James Nelson - The Pirate Round

Press frowned, as if he did not understand. He took the toothpick from his mouth, held it like a conductor holding a baton. “Murder you? Cold steel? Really…”

“You will not go to the authorities, methinks. You would not care to hang at my side.”

“Ah, but, my dear Barrett, you see, I am the authorities now! I have a commission from the queen herself to hunt down pirates and bring them to justice. And I do believe I have caught my very first one. Gentlemen”-he turned to the men behind him, who looked very much like pirates in their own right-“pray remove Master Barrett’s sword. He and this lovely doxy will come with us.”

Marlowe did not resist as one of the men unbuckled his sword and handed it to Press. He doubted very much that Press was in the employ of the queen-the days of Francis Drake and even Henry Morgan were over-but it made little difference. Press was armed, and his two henchmen were armed, and so they could do pretty much as they pleased.

There might yet be an opportunity to escape, Marlowe understood, but this was not it.

“This… doxy… is a stranger to me. She has naught to do with this.”

“Oh, indeed? But I don’t believe you. In any event, we will straighten that out later.” Press tucked Marlowe’s sword under his arm, opened the door. He jerked his head toward the man with the ill-concealed pistol. The man pushed past Marlowe and disappeared into the street.

Very professional, Marlowe thought. No chance of fleeing that way. These villains knew their business.

“Pray, come along,” Press said politely.

Marlowe glanced at Elizabeth. Her lips were set, eyebrows together. He could see the fury held in check, the effort it was taking for her to remain silent. He could see her looking sharply around, looking for their chance, the opening to exploit, just as he was doing.

He gave her the slightest of nods, and she nodded back, stepped forward, through the door that Press held open. Marlowe followed and, behind them, Press and the second guard.

It was dark, and the fog had settled down on London like a thick wool blanket draped over a sleeping form. Twenty feet in any direction the wet streets and buildings disappeared in the haze. Here and there glowing ghosts of light showed where a lantern was lit against the gloom. The air was damp and pungent.

Marlowe paused, looked around-for what, he did not know. Something. Then Press gave him a push from behind, said, “Start walking. To your right. And none of your nonsense, or I shall shoot you before you are two steps gone. And I shall shoot this little bunter first. Or save her for my men.”

Marlowe gritted his teeth, began to walk. Press had a knack for finding the fissure and sticking the knife in, an ability to divine the most offensive statement and then give it voice. It was no wonder that others besides Marlowe had tried to kill him.

Marlowe guessed he himself would try again, and soon.

They stepped off into the dark and fog, the one guard leading the way, then Marlowe and Elizabeth side by side, then Press and the second guard.

This is it, Marlowe thought. There would not be a better chance at escape than now, on that open road, with the Elizabeth Galley’s boat just one hundred yards away. Three against one and he with never a weapon, but this was the main chance.

With each step Marlowe inched closer to the seawall that formed the left side of the street, a low stone wall, and beyond that a straight drop to the Thames below. He could hear the water washing against the ancient rock, but he could not see it in the fog.

Over his shoulder Press called to the guard leading the way, “Han-son, damn you, man, we have walked clean past Dock Street!”

Hanson turned, and Marlowe stumbled against a raised cobblestone, cursed, tried to regain his balance.

“Watch him!” Press shouted, saw the fake, took two quick steps forward. “Shoot him if he-”

Marlowe straightened, wheeled about, grabbed Press by the lapels of his coat, and twisted him around, nearly jerking him from his feet, slamming him into Hanson, who was pulling his gun and rushing back to grab the prisoner.

Press grunted with the impact, and Hanson staggered. Marlowe’s muscles screamed in pain-Press was a strong man, and heavy. The surprise worked for a second, no more, and then Press was fighting back.

Too close to draw a weapon, Press lashed out with his long arms, wrapped powerful fingers around Marlowe’s throat. Marlowe heard his sword drop from under Press’s arm, clatter on the road, heard Hanson cock his pistol, heard sharp footfalls behind as the second guard rushed up.

Press’s fingers were digging into Marlowe’s throat, crushing his windpipe, choking the life from him, but at least he was blocking Hanson’s shot.

He heard a gasp behind, and the footsteps stopped, and then a thud like a sack of flour hitting the road, and he guessed that Elizabeth had tripped up the running man.

Marlowe twisted, pushed away from Press until he was able to drive a fist up between Press’s arms and into his jaw-one powerful jab, then another-and another and then he felt Press’s grip weaken.

Both arms up between Press’s forearms, a jerk outward, and Press’s hold was broken. Marlowe could see that the big man was dazed by the blows. He grabbed Press’s lapels again, twisted him around. Press’s legs hit the low wall, which would have prevented a smaller man from falling but only served to trip Press up. One shove and he was over, falling in a flurry of coattails and gangly legs and arms.

Marlowe leaped to the street, heard Press hit the water as Hanson’s pistol discharged, the flash bright in the fog, the bullet whizzing overhead. He snatched up his sword and tried to recall if Press could swim. A flick of the wrist and the scabbard flew off, and he drove the blade into Hanson’s stomach as the man descended on him.

“Elizabeth! Get to the boat! Go! Go! Tell Dinwiddie to get ready to slip the cable!” he shouted even as he stood and pushed the sword deeper, then pulled it free and turned to face the next man.

He saw Elizabeth hesitate, one beat, two beats, unwilling to leave Marlowe behind. Ten feet away the second man. He had regained his feet after Elizabeth tripped him, sword drawn, hanging back. From the fog came more footfalls, and two more men resolved from the mist and took their place alongside the second man.

Damn him! Marlowe thought. Press had his guards, and he had two more trailing behind.

“Go!” he shouted again, and this time Elizabeth turned and fled down the road.

Three against one again. Marlowe faced them, sword drawn. The second guard pointed toward Elizabeth, running away down the street, shouted, “Stop that bitch!” and one of the new men charged after her as the other pulled a pistol from his belt.

Then everyone was moving at once. Marlowe took two big steps and flung himself at Elizabeth’s pursuer as he raced past. He was in midair when the pistol went off, and he felt the bullet rip through the flesh of his upper arm, and then he and the man were rolling on the street, the impact with the cobblestones thankfully dampened by the man’s body.

But that did nothing to ameliorate the agony in his arm. He shouted with the pain, rolled over, kicked his way to his feet, untwisting himself from his cape just as the others were on him. He met the sword coming down at him with his own, held crosswise over his head, turned it aside and lunged, felt the tip bite flesh before his attacker could leap clear.

He heard a sharp yell but knew he had done no real damage. He managed to get his sword in place to beat off a lunge from the second man. He had purposely worn his big sword, his killing sword, not the ceremonial rapier, but that weapon was best wielded with two arms, and he was down to one.