Marlowe was fast asleep when he heard the soft footstep, the quiet squeak of the door opening. He came instantly awake, and his hand shot out and grabbed the hilt of his sword, and in the same instant he realized that there was probably no one aboard the Northumberland who might wish to slay him in his sleep.
The door was at the end of the small cabin and communicated with the great cabin astern. It swung open, ever so slowly. Marlowe released his grip on the sword. Did not dare hope for what might be.
Elizabeth was standing there, wearing nothing but her silk shift. The light from a shuttered lantern in the cabin shone through the gauzy material, silhouetting her slender form beneath the garment.
She stepped into the cabin, reached up, and untied the ribbon holding the shift in place. The shapeless gown slid down her body and piled on the deck, and she stepped out of it and silently climbed into Marlowe’s narrow bed.
She was the most beautiful woman that Marlowe had ever seen. He felt a tremor of excitement building in his gut and rushing out to the extremities of his hands and feet. He put his arms around her, running his hands over her skin, smooth, golden, perfect skin. She lay back on his bed and he rolled
half on top of her, kissing her, his tongue probing her mouth, finding hers.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair, and wrapped a long leg around his thighs. He ran his lips over her neck and shoulders, covering her with small kisses, cupping a breast in his hands and gently caressing the firm nipple with his lips. She shifted under him and moaned softly, and Marlowe felt his passion building to a dangerous peak.
They spent two hours exploring each other, making love, talking in whispers, holding each other. At last Elizabeth lay still in his arms, and her breath became soft and regular.
Through the half-open door of the cabin he could see the first blue light of dawn. He reached over and grabbed the hilt of his sword, moving carefully so as not to disturb her, quietly drew the blade. He put the sharp point against the door and pushed it closed. He laid the sword on the deck, and together they slept.
Chapter 16
THEY MADE quite an imposing sight, pounding down the rolling road. Jacob Wilkenson at the head on his black stallion, George Wilkenson just behind on his chestnut mare, and behind him Sheriff Witsen and four deputies. They were riding hard. They were all heavily armed.
George Wilkenson concentrated on the motion of the horse under him, his own position in the saddle, the condition of the road underfoot. He was an excellent horseman. Thoughts of his horse and his riding kept his mind from what had just transpired, what was about to happen.
He had said nothing to his father, save to tell him that he had formulated a plan but the plan had not worked out.
He did not dare tell him what the plan was, or mention his own stupidity in relying on the cooperation of Elizabeth Tinling. He did not tell him about the humiliation, or the hard money he had given to Witsen to assure his silence. He said nothing about Elizabeth’s note, about his own uncertainty as to her betraying him.
He had mentioned none of those things, but that had not saved him from Jacob’s wrath.
His father raged for an hour, cursing him for a fool and reiterating the need to destroy Marlowe. At last he had announced that he would be taking matters into his own hands. They would take the direct route. They would ruin Marlowe financially.
Or, better yet, they would force him into debt. There was no debt in the tidewater that the Wilkensons could not control. And once they had assumed Marlowe’s debts, then they would choke him to death, slowly.
Jacob Wilkenson was an unsubtle man. George found his approach to the situation frightening. There was bound to be trouble, perhaps bloodshed, and that frightened him more. The presence of the sheriff and his men did nothing to comfort him.
They turned off the rolling road and raced down the carriage road to the old Tinling house. The tall trees met overhead, their summer leaves mingling together high over the way, giving the approach the feel of a nave in a great cathedral.
At the far end, like an altar, stood the white Tinling house. It would always be the Tinling house to George, no matter who owned it. He thought of the many times he had ridden down that road, happier times.
He felt a vague titillation, as if there was something sexually exciting to look forward to, and he realized that he had come to associate that approach with seeing Elizabeth Tinling, and the thrill he got in just running his eyes over her, watching her as she moved, fantasizing about her.
And once he understood that association the thrill was gone, like plunging into a frozen stream. He felt angry. Humiliated. Impotent.
He hated her, even more than he hated Marlowe, even more because he could not be certain she had betrayed him. It was most convenient that her note had been delivered after he had left to confront Marlowe. He was almost certain he had seen her in the window. Almost, but not entirely. He had been a long way back from the house, and his eyesight was not the best.
She had never been anything more than polite to him. No flirting, no vague overtones of desire in her voice. He was far
better looking than that fat pig Joseph Tinling. He was smarter and kinder than his brother, Matthew. But she had ignored him, and now she was off with Marlowe, no doubt making the beast with two backs.
He had not contacted her since that night, had not called in the note of hand. He wanted her to suffer the uncertainty. Perhaps he would use that power over her again, for whatever he wished, and then he would crush her.
He did not have the courage to face her again. From that flowed anger, self-loathing.
His father, he knew, could not care less about Elizabeth Tinling, but she was as much a part of his plans as Marlowe was. He would destroy her just as he and Jacob would destroy Marlowe.
They came at last to the end of the carriage road and bore off to the right, past the big house. A black man came out onto the porch, watched them for a moment, and then ran back inside, but the band on horseback paid him no mind. The only man who might concern them was Marlowe, and they knew for a fact that Marlowe was off on his sloop down by Point Comfort.
They raced down the familiar dirt road that led behind the house, past the gardens and the toolsheds, to the big warehouse where the plantation’s crop was stored, ready for shipment.
They pulled their horses to a stop in a swirl of dust, looked around. At the far end of the field George could see the slave quarters. They were newly whitewashed and the roofs were much improved, and they were altogether less dilapidated and less depressing a sight than any other slave quarters he had seen.
But, of course, they were not slave quarters at all. Marlowe had freed his slaves.
At the other end of the field, nearer the warehouse, he could see the patch of woodland that had been cleared for the seedbeds for the next crop. Every spring the new plants were started in beds that had been prepared by clearing and burning
virgin woodland. Then, when they were big enough, the young tobacco plants were transferred to the fields.
The seedbeds were already bursting with fine young plants. In the fields, small hillocks had been raised in parallel rows three feet apart, ready to accept the seedlings. And all of that without a white overseer, and, as he understood it, with virtually no supervision from Marlowe at all. He just let the niggers do it, and they did. Incredible.
“Come along,” Jacob ordered, and the seven men dismounted. The sheriff’s men opened the big warehouse doors. The early-morning sunlight spilled into that cavernous space. It was like any warehouse on a tidewater plantation. It contained an eclectic assortment of things: lumber, empty barrels of various sizes, tools, spare parts for wagons and carriages, coils of rope.
But none of that interested the men. They turned rather to the hogsheads of tobacco stacked against one wall, over one hundred hogsheads filled nearly to bursting. They represented an entire year’s worth of work, a year’s worth of clearing seedbeds and raising
plants, transferring plants, topping, suckering, priming, weeding and worming plants, cutting, bulking, curing, sweating and striping plants, and then bundling them all and prizing them into casks. It was a prodigious amount of labor, and from the number of hogsheads piled against the wall it appeared that Marlowe’s crop had been prodigious as well.
“Here, break this one open.” Jacob Wilkenson pointed to one of the barrels in the middle of the stack. One of the sheriff’s men took an ax and embedded it in the head of the barrel. He jerked it free and struck again, the head of the barrel broke open, and small, tight-packed bundles of tobacco spilled out on the hard earth floor. The air was filled with the scent of fresh cured tobacco, a familiar and wonderful smell to the men of the tidewater.
George Wilkenson looked at the pile of tobacco lying at his feet. He had spent a lifetime in the cultivation of that crop, and there was not much he did not know about it. And he knew that the pile of tobacco in front of him was as fine a
sweetscented as was grown anywhere in the colony, cured to perfection and prized into the barrels with no lugs, suckers, or slips. And all done by the Negroes. Amazing.
“Here, what is the meaning of this?”
The seven men whirled around. George flushed in embarrassment and fear, like a boy caught stealing.
Standing in the wide doorway was Francis Bickerstaff. He held a musket in his hand, as did the two black men standing behind him. No one answered him.
“Ah, Wilkenson, is it? Father and son? What do you think you’re about, breaking into our warehouse?”
“Nobody’s breaking in.” Sheriff Witsen stepped forward. He seemed ill at ease, and George imagined that the sheriff did not like what was happening any more than he did. “We’re inspecting, and we have the right to do it under the law.”
“Tell those niggers to put their guns down or we’ll have you arrested!” Jacob Wilkenson ordered. “There are laws against arming niggers.”
“There are laws against breaking into another’s home.”
“This ain’t your home, and it ain’t your warehouse, is it?” the elder Wilkenson demanded. “No, I thought not. Now, tell them niggers to put their guns down.”
All eyes turned to Sheriff Witsen, who cleared his throat and said, “It’s against the law, Mr. Bickerstaff, to give them guns.”
The warehouse was silent as the men faced off, then Bickerstaff turned and nodded to the two black men behind him. Without a word they leaned their guns against a stack of lumber and resumed their position at Bickerstaff’s back.
“As you see, Sheriff, we have no desire to break the law.”
“I’m grateful for that, Mr. Bickerstaff.”
Jacob Wilkenson turned his back on Bickerstaff and rummaged through the pile of tobacco on the floor, kicking it around with his foot. “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he muttered, and then, turning to the man with the ax, said, “Here, break open another one.”
“What on earth do you think you’re about?” Bickerstaff demanded. The ax bit into the head of the barrel Jacob Wilkenson had indicated.
“I told you, we’re inspecting the contents of these hogsheads.” Jacob did not meet Bickerstaff’s eyes but rather focused on the man with the ax.
“They contain tobacco, sir. Whatever did you expect?” Bicker-staff said. “George, what is the meaning of this? Is this some petty revenge for the duel that your brother fought with Marlowe?”
“I…ahh…” was all that George was able to get out before the second barrel burst open and spilled its contents on the floor and, to his infinite relief, all eyes turned away from him.
“There, are you quite satisfied?” Bickerstaff asked.
Jacob pushed the tobacco around with his toe. “Like I reckoned. It’s trash. All trash.”
“Trash?” Bickerstaff protested. “That is perfectly good sweetscented, good as anyone might find in the tidewater. It most certainly is not trash.”
Jacob turned at last to Bickerstaff. “Know a lot about tobacco, do you? I’ve been growing tobacco for fifty years, boy and man! You didn’t sweat it enough, it’s too dry. It’ll never last to market.”
“That is sheer nonsense. There is not a thing wrong with that tobacco. And even if there were, it is no business of yours.”
“Oh, it most certainly is my business. Quality of the tobacco coming out of this colony is the business of every tobacco grower. That’s why I brought the sheriff along, in case we had to condemn this lot, which we do.” Jacob Wilkenson turned to George and the sheriff’s deputies. “All right, men. Take it out and burn it. All of it.”
“Burn it! This is an outrage!” Bickerstaff’s voice rose for the first time. “This is no more than revenge for Matthew Wilkenson’s being killed in what was once considered an affair of honor. Sheriff Witsen, surely you will not suffer this outrage to take place?”
Witsen glanced at Jacob Wilkenson, then down at the ground, then looked Bickerstaff square in the face. “Mr. Wilkenson’s an expert when it comes to tobacco, Mr. Bickerstaff. If he says it’s trash, well, I reckon he knows. And it is his right to report any tobacco that ain’t of proper quality, and it’s my duty to see it’s destroyed.” He stared at Bickerstaff for a moment, their eyes locked, and then turned back to his men. “Go on, then, burn it.”
The sheriff’s men turned to their work. Three hogsheads were rolled out to a spot clear of the warehouse and smashed apart. An oil-soaked torch was sparked off with a flintlock, and soon the whole pile was burning. Then, one after another, the barrels were rolled out and added to the blaze.
“You could at least not burn the casks,” Bickerstaff commented dryly. “Unless they, too, are not up to the standards of the Royal Colony of Virginia.” But his words were ignored. He said nothing more.
It was two hours before the last of the hogsheads were added to the flame. By then the fire was so prodigious that the tobacco had to be flung on from some distance, using shovels and pitchforks found in Marlowe’s warehouse, and the empty barrels tossed on after them.
From the edge of the flames Bickerstaff and the two black men watched in silence, and George Wilkenson could see at the far end of the fields the rest of the former slaves watching as their year’s work was destroyed.
This should be an end to Marlowe, he thought. There were few planters in the tidewater wealthy enough to survive the loss of an entire year’s crop. He was not even certain that the Wilkensons could do so. This will ruin the bastard, he thought, or better yet, put him in our debt.
He concentrated his thoughts on that comforting idea. It helped to drive away the shame, the utter humiliation he felt about what they were doing.
Chapter 17
EVIDENCE OF the battle at Smith Island was still visible, though it had been at least two week since the fight.
LeRois scratched at his beard. He thought it had been that long, but now he was not certain. He tried to recall what Ripley had said, but the sand underfoot seemed unusually soft, making walking inordinately tiring, and the sun was beating down on them and he could hear voices talking somewhere, and all those things made it very difficult for him to concentrate.
He took a big drink of gin from the bottle in his hand, held it in his mouth, swallowed it. Looked around the white sand. Off near the dune grass some animal had unearthed one of the poor bastards who had died there, and now a few turkey vultures were taking desultory stabs at what little remained. At first glance LeRois had thought the dead man was Barrett, thought he saw the corpse reaching for a sword, had gasped in fear, but he had been mistaken.
In the surf was the odd pistol or cutlass, half buried in the dark sand. A big blackened circle indicated where the pirate’s fire had burned before they had been murdered by the black-heart Marlowe, new captain of the guardship, the one who stood between LeRois and the ultimate fulfillment of his plans.
“Merde alors,” LeRois muttered. Drank again.
“He just shot ’em down where they stood,” Ripley said. “No call for them to surrender, just shot
’em down, and them that called for quarter is to be hung any day now.”
“Merde.” Something was giving off a terrible stench. LeRois wondered if it was Ripley or himself. Perhaps the poor dead bastard getting picked apart by the birds. “And the ship, the one that was taken, what of the things they had on board?”
“As I hear it, the bastard Marlowe let his men have what they wanted, split it up on a barrelhead and give ’em all a share.”
LeRois took another drink, swallowed, and grinned. “This Marlowe, he sound more like a pirate himself than a king’s man, no? The son of a bitch. Who is he?”
“Ain’t seen him. I keeps away from the towns. Told you. This here’s more to my liking.”
The little rat was all fluffed up again with self-importance, as if everything that had taken place had been his own doing. LeRois spit in the sand.
The three vessels were riding at anchor above the glassy water of the harbor. The largest of the three was the Vengeance. She rode to a single anchor with her gray and much-patched sails hauled out by their bowlines to dry.
Made fast to the Vengeance’s starboard side was the small sloop that was the one and only legitimate command of former pirate quartermaster Ezekiel Ripley. On the starboard side of Ripley’s sloop was tied a brigantine from New York, which had been northbound a week out of Barbados when she had been spotted from the Vengeance’s masthead.
The brigantine had run for all she was worth, which infuriated LeRois. When at last she had been overhauled her crew had fought rather than surrender, which made LeRois lose all semblance of reason.
That was three days before. The last of her crew had just died that morning.
The deck of the brigantine and the deck of the Vengeance and the deck of the little sloop were crowded with men. Cargo was coming up from the hold of the pirate-the accumulated
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