The Guardship

yet.”

“We shall see.”

“How does King James do?” Bickerstaff was the closest thing to a physician that the Plymouth Prize could boast.

“He was badly beaten. A weaker man might have succumbed by now, but I have great hope of James’s recovery. I shall give him a vomit this morning, which I believe will set him up admirably.”

It was two hours later that Marlowe and Bickerstaff, along with Elizabeth and Rakestraw, sat down to their breakfast in the great cabin. It was a fine meal, consisting of eggs, hashed beef, cold pigeon, and fritters, fresh food being one of the advantages of sailing within the confines of the bay.

On the other side of the cabin, King James lay propped up while Lucy fed him chicken broth and milk.

They were just enjoying their chocolate when Lieutenant Middleton knocked on the great cabin door.

“Sir, there’s a river sloop upbound, about a mile or so.”

“Indeed. Hail her and have her heave to and tell her master to come aboard. I would speak with him.”

“Marlowe,” Bickerstaff said after Middleton was gone, “I urge you not to do anything to further exacerbate this situation.”

“Never in life, sir. More chocolate with you?”

Twenty minutes later, they heard Middleton’s voice hailing the sloop through a speaking trumpet, then hailing again, and then a great gun went off forward as the sloop’s master, apparently, required a less subtle persuasion to heave to and repair on board the guardship.

They listened to the bustle abovedecks, and finally Middleton knocked again and said, “Sloop’s master is on the quarterdeck, awaiting your pleasure, sir.”

“I shall be up directly,” Marlowe said, and then to his company added, “Pray, excuse me. I shall not be long.”

He stepped through the scuttle, then around and up to the quarterdeck. The sloop’s master had his back to Marlowe, looking upriver at his own vessel. He was a thin, bony man. Dirty clothes, worn shoes. The queue that fell from under his cocked hat looked more like spun yarn than hair. Greasy spun yarn.

And there was something familiar about him, even from behind. Marlowe felt an odd sensation, an alarm in his gut, as if that man did not belong to the present time and place.

“Here, you,” said the seaman standing loose guard on the sloop’s master, “here’s the captain. Show some sodding respect.”

The sloop’s master turned and faced Marlowe. Their eyes met and held each other, and widened as recognition spread across both their faces.

“Dear God…Ripley,” Marlowe whispered.

“Barrett…it’s you, you son of a whore…”

It took both men less than a second to realize the implications of this meeting. Ripley turned and leapt up onto the quarterdeck rail, balancing there, arms flailing. “Grab him! Grab him!” Marlowe shouted, but the stunned guard just watched as Ripley plunged over the side.

“Shoot that son of a bitch! Shoot him when he comes up!” Marlowe shouted next, rushing to the rail, but again the guard was so shocked, and so generally dull, that he did not respond.

“Give me this, you idiot!” Marlowe jerked the musket from his hand and pulled back the lock as he pointed the barrel over the side. Ripley’s head appeared above the brown, muddy water. He swiveled around and looked up with wide eyes, then dove again as Marlowe pulled the trigger.

A small spout of water shot up from the place where Ripley’s head had been, and Marlowe recalled, with despair, that Ripley was one of those oddities, a sailor who could swim, and swim well.

“Get me another gun, damn your eyes!” Marlowe roared. He saw another of the Prizes rushing aft onto the quarterdeck, drawn by the gunfire, a musket in his hands. Marlowe ran up

to him, pulled the weapon from his hands, ran back to the quarterdeck rail.

Ripley was fifty feet away, pulling himself up the sloop’s side. Marlowe aimed and fired. The ball punched a small hole in the bulwark beside Ripley, slowed him down not one second.

Ripley tumbled over the side of the sloop, ran aft, calling for his men to cut the cable and set the sails. Marlowe turned forward. “Get some hands to the capstan!” he screamed. “Get the guns to bear on that sloop! I want him blown right to hell, damn you all, blow him right to hell!”

The Prizes moved fast, for there was no equivocation in their captain’s voice. They grabbed up the handspikes, thrust them into the capstan, heaved around. The spring lifted out of the river and grew taught, and the Plymouth Prize began to turn under the stain, bringing her broadside around.

The river sloop had her jibs up and taut and her mainsail half hoisted when Ripley himself brought an ax down on the cable and cut it in two. The sloop drifted free, drifted downwind, down toward the Plymouth Prize, before her sails filled and she began to gather momentum.

“That’s well!” Marlowe shouted. The guns would not bear perfectly, but they would bear, and he could not afford to let the sloop get too far away. He saw Bickerstaff and Elizabeth step out onto the waist, look around, then disappear below again, realizing, quite correctly, that they would do best to stay out of the way.

“Hand to the guns! Go!” Marlowe shouted, but the men, anticipating that order, were already training the guns around to bear on the sloop. One by one the guns found their targets and the gun captains brought their match down on the train of powder and the big cannons went off. The water around the sloop was torn up and a few holes appeared in the big mainsail and the low bulwark, but the sloop was not slowed and she was not stopped.

The Prizes leapt to reloading, working like demons to get one more shot off before the sloop disappeared around the

bend, upriver. They were frantic to stop the little vessel because they saw Marlowe was frantic to stop it.

Marlowe watched the sloop pulling away. He thought for a moment that she might run aground, but Ripley put her about on a tack that would take them around the bend upriver and beyond the Plymouth Prize’s guns.

It was useless to try to pursue. The wind was right over their bow, and the big, square-rigged vessel would barely be able to move in the confines of the river, let alone catch the nimble sloop.

“Secure the guns,” he called. Hoped that the despair that he felt was not conveyed by his voice. The sloop’s low hull disappeared behind the sandy point, and a moment later her rig was gone as well.

“Marlowe, what the devil was all that about?”

Bickerstaff stepped up onto the quarterdeck with Elizabeth right behind.

“That, my friend, was the sound of my own black history overtaking me.” Marlowe turned to Bickerstaff and smiled, a weak effort. “I am undone, sir, quite undone.”

Then he looked at Elizabeth, saw the concern in her face. “It seems this is the season for ghosts.”

Chapter 26

CURIOSITY. IT was eating at Elizabeth, like vultures, like wolves. Bickerstaff could see that, could see it in her eyes, in the way she watched Marlowe. Curiosity, as natural a part of the female condition as vapors.

At the same time he could see that Marlowe was in such a state of mind as to not invite inquiry even into his present concerns, let alone an examination of the past that so disturbed him. And Elizabeth was sensitive enough to realize this as well.

And so, Bickerstaff knew, she would come to him.

He stepped out onto the deck and strolled forward, avoiding the quarterdeck that so easily communicated with the great cabin. It was dark, being nearly eleven o’clock, but there was light enough from the abundance of stars for him to see all he needed to see.

He wanted to give her the chance to approach him. Did not want her curiosity to drive her to distraction.

He was leaning on the rail and looking up at the stars-or rather, the few planets that he could see-for no more than ten minutes before she stepped through the scuttle. He watched her climb up the quarterdeck ladder and look around, then make her way back to the waist and forward.

“Good evening, Mrs. Tinling,” he said, and saw her start.