Marlowe let the tip of his rapier rest on the deck. “Oh, Lord, woman, I am too tired for this!” he called.
“Oh, indeed? I’ve never heard that excuse before!” Elizabeth countered, and the men roared in laughter. Elizabeth had a flawless sense for subtle bawdiness, and the Galleys loved it.
“Very well, my wench, I shall get my weapon up for you!” It was the kind of happy camaraderie, the sort of “gentleman hauling with the men” fun that worked well, on occasion, with a happy crew.
Marlowe went en garde and advanced. Elizabeth was no swordswoman, and though she had played around a bit, she had very little skill with a blade. She made an awkward attempt at a lunge, and Marlowe parried, then counterattacked, but slowly enough that Elizabeth was able to step back.
She came at him again, and he let her drive him down the deck, lunge and parry, lunge and parry. Marlowe could see some potential there-Elizabeth was strong and coordinated-but she was almost entirely lacking in any type of training.
Back to the main fife rail, and then Marlowe began to press his attack. Slowly, pushing Elizabeth back the way they had come, befuddling her with his swordplay, ignoring the many chances he had to end it there. As they worked their way along the deck he had a glimpse of eager faces watching, men delighting in the display, delighting, he imagined, in this legitimate chance to stare at Elizabeth.
Marlowe pushed his wife back to the place where they had started, and then it was time to end the thing. He took a step back, lowered the tip of his rapier to the deck, presented his chest for her thrust.
She took it, too inexperienced to not fall for his trap, and as her blade shot forward, Marlowe’s came up and knocked it aside. He twisted his blade around hers, caught her steel in his hand guard, and, just as he had done to Bickerstaff, he plucked the hilt from her fingers and tossed the weapon away. It clattered into the waterway, and Marlowe jabbed the corked tip of his own rapier into Elizabeth’s stomach, just the lightest of touches.
“Touche,” she said, smiling and breathing hard to a smattering of applause and a few good-natured boos. The men had hoped to see Elizabeth win the bout, but that was not going to happen.
“You did very well, my dear,” Marlowe assured her, and Bickerstaff came up and said, “Very well indeed. You have the makings of a fine swordswoman. Perhaps you would allow me the honor of giving you regular instruction?”
“I should like that above all things,” Elizabeth said. “By the time we reach Madagascar, I shall run my blade right through this arrogant bastard!”
“By the time we reach Madagascar, I will no longer be willing to cross blades with you, my dear. It would do my authority no good for the men to see me bested by my wife!”
And then Dinwiddie said, “You have no authority, Captain. ’Tis Honeyman runs the show now.” Dinwiddie might have been making a joke, or trying, but it did not come across as such, and Marlowe felt his good humor deflate.
Despite the unhappy ending to that day’s amusements, Bickerstaff did begin drilling Elizabeth in swordplay. It became a daily event. An hour before the men were mustered for their training, Francis and Elizabeth would meet on the deck and he would put her through her drills in his fussy, exacting way. The men would watch, surreptitiously, catching glances when they could, but Marlowe did not mind. They were stuck in the doldrums for a week, and the spectacle did much to improve the men’s attitudes.
When he was done with Elizabeth, Francis would drill the crew as a whole, and sometimes Elizabeth would join in as well. They practiced footwork, blade work, offense, defense. When the men had had enough of that, Bickerstaff would set them to sparring with one another. It was a chance for action, rivalry, wagering, and exercise. It was perfectly suited to keep the men occupied.
They picked up the easterly trade winds at last, south of the line, turning their bow through ninety degrees and making their course to round the tip of Africa. Soon the Elizabeth Galley was bowling along, with a great line of wake stretching out astern and all sail set and straining before the wind, the constant wind. But by then the sword drills and Elizabeth’s lessons had become such a part of the routine that they could not bear to give them up, so they did not. For five weeks they plowed along south by east, and they parried and riposted and lunged and had a marvelous time.
And, Marlowe had to admit, Elizabeth was becoming a hell of a swordswoman. He reckoned he could beat her still, but it would not be the simple matter it had been before.
Three thousand miles, and then the sword drills stopped as they battled their way around the stormy Cape of Good Hope, the tip of Africa, dropping as far as forty degrees south latitude and touching on that great band of wind that roared around the entire earth, nearly unimpeded in its circumnavigation.
They battled the wind and sea for a week before turning north again and covering the last thousand or so miles up into the tropical zones, even hotter now in the Southern Hemisphere summer. A week of bitter cold and high seas gave way fast to brilliant sun right overhead, hot deck planking, dripping tar. The men stripped down as far as they could with a woman aboard, and a piratical bunch they looked.
At last the dawn revealed not an empty sea but a black hump of land on the northern horizon. It seemed to rise up from the Indian Ocean as the Elizabeth Galley closed the miles. Madagascar, right under their bow.
Marlowe stood on the quarterdeck, Elizabeth next to him. “There it is, my love, at long last. Madagascar. Island of the pirates.”
“We shall fit right in, I’ll warrant. We are the greatest villains of them all.”
“I reckon so. And you swaggering about with a sword on your hip.”
They were silent for a moment, looking at the island, still no more than a dark line rising just the slightest bit above the horizon. Then Elizabeth said, “I have enjoyed this, Thomas, truly I have. But I am not ashamed to say I shall be glad to step off this ship, if even for a day.”
“More than a day, I should think. We’ve a power of work to do before we can sail again.”
Sail again. What an odd thought. Fetching Madagascar after so long a voyage, after all that had happened in London, seemed like an end, the closure of a voyage. The time to pay off the crew, retire to one’s home, relive the adventure in tales told to one’s neighbors.
It was hard to recall that the landfall in Madagascar was not that, not that at all. It was, in fact, just the beginning.
Chapter 13
THEY STOOD on the quarterdeck -Thomas, Elizabeth, Francis, Peleg, and Duncan. The others stood along the gangways and fore-deck-the young black men from Marlowe House, the sailors they had recruited in the colonies and Bermuda, and the men they had saved from the wreck of the Indiaman. Disparate groups now molded as well as sailors could be molded into a cohesive unit, into the crew of the Elizabeth Galley.
They stood together, a band of men and one woman, who had already been through a great deal in each other’s company. They stood and watched as the steep, jungle-covered shore of Madagascar moved slowly down the larboard side. But their attention was focused forward, where the island of St. Mary’s, now distinct from the bigger island, waited, fifty miles away and right under the bowsprit.
None of them knew, of course, that two thousand miles astern of them, plunging along almost in the track through which the Elizabeth Galley had plowed her wake, the Queen’s Venture and her tender were just encountering the first of the Cape of Good Hope’s ferocity.
When last they had seen Roger Press, he had been shouting orders and curses from his longboat, which was skewered by the Galley’s spare main topsail yard and pinned to the bottom of the Thames. For all they knew, he was there still.
They did not know that he and his men had remained in that awkward position for two hours until Lieutenant Tasker, growing worried by their absence, sent the ship’s cutter in search of them.
Press returned to the Queen’s Venture, disappeared into his great cabin. He did not say a word to anyone, and no one said a word to him. To a man, they knew better than that. He flung off his wet clothes, dressed in his silk banyan, poured a glass of rum, straight.
He stared out the big windows aft, into the blackness, and by the time he had finished his rum, Malachias Barrett was behind him.
Press was a practical man; it was what had led to his having command of such a big, well-found and well-
