The Pirate Devlin

by Mark Keating

  'It will not come to that. In a few hours we will be dining on the Shadow, laughing about this day.'

  They settled against the wall, sharing a breath for a moment. Devlin waved to the women to open the door to the mess.

  'Aye,' Dandon whispered, 'or we'll be dining in hell. Either way, we're sure to be eating.'

  Annie pulled back the bolt with just the crook of her little finger and shouldered the door. The corridor filled with the sweet song of the flute and fiddle, jeers and the scraping of chairs. There was a roar of approval as the new pair danced into the room, and Annie kicked the door shut behind her, leaving Devlin and Dandon with nothing but a faint waft of sweat and perfume.

  They stood silent, listening like elderly chaperones outside a drawing room for any new sound. The jolly music continued. No raised voices. No mistrust. Devlin was almost envious as he shifted to the door and gently locked the bolt again. Three men would live a while longer; Devlin and Dandon's pistols would remain cold.

  'And what of him?' Dandon indicated Abelard Xavier.

  'We'll lock Bessette's door behind us. He is well hidden in a locked corridor.' Together they hurried back to the anteroom, bolting the adjoining door behind them.

  Sanctuary. Devlin could no longer think more than five minutes ahead. He absorbed the peace of the room. Here everything was fine. Here was control. Bessette was dozing. Nobody knew more than them. Everybody knew less. If he could just hold on to this room, hold on to the chest, all would be well.

  Devlin moved to the outer door, opening it just enough to view the unmanned cannon, and sidled out, edging his way to the first corner. Daring to inch his head out, he saw the mess door pulled half open, obscuring his view of the gate at the far end. He could spy the watchtower in the far left corner, the marine still sitting there, his back to the rest of the stockade. The only sense of life was the small eddy of smoke that occasionally billowed out from the drawing of his pipe.

  If the drink flowed and the laudanum mellowed, the three soldiers would be asleep in minutes. But what then? The Shadow should be approaching by now. Her grey sails spotted by either the guard staring straight down to the Lucy, or by the watch on the west coast. The thought of a hundred comrades within shooting distance gave Devlin some comfort.

  As if in answer, he suddenly saw the gate swing slowly open. He fought the instinct to withdraw his head as he watched two men come through and hail the watchtower.

  One of them he recognised as the man stationed to watch the Lucy from the path. The other carried a leather satchel over his shoulder; Devlin vaguely recalled him as one of the men barked away from the beach by Bessette.

  His cautious eye watched the pantomime of the two gesticulating to the guard in the tower, who rose awkwardly to his feet. Then, and for the first time, Devlin saw the hanging ship's bell under the canopy of the watchtower.

  His mind magnified the size of the bell tenfold. He watched the hand reaching for the rope and he clutched at the pistol in his sash, waiting for the terrible moment. Then, out of the door of the mess, just yards in front of him, staggered one of the marines, grasping the lintel to stop himself from falling. The marine timed his incoherent bellow exactly as the first peal of the bell rang out across the air.

  A second peal, and the drugged marine fell against the door, slamming it fully open against the mess wall as he succumbed to the comfort of the dirt.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to the sound of the crashing door.

  They took in the sight of their fellow prone in the dust, then followed through to the man in shirt and waistcoat standing between the two buildings. A pistol already in his left hand. Their captain's distinguished sword in his right.

  Devlin could not recall stepping out into view. He could not recall pulling his weapons. He only remembered the echo of the second peal and the sight of the marine from the path slinging the musket from his back.

  Devlin ran to the slumbering soldier and briefly glanced into the mess at another world of colour and laughter, oblivious to the bell. He crouched in the door frame and checked his pistol, then glanced up at the three marines bolting at him from the gate.

  Devlin raked his eyes over the man at his feet, then kicked him over, cursing at the lack of a second pistol that would have given him half a chance. The sound of a chair falling to the floor behind him jerked him up, just as a ball sang past, splintering the frame where he had crouched.

  Devlin backed away from the men charging towards him, their cutlasses drawn. He edged back to Bessette's quarters, part of him wanting to draw the guards away from the vulnerable ladies in the mess, and part of him wanting to get back to the room where he had control, where he could savour the gold at least once before he died.

  At twenty yards, his shot would be worth something. One shot and only one more second to choose a target, then it would be a matter of hacking and hacking with the fine sword until he lived or died.

  Oh, for Peter Sam or Dan Teague. They would be laughing as they killed as easily as wiping mud from their shoes. Faces now, fearful and savage, filling the space between the barracks and the mess. One shot. The oldest one. That would be fair. Now.

  'Down, Captain, if you please!'

  Devlin flashed an eye behind, then flung himself to the ground. The marines stared at the man holding a smoking linstock in his hand. He was standing beside the nine-pounder, which now roared and spat a venomous spray of grape.

  Their tunics flew apart as if torn by a hundred fish-hooks. They danced up into the air, pirouetting round in a grotesque ballet that left them on their backs, writhing and stunned.

  Smoke trailed over Devlin's head as he raised it to peer over his forearm. The silence that followed the cannon blast was gratifying. The sight of the corpses more so.

  Standing, again waiting for his heart and his head to run together, he turned to face Dandon, whose normal placid composure was slightly affected by the unfamiliar blast of the cannon. The gun now stood twice its length behind him, smoking passively. Dandon staggered from the redoubt and raised a smile to his captain.

  'My apologies, Patrick.' He joined Devlin, who stood brushing the dirt from his clothes. 'I came as soon as I heard the bell, but that blast will surely bring the remainder upon us.'

  'I fear there may be only two to concern us.' He did not smile, but raised his pistol again and stepped towards the mess.

  Coming over the threshold, he gathered the recent history of the room. Cutlasses lay across the tables. A couple of chairs had their backs to the floor. Two marines lay sprawled amongst a debris of bottles, clay mugs and scraps of food. Dandon's drugged wine had worked well.

  The women had run to the rear wall at the sound of the cannon, silhouetted now against the window. At the sight of Devlin, they once again became the animated, swearing vixens they had been since they were fourteen, and set about jostling each other for the scavenger rights to the sleeping marines.

  'These men will have to be restrained, Captain,' Dandon's voice came wafting over Devlin's shoulder. 'They are good for an hour perhaps.'

  'No mind. That bell the others rang will be on sighting the Shadow.'' He smiled. 'Our day has come. Let us lay eyes on our gold.'

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  The cry of 'Sail ho!' had come an hour ago. Coxon stood with Guinneys at the Starlings fo'c'sle, surveying the black and white brigantine through their respective telescopes.

  There were four scopes aboard the Starling. Guinneys had his own fine brass, a London-made three-draw with a luscious shargreen finish. Coxon had grabbed the smoky glassed ship's tube from the helm becket. The other vellum tubes were in the lubber hole with the lookout at the topsail, and at the taffrail with Mister William Dawson, the Starlings able sailing master. Only Coxon and Guinneys spied on the Lucy. The others had instruction to study the horizon for the fateful showing of the pirate frigate.

  'She would appear,' Guinneys reported through clenched lips, 'to be decorated in her rigging with all manner
of bunting cloth, Captain.' He lowered his glass. 'Trifle late for May Day, is it not?'

  'A deception of some kind,' Coxon wondered aloud. 'See how she flies a French flag as well? That's our man.'

  'Well, your man certainly, Captain.' Guinneys fashioned a smirk across his tanned features.

  Coxon actually smiled at the witticism and let it ride.

  'Maintain a three-thousand-yard vantage, Mister Guinneys, half a league.' He pitched his voice for all the hands straining their necks to the brigantine, and swept his scope across her bows. 'Easy sail. Top gallants only. Any reach you fancy.'

  He removed the scope from his eye, and let the bright emerald island behind the brigantine map his perspective, her crescent beach welcoming, virgin and white, barely a mile away.

  'Three thousand yards, sir?' Guinneys made a small protest by snapping down his waistcoat sharply with a fervent tug. 'Respectfully, Captain, those are no more than nine-pounders on that slut. We have over two hundred pounds to bear against her forty-eight. I could make toothpicks out of her in three rounds.'

  'And a fine use you'll have for those toothpicks whilst you rest our keel upon these sands. Have a mind, man! Can you not see the sand? Nor the scrawny wretch hanging out of the shrouds watching us? The ship is empty. A few souls peeping over the gunwale at us. Anchored bow and stern. Out here she is no match for us and they know it well enough. If we venture in' - he gestured to the island - 'we never get out. We draw too much water, William.'

  Guinneys looked back to the ship and sniffed in some personal agitation. 'Aye. There may be something in that. Not about power, eh? Position and all that.'

  'Blood soon enough, William. I would lay to that. 'Tis the frigate we must worry about. Half a league and we are out of range. And those are four six-pounders she has on us, not niners, so worry not about them, just about yourself. I'm sure you can manage that, Lieutenant.'

  He turned to the deck, not waiting for a cynical reply, his eye seeking the keen form of Midshipman Howard. He yelled to the boy.

  Howard weaved nimbly through the crowd to attend the rail beneath his captain.

  'Aye, Captain?'

  'Prepare for your first command, Mister Howard.'

  'Sir?'

  'Gain the attention of Mister Anderson. Make your boarding parties, and ready your gun-crews.' He spun back to Guinneys. 'Party of eight, Mister Guinneys. Yourself and Lieutenant Scott with me. We're going ashore.'

  Guinneys sniffed again; he stiffened as if pulled from the yards above. 'May I be enlightened as to the order of the day, Captain?'

  Coxon paused, took the Lucy in his sight once more. 'That ship stays there for two reasons only: she is left for unknown purpose whilst the frigate carrying the gold is long gone; or else there are misdeeds afoot on that island and she awaits instruction. Either way we will investigate as per our orders. Will that suffice, Mister Guinneys?'

  Guinneys doffed his hat mildly. 'Aye, Captain. That will do.'

  'Very well, then. Arm yourself and make ready.' He turned, momentarily freeing himself from the heavy, cold sensation that the sight of Guinneys now invoked within him, and made his way to his cabin, catching the troubled gaze of Midshipman Howard again.

  'Mister Howard? You still hover here?'

  'Begging your pardon, Captain.' The young man tugged a ginger forelock and walked amidships with Coxon, struggling to keep pace as Coxon headed for his quarters. 'May I make a note of these events, for myself? It won't take long.'

  'You may do whatever you wish, Mister Howard, as long as the men on your quarter bill are ready on my return.'

  'On your return from the island, Captain?' Howard skipped past a coil of rope, bringing himself in line with his captain.

  'On my return from loading my pistols, sir.' He smiled at Howard; then Coxon stopped, halting Howard with a backhand to the chest and looked down into the boy's face. Quiedy, he spoke, his voice lowered beneath the cracking of sails and cries of hauling. 'Mind me, Thomas. There is more to fear here than pirates. To your duty and keep a sharp eye, lad. This day may be hard.'

  Howard felt the elbow of his captain offering a gentle nudge of conspiracy, and then he was left in the waist of the ship, his eyes following Coxon's back, his mouth taut and dry.

  Sam Fletcher slung himself down from the shrouds, his bare feet slapping the wet deck with a thud. 'Still no guns run out on the bastard.'

  'We should warn the captain, Sam.' Dan Teague was squatting by the starboard bulwark, switching his gaze tentatively between the Starling and his crewmates.

  'What say you, Hugh?' Sam Fletcher asked Hugh Harris, the calmest soul amongst them, all the small crew feeling the lack of Peter Sam and Devlin.

  Hugh moved to the bulwark, placing a foot on the trucks of a gun, his left hand resting on the guard of his cutlass, and looked over to the Starling.

  Nine gun ports on the weatherdeck. Two more apiece on the quarterdeck and fo'c'sle. Thirteen guns to bear against them. Could not be less than twelve-pounders. Nine-pound chasers, too, no doubt. Even in peace they had to sail with at least ninety souls.

  The Lucy was parallel to the shore, rolling slightly in her anchor as they sat against the wind just over four hundred yards from the beach.

  They were safe in the shallows. The frigate could not come in to get them without floundering, but a little closer and she could blow them out of the sea.

  The shallows were the pirates' domain. Again and again the governments sent powerful warships to negate the pirate threat, and all misunderstood that the pirates hugged the islands and rarely took to the sea, fishing the trade channels from their sloops and pinnaces. It was too bold to have a frigate. Too open. Hugh shrugged within himself. That frigate would be Devlin's downfall.

  But for now a British frigate stood off half a league from their starboard quarter, heading close-hauled to the east of the island. On this reach they would have their larboard guns to the Lucy's bow within minutes, but no range to reach her. The sands would keep them out.

  He watched the sails being furled as she prepared to close, slow, under topsails. He could even see the dark black shapes of men moving about the shrouds and the flash of a telescope as it swept across his eyes.

  'She could pound us to twigs if she but wished, lads.' He glanced round to his mates, ragged and greasy, all but the five Dutchmen, who still appeared as clean as the day they had come aboard. 'That's a fact not denying. But she may be a-thinking that the gold be on us already. And she wouldn't want to be sending that anywheres now.'

  'How'd they know about the gold?' Dan queried, seeing his dreams of fortune seeping away.

  'They're here, ain't they?' Hugh snapped. 'English ship turning up within hours of us? 'Course they know, you fool!'

  'Where's Peter Sam? Where the bloody hell has he got to?' Sam Morwell cried.

  'Gone no doubt, I say!' Dan sniped. 'Gone with what's left of our account, that's what!' A fly of sorts landed on the back of his hand, its eyes jewelled red, and he swatted it to paste. Even the flies could be traitors now.

  'No. Not Peter.' Hugh shook his head. 'And if so, not whilst Black Bill still lived.'

  Sam Morwell agreed, 'Aye, Bill for sure wouldn't let Peter leave us.' He looked over to the menacing frigate. 'Anyways, we're under a French flag, ain't we? All allies now, ain't we? King George and the boy are proper bedfellows. Why should they go for us, eh?'

  'Fair enough.' Hugh nodded. 'No pipes now, lads. Fletcher? We'll carry on with the captain's plan. Lads, check the breeches. Load the swivel guns. Get some powder and bar up. Look alive. If we are allies, they may send a gig over to chat. If we ain't, no harm in loading what we got.'

  'Aye, Hugh.'

  Fletcher, Dan and Sam Morwell loped away, instinctively keeping their heads low. Hugh turned to the Dutchmen.

  'Now, Dutchy.' Hugh had tried to learn their names, but the effort to recall seemed pointless, for they could all be dead in an hour or so. 'Double-check the bulwark nettings. Stuff them deep. Get an axe
ready to the hawser. I don't want to be calling for one if we have to slip cable.'

  'Ja, Mister Hugh!' His name was Eduard Decker, and he slapped his fellows into movement. Hugh looked back to the Starling. The ship had not fired a signal-gun to greet an ally, and neither had the Lucy. Hugh untied the knot of the brown linen cravat round his neck, freed the ends from inside his shirt and then with care began to tie them to the finger-guards of his matched pair of pistols.

  Philippe Ducos had exaggerated. Perhaps in order to value his life more, for which Devlin did not curse him. And, after dragging the chest from beneath the table, inch by inch, which must have weighed twice as much as himself and Dandon together, he was relieved that he had.

  Gold has not the lustre one always believes it has. The fortune they had lusted after was a dull muted yellow, pitted black in the minting and the milled edges, yet in its enormity the mound seemed to boil over the more they gaped at it.

  They sat back on their haunches, enraptured, forgetting the cursing and banging that had preceded as they had cut at and prised off the hinges rather than attempt a worthless assault on the forbidding padlocks.

  Together they suggested a wealth of near ten thousand louis d'ors. Over six thousand pounds, at a time when King George himself drew from his endeavours twenty-five thousand pounds a year.

  '"Weren't not for gold and women there would be no damnation,'" Dandon quoted, finding no tiring in slapping Devlin's back.

  Devlin leaned forward and cupped a year's wage in his dirty palm. He let the coin run through his fingers like the voluminous tresses of some divine first love, and he laughed at the symphony of it falling.

  Bessette was tied now to his chair, with the ropes from his own bedroom curtains and a foolish grin sloped up his face as he slept royally. Their troupe of ladies remained in the mess, lapping wine and counting the escudos they had lifted from the pockets of the soldiers. The moment had come for Devlin to possess his own life rather than borrow it from others. But it was not done yet.