The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,202

an extra, sometimes two, was slung over every shoulder, a minimum of two pistols at their belts, with double powderhorns and shot bags. She determinedly pushed away thoughts of what might be transpiring on shore; silence had to be taken as a blessing. Idleness being anguish’s playground, she set to work.

A basket and dibble was shoved into her hands. Ignorant of the West Indies, she was at a loss as to where to start. Under Pickford’s and Harrier’s tutelage, however, she was soon industriously digging wild onions and ginger. Kneeling in the semi-rotted foliage and sweating, she loved every minute. During her walk on New Providence, she had been able to only observe the lushness. Now she was a participant, in it literally up to her knees. After months afloat, to have soil between her fingers and dirt under her nails…It was heavenly!

As soon as one basket was filled, another was issued. She was shown fruits and nuts—soursop, tree melons, and cashews—as well as those which were to be avoided. In this Garden of Eden, hazards awaited both underfoot and overhead: an inadvertent brush against a branch or sitting under the wrong tree after a rain could mean disaster. Herbs and local cures were shown to her, as well, and she collected them for her blood box: lis rouge and plantain, for swelling or sores; physic nut, for poultices and boils; gully root and monkey’s hand, for headaches; and fit weed, a cure-all for everything from fainting to convulsions, vomiting to fevers.

So engulfed in the work, Cate lost track of time. She jerked upright at hearing periodic gunshots, at the same instant knowing they came from inland. Hunters then, doing what hunters did best. The pause to take a drink from the water gourd at her waist allowed her mind to drift back to shore. Her sense of direction told her they hadn’t yet moved so far that muskets or cannon wouldn’t be heard. That direction was still ominously and blessedly quiet.

Where the trees thinned, she could see the sun make its march across the sky. Several hours had passed, the afternoon heat waning, when the last of the baskets and gunny sacks were filled to overflowing. Pickford and the rest of the party stood in indecision, their Captain’s strict orders heavy on their minds.

“Do you suppose it’s safe?” Cate finally asked. Hands twitching at her sides, she vibrated to be away.

“Cap’n said as the first sign o’ trouble, we were to head inland,” Pickford said.

“Yes, but there is no ‘sign o’ trouble’, is there?” she said with asperity. “If the Cap’n objects, I’ll tell him it was my idea. If we hear anything like trouble, we can always turn around and go back, can’t we?”

Pirates they might be; bristling with weaponry, capable of pillage and plunder, sending women and children screaming at the name, they were unprepared to deal with an intransigent woman. They balked sufficiently to claim they did, and then struck back toward shore, laden with their treasures.

Cate’s step quickened as the sea breeze freshened. She pushed through the last barricade of greenery, and it met her full in the face, bringing with it the smell of saltwater, burning wood, and tobacco. The worst fears had haunted her. As she stepped onto the beach, she expected to see blood and mayhem, cannonball craters and bodies strewn.

Instead, she found two ships on their moorings and the picture of peace. As advertised, the new arrival was royal blue, a brilliant yellow-checked strip banding her hull. The number of men on the beach had nearly doubled, the gently curved sand strip now a festive beehive. A makeshift camp had been set up, with shore galleys and cook fires. Sun dodgers had been rigged: stout branches planted in the sand with a piece of canvas stretched over.

A burst of jocularity came from one such lean-to near the central cook fire. Nathan’s laugh was easily identified, although never had she heard him do it so genuinely. As she neared, she could see him and another man lolled in the sand. She turned a quizzical eye to Pryce as their paths intersected.

“Old friend,” he offered succinctly. His thick shoulders hunched with disapproval.

Cate looked toward the water and the visiting ship with new interest. “Who is it?”

“The Griselle, ’cordin’ to the Cap’n.” That qualification seemed to hold significance. “Can’t be a-sayin’ fer sure, but the Cap’n claims she mostly sails the African waters, Arabie n’ such.”

“And the Griselle’s captain?”

Rocking on the balls of his