The Pirate Captain (64 page)

Eventually word came from the lookouts on the
Morganse
’s mastheads. Cate straightened slowly, wiping the varnish and sand from her hands on a bit of rag as Diogo reported.

“Compliments and duty, sir. It’s a three-master, hull up, one o’ them French-made, by Damerell’s judgment.” The news was credible. Multiple vision-enhancing, gold rings notwithstanding, Damerell was the sharpest-eyed of all the ship’s people. “Blue-hulled with a yellow-checked boot.”

Nathan lifted his head interestedly. “Colors?”

Diogo squinted with the effort of recalling. “Flyin’ red and black; looks like a heart with a cutlass through it. He begged me to tell ye of a blue-and-white checked pennant, too.”

Nathan’s eyes sharpened. “Are you sure about that?”

“Sure as Damerell can be about anything, if you please, sir.”

“Well, rip me jib. I’ll be a son of a bitch.” Nathan snapped his fingers, grinning. “I think I know who it is.”

“Verily, Cap’n?” Pryce asked looking on, Hodder alongside.

Nathan’s enthusiasm leveled. “Aye, but discretion ’tis the better part of valor.”

“Are they coming here?” Cate’s pulse raced in alarm at the prospect.

“No reason to think she would pass a perfectly good anchorage,” Nathan said with annoying pragmatism. “She’s probably just made the crossing and anxious for anything resembling a solid hook, and in need o’ wood and water.”

Having crossed the Atlantic, Cate was very familiar with the yearning for dirt.

“What do we do?” she asked.

Nathan and Pryce regarded her, bemused by the “we” reference.

“We make ready for the worst and hope for the best. Sure as God made French whores, I know who it is, but there is always the Demon Doubt, eh?” It was a thin attempt on Nathan’s part to lighten the mood.

“Mr. Pryce, pass the word to Mr. MacQuarrie to gather his crews. They’re to be first to ship. Have ’em make ready and clear the decks. I’ll attend directly. But if she,” Nathan said, with a nod toward the heretofore unseen ship, “plans to take the ship, it will most certainly not be including
you
.”

Nathan ended with an emphatic look at Cate.

“Mr. Hodder, whilst Mr. Pryce and I are aboard, you’re to be in charge of those remaining ashore…and
her
! Need I review the consequences, if anything should happen?” A not so subtle shift of Nathan’s eyes punctuated his meaning.

In a clatter of ivory, Hodder snapped to attention and executed a salute that would have merited the Royal Navy. “No, Cap’n! Rest assured”

“Good man.” Nathan wheeled around to Cate. “You will be going on that little forage of which you were so anxious.”

“Forage?” she goggled. For a moment, she thought she had misheard. Nathan’s sudden change was quite transparent, and she was going to have none of it. With a ship bearing down, next to Nathan was so very much more inviting. “But you said—”

“There’s what is commonly referred to among pirates as ‘an emergency,’” he said, with an edge of sarcasm. “We do what me might to avoid them, but there’s a limit to what Providence allows. Mr. Pickford!”

“Aye, Cap’n?” came the answer in short order.

“You’re familiar with these islands?” Nathan’s inquiry was superfluous, since Pickford had been made master of the foraging details.

“Aye, sir! Like the back o’ me hand.” Pickford rocked on his toes with pride, setting the garland of dried ears swinging at his neck.

“Very well, a-foraging you shall go, and you’re to take
her
with you,” Nathan added with an emphatic jerk of his head.

Pickford blinked in surprise, but made no comment. Cate felt the stab. Once again, Nathan couldn’t bring himself to call her by name. She could count the number of times on one hand—a few fingers, in fact—that he had ever done so.

“Roam far, and
do not
come back, no matter what you hear.
Comprendes
?” He spoke to Pickford, but bore her with a look, as if he harbored doubts of her ability to follow orders.

…no matter what you hear…
Cate didn’t want to contemplate what that might signify.

Suddenly her knowledge of the pirate world seemed woefully lacking. Did they get on or did they fight like territory-minded dogs? Was the Brotherhood, as Nathan had referred to it, exactly that, or was it an allegiance limited to shipmates? Warring nations or alliances?

Her worry must have been evident; Nathan smiled in the spirit of reassuring her. It didn’t. With surprising familiarity, he squeezed her shoulder, and then gave it an encouraging pat.

“No worries, luv. As I said, I know who it is, but you don’t live to be an old pirate being careless. I’ll come for you as soon as I may. Now go. Go!” Nathan repeated more firmly when Cate didn’t move. “I can’t pay proper attention to a bloody thing if I have you to worry for. I’ll come when I can. Now go.”

Again, she understood his cost for having her about. She looked to the circle of grim faces on the awaiting foragers. The jury was in, unanimous.

“The minute it’s safe,” she insisted to Nathan.

“The. Minute.”

Nathan prodded Cate toward Pickford. “And try not to give the poor man anymore gray hairs than ’tis absolutely necessary,” he called after her.

With visions of flashing sabers and roaring great guns, Cate knew all too well how capricious life could be, how it could take violent turns. She also knew the pain of remorse, the fruitlessness of wishing what one should have done or said. Swept by a wave of panic, she wanted to throw her arms around Nathan and tell him everything in her heart.

Instead, Cate heavy-footed behind Pickford, feeling like an unwanted orphan. She paused at the treeline for a final look, but Nathan was already lost among his men. She could hear his graveled voice drifting down the beach, barking orders no differently than on deck.

Cate left the white glare of sun and sand, and plunged into the trees’ deep shadows. As the undergrowth closed in, the sea breeze died, and the air grew heavy with heat and moisture. The high canopy of trees afforded protection from the sun’s full blast, but its sultry presence was still felt. Beatrice’s bright blue plumage could be seen soaring overhead. Paralleling their path, she lighted from tree to tree, pausing to indulge in the occasional treat.

Looking up, Pickford paused next to Cate. “She’ll call out if there be aught alarming.”

Cate looked back toward the now-obscured shore, and wondered if “aught alarming” was happening there. She eyed the men surrounding her. Ordinarily made up of clusters of four or six, this detail consisted of over a dozen, each known for his marksmanship. A single musket would have been the standard, and yet an extra, sometimes two, was slung over every shoulder, a minimum of two pistols at their belts, with double powderhorns and shot bags. She determinedly pushed away thoughts of what might be transpiring on shore; silence had to be taken as a blessing. Idleness being anguish’s playground, she set to work.

A basket and dibble was shoved into her hands. Ignorant of the West Indies, she was at a loss as to where to start. Under Pickford’s and Harrier’s tutelage, however, she was soon industriously digging wild onions and ginger. Kneeling in the semi-rotted foliage and sweating, she loved every minute. During her walk on New Providence, she had been able to only observe the lushness. Now she was a participant, in it literally up to her knees. After months afloat, to have soil between her fingers and dirt under her nails…It was heavenly!

As soon as one basket was filled, another was issued. She was shown fruits and nuts—soursop, tree melons, and cashews—as well as those which were to be avoided. In this Garden of Eden, hazards awaited both underfoot and overhead: an inadvertent brush against a branch or sitting under the wrong tree after a rain could mean disaster. Herbs and local cures were shown to her, as well, and she collected them for her blood box:
lis rouge
and plantain, for swelling or sores; physic nut, for poultices and boils; gully root and monkey’s hand, for headaches; and fit weed, a cure-all for everything from fainting to convulsions, vomiting to fevers.

So engulfed in the work, Cate lost track of time. She jerked upright at hearing periodic gunshots, at the same instant knowing they came from inland. Hunters then, doing what hunters did best. The pause to take a drink from the water gourd at her waist allowed her mind to drift back to shore. Her sense of direction told her they hadn’t yet moved so far that muskets or cannon wouldn’t be heard. That direction was still ominously and blessedly quiet.

Where the trees thinned, she could see the sun make its march across the sky. Several hours had passed, the afternoon heat waning, when the last of the baskets and gunny sacks were filled to overflowing. Pickford and the rest of the party stood in indecision, their Captain’s strict orders heavy on their minds.

“Do you suppose it’s safe?” Cate finally asked. Hands twitching at her sides, she vibrated to be away.

“Cap’n said as the first sign o’ trouble, we were to head inland,” Pickford said.

“Yes, but there is no ‘sign o’ trouble’, is there?” she said with asperity. “If the Cap’n objects, I’ll tell him it was my idea. If we hear anything like trouble, we can always turn around and go back, can’t we?”

Pirates they might be; bristling with weaponry, capable of pillage and plunder, sending women and children screaming at the name, they were unprepared to deal with an intransigent woman. They balked sufficiently to claim they did, and then struck back toward shore, laden with their treasures.

Cate’s step quickened as the sea breeze freshened. She pushed through the last barricade of greenery, and it met her full in the face, bringing with it the smell of saltwater, burning wood, and tobacco. The worst fears had haunted her. As she stepped onto the beach, she expected to see blood and mayhem, cannonball craters and bodies strewn.

Instead, she found two ships on their moorings and the picture of peace. As advertised, the new arrival was royal blue, a brilliant yellow-checked strip banding her hull. The number of men on the beach had nearly doubled, the gently curved sand strip now a festive beehive. A makeshift camp had been set up, with shore galleys and cook fires. Sun dodgers had been rigged: stout branches planted in the sand with a piece of canvas stretched over.

A burst of jocularity came from one such lean-to near the central cook fire. Nathan’s laugh was easily identified, although never had she heard him do it so genuinely. As she neared, she could see him and another man lolled in the sand. She turned a quizzical eye to Pryce as their paths intersected.

“Old friend,” he offered succinctly. His thick shoulders hunched with disapproval.

Cate looked toward the water and the visiting ship with new interest. “Who is it?”

“The
Griselle
, ’cordin’ to the Cap’n.” That qualification seemed to hold significance. “Can’t be a-sayin’ fer sure, but the Cap’n claims she mostly sails the African waters, Arabie n’ such.”

“And the
Griselle’s
captain?”

Rocking on the balls of his feet, Pryce’s skepticism grew. “Don't rightly know, sir. Never met ’im afore, m’self.”

Cate studied the First Mate. By the set of his brow and line of his mouth, his mother-hen tendency toward anything that might pose a threat to his precious flock was in full alert. Her thoughts were broken by another burst of laughter.

“Well, at least it sounds friendly,” she said.

“Aye, friendly it ’tis.” Pryce waggled his heavy eyebrows, and whispered from the corner of his mouth, “I’d be a-steerin’ a canny course and bear a weather eye, if ‘twere me.”

She approached as advised. The two men were leaned back against puncheons or bags in their patch of shade, a bottle of rum at their respective sides.

“You're the one who said we could make it across the street without the guards seeing us,” the visitor cried, fizzing with humor.

Nathan pointed an accusing finger. “Aye, well, how was I to know that whore of yours was going to scream her bloody head off?”

“She wasn't my whore; you paid for her. She just fancied me.”

They broke into another peal of laughter, the stranger wiping his eye on his sleeve. Their merriment was infectious, Cate smiled without knowing why.

“’ello, luv!” Nathan called in a slightly slurred voice. His face lit at seeing her. He enthusiastically waved her closer. “I’d like you to meet an old friend—“

“Watch who you’re calling old,” growled the visitor congenially.

“An
old
friend,” Nathan repeated. “This is Thomas.”

Thomas’s head casually turned and he lurched upright. A pair of lake blue eyes raked her and he executed a bow from the sand.

“Well, well, Nathan, you old shellback. You never told me you had anything like this aboard.”

“Easy, mate,” Nathan warned good-naturedly. “Darling, this is Thomas, captain of yon
Griselle
.” He waved a misguided hand over his shoulder.

Cate bobbed a reserved curtsey. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Thomas.”

“Just Thomas will answer.” Leaning heavily on one arm, he openly appraised her. “Very nice, Nathan. Very nice, indeed, although you always did have the luck with the women. Always gave me the leftovers,” he said to her with a conspiratorial wink.

Nathan cleared his throat sharply. “Come and join us, luv.” He hooked a bucket with his foot, dragged it nearer, and invitingly patted the top.

She could feel Thomas’ eyes following her as she passed, but was still startled when he reached out to seize her by the hand.

“And what might your name be, lovely?” he crooned, pulling her closer.

“Cate.” Nathan uttered it with sufficient sharpness to break Thomas’s stare. “Cate Harper.”

It was notable that Thomas might have been a friend, but not so much for Nathan to trust him with her real name.

“Charmed,” Thomas murmured. He pressed her knuckles to his lips, lingering far longer than would have been proper in most circles. His grasp was strong but gentle as he rolled her fingers between his. “I'll be looking forward to getting to know you so
very
much better.”