The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,23

solemnly nod.

“Sorry, mates. I can’t hear your heads rattling. Call out like the tars what you are.”

Pryce stepped forward and soundly cuffed the nearest one on the back of the head. “’e’s yer captain, now. Ye’ll be showin’ him the respect what he’s got comin.’”

“Aye, sir!” came a chorus with renewed vigor.

“Very well, make your mark. You’ve now joined the Brethren of the Coast.”

Each of the fledglings bent to scrawl his mark, after which he gave his name. Blackthorne entered it with flourish. It was a solemn but brief ceremony.

“Welcome aboard the Ciara Morganse,” Blackthorne announced as he capped the ink. “And mind now, I’m your commander. Withholding information will be penalized.”

He allowed for the weight of that to settle, and then asked with whip-like sharpness, “Who was the woman?”

Cate’s heart leapt at the thought of being so blatantly investigated; he knew full well that she could hear every word. It wasn’t so much fear that made her blood pulse; no one on the Constancy knew anything damaging of her past. Her annoyance stemmed from someone snooping about in her affairs.

Two of the Constancies shrugged, while the remainder groped for a name.

“Name’s Harper, sir,” said one, at last.

“That was Captain Harper over there?” Blackthorne countered, with a vague wave toward the Constancy.

They were momentarily puzzled, thinking it a trick question. “Nossir. That were Cap’n Chambers.”

Blackthorne leaned forward on the table with sharpened interest. “You’re sure?”

“Positive, sir.” All heads nodded; eager to be in the good graces of their new captain.

“Not Littleton?” asked Blackthorne.

“The Commissioner’s wife and daughter? They died weeks ago, sir.”

“Aye, commended them to the deep, we did,” added the other eagerly. “With proper words, of course.”

“Of course,” Blackthorne said, head bent in thought. “Very well. Well done, and all that…”

A wave shooed them all out with the exception of Pryce, who lingered expectantly.

“Cast off then and make way,” he said to Pryce, still distracted. “You’ve got your course. Go. Go.”

“Cap’n, Bullock and his lot are at it again,” Pryce said, lowering his voice to barely audible.

Blackthorne stiffened and swore. It wasn’t good news, but at the same time didn’t seem to come as a great surprise.

“Heard ’em a-tryin’ to rouse his mates,” Pryce added circumspectly.

“What’s that piss-vinegar of a sea lawyer up to now?” came Blackthorne’s low-voiced vehemence.

“The usual: too much work, others a-shirkin’ their duties, twice-laid cordage—”

“That’s the best cordage money can buy.”

“Aye, as any man worth his salt knows well. ’Tis a malcontent for sure, but he has the ears of many, too many.”

“Very well, an extra ration of grog for all,” said Blackthorne after a brief reflection. “Not many complaints can swim through that. And pass the word to the galley ‘tis time for duff. That should appease the Furies,” he ended with a grandiose swipe.

“There be another matter—” Pryce began with some hesitancy.

“Suffering Jesus on the cross, now what?” Blackthorne grumbled, more out of frustration than anger.

“Towers, Smalley, and Quinn: they be drunk during the raid…again. That makes three in the month.”

“Don’t I know it,” sighed Blackthorne. He gave a caustic snort. “The Demon Rum calls louder than their hides, eh? Witnesses?”

“Six what are willing to step forward and claim inconvenience, but there be more what will help make the case, if need be.”

“Very well, pass the word we’ll muster the Company after we’re aweigh. Make it so, Master Pryce.”

“Is she the one we seek, Cap’n?” Pryce asked in an even more clandestine tone.

Blackthorne paused to consider. “Dunno, Pryce. Dunno.”

Blackthorne waited until the clump of Pryce’s boots had died, before calling, “You can come out now…if you haven’t jumped overboard again.”

She stumbled back from the curtain, at first fearing she had been caught eavesdropping. With a hand that shook far more than imagined, she smoothed her hair and made herself as presentable as possible, when wearing nothing but a torn and blood-stained shift, to go meet her fate. At the last moment, her confidence wavered and she pulled the quilt from the bunk. Donning it like a cape, she settled the folds over her shoulders, feeling far less vulnerable as she stepped out.

It was early evening, the cabin’s saturated colors of the day giving way to the muted, half-tones of impending dark. Blackthorne was in the midst of lighting the candles. One brow lifted under the edge of his headscarf at seeing her swathed in the quilt, but no comment was made. It was another one of his disconcerting habits: ignoring the obvious to pounce on the obscure.

“You’re letting the Constancy go?” she asked,