Blood Diamond: A Pirate Devlin Novel

by Mark Keating

  Dandon shuddered. ‘I wish me back to the Caribbean, mon frère. I was born in the colonies. This is a colder world and not just its inclemency,’ he brushed his jacket hatefully, ‘or for what passes as fashion.’

  Devlin watched the boats. ‘Nothing has changed, Dandon. Over ten years I’ve been out of this. I hope the New World will really be such. Else we are the last free men.’ He backed away to the sack by the mast. ‘I need a drink.’

  Dandon tugged him back. ‘And yet you will take their freedom as offered. Is this what you want? Their definition is as mysterious as their religion.’

  Devlin leaned down to pull a bottle. ‘There’s a reason the Lord turned water into wine.’ He plucked the brandy cork with his teeth. ‘I’ll wait ’til I have the diamond, then decide.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t decide for us. Now if you excuse me; I think I am going to be sick.’ Dandon weaved away leaving Devlin to gaze over the bow.

  Paris lay a full day away; thirteen bridges had to be passed along the meandering vein of France; the Junot’s tabernacle mast would need to be lowered on its pivot to whisper under them. The bridges were the reason they had to leave the Shadow, leave their strength behind. The tartane’s mast could lower like a yacht’s, and then raise again, so they might sail right into Paris. Instead of lines of latitude, bridge after bridge marked the miles. Devlin had done the journey before as a fisherman but had not expected to do so again, and this time for a prince and a government that would have hung him on any other day. To the regent, get the diamond, carry it back to London. Freedom from persecution his reward. But if he failed he would surely die and those who had come with him also.

  He turned to look over them. His little band. Even Albany was risking himself. At least if they fell the Shadow would go on – he had preserved that much. He had no children, no legacy save that ship and a hundred men to tell who he had been.

  ‘Dandon!’ he called and Dandon pulled himself from the gunwale to look back. ‘Have you ever thought that we should write down all of this. Leave something behind.’

  Dandon tapped his head. ‘It is all in here, Patrick. I am noting it all.’

  ‘You should start. Before you get killed.’

  ‘I cannot die, Patrick.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Dandon was surprised at the question. ‘I always stand behind you.’

  John Law’s coach bowled south to meet them, his spine jolting with every rut in the road. Tomorrow he would be in Paris. His first duty as director of the bank of France was to report to the regent Philippe at the Palais Royal and hope that on his face could not be read the wiles and anxieties of a conspirator. He rapped his cane on the ceiling of the coach, to urge his faithful driver onward, then shook his head at the irony of desiring to hurry to his fate.

  He had known many long weeks in his life. He had killed a young man once, shot him in a duel, and after such an act, so quick and passionate at the time, a man’s perspective on time changes.

  He goes one way or the other. Either he squanders time and smashes the hour glass to watch the sand filter through the floorboards like the spilt blood, or else he wields it triumphantly like a sword and cuts a path of his own, knowing that his death is only ever a moment away and that the moment is at his shoulder if he pauses and looks behind him.

  Law had begun his life several times over and was a polymath of infinite talent, its pinnacle the merging of his bank with the Bank of France and the creation of paper money instead of coin so that people would trade via the banks and not with each other. But the riotous trading in New World companies had ruined it all, broken it all, shattered his hour glass.

  It could have all been controlled of course; charters and governments could have prevented the release of yet more shares if it wasn’t for the fact that it was those who should have controlled the frenzy were becoming most enriched.

  ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. Who guards the guards?’ he scoffed aloud. And after that who checks the coffers, who is to account for those who only account for each other? And he as guilty as any of them. He was running from a fire with stolen gold bundled in his arms. And a pirate was trusted to save one company and England itself, with Law hanging on his coat-tails to flee when the mountain fell.

  He looked past the curtain to the rushing countryside. At this moment, this hour, only his driver knew where he was in the world. He could run north now to Belgium, to Amsterdam, places where his name still carried weight. He closed the curtain. No. There was his family to consider and still the hope that if they could save the South Sea others would also be saved. And the world would learn from its errors with men like Law to teach them.

  It was the pirate he felt sorry for.

  The naïveté of peasants to trust fine coats and carriages with their future was still obviously ingrained within him. But after meeting Devlin he wondered how it would be done, how they would kill him. Not face to face, that would not work. It would have to be devious and dark or done from afar. Or perhaps just simply with a rope and a hood as befitted his role in life, and no-one listening to his speech from the gallows. Law pulled his cloak tighter, swaddling himself against the shiver of his own trust in those same coats. A man’s final moment always just over his shoulder. It would be a long week for those who knew too much.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Paris. The Palais Royale. The regent’s rooms.

  Saturday

  ‘The door, Lass, the door! Shut out the light!’ Philippe’s voice boomed from the near darkness. ‘Dubois here surely has his man out and I do not wish to see it!’

  John Law closed the study door, sending the room back into its eerie gloaming as the light projected from the ‘Laterna Magica’ shone onto the white sheet against the wall and its returning light silhouetted like caricatures the two seated figures before it.

  Law could just make out a valet slotting in and out of a large cuboid contraption the canvas and glass plates of grotesque erotica. Each new plate prompted guttural approval from the two men in the dark.

  He moved delicately into the room, seeking a chair away from the projector’s light. By Philippe’s remark he surmised that the hateful, ageing archbishop, Guillame Dubois, was also in the room.

  Dubois had been Philippe’s tutor and was now his first minister, the second most powerful man in France and therefore one of the most powerful men in the world. Just this year he had become archbishop, and already he sought to be cardinal. He had achieved such status without ever being able to recite a mass, for Philippe’s rise to power had also been Dubois’s. Each knew enough about the other’s past to cement a lasting bond. Their companionship was balanced like a scale and as long as it had equal coin in both bowls it would stay that way.

  Law found his seat and the noise of it scraping on the floor reminded Philippe that he had duties to perform before the real pleasure of the night began.

  ‘Light!’ he called to the valet, a click of his fingers ending the laterna show. Dubois’s gruff mumbling and fiddling of his robes announced his displeasure at its cessation.

  ‘I do not wish to disturb, Milord,’ Law declared honestly as candles were lit and the two men sat revealed.

  ‘Not at all, Lass,’ Philippe waved away the apology. ‘You remind me that I still have work to do.’

  Nevertheless he slumped back in his chair, his royal blue banyan gown and shirt almost open to his waist, and he scruffed his close-cropped hair as if trying to rouse the blood to his head and away from other extremities. ‘You return from your country sojourn and have settled your business with Pitt? I trust this has served you well, Lass?’

  ‘Not as much as I had hoped, Milord,’ Law confessed, averting his eyes from Dubois. ‘I take it that the company’s future has not improved?’

  Philippe shrugged with the same weary brevity of every Frenchman. ‘I have made you the head of the Indian and American companies and merged your bank with the Bank of France, but even your genius for trade, Lass, cannot save
us if there is no trade, and so no monies in the bank. It is doomed. France is doomed. My France.’

  Law leaned forward. ‘But surely there is money, Milord? The banknotes? The securities are guaranteed?’

  Philippe shrugged again, pushed away some papers from his sight and reached for his champagne glass. Dubois scratched his red nose with the gold cross that rested on his chest, showing that there was at least one use for it.

  ‘Politics is an expensive mistress, Lass,’ Philippe continued. ‘I have policies that would never have been born if it were not for the support of nobility. And I in turn must support them in their follies and furbelows. And they in turn take the money that they did not have in the first place and push it to Switzerland. And do not think that the people have not seen the cartloads of gold being robbed from the bank. I would sell that accursed diamond if I thought that there was a kingdom who could buy it now. What would Spain say about Philippe if he sold the crown jewels? I would be the laughing stock of Europe.’

  The words from the regent that all was lost gave some relief to Law that his actions were not betrayal but only survival.

  Dubois raised a velvet-gloved finger. ‘Perhaps another conspiracy? Enough to gain public support at least.’

  Philippe gave his finest Gallic guffaw. ‘Have you not quelled enough mistouflet armies, Dubois! Besides, I do not think we have enemies that are not already in their graves. No, we shall ride it out, that is all.’

  Dubois went on unperturbed. ‘A few heretic Catholic deaths always strengthens well our allegiance with the English. Stanhope wishes us to be great friends. And England has much the same troubles. If we make it seem that we are all suffering because of some heretic conspiracy – no fraud or greed – just religion rearing its ugliest head.’

  Dubois caught Law’s raised eyebrow at the flippant comments about death from a man of God. He sniffed and rubbed his nose with the cold metal cross once more. ‘Money has no religion, Monsieur Lass. The people forget their poverty if they believe they have a common enemy.’

  Philippe smashed his hand down on the desk, rattling more than just glasses and wine. ‘There will be no more conspiracies, Dubois! I have had enough of breaking backs on the wheel! You are as bloody as a real bishop, dog!’

  Dubois chortled into his chest at the outburst. Philippe’s ministry had crushed two ‘conspiracies’ since coming to the throne, both conveniently engineered to remove those nobles set against him and those who felt that the king of Spain, the late king’s grandson, had more right to the throne than the great-grandson who was but a child. Philippe himself had been fourth in line to the throne when he was born. In the years he was at court, death had whittled that list down to all but the boy. And suspicion amongst the boy’s tutors just sufficient that the child’s handkerchiefs and even his butter were kept from Philippe’s reach, for smallpox travels well.

  Six days before his death, after a late and private audience with the man who had now become second in line, Louis XIV added a codicil to his will. Philippe would rule until his great-grandson had reached majority.

  Three years remained now, for the boy would reach majority at thirteen. That was three years to fleece as much as possible from France before he would hand back the keys to an empty vault. But there had been so many deaths, necessary perhaps, but what a cost.

  His daughter, his favourite daughter, the Duchesse de Berry. The scent of her, her caress, the absence of her was to him like the loss of taste. She had been four months pregnant when the parties and scandal had finally taken their toll. Whispers had circulated around the court that Philippe was too attentive even for a father – especially one who lived separate from his wife.

  ‘Let joy commence!’ he slammed his hand down again to snap himself out of his melancholy. ‘You will come to my supper tonight, Lass! Eat and drink ourselves out of this misery!’

  Law shook his head. ‘I have been away, Milord. I must work. If I can help us it will be from my company.’ Law knew that Devlin might contact him at any moment and, besides, had already been to one of the regent’s champagne suppers. One was enough for a lifetime.

  Philippe had removed the court from Versailles as part of the official policy of making the city of sinners royal once more. In truth it was to be closer to the sinners.

  Louis XIV had spent a month on his deathbed legitimising his numerous bastard sons. Philippe would need two months at least. There was no need for whores when there were plenty of ladies vying for a place at court through their offspring or plenty of cousins begging you to be godfather to their fourteen-year-old daughters for the same.

  ‘Very well, Lass. You are a good man.’ Philippe stood, energised again by his draught of champagne and the delicious prospect of the night ahead with its tresses and flesh. ‘Come, you old sod, Dubois. We will dine on breast-milk tonight!’

  The bishop dragged himself up. He was in his sixties now and a bladder complaint affected his own participation in the revels, but the sights and sounds of the orgy were like a carnivale to him still.

  Philippe straightened his dress and moved around his desk to Law’s shoulder. He was shorter than the tall Scot but a broad strong man. ‘Lass, you are a great gamer but we must teach you how to love. Life is joy, Lass. Sadness is a sickness. That is why the poor die so young. They cannot afford to be happy!’

  The ruler of France held open the door for Law to exit, even bid his valet through but left the archbishop to his own devices. The whole palace was set in a square and they walked down the window-lined corridor that looked out onto the gardens. Philippe stopped at the man with the two pails who stood like a statue against the wall. He undid himself and resumed speaking to Law, who joined the servant with the pail in staring out at the garden as Philippe urinated noisily into the tin bucket.

  ‘In the morning I have called Ronde, the jeweller, to attend to discuss the setting of the diamond.’

  Law’s heart jumped. The piss-boy glanced at Law’s flushed face then switched his gaze back to the window.

  ‘Tomorrow, Milord?’

  ‘At eleven. And I wish you to be there. I have little time for the man. He is such . . .’ he paused, and emitted a grunt of satisfaction as the weight of his stream became quite pleasurable ‘. . . a bore, you know.’

  Dubois brushed past Law to take advantage of the piss-boy’s second pail, the sound of the regent’s relief too much of a temptation for his nervous bladder.

  ‘But I will tolerate him. I feel the longer I hold onto that stone the worse everything becomes around me.’ He grunted through the last three forced squirts and shook himself off. ‘At least it cannot get any more deplorable.’

  Law thought quickly. Tomorrow morning was too soon. The diamond would be on its way to join the crown and the pirate was not yet at his door. ‘The crown is ready for the stone?’

  The duke wiped his hand down his banyan and tugged at his nose. ‘No. The fool says it will take almost two years to complete. I wish to survey his design. Concur that it matches my own desires for the Regent.’ Philippe had christened the diamond after himself and his court had grown accustomed to the gem’s third-person title.

  He fixed Law with an eye. ‘I want the Regent set in the foremost of the crown. So all that see it will know that it is I above the king’s head, and I am watching them all.’

  Law could not afford to seem agitated but he could allow himself to appear as disgusted at the prospect of Ronde as the duke, or by Dubois’s hissing imprecations toward the man holding the bucket.

  ‘We will need an armed escort if the diamond is to leave tomorrow. It would be unsuitable for Ronde to walk out with such a fortune in just his pocket. It will take time to choose appropriately discreet men.’

  The duke walked on in silence. Law could feel his blood pounding in his veins and wondered if the duke could also feel it.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I only wish to force my hand in his design. He will not have the Regent.’ He smiled up at his Scottish friend, the
sound of Dubois’s stream behind them making tension impossible. ‘You must miss the glory of the diamond, Lass, there is such a tremor in your voice!’

  Law dipped his head. ‘I am anxious for it, Milord. I was responsible for its acquisition from Pitt. There is relation there. But I wonder if we could delay until the afternoon, Milord? I am tired after my journey and have much to catch up on.’ Maybe that would give Devlin time to appear. They walked on, leaving Dubois to painfully shake out his final syrupy brown drops.

  The Parisian shrug surfaced again. ‘Very well, no matter. At three then, yes? Now, good evening, Lass. Get your rest, old man!’ He slapped Law’s back and spun off toward one of the smaller cloistered dining rooms above that deliberately did not have windows. Law’s chambers were near the regent’s in the western side of the palace, far away from the debauchery to come, and he wandered there slowly.

  Time had shortened now, like a candle burning down, its wick a fuse.

  The pirate had to come tomorrow – and early – or all was lost. Law halted. But then perhaps tomorrow would force the pirate to follow Walpole’s original plan, to take the diamond from the lapidary instead? Aye, that might be the safer path. The pirate could not design a scheme to overcome the walls of the palace. When he saw the palace tomorrow he would surely understand and swallow his pride.

  Law would make his way to his offices in the Rue Quincampoix, a fifteen-minute stroll, and wait for the pirate to meet him there or not at all. The man was no doubt drunk beyond diligence. He laughed and clapped his hand to his mouth, his gallows merriment resonating all along the corridor as he ascended to his rooms. Devlin would fit perfectly in such a Paris as this.

  Dubois heard the faraway laugh. Perhaps it was some joke he had missed between the regent and the financier. No matter. He tucked himself away while looking at the man with the pails, daring him to meet his eye or at least look down to his steaming buckets. Nothing. Just tight-jawed and staring straight ahead.