The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,56

was both irritated and apologetic. “Any other day of the week, ’tis considered punishment. Just ask Mr. Ogden: near a fortnight ago he failed to report for his watch, and was sentenced to a pound of the stuff for every man on his watch obliged to work extra whilst his lazy ass was lying in a hammock.”

“Punishment?”

“Of the highest order: time in the brig or bilboes is but time to be on one’s arse, at one’s leisure, making more work for everyone. Men will go to great lengths to avoid picking junk until their fingers bleed.”

“I don’t mind a little hard work.”

“You will,” he said, with a significant roll of the eyes. “You will.”

On the surface, picking oakum was a simple proposition: tear apart old rope until it was down to its most basic fiber, something similar to raw wool, which would in turn be rolled into long strands of caulk. It was easier said, than done, however. The rope—sometimes the thickness of her leg—was made up of uncountable strands, one upon the other, and was encased in layer upon layer of tar and varnish. Twisting, tearing, pounding, rolling, or fraying on a hook were all required. It meant working in a smelly cloud of pitch and a fine, prickling brown dust that clung to everything. The work was hard, the coarse hemp fibers abrading her hands and tearing at her fingers. Between the shock of firing her own guns and taking shots in return, the Morganse had taken a pounding in the last battle, both bilge pumps working to capacity. A lot of oakum was going to be needed, and soon.

Picking oakum was nasty and tedious, but it provided the workers with time for conversation. They regaled Cate with tales, going off on tangents so laden with mariner’s lingo the meaning was lost. At one point, the clop of hooves marked Hermione handily clambering up the steps from below. She pricked her ears interestedly, the pile of frayed rope far too appetizing to be ignored. And so they were obliged to work on the one hand, while shooing Hermione away with the other.

“’Tis a rare sight to see long-jawed cordage or stretched rag aboard the Cap’n’s ship,” said one man proudly, eyeing the growing pile of junk before them. A spare man with walnut-like knobs for knuckles, he had introduced himself as “Potts.” One eye nearly milky, and the other tending to rove, he had the habit of canting his head like a great bird at whatever he wished to see.

“And it’s not as if he’s afraid o’ the canvas,” put in another, busily unparceling, removing the canvas protection sewn over some ropes. “Spits in the wind’s eye, he does, and laughs when it tries to catch ’im.”

“Carried away the st’d’s’l and the mizzen course back a couple months ago,” added another judiciously.

“Bull!” burst out Potts. “’Twere a maelstrom the likes of which no man seed a-comin’! Glass it were that day,” he directed toward her. “Ye could o’ shaved in yer reflection, if ye were of a mind. The wind come straight down.” He slammed his hands together in emphasis, startling Hermione into a bleating protest. “Jest like that! Not a ripple for the warnin’. Any less seaman woulda sheared every stick.”

“Cursed he is,” came a grumble from behind.

“Blessed he is,” put in another. “By Calypso herself.”

A guttural squawk and a heavy flap of wings overhead caused Cate to duck. Looking up she found a huge parrot perched on a cask at Potts’ elbow. A vibrant hyacinth blue, bright yellow marked its eyes and beak. It ruffled its feathers and smoothed, only to raise its hackles and squawk in protest at spotting Cate.

“Go toss yourself!”it croaked with remarkable clarity and clapped its beak threateningly.

“Beatrice! Mind yer tongue, ye scurvy-ridden bag o’ feathers,” Potts scolded. “We’ve a guest aboard, ye rude beast!”

“Fuck off!”

Amid embarrassed titters and clearing of throats, the men shifted uneasily.

“She’s a mite suspicious of strangers,” Pryce directed to Cate as he stepped down from the forecastle. He then growled at the bird, “And a sorry exuse fer a beast ye are.”

“Well, grease me stick!”

“’Tis likely her master spent a fair amount o’ time in the less reputable realms afore she come here,” Pryce explained to Cate, his bronze reddening at his collar.

“Buggering trollop!”

“Sounds as though he was a colorful sort,” Cate said. It was nothing she hadn’t heard many times over on the streets of East London. If anything, it was a bit endearing that the