He opened his eyes-another of those duties he knew he had to perform. The late-morning sun was streaming around and through the sheer curtains that hung in front of the room’s single window. In those places where the light penetrated unimpeded, it looked like rods of gold as it passed through all the dust that swirled around.
He became aware of the acrid smell of charred wood, like a fire that has died in a fireplace but more pervasive.
And the quiet. He realized that it was very quiet, which it generally was not in that place where the pirates made their home.
He closed his eyes again. He had dreamed of Marlowe. Marlowe telling him to come, looking at him with disdain. In the dream he had told Marlowe to sod off, and it felt good and bad all at once. He had dreamed other things as well, unpleasant things that all swirled together in a great stew of emotions and left him unsettled.
There came a knocking at the door, and the rhythm had a subtle insistency about it. Dinwiddie realized that it was knocking that had woken him up.
“Come,” he croaked. The door opened, and light streamed in from the hall, which seemed odd to Dinwiddie, since there were no windows there. Nagel was standing in the doorway, just a dark outline against the brilliant light at his back. He stepped into the room, and then Dinwiddie could see him better. He looked somber.
Dinwiddie struggled to sit up, pushed Lucy out of bed. The young woman stood and padded off, entirely naked, but neither Dinwiddie nor Nagel paid her any attention.
“You look damned hangdog this morning,” Dinwiddie said as he waited for the pounding in his head to settle.
“It is a sorry day. A right sorry day indeed,” Nagel intoned.
“Why? What has happened?”
“It’s Lord Yancy. I reckon the fire was too much for him.”
“Fire?”
“The fire. Last night. You didn’t know?”
Dinwiddie shook his head.
“Burned half the damned roof. Nearly done for the house. Come.” Nagel nodded toward the open door.
With some effort Dinwiddie stood up and shuffled across to the chair, over which he had thrown the silk banyan that Yancy had given him. He pulled that on, wrapped it around his girth, and followed Nagel out into the hall.
It looked like the aftermath of some terrible battle. The sunlight, which Dinwiddie had been at a loss to explain, poured in through the ceiling and the roof above, half of which was burned away so that there was only the charred rim outlining their view of the sky. The tops of the walls were charred as well, and the formerly white plaster was black with soot. Water stood in puddles all over the floor, and the hall was littered with blackened bits of timber that had fallen from the roof.
“Dear God…” Dinwiddie said. “How did it start?”
“Don’t know. Started on the roof. Took us three hours to get it out, and we nearly didn’t. You didn’t hear none of it?”
Dinwiddie shook his head. Lord, I must have been some far in my cups to sleep through this.
“What was that you said, about Lord Yancy?”
Nagel shook his head sadly. “Lord Yancy, bold fellow he is. He was fighting the fire with us, leading the job, like was his way. Struggled for two hours, even though he ain’t strong. Finally he just collapsed. We thought he was dead, with… the cancer… you know. But he wasn’t, just overcome. But he ain’t long for us, I don’t reckon.”
“Where is he? I must go to him.”
Nagel shook his head again. “He knows it’s his time. He asked to be carried away, to his secret place, where he can pray and such. He said to tell you you’re lord of the island now. All this is yours. And ‘Godspeed,’ he says.”
Dinwiddie looked at the big pirate in front of him. His head pounded harder, and he felt a surge of panic. Lord of the island? Dear God, whatever do I do now?
“Marlowe? Is he here? Is the Elizabeth Galley still at anchor?”
“No, and good riddance, I say. When the fire broke out, we sent word to Marlowe, asking would he help with putting it out. ‘No,’ says he, ‘and with the tide making, won’t we just be on our merry way.’ There’s gratitude, for all that Lord Yancy done for him.”
“Humph,” Dinwiddie said. He thought of the wrecked Indiaman they had encountered, Marlowe hanging from that hawser, working his way out to the stranded sailors. Tried to reconcile that image with the Marlowe that Nagel had just described.
“Very well, then, sod Marlowe,” Dinwiddie said, and then he found himself flailing around for what he might say next. He was lord of the island. He would have to do something. Wouldn’t he?
“Beg your pardon, my lord,” Nagel said, “and not wanting to be too forward or nothing… but Yancy, he asked would I stay here and be your aide, like. Like I done for him. He wanted to be here, to tell you what he knows about ruling the island, but he hasn’t the strength. Don’t reckon he’ll live till morning next.”
“Oh. No, I would not reckon it too forward, was you to help me…” Dinwiddie said, and the realization that Nagel would be there, enforcing his authority, helping with the unfamiliar, gave Dinwiddie a new confidence.
Suddenly he felt not as if he were standing in the burned-out remains of a hallway on a strange island full of outlaws but rather as though he were standing on the quarterdeck of a ship, in command, the crew forward ready to jump to his command. His headache was gone.
“I think first we had best get some hands to this roof, get it repaired. And the ceiling as well. Round up a gang and get them right on that. And I’ll need my breakfast. Turn the cook out.”
“Aye, sir,” said Nagel with a smirk. Dinwiddie caught the expression, guessed that the man was happy to have someone in charge again, someone who knew how to give commands without equivocation. Happy that Yancy had chosen a successor worthy of the office.
By noon of that day Dinwiddie was dressed, fed, and growing increasingly angry. Nagel had managed to round up all the men he could to work on the roof, a total of three. Nor did they turn to with much of a will. They moved at a near sleepwalking pace, cutting away the charred bits of the beams and pulling out the unusable thatch.
The servants and the girls from his harem that he had ordered to clean the hall were doing better at least. The water had been mopped up, the walls washed down, the chunks of debris cleared away. Save for the great hole in the roof, the hall looked much as it had when he had retired with his girls the night before.
He stood on the veranda looking out at the harbor. The Elizabeth Galley, which he was accustomed to seeing at her anchorage, was gone. It seemed as if there was a hole in the vista.
It seemed as well that there were a few other vessels that had sailed. He had never taken a real count of the ships at anchor, so he was not certain, but it seemed as if there were fewer now. Occasionally he looked back at the roof. There was little happening there.
“I got some more hands, should be on their way,” Nagel said, stepping from the house and crossing the veranda.
“Where the bloody hell is everyone?” Dinwiddie asked. The big house had always seemed crowded with people.
“Some of the men, they wanted to be with Lord Yancy in his last hours,” Nagel said. “They’ll be back… after. You gots to remember, most of them what lives in the house, they sailed with Yancy from the colonies, like me. But if Yancy says they are to follow your orders, you can count on it they will.”
“Humph.” Dinwiddie did not care for that so much, nor did he care for Nagel’s still referring to Yancy, who had abdicated, as “Lord” Yancy. But he did not feel he should be a stickler on the point, not with Yancy about to draw his final breath. In fact, Dinwiddie reckoned he would start off easy on his men.
“I understand full well, Nagel,” he said. “Such loyalty is admirable, damn me if it ain’t. Let us do this. You tell those fellows working on the roof to just get the burned bits cleared away and then stand down for the day. Get back at it first thing in the morning.”
“Very good, my lord. That’ll sit well with ’em.”
The next morning found quite a large gang of men eating their noisy breakfast in the great hall. Twenty at least, all come to work on the roof, per Dinwiddie’s command. He was gratified to see them as he staggered into the big room, half asleep still, his eyes burning.
“This is good, this is good,” he said to Nagel, who stood when he entered and held the chair for him.
“Aye, my lord. But news that will make you sad, I fear. Lord Yancy, he passed in the night. Over the standing part of the foresheet he went, but with rum enough in his belly to make the pain bearable. We buried him, first light,
