James Nelson - The Pirate Round

He straightened, turned to Nagel, but before he could speak, he was overcome by a hacking cough that doubled him over and rendered him incapable of speech for half a minute.

He looked up again, at Nagel’s worried face. “The time has come, my dear Henry. To prepare for the future. We cannot tarry. Our fate will be upon us soon.”

THE Elizabeth Galley drifted on her forlorn stream for two hours, helped along by the fitful breeze. When the tide turned at last and they could make no headway against it, they anchored with the second bower and kept anxious watch astern, fearful of pursuit.

“They,” in this case, did not include Thomas Marlowe. As concerned as he was-and he had more reason than any to be so-he was too exhausted to care. His arm ached terribly where the bullet had grazed him.

He stumbled below, shed coat and sword, fell facedown on the cushion-covered lockers aft. He was hardly aware of Elizabeth cleaning and dressing his wound. He tried to recall if, in his younger days, he could have taken on such activity and not have felt so spent, but he could not recall and did not really care about that either, and soon he was asleep.

He woke to find daylight coming in through the stern windows and the Elizabeth Galley under way, heeling slightly in what he perceived was a usable wind.

He pulled himself from the locker, staggered out the door and into the waist, then up to the quarterdeck. It was a magnificent day, bright blue skies with only a smattering of benign clouds, a breeze to drive the ship along. The brown Thames stretched away before and behind, the shores seeming to bustle past, the crowds of shipping-every type of shipping-moving in every direction, with every conceivable purpose. But the stately Elizabeth Galley clove a straight wake downriver, lovely, noble in her headlong flight.

“Captain…” A worried-looking Peleg Dinwiddie hustled up to him, even as he was trying to get his bearings. “You had said, sir, we was to make for the open sea, and the tide turned, and this blessed breeze, and you was still asleep…”

Elizabeth came up behind him, stepped around the portly officer, put her arm through Marlowe’s. “It is my fault, Captain. I begged Mr. Dinwiddie to not disturb you, told him he should just proceed with your last order. Here I am giving commands, and me with less authority than the meanest sailor aboard.”

“Never in life, my love.” Marlowe kissed the proffered cheek. “You command us all. And I am grateful for the sleep, truly I am.”

He looked around once more, saw that Gravesend was a mile or so astern of them. The place where he was born. He wondered if he would ever see it again.

“Oh, Lord, there is nothing like sleep to set one up again!” he exclaimed. The night before, his mood had been black and desperate. His life in ruins. But now, rested, under that perfect sky, he saw only possibilities. Now he needed only to get the others to share his vision.

By tacit consent they did not even mention their predicament for the next three days. That was the time it took to drop down the Thames, past Southend and Sheerness where the river spread out to merge with the North Sea, to double Foreness Point and turn south, past Ramsgate and back through the Strait of Dover and into the English Channel once more.

It was only there, with the Elizabeth Galley sailing a line almost halfway between England and France and out of sight of both, with only water and, on occasion, distant sails to be seen-sails that fled at the sight of them for fear they were pirates or privateers-did they undertake a formal discussion of their situation and what they might do about it.

Elizabeth spoke first. “Our entire cargo, in which we have invested our very last penny, is sitting in that villain Dickerson’s warehouse. Our neighbors’ as well, and they will expect to be paid for it, out of our purse, I reckon, if we just abandon it. And now we are every minute leaving it farther behind.”

Marlowe nodded thoughtfully as he watched her. It occurred to him that she had more than a financial stake in this. It had been her idea in the first place to use the Elizabeth Galley as a merchantman to save on shipping rates. If it ended up being their ruin, she would have to bear the guilt.

“I fear,” said Bickerstaff, “we have shipped all our eggs in a single basket, to rework the old saw. Worse, we have put other people’s eggs in as well.”

It was not a crowded meeting. Just Marlowe, naturally, as captain and owner, and Elizabeth, being the bookkeeper and supercargo. Bickerstaff, to whom Marlowe had looked for advice almost since they met. And Peleg Dinwiddie, who, as first officer, had a right to take part in any such discussion.

Peleg did not actually take part, of course. Marlowe never thought he would. Rather, he sat at the table, hands folded, trying to look as if he were carefully considering every point made. He nodded, twisted his fingers, frowned, smiled as the occasion warranted, but he said nothing. In the great cabin he possessed none of the authority and confidence with which he prowled the quarterdeck. He looked very uncomfortable, in fact.

“Without we are paid for our cargo, we cannot even buy the provisions we will need to return to the colonies,” Elizabeth pointed out. Thomas could hear the despair creeping in around the edges of her voice. It was time to put a stop to this talk.

“The tobacco is lost to us,” Marlowe said. “We may as well have dumped it in the river.”

“But sure there is some way…?” Elizabeth began.

“No. Perhaps if I had driven that tops’l yard right through Roger Press’s black heart, we might have been able to return. Believe me, I tried, but I fear I killed no more than the boat.

“Press will see to it that Dickerson informs him if anyone comes calling in regard to our tobacco. He will have the warehouse watched. Even if we send someone in our stead, hire an agent, it will do us no good. Anyone who looks twice at our cargo will be arrested. I do not care to think on what Press might do to someone in order that he might extract information from him.”

“This Press would seem quite rabid with the thought of vengeance,” Bickerstaff observed.

“He is like that. Always was, as I recall. Though it is not as if marooning him was my notion. It was a vote of the crew.”

“ ‘Marooning him,’ sir?” Dinwiddie spoke for the first time.

“It is nothing, Mr. Dinwiddie. Happened a long time ago. A… business decision, if you will.”

“Still, I can see how a fellow might take it personal,” Bickerstaff observed.

“All right, goddamn it, can we speak of our cargo?” Elizabeth said, annoyed, exasperated. “What are we to do about that?”

“Nothing,” Marlowe said. “Abandon it.”

“Then we are ruined.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps there is some other way that we might regain our fortune…”

He said the words, let them hang in the air, gave the others a moment to wonder. It was good theater, and he needed every trick he could muster.

“Very well, if you will make us beg,” said Bickerstaff, “pray what is this scheme of yours, this main chance?”

“We sail for Madagascar.”

Silence again as these words took hold. There was no need to explain the scheme further. No need to describe the treasure ships of the Great Mogul, the riches to be had on the Pirate Round. The four people sitting at the table in the great cabin knew all about it, as did anyone in the American colonies with any connection to the sea. The name “Madagascar” was enough to summon it all up.

“Piracy, then?” said Bickerstaff, making no attempt to disguise his disdain. “On the account?”

“Not piracy. Privateering. Stay…” Marlowe cut Bickerstaff off before he could make the obvious objection. “I do have a commission for privateering, my dear Francis. Governor Richier was kind enough to offer me one, and I had the foresight to accept.”