The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 22: Trouble in Paradise

Mr. Hodder’s bellow echoed up the galley companionway with sufficient force to yank Cate from a profound sleep.

“Show a leg, you pimpish, misbegotten bunch o’ sluggards! Haul yer asses, ladies! Goddamned, spindle-shanked swag-bellies, the lot o’ yous!”

She bounded to her feet, before realizing it was only meant for the men in their hammocks.

In spite of her unscheduled awakening, a pot of hot coffee sat steaming on the table. How Kirkland did it was a mystery for the ages. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she shuffled over, poured a cup, and sipped, aware Kirkland’s brew was always capable of scalding the unsuspecting. Once braced up, she went to see how Nathan did.

It was a mild but pleasant surprise to find him lying on his back, staring at the beams overhead.

“Get me clothes,” he said without preamble, pulling the quilt closer about him.

“I give you joy of the morning as well,” she said tartly. It wasn’t quite the start of the day she had imagined. Nathan could be curt in the morning, but there was a particularly unpleasant edge about him.

“It’s too soon for you to be abroad,” she said, with reserved concern.

“I’ve shirked long enough.” He frowned, uncertain as to how long that had been.

She reached to inspect his hand. He successfully jerked it from her grasp, but failed at concealing the pursuing wince. Crossing her arms, she stood over him, feet planted squarely. Her intention was to block him from rising, but the position also provided a fair view of his hand. It looked better, no longer inflamed and angry-looking. The swelling had gone down to where his fingers were near normal-sized, and his knuckles were once again visible.

He fixed a defiant eye up at her and bellowed, “Mr. Millbridge!” Nathan’s glare held through Millbridge’s arrival and, “Me clothes, if you please,”

Millbridge darted a rheumy eye at her, and then knuckled his forehead in salute, a rare and a bit mocking gesture.

“At least linger here the day,” Cate pleaded after Millbridge’s departure. A relapse of the fever wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

“Indolence ’tis not a virtue,” Nathan said doggedly.

Clutching the quilt about him, he lurched to his feet. All color instantly drained from his face, and an odd greenish tinge set in about his nose and mouth. He looked sure to either vomit or fall out, but determination saw him through. He stood defiantly before her, weaving and catching the edge of the bed. A high-chinned glare suggested she was expected to not notice.

The clothing arrived directly. Nathan snatched, missed, and snatched again at his shirt lying on the bunk. He drew himself to full height and growled, “A bit o’ privacy, if you please.”

“You should rest.”

“Pray, mind the oars in your own boat,” Nathan said censoriously. Only the most generous could have called his showing of teeth a smile.

Fine tremors coursed through her as his image was blurred by several shades of red. She hadn’t expected effusive thanks to be lauded upon her, but a little acknowledgement would have been appreciated. Ingratitude seemed no more Nathan’s nature than the dreaded “indolence.”

Still deep in that same tinted haze, she didn’t remember going to the curtain, but did hear the clatter of the rings when she snatched it aside.

“Then by your leave, m’lord!” She hoped he didn’t hear the quaver in her voice. Amid another jangle of rings, the curtain was yanked shut behind her.

Once alone, she sagged against the bulkhead, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Voices rose from the galley companionway, and she ran to the corner of the salon and locked herself in the convenience. There she sobbed into the folds of her skirt.

The day failed to improve.

Several days’ bed rest would be normally prescribed after what Nathan had just suffered, but a ship wasn’t a normal place, especially one staggering under such storm damage. Nathan was still pale and drawn, the glow of health yet to return. There were dark smudges under his eyes and an uncommon sag to his shoulders. He flared at delicate suggestions, not only from Cate, but Pryce and Millbridge, that he should rest. Seeing Nathan periodically cradle his hand in the crook of his other arm caused everyone to make allowances. That sympathy, however, was quickly dissolved by uncharitable thoughts in the face of his ill-tempered bursts.

Cate tried to shake it off, crediting Nathan’s contrary behavior to his concern for his ship. Keenly aware of the toll the last few days had taken on everyone aboard, she scolded herself for being thin-skinned and testy.

Cate thought it her imagination at first, but she gradually came to realize Nathan was making a point of being where she was not. Over a hundred feet of ship suddenly wasn’t large enough. Twice, while she mounted the windward steps, she saw him exit the quarterdeck by the leeward. When she came into the cabin, he rose abruptly and brushed past her without a word. She was left standing in his wake, confused and feeling as cold and empty as the coffee cup he had left on the table.

That night, Cate glumly picked at the plate Kirkland had left. For the third time that day, Nathan had come to the cabin, saw her, pivoted, and left. The report was that he now sat on the masthead—God knew how he got up there, one-handed—threatening bodily harm to anyone who ventured near. Beatrice grew quarrelsome—more so than was her usual—and Hermione declined her evening tobacco quid.

The memories of the fervor of his kiss and the warmth of his arms, his body pressing against hers, responding so readily to her touch, had faded incrementally under his cold glares and icy shoulder. It was quite clear it had all been an anomaly. It was unsettling how one could be so passionate one point, and so distant and surly the next.

She braced her head in her hands. “This is Nathan. What the hell else did you expect?”

The thing that weighed most was the one she could barely admit: Hattie.

Hattie.

The name loomed over her like a mythical being. It was like being the second wife after the untimely death of the beloved first: living in the shadows, always measured, always seen through a tinted lens.

You remind him of her.

No more chilling or damning words had ever been uttered.

It was clear that Cate was but a substitute. A fascination and wonder it was, as to how Nathan could continue to love the very one who had so cold-bloodedly betrayed him, but there it was. Cate stood at the curtain looking at the bunk, and wondered what pleasures he and Hattie had enjoyed there. She couldn’t help but wonder if a few days earlier, when Nathan had closed his eyes, had it been his precious Hattie he made love to? It had been his precious Hattie he had called for when fevered. His disappointment at finding Cate standing there instead was evident. The whole situation was so much like a drunk after a binge, during which ugly things had been said. Now sober, the drunk didn’t recall anything, and assumed everyone around him to do the same, any hurt to be forgotten. The difference here was that Nathan had been the drunk. And yet, he was the one acting hurt. Worse was a strong edge of resentment about him, as well, as if Cate had somehow sought to deceive him.

A part of her wanted to tell Nathan, “Have the bitch and be damned!” Except her heart told her what she already knew: there was no leaving him. The question was how much more wretched she would become, in her desperation to be with him? How long would she allow him his illusions? Sadly, the question was more how long before he was done with her?

Neither did the second day improve.

The ship cracked on with an uncommon press of sail. Looking nearly as haggard as their Captain, many of the crew cast an eye skyward at the show of canvas, and surreptitiously crossed their fingers or touched their charms.

“The Cap’n knows ’is ship better than any pigtail-swingin’ tar aboard, but this…” she heard Hodder mutter.

The rare times Nathan spoke to Cate—and blessedly rare they were—he was churlish and distant, often curt to the point of cutting. His most loyal, including Pryce and Millbridge, scowled in his path, as puzzled as she. Nathan’s growing moodiness brought her to almost regret having nursed him to health. “Health” however, was barely applicable. He was even more slumped and hollow-eyed, the dark circles there deepening.

As Cate swung from confusion to fury, she sank deeper and deeper into misery, all the while smiling in desperate hope that it was all her imagination. When the smile failed, she locked herself in the convenience and sobbed into the towel, now kept in the corner for just such moments.

That night Nathan came up missing. Cate was seized by panic, envisioning him laying somewhere, fevered and helpless. He was at last found sprawled on the bowsprit. Arm hanging limp, a rum bottle suspended between two fingers, he stared at the night sky.

The next day, the Morganse finally cleared a point on Blue Goat Island, Cogburn’s Island, her destination, could be seen ahead. The bay, where they were to rendezvous with the Griselle, was to its north, but so was the wind, or nearly so. It meant a long tack: angling out as close to the wind as the Morganse would bear, until far enough out when she came about—wear around, that is, bringing the wind more or less behind her—it would be in a direct line back into the bay.

Cate had hoped the prospect of joining up with Thomas might sweeten Nathan’s mood.

It didn’t.

Nathan flew into a black rage at Mute Maori, at the helm, for turning too soon. It was now a decision made by the helmsman, but that was a minor point. Doing so had caused them course to fall short of the targeted point of land. It meant they would have to tack again.

“Goddamned current is what it is,” muttered someone from behind Cate, standing at the waist. “Any blighter worth ’is salt could see it.”

Cate stood at the lee rail as the Morganse drew nearer and near to the Cogburn , a trio of masts poked their heads above the treeline, indicating a ship sitting on the island’s far side.

“Is that the Griselle?” she asked against the backdrop of Hodder’s bellow of “Ready about!” and the pounding of feet as the hands raced to their stations.

Busy with the ship, Pryce only glanced. “Aye, ’ tis her.”

“How did they get here ahead of us?” If two ships departed from the same point at the same time, one would expect the fastest to arrive first, and that was the Morganse, hands down.

Pryce shrugged. “Better winds. Shorter course. Probably wasn’t obliged to scud so far afore the storm.”

The outward leg of the tack required two flips of the glass out, during which Nathan bawled out two of the ship’s most seasoned topsmen for being laggardly aloft, brought the Morganse into position. In the long rays of the late afternoon sun, she pirouetted as prettily as a ship might and angled toward the bay. It was four more turns of the glass, however, before the reef was cleared and she slipped into Cogburn Bay. A unified sigh of relief from all her people seemed to give an extra push on the sails.

They hailed the Griselle as they passed, Thomas at the taffrail, shouting back. The Griselle couldn’t have been long arrived, for her boats were clustered at her side like chicks around a hen, and the beach stood empty.

Even with his ship settled on her mooring, Nathan’s snappish mood didn’t improve. He flew into tirades at minor oversights and nonexistent mistakes: the yards were crooked, reeving too sloppy, lifting tackle too high, and sheets improperly stowed. At the end of one such berating, he reeled off into the cabin.

Cate stood at the capstan, when she realized every eye aboard was turned on her. From the f’c’stle to the quarterdeck, from the tops to the waist, she saw expressions in varying degrees from imploring to warning, pleading to accusation. Nearly ten score of innocent bystanders were taking the brunt of what was clearly something between her and Nathan, no matter how desperately she wished otherwise. With a nod of vague acknowledgement, she trudged into the cabin, with no clear idea of what she meant to do.

Nathan sat at the table, snatching through the charts, grumbling about a missing divider. Cate took it as a small victory that he hadn’t sped from the room when she entered.

“Problems finding something?” she asked lamely.

Nathan didn’t look up, but his mouth took an ugly curl. “Problems seem to be me specialty lately.”

Cate was in the process of steeling her nerve when she discovered she couldn’t breathe. The condition was not entirely the fault of the closed windows, a rare oddity. She moved to open them, if for no other reason than to stall further.

“Leave it!” he growled, with a tone that suggested he had been waiting for her to do exactly that.

“I just thought we might—”

“It’s the same damned air what comes through the door. Leave it!”

Cate flinched at the cut in his voice. She began to pace, charity and the driving need to do something to churning her gut.

“You need to eat,” she said, at last drawing up to the table.

“No. Thank. You,” he said without looking up.

“Allow me to pass the word for Kirkland?”

Nathan gave a thunderous glare from under his brow. “I had one mum; I shan’t be in need of another.”

“But you haven’t—”

Nathan slammed down the dividers with a force that sent his pencil skittering off the table. “Clap a stopper on it!”

Cate considered turning and leaving, just as she had seen him do over the last two days, but hesitated. She was driven by what some would call determination. Other less charitable souls might have flung words like “stubborn,” or even “bullish,” in her less-stellar moments. Whatever it was, she was resolved to seeing this to a head.

In that spirit, she went to the galley for some hot broth.

“Here, I thought…” she said, and slid the mug before Nathan. She had bid Kirkland put it in a mug, so Nathan mightn’t be obliged to sit, which he seemed so disinclined to do when she was about.

His eyes fixed on the chart, it was shoved aside. “Away, you meddlesome pestilence.”

Her cheeks flamed. Nathan could be edgy, even brusque, at any given point in the day, but never so vicious.

“What in the hell is eating you, Nathan?” It came out more confrontational than intended, but what was done was done. “You’ve been prickly as an old bear. You snap—”

“Bugger off, strumpet!”

For a moment, she wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “You meant that!”

“At last, the dull-witted dolt comprehends!” he extolled to the ceiling.

Her fist curled, but then she thought better.

“No,” she said, recomposing herself. “I’m not going to—”

In a sharp jangle of bells, he lurched to his feet with a suddenness that caused her to stumble back. He stormed to the windows and stood for some moments, staring out at the evening just settled.

Nathan whirled back around, his braids arcing with the momentum. “I want to know whose it is?”

“Whose what is?” she stammered.

He crashed his fist on the table, the broth spurting up out of the mug. “Goddamn it to f*cking hell, woman, do not vex me!”

“You’re raving.” She eyed him from a distance, thinking perhaps the fever had returned. He was not hale, by any means, but neither there were any signs of fever. If anything, his hand seemed to have gone forgotten, perhaps the result of a great quantity of rum. The air was thick with its sweet smell.

Nathan stalked toward her, his voice falling to a threatening rumble. “I have been more than a gentleman. I’ve given you everything what could possibly be provided on this ship. I’ve never made so much as a gesture towards you. God knows I could have, but I never laid a finger on you.”

“I’m to be grateful you didn’t throw me down and take me the first night?” she asked, backing away.

“But I didn’t! And this is me thanks! Tell me whose it is! If he took you unwilling, by God, I’ll see his balls swinging from me bowspr’t. Hell, I’ll hold him down so you can cut them off yourself, but you have to tell me who!”

First time since her first day aboard, Cate was afraid of him. His beard had grown to a deep ebony bush, and obscured his face, so similar to that day. The dark smudges under his eyes rendered him even more sinister. His sword and pistol were across the room. She eyed the weapons at the mizzen and in the urn at the door as she continued to back away. She didn’t think he would use them against her, but he also looked the right Tartar, and capable of anything.

“Nathan,” she began levelly. “I don’t understand—”

He went dead white and charged. Stumbling back, she came up against a trunk. He grabbed her by the throat and bent her back over it, slamming her head against the wall. She tore at his hand; the very one she had fought to save now squeezing the life from her. His eyes, now inches from hers, had gone as black and sightless as a shark’s. His thumb gouged her windpipe, and her limbs grew heavy, too heavy to move. A roar filled her ears, and pinpricks of light began to flash at the edges of her vision. A remote voice warned she was about to be killed, and would never know why.

As suddenly as Nathan had attacked, he broke away. Cate slumped atop the chest, wincing in pain as she clutched her throat. Raggedly panting, Nathan closed his eyes in an effort to regain a level of self-control.

“You’ve been on this ship for nigh on to two months,” he began, his voice breaking with emotion. “I’ve offered you safe haven. I’ve not asked a thing of you, not a goddamned thing.”

He pivoted and kicked a chair, sending it tumbling. He took an angry swipe at another, and prowled the room like a caged cat. Grunting in effort, he threw open a gallery window. He braced his arms on the frame, his back heaving with each breath.

“I just want to know whose it is,” he said. Grinding his head into his forearm in anguish, his fist pounded the wood in rhythm with each word. “I just need to know who you’ve been with.”

It took Cate a moment to get his meaning and her mouth sagged. “You think I’ve been bedding someone?” she wheezed, her throat not yet fully recovered. She stood on shaky legs. “You think I’ve been cavorting with one of your crew?”

“I dare say ’tis fairly obvious,” he said, coldly over his shoulder. “Was it someone on this ship, or was it someone on the Constancy? Don’t tell me it was Harte or Thomas!”

Days of tension had taken its toll, and now she was the one to snap. “What do you care? You have no claim on me. It is none of your bloody damned concern!”

Whirling, he kicked over a stand, sending the candlesticks atop it clattering to the floor. Her sewing box was sent flying next.

“It is my concern!” he bellowed.

“Who made you my master?” Seething, she stalked toward him. “Pray enlighten me as to which angers you the most: that I bedded someone, or that it was someone other than you? Let me tell you, Captain Blackthorne, just because you’re the captain does not allow you the right to expect anything!”

By now they were nose to nose. Nathan was rigid with fury, the tails of his scarf curling around his shoulders like serpents.

“Pray allow me to tell you a thing or two, madam. As captain, I have the right to do or expect anything I damn well please. And if I had wanted to have you, I’d have goddamned had you! What with your whoring around, being a gentleman was lost on you.”

“I’m obliged to defer to your expertise on whores. Unlike you, I don’t swive everyone or everything that passes.”

“You think if you can seduce me—”

“Seduce!?”

“Seduce me into stuffing your quim,” Nathan continued over her sputtering objections. “And you made double-damned sure o’ that.”

“What are you raving about?”

“Once again I tried to be the gentleman, but oh now, you’d have none o’ that. All to assure that bastard you’re carrying could be passed off on me.”

In an enraged blur, Cate seized the first thing within reach—an unsuspecting lantern—and hurled it. Nathan dodged and took it on the shoulder, metal and glass crashing to the floor. A candlestick was next. She pitched it, catching him in the arm. While in search of her next weapon, Nathan grabbed her by the arm and jerked her around. She brought her knee up, aiming for his crotch. Easily deflecting the attempt, he gave her arm a vicious wrench, his fingers like spikes in her skin.

“Don’t you ever do that again.” He gave her arm sharp twist in emphasis.

“Or what?” Cate balled her fist and swung. Nathan ducked to take the blow in the ear. Swearing, he wrenched her arm harder, eliciting a pained cry.

“Take your hands off me, you sodding bastard!”

To her surprise, he did. He stood back, chest heaving. She backed away, rubbing her arm. Hot tears welled behind her eyes, but be damned if she would let him see her cry!

“You arrogant son of a bitch. That limp codpiece couldn’t sire anything. Even if there was a child, don’t flatter yourself: you’d be a sorry candidate. Getting too old to take your pleasures? Have to fancy me with someone to get them? I certainly found none.”

Nathan pointed a rigid arm at the door, eyes glittering with hatred. “Then away, with you. Take your bastard and be off, and be damned to you both.”

“Fine! I shan’t desire for you to ask twice.”

As Cate whirled around, she felt the weight of the knife Nathan had given her swinging against her leg. She drew it from her pocket and hurled it. Nathan dodged, allowing it to fall harmlessly to the floor. He then glared, uncertain if she had meant to draw blood.

“There! I shouldn’t desire to take anything which might lead you to think I meant to at your expense.” She spread her arms in exhibition. “Take a good look. Not one copper. I know these aren’t mine,” she said, plucking at her skirt. “But you’ll forgive me if I decline to go naked. Rest assured, they shall be returned. Good-bye!”

The crew, gathered at the door listening, scattered like flushed quail as she burst out.

“You have a share of Creswicke’s money coming,” Nathan called after her.

“Stuff it up your ass alongside your head!”

She met Pryce, who stood frozen in mid-step at the bottom of the quarterdeck steps.

“Get me as far away from this stinking hulk as possible,” she said loudly enough to be heard in the cabin.

Uncertain, the First Mate looked to his Captain, who now stood in the doorway, a dark, faceless blot against the cabin’s lights.

“Away with her and the Devil take her!” Nathan gave a dismissive bat of the hand and disappeared inside.

Towers and Smalley were beckoned by a jerk of Pryce’s head. “Take ’er as she desires.”

Pryce fixed his attention on the two scampering down the side and the boat being made ready. Cate stood quivering. As rage dissolved into shock, more rational thoughts pushed their way in. She could think of nothing more than to be as far from that bastard as possible, but to where? The island was directly before her. Now dotted with campfires, the beach was a silvery gleam between the dark of water and trees. Looking across the bay, the glow of the Griselle’s stern windows was ever so much more appealing.

The call of “Ready away,” from the water drew her back. When she moved toward the gate, her eyes finally caught Pryce’s.

“What did I do?” Cate asked, tears welling anew.

Pryce glanced cautiously over his shoulder to the empty cabin door. “By the devil’s tail, ’n damn my eyes if I know, sir.”

She nodded. His reluctance toward the suggestion of betrayal of his Captain’s confidence was understandable. As she turned to step over the gunwale, Pryce stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“I honestly don’t know, Cate,” he said in uncommon sincerity. “Ain’t never see’d ’im like this afore. More ’n likely, ’tis nothin’ of yer doin.’”

She put a hand over his and squeezed gently. “Thank you.”

And then, she left.



###



Sitting very still, Thomas slid a look toward the hourglass.

He hadn’t seen his sisters in years, but their crying bouts were indelibly etched in his mind. There had been four siblings and each had taken generous amounts of time for such sessions.

Hunched on the hassock watching Cate pace the cabin, Thomas heaved a silent sigh. This one bore the makings of dwarfing any of his sisters’ tantrums. She had already scored higher marks in volume and vehemence, and was on the verge of surpassing all competition in violence. He wasn’t sure if his cabin was going to survive.

She and Nathan’s caterwauling had been readily heard. It came as no surprise when the watch hailed a Morganse boat shortly after. One look at Cate’s face and any doubts were erased as he had handed her up the side. He held her while she cried—sweet merciful heaven, she felt good in his arms, snot-faced, blubbering and all—and now gave her a wide berth as she rampaged, alert to any harm she might do herself, or that she might need him once more.

Mired as she was in her own crisis, she had given him no notice, leaving him at his leisure. He could watch her all day. Mesmerizing she was, a sorceress who had cast a spell. A beauty she was…Well, aye, not exactly at that very moment. Face contorted like a Balinese devil mask, puffy-eyed and red-nosed, her mouth curled around oaths that probably caused the hands to blush.

Propping his chin in his hand, he tracked her path with his eyes. Only time would salve this.

Thomas wondered what in all that’s holy had possessed Nathan. He grumbled silent curses at someone who could be so consistently blind to everything and everyone around him. Granted, Nathan had survived all these years by raw will, guile his steadfast partner, but it would appear those had failed him, again! This wasn’t new; he had lived this scenario before, and could probably quote Nathan’s latest bungling tirade chapter and verse. Expecting the man to change, however, was to expect the tides to do the same.

But then again, maybe not; Cate was different. Thomas had known it the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Nathan knew it, too. Poor dumb bastard just didn’t know what to do. And now, Nathan might have just pissed away the best thing—the best hope—ever to have crossed his hawse.

Bruises bloomed on Cate’s neck; that was damned disquieting. He’d never known Nathan to do a woman violence before…well, other than the occasional cod-fisted street whore who sought to lift his purse. His first urge was to go slap some sense into him, but Nathan’s cup looked to runneth over with troubles already.

Thomas leaned aside as a book sailed past, ducked as another spun harmlessly to the other side, and then reached to snag a pillow from mid-air. Deep blue satin, with hummingbirds embroidered; no sense in letting that one go to ruin. As he observed Cate, seething before the stern windows, he made a mental note never to provoke her—or at the least be prepared if he did. After all, forewarned was forearmed. Knowing the kind of fury she was capable of warranted special caution. He weighed the possibility that might have been Nathan’s downfall: no warning. How could the cuckle-headed dolt have foreseen something like this?

Resettling his chin in his palm, Thomas glanced around. So far, Cate was too gone to notice all the changes made since her last visit. Most evidence of a man living alone had been secured, stashed, or stowed. There were more pillows about, particularly in the chair he had pulled closer to the windows. A stand and a hanging lamp sat next to it—she had said something about liking to sew. The sheets on the berth had been washed, and there was a new coverlet. The ewer and basin were new—well, newer than before.

When Cate’s back was turned, he closed one eye and measured. Definitely going to have to get her out of those rags. She deserved better—much better, something to show off that small waist and sumptuous curve of hip. Body of a woman—all woman—buried in there. Leave it to Nathan to desire to hide it; obscuring temptation, in all likelihood.

He cringed when a bottle hit the bulkhead. Oh well, water over the decks. They drank it dry directly after she boarded. Better than the crystal one, which contained the port she favored. A lamentable loss that would be.

Aye, duration was the only remaining question to this rampage and she gave all signs of crushing that record, too.

Thomas reached to turn the glass. Aye, this was going to be a long one.



###



Cate wept as she hadn’t in years. She sobbed now as she had the first night Brian was gone—and the next—and the next. It was much the same: the same pain, the same sense of every organ being ripped out and trampled, this time by a pair of worn brown suede boots. It wasn’t just the anguish wrought by coarse words and hurt feelings, but loss, a deep, gut-tearing loss.

She swung on an emotional pendulum from anger to desolation and back again, making brief visits to every increment in between. She cursed herself for having trusted, for being too damnedably eager to clutch onto something, someone. Self-loathing and furious, she chewed at herself like a trapped fox, and at Nathan, for being…for being himself!

That thought—that small fact—pitched her back into the pits of despair. Nathan was what he was: a pirate, pillager of the seas and women’s hearts. What moment of innate stupidity made her think he would ever be anything different?

Rage would then revisit, furious at having allowed him to play her, furious with herself for falling victim to his cavalier games. She shot a tear-burred glare out the stern windows at the Morganse across the bay. It was easy to envision him that very moment, lounging in his chair, feet crossed on the table, laughing in smug satisfaction.

Her heart had cracked at being called Hattie. Now she gasped at the ripping sound of it being torn from her chest. If she wasn’t his precious Hattie, then too damned bad! All that foolishness about a child had been just one of his harebrained schemes to be rid of her.

“Well, it worked!” she shrieked at a chair.

Her mother only raised a partial fool. Be damned if she would ever step foot on that stinking hulk. She was done with him. She didn’t want to see his face or hear his voice ever again…ever!

A blinding fury took her afresh. In the dim reaches of her mind, she knew she hurled something, the sound of shattering glass her only clue as to what it had been. The exertion purged some of her frustration and, mindless of what it was or the direction it went, threw something else. She heard the clang and clatter of metals, but paid little heed. Screaming until her throat burned, she pitched and threw anything in her path.

Sweating and gasping, she crumpled in a chair, buried her face into a pillow, and surrendered to the next wave of tear-laden despair.

She shrieked and jerked at being tapped on the shoulder. Looking up, she found Thomas standing over to her, proffering a glass.

“Drink it,” he said, with the tone of a person accustomed to being obeyed. “It’s the port you fancied so much the other night. Maybe it will allow you a little ease.”

He stretched across the table to grab the bottle and plunked it emphatically in front of her. “Here, drink the whole damned bottle, if that’s what it’s going to take.”

Sniffing loudly, she took it. Thomas hooked a chair with his foot and dragged it over to sit knee to knee. He propped his chin in his palm and looked interestedly into her face. “How much longer can we expect this to continue?”

Eyes hot knots and face throbbing, she knew she must look a wreck. She bent her head.

“I don’t know.” Her voice squeaked to a ridiculously high pitch. “I’ve been trying to stop.”

“The crew is growing fair frayed. Sooner would be better.”

A warm flush rose up her face at the realization the entire crew had perforce, been listening.

No secrets on a ship.

A pair of lake-blue eyes, sparking with mirth, came into her view as Thomas leaned forward. “No man can possibly be worth all this.”

Cate’s chin wobbled as she attempted a smile between sniffs. She made a feeble attempt to dry the side of her face, but dropped her hand at seeing how badly it shook. A quick glance told her Thomas had seen, too.

“You wouldn’t think so, would you?” she choked.

Cate sipped from the glass. Thomas frowned, an arched sandy brow bidding her to take a larger one. Relenting, she did and shuddered. The liquor burned her throat, raw from crying, and her eyes watered worse.

Sniffing hard, she dashed at the wetness on her cheek. Rummaging in his pockets, Thomas produced a large lace-edged handkerchief and watched, sympathetic yet bemused, as she blew her nose and wiped her face.

“I’m not sure if I’m more angry or hurt,” she said. “He was a monster. I’ve never seen him like that before!”

Too upset to sit, Cate rose and commenced to pace. “I’ve seen him drunk, or on some crazed tangent, but I’ve never seen him so…livid.”

“Nathan can have a bit of a temper,” Thomas conceded. “Although, it is rare. You must have really pushed him.”

“I pushed him,” she huffed, whirling around. “That’s just it. I don’t know what I did. For the last couple of days, he had been growing touchier and touchier, and then he just exploded.”

Thomas pressed his palms together and watched as his fingers laced in and out among themselves. “Well, give him time; it will pass.”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s going to be that easy. We both said some horrible things that—”

“All in the heat of anger,” he said, bearing a tolerant smile.

“It was more than that.”

Cate swallowed with some effort and touched her throat. The soreness there brought back the murderous look on Nathan’s face as he had squeezed.

“He meant it. I could see it was something he had been waiting to say for a long time, as though it had been festering for…for…forever.”

“Well, no matter.” Thomas slapped his thighs and rose. “You know where everything is. I said you’d have a place here and I meant it. You’re welcome for as long as you wish.”

So caught up in her own turmoil, she had overlooked how her arrival might have appeared. “Thomas, I’m not here to—”

He broke into a self-conscious grin. “No, no, don’t worry. Never entered my mind.”

Under its golden tan, his fair skin flushed, his ears going pink. “Well, that’s a bit of a lie. It wouldn’t be Christian of me if I didn’t say that I’d love to have you—not in the Biblical sense,” he was quick to add. “Well, aye, in that way too—but you’re too wound up in Nathan, right now. Give it time; I’ll wait.”

He ended with a quiet note of confidence, one she didn’t share.

“Thomas?”

He stopped at the door and looked back over his shoulder with an expectant lift to his brows.

“In all honesty, thank you,” Cate said.

Waving an obliging hand, he left.



###



Morning broke bright, but by Thomas’ judgment, the sun was the only thing that shone on the Griselle. Cate looked like hell and seemed to feel worse. No small wonder. It had been a fitful night for all aboard. The woman didn’t suffer privately.

Cate sat brooding over a cup of coffee, looking at it as if she wished it was something else. He took a drink and winced. The word had been passed for Youssef to make it so as decent people might drink it. Waste of words, by all evidence. He watched from the corner of his eye—she melted under direct eye contact—as her cup rattled against the saucer at every lift; something stronger was definitely in order.

He gave her a wide berth: saying nothing, making no gesture that might oblige her to speak. The mere utterance of “Good morning” had come with a wobbling chin and flooding eyes. Anything further came with uncommon effort. And so, they sat at opposite sides of the table in silence.

The moment he heard a boat hailed, he knew who it was. Cate heard Nathan’s voice and looked up in round-eyed horror. Tears welling, she began to tremble worse.

“I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to hear him,” she said with the coldness of a henchman. Her fist curled around the nearest thing to hand, an innocent coffee pot, and she tensed, ready to fling it. Thickened by crying, her voice was a ghost of its usual melodic self. “He can rot in hell for all I care.”

The corner of Thomas’ mouth curled. “Aye, well, he would probably tell you there’s a good chance o’ that already,” he said dryly.

To give Cate ease, he took up a position at the door, shoulder against the frame and arms crossed.

Nathan’s arrival was to be expected. The surprise was the hour: two bells had just run on the forenoon watch. It was early, remarkably so.

“I give you joy o’ the morning!” Nathan reeked of over-anxiousness as he bounded up over the side. It uncommon for him to show his colors so readily.

“Joy to yourself. Too quiet on the Morganse, so you came here to stir things up?”

Nathan’s jaunty step slowed. By some thought process known only to Nathan, clearly he had thought Thomas would be ignorant of what had transpired. Granted, Thomas didn’t know everything, but he knew enough.

Nathan hesitated then pressed forward, though a bit more heavy of foot.

“I allowed you two desired a visit,” Nathan began. “But now I’ve come to fetch her back. I know how anxious she’ll be, what with how she worries about the crew. Veritable grandmother she is. Worry. Worry. Worry. I’ve advised she was to be old before her time, if she is to continue that-a-way, but she wouldn’t…”

As Nathan chattered, he sought to pass Thomas and go inside. Thomas shifted, easily blocking his path. Nathan ducked to the other side, only to be blocked again. They jousted for several more rounds, before Nathan stood back and gave him a narrow look.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? I think I hear your crew calling.”

Thomas reached inside the cabin for a small bundle atop a locker and handed it over. “Here, she said you desired these back.”

Nathan looked up blankly. “Her clothes?”

Thomas grinned. “Easy, mate, I found her others. She’s not running about naked.”

Nathan marginally credited that statement.

“What scullery maid did you steal those from? Couldn’t you get her something decent?” Thomas asked severely.

“Wasn’t time…I suppose,” Nathan said, studying the bundle. He craned his head to see over Thomas’ shoulder. “I need to speak with her.”

“Tell him to go to hell!” called Cate vehemently from somewhere within.

Thomas cocked his head inside, and then back to Nathan. “You heard the lady.”

Nathan shot an accusing look. “Someone must have said something to upset her.”

Ignoring Thomas’ skeptical snort, Nathan rose on his toes to shout, “There are things what need saying.”

“You’ve said quite enough,” she cried shakily.

“You did your fair share,” Nathan flared back. He gave Thomas a tenuous smile, “Women: an awkward lot, are they not?”

It was a question not intended to be answered; every man since Adam had pondered that one. He had known Nathan through hell and high water, seen him through his best and his worst, and this was one of the worst attempts to put on his best face that Thomas had ever witnessed. Hell must have been the morning’s condition, for Nathan looked worse than Cate. True he had shaved—

Damn! Forgot that, Thomas thought, passing a hand along his jaw.

Nathan looked as polished up as a schoolboy, or at least as much as one might. Lord knew when that hair had last seen the benefit of a brush—fruitless venture, regardless—but attempts to smooth it had been made. The smell of orange oil was sharp in the air, rancid old stuff. Freshly shaven, coat and boots brushed, and hat dusted: aye, attempts had been made to render himself presentable.

Nathan straightened and squared his shoulders in the direction of where he thought Cate to be. “Very well, then, when might we speak?”

“I don’t know!” Cate’s voice quavered dangerously. She was on the verge of tears, again, a bad sign for all concerned.

Nathan’s face darkened and he charged the door. Thomas extended an arm, catching him by the throat.

Thomas leaned closer, eyeing him with cold severity. “Don’t you dare start her crying again. She’s barely over the last round. The cabin can’t bear it.”

Nathan’s hands worked at his sides with the desire to snatch Cate up and drag her back. The mood she was in, it was a sight Thomas would have given his purse to see Nathan try.

“Just allow me—” Nathan began.

“Thomas, don’t you dare!” came a seething threat from inside.

“—only for a—”

“Never!”

Cate’s virulent cry brought anyone within earshot—and a good portion of the ship it was, she having a strong set of lungs—to a halt. A deeper hush befell the decks, the hands warily circling in a wide berth.

“You can’t talk your way out of this one, Nathan.” Thomas glanced into the shadowed depths of his cabin and lowered his voice. “I tried to talk to her last night—all night. I poured enough port down her to float the Morganse. There’s no reasoning with her. Get her crying again, and by the devil’s horns, I’ll throw you to the sharks.”

Nathan stared into the cabin. “If I could just talk to her, make her listen.”

“Get the bloody hell away from me!” came a female shriek.

Nathan drew back as if struck at by a viper. He closed his eyes and swayed, looking fit to topple over. A strange calm befell him, and for the first time since Thomas had known him, he saw Nathan Blackthorne surrender.

“A gentleman always heeds the desires of a lady,” Thomas suggested lightly.

“Aye, well as soon as said gentleman is found we can inquire as to how he does,” Nathan said tartly.

Nathan fell quiet as he gazed into the shadows. A sadder, more dejected sight had never been seen. Haggard, drawn, dark circles under his eyes, and altogether beaten; it was a serious degeneration from when they had last met, barely a week hence.

“You look like bloody hell, man! You need a drink,” Thomas said.

Nathan’s shoulder moved disinterestedly under his coat. “I tried. It didn’t answer.”

Nathan trudged to the gangway and slumped on a step, hands dangling between his legs.

“I don’t understand. I was me usual charming self. Oh, very well,” he said at Thomas’ derisive snort. “It was a f*cking nightmare. Satisfied?”

“She hasn’t stopped crying since she came up the side, except for that bit when she was throwing things. Has a bit of a temper, doesn’t she?”

“She can be a terror,” Nathan sighed, his gaze fixed the cabin door. “What did she tell you?” he asked under his breath, even though they were well out of earshot.

“Everything and nothing,” Thomas sighed. It had been a very long night. “‘Meddlesome harlot’?”

Nathan winced and frowned with the effort of recalling. “No, ’twas ‘meddlesome strumpet,’ I think.”

“She curses better than most foremast jacks,” said Thomas, duly impressed.

“Didn’t learn it from me,” Nathan said to his hands. “She came that way.”

“What the hell were you thinking? Belay that,” Thomas said with an irritated swipe. “Goddamned obvious you weren’t. She’s not Olivia, you know.”

Nathan shot him a searing look, then relented. “I know.” Heaving a long exhale, he ground his forehead into his palm. “Cate’s five times the woman Olivia ever was.”

“Then why are you treating her as if she’s half?”

Nathan twisted a grim gaze upward. “Always the friend.”

“A friend is someone who helps when you’re in trouble, and you, my friend, are in big trouble,” Thomas said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Nathan threw off his hat and buried his face in his hands. “Suffering Jesus on the cross, this isn’t going well a-tall.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“What do I do?” Nathan asked, rubbing his face hard.

“Get her back.”

Nathan stopped to peer between his fingers. “How? You’ve always claimed to be the genius on women. What do I do?”

Making a disgusted sound, Nathan batted the air, but then assumed an essence of his familiar bravado. “’Tis for the best. Pryce can’t bear a woman on board. The crew’s grumbling…”

“Can you live knowing you let her slip away?” Thomas asked tentatively, studying his knuckles.

“I’ve lived with far more disturbing thoughts than that.” Nathan glanced sideways to see if Thomas believed him.

He didn’t.

“What if she finds someone else?” Thomas asked delicately.

Nathan wearily rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t want to even think about…” He stopped to look up. “You?”

Thomas straightened to present himself in the best light possible. “If she’ll have me.”

“Always the friend,” Nathan muttered ruefully.

“She’s too beautiful to be wasted.”

Nathan thoughtfully drew his fingers down the curve of his mustache. “And has too much to give.”

“She needs a man.”

Nathan looked up to scowl. “And you’re volunteering for the task? Mind, I shan’t be about to pick up the pieces, if she won’t.”

Nathan rose and walked to the rail with the levity of a man heading for the gallows. Leaning heavily there, he gazed at the Morganse on her moorings. Standing at the rail, Thomas covertly studied Nathan and wondered whatever happened to the gentle, gregarious, nautical genius he had known years ago, whose sole desires were a ship and someone to love.

“Just keep her safe,” Nathan said quietly. “Silver and gold does not all treasure make.”

Thomas closed his eyes and murmured a silent deo graci. Nathan had just surrendered. “I know that well.”

“Have a care,” Nathan warned, his smile growing wistful. “She can be a handful; keep you guessing, she will. Sometimes, ’tis bloody impossible to know what she desires.”

“Perhaps it’s a matter of someone telling her.”

Nathan chuckled mirthlessly. “She is going to tear you a new ass.”

“That bad?”

“Oh, yes, that bad,” Nathan said heartily. “You’ve seen naught but the ripple over the reef.”

Nathan sobered, his jaw twisted sideways in thought. “Take care of her. She likes coffee the very first thing of a morning, with milk, if you’ve a goat. The wise man will have it waiting before her eyes open. And with a little cinnamon, if you have it; she really likes that.”

Nathan paused, pensively tracing his finger along the rail. “She likes air; keep the windows open. And scones; she likes scones,” he said, looking up with a faint smile. “With bits of lemon or orange peel.”

“No rum,” Nathan continued, with a grimace. “She hates it; a good whiskey or port, but no rum. Make a place for her, on the fo’c’stle; she loves it up there. She’ll spend hours sitting there while you’re under sail,” he said, inclining his head toward the bow.

He regarded at Thomas and frowned. “And for God’s sake, don’t let anything get dirty. She hates dirt; the least sight sends her into a cleaning frenzy. And you’ll have to start washing that shirt more…and yourself. She the bathingest person you’ll ever meet, and expects the same of everyone near. Shave closer, too; she’ll like that.”

“Did you ever wash for her?”

Elbows braced on the rail, Nathan hung his head between his arms. “No, never did.”

“Listen for her,” Nathan said quietly, as he stared sightlessly across the water. His throat moved as he swallowed. “She cries, at night…for him. It’s enough to tear your heart out. She won’t remember come morning, but you’ll need to be there for her.”

Thomas found his throat had suddenly gone so tight he could barely squeeze out, “I’ll try to remember.”

Nathan’s smile grew distant. “Wait until you kiss her. She’s like a hot coal; she comes alive in your arms…” he murmured, checking himself. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Sorry.”

Surrender. Thomas knew its cost on blood-slickened decks, but never this. He had seen Nathan in his lowest, knocking on death’s door and hoping it would open. Beaten, flogged, stabbed, shot, starved, fever-wracked, scurvy-riddled, half-frozen, and half-dead from heat and thirst: none had been like this.

Thomas shifted again, telling himself this wasn’t betrayal. This was picking up the pieces. If anything, he was doing them both a favor, a grand favor…

Then why the hell doesn’t it feel that way?

Nathan nodded a vague appreciation. “What’s your course to be?”

Thomas narrowed his eyes as he considered. This was the painful part; he’d sailed an ocean in hopes of resuming a lost friendship. “I had thought we could sail in consort for a bit. All things considered, I suppose that might not be the best idea now.”

“Not bloody likely,” Nathan said, with restrained vehemence.

“Probably north,” Thomas said finally, looking in that direction. “Might try along the coast off the Colonies. Heard there’s some good prospects along there; lots of heavy merchants and authorities willing to look the other way, for a small price, of course.”

Nathan nodded interestedly. “She might fancy that. She’s from the Colonies, you know; she’s kin of some sort or another there. It might be a chance for her to see home, finally.”

Nathan leaned closer. “She’s with child,” he said, as if he was divulging the great secret of the ages.

Nathan pressed his fingers to his lips while glancing over his shoulder, oblivious to Thomas’ gape. “’Twould be ill-advised to speak of it. She’s a mite crank on the subject. You know how they are,” he added, with a conspiratorial wink.

“No, I don’t,” Thomas said, barely tolerant. “That would be more in the way of your expertise. Are you the—?”

“Hardly!”

“Then who…?”

Nathan slid a cutting look from the corner of his eye. “One never knows, does one?”

Thomas flinched at the barb. It was surprising how much restraint Nathan had exhibited on the matter, truth be told. Thomas had preferred to think it was all by the board, but apparently not. Contrary to all hopes, Nathan hadn’t changed one goddamned bit, to the downfall of everyone around him. The outside might have changed, but the man inside was still the same bungling mess.

Nathan straightened, shook off his mood like a great dog in the rain. “’Tis a grand friend you are for taking her off me hands,” Nathan said, considerably louder than was necessary, probably for Cate’s benefit, by Thomas’ judgment.

“At a loss, I was,” Nathan went on, “as to what the bloody hell I was to do with her. Nothing worse than a meddlesome, clinging woman on your hands.”

Skepticism was Thomas’ only reaction. The smile a bit pasted, the levity a bit forced, the gestures a bit stiff: it was another of Nathan’s poorer performances.

“Damned annoying,” Nathan went on, oblivious to Thomas’ disgust. “Blabber, blabber, blabber. Never puts a stopper in that gob. No peace. No freedom; freedom is what it ’tis, you know. Me ship, the sea, and the horizon: what more could a man desire?”

Several answers came to mind, but it was a question not intended for one.

“Then you’re done with her,” Thomas said, straightening.

It was more a statement than a question. Nathan symbolically dusted his hands and held them up in exhibition: empty.

“Very well, then.” Thomas snatched Nathan up by the front of his shirt and gave him a solid shake. “Lay hands on her again like you did yesterday, and I’ll snap you like a twig.”

Gazing up, Nathan went very still. “Go ahead,” he said dully. “Put me out o’ me misery.”

Thomas let go and regarded Nathan through a narrowed eye. “Nay, I think not. It’s more fitting that you should suffer.”

Now Thomas was the one to dust his hands. “What are you going to do?”

Nathan brightened. “Don’t rightly know. You know me: pick a spot on the chart, and I will already be there. The wind at me back and the waves at me bow…” The thought was finished with a grand swipe.

Sobering, Nathan looked off across the water toward the open sea. “Lord-on-high Creswicke will be burning the waters looking for us—me, that is—but the men will be desiring a few days at Tortuga, looking to spend his coin. After that, I dunno. Cartagena, maybe west.”

Nathan’s voice drifted off and he fell quiet. At length, he shook his head, as if closing off a private conversation and pushed away from the rail. “Very well, then. It’s been good seeing you, old friend.”

It became instantly clear a handshake wasn’t going to be enough and they embraced, slapping each other heartily on the back.

“On the next horizon?”

“On the next horizon.”

“Take care of yourself, Nathan. Oh, one more thing,” Thomas said, just as Nathan reached the entry port. He drew back his fist and punched Nathan, his head snapping back with the impact.

“Ow!” Nathan’s hand flew up to his nose. “What was that for?”

“For being such a thorough-going, bloody f*cking goddamned fool!”

“Oh.” Nathan tested his nose and examined his fingers for blood. “Can’t argue that. Feeling better, are we?”

Thomas reflected as he rubbed his knuckles. “Aye, a bit.”

“Then by your leave. Always desire to be of service to me friends in a time of their need,” Nathan grumbled and swung over the gunwale.

“You want to take these?” Thomas held up the bundle of Cate’s clothing.

“No! Tell her they were a gift,” Nathan shouted back and disappeared down the side.



###



Cate stalked the cabin. She refused to look, but she could hear Thomas and Nathan talking on deck. She ducked anytime Nathan’s voice threatened her ears. There were inopportune glimpses of them, and she took great satisfaction at seeing Nathan looked positively wretched. Misery did indeed enjoy company and in a grand way!

A part of her wanted to go out there and do…something! Those urges were immediately quashed by the prospect of facing Nathan again. She vowed if he came in there, she would do exactly as he had said he feared: jump. A glance reaffirmed the stern gallery stood open, just in case.

Oh, and there’s that smile!She clamped her eyes shut against the pain of how it had touched her heart. He had flashed it at her, like candy to a child.

And how he had sweet-talked, with all those heart-felt confessions…

Vile…underhanded…manipulative bastard!

With that came a surge of disgust, at a level usually reserved for the likes of Creswicke and his ilk.

Nathan’s look of relief was all too familiar, as was the dismissive wave of his hand. Swiping her from his life, she suspected, ruefully.

Once more, the voice of reason tried to make sense of it all. Cate slapped it away, for there was none. Was it because she wasn’t his precious Hattie, or because it was just her? Had jealousy raised its ugly head, or was it as simple as Nathan was done with her, as she had always known would come to pass? Like a flash of St. Elmo’s fire, the conquest made, the mystery gone. Women were his specialty, like cogs in a wheel: one in, one out; one in, one out…

Thomas’ call of “You can come out now. He’s gone, and too far away to shoot,” cut off Cate’s stream of thought. She squinted from the dim of the cabin into the glare of daylight to verify that Thomas was indeed alone.

“Are you sure?” she called back.

“Aye.”

Cate repeatedly scanned the deck as she crept out, alert for the first sign of a ruse. She wouldn’t put it past Nathan—or Thomas, for that matter. She rose on her toes to peer over the rail and saw the crown of a familiar leather hat no great way off. As she neared the rail, the longboat came into view.

Cate drew up beside Thomas, his gaze as fixed as hers on the receding craft, Nathan standing at the bow like some damned figurehead.“I always knew it would come to this,” she heard herself say.

Thomas stirred, as if from a deep thought. “What?”

“When he tired of me: sell me, pass me on. How much did you pay?”

Thomas looked down at her with an odd mix of satisfaction, pleasure, and wonder. “Not a farthing.”

Cate closed her eyes and swayed. She wasn’t even worth bartering for. Her heart was as cold and empty as the cannon next to her leg, once burning hot, but no more. She propped her head in her hand, suddenly feeling very tired, defeated and…useless.

What color was hope when it faded?

The circle was complete; she was back to where she had began just a few weeks ago, with the clothes she stood in and strangers all around. Providence had interceded once more. It was too cruel: allowing her a shred of happiness, only to jerk it away.

She was now a pirate woman. She had scorned those who had sought to bestow the title upon her in Lady Bart’s parlor. A fine fate for someone who had kept herself one man her whole life. Purity and good intentions didn’t pave the way to happiness.

First Nathan, then Thomas…and then how many more?

Homeless and penniless—she didn’t even own the clothes she stood in—her only asset now was her appearance. Age and hard use would quickly to take their toll, although just being a woman would always open certain doors. Her future was dim—starvation, squalid streets, and begging for a man’s favor and his shilling. If she was lucky, she’d catch the pox or a morbid fever, and die quickly. It was a desperate hope, for Fate seemed determined to deny her any relief.

She peered over the rail to the water below. Not too many weeks ago, she had done the same on the Constancy. The sea then had offered a reprieve, an escape, and the prospect of final peace.

Cate regarded Thomas from the corner of her eye. It could be worse, she thought philosophically. Thomas wasn’t without assets. With effort, she could see him as himself and not Brian—well, not quite so much. Pretending he was Brian might prove beneficial, rendering this arrangement a little more…palatable. So long as she warmed his bed, she suspected Thomas wouldn’t mind her visualizations.

She looked up to find Thomas viewing her as if she was a newly found sea creature.

“What?” she demanded, checking to see if her skirts were turned up.

He shook his head and looked away. “Nothing.”

Cate shifted away a bit. The possibility still lurked that Nathan’s hand festering had been no accident. She wondered how diabolical of a mind lay behind Thomas’ genial smile—Brian’s smile. Scheming came natural enough: he had taken her on a moonlight stroll—a ruse, by his own admission—and then tricked her aboard his ship and set up a candlelight scene befitting of a farce.

“Did you plan this?”

Cate's question was met with the same blue-eyed, child-like innocence as when she had posed it that same night.

“Now why would I do a thing like that?” Finally, his bland façade crumbled. He grinned, shaking his head. “Nay, I but allowed Nathan to be Nathan.”

“And I’m the prize?” The prospect of being a pawn in some grand scheme gave Cate an ill feeling. She felt a chill, as if a cloud had just blanketed the sun. “How long until you pass me on or leave me on some island?”

Thomas' smile tightened and he shied. “I aim to take care of you a damn sight better than he did. Look at you: dressed in near rags, a rope necklace, and I can damn near count every rib.”

“You shouldn’t flatter me so.” Never had she been made to feel so paltry so handily.

The longboat was now nearly alongside the Morganse. Nathan was still at the bow, his shoulders set with the determination not to look back. A bubble of panic rose as Cate realized this could be the last time she ever saw Nathan.

Pirate captain. Damn his soul.

Cate made a caustic noise. “It ’tis a wonder if that man will ever find anything he treasures more than his freedom and that ship.”

She turned and trudged back to the cabin, home…for now.





Excerpt from Nor Gold, the next book in The Pirate Captain series.



Cate and Thomas left behind the waterfront’s rumble of drays and rolling hogsheads, and the guttural roar of teamsters and freight masters. They followed a slight incline up into town, to a lower-voiced but no less raucous market square. In many ways, it was much like one in another Charles Town Cate, so very far away. With its Turkey carpets, South American monkeys and parrots, African drums and talismans, and China lacquer-ware, one might have thought it to be the crossroads of the world. It was a veritable Tower of Babel, but Thomas shifted easily from one tongue to the next as he haggled. Given his size, heavy armament—sword, pistol and massive knife in the shoulder strap of his baldric—and blue eyes that could turn into the hardness of the steel he wore, his price was usually met.

Desiring protection from the sun for Cate, Thomas’ first stop was at a straw weaver. The broad-brimmed hat he picked out sprang from Cate’s tousled locks twice in as many minutes in spite of a string tied under her chin. A parasol was the next option. Cate put back Thomas’ selection, with its inlaid pearl handle, pink tassel, and lace and ribbon edging, and picked out a blue-and-white striped one, with a carved handle, in its stead.

At a goat-cart stand, Thomas found a modesty piece for Cate, a netted lace with a vine-and-rose pattern. His big blunt fingers were surprisingly adept at arranging the delicate fabric around her neck. She stood very aware of his nearness as he tucked it into the edge of her bodice, so very conscious of his resemblance to her dead husband, a resemblance strong enough to stir her heart and tightened the pit of her belly.

The day he had taken possession, Cate had tried to give herself to him. He had declined, saying, “I wish desire, not necessity.”

Yes, she often favored giving in, but to do so still felt like obligation. Her heart was still too crowded by another, no matter how desperately she wished it else.

She felt guilty, as if she was somehow taking advantage of him, an odd thought toward the man who owned her. When did the slave ever feel obliging of the master for his food and shelter?

As they strolled, the more persistent vendors seized Cate by the arm to shove their bargains before her. Standing a head and more above the teeming mass, Thomas imposed himself and edged them away. Under the draper’s striped awning, several dress lengths of fabric—silks and an unfamiliar weave, light and airy, perfect for the tropics—and fine linens for small clothes were selected.

They passed the dog and pony carts, lean-to’s and tables, selling everything from charms to children, monkeys to melons, to find what Cate would need to create her new wardrobe: buttons, crinolines, hooks, stays tapes, lace and the like. It didn’t come easily, for she was unaccustomed to such grand expenditures. Thomas, however, had a second sense for what caught her eye. Bags, baskets, and bundles were sent back to Mrs. Crisp’s via a pair of knob-kneed lads, the coins Thomas paid them chinking in their pockets as they sped away with their burdens.

Cate stood gape-mouthed at an apothecary’s table, the selection there too vast to be able to choose. Thomas readily stepped in and selected skin creams, smelling of jasmine and roses, honey-and-almond soap, and shampoo, bright with rosemary and a spicy sweet flower she couldn’t name. Taken individually, the purchases were not extravagant, but on the whole, Cate was overwhelmed. Her married life had been a comfortable one, but living in the Highlands had never provided opportunity, nor funds for such indulgence. She felt like a pampered little girl, and didn’t quite know how to react.

To be so provided for came with a double edge. It meant she was protected, but it also meant she was controlled. Self-reliance had been her only means of survival for all those years she had lived her own. That independent side bridled at the thought of bending to someone else’s will. And yet, that independence had taken the worst of all blows: being sold by Nathan Blackthorne, peeved, fed up, or whatever his reason had been. Thomas was comely, good natured and caring, but she was still his property. If not a slave, then what else could she be called?

Pirate’s woman.

In most circles, it was a very unflattering title.

As they made their way through the market, Cate tried not to look up the side streets they passed, and the tidy rows of homes and cottages. To see them set off a longing which left her standing motionless in the middle of the throng. Home. A place to belong. It was what she longed for, and yet it might as well have been the rings of Saturn.

Cate’s eyes lit at a dry goods stand. The tables were laden with spools of threads and ribbons, thimbles, hoops, frames, and needles, gold, no less! There was no hesitation on her part there. Thomas’ smile widened in direct proportion to her mounting treasure trove. As the proprietor filled score upon score of ivory and bone bobbins with thread, Thomas poked through the ribbons, until he found the exact shade of turquoise. Claiming it matched the color of her eyes, he tied it about her head, a pert bow at her crown.

Thomas was occasionally met by acquaintances, proof that he wasn’t a stranger to these waters. Sailing might span the Seven Seas, but the sailor’s world was a small one. The greetings were mutually hearty, but the pursuant conversation was carried on with a reserved eye toward Cate, for never was an introduction made. For Cate’s part, it couldn’t be taken as a social snub. Thomas was aware of the warrants for her arrest. Presenting her under a false name threatened entanglements. Leaving her to stand unaddressed was the safer route.

During one such stop, Cate lifted the hair from her neck and dabbed the sweat at her temples. She thought with great longing of the sea breeze, now unable to squeeze between the stands and buildings. Fish and vegetables lying in the tropical sun, tobacco smoke, tightly packed bodies, and an underfoot slurry of dung, urine, and refuse rendered the air nearly unbreatheable. Combined with the heat, she grew light-headed. The market voices went dull in her ears and the ground tipped. Thomas caught her as she swayed and sat on a bale of dried hides. He hailed a black man with a sack of coconuts slung around his shoulders and a machete in hand. The end of the great green nut was whacked off, and Thomas held it while Cate sipped.

Thomas frowned as he dabbed the milk from her chin. “I need to get you out of here. Hungry?”

“Starved.” Her stomach cleaved onto the coconut milk, but demanded something more solid. Breakfast had been a very long time ago.

Thomas rose and put out his hand. “Your wish is but my command, m’lady. To The Crown, it is.”

A rain shower, so sudden it seemed to be falling from the sun, made the decision superfluous. Under the protection of her parasol, they trotted down the street toward the docks in the mist-like rain, so thick it was as if the air had just turned to water. Cate smiled as they ducked into a doorway with a sign The Crown over it, with an appropriate yellow image painted on it. The Crown had to be the most popular name in the Empire. In her limited realm of East London, there had been six such-named places.

This Crown wasn’t the seedy hole one would expect at a waterfront. It was a typical tavern, however, a long room, filled with rows of tables and benches, and a serving counter at the far end. The floor was rush-covered, the low-beamed ceiling blackened from years of wood, candle and tobacco smoke.

“Why aren’t we eating at Mrs. Crisp’s?” Cate asked as Thomas guided her to a table along the wall.

Thomas smiled tolerantly. “Mrs. Crisp is a slave to the application of mop and broom, almost as much as you,” he added wryly. “But she has no sense of duty to pot, nor spoon, nor will she spend the money to engage someone who does. You might as well go to the cooper’s or the ropewalk, for the fare would be barely different. The Crown, on the other hand,” he went on with an admiring eye. “Has a clientele whose main concern is the liquid in their tankard, in spite of a kitchen that produces some of the best sea pie in the New World.”

No sooner had Cate sat than she shifted uncomfortably, considering. “I need to go to the privy,” she said to Thomas’ questioning eye. She started to rise only to see him do so, as well. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can do this much on my own.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, hovering between standing and sitting.

She gave his hand splayed on the table an assuring pat. “I’ve been doing this for some years now. I can manage.”

Thomas reluctantly lowered himself to the bench. She could feel his eyes on her back, however, as she wove her way through the tables and crowd. A well-worn path in the floor planks led to a door outside. The rear yard was enclosed by a fence. It was tall and solid enough to block any movement of air, which could have served well, for the space smelled like old vomit and one vast overused chamber pot. The sun-battered boards bore the yellowish-brown stain of years of being urinated upon, as a man did then. Doing up his breeches, he barely ducked a nod and scurried back inside.

The privy was at the rear of the yard. Cate tiptoed down the path as one would through a cow byre. She opened the door and reflexively ducked to avoid the cloud of flies, irritated at being disturbed. The leaning shack was as foul and rank as would be expected, and she made quick use of it.

When Cate came out, she was met by a pair of women, each wearing a strained, impatient look. The straggling updos, dragging hems on much-mended skirts, stays loosened, the dark ends of their breasts showing through the tissue-thin shifts, and shoes walked to the point of shapelessness marked them as street whores. Her first impression was that they were waiting their turn, but it would be quite remarkable for these two to stand on such formality. Any semi-secluded patch of ground would usually do.

They were more or less bookends, with only slight variations in coloring or build to separate them: one light-headed and squat, the other dark and slim. A thick layer of powder, streaked and uneven by sweat and rough handling, was ostensibly to give an appearance of gentility, but it also served to obscure the pallor brought on by near-starvation and hard use. The blots of rouge, like cheeks on a rag doll, failed to provide the intended allure of health. Under the power, the curling edges of wax patches could be seen, slathered on to cover old pox scars or open sores.

Cate bore no complaint against whores. They were merely women left to their own devices, resorting to their only means of survival. There but for the grace o’ God could have gone she. Only luck had saved her, and only arrogance would allow her to think she was far removed. If Thomas was to grow weary of her, she could easily wind up being one of those gaunt and hollow-eyed wraiths roaming the streets, begging for a man’s favor like curs at a butcher’s doorway.

“Bugger off, bitch. This ’ere is me ’n’ Iris’ territory,” said the light-headed one.

This was delivered with both whores herding Cate backwards with their shoulders and hips, until she came up against the privy door. During her time living alone in East London, they would have never gotten her cornered. While cursing herself for having grown so soft, Cate eyed them. Her fist balled, but then relaxed. Both women were at least a half-head shorter than she, but it would be unwise to underestimate them. Street life would have rendered them wiry. A simple shout would bring Thomas—hopefully—but also the entire tavern and anyone else within earshot. It was a scene Cate didn’t wish to cause, if it could be avoided. Her senses told her she was in no danger. This was no more than the everyday strain of intimidation. Still, she squared her feet and balanced her weight in preparation should a fight ensue.

“This is first comes what’s first served best ’ere,” said the lighter of the two, pressing Cate with her shoulder.

“Aye, ’n what we gets is best, first pick that ’tis. Newcomers go to the end o’ the line,” said Iris, in a slight Irish accent. Her point was punctuated with a thumb stabbed over her shoulder. “And don’t forget me ’n Rose gets half comin’ o’ yer earnin’s,” she added, ramming a finger into Cate’s chest.

It took Cate a moment to figure what they were about. Laughing in their faces being ill advised, with some effort she bit back the urge to do so.

“I beg your pardon, but I’m not—” Cate began.

“What’s goin’ on ’ere?”

The harlots whirled around at the sound of the male voice and jerked back like scalded cats. They shied, declawed by their apparent master. He was a hatchet-faced, simian-like man, with long arms, bowed legs, and a wall-eye.

Rose flashed a tense smile as he strolled nearer. “Nuthin’, Squires. We wuz just advisin’ the new’un here as to how we do things hereabouts.”

As Squires neared, the bookends inched away from Cate, like two children seeking to distance themselves from a third about to be disciplined. He drew up and shrewdly eyed Cate as one might a new brood mare. The wall-eye made it difficult to track where he was looking, while the other peered at her with the warmth of a shark. The air grew more pungent, the stench of him overcoming the privy behind her.

“Hmm…not bad,” he said, with disquieting appreciation that made Cate’s skin creep. “A mite old, but with little powder and rouge; pull down that bodice so as to show the customers you’re friendly-like; do something with that hair and you’ll do well…very well, indeed.”

Squires’ hand casually came to rest on the hilt of a knife at his waist. “’Tis is a partnership we have ’ere.”

He flicked out the knife and began to track slow, rhythmic circles before Cate. The blade tip periodically took a carving upward arc or downward slice, the sun flashing on the steel with each turn. Cate had a deep hatred of blades and the muscles of her abdomen withdrew to the point of near spasm.

“Everyone works for the common good. Give over your share straightway and there shan’t be trouble. Forget and I’ll see that your odds o’ working again are cut off, if you get my drift.”

You’re in trouble now, girl.

Cate slid a glance toward Iris and Rose, measuring the chances of their intervention. It was a quick evaluation, for all she saw was fear. The pair’s attention was fixed on the knife with a familiarity that meant only one thing: Squires used it, and often.

The time to scream might have passed, but Cate opted to try anyway. She drew a breath, when she heard a calm, deep voice.

“It doesn’t require much of a man to draw a knife on a lady.”

Squires and the whores whirled around to where Thomas stood a short distance away, a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other.

“Doesn’t take much of one to pull a pistol on one what’s only armed w’ a knife,” Squires sneered in a faltering bravado.

His gaze steady on Squires, Thomas shoved the pistol into his belt and shifted the knife into his right hand. The switch allowed for a fuller view, and an impressive weapon it was. Its hilt was nearly the thickness of the average man’s wrist, the blade nearly as long as one’s hand.

Thomas allowed Squires’ eyes to follow the circular path of the knife’s tip before asking, “Better?”

A breeze staggered over the fence, but only served to stir the yard’s foulness, not unlike kicking a half-dried pile of dung. A droplet of sweat began a languorous trip down between Cate’s breasts.

“No harm meant. We wuz just enlightenin’ the new gal ’ere as to the way o’ bizness ’ere. Partners we are ’ere, are we not, ladies?” Squires said, elbowing the two whores into agreement. “Scratchin’ each other’s backs, that is. I let her work ’ere ’n she gives me half. Fair’s fair.”

One could almost hear the trio’s heads nodding in earnestness. If they had tails, they would have been tucked between their legs.

“Just to show what an abidin’ cove I am, so as to show my goodwill n’ all, I’ll let you ’ave ’er at half price…free!” Squires blurted at seeing the tip of Thomas’ knife jerk up.

The corner of Thomas’ mouth quirked. Whether he was amused by the offer or by the thought of paying for what he already owned, Cate couldn’t tell. “The lady is my guest.”

Squires spun around and back-handed Iris. “Stupid slut!”

The muzzle of Thomas’ pistol was pressed it against the side of Squires’ head before he could turn back. Squires’ eyes bulged at hearing the hammer cock.

“Do that again,” Thomas said in a measured rumble. “And I’ll blow a hole in that miserable bag you use for a head.”

Squires mouth groped for words. At length, he only nodded.

Thomas stepped back and crooked a finger at Cate. “Come along, lovely.”

As Thomas steered her back toward the tavern, Cate half expected him to give her a good shake, or at least a berating. Instead, he only said under his breath, “Can’t leave you for a minute, can I? Like a damned sign around your neck.”

He looked down as she began to respond and shook his head. “Never mind. I’ve seen that very sign myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have no idea, do you: the power you have over people, men most particular?” Thomas said in amused wonderment.

“I never—!”

“You don’t have to,” he said, chuckling. “It’s an air, or a scent, or some damned something. Hell, I don’t know what the hell it is, but there’s no denying it. Makes every man want you the minute they lay eyes on you, and every woman hate you for it, that’s for damned sure.”

“But I never—!”

“Stand easy, lovely. To expect you to change would be to ask the trades to shift or the moon to stand still.” Thomas saw her seated once more. He sat across from her and broke into a pleasured smile. “Besides, some of us downright enjoy it.”

Cate gave him a sharp look, but was met with only his usual benign boyishness. Thomas could be as vulgar as a forecastleman, but never a suggestive or lewd mark was made toward her.

The pitcher bawd came. She made no airs about bumping Thomas’ shoulder with her hip, and then bending to allow him a full display of her bosom in the candlelight as she set their drinks on the table. Cate had expected either ale or rum in the mug. It was a surprise to find shrub, a mix of lemon juice, sugar, rum, and a spice to which she couldn’t put a name. Fresh and cool from the well, after the heat of the market and the foulness of the privy yard, it was blessedly refreshing.

“I think you have an admirer of your own,” Cate said over her drink. In fact, there were several eyes cast wistfully in Thomas’ direction. Thomas’ observations had been correct: outright resentment was aimed at her.

She looked across the table to see Thomas’ gaze fixed over her shoulder. A squeal of feminine laughter revealed the object—or objects—of his attention, as intent as a starving man with a feast just beyond his reach. She started to tell him that she wouldn’t mind if he desired to sup. With a sharp stab, however, she discovered she would most definitely and vehemently object.

It was a puzzle, for she had no claim on him. He was the one who possessed her.

Still, she batted her lashes and said, “This shrub is wonderful.”

Her ploy worked. Thomas blinked and came back to the table.

The sea pie came and it was delicious. The “sea” aspect of it was but one among several of layers of different meats, onions, and currants, with flaky layers of crust between each. At first, Cate thought the great wedge which was set before her was far too large, but she ate with an industry that surprised her and clearly pleased him.

The tavern’s door burst open and a group barged in. Cate stiffened, the fork gone forgotten in her hand. Her back was to the room, but it wasn’t necessary for her to look. There was no mistaking that voice.

From the corner or her eye, she saw Nathan brush past, a whore under each arm and several more in tow. A small entourage of followers brought up the rear, all drunk as dukes.

“What’s he doing here?” she hissed.



From "Nor Gold" coming soon.





Glossary



Abaft: across, to the other side of the ship

Abeam: directly to the side; right angle to the keel

Accommodation ladder: steps up the side of the ship

Aft: rear, back, toward the stern

Afterguard: seamen whose assignment is on the quarterdeck

Aftersail: a sail behind the main sail

Aftmost: furthest to the rear

Ahoo: 18th century nautical for “chaotic” or “messy”

All stations: an order given for everyone to man their posts

Amidships: on or near the middle, or waist

Answer: 18th century for “serve” or “work”

Armorer: ship’s blacksmith

Arsey-farsey: confused

Astern: toward the rear, or off the stern of the ship

Aweigh: refers to the movement of the ship; “We’ll aweigh” would mean, “We’ll depart;” often confused with “away”

Backstay: part of the standing rigging supporting the masts, etc. from the back

Bairns: Scots for “children”

Bannochbroch: small town in the Highlands, where a skirmish took place

Bar and chain shot: shot from a cannon; a bar with round or square ends; a length of chain with a small cannonball at each end

Barra Terre: an island in the central Caribbean

Bear a hand: “Gimme a hand!” or “Hurry up!”

Bear a weather eye:be alert

Bedlam: a hospital for the insane in London

Belay: “Stop” Or “Take it easy;” to secure or tie something off

Belike: 18th century for “in all likelihood”

Bells: the ship’s system of timekeeping, but only with reference to the duration of the current watch; indirectly, the time of day

Bending sails: changing or putting up new sails

Berth: bed or bunk

Between the devil and the deep blue sea:a section under the edge of the deck that was “the devil” to reach for painting; a reference to someone hanging over the edge, or in definite peril

Bilboes: leg irons with an iron bar between

Bilge: 1) the space beneath the hold’s floor; 2) the foul water and other filth that collects in that space

Bilge pumps: used to pump out the bilges

Bilge rats: 1) the rodents living in the bilges; 2) lowly people

Binnacle: a cabinet-like structure in front of the ship’s wheel that houses the compass and other navigational necessaries

Binnacle list: sick list

Bitter end: the end of a rope that is under heavy use; to reach its end can be big trouble

Blighter: annoying person; a jerk

Boatswain: see bosun

Bombay bomber:cockroach

Bonneted: covered with canvas

Boomtricers: definition needed

Bosun: literal pronunciation for boatswain

Bottling your tot: saving one’s grog ration for later

Boucan: the open-pit fires for which “buccaneers” were probably named

Bowlines: (BO-luns) the lines securing the windward side of a sail

Bowsprit: heavy spar that protrudes from the front of the ship as a support for sails and rigging

Braces: the ropes which are used to swing the yardarms, and hence the sails

Bracemen: those handling the braces

Brailing up her courses:bringing up the lower corners of the main sail to get them out of the way

Brighten blades: sharpen and clean

Broadside: 1) the side of a ship above the water; 2) a firing of all cannon on one side of the ship at one time

Buggering: derogatory; a jerk

Bulkhead: inside wall

Bulwark: raised part between the rail and the deck

Burn: Scots for “river”

Busted gut: hernia

Butcher’s Bill: casualty list

By your leave: 18th century for “I beg your pardon,” “Excuse me,” “If you’ll excuse me…”

Cable: a thick rope, some up to 30" in diameter

Cable’s length: a measurement in the range of 600-700 feet, depending on the diameter

Cable tier:compartment where the anchor cable is stored

Cack-handed: literally, left-handed; referring to any matter handled poorly

Caning: beating someone with a cane

Canny: careful

Capstan: heavy-duty winch in which spokes are inserted in order to turn it

Captain of the crosstrees:crew chief of some of those who work in the upper rigging

Cartouche boxes: a box for musket cartridges

Casks: barrels, hogsheads, puncheons

Cast him off: to set someone adrift, usually in a very small boat, as a means of banishment

Caulk: the stuffing between the planks that kept the ship watertight; a combination of oakum and tar

Caulking mallets: hammers used to pound the caulk into the ship’s seams

Cayo Hueso: a West Indies island

Chanty: sailor’s song

Charqui: strips of dried meat; jerky

Chirurgeon: 18th century for “surgeon;” this person was often also the barber

Clap on: a command to grab hold, seize, pull, etc.

Clear the braces: a command in preparation to maneuver the ship in some way

Coaming: raised edge at the bottom of a doorway that stops water from coming in

Cochineal: a highly valued red dye

Come about: turn

Companionway: stairway inside the ship

Company muster: the book listing the members of the crew

Comprendes?: Spanish for “Understand?”

Consort: a ship’s sailing companion

Coopersmate: barrelmaker’s assistant

Cordage: ropes, as in those used for the ship’s rigging

Corvette: a type of ship

Cosseted: coddled or pampered

Cot: bed

Course: mainsail

Cross of St. George: the Union Jack

Cross-trees: support timbers in the rigging

Cumberland: British army commander put in charge of the Highlands after the Stuart Uprising

Curate: two-wheeled carriage

Cutwater: bow, prow, forefoot

Daft: 18th century for “crazy”

Davy Jones: a mythical person who ferried those who died at sea to the afterlife

Dawcock: silly or ridiculous person

Deadeyes: an eyed block that secures the shrouds to the ship

Deck prism: a piece of glass through the deck that allows light to penetrate below

Derrick yard: a yard rigged to be used to bring heavy cargo aboard

Desire: 18th century for “ask,” “wish,” “request”

Devil of the Deep: Davy Jones, the ferryman of the dead

Dimity: striped cotton fabric

Dividers: a navigational instrument used to measure distances

Dolt: idiot, fool

Double-shot: two balls loaded into a cannon instead of one

Douse the tops and lay ’er in irons: a command meant to bring a ship to a halt by way of reducing sail and facing the wind

Draughts: the game of checkers

Drawing and quartering:a punishment reserved for traitors, which included not only hanging, but cutting out the victim’s heart while it was still beating, then cutting the body into pieces and strewing it so that there was no grave, hence damning them

Drubbing: beating, usually with some kind of club

Dueña: Spanish for “governess”

Duff: a steamed suet pudding with currants; often a Sunday treat in the Royal Navy

Dunnage: baggage; gear

Dutch-built: derogatory for something that is poorly built

Eight bells: the number of rings (actually double rings) marking the end of a watch; it can mean either 4 or 8 am, Noon, 4 or 8 pm, or midnight

Eight bells of the morning watch: 8:00 am

Entry port: opening in the bulwark at the top of the accommodation ladder

Etui: a small, often decorative case for sewing needles

Ewer: large water pitcher

Falkirk: battle during the Stuart Uprising

Fancy: 18th century for “like,” “prefer,” “wish”

Fireship: a ship set afire and then set adrift into an enemy vessel

First Watch: 8 pm to midnight

Fishwife: annoying, hag-like woman

Flips of the glass:time was kept by a 30-minute sandglass throughout the day

Flogging sail: flapping

Fly-by-night: lightweight sails (sometimes ratty)

Fop: an overly ostentatious man; a dandy

Forecastle: the raised foredeck

Forefoot: leading edge of the keel; the bow

Foregallant: one of the higher sails on the foremast

Forepeak: furthest point forward in the ship’s hold; inside the bow

Forestay: supports running forward of the masts; opposite of backstay

Fortnight: 18th century for “two weeks”

Fraymaker: disturber of the peace

Fuddling: drunken; confused

Full cover!: command for sails

Fuses ’twixt the fingers:pirate torture method of putting burning slow-match between the victim’s fingers

Galley: ship’s kitchen

Gallowsy: fit to be hung, criminally inclined

Give ease: 18th century; allow one to relax; calming

Give quarter: dating back to the knights, a pledge that if a ship was to surrender immediately, no one would be killed

Glass: 1) looking glass; 2) a sandglass, which was a ship’s only timepiece; 3) “a glass” meant the period of time lapsed through a glass

Go pear-shaped:take a bad turn

Go to windward of: be cautious of

Go toss yourself:bring oneself off (sexual); hand job

Gob: mouth

Grates: hatch covers

Great cabin: the large aft cabin, usually the captain’s cabin

Great guns: cannon on a ship

Grog: a mix of water, lime juice, and rum, the proportions depending on the ship

Gull-winged: when the sails are loosely secured, so that they sag slightly

Gunner: a member of the crew of a cannon (usually 6-8)

Guns spiked: metal has been broken off in a cannon’s touchhole, rendering it useless

Gunwale: topmost outside edge of the ship’s hull

Hanging locker: closet

Hauled his wind: ran off

Hawley: British army commander during the Stuart Uprising

Hawse: heavy cable

Head: the crew’s privy at the bow of the ship

Helm: the ship’s wheel, or anywhere in the immediate vicinity

Helms a-lee: part of a series of commands when a ship is being turned

Helmsman: the man at the helm

Hist, now: “Quiet,” “shh!”

Hitch: type of knot

Hock and heave: a mode of punishment in which the victim’s hamstrings are sliced and then he is thrown overboard

Hogshead: a cask for liquids

Hold: lowest deck of a ship, usually used for storage

Holystone: blocks of sandstone used for scouring the decks

Hooked on: tied on

Horn lamp: lantern with thin sheets of horn for a lens

Hove to: surrender

’Hoy: short for “ahoy;” a greeting

Hull down: when the sails of a ship can be seen, but not the hull

Hull up: the hull of the approaching ship is visible

Humours: a reference to the belief that the body was ruled by four fluids: blood, phlegm, choler, and melancholy

Irons: 1) shackles; manacles; 2) to “lay into irons” means to stall the ship’s motion

Iron-sick: when bolts, nails, etc. are severely corroded by salt

Jack: man, person, sailor

Jib: triangular headsail

Jib-boom: long spar extending off the bowsprit to support the jibs and other rigging

Jimmy Bungs: often the nickname for the ship’s barrelmaker (cooper)

Junk: worn-out cables or ropes

Kedge: anchors smaller than the Number One

Keel: bottom of the ship

Keel-hauling: a punishment of dragging a man under the ship from bow to stern.

Ken: Scots for “know”

Kent: Scots for “knew”

Kertch: a large cloth (often decorative) worn around a woman’s neck and tucked into her bosom

Kevel: sometimes called a “knighthead,” an anvil-shaped wood block used to secure ropes

Knacker’s: 18th century for a boneyard

Knot: increment of speed, a little under miles per hour

Laggardly: 18th century for “lazy,” “slow,” “unhandy”

Land in her lee: a point of safety, for the wind is likely to blow the damaged ship ashore

Land in our lee: the wind pushed a ship sideways as well as forward, making land downwind (in the lee) a concern

Larboard: to the left side of the ship (when looking toward the bow)

Larboard quarter astern:to the left side and toward the rear quarter

Larbolins: one of two work groups on the crew; see starbolins

Lawn: a fine linen fabric

Lead lines: used to measure the depth of the water

Leddy: Scots for “lady”

Lee: downwind

Lee lurch: a sudden sideways motion of the ship

Leech: the vertical edge of a sail

Leeward: downwind

Listing: the lean of the ship from the pressure of the wind on the sails

Lobcock: a bumpkin or blundering fool

Loch: Scots for “lake”

Loggerhead: iron bars that were heated, then used to melt tar

Long live Prince Charlie!:Stuart Uprising cheer

Longboats: launches; small boats used for hauling and going ashore

Long-jawed cordage: old or worn ropes

Lout: bumpkin or blundering fool

Luff: 1) flapping of a sail; 2) bring the ship into the wind, often to come to a halt

Magazine: powder room

Mainmasthead: top of the mainmast proper, topmasts often extending it

Manrope: ropes strung simply for safety or convenience

Mantua-maker: a maker of a certain type of dress

Mark me: 18th century for “mark my words”

Master and commander: a Navy rank; a reference to one who had a title and authority, but no ship

Master rogue: an extremely offensive person who threatens harm to others

Match: short for slow-match

Mess: meals

Mess area: where the crew eats

Mess number: the assigned seat; to “lose one’s mess number” meant to die

Mizzen: the aftermost sail

Mizzen course: the lowest and larges of the mizzen sails

Mizzen shrouds: the ropes that give sideways support to the mizzenmast

Mizzen stay: the ropes that support front and back support to the mizzenmast

Mizzenmast: the furthest rear mast on a ship

Morgan and Bartholomew: the original pirates who established The Pirate’s Code

Mump: jerk, oaf, idiot

Muster book: book listing the members of the crew

Mutton-fisted: heavy-handed, awkward about something

Muy bien! Habla espanol: “Very good! You speak Spanish.”

Night charlies: hired night watchmen

Offscourings: scumbags

Old Bailey: London Court where many pirates were tried and hung

On the down roll:firing a cannon when the ship is on the downward side of a wave, hence firing low on their opponent

On the rise:opposite of on the down roll

One for the sailmaker’s palm: a body ready to be sewn into its hammock/shroud

Palm: leather protector worn by swordsmen or sailmakers

Pastillas: Spanish for “bricks” or “cakes”

Physick: 18th century for “physician”

Physikan: 18th century for “physician”

Pissdale: an opening along the rail

Piss-vinegar: drunk

Points (four, two, etc):means to indicate direction, referring to the points on a compass

Poop deck: a small raised deck behind the quarterdeck

Port: 1) window or opening; 2) a harbor; 3) left side of a ship; 4) a kind of liquor

Pottle: two quarts

Pounders (sixteen, eighteen, etc.): reference to the size of a cannonball

Press-ganged: essentially kidnapped by the Royal Navy

Prestopans: one of the battles during the Stuart Uprising

Pricking the chart: using the dividers while charting a course

Privy closet: bathroom

Prize: captured ship or loot

Prize Book: a listing of everything taken, so that shares might be figured and kept track of

Providence: 18th century for “God,” “luck,” “fortune,” “karma,” etc.

Prow: front of a ship; bow; forefoot

Puddening chains: chains secured around the yards to keep them from coming down if damaged during a battle

Pulled: rowed

Puncheon: a small cask, of varying size depending on its contents

Put a stopper in your gob:“Shut up!”

Quarterdeck: afterdeck, command deck, often atop the great cabin

Quartermaster: an officer; on a pirate ship, he was often in charge of the plunder

Quid: 1) a coin; 2) a portion of something, often tobacco

Quimwedge: 18th century for penis

Rake: to fire square on to the stern of a ship; most destructive

Rain tarpaulin: rain jacket

Ratlines: stair-like ropes strung between the shrouds, used by the crew to reach the rigging

Reef points: ties in the sails used to reduce the size

Reefed: reduction of sails by increments

Represents: 18th century; “claims” or “says”

Round shot: cannonball

Roundhouse: the curved cabin at the stern of a ship, often very ornate

Running close to the wind:a ship sailing with the wind almost on her nose

Runs: going with the wind

Sabe?: Spanish for “Do you understand?”

Salon: the public or working area of the great cabin

Salt horse: salted beef

Sassenachs: Scots for “English” (derogatory)

Score: 18th century designation for groups of 20

Scrub: same as scug

Scug: contemptible person, often engaged in deceit

Scuppers: deck drains

Scuts: coward; spineless; lily-livered person

Sea lawyer: one who often questions the captain’s authority or stirs up dissent

Sharp set: 18th century for “hungry”

Sheet: rope used in controlling the sails

Shift: 1) an undergarment; 2) to change one’s clothes

Ship’s biscuit: hardtack

Shiver: quaking of a sail when the wind is too near the bow

Shot garlands: racks along the gunwale that hold cannonballs

Show a leg: to swing one’s leg out of the hammock; to hurry, hustle; show some initiative

Sickbay: area for the treatment of the sick or wounded

Side tackle: ropes and pulleys on cannons

Skipjack: scrub or scug

Slab-sided: unseemly, awkward, ugly

Slavering: drooling

Sloop: a small ship, often with sails triangular sails running fore and aft

Slow-match: rope soaked in saltpeter used to ignite the cannons

Small ale:watered-down beer

Smoke: 18th century for “understand” or “figure out”

Sodding: damned, sodomite, cursed

Softtack: bread

Sot: drunkard

Spar: definition needed

Sprats: inconsequential, jerk, buffoon

Squeaker: youngster

St’d’s’ls: studdingsails

St. Agua: Cate’s abbreviation for Isla de las Aguas doe los Santos Sedientos

St. Elmo’s Fire: a natural phenomenon of static buildup, giving the effect of a fire or glow

Starboard: right side of the ship, when looking forward

Starbolins: opposite of larbolins

Stays, jump-style: a softer style of women’s corset meant for heavy labor

Staysails: smaller triangular sails flown in between the larger ones

Stern gallery: windows running around the outside of the great cabin

Stern-chasers: cannon posted at the rear of the ship

Stinkpot: crockery jar filled with sulfur, gunpowder, and a fuse, tossed aboard enemy ships

Stirling: site of a battle during the Stuart Uprising

Stomacher: decorative panel pinned over the laces of a corset’s stays

Strake: the individual planks making up the hull; “a strake or two” means the ship is heeled over until two of those planks are underwater

Stretched rag: worn or old sails

Swabbers: crewmen who swab or sweep the deck

Swaying up: raising

Swell: rise and fall of the water

Swivel gun: a cannon small enough to be mounted on the rail

Swivel-tongued: liar, fast-talker

T’gallants: topgallants; one of the highest sails

Tacks and braces:lines controlling the yards

Taffrail: rail surrounding the quarterdeck

Tampion: wooden stopper in the mouth of the cannon

Tars: mariners, sailors, seamen

Teredo: Spanish for “shipworm”

Time out of mind: 18th century for “forever”

Tops: a generic reference to the highest reaches of the ship

Topsman: men who work in the tops

Tors: Highland mountains

Tortuga: infamous pirate haven off the coast of Honduras

Touchhole: spark hole in the cannon

Traversing board: a chalk board or system of pegs that indicate times, speeds, and headings

Treacle: molasses, or a mix of that and oatmeal

Trenchers: square wooden plates

Triced up: tied up out of the way, secured

Trollop: whore, cheap woman, floozy

’Tween deck: the lower deck

Twice-laid: reused

Unhung: a criminal worthy of being hung, but not as yet

Wadding: stuffing between the ball and powder in either cannon, pistol, or musket

Waist: middle region of the ship

Watch on watch:back-to-back watches with no break

Wear/wore around: when a ship turns and goes in the opposite direction

Weather gauge: the advantage gained by being upwind of an opponent

Weather rail: the rail toward the wind, reserved for the captain on most ships since it offers the best vantage point

Weather shroud: the shroud on the windward side of the ship

Well: bilge, hold

Wharf fever: a generic term for any fever that occurs while the ship is in harbor

Where away?: “where?” or “which way?”

Whips: ropes rigged for loading from over the side

Windward: the side toward the wind

Woad: a blue vegetable dye used mostly by the Celts

Won her anchor: the ship pulled up the anchor

Wood and watering:the activity of a ship bringing fresh water and firewood aboard

Worth his three squares: a worthy man; meals aboard a ship were eaten on square plates

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