by James Nelson
‘Yes, yes, St Mary’s, of course. You’ll receive the same pay as the captain of an East Indiaman, plus a double share of the prize money.’
‘Twenty-five percent of the prize money,’ Press said.
‘Twenty-five … well, now …’ Sir Edmund blustered, looking to his fellows for support.
You fat bastards, thought Press. You want to drive the pirates out and get richer still on prize money and plunder. Playing both ends of it, and me in the middle to do the dirty business.
‘I don’t see how we can …’ Sir Edmund said, in a tone that would admit no argument.
‘Twenty-five percent or I shall bid you good day.’ He took the silver toothpick between thumb and forefinger, stabbed it into his gum.
More muttering, soft consultation, and then Sir Edmund said, ‘Very well. Twenty-five percent.’
Press smiled. ‘You see, gentlemen, it would seem I am a pirate still!’
That joke received only weak smiles, a few uneasy glances. These men, Press knew, did not care to traffic with the likes of him, even if he was now a wealthy and famous privateersman, his clothing almost as fine as theirs. He reckoned they would burn the chair he was sitting in once he left, and toss away the glass he had used.
They despised him, feared him. Five years ago they would have seen him hanged, if he had come before the judges they controlled. But now they needed him.
That did not bother Press in the least. Being despised was nothing new to him.
For that matter, he would have taken their damned two shares if they had been more insistent. He didn’t care about that either. All that really mattered was that these stupid bastards were going to give him two powerful ships and a private army and governmental permission to rampage through the Indian Ocean.
They had specifically said that he was to go to St Mary’s. That was what mattered.
‘So, Captain, you will accept this commission?’
‘Yes, Sir Edmund, I do believe I will.’
The Elizabeth Galley rolled along under a perfect sky, taking the sixteen knots of wind on the quarter and plowing an easy course through the blue, blue sea.
Their heading was a little south of east, their destination Bermuda. A lovely island. Thomas had persuaded Elizabeth that they should call there en route to London. The beauty of the place aside, they needed another six able-bodied seamen at least, if they were going to sail or fight their way unescorted through the cordon of pirates and French privateers that patrolled the approaches to the English Channel.
Newport or New York might have been better choices for that, but Marlowe did not care to put in at those places. Too many faces from the sweet trade, he argued, wandering about those waterfronts. Too many ghosts.
The wind had not failed them, and the ship worked as if she had never been laid up. The young black men from Marlowe House had labored at setting up the masts and rigging – the very best possible training – and so terms such as ‘topsail weather brace’ and ‘fore course clew garnets’ were perfectly familiar to them by the time they were under way. Halfway to Bermuda, and they were well advanced in their new careers as sailors.
The lookouts aloft had sighted three sail in the course of the passage, each one a potential enemy, each a potentially grave threat to the unarmed ex-privateer, but they had left each of them below the horizon. The Elizabeth Galley was still a fast ship.
They raised Bermuda a fortnight after getting under way, and the following morning the Elizabeth Galley stood in past Spanish Point. The men crowded the rails, the officers and Elizabeth on the quarterdeck, as Bermuda’s Great Sound opened up before them and they swung off to the east, threading their way into Hamilton Harbor.
One of Honeyman’s sailors was in the chains with the lead, another up in the foretop scouting for coral. They were quiet men and somewhat surly, like Honeyman himself, but they were thoroughgoing sailors, and Marlowe had come to rely on them during the fitting out and the crossing to Bermuda.
‘Have you been to Bermuda before, Mr Dinwiddie?’ Marlowe asked the first officer as the ship crept along under fore topsail alone.
‘The one time, in ’89. Lovely place. I’ve entertained thoughts often enough of settling here, get some little enterprise or other going.’
They rounded up, and Marlowe gave Honeyman in the bow a wave, and Honeyman ordered the anchor let go. It plunged into the bright blue-green water of the harbor, and the Elizabeth Galley came to rest.
They fired a salute to the governor, Isaac Richier, whom Marlowe knew only by reputation. Dinwiddie sent hands aloft to stow sail. Marlowe sent his compliments to Richier, along with a letter of introduction from Governor Nicholson. The boat brought back an invitation to dinner.
‘Mr Dinwiddie, I do hope you will join us at the governor’s dinner?’ Marlowe said. It was an offhand remark, an invitation of no great importance as far as Marlowe was concerned, and so he was surprised to find Peleg somewhat flustered at the thought.
‘Dinner, you say? At the governor’s?’
‘Yes …’
‘Did he … Surely he didn’t specifically ask that I should join you?’
‘No, not by name. I fear your fame has not spread this far. But he says “any of your officers whom you would please to bring,” and I would certainly please to bring you.’
‘Oh, well …’ Peleg smiled, then frowned, and then without another word dove below.
An hour later he knocked on the great cabin door, where Elizabeth and Thomas had just finished dressing for dinner. He was red-faced and sweating under a battered wig, much in need of powder, that did not quite cover all the hair he had tried to stuff under it.
He wore a red wool coat that must have been packed away for special occasions – the creases still stood out boldly where it had been folded. His breeches were a bit tighter than one might wish, and his calves were enveloped in plain wool stockings. He wore his only pair of shoes, battered and misshapen. They had not been improved by his attempt to polish them.
‘Good day, Captain. Mrs Marlow,’ he said, stiff and formal, which was not his way. ‘I hope my appearance will do the ship credit?’
Marlowe did not know what to say. Peleg was a fine officer, a good man, and Marlowe counted him a friend. He should have guessed that Peleg was just a simple sailor, uncomfortable with formal affairs, with little sense for how to handle them.
He shook his head. Who have I become? Ten years before he would not have been able to muster half the social grace that Peleg was displaying. He’d been a drinking, whoring, fighting pirate; the only intercourse the Marlowe of a decade before would have had with a governor would be to stand before him at the bar and plead not guilty.
And here he was, dressed out in a tailored silk coat and embroidered waistcoat, silk stockings, shoes like polished ebony with silver buckles, giving never a thought to dining with the royal governor of Burmuda.
He did not know what to say to Peleg Dinwiddie.
Elizabeth, fortunately, was the soul of tact. There was nothing she did not understand about putting a man at ease. She breezed across the cabin in a rustle of silk and taffeta, her long blond hair swept behind. In that rough male world of the ship, she was like a shaft of light breaking through a thick cover of clouds.
She took Peleg by the shoulders, looked him up and down, and said, ‘Peleg Dinwiddie! I would never have recognized you, and all this time me thinking you were just a plain old sailor man!’
Peleg beamed at the praise. Elizabeth could come across as sincere as an altar boy if she wished, and Peleg never even noticed the segue as she eased his coat off and said, ‘I do believe the steward has my iron still hot. Let him run it over your coat and freshen it up a tad. Thomas, do you not have another pair of silk stockings?’
Half an hour of Elizabeth’s ministrations, during which she gently foisted on Peleg Thomas’s stockings and extra shoes and convinced him that he could go wigless (he did not, she suggested, wish to appear more formal than his captain), and Peleg
looked, if not good, at least not like a man who would be subject to ridicule.
Francis Bickerstaff joined them in the waist, dressed in his usual conservative manner. Marlowe saw his eyes sweep Dinwiddie head to foot, just a glance, and though his face did not change in the least, Marlowe knew that his friend had divined the entire story in that one look.
They took the longboat over to the landing, with Duncan Honeyman as coxswain. He brought the boat up to the low stone quay, and Marlowe stepped out and gave Elizabeth his hand, and after her came Bickerstaff and Dinwiddie.
Marlowe gave Honeyman instructions for when to return, along with a stern warning to keep the boat crew away from the taverns and the bumboat men who would sell them rum. All this Honeyman received with a nod of assurance and a desultory ‘Aye, sir.’
A carriage from the governor met them on the quay and conveyed them through the narrow cobbled streets, lined with two-story stucco homes, verandas looking down from overhead, bright flowers spilling from boxes. It felt more Spanish than English, and it was lovely.
They came at last to the governor’s house on the top of a hill that afforded them a view of the town and Hamilton Harbor. They were greeted at the door by Governor Isaac Richier himself, portly and red-faced but effusive in his welcome. The letter of introduction from Governor Nicholson had put them in good stead.
Richier swept them into the mansion, pointed out this and that, summoned servants to bring drinks, food, chairs.
They dined for two hours, going from soup to brandy and pipes, at which point Elizabeth grudgingly retired with the governor’s wife and left the men alone. It was an amiable gathering, an enjoyable meal, the conversation lively if not of great import.
Richier was a fine host, able to keep the talk flowing, with help from Marlowe, who had a sailor’s knack for spinning a tale, and Bickerstaff, who, if not exactly loquacious, was at least conversant on a surprising number of subjects. Even Dinwiddie managed to participate, alternating between bouts of talkativeness and periods of silent concentration on his dinner.
It was nearly midnight when they departed. They stepped into the wide foyer of the governor’s mansion, walking in a companionable group. As the carriage rumbled up just beyond the tall front doors, Marlowe said, ‘Governor, I wonder if I might trouble you for an audience tomorrow morning. There are sundry affairs I wish to discuss, regarding the Elizabeth Galley.’ He gave Richier a smile. ‘Too dull to bore the present company with.’
‘Of course, of course. I am always available to you,’ Richier said.
‘Shall we say ten?’
‘Perhaps eleven would be better, if that is not inconvenient.’
‘Eleven it is, then.’
The carriage brought them back through the now-dark streets, to the quay where the longboat was waiting, oars shipped, the boat crew talking softly.
Marlowe stepped aboard, looked with hawk eyes for any sign of drunkenness, sniffed for the smell of rum, but he could detect none. Honeyman apparently had been as good as his word. He had resisted the temptation of the nearby taverns and had made his men do the same. It was not a test many sailors would have passed.
They settled into the stern sheets. Honeyman gave a soft order, and the boat crew pulled for the Elizabeth Galley. It was quiet for a long moment, and then Peleg Dinwiddie, in a voice that sounded barely contained, said, ‘Damn me, but wasn’t that one damned fine affair! Beg your pardon, Mrs Marlowe.’
After breakfast the following morning, and discussions with Dinwiddie and Honeyman concerning supplies that still needed procuring and the best tactics for finding the half dozen seamen they needed, the three men went ashore.
Dinwiddie went off to haggle with chandlers, the few in the small town of Hamilton. Honeyman did not say specifically where he was bound, but he was on the lookout for recruits, so Marlowe guessed it was taverns and whorehouses.
Marlowe himself headed for the governor’s mansion.
He found the governor in his office, a tall room, whitewashed, with windows floor to ceiling that gave the occupant a grand view of the island that was his to administer. He stood and shook Marlowe’s hand, and they made their greetings, Marlowe thanking him once more for dinner.
‘Delighted to have you, delighted,’ the governor assured him, indicating a chair in front of the desk. Marlowe sat, and the governor sat as well.
‘You mentioned “sundry affairs” last night. Is there something your ship requires, something I might be of assistance in arranging?’
‘Perhaps,’ Marlowe said. ‘As to stores and such, my first officer is seeing to that. But there is one thing that is more your domain …’
Marlowe leaned back, crossed his legs, assumed a casual air. He had planned this moment for weeks but still was not sure what he was doing, or why.
He had not lied to Elizabeth about wanting to show her the island, but that alone would not have been enough to justify calling there.
He had, in fact, lied to Peleg and Bickerstaff about not finding enough sailors in Norfolk. He had purposely held off buying sufficient cordage and salt beef for the voyage, claimed he could not find them in the colonies, that they would have to look in at Bermuda for them. All those lies, just to arrive at this moment.
What am I doing?
‘We are taking tobacco to London, as you know. Arranged one of those permits to sail without convoy. But after that, I had a thought to not return to Virginia right off. I was thinking what with the war, perhaps privateering might be the thing—’
‘Oh, privateering, yes!’ The governor threw up his hands. ‘Everyone wants to go privateering, think they’ll make their fortune.’ He laid his hands palms down on his desk, looked Marlowe in the eye. ‘You are looking for a commission, I’ll warrant. Certainly I have the authority to grant a commission, like any royal governor. And I daresay I wish I could.
‘I perceive you are a gentleman, sir, and not of the same kidney as some of these other villains. They get a commission and then it is “Steer for Madagascar!” and they are pirating any vessel crosses their path. No, my dear Marlowe, I fear that the government is quite fed up with privateers, and they would not look with favor upon my granting one more commission.’
Coy bastard, Marlowe thought. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather purse that was heavy enough to serve as a formidable weapon. He held it up, just for a second, then let it fall on the governor’s desk. It made a heavy chink sound as it hit, the unmistakable tone of gold upon gold coin.
‘Of course,’ Thomas said, as if Richier had never spoken, ‘I understand that there are certain administrative costs involved in such a thing …’
For the next ten minutes they did not speak. Marlowe stared out one of the tall windows at the lovely harbour, the Elizabeth Galley like a toy far below, while Governor Richie wrote out the commission for privateering.
CHAPTER 4
It took them four weeks to raise England, once the Elizabeth Galley cleared out of Hamilton Harbor and Marlowe set her great sweeping northerly arc of a course to cross the Atlantic.
It was with some sadness that they left that beautiful island. Their stay had lasted five days, taking on stores and giving the hands a run ashore, enough time for them all to feel some attachment to the place. Thomas and Elizabeth were daily guests of the governor’s, a skilled host, and Richier invited Bickerstaff and Dinwiddie on two other occasions.
Dinwiddie, of all of them, seemed most heartbroken to leave. For the five days that they had remained at anchor, his usual active, hardworking and hard-driving spirit abandoned him. He strolled the decks like a gentleman aboard his yacht, retold bits of his memories of dining with the governor, described the mansion to the sailors, recalled snippets of droll conversation. He left the bulk of the work to the stolid William Flanders, second officer, and Honeyman, the bosun.
Honeyman, for his part, did not seem to mind, did not seem to view Dinwiddie’s strange behavior as any more of an imposition than he viewed most of life.
Duncan Honeyman was an odd one; Marlowe could not seem to peg him. He had all the attributes of a whiner, a malingerer, a sullen troublemaker, except that he worked like a horse and made all those in his charge do the same.
There was no genuine fault to be found in his performance as bosun.
Nor in his recruiting efforts. He went ashore and did not return for a day and a half, and Marlowe was ready to make his displeasure known, emphatically, when Honeyman appeared on the quay with five prime seamen in tow. Marlowe did not question his techniques after that.
Five days on that lovely island, and then they rigged the capstan and heaved the anchor up from the bottom and stood out into the open sea, hearts yearning for Bermuda, heads pounding from the excesses in which they had there indulged.
With each mile made good, Dinwiddie the governor’s guest settled back into Dinwiddie the first officer, the man whom Marlowe had so actively recruited. A man whose conversation with the crew consisted not of descriptions of dinner but terse orders to haul the bloody mainsheet, you damned buggers. I’ll thank you to mind your work, the mainsail looks like bloody washing hung out to dry.
Their first Sunday since leaving Bermuda, and Thomas Marlowe had the pleasure of watching his crew – a contented crew, a crew of tolerable size and expertise – sprawled out along the warm deck, taking their ease on their day off.
They were almost evenly divided between black men and white, odd proportions, even among the pirates. Marlowe kept a weather eye out, waited for a spark, an angry word, a shove, waited for someone to pull a knife, growl, ‘I’ll show you, nigger, playing the man!’
But it didn’t happen, because the one thing that was most offensive to a sailor, the one thing that overshadowed race or religion or political leanings, was a refusal to do one’s share of work, and in that the black men could not be faulted. They worked hard and learned fast, and the more experienced white hands had no complaints.
Still … as Marlowe looked across the deck he saw a divided crew. There was no animosity that he could see, no forced racial divides, but all the black men were clustered together to larboard, near the bow, and the white men, off watch, were sitting amidships. When the trouble came, in whatever form it would, they would have to act as one clan. They would have to be the Elizabeth Galleys, not white men and black.