The Pirate Captain (14 page)

“Most pirates came by way of the Royal Navy, press-ganged during the war,” he was saying. “The war ended and His Majesty was no longer in need of ’em. Having been gone for years, many had no family to which to return, so they went back to what they knew: the sea, excepting pirating was the only ready employment.”

She closed one eye to regard him. “I can’t imagine you in the Navy.”

Blackthorne made a derogatory noise. “And justifiably so, since I wasn’t. I always loved the sea; got it from me sire, I suppose.”

“And always desired to become a pirate?” she declared, heartened by her ability to announce it before him.

His countenance darkened. “No!” He checked himself, quickly assuming a more benign attitude. “I came by that by an entirely different course.”

Another sensitive territory blundered into—and so many there seemed to be—she sought another subject.

“So, what are you doing out here? I mean, have you a destination?” The question was rooted in more than idle curiosity. It was safe to say the ship’s destination would have a direct impact on her future.

Devilment lit his eyes. “Prowling, luv; cat after the mouse. A bit o’ pirating, looking for anyone unsuspecting what may cross our hawse.”

That statement was borne out by a lookout posted on every masthead.

“And then what?”

Blackthorne peered at her as if she was a bit dim. “Cut ’em out.”

“That’s stealing.”

He chuckled dryly. “That, my dear, you’ll find ’tis a matter of perspective. Enemies are contrived any number of ways: wrong race, wrong religion, wrong king, or just wrong words. A privateer steals in the name of the one what finances him, often finding himself on the wrong side of the very law he thought to honor. Just ask ol’ William Kidd. He had the blessings of the Crown itself. He took ship upon ship, all for the glory of King and Country. Only by the time he returned home to deliver said prize, he had been declared a pirate and was hung for his efforts.

“First Holland was our friend and Spain our enemy. A flick of the pen and Spain was our ally, France and Holland our enemies. Then France was our friend, and Holland and Spain…” He gave a shrug. “’Tis easier to assume them all as foes. Piracy is honest: we take it because we want it.”

“But, if you take it—?”

“Ah, but what if it had been stolen it the first place? Thievery comes in many forms.”

“So, you see yourself as some kind of a Robin Hood?”

A laugh erupted from him loud enough to cause men at the ship’s waist to look up from their work.

“Hardly. Nothing so grand. ’Tis every man for himself.” He cut a sharp gesture toward those same ones looking up. “Every one of those blighters would take it all and be damned the rest, would that he could.”

“On deck there. Sail ho!” came a cry came from high above. “Four points to larboard. Rounding the point, sir. A sloop: twenty-two…make that a twenty-four. Flying the Company flag.”

Wheeling around, Cate saw the oncoming ship’s flag. The Cross of St. George showed prominently in the canton, but the field was blue and white-striped, not the infamous red and white of the East India Tea Company.

“The Royal West Indies Mercantile Company,” Nathan said with thinly veiled contempt. “Rarely are colors flown to be believed, but ’tis every reason to believe this one. The treacherous blighter wants us to know who he is.”

“Orders?” Pryce bound up the steps and pulled up short at the sight of his freshly-shaven captain. His grey eyes cut accusingly at her.

“How do you make her?” Nathan demanded.

“She’s the
Nightingale
, or the
Faithful
, for anyone what cares to see the difference, painted up like a tart on the Sabbath. Privateer. More like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Cate recalled hearing on the
Constancy
of sleights of hand: ships being taken, and then disguised for the purpose of evil-doing.

Pryce spit contemptuously over the rail, and then fixed a reproachful eye on his skipper. “It were a risk to come here. They been a-layin’ fer us.”

“A risk known and well worth,” Nathan said with a significant look. “Damn. I fancied she’d had enough of our fire and thunder off Barra Terre. Very well, let’s give the sod what he seeks.”

“She runs better and she has the wind. We’ve land in our lee to boot,” Pryce warned in his West Country rumble. A cautionary nod indicated a nearby island.

“That she does, but we have the greater will, have we not?” said Nathan with a fleeting smile.

“She’s brailing up her courses, sir,” came a call from overhead.

“Well, there’s your answer, if anyone fancied she meant to hail us for tea, eh?” Nathan grumbled.

Cate understood precious little of the exchange, but none of it sounded good, she thought as she watched the lower corners of the
Nightingale
’s mainsails draw up. Even a landsman such as herself could see the two-masted ship was smaller and sleeker, her sails triangular as opposed to the
Morganse
’s square, and ran her length rather than across. A long, dove-tailed streamer broke from the
Nightingale’s
peak and the pirates gave a jeering roar.

“What is that?” she asked.

“He’s declaring his superiority, like he’s the goddamned Commodore hisself. We’re expected to hove to,” said Nathan.

“’Tis usually reserved for ships sailing under the King’s papers,” Pryce explained with equal contempt.

Nathan glared across the water. “Not bloody likely, the split-tongued, master rogue. She might be smaller and handier, but she’s outnumbered and outgunned. Action stations. Hoist the colors.”

A heavy flap, of a different timbre than canvas, drew her attention upward. There she saw the black and white banner at it was unfurled from a backstay, and a cheering roar went up from the crew. When seen from directly overhead, the haloed skull leering down, it was even more massive and imposing. Cate burst in a half-laugh, half-sob, seized by a thrill of fear, and at the same time, an inexplicable surge of empowerment and pride.

“On deck, there. Sail ho!” came from above again.

“You’ve gone feeble, mate. We’ve made her,” Nathan called up.

“Nossir, ’tis another. Larboard astern.”

Nathan cast an eye in that direction and swore. “It would appear an escort had been sent for the good ship
Constancy
.”

Guilt heated Cate’s face, as if she was somehow responsible for this. It was possible the two ships had intercepted the
Constancy
and Chambers had told them of her being taken. Judging by Nathan and Pryce’s reaction, this was a continuing rivalry, which made her presence no more than coincidence.

“She’s the
Eclipse
, sir,” came from overhead shortly after.

“Captain Eldridge Simmons, commanding,” sighed Nathan with a scornful smirk.

“Harte’s minion,” said Pryce.

“More like sacrificial lamb,” Nathan shot back, grudgingly. “One would have liked to assume His Pompousness Commodore Harte would have sent one with a stomach for the smell of powder.”

“Which means?” Cate asked, more testy than intended.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. “The Royal Navy puts a great store in its gunpowder. A ship is set out with an allotment and not a grain more. Anything beyond said allotment is the captain’s expense. Yon Captain Simmons is ambitious, but he’s also cheap.”

“Which means?” she pressed.

“Which means our fair foe will do everything in his power to avoid using the one thing what could gain what he desires: a prize, and a fat prize we would be.”

“Thrice afore he’s cut ’n’ run,” Pryce put in.

“And more than likely to now. Pass the word to Mr. MacQuarrie: bar and chain shot. Dismast them before they splinter ours,” Nathan told Pryce as he handed off the helm. “Clear the decks. Blood is what these bastards came for, so let’s show them theirs.”

Pryce thundered down the gangway, the men scattering to their posts ahead of him. They raced either to the guns, and the ship’s defense, or the rigging, and the ship proper. None of the dread seen on the
Constancy
was here. These men knew full well what was about to come, and like a glutton dove in without regard for indigestion.

In the face of the burst of activity, Cate’s first urge was to do something, yet had no notion of what. She discovered again that it was possible to be bathed in a cold sweat in the tropics, an icy stream of it trailing between her shoulder blades. Seeing the pirate ship bear down on the
Constancy
had been a nightmare. Now she stood on that very ship as another enemy bore down. It was like a revisiting bad dream: scary, yet familiar. The waiting, however, was the same, time being ticked off by each wave cut by the
Nightingale
and
Eclipse
’s bows.

“Mates,” Nathan called down to the main deck. “Yon ships desire our heads. Let’s hand them their asses instead. Blow these bastards back to the festering hell from which they came. A fourth of me share to the gun crew what takes out their helm.”

A rallying cheer went up. The ship vibrated as the port lids slammed open. Shirts cast off, backs glistening with sweat, the crews manned their guns, ramming home wadding and charges. Bellowing “Heave!” they hauled on the side-tackles, the guns rumbling home into their ports.

The
Nightingale
was the first to fire: a shot across the
Morganse
’sforefoot.

“Manners, if you please, Mr. MacQuarrie! Pray send that sodding bastard a reply to his invitation.”

The Master of the Guns glared down the long barrel of the gun nearest the bow, intent on the swell. “Fire!”

The gun barked, MacQuarrie arching his body away from the recoil. A tongue of flame licked out from a cloud of smoke and a ball shot out, hurtling across the
Nightingale’s
bow. The deck was still vibrating under Cate’s feet from it when Nathan pulled her around to him.

“You need to get to the hold,” he said. “They will seek to rake us by the stern, so go as far to the forepeak as you can. And for God’s sake, keep your head down. Mr. Pryce, a pistol, if you please.”

The requested weapon was delivered. Nathan took it and matter-of-factly set to checking the load and priming. When finished, he touched a finger to her chin, his gaze fixing hers.

“Listen to me, luv. Take this. Save it for yourself. If we’re boarded, use it. Even in breeches, with those curves you’d never pass for a man.
Do not
allow yourself to be taken.
Sabe
?”

Her gut knotted at what that meant. She looked to the ships looming closer. Was the enemy of the pirates automatically her salvation, or was the
Nightingale
a menace to all in her path? Where did the Devil lie? Either ship could be her salvation, rescuing her from a fate worse than death—until her identity was discovered. Imprisonment and the executioner’s block waited after that.

There were no answers, only instincts. She looked into Nathan’s steady gaze, solemn and intent. Was he to be her captor or protector? Savior or curse?

“Very well,” she said and took the weapon.

“What?” he mused at her surprise. “Shocked to be armed? ’Tis one against over a hundred. We’d have to be a bunch of cod-handed, Dutch-built dolts if we were to be shot by a lone woman. And to what point or purpose would it serve?”

He paused to regard her anew. “But then, perhaps I presume too much. If you prefer to be with them, then say the word and allow us to save the powder. You’ll be adrift within half a glass and aboard that fair ship before the sun is below the gun’l.”

Her silence was his answer.

“No worries.” Grinning at her dismay, he winked. “’Tis old hat. I’ve suffered far better and survived far worse. Now, do
not
come out, no matter what you hear.”

He leaned to kiss her lightly on the top of the head. “I swear I’ll fight for you. Now go.”

She was too numb to be startled by his gesture or words. She felt herself being urged toward the steps. By the time the shock had worn off, he was gone, deep among his men. She woodenly made her way to the forward companionway through the throngs of scrambling men. She saw their mouths move, but their voices were muted, as if heard under water. At the top of the steps, she stopped to look back at Nathan, shouting orders from the quarterdeck break.

Damn him! He was enjoying this.

He caught sight of her and smiled.

With a smile like that, how could she not have faith?

Winking, he waved her on.

“Lively, now. Bear a hand, there. Puddening chains, if you please, Mr. Hodder” was the last she heard of him as she went below.

The scene ’tween deck was chaos, but an organized one. Muskets and cutlasses were dispersed, while strips of cloth were secured around heads, arms, or waists, to differentiate themselves from the enemy. Tubs of slow-match and baskets of cartridges were brought up from the hold, while wet sand was spread against slippage in the inevitable blood. Over the din could be heard the rap of the carpenter and his mates’ hammers, for “clear the decks” meant not only stowing every object which might pose a hazard, but knocking down the cabin walls.

She took Nathan’s instructions to mean she was to go to the lowest point possible, and so she continued downward. She hung onto the manrope to keep from being bowled over by the hands racing up and down with laden arms. At the bottom of the steps, she balked. The hold was dark and airless, smelling of things gone too wet for too long. What checkered light that managed to squeeze through the grates lost its battle against the void and died within a few paces.

Cate turned away from the stream of men, toward the bow. Clutching the pistol, sliding one foot in front of the other, she groped her way past casks, hogsheads, bales, and crates. Each step took her further from the furor of preparation, and the comfort of human voices faded. She thought a few times she had reached her destination, only to discover it was a barrel or some other obstacle. She pressed ahead, Nathan’s final words still ringing in her ears.

If I’m not to worry for him, then why did he tell me to shoot myself?