by Mark Keating
The stranded ship that Levasseur and Taylor happened across, the Virgem Do Cabo, carried two imperious men: the archbishop of Goa and the departing viceroy of Portugal; and like the Moguls they were also escorted by their wealth.
The arrogance of the appointed was always that the lowly should know their place. Even pirates would understand the sanctity of the noble. They had even waved the two black ships in to assist them.
‘More than a million, Captain,’ Cracker swore again. ‘Levasseur and Taylor went their ways. Parted for retirement and cream and wine, all their crew rich as lords. Three times what Avery caught from the Gunsway thirty years gone, and Avery almost a king!’
Cracker lowered his voice, slowly dragged his words as if telling a fairytale to children.
‘Taylor to Panama and vanished. The Buzzard gone from the earth! Spirited himself away to the east they says. On his own island they says.’
Devlin grew less impressed. To say that Levasseur had hidden himself in the Indian Ocean would hold no bones. Its islands were as numerous as the stars that shone down upon them, set in fifty million square miles of ocean.
‘What of Roberts? What is he in this?’
‘I had Roberts here ain’t I? He himself tells me about his mate slipping cable. Him all alone and asking Old Cracker if I knew any that could make the islands. So Old Cracker says Levasseur be the man for that and Roberts gives me a laugh, says it is him he’s after! Says he knows where he be but not the shaping of it nor the men to do it, down to one ship and all!’
‘How would Roberts know?’
Cracker laughed, Peter Sam raised his gun at the sound but Cracker did not drop his merriment.
‘He sailed with Davis didn’t he? When Levasseur was his partner. Long nights on a ship, Cap’n. Long time to tell of where you’ve been and what you’ve seen!’
True enough but Devlin had heard the end of it. Time to leave. Too long would bring some ship into the bay and company to Cracker, the Shadow seen. Cracker could tell all when they had gone.
Or not.
Devlin looked at Peter Sam then to Cracker’s nerves. His cold expression was like a door slowly closing in Cracker’s face.
‘Ain’t that all to the good, Cap’n?’ he pleaded through wide rotten teeth. ‘You kept Old Cracker from those blacks. He tells you what he knows.’
Nothing from Devlin. Peter Sam’s impatient breathing was the only draught in the baked, quiet room. Cracker’s hand went carefully to his rum, trembling as he raised it, and Devlin tapped again at his pistol. If Cracker had known him better he would have known the thinking stillness of the pirate as the sign of promise more than threat.
When he moved was the time to worry.
Roberts alone, Devlin thought. Him of no mind to shape the islands. Looking for a partner to go against The Buzzard and relieve him of the largest fortune ever to cross a pirate’s palms. A good year to be a pirate.
‘The ships’ names?’
Cracker did not need to think. ‘The Victory for La Buse. The Royal Fortune for Roberts. He left a week yesterday, Cap’n. Third of his crew be black now Anstis be gone. He needs white sailors and company.’
Devlin watched Peter Sam’s cooling. The big man at the door, looking down at the Shadow, and keeping a watch for any bodies on the grassy paths. He turned as Devlin’s stool scraped.
‘We’ll be off, Peter Sam. Old Cracker has given us something that might be of use. We’re back to the boat.’
Hugh Harris and John Lawson were at the beach with the longboat and the rest of Cracker’s coin, their triggers itching with waiting for Peter Sam and Devlin to return. Each delayed minute could bring a sail. Any and all company was the wrong company for pirates.
Peter Sam looked down at Cracker then back to his captain picking up his sack of coin.
‘You believe that shite?’
Devlin reflected on Peter’s doubt as he shouldered his bag.
‘I’m inclined to it, Peter. Who’s to say that Levasseur isn’t burdened with all that gold? He may need some friends to help him spend it or protect himself. Protect himself from his sin.’
Peter Sam’s beard rose. ‘You sound like Dandon,’ he said. ‘And what about him?’ The grin gone.
Cracker gulped his rum.
‘Now now, Cap’n!’ His voice grabbed the back of Devlin’s coat. ‘I told you all I know. Catch up with Roberts and all. Find The Buzzard. And his treasure.’
Devlin tugged gently at Peter Sam’s leather.
‘Come Peter. We’re away.’
Peter’s gun sank despondently.
Cracker went to stand, then his shin reminded and he winced back down again.
‘Wait! Cap’n! Don’t be leaving Old Cracker without any penny surely? Leave a man a something!’
Devlin turned his head from the door.
‘The gall of it! Here’s me leaving the man his life’s work and a tale! Come now, Cracker. Don’t be greedy there.’ He dipped his eye to the bloody stocking. ‘It don’t suit your shoes. I’ll let you tell anyone what we’ve relieved you of, and how. But not where we be going. If I finds a ship to my quarter I’ll know who sent them.’
Peter Sam went ahead, to guard the path. Peter Sam behind when needed, in front when danger neared. Peter Sam and his captain. A little man who needed him. A thing to be protected.
Devlin tipped his hat as he left. Repeated for the stage. ‘I’ll be back, if I has to. And you know what they say about dead men, Cracker.’
Alone, Cracker limped up and to his counter; a pistol beneath the bar top of decking, unloaded should his concubine ever have found her nerve, but that would take seconds to correct. He picked it up as a voice yelled out from the path.
‘And I can hear lead, Cracker!’
Cracker slung down the pistol to the bar and hoped Devlin could hear his curse.
Chapter Five
‘It is done, then?’ A gold mask muffled the voice at the round ebony table, round so no man could sit at its head. Yet surely some superiority was implied over the others who sat in the corners of the room above the Greyhound tavern, suitably situated in St James’s, close enough for any gentleman to travel thence discreetly from Westminster or Cornhill.
‘It is done,’ the white mask replied with a bow and sweep of black velvet cloak. ‘Coxon is on his way. All is set.’
The gold mask nodded, sipped his black port. There was some shifting from the other figures in the room, similarly masked. Red and black, white and blue. One of an Apollo aspect with curled fringes of plaster hair, others distinctively feminine or bestial: almond eyes, red lips or whiskers and pointed noses.
A figure rose to his feet, white gloves pushing back his cloak to reveal a gold and sapphire hilt. His was the Apollo mask, also of gold.
‘And our revenge? Is that promised?’
The seated mask raised his hand dismissively. ‘All in good time, sir.’
‘My satisfaction is paramount. That must be stressed, sir. The pirate has hurt me more than just in estate and purse! I seek blood!’
A hand went to the back of the neck of the seated mask to rub away some tension, his blond wig shifting. His other hand reached into his pocket. A brass token was tossed across the table to the white mask, bearer of news. A slow obeisance was displayed and then a gloved hand dragged the coin to the edge of the table, unable to pick it up with beaver-lap gloves. An intaglio of a bull’s head with a serpent’s body was on the coin’s face, and a papal cross on its reverse. White mask scraped it into his hand and then his waistcoat.
‘Privacy, gentlemen,’ the seat ordered. ‘I must discourse alone with our wounded fellow.’
The room emptied so that only the two gold masks remained, a glass of port for each. Both stood now, removed and put their disguises to the table.
‘That is better,’ the one who had been seated perched on the table’s edge. ‘Can’t see the rim of yer damn glass with those things on! Now, George, explain your outburst. What riles?’
Sir George Lee,
Earl of Lichfield, also took a perch at the table.
‘Philip, you aspire to be a poet. I find it demoralising that you purport to not understand.’
‘I do understand, dear friend. Albany Holmes was close to us all. But such scenes do not favour our sentiments. The Hellfire club aspires—’ he lifted his hand above their heads and George’s eyes followed ‘—to debase such,’ the hand dropped to below the table. ‘Are we not beneath all men who think otherwise?’
George conceded, drank his port and filled his goblet again. ‘That is the pretence, Philip. Walpole gives us no mind whilst he thinks us a rakes’ club for fools and scoundrels.’
Philip, Duke of Wharton, opened his palms, declaring modesty and innocence. ‘Precisely, George. The Hellfire club is a child’s folly. Walpole knows me for a Jacobite but knows me more as feckless and libertine. What possible harm could we inflict?’
‘Your political notorieties matter less today, Philip. I need only your promise that my investment will ensure Devlin’s death.’ George drained his second glass. ‘You have lost only money.’
George Lee and Albany Holmes had been young gentlemen on a grand tour, taking a repose on Madagascar when the pirate Devlin had need of a ship. Their ship. He had robbed and abandoned them on Ascension island, sure that a passing party would acquire their unfortunate company. Eventually. That had been three years ago.
Returning to England, George resumed his education at Oxford while Albany rejoined a lascivious life in the courtyards and passageways of London. Inevitably Albany had shared shoulder and tankard with Wharton, Duke of Wharton, Irish peer and Duke of Northumberland, that title bestowed upon him by the exiled James Stuart, to be taken up on his return to the throne. And with Albany’s companionship so followed a friendship with the new Earl of Lichfield, George Lee.
Somewhere, over beef and burgundy, under tobacco and turbans, Albany, George and Wharton had envisioned a club to annoy Walpole’s government, ridicule the masonic doctrine and to mock the House of Hanover and indeed the very hand that fed them.
With the South Sea Company’s collapse and the financial travails of all Europe that followed, even peers of the realm found their carriages and tailors actually needed paying and Wharton discovered that he had something more than just an exemplary eye for horseflesh in common with his young friends.
The pirate Devlin, with his failure to assist the bearing up of the South Sea enterprise, had cost Wharton his fortune. Wharton had even held a funeral parade for the company and for England, to further humiliate Walpole’s Westminster, when it transpired that the government and Bank of England had backed a consortium of thieves.
The arrogance of the worm of a pirate in casting the diamond into the Thames! His dilettante’s whimsy with other people’s fortune. The idiotic gall of him.
Wharton may have been a wastrel and profligate but he knew the purpose and value of money. Pleasure until death. The only purpose in life. Peasants knew nothing of entitlement. The pirate had most probably laughed at the sound of banks falling.
But it was more than that. Along with the loss of the diamond Devlin had mercilessly, cowardly, taken the life of Albany Holmes when he came to the diamond’s defence. There had been a wherry boat on the Thames, under the fog, that two-of-the-morning fog that clings to your coat and lungs. A blade had ground into a liver, a body was dumped on the water, even more casually than the diamond.
The Hellfire peers would have their revenge, for they were Hellfire in more than just name.
‘George,’ Wharton drew his friend’s shoulder close. ‘Our friends have secured the only man who surely could find the dog. He has his orders from Whitehall for the same.’ He tapped the masks in turn. ‘Ridiculous, ain’t it so? Masks. Cloaks. But they insist. And they have considerably deepened our purse.’ He lifted his goblet. ‘And mine host’s cellar.’
George sniffed. ‘They could be anyone in our group. I think the anonymity gives them pleasure. The little shits.’
‘But they wish to return the true king.’ Wharton pulled another one of the tokens from a pocket, twisted it in his fingers. The bull with the serpent’s body. The papal cross. ‘They fear the Hanoverian will ruin the colonies. The Stuart has promised independence. The Americas allied with Spain.’ He put back the coin. ‘The pirate has had dealings with them before. There was the porcelain.’
‘Aye,’ George said. ‘Myself and Albany were in the opening act.’
‘Exactly.’ Wharton stretched and yawned. ‘A dream that the “white gold” might provide them with their own industry. Fools. They are merely England’s lumber yard. Slave paragons. They should be grateful for that.’
‘As we should be grateful. For the pirate denying.’ More port, a chime of glass this time.
‘Just so,’ Wharton said. ‘But we share a common purpose.’
‘The extinction of the dog.’ George drank.
‘Ah, ah,’ Wharton lifted a hand in objection. ‘The return of the king.’
George corrected himself with a salute of his glass.
‘And the man Coxon?’ he said. ‘He can be trusted?’
Wharton’s thin lips twisted. No sneer; just disinterest.
‘I think it of no matter. His hate will see him through. To the end.’
‘But orders from his king? From Whitehall? And from masks? Is that not too much?’
Wharton lifted his rear from the table with a snort.
‘He is farmer stock. Impressed that one seal is as valid as another.’ He crossed the room to the shuttered windows and opened them out onto the night of St James’s, the jovial sounds of the inn travelling up from beneath his feet. ‘He sees them all the same.’ He turned back.
‘He probably adores the feel of paper at his breast. Needs it like wine.’
George stepped across the floor.
‘But if he fails . . . paper will hang someone for sure . . . when it is discovered.’
‘Oh, George!’ Wharton shook his head. ‘Do you take these masks for imbeciles? Even I, with brandy for breakfast, understood how that poor little play closes!’
‘And how is that?’
Wharton ignored the question. ‘What matters, George, is that Walpole has demonstrated the idiocy of the Hanoverian. How his government does not work. Our friends have ministers, lords in every quarter, who are willing to turn to be in credit again. Walpole failed with the pirate. He sends Coxon to correct that error. Our friends and their lords intercede and send Coxon also. If he succeeds our friends will claim satisfaction for those who have lost their fortunes, and turn more coats.’
‘And again. What if he fails? If Coxon does not bring the pirate?’
‘Then that will be the false king’s failure yet again. And more will turn. And we will promise to send out another to correct.’
‘But our incrimination? I mean our “friends’” incrimination. His orders?’
Wharton sighed. ‘Trust me, George. I have confidences that I cannot share even with you.’ He looked back out onto St James’s awakening from its long luncheon, choosing its evening coats and hose.
‘Have no concern. I’m sure the failure will not stain.’
Chapter Six
Portsmouth. Monday 2 June, 1721
John Coxon had spent a woeful Sunday night at the Ship Inn on Portsmouth Point. He took a meal of broiled beef, beans and one green potato in the wet, plaster-smelling room. The buttered beer, however, was good as would befit an inn in Portsmouth if it was to make any trade.
Below his floor several crèpe-makers had found brothers-in-ale in a group of young shipwrights and he had watched from his window as some formerly respectable ladies, judging by their dress, were carried from the tavern shortly after six to their carriages.
The rowdiness continued past two of the morning, after which Coxon drifted in and out of sleep, his brain too fervent to rest, his anticipation too keen for the dawn. Thoughts of the weeks ahead fell before his eyes as if already past and mingled with the true – impossib
le echoes but plausible in the deep of the night. Memories yet to come.
Dreams. First there was Coxon, watching himself, a Norfolk parson’s son, sent to sea at twelve with an apple, a Bible, and a wet-cheeked kiss from his mother who ran inside with a howl he never forgot when the coach came for him.
A veteran of two wars; real wars when the sea turned red and the skies blackened and doomsayers bewailed the end of the world. Then there was the pirate. A man Coxon had taken an interest in, had shown patronage to when he took him from a French sloop-of-war almost a decade ago. For half that time the young man had been his steward and willing pupil. In his frowning dream that had all been part of the pirate’s plan. Devlin had accepted Coxon’s tutelage, taken what he could like the pearl from an oyster and now laughed at him from across stormy waves tinged with gold.
And then the laughter grew.
The gruesome faces of his peers laughed in the dark as papers fell and blew over the sea with his name, and the pirate’s, joined together.
Coxon’s dream body, a younger, slimmer body, went for his sword, to cut away the paper, to wade through the sea to the laughing pirate sitting far away on an island of gold. But the sword had rusted in its scabbard, his body naked, and the sand sucked him down.
He struggled to lift his legs free from the silt but only sank deeper. He tried to pull up with his arms against waves thick as mud.
The tide at his chest now, salt water splashing in his mouth and gold dust dribbling out as he tried to yell the name. The sinking sand around his thighs and then the water over his head in one huge wave, the laughter deafening and then Coxon rolled up awake, sweating and blinking at the cobalt blue of the coming dawn and the unfamiliar shapes of the room shifting back to lucid, friendly forms and hearing the last laughs of the patrons of the inn finally bidding a raucous good-night.
He wiped a hand down his cold face and took in the room, his chest heaving. He saw the room was empty, the key in the lock, the bed away from the window and clear from clawing hands coming through the glass, he drew back down into the warm blankets, assured that doubt was his only fear. The night, it was only the night after all. Only children fear it.