They both nodded thoughtfully, as if my explanation had satisfied them. They were educated men, though, and most of the crew were not. I wondered if this was the type of thing that had driven Gaston from boat to boat. Not the madness in and of itself, but this superstitious misunderstanding of it. I knew with this traveling about the deck, he would now be blamed for the first sign of trouble.
I was relieved to find our wolves with the Bard and Cudro. That put all of them in one basket for me to deal with. I quickly related what I had heard. Striker swore a good deal, Pete looked confused, the Bard looked tired, and Cudro became angry.
“Damned pack of dogs,” Cudro growled. “You only have to look at his hide to know he is mad and there is nothing more to it. This business is not coming from anyone that knew of him from Tortuga. They know better.”
I glared at him. I could not believe he would do what he did and then take Gaston’s side.
“What?” he bellowed. “What the Devil are you angry with me for?”
“I cannot forgive as easily as…”
“Hold, hold,” Striker said and stepped between us.
Cudro regarded me around him and sighed. “All right, then, I admit it. What I did to him then was wrong. I was damn mad, though, and I was…hurt, in all truth. Still, it was wrong. But if he’s settled with it, why are you still riled? You were not even there.”
“He is my matelot, and the mere thought of someone harming him drives me to distraction.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders. “He is lucky to have you, then, and that has been obvious all along. I mean him no ill will, and a matter such as this causes no end of trouble.”
“I hate to alarm anyone, but I have seen men hanged and marooned over nonsense such as this,” the Bard said. “We need to kill it now.”
“I have heard many a complaint about him from the French, mainly that he cannot be trusted because he is mad; but I have never heard charges of witchcraft,” Striker said.
“As I said, any man who has heard of him on Tortuga knows some of his story; they know he’s mad,” Cudro said. “We have seen him move bodies around; that’s why he has been called the Ghoul.”
“So what brought this on now?” I asked.
“We lost a great many men and a great deal of gold, and that serious a storm was out of season,” the Bard said. “They are looking to blame someone.”
I could understand it, from that perspective. I was not accepting of it in the least, but I could see confused and stupid men searching for someone to blame. “They do not know Gaston, and they have heard strange things about him, so he makes a likely target. Ironically, if they should call anyone witch, it should be Michaels, as he is the one with the unguents and potions he learned from gypsies.”
Cudro nodded thoughtfully. “That may be useful.”
“If it comes to a fight,” the Bard sighed, “not all of us are able, no matter how willing.” He indicated his wounded shoulder; and I realized he was correct. A third of our cabal, such as it was, had not recovered from their last voyage.
Striker was looking about. “Where the Devil did Pete get off to?” We all looked about, and spied him near Gaston. “Good, he’s ahead of us as usual. You should guard your matelot, too. The last thing we need is for him to do anything odd.”
“He should avoid Latin,” the Bard added.
“Aye, as we all know that is a sure sign of witchcraft,” I said derisively.
The Bard laughed. “He should avoid Shakespeare.”
I had to chuckle. “And mythology, and the naming of angels or herbs, and of course speaking in tongues is not allowed.”
“Whatever you do, do not allow him around a dead body,” Cudro said, and then he sobered. “And if you do not know it already, do not allow him to see or hear anything resembling a whip.”
“I already know about that. Tell me, Cudro, did he tell you of that or..?”
He shook his head. “I discovered it on my own.”
“What is this matter with whips?” Striker asked.
“Have you ever seen him without his clothing?” I asked. The Bard and Striker shook their heads. I thought it best to tell them. “He was flogged near to death. He bears heavy scars.”
Striker was surprised. “That is what people have spoken of, then. I understand now.” He regarded me soberly. “Take care of your matelot. Do not start arguing with everyone. We will see what can be done.”
I went to join Gaston. He had finished with the last injury and was boiling his tools. He regarded me curiously, and then flicked his gaze to Pete, who was hovering nearby. “What is the matter?”
“You have been accused of witchcraft.”
He was stunned for a moment, and then he rolled his eyes; and then he sat down heavily. “That would explain why two men refused to allow me to treat them. This is new.”
I waved Pete over to join us, and then I told Gaston of all that I had heard and my discussion with the others.
“Will, it would be best if they returned us to Jamaica,” Gaston said. “It might be better if they left us on the big island to the south and picked us up later.”
“Bah,” Pete said. “WeNeedYa. WeDon’tBeNeedin’ ThemThatBeCausin’ Trouble.”
“What if it is most of the crew?” Gaston asked.
He grinned. “LessMenWhenIt’sDone. WillBeHarderToTakeAPrize.”
That night, as the ship was lying on her side, we all made ready to sleep on the beach. A cook fire was lit, down low between dunes so as not to signal our presence for miles in the black of night. Watches were set and a keg of beer was opened. The three of us gathered our possessions and Striker’s, and a bottle of rum, and retired to the top of one of the dunes, so that we could look down upon the camp and also see out and about us.
I was taut with anxiety, as the tension had been gathering about the crew all evening. I had begun to think it might be best if we just slipped away into the night. When men were wont to be unreasonable over intangible concepts such as superstition or religion, they became more dangerous than if they were starving or filled with greed. You could feed a starving man or avert avarice for a time with gold; but you could do nothing to sate the needs of a man running to or from matters of the spirit, as it was all in his head and heart, and both oftimes bore poor witness to reality.
Pete appeared as tense as I. He sat with his musket across his lap, and his eyes constantly swept the camp. I knew he could tell where Striker was within a meter, and would have shot any man near his matelot who meant Striker harm. The first man to rush us from the camp would die. So would the next fifteen or so, if we were lucky. Thankfully, the camp was divided, and if we were rushed the bastards would be taken down from behind.
Still, I was afraid of someone sneaking up on us from beyond the dune; and I kept my eyes on the shadows, and rarely looked to the fire so as not to blind myself to the dark.
Gaston worried me. He had slid into a state of melancholy since I told him of the accusation, and now he presented the demeanor of a condemned man. He sat without weapon in hand and stared toward the surf. I rubbed his back or shoulder on occasion, and he did not shrug me off, but he did not respond either.
I started at a sound behind me and turned to find Liam and Otter joining us, albeit slowly due to Otter’s injured leg. Liam looked us over before sitting in the sand with his musket ready across his lap and his eyes on the camp. Otter sat next to him, but his eyes were toward the night around us, as mine had been.
“There be trouble, but I reckon ya’ know o’ it,” Liam said after he was situated.
“Aye, but please tell us what you have heard,” I said, and reached behind me to pass him the bottle.
“There be a number o’ stupid buggers thinkin’ that Gaston be practicin’ witchcraft. And then there be another group o’ right bastards who be thinkin’ Michaels is. There be men sayin’ that Gaston poisoned Cleghorn. There be men sayin’ Michaels named Gaston a witch ta hide his own evildoin’.”
“Wha
t do you think?” I asked, with more amusement than I felt. As angry as I was at Michaels, I did not want him hung for things he did not do, either.
Liam made a derisive noise. “We be thinkin’ the only prize this voyage may yield is gettin’ home in one piece, as there may be deaths o’er this. We should keep ar’ powder dry and ar’ pistols in reach an’ set ar’ own watches.”
“Thank you,” Gaston said. He had not spoken since we came to sit on the dune, and his voice was almost lost to the wind.
The musketeers shrugged. Liam said, “I think that if you ’r anyone else was practicin’ witchcraft, ya would ’ave used it to keep the damn boat afloat in that storm. I mean, iffn a man is to be consortin’ with demons, he should at least get rich fer it.”
Otter nudged his matelot and whispered something to him.
“Aye, aye,” Liam said. “I be forgettin’ to say the important things. Cudro is spreadin’ the rumors ’bout Michaels. Hastings is the one sayin’ things ’bout Gaston.”
“Hastings, truly? So Michaels did not start it?” I asked.
“Nay, he started it. Na’ the spreadin’ o’ it, but he were the match,” Liam said. “Last night ’e be complainin’ ’bout sailin’ with Gaston, on account o’ what ’appened on the galleon. Said he didna’ like ’im bein’ surgeon, neither. And then Hastings were curious ’bout it, an’ got ’im talkin’, an’ Michaels said all manner o’ strange things.”
“So it is politics feeding the mindless fear and the need to blame,” I mused aloud.
I wished someone had seen fit to inform us of all of this last night, but I supposed I should be grateful I discovered it when I did. I surmised it would have built for a few days yet, if I had not apprised Striker and Cudro of it, and they had not set out to quell it. Now it was not a distant bank of clouds harboring rumbles of malcontent, but a storm we had sailed into.
Davey and Julio joined us. I fully expected some manner of irritating remark to fall from Davey’s mouth. Instead he surprised me by saying, “I told men I were there and saw what happened, and it were not witchcraft, just madness; but they would na’ listen to me. They said I have been hexed.” He sat dejectedly.
“Thank you,” I muttered and looked down to the camp with mounting horror. The winds were howling indeed. I could see little clusters of men whispering amongst themselves. Some glanced our way, and some glanced over to where Michaels was crouched near the cookfire with a few other men. Striker and Cudro were talking to different groups. I could not see Hastings, but guessed he was beyond the light of the fire, as we were, watching.
The Bard, Belfry, Tom and Dickey stood and walked up the dune to join us. Thankfully they brought another bottle.
“The French and Dutch will not eat anything Michaels cooks,” the Bard said. “If the ship were afloat, I would say we take her and let them on one by one at musket point, if they swear to never mention this whole sorry affair again, but we do not have that option.”
“Thank you all,” Gaston said. He roused himself enough to turn and face them. “As many of you know, I am quite mad. I have little control over it. I do strange things under its influence and I can be a menace to those around me. But I do not consort with demons, and I am not possessed.”
“Ya need na’ say such things,” Liam chided gently. “If we thought ya’ did, we would na’ be sittin’ ’ere.” This brought a chuckle all around. “As for the rest, I figure that’s y’ur matelot’s problem.” This brought laughter. “And besides, you should na’ be tellin’ us anyways, as it’s those buggers ya need ta explain it to.”
“You are correct,” Gaston said, and I sensed a change in his demeanor. He stood, and I was not happy at it, as I guessed his purpose. We all followed him down the hill to the fire.
Men parted to make way for our group, and Gaston went to stand next to the small blaze. I joined him, but the others held back and waited. All eyes turned to us and silence fell amongst the crew.
“I am mad. I am not a witch,” Gaston said as loudly as he could manage. The men who had heard him responded to the requests of those farther away, and his words were born out from the fire like ripples in a pond.
“You need speak loud,” a voice called from the far dune. I guessed it to be Hastings, but I was not sure.
“He cannot,” I said loudly. “Perhaps you should come down.”
All eyes shifted to the location of the faceless voice, until a man emerged from the distant shadows. It was Hastings. A man near him repeated Gaston’s words. Hastings did not comment.
“How do we know ya ain’t possessed?” a voice called out from the other side of the fire.
Gaston sighed heavily. He handed me his musket and then his baldric and belt. He would not meet my gaze, and I accepted them silently. Then he did as I feared he would and doffed his tunic. There was a collective gasp all around us. I winced for him, but he was stoic to the extreme. Then he dropped his breeches. He did not close his eyes as he had with me that day on the beach; but he did gaze into the fire so that he could not see them in the dark around it.
I turned my gaze to those I could see, and witnessed some gazing with slack-jawed amazement, while others averted their eyes with guilt or sympathy.
“I have not been wholly in my right mind since this occurred,” Gaston said. Once again the words were passed and most men found the sand beneath them quite interesting. Gaston pulled his breeches up, and picked up his tunic but did not don it. “I do strange things I cannot always explain, and I am prone to violence and anger that I cannot control. I understand if many of you do not wish for me to be surgeon. I will treat any who ask, yet I will resign the position and offer no claim to the money due it.” With that, he turned away from the fire and walked back up the dune to our things. I followed him.
He pulled his tunic on and sat in the sand to hug his knees with his back to the camp. I put his weapons down and doffed mine, and then I sat to embrace him from the side.
“That was a lie,” he said with quavering voice. “This did not drive me mad. I was mad before. I am sure that is what led to it. I did something unforgivable. I reminded him of my mother yet again.”
“You once said both your parents were mad or deranged in some fashion,” I whispered.
He nodded. “I have my father’s temperament, his propensity for rage and violence and my mother’s… He kept her locked in the North tower, because she was never in her right mind. When I was older, they told me they feared she would walk off the parapets on the whimsy that she could fly. She would become lost to herself, staring at the sparkles of light from the windows. She sometimes forgot her name or thought she was a person from a story. They whispered of witchcraft even after she died. I do not know if all of that is true. I never met her. We saw her at Christmas and Easter, because her ladies would dress her well and bring her to mass; but we were not allowed to talk to her, and she expressed no interest in us. She died when we were seven. She died in childbirth. One baby had been stillborn, and the other had died inside her. The strain and misery of it all killed her. In all the chaos that followed, we were able to sneak into the room. They had wrapped her head and dressed her in a blue gown, and the baby she had borne was swaddled all in white beside her. She reminded me of the painting of the Madonna and Child that hung in the house chapel. She was lying on her back, and it took a great deal of effort, but we pushed her up until she was sitting and placed the baby in her arms, so that she looked like the painting. Then they found us. Father was furious. I was sent away to school the day after the funeral.”
I clutched him tighter and wiped the tears I shed for him on his kerchief. His tale explained much, but it also opened the door to vast mysteries.
“You said we?” I queried.
“Oui, Gabriella, my twin sister.”
“And she is dead also,” I breathed. I knew she was the one he had spoken of before.
“Oui, she was always sickly. Always sickly. I was always hale. The nurses used to say I had gotten all the go
od health that was to be split between us. I always thought I had robbed her somehow, that it was my fault she was ill.”
“You know…?”
“Oui, I know,” he sighed. “But Will, we know many things and still we cannot protect ourselves from the pain. You know that.”
“Non, we cannot. Yet you know I would do anything to rob you of yours.”
“Oui, and I love you for it. No one has cared for me as you do since my sister.”
I heard people approaching, and looked around to see our friends. They were hesitant, and I waved them over.
“We have company. What do you wish to do?”
“I wish to drink until the world is a very distant place and I cannot remember their eyes upon me.”
The Bard was closest, and I looked up at him. “We need a great deal more rum.”
He nodded and looked behind him, and one of the others hurried back down the hill.
“Is all well?” I asked.
He sat between us and the fire, so that Gaston’s back was to him still, and thus afforded my matelot what was left of his privacy. He nodded at my question. “There has been some discussion, and I believe Gaston is still surgeon, but we’re not sure if Michaels will remain cook.”
“I wish I could say I bear the man no ill will, yet I do,” I said. “Even if Hastings was the real bastard.”
The others sat and clustered near the Bard, so that Gaston did not have to look at them, either. All were there who had been with us earlier, with the exception of Pete, who had stayed below with Striker. I was sure those two would be slow in joining us, as they must insure that all had been resolved and calmed before giving the matter or the men their backs.
With everyone seated thus, I was confronted with a wall of shadowed faces, as the fire was distantly behind them and there was not enough moon to show a man’s countenance clearly. I was not comfortable with this, but there was little I could do. Tom arrived with several bottles, and I handed one to Gaston. He had apparently composed himself well enough to deal with the others in a meager fashion, and he turned in my arms so that his back was to my chest. I kept my arms and legs protectively around him. He took a long pull on the bottle.
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