James Nelson: The Blackbirder

“You dog…,” Marlowe muttered, and then to Bickerstaff whispered, “It is that dog Dunmore that is behind this blather, you know.”

Dunmore was a newcomer to the colony, late of London and just turned plantation owner. In the year he had been there he had wormed his way into the House of Burgesses, had somehow arranged that enviable pew. It took a vast sum of money, spread judiciously and thick, to achieve all that.

Marlowe sighed, purposely loud, leaned back, arms folded, and thought of old Reverend Hathaway. He had been a man of his own mind, a man who led his congregation and would not be its puppet. In fact, he was one of the only men in the tidewater, he and Bickerstaff, who supported Marlowe in his decision. He believed it was God’s will that the blacks be free-the same reason Trumbell was now using to insist on their bondage.

Dunmore carried his support of Negro bondage with missionary zeal. When he heard what Marlowe had done he had gone apoplectic, had been waging a silent war on Marlowe ever since. He had seen to it that the laws concerning Negroes carrying firearms-laws that had been hitherto rarely enforced-were strictly adhered to.

He hired minions to keep up a loose surveillance of Marlowe House, hoping to find some cause for complaint, some clear breach of the law. Marlowe knew that Dunmore was investigating the legality of his freeing, then hiring, his former slaves, was considering bringing suit.

And, of course, Dunmore had convinced Trumbell to speak from the pulpit on that issue. He had somehow arranged to have his own opinions flow from the Reverend’s mouth.

Cowardly little bastard, Marlowe thought. His anger was a smoldering thing, a glowing spot in a pile of coals, not the hot flash that made him act without thinking, that led to so much trouble.

But what could he do? He would have happily called Dunmore out and put a bullet through the man’s head or a sword through his chest-Dunmore’s choice-but Dunmore always maneuvered his way around blatant offense, like a lady stepping carefully through a stable. He was clever about never doing anything that would give Marlowe cause to demand satisfaction.

People were standing now, shuffling out of pews. Marlowe looked up. It was over, thankfully over. His thoughts had carried him through the end of the service, had put one more torturous Sunday morning in his past. He stood, stretched, and smiled the first genuine smile of the morning.

“Come, my love,” he said, extending a hand to Elizabeth, “let us have dinner and then get us down to the river. I am with child to see her with her topgallant gear sent up.”

“You saw her yesterday morning.”

“But then she did not have her topgallant gear sent up.”

“Thomas, you are insufferable,” Elizabeth said, but the end of the service and the prospect of the sight that awaited him at the river were making Marlowe giddy, reckless.

“And you, my love,” he said in a voice so low that only she could hear, “are so beautiful I wish nothing more than to give your arse a good squeeze, right here.”

“If you do, I shall cut your throat in your sleep,” she said with the sweetest of smiles as she brushed past him and stepped down into the aisle between the long row of pews.

Marlowe followed docilely behind his wife as she wound her way out of the church, flashing white-tooth smiles to those she passed, receiving smiles back from the women, appreciative glances from the men.

Appreciative but furtive glances, a quick up-and-down and then eyes averted. No man in Williamsburg wanted to offend Thomas Marlowe. Men who had done that had died. Men who had once tried to bring him down by bringing Elizabeth to shame had died brutally. His fellow gentlemen-planters viewed Marlowe as a pet tiger: tame, domestic, but still wild inside, dangerous and unpredictable. He knew it and encouraged it.

Elizabeth led them to a side entrance, not through the main doors where Trumbell was greeting the parishioners as they made their exit. They stepped out of the little Jacobean-style brick building and into a small garden that served as a buffer between the church and the dusty Duke of Gloucester Street.

Marlowe squinted against the brilliant sun. It blazed in a clear blue sky and bounced its light off those patches of granite not shaded by the small maples lining the arbor. He savored the smell of jasmine baking in the sun. A cardinal flashed by, a streak of red, calling with its odd liquid voice.

He breathed deep, taking the warmth and the jasmine into his lungs. The heat felt good, not the close-pressed heat of a packed church but the full, honest warmth of a perfect summer day in Virginia.

“Hey, Marlowe, there you are!” Hartwell Page pushed his way between two saplings and came huffing up, his round face red with the heat, in startling contrast to the white sculptured wig that sat on his head.

He wore a brocade coat with an intricate pattern, the weight of which was causing the sweat to run down his cheeks. Under his left arm he carried his hat, which would never have fit over his wig. With his right arm he worked a walking stick as if it were the bilge-pump handle on a sinking ship. He was built like a cannonball and carried himself with as much subtlety.

“Thought I’d catch you here, Marlowe, didn’t reckon you’d wish to shake hands with that rascal Trumbell! Beating around the bush this morning, about your Negroes, eh? Not going right at it like last time, the dog. He’s as mad on the subject as that Dunmore! Ah, Mrs. Marlowe, charmed!” He bowed as much as his ample waist would allow, just as Mrs. Page struggled up behind him. She was much the same shape as her husband, though quiet, as if she were forever bowled over by Hartwell’s effusiveness, as, indeed, most people were.

“Well, I reckon Reverend Trumbell is entitled to his opinion, as is any man,” Marlowe ventured.

“Oh, balls, Marlowe, beg your pardon. Wasn’t a man of the cloth you’d have put a bullet through his head by now, eh?” He gave Marlowe a suggestive jab of the elbow. Page seemed to enjoy the proximity to danger that being with Marlowe suggested.

“If he wasn’t a man of the cloth he would probably keep his mouth shut,” Bickerstaff said, squinting off at some distant point. “But the greater coward is Frederick Dunmore, who puts the words in his mouth and makes great speeches when Thomas is not about. I don’t know what is more craven than cowering behind a collar. Cowering behind a woman, perhaps?”

“Well said, Bickerstaff, well said!” Page gave Francis the elbow jab.

“This is a new thing for you, Francis,” Marlowe said. “You have been quite reserved in your judgment of the Reverend and his handler before now.”

“Let us say just that my cup of tolerance runneth over.”

“Right, well, now,” said Hartwell, tiring of that line of talk, “reckon I know where you’re bound, after dinner.”

“I was thinking to head down to the river…”

“Course you were, course you were. But I must insist that you dine with me and the wife. Have ’em laying out a feast for the king himself down to the tavern. Pray, bring your lovely wife here and the good Dr. Bickerstaff and join me.”

Bickerstaff had told Page on at least three occasions that he was not a doctor of any kind, but Page either could not recall or could not be convinced.

“We would be delighted, I believe,” said Marlowe. Page was a bit much, but he could be amusing, and he did not exaggerate the quality of food he would have ordered up. The straining of his waistcoat against his midriff bore silent testimony to his proclivities where food was concerned.

But, of course, accepting the invite would mean…

“And after dinner, then, Marlowe, if it ain’t too much bother, I’d be honored if I might accompany you down to the river. Haven’t been down since you stepped the masts. But even then, magnificent! Navy could never do the like. She ain’t another Plymouth Prize, I’ll warrant.”