Marlowe heard shutters and doors open on either side of the wide street and then slam shut again, caught the occasional glimpse of a face peering out at the night raiders. A fluke of the breeze carried the words “…but where are the damned bullets?” to his ears, and he smiled. Not all of the people of that city had reason to fear. Some, but not all.
The ad hoc army tramped down the center of the street until at last the jail came into sight. There was light in the windows and spilling out of the door, where three men stood, watching. Marlowe drew his sword and turned off the road, and behind him like the tail of a dragon his men followed. They crossed the grass, stopped in front of the small stone building.
It was Sheriff Witsen, standing by the open door, with two of his men behind him. Just inside, Marlowe could see the jailer, a fat, greasy man dressed in his nightshirt and breeches, obviously trying to keep well clear of any potential danger.
The sheriff and his men carried muskets-three guns against the Plymouth Prizes’ hundred or more.
“Good evening, Marlowe,” Witsen said, as if they had just met on a country lane. “I heard word from some poor frightened bastard that there were brigands on the road, but of course with the rumor of a pirate being on the bay, everyone here-abouts is fit to be tied. Now, there ain’t any such villains abroad tonight, are there?”
Marlowe held his eyes for a moment. Witsen seemed not in the least bit frightened, which was to his credit. The same could not be said for his men, who were nervously shifting the guns in their hands, and the jailer, who was sweating mightily and seemed on the verge of bolting.
“I’ve seen no villains abroad tonight, sir,” said Marlowe.
“I thought perhaps that was why you had turned out.”
“I think perhaps you know why we have turned out. I will thank you to step aside.”
“That I cannot do.”
Then Bickerstaff was there, at Marlowe’s side. “Sheriff, you and Marlowe are both men of the law. I can see nothing amiss with giving Marlowe custody of the prisoner until such time as this is all worked out. She would still be in custody, whether it be yours or the admiralty’s. And it might well stave off any unpleasantness.”
“Perhaps what you say is fair, Mr. Bickerstaff. I ain’t a judge, so I don’t know. But I can’t do that, not until I have orders.”
“Orders from whom,” Marlowe snapped, “the governor or the Wilkensons? Or will either do? Or perhaps there are others who own shares in your soul?”
He could see that those words had struck home, and he could see the truth in them written on Witsen’s face, but still the sheriff did not move.
The jailer stepped forward, his bulk cutting off a good part of the light coming through the door. “Perhaps the captain should read this,” he said. He held up a sheet of paper, fluttering like a sail braced to a shiver. “The, ah, confession. From the slave girl.”
Marlowe snatched the paper up and read it, then read it again. A transcription of a statement, a story of the old cook murdering Tinling. At the bottom a shaky
“And Mr. Wilkenson says that ain’t so, says there’s been a murder and the Negro girl is protecting her mistress.”
“Oh, this is not to be tolerated. You will release Elizabeth Tin-ling this instant!”
“I will not. This is none of your affair. I order you to go from this place, Marlowe. I’m prepared to kill whoever I have to, to stop you doing what you’re here to do.”
“Kill us, will you?” Marlowe said. Turned to his men. “Disarm them.”
The Plymouth Prizes swarmed around Marlowe, moving with the nimbleness of men accustomed to working aloft, where nimbleness meant life or death. They grabbed the sheriff’s men, jerked the guns from their hands, met virtually no resistance. Six hands snatched Witsen’s musket away as the sheriff tried to bring the weapon to bear on Marlowe. Unarmed, humiliated, the governor’s men waited on their fate, which was now entirely in Marlowe’s hands.
“Get them inside,” Marlowe ordered, and the Prizes pushed the three men roughly into the jailhouse. They herded them and the jailer into a corner, held them there at the end of their long boarding pikes. Witsen made no protest about this treatment, no argument concerning his own legal or moral authority. That, too, was much to his credit.
The small, filthy room where the jailer lived was lit by a couple of lanterns hanging from hooks in the wall. Marlowe ran his eyes over the dirty, stained sheets on the bed, the stack
of chicken bones on the plate on the table, then saw what he was looking for: a ring of keys hanging beside the door to the cells.
He turned to Rakestraw, who, with Bickerstaff, was standing behind him. “Keep these men here,” he indicated the sheriff and his company, “and post some men around the jail. Keep a weather eye out for anyone approaching. They may have turned out the militia, for all that they are worth.” He snatched the keys off the nail, grabbed a lantern. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Marlowe pushed open the door to the cells in the other half of the small building. He did not want anyone with him. He did not know what he would find, what they might have done to Elizabeth. That thought had crossed his mind several times during the march to Williamsburg, and each time he had chased it away rather than let himself get worked into a frenzy.
But he had thought about it enough to come to a single decision: If they had hurt her, then they would pay. If they had…he shuddered to think on it…if they had raped her, then they all would die.
He stepped through the door. The light from the lantern illuminated the space, and the bars of the cells threw even lines of shadow across the far wall. He looked into the first cell. There was a black man there, manacled, his back to Marlowe. He moved on. The next cell was empty. He continued down to the last in the line.
Elizabeth was there, half shading her eyes from the light. She looked terrified, seemed to shrink back against the wall, but still there was a quality of pride in her look, and defiance, as if she would kill and die before submitting to any further humiliation. Marlowe felt his love for her welling up, displacing the rage. He wanted to reach out and touch her, caress her, protect her forever.
“What do you want?” she asked, hand in front of her face. Marlowe felt fear displace love. Did she hate him now, for his part in all this?
“Elizabeth…I’ve come for you…,” he said.
She straightened and tried to look into the light. “Thomas? Thomas, is that you?” she asked. With the lantern held low as it was, she could not see his face.
“Yes, yes, my love, it’s me,” Marlowe said, and held the lantern up so that the light fell across his face. He saw Elizabeth’s body relax and her grim expression turn into a smile. She ran across the small cell, grabbed hold of the bars, pressed herself toward him.
“Oh, Thomas, you have come for me!” she said.
Marlowe put the lantern on the floor. There was just enough light from the guttering candle for him to see the keys in his hand and find the keyhole in the iron door.
“Are you well?” he asked as he fumbled with the key. “Have they…have they hurt you?”
“No, they have done nothing beyond humiliating me.”
He inserted the key in the lock-his hands were shaking-and twisted it, and the lock opened with a snap. He swung the door wide and stepped inside and swept Elizabeth up in his arms.
“Oh, my love, my love,” Elizabeth murmured, hugging him and then reaching her face up to his and kissing him. He kissed her back, longingly, unable to stop or let her go, unwilling to ever let her out of his sight, out of the sphere of his protection.
At last she pulled back from him, her hands on his chest, and he encircled her with his arms. “Have you seen the governor?” she asked. “How ever have you managed this?”
“The governor? No. I have just come to get you out of here.”
“But…do you mean to say that you are just taking me out of here? With no authority?”
“I am captain of the guardship, and that gives me the authority. The sixty armed men beyond give me the authority.”
She pushed back, breaking his grip on her, and brushed the hair from her face. “Thomas, this is…God, can you
