The Pirate Captain (19 page)

“How do you know it’s a she?” Cate asked, eyeing the bird. A huge one it was. From head to tail tip, it was well over the length of a man’s arm. Her avian experience was limited mostly to the barnyard and sporting varieties, most of which had defining features to separate the sexes.

The men raised their heads to view Beatrice with more a discerning eye.

“Complains like one,” was Pryce’s eventual response.

Picking oakum was thirsty work. Several hours later, while waiting for more rope to be brought, Cate stiffly rose and went to get a drink from the scuttlebutt. Filled with rainwater, its contents still took on the taste of wood gone wet far too long or the canvas used to collect it, but it was still far less foul than the water casks. As she moved about, she kept a sharp eye for Scarface, the one who had accosted her within moments of her being aboard. He was nowhere in sight, but she couldn’t help but think she heard snatches of his voice now and again. For all she knew, one of his accomplices could be standing at her elbow, for she had little recollection of their faces.

Dabbing her mouth on the back of her hand, she turned to find two men standing there. Doffing their caps, they knuckled their forelocks.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, mum. A word?”

Thin, almost to the point of gaunt, his frizzled gray hair showed evidence of once being red. At his side was a younger, squarer one, with a heavy shock of blond hair tar-bound in the forecastlemen’s way.

“You’re Highlanders, aren’t you?” Cate asked, polite but cautious. Their accented voices had drifted on the wind, their rolled r’s and clipped consonants haunting her with echoes of her past.

“Aye, mum. Cameron, by name, but Grant by birth. He’s Hughes,” he added, indicating his partner. He stammered, painfully nervous. “Yer man was a Mackenzie, wasn’t he?”

The water she had just drunk turned to lead. Recognition in England would have meant death. Among the pirates of the
Ciara Morganse,
she had thought to be safe. After being singled out, there was nothing to be gained in denying it, and so she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“Yes, he was.”

They grinned with delight.

“Aye, we thought so. We dinna wish to be forward, Mum, but we kent ye as soon as we laid eyes on ye. May I shake yer hand, Mistress Mackenzie? He was a fine man, mum. I…we wish to honor his memory.”

He seized her hand and was pumping it before he realized himself. His eyes bulged and jerked away, flushing. “Pray, beggin’ yer pardon, Mistress Mackenzie.”

Twisting his hat unmercifully in his hands, he exchanged glances with his companion, who silently encouraged him on.

“We served under him, ye ken, from Prestopans to…well, and after,” he ended awkwardly, his countenance darkening. Then he brightened, picking up his purpose again. “He was a fine man, Mum, the finest we’d ever seen. Best officer in the whole cursed affair. Courage of a lion.”

“Yes, he had that,” she said, wilting under the increasing weight of several of the mariners looking on.

“And when I saw ye stitchin’ yon Chin, I said to meself: ‘That’s Red Brian’s leddy.’” His face split into a smile again, studded by a total of four teeth. Then he waxed very solemn. “We just wanted to say as how proud we wuz to serve under yer man, m’m.”

With a strained smile, she mutely nodded.

God! Was there no way to quiet them.

“We followed ’im to Hell and back. A natural leader he was. We wuz fair sorry when we learnt o’ him so terrible hurt.”

“I’m sure he would have appreciated your enthusiasm.” Cate cringed, her gut knotting.
Would he ever stop?

“And we was right sorry to hear he’d been captured. Bloody
sassenachs
!” He flinched at the blunder. In many circles, such an epithet would have launched a fight. Apparently, pirates overlooked slurs.

More of the crew was now watching. A few inched closer, poised but curious. Noticing the gathering audience, the two Scots bobbed a bow in unison.

“We wished to honor his memory, Mistress Mackenzie. G’ day, mum.”

Cate sagged against the rail in relief. She didn’t look up; she didn’t need to. She could feel the men’s eyes boring into her back.

No secrets on a ship
, she thought ruefully, as she ran a shaking hand over her face.

It had been as public announcement as could possibly be made. She might as well have stood on the capstan and shouted who she was.

Cate was touched on the arm. She jumped and shrieked. Whirling, she found it was Nathan.

“Beg pardon,” he said, falling back. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no!” One hand pressing to her middle as she caught her breath, she raised the other in apology. “I just didn’t hear you.”

“Did those crewmen—?”

“No, no!” Ducking her head, she scurried off.

###

Isla
de las Aguas de los Santos Sedientos.

It seemed a lofty title for such an inconsequential-looking piece of land.

As the ship paralleled the shore, Cate watched the massive black banner unfurl once more. Seeing the bold image of the haloed skull framed by the angel’s wings, she felt the same thrill and tug of pride as when the
Nightingale
had been bearing down, a sense of belonging; sudden and unfounded, but there it was.

“I would have thought you would desire the element of surprise,” she said, looking up at the flag.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. “Surprise them, and their first instinct is to fight and fight hard, in defense of hearth, family, and all that is dear. But,” he said, with an exclamatory finger and a knowing wink, “give them time and they commence to thinking. With that luxury, the mind sets to imagining how much they stand to lose, and how much pain—possible death—might be required in the process of defending said valuables.”

“Which means?”

“Which means given enough time, they’ll meet you at the dock with the keys to the treasury, their most virginal maids, and desire to know what took you so long in coming. Don’t care for that second bit, eh?” he laughed at seeing her wince.

“Isn’t there some way to circumvent that?”

“Not really,” he teased.

She didn’t know him fully, but Nathan didn’t strike her as a man who would refuse a maid if handed one. The fact of the matter was she considered it safe to say he was a man who had welcomed the company of many women. With his charm and dash, few could resist when targeted by that.

“Brilliant,” Pryce murmured in wonderment over his shoulder, once his Captain had strolled away. “Treasure given over volunteer-like ’tis just as shiny as that what come with spilt blood. The men appreciate that.”

“All of them?” She looked warily across the myriad of faces, Scarface and her earliest moments aboard still fresh in her mind.

He shot a loathing over his shoulder. “No, but those be the ones what tend to seek a cap’n what thirsts for blood ’n’ mayhem. Now mind, the Cap’n can be treacherous when he’s of a mind. I’ve seen ’im slit a man’s gullet and leave the poor bastard with his guts draped over his arm. The Cap’n keeps the rum plentiful, their bellies full, ’n’ the swag piles high, a-knowin’ a man’s dedication takes but two paths: his pocket and his stomach.”

“The men seem to love him.”

“Or respect,” Pryce was quick to qualify. “Don’t be a-confusin’ the two; there be a fair difference a’tween ’em. Them what don’t is long gone, either by choice, or otherwise.

The First Mate was gone before Cate could ask for clarification on the “otherwise.” On second thought, perhaps she was better off not knowing.

The thought of being a part of pillaging and destruction, maybe even killing, was wholly distasteful and disturbing. Death wasn’t new to Cate; she had witnessed a war first hand, but that had been in the spirit of King and country, not a quest for plunder and riches. But realistically, what else was she to do? These men were pirates before she had been brought aboard—no one could accuse her of being there by choice—and they would be pirates long after she was gone. But be damned if she would idly stand by and watch them bleed. If that was aiding and abetting, complicit by virtue of association, then piracy would be added to her charge sheet, and there was blessed little to be done about it.

When the ship opened the bay, a great gun firing—a quarter charge and without the benefit of a ball—announced them, just in case the townspeople hadn’t noticed that a 36-gunned black ship with blood dripping from its sails and decks and flying a prodigious skull-emblazoned banner, was in their harbor. There was a good deal of shouting, the rattle of chain, a splash, and the
Ciara Morganse
was at anchor. The decks, which had been so alive under Cate’s feet, went motionless for the first time in months. It was a novelty and a quite disquieting sensation.

She strained to see the little town nestled between the island’s mountainous backbone and the sea. It was the closest land since leaving England. Not having pondered it earlier, she now longed for the solidness of land under her feet, to walk on a surface that didn't pitch and roll at every step.

“When are we going ashore?” she asked Nathan, close on his heels.

“As soon as the boats are away, but
you’re
not going,” he said, wheeling around on her.

Cate rocked back on her bare feet as if she had been struck. She gaped at him, wondering how she could have been so radically mistaken. Her anxiousness had allowed her to forget her tenuous status. She bristled. Worthless as a hostage, now she was simply his possession to do with as he chose, kept in reserve for the best opportunity to turn a coin.

“Why not?” she asked. Even if she was to be shackled, to touch land again would have been worth it.

His hesitancy gave brief hope of second thoughts. “It's not safe.” And then he spun away.

“So I
am
a hostage then?”

“No,” Nathan said with maddening evenness over his shoulder. “A hostage implies there would be someone to pay for you. And, since by your own admission there is no one, then you’re not said hostage.”

“Then I’m a prisoner.”

“No, prisoner implies punishment. You’ve committed no crime, so there would be no punishment.”

“Then I’m being held against my will.”

“No, protective custody.”

Skidding to a halt, she balled her fists. “Protected from what?”

He stopped. His back still to her, he looked to the sky, and then the deck. Heaving a patience-seeking sigh, he said, “As I said, it’s not safe,” and set off once again.

“Safe! What’s safe have to do with it?”

Nathan drew up, again without turning. A number of responses being disposed of, he ultimately opted for “Everything.”

And then, he was gone.

Cate stood at the rail while the longboats were roused over the side, still prickling at Nathan’s denial. She wasn’t bound or confined, but she was imprisoned, just the same. The ship was a floating gaol, with over a hundred keepers. She looked longingly across the water to the little town. The yearning became a driving need now that she could smell greenery and dirt. With eyes accustomed to the deep hues of the ocean, the vivid mosaic of aquamarine, azure, lapis, and cobalt of the island’s waters had made her squint, the sight of green, absent for so long, almost painful. It struck her with an impact that rendered her near breathless: she was in the West Indies, the tropics, with palm trees, warm water, sun-dazzled skies, with new wonders at every turn.

So near, and yet so far sat the fairyland, within her reach, but unattainable, all because of one capricious pirate.

Cate's senses had been sharpened by weeks at sea. Along with earth and greenery came other smells of civilization, ones conveniently forgotten: animal dung, cooking smoke, privies, tobacco, and the sharper fugue of squalor. Wrinkling her nose, she considered the possibility that she had developed a new appreciation for the sea.

Whether in the Highlands or elsewhere, isolated towns possessed the same sleepy air, resting with the placidity of a cow chewing its cud. This one was bracketed by two lone, brick buildings, representing the opposing powers that controlled its life: the spiritual marked by a cathedral’s bell tower, and the secular, with the flag of Spain. The skeletal remains of a garrison peeked through the trees, along with the rudimentary beginnings of a defensive wall around the town, both long since abandoned. A not-much-better-tended wharf lined the water’s edge, bearing out Nathan’s conjectures regarding the infrequency of visitors.

Before the anchor was set, Nathan stood surveying the town. Now squatted over a piece of canvas, a chunk of charcoal in hand, he drew it out for the men circled around.

“We’ll assume the flag marks where we’ll find whoever the power-on-high might be. Bear off for there first, and then fan out. With any luck, whomever is in charge will…”

“Hoy! Cap’n! Lookit!” came a cry from the rail.

Nathan rose, following the look-out’s point. “What the bloody hell…?”

A small flotilla of barges, catamarans, and boats had embarked from the ramshackle wharf and bore toward the ship. Flags of truce, mostly in the way of tattered handkerchiefs and meal sacks, were in vigorous display at the bow of each craft.

The pirates stood in speechless awe. Nathan was the first to regain himself, and sent marksmen aloft with a sharp gesture. More were posted on the ratlines and rails. Seeing the swivel guns fore and aft brought to bear, the white flags were waved with increased vigor, amid friendly, although tentative hails in Spanish.

The largest barge hooked on, its occupants beckoned aboard. As the first visitor clambered over the gunwale, Nathan seized Cate by the arm.

“No sense in advertising you’re here, eh?” Nathan said as he propelled her toward the cabin.

“But I—”

“Shh!” He pressed her inside and away from the door gently, but firmly enough to indicate he would brook no argument. “Discretion is a virtue often overlooked and highly underrated.”

Once aboard, the townspeople quailed at being encircled by near two hundred-odd armed pirates, now presenting their most heathenish faces. They clung to the rail, making it increasingly difficult for later arrivals to find room. It was difficult to separate one aghast face from another. Mostly men, a few skirts were visible through the press of bodies. Most predominant was a priest, his black cassock stark against the drab of his flock. The sun glinted on the cross at his neck like an overseeing eye, his presence clearly meant to give the pirates pause.