by Mark Keating
'Land ho! Two points to larboard bow!'
Coxon sprinted back to the quarterdeck. Drawing the telescope from its becket at the binnacle, he trained it in the direction of the arm of the man aloft, instantly lowering it with a curse to wipe the condensation from the front before slapping it to his eye again.
There she was. A grey growth swelling out of the sea, a white trim marking her on the horizon. Fifteen miles. Slow now to four knots. Less than three hours, for sure. He had long given up celebrating the accuracy of his sail, but afforded the men their cheers.
He passed on the order to shorten sail to Mister Anderson and stepped down to the deck, his eye falling on the closed conversation between Guinneys and Scott by the foremast stays.
No time now. No time at all. Too much to do. Have to ignore that bristling on the back of the neck; all hands would be needed. Keep Guinneys close. Wear him like a coat. Keep him, at hand and dependable. There would be time enough after the island was secured. Time enough to question why he had murdered Edward Talton.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
The plan had been bolder. Devlin, Dandon and the women would disembark and bring themselves into favour with the island's inhabitants. A few hours later the Shadow would arrive, raining furious anger down on the poor Lucy. The frigate could not come in due to the shallows, but she could lay warmly to the Lucy with hot iron from almost a mile away.
After which, with much pleading and exemplification of the hearts of his small crew, Devlin's men would be allowed to row ashore to escape the black flag bearing down on them. The same ploy that had worked against Ter Meer-would work again. Without a blow, without a shot, Devlin's band of cut-throats would be almost welcomed into overthrowing the marines.
Now, Devlin followed Dandon's lead. A man come amongst them less than a week before. A man who gave up nothing, whose only path was upwards from the gutter. A man like them all. It did not seem particularly surprising to trust a man who had nothing to lose. From a finer place, one day, it might seem unwise, but for now these were the only men whom Devlin did trust.
They had walked through the stockade, each with a handle between them, swinging the chest now. Devlin cast an eye to the wooden tower in the corner where a musketeer sat, otiose and sullen, although he brightened when the parasols were tipped and the painted faces smiled up at him.
Two L-shaped barracks. Open-shuttered windows facing the gate. A frontal assault on the stockade would be met with muskets jutting from those facing windows, echoed by the nine-pounder with its deadly eye trained on the gate; the same gate that now closed wearily behind them, bringing up a cloud of dust from the dry earth.
Men now followed the women like sheep. They did not need to speak. They smiled as if from a painting and they strolled as if in a park.
Only Bessette remained aloof to the women, his hand pressed permanently against his jaw, looking for all the world like a housemaid striving to remember a list of chores.
Xavier borrowed his captain's ear again as they reached the well-trodden dust between the barracks. Bernadette and Annie stayed close to Devlin and Dandon; the others, with the soft pad of silken shoes and giggles into their chests, were cajoled into the soldiers' mess, the longest part of the left-hand wooden building.
With no words, Devlin, Dandon and the two women were led by Bessette and Xavier to the lower half of the same building, turning a corner past the gun, and passing through Bessette's private door.
Inside was a comfortable drawing room, far removed from the crude exterior. A good-sized dining table dominated the room, a green velvet brocade tablecloth draped across it running to the floor, its drop obscuring even the legs.
To the right of the door as they entered, along the wooden wall hidden by tapestries and unpainted plaster, were the matching green high-backed fauteuils, eight in all. The far wall displayed a superb bow-fronted tiger-maple commode, sporting lozenge-framed portraits of the goddess Diana on its front. A Bible box sat on top of the commode. Devlin eliminated both as the place to secure a hundred thousand louis of gold. A small carriage clock upon the commode brought the room alive with its pleasing movement.
'If you will excuse me, gentlemen.' Xavier bowed, his right hand resting on his holstered pistol. 'I shall wait in the corridor.' He bowed again, this time directly to Bernadette. 'If Mademoiselle would care to accompany me for some refreshment?'
Bernadette shifted an eye to Devlin. He nodded compliantly and she hooked her arm into Xavier's. They crossed the room unnoticed by Bessette, who had already pulled one of the chairs to the table, and they left through a simple adjoining door, giving Devlin the glimpse of a passage he presumed led to the mess.
'Monsieur?' Bessette mumbled to Dandon, who stood absorbed by the weft of the hunting scenes galloping through the tapestries. 'My pain?'
'Of course, Capitaine.' Together the pirates swung the chest onto the velvet tablecloth.
Devlin removed his tricorne and drew linen across his brow. 'My thirst devours me, sir. May I implore you for a drink to ease it?'
'Forgive me. My error, Capitaine Coqsan.' He threw a thumb behind him to a closed door. 'My quarters. You may bring us all some wine.' He winced as he tried to smile.
'Perhaps not for you, Capitaine,' Dandon said, opening the chest like a hallowed tome, revealing handwritten vellum labels on stained bottles; thin, bone-handled drawers beneath them waning beeswax into the room. 'I have some treatment for you that will not mix.'
Devlin circled the room in a heartbeat. A washstand and basin. A cot, with a pair of demi-lune tables either side. A cabinet, by all appearances stripped from the galley of a ship, held a cheap decanter and a set of tall glasses. A narrow, paned window brought the Caribbean sun into the room and looked out on the north wall of the stockade.
There had been no windows in the anteroom, and for a moment Devlin had forgotten the day was only past noon.
With the instinct of an imbiber, he opened the tallest front of the cabinet and discovered two shelves of wax-sealed wine. Using the excuse of riffling the cutlery box for a corkscrew, he tooled himself with a small meat knife, which he tucked under his waistcoat behind his back.
Where was the gold? Eight marines. One gentleman. Perhaps one more sentry on the eastern cliff. Ten men. And just himself and Dandon waiting for the Shadow to arrive. Two buildings. Unlikely to be in the mess or the barracks. Perhaps underground? Outside in the jungle? No, definitely within the stockade, that was the whole point.
Breathe deep. Take a drink. There will be violence soon.
Returning to the dining room, Devlin found Dandon, with his coat and hat removed, engrossed in the contents of a small stone mortar. Annie stood behind Bessette, her soft hands placed gently to his temples.
'Now, Capitaine, if you have forgotten what your mother's milk was like, prepare for solace.' Dandon took a small piece of raw cotton wadding and, having drawn some of his strange liquid to it, gestured to Bessette's mouth. 'Open wide now.'
'What is it, Doctor?' Bessette was not suspicious, except of the prospect of more pain.
'Relief. Manna. Vinum Opii.' Dandon looked angelic. Bessette opened his mouth. There was a blinding blaze of pain, the aroma of wine, cinnamon and cloves, and then, a sweet second later, nothing. No pain. No feeling in the right side of his jaw at all. He almost wept. Then he did weep.
'Oh, monsieur! Monsieur!'
'Lo! It is a gift, Capitaine.' Dandon placed the mortar down and slid open one of the drawers. Inside, the cutaways held a line of evil-looking implements. Dandon selected the least offensive, a thin steel probe, curved and rounded. 'Allow me, Capitaine.'
Obediently Bessette dropped open his mouth and Dandon peered inside. Devlin cut and opened the wine, pouring a generous glass for himself and Dandon. The wine was encouraging. He drained his glass and poured another, standing behind Dandon, exchanging nervous glances with Annie.
Moments passed uncomfortably for all. Dandon, his examination complete, leaned bac
k, his lips drawn. 'I will need to administer a little surgery, Capitaine. I must have that poison removed from your jaw.'
'It will hurt, monsieur?' Bessette asked.
'No. You will only feel pressure, that is all, Capitaine.' Dandon went back to his chest and popped the cork on a small frosted-glass bottle. Reversing the contents onto some more wadding, he placed it promptly onto Bessette's tongue.
'Hold that there, Capitaine. And think of France.'
Bessette looked confused then ecstatic as the ethereal spirits began to engulf him and his eyes fell shut. His head lolled back. Annie squealed, her hands clutched to her lips.
Dandon nipped out the ball of wadding with a swift pinch of his finger and tossed it to the floor.
Devlin grabbed Dandon's arm. 'What have you done?' Horror crept over him. The thought of death was ever present in his mind, the violence, the blood; but now was too soon.
Dandon shrugged off his captain's grasp and reached for the glass of wine. 'Oil of vitriol, Patrick,' Dandon sighed. 'He will sleep for at least an hour. Do not fear, Captain. All is well.' He drank with the gusto of relief.
Devlin looked at the clock on the commode. An hour and a half had passed since they had returned to the island with the chest. The Shadow would arrive soon, and still no gold. Now the one man who would most certainly be aware of its place sat drooling and comatose before him.
'Damn you, Dandon! What of the gold? He would know where it lies! Now what, man?' As he spoke he moved to Bessette's sleeping form and retrieved Bessette's pistol and sword, weighing the sword deftly in his hand before stuffing them both into the sash round his waist.
'Captain, I am surprised by you. I had marked you as a calm soul. The lieutenant outside in the corridor is more pressing.'
Without invitation he stepped to Annie and whipped up her petticoat to her waist, revealing the white silk stockings that crept up her legs and the lightly frilled creamy undergarments that had cost her two weeks of lying on her back.
His interest, however, lay in the overcoat pistol she had strapped to her milky thigh.
'Pardon, mademoiselle.' Removing the black ribbon that held it there, he checked the lock and primer and placed it in his belt.
'We must secure him first, do you not agree?'
'I disagree!' Devlin snapped. 'The Shadow will be here soon causing uproar on the beach. Men will rush in here to tell the captain, and he lies passed out before us! And us armed and alone!'
'Exactly, Patrick. We must gain more control. Is there more wine?'
'Can you not finish one draught before you begin on another!'
'Patrick' - Dandon lowered his head - 'I do not want the wine. If there are more bottles, bring them to me. And if you are worried about the gold, then please worry no longer. Have you never hidden anything, man?' And with that he reached for the tasselled hem of the tablecloth and flourished it up to reveal the long black chest that rested beneath it, secured with heavy iron locks and straps.
'There is your gold, sir! And if you do not bring me more wine, you shall never have a day's luck with it! You may lay to that!'
Devlin crouched, tilting his head and taking in the full sight of the long black chest sleeping innocently beneath the table. His face rose in a sparkle-eyed grin. Then his mind began to click back into action.
As if to defend the chest and mark it as his own, he withdrew the knife from behind his back and slammed its point into the underside of the table, leaving it hanging there. Just in case.
He stood; taller now, it seemed to Dandon. The pair of them, in shirt and waistcoat, shook hands and emptied their glasses. Then Devlin poured one for the trembling Annie, who gulped gratefully, swearing through her swallows.
'I'll get the wine.' He nodded to Dandon. 'We'll need ammo and powder. Bessette must have some in his room.'
'No,' Dandon said, removing a brown bottle from his chest. 'I'll get the wine.' He poured some brown fluid into his glass, then filled it with wine.
'You take this to Lieutenant Xavier,' he said, adding unnecessarily, 'Do not drink it, Captain.'
Devlin opened the corridor door as quietly as he could manage. A small crack, just enough to see the length of the corridor stretching away to his right. The passage, like the anteroom, was roughly plastered over its wooden walls. A barrel stood halfway down the opposite wall, a ship's lamp glowing upon it.
Devlin pushed upon the door some more, at the same time aware of a giggling along the passage. He saw half of Abelard Xavier seated on a bench along the wall to his right, some white flesh entwined around his blue worsted jacket.
At the far end of the passage, a relief of the Madonna signalled the end of the corridor. The Mother of God leaned her head to the right, indicating to Devlin the second door that led to the mess, where the sound of a flute and a rolling fiddle belonged to another world.
It was eight steps to Xavier. Devlin could run at him, crown him with the butt of Bessette's pistol. Two blows and the brass cap would be bloody and caked in hair. Eight steps. Two blows.
He stepped into the passage, leaving the pistol in his sash, and carried the glass towards Xavier. Two steps in and he noticed the lieutenant's brown leather crossbelt and hanger leaning against the wall.
At a distance he deemed polite enough, Devlin cleared his throat.
'Lieutenant Xavier?' He smiled warmly. 'Capitaine Bessette is happier now and I bring you a small cordial at his request.'
Devlin stepped closer as Abelard Xavier turned his head away from Bernadette's bosom and glared at him.
Xavier was not for fooling. Devlin watched Xavier's eyes fall to the pistol and sword stuck in his sash. Recognising them or not, he sprang up and drew his right arm across to his pistol.
No moment for a bluff. The game had changed. Devlin flashed to his sword as he slung the glass at Xavier's head, sending a scrawl of liquid across the walls.
Bernadette held her palm to her mouth, stifling a scream as Devlin finished drawing the blade, ending the motion with an upswing across the bones of Xavier's right hand.
Xavier's fist sprang open, dropping the pistol as the glass crashed into the Madonna over his shoulder.
Nature made him stare at the back of his hand, glistening with blood; then Devlin grabbed his left shoulder and sent a cold fist through his centre, pulling him towards him like a brother.
Xavier opened his mouth in a gasp, the sound gurgling out of his back along the length of the blade, for his mouth had filled with blood.
Gently, Devlin eased him down the wall and Xavier gave a grateful sigh as the sword was dragged slowly free.
Devlin glanced at the blade as he returned it to his sash. It dripped a watery substance like raw egg white, small freckles of blood across its steel.
Abelard Xavier was the first man he had ever killed with a sword. He paid it no more mind and turned to Bernadette. She had picked up the pistol and now handed it to Devlin. He looked at it in the amber glow of the passage.
A French pistolet de cavalerie. Its plain iron barrel marked and dented. Weightless, weak wood. The lock loose and rusted, the trigger missing. The only indication of craftsmanship was the engraved 'Anno 1680' on the lock plate. He let it fall back to its owner's body. Dead together.
The pressure of blood eased from Devlin's ears, the sound of his heart dissipated, and he could hear again the high- pitched fiddle and flute song. Good. Peace reigned again.
Bernadette was now chasing through Xavier's garments, swearing at every empty pocket she encountered. Devlin swept to the far door. It was bolted from his side. Excellent. He pulled up the protesting Bernadette and half dragged her back to the anteroom.
Dandon had six opened bottles of red wine standing like soldiers along the table. To each one he was carefully administering the contents of a steel syringe. He looked up as Devlin came through the door.
'I heard a tinkle of glass, Captain. Not unlike a serving bell. All is well, I trust, with Lieutenant Xavier?'
'He wasn't thir
sty.' Devlin's face was a white mask. 'What goes on here, Dandon?' He softly clicked the door shut behind him. Bernadette ran to Annie's side, tugging her garments across her modesty.
'Laudanum,' Dandon stated. 'Vinum Opii. I can take down all three men in the mess faster than you can kill them, my capitaine.' Although both men now spoke in English, Dandon was relishing his French accent. 'I have found a flask of powder and a box of ball. You may have the pleasure of carrying them.'
Devlin moved to the table, picked up the hard leather flask with the brass spout and the suede box, placing both in his waistcoat's deep pockets beneath his sash.
Dandon took his penknife and fully removed the wax from the top of one bottle. 'Ladies' - he turned to Bernadette and Annie - 'pay close if not absolute attention. The wine without the red wax is for your consumption. The others are for the guards in the mess. Compliments of their captain in celebration of his new-found health.'
Bessette snored in agreement.
'I'm hungry,' Annie declared.
'You can eat the five doubloons in your purse if you're hungry, my girl, but for now you will sway your hips into that mess with this wine and join your colleagues.'
'Bloody pirates,' Annie murmured, picking up three bottles with ease between her fingers, leaving Bernadette to smile sweetly and pick up the other three, her dress hanging off her left shoulder to reveal the curve of her breast.
Dandon led them to the passage. 'They must all drink swiftly. Pour it down their throats if you have to.' The women passed through into the corridor, their mouths exhibiting a definite downward turn.
Devlin and Dandon followed, simultaneously checking the action on their pistols. 'I have never shot a man, Captain.' Dandon smiled meekly, his eyes lingering on Xavier's body as they stepped past.