Matelots

by W. A. Hoffman

  “I will see if I can take it,” I said.

  He looked away.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I wish to bind you as well, and…”

  “Make me take it?” I asked.

  He nodded sadly and turned away. “Non, let us not.”

  “Non,” I said quickly and caught his arm. “Let us try it. This time without my being bound. If it is a thing I will take, then next time we can try that as well.”

  He shook his head and would not look at me. “You always make it sound so reasonable.”

  I sighed. “You do not wish to hurt me for the sake of… hurting me, or rather, to punish me, oui?”

  He nodded. “I wish for you to… prove your love to me.” He faced me, his eyes searching mine. “I know that is…”

  “Non, we have discussed that,” I said quickly. “I am still troubled over the matter, but… like your need to conquer the whip, it is a thing that grips me that I feel I must examine.”

  I brought his hand to my throbbing member. “Look at me,” I sighed. “As confused as I am regarding the matter, my Horse is very solid upon this path.”

  He smiled and fondled me so that I gasped.

  “Kiss me again, and fuck me after,” I said.

  He nodded, and his mouth closed intently over mine. When he let me breathe again, his eyes were emeralds in the afternoon sun and his lips curved wickedly.

  I thrust all doubt aside and went to kneel and grip the roots. The first blow was as hard across my buttocks as my old governess had always given me. She had ever been quite bothered to be forced to take a strap to me: I always thought she disliked the amount of exertion it called for; thus, she had always been quite thorough and forceful in her beatings.

  I closed my eyes and did not wonder at Gaston’s motive for striking so hard. I concentrated on how it felt: the sting of the blow and the deep burning, like fire within my muscles. I was gasping by the third blow, afraid that if I tried to bite my lip to hold it in I would bloody myself. He moved the placement of the blows down the back of my legs and back up again. On the fifth blow I cried out. He hit harder on the sixth and I was louder. But I knew, as I had before, that I would not ask him to stop. And then I felt as if I were running again. I was a great beast beneath him, with a pounding heart and heaving lungs, and I ran for him. I felt there was surely some precipice ahead in the brambles of this path, but I had faith he would stop us in time. And then, somewhere along the way, the pain receded and there was just the running. My cries changed as I became aware of my manhood again. It had shrunk from the pain, but now it returned in even greater need and glory. And then the strap was gone, and his belly was pounding on my savaged backside while he pumped furiously within me. Then I came, with nothing to caress my cock but air.

  We collapsed on the roots and panted with mutual exhaustion.

  “You may do that again if you wish,” I at last gasped.

  “I wish to,” he whispered.

  “And you may bind me, and even gag me if there is need to keep me quiet,” I added.

  He held me so tightly my ribs creaked. Later, when we lay curled together in a nest in the sand and watched the stars, some sense returned to me and I realized how very sore my arse was, I asked, “Am I badly marked?”

  “You are bruised, but I did not break the skin.”

  “Will it be obvious if I drop my breeches in front of someone?” I asked.

  “Oui,” he sighed.

  Then he nibbled my ear and chuckled. “If it is in front of me, I will take you again.”

  “Well, I suppose that is all right, then.”

  Still, I wondered how we would hide this new aspect of our relationship from others.

  He did not wish to do it again in the week we spent on the beach. He was true to his word about finding great satisfaction in seeing the bruises that ran from my hips to my knees, though. We coupled often and heartily, but with pleasure and no pain.

  All too soon, we felt we must return to the others; and we packed our things and walked back across the island, to the northern end of the long western beach where everyone was camped. Then it was much as it had been on Cow Island: the days were spent lounging about for those of us with little to do, and the nights were spent drinking the alcohol the Lilly had brought from Port Royal.

  At the end of May, this peaceful time came to a close, and we all boarded our respective vessels and sailed west to the coast of Honduras to seek canoes.

  As with all such undertakings, this one sounded much easier over a bottle of rum than it proved to be. It took us nearly a month to gather twenty-three seaworthy canoes to accomplish our goal. Many of the captains called for seeking the Galleons, which were surely sailing by as we skulked about. But Morgan held firm to our goal, and when we finally had enough craft in tow, we sailed to Boca del Toro, fifty leagues or so west of Porto Bello, and moved to the canoes.

  I was even more loathe to leave the relative comfort and safety of the ship this time than I had been at Puerto del Principe. The thirty-foot vessel Gaston and I were assigned was a bit large to truly be called a canoe. It had a sail, and was larger than the flyboat we had stolen in Cuba; yet still it seemed small and very close to the water, which of course made it ideal for our purposes. However, with over forty of us aboard her, I expected a miserable trip.

  An amused Bard joined me at the rail and looked down at the canoe with humor. “Well,” he drawled. “If it sinks, you’ll be right on the shore. You can swim. And we’ll be along in a couple days to pick you up.”

  “Do not mistake my meaning,” I said. “I do find comfort in what you say, but as to that grin on your face, to the Devil with you.”

  “Aye,” Dickey said and smacked him lightly upon the arm. Then he embraced me sincerely and whispered, “Be careful.”

  “All right, then,” I said with a chuckle as he gave Gaston the same admonishment. “Let us sail home then.”

  “What makes you think that will be safe?” the Bard chided. “From what I hear, there are wives and babes there.”

  Gaston snorted. “He is correct. We will take our chances with the Spanish.”

  Upon viewing it in that manner, I agreed. Then I reminded myself I was the kind of fool oft favored by the Gods; and so far, I had surely led a charmed existence.

  Fifty

  Wherein We Suffer Loss In The Face of Victory

  The first day was misery such as I had not experienced before. After a night spent taking turns at the oars or sitting in one another’s laps, we finally pulled to shore in the grey light before dawn. We hauled the canoes up after us, and disguised them as best we could, lest they be seen by a passing ship. We did not wish to announce our presence with smoke from fires, so we ate boucan and dried fruit. Gaston had seen that we were well slathered in fat before we even entered the canoe. After a night of salt spray and sweat, I felt the filthiest I ever had. I wanted nothing more than to scrape the congealed mass from my skin. And as the morning sun began to heat the fetid forest, I felt like a basted chicken set to roast. However, I must admit I was not bitten by insects, though I had begun to attract flies. They surely thought I was dead. I could not even begin to envision how horrible I would look or smell by the time we reached our goal. All we need do would be to stagger from the forest; I was sure the Spanish would throw down their arms just to run from us.

  After four days of this, we arrived at midnight at the place we had chosen to abandon the canoes. We checked and reloaded our weapons there, as we were still a good three leagues from the town. I felt no more ready for this battle than I had the last. I was not afraid, however; rather I was tired and irritable and still coated in grease. I was still thankful of this, even more so than I had been on the first day, as the damned incessant mosquitoes swarmed all about us, so thick that a man had to be careful how he breathed lest they go up his nose.

  Gaston did not seem as if we were heading into battle at all. He was serious as he loaded his pistols, but he did not seem to be
calling forth his battle lust. I did not dream this calm would last much past the first spill of blood; but for now, I thought he was merely as tired of it all as I was.

  We started out. Thankfully there would be no marching, beating of drums, or lining up to fire in volleys for this assault. We would slip in as quietly as we were able. As Cork was leading us, and we had befriended him, our usual cabal made up the vanguard. Once again, I found myself following Gaston and paying far more attention to not making noise than I did to my surroundings.

  After several hours, we found the first sentry where Cork said he would be. Morgan instructed he be taken alive. I crouched next to Gaston and hoped the drowsy Spaniard did not have a nose keen to the smell of rancid fat, while Pete and Striker slipped into the shadows and closed on him. They dragged the sentry back to us with a hand over his mouth and a knife at his throat. Morgan then had me question him in detail. The man was too surprised at our appearance to dissemble much, and what he said echoed Cork’s description. We were able to learn things Cork had not been privy to, though, such as the assignment of the sentries during the night and so forth.

  With this new information, we planned our assault on the first fort. It sat on the edge of the town and guarded the mule road to Panama. It was not the largest of the three, or the most heavily garrisoned. That honor went to the main fort, which overlooked both the harbor and the town from across a shallow river. The third fort sat on the other side of the harbor and was sparsely garrisoned. It did not pose an immediate threat to us.

  The first fort held the prisoners, or at least it had when Cork was here a few months ago. I asked the captured sentry of them, and he assured me they were still there. I relayed this to Cork, though his fears would not truly be allayed until he beheld his living matelot.

  We bound the hapless sentry, and had him lead us the rest of the way, Our swift approach to the first fort was not challenged, and we had surrounded what we could of it before a sleepy voice even asked if someone were below.

  The fort was a low, thick-walled square, not even two stories high on the town side. It would be easily scaled with grappling hooks. There were only a few gun slits in protruding turrets from which they could fire from cover. All other defense against us would have to take place from the top of the wall, where they were easy targets for our men despite the crenellations.

  Under the protection of the closest fifty buccaneer muskets, I urged our captured sentry forward into the feeble lantern light near the gate. Once he was in view I called out from the shadows with a pleasant tone. “Greetings, we have the fort surrounded, and we wish for you to surrender. If you do not, we will kill you.”

  There was a great deal of cursing in Castilian, and they waved torches around until they confirmed that what I said was correct. Our true number stayed secreted in the shadows beyond their light. Then the Spanish curses were hurled along with sporadic shot. Both words and lead were returned with accuracy and followed by grapples. A number of our men took a log to the door. We were soon inside, with less commotion than one might imagine. Though an alarm had been raised for the town, it seemed to spur little activity there.

  Striker, Pete, Gaston, and I followed Cork below, to the cell where they kept the prisoners. Pete cracked a Spanish skull whilst asking for the keys. Despite Cork’s description of the misery in which they were kept, I was appalled when a torch was shone on it. The room could not have been much more than twelve feet by twelve feet, and there were seventeen men chained to its floor so they could not stand. There had once been fifty. The place reeked of unwashed bodies, piss, shit, vomit, and the hideous smell of gangrene. I was nearly overcome at the first whiff, and had to skim air through my mouth to keep from gagging.

  Cork waded in with little heed of the stench and found his man: presumably still alive, as the dead cannot return so fierce an embrace. Pete and Striker freed the prisoners’ bonds, and Gaston and I helped them into the hall. Those who could walk were escorted up into the fresh night air by Liam and Otter. Those who could not walk were carried up by Cudro, Davey, and Julio.

  The freed men touched us with wonder, and I had to gently pry several hands off Gaston and myself. They clung to us as if we were phantoms who would disappear, and I assured them as best I could that we were real. Gaston looked over each man we sent into the hall, and gave instructions to whoever would take them out as to whether they should be taken directly to a surgeon or not. They were all sickly in appearance, with thin limbs and backs burned nearly black by the sun. I guessed Cork had been fattened up considerably once he had the good luck to encounter the Fortune. His matelot, Wolf, had once been a big brawny man, but now was nearly a skeleton and little more. Thankfully, he was able to stand and walk on his own, only holding to Cork for comfort.

  Despite some men being too sickly to walk, we had the room clear in a matter of minutes. Then we too escaped back into the fresh air with relief.

  We found the fort in an uproar. The sight of these poor wretches had inflamed the men. They had been ready for battle before, and quite flushed with the heat of this first easy victory. Now revenge was added to their furor, and they were barely under anyone’s control. Many wanted to subject the captured Spanish to the treatment that had been visited upon the English. That would take too long, though, and we would not be taking them back to Jamaica to work our plantations. So it was decided that we should kill them, as we had said we would if they did not surrender.

  Thus they were herded into a room in one of the walls, which was barely larger than the subterranean cell below. With a good seventy of them in the chamber, they could do little but stand. Then all of the fort’s powder was packed into the cell beneath them and a fuse line was run. The freed men had already been helped from the fort, and most of our men were descending on the town, their war cries mingling with the screams of distraught citizens. Those few of us remaining lit the fuse and ran.

  If any had been left in Porto Bello who did not know of our attack, their ignorance did not survive that explosion. The dark hour of the morning was rent asunder, and the orderly lives of the townspeople gave way to chaos at its most feral. The people of Puerto del Principe had at least a day to prepare for us; these people were caught completely by surprise. I saw many a man or woman running about in night clothes with a money box or jewelry in hand. Thus we could see there would be booty for all, though the Gods were up to Their usual tricks: the mother lode of the city treasure house was empty now that we were well past the fair.

  With so many people, both English and Spanish, running about in so disorganized a fashion, I was not surprised that many of the citizens escaped to the main fortress. We rounded up all we could and herded them into the church and convent, keeping women and children apart from the men this time. As I was somewhat alarmed to note that there were more of them than there were of us, and still more in the main fortress, I thought Morgan wise to order the women and children be kept separate as hostages against the men.

  Now that the battle was upon us and he no longer needed to wear his mask as physician, Gaston had retreated from sanity and allowed his Horse to run free. I found myself following him about, until at last the sun was fully risen and we ran out of Spaniards to chase.

  While checking a house for occupants, I found bread, cheese, and wine. As the place was empty, I was able to get Gaston to sit and eat in peace. He was still very much under the sway of his Horse, but I saw little to fear there; and not because I was a fool. All was relatively quiet, except for the desultory fire our musketeers were exchanging with the main fort. I wanted to sleep, but that gunfire told me what we would be about next.

  With our bellies full, we made our way to the center of town and the manse Morgan had claimed as his headquarters. Our few wounded and the sickliest of the freed men were in the house next to it.

  As we approached, there was a flurry of shots from the block of buildings nearest the main fort. This was followed by the much larger boom of cannon. I surmised the muskets ours but th
e cannon theirs. Sure enough, I heard the nearby impact of the ball on brick and timber. The bastards were firing into their own city to get us. I thought it likely the Spanish paid dearly for every shot, though, as they surely lost a good number of men each time their gun crews showed themselves to run their pieces out.

  We did not immediately spy Striker, and so I asked of him. One of the captains informed me he was assessing the fort with Morgan. We went in search of them. The buccaneers were concentrated between the square and the buildings facing the fort. We found Morgan, Bradley and Striker squatting behind a thick wall, where they could pop their heads up to see across the shallow river and the clear apron of the fort.

  This fortress was not the small affair the first one had been. She was a great structure, easily two stories tall, with taller inner buildings more like a castle than the usual Spanish fort. The river and harbor bounded her like a moat. The thick outer walls were wide on top, and that was where their muskets and cannon were situated, with a waist-high crenelated lip attempting to hide both men and guns from our direct view.

  There was another flurry of fire from our side, and I saw two Spaniards fall while trying to load one of their cannon. Thankfully, the fort only had four guns she could bring to bear, as that was all she had spaces for in the wall facing the city. She had not been designed to defend herself from her own town. Those four cannon appeared to be twelve-pounders, though, and they readily bridged the distance to the buildings in which we huddled. All our men could do was make it exceedingly difficult for the Spanish to fire one.

  We joined Striker and Morgan.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Well, we shall endeavor to take that fort there,” Morgan said drolly.

  “Ah, aye, I see,” I replied in kind. “And after that amusement?”

  The Spanish managed to fire another cannon. This ball struck very close, and we found ourselves covered in dust from the shattered stone of the wall to our right.