The Pirate Captain (22 page)

Critically eyeing her shirt and pants, in the absence of a towel, Nathan extended his arm. “Here, use me sleeve. You’ll be naught but covered in the stuff again if you touch yourself.”

Something nagged her the while, something different about him from when he had left. As she dried her hands on his sleeve, she discovered what it was: his shirt was clean, the blood stains gone. She nearly inquired, but to do so would have meant exploring territory best left alone. After all, it was no great stretch of the imagination to figure what he had been doing ashore.

“Rub into this now.” Nathan's directive broke her from an inexplicable surge of jealousy. Picking a piece of wool cloth, he started to do so for her. His fingers lingered, tracing hers, then he jerked away, retreating several steps. “Carry on for a bit and you’ll feel right as rain again.”

Living in the Highlands had taught her the palliative effects of wool. Its natural oils soon brought her hands to feel as if they might not fall off at the wrists after all. It was a relief to be able to touch her hair, or anything else for that matter, without sticking to it.

Turnabout was fair play. For form, Nathan objected, but in the end, submitted to having his face tended. There were three parallel streaks, each deep enough to be crusted with dried blood. They curved from his cheekbone down to the line of his beard. She washed the scratch marks first with hot water—God knew what had been under the unknown woman’s nails. She had seen far more minor scratches go foul. His sprouting beard was a soft plush under her fingers, left over-sensitive by the oakum. The dark sable sparked with random bits of russet, copper, and gold in the candlelight.

The scenario was becoming a familiar one: standing close, tending his wounds.

“Twice in as many days,” Nathan said, divining Cate's thoughts. “If I keep this up, you’ll think me a dull-witted oaf.”

Many words came to mind, but those would be a long time in coming.

“Mark me,” he said, mirth touching the coffee-colored eyes, “if I fall and break me leg on the morrow, you shan’t learn of it.”

As Cate stood over him, she delicately sniffed, but detected only rum, wood smoke, a hint of tobacco, and Nathan, the same warm spiciness that clung in the mattress upon which she slept. She was near enough to see the blood had been washed from his headscarf, too. There were whitish smudges on the faded blue, which looked too much like face powder for her comfort.

His lids hooded, the heavy veil of lashes fanned darkly across his cheeks. With his head tipped back to allow easier access to his cheek, the scar at his throat was in stark evidence. A scalp-peeling blow to the head and clawed by a whore: a pirate’s life was a dangerous one.

Unable to bear the silence, she groped for another topic.

“How long before the repairs are complete?”

Nathan stirred, his brow furrowing. “Day or two, but we’ll make weigh as soon as the wood and watering is complete. His Honor, the lofty Señor Corretja, shan’t bother us whilst we’ve hostages, but best not tempt temptation. What remains can be accomplished under way.”

He shifted in the chair, his agitation rising. “The bastard started having memory problems as soon as we caught up with him. Even his wife crying at pistol’s point didn’t answer.”

“I thought you were going to avoid all that.”

“Aye, well, best-laid plans, and all that.” He smiled faintly. “’Twas remarkable the clarity of memory he possessed when we put him on the altar: the chests were hidden in the cellar. Helluva man what uses the church to protect his most precious possessions. I’ll wager he didn’t tithe his fair share either,” he huffed. “Had half a mind to inquire if he desired we take his wife and daughters—there was another, by the way—seeing as how they seemed so burdensome.”

Nathan sucked in sharply when she pressed into a deeper scrape with the vinegar.

“I'm sorry my hands are so rough,” Cate said, wiping them self-consciously on her breeches. “I should have warned you.”

His eyes met and held hers then dodged away. “I’d be a damned ungrateful scrub were I to complain, when it's me own ship what roughened them.”

Cate became acutely aware of Nathan's nearness. Feeling her tense, he shifted to a more comfortable distance.

“There,” she said softly, giving the scratches a final dab. “All done. You should rest.”

Her hand came to rest on Nathan's shoulder, sagging with weariness. Other than a piece of dried meat, she had not seen him eat that day, nor the one before. A lesser man would have been bedridden for the day after such a blow to the head. Her presence seemed to have upset his lifestyle in several ways.

Nathan smiled nonetheless. “I’ve plenty of time to sleep when I’m in me grave.”

He rose and went around the table to retrieve his hat.

“You've a gentle touch, Cate Mackenzie,” he said with somber intent. “Pryce represents you’ve been quite able-handed. You’ve don’t this before, the healing and sewing of bodies.”

“I’m no physikan or healer, but yes.” Cate sighed, her limb suddenly feeling filled with sand.

“You’ve done it a lot.” It was more an observation than accusation.

She nodded, grimacing. “More than I care to think.” It wasn’t a matter to brag about; one did what one must and could.

Nathan turned his head toward the window, his gaze going distant. “The other day, you spoke of war.”

Cate closed her eyes and nodded.

He fell quiet. His brow furrowed as his mouth worked under his mustache.

“I’ve seen the hell what can be wrought when two ships—a hundred guns each—haul up to hammer away at each other at a cable’s length, throwing four or five hundred-weight of iron at every round, until either the guns explode from overheating, or one at last goes up in a blaze of glory, or sinks in the same. I’ve seen bodies fly no different than the splinters around them,” he said so very softly. He turned his head to regard her with open admiration. “Providence has spared me from a legion of cannon opening fire on men afoot.”

He shook off his dark mood and raised the rum bottle in salute. “Lest you think me a cod-handed scrub, and I be forever haunted by me conscience, on behalf of the entire company of the
Ciara Morganse
and meself, I give you joy of your success, and in all sincerity, thank you.”

Nathan swept an elegant bow, wincing at the pain brought on by lowering his head.

He seemed to have something more to say, but dismissed it. He carefully settled his hat on his head, the bells in his hair swishing with the movement. He gave a wry smile.

“You'd best change; I don’t want it on me conscience that you’d contracted some morbid disease from being required to walk about in sullied clothes. I'll advise Mr. Kirkland you'll be looking to wash,
again
.”

He headed for the door, but then drew to a halt.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly over his shoulder.

And then, he left.

###

Cate stood at the rail and watched the anchor and its thick-as-a-leg cable rise. The anchor’s great hooks, enshrouded in green seaweed, brought with them the smell of muck and mud. On topsails and jibs, the ship curved out of the bay, and the first land she had seen in almost three months faded.

There was a grand celebration on the forecastle the next night. The men were in high spirits. Tales flowed in a stream as steady as the grog, a number of toasts drank to Captain Nathanael Blackthorne. One couldn’t help but notice the flamboyance and credulity of the stories told about him expanded in direct proportion to the amount of drink consumed. It was difficult to imagine one person capable of everything credited to him.

Chapter 5:
Life’s Routines

C
ate settled into the daily routine of a pirate ship, if “routine” and “pirate” might be used in the same sentence: rise with the sun, work, a bit of grog and relaxation on the forecastle after dark, and then sleep.

Trying to learn the names of over a hundred and twenty rogues was a daunting task. With faces weathered to a uniform butternut tan, sun-creased and seamed, separation on that sole basis was nigh impossible.

Mr. Hodder she was familiar with, if not by face, then certainly by voice. As the ship’s boatswain (pronounced “BO-sun,” curiously enough), his charge was the workings of the ship proper, and hence, its crew. Either by necessity or natural trait, he possessed a voice that could carry from bowsprit to taffrail in a high gale, and all around a fist-sized quid of tobacco in his cheek. A single “Turn to!” could rouse a crewman from the depths of sleep, up and out of his hammock and on deck, before the wind could carry the words away.

In spite of his voice, massive gnarled hands and inordinately long arms, Hodder’s most outstanding feature was the intricately carved and scrimshawed ivory rings that studded every nook of his body. He stalked the decks, his waist-long eel-skinned and tarred pigtail swinging at his back, rings clattering, and woe unto the wretched, unsuspecting cove who failed to attend his approach.

Millbridge was another easily recognized. Being the oldest, and therefore most experienced, put him in the revered position of having the last word on any mystery or vagary of nature, or the world: strongest wind, strangest sky, biggest shark, or worst doldrum. He was the final authority and touchstone regarding superstition and omens, boils, cuts, dislocations, and fevers. Even Nathan and Mr. Pryce yielded to his authority. If Millbridge said, then it must be so. He was the one who appeared while she prepared to sew Chin’s leg her first day aboard, with the declaration of “I’ve seen worse.”

Who could argue with that?

As part of his position, Millbridge was spared hardship, either physical or weather. Generous rations of rum and additional shares of plunder all revealed the level of his esteem.

“I thought everyone objected to the privileges in the Royal Navy,” Cate said, still a bit unclear.

“There, privilege is imposed. Here, ’tis granted,” Nathan explained patiently, “and can be revoked at the drop of a hat—highly unlikely, but a possibility.”

He scanned the ship’s people, all at their duties. “Millbridge is everyone’s goal: to live that long. Bloody unlikely prospect, but ’tis the hope what lingers in every seaman’s heart.” He grinned a bit wistfully. “All of us fancy a bit of ease in our silver years. Providence must be smiling upon someone what’s managed to make it that long. Who be we to tangle with that?”

As a single face among the masses, each man adorned or outfitted himself to be unique against a hundred others who were also striving for the same. It was a contest with no end. As a result, it was difficult not to stare, and yet they took pride at her doing so, interpreting it as a declaration of their success. Through the days, she found the uniqueness of each and privately assigned temporary names.

The easiest were those who, by virtue of certain physical aspects, resembled animals. Toad and Crane, the two she had met her first day aboard, were the first to receive such titles, until later learning they were Mr. Towers and Mr. Smalley.

Hog, called so because of rounded nostrils and snubbed appearance because of the missing end of his nose, turned out to have the name of Seymour.

Mole, because of his way of squinting when spoken to and a pair of horrifically bucked teeth, was actually Mr. Hallchurch, a pleasant sort that tended to spit with every “s” or “th” uttered.

Chicken, known only by his semi-maniacal cackling laugh that was audible throughout the ship, turned out to be a long-necked man with inordinately small, round eyes named Sombers.

Snake didn’t look like one. A tattoo wound his torso, up the side of his face, and coiled around his bald head, the slitted eyes of the creature staring down from his forehead squarely into the face of anyone who spoke to him. Not only was Ogden, as she learned his name to be, bald, he was completely void of any hair anywhere visible on his body.

Ass’s name wasn’t meant to be derogatory. It referred to the jawbone the mulatto wore on a leather thong around his neck. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the jawbone of an ass, since it bore three gold teeth. Mr. Squidge, as he preferred to be called, wore the remnants of several of his foes. Hanging from a loop around his neck, the withered segments turned out to be fingers.

There was confusion on Cate’s part, because of another man who carried a similar collection. The issue was cleared up when Nathan pointed out that unlike Squidge’s, Mr. Pickford’s collection was of not of fingers, but ears, each bearing a gold earring.

How could she have been so unobservant?

She didn’t inquire as to whether some of the fresher-looking bits were souvenirs of the
Constancy
or
Nightingale
.

Nathan and Mr. Pryce were more than patient in quietly coaching her on the names, even going so far as to point out how to remember each:

Similar to Hodder, Mr. Damerell sported gold rings on every part of his body.

“A ring in one’s ear improves the sight,” Nathan informed her. He failed to explain the powers of the rings in Damerell’s lips, nose, and nipple. She couldn’t help but wonder where else he might have one.

“Oh, yes indeed,” Nathan said, with a delicate clearing of his throat, somehow divining her thoughts. “Even there.”

Mr. Scripps was appropriately named. Bare-chested in even the most inclement weather, barely an inch of his body wasn’t occupied by multi-colored tattoos.

Pattison had scarified tattoos arching across both cheeks and encircling his eyes.

Rowett, at one point referred to by her as Snake the Second, wore a snake skin nearly as wide as his back, fashioned into something akin to a vest, the tails dangling at the back.

“Ate his best friend,” she was told.

Mr. White was black. Mr. Towers was short. Mr. Harrier was bald. Mr. Pidgeon resembled a cat. Mr. Broadstreet was pencil-thin to the point of causing one to wonder how he kept from being blown away, and Mr. French wasn’t.

Mute Maori was just that.

“Doesn’t he have a name?” she asked, eyeing Mastiff, the name she had given him when she sewed Chin’s leg her first day aboard.