The Guardship

Chapter 26

CURIOSITY. IT was eating at Elizabeth, like vultures, like wolves. Bickerstaff could see that, could see it in her eyes, in the way she watched Marlowe. Curiosity, as natural a part of the female condition as vapors.

At the same time he could see that Marlowe was in such a state of mind as to not invite inquiry even into his present concerns, let alone an examination of the past that so disturbed him. And Elizabeth was sensitive enough to realize this as well.

And so, Bickerstaff knew, she would come to him.

He stepped out onto the deck and strolled forward, avoiding the quarterdeck that so easily communicated with the great cabin. It was dark, being nearly eleven o’clock, but there was light enough from the abundance of stars for him to see all he needed to see.

He wanted to give her the chance to approach him. Did not want her curiosity to drive her to distraction.

He was leaning on the rail and looking up at the stars-or rather, the few planets that he could see-for no more than ten minutes before she stepped through the scuttle. He watched her climb up the quarterdeck ladder and look around, then make her way back to the waist and forward.

“Good evening, Mrs. Tinling,” he said, and saw her start.

“Oh, dear,” she said, recovering.

“Forgive me,” Bickerstaff said, “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“It’s quite all right. I guess I’m a bit jumpy. And I think perhaps it is time to dispense with the ‘Mrs. Tinling’ nonsense. Pray call me Elizabeth.”

“Delighted, if you will do me the honor of addressing me as Francis.”

“The honor is mine, sir.”

They stood silent for a moment, their eyes on the stars and their thoughts elsewhere.

“How does King James do?” Elizabeth broke the silence.

“Very well. The vomit has worked admirably. I had intended to bleed him, but I think perhaps it will not be necessary. Any imbalance of the humors seems to have corrected itself, which I observe more often than not it will.”

“Are you, sir, a physician? I realize I know so little about you.”

And about Marlowe as well, which is doubtless your primary concern, as well it should be, Bickerstaff thought.

“No, I am not. I am…I was, a teacher.” He turned and met her eyes. She was so lovely, and the simple dress she wore and the plain mobcap with her yellow hair spilling out from under just reinforced that natural beauty. Was it any wonder that she was at the center of this storm? The face that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless towers of Ilium.

He smiled at the irony of that thought.

It was not two years ago that Malachias Barrett had requested his help in concocting a new name. A new name for a new life.

“How does ‘Marlowe’ sound?” Bickerstaff had said.

“‘Marlowe’?”

“It is the name of a man who wrote a play about a fellow who sells his soul to the devil for worldly riches.”

The former brigand smiled. “It suits me passing well,” he said, and at that moment Malachias Barrett died to the world, and Thomas Marlowe was born.

“This morning,” Elizabeth said, hesitating, “after the guns went off, Thomas said…something about his own history, his own black history, he called it. He said he was undone-”

“He did.”

“Oh, Francis, I am so worried. He is so…unhappy. What…” Her voice trailed off. She did not know how to ask such a question.

“You wish to know what it is in his past? What is his history that plagues him so?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him, and her eyes were pleading. “Yes, will you tell me?”

“Thomas’s story is his to tell, not mine. But perhaps if I tell you my own, as it relates to him, it will give you some hint of what he was. I think it is my moral right to do so.”

“Please, sir, I beg of you.”

Bickerstaff looked in her eyes again, dark in the faint light, though he knew them to be blue, like his, but deeper, not the pale blue of a hazy summer sky but the deep blue of the bay. He looked out over the black water.

“I have been a teacher most of my life, in various situations. Greek, Latin, science, philosophy. Fencing, as good fortune would have it. In ’95 I was employed by a gentleman of some wealth who was moving his family to Boston. I was given the choice of going with them or finding other employment.

“I had heard so much about America. But of course, you have lived in England, you know the high talk that goes about. I thought it would be just the thing. A new land.

“In any event, five weeks out we were overhauled by another ship, which turned out to be a pirate. We set all the sail we could, ran like a fox, but these piratical fellows are fast, you know, and rarely are they outrun.

“It took them the better part of a day, but at last they came up with us. They were all lining the rail, as I recall, screaming and chanting, beating drums. Vaporing, they call it.”

Bickerstaff closed his eyes. He had not thought of this in some time. He had quite purposefully not thought of it.

“We chose to fight. That is no easy decision, for it is a sentence of death to fight these pirates and lose. There is no quarter for those who do not surrender, but we had a ship full of gentlemen, and oh, they were so brave in the face of it all…”

Now the images were swimming in front of him, and he lived it again as he spoke. The profound fear in his gut as that pirate ship ranged alongside, the big black ensign with the grinning death’s-head and twin swords snapping in the breeze. He had never been so afraid in his life, before or since.

There were hundreds of them, it seemed, filthy, merciless men clinging to the channels and the shrouds and the rails, howling like one would not expect to hear this side of hell.

The doomed men, crew of the merchant vessel, fired off a few pathetic cannons, but there were not enough men aboard to fire a real broadside, and those who were manning the guns had precious little knowledge of such things. Bickerstaff could see the fury of the pirates building, sweeping through the tribe with each defiant gun.

And then they were on them. Bickerstaff wiped his sweating palms on his coat, took a fresh grip on the sword in his right hand, the long dagger in his left. The pirate ship slammed into the merchantman’s side with a horrible shuddering crash and the brigands poured down on the deck, spilled onto the merchant ship like a boarding sea that sweeps the deck fore and aft.

All of the gentlemen’s plans, all of their high talk about holding the pirates off, meeting their attack with a solid defense, driving them into a corner, were forgotten in that vicious surge of men. Bickerstaff saw his compatriots cut down, shot down; he saw his employer, the one who had urged them all to stand and fight, flee down a scuttle, his pistol and sword discarded.

And then they were on him, and he had no thought for anything save for the blades that were flashing all around. He felt his sleeve plucked by a pistol ball, felt another tear a gash in his side, but he could do nothing about small arms. He could only fight against the swords.

And that, as it happened, he could do exceptionally well.

He knocked a blade aside as it lunged at him, ran the attacker through, slid his sword free as the man fell and met another, thinking, So this is what it is to kill men in battle.

The pirates were not swordsmen, they were barbarians who could do no more than hack and slash. And they were drunk. They would not best him-as long as he had to fight no more than two or three at a time.

Bickerstaff leapt back as a sword hissed down like an ax, and the brigand missed him completely, stabbing his cutlass into the deck. Bickerstaff stepped on the blade, pinning it down, and stuck the man in the chest with his dagger even as he parried and lunged at another.

He heard cursing, shrieking, screams of agony, defiance, madness all around. It was the inner circle of hell on that merchantman’s deck, and he was a poor damned soul who would die on that spot. He was doing no more than putting off that fate for a few seconds more, he knew that, and taking some of the bastards to damnation with him.

Then there was a weird quiet aboard the ship, and Bickerstaff realized that it had been taken, that all of his fellow defenders were dead or, like himself, soon to wish they were. He realized it even as he turned aside the sword of the last of his attackers, knocking the point to the deck, and plunged the dagger into his guts. He watched the man go down, bleeding and clutching at the wound. He stood there, too exhausted to form a rational thought, dumbly watching the man collapse.

Then suddenly his sword was knocked from his hand as another blade slashed down, connecting with his weapon near the hilt. It fell with a clatter to the deck at his feet.

He whirled around, the dagger in his right hand, glued to his palm with drying blood, and leaned against the bulwark, breathing hard. The pirates around him stepped aside. Three feet away stood the man who had knocked his sword from his hand.

“Don’t ever drop your guard to look at your handiwork,” the pirate said.

Bickerstaff regarded him as the fox, weary from the chase, regards the approaching huntsmen. Young, late twenties, perhaps, tall and lean. He held a big and bloody sword in his right hand. A brace of pistols hung from a long ribbon around his neck. He wore a weathered blue broadcloth coat and wool shirt, canvas slop trousers, battered shoes.

He seemed to regard Bickerstaff with some curiosity, then looked at the five men, dead or dying, at Bickerstaff’s feet.

“You done this?” he asked, gesturing toward the dead men with his sword. He seemed not in the least concerned about the fate of his shipmates, bleeding out their lives on the deck.

“I did. I did not see as I had a choice.”

“Some hand with a sword, are you?”

“Fencing is a gentlemanly pursuit.”

At that the pirate smiled and looked Bickerstaff square in the eye, his intelligent, bemused brown eyes locking with Bickerstaff’s pale blue. “And you reckon yourself a gentleman?”

“I instruct gentlemen.”

“And what the fuck do you mean by that?”

“I am a teacher. I was taking passage to the colonies to act as instructor to the children of the gentleman who sails with his family aboard this vessel.”

“Sailed,” the pirate corrected. “He’s dead. Run through while he was cowering like the pile of shit he was. Like all them gentlemen. Cowardly bastards. You’re the only one that fought worth being called fighting. We lost eight of our men, and you done for five of them.”

“You do not seem very distraught over the death of your comrades,” Bickerstaff said. It was unreal, like a nightmare, standing there, surrounded by death, death waiting for him, having this conversation with a murdering brigand.

The man shrugged. “A short life, but a merry one. Now come, teacher, cross swords with me.” He gestured with the point of his sword for Bickerstaff to retrieve his weapon from the deck. “I’ll know who’s the better man.”

Bickerstaff bent over and picked up his sword, his eyes fixed on the pirate. Then the pirate gestured for Bickerstaff to

move to a clear part of the deck.

“You wish to fence with me?”

“No, I wants to fight with you, and fight I will.”

“You are the captain of this villainous bunch?”

“No, I’m the quartermaster. Now, come along.”

“I’ll fight you, on condition that the children aboard this ship are not hurt.”

At that the man laughed out loud. “You’ll make no demands, teacher. If you fight and lose, you’ll get a better death than them others.”

“And if I win?”

“You’re no worse off than you are now, and you gets the pleasure of taking another of us to hell with you.” At that he raised his sword and slashed down at Bickerstaff, so fast that Bickerstaff just had time to turn the sword away. He lunged, and the quartermaster leapt back, keeping just inches from Bickerstaff’s blade, smiling.

They faced off, Bickerstaff holding his sword in the prescribed manner of a gentleman fighting a duel, the pirate gripping his great sword with two hands, like a savage Celt. The pirate attacked, slashing right then left, driving Bickerstaff back with the ferocity of the onslaught, and Bickerstaff worked sword and dagger together to keep him off.

He had no form, no style, but he was incredibly strong, and that gave him speed, and his reflexes were unfailing. Bickerstaff had never before seen such a natural swordsman. He would never have believed that any man as ill-trained as this one could both beat off his attack and put up a formidable attack of his own.

It was pure native ability that saved the pirate’s life, saved him from Bickerstaff’s accurate, well-trained attacks as the offense and defense shifted back and forth, the two men moving up and down the sticky deck.

At length the pirate stepped back, his sword at his side. Bicker-staff made to lunge, but saw that the man was not defending himself, so he paused as well.

“You should have killed me, teacher,” the man said with a grin. “You are one goddamned good swordsman, with all yer fancy moves, but you don’t know about real killing.”

“I know about honor.”

“I reckon you do,” the man said, “I reckon you do.” He swept off his hat and bowed deep, a mocking gesture. “My name is Malachias Barrett, and I just might have need of you. Come with me.”

Barrett led Bickerstaff across the merchantman’s deck and onto the pirate ship. None of Barrett’s shipmates said anything, none of them even noticed, for they had begun to tear the merchantman apart and have their fun with her people. They were the Vandals sacking Rome, and they had no thought for anything but their own vicious pleasure. Bickerstaff followed-still in that dream state-and he did not even ask where they were going.

Barrett led him down below to the pirate’s ’tween deck and then down into the hold. The conditions aboard the merchantman had seemed disgusting to Bickerstaff, but that ship was a palace compared to the dark, wet, reeking confines of the pirate ship. There was gear and personal belongings, empty bottles and half-eaten food flung in every corner, and rats moved boldly across the deck, not even bothering to keep to the shadows.

“Lovely, ain’t she? Like the fucking Royal yacht,” Barrett said. “I’ve a mind to leave her.”

He opened the door to a small, dark room, then looked down at the sword and dagger that Bickerstaff still clutched in his hands. “I reckon I better take them,” he said.

Francis nodded dumbly. The blood had dried on the grips, and he had to peel the weapons from his hands before handing them over. Barrett gently pushed him into the dark room and shut the door. He heard a lock clicking in place, and then there was nothing but darkness and distant, muffled screams.

Bickerstaff opened his eyes. The stars were still there, blinking as the Plymouth Prize’s rigging swayed in front of them.

“He saved my life, you see, locking me in that bread room,” he explained to Elizabeth. “The pirates killed them all. Killed them in a most horrible manner. All but me and the children, whom Marlowe managed to hide as well.”

“Why you? Why the children?”

“As to the children, I do not know. They were of no use to him. Perhaps he decided to honor my condition for fighting him. I like to think it was some spark of humanity that the pirates had not stamped out of him.

“As to why he saved me, well, there was a good reason for that. He had a mind to leave that life on the account, you see. Had been thinking on it for some time.

“These Brethren of the Coast, as they call themselves, sometimes they make quite a bit of money, but generally they gamble it away or drink it away or lose it in some manner. But Marlowe, or I should say Barrett, was smarter than that. He had been hoarding it for some time, years I should think.

“It was his intent to set up in some estate as Lord of the Manor. I can tell you, life aboard one of those pirate ships is no better than a prison in the matter of the food, the conditions. Disease. Marlowe was sensible enough to know he could do better than that.”

Elizabeth spoke at last. “But how had he come to be with these men?”

“That is his story, not mine, but I will tell you what I know. He was a sailor, it seems, on a merchant ship. They were taken by this pirate, this Jean-Pierre LeRois, some years before, and Marlowe was pressed into service with them. It is not at all uncommon for those on the account to make others come with them, especially if they have some certain skill or other. I believe Marlowe just took to the life eventually. Embraced it as his own.

“In any event, he had a mind to leave LeRois and so did a number of the others. This LeRois was a madman, it seems, and they had had their fill of him. So after they had plundered the ship I was on, and had their bloody fun, Marlowe an

nounced to this LeRois that he was taking our ship as his own, and taking a good part of the crew with him.

“LeRois, as you can imagine, was quite put out by this. They argued, swore, cursed one another. It seems LeRois had taken Marlowe under his wing, as it were, made him quartermaster, which is a high rank among those people. At last they took to their swords. LeRois was quite a swordsman, I can assure you, and I have told you already how very good Marlowe is. They fought for some time, the whole tribe looking on. Fought ’til each was cut to ribbons and nearly exhausted.

“In the end Marlowe bested LeRois, in large part because LeRois stumbled on a ringbolt in the deck and gave Marlowe that one opening to deliver a serious wound. Thought he had done for him. Left him bleeding on the deck and took the ship, the one we had sailed from England, and me with it.”

“But I still fail to see-why save you?”

“Marlowe had all the money to set up as a gentleman, but he had no education, and he knew he could never pass for quality. He thought I could teach him. I told him that he would fool no one in England, but perhaps in the colonies it might be possible.

“I sailed with him for four years, and in that time I went from being his prisoner to his teacher and then his friend. I never participated in any of their raiding and he did not insist, though I can tell you he was never the murderous villain that LeRois was. He had a certain humanity about him. I never saw him murder anyone, nor could I have called him friend if he had.

“At length he had had enough, and had gathered enough wealth to set himself up, so we parted with the others and came to Virginia. The rest, I believe, you know.”

“I thought I did, to be certain,” Elizabeth said. “But there is still so much about him… Why ever did he free his slaves? Is he such a man of God that he could not bear to own Negroes?”

At that Bickerstaff smiled. “No. I wish I could tell you that he gave them their freedom out of sense of humanity. I should

have done so, had they been mine. But with Marlowe it was as much self-preservation.

“There were a number of Africans with the pirates, escaped slaves who had turned to the sweet trade. They could be the meanest of all of them, for there was no chance of anything but death for them if they were caught. And Marlowe had fought side by side with them. I reckon he is the only member of the tidewater gentry to ever consider a black man to be an equal. He has seen the smoldering hatred of men in chains, and he knows how dangerous they can be. He did not care to live with that nagging at him.”

“I see.”

They were silent for a long time. Finally Elizabeth spoke again. “And so today…?”

“I gather this person who was on the sloop was someone who recognized Marlowe from the days in the sweet trade. He has been living in terror of coming across one of his old fellows.”

“And what will this mean?”

“I do not know. But I am so very afraid that we shall lose our Marlowe. That he is becoming Malachias Barrett once again.”