A freshened breeze was the first harbinger of an impending storm. On its heels came a rumble of thunder, muffled by distance and the patter of rain on the deck overhead.
It was one of those mornings reminiscent of Cate’s childhood, the kind which made her wish to lie abed all day. Tucked well under the quilt, she considered the merits of such an indulgence. The last time she had done so had been with Brian. Her face heated at recalling the details. A rush of desire seized her at the thought of Nathan returning to bed so that they might do much the same.
She was as breathless as a newlywed: Nathan wanted her. As for how long this euphoric status was to endure was anyone’s guess. She was not so foolish as to think forever; nothing or no one would ever make that claim on Nathan. She kicked aside those dismal thoughts for now, however, and for once allowed herself to wallow in the glorious whims of Providence. She would ride this out for as long as she could, collecting every breathless moment with him like mementos, to be treasured and reviewed when she was once again alone.
Cate nearly skipped with the joy of returning to the Morganse, being rejoined with a home she had thought to be lost forever. It was a joy which failed to fade with time. She greeted every face she met, ran her hand along the rail with a greater appreciation than ever before. The crew had been a bit shy of her at first, but it soon passed, her seat on the f’c’stle reappearing.
With the masts of Thomas’ Lovely barely a prick on the horizon, the Morganse had won her anchor, cleared the reef and made weigh in a general bearing of west-southwest, destination Cartagena. Now a few days out, the routine aboard had become more like crossing the Atlantic than the island-hopping, as the Morganse had done since she had boarded. Overall, she was a tauter ship, her people getting down to the serious business of sailing. Course and speed became of prime importance. The ship’s compass needle was reminded of its duty by the rub of a lodestone. Nathan pricked the chart several times a day. Log lines were flung with every turn of the glass, the traversing board referred to with as much frequency and reverence as the weather glass. Sails were trimmed under a more exacting eye from the Captain-of-the-Watch. Noon observations became a ritual, Nathan demonstrating to Cate how to fix the astrolabe on the sun at its zenith, and then bring it down to the horizon for a reading. That was manageable enough, but the spherical trigonometry that came after was far beyond her comprehension.
Having little to do with all of that, Cate’s unofficial charge was to watch for approaching rain clouds, so canvas might be rigged to catch the rainwater. Replenishing the fresh water supply was of primary importance. She sat on the f’c’stle hour on end, alert for the first darkness on the horizon. With no mountains or trees to break the monotony, the world went blue. It was either sky or water: light, dark, azure, indigo, cerulean, sky, steel…. all blue.
Cate lay, listening. It was becoming easier to interpret the world she now lived in. The thrum through the hull said the Morganse was merrily humming along, doing what she had been built to do. At that early hour, the ship would still be on her fly-by-nights. The race of the water down the ship’s side, the deck’s pitch and roll; the creak of the blocks and rigging’s sigh were all indicators of what the day might hold in store. The moan of the shrouds raised a half tone. The deck slanted another half-strake. The lack of scurry—no racing to the yards and braces; no bellowing to reef or douse sail—indicated the storm was no more than one of those squalls which perpetually raced across the Caribbean.
The increased tempo of the downpour had a lulling effect. Cate’s eyes rolled closed.
The storm posed no disruption to daily routines. The holystones still growled, their handlers inching aft on their knees. Due to the rain, there was no sluicing of the decks, nor slapping them dry. Hodder’s bellow was followed by a thundering of bare feet as the men raced to their breakfast.
As Cate drifted drowsily, she heard voices in the salon. Nathan, Pryce and Hodder. She lay with her eyes closed, tracking their path by their footfalls: the hollow clumps on the planks, then muffled by the rug, and then scuffing to a stop at the table. Pryce’s low West-Country rumble was first, interspersed with Nathan’s gravel, Hodder’s assenting grunts in between. Their exact conversation was the language of mariners, hence far beyond her comprehension. Suffice to say, it meant more pricking the charts and more numbers to pore over.
Stretching luxuriously, Cate yawned, and prodded herself to rise and begin the day.
By the time she dressed and rounded the curtain, the men were gone, but their remnants— Nathan’s at any rate, for even if the captain’s cabin were considered public ground, no man dared to clutter it—were scattered about: a coat flung over a locker, a half-drunk cup of coffee, scattered charts, a propped open log book, and the lid half-off the honey jar. One couldn’t characterize Nathan as slovenly, but he did have a way of leaving a trail of rubble wherever he went.
As every morning, she was met by Mr. Kirkland’s miracle: an awaiting cup of steaming coffee, a blue-flowered porcelain pot, wrapped in towels and sitting on a heated brick on the side. Cate gratefully seized the cup and ensconced herself into the massive captain’s chair. She leaned back and propped her feet on the sill to watch the rain. Most of the time it was possible for the slanted windows to remain open during a rain, especially a gentle one such as then. A breeze wafted through now and again, rustling the logbook pages and stirring her hair. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the smell of fresh rain, salt, and tar.
Somehow, Kirkland always knew, virtually to the moment the cup touched the saucer, when her first cup was finished. As she poured the next, he inevitably arrived with breakfast, mutely nodding lest he interrupt her solitude. The meal usually consisted of scones or toast, fruit, and, when possible, something extra. The ship’s stores were ample enough to allow for much more, and Kirkland was willing to accommodate had she asked, but with nearly two hundred others to attend, she was reluctant to do so. That day’s fare was simple: toast, stewed dried apples and mango. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
The bell clanged. The pounding of feet up to the main deck marked the crew’s breakfast as over. The hands scrambled skyward to shake out reefs, bending day sails and packing on more. The quick thud of boots and a metallic jangle announced Nathan’s arrival in advance of him appearing at the door. His face brightened upon seeing her. He threw off his hat and shook off like a great dog, spraying droplets of water in all directions.
“I give you joy of this fine morning, luv!” he declared, beaming.
Cate wondered remotely if Nathan ever had a bad morning. Those same words had been the start of her day since boarding, but now they seemed to be more heartfelt, warming her more than any steaming coffee ever might.
His eyelashes and mustache glistened with droplets as he bent to kiss her. “Mmm,” she hummed. “Your lips are cold.”
Making an apologetic sound, he wiped his mouth on his damp sleeve and bent to kiss her again. “Better?”
“Much!”
He paused to swirl a finger in the honey jar, drew out a golden glob and popped it into his mouth, making soft smacking sounds as he fastidiously licked his fingers.
She reached to freshen his coffee, giving him a critical eye. “You’re wet as a whale already this morning.”
He shrugged as he snatched the log book, ink bottle and pen from the desk, and brought it back to the table. “If I minded the wet, I’d be in the wrong line of work.” He straightened to grin and spread his arms in display. “Sailors are ducks to water, luv. If it doesn’t come to us, then we go to it.”
“We had a dog like that when I was a child,” Cate mused. She settled deeper in the chair. “Stayed in the water so much, he smelled like an old washcloth most of the time.”
“Then he was a lucky dog, because he knew what he wanted and had found it.”
Nathan sat across from her, dipped the pen and began to write, more numbers it appeared. Kirkland mounted the galley steps bearing a plate. Round of head and face, a red-scarf covering his bald pate, he was an ex-solicitor turned pirate. His countenance was still suffused with pleasure as it had been since her return.
“Is that toast?” Nathan asked, craning his head.
“Aye, sir,” Kirkland said hesitantly as his captain rose to snatch one. Frozen in mid-step, his shock was equal to Cate’s. Meals for Nathan usually consisted of whatever might be grabbed in passing from a platter on the table. Kirkland maintained it with an ever-changing selection of temptations from fruit—apples, oranges, mangoes or dates—to bits of charqui, cheese or boiled eggs. For the most part, Kirkland’s good intentions were for naught; his captain rarely ate. To actually call for food was a first.
“Were the hens of a giving mood this morning?” Nathan called over his shoulder to Kirkland making his way to the galley steps.
The question stopped the ship’s cook in his tracks. “Aye, sir. Most generous.”
“Capital! Let’s have three and some of those sausages you keep ratted away. Hang onto those things like he’s expecting the King himself for his elevens,” Nathan directed to Cate.
From behind Nathan’s back, Kirkland cast a questioning eye at Cate. She moved one shoulder in a shrug, for she was equally mystified.
“Would you care for some as well, sir? Sir!”
Cate realized Kirkland’s query had been aimed at her. “Ahem, no thank you,” she said as she watched Nathan spread a great dollop of honey on the toast. He took a bite, rolling his eyes in delight.
The smell of frying sausages soon rose from the galley. Two more slices of toast had been devoured and washed down with great draughts of coffee by the time Kirkland reappeared. The platter he set before them was heaped with crispy brown meat, the fried egg yolks sunny yellow amid snowy whites. Millbridge—the ship’s senior-most member come to see the spectacle for himself—followed close behind, his somber disbelief dissolving at seeing his captain shovel the entirety onto his plate and dig in. As Nathan ate, it became evident how troublesome his throat was. He periodically winced, took a drink and swallowed more carefully again.
As Nathan industriously munched, a roar of obscenities rode the breeze through the cabin.
“Hodder is near apoplectic this morning.” Nathan waved his fork, a piece of sausage dangling from its tines.
Cate stirred from her distraction and shifted, grateful she wasn’t the one in the line of fire. “What brought that on?”
“Couple of raw new hands from the Bristol. No more lubberly, cod-handed pair has ever walked a deck,” he said with a doleful shake of his head. “Barely have enough sense to come in out o’ the rain. I’m inclined to think Thomas sent them over just to remind me what we were like at that age.”
“That bad?”
He snorted as he refilled his cup. “Not by half; never would o’ lived to tell of it. We’d both been to sea for a while, Thomas a year, me two or three. Still, the youngest always catches the gaff. They should just be grateful there’s no starting here like there was on our first,” he said, grimacing at the painful recollection.
“I’m not sure grateful is what they are thinking just now,” Cate said with considerable sympathy. She flinched at Hodder’s particularly vehement outburst of cursing, punctuated by the resounding whack. There might have been no starting on a human aboard the Ciara Morganse, but the wood surfaces were taking a serious beating by the length of rope, a fist-sized knot at the end.
“Shouldn’t you go—?” she began.
“I should not,” Nathan shot back adamantly. “The Company hasn’t been known to press gang before, but how else would they wind up with such dull-witted clods aboard the Bristol is beyond me. Even if they had only been to sea a week, they should at least know fore from aft by now. As it ‘tis they barely know their arses from their noses. They must be farmer stock, with naught a drop o’ salt in their veins.”
Nathan plucked another slice of toast from the plate, slathered it with honey and ate with great intent. He glanced up at one point, catching her staring. He waggled his brows, a deep red rising from his collar. “Seem to have worked up an appetite.”
Cate ducked her nose into her cup. The glow in her cheeks was matched by one lower down. She had been quite needful and Nathan had been most inventive in his eagerness to see her satisfied only a few hours hence.
She reached for a piece of toast and hesitated, staring at the plate.
“Something amiss, luv?”
She jerked, looking up to find him with his fork poised in mid-bite. “Huh?”
“You had a bit of an odd look there. Did one of those mangoes say something rude? Tell me and I’ll run it through with me sword, just to teach it good manners.”
“Umm, no.” Flattered by such gallantry—although misguided—she shook her head. “I was just thinking, I suppose.”
A rumble of thunder and it began to rain once more.
Pursing his lips, Nathan critically scrutinized her plate. “I suppose fruit could be a fascination, to the trained eye at any rate.”
Cate lifted the toast to take a bite, but slowly lowered it. A gorge rose in her throat and she dropped it, distastefully dusting her fingers off on her skirt.
“No, I was just thinking,” she said, looking down at the plate. “There was a time when this much food would have lasted me a week.”
Nathan sobered, the fork going forgotten in his hand. “It was that bad for you?”
“It’s not important,” she said, busying herself with pouring coffee.
“Bloody hell!” he declared with a curt swipe. “‘Tis enough to catch you by the lee! You’ve gone white as your shift.”
Old and thin, her shift was in fact far from white, but his point was made.
Nathan narrowed one eye in consideration. “You know, by some strange quirk,” he began, rising from his chair, “either by cunning or curse—which I have yet to figure out—you have caused to make me bare my soul. I’ve spoken to you of things I have never admitted to another living being, possibly including meself. And yet, I know blessed little about you.”
Cate inched sideways in her chair as he stalked toward her. “There’s not much to tell… really.”
“I hardly think so.” He leaned over her shoulder. “You’ve mysteries, Cate Mackenzie, a lifetime, in there, inside you.”
“It’s nothing like you,” she scoffed, leaning away. “The great adventures of Captain Nathanael Blackthorne.”
He had the good graces to look slightly embarrassed. “Not a legend, true enough, but you are a tale what needs telling.” His bells jangled as he angled his head to peer into her face. “You’ve kept it all inside, hidden away from everyone.”
Strolling back to his chair, he sat. He flipped the hourglass with a thump. Then he leaned back, crossed his boots on the table, and folded his hands on his stomach. “I’ve an hour to me watch. Enlighten me!”
On the surface, there didn’t seem much to tell, and yet, Nathan was correct: she did owe him. He had been open with her and, at the same time, she had effectively avoided telling him anything but the barest of details about herself. Brian had much the same complaint when they first met; speaking of herself had never come easily.
“I know so far as you leaving Scotland,” Nathan prompted.
General Cumberland had been very thorough in his crushing of the Highlands, in retaliation for the Stuart Uprising. Crops failed; game was scarce. Brian’s family and all the estate’s tenants were on the verge of starving. In a desperate move, he made arrangements for one of the tenants to report him to the British officials, and hence receive the reward, money which would provide for everyone… everyone except Cate. Wanted for war crimes as well, to remain on the estate would have meant to endanger everyone. And so, she left.
“It was spring. Brian had chosen to wait until the end of winter. It would be warmer for him in prison and no so treacherous for me to travel,” she said wryly.
It had been a week of unprecedented rain, rendering every trail—She hadn’t dared use the roads—a quagmire. The temperature hung barely above freezing, and she as soaked as Nathan just then, she had longed for her arisaid, a woolen shawl which would have kept her warm in spite of being wet, but to wear or even possess such a thing would have labeled her as a Scot, and hence, increase her risk of being arrested. With the only possessions or provisions being what could be stuffed into a saddlebag—that being lost in a treacherous river crossing—she rode by night from one shelter to the next, being handed off from one family alliance to the next, until there were no more.
She tiredly rubbed her forehead. “I shouldn’t have to tell you what London was like.”
Nathan would know of the filth and squalor, the streets filled with scuttling street creatures, with barely the rags to cover their bodies.
“But it was also perfect: it was the only place I could disappear, right under the sassenach’s noses, the very ones who wished to hang me. Why would they look for a Scot there?” she said smugly.
“But you weren’t… aren’t Scots.”
She smiled faintly. “Scot’s law made me one the moment I married one.”
“You don’t sound like one, that’s for bloody sure.”
“And that was my salvation.” It was the very thing which had isolated her in the Highlands, its inhabitants suspicious of anything foreign, the very thing which prevented her from being truly accepted. The comments behind her back, the cold shoulders, the sympathy for Brian, burdened with an outlander wife, hadn’t gone unnoticed. Gaelic was a language meant only for natives. In spite of her years in the Highlands and Brian’s constant drilling, she had gained only a rudimentary vocabulary.
“At first, I slept in barns and sheds—they can be very warm and comfortable,” she qualified to Nathan’s scowl. “The lack of food was the worst. The only thing which marked one day different from the rest was a matter of how bad the hunger pains were.”
Hunger dragged like a millstone, making it difficult to move, nigh impossible to think. Food became one’s single thought. Hollow-eyed, disease-crazed whores roaming the streets were a constant reminder of what awaited if she were to falter and fail. So much depended on luck and a few connections.
“You once said desperate people do desperate things, and I was desperate… enough to steal.” She glanced up at Nathan, expecting to find disgust, but found only admiration.
His wince indicated he was familiar with the toll that first step into degradation took. “You lasted far longer than I from that transgression. I was ten.”
“I only did it once,” Cate was quick to add. “Well, twice, and only from someone I judged could afford it. It always haunted me that what I took might have caused someone else to starve.”
She sighed. “Eventually, I found a position in a boarding house. It meant scullery, emptying slops and boiling laundry, but it included a place to sleep and, most of all, food. It was only what left after the guests, but it was more than I had in weeks.”
The thought of her doing such menial labor darkened Nathan’s mood even more.
“It wasn’t bad,” she added.
He wasn’t convinced.
Cate fingered the toast as if it were a piece of fine silk. “The food was no more than cold porridge, bread or broth, and it was only a cot in the corner of the attic in which to sleep, but it was a vast improvement.”
She closed her eyes, and the damp of England crawled back into her bones. The downpour outside the stern windows merged with the rain which had pounded the roof of her cramped nook as she lay on a pile of wood shavings, the icy drips running down her neck as she huddled under a sacking blanket.
Cate shifted in her chair, conscious of Nathan’s gaze. “Then one day, I was thrown out. I never learned why. Luckily, I had made an acquaintance who introduced me to Mrs. Crowder, a mantua-maker who owned a shop in one of the more respectable sections of London. When I showed my embroidery to her, she hired me on the spot.”
The vertical lines between Nathan’s brows deepened. “You said your little roses had been your lifeblood.”
She nodded. “Probably would have starved without them,” she mused. “I could do something no one else could.”
Another roll of thunder was the storm’s adieu. Nathan brooded for several moments and then thumped his fist on the table. “Why the goddamned hell didn’t you tell me of this?”
“Didn’t seem important,” she said in all honesty. “It was the past; I was here, which meant I survived. You should have seen me then; I was a scarecrow. I actually gained weight on the Constancy.”
Cate looked up into a pair of heart-catching eyes gone dark and intent. “And then, one day, we were attacked by pirates… and I was taken away.”
She reached out to take his hand, so warm and solid; the anchor she had sought for so long. “And I’ve never been the same since.”
“Cap’n?”
They jerked apart. Pryce stood in the doorway, Hodder at his side, both plump with urgent expectation. It was notable that they remained at the coaming as opposed to entering, as was their custom.
“Aye, Master Pryce?”
Grim and solemn as watchdogs, Pryce and Hodder exchanged significant looks. The compression of Pryce’s mouth indicated he had something to say, but was loath to utter it. The entire show brought Nathan up from his chair.
“What is it, Pryce?”
“Um, well, d’ye see…” Pryce licked his lips, looked to Hodder, and then back. “By yer leave, sir. The crew waits upon your leisure for a meetin’.”
Nathan stiffened, his attempted smile never quite materializing. “Any notion what prompted said meeting?”
Pryce fixed his attention on the hat he held, a disreputable looking straw tricorn, worrying it so much one feared for its survival. A stone-faced Hodder stood next to him, so formally rigid he might well have been made of stone.
Finally, Pryce peered up through his grizzled brows. “I’m thinkin’ t’would be best, if ye were to come out… both o’ ye’s.”
Nathan moved to stand beside Cate. “Are you sure we mightn’t allow her to remain here?”
“No.” Pryce’s eyes darted, unable to find a comfortable place to land. “Mr. Cate’s presence is most definitely required.”
As Nathan took Cate’s elbow, his other hand curled for the weapon which wasn’t there. His pistols and sword lay across the table where they had been dropped earlier. She glanced up into his almost apologetic look. Grim and resigned, he escorted her out.
Recollections of an earlier mutiny attempt just a few weeks ago were sharp in Cate’s mind. It had been much the same scenario: a routine day, conversation with Nathan and then within moments he was surrounded by a group of ship’s thugs, “sea-lawyers” as he had called them, seeking to take his ship and cast him over the side like the morning’s slops. The timing for such a thing now, however, was odd. Discontent was the most common motivator. The greatest eraser of that, however, was money, and a very large amount of it had very recently been dropped at their feet, literally, in the form of the ransom paid by Lord Creswicke. Figuratively speaking, every pocket bulged. Glancing at Nathan, she saw that, behind his commanding mask, he was equally puzzled.
The deck had already been swabbed and flogged dry. The sun-bleached oak gleamed in the sun as it broke from behind the scudding storm clouds. The Morganse barely listed in the easy breeze which curved her sails, the water almost silent as it slipped down her sides. The entire crew, minus the helmsman and the Captain-of-the-Watch, stood waiting. Coughing nervously, they shuffled to surround Nathan and Cate once they drew to a halt. Nathan grasped Cate’s hand between them, pressing it against his leg. His tension had prompted her to expect a hostile environment, but the greatest disquiet seemed to emanate from him. A few of the hands smiled briefly or touched their forelocks in salute when she made eye contact. Most looked fixedly to the deck at their feet, embarrassed or angry, it was difficult to discern.
“Gentlemen?” Nathan’s single word called the meeting to order.
All eyes swiveled to Pryce. First Mate made him the Captain’s representative, yet Quartermaster was the crew’s man. That one person would hold both titles was unique to the Morganse. It was a measure of the man: one who suffered no laggardliness, and yet was meticulously fair.
Pryce cleared his throat several times. “Cap’n, the men, meanin’ me, as well, have been considerin’ that perhaps a change in command might be in order.”
Nathan flinched, his grip on Cate’s hand tightening. “Change?”
“Aye,” Pryce continued, gathering momentum. “And they—me included, do ye see—are beggin’ yer approval, as it were.”
Nathan stepped to put himself in front of Cate. “Approval?”
“Aye.” Pryce closed one eye against the sun. “Approval in the way of a realignment of duties.”
Nathan closed his eyes and swayed. “And?”
“We—me and the crew—were of a mind that we’d all be feelin’ a might better…”
“Suffering Christ, Pryce, out with it!” Nathan growled, glaring.
Taken aback by Nathan’s vehemence, as were several others, Pryce swallowed hard and forged on. “We wuz thinkin’… as mebbe t’would answer better, if… if… Mr. Cate was to serve as Quartermaster.”
Nathan was vaguely nodding as if resigned to agreeing whether he wished it or no. Now, he canted his head, startled. “You desire… what?!”
“Mr. Cate,” Pryce repeated, patiently, “as Quartermaster.”
“Aye, sir,” said Hodder, stepping up. “We recognize it puts a good deal o’ more work on her… him… lists ‘n books ‘n all, but we—”
“We’d feel more the better, if it were Mr. Cate making the allotments, sir,” cut in Millbridge from among the ranks. “No disrespect to Mr. Pryce, of course.”
“Of course,” Nathan muttered under his breath, still trying to sort it all out.
A general murmur of agreement came from all around.
Pryce solemnly turned to Cate, worrying his hat all the more. “T’would mean a good deal o’ record keepin’, sir. Quartermaster’s what keeps the prize book and sees to it each man receives the fair share what’s comin’, no more, no less.”
It was a good thing Nathan was there, for Cate was now the one to sway. “I understand, Mr. Pryce, but the Quartermaster settles disputes and hands out punishment? I don’t know—”
Pryce waved an unconcerned hand. “As to that, ye can stand easy. As to t’other duties—leadin’ the raidin’ parties, meting punishment and such—I’ll attend. We’d be best pleased, if you were to consent, sir.” He finished with a smile—albeit distorted—full of hopeful persuasion.
Pryce and Hodder stood elbow-to-elbow. It was a bit shattering to see the two most formidable men aboard reduced to something which verged on, dare she say, humble? A glance found the same expression on nearly every weathered face. There were a few sour ones, but those wouldn’t have smiled if the King were to kiss their foreheads.
Nathan’s hand squeezed tighter, the corners of his eyes crinkling with pride. “’Tis your pleasure, luv?” He cleared his throat, his normal gravel gone hoarse. “T’would seem the men have voted, but nothing’s written until you’ve agreed.”
He leaned closer to whisper, “Never fit in, eh? Seems you’ve found at least one parlor what suits you well.” He arched his eyebrows meaningfully.
Many weeks ago, in a moment of anguish, she had bemoaned a life of never fitting in. It had been no exaggeration. From a lone daughter among five brothers, to a wife accepted by the clan only through her husband’s iron will, to living destitute and alone for too many years, she had felt the odd duckling. Too tall, too forward, too foreign, she had never found her niche… until then.
Cate’s mouth moved, but words weren’t to be found. Gulping, she tried again. “Very well. Agreed.”
A collective gasp of relief was followed by the rumble of mutual congratulations and murmurs of triumph.
“Three cheers for Mr. Cate! Hip, hip! Huzzah! Hip, hip! Huzzah!”
The smile Nathan wore said it all. He lifted her hand he had been holding to his lips.
“Never kissed me officer’s hand before,” he mused, looking up through a heavy fringe of lashes. He struck a formal pose, swept off his hat and fluidly bowed. “C’mon, luv. We’ve entries in the Company book to make.”
Beaming, Nathan’s hand was firm at Cate’s elbow as he guided her through the impromptu receiving line of well-wishing and congratulating which formed on their way to the Great Cabin. Grinning idiotically, mumbling a litany of “Thank yous”—those being the only two words which came to mind—Cate moved woodenly, still trying to assimilate it all. Once they were inside and alone, Nathan seized her up in a crushing hug.
“Well, done, luv! Bravo!”
Cate’s grin, which had become painful by that point, faded as she tried to grasp the finer details of what had just transpired. The skeptic might suggest Pryce had mastered a rousing coup: he had just divested himself of the most crucial but also most tedious task—apart from tearing oakum—aboard. In essence, the Quartermaster was the ship’s swag-and-shares bookkeeper. And yet, at the moment, Cate couldn’t think of another gesture which would have flattered her more. She was needed. She belonged.
With great pomp, Nathan pulled the ship’s book from its place of ensconced honor at the desk. Equal ceremony was put into bringing out the ink pot and pen, arranging them on the table next to it. Nathan dipped the pen and bent to make the entry. He hesitated then slowly straightened. His mouth compressed as his fingers drummed on the wooden surface. Finally he flung the pen down, spattering ink everywhere, jumped up and set to pacing.
“To sign your name could be tantamount to signing your death warrant.”
“I beg pardon?” she asked stupidly, her joy deflating.
He rolled his eyes impatiently at her failure to comprehend. “To put your name there makes you officially a member of this crew,” he said, emphatically stabbing the page with his finger. “It makes you a pirate.”
“Pirate or traitor: it’s only a matter of the word on the warrant.”
He spun around and glared. “You’ll be hanged.”
“Or drawn-and-quartered,” she countered, for the Crown had pledged that would be her sentence, if and when she was captured.
He whirled around and bellowed out the window, “Goddammit to suffering hell, I didn’t want this for you!”
Seething, he stalked the room.
“I made my choice,” she finally put into the bristling silence.
“It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he said glumly. “That first day, that first battle, I saw then you’d been blooded. I knew it was already too late. You’d seen it all and suffered it all. You wished to leave—”
“And then, I decided to stay.”
“Only because I—”
“Because you made me realize this was where I needed to be,” she said firmly. On this point she wouldn’t yield. “You’ve given me a home, and most importantly, a reason to live. If it’s a reason worth living for, then it’s a reason worth dying for, as well.”
He glared over his shoulder. “Aye, but you shouldn’t have to be ruined by it.”
Gasping in exasperation, Cate strode to the table, dipped the pen and signed the book. Once it was sanded, she stood back, propping her hands on her hips. “There! If Catherine Harper is arrested, she’ll hang for piracy. If Catherine Mackenzie is arrested, she’ll be drawn and quartered for treason.”
Nathan slumped and braced his hands on the gallery sill. “Seems I can protect you from nothing.”
Cate came up behind him. She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his back, the muscles hard under her cheek. “I made my choice.”
His hand came up to clasp hers at his middle. “You deserve better.”
“Indeed?” she asked complacently. “And where might that be? Ashore, alone? No home, nobody, no thank you.”
He straightened and turned into her arms. She settled her head comfortably on his chest, reveling in the simple joy of now being able to do that. No guns or fortress could provide the sense of safety and protection which could be found there in the bastion of his arms.
“Pirates are all about their treasure. I’ve found mine and I’ll keep it, thank you very much,” she said.
A fine tremor coursed through his body. “Before all that is holy, I swear I will see you safe.”
She gulped and nodded, her gaze unwavering from his. It was no small oath. He would die for her as she would die for him. She cupped his cheek and gently kissed him, sealing her pledge. There was no corner of the earth or sea he wouldn’t reach. She, too, knew what the price might be, carried the same scars, and would do it all again, if required. “I believe you.”
They held each other for a good while. The heart pounding under her ear slowed and the tension in the back under her hand eased.
Nathan sighed in resignation at last. “I wish I knew what sea goddess or heavenly being brought you to me, for I would pay them their honor, tithe every farthing in thanks.”
He raised her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, his eyes burning with resolve and conviction.
“You’re safe here.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “Mr. Kirkland will feed you like the veritable fatted calf, if you wish.”
Tilting his head, he admiringly took her in, pausing at breast, waist and hips. “You’ve enough curves now that I can barely walk about decent. There’s more than one reason why I wear that coat. Put on any more curves, luv, and there will be no hope for me.”
A short while, and a second breakfast later, Cate stepped out of the cool dark recesses of the cabin, into the blazing lively activity of the deck.
She was still struck to the point of speechlessness at being elected to Quartermaster. No one had taken such notice of her since her marriage into Brian’s family, the immediate family at any rate. She wanted to squeal with elation and hug every soul she met, with a few minor exceptions, for it hadn’t gone unnoticed the election hadn’t been unanimous. She positively bubbled with the obligation to move about the ship, to directly thank as many as she might for their vote of confidence.
Neither had the joy of returning to the Morganse worn off.
The Morganse was a tightly run ship, but she wasn’t a taut ship, like the Constancy, where the decks had been mortally silent. Here, so long as they tended their duty, the hands were at their leisure to chat. Under the sounds of sailing—and sailing was a noisy business—was usually the hum of conversation and laughing with the exchange of barbs and jests. Quids of tobacco was allowed for those lucky to be on duty on to leeward, where spitting over the side was readily to hand. Those to windward didn’t dare stray so far from their posts, and lo unto the poor unsuspecting soul who sullied Hodder’s holy deck!
The first few days of being under weigh the tempo had been near frantic. If the business of sailing didn’t occupy one’s hands, then the business of repairing their ship did. Not an idle hand had been visible. If nothing else, one could always grab sandpaper, a paint brush, or roll oakum.
The Morganse had won her anchor and made weigh. So much effort had been into putting the Bristol—or rather the Lovely—to rights after the battle, there was still much to do in the way of repairs. Hodder, looking particularly haggard, the foremast jacks and topsman jammed the rigging and decks, knotting and splicing and bending sails, while at the same time attending an actively sailing ship. MacQuarrie and his guncrews worried over their charges, reaming barrels and touch holes, greasing trucks and resetting tackles. The chink! chink! of caulking hammers and Petrov’s anvil hammering out nails and fittings were a constant backdrop.
That day, however, the mood was less frenzied, but still busy. The bosun’s mates and jacks no longer cluttered the deck. Much of the activity had settled to the more time-consuming process of Chips and his mates rebuilding ports, spindles, rails and knightheads. MacQuarrie’s crews still milled about their pampered guns, for there was always something to be attended on the carriages or tackles. The caulking hammers were still in strong use, the smell of paint and varnish joining that of tar stoves.
Cate stepped carefully around where, in the midst of it all, a new staysail was being laid out. Nathan and Billings, the sailmaster, critically eyed what was no more than strips of canvas at that point from every angle. She stood listening to the exchange of opinions between the two, trying to look interested. Well hidden under a luxuriant mustache, Billings suffered a severe deformity of the mouth and spoke with an impediment which rendered him incomprehensible to the unfamiliar. His captain, however, seemed to be well-versed, nodding intently at Billings’ every reply. The conversation, however, was filled with a degree of technicality far beyond Cate’s seamanship. By her estimation, the Morganse had a compliment of some thirty or more sails, many with heavy, medium, light and storm-weight versions. It was difficult to believe one small sail could have such an influence, for they scrutinized it as if the ship’s very existence might hinge on that one spread of canvas. Her eye wandered up to the vast expanse of the maincourse overhead, its foot spanning the width of the ship. As a sempstress, it was a wonder as to how one constructed something of that dimension with naught but twenty-four inch strips. “Sailmaster,” indeed, the emphasis on the word “master.”
Pryce stood nearby, observing. She had intended to have a word with Pryce since they had hauled anchor a few days ago. Approaching someone so formidable always came with trepidation. Now, in light of her new assignment, however, a word was compulsory. The First Mate offered no thoughts on the new sail for a period long enough to convince Cate that his presence was perfunctory, and so she worked her way around next to him.
“I was thinking perhaps I owe you a note of thanks,” she said quietly. Not by plan, she addressed the side of his face which was unscarred and whole. It made approaching him much easier.
One shoulder moved in a dismissive shrug. “There be no cause, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir anymore, Pryce. We’re equals.”
It was an uncomfortable thought. One would have to be a brazen fool to put themselves on the same level as him. Pryce had been the first pirate she had ever seen, and a fearsome sight he had been. The gargoyle-like face had only been a small part of it. It had been his presence and severe eyes which had her believing he would have ordered her death and laughed in the process. Since her arrival on the Morganse, however, he had always been congenial, sometimes outright amiable. She could never call him a friend, but he was always friendly. Still, he wasn’t a man to be taken lightly.
“I’m inclined to be thinkin’ ‘Nay’ on that. Equals in the muster book, aye, but…” He looked to his feet, suddenly unable to meet her eye. “You deserve far better to be sure. T’will be Master Cate, sir, and make no mistake.”
“Not Master MacKenzie?” she asked, both curious and teasing.
He glanced up from under the grizzled brows. “No need to be advertisin’ what not need to be known, especially considerin’ a couple o’ these rum coves from the Bristol,” he added, casting a scornful eye down the deck. “These ol’ eyes ain’t seen a sourer nor sorrier lot in many a year. Master Cate will serve quite nicely.”
“Very well,” she surrendered. “But I had another reason to give my thanks: for the other day, with the island and all.”
Momentarily puzzled as to what she was about, a blush rose up Pryce’s sun-leathered neck. He turned to the rail. On the surface, it was a casual move, but with the single purpose of achieving the closest thing to privacy two hundred men. The destroyed side of his face was now toward her.
She glanced over her shoulder to assure Nathan wasn’t within hearing. “If it hadn’t been for you and Thomas, well, who knows.” The thought of what might have happened had Thomas and Pryce not intervened still made her queasy.
Pryce waved her away. “’Twas only for the good ‘o the ship and crew. ‘Tis rare for the Cap’n to suffer alone. He was miserable and, therefore, everyone around ‘im was.” He grimaced at the recollection.
His distorted mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I’ve known Nathan for nigh on to a score o’ years.” He gave the deck a conspiratorial glance and leaned closer. “Watch ‘im, what he don’t say and what he don’t do. Then ye’ll know Nathanael Blackthorne,” he added with a knowing wink.
“Will anyone ever know Nathan?” she asked a little bleakly.
Pryce compressed his mouth in consideration, the grey eyes sharpening. “Only if he wishes it. Ye’ve earned his trust, lass. ‘Tis no small feat. Might not be my place to say—and ye’ll forgive me for sayin’ so—but I ain’t seen him this happy since he got the Morganse back.” He lovingly stroked the rail.
“Besides, ‘twasn’t a decision o’ one.” Lifting a suggestive brow, he looked pointedly from crewmen to crewman.
“Them?” she gaped, finally catching his meaning.
“Just so, to the man, and there’s the truth on it. Mind, now.” He wagged a warning finger. “They weren’t about to suffer haulin’ anchor without ye.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Nathan pass. “I’d never hurt him, Pryce,” she heard herself say, her gaze lingering on Nathan as he mounted the quarterdeck.
“Aye, and every mother’s son aboard knows it. ’Tis a pity the same can’t be said for him,” Pryce sighed. “He’ll never do it intentional-like, but he’ll do it just the same, and now there ‘tis true a word as what’s ever been spoke.”
“Mr. Pryce!” Nathan’s graveled voice came down from the quarterdeck.
“Speak o’ the devil!” Pryce declared. He straightened and ducked a brief bow. “By yer leave, Master Cate.”
Cate looked up and down the deck and the flurry of activity. Everyone had a task, everyone a purpose, except her. Her hands twitched at her sides; idleness never came natural to her. Then she spotted Squidge, a bosun’s mate, overseeing the painting detail, extra buckets and brushes at his feet. Squidge barked an objection at seeing her pick up one, and a tug of war ensued.
“You’re Quartermaster now, sir. ‘Tisn’t fittin’,” Squidge declared, feeling his captain’s disapproving glare from down the deck.
Cate felt the same glare, but ignored it. “Neither is it fitting for me to idle about when there is work to be done.” With a final jerk, she freed the bucket from his grasp. “Besides, you didn’t give me the job, I took it.”
At the feet of Billings’ mates she found a worn strip of Number 8 canvas and bound it about her head. What Nathan might think of black paint in her hair she had no notion, but there was little doubt as to what his opinion would be if her hair wound up in his paintworks. She moved to a stretch of new rail and wetted the brush.
Dip. Stroke. Dip. Stroke, back and forth. Back and forth. Painting had a mesmerizing effect, the gleaming oak disappeared under a coat of shining black, the smell of new wood giving way to the sharp resinous tang of wet paint. Indescribable pride filled her when standing back to look at a painting just finished.
There was a camaraderie which came with working together. It was the common bond among all sailors: the welfare of their ship, for it was the only thing between them and Perdition. Without it, nothing but Jones’ Locker awaited. She had envied Nathan, for he had always known where he belonged—the sea—and had always had a means to be there, as a part of a crew in his early years, and then later, as a captain. Now she felt an integral part of his world, not just an observer, but a functioning part. A lifetime of being excluded and not belonging fell away. Her soaring spirits strained for an outlet, so she hummed a low tune. Whistling was strongly frowned upon, for every soul at sea knew it brought wind, and therefore bad luck. Oddly, on one or two occasions, she had witnessed Millbridge, the ship’s sage, being asked to whistle them out of a doldrum.
“Heard there was a doxie aboard” came from directly behind her.
Startled, Cate spun around. The brush slipped from her hand at the sight of the face staring back. It was like looking at a portrait of Nathan as a lad. The features were softer and snubbed by youth, but he had the same luxurious, coffee-colored eyes, framed by double lashes. Wearing breeches and a shirt so worn as to be almost sheer, he was perhaps a half-head shorter than Nathan, making him roughly her height. His shirt, at least three times too large for him, hung half off one shoulder, showing the gangling looseness of limb which came with youth. Instead of Nathan’s blue-black, his hair was more sable, but just as thick.
She darted a look at the one standing next to him: younger by a couple of years, slim, fawn – colored curly head—the kind many women would envy—and a long, hatchetish face, but nothing like his companion. His clothes were so faded and much-patched it was difficult to discern an original color.
Thank God there is only the one!
“Is your quim the same color as that hair?” The tallest smiled, that same square-toothed one—the one which was known to stir her to her depths—was so similar it caused her to cough.
“I fancy dippin’ my prick.” He gave the waistband of his worn breeches a meaningful tug. “I’ll give you three shillings for a poke.”
“I beg your pardon!” she sputtered, finally finding her voice. The language was no great shock; she’d heard far worse living in East London. The shock was having it directed toward her. Upon reflection, she recalled hearing juvenile snickering just before they had approached her. She rued having not taken heed.
He pressed closer, backing Cate up against a gun carriage and lowered his voice. “I can promise you a better ride than that old codger, the Cap’n. It’ll be a joy like none o’ those other sods.”
A bit steadier now, Cate fought back a smile. Most whores of her acquaintance had been well past the “joys” aspect of their profession.
“Five shillings for two, him ‘n me.”
The smaller one’s eyes rounded. “Have a care. I’ve heard she can curse you with those eyes,” he hissed under his breath.
The older one regarded Cate with a disquieting coldness and smiled crookedly… the same one she had seen countless times, the one meant to charm. “Not the eyes I’m interested in. They’ll be closed in ecstasy.”
In a clatter of ivory rings, Hodder stepped up, wedging himself like a shepherd with its flock between Cate and the lads. “Meet John Wareham,” he said, clapping a hand on the eldest’s shoulder. “And Ben Crumb, sir.”
He swiveled around on the two boys. “What the fucking hell are you two doin’ standin’ there w’ yer thumbs up your arseholes, when I bid you twice to report to Chips? You don’t know your arses from a cathead, but perhaps you can muddle out which end of a sweep to clap on to!”
A few of the hands within earshot—which were considerable, given Hodder’s powerful lungs—looked on with compassion; no one wished to come into Hodder’s line-of-fire. Most, however, only smirked.
“Make your apologies for takin’ up Master Cate’s time, and then your respects, ya weeviled whelps!” Hodder went on with an encouraging cuff.
John jutted a belligerent chin, one which looked even more familiar. “Ain’t makin’ no respects to nuthin’ that’s no more ‘n the Cap’n’s whore.”
Hodder’s cuff to the ear sent John tumbling backwards to the deck. Sputtering in indignation, fist doubled, John tried to launch up, but the bosun’s foot on his chest stopped him. The Morganse was not a starting ship, but Hodder carried one in his hand at all times, whacking the rope’s huge knot on any surface nearby, the mere noise to set a mule into motion. His massive fist tightened around it, sorely tempted.
How Nathan had managed to approach without notice was anyone’s guess, but there he stood, nonetheless. Another step and he was in front of Cate. “Nathan, no!” she blurted and grabbed his arm as he drew back a foot, aiming to kick the boy in the ribs.
“I’ll slit the little bastard’s gut!” he growled, struggling against Cate’s restraining arm across his chest.
A calmer head finally prevailed. Nathan stepped back, chest heaving. His hat cast a shadow over an even darker expression as John scrambled to his feet. Cate almost lost control of herself. Seeing the two face-to-face, the resemblance was staggering. The dark smudge of hair on John’s upper lip, the infant stages of a mustache, only added to the likeness. The line of the jaw and nose; set of the shoulders: it was a glimpse of what Nathan would have been as a lad.
“’Whore?’” Nathan echoed in a low rumble at John. “I’m of a mind to cut that tongue out and feed it to you.”
Cate glanced up. No, it wasn’t a jest. His thunderous expression was recognized by many of the crew who wisely retreated. Another glance revealed Ben, the younger and smaller of the pair, perceived the impending danger and fell back a step, as well. Chest heaving, John stood cocky and defiant, so much like… his father.
The term came with difficulty. There was no denying the boy’s parentage, and yet the title— even mentally—came with effort. A lot of words came to mind when one thought of Nathanael Blackthorne: pirate, rogue, blackguard, captain, but father was not among them. Cate surreptitiously closed one eye to consider Nathan. In truth, being captain was much like being a father to two hundred. Authoritative and fair, he was a natural born leader; men always followed him, according to Thomas, who had known him since they were roughly John’s age. Yes, father, but certainly not in the domestic sense. Home, wife, children would never be in his realm. She smiled sadly to herself. It seemed it was doomed to never be in hers, either.
As Nathan berated the lad further, Cate gaped at him, wondering if and when he was going to notice the resemblance.
Hodder looked first to the sky, and then the deck.
Yes, he had noticed.
Towers and Smalley, both waisters, were inordinately occupied by flemishing and re – flemishing, and then flemishing a sheet.
Yes, they noticed.
Several more about the deck stood in mid-motion, elbowing their mates and pointing.
Yes, them, as well.
No, the resemblance wasn’t her imagination.
Nathan finally felt Cate stare—Dammit, she couldn’t help it!—and stopped in mid-sentenced. “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” Pressing her fingers to her mouth to keep from smiling, she looked away.
“Perhaps I should bid the sailmaker to sew his mouth shut.”
Cate glanced up at Nathan. Neither was that a jest.
Hodder wedged his way forward. “Stand easy, Cap’n. We’ll handle this.”
The bosun seized John by the collar and gave him a solid shake. “She be the Quartermaster and, therefore, an officer, which means you’ll show every bit o’ respect due.”
Eyes glittering with hatred, John ducked a bow as rigid as the mizzenmast and knuckled his forehead with a fist. “Your servant, mum.”
The last word was spit out with an inflection which made Hodder and Nathan jerk.
Nathan’s eye narrowed, sharp as a marlin-spike. “Mr. Hodder, I’m thinking since these two fine strapping examples of manhood are so interested in the ladies, perhaps they might enjoy kissing the wooden one, until.… oh, say, after the dog watches?”
“You can’t do that! There’s rules! Everyone has to agree…!” John shouted as he was seized up by Squidge, Towers with Ben directly behind, dragging them both toward the foremast.
“Hark! They have more brains than a knighthead after all!” Nathan turned toward the onlooking crew and spread his arms. “Do I hear any objections?” He leaned an ear for all of a split second, then turned back to John and demonstrably shrugged. “’Tis unanimous!”
“Vile, black-hearted, unhung pirate bastards! I’ll dance at your hanging! I’ll cut the eye out of your rotting bodies and piss in the—” John’s shouting was abruptly cut off by the mast, now close enough to be literally kissing the wood as his arms were lashed around it.
“Be glad you were saved, mate. Another minute and she’d ‘ave your young balls cut off and usin’ ‘em for earbobs,” a f’c’stlemen called aft.
“Cut off another’s cock, she did,” snickered Towers as he secured Ben in a similar fashion opposite. “Ran around a-bleedin’ like a stuck pig, he did. Now he carries it in a jar, all his mates callin’ him Pickle-cock.”
“Kissing the wooden lady” at first seemed to be a rather minor punishment. The first aspect of the punishment, however, became apparent when the bell rang a short time later, calling the men to their midday meal. As they filed to go below, a good number of the crew contrived to file past the boys, kicking, slapping or pinching their bottoms. Jeers, fingers stabbed into sides and ribs, hair tugged: any means to taunt were used. The new watch did much the same as they reported. Even those assigned to the afterdeck found an excuse to pass the foremast. It wasn’t so much the punishment as it was the timing. “After the dog watches” meant after supper. For growing lads, a meal missed was a piece of their life stolen. Two meals missed was tantamount to a death sentence.
Ben was both bewildered and immediately humbled. Forehead braced against the wood, he sobbed, John hissing at him to stop. Cate looked up from painting a couple of times into John’s glare. His eyes fixed on her with a blazing hatred which was too much like what she had seen weeks ago, when that same hatred had been in Nathan’s eyes, when he had been intent on strangling her.
The hours passed, the day’s heat grew, and the second aspect of the punishment grew more apparent. Any position, no matter how comfortable initially, would become a misery with time. Three, four, five hours later, standing half-bent over the belaying pins between them and the mast had to have been a torture rack. As the crew passed, they employed belts and bits of rope, not knotted, but still able to deliver a nasty sting. John continued to curse every tormentor, which only encouraged them all the more, Ben crying all the harder. The boy’s wrists grew red and angry-looking from their twisting to avoid another blow.
At one point, Cate ran out of paint and went to refill her bucket. As she bent to pick it up, a hand shot out and snatched it away. She straightened into Nathan’s glare.
“You aren’t to be lifting anything heavier than a coffee cup.”
She scowled, trying to figure out what he was about and then groaned. The child he assumed she was carrying. “For heaven’s sake, I’m not an invalid.”
“Neither should you be slaving like a—”
“I’m not slaving, I’m painting,” she said tartly over her shoulder as she returned to her stretch of rail. “You said it was better if you weren’t seen as putting on airs.”
“That was me, not—”
A louder outburst from John cut him off. Everyone was beginning to look a bit beleaguered.
Cate bit her lip. Ben’s sobs were beginning to tug at her heart. “They’re only boys.”
Nathan turned to follow the line of her sight, and then swiveled back, scowling. “Old enough to open their mouths and, ergo, old enough to suffer for it. Many a lad has been led down the path-of-destruction by a tongue what wouldn’t be bound.”
“Is that the sage voice of experience I hear?” she asked as he set the bucket at her feet.
He straightened, narrowed an eye and, in a fair version of Pryce’s West Country rumble, said “Mind yer duties, lass. Impertinence shan’t go unpunished.”
Through it all, Cate peered at Nathan, wondering when he was going to notice who John was. She clamped her lower lip between her teeth, biting back the urge to demand to know how he could do this to his own son or, even more pressing, how the hell he couldn’t have seen who he was?
“Shouldn’t someone bring them some water?” she asked instead.
Nathan snorted. “Perhaps they are suffering the consequences of their actions. They go thirsty, ‘tis because they have no mates who care. The greatest lesson at that age is the person you haggard today might well be the one you depend on for your life tomorrow,” he added coldly.
Cate couldn’t argue. It was a hard lesson, but no worse than the stocks, pillory, ear-pinning or a host of other punitive measures. Living on a ship with nearly two hundred others meant getting along. It wasn’t just a luxury, it was a necessity. Any sharp edges needed to be smooth quickly or there would be raw feelings which could readily fester into something worse.
“They shan’t be sitting for a day or so, I fancy. Even the seat of ease mightn’t come so… eh, easy.”
Cate looked up from her painting to see Nathan rocking on his heels in smug pleasure. “You’re enjoying this.”
Nathan paused and then beamed. “Dash me buttons, I am!”