The Pirate Captain (41 page)

He rolled his eyes doubtfully. “If it goes smoothly, marooned…or cast adrift.”

Marooned
: left on an island to die.

Cate glanced toward the windows. It was the West Indies; islands were as constant as clouds. At the moment, any that were visible seemed very inaccessible.

Adrift, then. The same, but worst to her mind: cast off in a boat alone, until heat and thirst ended the misery.

She closed her eyes and swallowed her breakfast for a second time. Not Nathan. Not Nathanael Blackthorne. It couldn’t end that way. He had endured before and had lived to tell the tale. It only followed that such would be the case once more.

“And, if not smoothly?” she could barely rasp, her mouth had suddenly gone dry.

“If it’s close, the decks will be red.”

Cate was confident the cook wasn’t referring to the paint drizzled over the ship’s edges.

Drawn by the rowdiness, Cate went to the door, but recoiled at the sight of all hundred and seventy-something pirates gathered, dark, weathered, half-dressed, and barbaric
.
Weapons, in the way of firearms and blades were in the armory, under lock and key. A ship, however, possessed a vast number of lethal implements. Snarling like a currish pack, they perched on every surface—capstan, rails, ratlines, and yards—brandishing hatchets, poleaxes, harpoons, pikes, hooks, barrel staves, or any other possible weapon ready to hand. A flash of hyacinth blue darted overhead, Beatrice settling on the mizzen masthead.

Things could happen quickly…

Cate once more checked the pistol at her waist.

As she looked from face to face, she was stricken by betrayal, much the same as Nathan had to have been feeling, if not more so. These were the very faces that had smiled as she had chatted, treated their wounds, and listened as they told of families and loved ones. Now they were no more than ravaging dogs snapping at the very hand that fed them. To see their violence turned outward on their enemies was one thing; to see it inward itself was far more fearsome.

Nathan stood unflinching before the crowd. Any sniff of weakness would be a cue for this rabble of sea wolves to attack. On any other ship, the captain could have sent the troublemakers scattering with a single bark, but these were pirates, exercising their rights as given by the ship’s articles. Liberty suddenly seemed a double-edged sword, the gain of one coming at the expense of another.

The plaintiffs, judging by their belligerent stance, loosely formed around Nathan, Pryce barely an arm’s length away. His contorted countenance could be an open book, or he could be as inscrutable as the sphinx. His disapproval was eloquent in the stony glare and rigid stance, but it was unclear if it was provoked by the complainants themselves or his Captain being challenged.

“Who be spokesman?” Pryce’s booming voice brought the proceedings to quick order.

“Y’er Quartermaster,” came a sneering shout from the crowd.

“Aye,” Pryce said evenly. “But a man’s grievances best come from his own damned mouth. If ye’ve complaints enough to bear arms against yer Cap’n, then ye’s can jolly well haul yer asses up and voice them like a man, instead o’ cowerin’ about like Spaniard-lovin’, spineless curs!”

Like a bucket of sea water, Pryce doused the riotous enthusiasm. He pointedly ignored those before him, until the leader was singled out by virtue of the others falling back. All attention swiveled to one individual. Cate shied.

Bullock.

She fished deep into the pool of names which she had learned over the last weeks, but could only snag a few for his cohorts: Clark—even more sour than Bullock, if that was at all possible—Hibbett—gullibility written all over him—and Reed—his arm still wrapped by the bandage she had put there but a few days ago.

Hanging at the cabin door, Cate strained to hear.

“Ye’ve gone soft, Cap’n,” Bullock was saying, his companions enthusiastically nodding. It seemed a good sign he still showed Nathan proper respect. “We should o’ taken that ship as prize…”

“Which? The
Nightingale
?” Nathan cut in.

“Aye! Instead, ye allowed ’em to pass—”

“With a dead captain, I might point out.” Nathan’s interjection came in a conversational tone, obliging the crowd to hush further in order to hear him.

“She was listing to near scuppers, masts sheared and hull breached. You were below. How fast was the water rising in the well? Were you and your…cohorts,” said Nathan, with a distasteful swipe, “willing to sweat it out on the pumps for the
days
required to put her to rights?”

Bullock blinked a bit dully at his point being so readily dismissed. “Shoulda took the
Valor,
then
.”

Nathan stood impassively in the face of the inflamed cheers, fists and weapons waving in Bullock’s support.

“She was hard aground. How many hours on a capstan and hawse were you and your merry band willing to put in so that we might achieve that glorious goal?”

Nathan crossed his arms and planted his feet. By zeroing his sights on Bullock, he effectively narrowed the confrontation from a small gang to only the two of them.

“We took everything what needed taking, or did you forget something? How long did you fancy we should have stood off? Would you have preferred we took her in tow? That would have cut our speed—
and
our escape—by at least half.”

Bullock was only slightly set back. “We shoulda took ’er.”

“With nigh on to a hundred naked men? Is there something about a hairy ass that appeals to you? Does the sight of gooseflesh give you a cockstand?”

Uproarious laughter broke from all of those around.

“There might o’ been women.” Bullock said over the crowd.

Nathan nodded agreeably, waiting for the cheering to die down. “Ah, so you do know the difference. Not unheard of for the Navy to carry trollops. What with your fascination with naked men, I hesitated to assume you were familiar with what to do with one.”

“Four ships in a month: they’re huntin’ us.” Bullock’s conjecture brought another cheer. His chest swelled, encouraged.

“And since when is that a concern?” Nathan demanded, when they finally quieted. “We’re pirates. The whole world is
‘
huntin’’ us. You fancy that burning them would quench their desire to do the same to us?”

Bullock slid a sullen look toward Cate that turned her cold. She knew the look of a predator, he the pack leader. “By our reckonin’ not everything’s been divvied.”

Cate was some distance behind Nathan, but he still had a sense of where she stood, and sidestepped to block Bullock’s view. His voice fell low and with a menace that caused several to inch away. “She’s naught to you and you know it well.”

Bullock’s jaw thrust out. “She’s part o’ the prize.”

“She’s part o’ the crew, as does all of you know.”

“Not by my vote, nor any of us,” Bullock shot back.

His men nodded with a hungry eagerness that propelled Cate back several steps. She was sickened and horrified to think Nathan might lose his ship—his life!—all because of her.

“One over half is all ’tis required,” Nathan said with cold evenness. “The matter is settled.”

“We should vote…” insisted Bullock, pugnaciously.

“
Again
?” Nathan’s brows arched in ridicule. “Do you desire us to keep voting until you get the result what suits you? Strikes me everyone has better things to do than to stand out here in the sun re-deciding what’s already been decided.”

Cheers shifted to jeers at Bullock’s suggestion of such inconvenience.

Nathan waited until it was quiet. “Very well, what else? Put a name to what’s on your mind.”

His resolve faltering, Bullock looked to his companions, who urged him on with nods and gestures. “We shoulda raided that town.”

“St. Agua? Why? Is there a chicken we missed? They brought us everything, whilst you cooled your heels in a cantina, swilling the local fare.”

Bullock looked over his shoulder to exchange glances with his cohorts, and then back. “We’ll be a-wantin’ our shares.”

“Certainly. Anytime. There’s never been a word to the contrary. Might I inquire, however—just on a small point of curiosity, you understand—as to where you fancy to spend it?”

Nathan finished with a grand gesture to the surrounding emptiness of water and sky.

Bullock’s brow narrowed. “We want our shares.”

Nathan narrowed an eye judiciously. “You’ve the sound of a man who feels cheated.”

Bullock nodded. He bore the look of a bereaved person who was finally having his concerns acknowledged.

“Ergo,” Nathan went on, “you believe a cheat among us. Very well, name your man. Mr. Pryce? Mr. Hodder? Mr. MacQuarrie?”

Bullock’s face dropped at the unexpected conclusion. The thought of their honesty being questioned didn’t settle well with anyone present. A restive, currish growl rose from the crowd.

“Come, come, now. Don’t go faint of heart on us now!” Nathan’s tone grew more derisive. “You’ve the courage to speak your mind. Name your cheat. We’ll give ’im a fair trial, and he’ll be dead before the evening grog.”

The gulf between Bullock, his conspirators, and the crew widened. Bullock didn’t give the impression of being overly bright, craftiness being more in the line of his strength. Given his due credit, however, he was perceptive enough to realize he’d just been bested. He was, however, exceptional in tenacity—loyalty to his conviction, as some might call it—and he exercised that now, determined to salvage what credibility might be managed.

“We’re gonna have to stand extra watches, now.” Bullock’s point elicited a flare of freshened emotion from all.

Cate’s heart pounded so loudly it was difficult to hear. She had crept outside without knowing, and now stood at the crowd’s fringe. A number of the company stood in reserve, watching and waiting as to which way this would fall. “Had their oars in several boats,” as Pryce would say, and none wanted to be caught in the one sinking.

She scanned the grimed and grizzled faces, making a mental list of those who would stand with their captain. Pryce’s allegiance was unquestioned.

Two against over a hundred; thin odds, at best.

She wondered what Millbridge’s aged eyes might see. What direction would he go? His venerable position as the ship’s eldest could be a swaying force; many would follow his lead.

Hodder, Hughes, Cameron, Stubbs, Chin, Jensen: it was a heart-sinking blessed few who could be counted on fully.

Things could happen quickly.

She made a mental note of their whereabouts, just in case.

“Ambitions, Mr. Bullock?” Nathan was saying with measured contempt. “Did you fancy yourself as her master, were the
Nightingale
to sail as consort?”

“Yes,” bubbled to Bullock’s lips, but discretion prevailed. With the entire company looking on, he knew better than to put himself forward.

“Of course,” Nathan went on, “that would mean dividing the crew. Instead of three-watches, we’d be obliged to go watch-on-watch. But pray, I beg your indulgences! When you complained last time of too much work, I wasn’t under the impression you sought a second ship to mind for.”

Nervous twitters came from several corners. The blood-lust was ebbing; reason and cooler heads were prevailing. Sympathies had swayed, but not entirely. It would take only a small victory on Bullock’s part to bring a freshened wave of enthusiasm that could crush Nathan and anyone who stood with him.

“We weren’t allowed our say.” Sweat gleaming on the bridge of his nose, Bullock’s hands worked at his weapons.

Nathan snorted. “Don’t play me, nor anyone the fool. It’s not ‘your say’ you desire, and you damned well know it. Leave us to plan ahead, for just a moment.”

A thoughtful finger to his chin, Nathan began circling. At first his path seemed random, stopping before this man or that. Slowly, however, a pattern formed, working like a shepherd dog, picking away at the fringes, until the errant members of the flock were isolated.

“The awkward bit of ridding oneself of one captain is that you’re obliged to find another,” Nathan was saying. “And right soon by me reckoning, if as you say, the Company is dogging our trail. Who among you are you willing to follow as captain?”

The question was posed broadly. Heads dropped or looked away, nervously coughing and shuffling feet. Many eyes swung in the direction of Pryce. As First Mate, he would be the likely choice, yet he gave the impression of a man who was unburdened by ambition. Cate stood afraid to look, afraid any movement on her part might tip the delicate balance. The
Morganse
went quiet, her song of sail and tackle dropping as if she held her breath, her future hanging in the balance, as well.

It was Nathan who finally broke the silence. “Those of you who sailed with Captain Maubrick can shed some light on the perils of the unwise choice.”

“Let’s see,” he began, turning to the crowd. “When was the last time you gents were required to live on ship’s biscuit, sea water, and rats? Ah, yes! That would have been when Maubrick was captain.”

Nervous twitters and grudging nods of affirmation.

“And then, there was that unfortunate business of the Tenerife crossing: you missed South America. But wait! Leave us not forget: that was Maubrick’s navigating.”

Snickers rippled through the hands. Faces softened, the hackles lowered. Hands didn’t hover so readily over weapons and attention began to drift.

“And then,” Nathan said, “there was that nasty business of running aground. How many times was that? But no, wait! That was Maubrick’s captaining.”

A rumbling murmur rolled across the deck at that unpleasant recollection.

“And then, you were ambushed, the ship raked, until she listed so badly you couldn’t pull the guns off the bulkheads. Can’t imagine how Ol’ Henry managed that,” he finished, shaking his head.

“I’ll credit, it must have been an easy life with Ol’ Henry,” Nathan went on. “Wise choice that: no raids, which meant no money for whores, but you gents have suffered before. No work. No worries. No cares. Just at your leisure on a beach… starving, tossing yourselves off, and better yet, no rum.”