The Pirate Captain (28 page)

The hideous scar at Stubbs’s throat and wet rattle with each breath was sufficient testimony. As it turned out, Stubbs was mute by choice. His speech being such a garbled slur, he chose to spare himself the embarrassment and resorted to a unique sign language.

The greatest surprise, however, was when she discovered he missed three fingers, as well as the joints of several others. Missing digits was not an uncommon feature among sailors or men who lived by the sword, but it was a wonderment to watch him maneuver the ropes. The irony of the name was almost too much to bear, but she forbore inquiring if it was really his name or just an appellation.

Even under Stubbs’ tutelage, Cate’s progress was slow, her fingers growing sore. Squealing in frustration, she would pitch the offending rope across the deck. Stubbs lifted a brow, more reproving than any words. Shame and obstinacy compelled her to retrieve the length and try again. She was maddened further by Stubbs’ ability to do it minus three fingers. Upon reflection, perhaps she had too many, hence they were getting in her way.

As the degree of difficulty increased, her success pitched. Nathan’s distress at her ineptitude soaring, he often stood over her during her lessons, unable to curtail his groans of disappointment and frustration. She practiced, driven not by others, but by an inner need to overcome any shortcoming. Some would call it stubbornness.

Earlier that afternoon, she had surrendered from yet another practice, still a failure. In the face of that, she had found solace in the friendlier and more familiar realms of thread. It was a limited pleasure, however, and so she decided to take a stroll.

Cate had learned if she desired to walk the decks at night, it was best done before the hands had been sent to their hammocks. Hodder’s bellow of “Pipe down!” was a relative term, for many of the men preferred to sleep on deck rather than below, where the heat of the day would still be trapped, especially if wind or seas disallowed the port-lids to be opened. It was a hazardous venture to pick one’s way in the dark through the amorphous mounds littering the deck. Tripping over one meant to be soundly cursed.

Cate could feel the change in the ship. The topsails reefed, the fly-by-nights set, the
Morganse
had settled in for the night. The grog dispensed, voices and music drifting from the forecastle, the men were enjoying their nightly merriment. Aware that her presence often tended to curtail their spirits, she crept down the deck until she reached her favorite place at the larboard rail. There she sat between the two gun carriages, a small island of seclusion.

Caribbean nights were unique. A blessed refuge from the day’s heat and glare, the night brought velvet air so fresh it made one want to grasp onto something to keep from floating away. The days vibrated with brilliant hues of sky and water. The nights were a palette of blacks, warm and cool: blue, purple, violet, and gunmetal. Leaning against the cool iron of the gun, she tipped back her head to allow the breeze against her throat and lift the hair from her neck.

As the
Constancy
’s Barnstable had been
,
Pryce was the reigning king as storyteller on the
Ciara Morganse
. With his orator’s baritone voice, he could break into a tale, instantly enrapturing his audience, whether one or several score. Judging by the voices on the forecastle, Pryce was off on ship’s business, and others had taken his place, and quite credibly. Cate closed her eyes and visualized the fantastic tales of raucous conquests, demonic ghosts and improbable feats. She slowly slipped off into her own fantasies.

So immersed in her reverie, she lost track of time. She stirred as she grew aware of the story being told.

“Aye, Falkirk ’twas. Cumberland and his troops had caught up with the armies of Bonnie Prince Charlie…”

Cate groaned aloud. One could tell by the brogue: it was Cameron. Voice low and steady, building with drama, there was no mistaking a Highlander caught up in weaving his own fantastic version of the truth.

“Surrounded they were, and so Murdoch McKenzie rallied his men, chargin’ into the gaping maws o’ the redcoat artillery. There was screamin’ and dyin’, and heathers ran red w’ the blood. Murdoch led his men to the flank, whilst Red Brian veered to the right and caught the enemy in a fearsome crossfire. But Cumberland’s power was too great and they pressed forward, until Murdoch and Red Brian were in peril o’ their lives. And then like a banshee, the Witch o’ the Moors swept down across the plains. She flew to Red Brian, thinkin’ him to be her love, Murdoch McKenzie, and struck down four of the British. Then, realizin’ her mistake, leapt over the British cannons to Murdoch’s side o’ the battle, and struck down four more with her staff, burnin’ their bodies to instant ashes with her cursed eyes…”

Frustration and rage jolted through her.

Why can’t the stories ever stop? Why can’t they leave it alone?

For more than a decade she had run from the truth, but for once it was going to be known.

Cate was up and standing at the group’s fringe before she realized it, shaking with fury. “It wasn’t eight men I killed. It was three.”

Unnerved by her unexpected appearance, the men gaped. Hunched like scolded schoolboys, they exchanged furtive glances.

“We had been marching north for weeks, the entire Stuart Army” she began, stepping into the margin of the lamplight. “Hawley’s troops were hard on our trail, close enough for small skirmishes now and again, scouts encountering pickets, mostly. It was only a matter of time before there was a major engagement. It was January. It was cold and had been raining or snowing for days. We were in ice and mud to our knees. The horses were tired and half-starved, as were we all. For weeks we lived on nothing but drammoch—cold water and oats.”

Cate paused, batting her hair from her face. The light of the ship’s lanterns blurred into the flicker of campfires. Those before her merged with another time, when she had lived amid other men: kilted, haggard and grim, marching under cloud-scudded skies. She felt the sharp stab of starvation once more, and began to shiver from the bone-soaking dampness and cold.

“Murdoch, my husband’s uncle, and the other officers decided it would be best to chose the ground, instead of the enemy choosing it for us.”

Cate stopped again, straining to sort out the tumble of memories. As if straining to listen, the
Morganse
’s chorus of rigging, canvas and water had gone still.

“It wasn’t Falkirk. To be honest, I don’t remember exactly where it was. It had been a matter of just putting one foot in front of the other for so long, it was just another godforsaken stretch of land. It might have been near Bannonchbroch, but I can’t be sure. We came to an open plain of sorts, and decided we would make our stand there. There was a bit of a hill to one side. The camp followers—women and children, laundresses, servants, and whores—were sent up there, to be out of danger and to watch.”

She heard a jingle and thud of boots. Nathan was somewhere behind her, but she paid no heed. She shook now, either from cold or emotion she couldn’t say. The hair on her arms prickled as the wind in the
Morganse
’s rigging became the sleet-laden wind across the open moor. She saw the dark streaks of rain in Brian’s hair as he had kissed her good-bye, as they had done so many times before. It was war. It had been months of sending him off to another skirmish or battle, knowing that to wish to never have to do it again might mean to wish he wouldn’t return. She clutched her arms tightly about her middle, once again seized by the helplessness and terror of that day.

“The dragoons formed their lines at the far end. Brian and some of the other officers dismounted, preferring to fight afoot, as their men did. They lined up just below the hill, facing the cannons. At the first barrage, they charged.”

The recollections tumbled faster: the acrid sharpness of powder smoke, the icy cut of the wind, and the explosions of cannon.

“We took the advantage; the dragoons fell back. I could make out Brian on the right. He was tall and red-haired; I would have known him amid a thousand. He was doing well, as he always did in battle. He claimed it was luck and Providence. Murdoch was well to the other side; he was nearly the same size and coloring as Brian, but I knew the difference.”

Cate took a quivering breath, gathering the courage to relive it.

“It all happened so quickly, and yet it all seemed in slow-motion. I watched the dragoons advance, pushing closer and closer toward Brian. It was only a matter of time before they would be on top of him. Someone had to do something…someone…me…I had to do something…anything! I screamed to warn him, again and again, but…”

She swallowed, her hand trembling worse as she brushed away the tears tracking her cheeks.

“I couldn’t just watch. I don’t know what happened,” she said, her voice going thin from the rawness of screaming. “All I remember is running down the hill to jump on the first horse, Murdoch’s black gelding. I rode as hard as I could. Somewhere, I picked up a sword. It must have been sticking in the ground; how else I would have come by it? I rode as hard as I could toward Brian. The soldiers were on him by then. I ran one over with the horse. I heard his skull crunch under the hooves. That was the first.”

Her hands closed, once again feeling the bite of the leather reins. The horse was battle-hardened and eager to join the fray. Slogging through the icy mud, it strove to gain speed with every stride.

“It was nearly the other side of the fighting before I could turn the brute. As I came ’round, another was trampled. That was the second.”

Cate’s fingers twitched and two rose. Her breathing was coming faster now, as she felt the heave of the horse’s sides between her legs. The clash of metal—bayonets, sabers and swords—and the screams of the wounded came from all around. The field was a slippery quagmire of churned grass, vomit, and blood. She squinted through the smoke and rain, straining to see.

“I rode hard back to Brian. A dismounted dragoon was charging toward him, his sword raised, ready to hack him in half. I remember seeing the light reflect on the blade and wondering where it came from, because there was no sun. I swung down with the sword as hard as I could...”

As if on its own volition, her arm raised to vaguely mimic a chopping motion.

“I felt the blade hit bone. My arm was twisted and I lost my grip. That was the third.”

Three fingers rose.

Her breath quickened, in tempo with the horse’s wet rattle. Her voice cracked as the words came in halting, broken tumbles.

“It was all so much a blur: I tried to get back to Brian. Someone grabbed the reins and the horse reared. I went off backwards and landed face down in the mud. I pushed up, but all I could see was boots in front of me. I looked up to a dragoon standing over me. His face was spattered with blood, he was half-crazed and blinded by the battle. His sword came down…and…”

She sucked in at the feel the cold of the steel through her flesh and pain of bone shattering underneath. Swaying, she braced against the lurch of her stomach. Forcing her eyes opened, the lantern light flickered on the faces before her.

“I don’t remember anything…much, until I woke up in a house…somewhere. I thought for sure my arm had been cut off,” she said, looking down at the limb as if it belonged to a stranger. “I should have been cleaved in half. His sword must have slipped from the blood on his hands. It hurt. God, it hurt! There was nothing to help. No whiskey. Nothing. I could hear men screaming; they suffered so much more…”

Fists curled, nails gouging her palms, Cate closed her eyes against the agonized wails. The smell of blood and sickness filled her nostrils, of destroyed bodies and broken spirits.

“They held me down and sewed my back. I tried not to scream, not with so many others so much worse off. I was broken up inside, but there was little to be done for it. I was told Brian was out in the yard. He was badly slashed, but he was alive…still…so far…”

She felt once more the pluck of the needle through her skin by the very men for whom she had done the same. There was no describing the hot throb of the ensuing fever, the burning thirst an entire loch couldn’t slake, or lying in the smell of putrefying flesh and wondering through a fever-hazed mind, if it was hers or Brian’s.

Where was the glory of war then?

What she couldn’t tell them was the days of agony during the jolting ride home in the back of a pony cart, of slogging down semi-frozen mud, mountain lanes with nothing more than a bit of straw as a cushion and only Brian’s bloodied plaid to cover them. She lay half-propped in the corner with his head pillowed on her lap, his body even hotter with fever than hers. And all the while, there had been the burden of guilt for rejoicing in his suffering, for it meant he was going home.

Clamping her eyes tighter, she quaked with the effort to rise above the quagmire of memories that threatened to engulf her, drag her down to where she might drown. When she finally reopened them, Cameron and Hughes images wavered in the tears that flowed freely now. Ashamed, they ducked their noses into their drinks and fixed their gazes on the deck or off into the distance.

Cate’s voice now steadied with conviction. “I knew exactly who I was trying to save. It wasn’t Murdoch McKenzie, believe me. I certainly knew the difference between him and my own husband. And I was no ‘witch o’ the moors.’” She choked laugh at the absurdity. “I was just trying to save my husband.”

Then she blinked and was delivered back to the
Morganse
’s deck, the tropical breeze now drying her damp cheeks. Bewildered, the realization of what she had just done congealed: years of hiding wasted. She had drawn them a map, herself the treasure.

“So there it is, gentlemen, the grand adventure. And I’ll save you the trouble of wondering: yes, there is a reward to the hero who turns me in. His Majesty would be very pleased to have Catherine Mackenzie, the wife of Red Brian.” Tears now rolled freely. “I am at your pleasure.”

Cate turned to find Nathan directly behind her, wide-eyed and solemn. He raised a hand to her, meaning to say something, but she brushed past and ran to the cabin.