Marlowe knew about mortal fear. He knew the fear that the pirates could engender, and knew better than most how legitimate that fear was. He had seen mouths stuffed full of burning oakum, living men carved up with broken bottles, women raped to death.
But it was not the drunken rascals on Smith Island who had done that. It was another man, at another time, and he put it out of his mind. He might fear that man, but that man was not the one he would be facing.
And that was fortunate. He realized how fortunate it was that very morning as he watched the Plymouth Prizes, the men upon whom he would rely during the upcoming, bloody fight, struggling just to raise the anchor from the bottom. It took some twenty-three minutes just to rig the capstan with messenger, bars and swifter, the men wandering around, staring as if
they were seeing the Plymouth Prize for the first time. It was beyond belief.
At length, and with much trouble and much broken gear, they won the anchor and made the Plymouth Prize move from that spot on the James River where she had become such a fixture.
The pumps had not stopped once from that minute, nor did they the entire time they were under way.
And for all of the thirty hours it took them to close with Smith Island, Marlowe could think of only one thing: I am taking this ruin of a ship, and these men, against a band of brigands who outnumbered us two to one. A band to whom killing is as much a part of life as is sloth and complaining to the men of the Plymouth Prize.
Chapter 9
GEORGE WILKENSON stood in the shadow of Mrs. Sullivan’s ordinary, half hidden around the edge of the building, trying to look as if he were not hiding. But in fact he was. He was keeping a close eye on Elizabeth Tinling as she and Lucy wound their way through the Market Day booths on the far side of Duke of Gloucester Street.
It was a perfect spring day, with random white clouds sailing across the blue sky and a cooling breeze blowing off the bay, blowing away the heat and the stink and the flies. The weather seemed to affect everyone who had business in Williamsburg. The joviality, smiles, laughter, and general bonhomie all served to make Wilkenson that much more miserable.
He had been shadowing them for the past hour, since they left the house and walked down the crowded street to do their marketing. This type of skulking was not at all to his liking. He was, after all, one of the most powerful men in the colony, the one who ran the vast Wilkenson holdings of ships and tobacco and slaves. Their increasingly lucrative import business as welclass="underline" cloth, silver, furniture, firearms, and sundry equipment from England that were so much in demand.
Their father might have favored his bold and ostentatious younger brother, but George knew that it was he, the quiet, methodical one, the man of thought rather than action, who was responsible for turning the small Wilkenson fortune into the still-expanding Wilkenson empire.
He was waiting for the chance to speak with Elizabeth alone, but Lucy was still following her like a puppy.
He let his eyes wander over the young slave.
Lovely. Light brown skin that spoke of some illicit liaison between master and slave somewhere in her forgotten family history. A pleasure to look at, and George could well imagine that old Tinling had not been able to keep his hands off of her, even with a wife like Elizabeth.
It was common knowledge that Lucy was in love with King James, Tinling’s surly, vicious, rebellious field hand. Marlowe’s majordomo. George knew about those Africans and their insatiable carnal desires. His mind wandered to images of James having his way with Lucy, her firm brown body writhing under him, head thrown back, screaming, heels dug into the sharply defined muscles in the small of his back, his powerful hands gripping her waist.
He shook himself from his reverie, which was only serving to titillate and distract him, and concentrated on his quarry. He watched Elizabeth step around a pie cart, then turn to Lucy and say something that he could not hear. Lucy nodded and walked away, off on some errand, and Elizabeth was alone.
Wilkenson stepped out of the shadow of the ordinary and hurried across the street, shouldering past the crowds, men and women out strolling in their fine clothes, laborers in the aprons of their trade, ragged slaves sent to town on their masters’ business.
He approached, considered what he would say and how he would say it.
Here again, he thought, is the difference between Matthew and myself.
Matthew had been bold and stupid, blundering into a fight that he should have known he could not win. George, on the other hand, was more cunning. Like a cannon fired from a great distance, he would kill Marlowe before he even saw it
coming. The bastard would be dead before he heard the shot. Wished that his father could see the advantage of his ways over Matthew’s.
He sidled up beside Elizabeth, fell in with her step. “Good morning, Mrs. Tinling.” He tried to sound like a man in control.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilkenson,” Elizabeth said without looking at him. “Are you quite done hankering around after me, lurking in the shadows like some pickpocket?” She turned to him and smiled.
Wilkenson scowled, said nothing. Her beauty always made him a bit unsteady, and her sharp tongue could bowl him over. He was always awed and jealous of Matthew’s ability to approach her. He had secretly felt, after her husband’s death, that she should have been his, but he never had the courage to act.
“Now see here, Mrs. Tinling, we have a few things that we must discuss,” Wilkenson managed at last. He pictured in his mind the great estate that he controlled, the hundred and fifty slaves who lived and died by his command, and that gave him a renewed confidence.
He waited for Elizabeth to speak, but she did not, so he continued. “As you are no doubt aware, that villain Marlowe killed my brother. Killed him for your sake, in fact.”
“I do not know why Mr. Marlowe killed your brother, sir. I suggest you ask him.”
“The ‘why’ really does matter. He did, and now he must pay.”
“He killed your brother in a duel. If he cheated in some manner, then it was your duty, as Matthew’s second, to prevent it.”
Wilkenson stared into her blue eyes. It was pure nonsense to suggest Marlowe had done anything illegal or immoral. He had known it from the start, knew that Elizabeth did as well. He had already decided that he would not argue the point.
“Regardless,” Wilkenson said, “he must pay.”
“Why do you not simply call Marlowe out and kill him in a fair fight? As he did to your brother. It is what any man would do.” She put just the slightest emphasis on the word “man.”
“I have in mind something far more painful than a bullet. I wish to see Marlowe disgraced before he dies. You are going to help see that happens.”
“And if I refuse?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes flashing, her face set in a hateful scowl. She looked more beautiful than ever. Wilkenson felt himself becoming aroused, despite himself.
“I think you know that I can make things most uncomfortable for you in this colony.”
Elizabeth’s expression did not change. She just stared at him with a hateful look. Wilkenson imagined that she had expected the threat. He hoped that she would not call him on it, for then she would realize that it was a threat that he could not carry out.
When she did not respond, George continued. “Matthew kept no secrets from me. I know everything that William Tinling told him about you. We both know that it could ruin you in this colony. Pray, do not make me say it out loud.”
In fact, he hoped very much that she would not, for he did not really know what Matthew’s secret was. His brother had been a close friend of William Tinling, and William had told him something about his father’s young bride, but Matthew had kept it to himself and had taken it to the grave.