew I would picture that expression when he spoke unless my eyes could behold otherwise. I also did not wish to discuss the matter in front of our companions, even in French.
We were very close to Cuba now; and I regarded the rugged coastline with hope, as I did not see any signs of habitation, which meant it was possible no one saw us coming ashore. There would be little we could do to defend ourselves if they did. Gaston had collected all of our weapons and bags and attached them to me. Pete and Striker had done likewise with their gear, though thankfully they had not attached it to me. So we had our muskets and pistols and swords, but we didn’t have an ounce of dry powder among us.
With much relief, we rode the mast through the surf and onto shore. When we disembarked, I discovered there was still a rope about my waist tied to Gaston. It was symbolic for me; and I was loathe to untie it, as I felt the connection very tenuous between us, and I did not wish to do anything to further sever it – any more than I wished to draw him closer. He would not meet my eyes or even gaze upon me, and he regarded the rope around him with some annoyance once he was minded of it. Yet he did not immediately untie it, either.
“Thank you for saving my life,” I said in French as we stood in the surf and watched Pete and Striker haul their gear ashore and into the shade.
“It may not have been a favor. You could have died in your sleep without a whimper.” He pulled the knot free and left me there.
I struggled to shore with the rest of the gear, my head pounding and my heart aching. I dropped the bags next to Gaston and Striker, who were already assessing damage to the muskets. Then I rid myself of the rest of the rope, both from around my waist and what had been used to attach me to the bags. Striker was still sullen and not speaking. Pete stood a little ways away, and studied the hill above us and the shoreline. I joined him. We looked at each other, and of one accord walked farther down the beach.
“MineIsPissedTheShipSank,” Pete said when we were out of earshot.
I sighed. “Mine is pissed I was drunk, or possibly because I hit him. In all truth I do not know. He is simply angry.”
Pete snorted derisively. “NoTimeForIt. WeNeedWaterAn’Food.” He stomped back to our matelots and drew on his baldric. “We’llScout.”
I slung my baldric and checked my blades quickly.
“I will go,” Gaston said.
“Nay!” Pete said. “YouTwoStayHereAnPout.”
Though I had said nothing, Pete’s words earned both of us livid glares.
Striker came to his feet. “You arse! I’m not pouting! I’m despondent! You would be, too, if you had any God-damned sense. We’ve lost everything! No ship. No gold. Everyone we know is dead. We’re on Spanish soil. What am I supposed to do, leap about for joy?”
Pete’s glare was level and steady, and a thing to be reckoned with only by the strong of heart. “WeBeAlive. You,” he pointed one imperious finger at Striker, “NeverKnowWhat’sImportant.” He turned and headed uphill, and I followed.
“AnHeSays IHaveNoSense,” he muttered.
We were halfway up the hill when Gaston caught us.
“Don’tYaBe Leavin’HimAlone,” Pete growled.
Gaston stood his ground with arms crossed. “Do you know where to look for water?”
Pete thought about that for a moment, and sighed while studying the distant trees. “Nay.”
“Then he can stay with Striker,” Gaston said. He did not regard me as he said this, so I decided to stop watching him.
I looked to Pete, who shrugged. “Aye. CanYaKeepAn EyeOnStriker?”
“If he does not leap around too much, I am sure I can manage.”
Pete chuckled, and I went back down the hill. Striker was standing in the surf, staring out to sea. I have never truly commanded anything, which is to say, I have never been responsible for the lives of others in the fashion of an officer or a captain; and therefore I could only understand a little of what he must be experiencing. However, I have witnessed the effects of loss on men who commanded, and the guilt and grief can take a shocking toll upon the weak. I did not think Striker weak.
I joined him. “For what it is worth, I would sail with you again.”
He was still for a long moment, and then he shook; and I was not sure of the emotion giving rise to the tremor, until it burst forth from him in a hearty chuckle. When it passed, he sank to the ground where he had stood, so that the waves washed across his stomach. I dropped beside him.
“Christ, Will,” he sighed. “I know there was nothing I could do. But now, all o
f those people are dead, and for what? There’s no gold.”
I frowned at him. “Are you saying the gold would have given their deaths meaning?”
“Aye, for me. If a man dies because of a goal, then his death had meaning.”
“Many would think that; but most would think a worthy goal to be something other than gold, like defending God, king, or country, or maybe even family.”
Striker shrugged. “Bradley keeps saying any damage we do against the Spaniards is justified because we’re at war with them; but it’s all about the gold, Will. That’s why we’re at war.”
I smiled as I saw his meaning. “I would say it is all about power, but one grants the other, does it not? Those with power have gold, and those with gold have power. The Spaniards had the gold, so they possessed the power to say all the gold in the New World was theirs. But every time we take a ship, we prove them wrong and deny them their power and their gold.” I thought on it for a moment. “You could view it thusly, that their deaths had meaning because they denied the Spaniards gold.”
Striker chuckled. “I could view it thus, but it would only be a temporary bandage of a deep wound requiring stitching.”
“Most justifications are.” I shrugged.
“Soldiers care not for all of that,” he said. “A soldier only wants the gold so he has enough power over his own life to avoid fighting for others. The nobles can fight for God and king. They rarely have to die for it.” He paused and recited from memory, “All men want gold, men with gold want power, and the powerful want everything.”
“Who said that?”
“My uncle, the pirate I learned everything from,” he said ruefully.
I smiled. “He sounds like a wise man.”
“He’s dead and gone, before I left England. He died of the ague. If we had still had him as captain, we would not have been captured; but his first officer who replaced him was a foolhardy numbskull, and I was young and stupid and cheering him on. We were rash and we paid for it. Didn’t get any gold out of that, either, and very few of us lived to tell the tale.”
“So you view those as wasted lives as well?”
“Aye.”
“Tell me, do you only think about our men, or do you count the dead Spanish as well?”
He frowned and regarded me with puzzlement. “Do you count the Spaniards?”
“Sometimes I think I do. The men aboard that ship did not set Spanish policy or benefit all that much from Spanish gold. They were just sheep torn asunder in a war between wolves. As all sheep are, I guess. Sometimes I can ignore such things, and at others it does not sit well with me. I realize I am engaging in foolish notions for a pirate.” I also realized I had not explained my sheep metaphor to him and probably appeared quite the fool. To my surprise, he grasped my meaning immediately.
“Aye. You cannot feel sorrow over sheep, Will. They’re sheep. We wolves have to eat.”
“Do you see the world in terms of predators and their natural prey?” I asked.
“Aye, the strong and the weak.”
“Was your uncle a wolf?”
Striker chuckled. “Will, I come from a long line of wolves. We’ve always roved the seas.”
The thought of dynasties of self-made wolves intrigued me. I needed to discuss this with Gaston; and then I remembered we were not talking. I lost all interest in the topic, as it seemed so incredibly foolish and trivial in relation to the issues of my life.
“What really makes me angry,” Striker was saying, “is that I don’t even know where we went down. If I did, we could try and salvage her. And you’re correct about gold granting power. Every time I sail a prize into port I think…” He trailed off.
“That you wish to have the command all the time?” I hazarded.
He nodded. “Aye, and then something like this happens. It is as if God is smiting me for my delusions of grandeur.”
I laughed. “Ah, Striker, if we are at war with the Gods, we may never get home.”
Melancholy gripped me. I only knew one man who would readily understand my jest. I felt a sense of loss that far outweighed my fear that he would snarl vicious obscenities at me again. It was quite obvious, even to someone as blinded as I often am by my own desires, that we could not be together in the way I had hoped. Yet I still wanted him as a friend.
My change of mood must have been quite evident, as Striker was regarding me with curiosity. And then he confused me with his question.
“Where is home, Will?” It did not seem to be rhetoric. I realized it was quite profound.
“I do not know,” I said. “When I traveled before, I always thought home was England: specifically my father’s estate and the house I was raised in. But that place never engendered any of the feelings philosophers and poets assign with the name. Neither has any other place I have slept.”
Striker was chuckling ruefully. “My home is with Pete. He’s correct, I’m such an arse.”
“Home is where the matelot is, eh?” I smiled. I thought of the last two months with Gaston, and my smile widened. “Well, if we are at war with our matelots, we shall never get home.”
He laughed. “’Tis true, ’tis true.”
“Do you think there might be shellfish or such in this water? Or do we have a means of catching fish?”
“Aye,” he said and stood. “I have hooks and line. We can try.” He regarded the distant waves for a moment. “My stomach tells me it cares not for gold or power or ships, or even matelots unless they bring food.”
“Mine speaks thusly all the time.”
An hour later, we had caught one fish and had high hopes of catching more; we had powder drying upon a stone; and we still had not seen our matelots. We were concerned, but not overly so. We were even more concerned when we saw a number of men coming down the beach toward us. We doused the fire and hid as best we could with our muskets: even though we had not the means to fire them, we could at least use them to bluff if the opportunity presented itself. As they continued to approach, we counted nine in all. Then we began to notice other details, and our anxiety transmuted to curiosity; and then hope and finally joy, as we ran out to greet our own men.
“What’s this with muskets?” Cudro roared with amusement as he clasped hands with Striker. “You’re all wet.”
“You have dry powder?” Striker challenged back.
“Nay, I was going to club someone with it.” He brandished one of the few muskets they had.
Davey swept me off my feet in a great embrace and seemed overjoyed to see me.
“Where’s Pete?” he asked.
I met Julio’s gaze over Davey’s shoulder and rolled my eyes. Julio seemed more amused than upset, and shrugged it off with good nature.
“He went with Gaston for water. Do you have any? And what of Liam and Otter?”
He frowned at me. “Nay, no victuals either. Otter and Liam were on the North Wind.”
I was somewhat relieved, though they could still be dead.
“We landed not long before you, and saw you coming in – and decided to come here,” Julio said.
Striker clasped hands with each man, and then he grew somber. “How many were on your boat?”
“Thirteen,” Cudro sighed. “We lost two to sharks and two just slipped away. Never saw the other boat.”
“Was that the damaged one?” I asked.
Cudro shook his head. “Nay, we had the damaged one. Leaked so bad we started to go down, so we flipped her over and hung from the sides. That’s how we lost the men.”
Striker shook his head sadly, and then gave a shrug. “Well, as you saw, we were thankful the mast floated.”
This engendered some chuckles; and then we rekindled the fire and set more men to fishing, and we all got about the business of determining what we had. They had a few weapons among them and little else. We had six muskets and twelve pistols. Due to the way we all carried our blades, every man had those. As for other gear, none of the men from the longboat had a thing, unless he had kept it
in a belt pouch.
We were all dining on fish by the time Gaston and Pete returned. They were both relieved at the sight of our mates and dismayed that they had not brought enough water. I was curious as to where they had obtained the bottles they did bring water in. I was not the only one.
“Where the Hell did you get that?” Striker asked as Pete produced a pie from a bag.
“WeFoundAHouse.”
I offered Gaston half of my fish, and he sat next to me with a sigh. He handed me a bottle of water, and I took a long drink before passing it on.
“And here I thought you would be exercising some woodsman skill learned upon the Haiti to locate a spring. I could have spotted a house,” I teased.
He smiled grimly, but he still would not look upon me as he spoke. “It was both a blessing and a detriment. We need to move on before the occupants are noticed missing.”
“Ah, anything else of value?”
“We have some idea of where we are. Perhaps you can make more of it.” He handed me a sheaf of papers. They were old, and included a grant for land that mentioned a township and a crude map.
“Does the name Cabanas mean anything to anyone?” I perused the map and cursed. “We are damn close to Havana.”
“That may be to our favor,” Striker said, after he, too, cursed. “More people, but that means more ports.”
“We should move tonight,” Gaston said.
“No one has slept since before we took the galleon,” Striker said. “But I agree. Let’s set watches, and everyone should sleep a little now.”
I did not argue that Gaston had spent last night unconscious and I had been in a drunken stupor and in some ways we were more rested than the others. Of course I did not need to explain this to my matelot.
“We will take first watch,” Gaston volunteered.
There were no objections, and we slipped up the hill and found a fine vantage point. There are two options for covering all possible angles of observation: one involves sitting back to back and the second facing one another while looking over the other’s shoulder. He chose to turn his back to me. We sat in silence for a while.
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