“I do not wish to stay here,” I whispered. “We should find our friends. They must be worried.”
He nodded and rubbed his stubbled cheek along mine. He did not move from above me until a rumble of mirth gripped him and he withdrew enough to meet my eyes.
“They might think we have been unlucky with some pocket of Spaniards,” he said with sad amusement, “but if they knew the truth, they would worry more.”
I shook my head, pondering the run of my thoughts. “Non, that is the madness, not us… that we should be here, in this place, for their reasons, at all. That we should be plumbing the depths of our souls in the name of… understanding one another: that is not mad. That they should worry more over our introspection than…”
He nodded and smiled, and viewed me with bemusement. “You are… like me.”
I frowned as a new thought led my mind astray. “I wish to know all of your horrible thoughts, in detail, withholding nothing.”
He looked away and nodded thoughtfully. “You feel they may not be as horrible as I think them to be?”
“Oui. Do you trust me enough to share them?”
He took a deep breath and released it with a slow smile. His gaze met mine. “Oui. But not tonight.”
I decided I would not ask for more this night. “All right.”
He moved off me and helped me to sit. The dizziness had passed, and I was able to crawl to the bedpost and fetch the key without blood pounding in my ears. I released him, and we located the chamber pot, dressed, and gathered our belongings in silence.
I paused at the door and looked about the room. It truly did not seem the safe haven it had appeared when we arrived; but then, we had been drunk. It did seem a place of import though, in that we had reached some tipping point. I felt I should strive to imprint it upon my memory for that reason alone.
Gaston touched my arm, and I turned to find him curious. I shook my head and sighed with exasperation at my own whimsy, and then sighed with annoyance that I should call it such.
“It is not merely words,” I said. “I truly feel we have crossed some threshold. We no longer stand… or rather, I no longer stand apart from… your madness.”
“I am both pleased and dismayed by that,” he said without humor.
“As am I.”
I thought to smile to lighten my words, but I realized that was unnecessary.
We regarded one another silently, without flinching, or, in my case, the urge to speak or look away, or do some small thing to relieve the tension I had ever felt when gazing into another’s eyes so. I thought of little, except that, once again in his presence, I did not feel alone.
The wind slammed the shutter and we started a little, recovering with sheepish grins. He took up the lamp and we slipped out the door into the darkened stair and through the empty house below. I was surprised the dwelling was unoccupied, despite our having purloined the available food and taken the best room. Then we heard the revelry anew as we stepped into the street, and I wondered no more at it: I reminded myself that most men had better to do in their time while raiding a town than sit about woolgathering in introspection, or love.
The thought of food seized my belly, and I did wonder where we might find the means to sate it. We had boucan still, and I supposed that would be our only succor; but perhaps the fête ahead held more satisfying or varied fare.
The Brethren were all clustered about the town square and engaged in as much debauch as they had on the night we arrived: which I hoped with great fervor was only yesterday, and Gaston and I had not slipped from time in our sojourn, like men eating ambrosia in some fairytale.
The men we passed and pushed through in search of our friends were in no condition to rally for battle. I was appalled.
“By the Gods, I hope we have sober sentries,” I muttered to Gaston.
He shrugged. “I am sure we do. It is ever like this while raiding, and someone is always vigilant.”
“Were you often on sentry duty?” I asked.
“Non, Will, I have often spent the first nights of any raid trussed up in some dark place,” he said with amusement.
I swore.
He smiled sadly.
We politely declined rum and wine, and worked our way toward the center of the square. We spied Morgan there, pontificating to a knot of men I guessed to be the captains. I only knew it was Morgan in all the smoke and shadows because of his large hat. As we came closer, I saw that we had indeed located all of our supposed leaders. I was relieved to see some of them turn at our approach with both the narrowed eyes and alacrity of somewhat sober men. The other half, however, were lost to Dionysus.
Striker rushed upon us with drunken fervor, Pete fast on his heels.
“Where the Devil have you been?” Striker snarled for our ears alone.
As I did not want this conversation to take place in front of Morgan, even quietly, I stepped back and hoped he would follow out of earshot of the captains, but Striker grabbed my arm and held firm and fast.
“Not here,” I said low and fiercely.
He glared, and his grip tightened on my arm; but, oddly, I sensed I was not the target of his anger.
Pete threw a jolly arm about his shoulder and whispered in his ear. I was hopeful at this intimacy between them, until Striker turned murderous eyes toward his former matelot and Pete gave a guilty shrug.
“ICannaLetGoNow,” Pete hissed loud enough for Gaston and me to hear.
I looked to Pete and found his gaze far soberer than Striker’s. I also saw pain in it.
“Let us…” I began to say.
Morgan cut my words with a jaunty, “Ah, so your scouts have returned.”
I frowned at Striker, and he, with his back still to Morgan and the other captains, cursed vehemently and quietly as they came to join us.
“’AdTaTell’EmSomethin’,” Pete muttered.
“What have you to report?” Morgan asked. He was as drunk as Striker. “I hope it has some worth. I missed your fine Castilian yesterday.”
“Well then, Morgan,” I said coolly, “you missed me in vain, as we saw nothing worth speaking of.”
“I tell you!” Pierrot interjected, and laid a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “We have all the Spanish here, and none of them have any damn gold!”
Despite his shouted words, his mien was his usual jolly one and I sensed no rum behind it. Beside him, Savant also appeared sober. He was studying Gaston with a critical eye. So was Bradley beyond him, and that damn man did not seem deep in his cups, either.
The drunk captains were now arguing foolhardily with Pierrot.
“There is gold in Cuba!” Morgan added to their clamor. “But, aye, it is not here! Do not fear, my hearty men! We will make them bring it to us!”
I liked not the sound of that, but his attention had turned to the others, and I was thankful of that, at least.
“I feared you dead,” Striker hissed angrily once Morgan was away. “But Pierrot said Gaston went mad. That was good to hear. Then Morgan asked of you.”
“I am sorry to put you in that position,” I said. “We did not intend to be gone so long, but…”
“I did go mad,” Gaston said calmly. “It is likely I will always do so after a battle.”
Striker sighed and shook his head. “What’ll we tell…?” He glanced over his shoulder at the other captains.
“We will think of something,” I said quickly. “In the morning.”
In turning to look at the others, Striker had discovered Pete’s hand on his shoulder, and now he glared at it. He shrugged it off violently and elbowed Pete in the ribs, driving the air from the Golden One in a pained bark that quickly transmuted to a chortle of amusement.
“If I canna’ touch you, then you shan’t touch me,” Striker growled.
“Aye,” Pete sighed.
Striker did not turn to look at him, and so he missed the sadness in Pete’s gaze.
“Don’t be disappearin’ again,” Striker said to Gaston and me.
<
br /> I took no umbrage at his tone. “We will not. Where is the rest of the cabal? We will sleep with them.”
“TheyBeSentries,” Pete said. “An’TrueScouts,” he added with a grin.
“Thank the Gods,” I sighed. “Where are you sleeping?”
“IShowYa.”
He left Striker with the captains and led us down a street off the square, to a shop. The shutters hung askew, and the door was caved in where someone had tried to batter it open. Pete led us around the alley to the back door and inside.
I was surprised when Striker joined us, but I thought it likely Gaston had known he followed.
“Bakery,” Striker mumbled, and threw himself on a cot in the back room.
Pete was laughing as he lit a lamp. “Aye, ThereBeFoodHere. NotMuch. WeSharedItOut. ButWeKeptSome.”
He pulled a bag from beneath the cot and handed us each a sweet roll. I thought it was likely the best piece of baking I had ever tasted. He also had apples, and with the boucan we carried, we made a meal of it.
I sat shoulder to shoulder with Gaston, our backs to flour barrels. Pete sprawled across from us with his back to the cot. Our legs were all entwined in the little space. Striker was lost to drunken slumber as soon as his belly was full. The shadows on the walls seemed to dance to the reverberation of his snores. The whole place smelled of flour and butter. It warmed me with nostalgia. As a child, my governess had often hauled me off to the kitchens so she could sit and gossip with the other servants. The cooks had always doted on me, and plied me with loaf heels and sweet breads.
Sanity seemed close at hand: a ready presence.
I looked from Pete to Striker. “I am pleased you are reunited in battle at least,” I told Pete.
He snorted. “Don’tSayIt.”
“What?” I asked.
“ThatIBeThe OneWhoStartedIt.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Striker, and the pain haunted him again.
“Can you not make peace with the situation?” I asked gently.
He sighed long and heavily, and his gaze returned to me.
“ItNa’BeFair,” he said with an edge of rancor.
I chose to eschew the usual platitudes that came to mind considering fairness, or the lack thereof in this world.
“He is as he is, and you are as you are,” I said.
“Aye… Nay.” Pete shook his head. “ItNa’BeFairOnly WomenHave Babies.”
“Oh,” I said.
“TheyBeEvil. TheyLie.”
Beside me, Gaston was nodding.
I sighed. “Not all…”
Pete waved me off. “IKnow! YourSisterDoesNa’ SeemABadSort. ButSheStill BeOneO’’Em. IWillNa’Lose TaOneO’’Em.”
I considered that. “You have not lost,” I said carefully. “He loves you still.”
He shook his head and regarded the floor with a bitter frown.
“IWillNa’Share’Im. IWillNa’Sleep DownTheHallWhile…” He trailed off with a hiss.
I recalled my words to Alonso long ago, and my protestations of the matter of my marriage to Gaston. Unlike me, Striker did wish to bed his wife with love. He would wish to lie with her through the night in the aftermath. He would have children with her, Gods willing, and they would raise them together. Striker would not mean to shut Pete out, but Pete would never be satisfied with only having what was his when they roved.
Then I remembered another thing. I did not imagine it would solve all of the problems or make things the way they had been, but it might yet offer a solution.
“Do not share him with her,” I said. “Share her with him. I believe she offered that: to be wed to both of you.”
Pete shook his head sadly. “SheDid. IThoughtOnIt. ButICanna’. ISwore. ISworeIWouldNever SullyMyselfSoBy Plungin’IntaOneO’’Em. NoSquishy’OleFerMe. An’IWillNa’Have ItSaidWeBeSharin’’ErIfINa’Be Fuckin’’Er.”
“Who did you swear this to?” I asked.
“Meself! After…” His gaze met mine and he shook his head.
I sought some purchase to surmount this obstacle. “Did you swear you would never lie with a woman, or that you would never sully yourself with their… squishy hole?”
He frowned. “ThereBeNoDifference.”
I shook my head. “Women have two holes: the… squishy one, and a nether one. Some women find sodomy pleasurable. I have on several occasions…”
Pete’s eyes narrowed further still, and Gaston drew a long breath beside me. I looked to him and realized what I had suggested… concerning my sister, of all people. I sighed.
I turned back to Pete and saw a satisfied and intrigued curve settling about his eyes and mouth. I did not like the look of it.
I awarded him a forbidding mien. “She is still my sister and I will not have her… taken… in that manner, to satisfy your…”
He snorted disparagingly. “Iffn’IDecideTaDoIt IBeGoodTa’Er.”
We took one another’s measure across the small space, and I found I felt him sincere.
“A woman cannot become pregnant through sodomy,” Gaston said, as if musing more to himself than relating information to us.
I had thought that a woman could not gain a child from sodomy, but I had not been sure.
“Nay?” Pete asked.
“Only the vagina leads to the womb,” Gaston said.
“The squishy hole,” I clarified to Pete. “Most call it the cunt, among other things.”
I wondered why Pete had settled on such a term as the squishy hole. He did not avoid any other manner of vulgarity.
“IsItSquishy?” Pete asked, as if seeing my thoughts.
“Aye,” I sighed.
Pete looked back to Gaston. “SoThereBeNoGetFromIt. ThatSuitsMeEvenBetter.”
Gaston shrugged.
I thought perhaps it would tidy things, as there would never be question of whose child she might carry. Of course, my sister would never forgive me if she was ever to become aware of my part in this and Pete did indeed decide to pursue the matter. I wondered if she would accept such a thing.
Striker had rolled onto his side and his snoring had ceased. Pete turned to watch him over his shoulder.
I watched Pete, and mused that perhaps he loved Striker enough to break his vow, or overcome whatever wound had forced him to make it. Perhaps Sarah could win his heart. But then I remembered that she did not truly want to. It cast a pall of doom over the entire endeavor.
Pete at last nudged Striker to the wall and lay beside him on the cot. Gaston and I curled together on the floor. I took comfort in the smell of flour, the lamplight, and my matelot’s embrace. All things would resolve themselves in some fashion.
We woke to Striker cursing and scrambling from the cot. I was damn pleased Gaston and I had not drunk the night before, as we surely would have shot him in the sudden confusion upon waking if we had.
Striker ended up standing by the door, glaring down at Pete, who stretched languidly and awarded his former matelot a sheepish shrug.
“IFergot,” Pete drawled.
“Are we matelots?” Striker asked.
Pete looked away and adjusted his obviously erect cock through his breeches in a distracted manner, as if he were scratching an itch.
Striker swore and left us.
I looked to Pete. “You know, on occasion you are quite the arse.”
Pete snorted and would not meet my gaze, either. He crawled off the cot and donned his weapons, dug in the food bag for two sweet rolls and strips of boucan, and left us.
I looked to my matelot, and he pulled my hand to his piss-hard member with a jaunty grin.
Sometime later, we found Striker and Pete in the town square. The place was strewn with fewer buccaneers than I expected. Someone had roused them to early industry, and I guessed that someone to be Morgan, who stood by the cistern with a scowl and a flagon of wine.
In the light of day, the place seemed smaller than it had last night. On one side was the church where all the prisoners were held. The rest of the cobbled square
was ringed by public buildings and shops, like all towns of Spanish design. The well and cistern sat in the center. The buccaneers yet remaining in the square were passing bottles and talking. One corner near the church held a small mound of gold, silver and other valuables. I was dismayed at the size of it, as it was very small indeed.
Nearby, an impromptu dungeon of the Inquisition had been assembled. Two captives were strapedoed there. One man was spread-eagled by cord wrapped around his thumbs and big toes in such a manner that he was suspended horizontally from poles a foot and a half above the ground. Another Spaniard was hung by his thumbs from a pole. In both cases, buccaneers circled about, beating their victims, or the cord that bound them, with sticks. Davey was one of the men engaged in this. Julio was interpreting, relaying the coherent parts of the unfortunates’ protestations and lamentations to the others.
I spied no whips. I looked to my matelot.
His gaze had followed mine to the torture, and he shrugged with a resigned sigh. “There are better ways to cause pain of the intensity needed for confession,” he said.
“Perhaps you should enlighten them,” I said. “It may speed things along, and remove us from this poor town, and allow them to return to their lives all the faster.”
Gaston frowned thoughtfully. “Hippocrates. I will harm none with what I know as a physician. I am not Dominic.”
I winced. “I did not mean to imply…”
He shook his head and gave me a reassuring smile. “Non, I had not thought on the matter before. I have not thought of myself as a physician when I have roved before. And I did not participate in the interrogations then for other reasons. So the question and its answer were new to me. I was telling myself as much as you.”
“I am proud of your decision,” I murmured.
“Thank you. And you?” he asked. “I will not judge you on this, as what you said is true. The sooner we get what we want, the sooner we leave.”
One of the tortured prisoners was howling that he had given all his money to his uncle in Saint Jago in repayment of a debt.
I sighed. “I have killed for money. I will kill to protect you, or myself. I will kill or torture to bring justice where I see the need. Yet, this fills me with disquiet, and is a thing I must examine.”
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