by Mark Keating
Sam Morwell was standing, along with his brethren, all of them half reaching for their own weapons, unsure of the proper tack to take against the man about whom even pirates spoke only in whispers.
'He's no weapons, Teach! Leave him be!' he pleaded.
'Bide your steel, boys!' Teach glared back at them with a sweep of his head. 'Else you'll all follow his judgement!'
'Come now! Judgement, is it?' Devlin's voice rang from the flight of stairs at the back of the tavern. 'Leave the devil some work!'
Teach had to swing round to see the owner of the voice. All eyes in the room watched Devlin, sans stockings and boots, levelling his pistol at the tall, black-framed pirate, his sword belt in his left hand.
'Did I disturb you, sir?' Teach queried. All the heads in the room, sensing a contest, sidled back to Teach, whose beard lifted up as he grinned. 'But I'd put that pistol away. Before I do. My business is none of yours.'
The expectant faces weaved back to Devlin, who took a soft step down the stairs.
'As you notice - "Teach", was it? - I have nowheres to secrete my pistol. So I must either drop it or have it dropped for me. And I'm loath to risk a dent to my pistol by my own hand. Which is it to be, Teach?'
Dandon felt his breath return to him in relief that Teach's attention was distracted.
'Do you not know me, man?' Teach asked, lowering his sword almost in disbelief.
'I am new to Providence. I got the name. Other than that I have responded with drawn pistol as I heard a shot and those two tables are full of my men. It's in their interest that I stand before you.' Devlin took the final step to the slab floor, fifteen feet from the towering pirate.
'Your men?' Teach took in the tables either side of him. 'I reckon some of these to be Seth Toombs's lads.'
'Aye,' Dan Teague spoke up. 'Toombs be dead, Captain Teach.' He was almost apologetic. 'Captain Devlin be the lord now.' Dan twisted his head to Devlin and almost bowed as he spoke. 'This be Captain Teach, Devlin. Have you not heard the name Blackbeard in your life before?'
'Devlin? That be you, then?' Teach's Bristol accent came to the fore. Unknown to Devlin, Edward Teach had joined on the account with Benjamin Hornigold late the previous year and had swiftly courted a bloody reputation that grew as fast as his hirsute jowls. A vagrant privateer from the war. Intelligent and astute. Violent and drunken. Blackbeard.
Devlin showed no recognition and gave his own introduction. 'Aye. Captain Patrick Devlin. Captain of the brigantine Lucy and the frigate Shadow. And I'm sure it is only my ignorance that stops my arm from quivering with fear, Captain Teach.' Devlin bowed.
Teach took a step forward; Dandon began to slip along the wall like a shadow.
'Not knowing me is no crime. But know me as consort captain to Ben Hornigold. One who may be lord in this republic. It be a wrong man to go against me. And a short life for him.'
Teach's eyes never wavered from Devlin's, and he paid no attention to the pointing pistol. 'I'm no threat to your men, Captain Devlin. My humour is for Dandelion here. He be nothing to you.'
Sam Morwell broached his tongue. 'He's a doctor, Captain. He has powders and all sorts.' Sam presented this information as if he had just found the infant Jesus in his arms, but lowered his eyes as his brothers glared at him.
'Is this true, Mister Teague?' Devlin enquired of Dan Teague, the only one of his men who had committed his right hand to the hilt of his cutlass, his eyes watchful on Teach.
'Aye, Captain,' he sighed. 'A doctor, to be sure.' Dan could feel the evening going badly. Sam Morwell had proposed a reason to defend the man Dandon and he would stand by his brother. He only regretted the absence of Peter Sam at such a decision. 'We needs a doctor.'
'Seems this man may have some meaning to me, Captain Teach. I may ask you to forgo your humour, sir.'
Devlin raised his voice to the fellow creeping along the wall. 'You, sir! Dandelion! Are you in need of proper employment?'
Dandon stopped and straightened himself. 'I prefer the sobriquet "Dandon" this year, Captain, if you please.' He tipped his hat. 'But a coin or two and a noggin of rumbustion I would welcome, sir.'
'Then we shall talk terms, when I am properly attired.'
Devlin returned his study to Teach. 'Now, Captain, I am afraid that I would have to take offence if you caused any harm to a member of my crew, as I would expect you to also. Would you not say?' He lowered the pistol, keeping it cocked.
Teach could feel his very spleen engorge with blood, but he was no fool. He stood alone in a tavern full of Devlin's brethren.
No Black Caesar behind him. No Israel Hands by his side. He had come ashore alone from the six-gun sloop he commanded, leaving all seventy souls aboard. Hornigold's orders were to wait for him if Teach's sloop arrived at Providence before him. Teach was a day ahead after their latest cruise, and fancied himself a little dallying ashore. He feared no man or devil, but to die alone and far from his brethren was against his own plan.
The long, matted black beard rose again in amusement.
Slowly, with an awful scraping, he put up and drove home to his belt the grey blade of his cutlass; at the same time a large clasp knife appeared in his left hand from his fustian overcoat. He stepped purposefully to the table where Dan Teague still stood, ready to draw his blade, not unnoticed by Teach.
The dark blade of the clasp knife sighed open, clicking like a pistol. Teach's black eyes swayed across Devlin's men; they all struggled to meet his rolling stare.
Devlin felt uneasy as he watched the mysterious actions of the tall pirate, and widened his stance for a sudden defence.
Teach picked up the bottle that held the candle. His face glowed eerily in its yellow light for an instant; then he blew it out softly.
As the smoke danced around his beard, he slammed the bottle down on its side, shaking awake everyone who had been mesmerised by his movements. He began to saw at the candle with the knife; moments later a quarter of it was in his hand. The blade snapped shut and disappeared within the confines of his coat.
Carefully, Teach studied the small white stump of wax. Satisfied, he buried it beneath his coat, seemingly in a pocket close to his heart. He swelled to his full height and returned his undivided attention to Devlin.
"Till we meet again, Captain.' And then Blackbeard swept out of the tavern in three swift silent steps, the slamming of the door behind him jarring the walls.
With the closing of the door, Devlin's composure returned, and he joined Dan Teague at the table. The green bottle still rocked on its side, the candle naked and short.
'What was that about, Mister Teague?' Devlin asked, carelessly dropping his long pistol to the table with a clatter and hanging his sword belt on a chair.
Dan Teague smiled nervously at his captain as they both sat down together, reaching for mugs and crock bottles simultaneously.
'That be an old buccaneer habit, Cap'n,' Dan spoke, lowering his voice as he continued, spying that Dandon was joining their table with a smile to the bottles of rum.
'In what manner, Mister Teague?' Devlin asked, gulping a draught of rum, trying to drown the drama of Teach's presence away with every swallow.
'Well, Cap'n, by cutting the candle he's taking time away from you. Keeping it for himself, like. It's the mark of your days and he keeps it in his pocket.'
'For what?'
Dan seemed incredulous at his captain's ignorance. 'For when he meets you again, of course!' Dan continued with a belch, 'He'll aim to kill you. Then, when you're dead, he'll light the candle, removing the last of your life from this world. The last days of your life belong to him now, Cap'n… If you believe such things, that is.'
Devlin raked his fingers through the carcass of the fowl, now cold and skeletal. With some success he found one of the bird's oysters still intact and popped it in his mouth with satisfaction.
'To hell with Teach, then, Mister Teague.'
'Aye, most probably, Cap'n.'
'Now, Mister Teague' - Devlin leaned
forward - 'do you have any French speech in that broken old head of yours?'
'No, Cap'n.' Dan sounded bemused. 'Reckon I don't.'
'No bother. Drag out Peter Sam from wherever he be and tell him I need boulting cloth, coloured silks and such. Enough to festoon the Lucy. That old widow will be the place.'
'What for, Cap'n?'
'Lucy's going to open her legs to the French and I needs her to look pretty, like.' He picked up the pistol and waved it loosely to Dandon. 'And you, sir? Doctor Dandon? Can you speak French?'
'Non, monsieur.' Dandon raised his hands against the pistol, perceiving it to be still cocked. 'At least the threat of arms diminishes my ability to do so. If you'd be so kind as to remove the teeth from your hound, I may be inclined to extend my tale to the intimacy that my former master was a Fort Louis de la Louisiane man before the floods. I can pray and curse with the worst of them, if you would only lower your weapon, Captain Devlin.'
'This?' Devlin raised the weapon to the ceiling with a flourish and pulled the trigger. The empty pistol fired into the air with a flat snap and silent spark. He slapped it down again upon the table, shaking his head to the young doctor. 'You don't takes a loaded pistol into a whore's chamber, Dandon. I'd have thought you'd have known that.'
From behind them, the fiddlers began again, slower this time. A long, whining dirge. One of them started out with a low hum until he found his tone. When the pitch was his, he began in a high, Scottish drone:
Oh me name is Captain Kidd as I sailed, as I sailed.
Oh me name is Captain Kidd as I sailed.
Oh me name is Captain Kidd and God's laws I did forbid.
And most wickedly I did
As I sailed.
'Why do we have shortened sail, Mister Guinneys?' Coxon's head and shoulders appeared, rising to the quarterdeck. 'I thought we were to carry on?' His manner was polite, querying, with deference to his officer as former captain. Coxon had broken from a rare nap before dinner during Guinneys' evening watch. It was after seven, the sun had set and the sky was a duck-egg blue.
'Standard setting, Captain, for unknown reef waters.' Guinneys smiled back. 'Soundings by mark three. Leather, sir.' He referred to the lead sounding of rope that fathomed the depth of the waters.
They were passing through the Windward Passage of the Greater Antilles. Off the larboard quarter, the island of Hispaniola veered away from them, smothered in mist. To starboard, to the northwest, there was the white outline across the horizon of Cuba, and before dawn the pleasing blue mountains of Jamaica would come towards them, signalling them to change course NNW to the Caymans.
'Make sail, Mister Guinneys,' Coxon ordered. 'I could sail our gallant king's mistress through these waters. They are not unknown to me.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' Guinneys rapped.
'Remember, Mister Guinneys, that we are trying to reach this island before the gold is lost. If sail is shortened we will delay our passage. I have sailed these waters for many years. The course is good.'
'Was that with your pirate acquaintance, Captain?' Guinneys' eyes broadened.
Coxon allowed the smirk that flashed upon Guinneys' face and just as rapidly vanished. He had not seen it, or at least he had not seen it enough to bother him.
'Carry on, Mister Guinneys. You will not leave your watch till the sails are set.'
'Aye, aye, Captain.' Guinneys bowed, turned to the deck, shouting for a midshipman of the watch to carry out his orders.
Coxon looked up to the early stars breaking through the firmament, which suddenly began to sway before his eyes. Silently, he stepped backwards, putting a hand behind to the rail to steady himself. He stared anxiously across the ship. Guinneys' back was turned. No one had seen. He swallowed the lake of saliva that had suddenly filled his mouth. His eyes swung up to a bearded fellow in a Monmouth cap standing in the crosstrees of the mainmast. The man studied his captain for a moment, then turned his back and disappeared down the ratlines like an ape.
Coxon watched the unsteady form of Oscar Hodge, his new valet, coming up the stair with a small pewter tray, a single cup of coffee sitting nervously upon it. Thanking Hodge for the coffee, he sipped slowly, the bitter roast sharpening his mind almost instantly. He politely asked Hodge to prepare fresh clothes for the morning, to brush his hat and coat before he retired. Hodge murmured agreement and removed himself, leaving Coxon to dwell on the new career of his previous servant.
Rightly or wrongly, he knew that the young gentlemen who were his officers felt that he was partly to blame for the creation of the pirate, that without his presence on board they would be swanning around parties in London by now, writing secret messages on the fans of blushing ladies and buying new horses for the season.
Once, a few days past, a dizzy spell had caused him to miss a step on the companion to the quarterdeck, whereupon Guinneys and Scott had bitten laughs with the backs of their hands. He had recovered his footing and they had tugged their forelocks as if nothing had happened.
Still, Coxon felt that they merely tolerated their new captain, that there was almost something temporary about him, and in truth when it was all over this would not be his ship, not be his men. But it could all be in his own doubtful mind.
Perhaps it was merely a nostrum of his own, built out of his weakened state. These men were half his age. They were indestructible.
Conflict would settle it. Finding Devlin, his hands dipped in gold, bedecked in jewels, then watching him quake before his guns and submit to his master.
Aye, he thought, that was it. They all blamed him for Devlin. All of them. Whitehall and his officers. His redemption could only come from Devlin's destruction. If his actions had lost the Noble, then this was his olive branch, and it would come sticking out of the bloodied chest of his butcher's boy.
Three days. That was all it would take. Three days to reach him. To reach him and break him. Three more morning watches. He drained his coffee, his thoughts now passing to the slow weatherly progress of the Starling amongst the shouts and calls of the crew. The certainty of Patrick Devlin's death ebbed its way towards him.
He tossed the small porcelain cup over the taffrail and watched it boil in the effervescence of the Starling's wake for a moment before it disappeared forever. One porcelain coffee cup from Guinneys' own tableware. Worth at least three guineas. He snapped his hat and returned below, nodding admiringly to the man at the helm.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
The Island
Favre Callier enjoyed the time alone on the cliff top. From the small calico tent that was his sentry post on the west of the island he could see for twenty miles all around him. The wind whipped at the sides of the tent but it was warm and always dry under the blue skies. He spent the hours of his watch with charcoal and paper, refining the multitude of sketches that he kept in his leather satchel.
He had painstakingly drawn, over the last few weeks, all the foliage that the small world outside the tent offered; now he drafted portraits of his comrades, their barracks and any ships that appeared in the offing.
For occasional inspiration and relief from the monotony of his forenoon watch, he walked the short distance to the edge of the cliff and cautiously watched the breakers and white catspaws licking the rocks below, silent and gentle from this height.
From his vantage, two hundred feet high, he could see the crescent sand bar spreading for miles around, only broken by the savage dagger-points of black volcanic rock, threatening to rip the hull of any ship foolish enough to approach.
He sat cross-legged on the sandy, straw-like grass in the mouth of his tent and perused his sketches.
He disliked his rendition of the Cressy, the sloop that had brought them to the island. It was lifeless, dark and morose, yet he recalled it as a happy ship. The nineteen men on board had enjoyed an easy passage to the island. Nine had remained on the island under Captain Bessette; the remainder sailed the little sloop back home.
Three months ago the responsib
ility had seemed immense. Now they had fallen into a dull routine of watches and manual labour. Soldiering had been replaced by gardening and landscaping the area around the fort. Men planted individual vegetable patches, cleared rocks and trees to give a wide field of defence should any lucky soul stumble upon their outpost.
The small fort he had caught well. Once home, when their duty would be relieved next month, he would try to paint it, as a memory for his children yet-to-be, as a testament to the duty that he had done for his king.
Two L-shaped buildings, large enough for twenty men. One was their barracks, a log cabin with six single shuttered windows with gunloops crossed upon them. The other housed Captain Bessette's quarters and their mess room. Ah, and there was the scowling portrait of Bessette himself. Strange how he scowled all those months ago as well. Now it seemed impossible to imagine him any other way, for it was almost a month since his jaw had begun to fester and pulse, sending him into spasms of agony. It would be June before any relief would come. Bessette would probably shoot himself before then. Callier was content at the thought. A cochon of a man turned into a sanglier.
Only one reminder of the solemnity of their purpose met them every morning as they crossed from their barracks to the mess, and in Callier's sketch the small nine-pounder behind a sand redoubt could barely be seen. It aimed directly at the wooden gates, straight down the middle of the two buildings, sited to decimate an assault breaking through the gates.
Callier riffled through his rough papers with familiarity, finally resting his eyes on the elegant features of Lieutenant Philippe Ducos. Ducos was staring out at him from beneath the corner of the great chest of gold, borne on the shoulders of five other marines stepping out of the sea.
The likeness pleased Favre, and he held it out in admiration until something pricked his attention from the blanket of sea and he looked over the top of the paper with an artist's eye.