Her hand came to rest on Nathan's shoulder, sagging with weariness. Other than a piece of dried meat, she had not seen him eat that day, nor the one before. A lesser man would have been bedridden for the day after such a blow to the head. Her presence seemed to have upset his lifestyle in several ways.

Nathan smiled nonetheless. "I've plenty of time to sleep when I'm in me grave."

He rose and went around the table to retrieve his hat.

"You've a gentle touch, Cate Mackenzie," he said with somber intent. "Pryce represents you've been quite able-handed. You've don't this before, the healing and sewing of bodies."

"I'm no physikan or healer, but yes." Cate sighed, her limb suddenly feeling filled with sand.

"You've done it a lot." It was more an observation than accusation.

She nodded, grimacing. "More than I care to think." It wasn't a matter to brag about; one did what one must and could.

Nathan turned his head toward the window, his gaze going distant. "The other day, you spoke of war."

Cate closed her eyes and nodded.

He fell quiet. His brow furrowed as his mouth worked under his mustache.

"I've seen the hell what can be wrought when two ships-a hundred guns each-haul up to hammer away at each other at a cable's length, throwing four or five hundred-weight of iron at every round, until either the guns explode from overheating, or one at last goes up in a blaze of glory, or sinks in the same. I've seen bodies fly no different than the splinters around them," he said so very softly. He turned his head to regard her with open admiration. "Providence has spared me from a legion of cannon opening fire on men afoot."

He shook off his dark mood and raised the rum bottle in salute. "Lest you think me a cod-handed scrub, and I be forever haunted by me conscience, on behalf of the entire company of the Ciara Morganse and meself, I give you joy of your success, and in all sincerity, thank you."

Nathan swept an elegant bow, wincing at the pain brought on by lowering his head.

He seemed to have something more to say, but dismissed it. He carefully settled his hat on his head, the bells in his hair swishing with the movement. He gave a wry smile.

"You'd best change; I don't want it on me conscience that you'd contracted some morbid disease from being required to walk about in sullied clothes. I'll advise Mr. Kirkland you'll be looking to wash, again."

He headed for the door, but then drew to a halt.

"You're safe now," he said softly over his shoulder.

And then, he left.

Cate stood at the rail and watched the anchor and its thick-as-a-leg cable rise. The anchor's great hooks, enshrouded in green seaweed, brought with them the smell of muck and mud. On topsails and jibs, the ship curved out of the bay, and the first land she had seen in almost three months faded.

There was a grand celebration on the forecastle the next night. The men were in high spirits. Tales flowed in a stream as steady as the grog, a number of toasts drank to Captain Nathanael Blackthorne. One couldn't help but notice the flamboyance and credulity of the stories told about him expanded in direct proportion to the amount of drink consumed. It was difficult to imagine one person capable of everything credited to him.

Chapter 5: Life's Routines.

Cate settled into the daily routine of a pirate ship, if "routine" and "pirate" might be used in the same sentence: rise with the sun, work, a bit of grog and relaxation on the forecastle after dark, and then sleep.

Trying to learn the names of over a hundred and twenty rogues was a daunting task. With faces weathered to a uniform butternut tan, sun-creased and seamed, separation on that sole basis was nigh impossible.

Mr. Hodder she was familiar with, if not by face, then certainly by voice. As the ship's boatswain (pronounced "BO-sun," curiously enough), his charge was the workings of the ship proper, and hence, its crew. Either by necessity or natural trait, he possessed a voice that could carry from bowsprit to taffrail in a high gale, and all around a fist-sized quid of tobacco in his cheek. A single "Turn to!" could rouse a crewman from the depths of sleep, up and out of his hammock and on deck, before the wind could carry the words away.

In spite of his voice, massive gnarled hands and inordinately long arms, Hodder's most outstanding feature was the intricately carved and scrimshawed ivory rings that studded every nook of his body. He stalked the decks, his waist-long eel-skinned and tarred pigtail swinging at his back, rings clattering, and woe unto the wretched, unsuspecting cove who failed to attend his approach.

Millbridge was another easily recognized. Being the oldest, and therefore most experienced, put him in the revered position of having the last word on any mystery or vagary of nature, or the world: strongest wind, strangest sky, biggest shark, or worst doldrum. He was the final authority and touchstone regarding superstition and omens, boils, cuts, dislocations, and fevers. Even Nathan and Mr. Pryce yielded to his authority. If Millbridge said, then it must be so. He was the one who appeared while she prepared to sew Chin's leg her first day aboard, with the declaration of "I've seen worse."

Who could argue with that?

As part of his position, Millbridge was spared hardship, either physical or weather. Generous rations of rum and additional shares of plunder all revealed the level of his esteem.

"I thought everyone objected to the privileges in the Royal Navy," Cate said, still a bit unclear.

"There, privilege is imposed. Here, 'tis granted," Nathan explained patiently, "and can be revoked at the drop of a hat-highly unlikely, but a possibility."

He scanned the ship's people, all at their duties. "Millbridge is everyone's goal: to live that long. Bloody unlikely prospect, but 'tis the hope what lingers in every seaman's heart." He grinned a bit wistfully. "All of us fancy a bit of ease in our silver years. Providence must be smiling upon someone what's managed to make it that long. Who be we to tangle with that?"

As a single face among the masses, each man adorned or outfitted himself to be unique against a hundred others who were also striving for the same. It was a contest with no end. As a result, it was difficult not to stare, and yet they took pride at her doing so, interpreting it as a declaration of their success. Through the days, she found the uniqueness of each and privately assigned temporary names.

The easiest were those who, by virtue of certain physical aspects, resembled animals. Toad and Crane, the two she had met her first day aboard, were the first to receive such titles, until later learning they were Mr. Towers and Mr. Smalley.

Hog, called so because of rounded nostrils and snubbed appearance because of the missing end of his nose, turned out to have the name of Seymour.

Mole, because of his way of squinting when spoken to and a pair of horrifically bucked teeth, was actually Mr. Hallchurch, a pleasant sort that tended to spit with every "s" or "th" uttered.

Chicken, known only by his semi-maniacal cackling laugh that was audible throughout the ship, turned out to be a long-necked man with inordinately small, round eyes named Sombers.

Snake didn't look like one. A tattoo wound his torso, up the side of his face, and coiled around his bald head, the slitted eyes of the creature staring down from his forehead squarely into the face of anyone who spoke to him. Not only was Ogden, as she learned his name to be, bald, he was completely void of any hair anywhere visible on his body.

Ass's name wasn't meant to be derogatory. It referred to the jawbone the mulatto wore on a leather thong around his neck. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the jawbone of an ass, since it bore three gold teeth. Mr. Squidge, as he preferred to be called, wore the remnants of several of his foes. Hanging from a loop around his neck, the withered segments turned out to be fingers.

There was confusion on Cate's part, because of another man who carried a similar collection. The issue was cleared up when Nathan pointed out that unlike Squidge's, Mr. Pickford's collection was of not of fingers, but ears, each bearing a gold earring.

How could she have been so unobservant?

She didn't inquire as to whether some of the fresher-looking bits were souvenirs of the Constancy or Nightingale.

Nathan and Mr. Pryce were more than patient in quietly coaching her on the names, even going so far as to point out how to remember each: Similar to Hodder, Mr. Damerell sported gold rings on every part of his body.

"A ring in one's ear improves the sight," Nathan informed her. He failed to explain the powers of the rings in Damerell's lips, nose, and nipple. She couldn't help but wonder where else he might have one.

"Oh, yes indeed," Nathan said, with a delicate clearing of his throat, somehow divining her thoughts. "Even there."

Mr. Scripps was appropriately named. Bare-chested in even the most inclement weather, barely an inch of his body wasn't occupied by multi-colored tattoos.

Pattison had scarified tattoos arching across both cheeks and encircling his eyes.

Rowett, at one point referred to by her as Snake the Second, wore a snake skin nearly as wide as his back, fashioned into something akin to a vest, the tails dangling at the back.

"Ate his best friend," she was told.

Mr. White was black. Mr. Towers was short. Mr. Harrier was bald. Mr. Pidgeon resembled a cat. Mr. Broadstreet was pencil-thin to the point of causing one to wonder how he kept from being blown away, and Mr. French wasn't.

Mute Maori was just that.

"Doesn't he have a name?" she asked, eyeing Mastiff, the name she had given him when she sewed Chin's leg her first day aboard.

Nathan propped his hands on his hips. "And how were we to know that? He's a mute," he pointed out, apparently not caring that the man, who stood nearby, still had his hearing. "Unless you read Maori?"

Cate wasn't sure if there even was such a language, let alone a written one.

"No cabin boys?" As she understood, taking young boys to sea was a well-steeped tradition.

"Certainly," Nathan replied. "Have to be a dundering oysterhead to aweigh without. Millbridge there is one." A hand waved in the direction of the ship's patriarch.

"But...he's...?"

"Too old to do aught else," Nathan finished bluntly, but with a certain affection. "The men-and me, of course-desire to keep him about, but those old bones won't stand much abuse, so he's the easiest job aboard."

"Easy" wasn't ordinarily the first word that came to mind when referring to cabin boy. To be one meant to live at the beck and call of every hand aboard. A combination messenger, servant, and valet, they were required to perform any and all menial tasks. It hardly seemed the role for a person verging on antiquity.

"But, I've never seen him in the-" Cate began.

"Not likely to either," Nathan cut in. "He can't abide women. Some long, lost love doing him wrong, or some such stuff and nonsense, but it stuck with him all these years. Never known him to so much as lift a brow to a whore, let alone be in the same room with one, willingly at any rate. No offense," he added as a rather late-coming afterthought.

"None taken, I think," she said, still trying to sort out the image of Millbridge being anyone's lackey.

"Jensen was taken on initially to serve as Kirkland's lad, but he's never allowed the boy over the galley coaming."

Jensen was the youngest in years, but held seniority over many. That edge didn't save him from being the brunt of practical jokes and ribbings. Bright-faced and good-natured, he eagerly faced every menial and dirty task that came with being the youngest aboard. His ability to accept it all in the spirit intended, often laughing the hardest, had endeared him to everyone. Now the tender age of seventeen and at sea for a few years, it was painfully clear that Jensen wasn't a natural seaman. It was suggested, often and none so gently, that perhaps his talents laid in farming, with dirt under his nails as opposed to tar.

"Reminds me of meself," Nathan sighed wistfully one day. "Of course, I wasn't so cod-handed." He winced, indicating perhaps that wasn't quite the entire truth.

"But no regular cabin boys?" Cate asked.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. "Best not have the men see the captain waited upon: sets a bad image. Besides, the lads can be a bit...without defenses," he finished with a strained tone.

It was another arrival upon dangerous grounds, and many of those there were. She was coming to wish for a chart by which to track such hazards.

Life, however, was far from idyllic. A few souls made it eloquently clear they desired no part of her, her presence an affront. She felt their thinly veiled malignant looks, their comments always uttered loudly enough for her benefit alone. Scarface, or Bullock as his name turned out to be, was always among them, his voice as recognizable as Nathan's. A ringleader, if ever she had seen one. His presence was as pressing as the trade winds. She took careful note of him and his cohorts at all times.

Besides the uncertainty of her fate-Nathan being still slippery on the matter-the issue of quartering was a growing concern. Upon her unceremonious arrival, she had been deposited in the captain's berth. After the first several nights, she had anticipated being relocated to one of the cabins below, but Nathan had insisted she remain where she was, "Seeing as how it was finally clean to your exacting standards."

He was, of course, referring to a rather unfortunate incident one morning, when...Well, the mattress needed airing desperately! There had been cross words and perhaps some hurt feelings-not that ingratitude for his hospitality had been her intention-but her goal had ultimately been met: the oakum-stuffed mattress spending the day on the hatch grates in the sun and smelling much the better for it.

The issue of sleeping arrangements was precipitated not quite a week of her arrival, when she found Nathan one night at the table, the logbook his pillow.

Cate came in the next morning to find him as clear-eyed and insufferably perky as ever-and yes, perky was indeed the correct word, for the man positively bubbled. She, on the other hand, met the day with considerably less gleeful aplomb. He took an unseemly joy, by her estimation, in making example of that not-so-small contrast. He met the sun like it was an elixir, whereas it did no more than deliver her a dull headache.

Mr. Kirkland-bless him!-was the only sympathetic soul aboard. Every morning a pot of coffee waited upon her on the table, hot enough to scald the unsuspecting. It was a wonder of the ages as to how he managed the miracle, but miraculous it was.

"Let me go elsewhere," Cate insisted after sufficient amounts of coffee made lucid thought possible. Her voice was raised not in anger, but to be heard over a thunderstorm, the rain hammering overhead. "It's not right. You're the captain; you deserve your own bed."

In point of fact, she had no idea where he slept.

Nathan's indifference bordered on annoying. "Inconsequential encumbrances, luv."

She caught sight again of the brindle-coated, fox-faced creature she had seen in the sleeping quarters her first day. The half-cat, half-weasel-looking thing appeared now and again. Most times, it slunk along the wall, head down, industriously sniffing like a hound on a scent. This time, however, it came directly for the table, with a look of complete expectation.

"Come here, me lovely!" Nathan crooned. As he bent to scoop it up, the thing sat up in greeting, braced on a bushy tail nearly as long as its body.

"What is it?" Cate asked watching it slouch into Nathan's grasp like a pet cat, and then inquisitively stretch its muzzle toward her. She wasn't afraid, just unsure what it was.

"His Lordship, Georgie, named after our fair regent. Fitting for a rat-eater, don't you think?" he asked, setting the beast back on the floor.

"It's a mongoose," he said at last, dismayed by her ignorance, "one of the best varmint killers about. Granted, snakes are ever so much more better, but I can't abide the things, always slithering about, dropping down from god knows where." He shuddered dramatically. "His Lordship can make a fair meal of a goodly number of rats per week. Even if he doesn't catch 'em, the damned things will stay in the bilges just to be shut of him."

Oddly, as the animal sat up on its haunches next to her chair, it did possess a certain imperial air.

"Begging?" she asked, looking down.

"Be gone with you, you little blighter! Have a care," he directed to Cate. "He'll have your meal in a blink."

He swiveled a sharp eye toward His Lordship. "Someday Kirkland will catch you and there'll be hell to pay. To the sharks it shall be and I shan't raise a finger to save your hairy ass. 'Twill be an occasion. We'll place wagers on whether a mongoose can swim."

With a mongoose version of an indifferent "Hmph!" His Lordship ambled about the room.

"And those things?"

He followed her point, taking a moment to realize what she was looking at, and then swiveled around in disbelief. "The geckos?"

Nathan took a drink of coffee and set to breaking off bits of the mango to feed His Lordship, now sitting up at his chairside.

"Not quite sure how the little bastards got on board," he sniffed disinterestedly. "I can't say I was altogether pleased at the way they multiplied worse than rabbits. God knows what must have been going on behind our backs," he huffed under his breath, and threw a malignant glare at the lizard scampering along the sill.

The lizards were plentiful. Catching glimpses from the corner of her eye, most times Cate would look to find nothing there, and left to wonder if she was imagining things.

"Hodder and Pryce put a bounty on them, but the men damned near beat each other to death with the nets trying to catch the little blighters. They raced them, too-more abiding than the rats on that count-until we began to notice the cockchafer population diminishing by a grand mark, along with other pestilences of a crawly nature.

"Some of the hands tamed 'em, put 'em on little leashes and carried them about on their shoulders. Had a topsman what wouldn't go aloft without one on each. They're abiding beasts, once you get past them looking at you upside down with one eye whilst the other goes off," Nathan said, licking the fruit juice from his fingers.

"Let me move to one of the cabins below," Cate said, picking up their earlier discussion. She spoke in considerably lower voice, now that the rain had stopped. "Believe me, I've slept rougher." She ruffled at the possibility that his concerns were based on her inability to weather hardship.

The bantering went on for several more rounds, in considerably lower voice once the rain stopped.