The Pirate Captain (23 page)

Nathan propped his hands on his hips. “And how were we to know that? He’s a mute,” he pointed out, apparently not caring that the man, who stood nearby, still had his hearing. “Unless you read Maori?”

Cate wasn’t sure if there even was such a language, let alone a written one.

“No cabin boys?” As she understood, taking young boys to sea was a well-steeped tradition.

“Certainly,” Nathan replied. “Have to be a dundering oysterhead to aweigh without. Millbridge there is one.” A hand waved in the direction of the ship’s patriarch.

“But…he’s…?”

“Too old to do aught else,” Nathan finished bluntly, but with a certain affection. “The men—and me, of course—desire to keep him about, but those old bones won’t stand much abuse, so he’s the easiest job aboard.”

“Easy” wasn’t ordinarily the first word that came to mind when referring to cabin boy. To be one meant to live at the beck and call of every hand aboard. A combination messenger, servant, and valet, they were required to perform any and all menial tasks. It hardly seemed the role for a person verging on antiquity.

“But, I’ve never seen him in the—” Cate began.

“Not likely to either,” Nathan cut in. “He can’t abide women. Some long, lost love doing him wrong, or some such stuff and nonsense, but it stuck with him all these years. Never known him to so much as lift a brow to a whore, let alone be in the same room with one, willingly at any rate. No offense,” he added as a rather late-coming afterthought.

“None taken, I think,” she said, still trying to sort out the image of Millbridge being anyone’s lackey.

“Jensen was taken on initially to serve as Kirkland’s lad, but he’s never allowed the boy over the galley coaming.”

Jensen was the youngest in years, but held seniority over many. That edge didn’t save him from being the brunt of practical jokes and ribbings. Bright-faced and good-natured, he eagerly faced every menial and dirty task that came with being the youngest aboard. His ability to accept it all in the spirit intended, often laughing the hardest, had endeared him to everyone. Now the tender age of seventeen and at sea for a few years, it was painfully clear that Jensen wasn’t a natural seaman. It was suggested, often and none so gently, that perhaps his talents laid in farming, with dirt under his nails as opposed to tar.

“Reminds me of meself,” Nathan sighed wistfully one day. “Of course, I wasn’t so cod-handed.” He winced, indicating perhaps that wasn’t quite the entire truth.

“But no regular cabin boys?” Cate asked.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. “Best not have the men see the captain waited upon: sets a bad image. Besides, the lads can be a bit…without defenses,” he finished with a strained tone.

It was another arrival upon dangerous grounds, and many of those there were. She was coming to wish for a chart by which to track such hazards.

Life, however, was far from idyllic. A few souls made it eloquently clear they desired no part of her, her presence an affront. She felt their thinly veiled malignant looks, their comments always uttered loudly enough for her benefit alone. Scarface, or Bullock as his name turned out to be, was always among them, his voice as recognizable as Nathan’s. A ringleader, if ever she had seen one. His presence was as pressing as the trade winds. She took careful note of him and his cohorts at all times.

Besides the uncertainty of her fate—Nathan being still slippery on the matter—the issue of quartering was a growing concern. Upon her unceremonious arrival, she had been deposited in the captain’s berth. After the first several nights, she had anticipated being relocated to one of the cabins below, but Nathan had insisted she remain where she was, “Seeing as how it was finally clean to
your
exacting standards.”

He was, of course, referring to a rather unfortunate incident one morning, when…Well, the mattress needed airing
desperately
! There had been cross words and perhaps some hurt feelings—not that ingratitude for his hospitality had been her intention—but her goal had ultimately been met: the oakum-stuffed mattress spending the day on the hatch grates in the sun and smelling much the better for it.

The issue of sleeping arrangements was precipitated not quite a week of her arrival, when she found Nathan one night at the table, the logbook his pillow.

Cate came in the next morning to find him as clear-eyed and insufferably perky as ever—and yes, perky was indeed the correct word, for the man positively bubbled. She, on the other hand, met the day with considerably less gleeful aplomb. He took an unseemly joy, by her estimation, in making example of that not-so-small contrast. He met the sun like it was an elixir, whereas it did no more than deliver her a dull headache.

Mr. Kirkland—bless him!—was the only sympathetic soul aboard. Every morning a pot of coffee waited upon her on the table, hot enough to scald the unsuspecting. It was a wonder of the ages as to how he managed the miracle, but miraculous it was.

“Let me go elsewhere,” Cate insisted after sufficient amounts of coffee made lucid thought possible. Her voice was raised not in anger, but to be heard over a thunderstorm, the rain hammering overhead. “It’s not right. You’re the captain; you deserve your own bed.”

In point of fact, she had no idea where he slept.

Nathan's indifference bordered on annoying. “Inconsequential encumbrances, luv.”

She caught sight again of the brindle-coated, fox-faced creature she had seen in the sleeping quarters her first day. The half-cat, half-weasel-looking thing appeared now and again. Most times, it slunk along the wall, head down, industriously sniffing like a hound on a scent. This time, however, it came directly for the table, with a look of complete expectation.

“Come here, me lovely!” Nathan crooned. As he bent to scoop it up, the thing sat up in greeting, braced on a bushy tail nearly as long as its body.

“What is it?” Cate asked watching it slouch into Nathan’s grasp like a pet cat, and then inquisitively stretch its muzzle toward her. She wasn’t afraid, just unsure what it was.

“His Lordship, Georgie, named after our fair regent. Fitting for a rat-eater, don’t you think?” he asked, setting the beast back on the floor.

“It’s a mongoose,” he said at last, dismayed by her ignorance, “one of the best varmint killers about. Granted, snakes are ever so much more better, but I can’t abide the things, always slithering about, dropping down from god knows where.” He shuddered dramatically. “His Lordship can make a fair meal of a goodly number of rats per week. Even if he doesn’t catch ’em, the damned things will stay in the bilges just to be shut of him.”

Oddly, as the animal sat up on its haunches next to her chair, it did possess a certain imperial air.

“Begging?” she asked, looking down.

“Be gone with you, you little blighter! Have a care,” he directed to Cate. “He’ll have your meal in a blink.”

He swiveled a sharp eye toward His Lordship. “Someday Kirkland will catch you and there’ll be hell to pay. To the sharks it shall be and I shan’t raise a finger to save your hairy ass. ’Twill be an occasion. We’ll place wagers on whether a mongoose can swim.”

With a mongoose version of an indifferent “Hmph!” His Lordship ambled about the room.

“And those things?”

He followed her point, taking a moment to realize what she was looking at, and then swiveled around in disbelief. “The geckos?”

Nathan took a drink of coffee and set to breaking off bits of the mango to feed His Lordship, now sitting up at his chairside.

“Not quite sure how the little bastards got on board,” he sniffed disinterestedly. “I can’t say I was altogether pleased at the way they multiplied worse than rabbits. God knows what must have been going on behind our backs,” he huffed under his breath, and threw a malignant glare at the lizard scampering along the sill.

The lizards were plentiful. Catching glimpses from the corner of her eye, most times Cate would look to find nothing there, and left to wonder if she was imagining things.

“Hodder and Pryce put a bounty on them, but the men damned near beat each other to death with the nets trying to catch the little blighters. They raced them, too—more abiding than the rats on that count—until we began to notice the cockchafer population diminishing by a grand mark, along with other pestilences of a crawly nature.

“Some of the hands tamed ’em, put ’em on little leashes and carried them about on their shoulders. Had a topsman what wouldn’t go aloft without one on each. They’re abiding beasts, once you get past them looking at you upside down with one eye whilst the other goes off,” Nathan said, licking the fruit juice from his fingers.

“Let me move to one of the cabins below,” Cate said, picking up their earlier discussion. She spoke in considerably lower voice, now that the rain had stopped. “Believe me, I’ve slept rougher.” She ruffled at the possibility that his concerns were based on her inability to weather hardship.

The bantering went on for several more rounds, in considerably lower voice once the rain stopped.

“I’ll not have you…” Nathan's voice faded as he was distracted by something out the stern window. His eyes narrowed, and then sharpened, his attention zeroing in like a hawk on a mouse.

“Here is the captain's quarters: I can keep you safe,” he said backing toward the door, his gaze fixed over her shoulder. With reluctance, he swiveled his attention to her. “Below, even with direct orders, there would be no guarantees.”

At the door, Nathan paused long enough to sternly point and say, “You’ll sleep here,” and then stepped over the coaming.

The subject was closed.

Much to Cate's chagrin, there was strong logic in his point. Captain he might be, but human nature—men’s nature—was what it was. True enough, the punishment for disregarding a direct order would be severe, but the damage would already be done. There would be no reversing an attack in the night.

“On deck there. Sail ho! A point windward astern,” came the hail down through the skylight.

Turning to the window, she saw sails: bright barbs of white against the steel-grey of the departing storm.

Heart racing, Cate ran to the quarterdeck where Nathan and Pryce stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing intently over the leeward taffrail.

“Do you see what I see, Mr. Pryce?” Nathan’s back was to her, but his smile could be heard, plump with anticipation. “Has she made us?”

“Aye. Wore ’round and straight as a needle she bears.”

“It’s the
Terpsichore
, Woodbridge commanding,” Pryce said after several moments. He spit over the rail. “Creswicke’s minion: privateer.”

“Another one?” Her voice pitched high at the thought of being pursued yet again.

The two men turned, neither having noticed her there.

“Aye, the waters seem to abound these days,” Pryce said with significance directed toward his captain. Nathan only shrugged.

Nathan cast an eye skyward, and then considered the oncoming ship. “Straight at him, Mr. Pryce. We’re the faster. We should be able win the weather gauge. You know what to do.”

“Prepare about!” Pryce’s cry was instantly picked up by Hodder, and then echoed down the chain of command. From there it scattered into a half-dozen crew captains, amid the slapping of scores of bare feet as the hands scurried to their posts.

The water raced down the
Morganse
’s sides as she sped toward her foe. Cate shifted her position in order to maintain her view of the distant ship as the
Morganse
pirouetted. Amid mutterings of “Beg pardon, miss,” “By your leave, mum,” “Have a care,” “Mind yer step,” and “Over here, if you please,” she was bumped and jostled until she found a neutral spot, just aft and slightly leeward of the mizzenmast. Once again, she was left to wonder if the
Terpsichore
might be her salvation or damnation. Communication being what it was. it seemed unlikely that word of her wanted status could have passed so quickly from England to every naval vessel in the West Indies. Judging by the zeal with which they readied to fight, Nathan and his men saw the
Terpsichore
’s presence as a personal matter, and had nothing to do with her.

“Clear the decks!”

Cate jumped at Hodder’s bone-penetrating bellow.

The distance between the ships closed at a shocking rate, their prows slicing the deep blue water. At one point, there was a mass cry of elation: the
Morganse
had gained the precious weather gauge. The intricacies of it still evaded Cate, but its importance was readily grasped.

A puff of smoke and the splash of a ball well ahead of the
Morganse
’s forefoot signaled the battle had begun.

Nathan grabbed Cate by the arm. “Get below.”

“No!”

“Get—” He was cut off by a ball, which skipped off the water and whirred overhead near enough to nick a backstay. “Goddammit, get below! I’ll not stand here and watch you be sheared in half.”

Nathan jerked the pistol from his waist, checked it, and then shoved in her waistband. “You know what to do, as do I.”

He winked and sent her on her way, dragging foot, but going nonetheless.

“Fire as they bear!” Nathan shouted, as she made her way down the aft steps.

Her foot had barely touched ’tween deck when the first gun spoke. So intensified by the confined space, the sound was a physical blow to the chest. Ahead a gun fired, hurtling back against its tackles with shocking violence. The smoke wafted in greyish-white whorls about Cate's skirts as she made her way forward to the passage below. An arm shot out to stop her, while the next gun captain glared down the barrel, waited for the roll and sparked the touchhole, arching his body away from the recoil.

Cate snatched a lamp from its peg and it lit from a slow-match before going lower. The hold was no less forbidding than it had been on her first visit. This time, however, she had the light as company, to keep the dank murk at bay. Once more at the furthest point possible, she ensconced herself atop a puncheon, the lamp at her elbow.

She was accustomed to the sound of a small war breaking out every afternoon, before the dog watches and evening grog. Nathan was a firm believer in the price of a hundred weight of powder a cheap investment for gun crews that could hit a floating barrel at will, in any weather conditions, and continue to do so in less than two-minute increments, or marksmen who could hit that same barrel thrice in barely more than one. In that process, she had learned the importance of quickness and even timing, and the hazard of great guns going off simultaneously, putting a huge strain on the ship, to the point of possibly causing her damage.