James Nelson - The Blackbirder

“Humph,” said Bickerstaff. “You a Caliban to my Prospero? No, I think not. Not entirely, in any event.”

Not entirely. But still Bickerstaff had helped Marlowe become the man he was, transformed him from a pirate most brutish. That, after Marlowe had saved Bickerstaff from death at the hands of the pirate raiders-Marlowe’s fellows-who had overrun the ship aboard which he sailed. In one manner or another they owed each other their lives. Their friendship ran deep now. It pleased Marlowe to be able to provide Bickerstaff with the time and place for his intellectual pursuits.

Why Bickerstaff continued to go to sea with him was a mystery.

The clash of cutlasses forward. Bickerstaff had the men facing off in pairs, thrusting, parrying, slow and methodical. Their ardor that had been sparked by the great guns had not cooled, and Francis was having to keep them in check, making them go slow, lest someone be accidentally slashed thanks to his partner’s enthusiasm.

Spirits were high. That was good. They would need spirit in reserve.

“Sail, ho!”

The cry from the lookout at the main topmast crosstrees, and all sound, all motion on deck ceased, every eye turned aloft.

“Broad on the starboard bow, and just hull down! A Spaniard, maybe!”

Don’t give me your buggering opinion, Marlowe thought. He scowled, looked down at the deck. A buzz ran through the men in the waist. They ran to the rail, peered over, but they would never be able to see the distant ship from the deck.

Forward a few hands had the audacity to leap into the shrouds, start scrambling aloft. “Forward, there! In the fore shrouds! What the hell do you think you’re about?”

The men froze, looked back at Marlowe. He could see their sheepish expressions down the full length of the deck. He was about to call for Griffin to take their names when he saw the acting boatswain was leading the men aloft.

“Mr. Griffin, what in the hell are you about? Get out of those damned shrouds, all of you! This is not a damned bloody pirate ship, do you hear me? You do not go aloft without my orders!”

Slowly the men climbed down again, trying inconspicuously to glance at the horizon before they lost their vantage. Marlowe looked outboard, muttered curses. He had overreacted to the men in the fore shrouds, but this was a damned awkward situation, and his temper was short.

“Sir?” It was Fleming, standing before him, saluting. “I beg your pardon about that, sir, they was in the rigging before I even seen them.”

“Not your fault, Mr. Fleming, never think on it.”

“Sir, would you like me to take a glass aloft? See what I can of this fellow?”

“No, no. Good of you to offer, but I will go myself.” He shed his coat, slung the big glass over his shoulder, and pulled himself into the main shrouds and headed aloft, the familiar feel of thick cable-laid shrouds in his hands, thin ratlines underfoot. He was less accustomed to making this trip with shoes, and as the shrouds grew closer together near the masthead he had to squeeze his toes against the soles to keep from stepping clean out of them.

Boots, he thought. I must wear boots, or no shoes at all. He clambered up over the futtock shrouds and up onto the main topmast shrouds, leaving the round maintop below him as he climbed.

Perhaps I shall roust out a pair of slop trousers, he thought.

He was taking pains not to think about what he might see through the glass, what he might do about it.

He arrived at last at the main topmast crosstrees. The lookout had already shifted himself to the larboard side to give Marlowe the favored vantage. Marlowe nodded, planted his feet on the crosstrees, an arm through the topgallant shrouds, and ran his eyes along the horizon.

She was there, broad on the starboard bow, just as reported. Topsails, topgallants, a glimpse of courses on the rise of the swell. Ship rigged, of moderate size, perhaps a bit bigger than that. Sailing roughly the same course as they were. All that he knew without looking through the glass, which meant the lookout knew it as well.

At last he lifted the glass to his eye, twisted the tube until the horizon was sharp, and swept it along until the sails jumped in the lens. Now a whole new world was revealed to him. On the rise he could see gun-ports, but not so many of them. Oiled topsides, glinting every now and again in the morning sun. Spritsail, spritsail topsail, everything shipshape, but not man-of-war fashion.

No, he would not have taken her for a man-of-war, even if she had not been flying the French merchantman’s ensign off her ensign staff.

A French merchantman. She’s bound back to France, no doubt, he thought, her hold bloody well loaded with goods traded from their new allies, the Dons, and all their bloody rich colonies to the south.

A fat prize. He could make their whole voyage that morning. If he was a privateer with a letter of marque.

“Hmmm,” he said gravely. “Spanish. Frigate or perhaps a two-decker, hard to tell. But a man-of-war, to be certain.”

He took the glass from his eye, glanced at the lookout. There was disappointment on his face. Resignation. That was it, as far as Marlowe

could see.

“Damned luck, eh?”

“Aye, sir, damned luck.”

Marlowe slung the glass back over his shoulder, grabbed the shrouds with both hands and swung outboard, then with his foot found the ratline on the futtock shroud and stepped down. Less than a minute later his feet hit the caprail on the quarterdeck. He stood there, balancing with one hand on the main shrouds, looking down at the men in the waist.

“What of her, sir?”

Griffin. Damn that man. He was done.

“Spaniard. Man-of-war. Frigate, I take her for, but could be a two-decker.”

More buzzing through the crowd of men forward, and Marlowe did not think it was all concern for their possible capture. The Elizabeth Galleys were experienced enough seamen that they would think to wonder why a powerful man-of-war did not seem interested in them, why they weren’t tacking and coming in pursuit, and what a Spanish man-of-war was doing knocking around the coast that far north in the first place.

“Helmsman,” Marlowe called, hoping to distract them. “Let us make our head more northerly, two points. Mr. Fleming, I’ll thank you to see to the braces.”

“Aye, sir! Come along, you lot, hands to the braces!”

They went, but they were not happy about it, and Marlowe could see glances shot back his way. The high spirits of the morning were gone, replaced by something more sullen.

God, if I get away with this, I shall not be able to do it a second time, Marlowe thought.

He had to find James and come to grips with him and end it. Then back to Virginia, his good name restored, and the proper papers for a privateer.

He thought of that fat French merchantman, an easy run south of them. They all might have been wealthy, with a morning’s effort.

Oh, Lord, if I do not end this soon I shall find myself pirating again, like it or not.

Elizabeth invited Billy Bird in, led him into the kitchen, made a pot of chocolate herself, since there was no one left in the house to do it for them. They sat at the big table in the kitchen-somehow it seemed appropriate to entertain Billy there rather than in the more formal sitting room or drawing room-and she poured out their cups.

Over the steaming brown drink Billy told Elizabeth in some detail (and, she guessed, some augmentation to the truth) about his last voyage to Madagascar, his wrecking his ship on the reefs off that island coast, while sailing the Pirate Round.

Billy Bird had a true sailor’s knack for yarning, and Elizabeth listened to the tale with interest, but her mind was mostly elsewhere.