Her eyes blinked open. She wrinkled her brow. She looked at him for a moment before turning away.
"Are you thirsty?"
She spun on him like a waking lion. He fell on his ass and fumbled to keep from spilling the rum all over himself. He glanced about to make sure no one had witnessed his clumsiness. Thankfully, no one had.
The girl’s eyes rapidly brimmed with desperation. "Water?" she rasped.
"The water’s all gone bad," he said. "Rum is better. Keeps you warm."
He offered her the bottle of rum, which she eagerly accepted. She took a hefty swig, arching her long neck, and rum trickled down each side of her mouth. It was a while before she let the bottle part with her lips. She dropped it carelessly and muttered, "Thank you."
"It's fine," he said. "Are you hungry?"
She shook her head.
"You're sure? I might be able to scrounge some—"
She cut him off. "No!"
He winced. She rescinded instantly, attempting a grateful smile. The result was pathetically endearing. "I’m sorry," she said.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed past him, eyes widening. She turned away. Nathan glanced over his shoulder. Captain Griffith was strolling his way. Nathan stood and managed a rigid smile. "Captain."
Griffith laughed. "You're not in the King’s Navy, boy. No need to go stiff. This ship is as much yours as it is mine. You should know that by now."
Nathan's shoulders sagged. He smiled sheepishly.
"You're welcome to make friends with whomever you wish. But be warned. Some choices are wiser than others."
"She was thirsty is all," Nathan explained.
"Of course," Griffith said. He gave Nathan's shoulder a pat and continued on his way.
"I brought you some cackle-fruit and hardtack," Nathan said, offering her a pewter plate with eggs and a biscuit.
The girl warily regarded the eggs. "How'd you manage those?" she asked hoarsely.
"We keep birds below. Hordes of 'em. Horrible stench. Most are dead and dying, but I picked out one of the healthier ones just for you."
She took the plate and nibbled at the eggs. He watched her, pleased that she had accepted the gift. It had been twenty-four hours since he'd last approached her. "Might I ask your name?" he hazarded.
"Katherine," she said between bites, gradually shoving larger portions in her mouth.
"Nathan," he said, extending his hand. Her eyes flashed from the plate to his hand and he instinctively jerked away.
"I won't bite you," she said. By now she was stuffing the eggs down her throat. She finished them and went next for the biscuit. She took one bite and frowned in revulsion. She dropped the biscuit and handed the plate back to him. He offered her another bottle of rum and she swallowed a fair share.
"You're looking better," Nathan offered.
She glared at him. In her sorry state it made her look positively hideous.
"Didn't mean offense."
"Save your food next time, Nathan," she said, turning away from him.
"I'll be back tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that."
"I don't want there to be a day after that," she said.
He was thankful he couldn't see her face, because he knew from her quivering tone that she was about to cry.
"Now now," he said, setting his hand on her shoulder. He didn't even see her turn. One moment she had her back to him, and the next her face was in his. Tears streamed from her narrow, red eyes, her nostrils flared, and her mouth was twisted in a vicious snarl. She could have bitten his nose off if she wanted to.
"What do you want from me, Nathan?" She growled his name like it was a curse, her croaky voice amplifying the effect. "You figure I’ll spread my legs for you because you did what's expected of a common human being?"
He was dimly aware of laughter behind him.
"If you were truly a man, you'd cut these ropes." She shook the ropes for emphasis.
The laughter grew.
It seemed an eternity before he was able to find his voice again. "I can't do that, Katherine."
"Then you’re nothing more than another bloody pirate. Do not bring me food again." And then, as if the statement had taken with it all the energy she had, she diminished, her scowl fading as swiftly as her temper. She turned away.
As he stood, Nathan felt heavy, as though his shoulders carried the weight of an anchor. Turning his body was like twisting a spoon in molasses. He faced the laughing crowd. Many were clutching their bellies for lack of air, faces beet red.
Nathan retreated to the cramped confines of the decks below, fighting a bombardment of contrasting emotions. He was crushed and infuriated at the same time. His pity for the girl had potentially damaged his standing with the crew. In front of everyone, she had spit his sympathy right back in his face.
He hurled the pewter plate across the room, followed closely by the bottle of rum. Two hens scrambled to avoid being clobbered. The plate landed harmlessly and the bottle shattered noisily. "To Hell with her!" he screamed at a hen. The animal curiously cocked its head at him.
He set his forehead against a wall and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths, emptying his mind, and then filled it with the happiest images he could conjure. He imagined the Caribbean in all its glory. He imagined a whorehouse packed to the brim with beautiful strumpets. He imagined himself in the arms of a large-breasted whore, in the privacy of her room. That was the only manner of woman a pirate need associate himself with.
Anything more was complicated.
KATHERINE
Blood streamed in thick rivulets from the raw abrasions that encircled her wrists. She had spent five days at the mast and she was certain she would not live to see the sixth. She had endured both sun and rain, each offering an array of vile anguishes.
Her face was so red from sunlight that she worried her cheeks might crack like a dry lakebed if she parted her lips beyond a thin line. Her esophagus felt like the inside of a hornet's nest. Every muscle in her body was on fire. The slightest stir of movement pulsed excruciating pain throughout her body.
The laceration in her skull ached, and she felt the unmistakable bumps of stitches when she ran her fingers over the wound. What little she recollected of the violent events in the cabin came to her in brief flashes. She remembered the coppery taste of blood oozing from a fleshy pulp that rolled in her mouth. For a while she couldn’t recall what exactly she had bitten off of the captain's head, until one day she saw him walking the main deck with a bandage covering his ear.
Her once exquisite mantua was unsalvageable. The fabric was spotted with dark bloodstains and the short train and petticoat ended in shreds. One of the loops of the skirt had come undone and now hung gracelessly over her right hip. The dress looked as much a mess as she did.
Apart from Nathan Adams, the pirates had generally avoided her. She guessed that biting off the captain's ear had established her as dangerous. However, the fear that they would surrender to their desires was always a threat in the back of her mind. She wouldn't have the energy to fend them off if they tried.
She was particularly wary of the seven black men who kept in a group. She knew when they were talking about her because they would indicatively jut their massive chins in her direction from time to time. The tall one eyed her in a strange, skeptical fashion, while the others would discuss her in their native tongue and chuckle. They laughed with their shoulders; their facial muscles seemed incapable of conjuring a smile.
She hadn’t suffered the slightest guilt over her treatment of young Nathan. She had no doubt that he wanted only one thing from her. She was convinced that there was not a single well-intentioned man among the entire crew.
An hour after consumption, she threw up the food he had given her, and continued to retch long after there was nothing left to purge. Either she was sick from heatstroke or the young pirate had given her spoiled food as a prank.
Sleep came i
nfrequently and never lasted longer than intervals of an hour. She was slumped in an awkward position that rendered comfort impossible. She was constantly stirred into consciousness by the cyclical claps of the sails and the snoring pirates, who slept wherever there was room on the deck. On rare occasions when she gave to exhaustion she had unusual dreams that incorporated the strange ambience of the ship.
In one dream she was a bird, and the flapping of the sails became the sound of her wings as she soared high above the ship until she was awash in the cool currents above. The moon was full, and she decided it was as good a destination as any. With several thrusts of her great wings she propelled herself into the heavens, but the moon grew no larger. When she looked down she saw that she hadn’t ascended as far as she’d thought. The ship was close, the tip of the mainmast nearly grazing her heel. She glimpsed her human form at the foot of the mast. The entire ship was on fire and the blaze was sweeping in on her. She woke before she was able to determine her fate.
Another night, when the pirates were especially rowdy, their howling resounded into her dreams. She found herself in the midst of the crew. They were naked and salivating and their cocks stood erect as they fell in on her. She was swathed in the stench of their sweat-drenched bodies and the suffocating heat of foul breath as their fingers grasped at her clothes. Her mind was unable to comprehend what would happen next, and she was thrust into consciousness.
The dawn of the fifth day brought with it skies so blue that, for a fleeting moment, all of her troubles seemed wholly insignificant. For that wonderful instant all the pain and traumatic retentions of the past several days vanished and gave to the beauty of a cerulean world above that was tangible only to creatures gifted with feathers. Her mind lifted from her body and ascended into the azure canopy. She was unaware that her eyes had rolled back in their sockets and that her muscles had loosened of tension. She was oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the pirate crew that moved about her as fervently as the ocean. There was nothing but blue sky. She rose further than even her fanciful dreams had allowed, and the sky dimmed, as though day was fading swiftly into night. Tiny shimmers of light appeared. The stars were brighter and greater in occurrence than any she had seen from the ground.
A sudden sting in her chest prevented her from admiring the beauty for long. She inhaled sharply and felt a stab of pain in her lungs. She took another involuntary breath, this one sweeping fire through her veins. And then her eyes flashed forward and her muscles tightened. The noises of the main deck exploded in her ears.
She was back at the mainmast.
Her peripheral vision caught the glint of something shiny. She tilted her head and saw the black-haired captain approaching with a gleaming cutlass in hand. She instantly recognized the weapon as the cutlass she had brandished against him. How appropriate that he would now kill her with it.
She closed her eyes and forged an image of Thomas in her mind. She thought of him on their wedding day, kissing her as they took their vows. She felt the texture of his lips on hers. She had opened her eyes just a tad to see if his were closed. His were open as well, thin slits, stealing a glimpse. She chuckled, puffing air into his mouth.
Death did not follow.
The ropes slithered apart, severed by the cutlass, and she fell onto her hands. The captain was silhouetted before the sun, features shadowed. Standing beside him was an obese man whose face was also indistinguishable. The captain nodded to the man. "Take her to my cabin and clean her up. Check her scalp and make certain there's no infection."
The stout man grunted a reply and bent down to help her to her feet. By the time she was up, the captain was gone. She eschewed the wandering eyes of pirates as the large man helped her toward the cabin, and focused instead on russet planking beneath her bare feet. Relief washed over her as she was ushered inside the darkened sanctuary, removed from their view.
"Douglas Thatcher," said the large man as he closed the door of the cabin. "Ship's surgeon." He moved past her, not making eye contact. His features slowly came into view as her eyes adapted to the dim light. "Sit on the bed."
"I'd rather not," she announced stubbornly, and was taken aback by the rasp of her voice.
"I'm sorry?" said Thatcher as he lifted a bucket of water off of the floor.
"Well, that's the captain's bed, isn't it?"
"So?"
"So I'd rather not."
Thatcher brought the bucket over to her. "Sit on the floor then, though I should point out that it also belongs to Captain Griffith. As does the mast you’ve been tied to all this time."
"Griffith?"
"You haven't been formally introduced, I take it."
"What's his first name?" she asked offhandedly.
"You might ask him," Thatcher replied. "Now have a seat on the floor, if the bed won’t do."
She sat on the floor and the surgeon knelt beside her. He parted her hair and ran a chubby finger over the seam. He mumbled something under his breath and frowned.
"What's wrong?" she said. "Is it infected?"
"No infection. You're fine." He seemed perplexed. He drew a sponge from the bucket and started for her arms, then hesitated.
"I can do it," she said. She snatched the sponge away and squeezed the fluid onto a filthy arm. She scrubbed vigorously. She caught a whiff of the pungent liquid that saturated the sponge and recoiled with a frown. "What is this?"
Thatcher stood. "It's not water, if that's what you mean."
"Rum?"
"Cleans as well as anything," he shrugged.
"Barbarians," she whispered. She scrubbed her chest, shivering as rum streamed down to her stomach.
"Well, I’ll leave you to it," Thatcher muttered, clapping his chubby hands.
"I could use some clothes. I'm sure your lot has stolen many lovely garments."
Thatcher’s discomfiture evaporated as he spun on his heels and proclaimed, "I have stolen nothing, madam! Do not include me in such activities!"
"You are a pirate, are you not?" she replied, hoping her smirk made it obvious that the question was rhetorical.
"Are you a pirate?" he countered.
"Don't be daft!"
"What are you then?"
She started to say, "A wife!" but realized that was no longer true. The implication of the question overwhelmed her. The one person that had made her important was dead. There would be no more tea parties masquerading as a woman born into wealth, no more servants to attend to her every whim, no more freedom of will. Thomas had made her someone, and now all of that was gone.
"If you’re not a pirate, what are you?" she exploded in frustration, her voice breaking.
"A surgeon," he replied with not the slightest hesitation.
Infuriated by his calm temperament, she aimed an accusing finger at him. "You sympathize with pirates therefore I deduce that you, sir, are a pirate!"
He chuckled slightly. It was a sad, sardonic sound. "Is that what I am?" She wasn't sure if he had directed the question at her or himself.
When she was finished cleaning her chest, the sponge was brown with dirt. She tossed it away. "This won't do. I require a proper bath."
"Oh really? In front of a hundred pirates?"
She scoffed. "Surely you have a private bath on this ship."
"If only," he exclaimed with an extravagant roll of his eyes that was decidedly feminine.
She shook her head in disgust. "I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't be surprised by anything anymore."
Thatcher nodded his agreement.
"If you're not a pirate, as you claim, how did you come to be on a pirate ship?"
"Right," he said abruptly, clapping his hands again. "You can take care of the rest, then?"
"Answer my question." She studied him narrowly. "You certainly don't resemble the others. Not physically, anyway."
"Why thank you, I think."
"Perhaps one day you'll feel inclined to share your story with me."
"Should we live that long," he quipp
ed with a sad smile. He gave a curt nod and took his leave.
Katherine plucked the sponge from the floor and dipped it into the bucket. She hiked up her tattered skirt and scrubbed her legs until they were white again. She scrubbed her face as well, which drew the most dirt into the sponge, along with some crusty peels of skin. She had to rinse the sponge several times before it stopped coming away with dirt on it. When she finished, she wasn't quite spotless, but she was a good deal cleaner than when she had begun. However, she stank of rum.
She stood and wandered about the cabin, reacquainting herself. Her sore legs were unaccustomed to walking. She felt as though she had never used them, and they wobbled like thin planks of wood. She spent a few minutes steadying herself.
She caught her distorted reflection in a bottle of wine in the captain's liquor cabinet and was shocked at the redness of the face that stared back. She tried to adjust her hair, but it was an unsalvageable thick and greasy mess.
She walked to the painting of the brigantine on the wall behind the captain's desk. There were two hooks beneath it where the cutlasses had been. She doubted he would leave anything even remotely sharp within her immediate vicinity after what she had done to him. She also doubted that she would have the strength to try anything so rash a second time. It had nearly killed her the first time. If she failed at a second attempt, the captain would finish the job for certain.
She would have to bide her time. She wondered how long she could hold out. It seemed to her that time was a treacherous entity on this ship. There were too many deadly hazards, some of which she had already experienced firsthand and barely survived. How long before her luck ran out?
She was certain of only one thing: her crying was done. She had shed enough tears to cleanse the deck of the blood she had spilled during her incarceration at the mainmast.
She stretched, her entire body shuddering, and she realized the great fatigue that gripped her muscles. She didn't want to think anymore. She'd had five days to do nothing but think and she was sick of it. Her mind was as drained as her body.
The Devil's Fire Page 5