by Mark Keating
The endless line of the horizon was broken by the hint of a grey shape, miles distant. Calmly he placed down his sketches and picked up his two-draw telescope and brought the vessel closer to him. Through the smoky, rippled lens he saw the three masts under full sail moving south. South and safely past the island towards the Caymans or Jamaica.
His study was broken by the crunch of urgent footsteps on the shingle behind him. He turned to the sweating approach of Dominic Duphot, his messmate, pounding up the cliff towards him, the brim of his wide hat bouncing as he ran.
Callier called out, 'Ho, Duphot! Why so happy to relieve me?' He slammed the tube closed and moved towards his comrade, who had eased his pace and was adjusting his cross- belt and dragging a sleeve across his brow. 'What occurs, brother?' Callier asked.
Gasping, swallowing the air like water, Dominic Duphot steadied himself. 'Whores, Favre… A ship of whores is in the bay… Everyone is on the beach. Come!'
Favre Callier swept into his small tent, grabbed his hat, satchel and cutlass, and trotted down the steep path riven through the cliff, jostling his laughing comrade.
Behind them, over the sea, the dark ship crept silently along, seemingly smaller now, in fact only two masts visible, as the Shadow's bow pointed towards the island.
The trip had taken the Lucy just over six days. Devlin passed command of the Shadow to Peter Sam and they parted company ten miles west of Cabo San Antonio, off Cuba's west coast. The Shadow was to sail SSE until she hit the Twenty- First Parallel, then head due east until the water became almost white and the devilfish swam in the cream of the Shadow's wake.
Lucy traversed ESE directly for almost four hundred miles on a close reach. It was a difficult sail for Devlin and the nine others he had chosen to man her. But they were all old hands, the winds were fair and Dandon kept the songs French and bawdy.
A watch had been maintained since noon on the third day as they passed San Antonio, and - almost to the hour that the black cross had been marked by Devlin on the map - at six, in the morning watch of the sixth day, Sam Morwell gave the cry of 'Land ho!' from the topsail.
Men who were sleeping dragged themselves to the main deck where a spontaneous jig erupted. The beat of the men's feet on the oak did little, however, to stir the five ladies swinging and snoring in the hammocks below.
Dandon and Devlin stood at the starboard quarter outside the doorless cabin, Devlin, with the scope to his eye, was barely able to discern the black shape rising through the mist off the bow. Dandon tucked his frayed cuffs into his sleeves and heartily slapped Devlin's back, bringing the sea crashing into Devlin's scope like a cloak as he pitched forward.
'Although I have the notion, mate, that I have come into this play in the final act, I feel that even I should offer my homage to your indubitable success!'
Dandon grinned his gold-capped smile. Devlin nodded, looking up at the fore stays and main braces, trimmed with square flags of red and white bunting, the mainmast limply displaying a gold and white French pennant. He looked around at the Lucy, surveying her absently.
There, along the gunwale, were axe marks, like the smiting of a giant cat. Looking aft were gaps in the rails along the quarterdeck; at his feet there was the faint smearing of blood along the scuppers. All signs of a weary ship of adventure and risk. A pirate ship.
'It ain't over yet there, Dandon. Ways to go. And the hardest part. You may well regret signing on.' He clapped the telescope into Dandon's hands and moved to the head to join his men. It was the first morning of the rest of his life and he would spend the opening hours of it in the company of happy men.
Dandon watched him attempt a jig, linking shoulders with Hugh Harris and Sam Fletcher. The pirate captain danced a few steps, then excused himself to the gunwale with an exaggerated shyness to pull out his pipe and look out to the island. It was the first time Dandon had seen him truly alone. An unusual guilt came across him as he watched the man enjoying a moment of solitude staring out over the dawn sea.
Dandon knew nothing about him. He had two ships and a hundred men; Dandon had seen dozens of men who could claim such wealth, but not one who had set out that way. At twenty-five, Dandon had felt his life over, his days dwindling down to the measure of each bottle. Now he had met a man not much older than himself who seemed to have a purpose and who even valued him as well, for whatever little he was worth.
He found the sharp eyes of the pirate Devlin looking back at him and he tipped his hat. Aye, Devlin had a purpose to be sure, and even a damned purpose was better than none at all.
A little over six hours later and the Lucy sat becalmed, her port side a quarter of a mile from the shallow waters of the crescent white beach. As expected, they had been spotted approaching from the east hours ago, and now a small party of five musketeers and a fine gentlemen in a short blue jacket with matching breeches and stockings stared at them through a silver spyglass.
Devlin took the time to muster up a fine shirt, black necktie and brown waistcoat whilst the men adopted a more subdued dress of white shirts, blue breeches and Monmouth woollen hats. No stockings or shoes, just sailor slops, their filthy and ragged finery stowed with the hammock nettings along the bulwarks.
For those exchanging the spyglass on the beach it was the rumbustious ladies, now waving handkerchiefs and blowing kisses from the fo'c'sle, who were the focus of the most attention.
The five of them - Alice, Sarah, Bernadette, Josephine and Annie - were now five doubloons richer apiece. Devlin selected Bernadette to accompany him and Dandon to the shore. Being French, she provided the greatest smoke screen for the task.
Devlin's Brittany background would help him now, and Dandon seemed to be able to bluff his way through most conversations with a smattering of colloquialisms, thanks to years of slapped wrists from his Louisiana master.
On board were Sam Morwell, Dan Teague, Hugh Harris, the five broad Dutchmen eased from Ter Meer and Sam Fletcher, the guttersnipe whom Devlin singled out for a special duty.
Sam was able. Not bright, but keen, and Devlin closed his hand around his, pushing into Fletcher's palm the only lifeline Devlin could think of should all go awry.
'You understand, Sam?' He winked at the scrawny young wastrel, who looked into his hand at the small silver tube with the laughing devil engraved upon it. 'Not a moment's hesitation if it's all gone from me. And Peter Sam will need it. You understand that? It's the only way now, Sam.'
'Aye, Cap'n. Never fear.' And he knuckled his forehead, backing away respectfully. Devlin slapped the boy's shoulder and turned to his small band of brothers.
'Now to it, boys! Anchor stern and bow for she's a shoal bed on a lee shore. Remember, though, we may have to cut and run!' Devlin yelled.
'Give me a white flag upon the longboat, Dan.' He swept to the lady closest to him. 'Bernadette?' The rouged cheeks and blue-painted eyelids turned to face him. 'Your carriage awaits.' He whisked his hat to his thighs, bowing courteously.
Six hundred and thirty-five pounds. Peter Sam looked over his account. A fortune, bloodied and guilt-stained sure enough, but which fortune was not? Twenty guineas' worth of tin on him, the rest stowed away in his sea chest.
They had divvied up whilst at Providence, each man at least fifty guineas richer than he was the day before, Devlin twice as much again. Most of the crew spent as soon as they could. Drink and women. Drink to forget and women to remember. But Peter preferred the feel of money, the weight of it, the knowledge of it. When a man has money he can be more dangerous than one without; the fear of the absence of it can devour him.
He and Black Bill Vernon were the old standers. They had been Seth Toombs's brethren from Trepassey. And were they not setting the sails on a fine frigate to the course of an upstart Irishman? A bog-trotting lubber. But there was the jangle of the purse. And there was the promise of a shovelful of the jangle if he kept his course.
A short tap on the cabin door broke his dark thoughts. The ungodly form of Robert Hartley, the gunner capt
ain, came wheeling in a moment later, lowering his head as if shamed by his own presence in the world.
'Pardon me, Mister Sam, sir.' His coarse voice slurring, despite the early hour of the day.
'Aye, Robert, what occurs?' Peter Sam stood, never wanting his to be the shortest stature in any room.
"Tis about the Lucy, sir. There's a guilt about her that I thinks you should know.'
'What about her?'
"Tis the powder, sir.'.
Hartley explained hastily that none of it was his fault, but that the Lucy had a very poor quality of powder indeed. He had sifted and refined the stuff but it was mostly grain and dust.
'Good for grape and chain. Nought much else. I'd have been happiest if I could have transferred some of this Porto lot over to her, but I'm afraid the rum got the better of me.'
'Kind of you, Robert. Not much good for the captain now.'
'No, sir. She's got barrels of the stuff and enough shot for a two-hour standoff, but no reach, you see?'
'I don't think the captain has a fight in his plans, Robert.'
Peter Sam's voice was grim. 'Just make sure I have enough to blow that island out of the water, or I'll give you your last bottle.'
Robert tugged his hair, bowing, his side scraping the door frame as he dragged himself out. 'Aye, aye, sir.'
Peter Sam turned to the slanting windows hanging over the sea. The sun was up now, the sea just beginning to become clear as he looked out west, the Shadow's bow screwing its way towards the island to the east.
'Something ails you, Peter?' Black Bill's husky voice swung the big man round.
'Bill!' Peter Sam clutched his bag of coin in his fist. 'Taken to surprising a man in his cabin now? A proper failure you nearly had upon me!'
Bill ducked into the room without a word and slowly lit his pipe from the solitary lamp on the table.
'Ain't your cabin, Peter,' he drawled through the pipe, his lips smacking against the meerschaum through his beard. 'Is it?'
'Aye. You knows what I mean.' He shuffled around the table, tossing the bag lightly. 'What can I do for you, Bill, before breakfast and all? Ain't lost your way to the head, I hope?'
'No. Just wondering what old Hartley wanted. And, as I said, what ails you, Peter Sam?'
'Nothing ails me, Bill Vernon. Why would it?'
Bill exhaled a curtain of smoke between him and Peter.
'I've known you for over three years now, Peter Sam. Lived a shaving of wood away from you in that time. I know when you're going to fart before you do. You're juggling your purse like you're looking for your first whore.' He drew in deeply, crackling the pipe like firewood. 'So I says again, what ails you, Peter?'
Peter looked hard at his old friend. He trusted Bill as much as he had trusted Seth, but the words came hard.
'I think we should turn south,' he said at last, and watched Bill close his eyes. 'This is nothing but a fool's path! We have the ship and the men! What do we owe that Irish pup?'
Bill nodded. 'Nothing. Don't owe him anything at all, that's the truth. Could leave him and the lads to it. They may work out fine on their own. Hugh Harris wouldn't blame us. Probably do the same himself if he had the chance.'
'Aye,' Sam sniffed, 'he would at that!'
"Course, we wouldn't have the ship if it hadn't been for the captain. Wouldn't have the map neither. Then we wouldn't have to leave them behind on the island at all. Then there's all that gold… I tell you what, Peter Sam? I'll go out and finish my tobacco and shorten sail. You come and tell me what you want me to set. Devlin left you in command, after all.'
He trod softly out, leaving the brooding Peter Sam passing the leather purse back and forth between his giant hands.
'Ah! It is good to touch the earth again.' Devlin had crouched upon the sands and run the white gentleness of it through his fingers, his informal French receiving no reaction from the crowd who had helped them drag the boat from the surf.
'What is your purpose here, monsieur?' Captain Bessette was a tall, bearded man, dark-haired, but bald where his hat would lie. His eyebrows were overgrown and brushed upwards as if to compensate, crowning fierce black eyes. He resembled a priest Devlin had once known back home who had turned out to be a child murderer. 'This is a private island belonging to His Majesty. There is nothing for you here.' The wide eyes of his men had not gone unnoticed by Bessette as
Bernadette curtsied to them all, and he was pressing his authority to the first new people he had seen for over five months since he left Calais.
'We require nothing, monsieur, save water. Surely you would not deny a fellow countryman the chance to fill his heads with water?'
'I can deny you everything, monsieur. I am Capitaine Bessette and I am governor here.'
Devlin moved forward, his arms open. He beckoned behind him to Dandon. 'This is Doctor Dandon. This mademoiselle is Bernadette Caron, and I am Capitaine Jean Coqsan.' He swept off his hat and placed it over his heart.
'You perceive, Capitaine, that we are unarmed. We are making our way to Saint-Domingue from Providence, hoping that the "Pearl of the Antilles" will be a safer place for my ladies to ply their trade, by which I profit only for their health and wellbeing. I only ask that my ladies may come ashore for some walking and air. Only I and Dandon will chaperone them; my crew will remain aboard. I ask you, Capitaine, I plead with you, what harm is there in two unarmed men and five beautiful ladies?'
At that moment Favre Callier and Dominic Duphot trundled from the path onto the beach, but Bessette turned and barked at them, ordering them back to their posts. They slunk away like curtailed dogs.
Eight, Devlin noted. Eight so far.
Bessette swivelled back to Devlin and Dandon. 'Why this course to Saint-Domingue?' He reached to his jaw with a damp cloth, pressing hard against a swollen cheek. 'The Bahamas are more customary.'
'And full of pirates, Capitaine. You may find that this route will be the custom from now on.'
'That's as may be, monsieur, but I am afraid I cannot allow whores upon an island annexed by… Mon Dieu!' Bessette cried out, wincing in agony. He howled like a cat in heat and doubled over in pain as the root of his tooth threatened to pierce his brain for the third time that morning.
His men remained still, their gazes crawling over the blushing Bernadette.
'Merde!' he cried, raising his head again, his eyes full of fury and pain.
Dandon lifted a finger in the air and almost danced forward. 'Ah, Capitaine, it may be most prudent of myself to make your governorship aware that I was once stationed at Mobile, where I availed myself to study Faulchard's methods and texts for service to the dental needs of a whole garrison.' Then added, to clarify to the weeping Bessette, 'Surgical dentist.'
Bessette gripped his jaw, his knuckles whitening as he took in the dirty golden-coated man before him.
'Perhaps I might be permitted a glance into your oral cavity, Capitaine? No fee.'
'You are skilled, monsieur?' Bessette wiped tears from his eyes.
'You see these?' Dandon wiped a black finger across his gold front teeth. 'All my own work. Never felt a thing. Didn't even need a mirror.'
Bessette felt the faintest shaft of hope glimmering in the dark world of pain that had been his life for the past three weeks. No brandy eased the nagging pulsing in his jaw, food gave nothing but torment, and the odour that seeped from his mouth turned his very soul. Could it be that this ridiculous yellow-garbed beacon offered release from his torture?
He straightened himself, some dignity returning to his face, mopping the drool from the side of his mouth with the sodden cloth. 'You may approach, monsieur.' And he beckoned Dandon to him.
Dandon stepped across the warm sand with trepidation, unsure of his feet upon the soft white powder. Ten paces later, winking as he passed Devlin's gaze, he stood by the chin of Capitaine Bessette.
'Would you be so kind as to lower yourself somewhat, Capitaine.'
Bessette dropped to his knees, his sword ploughing its w
ay behind him through the sand, his eyes and mouth open and expectant, as if awaiting the miracle of transformation from his first communion.
Dandon's lips drew back as he caught the decaying stench that issued from the yellow and angry lump that occupied a wide portion of Bessette's inside right jaw. He caught Bessette's nervous eyes and smiled warmly.
'I've had worse.'
'You can help me?' Bessette rose, wiping his mouth.
'Immeasurably.' He grinned kindly.
Bessette smiled back, then raised himself to shout to Devlin, 'Capitaine, you may stay. Only yourself and this man, you understand.'
'I do, Capitaine.' Devlin walked slowly forward. 'But what of some water, I beseech you?'
'In good time. For now you will refresh yourselves as my guests. Come.'
'Ah.' Dandon raised an enquiring hand. 'I will need to return to the ship for my requisites and accoutrements.'
'Of course,' Bessette concurred willingly.
'And an assistant. One of the girls naturally.'
'Yes, yes. Go now.' Bessette's right cheek grew redder.
'And naturally if I bring one girl, it would be impossible to leave the others.'
'No,' Bessette was firm. 'Only one more.'
The head of his lieutenant, Abelard Xavier, identifiable by his lace collar and red sash, slyly leaned into his captain's shoulder. Whispers were exchanged. Sentiments quietly voiced. Devlin could only imagine that the verse Abelard suggested was of an appeal to the Gallic nature of them all.
'Very well.' Bessette was irritable, imagining the ten minutes of pain he would have to endure whilst he waited for Dandon's case to be rowed back to him, his dark walnut box with its little green baize alcoves of bottles and folded papers of powders, which now Bessette held in the same regard as the Ark of the Covenant. 'Bring all the women. But leave all the men aboard. Leave me some semblance of order to my king.'
'Of course, Capitaine.' Devlin bowed again. 'Your generosity will not go unrewarded.'
Dandon clapped his hands and began his clumsy-footed return to the boat.