The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,4

such trance, she straightened and focused her interest on the conversation around her.

“How do you know someone is a pirate?” she asked during a lull.

“He’ll be the one holding the knife to your throat,” Fitzgibbons grinned as he plunked fresh pitchers of ale on the table.

“Or bidin’ ye to strip, for they leave every prisoner as naked as Adam, beggin’ yer pardon, missus.”

The men hunched forward with enthusiasm, their tales involving such dubious names as Black Bart Roberts, Long Ben Avery, Stede Bonnet, Calico Jack Rackham, and Blackbeard.

“A man signs on as soon as he boards, a-swearin’ to the ship’s Code,” said Coombs around a mouthful. “Equal shares for everything that’s taken—everything.” A meaningful arch of his brows emphasized his point.

“Aye, ’tis true.” Ivy leaned closer. “Blackbeard hisself took a wife; shared her with the entire crew. T’weren’t enough left for the cabin boys after that.”

“The captain gets double, o’ course,” added Coombs judiciously. “And then so on down the line, from First Mate to the lowest.”

The finer details of such a fate for the unknowing bride flashed quickly through her mind.

“Everything?” she asked, a bit faintly.

“Everything!” came a chorus of voices. A clap of thunder punctuated the chilling thought.

Cate quietly put down her fork, what little appetite she had suddenly gone. She dabbed her temples. With barely headroom to stand and stores stacked in every nook, under the best of circumstances the mess area was close quarters. Now, with the hatches closed against the weather, and the mass of bodies packed together, mixed with the smell of fish, treacle, bilges, and beer, the air became oppressing.

In the midst of the sagas and tales, one name continued to dominate the conversation: Captain Nathanael Blackthorne.

It couldn’t be overlooked that Blackthorne was something of an exception. As regularly as his name came up, the reaction was always the same: spitting and touching of their charms, making horned signs as if he were the Devil incarnate, while lauding him praises that rendered him almost mystical. A bit of competition almost always ensued in reference to Blackthorne, each participant striving to best his predecessor with stories about the man, each weaving another thread into a thicker cloth that made up what could only be seen as a legend.

“Charmed he is,” Humphries said, important with the mystery of Blackthorne. “’Tis like a guardian angel a-watchin’ over him. Been shot thirteen times.”

“And wears a bell for every virgin he’s taken,” called a voice from a dim corner.

“Others claim he can beckon the sea,” Humphries went on, “Neptune and all his creatures. Some say it’s just pure dern delight Blackthorne takes in makin’ a fool outa the Commodore.”

A hum of approval came from all around.

“Stole a ship o’ the line, by making them think there was wharf fever aboard,” put in one from the table behind her.

“Ol’ Nathan had taken the Royal pay chest.” Coomb’s cornflower eyes brightened at the thought of such riches. “The Commodore tore up the waters for months, trying to get it back. Finally, he outfoxed Ol’ Nathan, and got it back. The Commodore held a big ceremony at Fort Charles, had the Governor and all the muckety-mucks there. Come time to open it, t’was full o’ rotten horsemeat, and a note congratulatin’ the Commodore on his successes, signed Captain Nathanael Blackthorne!”

The roar of laughter filled the small space, their enthusiastic appreciation for such chicanery punctuated by the pounding of fists and utensils on any available surface.

“Blackthorne’s been a-tweakin’ Creswicke’s nose and tauntin’ Harte, makin’ fools o’ the both of ’em,” said Coombs over the scream of the wind.

“Royal West Indies Mercantile Company, Lord Breaston Creswicke, Governor; that’s power in these waters,” Chambers said coldly. Everyone fell quiet in deference. “Not a captain, honest or otherwise don’t feel the weight of their yoke, most especially Blackthorne.”

“I would have thought the East India Trading Company would have had something to say about them,” she said, straining to sort out the layers of intrigue.

It was no secret that the East India Trading Company was all-powerful, ruling the seas’ trading lanes with an iron fist on the one hand and an endorsement directly from Parliament and the King in the other. Virtually nothing came or went from England’s shores without their stamp of approval. As described by its title, the Company’s central concern pivoted on the East Indies and the riches that could be made on the tea, spice, and silk routes.

Ivy snorted in disgust, gesturing sharply with his knife. “Not enough in these waters to