The price of command was often to be left waiting, either while everyone else raided a town, boarded a ship…or combed this pestilent, moldering lump of earth for the most important thing in his life. A handful of men remained with him; Pryce’s brief words with them before he took his leave hadn’t been missed. Nathan felt like some infirmed old aunt that couldn’t be trusted. Another part of him, albeit small, saw the wisdom. There was no denying the streets were astir. The distant sounds of men moving, heavily armed judging by the clatter, was frequently heard. Still, the watchdogs saw his displeasure—Yes, it was that damned evident, even in the dark, the lurking scrubs!—and on the premise of standing watch, they retreated to give him a wide berth, while still within sight.
Meanwhile, Nathan paced.
The scene with Hodges played over and over in his head. Amidst all the treachery, there had been a large grain of truth in what the lout had said. That conclusion was based on the unmitigated joy the deceiving bastard took in revealing Creswicke had Cate and that she had been roughly handled. Anyone else would have shied from relating such unpleasantness, fearing the messenger might be blamed for the message. No, Hodges had most certainly been acting on Creswicke’s instruction. That would be Creswicke’s style: build up one’s hopes, only to dash them and then use those hopes to bash the poor soul later. That was not conjecture; he’d bloody well lived it. His talisman was one single thought, one hope: if Creswicke had left Cate somewhere, it had been done with the intention that she was to be found.
With time, the rush of battle faded. He snorted to clear his nose of the dried blood. His forearm bore the familiar burn unique to a blade wound, among a good many more minor nicks, cuts, gouges and strains. He winced at seeing the blood, nearly black in the moonlight, streaming down his hand, dripping off his fingers, not because it hurt, but at the thought of Cate’s displeasure were she to see it. He begged a cloth from one of the men and bound it, murmuring a prayer that he might live to see that displeasure, perhaps even suffer a good tongue lashing as he tugged it tight with his teeth.
In that muddled quagmire of thoughts, he paced.
He was keenly aware of the Company fortress, looming over him. The urge to go storm the place filled him like a spring tide. The thought of throwing himself at those gates was more appealing than standing there doing precious nothing. There were, of course, alternate entrances, ones he had known of and used on many an occasion. He kicked at a stone in front of him. Those, however, hinged on the place not being on full alert as it was sure to be then. On the other hand, he thought, drawing to a pensive halt, with the assault at the beach and the patrols spread throughout the town, there would be a minimum of guards in the compound proper. Those odds he could fancy. The long lines of cannon were difficult to ignore. They might be old dogs, but one would still feel their bite. Besides, once inside, they would be harmless.
“If we fail, then we know she is in there, somewhere,” he murmured aloud.
He closed his eyes, reaching for Cate. Yes, by God, she had been there, but no longer.
He concentrated harder. A shiver shot through him, but nothing came other than that same dark void seen before. But then something like a hand pressed against his shoulder as if pushing him back. The words “Stay away” brushed his ear.
Nathan opened his eyes to Creswicke’s fortress squarely before him. The lights in the windows glowed like the eyes of a great hulking demon, the turrets its teeth, leering at him, daring him to come within its grasp. He shivered, the chill of its stone cells creeping into his bones once more. At the same time, he broke into a sweat. He rubbed at his wrists, trying to erase the bite of the shackles which dragged him back down into those same depths of despair of so many years ago. He had refused to be mastered and for that he had paid the price… dearly.
If he were to turn his head slightly, he could see to the town square. It was too dark to actually see the square and its post, but he could see it in his mind, as clearly as if it had been high noon. He had been chained to that post like an animal, branded like one and then lashed like that same animal. The shadows in the cracks of the paving stones became his blood, streaming down his legs. His breath quickened and his body twitched with each blow, his forehead aching as he pressed it against the post; fifty lashes for the Court’s pleasure, fifty more for a non-existent crime. God knew how many prior. The crowd had cheered, eager for blood. Hell, it could have been a pig being butchered and they would have lauded it all the same. No matter how much blood the lash drew, it was never enough; they were drunk as lords, calling for more.
Thomas’ voice had risen above it all, making it known that he was with Nathan in spirit, for he could do aught else. Thomas had tried; Lord knew, the man had posed argument after argument to save Nathan’s skin, but the verdict had been decided long before Court was ever convened.
Again, the mob cheered as Creswicke layed on the iron. Had he screamed when the branding iron touched? It seemed as much, for his throat had been nearly as raw as his back. Or had that been from before he had been dragged out in public?
He was jerked from his trance by the sound of his men returning. Dashing the cold sweat from his brow, with a hand that shook once more, he listened to the disheartening report: nothing.
“Bloody fucking hell There is nigh on to two hundred men combing this town. It’s not that blessedly big!” He hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud until he saw the men ducking their heads, chastened.
Time passed. Men periodically returned to report, empty-handed.
His head came up at the sound of gunfire, pistols and muskets. Distance, buildings and the land breeze distorted it, but that they were unmistakably shots. Whether they were drunken discharges or ambush he couldn’t tell.
Without a damned sound or warning, Ben popped out of the shadows; Nathan spun around, reaching for his pistol. Christ, the lad was like a damn spook.
“Nothing, sir.” The young voice cracked as he gasped to catch his breath. He had been running, a long way and hard.
The lad was so dejected Nathan couldn’t bring himself to give him a harsh word. “Any word on Thomas?” he asked instead. The last he had seen of his friend, he had been surrounded by uniforms. That giant of a First Mate of his had been next to him; surely they had prevailed.
“Aye, sir.” Ben beamed at being able to deliver some kind of good news. “Some of his men represented he got out o’ the Garden, but left a trail of scragged uniforms behind. He’s searching now.”
The sound of a single person racing toward them brought their weapons up again.
“What ship?” one of Nathan’s men barked in warning.
“Thiara Morganth,” came out of the darkness.
There was no mistaking Hallchurch’s voice, or rather, his lisp. The poor man was one of the few souls in this world who could have benefited greatly with his front teeth—so horrifically bucked—being knocked out. It might have done little for the man’s appearances, but the world would have been far better off in being able to understand him.
Hallchurch popped out of the shadows. “Cap’n! Cap’n!” as he raced toward him. He drew up before Nathan, panting. “We found her, thir!”
Nathan almost threw his arms around the man with joy. Instead, he seized the gasping Hallchurch by the shoulders and shook him, crying “Where, man? Dammit, man, where?”
After several false starts, “At The Bloated Goat, thir” burst out, spittle frothing like a rabid dog.
Suffering Christ, where the hell was that?
A burst of expletives came from Ben. Nathan whirled toward him. “You know it?”
“Aye, sir. A pot-house; no blacker place exits,” came back with grim conviction.
“We heard as there was a crazy woman holed up there, thcreamin’ her head off, if anyone went near, so we figured to take a look,” Hallchurch said in broken spurts.
Nathan turned, vibrating to go, and yet had no notion of what the hell direction.
Hallchurch grabbed Nathan’s arm to stop him. “You can’t go, thir.”
Nathan whirled around on the man, thinking surely he had completely taken leave of his senses. He balled a fist, ready to strike at anyone who sought to stop him.
“It’s thurrounded. We served out the ones what were watching the place and beat ‘em back,” he added with no small amount of pride. “But more n’ likely they’ve sent for reinforcements. ‘Tis you they theek, thir.”
Damn! She was still being used as bait.
“Mr. Pryce bid you to bide. We’ll get her out of there,” Hallchurch assured, spittle flying.
“Like hell I’ll bide!”
“I know a way, sir!” Ben cried, shoving his way between the two. “I can get you in there as easy as kiss my hand.”
“You’re sure?” Even before Nathan uttered the words, he saw the answer in the lad’s eager, shining face.
Ben nodded his head so hard it had to have pained him. “Honest, sir. I grew up here.”
“Very well. Get back there directly,” Nathan instructed Hallchurch. “If you get there before me, tell them I’m coming and do not let anyone near her. Savvy? Do. Not. Let. Anyone. Near. Her.” A finger stabbed the bony chest in emphasis.
“Pass the word,” he directed to the other men. “Gather as many as you might and meet… at… wherever in the hell the place is,” he said with an irritated flap of his hand. “Pass the word to Thomas, as well.”
Nathan took Ben by the shoulders and gave him an encouraging squeeze. “Show me.”
Speed had been an asset as a boy; Nathan prayed for it now. It felt as if his boots were filled with sand, as if he were in one of those wretched dreams of trying to run, but could not, no matter how desperate the struggle. Arms pumping, lungs burning, a shocking hitch in his side, Nathan ran.
Time! Dammit to all buggering hell! Time!
Every town had its underbelly; Nathan had thought he had seen Bridgetown’s, but Ben showed him one which he had no notion existed. Granted, he had been absent for over ten years, but these were no recent development. They had the decay and air of desperation that would have taken a score of decades to grow.
Buildings blurred past, many leaning against the next for support. Here and there, they passed people clustered around cookfires. The moon had ducked behind a cloud, making the surroundings and the footing even more treacherous. He slipped, slithered and sometimes stumbled down alleys and up paths, through crawlspaces, squeeze holes and ditches known only to an alley cat. Ben led him through them all, darting and ducking, startling many a cat and rat.
Mateolage.
The name came back to Nathan like a shot, a pirate haven he had been delivered to by its virtual king, who had become enraptured of his mother and took in her brood as his own. A rotting hell-hole of a place where he had learned the ways of the streets. Those darting and scuttling ways became second nature once more, knowing how to be unseen whilst in plain sight. He felt a new warmth, a kinship with the lad.
A dog barked as they passed; Ben called out in a low voice and it quieted. Twice they skidded to a halt at seeing patrols or sentries ahead, Ben darting off in another direction. In spite of the hour, the town was even more alive with patrols and watches than before.
Up over a board fence they went, Nathan landing far heavier than he would have a score of years ago on the other side. Ben led a weaving path through a maze of obstacles—barrels, broken wheels, refuse heaps, whatever else blurring past. The lad’s slim body slipped through a hole low in another high fence; Nathan was neither small nor readily admitted. He wriggled through to find himself in an even narrower space between two buildings, his belt buckle and the knife at his back gouging the weathered siding as he squeezed through. He thanked the stars that he hadn’t eaten in the last several days, or he would have never managed it.
Luckily there was but one direction to go, for it was black as inside his hat. Ahead, over Ben’s head, he could see the end of the alley—if one could call it that—glowing in the relative brilliance of moonlight as if lit by a dozen lamps. It was there that Ben dropped to all fours. He pointed with great exaggeration at the building at his shoulder and mouthed “Bloated Goat there, sir.” Then he peered out at the street. Vibrating with the urge to leap over the lad and dash into the pot-house, Nathan hunched over him instead and looked out.
It was actually a square, although to call it that was to flatter it. It was more like a widening of a dead end. Or rather, he had thought it a dead end, until he noticed several what only the most generous could call alleys leading off from it. A fight had taken place; if it had been as black as inside his hat, he wouldn’t have had to see the dark, lumpish shapes of the bodies lying about. He would have known it by the smell of gunpowder and blood overlaying the stench of city dwelling. He recognized the unique quiet which was always present around the dead as if the air were drained of all life. The mariner in him knew the evening land breeze moved high overhead. In the lee of the buildings, however, the smoke hung like rising spirits over the dead.
Whoever the bastard was that had chosen where to set up a trap knew his business. The dead end and isolation was perfect, the countless places to provide cover rendering it all the better. The telltale sign of foul play being afoot was the absence of the people who usually populated this sort of neighborhood. The whores gone; the drunks were gone, the beggars, pickpockets, pimps and urchins—who would ordinarily be robbing the bodies already—were gone. Even the rats were gone. Not a light burned in a window or doorway.
Ben angled his head toward a conveniently overturned cart near the mouth of one streets leading in, bits of scarlet jacket visible through its cracks. Two, possibly three lobsterbacks lurked there. An alley directly across from them was blocked by a not so haphazard stack of hogsheads and crates; more hiding there, no doubt, several more places looking just as likely. Nathan glanced up at the roofs and windows; only a man with a death wish would assume muskets weren’t up there waiting.
At least a score of men milled about, mostly Morgansers. Some stood as lookouts, while the rest collected in small groups, either in the street or on the walk in front of the Goat. The space had the feeling of an uneasy stand-off.
Ben rose and stepped out onto the street, instantly assuming the stroll of someone who belonged there. The men jerked at his sudden appearance, reaching for their weapons until they recognized him. A whisper, an angling of his head, and the men slid an eye toward where their captain awaited. Resuming their nonchalance, chatting among themselves, they subtlety shifted, until they created a virtual wall between the square and the building. Nathan slipped in behind and then inside the Bloated Goat undetected.
Ducking his head under an inordinately low ceiling, Nathan was met with a stink of the eye – watering sort. The air was nigh unbreathable with old piss and ale, vomit and a sundry of excrements which had softened the floor. He’d been in hog sties and privies that were sweeter. The night outside was a blazing brilliance in comparison to the gloom. He stood blinking, waiting for his eyes to adapt to what little light the sparsely scattered tallow dip candles afforded.
From out of the dim came Squidge. “As soon as we come up the street and saw the uniforms, we knew we had the right place.”
“Butcher’s bill?” Nathan asked, glancing toward the bodies lying outside. His heart was hammering so hard, it was blessed difficult to hear.
“Two: one’s not long and the other represents he can keep up.”
Squidge broke into a grin. “We found her, sir.”
Nathan had already shoved his way past toward Pryce, urgently beckoning from across the room, several candles around him. Cockchafers scuttled ahead of him, his boot crunching on the too slow. He was but a few steps, when a large, hairy paw reached out and grabbed him by the arm. He was spun around toward a lowering, oily brute, a single eyebrow spanning his almost non-existent forehead. He attempted to give Nathan an intimidating shake.
“She’s been ‘ere fer hours,” the brute growled through a total of five teeth and breath that resembled a long-dead turtle. “Drunker than a besom and screamin’ like it wuz Bedlam.”
Nathan seized the greasy shirt front and drove the brute backwards until he came up against a wall.
“And why the hell was anyone going near her, eh? Answer very carefully, mate,” Nathan added at the mouth now moving wordless.
Jerking the lout forward, Nathan threw him back against the wall even harder, then brandished his knife before the bastard’s face. “If I learn you or anyone else laid a hand on her to do anything untoward, I’ll nail your balls along with that tongue of yours to that door.”
Squidge stepped closer, casting a warning look toward the keep. Knocking the keep’s hand away, Nathan stepped around the table to where Pryce was, unsure if finding Cate in that suppurating hole—
He stopped breathing all together.
Praise the gods, it was her. Even in the gloom, half-slumped in the floor against the wall, there was no mistaking that maddening tangle of hair. Tears of joyous relief stung his vision. When Hallchurch had represented they had found her, he hadn’t inquired as to whether she was dead or alive. Neither answer would have sufficed, for he would have had to see Cate himself either way. He fell to his knees next to her, unwilling—hell, unable to believe she was alive until he felt the living give and warmth of her flesh under his hand and her pulse. Light and fluttering like a moth under her skin, but alive, nonetheless. The pulse not being enough, he leaned to listen for her breathing. Quick and shallow with an unseemly catch, but there, definitely there.
Pryce came up to Cate’s other side. “The bastard’s correct; she’s drunk. She ain’t stirred since we come.”
Rum fumes, indeed, hung over her like a fog, strengthening at every movement.
Nathan snorted as he plucked a cockchafer from Cate’s head. “She’d never drink that much rum voluntarily; she hates the stuff. They must have poured it down her.”
Pryce nodded, his nose twitching. “Aye, and all over too, by the look o’ it.”
A gentle hand over her head came back damp, a wave of the fingers under his nose confirming Pryce’s speculations.
Crouching closer, Nathan pushed back the matted snakes of hair and lifted her face up by the chin.
“Blessed Jesus and Mary,” Pryce murmured.
Stricken mute, Nathan could only jerk his head in an incoherent reply.
Cate had been beaten, her battered features swollen almost beyond recognition. The sweet curve of her mouth was split and crusted with dried blood. The delicate upturn of the end of her nose was swollen to nonexistence, the nose twice its usual size. The eyes that could see to his soul were reduced to purplish black slits. A cut ran through one angelic brow and showed signs of having been broken open several times, as did the egg-sized lump on her forehead. A deep abrasion ran high across her cheekbone. God knew what else or where else she had been injured.
“Get some light down here,” Nathan rasped.
A light came, held high overhead. Seeking to inspect further in the wavering light, Nathan’s knee nudged Cate’s arm. She stirred and cried out, moaning pitifully at the end. He looked down—and then he saw it.
He’d seen them all his life, but was still struck by their brutality; his own affected him more deeply than any other mark he carried. A’s, T’s, B’s, and S’s, adulterers, thieves, bondsmen, and slaves: he’d seen them all, but this one stunned him the most. A bold, raw, “P” glared from her wrist.
He swore vehemently. Just like his: pressed hard, burned deep.
It was seeping and raw, the initial blister torn away to the point it was bleeding in a few places.
Bile rose in his throat. His stomach pitched as he swung on a wild pendulum from fury to sickened and back again. Ducking his head, he clamped his eyes shut, swallowing it all down. In the dread amount of time waiting, his imagination had run rampant with all manner of horrors that bastard Creswicke could have bestowed upon her, but this… this…!
Rage shook him. He wanted to hit something; he wanted to shoot something—somebody.
Focus, mate. Not now! Later, much later!!
“I’ll see his head swinging from me bowsprit.” Nathan hadn’t realized he’d spoken until he heard his own voice.
Cate’s bodice was split to nearly the waist, but between her hair and the tattered bits, she was still decent in front of these lechering, arse-wipes. That would be important to her. He arranged her hair and tugged the cloth edges, covering her a bit better, seeking to preserve whatever dignity he could. Somehow, some way, she would know and, when she asked, he meant to be able to meet her eye-to-eye and tell the bald-faced truth. The lies would be reserved for a great deal else.
He reached to pluck another roach wriggling out from under the torn edge of her bodice. Cate roused, mussing her head against the wall. A low, moaning growl emitted from deep in her chest and then burst to the surface in shrieking “No! Go! No!” Her body arched, and she blindly swung her fists. Nathan instinctively took her in his arms. The more he tightened them to protect her, the more agitated she became, a fist finally catching him in the jaw. He soon found himself seated on the floor with her half-gathered in his lap, holding her now against self-injury. He gently guided her head to his shoulder and rocked. “Shh.. Shh, darling.‘Tis me.’Tis only me. Shh… Shh…!”
There was no soothing her. She screamed time and again, a haggard, maniacal sound with a gut-wrenching plead in every one. His arms tightened; she arched and shrieked, her fingers curled and clawing for his face. In spite of the assault, Nathan held her and rocked. Stroking her head, he murmured nothings in her ear.
Pryce and the others fell back, at a loss as to what to do. They made half-gestures, wishing to help, but were frozen by the worry they might have inadvertently precipitated the outburst and might be blamed for it.
All the while, the keep stood on the opposite side of the table, shouting down at Nathan “See! I told you! She’s a raving lunatic!”
“Someone clap a stopper on that!” Nathan finally bellowed with a malignance that gave the keep pause.
There was the scuffle of someone being bodily moved, a couple meaty smacks and then silence from that part of the room.
“No… No….” faded in Cate’s throat as she slumped, exhausted. An audible sigh of relief broke from all around.
She was now reduced to mewling sobs into his shirt, with mumbling “No… No…” Her arms twitched, as if she meant to reach for him, but then they fell limp, whether from loss of awareness or lack of will he couldn’t tell. The sobbing soon faded as well, and Cate lapsed into the stillness in which he had found her, so deathly inert he almost prodded her so she might start up again.
Nathan carefully eased her back against the wall. It was then that he noticed a small piece of paper tucked into her bodice. He plucked out it, knowing its origins instantly by the paper’s weight and quality. His hand shook as he unfolded it. The Royal West Indies Mercantile Company emblem was boldly embossed at the top, there was a floridly scripted message:
Anytime! Anywhere!
Revenge. Torture. Maiming. Mayhem. All manner of thoughts churned his mind like sharks around a carcass.
“I will kill him,” Nathan said, cold and measured.
It was no boast, just a vow, to both himself and Cate.
Crumpling the note in his fist, he lurched to his feet and stalked to the keep, slumped insensible in the floor. Nathan stuffed the wadded paper into the gaping mouth and then returned to Cate.
“We have to get her out of here and it has to be now.” In the back of his mind, he considered the hell that task was going to entail. He eyed her now-still form, dubiously wondering if that were even possible, short of trussing her up like a Sunday goose.
With the Company waiting outside and no telling how many, the rescue could wind up getting her killed. One stray shot and—
“Yer sure she’s strong enough to make it to the ship?” Pryce asked.
Nathan nodded. He had made a cursory inspection, running his hands down her sides, watching carefully for any reaction as he felt for the telltale give of broken ribs. Her skin was cold and clammy, but, other than her face, there were no signs of bleeding and nothing was grossly broken, several fingers shockingly swollen and at odd angles aside. Under the mosaic of bruises laid a startling pallor; she looked far too much like one of the corpses lying outside. A remote corner of his mind observed the positives: she had been beaten, but not with fists. There was no broken jaw or nose. Brands were customarily applied to either the cheek or chest; she had been spared that.
The rum rendering her insensible could be a blessing. If it was kill-devil they had poured down her, however—a treachery he wouldn’t put past His High-Arsedness—that alone could be her undoing. The stuff was strong enough to knock a full-grown ox off its feet. Many a man had died of the dry gripes; fits, hysteria, terrors and permanent mania weren’t unheard of. Poured down a woman—
Nathan bit off the rest of that thought.
“’Tis likely they’ve reinforced out there already. We might should wait until more men arrive and—” Pryce pleaded.
“We might wait, but she can’t.” He had no notion of her condition, but whatever it was it wouldn’t be improved by lying in this festering hole.
He stared off, mapping Bridgetown in his head. He needed a safe place, where he could better assess her injuries and assure worse damage wouldn’t be done in removing her to the ship.
“Sophie’s.”
“The kittie house?” Pryce goggled.
“Sophie’s is nearby.” Nathan was already working the scarf from around his waist to swaddle Cate’s arm. It was the nearest of anything that might constitute a friendly stop. “The rooms are decent—more so than most—and she’s a friend.”
Sophie had always greeted him with opened arms—many opened arms—and legs for that matter—but that was for another time. Yes, open arms it had always been, except the last time… or was that at Sara’s? Or had it been Patricia’s? It could have been Marie’s in Port Charlotte or—?
“Is she still in business?” Pryce asked.
Nathan sat back on his heels. Damn, it had been a good many years, a lifetime for many. At that hour, in that part of town, appearing on a stone stranger’s doorstep was a good way to get oneself shot.
“Aye, sir, she is.”
Nathan looked up to find Ben standing there. “You know of her?” His respect for the lad was growing by the hour.
Ben nodded, oddly flustered by the admission. “Herself, but her cook more directly. She was a kindly sort that would give me a bit of something to eat… sometimes.”
Nathan glanced to Pryce and several others who, judging by their blank looks, had even less idea as to where they were or how to get there. “You know the way, then?”
Ben nodded with conviction.
“Very well, then,” Nathan sighed.
He straightened and ran a tired hand down his face. He had thought the waiting was the worst. It came nowhere near the wearing thought of getting Cate out of there without being shot. Carrying her would slow them down, making them an even more ready target.
Someone came into the pot-house, his face obscured until he stepped into the light: Mr. Fox, seeking his captain.
“How goes it out there?” Nathan asked as he came around to meet the man.
“Well, enough, sir. A score or more just arrived, sir, ours and Cap’n Thomas’ men both. Most of us figure the lobsterbacks and Companymen are holding off because they’re fair out – numbered. Others are a-claimin’ they’re savin’ up, cuz ‘tis you not our miserable hides they seek,” Fox added with a grin.
Nathan’s smile came with far more reserve. “Pass the word to make ready. We’ll follow Ben’s lead. Mr. Pryce will have my back. Quick’s the action and quiet’s the word. We’ll collapse the chute as we did in Porto Bello,” he added in a louder voice for the benefit of all. It meant a controlled withdrawal, the line of men collapsing into itself like a wind chute being doused and stowed, no man being left last and alone.
“The quieter the better; might could catch them sleeping, eh, Mr. Fox?” he added, poking an elbow.
Bearing another grin, Fox knuckled his forehead and took his leave.
A silence befell the taproom, one rooted in business-like confidence. Only the low, metallic clatter of well-oiled trigger mechanisms and the deft ramming home of shot and wad could be heard. The smell of gunpowder sharpened the otherwise fetid air as they loaded, primed and checked their weapons. Nathan glanced at the faces caught in the flame light, grim and intent, with the need to see who was with him, how many he could depend on, not so much with his life—Hell, that was forfeit—but hers. Squidge, Towers, Ogden, Sombers, Fouts, Rowette: he gave a small sigh of relief; Providence had allowed him some of the best. He might not be able to trust them to report in a timely fashion from their gaiety ashore, but they could be trusted for this. They kept his ship; they would keep his lady.
The idea of Ben in the lead, taking such risk was a distasteful one, Nathan thought broodily, but there was no real choice about it. Squidge—one of the better shots present—and Towers—with his blunderbuss that nearly out-weighed him—would need to be positioned directly behind.
As for those outside, he thought glancing toward the door, he had no notion. His and Thomas’ men were all members of the Brethren; Thomas trusted them and so he was obliged to do the same.
“Bear in mind, men,” he said. “Our goal is to get her out of here. Nothing else matters. Savvy?”
“As ye say, Cap’n, she’s one o’ us. T’would be the same for any,” came back matter-of – factly.
“I’ll not forget this. You’ll all be remembered and handsomely.” Nathan cast a glance toward Pryce, who nodded solemnly. If he wasn’t there, then Pryce would see to it.
Several scoffed, dismissing the need for such a thing. Several more puffed with mocking insult at the suggestion that they might be doing this for the money.
Allowing that his arms would be occupied, and hence, no weapon of immediate use, Nathan tucked his pistol plus two more into the back of his belt.
“Anyone gets close to me, use ‘em,” he announced. Then he drew Pryce aside to say in a low voice, “If anything is to happen, I need to know—”
“We’ll see ‘er safe, Nathan,” Pryce said gravely. An assuring hand came to rest on Nathan’s shoulder. “By every power what be, every mother’s son present will see ‘er safe.”
“Do not let them take her! If anything happens. If I—”
Pryce’s countenance darkened and the hand on his shoulder tightening squeezed. “The last shot t’will be fer her.”
Nathan closed his eyes, nodding with relief. “Very well. On to it, then.”
Closing his heart and ears to Cate’s piteous moans, Nathan lifted her into his arms. Weaving his way through the tables and benches, he stopped in the protective shadows of the door and peered outside. The square was now fuller with men than before, at least a score. Word had been passed, and they had subtly shifted to form a loose but curving bastion between the square and the buildings. That would be his path. The air was charged with anticipation; pirates one and all, they were ready for a fight.
Ben came up beside him, peering out as well.
Nathan’s mouth had suddenly gone dry, “Where away?” coming out in a rasp.
“That street there, sir.”
Not the nearest, Nathan observed, but at least accessible. In truth, he needn’t have asked, only follow the path cleared for it lead directly to it.
“How far from there?” Nathan asked.
“Not far, sir.”
Squidge and Towers slipped out the door, blunderbuss at the ready.
Cate stirred, whimpering and mussing her head against his shoulder. Nathan bent his head to press his cheek against hers and she quieted. Too many days had been spent regretting opportunities missed; he had vowed never again. He flexed his arms around her, memorizing the feel of her, the warm weight of her body next to his. She felt fragile and frail, a shadow of her former self.
He kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “Love you, Kittie.”
Cate made a small noise and then writhed with increasing distress. She arched her body with a suddenness and force that almost caused him to drop her and shrieked “No!” Jerking against the scarf bound about her arms, her screams echoing off the buildings. In either exhaustion or submission, she fell quiet, but the damage was done.
No help for it now.
“Cast off!” Nathan shouted and bolted out the door.
Amid the staccato crack of pistols and the deeper bark of muskets, he fell in behind Squidge and Towers, Ben ahead of them. The musket flashes brightened the night almost to daylight at times; he closed his eyes against it to preserve his night vision. A ball whizzed past his head; another kicked up bits of dirt at his feet as he ran. Under the roar of gunfire and bellowing which filled the square, the heavy footfalls and metallic clatter of equipment marked a group of uniformed men advancing. A barrage of muskets was answered by an even larger number of pistols. A shot struck at his feet, either the ball or a piece of stone ricocheting off his leg. Ignoring the burning in his chest and arms, he ran, clutching Cate against him. Any moment he expected to be shot, or worse, feel Cate jerk with being hit.
A ball whizzed near his head, another plucked his shirt sleeve. The musket volleys were precise and well-timed. Marines. It was always good to know who the hell was trying to kill him. Shouts of alarm, cries of victory, wails of pain filled the air. In the relative confined space of the square, the noise rattled back and forth off the buildings’ faces until it sounded like a small war.
“Cover!” Pryce’s cry came from directly behind him.
He skidded into the shallow lee of a doorway. Deep enough to provide cover for Cate, he hunched his body over her. A shove from behind drove them deeper in. He jerked his shoulders higher and closed his eyes against the peppering of bits of brick and wood from balls hitting the buildings, one piece making a stinging path across his cheek. Someone’s back pressed against his; he peered over his shoulder to see Towers, bringing his blunderbuss to bear. The click of a hammer came a bare half-second before a roar like a swivel gun filled the small niche with thick smoke. A pistol was snatched from at his back and fired, another after that. From very near came the guttural grunt of the ball finding its mark. Bloody hell! If only he could blaze away at the bastards and blow them all to eternal Hell.
Cate stirred in his arms again, her agitation growing. His head was bent, intent on soothing her, when he was hit at the back of the shoulder. The impact knocked the wind from him, a fraction before the pain struck, so sharp he sucked the same breath back in. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision, but then cleared. He drew another breath carefully, testing. It hurt like a demon, that particular pain unique to being shot, but he was still upright, not flat on his face. Only a graze.
The Marines officers shouted orders to ranks in apparent chaos, for the same ones were repeated with increasing furor. The gunfire died, the night’s darkness regained. The roar and clash of swords meeting bayonets filled the air, the smell of blood thickened, the screams of the wounded reaching a new pitch.
“Now, Cap’n!” Pryce grabbed Nathan and urged him into the street.
The smoke was so thick, it was difficult to see the way, it also served as cover. Eyes stinging, Nathan followed the two ghostly figures of Towers and Squidge speeding ahead, Ben’s head periodically seen bobbing in between. Finally, they darted down one of the alleys and the fight was left behind.
After the chaos in the square, the quiet in the alley was almost deafening. The rasp of Nathan’s breathing and the footfalls of Pryce and the others behind him, sounding too much like a troupe of oxen, was the only noise. As he jogged, Nathan curtailed thanking whatever gods that were watching for their safe passage, for he was yet to be convinced that was the case. He tried to angle an ear toward Cate’s mouth, to listen for her breathing, trying to assure that she still lived, that she hadn’t been shot. Doubt tortured him. What if, when she had stirred, it had been because she had been shot? Surely she would have been bleeding! And surely, Pryce would have said something? Or could he not see it in the dark? Hell, alive or dead, he would take her with him.
A part of Nathan screamed that he was too old for this, but then a surge of strength rose from deeper within. He stumbled once and then slipped; not from fatigue or weakness, but uneven footing and the inability to see. They broke out of the alley onto a street and turned. Here the normalcy of life was regained. Lights glowed in the windows and the population typical of such an hour appeared. As to the exact hour, Nathan had no notion other than it was late, ungodly late. Red-glassed lanterns burned at several steps, most, however had been doused for the night.
Nathan recognized Sophie’s place-of-business, with its bright green shutters virtually glowing in the moonlight, a fraction before Ben turned up the steps. The brothel was closed for the night, the signatory lamp at the door cold. Nathan lurched up the steps, elbowed Ben out of the way and, bracing against the portal, gave the door a solid kick. A second blow of his boot and the door burst open. Behind him, Pryce dispersed lookouts about the house and neighborhood.
The doorman bolted up from his stool. A cudgel in one hand and a watch lamp in the other, he gaped at the parade filing in. A wall of a man, he was proof that brains and body didn’t necessarily exist in parallel proportions. By Nathan’s recollection, the man was as devoted as a sheepdog to his mistress, his countenance being of much the same tenor, droop-eyed and long-nosed.
What the bloody hell was the blighter’s name?
Ignoring the sheepdog’s garbled protests, Pryce dispatched more lookouts around the house, calling “And mind yer duties, not yer cocks, you mump-headed louts! I’ll hock-and-heave the first one o’ ya’s found dallyin’.”
Arms burning, Nathan shifted Cate’s weight. Compared to the starlight outside, the entryway was black as a cave. Moonlight spilled in from the street to thinly illuminate the increasingly familiar path to the stairs. The sheepdog scurried behind him, nipping at his heels in protest.
“Cap’n Blackthorne?” The doorman drew up and goggled when Nathan turned toward him at the bottom of the steps. “Cap’n Blackthorne!” he grinned.
“Hicks!” barked a commanding female voice from the top of the stairs, barely audible over an increasing flurry of feminine agitation. “Hicks! What is going on down there?”
“’Tis Cap’n Blackthorne, mum!”
Like a covey of sleep-rumpled quails, the women of the house peered over the banister from their roost. Initially a low hum, their murmurs grew in excitement, with calls of “Nathan!” The clatter of slippers and the increasing glow of a lamp marked someone descending the stairs. Shifting Cate until she draped over his shoulder like a bag of meal so that he might navigate the narrow steps, Nathan tread heavily up, ultimately meeting the lamp-bearer at the landing.
“Nathan, luv!”
“Sophie! It’s been a long time,” he declared as congenially as was possible, breathless and with an insensible woman in his arms.
A square-set woman with frowzy yellow hair and a worn, flowered wrapper, it was dubious that Sophie might have ever been called “pretty,” even when the bloom of youth had been upon her, which had long since faded. Still, underneath the hardness, there was a motherly quality about her, which must have contributed greatly to her success in her line of business.
The house madam’s greeting shifted quickly from gleeful surprise to alarm at seeing the woman in his arms. “Ye needn’t be bringing your own, dearie. There’s plenty girls available, and some’s your favorite.” Her brow crumpled at the prospect of lost business.
Nathan squeezed past Sophie, calling “I just need a room” over his shoulder.
“’Tis not a boarding house!” Sophie cried, scurrying behind him as best her slippers would allow.
Bugger! Maybe the last time he left it hadn’t been on the best of terms. Coulda sworn different!
“The nerve barging in here without so much as a by-your-leave after Lord knows how long! I run a respectable place! I’ll not have you dragging in some poxed street whore…” And so the expostulations went on.
“Room!” he repeated through clenched teeth.
The hall lamps were out, but Sophie’s candle provided sufficient illumination. The narrow hallway was difficult to navigate, without jostling Cate any more than necessary. He felt with his shoulders for the doors and stopped at the first one. A glance to Sophie showed her contrariness hadn’t changed, he made a disgusted sound and kicked it open.
“Oi! What the fuck?” shouted a male voice from within.
Nathan rolled his eyes toward the house matron for guidance, but she offered no more than further protests, her voice now raised to an unpleasant shrewish shrill. By then, the entire house was astir, questions and answers colliding in mid-air, high-pitched in alarm. Growling in exasperation, Nathan pivoted, planted a boot solidly on the next door and busted it open.
Empty.
The light from Sophie’s candle cut a path through the darkness to the bed, no more than three or four steps from the door. Sophie’s wasn’t lavish, but it was semi-respectable as houses went. He didn’t remember the rooms smelling quite like this, of sweat, powder, and liquor, an odd mixture of male and female that defied description. The gods willing, Cate might never wake to see the color of the sheets in the daylight, but expediency was foremost.
Amid the din of agitation, Nathan deposited Cate on the bed. She cried out, flailing weakly. Braced on the bed’s edge, he caught his breath, renewing his reflections on the shortcomings of age.
“Rum, water, cloth, and bandages,” he gasped, dashing the sweat from his eyes.
Not yet recovered from the invasion, the tone of his voice brought Sophie up short. She opened her mouth, but her retort was headed off by a peck on the cheek and Nathan’s most charming smile.
“Please, darling, be a luv. It’s important.”
Taking a breath to issue another complaint, the light fell full on Cate, and she drew one even sharper.
“Oh, poor lass!” Sophie turned to a bleary-eyed chambermaid standing gape-mouthed at the door. “Get me warm water, bandages and the ointment. Quickly, girl!” she barked, snapping her fingers.
“And rum,” Nathan called after her.
The heat of the day was still trapped in the room, oppressively so, and so he stepped to the narrow window and threw it open, hoping the fresh air—Cate’s precious fresh air—might prompt a miraculous recovery.
No such luck.
The gods proved not to be with him on that mark. They had, however, arrived safely, thanks to the overseeing hand of some remote deity, it would seem.
Clucking in low-toned sympathy, Sophie unwrapped the scarf from around Cate, but stopped in mid-motion at seeing the freshly branded arm.
“Looks like the mark of our young Lord Creswicke.” She looked up, grimly shaking her head. “A fine piece of business is our young Lord Creswicke.”
“He’ll pay,” said Nathan. “That I promise.”
A basin and ewer came. The bedside lamp was lit, another brought and held high over their heads as Sophie and Nathan stood in the narrow space to either side of the bed. The first touch of the cloth, however, set off Cate into another fit, this one even more frenzied. Her swollen features contorted with terror, she fought with the inhuman strength of the deranged, twisting against their grasp with a violence that caused Nathan to fear they might tear her skin as they held her down.
The fit ended with Cate vomiting. Sophie held the bowl as Nathan braced her head, her body convulsing violently with each wretch. The room filled with the sour smell, blood swirling pink in the bottom of the basin as it was carried out. Finally, Cate fell back, gasping and drained.
“That’s good; it’s best be rid of what’s poisoning her,” Sophie said pragmatically. Rumblings of agreement came from the women in varying stages of dishabille clustered at the door.
Sophie swabbed Cate’s mouth and set to washing her clammy face. Underneath the crustiness and filth was a disquieting pallor, the lamps casting harsh cadaverous shadows on Cate’s face. Sophie worked with the well-practiced ease of having done so many and many a time. The life of a whore wasn’t for the weak. Nathan shook off old visions which ghosted up. He had done much the same for his mother when she had been forced into it.
At one point, Sophie’s eye went to the torn edge of Cate’s bodice and then down to the ripped skirt. He followed both her eyes and her line of thinking.
“There’s nothing there to be concerned with,” he was quick to say, snugging the fabric around Cate’s legs.
Sophie’s doubtful brow was met by his unwavering stare.
“If she’s been used, then there’s naught can be done about it, now is there?” His confidence was undercut by the tremor in his voice. He bit back announcing that Cate was with child or had been, at any rate. He had watched her skirts and legs for any sign which might suggest otherwise; nothing. He shook off any further thoughts; those were waters which he couldn’t suffer to navigate as yet.
A word, a gesture, sound: something set Cate off into another fit, even more violent than the previous. Shrieking, she clawed and lunged with her teeth. It was like wrestling with a rabid terrier. It was during his wrestling to keep her flat that Nathan saw the smears and droplets of fresh blood on Cate and the bed around her.
“She’s bleeding.” Holding Cate with one hand, he groped wildly about, his greatest fear being that she had taken a ball after all.
“It’s you,” Sophie said crossly. She dodged Cate’s fist, taking the blow in the neck instead. “Dammit to hell, Nathan! You’re bleeding all over my floors. Those stains are hell to get out.”
Her claim was evidenced by the apparent multitude of others which had rendered said boards to look like they were made of ebony.
“Re-dress that,” Sophie barked to the maid holding the lamp.
“Not now!” Nathan said, jerking from the maid’s grasping hands.
At that moment, Cate fell into one of her deathly quiet phases.
Sophie stood back, knocking a strand of hair back from her face. “Well then at least tie it off so we might know her blood from yours.”
A strong hand on the shoulder sat Nathan heavily on the foot of the bed. Eyes rounded like a startled mouse, the little maid bound a length of rag over the sodden one on his arm. All the while, Nathan grasped Cate’s hand, his fingertips resting on her wrist, keeping track of the delicate moth’s flutter there, worried that at some point the moth might finally give up and perish. At the same time, he kept one eye fixed on the small vein at the base of her throat, the one which he had seen rapidly throb in his presence, the one to which he had pressed his lips, feeling it quicken as he bedded her, the one which barely moved then. An ear was cocked toward the window, the while. Opening it hadn’t been entirely for Cate’s benefit. Upon entering the small room, he’d been a bit light-headed himself. But, above all, he needed to listen for the first signs of trouble outside.
“What shall I do about this, m’um?” asked the maid from behind Nathan, with considerable concern.
Sophie moved to look at his back, Nathan twisting his head back to see as well. He hissed sharply, wincing, when Sophie plucked the shirt from where it was stuck to his back. She peered in through the rent, her accusing eye coming up to meet his just inches away.
“Too wide and too rough for a blade,” she observed, straightening.
Nathan closed one eye, straining to recall. “Ball… I think.”
“And this?” Sophie tugged at his shirt at his side near his waist, brown and dull with dried blood.
Nathan experimentally shifted, flexing his waist and winced again. “Another ball, earlier… On the beach, I think.”
Suffering Christ, that seemed an age ago, he thought, suddenly quite weary. And yet, he could barely remember anything of the entire night, other than the joy of hearing Cate was found and the horror of seeing her. Everything else was a blur as if he were the one drinking kill-devil.
“’Tis nothing,” he said, shying from further attentions. He moved his shoulders, resettling his shirt and winced again. His back stung like a demon now, damned women.
A scream erupting from Cate cut short Sophie’s response. She heaved and writhed against their grasp to the point Nathan was obliged to half-fling his body on top of hers, the maid grabbing a leg. The outburst was short-lived, but had been with a vehemence which left everyone shaky and sweating.
“If this continues, she’s going to hurt herself. Fetch the laudanum,” said Sophie to the maid.
The maid disappeared; a small square bottle arrived. Sophie held it up to the light and frowned. It contained barely more than a finger’s width. “Someone’s been nipping it again,” she said with an accusing eye toward the faces jammed at the doorway.
Nathan cradled Cate’s head in the crook of his arm, while a spoonful of the reddish-brown liquid was poured between the split and swollen lips, all the while alert for her stomach rejecting that, as well. She coughed and sputtered, and then fought with renewed vigor, to the point Nathan considered the draught had quite the opposite effect. Finally, through either opiate or exhaustion, she fell quiet. He sat on the edge of the bed, catching his breath, while Sophie straightened her wrapper and swiped an errant strand of hair from her face.
The house matron sighed as she set the bottle on the bed stand. “I wish I could do more for her. She’ll be fine,” she said with an encouraging pat on Nathan’s arm. “Upon my word, I’ve seen much worse. She’ll be fine.” The last was uttered more to convince herself.
Head hanging, Nathan was barely heartened. Such hollow platitudes were annoying, but Sophie was correct. Like she, he had seen a grand share of abuses visited upon women, whores especially. Yes, many had survived far worse, but many had lost their number from far less.
“Ah, well, let’s get her undressed, and then we can—”
“We’re leaving,” Nathan blurted. He snatched the laudanum bottle from the table and dropped it inside his shirt.
A general gasp of disapproval came from the doorway. “Surely you jest! She’s in no condition…” The house madam’s point was augmented by a chorus of shrill support.
“She’ll be worse if His High-Arsedness gets his hands on her again,” Nathan said, raising his voice over the rest. He bent to the task of wrapping Cate up in his scarf once more. “We’re leaving!”
“You’re in no condition yourself! You’re so beat up I barely knew you!”
Sophie came around the bed to grab Nathan by the arm. “For the love of God, Nathan! Be reasonable! She needs rest and care—”
“Which she’ll receive on the Morganse,” he shot back heatedly.
He bent, only to be barricaded by Sophie wedging herself between him and the bed. “A bunch of—”
“Pirates?” he cut in coldly.
Sophie hesitated. “No, I was going to say no man could manage the care she’ll require.”
A murmur of enthusiastic agreement rose from the door.
“You think I don’t know that?” he flared. This delay was unbearable; every tick of the clock was like a death knell. “You fancy I’m so daft I don’t know a real bed from bouncing about in a berth on a ship, eh? I know it!”
He could feel himself beginning to crack around the edges and leashed himself a little tighter. His eye settled on the bottle of rum which had been brought at some point. He snatched it up from the bed stand and took a long drink. He dashed at his face after, ignoring the fingers that came away sticky with half-dried blood.
“I know it,” he said, considerably calmer. “Believe me, I’d love nothing more than to linger, but I can’t. I have to see her safe, first.”
Giving Sophie a firm, yet respectful, shove aside, he went back to the business of preparing to leave.
“She needs a woman’s care,” Sophie hissed over his shoulder.
He straightened slowly and turned. “And she’ll get me!” He cast an eye toward the bevy of pale, staring faces at the doorway. “Many would call that a fair exchange. Now, we’re going.”
Cate’s head lolled as he gathered her up. The women broke like a covey of quail from the doorway, re-gathering in his wake, babbling protests all the way down the stairs. At the front door, he whirled on them and bellowed “Ladies, clap a stopper on it!”
They fell into a startled hush so startled as to render him somewhat guilty. After all, it was he who had just torn them from their night’s slumber.
He shifted Cate more comfortably in his arms. “Good e’en, ladies. I wish you joy of your beds.”
Pryce stepped out of the night to meet Nathan at the bottom of the whorehouse’s steps. A faint nod on the First Mate’s part, indicating that all was well, and they were on their way.
In the dark it was difficult to see exactly, but Nathan sensed the presence of a great many more men now than had been in the square. They were streaming back toward the back bay and their ship like a surging tide race, and he allowed himself to be swept up in it. The men’s soaring spirits—the night being seen as a great victory—were dampened by weariness and helping the injured. Nathan stumbled once and then again on the bad footing. The men offered several times to carry Cate, but he adamantly refused, clutching her tighter yet.
In spite of his arms being full, Nathan’s hands twitched for his weapons at every unexpected noise or flash of movement. By no means did he think them entirely out of danger. Ambushes could still lurk anywhere. His Lordship wasn’t one to give up easily, and it was no great guess as to the path the retreating pirates would take.
The expected ambush came at the edge of town. The crackle of muskets ahead sent Nathan, and those nearby diving behind a clump of bushes. Throwing his body over Cate’s, he lay, holding his breath, waiting for what was to come next.
The spot was fitting. At the margins of town, it was convenient, yet away from the interference of people, but before the forest closed in. There were enough ramshackle huts and low hedges behind which to hide. Were they pirates, they would have preferred the close cover of the forest, providing places to hide and fitting for hand-to-hand fighting. These were Companymen, who preferred the luxury of distance, fitting for muskets, and room to bring their bayonets to bear.
By the sound of it, there was less than a score, a minor threat, but a damned annoyance. It only took one ball to bring a soul down, one ball in Cate, that—
A burst of musket fire from behind them cut off the thought, this time from a larger force.
Nathan reflexively hunched his shoulders at the zing! and splat! of balls hitting near enough to kick dirt in his face and set leaves raining down.
“Crossfire?” Nathan hissed urgently. From where he laid, he couldn’t see a damned thing.
Next to him, Pryce carefully raised his head to peer around. “Nay.”
A few more shots went off in another brief exchange, followed by insults being called out. Judging by the saltiness, it was his men doing the taunting.
“Don’t look to be a pincher move either.” Pryce gave one of those rumbling chuckles of his. “The whey-faced sprats don’t desire our hides enough to give up their cover to come out n’ fight.”
Another burst of gunfire erupted, but Pryce and the others kept their heads up, listening for the skirmish to run its course, alert for any sign of it expanding in their direction. Whether it was sheer luck or sheer genius that they knew Nathan was there was any man’s guess, but they had him, regardless. The most pressing question now was how long they would be obliged to hold out and wait for this to be over.
Lying on top of Cate made her start to squirm, her distress rising, in spite of the laudanum. Nathan eased off of her, taking as much of his weight on his elbows as he could, flinching when another ball whizzed past. Another barrage went off, with more cries of the wounded, curses from those less inclined to cry out.
They all jerked, startled by the bushes rustling. A whistle much like an owl’s was answered by Pryce, and the squat figure of Towers popped up next to them, grinning.
“Mr. Hodder’s compliments and duty, sir. He begs me to inform ye we got ‘em pinned down over yonder.” His earless head angled up the trail. “The men are desirin’ to take their time; there’s comeuppance to be had,” he added with significance.
“Very well,” Nathans said, pushing up. This was the break they needed. “They can jolly well take their sweet time for their sweet revenge. But just bear in mind, if they miss us weighing anchor, they will be calling themselves Lovelies from now on.”
Towers snorted in disgust and nodded. “Understood.” And then, he disappeared, back from whence he had come.
Nathan rose to a crouch and began to gather Cate up. Hesitating, he straightened and looked to Pryce. “If I go down…”
It was reasonable to think Towers had been correct: it was reasonably safe to move. Still, sly individuals could lie in wait, unaccounted for parties stumbled into, stray balls: any number of things could go wrong.
Pryce gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder. “Either we see ‘er safe, or we see ‘er dead, Nathan. He won’t have ‘er agin.”
The rest of the men solemnly nodded; the same pledge applied for them all. Breathing a mite easier, he gathered Cate up.
Heads down, with Pryce, Squidge and Smalley in the lead, they ran a darting, dodging path, well out and around from where the musket flashes had last been seen.
Soon, a musket went off, but well behind. They were in the clear… for now.
The trees closed in, blocking out the night sky, and Nathan breathed another fraction easier. The passing of so many men had startled the night creatures into silence. Deeper into the trees, however, all things creeping, climbing and soaring gave voice. The night had taken a subtle shift to that odd time which neither day nor night would claim, too early for the one, and yet too late for the other.
Nathan’s heart rate had slowed only a fraction from the time he had first stepped ashore. The Morganse was now his goal, one step after another, each one bringing him closer. The heavy weight of Cate in his arms drew him into fancies of lying down with her, curling around her, the round sweet curve of her bottom nestled against his thighs. He stumbled again and knew it was not from bad footing.
Nathan looked down at Cate, swaddled in his scarf, looking too much like a child in his arms, so fragile and frail. Every shred of his being screamed for him to see her safe, protect her, and yet he had nothing left.
“Allow me t’ take ‘er, sir.”
Nathan slowly raised his gaze into Hodder’s one of concern. Where the hell the man had come from was a wonder. For that matter, Nathan had no notion that he had stopped.
“Very well” came out in a thin rasp.
Still, in spite of his consent, Nathan couldn’t make his arms move to surrender her, requiring Hodder to lift her up and away. Nathan followed close at her head, making futile gestures to help, clearing her skirts of a branch or blocking another from hitting her. She looked even smaller and younger in Hodder’s great arms. Jealousy surged so instantly and with a force that almost caused Nathan to snatch her back.
A sequence of images raced through his mind, of Hodder dropping Cate and her shattering into hundreds of pieces; of him frantically searching the forest, grabbing them up, only to discover she was a lacework of holes; pieces were missing, piece forever gone—
Nathan jerked from his walking nightmare and looked quickly to confirm that Cate was still whole.
Periodically, Cate grew restless, her head working until Hodder was obliged to stop so that Nathan might quiet her, touching her as he murmured “I’m here, darling” and made small shushing sounds like an attentive parent over a fussing infant.
Remnants of the earlier fighting—churned up earth, broken down bushes and thickening smell of death—were the first indications that they were nearing the shore. He heard a whistle and looked up to see the pale form of Artemis soaring past. She dipped a wing as if to acknowledgment and then curved through the trees. Following her path, he caught his first sight of the Morganse. Her lamps were still doused, but the boats were busy at her side. The relief at seeing his ship was both sudden and staggering. In his heart of hearts, he hadn’t doubted she would be there, but it was still a grand relief.
Finally, they came out onto the beach. The bodies of the Companymen still lay where they had fallen; the consciousless sods couldn’t even attend their dead in a timely fashion. A stillness befitting of a graveyard had befallen the place, that ghostly quietude which always attended the dead. His Mum had a variety of sayings regarding the spirits of the deceased, those reluctant to leave for varying reasons. It was a wonder, for his experience had always been that Death enjoyed a free hand, stepping in at its pleasure. And yet, in his own case, he had given himself over to the Grim Reaper, only to be repelled and cast back among the living.
A foggy mist hovered over the water. Wisps of it snaked onto shore, looking too much like Davy Jones’ fingers searching for souls to take. Had he been a papist, he might have crossed himself; many around him did. The same fog swirled about the Morganse, making her look like she had taken wing amid the clouds. The fog obscured the boats at her side, making the men going up her side look like spirits rising. Only the sound of their voices made them a part of this world. One cloudy finger curved to intercept their path, curling about their knees. Nathan moved closer to Hodder, hovering a protective hand over Cate’s head, now damp with dew.
Word of the Cap’n’s approach had been passed, and a boat stood at the ready, its coxun and oarsmen greeting them with low-voiced words of pleasure. Nathan settled on a thwart and cleaved on to the reassuring weight and warmth of Cate in his lap once more. The fog curled alongside the boat, its tendrils searching up and over the gun’ls. He felt a cool draft and a chill shot through him like a goose trodding his grave. He hunched over Cate, cradling her deep in the crook of his shoulder. She stirred and gave a whimpering moan. Using the motion of the boat, he rocked her, making more soothing sounds, while at the same time bracing for what was to come. Getting her aboard was going to be no small or pleasant matter. God preserve laudanum.
Boarding went as well as could be expected. The same advanced word which had provided for a boat to be waiting had an admiral’s chair rigged. Gentle was their intent, but transporting one from a bobbing craft into someone’s lap in a chair and then up and over onto the deck wasn’t a gentle process. The laudanum did its part, but Cate still cried out in pitiable agony. Weathered seamen and pirates to the man, the sound of a woman suffering such torment was nearly too much for any to bear.
Nathan nearly staggered with the relief of feeling his ship’s deck underfoot for he had thought to never do so again. They were nowhere near safety, but they were one giant step closer. Only when there was naught but open sea, and leagues between them and Barbados, would he consider them safe away.
“Get us out of here, Pryce,” Nathan rasped.
“Course, Cap’n?”
“Isla de Cabras,” he said dully, brushing past.
“They’ll be a’layin’ for us, Cap’n.”
He stopped and followed Pryce’s gaze toward the offing.
Dawn, he observed, the line where sea and sky met now glowing with color. It had been a hell of a night, and yet he could barely recall any specific moment. Lord knew what awaited out there. The gun emplacements had been quieted, but only a thorough-going, mutton-headed scrub would fall into thinking there were no Company ships, privateers or men o’ war out there. They would have been cruising since the Morganse had stood in. It was no grand secret: other than Carlisle Bay, Bridgetown’s main harbor, there was but one place she could have anchored. And there was but one direction out.
Nathan looked worriedly down at Cate, the moonlight catching on the distorted features. Another battle would be hell on her. She had been toughened to war by that ill-beseen, loutish husband of hers. The gods allowing, and the laudanum providing, she could manage a bit of crash and smoke… he hoped.
He cast an eye skyward. The wind had freshened. He could hear the thunder-like rumble of the surf on the reef. The gods had provided; the wind was blowing hard enough to keep any lurking vessel well off the reef. Their worry for their own ship’s well-being would be the Morganse’s salvation, her margin for escape. He strove to calculate the odds of a ship lurking. It was highly likely, but he had no decisions left in him. The clatter of ivory rings marked Hodder coming up behind him. Now was when one appreciated the advantage of capable officers.
“The deck is yours, Master Pryce,” Nathan sighed and continued toward his cabin.