The Huntress ✓

17. Becalmed

Bronte stood helplessly on the foredeck as that precious bit of breeze tickling the hair on her neck, died. The sealers' ship, Matilda, stood tauntingly on the horizon. Without wind, neither it nor the Huntress would progress. There was nothing to do but wait for the sea to breathe again.

They used the opportunity to check the sails for damage and see to other maintenance. The crew groaned as Sam assigned cleaning duties.

"Swab the deck. Caulk the seams. Airr, I escaped from the hands of the Royal Navy to avoid the likes of this treatment!" groaned Spade, the gunner.

Bronte turned and faced the man. True, she ran a tighter ship than most pirate vessels, but she wasn't about to let her ship go to ruin merely to satisfy a sluggard. Still, she needed to be sure the attitude didn't spread. She wanted to slap the insolence out of the worthless toad.

"Think you back with the Navy, do you, Spade?" She crossed her arms.

"Aye, that's right. You be handin' out orders left and right. Ain't it true we don't have to listen to your orders ceptin' in battle?" he asked rhetorically, standing toe to toe with her.

It was true. Always, on a pirate ship, following the command of the captain was purely voluntary, save in any situation of battle. But that didn't mean she was powerless.

"Aye, it's true," she agreed. Some of the men paused to listen in. "And since you seem to know the code so well, tell me: isn't it also true the captain has the right, without interference, to shoot any man aboard as he sees fit?"

Spade took a step back.

"But, if you think I'm running the ship so as to be compared with the Royal Navy, perhaps I'll adopt all their practices; for instance, keep aside good liquor for officers. And start ringing those blasted bells every half-hour so you know when to get out of bed, eat, and go to the head. And, if you don't mind them, I'll be sure to get my cat-o-nine-tails, tie you to the mast, and lash you soundly. I could add in a good keelhaulin' every few days as well." Spade's face paled as he was reminded how bad things could be on a Navy ship. "Now, what say you, Spade?"

He looked contrite. "I'd be obliged to put a little sweat into the holystone, Captain," he answered as his eyes flicked to the pistol she'd drawn and begun to polish absently.

"Have done then, ye twopenny sea-monkey!" She made to put it away, but first cast a scowling look at the gaping crewman surrounding them. They quickly scurried back to whatever tasks they'd been drawn from.

"CARTER! ON DECK!" she shouted into the still air, her voice carrying far easier for the lack of breeze.

He appeared through the hatch, looking as if encumbered with all the burdens the world had issued, his feet dragging him toward the foredeck. His shoulders sagged as he stood before her.

"Sir."

"Take young Kinney and scrub the galley. But first, I'll have the status of the larder."

"By your leave, Captain." He turned and shuffled back to the galley, the sun showing his shiny scalp through the thin gray hair plastered to his head.

A bead of sweat rolled from her forehead and she threw off the waistcoat she'd plundered from the Dutch captain. Many of the men threw off their shirts in the sweltering stillness. She envied them.

Sam bounced up the ladder to join her on the foredeck, his own ivory shirt damp with sweat.

"Duties all handed out, Captain." Sam stood at mock attention.

"Pass the word for Black to muck out the livestock pens."

"Ahh, he's probably doing it already. He's partial to the animals. I always find him caring for the things."