Page 5 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

Whether he’d accepted it or not, Mad knew the gold was lost, but he was canny enough to see his crew growing thin and fractious. They were trapped in a life which was no longer prosperous, and even Bash couldn’t chart a course out of it.

Coming to Scotland had been a charade to boost morale, nothing more. Tomorrow, Mad would declare new rumors of Walsh’s whereabouts, and he’d instruct Bash to sail them straight back across the ocean to where they’d begun.

With any luck, they’d dodge the navy and even take a merchant ship or two. The pay would either be enough for Bash to slip off and start some new life, or so little the crew would finally mutiny and toss Mad overboard like so much rubbish. Bash wasn’t fussy which.

He held his breath at the sound of light footsteps padding towards him, like someone trying to sneak, and reached for his dagger.

“Mrow?” a cat murmured, springing up to sit on his chest.

Letting out his breath, he held up a hand for the cat to sniff, and then its bristly whiskers brushed against him in greeting, and he scratched behind its ears. It must have snuck aboard, lured by the smell of cooking cod perhaps.

“Go on now, Mouser,” he whispered. “If you set sail with us, like as not you’ll wind up eaten before we reach t’other side.”

The cat’s purring stopped, and it jumped down and padded away as if affronted at the very notion of hungry men eating cat and mushroom stew.

If only changing course were so easy for Bash. He’d spent more than half his life on this bloody ship. Pirating was the only occupation he knew. Even if he managed to take his leave with coin in his pocket, what was he going to do? Join the navy? Hire himself onto a merchant fleet? One whiff of his past, and he’d be food for the fishes. And that would be after he was hanged.

No, to reinvent himself he’d need a lot more than the pittance they could earn these days. He would need gold on par with the rumored stash the captain had misplaced all those years ago. And that was why he stayed—why they all stayed, even as they knew this way of life was ending—had ended long ago.

Mad Cornelius MacLeod clung to the illusion that piracy was still viable, and the crew clung to Mad. Any port was better than none when a storm was brewing.

Bash squirmed in his hammock, unable to shake the pall hanging over the night.

Maybe it was just being back in the islands making his nerves so jangled. It had been at least a year since they’d encountered the naval captain with a vendetta against Mad, long enough for a false sense of security to settle like a blanket. If Bash were paranoid like his captain, he’d say they were overdue for a visit from HMS Pursuit.

He tried not to be paranoid, as a general rule. Indeed, he tried very hard not to be anything like his sire at all, but he’d feared the specter of the Royal Navy’s Captain Constantin and his Pursuit for more years than he hadn’t. It was second nature to shudder at the thought of Mad MacLeod’s old nemesis.

Snap out of it, he told himself. He’d feel better once he was back under equatorial stars. The cat had been a good omen. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check everything was in order. Tomorrow they must depart, for the day after was Friday, an unlucky day to set sail no matter the weather. It had to be tomorrow.

He rolled out of his hammock and shuffled to the ladder, pausing to strain his ears towards the stern of the vessel where nocturnal creatures scurried, no doubt carefully stalked by his industrious feline companion.

Bash curled his lip. He’d always hated rats, and by the sound of it, they’d taken on some very large ones. At least there’d be extra protein when the chicken ran out.

He climbed the ladder and stepped out onto the deck, looking up into a cold, twilit sky. Even the moon shone differently here, or was his imagination overdoing it again?

Dogwood blossoms, moonlight glow…

A line from some faraway song floated into his head like a butterfly that refused to land. Maybe Mad was smarter than he realized—something about being back in Scotland was making Bash maudlin and edgy.

A familiar shadow stepped up to his elbow.

“So few stars,” Dutch murmured.

“Aye.” It should have felt familiar, but it was only disconcerting after more years spent sailing the equator than playing in the Lewis dirt. “What are we doing here, Dutch?”

The old quartermaster shook his head. “Following orders, son.”

Bash smiled. Dutch called everyone son except the captain, and one word had never carried more meaning. Disappointment, ridicule, condescension—all had their place, but most of the time Bash heard pride. Shared history. Even love. Whichever side Dutch came out on in the end, that was where Bash wanted to be, preferably not side by side wearing matching rope necklaces dancing for a crowd at Gallows Point.

“Don’t suppose Willy Walsh turned up in the tavern?”

“Just missed him,” Dutch replied.

Bash snorted. “Rotten luck.”

“We head after him at dawn.”

“What’ll we do if we catch him?” Bash asked, not quite teasing. It was bound to happen eventually, if the pirate really hadn’t hung up his rapier and made peace with the King, and unless his ship, the Woebegone Whale, was sitting heavy with gold, the crew really would mutiny at last.