The Pirate Captain

The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne




Chapter 1: Journey

May, 1753

“On deck there. Sail ho!”

“Where away?”

“Larboard abeam, sir, ’bout three points.”

Ezekiel Pryce looked to the tops. It was Damerell up there, what sung out. An extra ration of rum and the best pistol on the prize would be his, if he be correct. Heaven help the blundering bastard if he weren’t, and the Cap’n not obliged to raise a finger.

The Cap’n stood peering through his glass.

“What be in yer mind, sir? Be it them, are ye thinkin’?” Pryce asked, coming up alongside.

“The bearing is fitting,” the Cap’n said, intent on the speck of white against the east Caribbean blue.

“Nary a ship from England what don’t come from that-a-ways.”

The skipper lowered the glass. A cat on the prowl, he was, and no prey was safe. “Then they’re fair game, are they not? The last two proved to be a hare’s chase, but fat prizes, indeed. If nothing else, the lads need the practice. We’ll burn the rust out o’ the guns, eh?”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Bearing sou’west,” Damerell called from his roost.

The Cap’n raised his glass, looked to the compass, and then said to the helmsman, “Make it so, Mr. Squidge.”

“Sou’west, aye.”

“Prepare to bring her about. Full cover!” The Cap’n was in high spirits now. “Fly every rag she’ll bear.” 22minutes

The ship beneath Pryce’s feet quivered. Aye! She knew. She smelled the prey. She’d throw her shoulder to the wind, take every bit of canvas and beg for more.

“It makes for a fair night, Master Pryce,” the Cap’n said, looking skyward. “Light every lamp, so we’ll glow like a damned fireship. We’ll allow them the night to think about the hell what is about to be visited upon them. She might try to duck and run under the cover of dark, so double the lookouts, and we’ll rig the grates for the first slaggardly lout caught napping.”

Clear skies, a steady glass and fair course: no creature of the sea could ask for more. Only a dirty night could save the hapless prey.

“D’ye think she’ll turn and fight, sir?”

“How often does the rabbit bite the fox, Mr. Pryce? If they opt for blood, then it shall be theirs what runs the decks.”

“The last ones we stripped to nature’s own and burned to the waterline.”

“Aye, well, ’tis the price of resistance, is it not? Pass the word to the Master Gunner to pray have his guns ready by…make it eight bells of the morning watch.”

“Hands to yer stations,” Pryce bellowed over the break of the quarterdeck. “Clear the braces and stand by to come about!”

Staring at the line where sky and water met, the Cap’n went uncommon quiet, a rare sight indeed when sniffing prey.

“I’ve the feeling on this one, Pryce. The Devil burn me, I don’t know why, but this one… this one is different.”



###



A few days earlier:



Cate Mackenzie watched the oily sea roll past and wondered if this would be the night to finally end her misery.

Behind was England and everything that constituted a life, everything she had ever had—home, husband, family—and everything she had lost.

Ahead, nothing.

The Constancy, a merchant ship, had been riding the trade winds for nearly two months, bound for Kingston, Jamaica—the West Indies. There was little reason to believe the long arm of King Georgie’s courts couldn’t reach there. Worse yet, there would be no one there either, no one to know whether she lived or otherwise.

With the impact of her body hitting the water, there was the possibility of pain, an intriguing prospect to be sure. Numbness had been a permanent state of being, moving woodenly from one day to the next. To feel anything apart from wretchedness was well worth the risk.

Captain Chambers emerged from the flickering shadows and drew up beside her. The weather rail was the reserved domain for the ship’s captain, but there he was at the lee side, seeking her out once again. He nodded a silent greeting, his sharp green eyes narrowing.

“You must be anxious to meet your family in Kingston,” he said around the stem of his cold pipe.

For a while now, he appeared to have a sense of what she was about, always watching. His attempts at small talk were maddeningly awkward. It was all a part of their jousting game: he trying to learn as much as possible, while she strove to tell him as little as could be managed. She cringed. On the docks in Bristol, she had told him there would be family waiting—a necessary lie to be allowed passage. Since then, she had come to understand it had been her coin that spoke the loudest.

She looked away into the darkness, lest the keen eyes see the deception. “Yes, my brother will be most anxious.”

She spoke with the conviction of an oft-told lie. The game of maintaining it for so long, however, had grown tiresome. She dreaded the same questions posed over and over, the resulting weariness undermining her will to carry on the charade much longer. The worst the Captain could do was throw her overboard—not an all-bad prospect.

She shifted uneasily under Chambers’ scrutiny, dreading the inevitable line of questions to come.

“You seemed to have gotten on quite famously with Mrs. Littleton and her daughter.”

Ah, yes, her traveling companions, the only other passengers. The wife of the new King’s Commissioner of Jamaica and their daughter, just coming of age, had been the initial purpose of the Constancy’s journey. Commissioner Littleton had gone ahead the year before to report to his new post and set up a household. Through some intrigue or malchance regarding a Royal Navy ship, exclusive passage had been arranged on the Constancy to deliver said family to the Commissioner’s waiting arms. They would have—should have—been the only passengers, but Cate had arrived at the last minute, coin in hand, eager to leave England. The good Captain Chambers wasn’t above a little extra profit, and since they were to be aweigh immediately, no one would be the wiser.

There had been one overshadowing flaw: Mrs. Littleton and Lucy, her daughter, sickened and died, barely a month from England’s shores.

“They were both very dear,” she said, straining to glean the desperation from her voice.

Falling into another one of his torturous pensive pauses, Chambers drew deeply on the cold pipe, the dry rasp sharp over the backdrop of ship and sea.

“We’re in pirate waters, now,” he said.

“Here?” Startled, she looked around, wondering how, amid hundreds of miles of ocean, this particular track could be different.

“Caicos Passage is just ahead; virtually every ship bound for the Caribbean passes through there. Makes every vessel an easy target, ready for the picking.”

“You sound as if you’ve a bit of experience on your side.” she said, scanning the water.

“A bit. I’ve only been boarded once and we fought ’em off. We barely made port. Three feet in the well, and only jury-rigged jibs and staysails to fly, but we lived to tell of it.”

He stared across the water, seeing far beyond the horizon, his voice shook with uncharacteristic vehemence. “Be bloody goddamned if I was going to allow those black-hearted bastards to have my ship. Pardon the language, ma’am,” he added, ducking his head.

“They’ll take your ship, if they can,” he continued, much composed. “And give the crew option to either sign on or join Davy Jones. If one among them is prime for captain, the ship is his and sails as consort. Some have built up nigh on to a fleet. Or, they take what they desire and scuttle her right before your eyes. Couldn’t allow that to happen to the old girl, either way,” he said, lovingly stroking the rail.

“So, you fought them off?” she asked with growing interest.

“Wasn’t easy, mind. I’ll carry the scars to my grave. We lost our share of men; we figured we were all as good as dead anyway. Most vile, black-souled, murderous lot you’d ever face. They’d kill their own mother for the gold in her teeth. They don’t call ’em sea wolves for nothing; like a pack of rabid dogs, they are.”

He contemptuously spat over the rail. Mr. Ivy, the First Mate, softly cleared his voice, indicating he had come on ship’s business. While Chambers was thus occupied, she slipped away.

Her cabin was a rabbit-hole of a place: a bunk and the necessary foot space to reach it. She threw open the port and inhaled deeply. Compared to the heat, stench, and stuffiness of below deck, the night air was exhilarating. Thanks to the steadiness of trade winds, the cabin had been to windward for most of the voyage, allowing her a bit of moving air, when the seas allowed the port to be open.

The lantern’s golden halo curved up and down the bulkhead as it swung. She pulled a small, often-mended bag from its hiding place between the wall and the mattress. As was her evening ritual, she set its contents with reverential care in precise order before her: a hairbrush—actually a discarded horse brush, but serviceable—and a tin can containing several pebbles—a tried-and-true alarm for one sleeping alone—a needle, its tip secured in a bit of cork, and a stick with a length of thread wound around it. A few bits of ribbon lay at the bottom of the bag. Too short to be of any use, they were treasured for their color and silkiness, reminders of a genteel life.

A piece of green-and-white tartan was next; the colors of Clan Mackenzie. Shrinking with the passing of each year, it had been cut from her husband’s plaid. Wrapped inside was a shard of broken mirror. In the flickering light, she gazed into the fragment. Barely the size of her palm, she held it first one way and then another, in order to view her entire face. It wasn’t an exercise of vanity, but to see if someone looked back.

Haggard and thin, a face was there, barely familiar. The eyes—a blue-green color to which no one could ever assign a name—showed the merest spark of life. Her brambled hair defied description as well: copper or brown? Her father had compared it to his favorite blood-bay mare; her husband referred to it as “time-mellowed cherrywood.” The wide brow was the same, as was the mouth, its corners still tending to independently curl into a smile. It was a trait that had brought many a reprimand for impertinence in her youth.

A few coppers, a couple of wood buttons, all just for the sake of possession, the last two items were the most treasured: a sgian dhu—a stocking knife—and a bit of parchment, folded. She clasped the knife’s staghorn handle, recalling its warmth from her husband’s hand when he had given it to her. Crackling to the point of near disintegration, the parchment’s contents were too precious to be opened, lest the few strands of auburn hair, snipped off on their last night together, be lost. She pressed the paper to her cheek and closed her eyes to conjure his image once more.

There were no tears; those had been used up long ago. Dry-eyed, she reverently returned each token to the bag, blew out the light, and curled on the bunk around what was left of her life.



###



Rough crossings.

The term had been heard many times, but Cate had only a vague inkling as to its meaning. She had listened to the stories of violent storms, towering rogue waves capable of smashing masts into kindling, and winds that could pick up a piece of said kindling and drive it through the next mast. There was no reason to doubt such testimonials, but the most intemperate weather she had thus far experienced had been a several-day thin drizzle, the sails hanging as limply as her sodden hair.

Now the day came with howling winds shrieking through every crevice, and waves that pitched the ship from dizzying heights to plunging depths, often seemingly at the same time. Nature now seemed determined to make a point of showing the extent of its benevolence in these weeks past. Cate’s first lesson was the importance of the berth’s raised edge—that single plank her sole salvation from being thrown to the floor. If she didn’t wish to roll about like a pencil, she needed a foot planted against the bulkhead and a shoulder jammed into the opposite corner. Luckily she wasn’t given to sea illness, but she was very conscious of the peril in closing her eyes.

Braced against the bulkhead, she worked hand over hand down the narrow passage to the mess area. The men ordinarily took their meals on deck, preferring the fresh air to the cramped spaces ’tween decks, but in deference to the storm, they ate inside that morning. Her nose pinched at the combined smells of wet men, fried fish, beer, and bilge. Lounged and perched on every surface, they balanced their battered trenchers on their knee, eating and chatting, riding out the weather with the same ease as most would ride a horse.

If they’re calm, I’m calm, she thought stubbornly.

With both hands for the ship, she gingerly tiptoed through the maze of benches and outstretched legs on her way to the captain’s table, the men nodding in amused politeness as she lurched past. Once landed on the bench, remaining there required her to hook a foot around its leg. The men at table dutifully rose at her arrival, ducked the briefest of nods, and then settled back to their meal in businesslike fashion.

As a paying guest, she ate at the captain’s table with Ivy, the First Mate; Coombs, the boatswain; Sullivan, the supercargo, and Humphries. An albino, Humphries loved the sea, but the sun had proven too brutal to his pale skin, and so he had found his niche as the Captain’s steward. Nicknamed “Mole,” it was difficult to say whether the appellation was prompted by the fact that he rarely came up from below, or by his remarkably small round eyes—disquietingly pinkish—and bucked teeth.

She ate out of obligation. To do otherwise would be an insult to Chambers’ hospitality. Eating her fill wasn’t an issue; for the best part of five years, food had been a sparse commodity, any ort to be portioned out to last for days. Such entrenched behavior was difficult to break. The food was much better than anticipated. Mr. Grogan, the cook, prided his creativity, but there was still a limit as to what could be done with the basics of cheese, dried fruit and peas, pickled and salted beef, and pork or fish, with the occasional augmentation of fresh turtle. Her lack of appetite added its own layer of monotony.

“We have rats that eat more,” Chambers had observed early on. “Don’t be expecting a reduction in your fare, just because you’ve ate so little.”

The jibe was made good-naturedly enough, but his point was made.

Grogan gave her a suffering look as he came around the table. An Irishman with an elf-like face on a hogshead body, he walked the pitching decks with mind-boggling ease in spite of his peg leg. One hand was perpetually occupied with a handkerchief with which to mop his red face.

As was the case most mornings, Grogan stood pugnaciously at Chambers’ elbow, overseeing the meal. The moment she sat, he gestured impatiently to Fitzgibbons for the tarred leather tankard before her to be filled. A Lowland Scot, Fitzgibbons was a gangling lad with a face full of spots and sooty smudges of hair on his lip.

“You’re late,” Grogan sniffed.

“I beg your leave,” she murmured over her ale.

Grogan was a strong advocate of the benefits of small ale for one’s digestion first thing of a morning. The drink was palatable enough, but she longed for the bracing effects of a good cup of coffee.

With the hatches bonneted against the weather, the lamps were lit in spite of it being daytime. As they pendulumed over the table, the dinnerware performed a nautical ballet back and forth. The table’s lip prevented the plates from shooting off. The men’s hands followed what they sought with a second-natured ease. Grumbling under her breath, Cate snatched at a bowl as it passed. Mr. Ivy, at her elbow, ducked his head to hide a smirk.

“Nor’easter,” he said into his drink. “Storm blowin’ up on the Banks.”

She knew of only one “Banks:” the Great Banks, rich fishing waters off the coast of Newfoundland.

“Isn’t that leagues away?” she asked.

He nodded approvingly at her token bit of sea-going knowledge, the unspoken implication being perhaps her lubberiness wasn’t a total lost cause.

“Coupla hundred, aye, but ’tis nothing to stop a wave out here,” he added, gesturing with his tankard toward the unseen beyond.

She had been aware of the conversation taking a sudden shift when she entered. It was a common occurrence. Cursing or coarseness didn’t bother her—her five brothers and her husband had all possessed a very colorful turn of the tongue—but the men assumed it did. Once she was seated and quiet, they would soon come to forget she was there, and the dialogue would return to its natural state. Such conversation always took the same path: speculation on how far they had traveled, when to expect to make land, and past voyages, ultimately working around to storms, best and worst captains, mysteries of the deep, and inevitably, pirates.

Pirates.

The word conjured images of something between sinister mythological creatures of the sea and marauding thieves. In London, she had heard of hangings at Tyburn, their piked heads and tarred, rotting bodies left in public display of the fate that awaited anyone who chose a similar lowly path. There had been literary attempts to idealize them, but their corruption and savagery were difficult to whitewash. Unwholesome dregs of society that, unfit to live among the civilized, had chosen to live as drunken scavengers. Violence, mayhem, and gore seemed the pirate trinity. Life having already served up far too much of that for her tastes, she felt little tolerance or sympathy toward them.

Cate toyed with the dried apple slices and claret-soaked currents on her plate, trying not to focus on its motion. The metered passes had a mesmerizing effect. Blinking from one such trance, she straightened and focused her interest on the conversation around her.

“How do you know someone is a pirate?” she asked during a lull.

“He’ll be the one holding the knife to your throat,” Fitzgibbons grinned as he plunked fresh pitchers of ale on the table.

“Or bidin’ ye to strip, for they leave every prisoner as naked as Adam, beggin’ yer pardon, missus.”

The men hunched forward with enthusiasm, their tales involving such dubious names as Black Bart Roberts, Long Ben Avery, Stede Bonnet, Calico Jack Rackham, and Blackbeard.

“A man signs on as soon as he boards, a-swearin’ to the ship’s Code,” said Coombs around a mouthful. “Equal shares for everything that’s taken—everything.” A meaningful arch of his brows emphasized his point.

“Aye, ’tis true.” Ivy leaned closer. “Blackbeard hisself took a wife; shared her with the entire crew. T’weren’t enough left for the cabin boys after that.”

“The captain gets double, o’ course,” added Coombs judiciously. “And then so on down the line, from First Mate to the lowest.”

The finer details of such a fate for the unknowing bride flashed quickly through her mind.

“Everything?” she asked, a bit faintly.

“Everything!” came a chorus of voices. A clap of thunder punctuated the chilling thought.

Cate quietly put down her fork, what little appetite she had suddenly gone. She dabbed her temples. With barely headroom to stand and stores stacked in every nook, under the best of circumstances the mess area was close quarters. Now, with the hatches closed against the weather, and the mass of bodies packed together, mixed with the smell of fish, treacle, bilges, and beer, the air became oppressing.

In the midst of the sagas and tales, one name continued to dominate the conversation: Captain Nathanael Blackthorne.

It couldn’t be overlooked that Blackthorne was something of an exception. As regularly as his name came up, the reaction was always the same: spitting and touching of their charms, making horned signs as if he were the Devil incarnate, while lauding him praises that rendered him almost mystical. A bit of competition almost always ensued in reference to Blackthorne, each participant striving to best his predecessor with stories about the man, each weaving another thread into a thicker cloth that made up what could only be seen as a legend.

“Charmed he is,” Humphries said, important with the mystery of Blackthorne. “’Tis like a guardian angel a-watchin’ over him. Been shot thirteen times.”

“And wears a bell for every virgin he’s taken,” called a voice from a dim corner.

“Others claim he can beckon the sea,” Humphries went on, “Neptune and all his creatures. Some say it’s just pure dern delight Blackthorne takes in makin’ a fool outa the Commodore.”

A hum of approval came from all around.

“Stole a ship o’ the line, by making them think there was wharf fever aboard,” put in one from the table behind her.

“Ol’ Nathan had taken the Royal pay chest.” Coomb’s cornflower eyes brightened at the thought of such riches. “The Commodore tore up the waters for months, trying to get it back. Finally, he outfoxed Ol’ Nathan, and got it back. The Commodore held a big ceremony at Fort Charles, had the Governor and all the muckety-mucks there. Come time to open it, t’was full o’ rotten horsemeat, and a note congratulatin’ the Commodore on his successes, signed Captain Nathanael Blackthorne!”

The roar of laughter filled the small space, their enthusiastic appreciation for such chicanery punctuated by the pounding of fists and utensils on any available surface.

“Blackthorne’s been a-tweakin’ Creswicke’s nose and tauntin’ Harte, makin’ fools o’ the both of ’em,” said Coombs over the scream of the wind.

“Royal West Indies Mercantile Company, Lord Breaston Creswicke, Governor; that’s power in these waters,” Chambers said coldly. Everyone fell quiet in deference. “Not a captain, honest or otherwise don’t feel the weight of their yoke, most especially Blackthorne.”

“I would have thought the East India Trading Company would have had something to say about them,” she said, straining to sort out the layers of intrigue.

It was no secret that the East India Trading Company was all-powerful, ruling the seas’ trading lanes with an iron fist on the one hand and an endorsement directly from Parliament and the King in the other. Virtually nothing came or went from England’s shores without their stamp of approval. As described by its title, the Company’s central concern pivoted on the East Indies and the riches that could be made on the tea, spice, and silk routes.

Ivy snorted in disgust, gesturing sharply with his knife. “Not enough in these waters to entice them thus far. That blessed Lord Creswicke managed a charter from the Crown. What with the Crown always looking to turn a coin…”

“And Creswicke has certainly given them that!” Chambers broke in with unfamiliar vehemence. “Between port tariffs, docking, drayage, wharfage, piloting, victualling fees and the like, a soul can barely make a profit.”

They shifted uncomfortably, glancing furtively over their shoulders as if they expected the fiend to materialize.

“Extortion is what it is,” Ivy grumbled darkly over his plate.

“And lo unto the one what tries to slip a bondsman past him!” Coombs intoned. “And if someone is so bold as to complain or evade, he’ll be boarded within the week.”

“Boarded? You’re saying that it’s more than coincidence?” she asked, looking from one man to the next.

“Oh, aye!” Ivy gave a conspiratorial wink. “Pirates, for sure. Complain a little more, and be declared a pirate yourself, dancin’ the hempen jig for yer efforts.”

“Just don’t scrape the paint too hard on the ship, nor ask to see her log. Ye might be findin’ out what’s more than healthy,” Chambers said, exchanging knowing looks with his crew.

“Or a quick-like visit to Davy Jones,” said Ivy.

Cate’s evident failure to comprehend brought Ivy to bend closer. “There be pirates in these waters, to be sure, Blackthorne bein’ one o’ the best. But one can’t help but notice that several are a mite peculiar.”

“Privateers,” hissed Coombs over his porridge.

“Pah! White-water pirates to be sure, bought and paid for by Lord Creswicke,” Humphries said, tapping his spoon on the table for emphasis.

She looked from one man to the other, confused. A minute ago, the pirates had been the most hated, but this Creswicke seemed to have suddenly usurped the title. “But I thought you said that Creswicke…or, the Company was killing pirates.”

“Aye!” Ivy nodded, chewing industriously. “But the best way to be a good physick is to supply the very illness what you know how to cure.”

“What better way to keep everyone under your thumb than to scare them into thinkin’ they ain’t safe without you?” Humphries asked around a mouthful of porridge. “Including the Crown!”

“To make himself look more important—and successful—Creswicke has his own fleet of pirates…” Sullivan said, reaching for the pot of treacle.

“Sailing on the very ships he’s confiscated…” Coombs said importantly into his drink.

“And selling the plunder for a very nice profit,” finished Ivy. “And London is thinking the only way to protect their shipments is to give Creswicke more of whatever he wants to fight off the pirates.”

“Surely someone has complained,” she said.

Ivy’s feathery brows shot up as he stabbed another kipper from the platter. “To who? If the Company succeeds, England succeeds. Lord-on-High Pelham and King Georgie aren’t going to tamper with what’s bringing them a sack full o’ money. There be rumors of war again, and the Crown will be lookin’ for every pound it can lay its hands on.”

“And the Royal Navy’s high command in these waters is of no disposition to listen or intervene,” put in Chambers grimly around the stem of his pipe.

“Aye!” Sullivan smirked. “Harte can’t hear anything over the rattle of Creswicke’s coin in his pockets.”

“Harte?” she asked, her fork hovering over her plate.

“His Lordship Roger Harte, Commodore of His Majesty’s Royal Navy!” Humphries announced, striking an imperious pose.

“So Blackthorne works for the Company and this Creswicke?” she asked, still straining to follow the conversation.

Derisive laughter burst from all.

“Creswicke hates Ol’ Blackthorne with a passion what goes beyond human. No one knows exactly what it was all about, one of those blood feuds that run for a lifetime. Blackthorne hasn’t done hisself any favors,” Ivy pointed out with a warning wag of the finger. “He’s robbed, ransomed, hostaged, pillaged, and plundered. Cost the Company a fair bit o’ profit, that one has.”

“And made fools of Commodore Harte and Lord Creswicke,” Humphries said, snickering into his ale.



###



The storm exhausted itself by midday, the clouds withdrawing to reveal a remarkable day. Cate stood at the rail, smiling. Life appeared above and below, giving a sense that perhaps the ship hadn’t fallen off the Earth after all. With nothing but weeks of wave and sky, one readily came to believe the world had been swept away in a flood of biblical proportions. The speck of a bird high overhead was inspirational proof that something else still existed. A high point was a school of small, greenish-silver fish swimming alongside, or coming upon a great mass of seaweed, a miniature floating marine city teeming with myriads of small crabs and jellyfish.

For all its adventuresome sound, the bare truth: sailing was insufferably boring, a mind-numbing constancy of sky and water. Caught between the dread of what awaited at Port Royal and the staggering boredom of the sea, the desire for land was beginning to win. The ship’s time was marked by a watch bell, a baffling sequence of peals that she soon grew to ignore, measuring time instead by the sun or moon. As the watch bells counted off the hours—two rings not necessarily meaning two o’clock—she spent vast amounts of time contemplating the different aspects of waves: how one compared to another, compared to those from the day or week before. When her neck grew stiff with looking down, she looked up through the rigging and sails, and sought hidden shapes in the clouds. At night, she gazed through the port to see how much further the North Star had shifted since the night before. Too dark, too cold, too tired, or too wet were her motivations to retire to a cramped bunk, where she stared out the porthole at the stars, waiting for some shift in the universe to change them.

Idleness having never been her nature, she had tried to become more involved with the ship itself, but soon surrendered in the face of a language that defied comprehension: cat’s head, sheave holes, cheek blocks, cringles, fish pendants, and lizards, with a fore bowline not to be confused with the foretop bowline, which was entirely different from the foretop gallant bowline. She was only slightly confused at being told—with little patience—that there were no ropes on a ship; those things hanging everywhere were called sheets. Let one not overlook, however, that a sheet could be a tack, a simple change in the wind making it a leech.

And so, she watched the antics of a troop of sea hogs—dolphins, as called by some—cavorting in the curve of the bow wave. Their silvery backs arching through the indigo water, they almost seemed to smile up at her before streaking away, only to return to frolic alongside once more. She shielded her eyes from the sun to watch a small covey of birds, their black, tapered bodies sharp against the sky. Swooping, they touched their feet to the water, hovered, and then spiraled skyward.

Chambers came beside her and inclined his head toward the birds. “Mother Carey’s chickens; the wife of Davy Jones. They fly forever, never touching land, hatching their eggs under their wings. Harbingers of storms they are: the more you see, the worse the storm is to be. They say the sea hogs will lead a shipwrecked mariner to shore. If they leap entirely out of the water, ’tis a gale coming.”

“You say that as if you don’t believe it,” she said, intent on the fish.

Her experience with mariners’ superstitions had begun early. The day she purchased passage, she had been hustled aboard, Chambers anxious to weigh anchor that day, since the next was the thirteenth of the month, and no ship sailed on such a date. Sharks had been sighted at the stern, “smelling death.” The subsequent fever and death of Mrs. Littleton and her daughter came as no surprise, and was met with not a little relief. Their bodies were quickly commended to the sea, being bad luck to have them aboard. Women aboard was the worst of luck. The tension had failed to lessen with the passing of the Littletons. One would have thought fewer women would be good news, but it was quickly pointed out that two people had just died. What stronger proof of bad luck did one require?

Calypso, a woman, was goddess of the sea, her name often invoked for protection, as was St. Bride. The bowsprit was the bare-busted figure of a woman, mermaids—harbingers of good luck—were the hope of every sailor, and the ship was referred to as “she.” And yet, women were bad luck.

It defied all logic, but made perfect sense to the men. Not much more could be said.

Chambers’ shoulders moved faintly under his coat. “I’ve been at sea since I was a squeaker near Fitzgibbons’ age. I’ve seen enough to know anything is possible, and nothing is impossible. Whether by the hand of God, or some other power, who’s to know? This humble soul is in no position to question.”

He stood quietly watching the fish, falling into one of those pensive silences of his that always left her feeling a bit off kilter.

“We’ll be making Kingston in three, mebbe four days.”

The announcement was a bit redundant, since that had been the subject of conversation every meal since sinking England. Still, the prospect of the seemingly endless journey coming to an end left her feeling a bit odd.

And then what?

“We’ll be putting on cargo—molasses and sugar and such—bound for Virginia Colony.” He drew thoughtfully on the cold pipe. The green eyes darted from the fish briefly to her, and back. “I was thinking…perhaps if your brother has no place for you, I have a sister there—in the Colonies—with a household. I was thinking perhaps if you wished…”

The suggestive lilt in his voice said everything else. A cold pit grew in her stomach, Cate’s knuckles whitening as she gripped the rail. “How long have you known?”

He smiled around the pipestem. “If there’s one thing you learn at sea, it’s to judge a person. You’re running from a husband?” He pointed his gaze at her wedding ring, the silver gleaming as brightly as the dolphins.

“No, not exactly.” She clutched her ring if for no other reason than to protect the memories it held. His concern seemed sincere, but she worried of how far he intended to probe.

A cry came from the foretop, followed by Mr. Ivy appearing at Chambers’ elbow.

“Beg pardon. Sail, sir.”

“Where away?” asked Chambers.

“Larboard quarter astern.”

The news was received with no more than the lift of a sandy brow. More revealing was the flexing of his jaw muscles and lips tightening to white around the pipestem.

“Tell your man there’s an extra half-ration if he’s correct. The eyes can play tricks on a man out here; no sense in rewarding false alarms.”

Heart pounding, her attention had swiveled instantly to the horizon behind them. It was one of those days when the running seas took them to the top of the world one moment, only to be surrounded by water the next. The ship maddeningly seemed doomed to the latter just then, a wall of deep blue blocking her view.

Chambers paused before turning away to look up once more at the soaring petrels. “Seems they brought a storm after all.”



###



Reports came throughout the day. The moment finally came when the Constancy and the distant ship crowned a wave simultaneously and Cate saw the ship for the first time. A speck barely the size of her thumbnail, the sails stood strikingly white against the backdrop of deep-colored ocean and gunmetal clouds. The next instant it was gone, leaving her to wonder if she had actually seen it, or after having strained for so long, her eyes and imagination had obliged.

Cate closed her eyes. The image remained. It was no figment.

Once seen, the ship was twice alluring, and Cate stood through the intervals of watch bells, waiting and watching. As wind and water allowed, she spotted it, always at the same angle, always incrementally closer.

In the last rays of daylight, Chambers sent a man aloft with the spyglass, pacing the decks until the report finally came, in breathless, eye-rolling gasps.

“’Tis the Sarah Morgan, sir!”

“By what means?”

“Black ship with blood dripping the sails, sir.”

“Blackthorne’s ship,” was Ivy’s whispered aside to Cate. “Her decks run red with the blood of her victims. She’s carried on the back of Calypso.”

“Nay, ’tis Neptune hisself, a-risin’ on a prodigious sea-horse a-pullin’ her. I spoke with a tar what seen it with his own two eyes,” came a voice from behind her.

Chambers swore an uncharacteristic obscenity as he looked aft. An awed murmur emitted from those nearby and word echoing down the deck. He glanced west, toward the impending sunset, and then told Ivy, “Douse the lamps. They’ve spotted us, but no sense in advertising our whereabouts. They’ll lay off for a bit to size us up,” he explained to her questioning look. “See who we are, how we’re armed, or if we’re worth taking. ’Course, it could be just another ship, crossing paths. It happens,” he added, without conviction.

It seemed a blessed unlikely proposition: since sighted, the ship had veered straight for them, like a hound on a scent.

“We can only pray for a dirty night in which to hide. Otherwise, we’re as plain as a...a...as black on white,” he finally managed.

Contrary to Chambers’ hopes, the night was regrettably clean, with friendly winds and forgiving seas, the water no more than a rustle at the hull. Once the sails were reefed and trimmed for the night, the decks fell quiet, leaving everyone with nothing but their own thoughts. Sails aglow in the moonlight, the pirate ship was easily spotted, steady and constant as an ever-nearing North Star.

The crewmen off-duty hunched on the hatch grates. There was no pretext of merriment. The grog ration proved woefully inadequate at lifting their spirits; if anything, they grew more melancholy. On land or sea, a storyteller was worth his weight in gold. The cook served the body, but the storyteller kept the spirit. The Constancy’sresident narrator was a man by the name of Barnstable, seemingly the oldest aboard, if for no other reason than the deference with which he was treated. A shockingly deep orator’s voice emitted from his spare, horse-faced frame. The men tended to follow him like chicks after a hen, to perch around wherever he finally sat, eagerly settling in for the night’s entertainment. In desperate need of distraction, Cate hung at the group’s margins to listen.

That night, Barnstable was in his glory. With a mind like the library of Alexandria, he called upon his cornucopia of pirate tales. Each darker than the one before, his stories painted a picture of violence and inhumanity that bordered on madness. The individual pirates became lost in a jumble of barely familiar names, some remarkable only by virtue of their horrific uniqueness: Low, who cut off a man’s lips and cooked them in front of him; Montbars, who nailed a captive’s gut to a tree, and then made him dance.

And then there was Morgan. Rumored to have harbored a hatred of women, he had married fourteen over time, throwing each overboard when finished with them.

Cate shuddered, and not from the chill in the air. “Vile and inhuman,” she said aloud without meaning to.

“’Tisn’t the half of it, missus,” said Sullivan with a roll of his eyes. “If only that were all. Heaven help any woman what’s taken by those slavering curs.”



###



Cate stepped on deck the next morning and her knees sagged. When last seen, the pirate ship had been a foreboding blotch in the night. Now it loomed large.

The ship unfurled her banner into the sun’s early rays, and Cate felt a surge of panic. Larger than the ship’s asymmetrical aftersail, the massive, black banner bore a white skull with a halo at a rakish angle, and framed by a pair of angel’s wings. Red streaked down the skull: tears of blood.

One of the men swore vehemently, his last hopes of false identity shattered. “It’s the Sarah Morgan.” He swore again and spit, making horned signs with his fingers. “Blackthorne’s ship.”

“It’s his flag,” said Ivy, resigned. “The Angel of Death. Not even the Dutchman can catch her. Ol’ Blackthorne’s outrun the Devil.”

“Some say he is the Devil,” hissed Barnstable.

There was no further discussion. Meaningful looks were exchanged, agreeing not to unduly alarm Cate. She appreciated the concern, but it was a bit late.

In many ways, seeing the Sarah Morgan so near was a relief. No expert on ships, Cate knew beauty when she saw it and the ship was all of that. Three-masted, with elevated stern and forecastles, she was a bit of a throwback to another era. With an ornate roundhouse and bowsprit, she was by no means fancy or ostentatious; she was a glorious vessel, nonetheless, a lady who knew the value of discretion in her appointments.

In spite of the forewarning, the sight of blood dripping from her deck and sails was still disconcerting. On closer inspection—and small application of logic—the tops had been reddened, but certainly not blood; it would have taken butchering of several oxen for such a vast expanse of canvas. Instead of the traditional bands of colored trim, the sanguineous drool from her deck down between the gunports was actually red paint, skillfully drizzled.

With her guns staring like eyes, the ship was very much alive, exuding a palpable presence.

“Sixteen pounders,” announced Coombs at her elbow, nodding toward the black maws. “She outranges our nine-pounders by a good measure. Another reason Ol’ Black Nate prefers his big ship: those guns would shake apart anything smaller.”

He made a skeptical noise, shaking his head. “Goddamned difficult to fight when we can’t even get close enough to strike, beggin’ yer pardon, Missus.”

Cate now knew what it was to be in the water with a shark. She made a game of how long she could go without looking, all the while knowing the longer she held out, the closer the ship would be, her sails a little larger, the details of her rigging a little clearer. At one point, she turned to find instead of being squarely astern, the ship had slipped her course off to one side.

“What are they doing?”

“Going for our wind,” Chambers said with measured gravity. “He’ll come around behind us, our wind is starved…” He snapped his fingers in finality.

“Can’t you just sail faster?”

He laughed, a little derisive and a lot pained. “We’re heavy and she’s light. We’re out-sailed, out-gunned, and out-manned. We’ve uncaulked the gunports, but to what purpose? If we show one gun, she could rake us. If we surrender, I might be able to negotiate…something.” The green eyes darted guiltily toward her, and then away.

The black ship’s aftmost gun belched smoke, the retort reaching the Constancy just before the ball splashed harmlessly astern. Another was fired across her forefoot.

“Warning shots,” growled Chambers. “The next ones will find home.”

Time. It was all the Morgan required to draw closer. Looming larger and larger, her yards and sails towered over the lesser ship. As if gut-punched, the Constancy staggered and slowed. Sails sagging, her substance of life had been robbed, her wind gone.

“Helm’s a-lee! Douse the tops and lay ’er in irons!”

Sails luffing, Morgan drew up and sat like a dark huntress. Cate knew little of sailing, but could appreciate the seamanship involved as the black ship slowed at the Constancy’s exact rate, the red-crowned sails blanketing her wind. If she was to pass, the Constancy could spread her wings and fly once again, but there seemed little hope of that.

“Stay by me.” Chambers’ impassioned voice drew her attention. “They’ll take the ship, so there’s no sense in you hiding. Perhaps, if you’re with us…me…I…we might afford you protection, at least for a bit.” He gulped and added bitterly, “If I had the stomach for it, I’d end it for you now, but I’m not that much of a man.”

All hands gathered amidships. The weapons earlier dispersed were collected and displayed in full sight on the deck before them, notably still within reach, should there be treachery. Cate, as did everyone, craned her neck, searching the pirate ship, hoping for a first glimpse of her famed captain, but to little effect. Her decks teemed with men…so many, many men.

Time could indeed be an unmerciful enemy. Her heart hammering to deafening proportions, breathing was no longer a natural, unthinking thing. It now required focused effort to push the air in and out of her lungs. By the time the longboats drew alongside and hooked on, she was in a complete state. Wiping her palms on her skirt, she discovered that in spite of the tropical sun, she was swathed in a cold sweat. Every bone in her body screamed to run, but to where? She scanned the horizon, expecting to see only water and was surprised. So preoccupied with the pirate ship, she hadn’t noticed the thin line of green marking an island, the first land in over two months.

So near, and yet so far.

“’Hoy on deck?” came a baritone call from alongside.

Cate jerked at the sound of it.

“Pray pass. We are unarmed,” was Chambers’ level response.

All vows of bravery dissolved at the sight of the pirates pouring up the side of the ship. Circling like a pack of predatory wolves, they were bizarre-looking, many half naked. What set these men apart was the bristle of weapons and the ease with which they brandished them. Cate had seen her share of thieves and murderers; never had she witnessed such en masse collection of sinister depravity. Eyes glowing with the prospect of prey, they sniffed for the first weakness, restrained only by the thin leash of decorum that ruled the sea. Coiled for attack, they brought the smell of sweat, rum, and gunpowder.

How do you know if someone is a pirate? She knew now the naiveté of that query. Like a poisonous snake, you knew one when you saw it.

Cate fell back a step. Chambers squared his shoulders and sidestepped to put himself further before her. The pack leader stepped forward. He scanned the Constancies, ultimately settling on Chambers.

“My name be Ezekiel Pryce, Quartermaster and First Mate of the Carrie Morgans.”

Cate glanced about, but no one seemed to take notice of the disparity in the ship’s name.

Barrel-chested with sharp grey eyes, Pryce had a bearing that made him seem taller than his slightly above-average height. In one hand he bore a pistol nearly the length of his arm, in the other, a cutlass. Gleaming in the morning sun, its ornate basket and gold filigree played a stark contrast against his otherwise inelegance.

“Captain Nathaniel Blackthorne sends his compliments.” His booming baritone left no room for error.

“Mordecai Chambers, master of the Constancy. Your servant, sir.” He ducked an abbreviated bow. “What measures might be taken to spare my crew and ship?”

“We seek captives.” The announcement was made with the same casualness of ordering ale. Pryce swiveled to fix an eye on Chambers and then Cate, like a cat zeroing in on a mouse. The turn of his head revealed the other side of his face. From the middle of his lips, his mouth was gone, leaving nothing more than a long open wedge and a row of jagged broken teeth. The edges of skin drew back into what might have been intended as a smile, but looked more like a carnivorous snarl.

“Women, to be exact.” The damaged mouth added a slur to Pryce’s West Country drawl.

Tucked behind Chambers, she felt the weight of every pirate eye. In the face of pistol and sword, she was grateful for his protection, but a fragile shield he was.

“We’re a merchant. We’ve no passengers,” Chambers replied, adding an offhanded, comment. “There’s none here, except my wife.”

Cate held up her hand to exhibit her wedding ring, widening her eyes for an added bit of innocence.

“We were told there would be women,” Pryce said, unperturbed. If anything, he appeared to have expected a ploy of some sort.

“Then you were told wrong.”

“Cap’n’s expectin’ women.” Pryce’s glare hardened. “Give ’em now and you’ll be given quarter.”

“I assure you,” Chambers began. “We’ve no…”

Somewhere between annoyed and bored, Pryce gestured with a tilt of his head. “Get ’er.”

Cate yelped in surprise at being roughly snatched up from behind. A forearm coming around her neck brought her up hard against her captor. She cried out again at her arm being given a cruel twist as it was brought up behind her back. A low growl of protest came from the Constancies, which died quickly in their throats. Pryce stepped closer and inhaled loudly enough for all to hear.

“Ah, the smell of a woman!” He dramatically rolled his eyes. The deformed mouth drew back into a smile that was too reminiscent of the black flag overhead. “’Tis been a long time, has it not, gents?”

The pirates’ leering snickers and a cackling laugh set her skin crawling.

“We were told there would be a Commissioner’s wife.” Pryce raked Cate with the same appraising eye as one might survey a horse. “A might young, but fair enough. There should be a daughter, as well.”

“She’s none of those,” said Chambers in a low voice. “The Littleton women died a month ago.”

“Aye, as sure as black’s the white o’ me eye,” sneered Pryce.

Pryce gave the barest of nods. A Chinaman stepped before her. Half a head taller than she, his broad features were stony save for the cold glint in his near-black eyes. He drew a knife, pausing to brandish it for the benefit of all. The wicked thing gleamed in the sunlight. With its elegantly curved hilt and blade, if one were an admirer of knives, it would have been considered a beauty. She had a particular loathing for knives; any wielded blade. She jerked, but was held firmly, the blade’s tip coming to rest at the hollow of her throat. The grasp on her arm tightened, her bones grinding painfully together.

He’ll be the one holding a knife to your throat. Fitzgibbons’ prophecy was too ironic.

She held her breath, afraid to move, in dreaded anticipation of what was to come with the next rocking of the ship.

“Get ’em,” Pryce demanded.

“There. Is. No. One.” Chambers said, now somewhere behind her.

Pryce drew an annoyed breath. Another bare nod and the knife slipped to the edge of her bodice. There was a slight pressure, and then the soft sound of fabric ripping and the periodic pop of laces. She felt the cold sting of the blade brushing one breast. She twisted against being held, her shoulder burning from the horrific angle at which her arm was held. The progress of the knife could be tracked in the reflection of the flat black eyes. With one arm at her back, she felt her exposure increasing, the pirates lewdly snickering at the prospect.

“Can’t imagine what sort o’ gent would be a-wishin’ to see his wife naked out here for all to see. Can’t be a promisin’ what might happen. ’Tis been a good while since we’ve made port, has it not, mates?”

“You damned bloody bastards,” rumbled Chambers.

Pryce’s laugh boomed across the deck. “Damned and bastards, indeed. Motherless to the man. Perhaps t’were the lack of mother’s milk what rendered us so heartless.”

Her cheek was tight against the pirate’s sweat-slickened chest. He stunk of sun-baked sweat and rising lust. She squirmed. The arm at her neck tightened. Blood pulsed thickly in her ears. Her eyeballs grew tight, as if too large for the sockets. The hot breath on her neck quickened with excitement, the hard body straining against hers. A droplet of moisture, either saliva or sweat, dripped on her chest and began a slow journey downward.

She slid a sideways look to where the Constancies stood, and saw everything from ashen-faced fear to quaking with pent rage. Some looked to the weapons piled before them, measuring their chances. A few looked caught short, as if their bowels had gone to liquid. Ivy bore a bullish scowl. Fitzsimmons gaped as if seeing his first circus.

The rush of her own breathing filled her ears. She swung from one emotion to another, one overpowering the next: fear, anger, mortification, resentment, and, above all, rage—pure, devouring, gut-tearing rage. She strove to remain calm, in order to measure her options. Bite? Kick? Claw? Run? There were wretchedly few, and each instantly dismissed as futile.

All rational thought dissolved under a wave of panic. From deep in her gut, it surged like a rising tide, each wave stronger than the last. The sweating brute holding her merged with others from another time, when the press of slavering male, restraints, the bite of steel, and the smell of her own blood had been a part of a different nightmarish scene. The knife inched lower and her belly contracted in recollection of abuse and mutilation by a blade once before.

She writhed. The knife nicked her ribs and the bubble burst. She screamed, high-pitched and piercing, aiming it directly into her captor’s ear. He and the Chinaman jerked and fell back. The grip on her loosened and she wrenched free, ripping the last bit of her bodice. She scooped up a cutlass from the weapons on the deck. Swiping up and out as she rose, she caught the Chinaman in the leg with the first swipe. He went down with a surprised high, thin yowl.

The Constancies had taken her cue and seized up their weapons. The entire deck was now in full motion. From all around came the clash and mayhem of hand-to-hand fighting. Pistols fired, the air growing thick with smoke and the sharp smell of blood. In a two-fisted grasp, she slashed from side to side, sending the pirates scattering.

Follow the lead. Anticipate! Focus! she thought, recalling lessons of long ago.

Steel screamed, blade against blade. Pain shot up her arms with each blow. Lacking the strength and skill for offense, defense was her only ploy: swing and block, swing and block, up and block, sideways and block, time to time feeling the impact with flesh. She saw the deck in small vignettes, like framed pictures: a storm petrel darting overhead through the forestays, a pirate and a Constancy diving for the same pistol skidding across the deck. Another clutched his gut, the blood vibrant between his fingers. A severed finger landed at her feet. In a strange disjointed sort of way, she could see herself: a half-naked, half-crazed woman wielding a sword.

The pirates maneuvered to circle her, lunging at every chance. Dodging their clutching grasps, she inched away. Her skirt was yanked, and she stumbled and fell, the back of her head slamming the deck. The surrounding mayhem faded, her stomach knotted, and then lurched, as if she was going to vomit. Internal voices screamed for her to move. By some miracle, she still held the sword. She rolled to her knees, and then stood on rubbery legs, blocking and beating back those who came at her.

For God’s sake, run! Don’t let yourself be taken!

As the pirates closed in around her, the warnings grew to screams. Arms burning, she couldn’t last much longer. Away, off the ship suddenly seemed the only answer. From the corner of her eye, she saw once more the dark outline of the island.

Run!

Not quite running, but the effect would be the same. She hitched her skirts and leapt for the rail. Seizing a shroud, one of the wrist-thick ropes supporting the mast, as a brace, she slashed down at those who sought to snatch her back. A blow to the hip spun her around, jerking the thick rope from her grasp. Her skirts tangled in the deadeyes and she clawed the air. The sky was blocked by the side of the ship going by. She looked up at the stricken pirate faces over the rail…

And then she hit the water.