The Guardship

His Majesty’s proud vessels. There was nothing more he needed to do to give the ship an appearance of piratical neglect.

“Now listen up, you men,” he said. “I’ve gone over the plan sufficiently, so I won’t bore you with it again. You’ve worked hard, and so I’m going to give you all a cup of rum, by way of thanks.”

This met with a murmur of approval. He dispatched two men to fetch up a breaker while he continued. “This fight could be a hard one, but hear me and take heart. The pirates will be taken quite by surprise. What’s more, I’ll wager they are all drunk as lords and in no condition to resist.”

That was half true. He had no doubt that they were drunk, but he also knew that being drunk would only make them more fearsome in a scrape. Ardent spirits did that, which was the real reason he was giving them to his own men.

“So remember, all of you, stand fast, do your duty, obey orders, and tomorrow you shall be heroes. And rich, to boot.” At that last he saw a few heads turn, a few glances exchanged.

These shortsighted wool-gatherers haven’t considered the prospect of booty, Marlowe thought. But now they would, and it would make them that much more cooperative.

He turned and headed back for the quarterdeck as the breaker of rum made its appearance. His presence would have only dampened the men’s enjoyment of the moment and prevented them from speculating about possible riches.

They rounded the easternmost tip of the island and turned westerly, coming close-hauled with larboard tacks aboard. The wind held steady, and the Plymouth Prize was making three knots at least, heeling just a bit to starboard. The moonlight and the huge fire on the beach glinted off the little waves in the bay, flickering and dancing. The far-off revelry and the crackling of the flames seemed unnaturally loud in a night otherwise silent. The dark silhouette of the anchored ship stood out sharp against the fire and the reflections on the water.

“Stand by to let go the anchor,” Marlowe called forward, and Lieutenant Rakestraw, just visible by the cathead, called back, “Aye!”, leaving out the “sir” as Marlowe had instructed. Things were working out well, the way that he had hoped.

They stood in past the anchored ship. She was indeed a big one, bigger than the Plymouth Prize and more heavily armed, though now she was a flute, her gunports empty and her heavy guns ashore. It would have been no great difficulty to board her and carry her off, but she was not what Marlowe was after. What he wanted was ashore-the pirates and their ill-gotten merchandise.

“Who’s that?” called a voice from the pirate ship, heavy with drink, loud with surprise. The fellow left aboard to keep watch, no doubt, Marlowe thought, and a fine watch he is keeping. The Plymouth Prize was already alongside and no more than fifty yards away before he spotted her. “What ship is that?” the watchman added.

“Vengeance,” shouted Marlowe.

“And where do you hail from?”

“Out of the sea!” It was the usual pirate response to that question, defiant, mocking all seagoing etiquette and protocol.

There followed a brief silence, and then: “What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you, but it’s no business of yours. We need a harbor, we’re leaking like an unstanched wench. D’ya not hear our pumps going?”

There came a grunt by way of reply. “Very well, then, but keep your goddamned distance, hear me? And if you’d beach her, then just stand on, there be a bar of but one fathom deep just ahead.”

Marlowe heard his words but gave them no thought. The watchman had not raised an alarm. His mind was now occupied with the beach. If they stood in another cable length or so, he figured, then they could land in the dark. Those pirates encircling the inferno would be blinded by their own fire and silhouetted against the flames. Yes, it would be a handsome thing.

And then he thought of what the watchman had said. He turned to King James.

“Did that villain say ‘If we’d beach her…’” he began, but got no further. The Plymouth Prize lurched to a stop. Marlowe staggered forward, thrown off balance. The grinding sound of her bow running up on the sandbar was carried back through the fabric of the ship.

“Son of a bitch,” he said out loud. They were hard aground. The ship began to swing, pivoting on her bow as the stern was blown downwind. Overhead he heard the flap of canvas as the sails luffed, and then they fell silent as they came aback.

Just as Marlowe was assuring himself that there was no harm done-they were only on sand-he heard a creaking, a horrible creaking and snapping of wood, a groan of cordage and the sharp pop pop pop of ropes coming under great strain.

He looked up. The mainmast was leaning to starboard and aft. He could see the wood coming apart, actually see it splintering, where the mast had rotted at the base. The sails were full aback and pushing the whole thing over the side.

“Clew up the topsails! Clew up the mainsail!” he shouted. “Just cut the damned sheets away! Just cut them away!” What he hoped to accomplish he did not know, nor did it matter. The men just stood there, staring dumbly aloft, as if his orders were directed at some other crew.

The mast leaned farther and farther. One shroud, then another and another, snapped and flew across the deck as the mast went by the board. The mainstay was stretched taut as a harp string and groaned under the load. He could hear the

fibers popping as that rotten rope tried to hold the entire weight of the mast.

“You there, in the waist,” he called to a knot of men standing just beneath the stay, “stand clear…”

Then the mainstay lanyards parted and the heart, a great block of oak made fast to the end of the mainstay, whipped through the gang in the waist. One man turned at the sound and caught the block full in the face. It carried him along as it knocked the others about the deck, like a cannonball blasting them apart.

Vigilance, vigilance, and no standing about, Marlowe thought, taking some small satisfaction in seeing the sluggards pay thus for their somnambulism.

The mast hesitated, as if making one last effort to remain upright, then toppled over the side. Mainmast, main top, main topmast, main topgallant, flagstaff, fore topgallant and flagstaff, and half a ton of rigging all collapsed into the harbor.

“Drop the damn anchor,” he called forward, heard the anchor splash down.

He looked over the water toward the beach. A hundred of the pirate revelers were standing in the surf, watching the fun as the Prize’s mast collapsed. That was the last thing that the mast had taken with it-their chance at surprise.

He stepped down into the waist, spoke in a sharp whisper. “Get those boats alongside. Load your weapons, and remember, I’ll flog the man to death who fires before I give the word.”

“We’re still going ashore?” someone croaked.

“Yes. And I’ll flog to death the next man who questions my orders.” And by God he meant it, too.

The two big boats were pulled alongside, and one by one the men clambered down the boarding steps and took their places at the thwarts, their muskets laid down amidships. Marlowe stood at the gangway, looking down. White, expectant faces looking back at him. He had intended to land the men at the dark end of the beach, but now that was out of the question. The pirates would think such a move was an attempt to flank them, which indeed it was.

“Oh, to hell with it,” he said out loud. If the villains on shore thought the Prizes to be fellow Brethren of the Coast then they wouldn’t be surprised to see the men come ashore heavily armed. It was what that type did.

“Listen up, you men,” he said in a loud whisper. “We’re going right at them. When we beach, just pull the boats up and step ashore, easy as you please. Keep your mouths shut, only I talk. Then, when I give the word, jump into formation and prepare to fire a volley. Is that clear?”

He heard murmured acknowledgment floating up from the boats, but he felt no great confidence that his orders had been understood, or if they had, that they wold be obeyed. Well, he thought, there’s nothing for it now.

He climbed down into the first boat and sat himself in the stern sheets, and without a word King James followed, taking up the tiller. The former slave seemed oblivious to the dirty looks shot aft by the Plymouth Prizes, who apparently did not fancy the idea of a black man as coxswain.