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Authors: Kerry Lynne

Tags: #18th Century, #Caribbean, #Pirates, #Fiction

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BOOK: The Pirate Captain
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Braced against the bulkhead, she worked hand over hand down the narrow passage to the mess area. The men ordinarily took their meals on deck, preferring the fresh air to the cramped spaces ’tween decks, but in deference to the storm, they ate inside that morning. Her nose pinched at the combined smells of wet men, fried fish, beer, and bilge. Lounged and perched on every surface, they balanced their battered trenchers on their knee, eating and chatting, riding out the weather with the same ease as most would ride a horse.

If they’re calm, I’m calm,
she thought stubbornly.

With both hands for the ship, she gingerly tiptoed through the maze of benches and outstretched legs on her way to the captain’s table, the men nodding in amused politeness as she lurched past. Once landed on the bench, remaining there required her to hook a foot around its leg. The men at table dutifully rose at her arrival, ducked the briefest of nods, and then settled back to their meal in businesslike fashion.

As a paying guest, she ate at the captain’s table with Ivy, the First Mate; Coombs, the boatswain; Sullivan, the supercargo, and Humphries. An albino, Humphries loved the sea, but the sun had proven too brutal to his pale skin, and so he had found his niche as the Captain’s steward. Nicknamed “Mole,” it was difficult to say whether the appellation was prompted by the fact that he rarely came up from below, or by his remarkably small round eyes—disquietingly pinkish—and bucked teeth.

She ate out of obligation. To do otherwise would be an insult to Chambers’ hospitality. Eating her fill wasn’t an issue; for the best part of five years, food had been a sparse commodity, any ort to be portioned out to last for days. Such entrenched behavior was difficult to break. The food was much better than anticipated. Mr. Grogan, the cook, prided his creativity, but there was still a limit as to what could be done with the basics of cheese, dried fruit and peas, pickled and salted beef, and pork or fish, with the occasional augmentation of fresh turtle. Her lack of appetite added its own layer of monotony.

“We have rats that eat more,” Chambers had observed early on. “Don’t be expecting a reduction in your fare, just because you’ve ate so little.”

The jibe was made good-naturedly enough, but his point was made.

Grogan gave her a suffering look as he came around the table. An Irishman with an elf-like face on a hogshead body, he walked the pitching decks with mind-boggling ease in spite of his peg leg. One hand was perpetually occupied with a handkerchief with which to mop his red face.

As was the case most mornings, Grogan stood pugnaciously at Chambers’ elbow, overseeing the meal. The moment she sat, he gestured impatiently to Fitzgibbons for the tarred leather tankard before her to be filled. A Lowland Scot, Fitzgibbons was a gangling lad with a face full of spots and sooty smudges of hair on his lip.

“You’re late,” Grogan sniffed.

“I beg your leave,” she murmured over her ale.

Grogan was a strong advocate of the benefits of small ale for one’s digestion first thing of a morning. The drink was palatable enough, but she longed for the bracing effects of a good cup of coffee.

With the hatches bonneted against the weather, the lamps were lit in spite of it being daytime. As they pendulumed over the table, the dinnerware performed a nautical ballet back and forth. The table’s lip prevented the plates from shooting off. The men’s hands followed what they sought with a second-natured ease. Grumbling under her breath, Cate snatched at a bowl as it passed. Mr. Ivy, at her elbow, ducked his head to hide a smirk.

“Nor’easter,” he said into his drink. “Storm blowin’ up on the Banks.”

She knew of only one “Banks:” the Great Banks, rich fishing waters off the coast of Newfoundland.

“Isn’t that leagues away?” she asked.

He nodded approvingly at her token bit of sea-going knowledge, the unspoken implication being perhaps her lubberiness wasn’t a total lost cause.

“Coupla hundred, aye, but ’tis nothing to stop a wave out here,” he added, gesturing with his tankard toward the unseen beyond.

She had been aware of the conversation taking a sudden shift when she entered. It was a common occurrence. Cursing or coarseness didn’t bother her—her five brothers and her husband had all possessed a very colorful turn of the tongue—but the men assumed it did. Once she was seated and quiet, they would soon come to forget she was there, and the dialogue would return to its natural state. Such conversation always took the same path: speculation on how far they had traveled, when to expect to make land, and past voyages, ultimately working around to storms, best and worst captains, mysteries of the deep, and inevitably, pirates.

Pirates.

The word conjured images of something between sinister mythological creatures of the sea and marauding thieves. In London, she had heard of hangings at Tyburn, their piked heads and tarred, rotting bodies left in public display of the fate that awaited anyone who chose a similar lowly path. There had been literary attempts to idealize them, but their corruption and savagery were difficult to whitewash. Unwholesome dregs of society that, unfit to live among the civilized, had chosen to live as drunken scavengers. Violence, mayhem, and gore seemed the pirate trinity. Life having already served up far too much of that for her tastes, she felt little tolerance or sympathy toward them.

Cate toyed with the dried apple slices and claret-soaked currents on her plate, trying not to focus on its motion. The metered passes had a mesmerizing effect. Blinking from one such trance, she straightened and focused her interest on the conversation around her.

“How do you know someone is a pirate?” she asked during a lull.

“He’ll be the one holding the knife to your throat,” Fitzgibbons grinned as he plunked fresh pitchers of ale on the table.

“Or bidin’ ye to strip, for they leave every prisoner as naked as Adam, beggin’ yer pardon, missus.”

The men hunched forward with enthusiasm, their tales involving such dubious names as Black Bart Roberts, Long Ben Avery, Stede Bonnet, Calico Jack Rackham, and Blackbeard.

“A man signs on as soon as he boards, a-swearin’ to the ship’s Code,” said Coombs around a mouthful. “Equal shares for everything that’s taken—
everything
.” A meaningful arch of his brows emphasized his point.

“Aye, ’tis true.” Ivy leaned closer. “Blackbeard hisself took a wife; shared her with the entire crew. T’weren’t enough left for the cabin boys after that.”

“The captain gets double, o’ course,” added Coombs judiciously. “And then so on down the line, from First Mate to the lowest.”

The finer details of such a fate for the unknowing bride flashed quickly through her mind.

“Everything?” she asked, a bit faintly.

“Everything!” came a chorus of voices. A clap of thunder punctuated the chilling thought.

Cate quietly put down her fork, what little appetite she had suddenly gone. She dabbed her temples. With barely headroom to stand and stores stacked in every nook, under the best of circumstances the mess area was close quarters. Now, with the hatches closed against the weather, and the mass of bodies packed together, mixed with the smell of fish, treacle, bilges, and beer, the air became oppressing.

In the midst of the sagas and tales, one name continued to dominate the conversation: Captain Nathanael Blackthorne.

It couldn’t be overlooked that Blackthorne was something of an exception. As regularly as his name came up, the reaction was always the same: spitting and touching of their charms, making horned signs as if he were the Devil incarnate, while lauding him praises that rendered him almost mystical. A bit of competition almost always ensued in reference to Blackthorne, each participant striving to best his predecessor with stories about the man, each weaving another thread into a thicker cloth that made up what could only be seen as a legend.

“Charmed he is,” Humphries said, important with the mystery of Blackthorne. “’Tis like a guardian angel a-watchin’ over him. Been shot thirteen times.”

“And wears a bell for every virgin he’s taken,” called a voice from a dim corner.

“Others claim he can beckon the sea,” Humphries went on, “Neptune and all his creatures. Some say it’s just pure dern delight Blackthorne takes in makin’ a fool outa the Commodore.”

A hum of approval came from all around.

“Stole a ship o’ the line, by making them think there was wharf fever aboard,” put in one from the table behind her.

“Ol’ Nathan had taken the Royal pay chest.” Coomb’s cornflower eyes brightened at the thought of such riches. “The Commodore tore up the waters for months, trying to get it back. Finally, he outfoxed Ol’ Nathan, and got it back. The Commodore held a big ceremony at Fort Charles, had the Governor and all the muckety-mucks there. Come time to open it, t’was full o’ rotten horsemeat, and a note congratulatin’ the Commodore on his successes, signed Captain Nathanael Blackthorne!”

The roar of laughter filled the small space, their enthusiastic appreciation for such chicanery punctuated by the pounding of fists and utensils on any available surface.

“Blackthorne’s been a-tweakin’ Creswicke’s nose and tauntin’ Harte, makin’ fools o’ the both of ’em,” said Coombs over the scream of the wind.

“Royal West Indies Mercantile Company, Lord Breaston Creswicke, Governor; that’s power in these waters,” Chambers said coldly. Everyone fell quiet in deference. “Not a captain, honest or otherwise don’t feel the weight of their yoke, most especially Blackthorne.”

“I would have thought the East India Trading Company would have had something to say about them,” she said, straining to sort out the layers of intrigue.

It was no secret that the East India Trading Company was all-powerful, ruling the seas’ trading lanes with an iron fist on the one hand and an endorsement directly from Parliament and the King in the other. Virtually nothing came or went from England’s shores without their stamp of approval. As described by its title, the Company’s central concern pivoted on the East Indies and the riches that could be made on the tea, spice, and silk routes.

Ivy snorted in disgust, gesturing sharply with his knife. “Not enough in these waters to entice them thus far. That blessed Lord Creswicke managed a charter from the Crown. What with the Crown always looking to turn a coin…”

“And Creswicke has certainly given them that!” Chambers broke in with unfamiliar vehemence. “Between port tariffs, docking, drayage, wharfage, piloting, victualling fees and the like, a soul can barely make a profit.”

They shifted uncomfortably, glancing furtively over their shoulders as if they expected the fiend to materialize.

“Extortion is what it is,” Ivy grumbled darkly over his plate.

“And lo unto the one what tries to slip a bondsman past him!” Coombs intoned. “And if someone is so bold as to complain or evade, he’ll be boarded within the week.”

“Boarded? You’re saying that it’s more than coincidence?” she asked, looking from one man to the next.

“Oh, aye!” Ivy gave a conspiratorial wink. “Pirates, for sure. Complain a little more, and be declared a pirate yourself, dancin’ the hempen jig for yer efforts.”

“Just don’t scrape the paint too hard on the ship, nor ask to see her log. Ye might be findin’ out what’s more than healthy,” Chambers said, exchanging knowing looks with his crew.

“Or a quick-like visit to Davy Jones,” said Ivy.

Cate’s evident failure to comprehend brought Ivy to bend closer. “There be pirates in these waters, to be sure, Blackthorne bein’ one o’ the best. But one can’t help but notice that several are a mite peculiar.”

“Privateers,” hissed Coombs over his porridge.

“Pah! White-water pirates to be sure, bought and paid for by Lord Creswicke,” Humphries said, tapping his spoon on the table for emphasis.

She looked from one man to the other, confused. A minute ago, the pirates had been the most hated, but this Creswicke seemed to have suddenly usurped the title. “But I thought you said that Creswicke…or, the Company was killing pirates.”

“Aye!” Ivy nodded, chewing industriously. “But the best way to be a good physick is to supply the very illness what you know how to cure.”

“What better way to keep everyone under your thumb than to scare them into thinkin’ they ain’t safe without you?” Humphries asked around a mouthful of porridge. “Including the Crown!”

“To make himself look more important—and successful—Creswicke has his own fleet of pirates…” Sullivan said, reaching for the pot of treacle.

“Sailing on the very ships he’s confiscated…” Coombs said importantly into his drink.

“And selling the plunder for a very nice profit,” finished Ivy. “And London is thinking the only way to protect their shipments is to give Creswicke more of whatever he wants to fight off the pirates.”

“Surely someone has complained,” she said.

Ivy’s feathery brows shot up as he stabbed another kipper from the platter. “To who? If the Company succeeds, England succeeds. Lord-on-High Pelham and King Georgie aren’t going to tamper with what’s bringing them a sack full o’ money. There be rumors of war again, and the Crown will be lookin’ for every pound it can lay its hands on.”

“And the Royal Navy’s high command in these waters is of no disposition to listen or intervene,” put in Chambers grimly around the stem of his pipe.

“Aye!” Sullivan smirked. “Harte can’t hear anything over the rattle of Creswicke’s coin in his pockets.”

“Harte?” she asked, her fork hovering over her plate.

“His Lordship Roger Harte, Commodore of His Majesty’s Royal Navy!” Humphries announced, striking an imperious pose.

“So Blackthorne works for the Company and this Creswicke?” she asked, still straining to follow the conversation.

Derisive laughter burst from all.

“Creswicke hates Ol’ Blackthorne with a passion what goes beyond human. No one knows exactly what it was all about, one of those blood feuds that run for a lifetime. Blackthorne hasn’t done hisself any favors,” Ivy pointed out with a warning wag of the finger. “He’s robbed, ransomed, hostaged, pillaged, and plundered. Cost the Company a fair bit o’ profit, that one has.”

BOOK: The Pirate Captain
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