Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (93 page)

I wiped my eyes. “I hate them all for threatening us with such… Here we are amongst such lawless men, and yet they have laws, and… Damn it! I have never crossed another lawless man. I would not. We kill one another. You do not do such a thing unless you plan to kill them first.

That is a thing I understand. Men accusing other killers of things that have punishments less than death, as if we were some damn township is… wrong, in my thinking.”

He smiled. “There must be some rule among thieves.”

“I do not like living within the rules of civilized men, because they have never protected me – or anyone, but the wolves from justice. They are never civilized. It is another word for ordered thievery. These thieves are no different from any other. If a man does not pay his taxes in Christendom, he is publicly tortured in punishment. Here, as there, the pain stops when the silver crosses the palm.

“I am an outlaw in heart as well as fact. The only reason I do not kill all who cross me is because there are more of them who might take reprisal against me, or you, or… I felt helpless today, and I wanted justice for those poor people, and it was not going to come because they were worthless to the men judging us. And instead, we are threatened!

“I so want to kill them!” I hissed. “It is madness! It is all madness!

I come again and again to the knowledge that we are sane, and all the world is mad.”

He was smiling at me with great love. I took a long breath and tried to calm my racing thoughts.

He chuckled and rolled on his back to regard the ceiling with a happy smile. “I have the most precious treasure in the world, the thing all men wish for but do not understand, the secret to all that is holy and good; and I am hoarding it from my Brethren. I will share it with no one except those I love most.”

“The light of truth and sanity beyond the cave?” I asked; pleased to see him so happy despite all that had occurred. It was truly a balm to my anger and frustration.

“Non.” He turned back to me, his eyes full of love and challenge.

“You.”

A refutation rose to my lips; but his challenge was to hold it back: to suppress it; nay, to deny it in its entirety. And the jests. And the reasoning. The challenge was to stand there unflinching and raise no defense in the face of the staggering power of his adoration: to submit fully and completely to my fate, and allow it to wash over me and pull me under and have the faith that I would yet be able to breathe. It was very hard to do, and yet I did it for him.

His smile widened, and his lips covered mine, and I could not breathe between his mouth and the swelling of love in my chest; but my soul drank him in, in great lungfuls of delight.

The rest of the day passed in a fog of pleasure and contentment. I could not save the world, but I could please him in the attempt; and for these hours, I could please him more with my body and abiding love.

That night, we woke to the sound of Pete cursing, and peered down from our hammock to find Striker helping his matelot into the cabin and onto their mattress. Gaston climbed down and spoke to the Golden One at length, assessing whether or not he was damaged beyond the obvious. It quickly became apparent that the only thing broken beneath Pete’s great thick skull was his sense of humor. He knew who and where he was, and remembered with great clarity how he had been attacked.

He had heard something upstairs and gone to see if it were Striker, who he had thought was napping. Upon rounding the corner in the upper hallway, he had been struck from behind by someone who must have been hiding in one of the other rooms. He cursed his stupidity vehemently, and then cursed us roundly for abandoning them. And so I climbed down and told him of our morning. This did little to mollify him. Apparently we were all fools who had nearly thrown ourselves at our enemy’s feet. Gaston at last dosed him with a small amount of laudanum, and we – including Striker – retreated from his wrath in hopes he would rest.

“He was happy for a moment to find me alive,” Striker muttered once we were on deck.

“He is in great pain from that wound,” Gaston assured him.

“And scared I might have died. I know,” Striker sighed and smiled.

“But he’ll heal?”

Gaston nodded.

Striker appeared much relieved. “I thought it a good sign when he started cursing. He seemed to know exactly who he wanted to curse.”

Chuckling, we went and joined the few men aboard: near the cook fire, where they all lounged about in the smoke to thwart the damn insects. They had a bottle, and we passed it and talked until Cudro and Ash arrived from shore. They told us Morgan had gathered all the men in town and announced he would not tolerate any of our company seeking a bounty on another. He would hang any man who even planned such a thing. We thought this good, if the attempts we had seen had been all the pawns – but bad, if the best had not attempted to strike, as now they would wait until we returned to Port Royal.

I, of course, thought Hastings was already in play; the others, save my matelot, were not so sure. Though I knew it was foolhardy to wish for the man to make an attempt on our lives, I wished for him to do so: to vindicate my hatred of him, and more importantly, to give me an opportunity to kill him.

A week passed. We fished, sparred, drank, cared for Farley, treated one of our men who was stabbed while on a sortie, and trysted a great deal. Pete recovered his good spirits and apologized for cursing us as he had. We fashioned crutches for Farley so he might hobble about. It was peaceful, and seemingly far removed from the activities in the town.

Our only complaint was that the water smelled and appeared too foul for swimming. And the damn insects were certainly worse upon the water than they were on shore. On the second morning, I fetched all the netting from the house, and we tacked it to the inside of the cabin windows and draped it before the door.

My only other complaint was Alonso. As there were only a dozen of us aboard, it was difficult to ignore him when we sat about and talked.

He seemed more cheerful, and was pleasant to Gaston and me; but I saw shadows in his eyes, and wondered what he was about.

Our idyllic days were short-lived, though. Just over a fortnight after our arrival at Maracaibo, Cudro sent a man to the ship to tell us that men were beginning to fever. Much discussion occurred as to which of our physicians should investigate. Farley was doing tolerably well hobbling about the ship on his crutches; but his leg still pained him, and clambering down to a boat, up the wharf, and then walking about town for hours would be onerous for him. So Gaston elected to go: with me, of course, and several trusted men.

Only one of the men yet reported ill was from the Queen, and Cudro had ordered him brought to the house we had used. Gaston examined him and concluded it was the malaria. He administered quinine and left the man with his matelot, and we went in search of the others who ailed and the surgeons charged with their care. We found two other fevering men: both had the malaria. Gaston dispensed some of the quinine to the surgeons and instructed them in its use. Most of the medical men sailing with us were good for little more than extracting bullets, setting bones, sewing gashes, and removing limbs. They knew nothing of medicine; but many of them had been with us at Porto Bello, and they knew well the epidemic we faced if men sickened here as they had there.

Then we went to Morgan. He seemed pleased to see us, and rose in greeting from the table he shared with several of the captains, including Norman, Bradley, and pleasantly, Cudro. Bradley would not look at us.

Cudro saw the expressions upon our faces and nodded gravely.

“Men have begun to ail with the malaria,” I said once we were seated with them.

There was swearing all about.

“Are you sure?” Bradley asked.

“That it is the malaria, or that they ail?” I retorted.

He looked away.

“What if we move on?” Morgan asked. “If it is beginning to afflict us now, what if we move on? We have been speaking of going south to the head of the lake; there is a town there named Gibraltar that the French also visited.”

“Is it on a swamp too?” Gaston asked.

“Presumably,” Morgan sighed. “But perhaps being different air…”

Gaston shook his head. “We do not know how it is caused. We only know, as the Spanish do, that being near a swamp for several weeks can bring it on; and the Indian medicine, quinine, will treat it. But we have a limited supply of quinine. More than we had in Porto Bello, but still not enough to treat more than a few dozen men.”

“This Gibraltar might have more,” I said. “And since we found it for sale at the apothecary’s and the physician’s, it is likely the wealthier citizens here had it on their plantations. Men who know what to look for should be dispatched, or all the medicines should be collected and be brought here and sorted.” It was a thing we had discussed but not wished to suggest to Morgan until we were sure men would be afflicted with the disease.

Morgan was nodding. “Let us do that. Send a few men to all the plantations we’ve already visited, and have them look for medicines.” He looked to me. “And you two should search through the things already collected from the houses. And you told me you already searched the town before…”

I nodded. “I do not want us wandering about the streets without escort – even with your edict – but we can continue searching here.”

“Should we separate the ailing men?” Norman asked. “We didn’t at Porto Bello, but damn near half our men were ill.”

“It is not thought to be contagious like the plague,” Gaston said.

“And even with that, men do not always fall ill after being around the dying.”

Norman looked to Morgan. “And moving on didn’t help at Porto Bello. Most of my men began to ail after we sailed.”

“Aye, aye,” Morgan sighed. “Still, I think we are nearly done here.

And Gibraltar might have more medicine. And gold.” He shrugged. “Let us spend the remainder of this week collecting our men and medicines and any other booty, and move on to Gibraltar.”

Everyone who had a say in the matter nodded. I felt I did not, so I said and did nothing.

Gaston was quiet as we returned to the ship.

“We stand a better chance of saving men here than we did last year,”

I said to cheer him.

He frowned. “Oui, because we are perceived as being more respectable: your jaw is not broken, and I am not wounded, and…” He sighed and regarded me with a tinge of guilt.

I grinned. “Oui, medical advice dispensed by madmen is deemed suspect.”

He smiled sadly. “I do not wish to spend my life wearing a coat and collar in order to save lives. It is not fair.”

I sighed and put an arm around his shoulder. “We will discover some path through that thicket.”

“Oui,” he said and adjusted his step to match mine.

The week passed with our picking through the booty collected from the Spanish, amidst which we found two bottles of quinine, and searching the remaining houses, which yielded another. In that time, two dozen more men fell ill. Thankfully, the ones being treated with quinine were already improving.

I often saw Hastings, and even the bastard, Headley, peering at us during these excursions, along with others. I ignored all but Hastings, as I always found him smiling at me when our gazes happened to meet.

I knew we would fight; I just did not know how or when.

Finally we withdrew to the ships and sailed south a good thirty leagues to Gibraltar. The Spanish there had been alerted to our arrival; and we entered an empty town just as we had at Maracaibo. Once again, Morgan had our men claim and occupy the central square. And once again, our cabal was reluctant to go ashore and leave the relative comfort and safety of the Queen; but we did anyway, taking another house with large lower rooms to use as a hospital. This time Gaston and I managed to obtain a private bedroom, much to our delight.

Sadly, for many reasons, we were not given time to enjoy it. The number of fevering men had risen to over three dozen, and the ships were now sending them all to us. Once the ailing men were situated, Gaston and I set out with an escort from the Queen to locate the apothecary and any physicians’ homes. This search yielded a goodly amount of quinine, most of it from the church. In the good Fathers’ defense, they had apparently been dispensing it regularly in the infirmary they maintained for the poor, and not hoarding it for their own use.

Our search also yielded valuables other than medicines, and we were sure to make great show of delivering them to the pile of booty in the town square.

Once the primary targets were stripped of medicines and supplies, Gaston was needed at the hospital; and I decided to go in search of more useful items in the individual homes, with Dudley, Cramer, and to my annoyance, Alonso, as my assistants and bodyguards. Though he had acted very helpful and cheerful of late, it was obvious Alonso had no interest in, or talent for, tending feverish men. Caretaking was simply not within the purview of skills he possessed or ever intended to lay claim to. He was good at searching houses, though; and I doubted he would let anyone kill me.

By the third day of searching, not having seen any Spanish or others who might mean us harm lurking about, we decided to speed the process by separating into two teams. Of course, since Cramer and Dudley were matelots, that meant I was stuck with Alonso.

“Alone at last,” he murmured in Castilian as we finished wandering through a house, looking for hiding Spaniards.

I snorted. “Take the upstairs; I will do the cook house and stores.”

“We should talk,” he said, and remained at the foot of the stairs. “I have been waiting to speak with you.”

I swore and turned to growl, “Alonso…” I was going to say that we had nothing to say to one another; but perhaps he wished to apologize for being an arse or stubborn. That I would hear.

“Speak,” I said with less rancor. “Say what you feel you need to say, and let us be done with it.”

He studied me. I could not read him in the dim light of the room: my eyes were still adjusting from the harsh noontime light beyond the door.