Matelots

by W. A. Hoffman

  “I know,” I sighed. “We will see where we are once we sail to join the others. If necessary, we might welcome being left in Port Royal.”

  “I would rather lose Savant and his men than the two of you, but that’s a bit of foolishness,” Striker said sadly.

  “Thank you,” I said, “at the least, it is a sentiment that will not be shared by Morgan.”

  “The Devil with Morgan,” he sighed. He looked to Gaston and bit his lip. “How is he?”

  Gaston had been scratching about in the dirt with a stick. He surprised me by meeting Striker’s gaze and saying quietly, “This did not make things better.”

  Striker sucked air and gave a small grimace of embarrassment. “I did not mean…”

  My matelot waved the words away and spoke irritably. “I cannot know if I am in my right mind from one minute to the next; why should I expect you to?” Then his tone softened, and his gaze returned to the dirt. “I am sorry. You are a good friend. I am grateful for your concern. I do not know how I will be on the morrow. Much will depend on what occurs. If for some reason Dickey is wounded, I shall be very busy, and though it may seem odd to some, very sane.”

  This evinced a quiet gasp from Dickey, and he whispered, “Thank you.”

  Gaston sighed and looked at Dickey. “I doubt that will occur. Thus much will depend on… how much I feel of their hate and fear.”

  All were quiet and thoughtful.

  “We can stay on the ship,” I offered.

  “Nay,” Liam said. “We’ll stay with ya iffn’ ya need to come out here.”

  Behind him, Otter nodded.

  “As will we,” Julio added. “You shall not be alone.”

  Gaston took a ragged breath and muttered, “thank you,” before standing and walking away.

  I looked at the ring of thoughtful faces. “Aye, thank you all. I do not know what we have done to deserve all of you, but I am grateful, and I hope we might repay you all someday.”

  Pete snorted disparagingly. “FriendsAin’tOnAccount.”

  I grinned. “I believe it would only be on account if repayment were expected. I would not sully any of you by saying that you would expect such a thing in exchange for your kindness. I am merely hoping I have the opportunity to enhance the esteem of my soul by offering what aid I can to my fellows.”

  The Golden One frowned and then awarded me a crooked smile and looked away with mischief. “IffnItBeFur YurOwnGood ThenSoBeIt.”

  Striker snorted. “Knowing Pete’s and my luck, when we need you, you’ll have all the chance you could ask to enhance your soul.”

  He looked the others over. “Liam? Otter?”

  “We ain’t leavin’ ’im,” Liam assured him, and then as if in opposition to his words, he and Otter returned to tending the meat at the fire.

  Striker nodded and walked away to join the captains and their men, who were digging holes to bury the dead where they lay. “Will, make sure Dickey will win,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Aye, aye, captain,” I called after him.

  Pete cackled and followed his matelot, as did Julio after giving me a smile.

  Davey lingered, though. He met my questioning gaze and surprised me greatly by saying, “I already owe ya more than I can repay. We’ll stand by ya.”

  “Thank you,” I managed to say.

  He nodded curtly and went to join his matelot.

  Still surprised, I looked to Dickey and found him frowning at Davey’s retreating back.

  “I did not expect that,” Dickey said.

  “Nor I.” I chuckled, then sobered as I looked to Gaston. He was leaning on a tree nearby, with his back to us and his arms crossed. “Before we begin your lessons…”

  Dickey nodded and smiled and went to join Liam and Otter.

  I found another tree to lean on a short distance away, so that I could regard Gaston in profile.

  “Did you hear Davey?” I asked. “I might not have to shoot him. I have harbored a suspicion for some time that I might have to deal with him as we are dealing with Tom at some future date.”

  Gaston turned to gaze upon me with amused regard.

  I grinned. “As I have oft said, I am by no means a man destined for sainthood. I perform good deeds, such as they are, to balance the atrocities I have committed.”

  “Balance,” Gaston said thoughtfully. “That is it. I feel as if your Gods seek balance.”

  “My Gods?”

  He smiled. “I have found I have more belief in your Gods than the idea of the one true God.”

  “I do not know how much actual faith I have in Them,” I said thoughtfully.

  He snorted. “You have great faith in Them.”

  “I suppose I do, though I know not precisely what I feel They are.”

  “Is it necessary?” he asked. “Is it not enough to feel Their effect?”

  “Many would say the same for the one true God.”

  He shrugged. “I feel there is order to all that is. I do not care what provides it at the moment. I am only concerned with the end effect upon our lives.”

  “And you feel there is balance? Justice, perhaps?”

  He grinned at me. “Perhaps.” Then he sobered and spoke with increasing agitation. “I feel that I have never known love before as I have this last year, and I feel that is balanced by the amount of hate I now find directed at my person. And this has been true of every other time I have felt love, there has always been someone who hates me, as if the balance must be maintained, as if there is some giant scale where such things are weighed, and the more love I receive, the more hate I must receive in equal measure.”

  I sighed. “I have felt the same on occasion; however, what of the times we have experienced hatred with no love in sight?”

  He frowned and shrugged. “I know not. You are correct. Perhaps hatred need not be balanced if it stands alone, or perhaps… it is balanced by indifference when it occurs without love.”

  He shrugged that thought away, and turned to me with an earnest mien. “All I know now is that I feel I must surely be hated by all the men on Île de la Tortue in order to balance the scales against the love I receive from you and our friends.”

  I smiled. “Well, my love, then gird yourself well, because you will surely gain the enmity of all who live, as I see no end in sight of my adoration of you.”

  He looked away and leaned his head against the tree. A smile played about his lips until it finally claimed his mouth. “Damn you.”

  I chuckled. “And the same to you, as you place me in the same situation.” I went to kiss him, and he accepted it hungrily, his arms stealing about me to hold me fast.

  When at last I felt I must leave his mouth before we delayed the duties of the day, I asked, “Do you feel you can assist with Dickey?”

  His response was not immediate. “Oui,” he said after careful thought. Then he sighed. “At least we are spared worrying about my sanity to duel with the man. Though I would…”

  I put a finger to his lips. “Dickey will do well.”

  “See there, you have faith.”

  “Non.” I shrugged. “Perhaps. Oui. I have faith in my ability to teach him. I have faith in my experience and skills. I have faith in my judgment of his character and talents. As for the Gods… They have smiled upon Dickey by placing him in the path of myself, a person who can impart the skills necessary to give him success. Now, of course, they might choose to frown upon him at dawn, and his pistol will misfire or some other misfortune may befall him; which, I suppose, is why I sometimes tell the Gods what I wish to hear and see of events. If you do not tell Them, how are they to know?”

  “You do not fully trust Their omniscience?” he asked with both curiosity and amusement.

  I frowned and thought of how I did perceive the matter. “Oui and non. I trust that They are like all thinking men, in that They possess Their own motivations. I feel I must make Them aware of mine. And then, even if events should not occur as I would wish, at least I will have pleade
d my case; whereas, if I say nothing at all, then I only have myself to blame for not speaking up. If I do not have the conviction to wish for a thing, then why should the Gods grant it?”

  He smiled. “But you did not ask for Dickey to do well: you stated it with conviction.”

  “Ah.” I grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps that is hubris on my part and I would do better to ask.” I looked to the heavens. “I wish for Dickey to win the duel with Tom. Please.”

  Gaston chuckled. “You pray poorly.”

  “My methods have succeeded in swaying them in some fashion so far,” I chided. “I have you.”

  “You delude yourself and see that which you wish. You have the love and trouble of a madman. Perhaps if you had begged with reverence I would be sane,” he teased

  “Perhaps,” I said with amusement. “That is more in keeping with your concept of balance than with any deficiency of prayer on my part. You are so wonderful that you had to be flawed in some fashion or else this would be Heaven and not mortal life.”

  I kissed his nose and pulled away from him with a grin.

  He was deep in thought. He finally nodded soberly and said, “Ah, then that is why you are a fool,” as if it were some profundity.

  I laughed. “If that is my only flaw in your eyes, we can surely add either blindness or a lack of judgment to the list of yours.”

  He gave no answer, and merely smiled at me such that my heart ached. I knew if I returned to his embrace, we would do poorly by dear Dickey; and so I led him back to the others, and we supped on our hard-earned roast beef, and I began to explain the finer points of dueling.

  “The primary component in winning a duel of this type is speed,” I told Dickey. “All other matters are secondary or related to speed. You must strive to fire first. You must strive to increase the likelihood of your opponent firing last. Duels are on occasion lost to misfires and other misfortune, but they are primarily lost due to hesitation.”

  “That is what I fear,” Dickey said. “I am afraid I will see Tom there and I will not be able to fire.”

  “That too is my fear. As in all things, the mind is the first place that must be prepared for an endeavor. If you are to do this, you must not fight Tom tomorrow.”

  Everyone frowned at me.

  I smiled. “You will be fighting a man who will kill you. When the order is given to turn, it does not matter who your opponent is. It could be anyone. The only matter of import at that moment is that there is a man with a pistol who will kill you if you do not kill him first. If you do not fire first, his shot will rip into your heart and end all of your dreams and leave the Bard alone and cold and the rest of us missing you terribly. You will discover whether you are destined for Heaven or Hell far before you will feel ready to do so. Or, if you do not die, you will most likely be maimed. And you know damn well how much a wound hurts. I daresay you do not wish to experience another. So, you must be of the mind that you will not even be facing a man tomorrow, but a bull, or boar, or some beast that is a force of nature and devoid of all reason and has but one intent: your demise. Thus, Tom must be dead to you, or at least a memory, perhaps a pleasant one, perhaps not. That is between you, and your heart and soul, and God. Tom must have died when the match was made.”

  Dickey awarded this sober contemplation. He picked at the hunk of beef in his hand and studied anything but me. Beyond him, Otter, Liam, and Gaston nodded their agreement at my words but remained silent.

  “Have you ever had to duel with a friend?” Dickey asked.

  “Nay,” I said with conviction. “I have had to duel with former friends and acquaintances, and once with a former lover. But once the match was made, they were not my friends, if indeed they ever were. Because truly, why would events transpire such that you must duel for your honor with a friend? That is the antithesis of friendship, is it not?”

  “Ah,” he said. “It is just that I have known Tom so very long, it is more that we are brothers than friends. I have sometimes felt that we were not in one another’s lives by choice, so much as by fate. If I weigh the reasons I have for hating him against the reasons I have for loving him, the hate is far stronger.”

  I was amused someone else spoke of it in terms of scales and balance. I looked to Gaston and he smiled sadly.

  “Yet, I love him,” Dickey continued, “and I still have hope that things could be mended.”

  I sighed. “I understand how you feel. I truly do. There was one in my past who I loved beyond reason and he betrayed me in the foulest way, and I could not kill him because of the hope that he would change. But he did not. And I know someday I will face him and it will either be very hard, because I will be battling all of those memories, or it will be easy, in that I am so familiar with his being a ghost in my mind that I will not see him as the man he is now. He will be as I am telling you Tom must be, simply an opponent, and all the battles I need fight with him will have been won in my heart prior to our facing one another. If it is hard, in that I do not have my heart in order before we meet, then it is likely he will kill me and it will be my own damn fault.”

  Dickey flinched at this last.

  I patted his shoulder. “Dickey, I can give you the skills to stand against any man, but I cannot solve this for you, and it must be solved. He is either dead to you, or you must withdraw from the duel, or die.” I snorted with amusement and shrugged. “Or Pete must accuse him of flirting with Striker. Or… I will challenge him on the grounds of cowardice and betrayal for what he did on Tortuga, as I have intended to do since that day. Or Gaston will challenge him. Truly, until you decide that you can face Tom with a clear conscience, it is not yet a matter of life and death, or even dishonor, in this instance. So, while I am making these dire pronouncements, you are actually in the enviable position of being able to escape this duel if you so choose. Or if I so choose, because as I said before, if I harbor any doubt as to your conviction in the matter, I will not see you face him.”

  I looked to Gaston and grinned. “And that is another thing I am telling the Gods.”

  He chuckled.

  Dickey frowned at us.

  I shrugged. “I was praying for you earlier in my own inimitable fashion. Gaston chided me on my technique. But truly my heart was behind the matter. I do not wish any harm to come to you, and I know this is not an easy thing and you did not choose it.”

  “I have been viewing it wrongly,” Dickey said with a thoughtful frown. “Tom has never been my friend, not such as I find myself blessed with now. I have merely long held to the fantasy that he was my friend because I knew no better. The irony is that… When Tom got the young lady pregnant, he was alone in the matter and solely accused and blamed. He implicated Harry as his accomplice and then suggested that I somehow prompted the entire matter, and thus we were banished with him. He told us he did not wish to go alone; and I am sure that was true, and that he had tangled us in the matter because this was our chance to leave there and seek adventure together. Harry and I believed that. And now Harry is dead. And… I am happier than I have ever been; and Tom’s betrayal on that day in England has brought me to a place where I have true friends, and am able to understand… that I was in truth betrayed by one I called friend.”

  I chuckled. “Irony is truly the staff of life… or perhaps the chaff.” I sobered. “I am pleased that you are our friend and hold us in such esteem.”

  “Tom is dead to me,” Dickey said sadly. “I should mourn, but I do not believe we have the time today.”

  I saw the resolve I hoped for in his eyes. “Nay, not if you are to duel with your opponent at dawn,” I said gently.

  As I had expected, Dickey proved to be an apt pupil; and the next few hours were spent drilling him on how to turn and obtain the best stance with the least amount of wasted time or movement: much as the others had once instructed me on reloading my musket. Then I enlisted Gaston, Liam, and Otter to aid Dickey in practicing walking, turning, and locating his opponent. Only when I was satisfied with his progress t
o that point did we advance to his actually firing the pistol. And then I used a kerchief as a target and moved it from tree to tree so that it was always in a different location when he turned. He became quite proficient at not being where his opponent might expect and hitting his target wherever it might be in the shortest time possible.

  It was late afternoon when I called a stop to it. I was sure he could defeat anyone inexperienced with dueling, and even have a very good chance with a veteran such as myself. We ate a little more beef and walked back through the hazy evening to the ships.

  When we reached the camp, I became acutely aware of the eyes upon us. I wanted to pay them little heed, but I knew it would behoove me to gauge them, and so I met them as we passed. Some were merely curious, but many others were hostile. I could not know if this was because our tale had not had time to disseminate fully, or because of the morning’s events. I hoped news of the reaction to that could soon be brought to me, so that I might concoct some remedy for it if necessary.

  Gaston was, of course, as aware as I of all who stared. He was withdrawn on the boat ride out to the Queen, and threw himself into rowing. As my aching body precluded my rowing in anything short of an emergency, I sat behind him and rubbed his back reassuringly. I wondered what the morrow would bring. I thought the night would not be as I would have liked, which is to say it would not be a repeat of the prior night’s antics: we would have little privacy, and I was sure that would be a deciding factor in Gaston’s expressions of ardor.

  The Bard was not apoplectic as I had feared. I was sure this was due to Striker telling him the news hours before. Whatever storm might have raged had passed, and now our Master of Sail seemed content to embrace Dickey and badger me regarding his matelot’s ability to duel.

  “He will do well,” I assured him. “He possesses talent in matters of combat, and I am now assured he possesses the necessary skills as well. Of course, more days to drill would be better; but as that is not available, I will at least wish to drill him a little here on the ship before the sun rises. Tonight, he needs to sleep, and that will most likely be difficult for him, as you may well imagine. So distract and exhaust him.”