Page 6 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

Dutch turned to him, the whites of his eyes bright with anticipation. “Pray we never do.”

“Might not be the worst thing,” Bash murmured. “But what’s Mad’s plan? He should be searching for gold, not chasing a figment he knows doesn’t have it.” It was his own sort of madness, trying to second-guess the captain’s strategy, but Bash couldn’t help wondering aloud.

“He’s spent a dozen years searching,” Dutch said with a shrug.

“Still, he must know what’ll happen if we catch the Whale and there’s no gold. D’you suppose he wants it? Death by mutiny? Just to make a tidy end of things?”

It would be insanity, no doubt, to try and force a revolt, but it made some kind of twisted logic. The captain had refused the royal pardon. He would never surrender his ship, not until it was pried from his cold, dead grasp.

“But then why not just let the blue devil catch him?” Bash whispered, wondering, not for the first time, how they’d been so lucky, always slipping past the navy at the last moment as though fate or Providence were on their side.

The quartermaster shook his head. He had no answers. The captain kept his own counsel.

They stared in silence at the heavens a bit longer, until Dutch finally turned to go below deck, patting Bash’s shoulder as he went. “Keep your wits about you, son. Weather’s coming, and it always gets worse before it gets better.”

He’d been saying the same thing for more than a decade, and after so much time, Bash was overdue some fair weather of his own.

Chapter Two

Boats and Maggie had never really been a good match. Two days after her wedding, she and Jeremiah had set sail from Inverness in a tiny boat, making their way up through the North Sea to the Orkney Islands. They were tossed about on choppy waves until Maggie was sick all over herself and vowed never to set foot on another such vessel for the rest of her natural life.

Over the course of two years and everything that followed, she had conveniently forgotten the horrors of boating in her hasty decision to stow away. She forgot right up until her next great adventure hauled anchor and sailed out into the rough open sea. Taking deep, soothing breaths as Jory had once taught her elder sister to do, memories of the Orkney crossing came flooding back, but Maggie consoled herself that the brigantine was much larger than the tiny fishing vessel which had carried her as a newlywed, and as soon as it broke free from the coastal tides, everything would settle down.

She could not have been more wrong.

The first day of sailing felt as turbulent as any she might have imagined, and soon they were beset by storms that made the ship creak and moan as though it were a man being pulled apart on a rack. Even deep within the dark heart of the ship, the cacophonous thunder seemed to echo all around her. She could feel it in her bones as though it vibrated the very ocean floor. Only the lightning was missing, for, hidden as she was, not a flicker could reach her. The disorienting lack of warning somehow made the thunder all the more terrifying.

Maggie heaved constantly into the straw she’d taken as a bed, though her stomach was long-past empty. Retching and snuffling, it was a wonder she’d not been discovered straight away, but the sailors were likely busy doing whatever sailors did in a storm to make sure the brigantine stayed afloat. At least she hoped that was what they were doing, as she relieved herself in a nearby corner, little better than an animal. She had certainly not thought this plan through any better than an animal, and perhaps worse, considering squirrels buried nuts and built nests.

Had she not been so weak and miserable, Maggie might have crawled out of her hiding place to gasp fresh, cool air and announce herself to her new traveling companions, but as it was, she couldn’t manage much more than dozing in a puddle of filth and misery.

She had no idea how long it lasted. Days? Weeks? Long enough that she was surprised when she realized the storm was finally over, and after noting her relief, she promptly fell back into a fitful sleep, battered by dreams of another storm and Jeremiah climbing up onto the leaking thatch roof.

Sometime later, she was awakened by a rough stroking of her hand. She blinked in the darkness, jerking her arm away when she realized the wet smacking sound meant some creature was licking her. She shuddered. What sort of diseases could a person contract from being licked by a rodent? Had Jory ever mentioned such a thing? And was it licking her in preparation for biting?

Two golden eyes turned to look at her as though insulted by the question, and she skittered deeper into her corner, cracking her head against timber before she realized it was only the same cat who had led her to this hiding place.

“Custard,” she croaked, reaching out to pet it, her throat as dry as sand.

The cat rubbed its whiskers against her hand, licking her thumb once more for good measure.

“How’s your adventure going?” Maggie asked, scratching under Custard’s chin.

In response, its golden eyes turned away, and in the darkness, she could just make out its shadowy form disappearing.

Were they far enough from Scotland that the captain wouldn’t turn around and drop her on the nearest Hebridean beach? She drew her earasaid closer around her arms. How long until they reached someplace warm?

Her stomach growled plaintively and she sucked on a dried strawberry, but it didn’t make her mouth water as it should. It was all she could do to chew it up and choke it down. Soon her meager provisions would run out and she’d be forced to show herself. Would these merchant marines begrudge sharing their portions with her? Would they accept what little money she’d brought as compensation?

She refused to give in and call the anxiety which gripped her throat and hammered her chest regret. She was having an adventure, and she was going to enjoy it, damn it. Perhaps she should remain hiding—slip out to find something edible and potable in the dead of night, though how she’d know if it was day or night in this cave of perpetual shadow, she was uncertain.

That was a problem for later. At the moment, she felt far too weak to stand, let alone scavenge, and was more inclined to go back to sleep. Then she heard footsteps shuffling towards her, and she froze, not yet ready to be discovered.

When Custard reappeared, popping out from behind a stack of crates with a “Mrow?” Maggie released her breath, perplexed by how one small cat could make so much noise.

A larger figured stepped out to join the cat.

Maggie gasped and shrank back into the hull, knocking her head hard enough to see flashes like a meadow filled with fireflies.