The Pirate Captain (8 page)

“Well done. Any of her crew come over?”

The First Mate’s gargoyle-like countenance brightened with pride. “Aye, ten, sir. ’Pears they’d heard of the
Ciara Morganse
and couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

“Very well, then. Pass the word for these fine specimens of seamanship, so they might sign the book.”

The moment Pryce stepped over the door’s coaming, Blackthorne spun around at her.

“In there!” he hissed, with a swipe toward a curtained doorway. “And don’t come out until you’re bid.”

She slunk along the margins of the room and ducked around the velvet barricade, into what she thought to be an anteroom. She froze at the sight of the bunk in the thin light passing through the porthole. The Captain’s bed.
His
bed.

It was a less-than-subtle hint. Cocking an ear, she heard nothing more than Blackthorne rustling about. For the moment, it seemed safe.

She sagged against the wall. Bracing her head in her hands, she drew several shuddering breaths, striving to loosen joints that had constricted into knots. A clearer head was going to be necessary if she was going to survive this. The tightness in her chest and pressure behind her eyes were harbingers of a breakdown of epic proportions bubbling just beneath the surface. Lucid thought was becoming nigh impossible, her mind leaping from one panic-laden thought to the next. She drew down on herself even tighter. Anyone who dealt with animals knew they could sense fear and would feed on it. Now was not the time for any such display, not with Blackthorne just the other side of the curtain.

She sat on the edge of the bunk. This was the moment of privacy and quiet she had longed for, and she strained to think. She eyed the port high on the bulkhead. It was large enough that she could slither through, but beyond waited nothing but ocean and sharks. The space was considerably larger than her cabin on the
Constancy
, but it was still small enough that one glance showed there were no doors or windows. No one would be coming in, but neither would she be getting out.

Voices from the salon broke her thoughts. She rose to peek between the curtain and the wall. A worn leather book now lay open on the table before Blackthorne, quill and silver ink bottle arranged beside it. The
Constancy
converts stood opposite. Viewed from the side, they looked vaguely familiar, some a little more than others. Several pirates filed in and took up positions along the bulkhead, apparent witnesses to the proceedings. Pryce stood at his captain’s elbow, a hand poised over the pistol in his belt.

Blackthorne straightened and assumed a grave demeanor. “Can any of you read?”

There was a unified declination and humbled murmurs.

“Very well, then. I’ll summarize: this is a pirate ship.”

The statement was met with surprised looks and nervous tittering.

“I know, ’tis obvious, mates.” Blackthorne’s smile was audible. “But I’m obliged to make that known. We abide by the Code of the Coast, as set forth by Morgan and Bartholomew, and our articles are as such: there will be no gaming for money’s sake, nor smoking. As a side note, I might add: spit on me decks and live to regret it. And all marlinspikes shall be eyed and spliced. If you’ve no eye, then see the armorer directly. No drinking alone below decks and no bottling your tot. No carrying an uncovered light after eight o’clock…”

Blackthorne’s graveled voice rang clear as he recited the list. Many of the strictures were common sense, essential for the co-existence of so many men crammed on a single vessel. The newcomers listened, intently nodding.

“…to keep their pistols and cutlass clean and fit for service. He what sees a sail first, shall have the best pistol or small arms taken from said vessel. No man shall withhold information pertinent to the safety and welfare of crew or ship. There will be equal shares in everything taken…”

Cate sagged, the blood draining from her limbs. Blackthorne’s voice faded as she stumbled back onto the bunk.

Took the women, the unlucky ones bein’ raped before their family’s eyes, ’til there were nothin’ left.

Heaven help any woman taken by those slavering curs.

The words rang all too clearly.

She dug her nails hard into her scalp, hoping the pain might this time wake her from this nightmare.

It didn’t.

A quilt lay at the foot of the bunk. She snatched it up and pressed it to her face, to muffle the sobs of desperation and terror that erupted. She prided herself on not being the typical woman, who collapsed into a sniveling wreck at the least provocation, but it seemed she had been doing more than her share of sniveling these last days. Hopelessness had been visited upon her before, but that had been trivial compared to this.

“…and stand your watches without dereliction. Do you swear to abide by these?”

Blackthorne’s question snapped her back to her surroundings. She shakily returned to the curtain in time to see the Constancies solemnly nod.

“Sorry, mates. I can’t hear your heads rattling. Call out like the tars what you are.”

Pryce stepped forward and soundly cuffed the nearest one on the back of the head. “’e’s yer captain, now. Ye’ll be showin’ him the respect what he’s got comin.’”

“Aye, sir!” came a chorus with renewed vigor.

“Very well, make your mark. You’ve now joined the Brethren of the Coast.”

Each of the fledglings bent to scrawl his mark, after which he gave his name. Blackthorne entered it with flourish. It was a solemn but brief ceremony.

“Welcome aboard the
Ciara Morganse,”
Blackthorne announced as he capped the ink. “And mind now, I’m your commander. Withholding information will be penalized.”

He allowed for the weight of that to settle, and then asked with whip-like sharpness, “Who was the woman?”

Cate’s heart leapt at the thought of being so blatantly investigated; he knew full well that she could hear every word. It wasn’t so much fear that made her blood pulse; no one on the
Constancy
knew anything damaging of her past. Her annoyance stemmed from someone snooping about in her affairs.

Two of the Constancies shrugged, while the remainder groped for a name.

“Name’s Harper, sir,” said one, at last.

“That was Captain Harper over there?” Blackthorne countered, with a vague wave toward the
Constancy
.

They were momentarily puzzled, thinking it a trick question. “Nossir. That were Cap’n Chambers.”

Blackthorne leaned forward on the table with sharpened interest. “You’re sure?”

“Positive, sir.” All heads nodded; eager to be in the good graces of their new captain.

“Not Littleton?” asked Blackthorne.

“The Commissioner’s wife and daughter? They died weeks ago, sir.”

“Aye, commended them to the deep, we did,” added the other eagerly. “With proper words, of course.”

“Of course,” Blackthorne said, head bent in thought. “Very well. Well done, and all that…”

A wave shooed them all out with the exception of Pryce, who lingered expectantly.

“Cast off then and make way,” he said to Pryce, still distracted. “You’ve got your course. Go. Go.”

“Cap’n, Bullock and his lot are at it again,” Pryce said, lowering his voice to barely audible.

Blackthorne stiffened and swore. It wasn’t good news, but at the same time didn’t seem to come as a great surprise.

“Heard ’em a-tryin’ to rouse his mates,” Pryce added circumspectly.

“What’s that piss-vinegar of a sea lawyer up to now?” came Blackthorne’s low-voiced vehemence.

“The usual: too much work, others a-shirkin’ their duties, twice-laid cordage—”

“That’s the best cordage money can buy.”

“Aye, as any man worth his salt knows well. ’Tis a malcontent for sure, but he has the ears of many, too many.”

“Very well, an extra ration of grog for all,” said Blackthorne after a brief reflection. “Not many complaints can swim through that. And pass the word to the galley ‘tis time for duff. That should appease the Furies,” he ended with a grandiose swipe.

“There be another matter—” Pryce began with some hesitancy.

“Suffering Jesus on the cross, now what?” Blackthorne grumbled, more out of frustration than anger.

“Towers, Smalley, and Quinn: they be drunk during the raid…
again
. That makes three in the month.”

“Don’t I know it,” sighed Blackthorne. He gave a caustic snort. “The Demon Rum calls louder than their hides, eh? Witnesses?”

“Six what are willing to step forward and claim inconvenience, but there be more what will help make the case, if need be.”

“Very well, pass the word we’ll muster the Company after we’re aweigh. Make it so, Master Pryce.”

“Is she the one we seek, Cap’n?” Pryce asked in an even more clandestine tone.

Blackthorne paused to consider. “Dunno, Pryce. Dunno.”

Blackthorne waited until the clump of Pryce’s boots had died, before calling, “You can come out now…if you haven’t jumped overboard
again
.”

She stumbled back from the curtain, at first fearing she had been caught eavesdropping. With a hand that shook far more than imagined, she smoothed her hair and made herself as presentable as possible, when wearing nothing but a torn and blood-stained shift, to go meet her fate. At the last moment, her confidence wavered and she pulled the quilt from the bunk. Donning it like a cape, she settled the folds over her shoulders, feeling far less vulnerable as she stepped out.

It was early evening, the cabin’s saturated colors of the day giving way to the muted, half-tones of impending dark. Blackthorne was in the midst of lighting the candles. One brow lifted under the edge of his headscarf at seeing her swathed in the quilt, but no comment was made. It was another one of his disconcerting habits: ignoring the obvious to pounce on the obscure.

“You’re letting the
Constancy
go?” she asked, careful to strip all emotional inflection from her voice.

Blackthorne stopped with the taper suspended over a wick. “Certainly. Why not? We have what we came for, or so it would appear.”

His same brow arched, this time with suspicion. “What interest is it to you?”

“Nothing. I was led to believe you…pirates,” she struggled with the word. He noticed and smirked. “That you always forced captives to join your crew, and then destroyed the ship.”

He genuinely laughed, a flash of white splitting the black abundance of beard, and blew out the taper’s flame. “Aye, that can be the case. Forty more hands can make duties lighter. But,” he cautioned, wagging a finger, “Twenty souls here under protest can be even more burdensome. So, we take what we can,” he went on, tucking the book back into its place on a shelf, “And let them go, assuring of course, that their gratitude doesn’t come in the form of shooting us in the ass. With any luck and fair winds, we’ll be leagues away before they can make port and report us.”

“That’s very generous.” She was afraid to hope the same compassion might be extended when it came to the dispensing of her final fate.

Blackthorne shrugged off the compliment as he flopped down in his chair once more. “Generosity will get you killed, darling. Practicality: now there’s a friend you can count on.”

Mindful of the quilt, she sat across the table from him. “So, you…pirates…share…everything?”

“Aye,” he said affably, amused by the break in her voice at the word “pirate.” “We’ve a plunder book what lists all what’s taken; ’tis open for any man to see. The bosun and gunner get a share and a half. The quartermaster gets a share and three-quarter, and Captain—that would be me,” he pointed out, with a teasing glint, “receives two. But everyone gets a share of everything,
no
exceptions. ’Tis the Code,” he added with an underlining sweep of his hand.

“How…” She gulped, the words not being where she had expected. “How many are there aboard?”

Leaning his head back, he closed one eye in calculation. “A hundred and twenty-four now, but we’re still a bit short-handed.”

“That many,” she said faintly. Struck by a wave of queasiness, she raised a hand to her head. Seeing it shake, she tucked both underneath her legs.

“Are you well?” He lurched up and came around the table.

“Yes,” she stammered, shying. “Why?”

“You just turned the color of spoilt custard. You need rum!”

“No! No! Please…!”

Her protests were too late; he had already seized the bottle and was refilling her glass.

“Can’t have you falling out on me deck.” He cast a worried eye toward her that suggested said “falling out” might occur before he could finish pouring.

A cold sweat prickled her forehead. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t under enough of a massive strain without having to keep drinking the vile stuff, she thought moodily as she took the glass. The thought occurred that he aimed to render her insensible, in order to take advantage of her, but she could handle her drink far better than that.

Once confident that she wasn’t about to “fall out,” he pulled up a chair and sat. Their knees nearly touching, he hunched interestedly forward.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked. A taunting smile grew at her hesitation. “Trying to remember, eh? They do say the less you lie, the less you are required to remember. Let's have a real name this time, luv.”

She hung on to the glass as if it were an anchor, needing something solid to hold on to, a weapon, if necessary. He wasn’t a large man, but his nearness was disquieting, nonetheless. Clutching the quilt tighter, she inched sideways in her chair.

“Catherine Harper.”

“As you said before.”

“No, I only said Cate, before. Can’t we just accept that and move on? What difference does it make, as long as it’s not Littleton?”

He leaned back. Tenting his fingers to his lips, the dark eyes were keen as a predator’s. “And does Cate Harper have any family?”

In desperate need of fortification, she drained the last bit of rum from her glass and glared at him over the rim. “Fishing for someone else to ransom, Captain?”

Her bravery held but for a few moments. The urge to flee surged again. She was on her feet before realizing it, only to discover there was no place to run. Trapped, she turned to the window.