James Nelson - The Blackbirder

She worked her shovel in the dirt, spacing the plants three feet apart. In a few years they would be great thorny bushes, spilling over with brilliant small red flowers, like drops of fresh blood on mounds of green.

And then a shadow fell over the turned earth and a man’s voice, loud and full of delight and surprise, said, “Lizzy? Could that be you?”

Elizabeth wheeled around, gasped in surprise, squinted against the sun. The man was standing no more than five feet away, had approached over the grass so she could not hear him.

She stood, slowly, and threw her spade down like throwing a knife. It stuck in the dirt and quivered. She wiped dirty hands on her apron, leaving arched brown streaks on the linen, folded her arms across her chest. “Dear God…,” she said.

“Oh, no, Lizzy, none of that. Well, certainly, there are some women think I am a god, but not you, surely?”

She held him in her harsh gaze, then at last she had to smile and shake her head. “Billy Bird. I had never thought to see your face again.”

“Ah, like a bad penny,” he said, swept off his cocked hat, a big plume trailing astern, bowed elegantly at the waist. He wore white silk stockings and white breeches bleached so bright that it hurt to look at them in the late-morning sun. Under a red coat with neat embroidery around the pockets and cuffs he wore a red waistcoat and a calico shirt. A buff leather shoulder strap ran diagonally across his chest, the silver buckle winking in the sun, a heavy sword hanging at his waist. He wore no wig, and his hair was long and clubbed, as the seamen wore it.

“You look like a damned peacock, as usual, Billy.”

“And you…” He straightened, held out his hands. “Is this what has become of the beautiful Elizabeth Sampson, late of Plymouth and London? Working in the dirt like some pickaninny?”

She did not know if she wanted to hug the man or stick a knife in his guts. She never did. She and Billy Bird went back many years. “My name is Elizabeth Marlowe now, Billy, and it gives me great pleasure to work in the garden of the home of which I am mistress.”

“Ah, great pleasure! And you know there is no one who can give you great pleasure like old Billy Bird, my darling.”

“Billy, lay one hand on me and I will cut your balls off and stuff them down your throat. You know me capable of it.”

Bird chuckled at that. “Yes you are, yes you are. But how about a hug for an old friend?” He held out his arms again, and after a second’s hesitation Elizabeth stepped into them and gave Billy Bird a hug. He held her to his chest, gently, affectionately. He smelled faintly of perfume and tobacco smoke and tar. They squeezed each other and then stepped back again.

“It’s been… three years at least,” Elizabeth said. “Where have you been?”

“Rhode Island, mostly. Boston, New York. And off on the far-flung oceans of the world.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Well, you shouldn’t have come here. Governor Nicholson has no love of pirates. He has hanged any number of them already.”

“Pirates! Oh, Elizabeth, really! I am an honest merchant, and besides I have never committed anything that smacks of piracy against a Christian. That I know of.”

“Indeed. I am sorry to say that you just missed meeting my husband, speaking of people you should not cross.”

“Oh, have I really? I am sorry to hear that.”

“Uh-huh,” said Elizabeth. Bird’s timing would not be an accident. Everyone in Williamsburg and Jamestown knew that the Elizabeth Galley had sailed on the tide that morning.

“Though in fact I believe I have met your husband…Thomas Marlowe? In Port Royal, some years back. But his name was not Thomas Marlowe then, and he was something less than an honest man of the soil…”

“You are mistaken, I am sure. But whatever you think, I am certain you can keep it to yourself, just as you are certain that I’ll tell no tales about you.”

“I am the soul of discretion, ma’am, you know that.”

“The soul of discretion.” But for all his loudmouthed boasting, Elizabeth knew that Billy Bird could keep his mouth shut when he had to, and she trusted him. “What brings you to the tidewater? Are you staying?”

“I have taken up lodgings at the King’s Arms. Just temporary, of course.”

Just until Thomas returns, Elizabeth thought.

“I’ve some small business here,” Billy continued, “and my ship is down at Norfolk, fitting out. Ship, I say. She is a brig, in fact, just a little thing. Lost my last ship off Madagascar. I will tell you all the unhappy details, but first I think you should invite me in for a cup of chocolate.”

“Do you?” Elizabeth folded her arms, cocked her head, regarded Billy Bird. Plymouth, London, Williamsburg. Since she was fourteen years old she had known Billy, and he always seemed to pop up again, wherever she was. They had been friends, had enjoyed the occasional roll in bed. And here he was again.

She could well imagine what he was hoping for now. He would be disappointed, but he would get over it. A cup of chocolate, however, was within her newfound moral boundaries.

It was a still morning, little wind, and the insects were just starting in with their buzzing. Elizabeth was about to ask Billy in when she heard the horses, a long way off. She paused, lifted her head, and listened.

There was more than one, not galloping but not walking either. The sound grew louder as the riders approached. She looked down the long, tree-lined road that ran up to Marlowe House.

She couldn’t see anyone, so she knew they were still a ways up the rolling road that connected their plantation to Williamsburg in one direction and Jamestown in another.

Men on horses, riding fast. That was never a good thing. All these men, racing around on their great animals, always off on some important duty, inflicting some misery or another on someone. Like a pack of wolves. Chasing down fugitive slaves, chasing down pirates, chasing down threats to their beloved property.

“These would be friends of yours?” Bird asked.

“I doubt very much friends.”

They listened for a moment more. The riders grew closer. “I say, Lizzy, I never care to be conspicuous when there are men, no doubt armed men, charging about the countryside on horses. So if you do not mind terribly, I shall just duck into your house, perhaps indulge my eye with your exquisite taste in furnishings. You always did know how to spend a man’s money.”

“As ever, the soul of discretion.”

Billy Bird gave another of his elaborate bows. “Your servant, ma’am.” Then he straightened and trotted off toward the porch.

“Caesar!” Elizabeth called out, and then again, louder. “Caesar!”

Behind her she heard the main door open, heard bare feet on the wide front porch.

“Ma’am?” said Caesar. He was a former field slave, now head of the household. Past fifty, a gentle, soft-spoken man. No great demands were made of him. Marlowe figured that he had earned his rest, his easy duty.

He looked with only vague curiosity at Billy Bird, who brushed past him with a friendly nod and disappeared into the cool interior of Marlowe House.

Elizabeth climbed up to the porch, scanned the road again from that higher vantage. She could see a cloud of dust, a mile or so away, kicked up by the approaching riders.

“Do you hear those horses coming?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.” Caesar’s hearing was not all one might wish.

“About half a dozen, I should think.”

“They gots to know Mr. Marlowe ain’t here. What you think they want?”

“I don’t know.” That was true, but she could guess. Marlowe’s free blacks were the topic du jour in Williamsburg. This visit would involve them in some way. She did not think it would be for the black people’s benefit.