The Pirate Captain (44 page)

“Try me. Name one thing I would have to lose,” Nathan said.

Samuels posed with smugness. “What I know.”

“Information then is the name of the game,” Nathan mused, settling back in his chair.

Samuels winced at having tipped his hand so readily. “Triple.”

“Do the words ‘hock and heave’ carry significance for you?” Nathan fixed him with a stare. “Same as before.”

The shoulders under the velvet cape slumped. “Agreed.”

Samuels had incrementally sunk lower in his chair with each foray. The exchanges had been a fencing match: lunge, parry, ripost. He now tended to flinch and start at any sudden move on Nathan’s part. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Nathan, and he now taunted the man. An overt jerk of his shoulders and Samuels nearly dropped his glass. Cate had the impression that, if Nathan were to go a bit more forceful, the man would launch from the room.

Beads of sweat shone on the bridge of Samuels’ nose, when Cate’s was met with the sharp smell of fresh paint. A great deal of it would have to have been employed somewhere to account for the strength which wafted through the cabin just then. Merriment of the scheming, mischievous sort could be heard outside, and snickering, like lads tipping privies.

A lizard tongue flicked at a droplet of either rum or sweat on Samuels’ upper lip. “This is a parlay. I’m under the flag of truce.”

Nathan tented his fingers and shrugged. “Very well. How long do you desire to be aboard under said flag? An hour? A week? I could throw you in the bilges and put you out of mind until the body began to stink.”

Another flick of his fingers and Samuels flinched.

“That’s against the Code,” said Samuels, more dogged.

“So is going back on your word, which is exactly what you plan to do at the first opportunity what presents itself,” Nathan said coldly.

A murmur of appreciation came from the heretofore silent audience.

Nathan flashed a smile equal to Samuels’ in falseness. “’Tis all a matter of interpretation, and since ‘tis my ship, ‘tis m
y
pleasure. The same price as before.”

Nathan picked up the coin purse and began to casually toss it from one hand to the other, the coins making a tempting clink at every pass. “On to it, then.”

Samuels went as alert as a hound on a scent. Nathan’s foot came down under the table with a force that brought Samuels an inch or to up from his chair.

“A drink. Information makes me thirsty.” Samuels seized the bottle.

Samuels’ hand tremored slightly as he poured. He swirled the glass’s contents, taking great relish in making Nathan wait. “There’s to be a grand celebration,” he finally said.

Nathan benignly stared.

“A wedding.”

A brow twitched in interest.

“Creswicke’s wedding.”

Each piece of information came in measured drams.

“To marry Creswicke, a woman would have to be either crazed, soulless or…sold,” Nathan said.

Samuels winced. Nathan’s acuity was leverage lost.

“Business deal, in the cold light of day,” Samuels sniffed disinterestedly. “A rich father, a
very
rich father.”

“Where is this virginous saint now?”

“On her way from Boston.”

“When?”

Samuels ducked his head defensively. “No one has all the answers.” He took another drink. “She’s coming and soon; on her way already, for all I know.”

A polite clearing of the throat drew everyone’s attention to the door and Mr. Towers standing there. He knuckled his forehead in a particularly seaman-like fashion before the visitors.

“Mr. Sombers’ compliments and duty, sir. He desires me to tell you…” He rolled his eyes with the effort of recalling the exact words: “All squared away.”

“Very well.” Nathan sprang up with the eagerness of someone who had just heard long-awaited news.

“C’mon, c’mon! Show a leg there,” he said, urging Samuels up. “I desire you to bless me with your opinion of our handiwork.”

Nathan pressed Samuels outside, and then stood back in anticipation. Samuels hesitated, raced several steps forward, and then slowed as he gaped at his ship. The
Sybilla’
sdeck and every soul present was now bright pink—red and white did indeed make a very festive color. The paint dripped from her scuppers like frosting on a French confection. The giggling from the Morgansers grew louder, amid the muffled thuds as they elbowed each other into silence.

Samuels whirled around. “You gallowsy, false-tongued bastard. We had a deal.”

“Which would have only held water until the next person slushed your palm. Don’t play righteous indignation with me. Mr. Towers?”

“Aye, sir! Solvents and paints taken n’ tossed, as desired, sir. ’Twill be hell to pay a-gettin’ it off,” he added, unable to curtail his smile.

A paint bucket, pink drooling from its lip, and a brush was delivered to Nathan’s outstretched hand. A piece of old canvas was used as a doormat for those pink-footed men, giddy as school children, returning from the
Sibylla
. Samuels was guided to it. With great care not to spatter, Nathan smeared the rigid Samuels with pink, from the brim of his cocked hat to his Hessian-booted toes. After a few flourishing strokes across the chest for a finish, Nathan dropped the brush into the bucket with two-fingered delicacy.

Grinning, he tossed the money bag to the sputtering Samuels. “Worth every farthing.”

Nathan took a step back, cautious of the wet paint. “I deserve a great thanks for saving your ass. How else are to return with credibility without some show of defeat? You’re the one what declared no quarter; wanted to blow me out of the water and take me head for the reward.”

His hands useless, Samuels strained blinked the paint from his eyes. Cate felt a wave of sympathy—albeit a small one—for it must have stung like hell.

“It’s not your head he desires,” Samuels sneered. “The prize is triple if you’re alive.”

Nathan doffed his hat and executed a sweeping bow. “Pray give me regards. Away with you now. Ta ta!” he called as Samuels stalked back to his ship.

A heavy
thunk!
of the boarding axes and the
Sibylla
was set free of her bonds. Uproarious laughter broke out from up and down the
Morganse
’s deck as the ship drifted away.

“You tormented the poor man,” Cate said to Nathan under the levity.

Nathan shrugged. “I gave him enough rope to hang himself. ’Twas not my fault that he took off running, figuratively speaking.”

“Setting fire to his britches wouldn’t have been your fault either, figuratively, that is.”

“Can’t help it if the man is oversensitive to heat.” Grinning, he strolled off.

Pryce came up next to her at the rail. He peered up at the red “No Quarter” flag at the
Sibylla
’
s
mainmast. “After havin’ that flashed in their face, many a captain woulda took their water and boats, an’ let ’em die a-drinkin’ their own piss. Others woulda unmanned ’em, cut out their tongues, or slit their eyelids and let the sun bake their eyeballs.”

Pryce ducked his head between his arms on the rail. The wide back convulsed under his shirt, and for the first time, she saw Pryce openly laugh.

“I’ll warrant this is a damned sight better,” he wheezed.

###

It came one night that the
Morganse
’s decks barely pitched, with only the faintest trace of foam streaming from her bow as it cut the water, “Bearing well on a port tack on a tops’l breeze,” as reported by Pryce.

There was a joyous mood aboard. Still in tearing spirits following their victory over the
Sibylla
—pink-tinged feet now a badge of honor—it had been another fortuitous day. The
Morganse
had come upon a sloop, riding low in the water, alone, “beggin’ fer the takin,’” declared Pryce.

“Flyin’ a Spanish flag,” Nathan had snorted, peering at it through his glass. “You’d have to be as stupid as a French fuddler to believe it.”

Surrendering at the mere sight of the famed pirate ship and her blood-crowned sails, the ship proved to be Dutch, according to her papers handed over by a profusely sweating master.

“Her guns had been tampioned so long, it would have required a bloody beaver to chew them out,” Nathan sniffed in disdain after.

“Aye, a pitiful example of seafarin’ she were,” Pryce nodded. “Near ancient, with twice-laid rigging and furry-bottomed . The guns were honeycombed and fit to blow up in the face of the first hen-hearted swab stupid enough to touch a match. Held together with nothin’ but paint, they wuz.”

As it turned out, someone had banked on the ship’s innocuous appearance allowing her to pass unencumbered, because she had been filled to near foundering with
pastillas
—bricks that is—of cochineal, a dye treasured by royals, merchants, and more importantly, the Captain of the
Ciara Morganse
. There had been enough lifted from the hold to keep the crowns of the
Morganse
’s sails red for time out of mind and provide a retirement-sized sum for every share.

Cate enjoyed the merriment from her seat, for on the forecastle was the heart of the celebration. Tapping her foot, she joined in the singing when able to pick up the words, throwing in the strength of her voice when the starbolins challenged the larbolins in competitive rounds. In the midst of one such competition, a crewman came up beside her. He bent and in a loud whisper, gave his compliments and represented that she was required below: an injury, the exact nature of which she couldn’t quite make out. It wasn’t an uncommon request. At times, it seemed to come as regularly as the watch bells. She rose and followed, weaving virtually unnoticed through the festive throng to the companionway below.

Barely halfway down, her senses pricked and her step slowed at the sight of the deserted ’tween decks. After Bullock’s remarks, she had made it a practice not to be alone. As her eyes became more accustomed to the dimness, her qualms were eased by the cocoon-like forms of hammocks, swinging heavily further aft, and two men nearer, hunched over a game of draughts.

Her messenger stood expectantly at the top of the steps leading to the hold and her spirits sank. Cate loathed the cavernous belly of the ship. She teetered on inquiring if there were some way the injured soul might be brought up, but immediately quashed the thought. If someone was hurt, the least she could do was suffer a little personal discomfort to give help.

Cate was near halfway down the companionway when a movement at the bottom of the steps caught her eye. She looked up to find Bullock standing there, a predator looming out of its lair. Cold fear pricked the back of her neck at hearing footfalls coming down the steps behind her, the two draughts players.

It was her experience that time often stalled in moments of danger, allowing every intricate detail to be observed: the thud of her heart against her ribs, hot breath on her neck of the one behind, the smell of Bullock’s sweat, the clatter of the bones in the pigtail at the side of his head, the throbbing vein at his temple. The seconds preternaturally ticked as she measured her options.

Run!

Cate hitched her skirts and spun, directly into a hand clamping over her mouth. She was hit at the back of her head and the world faded. Internal voices screamed as she was half-carried, half-drug away. She flailed and took a neck-snapping cuff to the face. She screamed, but to no effect, the hand at her mouth jamming it back down her throat. The sound of the crew’s merriment on deck echoing down the hatchway, the dank void of the hold closed in as she was taken deeper.

Not again! Not again!

Reality merged with nightmares, melding into a new horror, too nightmarish to be real.

Cate was thrown down on a hard surface that she dimly registered as coils of chain. The cable tier then, nearly to the forepeak. For some reason, knowing where she had been taken was important. The smell of sweat, bilges, and sea bottom rendered the air nearly too thick to breathe. Bodies pressed into the small space and hands snatched at her.

The hand at her mouth blocked her screams. They sounded maniacal in her own ears. Panic seized her, blotting out all other thoughts but one: escape. She clawed, bit, and gouged, a demon possessed by that single notion. Rank breath blew hot in her ear. She jabbed an elbow in its direction. She hit something soft and fleshy, resulting in a strangled, agonized yelp. The grip on her mouth loosened and she bit down. She heard a
crunch!
and tasted blood and grime. An enraged growl filled the small space. A fist clouted her in the face, and then the stomach, driving her breath driven out in a violent whoosh. A low dull tone rang in her ears.

Wild with desperation, Cate fought, and was beaten harder. Her arm was savagely twisted behind her back, the bones of her wrist ground together to the point she thought it might be broken. Hands fumbled roughly at her front. The lantern light bobbed wildly. In the erratic light, she saw no more than a blur of faceless heads on a mass of bodies. A fist rose from the mass and she turned her head in time to take the blow in the temple. Fingers gouged the skin of her chest as her bodice was ripped open. She kicked. There was an animal growl and her breast was given a cruel twist. Her screams into the palm at her mouth went from panic to pain. A body came down on top of her. She bucked and kicked, but to no avail, her arms and legs pinned. She felt the moist heat of a mouth at her breast. She gave a high thin shriek of shattering agony at being bitten, so hard she thought her nipple to be gone.

Fingers dug at her thighs, seeking to wrench them apart. Cate fought to curl into a defensive ball. Her arm, twisted under her, felt as if it had been torn from its socket. The grasp at her middle tightened and she was hit again, in the jaw and stomach. A coppery taste filled her mouth and she began to choke.

This couldn’t be happening. Not on a ship filled with men! Where are they? Where are they!

The desperation spurred Cate into a greater frenzy. Better to die than to live through this again.