The Pirate Captain (18 page)

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

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

“Amen.”

The sound of Nathan’s voice jerked her back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are they doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sold!” came from the forecastle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Punishment?”

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

“I don’t mind a little hard work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck off!”

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

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

“Well, grease me stick!”

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

“Buggering trollop!”

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

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

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

She waited for further explanation. None came.