The Pirate Captain (10 page)

The call of nature forced Cate to rise sooner than she would have preferred. She rose stiffly, taking several steps before her legs became reliable. She listened carefully to verify that the salon was still empty before making her quilt-swathed entrance. The privy closet was in the far corner. She was excessively grateful for that tradition of the sea: the captain having his own convenience. Groping her way to the forecastle or asking for a chamber pot was unthinkable. If she were at sea a hundred years, however, she would never become accustomed to the feel of the wind and spray on her bared bottom.

After, she took in her surroundings. The Great Cabin was a man’s room; make no mistake, an eclectic collection from every corner of sea and continent. The
Constancy
’s walls—bulkheads, at sea—had been pristinely whitewashed. These were walnut, dark and rich with the patina of time, smelling of oil and wax. The mizzenmast marked the forward third of the room, the remaining space dominated by a carved mahogany table centered over a Turkish rug. The sidechairs were equally elaborate, with brass-studded seats, their tooled leather worn to a dull sheen.

Opulence and riches were expected—these were pirates, after all—but only luxuriant pragmatism was found; luxuriant, at least, by any standards in which she had lived of recent. Every object was unique, but at the same time functional, selected for utility rather than to impress: a velvet chair, because one might wish to sit. Before it sat an ottoman, fashioned from some kind of drum-looking something, in case one needed to rest his feet. A water-stained locker sat next to the chair, because one needed a place to set something, such as the thick book there now, a French classic. A candelabrum hung next to it, because one needed light to read.

By the side-lighted, double doors sat a massive Oriental porcelain urn, its inglorious task being to hold a lethality of swords, cutlasses, and sabers. Charts bulged from similar gilt-trimmed urns scattered about. Silver and gold cups sat next to ones of leather or wood; after all, one needed to drink. Battered horn lanterns perched next to silver
epergnes
; one needed light. The two cannons, their brass glowing in the morning light, were a cold reality against the warmth of human occupancy, and yet were quite fitting.

Perhaps the most intriguing of the room’s features were the books, a rare luxury and one that had been fully indulged. Cases, with moveable arms that locked or unlocked with a single flip, sat everywhere. Gilded and richly bound, under closer scrutiny, many of the volumes proved to be collections of classics, and in several languages.

Amid the live sounds of a ship under sail, she hitched the quilt higher about her shoulders and perched on the arm of a chair to stare out the windows at the rich hues of sky and wave. According to Chambers and the Constancies, she had committed a mortal mistake: she had allowed herself to be captured. She smiled faintly. Now she could be the one to tell the pirate tales and several fallacies she could correct. She felt frayed and worn, stained and bruised, humbled, but not beaten, not yet. Now, there was nothing except what she had always done: survive. She was a captive, but hadn’t been thrown overboard, lips cut off, or innards nailed to a tree…yet.

Things were looking up.

From the corner of her eyes, Cate saw something move. She looked, but found nothing. With a second glance, she found a small lizard sitting on the windowsill. With bulging orbs for eyes, the thing’s tiny throat pulsated with each breath. It darted first one way, then another. At one point it fixed a pale, reptilian eye on her, considered her to be neither edible nor threatening, and flashed out of sight through a space in the boards. Another appeared clinging upside down at the top of the window. It scampered about, and then disappeared outside.

She gradually became aware of voices on deck, their agitation increasing by the moment. She was startled to see what had to have been all hundred and twenty-odd, the entire ship’s complement, gathered. With the mizzenmast as a shield, she watched as a resounding cheer erupted. In the glare of sunlight, the milling throng faced the bow, like metal filings being pulled toward a magnet. They gave a rousing shout, their arms raised in much the same fashion as spectators at a hanging. Then there was a great stirring, like someone being brought forward.

A fearful shriek, a high, thin cry of pain rode the air. The crowd cheered, their agitation shifting to approval. A few moments later, came another cry, lower and filled with resentment. There was a scuffle, and then a man broke from the crowd and dove for the foremast ratlines. He scrambled up the rope ladders as gangs of pirates gave chase, racing up both sides, eventually going so high she could no longer see them. Their path up and across the yards could be tracked by the gazes and brandished fists of those on deck. From high above came another cry, and then the blur of a falling body. It caught in the rigging, spun, hit the rail, and then disappeared into the crowd with an odd thud, like a sack of wet meal.

A slightly puzzled hush fell over the pirates, a few grumbling with disappointment or disgust.

Stunned, Cate stumbled back, eventually coming up against the table. She was still standing there when Blackthorne stepped out of the crowd and sauntered into the cabin, the bellow of “Swabbers!” coming from behind him. He was barely through the door when he drew up short at the sight of her, his mouth curling in displeasure.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he said, pitching his coat aside.

“I’m not sure what I just saw,” she said shakily.

Blackthorne followed her line of sight to the milling crowd outside, now dissolving. “Oh, that. Company business. Justice desired serving.”

“Throwing a man from the yards?”

He turned to give her a queer look. “He wasn’t thrown. The stupid sod fell. Never was much in the tops,” he said more to himself. “’Tis an unfortunate mess, now.”

He cast a thoughtful glance toward the deck. Hoses had been rigged, the swabbers setting to work.

“’Twas a disciplinary action,” he said, turning back. “Those three—or two now—were drunk whilst on yesterday’s raid. Their own mates came forward to claim their drunkenness was cause for injury or inconvenience. ’Tis a direct violation of the Articles. They were judged by their peers; leaves the Captain completely out of it, praise God!” he added under his breath with a roll of his eyes. “The sentence was lopping of an ear…er, last ear in Towers’ case. A bit slow on the pick-up, that one is.”

“You cut off their ears?” The pained cries still ringing in her head, a wave of queasiness took her. She had witnessed any number of punishments—stocks, ear-pinning, pillory, ducking—many cruel and sometimes bloody, but this seemed uncommonly so, especially when done to one of their own, this so-called Brotherhood.

Blackthorne smiled tolerantly. “Flog a man and he’s not worth his salt for days. Caning and drubbing is no different. Put him in irons or bilboes, and he’s on his ass, at his leisure. Keel-hauling renders him as useless as flogging, and then what with all the rigging him up, throwing him overboard, dragging him the length of the ship, not to mention the mess after…”

He shuddered dramatically. “Most instances, a man’s forced to cut his own off, but strikes me as damned barbaric. No, a quick snick and Bob’s-your-uncle, the fuddling mump learns his lesson, hopefully. ’Tis not torture they seek,” he said, looking outside once more, “only justice. And those scuts will be a constant reminder to every man what lays eyes on him. Feeling better today, are we?” he asked, swiveling around to her.

It took Cate a moment to follow his abrupt shift, and managed an uneven, “Yes, thank you, Captain.”

All things considered, she felt much better.

“Nathan.” He dropped his battered leather tricorn on the table. “I’d fancied you’d call me Nathan…Cate?” The graveled voice held the question.

She nodded, managing a smile. From amid his glossy beard broke a gold-studded smile that lit the room.

There was an awkward moment. For a man who seemed to have a response to everything the day before, he was markedly ill at ease, searching the rug at his feet as if he might find the words there. The scratch marks, livid on his chest amidst the heavy growth of hair, brought a sense of satisfaction. Hopefully, he would think twice before trying her again. She saw the hand she had bitten was wrapped in a doubtful-looking strip of rag. In the spirit of atonement, and perhaps a bit of endearment, she considered offering to put a bit of salve on it. Never being one to dodge the unpleasant, she took the first step. Anything was better than this insufferable throat-clearing.

“Shall I—?” Cate began.

“A pact,” he declared. His habit of interrupting hadn’t improved.

Cate looked to see if he was jesting. He wasn’t. “I beg pardon?”

“A pact would answer: I stay on this side of the room,” he said with a sweep of his arm in a general direction of where he stood. “And you won’t attack me again. Agreed?”

“Attack! I never—” Her cheek heated, feeling once again the sting of where he had hit her.

“Tell that one to the fishes. A fine state of affairs and thank-yous for showing a little kindness—”

“Kindness,” Cate sputtered. “But you—”

“What?”

“And then, you—”

“What? Any signs of ill-handling are your own bloody fault. Not a hand was laid, until provoked.”

“Provoked!”

“Nasty habit that, repeating everything you hear. Have you suffered this affliction long?” Blackthorne, or rather, Nathan asked, peering with affected interest down the long line of his nose.

Cate eyed him, trying to decide what he was playing at. Madness and flaws of character had been mentioned in the pirate tales. First, there had been the bullying brute, then cajoling and compassionate with his injured crew. And now, here was another manifestation, which smacked of intentional disarming. If so, he was a crafty one, indeed.

She rubbed her brow in frustration. “I surrender.”

“Ah, a sane voice at last. A truce it ’tis.”

“Then by your leave,” she fumed, retreating to the corner she had been sent to the day before.

“Sit. Sit.” He waved her back. “We’ll call…it…here,” he said, toeing an inconspicuous board. Visually following the plank’s seam, it ran from under the table, across the room, to the middle of the double-wide doors.

“Hungry?” he blurted. “Tea?” The query came more as a declaration than offer.

At first she thought she hadn’t heard correctly. His changes of subject were dizzying.

“Yes, tea would be lovely.” An offer of coffee—of which she was in desperate need—would have been met with even greater relish, but she would take anything.

Blackthorne purposefully strode to a narrow companionway leading below. “Mr. Kirkland!”

Nerves already on edge, she jumped at his bellow.

Quick footsteps could be heard below, followed by a querulous, “Aye, sir?”

“We require tea.”

“Beg pardon, sir?” The invisible man’s dismay was palpable.

“Tea, Mr. Kirkland. We require tea,
if
you please.”

There was a long pause and a befuddled “Aye, sir” and fading footsteps.

Nathan turned back with an elaborate sweep of the hand. “Tea, directly.”

Frowning with a bit more concentration than might have been necessary, he busied with charts and logbook. The dark eyes crept up at one point to linger with open avidity on her bare calf. The look was gone with a quickness that made her think perhaps it had been imagined, a mask of inscrutability now in place. Nonetheless, she drew her legs under the chair and rearranged the quilt more closely.

Cate had noticed blessed little about him earlier. In the light of a new day, he wasn’t nearly as ominous. He was slightly above average height. She had expected a larger, a more formidable figure for someone who had been accredited with such deeds as he. Shot 13 times? Beyond an aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones and forehead, not much more could be discerned, for his features were lost in the abundant beard.

There was no getting past the hair: a voluminous, mop-like snarl that reached well below his shoulders. Bound by the omnipresent headscarf, which showed signs of once having been blue, the raven-colored mass was a tangle of braids. Some were made up of only a few strands, while others were nearly the thickness of a finger, many of those haphazardly worked together into larger braids. All were secured by random bits of colorful bits of yarn or thread, twine, or strips of cloth. A delicate metallic jingle accompanied his every move. At one point, he turned the back of his head to her and the light caught near a score of what she first thought to be silver beads. She then realized they were actually tiny bells, barely the size of the tip of her pinky.

…one for every virgin…

The mind reeled.

Aside from his hair, a few rings on his fingers and a tattered sash at his waist, there was nothing peacockish about him. Compared to the ornate swords in the urn, the one at his side was a workman’s model. His baldric, its hand-sized buckle and pistol, were equally plain.

He felt her staring, and so she diverted her attention to anything: the great guns poised at the stern windows. Their muzzles jutting under the gallery sill, they lurked like two pugnacious brass watchdogs. Blackthorne followed her line of attention and smiled.

“A ship’s only as good as her stern chasers,” he said with a loving gaze.

Said affection was borne out by the names roughly inscribed in the wooden carriages:
Widower
and
Merdering Mary
.

“How many do you have?” she asked.

He flopped in his chair and propped his feet on the table, but then yanked them down.

“Thirty-six.” The announcement came with no small amount of pride. It was considerably less than the count given on the
Constancy
; one more bit of gross misinformation.

“And we can serve up a minute-fifty barrage for hours, thanks to Pryce and Master Gunner MacQuarrie. They do know how to drill a crew,” Nathan said, eyes rounding in admiration.

Cate cringed at the mention of the First Mate’s name. The walnut-colored eyes didn’t miss a thing, the dark dash of brows narrowing.