The Pirate Round

Chapter 3

ROGER PRESS sat back in the velvet wing chair and worked the silver toothpick around with his tongue. He liked the feel of the hard, smooth metal between his lips. The toothpick was almost a part of him now, a constant companion. He gave no thought to it as he worked it into his gums, probing them till they bled. He liked the coppery taste of the blood in his mouth.

In his hand he held a snifter of brandy. He pushed the toothpick to one side, tucked it in his cheek, and sipped the liquor. Magnificent. These rich bastards drank it like water. The brandy mixed with the blood in his mouth, swirled down his throat.

Tall and thin, but not handsomely so, with big hands and feet, joints like doorknobs, his face scarred from a childhood bout of the smallpox, his teeth growing black around the edges and often painful, Captain Roger Press was not a lovely man to look on. And so the other men in that richly appointed drawing room arranged themselves in their seats, busied themselves with some little thing, and avoided his eyes.

In the uncomfortable silence he glanced down at the snifter, the knife-edge rim, the seemingly impossible delicacy of the glass. He could crush it in his hand, make it explode into a thousand glittering fragments. The thin glass probably would not even cut through his cal used palms.

That would surprise them.

“Captain Press…” The older one broke the silence. Sir Edmund Winston. He was the owner of the house in which they sat, a grand edifice that fronted on Pall Mall. It was one of a half dozen he owned, the house he used when he was in London for the season.

Sir Edmund blathered some nonsense about how grateful they were that he could come. Press worked the toothpick in his mouth and ran his eyes over the room. Rich velvet on the walls, portraits of brooding Winstons glaring down at this coarse intruder. A carpet laid over the polished oak floor, the kind that a younger, diffident Press might have been afraid to step on.

Ten o’clock in the evening. Four bells in the night watch. Outside it was black night, but the chandelier overhead held enough candles that the room was brightly lit.

More money in this one room than most men I know would see in a lifetime.

And he was the guest of honor.

“Captain Press,” another of them was saying. Hobkins. This one was Hobkins. Owned a Jamaican sugar plantation, did a big business in slaves and silk from the Orient. Owned a dozen ships at least. Roger pulled his eyes from the silver arranged on the sideboard and met his eyes. The man was all silk and ruffles and chins.

“Captain, as you are no doubt aware, we here represent a good portion of the shipping between England and the Moorish countries. India, the Arabian lands, the Spice Islands. Thinking of getting into China trade. But that is not your concern, of course.”

Press looked long and hard at him, but the man would not flinch. He was flabby, but he was not weak. Weak men did not become as powerful as Hobkins.

Still, Press could hear the note of discomfort in his voice. Roger Press was not a subtle man. He had not gained his place through intrigue and manipulation, as these men had. He had fought and killed his way up, used and discarded men, won his present notoriety by being meaner and bolder than most, and outlasting the rest. He exuded violence, and it frightened these civilized men.

“Of course,” Press agreed.

“Our problem is this, and this is where you are concerned.” Another, Robert Richmond, took up the discussion. “We are suffering the most egregious depredations in the Indian Ocean. These so-called privateers, these Roundsmen, hunting after the Moorish treasure ships. The current Great Mogul is a bloody-minded heathen named Aurangzeb. Thinks the company is in league with these pirates. Even imprisoned our manager and fifty of our men till he could be convinced otherwise.”

“And it’s not just the Moors these rogues hunt neither,” Winston continued. “The villains are attacking our shipping. British East Indiamen. It’s piracy, is what it is, and it must be stopped.”

“Indeed.” Set a thief to catch a thief. Press had been as much pirate as any of those in Madagascar, and these men knew it. He had been granted a letter of marque and reprisal at the outbreak of the present war, had fought a few hard actions as a privateer, taken a few valuable and legitimate prizes. Now he was a sought-after fighting man.

Well, he would take their money and let them kiss his arse, one and all.

“Navy’s not worth a damn,” Sir Edmund continued. “Too busy with the rutting French to bother with the pirates in Madagascar. What we need is to make a show in the Indian Ocean. A show for this nigger Aurangzeb and for the damned pirates, too. Show them all we will not tolerate this nonsense any longer.”

“But I had thought the East India Company ships were armed like men-of-war,” Press said, deigning to make his first comment. “Sure they should be enough to fight pirates or Moors?” It was a question, the answer to which he already knew. But he wanted to make them say it. It would further reinforce his own invaluable stature.

“The company ships are armed, to be sure. But they are too damned weak to do any good. A drain on resources, worse than useless. Can’t find any active or intelligent men to command, can’t find enough men to man them like a fighting ship.”

What you mean, Press thought, is that you will not pay for enough men to man them like a fighting ship.

“And that, Captain, is where you come in,” said Hobkins.

“More brandy with you, sir?” asked Sir Edmund.

“Yes.”

Sir Edmund snapped his fingers. The attending servant filled Press’s snifter and then the other men’s.

“We are putting together our own expedition,” Sir Edmund continued, getting to the heart of the thing. “Two ships. A decent-size manof-war and a tender, also armed. The man-of-war is a frigate, sold out of the navy. We have named her the Queen’s Venture. And we’ve secured a royal commission for the hunting of pirates. Gives quite a bit of latitude.”

“We reckon it makes more sense for us all to pool our resources and put together an expedition that can genuinely be effective,” Richmond added.

Press nodded, sipped brandy. You bunch of tightfisted bloody buggerers, he thought. You could build a fucking armada, the money you got. One rotten old man-of-war and a tender! Cheap, bloody-

“We think you are the man to lead this thing,” Sir Edmund said. “No one expects you can entirely wipe out the villains in the Indian Ocean. But we want a lesson taught, do you see? Show ’em they ain’t as safe as they reckon. Go after them on the high seas and in their so-called strongholds on the island of Madagascar.”

“And St. Mary’s,” Press interjected. “Hotbed of piracy, St. Mary’s. It cannot be ignored.”

“Yes, yes, St. Mary’s, of course. You’ll receive the same pay as the captain of an East Indiaman, plus a double share of the prize money.”

“Twenty-five percent of the prize money,” Press said.

“Twenty-five… well, now…” Sir Edmund blustered, looking to his fellows for support.

You fat bastards, thought Press. You want to drive the pirates out and get richer still on prize money and plunder. Playing both ends of it, and me in the middle to do the dirty business.

“I don’t see how we can…” Sir Edmund said, in a tone that would admit no argument.

“Twenty-five percent or I shall bid you good day.” He took the silver toothpick between thumb and forefinger, stabbed it into his gum.

More muttering, soft consultation, and then Sir Edmund said, “Very well. Twenty-five percent.”

Press smiled. “You see, gentlemen, it would seem I am a pirate still!”

That joke received only weak smiles, a few uneasy glances. These men, Press knew, did not care to traffic with the likes of him, even if he was now a wealthy and famous privateersman, his clothing almost as fine as theirs. He reckoned they would burn the chair he was sitting in once he left, and toss away the glass he had used.

They despised him, feared him. Five years ago they would have seen him hanged, if he had come before the judges they controlled. But now they needed him.

That did not bother Press in the least. Being despised was nothing new to him.

For that matter, he would have taken their damned two shares if they had been more insistent. He didn’t care about that either. All that really mattered was that these stupid bastards were going to give him two powerful ships and a private army and governmental permission to rampage through the Indian Ocean.

They had specifically said that he was to go to St. Mary’s. That was what mattered.

“So, Captain, you will accept this commission?”

“Yes, Sir Edmund, I do believe I will.”

The Elizabeth Galley rolled along under a perfect sky, taking the sixteen knots of wind on the quarter and plowing an easy course through the blue, blue sea.

Their heading was a little south of east, their destination Bermuda. A lovely island. Thomas had persuaded Elizabeth that they should call there en route to London. The beauty of the place aside, they needed another six able-bodied seamen at least, if they were going to sail or fight their way unescorted through the cordon of pirates and French privateers that patrolled the approaches to the English Channel.

Newport or New York might have been better choices for that, but Marlowe did not care to put in at those places. Too many faces from the sweet trade, he argued, wandering about those waterfronts. Too many ghosts.

The wind had not failed them, and the ship worked as if she had never been laid up. The young black men from Marlowe House had labored at setting up the masts and rigging-the very best possible training-and so terms such as “topsail weather brace” and “fore course clew garnets” were perfectly familiar to them by the time they were under way. Halfway to Bermuda, and they were well advanced in their new careers as sailors.

The lookouts aloft had sighted three sail in the course of the passage, each one a potential enemy, each a potentially grave threat to the unarmed ex-privateer, but they had left each of them below the horizon. The Elizabeth Galley was still a fast ship.

They raised Bermuda a fortnight after getting under way, and the following morning the Elizabeth Galley stood in past Spanish Point. The men crowded the rails, the officers and Elizabeth on the quarterdeck, as Bermuda’s Great Sound opened up before them and they swung off to the east, threading their way into Hamilton Harbor.

One of Honeyman’s sailors was in the chains with the lead, another up in the foretop scouting for coral. They were quiet men and somewhat surly, like Honeyman himself, but they were thoroughgoing sailors, and Marlowe had come to rely on them during the fitting out and the crossing to Bermuda.

“Have you been to Bermuda before, Mr. Dinwiddie?” Marlowe asked the first officer as the ship crept along under fore topsail alone.

“The one time, in ’89. Lovely place. I’ve entertained thoughts often enough of settling here, get some little enterprise or other going.”

They rounded up, and Marlowe gave Honeyman in the bow a wave, and Honeyman ordered the anchor let go. It plunged into the bright blue-green water of the harbor, and the Elizabeth Galley came to rest.

They fired a salute to the governor, Isaac Richier, whom Marlowe knew only by reputation. Dinwiddie sent hands aloft to stow sail. Marlowe sent his compliments to Richier, along with a letter of introduction from Governor Nicholson. The boat brought back an invitation to dinner.

“Mr. Dinwiddie, I do hope you will join us at the governor’s dinner?” Marlowe said. It was an offhand remark, an invitation of no great importance as far as Marlowe was concerned, and so he was surprised to find Peleg somewhat flustered at the thought.

“Dinner, you say? At the governor’s?”

“Yes…”

“Did he… Surely he didn’t specifically ask that I should join you?”

“No, not by name. I fear your fame has not spread this far. But he says ‘any of your officers whom you would please to bring,’ and I would certainly please to bring you.”

“Oh, well…” Peleg smiled, then frowned, and then without another word dove below.

An hour later he knocked on the great cabin door, where Elizabeth and Thomas had just finished dressing for dinner. He was red-faced and sweating under a battered wig, much in need of powder, that did not quite cover all the hair he had tried to stuff under it.

He wore a red wool coat that must have been packed away for special occasions-the creases still stood out boldly where it had been folded. His breeches were a bit tighter than one might wish, and his calves were enveloped in plain wool stockings. He wore his only pair of shoes, battered and misshapen. They had not been improved by his attempt to polish them.

“Good day, Captain. Mrs. Marlowe,” he said, stiff and formal, which was not his way. “I hope my appearance will do the ship credit?”

Marlowe did not know what to say. Peleg was a fine officer, a good man, and Marlowe counted him a friend. He should have guessed that Peleg was just a simple sailor, uncomfortable with formal affairs, with little sense for how to handle them.

He shook his head. Who have I become? Ten years before he would not have been able to muster half the social grace that Peleg was displaying. He’d been a drinking, whoring, fighting pirate; the only intercourse the Marlowe of a decade before would have had with a governor would be to stand before him at the bar and plead not guilty.

And here he was, dressed out in a tailored silk coat and embroidered waistcoat, silk stockings, shoes like polished ebony with silver buckles, giving never a thought to dining with the royal governor of Bermuda.

He did not know what to say to Peleg Dinwiddie.

Elizabeth, fortunately, was the soul of tact. There was nothing she did not understand about putting a man at ease. She breezed across the cabin in a rustle of silk and taffeta, her long blond hair swept behind. In that rough male world of the ship, she was like a shaft of light breaking through a thick cover of clouds.

She took Peleg by the shoulders, looked him up and down, and said, “Peleg Dinwiddie! I would never have recognized you, and all this time me thinking you were just a plain old sailor man!”

Peleg beamed at the praise. Elizabeth could come across as sincere as an altar boy if she wished, and Peleg never even noticed the segue as she eased his coat off and said, “I do believe the steward has my iron still hot. Let him run it over your coat and freshen it up a tad. Thomas, do you not have another pair of silk stockings?”

Half an hour of Elizabeth’s ministrations, during which she gently foisted on Peleg Thomas’s stockings and extra shoes and convinced him that he could go wigless (he did not, she suggested, wish to appear more formal than his captain), and Peleg looked, if not good, at least not like a man who would be subject to ridicule.

Francis Bickerstaff joined them in the waist, dressed in his usual conservative manner. Marlowe saw his eyes sweep Dinwiddie head to foot, just a glance, and though his face did not change in the least, Marlowe knew that his friend had divined the entire story in that one look.

They took the longboat over to the landing, with Duncan Honey-man as coxswain. He brought the boat up to the low stone quay, and Marlowe stepped out and gave Elizabeth his hand, and after her came Bickerstaff and Dinwiddie.

Marlowe gave Honeyman instructions for when to return, along with a stern warning to keep the boat crew away from the taverns and the bumboat men who would sell them rum. All this Honeyman received with a nod of assurance and a desultory “Aye, sir.”

A carriage from the governor met them on the quay and conveyed them through the narrow, cobbled streets, lined with two-story stucco homes, verandas looking down from overhead, bright flowers spilling from boxes. It felt more Spanish than English, and it was lovely.

They came at last to the governor’s house on the top of a hill that afforded them a view of the town and Hamilton Harbor. They were greeted at the door by Governor Isaac Richier himself, portly and red-faced but effusive in his welcome. The letter of introduction from Governor Nicholson had put them in good stead.

Richier swept them into the mansion, pointed out this and that, summoned servants to bring drinks, food, chairs.

They dined for two hours, going from soup to brandy and pipes, at which point Elizabeth grudgingly retired with the governor’s wife and left the men alone. It was an amiable gathering, an enjoyable meal, the conversation lively if not of great import.

Richier was a fine host, able to keep the talk flowing, with help from Marlowe, who had a sailor’s knack for spinning a tale, and Bickerstaff, who, if not exactly loquacious, was at least conversant on a surprising number of subjects. Even Dinwiddie managed to participate, alternating between bouts of talkativeness and periods of silent concentration on his dinner.

It was nearly midnight when they departed. They stepped into the wide foyer of the governor’s mansion, walking in a companionable group. As the carriage rumbled up just beyond the tall front doors, Marlowe said, “Governor, I wonder if I might trouble you for an audience tomorrow morning. There are sundry affairs I wish to discuss, regarding the Elizabeth Galley.” He gave Richier a smile. “Too dull to bore the present company with.”

“Of course, of course. I am always available to you,” Richier said.

“Shall we say ten?”

“Perhaps eleven would be better, if that is not inconvenient.”

“Eleven it is, then.”

The carriage brought them back through the now-dark streets, to the quay where the longboat was waiting, oars shipped, the boat crew talking softly.

Marlowe stepped aboard, looked with hawk eyes for any sign of drunkenness, sniffed for the smell of rum, but he could detect none. Honeyman apparently had been as good as his word. He had resisted the temptation of the nearby taverns and had made his men do the same. It was not a test many sailors would have passed.

They settled into the stern sheets, Honeyman gave a soft order, and the boat crew pulled for the Elizabeth Galley. It was quiet for a long moment, and then Peleg Dinwiddie, in a voice that sounded barely contained, said, “Damn me, but wasn’t that one damned fine affair! Beg your pardon, Mrs. Marlowe.”

After breakfast the following morning, and discussions with Dinwiddie and Honeyman concerning supplies that still needed procuring and the best tactics for finding the half dozen seamen they needed, the three men went ashore.

Dinwiddie went off to haggle with chandlers, the few in the small town of Hamilton. Honeyman did not say specifically where he was bound, but he was on the lookout for recruits, so Marlowe guessed it was taverns and whorehouses.

Marlowe himself headed for the governor’s mansion.

He found the governor in his office, a tall room, whitewashed, with windows floor to ceiling that gave the occupant a grand view of the island that was his to administer. He stood and shook Marlowe’s hand, and they made their greetings, Marlowe thanking him once more for dinner.

“Delighted to have you, delighted,” the governor assured him, indicating a chair in front of the desk. Marlowe sat, and the governor sat as well.

“You mentioned ‘sundry affairs’ last night. Is there something your ship requires, something I might be of assistance in arranging?”

“Perhaps,” Marlowe said. “As to stores and such, my first officer is seeing to that. But there is one thing that is more your domain…”

Marlowe leaned back, crossed his legs, assumed a casual air. He had planned this moment for weeks but still was not sure what he was doing, or why.

He had not lied to Elizabeth about wanting to show her the island, but that alone would not have been enough to justify calling there.

He had, in fact, lied to Peleg and Bickerstaff about not finding enough sailors in Norfolk. He had purposely held off buying sufficient cordage and salt beef for the voyage, claimed he could not find them in the colonies, that they would have to look in at Bermuda for them. All those lies, just to arrive at this moment.

What am I doing?

“We are taking tobacco to London, as you know. Arranged one of those permits to sail without convoy. But after that, I had a thought to not return to Virginia right off. I was thinking, what with the war, perhaps privateering might be the thing-”

“Oh, privateering, yes!” The governor threw up his hands. “Everyone wants to go privateering, think they’ll make their fortune.” He laid his hands palms down on his desk, looked Marlowe in the eye. “You are looking for a commission, I’ll warrant. Certainly I have the authority to grant a commission, like any royal governor. And I daresay I wish I could.

“I perceive you are a gentleman, sir, and not of the same kidney as some of these other villains. They get a commission and then it is ‘Steer for Madagascar!’ and they are pirating any vessel crosses their path. No, my dear Marlowe, I fear that the government is quite fed up with privateers, and they would not look with favor upon my granting one more commission.”

Coy bastard, Marlowe thought. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather purse that was heavy enough to serve as a formidable weapon. He held it up, just for a second, then let it fall on the governor’s desk. It made a heavy chink sound as it hit, the unmistakable tone of gold coin upon gold coin.

“Of course,” Thomas said, as if Richier had never spoken, “I understand that there are certain administrative costs involved in such a thing…”

For the next ten minutes they did not speak. Marlowe stared out one of the tall windows at the lovely harbor, the Elizabeth Galley like a toy far below, while Governor Richier wrote out the commission for privateering.