James Nelson - The Pirate Round

At the far end of the field, past the former slave quarters, Marlowe saw a little knot of men and guessed that one was Bickerstaff, so he headed out for them.

The long voyage to Africa and back had banished from Marlowe’s mind any thoughts of going to sea. For three years he had genuinely enjoyed the life of a country squire.

And then, just that morning, his hands had reached unbidden for the chart of Madagascar, and he found himself staring at it, caressing it with his dividers, remembering the feel of the ship underfoot, a misty morning, stepping on deck with a landfall rising out of the ocean ahead. And then Elizabeth had haltingly laid out her plan, and suddenly Marlowe’s wanderlust was awake again.

At last he came up with the group of men, Francis Bickerstaff and four of the former slaves, now hired hands, of Marlowe House. Hesiod, head man of the field hands, in his mid-twenties, strong and confident, was nodding as Bickerstaff spoke. Over his shoulder a big ax, his huge hand wrapped around the handle. He looked like a pirate.

They were deep in a discussion of the properties of various trees for use as firewood and building material and what stand they might cut next, when Marlowe interrupted them.

“Francis, how goes it here?”

“Very well, Thomas. These fellows wish to make a start of clearing wood and laying in more lumber, and we were discussing what we might cut next. Have you a preference?”

“Whatever you think best, Francis. And the prizing, how goes that?”

“Our yield has been prodigious as ever, as you know, and the fortuitous rain has given us weather moist enough for the prizing.”

“Indeed.” Marlowe did not realize that one needed moist weather to prize tobacco. He tucked that fact away, said, “I have come to remind you of the racing at Page’s this afternoon.”

“Yes, yes. Damned insufferable gatherings.”

“Good, then you will attend? Here, walk with me, and I will tell you of a plan that Elizabeth has concocted.”

The two men retraced Marlowe’s steps to the house, and as they did, Marlowe related his discussion of that morning. He met the objections that Bickerstaff raised with the logic that Elizabeth had employed on him, and by the time they reached the house, Francis was in agreement with the idea.

Elizabeth met them on the lawn, and the stableboy brought their horses around. They mounted and rode leisurely up the Archer’s Hope Creek Road, three miles to the Page plantation, and Elizabeth said, “Francis, did Thomas tell you? Madagascar is twice again as long as you had thought.”

“Pardon?”

“Madagascar. Were you two not discussing it?”

“I don’t recall…”

“Yes, well,” said Marlowe.

Archer’s Hope Creek Road-known locally as a “rolling road”-was packed hard by the barrels of tobacco that were rolled from inland plantations to the landing at Archer’s Hope Creek. In good weather it made for easy travel, and the three were able to discuss their plans as they walked their horses north, past brown-earth fields of harvested tobacco and patches of oak and maple, lush and green.

The breeze picked up, dissipating the humidity some and making them more comfortable, though it was still too hot for real comfort, dressed as they were in their silk coats and bodice and skirts and breeches and socks, rather than in the simple attire of the working-people and slaves.

They came at last to the Page plantation, a somewhat grander version of Marlowe House. There were a hundred people there already- gentlemen and ladies, laborers, slaves, all manner of Tidewater society. Horse racing was a passion in Virginia, enjoyed with a zeal that Marlowe could not begin to muster.

In fact, few of the things that delighted his peers-dancing and hunting, cards, bowling-did much for him, though he put on a brave front when forced to participate. He enjoyed fencing and billiards at least, and had garnered something of a reputation as a hand at both.

But horse races were good venues for conducting business. None better, in fact, with the exception of the governor’s balls and Sunday worship, and so Marlowe contented himself that the afternoon might not be a total loss.

“Ah, Marlowe, there you are!” Joseph Page ambled up, red-faced, blustering with excitement. He loved a horse race, particularly his own. “Mrs. Marlowe, Bickerstaff, glad you could make it.”

Marlowe slid down from his horse, and a boy raced out with a step for Elizabeth. “Wouldn’t miss it, Page, never in life. I’ve ten pounds riding on your sorrel, I trust I won’t lose it?”

“Lose it? Dear God, no. I only wish our harvests were as sure of profit as your wager, sir!”

Marlowe chuckled obediently. “Indeed. And funny you should mention our harvest. As it happens, I have just this morning come upon a scheme that I think might profit us all…”

By the time Page headed off to mount his sorrel for the race, Marlowe had secured his and two other neighbors’ tobacco for his unorthodox voyage. The risks were explained and the terms-10 percent to Marlowe for carrying charges, with Marlowe assuring indemnity for loss due to negligence but not act of God-agreed upon.

Having concluded that business, Marlowe accepted a glass of wine from Elizabeth and accompanied her to the edge of the straight quarter-mile track that Page had laid out. Scattered along the length of the track were the many people who had come out for this event. It was like the annual celebration of Publick Times in Williamsburg. In a colony so sparsely populated, the people took every opportunity to congregate.

The buzzing among the crowd grew, the sense of anticipation swirling like smoke on a battlefield. The horses reared and jostled at the wide part at the head of the track, the starter fired his pistol, and mere seconds later Marlowe was poorer by ten pounds.

Standing at the edge of the track, twenty feet away, Marlowe noticed Peleg Dinwiddie, whose expression suggested that he also had lost, and Marlowe’s disappointment was forgotten. Peleg was the master of Page’s river sloop, a thoroughgoing sailor man, and just the person that Marlowe needed.

“Excuse me, my dear,” Marlowe whispered to Elizabeth, and then he strolled off in Peleg’s direction. Dinwiddie took an inordinate- and, Marlowe thought, not entirely sincere-interest in horses. Peleg was something of a social climber, with none of the wit or grace to climb successfully. Marlowe suspected that Peleg was more interested in appearing to fancy horses, but that did not matter. It was not Dinwiddie’s view of horses that interested Marlowe now.

“Peleg!” Marlowe said, approaching with hand extended. “I haven’t seen you about, this past week or more.”

“Been down to Point Comfort and up the York. Time of year, you know. A lot moving by water.”

“Oh, and don’t I know it.” Marlowe paused as if in thought. Peleg had been a merchant sailor all his working life, had been a boatswain for years and then mate before retiring to the much less demanding work of captaining a river sloop.

“Peleg, you ever miss the deepwater sailing?”

“No.”

“Really? Never wish to see that blue water again, nothing but the open sea, rolling away in every direction?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.” Thomas paused again. “It’s where the real money is to be made, though.”

“I went deep water all my damned life. Never made any real money.”

“Ah, but did you ever go to… No, never mind.”

“Where?”

“Well, I was going to say Madagascar, but it don’t answer, because I probably am not going there now.”

“Probably?” Peleg stood a bit straighter, looked at Marlowe more intensely. Marlowe imagined he could peer into Peleg’s eyes and see the vision of Moorish treasure forming in his brain. “You sailing the Round?”