The Pirate Round

by James Nelson

  Five minutes, ten minutes, and never a sign of Dickerson.

  ‘That son of a bitch,’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘He is doing this because he is angry about the deal I struck, I know it. I think he reckoned on getting some great bargain when you would not show up.’

  ‘If he does not see us now, then he shall get more than a bargain. I’ll cut his damned throat in another minute,’ Marlowe muttered. He was worried and angry and anxious to be gone, all at once.

  And then the door opened, and the clatter of the streets drowned out the muted noise of the office. Marlowe turned, and there, filling the door, was Roger Press.

  He stepped through, and behind him came two other men, big, rough-looking men, hands resting on cutlass pommels, but Marlowe had no eyes for them.

  He looked only at Press, who stood in a relaxed attitude, arms folded, shifted his silver toothpick with his tongue, and looked back at him.

  Tall, gangly, pockmarked and, to Marlowe, inexplicably still alive. Roger Press. And all that Marlowe could think was It is not bloody possible.

  CHAPTER 5

  They stood there, said nothing. Here it was again – that face, this background. The two did not seem to go together. Half a minute passed.

  Finally Press broke the silence, saying, ‘Surprised to see me, I’ll warrant. Fear not, I am no ghost.’ Then he smiled, and the toothpick waggled obscenely. ‘But perhaps it would be better for you if I was a ghost, eh, Barrett? What say you?’

  Barrett. Even that name did not fit. Malachias Barrett, that was the name by which Roger Press knew him. His real name, before he remade himself into Thomas Marlowe, gentleman planter.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you alive,’ Marlowe said, finding his voice at last. ‘Now I shall have to kill you again.’

  Press’s smile turned to a smirk. ‘Again? You did not kill me the first time. Nor all the others that tried. It don’t appear I can be killed.’

  That voice! Just the sound of it and Marlowe went reeling back seventeen years, across the Atlantic, across the Spanish Main. He felt suddenly a bit unsteady.

  He saw himself once again leading a band of thirty ragged buccaneers up the narrow, cobbled streets of Nombre de Dios.

  He could see the pistol in his left hand, the sword in his right, the same sword that now hung from his belt. Another brace of pistols hanging from a ribbon around his neck, slapping against his chest as he ran, his clubbed hair thumping against his back. A red sash around his waist, patched slop trousers.

  Up the narrow street, walled in by two- and three-story stucco buildings, bright shutters slammed tight against the marauders. Nombre de Dios – it was not the orgy of gold and silver that it had been in Drake’s time, but it was wealthy enough still to make it worth attacking and weak enough that it might fall to the sixty or so men who came from the sea to plunder the place.

  Came in before dawn in longboats from the pirate ship Fury. Malachias Barrett, quartermaster. Roger Press, captain.

  The buccaneers were shouting, firing their pistols, racing to the citadel that dominated the center of the Spanish colonial town. Faces peered from windows and quickly withdrew. Civilians with sword or pistol appeared before them, ready to defend their city, and fled or were cut down by the pirate juggernaut.

  Attack the citadel, draw out the few soldiers that were there, engage them in a desperate fight, and then Roger Press at the head of the other thirty would appear from the west, plunge into the brawl, and together they would overwhelm the Spaniards. That was the plan: simple, easily accomplished, no great risk, and, when they were done, Nombre de Dios would be theirs to sack at leisure.

  The road ran like the spoke of a wheel to a wide central hub, in the middle of which loomed the great citadel that protected the town. Marlowe – Malachias Barrett – stopped short, and behind him his band did likewise.

  The sweat soaked through his loose shirt, and he could feel the warm cobblestones through the thick, callused soles of his bare feet. He caught his breath, readjusted his sweating grip on the sword as the big doors of the citadel burst open and the soldiers with gleaming helmets and breastplates and swords and muskets charged out.

  ‘Steady, lads, they’re coming right to us!’ Marlowe shouted, and from behind him came grunts, howls, jeers, curses. These men were les boucaniers, the Brethren of the Coast, and they were not afraid of two dozen Spaniards or ten dozen. They saw those men only as an obstacle between themselves and the riches of Nombre de Dios, the pleasure of sacking a town, and they wanted to be at them.

  And Captain Press would be there at any moment, hitting the Spaniards on their flank.

  An order shouted out in rapid Spanish, and the soldiers shouldered muskets. Marlowe raised his pistol, leveled it at the officer’s face, twenty feet away, pulled the trigger, and saw the man’s helmet plucked from his head, heard the ringing of the metal, just as the soldiers opened up with a rippling volley.

  Bullets flying past, screams from behind, and then with a shout Marlowe led his men forward, wild buccaneers crashing into the Spaniards, pikes and swords flashing, pistols cracking back and forth, battle cries in Spanish and the polyglot voices of the pirates, English and French and Dutch. The noise echoed off the close buildings, seemed twice as loud.

  It was a desperate fight, the Spaniards taking heart from the small number of attackers, not knowing, as Marlowe did, that Roger Press would be there soon. Men fell – Spanish, pirates – blood ran between the cobblestones as both sides fought on, neither yielding, neither advancing.

  Ten minutes of that – it seemed like hours – and Marlowe began to wonder where Press was. They had landed at the same time, set off on their different routes at the same time – he should be there.

  Marlowe had an indefinable sense of his men falling back, a step, another, and the Spaniards were pushing forward.

  Press, goddamn your eyes, now, now!

  It was not possible that the Spanish would repel them, but they were outnumbered and … Where was Press?

  Another step back, yielding ground now to the Spaniards, who were fighting with a ferocity that Marlowe would not have expected from them. He saw one of his men go down, a Frenchman named Jean-Claude, and a big Spanish sword finished him, nearly severed his head.

  ‘Steady, steady!’ Marlowe shouted, loud as he could. He was gasping for breath, his sword beating back two and three men at a time, and he was stepping back as well. He could feel the men’s resolve wavering, their fighting madness a fog burning away.

  And then they were running, fleeing down the street up which they had come, and behind them the jeers of the Spanish soldiers, the most humiliating sound that Marlowe had ever heard before or since.

  Down to the landing, the fifteen men who had lived through that vicious fight, panting, limping, bleeding. Humiliated and defeated.

  And there was Roger Press and the thirty men who were to have hit the Spanish flank. They had found the government countinghouse, overwhelmed the guard, carted off quantities of gold and silver. They were just loading it in the boats as Marlowe’s men were falling under the Spaniards’ swords.

  Harsh words passed between the two groups of men, weapons were brandished. After a moment of shouting it became clear that Press had lied to his men, led them to believe that the plan had been changed at the last moment, that they were not to support Marlowe’s men at all.

  Clear out the countinghouse and make for the ships. Let the Spaniards take care of Marlowe and the rest. Halve the number of men with whom the booty would be shared. That was Press’s intention. It had almost worked.

  Marlowe blinked hard, brought himself back to the warehouse, the cool, foggy night on the London waterfront. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr Dickerson peer out of his office, assess the situation, then disappear again, like a weasel down its hole.

  ‘The last time I saw you,’ Marlowe said, ‘we had marooned you for cowardice and for betraying us all at Nombre de Dios. I am sorry to see you did not die on that spit of sand. W
e left you with a bottle of water and a loaded pistol, as I recall. I am sorry you did not see fit to use the pistol to do the honorable thing.’

  Press just smirked, shifted the toothpick – that damned toothpick! – back and forth. He had the advantage now: two men at his back and Marlowe by himself. No need for fast talk this time, for arguments, denials, such as he had made when his own men had put him on trial.

  He had tried to make it all sound reasonable, an innocent mistake.

  It had not worked. The men of the Fury had pronounced him guilty of cowardice and theft from his shipmates, the two most heinous crimes in the pirates’ code. Marooning, that had been the vote. It was the way with the Brethren of the Coast.

  ‘No, Barrett, I did not use that bullet on myself. I waited. For eight days I roasted and starved and went near mad with thirst. I was ready to blow my brains out. Would have the next day, I have no doubt. But before I did, a ship came by and took me off.’

  Marlowe sighed. ‘Very well, Press, let us be done with this. I shall fall on my sword if I have to look at your damned smirking face a moment more. Cold steel? Pistols? Or will you have these apes murder me while you stand safely by? That would be more your manner of doing things, would it not?’

  Press frowned, as if he did not understand. He took the toothpick from his mouth, held it like a conductor holding a baton. ‘Murder you? Cold steel? Really …’

  ‘You will not go to the authorities, methinks. You would not care to hang at my side?’

  ‘Ah, but, my dear Barrett, you see, I am the authorities now! I have a commission from the queen herself to hunt down pirates and bring them to justice. And I do believe I have caught my very first one. Gentlemen’ – he turned to the men behind him, who looked very much like pirates in their own right – ‘pray remove Master Barrett’s sword. He and this lovely doxy will come with us.’

  Marlowe did not resist as one of the men unbuckled his sword and handed it to Press. He doubted very much that Press was in the employ of the queen – the days of Francis Drake and even Henry Morgan were over – but it made little difference. Press was armed, and his two henchmen were armed, and so they could do pretty much as they pleased.

  There might yet be an opportunity to escape, Marlowe understood, but this was not it.

  ‘This … doxy … is a stranger to me. She has naught to do with this.’

  ‘Oh, indeed? But I don’t believe you. In any event, we will straighten that out later.’ Press tucked Marlowe’s sword under his arm, opened the door. He jerked his head toward the man with the ill-concealed pistol. The man pushed past Marlowe and disappeared into the street.

  Very professional, Marlowe thought. No chance of fleeing that way. These villains knew their business.

  ‘Pray, come along,’ Press said politely.

  Marlowe glanced at Elizabeth. Her lips were set, eyebrows together. He could see the fury held in check, the effort it was taking for her to remain silent. He could see her looking sharply around, looking for their chance, the opening to exploit, just as he was doing.

  He gave her the slightest of nods, and she nodded back, stepped forward, through the door that Press held open. Marlowe followed and, behind them, Press and the second guard.

  It was dark, and the fog had settled down on London like a thick wool blanket draped over a sleeping form. Twenty feet in any direction the wet streets and buildings disappeared in the haze. Here and there glowing ghosts of light showed where a lantern was lit against the gloom. The air was damp and pungent.

  Marlowe paused, looked around – for what, he did not know. Something. Then Press gave him a push from behind, said, ‘Start walking. To your right. And none of your nonsense, or I shall shoot you before you are two steps gone. And I shall shoot this little bunter first. Or save her for my men.’

  Marlowe gritted his teeth, began to walk. Press had a knack for finding the fissure and sticking the knife in, an ability to divine the most offensive statement and then give it voice. It was no wonder that others besides Marlowe had tried to kill him.

  Marlowe guessed he himself would try again, and soon.

  They stepped off into the dark and fog, the one guard leading the way, then Marlowe and Elizabeth side by side, then Press and the second guard.

  This is it, Marlowe thought. There would not be a better chance at escape than now, on that open road, with the Elizabeth Galley’s boat just one hundred yards away. Three against one and he with never a weapon, but this was the main chance.

  With each step Marlowe inched closer to the seawall that formed the left side of the street, a low stone wall, and beyond that a straight drop to the Thames below. He could hear the water washing against the ancient rock, but he could not see it in the fog.

  Over his shoulder Press called to the guard leading the way, ‘Hanson, damn you, man, we have walked clean past Dock Street!’

  Hanson turned, and Marlowe stumbled against a raised cobblestone, cursed, tried to regain his balance.

  ‘Watch him!’ Press shouted, saw the fake, took two quick steps forward. ‘Shoot him if he—’

  Marlowe straightened, wheeled about, grabbed Press by the lapels of his coat, and twisted him around, nearly jerking him from his feet, slamming him into Hanson, who was pulling his gun and rushing back to grab the prisoner.

  Press grunted with the impact, and Hanson staggered. Marlowe’s muscles screamed in pain – Press was a strong man, and heavy. The surprise worked for a second, no more, and then Press was fighting back.

  Too close to draw a weapon, Press lashed out with his long arms, wrapped powerful fingers around Marlowe’s throat. Marlowe heard his sword drop from under Press’s arm, clatter on the road, heard Hanson cock his pistol, heard sharp footfalls behind as the second guard rushed up.

  Press’s fingers were digging into Marlowe’s throat, crushing his windpipe, choking the life from him, but at least he was blocking Hanson’s shot.

  He heard a gasp behind, and the footsteps stopped, and then a thud like a sack of flour hitting the road, and he guessed that Elizabeth had tripped up the running man.

  Marlowe twisted, pushed away from Press until he was able to drive a fist up between Press’s arms and into his jaw – one powerful jab, then another – and another and then he felt Press’s grip weaken.

  Both arms up between Press’s forearms, a jerk outward, and Press’s hold was broken. Marlowe could see that the big man was dazed by the blows. He grabbed Press’s lapels again, twisted him around. Press’s legs hit the low wall, which would have prevented a smaller man from falling but only served to trip Press up. One shove and he was over, falling in a flurry of coattails and gangly legs and arms.

  Marlowe leaped to the street, heard Press hit the water as Hanson’s pistol discharged, the flash bright in the fog, the bullet whizzing overhead. He snatched up his sword and tried to recall if Press could swim. A flick of the wrist and the scabbard flew off, and he drove the blade into Hanson’s stomach as the man descended on him.

  ‘Elizabeth! Get to the boat! Go! Go! Tell Dinwiddie to get ready to slip the cable!’ he shouted even as he stood and pushed the sword deeper, then pulled it free and turned to face the next man.

  He saw Elizabeth hesitate, one beat, two beats, unwilling to leave Marlowe behind. Ten feet away the second man. He had regained his feet after Elizabeth tripped him, sword drawn, hanging back. From the fog came more footfalls, and two more men resolved from the mist and took their place alongside the second man.

  Damn him! Marlowe thought. Press had his guards, and he had two more trailing behind.

  ‘Go!’ he shouted again, and this time Elizabeth turned and fled down the road.

  Three against one again. Marlowe faced them, sword drawn. The second guard pointed toward Elizabeth, running away down the street, shouted, ‘Stop that bitch!’ and one of the new men charged after her as the other pulled a pistol from his belt.

  Then everyone was moving at once. Marlowe took two big steps and flung himself at Elizabeth�
��s pursuer as he raced past. He was in midair when the pistol went off, and he felt the bullet rip through the flesh of his upper arm, and then he and the man were rolling on the street, the impact with the cobblestones thankfully dampened by the man’s body.

  But that did nothing to ameliorate the agony in his arm. He shouted with the pain, rolled over, kicked his way to his feet, untwisting himself from his cape just as the others were on him. He met the sword coming down at him with his own, held crosswise over his head, turned it aside and lunged, felt the tip bite flesh before his attacker could leap clear.

  He heard a sharp yell but knew he had done no real damage. He managed to get his sword in place to beat off a lunge from the second man. He had purposely worn his big sword, his killing sword, not the ceremonial rapier, but that weapon was best wielded with two arms, and he was down to one.

  Another lunge and he turned it aside, then whirled fast and kicked the man he had tackled hard in the head as he was pulling himself up from the road. Down again and Marlowe leaped away from a thrust he knew would come, turned to see the blade reaching into empty space, knocked it aside, stepped into the attacker, drove home another thrust.

  He could beat one man that way, delivering a series of stab wounds that would wear him down, but not three. Three men would do that to him first, and he was already wounded worse than any of them.

  He backed away, sword held ready, hilt at waist height, the tip wavering at the men’s eyes like a snake. They had had enough of that blade that they would not attack headlong, but their advantage was too great for them to quit the fight.

  Twenty feet… Marlowe thought. If he could put twenty feet between them, he could lose them in the fog. Hire a boat to bring him back to the Galley. But how could he win twenty feet?

  And then more footfalls on the cobblestones, coming from the opposite direction, running hard, and all four men paused, listening.

  Duncan Honeyman burst from the mist, two men of the boat crew behind him, and they fell on Marlowe’s attackers like wolves, wet blades flashing in the muted light. Three strokes, four strokes, and it was over, the one called Hanson dead on the street, the others flinging away their weapons as they fled.