James Nelson - The Pirate Round

“We may not be able to do it, in any event,” Elizabeth continued. “We’ll need sailors, we’ll need to get the Galley ready for sea, which will cost money. And, of course, there are no guns aboard. We would be most vulnerable to attack.”

“ ‘We’?”

“Yes, ‘we.’ Did you think you would sail off again without me?”

In fact he had, though there was no pleasure in the thought. But still… Elizabeth on board? “I don’t know if it is quite the thing-” he began in weak protest.

“There is no helping it. You know nothing of the tobacco trade, you admit it freely. I know what our yield is, what it is worth. I do the books here. You are useless with numbers, another thing you have often admitted.”

“True. But Bickerstaff-”

“Francis knows the growing and curing and prizing. He does not know the selling or bookkeeping.”

That was true enough. Elizabeth had always dealt with the factors and agents once the crop was in, kept the books. Bickerstaff had probably been less involved in that part of it than even Thomas, and that was very little indeed.

The older field hands were certainly capable of seeing to the plantation without his or Elizabeth’s or Bickerstaff’s supervision. Marlowe House would be safe in their absence; there was no one left in the Tidewater who might wish to cause them grief. He was running out of arguments.

“There is also the point…” Elizabeth continued, and Marlowe could tell she had rehearsed this speech as well. He was surprised; that kind of preparation was unlike her. “Perhaps you should not be seen along the waterfront in London. One never knows when a fellow from the old days might recognize you…”

She did not have to say more. They both understood. One reliable witness, and Marlowe would hang for piracy. There was no pardon for his crimes.

“That is true as well,” Marlowe admitted. “And there is also the point that I could not bear to be parted from you for the half a year the voyage would take.”

Elizabeth smiled, her stern, businesslike demeanor melting before his words, and suddenly they were connected again, like man and wife, not partners in a merchant firm. Their love and passion for one another, which had not diminished in the least over the years, sparked

between them and moved like a potent spirit.

“I had hoped you might feel that way,” Elizabeth said.

“Indeed, my love, I am much buoyed by this plan. No doubt we can scrape up the funds we need to get the ship to sea, and I am equally sure our neighbors will want to get in on this. Sailors we can find-yes, my beloved, I think this is a fine idea. I shall begin at once to get things moving along…”

His voice trailed off, and his eyes moved unconsciously down to the rolled chart on his desk. In his mind they had already completed Elizabeth’s plan, had the money in hand from the merchants in London, and now they were moving on to the next thing and the next after that.

Marlowe had made the decision even before he stood up from his desk. There was no reason to dally. Suddenly his desire to act was like a physical pressure, pushing from within. It was time to get under way.

THERE WAS, unfortunately, a considerable distance between making a decision to get under way and actually getting under way, particularly aboard a ship that had not sailed in three years.

First an inspection of the Elizabeth Galley to assess her condition and determine her needs. Marlowe’s mind was working fast now. Round up a crew, of course, that was no easy task. Secure a cargo- Marlowe House would not produce enough tobacco to entirely fill the Elizabeth Galley’s cavernous hold. Might as well make a little extra hauling the neighbors’ weed.

“Oh, damn me,” he said.

“What? Whatever is the problem?” Elizabeth asked, concerned.

“We have committed ourselves to the racing at Joseph Page’s this afternoon.” Marlowe was eager now to move on their plan, and he was not happy to recall this social obligation. He felt like a charging dog brought up short by its leash.

“I’ve wagered ten pounds on that sorrel nag of his.” Like I can bloody well afford that, he thought. Declining to wager would place a greater tax on his appearance of wealth than ten pounds would place on his actual wealth. It was hard to gauge which was the higher price to pay.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, “and I am sure that Francis has quite forgotten as well. I’ll send Caesar for him.”

“No, no. I’ll go fetch him myself.” He smiled. “As lord of the manor, I suppose I should see what the common folk are about.”

“Good, my lord. But don’t be all day about it. We must leave in an hour, no more.”

Marlowe pulled on his coat and grabbed up his hat and stepped out of the library and down the hallway, then out the front door that opened onto the wide porch. The warmth of the sun and the fragrance from the plantation and the woods came on him redoubled, and he stretched and breathed deep before taking the steps down to the front walk and the grassy lawn.

The flowers that Elizabeth so lovingly tended were in full bloom, great bursts of color that lined the house and the walks and spilled out of her gardens. The grass was a rich green. Birds flashed around, twittering, diving, and lighting here and there.

Everything was alive, running over with life, growing, moving. It was so different from the sea, the cold, dead sea that always stretched away in its bleak sameness. The sea moved, to be sure, moved constantly, but it was not the motion of life. It was a random, thoughtless motion that cared not a whit for what effect it had, for whom it helped and whom it killed.

So why did he miss it so?

Marlowe stepped around the side of the house. Fifty feet away, the big tobacco barn yawned open, and spread out in front of it, on the brown patch of earth where the constant traffic had worn away the grass, the big lever arm used for prizing the tobacco, various hogsheads-some full, some waiting for their hands of tobacco-the cooper’s tools. But no field hands, no Bickerstaff.

Marlowe sighed. Bickerstaff was the real lord of the manor, as far as actually overseeing what went on. The field hands no longer even bothered asking Marlowe about agricultural considerations.

Bickerstaff had no doubt been called away on some business and now would have to be hunted down. Marlowe debated getting his horse. He did enjoy riding around his property, marveling at how much of it he owned. But his horse would be off somewhere else, grazing, and Marlowe decided that fetching him would take more time than just finding Bickerstaff on foot.

He continued on past the barn, over the small rise to where he could see the fields beyond. Every year they cleared a patch of forest to make way for that year’s seed beds. The tree line was noticeably farther from the house than it had been when Marlowe bought the place. The former slave quarters, once dilapidated huts but now fixed up, whitewashed, and cozy, had stood huddled at the edge of the woods then, but now they were in open field.

Marlowe paused at the top of the rise and looked around. He loved the plantation, loved his lord of the manor existence.

Back in ’02, when he bought the Elizabeth Galley, he had been restless for the sea. He had been ready for privateering-high adventure with higher returns and low risk. But instead he had spent nearly a year on his unholy mission of hunting down his friend and the former captain of his river sloop, King James, a freed slave who had turned renegade after killing the crew of a slave ship in a fit of rage.

Why did I do that, submit to the governor’s demand that I go after King James? He asked himself that question often enough. The answer: to preserve this. To maintain the life he and Elizabeth had built. To avoid becoming a pariah in a society that held him responsible for what James had done. He, Marlowe, lord of the manor, had freed his slaves. The Tidewater saw that as the seminal event in King James’s crime.