“You are capitain of the guardship?” LeRois asked.
Ripley and the man exchanged a glance. “This here is Captain Allair,” Ripley said. “He was the captain of the guardship. He ain’t anymore. Governor appointed some other son of a bitch, name of Marlowe, as captain.”
“What!?” LeRois roared. “What the goddamned hell is this?” The plan hinged on the cooperation of the guardship’s captain for the free movement of the Vengeance on the bay. Ripley had assured him that this Allair could be bought, and cheaply. But now there was someone else in command of the man-of-war.
He felt his hands begin to tremble. Something snapping inside his head.
Captain Allair cleared his throat and worked the spittle around in his mouth. He met LeRois’s eyes. “Son of a whore Marlowe set me up like he was playing nine-pins. Comes out to the ship for a visit, he says. Tells me he’s looking to buy a silver table set, and if I happen across one he’ll buy it, for a hell of a lot more than it was worth.
“Well, I found one, aboard a ship in from London, and I took it and it was the goddamned governor’s silver, and next thing I know that bastard has my ship! I don’t know how he knew, but he did, the son of a bitch.”
LeRois stared at Allair as if he were some type of animal he did not recognize. He turned to Ripley. “What the fuck is this? Who is this Marlowe, eh? He will work with us?”
Before Ripley could answer, Allair said, “Sod Marlowe, the sheep-biting whoreson. If you want to move on the Bay, you best see I get back my legitimate command! You work with me, or you don’t work, understand?”
He leaned closer to LeRois, head back, so that their faces were just a few inches apart.
LeRois squinted harder, as if trying to make out Allair’s face through a fog. He jerked a pistol out of his sash, cocked the lock, thrust it into Allair’s stomach. Pulled the trigger.
The blast of the gun was muffled by the fat around Allair’s waist, but the former guardship captain’s shriek filled the tiny room as he fell.
“Don’t scream! Don’t scream, you son of a whore!” LeRois shouted at Allair, but his commands did no good. Allair lay on his back, holding his stomach as blood ran out between his fingers, screaming, gasping, rocking side to side.
“Don’t scream!” LeRois ordered again, and then as if he had forgotten all about Allair he turned to Ripley and said, “Who is this Marlowe?”
Ripley also ignored the man at their feet. He shrugged and said, “Don’t know. Never seen him. I don’t go ashore much.
Don’t need to be recognized by no one, and me in my position.”
“Who is this Marlowe!?” LeRois shouted. He kicked Allair, who was still screaming and gasping. “Shut your gob!” A trickle of blood ran out of the dying man’s mouth.
“Some gentleman,” Ripley continued. “Used to be a privateer, I hear. Rumor is he just did for a bunch of pirates on Smith Island, not three nights ago.”
Smith Island. LeRois was certain he had heard something about Smith Island not long ago. He could not recall what it was.
“Oh, goddamn your soul, goddamn you,” Allair whimpered between gasps for breath. “Goddamn you, I’m dying! I’m dying!”
LeRois pulled his second pistol from his sash.
“No, no,” Allair pleaded, his eyes wide, a dark line of blood running down his face. LeRois put the gun against his head, pulled back the lock, and fired. Through the smoke he could see Allair’s body give a satisfying jerk, and as the smoke cleared he could see the dark wet spot spread over the pine boards. In the middle of the black pool rested the remains of the captain’s head.
“There, cochon, you are not dying anymore.” He looked up at Ripley. He could see fear in his rodent eyes. That was good. Ripley must know that Capitain Jean-Pierre LeRois was again a man to be feared. Everyone must know it.
“Will this Marlowe work with us?” LeRois’s voice was calm now that the screaming had stopped.
“He’ll work with us. He will, I have no doubt,” Ripley said quickly. “And if he don’t, it’s no matter. We don’t need him, and if he’s a problem we’ll see him gone. I gots connections, I ain’t to be fucked with.”
LeRois nodded. That was what he wanted to hear. There would be no change in their plans. Because even though Ripley was a lying worm, there was nobody more powerful than Jean-Pierre LeRois.
Chapter 14
MARLOWE WAS prepared for a reception befitting a returning and conquering hero. Indeed, he had laid the groundwork for it himself, instructing King James that the crew of the Northumberland were to be given a run ashore after they had quietly, and in the early hours of the morning, stowed away the most valuable of the pirate’s booty in the secondary warehouse in Jamestown.
Once given their leave, the crew of the sloop descended on Williamsburg’s public houses, eagerly telling the story of their exploits, as Marlowe knew they would. Embellished somewhat, as sailors were wont to do, but even in its rawest form the tale was a remarkable one.
The story swept like a gale over the town and the surrounding plantations, with such force that even Marlowe could not have anticipated the degree of excitement that greeted the Plymouth Prize when at last she limped into Jamestown.
They arrived three days after the fight, after a day and a half of working their way slowly upriver, the Plymouth Prize in the lead, the captured pirate vessel in their wake. Hundreds of people lining the shore and the docks, cheering like Romans welcoming the triumphant Caesar into the city.
The Prize looked every inch the old campaigner, with her pumps going nonstop and her generally battered appearance and her stump of a jury-rigged mainmast. It never occurred to anyone that she might look that way due to neglect rather than hard use, or that the mast might have fallen of its own accord rather than being shot away in a desperate fight. It never occurred to Marlowe or any of his men to disabuse them of that notion.
But even the missing mast was not half as exciting to the people as the sight of the dangerous-looking crew of the Plymouth Prize stepping ashore. They were a swaggering bunch, with the air of the victorious about them. Their clothes were new, and they were heavily armed, with swords and cutlasses and pistols hanging from ribbons around their necks.
At their head strode Captain Marlowe with the ease of a natural leader, the learned Bickerstaff beside him. And surrounded by the men of the Plymouth Prize, as well as the militia who had turned out, came the prisoners, a band of pirates shackled hand and foot, murderers and cutthroats all. It was great theater, and the crowd responded with all the enthusiasm that Marlowe had anticipated.
Governor Nicholson was there, of course, along with the burgesses, all of whom were hoping to reflect some of the brilliant light the Prizes were throwing off. “Marlowe, Marlowe!” the governor exclaimed, shaking Marlowe’s hand with both of his. “I give you joy on your victory, sir, I give you joy!”
He was smiling, more happy than Marlowe had ever seen him. The governor had taken no small risk in replacing Allair, a move that might not have been quite legal. If Marlowe had proved to be a failure as well, it would have been most awkward for him.
Well, Marlowe thought, he is vindicated now. And what is more, he is the most important man in Virginia society, and he is in my debt.
“Pray, Marlowe, Bickerstaff, won’t you come to my house and dine with me and give me the particulars of your exploits?” Nicholson asked. The burgesses were surrounding them now, and each was taking great pains to be conspicuous, hoping that the governor would ask him to join the party. In the end the governor asked none of them, keeping the heroes all to himself.
They pushed through the crowd, Marlowe and Bickerstaff waving and accepting with humility-in Bickerstaff’s case, genuine humility-the thanks and congratulations of the people.
A small coach stood on the edge of the crowd, the coachman brushing the single horse. Looking out from the window, half lost in the shadows, was Elizabeth Tinling. Her blond hair fell down from under her hat, framing her perfect face,
her long slender neck, and her shoulders, all but bare with the wide-cut neck of her dress.
Marlowe paused, and their eyes met. She was watching him with a look that he found hard to place: not affection or disdain, a touch of curiosity but not hero worship either, not such as he was getting from the other women in the crowd.
“Forgive me a moment, Governor,” he said, and stepped over to the coach, bowing deep at the waist as he did.
“Good day, ma’am.”
“Good day, sir. It seems to be your day, indeed.”
“Providence has been with me in my fight.”
“So it would seem. Though I am hard-pressed to tell, just by looking at your crew, which are the pirates and which the king’s men.”
Marlowe turned and looked back at his men, who did indeed look very much the buccaneers, with their pistols and sashes and new clothing. “I think, ma’am, you will find that my men are the ones who are smiling.”
“I should imagine so,” she said. A smile was floating just beneath the surface of her expression, a smile of shared devilment. Marlowe found it most heartening.
“Madam, I have brought you a little trinket, a remembrance of my battle.” From out of his pocket he took the gold cross and chain, letting it dangle from his finger for a second, catching the light from the midday sun, and then handed it to her.
“Oh, Mr. Marlowe.” She took it from his hands, recognized how fine a piece it was. “Pirate booty, is it? Is this not now the property of the king?”
“I think I am allowed some discretion in these matters. And it’s only fair that you should have this, as it was thoughts of you that sustained me through my ordeal.”
At this she looked up at him. Her expression was not the one of rapture he had hoped for. “I pray for your sake you are better with your sword than you are with your idle flattery. But in any event, I fear I cannot accept this.”
“Please…Elizabeth…I beg of you,” Marlowe stammered, thrown off balance by her unwillingness to accept his present or his silly compliments. “A token of my affection. It shall be our little secret.”
She smiled and gave him a conspiratorial raise of the eyebrows, then put the chain around her neck. “Our secret,” she said.
“Marlowe, Marlowe, do come along,” the governor said as he came huffing up. “Mrs. Tinling,” he added with a nod. “Forgive me, but I must take the hero away from you, for the time being, in any event.” With that he took Marlowe’s arm and guided him away, leaving him to call his farewell over his shoulder. He caught one last glimpse of the tiny cross lying against her pale skin before he had to return his attention to Nicholson.
“Now, I’ve no doubt that you want to get right back at it, Marlowe,” the governor said as they stepped up into his carriage, “but I have to insist that the guardship get some attention. Heaving down, new mast and rigging, the like. I’ve no doubt the burgesses will approve that. Hell, we’ll pay for it with the loot you captured.”
“Well, Governor, if you insist.”
“And I’m afraid we’ll need you at the trial. We have to get these villains tried quick and hanged, by way of example. And I fear you must testify. It’s all a bit of a bore, really. Did you have any experience with trials back home?”
“Back home? Oh, yes indeed. I have witnessed quite a few trials back home.”
“Good, good,” Nicholson said. “Bickerstaff, pray take that seat. I should think we’ll get this trial nonsense over in a fortnight, and then back at it, eh, Marlowe? Get the Plymouth Prize all tight and yare, eh, just in time for the sailing of the tobacco fleet, I should think.”
Elizabeth Tinling fingered the tiny cross around her neck, feeling the irregular surface of the diamond as she watched Marlowe step into the governor’s carriage. In three days he had become the most celebrated man in the colony, Virginia’s greatest hero.
She reckoned she had indeed chosen well.
There had been no word from George Wilkenson, no solicitors demanding payment of the note of hand. Perhaps he had believed her belated note warning him that Marlowe would not be there. Perhaps he was too afraid that she would tell tales of what he had intended to do. Most likely both. But in any event he seemed to be out of her life, and Marlowe seemed to be in, and as far as she could tell that was a good thing.
It was a few hours before noon the following day when she sat at the window in her bedchamber and watched Marlowe’s slow progress down Duke of Gloucester Street toward her house. Judging by the direction from which he was coming, she guessed that he had just left the governor’s house, where, it was rumored, he had spent the night.
She had been watching for the better part of an hour, hoping that he would come calling. Now he was a mere two blocks away. She wondered if he would be able to cover that distance by nightfall.
Crowd after crowd of admirers thronged around him as he tried to push down the street. When the circle of people grew too thick to proceed, he would stop and regale them with some story, no doubt a retelling of his exploits on Smith Island. At last the crowd would be satisfied, and with much hand shaking and pounding of his back they would allow him to pass.
He would generally make it about twenty feet before it all started again. At one point he was practically dragged into the Palmer House Tavern and emerged again a full half an hour later. In this way he came at last to her front door, and Lucy quickly ushered him in.
Elizabeth was so anxious to see him that she did not make him wait above fifteen minutes before going down to the sitting room.
“Mr. Marlowe, you seem to have made quite a stir among the people. Should I have mercy on you, or should I make you give me the entire story of your exploits?”
“I beg you, no. I have told the story so many times now, I scarce believe it myself.”
“Indeed? Well, from what I hear it is so heroic that it is scarce to be believed.” She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
He was dressed in his fine clothes again, not the rough and weathered apparel he had been wearing when he left the Plymouth Prize. He was trim-though one would not call him thin-and his coat and waistcoat hugged his body in a way that did him credit. He had the physique of a man who is not sedentary, and that was notably different from most of the wealthy men of the tidewater. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword with a certain confidence, as if that weapon were an appendage and not a decoration.
He was, Elizabeth admitted, enormously attractive, even without considering his current status. Not a month before, she had looked on him in purely utilitarian terms, a potential bulwark against the Wilkensons. But now her feelings were different. She thought of him in a way that she had not thought of a man in many years. Found herself irresistibly attracted to him.
“Pray, sir, sit.” She indicated a chair, and as Marlowe sat she called out, “Lucy, please fetch some chocolate for Mr. Marlowe.”
A moment later Lucy appeared with the service, and as she poured Elizabeth said, “Now, tell me, sir, how do you enjoy your celebrity?”
“It wears a bit, I find. This morning has been a trying one. Bickerstaff tells me that the conquering heroes of Rome, as
they drove through the streets, would have a slave standing be
hind them whispering in their ear that fame was fleeting.”
“Well, Mr. Marlowe-”
“Please…Thomas.”
“Very well, I shall call you Thomas if you will address me as Elizabeth. I was going to say that if you had not freed your slaves, you would be able to do the same.”
“I don’t need a slave for that, Elizabeth. I have Bickerstaff, who acts wonderfully as my conscience. Though I reckon much more of this and I’ll think fame ain’t fleeting enough.”
She smiled at him and sipped her chocolate. His false modesty did not fool her. She could see from the moment he stepped off the Plymouth Prize how much he enjoyed the adulation. But that aspect of his personality did not bother her. Quite the opposite. She found that it made him more attractive still. It was the
way of all great men, or all men destined for greatness.
“I fear you will have to suffer this hero worship a while longer. The people of this colony live in constant dread of the pirates, and you are practically the first man in living memory to do anything against them.”
“You are too kind by half, Elizabeth. But in fact I shall be free of this for a while, at least while we careen the Plymouth Prize down by Point Comfort.”
“Careen? I fear I do not follow your nautical jargon.”
“‘Careening’ is how we clean and repair the ship’s bottom. It is an onerous task. First we strip the vessel of all of her top hamper-her masts and yards and such-and her great guns as well, and all of the provisions in her hold. Then we run her up on a beach, and as the tide goes out we heave her down-that is to say, we cause her to roll on her side and thus expose the bottom.”
“Yes, I’ve heard how that is done, now that you explain it. But are you to be absent from Williamsburg for a time?” Her voice conveyed far more disappointment than she had intended. She could see that her tone had registered with Mar
lowe. Giving too much away. It was her intention to be more coy than that.
“I shall be away for a short time. But indeed, I had wished to ask you-and I beg you will not think my proposal in the least bit indecent, for I mean nothing of the kind-but might you be interested in accompanying me? I shall be sailing aboard my own sloop, the Northumberland. You are welcome to bring Lucy, if you wish. King James shall be captaining the sloop, and I am certain he would wish to see her, despite his pretensions of indifference. It could be something of a yachting holiday.”
“Indeed, sir…” The various implications swirled through Elizabeth’s mind. Such a trip might be cause for much whispering among the society people. On the other hand, one could do no better at present than to be seen in company with Captain Thomas Marlowe.
“…to sail off with you, I don’t know…”
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