Matelots

by W. A. Hoffman

  I was curious as to how much movement was permitted on the part of the parties. Was it permissible for a man to strive to make himself difficult to hit, beyond standing side-on to his opponent?

  I looked from one man to the other. To our left, Tooco was sure and strong, joking with the men who shouted encouragement from the French line. His matelot, Crème, was not as enthused as the onlookers; he stood solemnly with Otter and Liam across the gap from us. Julio and Davey had stayed with them, though Davey appeared uncomfortable.

  Burroughs, to our right, was anything but calm. His hands shook and his eyes darted about. As I had noted when we trained them, the man was too easily flustered. He was truly a boar, prone to charging upon spears or anything else lain in his path. Even had they dueled with pistols, swords, or fists, I thought him the inevitable loser. Against an experienced musketeer, it would take an act of the Gods for him to win.

  Rizzo raised his hand, and silence settled over the crowd. Tooco looked to his left, possibly at Crème. There was movement to my right. I turned my head in time to see Burroughs aiming his piece. The retort of his musket split the silence. Tooco took the ball squarely in the chest and went down. The Brethren howled as one; my own throat gave cry as well.

  Gaston was in motion and I followed him to Tooco. We were among the first to reach him. It was obvious, even to my eye, that he was beyond any physician’s abilities. Gaston pressed his head to the man’s heart all the same, and then probed the wound. Crème bent at Tooco’s head, but his man was beyond speech, even if his heart did still beat.

  There was one last twitch, and Gaston sat up and met Crème’s gaze. The Frenchman nodded slowly; he looked about, though I thought he saw little of us.

  “Duel ’im,” Liam said in English and shook Crème’s arm. When Crème did not respond, Liam turned to Otter. “Tell ’im to duel the bastard. Burroughs fired. By all rights, Crème should ’ave the shot his matelot didna’ take.”

  I agreed, though I thought Crème so shocked at the death that he was beyond caring for even vengeance at the moment.

  There were shots fired behind us; they cut through the cacophony. Cudro’s great voice boomed for silence in their wake, invoking Morgan’s name. I had not seen our admiral along either side of the corridor of the duel. I wondered if he had just arrived.

  When some semblance of quiet had been achieved, Morgan spoke. “As your admiral, I command you to cease this madness at once! This is not the time or place to settle disputes, damn you all! The Spaniards are marching on us, and we have but few hours of day left to finish our business here! Let this be resolved on the cays!”

  “This bastard murdered a man!” Pierrot roared in response.

  “How so? I thought this a duel,” Morgan asked.

  Hundreds of men spoke at once and Cudro again had to bellow for silence.

  I stood and pushed my way toward Morgan.

  “He fired before the signal,” Pierrot said when at last he could be heard.

  “If that is so, then the matter will be tried and justice will be served,” Morgan said.

  “That is so!” Pierrot roared. “The dead man’s matelot deserves his shot!”

  The cry of “Duel, duel” was taken up by many men.

  I reached the captains. Morgan and Pierrot were like two bulls in a ring, nostrils flared and feet pawing; between them lay a battered Burroughs. The fool did not appear dead, and thankfully, did not appear so very foolish as to try to speak. He regarded the men fighting over him with trepidation through his un-swollen eye.

  “Not here!” Morgan bellowed. “And if the man cannot be trusted to follow the rules of a duel, why let him do it again? He shall be tried in a court and justice served. But not here and not now!”

  “On the cays, then,” Pierrot rumbled. He called loudly in French. “He’s correct. This is not the time. Justice will be served, but not now. Go back to your cattle. The faster we load, the faster we reach the cays and settle this.”

  I knelt beside Burroughs and whispered in his ear, “You fired before the signal. Why?”

  He frowned at me. “The Frenchie raised his hand. Not my damn fault the bugger weren’t watchin’.”

  Ash was at my elbow. The sallow boy looked as bad as he had after Pete beat him, and I was proud he had at least tried to defend Burroughs. His eyes were cold as he looked on the man now, though.

  “What was the signal?” I asked Ash.

  “Fire,” Ash said. “The quartermaster would call for them to be ready, and then for them to fire.”

  “’E raised ’is hand,” Burroughs sputtered defensively. “Ya saw it! It be the stupid Frenchie’s fault.”

  “You heard Cudro say it,” Ash said with a mix of disbelief and anger.

  I patted Ash on the shoulder. “Leave it. He did not listen then; he will not listen now.”

  I stood and found my back to Striker’s chest and many eyes upon me.

  Morgan looked away when I met his gaze. He called for men to truss Burroughs and deliver him to the Mayflower. Then he stalked off with the glares of the French upon his back.

  I turned enough to whisper to Striker. “He is our problem.”

  He swore. “Aye, I know.”

  I looked to Pierrot and Savant and the French men still about them.

  “We will see that justice is done,” I said quietly in French. “If he can be delivered to you, we will arrange it. If not…”

  “I want him to hang,” Crème said.

  He had joined us along with Gaston, Liam, and Otter.

  “I don’t want to duel him. Dueling is honorable,” Crème continued. “I want him to hang like a dog.”

  There was no anger in his words, just a deep sadness.

  I nodded. “Then he will hang. Need you witness it?”

  “Non,” Crème said. “The watching of it would not bring Tooco back.”

  The French about us muttered among themselves, but all nodded with deference as Pierrot’s gaze swept over them.

  “Crème has spoken. Tell our men what has been decided,” Pierrot told them.

  “Morgan won’t hang him after a trial,” Savant said with anger. “Morgan won’t have a trial.”

  “I have already conducted my trial,” I said. “The man will hang. Morgan be damned.”

  Savant took my measure and nodded. “Your word I will take.”

  “It would be best if this matter were resolved before we part ways after the treasure is divided,” Pierrot said.

  Gaston had thankfully been translating for Striker and Pete.

  “It’ll be done,” Striker said. “I wouldn’t have you leave, but there’s no helping it now.”

  Pierrot nodded sadly and said in English. “We will speak later, my friends. I am sorry this man was yours.”

  Striker snorted. “Not as sorry and shamed as we.”

  The French walked away, leaving only our own about us. Ash was looking at us with old eyes. Nickel and Bones stood beside him.

  “You understand?” I asked them gently.

  Ash said, “I will not speak to defend him now.”

  Nickel nodded resolutely.

  “Man be a fool,” Bones said with a shrug. “We all heard Cudro’s tellin’ him the signal.”

  “He broke the rules of a duel, simple rules, and thus committed murder,” Ash said. “He deserves to hang. I only wonder how you will be about it.”

  “I wonder that myself,” Striker sighed and awarded me a raised eyebrow.

  “We shall pay our former friend a visit upon the Mayflower this night,” I said. “I feel he will be quite overcome with remorse after he realizes what he has done.”

  “So remorseful he might hang himself?” Striker asked.

  I nodded. “I think it likely.”

  “Well then,” Striker said with a shrug, “we must endeavor to help him find his peace with his Maker.” His gaze met mine. “Morgan won’t be pleased if he learns the truth of it.”

  “Actually, I feel he will,” I said. �
��That it will occur will leave him in better standing with the French as regards future endeavors, despite the ill-will and their misgivings about this venture. And, it will free him of the necessity of concocting some rationale for not giving the man a trial when even the English feel he is guilty.”

  Striker snorted. “I forgot, you can think as he does.”

  We headed back to the steer we had been butchering. I found Striker’s words had stung me deeply. I owned I could see Morgan’s heart, and knew the way of wolves like him; but as always, I took no pride in it. I also was not pleased with what we must be about concerning Burroughs. Despite my resolve, it did not sit well with me.

  Gaston put his arm about my shoulder as we walked.

  “He is a fool and he made a fool’s error,” I said. “His stealing the marrow bones was probably a matter of mistaken understanding of the situation as well. I only fault him on his belligerence about the matter, and his attitude toward the French. Yet he did not do this with malice.”

  “It is better he dies here before he can harm one of us with his foolishness,” Gaston said with calm resolve.

  “True.”

  Still, I did not relish the coming of night and our sailing as I should have. I argued the matter again and again in my heart as we salted and barreled beef. Always, I found my reasoning and decision sound. It was best for all. However, I knew if it had been another, say Pete perhaps, who had made such an error, I would have done all I could to save him. But Pete would never have committed such a grave mistake. And therein lay the crux of the matter. Burroughs was not such a friend as I would defend, because he was not such a man as I would truly take to my heart as a friend.

  It was a sad thing to admit, but the men we thought of as our cabal were not all true and loyal friends in my estimation. Davey, for instance, was not my friend. I would not raise my hand to save him, and I thought it likely I would someday be forced to raise my hand against him. Julio, though, I would do much for. I hoped no situation would ever come to pass where I would have to choose between them.

  As for Bones, Nickel, and Ash, I was still fond of them, and thought their reaction to today’s event held great promise as to their continued association with what might be considered the true cabal; but they still needed to be tested in other ways. And, we would see how they truly reacted to the night’s planned event as it had time to wear into their souls.

  The sun was sinking when we finally had all the beef and men aboard the ships. I kissed the Bard in relief when we reached the decks of the Virgin Queen.

  “That bad?” he asked. “We heard of the ruckus with Burroughs.”

  “Aye, and the matter is not finished yet.” I said. I quickly whispered to him and Dickey all that had occurred and the planned resolution.

  “That is a sad thing,” the Bard said, “but aye, he must pay for it.”

  Dickey was eyeing me soberly. “You can do such a thing?”

  “Aye, sadly, I can,” I said.

  “I could not,” he said. “Not in cold blood.”

  “Do you judge me harshly for it?” I asked.

  He shook his head and sighed. “Someone must stand as executioner.”

  Troubled, I slipped below to the cabin, with Gaston on my heels. As always, he knew me well.

  “Are you still in fear of Hell?” he asked in French as we settled in under our table to sit side by side.

  “Not so much Hell, as… well, I do not feel I will be sent to Hell for seeing justice done, but perhaps for having the hubris to judge. I have oft played judge and executioner. In my heart I know that it is sometimes necessary, in order to see that justice is done, but… who am I to ever be deciding what is just?”

  Gaston embraced me. “I feel you are better suited than any other, in that you at least ask that question of yourself.”

  “I suppose I will know the end result when I am dead, and all my deeds are done, and I stand at the brink of oblivion.”

  “Until then, you must do as you feel is right,” he said.

  “And not care how or if I will be judged?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Men who ever worry about such things seem to live very poor lives. Our fellows respect you. I love you. Be content in the goodness that implies.”

  I turned to face him. “The same goes for you, my love.”

  He smiled slowly. “Oui.”

  “You should watch what you say,” I teased.

  “Oui, as you will make me eat it,” he said with rueful amusement.

  We heard the anchor being weighed, and we smiled at one another. Despite what I must do, and despite our being filthy, caked in blood, hungry, thirsty, and damn tired, it did not matter. We were safely aboard our ship. We had survived yet another debacle in the adventure that was our lives.

  Our cabal spent the evening sitting on the quarterdeck relaying the rest of the adventure that was Puerto del Principe to the Bard and Dickey and their men. We had a few bottles, and we drained them and lay about in relative peace.

  My sense of well-being was only disturbed by a quiet discussion among Striker, Gaston and myself as to who should go to the Mayflower. I decided, and Gaston reluctantly agreed, that he should stay behind. I won the argument by telling him that if all went poorly, he and Pete were the best suited to rescuing Striker and me. Pete, too, wished to go, but he also acceded to my reasoning.

  When the lack of light made continuing to sail through the cays and bars too dangerous, our small fleet dropped anchor for the night. In the lamplight, Striker and I looked to one another. He nodded, and we stood. I was concerned when Ash stood as well.

  “If you are to go over there to meet with him as friends,” Ash said quietly for our ears alone, “then I should go too, as all knew we were partners.”

  “Can you do this?” I asked him.

  He looked away and sighed. “If I find I cannot in the face of it, I can at least stand as lookout.”

  Striker and I exchanged a glance and nodded as one. The three of us rowed a canoe over to the Mayflower. We did not have a plan beyond asking to see Burroughs. We had brought his gear, but not his weapons. We also had a length of rope wrapped about my waist under my tunic.

  It was strange boarding the Mayflower. She seemed a different vessel than the one we had sailed on only last summer. In the torchlight, I looked for the bloodstains that had been deep in the wood of the waist decking. Bradley’s former matelot had made one of them, and Liam, Otter and the Bard had made others, during the fight to take the vessel from the Spanish. Being the ones who could not swim, they had surrendered on the cay on which the wreck of the North Wind had marooned them, and been brought aboard the ship unarmed: as a distraction, so the rest of the buccaneers could swim around the Spanish ship and take its crew unawares. When the attack began, the Spanish captain had put a gun to Siegfried’s head and fired. The stains were gone now, washed away during the constant cleaning and wetting that a ship’s decks require.

  Bradley had been so distraught over the entire affair that he had chosen not to rove, and thus the Mayflower had sailed on her first voyage as a buccaneer vessel under Striker’s command. All this was in my mind as Bradley emerged from the captain’s cabin and came to greet us. It was still hard for me to reconcile the man I met, with Siegfried beside him, the day I arrived in Port Royal, with the man who had argued with me over God’s dislike of matelotage and sodomy a few weeks ago. But then, the first night I drank with him I had been disappointed to realize he was not a wolf who led, but one who followed.

  “We come to see Burroughs,” Striker told him. “We have his bag, but we left his weapons behind.”

  Bradley grimaced and sighed. “He’s in the cabin.”

  I thought that an odd place to keep a prisoner; but I was not surprised, as I thought it unlikely Burroughs was in irons. However, it made our work far more difficult.

  Bradley led us to the master cabin. As we stooped to enter, I decided it was indeed a different ship. Gone were the large hammocks Striker, Pete,
Gaston and I had used. They had been replaced by a large table behind which Morgan held court. There were hammocks; but they were the narrow type, anchored at two points, and they were folded up in the corner now. This was a good thing: with the three of us, and Bradley, Hastings, Morgan, and Burroughs, the little room was excessively crowded, especially with the table. Thankfully the room’s current occupants were sitting around said table. They moved even further about to make room for us, and we packed ourselves in until Ash was able to close the door and stand with his back to it. I felt we looked quite absurd, crammed against the walls about an inconvenient piece of wood that held two bottles and nothing else.

  “I need a ship with a bigger captain’s cabin,” Morgan said with amusement.

  We chuckled appreciatively.

  “You need a bigger ship, admiral,” Hastings said.

  I kept myself from glaring at him, and more importantly, from glancing to see if he looked upon me with his single eye or awarded me with his usual sardonic smirk. He, of course, was familiar with bigger ships, having come from the navy. I thought him not a buccaneer, though he had sailed with the Brethren for several years and was liked by some enough to win the vote for quartermaster. I still think he murdered Michaels.

  Instead, I looked to Burroughs, who seemed both deep in his rum and happy to see us. He would have stood to embrace us, I was sure, but the table prevented it.

  “What brings you here?” Morgan asked as he slid a bottle toward us.

  I did not wish to kneel before the table, and I did not wish to stand, so I pressed against the wall and brought one knee up to lean on the table. It was a bit more relaxing.

  “We came to see how Burroughs fares,” I said. “Ash here was his partner.”

  “I be fine, Will,” Burroughs said. “The admiral here says I got nothin’ ta worry me head about. Long as I stay hidden until the Frenchies leave.”

  “Is that so?” I asked; but my eyes were on Morgan, and his narrowed in response.

  He glanced about the table, and I took a moment to do likewise. Hastings looked amused, Bradley was ill-at-ease, and Striker was annoyed. Ash was glaring at the floor.

  “How should it be?” Morgan asked with sincere curiosity. “I don’t give a damn if one of my good men mistakenly takes a marrow bone, and apologizes for it, or misunderstands a signal to fire in a duel.”