James Nelson: The Guardship

The guns on the old Vengeance ’s larboard side went off as the flames consumed them as well, one right after the other with less than a second between. One of them fired straight across the water, slamming its load into the new ship’s side, though LeRois did not reckon it would do much damage. The other must have been upended, for rather than firing out of its gunport it blew a hole in the side of the ship and showered the Nouvelle Vengeance with canister and grape and bits of burning debris.

Someone forward was cursing, loud and vehement, wounded by the old Vengeance ’s inadvertent broadside. LeRois did not care about that, but he was concerned about those bits of flaming material that had landed on the deck.

“ Allez, allez ! The flames! Get them out!”

In the waist the men pulled themselves from the spectacle and stamped the flaming bits that threatened the deck, and one by one the glowing embers flared and died.

When he was satisfied that he would not lose his new ship to the flames, LeRois turned back to the old Vengeance . The long tentacles of the fire were reaching out of the gunports and the hole that the gun had blown in the side, reaching up and grabbing on to the mizzen shrouds and the quarterdeck rail, pulling itself up and out of the great cabin, taking command of the vessel. They were brothers, he and the fire. Together they ruled the night.

And then something else caught his eye, something beyond the burning ship that was throwing back the light of the fire.

“Eh? Qu’est-ce que c’est? ” He pushed forward along the rail, shoving those Vengeances out of the way that were standing there stupidly watching the ship burn. He got to the break of the quarterdeck and stared out into the dark.

It was like a ghost, wavering before his eyes, dimly seen, and LeRois felt the panic rising. And then suddenly it seemed to materialize and take form, and he realized that it was not a ghost but a sail, the gaff-headed mainsail of a sloop, coming downriver. He would never have seen it had it not been for the flames rising up from the old Vengeance .

He smiled, and then he laughed out loud. “The devil, he will not let you sneak up on me, eh?” he shouted at the sail, then shook his fist.

He could see the faces of his men turning toward him and then following his gaze. He could hear loud speculation through the crackling of the flames. The voices were singing their warnings, high and clear, almost shrieking, but more lovely than that. The flames danced over the quarterdeck of his old ship, and laughing faces appeared among the brilliant yellows and reds, and LeRois laughed with them.

“ Allez , now, they are coming for us!” LeRois shouted. He drew his sword and pointed toward the sloop. “That is the first, but there are more, and last of all will come Malachias Barrett, who is the very devil himself, but I am a bigger devil than he, eh?”

His men looked confused, the stupid sheep, so he tried to make it more clear for them. “The guardship we chase here, she is coming back for us now, and soon they will be aboard us. They will try to come from two sides, the ship and the sloop, but we will be ready for them, no?”

Now heads were nodding as the men began to understand that they would soon be attacked. They scattered, some running, some limping, some walking, to see to the great guns and small arms, to load firelocks and return the edge to swords and to sharpen themselves with whiskey and rum.

They are animals, LeRois thought, they know only living and fucking and killing and dying. He alone knew better, and that was why the voices had put their lives, all of their lives-the Vengeances’, Malachias Barrett’s, the king’s men-all of them into his hands.

“Je suis le seul maitre a bord apres Dieu.” The words came to his lips unbidden, the words the priests had taught him so many, many years before. He had not thought of them in all that time.

Thou shalt have no other Gods before me.

The sound of the great gun blasted Marlowe from his self-indulgent reverie. Brought him up all standing. His first thought was for the Northumberland . She was downriver somewhere, probably right up with the pirate ships. If she had been discovered, the pirate’s heavy guns would rip her apart before she got within two cable lengths of the enemy’s side.

He swung himself up into the mizzen shrouds and scampered up until he was ten feet above the deck and peered forward. He could see nothing beyond the darkness and the few burning buildings ashore. His shoulder ached from the tension. He flexed it, waited for more cannon to fire. Waited

for the river to be illuminated by the pirate’s broadside. Waited to see his sloop die in the muzzle flashes of the big guns.

But there was nothing, nothing more, no more heavy guns. Perhaps it was some of the drunken brigands making fireworks to amuse themselves. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, forced himself to relax, hoping that the exercise would help him to see in the dark. He opened his eyes again, avoiding those lights on the north shore, and looked over the starboard side.

Now he could just make out the pale outline of sandy beach that ringed the northern banks of Hog Island. It was just abeam. He moved his eyes forward, scanning along what he reckoned were the tops of the trees, and there, just beyond the island, he saw the masts.

They thrust above the denser foliage, just visible where the dark sky met the darker horizon, skeletal limbs reaching up to heaven. Both ships were there, Vengeances old and new. He did not know which the pirates would be aboard. He did not know if he would be able to see well enough in the dark night even to maneuver the Plymouth Prize alongside.

There was another sound now, a popping like a rope under a heavy strain. Small-arms fire? Marlowe turned his ear toward the noise. Yes, that was what it was. Was it possible that the Northumberland was engaged? Marlowe had felt unwell for the past hour, as his meeting with LeRois drew closer, but the thought of Bickerstaff and James embroiled in a fight, and he himself unable to join in, made him positively sick to his stomach. He grabbed tighter onto the shroud.

And then another big gun went off and Marlowe nearly tumbled out of the rigging. He could see the muzzle flash this time, spewing its flame out into the night. It illuminated the side of the pirate ship, the smaller one, and the water out one hundred feet from her side. The Northumberland was nowhere to be seen.

Marlowe swallowed hard, forced himself to be calm. It had been years since he had felt this kind of fear. The last time, in fact, was when he had finally summoned the courage to tell

LeRois that he was leaving, and that had been the closest he had ever come to being killed.

He climbed back down and stood on the quarterdeck rail, one hand on a shroud to steady himself. The Plymouth Prizes were at their guns, craning their necks out of gunports and twisting in odd ways to see around the barrels. They had a true believer’s faith in him, and that would have to sustain them now, for he could think of no inspiring words to get them riled up for the coming fight. He wished he could, but he could not, and he did not trust himself to speak.

Just as he was wondering how in all hell he was going to negotiate the shallows around the island, two more guns went off in rapid succession, one, two, and this time they fired south, straight into the Wilkenson Brothers .

“Good Lord!” Marlowe cried, despite himself. The blast from the guns lit the big pirate ship up in two quick flashes, like shuttering and unshuttering a lantern.

The after end of the old Vengeance seemed to glow with a light from within, and that light was reflected on the water around her stern section. Marlowe squinted, shook his head. Then the flames burst up around the quarterdeck and up the mizzen rigging. The ship was on fire. And the fire, no doubt, had set off the guns.