He lashed out, flailed out with arms and legs, but the water kept him from moving fast, and that made him more panicked still. Then his fingertips hit something hard and smooth, the stones of the seawall, something concrete in that watery world. He clawed at them, but there was no hold to be had on the wet rock.
He clawed again, and this time his fingers found the gap between two stones, and he locked his fingertips in as best as he could, held that tiny ledge with his powerful hands and pulled himself up.
His head came out of the water, and he found he was pressed against the slime-covered wall. He reached out with his other hand, found another groove between two stones, and held on. It was the most precarious of handholds-he was supporting himself with his fingertips-but it was enough. His head was free of the water. He was breathing.
And now the river was his ally, because now it supported him. He would never have been able to hold on as he was were he hanging in air, but being more than half submerged gave him just enough help to maintain his grip.
For a long time he did not move, just clung to the rock, let the panic subside. Overhead, close overhead, he could hear the fight, heard Marlowe yelling, “Elizabeth! Get to the boat! Go! Go!”
“Doxy’s a stranger to me…” Press’s panic had cooled enough now that he ached to get into the fight. He looked up, craned his neck, hoping to see something of what was happening, but he was under some kind of overhang, the top of the seawall jutting out, a narrow cliff a foot above his head. He could see nothing but the underside of the wet rock.
He cocked his ear instead and listened. He could hear more men running, someone shouting. His reserves. They would do for that bastard.
I was always one step ahead of that stupid whoreson…
But then the reality of his situation came back. He was safe, but he could not stay where he was.
How the hell do I get out of this poxed river?
He would have to move, let go of his precious handhold, find another. The idea brought fresh panic. Every instinct told him to stay put, but reason told him that if he did, then eventually his grip would fail and he would sink into that black water.
The thought was enough to steel him for the next move. He grit his teeth, then carefully, carefully, let go with his right hand and, holding his weight with his left, ran his fingers along the wall until he found another fissure to which he could cling. He settled his grip as best he could, then shuffled himself along the seawall and held himself with his right hand as he found a new hold for his left.
Inch by inch, handhold by handhold, he moved along the wall. It was like a nightmare trap, the dark water just below his head, the overhang above. His fingers ached, the tips were bleeding, which only made his grip slicker and more difficult to maintain.
He realized that the fighting on the road had stopped, how long ago he could not recall. He had not heard what had happened, and at that moment he did not care.
Another inch and another. He lost his grip once and went under but managed to pull himself up again, held himself in place as he vomited from panic and from ingesting the filthy water.
He had no sense for how long it was that he crept like a lizard along the seawall. He was near exhaustion, near giving up, when the steps appeared out of the mist, just ten feet away. Ten feet. He had only to make that distance and he would not be swallowed up by the horrible, horrible river.
Inch by inch, and finally he could reach out with his long leg and touch the submerged stone, and a minute later he was lying on it. He gasped, sputtered, gagged, but it was air he was sucking into his lungs, not water. The filthy, stinking air of London. It was the sweetest smell he had ever enjoyed.
He lay on his back on the seawall steps, the Thames lapping around him, his face toward the sky, breathing, his fingers hanging limp, with no more possibility of being taken by the water.
After some time of that he began to shiver, and he knew he had to move. With a groan he pulled himself up to a sitting position, and then he stood. He ached all over from the effort and the tension of the past hour.
He had not thought that he could hate Malachias Barrett more than he had when he stood on that strip of sand seventeen years ago and watched the Fury sail away. A strip of sand that rose incongruously out of the ocean, one hundred feet around and barren, where he had been left to die.
Now it was twice that Barrett had bested him, humiliated him, nearly killed him. He hated him with twice the passion he had felt then. Incredible.
He staggered up the steps and through the gap in the stone wall and onto the street. It was quiet, deserted, no one moving at that time of night.
It was possible that Barrett was dead. Probable. It had been two against one, and because he, Press, was so much more clever than Barrett, there had been reserves as well. They should have done for him.
His tongue moved to work the toothpick in his lips, but of course it was not there anymore.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, then plunged his hand into his cold, wet coat pocket, hunted around through the sodden folds of cloth until he felt another. He pulled it out, thrust it into his mouth, worked it furiously with his tongue. The cool, hard metal tasted of Thames water. Press jerked it out, spit on the cobblestones, and then inserted the toothpick again.
He shuffled down the road, moving more quickly as the blood began to flow through his limbs once more. Perhaps he could find some evidence of what had happened while he was inching along the wall.
He could see something lying in the road, and as he approached, he saw it was a sword, discarded, and nearby another. He frowned, picked it up, moved on.
Through the dark and the mist he could see a shape now, and he had seen enough men lying wounded and dead to recognize one just by the dim outline. He stepped cautiously, knew the danger that a wounded man could present. He could feel his heart beating. There was every chance that this was Barrett lying dead. Or, better yet, wounded.
He stepped close, and the figure did not move, and Press could see no sign of life. He poked the man with the sword. Still nothing.
He put his foot against the man’s shoulder and rolled him over. The man flopped onto his back, lifeless. Hanson.
“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch!” Press shrieked, stamping his foot in his fury, despite the pain. He hobbled off down the road, back the way he had led Barrett and his slut, back to the warehouse to which the old man had followed them.
Press had eyes all over the waterfront. All those old, broken sailors who loafed on the docks and crowded the streets of Rotherhithe. He paid them well for intelligence of note, and they kept him informed. What luck that one should have known Barrett from the old days at Port Royal.
Not so much luck, actually. The community of pirates was a small one. Like members of a tradesmen’s guild, they all knew one another. And many of them were now rotting out their lives on the London waterfront.
He stepped up to the warehouse door. It was shut, but he could see lights behind the shades. Some greedy bastard up late counting his money. He pounded on the door with the pommel of his sword.
There was a shuffling of feet, and then it stopped, and then silence. Press pounded again. A voice, high-pitched with fear, called, “We are closed, sir! Pray come back on the morrow!”
“Queen’s officer, please open the door!”
Another pause, then, “I am sorry, I cannot…”
Press paused, caught his breath, forced himself to speak calmly. “I am a queen’s officer,” he said in a more reasonable tone. “There was a disturbance here tonight. A man was removed under armed guard. I must speak with you about that.”
He heard locks being worked on the other side of the door, and then it swung open a crack. The merchant’s weasel face peered out, just visible in the light from the candle he held. He was in shirtsleeves and breeches. Not expecting company.
“Yes, how may I help you?”
“Let me in, please.”
“If you don’t mind, sir-” the merchant
began, but Press had had enough. He lashed out with his foot, kicked the door open, sent the merchant and his candle sprawling.
He stepped into the office space, shut the door behind him. The candle had not gone out. It lay guttering on its side as Press held the point of his sword under the merchant’s chin, pricking his skin for emphasis. “There was a man here with a woman, pretty thing, blond hair. His name was…?”
“Marlowe. Thomas Marlowe. Captain of the ship, but he didn’t want to come ashore at first and sign the papers.”
“I reckon not. What ship?”
“The Elizabeth Galley. Just cleared in from Virginia with tobacco.”
“Elizabeth Galley? That don’t sound like the name of a merchantman to me.”
“That is the name, sir, I assure you,” the merchant said. There was a note of defiance in his voice, so Press jabbed him with the sword, just enough to produce a trickle of blood, and the man was cowering and subservient again.
“Show me the ship’s papers,” Press demanded, and he stepped back, allowed the merchant to stand. The frightened merchant scrambled to his feet, and Press followed him into his office. A desk piled with papers, a few ship models and paintings of merchant vessels on the walls. The merchant dug through the pile, with shaking hands handed Press a sheaf.
Press took the papers, thumbed through them. He did not know much about merchantmen’s documents, did not really know what he was looking at. But he saw the names Thomas Marlowe and Elizabeth Galley, and that was enough for him.
“Where is the ship now?”
“I don’t know exactly, I swear to the Lord I don’t. Moored in the river, not above a mile from here, I heard the lighterman say. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
Press laid the sword on the desk, grabbed the merchant by the collar, punched him hard in the face. It was agony on his fingers, but it had to be done. The point had to be made.
The merchant was on hands and knees, spitting blood. “I swear… I know no more…” he whined.
“I believe you,” Press said, then kicked him hard in the stomach, sent him sprawling on his back. Grabbed him by the hair and lifted him to his feet, shoved him back against the desk.
The merchant cowered, looked up at him, shying his face away. He was certain that he was about to die. Press knew the look.
“I have people watching, do you understand?” Press said, soft, so the merchant had to really listen to hear. He nodded.
“If this Marlowe returns, you get word to me. Captain Roger Press. Any sailor that lives down here will know how to find me. Understand?”
The merchant nodded again.
“Good. And, pray understand, if he comes back and you do not alert me, I’ll know. If you tell anyone what happened tonight, I’ll know. And then it will go hard on you. Do you believe that?”
The merchant nodded again, and Press could see that he had indeed made a true believer out of the man.
“Good.” He straightened, picked up the sword from the desk. “Good night to you, sir,” he said, then stepped out of the office and out onto the street. He owned the merchant now. The little man would not cross him.
And out on the water, within a mile of where he stood, Malachias Barrett was waiting for him.
They staggered back to the boat like a tiny army in retreat, Marlowe clutching his wounded arm, one of the sailors limping with a gash on his leg, all of them winded from the unaccustomed running.
At the head of the steps one of the two remaining sailors stood guard, arms crossed, pistols barely concealed under his coat. As they approached, Marlowe could see Elizabeth in the boat at the bottom of the steps, the second seaman standing on the step, painter in hand. Honeyman had stationed them well for the defense of his wife.
They made their way down the stairs and into the boat, and wordlessly the sailors followed, cast off, leaned on their oars. Three long strokes and the seawall disappeared in the mist.
They settled in, with Honeyman holding the boat on a compass heading back to the Elizabeth Galley. Big ships rose out of the fog and then disappeared in the boat’s black wake, a few odd sounds punctuating the night: voices from ships, something falling on a deck, the slap of rigging, the groan of a vessel’s rudder moving in the gudgeons.
Marlowe caught Honeyman’s eye. “Thank you, Honeyman,” he said, and Honeyman nodded and looked back at the compass. No more was said, or needed to be.
At last the familiar shape of the Elizabeth Galley appeared through the mist. Honeyman laid the boat alongside, and Elizabeth climbed awkwardly up the steps, trying to keep her feet from tangling in her skirts, and then Marlowe climbed gratefully aboard, letting the sight and smells of his beloved ship embrace him. It was safety there. He imagined this was how a criminal felt, reaching the sanctuary of a church, or a fox reaching its den ahead of the yelping dogs.
He stepped aft to the quarterdeck. Bickerstaff and a very worried-looking Dinwiddie were there.
“Things did not go well?” Bickerstaff asked.
“Not so very well, no. Not well at all, in fact.” He looked around. Honeyman had saved his life by coming to his aid, but that meant that word had not been passed to Dinwiddie to ready the ship to sail.
Marlowe folded his arms, looked down the length of his deck, tried to get his thoughts in some order. Press was dead-he had to be, or he would have gotten back into the fight-but the others, Press’s men, had escaped. How much did they know of Marlowe’s past? Of why Press had arrested him? Who might they tell? Did he, Marlowe, still need to flee?
If they sailed now, they would be leaving behind their tobacco and that of their neighbors. The parsimonious Dickerson was not going to pay them unless they demanded payment in person. If they did not, they would be ruined.
“Mr. Dinwiddie, what is the state of the tide?”
“On the ebb now, sir. We’ll have low water in two glasses. I was just getting ready to drop the second bower to moor her.”
“No, no. We need no more anchors. Let us roust up all hands, quietly, and rig the capstan. We will win our anchor and drop downriver. A mile or two, I should think.” The wind was light, but they had an hour more of ebb tide that would sweep them along, a few miles at least.
That should do for now, just to see how things lay. Perhaps cover up the ship’s name on the transom.
Dinwiddie passed the order. Grumbling, half asleep, the men staggered up from below and went through the paces of rigging the capstan. Marlowe saw glances shot back aft, men in huddled conversation, the signs of fear and discontent. Trouble building like thunderheads.
Goddamn it all, not bloody again, he thought.
He wondered if there would ever come a day when some worthy genius would invent a miraculous engine that would replace all sailors, so that he might never again have to suffer their whining malcontent.
“Might I inquire, Thomas, what happened ashore?” It was Bicker-staff, pulling him from his foolish reverie.
“Do you recall, Francis, when I told you of the raid I undertook on Nombre de Dios, when I was a young man? And the captain, Roger Press, who betrayed us?”
“I do. You marooned him, as I recall.”
“Yes, well, he did not stay marooned. In fact, I saw him this very night. He claims to have a queen’s commission, which I doubt very much. But he did have four armed men with him, which were harder to deny.”
Bickerstaff began to say something else, but they were interrupted by Duncan Honeyman, coming up from the waist, taking the quarterdeck steps two at a time. “Capstan’s rigged, Captain,” he said in his nonchalant way. He glanced up at the rig overhead, then forward, and then in a different tone said, “Lads forward ain’t happy, Captain, I got to tell you. They don’t know what’s acting, and they ain’t happy.”
Marlowe looked hard at Honeyman, said nothing for a minute. “I could care less if the men are happy or not. They have their orders. I am in command here, not you.”
“Don’t mistake me, Captain. This ain’t any of my doing. I�
�m a messenger, no more.”
“Indeed. Well, Honeyman, in my experience, the message usually starts with the messenger.”
“Usually does. But not here. Thing of it is, sir, the men thought they was signing on aboard a merchantman, and maybe for the Red Sea. They didn’t reckon on being taken in London. They don’t care to hang as pirates.”
“They will not hang as pirates.”
“They don’t know that, sir. And, respectfully, you don’t neither.”
Marlowe and Honeyman stood two feet apart, staring at one another. I should have reckoned Honeyman for a sea lawyer, damn his eyes, Marlowe thought. If Honeyman thought that coming to his aid in that street brawl would give him leave to take such liberties, he was mistaken.
But Thomas understood, and he knew that Honeyman understood, that a sailor was not a soldier. He would not risk his neck if there was no reward for it. Loyalty was a precarious thing with men who moved easily from one ship to another.
“Very well, tell the men that it is an extra shilling for every man for tonight’s work.”
“Very good, sir.” Honeyman betrayed no reaction to this, just turned and went forward.
Bickerstaff stepped up beside him. “You must bribe the men to do your bidding?”
“If the bidding smacks of the threat of arrest, yes, I do. On the open sea I could bully them more, but I can do only so much with the shore two cable lengths away.”
Marlowe paused for a moment, watched as Honeyman passed the word of his offer of a bonus, saw faces brighten considerably. “If there was nothing… questionable about what was acting, then the threat of being accused of mutiny would keep them in line. It is my damned luck that these villains always seem to have the upper hand because I always seem to be doing something that skirts the law.”
“Your ‘damned luck’? I think luck has very little to do with it, my dear Thomas. I should look more to your own natural tendencies.”
The Pirate Round botc-3 Page 8