Inevitably, this process of thought led her back to her beloved Thomas. She remembered him conversing reasonably with the pirate captain. Surely he would not have spoken of his wife, as there was little reason for him to do so. He was not the type of man to prattle incessantly.
Her mind raced forward, feverishly scrolling through the blur of events that had transpired since her capture. Prior to speaking with the captain, she had only talked with one man: Nathan Adams. She had foolishly exchanged names with him, and of this she questioned him on the beach, but he denied giving her name to the captain. She didn't believe him. He seemed a nice enough boy, but she had to remind herself that he was a pirate, and lies came as naturally to a pirate as bad breath.
She sat in a bed for a long while, wondering what she might do to distract these lingering contemplations. Based on the steep angle of the sun's rays shining through the open windows, she guessed it was early afternoon. When her legs started to numb she crawled from the bed and paced round the room. Thanks to her time aboard Lady Katherine, she was no stranger to dawdling. She gradually made her way to the captain's desk and dropped into the chair.
A map of the West Indies was spread across the desk. She spent the remaining hours of daylight studying the map. She put her index finger to the east coast of Florida and slid it south, between Florida and the Bahamas. From there she curved westward and journeyed through the Straits of Florida. She trailed her finger over Havana and curved southward to hug the western corner of Cuba. She continued southeast along the Yucatan Channel and then passed beneath the Cayman Islands. She arrived on the southern side of Jamaica, halting to regard Port Royal.
She recalled a story she had heard in Lloyd's Coffee House on Lombard Street. She had accompanied Thomas there while he was on business. The proprietor of the coffeehouse, Edward Lloyd, published a shipping news for his patrons, and thus attracted many patrons of maritime interest. It was there that Katherine met a charismatic old-timer who told her a tale so biblical in proportion that she was inclined to disbelieve it, until Thomas confirmed it to be true. The old-timer claimed to have viewed the devastation firsthand, to which Thomas responded with a wry smirk, for it was unlikely. Port Royal, said the old-timer, was a bustling English colony that embraced piratical activity due to the profits it incurred. The governor wisely invited pirates to use the port as an unofficial base, thus sheltering the harbor with a fleet of dangerous ships that warded off Spanish and French attacks. Shopkeepers and merchants grew fat from the plunder that pirates brought them. In 1692 this errant prosperity came to a bloody end, seemingly by the hand of God Himself. A violent earthquake triggered a massive tidal wave that nearly swallowed the entire town, ending the lives of more than four thousand citizens.
Katherine presently paid her respects to the small blotch of ink that was Port Royal and started southeast. She set out across the expansively vacant Caribbean Sea, traveling what she approximated to be three hundred leagues before coming to Island de Blanco. She curved northeast from there, grazed the Windward Islands, and tilted sharply to the west to sail beneath Puerto Rico. She passed under Hispaniola and neared Port Royal once again as she rode the Jamaica Channel into the northeastern slant of the Windward Passage. At the exit of the passage she turned northwest and continued until she reached the island of New Providence in the Bahamas.
Nassau was the second name that she recognized from memory. She'd heard many of the pirates speak this name with bated breath, and she guessed that it was Harbinger's ultimate destination. However, unlike Port Royal, she knew little of Nassau.
She would have continued her study of the map if not for the dimming light. Nevertheless, by time she was done, she had fashioned a near flawless mental picture of each island's name, location, and port. When finally she looked across the room, anything beyond three feet was blurred by her closely-focused vision. She blinked until it cleared.
The door swung open. Griffith entered with a candle that flooded the room with its dusky orange radiance. Katherine suppressed an urge to spring from the chair. She forced a nonchalant expression.
"Appointed yourself captain already, have you?" he said. When she didn't laugh, he gestured to the chart. "It's the Caribbean."
"I can read," she replied flatly. She had her elbows on the chart, chin resting atop interlocking fingers.
"Naturally." He lit candles around the cabin and then moved to the liquor cabinet. "I thought we might share some wine."
"Thinking doesn’t become you."
"Really? And what does become me?"
"Murder."
After lengthy deliberation he opened the cabinet and produced a bottle of red wine. "I approach with great anticipation the day we end these pointless banters."
She started to her feet. He motioned for her to stay in the chair. He uncorked the bottle of wine and tilted its long neck her way. She curtly shook her head. He shrugged and threw back his neck for a hefty swig. She glanced at the polished cutlass dangling from his belt. When he finished, he offered her the bottle a second time.
"Perhaps just a sip."
He grinned and handed her the bottle. She arched her neck and pursed her lips to prevent any wine from seeping through, but the taste was so sweet on her lips that she couldn't help but part them just a little. The wine was delicious, but she allowed no more than a few droplets to spill onto her tongue.
An hour later, she was engaged in rapturous mirth with the pirate captain. They passed the bottle back and forth and she lost count of how many intended sips had become mammoth gulps.
"You weren't meaning to take any," Griffith said between swigs.
"Not at all!" she shouted, thinking for no particular reason that she wouldn't be heard unless she raised her voice to deafening decibels. "In fact, I was meaning to get you perfectly drunk before stealing away your cutlass and," she burst into cackling laughter, "and impaling you right through your heart. Assuming you have one."
The spasms in his stomach nearly knocked Griffith from the desk.
"I'm serious!" she said, feigning offense.
"I believe you," he replied, indicating his mauled ear.
Her chest heaved as she broke into a fresh set of giggles. "I can't believe I did that."
"Well, the evidence is plain for all to see, save for me. And what I cannot see must not exist so long as I ignore all evidence to the contrary."
"I should've done worse."
"And you may yet have the chance."
She frowned vacantly. The room contorted and she felt as though she was moving in slow motion. The bobbing of the ship and all the creaks and groans that came with it took on a sluggish, somber quality. Rising clearly amidst this slow chaos, a single question formed. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why am I on this ship?"
He shrugged. "You're beautiful."
"So I've been told," she whispered, with a distant, cynical smile.
"You don't believe it?"
"If there's one thing that has been made abundantly clear over the course of my life, it's that it doesn't matter what I believe."
"Katherine," he said, "you must be delirious not to see it."
"Perhaps it's the world that suffers delirium."
"No doubt it does," he conceded. "But I know beauty when I see it."
She stood up too quickly; her head felt like a dead weight on her shoulders. She swayed dumbly, struggling to gather her solemnity. "And you steal whatever catches your fancy?"
"I would make a very poor pirate if I did not."
"Your plunder must not include people!" she protested, and nearly toppled over in the process. She thrust out a foot and regained her balance.
"Where else might I have found my crew? Those blacks you see on deck, they were slaves, Katherine. Now they live free lives."
"How lovely for them," she scoffed. "What of my life? What of my husband's life? You murdered him!"
He stood and circled the desk, moving close. "Your husband betrayed you."
> "Never!"
"The coward surrendered his wife to me to save his own skin. He disgusted me and I killed him for it."
"You lie!" she said, tears spilling over.
"I enjoyed killing him," he said, his drunken gaze narrowing.
"I don't believe you."
He touched her cheek. "Then why do you cry?" She pulled away and faced the opposite direction. "You know it's true, Katherine. Tell me, how else would I know your name unless your husband provided it?"
She faced him, eyes red and watery but no less fierce. "I gave my name to one of your crew and he told you, not my husband. Please end this charade."
He blinked. "I knew nothing of this. With whom did you speak?"
"What does it matter?" she sneered. "You're senses are impaired. You won't remember any of this come sunrise."
"Likewise," he grinned. He turned to retrieve the bottle of wine. "We pirates sustain our spirits better than we let on."
She pounced while his back was to her. She grasped the hilt of his cutlass and slid it free of the sheath. He turned a disbelieving gaze on her. She pointed the tip of the blade to his throat and cocked her head with a jubilant grin. "I wonder how well you will sustain your spirits as they drain from your neck."
He regained his composure and managed a smile. "You're welcome to kill me, but what then?"
"That really doesn't concern you."
"I think you're bluffing. Kill me and you'll incur the wrath of one-hundred vengeful pirates."
She pressed the point into his neck, a tiny bubble of blood forming on the tip of the blade. "You think highly of yourself. Perhaps they’ll appoint me captain."
"Maybe." He elevated his chin. "Perhaps they’ll fuck you to death."
"You think that scares me now?"
"Yes," he said.
She knew he was right, but she wouldn’t let him see it. She would throw herself over the side before allowing the crew to get at her.
"I think you’re bluffing," he said.
"Perhaps I am bluffing. Perhaps I won't kill you. Perhaps I'll just take another piece of you as I did your ear. Perhaps I'll remove that piece which worries me most."
Flickering candlelight glimmered in the tiny beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. "You've nothing to fear."
"No?" She glanced indicatively at his crotch. "Why not? Does it not work?"
"It works, last I looked," he replied tersely.
"Then why shouldn’t I be afraid? I'm so very beautiful, remember?" She gave the hilt a slight nudge and the bubble of blood popped, trickling down his neck. "It wasn't a lie, was it?"
He lowered his chin and looked into her eyes. The sword faltered a notch. He pulled back suddenly and slapped the blade away from his throat, barreling into her and pinning her against the wall. He seized the hand that held the cutlass and smashed it against the wall until her knuckles bled and her fingers opened. The weapon fell. He hissed hot breath onto her cheeks through clenched teeth. "What must I do to end this hostility?"
"It will take more than wine."
"Clearly," he nodded. He released his hold on her and went to retrieve the cutlass. He wiped the blade clean of his blood and returned it to the sheath. He looked at Katherine, his face lost behind a mesh of raven black hair. "Damn your fiery blood, girl. You know nothing of the world and even less of the sea. How is it that your poor dead rich husband came to so fine a business? On the backs of the poor, under the cover of law! No such law fosters me, and so I must be a villain. I cared naught for merchant squabs whose sails I mended without so much as a nod of gratitude. Instead they offered me the heels of their boots dug firmly into my spine, and they did worse to the others. What was I to do? Let them kill me and the boys what served alongside me? No! I fought back and the crew fought at my side; they needed only the inclination. We took their swords and with those swords we took their lives. I felt nary a weight on my conscious, for they were naught but dogs."
His eyes drifted past the wooden barriers of the cabin to glimpse some distant, dreadful memory. "Alas, it was not enough that we give their bodies to the sea; undeserving were they of so rich a burial."
Katherine released the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding in. She pressed her back against the wall, silently praying that the boundaries of reality would give way and that she would be thrust magically through the planking, away from this nightmare and into the sea. "You ate them?" she said, not bothering to subdue the trembling in her voice.
"We're not animals, Katherine. We cooked them first."
LIVINGSTON
Livingston closed his eyes and permitted himself a smile as the warm breeze caressed his face and washed over his hairless scalp. When he reopened them, he knew he was not dreaming.
It seemed an eternity since last he looked on New Providence. The sun's shimmering reflection danced on the crystalline waters from a cloudless sapphire sky. Nassau harbor brimmed with over four hundred pirate ships that altogether formed a floating brown city. Livingston took pride in the fact that Harbinger stood out as one of the larger, more attractive vessels. The majority of these were rundown sloops and schooners with torn sails and sloppy decks. Several ships were careened near the shore, tilted at sharp angles with crewmen scattered along the exposed sides of the hulls, scrubbing vigorously.
The long, natural harbor carved between New Providence and Paradise Island allowed for two possible entry points and doubled the escape routes. It was unlikely that a warship large enough to pose a threat could enter the shallow harbor without her keel running aground.
A thin contour of blinding white sand separated the shoal waters from the infinitely lush island. The grand settlement that lined the harbor denoted a merging of ships and land. The taverns and the stores and the homes were little more than dirty shacks wrought of wayward planks and roofed with palm fronds, in addition to tents erected with spars that were shabbily covered by old sails. The colony gave off a natural kind of amphibious beauty.
The jungle that shrouded the island paradise encased the odd, makeshift structures that otherwise might have appeared unsightly. Many of the buildings assimilated the jungle into their architecture, with palm trees cutting through their roofs.
The only unnatural blemish of industrialization was a tiny rundown fort that stood on a hill outside of town. Livingston chuckled to himself as he recalled a rather persistent rumor about a hermit named Sawney who was squatting at the fort. He had yet to see the old man for himself.
Livingston felt the crew gathering behind him. Most of them had been to Nassau the year prior, but the colony had expanded dramatically since that time, both in structures on land and ships in the harbor.
Harbinger's voyage had been uneventful since her departure from the America, consisting of nothing more than daily lollygagging and nightly celebrations on the main deck. The provisions they had acquired on the mainland were eagerly consumed to near exhaustion. Their bloated bellies did not ease the communal depression that had swept the deck. It was Livingston's job to read the thoughts of his crew. He knew that the recent surge in celebration was the result of unquenchable boredom.
Harbinger satisfied their every desire except one, and the fierce Katherine Lindsay was not an option. The last man to make an attempt on her had lost his head, and deservedly so. The crew happily obliged Griffith’s murderous action; as long as he brought them good luck, he could kill or fuck whomever he pleased. As far as they were concerned, Katherine Lindsay was off limits. Not a single thread of gossip escaped Livingston's ears, yet he had heard no complaints directed at Griffith. So long as Harbinger continued her victorious streak, Griffith would remain their entrusted captain.
Still, their loins had been aching with the promise of New Providence and the pleasures they would find in the taverns and brothels. They'd been at sea for far too long. They had packed the hold to the brim, and were eager to spend everything they had earned. As Livingston looked on the bustling community, he knew that the crew's desires would be well
met and their pockets completely emptied by the end of the vacation. They would return to sea happier and poorer than when they left, and so the cycle would continue until their luck ran out.
There was no sign of Nathan Adams. Livingston had glimpsed very little of the boy since leaving the East Coast. He hadn't seen him socializing with his American brethren or climbing aloft, as he so loved to do.
He couldn't help but feel partially responsible for the boy. Livingston was not a social man, and he did not consider Nathan a friend. There was only one man aboard Harbinger that he allotted that honor, and that was Jonathon Griffith. However, Nathan was different. Livingston had no sons that he knew of, but he liked to think he had infected the West Indies with at least a few dozen bastards. He imagined that his offspring would resemble Nathan in spirit; graced with insurmountable ambition.
But Nathan's ambition was stably faltering. He knew the boy was lamenting the events that had taken place on the mainland. Nathan had seen his share of violence in his time aboard Harbinger and had seemingly brushed it off like water from a duck's back. So why was the lattermost event so disturbing? Perhaps this boy wasn't the pirate Livingston had hoped he was. There was no place for loners on a ship, where every man depended on the other. Livingston prayed that Nathan would end this selfish phase as soon as the leisurely pace concluded.
Livingston shook his head, aggravated that his brooding prevented him from enjoying the full splendor of the island before him. Normally this sight would be enough to steal all his worries, on those rare occasions when he actually worried.
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