“So why are you going aboard?”
“Because I gots to see that you boys will be safe. So I’m going to go aboard first, and I’m going to have a talk with Captain Marlowe.”
Captain Marlowe was not asleep, had not been asleep, and did not envision being asleep anytime soon. He lay still in his cot, stared up at the blackness. He had tried to use his arm as little as possible, but he still was forced to use it a lot, and now it hurt like hell. On the deck above he heard the clanging of the bells, seven bells, half past eleven
P.M. The sound was an underscore to his restlessness.
Boarding the French merchant ship had unsettled him. All those women and children. Not renegades, savage killers as he had pictured, but families, going calmly about their business.
Marlowe had picked up some of the coastal pidgin during his various adventures along that coast and with that he was able to talk to some of the women, after a fashion. They told him something about pirating and about Kalabari and Madshaka, though if that last was a person or a place he could not tell. They told him something about someone who sailed the ship being dead, but when he said “King James?” they pointed to the shore.
In the end he was more confused than he had been before going aboard.
He thought about the ship. She had been full-laden when James took her. Rich fabrics, spices, tea, not an insignificant amount of specie. If the Elizabeth Galleys had begun to doubt his tales, they doubted no more. She was a rich prize, and the vessel itself was worth enough to make the cruise profitable.
He might not have a letter of marque and reprisal, but he carried with him a commission from Governor Nicholson to run these black pirates to ground, and Marlowe felt it was not an unreasonable assumption that he also had the right to keep for him and his men whatever stolen goods they might recapture.
And since it was too great a hardship to try to carry it all back to Virginia-dispatching a prize crew, keeping company, worrying about recapture-he reckoned they would just dispose of ship and cargo in Lisbon. There he could transform their great encumbrance into a more manageable chest of Spanish doubloons and pieces of eight, which would render the men much more cooperative and avoid irritating complications at home.
A chest full of specie and King James in chains down below. He tried to feel happy about it but he could not, at least not about the part that involved King James.
Well, perhaps James has run off into the forest and I will never find him, he thought, and rolled over and closed his eyes and wondered if he might sleep now.
He heard a creak from beyond the door, from the great cabin, and though the Elizabeth Galley, rolling in the ocean swells and pulling on her anchor hawse, was a cacophony of creaks, his mind separated that one from the others, singled it out as not being a part of the natural workings of the vessel, and before he had even had a conscious thought about it he was sitting bolt upright in his cot, his ear cocked to the door.
There was another sound, though hardly a sound at all, more like a warm breath on the neck. If he had been even half asleep, if he had not been tensed as he was, he would never have heard it. A foot coming down on the plush pillow on the after locker? The great cabin windows were open. It was not an impossible climb up the rudder and over the counter, not for a strong and nimble person.
Marlowe was up, out of bed, wearing only the old slop trousers he wore to sleep, and in the blackness his left hand fell on the hilt of his sword, his right hand on the loaded pistol he always kept in the same place for just that reason. A stab of pain shot up his arm. He clenched his teeth, grabbed the gun with his left hand. A silent step toward the door and with the barrel of the pistol he moved the little curtain a hair, peered out into the great cabin.
The lantern that always burned in the great cabin was out, but the light from the stern lanterns on the taffrail above the windows threw a diffused glow out into the night, enough to silhouette the figure stepping in through the window, moving carefully, stepping down onto the locker. Marlowe had no notion of who it might be and he did not care. Anyone making such an entrance was someone he was quite happy to shoot.
Marlowe took a step back, held the gun up, sword down, drew breath, and then lashed out with his foot, smashed the door open with a splintering sound, stepped forward, the gun coming down level as he did.
He could see the figure react, see him move, and he pointed the barrel of the gun at the center of his body and pulled the trigger. In the flash of priming and muzzle he had just a glimpse of white slop trousers, leather jerkin, loose shirt, leaping sideways, diving for the deck. He heard the sound of shattering glass as the bullet passed its target and smashed through the quarter gallery windows on its way to plunging into the Bight of Benin.
“All right, Captain Marlowe, it’s just me. James.”
Marlowe stood and stared into the dark. The smell of burnt powder was strong in his nose, his night vision quite ruined by the gunshot. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
Then the door to the adjoining cabin burst open and there was Francis Bickerstaff, sword in one hand, lantern in the other, and though the one candle gave out just the merest flicker it seemed to illuminate the space like noontime sun.
“What the devil…,” Bickerstaff said, his eyes flicking down to Marlowe’s spent pistol. He followed Marlowe’s gaze. Crouched on the aft locker, right by the open window, King James. Slop trousers, linen shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. Heavily armed, but his weapons hanging at his side, none drawn. Eyes alert.
Then there were hurried footsteps beyond the great cabin, pounding on the door. “Captain? Captain? Are you all right?” It was Fleming, and there were others with him.
Marlowe paused, held James’s eyes. If I had any brains at all, he thought, I would have Fleming in here and have him take this son of a bitch away in chains.
“Fine, Mr. Fleming. Sorry for that gunshot. I thought I heard some damned thief coming up the rudder and took a shot, but it was nothing.” His eyes remained locked with James’s.
A pause, and then, “Very well, sir. You are sure you are all right?”
“Yes, fine, thank you. But pray tell the anchor watch to keep a bright lookout. You know these Africans will steal the shoes from your feet, give them half a chance.”
“Aye, sir. It’s a fact, sir.” Then with some muttered order to the others, Fleming shuffled away.
Marlowe turned to his visitor. “So, James. Sneaking in here like the damned criminal you are?”
“I didn’t know how me old shipmates felt. Thought it safer not coming up the side in the daylight, you know?”
“Safer? I damned near shot you, you stupid bastard!”
“No, not close. I know you sleep with the one gun only. I was ready for it. What happened to your arm?”
“Round shot. Attacking some bastard I took to be you.”
“If I known about the arm I not have been so careful.”
James was his same old arrogant, cocksure self. Marlowe felt the anger mounting, and not for the first time, but it was worse now. He tossed the spent gun aside, snatched a cutlass from the rack on the bulkhead. “Not so careful, eh? Well you black whore’s son, are you ready to take a sword through the throat, for all the damned trouble you’ve caused me? For sneaking in here like this? I can run you through with my left arm as well as my right.”
James remained motionless, his face set, frowning. “You think you can get across this cabin before I go out the window? You that fast? You make that move and you never see me again, and then you can go back and tell the governor how you let me go.”
“Enough! Enough.” Bickerstaff stepped forward, set the lantern on the table. “Thomas, if James has gone to the risk of coming aboard thus, I think we can listen to him. James, you have put us all through a world of trouble and Thomas is quite justified in wanting to cut your throat. So since you are, both of you, the two great villains of the Western world, let us all at least don the mantle of civilized men.�
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Marlowe looked at James, saw him visibly relax, felt himself do the same. He set his sword down, propped up in a corner. James stepped down from the locker, away from the window.
“I knew you’d come for me. Minute we cleared the capes, I knew you’d come,” James said. “Knew you’d have no choice, and I never blamed you. I stuck a knife in my own heart the same moment I stuck it in that blackbirder captain, and I’d goddamn well do it again. But I am truly sorry for the hurt I must have done you.”
Marlowe took a breath. Nodded. Felt ashamed of all the anger and loathing he had directed at James. Reminded himself of a fact he knew well: in James’s place he would have put a knife in the man’s chest as well.
“I know you come for me, and here I am. Delivering myself to you. But I wants to make a deal. I got the boys with me, Quash and Cato and Joshua and Good Boy, and it ain’t right that they should die just because they was with me.”
“If you are asking for me to leave them,” Marlowe said, “I can. It is you alone that the governor demands.”
James nodded. “I reckoned as much. But see here, you can’t leave them. They strangers here, they don’t belong to Africa, any more than you or Mr. Bickerstaff. You got to take them back to Virginia, let them blend in with your people. Ain’t nobody going to recognize them, or know they was with the sloop. Sam and William’ll keep shut. You do that and I’ll come back with you, let them hang me.”
The words were startling in their frankness, in their unambiguous assessment of the situation, and they made Marlowe that much more aware of what James was sacrificing. He sighed. “Francis?”
“James, I have always thought you a man of courage, but this is the most noble act I have ever witnessed. It would have been nothing for you to disappear forever in this country but you did not. And as to your plan, I think it could be done. I agree that the crew of the Northumberland was not well known, save for you yourself. Perhaps we could have the boys change their names. They should be safe enough. Though the Lord only knows what has been happening back at Marlowe House in our absence.”
“Good. Good,” said James, and he looked relieved. “I thank you. I have peace with this. But there is one more thing I must demand.”
“Demand!” said Marlowe, but Bickerstaff silenced him with a raised hand.
“The people I saved from the blackbirder, they caught again, held in a factory a few miles from here. Again they will be sold. They… I…was played for a fool by one of them, a Kru named Madshaka.”
Madshaka. That was the name he had heard aboard the Frenchman. A person, then.
“Those people must be freed from the factory and taken to Kalabari. I told them they would be safe. They have suffered, more than anyone should. It is not right they should suffer more.”
“Now see here, you ask too much, too much by half!” Marlowe said. “Are you suggesting we march on a legal, authorized factory and set the slaves there free?”
“I not suggesting, I demanding.”
“Demanding! You impertinent little-”
“Thomas, please.” Bickerstaff raised a hand. “James, while I feel that a plan to liberate a factory full of people about to be sold into bondage has much to recommend it, let me suggest you are not in a position to demand.”
“No? I still one jump away from that window. I go out and you never see me again, got nothing to bring back to the governor. I’s willing to trade my life, Marlowe, but I ain’t gonna trade it cheap. You can have the French merchantman, all the booty in her hold.”
“Oh I can, can I? How gracious, but in case you had not noticed, I have it now.”
The two men sat and glared at each other. Two men, pushed by so many contrary pressures, like ships acted upon by conflicting winds and tide and wave and current. Each with his future, his very life, hinging on decisions the other must make.
At last James spoke. “It is a slave factory. There will be a great quantity of specie there. Gold, silver. There always is. It is part of their business.”
“You have seen it? The gold?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then.” Marlowe brightened. “That is something else altogether. Now you have touched on Bickerstaff’s good nature and my greed, and together they are forces to be reckoned with.”
“I had thought I could appeal to your mercy as well.”
“Then you do not know me at all, sir,” Marlowe said. “But more to the point, I must be able to convince my men of the benefit of risking their lives this way.”
He sat back, expelled his breath, felt the weariness of the ages, all the weight of thousands of years of accumulated history pressing him down. He was not old, not really. Was it at all reasonable that he should feel that way?
“We can have our men ashore in one hour. Will that be sufficient, King James?”
Chapter 32
Madshaka stood ankle deep in the ocean, the damned, damned ocean. How he hated it. He had been a grumete, sure, and a good one, but that was only because he understood that working the coast was the short path to riches. He had always loathed it. In his essence he was a man of the forest, and the night.
And now the sea, which had once taken him, had brought a new threat.
Around and behind him, the Kru warriors he had led down to the beach to help him in his work. His plan: off through the surf with a boat, out to his prize, and five minutes’ work to cut through the anchor cable. The swells would drive the ship up on the beach. Most of the women and children aboard would make it to shore. Once the wreck was close in, he could send people out to take off what valuables they could.
That was the plan, but he was not happy about it. He was not happy about losing the ship itself, which was worth a great deal. He was not happy with the thought of getting a big boat through the surf with unskilled men at the oars. Landing was one thing-the waves did the chief of the work-but getting back out was something else altogether.
He was not happy about losing however many women and children would drown in the surf. Every dead body was like a coin taken from his purse. He did not like the idea of having to do any of this just to retain what was already his. It was not right. But it was better than losing it all.
The sea crashed, further out, foaming white in the moonlight, raced in and rushed around his ankles, then receded. It felt like it was tugging him along with it, pulling him out to the dark water.
And then in the quiet between the waves he heard something, some new noise, like the noise made by a body of men. And then the next wave curled and broke and drowned out everything but itself.
What was that? He cocked his ear, ready for the lull in the surf. Yes, it was still there, a big sound composed of a hundred little sounds, coming from out there. He heard the clash of steel, the squeal of blocks, voices, someone shouting.
It had to be from the new ship. It could not be from his prize. What were they about? Were they going to take his prize, sail it away? There was no wind, not nearly enough to work the ship off the beach. Madshaka understood enough about the ways of wind ships to know that. And if not the prize, then what? Why would they be coming ashore at that hour?
King James.
Madshaka felt the panic working its way like a poison through his limbs and his chest, could taste it in the back of his throat. Panic like he had not felt since waking up in the blackbirder’s hold.
King James. He knew the wealth and power that Madshaka had gathered for himself: the prize, the factory, the trunk full of slaves. He would want it for himself, and if he had talked those men on that heavily armed ship into joining with him, then he would have it.
No, no, no! He would not have it! Madshaka turned to the Kru, who, like good soldiers, were standing silent, waiting for orders. “They are coming, the men from the ship. I think they want to take the factory for themselves. We will lie in wait for them, on the trail, take them by surprise.” Heads nodded. Silent agreement. They would do as they were told.
Madshaka turned. “Come along,” he
said, and the Kru followed. He headed back up the beach, his wide feet pushing aside quantities of the fine sand, and he hurried for the trailhead, hurried to get in front of the attackers, to lay his trap.
Marlowe was standing in the stern sheets of the Elizabeth Galley’s longboat, an oar in place of the rudder, but James had to admit that he did not have the same easy confidence, even exhilaration, that Madshaka had displayed. Marlowe was not a grumete. And to make matters worse, he was forced to use his uninjured left arm.
“Stand ready…,” Marlowe said, looked over his shoulder at the set of the waves, pushed the sweep a bit to one side. The boat rose up on a swell, stern first, then the stern came down fast and the bow rose up with a sickening motion, and then Marlowe shouted, “Now! Pull, pull!”
The men pulled, pulled hard, pulled with all they had, like panicked horses running away with a carriage. The big boat raced along with the surf, now surrounded by white water, curling, foaming, gunnel high. The oars came out of the water, forward, down. And in the undulating space between the waves, half of the starboard bank found only air.
James felt the boat slough around, felt it going over as it turned broadside to the surf. Marlowe was pushing hard on the sweep and shouting, “Starboard! Give way! Give way!”
The aftermost man on the starboard side had fallen back, thrown off balance by the lack of resistance on his oar. James leapt up, grabbed the long sweep before it was sucked into the ocean. He wrenched it from the tholes, thrust it down into the sea, levering it against the side of the boat, trying to force the boat back perpendicular to the surf.
But it was too late for that. James felt the boat start to roll. One second he was looking at sea and then he was looking at the stars, sweeping by, and then the boat was over and he was tossed into the waves. He felt arms and legs striking him and when he thrashed to the surface it was black and the surf was a dull and muted roar and he realized that he was under the capsized boat.
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