All through that speech Yancy saw Marlowe’s eyes narrow, saw him stiffen, saw the rage he tried to hold in check. He saw Marlowe glance around at the guards, who were inching closer, the men at the table who were watching him, some of whom had even stood up, backed away to give themselves fighting room. The threat was blatant, the choice-or lack of choice-obvious.
Yancy leaned back, watched Marlowe as the latter ran his options around in his head.
He could have Marlowe killed, of course, could have done so at any moment, could have his ship sunk or taken with one word. But he was afraid that Dinwiddie might hold in his breast some smoldering sense of loyalty. If he killed Marlowe, he might lose Dinwiddie.
That risk notwithstanding, he had to have Elizabeth. She was a gift from God. Here he had been thinking of the fine, fair girls he had left behind, and then she sailed right into his kingdom. He was smitten with her, thought of her every moment since first he ran his eyes over her perfect face and body. She was not destined to be the wife of some little no one like Marlowe. She was meant to be a queen, and so God had sent her to her king.
“Lord Yancy,” Elizabeth was saying now, “I am grateful for your offer and your concern for my safety. Truly. But my husband and I have sailed these many months together, and I cannot think of our being parted now.”
“No, no, it is far too dangerous for you.” Yancy leaned over and patted her hand in a comforting manner. There was anger in her eyes also, but she would get over it. “You must stay with me.”
“I do not wish to stay with you,” she said, biting off the words.
“But you must. I am certain Captain Marlowe would agree.” He looked up at Captain Marlowe, who was leaning back in his chair, running his eyes over the room, over the two dozen heavily armed men between himself and the door, assessing the chances of himself and Bickerstaff and Elizabeth fighting their way out. They would never make it, and Yancy was sure that Marlowe was never man enough to sacrifice his own life for the honor of some bunter.
“Well, perhaps you are right, my lord…” Marlowe extemporized, his eyes still moving around the room.
“Of course I am. You will be parted… two months, no more. But see here, Captain, I do believe the tide is on the ebb now and the wind fair. I think you had best take advantage of it, hmm? Nagel, will you see Captain Marlowe and Mr. Bickerstaff safe to the dock?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Nagel, stepping up behind them. At some point in the past hour he had acquired a cutlass and a brace of pistols.
“Very well, then.” Marlowe stood, gave Yancy a shallow bow. “I thank you again for your hospitality. Come along, Francis, we must away.” He kissed Elizabeth lightly on the cheek. “You will be safe here, and I will return in a few months, my dear. Good-bye.”
Elizabeth watched him go, stunned to speechlessness, but Yancy gave him a hearty farewell. He was not surprised. He knew men, and he knew that Marlowe would make the right decision.
The sun was two hours gone when Nagel returned. Yancy was waiting on the wide veranda. He nodded as he listened to Nagel’s report. The big man had seen Marlowe and Bickerstaff back aboard, had insisted on taking them out himself in the longboat.
Yancy and Nagel stood silent for a moment, watching the Elizabeth Galley creeping out of the harbor. There was enough of a moon that they could clearly see her topsails as they filled, just a little, in the light air. The breeze and the tide carried her steadily along, past the rotten and abandoned pirate ships, past Quail Island with its garrisoned battery, until it was lost from sight in the darkness to the south.
Yancy watched until her big stern lantern winked once and then vanished behind the island. Even if he wanted to return now, he could not sail back against the breeze and the current. Marlowe was gone.
Yancy thought of the idiot Dinwiddie having his way with the harem girls, but that thought did not bother him in the least. He did not need harem girls. He had Elizabeth now. She was secure in a room down the hall, locked in and awaiting his pleasure. And what a pleasure it would be.
She would fight him, he had no doubt of that. She was spirited, not like these docile creatures native to the island. But that was what he wanted, what he needed. He craved challenge, had little enough of it as supreme ruler of St. Mary’s. She would fight, and she would lose, and eventually she would be broken, like a horse, and she would be his.
He felt arousal creeping up on him, just thinking of what the night had in store.
Elizabeth stood on the small balcony that was part of the room in which she was locked. She watched the Elizabeth Galley creeping away.
Elizabeth Galley. The irony of the name made her sick. The thought of Marlowe standing up and graciously taking his leave of her made her sick.
It was not anger, not dismay, not confusion. None of those things could describe what she felt. It was a witch’s brew of them all, boiling in her guts. She felt like running, careening off walls. She did not know what she felt. It was all too unreal. It was betrayal beyond the imaginable.
No, no. She shook off that thought. Thomas must have some plan, some trick or other in mind. He would not just leave her there. Not the Thomas Marlowe who had once thrown everything away to rescue her from a prison cell, who had killed men in defense of her honor. Thomas whose life was inextricably entwined with hers.
She watched as the Galley’s big stern lantern disappeared around the island, and then she knew she was alone, and suddenly she was unsure again. She turned and ran her eyes over the walls of the building, wondered if she could climb off the balcony and make some kind of escape. But the walls were smooth, there was nothing to grab, and below her a long drop to a rocky outcropping. There was nothing to do but jump to her death.
She looked down at the rocks, dull gray in the moonlight. Yancy obviously did not think she would do it, or he would not have given her access to the balcony. Perhaps she would surprise him. She wondered if the fall was really enough to kill her, or if it would just cripple her in some horrible way.
She leaned farther over the rail, even told herself to do it, but then she straightened and pushed herself back. That was not her way. If she had not killed herself yet, after all the misery she had suffered, then she was not about to do it now. Apparently Yancy did have her figured, just as he had had Marlowe figured.
No, it is not possible! Thomas would not abandon me!
She could not believe it, yet she knew that Nagel had escorted him to his ship, and she had seen his ship sail away.
He has to have some plan. The Thomas she knew would not leave her.
Thomas, the former pirate? His whole life is a lie, even his name. Why should I think his loyalty to me is anything more?
Thomas had sailed away, left her behind. It was hardly the first time she had been abandoned in her life, left to fend for herself. She had survived then, she would survive now. She would survive by her own wits and strength, and if indeed he had left her, then Thomas Marlowe be damned.
Chapter 16
DUNCAN HONEYMAN insisted on coming. Pleaded, in fact, and Marlowe could not have been more surprised.
Marlowe figured that his own choice was Elizabeth or the Elizabeth Galley. He reckoned that Honeyman would see this as his big opportunity. Dinwiddie gone to God knows where, the captain and Bicker-staff off the ship. The Galley, now complete with guns, powder, shot, stores, was his for the taking.
Marlowe was ready to make that sacrifice. In some way he even hoped for it, penitence for his incalculable stupidity and hubris. “There is a sort of a code, you know, with these fellows. They are not wont to meddle with another’s wife.” Lord, those words mocked him! And it did not help to recall that he had not really believed them, even as they were coming out of his mouth. He had pushed his luck clean over the brink.
Marlowe had planned on giving Honeyman temporary command, ordering him to return for them at dawn, but he never really thought Honeyman would. He figured that Honeyman would head for the horizon, leave them to rot, so his re
al plan was to make his way to Madagascar in the open boat with Bickerstaff and Elizabeth, once he had freed her, and find passage from there. It was a risk he had to take.
Back on board, climbing up the side under Nagel’s vigilant eye, Marlowe had ordered the anchor up and topsails set. They stood out of the harbor with never a word spoken, save for those necessary to the running of the ship.
When at last they had cleared the headland, Honeyman approached. “Captain? Where’s Dinwiddie? And Mrs. Marlowe?”
“Dinwiddie has elected to stay behind, or so it would seem. My wife has been kidnapped. Please see the jolly boat cleared away and over the starboard side, quiet as you can. I do not want anyone on the island to see. Bickerstaff and I are going back for my wife. You will have command of the ship until we return.”
For a moment the quartermaster did not move or say anything, to Marlowe’s annoyance. At last he said, “I’m with you.”
“No,” Marlowe said.
“There’s no one at Yancy’s house recognizes me. They all know you and Bickerstaff. You need me with you.”
Marlowe had no argument to make. Honeyman was right. And for some reason Honeyman needed to be a part of this.
They got the jolly boat over the side, and Marlowe gave his orders to Flanders, who inherited command of the ship. Honeyman went down into the boat, Bickerstaff ready to follow, and up stepped Hesiod, cutlass and two braces of pistols draped over him, haversack at his side. His body looked as solid as a statue. “Jolly boat’ll move faster with four men to pull oar” was all he said.
Marlowe looked at Bickerstaff, and Bickerstaff nodded. Among the former slaves at Marlowe House, Hesiod had been the hunter, the one who could disappear into the woods with an old smooth-bore musket and some snares and come back with game: deer, turkey, rabbit- nothing was safe from him. A good man to have, but Marlowe felt compelled to say, “Hesiod, there’s a better-than-even chance we won’t come back.”
“Don’t matter. It’s Mrs. Marlowe,” he said as he stepped down and took his place at the oar.
They pushed off from the Elizabeth Galley’s side, the vessel never slowing in her stately progression away from the harbor mouth. They let her pass, bobbing in her wake, then pulled for the shore, oars double-banked, a dark boat invisible on the dark water.
It took twenty minutes to fetch the shore. Honeyman went over the side in water up to his knees, pulled the boat farther up. Then the rest jumped out, and they dragged the boat up the deserted beach, half lifting it to keep the keel from making a grinding noise on the sand.
They let the boat down easy and then hurried across the beach to the edge of the trees and followed that toward the glimmer of lanterns that marked the pirate haven of St. Mary’s, half a mile away.
Marlowe and Bickerstaff were dressed in old clothes-slop trousers and tar-stained shirts, sashes, battered cocked hats. Marlowe wore the tall boots and faded blue coat and cross belts he had saved since his days on the account. The clothes gave him a certain strength and reassurance. It felt good to strip off the dandified attire he had worn to Yancy’s dinner and to put on these old, rugged, well-worn garments. They were like armor to him; in them he felt able to fight back.
Honeyman and Hesiod were dressed in their usual garb, save for the profusion of weapons that hung from their belts and cross belts. But none of them looked in any way unique for the pirate enclave.
Four white men and one black, equals and brothers in arms. In nearly any other place on earth they would be absurdly conspicuous, but not on St. Mary’s, not among the pirates. As long as they were not recognized, they would not attract notice.
They came at last to the edge of the dirt road that paralleled the harbor, where it seemed to dissolve into scrub and then jungle. Hesiod pushed ahead, peered along the road, and when he saw that it was all clear, he signaled the others.
They fought their way out of the brush, walked down the center of the road. Stealth would attract notice, but there was nothing odd about four brethren staggering along. They were one hundred yards from the intersection with the road that ran up the hill to Yancy’s place. They could hear the distant sounds of the night’s bacchanal: shouting and music and women’s screams and gunshots.
They stopped, and Hesiod pulled a bottle of rum from his haversack, uncorked it, and they passed it around as they talked in low tones.
It would appear as the most innocent thing in the world in that place, if anyone was watching, four men sharing a bottle and a yarn.
“Stockade’s pretty solid, far as I ever seen,” Honeyman observed. “Don’t reckon there’s a break anywhere.”
“I got ten fathom of rope in my haversack,” said Hesiod. “If we find a dark place, we could up and over pretty easy, I reckon.”
“It’ll be some hard climbing to get around the back,” Honeyman said. “That house was built in a damned good place, far as defending it goes.”
“No,” Marlowe said. His anxiety was growing to the point where he could not contain it. Every second that passed put Elizabeth in greater danger. Standing still was making him wild with fear. “No time for such fancy plans. We go right through the gate.”
The others looked at him. Hesiod nodded slightly. Marlowe did not see any argument in their faces.
“We must be smart, however,” said Bickerstaff. “We are outnumbered ten to one at least. It will do Elizabeth no good if we are slaughtered. It may in fact make her situation worse.”
“Very well. Smart. But we go right at ’em.”
Marlowe led the way down the road. He and Bickerstaff pulled their hats low over their eyes, and they all assumed a slightly unsteady gait as they made their way past the ramshackle taverns and tent whorehouses and the groups of men sitting around open fires, drinking and eating. The air was all wood smoke and expended gunpowder and meat cooking and rum and unwashed men. No one made any comment or even seemed to notice as they walked by.
Halfway up the hill Honeyman stopped. “Captain, they know you at the house, but Hesiod and me, we ain’t been. What say you and Mr. Bickerstaff wait here, we’ll see to them bastards at the gate?”
Marlowe hesitated. He did not want to stop. But what Honeyman said made sense. “Very well. But hurry.”
Marlowe and Bickerstaff stepped off the road, standing half hidden behind a thick palm that rose up into the night. They watched the two others staggering up the road until they were lost in the dark. The gate, with the ubiquitous guards, was fifty yards away.
The night was still and the sounds of the carousing at the bottom of the hill muted, and Marlowe could hear the guard challenging Honeyman and Hesiod. It was quiet after that, and then a burst of laughter. More quiet, and then Marlowe heard a sound like the wind knocked from someone or a body hitting the ground, he could not tell. Another minute, and then Hesiod’s voice from the dark: “All right, Captain” was all he said.
Marlowe and Bickerstaff stepped from the underbrush and hurried up the hill. The gate to the stockade loomed in front of them, visible in the circle of light thrown off by the lantern the guards had hung from a hook just outside the big door.
One of the guards was still standing there, in the half-alert position that Marlowe was accustomed to seeing, and he realized it was Honeyman. Another guard sat leaning against the big door, again in the relaxed attitude that the pirate sentries assumed. His eyes were open. The lantern light glinted on the blood that soaked his shirt and coat.
Hesiod, Marlowe, and Bickerstaff skirted the fall of the light and stepped through the gate, into the shadows of the stockade wall.
From that dark spot they surveyed the big house. To their left the banquet hall rose up two stories. The tall windows glowed with the light of the iron chandeliers that hung from the rough beams of the ceiling. They could hear the muffled roar of the riot taking place within, as Yancy’s anointed took their nightly pleasure. On the second story there were lights burning in three rooms that they could see and two on the third.
“She may
be in one of those,” Marlowe said, nodding toward the windows in which lanterns or candles burned. “Or not.”
“There’s but one way to find out,” said Hesiod. “Coming, Honey-man, or standing guard here?”
“Coming.”
The four men hurried toward the house, moving along the stockade wall, keeping to the shadows. They came to the corner of the building, paused, crouching in the dark, listened for any guards walking the grounds. There was nothing beyond the revelry in the banquet hall and the revelry in the town below.
“Let me try the door,” Honeyman said. He stood and walked toward the front door, not running or hiding but striding with purpose and a bit of a wobble, not like an intruder but rather a drunk who had no concerns about his right to be where he was.
Up the stone steps, and Marlowe could just see him in the shadow as he tugged at one door, then the other, then both, before turning and walking back the way he had come.
“Damn,” Marlowe said softly. They would need another way in. He ran his eyes over the front of the house, pictured it from the inside, as it had been shown to him by Yancy.
“Hold! Who’s that?” The voice from the dark startled him. Honey-man was no more than a shadow against the gray house. Marlowe saw him pause and turn toward the guard. Then he caught a flare of light overhead. He looked up, quick.
On the balcony attached to one of the rooms, a figure was holding a torch, a great flaming mass of fire. To Marlowe’s surprise, that person was Elizabeth.
He stood, took a step forward. He did not know what to do. Shout? Remain silent? She was two stories up. She could not jump, nor could he climb up to her.
As he stood there, paralyzed with his indecision, Elizabeth turned her back to him, leaned over the edge of the balcony, and whipped the torch up in the air. It flew from her hand, tumbled end over end, slowly revolving in the air, and then landed on the thatched roof above.
The flame gutted, smoldered, and then flared as the dry thatch caught. The guard who had challenged Honeyman now forgot him completely as he ran for the door, shouting, “Fire! The damned bitch lit the damned roof on fire! Fire, there!”
The Pirate Round botc-3 Page 21