Page 4 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

It would be an easy thing, she supposed, to creep on board and hide amongst the cargo. By the time they found her it would be far too late to shoo her on her way. They might not be happy about it, but they’d have to keep her then, at least until the next port. She had a little money which might be used to buy passage if they were truly fussed.

Maggie had never been one to pray overmuch. She had long since given it up altogether, but when she’d read her father’s letter yesterday, she’d certainly muttered an oath begging for deliverance. It could almost have been construed as prayer-like.

What was the brigantine, then, but an answer to her almost-prayer, appearing from the fog like some kind of beacon? There was no good reason for the ship to drop anchor in the sound instead of the harbor.

Jory had once run away from a future she didn’t consent to, forging the one she preferred instead. Maggie could run, but on an island, she’d eventually be spinning in circles.

That ship out there was her chance to escape, to choose whatever path she wanted. She’d be a fool to sit back and let it sail away.

Leaving her bed before she could talk herself out of the decision, Maggie dressed quickly, throwing on her warm Mackintosh earasaid and drawing it up over her chilly head. What else did a lady pack when running away to sea? She filled one pocket with dried beef and another with dried strawberries. She collected her sewing kit and a spare chemise and tucked away the folding frame containing likenesses of Ellen and Jory, drawn by the big MacKenzie’s younger cousin, Bram.

A tiny pang of regret bit Maggie for making such a fuss when her father had teased the match. Bram would be about fifteen these days, and she could be idly biding her time in Inverness waiting for him to grow up instead of widowed and facing another inconvenient match with a stranger. But none of that mattered now. Adventure was calling.

After writing a hasty note to Lorna and another to her parents, Maggie crept down to the shore before she could change her mind. The deserted beach called to her like a selkie of old, as the brigantine rocked gently against its moorings.

She glanced around to make sure no one was watching and was startled to find a cream-colored cat with glowing yellow eyes staring back at her from a wooden plank abutting the vessel. Flicking its tail saucily, the cat turned and scampered up the plank and over the side as though welcoming her aboard. She followed on tiptoe, freezing each time a timber creaked.

The cat, which she immediately named Custard, led her across the shadowed deck and down a ladder into the gaping maw below.

Descending the ladder in her skirts and earasaid was quite the challenge, she soon discovered. Twice she nearly slipped. How on earth had the cat managed it without raising a ruckus?

Once her feet finally touched solid boards again, she sagged against the bulkhead in relief. Custard just blinked its golden eyes and turned down a corridor.

Was it called a corridor on a ship? She wasn’t sure.

Not eager to be discovered until they were well out to sea, she hurried in the direction the cat had fled before being swallowed by the cavernous abyss. Candle lanterns at the entrance did little to light her way. To call it dark would be like describing the Orkney wind as chilly or Jeremiah Budge as cruel: factually accurate but far understating the situation. She couldn’t make out her own hand in front of her face.

Feeling each step almost one toe at a time, she crept forward, following the rumble of Custard’s purr as she shuffled with one hand on the wall for guidance until it gave way to a wider area, just as dark and almost more cramped, packed with crates and barrels of all sorts. A stack of them loomed up out of the darkness and she froze, certain one strong exhale would send them all crashing down.

The cat led her through a maze-like area where her outstretched fingers tangled in netting that hung from the low ceiling—hammocks for the crew, she realized, making them out in the glimmer of twilight from the portholes and scurrying past as quickly as she could. When she stubbed her toe on what felt like heavy iron, she bit her lip hard, and swallowed the cries.

As though Custard sensed her pain, the cat rubbed against her legs, making a figure-eight between them before heading off again, blinking at her over one shoulder like it knew its eyes were just about the only thing she could see. Then it turned a corner and she followed once more, down, down down, coming to a stop when she finally did bump into a stack of crates, causing a chorus of squawks and clucking.

Borrowing some straw from the sleepy chickens, which warbled softly in irritation, she made herself a little nest in the furthest corner she could find, piled high with more crates to shield her from view. Maggie had never heard of feline messengers from the heavens, but perhaps the cat was some spirit’s familiar, sent to guide her on her journey. She would never have found such a clever little hiding place on her own, and Custard almost seemed smug the way it curled up on her lap, as though she were precisely where it wanted her to be.

Had she done the right thing? Her knees and shins ached from the many obstacles she’d tripped over, but bruises would mend. They were a small price for warmth, and most of all, adventure. How funny it would be when she presented herself to the captain. Like her father, he would lament the need for someone to take her off his hands. Then she’d offer him her money, and he’d shake his head in annoyed amusement and warn her to stay out from underfoot.

Heart still pounding after skulking through the darkness, Maggie was now so excited that even the gentle rocking of the ship and the warm, purring cat couldn’t lull her to sleep for quite some time.

Bash woke with a start and strained his ears against the night, but all he could hear was the familiar creak of timber and flap of sails, the gentle thump of the surf against the hull, and the snores of the crew who had finally stumbled back from their shore leave. His heartbeat slowed as he adjusted himself in his swaying hammock and pulled the old black-and-gold MacLeod plaid up from where it had slipped to the floor. Summers were blasted cold in the islands, and Orkney was almost far enough north to kiss the pole.

He kept listening, for what he couldn’t say. Something was off besides the chill. The entire journey to Scotland had been ill-advised, not only because they couldn’t afford it. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that the cod he’d caught and fried for dinner hadn’t been enough to fill his belly. Fish never did for long. Had the others fared any better in the village tavern, with barely enough coin for a pint of ale between them, let alone provisions to see them back across the Atlantic?

Probably. If this place was anything like the village of his youth, they likely turned the taps for free just to keep rowdy sailors peaceful. Might feed them, too, crusty bannocks and bowls of hearty stew. His mouth watered, but Bash didn’t really mind fending for himself. It was just about the only peace he got—when the crew went ashore, waving and blowing him kisses as he stayed behind, captain’s orders. He couldn’t even remember what land felt like under his boots.

With the sort of certainty he only ever felt in the marrow of his bones, Bash knew the captain had dropped anchor here for his own personal torment. Orkney was so close he could taste home, but not so close it mattered. It mollified him somewhat, realizing the mad old man needed him and was just a little scared Bash might leave, scared enough he hadn’t sailed directly to Lewis. So, he wasn’t wholly confident his orders that Bash never leave the ship would be obeyed.

And what would Bash have done if they had gone to Lewis instead? After thirteen years away, there was nothing on the island for him now. There was nothing in Scotland for any of them, except rumors that Willy Walsh had packed it in and taken his sloop back home, a pirate’s life no more.

Bash rolled his eyes and put an arm behind his head. Fucking nonsense. If Willy Walsh were going to give up the life, he’d have done it twelve years earlier when the King offered a pardon. Indeed, rumors suggested he’d done just that, and if the old pirate had the captain’s lost treasure, Bash would eat the main sail. He was hungry enough.

Before they left Nassau, Bash had plotted a course up the eastern coast of the colonies to harass the English merchants and navy alike, from Florida on up to Boston, where supposedly rampant lawlessness and stirrings of rebellion made easy pickings for pirates. But Mad wouldn’t hear of it, and the captain always knew best.

The crew had a year or two left at most before they’d be caught by the navy and hanged, or even just starve to death. Despite not having set foot on land in ten years, Bash still hadn’t saved enough coin to strike out on his own. Raiding fishermen around the Caribbean didn’t bring a heavy purse, and they hadn’t encountered so much as a schooner during the Atlantic crossing. With the ever-present threat of pirate-hungry vessels patrolling the British coast, Bash reckoned the Revenge would be lucky to make it back to warmer waters in one piece.

Captain Mad MacLeod was truly earning his nickname with this ridiculous voyage, and everyone knew it. But they followed orders because none of them had any better ideas. Election or no, the captain wouldn’t step aside without a mutiny, and mutiny wouldn’t put coin in their pockets or food in their bellies. So they all just pretended to believe there was gold at the end of the rainbow. And maybe there was, but the rainbow didn’t end in Willy Walsh’s cargo hold.

If there had ever been as much loot as Mad let on, which Bash doubted, and the captain had really buried more than he’d spent, which Bash also couldn’t believe, then Mad had forgotten where he left it, plain and simple. It was a twenty-two-year-old mystery no one would ever solve.