The Guardship

by James L. Nelson

  “Now see here, Governor,” Finch found his tongue again, “don’t you start making promises that you are unable to keep. We said that perhaps we would consider overlooking some of this. But this man’s attitude is insufferable, and his harboring that—”

  “What is this duty you hope I will continue to perform?” Marlowe leaned back in his chair. Nicholson would not have said that if he did not have something specific in mind. He would not be so liberal with his forgiveness if he did not still need Marlowe’s services.

  “Well.” Nicholson cleared his throat, and for the first time he looked uncomfortable. “There are reports abroad that a pirate has been sailing into the bay. I have had some word from down Norfolk way. They’re in a state there, I should say, damn near panic. Hampton Roads is all in a fright, sure the pirates will plunder all the country homes, like them villains did up to Tindall’s Point back in ’82. There is even some thought that they may have taken the Wilkenson Brothers—”

  “Which, I might add,” Finch interjected, “would have been safe with the fleet were it not for you.”

  “The fleet would not have been safe at all, sir, were it not for me. Jacob Wilkenson should have obeyed the law.”

  “Jacob Wilkenson, who it pleases you to speak so ill of, is at least seeing to some defense against this villain. He has requisitioned a prodigious amount of military supplies from the militia, he is gathering powder, shot, small arms, and intends to organize his neighbors. I hope, sir, that you can be as helpful.”

  “Yes, yes,” Nicholson said, “now look here, Marlowe, can I count on you to see about this pirate? It would do much to improve your position with the burgesses, which, I have to say, could use a deal of improving.”

  Marlowe looked at Finch’s red and angry face and the governor’s blank countenance, the face of a born negotiator.

  Here were his choices, laid out for him like dishes on a buffet table. He could resign his captaincy, turn the ship over to Rakestraw, turn Elizabeth over to the sheriff—and turn a gun on himself. He would have no other choice.

  Or he could continue back down the path he had come, take the Plymouth Prize to the Caribbean, go on the account. Bid farewell to Thomas Marlowe and all he had become. It was the dishonorable route, but at least he would escape with his life.

  Or he could go and fight Jean-Pierre LeRois, for he was certain that the pirate spreading terror in the lower bay was indeed LeRois. Vicious, brutal man, his crew probably twice the size of that aboard the Plymouth Prize. LeRois would be looking for revenge on the guardship that had fooled him and had so mauled his men. He did not care to think on what would happen once LeRois discovered who was in command of that ship. And he did not think his men could beat LeRois. But that was the honorable route, the route to horrible but honorable death.

  Death or disgrace, those were his choices.

  “I am still the captain of the guardship, I take it,” he said at last, “and so I still have my duty.”

  Chapter 28

  TWO SHIPS were fighting it out, somewhere downriver from Jamestown. Marlowe did not need to see the fight to know it was taking place. The sound told him that. The roll of gunfire echoing off the banks of the James River. The cloud of gray smoke building like a small anvil head on the other side of the long, low peninsula.

  They were fighting somewhere past the point of land that terminated in Hog Island, perhaps as far down as Warixquake Bay, but most likely nearer than that.

  The sound also told him something of how the fight was going. The two ships were hotly engaged, and had been for close to an hour. One was firing three guns for every one gun the other managed to get off. One had larger guns than the other; the sound was different, which was how he was able to differentiate between them.

  The one with the larger guns was the one firing more slowly. Perhaps it was their superiority in weight of metal that accounted for their holding out as long as they had, for the slow rate of fire probably meant a small, poorly trained crew. And that most likely meant the ship was a merchantman, fighting for her life. And if that was the case, he could well imagine what the other ship was.

  He looked aloft. On the fore- and mainmast the men were scampering around the uppermost rigging, setting royal sails that had been sent up from the deck. They represented the last bit of canvas the Plymouth Prize could spread as Marlowe pushed her hard to join in the fight.

  He was desperate to stop the slaughter of the innocents, desperate to be done with LeRois or have LeRois be done with him. He was ready to make his final bid to rejoin Virginia society, or at least prevent his being cast down from it. Ready to fight to maintain the thin and largely worn veneer of respectability that covered him and Elizabeth. He could sit still no longer, letting his fear and paranoia fester.

  The day was lovely, with a gentle southwesterly breeze pushing them along. It all seemed so incongruous, the gray sails sharp against the blue, cloudless sky, the green fields rolling down to the wide river, the gentle sound of the water against the hull, and the distant blast of cannon, the chance whiff of expended powder.

  Elizabeth was there by his side, a parasol held over her head to shield her fine skin from the sun. They might as well have been aboard the Northumberland for a yachting excursion.

  But of course they were not, and she was in as great a danger as any of them. Greater, really, for she would not be in the fight and thus could not hope for the quick death that comes with a bullet or a blast of langrage. Marlowe hated to compromise her safety thus, but he had no choice. If he left her ashore she would be in even greater danger from the wrath of the Wilkenson clan.

  He wanted to wrap his arms around her, kiss her, tell her he loved her. It did not seem right that in half an hour’s time they should be locked in a fight with the most dangerous man Marlowe had ever known.

  It did not seem right that he should be so frightened on so perfect a day.

  “Helmsman, give that south shore a wide berth, there by Hog Island,” Marlowe said, and the helmsman repeated the order and nudged the tiller to starboard. The muddy shallows, Marlowe knew, extended many yards out from the shore, and he did not relish the thought of putting the Plymouth Prize hard aground where she could do no more than wait to be pounded to pieces.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Rakestraw appeared on the quarterdeck, “I’ve the drogue rigged aft and ready to stream, sir.”

  “Good.” The drogue was a sort of canvas cone, two fathoms long, which would slow the Plymouth Prize down considerably when towed astern.

  “Sir, if I may be so bold…?”

  “Why did I have you rig the drogue?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It is always nice in these instances to have a surprise or two. If this fellow is the one we met before, then he will surely recognize us, and he will know how many men we have, how many guns and all that. At the very least, we can have a bit of speed held in reserve.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rakestraw. He sounded doubtful.

  It took them another twenty minutes to round Hog Island, and in those twenty minutes the firing beyond the point did not let up for a moment. The poor bastard under attack was apparently holding his own. If he could just live for twenty minutes more, the Plymouth Prize would be there to kill the pirates or to die in his place.

  The land seemed to inch away as they turned more southerly, and as it did it revealed the two distant ships, like a door swinging slowly open to give a view of the room beyond. They were not so very far away, a mile perhaps, probably less, and there was breeze enough that they were not entirely obscured by the smoke.

  Marlowe put his glass to his eye. The merchantman was the closer ship, and she was drawing ahead of her attacker so his view of her was unobstructed. She was a big one, with her merchantman’s ensign waving defiantly from her mainmast head. For a moment Marlowe thought she was the Wilkenson Brothers, but she was black, not oiled, and rigged as a barque rather than a ship. Her forecastle and quarterdeck were not as long as the Brothers’.
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  She seemed in surprisingly good shape for a ship that had taken the pounding that she had. All of her spars were intact, and he could see little damage to her sails. But of course he could not see the side that was taking the punishment, and the pirates would be looking to kill her men, not ruin their prize.

  He shifted his glass to the right. The attacking vessel was more shrouded in smoke, being downwind and firing so many more guns than the other. But he did not have to have a perfect view of the ship to recognize her. He had seen her not so very long ago, when it had been the Plymouth Prize, dressed as a merchantman, that she was attacking.

  He moved his glass up to the pirate’s masthead. There at the mainmast flew the black flag with the death’s-head, two crossed swords, and hourglass below. She was LeRois’s ship. She would be called the Vengeance. Every ship LeRois commanded was called Vengeance.

  And if LeRois guessed that he, Thomas Marlowe—Malachias Barrett—was commanding the Prize, then no other enemy in the world would exist for him.

  Marlowe put the telescope down and began pacing back and forth, ignoring Rakestraw, Elizabeth, and Bickerstaff, who stood together on the leeward side. He wanted to get on with it. He wanted it to be over, one way or another.

  And then the rumble of the guns, which had been their companion for an hour or more, ceased. Marlowe looked up at the ships, now about half a mile distant, and as he did the Plymouth Prize’s lookout shouted, “On deck! Ship has sheered off! She’s hauling her wind! Wearing around!”

  Marlowe could see it clearly from the deck. The pirate, the Vengeance, had broken off the engagement and now she was turning away from them. The villains must have seen the Plymouth Prize coming.

  For a second he harbored the hope that she would turn tail and run, but that was a stupid thing to wish for, in part because it would not happen. LeRois had run from the guardship once. To save face with his men, he could not do it again. What was more, his running would not save the Plymouth Prizes. They would just have to pursue him and fight him sooner or later. They may as well do it now.

  And of course, LeRois was not running. The Vengeance turned stern toward the Plymouth Prize and kept turning, coming around on the other tack so she would be clear of the merchantman and have open water enough to maneuver.

  “Mr. Rakestraw, I’ll thank you to stream the drogue,” Marlowe called.

  The merchantman was sailing away, heading upriver, trying to put the Plymouth Prize between herself and the pirate ship. Marlowe could see a few figures on her quarterdeck waving their thanks and relief to the guardship. She was a slovenly-looking tub, from what Marlowe could see, but he had no more thought to spare for her. Let her get away. He had a fight think about.

  He felt the guardship give a tiny jerk as the drogue filled with water and dragged astern, and her speed was cut nearly in half.

  A quarter of a mile away the Vengeance began to fire, the round shot dropping all around the Plymouth Prize. On occasion they scored a hit, embedding a ball in the side or punching a hole in the sails, but they did no more damage than that.

  “Mr. Middleton,” Marlowe called down into the waist, “let us hold our fire until we are broadside and a bit closer, and then we shall unleash the furies of hell upon him.”

  “Furies of hell, aye, sir!” Middleton called back. He was grinning, as were many of the Prizes.

  Good God, they are looking forward to this, Marlowe thought.

  He turned to address Bickerstaff and was surprised to find Elizabeth still standing there. That would never do.

  “Elizabeth, pray, come with me. I will show you the best place to hide yourself when it gets hot.”

  He led the way down the quarterdeck ladder and through the scuttle, then aft into the great cabin, where Lucy sat huddled in a corner, terrified, like a trapped chipmunk. Marlowe glanced at her and tried to think of some words that might cheer her, but could not.

  Instead he pulled two pistols from a case on the sideboard and checked the prime in the pan.

  “Elizabeth,” he said, handing her the guns. “I want you to take Lucy and retreat down to the cable tier. Take the guns with you. I shall send for you when this is over. But I must be honest with you. We may not win the day, and if we do not, you do not want to be found out.”

  He felt his voice waver, and he paused and swallowed and then with great effort managed to continue in an all-but-normal tone. “If we are taken, if you are certain we are taken, do not waste these bullets trying to defend yourselves.”

  Elizabeth took the guns and clasped them to her chest.

  “I understand, Thomas. Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed, Elizabeth. I love you very much.” With that he turned and disappeared from the great cabin before he could further embarrass himself.

  They had halved the distance to the Vengeance by the time Marlowe regained the quarterdeck. The two ships were closing fast, though not as fast as they would have if the Plymouth Prize had not been streaming the drogue astern. The wind was off the guardship’s starboard quarter and all the canvas to topgallants was straining in the breeze, and Marlowe could feel the sluggishness underfoot as the vessel dragged the canvas cone through the water.

  And that was fine. He was in no hurry to plunge into this fight, and the extra time meant more opportunity for the merchantman to escape.

  “Stand ready on your starboard broadside,” Marlowe called down into the waist.

  The Plymouth Prizes were hunched over their guns, watching the target draw closer. It would be a battle with great guns that morning, Marlowe had decided. He could not let the Vengeances board; they would overrun his men in no time. There had to be almost twice the number of pirates as there were guardship’s men.

  But the pirates would not have the discipline to load and run out, load and run out, keeping up a constant barrage like his own, better-trained men. What was more, the Vengeance looked like a tired ship, worn and battered and not able to endure that kind of beating. If the Plymouth Prize could just stand off and pound away at them, they would win the day, and the loss of life would be minimal.

  The loss of life on the Prize, in any event. All of the Vengeances would die. They were Marlowe’s past, and they had to be stamped out.

  King James climbed up the quarterdeck ladder and walked aft, taking his place behind Marlowe. He looked terrible. His face was battered. He walked with a painful limp, but Marlowe knew better than to try and order him below. He nodded a greeting and James nodded back, and Marlowe turned his attention back to the Vengeance.

  She was still firing, scoring more hits as the two vessels closed, but still Marlowe held his fire. They were no more than a cable length apart. In less than a minute it would be time to blast them to hell.

  He swept the dark hull with his glass. The Vengeance was not nearly as battered as he would have thought, after exchanging fire with the merchantman for over an hour. Of course, the merchantman’s crew could not be counted on for accurate gunfire, but still they were so close it would seem impossible for them to have missed. And yet the Vengeance showed no sign of even having been in a fight.

  Marlowe felt that first spark of suspicion flare up and glow in his mind, just as the lookout sang out again.

  “On deck! Merchantman’s hauled his wind!”

  “What in hell is he about?” Rakestraw asked of no one in particular.

  The big black merchantman, all but forgotten until that moment, had already completed her turn and was running down on them as fast as she had been running away just a moment before.

  “Is he coming to our aid?” Rakestraw asked.

  Marlowe laughed, despite himself.

  “Not our aid, Lieutenant,” Bickerstaff supplied. “I believe it is his intention to give succor to the pirate, not us.”

  “Sir, I don’t understand—”

  “He fooled us,” Marlowe said bitterly. “He lured us right in like the fish we are. The battle was a sham, the brigands have both ships, and now we are trapped betwixt them, go
ddamn me for an idiot.”

  Rakestraw’s eyes went noticeably wider as he realized their situation. “What shall we do, sir?”

  “Die, I should think, if we let them trap us thus. Goddamn me, this is all but exactly what I did to him! How could I be so damned stupid? Mr. Middleton!”

  The second officer looked up and waved.

  “You shall have time for perhaps two broadsides. Make them count. Fire when you are ready, but soon, if you please.”

  “Aye, sir! Fire!” Middleton strung the words together, and the gun crews, ready for the past ten minutes, lit off their great guns in one solid wall of smoke and flames and noise.

  With some satisfaction Marlowe witnessed the destruction unleashed on the Vengeance, the old Vengeance, for he had no doubt that the new, big merchantman astern was the newest vessel to bear that hated name. A section of the bulwark was torn away. He saw one gun at least upended, heard the high-pitched shriek of a man trapped under half a ton of hot metal.

  The Prizes were reloading under the urgent prompting of Lieutenant Middleton, or seeking out victims over the tops of their falconets, blasting the pirate with muzzle loads of glass and twisted metal. But there were not that many targets to be found, for the old Vengeance seemed to be lightly manned.

  Just enough on board to make a great show with unshotted guns, Marlowe thought. He felt the anger, the disgust. How could he be so stupid? Would they all die because of his idiocy? Would Elizabeth have the courage to put a bullet in her head, or would the pirates find her, huddled in a dark corner, and…

  He shook his head, shook it hard, driving the thoughts from his mind. In the waist the Prizes were running out again, firing again. He saw rigging aboard their target swept away like spiderwebs, saw more of the rail collapse. But that was enough of that. He did not want to attack that old and worn-out ship, because that was what LeRois wanted him to do.