The Guardship

Chapter 28

TWO SHIPS were fighting it out, somewhere downriver from Jamestown. Marlowe did not need to see the fight to know it was taking place. The sound told him that. The roll of gunfire echoing off the banks of the James River. The cloud of gray smoke building like a small anvil head on the other side of the long, low peninsula.

They were fighting somewhere past the point of land that terminated in Hog Island, perhaps as far down as Warixquake Bay, but most likely nearer than that.

The sound also told him something of how the fight was going. The two ships were hotly engaged, and had been for close to an hour. One was firing three guns for every one gun the other managed to get off. One had larger guns than the other; the sound was different, which was how he was able to differentiate between them.

The one with the larger guns was the one firing more slowly. Perhaps it was their superiority in weight of metal that accounted for their holding out as long as they had, for the slow rate of fire probably meant a small, poorly trained crew. And that most likely meant the ship was a merchantman, fighting for her life. And if that was the case, he could well imagine what the other ship was.

He looked aloft. On the fore- and mainmast the men were scampering around the uppermost rigging, setting royal sails that had been sent up from the deck. They represented the last bit of canvas the Plymouth Prize could spread as Marlowe pushed her hard to join in the fight.

He was desperate to stop the slaughter of the innocents, desperate to be done with LeRois or have LeRois be done with him. He was ready to make his final bid to rejoin Virginia society, or at least prevent his being cast down from it. Ready to fight to maintain the thin and largely worn veneer of respectability that covered him and Elizabeth. He could sit still no longer, letting his fear and paranoia fester.

The day was lovely, with a gentle southwesterly breeze pushing them along. It all seemed so incongruous, the gray sails sharp against the blue, cloudless sky, the green fields rolling down to the wide river, the gentle sound of the water against the hull, and the distant blast of cannon, the chance whiff of expended powder.

Elizabeth was there by his side, a parasol held over her head to shield her fine skin from the sun. They might as well have been aboard the Northumberland for a yachting excursion.

But of course they were not, and she was in as great a danger as any of them. Greater, really, for she would not be in the fight and thus could not hope for the quick death that comes with a bullet or a blast of langrage. Marlowe hated to compromise her safety thus, but he had no choice. If he left her ashore she would be in even greater danger from the wrath of the Wilkenson clan.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her, kiss her, tell her he loved her. It did not seem right that in half an hour’s time they should be locked in a fight with the most dangerous man Marlowe had ever known.

It did not seem right that he should be so frightened on so perfect a day.

“Helmsman, give that south shore a wide berth, there by Hog Island,” Marlowe said, and the helmsman repeated the order and nudged the tiller to starboard. The muddy shallows,

Marlowe knew, extended many yards out from the shore, and he did not relish the thought of putting the Plymouth Prize hard aground where she could do no more than wait to be pounded to pieces.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Rakestraw appeared on the quarterdeck, “I’ve the drogue rigged aft and ready to stream, sir.”

“Good.” The drogue was a sort of canvas cone, two fathoms long, which would slow the Plymouth Prize down considerably when towed astern.

“Sir, if I may be so bold…?”

“Why did I have you rig the drogue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is always nice in these instances to have a surprise or two. If this fellow is the one we met before, then he will surely recognize us, and he will know how many men we have, how many guns and all that. At the very least, we can have a bit of speed held in reserve.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rakestraw. He sounded doubtful.

It took them another twenty minutes to round Hog Island, and in those twenty minutes the firing beyond the point did not let up for a moment. The poor bastard under attack was apparently holding his own. If he could just live for twenty minutes more, the Plymouth Prize would be there to kill the pirates or to die in his place.

The land seemed to inch away as they turned more southerly, and as it did it revealed the two distant ships, like a door swinging slowly open to give a view of the room beyond. They were not so very far away, a mile perhaps, probably less, and there was breeze enough that they were not entirely obscured by the smoke.

Marlowe put his glass to his eye. The merchantman was the closer ship, and she was drawing ahead of her attacker so his view of her was unobstructed. She was a big one, with her merchantman’s ensign waving defiantly from her mainmast head. For a moment Marlowe thought she was the Wilkenson Brothers, but she was black, not oiled, and rigged as a barque

rather than a ship. Her forecastle and quarterdeck were not as long as the Brothers’.

She seemed in surprisingly good shape for a ship that had taken the pounding that she had. All of her spars were intact, and he could see little damage to her sails. But of course he could not see the side that was taking the punishment, and the pirates would be looking to kill her men, not ruin their prize.

He shifted his glass to the right. The attacking vessel was more shrouded in smoke, being downwind and firing so many more guns than the other. But he did not have to have a perfect view of the ship to recognize her. He had seen her not so very long ago, when it had been the Plymouth Prize, dressed as a merchantman, that she was attacking.

He moved his glass up to the pirate’s masthead. There at the mainmast flew the black flag with the death’s-head, two crossed swords, and hourglass below. She was LeRois’s ship. She would be called the Vengeance. Every ship LeRois commanded was called Vengeance.

And if LeRois guessed that he, Thomas Marlowe-Malachias Barrett-was commanding the Prize, then no other enemy in the world would exist for him.

Marlowe put the telescope down and began pacing back and forth, ignoring Rakestraw, Elizabeth, and Bickerstaff, who stood together on the leeward side. He wanted to get on with it. He wanted it to be over, one way or another.

And then the rumble of the guns, which had been their companion for an hour or more, ceased. Marlowe looked up at the ships, now about half a mile distant, and as he did the Plymouth Prize’s lookout shouted, “On deck! Ship has sheered off! She’s hauling her wind! Wearing around!”

Marlowe could see it clearly from the deck. The pirate, the Vengeance, had broken off the engagement and now she was turning away from them. The villains must have seen the Plymouth Prize coming.

For a second he harbored the hope that she would turn tail and run, but that was a stupid thing to wish for, in part because it would not happen. LeRois had run from the

guardship once. To save face with his men, he could not do it again. What was more, his running would not save the Plymouth Prizes. They would just have to pursue him and fight him sooner or later. They may as well do it now.

And of course, LeRois was not running. The Vengeance turned stern toward the Plymouth Prize and kept turning, coming around on the other tack so she would be clear of the merchantman and have open water enough to maneuver.

“Mr. Rakestraw, I’ll thank you to stream the drogue,” Marlowe called.

The merchantman was sailing away, heading upriver, trying to put the Plymouth Prize between herself and the pirate ship. Marlowe could see a few figures on her quarterdeck waving their thanks and relief to the guardship. She was a slovenly-looking tub, from what Marlowe could see, but he had no more thought to spare for her. Let her get away. He had a fight think about.

He felt the guardship give a tiny jerk as the drogue filled with water and dragged astern, and her speed was cut nearly in half.

A quarter of a mile away the Vengeance began to fire, the round shot dropping all around the Plymouth Prize. On occasion they scored a hit, embedding a ball in the side or punching a hole in the sails, but they did no more damage than that.

“Mr. Middleton,” Marlowe called down into the waist, “let us hold our fire until we are broadside and a bit closer, and then we shall unleash the furies of hell upon him.”

“Furies of hell, aye, sir!” Middleton called back. He was grinning, as were many of the Prizes.

Good God, they are looking forward to this, Marlowe thought.

He turned to address Bickerstaff and was surprised to find Elizabeth still standing there. That would never do.

“Elizabeth, pray, come with me. I will show you the best place to hide yourself when it gets hot.”

He led the way down the quarterdeck ladder and through the scuttle, then aft into the great cabin, where Lucy sat hud

dled in a corner, terrified, like a trapped chipmunk. Marlowe glanced at her and tried to think of some words that might cheer her, but could not.

Instead he pulled two pistols from a case on the sideboard and checked the prime in the pan.

“Elizabeth,” he said, handing her the guns. “I want you to take Lucy and retreat down to the cable tier. Take the guns with you. I shall send for you when this is over. But I must be honest with you. We may not win the day, and if we do not, you do not want to be found out.”

He felt his voice waver, and he paused and swallowed and then with great effort managed to continue in an all-but-normal tone. “If we are taken, if you are certain we are taken, do not waste these bullets trying to defend yourselves.”

Elizabeth took the guns and clasped them to her chest.

“I understand, Thomas. Godspeed.”

“Godspeed, Elizabeth. I love you very much.” With that he turned and disappeared from the great cabin before he could further embarrass himself.

They had halved the distance to the Vengeance by the time Marlowe regained the quarterdeck. The two ships were closing fast, though not as fast as they would have if the Plymouth Prize had not been streaming the drogue astern. The wind was off the guardship’s starboard quarter and all the canvas to topgallants was straining in the breeze, and Marlowe could feel the sluggishness underfoot as the vessel dragged the canvas cone through the water.

And that was fine. He was in no hurry to plunge into this fight, and the extra time meant more opportunity for the merchantman to escape.

“Stand ready on your starboard broadside,” Marlowe called down into the waist.

The Plymouth Prizes were hunched over their guns, watching the target draw closer. It would be a battle with great guns that morning, Marlowe had decided. He could not let the Vengeances board; they would overrun his men in no time. There

had to be almost twice the number of pirates as there were guardship’s men.

But the pirates would not have the discipline to load and run out, load and run out, keeping up a constant barrage like his own, better-trained men. What was more, the Vengeance looked like a tired ship, worn and battered and not able to endure that kind of beating. If the Plymouth Prize could just stand off and pound away at them, they would win the day, and the loss of life would be minimal.

The loss of life on the Prize, in any event. All of the Vengeances would die. They were Marlowe’s past, and they had to be stamped out.

King James climbed up the quarterdeck ladder and walked aft, taking his place behind Marlowe. He looked terrible. His face was battered. He walked with a painful limp, but Marlowe knew better than to try and order him below. He nodded a greeting and James nodded back, and Marlowe turned his attention back to the Vengeance.

She was still firing, scoring more hits as the two vessels closed, but still Marlowe held his fire. They were no more than a cable length apart. In less than a minute it would be time to blast them to hell.

He swept the dark hull with his glass. The Vengeance was not nearly as battered as he would have thought, after exchanging fire with the merchantman for over an hour. Of course, the merchantman’s crew could not be counted on for accurate gunfire, but still they were so close it would seem impossible for them to have missed. And yet the Vengeance showed no sign of even having been in a fight.

Marlowe felt that first spark of suspicion flare up and glow in his mind, just as the lookout sang out again.

“On deck! Merchantman’s hauled his wind!”

“What in hell is he about?” Rakestraw asked of no one in particular.

The big black merchantman, all but forgotten until that moment, had already completed her turn and was running

down on them as fast as she had been running away just a mo

ment before.

“Is he coming to our aid?” Rakestraw asked.

Marlowe laughed, despite himself.

“Not our aid, Lieutenant,” Bickerstaff supplied. “I believe it is his intention to give succor to the pirate, not us.”

“Sir, I don’t understand-”

“He fooled us,” Marlowe said bitterly. “He lured us right in like the fish we are. The battle was a sham, the brigands have both ships, and now we are trapped betwixt them, goddamn me for an idiot.”

Rakestraw’s eyes went noticeably wider as he realized their situation. “What shall we do, sir?”

“Die, I should think, if we let them trap us thus. Goddamn me, this is all but exactly what I did to him! How could I be so damned stupid? Mr. Middleton!”

The second officer looked up and waved.

“You shall have time for perhaps two broadsides. Make them count. Fire when you are ready, but soon, if you please.”

“Aye, sir! Fire!” Middleton strung the words together, and the gun crews, ready for the past ten minutes, lit off their great guns in one solid wall of smoke and flames and noise.

With some satisfaction Marlowe witnessed the destruction unleashed on the Vengeance, the old Vengeance, for he had no doubt that the new, big merchantman astern was the newest vessel to bear that hated name. A section of the bulwark was torn away. He saw one gun at least upended, heard the high-pitched shriek of a man trapped under half a ton of hot metal.

The Prizes were reloading under the urgent prompting of Lieutenant Middleton, or seeking out victims over the tops of their falconets, blasting the pirate with muzzle loads of glass and twisted metal. But there were not that many targets to be found, for the old Vengeance seemed to be lightly manned.

Just enough on board to make a great show with unshotted guns, Marlowe thought. He felt the anger, the disgust. How could he be so stupid? Would they all die because of his idiocy? Would Elizabeth have the courage to put a bullet in

her head, or would the pirates find her, huddled in a dark corner, and…

He shook his head, shook it hard, driving the thoughts from his mind. In the waist the Prizes were running out again, firing again. He saw rigging aboard their target swept away like spiderwebs, saw more of the rail collapse. But that was enough of that. He did not want to attack that old and worn-out ship, because that was what LeRois wanted him to do.

“Hands to braces! Starboard your helm!” Marlowe shouted, just able to hear himself through dulled and ringing ears. The Plymouth Prize turned northerly, swinging away from the old, damaged pirate.

The black merchantman was bearing down on them now, not two cable lengths away. The brigands were crowding into the bows and head rig, making ready to board. There was many times the number of men aboard her than there was aboard the other ship. Marlowe could picture the bastards huddled down behind the bulwark, snickering at the great deception they were carrying off, fooling the very ship that had fooled them so.

“Damn my eyes, damn my eyes to hell,” Marlowe muttered, then called down to Middleton, “Man the larboard battery. Hit ’em as hard as ever you can!”

Middleton had already shifted his men across the deck, and on Marlowe’s word he yelled “Fire!” and the larboard guns went off.

The merchantman was coming bow-on, and the Plymouth Prize’s guns swept the length of her deck. Marlowe could see some damage wrought by the fire-a cathead blown apart, the spritsail topmast shot in two, perhaps half a dozen of the enemy tossed back on their deck-but he could see nothing beyond that. He had anticipated a duel with the great guns, so the cannon was loaded with round shot, not case shot or langrage. They may have killed a few of the pirates, and that would be a fine thing, but he knew that there were plenty more to take their place.

And then he heard it. The lone voice, deep, slow, chanting, “Death, death, death…”

Heads aboard the Plymouth Prize looked up, peered over rails and through gunports. The black merchantman was two hundred yards away, a single cable length, and steering to smash into the guardship’s side.

“Death, death, death…” The voice was joined by another and another, and then the terrible pounding started, and the fiddle and the bones banging together. Most of the pirates were on the merchantman’s deck, shielded from the Prize’s great guns by the bulwark. The men of the Plymouth Prize could hear the terrible vaporing, but they could see only a fraction of the enemy, and that made it more terrifying still.

“Fire! Keep firing, damn your eyes!” Middleton shouted.

The men fired again, and the falconets blasted away, and when the noise had subsided and the smoke blown past, it was still there, the black ship coming on, the horrible cacophony, “Death, death, death…”

“Sir, shall I stand the men ready to repel boarders?” Rakestraw asked.

“What?” Marlowe was jerked from the horrible vision. “Oh, yes, pray do.” He still did not intend for there to be any boarders, but he had already made several atrocious mistakes that day, and there was still time for more.

The pirate, the new Vengeance, was one hundred yards from the guardship, her bowsprit pointed right at the Prize’s waist. Marlowe could picture the sea of pirates breaking over the rail, pouring down on the deck, sweeping all away before them.

Rakestraw was pushing the men to the sides and others back as reserves, ordering them to take up their small arms, telling them to stand fast. But telling them would not do. This was not the drunken lot at Smith Island. This was the crew of the Vengeance. This was LeRois.

Fifty yards separated the ships when the flag broke out at the mainmast head, the grinning skull and swords and hourglass in sharp relief against the black field, and the rhythmic

vaporing broke down into random screaming and gunshots. Marlowe felt his guts turn liquid.

LeRois is just a man, he thought to himself, but he did not believe that in any way that mattered. He had seen LeRois live despite inhuman wounds, had witnessed him torturing prisoners in ways that could not be countenanced by any creature in possession of a soul. After years in the sweet trade, it remained that Jean-Pierre LeRois was the only man of whom Marlowe was frightened.

He clamped his teeth together, balled his fists.

In his mind he was there again, on the deck of another Vengeance, knowing that he had to best LeRois or die the kind of protracted death that only LeRois could arrange. He was there, face-to-face with that madman, sword against sword.

“Oh, damn me to hell,” he said. They were thirty yards apart and the Vengeance was committed to her course. Marlowe realized he may have left it until it was too late.

“Rakestraw! Rakestraw!” The first officer looked up. “Cut the damned drogue away! Cut it now!”

There was a second’s confusion on the man’s face, enough for a curse to form on Marlowe’s lips, and then he understood and raced aft with all the speed that Marlowe could wish.

The Vengeance was twenty yards away, running downwind, turning slightly to keep her bow pointed at the Plymouth Prize’s side.

And then, through the screaming and the gunfire and the cheering of his own men Marlowe heard the distinct thump of Rakestraw’s ax coming down on the line holding the drogue. He heard it again, and then the Plymouth Prize seemed to leap forward under his feet, bounding away like a wild animal set free from a leash.

The Vengeance, which had been abeam of them, was suddenly astern. She turned hard, trying to keep on her collision course, but the pirates were gathered in the bow, ready to board, not standing to the braces, and the sails that were set for a downwind run began to flog and collapse as the bow came up.

Marlowe could hear the vaporing dying away, could hear a voice, a voice he recognized-heavy, indistinct, the accent thick-calling the hands to trim the sails.

“Come up, come up!” Marlowe shouted to the helmsmen. They pushed the tiller over and the Prize turned further upwind, her bow pointing upriver in the direction from which they had come. “Good, steady as she goes! Make your head to pass Hog Island!” He did not know where he was going, he knew only that he had to get away from that place, away from that ship.

“Permission to fire, sir?” Middleton called from the waist.

Marlowe glanced over at the Vengeance. She was almost abeam of them, and they were passing on opposite tacks. “Yes, yes, fire!”

The guns went off in a ragged order, and each shot told on the pirate just forty yards abeam. The Vengeance was turning hard, and her yards were swinging as the braces were manned at last, but she had lost a great deal of distance. Now she would be in the Plymouth Prize’s wake and catching the guardship would be no mean feat.

Marlowe picked up his telescope from the binnacle box and put it to his eye. He felt a wave of terror and fascination all at once, like watching a pack of wolves from what one hopes is a safe distance.

There were any number of the villains on the Vengeance’s quarterdeck, since a pirate did not observe any of the distinctions of rank found aboard a man-of-war or any other vessel on earth. Some were bare-chested or wore only waistcoats; others were fully dressed in clothes that might have once been fine garments. All were well armed, he could see that, but that was no surprise.

And then he was there, a head taller then the rest, his great mass filling Marlowe’s lens as he screamed orders forward. LeRois’s face was red and contorted with rage. He was stomping around, slashing at the rail with the sword he held in his hand, gesturing wildly.

The Frenchman would be as furious about the drogue as Marlowe was about the mock battle. They were pirates both, brigands and villains, and neither of them liked to be played for a fool.

Marlowe saw LeRois pause in his tirade and look over at the guardship. It seemed as if he was looking right down the tube of Marlowe’s telescope. Then the pirate picked up his own glass, and as their ships drew apart the two men stared at each other across the water.

Marlowe saw LeRois let his glass fall to his side. He looked frightened and confused, quite in contrast to the LeRois of a few seconds before. The pirate put the glass back up to his eye, and then down again, up and down, three times.

And then LeRois staggered back and pointed the glass up and up until it seemed to Marlowe that he must be staring straight into the sun. And then, a second later, it seemed as if something inside the pirate exploded.

He flung the glass over the side of his ship and pulled a pistol from his belt, cocked it, and fired it straight at Marlowe.

Marlowe jumped in surprise-it was startling, magnified as it was by the glass-but he was quite out of pistol range. LeRois flung the gun down, grabbed another, fired that as well. He was waving his arms, shouting at the men around him, gesturing at the guardship.

He has seen me, Marlowe thought. He has seen me and recognized me, and now he knows it is not just a king’s ship he is pursuing, it is Malachias Barrett.

God help me, God help us all, if he runs us down.