“I have been sent by Striker to ascertain whether you will be joining us,” I said to all.
“You will be sailing, non?” Pierrot asked with a shrug.
“Oui,” I said, “but many of ours feel it is merely the first course to a grander meal over the summer.”
“We will join you in this repast,” he grinned, “but my friend, let us hope Morgan serves up a dish full of flavor, lest we be forced to lead our men to dine at another table.”
Savant chuckled at this.
“I can well understand,” I said, “though the lack of your company would make our next hosts less likely to serve up their best.”
They laughed, and Pierrot shrugged eloquently. “That is life, my friend. We will see what this table offers and hope we are well satisfied.”
“Well,” I shrugged. “I feel any meal will be enlivened by your company; I am sure at the least we will enjoy an amusing repast.”
Petit Dominic was an affable fellow, but possessed of a keenly literal mind. “We are not truly going there for food, non? You said that was merely a ploy of Morgan’s making.”
“For the love of God,” Rizzo said. “You imbecile! They jest!”
Gaston and I left them trying to explain to the man. The Virgin Queen weighed anchor as soon as we were aboard.
Striker glanced at the Josephine and Belle Mer as we joined him on the quarterdeck.
“They sail,” I assured him, “but this prize had best be worthwhile, or Pierrot’s men will not wish to remain in our company.”
“That’s to be expected,” Striker sighed. “At least we’ll have their number for this. As we don’t know exactly what this’ll entail as yet. When we got enough rum in him, Hadsell admitted he hasn’t been there in years. And Morgan wants us to sail first, as the Bard is the most experienced master of sail we have. I wish we had another to lead us once we were ashore.”
The Bard swore vehemently. “I’ve never been here before,” he spat. “The damn man knows nothing of sailing. We need a pilot for these waters. There are bars and cays everywhere, and we’re going to have to sound our way in.”
Striker sighed sympathetically, and with another curse, the Bard turned away to harangue the men at the bow who would be watching our progress.
“I thought this Hadsell had been a slave there,” I said quietly in the Bard’s wake. “Though I suppose that need not be recently.”
“You missed some of the discussion last night when you wandered off,” Striker said. “Hadsell admitted he had only been to this place once. It was for a fortnight, and he did see much of the town, but it was more than five years ago. There was no fortress there, or any other defense works. Since it is inland, they do not expect attack and so probably haven’t built a fortress, either. But Hadsell never approached the place from the South as we will. He’s only seen the road on a map far better than this one.” He gestured at the parchment in front of him, which showed a goodly amount of detail about the coast of the island but only vague representations of the interior.
“Do we have no one else who has been there?” I looked about at the other ships beginning to weigh anchor in our wake. “I know it is unlikely.”
“Morgan inquired,” Striker sighed. “One of the ships captured a Spaniard some time ago. They kept him for a slave. According to that captain, the man speaks no English, knows nothing of sailing, and will probably be of little use to us, though he was taken from around here about a year ago.”
“Is he daft?” I asked.
“Who, the Spaniard or the captain?” Striker asked with a grin.
“Either.”
Striker chuckled. “I would think both. Morgan plans to interrogate the man properly with a good translator, once we are ashore tomorrow.”
I hoped that did not include me.
“How many men do we have who speak Castilian?” I asked.
“Julio and you. I don’t know about the other ships. I would imagine some. Morgan made mention of you, though,” Striker said.
“Lovely,” I sighed.
“I cannot believe you have no stomach for interrogation.” Cudro said with a frown.
“That is not the facet of the matter that gives me pause.”
“What then?” Striker asked.
I flicked my gaze to Gaston. Striker and Cudro sighed with knowing nods. My matelot tensed.
“I have no issue with it, either,” Gaston said quietly to me in French. “I will accompany you.”
I put my arm about his shoulder. “And if they wish to flog the man into talking?” I whispered, so that Cudro would have to strain to hear.
“Then we will end up marooned on Cuba, if not dead,” Gaston sighed, but his lip twitched with some small amusement and I took heart in that.
I hugged his shoulder tighter and said briskly, “Do not trouble yourself. If it comes to that, I will simply take charge of the matter and suggest a more creative inducement.”
Cudro had heard that, and he rumbled with quiet amusement.
Striker, though he had not understood the language, had understood enough to regard us thoughtfully. He exchanged a look with Cudro. They shrugged.
“Gaston,” Striker said carefully, “do you wish to go on this raid? You two could remain here and…”
“Non,” Gaston said with quick assurance. “As always, when I am thus, it is best to point me toward the enemy.”
“I hoped as much,” Striker said with wry amusement. “But, if…”
“With Will at my side, I will cause no trouble for you as Captain,” Gaston said firmly.
“That was not my concern,” Striker said, but I could see he was lying.
“All will be well,” I said lightly and smiled. “As he says, I will see to him so he does damage to the Spanish and no one else.”
Everyone made much of being amused; Gaston even put on a good show. But I could see doubt in our friends’ eyes. Sadly, I felt it in my heart.
The winds were not in our favor, and as the Bard had said, with an abundance of small cays and sand bars to contend with, we made slow work of the twelve leagues we had to sail into the gulf. We did not reach our destination until the sun was sinking low in the West on the second day. Thankfully, there were no Spanish craft about. The Bard chose a likely anchorage. Soon our fleet was spread out amongst the cays, and not as close to shore as I was sure Morgan would have liked for an early landing. It was not to be helped in the waning light, though. At least no one ashore would be wise of our intentions. Even if they saw us before night closed, they would assuredly think we were bound elsewhere, as there was no town in sight.
All took short watches that night so that every man would be rested in the morning. When it was our turn on the quarterdeck, Gaston and I stood at the aft rail with Pete and studied the dark around us. None of the ships had lanterns lit, as they would have made us quite visible from shore. The Moon drifted behind intermittent clouds. The night was full of the furtive sounds of men whispering in small clusters, the ship creaking as she tested her anchor in the current, and the occasional gust of breeze tugging at the rigging just briskly enough to make it sigh.
I rubbed Gaston’s back. He was tense and withdrawn, as he had been since my return from the meeting on the cay. When we had rested he had not wished to make love. We had simply slept and I had hoped he would find it restorative. Yet he had always woken sullen, and I had woken anxious. I wished to speak to him alone in these last hours before we landed, but Pete did not seem prone to leave us.
“What will you do in this coming action with no matelot?” I finally asked the Golden One.
He gave a grumbling sigh in answer and said nothing else.
“I suppose we will keep an eye on Striker,” I said, “as he will likely be quite involved with the necessities of command. I would offer that we keep an eye on you, as you have no matelot, but I feel you are more likely to be able to care for yourself. But do let us know.”
He snorted. “Don’tWorryYurself.”
Then he left us alone.
“Was it your intent to drive him off?” Gaston asked in his wake.
“Perhaps,” I said with a grin and a shrug. “It is my intent to keep my word to my sister on the matter of Striker’s safety.”
“Pete will see to him,” he said.
“Has he said as much?”
“He has not found another,” Gaston said solemnly.
I grinned at the night and embraced Gaston, resting my chin on his shoulder. To my relief, he shifted comfortably against me and caressed my arm.
“How is the storm progressing?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I should explain. This is my doing, in part. I am calling it. It is as if I draw anger from a well deep inside me. If I am to fight, I must… fuel it. And so I find the anger I keep hidden and it burns like oil, and in finding it I begin to remember the events that put it there, that first sparked it into life: not clearly, but as little glimpses of horrible things and…”
“That anger is always there.” I said.
He turned in my arms and met my gaze with a nod.
“And what happens if you do not release it?” I asked. “You always say that you must release it. I am merely curious.”
“I will need to spend a great deal of time alone in the woods raving at your Gods,” he said.
“Ah, that places a number of things in perspective.”
And it did. I saw pieces of thoughts fall into place in such a way they formed a pattern.
“The anger is not part of your madness, any more than the scars are,” I said, “but the madness has prompted others to give you the scars and the anger.”
He frowned and nodded. “Oui.”
“Do you feel we could ever draw that anger from you, like draining a boil or wound, perhaps?”
His head cocked as he considered my words. “If we accept the metaphor of a wound, then oui, it must be drawn out before it can heal. But I do not know if that is correct. And I do not know how… other than battle.”
“But all the battles you have fought here have not…”
His fingers were on my lips. “The madness that accompanies it has always resulted in more harm being done to me, and more anger. With you here…”
I nodded and kissed his fingers before pulling them away. “I understand. Perhaps I can assist you in allowing the battle to draw the poison out without adding any more in its stead.”
“Oui,” he said thoughtfully.
“Then I will nurture your anger and madness in this endeavor.”
He shook his head and frowned with bemusement. “That does not sound as it should.”
“To me either.” I grinned. “Let us see how it plays out, though.”
Lights blazed on a ship off our starboard bow and dismissed any comment he might have made. We watched with surprise as the now-lit sloop dropped its boat and several canoes. Armed men clambered aboard the smaller craft and raced off into the night, with lanterns on poles at the bows. They were looking for something in the water.
As we were fairly near the lit sloop, I sent two men in a canoe to inquire of this activity. They returned a short time later with irksome news. The Spanish slave who did not speak English, the one I was possibly to assist in interrogating in the morning, had chosen to escape. He had dropped over the side and swam. They had not realized he could swim, either. I thought it likely he could also understand a good deal of English after a year. And even more likely that if he could not speak English, he could definitely recognize the name of a Cuban town such as Puerto del Principe.
I did not call out an alert; but a number of the sleeping men woke at the activity of lowering the canoe, and soon the deck was awash in quiet discussion of the damn Spaniard’s chances of making it to shore. I thought it likely, with the number of cays and bars. All he had to do was swim from one to the next. Then the question would be whether or not he could find someone appropriate to warn, or worse yet, make Puerto del Principe before we did.
I woke Striker and relayed all to him as the predawn grey seeped above the horizon. The Bard had us in motion before the first true rays of the sun burst above the sea. We drifted closer to the shore on the small tropical tide. We saw to our weapons and cached our valuables, so as to avoid any confusion or claims of withholding plunder.
A longboat arrived from the Mayflower as we were lowering our own. Morgan wished to land all as soon as possible, as we might have lost the element of surprise. Needless to say, we were not surprised. We made fast work of landing our men. Gaston and I were on the last boat across, and we bid farewell to the Bard and Dickey.
“Take care,” the Bard said. “I don’t envy you.”
“I do not envy you,” I replied. “You will be sitting here like ducks for the slaughter with barely enough men to man the guns.”
He snorted. “Have a little faith, Will. We’ll hide in the cays. The only thing we’ll have to fight is boredom.”
“Then I do envy you, as you will not have to combat sore feet and aching limbs.”
As the men of the Virgin Queen were some of the first ashore, Striker had dispatched a scouting party to the north: to locate the town the maps showed there and the road that led to Puerto del Principe. Both thankfully proved to be where they should.
Within two hours, all were ashore except for the skeleton crews, and I watched the ships weigh anchor and raise sail. Though there were nearly six hundred of us milling about, I felt somewhat abandoned at the sight of our ships’ departure.
Soon we proceeded to march north and inland, in somewhat orderly groups: bypassing the small village on the coast, and heading directly to the road that led through the hills to Puerto del Principe.
Striker had opted to place us in the lead, and Gaston and I soon joined Liam and Otter and two other men in scouting ahead. I spent the rest of the day just trying to keep up and stay quiet as we ran beside the road ahead of the vanguard. So, by evening, I was quite surprised when Gaston knocked me flat and held his hand over my mouth. When I had submitted enough that he was assured I would not make noise, he let me up; and I saw Liam motioning us ahead in the waning light. We stayed low and worked our way forward to discover what Otter had: a group of Spaniards felling trees across the road.
We snuck closer, and I listened and interpreted. They were preparing for us. This was the foremost party. Others were building ambuscades farther up the road. Some of the men in this group thought their efforts might be a waste of time, and that the army on the plain would surely stop us. Another man, the leader, argued that the mayor would not have time to gather that army if they did not delay us here. Further discourse proved they did not think we would arrive today, or even on the morrow.
Apparently, our army would not be able to surprise Puerto del Principe with anything other than speed.
We sent one of the men back, while the rest of us crouched in the gathering twilight with muskets aimed on the Spaniards we could see. There were too many of them for us to take them all without the possibility of some escaping to warn of our rapid approach. Especially since they all had horses. A good steed would have made short work of the length of this road, and I imagined the village the escaped slave had reached must have sent a fast one to Puerto del Principe.
Morgan, Striker, Pete, Pierrot and a group of presumably fast and stealthy men arrived sooner than even I expected. We made quick work of capturing the tree-felling Spaniards, and thereby learned our exact location and that we still had a good ten miles to traverse. Thankfully, this information did not come at the cost of whipping anyone, as Gaston was at my side the entire time.
So were the others. As one we looked to the sky. The sun had set. There would be a moon, but it was not full. The sky would be clear, though.
“I’ve already ordered the men to use this time to rest a bit,” Morgan said. “We should press on, though. Keep the vanguard alongside the road, with two large scouting parties to find the ambuscades. The main party can work their way up the road. Once we reach a mi
le or so from this plain they intend to meet us on, we will stop and rest until dawn. I will stay with the main party. Keep me informed.”
“I want the rest of my men in the vanguard, then,” Striker said.
“I’ll send our good scouts up to you,” Pierrot offered.
And so it was settled. Gaston and I saw little of the rest of the arrangements, as we were back to creeping through the woods again: this time by moonlight, with ten other men instead of four. Alone, I would have blundered into any ambuscade the Spanish cared to set, and I probably could have stumbled through their hastily-assembled redoubts without seeing them. Luckily, I was not alone. I was Gaston’s shadow and he was the shadow of death. At the first ambuscade, as we quietly dispatched the Spaniards dozing in wait for us, I literally stumbled on the body of a man he had killed as I tried to keep up with him. My blade only tasted blood if there were two Spaniards close together and Gaston felt like throwing me a bone.
Across the road, either one of our brethren was stupid or his opponent was especially wary and skilled. Shots were fired. After that, we did not find any Spaniards waiting for us. They had withdrawn. We had once again lost the element of surprise.
Finally, we came to edge of the hills and forest, and saw the lights of a town across a plain. It was several hours until dawn. We sent messengers back and settled in for a much-deserved rest. Even as aching and exhausted as I was, I could not sleep immediately. I wondered what the morrow would bring.
As usual in such situations, I only knew I had slept when I woke disoriented. I did not remember dreaming, and I did not feel rested. The sun had broken the horizon. The gentle morning light revealed a great number of men in a distant, ragged line across the plain. There was drumbeating and the stamp of hundreds of bare feet behind me on the road. Gaston handed me an apple and a hunk of boucan, and I hurriedly ate without tasting any of it. He was checking his weapons, and with meat hanging from my mouth, I began to do the same.
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