The Pirate Captain (15 page)

At last, a blind hand verified a solid wall before her. The ship veered and lurched. She skidded on the wet boards and came down hard on one knee. Swearing away the pain, she crawled to the wall and planted her back against it, ignoring the wet coming up through the planks and soaking her breeches.

Don’t let yourself be taken.

Where had she heard that before, she thought grimly. The advice came readily enough, but she had yet to be advised as to how she was to accomplish it. Such advice carried even more weight coming from a pirate, the very one she had been warned against. Unlike the
Constancy
, she felt a kinship with Nathan and his men, for their hatred of the
Nightingale
had been as instant and visceral as Highlanders sighting British patrols.

Save this for yourself.

Cate looked down, but in the blackness could only feel the pistol. It was a chilling prospect: to kill herself rather than being taken prisoner. Or, she thought, fondling the cool metal, had Providence provided her another way, a means to escape it all?

One shot and be eternally free.

It was the first time since everything had been lost that she held a weapon. True, a blade had always been to hand, but a pistol promised an efficient end to the misery, starvation, and worst of all, loneliness.

Click.

And then what? She contemplated at what point she would hear no more: the metallic working of the hammer, the gunpowder’s hiss, or the discharge itself? Or would she be aware long enough to hear the retort in the hold, fading as her life did?

All further thoughts were blotted out by the first great gun blast, the next only seconds after, followed by a rolling sequence from fore to aft. The reverberations clashed into each other and settled in her bones. Cannon—guns, on a ship—was nothing new to her. Those experienced before, however, had been with land under her feet and a husband at her side. Now, she was surrounded by nothing but sea and strangers. She knew little of sea battles and didn’t share Nathan’s confidence: two ships against one seemed impossible. The piercing of 12 inches of oak wasn’t unthinkable, dooming them all to a watery death. She tried to convince herself that she should find courage in those guns: they were the
Morganse
’s defense, their safety in every bone-rattling burst.

The splintering crash of the
Morganse
taking her first hit dissolved all resolution. Cate felt the ship shudder through the wood at her back. The
Morganse
sagged, but then came up on the swell, rising above the pain, and fired. The voices of
Widower
and
Merdering Mary
joined in from the Captain’s cabin, confirming Nathan’s prediction: the
Eclipse
had crossed the
Morganse
’s stern. The deadly duo aft fell mute, and the starboard guns spoke as the
Eclipse
crossed. The
Morganse
was now in a crossfire.

The ship’s timbers creaked under the strain of firing, flinching at every hit. It became a hypnotic din: the guns’ roar, the crash as they leapt back against their tackles, the bellow of men and rumble of carriages being hauled back into place.

Roar. Bellow. Rumble. Roar. Bellow. Rumble…

It was a three-beat tempo from a 36-piece orchestra.

The crossfire was short-lived, the guns firing on the
Eclipse
going quiet. The retort of the
Nightingale
’s guns, however, grew louder, which meant she was pressing nearer.

Fingers of fear crawled up like the wetness at Cate’s bottom. The water seemed to jet higher between the planks with every roll. The waves rushing past the hull sounded too much like water over a falls, pouring in, the ship becoming nothing more than a coffin. The acrid smell of gunpowder overpowered the hold’s dankness. On the smoke rode the shrieks of the wounded and dying, and the smell of blood. It seemed impossible that anyone could remain alive in the face of all the gunfire.

Not Nathan, please, not now
.

The deck pitched as the ship carved another turn. The thud of the great guns gave way to the staccato crackle of small arms: muskets and pistols. The barrages were a pummeling assault, one lethal wave overlapping the next. The ship slowed, and then came the grind and scrape of wood against wood, like two gigantic tubs, the wood at Cate’s back reverberating with the collision. All sense of motion ended. The musket fire intensified. Deafened by the guns, she could barely make out what sounded almost like an infantry charge: the cries of men, the clash of swords, and sporadic pop of pistols.

And then, it was quiet.

It brought no sense of peace. If she had been scared before, she was terrified now. She wished she had paid more heed to the stories on the
Constancy
and knew more of what constituted victory at sea. On land, it was often a matter of which side took the fewer casualties or gained the most ground. Was it a simple matter of which ship was still afloat, which captain still stood, or were there other deciding factors?

Cate clutched the pistol and waited. Joints aching, hand cramping, time became interminable, marked off by her shuddering gasps from holding her breath while striving to listen. Smoke rendered the muggish air nigh unbreathable. She vibrated with the desire to go help with the wounded; Nathan’s final demands the only thing holding her back.

No, not “final demands.”

“Final” was a word which put him too near the grave. “Parting wish” sounded ever so much more bearable.

Having wished for the sight for so long, when the lantern appeared, she thought the glow through the gloom and smoke to be a dream. Unsure if it was friend or foe, she cowered against the bulkhead, clasping a hand to her mouth lest the rasp of her breathing reveal her location. There was nothing to be done for her heart; hammering so loudly, it was sure to give her away.

“Hoy! Missus?” came a voice through the dark. “Cap’n begs you leave.”

And then, the light disappeared.

Rising stiffly, Cate groped a return path, the fogged light through the grates and the cries of agony her beacon. Finding the steps at last, she came up to the gun deck into an ethereal world. The sun streamed through the ports in glaring shafts through whorls of grey smoke, the men moving like dark ghosts. From the swirling clouds came voices, thickened and muffled, orders colliding with pleas. She came upon a wounded man leaned against a gun carriage. As she knelt, she was touched on the arm.

“He's gone,” the pirate shouted, semi-deafened by gunfire. His smoke-blackened face pinched with grief as he looked down at his fallen mate.

Her ears still ringing, it took a moment to fully understand what he had said. Her first impulse was to argue, but then saw his meaning. The man sat clutching his abdomen and the shard of wood that had speared him, nearly the thickness of his arm. His life oozing between his fingers, he wore the shocked look of one knowing he was about to die and naught to be done about it. Another, sprawled nearby, had been taken by a more merciful means, half of his head cleanly swept away.

The drive to find Nathan strengthened. Seeing him safe would allow her the peace of mind to tend the rest. Wiping her eyes, now burning from the smoke, she climbed to the main deck, the dread of what she might find weighting every step.

The last rays of afternoon slanted on damage that was far worse. The breeze, which now barely stirred, failed to clear away the stench of death. Cate had seen the havoc wrought by a cannonball on an open battlefield. It was nothing compared to what 16 pounds of hurtled iron could do, smashing through everything—and everyone—in its path: shredded canvas, splintered wood, and snarled rope, the shattered bodies resembling half-butchered hogs. Hanging shoulder-high, the smoke shrouded anyone standing, giving them a ghastly headless appearance.

Her bare toes curled as she picked her way through the destruction, cautious of the treacherously slippery blood that streamed toward the scuppers, the surrounding sea taking on a brackish pink cast. She closed her ears to the gurgling coughs and death rattles that she passed. It was too late for them. Pryce hunched over a man propped against the bulwark; Kirkland was not far away with another casualty. Tiptoeing through offal and vomit, she felt something round and slightly giving underfoot. She looked down to see a fingertip sticking out from beneath her foot. More could be seen lying about, single knuckles to entire digits, with the occasional pinkish curve of an ear.

The silence in the aftermath of battle was always the most deafening, the elation of victory doused by destruction. These mariners bore the added pain the damage suffered upon their ship, a lady who had fought as valiantly as they. Their efforts were divided between tending their mates and her. As before the battle, it was a scene of chaos, but again with purpose. The powerful voices of the captains of the tops, forecastle, waist, and the like, rallied their men. The mariners busied with tending each other, tying rags about bloodied limbs and heads. Some sat stoically as his mate fished into his flesh with a knife for whatever battle had inserted. The more seriously injured lay waiting, either to die or for help, whichever came first.

The price of victory.

The wreckage of rigging and spars was already being cut away and tossed overboard, along with the bodies of those past identification or Nightingales. No one here would mourn the latter.

Her heart lightened at finding Nathan. He stood amidship, sword clutched in his fist. He whirled around at her approach, eyes still wild with the exaltation of battle. His bloodied blade raised, and then lowered at seeing it was her. His cuffs and sleeves were crimson. A fine spray of blood, like paint flung from a brush, flecked his face and chest hair, kept brilliant by his sweated skin. A trail of scarlet ran down several braids from a dark blot on his headscarf, near his crown.

He swiped the blood from his smoke-blackened face. His breath coming in ragged bursts, he lurched unsteadily toward her, but stopped when his foot hit something: an arm, severed near the elbow.

He kicked at it in frustration and fury. “Goddammit to fucking hell! Is this what you expected, woman?”

A nearly decapitated body lay at his feet. A vicious swipe of his blade finished the job and he bent to snatch the head up by the hair. She stumbled back several steps when he charged at her shaking it, the dead eyes rounded and frozen.

“Pirates! Heartless, soulless, ravaging barbarians, without a shred of decency or humanity,” he shouted, the cords in his neck rigid.

He grunted with the effort of tossing the thing over the rail. “Goddammit, I didn’t want this,” he extolled to the sky.

Chest heaving, he stood staring across the water. “We had them: three against one, at the least. They boarded in the smoke, but we pushed them back. The sharpshooters mowed them down like pigeons. Then we boarded…”

Rubbing an arm with a hand that shook with weariness, he looked toward the
Nightingale
, and said in a hoarse whisper, “It’s worse over there.”

He blinked, like a sleepwalker awakened, and turned as if seeing her for the first time. “Are you all right?”

In view of the carnage all around, she choked a mirthless laugh, sounding almost maniacal in her own ears. She managed a nod. The small gesture gave him ease. Dashing at his face with his sleeve, he swayed. He took a step, staggered and his knees buckled. Cate caught him with a shoulder under his. A crewman lent hand and they guided him to the quarterdeck steps.

Kneeling before him, she tried to take his sword, but he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—let go, and she had to pry it free. Now she could see that a good portion of the blood on him was his, pouring from near his crown.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She bit back a smile. “You look bloody awful.”

He swiped at the blood on his face and flicked it away. “Can’t say as I disagree. Seems I didn’t duck fast enough.”

Nathan lurched to his feet and leaned over the rail to retch. Several more spasms took him before he shakily sat. His ill-focused gaze steadied on her.

“Planning on putting me out of me misery?” he asked dully.

Cate looked down to find the pistol was still in her hand. “Give me a good reason and I'll use it.”

She dropped the weapon on the step and bent to help Nathan to his feet. “C'mon, you need to lie down.”

Mumbling in protest, he rose, nonetheless. He swayed precariously and she braced a shoulder under his.

“Cap’n, orders?” Pryce cried, drawing up before them. His face was soot-blackened as well. Rivulets of sweat had carved flesh-colored lines, which gave him an odd striped appearance.

“Where be the captain of that fair vessel?” Nathan asked.

Pryce dabbed the sweat from his face with his sleeve. “Which piece o’ him would ye care to address?”

“Burn that fucking flag,” Nathan said, glaring at the other ship.

“He’ll take it personal.”

“Good, because it is. Pray set that hulk aweigh as soon as possible.”

“She looks helpless,” said Cate, noticing the
Nightingale
for the first time. The two ships sat virtually yard to yard, bound by lines and boarding planks. Ravaged and listing badly, the
Nightingale
was a sorry sight. Mainmast splintered, yards tangled, shredded canvas draped from her waist to nearly her bow. Wallowing on the swell, she slumped in the water, her spirit as shattered as her rigging. The
Eclipse
’s sails, in the meantime, were no more than a blot of white at the line where sky and water met.

“And that concern would be mine, how?” Nathan’s brown eye glared ghoulishly through the glistening red. “A pirate with fewer scruples would have torched her, and then listened to them scream, until the magazine caught and they all went to the depths.”

“You’re to be commended for killing a captain, but not destroying his ship?” she said in disbelief.

“No, I’m to be commended for being alive and he’s not.”

“The
Nightingale
has able hands and land in her lee,” Pryce said, dispassionately. “They’ll do.”