The Pirate Captain (43 page)

“Are we winning?” Cate asked. At the moment, the tip of the
Morganse
’
s
bowsprit seemed no more than a biscuit toss from the
Sybilla
’s stern windows. Keenly aware of her peril, the
Sybilla
swept her stern from side to side like a lady lifting her skirts from a mud puddle.

Nathan smiled, a crooked one of ivory and gold. The spindrift spangled his lashes and mustache. “We’re not losing. She hates to lose, especially to that slab-sided, iron-sick hulk,” he added, lovingly patting the rail at his knee.

With no idea as to what “iron-sick” meant, Cate took his meaning from his scornful tone. Hardly what she would call a hulk, compared to the
Morganse
, the
Sybilla
was quite gay. A row of red-and-white checks trimmed her sides. The roundhouse, bowsprit, and fretwork were gilded, and anything made of metal that could possibly be induced to shine, did so with a brilliance visible from a good distance.

The glass turned. The bell clanged.

“I weary of this game, Mr. MacQuarrie,” Nathan called at length. “Bow-chasers, if you please. Double-shot and on the down roll.”

Nathan seized Cate by the arm, and had propelled her to the cabin before MacQuarrie cried, “Fire!”

“The foredecks should take the brunt, so you’re to remain here,” Nathan said as he drew up just inside the door. “You’ve your knife?”

Cate saw then that at some point, Nathan had armed himself the same as before departing for the
Valor
. No strip of cloth bound his arm, but two extra pistols were stuck in his belts and a wicked-looking knife protruded from his boottop. Her heart lurched at the thought of him taking part in another boarding. He had escaped unscathed before; it was too much to hope for such luck to revisit.

Stiff with fear for him, Cate nodded, touching her pocket.

“Now use this,” Nathan said solemnly. He pulled one of the pistols from his belt and stuffed it into her waistband. “
Do not
hesitate: the bigger the smile, the more reason to put a ball between the bastard’s eyes. Your word?”

Cate blinked. It had never occurred to her to be afraid for herself.

Nathan patted her shoulder at seeing her woodenly nod again. “There’s a good lass.”

“Her rudder’s gone!” came a cry from forward. A joyous cheer erupted.

Nathan glanced anxiously over his shoulder.

Cate fought the urge to throw her arms around his neck. “Please don’t—”

Her plea was silenced by his finger to her lips. “Hist, now. This is what I do, and child’s play it is,” he added a bit dryly. “Now hold fast.”

He flashed a smile that was presumably intended to reassure her. She wasn’t.

And then, he was gone.

As Cate stood there, she noticed Hughes, Cameron, Mute Maori, and Chin bracketed the Great Cabin’s door like intransigent watchdogs, arms at the ready. The scuff of feet, a cough, and low voices at the bottom of the galley steps revealed that access was guarded as well. No one seemed to anticipate they would be boarded, but precautions had been taken, nonetheless.

Over Nathan’s shoulder, Cate could see that the
Sybilla
’s bow had swung around. There was an advantage, however, in being sideways to the
Morganse
’sbow and she took it. She fired. The six-gunned broadside was meant to rake, but had limited effect. Three balls splashed into the sea. Two landed on the deck spent and rolled about like 18-pound marbles. One dashed from bow to aft, its path marked by trail of spurting shards of wood. Nathan spun in round-eyed horror as it streaked for the Great Cabin’s door. Cate stood in an odd fascination, as if entranced by the ball as it hurtled toward her. Her mind screamed for her to duck—she thought she heard Nathan shout—but her feet refused to move, as if stuck in tar. She had the impression of it aiming squarely at her nose and felt her eyes wanting to cross. Then the ball careened off the mainmast and shot over the rail with a heavy whirring sound, the splinters tugging at her skirts.

Nathan glared and swiped a gesture bidding her to get down, back…anything! He wheeled around and cried, “Full aback! Lay ’er in irons!” Pryce and Hodder echoed the command fore and aft.

The
Morganse
’s bow-chasers fired again. The guns must have been elevated and on the rise, for this time the
Sybilla
’s sails took the worst. The
Sybilla
’s own gunsmoke clogged her decks; the
Morganse
’s filling the space between the ships. The
Morganse
seized the moment and swept in. A shrieking grind and a lurch, which sent Cate scrambling for a handhold, marked the two hulls meeting. Grapnels were flung and the Morgansers poured over the bow. Strips of red flapping, brandishing pistols, cutlasses, boarding axes, and the like, they shrieked like Tartars as they charged and disappeared onto the
Sybilla
’s smoke-choked deck.

The clash of battle drifted from the
Sybilla
: the roar and cry of men, the scrape of metal against metal, the sporadic pop of a pistol. The deeper cough of muskets came from high above, the sharpshooters hanging like murderous monkeys in the rigging of both ships. The breeze pushed away the lingering great gun smoke, leaving only the thinner curls from the small arms remained. Cate stood on tiptoe straining to see forward through the tumult, and by some miracle, onto the
Sybilla
’s deck, hoping for a glimpse of Nathan. She thought she caught snatches of his voice. It would have required the force of a great gun, if it was to be heard over her heart hammering in her ears.

Damn him! Damn him!

Damn him for putting himself in danger, for being who he was.

“I’ll never forgive the bastard, if he gets himself killed.” Cate spoke aloud without meaning to, and apparently louder than she thought, for Chin, Hughes, and Cameron gave her a startled look.

Cate looked down at her shaking hands—when did that start?—and worried that in this condition she might not be able to do what was necessary if Nathan came back injured. She buried her hands deep in the folds of her apron, not only to stop the shaking, but to prevent her nails from digging so deeply into her palms.

And then it was quiet, with no more than the
clank!
and
thunk!
of weapons dropped.

It was over.

Cate gasped a choking sob of relief at seeing Nathan’s head bobbing among his cheering crew. Then he stepped clear of the crowd and into a band of sun breaking through the smoke. Shirt darkened with circles of sweat, sword in one hand, pistol in the other, the whites of his eyes gleamed against his smoke-blackened face. The eyes narrowed as Nathan peered toward her. A flash of white and gold broke the soot when he smiled at seeing that she was well. A tap to his forehead in salute and he disappeared into the jubilant throng of men.

The ships were shifted and secured, the yards triced up lest they tangle. Gangplanks, derrick yards, and whips were rigged, so that the prize might be ridded of her valuables. Judging by the net-load after net-load, passed down through the hatches next to where Cate had set up the makeshift sick berth, most of it was stores: spars, yards, canvas, cordage, blocks, and tar, or victuals.

Tradition held that the defeated captain was to pay his respects to the victor straightaway. After some time and no captain, word was passed. Still no one showed. Incensed by the slight, Pryce was on the verge of apoplexy, threatening to send a detail to drag the “double-poxed, worm-boweled, ill-beseen prick” aboard.

Cate had finished with the wounded. The maindeck being in such chaos, she returned by way of the ’tween deck to the Great Cabin. Nathan was there at the table. She had seen him safe at the end of the battle, but hadn’t seen him since. Seeing him now, unbloodied, was better than any tonic.

His face lit at seeing her top the galley steps. “A Butcher’s Bill?”

She had hoped for a remark a bit more personal, but after all, this was Nathan.

“The Sybillas must be better sailors than warriors,” Cate sighed. “A good number are bashed or broken, but barring something festering, all should survive.” She touched wood at the same time. Festering wounds was nothing to take lightly.

The air was pierced by a coxswain’s whistle, the
Sibylla
’s
,
for the
Morganse
had none. With the pomp befitting visiting royalty, Captain Samuels was piped aboard. The forewarning still did not forearm Cate for the visage which appeared at the door.

Cate had assumed pirates to all be of much the same cloth. Roughly the same age and height as Nathan, Samuels was diametrically opposed to him in more ways than he was alike. He was pale of eye and skin, the latter remarkably so for one who presumably spent the bulk of his life out-of-doors. Thick of nose and lips, his skin, no amount of squinting could have rendered him good-looking. He sported the paunch and jowl that came with good living, puffy and soft. He wore a curled wig, brocade coat, gold embroidered weskit, velvet cape, and breeches with jeweled buckles at the knee. Gleaming Hessian boots, a massive, ornate silver belt buckle, gilt-and-jeweled sword and a pair of carved, ivory-handled pistols completed his
ensemble.
His crowning glory was a vast-brimmed cocked hat, its purple plume curling nearly to his waist, and a gold-orbed walking staff. Any of those appointments taken individually could have made the man.

Samuels and his contingency filed into the cabin. Hodder, Pryce, MacQuarrie, and the
Morganse
’s equivalence to officers were present, the impressive figures of Chin and Mute Maori at the forefront. No introductions were made. Judging by the mood, all present were familiar, too familiar. Pryce’s glare froze his features. His disapproval must have been contagious, for it had infected all Morgansers present.

With a flare of cape, Samuels posed in his seat as if at court. Nathan slouched in his chair, one leg slung over the arm. The two bristled like two terriers, circling and sniffing, the table between them more a barrier than a formality. The air snapped with a charge. St. Elmo’s fire leaping about the room wouldn’t have come as a surprise.

“It would appear roguery agrees with you,” Samuels said, regarding Nathan imperiously.

“It would appear selling your soul to the Devil agrees with you.”

“Few clouds fail to produce silver linings.” Samuels wore a fixed smile. If it was meant to assure, it didn’t. If it was to ingratiate, it didn’t. If it was meant to obfuscate, it didn’t.

Nathan angled his head toward the rum and two glasses, squarely before Samuels. “The bottle stands by you.”

Samuels winced. Clearly, he would have preferred to have been paid the honor of having someone pour for him. He filled one and shoved the rest across. A lift of the glass and a nod was the only toast offered.

Rolling the drink in his mouth, Samuels nodded in reluctant approval. “Jamaican.”

“Only the best for our guests,” Nathan said without a hint of hospitality.

“His Lordship begs I inform you that he doesn’t appreciate your little escapades: burning his flag, defacing his ships,” Samuels began. He fondled a lace-edged sleeve. “He takes it personal.”

“Good, because it ’tis.”

Samuels looked up from under his brow. “You can’t escape him. His influence reaches around the world.”

“Pray tell him I aim to take that sacred influence, stretch it ’round his little empire and strangle him with it.”

They locked stares.

“I’ll give him the message,” Samuels said in a low tone.

“I know you will,” Nathan replied evenly.

Cate wasn’t quite sure how Nathan managed it: a barely perceptible slide of his eye propelled her around the table, until she was behind and off to the side of Samuels. It was unclear if it was to move her out of Samuels’ sight or where Nathan could see her.

Samuels took another drink. “Do you plan to take my ship?”

“Do you plan to give me cause?” Nathan asked, examining his fingernails.

The corner of the privateer’s mouth quirked. “I’ve always come prepared to barter when you’re involved, Nathan.”

“Ah, the tar pot calling the loggerhead black. Very well, on the table with it.”

Samuels gestured to his men, bidding them outside. Once they had filed out, Nathan drew out a leather pouch and tossed it on the table. It landed with the heavy clank of coins.

“Not entering this on the prize book, I’ll wager,” Nathan mused.

Samuels smile was unwavering.

Nathan tilted his head and squinted one eye. “I knew once of a captain found guilty of that: his crew fed him his balls…roasted.”

Samuels smile faltered, and then tightened. “My price has gone up.”

“How is it that the man with the noose around his neck is always the one to desire to bargain? And now, he demands to be paid.”

“Double.”

His drink spewed across the table was Nathan’s answer.

“Then triple,” Samuels said, his ire rising.

“I could have sworn those were sharks I saw lurking under the counter,” Nathan said, with a roll of the eyes.

Samuels’ eyes were in constant motion, like a pickpocket darting through a crowd seeking his next victim, taking notice of every aspect of the room, looking for his next means of manipulation, an edge, information to sell next.

Samuels rolled the glass between his hands as he said, “I would have thought you would have had your fill of women aboard.”

It was miniscule, but there was a slight crack in Nathan’s façade, clearly preferring she hadn’t been there. He made a reproving noise, and then darkened. “I would have though you would have a stronger appreciation for your tongue. Another word and I’ll cut it out.”

“Parlay.” Samuels’ reminder came as a sneer befitting a play yard.

Nathan was unabashed. “Very well. I’ll put it in your lapel and you can take it with you.”

Samuels’ first impulse was to dismiss the warning. He sobered and eyed Nathan, second thoughts prevailing.

Samuels scoffed. “Empty threats.”

Nathan went so very solemn, hardening to a deadly coldness that had been alluded to, but Cate had never witnessed. If it didn’t make Samuels nervous, it certainly did her.