Weathered to the same butternut brown as every mariner, at first glance Billings possessed no defining features other than a luxuriant, curving mustache. His response, however, came in a nearly unintelligible garble, Pryce nodding intently.

"Very well, then. T'yer duties," Pryce said with a joviality she would have thought impossible, and then directed to her from the corner of his destroyed mouth, "Don't mind if he's a bit wantin' on the conversation aspect. He's put but a score o' words together over a year's time. He's a bit o' the idiot about him, but who's to know? He's blessed with magic in those hands."

Cate glanced candidly in Billings' direction. If he had heard-and no reason to believe he hadn't-no offense had been taken. When he looked up to respond, she saw that under the mustache his mouth was severely disfigured, natural-born rather than by accident, by the look of it.

"The Royal Navy don't fly no better canvas than the Morganse." Pryce pointed with pride toward the sail in Billings' lap. "See them leeches? Only the Navy and the Morganse has corded leeches. And that twine he's a-usin' is waxed, not that tar-dipped stuff; only the Royal Navy uses that."

She forbore questioning how the Morganse came to have stores that only the Royal Navy should possess.

"What about the red?" she asked, looking down at a rubricated stretch of canvas.

Pryce's contorted face lit. "Funny that. I t'weren't with the Cap'n then, but he represents he raided a Spanish corvette a'tween Cuba and Cayo Hueso full o' pastillas of cochineal. Through a certain series o' mishaps, it got spilt on the canvas stores. Sometimes looks a might pink," he said, judiciously eyeing the sail, "but the effect is still the same. A comin' out o' the sun, she 'pears to be a-breathin' blood."

Cate hid a smile. That hadn't been quite her first impression, but it was close enough.

Amid the turmoil, she became aware of voices rising above all else. They came from a sizable collection of men at the forecastle. One stood at the rail, faced down to the remainder gathered below.

"What are they doing?"

Nathan looked up as if noticing for the first time, and then regarded her as if she might be a bit dense. "It's an auction," he said around something tucked in the corner of his mouth. It looked to be a tobacco quid that he half sucked and half chewed on.

"I can see that. Now?" With all that needed to be done, it seemed an odd time for such distractions.

A closer look revealed whatever it was in Nathan's mouth wasn't tobacco, but something between leather and a stick. "What is that?"

Apparently he had forgotten it was there, for it took him a moment to take her meaning.

"This?" he asked, holding it up. "Charqui. Some of the islands around these parts still keep the boucan ways of curing meat. 'Tis done on racks over a slow fire, smoked."

Nathan regarded the woodish-looking strip and made a face. "'Tis far better than salt horse."

Cate couldn't help but smile. He was referring to the mariner's beef or pork, which went to sea packed in salt in three-hundred-pound casks. The meat was soaked in harness caskets, and then boiled in order to render it edible.

"Bite?" he asked, thrusting the brown strip toward her.

She felt like a dog gnawing on a bone-not to mention a bit ungraceful-as she took off a small bit of the other end. The texture being much like that piece of leather, she shifted it to the corner of her mouth.

"Just hold it there and let it soften," he said, smiling at seeing her struggle with it.

The meat-beef, goat, or pig, she couldn't tell-was pungent with spices, the smoky taste reminiscent of ham or bacon.

Nathan smiled tolerantly, something he seemed to be doing with frequency, and returned to the subject at hand. "'Tis bad luck to have a dead man's dunnage about. The sooner it no longer exists, the better. They've already drawn for their numbers...where they sleep and their mess number," he clarified to her deepening confusion. "Empty spaces, sleeping or at table, might invite the dead to linger."

"But if it's such bad luck, why don't you just throw it overboard?" The whole thing struck her as ghoulish. The bodies barely had time to reach the bottom of the sea.

"And waste perfectly good goods?" he asked around his impromptu meal. His eyes rounded in shocked indignation. "'Twould be a sad commentary, indeed. That rigging knife of Wiggins' was the envy of the ship. I'll give eight," he shouted to the auctioneer. "And that pistol. 'Twas Croftsford's reward for spotting a prize first. And there's a perfectly good rain tarp. Twelve," he called louder.

"'Tis all for a good cause," Nathan said cheerfully in the face of Cate's distress. "The money is collected and sent to the family, if there is any," he added with a dubious frown. Then he brightened. "If not, 'tis kept until the next time ashore and pays for drinks all around. Seventeen! Is there anything you desire?" he asked, gesturing toward the forecastle.

"No," was all Cate could manage. The chunk of meat was now malleable, but still chewy.

"Sold!" came from the forecastle.

"Ah, well," Nathan sighed. "Be that as it may, the sooner the better all around. Much to do. Bear a hand there," he cried as he strolled down the deck.

The ship became a beehive, a place where every soul was occupied in one of three roles: sail, repair, or prepare. The boatswain and his mates labored at swaying up new spars, setting a jibbom, bending sails, and knotting and splicing a spider's web of new rigging. Over and around them, the carpenter and his mates worked to reconstruct a section of mangled rail, shape a spar, topmast and wheels for a gun carriage, plug cannonball holes with great cone-shaped plugs, and rebuild two gun ports that had been blown into one. All the while, they were required to keep the two bilge pumps in working order to keep up with the rising water, over 20 inches in the well, at last report.

In the way of preparation, Mr. MacQuarrie, the Master Gunner, and his mates cleaned their respective instruments, swabbed, reamed touchholes, and chipped round shot. Shot garlands were filled, slow-match and wadding set at the ready. Cartouche boxes and shot bags were refilled. The armorer distributed weapons to the infirmed. Too well to be in their hammocks, but too injured to perform their regular duties, they were able to oil and clean pistols and muskets, and brighten blades.

"I thought you said the town was going to greet you with open arms," she said as she and Nathan watched the rearmament.

"An over-confident pirate is a dead pirate."

Desperation was the ultimate determining factor in the selection of which task she was assigned. It would seem a ship had two constants: leaks and miles of aging rope. Mariners being pragmatic creatures, they found a way that one could serve the other. And so she was sat on a low bench and introduced to the picking of oakum.

Nathan was both irritated and apologetic. "Any other day of the week, 'tis considered punishment. Just ask Mr. Ogden: near a fortnight ago he failed to report for his watch, and was sentenced to a pound of the stuff for every man on his watch obliged to work extra whilst his lazy ass was lying in a hammock."

"Punishment?"

"Of the highest order: time in the brig or bilboes is but time to be on one's arse, at one's leisure, making more work for everyone. Men will go to great lengths to avoid picking junk until their fingers bleed."

"I don't mind a little hard work."

"You will," he said, with a significant roll of the eyes. "You will."

On the surface, picking oakum was a simple proposition: tear apart old rope until it was down to its most basic fiber, something similar to raw wool, which would in turn be rolled into long strands of caulk. It was easier said, than done, however. The rope-sometimes the thickness of her leg-was made up of uncountable strands, one upon the other, and was encased in layer upon layer of tar and varnish. Twisting, tearing, pounding, rolling, or fraying on a hook were all required. It meant working in a smelly cloud of pitch and a fine, prickling brown dust that clung to everything. The work was hard, the coarse hemp fibers abrading her hands and tearing at her fingers. Between the shock of firing her own guns and taking shots in return, the Morganse had taken a pounding in the last battle, both bilge pumps working to capacity. A lot of oakum was going to be needed, and soon.

Picking oakum was nasty and tedious, but it provided the workers with time for conversation. They regaled Cate with tales, going off on tangents so laden with mariner's lingo the meaning was lost. At one point, the clop of hooves marked Hermione handily clambering up the steps from below. She pricked her ears interestedly, the pile of frayed rope far too appetizing to be ignored. And so they were obliged to work on the one hand, while shooing Hermione away with the other.

"'Tis a rare sight to see long-jawed cordage or stretched rag aboard the Cap'n's ship," said one man proudly, eyeing the growing pile of junk before them. A spare man with walnut-like knobs for knuckles, he had introduced himself as "Potts." One eye nearly milky, and the other tending to rove, he had the habit of canting his head like a great bird at whatever he wished to see.

"And it's not as if he's afraid o' the canvas," put in another, busily unparceling, removing the canvas protection sewn over some ropes. "Spits in the wind's eye, he does, and laughs when it tries to catch 'im."

"Carried away the st'd's'l and the mizzen course back a couple months ago," added another judiciously.

"Bull!" burst out Potts. "'Twere a maelstrom the likes of which no man seed a-comin'! Glass it were that day," he directed toward her. "Ye could o' shaved in yer reflection, if ye were of a mind. The wind come straight down." He slammed his hands together in emphasis, startling Hermione into a bleating protest. "Jest like that! Not a ripple for the warnin'. Any less seaman woulda sheared every stick."

"Cursed he is," came a grumble from behind.

"Blessed he is," put in another. "By Calypso herself."

A guttural squawk and a heavy flap of wings overhead caused Cate to duck. Looking up she found a huge parrot perched on a cask at Potts' elbow. A vibrant hyacinth blue, bright yellow marked its eyes and beak. It ruffled its feathers and smoothed, only to raise its hackles and squawk in protest at spotting Cate.

"Go toss yourself!"it croaked with remarkable clarity and clapped its beak threateningly.

"Beatrice! Mind yer tongue, ye scurvy-ridden bag o' feathers," Potts scolded. "We've a guest aboard, ye rude beast!"

"Fuck off!"

Amid embarrassed titters and clearing of throats, the men shifted uneasily.

"She's a mite suspicious of strangers," Pryce directed to Cate as he stepped down from the forecastle. He then growled at the bird, "And a sorry exuse fer a beast ye are."

"Well, grease me stick!"

"'Tis likely her master spent a fair amount o' time in the less reputable realms afore she come here," Pryce explained to Cate, his bronze reddening at his collar.

"Buggering trollop!"

"Sounds as though he was a colorful sort," Cate said. It was nothing she hadn't heard many times over on the streets of East London. If anything, it was a bit endearing that the men were embarrassed.

"Who does...?" She was cut short by a contrary-sounding parrot shriek. "Who does she belong to?"

"Eh...?" Pryce closed one eye in puzzlement. He looked from man to man for guidance, defensively hunched shoulders his only response. "Interestin' question, that."

She waited for further explanation. None came.

"How do you know it's a she?" Cate asked, eyeing the bird. A huge one it was. From head to tail tip, it was well over the length of a man's arm. Her avian experience was limited mostly to the barnyard and sporting varieties, most of which had defining features to separate the sexes.

The men raised their heads to view Beatrice with more a discerning eye.

"Complains like one," was Pryce's eventual response.

Picking oakum was thirsty work. Several hours later, while waiting for more rope to be brought, Cate stiffly rose and went to get a drink from the scuttlebutt. Filled with rainwater, its contents still took on the taste of wood gone wet far too long or the canvas used to collect it, but it was still far less foul than the water casks. As she moved about, she kept a sharp eye for Scarface, the one who had accosted her within moments of her being aboard. He was nowhere in sight, but she couldn't help but think she heard snatches of his voice now and again. For all she knew, one of his accomplices could be standing at her elbow, for she had little recollection of their faces.

Dabbing her mouth on the back of her hand, she turned to find two men standing there. Doffing their caps, they knuckled their forelocks.

"Beggin' yer pardon, mum. A word?"

Thin, almost to the point of gaunt, his frizzled gray hair showed evidence of once being red. At his side was a younger, squarer one, with a heavy shock of blond hair tar-bound in the forecastlemen's way.

"You're Highlanders, aren't you?" Cate asked, polite but cautious. Their accented voices had drifted on the wind, their rolled r's and clipped consonants haunting her with echoes of her past.

"Aye, mum. Cameron, by name, but Grant by birth. He's Hughes," he added, indicating his partner. He stammered, painfully nervous. "Yer man was a Mackenzie, wasn't he?"

The water she had just drunk turned to lead. Recognition in England would have meant death. Among the pirates of the Ciara Morganse, she had thought to be safe. After being singled out, there was nothing to be gained in denying it, and so she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

"Yes, he was."

They grinned with delight.

"Aye, we thought so. We dinna wish to be forward, Mum, but we kent ye as soon as we laid eyes on ye. May I shake yer hand, Mistress Mackenzie? He was a fine man, mum. I...we wish to honor his memory."

He seized her hand and was pumping it before he realized himself. His eyes bulged and jerked away, flushing. "Pray, beggin' yer pardon, Mistress Mackenzie."

Twisting his hat unmercifully in his hands, he exchanged glances with his companion, who silently encouraged him on.

"We served under him, ye ken, from Prestopans to...well, and after," he ended awkwardly, his countenance darkening. Then he brightened, picking up his purpose again. "He was a fine man, Mum, the finest we'd ever seen. Best officer in the whole cursed affair. Courage of a lion."

"Yes, he had that," she said, wilting under the increasing weight of several of the mariners looking on.

"And when I saw ye stitchin' yon Chin, I said to meself: 'That's Red Brian's leddy.'" His face split into a smile again, studded by a total of four teeth. Then he waxed very solemn. "We just wanted to say as how proud we wuz to serve under yer man, m'm."

With a strained smile, she mutely nodded.

God! Was there no way to quiet them.

"We followed 'im to Hell and back. A natural leader he was. We wuz fair sorry when we learnt o' him so terrible hurt."

"I'm sure he would have appreciated your enthusiasm." Cate cringed, her gut knotting. Would he ever stop?

"And we was right sorry to hear he'd been captured. Bloody sassenachs!" He flinched at the blunder. In many circles, such an epithet would have launched a fight. Apparently, pirates overlooked slurs.

More of the crew was now watching. A few inched closer, poised but curious. Noticing the gathering audience, the two Scots bobbed a bow in unison.

"We wished to honor his memory, Mistress Mackenzie. G' day, mum."

Cate sagged against the rail in relief. She didn't look up; she didn't need to. She could feel the men's eyes boring into her back.

No secrets on a ship, she thought ruefully, as she ran a shaking hand over her face.

It had been as public announcement as could possibly be made. She might as well have stood on the capstan and shouted who she was.

Cate was touched on the arm. She jumped and shrieked. Whirling, she found it was Nathan.

"Beg pardon," he said, falling back. "I didn't mean to-"

"No, no!" One hand pressing to her middle as she caught her breath, she raised the other in apology. "I just didn't hear you."

"Did those crewmen-?"

"No, no!" Ducking her head, she scurried off.

Isla de las Aguas de los Santos Sedientos.

It seemed a lofty title for such an inconsequential-looking piece of land.

As the ship paralleled the shore, Cate watched the massive black banner unfurl once more. Seeing the bold image of the haloed skull framed by the angel's wings, she felt the same thrill and tug of pride as when the Nightingale had been bearing down, a sense of belonging; sudden and unfounded, but there it was.

"I would have thought you would desire the element of surprise," she said, looking up at the flag.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. "Surprise them, and their first instinct is to fight and fight hard, in defense of hearth, family, and all that is dear. But," he said, with an exclamatory finger and a knowing wink, "give them time and they commence to thinking. With that luxury, the mind sets to imagining how much they stand to lose, and how much pain-possible death-might be required in the process of defending said valuables."

"Which means?"

"Which means given enough time, they'll meet you at the dock with the keys to the treasury, their most virginal maids, and desire to know what took you so long in coming. Don't care for that second bit, eh?" he laughed at seeing her wince.