men were embarrassed.
“Who does…?” She was cut short by a contrary-sounding parrot shriek. “Who does she belong to?”
“Eh…?” Pryce closed one eye in puzzlement. He looked from man to man for guidance, defensively hunched shoulders his only response. “Interestin’ question, that.”
She waited for further explanation. None came.
“How do you know it’s a she?” Cate asked, eyeing the bird. A huge one it was. From head to tail tip, it was well over the length of a man’s arm. Her avian experience was limited mostly to the barnyard and sporting varieties, most of which had defining features to separate the sexes.
The men raised their heads to view Beatrice with more a discerning eye.
“Complains like one,” was Pryce’s eventual response.
Picking oakum was thirsty work. Several hours later, while waiting for more rope to be brought, Cate stiffly rose and went to get a drink from the scuttlebutt. Filled with rainwater, its contents still took on the taste of wood gone wet far too long or the canvas used to collect it, but it was still far less foul than the water casks. As she moved about, she kept a sharp eye for Scarface, the one who had accosted her within moments of her being aboard. He was nowhere in sight, but she couldn’t help but think she heard snatches of his voice now and again. For all she knew, one of his accomplices could be standing at her elbow, for she had little recollection of their faces.
Dabbing her mouth on the back of her hand, she turned to find two men standing there. Doffing their caps, they knuckled their forelocks.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mum. A word?”
Thin, almost to the point of gaunt, his frizzled gray hair showed evidence of once being red. At his side was a younger, squarer one, with a heavy shock of blond hair tar-bound in the forecastlemen’s way.
“You’re Highlanders, aren’t you?” Cate asked, polite but cautious. Their accented voices had drifted on the wind, their rolled r’s and clipped consonants haunting her with echoes of her past.
“Aye, mum. Cameron, by name, but Grant by birth. He’s Hughes,” he added, indicating his partner. He stammered, painfully nervous. “Yer man was a Mackenzie, wasn’t he?”
The water she had just drunk turned to lead. Recognition in England would have meant death. Among the pirates of the Ciara Morganse, she had thought to be safe. After being singled out, there was nothing to be gained in denying it, and so she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“Yes, he was.”
They grinned with delight.
“Aye, we thought so. We dinna wish to be forward, Mum, but we kent ye as soon as we laid eyes on ye. May I shake yer hand, Mistress Mackenzie? He was a fine man, mum. I…we wish to honor his memory.”
He seized her hand and was pumping it before he realized himself. His eyes bulged and jerked away, flushing. “Pray, beggin’ yer pardon, Mistress Mackenzie.”
Twisting his hat unmercifully in his hands, he exchanged glances with his companion, who silently encouraged him on.
“We served under him, ye ken, from Prestopans to…well, and after,” he ended awkwardly, his countenance darkening. Then he brightened, picking up his purpose again. “He was a fine man, Mum, the finest we’d ever seen. Best officer in the whole cursed affair. Courage of a lion.”
“Yes, he had that,” she said, wilting under the increasing weight of several of the mariners looking on.
“And when I saw ye stitchin’ yon Chin, I said to meself: ‘That’s Red Brian’s leddy.’” His face split into a smile again, studded by a total of four teeth. Then he waxed very solemn. “We just wanted to say as how proud we wuz to serve under yer man, m’m.”
With a strained smile, she mutely nodded.
God! Was there no way to quiet them.
“We followed ’im to Hell and back. A natural leader he was. We wuz fair sorry when we learnt o’ him so terrible hurt.”
“I’m sure he would have appreciated your enthusiasm.” Cate cringed, her gut knotting. Would he ever stop?
“And we was right sorry to hear he’d been captured. Bloody sassenachs!” He flinched at the blunder. In many circles, such an epithet would have launched a fight. Apparently, pirates overlooked slurs.
More of the crew was now watching. A few inched closer, poised but curious. Noticing the gathering audience, the two Scots bobbed a bow in unison.
“We wished to honor his memory, Mistress Mackenzie. G’ day, mum.”
Cate sagged against the rail in relief. She didn’t look up; she didn’t need to. She could feel