James Nelson - The Pirate Round

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, then plunged his hand into his cold, wet coat pocket, hunted around through the sodden folds of cloth until he felt another. He pulled it out, thrust it into his mouth, worked it furiously with his tongue. The cool, hard metal tasted of Thames water. Press jerked it out, spit on the cobblestones, and then inserted the toothpick again.

He shuffled down the road, moving more quickly as the blood began to flow through his limbs once more. Perhaps he could find some evidence of what had happened while he was inching along the wall.

He could see something lying in the road, and as he approached, he saw it was a sword, discarded, and nearby another. He frowned, picked it up, moved on.

Through the dark and the mist he could see a shape now, and he had seen enough men lying wounded and dead to recognize one just by the dim outline. He stepped cautiously, knew the danger that a wounded man could present. He could feel his heart beating. There was every chance that this was Barrett lying dead. Or, better yet, wounded.

He stepped close, and the figure did not move, and Press could see no sign of life. He poked the man with the sword. Still nothing.

He put his foot against the man’s shoulder and rolled him over. The man flopped onto his back, lifeless. Hanson.

“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch!” Press shrieked, stamping his foot in his fury, despite the pain. He hobbled off down the road, back the way he had led Barrett and his slut, back to the warehouse to which the old man had followed them.

Press had eyes all over the waterfront. All those old, broken sailors who loafed on the docks and crowded the streets of Rotherhithe. He paid them well for intelligence of note, and they kept him informed. What luck that one should have known Barrett from the old days at Port Royal.

Not so much luck, actually. The community of pirates was a small one. Like members of a tradesmen’s guild, they all knew one another. And many of them were now rotting out their lives on the London waterfront.

He stepped up to the warehouse door. It was shut, but he could see lights behind the shades. Some greedy bastard up late counting his money. He pounded on the door with the pommel of his sword.

There was a shuffling of feet, and then it stopped, and then silence. Press pounded again. A voice, high-pitched with fear, called, “We are closed, sir! Pray come back on the morrow!”

“Queen’s officer, please open the door!”

Another pause, then, “I am sorry, I cannot…”

Press paused, caught his breath, forced himself to speak calmly. “I am a queen’s officer,” he said in a more reasonable tone. “There was a disturbance here tonight. A man was removed under armed guard. I must speak with you about that.”

He heard locks being worked on the other side of the door, and then it swung open a crack. The merchant’s weasel face peered out, just visible in the light from the candle he held. He was in shirtsleeves and breeches. Not expecting company.

“Yes, how may I help you?”

“Let me in, please.”

“If you don’t mind, sir-” the merchant began, but Press had had enough. He lashed out with his foot, kicked the door open, sent the merchant and his candle sprawling.

He stepped into the office space, shut the door behind him. The candle had not gone out. It lay guttering on its side as Press held the point of his sword under the merchant’s chin, pricking his skin for emphasis. “There was a man here with a woman, pretty thing, blond hair. His name was…?”

“Marlowe. Thomas Marlowe. Captain of the ship, but he didn’t want to come ashore at first and sign the papers.”

“I reckon not. What ship?”

“The Elizabeth Galley. Just cleared in from Virginia with tobacco.”

“Elizabeth Galley? That don’t sound like the name of a merchantman to me.”

“That is the name, sir, I assure you,” the merchant said. There was a note of defiance in his voice, so Press jabbed him with the sword, just enough to produce a trickle of blood, and the man was cowering and subservient again.

“Show me the ship’s papers,” Press demanded, and he stepped back, allowed the merchant to stand. The frightened merchant scrambled to his feet, and Press followed him into his office. A desk piled with papers, a few ship models and paintings of merchant vessels on the walls. The merchant dug through the pile, with shaking hands handed Press a sheaf.

Press took the papers, thumbed through them. He did not know much about merchantmen’s documents, did not really know what he was looking at. But he saw the names Thomas Marlowe and Elizabeth Galley, and that was enough for him.

“Where is the ship now?”

“I don’t know exactly, I swear to the Lord I don’t. Moored in the river, not above a mile from here, I heard the lighterman say. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

Press laid the sword on the desk, grabbed the merchant by the collar, punched him hard in the face. It was agony on his fingers, but it had to be done. The point had to be made.

The merchant was on hands and knees, spitting blood. “I swear… I know no more…” he whined.

“I believe you,” Press said, then kicked him hard in the stomach, sent him sprawling on his back. Grabbed him by the hair and lifted him to his feet, shoved him back against the desk.

The merchant cowered, looked up at him, shying his face away. He was certain that he was about to die. Press knew the look.

“I have people watching, do you understand?” Press said, soft, so the merchant had to really listen to hear. He nodded.

“If this Marlowe returns, you get word to me. Captain Roger Press. Any sailor that lives down here will know how to find me. Understand?”

The merchant nodded again.

“Good. And, pray understand, if he comes back and you do not alert me, I’ll know. If you tell anyone what happened tonight, I’ll know. And then it will go hard on you. Do you believe that?”

The merchant nodded again, and Press could see that he had indeed made a true believer out of the man.

“Good.” He straightened, picked up the sword from the desk. “Good night to you, sir,” he said, then stepped out of the office and out onto the street. He owned the merchant now. The little man would not cross him.

And out on the water, within a mile of where he stood, Malachias Barrett was waiting for him.

They staggered back to the boat like a tiny army in retreat, Marlowe clutching his wounded arm, one of the sailors limping with a gash on his leg, all of them winded from the unaccustomed running.

At the head of the steps one of the two remaining sailors stood guard, arms crossed, pistols barely concealed under his coat. As they approached, Marlowe could see Elizabeth in the boat at the bottom of the steps, the second seaman standing on the step, painter in hand. Honeyman had stationed them well for the defense of his wife.

They made their way down the stairs and into the boat, and wordlessly the sailors followed, cast off, leaned on their oars. Three long strokes and the seawall disappeared in the mist.

They settled in, with Honeyman holding the boat on a compass heading back to the Elizabeth Galley. Big ships rose out of the fog and then disappeared in the boat’s black wake, a few odd sounds punctuating the night: voices from ships, something falling on a deck, the slap of rigging, the groan of a vessel’s rudder moving in the gudgeons.

Marlowe caught Honeyman’s eye. “Thank you, Honeyman,” he said, and Honeyman nodded and looked back at the compass. No more was said, or needed to be.

At last the familiar shape of the Elizabeth Galley appeared through the mist. Honeyman laid the boat alongside, and Elizabeth climbed awkwardly up the steps, trying to keep her feet from tangling in her skirts, and then Marlowe climbed gratefully aboard, letting the sight and smells of his beloved ship embrace him. It was safety there. He imagined this was how a criminal felt, reaching the sanctuary of a church, or a fox reaching its den ahead of the yelping dogs.