Blood Diamond: A Pirate Devlin Novel

by Mark Keating

  ‘What the devil?’ the prince exclaimed.

  ‘The devil is right,’ Walpole studied the bound men below, thankfully alive. ‘And that apparition, Your Highness, was my coach from Falmouth.’

  There would be nothing to fear, no sweat to bead on a banker’s brow, if the South Seas investment had been, pound for pound, coin for its paper’s worth. But in order for the stock to be made available for all, the Company had granted concessions and changed the rules of purchase. Firstly, and simply enough, women were allowed to buy stock. This single amendment changed the Company’s fortunes almost overnight, for the natural secrecy of women and the gambling tendencies of their husbands ensured that the Company now received income from both sides of the household. Secondly – the thread which spun the fate that the country now hung by – were the unheard-of terms that the Company offered.

  For the first time the government and the Bank of England sanctioned a private company to extend credit to the purchase of shares. Just a ten-percent deposit could secure a hundred pounds’ worth of South Sea stock, and the phrase ‘nothing to pay for the first year’ entered the public consciousness.

  Public credit grew to an unparalleled summit as even the East India Company, whose worth certainly at least existed in material things, followed suit. Credit became a byword for wealth instead of debt and a man’s balance sheet was set to be worth only the amount of credit he could muster, regardless of the weight of coin in his pockets. And if the Company failed? A company that owned the national debt, a company guaranteed by government act and the Bank of England? The corrupt triumvirate of council, finance and business would forever be linked in the public mind, and the palace of Westminster regarded as no more than a gentlemen’s gambling den. Where could the people’s faith lie if the gentry with all their education and experience had failed them?

  But it would not fail. The coach was a sign, a bold one, bold as the red sash the pirate wore, and as dramatic as the final act of one of Charles Johnson’s melodramas.

  And it meant the diamond was in London. Somewhere.

  Excusing himself from the prince, Walpole ran to the gate of the house, dragging footmen with him to escort his men inside. Already a crowd had gathered to see the bound and gagged men flapping and wide-eyed as landed trout. He yelled for the soldiers to shut the gate and bid the footmen carry them to the servants’ side of the house.

  Descending to the scullery, Walpole ordered the bound men to be carried to chairs and then pushed the footmen from the room, wiping the sweat from his face at the uncommon exertion. He waited for his pulse to return to normal and looked between the struggling forms of the coachman and his man, Dashwood, whom he had set to wait for the pirate at the inn in Falmouth.

  Walpole’s chest rose and fell, and he felt a strong temptation to leave the men gagged, dreading what might spill out of their mouths. The men squirmed and complained through their linen gags and when Walpole went for perhaps too large a knife to cut their bonds they squealed louder. Walpole marvelled at the insanity of him cutting men free; his wildest dreams had never envisaged stranger. He felt his dignity to be no more elevated than the scullery he stood in.

  Once free and gasping, both men begged for a drink. Walpole was only able to find some warm milk, which they drank joyfully. He took a chair opposite and waited for them to calm down. The crock jug slammed to the table. Then Dashwood took a deep breath and rubbed his wrists.

  Dashwood was a scrivener, a trusted clerk who carried sealing wax in his pockets and whose hands were ingrained with blue ink. He had enjoyed the pleasure of the sea air and the hospitality of the inn at his master’s expense but he had not expected bruises and terror from the pirates as reward for his service.

  His eyes were red and his cheeks flushed in the aftermath of tears.

  The other man was a hired coachman and not of Walpole’s staff. He was rougher, with a bony face and hunched shoulders. His face showed the harder marks of defiance but less shame. He sat as if waiting for recompense, where Dashwood waited for sympathy.

  ‘Now,’ Walpole kept his tone gentle, with the same brevity as when asking a new maid where his silver spoons had gone. ‘What do you have to tell me, Dashwood?’

  The coachman opened his mouth, Walpole raised his hand to silence him. ‘I will hear Dashwood.’

  Dashwood exhaled, brought out a fold of paper from his coat and slapped it down on Walpole’s side of the table. ‘That is for you, Your Honour. From him.’

  Walpole took the paper but did not read it. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Dashwood shrivelled. He was twenty-four and engaged, had slept with one woman in his life, had fought with his father over his choice of trade, come to London from Lincoln and found the patronage of great men. He had three men working under him and had his eye on a small-holding in Hertfordshire. But he had almost forgotten his own name when the pirate had woken him with a pistol to his face. He began to cry again now and Walpole sighed and turned to the coachman instead.

  Now came a tale by a man used to the games of hard men.

  Night had brought the pirates in. Dashwood was dragged from his bed and a gold coin thrown to the landlord. A big bald bastard with a hand-cannon to match had punched the coachman from his slumber in the stable. They rode through the night, the big man at the reins, the Irish one and another keeping Dashwood and himself bound to the floor of the coach, iron at their heads. The other, the one not Irish, the one not calm, had scars on his face and blood on his grinning teeth, his hair matted with filth, his swivelling eye moving hungrily from knife, to pistol, to both of them on the floor of the carriage. The Irish one sat back in the corner, catching sleep or looking out of the window like he was to the theatre.

  ‘The mad one sang of ghosts. Told us the colour of rich men’s livers. Whistled a tune of his own. Begged us to go for him when his captain slept.’

  Dashwood found his voice. ‘He cut a button from both our coats! He swallowed them and laughed!’ His head sank in misery. ‘He licked my face! Said he would cut my lips off if I pissed myself!’

  ‘But he didn’t though, did he?’ the coachman sneered.

  Walpole thanked them both and peeled open the folded letter. His surprise at the quality of the hand was soon lost in the measure of the words and each line punctuated by Dashwood’s sobs from across the table.

  Walpole rose with a scrape of his chair across the stone floor. ‘Stop your blubbering, Dashwood. Be thankful you are alive.’ He tossed some gold to the coachman who slammed his hand upon it as soon as it fell. ‘You may go. I thank you for your discretion in this matter. And if you give me cause to not thank you, know that I am aware of where I may find you, sir.’

  He left through the kitchen to the servants’ stair and barked orders for food to be taken to the two before he climbed upstairs to show the letter to the prince. A long, dark night lay ahead for London, of that he was certain.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  W.

  I have the stone. I have lost men because of it, the cost of which you cannot count. But I shall measure it and for more than we have bargained. I do not trust to come to the house and I am sure Newgate has not forgotten me.

  I will take your amnesty and your coin but the manner of its getting will be mine.

  I will be on the river east of the bridge, two o’clock on the night you receive this. I keep your man Albany as surety. You can have the diamond and your man. Do not look for me. I will find you.

  Bring who you may, any gun you feel, but you especially will be there. I will put the diamond only into your hand.

  D.

  ‘He is insane!’ The prince let the letter fall to his desk. ‘His Majesty’s first minister meeting a pirate on the Thames? The arrogance of the man! It is inconceivable, Walpole.’ But still Walpole could see the amusement on the prince’s face.

  Walpole needed a seat and took one without invitation. And rarely for him, he needed a drink, yet for the first time in their acquaintance he foun
d the prince’s rooms dry.

  ‘Surprising he has allowed that I may have the company of arms. And I shall take that offer.’

  The prince puffed his chest. ‘I will come, should he dare anything else.’

  Walpole forgot his dry mouth and shifted forward in his chair. ‘His Highness will not be there. That I must insist on.’ The prince put his fists to his hips and glared at him.

  ‘That is to say it is my council that His Highness’s presence would cause undue danger to his own personage. His Highness’s kingdom will have need for him to be unharmed and unsullied by soiling his hands in such a manner. His Highness has already been too generous in his patronage in this matter.’

  But the prince had adventure in his eye and Walpole swallowed a sigh, for the prince’s mind was made up.

  ‘Nonsense. I am sure the pirate was fond. He will have no wish to harm me. We are both men of action. We hire a wherry do we not?’

  Walpole pushed himself from the seat wearily. ‘I will see to the arrangements. I have my own vessel. We can but accept. We have no means of contacting Devlin to suggest otherwise.’ He pinched his nose and reached for his hat. ‘Besides, we need the gem.’ Then solemnly, he added, ‘And perhaps the river is just the place to lose a body.’ He did not pause for the prince to interject. ‘I will supply a keen guard, but I beg Your Highness to arm himself.’ He bowed and began to back from the room, showing the prince the top of his head as he padded backwards.

  ‘You expect danger?’

  Walpole lifted his head at the door. ‘I expect nothing else. He says he will measure the cost for more than we have bargained but he fails to allude to the price. He also talks of Albany, yet he was not in the coach with them according to my man whose story I have just heard. That concerns me. I suggest His Highness get some rest. I will return after midnight.’

  He left the prince to deliberate on his parting words and pulled out his watch in order to avoid the eye of Secretary Timms in the corridor. Timms would know everything soon enough and Walpole had only hours to inform Townshend and Stanhope that tomorrow they may need a new paymaster general. The heaviness of his hand upon the balustrade as he descended the stairway was greater than he realised.

  ‘Ho, Edwin! Remember me?’ Edwin Tinkerman, he of the red Doggett coat, fastest wherryman on the Thames, looked up to the top of the steps and the man in the black coat beaming down at him. Edwin’s passenger also looked – but only once and then looked away, for the Irish-sounding fellow looked like he hung around the wharf taverns too much and had a worn cutlass to prove it. Edwin landed, and also avoided the second look, mainly due to the sound instinct that if a fellow asked if you remembered him the next moment would reveal a bill or knife in his hand.

  He doffed his velvet cap to his passenger and took the fare hurriedly pushed into his hand. The gentleman dashed up the stairs, his hat lowered as he fled past the tall stranger.

  The man stepped down. ‘I remember your red coat, my lad. Do you recall my shilling?’ It was almost dusk now, September dusk, the end of summer and the granite setts were already damp and slippery. The fog of peat and sea-coal fires smudged the gabled roofs of the Surrey side of London and people had begun already to pull their shawls and scarves tighter around them.

  ‘I’ve come for my change,’ he said, but he smiled all the same and Edwin looked down at the brown bucket-top boots that were older than both of them.

  ‘Aye, Cap’n!’ he said. ‘Let you off at Execution didn’t I? Leicester House, Cap’n, Monday last!’

  Was it only then? Twelve days? It had been warm. The weather was changing as swiftly as events. Men dead, good men. Dandon still unable to stand and Devlin’s own biting injury slowing his every move, a taut pain forcing a limp to not stretch it further.

  Edwin saw the face distracted and pained; he hoped the remark about the shilling was as jocose as it sounded. ‘Are you all well, Cap’n?’

  And then the pain and the thoughts were gone. ‘I want your boat, Edwin. I want you and your boat. One hour but a long one. What say you?’

  Edwin could see in the face that his options would be slight if any, so he blustered like any Londoner. ‘I don’t know, Cap’n. I could make a lot of money in an hour.’

  ‘Can you make gold?’ And Devlin showed him the face of King Louis and paid it into his hand.

  Edwin closed his fist around two months’ wages. ‘Well,’ he pulled down the peak of his cap, for this was secrecy. ‘If you put it like that, Cap’n . . .’

  Albany Holmes was not tied, nor deprived of the sword he so treasured. He was free to move around the upstairs room of the Plough, the inn that had favoured the pirate’s gold, the landlord swallowing his fear of refusal by bolstering his pride with coin. Besides, there was no need to restrain Albany when Hugh Harris and his twin turnover pistols guarded him: restraining Albany would have been a folly akin to tying up chickens to protect the foxes.

  Albany paraded around the room, and had already rubbed clean a circle of the bottle glass window to look out on the street below. Occasionally he swung a hateful glance at Hugh who only grinned back with a pistol crooked in his arm, swinging his leg like an imbecile to a tune whistling inside his head, counting the holes he would place in Albany if he moved wrong but once, planning to tell Devlin that he moved wrong twice. Still, Hugh was set aback and stopped his swinging leg when Albany ceased his pacing and looked warmly at him.

  ‘Hugh is it not?’ Albany asked. He had spent almost the last fortnight with the pirate, close enough to smell him on the tartane to Paris, and had even sailed from Madagascar with the rogue during their last encounter. The name was still a guess, however.

  ‘Aye.’ It was the first word Hugh had ever spoken to the long-coat, who was a fop once again now he had returned to his London clothes.

  ‘You know I am a man of means? That has not escaped you?’

  Hugh had about two thousand pounds to his own account but did not own a horse or a Buckinghamshire estate, so nodded accordingly.

  Albany took a step closer, mindful of the sheen of sweat on the brute’s face as being either nervousness or a dry liver.

  ‘We could both leave this place,’ he held out his arms, both to remove them from his sword and to highlight the damp, shoddy room. ‘I have a patron in George Lee. Soon to be Sir George Lee. We are both founding members of the Hellfire Club here in London at the Greyhound inn. There are many pleasures we could indoctrinate you in that you have only dreamt of. We could make Oxford by tomorrow and George would reward you greatly for my freedom . . . as would I.’ He took another step. ‘It is only one door we have to walk through.’

  Hugh leant forward, rubbing his chin, and Albany relaxed and raised his own chin for Hugh’s word.

  Hugh spoke slowly and clearly. ‘You do know that I would take pleasure in shooting you in the face? We are accorded on this? I would count it as supper – you understand?’

  Albany grumbled something and went back to pacing at the window. He watched the lamp-lighters at their work.

  There came a knock at the door, softly, more to not startle Hugh than ask for entrance. Devlin and Peter Sam walked in. They had abandoned the coach in Southwark after finding Edwin and watched human vultures instantly strip it to a carcass. He pitied the horses for their fate as cackling widows dragged them away; he at least hoped that some children might get some meat, or that the sale of the leather bridles would help someone walk and talk for another week. Even the velvet seats seemed to have a price as a fight ensued over their ownership. The pirates walked away as the teeth and nails of women bit and scraped, and aproned men went about the wheels with care and skilled hammers and nodded to the two for their gift.

  Peter Sam held their flag in his arms, bundled like a newborn, and they turned their backs; the Caribbean seemed civilised in comparison but they the last to judge. The coach was just a point scored against Walpole, a possession credited on the pirates’ side to the loss of Black Bill. Hurt rich men in their purse. Eig
ht hundred pounds’ worth of coach. Bill’s body sent to the sea yesterday. Weigh that if you can.

  ‘Albany,’ Devlin stated the name. ‘You are with me tonight.’ He took his pistol off his belt. A time ago he had adapted a hanger to its stock as he had seen gentlemen carry pistols. It made for more comfortable wear but could jump if you moved fast. Devlin lately was not moving so fast as to worry about it.

  He checked the load and made sure that Albany saw its bore and its master’s confidence. ‘I’ll take one of your Dolep’s as well, Hugh.’ He held out his hand and Hugh slapped the weapon in his fist without question. The Dolep pistol, two barrels, under and over. Three shots for Devlin that his bad back would not slow. As he was he could not rely on his cutlass: every strike would be agony.

  ‘And what, pray, are we to do?’ Albany scoffed. ‘The opera? A bagnio house? Find some arse over quim for your ape?’

  The floor shook as Peter Sam exploded from the door; he grabbed a chair and Albany went for his sword.

  Albany was not fast enough and Peter nailed him to the plaster with the chair legs and dust flew from the walls with the impact. Albany, winded and pinned, struggled then grinned as Devlin dragged the bald man back.

  He still had worth, obviously; the pirate had need of him. He smiled more broadly as Peter Sam crushed the chair in his hands like kindling and stormed from the room.

  Albany brushed down his coat. ‘Hah! I think he has a fancy for me! He protests too much!’

  Devlin dismissed Hugh to calm Peter Sam. He shook his head at Albany and went for the door.

  Albany jeered at his back. ‘I tire of you all! Bring me some supper and I’ll forget the apology. But know that Walpole will hear all of this.’

  Devlin’s hand was on the doorknob as Albany went on: ‘You are dismissed.’

  The pirate checked that the corridor was empty, then Albany watched him close and lock the door, the key poking out of his fist as he turned and slowly crossed the room. Something like a grin was slashed across the pirate’s face.