James Nelson - The Blackbirder

Governor Nicholson huffed, cleared his throat, moved objects around on his desk. Squinted and frowned at something on the wide cuff of his coat, picked it off, flicked it away.

Nicholson generally came right to the point of a matter. When he did not care to, he engaged in the elaborate ritual he was now enacting.

Marlowe, seated before the governor’s desk, crossed his legs, adjusted his sword, gave a little cough. He looked at the swirling pattern in the flocked canvas covering the walls, ran his eyes up to the ceiling high above, the intricate walnut crown molding that ran around the juncture of wall and ceiling. A lovely room, he had always thought so.

Nicholson had insisted they meet in his office, the office of the governor, because this was a matter that required such formality.

The governor’s office was in the Wren Building of the College of William and Mary, a block of rooms that, to College President Blair’s dismay, Nicholson had commandeered until the Governor’s Palace was completed. It was only a few months earlier that Blair had managed to get the whole House of Burgesses out of the Wren Building and into the not-yet-finished Capitol.

Williamsburg, it seemed, was rising up from the earth, buildings growing between the stakes and strings that cut the open countryside into various lots and parcels, like a garden laid out and waiting only for things to sprout.

In an upright, slipcovered chair against the wall sat Frederick Dun-more, all but glowing in his white suit of clothes, all vestiges of his Boston Puritan heritage gone. A neat, trim man of no great size. Just the hint of a knowing smile on his face. No need for overt gloating, not when one has been proved so profoundly right.

His chair was in line with the end of the governor’s desk, not quite in front, not quite behind. A careful choice, Marlowe was certain. Made himself look like he was Nicholson’s right-hand man, without exposing himself to the possibility of the governor asking him what in hell he was doing, sitting beside him.

“Yes, well, Marlowe, a letter of marque…,” the governor began at last. “Don’t really see how we can do that now…”

“Governor, there has been a terrible incident, I am certainly aware,” Marlowe said in his most reasonable tone, “but I don’t see how that alters the situation. Slaver or no, there is still the war with Spain…”

“War with Spain?” Dunmore burst in. “We have troubles greater than that, sir, and in a good part thanks to you.”

Marlowe turned his head slowly, held Dunmore ’s eyes just long enough to make it clear that his comments were not welcome, and then turned back to Nicholson. “My men, the ones who returned with the sloop, told me of the horror they found on the slaver. I do not know what King James was thinking, but whatever it was I am in no doubt that he had ample reason for doing what he did.”

That was not true, of course. Marlowe had a damned good idea of what James was thinking, of the rage that led him to slay the white crew. But of course he could not say that.

“I am hard-pressed to imagine any situation that would justify killing half of a ship’s crew, particularly one in so weakened a state-,” Nicholas began, only to be interrupted by Dunmore.

“There is no circumstance, sir, that can justify a black man killing a white. It can never be justified. If we find excuses for this, then we undermine the whole structure of our society here in the tidewater.”

“Our” society? Marlowe thought. Who the hell are you, you bloody Yankee bastard? Marlowe had been in the tidewater three years, was a hero in Williamsburg, and he still felt like an outsider.

He turned to Nicholson. “What is this son of a bitch doing here?” Turned back to Dunmore, dared him with his eyes to demand satisfaction for that affront.

“Marlowe, I know you are not happy, but there is no call for that.” Nicholson pulled Dunmore from the fire. “Mr. Dunmore is here as a representative of the burgesses.”

Marlowe wondered how he had managed that, how he had got the more reasonable faction to let him be the representative at this meeting. Favors called in, debts written off. Dunmore would have done anything in exchange for this moment, the moment when he could sit there and watch Marlowe squirm because he had freed his slaves.

“There is another concern, Marlowe,” said Dunmore, smug in the governor’s protection. “This example you have set, it puts us all in great danger of our Negroes rising up against us, do you see? And again, there is the war with Spain, which you mentioned. The guns on your ship are property of the crown, and I do not see how under these circumstances we can allow you to keep them. We need them now just to protect ourselves from the danger to which you yourself have exposed us.”

Marlowe felt the hot flash of anger. Ten years before, Dunmore would not have made it through that speech, would have been begging for his life before he had uttered two sentences.

But Marlowe was a gentleman now, he reminded himself, and should not kill men but in affairs of honor, and even then it was frowned upon.

He clenched his fists, and with the last rational part of his brain congratulated himself on his self-control.

The guns, oh God, they were going to take the guns! They could never be replaced! All of the planning, all of the expense, for nothing. James, damn your black hide, why did you do that?

“I’m sorry, Marlowe. I know you’ve gone to great expense already.” Nicholson rearranged the silver writing set, moved a stack of papers three inches to the left. “There is one thing I had thought of, one last shift that could solve this whole thing…”

Marlowe leaned back, took a deep breath. He doubted he would like what came next, but how could it be worse than his present circumstance?

Dunmore uncrossed his legs. This was apparently something new to him and he looked concerned.

“ Dunmore is right, you know, this is a bad example…” Nicholson held up his hands to ward off Marlowe’s protest and Marlowe sat back again, silent. “I know King James, know that he’s a good man. Bit of a hothead, but a good man. But still, this sort of thing cannot be countenanced, not by black men or white.

“I think the best thing over all, Marlowe, would be for you to keep the guns and go after these renegades, bring them back here. I can guarantee they’ll get a fair trial, get justice. If they are innocent, then they can go free.”

Marlowe leaned back, let his eyes wander over the muskets and pistols mounted on the wall behind the governor. Heard Dunmore give a grunt at the governor’s suggestion but he said nothing.

Marlowe wanted to sink his head in his hands, wanted to scream in frustration, wanted to put a sword in Dunmore ’s belly, and King James’s too, for getting him into this corner.

Of course they would not go free. Sam had described the whole thing in nightmarish detail. Marlowe understood exactly what James had done, knew why he did it, could taste the rage in his own mouth, knew he would have done the same. But that truth would save no one from the gallows. He would be bringing them back to die, or kill them in trying.

And if he refused? What of that place in society that Elizabeth so coveted?

He had been so sure of himself, setting his slaves free, despite the tidewater’s better judgment. Any number of planters had their slaves working river sloops, but Marlowe had set free black men aboard his. Men who had their pride restored. Men who were no longer cowed, who would no longer suffer any abuse, as long as it came from a white man. Hell, perhaps he was to blame.

There was a great deal of anger directed at Marlowe, he had already heard rumors.