by Mark Keating
‘Aye, Captain,’ Palgrave tapped his satchel affectionately.
‘Then we shall go.’ Devlin rounded on Dandon. ‘Will you be joining us mon frère?’ he asked sardonically, alluding to Dandon’s comments when the doors had first closed. ‘Are the cards in your favour yet?’
The sound of jangling keys and falling padlocks rang around the room. Hugh Harris’s and Lawson’s boots scuffled to their captain’s side.
Dandon gave his most effacing gold-capped grin as his shackles were lifted away.
‘I would have it no other way, Patrick,’ and he stepped to join them.
‘Weapons, Hugh,’ Devlin slapped Hugh Harris into action. ‘Some rope maybe. Make a couple of monkey fists?’
‘Aye, Cap’n.’ Hugh rushed to the fallen lobster, dragged the bayonet from the throat without a wince at the sucking noise it made and stuffed it in his belt. He flipped the table like a turtle and began wrenching out the legs. ‘Reckon these will do better though.’ The first leg snapped free and he tossed it to Lawson. Devlin and Dandon left him to it and walked to the base of the stairs. They inched their heads around the corner to check the coast was clear and then followed the spiral steps upwards.
‘Seems a longer way up than it was down,’ said Devlin.
‘Aye, Patrick,’ Dandon agreed. ‘It always is.’ The final sound of wood breaking heralded the others trailing behind them, armed with a hefty wooden club apiece, Palgrave last in the pack with just his stubby fists at the ready.
Sixty worn Spanish steps led to the floor above. They crept close to the curving wall, ducking beneath the lanterns circling the stairwell, Devlin at the front with the musket sniffing ahead.
The arch at the top of the stair loomed suddenly and Devlin’s head appeared in an empty corridor. To his left was the windowed passage leading to Roger’s rooms, the black door of his office visible forty yards away. Veering away to his right was the passage that looked out to sea and led to the barracks and mess. From above, the petrel’s-eye view, the small fort was laid in a scalene triangle. Two round towers hung over the sea with embrasures and fat hungry guns staring out forever, waiting patiently for Drake or Morgan to return. The third tower, square, sitting over the town like a throne and hidden in bamboo scaffolding was the one that the left-hand passage led to – where Rogers’ office lay, but more importantly where the Chinese gun lay, and the stairs to the town and the harbour. That was their way out now.
Devlin fell back to his men. ‘No guard,’ he whispered, the only words the others wanted to hear. From now on they wished every word to be a comforting one. Night and sleep were their stoutest allies: including the militia, there were over three hundred armed men about the town.
‘We take the letters then get out of here best we can.’
Palgrave’s heart had weakened. Freedom tasted sweeter than danger. ‘Hang the letters. Just get us out of here!’ He pushed past them all. Devlin pulled him back into place with a snarl.
‘Those letters save the life of a man worth more than what they promise, Williams. I don’t need you to make the acid work.’ He allowed the grinning faces of his men to make his point, and his eyes went back to checking the passage.
‘Rogers’ bed chamber is also in that tower,’ Dandon obliged. ‘That would be guarded. As would our exit I’m sure.’
‘Aye,’ Devlin agreed. ‘I wasn’t planning on venturing through the barracks neither.’ He waved them on and loped into the corridor towards the door, never looking behind. They would follow.
John Hamlin was born in Bath Town in 1696. His father was a tanner and his mother a housemaid. At sixteen John Hamlin had stolen a carter’s wheel for a dare and now wore a red coat as punishment. He had not seen his father for six years but had visited seven islands in the Caribbean and had slept with twenty-two women, which to him was more important. He earned fifteen pounds a year but owed twenty-five to the King over the last ten years of his service. In the last month of his night-watch he had succumbed to temptation, lifting a little piece of smoked pork and cheese and a small measure of rum from the mess and keeping it about him, for John Hamlin was a hungry man. The breakfast coffee, biscuits and bread and the cabbage soup for supper were not enough to keep such an ardent man full of lead. So rather than pay for sustenance from the taverns, which would make no hole in his debt, he would sit under the shade of a tree and nibble through his pilfered rations admiring his own cleverness in saving himself a shilling in the right quarter of his life.
The wrong quarter now it appeared, justified or not. Hamlin turned the corner to the passage and fell into a party of seven pirates. He opened his mouth and raised his musket.
And then Hugh was pinching the hair and skull fragments off his makeshift club and wiping his hand on his breeches, the sounds of violence still echoing around the passage as everyone looked down at the breath of the hot blood steaming from John Hamlin’s head. Lawson picked up the musket and belly-box of cartridges.
They gathered around the door of Rogers’ office, heads swivelling on the lookout for other wandering souls. Devlin tried the ringbolt lock without success.
‘Open it, Palgrave.’
Palgrave nodded and reached into his satchel. Then Devlin suddenly stopped his hand. ‘Wait!’
Palgrave watched the plotting behind the eyes. ‘Can you ruin the lock as well as burn it through?’ asked Devlin.
Palgrave attested that he could, that melting the lock to nothing would be even easier but noted that they would also be locked out of the room as there would be nothing to pull back the lock from its mortice.
Devlin went to the leaded windows, pushed one open and looked out at the scaffolding all around the walls. Planks of wood below the sill formed a walkway that stretched around the fort. To his left he could see Rogers’ open office windows. His head came back in. ‘No,’ he corrected Palgrave, ‘we’d be locked in. To it. Burn that lock. We go in by the windows.’ Palgrave understood immediately, and pulled on his leather gloves.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Quarter of Three in the Morning
Ten minutes from the beach to the fort. Bill Vernon again wiped the sweat from his brow and beard with his woollen cap.
‘Wait here, sailor.’ The guard held a hand out to the troop. ‘I’ll fetch Captain Tolliver. He can wake the governor, not I.’
Bill replaced his Monmouth and tapped his forehead. The soldier trotted up the steps to the ground floor barracks. Bill steadied his men who already showed blood in their eyes. One by one he whispered to them, pointing out the tower that the salt-raker had told them was Devlin’s gaol, the scaffolding that could be scaled easily and the faint light from Rogers’ rooms. They calmed as Bill’s patient voice and a twist of tobacco went round the group and he bade everyone follow his lead. Devlin was here and they would get him back even if they had to kidnap Rogers to do so.
Hard jaws bit into the tobacco and deft hands checked the pans of their locks as the captain of the watch stepped out of the fort to meet them, suspicion contemptuously dragging down the corners of his mouth as he looked them over. Bill opened his watch as he moved to meet the captain. A quarter to three. All Godly men were asleep under prayers, Bill consoled himself, his left hand on the hilt of his cutlass. The watch captain must be no saint to land such a duty. Only the wicked trod the earth at such an hour. That would make their work easier.
Two muskets. Four table-leg clubs. One bloodied bayonet. One room. For the second time in his life Devlin controlled a room. The first had been a year ago, on The Island, in the stockade, just himself and Dandon, and John Coxon at the door. He was holding onto a tiny corner of the world and waiting for the door to be stoved in. Waiting for the fire and the blood. He turned from the window where he could see the group of men huddled below. He did not share the view with his companions.
Dandon and Palgrave had the cannon upended. A smidgeon of acid had been poured and was eating through the white mass of porcelain and oysters sealing its mouth. All the pirates
except Hugh, who licked his lips anxiously under his blood-caked face, held cuffs and linen to their noses against the stench of rotten sea-life and ammonia that fogged the room, their eyes darting to one another as the cannon mouth hissed.
‘How’s it coming?’ Devlin asked, closing the window despite the foetid atmosphere.
Palgrave nodded as the porcelain and shell cracked and fell into the barrel. Dandon raised his eyes to heaven trying to hold the gun steady.
‘Christ! Put it down!’ Devlin ordered, suddenly picturing the caustic mix eating through the bamboo tube inside. The whole daring escapade would be ruined in a moment and Peter Sam’s throat as good as cut.
Carefully they lowered the gun to the rug floor. Rogers’ clock ticked on his mantel. Quarter to three. No time to die. Certainly not sober. Discovery of the dead lobster was still more than an hour away, the end of his watch being at four, but the soldier in the passage with the leaking skull merely waited to be stumbled upon.
The Chinese gun vomited onto the rug, which burnt instantly with the spew. Palgrave tugged his gloves on tighter and gingerly lifted the rear of the gun. Until that point, even to him, the letters of Father Entrecolles had been but a legend, the gun he had taken with Sam Bellamy the previous April just an old silent scrap of bronze, the crouching dragon atop a portent, a promise.
Dandon grabbed some parchment from Rogers’ desk and placed it beneath the lip of the mouth. With Palgrave struggling two of the others helped him drag and shake the gun until, like a tongue, the fat bamboo tube slid out onto the paper. Six inches in diameter, a foot in length. Still green and fresh, sealed tight as it was for at least five years in the gun by anybody’s reckoning, the tube further sealed by a hardened cork stopper.
Devlin reached for it, was first to hold it. He recalled Coxon telling him how Dampier’s memoirs were discovered just so, sealed by cork in a bamboo tube. The mariner and navigator had been well aware that the end of his life would likely be occasioned by the sea, but at least his writings would remain dry.
‘Peter’s freedom, lads,’ he shook the tube in front of him. ‘Come from Madagascar to here. For this.’ Their answering grins stayed thoughts of the danger ahead. They had done what was required and found a back door from failure. There was always a way out, always a way to stay dry. Even the dead they had lost along the way were now smiling down on them – these last survivors of the Talefan, their brothers from the Shadow still there, still alive. And Devlin was now holding the secret of porcelain in his hands. King George himself had no more.
‘Hugh. Dandon. Look here,’ Devlin took them to the window and whispered to the rest to douse the lamp that lit the room. The lamp thus snuffed, Devlin creaked open the window and they peered down onto the scene below.
A bearded giant in Monmouth and blue was conversing with a lobster of white trim. The blink of the light had caused the bearded man to look up through the scaffolding, whereupon Hugh praised the Lord that the face of Black Bill Vernon was below them.
‘Aye,’ Devlin whispered. ‘Maybe two dozen of us at least, I reckon. How does that fill your balls, Hugh?’
‘Like sand, Cap’n. Sure if I hadn’t thought I’d ever see the dawn!’
Devlin slapped Hugh’s back. ‘Ways to go, mate. Yet our hour.’
Eamon Tolliver, captain of the watch, followed Bill’s glance up at the scaffolding but saw only darkness. He had listened to the tale of Captain Coxon and Captain Gale sending two boats of men ashore and now he looked over the motley group of sailors armed to the hilt. They looked like seamen and it was possible that the pirate Devlin’s ship was attacking from the north. Rogers would have to be stirred, much as he regretted it, and men would have to be roused from their beds to man a defence. Somehow he still had his doubts, however.
Perhaps it was the long black beard. Perhaps it was the untidy hair and scarfed heads of the sailors. Something itched in him but then was scratched by the big man insisting that a signal be fired to the Delicia that they had arrived and were ready.
Tolliver begged to hear the question again.
‘Fire a gun to the Delicia, Cap’n. Let Cap’n Gale know all is well.’
Tolliver was appeased. Legitimacy would indeed ask for such. A single salvo from the embrasure. Captain Gale would be looking for a salute from his men.
Tolliver looked up to the towers. ‘The signal gun is on the far side. I’ll order some men over to it. Mister Vernon, your men should stay here. I’ll rally a squad and we’ll head for the north shore. Coxon will engage I hope?’
Bill pulled out a square of paper and angled it beneath the torchlight of the tower, unfolding it and squaring his shoulder with Tolliver who sidled in to see. It was a map – further proof of legitimacy. Conspiracy did not show you its maps.
‘Coxon is here,’ Bill tapped to Northwest Point. ‘The pirate vessel is at North Cay and will make the beach at any moment, if not already. They’ll be in at the north of the town.’ This was the first time Tolliver had ever seen a map of the island. To him it resembled the Isle of Wight and he was much surprised at the small size of his new home. Bill carried on. ‘The Delicia is here, facing south. She’ll turn and head north at our signal. Coxon will engage with the pirate ship.’ He folded back the paper. ‘Whatever you see fit to command, Cap’n. We be your men.’
Tolliver rallied his thoughts. Some men to fire the gun. Twenty more to accompany the sailors. Five more men to guard the cells. Summon the militia. He suddenly had a dry mouth at the thought that the moment had come to wake Rogers. Then he heard the window open high above and swung round to the sight of the legs coming through and seeking out the wooden walkway of the scaffolding.
A brown boot was followed by a dark trouser-leg and then joined by a white shirt. Then a man with a musket looked down at him with the face of the pirate Devlin, not in his cell.
‘Punk me mother! They’re free!’ Tolliver yelled. He pushed Bill to respond. ‘Shoot him! Shoot that man! That’s the pirate Devlin!’ He watched Devlin swing along the scaffolding to the ladder and other bodies followed through the window, more weapons in their hands.
‘Shoot! Guards!’
Tolliver’s pair of soldiers swung off their muskets and aimed high only to feel their heads pushed over by pistols at their temples and they quickly rested their hands.
Tolliver heard a dozen pistols shake into life around him but his eyes were stuck to the scaffolding, and he stood back from the oncoming barrage as he watched the pirates above swinging between the poles.
‘Fire!’ he commanded, and immediately regretted his words as at least six pistols hovered exclusively at his face.
‘Begging your pardon, Cap’n,’ Black Bill explained apologetically over the pistol barrel levelled at Tolliver’s eye. ‘He be with us.’
Tolliver took in all the grins and hungry looks and raised his arms. Bill lowered his pistol. ‘Good man,’ he winked.
‘Who be you then?’ Devlin stepped down from the ladder and walked straight to Tolliver, briefly nodding to Bill. The bamboo tube was passed back to Dandon.
Tolliver brought down his arms and introduced himself warily.
‘Then you should take better care of your prisoners, Captain. I haven’t eaten for hours. No wonder I was inclined to leave.’ Devlin reached in and pulled Tolliver’s sword from his belt. ‘You’d best tell Rogers of our departure. Tell him I took your sword. Nothing you could do.’
Tolliver almost thanked him. The soldier’s muskets were plucked from their hands and they huddled next to their captain, all three of them forgotten, worthless, as the pirates welcomed Devlin back into their brood, although respectfully quiet considering the hour of the morning.
Devlin caught Bill’s eye. ‘Where away, Bill? We have a plan?’
‘Some,’ Bill said. ‘Boat’s on the shore. Wasn’t expecting to see you so soon, Cap’n. Thought we’d have to break you out. Should’ve known better.’ He looked at Devlin’s six companions. ‘Is this all that remains?’
> Devlin did not answer but moved through the crowd towards the path, pulling the rest with him like a magnet. Dandon tugged at Palgrave’s sleeve to accompany them but Palgrave pulled back.
‘If I may, sir, I should prefer to stay. Take the pardon as it were,’ he bowed in gratitude.
Dandon looked to Tolliver then back to Palgrave, ‘They may kill you, sir.’
Palgrave sucked on his lip. ‘I’ll say I was forced. My remaining should benefit me greatly in that.’ Shyly he held his voice lower for only Dandon to hear. ‘I have had enough of that Chinese bad luck and a belly full of adventure, sir. Teach waits out there for you as well as the English ship. I’ll take my chances here for now.’
Dandon turned away to follow the others. Lamps had begun to be lit in some of the windows of the town. Sleepers awoken by Tolliver’s shouts and the stamp of men’s feet began to bob their heads out of doors.
Palgrave called out once more to Dandon’s back. ‘That is not to say, sir, that at some other time I would not be pleased to re-acquaint. Good luck to you in finding your friend!’ Dandon showed no sign of hearing him. Palgrave sighed and walked slowly to Tolliver who was already pushing his men up the steps to wake Rogers.
‘Captain Tolliver, sir, I should …’ But Tolliver was running up the steps towards the barracks, his blank white scabbard flapping like a tail, and Palgrave was left alone.
This sight provoked in him an assessment of his lot. He thought about Black Sam Bellamy and Blackbeard, about Devlin, and lastly about himself and the family he had left behind to pursue this mad life.
Hoy por mi, mañana por ti. Today me, tomorrow thee.
His solitude was broken by the approach of the cloaked Charley to his designated plot beneath the fort, his great bowl of a bell held silently in his hand. Three o’clock had come. The Charley looked at Palgrave’s grey face, the open doors of the fort and the odd number of townsfolk who had begun to gather around it.