The Pirate Round

by James Nelson

  And, Marlowe had to admit, Elizabeth was becoming a hell of a swordswoman. He reckoned he could beat her still, but it would not be the simple matter it had been before.

  Three thousand miles, and then the sword drills stopped as they battled their way around the stormy Cape of Good Hope, the tip of Africa, dropping as far as forty degrees south latitude and touching on that great band of wind that roared around the entire earth, nearly unimpeded in its circumnavigation.

  They battled the wind and sea for a week before turning north again and covering the last thousand or so miles up into the tropical zones, even hotter now in the Southern Hemisphere summer. A week of bitter cold and high seas gave way fast to brilliant sun right overhead, hot deck planking, dripping tar. The men stripped down as far as they could with a woman aboard, and a piratical bunch they looked.

  At last the dawn revealed not an empty sea but a black hump of land on the northern horizon. It seemed to rise up from the Indian Ocean as the Elizabeth Galley closed the miles. Madagascar, right under their bow.

  Marlowe stood on the quarterdeck, Elizabeth next to him. ‘There it is, my love, at long last. Madagascar. Island of the pirates.’

  ‘We shall fit right in, I’ll warrant. We are the greatest villains of them all.’

  ‘I reckon so. And you swaggering about with a sword on your hip.’

  They were silent for a moment, looking at the island, still no more than a dark line rising just the slightest bit above the horizon. Then Elizabeth said, ‘I have enjoyed this, Thomas, truly I have. But I am not ashamed to say I shall be glad to step off this ship, if even for a day.’

  ‘More than a day, I should think. We’ve a power of work to do before we can sail again.’

  Sail again. What an odd thought. Fetching Madagascar after so long a voyage, after all that had happened in London, seemed like an end, the closure of a voyage. The time to pay off the crew, retire to one’s home, relive the adventure in tales told to one’s neighbors.

  It was hard to recall that the landfall in Madagascar was not that, not that at all. It was, in fact, just the beginning.

  CHAPTER 13

  They stood on the quarterdeck – Thomas, Elizabeth, Francis, Peleg, and Duncan. The others stood along the gangways and foredeck – the young black men from Marlowe House, the sailors they had recruited in the colonies and Bermuda, and the men they had saved from the wreck of the Indiaman. Disparate groups now molded as well as sailors could be molded into a cohesive unit, into the crew of the Elizabeth Galley.

  They stood together, a band of men and one woman, who had already been through a great deal in each other’s company. They stood and watched as the steep, jungle-covered shore of Madagascar moved slowly down the larboard side. But their attention was focused forward, where the island of St Mary’s, now distinct from the bigger island, waited, fifty miles away and right under the bowsprit.

  None of them knew, of course, that two thousand miles astern of them, plunging along almost in the track through which the Elizabeth Galley had plowed her wake, the Queen’s Venture and her tender were just encountering the first of the Cape of Good Hope’s ferocity.

  When last they had seen Roger Press, he had been shouting orders and curses from his longboat, which was skewered by the Galley’s spare main topsail yard and pinned to the bottom of the Thames. For all they knew, he was there still.

  They did not know that he and his men had remained in that awkward position for two hours until Lieutenant Tasker, growing worried by their absence, sent the ship’s cutter in search of them.

  Press returned to the Queen’s Venture, disappeared into his great cabin. He did not say a word to anyone, and no one said a word to him. To a man, they knew better than that. He flung off his wet clothes, dressed in his silk banyan, poured a glass of rum, straight.

  He stared out the big windows aft, into the blackness, and, by the time he had finished his rum, Malachias Barrett was behind him.

  Press was a practical man; it was what had led to his having command of such a big, well-found and well-funded vessel, a commission giving him all but carte blanche in the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea. He could fixate on vengeance with the tenacity of a bulldog, but he would not waste his life seeking it. He had no notion of where Barrett was bound, and he had no thought of flailing around the oceans of the world looking for him.

  No, Barrett could wait. Barrett would not distract him from his well-planned mission. There was one other man that Press hated even more than Barrett.

  He considered that, wondered if that was still true, in light of the outrages he had just suffered by Barrett’s hand. He looked at his gnarled fingers, which had been systematically broken in the Grand Inquisitor’s religious zeal, felt the mutilated skin on his back where the silk banyan touched it, and he knew that, yes, he hated that other man more.

  Press felt his resolve strengthened again. He knew where that other fellow was. The story of his conquest of St Mary’s had finally filtered back to the London waterfront. No fruitless searching of the oceans for him; Press could proceed directly to St Mary’s, take him, kill him slowly, make himself master of all that his enemy had accumulated in terms of wealth and power. The most influential men in England had given him license to hunt Yancy down and the means to do so, and they did not even know it.

  As the Elizabeth Galley was standing out of the harbor at Penzance, Press had watched the last of the stores lightered out to the Queen’s Venture and her tender, the Speedwell, a twenty-gun, ship-rigged sloop-of-war and a formidable vessel in her own right. As Marlowe was working his way down the hawser to the stricken Indiaman and cursing himself for his idiocy, Press was pacing the quarterdeck of the Venture, the rain beating on his oilskin, cursing the storm that kept them bottled up in the Thames.

  They had sailed at last, the Queen’s Venture and the Speedwell, bound away on a course almost identical to that of the Elizabeth Galley. It was a course familiar to many English seamen, given all the traffic that moved from London to the Indian Ocean in search of the tremendous wealth to be had in those lands, through legitimate means or not.

  The Queen’s Venture crossed the line of thirty-eight degrees south latitude two weeks to the day after the Elizabeth Galley. Like Marlowe, Roger Press was not overly concerned with the weather they might encounter in that stormy corner of the world. His ships were newly refitted, strong and tight, their rigs well set up, their crews large and well trained. They were not flimsy trading sloops but substantial men-of-war. They could endure the Cape of Good Hope. They had been fitted out to conquer empires, and that was the thing that was on Press’s mind, not the rising wind and building seas.

  Marlowe had no way of knowing that Press was there, two thousand miles astern, two and a half weeks of sailing, if one had any slant of luck with the weather.

  Likewise he could not know that a mere forty miles ahead, on the peak of a steep hill behind the town of St Mary’s, Elephiant Yancy was staring breathless through a powerful telescope, taking in every detail of the Elizabeth Galley that could be distinguished through those imperfect optics. Nagel stood respectfully behind him, and, even farther behind, the lookout who had first spotted the approaching ship.

  There were lookouts stationed all over the island, with runners to convey word of any approaching vessel. They were natives, men who could run as if they were flying down the steep jungle paths, who would bring word as fast as was humanly possible. It was a system that Yancy had set in place soon after assuming sovereignty over his kingdom. It was good to avoid surprise of any kind.

  When a ship was spotted from such a high perch, there were a good twelve hours at least before it might hope to enter the harbor. And now that Roger Press was coming, Lord Yancy needed every minute he could gain.

  He had explained it to his elite, his Terrors. He would not allow them to fall victim to that murdering bastard. He would not let Press rob him of his final weeks on earth.

  That morning he had been crouching on his veranda, a f
ire burning in a small fire pit, his hands and arms and leather apron soaked in blood, when he spotted the runner.

  Yancy had developed a distrust of his food taster and had executed the man. Water was not a problem. They had on St Mary’s a unique white gourd called a mabibo, which when cut open was filled with fresh, unadulterated water. But food was another matter. He had concluded that the only way to assure the purity of his food was to kill and cook it himself.

  Every day a young pig was brought to him, and he slit its throat and watched it die and then gutted it and took what meat he fancied and cooked it over the fire pit. He had come to enjoy the onerous task, liked the spray of blood from the neck of the thrashing, dying animal, the feel of his hands in the warm, wet guts.

  He stood, a hock bloody and dripping in his hand, and he saw the man, way off, running down the mountain path, just a small dark spot moving along the narrow scar in the jungle. He felt his senses sharpen up, could see and hear everything clearer. He stuck the meat on the spit, hung it over the fire, stared into the flames as he waited for the man to report to Nagel, for Nagel to report to him.

  It was a ship, inbound, clearly making for St Mary’s harbor. Nothing unusual about that, but Yancy knew that he had to assume that every ship was Press. Atwood had mentioned a tender, probably a powerful vessel in its own right, and the lookout had seen just the one ship, but still Yancy had to be sure.

  So he cut a piece from the hock and ate it, then took off the apron and called for a bowl of water in which to clean himself. Then, because he was too weak to make the trek on foot, he called for his natives to bear him along in the chair, with Nagel at his side, making their laborious way back up the trail to the lookout’s perch, a forty-minute hike up the steep, hilly path.

  They reached the spot, and the others stood respectfully aside while Lord Yancy peered through the glass, then turned as he hacked into his handkerchief, then looked again.

  There was not much he could see. A vessel, after the fashion of a galley, not a lumbering merchantman. No doubt armed. But smaller than the one he would have expected Press to command, and no tender to be seen.

  Perhaps this was the tender. Was the main ship still beyond the horizon, lurking? Yancy straightened, frowned. Not viewed through the telescope, the ship seemed only the tiniest of smudges on the horizon. He ground his teeth.

  He had to be sure, he had to be sure. He could not leave St Mary’s in the hands of his successor, the increasingly regal Obadiah Spelt, until he was certain that he had no choice. As soon as he, Yancy, was gone – dead from the cancer or off to the mountain hideout, whichever came first – Spelt would start issuing edicts as if he were passing out royal favors. He was already putting his plans in place. Yancy felt that he owed it to his people to postpone the man’s despotic rule for as long as possible.

  But neither could he wait too long. He would not be taken by surprise. That would not happen to Elephiant, Lord Yancy.

  He coughed again and again stooped and peered through the glass.

  It took the Elizabeth Galley the better part of the day to close with the island and then run along its northwest coast, between St Mary’s and Madagascar, to the entrance to the island’s single, protected anchorage. As the hills of St Mary’s loomed above them to starboard and the narrow harbor, with Quail Island at its entrance, became evident from the quarterdeck, Marlowe decided that there was daylight enough for them to stand in.

  He ordered lookouts aloft and on all quarters and a steady hand in the chains with the lead. He had a chart and sailing direction, but he put little trust in either, and so under topsails alone they crawled along.

  St Mary’s was ringed with reefs and sandbars, a treacherous place. They felt their way through the single gap in the reefs, with Quail Island to starboard and the mainland and the town to larboard, until Marlowe found an open spot of still water to let the anchor go.

  The anchor cable paid out, and the Elizabeth Galley came to rest at last, held to the ground for the first time since leaving Cornwall. Marlowe breathed deep, taking in all the unfamiliar smells – dirt and vegetation and smoke from cooking fires and the tar and hemp smells of ships fitting out.

  He could see a big house up on the hill to the north of them, surrounded by a stockade. Quail Island, too, he could see was well fortified, with heavy guns overlooking the harbor approach. A formidable defense indeed; the men in command on those guns could easily stop any ship from entering or exiting the harbor. All this was built and ruled over by a fellow named Adam Baldridge, or so he had heard, though it had been many years since he had heard a firsthand account of the doings on St Mary’s.

  Regardless, through his telescope, looking up from the dusty road from the dock, Marlowe could see several buildings that looked to be warehouses near the shore, and there was a swirl of activity around each. He could see men and women in the town, could hear the occasional shout or pistol shot. There were a half dozen vessels of various size in the harbor, and another hove down on the beach for breaming. They all had the unmistakable aspect of ships on the account.

  Whether this was still Baldridge’s kingdom or not, Marlowe did not know, but it was clearly still an active pirate enclave. It put him in mind of Port Royal, his own former haunt, before it was swallowed by the sea. He felt a vast relief lift him up, like floating in warm water.

  All of his plans had depended upon his being able to buy powder, shot and guns in Madagascar. From everything he knew of the island, this was not an unreasonable assumption, but it was an assumption nonetheless. He might well have arrived to find the Royal Navy in command of the big island and St Mary’s as well.

  He had developed certain contingency plans – capture another pirate vessel and take its guns, go after the Mogul’s ships by boarding alone, buy the spare guns of various other ships – but now it looked as if none of that would be necessary.

  ‘On deck!’ the lookout aloft: cried. ‘Boat’s putting off from shore and looks to be making for us!’

  ‘Very well. Mr Dinwiddie, I reckon we should have a side party or something. In case this is some sort of official of the town.’

  ‘These pirates’, Bickerstaff observed, ‘are much given to aping the customs of the civilized.’

  ‘When in Rome and all that, Francis.’

  ‘Yes, well, I should think we will see precious little genuflecting and fiddling with beads and Latin prayer here.’

  ‘Precious little indeed. But still, we must do our best to give no offense.’

  So among Marlowe and Dinwiddie and Honeyman they managed to arrange a side party of sorts, with a dozen men on either side of the gangway. The boat pulled alongside, double banked with twelve men in matching outfits and a big, bearded man in the stern sheets. The big man called, ‘Delegate from Lord Yancy of St Mary’s! Permission to come aboard?’

  ‘Pray do so,’ Marlowe called back, and the big man stepped with the ease of an expert seaman from the stern sheets to the boarding steps and up. He stepped through the gangway, and the boarding party raised their swords and clashed them together overhead, making an archway of men and swords through which the delegate had to walk, a handsome effect, Marlowe thought.

  ‘Welcome aboard the Elizabeth Galley,’ Marlowe said, extending his hand as the man passed through the twin lines of sailors. ‘I am Captain Thomas Marlowe. This is my first officer Peleg Dinwiddie, my quartermaster Duncan Honeyman. And this here is my wife, Elizabeth Marlowe.’

  The big man shook hands, nodded his greeting, did a poor job of hiding his surprise at seeing Elizabeth. He turned to Marlowe, looked him up and down, seemed to scrutinize him. ‘I’m Henry Nagel, I’m first officer to Lord Yancy, what is king of this place.’

  ‘“Lord Yancy.” Is Adam Baldridge no longer lord of this island?’

  At that, Nagel straightened a bit, his look part surprise, part consternation. ‘No, he ain’t been here this ten year or more. And you’re best if you don’t mention that name again.’

  ‘I’ll rem
ember that,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘Elephiant, Lord Yancy is ruler of this island now, and all here are devoted to him. You are, again …’

  ‘Thomas Marlowe.’ The side party dispersed with little ceremony. Nagel ran his eyes over the ship, the casual, knowing look of an experienced seaman, first up aloft, over the rig, and then down along the deck.

  ‘You sailing in company with a tender?’ Nagel asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where are your great guns?’

  ‘We have none. We had hoped to purchase them here. It is well known that Lord Yancy is the man to see for anything one might need.’

  Nagel nodded, seemed to be satisfied. He did not notice Marlowe’s sudden familiarity with Lord Yancy’s reputation. He, at least, seemed entirely devoted to Yancy, though Marlowe doubted if the others were any more devoted than pirates were to anything, save themselves.

  ‘Lord Yancy will have guns to sell, if you gots gold to buy them. You’re welcome to make use of the island as you need. I reckon my lord will wish to come out and greet you. You’d do well to have that side party for him, and musicians, if you got ’em. And bunting. He likes bunting.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Marlowe said, wondering what kind of lunatic this Yancy might be. He knew from personal experience the depravity that power could induce. ‘I would be delighted to welcome Lord Yancy aboard with all that my humble ship has to offer.’

  ‘Good. That’s good, Captain.’ Nagel ran his eyes over Elizabeth one last time. ‘I’ll bid you good day, then.’ With that, he lumbered back to the gangway, dropped easily down into the waiting boat. The boatman shoved off, pulled for shore.

  Marlowe watched them go, thinking, Lord, I have been here for one hour, and already I am desperate to be gone.

  CHAPTER 14

  Desperate he might have been to leave St Mary’s, but Marlowe knew that being desperate did not necessarily mean being able to leave. And able he was not.