Cross of Fire

by Mark Keating

  A cry from Thomas Howard silenced them. The whole ship fixed on the pale body stretched over the grating.

  ‘No!’ he bellowed deep, from his pit. ‘None of this!’ A broken phrase, almost meaningless. ‘I bargained!’

  The wind and the rigging were the only sounds.

  ‘I bargained with the pirate! Nothing of this is Manvell’s!’ His shoulders sank.

  Coxon pushed Manvell aside and went to Howard.

  ‘Bargained?’ His voice in Howard’s ear. ‘What say?’

  ‘I meant . . . no harm, sir,’ Howard said.

  Coxon clasped Howard’s tied fist.

  ‘I know, Thomas,’ he said. ‘But this must be seen to be done. Below you spoke in front of them all. In front of the Standard. In front of the king. You understand? What did you bargain?’

  ‘The island,’ he said. ‘The names. He gave to me the Porto names. Said you would know.’

  Coxon pulled his hand away.

  ‘Why not say this before?’ His manner back to the judge in black cap. Howard turned his face away and Coxon felt the eyes of the ship crawl over him.

  He left the grating. Faced Abel Wales only.

  ‘Return Mister Manvell to his quarters. In his irons, Mister Wales. Punishment is to be rescinded. To be pending.’ He addressed the Standard.

  ‘Lieutenant Howard was not questioned fully, gentlemen. I acted in your good faith. Swiftly. Only considering your loss. It seems Mister Howard has gained from the pirate where your treasure lies.’

  The ship roared. The cat was slung disappointedly over a shoulder.

  ‘We will plot our course anew within the hour!’ The roar came lustful now, blood under it.

  The bosun went to the ropes around Howard’s wrists. Coxon grabbed the thick forearm.

  ‘Mister Wales,’ he said. ‘I will do it.’

  He picked up the shirt and draped it across Howard’s shoulders as his fingers fumbled fatly at the knots.

  ‘My chambers,’ he whispered to the head still turned away and watching Manvell being pushed below. ‘You will tell me what you know.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  They left the boats on their painters; they hadn’t the will to set them back amidships. The pirates never found the gig that O’Neill had stolen and with another boat lost to Levasseur’s cannon it had taken two journeys to ferry them all back into the Shadow’s folds.

  The afternoon now, and those in the cabin who had been on the island contrasted in their dirt and sweat with those who had not. Exhausted. Done. Beaten. They had come aboard heavy, and not with the weight of gold.

  Peter Sam passed round a bottle.

  ‘So what now?’ he said.

  Devlin took his cue.

  ‘The gold is there.’ He looked at Hugh. ‘Tell them.’

  ‘It is, Peter. Tall as you,’ Hugh agreed.

  Peter Sam took back the bottle before it reached Devlin.

  ‘And now buried under a mountain! For all it’s good!’

  ‘It was already under a mountain,’ Devlin said. ‘Now we know where.’ He addressed them all. ‘We have two ways, as ever. I saw the hole that the priest must have taken. We find that and go back in.’

  ‘That could take weeks! You said the same!’ But Peter Sam’s side of the room was getting thinner.

  ‘Or we leave.’ Devlin carried on. ‘Back to Bourbon. Get Dandon and keep the Santa Rosa. Leave the priests.’

  ‘Back on the account?’ Peter Sam sent the bottle into the round again.

  Devlin said nothing. He drank when the bottle came and passed it back to Peter. That would do.

  ‘To the vote,’ Peter Sam declared. ‘Now. I’ll call them.’ He put the bottle down, bowed under the door and to the deck.

  Devlin’s head lowered as he leant on his table. Some tension was loosening in the knots of his back, his arm forgotten. The maps and logs across the table lay under his eye, the pencil promise of his course etched. All the past weeks formed only a single line. Just inches on a map.

  He dragged the bottle over them as Hugh came round the table.

  ‘We can’t leave it, Pat.’

  ‘We vote, Hugh. The only ones to see it were you me and The Buzzard. Probably the last. Hard to make men feel for what they never knew.’

  ‘We could blow that cave back open. I know we could. From the top down. Levasseur still alive down there.’

  Devlin drank, made for the deck, cocked his head to the same for Hugh to follow.

  ‘No, mate,’ he said, his arm pulsing again beneath the cloth tied tightly around it. He needed Dandon to pluck and burn the lead from him. ‘Not alive. I think The Buzzard’s been dead for months.’

  Coxon moved around the cabin like a new-hatched fly. He pulled books and charts from his shelves; his waggoner already open on the table, and Howard looked down at an Amsterdam chart of the Indian sea. Master Jenkins stood beside the young officer and saw the sweat running off him and pooling at his feet. The relief of not being lashed. He could feel the cold coming off him despite the humidity of the day which grew thicker every hour they spent in this other world. England he thought no longer existed. The world could not be large enough to endure such pressure that made him wake in sweat and aching head. England was surely a desert under the same. The ship steamed with it as if threatening to burn, her decks swabbed twice daily, the spirketting beginning to warp.

  Coxon exclaimed in triumph as the right chart came under the memory of his fingers. He threw its ribbon to the floor and swept his eye between the Dutch and Porto versions of the same ocean.

  He waved Howard closer and tapped his fingers at the scallop-shaped ring of stones.

  ‘“The Three Brothers and the Seven Sisters”,’ he said, a strange affection in his voice. ‘The largest is a direct course north from Bourbon. I should have foreseen that. No-one has these islands. They rarely appear on any chart.’ He stroked their ink.

  ‘I should have foreseen,’ he repeated to himself, his eye gleaming for the first time since he had found Dandon. ‘Pirates would know them well.’

  Jenkins looked down at the smattering of islands that Coxon now revered like runes.

  ‘So we course here now? Not to the Comoros? No Ogle and Herdman?’ He pulled out his notebook.

  Coxon ignored him. ‘It is possible,’ he looked up at Howard, paused quickly at the red cheek and yellow bruise at the nose and eye, ‘that the pirate has deliberately confused and misled. How do you feel on that, Thomas?’

  ‘I should like to get dressed fully, Captain,’ he said. ‘And then consider.’

  ‘Of course,’ Coxon rose from the charts. ‘And I am promoting you to my First, Thomas, as promised, in the absence of Manvell.’ He did not wait for a reply, only put his hands behind. To hide his fists.

  ‘Mister Jenkins, set your sails. All hands to spirit us round. North, north-east in half a glass. Four days. We will run as if straight up from Bourbon and find Devlin there or catch him on his run.’

  ‘And if we do not?’ Jenkins closed his book. ‘If we do not meet him, Captain?’

  ‘Then we have lost nothing but time, Mister Jenkins. But the men will feel that it has not been for naught. We will give them action. Gold is running in their veins. If we meet the pirate they will still be damn hot. If not, we have lost only four days to meet Ogle and chase for Roberts. And if fortunate we may catch them both. What soul of them would object after what betrayal they have known?’

  He sent his last words to Howard, waited for comment that did not come.

  ‘They still want gold,’ Coxon said and folded his maps, closed the books that he carried with him for decades. He had sent them to the ship when Manvell had sent only a tailor’s closet.

  He pushed Howard affectionately to the coach, as if the thrown fist, the grating and the naked back were just an Eton prank. Jenkins followed, shaking his head.

  ‘Your first duty will be to report gun-crews, your quarter-bill. Two kegs of powder. Drill them well, Mister Howard. Mak
e the carpenter swear for his lost barrels you will set for practice.’

  ‘Captain,’ Howard stalled at the doors between the cabin and the deck. ‘This is feeding me with Morten’s fork is it not?’

  Jenkins switched his eyes between them.

  ‘Explain?’ Coxon said.

  Howard rubbed his smarting eye. ‘If I do not accept the First’s post I will no doubt find myself back along the gangway. And if accepted I show my allegiance to yourself and brand Manvell with you.’

  Coxon pulled open the door.

  ‘Welcome to the service, Thomas. The outcome of everything in it hangs on such decisions. Right or wrong.’ He ushered him out.

  ‘You’ll make captain yet.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Peter Sam had been quartermaster on a pirate for nigh on seven years. He had served on three ships, with only two men set alongside him. Not above him. The pirate quartermaster was the soul of the ship, the captain only the voice. If the quartermaster said ‘no’ the wood of the ship bent under his word. Devlin knew this, knew that if Peter Sam’s mind differed from his they would set their stern to the island and return to the sea.

  But Devlin had treasure on his side, fortune within their reach. He would paint it for them, set it in their pockets. He at least cut the form of the returning warrior.

  A torn shirt, blood soaked, an earned wound worn like a badge. He stepped into the sun, every part of the deck hidden by a crew waiting for the word. He walked to the quarterdeck to join Peter Sam.

  ‘Men,’ he called before Peter had a chance, ‘are we not gentlemen of fortune? Sworn on the account?’ He could not see their eyes for their shielding and squinting. It was past noon on what seemed like the other side of the earth now. In their past, he had given this speech before. When the gold had promise, when expectation was undiscovered country.

  ‘I’ve seen the gold. Hugh’s seen the gold. And the priest did not lie. A gold cross. Seven foot tall and blistered with rubies.’

  Peter Sam folded his arms, gave his voice.

  ‘The cave is destroyed. The gold is gone.’

  ‘We have powder enough to blow new holes. Dig it out.’

  ‘That’ll take too long. Time we don’t have to be hungry.’

  Devlin walked. ‘The priest had a hole to get in. We find that, blow it open. Our way to it. These plots are rich with turtles and devilfish and the birds walk into your pot. A few days’ good fishing in the sun is all. We’ve sailed enough to get here. We can rest awhile.’

  Peter Sam placed his hands on the rail and spread his shoulders. ‘No life here. No trade routes. Nothing passing. I say we go back to Bourbon. Back to life. Get Dandon and the ship. Recruit more souls and have us a fleet. If Roberts is fleecing Africa why not us? That’s where the gold is. And when we’re done we take our winter in the Caribbee to fleece those who thinks themselves got away.’

  A resounding ‘Aye’ rattled the ship and the birds that had been preening on the crosstrees took off with the same cry.

  Peter held up a fist.

  ‘This gold ain’t going anywhere. I say fill our boots elsewhere and come back when we’re fat. We buried it more than it was. Who can take it from us? Roberts is looking for it but only the priest knew where and we’ve done for him. It’s our gold now.’

  Another cheer. Devlin looked down at Hugh and Hugh lowered his head.

  It was done.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ Devlin put up his arms, winced at his shoulder. ‘No one wishes Dandon back as much as I. We leave none behind.’ He looked at Peter Sam. ‘Never have. But fortune is here. A few days’ work and we’ll be rich as kings!’

  A voice came up from the back, and where Devlin’s poacher’s ears were keen weeks before there was dust about him now and he heard it as if from them all.

  ‘I didn’t sign pirate to work! And I fished this morning!’

  The laugh lowered Devlin’s arms. He went to the rail beside Peter.

  ‘So to Bourbon is it?’ he asked. And the cry came back and Peter Sam lifted his arm with his.

  ‘Not for offence, Patrick,’ Peter Sam said over the cover of the men’s roar below.

  ‘Gold ain’t going anywhere, Peter. As you said. But you’re wrong.’ He let go the hand to rest on his pistol’s wrist.

  Peter Sam wiped his beard and watched the hand.

  ‘You know that I ain’t. You can feed them their dreams. I’m for feeding more than that. Let’s to that popinjay to fix that shoulder of yours. Get yourself another good scar for them Maroon whores.’

  Devlin brushed the earned dust from them both.

  ‘How many scars before we die, brother?’

  Peter Sam pushed Devlin’s hand from him.

  ‘A hundred is the order. And you and I got none about the face yet.’ He shook Devlin’s forearm. ‘That comes when we’re slow.’

  A grey curtain set itself across their bow’s horizon, in the future yet to be traversed. And storms perceived were another ship’s present, island fishermen cowering in their huts.

  The Shadow had sail and rudder to rule over the Orient’s storms. It would be simple enough to tack away from the billowing grey cloud riding over the sea, the vibrant blue fading, the devilfish and porpoises running from their stern instead of playing at their dipping bow. Low creatures who could not command the waves.

  The Shadow.

  South to Bourbon. Perhaps some easy trade on the way. And why not? It was a pirate sea and there were no kings here save for them. Those regents were lording over the sugar, the slaves and the molasses another world away. They had forgotten the old oceans. Nations might have different flags, so long had it been since the Shadow had seen their colours.

  The Standard.

  ‘From backstay and mainmast,’ Coxon ordered. ‘I want him to see us when we come.’

  Jenkins pencilled in his book. ‘Why announce ourselves? To what end?’

  Coxon clasped his hands behind his back. They were on the quarterdeck, watching the coop being moved to sit behind the skylight over the wardroom. The deck had become too damp for the health of the hens.

  ‘To what end?’ Coxon’s voice sang and he broke a smile for the first time in days. Coxon’s smile rare enough to shiver men’s sensibilities. It was the grin of the tavern before men unscrew their fixed teeth and put them to their pocket and put their watch to their boots and go outside together. ‘To make them shit when they see us of course, Mister Jenkins.’

  He put his back to him and Jenkins tipped his hand to his forehead, aware that he had been dismissed, and went down to bellow at the bosun to raise flag and pennant.

  Thomas Howard was the only other on the quarterdeck, by the lectern with the log and map. He had the traverse board for his study and to avoid Coxon’s eye.

  The Standard was coursing east on a close-haul, the wind against them, tacking a course deep into the ocean. It was late afternoon, the morning of punishment not forgotten, and the sun was blanketed in a granite cast that fitted Howard’s mood and met the ocean at every corner; the customary dazzling blue had gone. There were whitecaps now, and even at four knots the starboard was a mist of spray. Every glass surface dripped, pair-case watches stopped in pockets. Howard held onto his hat as the wind clipped at his ears.

  ‘These are the sou’-sou’west monsoon winds,’ Coxon had startled him at his side. ‘They blow south of the equator down to the north-east of Madagascar. From April until October. For six months they come. It is the heat from the land masses that creates them, India and Africa batting them back and forth.’

  ‘Are we in danger, Captain?’ Howard steadied himself against the yaw of the ship. Coxon showed no such movement.

  Coxon held up a hand, his fingers together in a pledge.

  ‘You see this, Thomas? It is the width of our outer planks. As Diogenes says, of those of us on the seas, we are only ever four inches from death.’ He put down his hand. ‘The Greeks know us well. They defined us as belonging to neither the living
or the dead. Even when we walk the streets we sway and our clothes are of another place.’

  ‘But do we head for storms?’

  ‘Do we not always?’ Coxon said. ‘More ships are taken by hurricane than all the shot ever fired. You should consider if you have truly helped the pirate in releasing him in such a sea.’ He waved over the ocean.

  ‘You hear and see the white horses? They are coming.’

  He moved away, left Howard to his traverse board and to contemplation on the white waters encroaching, surrounding like a sandbag wall growing ever higher by the hour.

  Coxon had checked the binnacle and Howard’s board as he spoke, had glanced at the map clamped to the lectern. Six more hours at four knots would bring them to the tenth latitude. Cruise that for sixty miles and back again, a man with a glass at every bow and quarter, a lookout aloft to see into their past and future.

  ‘Mister Howard!’ he called back from the rail. ‘You remember my asking in Portsmouth about the oil?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Howard replied. ‘Six barrels. I did not forget.’

  ‘Good,’ Coxon did not turn from watching over the ship at work. ‘Good.’

  Howard shook his head and placed another peg and string as the compass made another tack with the ship’s bow.

  Mad, Manvell had said, and Howard had dismissed the idea. But the ship yawed, and the sky was a single cloud of slate. And his captain had asked him about whale oil.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Monday, 21 July 1721

  First figure recommended fitting. Actual figures bracketed.

  The Standard. 40 (44)

  Fifth Rate. English. 1716.

  Burthen: 531 tonnes.

  Length: 118 ft. Beam: 32 ft.

  Gundeck: 20 x 12 pounders.

  Upper gundeck: 20 x 6 pounders.

  Quarterdeck: None.

  Fo’c’sle: None.