The Guardship

surprise at their being released, just as had been promised.

LeRois came at last to the Royal Arms Tavern, a low, dark building opening onto an alley rather than the main street. One of the least regal-looking establishments in the New World. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. His hat brushed against the rough-hewn beams overhead. There was a haze of smoke hanging like a fog over the upper third of the room. Beyond the dim light of the three lanterns that illuminated the place there seemed to be no colors other than grays and blacks and browns.

The Royal Arms was a rough establishment, the refuge of those sailors and laborers who were not welcome in the other public houses and whores too old or ugly to attract a more genteel clientele. It was also one of the older taverns in the town, a place that LeRois knew well and frequented when in that part of the world. No one in the Royal Arms was in the least bit curious about anyone else’s business. He liked that about the place.

He stood stock-still, ran his eyes over the room. He was sweating with abandon and felt a vague terror in his gut, afraid that his carefully laid plan would fall apart, afraid that the screaming would start again.

A curse was forming on his lips just as he caught sight of the man for whom he was searching.

The man was Ezekiel Ripley. He sat hunched over a table, small and ratlike, with a big nose and protruding teeth, dark eyes darting about, and a pipe thrust in his mouth.

Ripley was the former quartermaster for the Vengeance. He had sailed with LeRois for years, and had advanced to quartermaster after Barrett had left. Just looking at the man brought back images of that day, of Barrett trying to take his leave, of Ripley calling him coward, of the fight that followed. LeRois shuddered, pushed the memory aside.

Now Ripley was in command of a small river sloop, a legitimate transport vessel that plied the Chesapeake. The fact that a man like Ripley could secure such employment bespoke the dire shortage of experienced sailors in the tidewater.

They had met again by accident in that very tavern a year before, and over numerous bowls of punch had concocted the plan that would make them all rich: LeRois, Ripley, the men of the Vengeance.

It was not much of a plan, really, but it addressed one of the biggest obstacles faced by the men on the account. While the most sought-after commodity aboard a plundered vessel was specie, gold and silver in any form, it was the least often found. More frequently the pirates took cargo-tobacco, cloth, manufactured goods, barrel hoops-all of which had to be sold to do the pirates any good.

The merchants in Charleston and Savannah were a ready market, but they had little money and a surfeit of stolen goods. They would give only a fraction of the cargo’s worth, which was their fee for not asking questions.

But Ripley reckoned himself a visionary who could see opportunity, counted himself a big man. Saw a new way of importing goods for sale into a wealthy colony hungry for them. Had the ears of important men ashore, could make things happen.

It was merde, of course; Ripley was a lying pig, a little rat fluffing himself up. LeRois knew it, but that did not matter as long as he really could sell the Vengeance’s plunder for gold. And he said he could, and he was too smart and too much the coward to cross LeRois.

That was the plan in its entirety. The cargoes plundered by the Vengeance would be funneled to market through Ripley, and Ripley would pay the pirates in gold. LeRois did not know with whom Ripley was working, and he did not care. His own part was simple enough, so simple that he had been able to keep it in his head for the year it had taken to organize. It required the cooperation of only a few parties. The potential for profit was enormous.

LeRois knew that this plan represented his last chance. The crew of the Vengeance were grumbling, and they would vote him out of his captaincy soon if he did not prove his worth in that office. Before he would step down he would kill as many of them as he could, and then they would kill him, and that would be an end to it.

He crossed to the table. Ripley’s rodent eyes darted up at him. “LeRois,” he said.

“Uhh, bonsoir, quartermaster,” LeRois grunted. He had never been able to pronounce Ripley’s name. He looked down at the other man at the table. He had never met him, but he knew who he was.

“Take a seat, Capitain,” Ripley said, obsequious yet trying to take control.

“Come, we use the room in the back,” LeRois said, indicating the way with a jerk of his head.

He pushed through the crowd and the smoke, down a narrow hall leading to the back of the building where a small room was available for anyone with private business. As it happened, the room was occupied at the moment by a whore and her customer, engaged in some very private business indeed. LeRois pushed the door open. The dim light of the hallway fell on the startled man and his lady.

“What in all hell, shut that goddamned door!” the man roared, but his voice trailed off as he got a better look at LeRois, whose bulk filled the doorway.

“Get out,” LeRois said. The man hesitated, looked down at the whore lying supine on the table, looked again at LeRois, then fled for the door, pulling his breeches up as he ran.

The woman followed more slowly, smoothing out her dress and shooting LeRois a filthy look, but LeRois paid no attention. The business that he was on was more important than the feelings or monetary considerations of some whore. He stepped into the now vacant room, Ripley and the second man behind him. Ripley shut the door.

LeRois turned to his former quartermaster. “Have you seen Barrett?”

“Barrett’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

“Last I heard, his men killed him. I ain’t heard another word about him in three years. If he was around, I’d know.”

“Bah!” LeRois spit on the floor. “He is not dead. There is no one who can kill him but me.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said the man with Ripley, “and I don’t care. Reckon we got more important things to talk about here.”

LeRois squinted at the man. He was fat, and his shirt and waistcoat were stained and filthy. He was visibly drunk, and he needed a shave. He did not look like a man who would be in the position that he was in.

“You are capitain of the guardship?” LeRois asked.

Ripley and the man exchanged a glance. “This here is Captain Allair,” Ripley said. “He was the captain of the guardship. He ain’t anymore. Governor appointed some other son of a bitch, name of Marlowe, as captain.”

“What!?” LeRois roared. “What the goddamned hell is this?” The plan hinged on the cooperation of the guardship’s captain for the free movement of the Vengeance on the bay. Ripley had assured him that this Allair could be bought, and cheaply. But now there was someone else in command of the man-of-war.

He felt his hands begin to tremble. Something snapping inside his head.

Captain Allair cleared his throat and worked the spittle around in his mouth. He met LeRois’s eyes. “Son of a whore Marlowe set me up like he was playing nine-pins. Comes out to the ship for a visit, he says. Tells me he’s looking to buy a silver table set, and if I happen across one he’ll buy it, for a hell of a lot more than it was worth.

“Well, I found one, aboard a ship in from London, and I took it and it was the goddamned governor’s silver, and next thing I know that bastard has my ship! I don’t know how he knew, but he did, the son of a bitch.”

LeRois stared at Allair as if he were some type of animal he did not recognize. He turned to Ripley. “What the fuck is this? Who is this Marlowe, eh? He will work with us?”

Before Ripley could answer, Allair said, “Sod Marlowe, the sheep-biting whoreson. If you want to move on the Bay, you best see I get back my legitimate command! You work with me, or you don’t work, understand?”

He leaned closer to LeRois, head back, so that their faces were just a few inches apart.

LeRois squinted harder, as if trying to make out Allair’s face through a fog. He jerked a pistol out of his sash, cocked the lock, thrust it into Allair’s stomach. Pulled the trigger.

The blast of the gun was muffled by the fat around Allair’s waist, but the former guardship captain’s shriek filled the tiny room as he fell.

“Don’t scream! Don’t scream, you son of a whore!” LeRois shouted at Allair, but his commands did no good. Allair lay on his back, holding his stomach as blood ran out between his fingers, screaming, gasping, rocking side to