Cross of Fire

by Mark Keating

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do me well, Cracker.’ Devlin took off his hat, looking for somewhere to place it that wasn’t too filthy. Leadstone’s stone-built quarters and store were scarcely less than a stable. Barrels for tables, milking stools for seats, straw-and-mud floor. Devlin kept hold of his hat.

  ‘Drink, Cap’n?’ Old Cracker uncorked a green bottle from the sill beside the door. Two windows had been chiselled out from the stone either side of the plank door with just a sackcloth curtain for slowing the biting insects and a lump of tallow to distract them. Cracker slugged a draught; held out the bottle.

  Devlin waved away the rum. ‘Let’s to business, Cracker. Ten good rice men I’ll take if you haves them.’

  Cracker swigged again, taking Devlin’s round for himself. ‘Ten? Take twenty, Cap’n. Get yourself some Gromettes. Why wipe your own arse with rope? Look at this.’ He weaved back to his counter and grunting as he bent below pulled up a young girl with roughly chopped hair, her eyes wide and white, a calico dress half off her scrawny body.

  Gromettas and Gromettes. Male and female servants, paid at least. The females had the worst of it.

  ‘Not bad once you get past the stench.’ Cracker licked the girl’s neck, she stared straight ahead, not a glance at Devlin. ‘And it likes it well enough once it gets going, Cap’n.’ He slapped the girl’s rump and shoved her back to her straw below.

  ‘Business is good, Cracker?’

  ‘Aye, Cap’n. I can sells me fifty a day if I wanted to keep hours. Old Cracker will retire a rich man. Get me an inn in Jamaica I wills, and sell you a drink so I wills.’ He raised his bottle again to his lips.

  ‘So how much?’

  Cracker gave a deep breath, thought long to the ceiling, calculating a special price for the man he had only just met.

  ‘I say fifty pounds each, Cap’n. Get you a hundred and twenty in Charles Town, that will. Leave you a mark for if some of thems dies.’

  Devlin put back on his hat, walked to the window. The Shadow sat out in the bay anchored fore and aft. The only ship save for several dories on the shore for victualling the ships that visited. No visible company. Old Cracker’s shack stood the closest to the cliff, three ‘thundermugs’ outside his door for greeting his pirate traders. The thundermugs were miniature cannon, shaped like pewter mugs and pointing skywards, used for testing the quality of powder or as small signal guns. No threat there. Behind the shack stood the barracoon, large enough for a hundred slaves. Scattered around the trees lay some other cattle sheds, now brothels and taverns, good pirate trade but Devlin had seen no other travellers. He turned back.

  ‘I’ll see them. See what you have. Quality ’fore I pay, Cracker.’

  The shack had been cooler. Outside, once the sight of the sea and its breeze had gone and Devlin walked behind to the barracoon, late May hung heavily. The torrential rains would arrive in July but even now the ground was sodden, the air was like walking through a hot cloud, the sky an iron weight about to fall, pushing down on a man’s shoulders. The Shadow’s deck needed swabbing twice a day to keep her wood from warping.

  Devlin baulked audibly as the barracoon met his senses and his hand involuntarily flew to his nose. Cracker snorted his amusement.

  ‘Tells you about the smell didn’t I?’ He pulled Devlin along. ‘You gets used to it, Cap’n.’ From about his waist, doubling as a belt, he pulled off his manatee strap, a strip of sea-cow hide fashioned into a whip. ‘They needs this,’ he winked at Devlin. ‘You have to get ’em to expect it, see?’

  More than ten years ago Devlin had seen such a strap in Don Saltero’s ‘Coffee house of Curiosities’ in Chelsea. He had gone there to see a stuffed crocodile, an Irishman disbelieving that such a creature existed, but the strap had been there as well. He had run his fingers down it. Rough as a bastard file. He had rubbed his scraped fingertips and wondered about the flesh on his back, then moved on to the crocodile with the rest of the crowd and never saw such a thing again until this morning. Like a scent from childhood long forgotten that returns from nowhere making the years and miles fall away, Devlin rubbed his fingertips together and felt the rasp.

  The barracoon had no roof save for a shroud of flies. Around it a moat of mud and effluence bubbled, something honey-sweet beneath the stench that made Devlin back away as instinct draws one back from banded spiders and snakes. Cracker snorted again and Devlin was bitter that the man was not carrying a pistol. But at least he could tell everyone afterwards that the beast had been armed.

  For five days the Shadow had sat west of the bay, had watched ships go in high of the water and come out low. If Black Bill had still been with them, had not died last year in the adventure of the diamond, his head for numbers would have calculated the wealth that Old Cracker had accumulated in just that week. Think about the coin, Devlin thought. I will not look into that tomb.

  Old Cracker heard the click of the gun-lock behind him. He would swear that there was silence from the cicadas and the fire-finches as in the first moments of an eclipse; but he swivelled round, braved the pistol’s stare with a grin.

  ‘Now, now, Cap’n. That’s hardly friendly, like.’

  ‘Needed to concern myself that you were alone out here, Cracker.’

  ‘A snatch is it? Do pirates lift their brothers now, is it? Is that what counts for a surprisal for you, Cap’n.’ He weighed his strap.

  ‘I’ll measure against any. Any on the sea. I don’t know what you are. I’m for your tin, Cracker.’ His pistol pointed like a line straight to Cracker’s head.

  He could justify that something as evil as John Leadstone deserved to be robbed but still it was not a tale that Devlin would wish transformed into ballad. This was low work even for a pirate and especially for one who had known princes to whisper at his collar and won at cards against nations. But times were hard even for the wicked and robbing this shite of its flies gave him no pride.

  Cracker opened his arms, his whip loose. ‘You can’t kill Old Cracker, Cap’n. He got friends all along the coast.’

  ‘I don’t have to kill you.’

  Devlin’s gunshot sent a hundred birds screaming to the sky as the Diana monkeys crashed away and howled to everyone of what they had seen. Old Cracker fell with a squeal, slapping his hands to his shattered shin where the blood soaked and smoked.

  Devlin pulled his second pistol.

  ‘I just have to slow you down so you don’t bother me none.’

  As much as two thousand pounds, judging by the sacks hefted by Hugh Harris and John Lawson making their way back to the longboat. Devlin shouldered his own bag. The young negress was emptying John Leadstone’s green bottle down her throat at the counter. Devlin paused, shared one look with the girl, had nothing to say that she would understand, saw nothing in her eyes that he knew. The best he could do was leave the door open behind him.

  John Leadstone, ‘Jolly Old Cracker’, was on his knees. His sweat could have been tears now. He rocked, cursed and spat when the black coat came back to meet him.

  ‘No hard feelings to my coat, Cracker,’ Devlin dropped the sack. ‘I ain’t got time or men for dealing with slaves and I aims to stay around these climes for a while. You should be careful how you make your money when you meet the genuine.’

  Cracker heard the sway of leaf behind him, the boots of large men creeping through the grass. The pirate had not heard. Cracker shouted to cover the approach.

  ‘I been here years, pup! I’ll tell every brother about you! And not for the good!’ He spat on Devlin’s boots. ‘The Pirate Devlin! Big in England is it? Big in America? Hah! I got Roberts and Davis as friends!’

  ‘Davis is dead.’ Devlin checked his favoured pistol’s fresh load and snap, the pyrite flint good for ten first shots so keep an eye on its edge. No-one would give you the time to cock again.

  ‘They’re all dying,’ he said. ‘We’re all dead men.’

  Cracker turned his head to the big leather-clad man with the Sibley blunderbuss emerging from the greensw
ard at his side. A brother. A big, bald brother with red beard and steam rising off his shoulders. A straggler from the taverns who had heard the shot. God bless those who missed their ships for drink.

  ‘Friend! Ho!’ he yelled. ‘This man be robbing Old Cracker! Shoot him down for gold!’

  Peter Sam, Devlin’s quartermaster, thumbed back the doghead on the maple and brass gun.

  ‘This hogshit be dead, Cap’n?’

  Cracker felt the cold lip of the gun’s barrel at his cheek. The chill of it was oddly pleasant.

  Devlin had not looked up from checking his pistol.

  ‘Just slowing him down, Peter. Free those inside that hole. That’ll keep him busy.’

  Old Cracker found a protest. ‘Ah, come now, Cap’n. That’s a months work! Leave a man a something!’

  Devlin aimed back to Cracker’s face.

  ‘I’m leaving you work ain’t I?’

  Peter Sam tried not to tread through the moat but his massive frame was not one for moving so delicately. Three paces in and the stench had him decided that the Sibley hand-cannon was the way to go. He pushed it into his shoulder and blasted the door’s lock, and Devlin ground his teeth at the gunshot that trembled the trees.

  If there were still slumbering heads about in the taverns and brothels that would bring them. He thought once about closing down his trigger into John Leadstone’s face, but other long-dead faces filled his eye. More every year. Every pull of his pistol they came back, but only until the shot blew them away again. He lowered the pistol.

  Peter Sam looked into the black hole as the door swung free then stepped back, pulling a fresh apostle from his bandoleer as things began to move forward from the dark within.

  ‘Devlin?’ He threw his voice behind, waiting for the word, right or wrong.

  Cracker shifted on his knees, his eyes turning to the mumblings behind him.

  ‘Ah, now . . . ah, now, Cap’n . . .’ Cracker found himself caught between judge and jury. He let his strap fall.

  The green almost disappeared as dozens of shining black men filled the close garden. Peter Sam stood next to Devlin, both loaded, weapons downward to appease. A swift black muscular arm picked up the sea-cow strap and Cracker tried to wriggle closer to the pirates, leaving his blood like a slug’s trail.

  A scuffle broke out between the black men over the strap, their excited voices arguing in their rapid tongue, a firing of vowels, unintelligible surely even to them. Hands pointed to Devlin while others shook their heads and slapped their arms at Cracker, even their feet stamping out their passions, their chains rattling the while.

  ‘Devlin?’ Peter Sam said again. Never any fear in Peter Sam, his dog-head tight until his captain gave word. Devlin said nothing, hoped that what he saw, what he read of it was just a to and fro of blame and vengeance.

  They would have seen Cracker on his knees, seen his blood, have heard Devlin shoot him, known that it was the big man that had broken their gaol. But when these people painted the Devil they painted him white. Best not think about that. But Cracker did, could see the argument not falling in his favour as a circle began to form around him and backs began to turn toward Devlin and Peter Sam.

  Cracker’s last chance, his only chance: the man who had shot his feet from under him.

  ‘Cap’n!’ he called between the bodies surrounding him. ‘Cap’n! I has something for you! Something to tell! Listen to me!’

  Devlin did not move but watched Cracker’s face creep and plead.

  ‘Please, Cap’n! I can makes you rich! Rich I says!’

  The African voices had ceased their gibbering. Cracker watched the strap pulled tight in the arms of the largest of them, the face vacant.

  A shot over their heads and the crowd jumped back. More nervous chatter, all eyes to Devlin as through the smoke he pulled his second pistol and Peter Sam’s cannon marked them all.

  ‘How rich?’ Devlin kept his pistol on Cracker’s face.

  Chapter Three

  Walsingham House, London

  Walter Kennedy sat nervously. The oak bench ran almost the length of the wall but he squeezed next to Coxon like a boy to his mother in the hours before she sold him to the sea. Coxon had been here many times, here and Whitehall. In 1717 with the Earl of Berkeley – the First Lord of the Admiralty, as he was still, Coxon had taken orders at sea signed by these men. That was when Captain William Guinneys’ orders had differed from Coxon’s in the taking of the gold from The Island – when he and Devlin had first crossed as enemies instead of master and servant. Coxon was not destined to return according to Guinneys’ papers. He had faced the oak table and wigs with his account of the tale; denied any knowledge of Guinneys’ orders. Now he was meeting the same signatories of new orders.

  He had once sworn to be loyal to these men all his life, but then he had even trusted an Irishman once.

  The doors opposite opened and a scarlet-clad steward beckoned them up. Coxon dragged Kennedy to his feet.

  They had summoned Coxon this time, so different from the years after the war when young captains hovered around Walsingham House like hopeful bridesmaids. Masters and commanders had sought patronage, pleaded for prize money long unpaid or begged for a ship to keep ahead of their creditors on land. Still, those had been the best years. Not this mirror of life, this uncertainty. No war. No need for warriors.

  He unclasped his sword from his belt, took off his hat and laid both in the valet’s waiting arms, then took his hat back as he was sure he should and the valet did not correct. He signalled to Kennedy to follow, habitually smoothed forward his rabbit-grey cropped hair and walked into the room. His own anxiety was perhaps not too many degrees below the pirate’s.

  The steward dipped his head to the table.

  ‘Post-Captain John Coxon, My Lords.’

  A cursory glance up from the ink wells and ledgers from two of the three wigs. Five red leather-backed seats stood available, two empty. Coxon bowed and clicked his heels together; Walter Kennedy hovered at his shoulder and swivelled his eyes about cautiously. The oil paintings hung all around the room looked down at him disapprovingly and the white wigs in front of him scraped the hour with swan’s quills. Rarely did such occasions go well for one of his birth. He kept his eyes down and his mouth shut.

  One of them put out a friendly hand.

  ‘Come forward, John. Sit down.’

  Viscount Chetwynd. Not a man with fighting history Coxon recalled, a junior of the office, younger than him at least. A landsman. Coxon looked at them all as he sat.

  Sir Charles Wager and Sir John Jennings, the older hands at the table. Both in their late-fifties, they had oak in their bones and the red, dry faces of seamen. They would not drag this out. Good. Get along with it.

  ‘Who is this you have with you, Captain?’ Chetwynd asked.

  Coxon looked at Kennedy behind his shoulder as if he had forgotten he was there.

  ‘Ah. Sirs, this young man is Walter Kennedy. I intend to take him with me. A special envoy of mine.’ He looked along the three faces. ‘That is if I am still here for the purpose of why I was recalled from my retirement? That is to say . . . to make an end? Make an end to the pirate Devlin?’

  Sir John Jennings leaned into the others. ‘What did he say? Who is it now?’ Sir John had been part deaf since the Spanish guns.

  ‘Never mind,’ Sir Charles patted Jennings’s hand. Coxon noted the two golden-liveried scriveners, one to his left at a desk against the wall, another behind the lords. It was only when they picked up their pens as Sir Charles first spoke that their movement made them apparent to him. His words were now marked by their audible scratching.

  ‘Captain. You resigned your commission in the Bahamas three years since. You should consider that if the Board has requested you in particular that it would be for no small matter.’

  ‘No, My Lord,’ Coxon blushed. ‘I meant no disrespect. But I am aware how circumstances can change. I have been on a packet three weeks since from the Americas. Then b
een in London months more before being called here. As I said, I know how things can change.’

  The deaf Sir John leaned in again. ‘Change what now?’ He cupped a hand to his ear as if his ailment needed emphasis.

  Sir Charles carried on, thumbing through the pages of vellum.

  ‘Aspects have indeed changed somewhat. No doubt your assumptions are part of the instincts that have kept you alive for so long, Captain.’ Coxon nodded his thanks to the compliment.

  ‘And we are all well aware that your recommission will be a short-lived affair – if you will pardon the expression, sir – and you can return to your ambitions in His Majesty’s colonies with no mark against you.’

  Mark? Coxon’s mind leapt on that one word. What mark? He brushed his hair forward again, flattening it down like a man trying to hide thinning hair. He had no marks against him unless there was still the embarrassment of his servant turning pirate, his failure to stop him the first time, his bowing to let him go the second, although that decision had brought the secret of porcelain to the king.

  It is the gold they refer to, John. The gold you buried on Providence, remember? Devlin’s gold from The Island. The gold that you took up to start your new life. That is the mark they have against you.

  His feet had risen up on his toes as he tensed. Chetwynd looked down at the sound of the shoe leather creaking and Coxon put his heels back to the floor.

  ‘Yes, My Lord,’ he said. ‘Aspects have changed, you say? In what way?’

  Sir Charles shifted, ruefully shook his head, some of the words to come distasteful judging by his sour expression.

  ‘You may be unaware that the pirate nuisance has become exasperating in the African and Indian waters. These fiends have become overtly wealthy, ever more resourceful. They hamper everything. From resupply to the trade of the African companies and harassing His Majesty’s forts to Mogul treasure fleets. And there is one, above them all, who has become almost ridiculous in his disregard.’