The Guardship

be, I have some work I must do today.”

“I understand from others, sir, that you will be commanding the guardship.”

“That’s true, in faith. Governor Nicholson has asked me to take command until a replacement is sent out from home. I should think it will be six months or so.”

“That horrid Captain Allair has resigned?”

“No. The governor has seen fit to replace him. I shall have to go out to the Plymouth Prize today and see if he will relinquish his command.”

“And if he will not?”

“Then I shall show him how it is in his best interest to do so.”

“The way you showed Matthew Wilkenson that it was in his best interest to behave himself?” Elizabeth gave a half-smile, slightly wicked and conspiratorial.

“Perhaps. Let us hope that Captain Allair is a better student than Wilkenson was.” Marlowe smiled as well. He felt something pass between them, some understanding.

“Do I take it that you were a naval officer before coming to this colony?”

Hardly, Marlowe thought, but he said, “Not a naval officer, ma’am. I was captain of a privateer in the last war.”

“Oh, indeed.” Elizabeth did not sound entirely convinced, and for a moment Marlowe was thrown off balance. She would toss him aside with disdain if she thought he was not of the most gentle birth. How could she do otherwise? The widow of Joseph Tinling, one of the great aristocrats of the tidewater.

He would not have married any woman who was not of the finest pedigree.

“You are a brave man, Captain Marlowe,” Elizabeth continued, “putting yourself in the way of those pirates that cruise the bay. I have heard the most horrible stories about them. But I shall not keep you from your duty, though I fear for your safety. I know how you men are about duty.” She stood, and Marlowe stood as well.

“I thank you, ma’am, though I’m sure I shall be in no great danger.”

“One more thing, Mr. Marlowe. Or, let me say, Captain Marlowe.” She hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “I thank you, sir, for defending my honor as you did. I am much in your debt.”

Marlowe took a step closer to her. “You are not in my debt, not at all. I did only what a gentleman should do.”

“Still, Captain, I am grateful.” She looked down, then met his eyes once more. “I am not accustomed to having my honor defended thus. And I think perhaps the world is a better place for having one less Wilkenson in it.”

“I believe you are right, ma’am. And it is I who am grateful for the chance to perform some little service for you.”

He bid her good day and walked out to where he had left his horse hitched to a rail. He mounted, and from that vantage point, looked around the capital city of Williamsburg, which seemed to be rising from the green earth at the command of Governor Nicholson. It was lovely, just lovely.

The next thing he realized, he was home. So wrapped up was he in thoughts of Elizabeth Tinling that he could not recall one incident, not one moment of the five-mile ride back from her house.

Chapter 7

CAPTAIN ALLAIR, as it turned out, was not just reluctant to turn over the command of the Plymouth Prize, he was nearly rabid on the point. Had he been a dog, Marlowe would have shot him. As it was, he nearly did.

Thomas rode up to the big house to find Bickerstaff and King James waiting on the wide front porch. Next to them, a pile of equipment: muskets, pistols, his sea chest and Bickerstaff’s, various bundles that King James had apparently decided they could not do without.

Bickerstaff was calm and philosophical as ever, the slightly eccentric schoolmaster. But Marlowe had seen him in no-quarters combat, knew that he was unflinching and deadly in a fight. King James stood like a tree to the side and behind where Bickerstaff sat.

Seeing the two men filled Marlowe with optimism. Far more so than the sight of the company of Virginia militia loitering on the lawn.

There were about two dozen men in the company. As he rode up, the lieutenant, who was not above twenty years in age, called an order and the men shuffled to attention.

Marlowe pulled his horse to a stop where the company was drawn up, dismounted, and handed the reins to the waiting

boy. He had requested the troops of Governor Nicholson for the purpose of taking the Plymouth Prize from Allair, there being an off chance that Allair’s crew would help him defend his command. And while Marlowe did not believe that that drunken fool could actually engender enough loyalty in his men that they would risk even the slightest injury for him, he reckoned it was a good job to be prepared. Hence the militia.

There was little about them that was uniform, including their uniforms. Their regimentals had started out red, but they were more of a pink hue now, save for the lieutenant, whose coat, either newer or of better quality, was still a respectable color. Their waistcoats were either white, red, or blue, as were their breeches. Their ages ranged from seventeen to fifty years or more, and the same was true of their weapons.

In all they were not an inspiring sight, and it was only when Marlowe thought of the morose, despondent crew of the Plymouth Prize, against whom they would have to fight, if it came to that, that he felt his old confidence return.

“Lieutenant…?”

“Burnaby, sir. Lieutenant Burnaby, Virginia Militia.” The young lieutenant swept off his hat and gave a shallow bow.

“Lieutenant Burnaby, thank you for your promptness,” Marlowe said, extending his hand. “With any luck I shall dismiss you men by nightfall tomorrow.”

“Oh. Do you not think we shall have to fight?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Oh.” The lieutenant seemed disappointed.

“But I’m not saying it can’t happen. We could have a bloody day on our hands,” Marlowe added, and this seemed to brighten Burnaby up some. “Now, pray, give me a few moments to shift clothes and we’ll be off.”

He found that King James had laid his clothes out on his bed, as he had asked: the long blue broadcloth coat, the silk waistcoat, the canvas breeches, the tall leather boots. Garments from another lifetime, come back. Except that now they were clean and pressed and mended to perfection, and the boots

were shined so bright they reflected back the light from the open window.

With relish he stripped off the clothes he had worn to call on Mrs. Tinling, starting first with the accursed wig, which he flung into the corner like a dead, longhaired white cat. Next the silk coat and waistcoat, which he unceremoniously dropped on the floor. He unbuckled his silly gold-hilted sword with the jewels mounted on the pommel and dropped that on the pile at his feet.

King James, who had accompanied Marlowe into his bedchamber, unbidden though he was, picked up the discarded clothing as fast as Marlowe could shed it.

“Lucy begs me give you her regards,” Marlowe said as he pulled on the old breeches. “If I am not entirely mistaken, I think she is fairly smitten with you.”

“Hmmph,” said James, placing the wig on a table stand. “Lucy is just a foolish girl.”

“Indeed, nor do I think much of her taste in men, but you might be well advised to take advantage of her poor judgment.”

“Hmmph,” James said again.

Marlowe grinned at James but could not get a rise out of him, so he sat on his bed and allowed James to help him into his good, honest wool stockings and knee-high boots. He ran his arms into the loose-fitting cotton shirt and then the waistcoat.

He picked up his old sword, drew the blade from the scabbard. It was a murderous-looking thing, with a wire- bound grip, a brass hand guard, and a straight, heavy double-edged blade over forty inches from hilt to tip. It felt as