All that he thought in the instant between the crack like a gunshot and the banging and flogging of canvas that had broken free of its restraints.
He whirled around and his eye was drawn to the chaos aloft.
Something had snapped and now the weather clew of the main topsail was free and the entire sail was slamming and twisting and flogging itself to death. Marlowe could see it wrapping around the main topmast forestay, dragging itself across the heavy rope, shredding itself against the gear aloft. Streams of canvas blew away like bandages coming undone.
At the base of the mast, Griffin, looking up, shouting. Not orders, not instructions, just cursing, useless filthy invectives spilling from his mouth, directed at the sail.
Useless man. In the rush of getting under way fast Marlowe had neglected to replace him as bosun.
He pushed past Bickerstaff, raced forward, ready to give the orders himself to get the big sail under control when Fleming burst out from under the quarterdeck, shouting orders as he ran. “Clew up! Clew up! Come along, you lazy bastards, lay into them clews! Ease away the sheets there, ease away, handsome now! Mr. Griffin, mind your duty!”
Half a minute more and the sail was subdued, hauled up to the topsail yard by its clews and bunts while all the time Griffin kept up his pointless and useless cursing.
The ship was quiet again, the men attentive, and Fleming ordered the main topgallant sail in and the yards lowered into their lifts and hands away aloft to unbend the topsail. The crisis had lasted no more than three minutes, but it had been enough to shatter Marlowe’s fine mood and force him back to the unhappy reality of the moment.
Fleming stood at the base of the mainmast, examining the frayed end of a long piece of cordage that lay strewn over the fife rail and the main hatch. He squinted aloft, then dropped the rope and stepped up the quarterdeck ladder and aft. “Looks like the topsail sheet chaffed right through. Must have had a bad lead,” he announced.
“Indeed. We’ll have quite a few such kinks to work out, I wouldn’t wonder,” said Marlowe. “Let us hope we get it all straight before we have a real situation. And well done, Mr. Fleming.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Fleming, embarrassed. He coughed, mumbled something about seeing to the new topsail, and disappeared down into the waist.
“Good man, Fleming,” Marlowe observed.
“Indeed,” said Bickerstaff. They were standing just forward of the mizzenmast now, out of earshot of the helmsmen aft and quite ignored by the men below them in the waist, who were busy with the new topsail. “Now Thomas, forgive me, but I must ask. You have not yet said anything to the men about hunting down King James and the others aboard that wretched slave ship. Are you intending to tell them?”
“Of course I am,” Marlowe said, pleased with his genuine sincerity. “Of course I am,” he said again. “But it is a delicate thing, you see. They won’t be happy with it; quite a lot of risk and no reward, save for my reputation.”
“These are not pirates, Thomas. You do not need their approval.”
“No, but they ain’t man-of-war’s men either. Privateers are tricky business. Push them too hard one way and they take French leave of you, and there you are, stranded in some port with no crew. Push too hard the other way and they chuck you overboard and turn pirate. In truth, I am in charge only as long as they all agree I am in charge. I suppose they are like the pirates in that, except that it’s a bit more of a fuss for them to depose me.”
“But it is still your intention to hunt James and the others down?”
“We are hunting them now. It is just that you and I are the only ones who know it.”
“Hunting them how? How can you guess where they are?”
“James and Cato and Joshua were the only ones who know any bit of seamanship, and Cato and Joshua know only the sloop, really. James’s experience with square rig is limited to the Plymouth Prize, and though he is a capable fellow there is only so much he can do with his untrained people and his own limited knowledge. Right now I should think they are running for it, downwind. They would not try and shape
a course to windward, not now.”
“But they might later?”
“Perhaps. Once James has trained them a bit.”
“They will go to Africa.” It was a statement.
Marlowe was silent for a moment. “Yes. I had thought of that. That is why we must catch them now. These men”-he gestured toward the waist-“will not care to go to Africa to hunt them down. And do not think it has not occurred to them that they need only knock me and you and Fleming on the head and suddenly they are equal partners in the finest pirate ship afloat. They lack only sufficient motivation. And if it has not occurred to them, you can bet that little bastard Griffin will point it out.”
The two men were silent, watching the hands forward bundling up the new topsail in readiness for sending it aloft.
“Beware, beware, the Bight of Benin…” Marlowe muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Oh, just some old sailor’s nonsense. One of these warnings set to a bit of verse. ‘Beware, beware, the Bight of Benin. One man comes out for each forty go in.’ The Slave Coast is a deuced unpleasant place. Deadly to white men.”
“One might think that Divine retribution.”
“Perhaps. Whatever it is, let us pray to all that is holy that we do not have to plunge into that dark place.”
Chapter 8
Twenty minutes after Dunmore and his men had disappeared behind the house they were back. Angry, scowling, driving their horses hard, taking their frustrations out on the animals.
Once again Dunmore reined up in front of Elizabeth, blocking her way with his horse, as if he were cornering a runaway slave.
“Where are they?” he demanded, his voice like a spade in gravel.
“Who?”
“Don’t come it the innocent with me! Your niggers! Where are your niggers?”
“Were they not all standing in a line, waiting for you to clap them in chains?”
Dunmore scowled at her. His eyes moved up to the house. “You have them in there? Hidden in there?”
Elizabeth stepped forward until she was just a few feet from Dun-more. The smell of the horse was strong in her nose, its breathing loud. “Do not think for one moment you will go uninvited into my house. You may come sneaking around here when Mr. Marlowe is gone, but he will not be gone forever, do you understand? He has been more than tolerant of your insults thus far, pray do not seek to find the limits of his patience.”
Dunmore had not yet arrived in the tidewater when Marlowe shot Matthew Wilkenson in a duel over Elizabeth ’s honor. He had not been there when Marlowe fought and killed the pirate LeRois. But he would have heard the stories, would understand the potential danger in pushing the man too far.
His horse spun around under him and he had to swivel his head to keep his eyes locked on Elizabeth ’s.
“You’ll not hide them forever, your bloody murdering niggers. You and your precious Mr. Marlowe will not put the entire colony in jeopardy with the notions you are putting in the Negroes’ heads, is that clear? I will be back! I will be back with dogs, with guns, with more men! I will be back!”
He spun around again, called to his band, and they rode off before Elizabeth was able to get in another word.
She watched them as they rode away. The overseers might agree with Dunmore, but ultimately they were just following orders. The other planters she knew socially. They did not support Marlowe in his decision to free his people, she understood that. But they had lived with it for three years now, had never before uttered more than the mildest of protests.
It was Dunmore. He was the one getting them worked up, had been for some time, quietly agitating. And now this thing with James and the slave ship. The spark in the powder magazine.