Cate lay in the darkness staring at the sliver of light at the bottom of the door. It was her only connection to the world outside, her only reference to whether it was day or night. That single source, however, wasn’t sufficient to keep her oriented as to the passage of days. She had no notion if she had slept and wakened the same day, or if she had slept through the night?
On the other side of the door, voices and footsteps grew louder and then faded. No one came.
Her eyes slowly opened and closed, that small movement almost beyond her strength. Weak from hunger and thirst, to be sure, but lethargy and desolation had taken the heaviest toll. She was out of the habit of moving mostly because there was nowhere to go. Fear and destitution had their own scent. She had thought, nay hoped to never smell it from herself again, and yet there it was, sharp and acrid.
She had no notion of how long it had been since she had awakened and jolted upright with an immediate sense of being where she didn’t wish to be. Exactly where that was, however, was the question. Even now—however many days later, she couldn’t tell—she knew blessed little beyond the fact that she was on a ship and sailing to somewhere, the reek of bilges cloying in her nose. The awakening had been to complete darkness, the kind found at the bottom of a well. Instead of a round light overhead, as would be in that well, her only source of illumination was a sliver, thin even by sliver standards. A certain amount of groping about, ducking her head to avoid the beams overhead—discovered quite by accident, but a hard lesson well-learned—the light came from around a door. Further groping in the dark had defined the space: a cabin, not unlike hers on the Constancy, “bare as a Skyeman’s cupboard” as Brian used to say: a bunk, a shelf, a chamberpot and barely foot space to either.
Her awakening had been accompanied by a bashed head, an aching stomach—feeling much like the time she had been kicked by a mule as a girl—and vague recollections of being gagged and dragged off the Morganse, dropped into a boat and then manhandled onto another. Nearly every part of her body complained of a variety of abuses. A funny taste lingered in her mouth, a combination of blood and the grime of a hand she had bitten. The initial blow through the curtain had stunned her. She remembered hitting and being hit, several times. The visions of bodies, men and whores alike, scattered about the Morganse’s deck haunted her.
Dead… everyone dead.
Her earliest hours in this new place had been spent beating on the door, calling out, her threats and curses devolving into pleads. Finally, hot, tired and thirsty, she collapsed into tears, silent ones, that is, for she was loath to let the bastards—whoever they were—know that they had gotten the best of her. Sore fists had proved it was a solid door. She felt around for a chink or a hinge or someplace where she might focus a more clandestine escape attempt, but found nothing.
She stirred her head slightly on a mattress that smelled of old sweat and several other unmentionables. Now she understood the pride in the Morganse’s people of her being a dry ship. The wall at her back was constantly damp. The drips from the deck above smelled suspicious, suggesting the vessel wasn’t equipped with pissdale, or the crew were either too lazy or too drunk to avail themselves upon it. The scamper of rats in the darkness was one she remembered all too well from years of living in squalor. Her shoes were on the Morganse, so she had nothing with which to combat the beasts, often climbing up on the bed with her. The scuttle of cockroaches was familiar as well, mechanically flicking them away when they fell onto her from the beams above.
Her aching stomach and building thirst were her best measures of the passage of time. The lack of food and drink was making her fuzzy-brained. “Starvation” was a word which had begun to creep into her vocabulary. Through the years of destitution, she had learned how to exist on a heel of bread and a bit of broth or pickle, and ignore the hunger pains in between. Good living, on both the Constancy and most especially on the Morganse, had robbed her of the skill of going hungry. She still suspected a conspiracy between Nathan and Mr. Kirkland to see her as plump as a spring calf. But now, the all too familiar pangs were back and with a vengeance.
An occasional waft of rancid beef cooking or fish frying in very old—old enough to surely have been green—grease seeped into her small space. Her stomach growled while at the same time roiled in revulsion. The thirst was the worst, however. A benefit of crying was the tears, which she could flick from her cheek with her tongue and savor the moisture.
In the timeless void, Cate gleaned every fragment of information possible as to her whereabouts, gaining a sense of revenge that she wasn’t as ignorant as her captors obviously wished her to be. She was on a ship. So much a victim to wind and wave, it had to be considerably smaller than the Morganse and moving faster, too. The creak and moan of block and rigging was different as well. The immediacy of the reek of the bilges and periodic slap of water on the hull next to her head suggested she was below decks. Given the never-changing pitch of the deck, and what she knew of the prevailing winds, she thought the ship to be running with the wind as opposed to tacking, which would have involved a great deal of shouting and changing of the sails, which was never heard. It meant their course was either south or a little east of it.
The crew was smaller, and a sullen and reluctant lot they were. No task was executed without a great deal of cursing and bullying from the bosun and his mates. Judging by the voices in the passageway outside, they were a dissatisfied lot, the promise of a great pay-off the only thing keeping them in line. The frequent sounds of stumbling about and slurred voices suggested drunkenness was wide-spread. What was most remarkable was the stark absence of anything which resembled “Aye, Captain,” although there was an abundance of contemptuous references to whoever was in command.
The lack of respect toward anyone or anything ruled out that it was a Royal Navy vessel. The bullying on the part of the bosun and his mates ruled out it being a pirate ship. Privateer or merchant were the only remaining options. She fixed on the individual voices, so that she might be able to identify them once more, for when that inevitable moment came when Nathan would require information, for revenge and restitution would be prime in his mind.
Nathan.
She missed him with an ache that rivaled the one in her stomach, pinched with hunger. It was a wonder if he had yet discovered her gone. Would he have returned by now? Or would he still be deeply immersed in the “cultural riches” of Tortuga?
By some miracle, perhaps by the hand of Calypso herself, Nathan would find her. It might take time, but he would come. She believed it… She had to, or go mad else. There had been no great proclamations of his love, but he had defended her, killed for her, followed her across the Caribbean and rescued her from a sinking Griselle. He was no knight in shining armor, but he was her knight, and he would come, and in a black fury. Heaven help anyone who got in his way.
Frustration periodically gave way to tears, not crying for herself, but at the thought of never seeing Nathan again. She clasped the knotted center of her necklace; touching something he had made brought him closer. Every movement of her hand or foot was accompanied by the quiet clatter of the oddments on at her ankle and wrist. She didn’t need to look for she could see them clearly in her mind’s eye; she knew each item as well as she knew Nathan’s face. Taken individually, the bits of coral, shell, ivory or stone, tied or woven into the string ends, were unremarkable. And yet, each one seemed to possess a purpose. More than once she had seen him remotely fondling them as if assuring himself that each one were still there.
Regret was the worst, a constant raw, gnawing at her gut for all the time with Nathan she had wasted. She and Brian had known when it was the end. The most torturous hours of her life, and she had treasured every one. Everything had been said; everything had been done.
And with Nathan, what would you have done? Tell him you loved him?
She hesitated, unsure of what his reaction might have been. Relief? Puzzlement? Or would he have just laughed, amused by her innocence?
She bit her lip, considering.
Dammit, yes!
Knowing it was the last, with nothing to lose, dammit, yes! Not to curse or haunt him for all eternity, but for her own peace. And if he suffered a bit with the knowing, then so much the better. Misery enjoyed company.
Nathan had once told her his greatest fear had been to lie with her for the last time and not know it. And yet, she… they had done that very thing, wasting their last hours playing silly games, her being harpish and shrewish as an old fishwife, recriminating when she should have been cherishing him.
The blessing of tears was that they often led to sleep. Nathan came to her then with an immediacy that suggested he had been waiting for her. He reposed in bed, hands clasped behind his head, naked and in all his glory. His dark eyes fixed on her as she undressed were heavy with need. Other times they tumbled in the grassy shade of a hot pool, his eager hands and mouth tracing her shapes, his head dark against her pale skin as he bent over her breast.
The traitorous dreams turned nightmare. Cate woke panting and in a damp pool of sweat, her skin still warm and damp from where Nathan’s hands had rested. Worse, the darkness pressed around her all the more, leaving her all the more alone.
How many days had passed Cate had no notion when she was stirred from her torpor by shouting outside her door. It was a voice heretofore unheard, so remarkable its authority, it had to have been the captain. Heavy footsteps came down the passage and stopped. She had barely bolted upright and swung her feet to the floor before the door was unlocked and slammed open. Cate held up one hand, blinking stupidly, the stab of light doing little for the dull, pounding in her head. A man’s bulk filled the doorway, his shape was outlined by a glare of light. Sunlight, praise be, glorious and alive, streaming through a hatch grate over the passageway. With the man came wafts of fresh air. It stirred the cabin stillness, making it seem all the more stagnant. Blue sky, sunshine and fresh air! It was glorious, and she drank it in great draughts, clearing her head and lungs of the foulness.
The captain’s entrance came with the stench of stale urine and insides rotting from drink. His bulk made the cramped space seem all the smaller; Cate reflexively sought to retreat a step, but came directly up against the bunk.
Swaying, her visitor lifted the lamp in his fist and peered into the dim. “Christ, it smells like a goddamned privy in here.” The declaration came in a phlegm-thickened voice.
He coughed and swiped the result on his sleeve. “By death and damnation! The little scrub was to keep you fed. Can’t have you arrivin’ half-dead with starvation. Where is the little sniveler? I’ll carve his gizzard and fry it for my supper.”
The lamp lifted higher brought bloodshot eyes and a puffed, gray face riddled with sores into view. Staggering slightly, he caught himself on the door frame and leaned heavily. What was probably had been meant as a grin came off as more a sneer, revealing a mouthful of stumped teeth, black and malignant.
“Damn my eyes!” he declared, reeling back in disgust. “No accounting for taste is there? Never known Blackthorne to aspire much higher than a slut, although you do have fine skin.”
She tore her gaze from the blue sky and sunshine to one of raw hunger just inches from her face. “Nathan will kill you for this.” Her tongue was thick and wooden in her mouth.
The captain winced briefly, not the kind that came with the loss of a friend or acquaintance, but the kind that came with a loss of money or a task botched. He laughed, his foul breath filling the small space. “Sweet Jesus bless me! He’ll have to rise from his grave to do so. One of my men slit his throat, whilst he was humping a whore on deck.”
Leaning close enough for his breath to land hot on her cheek, he leered “You’re mine, darlin’ or will be, once he’s done with you. If I play my cards right, I’ll have you for half the price. A whore aboard is always good for the morale.”
A hand snaked out to hook her head, and he kissed her. His tongue plunged deep, the stubs of his teeth grating against hers.
He drew back, rolling his eyes beatifically. “Hmm, sweet, too! And plump enough to give a good ride. We’re gonna have a grand time!”
The brute stepped out and slammed the door shut. Cate sat on the edge of the bunk, staring with light-dazzled eyes into the renewed darkness, her heart pounding in her ears.
Nathan.
She buried her head in her hands and dug her nails into her scalp as if she could tear the words from her memory. Or, better yet, erase the visions from her mind. She had been haunted by the carnage she had seen on the Morganse’s deck while being dragged away. A slaughter, men and whores strewn together, bodies slashed, blood pooling everywhere.
It couldn’t be!
Nathan had gone ashore; she had seen him go. She had one ear cocked, listening for his voice and his step. She never would have missed his return.
Unless he didn’t wish you to, said a not so small voice.
There was no denying that, when he wished, Nathan could be as stealthy as a cat. He could cross a room—or a deck—without so much as a faint jangle of a bell… when he wished.
It can’t be! It can’t be! Not such an ignominious end for a legend!
Cate rose to pace the small space. Nathan couldn’t be dead. She would have known it, somehow, some way. She would have felt it, as she had when Brian died. Her hand drew up into a tight fist, her nails gouging her palm. Nathan was alive. The world still held the energy of life that was him. A stirring in her heart promised that.
The exultancy of fresh air and light faded, and the dark and dankness weighed heavily enough to shatter her spirits. The likelihood of ever seeing Nathan again seemed to fade with each clang of the bell. Her time with him would come to an end, she had always known that. But not this way and not so soon. She had always imagined the end coming by his doing, not someone else’s.
How would he remember her? It was a jolting thought. Fondly or only as the “bloody woman” with the “maddening tangle”? Or would she be the one who had reminded him of Hattie? It was easy to imagine the relieved look on his face, now absolved of the necessity to wash or shave, and being able to call his bed his own once again. She hoped he would recall her tenderly to some small degree. There were times, albeit fleetingly, she thought he cared more deeply than he was willing to openly confess.
Working herself into a complete state, Cate threw herself down on the bed, drew several calming breaths and stared into the dark. Those last hours with Nathan played through her mind time and again. Guilt and regret of wasting that precious time consumed her from the insides, like a great winnowing worm. Jealousy surged again at the thought of someone else filling her spot next to him in their bed. It might not be immediate, but it was inevitable.
She lurched to her feet and paced in the darkness. Three steps, turn. Three steps, turn. The passage had been made so often, she could do so without groping in the dark for the bulkheads. With the floor under her feet tending to caper about like a spring colt, she often stumbled.
Jealousy had always been her burden, from her earliest memories as a child. Brian’s loyalty had been above question. His eyes had only been for her, but a great many eyes had roved in his direction, and there had been many a harsh word and even harsher feelings. Nathan’s eye roved like a loose cannonball on a pitching deck. The mere rustle of a skirt was like a rabbit to a sighthound.
Nathan had left with a bevy of whores and assurances of his faithfulness.
She laughed aloud, harsh and derisive.
Faithful to his ship came as natural to Nathanael Blackthorne as breathing. Faithful to a woman? That would be as foreign as flying to a snake. She believed his pledge in so much as he had the noblest of intentions. Her lack of faith laid in his ability to resist. He was a man of large appetites. Of that there was no doubt. It would be like putting a starving man before a feast.
Her machinations were interrupted by another rattle of keys at the door. Cate turned her head against the glare as it swung open to admit a lad bearing a trencher in one hand, a leather noggin and lantern in the other. Around twelve or thirteen years of age, he was slightly shorter than she, gangling and knob-jointed, and a face full of spots. Two more men lingered in the door; with the sun at their backs, they were faceless hulks. Cate’s stomach detected the presence of food before her eyes did. It growled in eager anticipation, and she began to salivate.
The boy’s hound eyes rounded in earnestness as he set everything on the small shelf on the wall. “Honest, mum, it weren’t my fault. It weren’t no one, exceptin’ Cap’n G.” He seemed more grieved by the prospect of ill-will of his captain, than any hardship she might have suffered.
“The sotted ol’—” He bit off the rest. Realizing his near blunder, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “He’ll flay my back for sayin’, but he fell drunk a’fore he uttered a word in your regards.”
As he backed away, the two at the door shoved him into the passageway out of the way and lunged for her. Grabbing her by both arms, they tugged on her like two curs over a rag, one seeking to drag her out, while the other sought to drive her back onto the bunk. Cate let out a startled shriek. She aimed a foot at the crotch of one, while seeking to sink her teeth into the hand of another.
Her salvation came in the form of presumably the bosun, for he was a bull of a man with the voice and air of authority of one. The cramped space became a heaving mass of bodies with a great deal of meaty-sounding smacks and pained yelps.
“Cap’n says we are to deliver her untouched,” the bosun bellowed as he half-flung, half – pushed the pair out the door.
Catching himself on the door frame, one coughed and spit, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve. “Cap’n’s drunk and doesn’t know his arse from the afterdeck.”
“You desire to go aft and tell him that?” the bosun demanded, jerking his thumb in that general direction.
“What’s one more one way or another to a pirate whore?” the one bleeding leered.
“Are you willing to risk a fortune on that?”
“The bitch oweth me. She broke my fucking nothe.” The accusation came from the second one, his nasal sound and blackened eyes sure signs of having suffered that very thing. He spoke with a lisp caused by missing front teeth, a puffed mouth and bright red gums suggesting the loss of those teeth was very recent. Cate vaguely recalled whipping the back of her head into the face of one of her attackers. Pride surged at seeing the effect.
“We deliver her untouched,” the bosun said, giving them both another shove further out, “and we get paid. When he’s done with her, you can use her ‘til that poxed cock of yours finally falls off. Now haul yer sorry plagued-to-damnation arses out o’ here.” He raised his voice, a totally unnecessary measure, loud enough for the benefit of the curious crewman gathered.
With a parting glare, the pair shuffled off, grumbling. The bosun paused to fix his gaze on her quickly rising and falling bosom with such an open hunger, she stumbled back a step, fearing perhaps he wasn’t her savior after all. Then he hitched the front of his breeches and closed the door.
Cate swiveled her attention onto the lantern on the shelf. Minutes passed and then several more, but no one came for it. They must have forgotten in the excitement.
“A dull witted lot, too,” she said aloud. Raspy from thirst and disuse, her own voice sounded strange in her ears.
Ravenous, she fell upon the food. As she ate, flicking the Bombay-bombers aside, she watched the lantern’s light dance on the walls like a child fascinated by a new toy. Unfortunately, the light also allowed her to see what she was eating: a gray, gruel-like mass with lumps, which could have been anything from salt pork past its prime or something the cook hawked up. Apparently, she had been deemed untrustworthy or unworthy for there were no eating utensils. Ignoring the grime on her fingers and what looked to be places on the biscuit where the rats had gnawed—it being too hard and old for them—she broke off pieces, vigorously tapping the weevils out before softening the biscuit in the water, lest she crack her teeth. She thought longingly of the sweetness of the Morganse’s water butts as she drank for the water in the noggin smelled like a stagnant mud puddle. The liquid slithered down her throat, leaving an odd, slimy coating on her tongue. It was God’s milk!
As she devoured the meal, she warned herself to eat slower and save some for later. This bit could well be the last for several days. A good thought, but to no avail. It was a sudden wave of queasiness which ultimately slowed her down. She concentrated on carefully chewing, swallowing, and then counting to three before taking the next bite. A bit of biscuit was thriftily tucked into her pocket. After several more sips, she propped the vessel in the bunk’s corner for safekeeping and then sat back, feeling pleasurably sated.
Fastidiously licking her fingers clean, she took the opportunity to explore the cabin in the light, mostly to see if she had missed anything. Aside from a secret trap door through which to escape, finding a flint was her greatest hope, for then she could douse the lamp and relight it later, making the luxury last longer. As it was, only rat droppings, a troupe of cockroaches marching toward the trencher and a deepening sense of the filth were her only discoveries.
Moving the lantern to the bunk, Cate lay curved around it, soaking in its warmth. It was only a tallow candle, but its hot waxy smell was delicious. Dancing and flickering, the flame was like a living thing, defiant and bright in the face of the darkness. As it burned lower and lower, watching the flame became more like watching a loved one struggle a slow, inevitable death. It flickered, faded, flickered and then died.
The darkness returned.
With food came a new energy, and a raised level of vexation. Cate prowled like a caged animal, unsure if food or freedom were her primary fixation. The walls pressed closer, the ceiling seeming that bit lower, and the space even more airless. The cabin had to have been on the west side of the ship for, as the day wore on, it became like an oven. Insecurity kept her from taking her clothes, lest someone break in on her again. Her ribs and sides itched from her shift being embedded in the skin for so long.
A sizable part of her mind was occupied with trying to puzzle out who these men were and, more importantly, why they had taken her: to be ransomed; to be sold; to be used? Arrest seemed the most likely, these men a West Indies version of theiftakers. A woman with a reward on her head wasn’t a secret easily kept. The possibility someone from the Griselle or the Morganse had turned her in for some small remuneration came with a stab of betrayal. There was the not so small chance that they worked at the behest of the good Commodore Harte, perhaps after hunting down Captain Chambers and putting the proverbial two-and-two together. The mention of “fortune” by the bosun seemed to point toward that, although the word “fortune” seemed a bit of a stretch, unless the Crown had seen fit to substantially increase the price on her head. The references to “he” and her condition upon delivery were the flies in that ointment, if she were meant to be thrown in a gaol.
Since the end of that ill-fated Stuart uprising, she had come to terms with her fate, if she were ever to be captured: a trial, only to go through the formality of finding her guilty and then drawn-and-quartered. Such punishment was usually reserved for male traitors, but the Crown had promised an exception in her case. The condemned is hung by the neck, but not until dead. They are then laid out, their chest opened and their still beating heart cut out before a cheering crowd. The body is burned, the ashes scattered, which would all be well in her case, for there would be no one to mourn.
She raised a shaky hand to dash the sweat from her upper lip. A damp chill shot through her at the same time, in spite of the tropical heat.
One could always hope for a violent storm and the ship would sink before those shores were ever reached. Or perhaps they might be boarded by pirates and she would be taken away.
She smiled into the darkness at the irony of that, and indulged in a few wild dreams, of a great black pirate ship, flying a banner bearing a winged skull and halo, bearing down on the ship that carried her. A sweeping broadside, boarding in the smoke and Nathan would be there to carry her away.
“Lord, what a grass-combing, naive little wench you are,” she said to the darkness.
She froze at hearing the scrape and rustle at the door. Canting her head to listen more carefully, she recognized the sound of someone settling on the floor, a guard, most probably. Over the next bit of time, she could hear him shift, cough or clear his throat. The ship quieted, and she heard the purr of snoring.
She snorted. Fine guard! It was a wonder if the whole damned ship is inept.
It was a constant battle against the panic of this all turning into the same as when she had been taken before. She had stricken those memories from her existence, if for no other reason than there was no way to live with them else. She clenched her fist and pounded her leg. This wasn’t the same. It wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be. Taken, yes, but nothing like before. A small voice pointed out that the not so small difference was that there would be no grand rescue. Brian had solid land and tracks to follow. How did one go about following a ship at sea?
Nathan couldn’t be dead. Damn him for going to Tortuga. Damn him for all his evasions and secrets. If he would have allowed her to go with him, none of this would have happened.
She closed her eyes and reached out for Nathan with her mind. It had worked with Brian the time before. The two of them always knew what the other was doing, good or bad.
She concentrated harder. It rarely worked on a conscious level, on demand. It just came. Taibhsearchd the Highlanders had called it, a second sight. She clasped the oddments on her bracelet and then the knot of her necklace at the same time, willing his presence to come to her.
A breeze stirred the airless space, brushing her cheek. Then a warm spot bloomed, like a kiss.
I’m coming.
As it was, food was brought to Cate but one more time, and that was only by means of the door cracking open enough for biscuits and a mug of semi-rancid broth to be shoved in. How much later she had no notion, she was stirred from her torpor by a change in the motion of the ship.
Perched on the edge of the bunk, she listened, alert for any clue as to what was going on. She had been at sea long enough to recognize the voices and activity of preparing to set anchor. The course altered to a gradual curve, and the seas went from the long rollers of open waters to the short chop of a bay. A few more clangs of the bell, and the forward motion slowed, chain rattled at the forepeak, and the ship came to rest.
Wherever they were taking her, this was it. In all probability, whatever was to come wasn’t going to be pleasant. There could well be a time, in the not too distant future, when she would think lovingly of that wretched, filthy hole of a cabin.
They were barely at a standstill before there were more voices, and the bump, grind and scrape of boats being roused over the side. Against that backdrop, determined footsteps came down the passageway and Cate’s door opened with a suddenness that caused her to fall back.
“Bear a hand there! Seize her up!”
Temporarily blinded by the light, Cate couldn’t see his face, but recognized the captain’s voice. They jerked her out into the corridor, roughly bound her hands before her and shoved behind the captain as he clumped ahead. Mortally curious to see where she was, she furtively glanced around. It was indeed a small ship, smaller than the Constancy. Cluttered and cramped, gear and cordage was haphazardly stowed everywhere. The smell was barely better there, growing stronger around suspicious-looking dark patches on the deck.
Stumbling on unsteady legs, she was rough-handled up the steps and into the blazing sunlight. Momentarily disoriented, she felt like a hedgehog coming out of its burrow after a long sleep. In spite of the glare, she glanced to see the time; noon, she guessed. The sun’s brilliance might have been painful, but its life and warmth was glorious. Compared to below, the freshness of the air was almost staggering. She threw her head back and inhaled deeply, tossing her hair and shaking out her skirts. A vise-like grip on her arm stopped her.
“Call out or do anything, and I’ll cut the end of that pretty little nose off.” The captain brandished a knife before that very appendage.
The threat seemed in direct contradiction to previous comments of “untouched,” but she judged it unwise to point that out.
Considerably chastened, she bent her head but still glanced about, intent on gathering every shred of information possible as to the men and ship who had taken her. Even to her landsman’s eye, compared to the Morganse, it was a shambles: cluttered, grimy decks; haphazardly stowed lines, much of which were ragged and showing wear, with rot and peeling paint everywhere. The sails stowed on the booms hung like gigantic shirttails.
Looking up over the rails she saw they were in a harbor, large and bustling, with nigh on to a hundred ships. A stripe of green marked the trees of a low island, flat for a good way before rising to what only the most generous could call hills. Nestled in the arc of the bay, laid a town, more like a city for these parts, hazy in the heat and humidity. The far end of the island was obscured by a storm cloud and the slant of rain, slate and black against the azure sky.
Cate was half-dragged to the sea gate. With her hands tied, she was of little use to herself for going down the side, and so she was handed down with the same care as if she were a sack of peameal. A grunt from the captain directed her to the thwart. He sat heavily next to her.
The boat wove through the anchorage, the summer sun beating on her head. Small craft, tenders, bumboats, skiffs, rafts, turtlers, packets skimmed the water around the larger pinnaces, barqs and frigates—Yes, Nathan’s lessons hadn’t fallen on deaf ears; she was beginning to recognize the difference. What dominated the harbor, however, were the three and four-deckers, so regal in their grandeur they rivaled Indiaman. Fretworked, sculpted and scrolled at every possible aspect, the gold-leaf rivaled the sun in its brilliance. The brass guns looked to be gilded, as well.
Boatloads of women bobbed among the ships. As one passed nearby, the women hailed, offering their wares.
“Mind yer oars, you bunch o’ plagued, half-arsed buggers,” the captain growled.
Cate squirmed to clandestinely scan the harbor, in hopes—vague, but still a hope—of seeing the Morganse. She allowed momentary fancies of Nathan, in a black fury, swooping across the water, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her off in a grand rescue. The stuff of French novelettes, to be sure.
She jerked, her heart momentarily in her throat at catching sight of a ship that was vaguely familiar. The captain’s fingers digging into her leg stopped her short. “Mark me. Do not trifle with me.”
By the time Cate dared to peel her eyes upward again, the semi-familiar ship was out of sight. She slumped, cursing herself for such foolishness. Nathan had no idea where she was or who had taken her. How could he?
He’ll come. Dammit, I know he’ll come.
But how and, more importantly, when? The muffled rumble of distant thunder drew her eyes to the rain storm once more. Dark days to come, indeed.
The boat pulled nearer to shore, and the haze lifted, the town more visible. Rows of prosperous-looking homes, brick and wood, staid and painted, lined the shore, shoulder-to – shoulder like a phalanx of soldiers. Ashore, the activity centered around a cluster of buildings at one end. All brick, they were built in the symmetrical English modern style, although concessions had been made to the tropical conditions through the addition of long porticoes and porches, and shutters at the windows. With its walls, parapets, towers and gun slits, it had the look of having been built on top and around an old fort. Among the many warehouses sat a main building, toward which they seemed to be headed. Three stories showed above the wharf, with a lower level made up of entry archways at the water level. The building was crowned by a clock tower and a flagpole atop that. From there flew a massive flag: the red and white of the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company.
Creswicke.
Cate swayed in her seat, sickened at the thought of Nathan being duped, her as the bait. There was no doubt now. He knew where she was. Creswicke would make double, bloody damned sure of that.
Oh, yes, Nathan would be coming, and that was the hell of it.
In a sudden fury, Cate screamed and swung at the captain next to her, using her bound hands as a club. She kicked out, fortuitously catching one man in the crotch. The boat rocked precariously as they dove to stop her, but she didn’t care. Better they all overturn and perish; anything to foil Creswicke. She screamed again, a throat-tearing one, whether for help or out of rage she didn’t know. She swung and kicked at whoever came at her as she scrambled for the gunwale, meaning to jump. A hand clamped over her mouth and several seized her to wrestle her down into the boat’s bottom. She clamped her teeth into the hand; the owner bellowed and jerked away. She was slapped hard across her face, leaving the taste of blood in her mouth. She kicked in the direction it had come from; a fist hit her middle, driving the air from her lungs.
Half-paralyzed and gasping, Cate could only lie there as a filthy kerchief was tied over her face. Running from her forehead to her chin, it was too tight to breathe through her nose and could barely do so through her mouth. She lay in the bottom, a foot braced at the shoulder holding her there.
The sun’s heat abruptly went away, and everything took on an echoing quality, as if in a cave. A few more dips of the oars and the boat bumped into wood, a dock. She was roughly jerked up and manhandled onto the wharf and then half-carried, half-dragged out of the boat. She cursed and kicked out, trying to snatch the cloth away, but an iron grip on her arm stopped her. From amid the sound of lapping water came snickers at her attempts. A solid shake and the grip on her arm tightened to the point of making her yelp. Fingers digging into her arm, she was propelled forward, up the dock, the hollow clump of boots directly behind. The wood under her bare feet changed to stone, a few paces more, and they stopped.
“Got a hellcat there,” observed a new voice.
“Careful, that one bites.”
“Only once,” said the new voice ominously. “Then I’d knock those teeth out, so she could give me a real treat with that mouth.”
Low laughter revealed that there were a good many men present.
“This is it?” the comedian asked distastefully.
“It is,” said the captain from beside her. He sounded resigned, determined to see the end of a task done, a cargo delivered.
“Pirate slut,” was muttered from somewhere behind her.
“Very well.”
Cate was shoved forward. The pair who now held her gave her a warning shake.
He’s waiting in his office,” said one of her new captors.
The lap of water and echoes faded as she was taken down a dizzying maze of corridors, stairs and doors, descending deeper and deeper, the air thickening with mold and damp. Other than the footsteps of her two escorts, there was no other sound than their breathing, the occasional creak of leather and the tinny creak of the lantern they carried, judging by the smell of hot metal and tallow. Periodically, she jerked against their grasp, more for form, to file her protest, but to little effect else. Finally, with the clatter of keys and the metallic complaint of hinges being forced to move, the bindings at her wrists were removed and the cloth jerked away just before she was shoved in. The door slammed shut, the clatter of keys again and fading footsteps left her in total darkness.
Cate threw herself back in the same direction she thought was the door, but hit the stone instead. Groping, she found the wood, and threw herself at it again and again, screaming and cursing until she had no more strength. First with a hand, then a foot she found a ledge along one wall and collapsed on it. There she sobbed, her cries deadened by the stone surrounding her, pounding her fists until she could no longer lift them.
Hitching and sniffling, she lay on the cold stone, a thin screen of straw under her.
She listened carefully, thinking—in a small way hoping—that there might be someone else in there with her. Other than the distant drip of water and the scamper of tiny feet, there was no other sound. She rose and extended her hands in front of her, unable to even see those as she explored. The cell proved to be a bit larger than the cabin she had just left; she could take four steps in one direction and five in the other. The eye-watering stench of bilges and tar was replaced by that of mold, vomit and urine which stirred from the old straw with every step.
And she was alone… totally alone, more so than she had ever been.
The dampness crept into her bones, the stone walls pressing in as the reality of where she was settled in. It was like being entombed, buried alive. The cave-like darkness gave her a strange drifting sensation, losing all sense of up and down. Part of her disorientation and light – headedness was certainly from being on land, for it was well over a month since she had last had something so solid under her feet. It was like being drunk, to the point of planting a foot on the floor, lest she take an ignominious tumble.
The silence. Deadly, mortal silence. A ship was an unending chorus of wind, wood and water. The creak and groan of sheets, blocks, watch bells and over a hundred beings. The silence was more chilling than the stone upon which she had laid. She was cut off from the world, more so now than that wretched cabin. There was no light for her to even know up from down. No bells to indicate the passage of time. Had she been there an hour or a year? It suddenly all seemed so muddled together. A small voice suggested it was probably the effects of exhaustion, hunger and thirst.
The greatest battle was against the dread fear that she would be forgotten, perhaps already had been, and would die there, mold covering what was left of her body after the rats were done. Creswicke had achieved his purpose: the bait was in place. Now all he need do was catch Nathan. Whatever happened to her would be of minor consequence.
Now she understood all the more Brian’s horror of prisons. It was all the more heart – wrenching to think that he had willingly subjected himself to it, just so she might continue on. She might have been alone and starved, but she had air and light and, above all, freedom. Guilt gnawed anew as it had those first years after she had lost him. It had been that guilt which had kept her going, however, for to perish would have been to defeat his sacrifice. That thought had been her salvation then, for it made her all the more resolved to survive… as she would now. Somehow. Some way.
Nathan.
He was coming. She had to believe it. She would go mad, else. But from that hope sprang agony of what the result might be. Tears welled time and again at the frustration of being locked away, entombed and helpless.
“Stay away, Nathan. Stay away!” She spoke aloud without fear, for there was no one to hear her now.
She would rather lie there and rot than see him in Creswicke’s hands.
The thought of Nathan falling into Creswicke’s trap caused her to lurch to her feet and begin to pace, wringing her hands. In her agitation, she forgot where she was and ran into the wall. Squealing in pain, she reeled back, coming up against hard against the door, slick with damp. Staggering and dizzy, she felt her way back to the stone shelf. There she sat heavily and buried her head in her hands, fighting back the tears of hopelessness, not for herself but for Nathan.
Nathan.
Sniffling, she found solace in picturing him, inspecting and cataloging every snippet as an antiquarian might with a trove of ancient documents. Losing Brian had taught her the necessity of calling to mind such memories and details on a regular basis or, like unattended silver, they tarnished and faded until that bit was lost forever, another piece of him gone. She had to remember for there was no hope of renewal, from either friends or family, for that was their greatest value: a collective memory to keep the person alive.
She smiled into the darkness as the image of Nathan formed. Her fingers twitched as she imagined tracing the firm line of his jaw, his beard a soft plush against her fingertips. She followed the top of his shoulder and then down the curve of muscle and line of bone of his arm. A glowing warmth bloomed from within as a myriad of details came to mind: the small scar running through his left brow, the small chip in a front tooth, or the three bright, copper hairs in his beard. The way he laid with one arm flung over his head as he slept, the warm, musky scent of their lovemaking heavy in the air. It wasn’t necessary to close her eyes in order to see the comical grimace he made while shaving. In the ultimate silence, his laugh rang out, a surprisingly soft yet deep, rolling sound.
“Stay away! For God’s sake, Nathan, please don’t…”
She sank away in a fog of futility.