The Pirate Devlin

by Mark Keating

  The rocky shore on which the boat had landed gave little comfort to the seven pirates camped there. Peter Sam sat beneath his crude tent of sailcloth tied to a wooden pole and watched the ocean, trying to grapple back their boat from the pebbled beach. They had heard the first rumblings of the squall two hours ago from the south. Hugh Harris had lovingly wrapped his pair of matching duelling pistols in his coat before putting them to bed within his tent to shield them from the coming rain.

  Peter Sam drank from a jug of colonial whisky, switching left and right as he did so to check for eyes upon him, for it was a personal thing with him and he loathed sharing his drink. He savoured the warm liquid, knowing that his brothers would not appreciate its smoky, caramel taste.

  They camped against a wind-free wall from where a natural passage crept up to coarse bushes that led to the barren countryside. From here they could see any approach; it had proved the best-hidden landing point, if not the most hospitable.

  Another flash of lightning and he began to ponder on the night's events. If all had gone well, the fat, wealthy governor would have ferried himself out to the Lucy and found his first course to be a leaden one. Under a flag of truce, two of the men would then have rowed back to shore to deliver the ransom threat.

  Whatever guard the governor possessed would have trembled in their boots. They would have sent a runner to Ribeira for more men, for that would be the garrison town; then the priest would take command and insist on paying the ransom.

  Toombs would barter on the whole account being settled whilst it was still dark, before the light of day brought courage to the foolish. The money would be theirs, and shortly after dawn the Lucy would swim in from the west and pick them up to make a mockery of Devlin for his concerns.

  Grinning at this, Peter Sam thought of the bond between himself and Toombs. It would never have occurred to him that after getting the doubloons Toombs might cut and leave. He had murdered two men for Toombs in his time, without thought or question. As fishermen together they had shared fur blankets and black bread as the Newfoundland winds sliced at their bones. It was Toombs's plan to go on the account over three years ago and Peter Sam had never regretted it. He ate what he wanted and drank like a priest. For fifteen years he had been a hungry fisherman; now his belly was sated and his heart utterly loyal to Toombs.

  Chomping on a pickled egg, combing the flecks of it out of his beard with a black thumbnail, he watched Hugh, weaving his way to the longboat to fetch another bottle, swinging his arms, ape-like, in his own drunken style. Silhouetted against the sea, shrouded in rain, he raised the rum above his head in triumph, generating a low, bovine cheer from the other tents.

  His scarecrow-like form suddenly stood stock-still, his eyes wide. The bottle fell from his right hand, almost hitting his streaking cutlass as it flew out.

  Without a pause the other six were upright and following Hugh's stare, a flash of lightning dancing off their drawn blades.

  They spread out, backing towards the pistol tent, all except Peter Sam, who stared razor-eyed at the figure breaking its way through the bushes before them. The black, headless shape appeared, staggering towards them. With a sweep of its arms, off came the sodden, cape-like coat that concealed the bedraggled form of Patrick Devlin.

  The others relaxed in recognition; only Peter kept his apprehensive expression.

  'What are you doing here?' Peter asked, moving towards him.

  'Water,' Devlin croaked. 'Water, Peter.'

  Peter Sam grabbed Devlin and pulled him to his face.

  'Where's Seth?' He swallowed hard. 'Where's Thomas Deakins?'

  The others put their weapons away and moved to join them.

  'Dead, for all I know!' Devlin gasped. 'We were attacked. I got away.'

  Peter pushed him away. The rain slowed.

  'Oh! And you got aways! Now isn't that a page of the good book I'd like to hear! Who attacked you?'

  'A trap.' Devlin bent down, panting. 'Governor trapped us. He's following me now!'

  Andrew Morris, a Dorset sailor, a pirate for a year only, spoke with a tremor. 'Following you now?' he asked.

  'Aye. Four of them. Behind me somewheres.' Devlin reached for his coat and straightened up.

  'He's lying!' Peter snarled. 'He's given them up for his own hide, and led the Portos to us!' He stepped back quickly, his cutlass whirling loosely in his hand. 'What did you sell them for, Patrick? How many pieces?'

  Devlin stopped putting on his coat and let it fall. 'Water, Peter. I'll not ask again. I've killed two men this night already.'

  Hugh Harris faced Peter Sam and shouted through the rain and thunder: 'Give him quarter, Peter! For all our sakes!'

  Peter pushed him aside. 'Article Eight, lads. Quarrel shall be ended,' he yelled. 'On shore by sword or pistol. By first blood!'

  'I don't want to shoot you, Peter. I need you,' Devlin said wearily.

  'By sword it be, then,' and Peter drew his dagger to partner his cutlass. 'No quarter, dog!' The others moved out in a silent crescent around the two.

  Devlin's shoulders sank, then rose again in a forlorn breath. 'We've no time for this!' he shouted against the rain. 'They'll be on us!' But Peter had already drawn back his cutlass and sprang forward, cleaving the air.

  Devlin's sword barely cleared in time to cross his body and meet the blow as he leaped backwards, the impact rattling through his arm.

  He crept further back, his sword high before his face. He had seen how the pirates fought. There was no interest in a handsome fight or skilfully disarming an opponent. Simply slice off a part of your foe's head and move on to the next man. The victim might catch part of his face as it fell into his hands and would slump to his knees, then suck the air in disbelief as a following pirate ran him through.

  Peter hacked again, a blow intent on smashing Devlin's thinner blade. His dagger dived in towards Devlin's liver but stabbed into the walnut grip of his pistol instead, marking it forever. A lightning flash as the steel clashed again, blades sliding down to their hilts as they came together, the two blades running with rain as if made of water. Peter hissed something through the roar of the thunder as Devlin's left hand snatched the wrist that drove the dagger, pulling Peter with it. Peter's body turned with the knife as Devlin's sword arm wrapped itself round his neck. His back was at Devlin's chest. His ear at his mouth. He could smell the brass guard of Devlin's sword at his throat.

  'We can't do this!' Devlin spat. 'Stop this now!'

  With a boar's roar Peter shot forward, hurling Devlin over his shoulder. Devlin saw the ground spin away from him as he crashed onto his back. His pistol fell from his waistcoat.

  He rolled away in instinct and felt Peter's cutlass crack the ground where his head had been. He pushed himself up and back, checking for any of the others joining in. They stood, impassively, as if looking from a carriage window.

  He appealed again to Peter, 'Have sense, man! Cool your head! There's danger here!'

  Peter's chest heaved. He slung the dagger down and ran his hand across his face in a futile effort to wipe off the rain, then charged again, his sword hand almost behind him as if to hurl the cutlass. Devlin jumped back as the sword cut through the air in front of his eyes.

  Missing his mark, Peter unbalanced, stumbling through like a lubber missing the last step of the companion. Devlin caught his fall, pushing him to the ground and holding him there, his forearm over his throat, slamming his sword onto Peter's cutlass.

  Peter's body seethed beneath Devlin's, surprised by the strength within the Irishman; then he heard the words whispering from Devlin's mouth. In his rage they made no sense at first, as they had made no sense to Sam Fletcher when he first heard them whimpering from Philippe Ducos upon the island. But this time they were in English and Peter Sam knew the words very well.

  'Gold,' Devlin had said. 'Hundreds of thousands of louis in gold and I know where it lies! If I die it never gets found. I was up to something, and this is it, Peter. A fortune in gold and I need
you to get it and I need you to get the man who's killed Seth. Who's killed Thomas. Now belay this shite for another day and let's kill the Porto bastard together!'

  Devlin released his arm and stood up, slow and breathless, his head lowered, a pain across his shoulders all of a sudden. He backed away and sheathed his sword. Peter Sam brought himself up as if struggling against the fall of rain.

  The two men glared at each other. Steam wisped off them like smoke from snuffed-out candles. The race of their hearts in their ears drowned out even the rush of the rain.

  Peter Sam lifted up his cutlass to the expectant eyes still standing around the two men. He looked once down the length of the blade, as if it had a secret etched into the steel. He turned the blade and ran it home to his belt.

  'Show me where the bastard is!' was all that he said.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  The rain had stopped. For almost an hour the riders had searched whilst their oilskin cloaks turned to lead across their backs. The horses' white sweat streaked down their hides, their heads rocking and snorting in protest at their labours.

  They trotted northwards through the valleys, having returned spent from the ride to Carrical in search of the Irishman.

  Twelve miles east they had ridden on Valentim Mendes's instinct that Devlin would try to hide away from the larger towns and seek a fishing boat to steal with a mind to try and return to the pirate brigantine. The sky had cleared and the moon had already started her path downward as midnight waned. With every hour fewer words passed amongst them, each man conscious of the murder he might commit at any turn in the path.

  Mendes had ordered two men to stay at the pirates' longboat; the rest of his personal guard rode with him. He had been confident as he galloped out into the night that he would ride over Devlin stumbling in the dark; now, two hours having passed, he rued not riding straight to Ribeira Brava to at least alert the small garrison of idle soldiers that doubled as choirboys. Now Ribeira was his last hope, and truculently he turned his mount along the path to the town.

  His head lifted at the stamping of his black horse and the chattering of his men: before them, in the road, lay the prone form of a man, his black coat spread away from his body like bats' wings.

  In a heart murmur Mendes conceived that Devlin had been injured by his own servant, the brave and murdered Leandro, and now here he lay dead or dying, probably all the time they had been searching further east.

  Raising his hand, he silenced his men and slid down from his horse. The still body lay some twenty yards in front of him, and by the second step he had drawn his fine Toledo blade as he made his approach. One by one his men followed, rolling their muskets off their backs.

  Mendes looked up to the slopes of the valley for any ambush, but saw only the dark vagueness of the dragon trees and bushes that grew amongst the rocks above them.

  He was at the body now. His first instinct was to run it through. Pierce down until the ribs grated and the dirt stopped his lunge, then pull back with the body sucking at the blade. But the man might still be alive and, before he became a corpse, he should look at the gentleman who would send him righteously from this world.

  Reaching down, Mendes pulled at the coat's left shoulder, which suddenly rolled against his grip. He found his face inches from the eye of the octagonal muzzle of Devlin's pistol, clicking thrice into life from the cover of the coat.

  'And how are you doing, Valentim?' Devlin grinned.

  A curtain of men rose on either side of the moonlit valley. Peter Sam and three stood up on his left with muskets pointed at Mendes's guard, whilst Hugh Harris and the others levelled their guns direct at the governor.

  Mendes's men, mouths agape, shunned their guns like pitchforks in wintertime. They knew pirates, and they knew they would be fed whether they fought or not.

  Mendes rose with Devlin and sent cursed looks to his men. One of them felt Mendes's glare and bent swiftly to take up his musket; in the same movement he fell dead as a crack echoed from the left slope.

  'Wise not to move, gentlemen,' Devlin said, edging backwards, his pistol set on Mendes.

  'So,' Mendes smiled, 'you were never alone, pirate?' He stood aloof from the gathering, his sword resting on his right shoulder like a parasol.

  Devlin smiled back. He shouted up to Hugh Harris, 'Hugh, come relieve these men of any duty they have left so as they can sleep peaceful, like, this morning!'

  The three pirates came lumbering down the hillside, the buckles rattling on their shoes and crossbelts mimicking their cackling laughter.

  One by one they picked up the wheel-lock muskets, and pulled the cheap and pitted hangers from the soldiers' belts, piling it like firewood on the side of the road. All the while, Mendes never stopped grinning, and never took his eyes from Devlin's.

  'And what of me, Senor Devlin? Would you like to take my sword and pistol?' Mendes sidestepped, cutting his Toledo through the air, pointing to the amused pirates.

  'He moves quickly for a lubberly soul, don't he?' Hugh remarked kindly and they leisurely gave him space. Mendes threw off his cloak and balanced himself to face Devlin.

  'I am not so afraid of you sea dogs as you may hope to think, senor!'

  As his last word hung in the air, a blinding spark flew off his outstretched blade. The bones in his hand hummed and the sword leaped away to quiver on the ground yards away.

  'You should be!' Peter Sam's voice boomed from behind the sights of a smoking musket high up on the slope. All eyes gaped at the shot.

  Mendes recovered first and pulled his pistol at Devlin, who had followed everyone in staring up at the black shape of the quartermaster.

  Devlin turned back in time to hear the dog-head strike the pan with a flat click, then watch Mendes's face as he realised the gun had become nothing but wet driftwood in his hand. He cursed, the pistol still raised; then his eyes blinked shut and he collapsed forward, unconscious from the blow that Hugh Harris had swiped across his nape with his club of a pistol.

  'You couldn't have shot him, then, Hugh, no? Before he fired at me and all?' Devlin asked, bending to pick up Mendes's weapon and spying his dagger hiding in Mendes's sash.

  'Me powder's probably as wet as his, Pat. I didn't want to risk the fact,' Hugh stated earnestly.

  It was the pain within Mendes's shoulder blades and skull that finally hauled him awake. He had no concept of how long had passed, but it was with struggling horror that he realised that he was tied to a broad tree, his chest and arms naked. The pirates had used the straps from his soldiers' muskets to bind his legs and chest.

  Curiously his right arm was free, but could not release the leather snares holding him, no matter how he tugged at them. His left arm was outstretched and numb with agony as he tried to move it; then he followed the length and found it to be bound to a neighbouring tree, the hand wrapped entirely in a leather and cloth bundle.

  Through the bundle he could feel something cold and hard in his forced fist. He reached over with his free hand but, tied tight as he was across the body, he could hardly even reach his elbow. He struggled to pull against his bonds, feeling his bare back tearing against the bark.

  Exasperated, he became vaguely aware of voices in front of him, below the ridge of trees where he was trapped. The group of pirates sat huddled near the road locked in conversation back and forth. Beyond them he glimpsed the strange sight of his guard, naked from the waist up, sitting backwards on their peacefully grazing horses and, close by, his doublet and weapons.

  He yelled at the pirates. His voice was unintelligible even to himself, like the rambling panic of a dream, but it brought attention. Slowly Devlin and Peter Sam got up and approached. Mendes recalled the big bald one as the rogue who had shot the sword from his hand. Now he carried a small boarding axe, and Devlin strolled towards him tossing the ebony-handled dagger a few times before placing it again behind his back.

  Any modicum of respect and title had fallen from Mendes. Yesterday a man like Dev
lin held as much importance in his world as his morning stools. Now the former servant would talk to him about death or life. Mendes would not be the first nobleman to have his birthright shaved away by the slash of a pirate's blade.

  Devlin smiled his most modest smirk, and spoke plainly. 'We're of a divided opinion, Valentim. Peter Sam and I.' He leaned with a languid arm against the tree close to Mendes's head. 'You can be of some help in the matter.'

  Mendes's voice was guttural and distinct. 'You will not use my Christian name, dog. Untie me!'

  Devlin continued unabashed, 'I believe, Valentim, that the good folks in Ribeira are unaware of us, and that we could make our way back to the ship with no harm to ourselves. However' - he indicated the grim, dark form of Peter Sam - 'Peter here thinks that the Lucy's boat be surrounded by soldiers and we should take the long way round in his. What say you to that point, Valentim?'

  'I will tell you nothing! Release me at once!'

  'I'm telling you, Devlin,' Peter Sam snapped. 'No sense going back to the ship at all! The Lucy s got that frigate staring at her. I counted a hundred men on her myself, man!'

  It was only a small reaction from Mendes, a slightly unfocused look, the slow opening of the mouth as if to speak, but it was the very look Devlin was striving to see.

  'It was true, then, Valentim?' His eyes shone. 'That beauty has only thirty men aboard? 'Tis all I needed to know, senor. You see, Peter? Easy pickings. I'll also wager a penny that a fine gentleman like Valentim here would keep his purse on that there ship. Nice and safe, like, from servants and pirates. What say you, Valentim?'

  Valentim blasphemed and wrestled against his bonds, swinging his free right arm wildly until Peter's grip held it fast. He looked hatefully, furiously, between the two men, but whereas Devlin's face was still very genial, the other pirate hated back.

  'Who is this oaf who stares at me so? Why am I tied like this?'