James Nelson - The Pirate Round

Those were the most motivational words that Yancy could have said to that crowd. They surged forward, Press and Yancy in the lead, and in their quick step crossed the grounds, poured out the gate-the unconscious guards unseen in the shadows-and raced down the hill toward the harbor below.

“Here they come, under the counter,” Johnson said, just a whisper, and as he spoke, Marlowe could make out the dark outline of the boat pulling for the Bloody Revenge.

By way of rewarding Johnson for his good work, Marlowe removed the barrel of the pistol that he had been pressing against Johnson’s lower spine and held it aside. He could smell the sweat on the man, an unhealthy smell of fear.

“Burgess,” Marlowe whispered, and the boatswain appeared at his side. “Take this pistol. When the men in the boat come up the side, Johnson here will send them below, tell ’em that’s where the prisoners are being held. We’ll take them as they come down the scuttle.

“If Johnson gives an alarm, shoot him. Not in the head, right through the spine, here.” Marlowe jabbed Johnson’s lower back with his finger, more for Johnson’s benefit than Burgess’s.

“Aye, through the spine. Bloody mess that’ll make. Seen ’em live for weeks that way,” Burgess said, taking the gun and pulling his cocked hat low over his forehead. Burgess would be a lot less conspicuous standing beside Johnson than Marlowe would be.

Marlowe crossed the deck, went down the scuttle to the tween decks, waited with the others. A few moments, no more, and the boat thumped alongside and feet clumped and padded up the side, and Johnson’s voice, tight with fear, directed them below.

Across the deck overhead and down the ladder to the dimly lit tween decks, Roger Press’s men stepped right into a ring of muskets aimed at them. Thomas Marlowe, his finger to his lips, urged them to silence. It was a warning they heeded, making not a sound as they were relieved of muskets, pistols, swords, and sheath knives and then were battened down in the dark place where just half an hour before, thirty of Billy Bird’s men had been imprisoned.

The hatch was closed and secured, and Marlowe nodded, looked around at the assembled men. The Bloody Revenge was theirs, the Queen’s Venture assured that all was well, and her defense now weaker by twenty-five men.

Dawn was an hour away. At first light they would have to run the gauntlet of the batteries at the harbor mouth. Yancy and his men were no doubt rushing to the waterfront at that very moment, summoned by the great gun that some hero had fired off.

I have been in worse places, sure, Marlowe thought, but he did not have time to think of when.

Yancy had set the pace at first, walking fast down the hill. But Press’s long legs carried him half again as far as Yancy with every stride. Soon Yancy was jogging to keep pace with Press, and that made Press break into a half jog, and then the men did likewise. Yancy could not order Press to slow down-it was as much as admitting he could not keep up with the gangly bastard. He could not let Press move ahead.

By the time they reached the dock and clattered out over the worn boards, they were all gasping for breath-Yancy, Press, the heavily armed men. For a moment they could do nothing but breathe.

“… Must get out to the ships… Where are your boats?” Yancy spoke. His breath had not fully returned, but he had to speak first.

Press straightened, made a great show of placing his toothpick in his mouth. “Had four boats tied up here. Marlowe must have taken them.”

“Goddamn it! Nagel, where in bloody hell are you? Nagel!”

Henry Nagel ambled up out of the dark. He seemed to have little of the deferential snap he generally displayed.

“Lord Yancy?”

“We bloody need boats, Nagel!” A scream, barely suppressed. Yancy heard the high pitch of his voice, very uncommanding, and made a note to watch that.

“Some of them lads, the ones come from Press’s ship, they say there’s the treasure of the Great Mogul hisself aboard them ships,” Nagel said. It was a mere statement of fact, spoken plainly, but it had the weight of accusation.

“Yes, there is. Which is why we need bloody boats!”

“Some of the lads was wondering, how come we didn’t know that?”

Yancy frowned, took a step closer to Nagel, until he could make out the man’s face in the dark and hoped Nagel could make out his. “Don’t you question me, you son of a bitch! I tell you things when I am ready, do you hear?”

Oh, bloody hell! Yancy thought. He had just learned of the treasure himself. In the rush of going after Marlowe, Yancy had simply forgotten to tell Nagel about it, and now Nagel and the others thought he was betraying them.

That could not be happening.

He might, at some point, betray them all, but it was not possible that they should accuse him of doing so when he genuinely was not.

Nagel was quiet for a long moment. “There’s the canoe, there,” he said at last, nodding toward a small, leaky, half-rotten dugout tied to the dock. Then almost grudgingly added, “And there’s them two big boats, with the swivel guns in the bows, tied up, up harbor.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Yancy said. Two big ship’s launches, he kept them armed and concealed in the event he wished to make a boat attack on a vessel in- or outbound. They were ideal.

“Get some hands…” Yancy began, then stopped. Send Nagel off alone to man the boats, give him the chance to capture and make off with the treasure? No, that would not do, not now. Go himself? It would take forty minutes at least to reach the boats, another twenty to pull back to the dock. Leave Nagel behind? Press?

Damn it, I must keep a weather eye on every one of these disloyal, motherless bastards!

“All of you, with me! To the boats!” Yancy led the way back down the dock, back to the road that paralleled the harbor. At least Press did not know the way. He would not be able to push ahead this time.

Johnson of the anchor watch had been held at gunpoint for some time, near an hour, and in Marlowe’s extensive experience with such things, he knew that the threat of being shot would not keep the man’s fear up for that long. But he still needed Johnson’s help.

Marlowe climbed back up on the main deck, found Johnson sitting on the hatch, hands locked behind his neck. Burgess crouched before him, gun pointed at his chest.

“Johnson, how are you?” Marlowe asked.

“Been better,” Johnson growled. The fear was gone.

Marlowe crouched beside him. “Johnson, do you see these?” He held up three gold doubloons that Billy Bird had retrieved from a secret stash in his great cabin, saw Johnson’s eyes get a little wider. “I’ll wager this is more than that bastard Press would pay you for the whole voyage. Do you like working for Press, Johnson? Or do you think it might be time to change sides?”

Ten minutes later, the newest loyal member of Marlowe’s crew called across the water, “Hoa, Queen’s Venture, ahoy! Mr. Brownlaw?”

“Johnson?”

“Aye, sir! All’s well, got them bastards all battened down, sir! Thought I’d send your men back and come across myself, to report, like!”

“Very well. Do so,” came the reply from the dark.

Johnson turned inboard. “Right, you men, in the boat!”

On that command, twenty-five of Marlowe’s and Billy Bird’s men clambered down the side and into the boat, taking the places once occupied by the twenty-five men whom Brownlaw had sent across and who were at that moment locked up in a lightless place in the Revenge’s hold.

The men made as much noise as they could reasonably make as they climbed down, drowning out the sounds of the other four boats, hidden from Brownlaw’s view on the far side of the Bloody Revenge. Those boats, commanded by Honeyman, Flanders, Burgess, and Hesiod, were at that moment shoving off and pulling for the Elizabeth Galley, which they intended to board, take, and then cross over to the Queen’s Venture.