one, five hundred tons or thereabouts, and heavily armed. There were twenty guns aboard her, and they looked to be nine-pounders, as well as swivels and arms chests on deck that had yet to be opened. Her rigging was freshly blacked and well set up, and her decks and brightwork and brass bespoke a vessel that was well maintained. He had no way of knowing what shape her bottom was in, but he did know that a master who was so careful about the details was unlikely to let her hull rot away.
“Captain.” Darnall came up the ladder to the quarterdeck. He had two bottles in his hand that looked as if they had come from the master’s cabin. He handed one to LeRois.
“Ain’t a fucking soul on board,” the quartermaster reported. “Looks like mostly tobacco in the hold, goddamned lot of tobacco, and worth a fortune. Some money in the master’s cabin. Hell of a prize.” Darnall took a long pull from his bottle.
“Hell of a prize,” LeRois agreed.
“Looked at the logbook. She’s the
“Uhh,” LeRois grunted. His hand was shaking from the fear, fear that he might see the vision. The Vengeances were still screaming, he could hear them, though he could not actually see anyone’s mouth moving.
He took a long drink from his bottle, letting the liquid run down his cheeks and beard as he guzzled it. It was red wine, which did not have the same instant numbing effect of rum or gin, so LeRois drank again and again, until he felt the warmth spreading through him. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“You are wrong about the name, quartermaster,” he said to Darnall. “Whatever the hell you said she was, she is the
Chapter 23
GEORGE WILKENSON peered into the cell where King James lay, his unconscious body deposited on a pile of hay, the only amenity in the cold, damp stone room in the Williamsburg jail. He was manacled hand and foot, even though he was locked in a cell and did not even look capable of moving. Indeed, he did not even look like he was alive.
They had really beaten him good. Wilkenson winced at the sight of the welts, the swollen eyelids, the dried blood covering his chin and staining his shirt. It was hard to tell, sometimes, with these black fellows, if they had been hurt. But not in this case.
The deputies had taken the opportunity to vent their annoyance at King James’s arrogance, and to express, in a physical way, what they thought of a free black man. It was what Witsen had told them to do, of course, and Witsen was doing what George Wilkenson had told
But it would do the job, assuming they had not killed him. Wilkenson stared for a moment more, until he was certain that the black man was breathing, then turned away.
It was midafternoon. James had been in the cell for half a day. The only light in that dreary place came from a small window high overhead. There were bars across it, even though a child could not squeeze through the space. A stone wall with a single iron door separated the three cells from the other half of the building, where the jailor lived. Wilkenson took one last look at James and then stepped through the door and pulled it shut.
The jailor was not home. Wilkenson had sent him away. He wanted the jail all to himself, a private office for the afternoon. He sat on the battered chair beside the room’s single table. Surveyed the crumbs and the dried food and sundry other filth with disgust, then stood and paced back and forth.
He wondered what was causing the delay. Wondered if there was some problem. That thought made his stomach twist with anxiety. He stepped over to the window and peered out from behind the heavy canvas curtain.
Across the wide lawn surrounding the jail he could see the sheriff’s men approaching, and between them, half running to match their pace, was Lucy. There did not seem to be any problem. Not for him, in any event.
This was not entirely necessary, of course, this thing that he was about to do. William Tinling’s letter alone was enough to humiliate and ostracize Elizabeth, and perhaps even see her charged with some crime. But he had to be certain. He had been fooled before. He would not let it happen again. He wanted confirmation, and no one knew more about Elizabeth Tinling than Lucy.
The door opened, and the sheriff’s men all but shoved the young slave girl into the room. She recovered from her stumble, looked up. She saw Wilkenson standing at the far side of the room, and her eyes narrowed.
“Good day, Lucy.”
She was silent for a long second, looking at him with contempt, but she was a slave and knew better than to voice that emotion. “Good day, Mister Wilkenson.”
“Lucy, I want you to see something.” George Wilkenson straightened and crossed the room to the door that opened into the cell block, swung it open, and gestured for her to enter.
She hesitated, glanced around, and then tentatively stepped through the door. Wilkenson followed.
She paused for a moment and looked around in the dim light, and then she gasped and flung herself at the bars of James’s cell.
“You killed him, dear Jesus help me, you killed him!” she cried, reaching through the bars, stretching out her hands to the unconscious man ten feet away.
Wilkenson stepped up behind her. “No, he’s not dead. Not yet.” He put a hand on her shoulder and half turned her toward him. Tears were running down her face. She avoided his eyes. He put a hand under her chin and tilted her face up to his, and their eyes met.
“The sheriff’s men caught him sneaking around the town last night. And he had a gun. You understand what that means, Lucy? You understand he can be hanged for that?”
He looked into her dark eyes, wet with tears. She nodded her head, just slightly, acknowledging that she understood.
“Good. Come out here, please.” He guided her back into the jailor’s quarters. “I wish to talk to you.”
He sat her down at the small table and stood opposite her, looking down at her, waiting patiently as she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes.
“I have an idea, Lucy, that you are very much in love with James.”
Lucy nodded and the tears came again, and between gasping sobs she said, “We is going to be married.”
“That’s nice, Lucy. It is. But see here. It has come to my attention that there was something not…not quite regular about the situation between your mistress, Elizabeth Tinling, and her late husband. You know that Joseph was a particular friend of mine, and I am anxious to know just what it was that was going on.”
Lucy looked up at him, and there was a flash of defiance beneath the fear and the sorrow. “What’re you asking me for, Negro girl like me? Ain’t no good me telling you anything.”
“Oh, you won’t be telling me anything I don’t know. I know everything that went on, from an impeccable source. But I would like you to confirm it. I want to hear it all from someone else as well, and I don’t reckon there’s anything happened at the Tinling place that you don’t know about.”
Lucy bit her lower lip and looked around the room. The sheriff’s men flanked the door, arms folded, watching, expressionless. She was a cornered animal, small and frightened.
Wilkenson put his hands flat on the table and leaned toward her until their faces were only a few inches apart. Lucy drew back and half turned away, but her eyes never left his. “You have a choice to make here, Lucy,” Wilkenson said, his voice soft and calm. “I can have King James released, or I can have him hanged. I can do that. You know I can, don’t you, Lucy?”
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his, a bird hypnotized by a snake. The tears were flowing with abandon now, and the dull light coming in from around the curtain shone off her wet skin. She stifled a sob and sat more upright and summoned up the strength to speak.
“If you knows what happened, then you know she didn’t have nothing to do with it. Mrs. Elizabeth. She didn’t even know. Still don’t. It was the old woman, the one who did the cooking, it was all her doing, and she’s dead this year and more, so there ain’t nothing can be done.”
Wilkenson frowned, shook his head. “I don’t understand-”
“Mr. Tinling…he was an animal…an animal. Beat my mistress like nothing I ever seen. Beat her worse than a
