Read Online Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure by W A Hoffman - Free Book Online
Authors: W A Hoffman
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decided that the men should be taken to the gaol until the matter could be sorted through. I heard Gaston’s name mentioned once. I thought it likely we had a long day of explanations ahead of us. I hoped I could spare Gaston most, if not all, of it.
Theodore came around quickly when Gaston put salts under his nose. He sputtered for a moment and patted his body with alarm.
“You are well,” I said lightly.
Gaston gave me an admonishing look to say that he would be the judge of that.
“Do you feel well?” he asked Theodore. “Is there pain?”
“Only my pride I feel,” Theodore whispered. “Did I… swoon?”
We nodded.
“I told all you took a blow to the head,” I said kindly.
He appeared greatly relieved. “Are we…? Are they…?” He looked about.
“Dead or wounded,” I assured him. “We are all well. The survivors are being taken to the gaol. I would imagine the dead will be too.”
Gaston was frowning at the man I had shot in the leg.
Behind me, one of the wounded was protesting in French as men hauled him to his feet. “But he is French.”
“We know ya be French!” one of the men holding him upright yelled in English.
I stood. “Nay, he is saying that my matelot is French, which is wrong. He is an English citizen now.”
The men from the militia, not all of whom were buccaneers, turned to regard me.
“Is that Lord Marsdale?” their leader asked Striker, who nodded and shrugged.
“Would you know what this is about, my Lord?” the man asked me.
I sighed. “Aye, I feel I do, but I do not wish to discuss it here.”
There was a great deal of grumbling in the crowd around us.
I addressed them. “It concerns my matelot, who is an English citizen now.”
This seemed to assuage many of them, but others seemed more hostile than curious. I suffered an odd moment of disorientation, as if I had seen all this before. I had. Though the facts were different, the gist of it all was much the same. Then I suffered the realization that it would always be thus with Gaston and me in relation to the rest of humanity.
We would always be subjected to scrutiny, and judged wanting.
I turned away from them.
The puppies were now in Theodore’s lap. He was cradling them carefully with Bella and Taro standing guard – over or of him, I could not be sure.
Gaston was digging about in his medicine chest. He found what he wished and went to the man with the leg wound, before the buccaneers who were taking him to the gaol could roll him onto a sheet of sailcloth to carry him.
“Hold him still,” Gaston told two of the men.
One of them was a man we had sailed with, and he quickly complied and the other one followed his lead. While they pinned the wounded man down, Gaston shoved his fingers into the man’s wound. He probed about inside the man’s leg with great concentration, his lips between his teeth and his eyes on some distant thing so his vision did not distract from what he sought to feel. The man screamed and all other activity about us stopped.
“He be a surgeon,” a buccaneer to my left told someone.
Gaston at last found what he sought, and pulled a thick red blood vessel from the hole in the man’s thigh. He placed a clamp on it. The pulsing flow of blood from the wound stopped.
“There,” Gaston said. “Now he will live long enough for someone to amputate the leg. He might even live beyond that.”
As many were still quiet about us, the militia leader had apparently heard him.
“So we should find them a surgeon?” the man asked.
“If you wish them to live,” I said.
“I care not,” the man said quickly. “Do you want them to live?”
Gaston swore softly in French and studied the sand with angry eyes. I could see his need to act: either to fight or heal. His Horse had had quite enough with being still whilst a barn burnt around it. It now needed to run, either under his hand, or away from it.
“Aye,” I said. “We wish them to live.”
Gaston looked up at me with
Theodore came around quickly when Gaston put salts under his nose. He sputtered for a moment and patted his body with alarm.
“You are well,” I said lightly.
Gaston gave me an admonishing look to say that he would be the judge of that.
“Do you feel well?” he asked Theodore. “Is there pain?”
“Only my pride I feel,” Theodore whispered. “Did I… swoon?”
We nodded.
“I told all you took a blow to the head,” I said kindly.
He appeared greatly relieved. “Are we…? Are they…?” He looked about.
“Dead or wounded,” I assured him. “We are all well. The survivors are being taken to the gaol. I would imagine the dead will be too.”
Gaston was frowning at the man I had shot in the leg.
Behind me, one of the wounded was protesting in French as men hauled him to his feet. “But he is French.”
“We know ya be French!” one of the men holding him upright yelled in English.
I stood. “Nay, he is saying that my matelot is French, which is wrong. He is an English citizen now.”
The men from the militia, not all of whom were buccaneers, turned to regard me.
“Is that Lord Marsdale?” their leader asked Striker, who nodded and shrugged.
“Would you know what this is about, my Lord?” the man asked me.
I sighed. “Aye, I feel I do, but I do not wish to discuss it here.”
There was a great deal of grumbling in the crowd around us.
I addressed them. “It concerns my matelot, who is an English citizen now.”
This seemed to assuage many of them, but others seemed more hostile than curious. I suffered an odd moment of disorientation, as if I had seen all this before. I had. Though the facts were different, the gist of it all was much the same. Then I suffered the realization that it would always be thus with Gaston and me in relation to the rest of humanity.
We would always be subjected to scrutiny, and judged wanting.
I turned away from them.
The puppies were now in Theodore’s lap. He was cradling them carefully with Bella and Taro standing guard – over or of him, I could not be sure.
Gaston was digging about in his medicine chest. He found what he wished and went to the man with the leg wound, before the buccaneers who were taking him to the gaol could roll him onto a sheet of sailcloth to carry him.
“Hold him still,” Gaston told two of the men.
One of them was a man we had sailed with, and he quickly complied and the other one followed his lead. While they pinned the wounded man down, Gaston shoved his fingers into the man’s wound. He probed about inside the man’s leg with great concentration, his lips between his teeth and his eyes on some distant thing so his vision did not distract from what he sought to feel. The man screamed and all other activity about us stopped.
“He be a surgeon,” a buccaneer to my left told someone.
Gaston at last found what he sought, and pulled a thick red blood vessel from the hole in the man’s thigh. He placed a clamp on it. The pulsing flow of blood from the wound stopped.
“There,” Gaston said. “Now he will live long enough for someone to amputate the leg. He might even live beyond that.”
As many were still quiet about us, the militia leader had apparently heard him.
“So we should find them a surgeon?” the man asked.
“If you wish them to live,” I said.
“I care not,” the man said quickly. “Do you want them to live?”
Gaston swore softly in French and studied the sand with angry eyes. I could see his need to act: either to fight or heal. His Horse had had quite enough with being still whilst a barn burnt around it. It now needed to run, either under his hand, or away from it.
“Aye,” I said. “We wish them to live.”
Gaston looked up at me with
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