“That was a brave thing,” the Bard said.
Gaston snorted. “Thank you, but I would rather not speak of it.”
“Of course,” the Bard said, and no one spoke of it again that night.
Gaston drank himself into a retching stupor, and I cared for him as best I could. Thankfully he was not a talkative or angry drunk, and therefore he was not as taxing as I had feared. When he vomited on Striker and me, he was sincerely apologetic. I followed him about, as he seemed to want to go swimming and had to be convinced otherwise; and I eventually got him to lie still on the beach with me and sleep. Once he finally allowed himself to succumb to it, he slept like the dead.
I could not find the peace of mind to slumber for a good while. I lay with him in my arms and regarded the stars, and wondered how he had survived. Once again, I thought my own hardships trivial in comparison. Then I thought of all he had said over the last few months, and knew I held many pieces of the puzzle of his past. I turned them this way and that, and felt myself on the edge of a great precipice from which I could leap to a number of conclusions. From the vantage point of ignorance, I did not like the look of any of them and chose not to jump, as I was sure any place I landed would bring no more serenity than I currently possessed.
Dawn was heralded by muskets and pistols being discharged. At first I thought nothing of it, as it was a usual thing to clear the weapons and reload them; and then I remembered the events of the night before, and I was quickly out from under my matelot and on my knees, pistol in hand. No one was approaching us, and Liam and Otter sat upon the nearby dune chuckling, at my rude awakening.
Gaston had not moved; and I doubted he would for several hours, as he was quite limp and dead to the world. I laid the pistol on his belly, and waded into the surf to wipe the sleep from my eyes and invigorate myself into productive thought. There was a ship to careen, and I supposed I should help with it, lest someone else think I was a pampered son of nobility. I would first need to find shade for Gaston in a place where I could keep an eye on him. I spied the longboat nearby. It was propped upside-down on barrels, to provide shade for some of the stores we removed from the ship. After a great deal of effort and sleepy French curses, I managed to get Gaston and our gear partially beneath it and out of the sun.
He was awake enough now to clutch at me.
“Let go and let me find some water,” I urged.
“Michaels. Remedy,” he mumbled.
I frowned, as I guessed he did not recall last night’s events, which was probably for the best for the time being.
“I will find him.” I patted his hand and pulled free, and went in search of Michaels and water. I found water, but did not see the man about the camp. I was finally forced to inquire; and, after I had received several strange looks for even asking, our gunner, De Morte, said he had seen Michaels walking down the beach last night.
I trudged in the indicated direction, until I saw someone in the dunes who looked to have Michael’s legs. I approached cautiously, calling out his name, so as not to startle him and end up with lead in my teeth. Michaels did not rouse, and from the angle of his legs and feet I guessed him to be in as much of a torpor as my matelot. Then I smelled blood. I sprinted the last few steps until I was even with him. I knew he was dead without stepping closer, as the back of his throat was missing. He lay collapsed with the pistol loose in his right hand.
Guilt and sorrow closed over me, and for a time I did nothing but stand and stare. I had not wished this. I did wish I had not said what I did to Cudro and the others. The matter could have been resolved without this casualty. Here was a truly senseless death indeed.
Ever so slowly, reasoning returned and I knew there were things that must be done. I squatted and touched his foot. There was still warmth to it, and I surmised he had fired while the others were discharging their weapons so as to not attract attention. I stood and whistled loudly and looked up the beach. I caught the attention of Cudro, of all people, and I waved him over. He limped resolutely through the sand, with curiosity on his thick features. Then he saw the feet and frowned.
When he was even with me and saw the body, he cursed softly in Dutch and said, “Ate his own lead, who would have thought?”
I nodded. I had seen this before: twice actually. Once had been in a carriage. The man had removed the top of his own head, and blood had dripped from the ceiling. The other had been in a garden, and that man had used a small pistol, and the ball had not exited his head. It had taken those of us who found him a bit to realize how he had died, as we had not seen the hole in the roof of his mouth until he fell over. I had seen a man’s throat blown out as Michaels’ was only once, though, and that had been when I had killed a man by sticking a pistol in his mouth.
I shivered as cold fingers traced my spine and clutched my gut.
“Oh my God…” I whispered; and Cudro regarded me and shrugged.
I recalled all my memories of Michaels, and a startling thing occurred to me.
“Stay here, I’ll get Striker,” I whispered.
Cudro looked curious, but I shook my head and quickly walked back to camp. I found the wolves talking to the Bard beside the ship.
“You three should come with me quietly,” I said. “Michaels has been murdered.”
We all made our way in silence down the beach, until they could see the body. “You said murdered,” the Bard said, “looks as if he took his own life.”
“He was left-handed,” I said with conviction. “And the angle of the shot is wrong.” I took my own pistol and briefly stuck it in my mouth, as a man usually did when considering such things. “See? The angle is wrong. The only way the back of the throat is marred is if the bullet comes from above.”
“All right, I believe you. But why? The matter was past,” Striker said.
“They would not suffer a witch to live,” Cudro said.
Michaels had been an easy target, coming down the beach by himself. Gaston had been with me. With terror in my heart, I realized I was a fool and ran back to the longboat. A little prodding and cursing proved that my matelot was still quite alive. I handed him the water.
As bleary as he was, he still recognized my distress. I told him of the matter quickly, and he sat up and massaged his temples. Then he drank the water in long gulps.
Striker and Pete joined us.
“I will slowly spread the word,” Striker said. “I think we should let it lie as death by his own hand, and keep our suspicions to ourselves. You are still surgeon. Are you up to the task of examining the body?”
Gaston nodded slowly. “Help me stand.”
I pulled him to his feet, and we made our slow way down the beach. The Bard and Cudro were still standing there, but so were several other men. Gaston composed himself with great effort, and made a good show of examining the body. Then he draped a kerchief over the face and collected Michaels’ belongings. There was now quite a crowd, all muttering and whispering amongst themselves.
“It appears he took his own life,” Gaston said for their benefit. The word was passed; and many a man crossed himself, and others bowed their heads in prayer.
We buried him that morning, and several men spoke over the body. I could see guilt and regret on every face; and I made sure they saw the same on mine, and not the anger and fear I felt now that I knew there was a murderer amongst us. I kept hoping that I would see a different mien while scanning the crowd and my vigilance was finally rewarded. Hastings stood well back with his cronies, and he smirked when Striker talked of what a shame it was that a man should feel so abandoned as to take his own life. It was not proof by any means. Yet, I wondered what Michaels could have told us about his conversations with Hastings, if he had lived.
Afterwards, no one had much heart for careening, as if any man would be enthused about standing about in the hot sun scraping and tarring, even without a death and the lasting malaise from the ill will of the night before. Striker went from group to group and got them organized. I asked th
e Bard what to do, and made a good show of scraping for a while, until I was sure my hands would blister and Gaston would yell at me. I handed the tool off to another man, and went to find my matelot. He was sitting in the shade of the longboat bandaging a man’s hand. I sipped water and waited, until the man left with a very polite nod.
“Do we already have wounded?” I asked.
“Non, he is one who would not let me treat him yesterday.”
“Oh.”
We regarded each other. He sighed. “My head is in such pain. Did I do as I think I did?”
I smiled. “Oui, you vomited upon Striker.”
He glared at me.
“You did the other too. That was before you drank a bottle. If it is any consolation, I feel it saved your life.”
“I know, yet I still feel shame. I also feel guilt over poor Michaels.”
“Why? You were not the one that told Cudro he made potions.”
“What?”
I told him what I had told Cudro and the others the day before. “I did not think Cudro would use it so quickly. I did not think things would progress so quickly. I am loathe to admit it, especially to you, but I feel I must say something of it. I was relieved to realize he had been murdered. It eased a great deal of my guilt. It is very selfish of me.”
“If there is a Heaven, a murdered man stands a chance of entering it; one who took his own life does not.”
“I suppose that is another benefit to someone else pulling the trigger. I happen to believe it was Hastings; of course, there is no proof.”
“What would he stand to gain?” Gaston asked. “From what I remember of events, many men knew he was the one stirring the pot. He cannot be hiding that with Michaels’ death. And Michaels had aired his suspicions of me to others before Hastings.”
“True, true, I cannot fathom his motivation, either.”
“I will say one additional thing,” Gaston said. “I am relieved that whoever did it made it appear as suicide, lest we would be blamed for that, too.”
I cursed. I had not considered that, and there I had been the unlucky fool who had found him. “I hope the rest of this voyage is far more auspicious than its beginning.”
But as I well knew, the Gods are fickle bastards and oft delight in mischief.
Twenty-Three
Wherein We Are Surprised
We were still alive a month later, and though the voyage had not become more auspicious, it had thankfully become less exciting. Other than Pete developing a rotten tooth, nothing of interest had occurred since the island. Of course that incident almost resulted in death, as Pete, damn near mad with pain from the festering in his mouth, took to the quarterdeck and held us off with pistols for two hours, before Striker finally told him that he would never kiss him again unless he had the disgusting thing removed. Then it took four of us to hold him down whilst Gaston extracted the tooth and flushed the socket with rum. Thankfully, Pete passed into unconsciousness during this.
After that, we all grew bored with making our way up and down the sea-lane leading to Cuba, looking for the Galleons. The tension from the witchcraft accusations had never completely abated, and now it was building again. Men began to mutter that we had missed them, and if we did not go north and check Havana, we would find we missed them altogether. In the name of maintaining harmony, Striker decided a peek at the Havana harbor would do us no harm, as it was the last week of July; and so we were sailing north at night, under a brilliant moon and clear skies, with a brisk broad-reaching wind.
The wolves had requested the cabin for the first part of the night. From their behavior on an open deck, I knew they did not desire privacy for carnal activities, but simply for its own sake. In order to maintain the peace, they spent their time circulating amongst the men every day. Striker did not wish to appear inaccessible, and so he rarely spent time exclusively with his friends or on the quarterdeck. It was trying for him, made even more so by the constant nagging knowledge that someone on board – who he was quite probably chatting with about the weather – was a murderer and could not be trusted. We watched one another’s backs while taking great care not to appear that we were doing so. It wore on all of us.
Thus Gaston and I were on the quarterdeck, waiting to go below and sleep. Belfry, Dickey and the Bard were sitting with us. I stood watching the froth of our wake in the moonlight. Gaston sprawled on his back beside me and watched the stars. Unlike Striker and Pete, we had kept our distance from the crew, as there was still a question of Gaston’s safety, and we had not been in a particularly diplomatic frame of mind after the careening. And, of course, Gaston had never been particularly social to begin with, and he still felt acute embarrassment over baring himself to all of them. None of them made it easier by their behavior, either; even our friends did not regard him in the same way after the incident. I caught several of them staring, and I knew he saw them at it all the time.
Thinking of his discomfiture, I sat and tousled his hair. He captured my hand and kissed my fingers lightly, before placing my hand back on his head in a silent bid to have me scratch his scalp. I complied, and he gave a happy little grunt, and rolled onto his belly for me to work my way down his back.
The mournful call of a whale hung in the darkness. It was soon joined by another. Their noises seemed to emanate from very nearby, which I was not pleased with, as the great creatures scared me. These sounds were soon echoed, quite comically, from the men; and there was a good deal of laughter.
I heard the pad of feet, and looked round to see Tom coming to join us. “You have the watch soon,” the Bard chided. “I will be sleeping.”
“I cannot sleep through the noise,” Tom snapped.
“The whales keeping you awake?” I teased. “They only just started.”
“Nay, the buggers in your cabin right next to ours. When I first heard the whales, I thought it was still them.”
We chuckled at that. More whales had joined in the symphony, and the night was filled with them. I saw one blow to port. The huge back glistened in the moonlight. A little one broke the water and blew right beside the first, and I guessed it a baby.
“Do they mate?” Tom asked with annoyance. “Is that why they make all this noise?”
“Aye,” Belfrey said. “I have had occasion to know a number of whalers. The creatures have great big members, and they do indeed mate as other animals do. These here are not mating, though. I rather imagine they are singing lullabies to their calves.”
“Nay, nay, they are nagging at them as all mothers do,” the Bard said. “Something has this pod all riled; usually they sleep at night. They can be quite dangerous while doing so. Not so much with a ship this size; but the sloop could have been stove in if she struck one.”
“Perhaps they are discussing how best to ram us,” I said, “as like all mothers they are very protective of their young and we sailed into their midst. I find them horrifying creatures.”
“Men kill them easily enough,” Belfry said cheerfully, as if that would ally all of my concerns.
“Men kill other men easily enough, and yet men are still the greatest threat to one another’s lives,” I countered.
“Whales do not engage in politics.” the Bard chuckled.
“How do we know?” I asked. “Packs of dogs engage in politics of a sort. They are always yapping about one another as to who the leader is.”
I turned to sit with my back to the gunwale and Gaston pushed up to his knees to give me a kiss at the corner of my jaw. I regarded him curiously. His eyes were filled with amusement.
“You should sign everything Socrates,” he whispered in French.
“What is a centaur to do?” I whispered back.
He lay down on his side, with his head on my thigh, one arm about my rear, and the other hand on my knee. My hand went straightaway into his hair, in a never-ending attempt to smooth all the little red clumps that stood out this way and that.
I looked up. No one was speaking. I found all eyes on us. O
ur companions appeared as a pack of dogs eyeing a juicy chunk of meat, and several shifted uneasily when my gaze fell upon them. The Bard was honest enough to throw his head back and sigh.
I chuckled. “You really need to see to that careening.”
“A careening would not be enough,” he sighed. “I need to be sailed.” He sounded as mournful as the whales.
I felt sympathy for him; yet he had done little to find a matelot on this voyage, and much to bring himself even greater misery, as he had become enamored with Tom.
He was not the only one. Many of the unattached men followed young Tom with their eyes: including, to my dismay, Cudro. In truth, after observing the man with a less cynical eye, I had come to realize Cudro favored men as much as I. And like myself, he possessed refined taste and aesthetic sensibilities. He had found Gaston as handsome as I did; and now he thought the same of Tom, who was probably the most beautiful man aboard, next to Pete.
Tom was blind to none of this attention, and he basked in it with the arrogance of youth. It amused him greatly, but he had no interest in any of these men. If Dickey’s tales were to be believed, which I thought highly possible, young Tom had managed to engage in several liaisons with some of the planter’s daughters on Jamaica in the short time since our arrival, and quite possibly seduced one. That was what had resulted in the falling out with the uncle. I had asked Dickey for names and descriptions and been relieved to find that Miss Vines was not amongst his conquests.
Tom could still not foresee ever having a use for men, even if he were trapped with one for the rest of his life on an island in the middle of the ocean. This did not bode well on a ship already fraught with tension, and it was becoming obvious Tom was going to lead to a duel or two and possibly some deaths. He had no intention of taking a matelot and removing himself from contention, and every intention of continuing to rove. I felt I might have possibly been in breach of the articles in bringing him aboard, as the whole injunction against bringing boys aboard was to avoid starting fights.
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