The Blackbirder

Chapter 31

James did little that day but watch and hide. When the others awoke, they crept down to the tree line and knelt beside James and watched the Elizabeth Galley coming to her anchor. They watched as her men brailed up the sails, laid out along her yards, and stowed the canvas as the ship finally came to a rest one hundred yards to seaward of their captured French merchantman. They said nothing.

Each one of the men crouching at the forest edge was intimately familiar with that ship. Indeed, so obsessed had Marlowe been with her fitting out that there was not one of his people who had not had a hand in it, from the men who had pounded home trunnels and drifts and stepped masts and hove out rigging gangs, to the women who had seen to making hammocks and outfitting the great cabin with curtains and cushions and even building some of the lighter sails, to the children who had been given tar brushes and buckets of slush and put to work at the messier jobs for which their juvenile indelicacy made them ideally suited.

The Elizabeth Galley was a part of their home, a fixture from the docks at Jamestown. After all they had endured, and all the miles they had sailed, there was something unreal about seeing her here. It was as if they had walked down the forest trail and come upon Marlowe House itself, transported whole and set down on that strange land.

Good Boy was the first to speak. “Goddamn, I ain’t never been so happy to see anything in my life.” A muttering of agreement followed.

James frowned, kept his eyes on the ship. The boys were reacting, they weren’t thinking. They were so far from everything they knew, hunted by strangers with whom they could not speak, in a land such as they had never seen before. Of course they would be relieved to see something, anything, familiar, even if that thing had come to carry them all back to the gallows.

Or perhaps not.

He himself was a dead man, he knew that. Everyone knew him, the black man who had fought at Marlowe’s side, the arrogant nigger who commanded the Northumberland. There would be nothing but the noose for him if he returned, and if the court did not deign to put it there, the mob surely would, and the white-suited Frederick Dun-more, Esq., leading the way.

But it was just possible that no one knew the identity of the young men with him. If Sam and William had kept their mouths shut, then Quash and Cato and Good Boy and Joshua might be able to return and blend back in with the others at Marlowe House and no one the wiser.

But the first step was begging Marlowe for his mercy, and that was asking a lot: asking a lot of Marlowe and of himself. He had never asked anyone for mercy before, and not surprisingly he had received little of it during his life. He would never ask for himself. But for these others, whose lives had been destroyed by his own unchecked rage, for them he would humble himself.

He was about to lead them out onto the beach when he saw movement on the Elizabeth Galley’s deck. “Hold a moment,” he said. They remained where they were, crouched at the tree line, watching as the Galley’s longboat was swayed over the side, as a party of men climbed down and took their place on the thwarts. The sunlight flashed on the white oar blades as they were raised up in two lines, and then the boat was under way, pulling for the French merchantman.

It covered the distance quickly, the oars pulled by expert hands. It swept around the stern, circled, disappeared from sight around her bow, then reappeared again.

“What he doing?” Joshua asked.

“Marlowe don’t know it ain’t a trap,” James said. “He don’t understand why he don’t see no men on board. He going to take a good look before he goes aboard her.”

The longboat stopped under the Frenchman’s counter, and though they were too far to hear any conversation, King James could well imagine the one that was taking place. Marlowe was looking for the white crew, trying to find out why this ship was manned by African women alone. Marlowe could speak a bit of the patois of the coast; he might even be able to communicate with one of them.

Five minutes of that, and then the longboat pulled up to the Frenchman’s side and one by one the men boarded her. James could not identify any of them in particular, but he had no doubt that one was Thomas Marlowe and another was Francis Bickerstaff.

Bickerstaff. He would be the key to this thing. He would be the calm voice of reason. If there was to be any cooperation, any mercy or forgiveness or contrition between two headstrong, arrogant, stubborn men such as King James and Thomas Marlowe, then it would be through the intercession of Francis Bickerstaff.

They watched for another ten minutes, but nothing of note happened, nothing at all that they could see. Marlowe and his men would be searching the ship, deck to keelson, moving carefully in case it was a trap.

It was time to confront him, time to prostrate himself before Thomas Marlowe and beg for the lives of his men. James looked up and down the beach, as far as he could see from their place of concealment, saw a dugout canoe pulled up in the sand. It would be a tricky thing, getting through the surf, but they would do it.

He turned to his men, was ready to order them forward, when he heard something else: voices, a number of them. They were not close, and were all but drowned by the crashing surf, but in the lull between the breakers he could hear them, talking loud.

“Come along,” he said, and rather than leading his boys out onto the exposed beach he led them back into the forest, deeper than where they had slept that night, to a place where the thick undergrowth hid them completely. “Wait here. I be back.”

James headed off through the woods, moving fast, despite the thick tangle of vegetation. He knew instinctively where each foot should fall, and the next, and the next. He moved silently, more silent than was necessary with the crash of waves a scant fifty yards away, following the line of the beach, moving toward the voices. He was amazed at how quickly the woodcraft he had known as a child came back, as if the knowledge of it was embedded in the ancient earth of that continent, and he needed only to be reunited with her to have all that dormant skill wake again.

They were standing at the trailhead, where the packed forest floor gave way to the fine sand of the beach. James could hear them clearly even before he could see them, and though he did not understand the words, he recognized the rapid, clipped sound of the Kwa language. They were Kru, Madshaka’s elite.

Another dozen steps and he could see them at last, in glimpses through the foliage, but it was enough to tell him what he needed to know. They were heavily armed, a hunting party, eight out of about twenty of the Kru who had stood by Madshaka. Apparently his place at the slave factory was not so secure that he was willing to send off even a majority of his private army.

The Kru might have been sent to hunt for James and the rest, but they were not hunting now. Rather, they were pointing out to sea, talking fast among themselves, with wild gestures, and again James did not need to know the language to understand what was being said. They were discussing the arrival of the Elizabeth Galley, the significance of the longboat going over to her.

Despite the rudimentary seamanship that James had drilled into them, ships and the sea were not their world. They would not recognize the Elizabeth Galley from the brief encounter they had had on the other side of the Atlantic. They would not know how to interpret this new development.

James knew already what they would do-send two men back to inform Madshaka of the Galley’s arrival, post two to watch the ships for further activity, send the remaining four off to hunt the Virginians- and five minutes later they did just that.

The hunters split up and James receded back into the woods, moving diagonally until he could see a section of the beach. He had no fear of his men being found out. They would have been nearly impossible to discover in any event. And while eight well-armed men might have made a vigorous and effective search, the hunters now were outnumbered and looking for an enemy they knew to be armed with cutlasses and knives at least, and so they were not putting any great effort into the task.

James watched for ten minutes as they made their perfunctory inspection of the tree line, looking for where the Virginians might have entered the forest, and then worked his way back to his men.

They spent the remainder of the morning there, hiding, resting, eating what wild fruit James was able to obtain.

Noon, with the sun overhead, beating down on the beach but unable to penetrate to where they hid, and more voices drifted up from the shore: chatter, then the crash of surf, chatter, crash.

James made his way to the tree line once more. Madshaka and the eight hunters stood, feet in the swirling sea, staring out at the two ships that bobbed in unison like dancers and tugged at their thick anchor cables.

Madshaka was making wild gestures, twirling around now and again when his fury got the better of him. The Frenchman represented a fortune to him, stuffed as it was with booty and slaves for the reselling. Even the ship itself, sold at a fraction of its value, would be worth more than most Africans would see in a lifetime.

Twelve hours before, Madshaka had all that, plus King James’s very life depending on a single word from him. And now, in just half a day, it was coming apart, and Madshaka was not the kind who would let that happen. There was no life that Madshaka would not expend to protect his empire.

James knew now who Madshaka was.

And he knew Madshaka was not stupid, and he was not rash. He would do everything in his power to get the Frenchman back, but he would not attack in the daylight and he would not make a headlong assault against an overwhelming enemy. The capture of the slave factory told James all he needed to know about Madshaka’s tactical mind, and so he rested easy through the daylight hours, certain that no move would be made until dark, certain that Madshaka would not move until he thought he could win.

The sun went down in a great show of red and orange, filtering through the sands that were lifted off the African deserts by the steady winds and drawn up into the far reaches of the sky. And then it was dark and King James roused his men, led them slowly toward the beach.

Flickering light danced over the Frenchman’s lower masts and through her gunports. The women had lit their nightly fire. James could picture them gathered around it, sitting cross-legged, holding in their laps their children, or the children they had adopted out of the “cargo,” rocking slowly to the rhythm of some sad song of the Ibo or the Yoruba or the Aja.

And from the Elizabeth Galley, a single anchor light forward, and the big stern lanterns, and below them, the brightly lit great cabin. Marlowe and Bickerstaff and probably Fleming drinking their port, the remains of dinner spread before them.

The five men waited, silent, for the most part, as the moon climbed higher and higher and first the fire aboard the Frenchman faded away to nothing and then the lanterns in the great cabin were extinguished one by one until there was nothing to be seen of either ship, save for the lanterns burning topside aboard the Galley.

“Time to go,” James said quietly.

“We going aboard the Elizabeth Galley?” It was Quash, and his voice was eager.

“No, not ‘we.’ I am.”

“Oh.” There was no attempt to hide the disappointment. Sanctuary, or so they saw it, within sight, and James would not allow them to enter.

“Listen here, boys. We still outlaws, you understand? Might be we goes aboard and they hang us all, right there. Can’t take that chance.”

“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.”

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?”