“Nay, if it were that simple we’d be kings,” he said and shrugged. “The Fortune was collecting dyewood this spring, and they found a man along the Mosquito Coast running from the Spaniards in a small canoe. His name is Cork, and he was one of the men Mansfield left on Providence Island. He says the colonists were sent off to the Inquisition on Cuba, but the Spanish kept the Brethren they captured as slaves at Porto Bello. Cork and a few men found a chance to escape, and they took it; but his matelot is still there, and he’s vowed to return for him and the few others left alive. Morgan is quite taken with his tale, as are all who’ve heard it.”
“Are you?” I asked.
Striker nodded solemnly. “And Morgan has an excellent plan.”
“For Porto Bello?” I scoffed. It sounded like Morgan’s foolishness about taking Havana.
“Did not Drake die in the attempt?” I added.
Gaston snorted. “As I have heard it, Drake grew ill and died while sailing about beyond the range of Porto Bello’s cannon trying to decide how to attempt it. And they have had a hundred years since to improve their fortifications. It is a city of death filled with disease. The Spaniards do not even stay in it, except when they bring the treasure across from Panama for the fleet.”
I pictured what I could remember of a map and tried to place it all. Porto Bello was nearly due north of Panama, with only a thirty-league strip of land between them. Thus Porto Bello served as Panama’s port on the Northern Sea. No one sailed east around the bottom of Terra Firma: thus the Spanish would rather take the treasures from the west coast overland by mule than sail all the way round the world to bring it home. Once in Porto Bello, the treasure was picked up by the fleet known as the Galleons at a fair.
“The Porto Bello Fair should be about now, should it not?” I asked. “Or is it in June?”
“June,” Striker said. “We don’t intend to arrive during it, and we have preparations to make.”
“So we will take it right after?” I asked.
“Aye, when much of the money is still there,” he said. “We can’t take on that fleet and the forts, nor the extra people in the damned place during the fair, even if the silver is piled in the streets as they say. We can take it after the fleet departs, though.”
“With maybe five hundred men and seven small ships?” I asked.
The Fortune was nearly the size of the Virgin Queen, and had brought a number of men; but it was not enough to offset the loss of the French.
“Why the Devil not just stalk the Galleons?” I added.
He shrugged eloquently. “One could say that’s not our charter.”
I sighed with disappointment and frustration. “Well, politics has never been logical from the perspective of any save the ones who will most benefit from it.”
Striker shrugged again. “I think the plan will succeed. We’ll not sail into her harbor. Cork knows the place well. He’ll lead us in by land.”
It was my turn to shrug. “Ah, as Morgan wished to do for Havana. But will this Cork lead us in for his own ends as Hadsell did at Puerto del Principe?”
He sighed. “All know of this place and its wealth, so we’re assured of something. And drunk or sober, Cork says the same of what he’s seen. True, he wants his revenge, but he also wants to rescue his matelot.”
“I would talk a fleet of fools into such a thing if it were to rescue mine,” I said. “I well understand that, and will blame him not, even if this comes to as little as the other. I merely do not wish for us to die in the attempt if it is truly ill-considered.”
“I don’t think that’ll happen,” Striker grinned. “Come, let’s find our fellows and a bottle, and I’ll tell you of it. I have celebrating to do.”
We found out cabal and gathered about another fire with a bottle of rum. Striker announced his impending progeny and all cheered him, with little evidence of the misgivings they had shown his marriage. I was not surprised. A woman was a thing that challenged our way of life, but a man sowing his seed was ever applauded.
Once the congratulations had died down, Striker settled in to explain Morgan’s and Cork’s plan. It was indeed simple and sounded reasonable, until one recalled our number.
We would sail to a point a hundred and fifty miles or so west of Porto Bello; there we would leave skeleton crews upon the ships, and the rest of us would disembark and pack ourselves onto canoes. So as not to be seen, we would paddle the low canoes down the coast at night, and hide them and us in the forest by day. Once we were very close, we would abandon the canoes and slip into Porto Bello by means of a path in the forest. At a specified number of days, our ships would sail down to meet us, and only enter the harbor if they were sure we indeed had the place.
Cork had assured Morgan that the port would hold fewer than a thousand when we arrived, including women and children, and possibly fewer yet. The fortresses, of which there were three, were somewhat sparsely garrisoned, by conscripts who were often sickly. The Spanish did not expect these men to defend the town as an army. They did not think it would ever be necessary. They relied heavily on their cannon to keep any from the harbor, and only placed a few bored sentries on the landward side.
“Where will we get the canoes?” Cudro asked. The question had been on my mind as well.
“Along the coast,” Otter said. “We can take them from the Indians.”
The talk continued, and I looked to Gaston. He was frowning at the stars. I nudged him, and he shook his head.
“Will, the place is truly renowned for illness. You worry over things like a stray shot taking one of us in battle. I worry about us contracting some incurable ailment that will stay with us all of our days or kill us in the first wave of fever.”
“Well, we will surely not drink the water,” I said lightly, though his words concerned me greatly.
“Or eat the food, or spend time about the Spaniards,” he added seriously. “And it sits on a morass, so the air is purported to be thick with insects. They do not call the land to the north of there the mosquito coast without reason.”
“We could stay with the ships if you are so concerned,” I said. “I will do…”
He shook his head and reminded me, “Drake died without entering the harbor.”
“Then let us hope the Gods favor us more than They did Drake in this endeavor,” I sighed.
He snorted. “That is not likely. The Gods loved Drake.”
A figure approached the far side of the fire; and Striker rose to greet the man, and usher him into the circle and introduce him. It was Cork. If I had not been told he was an Englishman, I would have thought him an Indian in the firelight. His skin was dark, and as he neared to shake my hand I saw he was leathery, as if he had spent the last two years in the sun. And he was so thin as to be only skin and bones in places. His pale blue eyes were as strong and warm as his grip, though.
Cork settled in to sit between Pete and myself.
“This be your matelot?” Cork asked Striker.
“Aye,” Striker said proudly. “This is Pete. And he’s brought me wonderful news from our wife. We’ll have a babe in the fall.”
“Damn,” Cork said. “Let’s drink to that.”
And we did, replete with another round of toasting.
When it settled somewhat, Cork turned my way and said, “So, you’re the lord Morgan speaks of.”
“Oh bloody Hell,” I sighed.
Our friends chuckled.
I looked to Cork with amusement. “And what does he say, might I ask?”
Cork’s gaze flicked to Gaston, between whose legs I sat. “That you’ve taken well to the buccaneer life.”
“Ah, and that my matelot is mad,” I said with a grin.
Gaston snorted.
The man shrugged diffidently. “Aye, that too.”
“I wonder if I should feel honored to have crossed his mind,” I said.
I looked around the man to catch Striker’s eye.
“More than you know,” Striker sighed.
“Why? What is it about me?” I looked about the fire and found all eyes upon me.
“He finds you a puzzle,” Striker said.
“I am never what men such as he expect, I suppose,” I sighed. “Since my birth I have been called strange by all whose paths I cross. Yet I do not understand the how and the why of it.”
I regarded Cork. “You, who do not know me and have only heard of me, do you find me odd?”
“Aye,” he said sincerely after considerable deliberation.
“Can you name this oddness?” I asked.
A knowing smile slowly creased his face. “You’re a fool.”
Laughter erupted, not the least of which issued from me, as I thought him jesting. Gaston did not, and his arms were tight around me.
“I often am,” I chortled. “Or at least I play one to great success. And my actions are oft misunderstood and are surely ascribed to foolishness.”
Cork shook his head. “I don’t mean you’re stupid. I mean you’re too stupid to know better. The world doesn’t scare you as it should.”
This quieted us, and his words were echoed about the fire for those who had not heard them.
His eyes were both shadowed and reflecting the flames. I could not see his purpose. There was no sneer about his lips, though.
“I fear,” I said quietly.
He smiled sincerely. “You only feel fear of things that others would flee in terror from.”
Once again his gaze slipped past me to Gaston for the briefest moment. I knew Gaston saw it as well, because his arms tightened about me anew.
“And how is it you surmise all of this?” I asked with genuine curiosity.
“Striker can attest to it; they speak of you a great deal,” he said. “Always talking about how you should know better and you have this or that damn fool notion. It minded me of my brother. He’s a fool, too.”
“And what became of him?” I asked.
Cork grinned. “He married the Lord’s daughter and lives in a fine house. All because he didn’t know he couldn’t.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly, and we smiled at one another.
Gaston relaxed, once he too realized I had been complimented and not insulted.
I leaned forward and mock-glared at Striker. “And what have you said during all these defamations of my character?”
Cork chuckled. “He defends you, and they call him a fool for doing it.”
Striker awarded me a mock-wounded look, and I crawled over to embrace him and apologize. Pete decided he would not be left out and dove atop us. Gaston was soon digging me out, and there was much laughter all about the fire.
When it subsided, and we had returned to our places, I glanced at Cork and found him watching us sadly. I stupidly wondered at it for a moment, until I realized he was alone.
“We will rescue him,” I told him.
Cork smiled sadly. “If he still lives.” He shook his head. “Pay me no heed. Enjoy your man while you have him and hope for the best.”
“I do. Sometimes I think I am truly a fool for risking it all for… anything. But we do not sail to gain a thing, but to leave other things behind.”
He nodded. “When Wolf and I were captured, we spent a month arguing and blaming one another over how it wouldn’t have befallen us if we had done this or that. Then the men started dying around us, and we realized we were fools. In a place like that, we learned to just be happy when we woke to find that we had both lived through the night.”
“By God,” I said, “it must be torture to be here and know he still faces that alone.”
He shook his head. “I know he’s happy I ran. They kept most of the matelots apart, chained us with other men just to be cruel. So I wasn’t with him when the time came. I had no chance to say farewell. I can only hope he knows I escaped. I’m sure the Spaniards told them we’re all dead. Either way, we had talked on it when we could. All of us there decided that if any escaped they should bring help rather than try and get the rest out on their own. I’ve been like a man possessed since. And still…” He looked about us. “I worry about bringing all of you into it.”
“You must not feel any guilt over it,” I chided gently. “You know damn well that though we sympathize, and we are all too happy to rescue your matelot and the others, most here are going for gold.”
Cork chuckled. “As Wolf and I would if we were with you. Nay, I well understand that.”
“Good. I would not have you laboring under any illusions.”
I looked to Gaston, who had settled in beside me. He nodded.
“However,” I added, “I will say this: if the needs of the many should run contrary to yours, we will stand by your need to the best of our abilities.”
He looked from one to the other of us and nodded solemnly. “Thank you.”
“Now, Striker has given us a fine account of your description of the place, but I would hear it yet again from you, if you do not mind.”
Cork nodded and began to sketch in the sand.
Later, Gaston and I found a quiet place on the beach. My thoughts had taken darker and darker turns as I had considered the underbelly of Cork’s words and tale. I imagined Gaston and me being chained apart with fifty others in the tiny cell he had described. I felt the twisting in my gut and wretched pain in my heart that would occur if I were forced to watch Gaston flogged because he was too weak to stand. It filled me with fear, and I thought Cork the fool for seeing me as he did.
I lay looking up at the stars as Gaston arranged weapons. “Does your contention that I am a fool match with his in meaning and intent?” I asked.
He pounced upon me and gazed into my eyes. “Oui, you do not know better. Thus you are a fool for loving me. But you are my fool.”
“But I am afraid. Of all manner of things,” I sighed.
He kissed the bridge of my nose and then each eye in turn so that I closed them. It was no matter, as it was too dark to see. I listened. He was a long time in replying.
“Do you still fear me?” he whispered.
“Non. To be sure, I am afraid of your demeanor after this battle. But I am in far greater fear of our being captured. I am afraid of losing you. Of seeing you harmed. But it is true that I do not truly fear for myself. You are the focus of all my fear, as you are the focus of my life.”
“You are my fool indeed,” he murmured and kissed me.
As he stirred me beyond my dark visions, I wondered again where the line lay between madness and sanity, and where foolishness fell upon that continuum.
In the morning, Morgan called for us all to gather on the beach. Those of us ashore came to stand in a great semicircle about the dune from which Morgan had chosen to speak. I guessed our number at less than five hundred. He spoke of what our cabal already knew: his plan to take Porto Bello. There was much grumbling, primarily about our being so few against such a target.
Ever the statesman, Morgan walked down amongst us and said, “Though our number be few, our hearts are large, and the greater the amount of booty each will receive.”
Porto Bello as a target was shortly passed by a hearty majority. Buccaneers are easily swayed, even when they have bellies full of beef.
That afternoon, the Fortune was hauled ashore to careen. When she was cleaned and tarred, the Lilly would be brought up. Then we would leave. In the meantime, the Brethren who knew the way of it had been busy making boucan of the salted beef so it would keep longer.
Despite all this industry, Gaston and I were needed for little, so we told Striker we would withdraw for a time, and we walked a league or more across the small island to find a little cove on the southern shore. Once there, we swam and frolicked in the surf like colts, as was our wont.
As the sun began to set, Gaston practiced with his whip, while I watched and dug holes in the sand and made little castles. He had not shown anyone else the whip. Pete alone knew he could touch one, and I doubted in all the excitement of his return that Pete had told Striker. Now I wondered if Gaston
sought to hide it, or whether it was a thing that should be known.
“Will you tell others you have overcome your fear of those?” I asked between cracks.
He shook his head and paused in flogging a palm tree. “I have not overcome my fear.” Then he looked to me with a nasty grin. “And if any think to use one against me to my disadvantage, they will be surprised.”
“Then I will not mention it.”
“Why would you?” he asked, and looked away.
I frowned at that. “If I were called on to give proof that you were doing well.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Do not.”
“Pete knows. Should we tell him not to speak of it?”
“Oui,” he said somberly. “I wish for whips to be a private thing.”
Then his gaze was upon me again, and it was speculative.
“We are quite alone here,” he said huskily.
I nodded and smiled. I did not understand why that should have import, though my manhood understood his intent well enough to stir.
He coiled the whip and stuck it in its sack. Then he approached to kneel on the other side of the little castle I had shaped in the sand. His gaze was intent upon mine, and there was a great deal of the Horse about it.
“What?” I breathed.
“May I hurt you?” he murmured.
“Oh,” I said stupidly. My chest still had the remains of yellowed bruises that I dared not show. Yet, my breath caught, my heart raced, and cock swelled at the thought of it, whilst my knees felt weak and my stomach sick.
“Oui,” I breathed.
He appeared quite pleased with this response, and I followed him into the trees. He found a likely tree with large ropy roots I could grip, and told me to strip and lean across it. I slowly shed my clothes as he patiently removed the scabbards and other attachments from his belt. When it was a single strip of leather, he folded it in half. I tried to remember how it would hurt, but all I could truly feel was how very hard my manhood was.
“Kiss me first,” I said.
He nodded, and the Horse receded a little, so that when his lips reached mine his eyes were warm.
“Thank you,” he murmured, “for allowing me to try this.”
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