But these roots are not so substantial that the mast can stand on its own, not with the tremendous pressure of sail it must carry. So the masts are set up with rigging: shrouds and stays, unwieldy lengths of cordage that are themselves woven from bits of dried plants and coated with tar distilled from the trunks of pine.
The shrouds come down to deadeyes, nicely worked, round pieces of wood pierced with three holes through which are rove smaller lines called lanyards. The lanyards in turn are held fast by thin and insubstantial lines called marlin, bound up in an elaborate knot called a seizings. Thus the whole machine, from the great bulk of the mainmast to the tiny seizings on the spritsail topmast shrouds, all work in consort to move this thing called a ship to wherever its masters deem it should go.
And every bit of it, from keel to truck, started its life as a living plant. And like all things that were once alive, it is all prone to rot.
And such was the state of the Plymouth Prize.
One look at the anchor cable and Marlowe knew the reason for this condition. From the point where it left the hawse hole to where it plunged into the river, that six-inch-thick rope was as dry and white as a bone, so long had it been exposed to the sun.
Just below the water’s surface a great mass of weed and scum held fast to the cable and streamed away in the current. The anchor had not been off the bottom, and the ship had not moved in quite some time. When a ship does not move, and her people do not look after her, she begins her quick return to a state of nature.
Had Marlowe understood the true condition of the Plymouth Prize, he might not have been so active in securing her command for himself. As it was, no sooner had Captain Allair disappeared upriver than the carpenter, who, like most of the men, was quick to accept the change of command, came to him and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but might we have some men for the pumps?”
“Certainly,” said Marlowe. “How much water is there in the well?”
“Three feet, sir, and rising.”
“Three feet? When was she last pumped?”
“This morning watch, sir. Pumped dry.”
Marlowe’s mouth hung open at this news, despite himself. She had been pumped dry that morning, and already there was three feet of water in the hold, and this while riding at anchor with no strain to speak of on her hull. In a seaway she would leak much worse, and in a gale she would not last an hour. But this was not the worst of it.
The mainmast had a great nasty section of black wood where the rot was eating away at it. The standing rigging was slack and in desperate need of fresh tar. A fine white powder fell from whatever piece of the running gear Marlowe took up and twisted open, a sure sign that the rope was rotten and would not bear any strain.
After sending half the men to the pumps, Marlowe sent the other half aloft to shake out the sails, it being his intention to let the canvas dry to a bowline. They climbed with great care, taking each step slowly, lest the rope on which they stood break and they fall to deck.
On the fore topsail yard he saw a man put his foot clean through the rotten fabric of the sail.
Another man, loosening off the main topsail, was halfway out the yard when the footrope on which he stood gave out under him and he fell screaming from that great height. All about the ship men froze, aghast, as the unhappy soul bounced off the main top, hit the main yard with a thump that sent him spinning, and plunged into the river. But despite all that, they fished him out, fully alive but shaken, and after a few cups of rum he was quite set up again.
It was a prodigious amount of work that the Plymouth Prize needed to put her in fighting trim, if, indeed, she could ever again hope to achieve that exalted state. And Marlowe understood that if she could not, then he, Bickerstaff, and all of the Prizes might well be dead within the week.
This much and more Marlowe discussed with Bickerstaff as they trudged across the western beach of Smith Island toward the low grassy hills and clusters of trees in the middle of that place.
It was late afternoon, the day after he had taken command of the Plymouth Prize. The guardship was still where they had found her, being readied for sea by First Lieutenant William Rakestraw, whom Marlowe hoped, after a lengthy interview, was at heart an able officer, grown dull under Allair’s lethargy.
Behind them, riding at anchor in the shallow bay, was the sloop Northumberland. Marlowe had left her small crew aboard, had taken only Bickerstaff and King James with him. No one else needed to know what they were about. He trusted no one else to walk with him into the lion’s den.
“Admit it, Tom, she’s worse off than you had imagined,” said Bickerstaff. “Even I can see that. She needs prodigious work. And not a sort of tidying up, either, blacking down the rig and sweeping up the decks and that sort of thing. No, she needs careening, she needs a new mainmast, she needs new running gear rove off, a new suit of sails.”
“Honestly, Francis, how you go on. You would think the ship is sinking under our feet.”
“She is not now. Now we are on dry land. Yesterday she was, and when we are aboard her she shall be again.”
“Very well, she is sinking. But we cannot, you see, go to the governor complaining about the need for repair. That was Allair’s excuse, and I reckon the governor has had a belly full of it. No, I fain would accomplish something before we suggest heaving her down. And if we meet with success in our current venture we shall earn our own keep, and then some.”
“That is another matter.” Bickerstaff stopped, forced Marlowe to meet his eye. “This seems a very selfless thing you are doing, taking command of the guardship. Now, you have your qualities, to be sure, but selflessness is not high among them.”
Marlowe held his gaze, that wonderful gaze. There was nothing condescending, nothing judgmental in his look. Had there been, Marlowe would have run him through long ago, or died trying. He looked as he always did, as if he wanted only for Marlowe to be true to himself.
But that, of course, was irritating in its own right.
“Francis,” he said, “you alone understand the circumstances that led me…us…here. What better way for us to take our place in society than to save society from these evil pirates?”
“Save them? What you have in mind—what I believe you have in mind—smacks of the sweet trade itself.”
At this Marlowe grinned. “Well, now, you must know that old saying ‘set a thief to catch a thief’?”
“I do. But you are a gentleman, Tom. You are not a thief, and you are not a pirate.”
“You can’t expect me to ask these villains to leave of their own accord. And you can’t expect those lazy sods on the Plymouth Prize to fight like they mean it without they have some compensation for their troubles.”
Bickerstaff looked at him for a moment more. “You are very near the edge, my friend.” He turned and resumed walking.
They pressed on, side by side. King James scouted ahead, moving with animal stealth, recalling those lessons he learned as a boy in his native Africa. Now and again he would show himself, give the two men a sign that all was clear.
Smith Island was an odd-shaped spot of land about five miles long and, where they were crossing, thankfully less than a mile wide. It was actually in the Atlantic Ocean, less than half a mile east of Cape Charles, just north of the entrance to the Chesapeake Bay, part of the string of barrier islands that stood like a rampart along the coast. It was secluded and had on either side good sheltered harbors. It was perfect for ships prowling between the Capes, awaiting a rich prize. It was a popular spot among the pirate tribes.
And there were a lot of them. King William’s War had ended two years before, and all of the major powers of Europe had returned to their usual uneasy peace. During that war, like any war, those of a piratical bent were employed as privateers, plundering enemy ships under their monarch’s letter of marque. It was perfectly legal, even patriotic, to do so.
But with the signing of peace in Casco the privateers did not always quit their lucrative trade. Many of t
hem just carried on raiding merchant ships. But now it was called piracy, and ships of any nationality were game. And those that looked to capture the rich tobacco ships outbound from Virginia and Maryland, and the richer merchantmen coming from England with English goods, all congregated at Smith Island.
Allair knew that, which was why he had so carefully avoided the place. Bickerstaff and Marlowe knew that as well, and that was why they were there.
It took them two hours to work their way up the hilly interior of the island, moving slowly, watching for signals from King James and seeking cover lest there be a lookout watching that side of the island. By the time they approached the far ridges that looked down into the harbor, the sun was setting at their backs. Anyone looking in their direction would be looking right into its rays, effectively hiding them from view.
“Not so many as I would have thought,” Marlowe said to Bickerstaff. They were lying on their bellies amid tall grass and a small stand of oak, looking down at the harbor three hundred yards away. There was only one ship at anchor there, her topmast and topgallants glowing orange in the evening light.
She was a big one, several hundred tons by Marlowe’s guess, and pierced for twenty great guns. There was no flag flying from her ensign staff, but neither man needed a flag to tell them what she was.
She might have been a man-of-war, for all her arms and men, but a man-of-war would not have her yards all askew and her deck piled with rubbish and her sails hanging like laundry hastily taken in before the rain. Marlowe and Bickerstaff knew pirates, and everything about her indicated that such she was.
Most of the beach was in shadow, but not so dark that they could not see the activity there. There were one hundred men at least, fully occupied. Some were ferrying stores and loot and guns from the anchored ship and piling them on the sand. Others were stacking up wood for the great bonfire around which they would later roast their dinner and perform their drunken rituals.
“I believe they are going to careen her,” Marlowe said.
“It would appear so. Observe, not half her great guns are still aboard.”
“I see. That’s good. I can’t imagine they’ll bother erecting batteries on shore. I doubt they know that I am now in command of the guardship.”
“And when they discover it, I doubt they’ll be greatly concerned.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Marlowe said.
“In any event, it appears that they will be here for some time. A week at least, I should think, before they voyage again.”
“And when they do voyage again,” said Marlowe, “it will be, for most of them, that great and final voyage, the one we all must take.”
“Why, Marlowe, you are becoming positively poetic. Now let me suggest you leave off before you further embarrass yourself.”
Marlowe smiled, his face nearly lost in the deep shadows. “Quite,” he said, and suddenly he felt another presence, a person directly behind him. He rolled over, grabbed for a pistol. King James was crouching there. They had not heard him approach.
“There is a lookout about one hundred yard that way,” King James pointed north, “and another on that far ridge. But they both drunk.”
“Very good.” Marlowe paused for a moment, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. “Now let us talk some strategy and then quit this place.”
When at last the Plymouth Prize was put under way, Marlowe could only thank the Lord that they did not have to take her out on the open sea.
He and Bickerstaff had returned the day after their scouting foray to find that Lieutenant Rakestraw had made a great effort and had pushed the men to do likewise. The lower shrouds were set up for a full due, though gently, so as not to further wound the rotten masts, and blacked down afresh. The ship was scrubbed fore and aft, and what spare sails she carried were bent on, at least those that were not in even worse shape than the first. There was no spare cordage to replace the running gear, but much of it at least had been turned end for end.
“I reckon that’s about all we can do, sir, with what we got aboard,” Rakestraw reported, standing beside his new captain on the quarterdeck as the banks of the James River slipped by. “I don’t care to say so, sir, and I fain would make an excuse, but she does need careening something fierce.”
His clothing, Marlowe noticed, was neater than it had been before. He was wearing a new jacket and cocked hat. He seemed to be standing straighter.
“Don’t be afraid to say so, Lieutenant. You are quite right in that, and we shall heave her down just as soon as we are able. Allair’s mistake was that he made demands without giving anything in return. Soon we shall prove to the colony that they cannot do without us, and then we shall have whatever we require.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “But please, sir, what are we doing?”
“In due time, Lieutenant, in due time.” Marlowe did not need to have word of his plans reaching the lower deck. It would do the men below no good to spend the next two days in mortal fear.
Marlowe knew about mortal fear. He knew the fear that the pirates could engender, and knew better than most how legitimate that fear was. He had seen mouths stuffed full of burning oakum, living men carved up with broken bottles, women raped to death.
But it was not the drunken rascals on Smith Island who had done that. It was another man, at another time, and he put it out of his mind. He might fear that man, but that man was not the one he would be facing.
And that was fortunate. He realized how fortunate it was that very morning as he watched the Plymouth Prizes, the men upon whom he would rely during the upcoming, bloody fight, struggling just to raise the anchor from the bottom. It took some twenty-three minutes just to rig the capstan with messenger, bars and swifter, the men wandering around, staring as if they were seeing the Plymouth Prize for the first time. It was beyond belief.
At length, and with much trouble and much broken gear, they won the anchor and made the Plymouth Prize move from that spot on the James River where she had become such a fixture.
The pumps had not stopped once from that minute, nor did they the entire time they were under way.
And for all of the thirty hours it took them to close with Smith Island, Marlowe could think of only one thing: I am taking this ruin of a ship, and these men, against a band of brigands who outnumbered us two to one. A band to whom killing is as much a part of life as is sloth and complaining to the men of the Plymouth Prize.
Chapter 9
GEORGE WILKENSON stood in the shadow of Mrs. Sullivan’s ordinary, half hidden around the edge of the building, trying to look as if he were not hiding. But in fact he was. He was keeping a close eye on Elizabeth Tinling as she and Lucy wound their way through the Market Day booths on the far side of Duke of Gloucester Street.
It was a perfect spring day, with random white clouds sailing across the blue sky and a cooling breeze blowing off the bay, blowing away the heat and the stink and the flies. The weather seemed to affect everyone who had business in Williamsburg. The joviality, smiles, laughter, and general bonhomie all served to make Wilkenson that much more miserable.
He had been shadowing them for the past hour, since they left the house and walked down the crowded street to do their marketing. This type of skulking was not at all to his liking. He was, after all, one of the most powerful men in the colony, the one who ran the vast Wilkenson holdings of ships and tobacco and slaves. Their increasingly lucrative import business as well: cloth, silver, furniture, firearms, and sundry equipment from England that were so much in demand.
Their father might have favored his bold and ostentatious younger brother, but George knew that it was he, the quiet, methodical one, the man of thought rather than action, who was responsible for turning the small Wilkenson fortune into the still-expanding Wilkenson empire.
He was waiting for the chance to speak with Elizabeth alone, but Lucy was still following her like a puppy.
He let his eyes wander over the young slave.
Lovely. Light b
rown skin that spoke of some illicit liaison between master and slave somewhere in her forgotten family history. A pleasure to look at, and George could well imagine that old Tinling had not been able to keep his hands off of her, even with a wife like Elizabeth.
It was common knowledge that Lucy was in love with King James, Tinling’s surly, vicious, rebellious field hand. Marlowe’s majordomo. George knew about those Africans and their insatiable carnal desires. His mind wandered to images of James having his way with Lucy, her firm brown body writhing under him, head thrown back, screaming, heels dug into the sharply defined muscles in the small of his back, his powerful hands gripping her waist.
He shook himself from his reverie, which was only serving to titillate and distract him, and concentrated on his quarry. He watched Elizabeth step around a pie cart, then turn to Lucy and say something that he could not hear. Lucy nodded and walked away, off on some errand, and Elizabeth was alone.
Wilkenson stepped out of the shadow of the ordinary and hurried across the street, shouldering past the crowds, men and women out strolling in their fine clothes, laborers in the aprons of their trade, ragged slaves sent to town on their masters’ business.
He approached, considered what he would say and how he would say it.
Here again, he thought, is the difference between Matthew and myself.
Matthew had been bold and stupid, blundering into a fight that he should have known he could not win. George, on the other hand, was more cunning. Like a cannon fired from a great distance, he would kill Marlowe before he even saw it coming. The bastard would be dead before he heard the shot. Wished that his father could see the advantage of his ways over Matthew’s.
He sidled up beside Elizabeth, fell in with her step. “Good morning, Mrs. Tinling.” He tried to sound like a man in control.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilkenson,” Elizabeth said without looking at him. “Are you quite done hankering around after me, lurking in the shadows like some pickpocket?” She turned to him and smiled.
The Guardship Page 8
