by James Nelson
Once Marlowe had said, while reading through one of Bickerstaff’s folios, ‘Hoa, Francis. Hear this. “I pitied thee, took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour one thing or other. When thou didst not, savage, know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like a thing most brutish, I endowed thy purposes with words that made them known.” That sounds like us, don’t it?’
‘Humph,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘You a Caliban to my Prospero? No, I think not. Not entirely, in any event.’
Not entirely. But still Bickerstaff had helped Marlowe become the man he was, transformed him from a pirate most brutish. That, after Marlowe had saved Bickerstaff from death at the hands of the pirate raiders – Marlowe’s fellows – who had overrun the ship aboard which he sailed. In one manner or another they owed each other their lives. Their friendship ran deep now. It pleased Marlowe to be able to provide Bickerstaff with the time and place for his intellectual pursuits.
Why Bickerstaff continued to go to sea with him was a mystery.
The clash of cutlasses forward. Bickerstaff had the men facing off in pairs, thrusting, parrying, slow and methodical. Their ardor that had been sparked by the great guns had not cooled, and Francis was having to keep them in check, making them go slow, lest someone be accidentally slashed thanks to his partner’s enthusiasm.
Spirits were high. That was good. They would need spirit in reserve. ‘Sail, ho!’
The cry from the lookout at the main topmast crosstrees, and all sound, all motion on deck ceased, every eye turned aloft.
‘Broad on the starboard bow, and just hull down! A Spaniard, maybe!’
Don’t give me your buggering opinion, Marlowe thought. He scowled, looked down at the deck. A buzz ran through the men in the waist. They ran to the rail, peered over, but they would never be able to see the distant ship from the deck.
Forward a few hands had the audacity to leap into the shrouds, start scrambling aloft. ‘Forward, there! In the fore shrouds! What the hell do you think you’re about?’
The men froze, looked back at Marlowe. He could see their sheepish expressions down the full length of the deck. He was about to call for Griffin to take their names when he saw the acting boatswain was leading the men aloft.
‘Mr Griffin, what in the hell are you about? Get out of those damned shrouds, all of you! This is not a damned bloody pirate ship, do you hear me? You do not go aloft without my orders!’
Slowly the men climbed down again, trying inconspicuously to glance at the horizon before they lost their vantage. Marlowe looked outboard, muttered curses. He had overreacted to the men in the fore shrouds, but this was a damned awkward situation, and his temper was short.
‘Sir?’ It was Fleming, standing before him, saluting. ‘I beg your pardon about that, sir, they was in the rigging before I even seen them.’
‘Not your fault, Mr Fleming, never think on it.’
‘Sir, would you like me to take a glass aloft? See what I can of this fellow?’
‘No, no. Good of you to offer, but I will go myself.’ He shed his coat, slung the big glass over his shoulder, and pulled himself into the main shrouds and headed aloft, the familiar feel of thick cable-laid shrouds in his hands, thin ratlines underfoot. He was less accustomed to making this trip with shoes, and as the shrouds grew closer together near the masthead he had to squeeze his toes against the soles to keep from stepping clean out of them.
Boots, he thought. I must wear boots, or no shoes at all. He clambered up over the futtock shrouds and up onto the main topmast shrouds, leaving the round maintop below him as he climbed.
Perhaps I shall roust out a pair of slop trousers, he thought.
He was taking pains not to think about what he might see through the glass, what he might do about it.
He arrived at last at the main topmast crosstrees. The lookout had already shifted himself to the larboard side to give Marlowe the favored vantage. Marlowe nodded, planted his feet on the crosstrees, an arm through the topgallant shrouds, and ran his eyes along the horizon.
She was there, broad on the starboard bow, just as reported. Topsails, topgallants, a glimpse of courses on the rise of the swell. Ship rigged, of moderate size, perhaps a bit bigger than that. Sailing roughly the same course as they were. All that he knew without looking through the glass, which meant the lookout knew it as well.
At last he lifted the glass to his eye, twisted the tube until the horizon was sharp, and swept it along until the sails jumped in the lens. Now a whole new world was revealed to him. On the rise he could see gunports, but not so many of them. Oiled topsides, glinting every now and again in the morning sun. Spritsail, spritsail topsail, everything shipshape, but not man-of-war fashion.
No, he would not have taken her for a man-of-war, even if she had not been flying the French merchantman’s ensign off her ensign staff.
A French merchantman. She’s bound back to France, no doubt, he thought, her hold bloody well loaded with goods traded from their new allies, the Dons, and all their bloody rich colonies to the south.
A fat prize. He could make their whole voyage that morning. If he was a privateer with a letter of marque.
‘Hmmm,’ he said gravely. ‘Spanish. Frigate or perhaps a two-decker, hard to tell. But a man-of-war, to be certain.’
He took the glass from his eye, glanced at the lookout. There was disappointment on his face. Resignation. That was it, as far as Marlowe could see.
‘Damned luck, eh?’
‘Aye, sir, damned luck.’
Marlowe slung the glass back over his shoulder, grabbed the shrouds with both hands and swung outboard, then with his foot found the ratline on the futtock shroud and stepped down. Less than a minute later his feet hit the caprail on the quarterdeck. He stood there, balancing with one hand on the main shrouds, looking down at the men in the waist.
‘What of her, sir?’
Griffin. Damn that man. He was done.
‘Spaniard. Man-of-war. Frigate, I take her for, but could be a two-decker.’
More buzzing through the crowd of men forward, and Marlowe did not think it was all concern for their possible capture. The Elizabeth Galleys were experienced enough seamen that they would think to wonder why a powerful man-of-war did not seem interested in them, why they weren’t tacking and coming in pursuit, and what a Spanish man-of-war was doing knocking around the coast that far north in the first place.
‘Helmsman,’ Marlowe called, hoping to distract them. ‘Let us make our head more northerly, two points. Mr Fleming, I’ll thank you to see to the braces.’
‘Aye, sir! Come along, you lot, hands to the braces!’
They went, but they were not happy about it, and Marlowe could see glances shot back his way. The high spirits of the morning were gone, replaced by something more sullen.
God, if I get away with this, I shall not be able to do it a second time, Marlowe thought.
He had to find James and come to grips with him and end it. Then back to Virginia, his good name restored, and the proper papers for a privateer.
He thought of that fat French merchantman, an easy run south of them. They all might have been wealthy, with a morning’s effort.
Oh, Lord, if I do not end this soon I shall find myself pirating again, like it or not.
CHAPTER 10
Elizabeth invited Billy Bird in, led him into the kitchen, made a pot of chocolate herself, since there was no one left in the house to do it for them. They sat at the big table in the kitchen – somehow it seemed appropriate to entertain Billy there rather than in the more formal sitting room or drawing room – and she poured out their cups.
Over the steaming brown drink Billy told Elizabeth in some detail (and, she guessed, some augmentation to the truth) about his last voyage to Madagascar, his wrecking his ship on the reefs off that island coast, while sailing the Pirate Round.
Billy Bird had a true sailor’s knack for yarning, and Elizabeth listened to the tale with interest, but her mind was mostly elsewhere.
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‘So I said to the fellow …’ Billy paused. ‘Lizzy, are you attending at all? You seem quite distracted, and this a tale the likes of which you will not hear again soon. I do hope you are not thinking on your precious Marlowe. I’ll warrant he has not had half the adventures that I have.’
‘Faith, Billy, there is no one could be more interesting than you. But, yes, I am distracted. Thinking about my people. Wherever could they have gone?’
‘Ah, your African is a crafty one, can take to the woods and disappear whenever they choose. Can’t find them unless you have dogs. The people here think these Negroes are docile and broken, but that is a dangerous mistake.’
‘No, Billy, I fear you are wrong. Perhaps those natives in the jungle are of such a kidney, but our people here are like children, sometimes. I fear they cannot shift for themselves. What if now they have lost themselves in the woods?’
Billy shook his head. ‘I have sailed with many black men, you know, and they are as fierce as any. More so, in fact, because if they are caught there is no chance of pardon. It’s the gallows for them, between the flux and flood of tides.’
‘Thank you, Billy. You put my mind at ease.’
‘Forgive me, dear Lizzy. I meant only to say that you should not worry. Your people will be fine.’
Then, as if in answer to this prediction, a knock on the kitchen door, just a light rap, and then the door swung open enough for Caesar to stick his head warily through.
‘Mrs Marlowe? You all right?’
‘Yes, Caesar, yes!’ Elizabeth said, jumping to her feet, greatly relieved to see the old man. ‘Come in, come in! Wherever did you go? Where are the others?’
‘We went into the woods, ma’am. They can’t find us, without they have dogs.’
‘I should not be so sure. And in any event, they will be back with dogs, and soon, I fear.’
‘That’s right,’ Caesar agreed. He couldn’t have heard Dunmore’s threat, he just seemed to accept this as a given. ‘Some of them others, they down at the houses, gettin’ their things together. I come back for mine, and Queenie and Tom and Plato is outside. Poor Lucy’s still in a state. Queenie says she’ll get her things as well, if that’s all right with you, ma’am?’ Queenie was the cook for Marlowe House, Tom and Plato the occasional houseboys.
‘Of course, let them come in.’
Caesar opened the door, beckoned to the unseen people, and a moment later Queenie and Tom and Plato shuffled in, sheepish, apparently unsure of their reception.
‘Oh, Queenie, boys, I am so relieved to see you,’ Elizabeth said, and that seemed to go far to ease their minds.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, for all this trouble—’ Queenie began, but Elizabeth shook her head, interrupted, saying, ‘It is never your fault. It’s that bastard Dunmore, has been him all along. But whatever are we to do?’
‘Well, ma’am …’ Caesar began, glanced at the others for encouragement. Queenie nodded her head. ‘Well, Mr Marlowe always said we was free, so we reckoned we’d head to the woods, hide out until we can come out safe again. Ain’t like we’re running, ’cause Mr Marlowe, he always say we can go if we want …’
None of the freed slaves had ever tested this promise. None had wanted to, and they understood as well that there were not many places that they could go.
Caesar was clearly unsure of how their plan would be received.
‘Of course. There is nothing else for it,’ Elizabeth said, to the others’ obvious relief. ‘First we shall need food …’
‘Beg pardon, beg pardon …’ Billy Bird stood, wiped his mouth elaborately with his napkin. ‘Pray, forgive me, but these are intrigues I do not need to hear. By your leave, my dear Lizzy, I shall be off. I am at the King’s Arms for another fortnight or so, should you need my services. Until then’ – he stepped around the table, took up Elizabeth’s hand and kissed it with a flourish – ‘I say adieu!’
He grinned, nodded to the others, and was gone. Elizabeth did not think he was gone forever.
‘Food, ma’am?’ Queenie brought her back to the present.
‘Yes, yes. Take whatever you can. You know better than me what is in the pantry. Plato, run down to the slave … your quarters there and bring back five or six more men. We shall take all the guns and swords and such from the drawing room, and the extra powder and shot from the cellar.’
‘Guns, ma’am? Mr Marlowe’s guns?’
‘Yes, the guns that belong to Mr Marlowe and myself. Do you not see a need for them?’
Caesar and Tom exchanged glances. This was a largesse they had not expected. ‘Oh, yes, ma’am,’ said Tom. ‘We surely could use them, if you could see fit to part with them.’
‘Of course. Now let us round these things up and be gone. I do not know when Dunmore and those other sodding bastards might be back. There is not a moment to lose.’
Elizabeth felt strong, in charge of the situation, and it was a good feeling. Things could not proceed without her to organize them, to issue orders; these poor people would be in an utter state of confusion. She understood how Thomas felt, standing on his quarterdeck, seeing things happen in reaction to his spoken word.
Queenie and Caesar turned their attention to the pantry and the cellar. Elizabeth led Tom to the drawing room where a majority of the guns were kept, everything from battered old muskets to lovely fowling pieces and matching braces of pistols. Edged weapons too: swords, cutlasses, hunting knives. Thomas had taken the best weapons with him on the Elizabeth Galley, but he had amassed enough of a collection over the years that there was still an impressive arsenal remaining.
They stacked the weapons up on the fainting couch. Soon Plato joined them, leading a half dozen men from the former slave quarters who gathered up the weapons in strong arms, the food as well, and packed it all in sacks they had brought with them.
Elizabeth raced up to her dressing room, stuffed her warm cloak and other clothes into a pillowcase, then hurried down the stairs again and out back where the others were waiting.
‘Very well. Let us go,’ she said.
Embarrassed silence, looks shot back and forth. Then Queenie said, ‘Bless you, ma’am, you ain’t figuring on coming with us?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘This ain’t your problem, Mrs Marlowe. Ain’t no reason you should suffer this.’
‘Of course it is my problem, it is all of our problem. I most certainly am coming with you. Now let us go.’
More looks, a few shrugs, and then the men hefted the sacks of food, slung muskets over shoulders, jammed pistols in belts and they all headed back toward the former slave quarters and the woods beyond.
Elizabeth could not have let them go alone. Billy Bird’s assurances aside, she knew that they could not survive without her. These simple people needed her to show them the way.
They took to the woods, hiking hard along trails that Elizabeth could not even discern. Her skirts caught on the brush, and she found herself tripping over obstacles half hidden by the bracken, but she pushed on, keeping pace, unwilling to let her people face these hardships without all of the help she might be able to offer.
They came to a clearing, an open place in the woods where the grass grew waist high over a half acre or so. ‘This looks a fine place to stop,’ Elizabeth suggested. ‘Set up some sort of camp right here?’
‘Well, Mrs Marlowe, you right, no doubt,’ said Plato. ‘But maybe we best get a little further from Marlowe House. We ain’t but a mile or so, and easy tracking through them woods.’
‘A mile?’ Plato had to be wrong about that; they were three miles at least, but Elizabeth did not want to argue. ‘Very well, let us go on.’
It was almost dark, twilight after the long daylight hours of summer, when they came to another clearing, not unlike the first. Where they were in relation to Marlowe House, how far they had walked, Elizabeth had not a clue.
But her people obviously did. It was not an empty field that greeted them, but one with a few crude tents alre
ady pitched, and firewood stacked up in a ring of stones. Four or five of the plantation’s former slaves were there already. Three horses were staked out near the edge of the woods.
There were greetings all around, hugs, kisses, and from those who had come ahead, somewhat disingenuous enthusiasm at finding that Elizabeth had joined them.
And once it was full dark, once smoke could not be seen over the trees, the fire was stoked up and there was roast chicken and corn bread and potatoes. Elizabeth ate with an appetite she had not felt in some time. Her feet were raw and swollen and when she surreptitiously pulled off her shoes and stockings she saw that they were bleeding.
She could feel the muscles in her legs cramping up. It was not the distance, she did not think, however far they might have walked, but the hiking over broken ground that she was unaccustomed to.
Queenie came over, asked how she did, piled up some sacks filled with some soft thing for her to lean against. Took Elizabeth’s feet in hand and rubbed them with a pungent ointment. Elizabeth wanted to protest, to insist that she not be treated like some lady of the manor, but Queenie’s ministrations felt so good, and her feet hurt so much, that she kept her objections to herself.
‘How is Lucy?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Not so good, ma’am. She’s terrible worried about King James. Had a notion something would happen, and now she blames herself for not stopping him.’
‘I’ll come and see her.’
‘That would do a power of good, I reckon.’
Elizabeth stood, hobbled across the field to where Lucy lay in her tent. Her eyes were red, swollen from crying. She looked a wreck.
‘Lucy?’
‘Oh, Mrs Marlowe!’ Lucy got to her knees, threw her arms around Elizabeth’s neck. She began to sob again.
‘Lucy, Lucy … James is a clever one, you know that, he’ll get through this …’
‘Oh, Lord, Mrs Marlowe, why ever didn’t I stop him? I knew something was going to happen …’
‘Now, Lucy, come along. You know you could not have stopped him. James is too proud to listen to anyone’s warnings, you know that. Especially a woman’s.’ It was true. Nor was James alone in that. James and Thomas, two of a kind.