by James Nelson
Elizabeth held his eyes and he held hers as his horse shifted and worked under him. She hoped her expression could convey even a fraction of the contempt she felt. ‘Had you come yesterday you might have discussed this with Mr Marlowe. Now you will have to wait for his return.’
‘No waiting. No time for that, and nothing to discuss.’
‘Damned convenient, sir, that you did not get around to this until this morning, when you knew Mr Marlowe had sailed. One might think it … cowardly? Craven? What word might one use for a sneaking, crawling puppy such as yourself?’
Dunmore’s face flushed, to Elizabeth’s satisfaction, but his demeanor did not change. ‘I shall deal with Mr Marlowe, depend upon it.’ He wheeled his horse, shouted, ‘We’ve no time for this nonsense! Let us go!’
With a dramatic wave of his hand he led the men off, around the house, off between the barn and the tobacco sheds, off to the former slave quarters – now the homes of Marlowe’s free laborers – and back to the fields where they worked.
Mr Marlowe shall deal with you, depend upon it, she thought. Deal you out a bullet through your head.
Elizabeth had never been a great supporter of Marlowe’s freeing his slaves – formerly Tinling’s slaves – whom he had purchased along with the Tinling plantation. But she loved the people, cared for them in a maternal way, and knew they were no threat. She had to agree with her husband that Marlowe House had none of the volatility of other plantations.
And now this. This bastard Dunmore, a Boston man of all things, taking it upon himself to keep the tidewater safe from such abominations as free blacks.
Oh, Caesar, please, please have warned them all in time.
‘Do you know, Francis,’ said Marlowe, breathing deep, patting his chest, ‘one could almost forget one’s woes, in these circumstances.’
‘Almost.’
The two men stood leaning against the weather bulwark on the Elizabeth Galley’s quarterdeck, all the way aft. The wind had filled in once they had cleared the capes, and now they were enjoying fifteen knots over the larboard quarter. The Galley was bowling along with all plain sail set, making nine and ten knots with every cast of the log. There was not a cloud to be seen, nowhere on that unbroken, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree horizon.
Marlowe turned and leaned over the rail, peered astern. The wake was arrow straight, deep blue and white furrows under the counter that faded away as it stretched back toward the land. To the north, but well behind them now, was Cape Charles, to the south Cape Henry, the gaping entrance to the Chesapeake Bay, like monstrous jaws from which they had just narrowly escaped.
And before them, nothing. Just the wide, blue Atlantic. No impediments, considerations. No politics out here, just seamanship and gunnery.
Below them, the ship, tight and yare, well armed, well manned. She felt solid underfoot. It was always a source of wonder to Marlowe that something that heaved and rolled and pitched could at the same time feel so solid and unyielding. A trick of the mind, no doubt. It didn’t matter. The Elizabeth Galley was everything one could wish in a ship, just as her namesake was everything one could wish in a woman.
He was about to say as much to Bickerstaff when he was jerked from his contentment by a crack, like a pistol shot, and for that instant he was back aboard some fetid pirate ship where the winner of a quarrel was the one who snatched his gun and fired the quickest. He wondered if his men were looking to their pistols already, and if so, who had killed whom?
All that he thought in the instant between the crack like a gunshot and the banging and flogging of canvas that had broken free of its restraints.
He whirled around and his eye was drawn to the chaos aloft.
Something had snapped and now the weather clew of the main topsail was free and the entire sail was slamming and twisting and flogging itself to death. Marlowe could see it wrapping around the main topmast forestay, dragging itself across the heavy rope, shredding itself against the gear aloft. Streams of canvas blew away like bandages coming undone.
At the base of the mast, Griffin, looking up, shouting. Not orders, not instructions, just cursing, useless filthy invectives spilling from his mouth, directed at the sail.
Useless man. In the rush of getting under way fast Marlowe had neglected to replace him as bosun.
He pushed past Bickerstaff, raced forward, ready to give the orders himself to get the big sail under control when Fleming burst out from under the quarterdeck, shouting orders as he ran. ‘Clew up! Clew up! Come along, you lazy bastards, lay into them clews! Ease away the sheets there, ease away, handsome now! Mr Griffin, mind your duty!’
Half a minute more and the sail was subdued, hauled up to the topsail yard by its clews and bunts while all the time Griffin kept up his pointless and useless cursing.
The ship was quiet again, the men attentive, and Fleming ordered the main topgallant sail in and the yards lowered into their lifts and hands away aloft to unbend the topsail. The crisis had lasted no more than three minutes, but it had been enough to shatter Marlowe’s fine mood and force him back to the unhappy reality of the moment.
Fleming stood at the base of the mainmast, examining the frayed end of a long piece of cordage that lay strewn over the fife rail and the main hatch. He squinted aloft, then dropped the rope and stepped up the quarterdeck ladder and aft. ‘Looks like the topsail sheet chaffed right through. Must have had a bad lead,’ he announced.
‘Indeed. We’ll have quite a few such kinks to work out, I wouldn’t wonder,’ said Marlowe. ‘Let us hope we get it all straight before we have a real situation. And well done, Mr Fleming.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Fleming, embarrassed. He coughed, mumbled something about seeing to the new topsail, and disappeared down into the waist.
‘Good man, Fleming,’ Marlowe observed.
‘Indeed,’ said Bickerstaff. They were standing just forward of the mizzenmast now, out of earshot of the helmsmen aft and quite ignored by the men below them in the waist, who were busy with the new topsail. ‘Now Thomas, forgive me, but I must ask. You have not yet said anything to the men about hunting down King James and the others aboard that wretched slave ship. Are you intending to tell them?’
‘Of course I am,’ Marlowe said, pleased with his genuine sincerity. ‘Of course I am,’ he said again. ‘But it is a delicate thing, you see. They won’t be happy with it; quite a lot of risk and no reward, save for my reputation.’
‘These are not pirates, Thomas. You do not need their approval.’
‘No, but they ain’t man-of-war’s men either. Privateers are tricky business. Push them too hard one way and they take French leave of you, and there you are, stranded in some port with no crew. Push too hard the other way and they chuck you overboard and turn pirate. In truth, I am in charge only as long as they all agree I am in charge. I suppose they are like the pirates in that, except that it’s a bit more of a fuss for them to depose me.’
‘But it is still your intention to hunt James and the others down?’
‘We are hunting them now. It is just that you and I are the only ones who know it.’
‘Hunting them how? How can you guess where they are?’
‘James and Cato and Joshua were the only ones who know any bit of seamanship, and Cato and Joshua know only the sloop, really. James’s experience with square rig is limited to the Plymouth Prize, and though he is a capable fellow there is only so much he can do with his untrained people and his own limited knowledge. Right now I should think they are running for it, downwind. They would not try and shape a course to windward, not now.’
‘But they might later?’
‘Perhaps. Once James has trained them a bit.’
‘They will go to Africa.’ It was a statement.
Marlowe was silent for a moment. ‘Yes. I had thought of that. That is why we must catch them now. These men’ – he gestured toward the waist – ‘will not care to go to Africa to hunt them down. And do not think it has not occurred to them that t
hey need only knock me and you and Fleming on the head and suddenly they are equal partners in the finest pirate ship afloat. They lack only sufficient motivation. And if it has not occurred to them, you can bet that little bastard Griffin will point it out.’
The two men were silent, watching the hands forward bundling up the new topsail in readiness for sending it aloft.
‘Beware, beware, the Bight of Benin …’ Marlowe muttered.
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, just some old sailor’s nonsense. One of these warnings set to a bit of verse. “Beware, beware, the Bight of Benin. One man comes out for each forty go in.” The Slave Coast is a deuced unpleasant place. Deadly to white men.’
‘One might think that Divine retribution.’
‘Perhaps. Whatever it is, let us pray to all that is holy that we do not have to plunge into that dark place.’
CHAPTER 8
Twenty minutes after Dunmore and his men had disappeared behind the house they were back. Angry, scowling, driving their horses hard, taking their frustrations out on the animals.
Once again Dunmore reined up in front of Elizabeth, blocking her way with his horse, as if he were cornering a runaway slave.
‘Where are they?’ he demanded, his voice like a spade in gravel.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t come it the innocent with me! Your niggers! Where are your niggers?’
‘Were they not all standing in a line, waiting for you to clap them in chains?’
Dunmore scowled at her. His eyes moved up to the house. ‘You have them in there? Hidden in there?’
Elizabeth stepped forward until she was just a few feet from Dunmore. The smell of the horse was strong in her nose, its breathing loud. ‘Do not think for one moment you will go uninvited into my house. You may come sneaking around here when Mr Marlowe is gone, but he will not be gone forever, do you understand? He has been more than tolerant of your insults thus far, pray do not seek to find the limits of his patience.’
Dunmore had not yet arrived in the tidewater when Marlowe shot Matthew Wilkenson in a duel over Elizabeth’s honor. He had not been there when Marlowe fought and killed the pirate LeRois. But he would have heard the stories, would understand the potential danger in pushing the man too far.
His horse spun around under him and he had to swivel his head to keep his eyes locked on Elizabeth’s.
‘You’ll not hide them forever, your bloody murdering niggers. You and your precious Mr Marlowe will not put the entire colony in jeopardy with the notions you are putting in the Negroes’ heads, is that clear? I will be back! I will be back with dogs, with guns, with more men! I will be back!’
He spun around again, called to his band, and they rode off before Elizabeth was able to get in another word.
She watched them as they rode away. The overseers might agree with Dunmore, but ultimately they were just following orders. The other planters she knew socially. They did not support Marlowe in his decision to free his people, she understood that. But they had lived with it for three years now, had never before uttered more than the mildest of protests.
It was Dunmore. He was the one getting them worked up, had been for some time, quietly agitating. And now this thing with James and the slave ship. The spark in the powder magazine.
Why did Dunmore care so much?
‘Bloody unpleasant man.’
Eizabeth turned. Billy Bird was standing on the porch, watching him ride away. ‘He does seem damned interested in your business.’
‘You heard that?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Billy came down the stairs, hopping from one down to the next. ‘Watched the whole thing from the window, right up there.’ He pointed with his thumb.
‘That would be my bedchamber.’ Elizabeth tried to make her voice icy.
‘Ah, so it would. Recognized the ambience, got damned randy just stepping through the door. In any event, yes, a thoroughly unpleasant fellow. What is his name?’
‘Dunmore. Frederick Dunmore.’
‘Hmm. I recognize him, know him from somewhere. Had a notion of that when I saw him leading that ugly business last night, but I am certain of it now.’
‘What … ugly business?’
‘Well, they pulled some poor Negro fellow out of the jail there in Williamsburg. A whole crowd of them, but that Dunmore was the one egging them on. Can’t miss him, in all his white kit. Looks like a bloody ghost. Pulled this poor bastard from the jail, beat him good and hanged him, right there on Duke of Gloucester Street. Sheriff tried to stop them, I’ll give the man credit, but he never could. Big mob, torches, the whole thing. Quite a show. If I’d known Williamsburg was so exciting a place I would have come sooner.’
Elizabeth closed her eyes, fought down the growing dread. ‘Do you know who it was, at all, that they hanged?’ She knew the answer even before she asked the question.
‘Someone said his name was William. Involved in some kind of murder aboard a slave ship.’
Elizabeth nodded, eyes shut tight. William, you poor, poor boy. Why didn’t you flee with the others?
‘Does this have anything to do with your people?’ Bird asked. ‘Your beloved Mr Marlowe?’
Elizabeth opened her eyes, breathed deep. ‘It does indeed. Damn that man.’
‘Damn who? Marlowe?’ There was a hopeful note in Bird’s voice.
‘No, Dunmore. Why the hell couldn’t he have stayed put, why did he have to come here?’
‘He is not from this country?’
‘No. He arrived a year ago. Less, I should think. Came from London, I understand, but he is from Boston originally.’
‘Boston …’ Billy said thoughtfully. He frowned, looked down at the ground. ‘Boston …’
‘Do you know something about this?’
‘Well, now that you say he is from Boston, I do seem to recall something. Yes. Yes.’
‘What? What of it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Billy, damn your eyes …’
‘No, truly. I recall him now. Saw him around town on a few occasions. But mind, I was not in Boston long, dreadful place, all full of Puritans and their somber nonsense. Anyway, there was something about him … what was it?’
Elizabeth wanted to scream, wanted to slap Billy, to make him blurt it out before she could change her mind and tell him not to. She hated rumor, vicious stories, had been nearly brought to ruin herself by them. She didn’t want to hear any more.
But Dunmore, some vile thing about Dunmore, that was different, was it not?
‘Never you mind, Billy Bird. I don’t want to hear any of your vicious gossip, even if it is about that bastard. I promised you some hot chocolate and you shall have it and then you shall be on your way because I have not a moment to lose.’
James sat on one of the small cannons on the quarterdeck and looked down the length of the flush-decked ship. The people had worked hard and they were hungry.
They were gathered in their clans, little clusters of people dressed in whatever they had been able to find in the great cabin, in the crew’s dunnage. A woman had wrapped herself in one of the curtains pulled down from the great cabin windows, had managed to make the cloth look like a respectable garment.
The men, dressed out in the former crew’s clothes, the contents of the slop chest, were beginning to look like proper sailors. They were becoming acclimated to their surroundings and initiated into the mysteries of square rig.
Children, with the resilience of their age, were starting to wander away from their mothers, to play. Squeals and laughter cut across the deck, that former killing field.
They had worked hard for the past two days. The men at sailing, under James’s command, under the tutelage of Joshua and Cato, as translated by Madshaka and Kusi. They had organized by mast, and those with knowledge of such things had explained in rough terms how a big-wind ship was sailed.
Young, strong men. Those were the ones the slavers took, and those were the people who made up the crew now, to the
ir great advantage. James had led them aloft and out along the yards, had shown them as much as they needed to know to set and furl and reef sails.
They were agile, fearless aloft, natural sailor men. And Madshaka and Kusi, the grumetes, were accustomed to the water, familiar with ships, having made careers bringing white men and cargo in their boats through the huge surf that pounded the African shore.
It had gone better than James would have dared hope. He had seen some of God’s greatest idiots become tolerable sailors, and these men were far above that class.
He had seen the pirates – filthy, depraved, subhuman – but sailors to the bone. These African men could learn.
The women had cleaned the decks, had set things to right, had seen to the family units. They cleaned in order to make the ship their own, to purge it of what it had been, for the same reason that James had lit brimstone in the hold.
They had to remake it in their way, otherwise they could not stand to remain aboard.
The sun was disappearing toward Virginia. They were on a broad reach, foresail, topsails, and topgallants, braced about just a bit. The leaking, weed-covered hull was able to make five knots, no more. But they were making progress, leaving the New World farther and farther below the horizon.
James had a vague idea that they should be making more northing, that the sailing route to Africa was that way, a great arc up through the north Atlantic and down, following the winds, but he knew little about offshore navigation.
He did understand leadership, however, and knew that they had to do something, had to make some progress, even in the wrong direction. Without progress there was no hope, and where hope was gone, terror and despair were sure to come.
And he had problems bigger than navigation. By now Marlowe would have passed through the capes, would be out there, somewhere, in their wake. Marlowe was a cunning bastard, and though it would seem an impossible task for one ship to find another on the great ocean, James did not think it unlikely that Marlowe would find them.