The Pirate Captain (49 page)

“If you don’t mind too much,” she began, measuring each word, “I thought I’d return…for a while…at least?”

Nathan tipped his head back against the wall in relief. Shoulders sagging, the hand in his lap clenched in a victorious fist. He glanced up shyly, and then away. She ventured to touch him lightly on the shoulder and his head jerked around.

“Thank you, Nathan.”

He scowled with the effort of thinking. “For what?”

“For giving me a home, a place to belong. It’s been a long time.”

Fumbling, his hand came to rest over hers and squeezed. “Anytime, luv.”

Nathan’s eyes drifted to aimlessly traverse the dark room. Like a great tree, he slowly toppled sideways into the darkness, his bells clattering softly on the floor.

“Nathan?”

Rising on her elbow, Cate strained to see. Nathan lay on his side, only his hips and rear now lit. She slipped off the bunk and picked her way through his out-flung limbs to kneel next to him. Asleep or fallen out, a blissful smile curved under his mustache. She pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress something between laughter and tears. Checking to make sure the salon was clear, she retrieved his coat from atop a trunk and brought it back to spread over his shoulders. Bells jingling faintly, he stirred, and then settled, sighing contentedly.

“Sleep well, luv,” she whispered. Smoothing stray hairs from his face, she tucked the coat more snugly around him.

Blowing out the candle, she crawled back into bed and slept as she had never before.

###

The island of New Providence proved to possess two roads, which intersected at a given point. Cate stood at said crossroads, feeling like a character in a fable, trying to choose which fork to follow.

After Nathan’s midnight appearance at her bunkside, she had wakened the next morning to His Lordship shuffling about an empty bedside; Nathan was already gone. When he finally made his appearance in the salon, he was his usual, insufferable, cheery self, shouting for Mr. Kirkland, coffee, and Hermione’s tea. She waited for him to say something about the night before, but either through his typical fashion of ignoring the inconvenient, or the convenience of drunken forgetfulness, he gave no sign of recollection. Perhaps it was just as well; morning-after scenes could be awkward. The sentiments expressed were dismissed, as well. Best the whole thing be forgotten.

The
Ciara Morganse
had slipped into New Providence’s back bay under the pinking skies of dawn. Nathan had spent the bulk of the day and into the night pacing, haranguing everyone in his path. Beatrice and any topsman who could find sufficient excuse, retreated to the mastheads, much to the admiration of everyone left below.

“You don’t have to do this. You’ve done more than enough to prove yourself,” Nathan intoned more than once.

He briefed and debriefed Cate again and again, only to return after each with a finger skyward and a “One more thing”, until she finally excused him with a stern finger of her own and an exasperated “Get out!”

The plan was basic, therefore with less room for complications: where there are taverns, there are soldiers. It was a simple axiom. Somewhere in Hopetown was a tavern or alehouse where the garrison’s Marines gathered to drink. Cate was to find said tavern, posing as hostage from the
Constancy
and just escaped from pirates. In essence, it was the truth, and so, provable. After, it would be a simple matter of playing damsel-in-distress, drink enough to be sociable, sit, wait and listen. By evening, she was to return to the bay, where a boat would be waiting to deliver her back to the
Morganse
.

In the time Cate had known Nathan, he had never seemed the pessimist: his glass—better yet, rum bottle—was always half full. As the plan solidified, however, he came up with an endless list of what-could-go-wrong scenarios, to the point of Mr. Pryce looking strained when Nathan launched into a lengthy and convoluted premise of the entire Royal Navy springing up from nowhere.

Nathan had been adamant about seeing her ashore, as if by some stroke of stupidity she might not find it, and then wouldn’t relent, until he had seen her through the trees to the road. She was glad for his arm, however. For her first steps on solid land, she was rubbery-legged. She had become so accustomed to the liveliness of decks under her feet, the ground was too solid and unyielding, and never where her feet expected it to be. Giggling, she staggered against Nathan as he led her to the road, as if she had emptied Nathan’s half-full bottle.

“I don’t like this.” Nathan glared at the road, no more than a glorified path, and then her. “I don’t like it a-tall.”

“Nonsense. How difficult can it be?”

“You’re unarmed.”

Cate inwardly groaned at what had been another point of contention.

“I can’t very well claim to be an escaped captive wearing a pistol, now can I?” she said acerbically, as she had every time. Pryce had thankfully concurred, or Nathan would have never relented.

“Allow me to at least walk you to the—”

“And risk being seen together?” She arched a brow, driving home the unfortunate implications of that.

“Sundown,” Nathan warned, shaking a finger at her as if she were a wayward child. “I’ll be right here—as will you! Now, you have your knife?”

“Yes!”
For no less than the fortieth time,
she thought crossly. He had insisted on sharpening it himself to the point at which she wondered what kept it from slicing through her pocket.

Unperturbed—as always—Nathan pressed on, continuing to make her feel like that same juvenile being sent off for the first day of school.

“Mind your purse.”

“Don’t stop for any strangers.”

“Don’t walk too fast.”

“You should have a parasol.”

“Mind the heat.”

“Nathan, good-by,” she said with finality.

“I’ll be right here at dark. Can you remember that?”

“I’d have to be a complete dolt not to,” she huffed under her breath.

With an encouraging pat on the arm, she gave him a peck him on the cheek. She didn’t have the heart to look back as she took her leave, unable to bear his forlorn look.

Now ashore, there Cate stood at the literal and proverbial fork in the road. In all the briefings, no one had mentioned this. With no other option to hand, she followed the time-honored tradition: plucked a piece of grass, closed her eyes and dropped it. The blade fell pointing left, so left she went.

The road was no more than well-pounded wagon ruts dotted with the occasional oxen or horse droppings. Its width could almost be spanned by extending her arms. Privacy and solitude were scarce commodities on a ship, and so she strolled, relishing every moment. Her senses were assaulted with sights, smells, and sounds, and she eagerly devoured them all. She hadn’t felt terra firma under her feet, nor heard anything alive other than a seagull in over three months; St. Agua had been a cruel temptation. As she went deeper into the protection of land and trees, the air grew denser, becoming almost too thick to breathe. Stopping often in open-mouthed awe at the edenic forest, she experienced the same thrill of discovery that the first explorers must have suffered. The verdant lushness, bright jeweled tones of birds, insects, and flowers stabbed her eyes after months of naught but saturated blue. The smells alone made her heady: leaves, moss, green—yes, green did have its own scent—and ferns, mixed with the sweet, earthy smell of dirt and the pungent animal stench.

It was heavenly!

Amid the raucous calls from bevies of multi-colored birds, chittering and scolding could be heard: small, furry beings alarmed at her passage. Her step slowed at hearing a slithering rustle in the grass at her ankles.

“If it crawls, slinks, scuttles or slithers, don’t touch it!” had been Nathan’s admonition.

“No danger there!” she said aloud.

All too soon, she found herself in the middle of Hopetown. The sun’s heat and light glared off near-white of the crushed oyster shells which paved the streets. It muffled the clop of the horse hooves, the wheels of passing carriages and carts grinding softly. A small town by many standards, it seemed a metropolis to her. It wasn’t Edinburgh, London, or Bristol, but it was the largest—only—town she had been in for months. In many ways it was the same as every town: people scurrying about on their daily business, hawkers with their push-carts and colorful shop signs over the sidewalk, advertising their wares: silversmith, glassblower, tailor, tobacconist, or wigmaker. Palm trees notwithstanding, what separated this from the other cities were the multi-colored faces that peeked out from under the hats, bonnets, kerchiefs, and parasols: white, black, brown, and yellow, with every hue in between.

It was fascinating!

Cate peeked in the windows of the first few shops she passed. Glares from the proprietors set her on her way. The passing citizens eyed her—a woman unescorted was to be noted—disapproving sniffs the most common reaction. It was no wonder, she thought, looking down at herself. In her worn clothes and tar-stained shoes, she was quite beggarly. She followed the lumbering wagons, handcarts, and freight drays, and the smell of the waterfront to the lesser side of town, for that was where she would find the taverns Marines would frequent. As the surrounding voices grew more boisterous and sharper-tongued, she felt less conspicuous.

Mumbling something about “damned pauper,” Nathan had tucked a purse heavy with coins into her pocket. Her stomach rumbled as she passed the street vendors. Breakfast had been marginal. Mr. Kirkland, so distracted by the prospect of her departure, had burned the porridge beyond salvation. She still hadn’t acquired a taste for ship’s biscuit—Every time she looked, she swore she saw things moving in it—softened in broth. She bought a roll from a lady with a basket on a corner. Filled with diced meats and vegetables, it was so very reminiscent of bridies, the meat pies of Scotland. After an orange on a stick, she tried something called plantains, cooked over a small brazier by a woman in a brightly striped skirt.

Cate came across two taverns that held promise, but the clientele was too well-dressed, and so she moved on. Down the street a bit nearer the docks were four more taverns, roughly forming a square:
The Rose and Crown
,
The Pewter Pot,
The Admiral’s Cabin
, and
The Sign of the George
. Finding a shady spot under a fragrantly flower-covered archway, she waited. In this section of town, a woman standing alone drew attention, but for different reasons. She was approached by men offering their coins. The first one took her rejection kindly, the second and third were a bit dim. Some of Nathan’s dark oaths, mixed with a few learned from her husband, sent them scurrying on their way.

Standing and waiting proved not as easy as one might have predicted. When walking, all was well, but once still, Cate discovered the consequences of months at sea: everything moved, the world swaying in ghostly memory of waves. A hand anchored to the wall was of little help. A few times she had to catch herself, feeling she was about to topple over. Bracing a hand to her forehead, she closed her eyes, but instantly found that the wrong thing to do, the oscillating only intensifying. The only solution was walking and so she did. Strolling slowly, she bore a sharp eye on the establishments.

Heat and thirst were beginning to take their toll, when luck finally came Cate’s way in the form of four bright red coats of Marines. Jostling and guffawing, they paid her no heed as they passed within a few feet and barged into
The Rose and Crown
. Four more immediately filed in, followed directly by three more. Apparently, she had found the glory hole! She began to smooth her hair, and then checked herself: if she was supposed to have been just escaped, a bit tousled was to be expected. She stepped across and went in.

The taproom was a fairly large, saw-dust floored, low-ceilinged affair, with rough tables and benches. Its beams had been blackened by decades of fire, candle, and tobacco smoke. The air was thick with a combination of ale, burned food, wax, and tinges of urine and vomit. A typical tavern. The keeper behind the counter gave Cate a minatory eye—there was only one reason a woman would enter alone—and then went on about his business, assuming her to do the same. The Marines were scattered among several tables in the room’s middle, and so she chose one off to the side. As she sat, she caught the whiff of something else: her own sweat. She hadn’t thought to be that nervous.

The servant girl, a waif with brown snakes for braids, appeared wordlessly, setting Cate’s tankard in front of her with the same amount of enthusiasm as she had taken the order. The ale was sour, but not bitter, with a slightly sweet aftertaste that made it tolerable. Best of all, it was cool. She tipped her head back to let it slide down her throat and wash away the road dust. It had been a long time since she had been able to enjoy a drink. Heaven knew, rum flowed freely on the
Morganse
. God, how she hated the stuff! It tasted like old socks, but she didn't dare say as much to Nathan—

“Pray, I beg pardon, Madam…?”

Cate was snapped from her reverie by a male voice directly over her. She looked up into the blue and white of a Royal Navy uniform.

“Commodore Roger Harte, your servant—”

She had the sudden sensation of falling backwards and jerked with a violence that shot her drink out of its mug. With reflexes of a swordsman, Harte artfully dodged the flying liquid, although a fine spray of ale glittered on the dark blue wool.

“No, mind,” Harte said, waving away her apologies and attempts to wipe the mess with her apron. “Please, leave us shift over here. You!” he called sharply to the sullen serving girl. “Attend this and bring us two drinks. Cider?” he asked of Cate.

Too flustered to think else, she weakly replied “Ale.”

Harte’s surprise and disapproval at of Cate drinking something so common was evident, but fleeting. He drew a vast handkerchief from his sleeve—deeply laced and scented—and fastidiously dabbed at his coat.