James Nelson - The Blackbirder

And the guns, and the letter of marque. Gone. It would be fiscal ruin for him.

He would stand accused of protecting killers. Black killers, of his own making. It would strip them both, him and Elizabeth, of all the layers of respectability that they had accumulated, strip them back to their most basic selves. A pirate and a whore.

Damn you, James, damn you for this.

He could not do that to Elizabeth, she was his first loyalty, and damn King James for forcing him to make this choice.

“Very well, I shall go after them.”

“Governor,” said Dunmore, “I hardly think that Mr. Marlowe is to be trusted with-”

Nicholson held up his hand to stop Dunmore, but not before Marlowe was on his feet, two steps toward Dunmore, saying, “Do you call me a liar, sir? Do you dispute my honesty in front of the governor?” No patience for this now. Give me a reason, you bastard, Marlowe thought, pray, give me a reason…

“Marlowe, please, take your seat,” Nicholson said, and Marlowe did so because the governor was a man to be respected. “ Dunmore, hold your tongue. If Marlowe says he will do a thing, then he will do it. I’ll countenance no insults to his character.”

Dunmore grunted again.

“Governor, I shall need some kind of official order from you, something with your seal authorizing me to do this.”

“These people are outlaws, Marlowe, you need no official permission to hunt them down.”

“Sir, I must insist. Official orders, with your seal.”

Nicholson considered this, could find no reason to object. “Very well, if you insist.” He picked up a small silver bell and rang it. It had a silly, tinkling sound. From a side door the governor’s secretary appeared, bowed to Nicholson. The governor told him what was needed and the man nodded, then disappeared again.

“So,” Nicholson said with a weak smile, “damned dearth of rain we’ve had of late, what?”

The horse moved down the familiar road at his own pace, just fast enough to satisfy Marlowe and stave off a nudge of boot heel in the flank. He needed no direction; they had traveled that way nearly every day for two months.

For Marlowe, perched in the saddle, it was not a pleasant trip, not like before. No eager anticipation now, just apprehension. No rapture at what the old, decrepit Nathaniel James had become, but rather fear for what would become of her now.

He stopped at the point where the road curved around to the dock and afforded him the first complete view of his ship, sat there regarding her while the horse found some new grass on the edge of the close-packed dirt road.

It was a sight to bring joy to a shipowner’s heart. The full complement of seventy-five men was aboard; not so many as Marlowe would have liked, but enough, and as many as he could ever hope to find in that place where seamen were in damned short supply. They were swarming over the ship, hauling away on the stay tackle and easing the stores down through the main hatch, laid out on the yards bending sail, reeving off running gear, caulking and paying the last of the seams on the quarterdeck.

They were nearly all of them prime seamen, all eager for a little privateering.

“Well, damnation, let’s do it, then…” Marlowe muttered, gave the reins a jerk, got the horse under way.

His approach did not go unnoticed, as he reckoned it would not. All hands aboard the Elizabeth Galley would be aware of what their bosun had done, of their captain’s meeting with the governor, of the potential consequences.

Indeed, it was the talk of all Virginia. Marlowe doubted there was anyone in the tidewater above the age of five who had not heard of what had taken place and already discussed it at length. High talk would have been flying through the rigging all morning. They would want answers, and because of the paucity of seamen they knew they could demand them.

One by one, as Marlowe approached, the men set aside their tools or eased off the lines they were hauling or slid down backstays to the deck, until by the time he reined to a stop at the gangway they were gathered like a mob waiting on the verdict of a trial.

“Captain Marlowe!” It was Griffin, the bosun’s mate, an unpleasant fellow, face like one of those small, ugly dogs. Marlowe reckoned he had appointed himself bosun after the news of King James’s departure.

“Captain, we was all wondering, did you fare well with the governor? We on for our voyage, then?” Griffin, assuming the bosun’s role as crew spokesman. Marlowe did not care for it, not a bit.

First, the stick.

“See here, Griffin, all of you!” He had their attention now. “My dealings with the governor are my concern alone, do you hear? This is not a damned pirate ship. I’ll countenance no questions, no votes, no inquiries into my business, is that clear? If any have a problem with that, leave now! Leave now!”

To Marlowe’s vast relief no one moved.

He reached into the haversack slung over his shoulder, pulled out the governor’s orders, the ones he had insisted upon. Glanced around for Bickerstaff. His friend was on the quarterdeck, overhauling the ship’s pistols. An expert with firearms and edged weapons, not from soldiering but from his days as a tutor instructing young gentlemen in their use.

He was a good fifty feet away, listening, cleaning firelocks. He would not be able to see much from that distance in any event.

Now the carrot.

Marlowe unrolled the governor’s orders and held them up. An impressive document, with great scrollwork and the huge glob of a waxed seal. Nicholson could be counted on to do nothing by half.

“As you can see, the governor has issued us a letter of marque and reprisal, just as promised.” He rolled the parchment back up. “I wish to be under way at the first of the ebb on the morrow, so turn to. We’ve much to do.”

A moment of silence, and then Noah Fleming, first mate, a steady and unimaginative man, just what Marlowe liked in an officer, shouted, “Three cheers for Captain Marlowe, then!”

The men belted out their huzzahs, and with genuine gusto, Marlowe was pleased to see.

What they would be doing in a week’s time remained to be seen.

Ten minutes later, Bickerstaff joined him in the great cabin, waited silently while Marlowe poured a glass of wine, guzzled it, poured another, and finally turned and said, “Wine with you, Francis?”

“Thank you, yes,” said Bickerstaff, taking the glass, sitting in his familiar chair. “The governor gave you a letter of marque?”

“He did. Damned reluctant, but he did. That bastard Dunmore was there as well. Lucky he did not get a bullet through his head.”

“I commend you on your restraint, sir. We are to leave on the morrow?”

“Yes. There is one other thing. Didn’t tell the men, didn’t reckon they’d be so happy about it.”

Marlowe paused, slugged down the wine, poured another glass. He was not so happy about it himself. Miserable, in fact. Had not realized how miserable until that moment, the moment he had to explain himself to Bickerstaff.

“We must go after King James, bring him back.”

Bickerstaff stared at him, silent, for what seemed quite a long time. “You agreed to this?”

“What else could I do? But look, there is every chance that we will never find them.”

“And if we do, you’ll bring James back to be hanged like a dog?”

“I shall try. I imagine James or I will be killed in the trying. I don’t reckon we’ll both be coming back.”

“James would not come back alive.”

“I have no choice in this, Francis, please understand. There would have been no privateering without I agreed to this.”

Bickerstaff shook his head. “Privateering? We are talking about betraying a friend.”