Matelots

by W. A. Hoffman

  “What?” I asked without preamble.

  Cudro shook his head sadly. “He’s in your room. He feared losing himself. He did not. He feared it enough, though, that…”

  I did not hear the rest: I was already up the stairs and into our room. Gaston was lying on the hammock, bound. I threw the clothing into the corner and went to him.

  His eyes were calm and dark green in the candlelight.

  “May I release you?” I asked.

  “Now that you are here,” he said.

  I cut him free and we embraced.

  “I was almost overcome with the urge to go and find you,” he whispered. “I kept envisioning you with…”

  I shook my head and pulled back to regard him. “You need not. I consummated the affair with my dagger.”

  His eyes shot wide, and I realized how that sounded.

  “Non, non, with the hilt. I could not rise for her, or rather, stay risen. She was…” I groaned.

  He moved so that he could tug on my ruffled shirt. I doffed it and my breeches and he likewise removed his clothes.

  We lay naked together, nose to nose, and I told him all that had occurred with the Damn Bride.

  “So your father chose her for political reasons?” he asked.

  “She seems to feel that is the cause.”

  He sighed. “I feel some sympathy for her. I will endeavor not to hate her, but I am pleased you could not lie with her, though that defeats everything.”

  “Oui, as am I. I know not what we will do. And I have caused other mischief as well.” I told him of my arranging a marriage.

  “Will,” he said when I finished, “I cannot allow you to go anywhere by yourself.” There was no amusement in his tone, but there was no recrimination either.

  “Oui,” I sighed. “Has there been word of Striker?”

  “Non, not that I know of.”

  “I can only pray he will not hate me,” I said. “That I chose the course he planned to take.”

  “Oui, tell the Gods all must be well,” Gaston said sincerely.

  “All must be well,” I said with conviction. “I feel this is a course that can make many happy.”

  Though I felt some unease at my sister’s melancholy demeanor when last I saw her.

  “It is not an evil thing,” he said with continued contemplation. “But oui, I should not allow you out of my sight.”

  “Because I will do mischief, or because your Horse will think it?” I asked lightly. I did not wish to dwell upon my mistakes.

  He grinned. “Both.”

  He fondled my manhood, which, in wake of the other attempt, had only experienced tepid and cautious interest in lying there with him. It quickly came to life at his ministrations. I returned them in kind upon his, and found him equally lively.

  “As I lay here waiting, I decided I wished to have you again,” he said solemnly.

  “There was doubt?” I teased.

  “To have you within me,” he said.

  I wanted to, but as he had asked our friends to bind him lest he lose control already this night, and as disaster had occurred the last time I took him in the aftermath of our wrangling with a woman, I was concerned.

  At my frown he added, “Trust me, Will.”

  “My love, if this goads your Horse into…”

  He silenced me with a kiss, and soon I was goaded on by my unrequited manhood to not care what he wished, as long as he wished for me in some fashion.

  He rolled beneath me and I discovered he opened for me with ease. I followed the course I very much wanted to follow, as water runs down a hill. He was tight and warm about me, and I sank into him with relief, not seeking to satiate my lust so much, but my soul. For the first time, I was able to thrust into him with abandon, and though I enjoyed his doing the same to me in abundance, I realized I did need to do this on occasion. I came hard, and the blinding white light of Heaven filled my closed eyes for a time. As my member shrank inside him, he pulled my arm around to stroke his. I cupped my hand about his cock head before he came, and delighted in the sudden pooling of heat. I spread the captured jism upon his belly.

  As we drifted to sleep, I felt the momentary stir of worry that perhaps his Horse did not seem as content as mine once again; but it did not keep me from sleeping, nor did it trouble my dreams.

  We woke abruptly to noise downstairs. It was still dark, and the candle had burned down. We reached for weapons as footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  “Gaston, Will,” Liam called from beyond the door. “Don’ ya be shootin’ me. Come quick. It be Striker.”

  We drew on our breeches hurriedly in the dark and were downstairs, pistols still in hand, a moment later.

  Striker was on the table. The Bard and Cudro were attempting to get him to lie down. He was drunk and arguing. He was also beaten bloody. I shoved the pistol into my waistband and went to help them. Gaston ran upstairs to get his bag.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Striker reached for me and pulled me into his embrace.

  “He came looking for Pete,” the Bard said grimly. “He was drunk, Pete was drinking again. They talked for a time in the cabin, and then we heard them fighting.”

  “The bastard,” Striker said. He released me enough to spit blood on the floor. “No more! He doesn’t own me. I’m a free man.”

  One eye was swelling badly and his lip was split. I thought it likely he was missing teeth, the way he drooled blood. There was a gash on the side of his head.

  The Bard and an anxious Dickey were also bruised and bloody.

  “How is Pete?” I asked the Bard.

  He smiled grimly. “Better. Took six of us to tie him to the mast.”

  “Oh, Hell,” I sighed.

  Gaston returned and we managed to convince Striker to lie upon the table so that he could be examined. He passed into unconsciousness as Gaston stitched the gash on his head. As my matelot worked, I began to wonder who I should beg the Gods to provide me protection from: Pete or my sister.

  “We must see to Pete,” Gaston said in French as he finished bandaging Striker.

  I nodded reluctantly.

  The Bard nodded tiredly, for though he did not speak French, he recognized the name.

  I looked to Cudro. “Do not let him wander off.” I indicated Striker. “He has a busy day once he wakes.”

  The Dutchman snorted with amusement.

  Gaston and I went upstairs to don clothing and weapons.

  “It appears you anticipated Striker’s choice correctly,” Gaston said thoughtfully as he pulled his tunic on.

  “So it would seem. Yet I still feel I have done a great mischief.”

  He regarded me curiously. “Will, if they have parted, it is not your doing.”

  “I suppose not. I did not bring them together. I did not make Striker favor women. I did not make Pete hate them. I did not invite my sister here with designs of them meeting. Still…”

  “You seek guilt,” he said kindly.

  “Non,” I sighed with amusement. “I do not seek it; I think it follows me about, ever ready to pounce.”

  “Hmm, I wish I could spew a balm to ease your conscience, but I did not tell Morgan and Modyford my friend and sister would marry without consulting them.” He grinned only as he finished.

  I sighed, only partly with amusement. “Thank you. I so needed to hear that.”

  He chuckled and embraced me for a quick kiss. “I love you,” he whispered as our lips parted.

  “That is most important.”

  My words minded me of my musings of the night before as we gathered our weapons and made our way downstairs. If Gaston occupied a position of primacy in my life, did I measure all things by his judgment? Had I accepted his love, and his love only, such that I heard his opinion of me and no other? Was that madness, or was that as it should be when one loved? I felt the urge to ask his opinion on the matter, and chuckled to myself at the irony of that as we walked out into an oddly misty morning just before dawn.
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  Port Royal was nearly silent, and the light of the few lamps appeared shrouded. There was a chill in the air: not as one would find in England, and not so that I was uncomfortable in breeches and tunic; but enough for me to notice it.

  “I thought it did not get cold here in winter,” I remarked.

  “It usually doesn’t,” the Bard said. “This is strange. Happens from time to time, though. Don’t worry, it won’t get any colder.”

  I wondered if it were a portent. I did not feel it boded well if it were.

  The men aboard had released Pete, as he had calmed considerably after the fight. We found him sitting on the quarterdeck, staring at nothing with his back to the rail. In the dim lamplight, I could see that he was bruised and battered, but not nearly as badly as Striker. With the mist and eerie quiet, I felt we approached him in the aftermath of battle.

  He looked up at us and heaved a tired sigh. “OwIz’E?”

  His words were slurred in addition to his usual lack of enunciation, and it took me a moment to puzzle through what he said. My matelot was not so slow.

  “He will survive,” Gaston said with a shrug. “How are you?”

  “IBeWell. IDidnaMeanTa Hit’ImAsIDid. MadeMeMad WithAnger.”

  Gaston knelt beside him and began probing his wounds. Pete did not shrug him off.

  “What did he say?” I asked once I translated that last. They looked up at me sharply and I realized I had phrased my question poorly. “What did Striker say to make you so mad?” I added quickly and squatted beside them.

  Pete glared at me: not as if I were a friend who had earned his ire, but as if I were a man he did not know and my words angered him.

  “I am not to blame,” I said, as much for myself as for him.

  “YaAsked’Er’Ere!”

  “Because she was in danger where she was, and long before I met the two of you!” I protested.

  His frown was stubborn, and I knew I fought a fool’s battle with a drunk. I stood and retreated, pleased I was wise enough to do so, yet angry with myself that I was not so wise I would not stew on his words, as they piqued my guilt.

  This matter would need to be resolved once he was sober. Or, sadly, perhaps it was not to be resolved. I did not wish to consider that outcome, though.

  Gaston spoke quietly with him while he worked. I stood at the rail and listened to the town begin to wake as the eastern horizon slowly brightened. At last Gaston finished and came to collect me. We slipped off the boat and into the canoe in silence.

  “He is aware of why this has occurred,” Gaston said, “but he wishes for a scapegoat; and you are married now, despite me, and Sarah is your sister.”

  I sighed and shrugged. “I know. Thank the Gods he does not know what else I have wrought.”

  “Do you intend for Striker to marry her today?” he asked.

  I craned about to regard him and found him smiling.

  “It should be soon,” I said with an answering grin. “We sail… when? Tomorrow?” I tried to recall all Morgan had said last night. He thought to sail with the morning wind the day after tomorrow, which meant we would all be boarded the night before, with the usual revelry. So any wedding would well be today if they were to consummate the matter over the course of a night.

  “Oui, it must be today,” I said. “I do not know how…”

  “Will,” Gaston said gently, “you do not yet know if.”

  “Oui,” I sighed.

  Striker was still sleeping on the table when we returned. I did not expect him to move of his own accord until midday at the earliest, and then I imagined the activity would prove so unsatisfactory that he would merely wish to curl up someplace and sleep for another day. Of course, we could not allow him that; yet I did not think waking him now would serve much purpose either, as he had only been asleep a few hours. It would behoove us, or rather me, to set things in motion prior to his rising, but that was a thing I was loathe to do.

  I explained my musings to Gaston.

  He shrugged. “What needs to be done before? When he rises, we will haul him to the church along with your sister.”

  “Well, as you are correct, and that aspect of the matter is so simply done, I suppose preparing her will be the only order of business before he rises.”

  “She will likely come here,” he said.

  I looked at Striker, sprawled, bloody and drooling upon the table, and turned back to my matelot. He sighed heavily and we hauled Striker upstairs and deposited him on the floor in our room. We would have put him in his own, but the snores of Cudro and others reverberated from it.

  “Are you hungry or tired?” Gaston asked.

  “Tired,” I said, after consideration.

  “Then let us sleep.”

  And so we curled in our hammock, with no erotic preamble. My mind wandered, seeking some measure of it all. Was love madness? Was it not the ultimate emotion the Gods granted, as I had told Morgan? Then my meanderings reached the disconcerting conclusion that all things involving the Gods led to madness on the part of some poor soul: I could not think of a single myth to gainsay it.

  Forty-Two

  Wherein We Institute New Traditions

  We woke to urgent knocking on our door. It was Agnes; she had arrived with my sister, uncle and Rucker. I told her we would be down momentarily, and then I cursed quietly as we listened to her departing steps.

  “I thought you liked your uncle and Rucker,” Gaston said.

  “I do,” I sighed, “but… There is much that should be discussed and arranged, and I feel I have no heart for it.”

  He drew my hand to his crotch and showed me what he had heart for.

  “But you must be quiet,” he said with mock seriousness. There was a cast to his mien that told me I would play as much with the Horse as the man.

  I muffled my laughter in his shoulder and surrendered to his ministrations. We attempted to make quick work of it, and thankfully he was not as distracted as I by the presence of those downstairs. In the end, he came with a nearly silent satisfied grunt, and I did nothing at all, neither in sound or pleasure. Yet, I was not dismayed or dissatisfied by the endeavor.

  In some fashion, the activity had provided me the clarity of thought to put much into perspective. Waking to a loving cock was truly the most one could want from life, as it meant one was wanted, loved, and not alone. One should do all that one could to insure that one woke in such a state, and endeavor to assist others in achieving the same, whether it be madness or not.

  In the aftermath, Gaston kissed my neck and shoulders with playful little nips, until he stopped quite suddenly and I felt his body stiffen behind me. I did likewise, and looked around to see the cause of his alarm. I found Striker watching us with bleary and sad eyes.

  “Good morning.” I said.

  “Stupid buggers,” he muttered with a grin that must have pained him.

  “Aye, that we are,” I said.

  He touched the bandage on his head gingerly. “Have you seen Pete?”

  I snorted. “Aye, Gaston saw to him, though he needed little tending as compared to you. You lost well,” I added lightly. “Was that your intent?”

  “My intent…” he sighed sadly and frowned at his memories, or perhaps the difficulty of thinking with what must have been a severely aching head.

  Gaston left me and went to his bag to find the bottle of laudanum. He poured Striker a weak draught, which our friend accepted readily.

  “My intent,” Striker said at last, “was to inform him that I would pursue your sister with or without him.”

  “Ah,” I said carefully. “And his response was that it would be without?”

  He snorted. “We are matelots no more.”

  “And do you still feel the same; that you wish to pursue my sister without him? Or, in somewhat sober reflection…” I asked.

  “Nay,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “I will not change course.”

  “Then you might be pleased at what I have wrought; then again, y
ou might be inclined to beat me bloody,” I said.

  “You best tell me now, then,” he chuckled weakly, “as I’m in no condition to do such a thing.”

  So I told him of what had transpired, starting with my uncle’s fears and wish to marry her off and ending with my solution and the reaction of others to such a thing.

  He was quiet for a time, and I followed Gaston in dressing as we waited.

  “So it is all so easy then,” Striker said at last.

  “Pete will sail with us,” Gaston said quietly. “And he vows you will not dismiss him from the cabin.”

  Striker smirked with sad amusement. “Well, that is to be expected. And I will not. I will give him all he is due and more.” He shook his head with a frown. “He has no head for money.”

  “My sister is downstairs, with my uncle,” I said.

  This brought an end to his reverie.

  “They can’t see me like this,” he said quickly.

  “Well, as you should marry today, they will have to. Though I suppose we can get you cleaned up and dressed before you go down. But perhaps I should send Sarah up.”

  “To see the cow she will be buying?” he asked.

  I chuckled. “That would be one way to consider it. I feel you should talk to one another and assess your feelings, without the machinations of others such as myself.”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “I will assist him,” Gaston said. “Send Sarah up.”

  I nodded and made my way downstairs. As she had done yesterday, Agnes had stopped by the fish vendors, and I had smelled her purchases even as Gaston and I trysted. My stomach grumbled as I was greeted by the full aroma at the bottom of the stairs.

  My uncle and Rucker seemed surprised by my appearance, but Agnes curtsied and Sarah rose from the floor, where she had been playing with a dog, and embraced me.

  I asked Agnes to take some water and towels upstairs, and then I whispered to Sarah, “Striker is here. He and Pete have fought and parted.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, but her eyes held a new and brighter light.

  “Go and speak with him,” I urged.