Manual Crewsailors! Its the land, stupid!

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They had all come in through the entry port and stood in the waist, taking the ship in. It is a good thing, really, the governor has taken our guns. Marlowe took a step inboard, letting his eye roam over the familiar deck. So many ghosts floating around that space, too. He could see the big Spaniard looming alongside as he prepared to lead the Elizabeth Galleys over the rail. He could see again the men struggling along that deck as they were blasted by the heavy guns of the French Indiaman.

He could recall the sight of Whydah slipping below the horizon as he looked over that taffrail at the place where they had buried King James. He would have won the wager, had any taken him up on it. The lower decks were musty and hot, having been shut up and uninhabited for so long. But they were clean and maintained, with no sign of mold or rot or vermin. That was because Marlowe had his people wash her out with vinegar on a regular basis and fumigate her with brimstone once a year. They made their way through the hold, inspecting that lower part of the ship by lantern light.

Nothing amiss. She was tight and seaworthy. They returned to the quarterdeck, blinking in the brilliant sun, blinded after the gloom of the hold.

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Give me a decent crew and I will have her ready for sea in a month. The first part of the crew was easy enough to find. Upon returning to Marlowe House, he summoned all the former slaves together and told them that he was going to sail the Elizabeth Galley to England and he needed men and would any of them like to sign on? There were no takers among the older men, those for whom ships meant the middle passage, the six weeks of hell stuffed into the festering hold of a slaver.

But among the younger men that association was not so strong. Hesiod was the first of them to step forward. He, like several others, had been young enough then that the memory had faded. Still others had been born in the colonies and had no firsthand knowledge of that horror.

They were the young, strong, adventurous types that Marlowe wanted, and twelve of them stepped forward and eagerly volunteered. Do you think others might object to being shipmates with black men? It is not unprecedented, you know, white men and black working together on shipboard.

Smart, able, and willing as those young black men were, they were not sailors. Marlowe set them to work transferring all of the gear in storage back to the ship-work that needed no special expertise. At the appointed hour Peleg Dinwiddie reported aboard. With an experienced first officer to oversee the setting up of the rig, Marlowe was free to begin his campaign for the recruitment of experienced mariners, a scarce commodity in the Tidewater.

CHAPTER XIII.

He took his own sloop, the Northumberland, down the James River and across Hampton Roads to the small, rough port town of Norfolk, where he hoped to find sailors in a region that did not see a fraction of the shipping that the northern colonies did. He went immediately to the taverns, the likeliest place to find not just sailors but sailors in a compliant mood.

In the second loud, dark, smoke-filled, stinking tavern he entered, he found one. The man was sitting alone at a small table. He was dressed in a linen shirt and well-worn broadcloth coat. He might have been an ordinary seaman at one point in his career, but he looked now like a bosun or mate of a small merchantman.

Perhaps a bit of privateering, perhaps a bit of piracy. A certain attitude. There was nothing soft about the man; he was all sharp edges. If Peleg was something of a tame bear, this man looked like a wolf, and a hungry one.

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But those qualities were good, too, if they could be channeled the right way. The man looked up, regarded Marlowe for a long moment, said nothing. Marlowe was wearing his seagoing clothes: faded blue coat, cotton waistcoat and shirt, and soft, well-worn canvas breeches. The clothes he might wear to call on the governor would not answer in a place like this.

Tobacco to London. I sailed in here as bosun on a merchantman bound out of Plymouth.

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Marlowe nodded. This made things difficult. A judgment call. Or perhaps this man was incompetent, a thief, a drunkard.

But these were the risks one always took, hiring on a crew. Sailors were not tame men, not bookkeepers or dancing masters. They were the original troublemakers. It was little wonder that Jesus had picked mariners as his apostles when he wanted to stir things up.

Care to come aboard for the fitting out, see if you want to sail with us?

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I guess I was keeping a weather eye out for something that was a bit more… lucrative. What in hell am I saying? Marlowe thought. He was starting to bandy this Madagascar thing around like he had decided on it, which he had not, not at all. And even if he had, Bickerstaff and Elizabeth would never go along with it. His name was Honeyman. Duncan Honeyman, and he arrived aboard the Elizabeth Galley with three sailors in tow, men also looking for berths. Marlowe nodded, looked the men over. They were a rough-looking bunch.

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Gold earrings; big knives worn with ease in the small of their backs; arms like gnarled tree limbs; long hair, clubbed like Honeyman wore it; wide slop trousers, patched and tar-stained. They each chewed absently on the tobacco in their cheeks. They smelled of rum and sweat. But he had seen worse, and shipped with much worse. Honeyman ran his eyes along the deck and up the lower masts. He squinted slightly, but beside that his face showed no expression.


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Take these men and report to Mr. Dinwiddie, on the quarterdeck there. With the black coat.

Honeyman nodded, and without another word he led the three men across the brow and aft. Five minutes later they were aloft, seeing the main topmast set in place, the standing rigging ganged over the masthead and set up. Marlowe continued his recruitment, picking up another five able-bodied seamen, and saw to the outfitting of the great cabin and the acquisition of those things they would need for navigation.

Bickerstaff took careful inventory of everything that went aboard. Dinwiddie saw to the stowage, and Honeyman, quiet and generally surly, proved at least to be a competent bosun and was left to supervise the setting up of the rig and bending of sail. Elizabeth kept track of the money and fretted about their funds, which were being spent at a frightening rate on stores and gear and all those things that a ship consumed before she could put to sea.

The night before they sailed, the night that Marlowe should have been resting after the unmitigated labor of getting the ship ready for sea in an absurdly short time, he found himself instead pushing a wheelbarrow across the dark lawn of Marlowe House. The wheelbarrow held a shovel and an unlit lantern. He had to wonder at himself. Old habits died hard, his need for a secret held back. Then the sea anchor was cut away, and suddenly his ship could move with an unanticipated speed.

This was like that. The little thing held in reserve. He pushed the wheelbarrow onto a trail in the woods, and when he was lost from sight from Marlowe House, he pulled out his tinder pouch and lit the lantern. In the light of its feeble glow he made his way down the trail to the spot of dirt he had last turned six years before. It was not easy to find-the weeds and the shoots of young trees had grown up around it and over it-but Marlowe had been careful over the years never to let it become lost completely in the bracken.

He set the lantern down, lifted the shovel, and jammed it into the dark earth. Five minutes of digging, and the spade hit the iron-bound box, hidden under a foot of dirt. He moved the lantern closer and worked the point of the shovel around until the box was fully exposed. It was not a matter of trust.

He trusted them both, completely, more than he had ever trusted anyone. Perhaps that was it. He had never trusted anyone, until he had met them. Perhaps he could not get past that. He breathed deep, readied himself, and then grasped the handle of the box and pulled.