energizing effect on men, for it seemed they could rarely accomplish a task without. The deck grew hazy with curls of smoke rising from the sides, acrid with an odd mix of burning weed, sulfur, tar, and perhaps a tinge of cooking worm. The smoke wafted low across the water and ashore, hanging among the trees like tobacco smoke wreathing a man’s head. Bits of canvas were rigged at the ports and hatches to funnel air below where the noxious smoke tended to collect. Fire and ships were mortal enemies, a ship being barely more than a pile of aged wood saturated with tar and paint, and so lookouts stood at the ready, with hoses and filled buckets.
Both sides complete, the Morganse righted for good, Nathan yielded to Hodder, chafing to the point of near apoplexy over the ruin of his precious paintwork. The swarms of besom-brush-bearing ants were replaced by paint-brush-bearing ones, the sharp smell of fresh paint joining the heady fug of breaming.
Declaring “idle hands and all that,” and disinclined toward revealing the ship’s fixed whereabouts with the daily great gun practice, Nathan ordered small arms practice instead: knives, pikes, boarding axes, sabers, cutlasses and the like. A series of chalk circles were drawn on deck and the smell of the sweat of exercise mingled in the air as the pirates honed their hand-to-hand skills. Stripped to their breeks, their chests shone with sweat as they sparred and parried with uncommon intensity, the classrooms taking on an air of competition. Under the watchful eyes of their mates, the combatants were cheered on by a large audience lining the ratlines, yards, and yet-to-be-painted rails. Beatrice shouted a bawdy repartee from amid the men peering down from their roost.
Cate stood by with her blood box—so named by Nathan, since it appeared every time there was blood—for injury was frequent. She smiled faintly as she watched, thinking it wasn’t unlike when Brian’s men had trained in preparation for raids and clan wars or during the Uprising. There was, however, one difference: a blood-lust abandon.
“They look like they are trying to hack each other to pieces,” she said, wincing at the sight of a vicious swipe by Mr. Rowett, his snakeskin vest tossed aside.
“Pirate.” Nathan offered the single word as an all-encompassing explanation. He sat next to her atop a cask, watching with a sports-like avidness.
“Which means kill afore gettin’ killed,” Pryce added from Nathan’s other side. He stood leaning against the rail, arms crossed loosely on his chest.
Distracted, she didn't see what happened to cause a cheer to go up, proclaiming Rowett the victor. Those two were barely away, before two more stepped into the circle, squared up and the fight commenced again.
“Y’know, Cap’n,” Pryce began thoughtfully, eyes tracking the fight. “If’n she’s to be here, she should be able to protect herself.”
“Right you are.” Nathan pulled his eyes from the match. “Should things happen, you could be need of defending yourself. Can you fight?”
“You mean, as in fists?” she asked warily. The “should things happen” comment was casually made, but his meaning was clear and not to be taken lightly.
“No. You’re feisty, but no match.” Nathan paused to shout encouragement to one of the combatants. “What about swords? I hear tell on the Constancy you were quite admirable.”
“You're too kind,” she said tartly.
“No, I mean it. Isn’t that how you saw it?” he said, thumping Pryce on the shoulder.
“Aye, verily sir. A fair hand, to be sure.”
“For a woman,” she said, peering around Nathan to Pryce.
“Well, to be sure,” Nathan equivocated as did Pryce. Alighting from the barrel, he took her by the arm. “C’mon, let's see what you’ve got.”
The crew gathered around and a lengthy group conversation ensued revolving around the finer points of weapon selection, size and weight, the grip being of greatest significance. A more serious debate followed as to who was to be her opponent. Jensen was the first option, by virtue of their similarity in size and his need for practice. Pryce dismissed that out-of-hand, pointing out the lad’s lack of skill could mean her accidental injury. Through the process of elimination, Nathan was finally urged forward, the tacit agreement being if anyone was to cause Cate harm, let it be the captain.
The next thing Cate knew, she had been shoved into the circle, armed and facing him. Wiping her palm on her skirt, she clasped the sword, the grip biting her flesh. A cutlass, actually, curved and wicked, meant for close-quarter fighting, as on