The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 5: Life’s Routines

Cate settled into the daily routine of a pirate ship, if “routine” and “pirate” might be used in the same sentence: rise with the sun, work, a bit of grog and relaxation on the forecastle after dark, and then sleep.

Trying to learn the names of over a hundred and twenty rogues was a daunting task. With faces weathered to a uniform butternut tan, sun-creased and seamed, separation on that sole basis was nigh impossible.

Mr. Hodder she was familiar with, if not by face, then certainly by voice. As the ship’s boatswain (pronounced “BO-sun,” curiously enough), his charge was the workings of the ship proper, and hence, its crew. Either by necessity or natural trait, he possessed a voice that could carry from bowsprit to taffrail in a high gale, and all around a fist-sized quid of tobacco in his cheek. A single “Turn to!” could rouse a crewman from the depths of sleep, up and out of his hammock and on deck, before the wind could carry the words away.

In spite of his voice, massive gnarled hands and inordinately long arms, Hodder’s most outstanding feature was the intricately carved and scrimshawed ivory rings that studded every nook of his body. He stalked the decks, his waist-long eel-skinned and tarred pigtail swinging at his back, rings clattering, and woe unto the wretched, unsuspecting cove who failed to attend his approach.

Millbridge was another easily recognized. Being the oldest, and therefore most experienced, put him in the revered position of having the last word on any mystery or vagary of nature, or the world: strongest wind, strangest sky, biggest shark, or worst doldrum. He was the final authority and touchstone regarding superstition and omens, boils, cuts, dislocations, and fevers. Even Nathan and Mr. Pryce yielded to his authority. If Millbridge said, then it must be so. He was the one who appeared while she prepared to sew Chin’s leg her first day aboard, with the declaration of “I’ve seen worse.”

Who could argue with that?

As part of his position, Millbridge was spared hardship, either physical or weather. Generous rations of rum and additional shares of plunder all revealed the level of his esteem.

“I thought everyone objected to the privileges in the Royal Navy,” Cate said, still a bit unclear.

“There, privilege is imposed. Here, ’tis granted,” Nathan explained patiently, “and can be revoked at the drop of a hat—highly unlikely, but a possibility.”

He scanned the ship’s people, all at their duties. “Millbridge is everyone’s goal: to live that long. Bloody unlikely prospect, but ’tis the hope what lingers in every seaman’s heart.” He grinned a bit wistfully. “All of us fancy a bit of ease in our silver years. Providence must be smiling upon someone what’s managed to make it that long. Who be we to tangle with that?”

As a single face among the masses, each man adorned or outfitted himself to be unique against a hundred others who were also striving for the same. It was a contest with no end. As a result, it was difficult not to stare, and yet they took pride at her doing so, interpreting it as a declaration of their success. Through the days, she found the uniqueness of each and privately assigned temporary names.

The easiest were those who, by virtue of certain physical aspects, resembled animals. Toad and Crane, the two she had met her first day aboard, were the first to receive such titles, until later learning they were Mr. Towers and Mr. Smalley.

Hog, called so because of rounded nostrils and snubbed appearance because of the missing end of his nose, turned out to have the name of Seymour.

Mole, because of his way of squinting when spoken to and a pair of horrifically bucked teeth, was actually Mr. Hallchurch, a pleasant sort that tended to spit with every “s” or “th” uttered.

Chicken, known only by his semi-maniacal cackling laugh that was audible throughout the ship, turned out to be a long-necked man with inordinately small, round eyes named Sombers.

Snake didn’t look like one. A tattoo wound his torso, up the side of his face, and coiled around his bald head, the slitted eyes of the creature staring down from his forehead squarely into the face of anyone who spoke to him. Not only was Ogden, as she learned his name to be, bald, he was completely void of any hair anywhere visible on his body.

Ass’s name wasn’t meant to be derogatory. It referred to the jawbone the mulatto wore on a leather thong around his neck. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the jawbone of an ass, since it bore three gold teeth. Mr. Squidge, as he preferred to be called, wore the remnants of several of his foes. Hanging from a loop around his neck, the withered segments turned out to be fingers.

There was confusion on Cate’s part, because of another man who carried a similar collection. The issue was cleared up when Nathan pointed out that unlike Squidge’s, Mr. Pickford’s collection was of not of fingers, but ears, each bearing a gold earring.

How could she have been so unobservant?

She didn’t inquire as to whether some of the fresher-looking bits were souvenirs of the Constancy or Nightingale.

Nathan and Mr. Pryce were more than patient in quietly coaching her on the names, even going so far as to point out how to remember each:

Similar to Hodder, Mr. Damerell sported gold rings on every part of his body.

“A ring in one’s ear improves the sight,” Nathan informed her. He failed to explain the powers of the rings in Damerell’s lips, nose, and nipple. She couldn’t help but wonder where else he might have one.

“Oh, yes indeed,” Nathan said, with a delicate clearing of his throat, somehow divining her thoughts. “Even there.”

Mr. Scripps was appropriately named. Bare-chested in even the most inclement weather, barely an inch of his body wasn’t occupied by multi-colored tattoos.

Pattison had scarified tattoos arching across both cheeks and encircling his eyes.

Rowett, at one point referred to by her as Snake the Second, wore a snake skin nearly as wide as his back, fashioned into something akin to a vest, the tails dangling at the back.

“Ate his best friend,” she was told.

Mr. White was black. Mr. Towers was short. Mr. Harrier was bald. Mr. Pidgeon resembled a cat. Mr. Broadstreet was pencil-thin to the point of causing one to wonder how he kept from being blown away, and Mr. French wasn’t.

Mute Maori was just that.

“Doesn’t he have a name?” she asked, eyeing Mastiff, the name she had given him when she sewed Chin’s leg her first day aboard.

Nathan propped his hands on his hips. “And how were we to know that? He’s a mute,” he pointed out, apparently not caring that the man, who stood nearby, still had his hearing. “Unless you read Maori?”

Cate wasn’t sure if there even was such a language, let alone a written one.

“No cabin boys?” As she understood, taking young boys to sea was a well-steeped tradition.

“Certainly,” Nathan replied. “Have to be a dundering oysterhead to aweigh without. Millbridge there is one.” A hand waved in the direction of the ship’s patriarch.

“But…he’s…?”

“Too old to do aught else,” Nathan finished bluntly, but with a certain affection. “The men—and me, of course—desire to keep him about, but those old bones won’t stand much abuse, so he’s the easiest job aboard.”

“Easy” wasn’t ordinarily the first word that came to mind when referring to cabin boy. To be one meant to live at the beck and call of every hand aboard. A combination messenger, servant, and valet, they were required to perform any and all menial tasks. It hardly seemed the role for a person verging on antiquity.

“But, I’ve never seen him in the—” Cate began.

“Not likely to either,” Nathan cut in. “He can’t abide women. Some long, lost love doing him wrong, or some such stuff and nonsense, but it stuck with him all these years. Never known him to so much as lift a brow to a whore, let alone be in the same room with one, willingly at any rate. No offense,” he added as a rather late-coming afterthought.

“None taken, I think,” she said, still trying to sort out the image of Millbridge being anyone’s lackey.

“Jensen was taken on initially to serve as Kirkland’s lad, but he’s never allowed the boy over the galley coaming.”

Jensen was the youngest in years, but held seniority over many. That edge didn’t save him from being the brunt of practical jokes and ribbings. Bright-faced and good-natured, he eagerly faced every menial and dirty task that came with being the youngest aboard. His ability to accept it all in the spirit intended, often laughing the hardest, had endeared him to everyone. Now the tender age of seventeen and at sea for a few years, it was painfully clear that Jensen wasn’t a natural seaman. It was suggested, often and none so gently, that perhaps his talents laid in farming, with dirt under his nails as opposed to tar.

“Reminds me of meself,” Nathan sighed wistfully one day. “Of course, I wasn’t so cod-handed.” He winced, indicating perhaps that wasn’t quite the entire truth.

“But no regular cabin boys?” Cate asked.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. “Best not have the men see the captain waited upon: sets a bad image. Besides, the lads can be a bit…without defenses,” he finished with a strained tone.

It was another arrival upon dangerous grounds, and many of those there were. She was coming to wish for a chart by which to track such hazards.

Life, however, was far from idyllic. A few souls made it eloquently clear they desired no part of her, her presence an affront. She felt their thinly veiled malignant looks, their comments always uttered loudly enough for her benefit alone. Scarface, or Bullock as his name turned out to be, was always among them, his voice as recognizable as Nathan’s. A ringleader, if ever she had seen one. His presence was as pressing as the trade winds. She took careful note of him and his cohorts at all times.

Besides the uncertainty of her fate—Nathan being still slippery on the matter—the issue of quartering was a growing concern. Upon her unceremonious arrival, she had been deposited in the captain’s berth. After the first several nights, she had anticipated being relocated to one of the cabins below, but Nathan had insisted she remain where she was, “Seeing as how it was finally clean to your exacting standards.”

He was, of course, referring to a rather unfortunate incident one morning, when…Well, the mattress needed airing desperately! There had been cross words and perhaps some hurt feelings—not that ingratitude for his hospitality had been her intention—but her goal had ultimately been met: the oakum-stuffed mattress spending the day on the hatch grates in the sun and smelling much the better for it.

The issue of sleeping arrangements was precipitated not quite a week of her arrival, when she found Nathan one night at the table, the logbook his pillow.

Cate came in the next morning to find him as clear-eyed and insufferably perky as ever—and yes, perky was indeed the correct word, for the man positively bubbled. She, on the other hand, met the day with considerably less gleeful aplomb. He took an unseemly joy, by her estimation, in making example of that not-so-small contrast. He met the sun like it was an elixir, whereas it did no more than deliver her a dull headache.

Mr. Kirkland—bless him!—was the only sympathetic soul aboard. Every morning a pot of coffee waited upon her on the table, hot enough to scald the unsuspecting. It was a wonder of the ages as to how he managed the miracle, but miraculous it was.

“Let me go elsewhere,” Cate insisted after sufficient amounts of coffee made lucid thought possible. Her voice was raised not in anger, but to be heard over a thunderstorm, the rain hammering overhead. “It’s not right. You’re the captain; you deserve your own bed.”

In point of fact, she had no idea where he slept.

Nathan's indifference bordered on annoying. “Inconsequential encumbrances, luv.”

She caught sight again of the brindle-coated, fox-faced creature she had seen in the sleeping quarters her first day. The half-cat, half-weasel-looking thing appeared now and again. Most times, it slunk along the wall, head down, industriously sniffing like a hound on a scent. This time, however, it came directly for the table, with a look of complete expectation.

“Come here, me lovely!” Nathan crooned. As he bent to scoop it up, the thing sat up in greeting, braced on a bushy tail nearly as long as its body.

“What is it?” Cate asked watching it slouch into Nathan’s grasp like a pet cat, and then inquisitively stretch its muzzle toward her. She wasn’t afraid, just unsure what it was.

“His Lordship, Georgie, named after our fair regent. Fitting for a rat-eater, don’t you think?” he asked, setting the beast back on the floor.

“It’s a mongoose,” he said at last, dismayed by her ignorance, “one of the best varmint killers about. Granted, snakes are ever so much more better, but I can’t abide the things, always slithering about, dropping down from god knows where.” He shuddered dramatically. “His Lordship can make a fair meal of a goodly number of rats per week. Even if he doesn’t catch ’em, the damned things will stay in the bilges just to be shut of him.”

Oddly, as the animal sat up on its haunches next to her chair, it did possess a certain imperial air.

“Begging?” she asked, looking down.

“Be gone with you, you little blighter! Have a care,” he directed to Cate. “He’ll have your meal in a blink.”

He swiveled a sharp eye toward His Lordship. “Someday Kirkland will catch you and there’ll be hell to pay. To the sharks it shall be and I shan’t raise a finger to save your hairy ass. ’Twill be an occasion. We’ll place wagers on whether a mongoose can swim.”

With a mongoose version of an indifferent “Hmph!” His Lordship ambled about the room.

“And those things?”

He followed her point, taking a moment to realize what she was looking at, and then swiveled around in disbelief. “The geckos?”

Nathan took a drink of coffee and set to breaking off bits of the mango to feed His Lordship, now sitting up at his chairside.

“Not quite sure how the little bastards got on board,” he sniffed disinterestedly. “I can’t say I was altogether pleased at the way they multiplied worse than rabbits. God knows what must have been going on behind our backs,” he huffed under his breath, and threw a malignant glare at the lizard scampering along the sill.

The lizards were plentiful. Catching glimpses from the corner of her eye, most times Cate would look to find nothing there, and left to wonder if she was imagining things.

“Hodder and Pryce put a bounty on them, but the men damned near beat each other to death with the nets trying to catch the little blighters. They raced them, too—more abiding than the rats on that count—until we began to notice the cockchafer population diminishing by a grand mark, along with other pestilences of a crawly nature.

“Some of the hands tamed ’em, put ’em on little leashes and carried them about on their shoulders. Had a topsman what wouldn’t go aloft without one on each. They’re abiding beasts, once you get past them looking at you upside down with one eye whilst the other goes off,” Nathan said, licking the fruit juice from his fingers.

“Let me move to one of the cabins below,” Cate said, picking up their earlier discussion. She spoke in considerably lower voice, now that the rain had stopped. “Believe me, I’ve slept rougher.” She ruffled at the possibility that his concerns were based on her inability to weather hardship.

The bantering went on for several more rounds, in considerably lower voice once the rain stopped.

“I’ll not have you…” Nathan's voice faded as he was distracted by something out the stern window. His eyes narrowed, and then sharpened, his attention zeroing in like a hawk on a mouse.

“Here is the captain's quarters: I can keep you safe,” he said backing toward the door, his gaze fixed over her shoulder. With reluctance, he swiveled his attention to her. “Below, even with direct orders, there would be no guarantees.”

At the door, Nathan paused long enough to sternly point and say, “You’ll sleep here,” and then stepped over the coaming.

The subject was closed.

Much to Cate's chagrin, there was strong logic in his point. Captain he might be, but human nature—men’s nature—was what it was. True enough, the punishment for disregarding a direct order would be severe, but the damage would already be done. There would be no reversing an attack in the night.

“On deck there. Sail ho! A point windward astern,” came the hail down through the skylight.

Turning to the window, she saw sails: bright barbs of white against the steel-grey of the departing storm.

Heart racing, Cate ran to the quarterdeck where Nathan and Pryce stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing intently over the leeward taffrail.

“Do you see what I see, Mr. Pryce?” Nathan’s back was to her, but his smile could be heard, plump with anticipation. “Has she made us?”

“Aye. Wore ’round and straight as a needle she bears.”

“It’s the Terpsichore, Woodbridge commanding,” Pryce said after several moments. He spit over the rail. “Creswicke’s minion: privateer.”

“Another one?” Her voice pitched high at the thought of being pursued yet again.

The two men turned, neither having noticed her there.

“Aye, the waters seem to abound these days,” Pryce said with significance directed toward his captain. Nathan only shrugged.

Nathan cast an eye skyward, and then considered the oncoming ship. “Straight at him, Mr. Pryce. We’re the faster. We should be able win the weather gauge. You know what to do.”

“Prepare about!” Pryce’s cry was instantly picked up by Hodder, and then echoed down the chain of command. From there it scattered into a half-dozen crew captains, amid the slapping of scores of bare feet as the hands scurried to their posts.

The water raced down the Morganse’s sides as she sped toward her foe. Cate shifted her position in order to maintain her view of the distant ship as the Morganse pirouetted. Amid mutterings of “Beg pardon, miss,” “By your leave, mum,” “Have a care,” “Mind yer step,” and “Over here, if you please,” she was bumped and jostled until she found a neutral spot, just aft and slightly leeward of the mizzenmast. Once again, she was left to wonder if the Terpsichore might be her salvation or damnation. Communication being what it was. it seemed unlikely that word of her wanted status could have passed so quickly from England to every naval vessel in the West Indies. Judging by the zeal with which they readied to fight, Nathan and his men saw the Terpsichore’s presence as a personal matter, and had nothing to do with her.

“Clear the decks!”

Cate jumped at Hodder’s bone-penetrating bellow.

The distance between the ships closed at a shocking rate, their prows slicing the deep blue water. At one point, there was a mass cry of elation: the Morganse had gained the precious weather gauge. The intricacies of it still evaded Cate, but its importance was readily grasped.

A puff of smoke and the splash of a ball well ahead of the Morganse’s forefoot signaled the battle had begun.

Nathan grabbed Cate by the arm. “Get below.”

“No!”

“Get—” He was cut off by a ball, which skipped off the water and whirred overhead near enough to nick a backstay. “Goddammit, get below! I’ll not stand here and watch you be sheared in half.”

Nathan jerked the pistol from his waist, checked it, and then shoved in her waistband. “You know what to do, as do I.”

He winked and sent her on her way, dragging foot, but going nonetheless.

“Fire as they bear!” Nathan shouted, as she made her way down the aft steps.

Her foot had barely touched ’tween deck when the first gun spoke. So intensified by the confined space, the sound was a physical blow to the chest. Ahead a gun fired, hurtling back against its tackles with shocking violence. The smoke wafted in greyish-white whorls about Cate's skirts as she made her way forward to the passage below. An arm shot out to stop her, while the next gun captain glared down the barrel, waited for the roll and sparked the touchhole, arching his body away from the recoil.

Cate snatched a lamp from its peg and it lit from a slow-match before going lower. The hold was no less forbidding than it had been on her first visit. This time, however, she had the light as company, to keep the dank murk at bay. Once more at the furthest point possible, she ensconced herself atop a puncheon, the lamp at her elbow.

She was accustomed to the sound of a small war breaking out every afternoon, before the dog watches and evening grog. Nathan was a firm believer in the price of a hundred weight of powder a cheap investment for gun crews that could hit a floating barrel at will, in any weather conditions, and continue to do so in less than two-minute increments, or marksmen who could hit that same barrel thrice in barely more than one. In that process, she had learned the importance of quickness and even timing, and the hazard of great guns going off simultaneously, putting a huge strain on the ship, to the point of possibly causing her damage.

Hearing the thump of the Terpsichore’s guns and feeling the Morganse shudder when she took a hit, Cate was a reminded that this was no practice. She grasped the rim of the cask, her knuckles whitening, the rough oak gouging her fingertips, as she worried for Nathan. Chanting that he had been doing this for years, she tried not to count the incoming shots. To do so seemed to paint a target on his chest. The blessed man had swelled to twice his size at the prospect of a fight. Her presence dampening those spirits, he had wished her away. And so, she was left with doing what she had done for months aboard the Constancy: nothing. She would have far preferred being in the thick of it, rather than sitting in the moldering dark waiting to hear a scream, dreading what might await when she at last returned to the world of sun.

Cate braced as the ship veered, took an uncommon lee lurch, and then swept through her pivot. In the dark void of the hold, the maneuver had a dizzying effect. The grind and scrape of the planks working under the strain vibrated into her chest.

And then, almost as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Unlike the last time, there was no musket fire. The fight never grew that close.

By the time the first victorious cheer had erupted, Cate was already at the bottom of the steps. She reached the main deck in time to see the rail lined with men, their trousers down around their knees, slapping their bared arses toward the retreating Terpsichore. She found Nathan on the quarterdeck. Fixing his breeches, his somewhat guilty look dissolved into a brightener one at seeing her. He winked and nodded, and then set to heartily clapping his men on the back and giving them joy of their win.

The Morganse was bruised, but nowhere near as damaged as her engagement with the Nightingale. Her people were already putting her to rights: cutting away tangled rigging and pitching the useless debris overboard. Nathan’s cheerfulness as her backdrop, Cate bent to the task of tending the injured. Compared to the last time, they were minor and few. She set up her makeshift sick berth below with what she had: a table, a bucket of hot water, some bandages recently gathered and a jar of salve from Mr. Kirkland.

Mr. French was regaling Cate of how his gun, Bloody Bess, “Took the Tersipchore foretop, whilst Lucifer did for the bastard’s mizzen,” while she worked to extract a sliver longer than her finger from his thigh, when Pryce and young Jensen appeared bearing a box, which they presented to her. Similar to a portmanteau, it was leather-covered, with straps and a handle on top. The inside was filled with rudimentary weapons for the warfare against sickness and injury. Amid the jars, bottles, gauze bags, and folded waxed envelopes, sat a shining pair of scissors and tweezers, crafted by Petrov, the ship’s smith.

“We’ve scavenged every prize fer medicines and such, but the pickings have been blessedly thin,” Pryce told her, dolefully shaking his head over the box. “Not a one possessed more than vitriol, dead leeches, purges, squill pills, and a rare bit o’ poppy syrup. ’Course, ’tis no countin’ the things what we had no idea. Needed a Latin master for that. The Cap’n can cipher a bit o’ that Popish falderal, but bloody little sense could be made o’ it.”

Pryce's claim was born out by the Latin lettering on many of the labels. Rough translations had been scrawled next to it, most now smeared and water-spotted.

“We woulda taken the first chirurgeon we come upon, clapped ’im in irons, if come the need, but blessed few in these waters,” said Pryce.

“There was that one—” began Jensen.

“Ah, yes! I mind him. What was the cove’s name? Died of a fever afore we learnt if he was worth his salt.”

“Tach,” cried Jensen, shuddering. “All he could think was to bleed everyone.”

“Aye. And cursed ghoulish about it he was. ’Peared to me he just wuz a-wantin’ blood to lure his blessed sharks. The man appreciated his shark steaks the likes o’ which I ain’t never seed.”

And so, armed with her new line of defense, Cate set to work on the powder burns, splinters large and small, broken bones, busted guts, and bashed heads.

She was tying off the splint on Mr. Church’s arm, broken when he failed to outdistance a recoiling gun, when she became dimly aware of someone behind her, close enough to nudge her in the back. Living on a ship with over a hundred and twenty others, it was common to be jostled, and so thought nothing of it.

“Women are good but for two things and both are with their legs apart,” came from so near behind she could feel his breath hot on her back.

Her gut lurched. She knew the voice without looking: Bullock, the one who had accosted her when first arrived. She looked up into Church’s insolent grin. She tried to move, but found she was now trapped between Church’s legs with Bullock behind her. A quick glance revealed that Bullock had timed his comment well: no one was near, no one to hear, no one to witness.

Setting her jaw, Cate gave the binding a final jerk on the knot hard enough to elicit a pained yelp from Church. She jabbed an elbow into Bullock’s as she pushed herself clear, and then climbed to the main deck to their jeering chuckles.

Cate retreated to the safe shadows of the Great Cabin for the remainder of the day. Bullock’s comments had put her at ill ease. They were a stark reminder of how tenuous her status aboard was. It was only Nathan’s protection that kept her safe. If anything were to happen to him…

She shied from finishing that thought.

As much as Nathan denied it, she knew her presence caused problems. Bullock was one symptom. The two crewmen, Hughes and Cameron, revealing her involvement with the Stuart Uprising was another problem. The knowledge hadn’t gone without comment, if not incident. The Uprising was seen by many English as a direct threat to their King: England’s soil had been invaded, English lives lost. Any participants in such an insurrection were seen as traitors; animosity ran high throughout the realm, including on a pirate ship. She hadn’t been deaf to the crosswords and epithets uttered by some of the men.

Again, she wondered why Nathan kept her aboard, what he planned to do with her.

He had assured her she was not to be turned over for the reward, declaring, “Never in all me days have I been that desperate.”

She was being kept, but for what? Hostage or prisoner? Slave, mascot, or pet? Insurance seemed more fertile ground: a bargaining chip in reserve, with either the Royal Navy or the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company.

It was wholly confusing. For months on the Constancy, Cate had listened to railing against women aboard and the bad luck they apparently carried in their skirt folds. Surely pirates would be of the same mind, if not more so. That night, she made her case to Nathan. A shrug and a dismissive flap of the hand was her answer. Mr. Pryce had exhibited a proclivity for superstition, so she pressed her case with him. His mouth compressed as if a great mystery of the ancients had just been posed. “Aye, ye’ve a point there.”

A Company Council was called. The exact logic was lost to her somewhere in the debate. The final outcome, however, punctuated by a cheer, was from that point on she was to be addressed as “Mr. Cate.”

Lolling atop a cask looking on, Nathan raised a bottle in salute. “I’m good with it!”

The subject was closed.

The Morganse found a cove in which to hide and lick her wounds inflicted by the Terpsichore, and those which lingered from the Nightingale. It was an open but protected place, the ship’s masts merging with the ratcheted spine of the island curving around her.

All hands set to their duties with a gleeful eagerness. Battle had disrupted the Morgansers orderly world and they were anxious to set it back to rights. They set to knotting and splicing, conversation requiring a raised voice in order to be heard over the woodpeckerish rap of caulker’s mallets, and Chips and his mates, looking harried but happy. Wood and watering parties were sent ashore, as well hunting parties for fresh meat. Foragers were sent to gather fodder for Hermione and anything else that might be had. In the West Indies, apparently all one need do was put their arm out and food was to hand. After years of eking out an existence on scraps, such a state of plenty seemed edenic to Cate, if only she could see it.

“Let’s give ’ er a new set o’ boots and tops,” declared Nathan, and then jabbed an elbow at Cate’s side. “It’s cleaning. You’ll love it.”

It would seem the sea was of the opinion that the bottom of a ship was solely intended for weed, barnacles, shells, and any number of other things to grow, including the insidious teredo. The shipworm was described to her as nothing more than a mass of sawblade-like jaws set on devouring the ship from under their feet. Able to make holes the size of Cate’s thumb, the creature itself nearly as long as her arm, with such voraciousness that surely, if she bore an ear, she could hear them munching away.

Anything wooden and afloat in seawater required careening, the regularity rising with the temperature of the water in which she plied. It meant literally running the ship on shore and divesting her of everything, including guns and rigging. It was an arduous and monumental undertaking, rendering the ship as vulnerable as a beached whale for the best part of a month.

A good amount of the Morganse’s bottom was copper-sheathed, denying worms and barnacles access. Another portion was studded with copper nails, a massive expense, but one her captain willingly paid to keep her bottom sweet. A space between copper and waterline still existed, and so boot-topping it was, as Nathan had so colorfully ordered. It was an intermediary measure: shifting guns, rigging and cargo to roll the ship on her side—a parliamentary heel—baring the space below her waterline to be breamed.

“Only a strake or two,” Cate was told. The strakes, the planking seams in the ship’s hull, could be seen if she stretched far out over the rail. While out there, in the clear water underneath the ship, she could catch glimpses of the green skirt of weed wisping with the currents.

She was pulled back by her skirt, like a parent jerking a child from a precipice. Turning around, she came directly into Nathan standing there.

“Going somewhere, are we?” he asked in a low voice, with a mixture of suspicion and dare, but daring her to do what?

Startled, she could only sputter. He spun away, apparently losing patience in waiting for her to find an answer.

The workload required all hands. No parties made the pull ashore for the mere sake of fun. And so, once again, Cate was tempted by the nearness of land. She gazed longingly at the long gleam of white sand between the azure and emerald of water and trees, so near and yet so far.

With no skill at carpentry, useless at knotting or splicing, lacking the strength to move guns or do heavy lifting, and Millbridge barring her from helping to stow the cabin, Cate was sat down to make besom brushes: bundling and tying twigs onto the ends of branches. Dipped in tar, the brushes were set afire to heat the graving, the hull’s coating. The heat and fumes poisoning the worms, the fires softened the graving enough for the irons and scrapers to remove the weed, barnacles, and other filth.

Cate moved about, careful not to trip over the tackles rigged for the network of lines over the side from which the men dangled. “One or two strakes” put the decks at an acute angle. In truth, the incline was not much more than when the ship was heeled over sailing, but her motionlessness—baring the cove’s minor swell—made it seem far more precarious. Not unlike when on that same tack, the topsmen scampered about in the rigging with the agility of monkeys and the industriousness of squirrels.

There was a good deal of convivial shouting and swearing. It must possess an energizing effect on men, for it seemed they could rarely accomplish a task without. The deck grew hazy with curls of smoke rising from the sides, acrid with an odd mix of burning weed, sulfur, tar, and perhaps a tinge of cooking worm. The smoke wafted low across the water and ashore, hanging among the trees like tobacco smoke wreathing a man’s head. Bits of canvas were rigged at the ports and hatches to funnel air below where the noxious smoke tended to collect. Fire and ships were mortal enemies, a ship being barely more than a pile of aged wood saturated with tar and paint, and so lookouts stood at the ready, with hoses and filled buckets.

Both sides complete, the Morganse righted for good, Nathan yielded to Hodder, chafing to the point of near apoplexy over the ruin of his precious paintwork. The swarms of besom-brush-bearing ants were replaced by paint-brush-bearing ones, the sharp smell of fresh paint joining the heady fug of breaming.

Declaring “idle hands and all that,” and disinclined toward revealing the ship’s fixed whereabouts with the daily great gun practice, Nathan ordered small arms practice instead: knives, pikes, boarding axes, sabers, cutlasses and the like. A series of chalk circles were drawn on deck and the smell of the sweat of exercise mingled in the air as the pirates honed their hand-to-hand skills. Stripped to their breeks, their chests shone with sweat as they sparred and parried with uncommon intensity, the classrooms taking on an air of competition. Under the watchful eyes of their mates, the combatants were cheered on by a large audience lining the ratlines, yards, and yet-to-be-painted rails. Beatrice shouted a bawdy repartee from amid the men peering down from their roost.

Cate stood by with her blood box—so named by Nathan, since it appeared every time there was blood—for injury was frequent. She smiled faintly as she watched, thinking it wasn’t unlike when Brian’s men had trained in preparation for raids and clan wars or during the Uprising. There was, however, one difference: a blood-lust abandon.

“They look like they are trying to hack each other to pieces,” she said, wincing at the sight of a vicious swipe by Mr. Rowett, his snakeskin vest tossed aside.

“Pirate.” Nathan offered the single word as an all-encompassing explanation. He sat next to her atop a cask, watching with a sports-like avidness.

“Which means kill afore gettin’ killed,” Pryce added from Nathan’s other side. He stood leaning against the rail, arms crossed loosely on his chest.

Distracted, she didn't see what happened to cause a cheer to go up, proclaiming Rowett the victor. Those two were barely away, before two more stepped into the circle, squared up and the fight commenced again.

“Y’know, Cap’n,” Pryce began thoughtfully, eyes tracking the fight. “If’n she’s to be here, she should be able to protect herself.”

“Right you are.” Nathan pulled his eyes from the match. “Should things happen, you could be need of defending yourself. Can you fight?”

“You mean, as in fists?” she asked warily. The “should things happen” comment was casually made, but his meaning was clear and not to be taken lightly.

“No. You’re feisty, but no match.” Nathan paused to shout encouragement to one of the combatants. “What about swords? I hear tell on the Constancy you were quite admirable.”

“You're too kind,” she said tartly.

“No, I mean it. Isn’t that how you saw it?” he said, thumping Pryce on the shoulder.

“Aye, verily sir. A fair hand, to be sure.”

“For a woman,” she said, peering around Nathan to Pryce.

“Well, to be sure,” Nathan equivocated as did Pryce. Alighting from the barrel, he took her by the arm. “C’mon, let's see what you’ve got.”

The crew gathered around and a lengthy group conversation ensued revolving around the finer points of weapon selection, size and weight, the grip being of greatest significance. A more serious debate followed as to who was to be her opponent. Jensen was the first option, by virtue of their similarity in size and his need for practice. Pryce dismissed that out-of-hand, pointing out the lad’s lack of skill could mean her accidental injury. Through the process of elimination, Nathan was finally urged forward, the tacit agreement being if anyone was to cause Cate harm, let it be the captain.

The next thing Cate knew, she had been shoved into the circle, armed and facing him. Wiping her palm on her skirt, she clasped the sword, the grip biting her flesh. A cutlass, actually, curved and wicked, meant for close-quarter fighting, as on the deck of a ship. Much lighter than the long swords of the Highlands, it came alive in her hand; “blooded” as Brian had called it, “a blade that knows its purpose.”

“Loosen your grip a bit, luv,” Nathan instructed calmly. He stood with his arms relaxed at his sides. Circling catlike, sword in hand, he became the pirate, barbaric and deadly, the one she had expected to meet.

“Don’t allow your enemy to see fear,” he said. “Stare him in the eye; make him wonder…”

Cate lunged, catching him off guard. It brought a cheer from the crowd and a short outburst of bemusement from Nathan. The surprise lasted less than the time it took for his arm to come up in almost playful defense. Irritated that he dared to take her so lightly, her attack grew more focused with each stroke. Amid the scrape and clang of metal against metal, a small smile gradually tucked one corner of his mouth, pleased and even a bit admiring.

“Keep your elbow down, lass,” Pryce shouted. “That’s it. No, no, keep it down!”

Calling a halt, Nathan seized her elbow. “Keep it down here,” he said firmly. “Let it come up too high and you’re leaving yourself open.” He poked her sharply in the ribs with his finger, eliciting a startled squeak. “Next time, that could be a blade.”

They squared off, Nathan’s dark eyes fixed on her. Without out a flicker of warning, he attacked, pressing her back. Not possessing the strength or skill for a prolonged offensive, she was obliged to rely on defense. Arms and legs burning, she was envious of his freedom of skirts to tangle his legs when he lunged or riposted. Too soon, a flick of his blade and her sword was wrenched from her hand, clattering to the deck. The hands cheered anyway, shouting words of encouragement, many impressed that she could bear a sword at all.

Nathan clapped her on the shoulder as she worked the sting from her fingers and shook out her arm. “Not bad, luv. With a little practice, you could be fair. The problem is strength.”

His words inflated, and then bruised.

Damn him! He wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Don’t look so wounded,” Nathan laughed, slapping her jovially on the back. “Bloody awkward for a woman to be as strong as a man; doesn't sound appealing a-tall. What of it, Pryce?”

“Well, she could buy herself a bit o’ time. But strikes me she'd get herself hurt a-carryin’ a sword. We can get ’er practiced up, but she'll be a-needin’ somethin’ more. How’s about a knife?”

Pryce pulled his from at his back and handed it off to Nathan.

“Think you could handle that?” asked Nathan as he handed it to her.

Cate balanced the weapon in her hand, feeling its weight. The steel shone coldly in the sun. “It was a long time ago, but I used to have one,” she said quietly.

Nathan caught her tone and sobered. “Your husband?”

Nodding, she swallowed an unexpected lump. “He thought I should be able to protect myself.” The irony in the repetition of that theme brought a faint smile. “He and his men taught me how to use one, how to kill.”

Nathan hesitated, the men circled around staring.

Forcing a smile, she gripped the handle with overt confidence. “So, what would you like me to do with this?”

The awkward moment past, Nathan’s graveness deepened. “You’ll need to be able to protect yourself and be ready to kill, if you must. Could you do that?”

Cate's throat tightened. A cold ball formed in the pit of her stomach. “I’ve done it before,” she said, meeting Nathan’s gaze.

It wasn’t meant as to be cavalier nor bold, but facts were facts.

“Fair enough.” Nathan clapped her on the shoulder in assurance.

With little hesitation, Mr. Pryce was voted best knife-bearer and, therefore, Cate’s new master.

Pryce’s knife was returned to him. Nathan pulled a dagger from his boot and handed it to her. “Go ahead, luv, show us what you have.”

Cate rolled the scrimshawed weapon in her hand, its ivory patina glowing. Well-balanced and compact, it was considerably larger than the one lost in her bag of belongings on the Constancy. It had been a singh dhu, a tiny Highlander’s stocking knife. Switching hands, she wiped her palm again, and then re-gripped it several times, until the comfort spot was found.

“’Pears like she knows what she’s doing already,” observed Hughes as she and Pryce circled each other.

“That’s right, Mr. Cate,” called Towers. “’Under hand is always better than over’and.”

“If you’re as short as you are,” jibed Smalley. “Overhand is a much better kill if you’re tall.”

Their arguments faded from consciousness as Cate focused on Pryce. Slightly crouched, his grey eyes held hers, measuring and waiting. The corner of an eye barely twitched and he dove for her arm, seeking to grab and twist. It was the same move her brothers had used. She slid away and come around to knee him in the backside. He shot forward, the pirates cheering. He stumbled, and then whirled back around.

At first skeptical, Pryce now settled in for a true contest. In one flowing move, he seized her arm and jerked her around to poise his blade at her neck.

“That’s a kill,” declared the by-standers and cheered for more.

They skirmished time and again, taking up various scenarios of possible assaults: from behind, the front, or ambushed. Nathan and the others shouted suggestions and encouragements, intermixed with jeers when either was bested. A few times, Nathan or Pryce called a halt, in order to give pointers on stance or angle. By virtue of his strength and reach, Pryce prevailed most of the time, but Cate was able to win enough to prove capable.

Both perspiring heavily now, Pryce posed as an assailant and grabbed Cate from behind. The momentum sent them tumbling to the deck, Pryce coming down on top of her. He cuffed both her wrists in one hand and forced her arms up over her head. She struggled to wrench free, but his hips held her tight. His weight brought her breath short and her anguish rose. The cheering faded and she heard only his heavy breathing as he grunted and wriggled on top of her. Drops of sweat pattered her skin. She looked up into eyes no longer familiar, predatory and lusting, on a face she no longer knew.

Panic surged. Cate screamed and thrashed, berserk to escape. The weight on top of her went away. More hands came at her, groping and tugging. Shrieking, she batted at them, pleading for them to leave her be.

And they did. Cate sat up into a blur of faces, slack-jawed and goggle-eyed. Movement. A person knelt next to her, Pryce poised behind him, wearing a mask of bewildered guilt. She blinked several times before sorting out that the face before her was Nathan’s. His mouth moved, but it was like he spoke a foreign tongue. He reached out. She jerked away and lurched to her feet. Warding off more hands, she raced down the deck to the forecastle rail, stopping only because she could run no further. Splaying her hands across her stomach, she looked down. No blades this time. No blood, no agony, nothing, not this time, but…?

They’re gone. You know it. They’re gone!

She collapsed against the rail and dug her nails into a kevel, seeking an anchor against being dragged back to the nightmare.

Something touched her shoulder. Cate shrieked and whirled, blindly swinging out with the knife she still clutched. A man stood there, his face obscured by the glare of the sun at his back. He shifted, and she saw it was Nathan again.

“I’m sorry.” It came out in a thin gasp. Shrinking back tighter against the rail, she looked down at the knife, suddenly strange in her hand, and dropped it.

“Are you well?” His inquiry was carefully measured.

Cate mutely nodded, starting again when he brushed her arm. Recoiling as if seared, he spread his hands before him in a display of good faith.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a quavering wheeze. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m all right.” Cate put up a hand to assure him, but buried it in the folds of her apron upon seeing how violently it trembled. “I’m fine.”

Nathan wasn’t convinced. “Allow me to take you the cabin. You’re scaring the hands.”

Senses congealing, Cate became aware of the men clustered at the waist. They bore the quizzical look reserved for the deranged, and wasn’t she: fighting hands that weren’t there, screaming at faces that didn’t exist? Nathan tentatively took her by the elbow and eased her down the forecastle steps. Numbness gave way to mortification. She walked woodenly next to him toward the cabin, drawn by its promise of refuge. She thought to apologize, but couldn’t bear to see their revulsion and pity. Instead, she ducked her head to hide behind the protective curtain of hair that fell down around her face.

Once inside, she paced before the stern gallery.

When does the nightmare of reality become just a nightmare?

Or is one doomed for them to always be as one? Is the reality bent by the dream into something worse than it really was? Everyone claims time heals everything, but when? How long? How much of one’s life must be devoured, before it finally goes away?

Cate was seized with the urge to tear at herself, rip away skin and muscle, down to the bone, if she must, to be rid of the terrors that lay within.

“Don’t tell me it’s only a dream,” she seethed, making short paths like a caged cat. “It was real. I’ve lived it. I’ll carry the scars to my grave. All I have to do is look and I know it was no dream. It was a nightmare, but it’s in the past…except it’s still here…”

She drew up, realizing she had just said far more than intended, far more than she had ever admitted to herself let alone to anyone else. Panting like a half-maddened dog, she turned to find Nathan had withdrawn to the far side of the room. He stood uncommonly still, as if fearing any movement might precipitate something worse. Surely he thought her crazed by now. There was none of the accusation or disgust expected; only the intent gravity that came with seeking to understand.

“Would you be greatly fraught if I were to beg you to come away from the window?”

The unexpected direction of his comment stopped her in her tracks. She looked at the window, and then him.

“You think I’m so hysterical I might jump?” she asked coldly. Wild-eyed and hair probably resembling oakum by then, she had to have appeared quite the madwoman. In the spirit of easing the demonic resemblance, she made a furtive attempt to smooth her hair.

“You did before,” he said evenly. “And again, or tried, at any rate, from just there.” He gestured to the sill between the two guns.

It took Cate a moment to follow his meaning: her first night aboard, she had attempted to jump, overlooking, of course, that the act had been prompted by Nathan attacking her.

“That was different. I was scared…then,” she said with a vague gesture, and resumed her agitated path.

Nathan regarded her narrowly. “And you’re not now?”

“No! I mean yes…But no…not…Damn it!” she shrieked with a vehemence that startled them both.

Cate took a deep breath and exhaled slowly in an effort to recompose. “No, it’s not pirates…this time.”

He forbore pressing the point. He ventured close enough to shepherd her to a chair. Grabbing up the rum bottle, he poured her a small dose. “Drink.”

She fumbled for the glass, nearly spilling it. Nathan dared to come near enough to guide her unresponsive fingers around it, and then to her mouth, retreating as she drank. The resulting shudder pulled her back into her body. Her heart slowed and the humiliation settled deeper. She felt Nathan circling, as if observing a lunatic, afraid to go near and yet more fearful to leave her alone.

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely, her throat tightened by drink and embarrassment.

“Might you allow a hint as to what that was all about? Did you really imagine Pryce aimed to attack you?” His query was carefully posed, gleaned of all accusation.

“No, I mean, yes, I know…but no…” Cate dug her nails into her scalp, hoping the pain might help bring a cohesive thought. “I know! I mean…I know he didn’t mean anything.”

“Then what—?”

“Nothing!” She slammed her hand on the table hard enough to cause the glass to jump. She drew in another deep breath and shakily blew it out. “It’s nothing; I’ll be fine. Just leave me be.”

She felt rather than saw Nathan stiffen. Falling back a step, he curtly nodded. “Very well, then, by your leave.”

Regret for being so short with him added the crush of guilt Cate already harbored. She rummaged through her mental morass to find the proper words, ones that didn’t sound hollow or trite, to make amends. She squirmed around in the chair to find that he hadn’t left, but only retreated to the cabin’s shadowy perimeter. Boots thudding hollowly on the planks, he muttered as he paced. On one pass, he darted near enough to snag the bottle from the table and drank through his agitated orbits.

Head braced in her hands, a part of her wished Nathan would leave her to her misery. And yet another—a very large part—was so very grateful that he was there. To have someone who cared, to catch her if she fell, meant so much, and yet she had no words to tell him.

Slowly, the rum did its part. The world coalesced further: her blood no longer hammered in her ears, her breath slowed to something less than near-hysterical gasps. She could hear the Morganse’s song of wind and canvas, and felt the ship’s motion with the swell. The sky was still blue, the sea was still as deep, and the world was still there, right where she had left it.

Nathan scuffed to a halt somewhere near. He made several false starts before settling on, “You’re rather good with a knife, for a woman, that is.”

“For a woman, I’ve had plenty of practice,” Cate retorted, bitterly.

“You failed to mention you’ve a skill at wrestling.”

She looked up, glaring. “For a woman?”

“For a woman.”

Nathan's tentative boyish smile touched a chord, and she reluctantly did so, as well.

Damn him for being able to make me smile on command!

“As I said, I had five brothers,” she said.

Sensing it safe, Nathan ventured nearer. Propping his hip against a chair, he loosely crossed his arms. “What you lack in strength, you gain in wile.”

Cate made an unladylike noise in the back of her throat. “I suppose that could be the story of my life.”

She emptied her glass.

“Aye, there’s a ring o’ truth in that,” Nathan said, refilling it.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back and sighed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t intend to…”

What? Make a complete spectacle of yourself?

Nathan rolled his eyes toward the slap of bare feet passing overhead. “Some of the hands think you devil-possessed. What with those eyes, and now this…Poor bastard, Pryce only figures you wish to cut his throat.”

“I suppose he would,” she said, grimly rubbing her face. “I’ll apologize.”

“Don’t be surprised if he runs at seeing you coming.”

“Is it that bad?” Cate peered up from under her hands.

Nathan contained a smile. “That bad.”

Groaning, she buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know what comes over me sometimes!”

In a moment of bald honesty, this wasn’t the first time, nor second, nor even third. The spells came from nowhere, dissolving as quickly as they erupted. Perhaps Bedlam was where she belonged, somewhere that she could be prevented from hurting not only herself, but everyone around.

Nathan took another drink and pensively rolled the bottle between his palms. “Darling, we all have our dunnage to lug about. ’Tis not necessarily the weight of it, but where we choose to stow it.”

Cate looked up into a gaze that allowed her a glimpse at the burdens that dwelt behind his curtain, not to equivocate, but to assure that she wasn’t alone. The heavily-fringed lids lowered; the curtain closed once again.

“Thank you, Nathan, I’ll remember that. Sometimes, you are a very wise man.”

He broke a square-toothed, gold-laced flash. “Scary, isn’t it?”

Chuckling to himself, he swaggered toward the door. He paused at the table to pluck a mango from the plate of fruit, kept there by Mr. Kirkland, in hopes of tempting his captain into eating. He sniffed it, and with a curl of his lip, put it back. He gestured toward the skylight, and the quarterdeck overhead, as he ambled out.

“I’ll be just there, if you find you’ve need of me.”

Once alone, Cate buried her head in her hands and gasped, self-loathing only adding to the dejection and embarrassment. On the brink of a breakdown, she grabbed the glass and quaffed it down. Balling her fists, she closed her eyes once more, and inhaled deeply. When she opened them, the world was still there. The terrors were gone…like a dream.



###



Dark was soon to fall. A thunderstorm had rumbled through earlier in the day. It had been Cate’s excuse for her self-imposed seclusion in the cabin. Too embarrassed to be seen after her breakdown, she had spent the remainder of the day there. Frustration had come in many forms during that time. She tried to read, but the words wouldn’t stay in focus. She tried to embroider, but couldn’t concentrate.

She had gleaned what embroidery supplies she could from the Littletons’ belongings and made up a small piece to work on. Needlework had been a lifelong love. It had also been her salvation over the last several years. Many a night had been spent hunched next to a sewing lamp, in order to meet a customer’s last minute demands. Now she had the joy of doing it at her leisure, the pleasure dampened only by the desperate limit of thread, only a precise amount being allowed each day.

The storm still hung in distant flat-bottomed billows. The rays of the surrendering day streaked from behind it in plumes of orange and lilac. The bell ending the second Dog Watch was just rung, one of the abbreviated two-hour periods allowing for the evening meal. It meant most of the hands would be on the forecastle, including the afterguard. There was a good chance she would catch Pryce on the afterdeck. It was rare to find Pryce alone; perpetual motion, he was, but he often lingered there.

It was dark enough for her to use the shadowy margins of the deck without notice, hence avoiding having to face the men or feel their stares. She hung about feigning interest in water and sky. Cocking her head, she didn’t hear Pryce’s voice among those forward, and so looked aft.

Her intent to apologize was bracketed with trepidation. She was of two minds regarding Pryce. His bearing and ability to verbally pin anyone who provoked his wrath to the bulwarks still scared her. And yet, he could laugh as readily as shake the hands’ bones. Once past the ferocity, he was a kindly sort: pleasant, responsive, and courteous. An endless font of tales and superstitions, he was ever-willing to share his repertoire. His authority unquestioned, and would suffer no laggardliness or shirking, but he was meticulously fair.

It was that fairness upon which she relied now.

In the dusk, she could see his shape on the afterdeck with someone else. The last ray of daylight flashed on ivory rings: Hodder. Facing the water, she waited for Hodder and his telltale clatter to pass, and then mounted the curved steps. She regretted having to virtually stalk Pryce, but things needed saying. She sincerely regretted her actions; the man didn’t deserve having to spend the night wondering.

“A peace offering?” She held up the mug of grog, procured from Kirkland.

At the sight of her, Pryce had ducked around the wheel. He was making for the steps when she displayed the drink. He stopped, his head coming up like a hound on a scent. Seeing his reluctance to reach for it, she set it on the binnacle between them and slid it across. Beatrice, blithely preening there, was obliged to pull her tail feathers out of the way and made a rude comment. Pryce waited until Cate had retracted her hand fully before seizing upon the mug. He took a long, badly needed draught, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Mr. Pryce,” Cate began. He twitched at the sound of her voice, his fists tightened around the leather mug. “Please, I beg, Pryce, I desire to make amends.”

His scarred jaw set, determined to see this through credibly. “I’m sorry, sir, if I—I never intended to make ye think I wuz tryin’ any kind of foolishness.”

“I know that.” She bit back her vehemence. Collecting herself, she tried again, calmer. “I know that very well.”

Pryce shot her a stony look, the grizzled brows meeting. “’Tis not the impression ’twas given.”

“I know that as well,” she said more evenly.

Her apology was an honest one. Honesty, however, was at its purest at its birth. Any attempts to expand or enhance only weakened it. Cate stood mutely patient as he regarded her with suspicion, waiting for the look capable of cutting her in half or turn her to stone, at his pleasure. This was her atonement and she bore it as unflinching as could be managed.

At the same time, Beatrice cocked her head to regard Cate, too, and her resolve wavered. Being judged by a bird was more disconcerting than she cared to admit. At length, Pryce saw what he needed. A quirk of the mouth and a raise of the mug marked the matter settled. He then drank to it.

Voices in song drifted aft from the forecastle. She heard Nathan, too, and followed the path of his voice the foretop crosstrees. Feet swinging over the edge, he was a dark blot against a dimming sky.

“You don’t like me, do you, Pryce?” Cate heard herself say. It wasn’t an accusation, just observation.

Pryce shied, wearing the look of a child caught with his hand in the honey jar. “You’ll give me leave to say you’re uncommon forward.”

“Some people appreciate me for it,” she said in a flush of defensiveness. Well, maybe only one: her husband. It would be a lie to say that she had never been told that before. “I can’t help it. I was raised far from the niceties of civility and with five brothers. If I didn’t speak up, I was forgotten. Don’t change the subject, Pryce. You don’t like me.”

“Not sayin’ as ’tis disagreeable. It’s just…well…There be eyes that color on a statue in Vera Cruz.”

Cate turned her head to hide a smile. “Yes, I believe Nathan—the Captain that is, mentioned as much.” Indeed, Nathan had, her first day aboard, vowing she meant to curse him.

“I don’t mean to reproach you, but why?” she went on. “Did I say or do to put you off? And the Captain, for that matter. Sometimes he stares at me like I’m a two-headed kitten.”

Pryce waffled, making up his mind, changing it, again and again. Cate was on the verge of letting him off the hook upon which he squirmed, when he finally burst out: “With all due respect, sir, to tell ye plain: you look like her.”

“Her?” she echoed dumbly.

“And in more ways than one might bear, in a manner o’ speakin,’” he said in his West Country rumble.

Cate felt a cold, sinking sensation that she didn’t care to put a name to. She braced against the weight of impending doom. Several bricks were about to fall into place in her construction of Nathanael Blackthorne: he was either married or had an eternal love somewhere.

“So, who is…her?” she asked in grave dread.

Wife? Sweetheart? Which would be worse?

“He hasn’t told you? Nay, I s’pose not. He’s disinclined toward the tellin,’” Pryce said, staring down into his drink. The grey eyes swiveled up at her and sharpened. “Ye’ve seen the Cap’n with his shirt off?”

It was posed more assumption than question.

“Umm…nooo…no, I haven’t.”

Cate’s cheeks flamed. Having to admit Nathan hadn’t found her attractive enough didn’t come easily. As the days had turned to weeks, she had flirted with thoughts of something blooming between her and Nathan. The charming smile, flashing eyes, and engaging ways were not wasted. At times, he didn’t seem to realize their effect. But then at times, it was clear he knew exactly, and applied them with purpose.

In many circles, Nathan would have been considered the consummate gentleman. He never bowed, rose from a chair, nor tipped his hat. He discreetly excused himself, or conveniently avoided the cabin altogether, when he thought it necessary. That didn’t rule out the ribald remarks and colorful turn of phrase, but that was just Nathan being Nathan. Slowly, however, the cold realization had settled in: he wasn’t interested in her. There were no overtures, not even the slightest insinuation or the most fleeting of dalliances. Nothing.

Cate felt like a stone among the diamonds. So many women had gone before—his conquests were legend—but why not her? She had longed to ask why, but in the grand scheme of things, what difference did it make? If it was because her voice was too deep, her eyes too green, if she was too tall, her bottom too round or not round enough, or if she was too dull-witted? Which would she rather hear? Which one would ease her best through the nights of lying in that same bunk, staring and wondering?

“Aye, well…” Pryce’s destroyed mouth compressed in disapproval, clearly thinking her to be either lying or had deemed his captain unsuitable. Either was an affront to his sense of honor.

“All rotated around a woman. What else?” What little light was left caught the spark in his eye of a storyteller settling in. “Cap’n met up with one. A beauty, she were, in her own way,” he was quick to qualify.

Pryce regarded her more narrowly. “As I represented, ye put me in mind o’ her…tall, well, mebbe not quite so much,” he said with a second look. “She had a go-to-hell way o’ lookin’ at ye—square in the eye, she did—and not a by-yer-leave in ’er. She was a pirate at heart; took to it like a fish t’ water. Get her blood riled and she could be ruthless as any man, moreso. Could pass fer one too, given a big hat, that is. Not as strong as a man and that vexed her considerable. Got herself into trouble on that score more than the once.”

A faint smile came some an unspoken thought. He shook it away before going on.

“As it chances, Hattie had ’er own ship. At first, she and the Cap’n sailed in consort, scourge of the Caribbean. Hell, the whole world was at their disposal,” he said with an enthusiastic swipe of his hand. “Then her ship took a ball to the magazine. Blew ’er to smitherines, but Hattie lived to tell of it. By that time, she and the Cap’n were, well, let’s just say no woman can resist his charms and she had her own charmin’ ways. So, bein’ the good-hearted soul that he is, he took ’er in, she ’n’ what was left o’ her crew, havin’ in his mind the next prize would be hers.”

Pryce glanced to assure Nathan was still in the tops. A raucous chanty had broken out on the forecastle, involving a lonely sailor and bow-legged whores. Nathan’s graveled tenor rang from above, enthusiastic, if not a good bit off-key. It was rare to hear his ravaged voice raised in song. He must have been in high spirits, indeed.

“’Twas a fiery mix: they fought like cats and dogs, and made love like rabbits…Hmph!”

He made a half-strangled noise and buried his nose in his drink. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I think she fancied treasure and prizes, but d’ye see, the Cap’n’s not in it for the plunder. He’s in it fer his ship. Piratin’ is just a means.”

The last carried an air of warning. Cate bristled at the assumption she only sought fortunes, but to deny it would only serve to strengthen his point.

“You were on the Morganse then?” she asked.

“Nay. We’d had a partin’ o’ the ways a bit afore. I tried to warn ’im to go to windward o’ Maubrick, his First Mate, but the Cap’n wasn’t of a mind to be a listenin’,” Pryce said wincing.

“Do you think they loved each other?” It was a question that screamed to be asked, but an answer she didn’t desire to hear. She was suddenly cold and tucked her hands under her arms.

“Love? Hmm…?” An uncomfortable notion, he leaned heavily on the binnacle to ponder. “Ehh, admiration, fer sure. Common goals, lust, aye. But no, ’twas not my notion Hattie had it in ’er.

“Well,” he said, resuming his tale, “the first ship didn’t suit ’er. The second was too slab-sided, and the third too slow in stays.” Pryce shook his head. “She had ’er claws in ’im deep, by then. A women can lead a man ’round, if’n she knows how.”

He arched a brow, the sharp grey eyes measuring the cut of her jib, as to whether she was of the same breed.

“Hattie musta tired o’ waitin’, ’cuz she threw in with Maubrick. Belike, he filled her full o’ ideas, a-promisin’ the moon. Some say the Cap’n shoulda knowed. Others say she ’n’ Maubrick were too smooth, but the day finally come…”

Pryce let the suggestion in his voice finish the thought. He glanced once more to the foretop. He was telling far more than Nathan would have desired, and no small wonder. No one appreciated dirty laundry—misfortune and mishap—to be bandied about. But then, he was Nathanael Blackthorne, a legend in his time. Fame had its price.

“And?” Cate prompted.

“Shot ’im.”

The words cracked the air. Beatrice ruffled and croaked, “Flog the bastard!”

“The Cap’n has two holes in ’im: one in the front…” he said, pointing to just below his right breast. “And one in the back.”

“Which one—?”

“Which one looked him in the eye and pulled the trigger, whilst the other spineless scut shot ’im in the back?”

Pryce took another long drink and smacked what was left of his lips. “There be only three souls a’-knowin’ that, and the Cap’n ain’t a-sayin’. Cast him off, they did. ’Ceptin’ they figgered ’im to be dead straight away, so the mutinous dogs didn’t even oblige him the honor of a pistol.”

Nathan had alluded to something having happened before, another subject he preferred not to broach.

Cate gulped, sickened. Betrayal was never a pretty thing, but this one was particularly ugly. “But how…? I mean, obviously he lived, so how…?”

“No one knows, but ’im, and he ain’t sayin’. He claims he died, if yer inclined to believe that sorta thing. There be a pouch at his belt with two shots, one flattened, kinda like when it has hit bone. The other is all scratched, like it was dug out. Carries ’em with ’im, he does, at all times, just a’-waitin’ for the day when he can give ’em back, if ye get me meanin.’”

“But, he has the ship, so he must have—?”

“They both still breathe, if that be yer meanin’. But aye, that be the interestin’ part of it. With the Cap’n gone, the Morganse was broken-hearted and would sail for no other man.” Pryce lovingly stroked the surface before him. “First chance, threw herself on the rocks she did, impaled on a spire, right through the heart. She sank to the bottom to join her true love.”

Now she felt the one being played. Although, she had heard Nathan speak of the ship as if she drew breath, and had seen him engage in what was tantamount to one-sided conversations with her.

Attachment? Connection? Affection? Yes, they all applied.

“Obviously, he got her back somehow,” Cate prompted.

“Aye,” Pryce nodded agreeably, looking skyward, as a mariner often did. “’Tis a matter o’ speculation. He’s the only one what knows and he ain’t sayin’. I’ve heard tell he made a deal with the Devil o’ the Deep.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she snorted, feeling extremely tried on again.

One brow arched. “Is it? Take a look, if yer of a mind to doubt it. He carries two holes what no man should have survived. I’ve seen him walk through hellfire ’n’ brimstone and laugh, not a sleeve singed. And I’ve seen ’im run through by a blade such that no man should live to tell. He’s a man what can’t be kilt on a ship what can’t be sunk. It don’t make ’im crazy—no more than bein’ dead would,” he added in an odd rationalization, “just a mite careless.

“Where’s Hattie now?” Uttering the name didn’t come easily. “Has there been any word?”

Pryce shrugged disinterestedly as he swirled the mug’s contents. “Heard she’s dead and heard she’s piratin’ the spice routes. The Cap’n’s still on the prowl, a-lookin’ fer either one, and heaven help ’em when that day comes.”

He stared off toward the foretop. “Sometime after it all, I seen him in Tortuga. ’Twas a good thing I knew him from afore, cuz I barely recognized him. No one, includin’ him, could say as how he came to be there. He was a scarecrow, nothin’ but the rags on his back a-holdin’ his bones together and not near enough o’ those to keep ’im decent. He was livin’ on rum and whatever scraps throwed his way. He still can pick a pocket better than anyone I ever seed,” he said with a faint smile of admiration.

“An old whore had taken him in, allowed ’im t’ live in the goat shed. He smelled like a dead one, too. He couldn’t take three steps without a-coughin’ up blood. Everyone treated him like he were a leper or had the fever, but he claimed it was bein’ shot what gave him the lungsickness. It was his eyes what near killed me: lifeless as a shark, cold and dead.”

Pryce shook his head, as if to rid himself of a bad dream.

“Bought ’im a decent meal, I did, but he didn’t possess the strength t’ chew. He could still swallow, so I got ’im drunked up, followed him until he fell out in an alley. Piled him up in a cart and carried him off to a fishin’ village, t’other side o’ the island. The people were poor there—poorer than most—but decent folk. I left ’em enough money so’s they could see to him and theyselves. I went back a few months later, but he was gone. No one seemed to know where, he just up and disappeared, leavin’ behind a couple o’ lasses with sad eyes and swellin’ bellies. It were a year or so before I saw ’im again; I thought he was a ghost what come to haunt me fer my sins.”

Pryce smiled faintly at the recollection. “He was the ol’ Nathan then…sorta. The burn was back in his gut, a-wantin’ nothin’ more than his ship and those two black-hearted mutineers, in that order. He was damned single-minded on the matter, but I reckon that were what kept him alive.”



###



Cate held herself in tight check from the quarterdeck to her berth, although her rigidity and stomp gave cause for guarded looks from those in her route. Once past the curtain, she emitted a frustrated growl and flung herself across the bunk. She counted the seconds, hoping her anger would subside. Barely to three, she punched the mattress, grunting with each blow.

So that was it! Now, she knew why Nathan wasn’t interested, why he was pleasant, and yet so impeccably distant. It was simple enough. The good news was, it wasn’t a matter of anything she had said or done. Quite to the contrary, it was entirely out of her hands. Which led to the bad news: it was entirely out of her hands.

She flopped onto her back and stared, the blackened beams overhead shimmering through tears. One leg hung over the side, her heel rapped an agitated tempo against the wood, while a fist pounded a similar rhythm on the bulkhead.

She reminded him of someone else. How simple could it be? It was the one reason she never thought of, the one scenario which never came to mind. Just by simple coincidence, misfortune, circumstance, or fate, she reminded him of someone…his precious Hattie.

And what, exactly, do you think you’re going to do about it?

Not much, came back the answer. Nothing you can do.

She blindly hurled the pillow across the room.

It wasn’t fair!

It was one more stab from Providence: she was to be forever denied anything which might smack of happiness.

A few weeks ago, you were desperate for someone to notice if you lived or died. Where’s your gratitude in that?

Rational thoughts wedged their way in. To begrudge Nathan his true love would be to begrudge herself of having Brian.

“That was different,” she grumbled moodily. Brian was gone.

One was obliged to question Nathan’s judgment. He had never shown the impulsiveness that would be necessary for one to give his heart so readily to someone so treacherous.

Yes, but the heart is often blind.

On a gentler note, it had to have been hellish for Nathan to be constantly reminded of such betrayal and cold-heartedness. More was the question why he was so determined to keep her aboard? Why didn’t turn her over for the reward straightway, or put her off at St. Agua and be shut of her?

Only the ancient sages could fathom what went through that convoluted mind.

“Ooohhh!” Cate growled.

A rap on the doorjamb startled her.

“Are you well?” came Nathan’s voice through the curtain.

“I’m fine,” she said, more sharply than was warranted.

She rolled over on her elbows. Ducking her head between her arm and her side, she sniffed, hoping he wouldn’t hear.

There was a grave pause, before he said, “You don’t sound it.”

“I’m fine.”

There was a low grumble, another considering pause, and then a shifting of feet. “Shall I pass the word to fetch you something? Rum?” A grunt instantly negated that. “Coffee? Brandy!” His voice brightened with the victory.

“No, I’m fine,” she insisted, dashing the wetness from her face.

“You don’t sound it.”

She choked a smile at hearing his concern. She drew a quivering breath and expelled it slowly.

“I’ll be fine,” she said with great effort. “I like I always am,” she added under her breath at the sound of his retreating steps. “Just…fine.”



###



Gleaming and freshly breamed, with Mr. Hodder’s repetitive call of “Mind the paintwork” in the air, the Morganse won her anchors and cleared the cove, a proud lady in her newly applied cosmetics.

Rich in that same pride, Pryce stood at the leeward rail, rocking on his heels. “She’ll run through the water now as slick as an old whore’s—”

Hodder’s sharp elbow to Pryce’s ribs and a not-so clandestine thumb jerked in Cate’s direction, on Hodder’s other side, cut him short.

“She’ll be considerable faster,” Pryce mumbled into his chest, his face suffused with a unique shade of mahogany.