James Nelson: The Blackbirder

The black man smiled, a conspirator’s grin. “Jest setting a few drifts to rights, Captain. Under way by week’s end and it all gots to be done by then.”

“Well, in that case I forgive your irreligious activities,” Marlowe said. For the past three years he had been taking James along as a seaman. He would ship aboard the Elizabeth Galley as boatswain. He had already proved his worth as a fighting man.

James was as eager as Marlowe to get under way, to plunge into that life again.

“I do not know as Reverend Trumbell would forgive you, though, James.” Marlowe continued his ribbing. “He did not sound overly forgiving at sermon this morning.”

“Don’t matter. Reverend Trumbell listens to that Dunmore, and that Dunmore don’t think a black man got any more immortal soul than a rock. When I sees him praying for a rock’s salvation, then I’ll listen to what he gots to say to me.”

Page was beginning to wander off, and Marlowe, aware of his social obligations, said, “I will leave off your soul for now, James. I must show Mr. Page the rest of the ship.”

With that he led Page and Bickerstaff forward, under the overhang of the foredeck, where the big brick oven housed gleaming copper pots, just abaft the foremast. They poked through bosun’s lockers and sailmaker’s stores, and then climbed down to the lower deck, where even the five-foot-four-inch-tall Page had to stoop a bit to avoid striking his head on the deck beams.

They made their way aft, stopping to peer down through the main hatch to the hold below. Marlowe showed his guest the tiny cabins of the minor officers who would sail under him, the spirit room, the pantry where the private stores of officers and captain would be kept. Three years as a gentleman planter had dulled his taste for rotten meat packed in casks of salt and for bread crawling with weevils.

It was with evident relief that Page allowed his host to lead him up the scuttle to the great cabin aft and offer him a seat on a plush velvet cushion atop the lockers under the aft windows.

Sunlight glanced off the river below and threw undulating patches of white light across the sides and overhead of the cabin. The windows, propped open, let in the smells of the warm riverbanks, the gurgle of water, the occasional thump of the rudder as it was pushed side to side by the current. It was a sleepy, peaceful moment, quite at odds with the violent raison d’etre of the Elizabeth Galley.

Bickerstaff went to the wine rack, perused the bottles. “Claret? Yes? Let us enjoy this now, it will soon be damned hard to come by, what with this war against France. I do not foresee a quick end to it.”

“Those are words to gladden a privateer’s heart,” said Marlowe, accepting a glass.

“But not a tobacco planter’s, Marlowe, and you are still that as well,” Page reminded him. “We’ll lose all the markets in Europe with this damned war. England cannot begin to buy all the crop we grow. Prices will plummet. I fear we shall all be ruined.”

“I fear you are right,” said Bickerstaff, who was more knowledgeable and interested in such things as agriculture and world markets than was Marlowe. This, despite the fact that, strictly speaking, Marlowe was the plantation owner and tobacco farmer, and Bickerstaff merely his guest.

“And to make matters worse,” Bickerstaff continued, “the planters in this country are redoubling their crops. They hope to make as much as they can by selling twice as much, but the prices are falling fast as a result. Less money for more work.”

“Yes, well… don’t know what else might be done…,” Page mumbled, with a defensive tone. “Hey, Marlowe, how are you manning this ship? Sailors are damned scarce in these parts. Can hardly man the tobacco convoys, and them merchantmen need less hands than you will.”

“Sailors will be drawn to money like filings to a lodestone,” Marlowe said. “I cannot say that it has been an easy thing, manning the Galley, but there is such a potential for profit that I have attracted enough hands. I shall fill out the crew with some of my people. King James, of course, and a few others. The difficulty is that such men are impatient for results. If we have no success early on I might well find myself in some port or other with not enough men to win the anchor.”

“From what I have seen of your abilities, and your luck,” Bickerstaff offered, “I do not envision that happening.”

A knock on the cabin door, and King James swung it open, leaned inside. “Beg pardon, sir, but the wind’s fair and tide just ebbing now so I reckoned I’d best be getting under way.”

It took Marlowe a moment to understand what James was talking about. Under way?

His new acreage. Now it came back. The acreage he had purchased a month before, just north of Point Comfort at the mouth of the James River. He was sending the sloop with a hold full of sup-plies-food, tools, lumber-down to the new property. His men, already there, would begin clearing the land, for cultivation, perhaps, or perhaps a shipyard or whatever else might seem a profitable venture. In the excitement of fitting out the Elizabeth Galley he had entirely forgotten.

“Very well. Bon voyage.”

“Thank you, sir. And, sir? Lucy coming with me, if you be so kind as to remind Mrs. Marlowe?”

Lucy was Elizabeth ’s personal servant-like James and all the former slaves at Marlowe House she was free-and James’s wife.

“I’ll remind her, though her memory is not nearly as far gone as mine. And I will recall you to your duty, James. This is not a yachting holiday, Lucy or no. Down and back, as fast as wind and tide allow.”

James smiled. “You have no fear, Captain Marlowe. As fast as wind and tide allow.” With a good-bye to Bickerstaff and Page he was gone.

Marlowe leaned back in his chair, sipped his claret, took in the wide cabin, the fresh paint, the fine furniture. Velvet cushions on the settee; a rack of expensive English muskets and pistols, brass-bound and engraved; portrait of his beautiful wife on the forward bulkhead; an enviable selection of wine.

Marlowe had seen squalor aplenty, had lived and sailed with the pirates, a base existence, and he did not care to live like that anymore.

And since he was now a wealthy planter and privateersman, he did not have to.

A fighting ship, rebuilt to his own specifications, under his own eye, an all but full complement of experienced seamen.

Tomorrow, a letter of marque and reprisal. By week’s end a privateering voyage.

He smiled. There was nothing else he could do.

King James watched the breeze ruffle the surface of the wide river, felt it cool the wet fabric of his shirt. His eyes swept along the river, noting the strength of the current in the angle of the reeds, predicting the coming steadiness in the wind from the cat’s-paws that spread shivering ripples over the brown water.

Jamestown. The James River. King James. All three of them named for some long-dead monarch, all connected, intertwined, running together like the dark rivers of Africa searching for the sea.

He stood on the river sloop’s quarterdeck, all the way aft by the taffrail. His bare foot rested on the head of the rudder post that thrust up through the deck. It twisted underfoot, as if trying to shake him, as the tiller swung side to side within the confines of the beckets that held it amidships.

Lucy was hurrying along the road, making for the sloop, a basket on her arm. She was young; James doubted she was above seventeen, but of course most of those who had been enslaved had lost track of the passing years; and she was beautiful, with her soft black curls spilling out from under her mobcap, her skin the color of cocoa with cream.