The Pirate Captain (62 page)

Nathan came back in. His step slowed at seeing Cate. He grimaced, conceding that no one was above being affected.

“Jen…” Her throat caught, rendering her unable to utter the name. “He’ll need to be washed…prepared for…” she said, her mind groping for a solid thought.

Nathan’s grip was firm as he corralled toward the sleeping quarters. “No, you shan’t go down there. Allow his mates; they’ll be in need of doing something for him.”

“Nathan, please, I need to—”

“No.” He gave her a gentle admonishing shake as he pressed her back. “Now, you’re to go in there and…and…rest,” he said, wishing he to have found a better word.

“But you can’t expect me to just…?”

Nathan’s brows arched, for that was exactly what he expected. As he pushed Cate around the curtain, the blunt truth was, other than pacing the salon like a caged cat, there was blessed little else for her to do.

She stood on the canvas rug gazing at the bulkhead, when she heard a solid rap on the doorframe. She turned to see a beringed hand poking around the curtain, clutching a brandy bottle by the neck. The scabbed and tattooed knuckles identified the perpetrator, if there had been any doubt.

“Here!” came a muffled voice. The disembodied fist thrust further forward. “Finish this, or don’t come out.”

Cate took the bottle and a warning finger jabbed at her. “I mean it!”

Clutching it to her chest, she leaned against the bulkhead. “Thank you, Nathan.”

The scuff of a boot and creak of leather belied his nearness. “You’re welcome, luv.”

And then the boots moved away.

She shook the bottle, testing for fullness, and sighed. “Finished” was probably not to be managed; “more empty” might be attainable. In that spirit, she took another sip.

And so wait she did, for wait was all she had.

Through Hodder’s bellow of “Swabbers!,” the thump of pumps and sluice of water as Jensen’s blood was washed away, and then the slap of the decks being flogged dry, the watch bells rang…and rang again…and again…and again…

The port was closed, the cabin dark and stuffy. The walls began to press, the space becoming too much like a casket. Cate threw the port open and drew in several deep draughts, but it didn’t erase the bone-chilling loneliness, the likes of which she hadn’t suffered in a very long time. The room being more threatening than the prospect of facing Nathan’s displeasure at being disobeyed, she left.

Seated at the table, log book and ink before him, Nathan glanced up at Cate’s appearance. His brows drew down in disapproval, but he said nothing. She sat while he wrote, his puffed mouth pulled up in a grim tilt. She remained quiet in respect of his task: just as he was obligated to enter the joyful news of marriage or birth, death also had its place in the log.

“Beg pardon, Cap’n?” It was Smalley at the door. Shifting on his stork-like legs, he knuckled his forehead “At your leave, sir.”

Newly shaved cheeks gleaming, Nathan sat motionless then lowered the pen, capped the ink and sanded the page. Closing the volume with a muffled thud, he stared at the leather binding, his fingers pensively fondling the worn edge.

“Are you ready?” he asked, finally looking up. His voice was thickened by lack of use.

Gulping, Cate nodded.

Nathan donned his coat, settled his hat on his head, and offered his arm. He walked with a firm enough step, but then slowed, stalling just short of the door. Gathered like a congregation awaiting its minister, the men’s heads turned at his appearance.

Cate touched him on the arm, and whispered, “Nathan?”

Droplets of sweat glistening in his mustache, his mouth twitched. Moving to block the view of the on-looking crew, she shook him by the arm.

“Nathan? Nathan!” she hissed.

He jerked as if woken from a dream and scowled. “Are you all right, luv?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Where were you just now?”

“Must be your imagination, darling, I’ve been right here.” He dismissed her with a wave.

“You were staring as if you were…somewhere else.”

Nathan drew back to regard her as if she was deranged. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you—”

Cate was cut off by Nathan abruptly turning to a desk near the door. He scrambled through its contents, until a scrap of paper was found. At the table, he took a long pull from the bottle, then dipped the quill and briefly scratched. Bracing his hands on the table, he contemplated the scrap, and then with a nod, as if concluding a conversation, he tucked it into his coat pocket. Straightening himself, he took another drink and returned to her side.

Worry creased his bruised features as he looked closely at hers. “Are you ready? Can you do this?”

“I think so,” she stammered, thoroughly befuddled by the performance.

Nathan took Cate by the arm, swayed, set his jaw and strode out.

The crew parted to allow them through. Cate sagged at the sight of the canvas-wrapped bundle laid out on a boarding plank, feet first at the gunwale, and the four reverent men standing with it. A hush fell as Nathan drew up at the head of the still form. Seeming to perceive the gravity of the moment, the
Morganse
quieted.

The entire company was turned out, those on duty stepping away from their post to join the tight gathering. Pryce stood on the quarterdeck, solemnly looking down, Hodder on the helm. Amid nervous coughs, murmurs and shifting, everyone doffed their hats when Nathan cleared his throat.

Standing next to Nathan, Cate didn’t know where to look. Certainly not at the canvas-wrapped form directly before her—her mind playing too many tricks—she found a neutral place, between her feet and Squidge’s next to her.

Nathan gazed at Jensen’s body for several contemplative moments.

“Men, we’ve an unpleasant business before us,” he began. “It strikes one as improbable that something so natural and necessary, so universal as death, should have been labeled by Providence as an evil upon mankind, but there ’tis. Some of us have been visited upon by the ultimate conclusion, caught between here and there, there and here. Bloody unpleasant business. But now, the sands of time have run out for young Jensen, here.”

His gaze still fixed on Jensen, his mouth drew down.

“If, as we’ve oft been told, the good die young, then we’ve proof before us. That being said, it bodes ill for those of us still here, who have seen the dawn of more days than we care to contemplate.”

A few men nodded, conceding the point. Pirates to the man, “good” was not the first word to mind. Perhaps living was the curse of the bad.

“Ever notice, men, how the graveyard always surrounds the church? One message there, mates: none of us are getting out of here alive.”

A titter of nervous chuckle came from the group. The sun crowning their bent heads, their faces hidden, sporadic sniffing could be heard amid a cough or clearing of a throat. Nathan stood solid and square, as a captain should, his ragged voice uncommonly clear. Cate was so very grateful for his presence, and thought the feeling might be mutual.

“In a dozen different languages, in a dozen different ways, in anticipation and promise of a dozen different heavens, we are told to live our lives as best we can. All things considered, given where we all stand this moment, I think not. Nothing brings that to bear so quickly as the passing of someone so young.”

Cate felt the weight of being watched, and looked up into Nathan’s eyes, soft and umber through the swollen slits.

“It’s been a lesson to us all, men: Mother Time will not forever favor us. Let that be a lesson to us all,” Nathan ended, his gaze falling away.

He fell quiet, to the point she thought perhaps he had finished.

“Tonight we will all examine our lives. Can’t be helped, all things considered. Dreams, wishes, hopes, ambitions, regrets, remorse, guilt, and failure: we all must be prepared to face them, one by one, in our own solitudes, of course, with the pledge to do better. Jensen, however, was too young to be burdened with sins. His life exemplified to all of us what is young and good. Rest assured, his place in his version of heaven is reserved. Thank you, Jensen, for showing us the error of our ways. Let that be his message to us all.”

Suddenly so very pale under his bronze, Nathan fished out the piece of paper from his coat and stuffed it into a seam of the canvas bundle. “He’s in your hands now, Davy Jones. May it be brief.”

Nathan closed his eyes and nodded. The end of the board was lifted and young Jensen slid away, commended to the sea.

###

It was well after dark. Cate had been sitting on the forecastle since the end of the service, lacking the will to move elsewhere.

After the service, an uncommon silence had befallen the ship. All had witnessed death before; life at sea was harsh and cruel, the ending of a life abruptly commonplace. To walk away, however, would be a final stamp on Jensen’s passing; to linger was to keep his memory alive that bit longer. She cringed at the sound of the auction at the mainmast, though considerably lower-voiced than was usual. The bidding was solemn but intent, everyone striving to gain a memento of the lad.

In her own way, Cate made her farewell, as she had done too many times before. With her head cradled in her arms, she watched the sea, each wave another soul passing. She tried to recall the last time she had celebrated the arrival of life into this world, a dim memory at best. It was odd how death seemed so much more prevalent than birth. How did Man ever continue to prevail with such statistics?

She recognized Nathan’s step well before he mounted the forecastle. He drew to a halt beside the stack of boxes, and set a plate of scones and dried apples next to her.

He cleared his throat and forced a smile. “You haven’t eaten all day. Kirkland is near apoplectic with worry.”

“Have you…eaten?”

Nathan shook his head, looking at his feet. “No, lost me appetite somewhere along the way, today. Oh, and here.” He fished into his belt and dropped something in her hand: a small, ebony-handled pocketknife.

“I got it in the auction. It’s the one he used to carve your little needle case. I thought you might fancy something of him.”

Nathan was, of course, referring to the present Jensen had given her, carved from a piece of salt horse. The backs of Cate's eyes knotted. She had indeed longed to have something of the boy’s, but it was too ghoulish to bid for it, and so soon after. She thanked him kindly.

As Nathan shifted on his feet, looking off first one way and then another, it occurred to her that the plate, Kirkland, or the knife were but excuses. Cate slid the plate nearer and patted the wood next to her. “Come share, then.”

He gingerly sat at the furthest corner. Breaking a scone, she passed him half. Each regarded their portion with the same half-hearted enthusiasm. In the spirit of placating the other, they picked off small bits, chewing without tasting.

They were quiet for a time, distracted by their own thoughts. A few times, Nathan took a breath, preparing to say something, but then lapsed back into his own council.

“What was in the note?” Cate finally asked.

Nathan’s head jerked up. “Eh?”

“The note, the piece of paper you put into Jensen’s…” Her throat tightened, unable to utter the word “shroud.”

“Oh, that.” His fingers arced a dismissive dance. “Nothing, just a little something.”

“Nathan,” she said, sounding far more maternal than she cared.

Nathan flinched. Cate knew he was being less than truthful, and he knew she knew. Snurling his nose at the morsel in his hand, he dropped it on the plate.

“A word,” he said, dusting his fingers off, “to Jones. Jensen was a good man and deserves a good end.”

“Jones? Davy Jones? I had heard the legends, but I thought they were just that: legends.” Superstition was so deeply interwoven into the lives of mariners, it was blessedly difficult to fray wild imaginings from reality, and yet the least rational seemed the most popular.

“’Tis no legend here, darling,” Nathan said tolerantly. “’Tis as real as the lad’s body we just commended to him.”

He shuddered and looked off, disinclined to elaborate.

“No matter how fervently we like to pretend otherwise, death scares us all,” Cate said at length. She knew it sounded trite and cavalier, but as he had suggested during the service, on such a night, how could they think of anything else?

He grinned. “And the graveyard is always outside the church.”

“Brian used to say, ‘Death begat the believer.’ The most pious are often the ones to pray the hardest at the end.”

Cocking one eyebrow, he regarded her approvingly. “You’ve seen it all, haven’t you?”

“Enough.” It was a simple admission, without the intent to brag; surely he had seen far worse. “Enough to know when your time comes, it comes. There’s no stopping it and there’s no denying it.”

The heel of Nathan’s boot rapped an idle tattoo against the wooden seat. “Never really thought about it; never really thought me time would ever come.”

“Charmed?”

He smiled. His bells tinkled as he lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Mum claimed as much.”

Nathan rose and went to the rail. He toyed with a ring. “For a moment there, I didn’t think I was going to be able to send the poor lad off.”

“But you did,” Cate said, moving next to him.

He reluctantly nodded and looked away. “Aye, the lad deserved his peace. There’s nothing for which Jones should punish him.”

“And you?”

His head jerked up, looking to the night’s sea.

He chuckled, more for her benefit than his own. “No worries, luv. I’ve made me peace. The rest is in Fate’s hands; I can only hope she’s a gentle mistress.”

They fell quiet again, elbows touching as they watched the black silk water roll past. Turmoil chewed at her gut. Cate had made a pledge in Lady Bart’s garden and it had dragged at her since. Their heated exchange the night before and Nathan’s churlishness that morning rendered it that much more pressing. The matter paled against Jensen’s passing, but the death had left her in desperate need of peace. She took a breath. Knowing exactly what she meant to say, her courage still faded. Balling a fist, she plunged ahead.