The Pirate Captain (27 page)

Pryce glanced to assure Nathan was still in the tops. A raucous chanty had broken out on the forecastle, involving a lonely sailor and bow-legged whores. Nathan’s graveled tenor rang from above, enthusiastic, if not a good bit off-key. It was rare to hear his ravaged voice raised in song. He must have been in high spirits, indeed.

“’Twas a fiery mix: they fought like cats and dogs, and made love like rabbits…Hmph!”

He made a half-strangled noise and buried his nose in his drink. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I think she fancied treasure and prizes, but d’ye see, the Cap’n’s not in it for the plunder. He’s in it fer his ship. Piratin’ is just a means.”

The last carried an air of warning. Cate bristled at the assumption she only sought fortunes, but to deny it would only serve to strengthen his point.

“You were on the
Morganse
then?” she asked.

“Nay. We’d had a partin’ o’ the ways a bit afore. I tried to warn ’im to go to windward o’ Maubrick, his First Mate, but the Cap’n wasn’t of a mind to be a listenin’,” Pryce said wincing.

“Do you think they loved each other?” It was a question that screamed to be asked, but an answer she didn’t desire to hear. She was suddenly cold and tucked her hands under her arms.

“Love? Hmm…?” An uncomfortable notion, he leaned heavily on the binnacle to ponder. “Ehh, admiration, fer sure. Common goals, lust, aye. But no, ’twas not my notion Hattie had it in ’er.

“Well,” he said, resuming his tale, “the first ship didn’t suit ’er. The second was too slab-sided, and the third too slow in stays.” Pryce shook his head. “She had ’er claws in ’im deep, by then. A women can lead a man ’round, if’n she knows how.”

He arched a brow, the sharp grey eyes measuring the cut of her jib, as to whether she was of the same breed.

“Hattie musta tired o’ waitin’, ’cuz she threw in with Maubrick. Belike, he filled her full o’ ideas, a-promisin’ the moon. Some say the Cap’n shoulda knowed. Others say she ’n’ Maubrick were too smooth, but the day finally come…”

Pryce let the suggestion in his voice finish the thought. He glanced once more to the foretop. He was telling far more than Nathan would have desired, and no small wonder. No one appreciated dirty laundry—misfortune and mishap—to be bandied about. But then, he was Nathanael Blackthorne, a legend in his time. Fame had its price.

“And?” Cate prompted.

“Shot ’im.”

The words cracked the air. Beatrice ruffled and croaked,
“Flog the bastard!”

“The Cap’n has two holes in ’im: one in the front…” he said, pointing to just below his right breast. “And one in the back.”

“Which one—?”

“Which one looked him in the eye and pulled the trigger, whilst the other spineless scut shot ’im in the back?”

Pryce took another long drink and smacked what was left of his lips. “There be only three souls a’-knowin’ that, and the Cap’n ain’t a-sayin’. Cast him off, they did. ’Ceptin’ they figgered ’im to be dead straight away, so the mutinous dogs didn’t even oblige him the honor of a pistol.”

Nathan had alluded to something having happened before, another subject he preferred not to broach.

Cate gulped, sickened. Betrayal was never a pretty thing, but this one was particularly ugly. “But how…? I mean, obviously he lived, so how…?”

“No one knows, but ’im, and he ain’t sayin’. He claims he died, if yer inclined to believe that sorta thing. There be a pouch at his belt with two shots, one flattened, kinda like when it has hit bone. The other is all scratched, like it was dug out. Carries ’em with ’im, he does, at all times, just a’-waitin’ for the day when he can give ’em back, if ye get me meanin.’”

“But, he has the ship, so he must have—?”

“They both still breathe, if that be yer meanin’. But aye, that be the interestin’ part of it. With the Cap’n gone, the
Morganse
was broken-hearted and would sail for no other man.” Pryce lovingly stroked the surface before him. “First chance, threw herself on the rocks she did, impaled on a spire, right through the heart. She sank to the bottom to join her true love.”

Now she felt the one being played. Although, she had heard Nathan speak of the ship as if she drew breath, and had seen him engage in what was tantamount to one-sided conversations with her.

Attachment? Connection? Affection? Yes, they all applied.

“Obviously, he got her back somehow,” Cate prompted.

“Aye,” Pryce nodded agreeably, looking skyward, as a mariner often did. “’Tis a matter o’ speculation. He’s the only one what knows and he ain’t sayin’. I’ve heard tell he made a deal with the Devil o’ the Deep.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she snorted, feeling extremely tried on again.

One brow arched. “Is it? Take a look, if yer of a mind to doubt it. He carries two holes what no man should have survived. I’ve seen him walk through hellfire ’n’ brimstone and laugh, not a sleeve singed. And I’ve seen ’im run through by a blade such that no man should live to tell. He’s a man what can’t be kilt on a ship what can’t be sunk. It don’t make ’im crazy—no more than bein’ dead would,” he added in an odd rationalization, “just a mite careless.

“Where’s Hattie now?” Uttering the name didn’t come easily. “Has there been any word?”

Pryce shrugged disinterestedly as he swirled the mug’s contents. “Heard she’s dead and heard she’s piratin’ the spice routes. The Cap’n’s still on the prowl, a-lookin’ fer either one, and heaven help ’em when that day comes.”

He stared off toward the foretop. “Sometime after it all, I seen him in Tortuga. ’Twas a good thing I knew him from afore, cuz I barely recognized him. No one, includin’ him, could say as how he came to be there. He was a scarecrow, nothin’ but the rags on his back a-holdin’ his bones together and not near enough o’ those to keep ’im decent. He was livin’ on rum and whatever scraps throwed his way. He still can pick a pocket better than anyone I ever seed,” he said with a faint smile of admiration.

“An old whore had taken him in, allowed ’im t’ live in the goat shed. He smelled like a dead one, too. He couldn’t take three steps without a-coughin’ up blood. Everyone treated him like he were a leper or had the fever, but he claimed it was bein’ shot what gave him the lungsickness. It was his eyes what near killed me: lifeless as a shark, cold and dead.”

Pryce shook his head, as if to rid himself of a bad dream.

“Bought ’im a decent meal, I did, but he didn’t possess the strength t’ chew. He could still swallow, so I got ’im drunked up, followed him until he fell out in an alley. Piled him up in a cart and carried him off to a fishin’ village, t’other side o’ the island. The people were poor there—poorer than most—but decent folk. I left ’em enough money so’s they could see to him and theyselves. I went back a few months later, but he was gone. No one seemed to know where, he just up and disappeared, leavin’ behind a couple o’ lasses with sad eyes and swellin’ bellies. It were a year or so before I saw ’im again; I thought he was a ghost what come to haunt me fer my sins.”

Pryce smiled faintly at the recollection. “He was the ol’ Nathan then…sorta. The burn was back in his gut, a-wantin’ nothin’ more than his ship and those two black-hearted mutineers, in that order. He was damned single-minded on the matter, but I reckon that were what kept him alive.”

###

Cate held herself in tight check from the quarterdeck to her berth, although her rigidity and stomp gave cause for guarded looks from those in her route. Once past the curtain, she emitted a frustrated growl and flung herself across the bunk. She counted the seconds, hoping her anger would subside. Barely to three, she punched the mattress, grunting with each blow.

So that was it! Now, she knew why Nathan wasn’t interested, why he was pleasant, and yet so impeccably distant. It was simple enough. The good news was, it wasn’t a matter of anything she had said or done. Quite to the contrary, it was entirely out of her hands. Which led to the bad news: it was entirely out of her hands.

She flopped onto her back and stared, the blackened beams overhead shimmering through tears. One leg hung over the side, her heel rapped an agitated tempo against the wood, while a fist pounded a similar rhythm on the bulkhead.

She reminded him of someone else. How simple could it be? It was the one reason she never thought of, the one scenario which never came to mind. Just by simple coincidence, misfortune, circumstance, or fate, she reminded him of someone…his precious Hattie.

And what, exactly, do you think you’re going to do about it?

Not much
, came back the answer.
Nothing you can do.

She blindly hurled the pillow across the room.

It wasn’t fair!

It was one more stab from Providence: she was to be forever denied anything which might smack of happiness.

A few weeks ago, you were desperate for someone to notice if you lived or died. Where’s your gratitude in that?

Rational thoughts wedged their way in. To begrudge Nathan his true love would be to begrudge herself of having Brian.

“That was different,” she grumbled moodily. Brian was gone.

One was obliged to question Nathan’s judgment. He had never shown the impulsiveness that would be necessary for one to give his heart so readily to someone so treacherous.

Yes, but the heart is often blind.

On a gentler note, it had to have been hellish for Nathan to be constantly reminded of such betrayal and cold-heartedness. More was the question why he was so determined to keep her aboard? Why didn’t turn her over for the reward straightway, or put her off at St. Agua and be shut of her?

Only the ancient sages could fathom what went through that convoluted mind.

“Ooohhh!” Cate growled.

A rap on the doorjamb startled her.

“Are you well?” came Nathan’s voice through the curtain.

“I’m fine,” she said, more sharply than was warranted.

She rolled over on her elbows. Ducking her head between her arm and her side, she sniffed, hoping he wouldn’t hear.

There was a grave pause, before he said, “You don’t sound it.”

“I’m fine.”

There was a low grumble, another considering pause, and then a shifting of feet. “Shall I pass the word to fetch you something? Rum?” A grunt instantly negated that. “Coffee? Brandy!” His voice brightened with the victory.

“No, I’m fine,” she insisted, dashing the wetness from her face.

“You don’t sound it.”

She choked a smile at hearing his concern. She drew a quivering breath and expelled it slowly.

“I’ll be fine,” she said with great effort. “I like I always am,” she added under her breath at the sound of his retreating steps. “Just…fine.”

###

Gleaming and freshly breamed, with Mr. Hodder’s repetitive call of “Mind the paintwork” in the air, the
Morganse
won her anchors and cleared the cove, a proud lady in her newly applied cosmetics.

Rich in that same pride, Pryce stood at the leeward rail, rocking on his heels. “She’ll run through the water now as slick as an old whore’s—”

Hodder’s sharp elbow to Pryce’s ribs and a not-so clandestine thumb jerked in Cate’s direction, on Hodder’s other side, cut him short.

“She’ll be considerable faster,” Pryce mumbled into his chest, his face suffused with a unique shade of mahogany.

Chapter 6: Witch o’ the Moors

A
few nights later, Cate came out of the Great Cabin. She came out frustrated and feeling wholly a failure. It was a matter of ropes, or that is to say, knots and her incompetence with them.

The Morgansers were tolerant of Cate’s lack of seaworthiness. After all, she was a woman. When her level of ineptitude with knots was discovered, however, that was intolerable. One’s knotsmanship was one’s status among his peers, promotions often being based on skill with not only functional but decorative work as well. Her education was taken as a personal mission, dooming her to endless hours of coaching. She was an accomplished needleworker, but dealing with threads and ribbons had not prepared her for rope, which turned into recalcitrant snakes in her hands.

“The Cap’n stocks only the finest cordage,” Pryce said severely, the implication being it was she and not the rope that was at fault.

Single diamond, double diamond, clove, or bowline up the bight—not to be confused with the bowline bend—sheet, carrick, and not to be forgotten, the cat’s paw: and that was considered the “absolutely essential to every able hand” list.

A square knot and a basic slipknot, any fool could manage, and the double half-hitch was familiar from her youth.

“Hell, even a half-witted, cack-handed cabin boy can do those,” Nathan declared.

Stubbs, the
Morganse
’s knotsman extraordinaire was named her “sea daddy”—a mentor, someone to teach and pass on every aspect of ship’s life. Stubbs was relieved of all responsibilities except one: to teach her the way of a rope. Grizzled and weathered, Stubbs was ageless, except for a pair of kind blue eyes, pinched by years and wisdom. The Morgansers openly bragged of commandeering Stubbs from a ship they had raided. An extra portion of shares to him showed their appreciation and insured Stubbs’ faithfulness to the
Ciara
Morganse.

“Had ’em line up on deck, we did,” Pryce declared, recalling that fortuitous day. “We was a-hopin’ for swag and rum, or mebbe a few to sign the roster. Then I spotted that there fob a-danglin.’”

With a gesture of his chin, he indicated Stubbs’ waistband and the knife handle protruding there. From it hung a rope handle, of sorts, intricately knotted and textured to the point of almost being lace.

“Never seen nothin’ like it, not afore nor since,” Pryce said, shaking his head in wonderment. “’Twere the best treasure ever.”

Aside from his knotsmanship, what separated Stubbs from the rest of the crew was that he was a mute.

“Or nearly so,” Pryce qualified. “Blade caught him in the throat, best as we can tell, crushed his voice box like a nutshell. Poor bastard hasn’t put two words together since.”