He concentrated his thoughts on that comforting idea. It helped to drive away the shame, the utter humiliation he felt about what they were doing.
Chapter 17
EVIDENCE OF the battle at Smith Island was still visible, though it had been at least two week since the fight.
LeRois scratched at his beard. He thought it had been that long, but now he was not certain. He tried to recall what Ripley had said, but the sand underfoot seemed unusually soft, making walking inordinately tiring, and the sun was beating down on them and he could hear voices talking somewhere, and all those things made it very difficult for him to concentrate.
He took a big drink of gin from the bottle in his hand, held it in his mouth, swallowed it. Looked around the white sand. Off near the dune grass some animal had unearthed one of the poor bastards who had died there, and now a few turkey vultures were taking desultory stabs at what little remained. At first glance LeRois had thought the dead man was Barrett, thought he saw the corpse reaching for a sword, had gasped in fear, but he had been mistaken.
In the surf was the odd pistol or cutlass, half buried in the dark sand. A big blackened circle indicated where the pirate’s fire had burned before they had been murdered by the black-heart Marlowe, new captain of the guardship, the one who stood between LeRois and the ultimate fulfillment of his plans.
“Merde alors,” LeRois muttered. Drank again.
“He just shot ’em down where they stood,” Ripley said. “No call for them to surrender, just shot ’em down, and them that called for quarter is to be hung any day now.”
“Merde.” Something was giving off a terrible stench. LeRois wondered if it was Ripley or himself. Perhaps the poor dead bastard getting picked apart by the birds. “And the ship, the one that was taken, what of the things they had on board?”
“As I hear it, the bastard Marlowe let his men have what they wanted, split it up on a barrelhead and give ’em all a share.”
LeRois took another drink, swallowed, and grinned. “This Marlowe, he sound more like a pirate himself than a king’s man, no? The son of a bitch. Who is he?”
“Ain’t seen him. I keeps away from the towns. Told you. This here’s more to my liking.”
The little rat was all fluffed up again with self-importance, as if everything that had taken place had been his own doing. LeRois spit in the sand.
The three vessels were riding at anchor above the glassy water of the harbor. The largest of the three was the Vengeance. She rode to a single anchor with her gray and much-patched sails hauled out by their bowlines to dry.
Made fast to the Vengeance’s starboard side was the small sloop that was the one and only legitimate command of former pirate quartermaster Ezekiel Ripley. On the starboard side of Ripley’s sloop was tied a brigantine from New York, which had been northbound a week out of Barbados when she had been spotted from the Vengeance’s masthead.
The brigantine had run for all she was worth, which infuriated LeRois. When at last she had been overhauled her crew had fought rather than surrender, which made LeRois lose all semblance of reason.
That was three days before. The last of her crew had just died that morning.
The deck of the brigantine and the deck of the Vengeance and the deck of the little sloop were crowded with men. Cargo was coming up from the hold of the pirate-the accumulated
plunder of seven vessels they had taken since leaving New Providence-and the hold of her eighth and most recent victim, and with stay tackles and yard tackles it was swayed over to Ripley’s sloop and stowed down below.
“If that cochon Allair had not lost his ship, we would not have to sneak around here like frightened puppies,” LeRois growled.
“Yeah, well, you done for him.”
“Where is the son of bitch Marlowe now, and his fucking guardship?”
“They’re careening the ship by Point Comfort. This past week Marlowe’s been at the trial for them poor bastards they took here. I reckon they’re at the hanging now.”
“Careening, eh? Well, why don’t we go and blow their god-damned ship to hell while they are careening?”
“Marlowe set up the great guns on the shore. He ain’t that dumb. I reckon you should just stay clear of him and we’ll just carry on like we are.”
LeRois grunted and drank the last of his gin and flung the bottle into the surf. The hot sun felt good now, and the warm sand around his shoes was like a heavy blanket. The voices were gone, and in their place was music, lovely music. LeRois glanced around the beach, but he could not see where it was coming from.
There was reason for happiness. The plan that he and Ripley had devised seemed to be working, despite their not having the cooperation of the guardship. They had met up at Smith Island, that familiar haunt, as planned, LeRois with a hold full of pilfered goods, Ripley with a chest full of hard money to pay for it. No haggling with bastard shopkeepers in Charleston or Savannah, who insisted you practically give the goods away. LeRois could let Ripley pretend he was important as long as things kept working as smoothly as that.
And just as important, the Vengeances were a happy crew. The hunting had been good around the Capes. They had been drinking and pillaging and tormenting victims almost nonstop since arriving in those waters, and that made for a contented
band of men. And as long as they were contented, there would be no questioning of authority.
It would have been better, of course, if they had not had the guardship to worry about, but the guardship had not bothered them yet. It may have done for the stupid bastards on that beach, but LeRois was not stupid and he would not be caught in that manner.
“The flotte, the tobacco convoy, they sail soon, eh?” LeRois asked.
“Yes, a week or so. Gathering now, down by Hampton Roads, but sod the fucking tobacco fleet. We have all the fucking tobacco we needs. There’s no call for tobacco around here. It’s goods like them”-Ripley thrust his pointed, bristled chin at the barrels soaring out of the Vengeance’s hold-“that gots a ready market here. Imports, goods from England, the things what have a high tariff, that’s what can be sold here. Besides that, convoy’ll have an escort. The guardship, with that Marlowe, what served these bastards out, he’ll be there, I reckon.”
“Bah, fucking guardship,” LeRois grunted. He looked around in the sand, hoping to find a discarded bottle of alcohol of some description, but there was nothing.
Sod tobacco? he thought. I reckon not. Tobacco might not be much in demand in Virginia, but Virginia was not the only market, and he was feeling confident. Tobacco ships had specie aboard them.
He would see about this tobacco fleet.
Marlowe sat, silent and unmoving, and stared out of the aft window of the Northumberland’s great cabin. He felt the anger wash over him and then recede, wash and recede, like the surf on the beach. He was aware of the gentle tap of Bickerstaff’s foot on the deck, King James’s shifting uncomfortably in his seat, but he ignored them until he trusted himself to speak.
“They burned it? All of it? The hogsheads as well?”
“All of it. And the hogsheads. Near the end, when they were emptying the casks first, I pointed out that they needn’t throw the empty casks on the flames, but it did no good.”
“Damn their souls to hell,” Marlowe said. “Does honor mean nothing in this place? What, pray, is the use of playing the gentleman if we must endure this petty vengeance? And under the guise of the law?”
“As long as Witsen and half of the tidewater is in debt to the Wilkensons,” Bickerstaff said, “then the Wilkensons are the law.”
“They are the law on land, sir, but now I am the law on the sea.”