The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 4: Captivated

Cate woke to the puzzling sensation of being tugged by the hair and a strange smell, curiously reminiscent of hay and barns.

Not knowing where she was only added to her disorientation. Not in bed, certainly, but where? She cracked one eye open to a sideways view of a room. A cabin…a hard surface against her cheek…sitting rather than lying…And then the night before came tumbling back.

Her hair was pulled again. Not painfully, but more out of impatience. She pried her cheek from where it stuck to the table, turned her head, and was met by two vertically slitted golden eyes, a startled bleat, and a blast of goat breath.

“Ah, you’ve met!”

Cate sat up at the sound of Nathan’s voice. He stood braced in the doorway of the sleeping quarters, hair matted, blood-streaked shirt rumpled and askew. Both eyes had blackened in the night, one swollen considerably more than the other. It left him looking quite cockeyed.

“We haven’t exactly met,” she said, eyeing the goat. The beast ducked its head to snatch her hair again, bleating in protest when Cate reflexively jerked away.

“Hermione, mind your manners, you ruddy beast. You needn’t be afraid of her,” Nathan directed to Cate.

He balefully regarded the goat as he crept across the room. He moved with the utmost care of one suffering the severe aftermath of a night of overindulgence. Careful not to cross the line of demarcation, his path veered to snatch up the rum bottle as he passed. “She bites, but only when in drink.”

“I’m not afraid. It’s…She’s…I wasn’t expecting—”

“No goats?” Nathan mused on the thought as he slouched in his chair. “Can’t imagine why not. Come to think on it, there’s been one on nearly every ship I’ve served. Good milk, not to mention fresh meat on the hoof. Gives the men a bit of the sense of home, too. Never could abide pigs aboard,” he added as an afterthought. “They don’t fancy the sea. Nothing more unsightly than a seasick pig.”

“Where’s your bandage?” Pulling her attention from the goat, Cate saw that Nathan’s headscarf was back in place. A dark circle, looking suspiciously like blood, bloomed in the neighborhood of where he had been wounded.

“Can’t be seen as infirmed,” he said with a flap of the hand. He took a drink from the bottle. “Besides, ’tis fine,” he said with his eyes closed, waiting for the rum’s restorative effects.

“I rather doubt that. A wound like that doesn’t disappear overnight.”

Nathan's eyes popped open to give her a dark look from under his brow. “I had one mum and shan’t be in need of another, if you please.”

While Cate slept, cups and a pot had been left on the table. The pot was still hot, surprisingly so. Pouring, she was pleased to find it was coffee. She gestured to Nathan in silent query as to whether he desired any. A shudder and a lift of the mouth was her answer.

She took a drink.

Tea was fine for afternoon parlors, but nothing started the day like a good cup of coffee. This particular cup, however, tasted like musty socks and had a thick gritty texture that left a coating on her tongue and an edge on her teeth. She wondered how much delicacy would be required to convince Mr. Kirkland to change his brewing methods.

Sensing she was being stared at, Cate looked up into an intent gold-eyed gaze at her elbow. Hermione’s narrow nostrils flared interestedly in the direction of her cup.

“She fancies tea,” said Nathan.

“This is coffee,” she pointed out to the goat as it persistently nudged her arm.

“Aye, well, she’s only a goat. Mr. Kirkland!” The bellow directed toward the galley companionway was but a shadow of its former self. The effort evoked a pained grunt. “It would appear Hermione has been left wanting…again!”

“Aye, sir,” came a querulous reply from below.

“Mind your meal as well,” Nathan said to Cate, with a narrow look toward Hermione. “She’s no manners a-tall. Away with you, you wretched, cloven-hoofed spawn of the Devil.”

Name-calling having no apparent effect on her goat feelings, Hermione blithely turned away to browse the room.

Kirkland appeared directly with what could only be assumed to be a dish of tea.

“Is it hot enough?” Nathan demanded, following Kirkland with dull eyes. “You know how she gets, if it isn’t hot enough.”

“Aye, sir,” the red-faced cook replied tolerantly, setting the steaming dish with care at the animal’s cloven feet. “’Twas near jumping out o’ the kettle.”

Nursing the kind of headache earned through exhaustion, Cate sipped her coffee against the backdrop of the goat’s indelicate slurps.

Pryce came in to interrupt their domestic scene. Quite slumped with exhaustion, he reported, idly scratching Hermione’s ears, while she mouthed his sleeve. Bracing his head with a delicacy befitting a crystal bowl, Nathan listened to the list of damage, a litany far too technical for a landsman such as Cate to comprehend. Nathan scowled with the effort of listening, the corners of his eyes tightening with the throb in his head. From the seamanlike discussion, she was able to glean that the Ciara Morganse had inflicted nearly lethal damages, but had not escaped damage herself. In spite of it all, the ship was still able to make weigh, but was in dire need of a place in which to lick her wounds.

“Isla de las Aguas de los Santos Sedientos,” Nathan announced in Pryce’s wake.

“Water of the Thirsty Saints Island?” Cate asked.

“Muy bien. Habla español.”

“Almost exclusively, my early years.”

“Could explain that accent of yours,” he mused with an air that suggested he was still of two minds regarding her truthfulness of her identity.

“Rather a lofty title for a very diminutive spot of land,” he said, returning to the subject at hand. “Supposed to be some magical springs, or some such nonsense somewhere or another.”

Nathan plucked a piece of fruit from a plate in the center of the table. He peered at it, sniffed, curled his nose, and put it back. He grabbed up the honey jar instead, swirled his finger inside and popped a golden glob into his mouth.

“We go in with them thinking we aim to raid,” Nathan went on, licking the stickiness away. “We give them the opportunity to ask for quarter, and then agree, if they bring us water and wood, and a bit of beef, if they’re so inclined. Why do all the work, when you can get someone else to do it? I call it winning all ’round!”

“How do you figure that?” There were so many things wrong in that argument, she didn’t know where to begin, the most troubling being he thoroughly believed it to be flawless.

“We get what we desire and they don’t get their fair town rampaged, which is exactly what they want. It’s genius. Hostages, torture, pillaging, mayhem: ’tis nasty business. All that blood and wailing ’tis bad for one’s humours. This is ever so much more better and pleasanter for everyone involved.”

He lifted the bottle in a toast to the grandness of his scheme.

“Why am I confident ‘genius’ isn’t the first word which comes to their minds?” Cate said under her breath.

“A town so far off the trade routes they mightn’t have seen a ship in months, perhaps years. ’Tis perfect.”

Nathan rose carefully, wincing at the movement. He critically surveyed her and the ruin wrought by a night of tending the wounded. She was smeared to her feet with dried blood, vomit, and filth.

“We may even find you some clothes. Those seem a bit...soiled?” he said dryly.

He frowned, considered, and then began tentatively. “There is the chance—a very remote one, mind—that I might have not represented meself in the most flattering aspect.”

Humble, clearly, was not a natural state for him.

“There are times when one becomes…” Nathan paused to clear his throat several times. “One becomes, oh, caught up…Still, I might…stipulate that our pact…might still prevail…”

Cate checked for the line on the floor, thinking she might have inadvertently crossed it and was about to be admonished.

“…you yet agree…not to…attack?” The lilt in his voice held the question.

She ruffled at the implication it had all been of her doing, but desisted, knowing it would prove little. She might have been the one to throw the first punch, but she had been taunted beyond endurance. From a certain point of view, if she leaned ever so carefully to the proper angle, it was an apology.

It hurt not to smile, but she remained straight-faced, nonetheless. “Agreed.”

Nathan’s relief was evident in the way of a broad grin and a drop of his shoulders.

“Very well. Agreed,” he said, more to himself. He dashed at the floor with his boot, as if to scuff the line away. Gingerly placing the battered leather tricorn on his head, he squared his shoulders.

“On with it, then.” He made a zigzagging path, from one side of the erased line to the other, until he was out the door.



###



To the rhythmic thump of the pumps and gush of hoses washing the decks, Cate went to check on the wounded, whose name Pryce was entering on the binnacle list. Grooves and Harrison were warm with fever; they would bear closer watching. To those in pain, more rum was administered, water laced with porter or honey for the rest.

Cate came on deck to the sight of Nathan and several others standing before the hose. Arms extended, he turned slowly, allowing the rush of water to wash the blood and filth from his clothes. He stepped to the scuttlebutt, a reservoir for rainwater. He scooped a bucketful and doused over his head, more or less rinsing the salt water away. After, he shook off like a great dog, water spraying in all directions. His shirt was still streaked with dried blood, but the worst was gone.

She smiled privately at seeing a mattress—hers, no doubt, for odds were it was the only one aboard—dragged out given the same ablutions, and then left on the grates to air.

The ship’s people moved with nowhere near the same vigor, but were far more vigorous than she had expected after taking such a beating. This was far from the first battle, and God willing, far from the last. She had seen troops so shocked by battle they were barely able to rouse from their blankets. These men showed no such symptoms. They were bound by blood and faith in each other, faith in their ship and her heart and strength, a stronger faith in their captain, who didn’t take their lives lightly.

Once the ship was well under way, her people went on to the next order of business: services for the dead.

Tradition held that a seaman’s hammock was his shroud. With two round shot at their feet, six such bundles were laid out at the rail: four killed outright in battle and two succumbing to their wounds in the night. One was a man by the name of Croftsford; she had held his hand in his final hour of delirium.

He died with a smile and calling her “Mary.”

All hands able turned out. As captain, Nathan presided over the ceremony. His shirt still dark with wetness, one eye ticking with pain, he took a pen and symbolically struck their names from the muster book. It was a solemn scene, with a reverence of which one might have thought these ruffians incapable. Watching from a discreet distance, she was struck by the camaraderie and brotherhood that bound them, a connection no less deep than the blood of a Highland clan. Pirates they may have been, but at that moment they were men grieving the loss of a shipmate.

By their very nature, funerals brought one to recall personal losses. The presence of those gone before could be felt, as if called to gather and receive the newcomer. As Cate looked at the bundles laid out, she couldn’t recall their faces. Time hadn’t allowed for such familiarity. And so, her mind replaced them with those of her own loss. Grief seized her anew, tightening her throat and pinching her heart.

One face in particular rose and parted from the rest: a good-humored one, framed by a shock of auburn hair and level blue eyes, ever-sparked by mirth. He was there. All she need do was turn and he would be standing, waiting…always waiting. He would give her that smile, the one that could warm her heart from across a room, and the intent blue look that could melt all resolve and tighten her belly. All she need do was turn and step into his arms, and she could know again what it was to be held, and most of all, loved.

“Amen.”

The sound of Nathan’s voice jerked her back.

Cate closed her eyes and put a hand to her ear. The sound of a body being commended to the sea was one to which she would never become accustomed. The splash was more cold and final than the thud of dirt on a casket. Determined not to become a sniveling wreck, she was brusquely swiping away the tears when Nathan turned.

“Are ye well, luv?” The dark slashes of his brows drew down with concern.

“I’m fine.” Her eyes filling again, she spun around, putting her back to him. Once sufficiently recomposed, she turned back with a wobbling smile. “Give me something to do.”

Grim-faced, Nathan seemed to perceive the motivation behind her request. While he and Pryce debated as to what she was capable—tarring being too dangerous, not strong enough for the pumps, not to be trusted in the rigging—versus what was most pressing, she gravitated toward a man sitting down amid a snow bank of canvas. The three-sided needle he wielded was gargantuan compared to anything she had ever worked with, but a needle was a needle, and she was intrigued to watch the deft movements as he mended sails.

“Billings here is one the best canvasmen ever t’set sail,” Pryce declared, coming up beside her. He clapped the man on the shoulder and gave him a brotherly shake. “He kin sew more wind into a sail than the Great Zephyr hisself.”

Pryce craned his head skyward. “What be in yer head this fine day, sir? ’Tis a might calm, it is not? But we’ll kiss the iron and sew in the rest, aye?”

Weathered to the same butternut brown as every mariner, at first glance Billings possessed no defining features other than a luxuriant, curving mustache. His response, however, came in a nearly unintelligible garble, Pryce nodding intently.

“Very well, then. T’yer duties,” Pryce said with a joviality she would have thought impossible, and then directed to her from the corner of his destroyed mouth, “Don’t mind if he’s a bit wantin’ on the conversation aspect. He’s put but a score o’ words together over a year’s time. He’s a bit o’ the idiot about him, but who’s to know? He’s blessed with magic in those hands.”

Cate glanced candidly in Billings’ direction. If he had heard—and no reason to believe he hadn’t—no offense had been taken. When he looked up to respond, she saw that under the mustache his mouth was severely disfigured, natural-born rather than by accident, by the look of it.

“The Royal Navy don’t fly no better canvas than the Morganse.” Pryce pointed with pride toward the sail in Billings’ lap. “See them leeches? Only the Navy and the Morganse has corded leeches. And that twine he’s a-usin’ is waxed, not that tar-dipped stuff; only the Royal Navy uses that.”

She forbore questioning how the Morganse came to have stores that only the Royal Navy should possess.

“What about the red?” she asked, looking down at a rubricated stretch of canvas.

Pryce’s contorted face lit. “Funny that. I t’weren’t with the Cap’n then, but he represents he raided a Spanish corvette a’tween Cuba and Cayo Hueso full o’ pastillas of cochineal. Through a certain series o’ mishaps, it got spilt on the canvas stores. Sometimes looks a might pink,” he said, judiciously eyeing the sail, “but the effect is still the same. A comin’ out o’ the sun, she ’pears to be a-breathin’ blood.”

Cate hid a smile. That hadn’t been quite her first impression, but it was close enough.

Amid the turmoil, she became aware of voices rising above all else. They came from a sizable collection of men at the forecastle. One stood at the rail, faced down to the remainder gathered below.

“What are they doing?”

Nathan looked up as if noticing for the first time, and then regarded her as if she might be a bit dense. “It’s an auction,” he said around something tucked in the corner of his mouth. It looked to be a tobacco quid that he half sucked and half chewed on.

“I can see that. Now?” With all that needed to be done, it seemed an odd time for such distractions.

A closer look revealed whatever it was in Nathan’s mouth wasn’t tobacco, but something between leather and a stick. “What is that?”

Apparently he had forgotten it was there, for it took him a moment to take her meaning.

“This?” he asked, holding it up. “Charqui. Some of the islands around these parts still keep the boucan ways of curing meat. ’Tis done on racks over a slow fire, smoked.”

Nathan regarded the woodish-looking strip and made a face. “’Tis far better than salt horse.”

Cate couldn’t help but smile. He was referring to the mariner’s beef or pork, which went to sea packed in salt in three-hundred-pound casks. The meat was soaked in harness caskets, and then boiled in order to render it edible.

“Bite?” he asked, thrusting the brown strip toward her.

She felt like a dog gnawing on a bone—not to mention a bit ungraceful—as she took off a small bit of the other end. The texture being much like that piece of leather, she shifted it to the corner of her mouth.

“Just hold it there and let it soften,” he said, smiling at seeing her struggle with it.

The meat—beef, goat, or pig, she couldn’t tell—was pungent with spices, the smoky taste reminiscent of ham or bacon.

Nathan smiled tolerantly, something he seemed to be doing with frequency, and returned to the subject at hand. “’Tis bad luck to have a dead man’s dunnage about. The sooner it no longer exists, the better. They’ve already drawn for their numbers…where they sleep and their mess number,” he clarified to her deepening confusion. “Empty spaces, sleeping or at table, might invite the dead to linger.”

“But if it’s such bad luck, why don’t you just throw it overboard?” The whole thing struck her as ghoulish. The bodies barely had time to reach the bottom of the sea.

“And waste perfectly good goods?” he asked around his impromptu meal. His eyes rounded in shocked indignation. “’Twould be a sad commentary, indeed. That rigging knife of Wiggins’ was the envy of the ship. I’ll give eight,” he shouted to the auctioneer. “And that pistol. ’Twas Croftsford’s reward for spotting a prize first. And there’s a perfectly good rain tarp. Twelve,” he called louder.

“’Tis all for a good cause,” Nathan said cheerfully in the face of Cate’s distress. “The money is collected and sent to the family, if there is any,” he added with a dubious frown. Then he brightened. “If not, ’tis kept until the next time ashore and pays for drinks all around. Seventeen! Is there anything you desire?” he asked, gesturing toward the forecastle.

“No,” was all Cate could manage. The chunk of meat was now malleable, but still chewy.

“Sold!” came from the forecastle.

“Ah, well,” Nathan sighed. “Be that as it may, the sooner the better all around. Much to do. Bear a hand there,” he cried as he strolled down the deck.

The ship became a beehive, a place where every soul was occupied in one of three roles: sail, repair, or prepare. The boatswain and his mates labored at swaying up new spars, setting a jibbom, bending sails, and knotting and splicing a spider’s web of new rigging. Over and around them, the carpenter and his mates worked to reconstruct a section of mangled rail, shape a spar, topmast and wheels for a gun carriage, plug cannonball holes with great cone-shaped plugs, and rebuild two gun ports that had been blown into one. All the while, they were required to keep the two bilge pumps in working order to keep up with the rising water, over 20 inches in the well, at last report.

In the way of preparation, Mr. MacQuarrie, the Master Gunner, and his mates cleaned their respective instruments, swabbed, reamed touchholes, and chipped round shot. Shot garlands were filled, slow-match and wadding set at the ready. Cartouche boxes and shot bags were refilled. The armorer distributed weapons to the infirmed. Too well to be in their hammocks, but too injured to perform their regular duties, they were able to oil and clean pistols and muskets, and brighten blades.

“I thought you said the town was going to greet you with open arms,” she said as she and Nathan watched the rearmament.

“An over-confident pirate is a dead pirate.”

Desperation was the ultimate determining factor in the selection of which task she was assigned. It would seem a ship had two constants: leaks and miles of aging rope. Mariners being pragmatic creatures, they found a way that one could serve the other. And so she was sat on a low bench and introduced to the picking of oakum.

Nathan was both irritated and apologetic. “Any other day of the week, ’tis considered punishment. Just ask Mr. Ogden: near a fortnight ago he failed to report for his watch, and was sentenced to a pound of the stuff for every man on his watch obliged to work extra whilst his lazy ass was lying in a hammock.”

“Punishment?”

“Of the highest order: time in the brig or bilboes is but time to be on one’s arse, at one’s leisure, making more work for everyone. Men will go to great lengths to avoid picking junk until their fingers bleed.”

“I don’t mind a little hard work.”

“You will,” he said, with a significant roll of the eyes. “You will.”

On the surface, picking oakum was a simple proposition: tear apart old rope until it was down to its most basic fiber, something similar to raw wool, which would in turn be rolled into long strands of caulk. It was easier said, than done, however. The rope—sometimes the thickness of her leg—was made up of uncountable strands, one upon the other, and was encased in layer upon layer of tar and varnish. Twisting, tearing, pounding, rolling, or fraying on a hook were all required. It meant working in a smelly cloud of pitch and a fine, prickling brown dust that clung to everything. The work was hard, the coarse hemp fibers abrading her hands and tearing at her fingers. Between the shock of firing her own guns and taking shots in return, the Morganse had taken a pounding in the last battle, both bilge pumps working to capacity. A lot of oakum was going to be needed, and soon.

Picking oakum was nasty and tedious, but it provided the workers with time for conversation. They regaled Cate with tales, going off on tangents so laden with mariner’s lingo the meaning was lost. At one point, the clop of hooves marked Hermione handily clambering up the steps from below. She pricked her ears interestedly, the pile of frayed rope far too appetizing to be ignored. And so they were obliged to work on the one hand, while shooing Hermione away with the other.

“’Tis a rare sight to see long-jawed cordage or stretched rag aboard the Cap’n’s ship,” said one man proudly, eyeing the growing pile of junk before them. A spare man with walnut-like knobs for knuckles, he had introduced himself as “Potts.” One eye nearly milky, and the other tending to rove, he had the habit of canting his head like a great bird at whatever he wished to see.

“And it’s not as if he’s afraid o’ the canvas,” put in another, busily unparceling, removing the canvas protection sewn over some ropes. “Spits in the wind’s eye, he does, and laughs when it tries to catch ’im.”

“Carried away the st’d’s’l and the mizzen course back a couple months ago,” added another judiciously.

“Bull!” burst out Potts. “’Twere a maelstrom the likes of which no man seed a-comin’! Glass it were that day,” he directed toward her. “Ye could o’ shaved in yer reflection, if ye were of a mind. The wind come straight down.” He slammed his hands together in emphasis, startling Hermione into a bleating protest. “Jest like that! Not a ripple for the warnin’. Any less seaman woulda sheared every stick.”

“Cursed he is,” came a grumble from behind.

“Blessed he is,” put in another. “By Calypso herself.”

A guttural squawk and a heavy flap of wings overhead caused Cate to duck. Looking up she found a huge parrot perched on a cask at Potts’ elbow. A vibrant hyacinth blue, bright yellow marked its eyes and beak. It ruffled its feathers and smoothed, only to raise its hackles and squawk in protest at spotting Cate.

“Go toss yourself!”it croaked with remarkable clarity and clapped its beak threateningly.

“Beatrice! Mind yer tongue, ye scurvy-ridden bag o’ feathers,” Potts scolded. “We’ve a guest aboard, ye rude beast!”

“F*ck off!”

Amid embarrassed titters and clearing of throats, the men shifted uneasily.

“She’s a mite suspicious of strangers,” Pryce directed to Cate as he stepped down from the forecastle. He then growled at the bird, “And a sorry exuse fer a beast ye are.”

“Well, grease me stick!”

“’Tis likely her master spent a fair amount o’ time in the less reputable realms afore she come here,” Pryce explained to Cate, his bronze reddening at his collar.

“Buggering trollop!”

“Sounds as though he was a colorful sort,” Cate said. It was nothing she hadn’t heard many times over on the streets of East London. If anything, it was a bit endearing that the men were embarrassed.

“Who does…?” She was cut short by a contrary-sounding parrot shriek. “Who does she belong to?”

“Eh…?” Pryce closed one eye in puzzlement. He looked from man to man for guidance, defensively hunched shoulders his only response. “Interestin’ question, that.”

She waited for further explanation. None came.

“How do you know it’s a she?” Cate asked, eyeing the bird. A huge one it was. From head to tail tip, it was well over the length of a man’s arm. Her avian experience was limited mostly to the barnyard and sporting varieties, most of which had defining features to separate the sexes.

The men raised their heads to view Beatrice with more a discerning eye.

“Complains like one,” was Pryce’s eventual response.

Picking oakum was thirsty work. Several hours later, while waiting for more rope to be brought, Cate stiffly rose and went to get a drink from the scuttlebutt. Filled with rainwater, its contents still took on the taste of wood gone wet far too long or the canvas used to collect it, but it was still far less foul than the water casks. As she moved about, she kept a sharp eye for Scarface, the one who had accosted her within moments of her being aboard. He was nowhere in sight, but she couldn’t help but think she heard snatches of his voice now and again. For all she knew, one of his accomplices could be standing at her elbow, for she had little recollection of their faces.

Dabbing her mouth on the back of her hand, she turned to find two men standing there. Doffing their caps, they knuckled their forelocks.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, mum. A word?”

Thin, almost to the point of gaunt, his frizzled gray hair showed evidence of once being red. At his side was a younger, squarer one, with a heavy shock of blond hair tar-bound in the forecastlemen’s way.

“You’re Highlanders, aren’t you?” Cate asked, polite but cautious. Their accented voices had drifted on the wind, their rolled r’s and clipped consonants haunting her with echoes of her past.

“Aye, mum. Cameron, by name, but Grant by birth. He’s Hughes,” he added, indicating his partner. He stammered, painfully nervous. “Yer man was a Mackenzie, wasn’t he?”

The water she had just drunk turned to lead. Recognition in England would have meant death. Among the pirates of the Ciara Morganse, she had thought to be safe. After being singled out, there was nothing to be gained in denying it, and so she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“Yes, he was.”

They grinned with delight.

“Aye, we thought so. We dinna wish to be forward, Mum, but we kent ye as soon as we laid eyes on ye. May I shake yer hand, Mistress Mackenzie? He was a fine man, mum. I…we wish to honor his memory.”

He seized her hand and was pumping it before he realized himself. His eyes bulged and jerked away, flushing. “Pray, beggin’ yer pardon, Mistress Mackenzie.”

Twisting his hat unmercifully in his hands, he exchanged glances with his companion, who silently encouraged him on.

“We served under him, ye ken, from Prestopans to…well, and after,” he ended awkwardly, his countenance darkening. Then he brightened, picking up his purpose again. “He was a fine man, Mum, the finest we’d ever seen. Best officer in the whole cursed affair. Courage of a lion.”

“Yes, he had that,” she said, wilting under the increasing weight of several of the mariners looking on.

“And when I saw ye stitchin’ yon Chin, I said to meself: ‘That’s Red Brian’s leddy.’” His face split into a smile again, studded by a total of four teeth. Then he waxed very solemn. “We just wanted to say as how proud we wuz to serve under yer man, m’m.”

With a strained smile, she mutely nodded.

God! Was there no way to quiet them.

“We followed ’im to Hell and back. A natural leader he was. We wuz fair sorry when we learnt o’ him so terrible hurt.”

“I’m sure he would have appreciated your enthusiasm.” Cate cringed, her gut knotting. Would he ever stop?

“And we was right sorry to hear he’d been captured. Bloody sassenachs!” He flinched at the blunder. In many circles, such an epithet would have launched a fight. Apparently, pirates overlooked slurs.

More of the crew was now watching. A few inched closer, poised but curious. Noticing the gathering audience, the two Scots bobbed a bow in unison.

“We wished to honor his memory, Mistress Mackenzie. G’ day, mum.”

Cate sagged against the rail in relief. She didn’t look up; she didn’t need to. She could feel the men’s eyes boring into her back.

No secrets on a ship, she thought ruefully, as she ran a shaking hand over her face.

It had been as public announcement as could possibly be made. She might as well have stood on the capstan and shouted who she was.

Cate was touched on the arm. She jumped and shrieked. Whirling, she found it was Nathan.

“Beg pardon,” he said, falling back. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no!” One hand pressing to her middle as she caught her breath, she raised the other in apology. “I just didn’t hear you.”

“Did those crewmen—?”

“No, no!” Ducking her head, she scurried off.



###



Isla de las Aguas de los Santos Sedientos.

It seemed a lofty title for such an inconsequential-looking piece of land.

As the ship paralleled the shore, Cate watched the massive black banner unfurl once more. Seeing the bold image of the haloed skull framed by the angel’s wings, she felt the same thrill and tug of pride as when the Nightingale had been bearing down, a sense of belonging; sudden and unfounded, but there it was.

“I would have thought you would desire the element of surprise,” she said, looking up at the flag.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. “Surprise them, and their first instinct is to fight and fight hard, in defense of hearth, family, and all that is dear. But,” he said, with an exclamatory finger and a knowing wink, “give them time and they commence to thinking. With that luxury, the mind sets to imagining how much they stand to lose, and how much pain—possible death—might be required in the process of defending said valuables.”

“Which means?”

“Which means given enough time, they’ll meet you at the dock with the keys to the treasury, their most virginal maids, and desire to know what took you so long in coming. Don’t care for that second bit, eh?” he laughed at seeing her wince.

“Isn’t there some way to circumvent that?”

“Not really,” he teased.

She didn’t know him fully, but Nathan didn’t strike her as a man who would refuse a maid if handed one. The fact of the matter was she considered it safe to say he was a man who had welcomed the company of many women. With his charm and dash, few could resist when targeted by that.

“Brilliant,” Pryce murmured in wonderment over his shoulder, once his Captain had strolled away. “Treasure given over volunteer-like ’tis just as shiny as that what come with spilt blood. The men appreciate that.”

“All of them?” She looked warily across the myriad of faces, Scarface and her earliest moments aboard still fresh in her mind.

He shot a loathing over his shoulder. “No, but those be the ones what tend to seek a cap’n what thirsts for blood ’n’ mayhem. Now mind, the Cap’n can be treacherous when he’s of a mind. I’ve seen ’im slit a man’s gullet and leave the poor bastard with his guts draped over his arm. The Cap’n keeps the rum plentiful, their bellies full, ’n’ the swag piles high, a-knowin’ a man’s dedication takes but two paths: his pocket and his stomach.”

“The men seem to love him.”

“Or respect,” Pryce was quick to qualify. “Don’t be a-confusin’ the two; there be a fair difference a’tween ’em. Them what don’t is long gone, either by choice, or otherwise.

The First Mate was gone before Cate could ask for clarification on the “otherwise.” On second thought, perhaps she was better off not knowing.

The thought of being a part of pillaging and destruction, maybe even killing, was wholly distasteful and disturbing. Death wasn’t new to Cate; she had witnessed a war first hand, but that had been in the spirit of King and country, not a quest for plunder and riches. But realistically, what else was she to do? These men were pirates before she had been brought aboard—no one could accuse her of being there by choice—and they would be pirates long after she was gone. But be damned if she would idly stand by and watch them bleed. If that was aiding and abetting, complicit by virtue of association, then piracy would be added to her charge sheet, and there was blessed little to be done about it.

When the ship opened the bay, a great gun firing—a quarter charge and without the benefit of a ball—announced them, just in case the townspeople hadn’t noticed that a 36-gunned black ship with blood dripping from its sails and decks and flying a prodigious skull-emblazoned banner, was in their harbor. There was a good deal of shouting, the rattle of chain, a splash, and the Ciara Morganse was at anchor. The decks, which had been so alive under Cate’s feet, went motionless for the first time in months. It was a novelty and a quite disquieting sensation.

She strained to see the little town nestled between the island’s mountainous backbone and the sea. It was the closest land since leaving England. Not having pondered it earlier, she now longed for the solidness of land under her feet, to walk on a surface that didn't pitch and roll at every step.

“When are we going ashore?” she asked Nathan, close on his heels.

“As soon as the boats are away, but you’re not going,” he said, wheeling around on her.

Cate rocked back on her bare feet as if she had been struck. She gaped at him, wondering how she could have been so radically mistaken. Her anxiousness had allowed her to forget her tenuous status. She bristled. Worthless as a hostage, now she was simply his possession to do with as he chose, kept in reserve for the best opportunity to turn a coin.

“Why not?” she asked. Even if she was to be shackled, to touch land again would have been worth it.

His hesitancy gave brief hope of second thoughts. “It's not safe.” And then he spun away.

“So I am a hostage then?”

“No,” Nathan said with maddening evenness over his shoulder. “A hostage implies there would be someone to pay for you. And, since by your own admission there is no one, then you’re not said hostage.”

“Then I’m a prisoner.”

“No, prisoner implies punishment. You’ve committed no crime, so there would be no punishment.”

“Then I’m being held against my will.”

“No, protective custody.”

Skidding to a halt, she balled her fists. “Protected from what?”

He stopped. His back still to her, he looked to the sky, and then the deck. Heaving a patience-seeking sigh, he said, “As I said, it’s not safe,” and set off once again.

“Safe! What’s safe have to do with it?”

Nathan drew up, again without turning. A number of responses being disposed of, he ultimately opted for “Everything.”

And then, he was gone.

Cate stood at the rail while the longboats were roused over the side, still prickling at Nathan’s denial. She wasn’t bound or confined, but she was imprisoned, just the same. The ship was a floating gaol, with over a hundred keepers. She looked longingly across the water to the little town. The yearning became a driving need now that she could smell greenery and dirt. With eyes accustomed to the deep hues of the ocean, the vivid mosaic of aquamarine, azure, lapis, and cobalt of the island’s waters had made her squint, the sight of green, absent for so long, almost painful. It struck her with an impact that rendered her near breathless: she was in the West Indies, the tropics, with palm trees, warm water, sun-dazzled skies, with new wonders at every turn.

So near, and yet so far sat the fairyland, within her reach, but unattainable, all because of one capricious pirate.

Cate's senses had been sharpened by weeks at sea. Along with earth and greenery came other smells of civilization, ones conveniently forgotten: animal dung, cooking smoke, privies, tobacco, and the sharper fugue of squalor. Wrinkling her nose, she considered the possibility that she had developed a new appreciation for the sea.

Whether in the Highlands or elsewhere, isolated towns possessed the same sleepy air, resting with the placidity of a cow chewing its cud. This one was bracketed by two lone, brick buildings, representing the opposing powers that controlled its life: the spiritual marked by a cathedral’s bell tower, and the secular, with the flag of Spain. The skeletal remains of a garrison peeked through the trees, along with the rudimentary beginnings of a defensive wall around the town, both long since abandoned. A not-much-better-tended wharf lined the water’s edge, bearing out Nathan’s conjectures regarding the infrequency of visitors.

Before the anchor was set, Nathan stood surveying the town. Now squatted over a piece of canvas, a chunk of charcoal in hand, he drew it out for the men circled around.

“We’ll assume the flag marks where we’ll find whoever the power-on-high might be. Bear off for there first, and then fan out. With any luck, whomever is in charge will…”

“Hoy! Cap’n! Lookit!” came a cry from the rail.

Nathan rose, following the look-out’s point. “What the bloody hell…?”

A small flotilla of barges, catamarans, and boats had embarked from the ramshackle wharf and bore toward the ship. Flags of truce, mostly in the way of tattered handkerchiefs and meal sacks, were in vigorous display at the bow of each craft.

The pirates stood in speechless awe. Nathan was the first to regain himself, and sent marksmen aloft with a sharp gesture. More were posted on the ratlines and rails. Seeing the swivel guns fore and aft brought to bear, the white flags were waved with increased vigor, amid friendly, although tentative hails in Spanish.

The largest barge hooked on, its occupants beckoned aboard. As the first visitor clambered over the gunwale, Nathan seized Cate by the arm.

“No sense in advertising you’re here, eh?” Nathan said as he propelled her toward the cabin.

“But I—”

“Shh!” He pressed her inside and away from the door gently, but firmly enough to indicate he would brook no argument. “Discretion is a virtue often overlooked and highly underrated.”

Once aboard, the townspeople quailed at being encircled by near two hundred-odd armed pirates, now presenting their most heathenish faces. They clung to the rail, making it increasingly difficult for later arrivals to find room. It was difficult to separate one aghast face from another. Mostly men, a few skirts were visible through the press of bodies. Most predominant was a priest, his black cassock stark against the drab of his flock. The sun glinted on the cross at his neck like an overseeing eye, his presence clearly meant to give the pirates pause.

A spokesman stepped forward. Wringing a handkerchief without mercy, he cleared his throat loudly several times.

“Me llamo Don Rafael Fredrico Suarez de la Corretja.” The declaration came with the air of one expecting all present to be impressed. He ducked a formal bow, embellished with the sweep of a plumed hat. “Yo soy el alcalde de este pueblo humilde.”

“El Alcalde” was built like a hogshead atop a cask. His radically askew wig revealed a thin straggle of salt-and-pepper hair.

The exchange in Spanish between El Alcalde Corretja and Nathan came to Cate in bits and pieces, their voices broken by the breeze, or lost amid the shrieks of sea gulls or random cough. Still, the gist of the conversation was easy enough to follow, Corretja’s fawning impossible to misinterpret.

“I come on behalf of the citizens of this insignificant, humble village to welcome such a magnificent ship such as this and its beneficent captain…”

The obsequience drug on. Nathan endured as patiently as his general nature would allow, finally cutting it to an end with an abrupt wave.

“Si, si. I’m sure,” he said in fluid Spanish. “And a grand ‘good afternoon’ to one and all.”

Nervousness prompted Corretja into a frantic tumble of words. “As a token of our appreciation, and as your humble hosts…”

That was the fourth time the word “humble” was heard in as many minutes, many more possibly adrift somewhere on the wind.

From the moment El Alcalde and his party had stepped aboard, wealth was gathered at the pirates’ feet: cages of chickens and ducks, baskets of fresh fish, oysters and clams atop dripping beds of seaweed, pots of honey, bundles of tobacco, baskets of vegetables and fruit, and two shoats: a treasure trove for such a small place. As the offerings piled up, Corretja’s oiliness wasn’t lost on Nathan, as indicated by a periodic snirl. It was an expression, however, a stranger might have taken as a sneer.

At length, a small chest—very small—came forth and with great drama was opened to display its contents of coins and jewelry. Atop it all sat a religious icon and cross, none so subtle reminders of the town’s moral fiber, and an even less subtle appeal to the pirates’. Nathan disinterestedly observed the contents. Having failed to impress with that, Señor Corretja grabbed a woman—more like a young girl—and shoved her forward, a shriek of dismay erupting from the surrounding women. The girl shrank before the strange men.

There was a heated exchange between Corretja and Nathan. Abruptly breaking off, Nathan spun around and stormed into the cabin. There in the protective shadows, he snatched up the rum bottle and took a badly needed drink. He swore in fluent and foul Spanish—nodding a vague deferential apology to where she stood in her protective cove—and then swore again, more colorfully than the first.

“May I introduce Isabella Corretja. The lousy bastard is offering his daughter!” He took another drink. He whirled around to her, the blackened eyes going blacker still. “What kind of man hides behind a girl’s skirts? I’d wager she’s barely fifteen, if she’s a day.”

He started to pace, but his fermentation was too great for even that.

“Look at him,” he snarled. “A fop in beggar’s clothing. He thinks were so daft we can’t see through that pitiful charade.”

Cate looked out through the door’s sidelight once more. Upon closer scrutiny, she saw his point. With the exception of an older woman, who might have been the girl’s dueña, those around Corretja were campesinos, commoners and working folk. Corretja’s thread-bare, ill-fitting coat was a poor camouflage over the gold embroidered waistcoat, a ruffled jabot and shirt of quality beneath. The natty wig and humble shoes were incongruous with the silk hose and silver-buttoned calf breeches. More to the point was the general suspicious nature of the man: the inability to look anyone in the eye. Such reticence could have stemmed from fear, but deception was more fertile ground.

Eloquent in virginal mortification, the head-hanging Isabella had suffered no such diminutions. If anything, she had been enhanced: cheeks pinked, lips rouged and a row of lace hastily tucked, to make her breasts appear fuller. Round-faced with the soft plumpness of youth, where nature had been generous to her at the waist and hips, she had not yet been blessed elsewhere.

Nathan threw a combustive glare at the alcalde. “I should take her right there in front of the sodding worm, just to teach him a lesson.”

“But you won’t, right?”

“No, I won’t,” he agreed grudgingly. Gaze still fixed on the girl, he snorted in disgust. “Never taken a woman unwilling in me life. Besides,” he said, as an afterthought, making a poor attempt at levity, “the young ones are always so much work. He’s gambling we’d think her too young or too plain. Ignorant lobcock!”

In Nathan’s absence, Corretja directed his minions to spread the ever-increasing offerings in a more advantageous display. By no means a king’s ransom, from all appearances it was, however, the settlement’s every possession.

Nathan snorted, shaking his head in wonderment. “If they’re willing to present all that, imagine what they wish not to be seen.”

“You think there’s more?”

“Indisputably! The best proof being His Pompousness’ anxiousness to give up his daughter, a grand gesture to keep something much more valuable—to his estimation at any rate—very safe.”

“But you came only for wood and water.”

“And would have been very content to leave with that, and a crew ecstatic at it being achieved through someone else’s sweat. Now…” He blew a tired sigh. A tic in one eye betrayed his pounding head. “Now, I’ve nay choice: every jack on that deck knows ’tis more to be had. If we leave without, or at least give it a jolly good try, there will be hell to pay.”

“You mean…?” She couldn’t bring herself to utter the word.

Mutiny.

Nathan made a caustic noise at her innocence. “In a heartbeat. If one of those bilge rats were to take over, there will be no saving anyone from anything.”

His eyes drifted Cate's direction, and then he shook his head. “If I’m still in charge, I can strive to keep the damage to a minimum.”

He stared without seeing at the kegs of rum, now being lifted onboard by way of a derrick yard.

“Still, a prize is a prize.” Nathan gave a low, guttural growl and took an angry swipe at the air. “The cold-gutted old skipjack is about to get his just deserves.”

He flashed a rakish smile and took another drink. Blackened eyes, blood-stiffened hair and scruff of a sprouting beard, he looked a right Tartar, the pirate she had expected to meet. He strode back out with renewed determination.

To stunned Spanish gasps and lecherous pirate rumblings, Nathan hooked an arm around Isabella’s waist and drew her against him. She shrieked in maidenly shrillness. Struggling against him, she pummeled his chest, landing the occasional blow to his face and—alas!—head. In the process of resisting, her arm was wrenched and she yelped, more in protest than pain. The priest and several others lunged to her rescue, but fell back at the sight of pirate pistols and cutlasses that were brandished.

“Release that innocent child, you scurrilous beast!” The priest’s protests only served to spur Nathan, now nuzzling the girl’s neck.

Nathan bared his teeth in a smile, the flash of gold adding to his menace. From Cate’s perspective, he seemed inclined toward handing the girl off to his men, just to be rid of her. It was difficult to be dignified with a squirming, screeching girl in one’s arms. Instead, he held her, a sharp jerk and a firm shake bidding her quiet.

“Young, and so very sweet. A fresh rose what begs for plucking.” He inhaled in heady appreciation, and then swiveled his attention to her father. “We require more!”

Corretja’s up-until-then red face blanched. He wiped it with a handkerchief—and such delicate, soft hands they were—which sported a monogram large enough to be seen at Cate’s distance. Nathan continued to smile admiringly, fondling the girl’s hair, her ribbon having come loose in her struggles. The drama continued to unfold. The pirates demanded. The mayor pleaded. Nathan’s irritation grew with each round.

Finally, Nathan gave Isabella a sharp squeeze, eliciting a yelp of protest.

“What are ye thinkin’, mates?” Nathan called to his rogues. “Hang our fair mayor by his thumbs or his balls? Shall it be sweating, carbonado, fuses ’twixt the fingers, or the rosary?”

The pirate captain canted his head, harkening to the raucous cheering, a myriad of grisly suggestions shouted, a cackling, half-maniacal laugh like the squawk of a chicken rising above the crowd.

“Very well. By the balls it ’tis,” he declared grandly.

Corretja was seized, flushing to the point of near apoplexy. A sword pressed to his throat elicited a startled “Eep!” giving the impression the man had just soiled himself. Sweat poured off him in a profusion that led one to wonder how his captors maintained their grip. Blood trickled from under the blade at his throat. Cate felt sympathy, reminded of her own pirate introduction. She hadn’t realized it then, but now, with the luxury of calm and distance, she saw the theater unfold and seamlessly executed it was: the leering looks, the brandished weapons, the knife at a throat. A well-practiced performance. It was riling to think she had been so easily duped.

“Silver,” Corretja shrieked, his voice cracking.

“Papa, no!” cried Isabella, in eye-stretching horror.

Corretja recoiled at his inadvertent disclosure. Nathan’s brows arched interestedly. Eyes rounded and fixed on the gleaming blade, Corretja’s mouth moved like a fish. Once finding his tongue, he babbled in a nonsensical tirade, until Nathan lost all patience and bellowed, “Your silver, if you please, sir.”

“But there is—”

“Silver!” Nathan’s guttural voice ripped the air, startling all to silence. “And unless your lovely wife and daughter, or any other sacrificial lambs you have at your disposal are encased in it, there shall be no further discussion, sabe?”

A cowering, mute nod was his response. Nathan jerked a satisfied nod. “Mr. Smalley, the glass, if you please.”

The directive was aimed toward the quarterdeck, where the ship’s hourglasses were kept. The ship’s timekeepers, there were four such glasses aboard, each measuring anywhere from a half-minute to four hours.

“One hour,” Nathan announced. “And don’t bother coming to us. We’ll come to you, torching what comes before us, so I shan’t advise secrecy. Mind, this bit o’ sweet loveliness will be staying here.” Nathan gave Isabella an emphatic squeeze, eliciting another squeak. “Whilst you…you…and you…” he said, pointing to the dueña and two others, “will remain as well.”

“You, Friar.” Nathan beckoned the priest with an irreverent hook of the finger. He waved them off toward the forecastle, pushing Isabella among them. “Stow yourself, the maid and your little flock over there. Mr. Pryce,” he called, shifting to English. “Guards, if you please. No one is to go near and no one is to step away.”

He shot a glare at his crew in final warning.

There was a tearful departing on the part of Isabella and the other hostages as they were torn from the departing townspeople. Her father offered nothing more than a perfunctory pat on the arm before taking his leave, moving with the wooden stiffness of the doomed to the entry port.

Nathan came into the cabin with Pryce on his heels. He curtly waved Cate back from the door, while instructing the First Mate in short bursts.

“We may be required to weigh fast. Set the kedges, t’gallants, and jibs, and lay ’er in irons. Prepare a landing party to depart within the hour. I’ll be leading this one.”

“It turns out that our fair mayor is also a distant relative to the Royal Family,” Nathan explained after Pryce’s departure. “Some cousin on his wife’s side, six or seven times removed, or some such nonsense. He holds enough esteem to have been entrusted with a sizeable sum of silver for safekeeping. An admirable decision, given he was willing to forfeit a wife and two daughters in its defense.”

He made a caustic noise. “If the good mayor was canny, he could have given us a token portion, and we would have put this blot on the chart to our stern in grand spirits. As it is, he’s about to lose it all.”

He paused to take a long pull from the rum bottle. “Stay inside. No sense in advertising you’re here, eh? They’re only Spanish, but intrigues abound in these waters.”

Nathan glanced out the aft windows, the evening shadows beginning to form dark pools at the foot of the palms.

Cate peeked through door’s sidelights toward the forecastle, where the hostages were encircled by guards, shoulders rigid with the importance of their duty. Against the wall in the back, Isabella cowered in the protective arms of her matronly dueña.

“That poor girl is scared out of her wits,” she said.

“And whose fault is that? I came here looking for water and wood, not…daughters!”

“They don’t know that, did they? Instead, the poor girl could be ruined for life.”

“Why do you think I took all those other hostages, including the bloody, goddamned priest? Would you prefer I bring her in here, so the imaginations might truly abound?”

“Don’t you dare touch her!” Cate didn’t think he would attack the girl, but didn’t know him well enough to be sure. His performance on deck just then had been quite convincing.

A deep crimson rose from his collar and the warm eyes went cold.

“If I were so damned worried, as you so generously suggest, I’d have her in here in three seconds and on the table in four. Nothing enhances a pirate’s fame more than a good ravishing.”

She gave a small, mirthless laugh. “Are you more worried about her reputation or your own?”

“Who made you master and commander, eh? You think I’m so vile and depraved I can’t resist violating the first—belay that, every—woman what comes before me, no matter how ill-favored? Can’t fathom how you’ve managed to bear the presence of someone so scurrilous as meself!” The fringe of the scarf at Nathan's waist jounced at his knees. “I do prefer a softer ride, but the young ones are such a bother. Too tight, all that crying, and then just lie there like a frozen cod.”

“It’s not necessary to impress me with your vast experience.”

“Then I’ll save meself the breath of asking if you desire to watch.” His swollen eyes rounded in a final emphasis.

Stung, Cate jerked a chair around to the stern window and threw herself into it. His combustion grew as he stormed about the room, his bells jangling wildly with each step. She flinched at the crash of something being thrown, solid as opposed to glass or pottery.

“Damnation seize my soul! I could torture them for the sheer joy of hearing them scream, place bets on how long it takes to die, but I didn’t. I could slit their guts and make them dance, whilst I torch the town, out of pure cussedness, but I won’t. I could take the lot of them, hell, the whole goddamned town and sell them, but I won’t. Scurrilous, vile, blood-thirsty, barbarous, brutal or base: pick a word and that would be me, with naught but a shred of virtue or decency to be had.”

If shock had been his goal, Nathan had failed, for none of his threats were far from what she had heard of him. He seemed to be almost baiting her, daring her to argue with him. On the other hand, his scorn seemed aimed at himself, rather than her. Either way, for all she cared, he could rot in hell and not a moment’s sleep would she lose over it.

In an icy silence, Nathan seethed about the room, the clump of boots and slosh of the rum bottle marking his path. The chill in the air was palatable, as proven when Kirkland come up the steps, immediately swiveled and crept back down. As Nathan continued to drink, her uneasiness grew. She hadn’t seen him in drink—not this much, at any rate—and hadn’t the slightest notion of what to expect.

As she watched the blur of his reflection in the window, more rational thoughts slowly came to prevail. There was the chance he drank due to a throbbing head. Kinder thoughts suggested a state of semi-drunkenness might be a necessary for what he was about to embark upon: engaging in the very violence and mayhem he had sought to avoid. His threats—which in the glare of honesty she knew to be hollow—weren’t the most vexing. What stung was the tongue-lashing.

Nathan eventually stormed out of the cabin. Cate assumed him gone ashore, and so was surprised when he returned. Still with her back to the room, she listened to him stomp about. Amid heavy exhalations, chairs were jerked and a bottle was set down with far more force than necessary. It was growing late, the sun too weak to push through the after gallery’s thick panes. She heard the scrape of a flint struck and saw the glow of a candle grow on the glass.

Nathan scuffed to a halt and heaved a resigned sigh. “So what passage must I pay to escape this Purgatory?”

Cate glared over her shoulder. “I’m no pirate. At least I know right from wrong.”

“As do I,” he conceded readily. “However, I am a pirate, which renders the latter entirely superfluous.”

There was the agitated rustle as he set to pacing once again. “Worrying about right and wrong can get a soul killed,” he grumbled, half under his breath. “And I can’t very well conduct what need be conducted, if I have to live in mystery of what’s to greet me upon me return to me own bloody damned ship.”

“In that case, I’ll strive to keep myself and my opinions out of your business.”

Nathan scuffed to a halt behind her. “How’s about if we negotiate, opting, of course, to overlook said opinions?” His testiness gave way to his more familiar tease. “Truth be told, I rather fancy having you in me business.”

Cate peeked over her shoulder and was met with a smile, one meant to charm. Her face heating, she nodded.

“Capital,” he declared. “Now, how’s about I call Kirkland? The man’s near apoplectic worrying you might go hungry.”



###



It was that half-time of neither day nor night, when the light grew so thin the world became like a child’s drawing: a place of two dimensions, flat people moving against a paper backdrop, shore, trees and mountains all existing on the same plane.

Nathan lingered at the cabin door. He drew a breath as if to say something, but didn’t. This repeated several times gave her hope—vague, but hope nonetheless—that he might change his mind and allow her ashore. Settling his hat carefully on his head and his faded-to-near-colorless burgundy coat on his shoulders, he stepped over the coaming and was gone.

From where Cate sat, she couldn’t see the boats pull ashore, and perhaps it was best. Seeing him head off to the uncertainty of battle or accident was an unpleasant prospect. Not to be melodramatic, but she knew first hand how capriciously Providence could strike, how easily one’s life could be turned into something unrecognizable. It wasn’t beyond reason to think she might never see him again.

She shook away the thought and set to delicately thumbing through one of the volumes stacked next to the chair. Sticky with pitch and tar, her hands were a mess from picking oakum. They were covered with fuzz, which no amount of wiping could remove. The book was in French, a language with which she had but passing familiarity, and so she picked out what words she knew and guessed the rest. It was a thoroughly inefficient way to read, but it passed the time, the ultimate goal. Kirkland brought her a plate shortly. Having little appetite, she picked bits from the softtack, chewing without tasting. He took away the virtually untouched meal with a suffering eye, leaving a mug of broth in its place. She drank out of obligation.

Cate peeked through the sidelight once more at the hostages, barely visible where they huddled against the forecastle. She felt as much a captive as they. Her future might well be more tenuous than theirs. She wished she could advise them not to worry; she was reasonably confident no harm would befall them. These were pirates, but not the rapacious, plundering barbarians they were purported to be. There was a good chance, however, that point being advertised could be detrimental to their—and therefore her—success.

The grog dispensed, the men gathered amidships instead of the forecastle. The wealth laid at their feet, and the knowledge of more to come, put them in soaring spirits. They indulged in vast speculations of the prize to come and what the kingly sums might purchase. The lure of piracy was of little wonder: fortunes exceeding a lifetime of labor could be had in a day, squandered the next, and regained the next. The bell clanged. A bellowed “Pipe down!” sent them to their hammocks, although many opted to sleep on deck.

She roamed the cabin, looking for something that wasn’t there. Being alone for five years had taught her much in the way of loneliness, but the emptiness she suffered now was a wholly unfamiliar sort: a void that had been filled suddenly gone wanting, a blanket yanked away on a cold night. She thought to go to bed—sleep could be an excellent way to pass large spans of unpleasantness—but balked at the dark cavern of where her cot awaited. She knew all too well the hazards that came with empty hours in the darkness. They provided a blank canvas upon which the mind could paint an endless number of torturous scenarios of what might be happening ashore. The shrill of female laughter and music echoing across the harbor brought those imaginings in full color. She heaved open the gallery windows and sat on the sill. There, with the sentries’ call of “All’s well” after every bell, she watched the moonlight’s silver dance amid the golden flicker of town’s lights on the water.

Cate had stared for so long, when she finally saw the light, she thought it to be imagined: the flames of a torch swinging a low arc, one, two, three times. A looping circle at the end and it was doused.

She sat up the increased pitch of voices and footsteps on deck. She sped out, in spite of Nathan’s directive, meeting Pryce as he trundled down the afterdeck companionway.

“Was that him?” she asked in a low voice.

“Aye. ’Twere his signal.”

Cate stood at the mizzen shrouds. The longboats’ silhouettes were but dark blots against the harbor’s oily satin. As they drew nearer, she could hear the jocular murmur of conversation, Nathan’s graveled voice among them. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath, until it came out in an explosive burst of relief at seeing him spring up over the gunwale. The moonlight flashed on his smile at seeing her. He then turned to the matters at hand.

Two strapped and padlocked chests were lifted aboard. Neither of remarkable size, they were of considerable weight, requiring a goodly amount of sweating and cursing before they came to rest on the deck. Stirred from their sleep, the torches shone on the greedy anticipation on the men’s faces as they gathered around. With not a little drama, Nathan unlocked the great latches, threw open the lids and stood back.

“The good mayor claims over ten thousand pieces.” Nathan's dubiousness as to the veracity of that was drowned in the joyousness. “A considerable overstatement, by my estimation, but still not a bad day’s work, eh mates?”

A rollicking cheer went up, with a great amount of hearty backslapping.

Pryce, being Quartermaster, and therefore keeper of both the Prize Book and the prize itself, named a counting detail. Cate was more than a little stunned by the overt trust.

“Honor among thieves,” Nathan declared grandly. “Part of the Code, remember: anyone suspected of thievery shall face a court of his equals?” He cast a jaded eye toward the surrounding men. “Not an altogether forgiving lot, to be sure.”

“What happened to your face?” she exclaimed when he turned into the light.

His hand flew up to his cheek, wincing when he touched the streaks there, bright and angry.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, evading her advances as she sought to inspect more closely. “It's nothing, really. I ran into—”

“Someone with fingernails. I see. No, it's quite all right,” she said over his denials. “I'm not shocked at what men do ashore. Although it would appear you might consider exercising a little more discretion in your choices.”

“I wasn't doing anything except trying to procure a bit of treasure for this wretched lot.”

“If that were the case, then where did those come from?” Cate demanded, pointing to the claw marks. “You should wash that, you know.”

“Must you wash everything? I got it seeking these.”

Nathan shoved the bundle into her arms and stood back. Shaking the bundle out, Cate found a red-checked skirt, a shift and jump-style stays made of homespun. There was a pair of peasant-like clogs, as well, which at first glance appeared a bit small, large feet the price of being tall.

“Clothes? You brought me clothes?” she cried.

“I thought perhaps those might be more fitting, what with your standards being so high and all. I had in mind they were more to your size than those…others.” He finished with a disdainful flourish of bejeweled fingers.

She brought the clothing closer to her nose and frowned. They smelled heavily of the previous owner—and quite recent—a strange combination of perspiration, orange water, and fried fish.

“You'll no doubt want to wash those.” Nathan bore the forced smile of a man already resigned to his doom.

“You took these off someone. You stole these?”

He back-pedaled, grimacing. “Not exactly.”

“Is that how you got those scratches? What did you do, knock her down and take them, or, did you get her undressed, and then sneaked off?”

“You don't paint a very flattering picture, either way.”

“Then paint a better one.”

Nathan sputtered, with several false starts. “There's no pleasing you, is there? A man risks life and limb—”

“Which limb were you risking?” She was in high color and in no mood to be placated. It was mortifying to think someone had lost their clothing—their only ones, by the looks of it—for her benefit.

Cate stalked into the cabin to fume in private, struggling with emotions she didn’t understand. The wait had played on her nerves more than she cared to admit. Through the night, she had fought against envisioning what he might have been doing. There had been no orange glow of flames over the town. It was safe to say no buildings had been torched, but by all appearances, other flames had been lit. The wondering had been trying enough; knowing now that he had been pursuing his pleasures the while was far more disturbing than anticipated.

The knowledge stung worse than his cross words. Worse, Cate didn’t understand why. Well, if she were honest, she did know, the question being more a matter of who she was angry with: Nathan, for being a man, doing what men do, or herself, for acting like a naïve maid. Neither was flattering.

Boots and the soft jingle of bells announced Nathan’s arrival. He stopped near the table and cleared his throat several times.

“I’m sorry,” she finally blurted. “I didn’t mean to appear an ingrate.”

“Soiled goods from a pirate, is it?” he asked, not a little accusing, and then laughed, a lot derisive. “No worries, luv. Your secret ’tis between us.”

As she laid the clothes on the table, he seized her by the wrists.

“What the bloody hell happened to your hands! Belay that. I’ve eyes for meself,” Nathan said, when she jerked away and tucked them behind her back. “I would have thought between all hundred-odd sorry, thick-pated sprats on this blessed hulk, they could find enough brains among them to stop you, before you’ve gone bloody.”

Cate couldn’t argue; her hands were nearly that in several places. Her nails felt as if they had been torn from their beds, her fingers so covered in brown fuzz they resembled monkey hands. Those same fibers and grit had worked through her to the binder around her chest, prickling and itching to the point of near raw.

“Mr. Kirkland, oil and ash, if you please,” Nathan shouted, relying on his volume to carry the order down to the galley.

“And vinegar…for your face,” Cate added at Nathan's questioning glare.

“We’ll be in need of hot water directly,” he told Kirkland as the stone bottle and saucer of ash were delivered. “And a bit of wool.”

Pitching his hat and coat aside, Nathan retrieved the basin from its stand. While Cate worked the oil and ash into her hands as directed, he filled the basin, bidding her to rinse next. The hot water burned the tortured skin at first, but soon had a balming effect. As she massaged the luxurious heat into the aching joints, a skim of oil and brown fuzz formed on the water’s surface.

Critically eyeing her shirt and pants, in the absence of a towel, Nathan extended his arm. “Here, use me sleeve. You’ll be naught but covered in the stuff again if you touch yourself.”

Something nagged her the while, something different about him from when he had left. As she dried her hands on his sleeve, she discovered what it was: his shirt was clean, the blood stains gone. She nearly inquired, but to do so would have meant exploring territory best left alone. After all, it was no great stretch of the imagination to figure what he had been doing ashore.

“Rub into this now.” Nathan's directive broke her from an inexplicable surge of jealousy. Picking a piece of wool cloth, he started to do so for her. His fingers lingered, tracing hers, then he jerked away, retreating several steps. “Carry on for a bit and you’ll feel right as rain again.”

Living in the Highlands had taught her the palliative effects of wool. Its natural oils soon brought her hands to feel as if they might not fall off at the wrists after all. It was a relief to be able to touch her hair, or anything else for that matter, without sticking to it.

Turnabout was fair play. For form, Nathan objected, but in the end, submitted to having his face tended. There were three parallel streaks, each deep enough to be crusted with dried blood. They curved from his cheekbone down to the line of his beard. She washed the scratch marks first with hot water—God knew what had been under the unknown woman’s nails. She had seen far more minor scratches go foul. His sprouting beard was a soft plush under her fingers, left over-sensitive by the oakum. The dark sable sparked with random bits of russet, copper, and gold in the candlelight.

The scenario was becoming a familiar one: standing close, tending his wounds.

“Twice in as many days,” Nathan said, divining Cate's thoughts. “If I keep this up, you’ll think me a dull-witted oaf.”

Many words came to mind, but those would be a long time in coming.

“Mark me,” he said, mirth touching the coffee-colored eyes, “if I fall and break me leg on the morrow, you shan’t learn of it.”

As Cate stood over him, she delicately sniffed, but detected only rum, wood smoke, a hint of tobacco, and Nathan, the same warm spiciness that clung in the mattress upon which she slept. She was near enough to see the blood had been washed from his headscarf, too. There were whitish smudges on the faded blue, which looked too much like face powder for her comfort.

His lids hooded, the heavy veil of lashes fanned darkly across his cheeks. With his head tipped back to allow easier access to his cheek, the scar at his throat was in stark evidence. A scalp-peeling blow to the head and clawed by a whore: a pirate’s life was a dangerous one.

Unable to bear the silence, she groped for another topic.

“How long before the repairs are complete?”

Nathan stirred, his brow furrowing. “Day or two, but we’ll make weigh as soon as the wood and watering is complete. His Honor, the lofty Señor Corretja, shan’t bother us whilst we’ve hostages, but best not tempt temptation. What remains can be accomplished under way.”

He shifted in the chair, his agitation rising. “The bastard started having memory problems as soon as we caught up with him. Even his wife crying at pistol’s point didn’t answer.”

“I thought you were going to avoid all that.”

“Aye, well, best-laid plans, and all that.” He smiled faintly. “’Twas remarkable the clarity of memory he possessed when we put him on the altar: the chests were hidden in the cellar. Helluva man what uses the church to protect his most precious possessions. I’ll wager he didn’t tithe his fair share either,” he huffed. “Had half a mind to inquire if he desired we take his wife and daughters—there was another, by the way—seeing as how they seemed so burdensome.”

Nathan sucked in sharply when she pressed into a deeper scrape with the vinegar.

“I'm sorry my hands are so rough,” Cate said, wiping them self-consciously on her breeches. “I should have warned you.”

His eyes met and held hers then dodged away. “I’d be a damned ungrateful scrub were I to complain, when it's me own ship what roughened them.”

Cate became acutely aware of Nathan's nearness. Feeling her tense, he shifted to a more comfortable distance.

“There,” she said softly, giving the scratches a final dab. “All done. You should rest.”

Her hand came to rest on Nathan's shoulder, sagging with weariness. Other than a piece of dried meat, she had not seen him eat that day, nor the one before. A lesser man would have been bedridden for the day after such a blow to the head. Her presence seemed to have upset his lifestyle in several ways.

Nathan smiled nonetheless. “I’ve plenty of time to sleep when I’m in me grave.”

He rose and went around the table to retrieve his hat.

“You've a gentle touch, Cate Mackenzie,” he said with somber intent. “Pryce represents you’ve been quite able-handed. You’ve don’t this before, the healing and sewing of bodies.”

“I’m no physikan or healer, but yes.” Cate sighed, her limb suddenly feeling filled with sand.

“You’ve done it a lot.” It was more an observation than accusation.

She nodded, grimacing. “More than I care to think.” It wasn’t a matter to brag about; one did what one must and could.

Nathan turned his head toward the window, his gaze going distant. “The other day, you spoke of war.”

Cate closed her eyes and nodded.

He fell quiet. His brow furrowed as his mouth worked under his mustache.

“I’ve seen the hell what can be wrought when two ships—a hundred guns each—haul up to hammer away at each other at a cable’s length, throwing four or five hundred-weight of iron at every round, until either the guns explode from overheating, or one at last goes up in a blaze of glory, or sinks in the same. I’ve seen bodies fly no different than the splinters around them,” he said so very softly. He turned his head to regard her with open admiration. “Providence has spared me from a legion of cannon opening fire on men afoot.”

He shook off his dark mood and raised the rum bottle in salute. “Lest you think me a cod-handed scrub, and I be forever haunted by me conscience, on behalf of the entire company of the Ciara Morganse and meself, I give you joy of your success, and in all sincerity, thank you.”

Nathan swept an elegant bow, wincing at the pain brought on by lowering his head.

He seemed to have something more to say, but dismissed it. He carefully settled his hat on his head, the bells in his hair swishing with the movement. He gave a wry smile.

“You'd best change; I don’t want it on me conscience that you’d contracted some morbid disease from being required to walk about in sullied clothes. I'll advise Mr. Kirkland you'll be looking to wash, again.”

He headed for the door, but then drew to a halt.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly over his shoulder.

And then, he left.



###



Cate stood at the rail and watched the anchor and its thick-as-a-leg cable rise. The anchor’s great hooks, enshrouded in green seaweed, brought with them the smell of muck and mud. On topsails and jibs, the ship curved out of the bay, and the first land she had seen in almost three months faded.

There was a grand celebration on the forecastle the next night. The men were in high spirits. Tales flowed in a stream as steady as the grog, a number of toasts drank to Captain Nathanael Blackthorne. One couldn’t help but notice the flamboyance and credulity of the stories told about him expanded in direct proportion to the amount of drink consumed. It was difficult to imagine one person capable of everything credited to him.