Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (4 page)

He smiled with pursed lips and returned his eyes to the horizon.

“If you trust my judgment, I do not believe there is anything you need address prior to the conclusion of Gaston’s current madness.”

“I trust your judgment on such matters,” I said sincerely.

“Then we will let such things lie until you know you will have a matelot at your side again.”

I sighed. “I will actually be quite relieved to do that.”

“I thought as much.”

We watched the sun set in companionable silence, and then went to join the others. The next day, with both of us suffering the ill effects of too much rum, we finally managed to read through the French document.

Theodore determined what I had surmised: that it would now be best if Gaston were English.

“However,” he added to his earlier thoughts, “You realize another solution would be to have his father grant you the guardianship?”

“I feel that would be unlikely,” I sighed.

“As do I, but I thought it should be noted. I would be remiss in my duties otherwise.”

“We cannot have that,” I teased.

“I will draw up the papers. The granting of his petition should not pose a problem.”

“You will have Governor Modyford sign it while sipping brandy,” I said with a grin.

“As I have him sign many things.” Theodore grinned, and then quickly rubbed his temples, as if that much movement of his mouth had caused him pain. “Thank God we do not conduct business over rum.”

I laughed. Until last night, I had not in my wildest fantasies ever conceived of seeing Theodore so deep in his cups that he would argue with Pete about the proper way to dance a jig, and then dance one.

“There is one aspect of this matter you will need to address,” he added. “A name. I assume Gaston is not his given name. What shall this new citizen of England be called?”

“Nay, it is not his given name,” I sighed.

That was Gabriel. I did not think he wished to be known by that name. Nor did I feel he could or should use his father’s title. Yet, he had shown great pride in speaking of his lineage. The chest his father had sent had born the crest of the Sable family. It was his family name.

“Gaston Sable,” I said with more assurance than I felt.

I hoped Gaston would not take umbrage at my choice.

“And should this Mister Sable apply for a grant of land?” Theodore asked.

“Aye.”

A thing occurred to me, and I did not like the taste of it.

“You,” I said, “and perhaps you alone of all the barristers on Jamaica, will take my word as to legal matters for my matelot because you respect the buccaneer institution of matelotage, do you not? But after this business is completed, I will have no say in that land or any other legal aspect of his existence under English law, will I?”

Theodore nodded. “Precisely. In that, it would be more convenient, especially considering his madness, if his father were to grant you his guardianship as he did Doucette.”

I supposed he was correct in that; but I liked the idea of Gaston’s father considering him a thing that must be seen to less than I favored the knowledge that under English law, any bond we had was irrelevant.

“Once this is accomplished,” Theodore continued, “I suggest that you have the land deeds changed to provide for joint ownership, and I will insist that you draw up testaments as to the deposition of your assets upon death. You can’t bury everything in a morass.”

“Is this how other buccaneers address the matter?”

“Aye; truly, changing deeds and seeing that other assets are owned jointly will provide you with far more legal standing than marriage or even inheritance.”

Gazing upon the matter from that perspective, I wondered why it rankled that we could not be perceived as being married. I could not name the nuance of marriage I required. It was surely not sanctification by the Church.

“Ah, and there is one other matter I wished to broach with you,”

Theodore said. “Would you be inclined to purchase my house? I have had a new one constructed.”

“As we are no longer letting the Jew’s, I feel that would be prudent,”

I said.

“Wonderful. I hoped you would feel that way.”

He produced a bill of sale for the house from his satchel. I signed it and thought little of the price. I was becoming a man of property, and it did not have a damned thing to do with my father. I was pleased in that.

After another night of buccaneer debauch, we sent Theodore back to his wife.

Two nights beyond that, I was leaning on the newly finished west wall, considering the stars, while smoking a pipe preparatory to going to sleep, when Gaston returned to me. At first I thought him a fanciful vision contrived of smoke from the dying cook-fire. Then a gust of night breeze cleared the haze, and I saw him distinctly. I barely recognized him: he was filthy, wearing crudely-stitched leather hides, and bearded, with a shaggy mane of hair, dark in the dying firelight.

From his stance and expression, I could see he had adopted the demeanor of a child, as he sometimes did in his madness. It was in this state that he arranged corpses.

“I am very pleased to see you,” I said softly in French.

He seemed relieved at these words. Then he slowly extended his right hand, as if I were the one who might startle as he appeared ready to do. He held two eggs.

I had surmised a fortnight before that he was responsible for what I had initially believed to be the poor laying habits of my hens.

“Would you have me cook those for you?” I asked.

He nodded tightly.

“All right, then, bring them here; you can set them on that stone there if you do not wish to hand them to me. And, likewise, you can sit over there if you wish. But I dearly wish to hold you. I realize you…”

He was in my arms. The eggs were crushed against my back and I did not care. He was sobbing, and that did concern me, but not so much that I was tempted to release my tight embrace for some time.

An hour or so later, I at last had him quieted, fed, shaved, and cleaned up a little. He still would not speak, seemingly content just to stay in constant contact with me. We at last curled together in the hammock.

In the morning I found myself alone again, in body, but thankfully no longer in spirit, no matter how inauspicious his behavior had been.

He had returned to me, even at his maddest. Someday we would make right of it all.

“Well the drink did flow an’ the blood did spill, but iffn’ the boys wish ta fight ya best be lettin’ ’em,” Liam said, and took another long pull on the water skin.

I had been exerting myself with such dedication for the last hour that my vision now wavered and my heart pounded. Liam appeared an odd apparition: with his darkly tanned skin and pale hair he looked as if all the colors had been reversed, and he was dark where he should have been light. Then he cleared a bit in my sight, and I winced anew at the blue and black blotch across his face and eyes. It was due to his already much-maligned nose taking another blow in the altercation he spoke of. I was sure that when he healed it would have yet another crook. I wished Gaston had been about to see to mending it, if such a thing were in the realm of medicine and not the Gods.

I sat in the sand and considered Liam’s words, slowly forming my own above the pounding in my ears. “That is very true. I am glad I have been safely here and not amongst so damn many bored buccaneers this autumn.”

Liam snorted his amusement and handed me the water skin. “But ye missed all the fun, Will.”

The Bard walked up and glared at us. “What are ya’ sittin’ about for? We’re not done here.”

I looked about. The beached Virgin Queen eclipsed my view of the sinking sun to the west.

“Is not the entirety of the ship upon the shore?” I asked. “Is she not ready for careening on the morrow?”

“Aye,” he sighed, sounding as tired as I felt. “But with the storm rolling in, we need to tie her down.”

He stomped off toward the pilings. Hauling the brig ashore had been exhausting labor and taken most of the day. I wanted to be done with it all, but the Bard was correct: if we did not lash the ship down now, the approaching storm could well toss her back to sea like a boy playing with a stick, even if it was too late in the season to be a true hurricane.

I pushed my aching body upright and followed Liam and Otter to the nearest pylon, to begin hauling on the ropes the Bard and Cudro were setting. Soon I abandoned all other thought except what was required to keep my grip on the cable, and I pulled with the rhythm of the shanty Striker sang.

When at last our vessel was as safe as we could make it, I stumbled down the beach to soak my hands and feet in the waves and watch the sun sink below the horizon. The storm was approaching from the east, and other than the increasing winds, there was no indication of it in my view of pink light and green sea.

I looked away from the sunset. I did not think I would ever tire of finding pleasure in the colors or serenity of it; but it was a thing I witnessed every day, and I no longer felt the need to attempt to etch each one into my memory. Nay, I rather wished to view something else, namely my matelot. Though I had often seen him throughout the month of November, he had been gone again for a good ten days. And, even when I did see him, I did not see the man I loved so much as his shade.

Though he was not always childlike in demeanor, he still did not speak to me when he put in his sudden appearances. And then, the last time I saw him, I woke from a dream to find him standing over me, a ghostly apparition with a knife in the dim light before dawn. I had not slept well since. I did not think I would, until I could hold him in my arms again and we could converse.

Today, in the quiet aftermath of the labor and the calm before the storm, men sprawled all along the beach. Liam was in Otter’s lap. The water skin he had been drinking had been replaced by a bottle of rum.

Nearby, Pete and Striker were likewise entwined, both with a bottle and each other. Julio was conversing with them, with Davey embracing him from behind. Near them, the Bard stood talking with two of his seamen, a couple in number as well as comportment, with Dickey a shadow hovering at his side.

I frowned at that. Why had Dickey chosen to sail down here with the others? And why was he still dressed as a buccaneer in canvas breeches with a kerchief on his head and earrings, and not decked in the latest finery from London? I snorted at my foolishness. What did it matter?

He was at least with others, whilst I stood here alone looking upon pairs and clumps of human companionship.

Cudro joined me on the beach: it was often his wont, as we were the only two without a partner among the men wintering at Negril. Some days that galled me, as I did indeed have a matelot; and then there were times when I was grateful for his company, and even more grateful his loneliness had not driven him to make foolish overtures.

“Will you be seeing him tonight?” he asked in French, as he dropped to sit beside me in the sand.

“Perhaps.” I frowned.

He shrugged. “I was just wondering if he still possessed the good sense to come in out of the rain.”

“This will not be the first storm of the season, and he has weathered all but the one three weeks ago without me.”

During that storm, we had spent a pleasant night curled together in the hammock for warmth. As always, he had not spoken and had been gone with the morning light, but I had been damn pleased to have him there nonetheless.

I heard someone approaching Cudro and me, and turned to find Striker and Pete. As they were nearly naked, the bruises and scratches they received in the brawl Liam had spoken of were evident. But such things were merely scuffs on otherwise beautiful bronze sculptures; things easily rubbed away.

Pete collapsed gracefully onto the sand at my side, his blue eyes flashing with amusement even in the dim twilight. He threw an arm around me, and pulled me close to kiss my temple. I could smell the rum on his breath, and I smiled, even though the sudden contact with another stirred my loins and pummeled my heart as it always did.

Nearly bald, with more pale stubble on his jaw than his scalp, and with a swollen black eye, Pete was still the handsomest man I had ever seen.

“We Missed Ya,” Pete rumbled.

I returned his playful kiss and grinned. “So I have heard. I feel I missed little but abuse.”

Striker chuckled richly from the sand on the other side of his matelot. “True. And a tale to tell your children.”

It was a thing oft said, but I seized on it with glee. “Would you truly speak to them of such?”

“If they be boys and of an age,” he said thoughtfully, and scratched the coal stubble on his strong jaw.

Belatedly I recalled that Striker had once had a child and would not take issue with producing another. I felt the fool as Pete stiffened ever so little beside me. I wondered what Gaston and I would do, were one of us to wish for a child. Not that it would ever matter if Gaston did not recover from his madness. A pall descended on my heart, and I shrugged Pete’s arm away restlessly.

Pete did not seek to return it; Cudro shifted uncomfortably on my other side.

Striker frowned in the awkward silence. “What is it, Will?”

I could think of no way to explain that did not entail things I did not wish to discuss with them at the moment. I cast back along the conversation, seeking some purchase to pull myself clear of the sudden mire, and found only slippery slopes. I gave up, deciding the other side might offer more promise.

“We should decide where we are all to weather the storm,” I said.

Striker cocked his head at the sudden turn of topic, and then looked to what could be seen of the eastern horizon along the hills.

“I share the Bard’s thoughts on it,” he said. “It is too late in the season to be a hurricane. It’s just a storm.”

My thoughts were now as dark and roiling as the unseen clouds toward which we peered. I wished to be away. “Be that as it may – and I do hope you are all correct – but I feel I should return to my abode.”