clutching his head.
“All the rum,” she said loudly enough to be heard over his cursing in pain, “for all the night.”
He glared at her from under his arm. “Think you’re some strategic genius, eh? Very well, we have an accord.”
Face screwed with discomfort, he took the bottle and a long pull.
His dignity ruffled, Nathan pointedly ignored her, at least as well as one might while having his head bandaged, grunting noncommittally to any remarks she made. Gradually his agitation eased and his responses grew more disjointed. Little by little, the bottle became too heavy. She handily caught it as it rolled from his lap and set it within easy reach, in case he was to wake.
His eye was beginning to swell; it would be black by morning. Lying with his bare feet askew, the bandage a white slash against the darkness of hair and tan, he looked pale and fragile. Beaten, but not conquered, he would rise again, just…a little…later. Between the blood-matted hair and sullied shirt, he was a mess, but it would have to wait; there were more injured waiting to be attended.
“Sleep well, Captain,” Cate said as she picked up to leave.
Nathan stirred and asked groggily, “Where are you to sleep?”
“I doubt if there will be much of that tonight,” she said, stopping at the curtain. “Worry not; I'll find someplace. Good night, Captain.”
“Nathan.” came a drowsy voice. “I’ve asked you to call me Nathan.”
###
As forecast, it was a long night. The moon had nearly completed its journey across the sky when Cate finished with the casualties. Tiredly rubbing the back of her neck, she strolled the main deck. She drew deep draughts of the night air into her lungs to clear them of the fug of sweat, vomit, and blood she had been breathing for the last several hours. It had been a night of extractions, removing from bodies what musket and cannonball had inserted. She had been in blood most of the night, either washing it away, probing in it, squeezing it off with stitches, or staving it with bandages. The soles of her feet were raw from the sand spread on the blood-slicked boards. Over a score required attending, some Nightingales. Bleeding on the Nightingale’s deck, they had pled to join the Ciara Morganse. Already short-handed, and with not knowing what the Butcher’s Bill might be, they had been taken on. Between herself, Pryce and Kirkland, all had been seen to, and now all rested comfortably, thank you, Demon Rum.
It had been enlightening to watch Pryce. Behind that monstrous face was a man of passions. As fiery as he was commanding his men, his compassion had been limitless, either holding their hand while they suffered, or whispering comfort in their ear as they died.
Away from the makeshift sickbay ’tween decks, the scene was quite different. The Nightingale’s plunder of rum, wine, and beer had been consumed, as testified to by the numerous dark shapes of bodies sprawled and slumped, several of which she nearly tripped over. Those still upright huddled in the glow of the lamps, proclaiming on this victory and reliving those of the past.
The combination of darkness and drink made her uneasy. It was known to prompt many a man to mischief he mightn’t have committed else. She moved nearer to the Great Cabin and the deterrence provided by a Captain, sleeping though he was. Leaning against the rail, she tipped her face into the breeze. She was coming to relish the soft tropical nights. Granted, the air lacked the bracing freshness of the Highlands and the stars weren’t the icy pinpricks of the northern skies. The Caribbean air wrapped one like a mother’s blanket, the stars glowing with the warmth of a hearth’s light through a window.
Exhaustion drove her inside. The low-angled moonlight banding through the gallery windows showed her way to the sleeping quarters. She drew the curtain aside carefully, lest the rings rattle. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim, she could make out Nathan on the bunk. His outline was limned by the blue-green of the moon through the deck prism, one arm flung in slumbering abandon. She listened to his even breathing, its raspiness echoing his graveled voice. It was a fetching sound; resting her head against the doorframe, she lingered.
It had been more than a little annoying to learn that both Pryce and Kirkland possessed a credible skill at sewing the flesh, and with something far more fitting than the sailmaker’s needle she had been handed