The Guardship

not be in the fight and thus could not hope for the quick death that comes with a bullet or a blast of langrage. Marlowe hated to compromise her safety thus, but he had no choice. If he left her ashore she would be in even greater danger from the wrath of the Wilkenson clan.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her, kiss her, tell her he loved her. It did not seem right that in half an hour’s time they should be locked in a fight with the most dangerous man Marlowe had ever known.

It did not seem right that he should be so frightened on so perfect a day.

“Helmsman, give that south shore a wide berth, there by Hog Island,” Marlowe said, and the helmsman repeated the order and nudged the tiller to starboard. The muddy shallows,

Marlowe knew, extended many yards out from the shore, and he did not relish the thought of putting the Plymouth Prize hard aground where she could do no more than wait to be pounded to pieces.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Rakestraw appeared on the quarterdeck, “I’ve the drogue rigged aft and ready to stream, sir.”

“Good.” The drogue was a sort of canvas cone, two fathoms long, which would slow the Plymouth Prize down considerably when towed astern.

“Sir, if I may be so bold…?”

“Why did I have you rig the drogue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is always nice in these instances to have a surprise or two. If this fellow is the one we met before, then he will surely recognize us, and he will know how many men we have, how many guns and all that. At the very least, we can have a bit of speed held in reserve.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rakestraw. He sounded doubtful.

It took them another twenty minutes to round Hog Island, and in those twenty minutes the firing beyond the point did not let up for a moment. The poor bastard under attack was apparently holding his own. If he could just live for twenty minutes more, the Plymouth Prize would be there to kill the pirates or to die in his place.

The land seemed to inch away as they turned more southerly, and as it did it revealed the two distant ships, like a door swinging slowly open to give a view of the room beyond. They were not so very far away, a mile perhaps, probably less, and there was breeze enough that they were not entirely obscured by the smoke.

Marlowe put his glass to his eye. The merchantman was the closer ship, and she was drawing ahead of her attacker so his view of her was unobstructed. She was a big one, with her merchantman’s ensign waving defiantly from her mainmast head. For a moment Marlowe thought she was the Wilkenson Brothers, but she was black, not oiled, and rigged as a barque

rather than a ship. Her forecastle and quarterdeck were not as long as the Brothers’.

She seemed in surprisingly good shape for a ship that had taken the pounding that she had. All of her spars were intact, and he could see little damage to her sails. But of course he could not see the side that was taking the punishment, and the pirates would be looking to kill her men, not ruin their prize.

He shifted his glass to the right. The attacking vessel was more shrouded in smoke, being downwind and firing so many more guns than the other. But he did not have to have a perfect view of the ship to recognize her. He had seen her not so very long ago, when it had been the Plymouth Prize, dressed as a merchantman, that she was attacking.

He moved his glass up to the pirate’s masthead. There at the mainmast flew the black flag with the death’s- head, two crossed swords, and hourglass below. She was LeRois’s ship. She would be called the Vengeance. Every ship LeRois commanded was called Vengeance.

And if LeRois guessed that he, Thomas Marlowe-Malachias Barrett-was commanding the Prize, then no other enemy in the world would exist for him.

Marlowe put the telescope down and began pacing back and forth, ignoring Rakestraw, Elizabeth, and Bickerstaff, who stood together on the leeward side. He wanted to get on with it. He wanted it to be over, one way or another.

And then the rumble of the guns, which had been their companion for an hour or more, ceased. Marlowe looked up at the ships, now about half a mile distant, and as he did the Plymouth Prize’s lookout shouted, “On deck! Ship has sheered off! She’s hauling her wind! Wearing around!”

Marlowe could see it clearly from the deck. The pirate, the Vengeance, had broken off the engagement and now she was turning away from them. The villains must have seen the Plymouth Prize coming.

For a second he harbored the hope that she would turn tail and run, but that was a stupid thing to wish for, in part because it would not happen. LeRois had run from the

guardship once. To save face with his men, he could not do it again. What was more, his running would not save the Plymouth Prizes. They would just have to pursue him and fight him sooner or later. They may as well do it now.

And of course, LeRois was not running. The Vengeance turned stern toward the Plymouth Prize and kept turning, coming around on the other tack so she would be clear of the merchantman and have open water enough to maneuver.

“Mr. Rakestraw, I’ll thank you to stream the drogue,” Marlowe called.

The merchantman was sailing away, heading upriver, trying to put the Plymouth Prize between herself and the pirate ship. Marlowe could see a few figures on her quarterdeck waving their thanks and relief to the guardship. She was a slovenly-looking tub, from what Marlowe could see, but he had no more thought to spare for her. Let her get away. He had a fight think about.

He felt the guardship give a tiny jerk as the drogue filled with water and dragged astern, and her speed was cut nearly in half.

A quarter of a mile away the Vengeance began to fire, the round shot dropping all around the Plymouth Prize. On occasion they scored a hit, embedding a ball in the side or punching a hole in the sails, but they did no more damage than that.

“Mr. Middleton,” Marlowe called down into the waist, “let us hold our fire until we are broadside and a bit closer, and then we shall unleash the furies of hell upon him.”

“Furies of hell, aye, sir!” Middleton called back. He was grinning, as were many of the Prizes.

Good God, they are looking forward to this, Marlowe thought.

He turned to address Bickerstaff and was surprised to find Elizabeth still standing there. That would never do.

“Elizabeth, pray, come with me. I will show you the best place to hide yourself when it gets hot.”

He led the way down the quarterdeck ladder and through the scuttle, then aft into the great cabin, where Lucy sat hud

dled in a corner, terrified, like a trapped chipmunk. Marlowe glanced at her and tried to think of some words that might cheer her, but could not.

Instead he pulled two pistols from a case on the sideboard and checked the prime in the pan.

“Elizabeth,” he said, handing her the guns. “I want you to take Lucy and retreat down to the cable tier. Take the guns with you. I shall send for you when this is over. But I must be honest with you. We may not win the day, and if we do not, you do not want to be found out.”

He felt his voice waver, and he paused and swallowed and then with great effort managed to continue in an all-but-normal tone. “If we are taken, if you are certain we are taken, do not waste these bullets trying to defend yourselves.”

Elizabeth took the guns and clasped them to her chest.

“I understand, Thomas. Godspeed.”

“Godspeed, Elizabeth. I love you very much.” With that he turned and disappeared from the great cabin before he could further embarrass himself.

They had halved the distance to the Vengeance by the time Marlowe regained the quarterdeck. The two ships were closing fast, though not as fast as they would have if the Plymouth