James Nelson - The Pirate Round

“I’m surprised to see you alive,” Marlowe said, finding his voice at last. “Now I shall have to kill you again.”

Press’s smile turned to a smirk. “Again? You did not kill me the first time. Nor all the others that have tried. It don’t appear I can be killed.”

That voice! Just the sound of it and Marlowe went reeling back seventeen years, across the Atlantic, across the Spanish Main. He felt suddenly a bit unsteady.

He saw himself once again leading a band of thirty ragged buccaneers up the narrow, cobbled streets of Nombre de Dios.

He could see the pistol in his left hand, the sword in his right, the same sword that now hung from his belt. Another brace of pistols hanging from a ribbon around his neck, slapping against his chest as he ran, his clubbed hair thumping against his back. A red sash around his waist, patched slop trousers.

Up the narrow street, walled in by two- and three-story stucco buildings, bright shutters slammed tight against the marauders. Nombre de Dios-it was not the orgy of gold and silver that it had been in Drake’s time, but it was wealthy enough still to make it worth attacking and weak enough that it might fall to the sixty or so men who came from the sea to plunder the place.

Came in before dawn in longboats from the pirate ship Fury. Malachias Barrett, quartermaster. Roger Press, captain.

The buccaneers were shouting, firing their pistols, racing to the citadel that dominated the center of the Spanish colonial town. Faces peered from windows and quickly withdrew. Civilians with sword or pistol appeared before them, ready to defend their city, and fled or were cut down by the pirate juggernaut.

Attack the citadel, draw out the few soldiers that were there, engage them in a desperate fight, and then Roger Press at the head of the other thirty would appear from the west, plunge into the brawl, and together they would overwhelm the Spaniards. That was the plan: simple, easily accomplished, no great risk, and when they were done, Nombre de Dios would be theirs to sack at leisure.

The road ran like the spoke of a wheel to a wide central hub, in the middle of which loomed the great citadel that protected the town. Marlowe-Malachias Barrett-stopped short, and behind him his band did likewise.

The sweat soaked through his loose shirt, and he could feel the warm cobblestones through the thick, callused soles of his bare feet. He caught his breath, readjusted his sweating grip on the sword as the big doors of the citadel burst open and the soldiers with gleaming helmets and breastplates and swords and muskets charged out.

“Steady, lads, they’re coming right to us!” Marlowe shouted, and from behind him came grunts, howls, jeers, curses. These men were les boucaniers, the Brethren of the Coast, and they were not afraid of two dozen Spaniards or ten dozen. They saw those men only as an obstacle between themselves and the riches of Nombre de Dios, the pleasure of sacking a town, and they wanted to be at them.

And Captain Press would be there at any moment, hitting the Spaniards on their flank.

An order shouted out in rapid Spanish, and the soldiers shouldered muskets. Marlowe raised his pistol, leveled it at the officer’s face, twenty feet away, pulled the trigger, and saw the man’s helmet plucked from his head, heard the ringing of the metal, just as the soldiers opened up with a rippling volley.

Bullets flying past, screams from behind, and then with a shout Marlowe led his men forward, wild buccaneers crashing into the Spaniards, pikes and swords flashing, pistols cracking back and forth, battle cries in Spanish and the polyglot voices of the pirates, English and French and Dutch. The noise echoed off the close buildings, seemed twice as loud.

It was a desperate fight, the Spaniards taking heart from the small number of attackers, not knowing, as Marlowe did, that Roger Press would be there soon. Men fell-Spanish, pirates-blood ran between the cobblestones as both sides fought on, neither yielding, neither advancing.

Ten minutes of that-it seemed like hours-and Marlowe began to wonder where Press was. They had landed at the same time, set off on their different routes at the same time-he should be there.

Marlowe had an indefinable sense of his men falling back, a step, another, and the Spaniards were pushing forward.

Press, goddamn your eyes, now, now!

It was not possible that the Spanish would repel them, but they were outnumbered and… Where was Press?

Another step back, yielding ground now to the Spaniards, who were fighting with a ferocity that Marlowe would not have expected from them. He saw one of his men go down, a Frenchman named Jean-Claude, and a big Spanish sword finished him, nearly severed his head.

“Steady, steady!” Marlowe shouted, loud as he could. He was gasping for breath, his sword beating back two and three men at a time, and he was stepping back as well. He could feel the men’s resolve wavering, their fighting madness a fog burning away.

And then they were running, fleeing down the street up which they had come, and behind them the jeers of the Spanish soldiers, the most humiliating sound that Marlowe had ever heard before or since.

Down to the landing, the fifteen men who had lived through that vicious fight, panting, limping, bleeding. Humiliated and defeated.

And there was Roger Press and the thirty men who were to have hit the Spanish flank. They had found the government countinghouse, overwhelmed the guard, carted off quantities of gold and silver. They were just loading it in the boats as Marlowe’s men were falling under the Spaniards’ swords.

Harsh words passed between the two groups of men, weapons were brandished. After a moment of shouting it became clear that Press had lied to his men, led them to believe that the plan had been changed at the last moment, that they were not to support Marlowe’s men at all.

Clear out the countinghouse and make for the ships. Let the Spaniards take care of Marlowe and the rest. Halve the number of men with whom the booty would be shared. That was Press’s intention. It had almost worked.

Marlowe blinked hard, brought himself back to the warehouse, the cool, foggy night on the London waterfront. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr. Dickerson peer out of his office, assess the situation, then disappear again, like a weasel down its hole.

“The last time I saw you,” Marlowe said, “we had marooned you for cowardice and for betraying us all at Nombre de Dios. I am sorry to see you did not die on that spit of sand. We left you with a bottle of water and a loaded pistol, as I recall. I am sorry you did not see fit to use the pistol to do the honorable thing.”

Press just smirked, shifted the toothpick-that damned toothpick!- back and forth. He had the advantage now: two men at his back and Marlowe by himself. No need for fast talk this time, for arguments, denials, such as he had made when his own men had put him on trial.

He had tried to make it all sound reasonable, an innocent mistake.

It had not worked. The men of the Fury had pronounced him guilty of cowardice and theft from his shipmates, the two most heinous crimes in the pirates’ code. Marooning, that had been the vote. It was the way with the Brethren of the Coast.

“No, Barrett, I did not use that bullet on myself. I waited. For eight days I roasted and starved and went near mad with thirst. I was ready to blow my brains out. Would have the next day, I have no doubt. But before I did, a ship came by and took me off.”

Marlowe sighed. “Very well, Press, let us be done with this. I shall fall on my sword if I have to look at your damned smirking face a moment more. Cold steel? Pistols? Or will you have these apes murder me while you stand safely by? That would be more your manner of doing things, would it not?”