When at last our vessel was as safe as we could make it, I stumbled down the beach to soak my hands and feet in the waves and watch the sun sink below the horizon. The storm was approaching from the east, and other than the increasing winds, there was no indication of it in my view of pink light and green sea.
I looked away from the sunset. I did not think I would ever tire of finding pleasure in the colors or serenity of it; but it was a thing I witnessed every day, and I no longer felt the need to attempt to etch each one into my memory. Nay, I rather wished to view something else, namely my matelot. Though I had often seen him throughout the month of November, he had been gone again for a good ten days. And, even when I did see him, I did not see the man I loved so much as his shade. Though he was not always childlike in demeanor, he still did not speak to me when he put in his sudden appearances. And then, the last time I saw him, I woke from a dream to find him standing over me, a ghostly apparition with a knife in the dim light before dawn. I had not slept well since. I did not think I would, until I could hold him in my arms again and we could converse.
Today, in the quiet aftermath of the labor and the calm before the storm, men sprawled all along the beach. Liam was in Otter’s lap. The water skin he had been drinking had been replaced by a bottle of rum. Nearby, Pete and Striker were likewise entwined, both with a bottle and each other. Julio was conversing with them, with Davey embracing him from behind. Near them, the Bard stood talking with two of his seamen, a couple in number as well as comportment, with Dickey a shadow hovering at his side.
I frowned at that. Why had Dickey chosen to sail down here with the others? And why was he still dressed as a buccaneer in canvas breeches with a kerchief on his head and earrings, and not decked in the latest finery from London? I snorted at my foolishness. What did it matter? He was at least with others, whilst I stood here alone looking upon pairs and clumps of human companionship.
Cudro joined me on the beach: it was often his wont, as we were the only two without a partner among the men wintering at Negril. Some days that galled me, as I did indeed have a matelot; and then there were times when I was grateful for his company, and even more grateful his loneliness had not driven him to make foolish overtures.
“Will you be seeing him tonight?” he asked in French, as he dropped to sit beside me in the sand.
“Perhaps.” I frowned.
He shrugged. “I was just wondering if he still possessed the good sense to come in out of the rain.”
“This will not be the first storm of the season, and he has weathered all but the one three weeks ago without me.”
During that storm, we had spent a pleasant night curled together in the hammock for warmth. As always, he had not spoken and had been gone with the morning light, but I had been damn pleased to have him there nonetheless.
I heard someone approaching Cudro and me, and turned to find Striker and Pete. As they were nearly naked, the bruises and scratches they received in the brawl Liam had spoken of were evident. But such things were merely scuffs on otherwise beautiful bronze sculptures; things easily rubbed away.
Pete collapsed gracefully onto the sand at my side, his blue eyes flashing with amusement even in the dim twilight. He threw an arm around me, and pulled me close to kiss my temple. I could smell the rum on his breath, and I smiled, even though the sudden contact with another stirred my loins and pummeled my heart as it always did. Nearly bald, with more pale stubble on his jaw than his scalp, and with a swollen black eye, Pete was still the handsomest man I had ever seen.
“WeMissedYa,” Pete rumbled.
I returned his playful kiss and grinned. “So I have heard. I feel I missed little but abuse.”
Striker chuckled richly from the sand on the other side of his matelot. “True. And a tale to tell your children.”
It was a thing oft said, but I seized on it with glee. “Would you truly speak to them of such?”
“If they be boys and of an age,” he said thoughtfully, and scratched the coal stubble on his strong jaw.
Belatedly I recalled that Striker had once had a child and would not take issue with producing another. I felt the fool as Pete stiffened ever so little beside me. I wondered what Gaston and I would do, were one of us to wish for a child. Not that it would ever matter if Gaston did not recover from his madness. A pall descended on my heart, and I shrugged Pete’s arm away restlessly.
Pete did not seek to return it; Cudro shifted uncomfortably on my other side.
Striker frowned in the awkward silence. “What is it, Will?”
I could think of no way to explain that did not entail things I did not wish to discuss with them at the moment. I cast back along the conversation, seeking some purchase to pull myself clear of the sudden mire, and found only slippery slopes. I gave up, deciding the other side might offer more promise.
“We should decide where we are all to weather the storm,” I said.
Striker cocked his head at the sudden turn of topic, and then looked to what could be seen of the eastern horizon along the hills.
“I share the Bard’s thoughts on it,” he said. “It is too late in the season to be a hurricane. It’s just a storm.”
My thoughts were now as dark and roiling as the unseen clouds toward which we peered. I wished to be away. “Be that as it may – and I do hope you are all correct – but I feel I should return to my abode.”
“Will he be there?” Striker asked, alert for whatever I might reveal.
I sighed. “I do not know. I hope he will arrive because of the storm.”
“How long since you’ve seen him?” Striker asked with a gentler tone.
“Ten days or so,” I muttered at the sand.
Pete sighed, and I glanced up in time to find him shaking his head sadly at Striker.
“So tell me,” I said with as much quiet jocularity as I could muster. “What do you all discuss in town betwixt opportunities to brawl?”
Striker chuckled. “The two of you.”
“I am glad we serve at least some purpose,” I said without rancor. “Amusing one’s fellows may be considered laurel-worthy in certain circumstances.”
“Not out of amusement,” Striker said sadly.
“Then in sober contemplation on how fortunate it is not to be us.” I smiled with equal melancholy.
“That’dBeCloser,” Pete said with a thoughtful nod, and then his face split in a grin and he returned his arm to my shoulder to shake me mercilessly. When he relented, his eyes met mine and the shadow of ageless wisdom overtook him. “ManyWishThey LovedAnotherSo.”
I nodded thoughtfully. Though my reason wished to refute him, my heart found peace in the sentiment and clung to it. He rubbed my stubbly scalp and pressed a hard kiss to my forehead before releasing me roughly. Striker and Cudro regarded me with kind amusement.
“All who know you, worry,” Striker said. “Those that don’t know you are not allowed to discuss it about those that do.”
I found that interesting, and reassuring as to the quality of my friends, but it did make me wonder what was said that they sought to silence. Not enough to ask of it, though.
“Thank you,” I said solemnly. “You need not worry too much, though. He will return as he always does, and someday he will recover sufficiently to return to town and sea.”
“By the New Year?” Striker asked.
I frowned.
He continued, “Morgan wishes to raid late this winter. He’s calling for all interested to meet him in the cays of Cuba. Pierrot and I – and Savant, another French captain – wish to provision before that. Morgan believes in taking what’s needed from the Spanish. I believe ’tis best to have food about while waiting for the Spanish to show.”
“We’ll be raiding towns.” Cudro grinned. “Don’t have to wait.”
“Hungry men make bad decisions,” Striker said.
“I would concur with that,” I said. “Does Morgan not feel this way?”
“Morgan feels hunger makes men brave,
” Striker sighed.
I shook my head with bemusement. “I would think there is a vast difference between bravery and desperation.”
“If there is, I’ve never seen truly brave men,” Striker said thoughtfully.
“Truly?” I asked. “So all men you have been in battle with have been desperate?”
“In some manner.” He nodded. “But I’d rather they be desperate for gold than victuals.”
“Ah.” I pondered it, and changed the set of my thoughts on the matter. Every man I had seen who seemed brave in facing another’s sword had been either desperate to obtain something or to escape something. I could not think of a single exception. If desperation was not involved, men fought with very clear heads, and there was little bravery about it: none was required because they did not choose to act unless the odds of success were well in their favor.
I returned my attention to the true import of his words. “You wish to sail by the New Year?”
“Aye, before the Twelveday if it can be managed.”
“What is the date?”
“December seventh.” Striker grinned.
“Well, damn,” I sighed.
“Will you be able to join us?”
I shook my head as the implications sank deep. “I do not know.”
Pete rubbed my shoulder. “WeKnowYa WillNa’Leave’Im.”
“I have high hopes he will return due to the storm,” I assured them – and myself – yet again.
“But you don’t know if he’ll wish to sail,” Striker said.
“Aye,” I said sadly.
We let the matter go and joined the others at the fire. Delaney produced his fiddle, and my comrades drank and danced with good will, if not abandon, as the winds strengthened. I sat at the edge of light and laughter and contemplated bravery and desperation.
I had not been led from my father’s house at the tender age of sixteen by bravery, but driven by desperation. I had reasoned that whatever horrors the world might offer, they had to be pleasant compared to those I had known. But now, was desperation what drove me to raid against the Spanish? And did I feel driven at all? Could I not simply remain in this pleasant place and while away my days? I had no need of money. As for my inheritance, Theodore knew where to find me to have me handle such affairs as I must.
Watching the dancing men, I knew it was loneliness that drove me now. I wished for companionship. Yet here I was alone, amongst such true friends, because none were the one I desperately craved. I wanted Gaston. That drove all things. But could I while away my days here without the others, waiting for him to truly return to me in mind as well as body? That was a question I must ponder. Though my heart had ached for him, I had not been without at least some solace and companionship. What would the days be like with no one? And yet, what if he were to return and stay? Would that not be enough? Or would I live in constant fear of his leaving again? Would it not be better for us to be trapped upon a ship where he could not desert me?
I cursed my traitorous and unworthy thoughts and drank.
At some point in the waning festivities, I became aware of Dickey watching me intently. I offered greeting, and he smiled as he came to sit beside me.
“How are you?” I asked. “We have not spoken of late.”
I tried to remember the last time I had spoken with him alone. It might have been when he assisted in my rescue of Gaston.
“I am quite well, thank you. And you?” he asked.
“As can be expected.”
He cleared his throat. “They say… he is often… not about.”
I smiled. “Nay, he is not.” I did not wish to discuss it yet again. “And to what do I owe this honor?”
“I have news of a sort,” he sighed. “And I need your advice.”
I chuckled. “Gods, I have often made a piss-poor job of my life, of which you have seen at least one example. Why ever would you seek me out?”
“Bah,” he snorted. “If you are so poor at it, then you can at least tell me what you would not do twice.”
I was truly amused, and minded of my earlier words to the wolves and Cudro. “Aye, that may be my purpose: to stand as an example for others. What counsel would you have of me? Or would you rather speak of this news you have first?”
“Let us address the news first,” he said quickly. “I have seen Tom. At a distance, that is. We have not spoken. He arrived on one of the French ships, the Belle Mer.”
I snorted. “Well, that settles the question of how he has gotten on since we left him on Tortuga.” We had left Tom behind after he betrayed Gaston and me to Doucette. “I wonder if he has learned French.”
Dickey shrugged. “I thought you should know. I know that things will not end well for Tom if ever you should get your hands upon him.” He seemed a trifle melancholy.
“Do you blame me?” I asked.
“Nay,” he sighed. “When I saw him, I was gripped for a moment by the urge to thrash him myself. But truly, Will, I do not feel he understood the severity of the situation.”
“He sided with another against his own.” I patted his shoulder. “But nay, you are correct: he was a right idiot before, and probably still does not understand.”
This elicited a grin. “I wonder if he has taken more to the ways of the Brethren.” Dickey looked away. Even in the dim light of the fire, I could see the red upon his cheeks.
I raised an eyebrow, and did not strive to keep the humor from my voice. “And what ways would those be?”
“Oh… you know, about the taking of a matelot and all…” He petered off sheepishly and glanced my way. He snorted disparagingly when he realized I was teasing him.
I grinned. “Aye, considering his earlier protestations, I think Tom will have learned French first. He would have had to in order to fend them off, since he was not all that proficient with a blade or a piece.”
We chuckled and I thought of handsome young Tom amongst so many amorous strangers. I would have felt pity, if I did not remember his arrogant dismissal of the need for matelotage. I did not feel that any would take what he did not offer; but they would ask a great deal, and he would not make many friends if he let his former opinions on the matter be known. I was minded of Cudro: if one as determined as the big Dutchman found fancy with Tom, he was surely in trouble. That was disheartening, and I wished to think no more on it.
“Well, then, you have delivered your news,” I said as my humor faded. “What advice would you have of me?”
He cleared his throat again. “Well sir, I am recently… enamored of an individual. And I do not know if I should bare my soul on the matter.”
I was pleased to hear it and decided against the obvious questions, such as who, and what gender.
“You cannot divine this person’s feelings toward yourself?” I asked.
“I have no experience with such things,” he said. “The workings of love are a thing I have only read about or observed at a distance.”
“Are you well acquainted with this… individual?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes and nodded.
“So this is not you worshipping from afar?”
“Nay. I see this person every day,” he sighed.
“And this person is… available?” I asked. “Your love, if announced and accepted, would not be forced to remain unrequited because this person has other commitments?”
“Nay, they are as alone as I,” he said wistfully.
Once again I wondered at his presence here, and his not being in Port Royal with his business partner, Belfry, awaiting their first shipment of haberdashery goods. I now surmised this infatuation to be the cause. This meant it was not a young lady of which he was enamored.
“I must know. Who?” I asked.
He took a ragged breath and flushed. “The Bard.”
My mouth fell open as I struggled with this surprising information.
He sighed heavily and buried his face in his hands.
“I know, you think me a fool,” he wailed.
“I know. Believe me, I know. And…” he stammered. “I cannot see what he would want in me. I once… I once asked him of his former matelot, and he described a big forceful man much like Cudro. I am anything but a man like Cudro, though the Bard said that if he were to do it again, now, that he might not make the same choices. And, and… I want… to make him happy, to…” He shuddered and his face was so flushed I thought his eyes might go red. “I do not envision… I mean… I do not wish for…” He gestured about.
I handed him the bottle of Madeira I had been nursing. He took a long pull. This seemed to steady him somewhat.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I have never spoken of such things before.”
I stifled all amusement. “I understand, truly. I will not pass any judgment on you, Dickey. Sometimes it is better to speak. It clears the head and the heart.”
He took another long drink and began talking slowly with a great deal of nervous gesturing. “It is the strangest thing. I wish to touch him, to embrace him. I sometimes even wonder how his touch would feel upon… my person. Yet… I cannot envision… having carnal knowledge of him, or he of me. I.. When I take myself in hand.” He even gestured for that, and he flushed anew and took another drink. “When I… I think about Milly Brown. She was a maid in our household. She was… well endowed. And she was the first woman I ever saw… in the altogether. She was involved with the gardener. I would sneak out to their trysting spot and watch them from the trees. Her… endowment would be exposed, and it bounced quite a bit as he… And she would make this noise. This little pleasured… squeaking… with each… thrust. I have… Will, I have never been with a woman.”
“That is nothing to be ashamed of,” I said.
I was proud of myself for not having dissolved into laughter.
“Well, that is kind of you to say, and at least one of us feels that way.” He took another pull and this time his hands stayed at his sides. “I used to watch Tom sometimes. Then I would imagine it was me with his conquest, or Milly Brown, or… They all squeaked in my fantasies.” He grinned sadly. “Is the squeaking fairly common?”
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