marooned…or cast adrift.”
Marooned: left on an island to die.
Cate glanced toward the windows. It was the West Indies; islands were as constant as clouds. At the moment, any that were visible seemed very inaccessible.
Adrift, then. The same, but worst to her mind: cast off in a boat alone, until heat and thirst ended the misery.
She closed her eyes and swallowed her breakfast for a second time. Not Nathan. Not Nathanael Blackthorne. It couldn’t end that way. He had endured before and had lived to tell the tale. It only followed that such would be the case once more.
“And, if not smoothly?” she could barely rasp, her mouth had suddenly gone dry.
“If it’s close, the decks will be red.”
Cate was confident the cook wasn’t referring to the paint drizzled over the ship’s edges.
Drawn by the rowdiness, Cate went to the door, but recoiled at the sight of all hundred and seventy-something pirates gathered, dark, weathered, half-dressed, and barbaric. Weapons, in the way of firearms and blades were in the armory, under lock and key. A ship, however, possessed a vast number of lethal implements. Snarling like a currish pack, they perched on every surface—capstan, rails, ratlines, and yards—brandishing hatchets, poleaxes, harpoons, pikes, hooks, barrel staves, or any other possible weapon ready to hand. A flash of hyacinth blue darted overhead, Beatrice settling on the mizzen masthead.
Things could happen quickly…
Cate once more checked the pistol at her waist.
As she looked from face to face, she was stricken by betrayal, much the same as Nathan had to have been feeling, if not more so. These were the very faces that had smiled as she had chatted, treated their wounds, and listened as they told of families and loved ones. Now they were no more than ravaging dogs snapping at the very hand that fed them. To see their violence turned outward on their enemies was one thing; to see it inward itself was far more fearsome.
Nathan stood unflinching before the crowd. Any sniff of weakness would be a cue for this rabble of sea wolves to attack. On any other ship, the captain could have sent the troublemakers scattering with a single bark, but these were pirates, exercising their rights as given by the ship’s articles. Liberty suddenly seemed a double-edged sword, the gain of one coming at the expense of another.
The plaintiffs, judging by their belligerent stance, loosely formed around Nathan, Pryce barely an arm’s length away. His contorted countenance could be an open book, or he could be as inscrutable as the sphinx. His disapproval was eloquent in the stony glare and rigid stance, but it was unclear if it was provoked by the complainants themselves or his Captain being challenged.
“Who be spokesman?” Pryce’s booming voice brought the proceedings to quick order.
“Y’er Quartermaster,” came a sneering shout from the crowd.
“Aye,” Pryce said evenly. “But a man’s grievances best come from his own damned mouth. If ye’ve complaints enough to bear arms against yer Cap’n, then ye’s can jolly well haul yer asses up and voice them like a man, instead o’ cowerin’ about like Spaniard-lovin’, spineless curs!”
Like a bucket of sea water, Pryce doused the riotous enthusiasm. He pointedly ignored those before him, until the leader was singled out by virtue of the others falling back. All attention swiveled to one individual. Cate shied.
Bullock.
She fished deep into the pool of names which she had learned over the last weeks, but could only snag a few for his cohorts: Clark—even more sour than Bullock, if that was at all possible—Hibbett—gullibility written all over him—and Reed—his arm still wrapped by the bandage she had put there but a few days ago.
Hanging at the cabin door, Cate strained to hear.
“Ye’ve gone soft, Cap’n,” Bullock was saying, his companions enthusiastically nodding. It seemed a good sign he still showed Nathan proper respect. “We should o’ taken that ship as prize…”
“Which? The Nightingale?” Nathan cut in.
“Aye! Instead, ye allowed ’em to pass—”
“With a dead captain, I might point out.” Nathan’s interjection came in a conversational tone, obliging the crowd to hush further in order to hear him.
“She was listing to near scuppers, masts sheared and hull breached. You were below. How fast was the water rising in the well? Were you and your…cohorts,” said Nathan, with a distasteful swipe, “willing to sweat it out on the pumps for the days required to put her to rights?”
Bullock blinked a bit dully at his point being so readily dismissed. “Shoulda took the Valor, then.”
Nathan stood impassively in the