The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,94

that brought him a bit closer. “Seems impossible for someone to be cold in the Caribbean.”

“I learned long ago, nothing is impossible; improbable, maybe, but never impossible.”

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The next morning, Nathan stood at the weather mizzen chains. Heeled nearly four strakes, the Morganse raced through the water, the waves curling in a high arc over her nose, soaking the deck in rain-shower thoroughness.

The Morganse was always testy about setting a starboard tack, griping, threatening to fall away. Like any woman, there was more than one way to make her sigh.

Aye, me darling. As you wish.

There was but one soul between them, and she took the share. Justifiably so; she possessed the greater heart, the courage to face the sea every day and the will to make it her own. He was but a means to her ends: to give her enough canvas, a light hand at the wheel, and a fair course.

An imprudent vessel she was, always asking for that bit more canvas than she could carry, not like other ships what cranked and shuddered, with spars that creaked and popped like an old tar’s bones at the adding of so much as a staysail. Her spirits ran high, extending past ration as she fought to kick up her heels like a high-blooded horse, willing to run until her heart burst. He found it best to entice her with what she desired most: a full complement of jibs and staysails, shaking out the reefs in the mizzen top to keep her true. Give her her head, and then creep in the braces, when she wasn’t looking. Let her royals and courses fly, and she was as happy as a fat whore with a full purse.

The chains buried in the foam, he swayed with her motion as she ate the waves, shaking off one while reaching for the next. He closed his eyes and grasped the shroud. Some claimed the wheel was the way to a ship’s heart. Her shrouds were her pulse, a direct line to her lifeblood: the wind. He bent his head to listen to her song, her tempo of water and wind, sough and whistle, thrum, and roil.

No need for log lines. She was making 11 knots if she made a fathom; and the wind a bare four points off her nose.

Damn! How she loved to point!

If it weren’t for that skirt of weeds she carried—Gotta careen her soon—it would be 12 for sure. Still, 11 was sufficient to overrun any vessel to suffer the misfortune of putting across her bow.

She continued to gripe—no need for a hand on the wheel to know it—reminding him the stowage required a bit of a shift aft; she preferred not so heavy on the peak. Nothing to be done, until at anchor. With a full day of the hands sweating it out in the hold, a night of revelry ashore would be the only balm.

Once she hummed, the helm steady, he could relax and attend on other matters, ones that had pressed since before the Midwatch.

He checked over his shoulder toward the quarterdeck. Too wet to sit at the bow, where she preferred, Cate perched in the lee of the afterdeck, working. The woman didn’t know the meaning of rest. A working fool she was, going until she fell over, if saner heads weren’t brought to bear. A few days prior, her scissors had needed sharpening, and a skill for the honing of edges was discovered. When asked how that came to be, she answered: “I had five brothers.”

Knives, swords, broad axes, hatchets, and harpoons—the Morganse bristled with a host of sharp-edged objects. Consequently, she spent a portion of most every day sharpening. Hone stone, oil, leather, and rags became her constant companions, all stowed in a small basket. This day was no exception; she busied with several rigging knives the men brought, anxious for a few minutes of conversation while she worked.

Pryce slipped aft to the quarterdeck as he made his way forward. The odd wave caught him now and again, but he knew the feel of his ship well enough to know when to duck. To his mind, a man who couldn't bear being wet had no business at sea, but by the same token, it was a wretched fool who didn’t have the sense to avoid a wave square to the face.

Mr. Fox, master of the larbolin f’c’stlemen, hovered at seeing his captain approach. The man tended toward being as fastidious as an old schoolmaster about his realm.